One of my childhood friends—I’ll call her Jane—had a big golden schlong in her parents’ closet. It wasn’t hers, of course. It was theirs, but Jane must have felt some measure of ownership over it, at least enough to figure it was hers to show me one afternoon after school.

“Look at THIS,” she said, her eyes flashing darkly as she cackled and produced the metallic member from one of a seeming zillion boxes stacked willy-nilly in the closet. It was like Mr. Ollivander plucking the perfect wand from his inventory shelves in the world of Harry Potter. “Can you believe THIS!?” The thing is, it wasn’t immediately clear to me just what THIS was. Was her mother a gardener? Was THIS some sort of dazzling county fair award for having grown the biggest cucumber?

“What is it?” I asked.

“It’s a vibrator,” Jane answered matter-of-factly, as if this would clear things up for me. It didn’t.

At my home, my parents had a little vibrating contraption, too, but I’m pretty sure they’d picked it up from the health and beauty aisle at the S&H Green Stamps store. They kept it plugged in right in our living room sometimes, and my sister and I would use it to massage our legs, arms, heads, even the dog. It was a heavy, substantial appliance sort of thing, because it was a back massager. It boasted two fist-sized knobs that would squeeze in and out—and vibrate. So, of course, when I looked at Jane beaming about her parents’ “vibrator,” all I could think was Why would anyone want a leg massage with THAT? When she clarified, I wanted to barf.

Years later, another friend—I’ll call him John—introduced me to porn in the form of a Brazilian film called The Lady on the Bus. It was really a gateway to porn, more of an “erotic genre” film that tells the story of a grieved woman trying to heal herself by way of nymphomania. She spends the whole film soliciting sex from strangers on city buses, doing it in weird places and shouting out terrible lines like, “Beat me senseless!” I knew I shouldn’t have been watching it, but the dialogue and acting were just so ridiculous that it was comical. John had a screening of sorts for me and a handful of other friends, and to this day he can still quote a good deal of it that will still get me rolling with belly laughs. No matter how funny I found the dialogue, though, I distinctly remember wanting to leave the room during the naughty scenes. I simply did not want to watch other people having sex.

Let’s not drudge up every story that explains why. I’ll just say here that the sex and porn industry aren’t exactly my raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens. That’s why it’s so funny and so wrong that a porn-peddler was the one to co-opt the original blog domain for the Momplex. I can’t tell you how many times I inadvertently type in the old URL and get a startling eyeful. I still cannot get over the fact that my mommy blog turned overnight into an online portal for porn and sex toys. What were those pirates thinking? That I’d pay the ransom that is the ridiculous price they’ve put on the domain’s head? That people who’d grown accustomed to visiting my blog might be interested in some porn instead?

If you’re going to turn a mommy blog’s domain into a porn shop, I suggest you do it differently. Do it right. Show pictures of a week’s worth of meals neatly organized in a freezer. Show full, gorgeous glasses of wine. Show kids doing their own laundry and dishes. Show men’s underwear, in the hamper. Show a toilet with the seat down, no pee on its base. I’d show a lot of things if I were peddling porn on the old Momplex, but none of them would be vibrators or skin flicks or people cupping their naked body parts with their heads tilted back in rapture. You can get that crap anywhere. Tired mommies deserve the good stuff. I’d beat them senseless with pictures of cozy places to nap.