ss@ssy tonight

Greg tells me I’m bein’ sassy. There, anybody catching on to the big CLUE there about one of the meanings to the name of this blog? Danial (aka Cryptic) figured it out months ago. And yeah, there's more meaning than that, too. Some of you are in a position to get it, too. Heh.

Yeah, kinda sassy tonight. How much psychological damage do ya think I did when my son had talked for a half hour straight and I told him, “Your mouth has been going for a half-hour and I can no longer THINK! Stop. Talking. Now.”

Yeah, I’ll buy him something nice in New Orleans.

We have illness in the house. Impetigo. Yeah, (I keep saying yeah. Stop that! Yeah.) lovely little infection my son picked up. Hence the antibiotics. He’s got this scary red line from a sore place to his chin. But, moms, you’ll be relieved to know that while in extremities these lines are quite dangerous and require IMMEDIATE medical attention, on the face and body: not so dangerous. Straight from my own Dr. N and he knows his shit.

I shopped the mall for a halter top – the kind with no straps. I think they used to be called boob-tubes, which on me is a laughable name. More like a boob... I dunno. A boob... pocket. (More than a mouthful's a waste and I'll keep repeating that mantra until the day I die.) Anyway, there aren’t any. Apparently they are done bought out. By all the fat teenage girls, I’d imagine.

BUT, I did go to Victoria’s Secret (yeah, watch all the men perk up here – they start nodding off whenever I say “mom”) and I bought three bras and two lacy... panties. Hate that word. We always called them “grungies” for the lads and “knickers” for the girls. Oh, and “Arb” for bra, because no one in their right mind (well, when you’re, like, twelve) wants to say the world bra. Someone might hear you for God’s sake. Then you'd just have to die.

So I ran into this friend at school (to clarify for any teenaged bloghoppers out there - my SON'S school) and she said, “I just bought that new bra with the gel-pack in it.”

“Arghuh?” That piqued my interest.

“Yeah, it’s got a pushup gel-pack. It’s great. Very natural.”

Yeah, under all that stiff foam that Victoria's Secret is so famous for. God forbid I ever get felt up on the outside of my bra, the guy would freak. I didn't wear 'em when I dated PHF. Actually, I didn't really wear 'em much until I had babies. He is so lucky to have me.

This is a woman with boobs, mind you. If she needed the Gel-pack, then I sure as tootin’ needed the Gel-pack!

(Crap, I went downstairs to get another beer and the Beer Fridge-- the stuff of legends-- is making a funny "noise." Fuck. Yeah, I'd like to have a cute new white fridge that's not all dented and scratched. But you can get two cases of BOTTLED beer in this thing and it goes under the counter. It's a freakin' marvel of American engineering, I tell you. Should it die we'll have to have a ceremony. On the other hand, it is just in time for Spring Clean-up where they have free dumpsters in the neighborhood. The timing is perfect for the thing to die.)

Jokes on me though cause I went home to try on the new danties (you know, to see if they made me look like I got boobs. For the beads. It's all about the beads, apparently. )(Greg, if I get any beads I'm sending you some as a souvenir. Another word I can't spell. Fucken French. If it's not French, don't tell me.) Anyway, I'll be damned if I didn’t come home with the Gel-pack bra too! Way to go Sex, for being all hip and shit with the new foundation garments.

I like it, but I just got this feeling that sometime PHF will put the little buggers in the freezer while I’m in the shower and then slip ‘em back in without me seeing and then “WooHoo! the girls are awake.”

Actually, that might be nice on a hot day. Like say, at the zoo.

At the gym my workout was lackluster. Well, most of it. There’s the biggest fucking guy there. New guy. When he walks by all the other guys (or should I say: boys) sort of puff up their chests and hold their arms out like their lats are huge – you know the stance. (I actually sort of look like that and I try to hold my arms in so I don't look that way too much, cuz, you know, I'm a girl.) (Now I just made myself sound all attractive and shit. I'm not that big. But I have to watch my lats.)

I just want to stand up on a bench and say, “Ahem. Guys. Yeah. Well, we know you aren’t huge in shape or anything cause ya got the Buddha Belly. Know wha’m talkin bout? Know wha’m sayin’, homes?” I swear to Jebus that some mexican guys in the weight room sounded just like that this very NIGHT.

Ok, I’m lying. I wear an Ipod. I don’t hear anything anybody says, ever.

Ok, sorry. That was just stupid and embarrassing. I don’t do gangsta. Y’all have fun with it.

Anyway, he watched me. All the new guys at the gym do, cause I actually lift something over ten pounds. Also cuz I look all slutty in my black eyeliner (Yeah, yeah, G. I’ll try to actually be IN a picture for once, without sunglasses. Virtigo takes them of me when I’m drunk in bars. Pretty frequently, actually.) and I guess someone on this green earth finds me sexually attractive.

Two milestones tonite: twenty pushups in a row. Coulda gone for more, but I don’t want to hurt my shoulder so close to a trip. Twenty five pound chest presses – oh, that came out wrong. 25 dumbell+25 dumbell= 50. Not so much, but I am a girl, remember. Again, I could do a lot more but I actually need to do some reps. I won’t do that much all the time, but the twenties are just... easy, and I wanted to see I if I could do reps with it. Fifteen Twelve and Twelve, thanks.

God, I’m sounding like one of those workout blogs-- the kind by personal trainers. Heh. I bet mine’s got one, since he’s a writer.

I’ve been thinking about trash, too. You know, we have frickin’ trash all over the place in this house. Like today I went up in my room and found a candy wrapper in my comforter. Ok, yeah, the comforter was on the floor – didn’t make my bed, so sue me. But anyway, then I go downstairs and there’s just paper and crackers and shit all over the kitchen floor. So I vacuum it up and then not four fucking minutes later there’s brownie crumbs all over the place. Yeah, we got brownies and you don’t. Sorry. I’ve been playin’ all Mommy and shit.

Now, we’ve got a nice home. But, trashy, apparently.

A goldfish cracker had landed on a piece of paper and I noticed there was a two inch diameter of grease around it. Now that just be gross. That’s some white trash there, a goldfish cracker on a piece of printer paper. It could be freakin’ art statement about... I dunno, a lily white child growing up in a privileged home, since that’s exactly where it came from. Toldja I use to be an artist.

Heh, you know I’m just teasing you with the meaning, though. Like my writing, my art never had a real theme; except for pleasure and whatever deep premise somebody wanted to put on it.

There’s always been plenty of that.

Speaking of trash... ok, shitty lead in.

But I'm curious about who reads this blog because I get all these hits and a fair-to-midlin amount of comments. That's cool, I don't care all that much about the comments--

[Editor's note: Sex is fucking whore for comments. Ignore her, please.]

-- but I'm more curious about these comments I'm getting from people I don't know. Ok, I don't know any of ya. But you know, people I've never heard of. I have this feeling that some people read me and never leave comments. Scary stuff. Those quiet ones make me nervous. They're the ones who are axe murderers and shit. You know, the neighbor is always saying, "He seemed so nice, but he kept to himself a lot. Mowed his yard real regular-like." Anyway, just sayin' is all.

Goddamn is this long.

Anybody up for a chat tonight??

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