it's like running your balls over a bare blade

Since when have we decided that hair is not good? It's not like I've got a hairy back or nostrils or something, but the cultural shaving requirements are getting way out of hand. PHF would agree. In wintertime he wears a goatee (don't try this at home - most guys look like douchebags with a goatee) and the trimming and shaving and shaping drives him nuts. But I like it, so he does it. He likes my legs smooth (among other places) so I do it too. But I always miss a spot so then I got this ruffly strip on my frickin' leg all day. Irritates the hell out of me.

And plucking eyebrows? Christ. Yeah, I follow the crowd, but not often enough. Hey, don't judge. Yanking out eyebrow hairs makes me cry.

I used to not shave often enough either. Now I do it every time I shower, automatically. Dunno if I cared less about being hairless in my twenties, or maybe I'm just getting more swarthy and hairy in my old age. I'm kind of hairy - and it's dark too (not that you can tell by the hair on my heady-head-head), so even when I shave reeeal good I always think I've got a shadow in my pits.

And are you supposed to shave your thighs? Shaving thighs... hey, that's a good tongue-twister when you're drunk. Try it. Shaving thighs shaving thighs shaving thighs thaving shives thaving shithes. Actually, it's a good finger-twister for typing when you're sober. Anyway, shaving thighs doesn't seem to work for me. The hair is too soft to shave off. But I do it anyway.

I know some hairy people. My brother has a hairy back. Speed Racer and I get my hair cut by the same chick and her arms are way hairy. She's sort of monkey-like that way. My monkey is way hairy, and yes I realize that could be taken in a myriad of ways but I mean my daughter MonkeyLass. She was covered in a dark, downy coat for about a year after she was born, and she still has a little patch where her tattoo will someday go; right above her future thong (Cryp - that's a g-string for you, I ain't talkin' about an ankle). It's passed down through the mother's line, apparently I had major hair on my ears when I was born. I'll hasten to add that it's mostly gone now.

My arms are a little hairy, but fortunately the hair bleaches out in the summer from the sun. Well, maybe that's not so good. I get tan in summer, really quite dark, and so then I suppose it looks like I've got this pale halo on my arms, huh? And then in winter, when I'm all pale, the hair is dark brown and probably is really obvious. Great. Never thought of it that way before just now. Jebus, how I love self-discovery on the internet.

Then there's the whole issue of shaving "down south." Uh, ok, well, yeah. I'll go with: I take off a fair amount. Never got up the guts to do the whole shabang. For one, I can't see it or really reach it all that well. Hell, if I could, what would I need PHF for?

Somehow a few years back this subject came up in a bar. The general consensus among the guys was that they liked it bare-assed naked, so to speak.

I protested going to the supreme lengths required by their petty sexual pleasure. "It's not like shaving your calf or your cheek, you know. There's... grooves and ridges and crevices and... dampness... that make for a tricky operation."

One of the brilliant drunk blokes told me to, "Use a mirror."

To which I replied, "You take a blade to the back of your business using a fogged up hand-mirror and then we'll talk."

I think I was thirty years old before I realized that chicks waxed down there. I knew people waxed other places, of course, but there?? Even with all the porn the thought just never occurred. Why would someone put themselves through it just to be more attractive or sexy. I'd starve myself, get a tattoo, piercings, spend a fortune getting my hair colored, paint my friggin' toenails even in the winter; but getting my pubes (!) ripped out by the roots is not high on my beauty to-do list. Christ, that would hurt like a mother-fucker, wouldn't it? (I'm sure some of you know just how bad it hurts, and if you must share, then go ahead, I guess.) If I were single and pursuing some guy who liked the School Girl Look, then maybe. But I ain't, so I don't have to do that shit.

Really, I shouldn't even broach the topic of "personal shaving." All that ever needed to be said about the shaving "down under" was written by a chick who lives "down under." Her name is Weggly and she's nearly as wild as me.

You can thank me for the link later, Jack, Greg, Cryp, Krypto, Tommy, Lunatic!, Pete, etc...

it's gonna be february and you know what that means

The jewelry commercials are on the radio again. They brag about their mass-produced product, go on about cutters in Hong Kong and all the buying trips abroad to find those perfect heartshaped rubies. All so guys can spend their hard earned money on some piece of crap thing that their fat girlfriend will only wear for a few months until summer hits and styles change again. Maybe they at least get a decent blowjob out of the deal. For their sakes, I hope that's the least that $99.99 will buy.

If PHF ever bought me a heartshaped ruby, I'd divorce him and take him for enough cash to buy myself REAL jewelry, real regular-like.

The worst is this guy from a local jewelry company. He claims to be the owner, and he must be, because no self-respecting marketing rep would hire that voice-over. He sucks the big wang. (If you live here, you know the one.) I cringe everytime I hear his whiny, self-depreciating, smarmy, somebody-please-fuck-me-once-in-my-life voice start up again. We don't care about your imaginary "kids and wife", we know you're gay for crissake. Shut the fuck up about your (also probably made up) trips to Bangkok to buy pearls from the little guy who's the grandson of the guy your grandfather bought from. True or not, we don't care. All we care is if you have a decent diamond and you don't, so get off my airwaves. Christ, if you insist on speaking in the ads, at least get someone in to write them for you.

Lately his drivel consists of something along the lines of, "Valentine's Day is the most romantic day of the year to get engaged..." blahblahfuckingblah. You give a chick a big-ass diamond ring, and poof! It's a bona fide Most Romantic Day. Who the fuck cares what the date is? The chick gets the ring, the guy gets laid. Everybody goes home happy.

Speed Racer and his wife (someone told me to nickname her Bree from Desperate Housewives. I'll go with that, not necessarily for the anal part, but for Bree's tougher characteristics)... anyway, for Valentine's Speed Racer and Bree go to dinner and to whichever really bad movie is playing. What a great tradition - a fun date and a mocking of the holiday in one go. I highly admire mocking with so much aplomb.

PHF and I don't hold much with romance and we don't really do Valentine's Day. We aren't big card or gifty people (whenever he hints that he wants something I say, "CoughcoughRubicon!" He pretty much blew the gift quota for a few years with that one. Come to think of it, whatever he wants usually is something for the Rubicon, anyway.)

One of the funniest things he ever said was a few years back when a holiday was coming up we were looking for cards for someone else. He picked out a card and showed it to me. "Here, this is the card I would get you if I ever bought you cards."

I about peed my pants from laughing in the middle of Target. That's good humor, which to me makes for good romance.

Today he asked me if he was supposed to get me something for Valentine's Day. I told him, "I was going to say that we should do nothing, but by asking you pretty much just screwed yourself. Big and bright and expensive, fuck-you-very-much."

He would read this and laugh his ass off though because he's bought me some really fine jewelry in the past, like diamond studs for when I had my first kid. Usually I just have to show him something and eventually he gets it for me.

We call Valentine's a Hallmark holiday, meaning that while they might not have invented it, they perpetuate the damn thing. Like all the other stores do at Christmas, and now Halloween, too, damn it. Can't they just leave it the fuck alone, already!! (Ash Wednesday is the last untouched holiday. Even Easter has been fucked over by marketing departments across the country.)

So who's with me? Let's pretend that Feb. 14 is just another day. Let's leave stacks of dusty, sappy cards in their red envelopes; reams of fading ribbon at the craft shops; buckets of blackening roses at Flowers.com; expensive, sub-par restaraunts vacant and echoey; and piles of glittery, crappy jewelry in the case where it belongs.

Let's all stay in and have a good fuck instead. That's what I'd call an excellent Valentine's gift.

even if i had the answers to life, what makes you think i'd tell you?

This post is 100% true, but don't get used to it:

1. I'm 5' 4".
False, I'm 5'.

2. I've experimented with homosexuality.
True.

3. I love to garden.
False. I tried to love it, but I've settled for just not hating it.

4. My favorite food is vegetables.
Yup.

5. I played soccer in high school.
Nope. I should've though. I would have kicked ass.

6. I like my sex a little rough.
Well, as Jack put it...

7. I hate to sleep.
True. I've got better things to do with my time. 6 hours tops.

8. I broke my arm in the fifth grade.
Lie. I've never broken a bone.

9. My favorite holiday is Ash Wednesday.
True. It's not that I hate your average holiday, but I really like grim rituals. I like the whole cross on the forehead thingy. Halloween is ok, but Christmas is a pain in the ass.

10. My vision is corrected.
True. It's pretty bad, too. I wear contacts.

your scores:
Blue - 2
Jack- 1 (After our next B & WS session we'll have to actually talk and get to know each other. *sigh*)
Greg- 1 (Ditto, Greg.)
Wackjob- 1 (Sorry, couldn't resist.)
Anon - 2 (You had better make up a handle for yourself, I'm thinking of eliminating anon comments.)
Inland - 1 (And you know my face!)
La Chat - 3 if your choices were for true, 2 if your choices were for false.

A few tidbits on how to beat a test. On a poorly written test the longer answers are often right. (On a well written test - sometimes the opposite is true.) Details make things seem true. How many of you would have chosen #8. I broke my arm in the fifth grade if it had read #8 I broke my arm? (6 out of 7 chose it.) Nearly everyone chose #1 - I'm 5'4" likely for the same reason; also you might know I've said I'm short, so that seems reasonably short to all you giants out there. And as far as the more... outrageous (but true!) claims I made, well, for that I'm a bit disappointed. You should know me better than that by now!!

Thanks for playing and happy Sunday/Monday.

writing tests

Another clue about the truth game:

My worthless degree is in Education; in fact, I nearly have a master's degree in a field I will never again practice. (More useful: the 38 hours in English. But I digress.) While wasting five long years and my parent's money earning this degree, I took a few classes in measuring student progress; and more specifically, a class in writing tests. I've found I can beat many tests because I know the pitfalls people make when writing them. I also know what misleads students.

Just keep it in mind, hee hee.

Scores returned tomorrow.

daily horoscope

Here at SS@S we've tried to include the Leo horoscope regularly. However, since most of the horoscopes run along the lines of:

Things will seem hazy and unclear, but if you ask more questions you will learn more.

we've been blowing it off.

In an effort to maintain our commitment we'll include today's, lame as it is:

Quickie: Life is not a controlled experiment. Things will not always go as planned.

Ooookay. Thanks. Well, we tried.

This one, though, is a bit more helpful:

Your natural charm is already lethal -- and right now, you'll be able to talk anyone into just about anything. Be careful, or you could end up needing to extract yourself from an extremely delicate situation.

Shit, I knew mentioning my dabbling in homosexuality would come back to bite me in the ass!! He he, after Cryp gets back and guesses, I'll post the answers. Or tomorrow. Whichever comes first.

Oh yeah: Guzundheit,Greg.

truth game

Lots of interesting shit on blogs lately. Lots about insomnia and dreaming and not getting laid. Ya think there's any connection??

My friend Beth wrote about going to a naked party. She's got the guts, that's for sure, though she doesn't actually get to go. She says, "All in all, I thought it would be a great exercise in self-discovery. Or at least endurance." I think it's an exercise in irony. The thing about it is when you just barely cover yourself, like with a bikini, guys are supposed to look. But if you're nekkid then they aren't supposed to look.

I went and worked out this morning. Bleh. Hate it. Six o' fucking clock in the fucking am and I'm supposed to work out? The guys were... ehh. Not much to look at. Saw three guy friends, which was weird somehow, too. (Oh, uh, yeah, you guys were looking hot though - in case you're reading today.) And I forgot my ipod. And everyone forgot to brush their teeth.

Yucky.

At least I was half-asleep for it.

Monkey writes about the difference between hot guys and cute guys. I think hot is sexy - pure looks thing, and cute is personality. For example: PHF is both, Cryp is both, Brad Pitt is too hot for cute to matter. One guy thought cute was nigh to an insult. Someone else thought sexy is a different animal altogether. Thoughts on this? Which would you rather be? Hot or cute? Or both? And do guys have categories of attractiveness for chicks?

Onto the main event:

Stole this from Le Chat.

Ten facts about yours truly. Sixty percent rule in effect. You guess which are true.

1. I'm 5' 4".
2. I've experimented with homosexuality.
3. I love to garden.
4. My favorite food is vegetables.
5. I played soccer in high school.
6. I like my sex a little rough.
7. I hate to sleep.
8. I broke my arm in the fifth grade.
9. My favorite holiday is Ash Wednesday.
10. My vision is corrected.

It'll be fun.
OK, well, it'll be mildly amusing. But then, we can't all be Jack, can we?

auschwitz

I heard on NPR this morning about this daughter who said she questioned her father, who'd been in the Holocaust, about Auschwitz. He never would tell her about it, but finally relented on his death bed. He gave her a final warning though: You are knocking on the door to a room, and once you step inside you will never be able to leave the room.

Take a moment today and think about Auschwitz. Think if you were stolen from your home and computer and job and friends and school and blog and family and pets and clothes and hobbies and all that made you happy. Think what it would be to lose it all, be left with only yourself, and then watch yourself fade into nothing.

Think what it was to live with the stench of death in your hair and clothes and nostrils. I wonder if they ever escaped it?

Just a moment, today, think what it was for those prisoners to be rescued. Think what it has been for them to look down on those tattoos on their arms; every time they stepped out of the shower, every time they went golfing, every time they went swimming, every time they extended their hand in greeting, every morning when they reached out for a cup of coffee.

Think of the piles of coats and hair and glasses and gold teeth and money and shoes.

Think of tiny child-size shoes.

May the human race never forget what's inside that room.

you know the old saying, the bigger the tire...

PHF writes on his blog:

"I love to go 4-wheeling. There is just something about climbing over large rocks with a vehicle that gets me psyched. Your senses are all a tingle, your bum is all in a pucker and your heart is up in your throat as you crest large hills and worry about what was just torn off your vehicle from the last 'thunk'. "

And people wonder why I love this man??

a gay war

Ok, apparently some people have come to the brilliant conclusion that Spongebob Squarepants is gay.

Well, duh.

Those right-wingers aren't too quick on the uptake are they?

And Tinky-winky, the purple Teletubby with the "magic bag" (yes, it's a fucking purse) and the triangle on its head, whose gayness was debated a few years back?

I can't believe there was a debate. What do we have to do - show him fucking Dipsy up the ass to clear up the confusion?

And these right-wing assholes are the people running the war. Fuck, we are doomed. Doomed by pure stupidity, I tell ya. You watch, ten years from now it'll be the Iraquis in charge of the US. They're the ones who are getting all the money now anyway.

yes this is about going out to a bar, but really, this is way different from everyone else's posts about going out and getting shit-faced. really.

No link, because the Lariat is a bar that will never have a web site.

I've described it before but I'm too lazy to hunt it down in the archives. The walls and ceilings are covered in pictures of things like: a naked lady sitting at the bar, shown from the back, with about twelve bartenders trying to serve her a drink. A horse's ass. Unsigned pix of celebs. Signs that say: "Out of control children will be taken out back and shot."

They brag on their burgers. I can't give an honest opinion because I've only eaten one when I was stone-cold drunk. But the ham and cheese is excellent.

A rum and coke (long on rum) and a draft beer (long on icy cold) runs 4.75.

When the band came in to set up and the flute/sax guy came in the bartender said he was looking horny tonight. PHF, whose intitials could substitute for Pun Hilarity Fool, about bust a gut. I keep trying to get him to read you, Monkey. You guys share some humor.

It was the snowshoeing weekend, and who knew snowshoers could party? I always thought they seemed kind of boring. There are probably all sorts of stereotypes about folks who snowshoe, but we couldn't remember any so PHF and I started making them up. Like, you never can tell if a snowshoer chick just had the fucking of their lives or if they just got back from a hike, because they walk the same way in either case.

Ok, we were getting drunk.

Two girls came in, twenty-somethin's, and proceeded to take the place over. They were slapping asses, stealing shots from guys, flirting up a storm, and dancing to the band. They asked every guy in the place to dance (except for PHF and this really short, obviously Jewish man, who absolutely could not dance. Question: Do the Jews got no rhythm and it's something I didn't know, or was it just this guy? Jeez, he was a male Elaine out there. Also, is it pc for a non-jew to call them "Jews"?) I asked PHF if they were that cute (the girls, not the Jews) and he said they were more fun than cute; but most importantly, they were looking to get laid and therein lay the bulk of their appeal.

They were fun to watch though. They kept asking the old 90 year old tapdancer dude to dance. Yeah, he was there. Always is. It's Saturday night, after all. Does a 90 year old guy have to nap all day in order to go out on a Saturday night? I mean, he was still there when we left. Anyway, they kept dirty dancing with this old guy, and it wasn't for his benefit, let me tell you. (I watched carefully, no Viagra in those pants.) Before long there was a crowd of guys around the teensy dance floor, acting for all the world like they were at a strip joint.

One thing about the Lariat, the odds are good. I always get scammed on/picked up in there because it's about 100 men to 20 women. They're mostly old, stinky ice fishermen, but there's always a cutie or two. And you can smoke in there, too.

The girls were thin enough, and reasonably cute, I guess. But they had on lo-rise jeans that showed the top of their cracks even when they were pulled up. I thought it was kinda gross, but the guys seemed to like it. PHF joked that one of them would get paged to go fix a leaky toilet at any moment. One chick had no bra on, so she was wagglin' all over the place. Nothin' like showin' all the goods in one go, eh? Nothing spectacular, but they were moving like yes, they did in fact want to get laid (the girls, not the boobs. Well, ok, the boobs too). When the chick with no bra took the band's tambourine, stuck it up her shirt, and did one of those shoulder-boob wiggle moves that made the tambourine go, even the singer paused mid-song.

Good times.

Then there was the mom with the adult son. Well, he was adult enough to pass carding but not adult enough to wear his hat straight. Why don't these guys realize that it doesn't make them look too cool to care, or whatever, but just plain stupid? I actually feel sorry for them. There's this cute guy at the gym - or he would be if he didn't just look stoopid with his hat sideways. Zillion dollar rap stars look like complete idiots with hats on. If any of you wear your hats that way you are hearby banned by this site. Don't even tell me. Just go.

(Editor's note: The author's opinions on lopsided hat bills do not necessarily reflect the views of the management of SexScenes@Starbucks. If you are a typical reader who enjoys this style of dress, please know that you are welcome to continue reading. We are an equal opportunity blog, and that goes for people of the Jewish persuasion as well. Additionally, we think the big rap stars should wear their hats any way they like, and please do not come kick our asses or write a nasty song about us for allowing the expression of these views. Sex, she's the one to go after.)

They met this kid's friend - I'll call him kid, I had a good decade on him or more - who had just bummed a cigarette from me. I really wanted to light it for him with my Zippo, who was in a cooperative mood that night and lit reliably just like the company advertises that it does. (It's not lit since, the little silver bastard. But I love it so. I'm getting fucked over by a teensy silver lighter, and if PHF mentions again how the 1.99 bic - my fall-back lighter - "seems to light every time and it was only a buck-99" again I'm going to have a big-ass plaid shirt bonfire. Plaid is OUT, people. Haven't any of you even glanced in the window of Abercrombie this winter?!)

However, he had his own light.

PHF laughed because he knows one of my unspoken dreams is to flick my Zippo open and light someone's cigarette - preferably Brad Pitt's, but whoever, I guess. How he knows this is an enigma. I guess he just knows me.

The guy did take the opportunity to scam on me though, right in front of PHF, who was either heartily amused or just trying to catch the slut-girl's eye. He was all bothered over the tamborine trick, I could tell.

I went up to the bar for another round and the old guy regulars (ok, they're in their 40s) started talking to me. Finally one of them said, "Enjoy our town." Supercillious bastard. I told him I lived up there part time. He nodded like, "yeah, you're not a real regular." Fuck him. My $4.74 is as good as anyone else's and the bartender, Bob, and the bouncer, ok, I don't know his name, recognize me every time I come in. So fuck him double-time.

There were two girls sitting next to our table talking intently with each other; about fucking and how great it is and how they maybe should do each other; you know, typical girl talk, when this guy came up drunker'n a skunk (I don't usually use this term, but it fits perfectly for the Lariat) and interrupted them to say,

"Ijeswana 'trupto see tha doyou're da preddies wimmen i sen... longtime."

They just looked at him, nonplussed and I resisted the urge to translate. I'm fluent in drunk-speak come-ons. "I just wanted to interrupt to say that you two are the prettiest women I've seen in a long time."

Now what the hell was he thinking? Ok, he wasn't. But I've had guys come up to me, interrupt me like a waiter with bad timing and tell me something like this in plain english. Am I supposed to be flattered? Yeah? Ok, I'm not. Maybe if you were Brad Pitt, but then, Brad Pitt would have to just sort of look at me and do that half-smiley thing and two seconds later I'd be on my knees... well, 'nuff said. I really just don't get come-ons like this. If anyone can shed light on this - or if anyone's ever had it work for them, I'd like to know.

Which made me think back to when PHF first came on to me. Man, was that eons ago. Man, was he hot. Man, was he drunk. Man, was his fraternity brother, whose date I was, pissed off at him.

We did have to laugh at the table full of folks who had their drinks, consulted one another, and left; obviously to "bar-hop."

Let me describe the bar-scene at the lake. I know it intimately from the one time I did it. It goes something like this for the newbies: pancho's for dinner, brew pub for a lonely, but good, beer and a conversation with the ultra-bored bartender, ice cream shop, the Lariat. Or, like folks in the know, you could skip the other and go to the Lariat.

By the time they got back, my ass wasn't hurting any more and even my calves felt ok. Of course it was then that PHF wanted to head home. It's against my religeon to leave an unfinished beer on the table (or anywhere else for that matter) so I chugged it and we left. The walk home was glorious.

Goddamn the sky is beautiful up there.

bring out yer dead

Saw Troy last night. What a fabulous film. What fabulous acting. What fabulous costumes. What fabulous near-full-frontal-nudity. What an ugly baby.

But it really was a good couples flick because there's lots of fighting and cool computer generated war scenes, as well as there being lots and lots and lots and lots of Brad Pitt (who can carry a movie just by standing there wearing only that little half-smile like he's about to fuck you raw). And Orlando Bloom. And, that other guy who played Hector. And that young cutie who played Patroclus.

*sigh*

I don't have to return it until Wednesday.

*sigh*

can you break your ass and still walk?

For the record, Greg, I went five hours. So there.

But that beer was fucking good, when I got it.

Tonight I'll dream of someone - twenty-two-ish, washboard abs, broad shoulders, great thighs - to rub my calves. PHF is sick of it by now. Ok, can't walk right, my calves are KILLING me, my hands suddenly sieze for no reason, and my ASS HURTS. Because yeah, Einstein, I fell on it. A few fucking times.

But all in all, I absolutely LOVED snowboarding. It was so worth the pain. I actually stayed up - like actually turned and stopped on my edges and shit. I never even stopped the lift. I'm just so impressed with myself. Moreover, PHF was impressed too, which makes me happy, and me happy only leads to good things for him.

Now don't get me wrong. I spent plenty of time on the snow. But I learned that there's a cultural thing among snowboarders - it's cool to sit there in the snow. Even the good ones wipe out sometimes. No one gave me any funny looks or anything, which was cool. It's different among skiers, who are, frankly, a bunch of ski-pole-up-the-ass snobs, comparatively. Good skiers don't fall down. They just don't. I always did. Following that logic, I suck at skiing.

But like Greg about the sex, I've got some questions about my new sport:

1. See title. And what do I do about it? Nothin?

2. Does anybody but the resorts call it "riding"? And if they do, does anybody but me think that's a stupid term? If they don't, what the hell do you actually call it - you know, when you're being hip and shit?

3. Why were all of the instructors hot, young, flirty Swiss and Aussie guys with sexy eyes and accents, except for one - mine - who was a lady in her forties? (Ok, for the record, she was way cool and an excellent instructor. But c'mon. A little eye-candy would have soothed the aches and pains, ya know?)

4. How long until I do a whole run without falling down? No, actually, my last run was pretty good - lots of upright time. Of course the digital camera only has film of me face-planting.

5. How many lessons do I need? I mean, that shit is expensive!

6. Who is the fucker who told me it's not athletic at all? When I remember you, you're so dead.

7. If one guy says about his other guy friend, to me on the lift, "He was so mad at me because I took a lesson without him, the opportunity just came up so I did it a couple of weeks ago. But, I mean, I'm here with him now. And he's just so pessimistic about it. Of course, he's pessimistic about everything..." does that mean he's gay? Maybe not lovers, but they're gay pals for sure, right?

8. People don't snowboard/ride/board or whatever the hell you call it on black runs, right? Or maybe they do, and carve off the moguls? I don't get it. I guess it doesn't matter, since I'm scared of heights I'll probably never go black. Blue, perhaps, which I used to ski back in the day.

9. The bunny hill is two lifts away and I was hungry at lunchtime so I rode the lift down on the instructors recommendation instead of spending another hour getting to the base - I did go to the base on my board at the end of the day, though. But, when riding back down on the lift is it expected that you say "hey" to the folks going up? Or is it better to politely ignore? (I chose the latter but felt funny about it.)

10. To helmet or not to helmet? I never hit my head yesterday, but I wonder. I would actually prefer to not - never did any sport but horse-back-riding in a helmet before. As far as I could tell there was no consensus on the slopes.

Also, the Lad loved it, which was almost as cool as me loving it. He rode the little conveyor belt at the baby bunny hill like a pro, the teacher helped him with his binding, and then he just pointed and went. Sometimes the kid even edged a stop.

Man, we were so impressed. The downside is that he thinks he's the shit now.

Yeah, we went to the Lariat last night - three rounds for the two of us for under twenty bucks - and that included generous tips. Yeah, great Blog Fodder for sure. But tomorrow's another day.

oh, it's nobody. just me tryin' to be all hip and shit

You read it here first.

I'm doing it. I am snowboarding this weekend at Winter Park. That's the closest resort, well, big resort, to the Lake. (Yea we're goin' to the lake. --summertime pic, that. Isn't it heavenly?) Haven't been there in over a month and I'm homesick!!

I'm taking a lesson (translate - sliding down the bunny slope with a bunch of jack-offs from another state on my gortex-clad, well-toned, soon-to-be-black-and-blue- but-still-pretty-damn-fine ass). (Which brings to mind - I used to get told all the time by guys what a nice ass I had. Haven't been told that for a long time. I wonder if the novelty of my mighty fine ass has worn off for PHF?)

The Lad is taking a lesson too. His is all day and mine is two hours. I'm sure that's because as an adult I'm supposed to get better at this quicker. HA! I'm gonna suck, I know it. I'm such a fucking spaz when it comes to sports. I mean, I can walk down the street and shit, but when it comes to actually making my body go a certain way... it says "Fuck no, biatch. You just sit there on your ass and look sad." But for some insane reason I must try my damndest to be cool. Curse that urge! Damn it to hell!

I seriously have not been on skis lo these seven years, and I sucked before, so I figure, why not go and try something new to suck at? All the kids are doing it. It's been so long since I went skiing that the boarders then were still almost novelties; obnoxious snow hacks who carved off the tops of moguls and were really just the fuck in the way.

Now I'm gonna be one.

Greg, I will be wishing for you on Saturday even more than I wish for you... well, at other times. At least I get beer after, and all the Lad gets is a Sprite. He gets Sprite on weekends as a treat - yeah, yeah, yeah, I know I'm a responsible parent. It's a snore, but somebody's got to be one. If we're not too banged up (well, PHF will be fine - he's like an olympic skier or some shit - no seriously, I get all hot just watching him ski - it's like... beautiful, man) ok, so if I'M not too banged up I'll get to go out to the Lake Bar that night, where I shall drink my two dollar beers and PHF shall drink his three dollar Captain and Cokes and people watch. So you know I shall return Monday replete with stories in the genre of Old Men In Tap Shoes and European Guys Who Don't Realize They're Gay.

So play nice this weekend, kiddies. Don't get into any commentbox squabbles!! You know they won't be half as fun without me.

fuck furniture

And the usage of fuck is meant to be as an adjective, not a verb.

Naivety always slaps me in the face just when I think I'm with it. I'm pretty hip, but what with years of marriage and middle age looming like a Sequoia about to fall (ok, not that close, middle age for me is over a decade away because I'm going to live until I'm 98), I'll grant that I've missed an advancement or two in the realm of sex.

I also appreciate that as an American I'm thought of as quite puritan by the rest of the world, as the US seems to be so shy about sex. We give our penises and vaginas cutsey names and call intercourse anything but: hook up, get laid, make whoopie, bedsheet tango, nookie, bonk, fuck, get it on, get a peice of ass, quickie, screw, bang; my fav, of course: the nasty; (this is by no means a comprehensive list) and even the ubiquitous "doin' it." I mean, how vague can you get, right? Doin' it. Of course, the upside of this attitude is how it enables four adults to sit around and giggle for two hours over sexual references in a nice restuarant until they are politely refused decent alcohol.

But as for me personally, I'm no shrinking violet (a term I've always thought more applicable to men for obvious reasons). I might not detail my experiences with abandon, but be assured I'm having them with abandon; and I'm not shy if the subject comes up. I enjoy my bit of porn now and again. I do the fantasy thaing (umm, Cryptic, hmmm). I read sex shit on the web (all your blogs, for instance and there's some sex bein' had out there). I hit links like the rest of us. I even have truly grown to enjoy writing sex scenes in my fiction.
(Hopefully PHF enjoys the urges they inspire... or do the urges inspire the scenes? Hmm.) And I've never pretended not to enjoy my time in the sack. I mean, my own blog has Sex in the title, for crissake. We all do it and no doubt it's way fun. No harm in admission so I'll do so right here, right now.

I like sex. Love it, in fact.

I'm not alone in this. People are doin' it, and they LIKE doin' it, and they LOVE to talk about doin' it. Everybody talks about the opposite sex ALL THE TIME, (or same sex, if that's your bag). Hell, I'm even married and I do it too. We as a race of beings are simply obsessed by the entire event: from the prospect of eyeing a potential to the point of marriage (where rumor has it - sex goes to die) and every related moment in between.

And there are those turn-ons and fetishes out there, from the funny to damn-hot: stuffed animals, bondage, lingerie, etc. Licking, biting, pain, tickling... And then we like talk about which body part we like best: feet, legs, fingers, tits, asses. My personal spot is that curve of muscle between a guy's neck and his shoulder... hmm. See that on a guy and I just wanna sink my teeth in...

*sigh*

I think I need a minute.


Ok.

When we aren't talking about hookin' up, we're talking about our sex toys; even going so far as to eulegize our Vibrators Who Have Gone to the Great Vagina in the Sky. And the topic of masturbation is downright prevalent. I guess if you're a guy between the ages of about 13 and 30 it seems to be a regular part of your day (if blogs can be believed, and I think in this they can be). Guys talk about it matter-of-factly, how long it takes, when they can fit it into their busy schedules, they discuss pictures that get them off and sexy noises... (There's a funny psychology about talking about jacking off I think, like you admit you do it so that means... what? That you do actually do it and it's ok? Or does it mean that you don't do it? There's got to be more to it than the obvious. Anyone care to enlighten me?) Anyway, I've read an awful lot of discourse on masturbation from guys since this whole blog thing got going for me about six months ago. TMI to be sure, but what can you do? Apparently, it's a part of who they are.

None of this offends me. I'm virtually un-offendable (not throwing out a challenge here) and I've heard and done and seen LOTS of things. I'm ok with it. Even if sometimes my own reaction surprises me (like, who knew guys kissing each other could be so damn sexy?) I figured by now I'd pretty much heard or seen all the world had to offer up on sex.

But I didn't know there was such a thing as fuck furniture. Ok, they call them sex wedges or some such, but shit. They are big foam thingies to put on the bed or floor and do it on. PHF found an ad in the back of his Car and Driver and pointed it out to me - of course mightily amused that he'd found something with which to surprise me.

So I looked at the website and studied the pix and even with a stray nipple here and a stray hard-on there I've got to say I didn't even feel a tingle. All I could think was: Hmm. Isn't innovation supposed to be part of the fun?

I'm having trouble accepting that these products actually enhance sex. We've all done crazy angles and shit - you know, you just sort of shift until it's right/ and I'll try about anything once. But sliding on my back down a foam wedge didn't look all that appealing. Also, there's the "arrange the furniture" aspect. You can buy like four different pieces and arrange them in "countless ways for countless positions" (their words, not mine - and besides, there's no such thing as countless positions. I guess if you're measuring in infinite numbers and by the milimeter, then perhaps; but they're really all a variation of the the basic say, dozen or so. See Kama Sutra).

And, what if you want a switcheroo-to-something-new? You've got to stop and "arrange the furniture" again. In my experience, the last thing anybody (trying to keep vague here) wants to do in the middle of the nasty is pause to move stuff around. Actually, having to do so usually inspires a breathless cuss word or two, and maybe a glass of water spilled from the nightstand when hit by a poorly thrown pillow.

It's not even the romance factor - because really I'm in it more for the sex (again, aren't we all?) and pausing for adjustment is natural. But this is a big blue foam doohickey. You've pretty much got to stand up to move the thing, and then the other person has to arrange themselves on it. And that, I'd venture to say, might take long enough to kinda kill the mood.

Of course, it could alleviate those anxious moments when you actually have to broach the subject of having sex with your partner. Some people are uncomfortable with the question, "So, ya wanna do it?" It could become the new codeword for such couples, in fact. Instead of stripping off your clothes as you walk to the bed, sofa, woodland glen or where ever it is that you choose to partake, you could just set up this big blue foam cushion. I bet your partner would catch on. Maybe they'd even be turned on.

But if they were to say "not tonight", which happens on occassion, then you've got the proverbial gigantic "white elephant" (or "big blue foam wedge" which is as effective a term) in the room with you. Because these things are big enough that storage is an issue.

Anyway, I plan on keeping mine in the corner behind the armoire and a full review will be forthcoming once we've put it through its paces.

brad and jen broke up - oh boo hoo

Ok, I got eyes in my head. I love the way Brad Pitt looks. His face and hair and body in his early days of acting... yummy. They say symmetrical makes your face look better, and he must be pretty damn symmetrical. He's not too bad now either - though, if it's not obvious by now I kind of prefer guys in their twenties. I refer to looks, you understand, and flirting. Actually talking to a twenty-something guy in a bar makes me want to slam several whiskeys in an effort to sink to their mental capacity. God forbid I actually had to marry one.

And sure, B and J made a cute couple. The way they dyed their hair the same color and their matching, custom wedding rings (I mean, not exactly A for originality there though. PHF's hair and mine are the same color when mine's not dyed, and we had matching wedding bands a full decade before they ever did - along with half the married population). But they had the whole Hollywood Prom King and Queen thing goin' on for awhile. Bully for them.

Do I give a shit that they they broke up? No.

Why do people care? I don't know, but care they do. People are actually discussing this. These are vaguely recalled quotes from actual people that I actually know:

"Oh, that Jen, she just wants a career and no kids. I wish she'd have told him that from the beginning."

"Goddamn that Brad!! He just had to work with Angelina Jolie, and everyone knows she's the kiss of death to any marriage."

"I'm sorry, even if their marriage was in trouble, phone sex with Angelina Jolie was too low." (PHF- If the opportunity ever presents itself I hearby give you permission to have no penalty phone sex with Angelina Jolie.)

"Brad wants kids, and he's been like a surrogate father to Angelina's son."

"Angelina Jolie is a slut. But I'd fuck her."

"Oh, I knew she'd never ruin her body with kids. I said ever since they hooked up that it would never last. Jen is too self-centered."

Oh, I wasn't aware that we actually knew these people. WHY DOES ANYONE CARE??

Actors are by nature self-centered. So are writers. So are computer programmers. So are teachers. We are all self-centered, and actors hardly have a patent on it. Some of us are just better at hiding it than others.

So that means that it's their good looks that attract us. Are we so shallow as to disregard personality in favor of good looks? Apparently. But then, maybe that's for the best. Because like selflessness, personality is a hot commodity in most actors from what I can see. They need to be short on personality so that the script can give them one.

I really don't care about famous people. I have a hard time getting worked up about people I don't know. Who cares who was at which party and what they are supporting and who is pregnant and who is getting married and divorced and least of all why all of it is happening?? Not me. Don't even get me started on when people talk about "what great parents such-and-such actors are," as if we don't all work and raise kids, and most of us with a whole hell of a lot less money.

Deepcleansingbreath. Deepcleansingbreath. Fuck, it's not working. I need to go do something else now. But Goddamn. If I hear another person describing an actor as "down to earth" I'm going to puke all over my People Magazine.

now back to our regularly scheduled crying

Sorry, Monkey for stealing your format, but I don't have one general topic today - lots of miscellaneous ramblings. Oh, fuck, did I just write that out loud? I think I've even done that before. Apologies all round. Again.

Monkey-lass is such an intent whiner/cryer that she can be distracted from crying, have an entire conversation, and then go back to crying as if it never happened.
Little girls and sugar and sweet, my ass.

**

Horoscope: You'll be asked by the higher-ups to take on far more responsibilities soon -- but you won't mind a bit. You may, however, become so used to being in charge that you decide you like it.

Now this I truly do not understand. I'm the mom. I am the higher up. I already like being in charge. (I'm anti-authority, as PHF constantly reminds me.)

But more responsibilities? As if.

**

Saw Big Scary Guy at the gym. Just to illustrate how scary: he eyed me in the mirror and I went cold all over. Just... icy, arctic tundra, up-Mount-Everest-without- a- sherpa cold. Death whispering in my ear cold. Granted, it could have been from the, count 'em, 300 ab reps I did today. Kinda made me sick inside. (And is my stomach flat?? Fuck, no!)

But to illustrate how big: he did chest presses with, I shit you not, two one hundred pound dumbbells. Steady as a rock, that one, the last rep as clean as the first.

He only did one set though. Pussy.

**

Dorm reporter writes: You put masterbation in the title and then you write about bills? This is a disappointment for the horny readers.

I think he could substitute "male" for horny. I see an awful lot of talk about self-stim on men's blogs. I found it particularly funny because I think that was the first (and second and third and now fourth) times that the word masturbation has even been used here at SS@S. (Thank you for clarifying the spelling, Jack.) Not so into it meself. Of course, I get the real deal pretty regular...

Oops, did I just alienate anyone with that? Sorry. We're, uh, married. Long time now. It's actually more like boring, once a month, obligatory, I-want-to-go-shopping-tomorrow-and-leave-the-kids-with-you, barely-enough-foreplay, missionary-position, oh-jeez-do-I-have-to-do-that-this-time?, will-you-just-come-already-I've-got-an-early-con-call sex. The rest of the time we hardly look at each other, much less kiss, or something like that.

It's why I flirt so much.

**

I have to get out of this country within the next six months or I seriously cannot be held responsible. Fuck. I'm sick of the US. I can't even watch the news because it reminds me that I'm stuck here and there's a big world out there just being the world and being all interesting and shit.

**

Bush's inauguration?? Oh yeah, I'm glued to it. I just can't wait to see what Laura and the twins are wearing... ppppfffttt!

**

And there's nothing on tv. I'm watching Carnivale, MI5, Scrubs, and I keep trying to remember to record Lost. I think that looks good. The last time I saw it some great invisible "force" was sweeping silently through the jungle. Can anybody tell me if it's progressed past that and if it's worth a damn? And do the girls have underarm hair? I mean, let's get real. They've got to have underarm hair by now. When, oh when, is Keen Eddie starting back? And sorry, fab five, but I'm bored with you guys too.

I couldn't make it through Desperate Housewives last night. PHF chuckled a couple of times but I rolled over and went to sleep and I wasn't even tired.

The rest of the Tivo memory is taken up with Monster Garage and Pimp My Ride.

**

Valentine's Day is looking up. Virtigo's son's birthday was at one of those jumpy places, and they were big enough that us grups could get in there and jump too, so we came up with the idea of having a grown-up party there. (Two beer limit though - I bet there's a puke fee.) Then Beth thought maybe it would be good for Valentine's day. Capital idea, actually. Beats a lame dinner, and oooo, a red lace teddy! I'm a secular holiday rebel anyway.

**

btw, Anon, I didn't drink yesterday (by chance, not per your advice) and this morning I woke up not only numb, but in massive amounts of pain. Just thought you would want to know, since you are so concerned and shit. Fuck you very much.

**

Everyone else have a super Tuesday (ok, Wed, Cryp) and be nice to each other for crissake!

Oh, that last was meant for my kids. Sorry.

there's no sex in elektra and it could have used some

Went to see Elektra last night. You know I don't approve of movie bashing posts (no matter how fun and how much there is to work with, and trust me, there is a lot of material to work with in bashing Elektra) so I'll resist and follow my own rules for once.

The real fun was dinner before the movie. BB, Virtigo, PHF and I all went out. Now, we've all known each other for a good long while, so there really isn't much restraint needed (or left) between us. We talk about EVERYTHING. We had to wait in the bar for an hour for the table, and downed about three drinks during that time. So by the time we got to the table, Virtigo and I alone because the guys were paying for the drinks, we were on our way to lit. The waiter asked us if anyone would be joining us. Virtigo told him that yeah, they were paying for the drinks in the bar.

"Oh," he replied, eyeing us, "Did you just meet them tonight?"

WTF??

I guess he was joking. So I played along, "Yeah, we just met them in the bar tonight." Virtigo chimed in that they were cute, too. I think one of us wondered aloud something to the effect of whether or not the waiter thought the guys would expect some action for their trouble, and perhaps it was about then that the waiter realized that it was us that might be trouble.

Well, we shared a round before ordering, during which the waiter overheard us talking about something with a vague (ok, maybe not so vague) sexual reference twice. One of us suggested that we make a point of making a sexually charged comment everytime the guy came by, and it sounded like great fun. (To his credit, the waiter tried to join in for awhile. But he wasn't funny.) So we proceeded with our little game.

As in Virtigo commenting that it'd been awhile since the kink.

As in me lamenting, yet again, the loss of Pillowtalk, "MY SEX BLOG"- which I added at the last moment when I saw the waiter approaching.

As in PHF coming up with yet another creative business idea: Whoring himself out for $1000 bucks a night. (I think he meant me, but he was still being diplomatic while giving me sidewise glances to determine how drunk I was.)

It might have been about now that BB observed that, "Funny we haven't actually had to try to make sexual comments. They've just been happening naturally."
And they continued naturally for the entire evening (we sat there for about two hours).

As in BB adding elaborating on the whoring idea by suggesting that if PHF had someone push him around in a shopping cart at Walmart (or was it Target?) in the evenings, he might actually get some takers.

As in myself further detailing how some actually semi-decent sex could be accomplished in a shopping cart. (Tall people can just stand there and lean into it.)

As in Virtigo mentioning something sexual I'd told her in confidence... "Or was that on your blog?? I can't remember. I'm too drunk."

As in PHF grinning madly when he'd realized he'd scored big (believe it or not we actually don't kiss and tell all that much - it's just that this story was too good to contain) and commenting on how that guy and that guy and that guy kept looking at me, and how their wives were getting pissed.

As in myself responding that flattery would only result in earthshattering sex, so don't expect much more, and how I knew he was leading up to something so cut the bullshit and just say it.

As in PHF finally admitting, that yeah, the original idea was to whore me out, but he hadn't thought of the shopping cart, and good idea since I'm little, yeah, I'd just fit...

As in Virtigo (who was by now in a drunken haze and a little behind the times) commenting that she hadn't known that I'd had an anonymous sex blog and wow, she couldn't believe it of me, and PHF responding that, "Well, it wouldn't have been very anonymous if she'd told everybody," and that even he hadn't known.

As in me noticing (or maybe I was just making shit up by then) that the sex blog concept turned him on and saying so. (I think there might have been a mention of specific posts, but by then the wine was getting low and I was back on beer, so it's pretty fuzzy.)

By the end of the evening the waiter was practically ignoring us, which was just as well. Because we were truly drunk and obnoxious and probably not at all clever to anyone but ourselves.

Rather in the spirit of Elektra.

procrastination, oops, sorry, masterbation is the spice of life

I abhorr writing bills. I hate adding up the reciepts. I hate working on the budget. I hate writing checks - I get this annoyed feeling that stretches through my torso like a stomach cramp. If I write too many checks in a row bile begins to rise in my throat. My handwriting is terrible anyway since my hand is constantly numb, and you can barely read my signature or the amount or any of it, and I don't care.

I hate paying bills so much that I absolutely refuse to write the amount paid on the slip included with the check, though I have been known to write: See the fucking check for the amount! out of absolute spite.

I can't even make myself care when the bills are late, or when we go over budget. I don't bother to get shocked when a bill is way high (for instance, our power/gas bill was almost 400 bucks this time. I know I should care, but I just don't.)

And don't tell me to set up auto withdrawels for everything, and that there are computer programs that will rectify it all for me because I can't stand the thought of spending even an hour setting that shit up. I hate math. I don't even like math when the computer does it for me.

I hate it hate it hate it hate it hate it HATE IT!!!!!

It goes so deep as to even include a basic hatred of money, from whence all this work comes. Doing the bills takes away every iota of joy from shopping. I hate to get a reciept when I shop because then that means I've got to tally it. Every reciept only means more work.

But, if I don't do the bills, PHF will, and then he frets and we argue.

I hate that worse.

Got to go pay bills now.

an editorial from our station manager

This has been a weird week and I think much of it has been driven by illness. The first couple of days I felt too shitty to do much but sit here and write. It was a productive time - more on that later - but I did actually feel quite like crap. However, when you're the mommy, life goes on. So I kept on with the feeding, watering, and safe-keeping of the little ones; albeit not very well. (Jeez, I keep using albeit. There's some meaning to it, just don't know what.)

But guess what? When you're the blogger, blogging goes on too. I posted very little, got a little nudge from Greg (actually, a couple of nudges. Point taken, Greggie. We're still in lust though, right?) and I came down off my cold meds long enough to take a gander at the hit counter. Holy cow. I'm sitting over 3000 hits all the sudden. I checked the stats and realized that I'm getting over 60 individual hits a day. This is hardly Monkey-dom, or Vadergrrlish, but jeez, this is cool. I used to teach, so I equate it to that. The kids show up, sit down, take out their notebooks and look up at you with that challenge in their eyes: "Whatcha got? And it better be worth my time."

My mom always sighs, "Why would you want to talk with someone you don't know?" There's a wonderful freedom in it. I've been able to stretch personal boundaries. I've pushed poor PHF too, and I've learned that he really is the loving, tolerant man I always knew he was (sometimes one forgets that when one is in the midst of arguing over bills and folding laundry). (An aside about marriage here: my bro gave me the best piece of advice about marriage. He said, "Sometimes he is just gonna lay on the sofa all day. And you're gonna be pissed. But that's what he wants to do, so let him do it without a bunch of flak.")

I've even pushed some of you, and you've pushed back, which is more rewarding than I'd realized it could be. I'm a writer, and like Virtigo pointed out recently: I've got this primal, base need to be read. This is the first time I've ever been read to this extent. We're creating a little community here. I know we're not a huge community, but it's still important - to me, anyway. I hope it is to some of you, too.

And more than that - I've figured out that you all are important to me. I've witnessed some things during this whole blog thing that gives me some real reassurances that the world will be ok. Not miraculous, but loving, and kind, and also very real. For instance: A week ago or whatever Jack was feeling a little down and posted about it. I've read him long enough to know something was off. His words moved me and I realized the guy's feeling depressed. Not that I "know" him, but I did care just the same. So I sent him a little e-love, which I hope helped a bit, and he had some other comments on that post - just little tidbits of vague support, nothing big. But I could see that people actually cared about this guy in Chicago that most of us don't know. His next post was much more cheerful. (Ok, well, sarcastic and hateful, but that's the Jack we all know and love.)

Very cool.

People that know me read me (gulp) and I've learned that I have to say what I'm going to say anyway. It's been good for me, and a relief to know that they actually like it. Sometimes they call me on shit (Virtigo) which is good. I've found people overseas, I've found people from back home (it's Kansas, all right? Kansas. Lame, but you can't help where your parents drag you to live). I've found people who keep me on my toes, humor-wise (Jack and Greg) and grammatically (coughcoughkrypto). I've gotten some plain old ego-boosting from flirting with a hottie (Cryptic). And I've watched how to be funny and kind and just plain sweet to your readers (Monkey). I figured I was past due for a little of that, so hense this post.

Anyway, I've connected with people that I never would have had the opportunity to meet. It's sort of a pumped-up, reassuring, happy, warm, electric feeling to communicate like this. It's just so... awesome. And I don't mean in the surfer-boy context. I mean, I'm in awe.

It's also a responsibility. Probably not a big one to some people, but one I take seriously. I was telling my friend the other day, "You know, I have to produce. People are dropping by, and they get that little vague hmmm feeling if there's nothing new. I know because I get it too when someone else blows off posting for very long." But I love the responsibility. I love coming up with shit to say. I love your comments, be they serious, scintillating, irritating or titillating. I love when you disagree, or when you flirt back, or tell me that my shit actually does stink, or whatever. I love all of it. Anyway, thanks. If you guys weren't dropping by I would've given this up a long time ago. I really do love it, and I love all you guys. I hope I provide a bit of joy to your day - as much joy as you guys give me - and I hope to continue to be worthy of your time.

Now, back to our regular programming...

abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyz

I stole this. Not giving credit. She was boring, but mine will be facinating. Feel free to rip this from my site and bastardize it to fit your needs.

Edited to include adult content, of course.


A - Age old enough to know a thing or ten

B - Band listening to right now NIN

C - Crush enough that they should be put in alphabetical order: Cryptic, Greg (except if he's sassy again he'd better watch it!), Jack, Jack, JACK!!, Krypto, oh, and most recently the guys at the Beer Drinkers Society. I'll link 'em sometime.

D - Devilish Deed - cutting off Pillowtalk mid-stroke.

E - Easiest person (to talk to is what she put, I'm just leaving it at easiest person) Lexi from Pillowtalk

F - Favorite face Huh? I guess this is supposed to be famous people. But for me no contest: PHF's.

G - gimpy? my right hand is continuously numb. Does that count?

H - Happy? deliriously

I - Instruments Of love or what? I'm not musical. Actually not true. I was diagnosed with near perfect pitch. I'm sure the shower tiles are thrilled by my performances.

K - Kids one of the few traditional acts of my life: a boy and a girl - and yes, they're completely adorable. I just don't talk about them too much to protect the innocent.

L - Longest car ride ever That said, anytime the kid(s) are crying in the back.

M - Missionary? eh... uninspiring.

N - Number of sexual partners? hmm, jeez it's been awhile and I was likely drunk at the time. Ten or so? I had a busy coupla years.

O - Outie or innie? transgender - it goes both ways. And no, that's not why I don't go bare midriff at the gym

P - Pets the occasional stray mouse

Q - What the hell? Q? I got nothin'.

R - Reasons to smile her answer: too many...friends, grp, fields to run around in or lay down in, trees, bubble wrap, bubbles, animals, toulee, little cute things, nature, etc- see what I mean by boring? my answer: My kiddos most of all. And sex makes me smile, so there. Well, it does, Greg. You should try it sometime.

S - Spit or swallow I know she says she likes it, but she's lying to your horny ass.

T - Time you wake up Betwixt 4 am and 7 am

U - Unknown fact about me I've been hit by a car.

V - Vices Smoking when I drink a lot, like in bars. I'm always drinking somethinoranother, but I only smoke out.

W - Weight ok, whatever, I can deal. 130 range - mostly muscle weight. No really, it is, I'm size 4-6.

X - X-rays you've had Once I swallowed a key and was xrayed. I was a little kid and the key looked HUGE next to my hip bone. If I had a copy of that xray I'd have it framed somewhere in my house.

Y - Yummy food whiskey, beer, the new white oreos, popcorn. At least those are the things that have left recent remnants on my desk.

Z - zippers or buttons on guy's jeans? who cares as long as it's undone

i need a sound fucking

But it's not why you think. (Ok, partly it's why you think.) But mostly it's for medicinal purposes.

Have you ever had a bad cold/cough/sinus infection? Of course. Have you ever fucked anybody while you had the above? Clears the head like nothing else.

That it comes back is ok. You just do it every four hours or so, and you don't get that jittery feeling like you do from too much Sudafed.

Yup.

my fever broke and i didn't even get to hallucinate!

Ok, feeling muuuuch better.

Well, not entirely, lest you expect a masterpiece from my recovering ass, but actually sickness is not why I've not been posting much. (That would be your classic double-negative, chilluns, the one they warned you about at school. You think inappropriate commas are addictive, wait until you've had some decent double negative.) I've been writing my fiction with a vengeance, with interspersed breaks for bloghopping and commenting.

I do actually have a topic or two that have been simmering.

Desperate Housewives.

Deep, cleansing breath, ok, here goes:

I don't like it.

I know, I know. It's the hottest thing on tv since reality shows hit the airwaves (which, incidently, I don't like either - nope, not one bit). And I know what you're going to say. In fact, I should just post the first comment myself and save all of you the trouble. I've heard it over and over, because whenever the topic (or any topic) comes up I'm not shy about sharing my opinion. (No, you say, Really? That doesn't sound like you at all, Sex.) But the protesting party always starts with a variation on the same theme:

"You had to see the first one." or, "You had to see it from the beginning."

To which I respond: I did and I have. Still don't like it. The acting is sub-par, the characters are shallow, flaky and not likeable, the plot-line is extremely guess-able. And, you ask, how is that so different from Alias? Well, Sidney reverses guys' asses with their nostrils on every show. That's how. Violence. Like the violence. Yeah, I know some chick "killed herself" (and I caught on to that fact being questionable since they practically slapped us in the face with it) and another was "brutally murdered", but it's not the same. Heel smashing forehead - that's the kind of violence that turns me on.

Also, I can't stand the supercillious tone of the narrator. I know she's dead and all, so she knows shit we don't, but she grates my nerves.

So then, when the "Desperate Housewives Valiant Defender" determines that this dismaying news is not situational, she stares at me for a moment, silently, struggling to rectify this revelation with who they thought I was. In short, they believe the problem lies with me.

I can live with that. Sorry. I just don't think it's funny. I could get into an in-depth analysis of theme and character developement (and you know I'm more than capable of doing that in a rather biting, entertaining tone), but I don't care enough about the show to go to the effort. Just thought you should know. If you want to find another blog now, I'll understand.

The other thing that's been on my mind are the "resolutioners" at the Gym. I'm watching you. I play a little game with myself (not that kind of game, Greg) that is called:

"Who will be here come February?"

So far, I haven't found that many.

I'll start with the "wills":

1. Tattoo guy. He's got the coolest half-sleeve on his upper arm. While I don't usually love huge tattoos, it's no secret that I find tattoos sexy. And this guy's got lots more going for him than tattoos. His tattoo is a cross between tribal and an early English Arts and Crafts pattern (I used to be an interior designer too. Yes, the mystery deepens. Who is this chick??). Anyway, it's way cool looking, he's way cute, and he's obviously (pant,pant) been working out for awhile. He also climbs the rock wall, which provides live entertainment to boot.

2. Miscellaneous people with trainers. They'll be around for a while, I'd guess. They're making the investment, learning how to do it right and steady, and I'd guess they got six months at least. Usually once the outside pool opens the training goes down because everyone hangs at the pool drinking beer or margs. Yes, the gym is more than a fitness center; it's a "lifestyle center." It's got a cafe and a bar, too.

Here are some who WON'T be there:

1. The Guys Who Wears Black Socks to the Gym. (Unfortunately, there's more than one of these.) You bothered throwing your nasty, pit-stained, too-tight white t-shirt and twenty year old OP shorts in the bag and you didn't think of socks? I'm not saying that you've got to go buy a new Nike wardrobe. But if you can't take the trouble include white socks, sooner or later you won't take the trouble to come at all.

2. The Couples. So cute. They are going to change their lifestyle... together. "We'll eat right, work out, not drink so much, have more sex and we won't ever argue again!"

Riiight. PHF works out. I work out. We love each other with desperate abandon. But we don't work out together very often. For one, he's a slacker (yeah, my workouts are harder than his). Actually, he doesn't have to work out as much to see more results (bastard!) and that rubs me. He also hates waiting on me to finish.

(You might think that the primary issue is that I can't "look" when he's around. I'll say this, I can't help myself and he's very tolerant.)

The other issues with these couples is He tells Her how to do it "right" (translate: wrong) in a condescending tone. He also gets pissed if she can lift as much as he can (as most of these guys are techies, it's often the case) and She gets pissed when She discovers that He's scoping out Me.

It ain't gonna last.

3. The Fat Guy Who Starts Out Lifting Too Much Weight.

Complicating issues: he goes home sore, skips a day or two, and it's harder to restart once you've missed. Also, McDonalds won't get you through your workout. Or, he has cardiac arrest and ties up the machine for an hour or so while EMS tries to revive him. In any case, he won't last long.

4. The Mom Whose Kid Won't Stay In The Childcare. (Sorry, Virtigo - but, in your case, I think he'll get over it. He's getting older now.) (I also realize that there are exceptions to this rule, but most times it can be solved with cheerful persistance.)

Here's a successful scenario:
Set child down.
Child screams.
"Bye bye, I'll be back in a little bit!"
Mommy exits with a happy wave.
After a few times child still screams, but gets over it sooner and sooner until they are like my kids who scream when they DON'T get to go to the gym.

Not so successful scenario:
Set child down.
Child screams.
Mommy spends twenty minutes of the allotted hour-long Pilates class "consoling" child, as if they are the only one on earth who can. This tells Child two things:
1. If I scream, she won't leave. I get my waa-ay! 2. It must be bad here, because mommy won't show a little confidence in me and my surroundings and leave me.


I'll conclude with a new feature here at SS@S:

Funny Six Year Old Reasoning.

The Lad got a new dark-sensored nightlight the other day. This morning he tells me:
"Mommy, we'd better leave the light on in my room all day so my nightlight won't burn out."

Happy Hump Day! (Yes, I'm referring to both sex and Wednesday. Clever you, you got it!)

it's cold here, how 'bout that

This morning when I took my temp it was 92.7 (33.7 C). No shit. I took it again and I warmed up a bit, to the 94s. Shouldn't I be dead or something? (I'm trying hard not to die, Thomas!)

My current temperature is just over 95 F (or 35 C):

Other places that are 95 F (or thereabouts) are:
Renmark, Australia
Birao, Central African Republic
Barra, Brazil

I bet those folks are wearing shorts and flipflops, what do you bet? I, for one, am freezing my ass off in jeans and a sweatshirt!

Who gonna come warm me up??

no, me not shy

Horoscope Daily Overview:

Someone who's totally unlike anyone you've ever known will suddenly cross your path, and you won't be shy about letting them know just how unusual they are. The good news is that they'll find you equally interesting.

Any new readers out there?? This could be YOU.

don't even bother reading this, it's only inconsequential bitching anyway

Feel like shit today. Sore, scratchy throat. Can't get warm. We all have the same thing. I was going to go work out, but PHF said, "Honey, you look like crap." Nothing like honesty to kill any remaining love in a marriage. Maybe I'll move to Australia. ;P

Or, Chicago. Or, LA. (Hiya, Jack and Greg. I know, I've been neglecting you.)

Sorry, Krypto, even the prospect of coaxing you out of your reinstated virginity can't take me to that icy wasteland you call home.

He's right, though. I do look like crap, all pale and shit.

And I got to go to the girl dr. today for a check up. Yea. No big deal, right? Let's see how you like getting a couple of serving spoons stuck in your business while chatting about the new gym and the price of gas.

So I made up for it by spending the rest of the day writing. I wrote some semi-decent sex, I think. That Aidan really gets it going on. Made me horny, anyway.

If you're super-sweet, I'll consider posting it.

Ok, that's a lie. But the rest was Truth.

(Editor's note: The author has failed to clarify the 60/40 Truth rule. The rule is as follows: This blog, Sex Scenes at Starbucks, will subscribe to a MINIMUM 60% truth rule. As of this writing the author hovers around a 90% Truth/10% bullshit average. But, everything she says about Cryptic is Truth.)

i'm a leo btw

This week's horoscope:

Share what you're feeling on Monday. Sometimes you like to keep stuff bottled up, but that isn't always the best policy. (What are you going to do with all that bottled-up stuff? Start a bottled-up-stuff store?)

ok, blah blah blah... write my blog, I guess this means... but here's the good part:

On Friday or Saturday, your week is going to go in an unexpectedly romantic direction, which will be an excellent development.

I prefer to think of this as a "sexcellent" developement. Are you reading, PHF?

Oops. I think I just broke resolution #4. "I will no longer pester PHF for sex and shamelessly flirt with him at inappropriate times."

stellaaaaaaa!!!

Let me just begin by saying "Goddamn that Stella Artois. She's a fair, beautiful, fickle, back-stabbing bitch. Why-oh-why do I love her so??"

Now that it's off my chest, I can move on. Went to the pub last night (I looked for a link and there is zippo out there - which will tie in neatly later, read on) and saw the Indulgers with BB and Virtigo (sorry, V, just can't get the rhythm of the full stops in the name. They know who I mean). PHF opted to stay home with the kidlets and get his ass whomped on PS2 by the Lad, and then subsequently by some twelve year old on-line, so I was stag (or, I dunno - what do you call it when a chick is on her own?).

It was couple's night at the pub, and someone forgot to mention it to me. No one to smooch with on the dance floor. No one to ravish me in the basement bathroom. *sigh* But we had fun anyway.

The evening began with yet another episode in "The Temperamental Zippo." I can't recall if I've mentioned it, but I got a Zippo lighter for Christmas. For those of you in the know, it's like the one K uses in the books. For those of you not in the know, a Zippo is the kind of lighter with a flip back lid, the kind Granddaddy used to use. It was another thoughtful gift from PHF - god, I love that man. Anyway, the thing has been pretty much a pain in the ass since I got it. It lights only when it damn well pleases; as in, when there's no cigarette present. Produce a cigarette and the thing just sparks like, well, something that only sparks.

Damien to the rescue. The man is a wonderful singer and song writer; however, in true Irish style (he's the real McCoy, so to speak) he drinks and smokes like a fiend. A man after my own heart, really. So of course he had a light for us, and we asked him how he was this evening.

"Grand, just grand. Waiting to see if I can spot any trouble."

Virtigo said something to the effect of "here she is," (indicating myself). Damien tactfully ignored that. I tend to flagrantly flirt with him and he is quite the gentleman about it. It was a tad early, since I was only one pint into the night. The flirting quotient goes up as the evening progresses, while his resistance goes down. But the most forward thing he's ever done is given me a hug when I complemented him on his beard (which was gone last night - he said the wife didn't like it, so I figured it wouldn't last long).

Longtime readers know that weird shit often happens at the pub (aka, The Knitter). There are the regulars, the "groupies," most of whom were not in attendance last night. Dunno why. Then there are the "sub-groupies", of which I'm probably, reluctantly admitted, a part.

Well, it was pretty quiet in there so we got the primo watching spot, close to the bar, where I can stand - I prefer to stand when drinking - and everyone else can sit. Unfortunately, there was one seat left over (damn us for being polite and not saving it for "a friend" who would never show!) So of course we get stuck with the Wannabe. He was a Wannabe in every sense of the word; he wanted to be attractive, he wanted to be clever, he wanted to be stylish, he wanted to be the life of the party, he wanted to be our friend. All of these things he was not.

Virtigo cleverly introduced herself as the wife and myself as the girlfriend of BB, so the asswipe asked BB if he could dance with either of us. God, some people don't have a fucking clue to the intricacies of a joke; especially when the joke is at their expense.

BB replied that, no, he wouldn't share the goods.

"Awww, come on."

"Nope. Sorry. I'm a selfish bastard."

So Wannabe proceeded to course through the crowd like a bad case of food poisoning, striking wherever and whoever caught his fancy. Lads and birds alike rejected his advances, lips were literally turning up in derision.

Did he notice?

I don't think I need to answer that.

And we, parked at his "home base" so to speak, bore our fair share of the brunt of the assault. Every so often he'd come back, put his hands on our backs, spit into our ears (I think he was saying something, but I was trying hard not to listen). I even made a plea to a bouncer (who didn't catch on) to come save us. Ok, I was only joking with the bouncer. Well, sort of. He's another one who doesn't have a clue, but that's another story.

I finally said to Virtigo, "I don't like to be touched much, you know. Especially by strangers."

She did know.

"So I'm just sayin' that when he comes back I'm gonna tell him that."

"Ok."

So I did.

Part of assholes' assholeness apparently is acting completely affronted when someone tries to temper their assholish behavior. All I said was, "You know, I really don't like to be touched." I think Virtigo said something as well, but I didn't catch it. He backed away, hands raised like we had a Mk 23 pointed at him (a fantasy I nurtured in the night) and needless to say left us the hell alone after that.

See Jack? No ball-kicking required.

Then there was the psycho. Virtigo nudged me. "Don't look now, but there's a psycho stalking us."

Man, she was right. The guy looked like a head case. He was definitely looking for someone to tie up in his shed, play with for awhile, and then cut up into teensy, zippy-bag-sized pieces. Something in the eyes. And he never quit staring at us all frickin' night. He disappeared right before we left, and I half expected him to drive by in a windowless, plastic tarp-lined white van and throw us in the back.

One guy tried to hit on me from afar, but once he danced... I felt like taking pity on him and going over, taking his hand, and telling him very gently, "You might not be ready to admit it to yourself, but dude, you're way gay."

Then there was the couple that sat nearest the band. Sat together, arms crossed and watched this fabulous Irish band play without so much as a toe-tap. Damien sat with them a bit. Perhaps they were family. Nothing like a family member to not enjoy your art.

Finally the crowd picked up at midnight. Cute boys abounded, and I should've liked to have danced with some of them. One guy scammed me pretty hard. Oh, he was cool about it, but chicks were trying to hook up with him all over, and he rejected all and kept glancing back at me. Nice for the ego, to be sure, but by then I'd lost interest.

There's only one dude for me, I thought, and he was at home in bed where I wanted to be. So I bought Damien a Stella, which Jerry the nice bartender bought for me (Thanks, Jerry!) and we headed for home.

Ok, BB and Virtigo, here's the post per your request. See? Daylight posts just don't do justice to the drunken revelry from the night before. It was loads of fun, though. Your turn, Virtigo.

Confidential to Cryptic: I should add that we checked out your comment on BB's Palm at the pub last night, pulled up your pic and showed you to a bunch of girls there. We all agree, you were the cutest boy present (well, sort of present.)

we are at war, after all

I think I've mentioned it before, our "playgroup" on Friday nights. Well, we hosted it last night. The Lad was so excited because he would be able to share all his new toys with his friends, most of which is military in genre. He's six now, and we are at war. Time to start basic training.

We snacked and drank, as usual (no dinner, though - we forgot). The kids made a right bloody mess of the toys, as usual. But fun was had by all so we didn't care... much. One of our party was on a diet, of all things, so he'd been at the gym and came in late and barely ate anything and had one, count 'em, one beer. He's my drinkin' buddy, so I'm disappointed to say the least. As retribution I'm angling to have him drive us designatedly tonight, though the prospects of that look grim.

We all ended up in the sitting room off the kitchen. Now, in most of these houses around here it's the "family room," (translate: there is one focal point which is the tv). However, we prefer to watch tv in the theater, so there is no tv in that room. Kids were in and out (they were mostly in the theater or upstairs with the toys). Usually we hang in the kitchen, but the fire was on, so the OTHER girls all had to sit on the hearth by the fire. We had the furnace set at a balmy 70 degrees, but these girls are always cold. (Editor's note: The author wished to administer some advice: "Here's a fucking clue: it's fucking wintertime so put on a fucking sweater. Sheesh." But the editorial board thought offence might be taken and the statement is still under review for inclusion in this post.)

Granted, this big old house is drafty, but the whiskey always warms me right up. Anyway, we were chatting; baring a breast or two; yes, we agreed with ourselves that Cryptic is cute (for one so young), and there was otherwise much poking of fun at each other. Anyway, shit was in typically constant fling-state; the husbands bitch goodnaturedly about the wives and the wives bitch not-so-goodnaturedly about the husbands... You know, the usual.

Now to one side of this room is a long catwalk which overlooks the foyer and the sitting room. The kids love to play up there; they run rescue ops of toys between the floors, shout to each other, throw stuff over onto us, and otherwise be obnoxious and kid-like. But last night, maybe because we were in their space, the kids were particularly sweet-acting and quiet in their play.

They like to come to Friday night playgroup (none of them have caught on yet that it's not actually for them) and we've been getting together for so long that the kids treat all the parents more as a unit. It doesn't happen so much any more, but when they were younger you'd just as likely have someone else's wee one standing between your knees waiting on you to open a juice box, or sitting on your lap crying when they'd gotten hurt. Little Monkeylass came in and climbed all over PHF repeatedly (she missed him, he'd been gone) and the other kids would wander in, indiscriminatley distibute a hug or monkey-climb or two, and wander back out again. Though they were active, the obnoxiousness was held to a mininum, and when PHF and I finally retired for the evening, I was congratulating ourselves on having a successful, relatively mess-free evening (one glass of water and one box of juice spilled total. Pretty good, considering). "And they played so quietly," I was saying. "They were just so sweet..."

We stopped at the top of the stairs and stared.

The whole of the Lad's fleet was assembled up on the catwalk; I'd guess some thirty vehicles - armored personel carriers, Bradley fighting vehicles, armored trucks, tanks, ships, ATVs armed with M60s, motorcycles with bolted-on rifles, jets readying for take-off... all led by the Pirate Ship proudly flying the Jolly Roger, men high in the rigging for lookout ("Enemy ship, ho!"). Approximately 100 troops had been gathered for the assault, and all were in position, lurking with military precision in the darkness above, silently waiting for the order to attack.

Their target?

The nose of every weapon was pointed straight at the fireplace, where us, the little darlings' parents, had been gathered all night.

happy friday to you (unless its saturday where you are, or if you don't read this until next monday when you're at work...)

Today's horoscope copied directly from yahoo:

Quickie: Sometimes hints work. But this isn't one of those times. Make your intentions known.

This is good advice. I find it's best to not mince words when one wants a quickie, don't you?

**

Still mourning the loss of my anon sexblog, Pillowtalk. Due to a technical error (ok, me not paying attention) it had to be put out of its misery with a 9 mm delete key.

**

I like to use my considerable influence and talent between the silk sheets (whoops, heard that did you?) to help the little guy rise up...

Ok, enough. Check it out.

Vertigo's gone and had herself a wee baby blog. And, best of all, we're blog-twins! (Yes, we called each other to see what the other was wearing and we planned it that way. Aren't we hot?) She's BB's better half, btw, and a way fun hipster chickster. (Yes, yes, BB, I know I'm the negative influence. My bad.)

**

Sometime when PHF has time, I'll dig up the GDFHTML to put a blogroll over there <---and he can figure out where to stick it (tee hee). Or, not. Probably not. I'm big on trying to please everyone all the time and failing to please hardly anybody most of the time. That's a fucked up sentence, if you didn't notice. That's how I speak in rl. An orator, I'm not.

**

Also don't forget to vote for Monkey every day!! He's the coolest Monkey you ever met.

**

Iiiii'm partyin' toni-ight and yoooouuu'rrre no-ot. Ok, so maybe you are. Good luck with that.

daily horoscope

A new feature of SS@S, you know, when I think to look at it. I happened to look at today's:

Overview: Family matters are draining and work hasn't exactly been a piece of cake, either. Still, you're proud of what you've accomplished. You wouldn't trade one minute for a day in the Bahamas.

Yeah, right. Let's see, which would I rather do?

Today's activities: Waking at 6 am to my two darling children, neither of whom ate breakfast because I happened to leave the last of the cookies (see previous post) on the counter. Took elder child to school, dropped him off, watched until he was safely delivered into classroom while enduring glares from annoyed SUVs behind me. (Did I mention it was about 10 degees this am?)

Scrounged snack for the little Monkey lass's class, headed into Boulder to work in her room. On the way there: "Momma, we're going to school?"
"Yeah, hon. We're going to your school."
"Then where's my backpack?" This from a two year old. Fucking smart genes. Didn't fucking come from me, that's for sure. (The backpack had a couple of important documents inside, as well as hat and mittens. But, to my credit, I remembered the snack!)

Helped at preschool, where two and a half hours lasted approximately DAYS. Reminded (pointlessly) again why I left teaching. Out of nine present kids: one was still in jammies, four cried for longer than fifteen minutes because mama left (haven't we been doing this for six months??), three threw toys (including my own monkey-lass), and one smelled like pee. Bad like pee.

Ate a meager lunch and posted.

Lifted at gym, no friends to talk with, no cute guys to look at, and so was bored out of my gourd. (The resolution crowd is out in force - more on that later.)

Endured after-school fit by elder child for just showing up at school to pick him up because apparently he was "s'posed to play with J---!" No one notified me. Elder child screamed in room for thirty minutes. (Before you go thinking I'm a pissy mom, he is going to play there tomorrow.)

Monkeylass took nap (there is a God in Heaven, after all) however, she was "reluctant" to awaken for swim lessons. By "reluctant" I mean she cried and sucked and blubbered on her Gigi (the disgusting, nasty blanket that is constantly soaked with her saliva) and did the Houdini trick where no one, and I mean NO ONE, is able to get her clothes off her to get her into a swimsuit. (She's perfected it over the years. As an infant she "houdinied" out of diapers. Now it's evolved into a talent where you can't get clothes on or off the girl. See, Monkey? She's a real monkey.) Though it broke the cardinal law of "All Blankets Shall Remain On Beds," Gigi accompanied us BACK to the gym, where several twenty-something guys' illusions about moi were shattered when they saw me dragging two whining kids in the door.

Goddamn, she's old, they thought. Hot, but old. (I can read minds, I'm a mother.)

McDonalds as a reward for swim lessons (no one cried during the lesson - an improvement over yesterday). The elder lad reminded me repeatedly in the drive-thru that he wanted a "SPRITE! DID YOU SAY SPRITE, MOM??" until I threatened to throw it out the window if he said the word "Sprite" again before we got home.

Shower, bedtime, crying because they couldn't stay up late. (I don't even know where that comes from. I am the queen of "kids-to-bed-early.") Then, sitting here writing and chatting a bit with Cryptic. (That part was actually pretty fun.)

Hmmm, all that or the Bahamas? Now, that's a tough one...

cryptic comment

I got this comment from Cryptic (who, btw, is the only one to have come even close to have figured out the multi-layered riddle that is Sex Scenes at Starbucks) and I think there were some questions in there. Oh, yeah, there they are. His comment is in bold, my responses in italics. I editted to make it easy to understand, while maintaining the spirit of his comment, which I enjoyed immensely. (Girlfriends, he's also an Aussie and totally cute. Rather looks like the lead characters in my book.)

well im sure all the 3-inch willied men are happy to know that passion goes a long way when their stiffy wont. So, you recon the guy asking the question is built like my thumb or was it hypothetical? Greg? I reckon he’s hung all right. Too much confidence for one so young. Here he quotes me: ”but do guys constantly stare at sevens?” Especially when the 7 is in the company of a 4 or 5 or 6. Gee, thanks, I think. Look, I was just giving Greg shit. I’m way hot. Again, PHF, feel free to dial in at any moment and tell them how hot I am...7's work.. but it all depends on your scale.. some people would rate a 7 a 5 and others a 9.. so it depends on standards... how long its been since you pierced the pork-sword... If by this you mean getting laid, then a couple days. If you mean… well, hell, what else could it mean? oh.. and how much you have drunk... That night? 3 whiskeys. I drink Bushmills neat when I’m out of beer, which I currently am. Or do you mean, how much have I drunk, like, ever?? I wouldn’t begin to know how to add it up. I like my alcohol. Perhaps a better answer would be: How much have you drunk? or what tablets have been taken? Sorry to disappoint, I don’t do drugs. I'd tried all that shit by about the time you learned to walk, Cryptic, and found it just doesn’t do it for me. Its not an easy answer to question or easy question to answer even. Ok, that’s just good humor. Personally I check out a good 7! Again, thanks. You would check me out. Everybody does.

watch it or i'll go all alias on your ass

I watched Alias last night. That's my favorite show. Yeah, I know, same ole weak plot line, rife with done-to-death secrets and horrible past history between the major players. "Let's see, you killed my wife and I killed your'n, but sure, what the hell, we always made a good team."

Riiiight.

But, you know, plot is not why we watch, is it?

Let's see, it must be the fine acting.

Ok, then, it must be that sad, sallow Michael character, who is always wrinkling his forehead unattractively over Sidney's shoulder because she never lets him all the way "in" emotionally. (She lets him "in" in other ways, though. Why, I don't know.)

No, no, I'm just joshin' ya. We watch because we like to see Jennifer Garner kicking the ass of every guy who looks at her cross-eyed.

I want to be her. Not Jennifer Garner (I think she may be a few plates short of an eight piece table setting) but I want to be Sidney. I want to be as tall as y'all and kick all your asses. At this point, I'm only tall enough to kick your knees, so I have to resort to giving you shit on this this lame-ass blog instead.

That girl is strong. She just walks around all normal and shit, but I bet she can bench 100 pounds. (Is that a lot? It sounds like a lot.) I, personally, have never "benched" anything. I can do about 40 pounds pretty easy with free weights - meaning with lots of reps. Sometime I'll have to just see how much I can bench, whenever my trainer gets back "in country." I'm not as tall, so I lack that sort of "presence" she has, but I do think my shoulders and arms are as toned as hers.

I've been in this dilemma about my own physique. Now, don't get the wrong idea. I'm not some she-man. But I am pretty strong for my size. I don't really want to get all bulky, but I love to lift weights. I could do it twice a day. I think I won't increase my weights, and then it gets easy, and I do. I'm completely addicted. I also like being able to lift my kids without trouble. I like being able to pick up a couple of gallons of milk in one hand, no problem. I like being strong. Sidney helps me feel better about that "untraditional" side of my personality. Her ass made me feel a bit better about my own too. I noticed "lots of black" on the bottom. Now, I'm sure it's all muscle, having seen her move, kind of like the "muscle" or whatever on the inside of my thighs. But it's nice to see someone who's in good shape without being rail thin on tv.

Ok, who the hell am I kidding? Why is her ass suddenly so big? I don't get it. Do some leg lifts or something, Jen.

The first season Alias was like the A-team. No one actually died; or if they did, they kicked it politely off-camera. Now, they're throwing people off of trains and the camera holds for the clanking noise they make when they hit a piling. And every year Sidney gets bigger and stronger-looking. She also does more damage. There will be this giant guy (someone after the tradition of BSG) coming after her and she'll kick him in the chest and follow up with the heel of her hand in his nose down he'll go, spouting blood. Last night she kicked the ass of her would-be assassin and he impaled himself on his own samari sword. It was getting a bit matrix-y with all the ducking and leaning back at the knee, but it was still way cool.

So I looked at myself in the mirror today, and I said, "Self. Kick ass. Don't be scared to be strong."

My trainer asked me that, way back when: "Don't you want to be strong?"

I shrugged. Strong was for men.

But, now, I guess, it's for me.

gee this is fun, and it's all about me!

OK, I just found Greg's questions, shut down Word, and poured meself another whiskey, so here goes:

If I show you mine will you show me yours? Nope.

Okay just playing.

1. Okay little miss anonymouse (intentional), if you could rate your looks on a scale from 1-10, what would it be? I've been over this before. I think I'm about a seven - but do guys constantly stare at sevens? (Seven? Opinion? We've not heard from you in awhile.) So, eightishly-ninishly, I guess, (PHF, feel free to speak up at any time) if you like short, tone chicks...
2. Do you think the pope is cute? Tough one. Priests are always cute because they are so... hornier than thou, right? But he's not appeared in any recent fantasies.
3. If my penis was 3 inches long, but i was a very, very passionate man, would you still make love to me? Hypothetical, i know you're taken. Been there, done that. Hate to break it to you guys, but... Jebus, don't make me say out loud. However, there are other, often more effective ways to please your luva. Passion goes a long way. A long way.
4. Would you laugh at it? Not to its face.
5. No really, i'm passionate though. Ok, ok, I'd sure as hell have fun with it here. Praise the blog gods I'm not single.
6. What makes the world go round? Biscotti. With chocolate in the middle.
7. Were you a crazy teenager? I suppose... yes.
8. Are you a crazy adult? No doubt I am. If you require confirmation, ask Vir.ti.go or Fire Faerie or Speed Racer.
9. Wanna get crazy? Define crazy.
10. Insert your own question to yourself here, and answer it for me. Fuck, Greg, what a cop-out. OK...
Thinking of starting any other blogs? Yeah, I did, actually.
What about? Nymphomanical sex.
What's the url? Nice try. You guys will never find it or know it's me. Completely anon? Completely anon.

sesame street syndrome

Sure, Sesame Street taught all of us our letters and accompanying sounds. And who can forget "The Count?" Or "Monsterpeiece Theatre?" And honestly, isn't it about time that Elmo had his own blog?

But there's this theory in education (editor's note: The author's chosen profession in college was elementary education. Got pretty damn near a master's in it. Fairly early on she figured out it would be best for the kids if she bowed out.) Anyway, there's this theory that I'll call the Sesame Street Effect. It goes like this:

Sesame Street is produced in two-year-old-attention-span-long sound bites, as are many popular kiddie programs, and this only does not encourage the lengthening of attention spans, but actually harms it and keeps it short. Other more wholesome activities, like playing (translate: making a godforsaken mess) or say, painting (translate: twice as long to get the stuff out and clean up than the kid actually paints) actually encourage longer attention spans. (In whom, I was always skeptical.)

The same could be said of video games (I was on a site last night that was about video games and so much like video games... hard to explain, even for me. Each sentence was in a different color. Difficult to read, except if they eye is well-trained to follow electronic pulses, you know, like those that come from your basic PS2 game...)

Well, let me say that the whole thing reeked of Chicken or the Egg to me in college, and always has.

Now I think there might be something to it.

Take, for example, your basic novelist; novel in process.

Throw in a blog.

Or two.

Or ten.

I constantly extole the virtues of my blog. You, my audience, force me to write; the very format of the blog encourages me to write daily - which is a good thing. It has changed my life from my life into a medium (I used to be an artist, too) from which posts - The Written Word (holy grail of us writerly types) - are born.

This is a Good Thing. However...

I currently have five Word files up right now, consisting of my second and third novels. It's a series, so I'm constantly referring back and forth.

What am I doing?

Writing my second post of the day.

it's a curly hair day

If you're feeling bulimic, Krypto has a finger to put down your throat. Don't say he didn't warn you.

Confidential to Monkey: No, I'm not a Monkey, but I spawned one. My lass climbs everything, hugs trees, has back hair - everything but a tail. (We were so dissappointed, but that's what you get from questionable bloodlines.)

Confidential to my other dear readers: if you aren't reading the comments on this blog, you're missing out. That's where all the action happens.

Confidential to FF: That's just me, you know, being me. Other blogs suck, except the ones I like.

Confidential to Greg: you missed out on the holiday fun while getting mauled by a tawainese hooker, but I invited questions a week or so ago. Go 'head. You know you wanna. Give it your best, mate. Your rules: there are none. My rules: Following the tradition of this blog, I must answer with a minimum of 60% Truth.

Now onto other news of the day:

I hate my thighs. Other people have a space between their thighs, as in they don't touch when they walk. Other people. The thing is, when I poke it there it's hard - it's frickin' muscle. I've got some muscular thighs; I can do a hundred squats without thinking. But my legs are short, so the muscle is short, so it's a tad bulky for my taste. Not others though. People who know me laugh at me when I express my concern over my thighs - whether they're embarrassed for me because they are too big, or whether they are laughing like, "Fuck you and your relatively thin thighs," I don't know. That's why I bitch to you, gentle reader, because most of you have never seen my thighs and you can give me some virtual sympathy.

I just discovered our wee lass, my little monkey of love, sitting in front of the tv with a bag of chocolate chips in her lap, feasting merrily away in front of that child-molester wannabe, Barney. Damned if that apple didn't fall far from the tree.

She's right though. It's a chocolate chip sort of day - 18 and dropping, pissing snow, and the air is all damp with fog. This morning it felt as if we lived in the middle of nowhere - I couldn't see any farther than our back fence. Let me be clear: I would never volunteer to live in the middle of nowhere, but it was fun for a day. My hair has gone native; all wavy and shit.

There really aren't too many bad things you can do inside on a froggy day: tearing up paper (which the little monkey lass is currently doing ), eating, taking a bath, fu... ahem, eating biscotti with somebody you love, hazing Krypto, watching a movie, reading, writing, or making chocolate chip cookies. That's what the lad and I'll be doing directly after school. I make; hands down, first prize at the fair, no best of blog contest needed; orgasmically good chocolate chip cookies. Yeah, I know, other people say they do, but they are all talk, baby, all talk. Email me your address and I'll send you some just to prove it.

OK, yeah, heh heh. Now I'm just playin' with ya.

the one you've all been waiting for

The first bloghop of the new year. And the nominees are...

Poetry in Arabic is still poetry.
And. It. Still. Sucks.

A little *shrugging*, *bowing head*, *nodding enthusiastically* goes a long way.

OH MY GOD THERE'S A FUCKING CAPS KEY, EVERY KEYBOARD HAS ONE - IT'S OVER THERE ON YOUR LEFT - AND GUESS WHAT! - THERE'S ONE ON THE RIGHT TOO! And your car has a turn signal as well, asshole.

"Life and Times of a Seriously Bored Redhead."
Why is it that redheads think they are such hot shit? They think they are all "moody" and "hot-headed" and particularly talented partiers. I know a few, and trust me, we're all as wacked as you. Don't even get me started on blondes. I've got brown hair with gold streaks, and guess what! I'm a hell of a lot more fun than the rest of you, and I can get pissed off real good too. Cute title, but you're obviously stuck in the rut of your red-headedness.

An entire blog entitled "Mine?" If you don't know, then I sure as hell don't.

Each of this one's posts (let me guess, it's a woman) starts with:
Listening:
Feeling:
Huh. Didn't realize until just now that I don't care.

I've found that Canadian teenagers seem to be particularly philosophical. However, it doesn't work any better than here in the US because they are still fourteen years old and have no life experience. They're fond of saying things like: "I've always believed that no amount of money could buy happiness, or love." But, it could buy a decent blowjob.

A blog about dogs that's called Doggy Time. I would've called it "Doggy Style", but then, that's just me.

Blogger should have an "of age" rule. I just read about how Girl Scouts was so fun. Yes, folks, this is why Blogger runs so fucking slow; it's innundated with Girl Scouts typing innane posts sans punctuation. I realize that this turns some of you on.

I did like this self-description: "I'm Kaitlin and I'm sixteen and a junior in high school. Yippee."
That about sums it up.

"Yet another Christian Agrarian Commentary." I don't even know what that means. Does anybody know what that means??

"I suck at folding sheets." Yeah, I thought about writing a post about that too, but then I decided to contemplate suicide instead. It was more productive - try it.

The post about sleep made me yawn (must be the power of suggestion). And OMG she had a dream! Fascinating stuff, that.

Ooo goody, pictures. Ugly parents really do make ugly babies. Who knew?

Using something other than an arrow as a curser does not make you special. Not even if it's a tiny angel. Not even if it's got a yin/yang symbol on it. Not even if it wavers. Especially if it wavers.

"From the heart of a suppressed writer..." You're writing, aren't you? So, what are you suppressed about?

An abundance of people made resolutions along the lines of "not holding back and living life to the fullest." I thought that was what New Year's Eve was for. Screw the rest of the year. Same-o same-o is good enough for me.

There's a whole blog out there about grocery lists. I don't know what to say about this, except that I sure hope one of mine ends up on there! (Not bloody likely - they're in Detroit.)

Ok, we all know that the four month old is not typing his own blog. However, someone neglected to inform the parents how stupid this is...

Ok, we all know that the family cat is not typing her own blog. However, someone neglected to tell her owners how stupid this is...

And to think I neglected to mention the fifty blogs I cruised through that were a different language. How dare they use something besides English?! And most of them had poetry, too. Heh.

hangover warning advisory system: code blue and dropping

PHF is the Best Husband in the World (sorry everyone else, thanks for playing). He let me sleep in until 9:30, spent much time taking down Christmas decor (the house feels nekked), and he's folded laundry today. So much for THAT resolution. With any luck, tonight he'll be the Best Husband in the Universe.

Much happier today. I'm on beer number one, (The very thought of it doesn't make me want to hurl which is a major improvement over yesterday.) whiskey is in my near future (hey, it's the weekend, I won't be breaking that one until tomorrow.) and I got in a decent workout. Over 200 abs. Funny enough, I didn't hate them as much as usual. Huh. Maybe I'm maturing a little bit. It would be about time.

Nah. I'm sure I'll go back to hating them tomorrow. My stomach still isn't flat and teenageresque, either. Goddamn pregnancies. Should have adopted.

Saw BSG (I know I changed his name once, but Big Scary Guy seems to stick) at the gym, and it's been awhile. He must have been out on a "mission", though I haven't heard of any dead despots in the news lately. But then, if he did things right, it wouldn't hit the news, of course. He's bigger than ever, and his smile still makes him look like he's thinking, "Come here, a little closer, yeah, that's right, now you're close enough to kill real quiet-like." Either that or he's constipated. In either case, smiling for him requires some effort. Perfect V. Easy on the eyes, for an older, well-trained killer type, but I sure as hell wouldn't sass him, and you know I'll sass anybody.

Gee, I'm a little jealous of all those "Best of Blog" nominees. Not that I don't hope they win, Monkey, and Jason, and Johnnie Walker (huh, I hope they aren't up against each other - now that would be awkward). I just am wishing it was me. I hope they quit saying "It's just an honor to be nominated." What utter bullshit, so knock it off. Ya wanna win. We all know it, so why pretend? Good luck, all.

A word of advice for any would be parents out there: when the balloon place asks you if you want the 8-hour balloons or the longer-laster balloons - you want the 8 hour ones. We have 12 green balloons that WILL NOT DIE! I'm about to go after them with a switchblade. Yeah, I've got an actual switchblade, and I'm not afraid to use it. (Well, on balloons, that is.)

Cheers.

ps Krypto, my parenthetical use just looks all fucked up. I mean, does the comma go before or after the parentheses?? Do I capitalize in the parentheses? HELP!! (You little hurling hottie-pie, you.) Thanks for the link, btw. I don't know how long it's been there, but I just saw it.

Side note to my other readers - Krypto, quit reading here - I only have to lean forward to reach my copy of Strunk and White to check out the parenthetical (Is that even a word, for crissake?? I keep using it like it is.) usage rules, but once I saw that face... Well, needless to say I live for his comments. I must flirt with him on a daily basis. Besides, his was the first good blog I ever read.

new years resolutions.... yeah, right.

Happy New Year, though what's happy about it I'm sure I don't know. I'm pretty deep into the far side of feeling like shit; I got about 4 hours sleep, and so far I've been paying bills and rectifying bank statements all goddamn day (Hmm, which do I hate worse -- doing stomach crunches or dealing with finances? Shit, that's a hard one), I made a half-assed attempt at assembling a Bionicle (thank you for the follow-through, PHF) and I fucking missed the first kiss of the year because I was in the bathroom waiting for all the club sluts to get off their cell phones and out of the fucking stalls. But, like someone pointed out, peeing my pants would have made it a memorable New Year's Eve, and not in a good way. As it was, I embarrassed myself in the other direction (goddamn cigarettes - I'm never smoking again, until, that is, I go out again) and I'm getting almost too groggy to type straight.

Yes, I'm in a foul mood indeed.

So, for the resolutions. Everybody's doing it, so I had to join in. I'm a follower at heart. It probably doesn't need saying that my resolutions may be the teensiest bit facetious.

In no particular order of importance:

1. I will pay my bills on time, AND do my bank statements the second they arrive in the mail. In fact, I will pay bills this very day, instead of laying on my backside and watching pointless tv and eating chips.
2. I will do two loads of laundry each day in an effort to keep "on top of it," and then fold the laundry and put it away instead of leaving it wadded in the basket for PHF to deal with. (Hey, two for the price of one.)
3. I will be the picture of patience with my children.(Oops, too late. Oh well, better luck next year.)
4. I will no longer pester PHF for sex and shamelessly flirt with him at inappropriate times. (That one should be good at least through tonight; I'm too weary for sex.)
5. I will consume beer and whiskey only on weekends and in moderate amounts.


Ok, I know you all have fallen off your chairs in peals of stomach-cramping laughter at the last one - especially those of you who actually know my face. I'll wait.

ok I'm boring you I'm warning you tonight is not the night for fights, lies white or otherwise... Listening to Eve 6 today... that Max can belt 'em out. And what cute curly red hair.

Sorry, the lyrics slipped through in a momentary hangover-induced lapse of judgement. I'll have better control on the morrow.

Ok, are we ready to continue?

6. I will not let the house fall down around me as I write my blog, fifth novel, and edit the two books that still need it.
7. I will pick up my clothes and undies and accessories off the closet floor each day. Since PHF and I share, it's only fair that I make some sort of path.
8. I will not drink what equates to a gallon of tea every day, get the jitters, and then settle my nerves with cookies and chips. (I'll settle 'em with beer, heh.)
9. I will no longer say, "Why are you in a bad mood?" to PHF, which puts him in a bad mood.
10. I'll be nice to the gawkers at the gym; even strike up a conversation if the opportunity comes up. That is, if anyone can give me an idea at what to say. I suck at small talk.


A few side notes:

Congrats to BB's wife, who took the leap and got a cool-ass dragon tattoo. You were the model of fortitude while he colored in the wings, and I enjoyed our talk at the pub(heh heh). I am currentlysporting a dragon tattoo on my own ankle - albeit temporary - because the kids and I were doing tattoos today and Our Wee Lass decided at the last minute she didn't want it after all. I'm not one to let a good tattoo go to waste.

Thanks to my Iranian friends whose house party we attended. We were having fun, but we had to get downtown. Hope you guys managed to not set anything else on fire.

Thanks to Speed Racer and your better half for the invite to the club, and to my other Iranian friend for sharing your table in the Lotus VIP lounge. Your peeps are great, your loft is awesome, and your couch is comfy. I apologise for any residue left on it from my nap at 2-2:30 am.

To the guy who groped my ass and had the audacity to grin at me afterward on the way back from the bathroom last night: I hope you enjoyed it because there ain't no ass on the south side of Hell, which is where I'll send you if we ever meet up again. You're a first class asshole.

And last but not least: a final goodbye my darling Sophie-cat, who we lost last September. It's miserable to cry without you. I'll miss you forever.

best of blog

Just a note on behalf of Monkey: his blog is up for a "Major Award." Don't know if he gets a leg lamp as a prize, but it's way cool just the same. Vote today! When I voted, he was in the lead. Let's keep it that way, yes?