Welcome to the Working Week

Snnzrgggggg...huh? Uh? Wha?

Faaack.

I didn't realize how luxurious my long weekend really was until last night, when I wrecked my brain trying to remember what I had to do, get out, prepare for on a school night. I was all, "Wha...? School? Work? Uh, I don't think I DO those things...do I?" Then it all came crashing back to me...library books, backpacks, sleeping bag, lunch, dance clothes, baseball gear (a boy's athletic cup is truly a wonder, folks), breakfast stuff out, oh shit I gotta pay bills, blah blah blah why don't I just win the lottery and get this over with??

I finished up all my work projects last Friday (woo-hoo!) and was promptly met this morning with a new, all-important piece of crap on which to plop my computer/marketing/randy bitch sensibilities. So I'll get to that in a minute.

But first, I want to answer Sergei's MEME regarding music. I actually spent a bit of time this weekend fretting about this, made a list, etc., and then this morning threw out half my picks, 'cause I'm just that spontaneous, y'all.

Total Volume of Music Files on My Computer: Sergei listed our home one, so I'll use my work one. Drastically underutilized, as I usually bring in cds to listen to and I'm sure our networking guy would slap me silly (ooh!) if I used up too many company resources. BUT, my answer is less than 1 GB. Currently has the Mike Doughty Bonnaroo cd download (I paid for it, I swear!) and Diana Krall's 'Peel Me a Grape'.

The Last CD I Bought Was: The same day I got Beck's "Guero" and Mike Doughty's "Haughty Melodic".

Song Playing Right Now: "Pink Moon" by Nick Drake. I don't care if VW stole the song to sell cars. It's damn beautiful. He was damn beautiful.

Five Songs I Listen To a Lot, Or That Mean a Lot To Me: Listen, I can't decide on one flavor out of 31 at Baskin-Robbins, what are the chances I can do this with music? Urgh. Okay. My list will be 5 songs that mark some passage of my life, some meaningful time that sticks in my head. In no particular order:

1) "Michelle" by the Beatles. This is the first song I remember hearing as a small child. It's like my first lullaby. I remember not understanding the lyrics in French, but loving the way they sounded. Like a soft fuzzy blanket.

2) "Devil with a Blue Dress On/Good Golly Miss Molly" by Mitch Ryder & the Detroit Wheels. Hell yeah! Every summer as a kid, growing up listening to Detroit radio stations, this one would always get me up and moving. Still does! The first play I directed, I used this song in the intermission music, it fit with the plot and made me just griiiiin!!!

3) "IGY" by Donald Fagen. America was so full of promise back in the 50s, all spaceship futures and 'just machines to make big decisions, programmed by fellas with compassion and vision.' I love the optimism, love Don's broken voice. If you smash the headphones into your ears really tight at the last chorus of "What a beautiful world this will be, what a glorious time to be free", he harmonizes with himself and it's like he's a-whisperin' in your ear, very sex-ay.

4) "Absolute Beginners" by The Jam. I wore out my Jam tape, 'Snap!'. This was one of their more commercial contributions, but it's so damn peppy, and I find myself sometimes singing softly, "I lost some hours thinking of it, I need the strength to go and get what I want...." Probably has to do with my constant sexual fantasies. C'est la vie!

5) "Runaways" by XTC. I belonged to Columbia House in college and, to fulfill a 'buy one NOW' requirement, I looked through their catalog and saw 'XTC - English Settlement', and thought, 'that sounds interesting'. When I got the album (yes-- vinyl-- I am that old), I put it on my turntable and had NO idea what to expect. 'Runaways' is the first song, and it begins with jangly guitars, very mysterious, then these hard drums kick in and a male voice high above all shadowy. And I knew, from the first minute of this album, that I not only loved this band (which I still do), but I'd found something new, musically, to explore.

Who Am I Passing This Damnable Thing On To? Well, to celebrate the new mohawk, Big Monkey Rob. And to celebrate her new status as college coed, the sexiest Bored Housewife I know, Lisa.

Is it Friday yet?

To Sleep, Perchance to Dream...

...perchance to fuck Sergei's brains out.

Perchance?

No '-chance' about it, Sergei will be good and proper fucked by the time the holiday weekend is over.

My post yesterday was a little, oh, how should I say it...scattered? I was SO tired, y'all. I did go to bed before Midnight last night, so the possibility of 6 hours of sleep was there. But then my sweet sexy Sergei came to bed at whatever time and ravished me up and down and sideways and frontways, and I did miss out on a bit of sleep.

TOTALLY worth it.

'Cause sex with that man is like going to DisneyWorld and they have new rides all the time, and they pull out the old ones you remembered from long ago that need revisiting, and there's lots of yelling and sweating and 'whoot-whoot!' hands in the air and "vroom...splash!' the log ride rolls into the spray and you go "AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH" and collapse laughing.

But I don't need to buy no $50 ticket to ride Sergei.

I just have to hold on reeeeeeally tight.

Ahem.

I plan on three things this weekend: sex, sleep, and food. I may crush Dr. Atkin's little fatty heart by drinking (gasp!) some alcohol this weekend. I've learned, finally, as a grownup, to buy expensive alcohol. Tastes better, mixes better, cleaner buzz. So a little something-on-the-rocks will go down mighty easy.

And I have a nagging feeling that I'll be writing some sort of sexy post soon. Big Monkey Rob has been posting on the Female Orgasm, which really got me all wet with research horniness. Truly. I read his latest article and started making notes and questions and the old research-hog in me took over, so I'll probably write my own little thingy. Perhaps Sergei can help me narrow down aspects of the female orgasm.

Right as I was falling asleep last night (the first time, pre-oh-baby-oh-baby-sex), I tried to narrow down the types of female orgasm I knew just from personal experience: vaginal, clitoral, anal (yes, really), back and neck and arms and shoulders (separate? same? not sure?), and a little ditty I call 'hands-free fantasy' orgasm. (With a good fantasy, and a little Kegel-inspired cooter fluttering, I can create an orgasm whilst driving, typing, sitting in boring meetings...all hands free. The orgasm has a stifling aspect, natch, and I have to wipe the chair off afterwards, but....) So exploration is definitely necessary.

I'm off now like my pajamas at bedtime. Good Weekend to y'all! Drive safe!

Like Three Days of Finals

In my reckless college days, a friend and I decided one finals week that we'd pull two consecutive all-nighters. I don't remember what drugs we were on then made us think this was a good idea. We armed ourselves with No-Doz, coffee, junk food, bought new highlighters, and set up camp in an empty study room down the hall. We made it through Monday alright. Monday night came and went, still perky and shiny, only a teensy bit shaky from all the caffeine. Tuesday crept along, we were okay, just okay, bought lots of Diet Coke and chocolate. Tuesday night we started seeing trails. Sleep deprivation psychosis ducked his head in the study room and asked, "Hey, is there room for me in there?" We motioned him in.

Our thought processes slowed markedly. "Hand me that pen. Wait...uh...pen...uh...what was I saying?"

Wednesday morning at 5 a.m., we knew we'd made a huge mistake. A huge, horrible, quivering, gelatinous mistake. I saw faces in the table and shushed them when they tried to convince me the balcony outside was not so high that I couldn't jump off it and run to the store for ice cream. I could hear my bed whispering from down the hall, "Shhhh...the books can wait, Mona...my sheets smell sooooooo good...why don't you come down for a little rest? I won't tell...."

I had a final at 8 a.m. that morning, another at 1 p.m. I remember the earlier one. The latter is totally erased from the board. I went. I had to, my grade showed up on my report card instead of an 'Incomplete'. But guess what? I totally SUCKED IT. Yeah. Big frickin' surprise, huh? I'd be surprised if I put the correct name on that test, let alone figure out how to color in those oval answer sheets.

Because of my rampant insomnia, sick child last week, sick child last night, various thoughts that won't leave my head, and about thirteen-seventy blogs running through my head, today feels like, oh, about Tuesday Noon of my three-day non-sleep binge. I'm okay to drive, I'm at work and cranking out projects with my usual aplomb. But I'm just a little...oh...offffff. Just a sniglet.

But before I go searching for more caffeine, I wanted to throw out some stuff:

1) Girl-child is sick, and Sergei is home with her today, as I stayed home with sick boy-child last week. And Sergei is a great dad and wonderful caregiver...but I still want to be home with the girl. Part of that momma-lion nature, I guess, fiercely protective. I just want to press my face into her neck, and stroke her hair, and tell her she's a brave, strong girl and everything will be okay.

2) I got a raise at work last week! Woo-hoo! Woo...uh...oh. Our mortgage payments went up $100 recently, a serious cramp, something about equity and minimum amounts and that's just SO rubbish. So I was totally looking forward to my upcoming raise...which was one year late due to the company's financial picture. And I got my paycheck yesterday! And I ripped it open! And I saw...! Shit. My raise pushed me up higher, more taxes taken out, I was still bringing home a little more. But did it make up for the mortgage hike? Oh No. Absolutely not. I'm still behind, just not as much. Fuckin' damn hell piss cunt. Still, more $$ is good $$.

3) School board meeting several nights ago, the board recognized me as one of the smart folks who fought recently to keep certain programs (which they did...fight the power!) The board smiled at me and shook my hand, but you could see they were apprehensive. What the hell was I gonna stand up and speak out about tonight? During Public Comments, I just sat there with my spiral notebook and Bic pen, smiling a sort of, 'hey, I'm cool' smile. Public Comments ended, and they visibly relaxed. Did I inspire fear? Heh heh, I do believe you is a-scared of me!

4) "Godzilla vs. Mechagodzilla" is damn funny. Godzilla versus anything kicks movie ass.

5) Why is it a damn crime for women to adjust their boobies in public? I mean, every fruckin' baseball player can jam his hand down his stripey pants and move the boys around, and we can't say shit about it. My guy friends feel (apparently) so comfortable around me that, while deep in conversation about some new software package or marketing blip, can just grab ol' Mr. Johnson and his two hairy stepchildren and make 'em do a little zipper dance until it's the end of the world as they know it and feel fine. BUT. If our breasteses get all scootched around in there in the cuppage, and we stretch and maybe we've lost or gained weight or just didn't notice, and our nipple is pointing, oh, say, sideways through our skintight shirt, we can't just reach down in front of everyone and flip that little pea to the front. At the meeting the other night, very attractive woman, mid-40s, totally MILF material, was speaking and the podium set up so I saw her side. And not that I check out women as a habit...oh, that's such a lie...but I noticed that something was staring at me as she spoke. Sideways. To the side. Nipple alert! Nipple alert! I wanted to yell. I didn't. I just thought, oh, she's gotta know, and what's she gonna do? Grab her melon and roll it 'round? And why shouldn't she? So what if the school superintendent is watching! So what if it's being televised! It's natural, girlfriend! Pluck away!

6) MILF and other urban slang definitions can be found here. I love this place.

7) I also love this. I want to visit NYC just so I can contribute.

8) Okay, now it's feeling more like Wednesday, 1 a.m. My coffee-and-lunch rollercoaster has officially pulled in to the station to refuel, and I'm off to find caffeine and something to stick in my mouth for the afternoon.

Hey, hand me that p-...uh...what was I sayin'?

The Nature Center

A handsome young man led me through the woods this morning.

Justin. His name was Justin. He was young, probably several years out of college. Even with two long-sleeved shirts to dispel the coolness of the late Spring morning, I could see his slenderness. It was a good slender, not sickly, more like a runner or a gardener of flowers. He was strong, a hint of muscle mass occasionally pressing the underside of his garments, casting off shadows, exposing but exposed. When I met him, he had a Detroit Tigers baseball cap on, which lent his head to bend down a bit when he spoke, to keep out the rising rays of the sun. His brown eyes would emerge as he threw his head back to laugh. Which he did often. As the morning slid on, and the heat danced around us, he removed the cap. Dark straight hair, dark straight eyes.

His stature and stroll reminded me of boys I knew when I was a girl among girls. I grew up playing hide and seek, playing statues and freeze tag, playing doctor, playing with fireflies and grapevines, with boys no taller than me, boys skinnier than me, boys who could talk about anything with whispered wonder and a vision of science fiction worlds they could create. I knew his type, and was immediately inclined to fall in step behind him.

He led me out of the barn, the wooden toys left behind for others to discover, through groves of hollyhocks, which he tempted, “they’re sweet when you sip them”. Up and down a rolling bridge which sung high above a baritone stream, slippery with rocks. He pointed out the tap holes in the sugar maples, picked up pine needles and, with bemused eyes, told the story of how settlers would chew them for the vitamins, brew them for tea, stuff pillows with them for their ragged, traveled heads.

Children were everywhere, grabbing at twigs, stalking spiders, crowing loudly about the size of the mushroom they found. Justin chatted with them, laughed at their mocking horror of pioneer children not having Playstation, and winked at the adults when listing off the decades of progress we would be leaving behind…1980, 1969, 1958. All this chatter, I thought, no wonder he put in earplugs!

Earplugs?

I’ve been to concerts before with experienced sound guys, guys who knew enough to protect their hearing, so aware of the potential loss that they kept small boxes of spongy earplugs in their pockets, passing out the extras to the unsuspecting. Justin appeared to be wearing...just one?

The tumblers clicked. Justin was talking to T.J., the hearing impaired boy. I heard the words, “We’re in the same boat.” Ah. A hearing aid. Justin had not the speech concerns so evident in the hearing impaired I had been with just nights before. He had no hesitation standing in front of our crowd and joking, laughing, challenging. Justin looked up, and right at me, his eyes in a crinkle of a smile. I jolted, and grinned. I had an immediate and intense crush.

As the teacher handed out chocolate-studded cookies midway through the walk, Justin pointed skyward to the giant legs of white pines mingling with elm, maple, cherry, shafts of light pulling through, the needles under our feet making our footsteps nothing more than cat paws on carpet. Pfff, pfff, pfff. I wanted to picnic there. I wanted to sit and drink wine and listen. I wanted to inhale the quiet.

We wound up our walk at the door of a log cabin. Inside, herbs hung from the hand-hewn rafters. A cast-iron stove stood ready for tea, and a spinning wheel stopped silent along the back wall. Justin led our group up the narrow stairs, to the bedrooms once occupied by children of other days, to the checkers and the chamber pots, the straw hats and the rope beds. Justin and I caught each others eyes as we watched the children examine the articles of their long-ago peers. He smiled. I smiled. I thought, he’ll make a great dad some day.

Justin led us on a serpentine path to the parking lot. He said goodbye to all of us, and we thanked him and clapped our hands. He grinned. We grinned. Walking past, I could feel him looking at me. I snuck a glance as I ascended the steps of the school bus. He was watching, a hand outstretched in a fluttering goodbye.

This morning I chaperoned a trip to the nature center. And there I met a young man. Justin of the dark straight hair. Justin of the dark straight eyes.

Small Circles, Middle Finger - NSFW

Well, shit.

I had a list of things to write about. Some about sex, some about "not sex". Some fairly high-falutin'. I just now got a few minutes and, as I always do right before I post in the morning, I clicked on over to my Sergei's page.

Holy damn!

My post-it note full of stuff I was gonna write about today has now been stuffed in my pocket.

As Sergei is culling together a list of husband-and-wife bloggers, AND he wrote about his style of self-love today, I thought it only fitting to give my version, the female version, the wife version, so everyone knows what happens in our Sexy House of Divine Love.

I take showers at night. Saves me time in the morning. Generally this is where I rub the bean. I find the shower, being warm and wet, the white noise of the water and no children or televisions, creates the perfect stillness I require to act out my sexual fantasies.

Oh yes, fantasies. I begin the experience with a certain fantasy lover in mind, someone whose face I can picture. I can't do strangers for some reason. Actors, singers, bloggers, that frat boy who smiled at me in the store, all are ripe for the pickin'. However, when it comes down to the end, when I really need that extra 'oomph' to get my knees shaking and my back arching, I need more than one guy.

This is pure power.

I direct them, I tell them where to stand, or sit, or lean, who goes first, how deep, how far. Who I suck, who I stroke, who gets to watch. What they say. What I say. Whose name I scream when I cum.

Once I get the shower nice and warm, and by that I mean almost hot enough to scald me, I get in and do the requirements...shampoo, wash, shave the little landing pads on either side of the pink flower. (Don't need Sergei wading through the jungle now, do we?) Once I'm completely rinsed, I prep my hands with a special lotion and get to work.

Positioning is key. Left foot on bottom of tub. Right foot perched in the northwest corner of the tub, on that little shelf thing there. The right hand gets the sweetness. The left hand gets the breast.

Sergei can make me wet by showing me his outstretched middle finger making small gentle circles. Wet because that's exactly the motion I use to begin. Small circles, middle finger, right on the button. Sometimes the downward stroke hits the top of the outer lip, very gently, at least at first. The index finger and ring finger hover above the landing pads. Left hand strokes the left breast, sometimes the right, but the left seems to work better. Kneading gently the nipple, cupping the flesh, the intensity of the right hand matching the left.

Once the hands are busy, then the mind gets to work. I picture my fantasy lover, we meet, we make a connection, we're drawn to each other. We have coffee, a meal, or nothing at all. A touch, a kiss, fingers in my hair, our clothes are peeled off. We seduce and are seduced. My hands gradually begin moving harder and deeper, my fantasy lover wanting more and more and me giving more and more. Gradually the fantasy dissolves into the multi-partner scenario, my fantasy lover and others who want me. I might whisper what I want, "Come here, I want your c0ck in my mouth", "Do you like the way I feel, do I feel good?", "Now I want you inside me."

My body tenses and arches, I have to balance my forehead on the tiles so I don't fall over, I have nothing to support myself because I'm on one foot, in a slippery bathtub, with my pelvis thrusting in figure eights and my hands making busy orbs around my pussy, my breasts, my mouth open and gasping.

I choose a lover to come inside me. I see his face, I see him thrusting his huge wet c0ck inside me. I see it like I'm him. I can see me, with men around me, their eyes closed and holding their red, swollen members above me, on me, in my mouth. When my fantasy lover comes, when I allow him to come, I come too. He lifts my ass as he comes. Body-wracking orgasms, one, two, three, depending on how long I think I can get away with it. I mouth his name, and the name of a deity or two, or just "Fuuuuck...."

Once the waves have settled a bit, I collapse against the wall, my hands holding me steady until my legs can bear the weight. I breathe in the warm spray of the shower, rinse off my face, grab the soap, and do a final washing.

Then the shower is over.

On occasion, if I go up to bed earlier than Sergei, and I'm sleepy but can't get to sleep, I'll masturbate much like in the shower, but lying down. It's more difficult because I have to contend with a sheet and a down comforter, and I don't feel right just throwing everything off me. But I miss the warmth of the water and the way it creates dripping streams of succulence on my skin. I still cum anyway.

Mastubating never takes the place of sex with Sergei. I recover quickly, and can then go on to bedroom romps of mythic proportions.

So that's what goes on in Sergei and Mona's house. Hope that wasn't too much for ya.

Hey, did I just write my first porn blog?!?!?

Ars Gratia Artis

Overheard at the local art fair this weekend: "Hey, this stack of paintings would fit in that space between the couch and the doorway. Just pick one out and let's go get a falafel!"

I almost decked both of them.

Why? 'Cause I'm a bit of a snobby art snob bitch.

Now, first, let me tell you that I can NOT draw. Y'know those 'Draw Skippy!' ads for Art Instruction Schools, that mail-order art thing, where if you draw that damn beagle well enough they'll let you give them two thousand dollars up front to be part of their prestigious program? That Skippy dog is the ONLY thing I can draw.

But I appreciate art. I gush over it. I am amazed by it. Years ago, I stood in the Art Institute of Chicago, my nose just inches from the Seurat painting, "A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte", and almost wept.... How? Did? He? Do? That? Little dots of paint, nothing up close, but from a distance it's an entire world.

The interior walls of my house have prints from Marc Chagall, Mary Cassatt, Van Gogh, and one by Melchers. All evocative of some time in our lives, some feeling, some remembrance. All purchased because of their inherent beauty, not because they 'fit a space'. We make space. We'll re-arrange an entire room to hang a painting. 'Cause that's our thing.

That being said, I was thinking yesterday that, despite the normalcy of the prints in our house, I have a secret obsession with the dark side of art. Disturbing things. Reckless, flirty, dirty, sinister, sanguine things. The yin to my more commonplace yang. Which probably explains a lot of my passions for sex, the earth, spicy rather than flowery scents, a fierceness when it comes to my children, the weird habit I have sometimes of just blurting stuff out and hoping the recipient isn't too pissed with me about it.

Since it's nice to share, I thought I'd give you some of my current favorites. Give you something to look at on your crazy Monday.

1) Frank Frazetta. Sergei and I had both seen a documentary on him and were recalling it Saturday. Then on Sunday, Sergei went shopping and bought the DVD of the documentary for me, "Painting with Fire". (What a sweet sexy thing to do!) Frazetta is the illustrator of countless Fantasy Art images, most notably, Conan the Barbarian. His work is erotic, dirty, violent. And disturbing. The documentary is great, if you get a chance to see it. Frazetta is just so enigmatic, so powerful, so passionate. Truly makes me want to run around in a loincloth bikini like Sheena of the Jungle or something.

2) Rene Magritte. He's the bowler-hat-suspended-in-mid-air guy. The "This is Not a Pipe" guy. But that's only the beginning. He cuts up landscapes and bodies, changes the sky into a face, messes with perception. One painting always stood out for me, "The Lovers II"...male and female heads kissing, but each head is wrapped in white cloth. We can't see the kiss. We can feel the kiss. But is it real? I love that he messes with what is "truth" and what is "perceived".

3) Bruegel. While he did some seemingly charming landscapes and snatches of real life, the paintings that I like are either full of sex, or full of death. And there's a fine line there, I suppose. "Wedding Dance" has men with full erections (albeit clothed). "The Triumph of Death" is a massive fist of destruction and torment. His paintings are 'full', you have to look a long time to see all the elements he's incorporated. I like the challenge.

4) Winston Smith. He's a montage artist, best known for album art for the Dead Kennedys, Jello Biafra, Lard, and Green Day. He's also had some covers for The New Yorker (my favorite is of middle age white men gathering money from trees, looking ridiculously happy and spoiled). He's another artist that has 'full' works, so much hidden and jammed in there.

5) Mark Ryden. He's like a train wreck. His website has paintings in themes including "Blood", "Bunnies and Bees", and "The Meat Show". He uses children a lot, which awakens a sort of tough protectiveness in me. Some of his young girls remind me of my girl-child in full tantrum mode, that sort of 'Don't you dare fuck with me, mom' sort of look that is both unsettling and gratifying in that she'll never take any shit from anyone. There are elements of some of his works that I'm trying to incorporate into a tattoo I hope to get soon. Just a matter of time.

6) Symon Chow. The least 'freaky' of my choices today. He does a lot of black and white photography, of gorgeous women (some naked), of landmarks, of objects. These appeal to me because of their iciness. They're frozen, intriguing, like those old double-sided photos that you had to view through a special wooden frame. When he does use color, it's brash, and stabs your eyes. Check out his website.

I know, I know, your eyes are spinning, too many links! Too much to read! What the hell are Santa and Jesus doing in that painting?! So take it slow. Don't hurt yourself. And if you have a favorite dark artist you'd like to share, by all means, please comment.

I'm gonna try and draw 'Skippy' now, from memory. Damn fucking dog...argh, the ears, oh, the horror! Fawwwwk!

I Love You, Maura B. Jacobson

In 1990, I had this grandiose idea that I would move to Manhattan. New York, not Kansas.

See, I'd always sorta had a secret crush on NYC. I have no explanation for it. I was born on the east coast, but waaaay south of New York. I didn't know anyone at that time that lived in New York. But I did watch a lot of movies, and goddammit if that didn't look like the place where *everything happens*.

Now, as luck would have it, my friend Cathy was from New Jersey...Parsippany, to be exact. And she invited me to join her for a long weekend out there. SO, after I peeled myself from the ceiling, I packed a bag and we flew out, to the loving arms of her incredible mom and the mom's equally incredible boyfriend (who looked a lot like W.C. Fields).

We spent a bit of time in New Jersey. Doing what...?...I really can't recall. I just remember that everywhere we went, we had to take a highway. What, no local roads? Nope, the highway. Curious, that. I think we went to a beach? One day?

But the Friday we were there, the mom and boyfriend took us to The City. Oh. My. God! It was sososo everything I thought, so much grander, and by that I mean bigger, loud and hectic. The subway was cleaner than I thought. (Of course it was daytime and the biggest threat we encountered were clumps of stockbrokers crowding the platform...don't push ME, Armpitstain!) Cans of soda came with straws? Oh! They're sanitary! Well aren't you all so bloody clever!

You know when you go someplace and you just feel like you're home, even though you've never been there? I felt like that there. Like the burner in me got turned to low simmer and the blood in my veins was bubbling those little bubble dances. I had a hard time eating at the fancy-schmancy restaurant because I was too damn excited and wanted to see it all. We walked down Wall Street and grinned at the businessfolk chain-smoking and yammering at each other. We stood in line for an hour to go to the top of the World Trade Center, and we stayed there in the whipping breezes for a long time. I took pictures. I'm sad and crushed sitting here, typing, realizing I can never take my kids up there, realizing how innocent that was. That night, we drove back to New Jersey, and I just wanted to yell at my hosts, "On second thought, you can just pull over right here and let me out...I'm staying!"

Why didn't I move?

Coupla reasons. First, I doubted my ability to make a living there. Second, there was this guy. (STUPID GIRL!) Yeah, this guy I met there and things happened when I got back from vacation, and then things didn't happen, and then I got fed up, and then I got a raise at my job, then I started doing local theatre, and things just got away from me.

But that does NOT mean that I still don't love the place.

Soon after returning, I subscribed to New York Magazine. Have ever since. Not that I'm trying to get y'all to buy it, but you really should, it's just exactly what a midwestern girl needs to keep the fire stoked. Living vicariously through periodicals, I know, how pathetic is that?!?!

However!

As much as I love the articles, and the gossip, and the endless reviews of "Spamalot" and NY music and how to make a lovely dish of fiddleheads, what makes me grab the magazine like a starving dog grabs a bone, is located on the very last page.

The Crossword.

Maura B. Jacobson, I love you. I don't know how you do it. You always make me feel smart, and by that I mean pop-culture and useless trivia smart and paid-attention-in-school smart. Each week there's a different theme, and it thrills my geeky heart to no end to get the first one and go...A-HA!!! THAT'S what she's doing! I work like manic on that thing, whenever I get a spare minute or two. (I relish the Saturdays when I can sit down and do the entire puzzle at once! Oh, sweet hey-soos!) I can generally complete the thing, and when I can't, when I don't know the, like, supreme ruler of outer Mongolia, I just fudge it. I mean, it's not a test, fer cryin'!

Today I'm home with a sick boy-child, who, unfortunately, threw up at school 20 minutes after I left him this morning. He's fine, he's itching to play computer games and Playstation (and the Mean Mom just repeats, in her get-well mantra, "No! You must rest! Your last soccer game is tomorrow morning! Want some Vernors? A banana? Go to sleep!"). ((Vernors, BTW, is our local ginger ale, and I can't drink any other kind.))

I was gonna blog about something totally else, which can so wait, and was just about to stick the Title up above, when the mailman dropped his load (no, not SHOT his load, ya pervs), through the mail slot. The cat went crazy, of course, cause she was sleeping under there, and I scooped up the carnage to find, dated May 23, 2005:

New York!
Sohn on the Straight Girl Crush.
Andersen on Salvaging Ground Zero.
Robert Kolker on a Mafia Family Reunion
Worrying About a Real-Estate Crash.
Neighborhoods Ranked by Risk.
Is Your Apt. Like a Dot-Com Stock?

And I, of course, tore back the back page to find...ah...my sweet sweet Maura. "Tennis, Anyone?" Yeah, baby, you're so sweet to think of me. Later, when the Mean Mom is locked in the cellar, and the Nice Mom lets sick-boy play on the computer (okay I'll cave much, much later in the day), I'll have a lovely time with Maura and my favorite blue Bic.

Life. Is. Good!

Five Freebie Lays

Men.

I love 'em. I think about 'em all the time. One or another of you is in my head on an almost constant basis, and...shock!...sometimes you're fully clothed! Most of the time, actually.

I've referenced my 'Five Freebie Lays' a few times in my posts. For those of you who missed them, these are the 5 fantasy boyfriends you get to have sex with if they come to your door and ask. AND your significant other has to let you, AND has to take care of the kids or pets.

Sergei told us a while back what his 'type' was, or wasn't.

And I guess I have to be equally vague. Physical type is downright impossible for me to pinpoint. Generally, there's something to be said for the midline...not too terribly fat, not too terribly skinny. I want someone who looks like they'd eat my cooking, and then seduce me with neck nibbles, wine, and foreign tongues spoken in my ear. I don't like the typical movie hunks, they're too pretty and, really, who wants to compete with that? I'd rather my guys look normal, or, as Sergei says, like hockey players. He's right, too, I like a man who can get sweaty and passionate about something.

What really, seriously puts a man on my list is this:

Talent.

I don't care what talent, really. It does have to do with passion, as I mentioned, sticking with something and perfecting it, finding a new way to communicate or touch someone. Especially with words. I've been a reader since I was 3 or 4 years old, I've lived entire lives through books, I've had adventures in song lyrics, I've laughed and cried and felt washes of anger and frustration and utter joy when I hear someone weave tapestries of stories, their words rising and splashing back like a waterfall on smooth blacks rocks, looking into your eyes, making you feel like you were there. That gets me every time. And if they have a seriously sexy voice, well, so much the better for me!

There are a few rules to the Five Freebie Lays:
1) It has to be a celebrity
2) It can't be anyone you know in real life (if you know a lot of celebrities)
3) No dead people
4) They must 'play for the other team' (so, as much as I love David Sedaris and Tim Curry, there's no chance of ever being more than 'girlfriends')
5) They don't need to be static. My rule is, 4 standard picks and one 'floater', which changes at my whim. With one exception...during college football season, the floater is ALWAYS Kirk Herbstreit from ESPN's College Gameday. Always.

Without any further ado, to-do, or voodoo, I now present to you:

Mona's Five Freebie Lays
(in no particular order)



1) Elvis Costello
I got my first mix tape of Elvis Costello when I was but a wee lass in the late 70s. I was listening to Top 40 at the time, and the minute I heard "Watching the Detectives", I knew my life was changing musically. Elvis paints cutting, sarcastic, yet poignant pictures in his songs. He is constantly reinventing himself, and even though I haven't always agreed with his choices, I'm always impressed at the effort he puts into it. His voice is not one of a smooth serenader. He sounds more like the boyfriend who played in a garage band and had to scream over the whirring of his dad's table saw. It's rough, but at the same time, can be oh-so-soft and gentle. Plus, being the Anglophile that I am, I absolutely adore his British accent. Yeah, it doesn't come out in the songs much, but I've heard him speak, so eloquent and charming ("I love to hear him speak, yet well I know that music hath a far more pleasing sound" - Shkspr). Yeah. He's been my boyfriend for the longest time. I didn't realize it until recently, but he took me out of girlhood.



2) Colin Firth
Actually running second in my 'longest boyfriend' timetable (okay, perhaps there IS method to this madness). Colin first appeared to me in a small British film called, "A Month in the Country", which is now darn-near impossible to find. He caught my attention then, so focused and damaged, and that charming, sexy British accent. I rented other things he did, other movies, and really grew to like his easy style. Most females recognize him as 'Mr. Darcy' from "Pride and Prejudice". I mean, who can forget seeing Mr. Darcy emerging soaking wet from that pool? Oh. My. God! Yeah, that clinches it for most of us. And now, of course, he's part of the Bridget Jones movie line, playing Mark Darcy. Darcy = Darcy. That was by design, apparently.



3) Brendan Shanahan
I do love hockey! I miss it so much this year, it's painful. There's something about the speed of it, the sheer brilliance of balance and coordination, and the incredible luck of millimeters of air space, that makes this sport just so bloody fun to watch. I love that the guys get so sweaty. I love a good bash against the boards. And I get awesomely testosterone-y when they fight, hitting at each other with padded fists, pulling the hockey sweaters off their opponents, fighting for the win. Shanny is the best. He's played with the Detroit Red Wings for almost 10 years, and his grace and speed have brought them the cup numerous times. My favorite sports video is of one particular Stanley Cup win, the Wings take turns skating the ice with the cup raised on high. Shanny is in disbelief, and so so so high with the victory, he kisses the cup, again and again, his superstitious playoff beard bobbing about the silver chalice. Oh, please end the arguing. Please play next year!




4) Dave Matthews
The eyes. The voice. The lusty eyes and the lusty voice. He's not for everyone, and is sometimes dismissed as being just a musician for frat boys. I really, truly, don't see it that way. He's a storyteller. He has a passionate way of layering music and lyrics and subject and substance that is just sexy sexy sex. He's played with everyone, sang with everyone, he's a liberal leaning modern hippy who grew up in South Africa, who saw some hideous shit happen and writes about it so we understand, who wants to give us the America we deserve. Plus, okay, I just want to jump his bones. The eyes, the voice...daaaaaamn.




5) Mike Doughty (Floater, gets 2 pictures)
"Super Bon Bon". Yep. That got me. Soul Coughing. The first time I heard that song, I was in my car at the bank drive-thru. I remember cranking up the song and saying something out loud like (grin), "Who the hell is this?! Must get...must get." Mike has this voice, like a skinned knee, like something with sharp edges, not too sharp, though, that sticks in your head, begging to have you take a look. After Soul Coughing disbanded, after Mike kicked all his bad habits, he went solo. He is a poet, he's ee cummings and Walt Whitman and Edgar Allen Poe and Bukowski, rolled up in a wonton and dipped in sharp wasabi sauce. His voice is seductive, and the forms he sculpts with his words are solid, twisted, internal, intelligent. He's sweet sweet candy to my aural fixation.

And that's it. This was tough. I'm looking now at the post-it note I sweated over for the past week, names scratched off and added in diagonals wherever there was room. I dropped off a non-floater boyfriend, as he was starting to piss me off in the news. And I'll do that from time to time. And my floaters will come, and my floaters will go, and they'll always be wonderful and important.

Here endeth Mona's Five Freebie Lays.

Nyack! Ronkonkoma! East Orange! Piscataway!

D'ya hear that, Mike Doughty?

Those are your lyrics, man! "Bustin' Up a Starbucks"!

Those lyrics have been circling around my brain today like buzzards!

Okay, it's my own fault, blame the victim. Yeah, I did buy the new album. Autographed, no less, so as to feel all gooshy inside when I open the jewel case. Yes, I own every other thing you've recorded (except Smofe + Smang, because I truly suck). I have the t-shirt, I downloaded the Bonnaroo thing (I paid for it, I swear!), I check your blog every day like a compulsive crack whore. I've awoken every morning for the past 2 weeks with one of your songs in my head. Oh, yeah, sure, they're hooky, yeah, I like 'em, they're like fucking morphine in my veins. I try to work, I try to do anything requiring thought, and your songs are in there.

Are they stalking me?

I'm begging you, man, please make it stop.

I promise, I'll make you my floater boyfriend for a few weeks. I'll loan out all my stuff to spread the MD goodness. But for the love of all holiness, I've GOT to get these songs out of my head, my spinning spinning head full of lovely Doughty lyrics and that damn fine bruised voice. Anything you could do, man, would be appreciated. Thanks. Love, Mona.

*************
WHEW!
*************

Now that I've got THAT done....

I like metaphores for female masturbation. I make 'em up all the time. And today I said, "smoothing my orchid petals". Because I have these fantastic orchids at my house that look really sexy. A la Georgia O'Keeffe. See for yourself, and think dirty:



Or this is better, close up:




Sexy, no? Your tongue is licking your lips and your finger just traced the inner folds of the flower, didn't it? You dirty, naughty blogger....


*******************
I miss Lisa. She's on a well-deserved holiday. But damn if I don't miss her writing and posting pictures of her breasteses. I threatened on her comments that we'd all take photos of ourselves, to fill the aching void. So I did. Lisa, I have absolutely nothing on you, girl! Okay, I've got a few more years of living under, on top of and around my belt. But really, it's late, and I can't be bothered to photoshop this damn thing to make me look loftier, perkier, or to take out that damn feathering. So I hope you're having a good week, and we miss ya!

And now, live and in person, Mona in her bedroom, breasteses flanked by a funky Vietnamese hat and a small lamp. Grch.



Yeah, for all you who question whether I really exist, that wonder if I'm not just a figment of Sergei's blogging imagination, I am real.

And now, to bed.

Mona's Magic Wa...uh...hey, is that IT?

I got the cooter wand today.

Totally unsatisfying.

Not like last year. That was more like...."DAMN! At least take me out to dinner first!"

Last year, the doctor 'found something' in my cooter that he wanted to check out. No, not in that way, ya pervs, with an ultrasound. So I innocently went to the lab and they did the normal external ultrasound. Then the lab tech said, "Go ahead and get undressed from the waist down."

"Excuse me?"

"For the internal ultrasound."

Tech and tech assistant, both women (thankfully) left the room, leaving me with a sheet and a stunned expression. Internal? What? The? Fuck? When I called to confirm, they never said nuthin' 'bout no damn internal ultrasound! What were these yayhoos trying to prove?

So I undressed.

The techs returned, lowered the lights to a passionate level, perched my little (read ample) ass on a stack of towels, and with a sound like a broadsword being unsheathed, unveiled

The Wand.

Oh.......MY............God.

It was huge. Okay, it had a handle on it, but it was still...John Holmes Huge. (Okay, to all you guys, yes, it was as big as you. If anything is as big as you. Stop playing with it or you'll go blind, okay?)

I was instructed to help insert the thing, which I did...quivering...perched on 8 folded white towels...in a cold room...with the lights low...and a gentle humming from the machine next to my head.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

Must be a woman designed the thing. Cause it reached the nooks and crannies, y'all.

The head tech (hee) was obviously training the other tech. So my procedure took forever. And I ate it up with relish and mustard. See, they put the probe in, then move it up, and down, and left, and right, out a leeeetle bit...in a LOT more. They were 'looking' for problems. I was aching for pleasure. I found my legs trembling and my thoughts wandering and my breath coming a bit too fast, it was damn hard not to just grab the thing and finish myself off. All I needed was some Barry White, and I wouldda been on the ceiling.

But I was a good girl, I was. And very disappointed when it ended.

I left the procedure all tingly and had to come back to work. My friend, Jim, noticed me as I came in the door with a shitty grin on my face, and he asked, "What did YOU do at lunchtime!" I gave him a quick wink before rounding up my girlfriend posse and detailing every move that damn wand made. 'Cause we girls like to share like dat.

SO.

Fast forward to this year.

10 a.m. this morning.

I'm all ready for the Magic Wand. I'm wet with anticipation. I show up early to my appointment, hoping to get more face time with the damn thing. The tech led me into the room. Different lab this time, different tech, different machine.

She did the outer ultrasound. Then she announced, "Okay, time for the internal!"

She left me to undress (I can drop trou in 13 seconds, people), and I used the remaining time to ogle the wand, sitting innocently on the machine next to me. It had a sort of condom over it. It reminded me of Sergei in length, but not width. (You still got that beat by a damn long shot, baby!) The tech reappeared to begin my probe.

She was TOO damn efficient.

No perching on a pile of towels this time, just "feet in the stirrups and scootch yer butt down to the end". She told me to help guide it in. But the magic just wasn't there this time. She was quick, by gum, knew exactly where to go. Not that I didn't enjoy it, understand, I did have a little fantasy about being serviced in a doctor's office by some young eager intern. But before I knew it, she was withdrawing the probe and announcing, "Okay! We're done! Go ahead and get dressed!"

Sigh.

I met with the doctor afterwards, he told me everything looks fine. Which is a relief, from a health point of view.

But I didn't want to tell him, "It's NOT all right, okay? I didn't get off with the wand! Can't I go back in? For five minutes? PLEASE?!?"

I'm back at work. I have no shit-eating grin. And my cube is not exactly conducive to "smoothing my orchid petals". But I'm not sure I can make it through the day without a little...sompin.

Uh...Help!

Hands on the Car, Feet Apart...Spread 'Em

Last night I dreamt of cops.

Sexy cops.

Not a donut-eater among the bunch.

I popped in a movie right before I went to bed. "Evenhand." A good little movie, I would recommend if you can find it (I had to buy it online, no video store carried it, so good luck to ya). The two main characters played the opposite ends of the cop spectrum...the hard-ass rule-bending cop vs. the sweet, rule-obeying cop. They had my favorite street-cop look...broad shoulders, tapering down to a solid waist, nice uniformed butts. Not that I've really had a thing for cops, and if I had my druthers, all cops would look like Chris Noth from the first few seasons of 'Law & Order'. BUT. If I had to choose a patrolling cop, a cop who would stop me and give me a warning about a broken headlight, it would be the broad-shouldered cop.

We have a few of them around here. When I tried to bust the speeding red Saab/Audi, the cop I spoke with at the gas station was the typical patrol-guy. But much, much cuter than what's on your average tv show or movie. So...yum for me!

In my dream, getting back to that, there were a bunch of cops. Something had happened and I needed to report...something. One of the cops gave me a ride back to the station where we were met by other cops. I was taken to an interview room and questioned, but not in a threatening way. I realized at some point that I was being flirted with. First by the cop that gave me the ride in, then by other cops that came into the room. So I flirted back.

They fingered their handcuffs.

I winked back.

And yes, gentle readers, there was a cop-orgy right then and there on the interviewing table with me as 'Queen Bee' directing traffic and demanding to see their weapons. So to speak.

I woke up an hour before my alarm, but too tired and too set with the 'Red Aunt' to take advantage of Sergei's sleeping form. So I went back to sleep. And had yet another cop dream.

This time, I was on a pier in New Jersey, just like every other episode of 'Law & Order' (I'm NOT obsessed with that show...really...it had good locations, though). I was surrounded by cops, but of all shapes and sizes. All wearing those insulated cop jackets 'cause it was a cold spring morning. And we were just chatting, chatting, like I was a cop.

Then I realized all the cops were bloggers, and I was finally able to put faces with the names. Which was weird. And I didn't know if I was in for another orgy or not. But I sure didn't rule it out. Then my alarm went off and the cops melted into the ether.

So now I'm sitting here with my morning jolt of coffee thinking about my lover pushing me gently against a wall, forcing my hands up, cuffing them, and letting him frisk me. And whatever else he wants to do.

How the HELL am I gonna get any work done today?

"Strip search? Yes, sir, officer, sir...."

Sexy Sugar

I've been a good girl for two weeks.

Really.

NO sugar, not many carbs, I'm in ketosis and have had about 5 lbs fall off. Dear, sweet, Dr. Atkins. I'd kiss you if you hadn't died from a busted head. Tough luck, that.

But I went to a baby shower today.

Uh-huh.

And even though I ate salad with chicken, and bypassed the carby sandwiches and doritos and sorbet-laden-punch, I lost control when it came time for cake.

'Cause showers always have cake.
(MMM....if I could have cake in the shower whilst 'double-clicking', I don't think I'd ever stop cuming.)

The hostess had made the most delicious-looking carrot cake. DAMN.
And I wasn't gonna have any sugar, mind you, I've been a good girl.

But the cake called out to me, begging and pleading and flashing his lovely raisins and coconut coat.
Seductive little shit.
I cut the smallest piece I could, and he easily slid onto my plate.
And then into my mouth.
Oooh, baby...sugar...you are so good to me.
Here, let me roll you around on my tongue.
You like that?
How about this?
Oh yeah, that feels gooooooood.
More, you say?
Okay. If you say so.

I ate the entire piece, and would have licked the plate clean if I wasn't surrounded by highly impressionable preschoolers.

No surprise, I'm on a sugar buzz right now. That seems to be centralized in my cooter. Right in the center. Right...yeah...right there.

I think I need to find Sergei. I think I need sugar of a different kind.

NOW.

Paraskavedekatriaphobia and Echolalia

I woke up singing, and will have this song on an endless loop today, if I know my brain, and I think I do:

"I’m seeking girls
In sales and marketing
Let’s go make out
Up in the balcony"

It's from the new Mike Doughty cd, "Haughty Melodic". I dig the man's voice, people, it's one of those sounds that reaches down into my cooter and strokes it with feathered fingerstrokes. Lotta sounds do that for me...Barry White, green leaves rustling in summer trees, thunder, Led Zeppelin, a tablesaw (which I cannot explain so don't ask). We have hundreds and hundreds of cds, I can't go into all the voices and instruments and theremin waves that move me in such a way, it would take days.

"And I can
hear the bells are
ringing joyful
and triumphant"

It's Friday the 13th and I always have good luck on this particular day. Although that frikkin' movie scared the pee outta me, the girl in the canoe at the end and you think "Whew! Glad THAT'S over!", and then the hand comes out of the water and your sphincter tightens up thankfully so you don't squirt and you scream like a little girl who found a spider in her shoe.

I'm not usually superstitious, but I do revel in other folks behaviours. Like when there actually IS professional hockey being played, and it's playoff time, and my boys, my beautiful sweaty boys, the Detroit Red Wings, are playing. They refuse to shave, they insist on wearing the same pit-stained hockey sweater to every game, they eat the same dinner every game night, so they don't mess with their 'good luck'. Well, that's just insanely cute right there. Then I wanna line 'em up and have a little ice-rink orgy, see if they could fit that into their good luck charm. The big teases.

There's a game show on ESPN where two teammates are questioned about each other, a la 'Newlywed Game'. Last night they had Darren McCarty and my boyfriend, Brendan Shanahan, playing. No hockey this year. No teeth in McCarty's head. Shanny's touchable scar. Ooh man.... McCarty spilled the beans that Shanny apparently likes to stretch out naked. N-A-K-E-D. I got the impression he meant Shanny sleeps naked and stretches like a tripod when he wakes up on a game morning. Daaaaaamn. So of course last night I jumped in the shower and 'double-clicked my mouse' with visions of Shanny stretching in my head.

"Your business dress
So businesslike and I’m
Tossing the blouse
Over a chairback and"

Fuck.

Blogger just crapped out on me when I tried to publish and lost the last half of this post. And I must run to a meeting. Maybe it thought I was being too long-winded for my own good.

I probably was.

And we're getting an electrical storm as I type.

I wave to you from my Vespa and mouth 'Ciao'.

Sweet Juicy Globes o' Goodness

Boys like boobies.

Just wanted to get that out of the way.

Boys...at any age...instinctively are drawn to boobies. The gay ones, too.

It must be some reverse-penis-envy thing. Y'always want what ya don't got. I want a penis so I can aim to pee, and to see how weird it is when your dick sits straight up just 'cause you see a halfway decent pair of female legs.

That would be so fucking cool!

At least for a while.

The boy-child's second grade class had a field trip this morning that I chaperoned. They're studying plant life, and went to a local supermarket for a look at fruits and veggies, armed with lists of questions to answer (e.g., "What's a flower that we eat?"). We all had a great time, basically took over that whole end of the store, but no one there seemed to mind.

Whilst looking for 'Plants we eat raw', boy-child and his classmate, "V", happened by an endcap full of cantaloupes and honeydews.

I swear this is what happened:

They stopped in front of the melons.
Their eyes glazed over like a box of Krispy Kremes.
Their hands reached out...ever...so...s.l.o.w.l.y....
Their fingertips touched the smooth skin of the honeydews, and their boyish bodies were drawn closer to the display.
They rubbed their hands over the mountains of melons.
Big shit-eating grins spread over their faces.
They both said, almost in unison, and like they had just found a mountain of sweet sweet candy, "Thiiiiiiiiis is my faaaaaaaavorite fruuuuuuuit!"

I had to cover my mouth with both hands to keep from spit-laughing.

They noted the color, size, and texture of the melon on their charts, and were very hesitant to leave that area.

"C'mon guys, we gotta find "Plants whose roots we eat!"

No movement from the boys.

"Come. On. Now!"

I steered them toward a mountain of mushrooms and held up a package of portobello caps..."See how big THESE are?!? Look over here! No, not at the melons. Over Here!"

On the way back to the school on the bus, the boy-child snuggled next to me. Now, this is the kid who won't even let me KISS him goodbye at the school, for fear his friends will see. If I even bend down like I'm contemplating a kiss, he pulls his entire body away like he's covered in honey and I have a box o' bees.

But today, he pulled in close and lay his cheek on the front of my shoulder, such that the only comfortable way for us both to sit is if I put my arm around him. Which, of course, let him be even closer to the food source of his earliest days. He pretended to be asleep.

And he had that shit-eating grin on his face.

Hooray for boobies!!!

The Politics of Dancing

A couple years ago, Sergei and I attended a fundraiser where former President Bill Clinton spoke. (Okay, he really is handsome and sexy. I can solidly admit that. And one hell of a great speaker.)

Bill said something that stuck with me. He said, "Sometimes the things you want for your kids can only be gotten through politics."

I'm finding out that he's right.

I hate politics. I think it's insane that people can be driven apart by slight differences in what they believe. Are you against a woman deciding what's best for her, or are you...yourself...against abortion but okay if someone else does it...or do you believe a woman is smart enough to know what's best for her.

Yeah. All that stuff.

I thought that politics were strictly in the News, ya know, the political world, the stuff 'Out There' that we're bombarded with on a daily basis, that makes our laws and restricts us and watches our every move.

But I'm finding out it's more widespread than that.

It's in our schools.

And I don't mean that Republicans and Democrats and Independents and Socialists are IN our schools trying to recruit.

I mean some teachers are evil and selfish and try to sway public opinion in a way that totally and completely ignores one thing...We need to do what's best for our kids.

Today I found out that a teacher at my son's school filed a grievance against the principal. Why? Because he's been out sick for a week with an infection. That's it. She doesn't like him to begin with, he's an old hippie who believes in full-day kindergarten and celebrating cultures of other lands, and taking the overflow from a 3rd and 4th grade class and making one 3/4 mixed class, and while gearing up for the standard state assessment tests, he's still concerned enough to allow field trips and classroom special events. He's a great guy, and I support him.

But this teacher.

This bitch.

She hates that he likes all those things. She wants programs cut to give her more money for her classroom. She hates that we have international students (we're in a fucking COLLEGE TOWN, bitch, you should celebrate that instead of loathing it). She comes off as all nice and sweet to the casual observer, but the more you know her, the more you see her bitter side. It ain't pretty.

So here's where the politics lies.

Unfortunately, there are more teachers like her.

Which pisses me off. But gives me a challenge. I just need to find the right way.

This group of parents I'm with, those of us who fought to keep programs, we're trying to figure out how to create change from within. It's not so much the school board or the superintendant, it's the teachers and principals who are living in the 1950s and cannot see the big picture. Who throw in vague terms like "lower class size" without defining exactly what that means...how many kids exactly? They won't say, because it's their crutch.

Have any of you fought a school, fought how teachers rely on past experience and not future growth? Can you give me any suggestions on how to change the winds? 'Cause politics is hard work, and I'd rather go in there with spreadsheets and proof than yelling, "You fucking bitch cunt!"

Sometimes the things we want for our kids....

The Rez

Just as I pulled into work this morning, "Head Like a Hole" came on my radio. I got all head-bangy and cranked that junk waayyyy up, and rolled down my windows, and screamed out the lyrics with Trent.

Especially poignant since I was parked in front of the building. In front of the office of the company president.

He wasn't there, of course, his Lexus doesn't pull in til 10 a.m.

"Head like a hole!"
"Black as your soul!"
"I'd rather die!"
"Then give you control!"

Felt pretty damn good, I must say. I walked into work like Tony What-his-ass in 'Saturday Night Fever', all cocky and angry and feeling like I shoulda wore all black like back in my angry-alll-black days.

And then the day just took on blacker tones as the day progressed.

Which was what I thought would happen.

Toooo busy, too many people trying to fuck with my head, too many whiners, I just wanna take 'em out back and tie 'em to the railroad tracks and see if they squish flat like those pennies we used to put on the rails.

*SPLURT*

Yup. Guess they do.

After the second day in a row of working on stupid useless projects, I had to do a spreadsheet of all the stuff I did, who for, what I did, why, and how much time it took.

So I spent 16 hours over two days working on insanity.
And 2 hours writing up what I did.

Does that make ANY fucking sense?

"Bow down before the one you serve."
"You're gonna get what you deserve."

Damn My Eyes! Careful, Y'all....

I used to run with a cadre of very fem men. A gay six-pack. Back after I graduated college. A girlfriend of mine (and by that I mean a friend who is a girl...I am painfully straight, y'all) knew them first, thought they were a riot, and introduced me and several other girls to them.

They WERE a riot.

We were all in our very early 20s. Not married. We hung out a lot together. We ate a lot. We drank a lot. We went to concerts together, and played board games. They told us stories about men they'd fucked, sugar daddies who picked them up in the gay bars downtown and promised to make them huge pron stars in L.A. We whined to them about the guys we dated and how we'd all be better off marrying gay men, 'cause then we'd have mates who had half a clue how women felt.

And one of the guys DID find a sugar daddy.

And he DID move to L.A.

And he DID become a pron star.

We rented his movie when he visited us. The so-called "Plot" was about two gangs of gay guys, one who rode motorcycles, one who didn't. And for some reason they ended up 'rumbling' but not so much fighting as fucking.

We were impressed.

"How did you keep it up for so long?"

"Fluffers."

"OOOOHHHHHHH!!!!"

The guys all ended up moving within a few years. Some to Cali, some to Chicago, some fell off the earth on the flat side. I think one O.D.ed. I think about them sometimes and wonder if they still like Erasure and pretty drinks.

BUT.

They keep popping up in my head more now lately.

WHY?

Damn commercial on the Food Network.

For Brawny paper towels.

Have you seen that one?

Guy in flannel shirt making a cake, voice-over, "Something's cooking at the Parker house."

And this guy, in tight oh-my-god-you're-dressing-right jeans, flannel shirt, that sort of foppish haircut, stands at the counter with his ASS STUCK OUT LIKE HE WAS IN PRISON, frosting a cake. And the creepy voice-over guy is no doubt trying to seduce women into thinking this guy is some kinda catch.

But any woman with two eyes and a blip of gay-dar can tell the guy is

OBVIOUSLY GAY.

No woman has a husband like this who isn't OBVIOUSLY GAY.

The guy picks up a puppy with frosting on it's nose, and creepy voice-over guy says, "Now that's a bad boy."

Brawny Paper Towel Gay Guy looks at the camera in that way, the way that says, "Let me help you off with those jeans, Big Guy, and I'll find some other use for all this frosting! Sit down, I'll make you a cocktail. Cock. Tail."

I watch that commercial in full, every damn time.

It's like I touched an electric fence and can't let go.

I'm achingly aware at the end of the commercial that my face is twisted in horror and dismay, like I just saw a dog fucking a horse in my driveway with the cat on the horse's back wearing rubber ducky boots and playing "Oh Danny Boy" on a harmonica.

What?
The?
Fuck?

Don't try and seduce me with gay guys to sell me paper towels! Show me a wet paper towel holding an entire 10-lb sack of potatoes, and I'll buy 'em! Scrub a gross bathtub with the same paper towel, and yes, that will impress me! Show me a cross section of how thick they are and how they sop up an entire glass of orange juice that your daughter tipped over on the dining room table, and I'll run right out and buy a whole dozen!

But. DO. NOT. use my precious remembrances of sweet men to sell me...to sell me Anything. Okay?

If I want to see gay men in seductive poses, I'll rent pron. Good quality pron.

I do wonder what happened to my gay friends of old. But if they tried that shit, if they did a stupid commercial for goddamn paper towels and stuck their assholes out so's someone could stick their carrot in there, I'd bitch-slap them til they cried for their mommies.

Paper towels.

Humph.

Not unless you're gonna use 'em afterward to clean that...er..."frosting" off the countertop.

Big Guy.

MOM

It's almost not Mother's Day anymore.

I never post on the weekend. But I wanted to today.

A shout-out to my mom, who doesn't know I blog, doesn't know what a blog is, and who isn't quite sure how this internet thing really works. But mom, I know I called you tonight and we talked for a while, and we sent cards and all that, but I just wanted to send waves out to you again, and say I love you. I'm sorry that your brother died yesterday. I cried on the phone. 'Cause I'm your daughter, and I felt so little. And you were the mom, so damn strong. Your strength is something I'm honing, every day, as a mother myself, and I learn from you. Still learning. Always will.

To you out there who are mothers, have mothers and stepmothers and mother-figures, have some or no thoughts yourself to being a mother, or making someone else a mother, I say, Have A Wonderful Day.

To my husband and children, I say, thank you for making this day so special.

To Mother Earth, who sustains us, I say, my eternal gratitude.

Don't Let Those Robots Eat Me

I feel like distracted Supergirl today, I have a billion jillion projects and personal stuff to do and am I getting any work at work done today? Hell No! It's Friday, all the managers are in a meeting, and at least I look busy.

But I digress.

But I digest.

Y'know that phrase, "Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they aren't out to get ya!"? Well, my lastest paranoidism is a blue truck. A very specific blue truck that I see every fucking time I'm out driving. I shit you not. And it's not like everyone and their spawn has this vehicle (unlike the two dozen silver SUVs I saw this morning in a two-mile radius on the way to work, I swear that's another conspiracy waiting to happen).

The blue truck I keep seeing has a specific metal frame in the back, specific blue striping, specific rusted parts, and a specific working-guy-in-a-baseball-cap driver. Sometimes I see the truck on the way to the boy-child's school in the morning, which would make sense as we may just happen to have the same morning schedule. BUT I see this truck when I go to the bank in the middle of the day. And sometimes at night. Maybe he's just a neighbor, or a hard-working guy who likes to show off his piece of shit truck. AND maybe there actually are other trucks like his in our fair city. But even so, why are those trucks spying on me? (I think I should probably stop watching tv shows, cop shows and mysteries and such, where people are being stalked. And where trucks actually stalk humans. I hate those shows.)

Change of topic....

There was a half-deflated helium balloon in the middle of a busy intersection this morning. It had enough oomph to float about car-window height, and blow around the lanes a little bit. Which TOTALLY FREAKED OUT everyone driving in those lanes. They all sorta stopped and lurched forward when the bouncy thing hit their windows. It's just not something you expect to see when you're driving.

Boomph!
There's a balloon!
With the logo of a local coffee shop on it!
Pressing itself up to my window!
I need coffee!
Whoops!
There it goes!!
G'bye, balloon!!
Oops, I gotta drive now!

Girl-child and I were watching the ruckus, and she piped up with, "Maybe there's a parade in the middle of the street!!!" I like that idea. Maybe I'll get more of those balloons, let 'em loose, and take photos. I think that'd make a nice artistic installation in some rich-guys art gallery.

And now I'm questioning why I always feel the need to pee right before a work meeting? Which I have in 4 minutes now?

So I'll be off. And maybe coming back. Unless that damn blue truck finds me first....

Bitchin'...Bitch In.

The girl-child got my goat this morning, refusing to get to the bathroom or get dressed or do anything besides screaming like a cage racoon, "NOOOOO". She pushed me away when I tried to have the 'use your words' talk, and screamed when I left and screamed when I didn't. I hate mornings like that. I had to call Sergei in to deal with girl-child because "I can't deal with this anymore!" (in my bitchy mean-mom voice). So, of course, true to form and because she's daddy's girl, Sergei went into her room, she stopped thrashing and stomping, and gave him a big hug. Sigh. Yeah. Okay. So I'm the hard-ass bitch.

Meanwhile, boy-child dressed and washed and was a perfect gentleman, and did I thank him for making that part of my morning easier?

No.

Because I'm a bitch.

At least I felt like it. I usually do thank him, and he knows I appreciate it, we've had many talks about how sometimes his sister needs a little more attention and he's such a good kid that I can now depend on him. And I did give him a special hug this morning when I was pouring his cereal. That hug we usually share when he knows I need it. He knows. But I still feel like Wicked Witch of Every Direction.

And then there's work. Mutiny, people! I'm the only girl in an IT Department of 9. I love the guys, I really, truly do, we've worked together a long time and they sort of watch out for me. And I'm the first to defend them. Now, we're all tech-geeks. And two of the guys are tech-geeks that I don't care to hang out with much, 'cause there's something crazy behind their eyes. Nothing outward, mind you, just a little overkill, too eager, too naive. And they talk for no reason about fucking nothing. And they don't get our jokes.

But the other guys I love. Well, one of the guys got a job offer in Texas and will be leaving in 3 weeks. Another guy had an interview yesterday for a place about an hour from here. And yet another guy is depressed because he's in a loveless marriage and she's pretty much castrated him with her high-maintenance life (if he were an animal, he'd be one of those bulls they ride at the rodeo, with his balls tied up in big rubber bands, eternally pissed). And the rest of us are now throwing up our hands and saying, "Now What???" Because the team is breaking up. The spark isn't there. Granted, this is due in large part to the management and marketing aspects of the company, who obviously got their degrees from the back of a cereal box, and who don't realize that you need to reward the employees and NOT buy another software package for $10 Grand that doesn't integrate with our systems.

FUCK.

It's all I can do to keep positive today.

I know the girl-child will be happy when I pick her up from preschool. I know the boy-child will be sweet. And Sergei will be the rock I moor my boat to.

But if I lose the work guys, I'm proper fucked. I'm sure even flashing my boobies at them (again) won't convince them to stay. And I'm even wearing a killer bra today....

Gah.

La Musica

I'm all a-twitter! I got new music yesterday, and friends are generously throwing new music at me today, so whilst I cram more work down my throat, I will be listening to the following:

1) Beck, "Guero". I love this man. This skinny, pasty man. Local station has been playing 'E-Pro' and 'Que Onda Guero', and swear to god, I know what he was thinking when he wrote the second song. Okay, I'm in L.A., in a low-rider, with fringe on the inside and a sweet sound system, and cruisin'. Wifebeater t-shirt and roasting like a pork rind. Bumping down the street whistlin' at the chiquitas. And the skinny, pasty blancos. "Hey, white boy! Where you goin'? Buyin' the new Yanni record? Eh? Pequeno, I'm talkin' a' you!" I love the way Beck weaves a picture.

2) Mike Doughty, "Haughty Melodic". I've heard most of these songs before on streaming audiocasts of radio in-studio acoustic sets. So it's funny knowing the words to most of the songs on a new album! But I dig Mike totally. (Former Soul Coughing lead singer, poet, writer, soundtrack guy.) He signed up with Dave Matthew's label, ATO, and Dave sings with him on the cut, "Tremendous Brunettes". I listened to this last night, headphones, around midnight, and got entirely and gushingly turned on. Dave Matthews IS one of my Fantasy Boyfriends (which reminds me I need to add that list somewhere), so I felt like I was having sex while floating on a cloud without getting pregnant or herpes. (Anyone recognize that movie quote?)

3) LCD Soundsystem. It's really hard to dance at work. My chair has wheels and such that only serve to throw me off balance when I wave my hands in the air (like I just don't care). But I do a mean booty-shake when "Daft Punk is Playing at My House" comes on. My cube-mates are used to me thumping and singing over here, thank goodness.

4) Gomez, "In Our Gun." I know I've heard them, but haven't listened to this cd yet. Friend gave it to me, he liked it, we'll see. Of course, the name 'Gomez' just makes me think of the Addams Family (duh-duh-duh-duh...snap...snap). And how sexy Raul Julia was in the movie version of that. Cara mia!!!

5) Keller Williams, song "Bob Rules". Friend emailed the mp3 to me this morning, and I couldn't stop laughing and peeing my pants with impressiveness! If you watched 'The Price Is Right', you'll dig on this totally. 'Come on down!'

If'n y'all have suggestions for new music I should listen to, please comment. At my house, we have a too-large variety of most everything. Which is probably where a lot of our money goes. Ah-ha! NOW it makes sense!

Sleep or Sex?

Sergei is turning Buddhist, I think he's turning Buddhist, I really think so.

Which is cool and fine with me, I like the tolerance inherent in it, we have soft cushions for meditation, and some really fine incense. It reminds me of reading 'Siddhartha' and feeling like I wanted to walk the earth, like Caine in 'Kung-Fu', wearing a loin-cloth and sitting under willow trees. 'S nice.

The added bonus that Sergei brought in last night is tantric sex. At least that's the term that comes to mind. Dunno if it's tantric or not, but I know it was not the typical in-out-in-out (not that there's ANYTHING wrong with that, I mean, please!!! I love hot sex over the dryer while the kids are playing upstairs!!! Bring it on!) But I do know that last night, there were things done and positions accomplished that I've never experienced before. Very explorative. I laughed, I cried, better than "Cats"!!! Actually, there WAS quite a bit of laughing at the end, not in the 'It's so small!' or 'Did you fart?' way that inexperienced lovers do. We just couldn't stop. Could. Not. Stop. Our brains said, "Okay, you can go to sleep now", but our bodies bitch-slapped our brains and screamed, "Sleep?!? Are you fucking kidding??? I'm just getting started!!" Yeah. Like that.

And then, afterwards, while Sergei slept, I stayed wide awake. For far too long.

I am an incurable insomniac anyway. I can't get more than a few hours sleep without waking up for some or no reason. Even as a kid, I couldn't fall asleep proper until after Midnight (which seriously bugged my parents, who were raised to be up with the chickens...literally), and did perfectly fine the next day with 6 hrs sleep. As an adult, I generally get 5-ish hours of sleep a night. And one weekend morning of sleeping in, oh, maybe 8-9 hours. But it's never, ever good sleep. I toss and turn, and wake up with stupid notes to myself, like 'Buy Drain Cleaner!', or 'Cut the kids' nails...Ouch!' I wish I could sleep better. I'd probably feel better, live longer, be able to leap tall buildings.

But I woke up this morning, 4 hours of sleep under my belt, doin' okay, and I thought..."What if I'd had sex for 4 hours? What if it was 8 hours? Would I rather sleep?"

Sting, that sexy singer and school-girl crush, purported to have tantric sex for 9 hours straight. Thassa lotta sex! And the question in my mind, as I brushed my teeth this morning, was, "Would I rather have 9 straight hours of tantric sex, or 9 straight hours of uninterrupted sleep?" Of course, the reasonable thing would be to say 1 hour of sex, 8 hours of sleep. But what if I had to choose just one?

I'm undecided.

What do y'all say? 9 hours of great sex with the fantasy lover of your choice, or 9 hours of great sleep on a feather mattress with a down blanket and fluffy pillows, like in some commercial for laundry soap?

Got My Mojo Woi-kin'

'S one-a those days when I'm behind before I start. I sent my beloved Sergei a list of what's going on this week, and it's a ka-doozy. I don't know if I'm looking forward to it or not. There's a feeling of accomplishment when I get through weeks like this, but it's bloody exhausting. Grrrch.

So now to the news:

1) You'll notice, gentle readers, that I finally got off my lazy ass and added links (see right), and so sorry for me being such a doofus, and thanks for your patience. I may have missed some...I prolly did...I'll catch them as you kick my ass and tell me. Please, tell me. I have cotton balls for brains today, it seems.

2) I also added a new blog and link to the right. Cherry Stem Knots. (Hands up, all those who can do this? In your mouth, not using your hands? Anyone?) Not much there right now, but it's earmarked for writing stuff I discovered under my panties this weekend. I bought new panties, was throwing out the hole-i-est old ones, and found some stuff I think I want to put a beat-down on. Work on 'em, see if they come up to something. So they will morph before your very eyes! Some will suck! Some will not! Witness the angst of writers block and manic editing! Gasp in horror as the past conquests of Mona Buonanotte become public! I'll also use that site for some ideas I have on, er, um, sexual topics that I want to isolate. So there's at least a 'heads-up'.

3) Dental insurance sucks. I just wanna say that before I have to justify my recent root canal/infection story to MetLife so they pay their fair share. C'mon, really, my face is swelled up like that guy in 'Mask', like John Merrick, like that bug-bite guy on the commercial I saw this weekend. And you DON'T think I need a second opinion when my regular dentist says, "Oh, THAT'S normal." Ya don't think so? Bitch? Yeah. Thought so.

4) I'm starting Atkins again today. I lost a hellova lotta weight on it a few years ago. Hellova. And I won't tell you how much because the phrase 'Big Fat Cow' will not leave your head when you come to my blog. I'm not kidding. Suffice it to say, though, that my body is perfectly suited to Atkins. My previously-gestational-diabetic metabolism whacks out when carbs enter the picture. So I've let myself whack out this last year or so and now I'm feeling like a sumo. Without the cool diaper-thing or braid.

5) Made a HUGE discovery about my body last week. I'd had a lovely salad for lunch, veggies and meat and cheese, and I was STUFFED. Really stuffed. Then a co-worker came around with leftover box lunches from an onsite manager meeting. Ham sand, chips, potato salad, cookie. I only wanted half a cookie. So my friend, Jim, said he'd split the box lunch with me, I'd get half the cookie. Which was all I really wanted. Then Jim co-erced me (okay, it didn't take much) to take half the ham sand. Lovely, greasy ham...mmmm.... I was just gonna take the ham off and eat that, ya see. But first I ate the half a cookie. To top off my belly fulla salad. And then the most amazing thing happened. As soon as I finished that last bite of cookie...VOILA!! I wasn't full at all. Not at ALL. And I scarfed down that entire half ham sand, not just the ham, but the bread and veggies and I licked the crumbs off my plate. And I was terribly hungry again.
MORAL OF THE STORY: Sugar turns off my 'Full' reflex. FUCK!!! And FUCK!!! again!

6) I can no longer eat sugar, it seems. I'm cryin' inside, people, just bawling.

7) All I can think of is dark chocolate M&Ms. (sniff)

8) Talking myself into meat! glorious meat! cheese! eggs! pork rinds! sugar free jello! whipped cream! salad! broccoli! tuna! yes! Who needs chocolate? NOT ME! No sirree bob, not me! I'm great! I'm fantastic! I'm...I'm...$#*(@$*@#&@&!!!