We interrupt the orgasm talk

Helloooooo?!?! Yeah, posts are rare on the weekends here in the Mona/Sergei household. But I wanted to share a few things:

1) From Orange Tangerine comes this link from McSweeneys, George Bush jokes. I had tears coming out my eyes, people, and woke the children with my guffawing. Damn good stuff!

2) Also through Orange, from The Un-Apologetic Atheist, comes "The Christian Paradox". Not so much funny as head-shakingly sad and true. Made me remember something from yesterday. A co-worker, 30, is getting married for the first time, and he and his fiancee are Christian, like, demonstrative Christian, but he's really cool about it. He said his fiancee's family is all very religious, BUT have this earth-shattering history of divorce and illegitimate children and abuse and whatnot. So, how Christian is THAT?

3) We subscribe to something like 25 magazines. (I have connections at work, and get 'em cheap.) I finally caught up on, like, 3 weeks worth of reading the damn things, and every other one had an article on this movie coming out called, "The Aristocrats". There's apparently a very funny joke that vaudeville comedians used to tell to each other, after the crowd left, that was the dirtiest, sickest, grossest thing ever. The movie itself has one hundred comedians telling that joke, each in a different way, with sick stupid sexist racist humour. And I CAN'T WAIT to see this thing! You should all go!

4) And I must see Steve Carell in "The 40 Year-Old Virgin". I thought he was funny and smarmy on The Daily Show, and yeah, he made me laugh in that Will Farrell thing, "Anchorman", and even though I had to hate him for being in an American version of one of my favorite British tv shows, he was actually pretty good in it. Now he looks so innocent and fuckable in the posters for "Virgin". Ooh, gimme somma that!

5) And also a crush on now-skinny Tom Arnold, featured in the July 29th issue of Entertainment Weekly. I don't know why. Don't hold it against me.

6) Bob Mould has a new cd coming out, which I must check out. (Now 'Disappointed' is running through my head.) And, oh, I am recommending "Haunted Cities" by The Transplants. Yes, the one with Explicit Lyrics, I mean, yeah, why the fuck not? It's an amazing mix of musical flavours, hard to pin down, and each song has a different feel (which I enjoy, I don't want to buy a cd if the same song is basically repeated ten times). It's not everyone's taste, but funky leather metal ska Mona lurves it.

7) "This Machine Kills Fascists", a documentary about Woody Guthrie, is coming out on August 2nd. Narrated by Billy Bragg! OOH! If you haven't ever heard "Mermaid Avenue" by Wilco/Billy Bragg, based on Guthrie works, you absolutely, positively, must get offa yer chair right now and find a copy. It's so close to perfect, I can't stand it!

8) A perfect moment: Yesterday, Friday, left work at 2:30 p.m., said fuck the projects, I had my 40 hours in. Not picking up the kids for a while. Driving to the grocery store, and visions of a fresh bottle of Yellowtail Shiraz floated in my head...YES! And the college radio station played 'Weather With You' by Crowded House and I sang along, loudly, with the car windows open, all goose-bumpy...YES! And then they played The Clash, 'London Calling', and YES!!! Wine and song, apparently, is all it takes to make Mona happy. Wine, song, no work, windows down, sunny day, cleavage poppin', short skirt, bare skin, weekend...YES!

Okay, it's 12:45 a.m. on Saturday night/Sunday morning and me babylon and on and on. G'night. Oh yeah, and think of something sexy and think of me, m'kay?

Mona's O: At the "Y"

Guy 1: What's the best way to give a woman an orgasm?
Guy 2: Who cares?!

Guys 1 and 2 laugh, and Mona shoots them with an elephant gun.

Men's orgasms are seemingly effortless. A coupla flicks of the wrist, a rubbing of pelvis to mattress, a good fantasy or sight of legs *up to here*, and lovely seminal fluid is rocket fuel to self-replication.

So why do women orgasm?

I guess my answer would be, "Why not?"

Human bodies teem with nerves. Those nerves follow circuits to the brain, stimulating pain and pleasure centers. Gentle manipulation of most nerve endings brings about some sensation, generally pleasant (unless you try to stick your finger between my toes, then my head explodes and the screams reverb throughout the house...not pleasure, I don't know WHAT that is).

My favorite ethics guru, Rob Helpy-Chalk, examined a book by Elisabeth Lloyd, "The Case of the Female Orgasm". Llyod took issue with most research she found regarding the female orgasm. She found much of the research tainted with male-biased views on sex, and centered on whether the female body has been adapted to orgasm. Read all Rob's posts on the subject (see his right panel) but you should definitely check out posts one, four, six, and seven. They're the ones that made me think most about my own orgasms.

Why do I orgasm?

Okay, some answers.

1) It feels good. Let's not beat around the bush here (pun intended). The tension and release inherent in an orgasm is a pleasurable experience. And by "orgasm", I mean any stimulation of any body part that results in a sexuality-based tension/release sensation, including clitoral, vaginal, anal, oral, skin, mental, whatever ya got.

2) We have the nerves. In the early stages of development, before that second X loses a leg and becomes a male Y, fetal tissue is sent signals to create nerve pathways. After the gender is determined, other changes take place to form a penis or a vagina. However, having seen numerous documentaries on transexual surgeries, and seeing how a clitoris can be made to a penis (with hormones added, of course), and vice-versa, those initial nerve pathways don't leave once your gender has been determined. They're merely altered, not disposed of.

3) Orgasms of various types elicit vaginal contractions. It is possible that this is to create a peristaltic wave of sorts that coaxes sperm up the female reproductive system for impregnation. However, having seen a video of that action (and how they got a teeny-tiny camera up there to catch the action, well, thank god for microprocessors!), I have my doubts about this. A contraction doesn't mean the muscle is urging anything to come into it. It may signify great muscular strain. I can hold my fist next to a cup of coffee, and tense and release it, that doesn't mean I'm hoping to suck coffee into my hand, it's just flexing. Contracting and releasing.

4) It may stimulate your lover. I'll just leave that there for further exploration.

5) It releases tension. Again, related to the tension/release aspect, but post-orgasm, the entire body relaxes, not just the stimulated areas. Brain function can slow, sleepiness occur, headaches disappear, a general sense of calm.

6) It can indicate the quality of the personal relationship. I'm not going to go so far as to say if you make me orgasm, that you're the king, the god, the keeper of my body. Hell, I had an orgasm eating Chilean sea bass, and that fish is NOT my master! I'm not sure if Sergei can feel my orgasms or not, but I know when he stimulates me to orgasm, I want to do the same for him, and hold him in high regard for knowing what I like. Of course, that has more to do with the relationship in general, the fact that we're committed and have a life together. However, I know from past experience, pre-Sergei, that men who couldn't bring me to orgasm, or didn't take the time to even try, were dismissed as sexual partners. Quickly. While that may seem such a trivial thing, that I could have had a wonderful lasting relationship with them regardless of the sex, it IS a brick in the wall of relationship. If the sex isn't good, I can't play. Period.

So this is me, blahblahblahing about orgasm. My research into the female orgasm is one-sided...ME-sided, actually. I pulled out 'The New Our Bodies, Ourselves' last night and tried to find out their 'why', but got sucked into 'how', and then distracted.

Why does Mona orgasm? Because she wants to. And perhaps next week, I'll count the ways.

Mona's O… In the Beginning: The Big M.

I invented masturbation.

(Yeah, I hear ya giggling out there. Because YOU thought YOU invented it, didn't ya?!)

Children have a great gift for discovery. They're not afraid to explore, to ask questions, to push the limits to see how far they can go (or get away with). One of the first things they explore is, of course, themselves. As babies, they analyze their hands with great intent. Their feet become exciting dervishes they can't take their eyes off. As they grow older, they find their noses, their belly buttons, their knees, and of course, their genitalia.

And then they discover…if I touch myself down there, it feels goooooood.

I can't remember a time when I didn't masturbate. I remember quite vividly being 5 years old, kindergarten looming on the horizon, and masturbating in my bed, to make myself feel better. I didn't have the finesse back then that I do now. At that young age, it was more a chop-chop, rubbing, clenching affair, the entire inside of my left hand stuck down there, right hand pressing down on it, thighs crossed, rocking back and forth (usually in bed, in the dark). The orgasm itself was more like feeling good, feeling good, then feeling like I was on the crest of a small roller coaster, then I was done.

I never called it an 'orgasm', though. I didn't call it anything. There wasn't anyone I wanted to talk to about it. Because, yes, it was my invention, a damn good one, and I didn't want anyone else to copy me. Selfish thing that I was. It was mostly a way to fall asleep.

I branched out from using my hand after a while, with whatever I thought might work. A doll. A pencil. My sock. I knew as long as I could sneak it in my bed, I could use it. Curiously, though, I almost always did it in bed, and never got caught.

Well, I sort of got caught. Once. My parents still talk about it (and ignorance is bliss!).

I was probably 10 years old, and I discovered that I could manage a rubbing position in the bathroom on the toilet. Instead of peeing, I'd sit there with my hand jammed in, a little more rubbing around, a bit more style, and have a little better orgasm, one that bent my body over with pre-pubescent pleasure. One day I was just hitting my stride, feeling really good, the orgasm peaked and I bent over to the right, my head resting on the toilet paper dispenser. And my mom walked in. I sat up grabbing for toilet paper, something, to cover up what I was doing. She thought, since what she saw was my head coming up, that I had fallen asleep. She started laughing, "You fell asleep! Why don't you finish up now." Then she told my dad. And it became a family story. Last Christmas they recounted it yet again, and I didn't want to ruin their fun by saying, "Actually, I was rubbing my snoopy until I had a little-girl orgasm!" Didn't want any heart attacks during a holiday weekend, dontcha know.

As an adult, I know how all my orgasms feel, all types (which I'll get into later). Analyzing those early wank sessions, I'd have to say they were orgasms, but of a really crude variety. Hormones and general growth and maturity have made them earth-shattering.

My son masturbates, and has been since he was old enough to hold his penis and pee. Possibly before. We've let him know it's perfectly normal, but he should do it in his bedroom or the bathroom, where nobody else is, because it's HIS special thing. I don’t think my daughter has found out about her little flower yet. She's such a pleasure-seeker that I'm afraid once she finds out what she's capable of, we'll never be able to pull her out of her bedroom! But as long as she doesn't do it in front of her kindergarten class, or yell out in the grocery store, "Mom! I masturbated four times today! That's a new record!", I'll let her think she invented it.

Mona's O -- Doesn't Everybody?

Six years ago, when I was pregnant with my second child, my OB/GYN asked if I’d be interested in participating in a research study at Local University. They wanted women of all socio-economic levels as test subjects, with the goal in mind of finding out causes of low birth weight. Of course, I said Yes.

The study encompassed a light physical, with reference to my current OB records. For two days I had to wear a blood pressure cuff that went off every few minutes and automatically recorded my levels. (Try sleeping through THAT!) I met with a facilitator and answered a seemingly endless set of questions…multiple choice, short answer, open-ended. Having designed and executed research studies in college and in my place of work, I was very interested in what they were REALLY getting at, how they designed the study, if the questions were well-written or ambiguous. I made some comment about the study, asked the facilitator about her role in it, and she brightened to know that I had also done the job she was doing. We then started to chat a bit after every section, about the questions, the university’s role in the study. I felt like an insider.

"Do you know what an orgasm is?"
"YES!"
“Have you ever had an orgasm?”
“Oh YES!”
“How many times in your life have you had an orgasm: 1-10, 11-20, 21-50, more than 50.”
“Are you kidding? More than 50.”

And the line of orgasm questioning went on and on, and we both giggled at some of the questions and she was amazed at my straightforwardness. Which struck me as odd, I mean, why wouldn’t you just open up? After that section, I laughed and said, “There can’t really be any women who say they don’t know what an orgasm is!”

The facilitator leaned in and said, “Actually, some women in the study have never heard the word!”

It was like she was speaking Martian.

Never heard of an orgasm?

“Some of the women in the study, those in a lower income level, or in a rural setting, some in very religious marriages, have NO idea what an orgasm is. I can’t tell you how many women have asked me to define an orgasm for them! When I tell them the physical aspects of it, that it happens during intercourse, compare it to their male partners orgasms, they just shake their heads and say, ‘Nope, never had me one-a those!’ And some of these women are in their late 30s with other children!”

I sat there speechless. The facilitator and I shook our heads and sort of sighed, I could tell that she’d seen and heard things in this study that made her wonder what womankind is coming to.

How can this be? How can you go through your life and not know what an orgasm is, at least heard the word, touched yourself "down there", at the very least demanded that your partner help you have one? It seems so odd that women can be so unaware of what their bodies are capable of.

I understand that access to education may play a part in this. Feeling guilty about sex, due to your upbringing, beliefs, culture, whatever, can play a part. Low self-esteem, a demanding partner, all play factors.

But.

You had to, at some point in your life, heard the word orgasm. Or cum. And wondered what the fuss was about. Why wouldn’t you find out how to give yourself one, at the very minimum? Are those women really so affected by outside forces that they abandon their own feelings and happiness? Do they really think of sex as merely for procreation? Are they truly happy?

I so much wanted to talk to these women. To show them a diagram of their genitalia, to instruct them on masturbation. To talk to their partners and slap them upside their heads and say, “Make her cum first!” Knowing how much I enjoy an orgasm, I couldn’t fathom losing that part of my sexuality (or having never discovered it), that part of being self-confident, that happiness. Sad, it’s really sad that some women have neither the knowledge nor the want to explore their own sexuality.

The facilitator and I spent several hours together, talking, questioning, laughing. She was good, and I thanked her for being so open with me.

After my baby was born, there were a few more questions and medical records exchanged for the study. I was told that the final research report would be sent to me, as a courtesy. I didn’t hear anything further.

Until two weeks ago.

The study group sent me a letter, asking if I wanted to continue participation. I called the number listed and said, “YES!”, answered a few more questions, was told to expect more phone calls and letters in the next few months. PLUS a copy of the final report, probably next year, as the focus of the study was expanded to include the health of the mother, the child, and any future children.

All that is interesting, and the research-hog in me is extremely curious to see the results.

But I can’t help but be a little sad for those women who answered the orgasm question with, “Nope! Never had me one-a those!” In the six years since the study, have they had an orgasm? And why not?

El Joy De Orgasmo

After much hemming and hawing (which is a really strange phrase if you say it loudly enough...go ahead, you'll see what I mean), I have added a post to my alternate site, Cherry Stem Knots. I didn't put it here 'cause even though I'm pretty NSFW, this new thing is really really. It started out as a poem, actually, to celebrate Sergei's return from out of town, but as it had been lonely night after lonely night of me in a big soft bed, the little ode turned to porn. Mona missed Sergei. Mona was horny. Mona wrote porn.

So, check it out when you're alone. Or heck, even when you're not. There's all sorts of sexy-sex words in there, something might turn ya on. (I was sure hot and bothered when I finished with it.)

The incredible Rob Helpy-Chalk has posted 8 variations on a theme, "The Case of the Female Orgasm". (You will find them listed in his right panel under 'Recent Themes'.) I read each with gusto and delight, as I am a connoisseur of the female orgasm, have enjoyed it's various contortions and stylings, and have much to say on the topic. This week I hope to post every day about the female orgasm, taking off on Rob's idea (thanks, Rob, for letting me 'use' you!), and I'll reference the handsome Rob and some other brilliant minds, make some personal revelations and assumptions, and basically just wank off for a week or so.

As a start to "Mona's Orgasm...An Inside Look", let's look at the definition of orgasm.

Wikipedia says the following:

An orgasm, also known as a sexual climax, is a pleasurable psychological or emotional response to prolonged sexual stimulation. It is often accompanied by a notable physiological reaction, such as ejaculation, blushing or spasm and may be followed by aftershocks.

If you continue down the Wiki page, you'll find more definitions and clarifications, a great deal of links to other areas of the sexual experience, body parts, Kinsey, oohhhhhh, there's just so much to think about.

Orgasm is something different to everyone. To me, an orgasm is a tensing, a release, a rush of pleasure that can occur by stimulating nearly any point on my body. I'm hypersensitive, one big erogenous zone. I have learned the fine art of hands-free masturbating, which makes many a rush-hour traffic jam less annoying. I can be turned on with one finger, not even touching me. The older I get, the more orgasmic my body becomes.

I'll get into specifics in future posts. But right now Sergei just read my porn, kissed his approval, and I have things to do. People to do. Person. Aw hell, read porn, somethin' sexy and hot, you deserve it.

The Birthday Baseball Bobbled Shirt

Baseball always reminds me of summer. My mom was the baseball fan in our house, every game on the radio, Ernie Harwell narrating every hit, every gyration of the ball, every homer and every out. Baseball = sweat, heat, lazy days, a crazy sort of anticipation.

The boy-child attended a birthday party last night that included a game at the local Minor League Baseball stadium. Girl-child and I went along, intending to pay our own way (more on that later), the parents were thrilled to have another grownup along, and with Sergei away, it just made sense for all of us to go.

As we were standing outside buying tickets, we noticed huge blue-grey clouds forming to the west. “Hmmm…it wasn’t supposed to rain,” BirthdayBoy’s grandma commented. “Maybe it’ll go past us.” Ten seconds later, it started sprinkling. We all sort of looked at each other, at the seven 8-year-old boys with baseball gloves ready to catch errant foul balls, jumping and itchy and expecting to be entertained. We all smiled ‘what the hell!’ and stayed in line.

For a rainy Thursday evening, there seemed to be a heckova lot of folks out. BirthdayBoy’s dad finally figured it out. “OH! It’s Thirsty Thursday!” he boomed, and got all grinny and giddy himself. “Cheap beer!”

Oh. Uh, yeah. Beer. I forgot about that part. I kinda sorta think it might be interesting for my children to see drunk grownups fighting for free paraphernalia and yelling obscenities at the pitcher and knocking down small children on their way to get dollar beers and questionable hot dogs. Hmmm. And I grabbed girl-child’s hand and moved closer to boy-child.

I think I forgot to mention that I’m a Freak-Out Mom. The world’s best. I worry and obsess more cleanly and concisely and passionately than any mom I know. Sometimes I’m good at hiding it. Sometimes not. This evening was…a Not.

I handed BirthdayBoy’s dad a $20 for our tickets, and he waved me off. “We’ll settle up later,” he smiled, and plunked down two fifties and 3 twenties in front of the cashier.

We had great seats, behind the home team dugout past first base, up far enough to see all the action. They had a tv screen in the scoreboard and showed Bugs Bunny shorts. For a while. A loooong while. The game that should have started at 7:05 started at 7:45 because…hot dog!...it was RAINING. We sat in the drizzle, our asses all wet, watching the best and worst of the local gentry file in, their clear plastic cups brimming with cheap brew, balancing nachos and full sacks of peanuts and the hands of excited offspring.

BirthdayBoy’s dad asked all the grownups, “Wanna beer?” They all said yes. I said, “No thanks, maybe just a soda?” (Suppressing the urge to say, “You’re all gonna drink and then drive these kids around? Are you freakin’ nuts???)

The kids were good, I mean really good, through the rain and delays and boredom. The seven boys sat in a row, gloves flapping. The adults and the two girl-children (BirthdayBoy has a younger sister) sat behind them. We chatted and laughed and tried to catch acid rain in our mouths. Boy-child would occasionally turn around and catch my eye and smile, quickly, so his friends wouldn’t see, then turn around and bump shoulders with his friends and play “Push me off the bench with your butt.”

The tarp came off the field when the rain let up a bit. We cheered and waved and sang the Star-Spangled Banner with teary eyes and waited for something spectacular to happen.

The visiting team was up first. Their first batter had a strike…a ball…and a screaming homer. Oh. That’s not good. Oh no.

During the first, the second, the third innings, the boys craned their necks when the ball popped up and uuuuuuupppp and waited for it to come to our section…to no avail. They traded seats and told secrets and ate 3 boxes of popcorn like greedy squirrels, like hungry bears, like seven 8-year-old boys having a really good time. The girl-children scarfed down their own box o’corn, compared playground scrapes, talked about Hello Kitty and braids and kindergarten. The Grandma and I talked about school, she recently retired from a 45-year career teaching every grade. The Grandpa sat like a contented Buddha. The parents held hands, all moony and serene.

The costumed bird mascots came out between innings and danced with the players, made fun of them, stole their gloves. Actually, when it comes to cheap entertainment, it wasn’t entirely bad. It was still corny, but it was just…well…just right for the place and the time and the crowd.

After the third inning, they brought out the ‘T-Shirt Cannon’, a PVC pipe affair that propelled rolled-up t-shirts into the crowd. Seeing that they only shot half a dozen into the crowd, our chances of getting one were worse than snagging a fly ball.

So we thought.

We watched one shirt, and a second, get rocketed up …and drop down…on crowds of elbowing fans. The third shot-shirt came up into our section, waaayy over our heads. It’s arc was interrupted at the peak by, what, rain?? more rain?, and it dropped like a brick…5 rows behind us. The drunk-heads under the shirt bobbled it, whoa!...bobbled it some more, it came down 2 rows, THOSE folks bobbled…whoops!...

...and the t-shirt rolled directly underneath my ass.

I picked that sucker up like I’d just found a winning lotto ticket! “Woo-hoo!”, I screamed, and seven 8-year-old boys and 2 girl-children and 4 adults gazed at me with utter awe and surprise…and stomped, and clapped, and shrieked!

Woo-Hoo!

I had a milli-second of not-knowing what to do with the damn thing. Then I motioned to boy-child. “Why don’t you give this to BirthdayBoy as a present?” Boy-child took a few seconds to process that, then said, “As a present from YOU?” “No,” I whispered, “as a present from all of us!”

Boy-child took the rubber-band-bound shot-shirt in his glove and scurried down the row to BirthdayBoy. “Here, Happy Birthday!”, boy-child beamed. BirthdayBoy thought he was kidding. “You want to give me THIS?!” he said, stunned, and looked at me for approval. I smiled and nodded, and BirthdayBoy’s face exploded with joy.

The adults were somehow incredulous that I did that. “Are you sure?” “Oh, my, that’s so nice!” “Really, he can have it?!?”

Of course.

BirthdayBoy made his way up to our row, shot-shirt-in-gloved-hand, scooted in front of me, wrapped his arm around my neck, and gave me the biggest hug a boy can give his good friend’s mom.

Totally worth sitting in the rain for. Totally.

BirthdayBoy ran to his parents and showed them the shirt, then went to the row behind us and gave me ANOTHER hug from behind. “Thankyouthankyouthankyou!”, and ran off to show the other jealous-but-happy-for-him boys.

Around the fifth inning I realized that the adults hadn’t been drinking beer for a while. They were into soda. Freak-Out Mom left the building, and Cool Mom took her place.

And then it started pouring rain. Great sticky buckets of it. Girl-child grabbed my chin and pointed my face up at the banks of lights. “You can see the rain when you look at the lights!” she said. We all decided enough was enough. Time to get the kids dry. Time for pajamas and kisses and goodnights. Each adult took control of several kids. I took girl-child’s hand, and lay my hand on boy-child’s head, and we dashed for the car.

We all met up again at BirthdayBoy’s house for presents. By this time it was 10 p.m., we’re all soaked and exhausted, and in winding-down party mode. Gifts were unwrapped at a frantic pace, oohed and aahed over, and the parents chatted and stared in bewilderment at their children who were so grownup, so tall, so smart and confident. Geez, where did our babies go?? BirthdayBoy unwrapped his new shot-shirt and modeled it. No matter that it came down to his ankles. We all couldn’t care less. He found me and gave me Hug Number Three.

I rounded up boy-child and girl-child from post-gift-jubilation and led them outward, to home, to warm beds and sweet dreams. BirthdayBoy’s dad was near the door, and I reached out my hand with the soggy $20 bill I’d tried to give him earlier. “Here, T, I just wanted to square up with you. Thanks! We had a GREAT time!”

BirthdayBoy’s dad looked down at the BirthdayBoy himself, standing proudly beside him, wearing the shot-shirt retrieved from bobbled hands, through a rainstorm and game delay, through spilled beer and the anticipation of Star Wars toys and secret birthday surprises.

“No”, the dad said, satisfied and proud, as he once again waved off the ticket-and-soda money “we’re square. We’re really, really square.”

“Flirting is Not a Crime”

(My co-worker, Jim, saw this on a t-shirt yesterday. I told him to buy me one next time he sees it.)

Yesterday I spouted rather longwindedly about words, how they’re used, how yummy and delicious they are when used properly. Co-worker Jim and I have always had a disagreement about two words and their implied meanings.

The words?

Flirt.

Tease.

And both used in a sexual way.

In my vocabulary, “flirt” implies a certain amount of innocence, a lack of intent, a general bantering of sexual words, phrases, gentle touches on non-sexual areas of the body, displaying affection but no interest in seeing that person naked. (Not entirely true…there MAY BE an interest in seeing that person bare-ass nekked and bonking their brains out in new and interesting ways, but the moral compass of both parties points to the ‘no thanks’ direction.)

To me, “tease” implies that what the person really wants to do is sexually arouse the other person to the point that they seriously, hotly, wetly, hard-ly, want to have sex with them…and then the ‘teaser’ doesn’t allow the sex to happen. One or both parties want desperately to have sex with the other, but the ‘teaser’ has a malicious streak and uses the teasing to get something…attention, favors, whatever. “Prick-tease”, for example, implies a sexual set-up without resolution.

Jim’s opinion is exactly opposite. He sees flirting as something done with intent, and teasing as harmless fun.

Wikipedia makes the following distinctions:

"To tease", or to "be a tease" in a sexual sense can mean to by dress, posture, language and/or other means of flirting to cause another person to become sexually aroused, without any intent to proceed further - usually to the frustration of the person teased. However, such teasing may sometimes be an intended prelude to a more serious engagement, an ambiguity that may lead to uncomfortable situations. In a more physical sense, it can also mean slowly pleasuring someone while holding off bringing them to orgasm.

Flirting is often described as casual conversation with a romantic touch, but it need not be spoken interaction at all. Flirting is a way of treating serious things (such as sexual attraction) with an almost mocking or self-mocking air of ease. It can be either pleasantly diverting or wildly exciting, depending on the context. People who flirt can speak and act in a way that suggests greater intimacy than is appropriate to the relationship (or to the amount of time the two people have known each other), without actually saying or doing anything inappropriate. One way they accomplish this is to communicate a sense of playfulness or irony. Flirting is an important part of courtship. It often also continues into long-term relationships like marriage.

So I’m thinking I’m right.

But I’m not exactly sure. Thoughts?

And I think I am merely a flirt, but am often accused of being a tease. Geez, like I can help it that I’m sexy and alluring!

Garrulous Crap

I used the word ‘inculcate’ in polite conversation yesterday.

I used it properly.

It made my co-worker’s eyes roll baaaaack in his head.

He recovered quickly, fortunately for me, but it got me thinking about how I use words and in what context and the fact that some people never read ‘It Pays to Enrich Your Word Power’ with their moms every time the new Readers Digest came in the mail.

My mom and I would do it every month, time each other by the kitchen clock's second hand, and record our scores. We usually tied (okay, sometimes she beat me, I’m being a total smart-ass). Afterward we’d go over the answers and point out those that could have, perhaps, been the answer if interpreted differently. I’d look up some of the more interesting words and confirm etymology, use them in sentences, say them in dramatic actor-style to my younger siblings that night at dinner.

Okay, yep, I was a word geek. Guilty. Fuck, I really was a geek, huh?

Sometimes I catch myself using words that are beyond the “can” of the person I’m talking to. Not that I’m doing it consciously! Really! Sometimes the perfect word is just longer and more unusual. “Obfuscate” just says so much more than “really really confuse or maybe lie or trick you”. Similarly, “verbose” just cuts such a different swath than, say, “wordy”. Even though I can understand the confusion this puts my listener in, I can't stop using those words. They just fall out of my mouth, barely making it past the thesaurus in my brain, and it specifically identifies MY meaning.

Geek.

There are instances where I do dumb down. Necessity being what it is.

1) The Production Guys at work. They’re really nice, a little flirty, a lot bold, hard-working men. They’re great teasers, and if I ever say something like, “Boy, those shipments are sure proliferating as we move towards the holidays, huh?”, they would give me all sorts of crap about my high-falutin’ language. And rightly so. The correct thing to say would be something like, “Boy, you guys got a shitload of shipments to do before Christmas! Need a beer or somethin’?” THAT shows solidarity.

2) Children. It’s all age-appropriate. Until kids reach a certain reading/comprehension/intelligence level, they just won’t understand some of the things I try to tell them. Instead of narrating the long, involved, morally-charged subject of reproduction by mentioning seminiferous tubules and fallopian tubes and ovulation, I just use words like, “seeds”, “different”, “growing”. And NO, I haven’t had to have the big involved talks yet with the big words and diagrams and flowcharts. Oh god, not yet. Please. I’m still reeling from the boy-child’s revelation last night that the Tooth-Fairy is really just parents. AAAARGH.

3) When I’m having sex. Oh, come on, you know THAT’S true! That’s a base animal function. Why take the time to spout things like, “I heartily enjoy the sensation of your glans penis gently stroking my vulvar labial folds.” Why not say, “Fuck me!” Why not, I say?

Don’t get me wrong. In this here post thing, I will NOT always use the correct word. I will not talk in grammatically correct sentences. I may pepper my language with more cuss words and sex words and !exclamation points!! than a person should use in proper businesslike writing. But what the hell. That’s a “writer’s style”.

I will presently cease to engage in excessive loquacious language. And I’ll shut up.

F U CN RD THS

STAND TAKE TO THE
_____ ____ _____ ___

YOU I THROW LORDS



And there's your brain teaser for the day.

(Manager revenge is a sweet, sweet liquor, and today I'm drunk.)

I Am The Bell Curve...and What A Curve!

The Birthday Boy

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SERGEI!

Today is all about my man, my main squeeze, my lover, my friend, the father of my children, the smartest and sexiest man I know, my number one boy-fren, the man I will grow old and cranky with.

Today, dear friends, Sergei turns 35 years old!

I pieced together a football cake last night, covered in chocolate jimmies and frosting laces, which we will eat tonight after a casual dinner at a restaurant of his choosing. Then there will be the opening of gifts, many cards, many kisses. And hopefully a little love-makin' later!

Feel free to email him your birthday wishes, boobie photos, and quips (demetri33@yahoo.com).

Love ya, honey!

It's The "Psychosis" Part That'll Git Ya!

One of the unfortunate side-effects of insomnia is the difficult transition to sleep mode. Once 'on', the brain needs a special trigger to flip the switch down and fall into whatever sleep pattern the body chooses.

Unfortunately, I'm stuck "on".

Doesn't help that the duties and responsibilities of a mom, wife, software chick, obsessive-compulsive load me down with things I have to do or want to do.

So last night, everyone's in bed but me. I'm doing laundry. Wrapping birthday presents. Decorating a cake. Doing dishes. Downloading photos. Finally get to check my email around Midnight, get hopelessly lost in blogs, it's then 1:30 a.m. and I'm still awake. And then I panic, and figure out how many hours of sleep I'd conceivably get if I went to bed right now, if I have to get up at 6 am.

I go to bed wide awake.

Try to close my eyes, and all these thoughts keep bumping around in there.

Remember to send money with the boy-child for his field trip Friday.
Was that one of the kids crying, or the dog next door?
Why does Haloscan suck lately?
How should I seduce Sergei on his birthday...oh that song..."and which sex position pleases best her old man...."
Did I send email to Rob tonight? Or did I dream that?
Parachute turtle...hey kids, there's a new ice cream treat in town! Parachute turtle! Come taste the goodness! (peppy music playing) "Parachute turrrrrrrtle! Yummy in yer mouth!"
"...and which sex position pleases best her old man...wooooooooooo...."
Laundry buzzed...should I get it? Should I do it tomorrow?
Was that the front door slamming shut? Should I throw on clothes and check?

It was like that scary movie where the girl tried to turn the television off and it wouldn't go off and just drove her insane.

The more time that ticked by, the more frantic I became. Masturbation! Yeah! That'll do it! Alas, every good and great fantasy was slow to grease the wheel of climax, and I ended up spending way too much time slapping my rug. I finished, finally, and rolled on my side in the comfortable fetal position, sighed...and waited....

Shit.

Still not sleepy.

Some time after 2 a.m. the boy-child got up to pee, I silently monitored his progress, dressed and led him back to bed when he virtually fell asleep on the toilet, and returned to bed.

It was probably close to 2:30 a.m. when I drifted off. Or went comatose.

And I did get up, reluctantly, at 6 a.m. Well, 6-ish.

Due to pots of coffee and me leading myself with a carrot of perhaps peanuts from the vending machine, I am awake. The sleep deprivation psychosis I was expecting is hold up in some pen somewhere. Tonight Sergei and the kids and I will celebrate his birthday, out for dinner, cake later, presents, and lovely sex later. Fingers crossed that I'll actually be able to sleep tonight. Without the rug-thrashing.

All Dolled Up In Bellhop Drag

Transvestites make me hot.

I mean, look at them! Eddie Izzard, Tim Curry. Men in stockings and lingerie, makeup, that come-hither look. My little snoopy is sweating just thinking about being near them.

I’m really comfortable with my sexuality, thankyouverymuch. I loves the mens. I loves the ladies, but in a different way. And I can tell (and often shout it out loud) when a woman is looking especially sexy. It’s a purely aesthetic quality I admire, and why not tell your gal-pal, “You look HOT today!”

I’m still sort of puzzled on the transvestite thing, though.

Why do I have that attraction? And don’t tell me, ladies, that your little throbby areas didn’t go wild when you first saw those fuck-me pumps keeping time with the drumbeat when Frank-N-Furter was making his first entrance in the elevator. Sexy, no? Sexy, YES!

Is it because they remind us of…well…us? Is it the fact that, aesthetically, they look pretty darn luscious in the clothing (their legs generally look better in fishnet stockings than mine…but that’s jealousy talkin’)? Is it just that these men are daring enough and comfortable enough with who they are to dress like that in public, and don’t hide? Or are we simply hoping that, in our fantasies, they’ll go shopping with us and be truthful when those pants really do make our asses look huge?

I read an article yesterday at Shades of Grey that discusses a study on bisexuality and whether or not it’s a real phenomenon in men. I love Charlie’s post, the study itself is fraught with peril…FRAUGHT, I tell you! The act of measuring a man’s reaction to various types of porn and how hard he gets really tells you…mmm…not much about his sexual preferences, IMHO. But the post got me thinking…we’re all supposedly a teeny-weeny bit bisexual, in some fashion (repressed or not). So, is my lust for transvestites a function of the inate bisexual traits that we all have? Or is it, as I stated above, a function of aesthetics? Or does it really matter, as long as it turns me on and I have great sex with Sergei? (CLARIFICATION: Sergei does NOT dress in drag, or any sort of women's clothing. I just get turned on watching trannies, go find Sergei, and jump his bone.)

Oh, and to clarify, Eddie and Tim are my top trannies. I didn’t mean to overlook the original drag queens…Milton Berle, Sid Caesar, and Bugs Bunny. Love ya!

And I've Got 1, 2, 3, 4, 5...Senses Working Overtime

Today, class, we will be discussing the sense that evokes the most memories in our fellow man.

The sense that makes us
Swoon with delight!
Shudder with fright!
Cry all night!
Pick a fight!

Yes, ladies and gentleman, I'm talking about that prominence, that olfactory factory, that dee-rect non-stop Super Train to the Brain....

The nose.

More specifically, people, the sense of smell.

I'm sure you've all read the studies published the last few years, what smells trigger what responses in males and females. Cinnamon, cut grass, bread baking, lilacs, all evoke memories of childhood or holidays or what-have-you in most adults.

Oh yes, and lavender.

This is how un-girly I am...I had NO idea what lavender smelled like. I assumed it was like lilacs, because they looked vaguely like them. Girl-child has a scratch-and-sniff book of Gardens, and the roses, cedar, and cut grass smell only vaguely of the real thing...nature mixed with binders glue and cardboard pages. The lavender scratch/sniff page smells like, well, alcohol.

Yesterday, whilst birthday-gift shopping for Sergei, I happened across something in the bookstore that stopped me in my big-footed tracks. "Lavender Linen Spray." Hmm...now, I've read more than my share of parental articles touting the calming benefits of lavender, how parents use it as 'Monster-Under-The-Bed' repellant for their frightened children, spritzing it on their pillows, supposedly bringing blessed relief and deep sleep. Knowing my own insomniacal children (like Dave Attell's "Insomniac", but without the beer and nudie bars), I thought...yes...YES!...this might be good...I need them to sleep.

I picked up the bottle in the store and tried squirting some out, just a lee-tle bit, to smell the smell. I didn't want to get too much out, I was right by the little coffee shop in the bookstore, and the last thing those folks needed was foreign spray in their lattes and biscotti. So I didn't actually SMELL it. I just bought it.

Impulse buyer, me.

I got back to work and pulled the bottle out and squirted my little work cube liberally.

All!
Of!
A!
Sudden!

BAAAAMMMMM!!!!

Suddenly I was 6 years old and in the bathtub and my younger brother was there and mom had just given the two of us EACH a squirty can of 'Crazy Foam' which was like soap but FOAM and it was pink! and green! and squishy! and we giggled and squirted it on our hands and chests and in our hair and made crazy devil horns and mohawks and watched it disappear like cotton candy in the warm water and we were then sitting in gray water because of the colors and shook the can and more came out and more and more and we felt SOOOOO lucky!

It was the smell.

Lavender was the smell of Crazy Foam.

That smell has haunted me since childhood. I've tried my entire non-kid life to find out what that smell was called. I've caught whiffs here and there, never quite finding the answer, but wanting to press my face into it.

When I got home last night with girl-child, we sprayed her bedroom and that of her brother. Her eyes got all moony and she moaned, "MMM...this smells gooooooood!" Later,when boy-child was explaining his insomnia to me (probably more as a 'cuddle with me' thing, but I went with it), I got the spray and doused his pillow. He yawned. He rubbed his eyes. He was asleep in minutes, and didn't get up at all until morning. So. There's the rub! It may actually work!

I can't find the article, and I could google all day, that says women have a better sense of smell than men. Usually I pick apart research studies, "the act of observing disturbs the observed" (see epic poem, Schroedinger's Cat), but this particular thing I took at face value. Because I whole-heartedly believe it. I can smell things Sergei can't. Or that the guys I work with can't.

For example, we live in an old house (built 1936), and the plumbing is crazy. Last summer, I couldn't figure out what the stench was upstairs, as hard as I tried. Finally, I stuck my nose in the bathtub drain...A-HA!...stench identified! Sergei couldn't smell it, but to me it smelled like sewer. I got a plug, all is well. Monday I got home with the kids, Sergei was there, and as I walked in the house, I could smell...THAT. I told Sergei, "I'll bet you five dollars the plug on the tub was left out." He shrugged, he couldn't smell anything. I went upstairs, to the bathroom, pulled back the shower curtain, and...YES. The cork was out. Oogh, that smell....

I smell ozone at work when a monitor goes on the fritz.

I smell the cat box, which is in the basement, from the front door.

I smell which child has had an 'accident', and which kind, even if they're in another room.

I smell the toffee tea that a co-worker in a cube two pods over is drinking.

I am often caught at work, or home, or shopping, just sort of wandering with my nose up in the air, sniffing like a very tall bloodhound, for the source of smells. Some of my girlfriends are the same way. The guys? Hmmm...not so much.

So here are some things to ponder:
1) What smells evoke the strongest memories in you?
2) Do you think there is a gender difference in the sensitivity to smells?

(sniff) Someone just made a fresh pot of coffee. Think I'll wander over there now. Class dismissed.

I'll Take "Potpourri" for $400, Alex

I run my life by Post-It NotesTM. In front of me are a stack of 8, things I have to do or remember. A 9th one listing times and dates the internet crapped out here at work due to our bizarre server situation. Another demanding 'Buy Baseball Tickets!". Another taped to my monitor with the secret sign-in code to one of our clients (secret? bah!).

So...so...sew...I'm dumping the miscellaneous stuff raht-cheer.

1) My insomnia is hereditary, if you check with my kids. Boy-child doesn't fall asleep generally until an hour past his scheduled bedtime, and he routinely gets up in the middle of the night for a drink or to pee or to moan about a 'bad thought' he had. Last night (okay, this morning), he got up at 3 a.m., spent 10 minutes in the bathroom (doing...WHAT? what do boys DO in there?), and upon my urging, went back to bed, whereupon he promptly said, "I'm thirsty, can I have a drink of water?" (Again, WHAT do boys DO in the bathroom?) Girl-child is not so bad, yet, but I'm expecting a night-owl.

2) Speaking of boys in the bathroom, I know boy-child spanks the monkey in there, which we've told him is okay, as long as he doesn't do 'that' in front of other people. And as long as no-one else has to pee (only one bathroom). But I have NO idea if girl-child rubs her little flower. Should I ask? I get the distinct impression that if I even suggest it to her, she'll never leave her room. Yeah, she's like her mom.

3) It's a cruel twist of nature that womens breasts change over time. And by 'change', I mean head south, like the geese, only they never head north again. Gravity, childbirth, breastfeeding, bad bras, all that stuff just messes with that delicate tissue. Question: Why don't mens ballsacs do the same thing? Doesn't gravity have the same effect? And all that contracting and expanding? If they ever did 'head for the valley', would men wear 'nad-bras? Or would the double-hanging doo-dads be a sign of verility? (thoughtfully stroking chin)

4) Apparently I was bodacious last night. Good bra, tank top. Boy-child was on the phone with a friend being invited to a birthday party, and I was taking notes for him (time, phone number, etc.). And I was NOT doing the 'bunny-dip' to keep my cleavage a well-kept secret whilst doing my momly duty. No. Oh NO. I was bending over and, according to Sergei, revealing my awesome cleavage to the boy-child (who didn't notice, yo, because he was concentrating on a PARTY, and not boobage...and I certainly didn't notice). I know one day soon, boy-child will call me on the carpet for that sort of thing. Urgh.

5) There is very little else more soothing than a hand gently resting on your sleeping back.

6) Everyone should go out right now and buy the DVD of the first season of "The Adventures of Pete and Pete". If nothing else to see the guest stars...Iggy Pop, Steve Buscemi, Michael Stipe, Debbie Harry, the list goes on and on and.... Oh, and of course, Toby Huss, as Artie, "...the strongest man!...in the world!

7) It's become apparent to me that little things need me. The children want to snuggle constantly. The cat wants me to scratch that part riiiiiiight above her tail. The plants enjoy when I water and tend to them. I like that. I like it all an awesome lot. I'm sure I'll turn this into a separate post someday. But I just wanted to get this on record.

8) Y'know what words make me giggle uncontrollably? "Ass pirate."

9) Sergei's birthday is this Friday. If you have any suggestions for gifts, let me know. Oh, and go give him a virtual spanking or hug or shoulder slug or sing to him, if you're so inclined. Photos of your boobies are also welcome, ladies. (Guys...not so much photos of yer johnsons, but thanks for asking.)

Cheerio!

Lookin' At Me With THOSE Eyes....

Saturday night I stayed up waaaay too late to watch that IFC Punk Night thing (Sergei, fortunately, was in another room, 'cause I squealed like a kindergartener holding a spider throughout the evening). I even took notes which, uh, I left at home and thus can't give a play-by-play of my quivering delights, and would you really want to hear 4 pages of notes anyway? Suffice it to say, there was David Johansen and Jello Biafra and Mick Jones and Chrissie Hynde and Henry Rollins and Thurston Moore and...oh...just everybody. There was much jumping about and thrashing and I remembered songs forgotten and who-was-in-which-band stuff. Happy happy girl, me.

So on Sunday, I pulled out some cds to listen to, get my old pre-marriage, pre-kids metal-punk groove on. The kids were all doing their thing, so I sat at the dining room table, with occasional trips to the basement for laundry, ROCKING THE FUCK OUT! There was Sex Pistols. There was Ministry (man, that was LOUD!). There was Lard (I let girl-child listen to 3 seconds of "Drug Raid at 4 a.m.", and her eyes got all big and she grinned all goofy, 'cause she loves the thrash, and then left the room to play with Barbies).

In pulling stuff, I reached for Primus, not exactly punk, but I lovelovelove Les Claypool and all that slap-base stuff. (Slap-bass? Nothing looks right here. I mean that style of guitar-playing...base?bass? Ohgodhelpme, I can't spell anymore.) I decided to let boy-child in on my fun, and interrupted his game-boy fix for a full-on stereo play of "Tommy the Cat" from "Sailing the Seas of Cheese" (which features Tom Waits on vocals). I cranked that puppy up and was singing along and sort of dancing (albeit like Napoleon Dynamite, so sue me), and looking at boy-child expectantly to see if he could get into it. I'm grinning like I'd been lobotomized. After about 45 seconds, boy-child got this...this look...in his eyes...like he finally realized his mother was a crazy person. C-R-A-Z-Y. I'd had the same look the previous day, when that old woman in the grocery store asked to hug my children because she was a 'grandma with no grandchildren'...uh, okay, then back the hell AWAY, lady. I could tell by boy-child's expression that he was planning and plotting exactly how old he had to be before he could get me committed to an institution for crazy moms. I said, "You don't like this?" He said, "Uh...NO. Can I play game-boy now?" Me: "Sure."

It's definite. My children are not impressed with my musical taste. At least, not the music I used to listen to. I guess 'cause that's not who I am anymore? At least not that I show to them? No more the all-black-wearing, hair-thrashing, party girl Mona. Nope. Not anymore.

The kids were more impressed when I started singing loudly, "Why are there so many...songs about rainbows...and what's on the other siiiiiiide", after they'd seen The Muppet Movie at camp. Yeah. I guess I just need their musical taste to catch up to mine. I can't wait for the teen-rebellion years, 'cause I got a trunk full of angry youth cds to throw at 'em.

(Reaching for Primus cd, cranking up speakers..."She whispered in my ear! She whispered in my ear, she said...you wanna get LUCKY little boy?...")

Uncle Henry

So I opened my email this morning to discover a shout-out from IFC...for PUNK MONTH!!! Oh yeah, if anyone needed punkin' up today, it's me! Check out tomorrow night's lineup...(and turn down the sound, 'cause Johnny Rotten is LOUD). Will I be there? Bet yer ass! Okay, granted, I caught the whole 'punk' thing at the end, I was a faux-college-punk in the Midwest, which basically translates to "I tore my shirts and wore shit-kicker boots and smashed record albums to turn into interesting earrings." Oh, and I saw the Clash, and bought 'Never Mind the Bullocks...' and the New York Dolls and blah blah blah. And I still have lust in my heart for that rawness, that sexiness, those leather pants and chains. Mmm-hmmm. Yeah, skinny boy, growl for me! Smash that beer bottle over your head...bleed for me...c'mon....

Oh. Sorry. Just caught up in it.

What's got me jonesin' this morning is seeing and hearing Uncle Henry on the site. Oh man, I do dig this cat. He's not everyone's cuppa acid, I agree, but he's honest and gritty and doesn't take any shit. I actually MET Henry Rollins years ago, when Sergei and I were engaged, at a book signing in Ann Arbor. Well, a CD signing, it was for 'Get in the Van'. We stood in line for, what, hours?, waiting to meet him. And then it was our turn. One at a time. Henry, this powerful, take-no-prisoners guy, with his gutteral grit and fantastic tattoos, was just...just...this guy, about my height, with a little grey hair, and a powerful handshake, and the most innocent, shy smile. And he smelled good. We exchanged pleasantries as he worked his Sharpie magic, and I asked him something stupid and inane like, "Would you sing at my wedding?" He blushed and stammered a bit and said, "Well, I don't really play those venues anymore. But thanks for asking!" Which I just thought was adorable and I wanted to hug him, but I think his bodyguards would have cold-cocked me.

I saw him several times on his spoken word tours. Man, that guy can talk...rant...challenge. And even though I thought he went...wheeee!...right out the window sometimes, I sure appreciated that he revealed that much of himself. I own several of his books (his publishing company is 2.13.61), and most of his spoken word on CD, and a few videos of the same. And now he's hosting 'Henry's Film Corner' on IFC, and I am drawn to it like the little moth that I am. I'm getting my Uncle Henry fix. And I'm a happy girl. (Okay, I hear ya askin'..."Uncle Henry"? It fits.)

Well, this post is nothing like it should have been, I have a post-it in front of me with stream-of-consciousness blog ideas I wrote at 1 a.m. this morning. And the word 'boobies' is on it. I may get back to that later.

Oh, and to the fine people of London, England: I will be back there someday and drink your milky tea and eat your crusty rolls and walk your shiny streets and ride your sparkling tubes and be entertained and enlightened and charmed by you. Be well, y'all.

Three Acres of Childhood

The lovely and bodacious Lisa tagged me for a meme, one that's had me thinking. And thinking, and thinking, and....

The rules of this meme are as follows:

Remove the blog at number 1 and bump everyone up one place. Add your blog's name in the number 5 spot. Link to each of the other blogs for the desired mingling.

1) Shellubra
2) Moments in Time
3) Ringmaster Lily
4) Bored Housewife
5) Mona's Barbaric Yawp

Next, select new friends to add to the fun (no purchase necessary, no obligation, money-back guarantee). Sorry if you've already done this meme and I've forgotten, I'll try not to make you do double-duty:

1) Marcheline of Mental Meatloaf
2) Cynical Girl at HCPR2.0
3) Orange at OrangeTangerine
4) Sergei at Lowland Seed (when you get back to blogging, honey)


Lastly, answer this question: What five things do you miss about your childhood?

I was born on the east coast, lived there a few years, and then my family moved back to Michigan, to the country. Which simply rocked, people, rocked in ways that instills a sort of creativity in those folks willing to get off their asses and DO something, when you're surrounded by fields and trees and afternoons of your own imagination.


1) Summers Off. I realize now, as an adult, that if I'd played my cards right, I could have been a teacher and actually had summers off as an adult. Uh, perhaps in my next life. As a kid, there was nothing more magical than 3 whole months off, sleeping in, staying up late. There were always things to do, ya know, mow the lawn or work in the gardens (my parents were cruel and thought THREE gardens would be good...mmm...yeah....okay). Regardless, there was ample time for making tents in the backyard with blankets strung over the clothesline, and rocks holding down the corners. Making big jugs of kool-aid and pans of chocolate chip cookies (I'd saved enough money to buy a kool-aid canteen, which was the coolest thing a kid could own, back in the day in the country). Squirting my siblings with the hose, and playing hide-and-seek in between the peony bushes. At night, we'd stay up super late, watching the star clusters move across the sky. We'd make real popcorn: big pot on the stove...oil and butter...pour in the popcorn...let it pop...oops!...not too long...then pour it in a bowl...THEN...for the finale...while the pot was still hot, we'd throw half a stick of butter in there to melt, and pour it over the popcorn, with some salt. And sit and watch the night sky, in the warm breeze, and wonder if we could ever touch the moon.

2) Having Tons of Family Nearby. I had sixteen cousins on my dad's side, with 5 aunts and 5 uncles, and a grandma, and everyone lived within 10 miles of each other. There was always something going on, some party or corn roast or 'come-over-'n-play' thing. We loved and tolerated each other, we threw rocks and pledged our eternal love. We were tied by life and death. As adults, when we see each other, even though it's been years and lifetimes, we still hug and kiss and it feels like summer at the lake with them. Vanilla ice cream and styrofoam floats and sandbars and lemonade.

3) Dime Stores. The smell...AH...the smell! Absolutely nothin' in the whole frickin' wide world smells like the inside of a Dime Store. If you're too young to remember, or maybe they called them something different where you grew up, Dime Stores were the local "everything" store, before Walmart invaded the world. They had whatever you needed, and it was all super-cheap. Always with an upstairs and a basement. Always creaking wooden floors. A bit of dust, why not. Doilies and buttons and shirts and glassware. Downstairs...OOH!...the toy department! I cried and whined and finally, for my sixth birthday, got a dress-up set of plastic high-heeled shoes, jewelry, and a crown. I was the proudest girl around! The highlight, though, was the candy counter. My love affair with the sweet stuff was conceived standing in front of the glass cabinets stuffed full of chocolate-covered raisins, Smartees, Maple Nut Goodies, bubble gum, taffy, red hots...more...more...endless supplies of everything I loved. Whenever I went to the Dime Store with my grandma, she'd always get chocolate cream drops. They looked like little chocolate nipples, stuffed with the sweetest, most sublime white confection. I always opted for bridge mix...little o' this...little o'that. We'd walk to the cash register with our white paper sacks of chocolates, plunk down our quarters and dimes, and walk out onto the sun-soaked sidewalk, where we'd sneak bites and nibbles on the way to the park.

4) Fresh Fruits and Veggies...REALLY Fresh. Those endless gardens to be tended yielded the most succulent produce imaginable. We'd go out while dinner was underway and pick fresh sweet corn, tomatoes, peppers, tiny green onions, zucchini, cauliflower, broccoli, string beans, pregnant pods of sweet peas, cucumbers, carrots. The big ones would go in the house. The small things, the beans and peas and carrots and cherry tomatoes, we'd just rub the dirt off on our shirts and stick one o' those warm veggies in our mouths and chew, slowly, tasting the summer. After dinner we might go to the orchard and pick a plum or apple or peach or pear right off the tree. And bite down on the smooth flesh and let the juice run down our chins. Or grab a handful of sour cherries from the tree, pop the swollen red balls in our mouths, and magically produce a pit, clinging piteously to a stem. Strawberries fresh by the handful. Nowadays, as a adult, the only strawberries I have are measly half-rotten things at the grocery store, that last exactly 3 hours before they have to be thrown out.

5) Sleeping Well. I loved staying up late as a child, even if it was just lying quietly in my bed. We had no air conditioning, so in summer we'd have screens in the windows, and the night breezes wafted in and rustled our sweaty bodies, our clinging hair, and the crickets and bullfrogs would sing and keep time with the temperature. In the winter, the frost would build on the windows, and the occasional plane overhead would echo lonely and expectant in the sky above us. The tv antennae tower was right outside my window, and the cord linking it to the television would hum all frozen, and make a sound like an alien baritone, like that instrument called a theremin which is played by moving your hand between two electrodes. I had a big, soft bed, and gentle noises to fall asleep to, and I dreamed a lot (and remembered them the next day!) and had nothing to worry about to keep me awake.

M'kay, now I'm all nostalgic and squeepy and distracted. With a hankerin' for a white paper bag full of maple nut goodies.

Detritus

It took me five full minutes of sitting bolt upright this morning on my bed, after the alarm, to remember who I was and where I lived. That's sad, people, that's really pathetic. Especially given that I got more sleep than usual...6 hours instead of 5. So would I be at my best if I got only 4 hours sleep? I shudder to think...I shutter...to think....

So, given the addled state of my brain, and my co-workers making silent and unannounced pops into my cube this morning (ack!!! minimize window, stat!!!!), I'm doing a little sweeping, cleaning out, some things I've been meaning to tidy up, and whatnot.

1) A while ago I mentioned that New York Magazine had an article on the girl-date. It's here. Ya know, I don't have time for a date with Sergei, let alone having to dress up and ask my existing girlfriends for blind dates with their girlfriends. Urghk. Ladies, will you have a virtual drink with me and skip the whole girl-courtship thing? Cheers! (lifts her coffee mug and grins)

2) An interesting coupla articles from Discover magazine regarding fingers and fingerprints. I suppose men with longer ring-to-index-finger-ratios could be more aggressive...if you take that in the same vein as 'the size of their fingers/nose relates to penis-length'. The fingerprint thing is just geek-cool.

3) Last night I had a dream that led to another dream. First one, I'm in a church, with the girl-child, there's a wedding. We and another mom and her son were walking down the aisle to find seats. Instead of long pews, they had small booths. BUT only a few. We had to sit down front on kickboards...those floaty things kids take out in the lake. Ours was pink and flowery. Then the scene changed and I was in a house with white walls and expected to go to another church for another wedding, everyone else had gone EXCEPT for me and this 23-ish blonde bloke. Cutey-cutey. We lingered for a while and flirted but nothing happened. Then everyone came back from the wedding and there was cake.

4) I discovered a pouch of tobacco in my work closet yesterday, my fellow-former-smoker co-worker gave it to me several years ago as part of a Secret Santa package. It's Borkum Riff, Black Cavendish. It's pretty dry, but it still smells awesome. I'm not about to start smoking again, but the urge to stick some of this dry leaf up my nose is getting pretty intense. (sniff) Ah...woody...smoky...sweetness on my tongue...a hint of orange, perhaps...or cherry...autumn leaves...mushrooms.... And now I'm drooling....

5) I always make fun of those college girls who wear low-slung pants where their ass crack shows as they sit down. I silently scold them..."Cover that up! Ever heard of pants that fit?!?!?" So today I'm wearing a new pair of, whatever, crop pants, whatever you call 'em, and I sat down and...uh..yeah...right...ass crack. Frantically tucking in my halter top (oh shut up, I'm wearing a shirt over it, I'm not THAT ill-dressed at work). Good thing my desk chair has a big backrest, otherwise the guys would wander by today looking for the half-moon.

I have no idea how to end. I guess I'll leave the door open for additions this afternoon. 'Cause it's gonna be a long day....

That Crap In the Bottom of the Basket

I think I might have intermittent OCD.

Otherwise known as period-induced stress cleaning.

I spent two days of our glorious three-day weekend cleaning the kids' rooms. Because the wee ones couldn't find anything in there, there were dust 'cats' under the bed, and it was time to de-bunk the boy-child (and give his top bunk to the girl-child, she formerly of the toddler-bed). I spent hundreds of dollars on plastic storage boxes, Strawberry Shortcake bedding, and closet accoutrements. Got all caffeined-up and attacked those rooms with the ferociousness of a jungle lion on a young, fresh zebra...RRAOW!...(bite, tear)...rrrmmmmrrrmmmm...(drool)...belch.... The kids didn't realize I threw away three huge garbage bags full of their crap, they were just happy, once done, to be able to play in their (now) clean rooms without their evil bitchy mother yelling, "Don't get that out, I just cleaned it up! RRAOW!"

But I missed out on two days of kid-fun. And now I'm sorta pissed at myself. But at least I won't have that nagging little bitch in my head yelling at me, "Your kids are sleeping in filth! What a terrible mother you are!"

Well, that's about enough of complete sentences. Time for little things.

1) Someone on Ebay bid $351,000 to have lunch with Warren Buffett. Huh. Uh...why?? I mean, an author-friend of mine is pen-pals with Warren, AND has had dinner with the man. Maybe Ebay-Bidder should just break out the good stationery and write a letter....

2) Everyone's all hyped-up about Google and Yahoo and all them touting their new aerial photo software, that lets you see all the manholes in Manhattan and such. Big Brother!, some shout. So What?!, others yell. It may happen, it may not. All I know is, when my local bookstore chain posts huge signs in their store that they will NOT comply with any government agency that demands to know which customers bought which books, I'm still pretty safe.

3) IHOP has funnel cakes. Let me say that again. International House of Pancakes is selling fried dough, topped with fruit and whipped cream, for breakfast. It's greasy, and sugary, and you can feel your heart skip with anticipated heart attacks, but maaaaaaan, that stuff is good! The strawberry is great, the blueberry is even better!

4) The IFC channel this last weekend had 'The British Are Coming!' movies (and I nearly peed myself laughing when I first saw that commercial...the 4th of July and the British are landing on our shores...now THAT'S funny, right there!). Last night I watched part of 'Velvet Goldmine', a movie I'd seen before but which is so darn twisted you have to watch again and again. And, of course, I had a dream last night about the Brian Slade character, that I was 20 years old (hah!) and he and I met and had this incredible affair. I think I was more freaked out that I was 20 again.

5) Watched 'The Machinist' this weekend. I love Christian Bale, but the man freaked my ass out by becoming a skeleton. Oof. Christian, baby, I know you did that for the movie, and then bulked up to play Batman right afterwards, but you SCARED me. I could see your backbone from the front of you. Don't do that again. (P.S. - I still love you, and will rotate you soon.)

6) Also saw 'The Life Aquatic'...pretty good. Wes Anderson is like scotch...sort of an acquired taste...but I happen to really really like scotch...a LOT.

7) Checking my favorite blogs this morning, tried to post comments, but nothing came out. Have a sneaking suspicion that something's farked with our servers or something. We're thinking our former internet guy, who was reticent to tell anyone ANYTHING about what he was working on before he stormed out on his last day, sabbotaged us. I would officially hate him, but karma doesn't play like that, so I just wish him his own medicine back, on a spoon of acid.

I need a nap now.

Naked Woman, Naked Man, Where Did You Get That Nice Suntan?

Knock...knock...knock....

Yes? Who is it?

It's the Angry Red Aunt! Let me in!

Okay! Door's open!

Knock...knock...knock....

YES! COME IN!

No, I think I'll just hang around outside for a few days. And burst in on you when you're trying to have sex, or wear white shorts. M'kay?

(This conversation courtesy of my brain, arguing with my hormones, about my stupid lovely frickin' period that is refusing to show her crimson-ness.)

Oh men. Oh you men out there. You sincerely don't know what you're missing. A woman's period is the reason that the female species, in general, outlives the male species. Because we deal with pain and frustration and anxiety every 28 days, clockwork. And after a while, we're pissed off about the whole deal. And being pissed off regularly hardens us up to life, and we just kick the shit outta whatever gets in our way. Including death. We tell death, "Fuck off, bastard, I'm not ready yet...go bug Mr. Lyle down the street...he kicked a cat the other day."

At first, when you're 10 or 12 years old, a period is a miracle and all new and scary and you feel like a 'woman', whatever that means to you or your mom. As you reach high school, and college, and your 20s, it's something you just do. And watch for. And plan sex around. And buy tons of feminine products to stock up yer bathroom and the bathroom of your horrified boyfriends.

Then, in your 30s and beyond, when you have your families established, when you're done with the procreation aspect of the female plumbing, you just want it to STOP. 'Cause, really, why run the water if you're not gonna float a rubber ducky in there?

(I say all this knowing there are women out there who would welcome a period, whose insides don't work so well, so regularly, or whose reproductive abilities were taken much too quickly due to disease. To you...I wish I could give you my plumbing. I really do.)

So.

This morning I was thinking.

What if I could, for a while, change the landscape 'down there' and be a penis-wielding man for a while? Would I want to? And what would I do with all that protruding cartilage?

I think...I think...YES.

For a few days, I would like the penis, the balls, the testosterone. The first thing I'd do is masturbate. 'Cause then I would FINALLY know what it feels like to use an entire hand to spank the monkey. Then I'd pee. And I mean, I'd pee everywhere! Because I could! I'd pee in sinks! I'd pee on trees! I'd pee in gutters and gross urinals and in a paper cup for a nurse! Because you men-folk DO these things! And you're damn proud of it! You aim! You hold it or don't! You can write your name in the snow! How incredibly cool is that?! And then, of course, I'd have sex. Quick sex, slow sex, all the sexy sex positions and 'around the world' and all that. Sheesh, I'm getting really sorta turned on at that thought.

Would you trade genitalia, if you could? If so, for how long? What would you do with it?