Poems About Bottoms

I know, I know, I teased y'all that this week's poems would be about a certain body part that rhymes with 'carolina', but butts is really what got me today.

Butts. Bottoms. Gluteous Maximus. The Double Goose.

It's getting cold here in Meeee-chi-gun, and my tossing and turning in bed leads to a lot of spooning with Sergei. I press my bottom to his handsome naked form, and that's just a slice of nirvana right there.

This morning, Girl-child insisted I help her get dressed (I tried the old "But you're five years old! You can do it yourself!" routine, but she didn't buy it.) We got her peejays off, and started to get her dressed when she turned her back to me and asked, "Is that scratch still there on my butt?" And I looked down...and MAN! Kids have the most perfect bodies! I don't mean that in a pervy way, it's just that kids haven't learned to slouch, or sit for hours a day at a computer, or get weird stretchmarks after carrying around a 10-lb baby inside their bodies. My own posterior is relatively flat, while the kids have these lovely round ice-skater butts, and how did that happen? I always wanted a little pert behind, and instead I got something flat enough to show a movie on.

Butt-envy? Is that possible?

Anyway, I was only planning on doing three poems, but then my head started working in the shower and I came up with five. A couple long poems in there. You may need to nibble on my 'butt' for a while. That Russian one is...uh...some story I should probably write. And there's an oral sex one, and a gross one no better than a 'pull my finger'.

So, without further jawing, I present to you,

Poems About Bottoms


With All Apologies to Parrot-Heads and Margarita Aficionados:

Spongecake is so sweet
Ice cream’s a sweet treat
All those desserts topped with real whipped cream
Pullin’ my jeans on
Damn, something’s so wrong
Why is my flesh peekin’ out of the seam?

Panic attack again in Derriere-ey-ville
Cheese and yogurt expanded my butt
Some people claim that Atkins puts South Beach to shame
But I know
It’s also my gut.

I don’t know the reason
I don’t get more teasin’
Must be the boys like my brand new caboose
Cause it’s a whopper
A real show-stopper
My jeans are too tight, but my morals too loose

Panic attack again in Derriere-ey-ville
That size eight is just not gonna fit
Some people claim that it’s the bad carbs to blame
But I know
It’s all the choc-lit.

I blew out my short shorts
and bluejeans of all sorts
My ass is expanding like some great balloon.
But there’s cheesecake and rum-coke
And soon, I mean, no joke,
We’ll be stuffin’ our faces like some cheap cartoon.

Panic attack again in Derriere-ey-ville
Size 6, size 8, size 9, and size 10.
Some people claim that it’s ‘cause I have no shame
But I know
It appeals to the men.



With All Apologies to David St. Hubbins, Nigel Tufnel, and Mockumentary Fans:

Bubble Bottoms

The rounder the cushion
the harder the pushin’,
and that’s what I love.
The broader the bum cheeks
the more lovin’ I seeks,
you fits like a glove.
My baby’s ass is like a big ol’ bubble,
She’s round and firm, and I’m in lots of trouble.

Bubble bottoms
Bubble bottoms
Talk about peaches
My girl’s grown ‘em
Bubble bottoms drive me out of my head
Hope she don’t roll out of bed.

At the gym I met her
I couldn’t forget her
and her tight spandex.
She bounced and she jiggled
As her round ass wiggled
Like special effects.
Is that thing real, or did she get those implants?
And if I touch ‘em will I explode in my pants?

Bubble bottoms
Bubble bottoms
Talk about sweet meats
My girl flaunts ‘em
Bubble bottoms drive me freakin’ insane
I can’t get her off of my brain



With All Apologies to Alexander Pushkin (Russian poets rock):

Winter, What shall we do to protect our asses?

Winter, what shall we do to protect our asses? I wear
a coat of ermine, as my servant brings me a cup of mocho-cocoa
And still the questions remain. Why is my tush so unbearably cold?
Am I wearing underwear? Should I go for a ride
in my new Lexus, which has heated seats? Or should I go to the spa,
and have my perky buns tweaked by Raoul, who knows how I like it?
Through the courtyard, let us go, and pour some of that vodka into my cup,
as I must have something to warm the cockles of my backside.
Here, servant-boy, reach your hand underneath the fur, and rub my cheeks,
Back and forth, like the gentle washing of waves on the Black Sea,
which later we will reproduce as bodies upon my bed,
and no that’s not sexual harrassment, as you will enjoy it, oh young bud of youth.
This is the life! Surrounded by opulence, my hand-made undergarments glistening with gold thread (no, boy, you cannot have a sip from my cup...I don’t care if you haven’t eaten anything today, I can’t be bothered)...where was I? Oh, gold thread, and my castle filled with every accoutrement, except a bun-warmer, apparently, and oh wouldn’t a nice hot cross bun be fitting.
Oh servant boy! Fetch me pastry!
Yes, and the little children gathering firewood in their charming rags, and my ass feels warmer now, that vodka is really amazing stuff. Oh aching joy at a warm bottom!
Boy! My pastry! Now!
Perhaps I should check the stock market when I get to my study, park my finely toned ass in my ergonomically-adjusted leather swivel chair, with a servant massaging my feet, and (why did that boy go into the barn?) perhaps a soupcon of soup...Wisconsin cheddar, perhaps, or no, clam chowder, I must send that sweet old hag out to dig me some good shellfish.
Oyster crackers! On clam chowder! T’would make the tsars of old turn in their musty graves to hear such a beauteous thing!
(The boy’s rifle shines so in this hoary mist.)
Fine ermine coat, you are so lucky to be the thing to drape my exquisite posterior, as it cost me a year’s servant wages for the lift-and-tuck back there, and by the sons of Zeus, people had better notice it. Here, I will disrobe and prance, all the better to display the
unbelievably flawless job, and isn’t it lucky that I was born to such wealth and dignity, for....
Pow!
Oh. The bastard boy has shot me. In the buttocks. And. Oh. I am NOT wearing any underwear.
And horror to Mother Russia...I spilled my vodka.
Armageddon.


With All Apologies to ee cummings. Yet again.:

o, while you’re up there,
would you mind moving to the side
a
wee
bit
so’s i can breathe everynow and then?

pink and tan
swooning around me
i enjoy this but
your butt
encompasses my head
like some terrific smothering scarf

no, i don’t mean you’re fat
not at all
it’s just that you need to
scootch
just a bit
so i get some air and dont pass out

what a wonderful place
is your ass on my face
(kneeling is better than sitting
if my druthers be had)
so please lift up those creamy cheeks
before I..befo...bef...be...blurlbleblebleble


With All Apologies to Black Sheep and Bean-Lovers:

Toot toot, boy butt,
Did you eat some beans?
Yes mom, yes mom,
farted in my jeans.

One for the ‘nanas and
One for the tacos,
one for the broc’li
and one for the pintos.

Toot toot, boy butt,
Step out for some air
Strike a match and
wave it everywhere.

Big football game this weekend. Enjoy your time off, and GO! Local University!

Overdrive

I need a way to get the Boy-child to sleep sooner.

Once he lays down at night, his big brain starts a-working, and all the events of the day just run amok in there, and he worries and obsesses (just like me, I’m afraid), and even though his ‘bedtime’ is 9 p.m., he usually doesn’t fall asleep until 10 p.m. or later. I’ve quietly tried to put freshly folded laundry in his room at Midnight, and when I open the door, he’s awake, says “Momma, is that you?”, and I then have to calm whatever fear is eating at him before he can fall asleep.

The ‘tucking-in’ of the kids is my time. For a while, early on, I didn’t realize what a special thing this was, I just thought of it as another ‘mom-thing’ for me to do. Then I realized that the kids consider this ‘Confessional Time’, and we talk and talk and talk about, well, whatever is on their minds. The Girl-child always wants me lie down next to her, under the covers, and rub her hair and back. Which I gladly do, unless I’m really tired and can’t be trusted to NOT fall asleep, in which case we talk, I rub for a minute, and then I leave, promising to check on her after I tuck her brudder in.

The Boy-child is older, has more going on, more thoughtful, more concerned. As soon as his bedroom light is off, he scoots over and makes a place for me to lie down beside him (on top of the covers) and then he unloads…the kids in his 3rd grade class, how he’s doing on his latest conquest of Gameboy Pokemon, who he played with (or didn’t) at recess, what happens if his loose tooth comes out while he’s sleeping, why he doesn’t like anyone to even mention the word ‘blood’, let alone show it on a tv show or something. I’m pretty frank with him. I tell him things that happened to me in 3rd grade, to let him know he’s not alone in thinking the way he does. I also tell him that 3rd grade, in the context of his entire life, is just a blip, and those little worries he has will eventually go away, so he shouldn’t make a big deal of them. We do the ‘On a scale of 1 to 10, really, how bad is this thing you’re worried about?’ That seems to help.

Sometimes I spray a lavender linen spray in his bedroom, and that calms him for a minute or two. Sometimes I rub his back. Sometimes we just lie there, listening to the crickets, the branches of the maple tree brushing against his window, the whoosh of the furnace fan, the cat mreowing outside his door, waiting for her own little time alone with me.

It’s so peaceful in there, I almost hate to leave.

But the sleep thing is a problem. He told me last night, “About 10 o’clock every day at school, I just feel SO tired. Do you think I need more rest?”

Uh. YES.

So. What say you? Do I try warm milk? Should I get one of those ‘sound’ machines that plays ocean sounds, rainfall, etc.? Should I lace his dinner with Robitussin? A nice massage? What?

Come to think of it, all those things might be the answer to MY insomnia….

Don't Let Them Take Away My Tiara

I was reading jo(e)'s blog and she related a lovely get-away she had where she stripped and went skinny-dipping. And I commented that I have never, EVER, done that. Which surprised her.

And me.

'Cause I fancy myself a sort of queen of sex, maven of dirty thoughts, guru of frantic humping over large appliances, admirer of furtive grasps and glances, ready and willing and able to dish out whatever hot animal impulses are whirling about the universe.

But really? I just like sex. A whole hellova lot.

So I thought for today's post, I'd make a list of "Surprising Sexy Things That Mona Has Never Done." Hope this doesn't ruin the image you have in your head of me. (If you have one at all, and if you do, I hope it involves me in a lovely black push-up bra.)

I'm keeping the list to 20. And I'll let your mind wander to what I DIDN'T list and you can surmise what I have done.

I've Never:

1) Been skinny dipping
2) Had sex in a car, or any form of transportation
3) Gone down on someone while in a moving vehicle
4) Been the recipient of oral sex while I was driving
5) Flashed my boobies in public
6) Been either the dom or submissive in S&M play
7) Been peed, pooped, or vomited on during kinky sex, or done the same to anyone else.
8) Licked anyone's toes for sexual pleasure
9) Hung from a trapeze or any other circus-like device for sexual play
10) Had home video taken of me whilst having sex
11) Had phone sex
12) Mooned anyone
13) Squirted breast milk at Sergei when I was in full breast-feeding mode, just to see how he'd react
14) Had two men at once, in both the major 'downstate' orifices. Saw it in a movie once, tho.
15) Paid for sex, or had money given to me for it
16) Masturbated at work
17) Given a guy a 'snowball' (watch the movie 'Clerks' for more details)
18) Had sex with a much older guy
19) Had sex with a much older woman
20) Participated in an orgy

There may be a few other things. Not too much. No violent acts or anything.

I think I'd better get busy, at least as far as the skinny-dipping, mooning, and flashing my breasteses is concerned....

Falsies

Last year at Halloween, I stood with the other moms and dads outside the elementary school while our kids circled the school in a parade, showing off their costumes and baring their fake fangs and waving their fairy wands and chortling and guffawing and having a grand day.

A skinny blonde girl came by, and we ‘aw’ed and laughed at her ingenious ‘Backwoods Cinderella’ costume, complete with fake teeth that stood out at a right angle to her lips.

Then we realized.

Those weren’t fake teeth….

Those were her REAL teeth.

You could hear the sucking sound of wind in the courtyard as we all inhaled in surprise and alarm.

I wish I was exaggerating here. Let me say this…her permanent teeth had grown to enormous length, and she had a tremendous overbite, but really and truly, her teeth stood straight out from her gums. She looked like she had those false plastic teeth in there, the kind my kids get in treat bags at birthday parties, or in 25 cent machines at the grocery store. If I see her this Halloween, I will take a picture of her and post it.

There’s no way this girl could have taken a bite from a crunchy apple, or whistled, or slept without her mouth totally drying out. It was kinda sad, really, and we parents couldn’t take our eyes off her. Didn’t her parents care? Braces are expensive, sure, but what about your child’s well-being?

Throughout the year, I’d see the girl here and there, walking down the hall alone, always sort of wistful. I wanted to find her parents and give them $20 and say, “Take your daughter to my kids’ dentist…he’s really good…and your daughter deserves it.”

This morning as I was dropping off Boy-child and Girl-child, I saw Lonely Bigtooth Girl’s brother. His dad pulled up in front of the school in a new Cadillac. The boy got out and the dad sped away, not even walking him in or waiting to make sure the boy got inside okay. Lonely Bigtooth Boy sat in the Before Care room, alone at a table, looking sad and wistful. While his dad drove a new Cadillac.

Isn’t there a special kind of hell for ig’nant parents like this?

Or am I just being too Liberally Sensitive?

Stick Man with a Little Lawnmower

I admit it, I’m riding on Sergei’s coattails today. It’s a Monday, and I’m behind before I get here, and so ya get a short post today.

Yes, my handsome and sexy husband shaved his nethers last weekend. Not totally bare, but sort of like you took one of those weedwackers to your overgrown back yard. Leave a little grass, get rid of the 2-foot tall weeds. (Not that Sergei had two feet of hair, it’s just an example, folks!)

I shave. “Down there.” Pretty durn close. I usually leave just a little teeny tiny fur rug around the “Little Flower”. (For our anniversary weekend I went all out, totally buck-bare, and I enjoyed that enormously.)

I shave for me. Although I do understand that Sergei appreciates being able to see all my pink layers without having to take a comb and part my pubes. But I do it because it makes ME feel good. No itchy rubbing on my panties. No fumbling in the shower. Makes hands-free-masturbation even easier.

So.

Here’s your Truth Or Dare Question: Do you shave your hoo-ha? How much? How often? Why? If you don’t want to answer, an emoticon will do. If you have no emoticons, a simple head nod will do.

(I feel this post lives up to the link placement in Rob Helpy-Chalk's blog under "The Couple That Blogs About Their Sex Life". Feelin' a bit randy today. Meowwww....)

Poems About Lungs

Soon, very soon, I will post poems in a much sexier tone. As soon as I find a rhyming word for 'vagina'....

Lungs. This week our household was all about the pink sacs of air that rise and fall gently, unnoticed, at least until they start fuckin' up and squeezing a little too fast, or not enough. Girl-child and I still have bronchitis-y coughs, and Boy-child is still taking asthma treatments. Friday the doctor will tell us a further course of action for him. Other than suing big chemical companies for polluting our air and causing our generation to experience more lung-related problems than ever before.

It's late, folks, and I hope these poems don't reflect my total lack of creativity. Or if they do, that I can show you the stack of doctor's office receipts I've collected and be granted immunity.

Sergei bought some cell phone rings today, songs, and I nearly came in my pants when he played the first one, "Santeria" by Sublime. (I'm still pissed at the lead singer for OD-ing, you stupid muthafucka. But I love their music.) I needs me some funky phone jams.

And now, with no further hoo-ha, I present to you:

Poems About Lungs


With All Apologies to Baudelaire (mon dieu, not en Francais):

Poumons

Come to my arms, curvy and swollen thing;
Hefty in your D cups, come to my arms today,
For I would plunge my face in your cleavage as play,
And be happy in your healthy lungs, hyperventilating --

And by that I of course mean your wild, lustful lungs,
Those two perfectly pink globes that hang
And cause within my loins a glorious pang
That sends me home unsatisfied, speaking in tongues.

I long to squeeze, to rub them, I think that if I could
Make you forget you’re my patient,
And here to provide a service most ancient,
I could show you my exquisite length of wood.

Do not get me wrong; I am not oversexed,
I am merely concerned about your health,
And will examine you myself, with much stealth,
Because your heaving lungs do leave me much vexed.

My undoing, as doctor, is seeing you each year
To gently probe and swab a sample,
And feel your...er...lungs...warm and ample,
A breast exam is all I’m doing, really, my dear.

So I implore you, undo that front-tying gown,
And let this appointment hereby prove
That my bits and pieces you do move
As I watch your lungs rise up...and down.



With All Apologies to Toddlers and Blackbirds

Sing a song of sex-pants,
A pocket full of girth
Four and twenty coeds
Sunk him to the earth.
When the doctors found him
The man began to pant,
“I surely could have done them all...
But breathe? Oh man, I can’t!”

His wife was in the dentist’s chair,
gettin’ good and drilled.
His son was at the local pub,
gettin’ good and filled.
His daughter was a’courtin’
A tall and handsome sailor,
Wasn’t that a stupid thing
To forget to bring his inhaler?


With All Apologies to fans of Sublime, and those who practice Santeria:

My lungs practice respiration
As I breathe in and breathe out
They surely come in handy when I...scream and shout

If I could get some Nyquil, and some Benedryl Non-Drowsy,
I’d pop a can of Fresca and feel...not so blowsy.

What I really wanna know (now baby)
What I really wanna say is pass the Vicks
‘Cause it’s air that I breeeeeeeathe
My lungs will have to wait til I heal up

Damn airways feel like brick.
Momma’s gonna love Robitussin
I feel the cough, feel the cough, feel the cough
and I gotta let ‘em out
(choke, hack, wheeeeeeeze)
Well I’m back to cussin’,

What I really wanna know, (now baby)
What I really wanna say is that this blows.
Bronchitis! Make it go,
My lungs will have to.....

What I really wanna say, (now baby)
What I really wanna say is that’s just fine,
And I’ll make it,
Yes I’ll heal up,
Tell that doctor that if he knows what is good for him
He’d best go run and hide.
I’m gonna spread my germs far and wide.

And he won’t think twice to jam that stick straight down my sore throat,
Believe me when I say that I want a shot in my punk ass.

What I really wanna know, (now baby)
What I really wanna say autumn’s here
With the colds,
With the flu and allergies
My lungs will have to wait.
(yeah, yeah, yeah)


Stay outta the rain, my friends, make a hot toddy, and enjoy the autumn breezes! (Just don't stand too close to me or you'll catch 'mona'....)

Patient Pending

Sergei’s right...we’re all of us sick. Which sucks big (insert animal genitalia reference here). It’s cold and flu season in Michigan apparently, and allergy season for me (a new thing I get to try, courtesy of my fucked-up immune system), and guess what?

Boy-child has asthma.

Yeah, that’s the latest in a long line of health-related issues we’ve had to deal with. Monday night Boy-child went to soccer practice as usual, and came home good and coughin’. Real lung-rattlers. Gave him meds before bed. Still coughed. More meds at 2 a.m. (thanks for handling that, honey). STILL kawfkawfkawf. Then at 4 a.m., I moved him downstairs to the rocker/recliner to see if that helped. I might as well have stood him on his head for all the good it did.

Tuesday morning Sergei took the Girl-child to school (she had sympathy symptoms, worried about her brudder, so she was better off not staying in Germ House Central). I called the dr. office and the nurse said, “Oh, it’s croup! Run a hot shower and sit with him in the steam.”

Now.

This is EXACTLY the same thing they said when Girl-child had a bad cough at age 2, and she ended up in the ER with tubes and needles stuck up in her, barely breathing, with asthma. Which disappeared as she grew older and her lungs matured.

That’s why I felt so stupid for not catching that Boy-child may have just had a later onset of it.

The hot shower didn’t help. Took him to see the doctor as soon as the office was officially open, she listened to his lungs and said, “We have to do an asthma treatment...NOW.” He was freaked out, but I was surprisingly calm. I had to be. 10 minutes later, after the misty mask and the meds and the shotcup of steroid juice and the feisty but kindly nurse having to hold the nebulizer plug in the wall of the new offices...the plug being UNDER the examination table, Boy-child looked at me with clear eyes and said, “I! Can! Breathe!”

His cough disappeared.

Which meant he'd been having an asthma attack since the previous night.

I felt like an idiot. Why didn’t I catch that? It sounded like bronchitis, or pneumonia, which was what the doctor said when she first saw us, all panicking and pale. I shoulda caught that. Still kicking myself for that one.

Now there are nebulizer treatments throughout the day, and monitoring his coughing, and worrying and waiting until Friday when we see the doctor again, to see if this attack was related to the cold that Boy-child was getting. Exacerbated by soccer practice on a cold day. Whatever the hell it was.

I’m bordering on bronchitis. And missing calls from the School Board President who wants to talk to me about joining an advisory committee. And missing work (“I wouldn’t exactly say I’m ‘missing’ it, Bob!”). And generally worrying, in that panic-mom way, do I send him to school, do I go at lunch and stick misty mask on his face so he can get through the afternoon, do I just keep him home, how much work can I miss without our creepy-crawly untrained HR manager threatening me, will Girl-child escape this infection, will Sergei feel better, for gods sake, is the cat gonna eat the nebulizer cord, that bitch?

Funny how you don’t realize how wonderful your health is until it’s threatened.

And now, after this sad and sappy post, a Belated Pirate Joke (I missed Pirate Day on Monday, argh, I’m a scurvy spider).

Q: Why couldn’t Boy-child go see the Pirate movie?
A: Because it was rated ARRRRRRRRRR.

I Don’ Wanna Go To School Today….

There outta be a law.

When you’re sick, I mean, snotty and lightheaded and tired and woozy sick, some sort of machine should scan you, declare you ‘OFFICIALLY SICK’, and let you stay home without your boss caring and your teachers noting you absent. You should receive a visitor bearing gifts of chicken soup, Sudafed, Kleenex, Vernors ginger ale, and three movies of your choosing from the local video store. The day should expand for you, some trippy time-warp thang, and give you 12 extra hours in which to sleep and sweat. A cold should last no longer than 24 hours. Then you should feel like Superman.

I knew it was coming, and yet I was surprised when I woke up today with my throat all croaky and runny. When Girl-child woke up, the first words out of her mouth were, “My voice is gravely. I wanna stay home from school.” This coming on the heels of her hand-washing germ-phobia. This coming after the ‘Talking Doctor’ said, “Your body needs the germs so it doesn’t get sick later, and when you do get sick your body’s making itself well and you get to stay home from school.” Urgh. This coming exactly one week after she was ‘sick’ and was really just scared to go to the big-kid school.

So I made her go to school. And her brother who sneezed his head off this morning. And me leaking everywhere. I said, “Get through today and tomorrow, and then we’ll see.” As much as I’d love to stay home, I have too much to do. As much as I’d love to stay home with the kids and baby them, school just started, and a sniffle doesn’t qualify as a home day. We’ll all get sicker. We always do. We’ll wait until we’re REALLY sick. And then I’ll pop out and buy soup, and Sudafed, and Kleenex, and Vernors, and three movies each. And we’ll sleep, and mope, and sneeze and cough and wipe. Maybe after that, we’ll feel like Superman.

Poems About Hands

Confession time...I love to touch things.

If you were here, right now, I'd touch you.

Oh, I would be subtle, at least at first. A tap on the arm, perhaps a shoulder nudge, my palm against your back making small circles. I'd admire the texture of your shirt, and run my fingers gently over the material, feeling the coolness of the cloth and the heat from your body underneath.

'Cause that's what the Mona likes.

The Girl-child has OCD symptoms, the hand-washing, clenched fists, afraid of germs and needing control. We saw the 'Talking Doctor" Thursday who confirmed that, yes, this was 100 percent the result of stress starting kindergarten, leaving her safe world of preschool behind. Girl-child's new mantra, coming back from the doctor, was 'The more we touch, the healthier we'll be!' It took someone other than her parents talking to her to get her to listen. And that's okay.

I've spent all week prying open her little hands. Talking to her about germs, and when to wash hands, and stalling her second request in five minutes to squirt hand sanitizer in her palm. Urging her to do 'jazz hands' (that musical theatre thing, bring your open palms up out in front of you near your head and shake them back and forth ala Bob Fosse...jazzzzzzz!).

So, given that, today's Poetry Friday will be about hands. And since I've had a hectic week, and didn't start writing these until Midnight, I think they're a bit disturbing, or something, or just weird.

A few notes:
1) I've never eaten mutton. Don't care to. But I DO enjoy rubbing soft things all over my naked, quivering body. Yeah, I heard your dirty little perv thought from here.
2) Guys, I don't think big hands automatically mean you have a big penis. I think big hands mean big ALL body parts. So if you DO have big hands, please send me a picture and allow me to feature you in a shower masturbation fantasy.
3) I'm not making fun of OCD. I'm giving it a real-life description. And...I like Neil Diamond. If you don't, it's because you haven't heard him drunk, riding around a college town, screaming lyrics to 'Cherry Cherry' and hoping you don't get pulled over and end up in the hooskow.


And now, Poetry Friday Presents: Poems About Hands



With All Apologies to Sheep, Vegetarians, and Tactile Persons:

Mary had a little lamb,
It’s fleece was soft and white.
And everywhere that Mary went
The lamb was on her right.

For Mary had a tactile sense,
And loved to rub her lamb.
She’d rub his back, his ass, his head,
Her soft, warm, little ram.

The lamb enjoyed attention.
The lamb loved her caress.
But what the lamb loved best of all
Was peeks under her dress.

For when Mary was alone with him
She got a certain itch
To sit on lambie’s curly coat
And back and forth she’d pitch.

The lamb did not think strangely
Of this movement oh so blue.
For when Mary squeezed his sides with thighs,
His stick grew...and grew...and grew!

One day her parents told her,
"Today leave your lamb at home.
We have a little job for him,
You’ll go to school alone".

Mary couldn’t wait that day
to run home after school.
Bursting through the kitchen door,
She saw her parents drool.

Her father chucked her dimpled chin,
“You’re cute as a button!”
“What’s for dinner?”, Mary asked.
Her father replied, “Mutton!”

Mary shrieked, she stomped, she wailed,
Her mother bid her stop.
Mary eyed her dinner plate...
Mutton, gravy, bread to sop.

Mary picked her fork up,
She took a tiny bite
The taste of her sweet lambie
Burned her with delight.

Now Mary’s bed is covered
With a blanket made of fleece.
Now Mary, she sleeps naked,
With the blanket in her crease.

Her hands still rub the curly coat
Caressing with her fingers
Sometimes on lonely winter nights
The sound of his ‘baa’ lingers.

And oh, the lamb? Don’t fret for him
‘Cause his dreams, you can’t beat ‘em.
His dying wish, his fond desire
Was to have sweet Mary eat ‘im.


With All Apologies to Carl Sandburg:

Bring on the Greekless sorority girls.
Bring on the plump ripe ruddy MILFs.
Bring on that cashier at the video store, Cathy with a ‘C’.
For I am a man with big hands.
Open your eyes and take in my amazement, my manhood extended as multiple jumbo-sausage digits.
Your eyes eye me, twinkling sequined lust, I see you,
and yes it’s all true, what they say.
Big hands...big...big...gloves.



With All Apologies to Neil Diamond and sweet girls named Caroline:

Where it began, I can’t begin to know it.
Must have had somethin’ to do with stress.
Was in the fall, the start of kindergarten,
Swear I saw germs up and down my dress.

Hands, washing hands,
tons of soap, sanitizer, pumice stone!
Sweet OCD, I gotta keep my two hands clenched.
I am inclined to keep my hands and arms just drenched,
But then I’m...

Scared I’ll get sick, scared I’ll give somethin’ to ya.
Dontcha know germs are everywhere?
Picked up a coin, oh help I gotta wash now,
I think there’s cooties in my hair.

Warm, water’s warm,
Reachin’ out, touch a towel, germs are there!
Sweet OCD, just get the fuckin’hell away.
I feel inclined to wave my “jazz hands” all dayyyy.


OH! My IT friend is a frickin' genius, and I can now blog at work! And comment! And read you! I'm clapping my little jazz hands with dee-lite! Have an absolutely gorgeous weekend, my friends!

Boom chicka

Yeah. Just as you suspected when you came here Wednesday. NO blog. Damn firewall. BUT my wonderful IT friend called their software help line today and they're 'working on getting it fixed'. When I mentioned to my friend that NONE of my links to anything with a blogspot.com extension worked, he nodded and said, "Yeah, none of mine worked either." AH-HA!!!! So he reads blogs.

Uh.

He's also our security guy, so he can see everywhere I've gone.

BUT.

He's a good enough friend that he wouldn't make a big deal out of me reading blogs during the workday. Whew.

Thursday is hell day. Officially. I have a dentist appointment, the girl-child has a doctors appointment, I have an early-morning company breakfast that I have to attend, and taekwondo, OH, and working as many hours as I can, of course, and then a meeting tomorrow night of the parents group that met to keep our full-day kindergarten program, among other things. We're circling the wagons and sharpening our arrows.

So. I'll try to post something Thursday night for Poetry Friday. 'Cause apparently I do better when I'm tired and stressed. I. Should. Be. Fucking. Brilliant!!

Ready...Aim...Fire(wall)

I was all set to post today, my head all full of scintillating nonsense and drivel. I had 10 minutes at work to do my magic, and every time I tried to get to my blog...nuthin. "Page Cannot Be Displayed." Couldn't get to Sergei's blog. Couldn't get to ANY blog. Well, I thought, blogger sucks today.

But then I talked to Sergei in the afternoon, and he said, "Didja see my post today?"

Fuck.

It's the work servers.

Godfuckindammitpisscockballs.

Our server/hardware guy is a friend of mine, so I casually asked him to look up a blog I frequent. Couldn't get it. Then he tried the one computer in the building that doesn't go through our network server.

It worked.

"Gotta be a firewall thing on the network. It monitors what comes in, and what goes out. The software decides it, not me. We'll see if it "fixes itself" tonight and if not, we'll bash on it tomorrow."

So.

This post is to let you know I'm alive. And I'm gonna try to post Wednesday from work. If you see something, that means we killed the firewall. If you don't, it means I'm pissed. 'Cause then I'll have to post every night instead of every morning, and I won't be able to read yer blogs or comment during the day, when everyone's fresh, but will have to wait until I'm groggy and bed-bound.

OR.

I'll have to unveil my 'evil plan', and create a blog just for work, for my IT department. To help us communicate better on projects, or whatever lame excuse I can come up with. Which will be odd because I won't be able to share it with y'all, 'cause I'll use real names of real people. And SuicidalGuyInTheNextCube would sincerely jump if he knew how I'd been talking about him. BUT at least I'd have an excuse to have the company look into changing firewalls. I'm so selfish.

I cannot be even a little happy at this series of unfortunate events, but I can write a haiku:

My soul longs to blog.
Firewall is saying no.
It can kiss my ass.

Flip Out

So in the last few days, our clothes dryer died, our daughter has pretty much confirmed that she has OCD, oh, and she’s sick today with fever. My leaky eye is still leaking, I may have a heart murmur, I’m working on a project at work that should have been done today but which we just started, I’m in Atkins-ketosis (on the diet about one week, lost 5 lbs of god-knows-what). I have no time to post, let alone check out any other blogs or leave comments or see what the weather is like outside and I'm freezing my ass off in air conditioning while everyone else is toasted outside like a charred marshmullow.

But.

My life is saved by ninjas.

You’ve seen this site on Ninjas, right? If you haven't, go. NOW. Then come back.

I bought the book for Sergei before he left for his genealogy trip this summer. He dug it.

Well, now the kind folks at rathergood have written a song celebrating flipping out ninjas. We showed the kids this video and they can’t stop singing it and dancing like the ninja cats. With huge shitty grins. It makes me happy and proud. Please watch several hundred times and show to your friends and family, and have sweet dreams of sweet ninjas.

Mona to children last night: “No, you CAN’T do that in the shower. Finish washing up, get your pajamas on, and when you’re downstairs, you can flip out like a ninja all you want.”

Poems About Brains

I was feeling kind of shitty and high lonesome about not posting since last week. But then today, I checked around, and saw I wasn't the only one. So...Hooray for Sluffin' Off!

Remember I had no plans for last weekend? D'ya know that plans just make themselves? I didn't really have any downtime, what with the kids wanting to go/do, and impendng school opening day requiring, oh, the shoes and the socks and the crayons and pencils. And our overgrown back yard that forced me, beyond my will, to spend several scorching afternoons out there pulling weeds and trimming rose bushes that left me with ugly open scabs. No, not pretty.

Tuesday was first day of school for the kiddos, but only half a day. Boy-child in third grade, so confident and cocky (and flirting with the ladies, YES!). Girl-child had Kindergarten open-house that morning. Wednesday was full-day for the boy but half-day (sans parents) for the girl. I worked that morning, tackling 200 emails, hearing from my boss that every project I left was nearing 'overdue' status, but that Marketing didn't have the numbers we needed anyway, but could I start on them right away because they were just being whiny babies. Fuck. SSDD.

Soccer started this week. As did dance class. As did chauffeuring and snacks and hurried dinners.

Today was hellish at work. Hell broke loose. Hell won. Then we threw Hell in a pot with some potatoes and carrots and called it stew and knocked that sucker on his ass. I truly love the IT guys I work with, I really do.

So. Now it's Thursday night. Sergei is watching football, all giddy and anticipatory. The kids are in bed. The cat is sleeping at my feet.

And I wrote some poems.

'Cause I'm liking this Friday poetry thing.

Because of my busy busy week, all the crazy stuff I have to remember, to do and buy and run around for, the poems for this week are about brains. 'Cause I'm feeling like I'm losing mine. Yeah, I know, brains aren't too sexy (unless it's a monster-movie brain and the mad scientist is truly crazy..."BRAINS!!! Yum!").

So, for your reading pleasure, poems about brains.


With All Apologies to Mr. Rogers, RIP:

It’s a beautiful day in my empty head
A beauti...uh...turtle?...uh...squash soup?...sled?
Where’s my brain now?
Down the drain now?

I took six days off and it was delish,
But my brain’s as cold as a dead goldfish
Can I think now?
Need a drink now?

It’s so nice to have a working brain
When you need it.
It’s so much fun to...uh...wait a minute...
on the tip of my tongue...feed it?

OH!

It’s so neighborly of you to stop on by
This poem’s so lame I can hear you cry,
Won’t you help find
Could you help find
Won’t you find my brain?

Won’t you please,
Won’t...willn’t...woont,
Won’t you, oh hell, fuck it....


With All Apologies to Shel Silverstein (all stuff that happened this week, except the pumpkin pie line):

Mona Buonanotte’s Head Will Not Shut Up And Go To Bed

Mona Buonanotte’s head
will not shut up and go to bed.
It’s stuffed with stuff, and messed with mess,
with pumpkin pie and watercress,
and kindergarten’s first three days
and lunchtime’s stomach-churning haze.
It’s taekwondo
Hi-yah!! Hi-Yo!
And new tap shoes on tippy toe.
And ballet shoes that need elastic
Instead of bows across the plastic,
And how’d the boy outgrow his cleats
On his size 1...no...size 2 feets?
Soccer practice Wednesday night,
and game on Saturday? Man, that’s tight.
Two hundred jillion emails Wednesday
and screwed-up project make-amends day.
Beef jerky, sausage, bacon, eggs,
Atkins comes on meaty legs.
And handsome OB’s gentle push,
the yearly peek at lips and tush.
And OH! The teachers new and shiny
need several notes, but not too whiny.
The girl needs pants.
Crayons...the boy.
The Man needs...me,
I need his toy.
The Keirsey Temperamental Test
is sucky, but I’ll do my best.
I need a drink.
I need to think.
I need to drink and think and blink and link.

Mona Buonanotte!
Stop that!
Calm yourself and make some notes!

But Mona Buonanotte didn’t hear.
Her head expanded, ear to ear,
with ‘go do this’, and ‘must buy that’,
and ‘don’t forget to pet your cat’,
and ‘that project’s due on Monday, next’,
and ‘oh you’re fucked’, and ‘oh, you’re vexed’,
and ‘what’s that rattle in your car?’,
and ‘should I buy a samovar?’

Until Mona Buonanotte’s head
Exploded.
POW!
That’s all you read.



With All Apologies to Allen Ginsberg:

I Am a Victim of One-Half Plus One-Half Equals Naught

When I was in college, the professor sez to me, he says,
“Your brain is two-sided, see,
The Right’s for the Left
The Left’s for the Right,
And both will kill you dead
As you’re walking down to CBGB’s to get your cock sucked.
You fucking punk-ass hippie freak commie pinko.”
My Left Brain told me that.
While the Right Brain stabbed at the dust in my eye with a $50 bill.
I can’t even feel the connecting tissue.
Do you talk?
DO YOU TALK?
DO I STUTTER?
Can’t you please communicate, ‘cause this shit you’re throwing,
this, “Oh, I’m SO fucking sensitive, over here being left-handed and all,
hiding in the Right side like some gutter thief,
and aren’t you GLAD you’re not an anal ass like that other side,
who talks about you behind your back
with perfect grammar
and he knows how to create pivot tables in MS Excel,
and he has a vague idea of the day you’re gonna die, fatso.”
Cut it the fuck out!
Start a fucking brain war!
Come on, let me see you go at it!
Let me pull out some Steve Vai and Stevie Ray Vaughn and
Spank you with some screaming guitars,
lash at you with leather,
while you figure out who’s boss,
you with your hot-dog artistic-nothing-ness
you with your assholery all number-crunched flat.
Chains! I’ll break out the chains,
drape you both with steel coils and pull you push you
Until you cooperate, dammit.
A revolution!
A revelation!
A bifurcated ball of what?
Kiss-my-ass?
Punk big-mouthedness.


Have a good weekend, y'all!

Poems About Teen Testosterone

Sergei and I took the kids to a local high-school football game tonight. Cheap food, cheap seats, cheat trinkets, tentative football playing...it was all good.

Sergei and I mused after the game how most people there didn't watch the GAME. Most of the attendees were high-school kids, and they just watched each other. No big surprise, as there were some very cute boys there, and some absolutely, positively, drop-dead gorgeous girls. Where are they growing these oddities? With the big boobs and the small waists and the model faces and the attitude? The local water supply must be tainted, that can only be the reason.

So my poems for this Friday are about teen testosterone. That stuff that baffles parents, the ebb and flow of hormones that caused many a young man tonight to follow and chat up a pretty girl, then turn to his buddy and beat him with a foam 'Spirit Finger'.

Not my best work, folks, it's 1 a.m., and I'm not sure if I'm still awake. Am I? Here goes:



With All Apologies to Joyce Kilmer:

I think that I shall never see
A naked girl upon my knee.

A girl whose hungry mouth is pressed
on mine, because I am the best.

A girl with tits so firm and round
That my dick springs and hits the ground.

Upon whose bosom I will place
My hands, my lips, my tongue, my face.

I’ll never find her, ‘cause you see
I’m always here at my p.c.

Software’s made by fools like me,
But internet porn has girls for free.



With All Apologies to Dr. Seuss:


I am Horny!
Horny I Am!

That Horny I Am!
That Horny I Am!
I am not turned on by that
Horny I Am!

Do you like sex with teenage boys?

I do Not like sex with teenage boys!

Would you, could you,
Kiss me here?
Would you, could you,
Buy me beer?

I would not, could not,
kiss you here
I would not, could not,
Buy you beer!
I do not like sex with teenage boys!
I am not turned on by you, Horny I Am!

Would you, could you,
Talk some sports?
Would you, could you,
Stick this lizard in my shorts?

I would not, could not,
talk some sports,
I will not, will not,
Put lizards in your shorts!
I would not, could not,
Kiss you here,
I will not, will not,
Buy you beer!
I do not like sex with teenage boys!
I am not turned on by you, Horny I Am!

Zzzzzzzziiiippppp...!

(Sproingggggg....)

Ooooohhhhhhh!

I will! I will!
I’ll talk some sports!
And sure, some lizards
in your shorts!
I will, oh yes,
kiss you here and there,
I’ll buy you beer
Most everywhere!
I DO! I DO like sex with teenage boys!
Horny I Am, let’s make some noise!


With All Apologies to Kurt Cobain, Krist Novoselic, and Dave Grohl, also fans of Viva La Bam:

Load up on stones
Bring your friends
It’s fun to hit
And pretend
Our balls don’t hurt
Like Steve-O’s did
When that dog bone
Bashed his johnson

Oh fuck (X16)

With the lights out, it’s more dangerous
Here we are now
With toys heinous
And they’re aimed right
At the ‘jewels’
‘Cause we’re nineteen
And all fools.
A big cow bone
A old cell phone
An ice cream cone
And we all moan
Yea

I’m worse at aim than Brandon is
But Ryan Dunn sure ain’t no whiz,
So topple him in PortaJohns
And punch ol’ Rabe...the party’s on

Oh fuck (X16)

With the lights out, it’s more dangerous
Here we are now
With our lasers
Burn our eyes out
And eat cow shit
MTV’s checks
Don’t hurt one bit
An old skate punk
A confused drunk
Smell like a skunk
Hit in the junk

Yea

Have a good, safe weekend, y'all! Don't drink and drive. Hell, with the price of gas, don't drive at all. Just stay home and drink.

Sheela-na-gig

As Sergei said, I'm home with the kids today...woohoo!... and will be off work until next Wednesday. The kids' camps are closed and school starts Tuesday (a half-day). So we should be on some sort of vacation, right? But I have nothing planned, no last-hurrah, no camping, no parties, nuthin'. Nada. Which puts me in the running for Loser Mom of theYear. Right above Courtney Love.

jo(e) has posted some lovely posts of her recent camping trip, which make my mouth water. Go look!

Pinky mentioned on Tuesday one of my favorite rocker-chicks, PJ Harvey. And I woke up this morning with a line from "Sheela-na-gig" in my head...sing along:

"He said 'wash your breasts, I don't want to be unclean'
He said 'please take those dirty pillows away from me'".

Sheela-na-gig...you exhibitionist...a woman after my own heart! So, of course, I pulled out rocker grrrl cds this morning to while away my day whilst I run errands with the kiddos and generally exercise my deadly sin of sloth. Of course my musical taste is somewhat stuck in the 90s with these choices:

The Breeders: "Pod" and "Last Splash"
PJ Harvey: "Dry" and "Rid of Me"
Juliana Hatfield: "Become What You Are"
Concrete Blonde: "Bloodletting" (Johnette Napolitano haunting with 'tomorrow Wendy')
Nirvana: "Nevermind" (YES, I know, no girls, but Kurt is so purdy, and I mean that in twisted-soul sort of way).

I still need breakfast.

And to squeeze eye drops in my leaky eye, leaking for, what, 6 weeks now? Convinced I had a tumour ("Eess nod a toooomah!") but which my eye dr. says is allergies. Frick. Great.

Wow. I'm all over the place this morning.

Okay, if you need a Mona-ist thing to ponder today, here's what I'm thinking about for the next post on "Mona's Orgasm".

Here's the deal:
I saw my first boy penis at age 5, playing doctor with the neighbor boy.
I touched my first penis at age 16, my high-school boyfriend. Touching, mutual oral sex.
I had my first vaginal intercourse at age 19 (I know, hard to believe), on my birthday, in college, on a beanbag chair (which I would NOT recommend).

The question is: When did I "have sex"?

Go!