Le Molecule De Amour

Just read this.

No big surprise, eh? I mean, really, when you’re with someone for the first time, and the second, and then you see them naked on a regular basis (under you, over you, behind you, twisted around in the shower, bent creatively over the kitchen sink), and they’re all hot and mysterious and willing to get on all fours and bark for your cooter, YEAH, of COURSE you’re gonna feel that tingly-tingle in your naughty bits. Duh.

Of course, if you’re really lucky and really smart, and time is on your side, and you find something to love about this person, some common ground, learn to like their music and figure out how to hang around their parents without running screaming for the door...THEN you get that different kind of chemical bang-fer-yer-buck (which of course this article didn’t go into because they thought they were ‘groundbreaking’). Then you get that satisfied, “Ahhhhhh” feeling. That ‘relationship’ feeling. That hopefully lasts for a good long while.

And if not, there’s always masturbation. My twisted mind can always find something to tingle about. I still "Ahhhhhh" about Sergei, don't get me wrong, I'm tingling about him right now and that 'thing' he did the other night, that...daaaaamn, y'all.

But.

I also fantasize in the shower about Danny Elfman. I need to update my Boyfriend List, yo.

(Oh, the Crimson Permanent Assurance came into port last night, for its monthly week-long layover in my loins. Why, oh WHY do I get so horny during my period? Any y’all with medical knowledge help me out here? Can I get an ‘amen’, somebody?)

Deejay Flipper Jesus

1. Deejay:
Morning radio is for shit. (I love starting my day by swearing.) I rarely turn on my car radio anymore, but this morning, after dropping the two lov-er-ly kids off at school, I decided to wake up to some screamin' jams.

Where the hell are the screamin' jams????

Apparently every radio station in Michigan thinks I *want* to hear some male/female duo chattering inanely about the stupid things in today's paper and wondering aloud to the listening audience what kind of underwear the other is wearing.

I! Don't! Care!

The music? Oh, the music. The 2 stations that had music on were a) pseudo-country crap, and 2) repetitive alt-college-rock that I wouldn't listen to even if they had a cool video online.

I s'pose I could spring for XM radio for my car, which would effectively double the value of my auto-mo-bile, but I just don't care that much.

Instead, I popped in my Stevie Ray Vaughan cassette and felt much better, thank you.


2. Flipper:
I had to stop at the lab this morning and get my blood drawn. (I have the coolest-sounding disease EVER..."Hashimoto's Thyroiditis"...I sound like a Japanese monster movie monster! "Oh no! The dreaded Hashimoto's Thyroiditis has awoken from her slumber at the bottom of the ocean! Gamera! Help!")

Where was I?

Oh, the lab. I pulled up in a parking space, right next to a BMW. Which I think to be a sort of ritzy kinda car. I got out and my eyes *happened* to glance inside the Beemer and saw a trashy novel, a soft drink cup, and...uh...a pair of flippers. FLIPPERS. The kind you wear to go snorkeling. Brown flippers. With no other swim gear of any kind. Wha.??? This is MICHIGAN. In almost-December. It's supposed to snow later this morning. Flippers? The lab is located in the same building as a sports club, but I don’t believe they allow flippers in the pool, Cletus.


3. Jesus:
Usually an older lady draws my blood at the lab (this is done every month or two, and in some later post I'll tell you all about the wonderful thyroid of mine that *isn't*). Today, though, there was a youngish man of Hispanic descent there, listing to Frank Sinatra. While he took my lab slip and my insurance card, I happened to look at his name badge. Well, the badge found ME, actually, because it screamed: JESUS.

Jesus! I wanted to say, "Hey, Jesus!", but I'm sure he would have corrected me with the proper "Hay-soos". But Jesus and I had a very animated conversation, while he was drawing my blood, about Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Marvin Gaye, and what the kids nowadays are listening to (stuff about butts, according to Jesus). Somehow, even in my heathenistic lifestyle, I felt better knowing that a Big-Band-lovin', hip Hispanic guy named Jesus was sticking that needle in me.

Cyber Monday

Everyone in my geeky IT department is buzzing about it being Cyber Monday. After stuffing our maws full of Thanksgiving repast, and yet another slice of sweet ‘tater pie, apparently we remember how to shop like maniacs at the mall (which I did NOT do on Black Friday, thankyouverymuch…I don’t enjoy shopping in crowds), but we totally forget that there is this thing called…er…whatwuzit?...the Internets.

Then, after braving Rifle-Wielding Aunt Sheila and Slo-Poke Martha at BigTownMall, and finding a parking space in Bu-Fu, and dealing with screaming children and tantrum-throwing adults, and feeling dizzy ‘cause you forgot to drink any water, and remembering that the Dr. Bizarro Nasty Drink-Making Machine was $5 cheaper BEFORE Thanksgiving, folks boot up and turn to Amazon, or BestBuy, or whatevah.

And they do it today.

According to an online source, the National Retailers Federation says 77% of online retailers polled had significant sales increases last year on Cyber Monday.

So what did I do? Me, the only girl in the IT department, the mall-hater, the gift-obsesser, the slave to marketing?

I ordered online. Again.

And I’m awaiting with bated/baited/Bate-d breath, the arrival of last week’s online purchase of (mumblemumble) for Sergei.

Am I suggesting y’all logon and buy that box set of “Columbo Season 2” DVDs? Am I urging you to get a 2-gallon jug of Dr. Bronner’s Liquid Peppermint Soap and save yourself the trip to the Good Health store? Am I imploring you to visit that online Haus of Chocolate and buy yerself some sicky-sweet truffles?

You bet your sweet credit-card-holding bippy I am.

Enjoy!

Room for Dessert

Busy week, yo. I’m *this close* to having a dozen documents typed, proofread by a fellow group member, and ready to present to the Kindergarten Group this week. THEN I can stop staying up til 1 a.m. every night banging on a computer. (And by ‘banging’, I don’t mean anything sexual, and isn’t that a damn shame.)

I’m also trying to figure out celebration stuff for the Boy-child’s upcoming birthday.

Plus…oh, what was it? Oh yeah! Thanksgiving! The turkey’s defrosting, there’s a jar of peeled chestnuts in my cupboard, I’ve scoured the Food Network website for recipes, have started my finalFINAL grocery list, and think my husband is amazing.

Beyond the usual amazing.

Here’s the deal…Sergei’s grandfather is all alone in a northern Michigan town. Sergei spoke with him last night and offered to drive the four hours up to get Gramps, four hours back down to our house, feast and feast and feast, and take Gramps back up the next day…four hours up, four hours back. Because we love Gramps. We miss Gramps. It’s the right thing to do. And Sergei is an absolute gentleman and loving creature.

So I have imposed self-pressure to make this Thanksgiving extra special.

I figure, I’ll make stuff early that I can, take time to breathe and not the shoo the kids totally out of the kitchen, and crack open a bottle of wine. And maybe swipe a fingerful of sweet potato pie…mmm…pie….

If’n I don’t catch ya before Thursday, have a bountiful and joyous Thanksgiving, y’all! I'll save you a slice of pecan-bourbon cheesecake!

14 Reasons I’m Not Going to the Company Christmas Party

1) First, thanks so much, HR department, for putting the cheap-assed color-copy of the invitation in my mailbox. It’s what I’ve been dreading for weeks. Not even my name on it. That so much shows how you care.

2) When I was single, and a couple times after I got married, I did attend these things. It was fun to get drunk and see others drunk and watch them dance on tables and make half-nekked fools of themselves. Now? Not so much. I can stay home with Sergei and get drunk and half-nekked and have a MUCH better time, thankyouverymuch.

3) The food? Uh…worse than airline food. I have to stand in line for cold meat and limp vegetables? No thanks. If I wanted that, I’d go to my kids’ elementary school and eat that slop.

4) You promise “camaraderie”. Y’know what? With my work friends, my “comrades”, if you will, if we hang out, it’s in one of our homes, with good people and good conversation. It’s NOT forced friendship. It’s NOT having to make small-talk with folks I have nothing in common with. Which leads me to…

5)…because you don’t have assigned seating, inevitably, the table I sit at (which starts out with people I know and like) becomes the table for Chatty Smelly Cathy and Big Dumb Drunken Lout Pete, and I don’t know them from adam and would really rather not hear about their hernia operation and their pending bankruptcy. There’s a reason they work on the other side of the building. Fool.

6) You also promise “fun”. You never deliver. Last time I went to one of these things was maybe 3 years ago. The only “fun” I had was a jello shot given to me by a friend who was also bored and needed a diversion. “Fun” is described in the dictionary, man, you should really look that shit up.

7) I still haven’t forgiven you for CHARGING employees to attending the party last year. That sucks. I don’t invite people to my house and then, as they walk in the door, shake them down for $20. Learn some etiquette, Jethro.

8) I won’t dance. Don’t ask me.

9) I’m not dressing up for y’all. I get to wear jeans to work every day if I want. I’m not spending money on a new spangly dressy-dress to wear once and have the company president spill whiskey and soda all down my cleavage. And the president and his libido, well, I don’t want that, either.

10) No door prizes, no games, no Christmas bonuses. THIS is what I work all year for?

11) Children are verboten at your party. That’s your right, I’m not begrudging you that, it’s a grownup party and I respect your decision. BUT. I’m not paying a babysitter $30 to watch my kids and have a good time with them while I’m having a bad time with you. Coppice?

12) You just sent out an email saying what bad financial straits we’re in now. Dontcha think, MAYBE, you’d have the sense to stop this party thing? I’d much rather we forgo the party and be able to keep our doors open through the end of the fiscal year. Dammitall.

13) Let’s see…the party is 30 minutes away, you get everyone liquored up, and push them out into their cars to drive home. Can you say, “Liability”???

14) My bed is big and soft. I’m soft. Sergei’s big. We have a cabinet full of liquor, a freezer full of food, and it takes 4.2 seconds to scurry upstairs for hot wet monkey sex. Do you REALLY think your party will tempt me away from that???


Have a good weekend, y’all!

Crafty and In Trouble

I love playing hookey.

The kids only had half a day of school today (Wednesday), so I took the afternoon off work and we had Burger King and went grocery shopping and Christmas shopping and what-the-hell shopping.

And they NEVER threw a fit. And they bought things WITH THEIR OWN MONEY. And I was a HAPPY mom.

Tonight I finished putting together a dozen fruit-nut-cinnamonpinecone-dried leaf centerpieces for a potluck at work Thursday, where we'll roast turkeys on-site and make creamy mashed potatoes and everyone brings in a lovely wonderful food thing, and I'll get no work done and won't check blogs because I am on the potluck committee and will be decorating and mashing and eating and tearing down, and sleeping under my desk.

A turkey coma. Lovely. And it snowed today, tra-la tra-la.

Girl-Child had dance class tonight, and watching her shimmy and boogie-woogie and 'jazz hands!' with her perfect legs and exquisite timing and impish eyes, I realized that I'm in big trouble. She's got this incredible...uh...way with her body, very loose and fluid, and I recognize myself in the way she moves (although I was in my 20s when I discovered the 'sexy way of being', and Girl-Child is only 5.) The boys are gonna notice that some day, and she's already begging Sergei, when he gives her a playful tap on the butt, "Do it again, Daddy!". Shit, like that damn song..."she's grown up just like me". We've already started the 'your body is your own' talks, but still....

Chastity belts? Do they make those anymore?

Wherein Mona Decries Apathy

Time was in this country when you had to be white, male, and a landowner to vote.

But people decided that was wrong.

Women won the right to vote in 1920, via the 19th Amendment to the Constitution.

By law, African American males had had the right to vote since the 1868 passage of the 14th Amendment to the Constitution, but were largely kept away from the polls by obscure sections of state constitutions, poll taxes, and threats of death.

The 24th Amendment did away with the Poll Tax.

The 26th Amendment guaranteed the rights of everyone aged 18 and over the right to vote.

The Voting Rights Act of 1965 enforced equal access to voting.



SO WHY ARE PEOPLE SO APATHETIC ABOUT VOTING?????????!!!!!!!!!???????


My rant has nada to do with proper elections, that was last week’s news.

My rant has everything to do with voicing your opinion.

I’m on this committee, studying full-day vs. half-day kindergarten. (Our school district has mostly full-day, with one half-day program that is only half full.) I distributed surveys to parents of next year’s kindergarteners, asking them which program they’d prefer, if they would use a proposed half-day childcare in the school, etc. These went to nursery schools, daycare facilities, and other places where parents and 4-year olds hang out. I put out 125 surveys. I gave them an extra day to complete them.

How many surveys did I get back??

Nine.

That’s “9”.

What? The? Fuck?

Hey. Parental Units. Do you really care SO little about what your child does, the learning environment that they’ll be exposed to, that you refuse to answer even a six-question survey? What the hell is your problem? I never asked for your name. I specifically noted you wouldn’t be contacted. The surveys were confidential. And NECESSARY for the school board to make a decision that DIRECTLY involves you and your child!

I’m pissed off. I’m beyond pissed off. I’m angry at the whole system who lets that sort of thing ‘be’. Who doesn’t call folks out and chew their ass up for not voicing their opinion, for not making a difference, for just thinking ‘someone else will do it’.

Fuck you.

Fuck you and your tired little world of self-absorption.

Fuck your apathy, you little snooty bitch, you blind bastard.

I didn't ask you who you wanted to run your city, your state, your nation. I didn't ask you to decide important property tax issues or when and where folks could vote. I didn't ask you to come to the polls and push a dot out or connect the lines of an arrow or push a button on a screen. I didn't prevent you from responding with threats of death, or extortion of money, or by closing access to the means to express your opinion.

I asked you what you wanted for your child.

Plain. Simple.

When they decide to change your world, don’t come running to me asking, “Wha’ happen?”

‘Cause I fucking asked you.

And you didn’t care.

Sex, Drugs, Rock and Roll

A good bass line in a song always twinges my cooter. Does that make me a pervert?

Now, before you go sayin’, “Oh that Mona, everything is about sex to her,” (which IS correct, but I’m making another point here), ask yourself…what song, or type of music, or instrument, gets you all hepped up and moist/stiff/whatever in your nether regions? C’mon, you can tell…!

Saxaphones used to do it for me, in my naïve youth. That was before I fell in love with a dirty bass. ‘Cause them things, maaaaaan…especially if they’re hard and thumpin', just get me shakin’. I’m sure it’s linked somehow to my youth, the moment I discovered Led Zeppelin or something, I dunno.

The local college radio station is, as I’ve said before, SWEEEEEET. I turned it on this morning after I dropped the kids off and the first thing I heard was a powerful bass line, like the Peter Gunn theme but dirty and nasty and recognizable. Once I heard that falsetto, I recognized it as Weezer’s “Hash Pipe”, and I got all tingly and happy. (If you haven't seen it, check out the Weezer's 'Beverly Hills' video. That song haunts me. And I think I have a crush on Rivers Cuomo...a sweet geek crush.) I don’t know the words, but I didn’t care, I started car-dancing and tapping my fingers on the steering wheel and, of course, yelled out the only lyrics I knew…”I got my hash pipe!”

I had a hash pipe. In high school. My two-years-older-boyfriend gave it to me. Of course I NEVER used it, it was more decorative…a piece of lovely carved wood with a couple holes in it. That I never displayed in my room lest I give my poor parents multiple cardiac arrests, but which I lovingly fingered every once in a while to remind me of my boyfriend. And he NEVER did drugs, was NEVER kicked out of school for doing them, NEVER sent me a joint in the cartridge end of a ball-point pen which he stupidly sent to his parents first and asked to give to me and they found out about the joint when they tried to use the pen and found the ink didn’t work and dismembered it and freaked out. NEVER did drugs. Uh…yeah. But that pipe was lovely.

It occurred to me that today’s youth doesn't understand the drug culture that I grew up in, decades ago. In my day, drugs were magical…illegal yes…but tame by today’s standards. The choices were simple...pot, hash, speed, and acid. Only ‘bad’ people did cocaine. Only ‘criminals’ did heroin. We didn’t know nuthin’ about GHB, crack, or clinically pure anything, because Joe down the road had some grow lamps in his basement and had the best homegrown around. A ‘dime bag’ was a baggie two fingers high of green stuff and cost $10. THAT was the drug culture…easy peasy, wholesome and hippielike, calm and quiet. It was tamer and more satisfying than 2 bottles of Boones Farm Tickle Pink on the dead-end country road a mile from my folks house (and you didn't puke if you had too much). It was sweet and innocent, if drugs can be that sort of thing.

So…sex from the bass…drugs from the hash pipe line…rock&roll from the song. I’ve done my job for the day!

Oh Run-A Oh Run-A Oh Runaway...Please Come Home

Sometimes being a grownup sucks, in that you have to be dependable and productive and remember stuff and correct your elders and try not be too shaken up when your child tells you he had a dream where you DIED.

My posts have dropped off as of late because I'm hella busy with just everything.

Well, not everything, as I'm sure that would involve a mishmash of flooring tiles, pastry tubes, the collected works of Neil Diamond, ear wax, runny eggs, and chads.

I've been busy with work, which is bustin' my ass because our marketing department is made up of morons...no, scratch that...our marketing department is made up of lobotomized sewer rats who think the company president's ass tastes reeeeeeeeal good, just like chickin'. Meanwhile, they have no new ideas, are beating the old ones to frickin' death, and are surprised when our company profits fall like my panties used to at frat parties. (uh, that's a LOT, for those of you who didn't go to college with me. I'm exaggerating. No I'm not.)

I've been busy with this Kindergarten Panel, which I (stupidly?) volunteered to be on, to figure out once and for all (or at least until next year when parents bitch) the value of full-day vs. half-day kindergarten. The other folks on this panel are old, retired, couldn't give a dingleberry what happens, just want to recount the 'good old days' before they retired from the school system, before dinosaurs took up smoking and offed themselves. I'm doing the bulk of the work, the research, the phone calls, the emails, the pavement-pounding, the surveys, because the rest of them don't fcuking care. Which makes me want to hit them soundly with a sock full of pennies, except for one lady that is actually on my side, but is a fence-sitter.

I've been busy with school parties.
Work fund-raisers.
Parent-teacher conferences.
School half-days.
Two kids with dance and taekwondo and birthday parties to attend and homework to finish.
A house.
A Sergei.
And I have to sleep sometimes. But not much.

I've had a cold for 2 months, a leaky eye for 4 months, and have experienced 3 'tingly-arms' episodes in the last week that either means my new thyroid medicine is freaking out my body, or I'm going through early menopause, both of which make me want to open my yap and scream "FUCKBITCHCUNTDYKECOCKJESUSFUCKINGCHRIST" at the top of my lungs...at my body.

My diet is in the crapper, because I forget to eat, and then the only reason I remember is that I start to pass out, and then I reach for quick sugar, in the form of candy. I managed a salad this week. I had pizza tonight. I can now give myself a 'Pillsbury Doughboy Poke', but I don't giggle.

Lately caffeine has been pushing me over the edge, after one cuppa coffee.

I've not followed up on Mona's Orgasm, my Poetry Friday is now Crap Friday, I've been through several Fantasy Boyfriends and not told you anything about them, my blog links aren't up to date, I have little time to read blogs and littler time to comment, and I'm a spotty poster, an unfunny, un-boobie-posting, un-smut-talking blogger.

But.

I still have dirty dreams about you. Does that help?

Faaaack, I'm Political!

I voted yesterday, and my guy won.

How frickin' cool is dat?!?!?!

Nun Punching Puppet

No time to talk today, folks, the boys at work are keeping me busy on the internets.

Damn them.

But I had to share with you one thing, courtesy of the lovely Pinky, who reminded me that I need more McPhee in my life!

Go here now. Look at the pretty things you can buy! Tell me what you want for Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa/no reason at all!

Have a good weekend, and be sure to check out the "Our Weirdest Products" selection. I need the brain jello mold....

Confessions of Ten

1) I sometimes look at the word ‘public’ and think it’s really ‘pubic’ and laugh until I choke on my own spit.

2) I secretly long for a colonic cleansing.

3) I am afraid that, if I ask my doctor if he thinks a colonic cleansing is a good idea, he’ll laugh in that high-pitched way he does, all the while shaking his head and giggling, “Oh you so crazy, you crazy lady!”

4) On-line banking scares the bejeebus outta me.

5) If I drive over a long bridge high off the water, I sometimes have a freak out and think, “If I turn this steering wheel just a tiny bit to the right, I could drive off the bridge and kill us all.” Then I have to think about puppies and bunnies and chocolate ice cream to distract myself.

6) I harbour lust for the boy that played ‘Charlie’ in the Gene Wilder version of “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory”.

7) I still have a chaste crush on Mark Hammill. After I saw him in ‘Star Wars’, I vowed to think only non-sexual thoughts of him, even though he was like a living sexy version of the David statue, and have kept my promise lo these many years.

8) I ate the Girl-child’s only Halloween Almond Joy last night, just because I saw the Boy-child with one and it looked really good. There’s a special hell for parents like me.

9) When I was a teenager, I stole one of my dad’s bottles of wine and drank it all in my room one night, then threw up in one of my really cool brown knee-high leather boots sometime during the night. The next day, I had to throw both boots away, and I feigned like I lost them somewhere.

10) I’ve always had dreams that I’m naked in public, but lately, instead of being embarrassed, I wonder why people have a problem with it. I’m apparently an exhibitionist in my dreams, and damn proud o’ that.

The Bone-Rattling Sound of F*-Me Pumps

Monday night, Halloween, Sergei and I took turns taking the kids trick-or-treating (or 'legalized begging'). Sergei did the first round while I handed out candy to a (surprisingly small) cadre of young passers-by. We had the usual plethora (a plethora!) of chocolate bars and assorted sweets to give out, but the big-sellers were chocolate eyeballs and gummy fangs. Oh yeah, baby, even the little kids squealed with sheer blissful greediness when I showed them a blue-eyed choccy before I bounced it into their bag. (By this distraction I was even able to hand out some of the 'kick or treat' cards from the Boy-child's taekwondo do jang, more shameless begging.)

It was pretty boring.

I did the New York Magazine crossword and munched a kit-kat and drank a whole diet coke and listened to the footsteps crunching outside, waiting to see if they'd come up our path.

When Sergei and the kids returned, and Girl-child got bandaged up from her tumble outside, and the full plastic pumpkins of candy had been dumped, I took my sweet progeny out for a quick jaunt, maybe a dozen houses.

Because.

The kids hadn't been to the most important house in the neighborhood.

The Spider House.

So named because every Halloween, the owners of this charming little two-story go balls-out decorating, and they always, ALWAYS, have this giant inflatable spider on the roof of their porch. Day and night. The kids clamour for me to drive by it on the way to school, and back again ("the spider house! the spider house!") This year the house also had a HUGE inflatable black cat over the walkway, a graveyard in the front, and a myriad of tombstones and hands sticking out from the grass.

Kewl.

We dashed across the street and got about 6 houses out of the way, then crossed back and headed for the Casa de Eight Legged Freak.

As we passed underneath the inflatable black cat, it made hissing and growling noises that made even the small Girl-child laugh. The man of the house was out front, just sitting in street clothes, not scary, and our walk up to him tripped various switches that produced groans and moans and screams from various decorative elements. He gave the candy, we thanked him and turned to go, once again under the black cat, and nearly bumped into....

Uh....

I wasn't quite sure what.

There was this figure there, a man, very large, very tall.

In drag.

Walking up the walk, under the black cat, up to the porch, tripping the groans and moans, up to get candy, talking to the owner like a stranger.

He was wearing a feathered hat. Black bustier covered by a sheer blouse. Skirt above the knee. Fishnet stockings. Black fuck-me pumps. Gloves. A purse. And more makeup than could be plastered on a dozen women.

As I was trying to get the kids through 'just five more houses' before we wandered home to get dinner and out of the sprinkling rain, I really didn't let the drag guy 'register' with me. But something was creepy about it. I suddenly got paranoid, he was a BIG guy, and looked sort of, well, out to prove something. And his shoes made horse-sized 'clomp-clomp' sounds on the sidewalk. I hurried the kids to the next house, and the next, and down the street, and back again, out of the rain, into our own house, safe and warm.

Later that night, it hit me.

The guy at the Spider House. I think...maybe...he was finally 'coming out' as a transvestite.

I mean, think about it...it's Halloween, you've been dressing in women's clothing in the privacy of your bathroom, no one knows, and what better time to break it to the neighbors than dress up in your fanciest getup and go door to door.

Makes sense, I guess. 'Cause the gay bar in town that used to have Drag Shows has long since closed. (Those shows were awesome, BTW.)

Or else I'm totally wrong, and the guy was just dressed up to go to a party, haha, big tough guy in a skirt, got hungry on the way there, and stopped off in some random neighborhood to get a quick snack.

Someone should tell him to work on his makeup, though.