Mr. Clean: Dreamboat

I’m crushin’ on da bald men.

Is there some sort of conspiracy going on? I mean, did some letter go out to men in the 18-35 age range saying, “Shave yer head, chicks dig it!”

‘Cause they did.

And I do.

I can’t drive through campus nowadays without seeing at least half a dozen man-boys with shaved heads, awesome thighs, and broad shoulders. And yes, while the legs and shoulders are enough to send me skidding onto the sidewalk, it’s the look of their shaved pate, their bald bean, that gets my lil’ girly parts all quivering.

Sergei shaved his head once. He had finished the run of some play he was acting in, and just buzzed everything off. I came home to find Kojak in my bedroom, sans lollipop, and he made sure I felt his head from every angle, with every body part. Yum-oh.

Ladies, have you ever run your hands over a man’s clean cranium? It’s really amazing. First of all, you get to see every nook and cranny (or is that crook and nanny?) on the head, which itself is mind-blowing, ‘cause who knew there were so many dents in a skull? Then there’s something about the head and the face being so…connected. Generally the hair is a separate entity, we run our fingers through it, or grab it during hot sex. But with no hair, the head becomes an extension of the face, so if you kiss the face, you naturally just work up to the head, and there’s SO MUCH of it to work with, it’s just…oh…uh…I think I’m having a wee bit of an orgasm just thinking about it.

When Sergei and I got married, some long-time friends of the family made the trek out to Michigan from upstate New York. I hadn’t seen them since I was in junior high. When they got to the gardens where the wedding was, the husband of the couple had shaved his head. And he was wearing a large gold hoop earring. I remember sort of squealing and running to hug him and rub his head, which he joyfully let me do. (For the entire day, everyone called him “Mr. Clean”, and he ate it up!) His story was that a good friend of his was going thru chemo, and in a show of support, he shaved his head, and would keep it that way as long as his friend was sick. Which was such a selfless gesture that I got all teary. And rubbed his head again.

Male swimmers with bald heads…
Men with receding hairlines who stop the madness...
Long-haired guys tired of the brushing, brushing...
I like it bare.

Men. Don’t be afraid to shave that head of yours. Some of you (Bear, QWMaine) already have.

And some of us girls like it.

No Thanks (clickclickclick), I'm Tryin'-A Cut Down

I love food.
I love to cook. And bake. And mix and frappe and knead and roll and pour.
I love to read recipes and make them for my family and the guys at work and make up stuff and hear Sergei say, “That recipe’s a keeper, hon!”
I love the Food Network. Alton Brown gets me hot. And Morimoto from Iron Chef. And, yeah, okay, Rachael Ray is pretty hot.

But there’s some food that could just drop off the face of the earth, and I wouldn’t care. Worse yet, I’d cheer and wave banners saying, “Good riddance, ya bastards!”

1) Mocha. What the hell? Whoever thought of combining two of the most perfect foods on earth, hoping to unlock some sort of super-secret chemical reaction that would make us all gush in our panties was wrong, wrong, WRONG. Chocolate is chocolate. Coffee is coffee. Never the twain, folks. I’ve tried Mocha as coffee, I’ve tried it as ice cream, and as candy something. And every damn time I’m expecting some sort of orgasmic experience with it, some sort of !BAM! explosion of chocolate, and !POW! eruption of coffee...and all I get is...(sputter...spark...coooough...)...something that looks and tastes like the mud puddle that forms in the low spot in our lawn. No. Uh-uh. Doesn’t work for me. Unless you pour half a jar of caramel in there, and a handful of itsy-bitsy chocolate chips on top, I get nuthin’. Just fat coffee. Maybe my tongue just wasn’t meant to appreciate this. I want a cup of coffee, a bar of chocolate, and I’ll be happy.

2) Lime (fake). The real thing, a real, fresh lime, is a wonderful thing, squoze in tonic water (maybe a bit of vodka or gin in there, whatthehell) or on a lovely piece of fish or chicken, or in guacamole, oh-yum! But anything fakey-fake made to taste like lime makes the pits behind my jaws ache and my tongue telephones my gut, “Uh...no one take a coffee break...we might have to blow.” I can identify exactly why the revulsion. My family. The green jello at family reunions with what looked like lovely fruit inside, but was really studded with...BLEAH!...shredded carrots and celery??? THAT’S dessert? Or those stupid lime Dum-Dum pops we got at the bank, and I’d always have to let my younger siblings pick first...the root beer...the cherry...the butterscotch...and the lime goes to Mona! ‘Cause she’ll eat it, and the younger kids are SO precious and get the good flavours! Stupid bank tellers. Nowadays, though, sometimes candy makers are kind enough to make green candy taste like sour apple, which is fine. I always make my kids taste the green ones first. If it’s lime, I leave the room to avoid a scene.

3) Malted milk balls. Urgh. My stomach is doing flip-flops just thinking about this one. Malted milk balls have two components which annoy me: 1) they taste like bad, boiled-down beer, and 2) the sound...OHMYGOD, the sound!, that awful scraping sound of whipped malt against yer teeth, like you’re eating some sort of dirt clod, FAAAACK! Never liked ‘em as a kid. As an adult, I’ve tried them from time to time, seeing if my taste has changed, and I’ll let one melt in my mouth until it’s soft enough to suck into mush (I WILL NOT crunch it, you can’t make me!). Nope. Still reminds me of syrup-du-skunky-beer. I love Bridge Mix, the fruit and nut mix of candies. I’m usually pretty good at picking out the malted milk balls from the bag, but every once in a while I mistake one for a nice cherry nougat, bite into that sucker, and YAAAAAAAAAHHH!!...spitspitspit. Like some damn malt-bomb. I will buy them for Sergei and the kids at Easter, but I handle the box like it’s full of nitro.

I’m gonna have to stop now, as I distinctly remember seeing part of a Hershey bar in the refrigerator tonight...nowhere near the coffee....

Jealousy, Humanity, Prudence and Hope*

A good friend and ex-co-worker, Don, is a professor of Humanities at a college in Michigan. We keep in touch mostly by email, he’ll occasionally send me the tests he’s given his students (on art, literature, music, what-have-you) and I take them to see how I score in his class. It’s fun, it keeps me on my toes, and we have a good laugh at how much I’ve remembered/forgotten. This morning, Don sent me the syllabus for his fall Intro to Humanities class.

And I’m so freakin’ jealous I could just spit.

I’m a humanities whore.

I mean music, art, film, books, architecture, theatre, language, the creative bents that expand the fabric of the human experience.

I could just roll around in ‘em all day and never get bored, and eat ‘em up like a Roman feast, gorge myself, purge, and eat some more. I know a little about a lot of things, I can speak fairly well about the culture surrounding a work, or the artist’s personal life, or the effect religion/society had on the theme or somethingblahblahblah that I’ve learned along the way.

I’ve learned that insanity has a place in a creative life.

And that there’s no other word like ‘chiaroscuro’.

So, anyway, Don emailed me his syllabus, and I read every word, every extra-credit project he’d offer, every point given for attendance, burning it into my memory, all the while thinking, “I should be teaching this! I’d so rock!” Then the jealousy set in.

Because even though I love my job, it’s just not as fulfilling as I imagine a job teaching Humanities would be.

I drove through campus this morning, stopping at the crosswalks to let profs pass, to let freshman stumble glassy-eyed across, waving at the cute dark-haired guy who waved back when I motioned him. And I thought, “I should be there. I should be crossing. I should be hauling a shoulder bag full of materials and obsessing about this lecture and wondering how the hell I’m gonna get through to that guy in the front who keeps falling asleep.”

It’s too late, I think, it’s too late to go back to school, too costly, too time-intensive. I feel so fully vested in my job, in my current earning-potential, that I can’t imagine the upheaval of totally changing careers.

And yet I can.

But for now, I won’t. I have a connection. I have tests to take. I have a person who wants my opinion on how to structure his Winter Humanities class. I have time to think about it all.

And someday I’ll be in the crosswalk.


(*Bob Mould, forgive me.)

Poems About 'Nads

Last Friday I posted Poems About Boobies. They were fairly easy to write, as I have first-hand knowledge of the little jiggly tatas of love. In response to a comment by the handy QWMaine, I said I would later post poems about 'nads.

And here they are.

More difficult to write, because, well, I don't have them. I have *access* to some, a very awe-inspiring pair, matter of fact, but I don't wear them, they don't move when I walk, and I've never scratched them when I get up in the morning.

Plus it's late, and the poetic area of my brain (that would be in the right hemisphere, I believe) is snoozing somewhere alongside Sergei.

So, for your Friday enjoyment, and to keep the plumb on my creative well, here are poems about 'nads. With a picture of my breasteses at the end. (Wait for it!)

4 Poems About 'Nads And Stuff

With Apologies to T.S. Eliot and Anyone Who's Seen 'Cats':

The Naming of Balls

The Naming of Balls is a difficult thing,
It has to be done with much forethought and skill.
You may think I’m crazy, but the truth I do sing
When I tell you the names I have run through the mill.

First of all, there’s the names that we use in a clinic,
Like Gonads, or Testes, or Glands-in-the-Scrotum.
And though much correct, you may think me a cynic,
But the Balls HATE these names and the doctors who wrote ‘em!

They’d much prefer Nads, or Garbage, or Junk,
Or a name that’s obscure, but much more revealing,
Like Nuts, or The Jewels, or Two Pieces of Funk,
To the ladies, above all, they must be appealing.

On the street, men will speak of their Balls as a joke,
In a show of great brotherhood, spirit, and glee,
Like The Ugly Stepchildren, or Pigs By The Poke,
Or More-Than-A-Mouthful!, or Rocks-By-The-Tree!

But beyond all of this there’s still one little gem,
And here I confess that this may be a rumour,
That if you mistreat them, or squish them, or beat them,
The Balls themselves really have no sense of humour!


With All Apologies to W.H. Auden, and Anyone Who's Seen "Four Weddings and a Funeral":

Funeral Blue Balls

Stop all the traffic, make the lights go red,
For there’s something missing ‘down there’, I dread.
Silence the cell phones and stop the snakes hissing,
For one of my balls has now come up missing.

Let the news choppers circle the city in fleets,
Flying up, flying down, my well-traveled streets.
Because at some crossing or other, I know
That one of my gonads decided to go.

It was my right, my friend, the mate to my left,
Who’s now looking lonely and very bereft.
My morning twiddle, my midnight grope,
I thought my boxers would hold them. But nope.

He must have escaped when I wasn’t looking,
Some plan or another he must have been cooking.
Watch where you step, he’s lying about,
For nothing good comes of your ball popping out.


With All Apologies to Nurserys, Toddlers, Twinkling Stars, and Drunken College Boys Everywhere:

Dangle, dangle, little balls
As I run naked down the halls
To the bathroom now I race
Magic marker on my face

That’ll teach me not to drink
Half a keg of beer...I think....


With All Apologies (Again) to Mike Doughty and Soul Coughing Fans (sung to the tune of "Super Bon Bon" from the cd "Irresistible Bliss":

Super Ball Ball

Drop trou, and let the boys go free
Let the boys go free
Drop trou, and let the boys go free
Let the boys go free

If I go
Forget the underwear
And zip up
If I walk
Commando down the street
and hangin’.

Some kinda bulge
Is what I double dare,
My hands are close
Inside my pockets there,
To rise, to rise, to rise.

Too tight, tight, gotta breathe soon,
Robert Plant musta had a little extra room,
Grab, shift, and they’re there, Super Ball Ball
Super Ball Ball, Super Ball Ball
Too tight, tight, gotta shake it
Gonna make all the honeys wanna make it
Wid’ me, grab, shift, and they’re there, Super Ball Ball
Super Ball Ball, Super Ball Ball

And by
The phones
I see them there
Eighteen
Years old
They point
And stare.

Too tight, tight, it’s inflation,
Damn jeans have cut off the circulation,
Grab, yank, and they’re there, Super Ball Ball
Super Ball Ball, Super Ball Ball
Too tight, tight, gonna pass out
Gonna cut the crap and let my balls of brass out
Grab, zip, and they’re out, Super Ball Ball
Super Ball Ball, Super Ball Ball


Drop trou, and let the boys go free
Let the boys go free
Drop trou, and let the boys go free
Let the boys go free


And now, in honor of the college students returning, a photo of my cleavage, flanked by 'Guns, Germs, and Steel", "Democracy in America", and "The Case of the Female Orgasm". Just to add a little intellectualism. HAH!




(Addendum Warning: The Blogger comment link (top line) is full of spam, and the Haloscan comment link (bottom line) won't display. FAAACK! Use whatever, and I'll play with it this weekend. %&$*#@!)

Punch the Clock

Stupid stupid work.

I should play the lottery.

I should WIN the lottery.

Sitting in an office, day after day, project after project…sigh.

Rushed around and rushed around this morning, getting sleepy me up, getting sleepy kids up, and fed, and dressed, and cleaned, and packed, and goddamn cat hurled her food and water dish down the basement stairs this morning in a fit of evil feline narcissism, and damn college student traffic and WHY THE HELL would the city start major repair of major streets the week the students get back to town? Faaaack!! My 5-year old has more sense than that.

Anyway, bust ass, right? Pull into work, right? Get here, plop down in front of pc with steaming cup o’ java, to…utter boredom. $*$&@^! I’d left a note for my programmer, Jim, on the project we need to get in by this Friday, his program crashed miserably, oh crap, and he needs to fix it. Did he? In the 1 ½ hours since he’s been here, did he fix the thing I need fixed?

No. Nyet. Nuh-uh.

So I’m stopped dead.

Isn’t the first time, I mean, in this line of work, it’s all stop/start/stop/start, depending on what has to be done and who has to make decisions and what kind of crap they’re shoveling on any given day. (Today is lovely steaming heaps of horse ca-ca.) But really, if yer not gonna have my stuff ready, call me and I’ll sleep in! I won’t yell at the kids for the fifth time to get their shoes on! I’ll give Sergei a little sexual tweak-tweak (the Red Aunt left town today, babe!)!

Thing is, I get paid to sit here. As long as I’m on-site, I get paid. Which is so much bullshit. I mean, what about all those times when I’m home and I’ll have questions or ideas or flashes of brilliance and do a little write-up for work? Do I get paid? Hell! No! But if I drag my sorry ass here, I do. Telecommuting? Yeah, I’ve justified that to my boss before, and his boss doesn’t like it (she’s our interim HR manager who’s never taken an HR class and is basically here to be a bitch.) I like my job, don't get me wrong. I like it a lot. But I want to DO it, not wait for it.

It's not like I have nothing to do, I can keep adding onto the project, simulate more 'real life scenarios', but why? It's like if you're in the grocery store and your cart is full and you want to check out but ALL the lanes are closed, so you shop and shop some more and put more stuff in your cart, and then finally they open a couple lanes and you wait and wait and then, when it's your turn, you unload your basket of goodies, cursing, "How did THIS get in here? I don't need this! Mints for cats? What was I thinking?" Sorta like that.

So I’ll scan some blogs, do a little poetry research (maybe Friday should be Poetry Day…hmmm), and figure out how I want to pose myself to take a boobie picture to accompany tomorrow’s post. Drink more coffee, eat some cheese (mmmm…cheese!), and try to stay away from the Night Operator, as everywhere he goes this morning, he’s leaving a trail of stench that smells like Fritos. Really ripe Fritos. I may never eat another corn chip again.

Hot College Student of the Day: Seen riding bicycle in the middle of campus this morning, khaki shorts, green shirt. Shaved head. Huge backpack. Muscular biceps. The kind of thick exercised thighs reminiscent of Lance Armstrong but without the scary “oh-my-god!” definition. His path kept paralleling mine. Nice ass, too. I’m liking the shaved head look, I really am. And the khaki'd ass look. I reeeally am.

Cantcha Smell That Smell?

What is it with my nose and phantom smells? I dunno if y’all have this curious olfactory blip, but every once in a while, I’ll be in a place that should be fairly devoid of any specific smell-age, and allofasudden I’ll be hit in the face with a smell that makes me stop dead in my tracks and spin around and say, “Okay, who’s smokin’ the dope?”

Seriously. Usually the smells are of pot or of beer.

It happens at work usually, sometimes at the library, sometimes at the place where we hold school board meetings, and occasionally in a big-box store.

So, of course, I become a bloodhound and start sniffing around, seeing who’s in proximity and smelling them (only at work, m’kay?), trying to find the source of the smell. And, of course, in a flash, the smell disappears and I look like an idiot with my nose stuck in a pile of half-off t-shirts.

Thing is, I don’t think anyone has quaffed beer or smoked da ganja in any of those places. I think it’s some sort of sensory flashback or vicarious escapism, ‘cause I haven’t smoked since Clinton was in his first presidential term, and the beer I drink doesn’t smell like the cheap-ass shit I keep smellin’.

Of course, driving through campus this morning, any smells I encounter from now until next June actually COULD be beer, pot, really stanky B.O., or other morning-after detritus. Because the college students are coming back!!! In all their bad-driving-ness, in all their jaywalking-bad-behaviour, in all their superhero power and worldliness and cocky superiority. Which I excuse, of course, because they’re all so damn cute and sexy and innocent without their ways of the ‘actual’ world. For the next week or so, they’ll be hanging out on front lawns with tubs of beer and the inevitable water slide (yes, I’m looking forward to a taunting another time!).

You professors who read this blog are really lucky, y’know, to have fresh meat every 3 months. I don’t mean for sexual fantasies (of course that’s where MY head would be), but seeing those little bundles of hormones flutter in and out of your class and watching them be foolish and finally get some important stuff to stick in their heads. Which is more than I can say for being out in the world and having a job where it’s the same boring middle-aged men every frickin’ day and hearing their bitching and whining and trying to talk them off the ledge.

‘Spose I could go back to school and get a learned degree and become a perfesser of something (sexology?) and experience college again, over and over, for the rest of my life. Mmm…maybe too much of a temptation, offering ‘extra credit one-on-one sessions’ to the cutest boys in class. Don’t think I wouldn’t! I’d be the “Perv Professor” and they’d write me up in the underground ‘rating the professor’ pamphlets and stuff. So no, no sexy college classes for me, nuh-uh, nosirree bob. Gotta keep my distance from all the young men.

But maybe they could score me some beer and pot.

Whenever I Want You, All I Have To Do Is Dreeeeeeeeammm….

1) Yesterday I had waaay more spam comments than real. So Sergei, in his wisdom, got me hooked up to Haloscan last night. So the bottom comment links (including ‘Speak!’) are Haloscan now. Ooh, and eXTReMe Tracking, which I’m finding endlessly fascinating (‘cause it looks like work-related information) and Sergei warned me not to get too obsessed with it.


2) The Boy-Child had a great idea last night for a new product. Butt-Mints. For when yer butt has that not-so-fresh feeling. Great idea! I suppose an Altoid would fit up there, but I’m thinking a ‘special butt-formula’ would be better. I’m also thinking these products would be good:

a) Expando-Legs. I’m 5’6”, and Sergei is 6’3”. He can reach way more stuff than I can. I think it would be great to strap on some bionic legs in the morning, sort of like drywallers use but collapsible, and walk around at my normal height until I need to be taller for just a minute or two. Flip a switch…brrrr…up I go!...the Expando-Legs make me 8 feet tall!...and I flip another switch and…bzzzzz…go back down.

b) X-Ray Contacts. Looks like regular contacts but lets me see through walls. And college boys jeans.

c) Period Power-Flush. Okay, the Angry Red Aunt stays for 7 days. It’s just TOO long. I want a machine, like a power-washer, to gently slide inside my snoopy and with all care and concern, flush that period out in a few hours. It’s okay if I have to be drunk first to dull the irritation.


3) I had a plethora (a plethora!) of dreams last night which I actually remembered in great detail. That’s weird for me.

Sergei and the kids and I volunteered to be on one of those PBS shows where you go back in time and live like the Pilgrims or Prairie folk, only we had to go live with the Amish, but just for a couple days. The kids liked the clothes, but not the chores. The camera guys followed us everywhere, and I tried to give them as many butt-shots as possible. Sergei worked behind a plow the whole time, so the kids and I went out lookin’ around, with some Amish tour-guide woman, and went into a shop that sold various kinds of sausages. Thing is, they cooked the sausages for you and then you bought it and took it home and ate it. We bought two pounds of two different sausages, and the lady selling it to us thought we were crazy to ‘mix our sausages’…hmmm?? Then we went back to the Amish house and the kids were bored (“Do we have to be Amish?”), and the PBS guys decided to switch the cast, so they cast Orange and her Ben as my family (Ben was a baby, about 2 months old). And then WE went and bought sausages at the same place. Then I noticed that beside the sausage place was a 7-11…in Amish country?

Then the dream changed and I was driving Pepa (or was it Salt?) from Salt-N-Pepa around in Amish country, looking for burritos. So where did we go? The 7-11 behind the sausage place. Then Salt (or was it Pepa?) turned into Pisser, and we ate burritos.

Then the dream changed again and I was driving Chris Rock around Amish country. We were going on a date. (Why Chris Rock? The last time I saw him in anything was ‘Elmopalooza’. It’s Sesame Street. Go with me, here.) Chris and I had a date, and I picked him up in this Hummer Limo. I drove. He wanted to take me to a play and to dinner. Instinctively, I drove him to the 7-11 place for burritos, but he thought a sit-down place would be nicer. So we drove to a restaurant where fancy-schmancy folks could drive their vehicles inside. Which I did. Chris got a table and we sat down and started drinking wine and chatting. I looked up and Sergei was there with the kids, just makin’ sure I was okay with Chris. I smiled and waved and got back to my date.

Then the dream started winding down, and Rob Helpy-Chalk and I were guys doing our Fantasy Football Picks. Doin’ that guy razzing thing, that ‘you fucking bastard’ thing that guys do, sort of like when my friend V and I call each other ‘slut’ when we see each other. We got all up in each other’s faces and wrangled and haggled and drank lots of IPA and watched some sporting thing, not football, something with bloodshed and riots…rugby…soccer…something.

Then the alarm went off.

Sausage, anyone?

Orgasm on a Spoon

I finished my lunch with an orgasm that helped drive my migraine into a chair in the back of the room.

There was no sex involved. No masturbation. Not even my standard kinky orgy fantasy (several male friends, several bloggers (both sexes), Sergei, and 5 Freebie Lays).

It was my lunch (and when I typed that just now, my fingers quivered and my snoopy started throbbing).

See, this weekend I made chunky garden gazpacho, full of cilantro and peppers and tomatoes and chick peas and garlic and other veggies and hot stuff. And it’s just a slice of nirvana, all lumpy and bumpy and chilled and succulent (drool) and it tickles yer tongue and sends shivers down yer spine (oh baby, oh yes!).

I brought some in today for lunch. Eating it was like foreplay, long licking foreplay, and halfway through I got that…”feeling”, ya know the one, in your nethers, getting tingly and the blood rushing there and then your arms feel like they’re on fire? That one. And the more I ate, the better I felt. As I was slurping down the last little bits, wishing I had more, those little waves came, you know, food orgasm waves, almost like the sex ones, and then…gulp!...AHHHHH!...and it was over, and my head felt not quite so bad and the nausea almost gone.

So.

I believe that’s evidence of food masturbation, without using a banana or cucumber.

Sometimes A Fantasy, Oh Oh Oh Oh

Yeah, you can bust my ass today. Go ahead. Yell at me, I totally deserve it.

After months of telling me to go to my doctor and get a Rx for Topamax or some other migraine medication, and me saying, "Yeah, Yeah, good idea", did I actually do it?

Hell no.

So the aura I got in my eyes half an hour ago? The one that means I'm gonna have a fucking whopper of a migraine? Yeah, that thing? And the nausea that's creeping over me? And the crushing of my head between invisible fingers? My fucking goddamn fault.

YES, I LOVE PAIN, THANKS!

I already warned my boss, so he's prepared for me to be pretty useless today (more than usual).

I'm trying to stave off the nausea by fantasizing about Colin Firth. We stumbled across a movie of his I hadn't seen, "Hope Springs", and Sergei watched the whole thing with me...of course it also had Heather Graham in various states of undress. Colin was delicious, OMG, made for fantastic shower masturbation material. Last night we saw a preview for another movie he did, a thriller, "Trauma", which Sergei thought looked a lot like "Jacob's Ladder". Prolly a bad movie, but hey, my mind wouldn't exactly be on the plot if Colin were there in various states of undress and distress!

Know what I've never done? Tried to masturbate away a headache. Hmmm...I have no idea why that thought has never occurred to me. That tension/release blood-flow thing might have a positive effect, I dunno. Anybody found this beneficial?

'Course I'm not sure I want to do it at work.

Think I need to sign off now, rest my head. Somebody kick me.

Poems About Boobies

It occurred to me this week that I've been far too wistful and la-de-frickin'-da, and not sexy enough in my posts. And the lovely Annush made it clear: I am cutting down on my blog reading until people cheer up. Too many broken hearts, too many sappy posts.

Damn straight, sistah!

I told her I'd write a boobie post. And I am. Boobies plus some sex, sports, elephants and volcanos.

I thought I'd plagarize a few poets I enjoy, 'cause I like pokin' da fun. Sergei had his Fantasy Football Draft tonight and had the computer tied up, so I tried writing poetry longhand. HAH!!! I've totally forgotten how to do that. I have no creativity unless I'm sitting in front of a pc, typing my fingerprints off (which is pretty pathetic). But I banged out a bunch of stuff, okay, around midnight, so I'm not being especially politically correct, and yes, this is a long post, and suck it up! And yes, I was thinking outside my gender at how guys view boobies. Lovely, round, supple, sweet boobies. And sex, 'cause they're like, attached. So, anyway. All apologies to the poets mentioned here, I meant no offense. Only tittilation. (Get it? Tit? Oh, I'm a scream, admit it.)

5 Poems About Boobies And Stuff

With Apologies to Wm. Shakespeare:

Shall I compare them to two melons ripe?
Thou art well-stacked, like a wall of brick
Rough hands on my pants do wipe
And my crotch is getting mighty thick.

Sometimes too hotly my eyes burn
On your round fruit so sweet and perky
And in your cleavage cleft I yearn
To fill the space with my thick jerky

But thy eternal lust shall not be quenched
Nor lose the fire in your snoopy
Until my linen shirt be drenched
With sweat, and my briefs become quite droopy

So long as you are willing
And I am able
So long we'll screw
Under every dining table


With Apologies to Walt Whitman:

To the left and to the right
To the large and to the small
Those with uplifted nipples, the push of satin bound in wire
Those with soft cups, full of life and desire,
I say to one and all
I will eat thee 'ere I sleep,
And wake with dreams of boobly-oobly on my lips.


With Apologies to Mike Doughty (and sung to the tune of "27 Jennifers"):
("listen", under the Skittish/Rockity Roll section)

27 Pairs of Breasts

I had a dream of 27 pairs of breasts
15 B's, 8 Cs, and the Ds…the best
Hand on my bone, an'
Thrashin' and moanin'
The horniness stinks up the room

They could be the groupies my guy promised me,
I could be the Sex King now, yeah,
They could be the girlies in my chick posse
They could ring my king-ding-dong now, yeah

Signed autographs on 27 pairs of breasts
19 As, 3 Bs, I forget the rest
Still I'm so horned up
The cute ones phoned up
The only one here is my hand

Where are those groupies my guy promised me?
Where is my Sex King crown now?
Wonder what's on Playboy Channel teevee
Maybe just a Latin fantasy

27 pairs of breasts
27 pairs of breasts


With Apologies to ee cummings:

may I squeeze?, said he
if you please, said she

like this? said he
can't miss, said she

great rack!, said he
hook's in back!, said she

too rough? said he
not enough! said she

you're a tease, said he
on your knees, said she

want to fuck? said he
you're in luck, said she

lift your dress, said he
oh yes, said she

what's that?, said he
not a twat!, said she

it's a dick!, said he
yes, my prick, said (s)he

you're a dude?!, said he
don't be rude, said (s)he

b-b-but the breasts!, said he
saline's best, said (s)he

gotta go!, said he
now whoa!, said (s)he

look, your pole, said (s)he
hmmm
got a hole?, said he

you're cute, said (s)he
do I suit?, said he

wanna screw? said (s)he
bet I do!, said he


With Apologies to Biblical Scholars and Football Fans:

Song of Solomon (Solomon Jackson, Chicago Bears Fan)

O!, Daughters of the East (Coast), I pray you
And daughters of the Mid(West), take heed;
Daughters of the West (Coast), Arise!
Fear not the onlookers!
Run into the fields of grapes, and honey, and nard
And shed the confines of bras and camisoles!
Run! Run to he who awaits you
With cups and cups of beer,
Bread and cheese from the finest faraway ports
of Wisconsin,
Sheepskin blankets,
Cable television, and French ticklers.
Run to him who is your stallion,
Your field hand,
And a pretty nice guy.
Run! Jumpeth his bones,
And maketh him to lie down on the couch,
whereupon his merriment will arise
Like a goalpost,
And await your mounting,
but quickly,
for it is merely halftime.

O, his left hand will be under your ass,
and his right hand reaching the remote.
God be praised for football season!

Be You Blithe and Bonny

1) This morning the Weather Channel was ‘predicting’ (HA!) the weather for the next WEEK. And they truly suck at this. Okay, they show the big screen with my general geographic area, and there’s a huge mess o’ clouds coming our way, and I can see it’ll hit here in, oh, 4 hours or so. And what’s their prediction? Sunny! All day! Tomorrow too! Liar liar pants on fire, you stupid jerks. So I was thinking in my deliriously sleepy state, maybe they should venture into predicting other things that maybe they have a better chance of getting right. Like, oh, invasion by monsters from outer space…“100% chance of no attacks by Mothra today!”…”30% chance of occasional death rays by Gargantu-thon, clearing by evening.”

2) I saw the bestest bumper sticker on a car at the kids camp. Playing on the WWJD theme, which previously was topped by “Who Would Jesus Bomb” and “What Would DOG Doo”, came this one: WWJCD: “What Would Johnny Cash Do?” I will be giving these out as Christmas presents.

3) I found Sergei new eye candy this morning. Dropping the kids off at camp, a mom was taking her wee one inside. She was sort of tall, not too thin but athletic, dark hair pulled up in a stylish sweep, grey suit that hugged her body. Her rack was okay, her face was nice, but…DAMN! THAT ASS!!! I mean…frick!!! I was gettin’ all latent lesbian and stuff. So, honey, you might want to do some kid wranglin’ in the a.m., say, about 8-ish??

4) ‘Course the lesbian thoughts didn’t last long ‘cause ‘Much Ado About Nothing’ was on tv this morning (after I threw something at the Weather Channel screen). And damn, but Denzel Washington is hella HOT! Especially in a puffy shirt and leather vest. And thoughts of him pushed out the MILF fantasy.

5) Yeah, so, the super-special dessert I was hoping to make last night for work today FAILED, and in a big way. I was gonna do a sort of Mexican Cannoli. Make the filling with ricotta and mini choc chips and roll it up in tortillas, sprinkle some cinnamon sugar and honey in there, should be good, right? I even made a test one a couple days ago and both Sergei and I agreed…yummy. HOWEVER. There’s something chemical about ricotta that apparently I’ve never been told. ‘Cause last night I dumped that cheesey tub in a bowl with some sugar and vanilla and teeny choc bits, stirred it up…and got soup. SOUP. Not conducive for rolling up in anything other than a plastic bag for the garbage. So I stuck it in the frig for 2 hours. Still soup. Added a block of cream cheese. Soup. Dumped in cups of powdered sugar. Soup-ier! Some flour. Soupsoupsoup. Fuckin’ hell. SO. I got out a pan, threw some graham crackers in the bottom, added some eggs to my disastrous cheese soup mixture, poured it in the pan, and baked it. Voila! Cheesecake! It has these weird holes on the top, and the crust is truly too crunchy and not sweet enough, but the filling is really delish. And anyway, I brought a squeezey jar of chocolate syrup, and anything’s good topped with chocolate.
(Update: 15 minutes after lunch started, EVERY SINGLE PIECE of this cheesecake was gone. GONE! Everyone's stopping by my cube and rubbing their tummies in "mmm-good" poses and asking for the bloody recipe! WTF???? How can this shit happen?)

6) Except I had to try a piece of the cheesecake this morning and it was good but on an empty stomach, I now am queasy. Does Rachel Ray have this problem??

7) BitchPhD is awesome! Oh, and did anyone else see her mentioned in the MSNBC blog "Clicked" on August 12? This copy included: Your 8/10 "Clicked" linked to a factcheck.org article taking NARAL to task for its anti-Roberts ads.
Interestingly, your 8/9 link to the "Nice Guys and Bitchy Women" blog lead me to the home page for "Bitch Ph.D.", where she had posted NARAL's response to factcheck.org's analysis... I like the title: "Factcheck.org Could Use a Good Fact Checker".

8) That is all.

Hey, Who Took My Libido??!

Alright now, I’m seriously pissed off, ‘cause I had a perfectly healthy sex drive here just a minute ago, and now it’s gone. If you took it, goddamn it, GIVE IT BACK!

What’s it look like? Well, uh, pink (I suppose), and sort of quivery, and prone to sexual fantasies of all sorts, at all times, in all situations. And it likes to touch itself, and one special man named Sergei. It’s pretty quiet, usually, when it’s in bed or in the shower or just driving along, stuck in traffic, thinking of other, sexier things. But if Sergei is around, it goes all wookie-crazy and yelps and howls and pants and stuff.

Where does it usually live? Several places…my brain, for one, my tingly nether-regions for another, and basically every inch of my skin. ‘Zat vague enough for ya?

When did I lose it? Um…I guess last week sometime. I really wasn’t paying attention, ya know, Sergei and I had that really sexy, passionate weekend without the kids, and there was My Libido, just bouncing around, getting all up in our junk, really playful. Then the kids came back, and I got this project at work that’s biting my ass, but hard, and school’s coming up and dance class and I still have to buy tap shoes and cool 3-hole binders. PLUS I somehow got tired, I dunno how that happened, I’m exhausted at night when the kids should be (but aren’t), and I just don’t have time to play with the Little Libido. Matter of fact, I was in the shower last night, which is usually where Libido comes in and gets my fingers all busy with my snoopy, and I looked around and…no Libido!...and I just sort of said, “Oh well”, and popped open a Dr. Bronner’s bottle. There’s taekwondo tonight AND I’m supposed to make 3 or 4 desserts for a fundraiser at work tomorrow, so it’s doubtful I’ll see the little bugger any time soon.

Any distinguishing marks? You mean, other than being, like, a RAGING MASS OF HORMONES? Other than that??? Well, you’ll know it when you see it, ‘cause it’ll start humpin’ yer leg and moaning and pulling you into the laundry room for a quickie over the dryer. OR it’ll give you sexual fantasies, the likes you’ve never seen, involving several members of the opposing team, a large table, good lighting, ice cream toppings, a feather boa, a tub of butter, a large athletic sock, several pieces of fruit, 3 yards of satin, a well-worn leather saddle, tequila, a razor, and clove cigarettes. Or something like that.

Please, if you’ve seen My Libido, please post a comment, or email me, at explodium@yahoo.com. There’s no reward, ‘cause, really, you can’t put a price on that stuff. But you’ll get my undying gratitude.

Thanking you in advance,

Mona

Hummmmmmm....

Little things that made my day (so far):

1) Getting ready for work and then crawling back into bed with Sergei for some spoon action.
2) Trying to wake up Girl-child and hearing, “No! I need to go back to sleep and finish my dream!” And TOTALLY getting her burning desire, letting her sleep for 5 more minutes, waking her up again. “What was your dream about?” “Popsicles.” Yes! What better dream is there for a sweaty 5-year old???
3) Boy-child finding his missing GameBoy Wireless Remote at daycamp. Hooray!
4) New Late Guy being on time today for the 10 a.m. Projects Meeting so we could discuss his project. Congrats on the new alarm clock!
5) Local bookstore left a voice-mail message about some book I special ordered, essays on censorship. Picked it up at lunchtime, expecting it to cost $25 or more. Surprise! $15! Still sealed in plastic! And they validate parking!
6) Finding a super-secret driving path through campus to circumvent the road construction they decided to undertake ONE WEEK before the college students get back. Suckahs!
7) Caught my reflection in the window of a door at work. I’m looking goooooood today!
8) A boring salad is improved 1000% by putting something crunchy on top. Sunflower seeds, for instance.
9) Friends emails with photos of animals in cute poses actually made me laugh instead of groan and hit ‘Delete’.
10) Co-worker friend brought in guacamole he made last night. OMG. Fantastic! Ole!

Yeah, and there were some things that should have bugged me today, but I chose not to think about them. ‘Cause really, I don’t want nuthin’ harshin’ my mellow today…!

A Flock of Geese Flew South This Morning, Over My Head, and My Internal Summer Thermometer Screamed, !NO!

I’m not ready for fall.

I am loath to break out the sweaters and boots. To have to wear socks. To plan great crocks of chili and the darkness being pulled over earlier and earlier, like a down blanket at bedtime and no one is sleepy.

The kids start school in three weeks. Boy-child worried last night about who his third-grade teacher would be, and then I started worrying about who would be in his class, if his teacher would appreciate his kind heart and open maw for learning. If that big kid who doesn’t realize how strong he is would tackle him repeatedly at touch football…like last year. Could I still chaperone their outings, would there be time for me to be in the classroom, to work in the library. I’m having one of those dreams about being in school and missing a test, and realizing it’s not me, but some weird connection with my children and their fears are still mine.

Girl-child is going to kindergarten. She’s ready, she’s reading up a storm, and so, so curious, and she’ll do fine, I keep telling myself, she’ll be amazing and charming and she won’t take any shit from anyone, but please don’t let her talk back to the teacher like she talks back to me, and make sure the boys are nice and the girls especially so. Will she be okay in the lunchroom, it’s so loud? Will she be okay on the playground, the bigger kids running around and around the younger? I have to distance myself from worry, but I’m wearing it like a furry coat, stuck to me like Velcro.

It’s too warm. It’s too sunny. I’m not done with summer. It hasn’t even begun for me. I want to lie on a blanket in the grass and hear the cicadas whirring, and feel the ants crossing my sweaty legs, just a hill here, a hill there, on their way to food in tall blades of grass. I want to drink gallons of iced tea, and pick strawberries in the patch. I want to watch my kids playing in the surf of some big lake, rub sunscreen over their pink backs, slosh through the sand to buy ice-cream-drumsticks that crumble chocolate bits all over our faces.

I want to fall asleep to warm night air ruffling my humid sheets, to croaking frogs, to tell the temperature counting the crickets legs moving like violin bows.

I am not ready for summer to end.

I Have No Balls

I’m a big pussy. Confrontation makes my sphincter tighten up, my throat fill with angst, and the ‘flight or fight’ response kicks my ass so I can usually be found hiding in a bathroom stall or taking an early, early lunch.

(Unless someone is threatening my kids. Or I perceive a threat. Then I have balls the size of 600-pound record-breaking pumpkins and turn into the meanest bad-ass mama lion you’ve ever seen. I WILL tear your head off with one swift bite to the throat, and leave your dead, mangled body for the vultures to consume. Just so we’re clear.)

Even through the white noise at work, I can hear the high-pitched nasal whine of our Night Computer Operator. He’s a bizarre man. He rarely showers. (One year at Christmas, we gave him a ‘care package’ that included soap, deodorant, shaving cream, and razors…we don’t think he touched any of it. I’m not kidding, sometimes the stench coming off his body is so bad, it makes our eyes water…I’m not exaggerating.) He lives on regular Coke and boxes of Little Debbie snack cakes. He’s here from 11 p.m. to 8 a.m. While he does his job really, really well, and never misses a day, and is a valuable asset to the company…he creeps us all out. Mightily.

He used to live in a van (down by the river!), seriously! Then when it got too full of used computer equipment, he got a small apartment. No phone. No pool. No pets. He married a Cuban National or something, knocked her up twice (which we shudder at...the thought of him naked…’scuse me while I wipe up the pre-vomit). Then she moved with the kids to one of the Dakota states and divorced him. He’s lonely, and we all realize that, but he’s one of those guys that doesn’t stop talking…ever…and won’t leave when social morays dictate.

Also…he never cuts his hair…and he never shaves…and he’s mostly gray…so he looks like the Abominable Snowman from “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer”. I mentioned this to the guys in my department a few years ago at a meeting (without Night Operator) and we all laughed. Then they began buying me Abominable Snowman action figures. I have half a dozen in my cube. Now every time Night Operator pops his head in my area, and he looks particularly hairy, I have to stifle a screamy-laugh at his ‘Bumble’ appearance.

When I hear Night Operator in the morning, talking way too loud, way too much, I pray he won’t come looking for me. It’s like being caught in a trap I can’t walk out. We even have a ‘save-me’ system, if I hear him in a co-worker’s cube, droning on and on and on, I’ll call co-worker and make some excuse for him to come see me, some software problem or whatnot. That’s usually enough to make Night Operator find something else to do or someone else to bug. The problem is, Night Operator usually has something company-related to talk about. But what a normal person could get the answer to in one minute, Night Operator takes ten. Painful.

He was here this morning. I made myself a small little worker-bee and didn’t venture out of my little space. I was the Invisible Woman.

I know, I know, I’m a bitch.

I feel bad about that, I really do.

It’s exclusionary tactics, and after my post yesterday about girls being evil, here I am being…EVIL.

If Night Operator took better care of himself…if he didn’t talk so much…if he didn’t stand so close…if he left a group discussion when we’re all pulling ourselves along the wall to get away…or if he looked like Johnny Depp in ‘Don Juan DeMarco’…then it would be different.

So. I’ll keep being nice, polite, I’ll answer his questions, I’ll gently back away when the conversation is really over, I’ll save my co-workers and be saved, and try to see things from his point of view…a lonely man who just wants to belong.

His care package at Christmas this year will still contain soap and razors, though. Oh yes.

Girls Are Evil

I’ve been dreading this, having to deal with the real fact that girls are mean, spiteful, hateful creatures.

And by this, I mean little girls. The wee ones.

I’ve been told for some time by other moms, ladies that I respect, that little girls have more loathing than any other creature on earth. They’re catty and callous. They’re jealous and shallow. They stab their friends in the back and then pretend to care.

What? My own kind? My gender? No…uh-uh…no way.

And yesterday I had to swallow hard and accept the fact that from now on, I will have to calm and sooth the evil-girl-byproducts of my daughter’s peers.

Girl-child’s class (pre-kindergarteners, all 5 years old) was supposed to go on a field trip yesterday, to some lovely gardens. I dropped her off at preschool with her sack lunch, her tennis shoes for walking, her sunscreen, and a big kiss and hug and “Have a good time!” They would get on the bus at 8:45 a.m. and return late in the afternoon.

I got a call at work at 9 a.m.

The childcare coordinator of the preschool.

Saying, “I have a little girl in my office who didn’t get to go on the field trip today.”

Oh. Fuck. What, did she beat someone up?

The coordinator couldn’t tell me much, other than as they were getting ready to get on the bus for the field trip, Girl-child threw some sort of fit that her teacher couldn’t deal with, and the snap decision was made to leave her behind. But no one knew EXACTLY what had transpired.

So she let me talk to Girl-child. Who said this:

“We were in standing in line to get on the bus. And they put two kids in each seat. And they said Patricia and Girl-child would sit on one seat together. Then Patricia (Girl-child's voice broke at this point and she started crying)…then Patricia said to me in a mean voice, “I hate you.” And it hurt my feelings. So I said “I hate you too!” But I didn’t, really, I just wanted her to feel as bad as me. Then she told a teacher what I said, and no one would listen to me, and I ran in the corner and cried. And then The Coordinator came and brought me to the office.”

Now Patricia is a friend of Girl-child, they play together every day. What in the world would possess her to say to her friend, “I hate you”? Maybe I’m just old-fashioned, but in my day, saying that to anyone would have gotten me a spanked bottom and a bar of Ivory soap in my mouth.

I talked Girl-child down a bit. I was honest. I said, if a friend of mine said that to me, I probably would have done the same thing, or at least wanted to. BUT, next time, tell a teacher right away, you don’t have to be mean just because your friend was mean. Use your words next time, okay? Even though it’s hard, even if it hurts. Girl-child was afraid I’d be mad at her, and I think it surprised her to hear me sympathetic to her plight.

So I spoke with The Coordinator and filled her in on the story. We’re both grown women, both rational, and agreed that, yeah, actually, we’d probably feel the same way Girl-child did. But talking about it to a teacher first would have been a better choice, albeit one that would have jumped over the instinct of self-preservation. Tough decision there. And because this happened as they were getting on the bus, there was no time to take Girl-child aside and ascertain what happened, talk with Patricia, give a hug. A decision had to be made. I was okay with that. As it turned out, Girl-child hung out with The Coordinator most of the morning, did errands with her, played on her computer. Then Girl-child hung out in the toddler room for the rest of the day. I picked her up just as the bus was returning from the field trip, and ushered her out before she could catch sight of Patricia. I figured, hey, let’s give it overnight and see how tomorrow goes. I couldn’t deal with a face-to-face.

This isn’t the first time little girls have shown this colour. Apparently the girls in her class are apt to say, after an altercation, “Well, you’re NOT invited to my birthday party!” Exclusionary tactics, ah yes, and it makes the recipient of the news always, always cry. One girl went so far as to tell Girl-child, “You were on the list to come to my birthday party, then we crossed you off.” Oh, joy, then we had to have the talk about, “You won’t be invited to every party”, even though in MY day, you wouldn’t discuss parties in public so as not to hurt feelings of the uninvited.

Some mom friends with elementary school daughters have related stories of girls saying to their “friends”, “You smell, I don’t want to sit by you”, “You’re ugly, go away”, “You’re not my friend any more, and I never liked you”. Can you imagine if a friend of yours treated you this way? I’d be incensed. Livid and pissed off.

Maybe it’s just that little girls have not the correct words for what they really want to say, the emotion they want to express, or the desire to be polite. Perhaps what Patricia really wanted to say to Girl-child was, “I’ve been playing with Sofia all morning, I’d really like to sit by her on the trip, if you don’t mind.” That’s a pretty grown-up statement, and somehow we expect children to have the grace of politeness and respect, when really their vocabulary is limited to the feeling of “No”, and then ‘hate’ gets thrown in there.

I read a study years ago that said little boys have more friends, but the relationships aren’t as deep, whereas little girls have fewer friends but with deeper relationships. If this is true, then girls will be subject to greater hurt when a supposed ‘friend’ turns on them. And it doesn’t take much…just a few words said unkindly can throw an emotional curve ball in the mix, and the recipient can either duck or get hit with it. And ducking is almost impossible. Even for big girls.

Maybe I’m making too much of this. I know I have to let Girl-child stand on her own feet. And I was, in all honesty, proud of her for how she handled herself. She turned the ‘hate’ back on the girl. Unfortunately, the timing was off, no one could hear her side of the story, and she missed a field trip. And it didn’t stop her from feeling bad. But she did what she felt was best for her.

I’m astonished that little girls can be so cruel.

Hope to god they change before they become big girls, and I have to deal with them as adults.

Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is?

Yes. Yes I do.

And YOU’RE LATE, Mister New Guy.

I hate being tardy. Hate it worse than bad veggies, worse than insulin injections, worse than the fact that Spanish television has beautiful women for Sergei and ugly men for me.

My family brought this on me. My parents purposely set all the clocks in the house 5 minutes ahead, a mental psych-out that somehow got us to work and school and church and 4-H on time, even with a few minutes to spare. We got the best seats, the freshest food, the self-obsessing glee at noting who was late.

So I grew up in a time-jumped world. And now in my house, all clocks, watches, and VCRs have the time set 5-10 minutes fast. (And I hate that I can’t change the time on the cable boxes or the caller id. Control freaky-girl.)

I like being early.

And now we jump to work.

My company has a very liberal flex-time policy. VEEEERY liberal. Core hours, the times you MUST be here, are 10 a.m. to 3 p.m., with 2 hours allowed between those times for lunch. Any time you want. As long as you put in 40 hours a week. Fridays, you can leave as early as Noon if you have your time in. Some people come in at 6 am, work until 3 with no lunch break, and work 4 hours on Friday. Some come in at 9, work until 6, take an hour lunch. It’s really up to each person to figure out what works best for them. And it’s a sweet policy.

Until you start abusing it.

Then the malenky little hairs on my neck stand up and I sincerely just want to punch you, and not a friendly shoulder-punch, but more a fist-to-jaw punch, the kind that rattles your head-cage, the kind that makes you afraid of me and willing to do what I ask. Not being a violent person, I hold the punch-reflex inside my belly until it explodes in exhausted-mom sighs and then I have to tattle on you.

The new programmer we hired a month ago is constantly late. Okay, we hired him even though he was LATE to his FIRST interview with us. Half an hour late. And he didn’t call to let us know that he would be late. He was late to his second interview. Late to the luncheon to introduce him to our department. Late late late. He’s a good programmer. But the lateness thing has wrenched my panties in a bunch that sticks in my crack.

Last week the boss was on vacation. New Guy didn’t show up until AFTER 10 a.m. EVERY day of the week. So several of us made notes of when he arrived and calmly, politely, squealed on him to the boss this week. Because that crap MUST stop.

Now look. If you can’t get your sorry ass outta bed by, oh, 9:30 a.m. and throw on clothes and get to work by 10, then you need more alarm clocks. You need your wife and three kids to kick your sorry excuse for a working-class ass outta bed and get you here ON TIME. ‘Cause you know what? You’re still technically on probation. For two more months. And even though you’re a good worker, you’re not HERE when we need you to be. And we can fire you with that cause alone. It took you 6 months to find THIS job, are you really so willing to let that go, because you are lazy and slothful and ignorant and rude?

TEN AY-EM.

Is that so bloody hard?

The Big Reveal

I mentioned a while back that I really dig the artist Mark Ryden. His works are intricate and disturbing, which I find endlessly fascinating. He repeats images, like a hidden puzzle, like finding Waldo.

With Chagall, you expect floating figures and bright colors.
With Georgia O'Keeffe, you expect cow skulls and flowers.
With Mark Ryden, you expect children. Meat.

And bees.

When I was about 10 years old, I stepped on a bee while walking outside, barefoot. It scared me more than it hurt me, but I still made a big deal out of it and cried to my mom, who calmly got the stinger out and applied a compress of baking soda and water, and dosed me with yummy orange children's aspirin. I cursed the stupid insects, and wished them all dead. My mom, in her 'even-steven' way, reminded me that bees are the only way we get honey, and the best way for the flowers to become pollinated and grow so beautifully.

Point taken.

There are few things that startle a bright summer afternoon more than seeing a bee near you, in your food, locked in your car. They wield tremendous power, without meaning to. We're afraid of them. Yet, without them, we would miss so much sweetness, so much beauty.

Ah, the dilemma.

When I saw the bee in this Ryden painting, I felt I had to have it. The stance. Innocently waiting to see what will happen. Will it fly away? Will it fly at me? What's the story?

I took a copy of this painting to my tattoo artist.

He did a great job.

This is it from a distance:



And this is a close-up, without my hair in the way. (Damn, I have a lot of freckles back there.)





I like it. A lot. Of course it's a bit itchy and still technically healing, and it freaked out the boy-child when he first saw it. And my boss couldn't wait to see it today. It didn't hurt so much. It was actually a pretty pleasant experience.

Yeah.

I'm gonna get more.

As long as I have obsessions, and as long as I don't run out of hidden places to put them.

The Party's Over

Ten Things That Totally Rocked About Last Weekend:

1) Drinking all the alcohol we could hold
2) Eating everything we wanted
3) Sleeping in late
4) Sex. Screaming sex. Whenever we wanted.
5) Not cooking ONE meal at home…the only dishes to be done were for the cat’s dinners.
6) The quiet…ah…the quiet.
7) Not having to tie anyone’s shoes, reminding anyone to pee before we left, or breaking up sibling squabbles.
8) Reading a book with no interruptions. (That McSweeneys book is awesome!)
9) Being alone with Sergei and doing grown-up things.
10) Knowing the kids were safe and having fun.

Ten Things That Totally Sucked About Last Weekend:

1) Wanting to upload tattoo pictures for blog and realizing our home internet conx was down (damn you, SBC!).
2) Four loads of laundry, after the dirt-caked kids were home. I finished at 1 a.m.
3) Groceries, oh, shit, I have to plan dinners and lunches again.
4) Sunday night having to remember all the things that need to be done for Monday…backpacks, sleeping bags, lunches, taekwondo uniform, bills to be mailed, camp schedule. Frick.
5) Girlchild crying all the way home because she missed the grandparents she just left.
6) Boychild crying because I yelled at him when we got home, and ‘grandma and grandpa didn’t do that’, and I’m a mean-ass mom.
7) Four days worth of beer and endless food expanding my belly, oh great, it’s Atkins time.
8) Seeing note on calendar, “Pap test” for next week.
9) Thinking I’m dying when I finally get to bed because I feel pukey and my back hurts like death and is creeping up my neck and strangling my head, and all I can do is whimper and Sergei is rubbing my back and I’m seriously thinking about taking a dozen Motrin *just to see what happens*.
10) Work? I have to work? What the fuuuuuck? 6 a.m. is a criminal time to wake up.

Hopefully tattoo pictures tomorrow. And looking forward to almost a week off around Labor Day weekend. And I have no witty little ditty to end this blog post with.

Even a Sex Addict Needs Some Downtime

Yes, it's true. Sergei and I went to several very large malls around the Detroit area yesterday, and he told me, flat out, that he'd buy me anything I wanted. ANYTHING. We walked around and around, past dozens of jewelry stores, past high-end clothing stores, past Sharper Image and the Discovery Channel store, up and down escalators, past the swarm of old Italian men holding a makeshift 'family' meeting in one of the mall's lesser-frequented seating areas, past the gaggles of buxom chippies searching for refreshment and perhaps the chance to be noticed.

And what did I ask Sergei to buy me? What did I really, really want?

A book.

A very, very funny book. "Created in Darkness by Troubled Americans: The Best of McSweeney's Humor Category." Which I'm reading between frequent bouts of highly-charged-sex and excursions to local restaurants for eating and much drinking. MUCH drinking. I'm full. And yet so horny. Hmmm....

Last night Sergei and I went to an Italian restaurant, got good and pasta-d up, and dashed across the street to a bar with live music. More beer, 70's funk/R&B, and public displays of affection. I threw Sergei in the car and drove him to the university gardens where we got married. The place was technically closed, but we parked anyway, walked the brick path to the presentation place where we said our vows, stood on the exact pavement pieces where we stood 10 years earlier, and said "I Do" all over again. Kissed, got horny, came home.

Tattoo pics to follow, maybe Monday. Time for a beer, and hot monkey sex.

Sex, Drunks, and Tattoos

Sergei and I just dropped the kids off at the in-laws house for four days of fun. On the way back, we stopped for a leisurely lunch at a nice restaurant ("nice" = "no chicken nuggets on the menu"), and lovely tall glasses of beer. We stopped at a local brewery and picked up several enticing varieties for home. I am about to jump in the shower, jump Sergei, and relax with more malt beverage before heading out for dinner, more drinks, and tattoos.

I may check in later and let you know how much debauchery a 10-year wedding anniversary celebration can include. (Photos? Hmmm...intriguing....)

Sleep well!

'70s Funk Music MEME

The sexy Avatar tagged me in a music MEME. I’m passing it on, but had to concentrate my selections within a theme (too much damn music out there). Since I grew up close to Detroit, and the music I listened to as a child was all stuff you could shake yer ass to, all choices are “70’s Funk” theme.

Sergei: “Sex Machine” by James Brown. (Oh, you know why!)

Julie: ”Do It (‘Til You’re Satisfied)” by B.T. Express. (Of course!)

Annush: “Treat Her Like a Lady” by Cornelius Brothers and Sister Rose. (…and don't let them forget it!)

Bear and Marcheline: "Here I Am (Come and Take Me)" by Al Green. (Next to Sergei and me, the couple most likely to make out on the couch at a party!)

BitchPhD: “Fight the Power” by the Isley Bros. (Right on, sister! [holding up my 'power hand'])

Big Monkey Rob: "What’s Goin’ On" by Marvin Gaye, also "Mercy Mercy Me". (Two songs, I can't decide, your Thoreau-ness begs both, I think.)

Lisa the Bored Housewife: “Brick House” by The Commodores. (Thank god for braless Tuesdays!!)

Rose at Great Googly Moogly: "Sexual Healing" by Marvin Gaye (Your hubby's coming home Friday! Get you somma this!)

Laurie at HCPR2.0: “Jungle Boogie" by Kool & the Gang (See, I'm picturing us drunk in a bar shakin' our butts to this…!)

Francis Heaney: ”Groove Me" by King Floyd (Six Things = Groovy.)

Jo(e): “Hot Fun in the Summertime” by Sly and the Family Stone. (You have the BEST summer vacations, I want you to adopt me.)

Midwest Hick: “Spill the Wine” by War. (Aren't you standing on a mountain top, naked to the world?)

Orange: “Lady Marmalade” by LaBelle. ( “Voulez-vous coucher avec moi, ce soir?”)

Overworked Avatar: “You Sexy Thing” by Hot Chocolate. (I don't need to 'splain this.)

Pisser: “Love Rollercoaster” by the Ohio Players. (Oh, it has to do with Cranky and LA, you know…)

QW Maine: “Tear the Roof Off the Sucker” by Parliament. (I’m picturing you in platform shoes, big sequined cape, Bootsie Collins behind you, comin’ off the Mothership. You could totally pull it off!)

Serra: "I’ll Take You There" by the Staple Singers. (Bring your crystal ball, and I'll bring the backup singers!)

Mr. Jones:Love Train" by the O'Jays. (Mr. Jones…Mrs. Jones…Baby Jones…CONGRATS! Oh, you almost got "Me And Mrs. Jones", but that was too easy.)

I would have added blog links and MP3s or lyrics, but it's almost 1 a.m. and I must get up to go to work in 5 hours. Catch ya 'round.

ADDENDUM: YRB magazine (Yellow Rat Bastard, and if you ask me, the greatest magazine name ever created), has a cover with my favorite funk uncle, Mister Atomic Dog himself, George Clinton.

Chop Chop

I’m taking a break from orgasms for a while. No, not having them, silly, writing about them. Several reasons:
1) It cuts into other stuff I really want to write about
2) I need to do more research. (When Sergei was on his genealogy trip, I had full intentions of writing-writing-researching-writing. All thwarted by being outnumbered by children and dead-tired once I finally got their squirrelly butts in bed.)
3) I think they scare people. Which is part of the point, but I miss comments.


This week is gonna be choppy posting at best. Tomorrow I’m spending the day with the kids. Boychild’s daycamp thought it would be fun to take 30 8-year olds to the county fair. Two teachers. Thirty kids. 1:15 ratio. Kids running in all directions riding scarily unsafe rides, being accosted by carny folk, eating elephant ears and fries and throwing up. Sergei and I decided…er…ah…HELL NO. Girlchild felt left out, so I told her we'd pick her up early from pre-school. A day off but not a day ‘off’.

I have a new crush, soon-to-be-boyfriend. We saw him on the Science channel, a Brit who designed a new type of bridge which rolls up on itself like a roly-poly bug. I googled him this morning, he’s also an artist and sculptor. Big-brained, shocking hair, baggy clothes, really passionate and intense. Oh, his name is Thomas Heatherwick. And here. Damn but I love those artistic Brits, I wanna eat him on a scone with a bit of clotted cream.

Via BitchPhd, the Faux Faulkner Contest winner. Made all the more poignant in that I recently started re-reading “The Sound and the Fury”. Incredibly Faulkner-esque, and incredibly bad! Lovelovelove it!

A co-worker told me her daughter, who is plagued by migraines, was taking a medication that also helped her drop about 30 pounds with no effort. Too good to be true! The medication is called Topamax. It’s an epilepsy medication, also for bi-polar disorder, side affects seem helpful for migraines and weight loss. However, the bad side effects are terrifying…if you miss a dose, they imply you could have seizures, even if you’ve never had them before. You also can’t concentrate, shouldn’t operate heavy machinery, etc. Has anyone heard more about this stuff? I’m curious, but frightened.

Sergei and I will celebrate our Tenth Wedding Anniversary this Friday. The kids are going to Grandpa and Grandma’s house Thursday through Sunday. Sergei initially wanted to take me on a trip somewhere, but scary post-9/11 me, post London-bombings me, post-paying the mortgage (yikes!) me, didn’t want to go far/spend much money. Really, all I want is Sergei naked for a few days. That’s not asking too much, is it? So far, our plans are: Drop the kids off Thursday lunchtime, get tattoos Thursday night, maybe get drunk, definitely have wet hot monkey sex. We went to the tattoo place last Saturday and got everything set up. It’s my first, although I’ve had designs in the works for years. I’ll post a picture of it, perhaps. Of the tattoo, not the wet hot monkey sex.

I'm working on a music MEME of Avatar's. Will post later, after birthday lunch with the boss.