Tuesday, February 28, 2006

Dirty Girl Confessional

I can't believe I'm really typing this now, and I'm not sure how you'll take it.


Bless me, bloggers, for I have sinned.

I've never been to confession. Til now.

Sunday night I sequestered myself in the bedroom in front of the computer, to 'get some work done'.


I read some blogs. I followed some links. And then...

...I found a blog (an ADULT blog) with lots of pretty pictures and pretty words, and my cooter started tingling, and...


I WAS alone...

..I DID have pjs on with no undies...

...so me and Mr. Righthand got down.


I masturbated to blog porn.

Which was sorta weird, 'cause I'm right-handed, and that means my predominant self-love hand is right, BUT the Page Down key is ALSO on the right, so I had to do a sort of cross-hands thing so my left hand was paging down frantically and the right hand was trying to get some damn space to rub my lil button.

In the end, tho, it was pretty durn good.

I'm sorta embarassed, but what the hell? Not like I was caught picking my nose in front of the Pope or somethin'....

Anyone else see something SOOOOO incredibly sexy online that they just had to 'release the hounds'?? Don't lie.

Monday, February 27, 2006

The Skin They're In

I'm watching the Discovery Health Channel, which has GOT to be the biggest schadenfreude EVAH.

I was just contemplating going downstairs for a nice bowl of sugar-free jello when this show came on about a 750-pound man...SEVEN. HUNDRED. FIFTY. POUNDS. How exactly does a person get to be that big? I mean, how many boxes of mac and cheese do you have to down each and every day to get that ginormous? Oh, the horror, I mean, bedsores and mangy skin, he couldn't even put a shirt on (yeah, so we saw him NAKED...I threw up in my mouth a little bit). He had to have some sort of glandular problem. HAD to. Part of me was bitching him out for letting his eating get way outta hand, and part of me was a little bit sorry for him...you get that big, you can't exactly work out, I mean, you'd break the stairmaster, and where would you find yoga pants THAT big? Poor guy died at the end of the show, septic shock. Makes that leftover Valentines Day chocolate in the kitchen seem not so appealing anymore.

Then this bodacious woman came on with enhanced 38F cups. F! I sincerely didn't know they came that big. She has to sleep sitting up 'cause they hurt so much, and they look like bowling balls. I swear, if I EVER think I need breast augmentation surgery, slap me really hard, m'kay? I'd much rather sag than look like I'm hiding a pair of cantaloupes under my shirt.

EW! They just removed her implants...one is 10 pounds..the other is TWELVE! That's just wrong. That's a huge sack of potatoes on EACH side of her body, and how the hell did her skin keep that in? Gah.

(I just hefted my breasteses under the samurai t-shirt I'm wearing, with no bra after my shower, and y'know, they're not boom-chicka-boom, but they're real...and they're soft...and they're fantastic.)

Fack that, I'm going for the jello.

Friday, February 24, 2006

Black Friday

My company is laying off today.

I know things that others don’t, and it’s killing me.

One of my best friends here got chopped.

I’m crying my eyes out.

I had a long talk with my manager today and, bless his heart, I’m spared. Most of our IT department is spared (except for the new guy we hired last summer, but he doesn’t know it yet. He helped me print some forms this morning and it was SO hard to look him in the eye and know in a few short hours, he’d no longer be my co-worker.)

This is only the second time in the 38 year history of my company that we've had layoffs.

The other time was 2 years ago.

I have a yellow post-it in front of me.

I’m writing down the names of all my friends who are getting axed.

I think I need a new job.

I think I need to write all this down, because this is just breaking my heart.

I hate knowing what I know

Thursday, February 23, 2006


(Thanks, Trent Reznor.)

It's half past midnight on Thursday early morning, and my eyes are all buggy and gross and I'm pretty freakin' tired.


I finally got some cleaning done on this here blog.

QWMaine and Idleranting have had their links fixed.

I've added:
Miss Sassy
Oral Hygiene Queen
Tuesday Girl

One particularly sexy commenter will (very soon) be linked on my smut blog because, well, that's where I intend to put all sex-bloggers. (Figleaf will be on both my blogs, because he's very special.) More work there to come....

Chris Garver is in the Guru category now (with two links) because that's just where he belongs.

And I've made a new rule. The standard 'Fantasy Boyfriend' rule is that if any of the men on my list come to my door and say, "Mona, I want to sleep with you tonight", Sergei has to let me go, take care of the kids, and give his blessing. My new rule is, if anyone on the 'Guru' list comes to my door and says, "Mona, I want to sleep with you tonight", I get at least a weekend with them, and possibly 10 days, depending on where we have to travel for hot guru sex. So, Elvis, Henry, Chris...email me if you want my address.

My new Fantasy Boyfriend is someone you've never heard of, unless you're a total geek and stay to watch the end credits of sci-fi movies and the like. John Underkoffler is featured in the March 2006 issue of Popular Science magazine (pgs. 58-66), and he's just...mmm...a sexy geeky movie guy. He went to MIT, and shows his big brain off at conventions and speaking engagements...and to Hollywood types. He's sort of an idea man, creating futuristic worlds and technology for films and making them plausible...how The Hulk got that way, the type of buildings they'd use in Aeon Flux, the gestural interface in Minority Report...all that was his doing. He doesn't appear to have a website, but the brainiacs in cyberspace have a boner for him and write about him constantly. And so will I. (The boner too.) I want him to sit me down and explain String Theory, and then jump my bones in new and exciting ways whilst digitally copying our internal muscular contractions and sensory stimuli to play back on special equipment when we're alone....

Okay, I'm having a perverted fantasy right now...



...back to the blog....

There's a few other changes, and I know there will be more links soon, but I'm starting to lose focus now.

Mmm...am I the only one who gets off on sweet geek sex?

Wednesday, February 22, 2006

Look Up…Look Down…

…my pants are falling down.


Not quite as quickly as Sergei’s, but my butt (but/butt) is mos-def swimmin’ in my pants today. Niiiiiiice.

If only my breasteses wouldn’t lose weight, too…dammit.


Short post today, the boys in the cubes are nipping at my heels (and trying to pull my too-big pants down), so I leave you with one question:

Where’s the strangest place you’ve ever made whoopee?

(Didn’t have to be sex, could be high-school fumbling in the back of an extended crew cab truck at the drive-in movie theatre and he had no shirt on and you had your top off and bra almost off when the security guy came by with one of those headlight flashlights and yelled, “Git yer heds ‘bove the seat now!”, and wouldn’t leave until you dressed in front of him. The dirty bastard.)

Tuesday, February 21, 2006

Ten Things

1) Presidents Day screwed me up and now I think it’s Monday and all week I’ll be lost.

2) I am suddenly and curiously in love with Jim Jarmusch. I mean, I’ve loved him for a while, but now I can’t get him out of my head.

3) The reason I can’t get Jarmusch outta my head is his film “Coffee and Cigarettes”. I’m jonesing for both (caffeine and nicotine), and can have neither. Plus, that scene in the film with Tom Waits and Iggy Pop was stellar and hilarious. I wanted to be their waitress.

4) I’ve said it before, but there is NOTHING better in this world than sleeping bare-ass naked.

5) I want to bonk Henry Rollins.

6) Today at work I will listen to “The Woods” by Sleater-Kinney, Green Day’s “American Idiot”, Cake’s “Pressure Chief”, and The White Stripes “White Blood Cells”. I am convinced I need them to be productive today.

7) I am compiling a list of tattoos I’ve been considering. I will accept your input.

8) If Robert Redford offered me a million dollars to sleep with him one night, I would totally do it. Not that I’m in love with Robert Redford, but he’s clean and nice, he did start the Sundance Film Festival, he was hella cute in ‘Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid’ AND ‘All the Presidents Men’…and he has a million dollars, just for me.

9) If Robert Redford offered Sergei a million dollars to sleep with him one night, I would totally let him do it.

10) The best thing about London is the tea. Every morning in the Mount Royal Hotel, they would bring to my door a tray full of crusty rolls, butter, and a steaming pot of tea with milk and sugar on the side. I’d sit by the window, milky tea in hand, stare over at Marble Arch, at the corner of Hyde Park, listen to the squealing metal-on-metal of cabbie tires and the patter of feet below, at the gray dull crayon of a morning, feel the rain itching to bear down, imagine who’s in the tube station and where the Queen was at that very moment. This morning I drank my milky American tea with longing for another look down the Thames beside the fish lamp posts, for another trip to the fish-and-chip shop with twelve choices of catch, for another breath of the air that my ancestors chose to share with me. I will get precious little done today, it seems.

Friday, February 17, 2006

The First Kiss (Administrator/Alley Version)


He pressed his body against mine, my spine melted into the graffiti and spit and peeling paint. He touched my cheek, slid his fingers slowly down my neck, down my breasts, down and down.



Three weeks before, this man was a stranger.
Three weeks before, he was a name and number on a business form.
Three weeks before, I never would have considered making him my lover.

Now he was making my body shake and my lips tremble and exploding dirty sexy-sex thoughts in my brain.

I wasn’t looking for romance when I undertook the research project. Being so close to a college town, it seemed a logical step to interview students for our new product. Marketing was my bag, one-on-one communication was my forte, and my ever-questioning mind couldn’t resist such a juicy challenge. A co-worker had given me the name and number of an administrator who had connections to several college groups I could interview, and could arrange empty rooms for me to conduct surveys and interviews. It was a perfect situation.

“Hi, I’m Gary. You must be Mona?”

We met in the lobby of a classroom building, both of us in suits, impossible not to be mistaken for grownups when surrounded by nineteen-year-olds in sweatpants.

Gary was not what I expected.

He had a twinkle in his eye that I’d only ever seen in the eyes of kids at Christmas. His grin took up most of his face, and his handshake was strong and warm. He held my hand a few seconds longer than I would have expected, which sent a twinge of possibility up the back of my neck. He had light blue eyes, pecs I could see through his white-on-white button-down shirt, and hair so light in colour it looked invisible.

“Let me show you the classrooms I’ve arranged for you.”

Gary led me up the stairwell to the second floor and showed me the carpeted meeting rooms he’d reserved. He produced coffee from a corner kitchenette and we sat near the window, planning the event, gazing at the spring buds, the young coeds tempting fate with only a sweater in mid-April, chatting about the concert on campus that night, about the changes since we’d been college freshmen. His voice was excitable; his voice had power; his voice made my legs like jelly.

Over the next few weeks, Gary and I spoke every day, fine-tuning my project, introducing me to the students I’d be interacting with, fetching me cables for my camera equipment and diet soda from the machine downstairs.

I videotaped him as a test, asking him, “Tell me Gary, what is it you really want?”


I laughed, and he laughed, and we knew that it was not a joke.

That moment led to him asking me out for a drink that night.
That moment led to me sneaking home early from work to change into a leather skirt and heels.
That moment led to me meeting him in the lobby, to walking across the street, to finding a cozy booth in the low-key college bar we both frequented.

We drank lots of Guinness, and had a few shots of whiskey, or was it scotch. He sat across from me, attentive, and reached for my hand as I smoothed out a cocktail napkin. Those warm hands were magnetic, and I couldn’t release him.

As the time passed, and the conversation grew into personal confessions, our hand-holding turned into side-by-side shoulder rubs, and eyes turning down and hair brushed aside.

We stood to walk out, and realized we’d had a few too many pints. Stumbling out the back door, he took my hand and led me across the alley to the grimy wall of the bar next door, under the crooked steel light, where many a drunk frat boy had puked or peed, where spray paint marked the passage of time with “Led Zeppelin”, and “Nine Inch Nails” overlapping the broad crooked smile of the yellow drunk smiley face logo of some local band.

Where Gary held my hands, and walked my pelvis with his pelvis against the wall…

Where Gary whispered in my ear, “I want to be with you tonight”…


Where Gary pressed against me with gentle need, and touched my cheek, my neck, my breasts…

Where Gary covered my lips with his and kissed me hard…

Where Gary covered my lips with his and my mind raced to places where flesh rolls around under sheets and on carpeted floors and sweat and screams soak the walls…

Where Gary covered my lips with his and kissed me so deep, I couldn’t say “No” when he asked me to cross the street once again, to his office, to the couch…

Where Gary and I found our own project to explore.

Thursday, February 16, 2006

The First Kiss (Hot Girl Action Version)

It wasn’t like I’d never kissed a girl before.

I mean, I went to college. And all women become raving lesbians at some point in that baseless, crass liberal atmosphere, right? Nights full of naked pajama parties and rampant orgies, oh the sinful flesh and unsubstantiated reports of girl-on-girl-action in the study lounges….


Maybe not.



After my college life, much later, I met up with some awesome folks who liked to frequent the local college bars to listen to the local bands, the ‘break-out’ bands, the bands who were on their way to cutting their first cd and were touring and we were first on the mailing list and they knew our names and we were ever so proud of them! We’d dance and drink and get to know the drummer and the lead singer and the sax guy and the bass player, and they’d sign our backsides with Sharpies and invite us to parties.

Good times, good times.

There were usually three of us.


We’d meet every Thursday night at Planetary Bar to rock out to our favorite band, the most awesomest awesome funk band ever, Must Be Jelly (all names have been changed to protect the guilty). We were young, and cute, and knew how to handle our likker.

Then I started dating Sergei.

I brought him along to Planetary Bar, and he got to know Suzie and John pretty well, we’d all four hang out and dance and drink. It was a nice little thing. Suzie and John never dated, and I never dated John, it was a sort of unspoken rule of ‘let’s be friends’, and it worked.

One hot summer evening, we closed down Planetary Bar, waved ‘goodbye’ to Must Be Jelly, and finished our beers, leaning on the pool table near the front window. John and I were jawing about something or other, probably music (knowing us), and Suzie and Sergei were chatting on the other end of the pool table.

What I found out later was, at this point, Suzie turned to Sergei and asked, “If there’s something I’ve always wanted to do, should I do it?”

Sergei said, “Sure.”

John and I were talking, talking, talking, and the next thing I knew….

Amillionbillionjillionthingshappenedatonce. Milliseconds of images I didn’t comprehend at first.

Suzie pushing John to the side.
Suzie standing in front of me.
Suzie grabbing my face.
Suzie kissing me FRENCH.

In times of great confusion, the mind takes the base “flight or fight” response. Either you run away, or you get down in it.

My first response was to push Suzie away.


Then I thought….

What’s the worse that can happen?
Suzie’s my friend.
What if I go with this?
I’ll bet the guys would like it.
Does SHE like it?
Would I like it?

All thoughts converging on a single point in front of me.

I kissed her back.
I Frenched her back.

I would be lying if I said I hated it.
I didn’t LOVE it, but…you know.

Man, we were IN. IT.

Oh yeah, it was like girl-on-girl-porn, (just the kissing part, folks), and I suddenly realized…


Because everyone was

That, in itself, was the biggest turn-on.
Because, apparently, I am a closet exhibitionist.

We kept on going, and I fought like hell to not giggle, ‘cause really, it was sort of damn funny. Soft and sweet, and smelled good, too.

The people that had stepped outside the bar were watching us through the front windows because they started POUNDING on them, and hootin’ and hollerin’, “Yeah baby, go! Go!”

Seriously big turn-on.

At some point, and granted, this all seemed to take for-frickin’-ever, and was probably only a minute or so, I knew it was time to stop it. I pulled my head away from hers, and smiled, and gave her a quick little peck. Suzie…well, Suzie looked pretty turned on, and a little smug, and (my fellow closet exhibitionist) a little bit turned on from the crowd’s reaction.

We turned around to look at John and Sergei…and they were, well…

…you guys know…it’s the standard male fantasy…

…the guys were pitching tents. Big-top circus tents, and their eyes were glazed and a bit watery, and it took them a minute to recover.

Suzie and I walked over to the guys, and I asked Sergei, “Are you alright? Was that okay?”


Yes. More than okay.

John left a few minutes later, no doubt to go home and spank the pony.

Suzie and Sergei and I tossed around the idea of the three of us going back to ‘my place’, but that would have just been…weird…somehow, and we said goodbye to Suzie in the parking lot.

Sergei and I went home to mad wet monkey humpin’.

Suzie and I never locked lips after that. We stayed close for a while, then she moved to the East Coast, and we lost touch. We still both talk to John, though, and it turns out that all of us got married and have or are having kids, and living a somewhat normal life.

Planetary Bar closed its doors a few years ago.
Must Be Jelly broke up.

We can never re-create that night, not really.


If you come visit Sergei and me, and we go dancing and drinkin’, and there’s good juju between you girls and me…

…who knows?

Wednesday, February 15, 2006

The First Kiss (College Boy Version)

This is a story about a bad kiss.

When I was in 10th grade, before I got my first ever ‘real’ boyfriend, my friend Denise invited me to Big State University to visit her for the weekend. She had the coolest, cutest boyfriend evah (his name was Chuck). She promised a tour, good eats, and parties.

I went, of course.

The first night I was there, I met Chuck’s roommates. Dan was a Hispanic dude with the biggest brown eyes I’d ever seen. He was funny, charming, intelligent, and teased me in just the right way, arousing my girlish curiosity and begging the question, “Will he kiss me this weekend?”


‘Cause Dan had a girlfriend he was devoted to. I met her too, and she was very beautiful but a right bitch. Seriously. Just harping vitriol all weekend. She must have been good in bed, ‘cause ain’t no way a dude could stay with her for a minute and not want to slap her.

Alan was Chuck’s other roommate. He was nice, very talkative, and we found common ground with Vonnegut and Elvis Costello and horror movies. We were in the middle of some discussion or other, we were drinking cheap college keg beer, and we realized that everyone else had left the room. I didn’t feel threatened by Alan, but it set up a weird situation where he leaned in and kissed me.


I have never…


experienced such a rotten lip-lock.

He kissed…

(I’m feeling a bit nauseated just thinking about it)

…with his mouth totally open.

Like a dead fish on a hook.

He never moved his lips.

He tilted his head and zoomed in and planted his wet teeth on my lips.



I pulled out the old “Let’s just be friends” routine (I think it was the first time I used it), and he was a little mad, but there was NO WAY I would even think about kissing something like that. I had neither the time nor the patience to teach a COLLEGE GUY how to kiss.

Then I drank too much, fell asleep, and woke up to tacos for breakfast the next day. Alan and I were cordial, but he made sure to leave the room when he noticed we were the only two in it.

Serves him right.

DON’T kiss Mona unless you know how.

Tuesday, February 14, 2006

The First Kiss (Act IV, Scene 6 Version)

“So who's the guy I have to kiss?”

Sitting in the director's living room, I listened intently as we introduced ourselves and what role we had in the Agatha Christie play.

I couldn’t help but stare at the young man on the opposite end of the room from me. He was handsome, and young, and quiet, and young, and had very nice lips, and large eyes. And was very young.

“I’m Sergei, and I’ll be playing Philip”, he said.


My character kisses his character at the end of the play.

Hmmm. That would be alright.

I played it cool.

I’d been in an acting workshop for years, and had my share of ‘stage kisses’ in scene work and plays. For the most part, kissing a fellow actor truly is like kissing your cousin. But I knew, sometimes, there was a !zap!, and then hand-holding in the wings, and then manic rubbing of body parts backstage, and late-night “rehearsals” at one of your apartments.

Cool, me.

I tried to be myself. The best, cutest, most confident version of myself. I wore lip gloss.

The rehearsals moved to an abandoned elementary school. We had the run of the place, save for a few rooms on the bottom floor that were being leased out by a martial arts school. The cast was fairly large, and we found our cliques and chatted between scenes and took frequent smoke breaks.

He smoked. I smoked.

We’d small-talk it, nothing in particular, the play, or the drive, or the weather. A few of the younger male cast members would come by and interject something stupid and honest, and we’d all laugh.

It took a long time to get to the kissing scene.

We rehearsed in scene order, and the inexperienced director went over and over ad nauseum the bulk of the play. Sergei and I, being the most experienced actors, had a lot of time for smoke breaks. Our conversation turned more personal, but still casual. Every once in a while, though, I’d catch myself looking at him, and he would catch me looking at him, and I’d look away, trying to stifle a grin. I’d look back at him, and he’d have the same grin.

The more I was around him, the smarter I found him. The sexier I found him. The more I wanted to press my nose into him and inhale him.

Finally, the day came for the end scene. There was something wrong with my stomach that day, it felt like caterpillars were a-wigglin’ inside there, and I couldn’t concentrate. The closer we got to the end, the more I felt like running out of the room and throwing up.

Suddenly, I was standing before Sergei, my chest pressed to his, the entire cast staring at us, the director prompting us, “Okay, GO!”

I thought, “Oh my god, this is it.”

I lifted my chin to look in his eyes. He bent down, and I remember thinking, “What sexy eyes he has”, and I noticed how long his eyelashes were, and how soft his lips looked, and how close he was to me. The corners of his mouth turned up, his lips parted, and my body lit on fire.

His lips touched my lips, and oh god don’t stop that please don’t stop kiss me more kiss me harder please….

The kiss lasted a little too long, and we didn’t care.

The other actors whispered and giggled at us.

We didn’t care.

“Ok, good…stop! Stop!”, the director interjected, and we pulled away from each other.

And I saw the look on his face.

It’s a look I’ve seen many times since.

It was the “Oh, baby!” look of a lover who’s just shuddered in you, who wants more of you, who aches for you.

I hope to see that look again tonight.

Monday, February 13, 2006

The First Kiss (KH version)

Each day this week I will post a 'remembrance' of someone I've kissed.
The first kiss.
'Cause who can forget that??
(NOTE: Sergei will be prominently featured on Valentines Day. He's my bestest and favoritest.)

The KH Version -- Summer, Rain, Night

I kissed him first.

I didn’t realize it was me, my body, doing the ‘lean-in’ and the ‘not-just-friends’ kiss.

It happened so fast.

But there I was, pulling back from him, my head hitting the headrest so hard it hurt, the buttons of my white summer blouse trembling against the cloth as I reclined, my heartbeat underneath a pitterpat of ‘whatthehell?’

His face sat flat for a moment, and then it broke and he grinned.

“Thanks”, he said.

The wipers beat at my windshield, pushing inky streetlight puddles, the rain pissing down in late July, hot like spit.

I couldn’t speak. My lips felt like beer-soaked sausages, some drunken lustful swelling, as I smiled back.

He finally broke the silence with, “I was wondering when you were gonna do that.”

My head echoed with ‘Say something!’

But there was nothing to say. I grinned. Too long.

“Well. Guess I’d better get inside.’ His car door opened and the overhead light turned us into six year-olds stealing candy bars from the corner store.

It felt naughty.


As he walked up the steps to his stale post-college apartment, I couldn’t help but stare at his legs. He walked like a cowboy, all bow-legged ruggedness. I wondered if he’d ever let me see them naked. If he’d start the second kiss. If, oh god, if, he could shoo his roommates away for one night so we could have the ‘scream-fest’ sex we’d giggled about not two hours ago at the party.

I didn’t know he would break my heart at the end of the summer.

I did know that, besides sex, there was nothing else I wanted from him.

And nothing more I wanted to talk about.

(Addendum: Today is Henry Rollins' birthday. Kisses to you, Hank, and a big ol' ass smack from Mona.)

Friday, February 10, 2006

Don’t Be a Seth

Is it wrong to call a ten-year-old boy an asshat?

Even if it’s true?

Worse, is it wrong to laugh at him when he gets his butt kicked?

Boy-child has taekwondo several times a week. Inevitably, the classes he takes contain the bete noir of the class, the evil monster child that all the parents loath, the thorn in our collective sides.


Seth is a problem child. Seth is a smart child. Seth is a manipulative child, who learned all his manners from his father, who is no doubt one of those ‘pushy’ car salespeople that you wish would get found by a lost tribe and chooses “death…by bunga bunga”.

Seth’s mom (apparently) can’t get through the day without several doses of ‘Mothers Little Helper’. She always looks stoned. She rarely shows up to drop off/pick up her child, and when she does, she sits in the row of chairs, picks at imaginary fuzzies on her coat, and then exclaims, out loud, “Ooh! Look! Lint!”

Seth likes to cause trouble. Seth is almost a black belt and should know better.

Seth likes to ask questions just to hear himself talk…rather, just to hear himself yell in his loudest voice. “WHY…WHY DO WE HAVE TO BOW TO THE FLAGS?”

“Because it shows reverence and politeness.”



Seth pushes. Seth chatters. Seth has an ‘evil eye’.

While the taekwondo masters and assistants are very good at catching Seth after an incident and addressing the problem area with a quiet lesson, Seth doesn’t learn.

The masters also like to see Seth get his butt handed to him.

Several months ago, Seth was in a sparring demonstration with one of the masters. Seth screwed around, didn't listen to the master, didn't do what was asked…and the instructor kicked…and a trickle of blood was drawn from Seth’s face.

“You’ll be alright”, the master said, and continued class.

All the parents felt extreme satisfaction.

Three weeks ago, Seth and Boy-child were paired together in a sparring session. They tied. The tie-breaker was flag-sparring, where each wore a white flag in the back of their belts, and the object was to grab the other guy’s flag. They sparred for a bit and then each pulled the other’s flag at about the same time. I didn’t see who won (Girl-child was pulling my focus), and neither did the masters. They asked the kids waiting along the wall who had won. “Boy-child”, they all agreed.


Seth didn’t like that. Seth started pointing his finger at his classmates and yelling at them, “YOU JUST DON’T LIKE ME! YOU KNOW I WON AND YOU LIED! YOU LIED! YOU LIKE BOY-CHILD BEST!” Seth’s face grew tomato-red. Then he stuck his pointer finger in Boy-child’s face and spit out, “YOU KNOW I WON! THEY JUST LIKE YOU BEST! I WON!" And so on.

Boy-child turned around to look at me, bemusement on his face. I shrugged. Boy-child shrugged and we both stifled big-ass smiles.

The masters came over, took Seth to a quiet corner, put him in push-up position, and had a not-so-quiet discussion with him about manners, and respect, and the tenets of taekwondo (courtesy, integrity, perseverance, self-control, indomitable spirit). Seth was made to sit out the rest of class for his behaviour.

Boy-child and I talked about it afterward, and I praised him for not getting upset when Seth got all up in his bid’ness.

“Yeah, but it’s SETH,” Boy-child said, “He has NO manners!”

Last night was another incident, this time with another boy. Seth threw a hissy fit because he couldn’t be in the first row where the other boy was. He screamed, he cried, he bad-mouthed. He grudgingly went to the back row and gave one of the masters the ‘evil eye’ for not stepping in and letting Seth move to the front of the line. The master ignored him. The class went on. And collectively, the parents, the masters, the kids, all had a mind-meld experience:


Hug your kids, if you have ‘em, and have a good weekend, y’all!

Thursday, February 09, 2006

Le Bitch

Everything’s cheesing me off this morning, to the point where I think I should just go home, crawl in bed, and try again tomorrow.

The kids dawdled too much this morning. Girl-child didn’t think wearing a short skirt in 10 degree weather was a problem. Boy-child insisted on wearing layers upon layers, and couldn’t even see out the front of his hooded sweatshirt. Okay. Whatever. Freeze or sweat, it’s your body. I will NOT come to the school with extra clothes when you complain.

Stupid Michigan drivers. Okay, when it snows (snow is that white stuff that falls from the sky, Cletus) you are SUPPOSED to brush and scrape the snow and ice off your car. Dickweed. When you DON’T, you can’t see anyone. When you change lanes, and your visibility is limited to the 2inchby2inch window of snow you scraped off with your mitten, well, you’re just asking for a gory accident with a garbage truck, buddy. And when that happens, Karma will relax the rules and let me taunt you as I pass by your mangled body, and I will flip you off and scream with glee, “I told you so, you fuckin’ asswipe!”

Sergei was going to take Girl-child to see the doctor today about a headache she had (but doesn’t anymore), when Sergei called to tell me HE was going to the hospital for himself. Dizzy spells. I’m guessing either a virus from all the Creeping-Crud going through the community, or maybe the weight loss, or maybe something with his heart. And I’m freaking out about any and all of those and worse.

Everything hurts today. I just checked my calendar and the Crimson Permanent Assurance should set sail this weekend. Just in time for me to be horrendously gross and disgusting at the Self-Defense Seminar I was going to go to (but may not now). We’re out of yogurt and noodles and soda, today is filled with work and taekwondo and rustlin’ kids hither and yon, and I have neither the time nor the patience to brave the frozen north to go to the grocery store with my ever-growing list.


I’ll stop complaining now, and let my boss use me for my mind.

Wednesday, February 08, 2006

The Purple Chair

Around the time our oldest child was born, my husband and I went furniture shopping. In addition to a decent blue bundle of couchness we purchased, we found and fell in love with what we call in the Midwest a “Lazyboy”. Brand names aside, it was a rocker/recliner, in an enormous shade of mauve, with crushed-velvety polyester covering. “Easy clean-up”!, it boasted with the Scotchgard process (which, of course, cost more and which, of course, we couldn’t live without).

We dubbed it “The Purple Chair”.

The Purple Chair was in constant use in Babyland, rocking the new baby to sleep, reading books together, the endless milky feedings, the tummy aches, the horrifying episodes of projectile vomiting and explosive diarrhea (NEVER turn down the Scotchgard process, my friends). Our posteriors were never more than a few yards away from the purpleness that got us through the day.

When our second child came along, the chair went into overdrive. The toddler first-born used it as his personal spaceship. The baby girl used it as her personal cafeteria, bathroom, library, and funhouse.

To all of us, it was best served as a hospital.

Each time I was awakened by the thin moan of “momeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee”, and the thermometer was checked and the medicine dosed appropriately, I’d plop down in The Purple Chair with the sick child, a blanket covering us, sometimes a bucket beside us, and rock…so gently…my toes just touching the floor on the rock-back, and I’d rock…

Slow back…
Slow forward…

The wee sick one would inevitably fall asleep, and me with them. When they were babies, it was easy: I’d hold them in the crook of my arm, my elbow wedged in the corner of the chair arm, my other hand wrapped around their belly, deathly afraid that maybe, if I turned just right, I would drop them over the side or let them slip off the front.

That never happened.

That was garden-variety mom-freak-out-ed-ness.

As the kids grew, our positions changed. No longer could I cradle them in the chair. We jostled and turned and prodded for space for two warm bodies.

When my daughter was two, I rushed her to the ER when she couldn’t breathe. The doctor’s diagnosis of croup was sorely mistaken, and the chilling word ‘ASTHMA’ crept into our house. Nebulizer treatments that prompted screaming fits were calmed by a smooth rock in The Purple Chair. Fears were soothed. Foreheads kissed. Sleep welcomed.

At about 4 years of age, my daughter started asking for The Purple Chair at bedtime, after I tucked her in her bed. “Please, can you rock me in The Purple Chair with a blanket and turn off the light?” Most of the time, this was in response to some fear or other, some need for more time with mom, a desire for closeness and security. As the chair was a feature in the living room, and as my husband and I tend to stay up late, I would tell my daughter, “Not tonight…we’ll save the chair for when you’re sick…how about I hold you on my lap and I'll sit on your bed and rock you?” A poor, pitiful substitute, granted, but soon she would be asleep, or calm enough to put in bed and snuggle beside, me rubbing her forehead, her shoulder, the sick or lonely part that she requested.

Last night. Last night, just five minutes after I crawled in bed, just a few minutes after Midnight, I heard a rustling down the hall and a small whimper, and “mommmmeeee”. I grabbed a pajama shirt and ran, naked, to my 6-year old daughter’s room, dressing hurridly in the dark.

“What’s the matter? Are you gonna throw up?”, I whispered to her.

“No, my head hurts, right here,” and she pointed to a spot in front and above her left ear.

“Would you like medicine or would you like me to rub your head?”, I asked.


After a trip for medicine, a chaser of water, and my pajama pants (to cover my below-the-waist nakedness), I played my ace card.

“Do you want to go downstairs and cuddle in The Purple Chair?”

It was as if Medical Miracle #723 came to our house. She stood up, grabbed her baby doll, and made for the doorway.

“Hold on!”, I yelled, grabbing her biggest, fuzziest pink blanket and her sweaty hand as we descended the dark stairs for the living room.

I sat in The Purple Chair, arms outstretched, and waited for her to position herself on my lap. Suddenly, her 6-year old self was a giantess, her legs nearly as long as mine, her head resting on my shoulder, her weight like 45 pounds of pink-pajamed love on top of me.

We sat back. She pushed my arms, kicked my ankles, tossed and turned and finally, oh, finally, found a comfortable space on and around me. I tossed the blanket over the three of us (baby doll rested between us), and I rocked slowly, on tiptoe, back and forth, as she pressed one of my hands onto the hurtful space near her ear. Her hand rested atop mine, rubbing my hand, as if to say, “Ah yes, that’s good, right there”, and we rocked for a minute more before she said, “Can you flip the handle so our legs are up?”

We were not a rocker anymore, but a recliner.

The furnace kicked in, and warm wisps of air drifted onto us. The cat scratched at the basement door. Our breathing slowed, and she sighed, a peaceful exhale that tickled my cheek.

We slept.

I awoke at 2 a.m., her body nearly diagonal to mine, her cheeks flushed with sleep, her toes reaching for a stretch but finding only my legs in the way. I tossed the blanket off and carried her up the stairs, her long frame no longer easy to maneuver through the dark, and I was so careful…so, so careful. I lay her on her bed, and her toes found the stretch they needed. Covering her up in sheet and blanket, I felt her head once more, as for luck, and went downstairs to retrieve the blanket.

For a moment, I contemplated a little nap in The Purple Chair. A little lie-down, then a quick rest in bed before the necessity of work and school kicked alarm clocks into buzzing and morning deejays.

I resisted.

The lure of my husband’s warm body in our soft bed was just too much.

Besides, The Purple Chair is best when you’re sick.

Tuesday, February 07, 2006

Just Lie Back and Think of England

1) Yes, it’s true…Sergei does have a date tonight. What he didn’t tell you is that when he sees his young lady, I am also granted time with a certain young man I’ve known for 9 years or so. It’s a bit of tit-for-tat, or quid-pro-quo, or just plain ol’ nananana-booboo-me-too. We have nothing so fancy planned as dancing and music, and I doubt he’ll give me flowers, but we will have some nice one-on-one time, and we’ll no doubt end the evening totally exhausted.

2) Since I started dieting, I’ve been eating a salad every day for lunch. The end result is that I now poop every day or every other day. This adds a wonderful balance to my digestive repertoire, as my body in all it’s aging slowness (and thyroid-complicated-ness) was used to a once a week schedule, twice a week if I won the intestinal lottery. And now you may take a break to rinse your eyeballs off with sanitizing cleaner.

3) I can’t watch the news anymore. Everything is bad, just bad, and worse, just worse. Like this. And this. Fuck a duck. Mark my words, next GWB will be trying to get political cartoons outlawed. Especially Doonesbury.

4) Very soon, I’ll have to buy new pants, and I can’t tell you how much I hate shopping. With a passion that exceeds all passions.

5) I’m babysitting. I’m babysitting Girl-child’s new doll. The doll I told her she couldn’t take to school today. The doll is on my desk wrapped in a pink puppy-patterned blanket, with a tiny stuffed mouse by her side. My co-workers don’t quite know what to make of it. I hope they think I’m loony and need to go on a good, long vacation.

6) Go visit Chunk O Funk. Just go.

7) I can’t get “Train in Vain” out of my head. I saw the Clash in the 80s, and they sucked (and not in a cool “We’re Primus and we suck” kind of way). The guys were drunk, or stoned, or drunk and stoned, and could barely stand up. They played a short set and hit the green room for more chemicals. But. I still lurv ‘em. Daft fuckers.

8) There was a 3-car accident outside the building where I work this morning. I always find my morning gets off to a more raucous start when I’m greeted by cops and wrecker trucks and sheets of ice.

9) Sometimes I like to do lists and can’t bear ending on an odd number. It’s part of my OCD-ness.

10) And now I have to pee like a big dog.

Monday, February 06, 2006

I Am Freak. Freak I Am.

I don’t…well…hmmm….

I think, maybe, I have a few too many blobs of testosterone in me.

I mean, all us chicks have SOME, just like guys have SOME little pink pearly bits of estrogen floating in their skin bags.

But, well…there are times when I have too much ‘longing’ between my thighs and I’d swear it was a guy reaction.

If I had a penis, it would be at full attention one-hundred-percent-of-the-time.

This weekend, I don’t know why, I had constant fantasies, and stroked my velvet flower countless times, and really couldn’t concentrate on much else besides the hotties on tv, or on-stage when we saw that play, or lurking about in the hallways after. I had vivid and extremely hot Fantasy Boyfriend sex (in my head) while washing dishes, bathing the kids, and (of course) in the shower.

Not that it was a BAD thing.

I just don’t think it’s normal.

Which is…

Kinda cool…

I think....

How many sexual fantasies should a woman have in a normal day? What's 'excessive'? And how much rubbing will my cooter stand before it falls off?

Anyone? Anyone? Bueller??

Friday, February 03, 2006

A Little Light-Headed and Giggly, But Nothing I Can’t Sleep Off

Boy-child’s class had a field trip to a planetarium this morning and, because I’m a ‘cool mom’, I took time off work and went along.


Before school started, I was ‘adopted’ by one of Boy-child’s friends, a chatty girl-beauty whom all the boys were pushing and teasing in that I secretly love you way.

“I hate boys!” she squealed, and grabbed my hand. “Can I hang out with you? These boys…maaan!”

How could I say no to that?

She told me her name was Alli, short for Allison, and when I dubbed her ‘Queen Allison the Great”, she was my friend for life.

Boy-child, ever in touch with his feminine side, thought this was an excellent idea, and held my other hand. So we were three.

We stayed in triplicate throughout the morning, side by side in the planetarium seats. Our docent spoke in a calming, yet excited voice, and bid us look up, waaaaay up, at the curved ceiling, as it went from white, to blue, to red, to green, to black sky and sparkling heavens.

We dizzied through the sweep of planets, squealed in "polite freak-out-ed-ness" when the lights dimmed alltheway, to make 'absolute dark' in the huge domed room. We ‘oohed’ and ‘aahed’ at the rotation of stars around our half-circle of sky, at the magnified photos of the Milky Way and the Seven Sisters and Mars, at the constellation myth stories of Cassiopeia and her family, and of Orion and his dogs, and the bull that he fought, and the Bears Major and Minor, and of our friend, the North Star.

At the end, after Q&A, a few of the well-seasoned kids begged for their favorite planetarium experiences…”Show us the Black Hole!”, “Let us ride the rollercoaster…please!”

The docent was a very fine fellow indeed, full of humour and facts, young enough so the kids listened, old enough so we grownups trusted him.

“Okay”, the docent said, “We’ll ride the mobius first.”

Any of you who remembers geometry probably made a mobius strip…take a long strip of paper, give it a half twist, and tape the ends together...you will have a surface with no end.

The dome darkened, and a mobius appeared most ghost-like, studded at the center with bright lights. The camera swung us on top, and we began our descent down, down, downreallyfast, DOWNOHMYGODFAST!, around…gah!...up and twist and our bellies fell to our toes as…YEAH!...we increased speed and whipped around and up and our throats squeezed out explosive laughs and there was much gasping for air, even though we were perfectly still, sturdily seated, our poor brains had been taunted and confused and the docent shouted out, “If you think you’re gonna throw up, just close your eyes,” and BY GUM IT WORKED, and the ride continued, slowed, slowed more, and before it stopped, it disappeared in a puff of night sky.

“Now the black hole!”, the docent exclaimed, mad-scientist-like, his fingers whipping around the computer screen.

A grid appeared, out of Tron, or that Simpsons episode where Homer gets sucked into a black hole, and the center spun around like a disembodied tornado, and we were pulled into it, slowly, and our spines stiffened as we realized we wouldn’t escape, we COULDN’T escape, the grid walls closing in, the eye of the black hole rushing towards us fasterandfaster and we didn’t reach it didn’t reach it didn’t reach it and then the center of the black hole and…BOOM!!!! Total. Utter. Dark. We gasped in unison, even Mrs. D, the teacher, who sat behind me. Gasp! (hold) Exhale!

“WOW!!! Let’s do that AGAIN!”, the kids yelled.

But the docent, ever mindful of the time, bid us adieu and led us through the hallway, through the lobby, past the gift shop, and out the door, and we waved goodbye and ‘thanks’, and we stared at his lab coat sparkling with glowing constellations.

Boy-child, Queen Allison the Great, and I squeezed into a bus seat and sat exhausted, silent, grinning distractedly, all the way back to school.

We were trippin’, all right.

Have a good weekend, y’all!

Thursday, February 02, 2006

Tongue Lashing, because jo(e) is right

I was a tease, and I’m sorry.

My post yesterday should have been sexier. After all, I led you on by mentioning ‘tongue’ in my title, didn’t I? And what’s a tongue for, besides eating and talking, but a magnificent tool for nasty naked meanderings?

I will atone for my sins with a lickable list of things my tongue desires.

What I Want
By Mona’s Tongue

What I want
First of all
Is a moist
Her soft
Just like
To smile for you
In that
That says
‘come closer’

I want to
As Mona whispers
In your
To please
Sit d
..... o
..... w
..... n
Has to know

I want to
Your neck
And feel you tremble
My firm

I want to
The soft saltiness
Of your shoulders
Of your arms
Of your fingers
And feel them stiffen

I want to
My way
as your breath
escapes like

I want to
the sweetness
south of your

I want to
All your
Can offer

I want to
Your pussy
Your kitty
Lovingly gifting
With a

Happy Birthday, QWMaine…I hope this poem is an apt gift. Read it while looking at the photos from this past post of mine, and also this.

Wednesday, February 01, 2006

…In Tongues

The way my day is going can be expressed in foreign words and phrases:



Mon dieu




Bete noir

And something in sign language made by making the “peace sign” with both hands and then tapping the thumbs of both hands together.

And how is YOUR day?