Poetry Friday – Yeah Yeah, I Know

No poems about men, me and men, whatevah today. Too damn tired, and now I’m feeling like someone took my head off and substituted a gigantic fire-puffed marshmallow.

(Excuse me while I rant for a minute.) So yesterday was gorgeous, mid 60s, sunny, for the first time since, what, OCTOBER??? I left the soul-sucking sound that is work and headed out with my car windows down, blaring music, and for the first time since, what, OCTOBER???, I felt ‘normal’, and pretty happy. THEN I woke up this morning at some ungodly hour not being able to breathe…fack…stupid springtime cold, every damn year. Stupid nose wouldn’t let any air come in and out, and mouth-breathing sucks because then my throat feels like a paper towel is shoved down there, and no matter how many times I get up to blow nose and quaff water, it still SUCKS. I did get a brief respite when Sergei jumped my bones this morning (Note: Sex will clear your sinuses), but now my nose is the OTHER way. I bend down to tie my shoe, or pick up my pen, or sniff someone’s shoe (don’t ask), and when I unbend, WHOOSH, and the river of nose starts flowin’.

OCTOBER!!!!

Dammitdammitdammit.

Heavy inhale...exhale out. Okay.

Today is Poetry Friday. Because I like repeating myself. Today is Poetry Friday, and my poetry is at home, and rilly, my brain cells are pretty scrambled. So once again, I offer you the “Free-Write”. 5 minutes of free-association writing on a word from the dictionary.

The word is…

“summer stock”.

SUMMER STOCK? That’s two words, Mr. Webster, ya freak.

Oh well.

“Summer Stock”

And…begin.

Stock is something I keep in my pantry, why its soup and cattle, its theatere, those bizarre thespians thou, summer stock is driv9ing the cattle to market, yeehaw, not like Filty Rich Cattle Drive which I missed the last episodes of and that Fabian guy should just have been beaten, and beaten good, beaten with a stick of ‘sense’, because he’s such a pansy ass crybaby.

Sergei and I met doing summer theatre,

FUUUUUUUCCCCKKKK!!!!!!!!

My computer just fucking DIED! I don’t even know how this thing got saved I mean I hit draft at some point but floody fucking hell this place sucks.

Oh yeah, summer theatre, and there was this kid working backstage, this high school kid, with initials for a name, and round glasses like the kid in Christmas Story like Ralphie, and this kid was on point, I mean sharp and did all the crappy backstage stuff that no one wants to do. Sergei and I were dating and we’d do stuff to purposely get under this kids skin, like make out in front of him before we went on, and this initial-kid had a bit part and we’d tell him dirty jokes before he had to go on, he was sixteenyears old and never girlfriended, and I’d flash him my thigh before he went on stage, he’d enter red-faced and stammering, and we’d laugh our asses off because I don’t know, messing with kids is fun. Nowadays we see this kid, who’s now late 20s, on the pbs channel during the auction week, we find him and scream, there’s initial-kid! My how he’s grown!

That play was the most ridiculous thing, our props person was high on meth or something, the set pieces looked like kids toys and nothing worked, I had to bring the rope myself. I was to be strung around the neck with an ACTUAL rope, and I told the propguy, thanks I’ll get my own, and I did, a nice soft nylon rope that I dyed brown to look like real hurty rope, and it worked great during the play, afterwards I kept it (I bought it) and now it’s in the closet when sergei wants to tie me up and pour ice cream toppings all over my naked body. I can’t bear to watch the video of us, my voice, like I says before, sounds like Minnie Mouse on helium, only more gravely,

And Stop.

(Dammit.To.Hell. Our servers at work came out of fast-food boxes, I swear. Half the time I can’t get on the internet, and the other half of the time I have to worry about the damn thing crashing. Sigh. Some time I’ll have to blog more about that whole play experience, about when Sergei came out on stage during brushup rehearsal wearing just a tea-towel. Or how we dry-humped in the back of a guys car while the guy screamed in the front. Ya had to be there. Have a good weekend, y’all!)

Do the (Funky Mama) Do the Grind

1) I just had an oral-gasm. Suicidal-Guy-In-Loveless-Marriage stopped at Burger King this morning for breakfast. Because BK doesn’t serve ENOUGH fat, they came up with cheese-infused hashbrowns.

CHEESE.

He came into my cube and forced (not really)…forced me to eat one.

Oh.
God.

I would totally recommend them.

Question: Why don't BK and McDs and other fast-food places serve breakfast for EVERY meal? I’d love to have a greasy croissant sandwich at 7 p.m. And I would bathe in a bathtub of cheesy hashbrowns and eat my way out.


2) "Good Heavens, Miss Sakamoto, you're beautiful!"
Thomas Dolby has a blog.
DOLBY.
Check it out. He busts Kevin “Britney’s baby daddy” Federline.
Dolby’s also touring.
He is an 80s god to me.


3) Whassup with the “Univision Principle”? I keep seeing it more and more. The Univision Principal, for those of you unschooled in the ways of Spanish television, is where you pair a beautiful girl with a not-so-handsome guy on a mediocre television show, hoping to increase your viewership. Like Viviana with that fat guy in a bee costume. Like Sarah with Kevin on G4 television's "Attack of the Show" (although I do think that show rawks, and rawks hard). Like that scary guy we saw this morning (urgh) in the music video paired with this drop-dead gorgeous 20-ish woman.
UNFAIR.
I do, indeed, blame the patriarchy.
Women deserve eye-candy too, fellas. Don’t be struttin’ out your young model girls with their plastic boobies to drool over, and leave us with the low-life-scum men. Let's see some real women, women with a little belly pooch, women with child-bearing hips and no waist, women who don’t face the camera in three-quarter angle from the neck up, women who don’t walk like ponies down a runway. Get real.

The Dog Ate My Homework

I can’t muster up a proper post today.

My excuses:

1) The Boss-Man is MAD, and making us bust ass on non-money-making projects like we’re monkeys in a room with typewriters. Wait. I don't like that simile. ...like chickens on a treadmill. There, that's better.

2) My legs and back and arms ache like a mofo because I’ve started working out again. Dammit, why can’t I remember the proper way to do crunches that doesn’t wrench my neck into the shape of an ampersand?

3) I just counted in my planner, and my period should be coming this weekend. Pre-PMS. Great.

4) Beverly Cleary died and Casper Weinberger died. Still waiting for the triad to be complete.

5) Our local, state, and federal governments suck at soooo many levels, it gives me a pain in every crevice.

6) I must win the lottery so I can leave this hell-hole. Any suggestions for picking winning combinations?

Child of the 70s

I, Mona Buonanotte, am hereby outing myself as an old person.

It’s taken me a while to realize this, but no matter how much alt/college music I listen to, and love, there’s a part of me that is stuck in the 70s.

With all those bands you think you hate.

Bands like:

Styx
Chicago
Boston
Bachman-Turner Overdrive
ELO
KC and the Sunshine Band
Sly & the Family Stone
Peter Frampton
America
Steve Miller Band
Three Dog Night
Doobie Brothers
War
Parliament
Foreigner
REO Speedwagon

I love ‘em, man. Love ‘em all.

When I was a kid, in the country, before the advent of cable television, we listened to the radio a LOT. Summers were filled with sounds of baseball from Tiger Stadium, the familiar drone of Ernie Harwell narrating the play-by-play. The rest of the time, it was CKLW from Windsor (although my mom was partial to WJR from Detroit). Music, man, it was music, always music. My parents were pretty flexible with what they’d let us listen to, and it was always current stuff (except Sunday mornings when they’d insist on classical…I had a strange knack then of knowing who the composer was by hearing the first few notes…my mom thought I was a genius, although I have since lost that ‘gift’).

I remember lying in the backyard one hot summer day, on an old scratchy Air Force blanket, bathing suited, covered in baby oil to get a ‘really good tan’, with the radio outside on the end of a long extension cord, and hearing Gerry Rafferty sing ‘Baker Street’, and thinking to myself, “This song will always remind me how THIS feels, summer, nothing to do, on the lawn.” I remember winter nights holed up in my room listening to my wee transistor radio, Steely Dan singing to me about a girl named “Peg”.

Every time “The Cover of Rolling Stone’ comes on the Oldies station (by Dr. Hook and the Medicine Show, BTW), I stop whatever I’m doing and yell the lyrics in a manic frenzy.

C’mon. You know you do this too.

If you have the means, please buy this cd set. It will send you down memory lane with a bottle of Faygo and a halter top.

“Clowns to the left of me,
jokers to the right,
here I am
stuck in the middle with you….”

The Seven Words You Can’t Say

I was riding the school bus one day, back in the days when I still carried a froofy metal lunchbox, when one of the older kids started jawing to his friends about a George Carlin album he’d just gotten. This kid was really animated and excited, about one cut in particular…”The Seven Things You Can Never Say on Television”. I strained to hear what the words were, but the kid got really quiet and he was older, so I didn’t feel comfortable asking him. (Us lil kids is a-scared of the bigger kids.)

So now I’m a grownup. I say and do whatever I want.

Today while talking to a co-worker about the ineptitude of the marketing folks, the small-brain-ness of the CS Manager, and the general lack of give-a-fuck from the management level, I realized that now I swear a lot.

A.
LOT.

Especially at work.

It’s not even Noon and I have followed in the footsteps of Carlin. I have said EVERY ONE of the seven words you can’t say on television here at work. Several times.

They are:

shitpissfuckcuntcocksuckermotherfuckertits

(Really, how delicious is that? VERY delish.)

I have kept my voice down, the white noise and Muzak muffles my expletives, and I don’t talk that way in front of managers.

I think I need a new job. Preferably not on television (well, maybe on cable).

Or I need new swear words that sound like I have a mouthful of flowers. Suggestions are welcome!

Poetry Friday: Copping Out

I had some stuff all ready to go, some poems about men that I wanted to flesh out.

I rilly did.

And then I realized I had to get to work this morning at an ungodly hour. By 6 a.m. The need for sleep kicked the ass of the need to email myself at work the poetry I wanted to post, because I was of course too tired to log on last night from home and post early for today.

It’s 7 a.m., and I’m one of only two people here. In this massive building of brick and high ceilings.

It’s freaky.

It’s pretty cool.

Okay, so, instead of lovely poetry about men screwing me over (and just screwing me), I default to last week’s device, the ‘Free-Write’. I pick a word in the dictionary, write for five straight minutes about it, then comment.

Let me get the dictionary. (It belonged to the girl who was fired two years ago. She’s married to ‘Suicidal-Guy-In-Loveless-Marriage’ in the cube next to mine. It feels weird to touch it.)

The word is:

“Charm”

Go.

When I was about six my aunt Julie gave me a charm bracelet, it was really old and had dark metal charms on it of a trolley car and a skyscraper and a dog and a shoe, sort of like monopoly pieces but with less style. The bracelet was just too tarnished and yet I wore it all the time and even put it in my mouth, and it wouldn’t surprise me if I had lead poisoning from that thing, and they’re still making dangerous jewelry with internet recalls.

I was in high school this girl in one grade above me wrote out her class photo to me and she wrote, ‘your mother should have named you Grace because you have so much charm’, and I thought, well, no, you’ve never seen me hit my brother or poop, or and really I fall down everytime I walk somewhere and I even swear when my mom’s not looking.

My boss loves lucky charms. We buy them as birthday gifts for him., with a carton of milk. He acts like he’s six years old and wraps his arms around the box and heads ot his office to rip the top open and devour it, he’s forty and will crawl under his desk with breakfast cereal.
Charm is th esame as spell, isn’t it? If I were to put a charm on you, would it be a good witch sort of thing, a magical spell to ward off colds and the icky nightoperator computer guy who doesn’t bathe and doesn’t shave and who I fortunately missed this morning. He looks like the bumble from Rudolph, the big hairy guy with manic eyes and a stupid grin who follows you to the bathroom when he’s in conversation and all you wantt o do is run, far far away, bumbles bounce, maybe deodorant would be a better fit.

Stop.

True: I have a collection of Abominable Snowmen from Rudolph, they’ve started selling them at Christmastime. One day at a department meeting, I mentioned that our overnight computer operator, who had grown out his gray hair (to below his shoulders) and who hadn’t shaved in jeebus-knows-how-long, and smelled like cattle, reminded me of the Bumble. Everyone laughed, but they knew it was true.

I promise, next week, poems about wicked men and wicked me.

Have a good weekend, y’all!

Girly Plumbing

I don't want to sound stupid...

...or that I'm unfamiliar with the workings of female plumbing...

...but can anyone skool me in a few things about girls peeing?

(I can't wait to see what kind of google hits this post brings about.)

I always wanted to pee like a boy when I was younger. Oh, to be able to hold it and aim! Pee drawings on the sidewalk! Flicking the neighbor's annoying dog with an eyeful of warm piss! Making that "whoooowhoooooWWUUUHHHH" sound when you pee directly into the escape hatch of the toilet.

No. I sit. It comes out. I wipe, I'm done.

There's two things that have me baffled. Two weird things I'm hoping someone can straighten out for me.

1) If you're a girl, and you pee, and you sit there and can't pee any more, IF you rub your lower back right over your butt crack, very gently, you can usually pee out a wee (WEE!) bit more. And THEN you're done. Why is that?

2) Sometimes I have to pee and have a sexual fantasy at the same time. Now you longtime readers may remember, I have the ability to hands-free masturbate, achieving orgasm just by thinking sexy thoughts. Yeah, it's a gift. Anyhow, sometimes I'll be thinking of some situation, me and some dark-haired gardener named Raoul, and he's just asked me to help hoe a row (of me), and then I feel the need to pee because it's been 4 hours and I've drunk 6 cups of tea in that time. So I'll sit down and try to pee, but then the fantasy kicks in, and then everything down there tightens up so I CAN'T pee. After a little no-hands time, and that part is satisfied, then I can pee. Why can't I do both at once? The pee-hole is different from the cooter part. Is it like the windpipe and the esophagus, one has to be closed or else you choke to death?

3) Okay, three. Does anyone really like "Golden Showers"? Or is that just a sick fantasy propogated in certain back-room movie rental offerings? 'Cause...damn. Just...no.

Pee pee pee. I've really stooped with this post.

My Brush With Greatness

My mother-in-law, Sergei’s stepmom, the children’s author, is coming into town today for storytime at Boychild and Girlchild's classrooms. I’m taking this afternoon off to be her roadie, her groupie, her entourage.

Yesh, it makes me feel like a rock star.

She’s done this for several years now, and it’s funny to see all these staid, polite, well-mannered teachers get all gooshy and starry-eyed when they see her.

To me, tho, she’s my cool mom-in-law, the one who wears funky jewelry and makes wonderful soufflés and bakes garlic to spread on crackers with goat cheese.

Mmmm, goat cheese.

My ‘Brush With Greatness’ list is surprisingly short, given my career as sex goddess and girl-about-town. (Okay, nowadays more like stressed-out-mom and dirty-minded blogger.)

1) My mother-in-law
2) Met James Earl Jones once and he checked out my ass (so says Sergei), got his autograph
3) Shook hands with Henry Rollins and asked if he would sing at my wedding (he politely declined), got his autograph on ‘Get in the Van’
4) Slept with a member of a rock band from New Jersey in the early 90s (no, not THAT band), got one of his guitar picks as a souvenir
5) Met and got the autograph of Kevin McDonald, one of the guys from Kids in the Hall, who now does cartoon voiceovers (the alien on “Lilo and Stitch” tv show, Waffle on “Catscratch”).
6) Stood *this close* to Bill Clinton several years ago when he spoke at a fundraiser. Damn he is a handsome man!
7) I have a lock of hair from a convicted murderer (law-enforcement uncle scored it for me, big murder case in Michigan…oh, don’t be grossed out!)

That’s all I can think of. Surely you must have better ‘brushes’ than me!

This is the post for Tuesday

I'll be spending the morning in the hospital.

ON A FIELD TRIP, so don't freak out.

Girl-child's kindergarten class gets to try out all the equipment (except the foley catheters, SVN PRN!), and they'll bring home all kinds of chad (hair net, shoe covers, bandaids, surgical mask. Me, I'll be tryin' to score some rubber gloves and maybe a hospital gown so Sergei and I can play "Doctor and Unruly Patient".).

Right now I'm watching a documentary on the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders, on the CMT channel.

Cheerleaders.
CMT.
Me.

I'm not sure which is freakier...that I'm watching 20 year old girls with hot bodies gyrating for the camera, or that I'm watching Country Music Television.

As it's Tuesday, and Lisa will no doubt be posting a bodacious photo of her lovely breasteses, I will show you my new red bra. Like it? There's matching panties but you gotta pay extra to get a shot of those.

Who do you want me to be/to make you sleep with me

My darling husband is a smart guy…he reads HISTORY (fer cryin’ out loud, I can’t finish that book on the female orgasm), he climbs his family tree, he’s up on current politics.

I, on the other hand, have meaningless addictions to feed.

Oh, I get a bug up my butt every once in a while for something, and then it turns into an obsession and then I just can’t let it go.

I meant to re-do my blog last weekend, but in between the usual house-and-kids chores, got sucked into this.

Damn Sudoku.

I’m always late to the party, everyone’s prolly tired of Sudoku now, and here I am “oohing” and “aahing” about it. But damn, is that addictive. I’m still new to it, and I’m pretty sure there’s a ‘trick’ I need to know to solve the puzzles faster, but I get seriously ‘gooshy’ when I finish one-a those things.

So there’s one addiction I can feel growing.

I’m also obsessed with finding parts of my body I can photograph and post on my blog. (Sergei, don’t download the digital camera, really, I promise I’ll CROP those photos.)

I’m watching re-runs of “Miami Ink” and dreaming about a killer tattoo I want. Obsessed.

I have an Emily Dickinson writing-down obsession, I have scraps of paper everywhere with story idea, poems, half-assed lines of nothing.

Plus, of course, there’s half a dozen men I’m having sexual fantasies about at any given time (and some all at the same time).

What does this mean?

Well, it could mean that I need more time do read or knit or cook, or just get nekked and shake dat ass in front of Sergei.

Or it could mean I enjoy daydreaming all frickin’ day long.

I hope that’s not a bad thing?

Poetry Friday: An Experiment

There once was a man from Nantucket....

I want to bring back Poetry Friday to this blog (you'll see evidence of past attempts in my right panel, all body parts I think, "Poems about....").

PSYCH!

I actually have no poetry for today, however.

(I do have body parts I'm thinking about, tho.)

I want to do an experiment, right before your eyes, TADA! Since poetry doesn't have to rhyme, or have any sort of metered pattern, I want to try a 'Free Write', a stream-of-consciousness thing, see what happens there. My plan is this...I'll open the dictionary and stick my finger in it and write about that word.

Five minutes of straight writing, I hit "Publish Post", and later see what kind of crap is out there. This will be interesting.

I've gotta get the dictionary, hold on.

"HIGHWAY"

Go.

HIghway highway creaking cement staircase Germany transporting tanks to battles and I think HItler thought they were the literal bomb, and now we use them to go get ice cream and hair treatment and bicycle clips and prophilaticsholyhell and when I was

in jersey that's New Jersey with my friend Kath when I wanted to move out there and everyt iem we wanted to go somewhere she'd get on the highway, one mile away and she'd want to get on the highway in her mom's boyfriends Cadillac with the cushy red velvet seats, and we'd drive ten minutes to go get icee something and she'd use the damn highway, when i asked why she said because we ALL use the highway, it's what we do

and I didn't like it one bit

the highway near my house near my yard i can hera the semis going by on a soundless day theres semis with radials squeeling and never is there more than

ihave a recurring dream of highways i don't know the connection but i start on an entrance ramp and if i go left i go on a sort of mark ryden path it's all too stark and the highway curves and goes straight and greenandwhite signs are everywhere telling me where to go

i get lost everytimne and can't find my wayhome and i turn around and turn around and if
i get back to the place where i entered i can go right

and if i go right the highway looks like downtown grand rapids wher eit curves near the baseball park and then the highway turns city and the side streets lead me to in my dreams pet food, and once there i lost my underwear and searched with my brother to find it and then we ate something, not my underwear, but then i couldn't find my car to get on the highway and then i did and thendrovepast the entrance again and got lost somewhere cranes and tansk of

(Afterward: My underwear? Hmm.... I use the word "AND" a lot. I sound drunk, or on that edge of sleep when you have to brush away the bats of random thought. Wild, man. Happy St. Patrick's Day! If you're not wearing green, pinch your bottom and imagine that I did it.)

Gankin' the Internets

1) As a girl who grew up with mostly male cousins, and a brother who teased me mercilessly, I really enjoy the Todd t-shirts. I could spend days in here.


2) Know how you find a site and link and link? Again, gimme a blanket and a bag of Oreos, and I’ll be camping out in here for a while.

3) WHAT? You want to jam cell phones in movie theatres? Are you out of your frickin’cotton’pickin’ mind??? Listen Bubba, when Sergei and I get the rare opportunity to go the movies sans kidlets, we HAVE to keep a cell phone on…it’s called “EMERGENCY”, doofus. You tell me I can’t use my cell phone in a movie theatre for an emergency and I’ll NEVER go to your theatre! Y’know what the problem is, Sheepherder? Your movies SUCK. THAT’S why attendance is down. Stop remaking old movies we really like into polished pieces of dog turd. You know what I’m talkin’ ‘bout. You and the recording industry better smell the spray you're skunkin' and realize that you can’t peddle crap. Wah! Wah! Nobody’s buying our cds! Nobody's coming to our theatres! ‘CAUSE YOUR STUFF SUCKS. I swear, if I hear one more guy in a band singing like Dave Matthews, I’m gonna go ballistic on the RIAA’s ass.

4) Would it be improper of me to post photos of my skin on Half Nekked Thursdays? I'm just sayin', would you feel the need to poke your eyes out with brooches or somethin'? Just curious....

Look what Pisser led me to!

Yesterday I was daydreaming about Pissed Kitty. For no reason other than sometimes I just wanna grab her butt and buy her a margarita bigger than her head and talk about tampons.

I loves me some Pisser. But for some reason, my twisted brain wants to say her name like “piss-wah”, like some sort of Frenchy thing.

Piss-Wah!

Then it occurred to me…I think that IS a word! A Frenchy word!

So I went to Google and keyed in “pissoir”, which I thought would be the actual French spelling. (My second grade teacher taught is French, oui, and I can say such things as “the girl puts the doll to bed”, and “the boy goes to school in winter”, neither of which is easy to incorporate in a sentence when you’re a grownup in Montreal, and neither of which I can spell..."la filla...fila?...couche?...coucha? aw fuck".)

This link came up.

I can’t stop looking at it.

So, let’s say you’re in an art gallery and you really have to pee. You do your bidness, and come out to folks APPLAUDING you for your creativity.

‘Cause the urinals are like pee chalkboards.

Dammit.

Why didn’t I think of this?

Maybe Pisser would go with me and we could pee like guys.

(I will have to try the female ‘spread your labia and pee’ trick, that would come in handy if I every go camping again.)

Dear Diary, Today I took one look at you and thought, DIE! DIE! DIE YOU PIECE OF SHIT! Love, Mona

Ooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhhgoddammit.

I know you all know what I’m talking about when I say...

i hate my fucking blog
i don’t know why i do it
where the hell did my mojo go

GGGGGAAAAAAAAAARRRGGGGGHH.

(Whew, that was actually cleansing. Not so much in a Kenny-Loggins-met-his-second-wife-when-she-gave-him-a-colonic sort of way. More like a deep inhale on someone’s nasty-ass cigarette after too many pints of Guinness at the Irish Pub.)

It's a stage, of course, we all go through bouts of hating and loving our blogs, wanting to kiss it then punch it in the face til it spits all its teeth out.

I'm lookin' for something'. A redesign. A focus (YES! An actual FOCUS! Not just a schizo mommy/sexy/schoolboard/workerbee/wife thing I can’t even describe.). Audio posts? Boobie shots? Poetry Friday?

Fuck me, I have no clue.

What I do know is this: my wish to let this blog be a creative outlet has not materialized. I’ve gotten lazy, or complacent, I’m too afraid to step out there with an opinion on something, too chicken-shit to be political, too afraid of stepping on toes to challenge an idea. Too safe.

Wah! Wah! Watch Mona cry! Watch Mona eat a pint of Chunky Monkey ice cream with a bag of M&Ms dumped into it. See her watch “The Color Purple” just so she can bawl her eyes out at the end. See the sideshow, folks, only fiddy cent!

Whatevah. I'm so over it.

And I sooo need a drink, y’all.

Impeach Bush!
Keep Abortion Legal!
Jesus Was A Liberal Jew!

Why Does Sex Feel So Good?

I’m curious.

(Yellow)

What do you think is the biological reason that sex, the act of sex, any kind of sex, feels just incredible?

I’ve heard that we were wired to enjoy sex so our species wouldn’t die out. The better it feels, the more we fuck, the more offspring we bear.

Well, that’s all well and good.

In the 18th century.

But now our planet is overpopulated, and resources are threatening to become scarce, and even replacing ourselves on this planet in a 1:1 ratio seems frivolous. So WHY is it that sex still feels good? Shouldn’t our bodies be losing the desire, shouldn’t our tingly bits be less tingly, if sex is meant to bring more babies in the world?

I like to think…

…maybe…

…the original plan of ‘sex-for-babies’ is being replaced by ‘sex-for-fun’. Because, let’s face it, so much in the world sucks right now, humans dying needlessly, rights being stripped, the rich becoming richer and more king-like, that maybe, fer jeebus’ sake, MAYBE sex is escapism. “Just fuck me so I can forget (insert angst here).”

But.

Damn.

I’m all gooshy and horny and can’t do a damn thing about it at work, and sometimes wish I could put my box in a box until a more convenient time.

Why does sex feel so good?

Discuss.

Mi Mi Mi Mi Mi….

The lovely and curvaceous Orange tagged me for a MEME.

Four jobs I’ve Had:
1. Office manager
2. Carhop
3. Copywriter
4. Software analyst

Four movies I can watch over and over:
1. O Brother Where Art Thou?
2. Monty Python and the Holy Grail
3. Princess Bride
4. Young Frankenstein (or Blazing Saddles, Mel Brooks rules)

Four places I’ve lived:
1. Important city on the East Coast
2. Small town in Michigan
3. Pretty big college town in Michigan

Four places I’ve been on vacation:
1. London, England
2. Cancun, Mexico
3. Toronto, Canada
4. Dallas, Texas, USA

Four websites I visit daily:
1. Pisser
2. QWMaine
3. Used Hack
4. Big Monkey, Helpy Chalk

Four of my favourite foods:
1. Turkey
2. Bleu cheese and Feta cheese and all cheeses
3. Fresh tomatoes off the vine, still warm from the sun
4. Whipped cream straight outta the can

Four places I’d rather be:
1. Home in bed, naked, with Sergei rubbing me
2. Home on the couch with the kids, watching a silly movie
3. At a lake, or an ocean, any large body of water
4. Under the willow tree at the cottage

Four bloggers I’m tagging:
1. Oh, I’m not picky. Just do it if it feels good to you.


Oh, and non-MEME related, I have a new boyfriend, but it’s now for naught because I’ll never see him again. I’m a big fan of Project Runway, and this Wednesday was the final episode of Project Runway 2. Even though he was egotistical and crass and sometimes downright rude, I realized (finally) that I have a huge crush on Santino. He’s a damn fine designer (although his final collection should have been more daring, more “Santino-esque”). He’s not self-conscious. And he’s just damn sexy. Yeah, he can design a dress for me and then rip it off and bone me over the cutting table. (losing my train of thought while imagining him licking my naked body) Uh…yeah…Santino. Good thing it’s Friday, ‘cause there will be fantasies distracting me from my work.

Have a good weekend, y’all!

Blog Against Sexism Day

This is the best and only way I can say what I feel about the subject, thanks to the lovely and talented Dar Williams:

When I Was A Boy
Dar Williams

I won't forget when Peter Pan came to my house, took my hand
I said I was a boy, I'm glad he didn't check
I learned to fly, I learned to fight, I lived a whole life in one night
We saved each other's lives out on the pirate's deck
And I remember that night when I'm leaving a late night with some friends
And I hear somebody tell me it's not safe, someone should help me
I need to find a nice man to walk me home
When I was a boy, I scared the pants off of my mom
Climbed what I could climb upon
And I don't know how I survived, I guess I knew the tricks that all boys knew
And you can walk me home, but I was a boy too

I was a kid that you would like, just a small boy on her bike
Riding topless, yeah, I never cared who saw
My neighbor came outside to say, "Get your shirt," I said, "No Way
It's the last time I'm not breaking any law"
And now I'm in this clothing store, and the signs say Less is More
More that's tight means more to see, more for them, not more for me
That can't help me climb a tree in ten seconds flat
And I know things have gotta change, they got pills to sell, they've got implants to put in, they've got implants to remove
But I am not forgetting
That I was a boy too

And like the woods where I would creep, it's a secret I can keep
Except when I tired, except when I'm being caught off guard
I've had a lonesome awful day, the conversation finds its way
To catching fireflies out in the backyard
And I tell the man I'm with about the other life I lived
And I say now your top gun, I have lost and you have won
And he says, "Oh no, oh no, can't you see
When I was a girl, my mom and I, we always talked
And I picked flowers everywhere that I walked
And I could cry all the time, now even when I'm alone I seldom do
And I have lost some kindness
But I was a girl too
And you were just like me, and I was just like you

Blog Against Sexism Day

A Freezer Full of Circumspect *

Hella busy at work and then with kids later, so what you get is a snapshot of the grace and delicateness that is your friend, Mona.

Yesterday I ran around like a madwoman trying to get my car fixed. After work, I had 40 minutes to pay for the repairs, drive the rental car 3 blocks away, walk BACK to the muffler and brake place, drive like mad to get the kids from school, and get them to taekwondo.

SO.

Paid for the car stuff.

Drove the car to the rental place.

Stumbled up the front steps to go inside and pay for the damn thing.

Waiting room was packed.

Started walking up to the counter, TRIPPED over a huge bump in the front door rug, caught myself….

…And farted.

Out loud.

It was the kind of air expulsion that couldn’t be disguised as anything else.

I.
DIDN’T
FRICKIN’
CARE.

I reveled in the non-caring-ness I was feeling.

Felt like super-frickin’-woman.

Left a cloud of Mona-gas in the car rental place.

Made it to taekwondo with 5 minutes to spare.


* This was a line from a dream I had last night. I have no idea what it means.

She's Breaking Up, She's....

I knew it was gonna be a sucky day when I had trouble getting up. Not just (stretch yawn) “ooh boy, I’m tired”, but more like (creak smash) “FAAACK, fackin’ mornings fackin’ hate ‘em.” Didn’t do nuthin’ outstanding last night (saw “Walk the Line”, finally, and now I can’t get that song outta my head). Just, well, it’s snowing, and the barometric pressure always messes with my head.

Okay, the snow…it better go away, and fast, ‘cause I’m getting tired of winter and will go postal on it’s fluffy white ass.

Then on the way to work, got stopped by a train. Okay, not just stopped. The TRAIN was stopped. DEAD. On the tracks. With cops all around. And pissed-off people. Managed to turn my car around and go several miles to another cross street where it should be safe…but NO…train there too. Waited a few minutes. Managed a turn-around. Went back to original street, thinking Dead Train would be moving now. OF COURSE FACKIN’ NOT. Went BACK to the second place, train had cleared there, and got to work half an hour later than I wanted.

Muffler is dying. Car is LOUD. Made an appointment to take it in this morning, made an appointment to pick up rental car down the street from muffler dude. I don’t need this running around shite.

Kid stuff tonight. Work today. Had a very lovely breakfast of carrots and leftover crab dip, and now breath smells like onions. And Decaf Coffee.

All I need is for the Crimson Permanent Assurance to sail three days early and my day would be fuckin’ complete.

Bastards. Everything is bastards today.

(One good thing…yesterday I took the “Bag of Bottles and Critter” and dumped it out in the backyard (thanks, Butch Stroll, for the suggestion). I found…bottles…and…no vermin. Which means one of two things: 1) The critter got out of the bag in a survival-of-the-fittest “FACK IT’S COLD” struggle for life, or B) There never was a critter, and the scratching sound was actually a soda bottle that had expanded a wee bit from leftover soda in there, and in the warmth of the living room was making bubbles out the top of the loose cap. Either way…no body, no crime.)

The One Where Mona Is Freaked Out

The older I get, the more I freak-facking-out.

Last night after the kids were in bed, I bagged up a bunch of returnable bottles (10 cents each in Michigan, baby, just like on “Seinfeld”) and stuck them in the living room, to take out to my car this morning. Sergei was on the PS2 in the living room, I was in the dining room paying bills, when the cat took an extraordinary liking to my bag of bottles. At first I thought she was just curious, as cats are, and I teased her about it (of course, to her, my voice sounds just like the grownups on Peanuts).

Then the cat started pawing at the bag.

Then I heard the distinct sound of struggle.

From INSIDE the bag.

Scritch scritch scratchscratchscratch.

FACK.

Something was struggling to get OUT of the bag.

I didn’t really want to know what it was.

Mouse? Rat? Hippopotamus?

It’s still too cold for bugs, so grasshoppers and frogs didn’t make my list of whosywhatsis.

But we DID catch some mice in the garage last fall. And I didn’t look in the half-full bag before I added more bottles to it. So something COULD have been taking a nap in there….

I hauled ass, holding the bag from the tippy-tippy-top like it was full of live bees, flung it in the garage, and slammed the door shut.

Back in the house, Sergei said, “You know, if you don’t want what’s INSIDE the bag to get OUTSIDE the bag and IN the garage, you might want to throw that bag outdoors. The cold weather will kill whatever’s in there.”

He was right, of course.

So I ventured BACK into the garage, unlocked the back door, picked up and DROPPED the bag UPSIDE DOWN (FACK!), looked around for mice or rodents or bees, found none, picked up the bottle bag with just two fingernails, and threw that disgusting bag of live whatevah and plastic soda bottles outside. (Panic after having “issues” with the back door, which refused to open all the way because of the other garage crap in there, and the thought of wild vermin crawling up the teeny tie-opening and up my arm and biting me made me want to scream like a little wussy girl.)

I don’t know what to do from here.

I have a bag of returnables worth, oh, 4 bucks in the back yard. If I take it to the store to cash them out, and something jumps OUT at me, I will pee my pants in front of strangers.

Or worse.

Can you give me some tips here? Should I stick my hand into a potentially dangerous bag o' dead animalia for money?

Dude Looks Like a Lady

(The first time I heard this song, I thought Steven Tyler was singing "Do me like a lady", and then I spent an inordinant amount of time wondering if he really did have a vagina.)

We need more drag queens.

All my locals have r-u-n-n-o-f-t.

I'm filling the void with Eddie Izzard DVDs and fantasies of Tim Curry in RHPS. (Damn, I mean, how can you not get hot at that scene where Frank-N-Furter comes down in the elevator, and you see his fuck-me-pumps first, thumping the 'vator floor, and the fishnets, OMG. Yes. I KNOW he's gay. Doesn't matter, totally doesn't matter.)

It's really too bad for you gents. Unless you're a holy man, or Kurt Cobain, or play the bagpipes really well, you can't publicly enjoy the feeling of rayon skirts whisking by your newly-shaved calves, or cross your legs in a restaurant and enjoy the stares of patrons as they ogle your muscular thighs, or do that Marilyn Monroe subway-blowing-up-your-skirt thing. Heck, even flash your boobies for beads.

Poor little puppies.

I do believe that the biggest drag queen influences on my life have been Bugs Bunny, the collective Monty Python cast, and Milton Berle. Yeah, sure, they weren't exactly gorgeous (but if you ever saw 'Some Like It Hot', you'll know Tony Curtis WAS HAWT), but they were a delish taboo.

Any a you guys wanna dress in drag and do the hula for me, send me a photo, I'll give you a little somp-in'-somp'in in return. Maybe a photo of me in tidy whities with a sock stuffed down theah.