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?