Changing of the (Fantasy) Guard…and something for Orange

My Stress Level peaked (or is it “piqued”?) this weekend, and then eased, such that now I’m feeling much better about stuff in general and my belly is a little less a snarling traffic jam of worry and bad food, and a little more a simple bumpy country road leading to a sparkling lake and fresh berries.

Or some flowery poetry shit like that.

The upshot is that now I have more time for fantasy, now that the ToDo lists have been pared down to Manageable, and my head isn’t so full of crap.

Fantasy Boyfriends. That is. Sexy ones.

I did some rearranging this weekend, kicking one of my Men to the curb, elevating an alternate to Set-in-Stone Fantasy Boyfriend status, and finding out just what constitutes My Type.

Y’know what I like?

Strong guys. I don’t necessarily mean body-strong (although it’s nice), but mentally strong…opinionated…brave…cynical…smart...funny...some sort of kick-ass-ness that whips my head around. And a receeding hairline doesn’t hurt. Mmmm-hmmm…. 'Course you know that Sergei fulfills most of the requirements except the hair part...it's lush and gorgeous. Mmmm-hmmm....


The current line-up, in no order (and yeah, I'm linking to the photos 'cause I'm being watched):

Mike Rowe (Dirty Jobs host, Discovery Channel narrator, handsome hunk of beefcake in a tight sweaty tshirt)

Colin Firth (the image of Mister Darcy, rising from the pond with his shirt wet and clinging to that chest…oh mama….)

Jason Statham (daaaaaaamn…any fight scene he’s in makes me instantly wet)

John Cusack (oh c’mon, how could he not be?)

Mike Doughty (I want to eat his voice and poop it out in statue form, it’s that delicious)


Orange, my love, come see! Come see! Mike Rowe from The Way Back Machine, before DJ, naked (sort of)…in his kitchen…lawd, the fantasies….

Poetry Friday: The Word is SURPRISE!

I'm actually posting ON TIME today!

Aren't you surprised? (I am.)

The Poetry Friday Word for today is SURPRISE. Feel free to use it in your blog post today, in whatever form makes your water-filled bobble birdie bob up and down...up and down...story, poem, photo, song, knitting project, recipe for mooshoo pork, audio post of you doin' somethin' nasty.... If you choose to participate, please leave a comment so we can all go see yer stuff and "ooh" and "aah" and throw bouquets of flowers and boxes of Girl Scout cookies at you.

I tossed off a few poetry-like things, out of some feeling of wanting to be in bed and naked and having sexy sex. Oh yeah, and I'm having "knights-and-damsels" fantasies. Mmmm...knights. I also included a video at the end which, I MUST warn you, is disturbing. Surprising, yes, but 24 hours after first viewing it, I'm still tortured by it. Be warned.

Have a good weekend, y'all!


I Drank the Salty Sea

When the tides pushed us to land
When your waves ceased to roll
I parted my seaweed bed of hair
Wiped my lips
And gazed over the landscape of
Your crests and churning foam
To bathe in the
Surprise
Still floating on the surface
Of your sea-blue eyes


Sir Prize

In his mouth, a fig
In her mouth, a cherry
Boughs of bright vermillion
Encircled their entwinement
Four-post bed confinement

Helmet at the footboard
Flowers at the head
She held his sword and plunged
Into his armoured fire
And lit the golden pyre

He bucked, an equine
She arched, a grapevine
While carousers and kings
Below were drunk and merry
His mouth full of cherry

Satin thighs lay dripping
Off the metal slipping
He rolled to reveal and release
To conquer her form and insist
Their hearth should be built with a kiss


A Very Disturbing Video....

Poetry Friday Word for Tomorrow, plus Mona gits it on, chick-style

Something happened this week, which I am not going to detail because it’s really HIS story, but An Event occurred this week that shook the foundation of the Clankhoff/Buonanotte household. We’re fine, don’t freak, but there were a couple days of frantic panic and excitement and OhMyFackingGawd and CrapDamn.

I so need a drink.

The emotional roller-coaster ride is still not over, there’s a few loop-de-loops and spirals and vertical drops yet to ride through, but at least we can see the station house in the distance and know there’s corn dogs waiting on the other side. What the hell am I using amusement park analogies for?

The Poetry Friday Word for this week is SURPRISE. No surprise, eh?

Feel free to use the word SURPRISE in your blog post tomorrow, in whatever form causes you to jolt upright from your bed and wonder which century you’re in…story, poem, photo, audio post, pottery collection, tooth collection, unexpected erection….


Maggie made me muse today.

She is eluding to something I connect with. Which, I believe, is “picking a team”.

Or kissing a girl.
Or boffing a girl.
Or something-something a girl.

Back in my younger days…college…and then again to a small degree later…I had occasion to get physical with a woman. (My Spidey-Senses tell me some of you menfolk are listening intently now…you want details??) Yes, there was kissing. Yes, there was touching. And yes, there was intimate rubbing of parts and general experimentation with what-goes-where. It was all good, but y’know…my girly bits loves the men. Loves ‘em. Craves ‘em. The images of naked male bodies run through my head 24/7 (which I’m sure is a male trait, and which I’ve co-opted for my own sensual pleasures). The experiences I had with women only served to reinforce my deep gushing desire for the dick.

Gushing.
Desire.
Sounds dirty, dunnit?

I’m interested to know if y’all have “tried out for the other team”. You don’t have to comment, can if you want, but if you haven’t experimented…would you?

(I was listening to a sex therapist the other day, I think I missed my calling…doh…another fantastic career missed.)

The Volunteer State

I’m just a girl who can’t say “No”.

When it comes to volunteering, I mean.

(How many were thinkin' I meant sex? Show hands.)

I will say “No” to these statements however:
“Would you put this beetle up your nose?”
“Mommy, can I use your bed as a trampoline?”
“Are you too tired to fool around?” (This, of course, is contingent on me being able to wake up first.)

For some reason, which I can only attribute to my parents' unending attempts to fill empty time with “stuff”, I volunteer. I am room-mother for Girl-child’s class, attend all field trips and functions, and am one of only 3 moms to have read the teacher’s note to send in Green Snacks for St. Patrick’s Day and actually follow through. I am helping coordinate the Big Field Trip for all the 5th grade classes at Boy-child’s school. I volunteer in the library every week. I am co-chief and general workhorse at the School Carnival this Friday (two days? Holy shnikees!), plus finding and collecting donations, and other suckers…er…I mean, volunteers, plus….

Well, you get the pic.

Sergei’s no better…coaching two soccer teams (gratis), heading up several Big City Committees (freebies), and generally being Mr. Helpful.

Two full-time jobs, two kids, a house, and endless volunteering.

Our kids don’t stand a chance.

They see what we do and are already bugging me to do more…”Can’t we volunteer to help at the Book Fair?” (Can’t…same time as carnival.) “Can’t we take more food to the Food Bank?” (Yes, but we also need to eat, darling.) “Can we take our old toys to Goodwill so other kids can have them?” (Yeah, but first I have to write everything down with an estimated value to use for tax time next year…don’t bug me! Go to your room!)

Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy it. I prolly enjoy it too much. Hence the propensity to volunteer for something, anything, when there’s the slightest lull in my schedule. Then I stress out, then I cut out the crap and DO it, then I complain that it’s done. WTF is my problem?

I’d always heard, “If you need something done, give it to a busy person.” Boy-howdy is that right.

Stress: Gits Shit Done.

The Tight Fist of Mike Rowe's Awesome

I got nuthin'.

Rather than post nuthin'
I'm turning to the latest addition to my Fantasy Boyfriend Lineup, Mike Rowe.
'Cause who can't use a good fantasy after a long weekend?

Mike Rowe's boy bits get stung by fire ants:


Mike Rowe takes a mud bath...I could hit that....

Poetry Friday: The Letter is "P"

Today's Poetry Friday Word is a Letter..."P". Perfectly puzzling, potentially palatial, possibly ponderous.

Feel free to show your love for the letter "P" today, in whatever form puffs up your petticoats...story, poem, riddle, bawdy song-styling, lusty marble statue....

Me, I'm home with the kids today with a full To Do list. I'm pleading insanity.

Have a good weekend, y'all!

Please

Please
don’t touch my hair with wanting fingers
or kiss my neck right there, just there
or languish hot breath
long and liquid
on the sweep
over my collarbones
down to the stiffness
down to the softness
you will againandagainandagain
kiss

Please

Do

Poetry Friday WORD for Tomorrow, happy happy

The Poetry Friday Word for tomorrow is not a word. We're gonna free-style it a little here. The Word is a Letter. The Letter is "P". That's right. In your blog post tomorrow, do a little two-step with the letter "P".

It's a nice explosive letter.
You can write about Peas.
You can write about Pee.
You can write about pondering pleasant protuberances.

Wind that around your top and set it spinning...take a picture, write a limerick, share a story, take that belly button lint and make a cunning sculpture. Whatever floats your little-man-in-a-boat.

It's the Vernal Equinox, people! Hoo-effing-ray for equal parts day and night! I plan to celebrate the return of the Light from the Gods on High by running stark nekked in the backyard, waving my girl-junk from side to side, for all to see, and do some interpretive dance beside the Green Man near the compost pile. Or maybe I'll just go to bed early and get some much-needed sleep.

W00T!

Get thee behind me, Thin Mint!

Oh gawd.

The Girl Scout cookies are here.

HERE!

At work! Where I sit! Trying to ignore them! And they stare at me from their lovely boxes with longing eyes!

EAT ME!, they scream.

Everyone and their little sister were out selling Girl Scout cookies this year. I limited each hungry scout to a purchase of two boxes. I have 8 boxes coming, and maybe more, if Girl-child made good on her promise to order some from Girl With Irritating Voice.

I’m a sucker for Samoas.
I also ordered Thin Mints, Tagalongs, Dosidos, and Chocolate Chip.

I am a weak, quivering mass of decadent sugar-coated-sugar-stuffed longing.

Please send milk.

What’s yer favourite?

St. Patrick Did NOT Drink Green Beer

Here in University Town, all the bars open extra early. They all sell green beer at fantastically cheap prices. They make a killing off hot wings and burgers. The streets are clogged with drunken revelers, there are cop cars with flashing lights and sirens going all damn day and night, and in the morning, folks who live near campus wake to find plastic cups in their yard and puddles of boy-pee on their sidewalks.

Happy Effin’ St. Patrick’s Day.

Here’s an Irish List:

1) Sergei and I are both of Irish ancestry (mixed with fack-all, of course, in a truly traditional American Melting-Pot way).

2) Sergei’s mom and her husband visit Ireland every year and bring us back goodies. So far, we've not gotten any 4-leaf clovers.

3) I get gooshy when I see a photo of Irish landscape.

4) I have a photo print of an Irish pub in my dining room.

5) Yesterday I made corned beef and cabbage. And Irish soda bread with beer. And Irish potato candy. And did not drink.

6) On or near St. Patty’s Day we watch either “The Quiet Man” or “The Secret of Roan Inish”. The former is funny as hell. The latter is a charming fairy-tale that always makes me cry at the end. (Damn you John Sayles.)

7) The last time I was truly well and pissed (er, drunk, that is) was on Irish whiskey. Sergei and I were watching “Band of Brothers” and drinking (me to excess), and I got happier and happier until the room started spinning and I had to run for the Porcelain God. I was out of commission the entire next day. Sergei took care of the kids and house while I puked and complained. And he’s never held it against me. He’s my dreamboat.

8) Sergei can do an impressive Irish accent. Me? I’m not as good as that Lucky Charms cartoon guy.

9) I hardly ever remember to wear green. I usually end up cutting a shape out of construction paper at work and stapling it on myself so the guys don’t pinch me. (Any more than they usually do.)

10) Best bands from Ireland: The Pogues. U2 (circa 1980s). The Clancy Brothers. The Chieftains. But if I have to hear that Cranberries song one more time, I’m gonna scream.

Poetry Friday: The Word is FEVER

Girl-child is still battling creeping crud. All night and this morning I checked on her every hour. I'm a wreck. But I'd still take the sickness into my own body if I could.

It's what moms do.

Today's Poetry Friday Word is FEVER. Feel free to use this word in your blog post today, in whatever form quenches your thirst...poem, story, photo, phone call to the insurance company to see if they cover massages that include "Happy Endings"....

Please leave a comment if you participate so we can all go see your works!

Have a good weekend, y'all!


One Hundred and Three

The flames licked at my head
Bubbling orange sheets of pulsing heat
Crazy
Consuming
My cold hands trembling
Under grandma’s patchwork
Soup and
Ginger ale
Glass thermometer under swollen tongue
Want to get
Out
A cold cloth against my forehead
A corner pulled into my mouth
Mama held my hand
Mama held her breath
As I shook and twisted
And asked
“Why did the sun go under my bed?”
“How can I float to the clouds in the sky?”
“Am I real?”
“Will I die?”
“Why won’t you help me?”
“Can’t you see I’m on fire?”

Mama held my hand
Mama held her breath
Pursed her lips
Blew gently on my neck
Counting
Waiting
To see
If the fever would pass



Uncle Ted, who must be rawked out to:

Poetry Friday WORD for Tomorrow, oy me hed

Girl-child is sick with that fever/sore throat/headache/stomachache thing that's going around the schools nowadays. I'll be on kid-duty all day, and hopefully she and I will have many naps, last night sapping the energy out of both of us.

The Poetry Friday Word for Tomorrow, since it's so promininent in my head and such a dastardly thing to begin with, is FEVER. Which can be both a hot head and a hot body ("You give me fever").

Feel free to use the word in your blog post tomorrow in whatever cool cloth compresses your head...story, poem, photo, recipe for chicken soup, automobile design, sexy college recollection....

And I leave you with this.

I'm afraid I can't help it

In a weird distracted mood today, with images of Trent Reznor running through my head. Found this video. Which rocks teh awesome.

Poetry Friday: The Word is LICK

LICK.

That's the Poetry Friday Word for Today. Feel free to weave that word through your blog post today, in whatever silky sweet form you choose...poem, story, photo, limerick, movie quote, ice sculpture, French lesson....

I tried like hell to find a video link to that scene in Clockwork Orange where Little Alex is forced to lick the grahzny, vonny boot of a sadistic aggressor. But I only found the movie script, not the sight of Malcolm McDowell's pink tongue licking the bottom of someone's shoe.

So.

I wrote a movie script instead. Or some script.

Well, the start of one anyway.

Or the start of something. I have an overwhelming urge for ice cream.

Have a good weekend, y'all!


The Luck of Shiny

EXTERIOR, DAY. BEHIND A WALK-UP DAIRY QUEEN. FORTY-ISH WOMAN, VERY PUT-TOGETHER, SITS ATOP A WOODEN PICNIC TABLE, LICKING AN ICE CREAM CONE. SHE LOOKS AROUNT THE PARKING LOT EXPECTANTLY. A CAR DRIVES IN AND PARKS. A MAN IN HIS MID-30S GETS OUT AND APPROACHES HER.

Ben: Vanilla?

Rox: (Licking cone) Uh-huh.

Ben: Just vanilla?

Rox: Um…and chocolate jimmies.

Ben: Sugar?

Rox: Hmm?

Ben: Sugar cone?

Rox: Yeah. The regular ones taste like cardboard.

Ben: Yeah. Hot today.

Rox: (Licking cone with purpose, smiling) Yeah…yeah…I am.

Ben: (Looking her up and down) Yes. You are. So. Where’s Max?

Rox: At practice. And then a sleepover with a friend. Alex is with his dad. Up north. Fishing. Boy’s weekend.

Ben: Boy’s weekend. Which leaves you…alone?

Rox: Which leaves me…available.

Ben: I’m glad you called.

Rox: I’m glad you called back.

Ben: So where…?

Rox: Listen. I don’t want this to be a “thing”, a big involved “thing”, okay, I mean, I want it to be what it is and nothing more.

Ben: And what is it?

Rox: (Swirling her tongue around the cone seductively) Two people. Two grown-ups. Who need to be more selfish. Who enjoy each other. Who want to get naked and test the coil strength of the bed.

Ben: We can do that.

Rox: Yeah, but don’t…I mean, not that you will or anything, but…don’t...don't do anything romantical or mushy, m’kay? Just physical. Well, and some talking, of course, I mean, please, I like you for your brain too.

Ben: (Nuzzling her neck) You’re just using me for my brain.

Rox: You’re just using me for my cunning ability to roll my tongue.

Ben: And lick that ice cream. (Taking her hand) Where?

Rox: Where’s your girlfriend?

Ben: Chicago. Conference.

Rox: Your place then. Mine is too…

Ben: Full of other guys’ testosterone?

Rox: I was gonna say “messy”, but alright.

Ben: Alright. (Tries to kiss her, but she pushes him away.)

Rox: Not here. Not where we could be seen. Doctor’s wife and all that.

Ben: Right. Decorum.

Rox: You remember the address?

Ben: Yeah.

Rox: I’ll leave first, and you can come later.

Ben: You come first.

Rox: I’d better. (Smiles and pulls away from him.) Hey, could you get a pint of something and bring it over? Chocolate marshmallow is this week’s special. We could find something…interesting…to do with it. (Walks to her car.)

Ben: Hmmm…yeah. Okay. Well. See ya…. (Waves, revealing a prosthetic “hook hand” and watches her drive away.)

Poetry Friday Word for Tomorrow, plus a Maggie-list

Have you ever looked at your tongue? I mean, REALLY looked at it?

It’s…weird.

My tongue, right now, fer instance, as I look at it in the little mirror by my computer (so I can see the boss sneaking up on me from behind)…it’s wide, a little bumpy on the edges, wow, Very Wide, not too long but long enough (back me up here, Sergei), sort of white-ish (what did I eat for breakfast?).

I have the genetic capability of rolling it into a taquito shape. (Or a flauta.)
I can trill it to speak Spanish.
I can use it to whistle or make that clicking-language sound.

I can also tie knots in cherry stems with it. Winkwinknudgenudge.

The Poetry Friday WORD for Tomorrow is LICK. I’m thinking of it in the tongue sense, but if you want to say “My dad can lick your dad” and have it not be some form of sex play, then have at it. Feel free to use the word LICK in your blog post tomorrow, in whatever juicy fruity form tingles yer mouth…story, poem, photo, musical arrangement, podcast, recipe for the world’s largest lollipop, instructions for making a dress out of chocolate and licorice whips….

Maggie has a list! And she talks of penises. Penes. New word for my vocabulary. I won’t talk about the penis here today (okay, once). But I will put up a list. Hasta manana!

Things I Do Or Have Done

1) When I was 6, and playing outside, a housefly flew up my nose. I did what every 6-year old girl sucking a DumDum pop would do…tried to extricate the offending buzzer with the sucker stick. I would not recommend that as a foolproof method of extraction. I'm pretty sure I poked my frontal lobe several times. Which explains so much.

2) My girlfriends at work and I replicate that “Diet Coke Break” commercial for reals in the summertime. When the lawn crew comes to manicure the expanse of grass outside the office. We gather like sweaty trollops at the windows and salivate into buckets. We won’t stop, either, you can’t make us.

3) I will let random schoolchildren spit their gum into my hand for me to throw away. As long as there’s a sink within 100 yards of where I am.

4) A foolproof way for me to fall asleep is to have a very involved sexual fantasy. Not just “penis-in-vagina” stuff, but with a plot and good lighting and sentimental value. So vivid it’s like a movie. Next thing I know I’m waking up the next morning feeling refreshed. This is NOT helpful when I’m at work and I have a very involved sexual fantasy to squire away the boredom. When I wake up to a pool of drool on my desk, I hightail it to the coffee station and splash half a pot of decaf in my face. Not quite the happy ending I was hoping for.

5) When I was about 17, I snuck a bottle of my dad’s homemade wine into my room, hiding it in one of my killer knee-high brown leather boots (which I loved). That night I drank most of the bottle. Once the room started spinning I slept, but woke up in the middle of the night to hurl my stomach contents somewhere next to my bed. Next morning I found the offensive upchuck…in my other boot. I had to throw both boots away, in a fit of shame. Because I couldn’t just tell my mom I “lost” one big high-heeled boot. 'Cause I sure wasn't gonna try to clean out that thing.

6) It doesn’t matter how many Kegels I do…I will sometimes, when I forget to listen to my body, sneeze with such force that I squirt pee. Just a little. Clench, Girl! CLENCH!

7) My brother is 20 months younger than I am. When we were little we would fight. Dirty fighting. Biting. Scratching. Kicking. We’d leave marks. We got more than our fair share of spankings from the parents. I sometimes wonder how my parents lived through those years (I would have committed me). And then I remember…OH! So THAT’S why my dad made wine!

Enough with the self-absorption!

Good grief! Slap me!

Stop me from prattling on about "Me" and "My feelings" and "Only If"...I needs me something that thumps my girlie bits, baby....

I Am The Den Mother of Homeroom Awesome

I was geeked to be spending this afternoon at the kids’ schools with my MIL, the Children’s Book Writer. However. Mother Nature was a bitch last night and brought in a hellish snowstorm that stranded MIL in 8 inches of new snow. Crappity crap. We’d made hurried plans yesterday with the teachers for an alternate date, so in two weeks we’ll try again.

But.

My brain couldn’t wrap itself around the crush. I couldn’t handle a full day of work today. It’s been hellish enough. Worse than hellish. It’s kicked my ass every damn day so hard my ass is now concave. (Or convex from inside. Shuttup.)

So I ran away.

Yesterday afternoon I met with Boy-child’s teachers to help coordinate a Major Field Trip to Exciting Museum in May. They gave me sheets of data, packs of forms, scant information on Who Worked the Fair, and said…Go…Do.

Last night I planted myself in a pot of swivel chair in front of the glowing teat of Excel and typed up spreadsheets. I hunched over the dining room table filling in forms, checking and re-checking. Putting slices of post-it notes in forms to be altered. I was in my element, all anal and databased.

This morning, after MIL cancelled, and I was threatened with an entire day of Work I’d Rather Not Do, I ran away to Boy-child’s school. After meeting with the teachers, I finished the field trip packets…slowly, methodically, picking and poking and breaking staplers. The teachers were happy I was there…one of Boy-child’s teachers said, “Boy, I wish I’d known about you last fall, I could have used you!” Boy-child’s homeroom teacher, High Commander, said, “She’s a fixture here now!” Meaning, of course, that they knew all they had to do was ask, and I’d beg and bark to do something for their classes.

As I delivered the packets to the teachers, friends of Boy-child would pop their heads up and wave like maniacal puppets…”Hi Boy-child’s Mom!” And I would smile and wave back. The school secretary knows and loves me. The teachers want me. The kids are actually happy to see me.

Someone tell me WHY I thought being a teacher was a bad idea?

(kicking myself in my concave ass for that slip-up)