I don't typically bitch. I'm not a fan of the nag, the whine, the sit and sulk and say that everything is fine when really we both know that it's not. However, you're suppose to be smart enough to figure out what's wrong with me while I just sit and stew and stew over what ever it is that pissed me off, but you have no clue so you go out with the guys and then several days later I blow-up over the toothpaste that you left in the sink when you spit and didn't clean it out when really I'm pissed about that thing that happened on Wednesday and it's now Sunday morning.
Nope, that's not me.
I am however, very fond of the five second vent. Stand or sit just shut-up and just let me vent for five seconds. I don't want advice. I don't want a solution to the vent. I just want you to sit or stand, shut-up and listen. So, this is me venting. If it takes you longer than five seconds to read this, well then that's not my fault.
So, I am depressed today. Right now. Not in a, 'I hate myself and I feel all blechy about myself,' kind of way. No, it's more of a, 'People are irritating me.' But not so much in a, 'I want to rip their heads off' kind of way. It's more in a, I look at you and take a deep internal sigh and think, 'you make me tired,' kind of way.
I'm tired.
People are wareing me out and not in the good fun kind of way.
I've gone on too many, wasting my time, dates lately, but that's a post for another day.
I just feel, sigh-ish. Slouch-ish.
I tried working out. That usually solves this kind of mood. Nope. I even got up to 81 RPM's on level 5 of the cross trainer, for an entire minute. I had a moment of, "Wow, you rock." But notice the period, no exclamation point.
I did the free-weights. Nope, nothing.
While I was working out I watched, "Dateline," and they had one of their infamous, "I'm a 40 year-old pervert and I've come to seduce the 14 year-old who is really a decoy and this is all a set-up, but I'm too stupid to know it," shows. I'm pretty sure that's what put me over the edge.
Watching all these seemingly normal and okay, a few not too normal, men try and seduce these supposed 12-14 year-old virgin girls. One drove four hours to meet her. Another two hours and showed up at 4am. Several had a wife and kids. Several have been arrested before.
Then, then the kicker.
The one who sent me over the preverbial edge.
A 40 year-old man who showed up with his five-year-old son in tow. Yep.
He brought his son with him while he planned to have sex with a 14 year-old virgin. Seriously. They had to call his wife to come pick up the son while the father was hauled away to jail. Seriously.
I know you can never know someone entirely or completely.
I know you can never know what someone is thinking or fantasizing about.
I know there are all kinds of pervs out there.
I know you can never know where someone is or what or whom they are doing and when and where they are doing it.
I know the whole, on-line thing is revolutionizing perversion and fetish and ways to meet people that even I probably don't know and don't want to be aware of.
But, seriously.
Married men.
40 year-old married men, with families. With a wife and kids at home. With daughters of their own going to meet 12-14 year-old virgins at her home and seduce her. Driving over four hours to do so.
*Rubs forehead while shaking my head.*
I don't get it.
You know who and what you are.
You can deny it, but you do.
You can try and hide it.
You can try and live a normal life in the everyday, but deep down, deep down in your soul and your gut of guts, you know who and what you are. Why bring an innocent family into the mix? Why? Why do that to them? Why? If you are seeking this out online, then I know what you are doing in your home. Chances are you are seeking out the innocent girl online while your innocent family is in the next room.
So I ask, who can I trust? Who should I trust? I've been wrong so, so many times before. It takes a lot for me to bring down the bricks from my wall. I've brought down a few and peaked over, but damn it all to hell if someone doesn't fuck that up and make me want to put those bricks back up. I guess right now I just don't have a lot of faith. Faith in people. I'll be over it probably by this time tomorrow. This time next week at the latest. Almost nearly positive about that.
My trust issues have been well documented here on my blog. I have issues with trust. I can admit this. One step down, eleven more to go. I don't have a whole 12-month subscription worth of trust issues, but nonetheless.
Add in this, "Dateline," episode, coupled with the relationships, dates, the friends who have agendas, and well you have a pissy chick who just needed to vent for five seconds.
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
factoid of the day: mothers, daughters and oral sex
Only 25% of daughters think that their mothers engage in oral sex.
13% of females refrain from oral sex because they think that their parents would disapprove.
Mmm, well, I know more about my mother's sexual appetite and activity than I care to.
However, perhaps that explains a lot about me.
I think it goes without saying which side of the bed I am on when it comes to oral sex.
13% of females refrain from oral sex because they think that their parents would disapprove.
Mmm, well, I know more about my mother's sexual appetite and activity than I care to.
However, perhaps that explains a lot about me.
I think it goes without saying which side of the bed I am on when it comes to oral sex.
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
agendas
I hate it when people have agendas.
Now, everyone has an agenda.
You want the job so you go in and say everything they want to hear.
You want to make your way into the left lane of the freeway. You've waited too long to merge over from the right lane so you smile, showing teeth, and you're waved over.
You want to get closer to the hot new blonde, brunette, redhead, in your office, so you find a way to get closer to her.
You want to get laid, so you get laid. (Seriously, is it hard? I mean to get laid? Insert agenda here, - .)
We all have agendas.
Getting in good with the boss.
Sucking it up and asking a parent for something that I need help with. I do the whole, "I am swallowing my pride don't make me feel worse than I already do.." talk to get whatever it is I desire.
Having the cute Starbucks guy give me a free shot in my, totally new, hot-cool-drink-of-the-month-why-do-I-need-that-much-coffee-anyway, venti.
Flirting with the man at the bar to get whatever it might be that I want on that particular night.
Getting a flat tire and looking all, "Please, kind sir. Please, help poor little me change my tire and let me use your cell phone because mine has managed to die on me for some inexplicable reason." Written all across my face.
Again, we all have them. I get this. I have agendas. I want to get a full-time permanent contract at my job upon graduation. My boss knows this. I have been very clear in my desire in wanting this.
I want to be published often and frequently and make a nice little side gig and name for myself. I am doing what needs to be done to accomplish that.
I want someone else to pay my bills. I would like this person to be nice and moderately good-looking. However, looks aren't nearly as important as the ability to communicate and turn me on. I am now taking applications.
When there have been certain people I want in my life I have willed them into my life. I have found ways to get closer to them. We were then in each other’s life.
Again, agendas, we are all guilty.
However, what I am not guilty of is being dishonest about my intentions when it comes to my agendas. I am honest about what I want, need, desire, hope, dream, and beg for.
I cannot stand those people who have told me they want one thing but then do something completely different. People who pretend and put on a display of show and affection about what they want, but then do something completely different.
They say they just want to be my friend, not true.
They say they just want to get to know me better they have no agenda, they're not looking for anything. Bull.
They say they are looking for a relationship. Oh, please. What malarkey.
They say they are just helping me out. Oh, pooh.
Those people really just irritate me.
Seriously, I'm not naive. Just be honest with me about your agenda. We'll get along a lot better and be better friends because of it. Just sayin'.
Now, everyone has an agenda.
You want the job so you go in and say everything they want to hear.
You want to make your way into the left lane of the freeway. You've waited too long to merge over from the right lane so you smile, showing teeth, and you're waved over.
You want to get closer to the hot new blonde, brunette, redhead, in your office, so you find a way to get closer to her.
You want to get laid, so you get laid. (Seriously, is it hard? I mean to get laid? Insert agenda here, - .)
We all have agendas.
Getting in good with the boss.
Sucking it up and asking a parent for something that I need help with. I do the whole, "I am swallowing my pride don't make me feel worse than I already do.." talk to get whatever it is I desire.
Having the cute Starbucks guy give me a free shot in my, totally new, hot-cool-drink-of-the-month-why-do-I-need-that-much-coffee-anyway, venti.
Flirting with the man at the bar to get whatever it might be that I want on that particular night.
Getting a flat tire and looking all, "Please, kind sir. Please, help poor little me change my tire and let me use your cell phone because mine has managed to die on me for some inexplicable reason." Written all across my face.
Again, we all have them. I get this. I have agendas. I want to get a full-time permanent contract at my job upon graduation. My boss knows this. I have been very clear in my desire in wanting this.
I want to be published often and frequently and make a nice little side gig and name for myself. I am doing what needs to be done to accomplish that.
I want someone else to pay my bills. I would like this person to be nice and moderately good-looking. However, looks aren't nearly as important as the ability to communicate and turn me on. I am now taking applications.
When there have been certain people I want in my life I have willed them into my life. I have found ways to get closer to them. We were then in each other’s life.
Again, agendas, we are all guilty.
However, what I am not guilty of is being dishonest about my intentions when it comes to my agendas. I am honest about what I want, need, desire, hope, dream, and beg for.
I cannot stand those people who have told me they want one thing but then do something completely different. People who pretend and put on a display of show and affection about what they want, but then do something completely different.
They say they just want to be my friend, not true.
They say they just want to get to know me better they have no agenda, they're not looking for anything. Bull.
They say they are looking for a relationship. Oh, please. What malarkey.
They say they are just helping me out. Oh, pooh.
Those people really just irritate me.
Seriously, I'm not naive. Just be honest with me about your agenda. We'll get along a lot better and be better friends because of it. Just sayin'.
weekend observations and such
I actually had a four day weekend. I know, hate me if you must. It was nice and relaxing and all in all pretty subdued, for me anyway.
Friday I relaxed and just enjoyed the day. (Actually, I don't remember Friday, so I am assuming that's what it was.)
Saturday I house/dog sat for my oldest brother in suburbia. I was supposed to go out with friends that night, but I just invited them over instead. My brother left me no food. Now, when I say no food. I mean, no food. But, he did leave me lots and lots of alcohol, so all was forgiven. The dog was feeling a bit abandoned and was therefore a hellion on four legs. The hellion also left what doubt I already didn't have, that I am, in no way, ready for children.
Sunday and Monday I relaxed and went out with friends. Nothing exciting, just nice and relaxing. My biggest plans were to work on my tan. As several people have asked me if I spent the weekend at the beach, I would say, mission accomplished.
Today it is back to work and school. My night classes start in full-force tonight. Blech.
Only two more semesters to go and then I graduate in December!
One major decision I've come to is, that on top of my full-time job I also need to get a part-time job. Nothing like working full-time, going to night school full-time and throwing a part-time gig on top of it all. Apparently I am into self-S&M. And well, you all should know, I smoke crack. I also occassional mainline heroin. The black tar stuff. Just an FYI.
Ah, what's a little more stress, I say. Does a body and mind good. I think I am going back to the service-whore gig. Don't get excited. I'm talking about bartending or waitressing. Most bang for my buck and it would be the most flexible when it comes to my already, donkey ass-sucking schedule.
On a, well no shit, PG. I also realized that some men, no matter how clearly you write something on the wall or clearly spell something out for them, are utterly clueless. And while I sit and think about something and think that they are infact thinking about the same thing, they are not. Because I sit and think that they are thinking about the same thing and I have avoided them at all and any costs and have not returned their, now several, phone calls because I didn't want to say something that I would regret, I should call them up and tell them, I'm over it. However, it turns out that there is no need for me to even say anything because from the, "Hello." I can tell that they have, infact, not even given any thought to it at all.
Friday I relaxed and just enjoyed the day. (Actually, I don't remember Friday, so I am assuming that's what it was.)
Saturday I house/dog sat for my oldest brother in suburbia. I was supposed to go out with friends that night, but I just invited them over instead. My brother left me no food. Now, when I say no food. I mean, no food. But, he did leave me lots and lots of alcohol, so all was forgiven. The dog was feeling a bit abandoned and was therefore a hellion on four legs. The hellion also left what doubt I already didn't have, that I am, in no way, ready for children.
Sunday and Monday I relaxed and went out with friends. Nothing exciting, just nice and relaxing. My biggest plans were to work on my tan. As several people have asked me if I spent the weekend at the beach, I would say, mission accomplished.
Today it is back to work and school. My night classes start in full-force tonight. Blech.
Only two more semesters to go and then I graduate in December!
One major decision I've come to is, that on top of my full-time job I also need to get a part-time job. Nothing like working full-time, going to night school full-time and throwing a part-time gig on top of it all. Apparently I am into self-S&M. And well, you all should know, I smoke crack. I also occassional mainline heroin. The black tar stuff. Just an FYI.
Ah, what's a little more stress, I say. Does a body and mind good. I think I am going back to the service-whore gig. Don't get excited. I'm talking about bartending or waitressing. Most bang for my buck and it would be the most flexible when it comes to my already, donkey ass-sucking schedule.
On a, well no shit, PG. I also realized that some men, no matter how clearly you write something on the wall or clearly spell something out for them, are utterly clueless. And while I sit and think about something and think that they are infact thinking about the same thing, they are not. Because I sit and think that they are thinking about the same thing and I have avoided them at all and any costs and have not returned their, now several, phone calls because I didn't want to say something that I would regret, I should call them up and tell them, I'm over it. However, it turns out that there is no need for me to even say anything because from the, "Hello." I can tell that they have, infact, not even given any thought to it at all.
hottie of the week: Mathew McConaughey
It's really nothing more than the teeth and the (fake) sun-streaked golden locks that do it for me.
And the accent.
And the golden skin.
Oh, and the fact that he plays the bongos naked.
That's it.
And the accent.
And the golden skin.
Oh, and the fact that he plays the bongos naked.
That's it.
Monday, May 29, 2006
Friday, May 26, 2006
TNF: True Confessions, Sexcapade, The Night at the Strip Club
Remember that night you and I went to the strip club?
We both have had a very long week and just want a night out on the town. We don’t want or need anything fancy or extravagant, just a nice simple night out to unwind and relax.
We can’t decide what to do. I say, “Let’s go to a strip club.” I say it nonchalant enough that you think I’m serious, but no woman you’ve ever dated before has ever even wanted you to go, let alone been the one to suggest it.
So, when you hear me make the suggestion you’re both amazed and turned on by this and very willing to go with me.
We go into the club and sit up at the bar. Not simply because it offers the best view, but a girl with her boyfriend at a strip club means a good night of entertainment for all involved.
After placing your money on the bar the girls start to make their way over to us.
After giving the girls a few dollars I tell you I want to get a private lap dance and I want you to watch me. You are all for this.
I choose my girl and I take her hand as we go back to the champagne room.
She sits me down and stands between my legs as she slowly starts to grind her hips.
She reaches behind her neck and unclasps her dress.
She slowly, teasingly, lowers the top, lets it hang on her hips and then lets it fall to the floor.
Her hair falls over her chest. She moves her hand over her breasts and then runs her fingers up and down along her side and hip.
She then moves her hand from along her side and moves them to her breasts.
I start to throb.
I’m watching her and you’re watching us.
You’re barely visible, but I know you’re there.
You are off to the side watching all of this your cock getting harder and harder.
I know you are in the room, but all of my attention is on her.
She starts to play with the side of her g-string. She slides it down off her hips.
She gets down on her knees and puts her face by my pussy and slides my skirt up my thighs.
She is looking up at me, watching me, teasing me.
She slowly grinds her way up my body.
She puts her knee between my legs.
My body unconsciously moves lower in the chair and I willingly spread my legs for her.
She moves her knee up and down along my wet pussy.
Keeping her knee in place she leans her body into me.
With her face in front of mine, we lock eyes with each other. I can feel her breath against my neck. The heat from her body mixes with the heat of mine.
I throb.
The bass from the music matches the throb between my legs. With every heavy beat of the music, I pulse.
I lean my head against the back of the chair.
She runs her tits up and down against mine.
I run my fingers slowly along her arms, along her side, her hips, her lower back.
My hips grind against her knee
I take off my shirt baring my breasts and let my shirt fall to the floor.
I am no longer aware that I am in a club. There is no one else in the room except her and I.
I slowly run my tongue along her chest, her stomach, along the inside of each thigh.
I want her.
I want her and she knows it.
She wants me and I know it.
We keep our eyes locked as we grind against each other.
Touch each other.
Get each other wetter and wetter.
I tell her, "I want to feel your tongue on me. I want you to suck my clit. I want to feel you hard nipples in my mouth and your pussy on my fingers and tongue."
She says, "I wants to lick you, to taste you."
We lean into each other our mouths tasting the others breath.
Her hair falls over her face I grab her hair with one hand and push it out of the way. With my left hand I move over her hips, back, thighs and her ass.
I lift my skirt up over my hips
Looking at me, she slides her body down mine.
My pussy is ready for her.
I am sloppy wet.
My legs are already spread for her as she puts her face between my thighs, she sucks my clit.
The bouncers, the other strippers are watching us and enjoying the show.
I open my eyes for a second and see you watching me.
This turns me on more. Our eyes lock in that second and I can feel the heat start in my arms, go up my neck and into my face as I cum again.
She slides her fingers inside me; fucking me with her fingers while she sucks my clit.
My body runs warm as I convulse with each clench of my pussy as I come long and hard.
She comes up off her knees and kisses me, mixing herself with me. Walking past you as she leaves the room; she sticks the fingers she just had in my pussy in her mouth, sucking me off of them as she passes you.
After several seconds I turn my head and look at you. Still having waves of aftershocks you walk over to me, take my hand and we leave the club.
We walk out to your car and I stop at the passenger side door waiting for you to unlock it. However, you open the back door and motion with your head for me to get in. I give you a sly smile as I slide across the backseat.
You lift my skirt over my hips and go down on me.
You want to taste what she just tasted.
After cumming quickly, I straddle you. I begin to rotate my hips against you, feeling your cock strain against your pants.
I kiss you hard on the mouth and I can taste me and her on your tongue.
I unzip your pants and feel the heat of your cock in my hand. You throb for me. Your hand unconsciously tightens around my hair as I go down on you, taking all of you in my mouth.
Your hips rise up with each flick of my tongue.
Lovingly, hungrily working every hard inch of you.
All of you.
Working your balls, sucking them.
Enjoying every moan, groan and gasp you make.
I love your hard cock against my smooth wet tongue. Twirling and turning my tongue all over you, I deep throat you. I Hold you against the back of my throat as I move my tongue over you.
You slide your fingers into my pussy and ass, feeling how wet she made me. Feeling all the times I came. I start to play with my clit and as I do you feel me tighten against your fingers.
I hear you moan as you pull on my hair.
You feel my body tighten as I cum on your fingers and you cum in my mouth. I love the taste and feel of your warmth down the back of my throat.
After several minutes and laughing about the fog on the windows, I give you a wink. I tell you that we should come to strips clubs more often. You agree, completely.
We both have had a very long week and just want a night out on the town. We don’t want or need anything fancy or extravagant, just a nice simple night out to unwind and relax.
We can’t decide what to do. I say, “Let’s go to a strip club.” I say it nonchalant enough that you think I’m serious, but no woman you’ve ever dated before has ever even wanted you to go, let alone been the one to suggest it.
So, when you hear me make the suggestion you’re both amazed and turned on by this and very willing to go with me.
We go into the club and sit up at the bar. Not simply because it offers the best view, but a girl with her boyfriend at a strip club means a good night of entertainment for all involved.
After placing your money on the bar the girls start to make their way over to us.
After giving the girls a few dollars I tell you I want to get a private lap dance and I want you to watch me. You are all for this.
I choose my girl and I take her hand as we go back to the champagne room.
She sits me down and stands between my legs as she slowly starts to grind her hips.
She reaches behind her neck and unclasps her dress.
She slowly, teasingly, lowers the top, lets it hang on her hips and then lets it fall to the floor.
Her hair falls over her chest. She moves her hand over her breasts and then runs her fingers up and down along her side and hip.
She then moves her hand from along her side and moves them to her breasts.
I start to throb.
I’m watching her and you’re watching us.
You’re barely visible, but I know you’re there.
You are off to the side watching all of this your cock getting harder and harder.
I know you are in the room, but all of my attention is on her.
She starts to play with the side of her g-string. She slides it down off her hips.
She gets down on her knees and puts her face by my pussy and slides my skirt up my thighs.
She is looking up at me, watching me, teasing me.
She slowly grinds her way up my body.
She puts her knee between my legs.
My body unconsciously moves lower in the chair and I willingly spread my legs for her.
She moves her knee up and down along my wet pussy.
Keeping her knee in place she leans her body into me.
With her face in front of mine, we lock eyes with each other. I can feel her breath against my neck. The heat from her body mixes with the heat of mine.
I throb.
The bass from the music matches the throb between my legs. With every heavy beat of the music, I pulse.
I lean my head against the back of the chair.
She runs her tits up and down against mine.
I run my fingers slowly along her arms, along her side, her hips, her lower back.
My hips grind against her knee
I take off my shirt baring my breasts and let my shirt fall to the floor.
I am no longer aware that I am in a club. There is no one else in the room except her and I.
I slowly run my tongue along her chest, her stomach, along the inside of each thigh.
I want her.
I want her and she knows it.
She wants me and I know it.
We keep our eyes locked as we grind against each other.
Touch each other.
Get each other wetter and wetter.
I tell her, "I want to feel your tongue on me. I want you to suck my clit. I want to feel you hard nipples in my mouth and your pussy on my fingers and tongue."
She says, "I wants to lick you, to taste you."
We lean into each other our mouths tasting the others breath.
Her hair falls over her face I grab her hair with one hand and push it out of the way. With my left hand I move over her hips, back, thighs and her ass.
I lift my skirt up over my hips
Looking at me, she slides her body down mine.
My pussy is ready for her.
I am sloppy wet.
My legs are already spread for her as she puts her face between my thighs, she sucks my clit.
The bouncers, the other strippers are watching us and enjoying the show.
I open my eyes for a second and see you watching me.
This turns me on more. Our eyes lock in that second and I can feel the heat start in my arms, go up my neck and into my face as I cum again.
She slides her fingers inside me; fucking me with her fingers while she sucks my clit.
My body runs warm as I convulse with each clench of my pussy as I come long and hard.
She comes up off her knees and kisses me, mixing herself with me. Walking past you as she leaves the room; she sticks the fingers she just had in my pussy in her mouth, sucking me off of them as she passes you.
After several seconds I turn my head and look at you. Still having waves of aftershocks you walk over to me, take my hand and we leave the club.
We walk out to your car and I stop at the passenger side door waiting for you to unlock it. However, you open the back door and motion with your head for me to get in. I give you a sly smile as I slide across the backseat.
You lift my skirt over my hips and go down on me.
You want to taste what she just tasted.
After cumming quickly, I straddle you. I begin to rotate my hips against you, feeling your cock strain against your pants.
I kiss you hard on the mouth and I can taste me and her on your tongue.
I unzip your pants and feel the heat of your cock in my hand. You throb for me. Your hand unconsciously tightens around my hair as I go down on you, taking all of you in my mouth.
Your hips rise up with each flick of my tongue.
Lovingly, hungrily working every hard inch of you.
All of you.
Working your balls, sucking them.
Enjoying every moan, groan and gasp you make.
I love your hard cock against my smooth wet tongue. Twirling and turning my tongue all over you, I deep throat you. I Hold you against the back of my throat as I move my tongue over you.
You slide your fingers into my pussy and ass, feeling how wet she made me. Feeling all the times I came. I start to play with my clit and as I do you feel me tighten against your fingers.
I hear you moan as you pull on my hair.
You feel my body tighten as I cum on your fingers and you cum in my mouth. I love the taste and feel of your warmth down the back of my throat.
After several minutes and laughing about the fog on the windows, I give you a wink. I tell you that we should come to strips clubs more often. You agree, completely.
Thursday, May 25, 2006
three very simple things that happened last night
So, I'm thinking of moving, around this time, next year. Much depends on my job and what kind of contract they can offer me in January. However, I have a feeling a move is in my future. As much as I want to move it involves more of a, talking myself into it a year before it would even happen so that it wouldn't be quite so heartbreaking when I do have to move, kind of move.
I'm very close to my family. I love the fact that I can just hop, pop, stop, and drop in whenever I want to and then just say, "Okay, I'm goin." Ten, fifteen, an hour or so later. I drive by my parent's house at least twice a day as it is on my way to and fro. I love being able to do that. However, I think I will have to leave it all behind.
Here are three very simple things that happened last night that makes it hard for me to even think about.
My bedroom window is broken and needs to be replaced. The new window is ordered, but apparently, from my repeated phone calls to my landlords that have all been ignored, not coming in anytime soon. I'm not supposed to open the window as the frame is broken and the glass is falling out. (Nice.) Well, after several days of over 80 degree weather I couldn't take it anymore. I also couldn't get the window open. Not because I am some poor helpless little girl, but because the window has over 50 years worth of paint on the frame, combined with a thick mixture of heat and humidy, it wasn't budging.
Call my mom, she'll send my brother over.
Less than 10 minutes later my brother is knocking on my door. Three minutes later and with the help of some brawn and a knife, I had a nice cool breeze blowing though my bedroom.
After eating dinner last night I wanted ice cream. I didn't have any. I also didn't want to buy any. I'll call mom, maybe she'll go with me to get some. A.k.a. maybe she'll buy some for me. No answer. I leave a message. I wait a few minutes and decide I will just go over and raid the freezer. As I am walking out the door the phone rings. Nope, she doesn't want any, but come over and see what I can find. Perfect.
I open the freezer and find three, yes, three, kinds of ice cream. Ah, home.
During my birthday weekend the family pet of ten years, Phoebe, had to be put to sleep.
Within a couple of days my parents had a new dog, Sadie; an adorable four month old, four-pound Boston Terrier. She is now five months old.
As I was sitting on the couch, eating my ice cream, my step-dad comes in looking for the dog. She's upstairs. He calls her down. She will only go down a few of the stairs, then lays on the stairs and wants to be carried the rest of the way. He doesn't pick her up. He's trying everything and that dog ain't movin. My parents own an old three-story home where the staircase is open to the living room, so I can see the whole thing.
He says, "C'mon, PG is here." She doesn't budge.
I then say, "C'mon Sadie." She turns and looks at me and bolts down the stairs like a four pound holy terror and tries to jump onto the couch and into my lap. I start to laugh hysterically. Helpless little poser.
Three incredibly simple, simple things. But you know, it those simple things that make an ordinary night great and what makes your family, your family.
Here are a couple pictures of the helpless little poser.
I'm very close to my family. I love the fact that I can just hop, pop, stop, and drop in whenever I want to and then just say, "Okay, I'm goin." Ten, fifteen, an hour or so later. I drive by my parent's house at least twice a day as it is on my way to and fro. I love being able to do that. However, I think I will have to leave it all behind.
Here are three very simple things that happened last night that makes it hard for me to even think about.
My bedroom window is broken and needs to be replaced. The new window is ordered, but apparently, from my repeated phone calls to my landlords that have all been ignored, not coming in anytime soon. I'm not supposed to open the window as the frame is broken and the glass is falling out. (Nice.) Well, after several days of over 80 degree weather I couldn't take it anymore. I also couldn't get the window open. Not because I am some poor helpless little girl, but because the window has over 50 years worth of paint on the frame, combined with a thick mixture of heat and humidy, it wasn't budging.
Call my mom, she'll send my brother over.
Less than 10 minutes later my brother is knocking on my door. Three minutes later and with the help of some brawn and a knife, I had a nice cool breeze blowing though my bedroom.
After eating dinner last night I wanted ice cream. I didn't have any. I also didn't want to buy any. I'll call mom, maybe she'll go with me to get some. A.k.a. maybe she'll buy some for me. No answer. I leave a message. I wait a few minutes and decide I will just go over and raid the freezer. As I am walking out the door the phone rings. Nope, she doesn't want any, but come over and see what I can find. Perfect.
I open the freezer and find three, yes, three, kinds of ice cream. Ah, home.
During my birthday weekend the family pet of ten years, Phoebe, had to be put to sleep.
Within a couple of days my parents had a new dog, Sadie; an adorable four month old, four-pound Boston Terrier. She is now five months old.
As I was sitting on the couch, eating my ice cream, my step-dad comes in looking for the dog. She's upstairs. He calls her down. She will only go down a few of the stairs, then lays on the stairs and wants to be carried the rest of the way. He doesn't pick her up. He's trying everything and that dog ain't movin. My parents own an old three-story home where the staircase is open to the living room, so I can see the whole thing.
He says, "C'mon, PG is here." She doesn't budge.
I then say, "C'mon Sadie." She turns and looks at me and bolts down the stairs like a four pound holy terror and tries to jump onto the couch and into my lap. I start to laugh hysterically. Helpless little poser.
Three incredibly simple, simple things. But you know, it those simple things that make an ordinary night great and what makes your family, your family.
Here are a couple pictures of the helpless little poser.
like pubes between my teeth, so are the frustrations with blogger
In an email with blog buddy, Will, I expressed my frustration towards blogger in the only way I knew how.
Will: Blogger sucks ballz sometimes, and not in the good way.
PG: Yes, blogger sucks balls in a, sweaty-smelling-hair stuck between my teeth- wish I hadn't gotten started-but now I have to finish the job, sort of way.
Will: "...in a sweaty-smelling-hair stuck between my teeth- wish I hadn't gotten started-but now I have to finish the job, sort of way."
Awesome.
PG: I aim to please.
Sometimes, just sometimes, blogger makes me feel like I am picking pubes out from between my teeth. And let me tell ya, no girl likes that. Honestly, is can really piss a girl off.
Will: Blogger sucks ballz sometimes, and not in the good way.
PG: Yes, blogger sucks balls in a, sweaty-smelling-hair stuck between my teeth- wish I hadn't gotten started-but now I have to finish the job, sort of way.
Will: "...in a sweaty-smelling-hair stuck between my teeth- wish I hadn't gotten started-but now I have to finish the job, sort of way."
Awesome.
PG: I aim to please.
Sometimes, just sometimes, blogger makes me feel like I am picking pubes out from between my teeth. And let me tell ya, no girl likes that. Honestly, is can really piss a girl off.
word of the day: harlot
The idea that Arlette, the unmarried mother of William the Conqueror is an eponym for
harlot eponym is an old one, first suggested circa 1570 by William Lambarde.
Arlette was the daughter of Fulbert, a tanner in Falaise, and Robert the Magnificent had his
way with her, producing William.
It is an interesting and true tale, but all sources agree that it is not the origin of the word.
Harlot derives from the Old French herlot, which means a vagabond or beggar.
This was the original sense of the English word also. The earliest usages are derogatory
in nature, but by the midfourteenth century it was being used in a positive sense and was
applied to jesters, buffoons, jugglers, or any man of good cheer. It was in this sense that
Chaucer described the Sumonour of his Canterbury Tales:
"He was a gentil harlot and a kynde, A bettre felawe sholde men noght fynde."
Interestingly, the original derogatory sense had not faded by Chaucer's
day as this passage from the Reeve's Tale shows: "Ye false harlot, quod the Millere hast?"
Originally, the word only referred to males, and it was not until the fifteenth century that the
word was applied to women.
The word gradually became associated with actors, and inevitably
with prostitutes.
The narrowing of the meaning to the latter was likely largely due to English
translations of the Bible. Sixteenth century translations, such as the Geneva Bible of 1560
began using harlot where Wyclif's earlier translation had used strumpet and whore.
http://www.wordorigins.org/wordorh.htm#harlot
harlot eponym is an old one, first suggested circa 1570 by William Lambarde.
Arlette was the daughter of Fulbert, a tanner in Falaise, and Robert the Magnificent had his
way with her, producing William.
It is an interesting and true tale, but all sources agree that it is not the origin of the word.
Harlot derives from the Old French herlot, which means a vagabond or beggar.
This was the original sense of the English word also. The earliest usages are derogatory
in nature, but by the midfourteenth century it was being used in a positive sense and was
applied to jesters, buffoons, jugglers, or any man of good cheer. It was in this sense that
Chaucer described the Sumonour of his Canterbury Tales:
"He was a gentil harlot and a kynde, A bettre felawe sholde men noght fynde."
Interestingly, the original derogatory sense had not faded by Chaucer's
day as this passage from the Reeve's Tale shows: "Ye false harlot, quod the Millere hast?"
Originally, the word only referred to males, and it was not until the fifteenth century that the
word was applied to women.
The word gradually became associated with actors, and inevitably
with prostitutes.
The narrowing of the meaning to the latter was likely largely due to English
translations of the Bible. Sixteenth century translations, such as the Geneva Bible of 1560
began using harlot where Wyclif's earlier translation had used strumpet and whore.
http://www.wordorigins.org/wordorh.htm#harlot
inner dork: Keebler
If you're like me, you don't always realize there is a name behind a product. For example, Black & Decker was actually made by two guys named, Black and Decker. Ta Dah! Maybe I'm just slow but that never even occured to me.
So, courtesy of, "So Who the Heck was Oscar Mayer?" by Doug Gelbert (The amount of trivia books and useless fact books I have, I tell ya.) I bring you: Keebler!
Did you know...
Godfrey Keebler opened a small bake shop in Philadelphia in 1853. Around the neighborhood, word got out that Keebler was baking the best cookies and crackers in the area. At the time there was no way to expand a bakery buisness, no matter how good; the available transportation just didn't allow it.
As horses and buggies gave way to automobiles and trucks, fresh baked goods could be delivered in a wider area than the neighborhood; distribution expanded to a regional level. Owners of local bakeries realized that certain advantages, such as purchasing economies and pooled transportation, could be derived by banding together into a business federation.
In 1927, the Keebler family bakery, now passed down from Godfrey, joined a consortium of bakeries to form the United Biscuit Company. (Later to become NABISCO.)The network eventually marketed cookies and crackers in every state east of California under a wider variety of brand names. In 1966, the company decided to operate under a single name. Of all the exisiting names, "Keebler" was judged to be the most sound and memorable. The Keebler elves, created by a Chicago advertising firm in 1968, have made Keebler one of the most recognizable names in America.
Today, Keebler is America's second largest producer of cookies and crackers in bakeries across the country. None, however, operates in Godfrey Keebler's hometown of Philadelphia.
So, courtesy of, "So Who the Heck was Oscar Mayer?" by Doug Gelbert (The amount of trivia books and useless fact books I have, I tell ya.) I bring you: Keebler!
Did you know...
Godfrey Keebler opened a small bake shop in Philadelphia in 1853. Around the neighborhood, word got out that Keebler was baking the best cookies and crackers in the area. At the time there was no way to expand a bakery buisness, no matter how good; the available transportation just didn't allow it.
As horses and buggies gave way to automobiles and trucks, fresh baked goods could be delivered in a wider area than the neighborhood; distribution expanded to a regional level. Owners of local bakeries realized that certain advantages, such as purchasing economies and pooled transportation, could be derived by banding together into a business federation.
In 1927, the Keebler family bakery, now passed down from Godfrey, joined a consortium of bakeries to form the United Biscuit Company. (Later to become NABISCO.)The network eventually marketed cookies and crackers in every state east of California under a wider variety of brand names. In 1966, the company decided to operate under a single name. Of all the exisiting names, "Keebler" was judged to be the most sound and memorable. The Keebler elves, created by a Chicago advertising firm in 1968, have made Keebler one of the most recognizable names in America.
Today, Keebler is America's second largest producer of cookies and crackers in bakeries across the country. None, however, operates in Godfrey Keebler's hometown of Philadelphia.
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
a fun little sex quiz
Mikey has a fun little sex quiz
I scored zero.
I don't know that I should be proud about that.
I don't know that I should brag about that.
However, I am doing both.
I am proud and I am bragging.
Zero.
Let me know how low you can go.
I scored zero.
I don't know that I should be proud about that.
I don't know that I should brag about that.
However, I am doing both.
I am proud and I am bragging.
Zero.
Let me know how low you can go.
Temptress
Through my searches of magazines and such to submit some of my short stories, essays, and what-not I have discovered that there is a high demand for poetry. I ignored most of these because I no longer write poetry. Then, in one of my little, walk into a wall ephanies, it occurred to me; I have notebook after notebook of poetry from my angst filled youth.
Last night I lifted the lid on my cedar chest of past memories and angst filled youth to flip through my notebooks and boy-howdy. I was agnsty.
However, in reading through some of the pages I discovered that for a teenager, some of this stuff isn't horrible. It's not perfect either, but it's workable.
Flipping through the pages I also ran into some of my early erotica writings. I had forgotten all about those.
Later that night while I was lying in bed I remembered that I use to write a lot of erotica when I was a teen. Lying there on my clean white sheets and cold pillows I recalled that my character's name was, "Cherry," and if memory serves she was quite the forceful little vixen who was very much into public sex. Now, I should also say that I was writing about Cherry's various forays into dirty public sex before, I, had even lost my virginity. Which, just makes me laugh.
So young and yet so impure.
Anyway, here is one of the poems from the days of yore, post virginity lost. Remember, I was only 17. (Wow, now I have the Winger song in my head. Your welcome.)
The Temptress takes you in her mouth.
Slowly she guides you to the depths of ecstasy.
She entraps you.
Your mind gets swallowed up, your body goes numb.
Her hair is entangled around you.
In a moment she has swallowed the life from you.
...Short, sweet and to the point.
Last night I lifted the lid on my cedar chest of past memories and angst filled youth to flip through my notebooks and boy-howdy. I was agnsty.
However, in reading through some of the pages I discovered that for a teenager, some of this stuff isn't horrible. It's not perfect either, but it's workable.
Flipping through the pages I also ran into some of my early erotica writings. I had forgotten all about those.
Later that night while I was lying in bed I remembered that I use to write a lot of erotica when I was a teen. Lying there on my clean white sheets and cold pillows I recalled that my character's name was, "Cherry," and if memory serves she was quite the forceful little vixen who was very much into public sex. Now, I should also say that I was writing about Cherry's various forays into dirty public sex before, I, had even lost my virginity. Which, just makes me laugh.
So young and yet so impure.
Anyway, here is one of the poems from the days of yore, post virginity lost. Remember, I was only 17. (Wow, now I have the Winger song in my head. Your welcome.)
The Temptress takes you in her mouth.
Slowly she guides you to the depths of ecstasy.
She entraps you.
Your mind gets swallowed up, your body goes numb.
Her hair is entangled around you.
In a moment she has swallowed the life from you.
...Short, sweet and to the point.
factoid of the day: Greek dildos
In ancient Greece, dildos were in such short supply that women were forced to share one another's.
* knock, knock* Hi, Konstantina, are you using your dildo right now? Demetrios, is off at war again and I could really use some 'me time.'
No? You're not using it right now. Oh, good. Can I borrow it for awhile? Thanks, you're the bestest!
(Now, that's love. Just sayin')
* knock, knock* Hi, Konstantina, are you using your dildo right now? Demetrios, is off at war again and I could really use some 'me time.'
No? You're not using it right now. Oh, good. Can I borrow it for awhile? Thanks, you're the bestest!
(Now, that's love. Just sayin')
just askin: righty-tighty, lefty-loosey
When you fix something; say either inserting or taking out a screw for example, do you say to yourself, righty-tighty, left-loosey?
Or is that just me?
Or is that just me?
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
hotties of the week: "That 70's Show"
Because they remind me of my childhood/teendom basement a little too much, but in the best way.
Because all of the teens on the show are hotties.
Because I could hang-out and be friends with any of them.
Because I had the most explict dirty, dirty, naughty, dirty freak dream about Topher Grace, a.k.a. Eric Forman the other night. (Whoa, some of the things we were doing. Have a mentioned the state of my libido lately?)
Because all of the teens on the show are hotties.
Because I could hang-out and be friends with any of them.
Because I had the most explict dirty, dirty, naughty, dirty freak dream about Topher Grace, a.k.a. Eric Forman the other night. (Whoa, some of the things we were doing. Have a mentioned the state of my libido lately?)
the art of listening, take two; this is the end my friend
It's amazing to me how one my friends has been able to absolutely dumbfound me lately.
Saying things to me that after I hang-up the phone with him makes me leave the phone in my hand for several minutes puzzleing over the, just-smacked-in-the-head-comment they threw at me.
It's the kind of comment that's left hanging in the air and makes me sit and puzzle over it for a few minutes, which then turns into days. I'm not the typical female that sits and over-analyzes everything. No, this is more of a few days to reflect on the fact that someone, who claims to be my close personal friend, could say something so callous to me. Which then turns into a reflection of, if they could say something so cold and callous to me, then perhaps I really don't want or need to be their friend anymore.
This is the same friend who has also not been listening to, pretty much, anything I've had to say or contribute to the conversation and has been cutting me off in mid-sentence since about January.
Same friend who has been giving me unsolicited advice left, right and center. I hate unsolicited advice.
I am beginning to side with his soon to be ex-wife a lot more since Janurary. I now am seeing both sides of the story.
However, same friend has also helped me out a lot when I have really needed help.
However, I also have felt that he has crossed a lot of lines with me lately.
The comment that was made that is making me write this post came when I told him about some unwanted attention that happened a couple of weeks ago. I am a natural flirt. Harmless, friendly, flirt. However, I am very clear in my well defined lines when I need to define them and I am always direct and to the point so that there isn't any confusion when dealing with just about anyone, let alone a man I've met recently. Lines, don't cross them unless explicitly welcomed in.
The line that was crossed was subtle, but nonetheless it was a line crossed with me and it was unwelcomed.
He (said friend) basically was blaming me for the line crossing because I quote, "Worked him into a froth and what do I expect? I am bringing it onto myself and in a way, I should be flattered."
Yeah, that just made my stomach churn.
The fact that he used the word, 'froth' makes me want to take a shower with a new luffa sponge. The fact that he said I am bringing it onto myself and I should be flattered? Well, that's the same defense rapists use.
As the conversation was taking place I questioned him, "You can't tell me you don't see my point, that you can't see where I'm coming from."
"I can see your point, but you can't blame him, you brought it on yourself."
After several go arounds I finally said, "You aren't going to see my point and I certainly don't see yours, so let's just end this conversation now."
"Fair enough."
After hanging up the phone I sat and thought about this remark and I was hurt and absolutely stupefied. To blame me for something I clearly didn't want and I was very clear about? Sorry, can't see the point. Not after some reflection. After some reflection I am absolutely dumbfounded that he could say something so incredibly insensitive and stupid.
After several days of reflecting I think the friendship is going to have to come to an end.
I've been honest with him when it comes to the listening, interrupting and simply not hearing me for the past several months.
However, I was willing to work on that.
But, to say something so mind-boggling insensitive to me.
I think that's a deal breaker.
Saying things to me that after I hang-up the phone with him makes me leave the phone in my hand for several minutes puzzleing over the, just-smacked-in-the-head-comment they threw at me.
It's the kind of comment that's left hanging in the air and makes me sit and puzzle over it for a few minutes, which then turns into days. I'm not the typical female that sits and over-analyzes everything. No, this is more of a few days to reflect on the fact that someone, who claims to be my close personal friend, could say something so callous to me. Which then turns into a reflection of, if they could say something so cold and callous to me, then perhaps I really don't want or need to be their friend anymore.
This is the same friend who has also not been listening to, pretty much, anything I've had to say or contribute to the conversation and has been cutting me off in mid-sentence since about January.
Same friend who has been giving me unsolicited advice left, right and center. I hate unsolicited advice.
I am beginning to side with his soon to be ex-wife a lot more since Janurary. I now am seeing both sides of the story.
However, same friend has also helped me out a lot when I have really needed help.
However, I also have felt that he has crossed a lot of lines with me lately.
The comment that was made that is making me write this post came when I told him about some unwanted attention that happened a couple of weeks ago. I am a natural flirt. Harmless, friendly, flirt. However, I am very clear in my well defined lines when I need to define them and I am always direct and to the point so that there isn't any confusion when dealing with just about anyone, let alone a man I've met recently. Lines, don't cross them unless explicitly welcomed in.
The line that was crossed was subtle, but nonetheless it was a line crossed with me and it was unwelcomed.
He (said friend) basically was blaming me for the line crossing because I quote, "Worked him into a froth and what do I expect? I am bringing it onto myself and in a way, I should be flattered."
Yeah, that just made my stomach churn.
The fact that he used the word, 'froth' makes me want to take a shower with a new luffa sponge. The fact that he said I am bringing it onto myself and I should be flattered? Well, that's the same defense rapists use.
As the conversation was taking place I questioned him, "You can't tell me you don't see my point, that you can't see where I'm coming from."
"I can see your point, but you can't blame him, you brought it on yourself."
After several go arounds I finally said, "You aren't going to see my point and I certainly don't see yours, so let's just end this conversation now."
"Fair enough."
After hanging up the phone I sat and thought about this remark and I was hurt and absolutely stupefied. To blame me for something I clearly didn't want and I was very clear about? Sorry, can't see the point. Not after some reflection. After some reflection I am absolutely dumbfounded that he could say something so incredibly insensitive and stupid.
After several days of reflecting I think the friendship is going to have to come to an end.
I've been honest with him when it comes to the listening, interrupting and simply not hearing me for the past several months.
However, I was willing to work on that.
But, to say something so mind-boggling insensitive to me.
I think that's a deal breaker.
Monday, May 22, 2006
Can I get a pseudonym for $10,000?
Thanks, Alex.
Okay, so I am going to submit some of my erotica to various magazines and sundry productions. However, I thought it would be better, more practical, and perhaps smarter to do this under a pseudonym. You know, for work purposes and such. Oh, and so when I am rich and famous, famous or rich, hell, I'll settle for somewhat wider known than just by my various friends, co-workers and anonymous sleeping partners, I can say, "Well, see way back when I wrote smut, I mean erotica, and I made a decent living out of it." Or it just might be fun to shock the grandkids.
Oh, who am I kidding. I just thought it would be better than publishing under my own name. Party Girl just seems to, I don't know, Party Girlish.
There is actually a website you can go to to have them generate a name for you. Lame, but I went. After numerous tries this is the best I got: Dark Rose (Hello, cheesy!) and Lee Steele (Again, cheesy cheese nip with some cheese whiz thrown in, cheesy.)
Sure, I'm creative enough to come up with my own, but hey why not let you all help me with this little side project.
So, I am enlisting your help.
Give me your best shot.
Yes, I understand the unleashing of stupid names and comments I am subjecting upon myself, but hey, why not.
Okay, so I am going to submit some of my erotica to various magazines and sundry productions. However, I thought it would be better, more practical, and perhaps smarter to do this under a pseudonym. You know, for work purposes and such. Oh, and so when I am rich and famous, famous or rich, hell, I'll settle for somewhat wider known than just by my various friends, co-workers and anonymous sleeping partners, I can say, "Well, see way back when I wrote smut, I mean erotica, and I made a decent living out of it." Or it just might be fun to shock the grandkids.
Oh, who am I kidding. I just thought it would be better than publishing under my own name. Party Girl just seems to, I don't know, Party Girlish.
There is actually a website you can go to to have them generate a name for you. Lame, but I went. After numerous tries this is the best I got: Dark Rose (Hello, cheesy!) and Lee Steele (Again, cheesy cheese nip with some cheese whiz thrown in, cheesy.)
Sure, I'm creative enough to come up with my own, but hey why not let you all help me with this little side project.
So, I am enlisting your help.
Give me your best shot.
Yes, I understand the unleashing of stupid names and comments I am subjecting upon myself, but hey, why not.
if you don't tell, my family won't ask
This past weekend was my families’ annual extended family BBQ get-together. Extended meaning; aunts, uncles, cousins and such. We see each other three times a year. For a BBQ in October and May and then some of said family gets together at Christmas time. Part of said family doesn't get-together to celebrate Jesus’ birthday. You know, the reason to eat in abundance and swap white elephant gifts. Because it can't be proven that Jesus was actually born on this date and because Christmas and its true meaning isn't actually represented on this day.
Okay then.
So, extended family was all gathered around for the feast of hot dogs and carbohydrate goodness. I should also point out that everyone, with the exception of my family (meaning mom, dad, brothers and in-laws) are all pretty damn religious. I was raised Baptist. Southern Baptist. No drinking, pre-marital sex, cussing, drugs, co-habitation prior to marriage, dancing, or earrings are permitted; cause, you know that's all in the Bible as no-no's (Ew, smell the sarcasm.) So, I would pretty much be seen as one big-o-sinner in the eyes of many in my extended family.
I went to a private Christian school through the middle of 5th grade. I was then thrown to the wolves, lions and other wild beasts known as the public school system. I went from being the good little Christian girl who questioned things a little too much for the taste of her teachers to the public school girl who still questioned everything a little too much but, the teachers were actually happy to answer me. I was drinking by junior high and started smoking cigarettes at 12. (Quit at 19. Smoking that is.) I'm pretty sure had I stayed in the private school sector I would have been kicked out promptly and happily by the school administrators.
Sunday school also went to the wayside around the same time. I'm not 100% sure, but I think my mom was pissed at God for a number of things and so she was more than happy to oblige our, "Oh, mom, do we have to's?" That were said to her on early Sunday mornings. So, bye-bye to church. Hello, to lazy Sundays. My family has embraced 'sinning' and all it's wonderous glories.
But, I digress.
My point is, and I do have one, is that my younger cousin is gay. I've known he was gay for awhile. My gay-dar was going wild around him. But he didn't actually come out to me until we were at a house party a mutual friend of ours was having. How did he come out to me? Well, it was a house full of flaming gay men and I was the only female there and we literally ran into each other. Ta dah! Out of the closet he came.
He and I weren't ever that close. We're about ten years apart in age and his family would be part of the barn-burning Christians in my extended family. However, at this party and through running into each other at the bar and various other house parties we have actually become acquainted with each other and have a lot in common. However, I would be the only one who 'knows' that he is gay. Why? Well, because if he actually came out to his family they would disown him. The same grandparents who have laid a guilt trip on him for moving away to go to graduate school, the same aunts and uncles who support him in all other decisions of his life; would cut him off in a twirl on the dance floor if he came out. It makes absolutely no sense to me. They preach God's love. Go to church every Sunday morning and night and Wednesday night, yet the same people would disown their own flesh and blood because he is a 'sinner.' You know, because he loves someone of the same sex.
So, I am the only one who he can talk to and be completely and totally himself around. The only one in the family who won't reject or disown him, pray for his soul because he is gay. The only one who wouldn't be convinced that he is going to hell.
How utterly ridiculous.
I simply can't wrap my brain around it. Or perhaps it's that I simply don't want to.
Okay then.
So, extended family was all gathered around for the feast of hot dogs and carbohydrate goodness. I should also point out that everyone, with the exception of my family (meaning mom, dad, brothers and in-laws) are all pretty damn religious. I was raised Baptist. Southern Baptist. No drinking, pre-marital sex, cussing, drugs, co-habitation prior to marriage, dancing, or earrings are permitted; cause, you know that's all in the Bible as no-no's (Ew, smell the sarcasm.) So, I would pretty much be seen as one big-o-sinner in the eyes of many in my extended family.
I went to a private Christian school through the middle of 5th grade. I was then thrown to the wolves, lions and other wild beasts known as the public school system. I went from being the good little Christian girl who questioned things a little too much for the taste of her teachers to the public school girl who still questioned everything a little too much but, the teachers were actually happy to answer me. I was drinking by junior high and started smoking cigarettes at 12. (Quit at 19. Smoking that is.) I'm pretty sure had I stayed in the private school sector I would have been kicked out promptly and happily by the school administrators.
Sunday school also went to the wayside around the same time. I'm not 100% sure, but I think my mom was pissed at God for a number of things and so she was more than happy to oblige our, "Oh, mom, do we have to's?" That were said to her on early Sunday mornings. So, bye-bye to church. Hello, to lazy Sundays. My family has embraced 'sinning' and all it's wonderous glories.
But, I digress.
My point is, and I do have one, is that my younger cousin is gay. I've known he was gay for awhile. My gay-dar was going wild around him. But he didn't actually come out to me until we were at a house party a mutual friend of ours was having. How did he come out to me? Well, it was a house full of flaming gay men and I was the only female there and we literally ran into each other. Ta dah! Out of the closet he came.
He and I weren't ever that close. We're about ten years apart in age and his family would be part of the barn-burning Christians in my extended family. However, at this party and through running into each other at the bar and various other house parties we have actually become acquainted with each other and have a lot in common. However, I would be the only one who 'knows' that he is gay. Why? Well, because if he actually came out to his family they would disown him. The same grandparents who have laid a guilt trip on him for moving away to go to graduate school, the same aunts and uncles who support him in all other decisions of his life; would cut him off in a twirl on the dance floor if he came out. It makes absolutely no sense to me. They preach God's love. Go to church every Sunday morning and night and Wednesday night, yet the same people would disown their own flesh and blood because he is a 'sinner.' You know, because he loves someone of the same sex.
So, I am the only one who he can talk to and be completely and totally himself around. The only one in the family who won't reject or disown him, pray for his soul because he is gay. The only one who wouldn't be convinced that he is going to hell.
How utterly ridiculous.
I simply can't wrap my brain around it. Or perhaps it's that I simply don't want to.
Sunday, May 21, 2006
cervical cancer treatment
Again, all too common. So hopefully this will actually prove to be effective without any weird side effects.
Friday, May 19, 2006
beer is my friend and I drink a lot of it
So, yesterday I made my way downtown to a new little place that has over 100 beers on tap.
Over a 100.
Sounds like a challenge to me.
I drank nine.
Nine in about four hours.
I feel, no, I think...I am pretty damn sure, I will be going back frequently and often.
I mean there are over 100 beers!
On tap!
At all times!
I think it's good to have goals.
Goals are good.
I also think it is good to have goals that are attainable and reachable.
Goals are good.
Beer is good.
See how they go hand-in-hand?
Over a 100.
Sounds like a challenge to me.
I drank nine.
Nine in about four hours.
I feel, no, I think...I am pretty damn sure, I will be going back frequently and often.
I mean there are over 100 beers!
On tap!
At all times!
I think it's good to have goals.
Goals are good.
I also think it is good to have goals that are attainable and reachable.
Goals are good.
Beer is good.
See how they go hand-in-hand?
Thursday, May 18, 2006
crap
drunk bloggin is a bitch.
if my headache is any indication..tomorrow is going to be a bitch.
..wow, you all have no idea the amount of concentration this is taking. I should have kept all the typos.
...fuck. Good night and good luck...
if my headache is any indication..tomorrow is going to be a bitch.
..wow, you all have no idea the amount of concentration this is taking. I should have kept all the typos.
...fuck. Good night and good luck...
Goodnight, Will, Grace, Jack, and Karen
Although I think it's time for the show to be over as I don't think it's as good or funny as it once was, I am going to miss it.
It was groundbreaking.
If you put Karen and Jack on speed, throw in cocktails and a lot, a lot (a lot) of laughter with just as many smart-ass remarks, that's Billy and I.
Nick is new to my fag hag love, but this is true for him as well.
Nick told me once that he feels like he and I are always on stage doing improve when we are together. Ah, thanks.
Anyway, Will and Grace Karen and Jack I'll miss ya. I'll see you in syndication.
word of the day: Dressed to the nines
Dressed to the Nines
This phrase dates to the 18th century, first appearing in 1787 in Burns's Answers to Verses in the form 'Twad please me to the nine. The dressed is a later addition, so the nine certainly does not refer some aspect of clothing. The phrase is also often rendered up to the nines.
The most likely explanation is that nine, in some numerological systems, connotes perfection. So that dressed to the nines means that you have achieved sartorial perfection.
Another common explanation is that nine in the phrase is a corruption of eyne, the Old English word for eyes. But the phrase appears too late for this to be likely.
wordorigin.com
This phrase dates to the 18th century, first appearing in 1787 in Burns's Answers to Verses in the form 'Twad please me to the nine. The dressed is a later addition, so the nine certainly does not refer some aspect of clothing. The phrase is also often rendered up to the nines.
The most likely explanation is that nine, in some numerological systems, connotes perfection. So that dressed to the nines means that you have achieved sartorial perfection.
Another common explanation is that nine in the phrase is a corruption of eyne, the Old English word for eyes. But the phrase appears too late for this to be likely.
wordorigin.com
inner dork: underwear
Did you know...
Underwear is one of the earliest forms of clothing dating back to at least 3000 B.C.
It started as a narrow band around the waist from which both decorative and magical pendants were hung. The Egyptians wore woven material wrapped around the body several times and then tied in front.
Loincloths were worn in Crete around 2000 B.C. They were usually decorated, often with intricate patterns. Even today, loincloths are worn in my tropical and semitropical regions of the world.
Between 2105 B.C. and 1240 B.C., men in Babylonia and Mesopotamia wore loincloths as undergarments and women wore short skirts as undergarments.
Around A.D. 200 the Romans wore undergarments. Both men and women wore a loincloth similar to our briefs of today. The women also wore a breast band called a, 'mammillare.'
In 1850 Amelia Jenks Bloomer advocated a costume for women made up of a short jacket, a skirt extending below the knee, and loose, "Turkish" trousers, which were later referred to as, "bloomers." The fashion never caught on, but the name stuck. Bloomers became known as loose fitting baggy underwear worn my women.
The term, "underwear" didn't come into fashion until 1879.
FACTOIDS:
During WWII, Americans stationed in Europe had a hard time finding men's underwear. At the time most Europeans considered underwear to be optional. Even today American underwear is extremely popular in Europe.
The word, "negligee" comes from the French word meaning, "careless" or "neglected." The garment was a soft, loose-fitting gown in contrast to the fashion of tightly corseted and laced clothing.
In the 1900's both men and women wore corsets. Men wore them during sports such as horseback riding.
Underwear is one of the earliest forms of clothing dating back to at least 3000 B.C.
It started as a narrow band around the waist from which both decorative and magical pendants were hung. The Egyptians wore woven material wrapped around the body several times and then tied in front.
Loincloths were worn in Crete around 2000 B.C. They were usually decorated, often with intricate patterns. Even today, loincloths are worn in my tropical and semitropical regions of the world.
Between 2105 B.C. and 1240 B.C., men in Babylonia and Mesopotamia wore loincloths as undergarments and women wore short skirts as undergarments.
Around A.D. 200 the Romans wore undergarments. Both men and women wore a loincloth similar to our briefs of today. The women also wore a breast band called a, 'mammillare.'
In 1850 Amelia Jenks Bloomer advocated a costume for women made up of a short jacket, a skirt extending below the knee, and loose, "Turkish" trousers, which were later referred to as, "bloomers." The fashion never caught on, but the name stuck. Bloomers became known as loose fitting baggy underwear worn my women.
The term, "underwear" didn't come into fashion until 1879.
FACTOIDS:
During WWII, Americans stationed in Europe had a hard time finding men's underwear. At the time most Europeans considered underwear to be optional. Even today American underwear is extremely popular in Europe.
The word, "negligee" comes from the French word meaning, "careless" or "neglected." The garment was a soft, loose-fitting gown in contrast to the fashion of tightly corseted and laced clothing.
In the 1900's both men and women wore corsets. Men wore them during sports such as horseback riding.
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
my libido is off the charts
wwaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy off. If the measurement of my libido was on a chart, the arrow would be a dildo and it would be clear over to the right. Not even on anything, just off. It fell off. No longer on the chart.
Last night I woke up from a dream about someone running their fingers up and down my arms.
Oh, that person would be me.
I then had a dream where someone was tweaking my nipples.
Oh, that would be me.
I then had another dream where a person was touching my lips.
Upon waking, again, me.
Next dream, I am being masturbated by someone, oh so talented.
Any guesses? Yes, that's right. It was me.
So, even though my sleep was interrupted many, many times last night because I woke up from my many delightful dreams I AM HORNY AS HELL!
Sorry for that little outburst.
Cute tutor, the hot (obviously) 23 year old has moved to New York. At least I think he has. Perhaps he needs a phone call.
I have a date tomorrow and I have a feeling. This sneaky suspicion that is might end up in (or on) my car, in a back alley, on a pool table, bathroom stall, my entry way (sure take the pun.)
Because Jesus holy hell.
Juicy.
Wet.
Horny.
Hot.
Tingly.
Fun parts all a glow.
....Yeah, why am I writing this? I gotta go....
Last night I woke up from a dream about someone running their fingers up and down my arms.
Oh, that person would be me.
I then had a dream where someone was tweaking my nipples.
Oh, that would be me.
I then had another dream where a person was touching my lips.
Upon waking, again, me.
Next dream, I am being masturbated by someone, oh so talented.
Any guesses? Yes, that's right. It was me.
So, even though my sleep was interrupted many, many times last night because I woke up from my many delightful dreams I AM HORNY AS HELL!
Sorry for that little outburst.
Cute tutor, the hot (obviously) 23 year old has moved to New York. At least I think he has. Perhaps he needs a phone call.
I have a date tomorrow and I have a feeling. This sneaky suspicion that is might end up in (or on) my car, in a back alley, on a pool table, bathroom stall, my entry way (sure take the pun.)
Because Jesus holy hell.
Juicy.
Wet.
Horny.
Hot.
Tingly.
Fun parts all a glow.
....Yeah, why am I writing this? I gotta go....
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
the art of listening
I've talked about the lost art of conversation before. Well, the other half of that is the lost of art of listening.
I tend to think of myself as a pretty darn good listener. You need an ear, here's mine. I am all ears; sympathetic, understanding, humorous, whatever you need me to be; I am yours for X amount of time as many times as you need me to be. Unless you keep talking about the same damn thing over and over and over and over and over again. I am going to tell you I can't listen to you anymore and then list the reasons why. I mean seriously, here's the pot, piss.
Now, what I have found is that many of my friends, family members, co-workers don't listen worth a damn. They just want to listen to themselves yap on about something and do not care to hear anything about me. Fine. I, whether it is right or wrong, don't spill my guts, or even my day unless I am asked. If I ask, "So, how was your day?" and then you proceed to tell me, but then can't do a simple thing like reciprocate with, "and you...?" Well, obviously you either don't care or don't know how to ask or are simply too concerned with yourself.
Also, if, in the midst of having a conversation you keep cutting me off when I have an open mouth waiting to spew forth some of my infinite wisdom or some dribble that I think is witting and worth passing on, then I will start to shut down. You cut me off; I simply stop talking about myself.
Now I'm not talking about an exchange where myself and the other person are having a heated or non-heated tit for tat back and forth; no I am talking about the conversation where it is completely and totally one-sided all the time. You talk, I try, I'm cut off, and I stop talking. Again, right or wrong, this is what I do.
Why?
Well, I guess because I feel that if said person isn't socially adapted at having a conversation and doesn't care or isn't aware enough to see what they are doing, and I have repeatedly pointed out to them many, many times that they need to listen, or they need to stop cutting me off, or shut the fuck up so I can talk, please...if any of these helpful and oh so thoughtful and friendly suggestions of mine go unseen well, then why should I reward them with knowing anything about me? I guess that's how I see it. Right or wrong. If you can't ask me, then I'm not going to tell. I'm like the gay friendly military.
I mean, if a person doesn't care enough or isn't thoughtful enough to ask me something as simple as, how my day was, then why in the hell would I entrust them with anything else about me?
All you have to do is ask.
You ask, I tell.
You don't ask, I don't tell.
This is why many people think I am an open book.
No.
No, open book.
Page-turner.
If you ask me, I'll answer anything.
Ask me nothing you'll find out nothing.
It's not rocket science.
It's conversation for god's sake.
Why is it so hard to find?
Because it is so hard to find, that is why it is my number one requirement, my number one turn on. The mind fuck. Jesus. So hot. Stimulate my mind first and foremost. You do that and I am putty. Putty. So hard to find.
Why am I currently single? That's why. The other person is trying to impress and win me over, they are selling themselves left right center and backhanded. At least that's how I see it, that they can't stop long enough to stop selling themselves to say, "...and you? What about you?" At which point I would blink, take a drink of beverage to quench my throat and then tell you about myself. See, tit, tat. So much fun. So interesting. So intriguing. Such an easy way to get me into bed. Wow. Concept. Conversation. Why can't people listen? Why can't people care enough to ask? Why can't people care enough to care?
I don't know maybe people have just stopped trying. Crap. Is that what has happened to me? I've just stopped trying to even have a conversation? No, the amount of times I open my mouth to try and spew forth some wisdom, clever comeback, witty repartee and not be able to even get a syllable let alone a vowel shows that I haven't become that person.
Not yet.
I won't become that person.
Don't let me become that person.
Please.
I tend to think of myself as a pretty darn good listener. You need an ear, here's mine. I am all ears; sympathetic, understanding, humorous, whatever you need me to be; I am yours for X amount of time as many times as you need me to be. Unless you keep talking about the same damn thing over and over and over and over and over again. I am going to tell you I can't listen to you anymore and then list the reasons why. I mean seriously, here's the pot, piss.
Now, what I have found is that many of my friends, family members, co-workers don't listen worth a damn. They just want to listen to themselves yap on about something and do not care to hear anything about me. Fine. I, whether it is right or wrong, don't spill my guts, or even my day unless I am asked. If I ask, "So, how was your day?" and then you proceed to tell me, but then can't do a simple thing like reciprocate with, "and you...?" Well, obviously you either don't care or don't know how to ask or are simply too concerned with yourself.
Also, if, in the midst of having a conversation you keep cutting me off when I have an open mouth waiting to spew forth some of my infinite wisdom or some dribble that I think is witting and worth passing on, then I will start to shut down. You cut me off; I simply stop talking about myself.
Now I'm not talking about an exchange where myself and the other person are having a heated or non-heated tit for tat back and forth; no I am talking about the conversation where it is completely and totally one-sided all the time. You talk, I try, I'm cut off, and I stop talking. Again, right or wrong, this is what I do.
Why?
Well, I guess because I feel that if said person isn't socially adapted at having a conversation and doesn't care or isn't aware enough to see what they are doing, and I have repeatedly pointed out to them many, many times that they need to listen, or they need to stop cutting me off, or shut the fuck up so I can talk, please...if any of these helpful and oh so thoughtful and friendly suggestions of mine go unseen well, then why should I reward them with knowing anything about me? I guess that's how I see it. Right or wrong. If you can't ask me, then I'm not going to tell. I'm like the gay friendly military.
I mean, if a person doesn't care enough or isn't thoughtful enough to ask me something as simple as, how my day was, then why in the hell would I entrust them with anything else about me?
All you have to do is ask.
You ask, I tell.
You don't ask, I don't tell.
This is why many people think I am an open book.
No.
No, open book.
Page-turner.
If you ask me, I'll answer anything.
Ask me nothing you'll find out nothing.
It's not rocket science.
It's conversation for god's sake.
Why is it so hard to find?
Because it is so hard to find, that is why it is my number one requirement, my number one turn on. The mind fuck. Jesus. So hot. Stimulate my mind first and foremost. You do that and I am putty. Putty. So hard to find.
Why am I currently single? That's why. The other person is trying to impress and win me over, they are selling themselves left right center and backhanded. At least that's how I see it, that they can't stop long enough to stop selling themselves to say, "...and you? What about you?" At which point I would blink, take a drink of beverage to quench my throat and then tell you about myself. See, tit, tat. So much fun. So interesting. So intriguing. Such an easy way to get me into bed. Wow. Concept. Conversation. Why can't people listen? Why can't people care enough to ask? Why can't people care enough to care?
I don't know maybe people have just stopped trying. Crap. Is that what has happened to me? I've just stopped trying to even have a conversation? No, the amount of times I open my mouth to try and spew forth some wisdom, clever comeback, witty repartee and not be able to even get a syllable let alone a vowel shows that I haven't become that person.
Not yet.
I won't become that person.
Don't let me become that person.
Please.
the cable guy
After waiting during my three hour window for the cable guy to show up yesterday and waiting during my four hour window on Friday for the phone guy to show up, today no window, no guy. It got me to thinking. I wonder who and what is going to greet me on the other side of my door after my window has been completed. Because let's face it. It's a four or three hour window, but I'm waiting the full three or four hours.
I have the fantasy. The fantasy of it being some hot guy and the
wa-chicky-wa-wa music playing in my head when I peer through the peep hole in my door. Either being pleasantly surprised, yesterday. And not so much so on Friday.
So, I wonder how many of said fantasies have come true for the person both answering the door and for the guy standing on the other side of it.
The guy yesterday, the cable guy he was cute. Beyond helpful in fixing my cable.
Flirting.
Smiles.
I brought him tools. Because I have tools. I know what tools are.
It was going well.
No ring.
He could have taken it off, or not wear one for his job.
Maybe.
Then when he was out on my deck his cell phone rang.
It was his wife.
Story of my life.
Maybe I need to change my values and morals.
I'd get laid a lot more.
Course, my sleeping at night would go all to hell because of the guilt.
Damn, morals and values.
Damn you!
I have the fantasy. The fantasy of it being some hot guy and the
wa-chicky-wa-wa music playing in my head when I peer through the peep hole in my door. Either being pleasantly surprised, yesterday. And not so much so on Friday.
So, I wonder how many of said fantasies have come true for the person both answering the door and for the guy standing on the other side of it.
The guy yesterday, the cable guy he was cute. Beyond helpful in fixing my cable.
Flirting.
Smiles.
I brought him tools. Because I have tools. I know what tools are.
It was going well.
No ring.
He could have taken it off, or not wear one for his job.
Maybe.
Then when he was out on my deck his cell phone rang.
It was his wife.
Story of my life.
Maybe I need to change my values and morals.
I'd get laid a lot more.
Course, my sleeping at night would go all to hell because of the guilt.
Damn, morals and values.
Damn you!
hottie of the week: Chris Daughtry
Because of his baldhead and his brown eyes.
For any questions on this read yesterday's post.
...oh, he was also robbed, but whatev.
For any questions on this read yesterday's post.
...oh, he was also robbed, but whatev.
Monday, May 15, 2006
fetishes
This is something I've been thinking about for awhile. When someone would ask me what mine were I would have to think about it.
I would say, shoes. Cause I am a self-proclaimed shoe whore and I have over 100 pairs.
I love all shoes, but the higher, taller, the better. Because let's be honest.
Although these are fun
These are more so
I love bras and panties.
All kinds. My dresser drawer runnith over with all the possibilites.
But as much as I love wearing these
I tend to wear these almost all the time and well, they're simply more fun.
But after fantasizing about the cutie baldy from class and being able to focus all my attention on both of the men in class, who had a shiny, gleaming, newly shaved baldhead, I realized that that is a big one.
Huge one.
So hot.
Such a turn on.
To rub a beautiful baldhead.
One of my friends will let me rub his head for luck, but not the way I really want to.
I want the gleaming head to be lying in my lap.
His head on my stomach.
His head between my thighs.
For me to be smashing it into me.
To be sitting on his face and grabbing his head and holding it. Holding his head and making sure it stays in place. Stays right where I want it until I decide it's time to move.
Yeah, a beautiful gleaming, shiny, newly shaved baldhead that does it for me.
Well, that's one of them anyway.
...And you? What are your fetishes?
I would say, shoes. Cause I am a self-proclaimed shoe whore and I have over 100 pairs.
I love all shoes, but the higher, taller, the better. Because let's be honest.
Although these are fun
These are more so
I love bras and panties.
All kinds. My dresser drawer runnith over with all the possibilites.
But as much as I love wearing these
I tend to wear these almost all the time and well, they're simply more fun.
But after fantasizing about the cutie baldy from class and being able to focus all my attention on both of the men in class, who had a shiny, gleaming, newly shaved baldhead, I realized that that is a big one.
Huge one.
So hot.
Such a turn on.
To rub a beautiful baldhead.
One of my friends will let me rub his head for luck, but not the way I really want to.
I want the gleaming head to be lying in my lap.
His head on my stomach.
His head between my thighs.
For me to be smashing it into me.
To be sitting on his face and grabbing his head and holding it. Holding his head and making sure it stays in place. Stays right where I want it until I decide it's time to move.
Yeah, a beautiful gleaming, shiny, newly shaved baldhead that does it for me.
Well, that's one of them anyway.
...And you? What are your fetishes?
on 2.5 hours of sleep
I went to my damn Saturday morning class.
I was actually pretty awake. I debated about taking the travel mug of coffee.
Then I went and sat for 3.5 hours in class. Yep, travel mug and then some was required.
Although the professor seems very nice, she talks very, very slow and calmly. ...and sleep.
We watched, "Meet the Fockers." We didn't finish it. We'll finish it on June 10th.
The anticipation is killing me.
Good news is that the cutie distraction that was in my last class is also in this one. (Not the seminary kid, a different cutie distraction) Sitting right in front of me. His young gleaming bald head just taunting me. Teasing me. Mmmm, a gleaming baldhead. Daydreams oh, the daydreams.
After class to stay awake I called Billy. There was much, much laughter. At one point I had one hand holding my cell phone and the other hand was holding my coffee that I was sipping from hungrily. Yes, I was that person.
I met Mini-Lloyd Dobler a little while later for, yes more coffee.
I was thinking about turning him into a fuck buddy, but I'm not interested. No attraction what-so-ever. He did make me a mixed CD and the random-randomness of it just made me giggle, but still, I'm not interested.
Billy and I went out Saturday night. So much laughter at one point I was seeing stars and felt like I was from a galaxy far, far away because of the pretty stars I was seeing.
Cocktail, laughter, dancing good friends.
After being up for over 24 hours I came home.
Yesterday I spent time with the lovely Mama M.
I put a small bug in her ear that I am thinking about moving. Although she knows she is the reason why I haven't moved all the other times in the past, we both know that there is a fairly high chance that this time I will.
So...
I was actually pretty awake. I debated about taking the travel mug of coffee.
Then I went and sat for 3.5 hours in class. Yep, travel mug and then some was required.
Although the professor seems very nice, she talks very, very slow and calmly. ...and sleep.
We watched, "Meet the Fockers." We didn't finish it. We'll finish it on June 10th.
The anticipation is killing me.
Good news is that the cutie distraction that was in my last class is also in this one. (Not the seminary kid, a different cutie distraction) Sitting right in front of me. His young gleaming bald head just taunting me. Teasing me. Mmmm, a gleaming baldhead. Daydreams oh, the daydreams.
After class to stay awake I called Billy. There was much, much laughter. At one point I had one hand holding my cell phone and the other hand was holding my coffee that I was sipping from hungrily. Yes, I was that person.
I met Mini-Lloyd Dobler a little while later for, yes more coffee.
I was thinking about turning him into a fuck buddy, but I'm not interested. No attraction what-so-ever. He did make me a mixed CD and the random-randomness of it just made me giggle, but still, I'm not interested.
Billy and I went out Saturday night. So much laughter at one point I was seeing stars and felt like I was from a galaxy far, far away because of the pretty stars I was seeing.
Cocktail, laughter, dancing good friends.
After being up for over 24 hours I came home.
Yesterday I spent time with the lovely Mama M.
I put a small bug in her ear that I am thinking about moving. Although she knows she is the reason why I haven't moved all the other times in the past, we both know that there is a fairly high chance that this time I will.
So...
Sunday, May 14, 2006
studies have shown...
A scientist from Argentina, after a lengthy study, has discovered that people with insufficient brain and sexual activity read their
e-mail with their hand on the mouse.
Don't bother taking it off now, it's too late.
e-mail with their hand on the mouse.
Don't bother taking it off now, it's too late.
Thursday, May 11, 2006
word of the day: nimrod
Genesis 10:8-9, in describing how the Seventy Nations were
founded by the descendants of Noah, says that Nimrod, son of Cush,
son of Ham, son of Noah, was "a mighty man on earth" and "a mighty
hunter before the LORD". The word "nimrod" is recorded in English
since 1545 with the (now obsolete) meaning "tyrant", and since
1712 with the meaning "hunter".
In contemporary U.S. slang, "nimrod" means "fool, numbskull".
Rex Knepp ingeniously suggested that the origin of this was Bugs
Bunny's taunt of Elmer Fudd: "So long, Nimrod." Unfortunately for
this theory, Jesse Sheidlower says that Random House has two
citations of "nimrod" = "numbskull" from the 1930s, before the Bugs
Bunny episode containing the taunt.
www.wordorigins.com
founded by the descendants of Noah, says that Nimrod, son of Cush,
son of Ham, son of Noah, was "a mighty man on earth" and "a mighty
hunter before the LORD". The word "nimrod" is recorded in English
since 1545 with the (now obsolete) meaning "tyrant", and since
1712 with the meaning "hunter".
In contemporary U.S. slang, "nimrod" means "fool, numbskull".
Rex Knepp ingeniously suggested that the origin of this was Bugs
Bunny's taunt of Elmer Fudd: "So long, Nimrod." Unfortunately for
this theory, Jesse Sheidlower says that Random House has two
citations of "nimrod" = "numbskull" from the 1930s, before the Bugs
Bunny episode containing the taunt.
www.wordorigins.com
inner dork: plastic
Did you know...
Billiard balls were made from ivory however, because of their expense a U.S. inventor; John Wesley Hyatt was trying to find a low-cost alternative.
After many failures he made a mixture of nitrocellulose, camphor, and alcohol heated it so it could be molded and let it harden.
His discovery became known as celluloid. It was eventually used to make combs, toys and many other products.
Shellac, a secretion of an Asian beetle (who knew!) was used as a varnish for preserving wood. It was also a great electrical insulator.
When electricity came into its own there was more demand than the little Asian beetle could keep up with. Therefore, a chemist, Leo Baekeland began experimenting to produce synthetic shellac.
After three years of experimenting he heated phenol and formaldehyde to produce a liquid goo that when heated further turned into a hard translucent substance. It was plastic and Baekeland called it "Bakelite."
It wasn't long after its discovery in 1907 that Bakelite was used to make telephone handsets, radio, cabinets, rosary beads, automobile distributor caps, cooking pot handles and many others. It is still used today in buttons, costume jewelry, to handles, knife handles and many other items.
Celluloid was invented in 1869, yet Baekeland is considered the inventor of plastic. The reason? Celluloid is made from chemically treated cotton and other substances containing vegetable matter. Bakelite was produced by combining chemicals, no natural substances were used, thus making it the first 100% synthetic material.
Factoids:
The 1953 Corvette was the first car to have an all fiberglass body.
The "House of Tomorrow" premiered at Disneyland in 1957. The walls, roof, floors and furniture were all made of plastic. It was so strong that when it was torn down the wrecking crews had trouble demolishing it.
Billiard balls were made from ivory however, because of their expense a U.S. inventor; John Wesley Hyatt was trying to find a low-cost alternative.
After many failures he made a mixture of nitrocellulose, camphor, and alcohol heated it so it could be molded and let it harden.
His discovery became known as celluloid. It was eventually used to make combs, toys and many other products.
Shellac, a secretion of an Asian beetle (who knew!) was used as a varnish for preserving wood. It was also a great electrical insulator.
When electricity came into its own there was more demand than the little Asian beetle could keep up with. Therefore, a chemist, Leo Baekeland began experimenting to produce synthetic shellac.
After three years of experimenting he heated phenol and formaldehyde to produce a liquid goo that when heated further turned into a hard translucent substance. It was plastic and Baekeland called it "Bakelite."
It wasn't long after its discovery in 1907 that Bakelite was used to make telephone handsets, radio, cabinets, rosary beads, automobile distributor caps, cooking pot handles and many others. It is still used today in buttons, costume jewelry, to handles, knife handles and many other items.
Celluloid was invented in 1869, yet Baekeland is considered the inventor of plastic. The reason? Celluloid is made from chemically treated cotton and other substances containing vegetable matter. Bakelite was produced by combining chemicals, no natural substances were used, thus making it the first 100% synthetic material.
Factoids:
The 1953 Corvette was the first car to have an all fiberglass body.
The "House of Tomorrow" premiered at Disneyland in 1957. The walls, roof, floors and furniture were all made of plastic. It was so strong that when it was torn down the wrecking crews had trouble demolishing it.
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
in case you get bored at work today....you're welcome
| You Are a Natural Flirt |
 Believe it or not, you're a really effective flirt. And you're so good, you hardly notice that you're flirting. Your attitude and confidence make you a natural flirt. And the fact that you don't know it is just that more attractive! |
| You Are An Invisible Ex |
 You're so over your ex, you hardly even remember you have an ex You prefer leave all of the baggage behind you - far, far behind As they say, indifference is the opposite of love! |
| You Are Greg Brady |
 Outta sight! Suave and all American, you tend to be clean cut and upstanding. You're friendly with most people and a huge flirt (sometimes even with family members!). |
| Your Hidden Talent |
 You are a great communicator. You have a real way with words. You're never at a loss to explain what you mean or how you feel. People find it easy to empathize with you, no matter what your situation. When you're up, you make everyone happy. But when you're down, everyone suffers. |
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
vodka makes me smarter -just sayin'
So, last night I had the last of my finals.
I was pretty damn sure I was going to fail it.
To clarify the final I was worried about? Discovering music. All listening and memorization.
So, my girlfriends and I got together before class.
They had wine.
I had a couple double vodkas.
Off to class we go.
Not doing as bad as I thought I was going to.
Vodka kills off the weak brain cells to make room for the stronger, smarter brain cells.
It's my theory and I'm stickin to it.
Off to the bar we go after class.
More vodka for me.
Our professor joined us at the bar.
The conversation is dominated by, boobs, vibrators, sex, sex, sex, and just incase you missed it, sex.
Laughing and joking and nearly peeing our pants.
The bartender CRANKED the stereo and so we're all laughing and screaming about how you always say something really inappropriate right when the music dies.
I see the bartender go to turn the stereo down.
At which point I time it perfectly and yell, "..and then he slipped it in my ass!" I thought they were all going to die in a puddle of their own pee.
Yes, folks. That's me. I am the class clown. Laughter is my crack.
More vodka.
Hitting on the cutie from class who is a religion and philosophy major.
I'm being all philosophical with him. (Hey, I can be philosophical....and smart. Check my IQ test.)
(Okay, really I'm thinking about all the impure things I would like to do to his young bod.)
Then I ask the $64,000 question.
"So, young hottie. What do you want to do when you graduate?"
"I'm going to go into the seminary."
(Keeping a straight face and thinking, well, holy shit! I didn't see that one coming. AT ALL! I mean seriously. Philosophy and religion? Total bs degree. Oh, but you actually plan to use it. I see. Well, actually I didn't see. Damn.)
Impure thoughts va-moose out of my brain.
Everyone leaves after several hours and several rounds.
I stay to sober up for a bit and I chat with the bartender.
I'll cut to the chase. He's leaving for San Fran at the end of the week and still had two hours left before he could go home.
I didn't want to wait.
I went home
...alone.
boo.
School is over until......Saturday. Yes, that's right. Saturday at 8 a.m. I start my next round.
I see, no make-up and wet hair with a big travel mug of coffee in my future because, seriously, Saturday?
Fuckin' A.
I am, however, off work for the next two weeks. Hey, there are some perks to my job. That would be one of them.
So, I am empting my brain of all the fruitful nutrients I soaked up and I will be drinking, tanning, reading, relaxing, painting, writing and hopefully, god willing, finding some young stud to take advantage of. I mean, enjoy the company of.
I was pretty damn sure I was going to fail it.
To clarify the final I was worried about? Discovering music. All listening and memorization.
So, my girlfriends and I got together before class.
They had wine.
I had a couple double vodkas.
Off to class we go.
Not doing as bad as I thought I was going to.
Vodka kills off the weak brain cells to make room for the stronger, smarter brain cells.
It's my theory and I'm stickin to it.
Off to the bar we go after class.
More vodka for me.
Our professor joined us at the bar.
The conversation is dominated by, boobs, vibrators, sex, sex, sex, and just incase you missed it, sex.
Laughing and joking and nearly peeing our pants.
The bartender CRANKED the stereo and so we're all laughing and screaming about how you always say something really inappropriate right when the music dies.
I see the bartender go to turn the stereo down.
At which point I time it perfectly and yell, "..and then he slipped it in my ass!" I thought they were all going to die in a puddle of their own pee.
Yes, folks. That's me. I am the class clown. Laughter is my crack.
More vodka.
Hitting on the cutie from class who is a religion and philosophy major.
I'm being all philosophical with him. (Hey, I can be philosophical....and smart. Check my IQ test.)
(Okay, really I'm thinking about all the impure things I would like to do to his young bod.)
Then I ask the $64,000 question.
"So, young hottie. What do you want to do when you graduate?"
"I'm going to go into the seminary."
(Keeping a straight face and thinking, well, holy shit! I didn't see that one coming. AT ALL! I mean seriously. Philosophy and religion? Total bs degree. Oh, but you actually plan to use it. I see. Well, actually I didn't see. Damn.)
Impure thoughts va-moose out of my brain.
Everyone leaves after several hours and several rounds.
I stay to sober up for a bit and I chat with the bartender.
I'll cut to the chase. He's leaving for San Fran at the end of the week and still had two hours left before he could go home.
I didn't want to wait.
I went home
...alone.
boo.
School is over until......Saturday. Yes, that's right. Saturday at 8 a.m. I start my next round.
I see, no make-up and wet hair with a big travel mug of coffee in my future because, seriously, Saturday?
Fuckin' A.
I am, however, off work for the next two weeks. Hey, there are some perks to my job. That would be one of them.
So, I am empting my brain of all the fruitful nutrients I soaked up and I will be drinking, tanning, reading, relaxing, painting, writing and hopefully, god willing, finding some young stud to take advantage of. I mean, enjoy the company of.
hottie of the week: Drew Barrymore
Because she's the girl next door with a fun, naughty party girl inside of her.
Because she's adorable.
Because she speaks her mind.
Because she's a free spirit.
Because she seems to not take life too seriously and enjoys every moment of every day.
Because she has a great laugh.
Oh, yeah, because she's friggin hot.
Because she's adorable.
Because she speaks her mind.
Because she's a free spirit.
Because she seems to not take life too seriously and enjoys every moment of every day.
Because she has a great laugh.
Oh, yeah, because she's friggin hot.
Monday, May 08, 2006
spotless or spotted
First, if you haven't seen, "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind," you need to.
Basically the premise of the movie is this; you can erase someone or something from your mind. Any and all memories of the person, event are erased. However, in the process and because of how our minds work, some good is also erased. Some memories that we didn't want to be vaporized from out memory are. Therefore, in the process you lose the person or event along with who we are and who we've become.
So, would you rather be spotless, meaning no bad memories and you can erase someone or thing from your mind forever. Or, would you rather have everything and anything that has made you, you?
Personally, I want to be spotted like a leopard. All things good, bad, ugly and otherwise that have happened to me and that have yet to happen have made me, me. And well, I kinda like the person I've become. So, color me spotted.
Sunday, May 07, 2006
Saturday, May 06, 2006
Mikey has something important to say
..and damnit I think you all need to read it.I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore! It's about his struggle with HIV/AIDS and the governments nonchalance attitude about it when it comes to treatment.
Friday, May 05, 2006
Total Naked Friday: Completely exposed
So, when I first started the TNF I said that I wouldn't always do pictures of me naked. There would be pictures of me unnaked, meaning me. As a person. Not me as flesh.
For me to be naked in the flesh is easy.
For me to be naked as in me, as in, to let people in, not easy. Not at all.
Well, I've decided to take this even deeper.
I am sharing one of my essays.
This is a big step for me.
I realized about a year ago that I needed to stop being guarded.
I've never been afraid of being hurt or of what people will think of me. Frankly, I don't care. However, trust and taking down bricks from my wall, still a process.
So, I hope you all understand how big this is for me. And in the upcoming weeks when you don't see a nipple, or a thigh, or an ass shot, but that you see more of me, that you appreciate what I am doing. Doing for myself.
This is the essay that I won first runner-up for.
Coping it onto my blog changed the format however, I don't think this will really alter the story's meaning.
Obviously, I'm not going to share the title of the essay.
Obviously, I am hoping that none of you are clever enough to link the essay to me when it is published.
Obviously, if any of you are clever enough to link it to me I would like you to tell me, but then keep it to yourself.
This is, for now, my most personal essay.
This is also the hardest one for me to share.
...and exhale.....
My dad was an ass. A big, angry, verbally abusive ass of a man. That was why when I heard the message my youngest brother, J, was leaving on my answering machine I didn’t give a damn. I was lying in bed trying to fall back to sleep when, at 8:30, I finally realized I was fighting a losing battle. I stumbled out of bed, and weaved my way into my living room, where I begrudgingly turned my head towards my patio doors to find it raining and overcast outside.
“Thank God,” I thought. It was the morning after St. Patrick’s Day and I was facing the bright harsh reality of being out on the town drinking for 12 of the previous 24 hours. I wasn’t silently making deals with God, but I certainly wasn’t going to be exerting myself in any way, shape, or form for the rest of the day. My couch was going to be my best friend.
Through my mascara encrusted eyes I found my way into the shower. I stood under the waterfall of hot water and steam, where I held my face and hands up to the soothing holy water, letting it fall down my body and coat my long hair. The shower felt like a baptism, washing all of the previous day’s sins down the drain along with the smoke and the ale.
After I was cleansed of all my sins I made my way back into my living room where I listened to the message my brother left to see if maybe I didn’t hear it correctly from my bed. “Hey PG, it’s me J. Dad is in the hospital. One side of his body is cold, one side of his body is hot. They don’t know what’s wrong with him.”
Um, okay. What the hell?
I listened to the message one more time thinking that after a second time around it would suddenly all become clear.
Nope. Still didn’t make any sense.
I called my mom and asked her about the situation, but frankly I still found it hard to understand and even harder to give a damn. She told me basically the same thing, J had said on my answering machine. Alrighty. I wasn’t getting anywhere so I decided to just sit and watch T.V. in the vain hope that energy would start to come my way.
Around 10:30 I got another phone call, this time from my step-dad. He explains that my dad has had a triple A, which in medical terms is an abdominal aortic aneurysm requiring immediate surgery.
Still, I chose to ignore this information.
I didn’t give a damn because while I was growing up nothing was ever done right, good enough, fast enough, or in any way that my dad saw fit, and he was very happy to point out the error of my ways. He moved as slow as an elephant, but his temper was quick, and his rage was as unpredictable as an approaching thunderstorm in the middle of August after a long, hot, sweltering day. With the blast of a bullet he could put you down, slap you with a back handed compliment and with the nonchalance of a bull raising its tail, make me, and everyone else feel like shit.
My dad and I saw each other maybe once a year and we talked to each other about twice a year, on our birthdays. Though he and my step-mom live less than 30 minutes away, this is the kind of relationship we have chosen to have with each other, which is to have no relationship at all.
Finally around 11:30 my mom called me again and told me exactly what was happening. She starts to tell me that if something should happen to my dad during surgery she didn’t want me to have any regrets about not being up at the hospital. I told her I didn’t need the guilt.
After I hung up the phone I sat and looked out my patio doors. It was raining. It wasn’t a heavy thunderstorm, it was just… raining. It was the kind of day where you want to call into work and lay on your couch under a blanket and happen to fall upon your favorite old movie while flipping through the channels. I was sitting sideways in my favorite heavily used and worn tan recliner with my legs drooped over the arm of the chair watching the rain crawl down my smudged patio doors, watching the rain wash away the dirty cold harshness of winter. It was all being washed away, the leftovers from winter were falling through the cracks of my second story patio to the muddy ground below. I finally got it. Somehow at 12:00 my brain finally kicked into gear and I realized I needed to be up at the hospital. I got myself together, in all my hung-over glory, forgoing make-up, brushed hair, and contacts, I drove to the hospital.
On the way to the hospital I was going well over 80 MPH on the interstate and praying to God that he can’t let my dad die. He can’t let it end this way. He can’t take my dad away from me like this. We have to patch things up. I have to forgive him. Please God, please don’t let my dad die. I am repeating this mantra the entire time I am weaving in and out of traffic on my way to the hospital.
I make it to the surgery waiting room, and am greeted by the rest of my family. They all look at me in stunned disbelief as if I am a stranger treading on their territory. I think they are both relieved to see me and pissed to see me all at the same time. They look at me in a way that says, “It’s about fucking time you got here. He’s been in the OR since 8:30.” Yet the look also says, “Why are you here?” I pulled up an uncomfortable chair at the already crowded table and felt both guilty and awkward to be among my own family. This is my fault. I did this. I alienated myself from this side of my family. My step-mom, Pam, told me what had been going on. I was determined to be the stubborn, strong-willed woman that I am and I refuse to let them see me cry. I lost this battle. Pam came over and pulled up a chair next to me and held my hand. Dad tore his aorta on Monday, which was his 55th birthday and the day he and Pam went and signed the closing papers on their new house. He thought he had a backache from trying to lift up a computer, which was heavier than it appeared. Then Friday morning they realized something was wrong and called 911. Dad had fallen in the bathroom, which prompted the call. My dad had been hemorrhaging for five days. He had been slowly bleeding to death for five days. She goes on to say that the surgeons didn’t think he would make it through surgery. There is only a 10% survival rate with triple A’s. Basically, everyone was expecting him to die.
My aunt, whom I haven’t seen or spoken to in over three years, asked me how I’ve been. I can’t believe how old and tired she looks. The toll of a lifetime of smoking and a bad diet are showing their effect on her face. She has huge rings under her eyes. They don’t resemble bags so much as they do crop circles. I wonder what has happened in the three years since I last saw her. Nobody knows anything about me. The guilt of not seeing or talking to anyone along with the hangover were taking their toll on my emotions. This is how the rest of my day will go, anytime anybody says anything to me I cry. How is school? Sob. His blood pressure is normal. Sob. Where do you work now? Sob.
About 45 minutes after I arrived at the hospital, we hear that he made it through surgery. When they moved him into ICU, I learned everyone on dad’s side of the family has died from a triple A. I knew heart disease ran in the family, but I thought everyone died of a heart attack. Dad had a heart attack ten years ago, now this. Everyone in his family has had a bad heart. My dad has a bad heart. It’s not his fault. It’s hereditary. I wonder if I have a bad heart.
He is lying in a bed in the ICU. The bed is too small. They had to remove the footboard so he would have enough room for his feet, yet it is still too small for his frame. The room is too small. There is barely room for his bed let alone for visitors and all the contraptions needed to keep him alive. He is hooked up to every kind of tube and vessel and IV a person can be hooked to. All of which are taped to his hairy arms. I wonder if the tape will hurt him when it’s pulled off. He has nothing on him but a sheet. The raised skin from where they cut him open is clearly visible through the sheet. The scar goes from his chest to below his belly button. His chest has been shaved quickly and hastily of its salt and pepper hair. I wonder how many staples it took to close him up. He is a maze of plastic tubing going in and out of every orifice possible. He is also hooked up to life support. The tube shoved down his throat is keeping him alive. Here is my dad. This 6 foot tall, 350-pound man with salt and pepper in his beard, his mostly white buzz cut receding from his forehead, the stretch marks on his arms and stomach are clearly visible, his skin looks jaundice from the trauma of surgery. This man, who I’ve been afraid of my whole life, has been reduced to tubes, IV’s, and life support. He has suddenly become fragile. All I can do is stare up at the blood pressure monitor. Bleep. Up to 98. Bleep. Up to 99. Bleep. Down to 97. Bleep.
When the nurse asks for contact emergency numbers to write on the whiteboard in his room, I am the last person listed. I am the sixth person listed. I am below my youngest and most irresponsible brother. If something should happen to him I will be the last to know. I leave the hospital feeling useless.
Later that night I sat on my couch with a blanket wrapped around me staring off into space thinking about the past. Thinking about all the past events that I had kept buried deep in my brain and had long ago willed myself to forget. I sat there thinking about the relationship dad and I had while I was growing up and before my parents divorced. Remembering all of the fights and arguments over something and nothing. The fights were always over something small and trivial. Remembering how he and I literally could not be in a room with each other more than 10 seconds without an argument erupting over something I had done wrong. And it was always over something I had done wrong. I walked into a room too hard. I read the paper before him on Sunday morning. I spent too much time in my bedroom with the door closed. His solution to that problem was to rip the door off its hinges. On Sunday mornings when I would make breakfast I always, without fail, cooked his eggs wrong. Now the only kind of eggs I’ll cook as an adult are scrambled. Pretty hard to mess up scrambled eggs. He saw me as too strong-willed, too stubborn, too honest things that he should have seen as attributes he saw as detriments and he was determined to break me. I was determined to fight back.
When I was around 13 he drove me to a school dance. He didn’t say a word to me the entire 20 minutes it took to drive there. Then, as I was getting out of the car he told me I looked like a whore. With his next breath he told me to have a good time at the dance. I spent the entire night in the girl’s restroom crying.
When my parents finally divorced I was 15. It was the greatest fucking thing that ever happened to me.
The next day it was still raining when I arrived at the hospital. Dad was heavily sedated on morphine and was still on life support and still had just as many tubes going in and out of him as the day before. His room smelled of rubbing alcohol, someone who hasn’t had a shower in a couple of days, and a little bit like old urine, which was from his catheter. I hear all of the nurses at their station complaining about something while simultaneously gossiping. Dad kept drifting in and out of consciousness. I was on the right side of his bed holding his hand listening to all of the machines beeping and clicking. As I looked at his hand I noticed that it looked like the hand of someone who hasn’t taken care of himself. His short stubby fingers are callused and yellow from 40 years of smoking. He has sparsely placed long faded black hairs on his knuckles and the top of his hand. He has the hands of someone who worked in a warehouse most of his life and where his job sucked most of the life from him. He kept bringing his hand to his lips trying to take a drag from his morphine clicker that was in his right hand. He was semiconscious yet the powerful pull of nicotine withdrawal was in full effect. In one of dad’s conscious moments he looked at me, his brown eyes were all glazed over from the morphine and the life support tube was down his throat. There were two pieces of tape across his mouth from the life support tube. The tape had slipped down from his upper lip and were over his mouth in the shape of an ‘O’. He kept pushing his tongue through the two pieces of tape. I wanted to remove the tape, but I’m told by Pam that the nurses said they would come in and fix it. My question is when will they come in to fix it? I want the nurses to help him. I want to help him. I want to take care of him. I needed him to know I am here. I needed him to know I care. He kept trying to speak, but all he could do was mouth the words. He looked at me and mouthed, “I love you.” I told him I loved him too. Then he said what I had been waiting 30 years to hear. He mouthed, “I’m sorry.” In that split second it takes him to say what I’ve been waiting and wanting to hear from him for 30 years everything is okay between us. All is forgiven. It doesn’t matter to me if these are the words he actually said or not. It’s not relevant. It’s that I think that’s what he said. It’s what I wanted him to say. It’s what I needed to hear. That’s what is relevant. It also doesn’t matter to me what our relationship was like before these words. What happened between us is in the past. It is no longer relevant to my future.
As I was leaving the hospital I was in my own little world. I was walking. I was taking my paces through the lobby, through the emergency room waiting area, out the revolving doors. I was not aware of my surroundings. I was not aware that I was leaving the hospital. I had an inner calm about me. I can’t articulate what I was feeling. I was just…calm. As I raised my right hand to open my umbrella, I didn’t notice that the rain had stopped and the sun was slowly peaking through a few clouds.
He and I agree that we need to work on rebuilding our relationship. It’s not as if he and I became best buds over night. However, he and I have seen and spoken to each other more since March than we have in the past several years. After he was home from the hospital for a couple of weeks and he had some of his strength back I drove out to see his new house. I hadn’t seen him in his own surroundings in several years. He lived less than 30 minutes from me, but I could never find the time to make the drive. Now he lives about 45 minutes from me and I made the time to visit him.
Dad went back into the hospital in April and then again in May. In April, he went in for a blood clot behind his lung, and in May, it was to have an infection removed from his lung. Before he went into surgery all of us had a few minutes with him. When it was my turn I sat on his bed and he asked for a hug. While I was hugging him I whispered in his ear, “We’re okay.” Here was a 6-foot tall, 350-pound, 55-year-old man weeping in his daughter’s arms. After our hug I stayed on his bed, I looked directly into his eyes and I simply said, “We’re okay.” I think those were the two little words he had been waiting 30 years to hear from me. We’re okay.
For me to be naked in the flesh is easy.
For me to be naked as in me, as in, to let people in, not easy. Not at all.
Well, I've decided to take this even deeper.
I am sharing one of my essays.
This is a big step for me.
I realized about a year ago that I needed to stop being guarded.
I've never been afraid of being hurt or of what people will think of me. Frankly, I don't care. However, trust and taking down bricks from my wall, still a process.
So, I hope you all understand how big this is for me. And in the upcoming weeks when you don't see a nipple, or a thigh, or an ass shot, but that you see more of me, that you appreciate what I am doing. Doing for myself.
This is the essay that I won first runner-up for.
Coping it onto my blog changed the format however, I don't think this will really alter the story's meaning.
Obviously, I'm not going to share the title of the essay.
Obviously, I am hoping that none of you are clever enough to link the essay to me when it is published.
Obviously, if any of you are clever enough to link it to me I would like you to tell me, but then keep it to yourself.
This is, for now, my most personal essay.
This is also the hardest one for me to share.
...and exhale.....
My dad was an ass. A big, angry, verbally abusive ass of a man. That was why when I heard the message my youngest brother, J, was leaving on my answering machine I didn’t give a damn. I was lying in bed trying to fall back to sleep when, at 8:30, I finally realized I was fighting a losing battle. I stumbled out of bed, and weaved my way into my living room, where I begrudgingly turned my head towards my patio doors to find it raining and overcast outside.
“Thank God,” I thought. It was the morning after St. Patrick’s Day and I was facing the bright harsh reality of being out on the town drinking for 12 of the previous 24 hours. I wasn’t silently making deals with God, but I certainly wasn’t going to be exerting myself in any way, shape, or form for the rest of the day. My couch was going to be my best friend.
Through my mascara encrusted eyes I found my way into the shower. I stood under the waterfall of hot water and steam, where I held my face and hands up to the soothing holy water, letting it fall down my body and coat my long hair. The shower felt like a baptism, washing all of the previous day’s sins down the drain along with the smoke and the ale.
After I was cleansed of all my sins I made my way back into my living room where I listened to the message my brother left to see if maybe I didn’t hear it correctly from my bed. “Hey PG, it’s me J. Dad is in the hospital. One side of his body is cold, one side of his body is hot. They don’t know what’s wrong with him.”
Um, okay. What the hell?
I listened to the message one more time thinking that after a second time around it would suddenly all become clear.
Nope. Still didn’t make any sense.
I called my mom and asked her about the situation, but frankly I still found it hard to understand and even harder to give a damn. She told me basically the same thing, J had said on my answering machine. Alrighty. I wasn’t getting anywhere so I decided to just sit and watch T.V. in the vain hope that energy would start to come my way.
Around 10:30 I got another phone call, this time from my step-dad. He explains that my dad has had a triple A, which in medical terms is an abdominal aortic aneurysm requiring immediate surgery.
Still, I chose to ignore this information.
I didn’t give a damn because while I was growing up nothing was ever done right, good enough, fast enough, or in any way that my dad saw fit, and he was very happy to point out the error of my ways. He moved as slow as an elephant, but his temper was quick, and his rage was as unpredictable as an approaching thunderstorm in the middle of August after a long, hot, sweltering day. With the blast of a bullet he could put you down, slap you with a back handed compliment and with the nonchalance of a bull raising its tail, make me, and everyone else feel like shit.
My dad and I saw each other maybe once a year and we talked to each other about twice a year, on our birthdays. Though he and my step-mom live less than 30 minutes away, this is the kind of relationship we have chosen to have with each other, which is to have no relationship at all.
Finally around 11:30 my mom called me again and told me exactly what was happening. She starts to tell me that if something should happen to my dad during surgery she didn’t want me to have any regrets about not being up at the hospital. I told her I didn’t need the guilt.
After I hung up the phone I sat and looked out my patio doors. It was raining. It wasn’t a heavy thunderstorm, it was just… raining. It was the kind of day where you want to call into work and lay on your couch under a blanket and happen to fall upon your favorite old movie while flipping through the channels. I was sitting sideways in my favorite heavily used and worn tan recliner with my legs drooped over the arm of the chair watching the rain crawl down my smudged patio doors, watching the rain wash away the dirty cold harshness of winter. It was all being washed away, the leftovers from winter were falling through the cracks of my second story patio to the muddy ground below. I finally got it. Somehow at 12:00 my brain finally kicked into gear and I realized I needed to be up at the hospital. I got myself together, in all my hung-over glory, forgoing make-up, brushed hair, and contacts, I drove to the hospital.
On the way to the hospital I was going well over 80 MPH on the interstate and praying to God that he can’t let my dad die. He can’t let it end this way. He can’t take my dad away from me like this. We have to patch things up. I have to forgive him. Please God, please don’t let my dad die. I am repeating this mantra the entire time I am weaving in and out of traffic on my way to the hospital.
I make it to the surgery waiting room, and am greeted by the rest of my family. They all look at me in stunned disbelief as if I am a stranger treading on their territory. I think they are both relieved to see me and pissed to see me all at the same time. They look at me in a way that says, “It’s about fucking time you got here. He’s been in the OR since 8:30.” Yet the look also says, “Why are you here?” I pulled up an uncomfortable chair at the already crowded table and felt both guilty and awkward to be among my own family. This is my fault. I did this. I alienated myself from this side of my family. My step-mom, Pam, told me what had been going on. I was determined to be the stubborn, strong-willed woman that I am and I refuse to let them see me cry. I lost this battle. Pam came over and pulled up a chair next to me and held my hand. Dad tore his aorta on Monday, which was his 55th birthday and the day he and Pam went and signed the closing papers on their new house. He thought he had a backache from trying to lift up a computer, which was heavier than it appeared. Then Friday morning they realized something was wrong and called 911. Dad had fallen in the bathroom, which prompted the call. My dad had been hemorrhaging for five days. He had been slowly bleeding to death for five days. She goes on to say that the surgeons didn’t think he would make it through surgery. There is only a 10% survival rate with triple A’s. Basically, everyone was expecting him to die.
My aunt, whom I haven’t seen or spoken to in over three years, asked me how I’ve been. I can’t believe how old and tired she looks. The toll of a lifetime of smoking and a bad diet are showing their effect on her face. She has huge rings under her eyes. They don’t resemble bags so much as they do crop circles. I wonder what has happened in the three years since I last saw her. Nobody knows anything about me. The guilt of not seeing or talking to anyone along with the hangover were taking their toll on my emotions. This is how the rest of my day will go, anytime anybody says anything to me I cry. How is school? Sob. His blood pressure is normal. Sob. Where do you work now? Sob.
About 45 minutes after I arrived at the hospital, we hear that he made it through surgery. When they moved him into ICU, I learned everyone on dad’s side of the family has died from a triple A. I knew heart disease ran in the family, but I thought everyone died of a heart attack. Dad had a heart attack ten years ago, now this. Everyone in his family has had a bad heart. My dad has a bad heart. It’s not his fault. It’s hereditary. I wonder if I have a bad heart.
He is lying in a bed in the ICU. The bed is too small. They had to remove the footboard so he would have enough room for his feet, yet it is still too small for his frame. The room is too small. There is barely room for his bed let alone for visitors and all the contraptions needed to keep him alive. He is hooked up to every kind of tube and vessel and IV a person can be hooked to. All of which are taped to his hairy arms. I wonder if the tape will hurt him when it’s pulled off. He has nothing on him but a sheet. The raised skin from where they cut him open is clearly visible through the sheet. The scar goes from his chest to below his belly button. His chest has been shaved quickly and hastily of its salt and pepper hair. I wonder how many staples it took to close him up. He is a maze of plastic tubing going in and out of every orifice possible. He is also hooked up to life support. The tube shoved down his throat is keeping him alive. Here is my dad. This 6 foot tall, 350-pound man with salt and pepper in his beard, his mostly white buzz cut receding from his forehead, the stretch marks on his arms and stomach are clearly visible, his skin looks jaundice from the trauma of surgery. This man, who I’ve been afraid of my whole life, has been reduced to tubes, IV’s, and life support. He has suddenly become fragile. All I can do is stare up at the blood pressure monitor. Bleep. Up to 98. Bleep. Up to 99. Bleep. Down to 97. Bleep.
When the nurse asks for contact emergency numbers to write on the whiteboard in his room, I am the last person listed. I am the sixth person listed. I am below my youngest and most irresponsible brother. If something should happen to him I will be the last to know. I leave the hospital feeling useless.
Later that night I sat on my couch with a blanket wrapped around me staring off into space thinking about the past. Thinking about all the past events that I had kept buried deep in my brain and had long ago willed myself to forget. I sat there thinking about the relationship dad and I had while I was growing up and before my parents divorced. Remembering all of the fights and arguments over something and nothing. The fights were always over something small and trivial. Remembering how he and I literally could not be in a room with each other more than 10 seconds without an argument erupting over something I had done wrong. And it was always over something I had done wrong. I walked into a room too hard. I read the paper before him on Sunday morning. I spent too much time in my bedroom with the door closed. His solution to that problem was to rip the door off its hinges. On Sunday mornings when I would make breakfast I always, without fail, cooked his eggs wrong. Now the only kind of eggs I’ll cook as an adult are scrambled. Pretty hard to mess up scrambled eggs. He saw me as too strong-willed, too stubborn, too honest things that he should have seen as attributes he saw as detriments and he was determined to break me. I was determined to fight back.
When I was around 13 he drove me to a school dance. He didn’t say a word to me the entire 20 minutes it took to drive there. Then, as I was getting out of the car he told me I looked like a whore. With his next breath he told me to have a good time at the dance. I spent the entire night in the girl’s restroom crying.
When my parents finally divorced I was 15. It was the greatest fucking thing that ever happened to me.
The next day it was still raining when I arrived at the hospital. Dad was heavily sedated on morphine and was still on life support and still had just as many tubes going in and out of him as the day before. His room smelled of rubbing alcohol, someone who hasn’t had a shower in a couple of days, and a little bit like old urine, which was from his catheter. I hear all of the nurses at their station complaining about something while simultaneously gossiping. Dad kept drifting in and out of consciousness. I was on the right side of his bed holding his hand listening to all of the machines beeping and clicking. As I looked at his hand I noticed that it looked like the hand of someone who hasn’t taken care of himself. His short stubby fingers are callused and yellow from 40 years of smoking. He has sparsely placed long faded black hairs on his knuckles and the top of his hand. He has the hands of someone who worked in a warehouse most of his life and where his job sucked most of the life from him. He kept bringing his hand to his lips trying to take a drag from his morphine clicker that was in his right hand. He was semiconscious yet the powerful pull of nicotine withdrawal was in full effect. In one of dad’s conscious moments he looked at me, his brown eyes were all glazed over from the morphine and the life support tube was down his throat. There were two pieces of tape across his mouth from the life support tube. The tape had slipped down from his upper lip and were over his mouth in the shape of an ‘O’. He kept pushing his tongue through the two pieces of tape. I wanted to remove the tape, but I’m told by Pam that the nurses said they would come in and fix it. My question is when will they come in to fix it? I want the nurses to help him. I want to help him. I want to take care of him. I needed him to know I am here. I needed him to know I care. He kept trying to speak, but all he could do was mouth the words. He looked at me and mouthed, “I love you.” I told him I loved him too. Then he said what I had been waiting 30 years to hear. He mouthed, “I’m sorry.” In that split second it takes him to say what I’ve been waiting and wanting to hear from him for 30 years everything is okay between us. All is forgiven. It doesn’t matter to me if these are the words he actually said or not. It’s not relevant. It’s that I think that’s what he said. It’s what I wanted him to say. It’s what I needed to hear. That’s what is relevant. It also doesn’t matter to me what our relationship was like before these words. What happened between us is in the past. It is no longer relevant to my future.
As I was leaving the hospital I was in my own little world. I was walking. I was taking my paces through the lobby, through the emergency room waiting area, out the revolving doors. I was not aware of my surroundings. I was not aware that I was leaving the hospital. I had an inner calm about me. I can’t articulate what I was feeling. I was just…calm. As I raised my right hand to open my umbrella, I didn’t notice that the rain had stopped and the sun was slowly peaking through a few clouds.
He and I agree that we need to work on rebuilding our relationship. It’s not as if he and I became best buds over night. However, he and I have seen and spoken to each other more since March than we have in the past several years. After he was home from the hospital for a couple of weeks and he had some of his strength back I drove out to see his new house. I hadn’t seen him in his own surroundings in several years. He lived less than 30 minutes from me, but I could never find the time to make the drive. Now he lives about 45 minutes from me and I made the time to visit him.
Dad went back into the hospital in April and then again in May. In April, he went in for a blood clot behind his lung, and in May, it was to have an infection removed from his lung. Before he went into surgery all of us had a few minutes with him. When it was my turn I sat on his bed and he asked for a hug. While I was hugging him I whispered in his ear, “We’re okay.” Here was a 6-foot tall, 350-pound, 55-year-old man weeping in his daughter’s arms. After our hug I stayed on his bed, I looked directly into his eyes and I simply said, “We’re okay.” I think those were the two little words he had been waiting 30 years to hear from me. We’re okay.
Thursday, May 04, 2006
word of the day: hawk a loogie
Hawk a Loogie
This is a slang phrase with many variants.
The verb is usually either hawk or hock and the subject varies between loogie, louie, lungie,
and lunger.
It means to cough up phlegm and dates to the 1970s.
Hawk is an old verb meaning to clear the throat or cough up phlegm.
It dates to the late 16th century and is probably echoic in origin.
Hock is a corruption of the original hawk.
Regarding the second half, lunger is probably the original.
That word has meant a gob of phlegm since 1946, and a tuberculosis patient since the 1890s.
The other forms are probably corruptions and variants on this original.
Why, thank you wordorigins.com Thank you.
This is a slang phrase with many variants.
The verb is usually either hawk or hock and the subject varies between loogie, louie, lungie,
and lunger.
It means to cough up phlegm and dates to the 1970s.
Hawk is an old verb meaning to clear the throat or cough up phlegm.
It dates to the late 16th century and is probably echoic in origin.
Hock is a corruption of the original hawk.
Regarding the second half, lunger is probably the original.
That word has meant a gob of phlegm since 1946, and a tuberculosis patient since the 1890s.
The other forms are probably corruptions and variants on this original.
Why, thank you wordorigins.com Thank you.
cheeseballs, potlucks and the end of the semester
Today is the last day of the semester....at work. Sadly, my last day for classes won't be until Monday. Then I get four...yes, four whole days off until my next round of classes start.
I'm super excited about that.
I'm not tired, stressed, cranky, or tired- at all.
No really.
Not at all.
I can't wait to empty my brain of all the nutrients of knowledge only to once again fill it up in four days. FOUR DAYS. For those of you looking at a calendar, yes, yes that would be Saturday. A Saturday class at 8 a.m. I see wet hair, no make-up, coffee, and hang-overs in my future.
A sure sign of how to tell I'm tired and ready for it to end? No need to even ask me. Just look at what I'm wearing to work. I've gone from skirts and stilettos to t-shirts, cargo pants and low-top Chuck Taylors. Today? Pink low-tops to match my pink t-shirt. Oh-yes-I-do. Yesterday blue low-tops to match the blue t-shirt and the day before my black Supergirl low-tops to go with the black t-shirt. (Hey, I still have to coordinate.)
Anywho.
So, as is tradition we have a huge potluck. Nothing brings faculty together like food. Lots and lots of food. Particularly in the form of carbs. It's going to be a very carby day.
So, we have some cheeseball left over from an open house my department had about a week ago. Part of my contribution to said feast of carbs was to take the cheeseball from the fridge and bring in crackers. (I also contributed to the carb fest with a BLT pasta salad. I see a nap later today.) The main thing people seem to be interested in with the cheeseball that resembles a half eaten brain is, "Is that thing still good?" poke, poke, with a cracker.
Now, were talking about old, cranky, been teaching their whole lives and that's been, far, far too long, still pissed off about the Vietnam War, will eat something that's green, blue, pink and purple pokka dotted fuzz in, on and around it. But a cheeseball that has been in the fridge for a week. Whoa! Must poke it first.
"Yeah, it's cream cheese and garlic. It's still good. There's enough garlic in that thing to kill anything that might have thought about growing in it. It has enough garlic to kill a cave of vampires and my unborn children. It's fine."
Poke, poke.
Slap some on a cracker. Mmm, good.
I just sit and roll my eyes. Please, let the vacation begin. Please, let the vacation begin.
I'm super excited about that.
I'm not tired, stressed, cranky, or tired- at all.
No really.
Not at all.
I can't wait to empty my brain of all the nutrients of knowledge only to once again fill it up in four days. FOUR DAYS. For those of you looking at a calendar, yes, yes that would be Saturday. A Saturday class at 8 a.m. I see wet hair, no make-up, coffee, and hang-overs in my future.
A sure sign of how to tell I'm tired and ready for it to end? No need to even ask me. Just look at what I'm wearing to work. I've gone from skirts and stilettos to t-shirts, cargo pants and low-top Chuck Taylors. Today? Pink low-tops to match my pink t-shirt. Oh-yes-I-do. Yesterday blue low-tops to match the blue t-shirt and the day before my black Supergirl low-tops to go with the black t-shirt. (Hey, I still have to coordinate.)
Anywho.
So, as is tradition we have a huge potluck. Nothing brings faculty together like food. Lots and lots of food. Particularly in the form of carbs. It's going to be a very carby day.
So, we have some cheeseball left over from an open house my department had about a week ago. Part of my contribution to said feast of carbs was to take the cheeseball from the fridge and bring in crackers. (I also contributed to the carb fest with a BLT pasta salad. I see a nap later today.) The main thing people seem to be interested in with the cheeseball that resembles a half eaten brain is, "Is that thing still good?" poke, poke, with a cracker.
Now, were talking about old, cranky, been teaching their whole lives and that's been, far, far too long, still pissed off about the Vietnam War, will eat something that's green, blue, pink and purple pokka dotted fuzz in, on and around it. But a cheeseball that has been in the fridge for a week. Whoa! Must poke it first.
"Yeah, it's cream cheese and garlic. It's still good. There's enough garlic in that thing to kill anything that might have thought about growing in it. It has enough garlic to kill a cave of vampires and my unborn children. It's fine."
Poke, poke.
Slap some on a cracker. Mmm, good.
I just sit and roll my eyes. Please, let the vacation begin. Please, let the vacation begin.
inner dork: pennies
Did you know...
The penny has the head of President Lincoln, the sixteenth president of the United States.
Above the image is the saying, "In God We Trust," with the word, "Liberty" to the left. The Coinage Act of 1792 decreed that each U.S. coin must have "an impression emblematic of Liberty," a mythical female figure that appeared as the symbol of the United States during colonial times.
The letter below the date that the coin was minted tells where it was minted. If no letter appears below the date it means it was minted in PA. 'D' means it minted in Denver, Co; 'S' indicates San Francisco, and 'CC' means Carson City, NV. However, today pennies are only minted in Denver and Philadelphia.
On the back of the penny is the Lincoln Memorial. The phrase, "E Pluribus Unum," which means "one out of many," or literally, "from many, one." This is on the Great Seal of the United States and on all U.S. coins. The phrase was adopted by the Continental Congress and adopted in 1782. Ben Franklin wanted the phrase, "Rebellions to Tyrants Is Obedience to God."
Factiods:
During WWII copper was needed for bullets and cartridges. In 1943 pennies were made from zinc-coated steel and were called, "war pennies."
The last pure copper penny was minted in 1981 because the U.S. mint was losing money. Since then all pennies have been made from copper-coated zinc.
The penny has the head of President Lincoln, the sixteenth president of the United States.
Above the image is the saying, "In God We Trust," with the word, "Liberty" to the left. The Coinage Act of 1792 decreed that each U.S. coin must have "an impression emblematic of Liberty," a mythical female figure that appeared as the symbol of the United States during colonial times.
The letter below the date that the coin was minted tells where it was minted. If no letter appears below the date it means it was minted in PA. 'D' means it minted in Denver, Co; 'S' indicates San Francisco, and 'CC' means Carson City, NV. However, today pennies are only minted in Denver and Philadelphia.
On the back of the penny is the Lincoln Memorial. The phrase, "E Pluribus Unum," which means "one out of many," or literally, "from many, one." This is on the Great Seal of the United States and on all U.S. coins. The phrase was adopted by the Continental Congress and adopted in 1782. Ben Franklin wanted the phrase, "Rebellions to Tyrants Is Obedience to God."
Factiods:
During WWII copper was needed for bullets and cartridges. In 1943 pennies were made from zinc-coated steel and were called, "war pennies."
The last pure copper penny was minted in 1981 because the U.S. mint was losing money. Since then all pennies have been made from copper-coated zinc.
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
kiddo and fag hag
Here are a couple interesting conversations I had yesterday.
So, The Dick, I see him every Tuesday. His class is right next to mine. No big deal. If I see him I say, 'Hi' but that's it. I'm polite, but I don't go out of my way.
Last night I ran into him about five times.
Once when I was rounding a corner. I said, "Hello." He said, "Hello" followed with a, "hey, how's it going." I didn't respond to the,"hey how's it goin."
Then when I was talking to a fellow classmate in the hall he showed up again. This time telling us to be quite because tests and such were going on. He was basically being a smartass and simply trying to draw attention to himself.
We ignored him.
then he popped up again.
He kept talking to us, "Hey ladies, blah..blah.."
Still ignoring him. Not in a childish way, but she and I were talking and all he was doing was trying to draw attention to himself and to get me to pay attention to him.
Not playing.
Then...then he called me,"kiddo."
Seriously.
"Kiddo"
Now, there's not a lot of words that I don't like. You can call me some pretty nasty things, (if your kidding) and I won't care. But there is something about the word, 'kiddo' that just grates on me. I don't know if it's that I look about ten years younger than I am and therefore I feel people don't take me seriously therefore I have to prove myself by working harder and dressing more professional than I need to, or what. I just think it's very dismissive. When co-workers, hell, my former gynecologist use to call me, kiddo, really, it grates on me.
So, he called me kiddo and then procedded to ask me a direct question about a class. I answered him about the class, but what I wanted to say and what I would have said had the classmate not been standing next to me was,
"Kiddo? Kiddo. Seriously? You have got to be kidding me. You're what? Two-four years older than me, and kiddo? You've seen me naked. I've seen you naked. We've had sex. Your dick was in my mouth. Your tongue was on my clit. You cheated on your wife, and kiddo. Seriously."
However, that opportunity has passed. I just think he's a loser. I use to think he looked like Ed Burns, now I just think he's a loser.
Second conversation of the night:
My friend Nick and I went out to dinner and for drinks (well, I drank) after our final last night.
Him: I never discuss a straight woman's sex life.
Me: Okay. Um, well, what about me? We've been discussing my sex life for the past 20 minutes.
Him: Yes, well that's because you're a fag hag and a damn good one at that.
Me: (with a tilt of my head and a smile on my face) Ah, thanks, honey.
So, The Dick, I see him every Tuesday. His class is right next to mine. No big deal. If I see him I say, 'Hi' but that's it. I'm polite, but I don't go out of my way.
Last night I ran into him about five times.
Once when I was rounding a corner. I said, "Hello." He said, "Hello" followed with a, "hey, how's it going." I didn't respond to the,"hey how's it goin."
Then when I was talking to a fellow classmate in the hall he showed up again. This time telling us to be quite because tests and such were going on. He was basically being a smartass and simply trying to draw attention to himself.
We ignored him.
then he popped up again.
He kept talking to us, "Hey ladies, blah..blah.."
Still ignoring him. Not in a childish way, but she and I were talking and all he was doing was trying to draw attention to himself and to get me to pay attention to him.
Not playing.
Then...then he called me,"kiddo."
Seriously.
"Kiddo"
Now, there's not a lot of words that I don't like. You can call me some pretty nasty things, (if your kidding) and I won't care. But there is something about the word, 'kiddo' that just grates on me. I don't know if it's that I look about ten years younger than I am and therefore I feel people don't take me seriously therefore I have to prove myself by working harder and dressing more professional than I need to, or what. I just think it's very dismissive. When co-workers, hell, my former gynecologist use to call me, kiddo, really, it grates on me.
So, he called me kiddo and then procedded to ask me a direct question about a class. I answered him about the class, but what I wanted to say and what I would have said had the classmate not been standing next to me was,
"Kiddo? Kiddo. Seriously? You have got to be kidding me. You're what? Two-four years older than me, and kiddo? You've seen me naked. I've seen you naked. We've had sex. Your dick was in my mouth. Your tongue was on my clit. You cheated on your wife, and kiddo. Seriously."
However, that opportunity has passed. I just think he's a loser. I use to think he looked like Ed Burns, now I just think he's a loser.
Second conversation of the night:
My friend Nick and I went out to dinner and for drinks (well, I drank) after our final last night.
Him: I never discuss a straight woman's sex life.
Me: Okay. Um, well, what about me? We've been discussing my sex life for the past 20 minutes.
Him: Yes, well that's because you're a fag hag and a damn good one at that.
Me: (with a tilt of my head and a smile on my face) Ah, thanks, honey.
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
quote of the day: Red, from Shawshank Redemption.
"Get busy living... or get busy dying. That's goddamn right."
Simply because it is one of my all time favorite movies.
Because I will watch it every-single-time it is on. (Even though I own it)
Because sometimes we all need a little kick in the ass to remind ourselves that this thing called life is a verb.
Goddamn right.
Simply because it is one of my all time favorite movies.
Because I will watch it every-single-time it is on. (Even though I own it)
Because sometimes we all need a little kick in the ass to remind ourselves that this thing called life is a verb.
Goddamn right.
random ramblings: Healthy Choice dinners and internet dating.
While eating my Healthy Choice roasted turkey in gravy with a side of mashed potatoes, it occurred to me; it doesn't matter how long you cook a microwaveable dinner it will never, ever be cooked clear through. Part will be icy cold while the other half with be lava-ass hot.
While eating my Healthy Choice dinner at my desk I decided to browse Match.com for shits and giggles and to see what the male selection looks like.
As I was alternating between bites of turkey that were partially burning my taste buds off and at the same time cooling my tongue with there uncookedness I was besieged with ads that said something like, "I don't know what I'm looking for."
Really? Well, then what the hell are you doing looking for it?
"I'll know who she is when I see her."
Really? Cause um, you don't know what you're looking for so how will you know it's her when she's hitting you over the head with a frozen microwave dinner?
"Mm, describe myself? That's always the hard part."
Yes, yes it is. However, it's an ad, so sell yourself.
"Is this thing on?"
It is, but apparently you need to change something to get people to listen and pay attention.
As I took a bite of ice crystalized mashed potatoes I came across this one:
"I've been hurt, but I'm willing to get back out there."
I'll sum it up for those of you on the edge of your office chairs.
"I was in a long-term relatationship, (over three years) but I am finally ready to get back out there."
Wow, sentimental. Honest. Emotional.
"I was badly hurt. I didn't think I would ever be able to love again."
Okay, so my shitgar is going off, but I give this guy credit. He's putting himself out there.
"It's been three months and I'm finally ready to date again."
Yep, there it is. Three month. Huh, let's break that down. One month for every year you were together. Sure. You're healed. No longer bitter. No longer questioning. Go conquer the world.
Sure. You just want to get laid. Nothing wrong with that, but let's be honest.
As I dove into my fresh, ripe strawberries I am across one that made the whole frozen, chipped tooth, no longer can taste anything, experience all worth while.
I'll highlight the best parts.
"I'm very anti-social. I don't really like people and I like to keep to myself. I'm not much of a people person and I'm socially awkward as I tend to stay inside a lot and not socialize or talk to people. This includes family and co-workers. I don't have many friends. (To hell you say!) I play a lot of video games (Dungeons and Dragons?)
I have a cat who I'm surprised has put up with me for this long. However, it's amazing how much a cat is willing to put up with before it will asks for emancipation from it's owner. (I shudder to think)
I live in a dark, dank, windowless basement and the sunlight burns my skin. (Okay, I added that. Seemed fitting.)
I don't really know why I'm on here." (Me either)
While eating my Healthy Choice dinner at my desk I decided to browse Match.com for shits and giggles and to see what the male selection looks like.
As I was alternating between bites of turkey that were partially burning my taste buds off and at the same time cooling my tongue with there uncookedness I was besieged with ads that said something like, "I don't know what I'm looking for."
Really? Well, then what the hell are you doing looking for it?
"I'll know who she is when I see her."
Really? Cause um, you don't know what you're looking for so how will you know it's her when she's hitting you over the head with a frozen microwave dinner?
"Mm, describe myself? That's always the hard part."
Yes, yes it is. However, it's an ad, so sell yourself.
"Is this thing on?"
It is, but apparently you need to change something to get people to listen and pay attention.
As I took a bite of ice crystalized mashed potatoes I came across this one:
"I've been hurt, but I'm willing to get back out there."
I'll sum it up for those of you on the edge of your office chairs.
"I was in a long-term relatationship, (over three years) but I am finally ready to get back out there."
Wow, sentimental. Honest. Emotional.
"I was badly hurt. I didn't think I would ever be able to love again."
Okay, so my shitgar is going off, but I give this guy credit. He's putting himself out there.
"It's been three months and I'm finally ready to date again."
Yep, there it is. Three month. Huh, let's break that down. One month for every year you were together. Sure. You're healed. No longer bitter. No longer questioning. Go conquer the world.
Sure. You just want to get laid. Nothing wrong with that, but let's be honest.
As I dove into my fresh, ripe strawberries I am across one that made the whole frozen, chipped tooth, no longer can taste anything, experience all worth while.
I'll highlight the best parts.
"I'm very anti-social. I don't really like people and I like to keep to myself. I'm not much of a people person and I'm socially awkward as I tend to stay inside a lot and not socialize or talk to people. This includes family and co-workers. I don't have many friends. (To hell you say!) I play a lot of video games (Dungeons and Dragons?)
I have a cat who I'm surprised has put up with me for this long. However, it's amazing how much a cat is willing to put up with before it will asks for emancipation from it's owner. (I shudder to think)
I live in a dark, dank, windowless basement and the sunlight burns my skin. (Okay, I added that. Seemed fitting.)
I don't really know why I'm on here." (Me either)
hottie of the week: Kevin James
Because he's the boy next door.
Because I could order a slurpy hamburger with fries and a side of ranch dressing and he would think it was hot.
Because we could just hangout on the couch with my head on his shoulder and watch a movie we have both seen a hundred times, yet still find funny.
Because he would make me laugh.
Because he would always be just a phone call away when I needed him.
Because he would be my best friend.
Because he would totally appreciate me.
Because he would give me this as a present and I would think it was cute.
Because I could order a slurpy hamburger with fries and a side of ranch dressing and he would think it was hot.
Because we could just hangout on the couch with my head on his shoulder and watch a movie we have both seen a hundred times, yet still find funny.
Because he would make me laugh.
Because he would always be just a phone call away when I needed him.
Because he would be my best friend.
Because he would totally appreciate me.
Because he would give me this as a present and I would think it was cute.
Monday, May 01, 2006
the feel good post of the week
Because we all need a little joy, tears and happiness in our day. Here is the feel good post of the week.
This makes me want to stay with it. And it makes my heart smile.
If only all kids felt this way about their school. And it makes my heart smile.
This makes me want to stay with it. And it makes my heart smile.
If only all kids felt this way about their school. And it makes my heart smile.
vegamatic weekend: i.e. I was too pooped to party
So, as some of you already know I was deliriously tired last week and I was, maybe still am, suffering from late on-set dyslexia.
For those of you who saw it, I do know how to spell: demonstration. Good, girl.
So, I had a big weekend of sex, drinking, and just general debauchery lined up.
However, my weekend consisted of, sleeping. Yep, sleeping. (Crap, does this mean I'm growing up? Health over debaucherous fun? Crap. First sign of maturity. Or old age. Crap.)
Friday I came home and slipped from my work clothes into my comfy lounge around clothes and I was either in my recliner or bed the rest of the weekend.
I slept 12.5 hours Friday night into Saturday.
Mom and I did lunch and shopping on Saturday and I had a drink with lunch. (That was the extent of my drinking this weekend.)
Came home Saturday to take a 2.5 hour nap and it became very apparent that going out on the town was not going to happen.
I ordered a pizza, talked on the phone with Billy and that's all I had time to write.
Sunday I slept 9 hours and took another 2.5 hour nap. Showered around 4. In bed last night by 11:30. Today? Still tired, but I don't think the delirium is quite as prevalent.
Perhaps it's still too early to tell. The day is still early.
Coffee count? I'm on my second travel mug of Joe.
My finals are over in a week. Papers are all due tonight and tomorrow.
Then it's four days of no work, no school.
Then the new round starts. Oh, that brought a tear to my eye and not in a good way.
Okay...I'm done. I need to make another pot of coffee.
For those of you who saw it, I do know how to spell: demonstration. Good, girl.
So, I had a big weekend of sex, drinking, and just general debauchery lined up.
However, my weekend consisted of, sleeping. Yep, sleeping. (Crap, does this mean I'm growing up? Health over debaucherous fun? Crap. First sign of maturity. Or old age. Crap.)
Friday I came home and slipped from my work clothes into my comfy lounge around clothes and I was either in my recliner or bed the rest of the weekend.
I slept 12.5 hours Friday night into Saturday.
Mom and I did lunch and shopping on Saturday and I had a drink with lunch. (That was the extent of my drinking this weekend.)
Came home Saturday to take a 2.5 hour nap and it became very apparent that going out on the town was not going to happen.
I ordered a pizza, talked on the phone with Billy and that's all I had time to write.
Sunday I slept 9 hours and took another 2.5 hour nap. Showered around 4. In bed last night by 11:30. Today? Still tired, but I don't think the delirium is quite as prevalent.
Perhaps it's still too early to tell. The day is still early.
Coffee count? I'm on my second travel mug of Joe.
My finals are over in a week. Papers are all due tonight and tomorrow.
Then it's four days of no work, no school.
Then the new round starts. Oh, that brought a tear to my eye and not in a good way.
Okay...I'm done. I need to make another pot of coffee.
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