and that's a good thing, why?

two wrongs don't make a right but IDGAF:

Cold wet stone
River deep and red
Your cold heart beats inside my head
You know too well
It was me that brought you here
Ohhh trouble get behind me now
Trouble let me be
I pray your mercy shine on me
Trouble let me be
-- Dave Matthews

I suppose I should be used to it by now. At least I like to imagine that the differences aren't so glaring to others as they are to me. But then, I'm inside myself and can see my own feelings reflected in my actions. As much as I like to think so, I can't really know what others are thinking. I'm sure they see things in me that I don't even know exist. Maybe they don't exist. It's sometimes hard to know where another's perceptions leave off and my own begin.

Sometimes I want to stay the chameleon. I want to pretend to care about things that I don't. I want to find enough solace in God and Country and Family. I want this longing to just... go. It can't be about the Grass Is Always Greener, because I've never even seen the grass. I don't even know if it is grass. Maybe it's flowers. Or maybe it's a craggy, rocky landscape. I've a sneaking suspicion it's the latter.

But this damn blog makes it harder and harder for me to be anything other than myself; unadulterated, uncut. And to be that person is to put myself out there. The palisade around my soul is falling away, stick by stick. I flay myself open and I wait.

The rabbits play in our yard. They must be siblings or inbred cousins because they all look so alike. Two of them start some sort of cute bunny dance. They stand up and rush at each other, propelled by powerful hindquarters, stopping just short of knocking heads. Then one leaps over the other as the issue is pushed into something more serious. He looks back in surprise. It's taken the rabbit a minute to realize that what started as play has becomes intricate moves in a fight.

A challenge has been issued and the the rabbit must be thinking, "You've got me mixed with someone else, surely? I've done nothing... I just am. Why has that offended you?"

The dance continues - two rabbits, ears flat against their backs, barely making a dent in the pristine crust of snow. Finally a clear victor emerges, but I can't tell if it's the instigator or the defender because they all look so much alike.

why do you believe?

How this all fits into what I'm trying to figure out right now I dunno. But here it is...

Breaking my own rule, so I’m gonna go whole hog and eliminate caps:

a million footsteps
this left foot drags behind my right
and i keep walking
from daybreak to the falling light
as days turn into weeks and years
and years turn into lifetimes
i just keep walking
like i’ve been walking for a thousand years

and later....

driving through the desert i met a man
who told me of his crazy plan
he'd been walking there for twenty days
he was going to walk on for twenty more
said, how about a drink or a bite to eat
he said, no, my faith is all i need
so then save me
save me mister walking man
if you can
-- Dave

The funny thing about that rule is that all my books, actually each section of each of my books, starts with a song quote. I hate that shit. I hate reading it in other’s books, because it’s virtually nothing without the music behind it. But, I do it more as a reminder to myself and my characters as to where we’re headed. The publisher can cut it; I won’t mind. Too much. I do make the effort now to read quotes in books. If they’re not too long.

A good friend of mine is going to Hypnosis school. I’m sure there’s a technical term, like “studying hypnotography” or something, but I don’t know what it is. I find this fascinating. (And you know what else is fascinating? Why I misspell fascinating every time on the first try. I know how to spell the goddamn word, but my fingers don’t. I just misspelled it three times in a row.)

Apparently you have to be intelligent and possess the ability to focus to be hypnotized. And it’s not all woo-woo voodoo shit either (though I so can’t wait to go to the voodoo shop Lunatic recommended. Elephant hair. Fascinating). (Four.) I’ve been in a trance before; actually a few times. The most memorable was Light as a Feather Stiff as a Board. I think I was twelve or thirteen. Two girls lifted me up until my nose hit the tent and I came out of it and they dropped me because I suddenly got heavy, according to them. No shit.

And have you ever done bio-feedback? You can make limbs get measurably warmer or colder, and it’s not even that hard. It’s one of the ways I entertain myself before going to sleep.

I was in a trance the other night (ok, well, PHF would say it was an alcohol induced stupor) when we were making love. It was sort of a caressing time and he finally “woke” me up. But I was awake; I hadn’t lost time. I was just completely absorbed in his touch. By the way, I might catch shit for saying all that, but it’s on the subject, so what the hell.

People use hypnosis for all sorts of things. Like pain relief at accident scenes. My friend said it’s proven that you can actually lower the temperature of a burn just by telling someone that the burn is better and getting cooler. You can literally save someone’s life by telling them that they are going to be ok. Chics have babies under hypnosis and report little to no pain, only utter detachment. I believe it. The potential for greatness and power and control is within our grasp; right inside our heads. We spend so much of our time (as a human race, I mean) focusing on electronic intelligence that we’ve basically blown off the potential for our own.

What about the concept of not needing computers? Perhaps they’re a crutch – an easy way to find out what we, ourselves, are capable of without putting out the real effort of trying it for ourselves. What if our brains could process information like a computer can; as fast, as accurate, as perfectly? I think I believe that they can, but I think that we are slowed by our own laziness and by time. Computers have no concept of time weighing them down. Every day I wake up and think of all the shit I gotta do that day, and so going out of the damn gate I know that it’s not going to happen. A computer has that removed from the equation. Of course, it doesn’t sleep either, so there is that. I think we’ll perhaps get to a point where we don’t need to sleep. Our bodies crave that subconscious time (for lack of a better time). More about that in a moment.

That song up there is about finding faith, I think, and belief. I know that I believe in a few unlikely things. I believe science and faith will come together in a way we’ve never dreamed. (Like Rambaldi on Alias, you know.)

I believe that God speaks to us in all ways; and all we have to do is listen. We don’t spend nearly enough time listening; and right now that’s science’s fault. (And the religious right; can’t forget them.)

I believe there is a whole other world out there that we’ve not discovered, and probably won’t until we’re forced to find a new home for our heavily abused psyches.

I believe that for some reason Greg and I have the potential to be great, close friends in 3D; and that there might even be a reason that we found each other. (Hopefully that gives you a warm feeling, babe, instead of an "uh oh, sex is goin' stalker-freak on me now". You know I’m not big on fate, but there it is just the same.) I don’t, however, think it’s all that important that we meet in order to stay friends.

I think PHF and I share something that will transcend our lives and those of our descendents, and that’s why we can barely ever get through an argument without giggling over the inanity of it all.

What’s my real proof, though? Well, unlikely beliefs must be backed up by unlikely events. I talked about the whole light as a feather thing. That’s real. I also talked to someone named Damon on a Ouigi Board and it was freakin’ real. But that’s kid stuff. This one is bigger, and more recent.

PHF travels some. He’s been gone enough that I’m over the rather significant fear I had about sleeping alone in my house. (Facing my demons, right?) But of course the nightmare is that I wake up to someone in my bedroom doorway – just a big, menacing, eerie shadow because I’m blind at night and especially without contacts.

Well, six months ago I woke to that shadow in my doorway. Do you ever awaken to find you can’t move; like you’re between sleep cycles or something? I couldn’t twitch my big toe, and I tried. That’s how paralyzed I was.

And that shadow was there, in my bedroom doorway.

Funny thing was, I wasn’t the least scared. It felt oddly familiar. It felt like... like him. My husband. The shadow stood in the doorway and looked at me for a moment and then walked on into the bathroom/closet area of the bedroom. Just like PHF would do if he came home late and didn’t want to wake me. (I’m in the habit of playing possum, so I know what he does when he thinks I’m asleep.) I was awake. I know I was awake. But anyway, it made enough of an impression that I told my friend (and I never talk about my dreams) and she said, “Oh, well, I’m sure he was just checking on you.”

I got chills. (Rather like just now.)

“What do you mean?”

“You know, like dream walking. The subconscious, freed of our bodies, take little strolls around sometimes.”

Strolls? Halfway across the country?

But then I realized why I got chills. What she said made perfect sense. It was him, of course, and I knew it right when it was happening. I know when messages on the phone are going to be from him. I know when the phone rings that it’s him calling – I always have. I've often anticipated his emails. I usually know when he’s moving around the house, even if I don’t hear him. He is as familiar to me as my own body. It makes sense that I would wake up when he entered our bedroom; even if it was just his aura or whatever.

PHF doesn’t believe it, of course. He doesn’t remember it.

But I do. It’s a memory, not a dream. And it’s a fond memory too. My husband was away and came to check on me in the night to make sure I was ok. How sweet is that?

always got time for a little whine

Everyone else has cool shit going on in their lives but me. Waa waa waa. I’ve got next to nothing to post about. Like, here is my Tuesday, in its near entirety. (Well, I left out the potty trips. Unless you’re into that sort of thing. If you are, email me, I guess. Just don’t expect a reply, you weirdo freak!)

Playgroup. Token birthday party where we were instructed not to bring presents. I didn’t; everyone else did. I know the mom was happy not to get one more bracelet making kit or polly pocket, but I still felt like a total cad. Except, I’m pretty sure a cad is a guy, so that’s not quite right. Whatev.*

Mall. I returned a bunch of stuff that still didn’t equal up to the cute bag I bought to take to New Orleans. (Cute, huh, chicas? Mine's khaki with white trim. Goes with everything.) I had lunch with a playgroup friend whom I’d just seen less than an hour before at said playgroup. She’s preggo with her third and I know I should be happy for her, but the best I can muster is a sort of vague sympathy. Once upon a time I wanted three children. Once upon a time we also wanted twins. I was young and quite the idiot back then, clearly.

Home for 45 minutes. Tried to do something productive, but just read blogs. Now don’t go getting all pissy. As delightful as you all are; I got shit to do, man. (see list below.)

Picked up kiddo from school, endured after school emotional meltdown and subsequent confinement to room (him, not me).

Finally wrote a few lines in my new book where a guy is taken from our world into a brand spankin’ new world (well, to him) and... well, you know the score. If I say any more I have to hunt you down and kill you with a wire laniard. Swift and silent. I’ll be a ghost, man. Don't test me.

Tried on clothes for my trip to N’Awlins. (Jeez, I just can’t say it like Krypto can.)

Dinner, leftovers.

Gym. Feeling fat (see “Tried on clothes”), so weightlifting was less than satisfactory, since it’s all in front of giant, thigh-distorting mirrors. Half hour on the bike. Burned four hundred calories, which I am currently reconsuming via beer and wheat thins. The only high note was that the cutest boy in the gym (this guy is SO my type. I mean, you know, except for PHF. And Greg. And Jack. And... ok, I’ll stop now.) But he’s kinda big and broad, but not too tall. He’s got thick, brown hair pulled back into a short wavy ponytail (Why would I ever think that PHF should cut his hair? What am I thinking??) Super cute facial features, extremely symmetrical. He goes off to these more private treadmills and runs himself all drippy-sweaty, no head phones even, and he’s got this perpetual tan... He just looks... all sweaty and awesome. Hot. I gave him the brass-balled stare as I walked by on my way out, at least five strides worth, and he totally stared back.

Yeah, I know. There’s no future in it, but it’s fun to play when I see him from time to time.

Read Dora goes to the beach. Again. I don’t know why, but Monkey made me laugh. She just enjoys the book so damn much, and she sings Du-du-du-du-du-Doraaaaa.

Read Children of the Lamp with the Lad. We are both loving that book. Seriously, it’s a great read, and Uncle Nimrod is about the greatest character since... since... well, hell, I don’t know. He’s English and finishes his sentences with “What?” As in, “That was a superb spread. What?” I got it at Target, and if anyone looks at you funny for buying a kid’s book (well, it is a chapter book at least) tell ‘em it’s for your nephew. Or tell ‘em it’s for you. Or, I know. Just walk by and look at them with your lips all wrinkled up like they smell bad. Fuck ‘em. They don’t even know you. Who the hell are they to judge? God, people these days. The religious right has everybody thinkin’ they can just speak up and shit.

Kids unusually sweet tonight. Makes me suspicious. I’ll have to think on it later.

Things that aren’t happening:

-A contract on the book.
-Endings to two short stories.
-Transcribing old short story into computer.
-Decent posts.
-Mailing letters to agents.
-Getting Big Red the Jeepster emission tested so that I can replace the tags since they run out in April. (Translate, end of the week. What the hell, we’ve got two other cars in the garage. It’s almost Beastie season anyway.)
-Paying bills.
-A buzz.

Time for another beer and Bedfordshire. Nighty-night, what?

*stolen shamelessly from Feed. Read Feed. Yeah, I know, I tell you over and over, but do you ever listen?? NO. Ungrateful, sniggy** little piss-ants.

** Yes, I made that up. Good one, eh?

romance: 2. ardent emotional attachment or involvement between people; love

Responses to comments because I'm here instead of in haloscan at the moment:

Greg - Thanks, I knew you'd understand. A few kisses might make me feel better.
Satan - Look, we need to have a con-call about this whole suite reservation thing. I get that part of the charm of hell is how your company abuses it's customers... I get the gimmick. But this is ridiculous. Can I at least get an in-room blow drier? I mean, I know people (like the five or six who read this blog). You don't want to screw with me, beotch. Thanks.
Inland- My Yahoo homepage, mostly, but if I don't believe it I go hunting for others. Odd how they're not all alike. It's almost like they're complete fabrications or something.
TG- Hadn't thought of it like that. But I don't really go by Tiger myself. Tiger is a bad guy in my books... oooooohhhh.

And the horoscope fun just goes on:

"The stars turn up the volume on romance today. Are you ready for it?"

Odd, that, since PHF just left for the East Coast today. I guess his goodbye kiss was sweet... what I remember of it. Sure, it was romantic. Whatever.

(I made that up. He says he kisses me goodbye when he leaves at four am, and since I'm not really coherant before my first cup of tea I don't really remember it. I believe him, though. He's my husband, and of course I never question what he tells me. And I never make him change into his good jeans before going out or bitch at him for filling up our DVR with every single fucking Monster Garage episode those losers ever made.)

[Editor's note: Despite Sex's rather drippy indication otherwise, she actually is a demanding, bitchy prima-hag who deserves for PHF to leave her and find true happiness with... someone else. Someday he will realize who truly loves him; someday he'll be brave enough to act on his feelings for, er... her. Until then, my love...]

So, if the horoscope is actually true, it should read more like:

"The stars turn up the volume on romance today. Are you ready to lie to your husband and play a little CYA?"


Ok, now the horoscopologists are just fuckin' with me:

"The month kicks off like a semi-pro soccer player."

Semi-pro?? I want fuckin' PRO, man. I'm not a half-assed type. No self-respecting Leo is. Semi-pro? I don't even know what the fuck that means. Fuck that. You can keep your semi-pro kick-off.

And then it goes on to say (and I swear on my collection of Victoria Secret's thongs and matching leapard print bras that I am not making this up):

Learn the art of ice-block sliding.

Wtf? HUH? (Still, copied directly from my horoscope):

You know, where you get some blocks of ice and slide down the hills and dales of the local park.

There are... just so many things... wrong with this I don't know how and where to begin; or what questions to ask... it's spring... no ice here... overloading with questions... locking up... Wwwwhy?? Why would anyone do this and where do you get the ice and it's just... dumb, right? Did I miss something? and... and... and WHY????

And the big finish:

Good for you, tiger!

This can mean only one thing. My horoscope thinks I'm a little boy.

it's raining so you don't get the benefit of a title

This is the time I wish I'd saved a post for a rainy day. I'm bored and it's raining AGAIN. I know Greg is all turned on by my wet hair; but it's frustrating all the same. Oh, and hon, I got the baggy sweats on again today. Right off my floor. I know you like the baggy sweats look, but how about the two day old baggy sweats look?

I'm starting my own countdown for New Orleans. 18 days. 18 days to get tan, all nekkid, all over. 18 days to assemble wardrobe. 18 days to lose weight...
eh, just kiddin' ya. I don't need to lose weight. And actually I've got most of the wardrobe already. I bought an actual string-tie bikini. And I swear I won't tie knots in it either.

Funny how some of us are headed to New Orleans and we aren't going to be there at the same time. Ok, not funny. Sad. Kinda sad.

As this was a banner weekend for the drinking, I think I'm venturing on a wee break. Thursday night I watched a little Troy with a little beer (ok, like three. And some whiskey. But who's counting?) On Friday night I stood around the kitchen island in my kitchen with Virtigo and proceeded to get absolutely shitfaced drunk. I mean, I put whiskey IN my tea. (I'll just apologize now, publicly, for all the melencholy talk of death and religion and anything else stupid I said; which was probably about everything else.) Saturday night we went to see Sin City, which, frankly, despite the gratutious violence, absurd situational comedy, and the clever one-liners, dragged a little. Oh goody, he's pounding that guys's head into the floorboards. Oh, look, the blood is yellow this time. Anyway, there were microbrews before and after. I'm just too old for this shit. The hangover finally hit me on Sunday. Yesterday I went out to lunch with a friend and they offered me a FREE mimosa and I politely declined. Actually I was offered twice. And I politely declined twice. But a third time... man if they'd been pushing it on me a third time I would have stood up and yelled, poking the guy on his chest with my stiff little fingers, "Get off my fucking ass about the fucking mimosas already! I don't want one! Which part of the last two no, thank yous didn't you get, you irritable little metro? Back the fuck off or I'll turn you into a fucking Pez dispenser with this butter knife. But of course, your shirt is SO last fall at the Gap, so the blood stains won't matter much. Oh, and can I get some more iced tea? I'm just a little dehydrated today."

But, fortunately, he brought me tea without asking, so it didn't have to come to that.

monkey say, monkey do

Things my little Monkey said at lunch and following trip to mall. Remember, she's 3.

"HEY! Red Robin! I'm over here!" (To teenager dressed up like restaurant mascot, of course.)

"But I don't need to go to the bathroom!" My return was closely followed by, "I need to go poop."

"Look! There's a superhero!" (Saw a kid in a cape.)

"Your toes are beautiful, Mommy!"

"I love your shirt." (Well, it is cute.)

Me: "I bought you those (absurdly expensive and adorable Oil Lilly) shoes."
Her, shaking head vehemently: "I don't like them."
Me, rapidly rising frustration entering my tone: "You said you did."
Her: "I don't."
Me, thinking quickly on my feet: "Will you wear them if I give you candy?"
Her: "I love those shoes."

And she gave the cute boy who works at Abercrombie one of those face in the crotch hugs. She loves boys, especially the cute teenage kind.

The apple never falls far from the tree, I guess.

Funny comments made by someone I hope will be a new friend at The Lad's soccer game this morn. (2-1 our very own Emerald Forrest Green Dragons, thank you for asking).

We introduced ourselves. She's Barbie, I'm (Sex). "Well, don't we just have the cutsy names." (Some of you know my name, some don't. Suffice it to say my name is not my favorite thing about myself. I thnk I actually prefer Sex, or what PHF calls me, except he won't let me tell anyone else because it's his own name for me and that's that.)

Scene: Kid on our team dribbling expertly toward goal (last year we were undefeated. We're seriously pretty good.) Barbie: "Kick it Kick it Kick it..." We all go silent as darling little girl goalie from other team dives for ball, "Stop kicking!" We all yelled, imagining teeth flying.

It came out ok, all teeth intact. Barbie turns to me. "I guess it's ok, they're all baby teeth anyway."

I added, "Well, and she's a twin, so they've got a replacement." We about died laughing. Someone with a good sense of humor is a valuable commodity. I'm sitting next to her at every game from now on.

She said that we should start bringing Bloody Marys and Fuzzy Navels to the games. I agreed, saying it would take the edge off my hangover. We were saying that whoever supplies snack for that game should bring it. I have snack next Saturday.
Dare me??

speaking of going to hell

Sometimes you notice a pattern in life. Like me getting a comment from Satan recently, and then running across this test on Blue's site.

The Dante's Inferno Test has banished you to the Second Level of Hell!
Here is how you matched up against all the levels:
Purgatory (Repenting Believers)Very Low
Level 1 - Limbo (Virtuous Non-Believers)Very Low
Level 2 (Lustful)Very High
Level 3 (Gluttonous)Very High
Level 4 (Prodigal and Avaricious)High
Level 5 (Wrathful and Gloomy)High
Level 6 - The City of Dis (Heretics)Moderate
Level 7 (Violent)Very High
Level 8- the Malebolge (Fraudulent, Malicious, Panderers)High
Level 9 - Cocytus (Treacherous)Moderate

Take the Dante's Inferno Hell Test

"You have come to a place mute of all light, where the wind bellows as the sea does in a tempest. This is the realm where the lustful spend eternity. Here, sinners are blown around endlessly by the unforgiving winds of unquenchable desire as punishment for their transgressions. The infernal hurricane that never rests hurtles the spirits onward in its rapine, whirling them round, and smiting, it molests them. You have betrayed reason at the behest of your appetite for pleasure, and so here you are doomed to remain. Cleopatra and Helen of Troy are two that share in your fate."

I'm going to hell for being lustful. Imagine that.

ok, so it wasn't so bad as all that...

Ok, here’s my rant, one of about a million which will appear as soon as Blogger gets its fucking act together because:

Down for Maintenance
Blogger is temporarily unavailable due to planned maintenance.
This downtime will last half an hour from 4pm - 4:30pm (PST).

Since it’s scheduled, did ya ever think of letting all of your five gazillion customers in on that ahead of time? I know, I know, I KNOW; you get what you pay for. And I’m sure “scheduled” was just thrown in there by those marketing fucks to make it sound valid. (You know, every company, even one with a FREE service, has too many marketing fucks running around telling you what to say.)

And by the way, if my ridiculously expensive, impact-resistant, waterproof-to-200-meters diving watch can be trusted, you’re LATE.

But the real problem is that Thursday is Club Night in Pajamaland: the night all us losers get online and chat in each others’ commentboxes and tease and flirt and perhaps have a few drinks because what the hell it’s already Thursday. The weekends are for RL; 3D living. Blogger dries up on the weekends. So, how about scheduling your maintenance for the wee hours of, say, Sunday? Just a suggestion.

And while I’m bitching, Word has some fucking catching up to do. Blogger is a fucking proper noun, Microsoft. I know, I know, Google threatens your creepy ass self into thinking that you might not actually run the world, much less the Internet; but guess what?? Google is a fucking word, too! And so is commentbox. And commentboxes. And Pajamaland.

Fucking Microsoft bastards.

Oh, I see you include Microsoft in your little e-dictionary, but not microsoft. Assholes.

I can’t believe that there’s nothing on the thesaurus for Microsoft. I could think of a few.

Soul deprived devilspawn. (Devilspawn is TOO a word!)
Fugly-guys-who-only-get-laid-because-of-the-money (yes, Bill Gates, I mean you!)

Fuck you three ways, corporate computer geeks; one and all. (And not the cool ways either.) Hello?? Open Source?? Can any of you guys look up from your D&D boards long enough to write us poor losers a new blog tool??

Please? We’ll flirt. We’ll pretend like you’re clever.

Hmph. I’m going to go read a book. No more e-media for me tonight, Goddammit. (To be clear, goddammit should be capitalized if you wish to avoid the Squiggly Line of Condemnation.)

Ok, or maybe I’ll watch Troy.

Troy. Ahhhh....

Let’s all take a moment to think about the near-frontal-nudity that is Brad Pitt in Troy.

On that happier note, though unrelated to Brad Pitt [() to you Brad!!] Oasis is now my favorite band. Not because of their music (which is pretty damn awesome), but because it was hands-down, unequivocally the easiest CD I have ever opened. It practically fell open in my fingers. It was like, “Play me, play me! Here, let me strip for you!” It was like my () is gonna be tonight. It was like freakin’ butter, man.

I could go on to bitch about how Oasis and Jet are playing Red Rocks at the end of September and I REALLY want to go except that we’ve been at Red Rocks at the end of September – REM, last year - and there is not enough alcohol in Colorado to numb the icy extremities, and Michael Stipe had to wear this dorky (dorky is so a word! It is! says!) cap on his bald head – the kind like paperboys wore in the old days - (because he’s from Atlanta where it’s warm all the time; except, really, when you consider all the traveling and drugs and multi-gender sex he really should have no sensation left in his body whatsoever) and PHF, who was driving, didn’t drink nearly enough to ignore the cold, and he thought that was the worst time he’s ever seen REM anyway; (it was, but we’ve been close, row 5 back in the day, teensy venue, Michael's spittle landed on my cheek... See? Old age has its benefits.) so he said NO to the Oasis/Jet show because the new rule is “No Red Rocks after August.”

How’d I do, Krypto?? You seem to have a bit of time on your hands, what with the lack of sex and the lack of posting.

Ok, that was too far. Apologies. I wuv you, Krypto, you know I do.

When I just tried to post this I got:

Down for Maintenance
Blogger is temporarily unavailable due to planned maintenance.
This downtime will last three hours from 4pm - 7pm (PST).

Fuck me. Fuck me raw right now.


It's okay to take some time off from the social whirl. Enjoy this moment of downtime.

Aight. The Lake it is. Check you cats Monday.

i think i see a theme emerging here...

I recently posted the following comment on Elemenohpee because there Scott mentions that somebody else mentioned that the Catholics are sticking to their guns about their beliefs and if you don’t like it, you should just leave the church. (No shit. Let’s just switch up thousands of years of doctrine for you cause you’re a boy who like boys, eh?) (Now don't get your panties in a bunch, Thomas. I'm not defending the Church here, I'm just making a point.) ("Popey McPopesalot", heh. You're so silly.)

ANYWAY, Scott goes on to elaborate with this fabulous philosophical analogy, of course. Well done, Scott. I just don’t much go in for labeled belief systems. Or, perhaps I’m too lazy to recall all the names and definitions and specifics. Yeah, that’s probly it. But anyway, my comment...

“Ha ha, yes! I left the Methodist church because I drink and those folks don't.

Of course the Presbyterians only imbibe in moderation, and they think gays can be "corrected" with prayer, so perhaps that's not the right place for me either.

Actually, I really do truly believe in God, but Christ's ordeal saving my soul?? I admit I'm finding that little fable harder and harder to swallow. (heh, I just realized that it's a predominate theme in my books. Ha ha on me.)

So, perhaps I should just go Buddhist or something.

Does anybody know - do Buddhists drink?”

Well, do they?

Heh. No, actually, I don’t care. I’m not going Buddhist.

The thing that actually struck me was the part in parentheses about my books (because this is my blog and it’s all about me me me!) Goddamn if I’m NOT exploring the Theme (I guess it deserves to be capitalized, whether I believe it or not) in my books. Wow. What a revelation. I can’t tell you the ending, or I’d have to kill you yada yada, but one person besides me has read through the third book and I think she would agree with this emerging subconscious exploration. Actually I think she told me so before, and I poo-pooed her. Don’t you just love the word poo?

Of course, the fourth book – which she’s not read - gets even nuttier and the whole theme comes out in spades. I was horny for much of the six months I wrote the rough draft of #3 so there’s lots and lots of crazy sex in the third book. Ok, well, just lots. Anyway, it’s a nice distraction from the major themes, though there’s a couple of slap-you-in-the-face, catching-on-yet-dumbshit? clues at the end. And not quite in the way you'd expect either, so don't go thinking Whew! Now I don't have to buy all four books! if anybody ever buys the damn manuscripts from me.

Wow. No wonder it’s been so difficult to treat. It's the Big Kahuna. The Motherlode of all Themes. The tallest peak in the Western Theme Range. It’s all so clear now; well, not how to fix it, but why it’s been so damn testy to work with. That off-the-cuff statement on Scott’s blog explained a lot to me. This has been tackled before, by the Big Man himself. And frankly, the Bible doesn’t explain a lot of it. Oh, we hear the whole story all right, but we don’t get the feeling of what a soul-tearing sacrifice it is. Was. Whatever.

Really, what was God thinking?

blinded by fiction

Flash Fiction. Late as usual.

Rules are as always: 250 words
Theme: compensation
Phrase for the week: came in slowly

This shall remain titleless.

“Is that what you think this is? Love?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Oh, no, but you’re thinking it.”

“I am not.”

“Let’s see. Five dates. A couple of rousing good fucks. Sure, that adds up to love.”

“Stop it!”

“I mean, you sure as hell put your time in. You probably think you deserve love after two weeks. After all, I call you every day.”

“Why are you doing this? What’s it prove?”

“God, my friends warned me about you. But I couldn’t resist taking you for a test drive anyway.”

“Stop being such a bitch.”

“No, you stop. Stop thinking like that. You’re worth more than that, and you’re worth a hell of a lot more than-”

“Don’t you dare.”

“Look, you want someone who’s coming in slowly, carefully-“

“No, I don’t!”

“Biding their time until love knocks on the door.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“No. No, it’s not. You’ve got all the fucking time in the world. You’re twenty, for crissake.”

“This isn’t attractive. This isn’t you.”

“Yeah, it is. I’ve pegged you and you can’t stand it.”

“Fuck you.”

“Gladly - Ha! Did you just stomp your foot?”

“Fuck, Liv. I want you. Here. Now.”


“Get off me. You bring this shit up and now you think we’re going to fuck?”

“Well... yeah.”

“Why? Why bring it up at all?

“Well, just so we know, right? So we both know where we stand.”

“I don’t have any fucking idea where you stand, Liv. Why don’t you enlighten me?”

doing what i can for metrosexuals everywhere*

Jack's bored. I'm kinda bored. Actually I'm tired because... well, you guys know why. I'm going to quit talking about how I don't sleep. It's boring. Next I'll be analyzing my dreams online and wondering why no one reads me anymore. (No offence to those of you who do that - I'm sure they're fascintating!)

I entered a contest.

No, not that contest.

Oh, you don't know about that contest? See, Jack and I have this sort of thing going with orgasms. It's all about quantity, not quality. Like, you don't get two points for earthshattering. You don't even get extra for having a partner. But I should get points for multiples. I know it's not fair that guys can't have multiples, but hey, who am I? God? No. I didn't plan it that way. Don't blame the messenger.

I don't know how long the orgasm contest will run. Probably until one or the other of us gets bored. Not with the orgasms, you understand, but with the contest.

No, the contest I refer to is a writer's contest for novels. I've entered one book so far. Mailed the little bastard off yesterday. (More on the reason for this hostility in a bit.) I'm working on Taming the Tiger - that one I've got online. My best work to date, though I think somehow the fourth book will be really good -once I get all the disparities to link up. My fifth book (unrelated to the series) looks good too. But I love the second: Taming the Tiger. I literally bled that book out through my fingertips. I can't imagine another more excrutiating experience that led to something so good. Ok, well except for pregnancy.

That's actually exactly what it was. Writing that book was a third fucking pregnancy. The dreams, the nausea, the pressure, the carpal tunnel symptoms... all of it.

But then I ended up with something I like pretty damn well.

Yup, pregnancy.

But I digress.

This contest is psycho with the rules. I know they have to have disqualifiers, and worthwhile regulations they are, too. They're going all major publishing house editor on our asses in order to put us through our paces, and that's some good fun to be had. And yes, yes, it's been a good exercise for me to work within such tight constraints...

Whatev.** I worked approximately forty - fifty hours to prepare my submission (the weaker of my two submissions you understand. I get to do this all over again next week). (And yeah, that's where I've been.) It was a lot of work, but also a learning process which hopefully I've refined into something resembling efficiency.

The submission consists of:

1. One up-to twenty page excerpt -

the beginning of the book. Did I say twenty one? No. Then I don't mean twenty-one, do I? Well, tell that to my fucking excerpt. It sure as hell didn't listen to me. It was like fitting your fat Aunt Mabel into a girdle the day after Thanksgiving. And, by the way, she had leftovers for breakfast.

New Courier font. 12 pt, down to the number of characters per inch. Speaking of an inch - at least one inch margins all round. Not seven-eighths. Measure if you have to. There can be 23, 24, OR 25 lines per page, but it can't be mixed. It can't be 24 AND 25. If you go 24, stick with 24. One page with 25 will disqualify your entry.

One will pay dearly for typos, so proofread until your eyes bleed.

2. One eight page synopsis -

All of the above applies, but that's not the hard part. Just try to fit a five hundred page book into eight. Forget Aunt Mabel. This is camel-through-an-eye-of-a-needle shit. The synopsis is easily the most notorious aspect of writing and attempting publishing. Written well, it proves your plot's plausibility and the validates your character's actions and motivations. It's a marketing tool - It will make an editor want to invest in the time to read your book, even though you reveal all the secrets.

Oh, and did I mention eight pages is a long synopsis? Most editors want about two.

I actually kinda like doing it. I usually get into writing a book and at some point I write a vague synopsis. Do I stick with it? Not usually. But it gives me a staff to lean on when the path gets rocky. I've said before I'm not a plotter. I usually have a situation; a couple of sketchy characters to play with, and some idea of where I want them to end up. The rest of it I find out when I write the book. Well, as I've said before, the rough draft is for finding out what happened. Revising is for finding out why it happened. The synopsis touches on both.

The funny thing is, I can recognise books that were written in this way, and I usually have always liked them. Before I started writing again, I never analyzed why I liked them. Now I know.

But back to contests.

I never win them. I've never won a race, or a door prize, or even so much as a round of bingo before. Ok, well, of course I'm a shoe-in for the little front-n-center I've got going with Jack. An eighteen year old boy (and I mean boy as a compliment) is no match for a chick in her thirties. (I shit you not. We keep saying it to you guys who can't get laidcoughcoughkrypto: go find a horny chick in her thirties. She'll outpace you three to one.) So, with my poor history at contest winning, (as in no history) for the purposes of this writing contest I went ahead and paid extra to get the written critique. Yup, you heard me right. Here's an extra twenty-five bucks. Now, please slam my work all to hell.

I had my neighbor read my excerpt (she's a reader, but she's not read my work before). She had a couple of helpful things to say. I asked her if she would read my synopsis, and she hesitated.

"But then I'd find out what happened before I read the book. And I do get to read the rest of the book right? I mean, I have to know what happens now." She was actually excited to get my only printed copy of the first book: five hundred pages of dog-eared, wrinkled, heavily scribbled-upon manuscript. It was my presubmission copy.

Come to think of it, everyone who's read it likes it pretty well.

So, now, goddamnit, I've got a nagging hope that I might at least get fifth runner-up or something.

But contests are meant to be like hell, aren't they?

abandon hope all ye who enter here

*Oh, by now you'll be wondering about the title. I'm tanning now, and I've got PHF convinced to do it too. Heh heh.

**stolen shamelessly from Feed. Read Feed.

are you man enough to share?

In his last post Lunatic refers to a certain issue of men's dressage in his last post ... now how did he put it?

you have to decide which way you are gonna wear your, ahem… penis. Left or right.

I must admit that Luna would the last person I would expect to be shy over the word penis. It's penis, Luna. Penis. Say it out loud with me. Penis. Nothing to be ashamed of.

Except I keep typing penish, and do you think that means anything?

Anyway, it got me to thinkin... Perhaps we need a new feature at SS@S. So I'm calling it the Sex Scenes at Starbucks Friday Morning Pole - misspelling intended (did you know misspell is one of the most misspelled words like, ever??) And guess what, you were all here at its conception. (Now, just because we call it the Friday Morning Pole, don't go expecting one every Friday morning. Or in the morning. Or even ever again.)


drum roll.

Come on, a fucking drum roll here.

Ah, there it is...

Which way do you dress?

I really want to say "which way do you swing?" but that's been taken. And I guess it's not really swinging... I guess the point is that the little bugger stays put and out of the way through out the day. And I don't have any idea why I'm curious, but I am. I'm sure I'm not the only one, and I'm sure if I am my friends won't let me think that I am, riiiight?

[editor's note: ss@s has taken on a decidedly sexual flavor of late and we are working hard to rectify the situation before we are invaded by a bunch of horny seventeen-year-olds. Ok, maybe for TG's sake, we'll wait until AFTER that happens to make any sudden changes.]

[additional editor's note: additionally, Sex attended a writer's group last night and was under the mistaken impression that giving out this URL to these upstanding citizens was a good idea. She says, from way over there in the kitchen where she's hiding because she's mortified (ok, she's not. She's just eating breakfast), "Uh, hi, guys. Now leave me the fuck alone so I can finish my tea." Don't take the last personally, it was directed at her kind editor who puts up with more shit than any hot-body ought to. I could so get paying work for someone actually famous enough to have attitude.]

**Later (while avoiding editing my synopsis for my first book so I can enter it into this contest)(why the contest? can't win if you don't play.) :

Some questions are occuring, what with the overwhelming response to this post so far(3 guys - and one of those was asked over the breakfast table and is apparently too busy to comment here.) I'm noticing a definite slant to the left. Is this due to politics? Right brain dominance? (get that thing away from me!) Sleeping habits?

PHF sleeps on his left because I kick him if he breathes on me. Seriously, his breath woke me up this morning. Guys are disgusting creatures. Why oh why do we crave them so?

Perhaps it's just the little guy's way of trying to escape the right hand, with which so many men prefer to masturbate. (We can't call it jacking off anymore cause of Jack, though if the shoe fits...)

(Say it along with me, Luna. Mas-tur-bate. Good job!)

Maybe it just has to do with hand dominance - a way for the body to find balance. So, I'll expand the pole (tee hee) to ask which handed you guys are. Let's try to find a reason for the leanin'!

what do you like?

loose-necked t-shirts on guys that shows me that most masculine, sexy place where their necks meet their shoulders; stopping for people in crosswalks; cleaning my children’s faces; catching a glimpse of what people are drawing; little boys in shorts and cowboy boots; yard art and statuary in other people’s yards; when Jack flirts back; drinking beer at lunch on a weekday; reading something crappy I’ve written and realizing it’s better than I thought; tattoos; wanting it so badly I can hardly stand it; clothes shopping with PHF since everything looks beautiful on him; cobalt blue glass; my eyes; Robert Browning; reading something that challenges me to become a better writer; getting second and third looks; the trappings of professions: laptops, slide-rules, hardhats, cell phones and baby-bags; groups of people who don’t match; window shopping when stores are closed; my bicep when it’s straining to lift a heavy weight; the rumble my jeep makes when it starts; when my daughter points out the way the light hits the mountains in the morning; the internet expanding my horizons in a way I never thought possible; the peace belying the crowds at Westminster Abbey; the untapped excitement of a crowded bar; live music; the soreness that only comes from intense physical activity; earning playtime through hard work; the feel of a horse under me; accents; impromptu social/political discussions; chatting on Greg’s blog; first-grader knock-knock jokes; The Execution of Lady Jane Grey; curly red hair; Green Day's American Idiot (still!); cute boys on Pearl Street Mall telling me my jeep is awesome; the woods in Rocky Mountain National Park...

can you tell I’m happy today?

Do you ever get that feeling when you just want to bite something? I'd like to sink my teeff into some PHF about now.

But he's on an aeroplane from Washington DeeCee right now. Won't be back till later.

aaaarrggh, knash knash.

[Editor's note: BTW - which this isn't, we at ss@s are told that we have a new reader in our midst. (Yeah, we mean you, J.) This one actually knows Sex in 3D. The rule: What happens at Starbucks stays at Starbucks.

Except, unless, that is, you're gonna bring in new readership who might flirt shamelessly in the commentbox.

Well, what are you waiting for? Go email this link!]

Also: I realize that the painting might seem kind of morbid. Here's what one of my characters, Aidan has to say about it:

[Kaelin had] gone to see the painting with Aidan before, but he just couldn’t find the appeal in a painting of a teenage girl about to be beheaded.
Aidan shook his head at his brother with disdain. “You just haven’t really looked at her. She’s so young, she’s seventeen, and nothing bad has ever happened to her before. The Tower Lieutenant seems kind, like he’s helping her, but what he’s really doing is leaning her over so the executioner can chop her head off. And the executioner wears red tights, you know, so the bloodstains won’t show.”
“It’s so big,” Alexia said. “And it’s frightening.”
Aidan smiled. “Think how it was for her.”
Alexia shivered visibly.
“But it’s also beautiful and tragic. She’s always haunted me. Her hands...” Aidan’s voice faded off. Kaelin knew Aidan was interested in art, he was in Art History at Cambridge, and Aidan talked about someday owning a gallery. But even Kaelin had never heard him speak of it like this.
“What about her hands?” Ryanne asked softly.
There was a pause while Aidan appeared to consider what he meant to say.
“Light all around her depicts her innocence,” he said slowly. His voice lost its animation and its intensity, he was staring past them as if he could see the painting. “She blindfolded herself and begged the executioner to leave it on until it’s done. Her face doesn’t have much expression, though she can’t find the block. You can tell by her hands that she’s unsure and frightened; but inquisitive too. They won’t grip the wood, they’ll rest there gently. Her hands are reaching out to touch the last thing they’ll ever feel.”*

*this writing is protected by law, so don't go copying it or nuthin.

is that a bomb-pop, mommy?

I'm pretty sure the teenagers down the street made a snow-penis in their front yard. All they needed was a kleenex box sitting there and it would have been so true to life.

I bet their mom drove in from work and said, "That's the worst looking snow-man I've ever seen." Parents are so blind.

"I know, mom. We suck."

As penises will, it had gone sort of slouchy to one side.

Speaking of teenagers, there is this group of kids who work out at the gym. Ugly in the faces, but neck down they are hot. TG's right, they don't make 'em like they used to.

I was walking past them, trying to find a song on my ipod (Franz Ferdinand tonight if you must know) and one of them said, "She was holding his hand when she was letting me feel her up."

It was clear they all knew who she was, but I didn't stay to listen.

Like teenaged boys who actually look like that, I thought locker-room talk was a figment of eighties films. Naive of me, I suppose, but I really don't think anybody would have talked about me that way. Ok, that's a painfully naive assumption. Ok, so not by name (cause we didn't exchange names, that's what.)

Ok, so maybe they did.

But I hold that if you have to talk about it like that then you are too young to partake. Yeah, I know... Lunatic. Well, he's older, for one, and more prolific than most (and more profilactic, too, we hope). I also think that he probably wouldn't feel the need for a blog if he was spouting off about his excapades all over town. I think at heart he's a decent guy who loves sex. Feel free to correct me if you must, Luna. (Oh, for the love of God, please don't. Let a girl have her fantasies. I mean, we've already seen you ass-up on the ice. What's next? A hairy back?)

But I couldn't help feeling sorry for the girl.

I mean, teenaged boys suck in bed.

house cleaning

When I get pissed off I give it 12-15 hours to see if it sticks.

Guess what? It did.

Sometimes when we meet someone they bring out the best in us. Good friends and husbands and boyfriends and sometimes it's just for a moment in time - an exchange at the grocery store from which you walk away with a gigantic, stupid grin on your face. Feeling good. They make you feel good. They make you the best of who you are.

And then there are the Others.

This Acquaintance at the gym, (well stronger than that, but I don't really want to identify him) is one such person. He brings out the oddest quality in me. I become this other person that I don't really like - an insecure, self-absorbed person (not that I'm not plenty self-absorbed, but I am able to keep a lid on it at least some of the time) and I chatter incessantly at him... which I loathe nearly as much as I loathe springtime in Colorado. But I keep trying with him, due to social circumstances.

Well, I suspected, deep down I guess, but I never really thought about it, that I had reason to feel insecure with him. For one, he can't take teasing. And he's just got a little air of superiority, of false knowing, which generally indicates something amiss. Dangerous! my instinct cried out, but it was a wee cry, so I ignored it. I mean, on the surface he's a nice guy, we got some shit in common, PHF likes him. He's not Big Scary Guy. He's not Athletic Guy With The Abnormally Huge Triceps. He's not a scammer, so we overlook these signs, right?

By now you're wondering what happened. It was minor; laughable, really, but it confirmed my instinct.

Longtime readers will recall Old Guy at the gym. He's friendly enough, and in decent shape, but he had that sort of creepy-looky thing going on. It bugged me, more than most. But we exchanged names not long ago, settled into comfortable nods of greeting, and he's quit the gawking, so that's cool.

Well, Old Guy and Acquaintance are buddies, and they chat. I see Old Guy nearly every day, I see Acquaintance perhaps once a week. They chat pretty often, and there's been this weird bad timing thing where I tend to interrupt them to say hi to Acquaintance. I hover a bit (if anyone understands body space it's me - I hate having mine invaded) and right away Acquaintance acknowledges me and I usually just have some tidbit or question. I don't have control over this little social indescretion for some reason. It's a trick of timing, the minorist of twists of fate, or Tad The Social God is laughing his ass off at playing me. I can't help it - it's just worked out this way. I know it's come off as rude, and I know I appear to blow off Old Guy, even when practically face to face. I must admit that I wrote off Old Guy a long time ago; something about him just bugged me, and I don't waste much time with people I've written off. It's an awful quality, but there you are. I don't really like to talk to people anyway; not people that I don't know.

One of the reasons I don't like to talk to them much is that I'm cursed with a heightened body language perception. Most people I can read pretty well - I catch nuances of their intent and thought. It's really strong with those I don't know because I don't have all those things I know about them cluttering my perception. Many people who know me wouldn't know that I am as perceptive as I am because I manage to ignore it pretty well. Well, not ignore, really, but what do you do mid-conversation when you realize that the person is irritated or bored or whatever? It's rude to just go, mid-sentence: "Ok, well you're bored, so bye." And then turn heel and walk off. So I get the info, but I try to behave gracefully with it and extricate myself when it seems socially apt.

But because of this heightened perception I rarely miss a joke that's played on me. Again, not that some would know - I'm an accomplished liar, right? I can do poker face when it means saving face. And I can take a joke, I can take teasing, but I've said before if I sense meanness I can react pretty strongly emotionally. It doesn't happen very often, but I'm quite good at detecting cruelty when it rears its ugly head.

So I knew what was happening yesterday when I was talking to Acquaintance and Old Guy came up and interrupted and they purposefully excluded me from the conversation. I caught on to what they were doing. I even caught on that they had planned it beforehand. There were oh-so-subtle glances my way and at each other, and Acquaintance stiffened; just barely, but it happened. I could see it.

I always can.

They might have thought it was funny, a joke, but it reeked of that minor cruelty that tends to set me off. Acqaintance's slight discomfort told me that. And it told me that yes, the danger warning was true. There it is. He's capable of cruelty. In fact, I'd venture that perhaps he's not capable of another kind of joke but the cruel kind. After all, he can't take teasing. Should have listened to my instinct at the beginning; because where minor cruelty lives, major cruelty can often linger.

So, now I've written off both of them. Acquaintance isn't as perceptive as I am (though he clearly thinks he is) so it will take a few times of me walking on by without stopping to chat. But he'll figure it out eventually. He'll shrug it off, but it will bug him. I know his type well enough. It will bug him. As for Old Guy, he'll catch on quicker and he's the type to be over-friendly to make it up, but then we weren't going to be friends anyway. I don't plan on getting into it; explaining my new coolness even if asked; because I've written them off. I don't waste time with people I've written off.

I've got lots of friends, more than I can keep up with comfortably. I don't need any more, not really. I can afford to be selective.

And I've already got two children at home. I sure as hell don't need any more of them in my life.

of snow and presidents

[Editor's note: Just so we're clear, snow and presidents have nothing to do with each other, so don't expect some big fancy-schmancy wrap up at the end of this essay. And we use the term "essay" in the loosest sense possible.]

As if April couldn't get any better, now it's a freakin' snow day.

Yes, the kids are thrilled, thank you for asking. I'm ok with it, not that you care. The roads actually look pretty bad, but PHF went out for breakfast with an old boss so he'll give me the low-down on the snow-down. (What a delightfully strange and fascinating life he leads. Breakfast out? What will they come up with next? Pizza delivery or food in malls, maybe?)

When we named the wee lad, back before he was wee but I was not (swollen with 8 pounds 13 ounces of chubby baby, as I was) (Yeah, yeah, I was huge. People were asking me two months early if I was having twins)... anyway, we had a touch of trouble coming up with an agreeable name. The girl name was set in stone - she's named after our maternal grandmothers and a darling name it is too, thank you. But finally I suggested a new boy name. I don't even remember coming up with it but we were walking in an alley when I suggested it. The irony of this will not be lost on those who know my son's name.

PHF thought. And thought. Finally he nodded. "I like it. It sounds presidential."

The irony of this will not be lost on those who know PHF and The Lad personally.

I've always maintained that it takes a strange bird indeed to enter politics, much less to strive to attain the Presidency. And my son, love him as I do, is a strange bird. Actually, I revel in his oddness. He's a... creative brilliance in progress.

Or something.

And he's always thinking.

Last night PHF read him Aurthur Meets the President. Aurthur is a little rodent-critter, I don't know exactly what, and so are all the characters in the book. The President is a leering, prematurely gray woodchuck or something - this was written back in the Clinton days; clearly Bush would have been depicted as a skunk, or perhaps a rat - and there's this chubby squirrel wearing a blue dress in the background (ok, that's a lie, there's not) but anyway the Lad said, "Maybe someday I'll meet the President."

PHF, keeping in mind the exact amount of pressure to keep up on your firstborn so that they achieve a level of success through which a parent can vicariously live, said, "Maybe someday you'll be president."

And the Lad replied, "Oh Dad, I'd get coffee all over me."

Clearly a legend in the making.

snowed in

Which is why I hate fucking April, and the whole fucking season of spring in Colorado. In general, this is the best place in the world to live. Balmy, mild weather - even in winter (shhh, don't tell any Californians - we got enough of their type around here), blue skies something like 325 days a year. But we get these snows in March and April that just suck. They break branches, make a mess of the roads, and damage early annuals. The snow is good for nothing - too sticky for decent boarding or even sledding, and the ground's so warm it melts too quick anyway.

This time everything is closed - all the major roads and all the stores... they closed the mall for crissake. The mall. Is nothing sacred?

I don't think PHF appreciated my pointing out the irony of his inability to get to the 4x4 Show in Denver due to the snow. When he didn't answer, I explained, "I mean, you know, those cars can go anywhere - off road, up Carnage, over five foot tall rocks, but a little snowstorm-"

"I get it."

I guess he's a little pissy over it.

Weekend Update:

Friday Night - the Indulgers. Not crowded - superb show actually. It was couple's night at the pub. No skin off my nose - I was with PHF anyway. But I notice that happens from time to time, the entire place is paired off. I was just commenting to Virtigo how I wore my new sexy top and I wasn't getting any looksies since everyone was a couple. She said, "That chick glared at you. Does that count?"

I get that sometimes - some chic walks by me and stares daggers at me. Seriously, I don't do anything. Ok, well, I guess their husbands check me out, but I don't do anything but wear sexy clothes and stand there; and even though the guys think it's for them, it's actually for the benefit of my husband. (PHF pretends not to notice, plays it all cool and shit, but I know he does.)

Besides, I can hardly be the only hot bitch in the place. Why do they pick me to loathe?

PHF thought we might have seen Vadergrrl last night in the pub. Even in the light of sobrietry I don't know if it was her or not. It could have been her - she lives in the Springs. But then, Virtigo thought she'd seen her at the pub before, so we didn't know. I'm gonna leave her a comment about it, and if it was her I'll be mad I didn't go say hi. But I just wasn't sure enough, and there was never the right opportunity - like both of us going for a smoke or a pee at the same time. Not that I didn't provide plenty of opportunity in the potty - I drank like a half-gallon of water when I worked out that day and my bladder apparently abruptly shrunk down to the size of a walnut. I think I went about every forty-five minutes.

Have I ever mentioned how much I truly dislike public restrooms?

Saturday night was at Virtigo's and BB's place, kids in tow. Yummy dinner and ice cream sundaes for desert. Yup, toppings and sprinkles and a cherry and everything. Everytime the kids came downstairs one of us would yell, "KIDS! Back upstairs! Go. Back. Upstairs."

Maybe they will get a package deal, four for the price of three, at some therapist in fifteen years.

We also cleaned up half a pan of rice crispie treats - even after the sundaes. Why? I don't know. Virtigo was being an "enabler" last night by shoving alcohol and junk food at me. Wine, beer, whiskey...good think I've got a monster tolerance and mixing doesn't bother me much. I slept until nine-thirty this morning and feel asleep mid-conversation with PHF last night. How embarrassing, since it was one of those conversations I started. (yes, an actual conversation. We do speak on occassion.)

But the fun of the night was watching Saved. If there was ever a movie for this crowd, Saved would be it. Like BB says, the end gets a little sappy, but the first half hour is priceless, well worth any tear-hiding at the end. (In my defense, I was drunk.) From the giant Jesus to the hipster principle who uses the word "phat", it's a rollicking good time. It's got McCauley (I know it's probably spelled wrong and I don't care enough to look it up.) Calkin in it - that guy just screams "abused by my faggot babysitter when I was little." There's something just... wrong about his face. I guess it's the symmetry. His eyes are freakish - they don't match or something, I don't even think they look the same direction - and his lips should headline at

But I liked the movie anyway. It totally made fun of the whole Jebus-freak contingent, which is always a good-humor-gimme.

We planned our trip to New Orleans for late May ...Luna, I'll be the chic with the long-haired husband, and yes, you'll want to scam me... I have the sexiest damn clothes to wear on that trip. I love traveling and it's been so long since I've been somewhere. No one knows me so I can carry a whole new persona for a weekend if I want. I think I've decided I'd like to get fucked in an elevator, a sort of anniversary commemoration, and my short green skirt should work nicely for that.

Onto more exciting things...

Today it was spring cleaning... my kitchen is shining - the cabinets are white again, the legs of the kitchen chairs are clean and gleaming, even some of the drawers got cleaned out. I scrubbed food off the walls (you kidless types seriously have no idea what's coming - and don't give me that bullshit about never having kids. You're the ones who always fall the hardest.) and now you can see that the baseboards actually do need to be painted again.

The rest of my day will be spent on that futuristic short story. It's going well, but I haven't looked at it in awhile. I need to get through the rough without working on other stuff. Not fair to leave Jack hanging, is it?

God, this post really was like an online diary. I touched on weather, cleaning and a movie I watched. How freakin' boring is that? And how bored must you be? If you're reading this then you just read that whole lame post.

Here's to a better post tomorrow.

Heh, I'll drink to that.

what's warm and blue and fuzzy?

There's the stupidest skit on the radio right now. It's dumb. I know it's dumb. Really dumb. It's on the radio, for crying out loud. Radio skits are stupid, no matter how good the Bush voice is. Maybe it's early onset of senility, or I really have a lame sense of humor, but it makes me bust out laughing every time.

It goes like this: two guys are talking. Let's call them Greg and Jack, shall we?

Jack: I met the most smurfin' girl at this bar.
Greg: Smurf!

(See? I'm giggling already.)

Jack: Yeah, we smurfed in the parking lot.
Greg: No smurf, really? She let you, you know, smurf her?
Jack: Right in the (whispers) smurf.
Greg: No smurfin' way!
Jack: Smurfin-A she did.
Greg: Could I... you know, smurf her?
Jack: Smurf you, smurf!

It should be inherently annoying, but I think it's funny as hell.

I'm the only one, aren't I?

one more sappy post and then I'll talk about my... sexual habits, or getting drunk, or something like that. i swear.

I wrote this on Sunday:

Why is it that so much of RL, 3D, whatever you call it, is such a pain in the ass?

Bills, letters from school; class pictures where the money is due that day and I manage to remember to comb the lad’s hair but I don’t manage to get the cheque to them in time; social engagements where the conversation options are rehashing birthing stories or the latest car show. Friends I can’t manage to keep up with; phone calls; doctor’s offices who persist in submitting to the old insurance from over a year ago, a three year old who won’t just stand there and get dressed already; business trips which extend into the weekend and demolish plans made weeks ago; great patience required by those trying to publish a book; my own apparently dissenting views on Terry May-She-Rest-Peace; music I want to buy; bras that need replacing; irregular heartbeats.

My husband works at home and we get along fabulously in bed and out of it. Why, then, have we managed exactly five minutes per day in conversation time?

I bought new clothes at the mall today to wear out next weekend.

My kids love me - Monkey climbs me and begs to sit on me and just hug on me every day. We get together, reliably, with the same families every Friday night and have fun every week. I have Bunco and the gym, and cute lifeguards at the gym, and I'm getting tan. I have a fairly well-read blog. I have a book at a publisher and I haven't been rejected (well, at least not yet).

I have stories to sell and more to write.

Why then, when I have so much, do I want more? Why is something missing?

WHAT is missing?

I don’t get it and I wonder if I ever will.

Obviously I've had a bit of shitty week - nothing bad in particular but grey, gloomy skies and a husband MIA in California, and my mood. The kids were fine, sweet. I slept late (when I slept - you know how I don't sleep) but I got to places on time. I made all my phone calls. I got some writing done. But it wasn't enough. I was in a funk.

And then I click on Friction and I get nothing.

It was a shock to the system, like... like (you know how I suck at this but I'm trying to practice) like waking up and finding out you don't have the job that you just had in your dream before you woke up. There was that bit of confusion, closely followed by panic. I count on Friction, I count on Greg to chat with. He's a lift to my day.

But, later, after the initial panic had subsided and I'd solved the problem at least temporarily, and then got it solved all the way last night, I had to wonder about my reaction. Had I gotten ensnared in something dangerous or unhealthy? I mean, yeah, he's a superb person and I consider myself lucky to have him in my life in any form -and he's someone I never would have met except in this way. But we're an odd pair to be friends - couldn't lead more different lives, actually. And really, would my life change if he suddenly wasn't in it? I mean, it could happen. I'm pretty sure Greg is his real name, but how could I really know besides him telling me? He doesn't know my real name. One of us could dissappear, (JOOOOOOEEEEEE!!!!!) never to be heard from again. It's not like 3D where we have houses and phone numbers and jobs and kids in the same school. We have URLs and if we're lucky, an email address. It's tenuous here in Pajamaland, and if you get close it takes a formidable constitution against potential loss.

It worried me - my reaction.

Then today a good friend called me - one of my best friends, in fact. We hadn't talked in a couple of weeks and hadn't really connected in even longer. But she needed to talk - needed to unload about what was going on in her life and as I was listening to her I thought, "This is nice. I can be here for her and this is awesome. This is what friendship is."

Like when Greg freaked because I couldn't see his blog. I thought, "Jebus, he really gives a shit. That's a relief - I'm not alone in my insanity. And that's nice - him caring is being a friend."

But I was wrong - nice as both those occurences were, the talking, and Greg caring, they aren't really what friendship is made of. Being friends isn't emotional posts and lending a listening ear. That stuff is all well and good and worthy, but it still isn't quite it.

The essense of friendship came a bit later.

It's actually Greg emailing me the code to his blog last night to make it somehow work. And it was me actually emailing him back - a leap for me, to be sure.

It's actually the other stuff that my friend on the phone and I did in reaction to all that had happened in her year so far. She and I planned a party for the end of April, two events for this weekend, and a trip to New Orleans for May. Just like that. We both need it - we need the together time, we want the pure fun we have with each other. We're close enough that the rules are somehow suspended. We get wild together - not because we have to, but because we can.

It's a neighbor of mine calling to say that yeah, sure, despite the 9 am soccer games, what the hell. Let's go out Friday night and do it up.

It's my best friend from college calling me occassionally on her way to pick up her son at school.

It's three guys on our block stacking their jeeps and taking a million pictures.

It's the next door neighbor kids' tennis shoes on our back porch.

It's my mom having the same friend for over fifty (FIFTY!) years, and staying friends just by writing letters.

It's just the shit you do together and for each other; the debris of connected lives. A lot of it is messy and inconvenient and time-consuming and even, dare I say, boring. I know a lot of people know this - we know it. But we need to be reminded.

The great Blogger god reminded me that I've been taking my friends for granted; especially in 3D, but even you guys; even Greg. I click on you and you're there, every day. I call my friends and they're there, every day.

Only... I haven't really been calling.

And then I realized, suddenly, that the incredibly important minutia of friendship - That's what's missing.

bloghop #67850902083

First of all, in the midst of ad blogs and foreign blogs I ran into Greg’s! Great fun.

[Editor’s Note: This was started a couple of weeks ago and Sex is busily wrapping it up on this night on which she can no longer see Greg. Ironic? Not really. A total pisser? The very definition. Does she deserve this patch of bad luck? Probably.]

This time I’m concentrating on the subtitle section, but of course, every rule was meant to be broken... Let me just add here that I'm curious as to the state of Pajamaland. I mean, we all know decent blogs are few and far between. There's ours, and then... well, there's really just ours. But blogs suitable to ridicule and mock are becoming even harder to find. Sheeeit. I know not everyone can be Dumbgasm, but I was hoping for at least a few teenagers or something. I'm gettin' nothin' here. So on that promising note:

1. Rantings of an obsessive compulsive borderline manic depressive anal retentive meanie.

Heh, Word doesn’t like rantings. You got the squiggly red underline, so there, weirdo! Rantings ain't a word! Are you gonna go postal on my ass? Come on, I dare ya. (Squiggly isn't a word either, but that’s besides the point.)

2. This is the ultimate underwear blog. This is a place to find out and talk about new trends in male underwear. This looked promising until... This is not a perverted blog. This is just an informative blog. Keep all comments appropriate if they aren't they will be deleted. Not a perverted blog? No inappropriate comments? Where’s the fun in that?? If you have some tips about what you'd like to talk about here contact me. It's underwear. What is there to say? "Yeah, dude, that brief so rides up my ass."

3. Oh, lookie, I found a new girlfriend for Greg: I am 25 years old, married, mother of two. I am saved from hell and love Jesus Christ and to serve Him.

4. Dear blog reader, this is just about what’s on my mind.

The only post consisted of a picture of herself.

5. The Blog. Mostly a bunch of hum dee dum.

Couldn’t have said it better myself.

6. Ok, I hit this obnoxious blog and now each one fades into a star and reappears within another fucking star. I’m gonna have to kill someone.


Thank God that stopped overnite.


Seems kinda tense. She sounds like she needs a good lay. She’s in Chicago, so I left her a comment suggesting that Jack might fulfill her needs in this department.


Whenever it starts with “this blog”, it always seems to go downhill from there. And thank you for explaining contemporary society! Those big words always freak me out.


She's in New Orleans and doesn’t her aura seem purrrrfect for Luna?

10. This blog will be about my boring life

Again with the brutal accuracy. And he’s got shitty taste in music too. Guess how I found that out, Jake?


I’m in the foreign section – over in the European and South American (?) – heh, what does THAT mean, Amber? – parts of Pajamaland. I’ve counted 14 and still going. Finally, some English for once. Not that I’ve got anything against other languages. Well, as long as they keep their distance.

11. Her top post ranks nearly as low as the picture of that chic’s shampoo a couple of bloghops ago. (I swear there was a pube in that pic, but that’s neither here nor there.) This time it’s a freakin’ spice cabinet. She makes me proud to be an American. You know, cause she’s Canadian.

12. The readings you will find here are neither literature, nor theology. They are excerpts from the journal of a Roman Catholic Christian, loyal to the teachings of the church and to Scripture, struggling to discern and follow the will of God in her life. Perhaps God will use these words to touch you in some way, perhaps not. Either way, may you be blessed as you journey with the Lord.
She should round out Greg’s threesome nicely.

13. MXL: spice UP your SEX life
Podcast, blog, tips & advice, private counseling, fantasies ... more.

Dude. Now we’re talkin’. Oh, what the hell, here’s the link, you perverts. It looks like commercials anyway, but entertaining commercials.

14. She calls herself tRiSh.

That is so three months ago.

15. This is my world and I’m just a squirrel trying to get a nut so what’s up.

Some issues here. Can we guess what they are?

1: quit plagiarizing song lyrics! Don’t make me go into another poorly written rant today, on this The Third Day Of Daylight Savings. Seriously. The wind has been blowing all fucking day, it's cold besides, and cloudy, I ain't got laid since before the time change, and I’m just lookin’ for an excuse to run your ass into the ground over something, anything, bitch.

Just. Stop. The. Lyrics.

2: squirrel imagery? I mean, at least pick a decent song with maybe a hot chic in it. Sheesh. Gimme something to latch onto here.

3: Oh, and she’s a sorority girl. Well, I was too, but it's still no excuse to be boring. And she has a serious boyfriend. Ok, well, I did too, but that's not my fault. But I mean, come on, she’s studying Education. I'm drooling on my keyboard in my sleep.


PS kisses to Greg, who I can still picture in my mind's eye

(|) to you

On Greg's blog, an interesting discussion ensued the other day on the site that I can no longer access. Amber sent a () to TG , who got, no lie, a bitch of a peice of news this weekend.

() was meant as a hug from Amber.

Greg thought it meant something else, and frankly, so did I - which likely says not good things about my constant state of mind and how I always seem to hang with the guys better than I hang with the girls. I'm also not so up on netspeak and symbology as some, being as I'm old and not all that cool. (Hot and sexy and all that, I mean, male or female, you'd want to do me the second you saw me. But I'm not so cool.) I'm certainly a blank slate when it comes to stuff like that.

There are a few Rosetta Stones out there to help, but the allure of the thing is really how it's often made up on the fly. We make our own communities and our own talky-talky. It's fun, even if people in 3D do think we're losers.

Amber writes: What does a () look like? Maybe we could turn it into one of those double entrede thingies.

Too late. The second it showed up in Haloscan it became one. Amber was hip to what it was supposed to mean; but there's an innocence about her that we've all grown to love.

Well, whatever, but the naughtier brand of () works quite well for my sort of sexually implicit brand of internet affection - especially for jackjACKJACK and Gregory Michael (who I still cannot see. Will I ever see him again? I'm worried). And Pete, and Krypto, and the Mayor, and Scott, and Luke, and all the hot Monkeys out there, and everyone else I've forgotten to list on this, theThird Day Of The Time Change.

To be clear (and I think I'm not alone in this) when I write () it sure as hell ain't no hug. (|) is even raunchier.

It means I like you.

An aside (newly enhanced rant as of noon MST) that has nothing to do with the above:

AOL is evil and a complete pain in the ass. I'm sure, like Microsoft, it's a plot by some demon-possessed sap who doesn't realize that girls don't really like him. Hey Jonnyboy! You're ugly and they just like you for your money! Speaking of, AOL is also a waste of that too. AOL is only a browser, of which there are plenty of free ones to select from. Trust me, the people at AOL are doing nothing that Yahoo isn't doing to earn your hard earned dollars and they are laughing themselves wet in the crotch all the way to the bank. It's just a simple electronic transfer... of your soul.

If you have AOL you probably won't get emails from me since I no longer bother since they always bounce. And you know I suck at calling people.

See? Even Scott thinks AOL sucks.

AOL sucks.

What the hell? I can't see Greg so anything else will just be a twist of the blade.

Blogger sucks too.

Thank you.

the cuban

It took me awhile to figure out what a Cuban, Jabba the Hut, and two college guys; dubbed unkindly by myself as Hat Backward and Hat Forward; had in common. It was an unusual collection for the cozy table right by the stage. Finally I realized it was just the music; there was no real connection between them beyond the instrumental surfer music winging from the three guitars onstage.

The band was quite good and knew their genre well. The drums were up front, and the three guitarists ringed him like little musical moons, each taking a turn in their ellipse for a lengthy jam. There was a microphone so I had hopes for a singer; but it was only for passing comments in response to the keen applause. “Thanks. It’s from our second cd.”

Hat Backward noticed me right away. Jabba noticed me right off as well. Jabba sat closest to the stage, as close as he could be without spilling over onto it. He had a large buckle on his belt – but it appeared small next to his girth. Hat Forward had his back to me, and so couldn’t scam me until he was on his way to his cigarette.

The Cuban seemed too absorbed in the music to give the crowd more than a passing glance. His obvious appreciation for the band struck me as odd because he didn’t fit the music. I watched him for awhile, hidden as I was behind bar-height tables and a few people. It doesn’t take much to hide me, even when I’m wearing four inch heels. He just slouched over his drink, elbows on the table, in the way guys will. His stance was casual but his mannerisms were deliberate. He was drinking something mixed strong, because he played with the straw and sucked the ice cubes. Every now and then he’d cast his eyes around, disinterest apparent on his face. I decided he was a ripe challenge for the eye-contact game.

It took some subtle repositioning to catch his attention, but I knew the instant he found me. An electric tranquility came over me; and my body, every cell of it, went absolutely still. It was too much a shock to my system to feel the mild triumph I usually get from such a conquest. I watched him make the full perusal. He took his time about it and I had to remind myself that it was me he was studying.

This was a sexy, confident, dangerous man. He was unfussy about it; but he looked around more often so I knew that I was the reason. And though he never really changed expression, his gaze had more purpose, more clarity. His eyes had gone from benign to curious. I wasn’t worried though; not really. PHF was right behind me, his hand moving from my ribcage to my hip slowly, his affection as assuming as you’d expect. He knows my body, my mouth, my face perhaps better than he knows his own. But The Cuban didn’t seem to care about my husband. His eyes cut to me with increasing frequency. I have no doubt that had I been alone, he would have approached me.

There was power in that gaze; and warning. I suspected that he might’ve been angry with me for playing with him when I had no intention of follow-through. When that occurred, I quit playing the game. The attraction was definite, thrilling; but he was fire. I think he could be kind, but never someone to trifle with. One more time I looked, before we left; and he was staring at me, unabashed. When our eyes met I started to smile a little – that superior smile I feel when I’ve captured someone’s attention. He didn’t shake his head or even change expression, but his immobile stare stopped my smile in its tracks. I broke away first and didn’t look at him again. But as we took our leave I felt those dark eyes on me. It took everything in me not to look back.