Thursday, March 30, 2006

Fantasy Fantasy

Anyone want to see the evolution of a story?
Here's something I started to write for a fantasy friday,
but it turned into something else entirely.
A metamorphosis.
(So don't get too excited.)

Let's get naked.
You first.
naw, come on...i can see're not naked yet.
I want your shirt off.
AND your pants.
I want you to be a little chilly in the night air,
in the dark of your quiet home.
I want you to feel the strange sensations of your desk chair against your bare skin.
I want you to imagine that you are not there, but here...
and not really "here" so much as...just....somewhere near....
somewhere vague and distant, but close.
You're lying on your back, arms and legs sprawled in the carelessness of sleep,
a sheet hiding a few patches of skin.
I approach, quietly, for you are a sleeping angel--
no, not quite that innocent, but nearly that perfect.
my heart roars up into my throat and almost makes my eyes water.
One knee is on the bed, as I lean toward you for a better look.
Carefully, I ease myself onto the large bed, the opaque drapes hanging down from every side dropping back into place.
We are alone in this veiled place, and alone in the room, the building, the town...
there is no one else.
I sit quietly for a few minutes, studying your form.
You stir, and I sit back, knees drawn to chest.
You sit up with a start and our eyes meet--
yours still groggy from sleep, mine sparkling with expectations.
You know instantly who I am, noting the edges of my folded wings peeking over my back.
The sheet had not covered my favorite part of you, and so I continue to watch it--
as I rise to my knees and allow you full view of my own nudity, I watch you grow.
You reach for me, and without moving, we are clinging together--
lips locked, arms holding tightly, chests pressed firmly.
Kissing is the most exquisite experience of my long, one-dimensional life, and I nearly melt into a puddle of mercury and silk right there.
You sense me slipping away and pull back, smiling.
"'s great, isn't it?"
your eyes twinkle, knowing how much better the rest will be.
I nod, totally unaware of the tidal wave of pleasure that is approaching
and you run a finger lightly across my shoulder, down my arm, sending shivers through me like small earth quakes.


I could go on, and I probably will.
(although, frankly, I feel it's a bit of a dead they're going to have sex, then what?? I think that if I want to take it beyond the bedroom, I need to lessen the sexuality of this scene, or at least wrap it up well and move on...)
But I have to get showered so I can go shopping in the brief interlude I am allowed while the chirrin are at school for their "short day".
fucking short days.
next year is full day, next year is full day, next year is full day.
I know, I know...
I have SUCH a rough life.
Sorry for the lame whining.
So after I wrote the story, I plowed through the second 7 chapters of Amorlia,
a most exquisite sci-fi novel being written in real time over on Chris's Spontaneous Fiction, and then I started to wonder if the seeds had been planted from the first 7 chapters I had plowed through a few days ago.
In any case, it is well worth your time.
He has the chapters very neatly linked so that it's easy to start at the beginning and work your way through, then come back another day and pick it right up where you left off.
...and did I mention he's an amaaaazing writer?
He is.
So, go--
And enjoy every second of this fine spring weekend!
(yes, that's an order. non-compliance will be met with the most severe punishment--like, I'll block you from the site on Tuesdays. I know! It would be a tragedy!)
Karaoke with Becky tonight.
If we're lucky, mayhem will ensue.

yes, Dantares, there is a Santa Claus...

and her name is Lisa.
I did, indeed make Tiramisu.
From scratch.
with probably a little more Kahlua than necessary...
And, at the risk of tooting my own horn:
Yes, I'm a good cook.
This is my favorite dessert, lately, so I decided to give it a shot.
Hubby and I are both sold.
Which is too bad, because there are at least 400 grams of fat per mouthful.
oh well.
Since I believe in eating dessert for breakfast,
this now makes it possible for me to get a buzz before the sun's up.
I wish.
Sort of.

I wish Tiramisu was not so perishable.
I would send some to everyone.


Today is a beautiful, spring-like day.
Which makes me feel beautiful and spring-like. makes my hair more springy...

And now I have a headache.
Apparently Oliver is an angry drunk.
(that was a joke, for those of you out there who don't get jokes.)
Of course he's not an angry drunk!!
And it's Max throwing a fit, anyway.

There are some flowers on my table.
I don't know what kind they are...mums, maybe?
They are simple, and pretty.
I have grown addicted to having fresh flowers in my house.
I love this feels more like my own home than anywhere else I've lived since I moved out of my parents' house.
But with the tile and so much wood and leather, it needs softening.
The flowers do that.
do you care?
No, probably not.
Neither do I, really.

I really use the word really too much.
I really do.
No, really.
Sometimes I get stuck in a rut and I can't use different words, even though I know a plethora of them.

I am reading Mary Shelley's "Frankenstein" for my english class right now,
and I am sort of disturbed by the way that Victor Frankenstein refuses to see the goodness in the creature he made.
The monster is only ugly to look at; he's affectionate and loving inside.
I also found it odd that according to the movies and popular legend of "Frankenstein",
he was built out of pieces from various corpses.
In the actual book, he seems to have been created from chemicals.
Maybe some of you have input?

Right now, I have email to catch up on...
eagerly, perhaps.
and all the fanciful and cobweb-less thoughts I had when I opened this page have been flushed away in a torrent of nothing.

more later.

Wednesday, March 29, 2006

French journals, part deux

Thursday, March 16

On board my plane. My spirits are high--it is a lightly-filled flight. I have the aisle seat which I requested, and in the seat to my left there is no one. The seats are arranged 2-4-2, so that means I have the window & the aisle. It means I have room for my carry-on AND room for my legs! It means I don't have to share elbow room or smell anyone or TALK to them. What if the person next to me had been nice? What if I had told my stories of woe to them? We're all better off this way.

Was the trip a success? Yes it was. We saw some wonderful, amazing sights. WE ate some wonderful, amazing food. We learned what NOT to do next time. I was reminded that my mother & I can laugh in the face of any challenge.

At least I'm learning to write with a pen again. Much slower than typing...I feel like my thoughts are in slow-motion, as my hand races to catch them--------dropping like dew from the branches of my mind...

We have not taken off yet, but when we do, I'm going to weep for joy. I can't wait to bein my husband's arms and see his handsome face. I can't wait to hold my lankly little boys--and answer their innumerable questions and kiss their soft cheeks.

I bought so much crap. Well, mostly chocolates and wine. I got some great gifts for my husband--he deserves them, after all. I got him this really cool dagger with a dragon for a handle and a leather sheath thingy. I got him a book about DaVinci's inventions, from the castle where he spent his last three years--Clos-Luce.

He gave the Mona Lisa and 2 other paintings to the king to show his appreciation, which is why the Louvre has them. I loved visiting there, knowing the greatest inventor of all times walked those halls and slept in that bed.

The main castle of Loire was only 500 meters away, and the King had him buried there to be closer to himself.

There was one other girl on the tour we took fo 5 chateaux, and she was from New Zealand. She was a doll, and it was wonderful to be able to converse with someone in nearly the same language.

Hey...why the fuck???? wasn't I writing every day? Ah, well.

Being at the airport was bizarre. This airport fills me with loathing like chunks of sour milk.

"I'm in Paris." The first time I said that it sent a thrill through me like ripples in a small pond.

this airport is so big, we just drove over the freeway (in our plane) to reach our runway. There are two train stops for it, on the RER line. There are 3 terminals, and they are so far apart from each other, that must take a bus, and a train and either hike or thumb a ride to get from one to the next. You then take a 20 minute bus ride to your gate--and more duty free shops... Where I bought the filthiest, dirtiest, nakedest girlie mag I could find for my husband. And I should qualify that "most blah blah I could find" because there is only so much care that can be taken over a selection which is made through a series of glances, rangin in classification from "furtive" to "stolen" to "brazen" (just once, and only because I was sick of wasting time)> So. Finally I reached past an entirely furtive young man, with a brisk, "Excuse me." and grabbed my new copy of "European sluts". I deftly slid it behind the hard back copy of "Asterisk & Obelisk" (a french comic strip) and headed for checkout. My heart raced. "Christ, what am I doing??" There are naked girls all over this thing! (For a minute I even considered getting one for me--there were some drool-worthy men on the shelf as well, but I couldn't imagine my prepared blushing excuse of "it's for my husband" would fly if I also had one for me...) So, yeah, I hand the stuff to the cashier, and she rings in the bag of candy (with "Titi" as the brand, how could I pass them up??) and then rings in the children's book, and then slides it aside, probably expecting one of the bagged copies of vogue or cosmo or whatever and she was...visibly startled, let's say. I laughed, nervously, and said, "C'est pour mon mari." (It's for my husband.) She smiled--looking quite relieved, I must say, and I said, "I'm a good wife." "A VERY good wife!" She replied. Yeah, I know.

Oh, here we go! We're accelerating--
Au revoir, ma petite France! Even with all the turbulence we experienced here, I miss it already. I loved the clean little public restrooms--
well worth the .40 Euros. I loved Paris. Every second of it. I loved the Metro and the sandwiches on gorgeous baguettes. I think i would have humped the Eiffel Tower, if it didn't look so painful--that beautiful sight! They do a light show thingy that is killer.

We did a river boat tour on the Seine, at night, as recommended. It was cold, but beautiful (like the women of France.)

(12 hours later, a random thought that came to me as I caught a wiff of myself)
France is full of smelly people because the air there renders deodorants impotent.


Ok, that's not true--we had few encounters with B.O., but I did keep forgetting to wear my deodorant, which NEVER happens here. Like maybe once in every 2 or 3 years, I'll go about my day before realizing I skipped that part of my shower routine, but I did it 3 times in one week, while there! Yes. I am proud of my french-induced B.O. You're jealous, and you know it.

Can you believe that's all I wrote??
there are so many more stories, and impressions...

Tuesday, March 28, 2006


I am feeling defiant.
Unwilling to post a braless photo, for reasons unspoken.
I am, however, on the verge of posting something entirely nude.
Odd combination of thoughts, I know.
The problem with option B is that every time I consider doing that,
I feel like I'm putting myself in a category of women bloggers that I loathe.
I think I'm in a bad mood today
this week ...
er...this YEAR??

who cares?
I am just letting my thoughts wander,
when really I came here to decide whether or not to post a picture, or of what variety.
And, some of you will be sad to learn, it would seem that any inclination for posting more of myself than I have before has passed--
the rest of you will be as relieved as I am.
I shall blame the weather for my temper...

I am completely over that little outburst from yesterday...
it has colored the way I see things, and has left a bitter taste in my mouth.
I talked to a friend today...
someone I love with all my heart--
no, more than that.
If I close my eyes, my thoughts are held in, and they prickle against the inside of my skin, like a cactus.

It may just be the salty residue of winter,
but I feel the need to be...
I want to be free...
I guess I need to buy my freedom, before it's too late.
before my soul atrophies.
before my heart turns from blood to oil.
before my eyes stop seeing anything beyond my reflection in the windows...

that was pretty heavy stuff, eh?
Thanks for hanging in there.
I'll go looking for a photo of some kind.
Be right back.
Well, that took longer than expected.
I'm posting two, and they are recycled, so bite me.

Monday, March 27, 2006

In lieu of that self-indulgent post from earlier...

The rest of the France Trip Notebooks!
Oh yes, I'm good with titles.

Oh, but first...
this is my most secret confession.
I'm pretty sure I'm not actually going to tell anyone about this,
because it goes in the category of "too embarassing to tell someone face to face",
as well as a little of the "freakish things no one should experience and/or talk about"...
Are you intrigued yet?
Ok, so I was in the shower with every intention of using the new massager, etc, etc, blah blah blah.
So I may not have been focusing, or maybe it was just so good I didn't want it to end...
we'll never know.
In any case, I started to hyperventilate, which happens to me a lot when I'm approaching an orgasm (the starting to part, not the hyperventilating part--I don't usually cross the line)
Anywho, so I wasn't paying attention to how hyper my ventilation was getting,
and I realized I might pass out and that the only person there to rescue me was my husband's brother and that's just EW for everyone.
...and THEN I noticed that one of my hands was immobilized
(no, not the one holding the showerhead)
and it really freaked me out.
So, of course, I passed on the orgasm and just concentrated on breathing and attempting to flex the hand,
which, incidentally, didn't happen for well over a minute.
so that is going in my file of "stuff to never talk about again" along with that thing about the other thing...
Oh yes and to anyone *cough*BOB*cough* who might talk to my husband: don't mention this.
I mean..he's ok with me doing the one thing, but I'll never hear the end of it if he knows THIS happened, capiche?
Thanks...I owe ya one.

And to the rest of you...
this doesn't mean I'm dying, does it?
Or that I'm supposed to stop such dirty, nasty habits?


(p.s. the travelogue will have to wait, because I have a very verbose little novel to read...damn, that Mary Shelley knows how to flower up a simple thought, eh??)

So I went for a run to clear my head--

but the thoughts are still churning their way through my stomach.
I know, a strange location for thoughts, right?
My throat feels tight and my chest feels heavy.
I shouldn't.
I shouldn't...
I don't know why I do this to myself.
Is it some primal need for...needing?
Or just some subconcious desire to feel pain?
Better question: why can't I just roll with it, why must it all be so dramatic?
Everything is not black and white, and I shouldn't expect it to be.
I pour myself into something and then smart at the first imagined hint of betrayal.
Feeling foolish for giving so much, when it wasn't really necessary.
What do I even gain from this?
THAT is the golden question.
Why do I do it?
Oh yeah...
the memory just rushed back to me, slamming against my briefly-closed lids with a crash-bang-thud.
I do it because something is missing.
I reach out through my keyboard, pulling back to myself shreds of beauty to try to patch together the small but significant holes in my own tapestry.
All I could think of last night was Lick Magazine.
That was a great outlet...
I wish it was still going.
I wish I wasn't so curious.
Even though I'm glad I'm so curious...
Curiosity led me to Nanowrimo, and to blogging.
Curiosity leads me to tears, sometimes, too.
I rail against the inside of my head, feeling helpless and foolish.
And then...
if I can just hold on long enough, just wait out the storm--
it's all ok.
Just have to wait for the voices to quiet, the suspicions to stumble back to their un-made beds, the doubts and self-doubts to resume their stasis...
Even just spewing this, here, makes me feel better.
It doesn't matter.
None of it matters.
I do.
I am naive about human nature, sometimes, and so I trust people fully.
And then, sometimes I realize--with a start, not unlike a thunderbolt landing dead center and pinning you to a tree--that it isn't wise to trust everyone.
The dust settles and reality comes scrambling back from its smoke break--
jesus, girl, I leave for ten minutes and you forget I even exist??
Yeah...sorry, dude.
Reality is good.
Reality is more dynamic than it should be, given its nature.

It is amazing how well I can calm myself, simply by venting.
So...thanks for "listening".

Frankenstein: so far so good.

I read the first couple of chapters of my first attempt at a novel this morning.
I love that story...
I could probably make it readable with a few hundred hours of revision and rewriting, too.
I love reading it from such a distance--
when I first wrote it, I couldn't bear to cut anything or change anything,
because it was my BABY.
but now...
after 3 years of writing, I realize that there is a lot of crappy writing there.
I lot of...overly dramatic scenes, and way too many adverbs/adjectives.
I am ready to go in and clean house.
I am still impressed that I wrote so much,
(and that it was mostly passable)
after ten years of not writing anything.
I never considered my journals "writing", because they really used to be very simple recounting of my day--
which boy I smiled at between classes,
which boy I made laugh before cheer practice,
which boy I blushed and hurried away from when asked a simple question...
you get the idea:
boys, boys, BOYS.

Silly girl.

I am happy now.
Especially because I went running.
god DAMN I love running.

Sunday, March 26, 2006

Best laid plans

of mice and men--
or even just of those who plan to get laid...
Anywho, our plans to ski were usurped by,
I suspect,
hubby's fatigue/laziness,
but I won't say a word.
Instead we went to a movie and did a little shopping.
It was nice, but my lingering hangover and the lingering snow from last night's storm, have me feeling a little grouchy.
And fighting to keep my eyes open.


framed pictures from france trip
organized junk drawer
got new towels

i can see the sky reflected in the upper corner of the on-but-unwatched tv.
there are piles of cumulus against blue, with light pushing through, making the edges of those clouds shine.
if I turn my head and look out that dome-shaped window above the large, shuttered rectangle windows, I see only crisp blue sky.
I love that I can see something else in its reflection...
Aren't we all more than just what's on the surface?
mmm...some of us are.

I am so sleepy.
My eyes are heavy.

I had lobster last night.
one whole Maine lobster.
it was deeeeeeee
now I must blink my way back to this page.
it was a wonderful dinner--
can't beat the company, and the food of course was marvelicous.
Yes, I'm into "-licious" today.
and I wouldn't mind a little licious in me. wink wink.
Ok, so anyway.
The evening was groovy.
I had raw oysters for the first time.
No crazy sex ensued, so I think I'll assume it's a myth, a legend, a tale-o-wives.
A blatant lie, or a harmless exaggeration.
It certainly did remind me of the final move in giving head.

my ankle twisted today while I was standing in line.
stupid fucking shoes.
it aches, dully.
not unlike my heart does sometimes when I think certain thoughts.

Should I post when I feel like sleeping?
probably not.
but now I have a whining child.
I juuust sat down.
we've been painting and snacking and hanging out in the kitchen,
but now that I'm up here trying not to sleep, I am being attacked by the killer whine.
ok, it's over.
He thought I should come find a game for him on the internet.
I though I should lay here and do nothing.
a bit of a conflict, eh?
please tell me I'm a lazy selfish bitch.
I dare you.
I'll unhinge my jaw and shove you into my mouth, feet first, and gnaw at you with my 12 rows of razor-sharp teeth.
I'm no bitch.
I'm a baracuda-python-black widow.
I remember watching pool championships with my last set of roommates before I got married.
Zeke said something about the black widow,
and I asked if she was from africa and her husband had died.
isn't it grea tto know that I've always been a smart ass?
some things never change.

I am actually not as grumpy as all that.
Just sleepy.
I haven't started reading that book yet, either.

-for you

Friday, March 24, 2006


I will not skip the gym
I will not let my kids play too long on their computers, so that I can play too long on mine...
I will keep my dirty thoughts to myself--
no, I won't.
But I will be a good friend.
And I will take the kids for haircuts and ice cream.
I think...
that today will be a good day.
It has surely started out well.
It seems like a month since I said I was going skiing on Sunday.
Was it Monday?
So long ago, and still so far into the future.
Two whole days.
I have floated, in my head, between memories and projections and wishes.
it feels fuzzy.

To be a guitar,
To lie across your lap--
fingers pulling songs from the surface of me,
from the core of me,
from the tips of my own fingers and my unwept tears.
Songs spilling out of me,
whispering out of me,
roaring out of me.
Fingers coaxing, fingers demanding.
I can feel your fingers moving across my skin and see the music rising from me like a mist...
Ah, what's the use?
My neck’s too short.

I woke up too early,
I stayed up too late.
One of those statements is a lie.
I cleaned my shower this morning,
and rewarded myself accordingly...
I was in the shower, and I thought, "Hey, now that I have my detachable shower head/massager, I can clean the shower! Why don't I do it while I'm still in the shower, so I don't worry about getting wet?"
So I did.
And when I finished, I thought...
about lips pressing against that spot just below my ear,
and teeth finding so many secret, perfect landing spots...
I thought about hands roaming backs and backsides and fingers slipping and
and...entering and...
I thought about legs wrapping around strong backs, and being pressed against the cold tile wall.
I saw myself through the newly crystal-clear walls of the shower, reflected in the mirrors.
My wet hair drying just a little, my eyes blazing...
and I watched myself thinking of all those things,
and saw that precise moment when it all passed from clear thoughts of body parts and actions and reactions to--
a wave of pleasure, washing through me, over me, around me.
I loved the look on my face.

And Fantasy Friday makes a feeble, short-lived come back!

Ok, be good.
Enjoy the weekend, and remind me to read my homework.
(Mary Shelley's "Frankenstein")

Thursday, March 23, 2006

The french journals of a french maid...

Ok, not really, but you dig the image, right?
(The following is word for word from my journal. the things in bold are added commentary from today)

Today is Monday.
We are at Mont St. Michel
Oh, oh! It is breathtaking, moving--
I have been in love with this panorama(how the FUCK did I type that "panborma"??) since I was 14, in french class.
We had to memorize a poem or paragraph or something--
all I remember is "quand la baie est presque seche."
When the bay is almost dry...
I do, however, rememb er the history of the place in a general sense:
a monastery, in the top 4 christian pilgrimage sites.
people would walk across the bay, sometimes getting caught by the fast moving, high rising tide.

(because I needed to vent, here is what I wrote next)

List of Mishaps, in chronological order
(or, for that matter, whatever fucking order I goddamn remember them in!)

1. Wednesday: arrive in Detroit to meet mother, with a 30 minute window before our next flight--the 8 hour one to Paris--only to discover that she is both not there and not booked for a ticket. TRAVELOCITY FUCKED UP. They ussued both tickets to me. I had no way to contact her (she has no cell) and no time to figure out what to do. (I meant for this to be an itemized type busy telling the story...will get back to the list and tell al the stories after.)

Ok, so:
1. I had to get on an 8-hour flight with a cheese grater tgearing up my insides, believing my mother to be not coming.
2. Saturday night--went to look for french trouble and found it.
3. Sunday morning: had previously reserved seats for 9:08 train to Bayeux (for D-day sites) from Gare de Lyon (in Paris). (and here's where I go on a looooong rant, describing in great detail the troubles we ran into that day, mostly just stupid train crap.) So because of buying a ticket at one station and not realizing that we might be leaving from a different station, we went to the station we bought it from and it was the wrong station. SO. We ended up wasting half our day, and missing some of the stuff we had planned to do in Normandy. Wait just a fucking second! Weren't we just IN Caen?? Shit piss motherfucking cuntabulous. (that, word RIGHT THERE, is why I'm not going to apologize for hitting story mode again. It's also the reason you love me.) Anywho, we saw an incredible 70m long tapestry, which was made during the 1100s, by someone who was fascinated with the horse penis, ona pretty disturbing level. Ok, so it was a really cool story about William the Conqueror(previously William the Bastard!! I love it!!) and his reign, etc. But. The horses which were in many of the 52 scenes, were anatomically correct...and did I mention the disturbing part?? Ok, maybe I'm just trying to divert attention from the part where I thought I saw horse cock and began meticulously checking each scene for more definitive examples of giant penises. I found them alright--little embroidered cock-n-balls everywhere!!! There was even a naked man somewhere...boy, did I wish for a postcard of that one! ha.
Who else noticed that I just spent a half a page (of my notebook, single-spaced) on 12th century woven HORSE PENIS??
Wow. Well, I'm glad that's over.
We also went to an incredibly beautiful cathedral, then had a blah dinner and went to bed.

I looked stunning for dinner, if anyone's interested. We got up this morning for the 9:33 train to Mont St. Michel, which I had been SURE was listed on the train schedule I had. We dragged our shit there (I didn't have the # of the taxi we had used the day before, and it was only a half mile. we are tough. yeah...we regretted it.) and discovered that we were reading the (insert 12-word string of swearing, focusing on bodily fuctions and sexual positions) shcedule wrong. 7:48 was the train. Next train? 2:44. (14:44 to you smartass 24-hour clock users. fuck faces.) We had 5 hours, our luggage, and a slightly less cold train station.
I walked over to "town" to look for
a. an ATM,
b. a place to change some of my mom's USDs,
c. some lunch to take back to cold mother,
d. an internet cafe (mentioned in my FABULOUS life-saving guidebook) to sate my craving, and
e. the cathedral to take pictures since I hadn't before.
I accomplished a, c, & e.
Yay me.
I also walked aobut 500 miles--and...I would have walked 500 more if. Well. Nevermind...
So.......we finally boarded our train and arrived here--
too late to tour the abbey.
blah blah, took out some more boring train station crap.
Long story short: we would miss the tours of the abbey altogether

Fuck, fuck, and just another handful of fucks for fun, ok?
So we called a taxi, got to our B&B (with a perfect view of the abbey)

We went to the monastery anyway. We got some good pictures, so it was worth it.

We had a most lovely dinner, and are now resting peacefully. There is no phone in the room so I'm sure Cameron will be wondering why I haven't called...sorry honey!

I should back track, but I'm exhausted. Thinking in french is wicked hard. So is dragging luggage around for miles and miles. But I am having the time of my life. And learning...
Housewife out--

Tuesday, March 14, 2006 1:00pm

It seems like everything we do is wrong. No sooner do we figure out the way something works, than it changes. Every time we've used our Eurrail pass, they've told us "no reservation required." So we didn't make any. On this, the second leg of a 3 leg journey, we were told by the conductor dude that we must have a reservation. He wanted to see our passports, too, but neither of us had them close. Not to mention we sat down in the first available seats (in a very empty train) and after we got settled a group of people who are currently, and continuously, being very loud, arrived and in french remarked to each other that we were in their seats. Never said a thing to us, but I heard them, so we moved. Again, there have never been assigned seats in all the 5 or 6 trains of this line that we've used. Bah.

I am tired. I am sick of everything going wrong. I am sick of being in charge while everything goes wrong. I am sick of motherfucking Euros. I am sick of phonecards which only work sometimes. I am sick of everything right now. But I still want to move here. I want to buy a little tiny house and a little tiny car in a little tiny town. I want to open a little book store or "american crap" store and melt into this place. The beauty of the simple country architecture makes me homesick for a home I've never had.

Someone just whistled a few bars of the Star Spangled Banner. They are annoying the bloody hell out of me.

I hate trains. I never want to ride another one. No, what I hate is train stations...and not speaking the language well enough to feel like something other than an imbecile.

(side note: for the first time on my trip, I had wine with dinner and all my troubles vanished in the sweet red dryness.)

Just a couple of notes from the other pages of my notebook, scribbled while riding on a metro:

My tired little brain is gleefully mumbling, "I'm in Paris! I'm in Paris!"

Bayeux train station graffiti: "something-something avec ta petite bite"
which translates to "__ ___ with your little penis"--the missing words were a guy's name, I think.
Anyway, just as I read it, my m other said, in referenceto the cold, "put your hands between your legs."
It made me giggle, internally.

I have a few more pages, from the day I left.
I think that stuff is a little more positive...sorry for all the whining.
You have to understand that I hade my game face on the whole time--
smiling, chatting with Mom, never getting to just unwind or have a few minutes to myself to NOT talk or to breathe...
It was a wonderful trip, and have many fond memories...I just wnated it to be perfect for her and it wasn't.

School today

So just a quickie for now.

Went for a run around my neighborhood last night.
Loved it.

Posted France pictures to Buzznet.
But will still be adding commentary here and including pictures as I go.

I really tried to find a vintage post to entertain you guys, but I couldn't find one I liked.

Here, do this meme:
In my comments, leave me a list of 5 things.
Any category of your choosing.
could be 5 favorite songs, 5 biggest pet peeves, whatever.
have fun with it.
I'll be thinking of you like a stalker until I get back here.

Wednesday, March 22, 2006

Laptops are rather warm,

when perched atop one's lap.
I am slowly remembering all the great things about having a laptop--
my last one was de-keyed by my matched set o'grommets,
and it's been well over a year since I was able to be so portable as I feed my addiction.
Life is good.
Hubby had the NERVE to suggest that I love the lappie more than I love him.
he's one to talk!
Mr. Warcraft World junkie.
I can take my blogging to a coffee shop, to school, to bed.
I can blog in the nude, in the black, in the red.
I will blog with my eyes closed
and blog upside down...dammit, I ran out of rhymes.

I will attempt to stop talking about this, but make no promises.
(Lying on one's stomach on one's bed while typing is not as comfortable as one might think.)
Attempt failed.

Ok, anyway.
Last night I met my best friend at the gym and plowed through our legs workout and my entire travelogue--in one breath, i'm pretty sure.
I asked her if she had a headache when I was done spewing my story and she claimed that she didn't.
She did, however, suggest we blow off cardio and go get a glass of wine,
which turned into dinner, because neither of us had eaten.
Now that's what I call a successful night at the gym!
AND she gave me a beautiful, classy little photo album for my trip photos.
She rocks.
We are now firmly committed to taking over Europe together.
Or at least visiting there...

Oh, something I've been meaning to address:
I remember reading somewhere on here, either in my comments or in a guest post,
something about my ice cube vs. nipples trick.
I just wanted to dispell that little myth, not that it matters.
I don't use ice cubes, nor is it ever cold when I take my braless shots.
I simply run a hand over the fabric covered nipples, and voila.
I seriously don't know why I even care.
I have this truly distorted need for accuracy, and sometimes I am compelled to adhere to it.
My apologies.
But, hey--
at least we got to talk about nipples!!
And just because I have slacked on posts this week,
and never intended to keep my "no more braless" promise...

That sweater looks a little pilled.
I guess it's been rubbed too much...

I promise I will write something soon.
And it might even be worth your time!

Knock knock.
who's there?

Tuesday, March 21, 2006

I'm your Audio Slave

this is an audio post - click to play

No, not really.
Amusing requested a synopsis, or a misleading title, but that's just not my nature.
There is no synopsis for talking about nothing.
I believe I got some drool on my phone at one point, recounting the "boy chest" photo from last week, as I called it.
And I threatened to follow through my...threat (dammit, that's almost as bad as the "allow myself to introduce...myself" from austin powers) to stop posting braless shots.
And I mentioned the A- I just got on my mid-term--
which was much better than I had expected, since I didn't study.

I am now off to attempt to fix this blasted template, with the help of a new commenter, MikieB.
Now you all know who to blame if I fuck it up.
wish me luck--

Monday, March 20, 2006

I think it's safe to call this--

Manic Monday.
because I've been beseiged by the bastard child of jetlag and pms,
but now it has passed.
I am sleeping normal (ish) hours, and hormones have resettled,
and I'm even full of Godiva chocolate.
Oh yeah, and the best part:
Mama's got a brand new laptop!
Ok, it's not "brand new", it's a hand-me-down, but still...
James Brown didn't sing a song about a second hand computer, so I had to use poetic license.
(mine's expiring this year so I finally get to get a new one. er. my driver's license that is. I should scan it in so you can see how ridiculously horrendously awful I look in that fucking picture. I was glowering, and purposely gave myself double chins, and hadn't looked in a mirror in at least a month...hey, the twins were not only 11 months old, but were WITH ME at the DMV, so back off.)
Hubby's friend gave it to him becuase it wasn't booting.
Mr. fantastic computer husband of mine simply re-installed Windows and
Laptop for Lisa.
There's not a lot I like more than free stuff.
Even sex and chocolate are slightly lower on my list.
So guess what this means?
There is a whole new world of computer use and abuse spread out before me.
Oh, what to do?
Where to start?
I think I'll do it on the kitchen table, and maybe on the rug in front of the fireplace...
mmmm....blogging my way all over the house, fuckers!
yeeeee haaaaw!
My battery lasts for almost 5 hours, too.
This fact alone is orgasmic. I just bitching about my reputation as a highly sexually charged site...?
Next time, just slap me.
across the ass.
Dammit, see what I mean?

Thursday night: dinner with best friend and best friend's mom (visiting from maine)
Saturday night: dinner with laptop donor and wife (who both happen to rank among my favorite people in utah--and I'm not just saying that because they sometimes read the site. no, actually i'm refraining from going into detail about how hot he is because they sometimes read the site. oops.)
Sunday: SKIING
I wish Giovanna would be here, as I suspect she could teach me a thing or twelve.
I'm a bit of an amateur.
And I'm also immature, but I guess that's not related.
What to see how immature I am?
Hold on, let me find the picture...
(blogger's not letting me upload. will get it up soon. snicker.)
This was taken in the Louvre.
I don't know who that is, or who it's by, but YOU CAN SEE HIS PACKAGE.
see also: 70m tapestry with horse endowments.
I am a 12 year old boy.
deal with it.

ok, I think I'll go shower.
I hope you're all having a lovely Monday.
unless it's Tuesday.

Saturday, March 18, 2006

Saturday is for sucking

I have the post-vacation blues creeping around in my thoughts and whispering under my skin.
I want to go back.
I want to never leave here.
I want to lick the skin of a wise man.
ok, just a wise-ass.
I woke up at 4:30 this morning.
It felt right.

I would like to find the person responsible for the presence of Kool-Aid in my home.
I would like to tie this person to a tree.
I would like to pour Kool-Aid all over this person.
I would like to unleash a thousand angry bees on this person.
...I don't know if bees sting things covered in sugar, but I'm hoping.

I have my pictures nearly ready.
I'm uploading them to a snapfish site.
I'm terribly impressed with my photographicalistic talents.
I have 50 or 60 really beautiful shots.
I might have taken over 300 pictures...

I need to start a few more sentences with "I".
...just a few more.

I should shower.
But I don't want to
because it won't penetrate my skull, my skin, my SPLEEN.

I'm glad to be home.
I have fun things to look forward to.
I want to go back, and do the trip differently.
I want to rent a car instead take the trains--
it would have been about the same cost, but everyone insisted that Eurail was SOOO easy to use.
APPARENTLY I'm a moron, then.
We saw all the sights we went to see,
and that made my Mom happy.
aw, come I ever satisfied?
I would wink at you right there, if I could wink.
...and if you could see me.
but I can't and you can't so whatever.
I would not really go back and do it differently.
Just one day.
One mixed up, wrongwrongwrongNotright day.
I would take that day, that night, and I would lay them out flat on a large table.
I would step back and look at the contents, the order, the outcome.
I would reevaluate, adjust, tweak--negate.
But other than that, it was lovely.
It was heady and wild and exhausting.

I'm sorry I'm so out of it.
I think I sound like I'm not happy...
but that's not accurate.

I lost 4 more pounds while I was gone.
Eating croissants for breakfast and eclairs for dessert--
THAT'S how much exercise I was getting.
I loved it.
I did not, however, love forgetting to put on my deoderant.
I think it was a subconscious desire to fit in...
I never even noticed anyone's B.O., so that was a total stereotypically derived joke.
and it was probably only funny to me.

I think I'll go watch the rest of Harry Potter 4.
And keep reminding myself that kid's 17 now so it's ok if I leer.
Oh shut up.

Friday, March 17, 2006

I'm baaaack...

Or is that front?

I have about 20 pages in a notebook, journaled, I guess,
and I'll probably transcribe some or all of that at some point.
But for now...
I'll just say there were some great times, and I'm glad to be home.

There was also a rather large amount of stress, starting with my connection in Detroit, where I was supposed to meet my mother.
TRAVELOCITY had issued both tickets to me.
And no one would change the ticket.
I had 30 minutes to try to figure shit out before my plane issued the most final of all final boarding calls, so I ended up walking onto that flight knowing I would know nothing for 9 more hours.
She has no cell phone, being old fashioned (and living in the woods where such things as cell towers get in the way of the migration paths of hummingbirds or some such garbage) so I was unable to reach her directly.
Instead, I sat on hold with Travelocity until the last second with no word from them.
Blah blah.
It was really a horrible flight, because of that.
I wasn't sure what she was going to do--
I thought I may end up in Paris alone, and with the greatest failure of my life surrounding me like a cloud.
Little did I know, she had bought a new ticket on a new airline and was racing me across the Atlantic.
It wasn't my fault, but yet it was.
I should have caught the error.
Can you tell me how, with all my careful planning and preparing, I didn't call to confirm our flights???
I've never done it before, and never had a problem, so it just didn't occur to me.
That's how.
So, I called the husband again as soon as I got to Paris, and he still didn't know anything about my mom.
He suggested waiting there, but I was exhausted and didn't believe it was very likely that she would be there any time soon, if at all.
So I took the Air France bus to the train station, and wandered around for a while trying to figure out WHERE THE FUCK THE METRO WAS, (down the escalators, to the left, for my line--#1, fyi),
and off at the right stop (St. Paul) and to find my hotel.
I wandered through the Jewish district for a while, and it turned out my hotel was only a block from the metro stop, almost in view of it.
Oh well.
At least it was the Jewish district and not the big scary mean guys district.
So I checked in and walked up a flight, then got in the world's smallest elevator--
it claimed to hold 3 people, but I'd like to see 'em.
...perhaps that's where "menage a trois" came from--you'd have to all be groping each other, at the least, and be spliced together if you're of a larger persuasian, in order to fit 3 people in that thing.
With my backpack on, I couldn't even turn around.
So I backed out of the thing when it hit my floor.
Or rather, the 5th floor, at which point I cruised another kick-ass spiraly flight of stairs to the 6th, where my room was.
With two little balconies, looking out over the street and a cool church.
(looooved that room!)
So I called the husband again, and was now informed that my mother was at the charles de gaulle airport.
I began to get nervous because it was really not as easy as I thought it would be to get to the hotel the way I did, but just when I went out to look for her,
she arrived by taxi (thank god).
I don't think I've ever been so happy to see her!
So we caught our respective breath, and went out exploring.

That's all for now, but I'd just like to say this:
our last dinner in France was at a seemingly popular restaurant,
but it was part of the Chateaux tour package we did, and they gave us this special menu...
I'm now 99.93586% sure that it was a menu designed for english speakers,
and its sole purpose was to FUCK WITH US.
Her appetizer turned out to be herring, but she ate the whole thing thinking it was snake--
until the last bite, when I made her tell me what she thought it was, and here's how that conversation went:
Mom: It tastes like fish, but the shape of it made me think...
Lisa: Oh, god, is it EEL??
Mom (looking inexplicably crestfallen): Oh. Wow, it probably is. I thought it was snake.
She is decidedly finished.
(the reason I was surprised that eel was more upsetting than snake was that she is petrified of snakes.)
My appetizer remains a mystery, as I have yet to see any of the words in its description in my phrase book (which was conveniently NEVER present at meal times... what the fuck was wrong with us?? didn't we learn?? this story demonstrates, NO, no, we did not.)
So we giggled our way through the course, trying to look cool and, quite obviously, failing in a brilliant shade of flaming orange with purple polka dots.
By this point, I couldn't remember what I had ordered, although I was fairly sure that my translation of "moules" as "mussels" was incorrect, and I would be presently receiving mutton, which I've never had and my mother described as "It's lamb. Old lamb." (and not like sheep old, but like, sitting around for days uncovered in a warm kitchen old)
Ok, so when they arrived with my heaping bowl of steamed mussels and heaping plate of AMERICAN STYLE FRIES!!! I was overjoyed.
I loooove mussels.
However, I bet most people think they're icky looking, which is why my theory of "fake menu to freak out stupid-ass americans" is spot on.
Mom's was whitefish--bland but safe.
So, we had some chocolate mousse and something else I can't remember, and got the hell out of there.
Left the waiter a huge tip, though, because he was so damn cute with his mop of spikey hair and his adorable attempts at english--much more adorable than any of my attempts at french, trust me.
Kid looked about 12, I swear, so I wasn't like checking him out, he was just very likeable.
That was a long story for a person who said she was finished...
We had lots of really wonderful food, but that meal was pretty crazy.

I have tons of pictures, and all that journalling to post, so maybe I'll work on it over the weekend and make up a little linky thing--a title for each story or day and you can click on the link to read it or something.
yes, that sounds way more organized than I usually ever am.

Oh yes!
And a hearty thanks to all my delicious and nutritious guest posters!
You guys are amazing and funny and sexy and smart--
and I appreciate very
much the effort you went to in order to keep my seat warm.
I hope everyone got better acquainted, and everyone now has hordes of new fans
(or at least a few new, very cool, commenters).
I am, however, a little surprised that so many of you still think of this as a sex-laden site.
I hardly ever talk about sexy stuff, and I only post one measely shot each week
(which, by the way, I'm pretty sure I'm going to quit doing. at least on a regular basis--i liked it better when I only did it when I felt like it. pressure is so 2005.)
Eh, who cares?
Me and my jet lag are going to go back to bed.
(So we can have a threesome with my husband. in a very small elevator...?)

Bienvenue, a moi!

Thursday, March 16, 2006

Cut your hair and get a job

No manners any of you. Staring with jaws agape.

I'd take of my belt to you if my fawn slacks wouldn't fall down.

And the pornography! Naked, semi-naked, underwearless. Some showing some ankle for God's sake! All that I used to need to get me going was a coquettish tilt of a chin and a mile and a half of crinoline.

Now it's more a case of weak flesh rather than willing spirit.

I talk to my last girlfriend quite often, via seance.

None of this independence of spirit from her mind you. None of this 'I'm a housewife but yet I still feel the need to go online, write and express individual thought'. Oh no. She was well aware of the three 'H's.

Housework, housework and housework.

And sodomy.

But I digress.

The girl you seek has been away but will return. I am the last of my kind. Elrond entrusted me with this, the one true blog and I will surely return it intact.

I can only imagine the scrotal mass some of you one-handed typists must have accrued in her absence. Laminate your screens, your desks, your floors, your pets for the semen tsunami that must surely ensue with your first nipple for a week or so.

Glorious and naked the guest bloggers have knelt before you, laying open their hearts, their souls, their small-minded prejudices before you, the wanking public.

How should you, should I, should werepay them? Laugh. A lot. They don't mind, they're hardened veterans of a thousand hazings. Whether at or with laugh until you vomit.

Think of them as they crawl back to their pathetic semi-lives, ekeing out a living giving handjobs for cash and peddling the written word for a few measley comments.

It's a hard life, but some cunt's got to do it.

What have we learned?


There's a general uneasiness about homosexuality out there, which is strange in this day and age.

There's an almost adolescent fascination with sex for some reason.

That at least one of them can write, but who?

So the moral of the story is this: Don't fuck someone up the arse if you're not prepared to throw in the odd reach-around.

Normal housewife service will be resumed shortly.

Do not adjust your set.

Wednesday, March 15, 2006

How Tony Soprano Almost Got Me Laid

Hi! I’m Nancy Dancehall, your blogger du jour.

Suburbs. I hate ‘em. Nothing ever happens here except competitive shopping. My big thrill of the week is driving my husband’s car to Costco and parking in my usual spot; you know – the one between the suburban and the minivan.


A couple of weeks ago, winter opened up into a false spring, and we had the kind of days that make my heart race. There’s nothing I like more than driving around with the windows open on a warm spring day (Ok, there is something I like more. And something else.) I slid a CD mix from a friend into the player, one that I hadn’t listened to yet, and there it was; the theme song to The Sopranos.
I laughed. Yes! Just the right musical fortification for my charge into Suburbia! I could see Tony in his car, dick-sized cigar clenched tightly in his jaws, cruising Jersey, the biggest bad-ass ever.
Which is how I feel behind the wheel. The car is the Great Equalizer, as far as I’m concerned. I’m a small woman, but behind the wheel, I’m fast, I’m sleek, I’m powerful. I’m intimately familiar with the body language of steel and tires; I can predict how you will drive before you do. I don’t need a behemoth to feel this way. I’m no soccer mom. (No offence to those reading this who are soccer moms…well, not much, anyway. Just don’t cut me off on I-25 unless you have a death wish.)
So I’m sitting at the Punishment Light, waiting to turn left in a double turn lane, Mama’s telling me I’m the chosen one and I’ve got a blue moon in my eyes when the Mercedes convertible pulls up next to me.
The Punishment Light stays red.
The guy in the Mercedes calls over to me. “Sopranos?”
I turn and realize he is sitting there behind the wheel.
He’s fucking gorgeous. Late-thirties or early-forties, wavy dark hair, nice suit. Shocking blue eyes. Perfect mouth. And he is smiling. At me.
In the nineties, I’d had people compare my looks to Tori Amos. These days, I feel more like Elijah Wood wearing the One Ring…you know – invisible.
Not now.
“Yeah!” I shout back. Brilliant response, but I pair it with a dazzling smile and a toss of the head.
He laughs. “Awesome!” he says.
“Got a cigar?” I shout back.
“What do you smoke?”
“Kuba Kubas!”
I watch in slow motion as his mouth drops open. “Drew Estates!” he shouts back.
“Sopranos, cigars and a beautiful red head.” He pauses.
I laugh. “Too late!”
“Yeah. Twin boys!”
He slaps his forehead. “Awwww! Forget it! It’s hopeless!”
The Punishment Light turns green. We have no choice but to drive. I turn into Costco and he goes on down the road with a wave.
I want him as he speeds out of my reach. I think about pulling back onto the road, following him.
He sees me in the rear view and slows down, then speeds up again, teasing, challenging me.
Testing my resolve.
I stick to his tail and we wind through the streets of Suburbia. I can feel bored housewives on all sides of me now (and not of the Lisa stripe) watching their soaps as I’m following this guy, my heart pounding with excitement and a little fear and, yes, guilt.
But not much of that. I push it right out of the car.
...I believe I’m feeling fine, shame about it...
He turns west and we speed toward the foothills. The other drivers thin out and I feel life begin at 80 mph.
We’re racing, dodging, challenging each other now like a great hunt. But who is the hunter and who is the prey? I don’t know anymore.
I don’t care.
...Cos papa never told me about right and wrong...
We’re in the mountains now. He pulls off an exit and finds a dirt road. I follow without hesitation.
He parks.
Your car or mine is not a relevant question. He’s driving a Merc convertible, for God’s sake.
...Woke up this morning...

Instead, I park in my usual space, the one I told you about. I buy groceries. On my way back to the car, the 55-pound bag of dog food slides off the bottom of the cart, and some jackass watches me lift it back on without helping, and actually says, “I just wanted to see if you could do it.”
...Woke up this morning…got yourself a gun...
Then it’s on to the liquor store, because Colorado is So Moral that they won’t sell real beer in the grocery store.
I’m still floating from my encounter with Mercedes Man when I carry the Guinness back to the car. I open the door, drop the beer on the passenger seat, and sit down.
Wait a minute.
What’s that smell?
...Woke up this morning the world turned upside down...
It’s cheap perfume. It’s nasty.
The next thoughts happen in the space of less than a second:
Why didn’t I notice it before?
Could he have given a customer a ride home?
WHY would he give a customer a ride home?
Did he RIDE a customer home?
Oh God.
He doesn’t love me anymore.
(And he’s cheating on me with someone who wears NASTY perfume! Where the fuck did his STANDARDS go?)
But I kind of deserve this, don’t I?
...Things aint been the same since the blues walked into town...

I look around. Then it hits me.
This isn’t my car.
I’m sitting in someone else’s car. My husband’s car is next to it, identical. Except this one is cleaner. (maybe his standards HAVE slipped over the years).
“Bitchcakes!” I actually say it aloud, filling a stranger’s car-air with my cursing.
So I grab my (actually, his) beer and slink over to my car, hoping no one saw the crazy woman (in the liquor store parking lot – great!!!) get into the wrong car.
...Born under a bad sign...

So I saw the guy in the Mercedes again.
He winked. He waved.
My heart flipped.
I followed him.
For miles.
He turned into a police station. Suddenly. Without signaling.
My tank was almost empty, so I limped back to the suburbs.
...Shame about it...

Ok...shameless plug; (but isn't that what everybody does on Leno?) I could use some feedback on Chapter 1...

Tuesday, March 14, 2006

Lapsed Mormon Porn.

Guest blogger: D-Man

"Mamas don’t let your babies grow up to be gay cowboys."

The movie Brokeback Mountain has done cowboys everywhere a great disservice.

I grew up on a dairy farm.
Riding horses.
And other assorted farm animals…

I used to ride horses without a saddle.
Until I hit puberty and all of a sudden my nuts didn’t like riding on horses without a saddle.

But these days there’s no way I’d ever admit to being a cowboy.

Cos thanks to that Hollywood movie, all cowboys are now Totally Gay.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

I’m just saying I’m not a cowboy, that’s all.
Never was.

(Cowgirls are cool though.
Especially cowgirls who like other cowgirls.

But, just for the record,
I’m not a cowboy.

I guess it’s sort of like with that Independence Day movie.

When Spielberg’s ET hit the screens, people no longer saw aliens as scary monsters. They were our friends, who only wanted to make long distance phone calls and eat our marshmallows.

(Which, lets face it, is sort of like how most of us are after a night of hitting the hash pipe...)

But then the alien-hating Independence Day came out and reversed everything.
And now if you admit to liking aliens, or having sexual relations with one, then people just look at you like you’re sick.

Aliens are people too.
Why can’t we all just get along?
Why do people fear things they don’t understand?

I fear transvestites.
I’m scared of anything with
long nails, and is
taller than me, before they’ve
strapped on the
stiletto pumps…

And I’m definitely scared of anything taller than me with long nails, wearing stiletto pumps, that has a big Adam’s apple, and has taken to calling me their

A guy I went to school with had a scary encounter with one.
And by scary, I mean
Well, I found it funny.


This guy was staying in a boarding house.

Then he mysteriously disappeared for a couple of weeks.
He was going to be kicked off his journalism course for non-attendance.
But the tutors decided to give him a second chance, after he told them the reason he went AWOL was because…


He met this girl at the place he was staying at.
One thing Led
To Another and then they were in
She told him that her plumbing was a little messed up
Down There, and could he
take her Up There
To which a gentleman can only reply:

In the sober morning, she tenderly
grabbed his hand and brought it around to the front and
that's when this guy discovered that
this girl had
And girls aren’t supposed to have

He Freaked Out and jumped out
the window and ran
naked into the sunrise.
He was a bit screwed up for some time after.

I guess (s)he mustn’t have had a hairy nutsack…

I found it the story a little hard to believe when I first heard it.

But then I bumped into a guy who also knew this guy and who had also met this "chick".
He said he totally believed (s)he was a woman as well, and was gobsmacked when he discovered that while (s)he appeared to be a beautiful woman by night, (s)he was actually a burly mechanic by day.

The guy I went to school with can never return home.
The whole district knows of his mis(ter)adventure.

And to think he thought things were bad enough when his hippy dad went down for being one of the biggest dope growers the region had ever seen...

I guess this is what you’re Really
Here For.

It’s Titty Tuesday.

Or, if you happen to come from my neck of the Wood -- where the time zone difference actually puts me 6-years and a day ahead of the rest of the planet -- it’s Wahoo! Wednesday.

(Or, if I’ve actually stuffed up the time difference thing, then it may actually be Half Nekkid Thursday. In which case, whoops.)

Lisa gave me this Guest Spot, as a challenge to see whether I’d join her club and post a braless shot.

Which, when I think about it, isn’t actually that hard, seeing as I don’t, normally, wear a bra anyway. Normally. Well, not sober anyway.

But the Bored Housewife also entrusted me with a couple of her own Braless Lapsed Mormon shots to post, just in case I chickened out.

Maybe I’ll just keep them to myself…

How much is it worth to you?

You owe me.
Big Time.

I’m only supposed to post one of them. But I can’t decide which one I like better. They both have their charms.

What do you reckon? Blue sweatshirt…

Image hosting by Photobucket

Or grey sweatshirt?

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You know what sporting event I’d like to see on TV?

How about the porn O-Lympics?

"Where coming last means coming first."

Their logo could incorporate five different coloured condoms.

And it could be followed up with a Special O-Lympics, where freaks, like hairy-backed octogenarian midgets and one-legged ex-Models Get It On.

OK then.

Something for the ladies.

The D-Man. Braless:

Image hosting by Photobucket

Yeah, I know.
The size of my pecs effectively negate the need for a Man Bra.

I had to take some steroids recently though, so I hit the weights in the hope of packing on some muscle mass.

But my penis dropped off instead.

Fortunately the police were able to use tracker dogs to find it.

I asked the surgeon to add A Bit Of Length to it when reattaching it.

So I’m now a whopping 2-and-a-half-inches.

Pornographers have since approached me, asking whether I would like to star in some hobbit sex flicks.

I’m also hopeful of being selected for the Special O-lympics…

Monday, March 13, 2006

Not so desperate for porn

*edited to add... my browser no longer shows my whole posts, and comments link!

[shameless begging] If you didn't read it, and want to, and it cuts off, click on the post title and you will have the whole post.[/shameless begging]


I have two dry erase boards, and a Palm Pilot thingy, and I still can't keep track of my life. As Lisa would say: faaaaaaaaaaaack! *sniff* I miss her. We miss her. Yesssss preciousssss we doesssss.

Thanks to Orange for the pokey with the little stick. I thought I was another day this week. So now this is kind of rushed because all I had was a draft and an idea. Dammit. Shit. Faaaack.

I am tootsieroll. If you go to my blog you will see my name is Giovanna, and no reference to tootsieroll, so I thought I would start by explaining that in case it was burning anyone's buns. (My name actually isn't even Giovanna, go figure.) You see, in an attempt to gain back some anonymity on the internet, I created another alias when I decided to post a response on D-Listed. It is my guilty pleasure. If you've never been there it's like US Magazine on crack with swear words. Anyway to make a long boring story more boring, D-Listed uses Haloscan for comments, as does Lisa, and it cookied me in there as tootsieroll, so there you go. No more anonymity, since Lisa welcomed me into her ample bosom and linked me.

Ok, Leesa once brought this up, and Maine touched upon it when he was he being all self-depreciating in his guest post about people searching for boobs and getting squat, but seriously: I find the things that people search that lead them to my blog fascinating. Granted, much like our beloved hostess-on-vacation-in-France, Lisa I get my share of weirdos and freaks due to the fact that the name of my blog is "Not So Desperate." But there is one search that has come up more than once that has me baffled. I am embarrassed actually, because for as much bravado I put forth I am actually quite naïve, but what is it with "girls desperate to pee?" I do know what a "golden shower" is. Is that what it has to do with? WTF are people searching for when they type in "girls desperate to pee?" Just check out the line for the ladies room at any suburban night club, you'll find a few crossing their legs.

I also get a lot of hits with MILFs. "MILFs in g strings", and my absolute favorite: "randy MILFS" from LMFAO. I bet it was Austin Powers himself checking me out, Yeah baby! "Free gina porn" was another good one. I have a feeling that's with the long "I" sound though. Oh, and "housewife panties". If you're reading, I have your number sicko. No one smells my undies but me. Oh, and I almost forgot "hot girls desperate for money." I was the 9th hit for that one. That, I'll take, since I am hot, and always want more money.

Put that in your hash pipe and smoke it. Then pass it around.

tootsie, always with a small "t" but a big heart.

Here's some cleavage for you. Braless would be a waste.

Friday, March 10, 2006

Dick anyone?

Hi, I’m Dick, a friend of Lisa’s. She asked Kelly, my incredibly hot, as well as extremely smart lover and I to fill up some of her space while she was gone. She also asked for me to post topless, so here ya go.
Late last night, Kelly and I were discussing the various virtues of a hot load of my very own patented formula of Big Dicks’ Baby Batter™ and came to two certain conclusions.
One, since it’s essentially nothing more than a veritable plethora of common proteins (my common proteins, which are always specially seasoned to that just right taste, and served up hot and fresh every time by one of our friendly wait staff), it’s good for the skin.
Two, even though it is hot and sticky just like napalm; it’s not nearly as flammable.
Just a thought.
As you read this, be aware that my brain drippings are in italics while Kelly’s thoughts are in normal typeset.

I wonder why a lot of women feel the need to change things about their
men. It can be small things, but even more commonly, it's big stuff.
It's something I don't understand.
I mean, why would you be with someone who isn't exactly what you want? Girls, you know as well as I do that men don't want to change. Most of them think they're perfectly fine the way they are. But think about it, do you want to change for a man? I know I don't. I want to be me. What you see is what you get with me, and if someone doesn't like something about me, sorry but I can't change that.
It's part of who I am. I'm a huge goober, a music geek and a Science geek.
Either you accept that, or you don't. If you can't, I'll be happy to send you on your way. So, why would a man want to change for me or any other woman? Especially, if they are happy with who they are.
Granted, in my younger years, I was as guilty of this as most. But, as I've gotten older (read wiser), I've learned that you can't change someone.

Have I ever told you guys about my idea of the perfect woman? Wait a just a second now, I don’t do supermodels. Never have and never will. I’m all about normal when it comes to a woman.
Give me a chick who’s maybe a few pounds overweight with some of those delicious, natural curves anytime over a skinny chick with plastic tits. I mean, don’t get me wrong.
There’s nothing at all bad about tagging a hot supermodel other than the high maintenance costs, but I think the sensual curves of a hot thirty something, everyday woman are the most incredible sight I’ve ever witnessed and yeah, I have been around the block once or twice.

I have a coworker who has completely made over her boyfriend. She's made him get a new haircut, she's made him change his whole wardrobe. She makes him watch TV shows with her that he doesn't really like.
All I can see this coming to, down the road, is him resenting her for not letting him be himself.
And, that's just small, physical things.

I had a friend who thought she could change her boyfriend into some sort of prince. Fact is, the guy was an asshole, still is an asshole and will always be an asshole. She said to me for years that he would change and guess what? He never did. I wasn't surprised. She kept trying and trying though and all it did in the end was cause her heartbreak. Why do women do this?
Why do we fool ourselves into thinking that we are so spectacular that he will change for us, even though he changed for no one else before? Why do we think that we know what is best for our man?
Are we that egotistical? Is it because we have a nurturing mindset and feel the need to "take care" of them? Or are we so desperate at times, that we fail to see the truth in front of us and think if we try hard enough, or love hard enough, that eventually he'll see the light and be what we want.

Ain't gonna happen ladies. We're the ones who need to see the light.

Plus, she has to be packin’ an attitude. If I was shopping for a wallflower, I would have gone down to the local nursery. Kelly will tell someone to pound a bag of sand up there ass without a second thought if they make the mistake of pissing her off.
Me? I’m one of those little pussy kind of guys who gets sand kicked in my face every time I go to the beach. I have to have a chick around, just to defend my pussy ass.

You either gotta take the bad with the good and just deal with it, or find someone who has all those traits that you want. Figure out what you are willing to put up with, and what you aren't.
You know, I've realized over the years that audible farting is not so bad. And can be quite hilarious at times.
No one is perfect, we all know this. Don't try to change men, they are who they are. And don't change yourself for a man.
Be you, be true to yourself and that's when true happiness follows.

Have a great day!

If you ever get the chance, the next time your better half is doing some sort of mundane household chore, study her curves for a few minutes. Watch her movements. Then step back and be grateful you have this piece of artwork to call your own.

Thursday, March 09, 2006

Not FROM Maine, But...

I know, I know... it's been two days since Lisa's been around, and you keep checking back in to see whether or not she changed her mind about going, right? Well, sadly, she has not, and today, it's just me in here.

"Awesome," he said sarcastically, realizing that 95% of the people reading this paragraph probably have one hand on their mouse's scroller button and the other hand firmly cupping their balls on their way to last Tuesday's picture post. Given that cold, hard reality, I suppose it's best that I make a few things known up front...

To the ball-cupping 95%... I'm a guy. You probably want to put that thing away for a minute, lest we make things what you'd call "cowboy-awkward" between us. I'm sorry that, while I am indeed braless, I'm not the kind of braless that we're both commonly looking for around these parts. I'd suggest a few alternative websites, but, quite honestly, you already know them. Anyone who's had the internet longer than 20 minutes already has the good stuff bookmarked. I'll see you back here in two weeks. Hopefully, it'll be a cold day out on the Salt Lake, if you know what I'm saying.

*high fives apparently 14-year-old self!*

To the other 5%... I'm still a guy. That means there won't be any cute wordplay or sexy alliteration going on in here. I'm short on fantasies (aside from the whole "two chicks" thing) and textual seduction is an art I can't manage. I'm not that good, and I'm damned sure not that creative. The most creative thing I'll ever do in a given day is dip a slice of pizza into my cup of coffee to see if it'll help me stay awake through to the end of the pie. Disgusting? Sure... but how would I know these things if I didn't at least try? This is what idiot guys do. It's who we are. It's why we die earlier and it costs more to get us insurance. Accept it.

And, to anyone masochistic enough to have made it this far (no, really - there are no pictures to be seen today - this isn't just a ruse to weed out the undeserving)... I'm following up with some random thought snippets:

  • Are you ever not disappointed to find out somebody has a guest blogger standing in for them? I mean, when you go to somebody's site, you already kinda know what to expect, and you're in the mood for it. Doesn't matter who's subbing in; it's always a let down because it's not what you came for. Like, if you turn on Letterman, see he took the day off and find out he's been temporarily replaced by Chevy Chase... you're instantly fumbling for the TV guide to see who the guests are on Leno, right? Sure, maybe you like Chevy, but if you wanted to watch him on late night television, maybe his own crappy show wouldn't have gotten cancelled in 42 seconds. That's sort of how I feel about the whole guest blogging thing. I could be the greatest blogger since Moses made up the Ten Commandments, but I'm not Lisa. I consider the fact that you're reading this sentence to be a goddamned internet miracle on ice. Personally, I'd have bagged out by "cupping their balls in anticipation." beckons. But maybe that's just me.

  • Every time I see a guy with a big tattoo on the side of his neck, I either think, "Wow, that guy must really be satisfied working the desk at Jiffy Lube for the rest of his life," or "If I had a neck tattoo, it would be of a fake knife scar. Think of all the tough-guy/sympathy pussy I'd pull with that thing. Yeah..."

  • Sometimes I talk to my mom on instant messenger, and that's really weird to me. My parents aren't supposed to know how cybersex enabling technology works. In fact, if I ever go to her house and find out she bought a webcam, I'm gonna burn my genitals off and shoot myself in the head like one of those Heaven's Gate idiots. There's no way I'm going to be forced to mentally visualize that sexual possibility for the rest of my life. I'd rather be a dead eunuch in cult-joining, retarded eunuch hell. I'm very serious about this. It has now been documented on fake internet paper. Hold me to it.

  • I tend to be very wordy, but I'll try not to take too long here today. There's something weird about posting on a website where some of the readers could have arrived by searching for something like "housewife tit pancakes" on Google. What do you say to those people? You're clearly not their primary search objective, as your breasts were not designed or endorsed by Bisquick, but since they're standing there looking at you for a minute, don't you have to at least try to appease them in some way? Just to not be rude? It's weird. Anyway, I have nothing for these people (aside from half a bottle of lite syrup and a pat of butter), so I'll have to hurry a bit.

  • To me, the hardest part about getting older is watching The Real World on MTV and realizing that you'd never be able to go on the show anymore. Mainly because the idea of having to go out every night dancing and having to pretend you give a shit about whether or not your cute roommate had lesbian sex with some stranger in some club is exhausting. If they put me on that show, my only sound clips would be, "Wait... this is my job for a few months? Sweet," and "You guys going out again? Okay, I'm gonna hit the shower and get some shut eye. See you in the morning." I'd be the lamest, most boring Real Worlder ever. They'd ask me antagonizing drama shit like, "Does it bother you that your roommate is gay and that he's cheating on his boyfriend with a woman?" And I'd reply with, "No, seriously - you're saying I don't have to go back to work till we're done filming? And that fridge is always gonna have food in it? Really? I'm not gonna get a bill when I go home?" Those producers would have to fire me or something. I'm bad television. I'm Cop Rock.

  • I don't smoke marijuana because I already think Doritos are very delicious. I don't need the added incentive. Plus, American Idol is already very, very funny to me. I am definitely not the weed dealer's target market.

  • I think it's fair to admit I have no idea what I'm doing here. I can be an adult about it. My presence is a jarring variance from Lisa's standard fare. Are you even supposed to leave comments after this? What the hell could you say? "I agree that neck tattoos are disturbing," or "Where do you stand on Road Rules?" This could be a disaster. An internet paper documented disaster. And I love it.

I think I'm done. I've met my textual obligations for the day. Enjoy the rest of your week, please feel free to search the internet for as many breasts as humanly possible, and, when you find them, see if you can't put them into a nice zip file and send them to me immediately. I'd do it for you, after all.

Wednesday, March 08, 2006

Classic Potatoes*

Greetings, citizens of the greater Bored Housewife metropolitan area! And welcome to the first guest post. My name is Orange, and I'll be your host today. Wasn’t it sweet of Lisa to arrange for guest bloggers during her French vacation so we could all still come here to misbehave?

In keeping with Lisa’s overall sex-positive gemütlichkeit, let’s talk about fantasies. Fantasies are good, clean fun, even when they’re downright filthy. The ability to fantasize is an essential tool—if all you thought about during a Wild Rumpus for One® was your to-do list or last night’s episode of The Office, you’d never get off. (Unless you’re, like, totally grooving on Dwight.)

So, what fantasies get you hot and bothered? Is there something you’re positive would be an amazingly hot experience...but you’re pretty sure you’ll never actually do it?

I’ve got a couple. One is doing it with the bedroom curtains open. Now, there’s a four-story building behind mine, not to mention its parking lot, so there are too many people who might see us—and then recognize us at the corner store or the bus stop. Never gonna happen. Too risky. But the idea of it? That's potent stuff.

Another is more overtly public hanky-panky—say, feeling each other up on a train, or in a restaurant. Hot stuff, definitely, but Mr. Tangerine and I are generally law-abiding individuals with a decent grasp of etiquette. So these sorts of events are unlikely to transpire.

Of course, the forbidden nature of fantasy material is what makes it so juicy, right? Even if you don’t live on the edge, you can imagine being there, and in your mind, you and your body can leap off the edge and soar to incredible heights. So, what’s your recurring theme? Let's hear it.

Orange, signing off

*What’s with the title? My five-year-old son, hearing the word classic last night, exclaimed, “Classic potatoes!” We know not why.

Tuesday, March 07, 2006

Braless, Beerless, Spaless, Cheerless

...I just like to rhyme.

So yeah, it's Tuesday.
I sorta mosty forgot, but here's a little flash in the pan(ts) for ya.

Actually, I guess this is the back view of the one I posted last week--
standing in front of a mirror
(which was specifically purchased to go on the wall in our front room, almost a year ago, but has been sitting around waiting to be a horse??? Or a capital criminal...?)
is a good way to take a braless photo.

So, I guess rather than a celebration of the beauty that is an unencumbered Tuesday,
this picture serves to remind you that you're just watching me walk away...
or that I'd like to invite you to kiss my ass.
(or bite it, depending on my mood--and your damn name.)

Have I mentioned lately...
that I'm really excited for my trip?
Someone mentioned Moulin Rouge, and I brushed it off, because I'm going with my Mom.
I think I'll go anyway...
maybe pick up some cheap Parisian hookers.
(or, more likely, expensive ones).
Wait, that didn't come out right!
Not picking up any hookers.
At all.
I will, however, be picking up some wine.

I had things to say, but now I don't.
I'm just getting packed up, and making sure the house is well stocked for the family.
I have been very organized, so I'm sure I forgot something important.
Oh well.

I have some absolutely wonderful-amazing-fantastic guest bloggers filling in for me while I'm gone.
Do yourselves a huge favor, and read what they write here.
But don't stop there--
go read their sites, their archives, their palms.

I have a cold.

Au revoir, mes amours!

Monday, March 06, 2006


Sometimes as I walk through my day,
a sentence you've written will drive through my mind like a freight train--
again and again.
Your words are backlit, flashing quckly from my mind's stage to butterflies churning through my stomach in a race to fill my body.
Your words piral down my thigh, wrapping tightly all the way down to my toes.
Your words make me smile to myself, alone in my car, as the world blurs past me.
If I could fill a tub with the soft smoothness of your letters, I would soak in them for hours--
until they had pruned my skin the way only depth of meaning can.
Force of meaning, perhaps.
Thickness, fullness, and ability to pulse through a body and soul like the weaving of silk threads.

Words are like weapons, they wound sometimes--
sometimes they are like weapons the same way that weapons are extensions of bodies,
and they penetrate without wounding, penetrate with healing and filling and ecstasy-spreading lightness.

Words can sizzle through the air, landing on skin with a hiss and a wisp of smoke.
They drip across the windows of my soul and fog my internal mirrors.
Words skid to a stop somewhere in my core, leaving tread marks from the nape of my neck to the small of my back...a map for your hands, your lips...?
Words blaze across the sky, like sky writing with lava.
Words erupt out of you, sticky and salty...yes, like that...and I lick each letter from your thigh and from between your fingers.

Happy Monday.

Sunday, March 05, 2006

Home again home again, jiggity jig.

But only for a heartbeat, I suppose.

I am hungover (of course) and glowing with satisfaction, fulfillment and radiation.
At least I think that's what that stuff was.
So we saw a geyser and did it in the sauna and rode hard and long.
The snowmobiles, that is.
Holy fucking shit, you guys.
If you've never driven a snowmobile, do it.
I don't care if you live in California, or NEW ZEALAND.
Find one.
Shoot some snow out of your ass, and ride the damn thing.
It is so much fun.
I was flying over jumps (smaaaaall ones) and whizzing across plains and climbing hills.
Oh, sweet jeezus I think I will move to Alaska just so there is more time to ride one.
It could not have been a better weekend.
We all had a fantastic time.
I almost won at poker, and I did win some scratch tickets (22$ total) from the convenience store--
I forgot we weren't in Utah!!
I have never purchased any before, cuz I think they're lame.
But it was a fucking rush.

I am.
Happy and
and achy and

Oh yeah, and we went to the Lava Hot Springs:
mineral baths.
Wonderful. So soothing and relaxing--and invigorating, too.

I think I'm going to go throw up in my shoe.

p.s. if I didn't mention it before, I discovered that Brazilians ARE possible.
I'll have to schedule one for when I get back.
For now, the new Nair kit I bought witha non-razor shaver thingy works fabulously.
Holy smooth batman.

Thursday, March 02, 2006

Wednesday, March 01, 2006

Time out!

I had an epiphany today--
or was that an epistle?
Just kidding...
it was an epiphany--a grand revelation.
I will let go of the blog for as long as it takes for me to return from all my tripping.
I will attempt to arrange for some guest posters,
and I'm sure I'll do at least one audio post,
and at least one post from France (probably more).
I will furtively check comments and email from some frenchly charming internet cafe,
and hope they have an english keyboard...
I will sneak bottles of wine,
and sneak out of my room at night--
re-enacting the rebelious teenage years of someone else.
I think I am ready to let go.
And just live.
I wanted you to be with me, but I guess that's not possible.
I will be back.
And I will be better than ever.
...ok, that last line isn't a sure thing, but I am.
Oh, I feel fine, yes I do.
I bought a simply gorgeous skirt today.
Long and lucious--like someone I know (majorly).
ooh, that made me quiver.
I think I'll take my muse with me this weekend,
and definitely to France.
My muse...oh, my love.
I'll be around tomorrow (Thursday),
and I'll be back on Monday and Tuesday...
but then, I'm off.
Like a fucking prom dress, baby!
I'm going to make like a bread truck...
and haul buns.
I'm going to make like Jesus a shepherd...
and get the flock outta here.

I was supposed to go to a study group tonight...
but hubby decided he was ready for a tumble.
There had been some banter about reverse cowgirl earlier--
he said something about me not doing it, but in some strange context;
I wish I could remember.
He was joking, or not actually talking about sex, but it still got my panties in a twist.
Put a fire in my eye.
Cuz I guess it has been a little while since I've reversed it, so I defiantly proceeded with that tonight.
That'll teach him.
...I'm such a rebel.
So now I have to go study by myself.
I'm going to bomb this test.
Do I care?
eh, not really.
I'm learning stuff, so I don't really care what the grades are.
That's yet another luxury of earning a degree without much intention of having a career.
As my boys Monster Magnet once said, "I'm never gonna work/another day in my life/the gods told me to relax/they said I'm gonna be fixed up fine!"
or something like that.
It's a joke...I work every day.
And I am no stranger to hard work--used to work 80 hour weeks, on my feet (waitressing).
I wore it like a badge of honor--
never complained, stayed late, covered shifts.
Now...I whine if I have to plan two vacations in the same month.
what happened to me????
I got soft.
I got spoiled.
I got.
Time to study.

Yes, Nancy, I'll email you.
D-Man, you better be ready to guest post me (that sounded dirty...).
Dick, you heard the call from the masses--and I second the motion. You in?
Lamburger, baby, you have no time, but if you're interested, email me.
Tootsie Roll, you're SO in.
LazyLazyMe--if you're not feeling too lazy, you're certainly invited.
I can't remember everyone else that Orange listed,
but I would also like to nominate the Tangerine queen--she's quite a saucy thing, but doesn't often get the chance to express that side of herself on her own blog.
I will prepare some posts, too, and leave them as drafts.
Ok, if you're interested, email me at: boredhousewife at cdadirect dot com
and please please please, if you're not listed above, but you're interested, email me--I have 14 more things on my mind than I'm legally allowed to carry, so my oversights are HIGHLY unintentional.

Peace. Love. Charity. Chastity...? Nah.

"Good morning starshine...

the earth says, 'hello'."
And I say, "bite me."

I have way too much to do,
but it's all happy stuff.
I'm just feeling the stress of details.
I have a few more to finalize...
But I'm sure no one wants to hear my complaining about all I have to do before leaving for a weekend at a cabin with a hot tub and a sauna and great friends and snowmobiles...or how I only have two days between that trip and the one to France...
That reminds me--
someone mentioned that I wouldn't need a Eurrail pass if I was just staying in Paris, and I'm not. I'm going to Normandy to see the D-Day beaches and Mont St. Michel, and I'm going to the Loire Valley to see the chateaux.
I think I'll pencil in some time to be excited about the trip on Monday afternoon.
Monday afternoon is already overbooked.
I have a hair appointment and a trainer appointment at the same time.
deep breath.

And this is why I shouldn't even bother blogging right now.
I'm probably going to forget, but I should ask some people to do guest posts while I'm gone.
Please don't let me forget that it's my husband's 30th birthday this Saturday.
I asked him what he wanted.
He said, "hookers."
He's SO helpful.
Maybe I'll get him a package of hooks.

and now, brought to you by the letter L (for lazy) and the number 69--
a post from last year:

When it's cold outside--

but for real--it IS cold outside....and it IS the month of May.
i wonder what other song lines are true right now?
i bet there are at least 3 more.
maybe as many as 500.

i'm also using my husband's computer--and its TWENTY SEVEN INCH MONITOR.
holy lord.
i have to turn my head to see everything on the screen.
it's kinda giving me a boner.
and a therefore i embody both parties in a in a stale marriage.
(if you got that, i'll give you a nickel)
which reminds me--in some random dream i had last night, there was a canadian fourteen dollar bill.
and i started to worry about the exchange rate.
uh, okay.
sometimes i think i am CRAZY.
other times...well, i guess i pretty much just know.
and on occassion i even have silent lucidity.
one more song line...

and my husband just walked in, scaring the shit out of me.

kay, i'm back.

well i don't think i have anything to say today.
i know i say that a lot.
and for some strange reason it usually seems to clear my mind so I am able to write.
i have that damn Nair song stuck in my head...
"if you dare wear short shorts, Nair for short shorts"
so that's a huge thrill.
better than a damn barney song, but not much.

oh wait...
i think i see one little dusty thought rattling around up there...
what is it?
come here little thought...come to mama...
well that was a disappointment--it was just more of the Nair jingle.
oh well, i had to chase it down to be sure.

I think i should admit that I'm ornery this morning.
and I'm not sure why.
I'm sort of filled with this gnawing feeling of disgust with the human race, annoyance lurking just below the surface, growliness poised to spring into a roar......
for no reason.
probably pms or hunger.
or the fact that i've had too much sleep AND to much sex lately.
okay, that was my attempt at humor---calm down.
yes, i know there can never be too much of either of those.

maybe i'll grab a protein bar...
see what kind of mood swing that puts into action.

so far so good...
there's a warning on the side of the wrapper...
"do not use if foil wrapper is torn or missing."
if it's missing---?
how would i read the warning?
well, hell, now i feel so good i better run along to the gym.
have a swell day.

Truly, have a swell day.
I'll miss you while I'm gone.