One of my more popular posts "Camel Toe As A Fashion Statement..." had some of my adoring fans busting my stones for being someone who never wears underwear. This can't be further from the truth.

(click link for redirection if reading the Camel Toe post interests you, as it should)

http://honeydewbranchweed.blogspot.com/2012_03_01_archive.html

I do wear panties. I own quite a number of panties. Here is proof of that:

It's just that my dog enjoys them more than I do.

But what I don't enjoy at all is saying the word "panties". I feel both childish and motherly when I say the word "panties". Go ahead. Try saying "panties" without feeling the need to lick a lollipop or to offer a clean pair. Hearing it gives me the heebie-jeebies, too.  When my husband utters the word during sex, my toes curl for all the wrong reasons. "Underpants" sounds old and ugly, though. "Underwear" sounds too practical, not sexy. So what can he say?  My friend has a similar problem with the word "moist." Suffice to say, if he and I were to ever have sex,  mention of "moist panties" would be a definite mood-killer.

As you sit there in your skivvies, I must ask you ... what word do you hate to say? 

Keywords and British Accents

My most popular (as in most viewed) blog posts are Married Blonde Looks For Dick and Camel Toe As A Fashion Statement. In fact, CTAAFS is my number one read blog post, AND those exact words are my number one keyword search. I am amazed at how many people google "camel toe". Here are some other search examples as listed by my site stats:

camel toe
camel tow (now, you KNOW this was a mis-google-guided nomad with an injured animal)
cameltoe commando
married woman mad for cock
honeydew horny (huh? sounds like a weird fetish)
urgent honeydew sex wanted (ok, now I'm convinced there is such a thing as a honeydew fetish. Who knew?)

Yes, I'd love to report that my blog posts are intelligent musings on important, thought provoking topics, but I am not there just yet.

On that note ...

I spent some high quality time with girlfriends over the weekend. At dinner one night, a bus boy quickly caught our eyes. He was the tall, Giorgio Armani model type with chiseled cheekbones, beautiful thick hair and lips, as delicious as they come. He asked me, very softly, if I was finished with a bread plate before he removed it, and on hearing those four or so words, his level of sexual intensity rose. A British accent! Scalding hot.

Fast forward to me back at home watching porn. I like porn, but after a while it bores me and I am looking for something new but not really sick or too violent. And it has to be free. So, that doesn't leave me with a whole lot of options. I think about bus boy Brit and decide to search "British" on the free sites. I tune in to a group sex thing. Everyone is speaking with a British accent. And I am immediately turned off! Somehow, "oh fuck me harder" and "I love your big cock/tits" said with a British accent sounds wrong. Maybe it is because all I have ever heard throughout life spoken with a British accent was either high-brow theatre, comedy or drama, like The English Patient or Pride and Prejudice. At one point, I muted the video. I just couldn't get past how incongruent the audio/video felt to me.

I wonder if other non-Brits feel this way? It can't just be me. Or can it? Don't answer that.

Lost In Translation Chapter 11 ... entitled "He needs a lot more than juice."

FIL: Eh ... I no understand ... my-a phone no ring. I need a juice?

Me: Juice?

FIL: I need a juice? My phone?

Me: You want some juice? We have orange juice in the fridge. (I have NO IDEA what this has to do with his phone...)

FIL: No! No! My a-phone no ring. It stay quit. (frustration builds ... volume rises)
IT STAY QUIT!!  (btw, he means "quiet") I need a juice? I NEED A JUICE!?!?

Me: (lightbulb moment) OH ... you need to ADJUST the phone??? 

FIL: Yea, yea I need a juice my-a phone. It no ring. Stay quit.

(Moments later, after I've adjusted the ringer volume ...)

FIL: Eh ... I no understand. My-a phone ring, what I do? I open and say Hello?  Or I push-a "send"?

Me: You open it, say hello, then press send. To send your voice. 

FIL: I push-a send? 

Me: Yea, just keep pushing send ... keep pushing send ...

Live And Let Learn

My FIL is back. Along with him came more cheese, of course. And olives.

He went to a cookout over the weekend. A large pitcher of iced tea sat atop a picnic table.
Close by, sat a jug o' bubbles.

After filling a red Solo with ice, he proceeded to pour himself a thirst-quenching cup of chilled bubbly. It was fortunate that someone stopped him before his first gulp. Or was it?

It's gonna be a long eight weeks.

Why blog?

I have been told that blogging is a complete waste of time and energy. And really, who cares about all this crap? That may very well be true.

But then, a "very special friend" sends a love note, saying this was something that immediately brought me to mind. And suddenly, it's all so worth it.

I'm touched    :..)

BEDTiME CONspIRACy

It's the end of yet another long, exhausting day. I spent the last hour repeating "please brush your teeth" 67 or so times, and finally my little one is snuggled under the blankets, begging for me to read him a book.

"An I Spy book, pleeease?"

Immediately, my blood pressure surges.

For those fortunate enough not to know, I Spy books are "seek and finds". And children love them. "Seek and find" puzzles have been around forever. Remember Highlights Magazine? I do. Each edition contained a "hidden pictures" page ...

... like this one. Fun and challenging enough, as I recall.

But no, not by today's standards. I Spy is like Mensa level seek and find.  The sadistic parent-haters who created I Spy are not satisfied with how agonizing it is searching for ONE ridiculously small plastic hen in their cluttered photograph. You must find THREE.

Here's an I Spy page. Although it could also be Martha Stewart's vomit. Hard to tell.  

A disconnected, poem-like verse captions each page, and lists the 18 or so items hidden in the mish mash of mind-fucking crapola. And my son expects us to locate each and every one of them. He is up for the challenge. I should be beaming with pride at his determination! Thanking the I Spy gods for creating this vehicle that encourages tenacious discovery! But I am spent. I just want to go downstairs, pour myself a glass of Beaujolais, and shag the shit of my husband! Instead, here I am reading ...

I spy a snowman, three hens in a row, A drumstick, a rabbit, a small yellow bow,
An almond, a magnet, a sea gull, a chick, A hammer, five cents, and a wooden toothpick.

A fucking ALMOND? A TOOTHPICK? Sure, we've got all night here. Why not add something smaller and more camouflaged, like a deer tick, or better yet, TWELVE deer ticks? And the moment I start counting the same deer tick twice, just to move it the hell along, that bugger of a son catches me! "No, we've already FOUND that one!" Jesus H. Christ, can someone find my sanity because I lost it on deer tick number five! And those dolls are creeping me out.

Eventually, he gets tired, too. Book gets shelved and his back gets rubbed. As he drifts off, he tells me he loves me. And now, I feel like Supermom!

Take that, I Spy demons. You have not defeated me, but have made me stronger. Energized, even!
Now it's my turn.

I spy a shot glass, a bottle of booze,
Crisp cotton bed sheets, two discarded shoes,
A feather, a blindfold, four long silky ties,
Five ice cubes, some whipped cream, then whatever flies!

For the same price, I could've gotten the ben wah balls.

I felt like doing something different, so I bought one of those "sexy lingerie" outfits and tried it on before coming to bed the other night.  As soon as I looked at myself in the mirror, the only "mood" I was in was to call a cosmetic surgeon!

Having a, let's call it "petite" body frame, I should have known I was headed for failure when I read the "One Size Fits Most" tag on the bikini top. Completely false advertising. Unless "MOST" is an acronym for Massively Over-Stuffed Tatas, and that's what you've got, the peek-a-boo feature quickly turns into peek-a-boo-hoo. At least for me it did.

I had high hopes for the crotchless undies. It sounds like a very sexy concept. But when I put them on, I immediately thought, what's the sense? I'm not covering an area that I don't want to be covered anyway. Should I now put on a ski mask for the same reason? Stupid. Off they went.

It also came with a blindfold. Ah ha! Something I CAN enjoy! Except this one was the size and shape of a stiffened maxi-pad and covered with slippery polyester, and the flimsy rubber band snapped as I was trying to adjust it to a tighter fit. That tag read "Made In China."

My husband yells in from the bedroom "What are you doing in there?" Wasting time is my initial thought. He always says he'd rather have me completely naked anyway. Smart man.

Note to self ... you never look like the picture of the model on the box. Not even close!

Shhhh! Here's a secret ...
HDBW has a slamming body and looks great in certain lingerie.
Just not this.

Thank God For The Hidden Eggs

My Saturday night swilling led to a session behind locked doors with the kids running around the house playing with the puppy. In my younger years, I would have felt inhibited by that, but now my mentality is "get it while you still got it, or at least while you can." This morning, tragedy was averted by pure luck. I sent my pre-teen daughter into my bathroom to blow dry her hair, completely forgetting TWO sex toys were left unattended in there. The angels of shag must have been on my shoulder last night, since I at least had the wherewithal to cover them with a hand towel. She decided not to blow it dry, combed it instead into a pony tail, and exited before discovering mommy's little helpers. 

Sometimes, what we hide stays hidden and it's for the best. Sometimes, what we hide is found because it's meant to be. I'll think about that again today as I purposely hide plastic eggs, placing some in spots where I know they will be easily detected. So on that note, have yourselves a very Happy Easter, or for the Greeks, Happy Palm!
(Sounds like a good name for an Oriental Spa!)

Camel Toe as a fashion statement? Not the point.

Shocking. Not a word I'd use to describe myself. Quirky is a better choice. But to some, I suppose, most of my quirks are just that.

For example, my friends were horrified when I mentioned during a girls get-together that I oftentimes went "commando". The collective looks of disgust on their faces were as if I had just admitted that I like the smell of my own sweaty armpits. (Which I kinda do, not because I like the smell of normal sweat, 'cause I don't. But for some unknown reason my sweat smells sort of pretty and sweet.)

ANYWAY, I tried very earnestly to explain why going sans underwear felt so wonderful, and why they might want to give it a try. No bunching, no adjusting, no riding in any crack, nothing showing while wearing low rise jeans. None of my reasons could sway them. Instead, I was instructed to purchase proper fitting underwear to avoid all those unpleasantries. For the rest of the night, I felt all eyes on my crotch, expecting to see constant camel toe. That is certainly NOT the look I'm going for.

Who sees medals? My eyes go directly to what seem to be
the biggest and most uncomfortable wookie wedgies ever.

In fact, I'd never commando wearing leggings or yoga pants or any style pant that would give me wagon wheels. Not only does it look ridiculous, but a cooch crammed with fabric is far more irritating than the butt floss you experience thonging. It's an easy trade-off, in my humble opinion.

What I couldn't bring myself to admit publicly was that the BEST commando experience is when you are wearing a skirt or dress and nothing else until you get down to your shoes. I'm pretty sure I would have needed to administer smelling salts after THAT confession.

It's fun to feel so free down there in public. A naughty kind of fun. And I swear my snatch is smiling, enjoying the absence of all restrictions, the chance to breathe and feel the soft breeze of fresh air, like a caged animal finally released from captivity. Refreshingly primal and right. And it usually leads to spontaneous hot sex, which is always a plus.

So ladies, I command you! Next steamy summer night, slip on a soft, silky dress and some strappy heels. Keep open the gate to the love tunnel. You may be shocked at how naturally good it feels.

Hungry And Horny - If It Were Only That Simple

You've probably heard this joke about a man's only two emotions. It's a good one. I don't look at it as man-bashing. You have to admit it's a great feeling to eat and feel satisfied, and yea, feeling horny feels hornirific. (Although I'd hate to have an erection. To me, it always looks somewhat painful, all that skin stretching. Plus I can't imagine some appendage of my body sans bone, such as an earlobe or my tongue, becoming rock hard. It just seems awkward and again, painful. But I digress.)

Men are pretty simple creatures. I say that since I am a woman and women don't understand men and vice versa. But I have to say, from an emotional standpoint, I am quite jealous of them. I wish I could bury the worry that clings to me like a persistent migraine. I truly hate being emotional. It fucks me up in so many ways.

I have a girl and a boy. The girl is sensitive, caring to a fault, thoughtful and selfless and sweet. The boy is also very sweet, when he gets his way.

We can't change the way we are, but we can try to change the way we handle things. I think to get what I want, to be happier, I have to be less emotional and more demanding. I have to grow a penis, as icky as that sounds. And I have to stop saying things like "icky".

Wish me luck.

Dating In The New Millenium. Mr. Write Seeks Miss Match

I have a friend that I'll call Steve. A divorced 40-something editor who tells me stories of his latest hobby, dating women he's met through online dating sites. Since this new realm of reality is something so foreign and fascinating to me, I sort of live vicariously through hearing his tales. How he strives to create the perfect profile, switching it up every now and then. Getting constant alerts, winks and messages from potential spit swappers. Can you imagine the ego boost from all that constant affirmation? He admits it's addicting. It's no wonder every time I'm in his company he does little more than check his phone and text.  He says he averages about 4 dates a week. And although there hasn't been a love connection so far, I know he's one happy puppy. With a shitload of chew toys.

A funny yet annoying component, he reports, is how all women write basically the same thing in their profiles. Universally, it seems, women love four things. (Well, aside from their AMAZING kids.) TRAVELING, THEIR PETS, THE BEACH AND LOCAL SPORTS TEAMS. Come on, I countered. Could it be? He dared me to log on anonymously and check out the profiles. Which I did. And yes, he was absolutely right! It's as if a united female front is on a mission to send a strong message. Hey, Mr. Right!  Sweep me away on a flight to sunny Florida in March, Fido in tow, to watch my boys of summer in spring training. The reality date is more like sitting in Yancy's Bar, where it always smells like a litter box, sipping a lousy margarita and eating hot wings next to a guy in a Flyers jersey.

Then there's the "what women write versus what men hear." Steve claims you can easily read between the lines of "describe yourself" and identify important potential personality pitfalls. Such as ...

"Honesty is important to me ..."  =  "My ex cheated on me."
(And by the way, honesty is important? Isn't that like saying oxygen is important? Or do some people dig dishonesty? Yea, lie to me as much as possible. It's confusingly cool.) **

"Read my entire profile before you contact me! I'll do the same for you!!! I am a big personality!!! My friends say I have lots of energy and a zest for life....blah blah blah"  =  Extremely high maintenance. And maybe even more frightening, she uses multiple exclamation points. A definite red flag.

"I'm laid back and easy going..."  =  Extremely low maintenance. Caution. The redundancy tips her into the "boring as hell" category.

"I love to travel as much as possible."  =  "I'm going to cost you a LOT of money."

"I want an outgoing, happy, secure man who wants to be my best friend."  =  Good luck with that.
(Fifty bucks says she loves unicorns.)

"Looking for a hard working man ..."  =  her last boyfriend was a deadbeat.

"I want to take it slow."  =  No sex. Ever.

"I prefer red wine to white, dogs to cats, spring to summer and sunrises to sunsets."  =  Kill me now.
(That was Steve's reaction to what I thought was a sweet attempt at being creative. Although he also said that her pic was hot, so he would contact her. Huh? Go figure. It must be a guy thing that I obviously don't get.)

"I'm an attractive ..."  =  disregard her picture. It's not recent and she's not that attractive anymore. His theory is that if you were really that attractive, you wouldn't have to say it.

Steve told me he wishes women would stop writing like they were talking to their girlfriend and instead, write as if they were talking to a guy.  I wondered how the landscape might change if that were the case. Would a guy hearing things straight from the hip be in any way intimidated? Create a sour stomach before the tasting begins? Are those playing the mating game better off using sound bites rather than reality bites?  I can't help but wonder how many hits something like this would get:

"A bad kisser is a deal breaker. Looking for a guy with a gorgeous set of lips who knows how to use them. In the sack, you don't have to be a nice guy, but I'd prefer you finish last. I too love the beach and want you there with me, essentially to carry the umbrella, cooler and chairs. And to apply sunscreen on my back. Lots of loving attention makes me happy. So does being by myself sometimes. I'm confusing as hell. I'm sure you are, too. So we cancel each other out. Call me crazy, but the guy who picks up after himself is way hotter than the guy who picks up the check. And probably better in bed.  I want someone who doesn't pick his nose in public. Who picks me above all others. And what you give is what I give back. Give it to me, baby. I'm Rick James, bitch."

Click here for Rick James, bitch!


The old school funk was a bit of a digression, but it brought me back to a time when meeting someone was not like ordering from a menu. It meant maybe the club scene, or at a bar at last call slow dancing with a stranger, exchanging phone numbers on a cocktail napkin or a pack of matches, or simply being somewhere noticing someone noticing you.

As for Steve and his chances for meeting his Miss Match soulmate, no one knows for sure. Even with technology bringing so many options to the table, the dating game itself hasn't really changed.  I say, fuck it. Have fun with it. If you're going to play, be all in. You have the cards that you were dealt. Now let them fall where they may.


** I stole these lines from a brilliant comedic writer I know. It's the funniest part of this whole post, in my opinion. I'm sorry, couldn't help it. I hope you don't mind. :)

Married blonde looks for dick.

Spam email amuses me. The subject lines certainly get my attention. For a nanosecond. Sort of like the way "fuck" written in Sharpie pen on the restroom stall does. Who opens this stuff? I am certain that spammers do not have someone like me in mind when they are creating subject titles. The majority of these fine bits of prose relate to penis enlargement, so I'd have to wager a guess that men are the target audience.

I want that job. It would be fun and challenging! Thinking up short, stupid phrases to entice libidinous, easily persuadable or otherwise bored numskulls to click onto my link and purchase whatever bogus crap I have waiting there. Better yet, I'd like a way to respond to these messages. For no other reason than to amuse myself. I seem to do a lot of that lately!

Let's see what my spam folder has for me today ...

Married blonde looks for dick ....
I just saw him recently on New Year's Rockin' Eve. He's alive and well, sort of.

Wife strips and looks for dates ...
Now, see ... I do it the other way around. I find the dates, usually in the produce section. THEN I strip.
If you walk in naked they call the cops right away and you can forget about the dates. And who wants that? Really.

Fuckbook for Casual Encounters ...

Would be a nice addition to my library, standing along side of Cookbook for Casual Dinners.

Enhance your organ ...
Like Liberace did? With candelabras and glitter? Oh wait, that was a piano. Never mind.

MILF spreads legs for dates ...
Geez, imagine what she'll do for kumquats.

Want sum hung long for you? ...
Uhhhh .... yes, to go, with a side of pork fried rice and steamed dumplings.

Senior Dating and Videos ... Chat Now
I have two words for that one ... BITE ME!

Now go ahead and have yourself a spam-free day :)