Privacy is such a lonely word.

The basement bathroom. It's far enough removed from the ordinary Saturday afternoon activity, I conclude, and seems like the only place at this moment that offers a safe haven. Locked behind the door, I switch on the fan to use as an audible buffer. The light stays off. My bullet goes on to the third of seven settings. No sooner had the left side of my flushed face settled comfortably into the plush throw rug when my zone was jarringly interrupted by a knock on the door and my 13-year-old daughter's voice.

"Mom? Mom, what are you DOING in there?"

"I am going to the bathroom!! What do you WANT?"

"The UPS guy needs a signature. Are you okay??"

My voice sounds loud and frustrated over the hum of the fan, although the other buzz had stopped. Suddenly.

"Yes! Just sign it!"

Later, when I surfaced, my daughter comments. I can't help hearing suspicion in her voice.
"Um ... going to the bathroom? You sounded like you were in pain."

"Sometimes going to the bathroom can be painful." What else can I say? It was the first thing that came to mind. And most likely, one of the first things she chooses to discuss with her therapist in years to come.

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.

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.

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.


(Inspo for this post came from a brilliant comedic writer I know. I hope Steve doesn'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 :)

Things I Just Don't Get

Minivans
Or as I like to call them, mommyvans. Mommies who can't judge the size of their vehicle vans. Next mommyvan you see, I'll bet you'll notice a long scrap along the side of it, one of the rear view mirrors will be damaged, or the bumper will have some sort of dent. And inside, complete disaster. The plastic innards of a McDonald's Playland tube slide is like a sanitized surgical scalpel compared to the shit storm happening inside the cavity of a mommyvan. Style-less, over-sized chaos.


North Face Jackets.
They are everywhere. In line at ShopNBag the other day, four out of the six people within ten feet of me were sporting that dingy, looks-like-it's-been-over-washed, black, fleecy, no collar, zippered, expensive, ugly jacket. Including the cashier.  It was like being amidst mindless, trendy fashion cult members. Puzzling, and creepy.

The Oversaturation of Adele.
Hey, I sort of like that title. Sounds like a Barnes and Noble "staff pick". Anyway, yes, she is an extremely talented singer and songwriter but gee whiz, why can't the airwaves give it a rest? Please? For at least a few hours? No Adele? Please? I'm tired of switching stations already.

The Karfuckingdashians.
Who gives a flying fuck? Apparently, almost everyone except me. I don't know much about them other than there is a bunch of females who all sort of look the same, the father is the used-to-be famous Olympic runner Bruce Jenner, something involving a porno, and somehow they are all over the place. Something about sisters? Who the fuck knows. All I know is, it pisses me off that every time I turn around, there is a Karfuckingdashian in my face. (Can you tell, when I am overly irritated, I say fuck a lot?) And if you ask me, that guy that one of them married for 15 minutes looks like Shrek.

The Latest Catchphrases

It must be me. I tried it. I tried sounding current by throwing a few My Bads and Just Sayins around. To my ears, I sound retarded. When I hear My Bad, Epic Fail, Uber anything and Just Sayin, it's like nails on a chalkboard. Now there's an expression I like.

Holiday Letters

It's that time of year again. Time to open wide to take what I call my December dose of Syrup of Ipecac, otherwise known as the Holiday Letter. You know, those delightful year-end recaps cleverly crafted to boast shamelessly while still sounding sincerely grateful and humbled by life's good fortune. The ones I get, however, are not so subtle. They simply scream "our shit doesn't stink."  I read them and I wonder, do you hear yourself? Here's an excerpt ...

"Our Jennifer continues to work at (insert name of well-known wealth management company here) and is now Assistant Vice President and Marketing Coordinator for the United Emirates market. She has ambitious goals of competing in the blah blah blah triathlon with Team SaveALife. She continues to volunteer with various not-for-profit organizations such as blah blah blah and she is now President of the blah blah blah Alumni Association of (insert Ivy League University name here). Her fiance, David, also a graduate of (insert name of Ivy League University again), has entered his second year of law school at (yet another Ivy League university) and spends a majority of his free time as a volunteer firefighter, where he has recently been promoted to Lieutenant."

This particular author/mom writes in the third person, which also baffles me. The section on her goes like this ...

"Mary is still an extraordinary minister at church and recently joined (name of club which infers she combines regular exercise WITH volunteer work) and plans to donate one of her kidneys to a random homeless person within the next year."

And it goes on and on and on. Okay, I made up the part about the organ gifting, but that wouldn't surprise me. 

... That's it for now, friends. What don't you get? I'd love to compare notes.

Get Out Of My Facebook ... The Peculiar Parallels Between Social Media and Motherhood

Not a day goes by that I am not in some way reminded of two things ... my children and as weird as it sounds, facebook. My kids are a constant and facebook is everywhere. I enjoy facebook for the most part, and lately have been thinking how much the experience is very similar to being a mom.

I've established a love/hate relationship with both. There are days when both worlds make me laugh and entertain.  Some fb friends have the gift of making their personality shine through updates, comments and links. Even being an obnoxious and total asswipe of a facebooker is hilarious when it's kept in the right perspective. My kids force me to LOL daily with schtick that flows naturally from the pure minds of those so fresh and unencumbered.

And then, there are the many social media moments when the level of annoyance is equal to if not greater than my 6 year old's incessant whining for Wii Lego Star Wars Clone Wars II. Biggest culprit, the "Repost this if ..." status. The facebook version of a chain letter with the implied message that if you don't repost, you aren't one of "us" and something bad should happen to you if it hasn't already. The repost topic is usually some sappy ideology that is aimed to lift your spirits or elevate awareness of some elected higher cause.

Here's an annoying example:

If You Support Our Troops, Hate Animal Cruelty, Love Your Daughter, Pray For World Peace and A Cure For Cancer, Recycle Paperclips and Believe In The Importance Of Regular Bowel Movements, Then Please Post This on Your Status and Leave It There for One Hour and If You Don't You Suck

I never repost. I'm clearly an apathetic communist who hates children.

Other irritating pet peeves are

animated posts,

http://img365.imageshack.us/img365/5563/dancingcow.gif

posts that use symbols to draw a freaky looking picture,

.............(0 0)
.---oOO-- (_)-----.
╔═════════════════╗
║ INVITE ALL YOUR FRIENDS ║ (No, thank you)
╚═════════════════╝
'---------------oOO
........|__|__|
.......... || ||
....... ooO Ooo

Farmville shit,

and anything that's regurgitating hearts.

Put ♥ this ♥ on ♥ anyone's ♥ wall ♥ who ♥ made ♥ you ♥ smile ♥ somewhere ♥ sometime ♥ in ♥ your ♥ life. ♥ It ♥ may ♥ surprise ♥ you, ♥ but ♥ check ♥ out ♥ how ♥ many♥ comes ♥ back.♥ Thanks ♥ a ♥ lot ♥ for ♥ making ♥ me ♥ smile ! ♥ Put ♥ this ♥ back ♥ on ♥ my ♥ wall ♥ if ♥ I ♥ ever ♥ made ♥ you ♥ smile

The worst is the application where people send each other hearts and ask for one in return. They mostly resemble this:

It's called Puzzled Hearts, and it puzzles the fuck out of me why someone would want to  "send and receive beautiful hearts, unlock love quotes, and solve virtual jigsaw puzzles." I'd love to shock these misfits who partake in such nonsense with sending them a heart-shaped testicle of an AIDS-infected sewer rat. Boxed and via the USPS.

"HDBW just sent you the heart-shaped testicle of an AIDS-infected sewer rat. Won't you send her one back for her collection? If that's too much trouble, one made of dryer lint would be equally delightful!"

Another similarity is the the egomania and self-centeredness running rampant through the veins of many facebookers and all children entering kindergarten. With social media, this is most evident in how many pics one has of themselves throughout their various "albums". I'll be generous. More than, say, 15 pics of yourself and I consider you a high ranking member of Club Narcissus. I'd rather see one or two awful, or mediocre, or plain old honest pics of someone who doesn't give a rat's ass rather than 37 of an insatiable photogenic poser. Ok, you look good. We get it.

In my mom role, I'm blasted with perceived attention deficit syndrome constantly. What about me, look at me, what's in it for me, don't forget me, me first. And it is definitely audible, not so much visual.  Concentration frazzled by what seems like endless questions and calls for help. Mommy, mommy, mommy where is she? She's right here chasing after a train of thought.

It's funny. So often, the things that make you smile are the same things that make you crazy. Nothing is more truer for me than this. And that sentiment could be considered motherly wisdom, or tomorrow's status update. 

Boob Envy

Let me begin by saying this is not about low self-esteem, or not being appreciative of the beauty of the human body in all its forms. And I'm not whining. It's about a common condition called boob envy, relating mostly to the admiration of and pining for a beautifully full, womanly set of knockers. A full rack. Great tits. For these I desire, if not for anything else, to compliment my sparkling personality.

BE syndrome doesn't age discriminate. In fact, my case began as most with the onset of puberty. As my daughter nears this milestone, we talk more often about how girls bodies change. She says she doesn't want "big boobs" and I respond neutrally. Using the "play it down as to not cause undue anxiety" approach. "Yes, well remember that you are beautiful with whatever nature gives you. As long as you're healthy ... love yourself on the inside and the outside." Great words with significant meaning. But the reality is, once girls begin developing, the natural boob fixation begins.

Don't remember much about 8th grade, but what is etched in my mind is how preoccupied we all were with breasts. While most girls were proudly wearing tube tops that effortlessly stayed in place, I was still sporting training bras lined with tissues. I'll never forget Dave Summers* who use to run around the hallways grabbing the chests of the developed girls. He'd then spread his thumb and index finger to the width of what he felt and announce brazenly to all "she was THIS big!" God I hated him. Yet, wished it was me he was fondling. Where were my boobs? When will I bloom?

That too did pass. I bloomed in other ways. And I loved my body all along and still do. Yet, I can't reduce the frequent occurances of BE and wonder, why do I focus on this particular physical deliquency?

Let's face it. Beautiful breasts have and always will be one of the most attractive features of the female body. Being flat chested makes me feel like a girl, not a woman. A prepubescent child/woman who has resigned to a life of padding to achieve a more curvaceous look. Yes, my boobs are perky and firm. (Think Kate Moss posing topless during her modeling hey-day.) Fantastic. Still, sufferers of BE can't resist the craving for more chest flesh to flash. More glorious glands to grab.

MAYBE what is bothering me the most is that this is something men don't have to deal with.
Is there such a thing as dick envy? And I'm not talking about the jealous admiration of the many talents of Mr. Van Dyke. (Have you watched Mary Poppins lately?) But how would dick envy evolve unless the men in question are gathered in a locker room shower? Standing around the water cooler on a casual Friday afternoon, those khakis and jeans reveal nothing to compare.

Small penises are a well kept secret. And oftentimes, from what I hear, easily enlarge to an acceptable size. Pop culture never mentions teeny weanies. And even in the rare instances when it does, it's a non-issue. Remember the 70's glam group The Sweet? I myself rocked out to Little Willy who wouldn't go home. The life of the party, that guy was, with a persona so big it didn't matter what was going on inside those trousers of his. For those of you who were still in diapers or not even born yet ...


Relive a memory from my youth ... click here

Oh, the decades-long obsession with BE. It needs to end. I wish I could convince myself that I am not missing out on anything. Except cleavage!! Maybe what I miss most is cleavage. Or maybe this IS about low self-esteem after all. Maybe I am a whiner. If I may be so bold, maybe I should just shut the fuck up, count my blessings, and just let me be.

* name changed ... he now goes by the moniker Delta Bravo.




(Check out this link ... the power of the boob. Very funny, and very true.)

http://www.cracked.com/funny-212-boobs/

chAnGEs

With age comes wisdom ... maybe. What I'm sure of is that with age comes change. And lately, I've been noticing shifts in my personality, my perspective, my behavior and my appearance ...  tell tale signs on life's highway that scream "Mid Life Crisis, Bear Right".

Like I want to have sex all the time. Every night. No matter if I am dead tired, falling asleep on the couch, a sense of urgency arouses me to find the energy to get the game on. As if to take advantage of my capability, my physical attraction to my husband and his to me, my age-defying body, and my libido before it all goes away in a puff of Jean Nate' scented powder, my grandmom's favorite.

When I sneeze, a little bit of pee comes out. How's that for depressing?

Then there is that lovely slap in the face disguised as a compliment, "You look great, for your age." Yes, I've heard that one many times in the recent past. Its sting is sharp coming from men, even with my understanding of their inherent cluelessness. The little vixen in my head wants to reply "You look your age, and it ain't great."

Some of my most simple pleasures are under attack. Like catalog shopping. What's better than returning from your mailbox with an armful of slick, thick, vividly enticing mini-mags chock full of fashion must-haves? Wait, what's this? Lands End Swimwear Collection? The Walking Company? An invitation to a Shady Acres luncheon and tour of the facility? Hey Victoria, the fact that I still look damn good in your swimsuits and lingerie is no freakin' secret!

We normally do not exchange for any occasion, but this past Valentine's Day, my adoring husband decided to surprise me with a gift. I was tickled a lovers day pink when I saw the cute little Neiman Marcus bag, imaging what fantastic trinket lay waiting for me inside. Perfume? A blingy bauble? Gorgeous lacy barely-theres? Well, it seems with age also comes practicality, and what's more useful to a nearing mid-life crisis mom than a complete set of Kiehl's skin care products. And with such exotic names ... Midnight Recovery Cream, Ultra Intensive Deep Wrinkle Serum, and la creme de la creme, Powerful Strength Line Reducing Concentrate. (Big sigh) We still had sex that night.

The hormonal roller coaster, the sudden interest in Juvederm, the fantasies featuring the 22 year old lifeguard with the hairless pecs, the obsession with self-tanner and white strips, all get to be a bit overwhelming for me. I need more rest stops along this autobahn of life. But even with all the angst that comes with accepting age and the changes I face, some things never change. Love is a constant. As this woman marches forward to face the battles of time, I know she will forever be one lucky girl.

Wanted

More time. Or a personal assistant. Or a clone.

While we're at it ... a window in my home office. The complete elimination of the words "awesome" and "amazing" from the English language. Followed immediately by removing the repeated tendency to use the word "issue". Since when did a problem become an issue? Okay, Websters does list "emotional problem" as one of its definitions, but it is one of about six others. Just stop using "issues" so much. My head is going to explode. It's obvious I've got a problem with it.

Someone to scratch my back for more than 7 seconds. A professional back-scratcher/masseuse/hair washer/scalp kneader/hair stylist at my beck and call 24/7. The ability to afford one of those would also be nice.

A way to stop that crazy robin from flying into the great room window. The looney bird's repetitive attempts create a tap-tap-tapping sound that rivals the beat-beat-beating of Poe's clever little demonic organ. I have tried hanging dark towels in the glass, tried screaming at him through the open window below, even hitched a scarecrow-like voodoo doll on the stucco wall beside his target. Nothing works. He is determined to beat his little breast into that window until ... don't really know why. Maybe his fellow bird community have tweeted the equivalent of "amazing" and "awesome" one too many times, poor guy.

More laughing. Less scandal. Less attention to scandal. More made-up words. Like nipplitis, and quinsensines. Don't ask.

You to excuse me, this post has become tiresome.

My Top Ten ... (yes, I'm stealing the bit from Dave)

Potential responses to my newly-made bar stool buddy's conversational comment ...


 "I give my husband a BJ every day."



Number 10 - "Sweet. Nothing says I Love You quite like a daily blow job."


Number 9 - "As they say, a blow job a day makes the husband not stray."


Number 8 - "Imagine all the jealous body builders out there who spend lots of money on protein supplements!"

Number 7 - "That's one way to avoid carpel tunnel syndrome."

Number 6 - "I hope he doesn't expect birthday presents."

Number 5 -"Wow, you really suck. And I mean that in a good way."

Number 4 - "This gives a whole new meaning to the word "bobble-head".

Number 3 - "So that's why your lips are so well-toned!"

Number 2 - "You mention this to my husband, and I'll kill you."


And the number one response ...


"OK, so now I'm definitely NOT letting you taste my melon martini."

5 year old Wisdom

My husband and my 5 year old son are watching a music video on the Disney Channel. A sweet 16-er with long shiny hair and eyelashes flirts playfully with the camera as she sings about young love.

Dad: "She's pretty, isn't she?"
Son: "Do you think Mommy is pretty?"
Dad: "I think Mommy is beautiful."
Son: "I asked you that so you wouldn't forget."

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"Life is life. If you don't like your life, get a new one. Or just punch yourself in the face and die."

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My son falls asleep during Christmas Day mass. He wakes as I carry him out of the church.
Him: "Did I sleep through the whole thing?"
Me: "Yes."
Him: "Awesome! Now let's go to grandmom's."

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Trying to convince mom why vacationing in Disney is a dumb idea:

"Aw, c'mon! People walking around in costumes? That is so one-second-ago."

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My son overhears a radio spot about erectile dysfunction:
Him: "Mommy, what does "dysfunction" mean?
Me: "It means 'doesn't work'."
Him: (Pauses for a moment in thought) "Don't they know that you need to feed your reptile?
If you FEED your reptile, it will work just fine."
Me: "That's the most logical thing I've heard all day."

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Overheard conversation between my Daughter, Son and Father-In-Law ... my son is explaining something to his sister ... father-in-law interrupts:

FIL: He speak-a good.
D: Huh?
FIL: You brudda. He speak-a good English.
S: Everybody does. Except you.

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Sperm. Easier to swallow on a sandwich.

Invited friends over for an impromptu gathering the other night. We spent the night sitting around the kitchen table eating and drinking, the men talking with the men and women talking with the women. While enjoying a nice salad, my female friend, who is Israeli, commented on how she and her family eat a lot of salad, but in the Israeli style, without the leafy greens. So we chat more about all things salad.

Me: "Ever put alfalfa sprouts in your salad?"
Her: "No, but I love them on sandwiches. Funny story. My 11 year old once saw me eating sprouts in my sandwich and informed me that they looked like sperm!"

Well, we had a laugh over that one, then took the conversation in a completely different direction.

Me: "Mmmm, sperm on a sandwich. I wonder if that would make it easier to swallow."
Her: (cracking up) "I doubt it!"

At this point the husbands are now getting a drift of our conversation. I think hearing the word "sperm" coming from the other side of the table put the brakes on their discussion.

Him1: "What are you saying? Sperm?"

Her: "Yes, we are saying that no matter how you disguise it, sperm is hard to swallow. Wouldn't you agree?"

We, on the female side of the table, are still smiling and find this amusing. The men do not. Awkward silence. A short clearing of the throat is all that one has to offer. A jerky body movement signaling discomfort from the other.

It was then that I  realized how wives speaking about oral sex in mixed company could be so disabling to their husbands. To be honest, I find candid talk about the intensity and frequency of spousal flatulence more horrendous and embarrassing.

The topic quickly changed, as you may have probably guessed, and the night resumed with all its predictability.  But it got me wondering why it is so difficult to just be loose, verbally, about sex with other couples and just have fun with it. I am finding that throughout my life, no matter how mature I have become, how worldly or educated, I have yet to discover any significant people in my life who I can speak freely with about sex.

There is always the boundary factor. Which is not to say boundaries are not important. I would find it a form of betrayal to reveal the intimate details of my marital sex life. I also find it repulsive that some men, and women, have no problem mouthing off in a locker room way specifics on what their mate does or does not do, or how well or badly they do it.  Then you have the impression factor. Women who initiate sexual discussions are tagged horny, and likely promiscuous. Even between girlfriends, I am often skittish about sex chat since it evokes sudden awkwardness and shut down. I am not prying. I am not turning lesbo. I am simply tired of talking about kids and husbands and work and am dying to know if you own a dildo. And any other details about it you'd like to share.

Am I being too nosy or insensitive to another's privacy? Maybe. Turn me off like an annoying reality show by telling me to mind my own business, I won't take offense. I just wish that honest, funny sex chat between friends of both sexes didn't have to be so rare. Or so hard to swallow.