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.