tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88818908555361247372024-03-07T02:19:50.917-05:00From the Gates of HellRead on... or don't...Fresh Hellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433690465518397066noreply@blogger.comBlogger110125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8881890855536124737.post-86554637105978352302008-02-08T11:32:00.000-05:002008-02-08T12:09:36.296-05:00Throwing A BoneI've been flying low low low under the radar. Mostly I have been busy drinking too much, losing track of my panties, and falling down on dicks that any self-respecting girl of a certain age and station in life should steer clear of when drunk and falling down on things. Stumbling home reeking of liquor, cigarettes, and sin. It is shameful, I tell you. I am a disgrace. Fun, though.<br /><br />It would seem that this weekend, I'll be doing a little celebrating in advance of the 38th anniversary of the day I first drew breath. I'm starting tonight by going to the <a href="http://www.rmichelson.com/Upcoming-Events.html">opening reception</a> for the book, "Love Song: Erotic Photographs" by Arnold Skolnick. He's a pretty superfantastic artist with a remarkable resume and is the dude who designed the dove and guitar poster for the Woodstock wing-ding back in the 60's. My big sister occasionally models for him (she's beautiful and a good model because she's a yoga teacher. Thus, by definition, a poser). More importantly, Arnold is a real swell guy. You should look him up and see some of his art. Lovely stuff, friends. <a href="http://www.oxbowgallery.com/artist/skolnick.html">Lovely stuff</a>.<br /><br />This may be a hit and run post. I may find time in my busy schedule of defiling and debauching myself to post more often. Either way, know that I am thinking about all you sweeties all the time. XXXFresh Hellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433690465518397066noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8881890855536124737.post-67525474134692929392008-01-12T08:35:00.000-05:002008-01-12T10:28:09.126-05:00Hell in a HandbasketHokay . . . So!<br /><br />Even though my blogging credibility will lose ground in the eyes of <a href="http://oldbitterballs.blogspot.com/">Old Knudsen</a>, I’m daring to post a video that has made me laugh my fool ass off for years now. You may have seen it, but if not, you are in for a treat.<br /><br /><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/nZMwKPmsbWE&rel=" width="425" height="355" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent"></embed><br /><br />They tell me that the political climate is heating up and that someday soon, there will be an election for the new Chief Whore of the Free World. People are in a lather about who is the best whore in each party and whatnot. Republicans are in a tizzy about a Democrat getting into office and taking all their money away and enabling poor people and foreigners to live with some dignity. Democrats fear that Republicans will maintain the ever coveted Chief Whore of the Free World Office and they will turn all free thinkers into Bible-thumping, war-mongering, automatons that are hopped up on booze and prescription drugs, and that everyone who needs a helping hand will become more so downtrodden than they already are. Either way, chaos will ensue. The sun will cease to rise. And worst of all, we'll have a recession. There, I said it.<br /><br />Politics. I pay attention, but I don't really give a damn how things pan out. I realize that position is not very politically correct of me. However, whatever the whore parade does, I still know how to make rice and beans. I can darn my socks and mend a hole in a pair of jeans and unravel a sweater from the thrift store to knit myself a new one. I have a car, but I also have a bicycle and I know how to use it and repair it. As was pointed out to me recently, I am resilient and resourceful. And frankly, I am a little bit Buddhist about politics.<br /><br />Last night I was speaking with a friend who has never been "rich" but has always been comfortable. Her family didn't have to scrimp to get by. She doesn't remember going to the market with a single mother and $5 to feed two kids for a month. If that was her situation, she would be a turtle on her back.<br /><br />I told her that if the bottom fell out of the economy, I would sit back and laugh my ass off as people fell apart in panic and desperation as they lost their cars, houses and . . . horror of it all . . . their god damned, flat-screen, high-definition televisions. Is it such a surprise that Americans are fat? She wondered what I would do if I lost my job in such a hypothetical. I reminded her that before I had my current job, I always had some job or another. They weren't always professional. They didn't always hold the esteem that my profession does. And they certainly didn't bring me the scratch that I earn now. Even so, there is always a way to turn a dime if you are willing to do what it takes.<br /><br />She could not imagine that anyone who has worked hard to get ahead could go back to the holding hands of modest means once they've discovered the vibrating joys of gluttonous affluence. Perhaps she has never really held hands. She bought her house just a couple of months before the real estate market took a header. I urged her to hold off for a spell while the sub-prime adjustable rate mortgages adjusted and people started to panic. Her property has lost about $15,000 in the past six months. Fear and desperation always smells of opportunity to people like me who are patient and good at being poverty stricken.Fresh Hellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433690465518397066noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8881890855536124737.post-6263553202612021272008-01-07T23:01:00.000-05:002008-01-07T23:15:42.106-05:00I’ve Been RemissAnd I’m still sorry.<br /><br />December turned out to be a busy-ass month. If it’s any consolation, I thought of nothing but you, my faithful blog pals. OK, I lied a little with that last bit, but I often thought of all y’all and occasionally, I had moments of inspiration that went like this, “oh . . . hilarious . . . I should post about that.” And then I’d proceed to completely forget about it.<br /><br />Anyhow, over the month of December, I completed a F. U. C. K. I. N. G. H. U. M. U. N. G. O. U. S. closure report and became sick as a dog.<br /><br />Actually, I don’t often get sick so when I do, I don’t fuck around. This was one of the worst of the mothers of all head colds anyone could imagine. I was solidly in bed for about a week. When I finally mustered the gumption to haul my arse out of bed and go to work, last Thursday, I took a look at my environment and found this sad situation:<br /><br />On the floor around my bed, there was a sea of soiled snot rags. Actually, a box and a half worth of them. In case you were wondering, they take up a lot more space out of the box than in it. On one side of my bed there was <em>(here’s where the wheels came off the bus with the red wine pickled writing)</em> <del>ampty bottle of Niquil on the floor, On the bedside table there was a discussion about who has or who has no sense aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa</del> <em>(whoops, I may have fallen asleep a little mid-blather)</em> an empty bottle of Nyquil on the floor and on the bedside table there was a half full bottle of Nyquil. I spent an hour finding all the tissues strew about the house and did the dishes from can after can of pre-fab <em>(read: not-so-fab)</em> chicken soup. My strength is coming back now and I’m beginning to regain my feistiness. Couldn’t be more pleased at that prospect.<br /><br />In other news, I found a condominium that I may actually make an offer for. Maybe not. I’m scared witless about it. Most people I know have a significant other jumping with them which spreads out the risk. And most of the people I know who go it alone, at least have parents who can offer an assist if things become overwhelming. In this case, it's just me. That makes me extremely cautious and hesitant with large purchases. I want my mommy <em>(seems to be my fall back position when I’m sick or scared)</em>.<br /><br />That's all for now. I have more up my sleeves, so stay tuned!Fresh Hellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433690465518397066noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8881890855536124737.post-72453846746103600042008-01-06T18:32:00.000-05:002008-01-06T18:43:11.073-05:00Happy 2008<strong>Confession:</strong> I'm a bad blogger.<br /><br />Someone should spank me . . . no, really, please . . . I'm in to that kind of thing. It's <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">OK</span>, though because my therapist doesn't think I'm much the worse for it so it's game on with a paddle.<br /><br />I've been neglecting my blog and my blog pals for a month and I am truly sorry. Things have been busy: work, family, illness, not necessarily in that order. The other night I got fitfully crocked and hammered out some writing that I wanted to post, but I haven't had the guts to open it up and take a look at what sort of crazy talk I was spewing into the computer in the middle of the night, while soaked in red wine. I'll take a look and fix some typos and try to get it up soon so the blog goon <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">squad carrying</span> torches and pitch forks doesn't hunt me down to hurt me bad in a not so fun way.<br /><br />Happy New Year, y'all!Fresh Hellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433690465518397066noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8881890855536124737.post-18635084247517327082007-12-11T07:21:00.000-05:002007-12-11T09:16:45.715-05:00Ali Blah Blah is Right on the Money!After I got home from work last night and got all my comments on yesterday's blog, I went on a hunt for my high school diary. <a href="http://aliblahblah.blogspot.com/">Ali Blah Blah</a> suggested that I had actually written about the first time I rutted with my first love boyfriend of <a href="http://fresh-new-hell.blogspot.com/2007/03/volvo-wagon.html">The Volvo Wagon</a> fame as I suggested in yesterday's post. She imagined that my diary entry went something like this:<br /><br /><em>'dear diary, today we rutted for the first time, I was so excited, he wore blue.....'.</em><br /><br />I must tell y'all, I found it and this is what it said:<br /><br /><em>Dear Diary, </em><br /><em></em><br /><em>I had so wanted to wait until the time was right and it would be special to pop Boyfriend's cherry. As that sort of thing goes, I really wish that it was more special and memorable when I had my first day in the saddle, but it wasn't special, more a task to get out of the way. Anyway, he had band practice tonight and his buddy, you know, 'Stoner Trust Fund Stinking Rich Kid - Part III'</em> (ok, there were several of this animal in my youth) <em>was having a party at his dad's place in Montecito. I wish it was at his beach house, because that would have made it more special, but it was just the house in the Village. Damn. So we were playing quarters with really bad beer. Milwaukee's Best. Again. And boyfriend asked me to go downstairs with him to use the bathroom. Honestly, I thought, he is so not a girl like that. What the hell has gotten into him. So I go downstairs, and we start fooling around in a dark room with laundry strewn across the bed. What does Boyfriend do, I ask you? What does he do? He starts taking off all our clothes. I resist at first because I could see where this was going and I have to tell you, the laundry strewn basement bedroom of Stoner Trust Fund Stinking Rich Kid - Part III is so not "special". But we were already past the point of no return so I went with it. I was so excited. I thought I was done with "inexperienced" boys, but that's what I get for falling for a younger . . . ahem . . . man. Thank God he was fully grown in the important parts.</em> Yeah, it matters when you are young and don't have any compensatory moves. Amazing that boys don't always come out of their first sexual experiences totally damaged!<em> So off he went pumping like a bunny until he started panting out "Here I go, here I go, here I go." I took that as a sign that he was about to fill me with sweet adolescent man boy juice. It was. And he did. And I had all I could do to keep from laughing out loud. I said to him, 'Here I go? Here I go? Here I go? Seriously.' He was sheepish and said that he didn't know what he was supposed to say or do but wanted to give me fair warning. Aww. Sweet. Being the kind nurturing type, I went upstairs and told everyone what had just happened and what he said. We laughed and laughed and laughed. Because I'm cruel, I think I'll be the girlfriend to him that gives a lot of blow jobs to make up for it. I wonder if he will appreciate that . . . So, Dear Diary, that is how I spent my St. Patrick's Day of 1988</em>.<br /><br />That was my first love, and the last time I kept track of my boyfriends. The sex got better and he started calling me <em>Bunny</em>. It's pretty funny to think about if you ever met me, because I am sooooo not a <em>Bunny</em> type of girl.<br /><br />Thanks for the sweet blog anniversary wishes, y'all!Fresh Hellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433690465518397066noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8881890855536124737.post-85628988702708602032007-12-10T08:07:00.000-05:002007-12-10T09:02:30.795-05:00Let Her Eat CakeAnniversaries do not matter that much to me. As I grow older, their value diminishes and consistently becomes more and more insignificant. Across the history of my life, I haven't kept track of the dates of significant events and life milestones.<br /><br />I have celebrated one anniversary with a boyfriend, and that was because I was 19 years old and it was just a 'thing that you do' when you have a boyfriend. Once was enough. Since then I could not tell you exactly how long I've dated any of my ex boyfriends. I certainly couldn't tell you when we met or had our first date, kiss, or rut.<br /><br />I've not bred. That is probably why I don't look at children as 7 month old, 23 month old or any month old. To me, they are pretty much, newborn until they are a year old. Then they turn two after another year has screamed by. I think that is about as much tracking as is necessary. Anything beyond that is tedious and obsessive, but appears to be the standard in parenting.<br /><br />So last year, during NaBloPoMo I was inspired to start a blog. I was totally unprepared for anyone to ever look at it much less come back and leave comments. Imagine my surprise when a few of you good people added a link to my blog on your blogs. High compliment, yet I always figured that it was just a matter of time before you realized that I was a fraud and you deleted my link. Any time now, I'm sure I'll lose you all.<br /><br />The point is, as I was burning through writing a post every day during the month of November, I thought, <em>NaBloPoMo is almost over, pretty soon I will have been writing this blog for a year.</em> So I carried on writing away and finally November came to an end and this lady had a moment to step back and breathe a little. I also took the time to look through my archives and see exactly when I began writing this here blog. Guess what: Consistent with the value I put on anniversaries, my one year mark came and went. I had cake in celebration last night.<br /><br />Actually I was hung over from my company Christmas party, so I dove into comfort food to try and regain balance and clarity in my system. Sugar is good for that, right? It didn't fix anything really, but having cake for no good reason seemed appropriate.Fresh Hellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433690465518397066noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8881890855536124737.post-22923924114038859772007-12-05T22:02:00.000-05:002007-12-05T22:49:18.458-05:00Social HellI am not good at the professional mixers/networking cocktail parties. At all. My profession and station in life, however, requires that I attend these types of events regardless of the social anxiety they inflict upon me.<br /><br />So.<br /><br />Tonight I had to attend one of these events put on by the Environmental Business Council in downtown Boston. I was excited about going to a party in Town, but I also knew that it would involve a lot of smiling and nodding, talking to strangers as though I was actually interested in what they were blathering on about and swapping business cards. Gah!<br /><br />When I arrived, my social anxiety kicked into full swing. I immediately sought out the bathroom so that I could escape the din of eager networkers rambling on about the services their companies provide and what new and exciting technologies they are applying in innovative ways too do fuck all to environmental problems. The secondary din was provided compliments of the lawyers. Theirs was a buzz of their own special jargon, discussing rifts and acquisitions and who is litigating who. Blek! By the way, several people at different times through the course of the evening encouraged me to go to law school because I was such a natural.<br /><br />Oh please!<br /><br />After escaping the throng of people that could not be traversed without touching someone (that is, shoving them to get past), I found a quiet balcony where I sent the following text message to some of my best mental health anchors. You know in case I went around the bend was hauled away by the white coat army, they can say the warning signs were there.<br /><br /><em>Social anxiety GAH!<br />I'm at a business holiday mixer with all the Bostonian environmental movers and shakers and I just want to puke and leave. </em><br /><br />Here are the responses I received:<br /><br />From my favorite hot shot Los Angeles publicist - <em>Down a martini and show off some cleavage</em><br />Sound advice for many an uncomfortable situation.<br /><br />From <a href="http://sassysundry.blogspot.com/">Sassy Sundry</a> - <em>I think I'm going to need to read about that!</em><br />Darlin', your wish is my command.<br /><br />From <a href="http://fresh-new-hell.blogspot.com/2007/11/morning-pork.html">Miss M</a> of the 2007 Great Texas Adventure fame - <em>Look for single dudes, or some other gal with a drink who is also bored. God, I hope there are drinks!</em><br />There were, but I held out and went for some straight scotch toward the end of the party. I didn't want to get myself juiced enough to get into trouble with the boss man.<br /><br />I weathered it. It was ok. I sucked up to a client that I'd done a project for when I first moved to the east coast. I met a boy with a very firm grip and has hands that are comparable in size and girth to Andre the Giant's. I have a bonifide crush on him and think that I shall engage in filthy fantasies about him shortly.<br /><br />G'night, y'all.Fresh Hellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433690465518397066noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8881890855536124737.post-36801249699957702542007-11-30T18:49:00.000-05:002007-11-30T18:59:06.117-05:00STICK A FORK IN ME . . .<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5zqbWilM9ENWiGzBdIe7BvmHHHN1RIDWsLU5ngI7k1EfKeqNTRQDPDmyo-vH2e66RxGT4BgzxYMkyAQ1OvXCbejGa25Rsovb8HV1EtkHmKY1okMEF4eveESWFFB_5jjWozMBW5RXkTA/s1600-r/mission.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5138785274378833650" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2Bt6a3lZ2e5mmhUJY7gdaRv32qBGPAZP5IRNfIPRl-lSMLmq_YngugNO36ruUcRet2oGg6q7024T76d6ZkkHk_o-QyFtOnEpeKhz_Thyphenhyphenff2JWBJdPJa5N1njghIkHeQ72bY8A9uZMWA/s400/mission.jpg" border="0" /></a> I'M DONE!</div><br /><br /><div align="center"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">Although many of my posts left something to be desired, and I had the near miss back on November 2nd when Blogger was working against me and I had to post on Ning instead of this here page, I managed to pull through. </div><br /><br /><br /><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">Drinking now. </div><div align="left"></div>Fresh Hellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433690465518397066noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8881890855536124737.post-48677566928555125002007-11-29T19:09:00.000-05:002007-11-29T19:29:16.264-05:00Good DaySome days, things just come together nicely.<br /><br />Upon arriving at the office, my boss came in to see me. After the disaster which was my annual review (and nervous breakdown), I wasn't expecting anything fantastic from him. However, he informed me that he was able to give me a raise and it will be retroactive to my anniversary date (in July, at which time this year was when I started hemorrhaging cash . . . bad). <br /><br />Then I was invited to three parties. All quite suddenly my anti-social ass has a social agenda. One of these parties is a Truly Horrible Holiday Sweater party. Since I am all about style and class, I don't own such a sweater. <br /><br />On my way home from work, I went by my local thrift store to find such a beast and I found a horrible holiday sweater, but not a TRULY horrible holiday sweater. I won't be winning any awards for that. The good news is that I found four really gorgeous wool sweaters and two brand new cast iron pots (a small dutch oven and a large wok shaped pan) without a shadow of rust. Yippee!! I love new cookware! <br /><br />I have not yet decided whether I will unravel to recycle the yarn or keep the sweaters as they are. Oh and each for $5.50 a throw. I feel rich. (even though I failed at getting an appropriately hideous sweater for the party)<br /><br />On top of all that good fortune, two fellows in my office were having their birthdays. There was cake! Uh-huh! Cake! I even got accused of talking dirty while eating cake (which I was). So I asked, "Doesn't everyone talk dirty when eating cake? Isn't it the most natural thing you can do?" Yes, they also accused me of being a wacky Californian (which I am).Fresh Hellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433690465518397066noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8881890855536124737.post-67856558976912873282007-11-28T21:54:00.000-05:002007-11-28T22:21:44.223-05:00The Shrink<strong>Confession:</strong> I have daddy issues.<br /><br />Most of my adult life has been spent self-righteously gloating at my friends who are saddled with daddy issues. Apparently, that was a premature gloating because since I started <del>masochistic hell</del> therapy last week, it has become abundantly clear that daddy planted some seeds in my psyche that . . . Just. Won't. Freaking. Die . . . Yet.<br /><br />So therapy is fun. All the creative stories I've told myself over the years, just don't hold up in the court of a perfect stranger sitting across from me, taking notes and throwing out the occasional, "Uh-huh, and how did that make you feel?" as he nods empathetically. OK, he doesn't really say that, but he does take notes. Is it wrong that I get paranoid about some potentially undiscovered neurosis or another every time he starts fervently scribbling notes as I pour some little tidbit of my soul out to him? Apparently my predilection for S&M is consistent with my intimacy, trust and commitment issues. Heh! Didn't see that one coming!<br /><br />This will be an interesting adventure. Perhaps I'll come out the other side of this a nicer person. If so, what a shame to waste all this rich surliness.Fresh Hellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433690465518397066noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8881890855536124737.post-16604508187579848042007-11-27T07:01:00.000-05:002007-11-28T05:33:06.799-05:00DUMBO<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_U_S598o9k3vq2wYg9sHAnt9il-G09ovPqP2Gc36KVCIGfWkku1KCQhe9vytMNAnBfQXHK3dJ4PakvZKpOwbeK827XMTw5YEy_Eh92zM_4LapoYm__n_BJREv950gLmXQZwFDgBnMjg/s1600-h/New+York+-+March+2006+015.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_U_S598o9k3vq2wYg9sHAnt9il-G09ovPqP2Gc36KVCIGfWkku1KCQhe9vytMNAnBfQXHK3dJ4PakvZKpOwbeK827XMTw5YEy_Eh92zM_4LapoYm__n_BJREv950gLmXQZwFDgBnMjg/s400/New+York+-+March+2006+015.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5137837133197267154" /></a><br /><br /><div>Have you ever had the experience where you write something truly inspired and brilliant? And for some reason, some ridiculous reason that would baffle the mind, you type it directly into the Blogger post page. And then, when you go to post said brilliant piece of prose, Blogger asks for your login and password. So you think, I’m going to hit the back button and save that brilliant piece of word smithery to another document so as not to lose it. And when you go to the previous page, it is gone. GONE! Gone forever, Clementine. Has that ever happened to you? Me neither.<br /><br />That was the start of this day. I tried to re-construct it, but it was all in vain. The magic was gone.<br /><br />Since I don’t have anything more interesting, and apropos of nothing other than I just like it, I’ll give you this picture of the Manhattan Bridge as seen from a park in DUMBO.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibJUkYYZIRMigNNA4zmFcaNbfnrKEMclsgSsvzSKeL5sImaxuQ9-dPSTX59-tVCRDB261Ei7SHqbK87t26xlBEf54Dm-d1XsxklI3nFHMsjKDl7VUxjWmwssp8lFj19855PeVMCElVgw/s1600-h/New+York+-+017.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibJUkYYZIRMigNNA4zmFcaNbfnrKEMclsgSsvzSKeL5sImaxuQ9-dPSTX59-tVCRDB261Ei7SHqbK87t26xlBEf54Dm-d1XsxklI3nFHMsjKDl7VUxjWmwssp8lFj19855PeVMCElVgw/s400/New+York+-+017.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5137836175419560130" /></a><br /><br /><br />For those of you who don’t know, DUMBO is an acronym for Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass. It is a formerly industrial, presently mid-gentrification, artsy neighborhood in Brooklyn, New York. One of my good friends and fellow Thanksgiving revelers is the manager of a bar/restaurant/nightclub there.<br /><br />On my first trip to DUMBO, we took this picture one middle of the night after attempting to drink all the wine in the cellar. The other highlight of the evening was convincing a group of not so smart Triple A League baseball players that my sister was a man, now living as a woman. If you ever saw my sister, there is really not a question in a thousand years what her gender is. She is stacked with cartoon Wonder Woman curves.<br /><br />My sister was talking to them and I was talking to the bartender. One of them got my attention I heard my sister say, “No, I am not a man. If you don’t believe me, go ahead and ask Fresh Hell, she’s my sister and she would know.”<br /><br />So the not so smart baseball boy asked, “Hey, she is a man, isn’t she?”<br /><br />Not knowing the full context of their conversation, beyond my sister indicating that I was indeed her sister and that she is unencumbered by a Y-chromosome, I looked him square in the eye and said, “Of course she’s a man.” And by some act of bacchanalian Voodoo, I managed to keep a straight face as my sister’s distorted in disbelief. Eventually I fessed up and told them the truth, but at that point they were convinced otherwise.<br /><br />She is a tall lady (5’10”) with very large hands, but seriously, she is all woman.<br /><br />Anyhow, it was amusing and I like bridges, so there you have it.<br /><br />Something about steel girders. </div>Fresh Hellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433690465518397066noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8881890855536124737.post-77525627837466411052007-11-26T06:39:00.000-05:002007-11-27T08:03:29.332-05:00Ooooooooooooommmmmmmmmm . . .Yesterday my sister dragged me to the Sunday morning yoga class that she teaches. While I was bending and contorting in the yoga sort of way for the first time since well before I had surgery on my knee, it occurred to me that I am not as strong as I was just a few months ago, the compensation for a lame knee has hit the whole of my body and left it off kilter, and my flexibility leaves a lot to be desired. This morning, there are very few bits of me that are not experiencing soreness as a result.<br /><br />My teeth and scalp for example . . . they are not sore.<br /><br />Yoga is a dear friend. Sure there is pain involved, but it soothes my mind, sculpts biceps that are fun to look at, promotes strength and flexibility that leaves the fellas awestruck, and facilitates an exciting sex life. Now . . . all I have to do is get the fella to strike with awe and I'll be all set. Well, that and spend some time getting my yoga game face back on so I will have the wherewithal to pitch out some awe inspiring contortions.<br /><br />For all of you fellas, who have not yet taken a yoga class, there are benefits worth consideration that many a man overlooks. <br /><ul><li>It isn't just for girls.<br /><li>Just because you do yoga, doesn't mean you have to become a snively vegetarian and there is no need to start wearing hippy clothing and odious freaking patchouli oil.<br /><li>Every guy I know who does yoga regularly has a superior body in shape and tone to those who do no yoga. In fact, the guys I know who do yoga exclusively for fitness, foregoing weights and aerobic activities, have better bodies than most other athletes I have known.<br /><li>The whole relaxation bit is tremendous; all of life's woes do evaporate for a spell.<br /><li>It makes for the sleep of an angel.<br /><li>And one must not overlook the class itself, which is largely populated by flexible women in tight clothing.</li></ul><br />The "yoga crowd" gets the . . . peace, love, unity, happiness, 'balance' . . . wtf? Balance? That is where the boat sets sail without them. They tend to overlook giving equal energy to war, hatred, discordance, sadness, anger, and so forth. The results of which are a bunch of self-indulgent assholes that spend all their time focused on their own personal inner peace, love, unity, happiness. Only the pretty thoughts and feelings shall enter their "beings". However, all you have to do is glare and spit at them and they slink away just like street proselytizers do.Fresh Hellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433690465518397066noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8881890855536124737.post-36068192357720507912007-11-25T21:39:00.000-05:002007-11-25T21:52:45.729-05:00It Has Been Suggested . . .Dear Dive has suggested that the time has come for me to say, "Okay, Dive. You were right about <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">NaBloPoMo</span>."<br /><br />First and foremost: Thanks, Dive! I was at a loss for what to say today that would have the appearance of a post, but patently is not.<br /><br />To an extent, he is right about <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">NaBloPoMo</span>, and to an extent, not so much. I have barely tapped the tall tales I wanted to share with you good people, but for lack of time in this God forsaken month (Second only in that category to next freaking month!), I have scarcely had a moment to pull a few thoughts together. This month I went out of town twice (6 days, and 4 days) to attend a wedding and for the gluttons feast holiday, and written a closure report on a project that spanned 7 years of remedial work, and entered therapy to address my moody blues . . . again. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Zowie</span>, this has been a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">humbdinger</span> of a month. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">NaBloPoMo</span> couldn't have come at a more inconvenient time. The good news is that I do have quite an arsenal of words to share. The bad news is that it is taking me forever to find a moment to sit down and crank those words out. Hold steady, friends. My time to shine is yet to come.Fresh Hellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433690465518397066noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8881890855536124737.post-40137760096297812192007-11-24T20:59:00.000-05:002007-11-24T21:16:33.209-05:00Submittal From The Genius ParadeI have nothing intelligent to say. <br /><br />I've been looking at the screen while watching DVDs of NCIS in the background. Usually inspiration will rear its head while watching interesting shows, but I've got absolutely nothing for all y'all today. I was going to collect some alone time and get my head into shape for constructing something worth reading. However, the prospect of parting ways from my sister this afternoon was too much to bear so she came back to my place with me and we are having quality girlie time together. Just the two of us. It is fantastic. <br /><br />Moral of the lack of story is: I'm sorry to waste your time. Come back soon and eventually I'll have something interesting to say. <br /><br />xooxooxFresh Hellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433690465518397066noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8881890855536124737.post-2499337961486343322007-11-23T19:17:00.000-05:002007-11-23T19:20:45.796-05:00Jackass!I just got finished watching Jackass Two. It is amazing how funny a bunch of guys with no shame and high pain thresholds can be. I laughed hysterically and occasionally was so revolted that I had to look away. <br /><br />I highly recommend it. <br /><br />Now, about leftover pie . . .Fresh Hellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433690465518397066noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8881890855536124737.post-1472370843089366492007-11-22T21:56:00.000-05:002007-11-22T22:02:49.514-05:00Blood Sugar OverloadMy belly is full of starch and pie. The thing about Thanksgiving that I like the least is the forced binge factor. I love to eat. A lot. But this is just ridiculous. I fear that my belly is too full to drink any more wine. I’m strong, therefore, I’ll endure. <br />Ali Blah Blah tagged me on a meme. Thank God! I mean, in the past I’ve lambasted them, but I am relieved that I don’t have to come up with something straight out of my food addled brain. Yay! <br /><br />The goal of this meme, consistent with the theme of the day, is to divulge seven things that I’m thankful for. And so . . .<br /><br />1) Quite thankful that that I did not run over the deer that ambled out onto the highway this morning as I was clipping along at 80 miles an hour. It actually stopped smack dab in the middle of my lane, and looked dumbly at me. I slammed on the brakes and it slowly continued on. After passing it and leaving it unharmed, in my rear view mirror three of his buddies also walked across the highway with the same dumb look in their eyes. <br /><br />2) I’m thankful for bleached blond boys. The friends I’m sharing the holiday with have a son who has a freshly bleached mop. He is 12 years old, very clever and gives me hope for the future. <br /><br />3) There is a small feline friend of mine who climbs all over me in my sleep and though she’s two years old, she still has not learned how to meow like a real cat. She just squeaks like a kitten . . . still. I’m thankful for that. <br /><br />4) On my 29th birthday, my mother presented me with a strand of Mikimoto pearls. I cried like I’d won the lottery. I’m thankful to have those.<br /><br />5) My brother was in the Army, was taught to speak Arabic, was deployed to Iraq in the Special Forces, and came home safely. Thankful doesn’t quite cover it. <br /><br />6) I’m thankful for strapping young men. Occasionally, when I see these creatures on the street, I will just thank them. I won’t tell them what I’m thanking them for, I’ll just say, “Thank you.”<br /><br />7) November is nearly over, for which I am truly thankful. The barrel is being scraped. I still have plenty to post about, but I have been so damned busy this month that I haven’t had a chance to actually put much of it to words. The good news is I may have some upcoming posts that aren’t quite this lame. The bad news is I do not know how long this so damned busy situation will go on. NaBloPoMo burnout . . . uh-huh. <br /><br />If you want to share with the blogworld what you are thankful for, consider yourself tagged. I yearn for wine and sleep. Perhaps not in that order.Fresh Hellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433690465518397066noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8881890855536124737.post-23361740481210314762007-11-21T19:52:00.000-05:002007-11-21T20:03:38.035-05:00Going GreenYeah, I'm recycling. <br /><br />In the background Frank Black is singing:<br /><br /><em>Where is my mind, </em><br /><em>Where is my mind, </em><br /><em>Where is my mind, </em><br /><em>Way out in the water, </em><br /><em>See it swimmin. </em><br /><br />So. Very. Tired.<br /><br />Last year on I posted the following photo that was taken during my Thanksgiving festivities.<br /><br />I am not a fan of the holidays.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh11RiOTgu-rywJf0Yw8Rk1YRM54sFeZOlZK53U13WoFw44XuuMqn9FldKtl2eHAbnuYu57uIlS-FBayPE-zfpxq4B86KLwR4HwJpBeIvx9ADyuLeacahuZ9RvC7fKFfw24Zix5CnQCTA/s1600-h/Thanksgiving+2006+006.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5135462364174930066" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh11RiOTgu-rywJf0Yw8Rk1YRM54sFeZOlZK53U13WoFw44XuuMqn9FldKtl2eHAbnuYu57uIlS-FBayPE-zfpxq4B86KLwR4HwJpBeIvx9ADyuLeacahuZ9RvC7fKFfw24Zix5CnQCTA/s400/Thanksgiving+2006+006.jpg" border="0" /></a> I'm driving across the state in a few minutes, so this is all you get for now. xoFresh Hellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433690465518397066noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8881890855536124737.post-91094766496094373302007-11-20T10:06:00.000-05:002007-11-20T10:15:51.090-05:00SNOW!!!Upon pulling into my office's parking lot this morning, snow started flurrying down upon my car. Looking out the window now, it is actually snowing, there is accumulation, and everything. I have but one thing to say about this:<br /><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"><strong>FINALLY</strong>!!!!</span><br /><br />The weather Gods have smiled down upon New England and the odious lingering breath of summer is abated. <br /><br />It will make for an interesting drive out to Northampton, for the <a href="http://www.teganandsara.com/">Tegan and Sara </a>concert tonight, but I'm up for it. Small effort in the name of rock and roll. Coming back will be the big test, but I love driving in the snow.Fresh Hellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433690465518397066noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8881890855536124737.post-8427248871788683512007-11-19T18:34:00.000-05:002007-11-19T18:38:36.579-05:00Make It Sting Just A Little MoreOk, so I totally poached the following quiz from <a href="http://leighsworld2006.blogspot.com/">Leigh's</a> blog, but I couldn't resist . . . especially when I got the results and scored as a total slave to BDSM. Heh! I'm kinky as they come, and apparently as I come as well.Fresh Hellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433690465518397066noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8881890855536124737.post-34934713931728689852007-11-19T18:32:00.001-05:002007-11-19T18:32:18.333-05:00Ahem . . .<table width="100%" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tblBorderAll"><br /> <tr><td><img src="http://quizfarm.com//images/111658223437front[1].jpg" ></td></tr><br /> <tr><td><br><a href="http://quizfarm.com/test.php?q_id=928N" target="_blank">How are you in bed</a><br><font face='Arial' size='1'>created with <a href="http://quizfarm.com" target="_blank">QuizFarm.com</a></font></td></tr><br /> <tr><td>You scored as <b>A Slave To BDSM</b><p>Admit it, you like being tied up and being told you've been very naughty. You like teasing your partner and making them squirm, and not letting them be able to do anything about it. Some people think what you do is sick and disgusting, but you know it's all in good fun.<br><br></p><br /> <table width='50%'><tr><td><p><font face='Arial' size='1'>A Slave To BDSM</font></p></td><td><br /> <table border='1' cellpadding='0' cellspacing='0' width='90' bgcolor='#dddddd'><tr><td></td></tr></table></td><td><font face='Arial' size='1'>90%</font></td></tr><tr><td><p><font face='Arial' size='1'>Sex God</font></p></td><td><br /> <table border='1' cellpadding='0' cellspacing='0' width='70' bgcolor='#dddddd'><tr><td></td></tr></table></td><td><font face='Arial' size='1'>70%</font></td></tr><tr><td><p><font face='Arial' size='1'>A Romantic</font></p></td><td><br /> <table border='1' cellpadding='0' cellspacing='0' width='53' bgcolor='#dddddd'><tr><td></td></tr></table></td><td><font face='Arial' size='1'>53%</font></td></tr><tr><td><p><font face='Arial' size='1'>Virgin</font></p></td><td><br /> <table border='1' cellpadding='0' cellspacing='0' width='28' bgcolor='#dddddd'><tr><td></td></tr></table></td><td><font face='Arial' size='1'>28%</font></td></tr></table><br /> </td></tr><br /></table><br /><img style="visibility:hidden;width:0px;height:0px;" border=0 width=0 height=0 src="http://counters.gigya.com/wildfire/CIMP/Jmx0PTExOTU1MTUzNzM2ODcmcHQ9MTE5NTUxNTQ3MTczNCZwPTY5MDgxJmQ9Jm49YmxvZ2dlciZmPWI=.jpg" />Fresh Hellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433690465518397066noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8881890855536124737.post-56400386837885157742007-11-18T22:10:00.000-05:002007-11-18T22:40:53.078-05:00Chocolate To Make You Cry Out In The NightThere are three types of people in the world:<br /><br />People who burn for chocolate, any chocolate<br />People who couldn’t be bothered with chocolate . . . at all<br />People who can only choke it down if it’s fine, divine chocolate fit only for royalty and humans of inhumanly superior virtue.<br /><br />I fall into the latter category and tend toward the middle category.<br /><br />As chocolate goes, I can take it or leave it, and usually leave it. Rarely, if ever do I crave it. When choosing a flavor of cake, I usually go straight for pie, fruit pie, NEVER CUSTARD OR PUDDING.<br /><br /><em>Ahh rhubarb, how do I love thee, let me count the ways . . .</em><br /><br />I like my sweets to be a step above chocolate in their perfection.<br /><br />So.<br /><br />I have found the exception to the rule. Actually, my totally clever and beautiful sister found the exception to the rule. There is a <a href="http://www.laughingmoonchocolates.com/">chocolatier</a> in Vermont who makes a <a href="http://www.laughingmoonchocolates.com/index.cfm/Signature-Chocolate-Bars">chocolate bar</a> that is so freaking good; I do not want to know a world without it. These awesome folks run Laughing Moon Chocolates. I don’t know anything of their products beyond their Chipotle & Cinnamon Dark Chocolate bar. Do yourself a favor and order one, no matter what the cost to ship it to the far corners of this blue planet. When it arrives, open a lovely Merlot, have a bit of both, and wait to be overtaken by a bliss that words are too ham-fisted to describe. Seriously, it rivals dirty, filthy, sex that leaves you gasping and moaning out loud in public with the memory of it the next day.<br /><br />You are welcome.Fresh Hellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433690465518397066noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8881890855536124737.post-15546068982862252872007-11-17T23:49:00.000-05:002007-11-17T23:51:51.292-05:00P.P.S.I've been meaning to get cought up with comments. That will be one of my Sunday adventures. With any luck, I'll be able to post something of greater substance than the past few days. <br /><br />Here's hoping.Fresh Hellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433690465518397066noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8881890855536124737.post-65668589796458938362007-11-17T19:15:00.000-05:002007-11-17T19:16:33.265-05:00P.S.I nearly forgot to post today . . . Oh, the horror!Fresh Hellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433690465518397066noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8881890855536124737.post-25072718231074191432007-11-17T19:10:00.000-05:002007-11-18T08:26:54.052-05:00Gratuitous Confession<strong>Confession:</strong> I loves me some country music. NEVER pop country! However, I can't get enough of some fine ol' honkey tonkin' goodness. There, I've said it. Don't judge me!Fresh Hellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433690465518397066noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8881890855536124737.post-69254443582557745982007-11-16T10:22:00.000-05:002007-11-16T10:23:51.830-05:00Will This Week Ever End???<strong>Confession</strong>: I need a drink. Is half past ten in the morning too early?Fresh Hellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433690465518397066noreply@blogger.com6