Confession: I'm a bad blogger.
Someone should spank me . . . no, really, please . . . I'm in to that kind of thing. It's OK, though because my therapist doesn't think I'm much the worse for it so it's game on with a paddle.
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 squad carrying torches and pitch forks doesn't hunt me down to hurt me bad in a not so fun way.
Happy New Year, y'all!
Showing posts with label Confession. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Confession. Show all posts
January 6, 2008
November 16, 2007
November 6, 2007
If You Remember the 60’s . . .
Confession: I don’t get the 60’s. Of course there is music from the 60’s that works for me, and there is the mighty automotive theme of yesterday’s post, but as a decade, I’ve never really gained the pop-culture appreciation that most people of my era have. I realize that I’ll be raising hackles on many people, but I don’t see it as a magical time. And truth be told, I wasn’t there. I was born in February of 1970, so my only real experience with the 60’s was conception and gestation. So clearly, I’m talking out of my bootie on this one.
I think feminism has done as much bad as good. Not that feminism was created in the 60’s, but great strides were made during that time.
Yes, I appreciate being able to wear trousers without sidelong glances or presumption that I’m a lesbian. Yes, it’s great that women can go without the constraints of a brassiere. [As a side note: I’m very pro-brassiere. I’m 37 years old and still have high and firm titties. It works for me. I know plenty of women who don’t enjoy such a fate and even rue casting aside their bras as their udders sail to lower and lower latitudes of their anatomy. Having said that, I haven’t borne children either, so my bosoms have mostly been used as modes of seduction and toys for boys. I’m a giver.] Yes, a lady can work in a man’s field. I do. It has ups and downs.
The downside of feminism is that it has bred a climate of political correctness, especially in fields that have any crossover with academia, which disallows fun and off-color joking. Shameful. People seem to be constantly censoring themselves out of saying the fun and amusing things that would make them much more interesting. One of the saddest results of this feminist movement is men who have had the backbone bullied out of them.
The whole free love, hippie peacenik thing: it tends to overlook balance in favor of happy, pretty, peace. Peace is flat without some complimentary aggression. Balance, friends, it soothes my soul.
To give fair credit, lots of good came from the 60’s. Music, writing, sex, tolerance, and surely a bunch of political stuff that I know virtually nothing about because I’m admittedly horrible about paying attention to history. And that makes up the theme of this post: in the end, I may not know what I’m talking about, and I wasn’t there.
I think feminism has done as much bad as good. Not that feminism was created in the 60’s, but great strides were made during that time.
Yes, I appreciate being able to wear trousers without sidelong glances or presumption that I’m a lesbian. Yes, it’s great that women can go without the constraints of a brassiere. [As a side note: I’m very pro-brassiere. I’m 37 years old and still have high and firm titties. It works for me. I know plenty of women who don’t enjoy such a fate and even rue casting aside their bras as their udders sail to lower and lower latitudes of their anatomy. Having said that, I haven’t borne children either, so my bosoms have mostly been used as modes of seduction and toys for boys. I’m a giver.] Yes, a lady can work in a man’s field. I do. It has ups and downs.
The downside of feminism is that it has bred a climate of political correctness, especially in fields that have any crossover with academia, which disallows fun and off-color joking. Shameful. People seem to be constantly censoring themselves out of saying the fun and amusing things that would make them much more interesting. One of the saddest results of this feminist movement is men who have had the backbone bullied out of them.
The whole free love, hippie peacenik thing: it tends to overlook balance in favor of happy, pretty, peace. Peace is flat without some complimentary aggression. Balance, friends, it soothes my soul.
To give fair credit, lots of good came from the 60’s. Music, writing, sex, tolerance, and surely a bunch of political stuff that I know virtually nothing about because I’m admittedly horrible about paying attention to history. And that makes up the theme of this post: in the end, I may not know what I’m talking about, and I wasn’t there.
November 5, 2007
The Gentle Purr of a Barracuda
Confession: I once dated a boy on the merit of the sound of his voice. He was decent enough looking, tall, and an interesting guy, but his voice is what really sold me. He is also one of the boys who I deflowered. Yet another younger man situation. He was a tender 19 to my worldly 23 years of age. He also drove a black 1966 Barracuda, which I didn’t know when I fell for his voice. To say that the sound of a Barracuda engine rumbling is exciting is putting it gently.
Doesn’t it just make your heart skip a beat?
The late 1960’s is an era of muscle cars and hotrods that really speak to me. That is the bulk of my affections for the 60’s. Which will bring me to a confession for tomorrow (see how I am milking two posts out of this!).
Doesn’t it just make your heart skip a beat?The late 1960’s is an era of muscle cars and hotrods that really speak to me. That is the bulk of my affections for the 60’s. Which will bring me to a confession for tomorrow (see how I am milking two posts out of this!).
November 1, 2007
Show Me Yer Neck
Confession: I love the feel of a kiss on the neck. It takes my breath away. For that matter, I love having a hand around my neck. I like pretty much anything on my neck with the exception of turtlenecks. Which I don’t like at all. I especially like pearls on my neck. Diamonds are cute too, but they have lost their appeal at the ham hands of the bling bling crowd.
And about turtle necks . . .
People who live in cold climates really seem to like them, but they look so horrible and feel so stifling, I don’t understand how anyone can bear it. They are kind of like shorts in that very few people look good in them, yet so many insist upon wearing them. It seems that warmth can be effectively achieved with a scarf and layers. And guess what: with layers, when you go indoors, you can remove them according to conditions and let the skin on your neck and chest breathe.
Imagine.
For those who think that turtlenecks are real swell, you can have them. All of them. Just try to avoid wearing them in public, because they are even difficult to look at. Not as bad as seeing someone walking down the street with their zipper down, of course, but close.
Guess who woke up surly.
And about turtle necks . . .
People who live in cold climates really seem to like them, but they look so horrible and feel so stifling, I don’t understand how anyone can bear it. They are kind of like shorts in that very few people look good in them, yet so many insist upon wearing them. It seems that warmth can be effectively achieved with a scarf and layers. And guess what: with layers, when you go indoors, you can remove them according to conditions and let the skin on your neck and chest breathe.
Imagine.
For those who think that turtlenecks are real swell, you can have them. All of them. Just try to avoid wearing them in public, because they are even difficult to look at. Not as bad as seeing someone walking down the street with their zipper down, of course, but close.
Guess who woke up surly.
September 11, 2007
DRUNK
In a mere 36 hours... I'll be having knee surgery. I predict mighty prescriptives and amusing grammar errors...
July 9, 2007
Confession: I Loathe Memes
Eddie Waring is a troublemaker of the first order. I’m not sure what would qualify a second order troublemaker, but he’s got the first one all wrapped up. The big lug tickled me with a meme and having heretofore resisted that blogging trap, I’m inclined to follow through since he’s the first person to ever look at my blog. Nostalgic sentimentality has bit me in the ass more times than I care to think about.
The meme at hand: 8 autobiographical tid-bits. Without further ado...
1. My mother left my father when he came home to get his gun to have it out with his girlfriend’s husband. My mother was very upset because of the gun thing but also because he told her he wasn’t in love with her anymore but was in love with Melva. Who was black. The inter-racial thing didn’t sit well with mom. Which leaves me scratching my head since dad was Mexican and she was as pasty white as they come… oh yeah, and she had a couple of mixed race babies. People are funny. Especially the ones related to me.
2. At 21 years of age, I was at a crossroads; I could go to university or join some friends for a trip to Europe… indefinitely. I employed my best decision making skills at the time. I drank a bottle of Wild Turkey and flipped a coin. I went to Europe.
3. When I was in high school I stole the American and California flags from the Probation Department Office flagpole while walking home late one night after having many wine coolers (hey, it was the 80’s and I was too young to know better). I walked through my high school to get home and snuck into the swimming pool to skinny dip on my way. The flags were used as towels to dry my pubescent body.
4. I don’t take naps. I used to run away from daycare after kindergarten because they wanted me to take a nap. I was all… Tcha! I’m like, five-years-old… I don’t take naps anymore! I feel much the same way now.
5. At 11 years old I read The Sun Also Rises. Around the same time, I didn’t do some chore or another which prompted my father to levy a punishment against me. I was made to write a college level critique of the characters in The Sun Also Rises… typed, double spaced. a) I didn’t know how to type, b) it was before computers were commonplace, so I had to do it the old fashioned way, and c) he made me re-write it and re-type it until it was flawless and college level. This was when I learned about the concept of impotence.
6. I was cut off then thrown out of a dive bar at 7 AM on New Years Day once.
7. Whenever I enter a church, especially an old one, I’m compelled to pet the kitty, and I usually do. In case you may wonder why I reside at the Gates of Hell… I’m just getting acclimated.
8. I was “the other woman” once, and when “the woman” found out I smoothed things out by sleeping with her as well. And with the both of them at once. Thus, the lesson learned that I am indeed partial to men in the rack.
I’m calling Ellie, Old Knudsen, Dive, Sassy, and Andraste to the carpet, and I fully expect all of them to play along. Ok, I’m not stupid; I don’t really expect many of them to.
The meme at hand: 8 autobiographical tid-bits. Without further ado...
1. My mother left my father when he came home to get his gun to have it out with his girlfriend’s husband. My mother was very upset because of the gun thing but also because he told her he wasn’t in love with her anymore but was in love with Melva. Who was black. The inter-racial thing didn’t sit well with mom. Which leaves me scratching my head since dad was Mexican and she was as pasty white as they come… oh yeah, and she had a couple of mixed race babies. People are funny. Especially the ones related to me.
2. At 21 years of age, I was at a crossroads; I could go to university or join some friends for a trip to Europe… indefinitely. I employed my best decision making skills at the time. I drank a bottle of Wild Turkey and flipped a coin. I went to Europe.
3. When I was in high school I stole the American and California flags from the Probation Department Office flagpole while walking home late one night after having many wine coolers (hey, it was the 80’s and I was too young to know better). I walked through my high school to get home and snuck into the swimming pool to skinny dip on my way. The flags were used as towels to dry my pubescent body.
4. I don’t take naps. I used to run away from daycare after kindergarten because they wanted me to take a nap. I was all… Tcha! I’m like, five-years-old… I don’t take naps anymore! I feel much the same way now.
5. At 11 years old I read The Sun Also Rises. Around the same time, I didn’t do some chore or another which prompted my father to levy a punishment against me. I was made to write a college level critique of the characters in The Sun Also Rises… typed, double spaced. a) I didn’t know how to type, b) it was before computers were commonplace, so I had to do it the old fashioned way, and c) he made me re-write it and re-type it until it was flawless and college level. This was when I learned about the concept of impotence.
6. I was cut off then thrown out of a dive bar at 7 AM on New Years Day once.
7. Whenever I enter a church, especially an old one, I’m compelled to pet the kitty, and I usually do. In case you may wonder why I reside at the Gates of Hell… I’m just getting acclimated.
8. I was “the other woman” once, and when “the woman” found out I smoothed things out by sleeping with her as well. And with the both of them at once. Thus, the lesson learned that I am indeed partial to men in the rack.
I’m calling Ellie, Old Knudsen, Dive, Sassy, and Andraste to the carpet, and I fully expect all of them to play along. Ok, I’m not stupid; I don’t really expect many of them to.
March 26, 2007
Confession: I'm Out of Shape
On days like today, it's hard to believe that I've run a marathon. Which I have. Freaking slowly, but I've done it. Granted it's been four years since said marathon, but still...
Part of the efforts to beat back the blues has included joining the sad little drones who go to the gym to condition their bodies. On principal, I'm conflicted by this because you shouldn't have to do that if you live well and use your body. Walk instead of using the car where you can. Find opportunities to help someone dig a ditch, go out dancing, washing your own damned car, normal stuff like that. These things don't really happen because we spend our time on our rumps driving computers and hire illegal immigrants to handle the heavy lifting. Real world physical effort makes for better looking and better conditioned bodies than the freakish bulging of a gym rat's body with particular emphasis on their obsession spots. Pectoral muscles that can break open walnuts being paraded around on spindly little sticks of legs. It's disgusting. But until I manage to get off my ever inflating booty and applying myself to doing some heavy lifting in the real world, I'm counting myself in with the drones running in place at the gym.
As a side note in defense of the gym, in my early 20's I worked out there a lot and as I was maxing out on a pec-deck machine, an orgasm slipped out. Right there in the middle of a crowded gym. I was sweaty and flushed from exercise anyhow, so it was easy to play off, but how cool is that!
The point of all this blathering on about working out is that I met with my personal trainer this weekend. He's a strapping young ex-Marine and he worked me over hard, so much so that I'm having a difficult time walking straight. Out of context, being worked over hard by a strapping young ex-Marine leaving me walking funny would be a gleaming badge of honor. But alas, in this case, it's just a mark of my shame. Tonight after work, the ex-Marine will have another go at me and on shaky legs I'll amble to my car and wait for the inevitable pain to take me once again. Sometimes pain is good for you. So I'm told. I'm inflicting pain upon my body in an effort to keep it out of my mind. The irony hasn't escaped me.
Part of the efforts to beat back the blues has included joining the sad little drones who go to the gym to condition their bodies. On principal, I'm conflicted by this because you shouldn't have to do that if you live well and use your body. Walk instead of using the car where you can. Find opportunities to help someone dig a ditch, go out dancing, washing your own damned car, normal stuff like that. These things don't really happen because we spend our time on our rumps driving computers and hire illegal immigrants to handle the heavy lifting. Real world physical effort makes for better looking and better conditioned bodies than the freakish bulging of a gym rat's body with particular emphasis on their obsession spots. Pectoral muscles that can break open walnuts being paraded around on spindly little sticks of legs. It's disgusting. But until I manage to get off my ever inflating booty and applying myself to doing some heavy lifting in the real world, I'm counting myself in with the drones running in place at the gym.
As a side note in defense of the gym, in my early 20's I worked out there a lot and as I was maxing out on a pec-deck machine, an orgasm slipped out. Right there in the middle of a crowded gym. I was sweaty and flushed from exercise anyhow, so it was easy to play off, but how cool is that!
The point of all this blathering on about working out is that I met with my personal trainer this weekend. He's a strapping young ex-Marine and he worked me over hard, so much so that I'm having a difficult time walking straight. Out of context, being worked over hard by a strapping young ex-Marine leaving me walking funny would be a gleaming badge of honor. But alas, in this case, it's just a mark of my shame. Tonight after work, the ex-Marine will have another go at me and on shaky legs I'll amble to my car and wait for the inevitable pain to take me once again. Sometimes pain is good for you. So I'm told. I'm inflicting pain upon my body in an effort to keep it out of my mind. The irony hasn't escaped me.
March 22, 2007
The Volvo Wagon
I'm a huge fan of Kevin Smith. He and his movie making soulmate, Scott Mosier have a podcast called SModcast. In SModcast Episode 6, titled “Inverted Nipples”, they discussed their adolescent conquests in automobiles among other things. The discussion came around to a time when Kevin Smith was in his car going down on a girl with his finger up her butt, which was of course, previously uncharted territory for him. As the gods have a sense of humor about timing and whatnot, sure enough, the police came by and busted them for fooling around in the vehicle. Everyone was uncomfortable and embarrassed. Hey, it was his story and much funnier as he told it. But it brought me back to 19 years ago, when I was at the tender, wistful age of 18 years…
I like this story because a) its totally true, this can’t be made up, and b) I come off as a filthy dirt bag pig in it. I figured I’d have no choice but to share with all y’all.
With that, I give you The Volvo Wagon:
When I was a teenager, most kids couldn’t wait to drive. Perhaps that hasn’t changed in 21 years but I was not one of those kids. I didn’t much care about driving as I knew there wouldn’t be a lot of opportunities to drive, my bicycle was usually a faster mode of transportation in my little town, and suffering the indignities of drivers training with an uptight physical education teacher and a carload of pimply-faced teens… forget it.
The general protocol for teenage driving starts with going to the Department of Motor Vehicles (DMV) at 15 ½ years to get a learner’s permit which you must have to begin the aforementioned indignities of training. Then the first thing to do on your 16th birthday is attend the driving test at the DMV and walk away a legal driver... provided you pass. Fuck it. I learned to drive on my own when I was 18. Once you are 18 in California, you can saunter in, take all the necessary tests and walk out with a ticket to drive. So that’s exactly what I did.
I learned to drive on my mother’s beater 1979 Volvo station wagon that had a standard transmission without power steering or brakes and to start it you had to take a wrench to the manifold and give it a couple of whacks. Yup, tomboy.
At the time I was in L-O-V-E love with my first serious boyfriend. I was taking him home after band practice (he was the drummer in a punk band and that got me Chernobyl hot) one night and we decided to stop at a dark and lonely park in the posh neighborhood he lived in and do what teenagers with teeming hormones do. Since we had the Volvo wagon and there was a mattress in the back we laid down the back seat and had a little love nest. People complain about sex in cars, but the boxy Volvo has a lot of room and being blessed with long legs, the roof provided some traction that worked out well for me. So there we were, buck nekkid and both of us with our heads in the game, in “the zone” if you will, when a barrage of floodlights cascaded upon us. Boyfriend valiantly lay down upon me to cover my nakedness as he draped a piece of clothing across his pasty white rump. The sheriff asked us what we were doing. To which I replied that it should be pretty obvious and made comment that he can’t possibly be so naïve as to need to ask. Then the sheriff told us to get out of the car. Again I had to be the voice of reason and asked to be allowed to put our clothing back on. Princes that they were, they said that would be fine… uncomfortably, looking at them while they have the lights trained on us, finally I asked if they would divert their lights. I had no problem giving all the goods to Boyfriend, but inbred yay-hoo sheriffs… I think not.
Upon pulling ourselves together, we were subjected to the standard questions and produced the standard documentation… which is where things got sticky. I gave them my brand new license and Boyfriend gave them his learner’s permit. You see, Boyfriend was 15 years old. You could have tipped those sheriffs over with a feather. They said they don’t often see an older girl with a younger boy and they threatened to bring me up on statutory rape charges. I made sure that they took note that he was perfectly grown man size and acted like more of a man than most of the “certifiable” adults who were my age. Boyfriend explained that nothing we were doing was against his will and that he was under no circumstances being taken advantage of. I assured them that his momma knew damned well that we were rutting like animals and why the hell did they think we were here and not snugly tucked into one of our beds. No parent wants to hear their kid going at it! Somehow, that convinced them that we were on the up and up and they let us go but not before admonishing me for my perversion and telling me that if I was a boy, I’d be taken in. I think they gave Boyfriend a wink and a thumbs up when I turned away from them. I resisted calling them sexist pigs since I was smart enough to know when to resist poking a bear with a stick. Off we went to the next darker and lonelier spot and finished up the task at hand.
I’ve always had a thing for younger fellas. Or so it would seem from my dating history. Boyfriend was one of several boys who were deflowered in my loving arms. What can I say, I was a sexually adventurous girl. Most of the others were before him and there was one virginal takedown after Boyfriend was history. It seems that I might have had a thing for defiling tender innocence as well. But Boyfriend was the only one who I didn’t cast away right after the sweat dried.
I’M BACK!
February 10, 2007
Be Right Back
I'm currently on vacation at "The Dark Place".
Mama always told me to "shut the hell up if you don't have anything worthwhile to say." And since at The Dark Place, all I hear in my head is this: I hate my life and my career and everything about both. The only good thing I have in my life is my family. And that consists of my sister and niece across the state and various aunts and uncles strewn about the country.
I'm going to take mom's advice and get back to y'all when I have something pleasant or at least entertaining to share.
Respectfully submitted from the gates of hell.
Mama always told me to "shut the hell up if you don't have anything worthwhile to say." And since at The Dark Place, all I hear in my head is this: I hate my life and my career and everything about both. The only good thing I have in my life is my family. And that consists of my sister and niece across the state and various aunts and uncles strewn about the country.
I'm going to take mom's advice and get back to y'all when I have something pleasant or at least entertaining to share.
Respectfully submitted from the gates of hell.
January 30, 2007
The Folly of Youth
Hee Haw... Pickin' and a Grinin'
In my wayward youth, I had this great friend, Lulu. Lulu was a nickname that her father’s rugby-playing buddies gave her when she was a pre-adolescent. There was a corny 1970’s variety sketch show that catered to the Grand Ole Opry crowd called Hee-Haw. Scrap (Lulu’s dad) and his buddies used to tease her and tell her that she looked like Lulu the Fat Lady from Hee Haw and it stuck.
As a point of clarification, Lulu was gorgeous. She had long corn silk blonde hair, deep blue eyes and was stacked like nobody’s business. She had the attitude of a gal being raised by her single, rugby playing father. In short, hanging around with Lulu was always a good time. At 17 years old, it was a dream come true to be able to hang around a bunch of big, sweaty rugby players who let us get away with drinking beer while we had moderately disturbing adolescent fantasies about them.
Often we would spend our weekends in Isla Vista, which is the town that houses the majority of the students and fraternities for the University of California Santa Barbara, drinking beer and mocking frat-boys. It was usually one big street party there on the weekends with crappy keg beer flowing freely. The agreement was always to meet up back at the car if we lost track of each other.
Even at a tender 17 years old, we were both cynical and twisted girls. We were quickly bored by the keg scene and the silly college boys vying for position with the ladies so we made up games to entertain ourselves. The most popular and fun game was “how far”. The challenge was to see which of us could get the furthest with a fella on any given night. (Fathers out there, beware: your daughters would do this, too) It was relatively innocent, because we were floozies, but we did have our limits.
Sure enough, Lulu and I became separated one evening. I started thinking that I was about to win the Hell out of the game. I had come across Rick Galvan and I had no idea where Lulu was, but Rick seemed quite smitten with yours truly so I gave him the time of day.. er.. night. We were fooling around and there was heavy petting aplenty. Things hadn’t been going quite so well for Lulu before I’d lost track of her so I thought I had this one in the bag. Eventually, I pulled the plug on poor Rick (now known as Blue Ball Rick). I could have gone so much further with the fella, but he committed the fatal act which was to push my head toward his nob and it was game over for Blue Ball Rick. I was tired and he had just become tedious. All that was left to do that evening was to wrangle up Lulu and get home before my father flipped out.
As a point of clarification, Lulu was gorgeous. She had long corn silk blonde hair, deep blue eyes and was stacked like nobody’s business. She had the attitude of a gal being raised by her single, rugby playing father. In short, hanging around with Lulu was always a good time. At 17 years old, it was a dream come true to be able to hang around a bunch of big, sweaty rugby players who let us get away with drinking beer while we had moderately disturbing adolescent fantasies about them.
Often we would spend our weekends in Isla Vista, which is the town that houses the majority of the students and fraternities for the University of California Santa Barbara, drinking beer and mocking frat-boys. It was usually one big street party there on the weekends with crappy keg beer flowing freely. The agreement was always to meet up back at the car if we lost track of each other.
Even at a tender 17 years old, we were both cynical and twisted girls. We were quickly bored by the keg scene and the silly college boys vying for position with the ladies so we made up games to entertain ourselves. The most popular and fun game was “how far”. The challenge was to see which of us could get the furthest with a fella on any given night. (Fathers out there, beware: your daughters would do this, too) It was relatively innocent, because we were floozies, but we did have our limits.
Sure enough, Lulu and I became separated one evening. I started thinking that I was about to win the Hell out of the game. I had come across Rick Galvan and I had no idea where Lulu was, but Rick seemed quite smitten with yours truly so I gave him the time of day.. er.. night. We were fooling around and there was heavy petting aplenty. Things hadn’t been going quite so well for Lulu before I’d lost track of her so I thought I had this one in the bag. Eventually, I pulled the plug on poor Rick (now known as Blue Ball Rick). I could have gone so much further with the fella, but he committed the fatal act which was to push my head toward his nob and it was game over for Blue Ball Rick. I was tired and he had just become tedious. All that was left to do that evening was to wrangle up Lulu and get home before my father flipped out.
Upon arriving back at the car, I saw Lulu in the front seat. Victory was mine since she was alone. Fully prepared to gloat, I hollered her name at which point some random college boy’s head popped up from between her legs that were propped up on the dash board. Apparently, victory was not for me to taste on that night. However, random college boy had a nip at it.
January 19, 2007
Holy Hangover Batman!!
So when I got in at freaking 2 AM, I did the logical thing and took out my contacts and got distracted reading email on my way to bed. About 10 minutes later I said to myself... I've got to take off my contacts and get to bed... and I must really be drunk because I can't seem to get anything in focus across the room! Then I went into the bathroom and started taking out my contacts... again... except you see, there weren't any contacts in my eyes. I realized this when I put a phantom contact into the contact case that was full of solution and I thought... Hey... Wait a minute, I've already done this. Yep, I'm a champion.
Work is going to be a breeze today!
Work is going to be a breeze today!
January 16, 2007
January 9, 2007
Bang Bang BANG!!!
Truth be told, I'm glad my name isn't Annie, she isn't so well representd here. In the end, I can kind of relate to this little video. The guy part, that is. You see, I'm (sadly) more of a man than most men when it comes to romance and whatnot.
There is a guy who I used to date and everything fizzled out and I didn't hear a peep from him for months. Out of the blue, he starts calling and sending me messages and whatnot. There were no hard feelings on my part because we just dated for a short while and things never got serious. Well... when we started talking again, I wanted to know what happened and why he just dissappeared. Well, guess what the big issue was? He said he was falling for me and he got scared so he tucked tail and ran. Now he wants to beg forgiveness and make it up to me so that he can win me back. How's that for throwing down with an impressive blowjob! Ha! I've still got it.
I've got comittment issues and damned good lips. Basque in my glory, y'all!
There is a guy who I used to date and everything fizzled out and I didn't hear a peep from him for months. Out of the blue, he starts calling and sending me messages and whatnot. There were no hard feelings on my part because we just dated for a short while and things never got serious. Well... when we started talking again, I wanted to know what happened and why he just dissappeared. Well, guess what the big issue was? He said he was falling for me and he got scared so he tucked tail and ran. Now he wants to beg forgiveness and make it up to me so that he can win me back. How's that for throwing down with an impressive blowjob! Ha! I've still got it.
I've got comittment issues and damned good lips. Basque in my glory, y'all!
January 2, 2007
Moments of Weakness
It was a particularly rough day at the office. I spent most of it scrambling to get things done and wishing I was being manhandled in the fun way. Distraction doesn't make for an efficient girl in the corporate world. Anyhow... I'm going to move forward with a little bit of quality time petting my cat... Clyde... fuzzy... gray stripes... whiskers... claws... paws... squeeky mewing... she's a cat you filthy bastards!! Now petting the kitty... that's a horse of another color all together my friends.
December 30, 2006
Two Important Points
I so couldn't give a flying rat's ass about Sadam Freaking Hussain and his execution. Isn't there something newsworthy for the media to be sensationalizing?
More importantly, my most recent guilty pleasure is Justin Timberlake. He may be bringing sexy back, but sexy never left my palace.
More importantly, my most recent guilty pleasure is Justin Timberlake. He may be bringing sexy back, but sexy never left my palace.
December 28, 2006
At the Confessional
I noticed the other day that my lips blush right as I'm about to kiss a man. They also blush when I'm about to cry. Coincidence... I think not.
Stay tuned for the true story about when I killed my mother.
Stay tuned for the true story about when I killed my mother.
December 19, 2006
Been a While - Been Busy With Liquor and Sin
I've found that evisceration in words is one of the best ways to deal with disappointment, especially when it comes to affairs of the heart, no matter how superficially. With that, I give you the story of (s)*, a cautionary tale. In this, the reckless season of holidays when judgement takes leave and the compulsion to feel connected to whoever overrides my better sensibilities, I found myself uncharacteristically throwing caution to the wind and actually liking a feller more than I otherwise would. You see, in a way to transfer responsibility for my own damned actions, I'm saying that my sister planted a pestilent seed in my mind about a man who I had met at my local pub. He is an interesting and nice guy, but in the end, perhaps the hope of coming across someone who isn't a character cliché in the way that of many of the men I've crossed paths with in the past have been, I was hoping that he would assuage the disappointment that I was anticipating from men in general. Pity.
Anyhow, my sister had mentioned to me that in spite of my having a pre-existing crush on another feller who I’m over the moon about, she thought this guy was interested in me and that he was the one who I should pursue. Like the tool that I am, I thought she might be right. phft! So there I was, drinking at my local drinkery, with the sister no less, and who else but (s) was there drinking and flirting with me... not my sex-pot sister, mind you, but... me. Holy Toledo!! I was pumped and befuddled. Anyhow, the bar closed and we went outside for a smoke before stumbling home and (s) was still hanging around. Conversation carried on and what should come to pass, but he made a pass at me. As usual, it completely took me off guard because guys generally aren't interested in me what-so-ever!!! Or at least that is how my life experience has generally felt. So my sister (who happened to be inebriated beyond recognition) stumbled back to my house on her own while I started this bizarre interaction with (s) that involved kissing and light dirty talk including him reminding me over and over how, "we are so going to fuck" on that very evening.
To which I could only respond, "You are so going to break my heart on some level, and I forgive you... just so you know."
Now, to his credit, he was just as drunk as I was (which for the record was... quite) and likely more so. And I would have shagged the ever loving fuck out of him, except for the small issue of my drunk-ass sister at my house in... Lord knows what condition and all. So I put the kibosh on that and once again, but narrowly, kept my virtue intact. I know, I know, I'm a saint. It must be said that in spite of my intoxicated state, he is a divine kisser. And that happens to feed my smiter like crack cocaine. Therefore, after all was said and done or not done as the case happened to be, I have a bonafied crush worthy of mental distraction and idealization and the whole catastrophic bit.
Fast forward two days....
My dear dear friend came for a visit from California. My sister came out from her stick town in Western Massachusetts and we hit the town. After a hockey game, we got ourselves back to my local pub and sure enough, (s) was right outside smoking a cigarette. Filthy habit, but who am I to judge what gets someone through the night? I said hi and made the appropriate introductions because I am nothing if not utterly polite. Then when I had a moment I told (s) that when I went upstairs that fateful night, my sister was all akimbo and had been emptying the contents of her stomach from the top down. What did he do? WHAT DID HE FUCKING DO?!! He looked at me and blinked and said, "I don't know what you are talking about."
I was thinking fast at that stage of the game... my first thought was... blackout... perhaps he's that much of a loser... then my thoughts turned to... he was speaking too articulately that night to be blacked out... he's trying to make it all go away... so I tried to sleuth out the truth of what was going on and I say, "You know, after the band played the other night."
And do you know what mother fucker said? Some freaking thing like, "I don't remember. I was pretty fucked up that night. I drank a lot of bourbon."
And like a tool, I said, "Oh." And proceeded to be crestfallen because for all my faults and imperfections, I'm a fricken phenomenal kisser and I can't help but take it personally when someone doesn't remember me as on of the most mind-blowing kissers they have ever snogged. It's a good thing I didn't blow him because I don't think my self-esteem could survive that sort of snubbing.
Being a rational sort, I didn't let my emotions get the better of me and I did the mature thing and proceeded to ignore him for the rest of the evening which didn't seem to bother him too much.
The next day I awoke feeling like reconstituted dog shit and did the best damage control that I could muster and ended up going to bed that night at 9 pm with a temperature of 101 degrees. The whole experience was nearly more than I could muster and my body went on full-tilt revolt.
Tonight, I landed once again at the local pub with my company in tow. Sure enough, (s) was there. Small talk, small talk and so on and so forth. We had all been drinking like it was our jobs and that included (s). Eventually I was able to get a few moments of his attention alone. My thoughts were that I'd let him off the hook because he's clearly a barfly in the most appealing pub in my town to hang out in so it would be best to let bygones be bygones and take the high road and so on, etc. So I once again asked him if he really didn't remember anything from the fateful night. Again he said that he didn't. So I thought what the fuck, I'll just start over with him and extended my arm and said, "Hi, I'm Teresa"**. He took my hand and shook it and introduced himself. Then I proceeded to explain to him that I thought we should start over because he didn't seem to remember the other night when he kissed me quite a few times and said dirty things and all and I didn't want things to be uncomfortable.
He seemed to be receptive and we were able to sit together and yammer on about innocuous things and it didn't really feel uncomfortable. So that's the best I've got when it comes to eviscerating someone in writing. At least it's the best I've got when I actually like someone. A little impotent, perhaps, but I pity the fool that seriously raises my ire. And like Mrs. Kennedy says, "Writing well is the best revenge." So I will continue to endeavor to that end and with any luck, one day the circumstances will align in a way that will allow me to wielda potent revenge on someone truly deserving. Until then, I will continue to pop off at the keyboard with the ranting of a mad woman.
That's all I've got for now, y'all.
Big pouty kisses for each and every one of you.
* Guess what… I changed the names of the not so innocent because I’m decent like that.
** And I’m sure you aren’t surprised, that I’m using a pseudonym so that I don’t divulge my true identity.
Anyhow, my sister had mentioned to me that in spite of my having a pre-existing crush on another feller who I’m over the moon about, she thought this guy was interested in me and that he was the one who I should pursue. Like the tool that I am, I thought she might be right. phft! So there I was, drinking at my local drinkery, with the sister no less, and who else but (s) was there drinking and flirting with me... not my sex-pot sister, mind you, but... me. Holy Toledo!! I was pumped and befuddled. Anyhow, the bar closed and we went outside for a smoke before stumbling home and (s) was still hanging around. Conversation carried on and what should come to pass, but he made a pass at me. As usual, it completely took me off guard because guys generally aren't interested in me what-so-ever!!! Or at least that is how my life experience has generally felt. So my sister (who happened to be inebriated beyond recognition) stumbled back to my house on her own while I started this bizarre interaction with (s) that involved kissing and light dirty talk including him reminding me over and over how, "we are so going to fuck" on that very evening.
To which I could only respond, "You are so going to break my heart on some level, and I forgive you... just so you know."
Now, to his credit, he was just as drunk as I was (which for the record was... quite) and likely more so. And I would have shagged the ever loving fuck out of him, except for the small issue of my drunk-ass sister at my house in... Lord knows what condition and all. So I put the kibosh on that and once again, but narrowly, kept my virtue intact. I know, I know, I'm a saint. It must be said that in spite of my intoxicated state, he is a divine kisser. And that happens to feed my smiter like crack cocaine. Therefore, after all was said and done or not done as the case happened to be, I have a bonafied crush worthy of mental distraction and idealization and the whole catastrophic bit.
Fast forward two days....
My dear dear friend came for a visit from California. My sister came out from her stick town in Western Massachusetts and we hit the town. After a hockey game, we got ourselves back to my local pub and sure enough, (s) was right outside smoking a cigarette. Filthy habit, but who am I to judge what gets someone through the night? I said hi and made the appropriate introductions because I am nothing if not utterly polite. Then when I had a moment I told (s) that when I went upstairs that fateful night, my sister was all akimbo and had been emptying the contents of her stomach from the top down. What did he do? WHAT DID HE FUCKING DO?!! He looked at me and blinked and said, "I don't know what you are talking about."
I was thinking fast at that stage of the game... my first thought was... blackout... perhaps he's that much of a loser... then my thoughts turned to... he was speaking too articulately that night to be blacked out... he's trying to make it all go away... so I tried to sleuth out the truth of what was going on and I say, "You know, after the band played the other night."
And do you know what mother fucker said? Some freaking thing like, "I don't remember. I was pretty fucked up that night. I drank a lot of bourbon."
And like a tool, I said, "Oh." And proceeded to be crestfallen because for all my faults and imperfections, I'm a fricken phenomenal kisser and I can't help but take it personally when someone doesn't remember me as on of the most mind-blowing kissers they have ever snogged. It's a good thing I didn't blow him because I don't think my self-esteem could survive that sort of snubbing.
Being a rational sort, I didn't let my emotions get the better of me and I did the mature thing and proceeded to ignore him for the rest of the evening which didn't seem to bother him too much.
The next day I awoke feeling like reconstituted dog shit and did the best damage control that I could muster and ended up going to bed that night at 9 pm with a temperature of 101 degrees. The whole experience was nearly more than I could muster and my body went on full-tilt revolt.
Tonight, I landed once again at the local pub with my company in tow. Sure enough, (s) was there. Small talk, small talk and so on and so forth. We had all been drinking like it was our jobs and that included (s). Eventually I was able to get a few moments of his attention alone. My thoughts were that I'd let him off the hook because he's clearly a barfly in the most appealing pub in my town to hang out in so it would be best to let bygones be bygones and take the high road and so on, etc. So I once again asked him if he really didn't remember anything from the fateful night. Again he said that he didn't. So I thought what the fuck, I'll just start over with him and extended my arm and said, "Hi, I'm Teresa"**. He took my hand and shook it and introduced himself. Then I proceeded to explain to him that I thought we should start over because he didn't seem to remember the other night when he kissed me quite a few times and said dirty things and all and I didn't want things to be uncomfortable.
He seemed to be receptive and we were able to sit together and yammer on about innocuous things and it didn't really feel uncomfortable. So that's the best I've got when it comes to eviscerating someone in writing. At least it's the best I've got when I actually like someone. A little impotent, perhaps, but I pity the fool that seriously raises my ire. And like Mrs. Kennedy says, "Writing well is the best revenge." So I will continue to endeavor to that end and with any luck, one day the circumstances will align in a way that will allow me to wielda potent revenge on someone truly deserving. Until then, I will continue to pop off at the keyboard with the ranting of a mad woman.
That's all I've got for now, y'all.
Big pouty kisses for each and every one of you.
* Guess what… I changed the names of the not so innocent because I’m decent like that.
** And I’m sure you aren’t surprised, that I’m using a pseudonym so that I don’t divulge my true identity.
December 7, 2006
Misguided Elders
I have a myspace page. And no, you can't have the address lest my secret identity be divulged. Anyhow, yesterday a Boston cop sent me an email. He's 44 years old and married and looking for "new friends" to meet for a drink and all. Anyhow... I splained to him that I didn't particularly dig married guys, but if he was looking for friends, I'm on-board. Now I only am on-board on account of him actually being a nice fella and interesting to talk to (for the record, we graduated to phone conversations). Now before you get all... How can she be so damned naive! Phft!! I'm compelled to share that I'm not so doe-eyed. I've talked to a lot of married guys and they all have a few things in common. Most amusing and predictable of them being that each and every single married guy who starts sniffing around looking for some extra-marital hi jinks always makes a big show about explaining how his wife doesn't like to have sex, is frigid, doesn't like to kiss, eee-tee-cee!! And this one in particular is claims to be totally invested in his marriage in that he has no desire to ever leave his wife. So here I am, talking to this married guy and explaining that I would have an extremely difficult time taking out another woman's trash and he says that he would be ok with not "hooking up" but he still wants to get together and have a beer or coffee or something. Uh-hunh... Anyhow, I'm still not sure if I really want to meet this guy, but I always like to see who is able to be so committed to their marriage, and in the same breath be totally resolved in getting nasty with another woman. Honestly, no mile of fine-ass cock is enough cock to make that kind of pathetic mid-west housewife drama worthwhile. Phft backed up with a little bit of tscha mutha fucka!
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