Thursday, July 29, 2004

Family History

My family is the most bizarre mix of religions and nationalities. Scotch, Irish, English, Welsch, French, Czech, Russian, Polish. These are only the ones I know definitely. There may be more. My father's family are Ashkenazi Jews, so the Czech, Russian, and Polish must be amended to include that. Besides the Jewish, my family has actually been Protestant and most recently, Catholic. My parents started out as hippies in the 60s and decided to try every religion on earth including every Protestant denomination and non-denomination, before finally settling on Catholicism. Without delving into my personal religious views (which I would consider bad manners on my part), I will venture to say that I have evolved into a religious pragmatist. I think some of it is a little foolish, but I don't hate any religion and consider most of them either benign or good.

One thing I don't understand why some people get so upset about religious people being judgmental. They are allowed. If you think they have a point, but are pissed at them for pointing it out, then you are a hypocrite. If you think they are full of shit, then why do you care what they say? Believe me when I say that I have dealt with all types and I find people basically either good or evil, religion nonwithstanding.

I didn't really want to get into religion, but I always think it is an interesting topic as long as folks don't take it too personally. What I actually wanted to write about was the complete European shit-mix that I am, and the fact that I added Jethro's completely different race and religion to my daughters already homogenized genes. One thing they can always hold their heads up proudly for is that there can be absolutely no question of incest. :-)

I think this is why I am so enamored with the country in which I live. This is all possible. This colossal clash of cultures is POSSIBLE!! To me, this is a tremendous thing. It is like passing all the wisdom of our collective cultures into two little girls and then releasing them on the world. I just hope we can make a decent job of it. I feel like it is a serious responsibility. I want them to be interested in their cultures, but I don't want my girls take pride in either race. Your race isn't an achievement. I want them to be proud of their accomplishments, talents, grades, or personalities. If you don't take pride in someone else's accomplishments just because they are of your race, then cannot feel shame in the someone else's failures just because they are of your race. And there are terrible failures from every race.

The fact is that they look like both of us. And they don't look fully like one race or the other. This, I know has created identity issues for some children, but I am determined that will not happen to my girls. I want them to be a part of both races and be contented and at peace with who they are. This means not being self-deprecating about my race. It is tempting sometimes when I'm around my husband's family just because we all have self-deprecating senses of humor, and it is so darn easy to make fun of white people, but there are times when a joke will go too far and the seeds of doubt may be planted in impressionable minds.

I don't have any illusions that making my children a part of two races will be easy. I don't think it will. But the first step for Jethro and I has been to do away with politically correct racial sensitivity as much as possible. This doesn't mean we go around making fun of people (we try to teach the girls manners as well), it simply means that we look at the intent behind the words rather than the words themselves. If no harm is meant, we let it go. So far, we haven't had any issues, because most people are polite and decent.

The funniest thing is when people assume that you have to deal with discrimination frequently. The "insensitive" comments that are sometimes made in the name of "sensitivity" are hilarious. But we never take it as a sign of some deep-rooted bigotry. It is just ordinary people trying to let you know that they have no problems with you. And that's cool.

This whole post is kind of jumbled, but I've been wanting to write about it for awhile.

Wednesday, July 28, 2004

Book Review

I haven't posted in a few days because I have been reading the best books.  They are "The Flashman Papers" by George MacDonald Fraser.  Really funny, but not for the faint-of-heart or the politically correct.  They are even funnier if you know your world history (which I could stand to study up on).

In the 1830s, a man named Thomas Hughes wrote a book called "Tom Brown's Schooldays."  It was about life at an all-boy's English boarding school.  Let the homosexual jokes commence.   Anyway, this book is extols the virtues of honesty and condemns the bullying that was so prevalent.  Harry Flashman is the school bully who tortures the younger students, carouses, refuses to study and is eventually expelled for drunkeness.   

"The Flashman Papers" were written in the 1980s and detail the life of Harry Flashman, the bully of "Tom Brown's Schooldays."  Brilliant idea as far as I'm concerned.  Harry Flashman, the school bully, joins the British army and ends up a hero.  It is completely by accident because he is an absolute coward and a cad and an obsequious brown-noser.  The history is pretty accurate and they are great reads.  I just finished the second in the series, where Flashman becomes embroiled in an international plot to steal the identity of a Count.  He ends up impersonating the Count, and despite already having a wife, marries the Count's betrothed, the Duchess Irma.  After drinking heavily with the men downstairs, Flashman decides to devirginize the bride.  I'll quote an exerpt from the wedding night passage:

"Cheer up little wife,"says I (Flashman), "there won't be any more singing downstairs," and I stooped and whipped the nightdress clean off, over her head.  She gave a little cry, and since I maintain that the best way to deal with nervous females is to treat 'em hearty, I lifted her up bodily, popped her on, and stumped around the room singing:  "This is the way the ladies ride, trit-trot, trit-trot, trit-trot."

This pretty much embodies the character, except for the extreme cowardice.  Anyway, they're really funny books, and I highly recommend them.

New Topic:  I quit my job about once every two weeks.  Something will frustrate me, and I will announce, dramatically, that I quit.  I will stalk out of the house, slam the door and call Jethro.  He'll calm me down, and I'll go back to work.  The downside to this is that, "I quit" no longer has the same effect it once did.

I don't hate my job.  I actually like it quite a bit.  I absolutely DO NOT like working in the same house as my family resides.  My sisters are obnoxious and bitchy and spoiled, and my mom only responds to extreme verbal abuse whether it is from her husband (my stepdad and boss) or kids.  I claim no virtue in the verbal abuse department.  I was Hell's own bitch to my mom when I was in high school and college.  I'm sorry for it now, and we get along much better, but she always manages to take the side of my beastly sisters.  God, grant me the patience to deal with these idiots until Jeth finishes school and we can move away from this steaming hell hole of a city.  PMS.  Sorry.

Friday, July 23, 2004

The City of Honest Corruption

New Orleans.  Charming, dirty, beloved moral cesspool of the South.  It isn't so much immoral as it is amoral.  Sin just doesn't seem sinful, and the black and white absolutes of your ordinary life become a deceiving rainbow of glorious vice.  Sex, gambling, violence, larceny become as natural as breathing.

Jethro and I went there about 2 years ago for a romantic weekend.  I left more tired than I came.  I, like the freakin' girl that I am, made him go on a historical tour with me.  Waste of time.  We kept ducking into bars to get drinks while the guide would go on and on about the difference between cast iron and wrought iron.  Boooooooooring.  I did learn one thing from it though.  Louisianna politicians, and New Orleans politicians in particular, are expected to make money while they are in office.  They are actually expected to get rich.  If they don't, they will have failed in their duty as politicians.  The reasons were complex and I was pretty drunk, but I think it stemmed from the notion that the best way to generate wealth in the city is to have the politicians generate personal wealth from the city.  I really couldn't tell how it was working out for them, but apparantly business-people from other cities have a very difficult time dealing with New Orleans business-people.  They just speak another language in which corruption is expected - and not actually considered corruption.

I won't lie and say we saw everything.  We spent all of our time in the French Quarter soaking up the sin and delighting in the debauchery.  We stayed at the Maison Dupuy.  It was right on the edge of the French Quarter - far enough away from Bourbon Street to be quiet, but close enough that you could walk there in two minutes.  The hotel had gotten mixed reviews from patrons on Travelocity, so I decided we had to stay there.  The bad reviews came from people complaining about how old it was.  One of the good reviews said that they had gotten very drunk and the bellboy helped him up to his room and got him in bed without a muss or fuss.  I thought it sounded perfect, and it was.  Very reasonable rates, and it was charming.  It had a courtyard that was beautiful with a pool and a fountain and garden plants all around. http://www.maisondupuy.com/guestrooms/panoramic.html 

And the eating!  We ate more than we drank and we were stewed almost the entire time.  There is no cooking like Cajun cooking.  Shrimp gumbo, crawfish etouffee, fried alligator, frog legs - we tried everything we possibly could in a 48 hour period. 

We went to bar after bar and ended up in a strip club.  It was the 2nd time we'd been there.  One of the girls eventually came over and started talking to us.  She was so cute and normal - she was talking about how she was going to buy all her Christmas presents at Target.  Then she asked if we wanted a lap dance.  I thought it would be rude not to get one, but I was also pretty sure that it wouldn't do a thing for me.  I also couldn't be sure of how to act while she was doing it.  How do you make yourself appear appreciative, but not lecherous?  Jethro was a beast and didn't help me out at all.  He just sat there smiling, waiting to see what I would do.  I chickened out, of course, and hightailed it out of there.  I'm pretty sure he followed me.  I can't remember now.

I could write on and on about that city.  The history of voodoo and Santeria and the cemeteries and haunted houses are fascinating and I encourage anyone who hasn't been bored enough to read this far to check out some of the histories online: http://www.prairieghosts.com/neworleans.html

Definitely my favorite city in all the world so far.  But I shall keep looking.


The Smell of Men Trying

I love the cologne Drakkar Noir.  I know people make fun of it now and say, "smell that cheesy loser, how 90s." But I love it.  It makes me want to get down on my knees and pray, and go dancing at some blacklit club and pretend to get drunk on amaretto sours and make out with someone in the backseat of his car in the parking lot.

It smells like a man trying.  And I appreciate it.

Men can go too far though.  The whole city slicker, dandy trend (I refuse to say metrosexual), irritates me.  I don't want anything to do with a guy who worries more about his looks than I do.  I'd rather have a guy with a unibrow and dirty fingernails than one who pays $200 for a silk shirt that makes him look like a fag.  Call me unenlightened, but I dislike ambiguity in men.   I think it's great in women though.

I know I'm a hypocrite, but I don't care.  If some guys want to be sensitive little pussies,  more power to 'em, but I can guarantee it's more trouble than it's worth.  Unless they are blessed with extreme good looks, guys should just make sure their clothes are clean, throw on some Drakkar, and hope for the best.  But go do something fun.  I think the best way to pick up women is to start playing a game, and ask the gal you have your eye on if she wants to play.  If you're playing darts or pool or something, you won't be just standing around NOT getting laid.  

Hey,  at least it's better than "I'll give you a nickel if you tickle my pickle" (which, for some reason, I find strangely alluring).

Okay, I'm done.

I saw a lady in the grocery store yesterday who had no ass.  She was wearing sweatpants with the word "LOVE" where her ass should have been.  I thought, "What's to love?"



Wednesday, July 21, 2004

The Circus

We took our girls to the circus last night.  It was so fun to be with them seeing all the animals.  Eldest hated the tigers, but loved everything else.  She was most intrigued by the camels and zebras.  Baby was terrified of the tigers but really loved the 6 motorcycles in the globe of death and the elephants.  We all loved the elephants.  I enjoyed the horses particularly.  The worst part of the whole evening was trying to convince the Eldest that she didn't need a $16 twirly light toy.  I hated to disappoint her, but I can't justify spending $16 on a toy that I have actually purchased for $7.  I'm half Jewish and half Scottish.  Sue me. 

The girls are what made the circus fun.  If I had gone by myself, I would have been disappointed.  The first time I went to the circus was when I was about 6 or 7.  I went with my Brownie troop to see Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Bailey Circus' Wild West show.  Perhaps it's because I'm remembering it through my child eyes that it seemed so wonderful.  In my memory it seemed much more glittery.  All the costumes had sequins sewn onto them so that they would reflect the stage lights and they were bright bold colors like red and blue and green and white.  This show was all blacklight and flourescence.  Pretty, but kind of done to death. 

The acts weren't as good either.  They just didn't seem death-defying.  In the circus of my memory, when someone would do something spectacular, the ringmaster would bellow, "IS-HE-ALLRIGHT?  And you would wait with baited breath, biting off the ends of your fingers until the performer would reappear with his arms outstretched and his chest thrust out, upon which you would cheer wildly wondering what else could possibly top it. 

This edition of the Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Bailey Circus boasts the first black ringmaster.  He isn't bad, but he reminded me forcefully of Wayne Brady.  He also seemed like too fine a singer to be wasting his talent in a stunt show, but then again, talented singers are often out of work, so I guess he takes what he can get.  Very sensible.  My only real beef with him was that he didn't sound like he believed a thing that was coming out of his mouth.  It seems like a small thing, but the ringmaster's job is to sell you a bill of goods.  I won't believe him, but I expect him to make me try. 

Another thing related to the ringmaster was the talk about saving endangered species.  It is a very trivial point, but from a purely nostalgic view, it is annoying to have real-life problems horn their way into a fantasy world.  The circus always seemed to have operated on the fringes of society.  The preformers were so mysterious, the animal trainers were so commanding, and the whole circus seemed to be a life force of its own - its own community with its own set of rules.  I know animals shouldn't be treated cruelly and I know that endangered animals should be taken care of.  It reflects upon us as a society.  Us though, not them.  I kind of selfishly felt that the circus should only comply silently with the animal protection laws and not discuss them with anyone else.  But their bringing up a political issue during the circus made it lose a little of the mystery, and made it seem ordinary.   On a larger scale, it just exemplifies my weariness with political correctness.  I am so tired of being lectured to by any political group that has managed to grab a little political leverage.

Related to this is the theme of this circus.  It was very Asiatic.  Like it was trying to be Cirque du Soleil.  I'm sorry, but I want The Greatest Show On Earth to be pure Americana.  They can do an Asian theme, but I want it full of American stereotypes (nice ones, not mean ones).  If I wanted Cirque du Soleil, I could watch the Sundance Channel, but I wanted the cotton candy, peanut, popcorn, and elephant driven circus that I remembered.   And the almost nude ladies.  The new costumes were downright conservative.  No I'm not bi.

The highlight of the night for me, was during the intermission when Jeth and I went to get the girls cotton candy (we left them with their aunt).  While we were waiting in line, a lady lost her kid and started screaming "AVERY! AVERY! AVERY!" at the top of her lungs.  Everyone just stood there like morons staring at her.  I did too, but then thought that perhaps security should be notified.  I was making my way to the nearest security guard, when the little girl ran crying up to her mom, who screamed, "WHERE WERE YOU??!!!!"  The poor kid started crying harder as her mom smothered her in hugs and kisses. It was moving, but I was torn between contempt for the mom whose logic had totally fled, the memory of my mother doing the exact same thing when I disappeared in a department store when I was 4, and the uncomfortable realization that I had done the same exact thing when Eldest had run away from me (deliberately) at Target.  But my screams were angry and theirs were manic. Regardless,  that mom's cries will give me nightmares for years to come.





Sunday, July 18, 2004

The Dildo Show

WARNING:  SEXUAL EXPLICITNESS
 
I went to a sex toy party last night.  My friend invited me about 3 weeks ago, and I thought it might be interesting.  It was both funny and sad.  I may have to revise my opinions on women and marriage.   I felt sorry for most of the gals there.  They either had no man, or were trying to spice up dormant sex lives.  My heart almost broke watching these women diligently study their magazines and solemnly use the restroom to spray on the free samples of feminine arousal product, hoping to increase their waning libidos.  Some were uptight, some were shy, some were trashy, some were loud (me), but none were indifferent.
 
The woman hosting the party was a spunky, gracious Greek girl.  She was quite large, but was so cool about it that I envied her.  She struck me as the type of person who had decided that she was too good a cook to worry about someting like a figure, and you could either take it or leave it, but if you left it, you would be a fool.   A hungry fool.

The dildo rep was a barking moonbat.  She was 40-ish, wearing a shapeless long black dress, no bra (which she was in rather desperate need of), had greasy long dark hair and a mustache, and was waaaay too nervous to be hocking sex toys to 40 drunk, horny women.  She was kind of like a goth/hippie/midwife.  In short, she was a prime candidate for TLCs "What NOT To Wear."  I couldn't picture her using the products, but then again, my imagination has its limits.
 
I'll skip all the lotions and potions and get to the dildos.  I didn't get one because they were expensive and I already own one, but they were quite interesting.  There were the standard "bullets" that were attatched to a cord (reminded me of a fetal monitor), then there were the realistic looking ones that were pink rubber.  There was a fiber-optic G-spot stimulator.  I have no idea how to explain it except that it looked like it had an L-shaped hook at the tip.  Incidentally, this is what lit up.   There was another one that had a thumb sticking out of the penis shaft.  Quite the freak appendage.  It was bubblegum pink.  There were some that rotated in a cyclone motion. One had a dolphin attached to the shaft.   You are supposed to put your clit in the dolphin's beak and let it vibrate.  It was blue.  That was the only one I considered buying.  And the worst one was the 17 inch "chocolate thunder."  It was an African penis about 3-4 inches in diameter complete with grotesque veins running through it.  We renamed it the "ego-crusher."  I thought it was racist - but apparantly in a good way since it was bought by several black girls in attendance, one of them being my friend, Chantrelle.  Guess I'm getting a little PC in my old-age.  We teased her the whole ride home.
 
The best thing, that I am starting to regret I didn't purchase, was a toy called Gigi.  It was a pink rubber vagina-esque item.  You fill it with KY and stick your partner's wang-johnson in it.  You can push it all the way through and suck the top (head if you want to be indelicate), or you can cover the whole thing with Gigi and let him go, or you can turn Gigi inside out and make her an anus.  I stuck my finger in it and I am pretty sure that it was very realistic.  And the best thing of all about Gigi was that she swallows. 
 
I bought 4 items.  One was edible/lickable oil for bj's which I haven't tried yet.  Another was lube that is supposed to reactivate upon contact with water so you can boink in the shower - something I enjoy, but find difficult.  Thirdly, was a clitoral stimulating ointment that was supposed to deliver mind shattering orgasms.  I tried it and it is pleasant, but not mind-blowing.  And the last thing I got was something called nipple nibblers which is supposed to make your nippys tingly and suckable (not that mine aren't anyway).  After I shelled out $12.00 for it, I got the disturbing feeling that I had just bought expensive straberry flavored carmex.  I guess it is ok though because strawberry is Jethro's favorite flavor.  A slight digression.  We were at a party once where the topic of favorite ice-cream flavors came up.  Jethro said his favorite was strawberry, and all the guys started making fun of him.  He let them finish, and then said, "I like to lick it off my wife's nipples."  They stopped making fun of him.
 
We played a few silly games meant to draw people out and get them to admit to their various sexual escapades.  I started out playing honestly, but there were these two British chicks who were just tearing up.  Anal sex, threesomes, more than three guys in one night...there was nothing these girls hadn't done.  I couldn't let America lose to these chippies, so I ended up admitting to things I hadn't even thought of.  Probably not a wise idea.  I will never see the British chicks again, but now people I know think I've been gang-banged...in the ass...to the tune of "Feel Like Makin' Love"...on public transportation.  Oh well, I suppose it could be worse.




Friday, July 16, 2004

Too Hot To Blog

It is horrifically hot in Houston.  I hate hate hate this weather.  When I am rich, and if I still live in Houston, I am going to build me a pool.  Not just any pool.  This pool is going to have a slide and a diving board, an alcove so Jethro and I can do it without being too obvious, a hot tub, and a swim-up pool bar - the kind you can access from the outside, but the seats are in the water.    I am going to have the pool lined in foam rubber so your feet don't get sore.  I am going to quit my job, have one of my daughters make me a margarita (by the time I get my pool they will probably be in their mid-forties), and lie on my ass in my pool all.  friggin'.  day.  God, I hope Jeth and I will still be able to do it.  Maybe I'll have a cabana boy whose only job will be to bring me my margaritas.  And clean my pool.  And shout encouragements at a very old Jethro and Zelda as we try to get it on in the alcove.  Gee.  This was supposed to be a nice relaxing fantasy.  Now I'm really depressed. 

I like people most of the time.  Rarely do I get pissed off at stupidity.  Most of the time it just amuses me.  Despite my ranting, I don't care deeply about the state of marriage in general. I just don't want anyone crying to me when their marriage fails because of their own ignorance.  I do get pissed off when people are rude.  I cannot abide intentional and unprovoked rudeness.  I will turn a ghastly shade of white, then I will turn purple and I cannot be held responsible for what will come out of my mouth.  I have been known to foam a little. 

Case in point:  I manage my step-dad's real estate office.  We had, as clients, this young couple who had bitten off a little more than they could chew with regards to their house.  The young man had started his own computer fixer-upper type company and their imaginary earnings were faaaaaaar greater than their actual earnings.  They had bought a humongous and expensive home at an interest rate that no one this side of sanity would have taken, and 2 years later were faced with foreclosure.  They listed their house with us and rejected several good offers because they thought somehow, that they could make a profit on it.  

Note:  If you are facing foreclosure, accept the first offer.  You won't get a better one.  

The young lady thought she would try her hand at eBay, and her own maternity care/doula business, but with only her own two kids as experience in these matters, she was hardly qualified. 

Note:  Any woman who hopes to start one of these businesses will most likely failAny man who hopes to start one will definitely fail.   

I wouldn't want no doula man rubbing my belly and massaging my twat while I was in labour.  But I digress.  The young lady actually ended up making a couple of house payments by selling on eBay all of the crap they had bought when they thought they had money. 

These people are actually not the villains of my story.  They were stupid, but they were reaping the consequences, and who am I to kick those who are down?  No.  The villains of this story are their neighbors.   The young couple moved into a small rental, and the big house became rather unkempt.  One day I received a call from their neighbor - obviously an anal-retentive who sucks air every time she sits.  She said, "their yard is really a mess.  I pay a very high association fee so I don't have to deal with people who don't take care of their yards.  I know they can't afford that house, but you would think they would keep their lawn trimmed as a courtesy to those who live around them.  As their realtor, you need to send someone out here to have this lawn cut immediately.  I also need to know if they are in foreclosure because I don't want my house value to go down"

Now first of all, we cannot afford to go around paying for sellers' lawn maintenance.  That is their responsibility.  All we can do is tell them and hope they take care of it.  Secondly, the HOA would be the one to call about it.  And thirdly, I could have gotten in a lot of trouble if I had started discussing their financial situation.  I thought it was pretty obvious this psycho just wanted gossip, so I turned my customary white then purple,  told her we couldn't care less about the lawn, didn't give a shit about her property value, and that we were not going to risk legal action by discussing the finances of our clients with someone like her.  And, because I just couldn't help it, asked her where the hell she got off?  She tried to get huffy, but I cut her off with a few well-aimed curse words, told her she was a terrible Christian (because 5'll get you 10 she considered herself a good Christian), and hung up on her.  It felt pretty damn good. 

The sad thing is that we have any number of cheap lawn services at our disposal and I could have made a polite, discreet call to the young couple, but her rudeness made me pray that their lawn would become so overgrown that it would cause a dark pestilence to descend upon her house.

One more before I go.  Another time, a porsche driving, new money Slimeball was picking up his order of gourmet yuppie shit at a local specialty shop.    The very tired cashier who couldn't have been more than 16 almost dropped it.  The Slimeball actually screamed at her, "CAREFUL!!! THAT SHIT IS WORTH MORE THAN YOU'LL EVER MAKE!!!"  I turned colors immediately and said "so is your toupee."  My friend who was with me, took the cue and said, "yeah, so was your ass-waxing."  The cashier who had been about to cry, started laughing.  The Slimeball threw his product down on the counter and stalked out calling us "assholes" which only induced more mirth.  The cashier offered to give us what Slimeball was purchasing.  I think it was some kind of mushroom.  It tasted like mushroom.  Whatever.

Anyway, I am bushed.  See ya tomorrow or Monday.





Wednesday, July 14, 2004

Men are NOT off the Hook

I think it is because I feel more danger from women who act like frigid bitches that I get so on women's cases. But men are at fault too. I have three words for married men in that particular situation. BUTCH UP SALLY. If your wife is treating you like shit it is most likely because you subscribed to the idea that if you went along with all the PC feminist bullshit, you would get laid. How wrong you are. Women want men. You can be sensitive, caring, loving, hardworking, forthright, honest, whatever, but you have to be men. This pretty much means not being a feminist. You can't trust a man who claims to be a feminist or who is very politically correct, because there is nothing in it for him. Men have the right to want sex. They have even more of a right to want sex with their wives. Kinky, dirty, porny sex. Yeah. Excuse me.

I'm back. Anyway, wives get weird after they have kids. Partly because their bods are different. Would it be nice to have a great pre-baby body? Yes. Is that necessarily going to happen? No. So guys, be polite about the extra pounds. The lady just went through childbirth, and it is just plain rude to make her feel like a freak about it. Everyone has to get over their hang-ups. Do guys want a dead-sexy wife? Sure. Do they want sex with their wives regardless? Sure. So do your workouts, tell your kids to shut up and watch tv, and have a little fun. Is that so fucking hard? Probably. Oh well, I think I'm done with the subject.

Sunday, July 11, 2004

Pussy-whipped

I think political correctness will be the death of marriage. I've read these blogs about men who aren't getting any from their wives.

http://suburbansexblog.blogspot.com.

It is horrible. This one guy's wife, because she is a PC feminist, doesn't want to admit that she likes to be submissive in bed.

http://pissedoffhusband.blogspot.com.

Dear Lord, grant me patience. First of all, your sex life is your own. Whatever you want, you can do. Especially if you are married. I said before that once you are married, you are legally, morally, spiritually allowed to do whatever you want. If that means getting a daily spanking, go for it. I'm sure 50's housewives didn't get spankings. But for that matter, how the fuck do we know? For all the wild speculation about Ward and June's squeaky clean sex-life, they may have been animals. The point is, if you subscribe to the PC feminist empowerment philosophy, don't fucking drag it into your bedroom. If you don't want to be a 50s housewife, then don't fucking make your bed in the morning. Or don't wear an apron. Once your sex life is PC, you won't have any fun anymore. Most men and women do not get married to become celibate. But so many women think they have a right to hold their husband's sexual urges over their heads and make them feel like either morons or pussies.

Once you are married, there is no more sexual hypocrisy because as long as you have a consenting partner, you are free to do whatever you want. The face you present to the rest of the world does not have to reflect what you do in bed BECAUSE IT ISN'T ANYONE'S FUCKING BUSINESS!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Unless you're cheating. But that's a whole other issue. You can advocate female empowerment or pre-marital abstinence to your heart's content, but once you're married, the doors of ecstacy are flung wide and all you have to do is walk through. If you were an abstinance girl, you can now whip your husband's ass bloody (if he wants you to). If you were a corporate dominatrix, you can now put on a frilly apron and do it missionary for the rest of your life if you so desire. You don't have to tell anyone, and IT ISN'T ANYONE'S FUCKING BUSINESS. Once you're married, your sex life should never reflect on you personally, and anyone who says it does is a hypocrite or a liar.

Ok, I'm done ranting. I hate it when I get on a tangent, but so very many of the married couples I know are headed straight for divorce because of this very issue. MEN DON'T GET MARRIED SO THEY CAN BECOME PRIESTS!!!!!!

Friday, July 09, 2004

Kid Stuff

The girls, Jethro and I were at Souper Salad. A very nice sweet waitress came by and gave us our drinks and took particularly good care of my daughters. She made sure their straws weren't too long for their cups and told us how cute they were. They really are cute when the just sit there without opening their mouths. My eldest immediately repaid her kindness by pointing at her, laughing and saying loudly, "She has a BIG BUTT!" I have never been so close to beating her little tushy red in public. I almost cried from shame. We left that poor woman a $10 tip and I still think it was insufficient. Jethro handled Eldest beautifully. He loudly made it clear what she said was very wrong. She cried and felt bad, but it was necessary for her to understand what she did. I don't think I can go back there.

On a lighter note, Baby calls waffles "wa-pulls." Last Sunday she asked for "mo wa-pulls pwease." It was so cute.

Thursday, July 08, 2004

The Scent of a Book

Probably one of my favorite smells on earth. I just bought a book called "Tom Brown's School Days" on ebay. The original was written in the 1860s but this one was published in the 1930s. I hope it smells old.

I don't think I listed in my profile that I enjoy reading. Reading seems like too great and powerful a thing to be a part of a list. If I hadn't married Jethro, I could very easily have lived a happy and personally fulfilled life as a secluded bookworm. As long as I had my dildo. Just kidding. Actually... Yeah I am.

Anyway, I have not been able to read much lately. The girls are so cute, that I hate to waste their childhood by reading for my pleasure. Perhaps when they are older and Jethro is working, I may have the time.

My sister gave me a book written by Pulitzer Prize winning author Michael Chabon. In fact, I believe the book I read was the one that won. It is called "The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Klay." I was terribly disappointed. He is a good writer, may one day be a great writer, but he stuck this obligatory homosexual character in there that made me cringe. I don't have a problem with gay characters. If done correctly, they can add a dynamic and interesting dimension to a book. But I have a huge problem with reading about a small dark Jewish man tasting his own excrement on the penis of cop whom he is committing an act of fellatio on in order to keep himself out of prison. In one sense, I admire Chabon for having the guts to go whole hog and write in detail about the sexual experiences of his gay character, but on the other hand I feel that it was forced (literally and figuratively).

I have a strange feeling that I want to become a 50s housewife. No. That's not right. I want to have a 50s housewife. I want to have a house with a cozy library, and I want a housewife to call me when its time for dinner. And I don't want to be a 50s housewife in bed. I want to be a raging slut. Maybe 50s housewives were raging sluts but they just didn't let on. I want people to know I'm a slut with Jethro. I hope we can afford a housekeeper. I think my contribution to my marriage will be more on the entertainment front than the domestic one because dammit, I'm fucking amusing (little joke there) and I am too absent-minded to tackle things like dishes and floors and laundry with any skill.

On the Fahrenheit 9/11 front, my friend, oh say Larry, asked me to see that swill with him. First of all, I wouldn't see a movie that rips off someone else's title, unless it's a satire of that work. Which it isn't. I am a great admirer of originality, and I am very contemptuous of those who think they can prove their brilliance by quoting a true intellectual instead of coming up with something on their own. Secondly, I wouldn't line that fat, divisive, socialist slob's pocket with my hard-earned capitalist money. It is my personal opinion that his cheap shots come at the expense of our entire political and economic system and I abhor him in a deeply personal way for that.

Enough about politics. I have no wish to really discuss it as it will make me sad. I know very well that I posses the minority opinion in the blog world, and I acknowlege that fully, so don't gang up on me and tell me why you think that idiot has a point. I know I'm asking for it by putting it out there, but out of respect for my boobies, don't give it to me. Thanks.

Tuesday, July 06, 2004

Boobies/Titties/Jugs/Hooters/Tatas/Muffins/Knockers - Otherwise Entitled: Let's Porn Things Up A Little

The Ultimate Beautiful Woman who supposedly represents me, is an ass girl. I think this is why I was so tickled that I got her. I am a tits girl. I have large ones. We are talking 34G. They are not fake and not genetic as far as I'm aware. No one in my family has been similarly endowed. For better or worse, they are definitely my most distinguishing feature.

Not to brag, but they are kind of pretty. Even though they are big, everything is pointing in the right direction. They are loads of fun in the sack. Jethro...well let's say he digs them. And that's cool. Also they are very helpful in getting favors. At least they were when I was single. I remember flashing Jethro one time back in college and he let me live with him for 2 weeks when I was jobless. And the mardis gras beads - forget about it. Two G cups and a pierced nipple will get you the world - at least in terms of shiny plastic sparklies.

The bad aspects are that bras are expensive and clothes fit poorly. What I wear ends up being too tight or too baggy. Too baggy and I get ignored, too tight and I get felt. You see the dilemma.

I have considered The Reduction, but I would be getting it for the same reasons that women get implants, and I don't really believe in that unless you are somehow deformed. Plus I have a sneaking suspicion that they are the source of all my powers. I am thinking of getting a nipple pierced again though. I can't decide. What do you think JP?

Friday, July 02, 2004

Poopencram

We just got in from my Mom's birthday dinner at The Old San Francisco Steakhouse. It is kind of kitschy, but it's neat. It is like an old-timey saloon, but much bigger and with tables. There is a bar at the front with a piano and a swing on a stage. The main attraction in this place is the saloon girl who swings in the swing across the stage, over the piano, then back over the bar until she is high enough to hit a bell on the ceiling with her toe. Then she twists around in the and hits another bell on the other side. Then she leans back until she is almost upside down and makes sure everyone can see her garter. It's kind of cute.

When she's done, the little kids can come up and swing. Charlene and Sally-Ann did it. Charlene was so funny. You could tell she wanted to go higher, but they wouldn't let her. She looked pissed when she got off. Sally-Ann was so dainty. She perched like a little bird on the swing and admired herself in the mirror as she swung gently. She didn't look so dainty when she screamed at the top of her lungs after they made her get off.

I met a girl who worked her way through college as a saloon girl there. She said that once, the swing broke and she crashed into the bar. That would have been a sight worth seeing.

When we came back home, Jethro, who is under a lot of pressure right now because of midterms, announced that he had to "poop and cram." He said it really fast so it sounded like "I have to poopencram." I was (am) a little buzzed so it is, of course, tremendously funny and is now on my list of dirty/funny words. Poopencram. I wonder if it is a verb or a noun? Probably a verb.

I have to decide what we are doing for the 4th. As far as I know, we are doing nothing the whole day because it will be too hot. We'll probably see the fireworks at night and afterwords, possibly go to a party that some friends are throwing. Usually there are quite a few people from college there.

I like going for the vicious reason of comparing my life to theirs - at least just to make sure that I am having more and better sex than they are. I was teased unmercifully because I didn't put out in college. My nickname (bestowed upon me during a drunken game of Presidents and Assholes) was "Sister Mary Francis of the Iron Clad Underwear." I know that it wasn't as bad as "Cum Stain," and I still think it's funny. But now I see all the slutty girls who are fatter and more desperate, and I see all the horny guys who were once so eager to sleep with them and now have to pound back beers at the speed of light just to work up the nerve.

I don't want to say or even think "I have it all," but I feel really good about my life after shin-digs like that. People probably look at Jethro and me and say, "man, they missed out on all the fun - they have 2 kids and a house and never get to go anywhere. So little do they know.