Monday, December 29, 2003


It would come as a surprise to anyone who knows me, but I don't like music very much. Very rarely do I hear a song and like it immediately. Rare exceptions have been La Bamba (movie version), Sleepy Jean (the Monkees), American Pie (Don Maclean), Sex and Candy (Marcy Playground), Dream On, Cryin', Pink, and Amazing (Aerosmith), Fancy (Reba McEntire {she had me at "the outskirts of New Orleans"}) and embarrassingly, I Touch Myself (the DiVynals) and Staycy's Mom (Fountains of Wayne {erg!!!!}). There are a few more, but it is hard to come up with them on short notice. With a minimum of analysis, one could easily come to the conclusion that I am more of a fan of melody and less of a fan of lyrics. "I Touch Myself" should draw you to that conclusion pretty quickly. The melody is what actually means something to me. Words mean little to me, even in poetry (again there are exceptions). However, some whiny pop star's pseudo-philiosophical non-poetry set to music is not my idea of a winning combo. However, if the music is good, or at least has a nice harmony, I can blissfully ignore the lyrics.

All my dislike of lyrics, however, does not mean that I spend hours in elevators.

Perhaps I don't have time to listen/study music as much as I would like, but I am reasonably sure that the gutter sludge I'm forced to hear between listening to news and traffic reports is not the best humanity has to offer.

Sunday, December 28, 2003

Thoughts on the Holiday Season

Had myself a mellow little Christmas. At least it was mellow compared to Christmases past. I have eight sisters, so present buying was, as always, a chore. But it was fun. Next year though, I am buying everything online months in advance. While I would love to be a contributing factor in the annual Christmas boom, I am afraid the economy will have to do without my cash during the Christmas rush.

Probably only the liquor stores will see any honest-to-goodness Christmas patronage. With half of my sisters being of age and 2 more drinking anyway, a lot of booze goes a long way.

Now in my family, because there are so many of us, we do KKs or Secret Santas and exchange gifts. This means that someone inevitably gets the shaft. My sister, oh let's call her Winnie, seems to get it most often. The first year we did secret santas, she got a little box full of holy medals and necklace charms that had been sitting around in the bathroom drawers for years. The poor sister who gave it to her was too young to get herself to the mall and wouldn't have had much money if she did. She has been mercilessly teased and has overcompensated each Christmas since then. The sister who gave the holy medals that year got the shaft this year, receiving a M'Bop Hanson CD. I think she got something else too, but everyone will remember the CD.

My two daughters made out like bandits, not that they should have. Two naughtier children I have never seen. By the rules of naughty and nice, my kids should have received chains, switches and coal in their stockings, but somehow Santa forgave them and brought them dolls and games, a basketball hoop, a little karaoke machine, a Dora backpack, and a trumpet. Not that my kids wouldn't have had just as much fun with chains, coal and a switch. They are ridiculously easy to please. It almost takes the fun out of it for me. But it was cute to see them ripping open their presents with gusto and then fighting over them.

My husband is gyrating in front of me, wiggling his limpness, probably hoping I will do interesting things to it. It is strangely seductive in an Old Elvis kind of way. Think I'll go give it a shot. Sorry if I have offended, but this is my blog. Onward and Upward.

Hopefully with the Christmas season behind me, I will have a little more time to write. Merry Christmas, Happy Chanukka, Brightest of Solstices, Good Kwanza and a Jubilant Festivus (couresty of the Costanzas) to all.

Thursday, November 20, 2003

Mr. Jackson

Now I swear this is true and I have friends from elementary school who can back me up. I never liked Michael Jackson. I secretly liked Beat It and Billy Jean, but I did not like him. I thought he was bizarre. Granted I was about 6 or 7 at the time. But while all of my little friends were buying MJ posters and excitedly discussing gloves, I stood firm in my dislike. I am not proud to be redeemed. Yeah yeah innocent until proven guilty. Fine. I still think he ain't right. What surprises me is that my husband, the gun lover, is surprisingly liberal in these matters. Not child molesting, but the innocent until proven guilty thing. He won't even make a judgement after the trial is over. The most I can ever get out of him is "based on the evidence that has been reported, he appears to be guilty." My husband is the type of person who would obey traffic laws if he were the only person left on the planet. I once talked him into running a completely deserted red light at about 3 am one morning. I can't tell you what a turn-on it was when he did, but then again, we had been sitting there for about 5 minutes. But I digress, or at least I think I do. I had a point somewhere around here. Oh yeah. There is, apparantly, a law in CA that allows you to bring in evidence of prior bad acts as long as they fit the MO of the crime you are being accused of. The evidence doesn't even have to be a conviction, just an accusation. Deep down, my conscience is pricked by this law. Don't get me wrong, I think it is horrible for a child molester to get off on a technicality, and the knee-jerk, civilly disobedient reactionary in me could embrace this law wholeheartedly, but there is still something odd about it. I think it has far too great a potential to be abused. But then again, so do kids. So there it is.

Thursday, October 30, 2003

Observations on the upcoming holiday

Tomorrow is Halloween. It really is my favorite holiday. I would like to love Thanksgiving and Christmas best, but I think expectations are to high for both. No one expects too much out of Halloween so there is less pressure. Besides, you get to dress up. The best costume I ever saw was a female flasher. She was wearing a trench coat and tight fitting khaki pants. For the "flashing part" she had what appeared to be massive amounts of brown fuzz taped to her crotch. Every time she would fling open her coat, bits of fuzz would fly everywhere. My admiration was twofold: 1)It was damn funny. 2) Even though I pride myself on my originality and creativity, I am humbled every year by my failures in the costume department. For years now, I haven't varied much on the witch/corpse theme. I forced my children into fairy costumes with elf shoes for the past two years. Last year I thought I was going to be enchanting with my interpretation of Galadriel from Lord of the Rings, but when I got a good look at myself under the blacklight, you could only see my white bra shining like a lacey dual globed beacon. Needless to say, no one cared at all who I was supposed to be.

This year will be a little different. I have decided to embrace my mediocrity and be a vampire. I have decided to be a sexy vampire, combining the concepts of Interview, Underworld, and Lord of the Rings. Now Robin, I'll be wearing an ice blue strapless corset, black leather pants, black combat boots, a tight shiny black trenchcoat. I have tried the whole outfit on and I look stunning. Keep in mind that my use of the word is not necessarily meant to imply beautiful or sexy. I can't really make that judgement, but I am sure that it will not take a blacklight to get me some attention. My husband likes it and that's all that counts.

Friday, October 24, 2003

So What's New With Me

Jethro and I took our two girls to the Tex Ren Fest this past weekend. Besides blowing $200 hard earned dollars on what amounts to very little, we had a good time. My husband, being a generous person by nature, tipped the bar wench a dollar for getting his beer. The brazen hussy asked in that bizarre accent Americans take on at Ren Fairs if he wanted to place it in her coconuts! Now, the coconuts she was refering to were spilling copiously out from atop her extremely strained corset, so it would have been pretty easy to do and I doubt she would have felt a thing. My husband though, being a gentleman, decided to leave well enough alone. But I think he was a little excited.

I had an argument with my mother recently about this very issue. My mom is rather old school about things of a Ren Fair nature. She believes wholeheartedly that her husband should not be led into temptation and her kids shouldn't get exciting ideas, so the Ren Fest is out for her and anyone under her roof. I would agree with her, except for the fact that there wasn't much that was tempting at the ren fair, at least this year. I mean it is the same principle as nude beaches. Everyone you wouldn't mind seeing naked is covered, and the people that you least want to see starkers are flashing their celulite and pubes for everyone's pleasure.

One thing I did notice at the fair. Every thong wearing chain mail slut had at least two drunk men stalking her. I think my kids would take a lesson from the evidence right in front of their face. I don't think I would have found it exciting to have two unstable men lurching around after me when I was seventeen. Besides, everyone was laughing at them. Oh well. I never swore that I would be a good parent. My method of instilling morals in my children, at this point, seems to be poking fun at those whom I consider to be of low character. This includes TV evangelists as well as the chain mail sluts (lest anyone think I'm interpreting things too narrowly). But I think I have more sympathy for the chain mail girls. They're just trying to have a little fun and probably just haven't considered the fact that if they were (God forbid) to be involved in a rape situation, they would have a hard time proving their case. I think that is a rule for women to live by. "Never get involved in a situation where you couldn't prove rape." Girls from 13 on should be taught this. The scenarios can darken as they age. I'm gonna get off my high horse now and go to bed. It's 1:30 am for cryin' out loud.

Wednesday, October 01, 2003


I decided to post my personal stuff on a blog devoted specifically to that purpose. If I start mixing politics with my sex life I could end up getting horny every time John Ashcroft moves his sexy lips. Since I'm too tired to write something new, I thought I would post an entry that I erased from the other blog. Here it is in all its glory:

I'm definitely disturbed tonight. The heat wave we've been having in Houston is insane. 105 degrees in the shade. The 100% humidity was what made it unbearable. You felt like you were swimming through the air and it was pressing down on your lungs like it wanted to smother you. Narnia and the North! Thankfully, it broke and the temp is about 73 degrees. I'm wearing a sweater. I know... how gay.

I have had a lot of sex lately. Maybe I secretly want another baby or maybe it is just the steamy southern nights. Anyway, I've never been affected by the heat this way, but I guess it's as good a way as any to pass the time.

My evening (last night): I came home from work around 9:00 pm. I waded through the air and went inside. My husband was studying for his finals and the kids were gone to their grandparents’ house. Even though the AC had been running all day, it was about 90 degrees inside. I went to the fridge. My husband had finished the last coke so I took out a cold beer. I put on a very light cotton nightgown - kind of like a long tank top. I cracked open that beer and drank it in about 2 gulps. One thing I learned in college is that nothing seems as physically painful if you're a little drunk, including the heat. I didn't even have the energy to turn on the TV. I just sat there drinking beer. After the third one I dozed off a little. I hadn't eaten all day, so they hit me kind of fast. Unless you live in the heat and drink beer, I can't begin to describe how good that feels.

Just as I was almost fully relaxed, I heard a book slam shut and my husband (I'll call him Jethro) came stalking out into the living room. "I can't concentrate." That was all he said. He pulled off my nightgown and we went at it. We were at it for quite a while. The heat was so enervating that it seemed like we were doing it underwater. We finally finished and went straight to bed. Lucky thing for Jethro that I'm not the cuddling type. It was an interesting screw. I'll leave it at that. Except for the fact that he came on to me, I felt like a man. "Drink a little beer, make a little love, go down for the night. Uh huh, Uh huh." We woke up at 4:00am (barely) and did it again. Neither of us said a word the whole night.

So now that I have entered this account of such a deeply personal and sexual nature and recorded it for posterity, I will close. Hope it was entertaining. Goodnight.