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?"

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.

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.

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 fail.  Any 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.

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.

Pussy-whipped

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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.

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.

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?

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.

Secret Dirty Words

Jethro, the girls and I had to stay with his parents for 4 months when one of our attic pipes sprung a leak and some mold appeared. While we were there, we attempted to be respectful of his parents house and not desecrate it with our carnal urges. but as I'm sure everyone knows, this is easier said than done.

I have to say that I have never done it in so many unusual places....the bathroom floor, the bathroom sink, the bathtub, the walk-in closet, the laundry room, the garage, the side of the house, and once we snuck back to our house and did it in the mold. All this had to be done in the dead of night and with the utmost stealth and silence because the house was quite full. His parents and two sisters lived there and one of his sister's boyfriends would spend the night, but had to sleep on the couch.

I don't think anyone would have blown a gasket or anything if we had been found out, but we tried to be respectful anyway. We started making up code words for horny, sexy, dick, pussy, and fucking. I can't remember now what most of them were, but I do remember that we would say "legitimate" instead of "horny." One of us would look at the other in all seriousness and say: "I am legitimate." I still think this is funny and can't hear the word now without snickering a little.

It actually still comes in handy now that the girls are paying attention to everything we do. I figured out that we would really have to start watching ourselves when the Eldest started slipping us the tongue when she would kiss us good night. She was only 3 at the time. But oops.

And speaking of oops, I have to find a safe place for the "toys." Eldest went into my nightstand and found one of them. (I only have two, but I'm thinking of consolidating.) She asked me what it was. I almost said "that's dirty, yuck" but I thought it might be a traumatic memory when she is old enough to know what stuff like that is. So I settled for "that's nothing, put it back." I figured that if I didn't freak out and I made her put it away, she wouldn't give it much thought. I'm probably wrong, but the damage is done.

I'm reminded of one of my sisters when she was about 4. She had put on one of my mom's bras and was pretending to pour something into glasses. The rest of my sisters and I caught her and began pointing and laughing like idiots. My sister started crying and said she was "just playing waitress." It was cute. Kids are cute. I'm glad I have them now while I have the energy.

There is nothing more irritating to me than parents who start having kids when they are in their 40s. I see them all the time - they have no control whatsoever over them because they are too damn old and tired. They are very patient, but patience doesn't stop a wild three-year old from destroying whatever it is they are hell-bent on destroying. I think parenting is largely intuitive. New parents in their 40s have had too much time to think and read. Slows their reactions. Bad.

I think I'm starting to ramble. I'm going to bed.

Jethro in the Hot Seat

It isn't as if I have all the stories and Jethro just sits around wide-eyed listening to my tales of danger, excitement, and personal enlightenment. No. If you've ever read Cannery Row or Sweet Thursday by John Steinbeck, Jethro would be Doc. He is completely on the level, but his friends (including me) get him into all kinds of trouble. This makes for some pretty wild stories of his own.

When I was pregnant with the 2nd, Jethro decided to go out for a drink with his co-workers. A friend of his, whom I shall refer to as Ass-slime, was always trying to get him to do unsavory things - from shady business deals to picking up women for him at clubs. Ass-slime asked Jethro if he would drive him to his car. Jethro, being the good-humored person that he is, obliged. Ass-slime began giving him directions, but not to his car. Jethro found himself parked outside a Modeling Studio in a very seedy part of midtown Houston. Ass-slime got out and said he'd be right back. Jethro, not wanting to stay alone in his car, went with. It was a whorehouse. They both got felt up by the bouncer and went in. After meanly announcing to everyone (whores, bouncers, and customers) that Jethro was married and unwilling to utilize the services, Ass-slime, who was also married, proceeded up the red-lit staircase to do the deed with the only white chick in the establishment. One of the girls who brought Jethro a cup of tea said that she wasn't his usual. Hmmmmmm. I only speculate on the race issue because he was so obviously trying to make a point to Jethro. Disturbing.

People who know the story have asked whether I think Jethro fucked any of the prostitutes. Of course I'll never know for certain, but I am as positive as I could be without solid evidence. The reasons are nuanced, but stem from the fact that #1 he told me about it, #2 told other people about it, and #3 doesn't go anywhere with Ass-slime anymore unless the whole family is along. Ass-slime's wife is a really gorgeous girl, and he has 2 kids who are adorable. I like the wife and kids, but every time I see them I am tempted to rat out Ass-slime to his wife. I know it isn't wise to get involved in things such as these, but I told Jethro that if she ever asked me straight out, I wouldn't lie. We haven't seen them in a long time. Jethro thinks Ass-slime is unstable.

I've tried to get more info from Jethro about the place itself, but he doesn't have my flair for the details. He did say that it was a "Modeling Studio." There are many "modeling studios" in downtown/midtown Houston. I never gave them a second thought, but now..... I don't think any of them are legit.

Carlos

I owe much of my present day happiness to a guy I'll call Carlos. I don't think he has any idea, and I couldn't begin to know how to tell him.

I made-out with him a few times. I'll get that out of the way. The first time was on my 19th birthday. I didn't really have a crush on him, I just wanted to smooch around with someone on my birthday and he wasn't doing anything except sitting in his dorm room making fun an angry message his girlfriend had left him and lighting everclear on fire.

Side note: I went to two different colleges. One normal one in Houston, and one high-minded one in New Hampshire.

He was a good sport about the whole hooking up thing. He also requested that it not get dramatic. This was a new concept to me. I may have watched too many old movies and soap operas, but I think I really believed that the best way to keep a guy was to entangle him in so much drama that he would be physically unable to leave you. After hanging out with Carlos, it dawned on me that as long as you didn't go psycho, most guys were pretty much up for anything. I ended up having loads more fun relating to guys on a more "friendly with a twist" level instead of a "he used me (even though I wanted him to) and now won't return my phone calls" level.

Once I started seeing guys as friends instead "the enemy that you must conquer by making out with them," life was a whole lot smoother in the dating arena. I never had a guy not return a phone call after that.

Carlos, Jeth and I are all still friends if you can believe it. We've all known each other going on 10 years. Without his influence on me, I don't believe that Jethro and I would have the kind of friendship that we do, and I don't think we'd have gotten married. So Carlos has my eternal thanks, although he will probably never know it. But just in case he ever reads this: Thanks, man.

The Last-Call Girl

In case no one noticed it, Jethro figured out how to link other blogs. I gave it the old college try for about 2 hours (which was about as long as my ADD could take). Jethro figured it out in about 5 minutes, and in my joy, I linked to everyone who posted on my site. If you want to be removed, let me know and I will do it and apologize for my lack of etiquette :-)

So Johnny5 (who I will link to if he wants) asked about last call. Several stories (unfortunately) come to mind, but one in particular stands out. I had a friend when I was about 17 or 18. She was gorgeous and sophisticated and drove a Mustang convertible. I was the friend who came along to make her look good. Invariably, we would go out and meet guys. The good looking guy would hook up with Gorgeous and I would be stuck with Ugly Friend. Ugly Friend and I would, of course, be aware that we were the ugly friends and bitterly resent each other for it.

One time, just after I turned 18, we went out to a club and Gorgeous naturally hooked with the hottest guy there and I was left with well... you know. After hunting around the club vainly for other options, I just decided the heck with it and ended up making out with Ugly Friend in the backseat of the Mustang. And so began my journey into the world of less attractive, but extremely grateful men.

From Science Fiction to Self-Gratification

The weirdest show is on the sci-fi channel. I think it is based

on that movie Species. It's about hot blonde sorority girls who

are really an alien species. Very strange. I won't watch it

though, because in my opinion, sci-fi is to film as a pun is to

humor. That being said, I love Stargate SG-1. Jethro got me

hooked on it and now I can't quit watching. I am filled with

shame that I am so addicted to a sci-fi program, and I speak

self-depracatingly of myself whenever I mention my fixation.

It's like masturbation. You do it, you'll never quit, but you

are ashaaaaamed. Or maybe it's just me.


Unfortunately, I went to a very high minded liberal arts college

where anything low-brow (from science fiction to masturbation)

was eschewed. Seriously. One night stands were few and far

between (never occurred in my case). Anyone who masturbated and

was caught by their roommate was immediately relegated to lower

caste status and intellectually shunned. By the time I left, I

was actually having erotic dreams about my curtain rods, about

which, of course, I told no one. Good Times.

OK, So I'm hungover

I feel like ass warmed up. Sorry for that graphic. I probably wouldn't feel so bad, but my lunatic of a boss woke me up at 7:30am on a Saturday to have me schedule appointments for him. I, like a complete moron, did it. But he is my stepfather, and I am managing his office for an absurdly low salary, so why not.

On to more pleasant things. I love Saturday mornings. The girls look like they've just emerged from a bomb shelter when they come into our room saying "Good Morning, Mommy" "Good Morning, Daddy" in their hoarse little voices. They are so cute I just want to hug them and sqeeze them until I pop. If I can cattle prod Jethro out of bed this morning, maybe we'll do something fun.

Okay I just tried and it isn't going to happen, so I guess I'll be stuck cleaning house.

OK, So I'm Drunk

I've never actually been drunk and writing before. I've written

about being drunk, but not the other way around. It is weird.

I'm reminded of the last time I was drunk which was at an

Aerosmith concert about a month ago. It was at an outdoor vemue

and it was pooring rain and thunder and lightning. The most

obvious way out of the concert was along a trail that led to the

parking lots. Even though you didn't have to follow it,

everyone did and it was really slow going. I felt like one of a

gigantic herd; each bovine mindlessly following the one in

front. The collective moaning about how wet or drunk we were

was like the lowing of miserable cattle. Without giving it a

whole lot of thought, I said, "Wouldn't it be funny if this were

a procession of the damned and we were all on the road to

Perdition?" I swear that just as I said the last word, a huge

streak of lightning forked across the sky followed immediately

by a deafening clap of thunder. I don't think anyone

appreciated it, and I can't blame them.

The Righteous Indignation of Pauliemac

I just read Pauliemac's scathing indictment of my driving abilities. I'm torn between amusement and slight annoyance. I could try to defend myself, but what is the point? I can't prove what I'm saying is true since I could very easily have made up the entire thing to begin with. I say, let he who is without moving violation cast the first stone. If that be paulimac, I will humbly acknowledge his superior driving skills and morality.

http://pauliemac.blogspot.com/2004/06/whats-hurry.html

But dammit, I only got one speeding ticket. The other cop let me off.

A Dark and Stormy Night...

It flooded yesterday. I left work early to try and pick up the

kids before it flooded, but the water was too high for my tiny-

ass car. It was flooding so badly and it was raining so hard, I

couldn’t see the road. I figured that I had better keep going,

and try to make it home at least. If worst came to worst, I

could ask my sister-in-law to get the girls. She drives the most

monstrous Yukon.


When I’d get to a flooded out part of the road, I had to decide

if I should stop or or go through. If I stopped, I might get

caught in a flash flood, and if I kept going I might drive right

into deep water. It was really scary. I tried to wait for the

SUV’s to pass me so they could go first, but the rain was so bad

I couldn’t tell how high up the water had come on them. I

decided to just keep going. I finally made it to my in-law’s

house(which is just down the road from mine). I decided to park

there because the water at entrance to my street was covering the

sidewalks, and I didn’t think my car could make it through. I

walked the rest of the way - I say walked - I mean waded. The

water came up to my upper thighs and I was soaked thoroughly. I

was wearing a white shirt and white bra and everything was

visible. Fortunately, the only person standing around was the

child molester who, I am sure, had no interest. Jethro had made

it home about ½ hour before me and said he thought he’d been

about to go under right at the entrance to our street and that he

was glad I didn’t try.


That’s what you get for living in a city built on a swamp, which

is exactly what Houston and its surrounding suburbs are. They

just found a swamp, carved out some bayous and built a town. I

still think we’re all in danger of yellow fever, but that might

just be hypochondria.

Suppertime

Well, it was a toss-up between Hooters and an upscale Vietnamese restaurant with a gorgeous salt-water fish tank and a gourmet dessert menu. Guess who wanted to go where. Wrong. I wanted to go to Hooters and Jethro wanted Kim Son. I can't get enough of their chicken wings. I'll put up with anything - including tiny vacant waitresses and the men who ogle them - just to taste their spicy goodness. The kids wanted to stay with their aunts and watch movies, so we left. Jethro won and I can't say I'm sorry. Kim Son is delicious.

I usually don't like reading or writing about anything as mundane as traffic, but I think I'll move on to my speeding ticket. I got pulled over on my way to work yesterday. He said I was going 55 in a 40. I was pretty sure I was going faster, so I didn't try to flirt, cry or beg my way out of it. I just said "Yes sir" and "Sorry, sir" and "I will, sir." I tried to be mad, but I have a daughterly affection for cops and this one was polite and I was speeding, so I took it on the chin and went on my way.

That afternoon, I was returning the same way and I got pulled over again!!! SAME SPOT! Different cop. He asked me if I knew what the speed limit was and I said "40 sir." He asked why I was going 50. I hadn't been going 50, so I said politely that I had been watching my speed since I had just gotten a ticket at this very same spot this morning, and that I had only accelerated to 45 to pass a car that was going about 10. I said, "I'm not asking for any favors, but I'm imploring for mercy here. I have to get my kids from daycare and I just got a ticket this morning." I had briefly contemplated flashing him, but it was broad daylight and he was too repulsive. That and I didn't want to risk being arrested for indecent exposure or trying to jack off an ugly cop or something. He looked at me pityingly and told me to calm down. I was perfectly calm, but I said "yes sir." He said he would run my license and if I didn't have any warrants I could go. Being a law abiding citizen (at least as far as the cops are aware), he let me off with a "slow down and have a nice day." I have to figure out where these guys are hiding. I never saw either of them. Well, to bed. I am, yet again, exhausted.

To the Ladies

OK. I know my two girlfriends read this every so often because they have the courtesy to call me on the phone to bitch me out instead of leaving a comment. I swear I didn't mean to betray the sisterhood, but I stand by everything I wrote before. I don't really have a problem with women using sex to get what they want, I mean why not just put it all out there? We gots what men wants and why make a fuss? I just think that some women go about it badly.

Firstly, we (and it pains me to include myself) fall in love too quickly and moronically. If you want to boink the guy just do it. Don't pretend you have to have a relationship with him. And if you want a relationship with a guy, for the love of Pete, don't boink him. At least not right away. And once you start to boink him, keep boinking him. It's like oiling a machine. Keep it well oiled and everything will run smoothly. Deny it oil and it will become balky and resentfull and eventually run out on you screaming, "I've gotten better from from bowls of porridge, you whining frigid psycho."

Disclaimer: I think I heard the machine analogy somewhere. I wish it were mine, and it might be, but I am putting a disclaimer on it just in case.

I often flip the picture and wonder what I would do if Jethro denied me sex. If it was the control issue that it seems to be for some women, I would fucking leave him. Actually, I wouldn't have married him. Sorry, that's just me. I have low enough self-esteem as it is without having to be grateful for sexual favors.

I think gender conflict is created by the media. Men (especially fathers) are big fat insecure morons and women are are sensitive and caring, far more intelligent and only get frustrated when their lovably retarded husbands leave the seat up. I can't stand it. Why would sensitive, caring and itelligent women marry such losers? And most women I know are sensitive and caring, but only when it comes to themselves. Most fathers I know work hard and are the most caring individuals I know. They aren't fat, they treat their wives and kids well, and their wives still tell them they're not gonna get any if don't mow the lawn. It bothers me to see good men so emasculated as much as it bothers me to see good women condescended to. Some day I'll go on about that, but for now I'll stop.

I know I swore not to pontificate, but most of this was a little tongue in cheek and I meant to be amusing. I hope it was, but I'm not betting the farm :-)

Power of the.....

You know the advertisements in the banner above your blog? They are advertising a course in overcoming your fear of public speaking above my last post. I can kind of see the correlation between that and amateur porn, but it seems like kind of a stretch.

My Saturday night consisted of starting off for a party, then deciding that we didn't really want to go. I know it was rude, but we were really tired. Baby had been sick with a fever and I had to get Tylenol for her at 3am the previous evening. I was really tired. So we went to the liquor store, got a bottle of hooch, took the kids to grandma's, and proceeded to do what any normal people our ages would do if they were single -- get drunk and screw. Somethimes I think we have an inordinate amount of sex for married people. Oh well. What's the point of being married if you can't do it whenever you want?

I swear I can't understand wives who turn their husbands down a lot. It doesn't make any sense. I mean, for any conservative or traditionalist, not having sex before you are married is admired and encouraged. Fine. I can agree with that. But after you're married, what's stopping you? I don't get it. I held off having sex with anyone for a very long time (a graphic picture of genital herpes had a lot to do with it). But now that I'm married and Jethro was thoroughly tested (I know all of his exes and I insisted), I can't see what purpose is served by holding out. Maybe I'm horny and slutty and was just too chicken to acquire a high number of partners before I was married.

I have a theory though. I think some women use sex to get what they want even when they're married. ESPECIALLY when they're married. I find however, that if I give it up on a frequent and regular basis, I can pretty much get and do whatever I want. I can be a slob, I can work a low-paying job, I can prod Jethro into going to Chiropractic school and getting ulcers from all the stress. Just for giving it up 3-4 times a week. Not bad, seeing as I get to come to.

Okay, I am sure I have more to offer Jeth than just pussy. I'm sure of it. But to be completely honest, whatever else there is, he can just take it or leave it. I don't insist upon his recognition of my accute mental qualities, or my musical talent, or my rapist (hee hee, lest anyone think I'm retarded) wit, or my ability to catch a frisbee. As long as he's not after any other pussy.

Now that I've made myself sound sexist and whorish, I think I'll quit. Over and Out.

Some memories you just wish would die

RANDOM PERSONAL THOUGHT: I always have the feeling whenever I'm doing something that I don't think Jethro would particularly like, that he is going to spank me. Highly irrational, but I like it.

Speaking of the man, he went to go mow his parents yard. Just like that without anyone asking. My mom would have to beg, then pay me to mow her yard. I am filled with self-loathing.

Speaking of self-loathing, one time Jeth and I filmed ourselves in explicit ways. It looked no better or worse than any amateur porno, but I was horrified at myself. Somehow the angle we got was very explicit - and detailed. To be blunt, it is hard to see yourself fucked four ways from Sunday.

Anyway, I'm going out. Its SATURDAY NIGHT!! YEEEEEEEE HAW!!

Sally-Ann

I've written about my First Daughter, but not about The Baby. I

finally made it to her parent/teacher conference yesterday (even

though she's only 3). They showed me her "artwork." I was

expecting the usual stuff, and to hear the usual praise, but it

was not so. Both her teachers sat down with me and said that

they could not interpret her "artwork." One of the ladies has a

PhD in chid development and said that my Baby's "artwork" defies

analysis.


Apparently, kids draw in three phases. The first phase is dots,

the second is scribbles, the third is recognizable (or almost

recognizable) objects. Baby paints all three phases on one

page. And she spends hours doing it. They showed me her

artwork from a year ago. She had covered a page in these ornate

scribbles and dots using a black crayon. I thought it was funny

that she used black, but otherwise, thought it was normal. No.

They showed me three other kids' artwork and the had made a few

wispy scribbles and moved on to something else. Baby's page was

covered from corner to corner with deep black complicated

curlicues. And to top it off, she had done the other side too.

And she has done 10 times as much "artwork" as the other kids.

They said she doesn't want to socialize, only draw and paint.


The things she is drawing now are really weird. She draws many

disembodied heads with eyes, nose and mouth (she even puts

irises in the eyes) and then in the middle of them, she'll make

a sun. And throughout the page will be the curlicues. They

said most kids just draw their family or animals. I can't tell

if she is reliving some deep trauma, or if she is a genius, or

if (Godforbid) she is autistic. She defies analysis.


She wouldn't speak for the longest time. I was on the verge of

taking her to a speech therapist, but she suddenly started

speaking perfectly (except for her "r"s and "l"s). One day,

when she didn't know I was listening, she counted to 20 in

Spanish. I don't even know where she learned it. I make her

sound so complex, but she is such a placid kid. Her favorite

thing to do is curl up on my lap. That's all she asks out of

life. That and her Dora doll.


This doll was given to the First Daughter for her birthday.

Baby refused to let her have it, and through sheer force of

will, made it hers. One day, Jethro was vacuuming the floor and

pretended that he was going to vacuum up the Dora doll. He said

he saw this blur and the Dora doll disappeared. Baby had

saved her. I almost cried when he told me this,

because both girls are terrified of the vacuum. Charlene will

scream, but Baby just stands there, petrified, too scared to

scream or move. Heartbreaking, but kind of sweet.

Tomba

This is a playstation 1 platform game that I have had for 5 years

and never finished. It is so damn long and I have ADD. Anyway,

I recently resuscitated it so I could play it for Charlene and

Sally-Ann. Charlene (5) loves it. I have played it for hours

and she thinks it is the greatest thing. Sally-Ann (3) is in her

own little world, but will cheer if Charlene does. The whole

point of this game is to beat 7 evil pigs. I can't beat the

friggin' pigs. I get too excited and flustered and I die. After

dying about 8 times, I had Jethro come it to do it. Jethro could

beat an evil pig blindfolded (does that sound vaguely erotic?).

Anyway, he did it and Charlene cheered wildly, hugged her father,

and turned to look at me. "Mommy," she said solemnly. "You need

to be a winner like Daddy." I have never seen Jethro laugh so

hard. To be honest, I haven't either. She is such a Daddy's

girl. When we went to the Butterfly exhibit, she demanded that

he catch her a butterfly. And the big dolt actually tried. She

rules us all.


I am still at work. I was supposed to leave early, but I'm

waiting for a phone call about a power of attorney...blah, blah,

blah. Sometimes I have my mom do some cold calling for me, but I

don't think I'll ask her anymore. She is a sweet Indiana lady

who can't pronounce a name harder than Betty, so it was with

misgivings that I handed her my cold call list. I took it back

immediately though when I heard her call someone "Ass-Smear."

The name happened to be Asmir. I'm not positive about how to

pronounce it either, but I am pretty sure it's not like that.

Another time, she came upon the name "Glasscock." She couldn't

stop laughing enough to call them. It was pretty funny though.

Okay, I'm off. Toodles.

Remember Who You Are.....

Pauliemac wrote a really lovely post about appreciating where you

are in life. All you lurkers out there (and I know you're there

and who you are :-) - just kidding) should go read it. It's an

honest piece of work.


http://pauliemac.blogspot.com/2004/06/another-subject.html


I guess I have always been kind of non-conformist. It used to

bother me in grade school, and if I were to be completely honest,

through college, and I tried really hard to fit in, but something

always prevented me. I am convinced now, that it was my better

judgment, or a "rebellious spirit" as my mom calls it. It always

surfaced at inappropriate times and made me a very lonely person

for awhile, but it always made me hold my convictions just a

little more firmly. One example is my interracial marriage (and

I really don't care for that term, but for lack of a better

one.....). People would normally expect us to be raging

liberals. Nope. I am a libertarian/conservative and Jethro is a

die-hard gun-owning conservative. Both of us feel that we are at

a place in society where we have something worth conserving. If

we were living 30 years ago we might have been liberals. Not now.


The opinions of John McCain, Carlos Mendoza, Bruce Lee, and

Coolio embody (to me) the ideal of an integrated society. I

think they represent different nuances of the type of society we

would all like to create.


Okay, I'm done pontificating. Thanks for bearing with me. It is

a subject, unfortunately, that I could go on about forever.


But to go back to pauliemac's post, I appreciate the place he's

reached and rejoice in the sense of peace that anyone finds in

their own person. I am personally at peace with being a jeans +

t-shirt gal who will never dress a part no matter where we live

or how much wealth we acquire.


Okay. I really am done now, and I hope to never descend to this

level of emotional chick-ness again.

Workdays

11:30 am. - I can't stand it when my boss sticks around for the

whole morning. He drives me up the friggin' wall. I'll be right

in the middle of doing something and he'll say, "Make sure you do

such and such," and it will be exactly what I am in the middle of

doing. It drives me bonkers. He also speaks really slowly to

me. I am pretty sure it is because he has trouble gathering his

thoughts together, but it comes out very condescending. I can

stand just about anything but condescension and deliberate

rudeness. I probably need sex.


Even though the kids were gone last night, we didn't have sex.

We were both too tired to be on top. We argued about it for a

few minutes, but ended up passing out. We were both really

tired. Hopefully we can get some before the kids come home

tonight.


9:30 pm - Okay, we got some. I feel better. Now I can watch the

Astros get crushed by the Cubs and not really give a shit. Last

time I went to an Astros/Cubs game there was a fight. I am not

sure why anyone would pick a fight with the hometown fans, but

they did. The security guards almost knocked out their

damn teeth. Glad my little girls were there to see grown men go

crazy.

Forgetfulness

I don't know whether to chalk it up to my own little fantasy

world or what, but I can't remember anything lately. I have

forgotten two parent/teacher conferences for my 3 year old, I

left the iron on for a day, I have left the oven going after

taking out frozen pizza, and I misplaced my cell phone about 200

times in one week. But the worst thing I forgot to do was shave

my knees. I have no idea how it happened. When I do shave my

legs (which is not as often as might be desired), I am very

thorough about it. However, I was in a hurry the other night. I

got into the car and happened to glance down at my legs. I was

wearing a short skirt and sandals, so there was no hiding the

almost perfect circles of hair on my knees. Luckily, I don't

have very dark hair, so I'm sure no one noticed, but I felt self-

conscious about it. Jethro was no help either. He made fun of

me the whole way there. I said he had no room to talk until he

trimmed his armpit hair (which is quite long). It was a very

unsexy conversation. I have since tried to think things out a

little more thoroughly. Maybe I'll try some ginko biloba.

Saturday Night

Has anyone ever had an uncontrollable craving for lobster? I had one about 3 weeks ago and mentioned it to Jethro and our friend Benton. We decided that since lobster is so expensive at restaurants, we would pick a day, go the Hong Kong Market (where you can get lobster for $5.99 a lb), buy as much as we thought we'd be able to eat, and have a lobster dinner. I had to bide my time for 3 weeks but we were finally able to do it yesterday. It was quite expensive, but we just chalked it up to the fact that we would have spent a lot more for a lot less if we had gone out.

Anyway, we made lobster, garlic mashed potatoes, and macs and cheese for the kids. The lobster was perfect, especially with the lemon butter and the mashed potatoes which were full of sour cream and garlic, butter and salt. Thanks to Benton for boiling them so perfectly. So good. And I have discovered that is actually possible to get full on lobster. I never thought it was. I can't wait until Jethro is out of school, has his own practice, and we can eat lobster more often. I'm not high falutin' or snobbish or anything, I just love lobster.

Did you know that in Japan, you can hire a girl who will let you eat sushi off her naked body? I know this is only the tip of the iceberg, but I thought it was kind of cool - in a sleazy businessman kind of way. I guess you could do it in America too, but I think it would be a little out of the ordinary.

I Talks of Nothing

I went to go do the dishes the other night after hours of

procrastinating. It was about midnight and everyone else was

asleep. I was thinking evil thoughts about housework in general,

but when I got into the kitchen, I found the dishes done, dried

and put away. I almost cried. Jethro just has a way of knowing

when to do things and not make a big deal about it. It's why I go

down on him.


I always feel nauseous in the mornings. I have no idea why, but I

do. So the fact that I have to pass about 2000 road kills on my

way into work is kind of nightmarish for me. This morning I

passed some animal that wasn't flat, but it was missing its head.

I almost barfed. And for some reason, the dumbest birds get in my

way. I've probably killed more birds that anyone. Whenever I'm

riding with someone else, birds fly away. Whenever I'm driving

they just sit there while I run over them. I have begun to think

that I have a subconscious desire to kill birds. I am not a huge

animal lover, but I have always respected them as a source of

protein and occasional companionship. I also just realized that

I have never seen a live armadillo. Ever.


One group of animals that I would definitely like to kill, and

there is nothing subconscious about it, are Highway 6 drivers.

The speed limit says 45 mph. You could easily go 60. Everyone

goes 40. It makes me want to rip out every hair on my head. The

lights are timed so that if you go exactly the speed limit, you

won't run into any red lights. If you go 40 mph, you will run

into every red light. Just thinking about it gets me hot - in a

bad way. In fact, I'm gonna go cool off right now.

Insomnia

I can’t sleep. It is 5:30 in the goddamn morning and I can’t

sleep. I have to leave for work at 8am, so if I end up falling

asleep again, I’ll never make it. It’s times like these when I

wish I were single. I’d just find someplace open 24 hours and

hang out there. But no. I went and had kids. And Jethro. I guess

I could go to Wal-Mart and do grocery shopping. I love things

that are open 24 hours. I used to work the overnight shift at a

grocery store when I was in high school. I didn’t do it often (I

was just back-up and it was illegal), but when I did, it was fun.

I used to flirt with the guy who worked in the bakery. He was

straight (if you can believe it), he was really cute, and he made

a mean peach pie. But he was short and I was tall.


I hope we can go to the beach tomorrow. I have to get rid of this

farmer’s tan that I accindentally acquired. It’s funny looking

when guys have it, but on chicks in borders on inexcusable.

Double standard? Probably, but appealing to men is where our

power lies. You don’t have to be gorgeous or anything, just

appealing.


My favorite line of advice to women is: You can’t trust them if

they’re not trying to get in your pants.


Does that sound whorish?

Here Ye, Here Ye

I've finally gotten up enough nerve to go public with this blog. So far, I've been writing it for posterity, but I suddenly have more time to devote to it, and I thought I might pass it around and see if anyone will have a look. I am still hesitant about letting friends and family know. If I hear anyone say TMI I will probably die of embarrassment. I know I can get raunchy, but it is just who I am. I find raunch humorous and, at times, insightful. I guess there is no need to go overboard, but sometimes I think I do. Oh well. I better stop now before my Catholic/Jewish guilt consumes me like a tsunami.

WARNING FOR ANYONE WHO KNOWS ME: DO NOT READ THE FIRST POST UNLESS YOU WANT TMI

The Strip Club Experiences of my Past

This post is dedicated to Life at TJ's Place - a really entertaining blog written by the assistant manager of a strip club. See it here:

tjsplace.blogspot.com/

Jethro asked me if I wanted to order Carmen Electra's striptease make-out, I mean, work-out video. Jethro normally complains about all of the unused work-out videos I have so I can't tell if he wants me to be able to dance like a stripper, or if he just wants to watch the tape while I gyrate maniacally (behind him, of course, so I don't disturb his view). Either way, I only see gain for him, but I might give it a shot anyway. I think I've always had a secret desire to be a stripper.

I know exactly what kind of stripper I would be too. I would come out and do my thing to Aerosmith or Guns'n'Roses, put my clothes back on right away (because I respect myself), and start reading a book, glaring at anyone who dared try to solicit a lap dance. I would be the most loathed stripper on the face of the earth and probably end up shot by a drunk and insulted patron. My problem, I think, is that I try too hard to dispel stereotypes. I think if you're a stripper, it is probably best to offer no surprises. I am only guessing though. I have limited experience with strip clubs although I have been to a few.

The first one I ever went to was in New Orleans during Mardis Gras. I had gone with two guys and they both had a yen to do some dirty deeds. Incidentally, one of them was Jethro before we had started sleeping together. The other one I'll refer to as Devon. It was called Big Daddy's and it was right on Bourbon Street. It boasted "the prettiest girls in the South." Devon asked the bouncer if that was true. The bouncer (to my eternal gratitude) said, "not as pretty as this little lady." I love southern gentlemen even if they are bouncers at strip clubs. And this was especially nice of him considering that I was about to vomit on his floor. By the time we had reached the club, I had lost my bra (somewhere between Bourbon and Canal), and had so many beads that I needn't have bothered wearing anything from the waist up. I had so many that I was no longer able to flash. I also had to use the restroom badly. I managed to slur out the request and was pointed to the strippers' dressing room. I was blind drunk, but I don't think the girls even noticed when I staggered in, lurched into the bathroom and peed in what I can only hope now, was their toilet.

I think I lost consciousness for a time, but the when I came to, I was sitting right at the foot of the stage. I was holding an empty yard-long drink and the yard-long straw was dangling from my mouth. The most gorgeous girl in the world had just come out to "Sweet Home Alabama." She hooked her high heels on a bar that encircled the top of the pole. Dangling gracefully upside down, she removed her dress in one fluid motion. It was quite an act. Devon was sitting next to me not moving a muscle. He said, "she has really beautiful eyes." Huh. Those weren't her eyes, Dev.

It was an interesting experience.

I've been back there once, and I went with my husband to his friend's birthday party at a strip club in Houston. I wasn't drunk at the birthday party, so I was a little nervous. Most of the girls had great bodies, but ugly faces (oh I get it--butter face--duh). It struck me as pretty sleazy, but that rarely keeps me from having a good time. I am pretty sure my husband's friends think I'm the coolest wife in the world. But I think my strip clubbing days have gone the way of my mardis gras beads and my nipple ring. Now if I can only convince Jethro that his have too......

More Disturbing News

That asshole had the nerve to call my house asking if I had made a decision about whether to testify for him or not. Thank God Jethro answered. He told him that there was no way we were going to have anything to do with it and that he was putting us in a very difficult situation. Somehow the idiot took that to mean that he has permission to send us a letter detailing what took place, as well as a letter from his lawyer telling us what would be required should we decide to testify. I don't know how he got that from "we have decided to stay out of it." I truly don't know why he's bothering except for the fact that he is trying to keep his child-molesting ass out of prison. I guess when you're a 35 year old man who has made out with a 12 year old, pride is no longer an issue.

I am of two minds concerning this letter that he is going to send us. On one hand I want to return the letter unopened, with another letter telling him that I think he belongs in prison as a large man's human shish-kebob. On the other hand, I am curious to know how a child-molester justifies his actions as not being jail-worthy. I think I will definitely send the letter about him being a human shish kebob.

I have never virulently hated anyone so much. Even Michael Moore runs a distant second. When I have hated people in the past, I have always stopped just short of wishing them dead, or even injured badly. Mostly I fantasize about saving their unworthy lives and them begging my forgiveness and groveling at my feet. This person (and I use the term loosely), I simply want to kill. His family would be better off, his boys wouldn't have to live with the shame of their father being a registered sex offender, and having to constantly watch their daughters (if they ever have any) around him. His wife would have the insurance money and a chance to start over....but it is a waste of time. I am not the murdering sort.

I can just see this person writing the letter to us. He is probably weighing each word, agonizing over what phrases might stir our pity. He is probably sitting at his computer right now wondering which details he should reveal and which would disgust us into testifying for the prosecution.

It was surreal when he was over here the other night. The initial shock of his admission gave me a kind of out-of-body experience. All the time he was insincerely flogging himself with phony mea culpas, my internal voice kept saying "dead man walking" over and over. I know what awaits him in prison. They'll make a lady out of him in no time. He is too much of a pussy to face my husband, much less the biggest baddest father-raper on the cell block. He's hiding behind the women's skirts at this point. I can just see him when they drag him off to have their way with him. He'll scream like a girl and they will love it.

What really bugs me is the fact that he and his wife are practicing Southern Baptists. Now I know the general consensus on religious people, i.e. that they are more likely than most people to be closet pervs, and that they present themselves as all-holy to cloak their sins. I don't subscribe to that. I know that Christins, especially evangelicals, tend to be a little self-righteous and condescending, but I really believe that their hearts are in the right place. Their minds are another story. All this being said, though, there is something that really bothers me about Southern Baptists. I can't put my finger on it entirely, but there is a certain idiotic arrogance to them; a whole lot of pointing out the specks in their brothers' eyes and ignoring the beams in their own. This idea that they are written in the Book of Life just because they profess to believe in Jesus is, in my opinion, rank presumption. Presuming that God is gonna let you in is almost unforgivable.

Well I ran on way longer than intended. It is kind of cathartic to write about it. I hope it helps my tummy. It has been upset ever since that person was in my house. Perhaps I shouldn't take it to heart as much as I do, but I feel betrayed on so many levels, and my heart is aching for his little boys. His oldest son, who is 6, wrote a marriage proposal to my 4 year old a few months ago. It was the cutest thing. I asked her if she wanted to marry him and she said, "Sure. He's my brother." I have no idea how to go about that one, but it was cute anyway.

Okay, I'm off to bed. Actually, I'm off to do dishes. God, how I hate housework.

Disturbing News on the Neighborhood Front

I got a call from my neighbor last night asking to speak to me regarding a letter I had written for him last year. He had asked me at that time if I would write letter vouching for his character as a good neighbor, father, etc. Against my better judgment, I did, but I didn't feel good about it. I couldn't tell you why, but I knew something wasn't right. All he'd said is that he was having legal troubles and gave no information as to the issue. It really bothers me now that I didn't trust my own instincts. He and his wife had been good neighbors though, and I couldn't think of a tangible reason to refuse.

He came over last night and told me that he had molested a 12 year old girl who had been staying with them. "Behaved inappropriately" was the exact wording. I was beyond floored. I know what everyone says about the child molester next door: "He was so nice and friendly, you would never suspect him of doing anything wrong." In this case, it is true. He always struck me as a wimpy kind of guy, meek and unassuming, but he was always nice and friendly and helpful. He has two little sons who he is always doing things with. My heart is breaking for them.

To make a long, painful story a shorter and painful story, he basically said that last summer, he had "almost" had an affair with the girl's mother, then ended up molesting her daughter. He then confessed to the girl's mother and gave her money to take the child to counseling. The mom wasn't going to press charges, but the counselor she took the girl to reported it to the police. It took the cops 6 months to arrest him. He has now, apparently, been indicted and charged with indecency with a child. He says he isn't denying the charges, but really doesn't want to go to jail and would like to know if I would be a character witness. I made no commitment.

Talk about an awkward situation. My immediate temptation was to boot him out of my house and tell him that if he ever came within 10 miles of my girls I would kill him. I overcame that (what I consider rational) impulse only because he was talking about his full disclosure of the facts and that he was not going to try and weasel out of it. I was torn between wanting to organize a lynch mob and wanting to encourage his absolute allocution and repentance.

I have made the decision not to testify to his character. I know that his kids need him and that they will be deprived of certain material things if he is in jail and can't work. But the girl was 12 years old, and looked it. I had met her while she was hanging out there. Nice kid, the jeans-t-shirt-rollerskate-type, kind of quiet, barely pubescent. For a man in his 30s to find her an object of lust is incomprehensible. This is the conclusion that I have come to and I don't believe that I can, in good conscience, testify that I think he shouldn't be in jail. I don't think he can go there fast enough.

Happy Birthday to Me

I'm 28. I'm almost as old as what my grandmother has claimed to be for the past 40-something years. I think I'm okay with that - not like I have a choice.

I resolve to lose weight. This is the first time I have made that a resolution, except when I was about 14 when I resolved to make my best effort to throw up after every meal I ate. After strenuous effort and absolutely no result, it was abandoned. This time it shall be different. I am buying my sister's 24 hour fitness membership for a month while she is in Europe. This one has a playground where your kids can play while you work out. I promise to go every day and work out at least one puddle of sweat. Hopefully, I can lose a couple of twenty pounds and be thin and gorgeous dahlings. We shall see.

I shall make one more resolution. I will utilize my time better. That is a tough one since I pretty much live in a dream world of my own creation filled with political speeches, winning the lottery, saving people from fires, the perfect body, and singing the best rendition of the national anthem ever.

Too Too Long

I wish I could write more often, but I am too busy wasting my time to do anything remotely creative. And it is sad, kind of, that I persist in the notion that my doodling (writing) is creative. I think I'm depressed. That has been my mantra for years, but this time it's weirder. I can't sleep at all except for a couple of hours right before I have to get up and go to work. I had one cup of coffee last week, just as a little pick-me-up, and a couple of hours later, I found myself with a full-blown panic attack.

I don't believe in panic attacks, even though I have had them pretty regularly. Kind of like masturbating. I had them (did it) without knowing exactly what they were (it was). Panic attacks, with the possible exception of childbirth, are just about the most painful things to experience. I first get dizzy, then I feel pin-pricks all over, then I want to have sex like a madman(woman), then I want to beat my head against a wall until it is a pulpy mess and I'm a happy idiot. This particular panic-attack was caffeine induced. I was completely aware that I had indeed gone crazy, but I couldn't help myself. I called my husband who was studying and couldn't talk, then my friend Benton, who, for some completely unknown reason, decided that he didn't mind me spewing forth political opinion at the speed of light for about two hours. When I finally came down, I was exhausted but still couldn't sleep. My husband, even amidst all his studying, finally noticed my agony and bought me some vitamin/herbal/hormonal stuff that he had heard good things about. It slowly seems to be doing the trick.

I feel frustrated. I don't know what I'm doing with my valuable time. It started slipping away just when life was good. Life is still good, but time is racing by. My First Daughter is going to school next year. I feel like her babyhood went by so fast that the great foundation I meant for her to have is not there. I have let her watch too much TV, I have not read all the books to her that I swore I would, I allowed her grandparents to spoil her to the point of preferring them over us, I've yelled at her when I was tired, I haven't insisted that she pick up her toys, I bribe her with cookies just to get dressed in the mornings, I let her younger sister get away with things because she is the baby, I haven't filled out her baby book or picture album, I stuck out my tongue at her once, and I sometimes let her get away with not eating her vegetables. I probably don't deserve her, but I love her for all of that and probably because of all of that. I love love love the way she frolics and inevitably trips on her own feet, I love the way she stutters when she's excited, I love the way she plays "Funny Face Laughing Game," I love the way she tells me that her hair is like chocolate, I love the way she pretends to give facials, I love how fastidious she is when choosing her clothes and the way she could care less about them 10 minutes after she puts them on, I love her little machine gun laugh, I love the way she curls up like a little snail when you tuck her in bed. I love the way she says cubby and chubby and tubby. I love the way she reads The Cat In The Hat to herself. I love the way she sleeps in bed with me without moving. I love it when she hugs her sister, I love it when she sounds like a little school-teacher, I love it when she says "I luff you, Mommy and puts her little arms around my neck. Basically I am in awe of my firstborn. She makes me feel completely inadequate and yet I love her so completely. The First Baby.

I Sprained My Tongue on Valentine's Day

No; I have not taken up punk songwriting. I really sprained my tongue. And not in the good way. It began a little over a year ago when my husband bought some frozen fish from a door-to-door salesman. Why did he do this? I don't know. Jethro does a lot of things that confuse me a little, but anyway, he bought it at a pretty good price considering that it hasn't poisoned us.

Anyhoo, among the plethora of frozen fish was a bag of frozen lobster tails. We had been saving these lobster tails for a special occasion, but each special occasion that has passed, we have forgotten about them. Well, yesterday, the happy coincidences of poverty, Jethro's board review, and the girls' ear infections forced us to reconsider our restaurant plans, and the bag of lobster tails, at long last, was utilized.

Jethro bought a cheap bottle of champagne and a single rose, and I got the kids to bed, broke out our wedding champagne glasses, and turned on War Stories with Oliver North. Tres romantique. We sat down Indian style at our coffee table to enjoy the lobster feast. We clinked our glasses and dug in.

The first lobster tail I ate was quite mushy which I attributed to some mild freezer burn. But the second one I ate was perfect. This got me thinking about that first one.

Now if you have ever gotten food poisoning, you know that there is a fate worse than death. You feel like you're in the bowels of hell with the bowels of hell. I reflected on this as I chewed my second lobster tail. I concluded upon swallowing that I would rather "release" the already consumed lobster tails rather than suffer the potential consequences. I felt bad about "releasing" the good one I had just eaten but what else could I do?

Now there is a reason that I am a little overweight. Part of it is the Bigboobs, part of it is a virulent hatred of exercise, and part of it is that I am an utter failure at bulimia. No matter, I never had quite this incentive before. It took a little while, but finally, after thinking very hard about MTV's Jackass, and with my finger reaching depths it had never reached before, I accomplished.

I returned to the lobster feast with my enthusiasm dampened somewhat. Jethro had considerately divided up the non-mushy lobster tails into equal portions. I had finished my portion and drank most of the rest of the champagne when I realized that, due to my expulsion attempts, my tongue was sprained way way way in the back where it attaches. Since I could do relatively little about it, I finished the champagne, reveled in my intoxication for about 10 minutes, and then went to bed. Quite possibly, it was my most memorable Valentine's Day.

Ramblin' Man (Woman)

Jethro and I have many things in common. Eating and drinking for one. We love it. Unfortunately, Jethro's metabolism is conducive to marathon eating sessions and mine, well... isn't. We both like gross-out comedies and violin solos, and we both enjoy the fact that we are (to put it delicately) of differing races. It gives us something to talk about.

I really have to compliment myself at how I was able to list our racial diversity as a similarity. I think that was the most brilliant politically correct statement I have ever made. So brilliant, in fact that I'm going to end on it.

The Super Bowl and the Nipple

Kinda sounds like a modern day Aesop's fable. I was blotto by the end of the first quarter so I gotta say that the old nippy didn't make much of an impression on me. This was also due to the fact that I was dancing in line for the port-o-lets at time. I have since seen replays.

Now from an adult perspective, I don't think it was any big deal. I mean if a woman like Ms. Jackson feels that it is a wise career move, or aesthetically pleasing, or in some way cathartic to have a dancing singing man-child rip off her top in front of billions of people, I would firstly have to seriously question what went on in her childhood. Secondly, I would have to admit that I am more amused than offended. I began singing another tune when I spoke to my little sisters though. One of them had a Super Bowl party with a few of her little girlfriends. They were really disturbed by it. It made me think about what I would have thought at that age (11 years). I think I would have been horrified. It wasn't so much the nudity, but the way in which the offending feature was exposed. It was a little scary. As an adult, I am about as intimidated by Justin Timerlake as I would be by a bowl of pudding. But as a little kid, I would have been frightened by any guy ripping off any gal's shirt. It also annoys me in a more abstract way, that any celebrity would be so egotistical as to think that their naked body parts could elicit any emotion at all in me or anyone else. But mostly, I think it was crummy to make kids see that.

Other than that, the Super Bowl was great. Despite what the idiot commercial reviewers say, I think it was the best one I've ever seen - except for the fact that I drunkenly changed my allegience to the Panthers at the last second. I always do that. I pick my team and then somewhere around the 4th beer or Long Island, I change my allegience to the underdog (if the underdog is not who I am rooting for in the first place). Weird, I know.

Maiwage. Maiwage is what bwings us togethew today.

I don't know where to begin about it. First off, I'll just start with the fact that I like being married far better than I ever thought I would. Before I was married, I saw it as a prison. And not only a prison that I would never want to be in, but also a prison that no one in their right mind would want to be in with me.

I was pretty content being on my own. A little familial support would have been appreciated, but aside from that it was nice not having to kiss anyone's ass. The fact that I could pack up and go anywhere once I had a few dollars in my pocket was very alluring. Plus, my mother, who I will always love regardless, did not exactly inspire dewy marital visions. Part of my antipathy towards marriage was due in part to ye olde self-esteem, but mostly it stemmed from not wanting to be even remotely like my mother. Honestly, my mom could turn Cinderella into a runaway bride.

Now that I have taken the plunge and am quite happily treading the marital waters, I have to say that it is a pretty desirable condition. I mean, we can have sex. And it is legal and moral by almost everyone's standards. I gotta say I'm down with that because I like sex, but could not handle the guilt of having it pre-maritally. I think my husband is a lucky man, but I also think I'm a lucky gal. But we made an agreement before we got married that we wouldn't use sex as a weapon. It was just off the table as far as arguments were concerned. We also agreed that we would not refer to each other as "soulmates." Talk about fucking pressure! I mean, who would do that to themselves? What happens when you have a fight? Are you suddenly not soulmates? I am quite hip to fact that I've never been terribly sentimental, but I think that the lovers of today put way too much pressure on themselves to ever make a marriage work. From the perfect proposal to the perfect house, the second something isn't perfect, the whole stack of cards goes crumbling down. Add to it the fact that most men pretend romance to get the girl, but sooner or later break under the strain, as well as the fact that women have decided that marriage and kids suck up their valuable Oprah-time/individuality/creativity, and you have one great cauldron of pointless emotional bile.

Anyway - to anyone who is married - don't sweat the small stuff.