I just finished reading DCup's entertaining post on PoliTits, regarding her adventure with a billboard. It brought back unpleasant memories of my own billboard escapade.

The year I was 15, I was living in L.A. in a teensy 3 room apartment with my mother, my two younger sisters, my mother's sister and her two pre-teen boys. Our filthy little hellhole was on the second floor and the bathroom window looked out on a vacant lot. There was a large billboard right next to the building, and the local fire station was located on the other side of the empty lot.

Note: I walked past the fire station whenever I had the opportunity, because there were often some very cute firemen hanging out by the door, and sometimes they would talk to me, which was very exciting. But I digress.

One day when I got home from school I found my sisters and cousins, who got out of school earlier than I did, sitting at the top of the stairs, in front of the apartment door, unable to get inside because the door key was not under the mat, where it belonged. My mother was at work and my aunt was not at work, since she had never worked a day in her life, but she wasn't home either, because she was out screwing around somewhere. So...what to do? The kids were hungry and/or had to go to the bathroom. They looked expectantly at me. "Don't worry, I'll think of something."

Eureka! "I'll climb in the bathroom window!"

"How are you going to do that?" Sister Judy asked. "Climb up the wall, like a fly?" Sarcastic little twit.

"No, silly. I'll just climb up the back of the billboard and then reach across to the window. I can hold on to the post with one hand and open the window with the other." NO PROBLEM! We all trooped down the stairs and around the building to the base of the billboard. There was a latticework of boards in the back that looked much less like ladder material than I had hoped. But there was no backing out now. Three of the four witnesses seemed to think I could do it. Only Judy was skeptical. I had to prove her wrong. So I started climbing. I hoisted myself up onto the first horizontal board, about four feet off the ground. So far, so good. Only about 20 feet to go. The next level was much harder, but I made it. Then I made the colossal mistake of looking down. I saw four anxious faces looking up at me and heard a chorus of "Be careful" and "Don't fall!" Then I saw the ground, which looked very far away. Then I looked up at the bathroom window, which looked even farther away. Then I froze. Then I cried. "I'm stuck! I'm scared!" The kids started yelling and before long the trusty firefighters heard the commotion. One of them hurried over to us and Judy told him our sorry tale. "Don't worry, honey," he called up to me. "We'll get you down. And we'll get your door open, too." He ran back to the station and before I could will myself to go ahead and die of embarrassment, he returned, in a firetruck, with hook, ladder and another fireman. Fireman A placed the ladder against the billboard, plucked me off of my unsteady perch and handed me down to Fireman B. Then our heroes leaned the ladder against the side of our building and Fireman A scrambled up it and entered the window. Did I mention that our apartment was filthy little hellhole? We kids ran around to the front of the building and saw poor F.A. emerging from the front door. He looked shellshocked. He had just walked through the filthy bathroom, the filthy bedroom where Pissaunt and her boys slept and the messy (not filthy, because I cleaned it once in a while) living room where Mom and we three girls slept, and no doubt had gotten a glimpse of the disasterous kitchen.

I avoided walking by the fire station after that.

I am one grumpy broad tonight. Hubby asked me to write a short bio for his company handbook. He gave me a few notes to "flesh out." His notes are always rather loopy, in my opinion, but I gave it my all. After over an hour of work on the stupid thing, using the theasaurus to find just the right words etc., I gave it to him for his approval, which I had thought was assured. Silly me! He read only the first two sentences and dumped it on the desk, saying "No, that's not what I wanted. Never mind. I'll do it in the morning." I should add that he is an artist (paints in oil) and art teacher. I am a writer! A childish, petulant writer, you may be thinking. Poop. Maybe I should go back and try it again. Double poop.

Fire and flood. Fire in Greece and floods in Ohio. Death and destruction. Death and destruction in Iraq, Afghanistan, and Darfur. Death is inevitable, of course, but it's especially regrettable when it is caused willfully by warmaking humans. Most Americans sit complacently in their nice, safe homes, thinking they're probably going to be just fine, knowing that if something scary happens they can call the police, but probably nothing scary will happen. They are more concerned about football scores than IEDs. That's good, of course. I am very, very glad I live in America, where, in spite of questionable leadership and occasional floods, we are relatively safe from harm. That may change, but for now we're okay. The citizens of Iraq are not okay. They cannot step outside of their homes to try to buy food without fear of being blown up or witnessing others being blown up. They cannot sit calmly in a coffee shop and chat with friends. Riding in a car or bus is an exercise in anxiety. At any moment, a bunch of soldiers or other militants can bash in their front door and shoot and/or rape anyone in the house. And yet, they believe in god. This is incredible to me.

Okay, I'm back. Twelve days of no blogging makes Z a dull girl. So...I'm gonna sharpen my pencil, throw out my inhibitions and let 'er rip. Are you ready for Part 2 of Dangerous Sex?

It was a grey and snowy afternoon and Pan-Man and I were trying, once again, to find a safe place to rock and roll. He was driving my old, orange Toyota down a back road, looking unsuccessfully for someplace to park. I was crazy with lust and could not keep my hands off of him. In spite of his concentration on the slippery, ice-covered road, his lovely cock responded nicely to my stroking. At that point, I lost all semblance of sanity and buried my face in his lap. He was saying, "Wait, wait..." but I couldn't. I blew him like there was no tomorrow, and there almost wasn't. When I sat up again, I saw that the car was sliding downhill and Pan-man was struggling mightily to get it under control. He succeeded, of course, but was shaken. "Geez, that was the weirdest thing that ever happened to me. I was trying to keep the car from sliding off of the road at the same time rockets were going off in my crotch." Becoming aware of what might have happened to us cooled my ardor and I had to wait until the next time to get my rockets off.

It looks like "part 2" is going to have to wait...maybe until hell freezes over. I'm leaving on vacation tomorrow, I'm not finished packing, I'm tired and cranky, hubby is mad at me and it's so fucking hot and humid in here I want to scream. My globes are warming. My funk is steaming. Don't ask me what that means. I don't know, but it sounds right. Also, I'm feared of flying, but it's the only way to get from PA to OR in 6 hours. I considered hitching up the Conestoga wagon, but we ate the oxen last winter. See? I'm getting hysterical. It's the heat. I think my brain is melting. I'll be back here on 8/22 (providing, of course, that the planes in which I will be encased remain airborne for the appropriate times and land safely) . Maybe it will be cooler then. Or not.

I've been thinking about DANGEROUS sex today. It's been a while since I've indulged in that variety of my favorite activity, but I have an irresistible urge to talk about two notable events in my shady past. They both involve the man who was a god to me, specifically, the goat-god, Pan. Pan, the god of debauchery and lust. The man-Pan-god had cast a spell on me, turning me into a demented, lust-crazed slut. We were both married (to someone else) at the time, so it wasn't easy finding a safe place to play. That didn't stop us though; I would have fucked him in Times Square or dangling from a flagpole; anything, any place, anytime...just to have one more, oh please pan-god, just one more flaming, banging, exploding orgasm unlike anything I had experienced or even imagined before. So where, you may be wondering, were the most dangerous places/circumstances in which we indulged ourselves? Oh my, it's hard for me to concentrate on typing right now, I may have to take a bedroom break.

Okay, where was I? Oh yes, driving my old, tangerine-orange Toyota Celica down the highway at about 70 mph, with Pan-man sitting next to me. We had come from the office, and I was dressed up, wearing pantyhose under my short skirt. P-m was telling me what he would like to be doing to my pussy and I was wild with wanting him. Then he reached under my skirt and started exploring. "Hey, you've got a hole in your pantyhose!" And in no time, I did, thanks to his deft, strong fingers. His fingers moved, sliding in my juices, stroking, squeezing, gliding, pulsing until Mount Vulvuvius erupted. Don't ask me how I kept control of the car. I have no idea; but I guess I did, since I lived to tell the tale.

Whew, I'm exhausted. Part 2 will have to wait until tomorrow.

Sixty-two years ago today, there was even more suffering in the world than usual. Some historians and pundits claim that the overall suffering would have been prolonged and ultimately worse if we hadn't used the Bomb(s), but no one really knows. It did wrap things up pretty quickly.

Still, wouldn't you think that after such an immeasurably destructive and horrific war, mankind would see the error of his collective ways and find more intellectual methods to settle disputes? But no, just five years later we were killing and being killed in Korea, soon to be followed by Vietnam.Why does there have to be war? Why can't we all just get along (thank you, Rodney King)? Until the late 20th century, I suppose the innate, primitive, testosterone-driven quest for territory explains much of the conflicts. But today, the predominate conflicts seem different from any previous ones. It can't be explained by the quest for territory, unless you count space in "heaven" as territory, and consider that space limited. Now, I am a 100% Atheist, so it's difficult for me to figure out how any religion can offer to reward its adherants for killing as many people as possible.

Well, this is depressing. I think I'll sign off and go read Josh's post again. Yummy!

I am hooked on Sudoku puzzles. Am I a geezer, or what? If I am feeling physically lazy (an all too common occurrence) I can convince myself that I am exercising my mind if nothing else, by decoding a Sudoku. It is also an excellent way to empty my anxious brain of all troublesome thoughts. For 30 -45 minutes, I am focused on nothing but numerical detective work. Of course, all good things must end, and when the puzzle is done, everything else is still undone. I have not dusted. I have not pulled weeds. I have not washed dishes. And...I do not give a flying fuck! So there!

I'm glad it's August. Now I can put the sad, summer anniversaries behind me for 10 more months.

June is the month of my parents' suicides. Mom took way too many pills and died what I hope was a peaceful death on June 17, 1982. Daddy blew his brains out on June 17, 1987. His death was not peaceful, nor was it quick; he lived, comatose, on life-support, for several hours afterward. My sister had to scream at the hospital staff to "let the old man die! He wanted to die!" They pulled the plug.

July 26 is my father's birthday. It was also the day that I left my first husband, 39 days after Daddy died. All I could think of was that I didn't want to be like Daddy, always berating myself for doing this or that or for not doing this, that or the other. I didn't want to be 70 years old and still in a marriage that I hated, with a domineering man whom I sometimes loved, but often hated. I wanted to make my own way in the world, make my own decisions, go where I wanted, when I wanted. Granted, I wasn't thinking clearly at the time. Grief had distorted my thoughts. But I have never regretted my decision, even though I came close to mimicking my parents' actions, more than once in the next two years.

But now it's August! I am happy with my life; though it would by nicer if it weren't so hot outside.