Septuple

Well, nobody actually asked, but I was inspired by Politits , who was inspired by Freida Bee , to think of seven more things about my illustrious self.

1. I'm pretty sure that I saw a flying saucer, on the night of July 5, 1976, while camping in North Dakota.

2. The best sex I ever had took place on the conference table in the business office where I worked. (After closing time, of course...)

3. I was 30 years old before I learned that the "b" is silent in the word "subtle."

4. Until I was almost 10 years old, I thought that pregnancy was caused by the preacher saying, "I now pronounce you man and wife."

5. I don't understand how some people can believe that you get a ticket to heaven by detonating a bomb strapped to him/herself and ripping bystanders, men, women and children, to bloody shreds.

6. But then, I don't understand how ANYONE past the age of 7 can believe in heaven.

7. One of my best friends tells me that I am the most neurotic person she's ever known. I tell HER that "birds of a feather flock together."

The Real Me - In All My Flaming Glory

The totally rad Miss Smack sent me a photo of myself which she noticed in Vogue Magazine. It's one of my favorites, so I'm posting it for your viewing pleasure.

Believe me, it's not easy being this gorgeous. The meshugana paparazzi hound me, everywhere I go. Always with the flashbulbs!

Important Lessons I Have Learned the Hard Way

1. Do not, under any circumstances, try to shave your underarms with a bare razor blade.

2. Do not set the cookbook, the cutting board, or your special China cup on the burner of an electric range, thinking that it is not "on."

3. Do not slip a soggy dumpling off of your plate and into your pants pocket, thinking that the hostess will not see you and subsequently tattle on you in front of all the neighbor ladies.

4. Do not try to dance the Polka when you are 8 1/2 months pregnant.


5. Do not go to your first opera, wearing a dress that zips up the back, unless you are sure it is zipped.

6. If you're still a lot smaller than your mother, do not tell her, when she tells you it's time to get up, "If you think I'm getting up now, you're full of shit," even if you did hear your father tell her that.

7. Do not leave your purse on the hood of a car, in a public parking lot, while chatting with a friend, and then walk away.

8. Do not leave your purse on the chair of a restaurant in a small town in southern Utah, and then get in your car and drive all the way to Salt Lake City.

9. Do not leave your purse on the table in a public library, while you go to the rest room.

10. Learn from your mistakes and stop carrying a purse...large pockets will do just fine.

11. Do not let your doofus aunt give you a home permanent.

12. Do not let your bare leg touch the exhaust pipe of your motorcycle.

13. Do not drop your rowing machine on your bare, big toe.

14. Do not fight with your little sister, who is now bigger than you are, over who gets to wear the tiger-striped swimsuit.

15. Do not try to retroactively mask the sound of an accidental fart by making another, louder noise afterward.

16. Do not let a beautician, whose right hand is in a cast, give you a perm,

when she must wait for another beautician to have time to rinse the

perm-solution-from-hell out of your former hair.

17. Ditch the whole perm thing, altogether. Straight is great.

18. Do not leave your very favorite hat, the only hat you've ever liked, in the basket of your bike while you go into the K-Mart.

19. Do not sleep with a guy, just because you're afraid of hurting his feelings if you don't.

20. Do not marry a man who tells you on your honeymoon that "A ship can have only one captain," and you know that he isn't referring to you.


21. Do not go swimming in a public pool unless you are absolutely sure that the top of your swim suit is SECURELY FASTENED.

22. Do not drop a tab of LSD when you are supposed to go to work five hours later.

23. Do not eat a second magic brownie because the first one's "not working."

24. Do not get married until you're at least 30 or 40 years old.

25. Do not attempt to pronounce any French word, unless you are French.

My font is blue and so am I. Hubby and I just fight and fight over the STUPIDEST things. He prods me with incendiary remarks and I TRY to keep my temper under control, but he picks and picks until I blow. Then he has the satisfaction of thinking that the whole problem is because I am insane, nuts, neurotic or whatever his adjective du jour is. I hate to fight! He loves to fight! Fuck it!

I ended up getting in the car and driving away, not knowing where I was going. But I was afraid I'd have a wreck, if I kept on driving in that condition (DWI - Driving While Insane), so I just pulled over to the curb and sat there for an hour. Now I'm home and don't know what to do.

101 Things You’ve Always Wanted to Know About Me

1. I’m grouchy in the morning.

2. I’m often grouchy in the afternoon.

3. I’m seldom grouchy in the evening, unless someone persists in irritating me.

4. I dislike the color blue, probably because my little sister Julie had blue eyes and everyone was always saying how pretty she was, and I had brown eyes and no one ever said how pretty I was.

5. Now I have green eyes and I’m very pretty.
6. My favorite color is red-orange and I have red-orange hair. It is very pretty.

7. When I was a little girl, my dad said that I ran like a turkey. Is that good or bad?.

8. Now I run like a gazelle. Okay, maybe a gazelle with three legs…

9. When I was sixteen, my dad said that I played the piano like I had lint in my navel. I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I was pretty sure it wasn’t a compliment.

10. Now my navel is lint-free.

11. I lived in foster homes, off and on, from age 4 to 9. It sucked.

12. My mother was married five times. She was divorced once. That was before record keeping was computerized.

13. I have been married twice and divorced once, but not in that order.

14. I’ve changed my first name three times. I like the final one a lot and will stick with it. It starts with a “Z,” which is my favorite letter.

15. When I was 13 I attempted to throw a rotten watermelon from a moving car onto the steps of my junior high school, but it landed on the curb. Stupid watermelon.

16. When I was 14, I got really, really drunk on straight whiskey and puked my guts out for the next several hours. That was a long time ago and hasn’t happened since. I may be dumb, but I’m not stupid…or something like that.

17. I went to four different schools in fourth grade. That sucked.

18. My mother said that I was “a selfish brat,” just because I re-possessed the birthday gift that I had just given to my little sister. SHE WASN’T USING IT CORRECTLY, DARN IT!!

19. Actually, I really was a selfish brat. I still am. GET AWAY FROM MY CHOCOLATE!

20. I am an Atheist, goddamn it!

21. I pretend to be tolerant of religious nuts, but I think they’re stupid.

22. I think religious nuts should mind their own fucking business and stop trying to legislate morality.

23. I never use profanity except when it is warranted.

24. When I was 16, I necked with my high school History teacher. It was all his fault. He was too handsome.

25. When I was 26, I necked with my mother’s fourth husband. He was a good kisser, but a bad husband.

26. I have shoplifted. Twice. When I was 14, I stole a wallet. When I was 25, poor and powerless, I walked out of the store with a shiny, new extension cord. Really!

27. When I was 29, I went to a Halloween party, dressed as a tube of Crest toothpaste. My breath was minty fresh.

28. I know life isn’t fair, but why not? It’s not fair!

29. I would like to impose a worldwide, absolute law that would require a minimum age of 50 for any and all members of any and all military or pseudo-military groups. I’m pretty sure that would put the brakes on war.

30.I do not wish to listen to any popular music produced after 1985. It is not music.

31. I realize that I sound like my father when I say that.

32. The only sport I was ever good at is Poker. Make that “the only sport I didn’t SUCK AT was Poker.”

33. Yes, I do realize that I have 69 more things to come up with. Quit nagging me!

34. 69 is my favorite number.

35. It’s difficult to concentrate when I’m thinking of it, however.

36. Chimpanzees are my favorite animals, but I wouldn’t want to be one.

37. I like to dance to salsa music, especially when it’s hot and humid and the sweat pours down all my crevices.
38. Not that I have any more crevices than the next guy.

39. I lived in a boxcar for the first year of my life.

40. I liked it there, because I had no pesky little sisters yet.

41. I like to look at big, muscley men, but I don't want them to shave their bodies.
42. I went to a lowbrow Chippendale-style performance once. Those guys were so incredibly sexy; I was ready to tear their tiny little briefs right off of them! All of the women in the audience were hootin’ and hollerin’.

43. I wish I had a pair of ruby slippers.

44. I wish I could make myself invisible, at will. Oh...wait! You can't see me, can you?

45. I wish I were fluent in Spanish.

46. I’m glad I’m not a cannibal.

47. I’m glad I’m not pregnant.

48. I’m glad I’m almost half-done with this list.

49. When I was 29, I went white-water rafting on the Green River and our raft ran straight into a huge rock in the middle of the stream and I didn’t fall out of the raft, which was a good thing, because I can’t swim.

50. Once upon a time, I was nude-sunbathing on a small, rocky island in Lake Powell, thinking I was all alone, when a motor boat with several men came putt-putting up next to me. I just rolled over on my stomach and closed my eyes, willing them to go away. They did, eventually.

51. And then there was the time when I chased a bunch of armed hunters off of our farm, with nothing but my anger and a lot of profanity.

52. Two years ago I was in Italy, and I found my own way from Assisi to the Tiemplo di Minerva, using only my steely-eyed determination and 12 words of Italian.

53. I wish I were fluent in Italian.

54. I wish I could make love to one of the gondoliers in Venice.

55. I wish I could make love to that glassblower in the glass factory I visited in Murano. He was a big, muscley man.

56. I was proud of myself when I made it to the top of Angel’s Landing, in Zion National Park, in Utah, even though I was certain I would not live to include it in this list.

57. Last year, I forded a wild stream in Kauai, holding onto a rope that was entirely inadequate and I would have been swept over the falls if a big, muscley surfer-dude had not come to my rescue.

58. I almost always wear underwear when I’m in public.

59. haven’t gone hang-gliding yet. I’m waiting until the doctor tells me I have only six months to live.

60. I fucked boyfriend du jour in a graveyard once. Once was enough.

61. I tried to commit suicide once, but it didn’t work.

62. Now I take Zoloft and I love being alive.

63. I am covered with tatoos.

64. When I was 15 I went to a hypnotist and he tried to hypnotize me, but it wasn’t working, and I told him it wasn’t working and he got mad at me, so I pretended it was working, and he was so thrilled with his success that he wanted me to be his subject in a demonstration he was going to give.

65. I had an uncle who was a dirty, fucking, pedophile creep and I hope he burns and rots in hell.

66. Not that I hold any grudges or anything.

67. I get annoyed with adults who don’t know the difference between “their,” “they’re,” and “there.”

68. I get annoyed with adults who think that you make a plural by adding apostrophe s to a noun. e.g. “I have two husband’s.” Didn’t you go to school, you pitiful excuse for a human being?

69. I get annoyed with everyone and anyone who starts a sentence with the word “Me,” as in “Me and Mike were gittin’ it on!” It’s “Mike and I,” motherfuckers!

70. Sometimes, I get annoyed with myself for being so intolerant, but mostly I’m okay with it.

71. I ate frog legs once, just to be able to say I had done it. It was nasty. I felt so guilty. Poor little frogs. As if they don’t have enough problems, with loss of habitat and all.

72. I tried escargot too. I brushed my teeth about six times afterwards.

73. Talk about guilt! For the first thirty years of my life, I felt guilty about masturbating. Now it’s all good. It has been helpful to read blogs about the shame-free way that men relate tales of their solo escapades.

74. I have never faked an orgasm. And if you believe that, you must be a man.

75. I go to the gym three times a week and work out for 1½ hours each time. But I feel guilty that I’m not getting the exercise by doing actual, productive work.

76. I feel guilty about feeling guilty.

77. I hate cooked carrots, but I don’t feel guilty for hating them. They deserve it. Stupid carrots.

78. I’m left-handed, but I masturbate with my right hand. Go figure.

79. I plan to wash all the windows in my house, as soon as hell freezes over.

80. I thought I was in love once, but it was just gas.

81. I can read palms. You will lead a long and happy life…oh dear, wait…never mind, let’s talk about something else.

82. I’ve never met a vibrator I didn’t like.

83. I am really hungry right now, so I’m going to go get something good to eat and try not to feel guilty about it, even though I know I will, because I promised myself I wouldn’t eat anything fattening tonight, but everything that sounds good to me is fattening!

84. No man has ever beaten me up, but if one ever tries, I can guarantee he’ll be sorry.
85. I float like a moth and sting like a wasp…on steroids. I’m a pretty good boxer, too. (Not really.)

86. My ex and I went to a nudist camp several times, back in the 80’s. It was an eye-opening experience. I was amazed at the variation in size, shape, color, and condition of the bare-naked penises. Most of the men were able to keep them deflated, but one well-endowed teenager was at half-mast most of the time. It was quite entertaining.

87. I learned the hard way that I must never tell a Jehovah’s Witness missionary that I am an Atheist. It is like waving raw meat in front of a lion.

88. When I was five years old, a neighbor girl hit me across the head with a two-by-four. So I killed her. (Only one of these sentences is true.)

89. While I’ve never done any actual research on the subject, I suspect that lesbians give better cunnilingus than men do, since they actually know THE LOCATION OF THE CLITORIS!

90. I can crush Japanese Beetles with my bare fingers.

91. I think the sale and use of marijuana should be legal. Period! Exclamation mark:

92. My favorite pen is in the shape of a flamingo, with lots of bright pink feathers on top of its head.

93. Sometimes I wish I had a pet, preferably an orange-haired kitty, but then I smoke a joint and forget about it.

94. I tried smoking oregano once. Mama mia! It was disappointing.

95. I cry over spilt milk.

96. I truly believe that two wrongs make a right.

97. You CAN have your cake and eat it too. It will be stored in that roll of fat around your waist.

98. Sometimes I think I may have a split personality. But then someone inside my head assures me that I don’t.

99. A rose is a rose is a rose, unless it’s a banana. In that case, it might have a “split” personality. Get it? A banana split? Never mind.

100. I’m nearing the finish line! My heart is pounding like an angry judge’s gavel. I’m out of breath. I think I may throw up! But no, I can’t quit now, no matter how much you would like me to!

101. I cooked a man in Crisco, just to watch him fry.

Oh geez, I'm only up to number 90. This image gives a hint of the subject matter of number 90.

I am so EXCITED that I finally figured out how to insert an image into my blog! Watch out, Politits!

I'm working on a list, entitled: "101 Things You've Always Wanted to Know about Me." I got the basic idea from Captain Smack who got the basic idea from Old Knudsen . They made it look easy, but it's not! After two hours, I'm only up to 85. I'm starting to doubt that there ARE 101 things about me, whether anyone wants to know about them or not.

Okay, back to the grindstone. And no, I never had sex with a grindstone.

I wish I could write like Kelso, or dcup. How the heck do they find time for such long, entertaining and enlightening posts? I'm interested in political matters, but not ambitious enough to do any actual research before publishing my opinions, even though I am VERY SURE that my opinions are WELL-FOUNDED and ABSOLUTELY DEFENSIBLE, if only I were much more ambitious, which I'm not.

So...I will write about sex, instead, because that's always entertaining, at least to me, and I'm a bit "stirred" tonight, so that's all I can think of. Specifically, I'm thinking of Pan-man, and that summer afternoon when we were walking in the woods, thinking we were all alone, and that it would be perfectly safe to make love by the side of the creek, EVEN THOUGH IT WAS BY A PUBLIC TRAIL IN THE MIDDLE OF THE AFTERNOON OF A BEAUTIFUL, SUNNY DAY! So there we were, indulging in position number 69, and enjoying ourselves very much, thank you, when all of a sudden, PM pulled away, grabbed for his clothes and pushed me toward mine. A large dog was ambling toward us. "If a dog's in the woods, his owner can't be far behind," he whispered, as we both hitched up our britches. He was right, of course, and we barely made our semi-clothed retreat before the unwelcome hiker barged into our little trysting place. Such are the perils of illicit love.

Maybe next time I'll talk about the time we "did it" on the conference table, after hours, in the office. Was that ever exciting!

Okay, this post is going to be boring, so you might as well bail out now. It's about politics as a source of marital discord. Discord almost to the point of pugilism! Hubby is a Bush-loving conservative Republican. Need I say more? Yes? Good, because I am revved up! He vigorously and vociferously supports Bush's INVASION OF IRAQ AND THE CONTINUED OCCUPATION. I try to avoid the subject, because I know neither of us will ever convince the other of his/my point of view. It just occured to me as I wrote that sentence, that my attitude about arguing is consistent with my attitude toward the war: I HATE WAR AND FIGHTING AND HOPELESS ARGUING! Hubby apparently LOVES WAR AND FIGHTING AND ARGUING! GRRRRRRR!

So, back to my story. Tonight we had a pleasant, peaceful dinner, watched Wheel of Fortune, and decided to go for a walk, as we often do in the evening. Tom started talking derisively about a woman at his work, whom he detests, and her attempts to recruit people to go with her to the Peace March in DC this weekend. I said, "Oh, I want to join the march. Maybe I could ride with her." Stupid me! He then started his usual diatribe about how I "support terrorists, support Osama bin Laden, and love Hitler and wouldn't have wanted the USA to join WWII, etc ad nauseum." We have been through this countless times. And every time, I assure him that I do NOT support terrorists, or Osama, or Hitler, and I certainly believe that we were completely correct in defeating Germany and Japan. So tonight, I was trying to keep relatively calm in the face of his STUPID attack, and then he delivered his coup de grace: "Go to DC! Join the march! Stay all day if you want to. You'll be so PROUD of yourself." All this was voiced with dripping sarcasm. At that point I boiled over with a loud "FUCK YOU!" and turned around and walked away as fast as I could. We're back home now, in opposite corners of the house, not speaking. So much for agreeing to disagree.

The inimitable, incomparable Captain Smack commented on my previous post:

" Talk about walking on the wild side, it's a wonder you're still with us. Everyone knows those 30-something Japanese folk dancer types are worse than the Hell's Angels on a month-long meth bender."

Fortunately, the Captain's satire is warranted. Shigeki taught me a lot about foreplay, but never pried my legs apart.

Armando, on the other hand, got to first, second and third base, but didn't quite score. Armando was a perpetually horny (boner, 24/7), nineteen year-old Mexican guy I met at school. On the first date, he taught me how to kiss (apparently Shigeki had it all wrong). "No, not like that! You're supposed to lift up your tongue and let the guy play around under it." I followed orders and passed muster. The second date consisted of us necking madly in the back yard, doing everything but the big "F". Then, the fateful third encounter. We were with my sister and her boyfriend, eating pizza at a cafe down the street from my apartment. Armando said he was having a party in his home (he lived with his parents) that evening and invited us three to join him. J. and her BF looked at each other skeptically and declined. But I, chronically shy and unpopular, was eager to go to my first real party. So Armando and I headed off for his place. Now add the words "naive and dumb" to my self-description. When we got to his house, there were no lights on inside and the front door was locked. Armando explained that his parents always went to bed early, and we shouldn't wake them, so we could just climb in his bedroom window! I did think that was an odd way to have a party, but I was reluctant to abandon the idea, so in I went, with his help. He told me to be quiet, so we wouldn't wake his parents. The next thing I knew, we were on his bed, with both of us pantsless. I had never seen a man's erect penis before, so naturally, it was the biggest penis I had ever seen. It was terrifying. And then he tried to insert Tab B into Slot a. It hurt so badly that I passed out. When I came to, he was fanning me and apologizing, assuring me that he hadn't penetrated. He offered to "massage" my aching twat, but I declined. I said I wanted to go home, so we climbed back out the window and he walked me home. That was the last time I accepted an invitation to a "party," until I was an adult.

And, in case you're wondering, his is still the biggest penis I've ever seen.

That last post stirred up some other memories from that strange year that I was 15. It's amazing that my two younger sisters (J, 14 and M, 13)and I survived it. My mother gave us virtually no guidance (except that we should not actually let a man fuck us until we were married), no restrictions and no supervision. She had enough to do, trying to support us and her sister and her two little urchins. She also had to manage her various boyfriends, who drifted into and out of our lives. So, J, & I (M wasn't interested yet) were free to roam the streets of L.A., day or night, go to movies and pick up boys (and men), bring boys (and men) home, neck with boys (and men) downstairs in the yard, go to boys' (and men's) homes, and any other adventures we encountered. My first "date" was with a Japanese man in his thirties whom I had met in a Folk Dance club. He had taught me to dance the tango, which was crazy sexy, and awakened, ahem, womanly feelings in me. Now I don't know about you, but I'm pretty sure I wouldn't let my 15 year-old daughter go out with a 37 year-old man. But it was AOK with Mom. No curfew, no instructions, feh!

I'm getting irritated. I better finish this tomorrow, after I've had a few glasses of wine.

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.