Speed Networking....naked

I got invited, (or rather, I was summarily informed) that I would be Speed Networking, with a local Chamber of Commerce, along with my fellow business folks at large. I got up early. I mean, early. Dressed H, dropped him at a friend’s, and prepared as well as one can, for an experience I’ve been told is similar to Speed Dating, which if you ask me, sounds decidedly unsafe.

I think, on that front, I’d almost rather drop a card into a prison, letting a bunch of coralled losers know I needed a date. But then, perhaps, that’s only been my experience, and other’s have found speed dating useful, or (gasp, dare I even say it?) fun.

I applied make up. I perked up with four cups of coffee (my co-workers will tell you, that three of them were totally unnecessary, and, that usually I”m limited to only one) and began what would be a very interesting morning, to say the least. I went through my spiel (we’re wealth strategists, educating you on your personal economy…..etc) and, ended with the Required Question: what do we not know about you? I picked, I got a degree in acting, as was in a couple of movies, some broadway gigs, etc.

I did not say, for example, that I was an admin assistant, who, in her off time, manage to get a bunch of women together to sample, try on or out, lingerie and sex toys….she sat next to me. I think, she should have had two chairs, as she was clearly (and, to the horror of my all guy co-workers) about 400 pounds, and, since she abutted my personal space, I figured, seriously, if I complained, she could eat me, so I’ll keep quiet. Not a good plan, as it turns out, since She offered me a job. Apparently, I could really clean up in this business, and think about the client base I already have in place!

Is she for real?!

Hi, I’m a Wealth Strategist, who gets under the covers with your financials, and, er, (ahahahahah) under the bedclothes with you at home! Allow me to supersize your return, and your hubbies penis!!

The conversation, fell totally flat, as the entire table turned to stare first at her, and then, at me - granted, as a (I’ve been told) “total hotty” myself, I suppose I could model lingerie in some strangers livingroom, and maybe, I could tell them, perhaps, how to use one of those battery operated g-spot hitting O machines - but the thing is this: I’ve discovered a few things about myself, and without going too far into the TMI area, let me just say this:

1. I don’t know how to use one of those items. Yes, I own one. It is currently lost, and most likely covered in dust.

2. I don’t want to know how to use one, and I for damn sure don’t want to be educating others on how to do it either.

3. I have a very firm belief that Lingerie is a GIFT, not something I purchase for myself, (okay, fancy expensive bras notwithstanding) and while I’d love love love to have a maids outfit, with the short flirty skirt and tiny little ruffled panties underneath, I am NOT braving a store to buy it myself. I buy tampons. I buy Midol. I do not buy condoms, lingerie, lubricant, or sex toys.

4. I’m horrified, that this woman would look at me, ME! across a table, and say, Well now, there’s a lady who could really inflate my sales of x-rated items! In her own livingroom!

So, I left the table, basically agog, with my teeth on the floor. And then, while I didn’t use her name, I did tell anyone and everyone how shocked I was, that this….Chamber Visitor….used her time today, to try to recruit x-rated sales folks.

I don’t think she’ll be invited back. Or rather, in her case, will she Come Again

Snipped.....or not

Snipped, or not. That IS the question…

I’m an adult. Which comes with all sorts of lovely privelages….I can drink adult beverages, and while I no longer get carded enough to make me feel young, I can still order a fabulous bottle of wine…I can stay out as late as I want, up as late as I want, watch anything and everything on tv that my little heart desires, and, importantly, I can have sex... one might wonder just where this conversation is going…trust me, part of me wonders that as well.

I have this very strong belief, that if you engage in adult activities, one should be able to discuss them. Safety, leaps to mind here. As I’m about to embark on this Big Girl Grown Up Conversation with M, I’ll admit, there are giant condors floating around in my tummy. I’m rather clammy, and shaking…and I shouldn’t be. Afterall, if we’re big enough to do this, we should be big enough to face any consequences. NOT, I should preface this moment with, that there are any….consequences…we need to address, other than that we’re not being Very Adult. We’re playing russian roulette, with 43 year old sperm, and quite frankly, I’m not a huge fan.

It’s not that I don’t want more children; but I’m not sure I do. And, I know that M doesn’t. I totally respect that he knows, exactly, without a shadow of a doubt, that he doesn’t - but then, why should the whole burden of birth control fall exclusively to me? I think HE should bear that particular responsibility. See, he knows he never wants anymore - no matter with whom he is - so really, I’m thinking mostly of him. Also, a bit for me, as I never again want to have the Guess What, We’re Expecting…And We Didn’t Plan It Chat. Since the whole tested positive for a possible blood clot, heart attack blah blah blah, my OB has said a unilateral, resounding NO, to any sort of birth control method on my part: that includes apparently, an hormone based ones, IUDs, and clearly anything made from latex (I’m, ahem, allergic)…..so perhaps, you’d like to know what prompted this Sudden Onset of Adulthood.

I was late. Two weeks late. And, I flipped out. I took the tests. All six of them. (It was two weeks we’re talking about here!) They all came back negative. Not even a little positive…I know, I know, a little bit pregnant? C’mon! But seriously, the box says that even the tiniest of a plus sign means an unequivocal You’re Up The Pole My Friend. Not even the faintest cross. So, on the one hand, I’m totally relieved…on the other, I’m not.

I couldn’t talk to M about it. M! He’s my bestest friend, and, well, I adore him. (really, I’m mostly all the way totally head over heels in love with him, but I”ve not told him yet, so it’ll be our little secret) Really stung. How could I be afaid of talking to M? Sucks. Just thinking about it sucks. I invited him over. He should be here any minute. And then, we can have The Talk.

_________________________________________________________________________two hours later….

I bit the bullet - now, as he’s not into Out Of Left Field Commentary (yes, I too asked him: do you know me?) I asked him to set aside some time to Check In With Each Other. Upon arrival, I dithered with getting water, getting seated, getting sweaty and clammy, calming the condors…and launched. Wasn’t he ever worried? Didn’t it ever cross his mind that we were being so fucking stupid? How can I be the only one that’s ever worried? I love my life. I love my son. I don’t want anymore. I don’t want to have That Scary Talk with him; he’s not even looking at me. The pit in my stomach grew and grew and grew, and pretty soon, I just wanted it to eat me and be done with it.

He announces, in the world’s smallest voice: “Iknew. I knew you were late. I know you’re cycle. But I kept thinking, this couldn’t be happening….it wasn’t possible, you’re not supposed to be able to have any more kids…”

I’ll cut to the chase: Snipping, is IN. Made my case, quite elloquently, once begun; I wanted him to be happy, I like knowing he chooses to be with me, not because he has to; I adore our sex life, in all that in entails, but he’s got to step up to the stirrups, and be responsible.

Now I’m waiting, again, but at least time, not with quite so baited breath.

Oh. Poop.

What is it, exactly that urges nearly every being that walks through my front door, to poop here? Is it the smell? Is there something...bowel moving about this home? I'd say perhaps, it was simply this place, except it's not: there was a good deal of gratuitous pooping going on out in Oakham too.

I swear. People are no sooner in this door - children and pets in particular - when The Urge Strikes.

I don't quite understand. There is nothing special about my guest baths, or powder rooms, if you'd so prefer. Has all the standard equipment. Plays host however, to guests great and small. I've not any special reading material, no magic views. It doesn't always follow coffee either - though that has been known to create a line - so a good part of my wonders just what it is that brings about this phenomenom.

Take today, for example. I'm dogsitting. Chloe. Only I call her Chlo-ee-o-ee-o. She's a slightly spastic, hyperactive totally adorable yellow lab, with a divit in her nose - we think her brother Clyde bit her. I take her this morning, and she's barely out of the car before it happens. Or rather, shit happens.

On my neighbors lawn. The one who hates me.

Oh sure, we chatted this morning, when she came running over to make sure I saw the dog do the little dancing trot, followed by the rapid hopping, from one back foot to another, while she (her words, not mine) voided her bowels. I came running out, aghast, (not that she pooped, clearly) but that she pooped there. I had the requisite baggie. I cleaned up.

Okay, so I'm a tad germophobic, and double bagged. Either way, I picked up the offending....poop.

But she didn't stop at one. Is she marking her territory? Perhaps. But then, when others, and I mean of the human variety, come over why do they, er, void at my place?

Oh, sure. I ascribe to the Never Take Home What You Can Leave Elsewhere Theory. This takes it a bit too far, if you ask me. Apparnetly, it's just my house too. I don't visit my friends and feel the need to bespoil their powder rooms. Even when served terribly strong coffee. I had a visitor this morning? Befouled the bath. Small children show up for playdates, and cannot do anything it seems prior to checking out the Shittablilty of My Toilet. Perhaps, it's the fluffy toilet paper, that just screams, Wipe You Ass With Me! Or the well thumbed reading material that lies in it's basket, next to markers, bits of paper, and some dinosaur figurines. Whatever it is, I'm surprised the paint is still on the wall.

What scares me though, is that while I've always wanted my house to feel warm, inviting, in a I Ate Too Much Dinner, I'll Cozy Up On The Couch and Loosen My Belt, or Slip Off My Shoes At The Door kind of way, I've never ascribed to have everyone, or anyone really, walk into my home and feel an overwhelming desire to poop.

I took it as a huge negative for a while, but I suppose? In the end? (pardon the pun) What it boils down to is a compliment:

Wow. I'm So At Home Here, I Could Just Shit.

And they do.

I live, therefore I am. Or something like that.

My vacuum has shit the bed.

As, has, my washer. I'm unclear as to whether or not I've actually mentioned this, but since I'd totally forgotten (yes, really, I had) that the damn vacuum had shit the bed, I went ahead, pulled it out, and spent the last 20 minutes or so, trying to figure out why it was simply pushing the dirt around, not actively sucking it up. I took off the hose; unattached it from the um, say, working end (I obviously use that term quite loosely) and shoved long items into the hose looking for anything to gum up the works.

Came up empty handed.

Or, mostly. I mean, I found a crumpled up business card, which shocks me, as this wasn't a terribly fabulous vac to start, so I'm amazed it got that up there in the first place. Plus some lint. And cat hair, from the previous owner - how long, by the way, does it take to remove all the flipping cat hair from one measley condo? More than a year apparnetly.

I moved on, to checking out the motor-like-thingie in the front; the power parts that should move the little brushie thing round and round, so it sucks stuff up. Nothing wrong on that end - not like I've any clue what exactly I'm looking for, but I'm addressing this whole issue with the elan that I do everything in life: I'll know the problem when I find it.

I can't find anything.

If I didn't know exactly what this instrument of elctrical bliss was supposed to do (pick up the crap on the floor so I don't have to either sweep, or get down there and lick it up) I'd have some serious questions about the inherent concept. It appears as though it should work. All the pieces seem to be attached.

Lastly, and, in my book, most importantly, it turns on.

Like that famous guy says, It makes noise, Therefore it does suck.

Which explains my theory on most men, but we're not discussing the male population in general. Nor, am I addressing anything specific: M is just fine. He had an attack on the Common Man on Saturday, and took to trying to behave as though his knuckles suddenly met the ground, and he ruled the world. He's thankfully, recovered. Completely. To being Just Lovely All Around.

Now, I'm left with a cheesy vac (my mother bought it, cheapskate) that doesn't do anything it's supposed to, and, the washer. Have I mentioned the washer? Currently, it's taken to leaving large, black tarry marks on all my clothes, particularily the white ones, from Lilly P, and I cannot fathon what Its issue is either. The water goes in. The soap discharges. There are no Icky Marks or Ugly Floaties left in it when it's finished, so these....marks....just randomly appear. Not every wash either - so just when I'm starting to trust it again, WHAM, I get Icky Black Marks.

I'm currently doing the math: if I bought a Dyson, which is the vac I'd want (not really the one I need, but those two concepts never really meet) I'd be dropping about $500. IF I got a cleaning lady, and she had her OWN vac, and she charged me $50 a visit, I could have five months of a twice monthly cleaning lady. However, since she's also doing the dusting, the mopping, the bathrooms and the stairs - windowns and sills! - the vac portion of that bill goes down considerably.

I rest my case.

Vacuums are rather expensive.

Cleaning ladies are a better value.

What I'm saving on the damn vacuum, I can invest in the washer. So I don't have to keep trying to convince M that my underpinnings do not go in the dryer.

If I'd known that a broken vac leads not to dirty floors but to cleaning ladies, I would've ruined it long before now.

Game Face and Nails....in place

You'll be thrilled to hear, I've gotten my nails done.

As I'm headed into surgery tomorrow, I figured, be on the safe side. Get your talons tamed. Just in case I decide that while this guy is sticking sharpish objects down my throat, in a wholly threatening way, I might just grab hold of his boys, as say, some measure of control over the situation.

So I'll be heavily sedated.

I still think, even Mostly Sedated, I could rip off his berries should the moment of unbearable pain arise.

And, well, can we be candid here? I'm starting to think that perfectly groomed nails and tamed cuticles are essential in putting on my Brave Mommy Face, that I've been wearing for Foxy, and to a lesser degree, M. Cause in reality? While I'm sitting here, staring at the documents one must sign before entering into the Surgical Suite (why in hell do they give it a cutie name? there is nothing friendly whatsoever in there) I've firmly entered into my Totally Panicked I Can Keep Bleeding Out, The Ulcers Are Lovely phase. Perhaps, if I just stick, firmly to my No Alcohol, No Spicy - Nothing Fried, Heavy on the Dairy Diet, it'll fix itself. I mean, sure, we've tried that, and it didn't really work, but maybe? If we try it again? This time? It'll be okay?

And I get why M isn't here......he buried his grandad. His daughter is graduating. We didn't know I was going in tomorrow. But dammit, I wish he was here. I need him here. He's become one of my bestest friends, and I'm scared, and I wish he was here to remind me that everything will be okay, he'll be there to drive me home, put me to bed, take care of Foxy, bring me something loaded with ice cream, when I can finally eat something, and turn on crappy girl tv I like, like.......Designing Women, and Clean House, and some other completely mindless nonsense he doesn't even like. He'd play with my hair, and kiss my head, and make me feel a little better, while laughing at my out of control Freshly Fucked Bedhead, glasses, and jammie bottoms.

He called this morning, from out west, very upset that he's not going to be here, said he'd change his flight...but how can I ever even ask him to pass on his daughters big graduation party? Get real! I'd be soooo pissed if my dad did that to me! But, I do appreciate the thought, and the gesture.....

So. Keep your fingers crossed for me, so I don't end up wide open on an operating room table, and they can fix it with the litte scope-y thing instead.

I'd cross my fingers too, but I just had my nails done, and I don't want to smudge the polish.

Can of worms

2:23 PM

I've been babysitting M's house this am, to get the whole Carpenter Ant issue under control, as well as the carpets cleaned prior to his return from out west, where he is both burying his Grandfather, and, seeing his 18 year old daughter graduate from highschool. Talk about the biggest low and high all in the same week! I'm such a good friend, I even offered to book the appointments for him - okay, so not, technically, THAT good a friend, as clearly, it needed to be around my schedule. At any rate, the carpet guys finally showed - wouldn't you know it, the ONE day in say, a good 50 I'm on time for a change, and they're running late! - followed by the Pest Inspector.

Now, I loved this part: the house needed to be inspected, to see what kind of pests they were going to "neutralize".

So....................................my word that there were "really big ants running rampant, big suckers, who could carry off say, small children" wasn't enough? Apparently not. So this old gentlemen arrives at my door, with a blue hat, complete with large dead bug on it's back on top, antanae in the air, to "inspect". I followed closely on his heels, so he didn't get the wrong ideas, and "neutralize" the large screen tv, and furniture I've selected for the house.

He mentioned we had mice. And three different species of carpenter ants. Who burrow into wood blah blah blah, 250 dollars, blah blah blah...sign here. We should cut down trees, blah blah blah, another grand, blah blah blah.

I made it clear that in fact, I, do not have mice. Nor am I sigining up M for any tree removal, when he isn't here to give approval. He grunted. Said something wholly indecent about my gender as a whole.

I don't think I like him much.

Plus also? I get it that I"ve not showered and therefore changed into something slightly more respectable today. I get that. But somehow, I doubt that the conversation about the species, genus and classification of said ants needs be addressed to my girls. They really don't give a shit about ants. So what if I might have been spilling out of the tank top in the teensiest way, it STILL is not an invitation to OPENLY stare. Do what most people do, wait til my attention is elsewhere, and then stare.

The carpet guy, you might ask, was he any better?

Well, I would reply, yes, and no.

It turns out that everywhere I go recently (could be, as I've finally stopped hiding under my rocks) I run into folks that knew B. First, it was the big fat ugly woman who announced in front of a bunch of other women that she slept with B before and after we were married. I'd say, that makes her not only big, fat and ugly, but stupid, classless and a whore. But no one asked me. This morning, I run into a guy who played ball with B, recalls when we got married, and asks how he is; he couldn't believe that I slept around like B said. I responded, for the first time ever, that I left B for safety reasons - and I shit you not, he says to me: that finally caught up with him, huh? I had no compunction whatsoever mentioning, ever so casually, that he was being committed. To the Funny Farm.

Oh. Yes. And this carpet cleaner also knew M's ex, P. Small world. He made some noises about his friend Mark? Did I know him? He moved up to NH, hasn't seen the guy since....I said I'm sure not, as he's currently with P. Talk about a morning of worm cans opening. He too stared at my girls, but in a less threateningly open kind of way, so I let it pass by.

Now, I'm sitting here, laundering Fox's tee-ball uniform for the six millionth time, wondering if it's worth it to shower, put these clothes back on, just to go swelter in tripple digits, while fighting over the smallest patch of shade to be found at the ball field. I'm thinking, I may just as well go with my Lucille Ball curly hair all up in clippies, my wee little tank and shorty skirt. Who knows. Maybe I'll yet again run into someone from B's past, and they'll at least tell him, should anyone find him, speak to him, or send smoke signals out, that his ex is doing great. Looking hot.

At the very least?

I'm sure they'll mention I've still got my own girls.

Icky Tummy does not = pink lines

May. 16th, 2008 at 8:32 PM

My Mother's convinced, absolutely convinced, that I'm pregnant.

I think she's simply being repugnant, but as she didn't ask me, I wisely decided to keep mum. Pardon the pun.

For the record, I am NOT pregnant. Not even a little bit. Not even late. Or kinda bitchy. Nada.

Save for the continuous vomiting, the unbearable stomach pain and nausea, did I mention the low iron? The lack of full size platelets? Perhaps, I may just have mentioned my holy shit depleted blood count? Okay, so fine. The bloating isn't doing anything for me esthetically, but then, let's be honest, does it ever do anything postivie for anyone?

It STILL doens't mean I"m expecting.

Plus also? I've done the pregnant thing. I think I know what it feels and looks like. I've news for you: just because the Holy Very Unfair Tummy Fairy has visited, let me assure you, the Titty Fairy has been strangely absent. Sure, they're still kinda saggy, and overbearingly not perky; but they're not changed in the .... you know....kind of way.

I go back to the doctor, on the first of many trips, only to find that yes, I am indeed expecting. Only it's not a stork that visiting; it's the Poker Gods having a great old laugh on my behalf, delivering me a Peptic Ulcer. Or, for those of us to whom that means very little, other than it sound spicy, a bleeding ulcer. Now, originally, as my doctor, whom I adore, FYI, is from ENGLAND, I had thought he meant fucking. You know, like bloody hell, and whatnot.

Only..........he didn't mean that. He meant, literally, bleeding ulcer.

In case you were curious? This does NOT coincide with say, a pregnancy. Just, ultimately, a horrendous diet, a supposed lowering of indigineous stresslike conditions, and perhaps, if I can handle it, a strict avoidance of anything alcoholic, spicy, seasoned, peppered, stressful, dangerous, or upsetting. So does that mean I can avoid Mommy Dearest for a while?

Did I mention, the immenent career change? Or perhaps, the fact that my crazy, over the top I should write a book about it nuts ex husband has decided (because his mother told him so, a direct quote, I shit you not) that he and I were meant for each other as I was the only one of his three important relationships that ever took good care of him, so we should get back together? And he should move in with me? Oh, right, and then? Because we're back together? He wouldn't have to pay child support.

My comment that he wasn't currently living with me, and I still wasn't getting any child support fell on deaf ears.

My statement that we would NEVER, as in over my dead body, get back together also seems to have fallen on deaf ears.

Shocker.

He always did, and does, have a knack of only hearing what he wants to hear, and deciding that he's always fucking right....oh wow. Does anyone else notice a comparison with my ex, and say, Mommy Dearest?

Me too.

Thus, I'm closing the chapter (and verse) on the both of them. At least for tonight. And maybe, tomorrow.

Because, hello, I'm supposed to be resting, taking it easy, and not being stressed out.

So me, my silent phone, my comtemplative thoughts of where my life is going, along with my tumbler of Thinking Milk (as clearly, a Thinking Scotch is so off the menu) are going in to bed. To think. Or whatever else most people do at this time of night, when they're not working, cleaning, or taking care of small unruly children.

I'm sooooo going to Hell

While I may, indeed, earn myself a one way ticket straight to the hottest level of Hell, I'm forging ahead with this train of thought, because, as all good people know, when Revenge Arrives, it's best served cold. Ice cold.

A little backstory (ahhhh, foreshadowing...) : it's H's first tee-ball game today, and while I've navigated the shark infested waters of which parent was buying what, and how the glove already purchased was Not Good Enough For My Son, as well as adding cleats, and a whole host of other, uneccessary items, I arrive amid shouts of glee at the upcoming parade to lead us all over to the park. A glorious day to be a little boy! The flags held high, the wind, with a bit of a bite, whipping an already over-sugared crowd into a high froth, all 300 little leaguers paraded with at least one parent down the street, up the hill, into the ball fields.

B makes several completely inappropriate comments, revolving around H not needing to play T-ball, I should have gotten him to bend the rules....who's kid is the mongoloid? (I was surprised that a, he knew that word, b, could use it correctly in a sentence, and c, would have the balls to say that) That child?,......He would belong to our coach. He's a joy, by the way. Both coach and child. Ex-husband? Not so much.

Day goes from bad to worse...and then, to better....see, I find out from B's mother, that he's going in for back surgery. Hmmm. Suspicious, but would explain that rather sudden beer gut he's sporting, as well as the shuffling gate of the seriously injured...I had thought that would be for pity - I'm partially right. I suppose it's possible he's actually IN pain, and not just a pain in my ass. Either way, he goes in on Wednesday. (mark your calendars.....this would be the day to pull out those overweight voodoo dolls and gear up, light some black candles, and wonder if he'd really come back as something he should have been in this life: like a toad).

His mother, actually has the balls to tell me that Claire, his unlovely intended, cannot take him (did I mention, she has long hair, or, rather, a mane, as I call it, to go with her long horsey face, big teeth, and bosc pair body? no? well. she does. little on top, GINORMOUS on the bottom) and so she wondered, my Ex Monster In Law, if I could see my way to driving to the cape, and taking him.

IS SHE ON CRACK??????

Part of me wanted to say yes, only if he makes me his health care proxy, and I have the chance to pull the plug while he's under.

I'm supposed to fell sorry for him. Let me see if I can find my Tragically Upset Face..................................nope. I'm fresh out.

Good news is, even if he doesn't die (and damn, wouldn't that be great???? yes...this would be the Going To Hell Part) there is a serious chance he'll never recover enough function to...er.....get it up.

As he's not paying me, or his first ex, I KNOW he's not bringing in anything to assist in the Equine's home....so the only thing worth it to her to keep him around is that - and let me just say, he's not THAT good in bed.

I'm dying laughing!!!!!

And, hoping. I know. I know! So bad of me. But honestly, anyone who really knew what went on wouldn't hold it against me.

So....if you love me, gear up on Wednesday. Start wearing Mourning Black. Light some Knock Him Off candles.

If nothing else? Pray it'll be a hold up instead of a stick up, from now on.

There has to be some justice in this world. And he, in my opinion, sealed his fate by picking on the kid with down's this afternoon.

Oh No You Didn't

Apr. 5th, 2007 at 7:11 PM

Dear Mother Of That Bastard That Attacked My Kid,

After being summoned to the office today, to collect my sobbing (but unhurt, thank your lucky stars) child, I thought it best that you and I hash this out as rational, competent adults, who are both on a journey of slef-discovery while raising our boys.

Oh no you fucking did NOT try to tell me that MY child instigating the event on the playground - I don't care who is going to the hospital, my child, and get your overdone, fake, spikey green nails out of my face when you address me - my child did not, under any circumstances cause the removal of your child from this program permanately.

First, allow me to point on the numerous occassions you've been called in here, from your work as a total hack job at a salon, to pick up your child, Shit Kicker, from the elephants room. Now, I make the point about the room, as you clearly can see, my child, is in the GIRAFFE room you twit. Or twat, you choose.

Secondly, let me also point out, that my child was defending another child who is considerably smaller than your heathanistic, ill-mannered bastard of an alcoholic from being attacked by him. AGAIN. It is not my faut that in the course of his karate training, he's gained a far greater measure of control, intensity, and aim than your child could even hope to acheive. Thus, while I am sorry, to a certain extent that Watts (his real name? c'mon, really?) is going to the ER, to get his possibly bruised kidney checked out, I have to say, that may be the safest spot for him, as I'm ready to kick his fat, ugly little ass around the playground myself, and mine wasn't even the other child injured here.

Thirdly, and let me make this point as clear as possible, as I fear I've used words that are way too big for you to understand, you're not wanted here. Your smelly, obnoxious, tiring, foul-mouthed, bad-habited child deserves to wallow away in whatever backwoods, toothless county ya'all come from - he is not one to benefit from an excellent education, so spare teh rest of us his attitude, behavoir, and very presence.

Lastly, if you EVER, and I mean ever poke me again with those rat-trap nails of yours, I will bed you over my arm, dislocate your elbow in the process and knock out your last few remaining front teeth.

Have I made myself clear?

I have gotten fat.

Disgustingly I Cannot Believe Michael Still Wants To Have Sex With Me Fat.

Not, mind, that it stops ME from wanting to get laid - hardly! I'd say that whole influx of chocolatey goodness mixed in with whatever I have laying around in my makeshift bar puts me right in the mood. And NO, it's not as if he's turned me down, or passed on anything nakedee, it's simply that I am no longer okay watching my oversize spare tire jiggle while I'm on top.

Nor, really, how much the girls just sort of lay there, when I'm on the bottom.

Bottom? Did I say bottom? I have enough for four people these days.

I'd say it's all the damn driving; or maybe, the lack of constructive exercise, the trips through the drive thru that constitute dinner - only seriously? I kid you not....I've been working out, dammit! I eat seafood for dinner, with a side of someone's vegitable garden. I'm overloaded on Holy Fucking Healthiness, along with a kickass workout routine, only I'm finding the spare tire inflating, not deflating.

Therein, my friends, lies the rub. What in the fuck is the point of working out til one is so sweaty being showered with a garden hose would be drier, if one cannot see a difference? I'm not looking for a MAJOR difference right away...but I would like my pants sides to come within yelling distance of each other, or perhaps, be able to locate a hipbone without an xray.

Is it asking too much? Sure, I've turned ..... more than 30. A damn sight less than 40....but when they said my cup runneth over with joy, I don't think they meant the ones attached to the lining of my bra. I'd be psyched to buy new clothes...if the sizes were getting SMALLER. Or perhaps, that I didn't look like an overtall Umpa Loompa.

This whole rant however, has left me rather weak and peckish - and while there are indeed, plenty of green leafy things in the fridge, I think, perhaps, this one time, I"m going to go attack something more substantial.

Like the inside of my kid's easter basket

I ran into this guy last night - nope, not anyone I know - while out with a gf for her bday. Now, we’ll skip right over the bare facts that her birthday was in September, and, thus I might be closer to celebrating the upcoming one than the one previously passed, or, that I was late, due to unruly and stubborn client - and jump right to my point.

I got hit on.

Which is flattering, to say the least, and while I sat there, in amused contemplation of events, letting his glib chatter roll over me in dulcet tones, I couldn’t help but realize that in this tenuous beginning stages of relationships, there really IS no way to catagorize what I have with M. Oh, sure, I love him. I firmly believe he loves me. We’re just not open and chatty about it - we’re both still shell shocked from previous relationships, and while the walls aren’t there between us, the words are awaiting that perfect I don’t ever want to retract them moment. You know the one - when realization strikes a chord between ever-lasting total permanace sort of feelings, and the possibly fleeting ones while still in the stages of Early Days.

So this guy, who is rather …. aggressive…. in his drink posturing and offering, quite nosy in his quest to uncover seemingly interesting facets of my life, gets a little put out when I tell him (for the third time) I’m not available. I’m quite enjoying his conversation, but I feel no need, or, alas, desire to continue it beyond the boundries of the bar in which we sit, each awaiting a table with our respective companions. And no, I would not care to join his table, dragging my gf with me - she’s not playing wingman tonight; we’re here to take on far cagier issues, like her crumbling marriage. Neither of these events furthers my thoughts about where M and I are headed; in fact, my fears about being able to pick someone resurface, casual bubbles to the surface of a glass smooth lake, all nebulous, here and then popped, without a firm grip.

Why is it assumed that unless one is sure they are on a road of love paved with platinum and gems, double rings and property, they are totally available to others? I feel to a certain degree, as though society has taken a huge downturn in it’s morals as a whole; where is the respect for that sense of Belonging Together - not to each other, but WITH each other?

Marie and I pondered her life, her marriage, or dwindling lack thereof; we spoke of respect and sex, desire for intimacy of the emotionally physical kind, not just the sheer relief of a pheremone release, how disrespect in general makes the road to relationships rocky indeed. We touched on our kids, and their attitudes, our love for them that never wanes, but how our patience is tested, whether we each would have another, should the opportunity be afforded us - she specifically asked about, as with four kids between us, would he want another? Do I?

I suppose, it was then, that the realization hit me - I’d rather be with the right guy, who lets me be Just Me, and that’s more than enough, but who may or may not want children, then be with someone for whom I’m settling, as his sperm is seeking an egg.

Maybe, that’s the hallmark of a good choice - when being with them supercedes where you go, what you do, what you may have thought possibly someday maybe, you wanted.

I’m not saying M is The One. Far too early to tell.

But I am saying, that even when temptation is thrust upon me, I still prefer his company, to that of anyone else.

Maybe, that’s all that matters.

Little Bo Peep is Losing Her Sheep!

I admit it : my political concerns have taken a backseat to a rising, quite pressing issue, that quite frankly, deserves far more national coverage than it is currently getting.

The particular breed of goats that produce (grow?!) cashmere are perishing, by the hundreds, due to unexpectedly heavy winter weather, blanketing their feeding pastures. 600 of them have already died, and thousands more will undoubtedly starve. Honestly! Here we are, worried about whether or not a black president faces a greater liklihood of assasignation from terrorists, when the worlds most limited source of luxury wool is dying! Perhaps, those non-cashmere wearing CA dwelling folk, whose coats surface in mere 50 degree temps might find this less worrisome: take if from me. From the frozen tundra of the Northeast. This is a great tragedy. A tragedy of monumental proportions.

We need to call in the Red Cross. The United Nations. A famous shepard. Something.

We, the greatest nation on Earth, (though doesn’t EVERY nation think they’re the greatest? I really don’t see, say, Germany running around saying we’re the freaking greatest nation on Earth, but I digress) need to step in here. Afterall, we’ll stick our Better Than Thou nose in just about any other crisis around the world with very little if any invitation, yet we’re just standing by, allowing all these lovely, soft, beautiful Sweaters To Be simply perish. Why is it that Brangalina can take on some small unpronouncable country and provide shelter, food, a sustainable economy source - yes, she is teaching them to grow sunflowers, and sell off the seeds - yet she refuses to step up to the plate and bring those goats to warmer, grass lined pastures - which is shocking because I KNOW that she wears cashmere.

The death and destruction of the worlds largest source of cashmere does, indeed, if one puts ones mind to it, have a political connection. Afterall, if the goats die, and sweaters become limited - coats as well, gloves, boot linings, scarves - then disease will spread through the now fully chilled population, causing higher incidence of influenza, a run on flu shots, resulting in a skyrocketing demand for hospitalized medical care, and, (see my point here?) dismantling the platform on which our Hopeful President’s To Be are currently parading.

Oh, fine. So maybe it’s the harsh winter weather freezing what’s left of my brain cells, leaving me locking into a conspiracy theory of my own making - but mark my words. Less cashmere = End of the World.

You know, with so many people up in arms over cloning beef cattle, perhaps, we should confine ourselves to cloning beings we’ve successfully cloned before, and, those that could powerfully, politically impact our world.

We should clone cashmere goats.

I’ll have the first ever head of cloned goats - Cardigan, and Pullover, who will in turn breed , Crew Neck, and his gay brother, Argyle. I will be elected the first woman president, who not only ended our national debate on reforming health care, but, be voted the best dressed president we’ve ever had.

And I’ll do it all, with my prize winning cloned cashmere goats

There are those moments, so spontaneously intriquing, mind-blowingly perfect, when someone steals your heart and breaks it at the same time, without even knowing it.

I’d given up on Valentine’s Day…there’s just sooo much pressure to perform, on both sides, that really, it can take the joy out of the best things, and suck them instead in the nether realm of Just Not Enough, It’s Valentine’s Day Dammit. I, personally, would like to skip that part. So I did. I sent valentine’s to Hunter and his classmates; I got a cutie non-threatening totally adorable one for M, left it in his mailbox. And….my work here was done.

H and I decided to whip up heart shaped mini-meatloaves for dinner (who doesn’t love a cutie shaped meatloaf I ask you!) with some veggies, a little fresh from the oven french bread….when I get the call, while perusing the meat display at the store. Did I get the email Valentine M sent? Why yes, but as it was so emotionally touching, I didn’t know quite how to respond, so I didn’t. He claims he understood; did H and I want to do dinner at his house, with a bottle of red, and maybe a snotty cocktail, build a fire, just hang for a bit? H jumped at the chance (he just adores hanging with M, and really, me too) so I gave in, grabbed some Dutch baking tins, and headed over. Sliced a little cheese, paraded around in my too big for me jeans, red shirt (in honor of the day, my only concession) and skipped the swirling notions of M having flowers, or something for me. Afterall, we’re just going really slowly, with no pressure. I’m good with that.

Mixing meatloaf, being the only portion of prep that I detest, had me hands deep in meatloafy stuff, when M asked me wine or cocktail? Told him I didn’t care; I was tired, a little pms-y, just surprise me. So he did.

He handed me a cut crystal rocks tumbler……with a Bulova, baby diamond studded watch in it. Irridescent dial face, that turns ever so slightly baby pink. He even had it sized, before bringing it home. So now, I’m not only speechless once, but twice. I cried. Nearly dropped the glass, thankfully not, as it was his grandmother’s, and I’ve no doubt she would rise from the grave to kill me!

The watch is so … me…. but it’s solid, and reliable…so like M.

Funny thing is, we spent the entire evening, H included, hanging out and laughing…I went to gather up our stuff and go home, H curled up in Conor’s bed upstairs, and insisted that he was spending the night. Bless his heart. He was “waaaaaayyyy toooooooo tired” to get in the car, and he likes it at M’s, the cat snugged in with him, so we stayed. Told M, as we crawled into bed after watching concerts on tv, sipping a bottle of wine, just chatting and laughing, that this was the best valentine’s day I think I”ve ever had - and no, it had nothing to do with the watch. I had a really great time, hanging out, with two guys, watching concerts, singing along, in front of a fire.

We may not know where we’re going, but well, we’re sure having a good time along the way.

Boxer briefs, come to mama

While tanning in a tanning salon isn’t really high on my list of priorities, I have indeed, as in yesterday, indulged in this particular past-time for two reasons: one, I’m leaving for that Mexican cruise next week, and, two, we all know that tanned fat looks way better than white, horrendously still doughy winter fat. While there, however, it occured to me, while stripping down, waiting for the lights to miraculously turn on, that I wasn’t at all clear what suit I intend to don, so, well, I totally nuded up.

News Flash: Laying baby white skin on a tanning bed will, indeed, result in burns to your nether regions. Not bad ones, mind, just mildly uncomfrotable - tolerable, say, if you’ve a job where you can stand the majority of the time. I however, have no such job. Mine involves long hours spent driving from one far off locale to another - so, when stepping into those totally cutie lace panties this am, I discovered, to my horror, that they were going to KILL me while I wore them. All. Day. Long.

Time runneth short ,as it tends to do in the morning in my house, especially on the ones where I need to make sure Fox has all his things for Fuckhead’s, so in my haste, I grabbed the softest looking panties I own.

But.

They were not panties.

At least, not MY panties.

Without realizing what I was doing, I slipping into a pair of M’s boxer briefs - smoothy cotton, tagless, and, low enough that it didn’t abrade my already chaffed ass! What comfort! What…dare I say it? Bliss! Oh sure, we women have accpeted the “boy shorts” which frankly, make my thighs look bigger than they are, and I don’t need any help, thank you very much. Plus. Those tend to ride up a bit. I don’t really care for that. M’s boxer briefs? Have remained exactly where they should, they’re soft, smooth, unbinding and unchafing, plus, I’m not getting my ass flossed by bits of lace or rayon.

I have seen the future ladies.

It’s the new Lissa Designed Boxer Brief for Women.

So there are some flaws….thery’re strangely roomy in the front; clearly, I’ll need to redesign that part. And, I’ll need far better patterns and colors; but other than that? They are perfect!!

Go on. Laugh it up.

That’s okay.

When I’m rolling in my boxer-brief millions, I’ll have proven you all wrong.

No, she’s not a freak. She’s a millionaire. With really comfy undies.

Beings in my head....

I used to think that wet socks were the absolute worst. I abhor wet socks. Even if there is no way around them - stepping out of boots or shoes, hopping on one foot to lose the other, and WHAM. Wet socks. Stepping in dog pee is cleary worse than the aforementioned senario - however, as I’ve no more giant lakes to worry about, I’ve moved complacently back, to simply worrying about melting piles of snow, or, mostly hidden puddles left from H getting a drink of water. All. By. Himself.

However.

I have come to learn new things about myself - nothing, surely NOTHING throws my atititude to the wolves quite like finding lengths of errant fucking fishing line, coiled and curled, nearly invisible, either entangling my ankles and wrists as I attempt to empty a box still filled from moving, lurking in the sofa…..for no reason that I can discern, there are lengths, unattended, mind, of Fucking Fishing Line. Could it be, in it’s simplest form, that it drives me over the edge as it’s a reminder of a man who still haunts me? Or, it is irritating in its own right? Perhaps, both.

Counting down from 120 since December 5th, 2007, I have to admit: as bad as it gets, (and it’s gotten BAD) everyday is STILL one more day further from B. From the hold he’ll have on the rest of my life. Oh, sure. I’ll really need to count down 18 years before I can truely be free of him, and his array of neverending foul smelling shit; but I’d say, 120 days is a damn good start.

Which is why, it drives me so nutty to come across more fishing line - he thought, apparently, at one point, that an object, insideously harmless appearing, was an excellent toy. He gave an entire spool of it to H, to play with. Play with. If you can imagine. And ever since, I find bits and lengths of it, everywhere. In the washer. Among the canned goods. I know, rationally? It’s just bits of string. Annoying, plasticy string, but really, just string. Perfectly acceptable trash.

And yet.

It drives me. Stark. Staring. Mad.

My ears ignite, my hair stands on end, my mouth goes dry, small children and dogs run for cover. Lights dim, and the great, mostly hidden Inner-Broadzilla makes a surprise appearance.

Thankfully, I’ve talked H into taking it up to the trash, leaving Mommy to polish her nails, sharpen every one of her 487 teeth, and get her tail preened, prior to tucking Broadzilla away for the afternoon.

If you’re wondering, and you just might be, what gets me madder than a hornet, now you know.

Fishing line. And. Wet socks.