Thursday, May 21, 2009

Hurts SO good

Jerry knew what was happening, but out of respect, spent most of the time out on the deck. Josh was told to “not interrupt Mom. Ask Dad if you need something.”

I went into the front room, turned on the small lamp and pulled the curtains closed. I was wearing black shorts and a peach tank top.

He began slowly, with purpose. He proceeded to work me into a frenzy. I used every "accessory" available for this. It felt good - real good.

He'd speak to me, giving me direction, "you're not opening up" or "Nice!" at all the right moments, coaching me, guiding me. He made me work for my treats.

He knew every movement I made. He told me if I wasn't doing it right. He encouraged me with his words and often took time to demonstrate the exact movements I needed to do it perfectly and reap the maximum rewards for my efforts.

He was the finest teacher, patient and encouraging, "We won't move on until you're completely comfortable with the movements."

Once I got into a rhythm, the compliments flowed from his lips:

“Yeah, you’re really working it, girl!”

“You’re in total control."

“With moves like that, I can tell you mean business.”

“THAT was a powerful stroke!”

“Oh yeah, you’re owning it.”

“Finish strong!”

“Keep up that pace – it’s perfect!”


He really got me all worked up. I often felt a bit flushed, and found myself responding to his words with phrases of my own such as:

“Yeah, you like that?”

“How do you like this move?”

"Watch this."

"I'll show YOU determined."

“I’ve got your stroking right here.”

"Here's my 'big finish', tough guy"

Yes, what began as a calm partnership, turned into a primal exercise in showmanship with a strong desire to do more, achieve more, and reach the pinnacle at the proper time

In the end, I was completely satisfied. I was totally hot, a bit sweaty and panting. My thighs were aching. So were my breasts. Next time, I’ll leave my bra on. Too much swaying
and bouncing around hurts even the smallest boobs.

I think next time, I will try having a female partner. It will be interesting to see if she can get me as hot as the man did.

Have I mentioned that I got the new EA Sports Active for my Wii two days ago? I haven't even been to the customized work outs. I've completed day 2 of the "30-day Challenge" and my thighs are already tingling with soreness, indicating I've really worked them hard (like I do with my man).

I am actually looking forward to see what Day 3 holds this evening, if my thighs will allow me to.

One of thesedays, I’m going to be able to crush walnuts with my thighs, bounce quarters off of my ass and actually put on a bikini without cringing. Just you wait and see.

Monday, May 11, 2009

Mother's Day, 2009

It started like every other day. At the crack of dawn, with the birds singing, and a little hint of light pushing its way through the blinds. The bedroom door creaks open, ever so slowly. The wiener stirs a bit, emits a low growl. A quick thump on the bed with the heel of my foot stops her instantly. And that is where the normalcy ends.

In a flash, the door slams shut, as I feel 47 pounds of pure boy-child bounding onto the bed, yanking the covers to get under. He snuggles up next to me, sharing my pillow and in his not-as-of-yet-volume-regulated-loud-ass voice says to me, “It’s time for your Mother’s Day snuggles!”

We get up together, Daddy still asleep on the couch having once again fallen asleep there (and no, I don’t make him sleep there. We just don’t always keep the same hours and he tends to nod off into a deep sleep while watching some incredibly boring show such as, “How to build a bridge out of tinker toys that will withstand a herd of Clydesdales.” So fascinating that within moments, everything (dogs included) that is within earshot of the show is enjoying a deep, deep slumber.

But I digress…

We go on about our normal morning with Josh stopping to give me “Mother’s Day hugs” along the way. After Jerry gets up, Josh proudly presents me with a new flag/banner pole set, complete with an American flag. How did he know it was exactly what I wanted? I truly am a lucky mom.

After more MD hugs and kisses, we were off! Over the river and through the woods. You got it, to grandmother’s house we went!

While there, we planted the flowers we bought her. Some of them along her walkway and others in a pretty cement “basket” that made it to West Point from Paris. Paris, TN that is.

The rest of the day, I spent with Josh and my niece Briar, playing on the swings, the trampoline, eating grape popsicles, and getting deer ticks. What fun!

Josh, as usual, stole the day with one statement. One statement alone will live in infamy. It will always set this Mother’s Day apart from every other one.

He was sitting on the swing, trying in vain to make it go. He looked up at the adults sitting at the picnic table and uttered the following statement:

Are you ready for it?

Are you sitting?

Are you in a place where if you burst out laughing, no one will care?

OK then, in the infamous words of Charlie (inside joke with Meagan) HERE IT COMES!

“Can somebody get me high?”

Hope your weekend was marvelous. Here are snippets of mine.


Tuesday, May 5, 2009

Life with Sicko

Friday, Josh and I stayed home because he had a high fever and, “it hurts to swallow, mom.”

After a little give and take between the Tylenol and fever, I finally packed Josh up and took him in to the doctor. The entire ride there, he was beside himself with worry. “Will they stick that thing in my throat that makes me choke? I don’t want to go to the doctor. They’ll choke me and give me shots.”


We got in there and the doctor looks in his throat, then in his ears. He lifted up his shirt and looked at his tummy and said, “I don’t have to swab. It’s definitely strep and scarlet fever.”

Scarlet fever? WTF? Is this the 1920’s? Wasn’t that all the rage back then? I don’t know. I had no idea what scarlet fever was. Didn’t people die from that? Or go blind? Grow hair on their palms?

“Some seasons, for reasons unaccountable, scarlet fever appears in a malignant
form. Such an epidemic occurred in the winter of 1879 in the little village of
Harrison, Ohio, nearly every case resulting fatally, and this was my first
introduction to scarlet fever. So intense was it, and so fatal in its results,
that I have ever had a dread of this disease, and when scarlet fever appears,
there rises before me a picture of that epidemic of 1879.”


The doctor must have read my face, and said, “It’s just a rash that accompanies strep throat sometimes.” *whew*

Later, when I called my mom to fill her in, she wasn’t aware of scarlet fever even still being around, or anything about it.

“How do they treat scarlet fever?” she asked.

“Oh, it’s pretty easy. We just have to watch ‘Gone With the Wind’ over and over until Josh is no longer attracted to Vivien Leigh.”

Seriously though, he gave Josh an Rx for Augmentin.

Ever since, Josh has been off of the hook. Running, talking, not listening, throwing things, breaking toys, defiant – a monster. When you ask him what’s going on, the boy starts to cry. We’re talking real tears, not the big fake crocodile tears that come out of one eye at a time. No, these are a steady stream of genuine confusion.

I called the pharmacy last night, and they said that agitation, hyper motor activity and mood swings can be side effects of Augmentin in children.

I called the doctor this morning and told him to take my kid off of it and call in something else. Back to Omnicef, which we’ve had 85,000 times with each ear infection, so I know he tolerates it well.

I think I may have preferred swine flu.

Thursday, April 30, 2009

I miss this

It dawned on me that I haven't shared any of my poetry on here for a long time.

I will do so today. This goes W-A-Y back to when Jenny O'Rourke and I used to spend our days holed up at each other's houses talking about whatever our pre-teen minds could grasp right at that exact moment.

When we weren't running through the farmer's field, getting humped by greyhound dogs or running to catch the bus and crashing through the ice on the mini-pond, effectively missing th bus, we were together. We said and did things that normal pre-teen kids do. Well, mostly pre-teen boys.

We were total tom-boys, neither of us at home in a dress or comfortable with makeup. Give us a tree, a lake or a farmer's field, and we were good to go.

One day, as we sat in the PIG fort (an old knotted tree in the farmer's field), it was discovered that the cows must've been in that field over night. How did we discover this? Why, the giant clumps of cow shit that had amassed on the bottom of my shoe.

"I hate that shit!" Jenny said. And in a moment, we were both giggly because while she said "that shit", she simply meant when stuff like that happens, not the shit, per se.

Later that night, I wrote a poem, inspired by our time that afternoon. And I share it with you now.


We all hate poop on our shoe
I hate poop, I'm sure you do!

It comes out your butthole, soft and wet
The more you eat, the harder it will get

Constipation, what a bitch!
Makes your crotch and asshole itch!

Diarrhea! Not again!
It drips in your toilet, like ink from a pen.

Whether it's runny or whether it's dry
You don't want to get poop in your eye.


I shared that poem with Jenny the next day and we laughed something fierce. Like two boys having discovered their first porno magazine, we memorized that sucker and said it in unison every time one of us needed a smile.

Our favorite line was the constipation one. We'd say it with such point and purpose.

I miss being a kid. I miss Jenny. I miss it all. I never thought I would.

"You're Gonna Miss This"

She was staring out that window, of that SUV
Complaining, saying, "I can't wait to turn 18"
She said, "I'll make my own money, and I'll make my own rules."
Mamma put the car in park out there in front of the school
Then she kissed her head and said, "I was just like you."

You're gonna miss this
You're gonna want this back
You're gonna wish these days hadn't gone by so fast
These Are Some Good Times
So take a good look around
You may not know it now
But you're gonna miss this

Before she knows it she's a brand new bride
In a one-bedroom apartment, and her daddy stops by
He tells her, "it's a nice place"
She says, "It'll do for now"
Starts talking about babies and buying a house

Daddy shakes his head and says, "Baby, just slow down

You're gonna miss this
You're gonna want this back
You're gonna wish these days hadn't gone by so fast
These Are Some Good Times
So take a good look around
You may not know it now
But you're gonna miss this

Five years later there's a plumber workin' on the water heater
Dog's barkin', phone's ringin'
One kid's cryin', one kid's screamin'
She keeps apologizin'
He says They don't bother me.
I've got 2 babies of my own.
One's 36, one's 23.
Huh, it's hard to believe, but ...

You're gonna miss this
You're gonna want this back
You're gonna wish these days hadn't gone by so fast
These Are Some Good Times
So take a good look around
You may not know it now
But you're gonna miss this

Tuesday, April 28, 2009

Analyzing my dreams

I had a dream last night that I was pregnant.

The dream wasn’t about the pregnancy though, it was about my baby shower. For some reason, I was planning my own shower.

The sticking point seemed to be the mariachi band. I didn’t want them to come hatless. If there was going to be a mariachi band, “they are going to wear the god damn giant sombreros! The little dangly balls would be a nice touch.”

Having finally found a band that would do as I suggested, (wear the hats and play every time I opened a gift), I moved on to the next item on my “must have for the shower” list – the cake! The only thing I kept stressing to the cake maker is that “there must be two babies on it, each in the diaper, with the bonnet and over-sized accessories, like you see on tv.”

Then I flashed to me being on the phone. I don’t know who I was talking to, but I was very adamant (as opposed to Adam Ant) that there were to be “a flock of storks” and that they had “better be real and not shit all over everything.”

The next few flashes in my dream were just me on the phone. I don't know what I was doing or who I was talking to. I was just yelling. A lot.

Then suddenly, I was at my shower. I was as big as a house, the mariachi band was doing a splendid job and the caterer was about to deliver the cake.

The caterer came in, dressed like Captain Hook. He was accompanied by a bunch of storks. Real ones. There was no stork shit in sight. Captain Hook was carrying my cake. He set it on the table.

On the left was a baby, in the big diaper & bonnet as requested, but instead of a pacifier, it had a cigar in his mouth and the face of Fidel Castro. The other baby was the same, except it was the face of Saddam Hussein. Both were sitting on nuclear warheads, with one hand in the air, as if they were riding bucking broncos.

Everyone was silent.






“It’s perfect!” I declared. My guests all applauded. The mariachi band played. And we danced.

And just like that, Jerry’s snoring woke me up. Do you think shoving cotton balls in a sleeping person's nose is mean?

What do you make of that dream?

Monday, April 27, 2009

Just funny stuff I found...

...when I followed a link from my husband.

And because it's too small in that slide show, my favorite would be the Dieting with Jesus magnet set:

If you can't read the small print, it says:

Dieting with Jesus Because that ass needs a miracle!

Under the pictures:
"Your body is a temple. Fill it with salad."
"Work those buns anywhere"
"Fat jeans or skinny jeans? You decide."
"Omega-3 fatty acids are a blessing for that tummy."

"The Lord is our shepherd and he's thinning out the flock"

GO HERE to view them all in more detail. There were so many things I'm in love with, I just had to share my favorites with you! Share yours with me, won't you?

Thursday, April 23, 2009

Dr. So-and-so

I have a new doctor. We’ll call him Dr. Jones. (not his real name)

I first went to see Dr. Jones on Monday. You see, I hadn’t been going to my regular doctor because it was too inconvenient for me to drive 25 minutes into the middle of nowhere. I knew that with being on my blood thinner I had to go in every month, but it was too much of a pain in the ass. So I skipped it in November. And December. And January. February and March too. UGH.

At this point, I was too embarrassed to go back to my regular doctor and I really didn’t want a lecture. Instead, I made an appointment with Dr. Smith. I mean Dr. Jones.

We talked about the obvious new patient information first. Eating habits. Sleeping habits. What other meds am I on? Who is my neurologist? Have I had a baseline mammogram? Do I need a pap smear? Do I do anal? You know, that kind of thing.

After talking a bit, he listened to my heart, looked in my ears and explained his office hours. In detail. Including how he gets in at the crack of dawn, but the nurses get in about 7:15. Blah blah blah.

Then, he said, “Open your mouth real wide for me.” I did as instructed. Come on sickos, he used the tongue depressor. The wood one.

Yesterday, he called me personally to tell me my blood test results. He called my work number, and had to leave a voicemail the first time. Incidentally, he went to med school where I work. He finished a couple of years before I started here, so it’s not strange at all. “You’re probably driving into work right now…” Stalker.
My results? Kidney function, good. Thyroid, good. Blood sugar, good. INR (that’s the big one you have done monthly when you’re on a blood thinner), perfect. “Your bloodwork is perfect!” he exclaimed. He then made my appointment to see him in a month. He made it “first thing in the morning” so I could get off to work.

THEN, Dr. Schwartz called me today to ask if he can move my appointment up a day. He giggled a little bit about needing to arrange his Psychiatry experience (what I do for 3rd year med students), and that was that.

Why on earth would he call me personally to change the appointment? He has front office people. He has nurses. The answer is obvious. He wants to do go a complete gynecological exam on me. He probably also wants to do anal with me.

And to that I have to day, “No, Dr. Johnson. Just no. Put your giant tube of KY away. Dr. Hottie gets my girlie bits (and occasionally a finger in my pooper) and if anyone is doing anal on me, it’ll be whoever gives me the most money. I mean my husband. Got that?”

I really do like my new doctor. He’s a pretty righteous dude.

Saturday, April 18, 2009

MS Walk 2009, Richmond

A day with Janet and a whole lotta other people to raise money for the National Multiple Sclerosis Society. We had a great time. What have YOU done lately?

Friday, April 17, 2009

Kindergarten registration day

Joshy B had his kindergarten registration yesterday.
HOORAY! Look how excited he is - playing his Gameboy on the way to school. Just like a real school kid would.

The school he’s going to gives the Brigance K-1 Screen to all incoming students to help identify those with learning disabilities, and to help place kids in the best environment.

Josh was so excited to go to school finally! He had no problem walking off hand in hand with a pretty little teacher to do the test. They came back about 15 minutes later so the teacher could tell me how he did on the test.

He did really well, but he got a couple of things wrong that he absolutely knows (where your shoulders, elbows, heels and ankles are). I proved his knowledge of putting my hand on his shoulder and, as if on cue, he yelled "don't grab my shoulder!" Or maybe it was his elbow. *shrug* Like mother, like son.

He did, however get perfect scores on the printing your full name, knowing your phone number, address, birth date, counting, letter recognition, tracing shapes, motor skills, blah blah blah.

I was very proud and then she said, “He had an issue with the color recognition.” What? Huh? Josh has known his colors for a few years now. Even pink, gray and magenta. WTF?

“He missed blue," she said.

“Blue?” I said, totally incredulous of the situation.

“Yes, blue. I tried to get him to say it numerous times, but he just wouldn’t do it.”

“What did he think blue was?” I asked her, trying not to sound defensive.

“Dark purple.”

Now, as Josh’s mother, this all made complete sense to me. I know the exact shade of blue the object must have been. It had to be indigo. We have a few things in our house that Josh insists are not blue, but dark purple. He’s absolutely right. I think he's a genius.

Apparently, the teacher said to him, “What might someone else call this color?” in a desperate attempt to get him to say blue. My child, the fruit of my loins, has my sharp wit, sense of humor and intolerance for ignorance. He says to her, “Well, it doesn’t matter. Because if they said it was anything but dark purple, they’d be wrong.” My son, the non-conformist. I'm so proud. Hand me a tissue.

He was sad that he didn’t get to stay for recess. I informed him that his whole life, until September, was recess.

Not to be outdone by his own brilliance, later in the evening, he got me good. We were driving to his gym class and were running a little behind. He announces that he has to poop. Like NOW. So, I pull over at a gas station, get him in the bathroom and nothing. Already late, I hurried him back into the car and set out on the way to class.

I was a little irritated and was talking to him about how it was ok that he didn’t have to go, but he should have told me before I cut across traffic, blah blah blah. We stopped at the red light and I was about to talk about wasting people's time when Josh said, “Look Mom…”

In my head, I just couldn't believe that this child was actually going to try and placate me. You know, something like, "Look Mom, I had to hold it for too long and the urge went away." I cut him off with a stern, “Don’t ‘look Mom’ me!”

I glanced back in my rear view mirror. He had a grin on his face as he calmly repeated, “Look Mom, there’s the money you could be saving with Geico.”

I looked up and sure enough:

Tuesday, April 14, 2009

The call that unsettles moms everywhere

"Mom! Mommy! Mommymommymommymommy! COME HERE MOMMY!"

I knew it was bad. A frantic cry like that generally signals a minor catastrophe. What would it be this time? He "accidentally" spilled an entire pitcher of water on the bathroom floor?

Oh! I know! He was trying to pour a glass of milk by himself and spilled the entire gallon all over the kitchen floor!

No, wait! It's coming from the back end of his house. He was jumping on the bed and hit the shelf with his head and was holding it against the wall until I got there. That had to be it.


It was coming from the bathroom. I never heard the bathtub water running, so it can't be choice A. This is when panic really sets in. Did he use too much toilet paper? Did it clog up the toilet? Is there toilet water all over my bathroom? Oh my god! Am I out of bleach? What will I clean it up with? Where is my mop? Should I grab the rubber gloves? How will I get TO the toilet? I can't step in the dirty toilet water mess...


I opened the door with much trepidation. All moms know this feeling. It's both curiosity and dread. It lasts only for a split second. It begins the moment you put your hand on that door knob and ends when that quarter turn of the handle grants you entry into the "surprise zone." It is at the exact moment of entry that you know the appropriate reaction.

I liken that moment to Apollo 13, when they were unsure what would happen upon re-entry. Would they make it? Would they be incinerated? Would Tom Hanks, Kevin Bacon and Bill Paxton live to act another day? All these questions and more will be answered... soon as you open the door.

There sat Josh, on the throne. His t-shirt crumbled up in a ball, thrown in the corner. A quick survey of the area tells me there's no water, no overflow. Josh does not look panicked. He is actually grinning like the Cheshire Cat. "It was just like a gun!"

"What are you talking about?"

"My butt! It was just like a gun! And it shot out little cannon balls! THEY WERE MADE OF POOP!"

This is where he got off of the toilet and pointed inside. "Look! They're like little cannon balls and my butt shot them out! Do you see them? DO YOU SEE MY LITTLE CANNON BALL SHAPED POOP?"

I did see them. Perfect poop nuggets.

**Not my kid's actual poo

I'm so proud. So very proud.

Helpful links:

Go here to get the scoop on poop.

Here's where you go for info on farts including a list of which animals don't fart. No, really.

Happy reading!

Monday, April 13, 2009

My favorite blanket

I have a favorite blanket. It’s blue microfiber and filled with feathers. It has a tag on it that talks about how to wash it in a machine.

I’ve washed it many times, according to these very directions. Gentle setting, blah blah blah. It’s been really nice having a front-load washer with the “hand wash” setting.

Oh wait a minute. I HAD a favorite blanket.



I used to have a favorite black jacket too.....



Saturday, April 11, 2009

Good Friday - a good night for dying!

Dear Paper Magic Group, Inc. :

I am writing to you about your “Marvel Superhero Easter Egg Coloring Kit”.

First, I was extremely pleased with the content of your kit. While a bit overpriced at $2.99, I was willing to pay an extra dollar to have the Incredible Hulk, Iron Man, Wolverine, Captain America, and a bunch of other freaks I don’t know stuck all over my Easter Eggs. However, you may, in the future, want to go ahead and throw in the white crayon. Don’t be stingy. I mean, Paas includes one in their kits and I could have gotten that one for .99. I chose yours though. Send me my fucking crayon please.

The first thing we tried were the egg wrappers. I could not even get those fuckers on ½ of my eggs. While I know that irregular shaped eggs are not your fault, I do expect that when you suggest using “Large Eggs for best fit” that any of the eggs I try to slip that wrapper around from the “Grade A Large Egg” carton should actually go into the damn thing. 20 minutes later, one egg down, I opted to find the smaller looking eggs in the carton. The other two were a much better fit – initially.

Now when you say submerge the egg with wrapper in hot water and wait, you really need to figure that people actually read your directions and follow them. Hot water did nothing to shrink the wrappers. I had to boil water to shrink wrap those little bitches. You should have just warned me up front by stating in the directions to use boiling, not hot, water. It would have saved me 30 minutes.

I pulled the first egg out, lovely. Perfect. That was the wrapper that took me 20 minutes to get around the egg. The other two look like complete shit and it’s obvious that the eggs that slid right in were too small because the shit doesn’t shrink THAT much. Those eggs now have ruffly-bottomed Iron Man and Hulk. But hey, I’m not picky.

So now, an hour and a half since starting my prep work, it’s time to start dying the rest of the eggs! The colors were mixed and the mugs o’ color carried to the table where a gorgeous 5 year old boy waited anxiously to “kill my eggs!” (Dye, to a 5 year old is the same as DIE which is the same as KILL).

The little egg wand thingie you include to hold the egg in the dye sucks major dick. It was nearly impossible to bend and only after 10 minutes with a lighter to heat it up to make it more pliable (a blow torch was not accessible this evening) was I able to bend it enough to make it resemble an egg dipper. We used it as a monocle and talked with British accents though. I may save it and be Mr. Peanut for Halloween next year.

The colors were all so vibrant (I used the optional vinegar in all but the pink, as directed). We were very pleased with the shades of blue, green, orange and yellow. Those eggs turned out fabulously with rich, deep color, just right for sticking Wolverine stickers on. He looks FABULOUS on green, especially when you used a light wash technique as opposed to soaking your egg in the cup.

The pink dye, however, is another story. We wound up not having any eggs dyed pink, although I’m sure if we had, they too would be gorgeous. Apparently, your recipe doesn’t make enough dye to color my floor, my son’s t-shirt, his jeans, his tennis shoes, the kitchen table, the 6 hand towels used to clean up the spill and my once beige cushioned dining room chair. I should mention that this was a mom accident, not a kid accident. I own my mistakes.

I was able to get the stain out of the floor & shoes thanks to Mr. Clean Magic Eraser. The clothes and towels seemed to respond well to a quick soak in hot water, a squirt of Shout and an immediate wash in Tide.

The chair has yet to respond to Shout. Or Tide. Or Woolite High Traffic Carpet and Upholstery Cleaner. And so, it is with humility and defeat that I welcome you, Paper Magic Group, Inc. as a permanent fixture into my home.


Kim B

PS: I stuck the Storm sticker on my Easter Egg (the one that says MOM – or at least it was supposed to. I used a shitty Friendly’s crayon to write my name on it and the wax didn’t stick as well as it should have.)

Thursday, April 9, 2009


Updates updates updates!


The incision/implant site where they put the battery pack is infected. The worst part? He got poked in the butt and I wasn't even there to watch it or enjoy it.

A lead has apparently moved or something broke, as the stimulator is no longer stimulating the areas where he needed pain relief, so now he’s back to where he was before any of the surgeries, half of the pain meds and an infected stomach incision. His surgeon refuses to see him until the 17th. Fucker.

The outlook? Who the fuck knows. I Just want my happy husband back. ..


I don’t write much about Dakota, mostly because he’s 14 and plays video games. Plus, he’s 14 and so he thinks Jerry and I are the most stupid people in the world and really can’t be bothered with us. Parents of teens know how this is.

I do my best to remind him that I’m the coolest chick he knows. I think he gets it – mostly. Unless I tell him it’s time to take out the trash and that “no, it really can’t wait until you’re done with your instance, whatever the hell that might mean.”

I made him clean his room. He hated me for like a week. I remember hating my mom whenever she made me clean my room. I think that means I’m doing a good job.

Not actual room. This one is too clean.


Switching to Copaxone from Rebif. Shots will now be every day instead of 3 days a week, however the side effects are said to be minimal, unlike what I deal with now.

I’m doing my first MS Walk of the year on April 18. Some very wonderful people donated money to that walk (as well as the 50 mile walk) and so I’m not really looking for anyone to donate there (unless you want to, then let me know!) And if you're in the Richmond area and want to pound some pavement with me, let me know. $25 signs you up, no minimum fundraising required after that. Come show your support and while you're at it, I'll grope you. Come on, just a little bit?

Feeling ok, just totally stressed about Jerry’s situation. Really.


I will register Josh for Kindergarten next Thursday. I’m ready. I hope he doesn’t play stupid when they do his little interview thingie to determine which class to put him in. I hope he shines like the bright star that he is and wows them with his vast knowledge. If I can just get him to talk about circumnavigating the globe, I think we’ll be ok. If he's in major Joshy B mode, though I may have to buy him a helmet and a harness.

He really wants to take karate lessons, but doesn’t call it karate like you and I say karate. He says “Kah-rah-TAY”. He rocks, in case you didn’t know. We're looking at Dong's Karate. It's the best in town and, uh the website is Would you expect my kid to go anywhere else?

The other night in the tub, playing with his pirate ship, he discovered that the Fisher Price Little People have a hole in the bottom of their feet. He also discovered that his penis fits inside of it. How do I know this? Becase he goes, “Look Mom!” and I glance over to see the pirate from his pirate ship on his penis, like a finger puppet. Josh just giggled and yelled, "ARRRRRRRGH!". I see “dirty puppet show organizer” on his list of jobs he’ll hold as an adult. Along with horse whisperer...

Josh cannot wait for Memorial Day.You know why? “Because we get to stay home for 3 days in a row!”

And now, I need your help. Jerry sent me a picture and asked if I could “guess what this is”. I’ve made all of the obvious guesses. “Nope” has been his response for each one. So tell me what you think this is:

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

Open Letter to Frederick's of Hollywood

Dear Frederick’s of Hollywood:

I’m writing to you to express my displeasure at the apparent discontinuation of your line of bras known as “Liquid Dream”.

I was first introduced to the Liquid Dream collection back in 2005 (roughly). I was in need of a good bra to help me fill out the top portion of a dress. I thought I would give it a try. Sure, I was nervous about a water bra. I mean who doesn’t live in fear of springing a leak at a very inopportune moment? I’ll tell you who – chicks with gigantic tatas. But that’s neither here nor there. I was a nervous wreck, but once I got the bra in my hot little hands, (or more correctly, once I got my girls all tucked inside) I was hooked.

It wasn’t filled with water at all, but rather a smooth gel that seemed to warm to my body temperature. This was especially helpful in the winter when the lower temperatures normally causes my nipples to harden and rub against other bras, often chaffing their little sensitive bits. No one really likes to have their nips rubbed raw because their titty erection just won’t go away. Explaining that one to the doctors is never pleasant. What? Who among us has never presented an injured nipple to a doctor? Does it really matter HOW it got injured? By the way - for the chaffing, try udder cream.

I ordered several different styles of this bra and for the first time felt like a woman with a nice set of knockers! It was very liberating. It was like having boobies that I could stick in my drawer when they weren’t convenient (like when exercising or horse back riding.)

The aqua colored bra lasted quite a long time, but has become stretched out and not nearly as comfortable as it used to be. Often times, the left breast looks saggy, and that’s not even my good-sized side! I’m certain part of the problem is that I often take off my bra while sitting on my couch. You know the drill…unhook the bra, reach up through your sleeve, take off one side, then the other and voilla! You’ve managed to get off the tit bondage contraption without flashing any innocent bystanders, such as your children or your Mother-in-law.

The pretty pink embroidered number lost one of the underwires not long ago. I remember it well. I was sitting at work wondering WTF was poking me in my well-displayed cleavage. I looked down and there it was. I didn’t even know this bra had underwire until that very day!

The sand colored one? Well that one is just a lost cause, as it has accidentally gone through the dryer on more than one occasion. The gel packet inside the right cup is all bunched together (I do believe it has melted) and when I wear it, my titties look very lumpy. It’s a no go.

So it came time for me to order a new bra or two and I go to your website to find that you no longer carry the Liquid Dream line. You do have a new line called “Liquid Lift Bra”. I’m not entirely sure that this isn’t just the “Liquid Dream” collection with a higher price tag.

I am concerned about the new moniker, however. “Liquid Dream” was perfect because it was always my dream to have luscious sweater puppies. “Liquid Lift” implies that I have something there that just needs to be lifted up. What do you think you can lift? Sure, maybe the right side will give you something to work with, but unless you’re lifting other parts of my body that have extra fat (read: everywhere below the rib cage) then really, there’s nothing to lift.

I will order one of your Liquid Lift bras, but if my tits don’t look $11 worth better than they did when I bought the Liquid Dream bras, your ass had better be giving me some type of compensation. I cannot have gaps in my shirt where my hooters should be. I cannot have uneven breasts, unless I’m naked. I’m hopeful, yet guardedly so.

Thank you for your time.

Very Sincerely (and hopefully soon to be very busty again),


Monday, April 6, 2009

Woman - the other white meat

It was a dreary, rainy Monday. Here I was, stuck at work, wishing I had the balls to walk up to my boss and say, “Hey, Bossman! 75% of my work is doable from home. There are many idiots around her who pretend to work from home and those who claim that they stay until 9:00 at night sometimes. It would be painfully obvious if MY work wasn’t getting done, so it’d be like a built in work-checker. What you say you let me work from home 2-3 days a week on a trial basis and make it a permanent deal when you see how productive I really can be?

That’s not likely to happen and it has nothing to do with my story. Other than all good stories have a back story and some fluff, don’t they? Yeah, consider that my fluff. The editors can nix it if they like. Back to the point of my story.

So I log on to AcebookFay and decide it’d be a good day to go on an Easter Egg hunt! So, I hide some eggs for a couple of people who I hope won’t disown me for doing so. In return, I get a couple of eggs.

As I’m about to close the page for the really cool chocolate Easter bunny egg that Aaron sent me page and… wait one minute! I have a mid-story story to tell you! I only thought of it because Word puts the little red scribbly under Easter if I don’t capitalize it.

Which made me think of our archaic and very discriminatory system of dates. We use the term “BC” to denote that the year we’re discussing is before the birth of Christ, i.e., Jesus if you will. Why is this unfair? Why because if you’re not a Christian, you don’t subscribe to the idea that he was, indeed Christ. BUT I think a majority of people (yes, even non-Christians) can allow for the fact that there was a dude named Jesus. Are you with me? So, let’s change the BC to PJ (pre-Jesus) so as to continually be more PC around this, and many other, Christian holidays. Fair enough? *wild laughter*

OK, back to my sordid tale. As I am about to close that chocolate Easter Bunny egg page, what do I see? That social networking site that shall remain nameless WANTS ME TO BE A LESBIAN, or at the very least, bisexual! Really!

I have the proof. Want to see it? (Sorry Kristin. You’re implicated in this, even if it’s not by your own doing.)


OMG! They want me to eat her! This raises all sorts of questions. First and foremost, should I consider it? Secondly, what will my husband think? Thirdly, what would HER husband think? And what about mutual friends or other family members? What if we meet face to face and she doesn’t find me all that attractive? Or vice-versa? Have any of you out there gotten invites to eat ME? Will it matter that I’ve never done this sort of thing before? Will she be forgiving if I make mistakes and am not very good at it? Will she return the favor? Will others be watching? Will there be video? Will it wind up on YouTube? I mean, this is a whole new type of “social networking” don’t you think?

Between that and Meagan and Donna constantly accusing me of being stupid (so says a popular social networking site that begins with the letter F) and mystery people on my friends list who HATE me (so I’ve been told by, you guessed it, FB) I’m just not so sure that site is for me. Then again, perhaps it’s right up my alley.

Friday, April 3, 2009

Please return your faulty uterus

Guts are fun for the whole family. Nothing brings a family closer together than talking about liver function or how many ways a spleen is useful. However, please be aware that your uterus may be faulty.

Apparently, small children could pull off the ovaries, sticking them in their mouths and choking on them. I myself have never had this problem, but I'm not saying that it couldn't happen.

Direct from the recall site: "If you gave the uterus as a gift, please forward this email to the recipient(s)."

"If your...uterus is NOT accessible to young children, and you wish to keep your beloved uterus, you may opt-out via email."

They cannot replace the uterus once you return it, but they will give you a refund and a discount on another organ. You have many to choose from:

"The giant orgy of guts includes heart, lungs, liver, kidney, brain, pancreas and gallbladder."

I am ordering this post-haste because they referred to this being a "giant orgy". I'm all in.

If it is "being used by a young child, please remove it immediately."

It would seem to me that some child, somewhere, is going to be broken-hearted at the loss of her uterus at such a young age. So sad. Now what will she hang her dreams of the future on? Certainly not her ovaries.

There are those who will say, "Shame on you for making fun of people. You know some young girls do have to have their uterus removed for medical reasons." To those people who grumble at me, I say, "May you choke on my ovaries".

This may replace my "Suck it, all of you" line since Tina Fey used it at the SAG Awards, or the Globes, or wherever that was. She can choke on my ovaries too.


Tuesday, March 31, 2009

Pain is temporary

“Pain is temporary. It may last a minute, or an hour, or a day, or a year, but eventually it will subside and something else will take its place. If I quit, however, it lasts forever.” --Lance Armstong

Sunday was a regular day for me. Mostly. I got up, did my usual Sunday morning chores, and decided to climb up on the roof.

Why oh why would I climb up on the roof? Well, I had to get the pine needles and miscellaneous tree shit off of my roof and out of my gutters. That shit doesn’t just dissipate on its own, no matter how hard you wish for it to.

Anyway, beautiful day, I felt productive and alive. There is nothing quite like sitting on the roof of a house to me. It’s very liberating. Possibly because no one can get to me up there. Who knows.

Later that evening it was time for my shot. You may recall I’ve come to really hate the shots because of the raised welts they’ve been leaving on my stomach and hips as of late.

But, the greater good. Means to an end. All that bullshit. You know. Anyway…

Did the shot (left side hip if you’re wondering) and headed to bed.

NOW, one of the most important things about the shot I do is the side effects. They can include “fever, chills, flu-like symptoms”. In general, if I do it before I go to bed, I sleep through the crap.

For some odd reason, I woke up around 1 am to pee. I got to the bathroom and the chills started. We’re talking muscle tensing, teeth chattering, uncontrollable chills. I high-tail it back to bed, snuggle under the covers and try to control my movement and breathing. No such luck. Teeth chattering more. I sneak my arm out of the side of the bed and reach my sweat pants and socks, manage to put them on under the covers, and I’m still freezing with massive chills.

When you have the chills, you know how your muscles tend to tense up, and the shaking doesn’t stop, and you just can’t seem to get warm? That’s what I had going on. All I could think about was if I could just get something with long sleeves on, I might warm up enough to stop it. Problem. I’d have to get out of bed** and I’m already warmer than I was 10 minutes ago. And so, I do what any self-respecting person would do. I pulled my arms inside my shirt and hugged myself. Still shivering, still miserable, but one step closer to warm.

An hour in, my neck and shoulders start aching like nobody’s business. I can’t even describe how it felt. It was the worst muscular pain I have ever felt. 30 minutes later, my back and legs start to hurt the same way. 30 minutes later, my arms are hurting. For those of you keeping score, at this point it is now 3:00 AM and I’m still chattering and tensing and, shaking.

Around 4 AM, sleep finally found me. When the alarm went off at 5:45, I tried to lean over to turn it off, but my arms were tangled up in my shirt. My boobs were free, and I was covered in sweat.

I tried to get out of bed and the pain that shot through my body was horrendous. I wanted to just hide under the covers. I managed to get up – at about 6:40. Nearly an hour later. I got Josh up, got him ready and took him to Kathy’s. I called in sick and returned to bed. I slept until 1:00 PM.

This morning, I got up and while it only took me until 6:30 to get out of bed, the pain isn’t nearly as bad. However, I’m due to take another shot tonight and I just don’t think I can do it.

Generally, when I get a little bit of pain, some yoga or some exercise fixes the problem. But what am I supposed to do when just doing those things makes the pain so strong that I actually cry?

Chin up, chest out. This too shall pass.

Here’s what’s important. I don’t want your sympathy. I don’t tell you because I want you to feel bad for me. I don’t want a “poor Kim” or “wish there were something I could do”. Know why? Because there is nothing anyone can do, and I’m not poor. I have the greatest family in the world, including a great 5 year old boy who helped mom put on her shoes this morning.

So then why tell you all? Because. I want people to see that you don’t have to give up. As shitty as it can be at times, it’s all temporary. You have two choices. You can sit back and let it win, be horribly miserable and waste your life away wishing it could be better. OR you can view it as a set back, even if it’s the most scary one ever. You can learn from it, make changes to try and avoid the same situation in the future and just be grateful for the good things in your life. I have a family that needs me just as much as I need them. I’ll be damned if something like this is going to get in my way.

Here’s to a better tomorrow. And a better day after that, and day after that. I’ll be changing my shots to a 7-day a week variety without so many side effects.

Jerry has his second surgery (and hopefully the last) tomorrow to put the battery pack inside of his body so he won’t have wires sticking out. If you’re wondering how that’s all working – he’s been able to reduce his pain meds by 50% and they say it should get even better with time. There have been some small issues with the device and the feeling it evokes, but we’re working on those.

I’ll end this the way I started it. Because it’s an incredible statement from an incredible athlete.

“Pain is temporary.

It may last a minute, or an hour, or a day, or a year, but eventually it will subside and something else will take its place.

If I quit, however, it lasts forever.”

I refuse to quit.

**Many people are probably wondering where Jerry is. Jerry has found that it’s actually more comfortable for him to sleep on the couch. And so, he was asleep – on the couch. Where all good husbands belong.

Ask me if you want to donate to my MS Challenge Walk Team.

Saturday, March 28, 2009

You want fries with that?

Josh LOVES to order his own food. So why is it when he smiles at the waitress and orders his own food do they NOT believe that he knows what he wants? Why do they always try and “fix” what he orders?

We went out to lunch today. When the waitress came over, Josh said, “I’d like a hot dog, with stripes, but no bun. I would also like applesauce. And to drink? Mom? May I have a Diet Coke?”

“You may.”

He smiles at the waitress and says, “and a Diet Coke. My mom wants one of those too.”

Now, this is the point where she should turn to ME and ask me what I would like. But no. Not Angela. She can’t be expected to leave well enough alone. “Wouldn’t you rather have fries with your hot dog?”

“No, Angela, he wouldn’t. He would like the apple sauce.”
“And milk to drink for him?”

“Um, no. He asked for my permission in front of you, got it and ordered Diet Coke.”

So, Angela goes away to submit our order. We’re busy planning our ice cream sundae desserts. Here comes our food.

Hot dog, on a bun. Strike one. And a big freakin’ plate of fries.

Josh looks at her and says, “But I wanted applesauce, not fries. Mom, I wanted apple sauce. Why can’t I have apple sauce? Are they out of apple sauce?”

Angela rolled her eyes.

Now, the angry, bitter bitch in me wanted to stand up, put my hands around Angela’s throat and choke the shit out of her. Let her know that this is MY child she is rolling her eyes at. My child who very clearly ordered a mother fuckin’ hot dog with NO BUN, and APPLE SAUCE. How dare she roll her eyes at my kid questioning her ability to do her job.

The mom in me, wanted my kid to have what he ordered, what he wanted. I smiled, and was about to open my mouth when Josh decided that he could handle this one on his own.

“Excuse me. I would like my apple sauce. When you go get it, take this bun with you, because I really didn’t want it.” And with that, he picked up his hot dog and set it on the plate. He picked up the bun, and held it in between his forefinger and thumb and presented it to her. She stared at him, he gave it a shake. She continued to stare. He dropped the bun on the floor.

The mom in me wanted to correct him, make him pick it up and apologize to her. The angry, bitter bitch in me thought the douchebag could pick it up her own damn self, when she brings back the applesauce. I just said half-heartedly, “Josh. You don’t drop food on the floor. Do you think you want M&M’s on your sundae or are you going for chocolate sauce as your third topping?”

In the end, the little slutbag tried to charge us for the fries she brought in error by adding “extra side” to our bill. I very kindly asked her to take the “extra side” off of the bill. She suggested that she saw my child eating a french fry and so, we would need to pay for it. I let her know that if she was concerned about people eating the erroneous fries, then perhaps the shouldn’t have sat on our table for the entire meal. I then suggested that I would happily pay the money for the fries, but that would mean that she would not receive much of a tip. You see, I know that when Josh and I go to Friendly’s for lunch, a $20 covers our meal and the tip. Knowing this, I had – you guessed it - a $20.

She didn’t make a move. I called her bluff. I left the bill as is, tucked the $20 inside and figured she could figure it out all on her own. She either has a $1.12 tip or she took off the charge for the fries and got her 20%. I don’t really give a shit either way. I know what lunch and a 20% tip our $16 bill is easily covered by a $20. Sure, I had some singles in my purse, but it’ll be a cold day in hell before the 19-year-old rude ass bitch gets any more out of me.

I was so irritated with Angela, that I was able to totally ignore the annoying 12-year-old girl having lunch with either a distant family member or a family friend, who spoke in run on sentences with that “I’m ALMOST a teenager” air about her. I got to hear all about how this year, she would be a Timberwolf AND a Star. Because she would cheer for her school as well as a local competition squad. You know, she just couldn’t understand why her mom would be irritated at the cost of the uniforms. It’s not like my dad doesn’t make enough money. And they pay for Alan to play ball in the spring and take karate in the fall. And they just got a new dog, but she doesn’t think she should have to ever walk the dog. I mean why would you get a dog if you were just going to make your children take care of it? She didn’t even want a dog. If she had chosen a dog it wouldn’t be one that looked like “a rat.” She would have gotten a big dog. One that would say that their family was important and could handle a big dog. OH JUST FUCKING SHOOT ME.

On the ride home, Josh informed me that his imaginary friend, Harold, doesn’t have clothes. He’s always naked. It’s ok though because he’s just imaginary and no one can see him, so he doesn’t have to wear clothes. I told Josh that was a pretty sweet deal – if no one could see me, I likely wouldn’t wear clothes either. That shut him up.

I wonder if the bun is still on the floor.

Tuesday, March 24, 2009

For the birds

Last night, I bought a new frying pan. Just your plain old 12-inch, extra deep variety.

Mmmmm…12 inches and deep. Wait...what?

Anyhow, not wanting to ruin yet another new frying pan, I figure I’d read to see if this one needed to be treated at all before its first use.

Grease with oil. Check!
Do not overheat. Check!
Do not use abrasive cleaning products. Check!
No sharp or pointed utensils. Check!
Do not chop or use beaters inside the pan. Check!
CAUTION: For safety, please keep pet birds out of the kitchen. Ch…uh…what the fuck?

I’m a big believer that there are scenarios so wild and “out there”, that warnings such as this need to be present on consumer items.

I allowed my imagination to take over on this one, and came up with the only logical explanation for this warning.

Let’s say you’re cooking something spectacular like, uh, chicken breast in white wine with mushrooms and wild rice.

So you have it all in your extra deep 12-inch chef’s pan. You take off the lid to stir it. You realize you forgot to add a little bit of garlic. You sprinkle in some garlic, stir it up, and your kid calls you. It sounds important, so you go to your child, knowing your food won’t burn in the minute it’ll take you to duct tape your kid to the wall. I mean see what’s wrong with him/her.

You return, realize that your food should be covered to cook evenly, put the lid on, turn it down to a low simmer and continue on about your business while dinner cooks.

When the timer goes off, you return to give your dish one last stir and take the lid off so the sauce can thicken. It is only then that you notice Petey the Parakeet.

Apparently, Petey liked the smell of the white wine and mushroom sauce and thought he’d take a taste. You didn’t notice Petey when you put the lid back on your food. Poor Petey. You always thought the end for Petey would be different...

You wrap him up and lay him in an empty egg carton, hiding it in the trash. Later, you’ll claim he must have flown out the door when you let the dogs out.

The question you ask yourself at this point? "Do I serve my family the chicken and rice anyhow? I put a lot of time and effort into making your family this delicious dinner, not to mention the cost of the ingredients. Plus, I'm not going to own up to cooking the damn bird, so how will I explain that we're not eating what I just made?"

Seriously though, that statement really was on my pan. It did go on to explain the bizzarre warning: "Birds’ respiratory systems are sensitive to many kinds of household fumes, including the fumes from extremely overheated non-stick pans.” Who knew? See? A PSA for the birds. I love animals, really.

Tomorrow, we’ll investigate why you should not dress penguins in tuxedos.

Monday, March 23, 2009

What does that say?

I was talking with my friend, and she’s looking into getting a tattoo. She’s decided on a Chinese symbol. Or maybe Japanese. I have a problem with this. Actually, I have several:

She is not Chinese (or Japanese)

She does not speak Chinese (or Japanese)

I do not think she owns a wok and if she does, she likely doesn’t know how to cook in it

So first of all, she has to take a leap of faith that she’s getting the symbol for what she actually wants. I mean, one tiny bar where it shouldn’t be and it goes from “Happy Life” to “I am a douchebag”.

If it’s Japanese, how can she be certain it’s not a code indicating that the attack on Pearl Harbor was awesome?

Do the symbols mean something different if looked at upside down or sideways? What about a mirror reflection? You just don’t know!

What if in Chinese it means “I love sex” and in Japanese it means “I love sex with mules”?

And what if in old age, a liverspot turns up near the tattoo, transforming it from meaning “powerful warrior” to “I shit in my pants”?

Now, she’ll have this tattoo and not a single person who doesn’t read the language will know what it says, and in all honesty, neither will she.

I know, I know, the tat is for her, not for other people. Whatever. People are still going to wonder.

My real problem is this:

If I’m getting a tattoo, it’s going to be of something that means something to me. The significance of the Chinese culture in my life ended when I found out that the “ancient Chinese secret” that Mr. Lee used to get shirts so clean was just regular old fucking laundry detergent. And to add insult to injury, it can’t even be used in a high efficiency front-loading washer

If I were Chinese, I’d be pissed that people were exploiting my culture and my language because it looked neat, or because they really dig moo shoo pork or Kabuto steak house.

I mean, you may as well get “DONDE ESTA LAS PUTAS” tattooed on your ass.

How about whatever the German words for “suck it, all of you” are? Someone hit "translate" for me and find out, would ya?

Here's what I want mine to say:

Use the image above it to translate.

Sunday, March 22, 2009

How to know when your kid is mad

My first clue that Josh is really mad at me is when he makes up a new name for me. Let me back up. First, if you don't know who the Backyardigans are, they are cartoon characters who have great adventures in their back yards. They know what an imagination is, and they use it. They look like this:

Back: Tasha, Uniqua
Center: Pablo
Front: Austin and Tyrone

So yesterday, Josh is out playing while I was picking up the dog crap. He loves to push the wheel barrow around and make "special deliveries".

It came time for me to head in to make dinner. He says, "Can I make deliveries in the front yard?"

"No, honey. You need to stay in the back yard. Mom's going to make dinner and I need to be able to see you through the windows on this side of the house."

"But mom! I'll just walk from the back, through the driveway, up the front walk and back again. I'll keep doing that so you always know where I am."

"No, I can't see you when you're doing that."

"But mo-oooom! I know! Today is opposite day. So when you say no, you mean yes."

As he stands on the gate and drapes his arm over it to unlatch it.

"Well then, you need to get your opposite butt in this house, because if you take one step outside of that gate, you're done outside."


"Backyard or inside, you pick!"


"I'm sorry. You have to play in the back yard. You are a Backyardigan."

"I'm not a Backyardigan!"

"Sure you are. You're a Backyardigan and you're going to play in the backyard...again..."

"Mom! I'm just going to make some special deliveries in the driveway..."

*I start singing the Backyardigans theme song*
"Your backyard friends, the Backyardigans..."


*still singing*
"We've got the whole wide world in our yard to explore..."


"Backyard or inside Josh. Make your choice and let's do it."

Now he is yelling...

"I am so mad at you! You have a new name! You are now 'opposite day ruiner' and THAT is what I'm going to call you!"

At this point, I don't know if I should laugh at the silly name or have a serious talk with him about yelling at his mom.

Instead, I went with this:

"OK Pablo. Get your penguin butt in the house. You are now an Insideagin."

"I am so mad at you!" He huffed as he stomped past me.

He got over it just as soon as I bent over to look at his toe that he stubbed, and ripped one. He's such a boy, laughing at farts and all.

Friday, March 20, 2009

Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee (Porn)

I think that I shall invent a new video game. I will call it…


Yes, I will design my game to work with the Wii. I will market it as the game for women. The goal of my game will be to get the “man” to have an orgasm.

Instead of a nun chuck attachment, it will have a dildo-like attachment. If you’ve ever played any of the games where you have to pump the controller to reload, you realize that this movement totally simulates that of a hand job, especially when you’re pumping it furiously in an attempt to fill up your water pistol in the carnival game before the person next to you does, with your tongue hanging out the side of your mouth.

Wii Porn will also make use of the Wii Fit Balance Board. Much like the hula-hoop game, the board will be able to detect a shift in your center of balance to determine if you’re moving your hips at the right angles for the most enjoyment, or if your tempo is conducive to him blowing his load. Just imagine a game where you can give virtual handjobs, blow jobs, and rock your hips rhythmically to make him shoot his Wii goo all up inside your Mii.

Of course, there would be player-controlled porn scenes at all the right moments, depending on how vigorously you were whackin’ it and whether or not your game ends prematurely because you weren't in synch with your "partner" and you bent his cock in half.

Of course, there would be increasing levels of difficulty. Like you’d start with an 18-year old virgin and work your way up to a porn star. Each man being increasingly more difficult to get off. You would have to get each off three different ways, hand job, blow job, and penetration. You would not get to conquer the next person until you’ve done your duty each way.

This game would work for up to 4 players, each with their own controllers. There would be a selection on the menu for “group play” or perhaps “orgy”.

As with all games, there would be an Easter Egg or secret bonus round. The bonus round, would be the player, as a woman, bringing a gay man to orgasm. I’ll even let you in on the non-published secret of that one. You do the hand job, or “shaking” motion with the controller and then, at the last moment, you sit down on the balance board, and bounce.


Come to think of it, that would work for any of the levels. Just saying. You guys are pretty easy.

Perhaps there would even be accessories for your Wii Porn controller. You know, like a piercing or a tattoo. Or even a controller condom so that you could actually insert it, and have it be sanitary.

Perhaps the controllers could come in different colors, different lengths, and different girths. You know, you but the one that suits you.

Now I realize this does nothing for straight men or lesbians. I’m sorry about that. I go with what I know. That’s just a fact of life. I’m 100% positive that this could be somehow adapted to pleasing a woman, although it would be a much more difficult game. *giggles*

I see a market for this. Hopefully it’s an untapped market. I’d tap that!

Thursday, March 12, 2009

So, tell me what you want, what you really, really want

“What do you want?”

Such an easy question, yet the answer is liquid. It changes moment to moment for most people.

“I want a new job.”
“I want a good relationship.”
“I want a blow job.”
“I want a hamburger.”
“I want new boobs.”
“I want a million dollars.”
“I want to have a threesome.”
“I want to win the lottery.”

I’ve been thinking much more deeply these last few weeks. I have finally found the answer to that elusive question of “What do I want?”

I just want to be certain of what I want. That’s all.

I don’t need to know what it is I want. I just need to know that it, in and of itself, is exactly what I want; the thing I’m yearning for and all that it brings. Just to know I’ve spent my time chasing something truly worthy of my effort would be the most incredible gift.

The ability to say, “I want steak” and not have second thoughts about “or do I want a fajita?”

The strength to say, “I want to be a stay at home mom” and not wonder if that is the right choice.

The courage to say, “I want to be more assertive in every aspect of my life” and never once be concerned with the “what if’s” that go along with that.

The sense of adventure to say, “I’d like to drive cross-country and stay with people I’ve met here and there” and not worry about what if they’re really not all there and they're waiting for me with giant torture devices and a secret underground sex room. Wait - why would that second part be bad?

The ability to say, “This is what I want”, then go out there and get it, never once second guessing myself or playing the devil’s advocate.

I just want to be sure.

What do YOU want?

Wednesday, March 11, 2009

Rage On!

I have road rage. I admit it freely. I don't go off half-cocked and flip people off. I don't ride their asses. I don't cut them off or slam on my breaks when they’re a little too close for comfort. I don't play games with getting up next to them and revving my engine. Sorry, that's for 16 year olds and those people with those license plates I told you about yesterday.

What's that? You don't know what I'm talking about with the "yesterday" comment? Tough shit. I gave you the link. Follow it if you want to know.

No people, my road rage is totally, completely, utterly contained within my Dodge Grand Caravan. It consists of me yelling - at my windshield or at the side windows - a lot.

Now, when Joshy B is with me, I'm the epitome of coolness. I don't bat an eyelash. I say silly little things like, "Noooo, you go right ahead, because I wasn’t waiting here first!" OK, so my voice escalates when I say that and I actually yell the “WAITING HERE FIRST!” part.

This is what I deal with on a daily basis:

Right before I turn into the parking deck at work, I am on a one way street. There are 2 lanes. The far right lane is the lane I need to be in.

There are generally cars in the left lane, pretty far back with no opportunity to get over there should one need to. It's like this from the time I make my right hand turn onto this street. So I'm stuck with whatever is in front of me.

Most mornings, I'm greeted with a car stopped in the right lane, hazards flashing.

The skinny little man gets out of the passenger side and walks around to the driver's side. He opens the door for his fairly large wife. She gets out, they kiss goodbye. He gets into the driver's side, she saunters around to the passenger side, OPENS THE DOOR, and starts unloading her shit from the back seat to the curb.

It is usually at this point that I'm voraciously pointing out (and shouting complete with profanity) that they are doing this right in front of a sign that says "NO PARKING STANDING OR STOPPING". Apparently, this does not apply to this couple.

Next, she stands IN THE FUCKING ROAD waving to her husband as he signals like he's pulling out, and goes about his happy little way. She, on the other hand, is still blocking traffic, as she very slowly makes her way toward the curb. Just as she's about to put her foot up on the curb, she stops to see if Mr. Wonderful got stopped at the next light up. This generally brings a rousing chorus of "get out of the fucking road, you god-damned lazy ass bitch!"

I don't know if she can hear me, but I don't think so. She doesn't acknowledge me and finally gets out of my way.

The same thing happens when I leave for the day, except instead of the couple, it's a gaggle of kids at the community college doing a complete Chinese drill. What makes it so special is that they are Asian.

I usually get creative when I curse out offenders. Not being totally happy with referring to them as fucktards or asshats, I have to go one step further. I have to infer things about their sexual relationships, their mother and her sexual relationships and, on occasion, the likelihood that these two cross at some point.

I have anger issues, but I wouldn’t have to be so fucking angry if there weren’t so many asshole licking drivers around here. I hate you, you crotch-rotted bastards with your finger in your mom’s butthole. Move your shit out of my way. Period. The end.

This blog is crap!