If I blogged more regularly, my husband would be in major trouble. The man is walking blog fodder.
Example: Yesterday, he walked out of the bedroom smiling and holding a pair of shorts. He says, “I found my shorts! I was just walking into the bedroom and thinking about how sad it was that my shorts were lost, and then I stepped on them!”
Your shorts were lost in the middle of our bedroom floor? REALLY!?
Example: In and IM conversation today, he was complaining about something that was bothering him. He types: “It really annoyied me!” I assumed it was a typo, until he types “how the fuck do you spell annoyed? Oh, I think I just figured it out.”
Remember folks, this was an IM convo. He could have avoided the shame and humiliation of being a bad speller by simply deleting the message and chalking it up to a typo.
Example: When I told him I was going to write a post about his idiocy, he said “Oh schweeet! I’m famous, bitches!!!”
I can’t guarentee he was kidding.
Henceforth, my husband’s internet name should be He Who Makes Good Blog Fodder.
If you come deal with him for a day I give you the rights to anything he says. He’s mostly house trained.
Have you ever asked someone older and wiser and more fuckable than you for advice on sex? There’s a good chance that sage slut said “Just relax!”
You probably nodded like that made sense, then muttered “easy for you to say, whore”and stomped off to sulk and panic.
That never happened to me, of course.
For Mother’s Day, my husband got us sex toys. Specifically some bondage toys. We’ve been wanting to learn more about BDSM and incorporate more than a few cub scout knots and creative dirty talk into our play.
Now, I’ve mentioned to A (husband) a few times that I wouldn’t mind trying a few of the advanced rope techniques outside of the typical intense official “scene”. In fact, for safety’s sake, it would be my preference. He admitted that weekend that he finally realized that I meant we could make our play more casual. That it was ok to try and figure out how to tie a chest harness while watching the latest episode of Chuck..
We tried it the other night. We started off casually, laughing a little at first and then, as we got more adventurous, a lot. Send just as quickly, we went from laughing hysterically to gasping though one of the best sexual experiences of our lives.
The best part was that, because we were so relaxed, we communicated our needs more readily and more clearly. That can only lead to more awesome sex.
I don’t think I have ever been more satisfied with a sexual encounter. In other words, it was fucking awesome.
My children are healthy. My worries are few. My mother’s new pain medication is helping, and helping her achieve her ultimate goal of taking less medication. For her, for that, I am so thankful. My job is secure, and my business is going strong. Our bills are paid each month and we can afford the things that we need. I have friends. I have family. I have love.
It’s days like this that I believe strongly in God. It’s days like these that it’s so easy to have faith that it’s all going to be OK. It’s days like these, where I think everything would be completely perfect, the most perfect, if I could just snuggle my children on a blanket under the warm sunshine and take a long nap, my husband by my side.
I am now lucky enough to own a Kindle*. I never thought I would like a Kindle, honestly. The feel of a book, the smell of a book, was something I never thought I’d want to give up. However, I’ve realized that there are significant advantages to an e-reader of any kind. Want to hear them? No? Oh, then go read this. Otherwise, here you go:
1. The books are cheaper. Sometimes it’s just a few dollars, sometimes it’s $15+ dollars. Whatever, it rocks, because I rarely read a book more than once, and having a bookshelf full of books I will probably never re-read is irritating.
2. It’s easy to hold the thing in one hand without getting a hand cramp because you are playing/feeding/changing the toddler/baby/baby with the other hand.
3. It doesn’t require wall space, a Target bookshelf that was a PITA to put together, or eventually an ill-organized yardsale.
4. I can read erotica anywhere – ANYWHERE – and you won’t know that I’m reading it. Until I get up and leave the room quickly while reaching to unbutton my pants, that is.
*Yep, that’s an affiliate link to Amazon, but this post is not sponsored. Though it probably should be, because I have clearly outlined the BEST reason to own a Kindle, ever.
What’s that? You think I’ve lined up all these guest posters in order to avoid writing original content on my blogbecausethey are funnier than I ambecause I”m lazy because I’m good at sharing? Why thank you! Today’s guest post is brought to you by Chibi, whom I love, and admire, and she made me a HANDMADE card. And mailed it to me. It was awesome.
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A guest post? Oh… Uh… Well. I’ve never done one of these before. I’m feeling a little nervous. *smooths back hair* *adjusts shirt* *twitches* Please be gentle! (Seriously, though? Mommygeekology is likely the only one I’d willingly give my guest-posting cherry to. And that is FAR more awesome than it sounds, trust me.)
Boobs.
We all have ‘em (yes, even the men-folk, although I think they’re what we call “moobs” in polite society): big ones, little ones, perky ones (bitches), saggy ones. They’re both a blessing and a curse. They give sustenance and pleasure, both physically and visually. But they can be a pain in the… tit sometimes, too. Like that time of the month when they’re so bloody sore and somehow manage to attract every. single. elbow/corner/wall/car door. within a 20-mile radius.
This? Is not the time for monkey business where the girls are concerned.
Case in point: my other half.
He’s an awesome guy: kind, considerate, loving, strangely turned on by me, and LOVES mah bewbies. One night we were lying in bed talking when, out of the clear blue farking sky, he leaned over – quick as a wink! – placed a hand on either side of my left breast, yelled “MAMMOGRAM!”, and CLAPPED.
That’s right: he SLAMMED my hormonally-tender breasticle between his big, meaty, man-paws. And then he laughed. Like it was funny.
Once I caught my breath and my eyes stopped watering, I looked and him and hissed “WHY did you DO that?!?” He looked like a deer caught in the headlights with his eyes as large as saucers – he knew by the spittle flying from my mouth the intensity of my voice that he had done a no good, very bad, awful thing. “I-I thought it would be funny?” Yeah, NO. After I explained WHY it wasn’t funny, he told me that he didn’t realize my fun bags weren’t having fun that week. I told him in no uncertain terms to NEVER do it again, regardless of the time of month. NEVAH NEVAH NEVAH.
About a kajillion years ago, in 1999, when the dinosaurs roamed the earth, Savage Garden came out with a song that rocked me to my core. Affirmation. This song is everything I’ve ever thought. This song is like my mission statement. This song is my prayer. This song weaves melody and words into the intricate patterns that make up the tapestry of my heart and soul.
“I believe the sun should never set upon an argument”
This is a rule in my home, and I try to adhere to it as much as possible. Don’t go to bed angry, my grandmother and my mother have always said. It’s a way to make sure we make an effort to make it right. It’s how we ensure that resentment and anger don’t fester overnight, flooding our dreams, filling us will anxiety. It’s an affirmation of our love and devotion to each other as a family or as friends, a way to say this means something to me.
“I believe we place our happiness in other people’s hands…I believe I’m loved when I’m completely by myself alone”
We look too often to outside sources for happiness and confidence. We rely heavily on our friendships, social standing, careers or otherwise to provide us the happiness that we crave and deserve. It’s not always bad. A community, friendships, careers, these are all great things. But I also believe that we need to reach deep down within ourselves and find a happiness there. A happiness in just being alive, a happiness in being ourselves regardless of our circumstances, our friendships or status symbols. We need some joy in ourselves, and we need to protect it like the most precious gem. There will always be times of hardship, and that gem may save us and give us the strength to rise above.
“I believe your parents did the best job they knew how to do”
Isn’t that what we’re all doing? It doesn’t mean there aren’t bad parents out there. It doesn’t mean that they didn’t know it was wrong, or know they should do better. But I think that it’s fair to say that we’re doing the best job we know how to do. Now, whether that’s actually any good or not… well time will tell.
“I believe in Karma what you give is what you get returned”
I try to do good deeds. I try to hold doors, and put my grocery cart away, and spread a little love and happiness where I can, when I can. I give to charities but I also love to send my friends little gifts and care packages… just because. I hope that my kind words and good deeds have something to do with the luck, love and happiness that I’ve had in my life.
“I believe you can’t appreciate real love ’til you’ve been burned”
I have this theory about love. I think that every love counts. Puppy love, “true love” – it doesn’t matter. It all counts. I think we have a tendency to look back on our lives, once we attain what we feel is the greatest pinnacle of love we’ve ever achieved, and say – “that wasn’t really love“. I disagree. I think we loved as well as we knew how. We loved to our fullest capacity. It hurt when it ended, but I believe that with that love, and that hurt, we allowed our hearts to grow to accept greater love (and, subsequently, greater pain). I love my husband with every fiber of my being. But if I die tomorrow? I hope that he goes on to find someone else to love, eventually. I hope it will be a love just as great, or greater, than ours is now.
“I believe the grass is no more greener on the other side
I believe you don’t know what you’ve got until you say goodbye”
Every story has at least two sides, and every side has it’s trials and tribulations. Nothing is perfect, nothing, no matter how it may appear. When I drive on the highway, I usually pick a lane and stick to it. History has told me that unless I’m willing to be reckless, switching to a lane that appears to be going faster never helps. Traffic is going the same way. Eventually that lane will slow and I’ll look longingly at the car I was behind just a few minutes ago as it speeds past. I believe that loss sharpens our vision and provides enough perspective for us to see what we may have been missing or taking for granted.
“I believe you can’t control or choose your sexuality
I believe that trust is more important than monogamy
I believe your most attractive features are your heart and soul
I believe that wedded bliss negates the need to be undressed”
I’m bisexual, and when I was in high school my mother asked me when I was going to “get over this phase.” It was one of the most hurtful things she’s ever said to me, because she didn’t, and couldn’t, accept who I am. It doesn’t come up anymore because I’m married to a man, but it still hurts. I’m married to a man whom I trust and love, and our sexual preferences mean that one day, we may invite someone else into our bedroom from time to time. Trust is more important than monogamy. We’ve both changed since we were married. We aren’t as skinny as we used to be. I don’t wear makeup every day anymore. But it doesn’t matter. We love each other as whole people – not as an attractive combination of body parts. Our love is more than a raw sexual passion. I use a tag on this site – marital bliss – you’ll note that those posts aren’t all about being naked. I mean, some of them are… but you get my point.
“I believe that family is worth more than money or gold”
I don’t think that I need to elaborate much on this one. If there is any one of you who disagrees with this statement I will say that I cannot fathom, at all, what you are thinking. I’d add to this list that my friends? My friends fall just beneath my family. Money is farther down… and only important in that it allows me to provide for my family, and my friends.
“I believe in love surviving death into eternity”
I believe in Heaven, or some version of it. I believe that we will see our loved ones again. I believe that I will be able to look down & watch over my loved ones when I die. Barring that, then at least let me wander the earth as a ghost of some sort so I can scare the bejeezus out of anyone trying to hurt my friends or family. Or both. I’m good with both.
In all seriousness though – I don’ t think love stops when we die. Those who are living continue to love us, and I believe that those who pass to wherever, or whatever, the Other Side is, continue to love us as well.
Full lyrics
I believe the sun should never set upon an argument
I believe we place our happiness in other people’s hands
I believe that junk food tastes so good because it’s bad for you
I believe your parents did the best job they knew how to do
I believe that beauty magazines promote low self esteem
I believe I’m loved when I’m completely by myself alone
I believe in Karma what you give is what you get returned
I believe you can’t appreciate real love ’til you’ve been burned
I believe the grass is no more greener on the other side
I believe you don’t know what you’ve got until you say goodbye
I believe you can’t control or choose your sexuality
I believe that trust is more important than monogamy
I believe your most attractive features are your heart and soul
I believe that family is worth more than money or gold
I believe the struggle for financial freedom is unfair
I believe the only ones who disagree are millionaires
I believe in Karma what you give is what you get returned
I believe you can’t appreciate real love ’til you’ve been burned
I believe the grass is no more greener on the other side
I believe you don’t know what you’ve got until you say goodbye
I believe forgiveness is the key to your own happiness
I believe that wedded bliss negates the need to be undressed
I believe that God does not endorse tv evangelists
I believe in love surviving death into eternity
I believe in Karma what you give is what you get returned
I believe you can’t appreciate real love ’til you’ve been burned
I believe the grass is no more greener on the other side
I believe you don’t know what you’ve got until you say goodbye
I’m calling this a “Green Post” because it’s been recycled from my old blog. One of the challenges of the Mominatrix #sexualrevolution was to do a little down-low landscaping, and I thought I’d share one of my experiences with waxing. This is supposed to be funny, so LAUGH DAMMIT.
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I understand that there are some cultures where body hair is accepted, even admired. There are cultures also that demand that women or men remove all or parts of their body hair, either as a religious rite or simply because it is culturally unacceptable otherwise. I tried to do some research on this, but have you ever tried doing a Google search for pubic hair and cultural perspectives? Yeah, don’t. Or turn safe-search on.
Anyway, other cultures aside, my own personal preference is to be clean-shaven – pretty much anywhere that I can be. I love the hair on my head But I also keep that short. I don’t like long hair. Hubby had long hair before we met. If I had known him during his goth or subsequent quasi-goth stages, we would not have dated. When we did meet, he had a nice military haircut. Totally acceptable and attractive!
My reasons for wanting to be hairless “down there” are numerous, from simple to upkeep, to cleanliness, to the “eww gross” factor during oral… the list goes on. No landing strips for me, either. Not a fan. It looks funny, to me. And it’s more upkeep! I’d have to trim and shave. I think that’s asking a bit much from a girl who doesn’t even get to shower as often as she’s like. (Aren’t you glad that you only know me virtually? lol. )
So, with that oh-so-essential background information, my candid account of getting a Brazilian wax while 7 months pregnant last Saturday follows:
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The spa room was very nice. There were nice fresh sheets and towels on the table in the center of the room. The walls were painted in calming earthy tones, and soothing music played in the background. There were some nice iron scrolls on the walls, a hook and hanger for my clothes, and a display of creams and lotions. I had just come from getting my hair cut and my maternity massage, so I was relaxed and feeling sexy and fun and flirty. The clinician, Rachel, offered me a drink of water or some tea. I politely declined – I think that peeing on the woman clearing out your bush is rude, right? I’ll be honest, I’m fuzzy on the proper protocol during a Brazilian wax.. but I think peeing on people is out unless you’re filming a crazy porn or something.
Rachel, by the way, is absolutely gorgeous. Long, dark, curly hair, big big eyes with long lashes, little cupid mouth. It was almost a little insulting how pretty she was. I mean c’mon. If I’m going to have someone staring at my vagina for an hour, I’d rather that she be less attractive than me. If she’s going to be more attractive than I am, and she’s looking at my vagina, she better not be down there to give me a Brazilian.
(Whoops, just outed myself. Bisexual, anyone?)
So, where was I? Oh yeah. Gorgeous girl, first Brazilian wax, 4 months of growth because I can’t reach my own hoo-hah and a huge pregnant belly.
She told me that I could hang my clothes on the hanger and get up on the table, she’d be right back. That’s right folks, she left while I undressed. She also left while I dressed, at the end. How weird is that? I mean, it’s not like she wasn’t going to see it anyway!
Then again, after I had stripped and gotten up on the table, I draped a towel over myself. Even as I arranged it to keep my bits from showing, I questioned why I was bothering. I mean, she was going to be getting up close and personal. And yet… it would have felt so weird to leave it all hanging out!
So when she comes back in, I’m lying on my back, wondering why they didn’t bother to drywall the ceiling because those dated ceiling tiles are really unattractive to look at, when she pulls my leg to the side and plops some sugar-lemon gel on the area with a little spatula. No “How do you do, let me grab your leg here for a sec.” No “How about dinner? A movie? Sex in the back of my conversion van?” Not even a warning “Let’s go!” Just flip the towel aside, grap the spatula, plop the wax and hello, pain. Let me tell you – that gel is hot. And when it catches on the little hairs, it hurts a little. But I thought to myself, so far, so good. This’ll be quick and dirty. It’l hurt, but then I’ll be able to go, and I’ll never have to look this beautiful woman in the face again. Then she grabbed one of those little waxing strips and laid it on the gel. No problem. Then she took her whole hand (gloved, thankyouverymuch) and rubbed the strip down with significant pressure. Let me just say this – not so much a problem on the bikini line area. Totally strange when you get to the “inner” area. I was really, really glad that I wasn’t going to have to see her outside of this context.
Then she started talking to me, asking when I was due, did I have any names picked? I thought it was a little weird, but figured that she was curious and maybe trying to get her mind off of the task at hand (literally….)
I was right in the middle of telling her that I was due on ((RIP)) ((internal scream of surprise and pain)) November 4th, but that my daughter was ((RIP)) ((oh good lord that burns)) about 10 days early, so ((RIP)) ((I bet I’m as red as a tomato down there right now)) this one might be an October baby. With every bit of gel applied, she would apply the wax strip several times and rip, rip, rip away.
I was horrified at the pain. It burned. It hurt. It ached. It was sharp, and tingly, and there was nothing good about it, no way. I had heard that some women like to get this done. I think that whoever told me that was mistaken. They probably said that they like it as much as they’d like an ice pick to the eye. Or they like it as much as they’d like to swallow burning coals. Or that they like it as much as a visit from their mother-in-law while potty-training their first child, who happens to have diarrhea.
But I had started. And I figured that as long as I could just sit there, deal with the pain, and get it over with, I’d be fine.
But no. Rachel was seriously chatty. She would ask me about how I liked living in B-town, and whether I liked it more than BL-town versus N-city, and how her boyfriend wanted to live in B-town but she wanted to live in N-city even though the commute would be worse, etc etc. Every so often, she’d pause, and squint at my lower half. I’m not sure if she was puzzled, or strategizing, or what. It was all very surreal and strange, and somewhat awkward.
It went on and on. This is not a quick process – it took 50 minutes to get everything.It was a pattern. Apply wax, ask a question, furiously rub on waxing strip, wait until I started my answer, RIP. I swear, she was doing it on purpose. She probably got some sort of sick thrill out of seeing whether she could get me to scream in the middle of my answer. (I’m proud to say that I did not! Though there was much wincing, pausing, and flinching)
I tried to rationalize the whole experience and say that it was good practice for childbirth. I mean, pain at intervals lasting for 30 seconds to a minute (oh, the burning!) while maintaining conversation with the people around you. Because that’s totally how we all imagine our birth experience. Discussion about politics and complex science while also bringing life into the world, without any pain medication. I mean, that’s what my childbirth plan reads…. yeah.
The worst part was the end, though. I had told her that I wanted everything – even the wayyy back – gone. She tells me that the last part is the least painful, don’t worry, and if I could get up on the table on my hands and knees and arch my back, that would be great. (Oh, how many times have I heard that? “This won’t hurt a bit, now bend over… ) So, with my big ass and my pregnant belly and my ridiculous stretch marks, I got up on that table and posed like I was asking Hubby to do it doggy style. My stomach rested on the table. My back was arched, my ass was in the air, and she says to me “That’s great.”
Oh goodness.
So she applies the gel and gets the strip, and right after she pulls the strip off, I start to giggle.
A word of advice: the next time that you’re in a table, ass proudly displayed in the air, while someone removes the hair from your body using a spatula, wax, and some cloth strips, do not giggle. It’s weird. It puts a strange mood in the room. No matter that you quickly, VERY quickly explain that you’re just thinking about how funny this will be to tell people later, and that you’re thinking of getting an at-home wax kit so that your husband can see how it feels to have the hair brutally ripped from his body, or that you know it’s totally inappropriate and you’re so sorry you don’t mean to giggle but you just can’t stop…
It’s weird. And for the last few minutes of that waxing session, there will be a silence in the room, like a thick, wet, flannel blanket, dampening everything. And you’ll still be stifling giggles.
Needless to say, I’ll be back in four weeks to get it done again. (That’s right, go back and read that sentence again. No typos, I promise.) (It lasts four weeks!) (And Hubby is paying!)
She was never shy, but now, having given birth to two children in front of dozens of people she doesn’t know, it seem unnecessary to cover up. Strips in the family room, next to a pile of clean laundry. The kids and her husband are in the room, but who cares? Those kids came from her; it’s nothing her husband hasn’t seen before.
Across the room, she catches her husband’s eye. He’s grinning a la Cheshire Cat and raises his eyebrows suggestively.
“Oh stop it. This-” she gestures along her body with her hand, an otherwise alluring gesture were it not for her words, “isn’t attractive anymore.”
He doesn’t say a word, just continues to smile and stare. She reaches into the laundry basket, searching for a simple, unembellished black top to go with the comfortable gray pants. She almost doesn’t notice him sidle up behind her. He wraps his arms around her and hugs, rocking back and forth again to make his point.
As he walks away she smiles a little and says “Six years ago you wouldn’t have found this attractive.”
He still hasn’t said a word, but now she dresses with a quiet confidence.
Don’t forget to visit Girl Talk Thursday and link up your own Romance Novel post on Mr. Linky and check out all the other great posts! Play along!
I love romance novels. My mother still reads them diligently, and I definitely grab one from time to time. I learned a lot – a lot – about sex from these books, people. Forget about locking up your vibrator, you can pass that off as a toy, a massager or a bomb. Lock up your romance novels. I read my first one when I was about 11, I think. My mom didn’t know I had it, and it was racy. I mean, really racy. It also introduced me to the word of bondage, but that’s a whole ‘nother story. In fact, I’m terribly dissapointed because I can’t remember what book it was!
My favorite books to read are based in one of two historical times — either some point in history where there are courtesans, elaborate dresses, dashing men on horseback and possibly a dalliance in the servants quarters, or the old West.
I love me some cowboys.
My absolute favorite stories are the ones where she does not want to love the man – but he makes her. He woos her, he fucks her, she gives in to the pure sexual tension and then they find love – but only after some absolutely ridiculous sex because that is the whole point of these books, girls.
Ok. I need to find a Barnes & Noble and a dark room with a lock. Now.
But I also keep that short. I don’t like long hair. Hubby had long hair before we met. If I had known him during his goth or subsequent quasi-goth stages, we would not have dated. When we did meet, he had a nice military haircut. Totally acceptable and attractive!
Just ... no. {Wardrobe malfunction}
Excess
