Side Boobs and Cooter Farts!

* Despite what people may think there are things I will NOT write about. However, this is not one of them. Therefore I must warn my mother, Aunt Becky, and Aunt Barbie that this entry is about sex and it could potentially embarrass you. Aunt Jackie, I know you will just be proud!

During a recent intimate moment with my hubby, I realized that I was holding my arm in a retarded person’s position. My right elbow was bent, my forearm was flat against my chest, and my hand was bent foreword and flailing and grasping at my right shoulder (Kudos to Mr. Fisher for inspiring temporary cerebral palsy). Once the seizures stopped and I noticed my awkward pose I quickly resolved the situation and found a more flattering posture but quite frankly, retarded arm broke my concentration and it took almost half an hour for me to get back in the mental groove (that’s right I said I had another half an hour to find my groove… again, kudos to Mr. Fisher). Anyway it spurred me to thinking about all of the non-flattering positions and noises of sexual encounters past, and just let me tell they are vast!

There are my instinctual deep guttural moans that seem to manifest whenever that certain spot is hit. I know moaning should be sexy but believe me at my worst I can sound like a hybrid moose/donkey being anally probed. So I really have to concentrate on keeping the vocalizations a little more “sexy” and a little less "tipped cow". I mean, seriously, porn has set the bar really high for us normal, non-professional, girls. Never once have I never heard Jenna Jameson groan like she has one foot in the gas chambers while she is pulling a train with a bevy of overly endowed bikers. And for that matter, I have never noticed an unfortunate queef (that’s the technical term for when your cooter farts) slip in a porno either, even the super-dirty ones but if I am flipped into the wrong position during the old in-and-out and it sounds like I have a whoopee cushion stashed in my hoo-haw.

And don’t even get me started on my boobs (I call them Betty and Veronica). Having large, REAL breasts can be a gift and a curse past the age of 35. If I am not careful with my positioning, things can go completely askew. If am on my back, I have to try my best to look as natural as possible while holding my upper arms close to my body to hold my breasts in place (and not allowing them to slide to the side where my nipples end up parallel to my armpits).

There is the also ongoing humiliation of poor sex lighting. I try my hardest to "enjoy myself" only in the darkest of rooms but that damn moon keeps illuminating my window blinds. An adding to that because of my skin color, I tend to glow in the dark. I know that you think I am kidding but my skin does genuinely glow for a good ten to fifteen minutes after the light goes off. Which would be great if I had at any time planned on taking up night jogging but I don't think that will ever happen, so for now I just try to keep my day-glo ass covered until the initial brightness dims.

Even with all of that, though, sex can be a wonderful thing. Something for two people (or more if you are slutty) who love each other (or at least find each other mildly attractive) to do in the darkest room, in the sexiest position, and the quietest way possible. To all of you I say, good luck an just keep practicing... I know I will!

Stephen King never got to see me topless!

Someone recently asked me what I wanted to be when I was a little girl and I had to stop and think about it. But I was finally able to piece together the mental journey I went on to end up working in a library (my dream job) at age 40 and I thought I'd re-walk this journey with all of you.

Very early on (about at 5), I wanted to be a nun. I used to put a towel on my head and bless people, my sister, my dogs, Barbie, etc... I honestly thought that was the entire job of a nun. (Probably because my family was NOT Catholic and I was basing my entire knowledge of "the nunnery" on Mary Tyler Moore's riveting performance in the movie A Change of Habit, starring Elvis Presley.) Once I was privy to the added responsibilities, I nixed the whole nun idea. After that I wanted to be a reporter, an actress, and then, of course, a model. Now, I am not sure why I wanted to be a reporter but most likely it was because reporting combines two of my favorite things, 1.) being REALLY, REALLY important and 2.) telling on people. However, at the time there was not a huge market for 10 year old reporters (Damn the Nickelodeon and Disney channels for not taking off sooner!) Unfortunately, my acting career peaked when after trying out for the roles of Dorothy and Glinda the Good Witch in the Webster Elementary 6th grade version of The Wizard of Oz, I was awarded the coveted version of Maid #4 (I realize that some of you are probably saying to yourselves, "I don't remember maids in the Wizard of Oz", well that's because there weren't any. They were token roles given to those of us who had no actual singing ability or were mild-to-moderately handicapped!) My modeling career was brought to a frightening halt when at age 13 my mother signed my sister and I up to be "living mannequins" at the mall. We were modeling shoes and had to stand completely still in "modeling poses". Which probably would have been easier had we not had on a drag queen hooker's amount of make-up and been wearing bright white leotards - to keep the focus on the shoes (It was a Saturday afternoon and the mall was full of kids our age. Our friends kept walking by... and mocking us. But could you really blame them I was 13 years old, 5 foot tall with 130 pounds and a C cup bra stuffed into a medium Spandex leotard?)

Once I got into high school, my career plan was to graduate High School, move to New York, take part-time classes at NYU while working as a stripper and trying to make it in the Big City as a writer. All of the people at the strip club would respect me because I wasn't promiscuous and I was incredibly intelligent. (I know this plan sounds like the plot to a lot of recent movies but I had this plan in the early 80s before any of those flicks were made! *And in my plan, I meet either Stephen King or John Steinbeck while working the pole and they asked to read one of my stories, love it, and help to get me published!)

After high school, I actually did work as a waitress (I liked it!), a bank teller (wasn't crazy about it!), and a nanny (was mentally molested doing it!) before I began my career in social work. Which I loved for the first 10 or 12 years and then I got tired. Finally, I got a chance to work at the library and I have never been happier. And that is the story of what I wanted to be when I grew up and how I ended up at the library.

*Disclaimer: I have no actual knowledge that either John Steinbeck or Stephen King frequent New York City strip clubs and have no proof of my own ability to successfully work a pole.

Here Shitty Kitty!

As I told you, when our family moved from Quincy to Springfield my father promised me a kitten if I promised to go quietly. My plan, up until that point, was to barricade myself in my room with my little sister, Ken, Barbie, Baby Alive and my dog Mandy and then call a neighborhood press conference to convey to the media that my parents were attempting to forcibly remove me from my property. I would then explain to the reporters from the Quincy Herald Whig Newspaper and WGEM television that the unnecessary and compulsory transfer of a minor to a new town, new school, and new home was not only abusive but the start of a slow and painful, social and emotional death. However, I was 8 and I think the way I actually voiced this threat to my parents was, “If you try and make me go, I’m going to tell. But my father stepped in and offered me a kitten, a cute furry little kitten. (I was never allowed to have a kitten because our family raised and showed dogs and my mother had always claimed that my father was afraid of cats.) After we arrived, my father stalled and stalled and stalled, until he finally announced we could go and look at kittens. He claimed that he had found a lady that raised cats and we could get one from her for a reasonable price. I was over-the-moon excited, finally my own kitten (I had my own, dog, but she was not exactly a snuggler. She had a thyroid condition that made her look and act like an anorexic crack addicted puppy with ADHD, so she refused to be held or petted or even looked in the eye for more than 10 to 15 seconds). But a kitten… I could just imagine her lying on my pillow and purring while I slept. It was going to be outstanding!

When the day arrived, we climbed in the car and headed to the “cat lady’s house”. Now, I know that by calling it “the cat lady’s house” I have painted a funky picture of a fat old crazy lady in one room ramshackle bungalow with 3 lawn gnomes standing in the yard, 6 wind chimes hanging on the porch, and 12 Siamese cats resting in the living room. But nothing could be farther from the truth. The lady WAS crazy but thin, the house was small but not a “ramshackle bungalow” but more of a filthy, broken-down lean-to, and as for the 12 Siamese cats resting in the living room… well, it was more like 50 to 60 inbred cats carpeting every inch of a 200 square foot area. There were cats everywhere! On the television! In the sinks! On top of the refrigerator! On the bookcase! It was insane! There was actually a litter box just sitting on the kitchen counter – with a cat shitting in it! (I swear it looked like one of those houses that the Animal Cops raid garbed in hazmat suits on the Animal Planet channel.) I turned to ask my dad how the hell he had found this Hello Kitty Hell Hole and I could tell he had NOT been here before (I later learned he had gotten the address from one of his new co-workers)! He was plastered to the wall! He wasn’t moving at all! Not one single inch! I wanted to just get my kitten and get the hell out of there! The lady told me, “The kittens are in the bathtub”. Her voice was deep and scratchy (I think she had a hairball). I walked into the bathroom, where a splinter group of thug-lifed tabbies seemed to be planning a coo from behind the toilet, and found the most adorable flea-riddled kittens romping in the dirtiest tub that I have ever seen. I cooed with delight and called to my dad to come see. He still did not move. “That’s o.k., sweetie. Just hurry and pick one,” he answered, his voice cracking. I turned around to see sweat pouring from his forehead and tears welling in his eyes. He really was afraid of cats. Here was my big strong father turned to quivering mess by these furry little lovable creatures. I didn’t understand it. But then I heard one of the thug cats talk about shanking the scared black man by the door and I decided to go home kitty-free!

My dad was grateful! So grateful that I ended up with rabbits, gerbil, hamsters, and lots and lots of dogs! I asked my husband for a kitten for Christmas a few years back. We went to the local animal shelter to get one… We came home with two puppies, a Labrador Retriever and a Rottweiler Mix. Most of my furniture has been gnawed on by puppy teeth but at least I don't have a little box hosting a shitting near-feral cat sitting next to my microwave!

Something Old, Something New, I want the Fairy Tale and an Asian Elvis, too!

When I was about four years old I decided that I was going to grow up and marry my Dad. Which at the time made complete sense to me. He was handsome and smart and strong. He was a good tucker-iner. He already lived at my house and whenever I was sick he brought me a new coloring book and crayons. Seriously, what else could a girl ask for from a husband? So, I used to practice being a bride by putting a towel on my head like a veil and walking up and down the hallway (incidentally that is also how I used to pretend to be a nun). I did this until my mother informed me that I could NOT marry my dad because a.) he was already married to her and b.) because, outside of the state of Arkansas, marrying your father is just icky. (I was secretly mad at my mother for this for the next 4 years. I was convinced that she was plotting to keep me from getting any good wedding presents. I was hoping for a Snoopy Sno-Cone Maker.)

In the 7th & 8th grade, my friend Roslyn and I began to plan our weddings. We had folders and notebooks and planned out every detail. Roslyn's wedding was pretty enough, but mine was SUPER-FANTASTICALLY CLASSY! I would wear an off-white Victorian high-neck dress with tons of lace and have my hair knotted in a loose chignon bun with lots of loose tendrils Sidenote: At this point in my life, I was completely obsessed with Jane Seymour and the movie Somewhere in Time; Therefore most of my imaginary "future" was set in the past, around the 1900s. (Don't Judge! It made sense at the time!) The ceremony would be held in a gazebo filled with white roses. And a famous band would play as I walked toward my groom, who at the time was optional but for the Wedding Folder's sake, I used pictures of either Michael Jackson or Matt Dillon (Who would've guessed that I probably had a better shot at Matt Dillon?)

When I finally did get married (the first time) it was not the extravagant affair I had dreamed of - my (ex)husband told me he wouldn't marry me if I wanted a big wedding (perhaps if I were sane that would have been a GREAT BIG RED FLAG!). Alas, we went to the courthouse and then to my son's baseball game. We did have a "reception" that weekend, though (and by reception I mean Kentucky Fried Chicken with potluck sides in my mother's yard). The dee-jay (the teenager from across the street) hooked an extra speaker up to the stereo and put it in the window so that everyone could hear the music. The night ended with my brand new husband and I fighting because he wanted to leave our reception to go and "celebrate" our marriage with his cousin and some of the guys (who while we we arguing was pissing in my mother's front yard). Jeez! I can't imagine why we didn't last.

However, when I married Mr. Fisher, things were different. I truly expected that we would fly to Vegas, get married by an Asian Elvis (a newly acquired fantasy of mine), and try to catch Tom Jones in concert! BING! BANG! BOOM! But Mr. Fisher wanted a wedding and more than that, wanted me to have a wedding. (Because I had kids and because I had been married, I didn't think I deserved a dream wedding but Mr. Fisher saw things differently and made sure that almost every wish I had for that day came true.) In the end, I got a fairy-tale beautiful dress, a Prince Charming of a husband, and wonderful reception free from Colonel Sanders and his 11 secret herbs and spices. Our day was perfect! There were only three wishes left unfulfilled...

1. My father was not alive to walk me down the isle.


2. I could not convince Father Shaun to dress up like an Asian Elvis before performing our ceremony.


3. And Air Supply did not perform Here I Am as I walked down the isle (Don't Judge! I started planning my wedding in 1980!).

Blender fun, anyone?

Every time I smell blueberry muffins baking I think about my dad. (He would get up on Sunday mornings and bake blueberry muffins while playing Ashford & Simpson, Teddy Pendegrass, and Barry White albums.) Whenever I hear the theme song for Land of the Lost I think about my cousin Billy. (He once kicked me in the shin so hard that it caused a blood clot just for turning the television while he was watching it. I wonder if he watched the Land of the Lost marathon on the Sci-Fi channel this weekend.) And whenever I I see the opening credits for Days of Our Lives I think about my grandma (she used to watch it at her kitchen table on a small t.v. that sat on a small rolling cart). However I think the thing that triggers my most Pavlovian response is the soft whirring of a blender. That sound makes me think of one thing. (No, not Steak 'n' Shakes Caramel Turtle Nut Sundae Shake.) It sends me back to my childhood and watching my parents and friends leveled to drunken hilarity.

My parents were very "social" creatures but they were also incredibly good parents; therefore, they didn't make "partying" a habit. However, they would invite people over from time to time. On these nights we would clean up after dinner. My sister and I would watch television while my parents would shower and get dressed and then it was off to bed with us. (Occasionally though we were allowed to greet a few guests and be adorable and charming, which was fine with us because adults tend to give kids money just before plying themselves stupid with liquor.) But inevitably we were sent to bed but we never went to sleep right away. We would stall (42 trips to the bathroom and 63 glasses of water), we would eavesdrop (you can only imagine the things tipsy adults say when they are unaware of little ears listening), and we would wait... wait for that beautiful hum of our marigold colored Sears brand blender. Because that sound meant that they were making Sip-and-Go Nakeds.

What is a Sip-and-Go-Naked you ask? Well it is a drink made of Beer, Vodka, Lemonade (or maybe Lime Juice, I can't remember) and ice mixed in a blender. So when we heard the sound of ice being crunched by the semi-sharp metal blades by our mixer, we knew the party had officially started! My parents definitely knew how to throw a good party but once Mr. Sip-and-Go-Naked made his appearance my sister and I knew that the event had evolved from shindig to bash. The music would slide from Level 5 - Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes through Level 8 - Kool & the Gang all the way to Level 10 - Marvin Gaye. My sister and I would take our stations, one peeking out of the bedroom door and the other watching out of the window into the back yard. We were convinced that once they made the Sip-and-Go-Nakeds they would ACTUALLY sip and go naked! (It never happened but we waited patiently and bore witness to lots of other ignorance... Grown people throwing other fully dressed and fully intoxicated grown people in the pool! Drunken incoherent arguments about politics, race, music and sports. My father dancing - enough said there! Or when they would "wake" my sister from her fake sleep and try to convince her to flip - she was a gymnast- for cash!) My favorite though was when my Uncle Kenny was at the house - He was a riot after a pitcher or two! (I mean, we thought so but Aunt Jackie wasn't quite as convinced of his hilarity!) Sometimes I would sneak out of my room and talk to him. He can be amazingly "deep" while plastered and then he would always hand me another 5 bucks! (Good times, good times!)

This weekend my sister and her husband invited us over for dinner, so we loaded up my grandkids and headed to Casa de Dani. The food was great! The company outstanding! My grandkids enjoyed their cousin! And she pulled out the blender!!!!! Because I had the grandkids and a long drive home, I did not drink but my husband had his first introduction to the Sip-and-Go-Naked! He started out slowly (he is not a BIG drinker and it seems that the combination of beer, vodka and lemonade does not sound alluring) but he was HOOKED fast! He did however have the good sense to quit before he was drunk and for that I was glad! Nevertheless, in the long run I will find him sitting, Sip-and-Go-Naked drunk, on the stairs discussing the vast fiscal ramifications of Global Warming with my 5 year old pajama-clad niece as she clutches a $20 bill in her cute little hand (Yes I said $20, the cost of living is higher than it was in the 70s... drunk adults need to make the necessary adjustments).

Happy Memorial Day!

I want to wish all of you a Happy Memorial Day. I hope you like the new look of the blog and invite any and all feedback. Enjoy your day (and with any luck plates and plates of delicious bar-b-que) and I will have a fresh (and hopefully amusing) story for you tomorrow!

Broken Hearted Boy seeks Ugly Friend to use as a Consolation Prize!

You know how some girls choose friends that are uglier or fatter than they are so that they always look good? Yeah, I think I'm the uglier, fatter friend. Maybe not, but all throughout Junior High and High School I had the most gorgeous friends. It started with, Tracie, my best friend at Franklin Middle School. Tracie, was (and still is) one of the most beautiful girls I have ever known. (Her skin was always perfect, she has always been thin, and unfortunately for all the other women around her, she is as nice as she is pretty). Tracie and I always had a blast together. We listened to music. We rode our bikes everywhere. We swam in the summer. We watched t.v. in the winter. We slept over at each other's houses all year round (I also used to make out with her brother sometimes after everyone at her house would go to sleep but that is really beside the point). Anyway she was a great friend but a boy I liked once told me, "She will be WAY prettier than you once she gets boobs." And honestly she is. And then there was Rachel, my super beautiful Korean friend. She was exotic, athletic, funny, and had an unnatural way of transforming all the boys around us into babbling morons. (Again though, she was uber sweet and her dad taught me a few Korean cuss words).

I don't know why but I think I was drawn to friends that seemed to "shine" brighter than others (regrettably though, they all shined so incredibly it showed EVERY SINGLE ONE of my physical imperfections). However, that was alright because they were my friends and I loved them. In high school, there was Keyla, Carmen, Joy, Avis, and my sister, Dani... all gorgeous and ALL cheerleaders. Honestly, a slumber party at my house was like a teenage boys porn fantasy (no, we weren't pillow fighting topless but there was a significant amount of pajama wearing hotness!!) So here was the problem: boys circled and swarmed us all of the time but never to be close to me. I wasn't jealous exactly but it was hard to be "the ugly friend", especially when you are not really all that ugly... in normal circles I would have been fairly decent looking (in high school I wasn't fat - unless I was pregnant - and my lazy eye rarely acted up back then). But with my friends I was well below average; therefore, I put all my time and energy into becoming the "nice one" and the "funny one", and for the most part it worked. Boys began to spend their time talking to me while they were waiting for their turn to dance with Carmen or Keyla or hanging around until Dani got home. And they found me charming. I wasn't quite as uptight as other girls and due to my inability to control what comes out of my mouth when I am nervous, they found me hilariously laid back! I became all of the guys' best buddy. They came to me for advice when they were trying to "woo" my friends and came to me to "talk" when my friends broke their hearts. And inevitably I would hear, "I should've dated you but she is just sooo beautiful and I didn't notice you." (Believe me that is only romantic in '80s movies, i.e; Some Kind of Wonderful or Secret Admirer, in real life it is just insulting!) I just wanted to scream, "Aahhhh, you sweet talker! Tell me more! Tell me more! Maybe how her glorious breasts had always blocked your view of my one good eye! Or how at first you couldn't hear me talking because you were listening to the melodious sound of her every fart!" But I didn't, once I even dated the dumb ass (I guess that actually made ME the dumb ass!).

I know it doesn't sound like it but my wounds have all healed and I still have lovely friends who all shine very brightly (a few of them, the cheerleaders from high school) but the game has changed. Because I shine now too! I am more confident, more seasoned, and even with the added weight I have grown into my looks... but most importantly I am married! Married to a man who knew us all in high school and he chose me. I was his FIRST pick! Not his fall back plan or consolation prize. That feels great! (I am actually thinking of having a tee shirt made!)

Wow, it is great to know that the underdog can win outside of those cheesy '80s movies!