Detritus

Being a bit of a packrat by nature, I've become accustomed to sorting through the piles of detritus that seem to collect on my desk on a quarterly basis - usually on the teacher's work day, like today, when I'm at work without students.

Today, I came across a paper from about 3 years ago that I was writing on during a Professional Development day (and passing to my neighbor, because, yes, we're still that immature that we pass notes). It made me absolutely laugh out loud (OMG, I LOLed!) because it reads like a student note. I'll try to reproduce it for you here... not that you care, but I'd like to remember this paper but at the same time, I'd like to throw it away!

...Estaba en el supermercando cuando Miss Peanut vió los donuts...
(fuck it, I'm doing this in English)
...saw the donuts. So she wanted a donut, but couldn't get the glass door open.

So, just like Dora, she stood back and shouted the magic word "ABRE" at the glass-fronted donut display case.

J'étais dans le supermarché quand
The Montréalais are truly bilingual
Can this get any more boring?
Hey! My pencil is from Montréal!

My ASS IS FALLING ASLEEP!

This is a fucking HARD STOOL!

Ok, you might not find this funny, but anyone who's ever been stuck in a Professional Development day with "experts" telling you what to do might appreciate it. Or not.

Vampires and Lycanthropes and Psychics, Oh My!

I've been incommunicado this week, largely thanks to my friend Sara and her THREE ginormous shopping bags of paperback novels. See, Sara and I have similar reading tastes. We like reading paranormal romances, hence the title of this post. So far this Spring Break, I've read all about Witches and Demons - the latter having a penchant for BDSM sex... Also? Some great vampire reads, full of adventure, pathos, and hot burning passion! Some biting, too, to which I, personally, am not averse. I've read about psychics, all different kinds, and the things they can do to others' minds - and bodies. Ahem. Is it getting warm in here? Just me? Okay then...

The thing is, I've been so busy reading my books because they are my escape. Escape from whom? My family. Where's my family during this Spring Break, you ask? They are planted in the same small house as me, driving me batshit insane.

My family, though I love them dearly, when in constant contact with me, are as grating on my nerves as a cheese shredder. They are like having a constant wedgie - annoying and up your butt 'round the clock, and you can only get temporary relief from it. I've barricaded myself in the bathroom a couple of times - thank you bubble bath! - just to get some peace. Truly, I will be happy when school starts again and the WCM goes back to work, too.

I need a vacation from them.

But enough of my whinging - I've got books to read!

Whassup, Peeps?

Yeah, the post is cheesy, but I'm sitting here in bed with a stale Peep in my mouth, just feeling the love for the whole world. I've had a busy Easter and, given the fact that I'm an agnostic raised by atheists, that's saying something!

I rolled out of bed this morning at about 9:45, since I was late getting to bed last night. The WCM had run into work to tend to some lab chores, so the house was peaceful. By 10:15, I was putting a cheesecake into the oven to bake. We were going to my Mom's for Easter Dinner, and she requested cheesecake - sticking it to my Aunt Bobbie, who wouldn't share her cheesecake recipe. I made a traditional Italian Ricotta cheesecake, instead of the New York style cream cheese brick recipe.

I also whipped up some Sweet Potato Casserole with Pecan Streusel topping and a big pan of Scalloped Potatoes to take. This took me most of the late morning and early afternoon, as I cook from scratch - no boxes for me! - and only have one oven.

Showers for me and the WCM, clothes, hair, no time for makeup! Mom would have to deal with my naked face - she gets miffed if I don't wear makeup. It's like I don't care, or something (um, I don't!).

We got to my mom's a little late, but still arrived well before my brother and his girlfriend arrived. The food - Oh. My. God. the food. Usually, I don't trust my mother with anything but the meat, and even then it's a dicey proposition - this woman can burn water! Today, she made a ham, and because that didn't look like enough food for 8 people, she put in 3 racks of spareribs.

For appetizers? Some shrimp wrapped in bacon with a horseradish cream sauce, because you can never have enough pig, I suppose. There was brie with honey and walnuts served with a gorgeous loaf of Tuscan bread, prosciutto-wrapped canteloupe, and a duck pate with truffles. All of this was delicious, except for the duck pate, which made me wish I was flexible enough to bend over and lick my own butt to get the nasty taste out of my mouth. Nasty!!

The ham and spareribs were joined by about 4 pounds of asparagus, the Sweet potato casserole, the scalloped potatoes, corn on the cob, buttermilk biscuits, baked beans, and coleslaw. The table was groaning under the weight of this feast. I dabbed a bunch of stuff onto my plate - 3 ribs, some of each of the potatoes, and 2 stalks of asparagus. I barely had room for cheesecake afterwards, but DAMN! it was good.

We brought our Peanut home, who fell asleep in the car, absolutely knackered from a weekend at Nana's, and had our Easter Egg hunt. The Easter Bunny, aka the WCM, hid the eggs around the first floor of our house for her to find. She had herself a bit of a candy fest, declared she didn't like Peeps but loved Reese's cups, and slumped off to bed after brushing her teeth. Which, of course, leaves me with the Peeps to myself.

So, me and my Peeps wish you and yours a Happy Easter!

Awkward!

You know when you're cruising down the road, totally into the song playing in the car, singing along at the top of your lungs? You know when, still singing at the top of the aforementioned lungs, you pull into a parking space and notice three people goggling at you with barely suppressed laughter in their eyes? Does that make you feel like a complete twat, too? No? Only me, then?

moving on...

How about when you're teaching your students and you take off the jacket to your skirt suit because your room has warmed up past toasty only to find that you've put your shirt on inside-out, because apparently you enjoy getting dressed in the dark. Do you feel like an utter moron, too? No? Me again?

moving on...

Ok, I know you've all felt this one. So you're in bed with your partner and they start feeling amorous, putting the moves on you, and you're all receptive and moaning and writhing, and you open your eyes when you have your head turned away from your partner and find a wet nose and a pair of curious brown dog eyes staring at you? Do you feel awkward then? Because I've gotta tell you, it weirds me out. No? That's good by you? You don't have a dog? Hmm.

moving on...

Now this is the last one before I start to get a complex. Don't let me down here. How about when you've been writing about blow jobs and fictional infidelity and your father discovers your blog? How 'bout then? No? Because I've got to tell you: if that ever happened to me, I'd be mortified!

A taste of power

True story this time...

So I was at a “passion party” the other night. You know this kind of party – a bunch of women tittering with embarrassment whilst passing around forty different kinds of vibrating dildos. Although, with this particular crowd, there was far less embarrassed tittering and far more bawdy suggesting going on. Even with my aunt in attendance, my cousin (her daughter) and I had a grand old time comparing notes and swapping stories.

Lubes, creams, lingerie, and toys were passed around the circle – ask me some time about how we played a game involving an eighteen-inch double-headed dildo going back and forth between our thighs... but I digress. The various unguents, edible and not, were smoothed on our forearms and sampled. One, in particular, aroused the most palaver – a product designed to suppress the gag reflex, useful when giving blow jobs. The look of instant distaste that flashed on most of the faces and the way this product was quickly tossed from woman to woman would have given away their disgust immediately if anyone had been in doubt of it before. My cousin and I exchanged a look that promised confabulation later.

After her guests had gone, my cousin and I began chatting about that reaction. See, neither of us has a problem with blow jobs. It seems that we both enjoy giving them, for various reasons. I can’t speak for my cousin, but for me, there’s such power in fellatio. Most women see this power as balanced on the man’s side – they feel that since he’s the one receiving the orgasm, that he is the dominant partner in the situation; that the woman, on her knees, is submissive. Actually, that’s quite the opposite of what I feel, even when I’m on my knees.

You see, during that time, I am the one in control. I can draw out his pleasure or I can make him come quickly. His sensual torture can be intensified at my whim. When his cock is in my mouth, he is in my power: I have his most sensitive part next to my teeth – the part of me that can do maximum damage. He has to submit to my tender ministrations, lest I slip. More than that, though, is the power to bring my man to the edge of himself, then pull him over with my lips and tongue. Wringing out the anguished moans as he tries to hold back, hearing his breathy exhortations and eventual warnings, feeling his hands fist in my hair as he attempts to slow my progress – these are my finest moments, the moments when I claim dominion.

I may be on my knees looking up, but the eyes looking down into mine are adoring in their surrender.

A Solitary Day

Once my father picked up Miss Peanut today, there was quiet - the kind of quiet that invigorates, not calms. Good thing, too, since my house was a mess! Three days without running the dishwasher in my house is something akin to a disaster, especially during a typical week where I've cooked almost every night. Tying on an apron, defiantly looping the bow in front - I'm slim enough to that now, hah! - I unlatched the dishwasher to find... dirty dishes. Seems that the Good Samaritan that had loaded and "run" the dishwasher earlier in the week had neglected to unwrap the tablet. Hmmmmm, wonder who that could be? (Picture archly raised eyebrow here)

This put a serious kink into my plans, as I was now grimly facing down a double sink brimming with unwashed dishes. You remember that "Good Samaritan" crack, right? Well, that is the attitude most often taken by the WCM toward doing any kind of chore inside the house: he's "helping" me. He doesn't see that he has any kind of share in the work on the inside of the house. Bless his pea-pickin' l'il heart. His good work put me behind in my "fun-having" schedule for the day.

So, after a bit of organizing and setting one sink of dishes to soak in some hot soapy water while the dishwasher worked its magic (with an unwrapped tablet this time - I am, after all, a professional), I instead tackled the behemoth of a vacuum cleaner. Now, I have no real problem per se with the vacuum cleaner, but I just don't seem to use it enough - especially for a woman with two corgis. I had to empty it three times after doing two rooms - rooms where there are mainly hardwood floors! Hairy little buggers, corgis are. But, my nifty new-ish vacuum has all kinds of neato spiffy attachments, so I used all of 'em! I love the little one that has a rotating brush in it to clean upholstered furniture. I turned my sofa inside out and vacuumed every inch of it. Sound domestic? I was. I washed. I dusted. I vacuumed.

Both of my longtime readers may remember my attitude toward housework. It still stands. And I have it on good authority that doing my housework would be well worth the pay. Still, no takers. Alas... After the vacuuming was complete, I took myself out for an errand run, came back, unloaded and reloaded the dishwasher, and watched a movie: The Jane Austen Book Club. It was fantastic! Definitely a chick flick, though. When it was done, it was time for dinner.

I took myself out to a local eatery, called Culinaria. It's a nice little bistro, where I enjoyed a tasty Merlot with incredibly mouth-watering lamb chops served on a bed of broccoli rabe and mashed potatoes. Seriously amazing food! Dessert, though, was the most amazing mouthgasmic experience I've ever had - and believe me, in my 37 years as a professional eater, I've had some seriously awesome tastebud explosions. This one topped them all. I seriously had to wave away the server because I was having "a moment." It was a flourless chocolate torte, so rich and creamy, but with enough resistance to the tongue as to provide a challenge to that muscle. I swear, my eyes closed and my toes curled during that first bite. I think I may have moaned, or at least whimpered a bit... Served with a hot coffee, strong and bitter enough even through the cream and sugar that I doctored it with, to cut the sweetness, it was the perfect end to a perfect meal.

When I got home, the WCM's butt was firmly planted in his chair, computer anchored in his lap as is his wont, and the indifference in the room thick enough to serve sliced with tea. So, I did what I usually do - I escaped to the kitchen and baked a cake.

So now, I've got cake. Want some?

Nightmare

Disclaimer: you've seen it before, so it should come as no shock to you that I do this creative writing thing. The things I write can be a trifle, er, naughty, so be forewarned! This is just creative writing, alas, and is not my real life, which is quite boring, actually.

Cocooned in the cozy warmth of my bed, the rustle of the sheets penetrates my dreams. The mattress shifts, and my pillow gives as another head comes to rest behind mine. An arm snakes beneath my pillow, capturing the hand that I have curled under my chin. The other arm crosses over my body, fingers sliding between my ribcage and the mattress. Pressing my back up against the warmth behind me, I shimmy until I am snugly cradled in the firm curve of his body.

Drowsily aware of each other, we drift in and out of consciousness, unable to truly settle back into our slumber. Each twitch or movement serves only to highlight our closeness. His hand slides out from under my ribs and moves up to cup my breast, lazily fondling its softness. Lips descend on my neck, pressing soft kisses along its exposed length. Moaning, I reach behind me and plunge my fingers through his thick hair, holding him to me, begging wordlessly for more.

His hands roam as his hips flex against my bottom, stroking his hardness against me. His fingers find my core and massage me through my pajamas. Gyrating back against him, aroused beyond belief, reveling in the gentleness of his touch, I moan his name into the darkness of the room. He stops moving.

It is the wrong name...

Luxury

So you know those three pounds that plagued me last week? Well, they're gone. They took a friend or two with them, too. They really made me think, those three pounds did.

See, here's the thing: for all of my life, losing weight has been a battle. I'd have to gear up, mentally prepare, consult experts, and map out a plan of attack. Then, there would be the launch of "the DIET," where the initial reward would be good, but the stall would inevitably occur at 30 pounds lost (yeah, I was seriously, extremely, VERY overweight) and stay there. Forever.

Now, for three days, I stopped eating all the extra sugar and carbs I was cramming into my piehole (candy, cookies, toast with lemon curd) and the three pounds are history. It seems too simple, somehow. Where are the plans? Where is the arduous mental battle? Where is the overwhelming fatigue and disappointment? Nowhere, it seems...

It made me think about possibly losing those other 6-8 pounds I have hanging around - my fat security blanket, if you will. I'm perfectly happy where I am right now, don't get me wrong. But, I now have the luxury of being able to say "you know, I could lose those last couple of pounds." It seems almost decadent that losing those couple of pounds could be so damn easy.

You watch, though. They won't budge now that they've heard me talk about them.

Fluff

I've got random bits of fluff blowing about my brain box - kind of the cranial equivalent of belly button lint. I think I'll allow you to witness the expurgation.

+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+

Do you know just how hard it is to find the right pair of shoes? I've been searching high and low for a pair of tan stilettos. Can't find 'em anywhere, and I'm greatly peevish over it. I've found a lovely pair of taupe and white round-toed pumps that will do as a substitute, but... it's not the same. I've also been looking for a pair of navy and white spectator pumps, but alas... unless I want to spend well over 300 samoleans, I'm screwed.

+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+

#879 on the "Things I Hate List": Picking up after the WCM
See, the WCM has a lot of great points - he can do stuff. He can replace a bathroom sink. He can fix a toaster-oven. He can rewire an outlet and install a ceiling fan. He can patch up a wall with drywall, install countertops, and change my oil (not, unfortunately, a euphemism). However, the one thing he can't manage to do is clean up after himself. I am, oh, say, a wee tad bit passive-aggressive when it comes to cleaning up after a 43-year old grown-ass man him, so I don't. Tools litter my house. It's a mess. I hate it, but cleaning up after the WCM is a really bitter pill to me.

+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+

Slightly irritated by: (*gasp!*) Nigella Lawson
Ok, so I love, Love, LOVE Nigella Lawson, to the point of having an absurd girl-crush on her. She's a great cook, very literate and articulate, and possesses a curvaceously fabulous figure. I was thrilled to the marrow when Food Network began carrying her newest series "Nigella Express," and I've DVRed the episodes. It would seem, though, that my Nigella of old has fled the scene and been replaced by a plasticized chirpy Nigella-esque substitute. It's as though they took all of the good stuff about her and played that up to the point of caricature. It's exaggerated and almost, well, affected. Yuck.

+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+

#27,146 on the "Things I Can't Do Without" List: Kissing
So, this is on the TICDW list, but it should probably be on the Things I Really Miss list, since it appears that the WCM gave up kissing for Lent. In 2003. He's not big on the kissing, usually reserving it for either bribery or for when he has to (you know, during the Bi-Annual Shag). I'm rapidly realizing that I really, really miss kissing. Chewing gum to satisfy this oral fixation of mine just hasn't been cutting it of late. I think I'm going to have to tie the WCM down and not let him up until he kisses my lips numb.

+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+

So, the scale says I've gained 3 pounds. This is the first time in almost 21 months that the scale has registered a gain that's not water. And I know when it's water. I can't see these three pounds, and believe me, I'd know where they were - I scrutinize my body quite closely these days. I know where every sag and stretch mark is, where each contour should be, and the what the circumference of by big toe is (don't ask). I don't see 'em. I'm not denying their existence, I'm just saying I don't see 'em. I'm feeling the impact of having the scale tell me about them, though, and I don't like it. I don't like it one bit. So, for the next couple of days, I'm going to have to give up cookies. And candy. And serious starches. I'm not, however, giving up my mochas - a girl's gotta draw the line somewhere.

+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+

I think I've got most of that fluff by now. I would go knit a sweater with it. Except I can't knit.

Meme

Answer the questions using just three words.

1. Where is your cell phone?
plugged in, charging

2. Your boyfriend/girlfriend?:
Husband: pity me

3. Your hair?:
Short and spiky

4. Where is your father?
at his house

5. Cheesecake?
Where's my fork?

6. Your favorite thing to do?
alone or not?

7. Your dream last night?
Really can't remember

8. Your favorite drink?
Starbucks Caffe Mocha

9. Your dream car?
awesome gas mileage!!!

10. The room you're in?
Family television room

11. George W. Bush?
Bye bye, now!

12. Your fears?
death of family

13. Nipple rings?
No fucking way

14. Who did you hang out with last night?
Peanut and WCM

15. What you're not good at?
Enforcing Self-Discipline

16. Your best friends?
Intelligent, witty, talented

17. One of your wish list items?
Trip to England

18. Where did you grow up?:
Here, Small State

19. The last thing you did?:
Changed the Channel

20. What are you wearing?
Pajamas, panties, socks

21. Tattoo on the lower back?:
not now, thanks

22. Ketchup?
my daughter's vegetable

23. Your computer?
hand me down

24. Your life?
mostly pretty good

25. Your mood?
Good, occasionally peevish

26. Missing?
My maternal grandmother

27. What are you thinking about right now?
eating a cookie

28. Your car?
piece of crap

29. Your work?
Validation, at last!

30. Your summer?
Travel and work

31. Your relationship status?
married, seemingly forever

32. Your favorite color(s):
Emerald, Amethyst, Ruby

33. Last time you laughed?
nattering with Rona

34. Last time you cried?
late last night

35. High school?
frustrating, stifling, misunderstood

36. This quiz:
Amusing time-waster

Thanks to my friend Mel for this one!

If I suddenly disappear, you should know...

My husband is trying to kill me, y'all. I swear, it's an insidious plot to give me a heart attack.

He comes home tonight all cheerful, and the very first words out of his mouth were "you know, I forgot to tell you before I left this morning, but you look wonderful today."

Y'all, I nearly dropped dead right there in the kitchen. I can recall only 2 other times in my nearly 18 years of marriage to this man that he's spontaneously complimented me on anything, much less on my appearance.

There are only two explanations for his behavior - one: he's trying to kill me; two: he wants something.

I wonder what he wants?