Marlo Thomas Tweets?

I was reading a blog the other day, and it said something having a conversation with Marlo Thomas, then comma, a best-selling erotic novel writer. It seemed that Marlo Thomas started writing erotic novels. So I clicked on the link, which brought me to her Twitter account. Apparently the person who wrote the words were a bit vague, and the comma separated two idea; it was not their attention to attribute the "best-selling erotic novel writer" description to Ms. Thomas. Anyway, I clicked on a link from her Twitter account, and it brought me to one of her videos.

I had not seen Ms. Thomas for years (really just remember her in Free to be You and Me), and although I was unable to identify her with how she looks (she looks really good, actually, for a 73-year-old; I would have guessed she was 50 by her appearance), her voice has not changed at all.

The video went to another Marlo Thomas video, and another one. And I loved her videos. They made me feel like I was 10 years-old again, listening to someone tell me how to live my life. I don't know exactly how to explain it, but it was comforting. I felt like I was listening to her words on a record player (not a turntable), sitting on my twin-sized bed, floral colorful printed bedspread, the whole little-girl enchilada. I like feeling like a 10-year-old every once in a while.

After a while, the cue must have run out of Marlo Thomas clips, and I was snapped into reality by some other person – perhaps Tory Johnson talking about career advice. And I was not ready to put on a pantsuit and act like a grownup.

Speaking of women with interesting names (Marlo), I have a confession to make: I get Alanis Morissette and Avril Lavigne mixed up in my head. Ironic is one of my favorite songs, even though it does not make sense. And I really though Avril sang Girlfriend.

Don't pretend, I think you know I'm damn precious,
And hell yeah I'm the mother fucking princess,
I can tell you like me too and you know I'm right.

Having Your Cake

When I used to blog – and I was fairly good at it – I would write first thing in the morning, and then check on the blog a couple of times per day, harvesting the comments like plump, juicy red tomatoes in the afternoon sun. I would respond to the comments, being oh, so pleased with myself.

When I was a little girl, we had a garden in the backyard. In late July and August, I would be responsible for picking the tomatoes. I would travel down each row, looking for the bright red treasures, sometimes exposed for all to see and sometimes hidden under two well-placed leaves. That is really what I enjoyed about the summer; finding the gifts, either easily spotted or well-hidden. The comments I would pick were so similar. I knew I could count on Deb, on Grant, on Ian, on some others to write comments. And then there would be occasional readers, unique readers, just different readers commenting on my words.

Now it is different. I write in the morning, and I read a few blogs after I write. I do this perhaps three times per week, knowing that I need to read others' writing to feel more connected. Instead of taking several hours per day, paid for by my employer, I now spend about 30 minutes three days per week. I still get to do all of the things I normally do, and then three times per week, I get to write a bit.

I am having my cake and eating it too, I suppose. Comments and tomatoes. No mention of cake.

Ode to a Vibrator

Deb wrote something on Friday about stifling. And, well, it inspired me to write a few verses of poetry. When I was in high school, we had to write a lot of poetry – and since I hated it, I rebelled by making fun of many of the teachers in the school. You see, my English teacher was the advisor for the school’s literary magazine, and I did not want any of my words going in that thing. So without any fanfare, here is an original poem by Leesa.

Ode to a Vibrator

Oh, my three plastic egg,
So discrete and cute,
With a remote control that’s easy to use,
This “friend” of mine is a bute.’

I got you as a gag gift,
Accepting it made me blush,
Who knew you would become a welcome friend,
This fact you have to hush.

I don’t need to shave my legs,
I don’t need to brush my hair,
I just need to ensure the batteries are fresh,
Before I place you . . . there.

You’re always at my bedside table,
I am never ever in need,
You never say things to pressure me,
Into doing the deed.

I don’t have to be polite,
I don’t have to laugh at your jokes,
I don’t have to make coy suggestions,
Before you pleasure me with your electronic strokes.

You are designed for going out,
You are designed for playing an erotic game.
I can’t imagine bringing you to a bar inside of me,
For I am much too tame.

Oh, my AA-powered friend,
I don’t have to lie,
If I want you three times per day,
My actions don’t have to be sly.

You expect nothing from me,
You silently sputter and hum along,
I don’t have to wear a push-up bra,
With a matching, uncomfortable thong.

So while you don’t take me to dinner,
Buy me roses or other mushy stuff
You bring me something (cough) few men have,
And trust me, that’s more than enough.

Curse of 27

I saw an article today by E! Online, entitled "Did Amy Winehouse Suffer the Curse of the 27 Club?". I really wanted to blast the statistics, but the article itself claimed that no more people died at 27 than at any other age. That would have been my point. The article also said that numerologists dislike 27 because the digits add to nine.

Have you ever noticed that numerologists are all about simple math? I mean, they deal with additions and subtractions, and translating letters into numbers (Nero = 666).

Well, I looked at the people who died at 36, taking the numerologists's perspective, and here are some of the famous people who died at that age: Lord Byron, Bob Marley, Marilyn Monroe, And princess Diana. And the weirdest thing about that the entries is that princess Diana is listed as "Diana Spencer, much-photographed glamorous blonde and Elton John song topic (July 1, 1961 -- August 31, 1997)." I would think princess of England and heir to the throne at one time trumps glamorous blond.

Tomorrow I will post an original poem. Be gentle.

Addictions

The other day, I was talking with a girlfriend who has been recently separated. Well, her hubbie lost his job shortly after they got married (he is a hunky construction worker, 'nuf said), and he just did not really look that hard for a job. She has a good job, and so he stayed home to play WoW.

I could never get into Wow. Well, I have never played, but I have a feeling there is a learning curve, and I don't do well without instant gratification. I mean, I am sweet and all, but I don't think I could invest a bunch of time so that I would do whatever it is you do in WoW. I am assuming it has something to do with killing dwarfs or zombies or whatever.

And it is not like I am strong and don't have an addictive personality. I have never tried drugs, partly because if I ever did, I would be turning tricks for dime bags. I don't know what that means exactly, but I have heard it somewhere. Yeah, I get around.

Our society likes addictions – we say that we are addicted to chocolate, cell phones, whatever. I sort of see it, but it is hard to wrap my brain around having someone playing WoW being in the same category of someone who loses their child because they spend all of their time and money on cocaine. It just seems different, you know?

I have been incredibly busy right now - so I have not written. Sorry; please forgive me. I will try to do better next week. Am I addicted to blogging? I don't think so.

Dating Milestones

When I started dating again, I began talking to several people about new dating rules. A near universal first rule is have your first date in a public place, for instance. And most of my girlfriends who are single suggest you decide how many dates you will go on before you are willing to have sex with the guy. That seems calculating, but upon review, that seemed to make a lot of sense. After really good kissing, I don't think logically and I might do things I would not do with a clear head. Most of my girlfriends (and a gay male friend) seemed to sleep with people at the third date. In fact, the gay guy said that if there is no sex at date three, he is on to the next person, no matter how much he likes the guy.

With that in mind, I thought it would be fun to have a list of dating milestones – this is taken from my memory of magazine and news articles, none of which I want to find right now. These milestones are not mine – but I will comment on mine, I suppose, at times.

First Date. Goodnight Hug. I read somewhere that 44 percent of first dates end in a kiss. Here is my rule – I won't initiate a first date kiss, but I will kiss all first dates if they make the move. And yes, I have wet and parted my lips when I wanted a kiss, but I thought the guy would not end the date in a kiss. It just fascinates me that 56 percent of first dates don't end in a kiss – I don't think I would say 'yes' to a date if a kiss was out of the question on the date.

Second Date. Goodnight Kiss. Although I will kiss on the first date, I assume most kiss by the second date. If I had a short kiss on the first date, if I say 'yes' to a second, the second date has a bit of French kissing.

Third Date. Goodnight Fuck. Here is where things get weird – on a first date, less than half of people kiss, but the most common date where people have intercourse is the third date. This makes no sense to me. I don't have a third date rule that some do. When I was in college, I did not have a lot of third dates (I said 'no' a lot on a second date request if I did not think things would progress, mostly because it interfered with studying. I would say 'yes' to all first dates because when I was in eighth grade, we had a Sadie Hawkins dance and a boy said 'no' to me.)

Forth Date. Interesting Date. For me, if any of the first four dates are not really interesting, I am probably not going to say 'yes' to another dinner- and-a-movie type date.

Sixth Date. Leesa's Goodnight Fuck. If I say 'yes' to a sixth date, I think things are progressing nicely, and although my Church does not agree, we end up fucking. And if he does not call the next day, the relationship is over. Yeah, I am a bitch, but I want a thoughtful man.

I could go on-and-on, but if I do, Deb may complain or sue me for trademark infringement. I mean, I have not seen what date number the anal sex, three-way or roleplaying dates are.

Dating Exhaustion

I try to write on this blog on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, and as you may have noticed, I did not write Wednesday. And part of this is because I have been dating so much.

I went out Thursday, Saturday, Sunday and Tuesday - three different guys, and two of the guys were first dates. I won't mention the first dates right now - both were dinner dates, and both were "okay." The men were nice, they did not do anything to embarrass me or themselves, and they were perfect gentlemen. Perfect gentlemen are not normally interesting to write or read about.

Anyway, on Date #3 with one guy, we had a long talk at the end of the night. It must have been about 1AM when we started talking - we had been kissing before. I let him know I was new to dating, and I was not interested in anything too heavy. I also said that sex was off the table because I have not officially divorced. He texted me the following day, so I figure the talk did not scare him off.

We had un-official Date #4 on Tuesday night. Well, probably unofficial to him, but when I shave my legs to meet someone, the time goes in the date column. He brought chinese food for dinner and we watched a foreign film (containing subtitles). Well, there is some backstory. I had to drop off my car at the shop, and I sort of wanted my date to go with me because he is a guy. Anyway, after chatting with the mechanic, the mechanic asked if we were together. He looked a little shocked, but he said, "Yes" with no further explanation. That seemed a bit forward, but comforting at the same time.

Anyway, we had dinner and the movie on the couch. A little hand-holding because well, just because. He had his warm hand on my knee, and I thought he was wondering how far up my thigh I would allow his digits to travel. The movie was confusing, and we started necking on the couch. He had actually, before that night, said that he wanted to watch a movie in, without making out. I think he wanted to let me know he heard 'sex was off the table.'

After the movie, we were making out anyways. And about an hour later, he was talking off my panties, leaving my dress on but pleasing me, oh, so pleasing me, downstairs. I let him please me for longer than I want to care to admit, and afterwards, he shyly asked "if I came." Not sure why guys ask that, but I wanted to say, "Fuck, yes, I had multiple multiple orgasms. Strong orgasms. Surprising orgasms. Fucking awesome orgasms."

I think he wanted a number, but I just smiled and shook my head in affirmation. I was blissful, and that's what mattered most at the time, and that's all he needed to know. He looked like he needed more, and I vocalized, "Uh huh." It was almost a whisper, and here I was, want-to-be writer, and this is how I answer.

I did not plan for this to happen, but now, this serial dater, this guy I know who likes to keep things light. He texted me later that evening, then a couple of more times the following day.

So far with these dating experiments, all I have done is say, "yes" to dates and say 'no' to sex or even grabbing my ass on the first date. Guys, I think, like for their women to say 'no' sometimes. At least, they stick around until they here a 'yes.' I think that is strange, but I think that's the way it is.