Blogger on Vacation

Okay, I am going to take a few days off. When I am not at work, I don't turn on the computer. Yay, for me, but because of this, I don't update my blog during those days.

I have not written them, but I will try to write some quick fillers for the next week (by the time I post this the fillers will be written or I will edit this out; I am sneaky that way). Unfortunately, they will most likely be erotic stories. Sorry guys, but I did this last year also. So, if you want to look at some passably good writing, please see the following entries:

Of Amateur Singers and iPods
I am sort of proud of this post, pimping an amateur singer on YouTube. Plus an iPod obsession. I could have filled out the post a bit, but I was proud with the finished product.

This blog is currently moving
There was a little section on gifts that was written for the Christmas season, but it applies all year long. As far as a Christmas post goes, this one is a quasi-Christmas post.

Forced Promotion
A conversation between me and my boss, with a little bit of an interjection on what I was thinking, and a humorous look at what he was thinking. I can't however, read my boss' mind. I am not sure if it is because I don't have the ability, or he rarely thinks.

Warning: the next three posts are of an "adult" nature, and actually, two of the stories are fairly bizarre for me to write (written on a dare a while back). My favorite is the one concerning kissing.

My blog has also had a face-lift. I have gone through and tried to tag all of my erotic stories with the word "erotic," as well as used a tag for "favorite." Looking back, I should have used the word "popular" because the posts were mostly popular for past readers. Since I have more than 360 posts, I am not going to tag all of my posts, but I did want to at least tag a few of the older posts.

I wish you all a Merry Christmas, a Wonderful Kwanzaa and Happy Hanukkah.

Dancing at Club One

This is another pure fiction piece. Funny thing is when you stop cheating on your hubbie, and you don't want to divulge those intimate moments, you either have to remember things or make up things. My erotic writing tends to do both.

My friends are a bunch of pussies. I mean, hubbie is out-of-town, and we go out dancing on a week night, and all of my friends poop out by 9:30 pm. "I have work tomorrow." Pussies.

So here I am, slightly tipsy, and I have to wait a fuckin' hour to go home because (1) I will not drive under the influence, and (2) I am too-goddamned-cheap to pay for a taxi.

And then I remember my cel phone. He called tonight. I don't have his number in my phone because, well, he is a guy that I don't want hubbie to know about, but he called. I am so glad I did not clear out the history yet (will have to do that before hubbie returns), but I can call him back.

The phone rings.

And rings.

And rings.

I hang up before it goes to voice mail. Fuck.

So I am going over to the bar to get some water, and my phone vibrates.

I flip the phone open, plug my other ear and respond, "Yeah."

"Hey, sexy." He answered my call after all.

"Can you get the fuck over here?"

"Sure. Where is here, hun?"

Yeah I am tipsy, and my internal conversations are crowding my brain. "Club One."

"Be there in an hour."

"Hey, you are in your hotel room, right? It is like a ten minute walk, if the elevator is stuck. Take your penis out of your hand and get your ass over here now. If you are not here in 10 minutes, don't bother coming."

I met Jamie online, and he lives in Georgia. He travels a lot, and so he has been in Savannah "doing contracting" for a while. I don't know what that is, and I don't really care. All I know is that he would masturbate for me online, and I figure that's what he was doing when I called.

"Okay, but I have to get dressed," he stammers.

"Sweet fuck, I am at Club One. No one cares how you are dressed. Ten fucking minutes."

Of course, this was an empty threat – I was still going to be at Club One for another hour, unless I went for a walk. But I wanted Jamie to buy me drinks.

For those who don't know, Club One was made famous by Savannah's own Lady Chablis, one many memorable characters in Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil.

Anyway, I go to the dance floor to dance another song, and then head over to the bar for a water. I drink it a little too quickly, as I spill some on my blouse, not noticeable since I have been dancing for almost two hours and I am swimming in my clothes.

As I put the drink down, I accidentally bump into the woman next to me, and I turn to say I am sorry. Her response, "No problem."

I do a double-take and it is Jamie. Jamie is wearing a black skirt and hose, ugly black and red top and a fucking wig. Then I remember some of his masturbation sessings – he likes wearing hose. I just did not know he liked dressing all the way up.

Jamie grins, "Surprise."

He takes my hand and we make it onto the dance floor. Even in stockings and a skirt, he acts like the man and leads. I don't mind.

After two songs, I excuse myself to pee, and after I enter the ladies room, I turn around because someone has followed me in. It is Jamie.

Our eyes meet, and we both know why he has followed me in the restroom.

We grab each other's hand and bolt towards the stall, he wanting the last stall, and me wanting the one before the last stall. Like the man he is, we take his stall to find someone has puked in it. A second later, we are in the stall I would have chosen, because I just assumed it would be cleaner.

I kiss his lips, and he just says, "Turn around."

I obey, flipping up my skirt. He does the same, and then chuckles. It takes him a second to slip on a condom, and nearly instantly, I feel him enter my pussy from behind.

He reaches from under my blouse to grab onto my breasts, and I feel so sweaty and dirty. The toxic air fills my lungs, the urine, the next stall's contents, you get the idea. But once he begins thrusting, everything else just goes away.

He wobbles a couple of time, he wearing heels. I can't but wonder what size he has on, as he climaxes. I am nowhere near coming, but we are in a restroom, and as luck would have it, no one has entered. Well, except for Jamie's penis, I correct myself.

After he takes himself out, and we both straighten our skirts, I hear someone enter the restroom. I mouth for Jamie to be quiet, and someone stumbles to another stall. After a moment, we hear her pee streaming into the toilet, and it reminds me that I have to go.

She calls to us, not really knowing there are two of us because of her drunkenness, I suppose. "Any TP?"

I sit on the toilet and hand her the TP from under the stall. She grabs it, and Jamie mouths to me that he wants me to pee.

He cannot see anything, and so I oblige. What the hell, he just fucked me in the ladies room. As I start to pee, he touches my left breast, and I stop momentarily. Then I finish peeing.

My stall-mate hands me the TP as she finishes, and I tear off two sheets.

Jamie takes it from me. Christ, now he wants to wipe me, too.

"Front to back," I mouth, making sure he wipes me in the right direction.

"What?" my stall-mate asks. Jamie also looks confused.

"Nothing, I say to my stall-mate. Just reminding myself to wipe from front to back. Learned it as a little girl. Silly, I know.

Jamie gives me the most erotic wiping in my life, as the stall-mate leaves.

We start laughing as we exit the bathroom, arm in arm. What a terrific dance partner.

1000 Words and a Little Fluid

Recently, I was looking at who was linking to my site, and one of the new links was a Masturbation Site. From there, I stumbled onto another site, and instead of it being a masturbation site (where they talk about masturbation and provide images), this site had the results of said masturbation (think cum on pictures). Since then, the site got hacked and all of the images and stories were removed, so you can't find the site I found. Anyway . . . .

The first thing I thought was, "how weird." Then I looked at image after image of what was normally a very sweet-looking girl, and the cum that was covering the picture. The milky cum, splattered on the page, and I started, to my surprise, to get very aroused. I did not want to get aroused, and typing it now, I am thinking, what the fuck, but at the time, I was aroused. Talk about perversion. Or is it fettish? Again, what the fuck. But let me continue.

I was thinking of the tributes these men were making to these beauties. They were suggesting, through their pictures, that the girls were sexy – so sexy, that they inspired a masturbation session. Now I am trying to figure out this fetish. Jees.

To my surprise, for some reason, I really liked the way one man's cum looked, and the pictures he chose. I started assuming things about him by these two attributes alone.

This is an entry, just wondering if I had taken things further than thinking about his attributes.

Against my better judgment, I emailed him. This unknown man I will call Jesse in this story.

We were going back and forth, chatting about what was going on in our lives, nothing terribly sexual actually. I had mentioned that since Halloween was on a weekday, I had to have two costumes for Halloween – one for a fancy party we were invited to on Sunday, and then my costume for Halloween.

I can be more discretionary about my costume on Halloween, but the costume for the office-sponsored party on Saturday had to be special. It could not be lewd or crude or sexy; not that I would ever chose a lewd or crude costume.

You see, I was Elizabeth from the movie "Pirates of the Caribbean." It was an easy costume to come up with – I got the medallion from a shop that sells lots of costume jewelry, and that was really the hard part. I will have to admit, I love costume jewelry, but I rarely wear any.

I have a Victorian dress that I wore when I was much younger. It is an Ivory-colored dress, with lots of intricate work. Now, I do not have a stay to go under the dress, but I did wear one of my VS push-up bras. I wore my hair up, with ringlets framing my face. In all, I tried to make myself look in the right period, even though the dress was probably made 100 years after it should have been made. Okay, this is probably too much detail for this audience . . . .

So anyway, I went to the party as Elizabeth.

Well, Jesse suggested he honor Ms. Knightley, and you know, him just talking about it seemed, how shall I say it, rather sexy. Sort of using one's mind to get excited.

Now Jesse and I have not discussed it, but I imagine he got hard just looking for a nice pic of Ms. Knightley. Me, I am fortunate that he is choosing the picture, as I really am curious about what sort of picture he will eventually "do." Then after he chooses the picture, he has to print it out somehow, avoiding detection from others. Does he use the nice color printer at the office during the lunch hour? I have not a clue.

And then, when he is stroking himself, looking at Ms. Knightley, is he thinking of Keira or our email chats? I know I want him to think of me when he cums onto her page, but I really don't know what will be going through his mind.

Is it strange that I am jealous of someone who only exists in film? Oh, how weird I feel at revealing this perversion. I think I need a shower. And I am not talking butakke. Unless Jesse's game. Damn perversion, in less than one thousand words.

A Kiss Between Friends

She tucked her dyed blond hair behind her ear for the second time in one minute, and this actually comforted me. I could tell she was nervous as well.

We had been working together for eight months in retail, which means we had lots of time to talk. And because the level of customer service stinks, we had few customers so we were able to talk to one another a lot. And when there were no customers in the shop, sex was the topic of choice. She enjoyed hearing about my exploits (married men), and I enjoyed hearing about hers (college guys and gals). I am eight years her senior, but she had experiences I had never had.

Long story short, she teased me about saying that my sexual life would not improve with my ever-increasing number of married lovers. She said it is like golfing more without lessons. You just don't learn anything new. But by taking a female lover, you improve your love life. Personally, I think she just wanted to get me into bed, and funny thing was, I was approaching her on her bed, looking at her nervously tell me that she will be my teacher.

She thought it would be better if I approached her on the bed, and as my feet felt like I was wearing cement shoes. I could not even feel my toes touch the dated shag carpet in her bedroom. Yes, I was in my co-workers bedroom, looking at her in a festive emerald green silk negligee.

I precariously sat on the bed, wondering how to make a move on her.

At that moment, Lara touched my hand, saying, "Sweetie, you look so scared. We can just talk if you want." And we started to talk, about almost anything but sex. And I almost forgot where we were until Lara looked at me as if she wanted to kiss me.

And I leaned into her, and our lips met. Softly, sweetly. My closed eyes just imagined what she looked like. I wanted to see us, kissing. Oh, I was lost in Lara's mouth for what seemed like an eternity.

As our lips parted, she grinned and wiped her mouth. Yeah, the kiss started out tender and eroded into a special, sloppy kiss. And Lara whispered, almost cooing, "Leesa, dear, we can stop this at any time."

"I know," was my answer, and my thought was, "I don't want to stop this." I am sure I spoke this with my eyes, because at that inner thought, Lara placed her right hand on my breast. I was fully clothed, but I felt naked at that moment. I placed my hand on her small hand, a hand smaller than anyone had touched me before, as if to say, "thanks, sweetie, you are so gentle, you are so warm, you are so special."

Our eyes met, and we just stared at one another for a moment. I notice that Lara did not tuck her hair behind her ear. There was no need. The nervousness just melted away. While I don't remember the moment by moment experiences that day, I will never forget that first kiss. Lara remains in my mind. And as she predicted, she taught me things that made me a better lover.

Of Amateur Singers and iPods

ysabellabrave
I have found a blogger (ysabellabrave in an unlikely place: youtube. I have been enjoying her for a while – on youtube. She sings, and the reason I have not mentioned her before is that, well, I assumed she was lip-syncing. In her latest video, she is holding her cat and you can tell it is her. For those of who have not seen streaming video, sometimes the sound and video are off a bit, something that makes her videos appear as if the audio and video comes from different sources (insert pithy but technologically accurate remark by prata that explains that they come from different sources).

She says she loves the blues, and I bet she does. But her voice reminds me of the sirens of the 1920s (and a bit earlier), and some of the stars of the 1930s and 1940s. Anyway, I open my browser and listen to the songs while I am working (and writing this blog). I don't watch the videos much – but, men, she is a cutie so you may want to watch! What I would love to do is convert the video to MP3 and take them with me on my iPod. I know, there are professional singers who may have more talent than she has, but I just enjoy her singing. I guess I finally get American Idol. And her performances remind me more of a live performance. Sorry. I am off on a tangent.

The only thing I don't know is if she is really who she says she is. Lonelygirl15 was supposed to be some high schooler, and she was a professional actress. Ysabellabrave represents herself as a fraud investigator that started singing lessons about a year ago. Oh, I believe her, but you know, I can be easily fooled.

iPod accessories
Okay, so I would love to get ysabellabrave on my iPod. Did I mention that I love my iPod? A love bordering on unhealthy obsession. Really. iPods are so freakin' addictive. Apple, please deposit money in my Paypal account for the free advertising. First, you invest lots of time converting your CDs to a format for your iPod, and then you learn about accessories.

The first accessory I got was an armband. Mobile tunes. Loved it. So I can ignore the world and listen to music. Great. Next thing I got was an FM transistor, so I could listen to my iPod in the car with my car stereo. Okay, the quality sort of sucks, but I got my iPod in my car now. So I can use my iPod when I am walking and in my car.

What next. iHome, specifically the i iH36W, an under-the-kitchen-cabinet iPod and Shuffle Stereo Player with FM/TV/Weather Band and Remote Control. Say that several times quickly. So I can listen to my tunes when in the kitchen, chopping onions. Hey, people, I chop a lot of onions.

The next thing I got was some cables to pipe the iPod music into the stereo. Cables so that whatever is on my iPod can get all the way to my entertainment center. Boys and girls – lets count the locations: while walking, in the car, in the kitchen, in the living room. What the hell would be next? The bathroom, dear readers, with the iLounge Toilet Paper Dispenser. And y'all thought I was going to take my iPod in the bedroom. No thanks. I love listening to ysabellabrave, but I am not sure I would be able to listen to her again after, well, you know.

This blog is currently moving

Blogger
Okay, all day yesterday, there was a message: "This blog is currently moving." I had written my post yesterday, and as in previous postings, asking if I would want to move my blog. I have read that eventually all blogger blogs will be converted, so my mind changed and I knew that I would have to eventually change. I thought to myself, "what the hell," it should only take a few minutes.

I mean, the message did say that most blogs would take a couple of minutes to convert. Nearly eight hours later, the blog finished its conversion process. Thanks, blogger. Well, the good news is that it appears that the posts made it. Not all of the comments did however. For instance, mal made a comment yesterday, and she became anonymous after the conversion. Sorry, sweetie.

Comfort Zones
~deb has a really interesting post today, in "Waters to Swim..."
Have you heard about the frog that was born at the bottom of the well? He thought life couldn’t get any better till one day he looked up and saw daylight. Climbing up to investigate, he was amazed to find a much larger pond than the one he lived in. After hopping twice, he was eaten by a snake.

Okay, ~deb's post actually started a lot better than that. I am all about taking some chances. But sometimes when you expand your world, a snake eats your ass.

Receiving Gifts
I received a wonderful gift yesterday. I was running around, in a hurry, and I stopped in the local Walgreens. Well, it was not one near where I live, but I wanted a soda on the way to do some other errands. So here I am in line, behind a woman who was counting single dollars and coins to make a purchase.

All of a sudden, her face went ashen, and I could tell she did not have enough for her purchases. Her total was around $36 dollars. I never spend that much in Walgreens. Anyway, I felt for the woman. Looking at my watch, I formed an idea.

I gave the cashier two crisp twenties, asked him to scan my soda and said I was with her. After scanning my soda, I told the woman to grab the change and I would be out in the car. I left, and as I was driving away, I saw her start walking down the street.

I don't know who this woman was, just some frail old lady with kind eyes and years of work etched into her hands. I sometimes wonder if I offended her; I hope not. Since she was already wondering which item to put back, I think her mind was not on me, but on her next step.

I am a nut about "giving trees." I like them because you can give and still remain anonymous. Our church has one, the local convenience store, the grocery store, schools. I love giving for the feeling I get. And I try to remain anonymous because I think it is important to give for the right reasons. The only reason I am writing about it here is – well two-fold – perhaps I can inspire others, and well, I have nothing to write about today and this fills space.

One thing I did do a few years ago is ask my hubbie to actually purchase items for the church giving tree. I pulled two "angels" (paper angels with ages and sexes of needy kids) and sent him to the store to make purchases. He is a bit of a tightwad, and I wanted him to loosen his purse strings. Well, not purse strings, but you get the idea. It was very hard for him to do, and he complained that he was spending more on strangers than our own family's children. Yeah, it was painful for him.

The next year, I gathered two more "angels" (two church-goers = two angels) and planned on purchasing them myself. I just did not want to inflict more pain. I am a bitch; I am, however, not heartless. Funny thing is that hubbie picked up an additional angel and asked if he could again purchase the gifts. Blew my freekin' mind.

Hopefully this "new blogger" will improve. Perhaps I will kick my writing up a notch as well. After all, I am not heartless.

Forced Promotion

Okay, you know I am fairly guarded about my personal life. Well, sort of. I mean, I have talked about my infidelity and my love for sappy movies, but you know, that hardly singles me out in Savannah.

I have been very vague about where I work, choosing to say I am an admin assistant. Well, that was true until a couple of months ago. Here is the conversation that allowed me to move up the corporate ladder. Mind you, I am still admin – meaning I just shuffle papers, adding little to the bottom line of the company. And no, I am not in government service. We have a few people around here that actually produce stuff of value.

Anyway, here is the conversation, more or less:

Boss asks me to his office, and I first think I did something wrong. Perhaps he found out about my blogging.

Boss: I have been really impressed with the quality of your work.
What Boss was Thinking: I am so magnanimous. I am doing this Leesa chick a big favor. What does magnanimous mean? Does it mean I am cool? Crap, I wish I would have listened when I was taking Freshman English. Crap, I better start listening.

Leesa: Thank you.
What Leesa was Thinking: Does he really know what I do around here? Maybe he is a bigger idiot than I though he was.

Boss: We are restructuring, and we have created a new position I think would be perfect for you.
What Boss was Thinking: Leesa has really nice boobs. I wonder if they are real. I bet she had a boob job. Crap, I better start listening again. Boobies.

Leesa: While I am flattered, I am not really interested.
What Leesa was Thinking: Lots more work for a little more pay. No thank you.

Boss: I am so happy to hear that you will accept this position.
What Boss was Thinking: She does not look pleased at this opportunity. Well, her bobbies are nice. Yeah, nice.

Leesa: Sir, I don't want the promotion. I am happy right where I am.
What Leesa was Thinking: What the fuck? Was he just looking at my breasts? He is so clueless.

Boss: Sorry. You don't want to move up in this company? I don't quite understand. We will pay you for the extra work.
What Boss was Thinking: Crapola. I need to get my mind in the game. What is this bitch's problem? Yeah, she has nice boobies, but she doesn't want to advance. Why the hell not?

Leesa: Sir, I am extremely happy with what I currently do. I am comfortable with my job, and as you have said, I do it well.
What Leesa was Thinking: Try to back me out of this corner, bitch. Slam dunk. Should I have referred to him as bitch? Looks like I will need extra time in the confessional.

Boss: Perhaps you don't understand. We are eliminating your current job, and I am offering you a different job that takes some of your current responsibilities and adds to them.
What Boss was Thinking: I am impressed with my own words. That was fuckin' awesome.

Leesa: Oh, I understand. In that case, I accept your offer.
What Leesa was Thinking: I hate looking for work. I hate looking for work. I hate looking for work.

So I got my pain-in-the-ass promotion. Yeah, it means more money and I don't clock in and out, but I have to actually do work sometimes. I have to go to meetings, I wear a lot more skirts. Hell, I even wear perfume. What the hell have I gotten myself into?

Passionless in Search of Distractions

Tony said something on the comments the other day – that my writing seems to have lacked passion of some of my earlier work.

And you know what, he is right. A large portion of my life lacks passion. I am not talking about my relationship with hubbie. That is fine. What is strange is that work is going well, too. Home life: check. Work: check. And I don't know what the problem is.

You know, I need a vice. I have already done the sex vice, and it didn't work out very well at all. I got an STD, I shared it with my hubbie, and we spent 1-12/ years in therapy. Not a good payoff. Not a good plan.

So I need another distraction – and what better distraction than a vice.

My first thought was alcohol. I like alcohol. It taste really good – the wine, the harder liquor, the desert drinks. I love alcohol. The only problem is that I am loosing weight, and alcohol equals weight gain. And I don't want to gain weight. A perfectly adorable vice with a no-no. No thank you. Not alcohol.

The next vice I thought about was drugs. The problem: drugs scare me. I am a compulsive person, and when I do something, I don't do it half-arse. I go all the way. I could not do marijuana anyway, because I am not a good smoker. In high school, I could not be cool because I never got off the coughs. It is hard to look cool when coughing up a lung. Trust me on this. Marijuana is out.

I guess the next thing would be Methamphetamine. I don't know a lot about Meth, but I do know that Meth is good about weight control. That is a good thing. Little known fact: women love Meth because of this side affect. But I have heard lots of bad things about Meth, how it is making orphans of kids because their parents are going to prison. Talk about a sucky family business. So I can't do Meth.

Other drugs? Nah. I know there are huge learning curves, you have to use needles (and share them, gross), or figure out how to obtain drugs. And these drugs are not on Ebay, at Walgreens or at the convenience score. Well, as a convenience store during certain hours.

Gambling is the next vice for me. I like that it uses math and reading people. I think I can read people well, and I can guess good at math, probabilities and all. The problem is the cash thing. I don't have a lot of cash, and it takes cash to gamble. Plus, I work hard for my cash, and I am not going to risk it on an inside straight.

So here I am, looking for a vice with little side effects. Damn passionless life. Crap.

Emerald Green Dresses and Listening Ears

Oh, I am tired today. It is only 8:00 am, and I want to go home. Whine, whine, whine.

But I am sort of glad that I am tired. You see, I had a very busy weekend.

Friday and Saturday night, I went to parties. Hubbie is in a job where, well, let's just say I often say that he is in the smoozing business. Anyway, the Saturday night party was his, and his office gives the best parties.

This year I sort of cheated. You see, I wore the same dress for both parties. Part of the reason, well, the entire reason is that I found this fantastic dress – a wonderful emerald green, velvet dress. Not the type of dress I could wear any time of the year. A dress that makes me feel, well, elegant. Does that make sense at all?

We were treated to a nice dinner, not a fantastic dinner. Rubber chicken aside, the salad was crisp, the conversation was light, and I had a good time.

You know, I will tell you a little secret: my hubbie's friends say that I am fascinating, that I am charming. Okay, I am both fascinating and charming. But hubbie's friends have no idea. They really don't. When I go to these things, all I do is listen to people. I ask questions about their lives, and I listen to them. That makes me charming and fascinating. Sort of funny.

I like listening to other people's lives, their stories. In fact, if you go through some of my older stories, my best stories are of other people. That does not make me less fascinating than most, it just means that I have caught glimpses of other people's lives. And their lives just draw me in.

I started writing this at 8:00 am, and it is not 9:30 am. I am still a little tired, and Sunday was a "day of rest." Funny how partying on Friday and Saturday left me resting Sunday, something a good Catholic girl was supposed to do anyway.

---

Looks like I can't switch from Blogger Beta, just like ~Deb. When I tried switching from blogger to beta blogger, I got the following information:

Why can't I switch to Blogger in beta?
While the new version of Blogger is still in beta, some users with certain types of blogs will not be able to switch to it. We'll be adding support for these blogs as soon as possible, so everyone can join in the fun. But for now, if you have any of the following on your account, you'll need to hold off for a bit:

A very large blog. (More than a couple thousand posts + comments.)

Note that, even if your blog is eligible to switch, you may not have the link to do so on your dashboard. We are starting out by just switching over a limited number of accounts, but we'll add more and more as time goes on. However, if you still want to try out Blogger in beta, what you can do is to visit beta.blogger.com and create a new account. Later on, you'll be able to merge this account with your original Blogger account.

Thanks for your patience, and we promise it will be worth the wait!

Blogger Farewells

I have heard from two people recently, Ddot and Grant. Ddot has not written in a month, and Grant has given up blogging for good. I have written before when talented writers leave blogger. Even hacks that I have enjoyed reading.

But blogging normally does not lead to cash, and after blogging for a year or so, many drop out. Side note: sort of reminds me of a Jules Renard quote: "Writing is the only profession where no one considers you ridiculous if you earn no money."

Grant told me about Sarcasmo, who passed away recently. I have not actually visited Sarcasmo's blog before she died, but her last post was poignant. It starts out: "My PC fan is slowly dying. I'm hoping it will wait till after the holidays to give up the ghost. With all of Scrooges fellas flying about, we're up to our ears in ghosts already. (Also, if this post ends abruptly, you'll know why. Just in case, I'll be trying to back some thing up over night tonight. In either case, forgive my brevity.)"

Her last post was on December 7th. And that's it. Judging from her blogroll, she kept up with lots of blogs, and I am sure her absence will be (is) felt. Sort of like removing a flower from the flowerbed. Immediately, you notice the whole, and every flower around knows the absence. Over time, rain and wind and whatever starts filling the whole, and either flowers start crowding the spot or new seeds take root. But the flower was there, and over time, the missing flower is less noticeable. But the dirt never fully fills the whole. And some of the flowers always remember.

Now I didn't know Star (Sarcasmo), and I am not implying that her passing resembles a missing flower. During the holidays, we sometimes are reminded of those in our families that are no longer with us. Oh, it was Uncle Fred's job to cut the turkey, and well, Uncle Jeff just does not look as confident when wielding the carving knife. Grandma always loved the smell of cinnamon at Christmas. Whatever the thoughts tend to be. I guess I am just noticing wholes in my garden, both in blogland and outside of blogland. Even co-workers who are no longer with us.

On a separate note, Eric Case was asked recently about Blogger Beta. As you know, I have not switched, but I think I am going to switch soon. For me, I will be saying farewell to blogger, and trying out this beta version of the product. It appears that we will all need to change soon. My guess is that the mad rush to the exit will create more problems (key the impending doom music). So if this blog disappears, please blame Google, and not some blood clot that has made its way to my brain.

Penance

I went to Church two nights ago. Tuesday night I was in Church. I am Catholic, and part of the deal is doing penance each year. Say what you will, but it is sort of like the Jewish custom of bringing your sins to a lake to deposit them there. Okay, that's probably not the right custom, but I read about it in a book. And, darned it, books don't lie.

Actually, Christians, following ancient Jewish traditions of fast and abstinence for penance, observed the law of fasting on Wednesdays and Friday abstinence from the time of Christ’s Crucifixion.

Anyway, I was thinking about penance today – but I did not get around to writing about it. Should I repent for that as well? Who knows? All I know is that I have little to say today. But I will return to this issue in a few days. But don't worry, it will not include a reference to Dani. Hell, she is perfect according to her and her husband. As I heard it, heaven would turn into hell if they allow lesbians in it. For some of us, that sounds like one heck of an enticing heaven.

VLOGs, Christians and Penis Size

I was watching a VLOG today, and it sort of lead me to a string of events. Let me explain.

1. I saw a certain VLOG that had an "8 year old actress" talking about Bill O'Riley. It was published by the Bastard Fairies. It was sort of funny, but I don't really like seeing young girls cursing. Something unnerving about it.

2. That lead me to watching Bill O'Riley's response to the video.

3. Which lead me to see another video response.

4. Which lead me to another video response by patriotboy.

These were the events and it cost my employer about an hour. Thanks Bastard Fairies. I have work to do. But patriot boy did a really good parody, showing that others "use children as tools" to promote their ideas. Anyway, the thoughts sort of stand on their own.

But I read patriot boy's last blog entry, in which he quotes James Rutz of MegaShift Ministries as saying, "[s]oy is feminizing, and commonly leads to a decrease in the size of the penis, sexual confusion and homosexuality."

When I was dating, I looked at the beverage he was drinking, and while I did not have a large enough sample to conclude that soy drinking leads to smaller packages, I did draw conclusions about light bear, wine coolers and "virgin" Shirley Temples tended to be associated with a decrease in penis size.

My findings, however, were not scientifically based, though. You see, unlike some would believe, the men that I saw (and saw, if you know what I mean), were not truly random. Okay, at times it seemed like they were, but I was not using a random function, as age seemed to be in the 19 to 24 cluster.

Also, I don't know if I did not know many men who drank soy because, at the time, it was more expensive, or because these men (as Mr. Rutz would say) were gay, and thus not included in my sampling. Perhaps a better study would be to see if penis size decreases with income level. Also, you know, I did data at least one man who turned out to be gay (sort of kills ones psyche).

Well, I have wasted enough time this morning. Now I have to go drink some soy. I have heard that drinking soy also increases breast size. What the hell do I have to loose?

It's A Wonderful Movie

Last night I watched "It's a Wonderful Life." Every Christmas since I graduated from college, I have watched this film. And I cry every time I watch it.

I know George Bailey will be okay, because I have seen the movie before. I know Mr. Gower will not kill that boy, and I know that Harry Bailey will come back at the end and tell George Bailey he is the richest man in the whole town. Personally, I think he says this because he married Ruth Dakin and gets to work doing research in a glass factory.

I will admit I don't really know who Frank Capra is – I mean, I know he directed the film, and he directed a lot of other films, but it is not like I know what he did. Sorry. That was when my grandparents were watching movies.

What I love is that there are all sorts of neat stuff to see in the movie. I once got a Trivial Pursuit question right – what film is on the marquee of the movie theater in It's a Wonderful Life. Well, it was not my Trivial Pursuit question; it was someone else's. But I knew the freekin' answer.

I wanted to compose a top ten list of Christmas movies. I know "It's a Wonderful Life" will be on the list. No doubt about it. It is a great movie, and if you have not seen it, I sort of screwed up all of the plot twists. I doubt there are few under 24 who have not seen this, at least once. For those of you who haven't, well sorry.

I would never put "A Christmas Story" on my list. I knew it was a classic, so I watched it a few years ago. I was not entertained. No warm feelings, no crying, no naked Santa. What is the point of the movie? That the main character will undergo years of psychotherapy because he grew up in a screwed up household? Sorry, not my cup of tea. Or cocoa, for that matter.

"Miracle on 34th Street" is another classic, and I bawl when they are bringing in all of the letters in the court scene. Kris Kringle seems like the best real-life Santa going on. And by the end of the film, I was wondering if in 1947, Santa Claus was stuck in a mental institution in New York. Hey, I believe in Santa Claus, and it could happen. The Great Pumpkin = Not real. Santa Claus = Real.

I always watch "A Charlie Brown Christmas" too, but really, if I just listen to Linus's speech, I am good for the season. His voice is so sweet, and it just makes me feel so good. Yeah, I know, I am "feeling good" from movies, not from things that are real. But movies are part of my Christmas tradition, and darned it, I like 'em. I am not much of a television watcher, so these movies are sort of like my video indulgence.

Maybe I will make a list of good movies and why I like them. Not today, I have Christmas shopping to do. At work. I love the Internet.

Counting Ones Blessings

I received an email message going around: a Christmas PowerPoint presentation that basically says, "Be grateful, count your blessings, because you are in better shape than most people around the world."

Now, I am all for counting my blessings, but please don't say "you didn't go to bed hungry; you are better off than 1 billion people." It is as if whoever wrote the piece is shaming us into counting our blessings."

I love Christmas; it is my favorite time of the year. And I have many blessings; I think more of them around Christmastime. But I don't want someone to emotionally blackmail me into feeling grateful.

As John­son Oat­man, Jr., wrote in 1897: "Count your blessings, name them one by one."

I know there are a lot of people who don't go to church. Around Christmas, I sort of wish people wouldn't go to church. I know this is not very Christian of me. Let me try to explain.

For Catholics, we have a term for parishioners who tend to go to church during the major holidays, "C&E Catholics." These are Catholics who seem to show up around Christmas and Easter.

I know. I know. If I were a real Christian/Catholic, I would be pleased any time someone attends Mass. Yeah, you are right. You are right. But here is the rub: when we have so many people attending Mass, it is hard to find a seat, let alone a good seat. I don't mind the parking problems – hubbie just parks on the grass – but I do mind being in the middle of a row, stacked like sardines and me having to pee. That's not conducent to hearing the word of God. I think I made a word up.

I like the children singing and the manger and the smell of pine in the church. That's all great. But all of the people. All the people. In my own mind, I feel like the Grinch ("All the noice, noice, noice.").

Me, Grinch that I am, I will count my blessings. Because, after all, I am being emotionally blackmailed.

Christmas Newsletters

Every year, we get seven or eight newsletters, mostly from family and one from a close friend. Generally, I love these newsletters. All are printed on the computer, and they are all written for a general audience. "General" being, whoever is on their Christmas list.

Well, I love these newsletters. Cousins or aunts or other relatives who I really don't get much information on, I can at least know what they have been doing the whole year. It distills it down to one page of fairly good grammar. Efficient.

But here is what the letters don't do:

• They don't tell me the disappointments, generally.


• They don't tailor their information for what I care about.


• They sometimes don't capture how these people really are.


• They highlight and inflate some accomplishments.

Okay, small rant. I actually have one relative that uses their newsletter to tell me about their recent purchases (we have been having a great year, so we bought each other his and hers Lexuses), their children (one will cure cancer, another will free third world countries, I suppose), their jobs (they are lucky enough to be the only brilliant people at their work) and their pets (nearly as smart as their kids). I read their newsletter, and actually keep them. They outdo themselves each year. It gives me some pleasure, mostly me laughing at them. Yeah, that is bitch Leesa, for you.

Here is what I would rather read (a more honest letter):

---

2006 Jones Christmas Letter

Well, it is that time of year. Time for the Jones' Annual Christmas Letter.

The year started out really good. Mike has been doing well at work, but unfortunately his boss caught him with several office items in his car. He could explain away the binders and staplers, but the network printer was much harder to explain. In February, he was let go because of "slow work," and Mike responded quickly by filing for unemployment. His boss was a bit unfair, as he was unwilling to give Mike a reference of any kind. Bastard.

Since Mike has been home a lot, he has been watching a little too much porn. He has been more willing to experiment in bed, but I am getting a little worried. I sometimes cannot find my special panties, and when I call home I sometimes catch him out of breath. I am worried that his health is suffering, because he says he is winded from climbing the stairs. Strange.

The good news is that Mike has been helping out around the neighborhood. He has started a job for one of the neighbors, Jennifer. Although I have not seen any money from the odd jobs he has done for Jennifer, he spends several afternoons per week helping her out. Some of my other neighbors are jealous of the attention he has spent on her, lying to me about some hanky-panky. Luckily, I know Mike. He rarely is interested in sex, but when he is interested, we do more freaky stuff. I blame it on the porn. The good thing is that the porn has given him some new moves. But I know you don't want to hear more about that. LOL.

Jeff is in High School now, and we are so proud of him. He has not missed a meeting with his parole officer, and he has only set his bed on fire twice. Both times, we extinguished the flames before any real damage occurred. The school counselor has been really interested in Jeff, and we are encouraged by this. His grades have not been good, but you know, we blame his teachers. He did make a B in shop, and he seems to have taken an interest in gardening. He has lots of interesting plants in the backyard, and he shares them with his friends. Jeff is a blessing. Mike is just glad that his girlfriend Pam is not pregnant. I keep telling Mike that Jeff is a good boy, but I think Pam is a bit of a whore. Crap, should I use "whore" in the Christmas Letter? Mary Magdellon was a whore, so I will keep this in.

Christa has been doing well in school. She says she is bored, but we have told her that it should be up to her to find out new things to learn in sixth grade the second time around. We have met with her homeroom teacher twice, and her attendance has improved. She keeps missing the bus, and we suspect the bus driver doesn't like Christa. On a sad note, we have forbade Christa to keep seeing Rob after we caught them engaged in an "act of passion." Again I blame it on Mike's porn. He keeps trying to hide it, but these darned smart kids keep finding his stash.

As you know from the last newsletter, we put Mike's dad in the nursing home last year. He was being a pain in the ass, and we thought this would help. Well, we still visit him twice a year, but the visits are much more enjoyable now that he is medicated. He just sort of stares into space now. Unfortunately, the bills from the nursing home are sort of going through his money (and our inheritance). Not that we want to kill him, but we just want him to be at peace with the Lord. Last time we visited, Mike sabotaged the Automated External Defibrillator (AEDs) nearest to his father's room. He joked that the old coot would never die with this so near. Of course, Mike was only kidding. That's why I (and many of the ladies in our neighborhood) love him so much.

Here is wishing you the very best this Christmas Season.

Hugs and Kisses,
Leesa and Mike Jones

Why Haven't You Called

I was talking to a girlfriend the other day. The relationship is weird, because she is in her mid-twenties and single; I am in my mid-thirties (funny thing is that I plan on calling characterizing myself as mid-thirties until I am 45) and married. We talk about all sorts of stuff, and sort of feel like an older sister; sort of like a mother (I guess) at times.

Anyway, as one might expect, we do talk about relationships. Men and women seem to have a hard time communicating, even when it is in their best interests. In a recent conversation over salads (okay, I ate a salad, she ate pizza, bitch that she is – she can eat anything and has a great body; darn 20-year-olds), she started talking about her latest relationship.

She had been seeing someone for a while, and after about a month of courtship, she had sex with the man. Now, she is not sure if this is "the one." How the hell can we tell after a month? But she had sex with him. And she told me this, not because of the sex part, but because he did not call afterwards. It has been three days (five now, three at the time of the conversation) since the date, and the bastard has not called.

They had gone on several dates – this was not a one-night-stand. And the guy has not called. This man and this woman like one another, have feelings for one another, and the young man does not call after their first intimate encounter. Dr. John Gray's "Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus" is at work. Men and women really don't understand one another. I mean, this guy is young, but what I don't understand is that he is interested in her, he has a good job, he has taken her to nice places. Okay, my Mom voice describing "a nice young man."

To put so much effort into wooing her, and to not call on Monday, Tuesday. It makes no sense to me. I know that some men just pursue to pursue or pursue for sex, but with the dinners, the conversations. It appears to my friend that this person is definitely interested in her.

I don't understand why men don't call. I mean, I know that men don't think it is any big deal. But it is a big freekin' deal.

Instinct vs. Feelings

Prata had an interesting blog the other day. He touched on a lot of subjects, but one, "instinct vs. feelings" is an interesting concept that I have some thoughts about.

I asked him if he would not mind be blogging about this, not because I am a curious soul, but because Prata has asked me nearly the same thing in the past. I really don't know if he wants me to talk about it. The risks we take. So here we go.

Instinct verses Feelings. Let's say you have a stimulus, for instance, seeing a snake running close to your feet. Well, normal people recoil. Prata would probably kick the crap out of the snake, but I am talking about normal people – more on this later. When we are recoiling, this is an instinct. We instinctually recoil when we see what we think is a snake (hey, I recoil when I see moving vines, twigs, etc.).


Somebody did a study – I remember this from a Psych class, so forgive me if it is a load of crap – where they showed people (and other primates) a series of pictures. And they measured iris size – and it was fairly universal that everyone (and their moneys too) constricted their irises when viewing snakes. Uncontrollable. Anyway, the psychologists inferred that humans (and other primates) instinctually recoil from the image of snakes. Crap. Maybe it said they are afraid of snakes. Crap. This is not where I wanted to go.

You see, most people respond with fear when seeing snakes. Fear is an emotion. I wanted to show how emotions and instincts are separate, but perhaps they somehow seem to interact with one another. Not all emotions, but some of them. Fear can be a good motivator. Instinctually we may react to things that scare us. Snakes, for instance. But just because there is an interaction, it does not mean that they are the same thing.

Okay, this post is officially lame.

Prata said in one of his last posts, "I’m not a hard man to get along with I don’t think. I’m a man of principle though, and I am certainly picky." I think most of us think we are "not hard to get along with." We rarely think, "I am a pain in the ass."

Oh, and you know, I am hard to live with - it has taken time, but it is the truth. When I was first married, I thought to myself, "Hubbie is so fortunate to have such a loving and understanding wife. His transition from bachelorhood to husband will be so freekin' easy." I remember teaching hubbie the right way to fold socks. We both folded them differently, and my way was the "right" way, and his way was the "wrong" way. He tied them in knots (the longer socks), and rolled the shorter socks in balls. I, however, stuffed the socks so as not to stretch them. We still fold them my way, but it took him several years to master my sock-stuffing method. Bottom line is that I spent a lot of time telling him how wrong he was (really), and he listened to me and tried to get better at such a useless thing. We could have used that time to redecorate, to learn French, or to fuck. Wasted time, because I am a tad inflexible.

I don't know if you know anyone who has OCD, but when we say we are a tad inflexible, you can translate it to someone who rigidly follows a complex set of rules in order to try to control her environment.

Me, I am still scared of snakes, but I can, over the course of years, teach people to fold socks. Folding socks is not instinctual. Neither is learning French.

Ranting on Phrases

There are certain phrases I just don't believe.

Please listen to the following options as our menu has recently changed.
For instance, if I call an 800 number and here the recording start, "Please listen to the following options as our menu has recently changed," I think one of two things: (1) your options have not changed in 9 months, liar, or (2) do you change options frequently to confuse the hell out of your customers? Either way, I am annoyed.

I hate phone trees. I mean, I know they are suppose to cost the company less to maintain, but I always either punch zero or say "representative." I want to talk to a real person when I call. If I want to know my account balance, I use the web. Easier, faster and I am done. I use the phone when I want to speak to humans. Funny thing, I know, but that's the way this lady is. When computers were more new, I called the bank for the automatic menus that would give my account balance, or recent deposits/withdrawals. Now I can get so much more online, and it is easier and faster than using a phone.

Airline Instructions
I hate listening to the beginning of airline instructions. I don't mind flight attendants drone on about using my seat as a flotation devise, but I hate when they tell us all to listen to the important safety message because in my heart of hearts, I know I don't want to listen that closely. The first time I flew, I listened as if they would give a test at the end of their announcement. The second time, same thing. Now I have heard this so much that I just want them to say it and me to half-listen to it. I have it – I know how to save children who don't have oxygen because we have lost cabin pressure. I know how to buckle my seat buckle, and I am tickled pink when I have to adjust my seat buckle to snugly fit me into my seat. I know that I should not smoke or disable smoke detectors in the lavatories.

How are you?
I used to love saying "How are you?" But I don't like people saying it who don't really give a darned. I mean, try saying, "They foreclosed on my house yesterday, my cat has feline leukemia virus, and I have an irritating vaginal itch." And see if they even skip a beat, or simply say, "Good. Me, too."

Various Medical Situations
People tell me about their medical situations, and I really don't care. I mean, I want people to be well, but if you mention something about your health, I find it that I start displaying the same symptoms. I mean, I have enough trouble touching doorknobs and breathing air during flu season. Don't make my life even harder.

Funny thing is that my family never says anything about their health. I will ask my husband, "You are leaving a trail of blood in the kitchen. When did you cut your hand?" His reply, "Oh." Not, "thanks for noticing," or "Oh, crap, I am bleading," or "I cut my hand on a knife in the kitchen". I love him and don't hear anything about his health. My sibs? Not a word. My brother had an operation, and I found out months later. He just did not want to worry me. Strangers want me to worry, family not so much.

Me, I just want some airline peanuts. I just don't want to hear the safety briefing first.

Mud Flaps and Trailer Hitches

By using a blogspot account, I support a company (Google) that chooses to filter information, based on the country you live in (e.g., China). Prata, don't try the link today as I think his power is out, mentioned Psiphon Friday, and I wanted to at least inform you about it today. That way, I can atone for using blogspot. Psiphon uses something I will call "technology" to allow some people access to websites that some countries block. You know, the US may have a deal with Google to block sites – we just don't know about it. For those inclined, check out the site.

Today, I want to talk about men. Friday, Mark told me of a special vehicle hitch that seemed almost unreal. When I first saw the hitch, I thought to myself, "who would place this on their vehicle (in Texas, they say "truck", I am told). This sort of reads like some traffic cop. "Please step out of your motor vehicle." Sorry. I did not want to drink warm diet Coke this morning.

I just wonder why people place such things on their cars. Then I remember mud flaps. I mean, having silhouettes of naked women on your truck; what's the point. I do not know any girlfriends who have ever said, "You know, I saw that truck with the naked women on it, and flagged the guy down because I just had to have him." Never have I seen it, never had I heard it, never has it been a porno movie plot. Lots of times have a mis-delivered pizza been the start of a clandestine rendezvous. Well, sort of clandestine, considering the camera man just happened to be there, but you get the point.

Sometimes I do not understand people.

I don't have a single bumper sticker on my car (think, OCD and you will know why), but I enjoy reading said bumper stickers. Especially theme cars. You know the type – the 1972 VW beetle with 12 different Wichian bumper stickers. Or the H2 Hummer with environmental stickers. These things really entertain me. But I will not stick any bumper sticker on a car.

Crap, it is getting late, and I have not posted. Christmastime seems to be so rush-rush. I only have 27 people on my list to go. Not really, but it seems that way. This afternoon I will go Christmas shopping. Hope I don't get behind someone with naked girl mud flaps. I mean, don't want to be turned on (tongue in cheek) when looking for loofas.

Warm Soda

Okay, this morning I had nothing to write about. Not a damn thing.

Then, I went to the soda machine down the hall, inserted my dollar and got a warm cola. And getting a warm cola frosts my hiney. Instead of a frosted hiney, I want a frosted cola.

I mean, when I see a cola machine (I would say Coke® machine, but I really don't want to get sued by Pepsi, Coke, or whomever else wants to sue my frozen ass) and it is plugged into a wall, I expect a cold soda. I mean, a 20 ounce cola costs $1, and I figure part of that cost is because it is cold and on demand. For about $3, I could get a six pack (warm) and stick them under my desk. And those sodas would really be "on demand." I would not even have to go down the hall.

So here I have a warm soda – no warning on the machine, no discount. There are refrigerators that can tell you that you don't have milk, but a soda machine can't tell you that they have warm sodas. I guess that's because the soda machine's job is to sell its sodas, and it is a whole lot harder to hawk sodas when they are warm. I wonder if they drink warm soda in Europe (sort of like warm beer).

Anyway, I got so steamed that I call the 800 number on the side of the machine. On the plus side, the steaminess thawed out my ass. On the negative side, the guy asks for the account number associated with the soda machine. After painfully explaining that I am a customer, not a vendor, the cheerful person informs me that she cannot do anything for me, a lowly customer. If I had the account number, she could direct me to another phone number where I could register a complaint.

About now, I am thinking one of those mini-refrigerators are looking darned good. Instead of only including soda in the machine, I may need to keep a spare beer or two. For days like this one.

End note: did you know that a hinny was "the hybrid animal produced when a female ass (jennet) is crossed to an older smaller stallion." You learn something new with spell-check.

Record-Holders

Does the name Robert Wadlow mean anything to you? Not to me either, but I remember some of the pics I have seen of him over the years (I just did not know his name). The pic I have linked to is "Work Safe"; on the back of the card was the inscription, by someone who attended one of his shoe promotions:

I seen Robert in Purcell.
Age 22 — weight 491
Height 8 feet 9 inches
Weight at birth 8 1/2 lb.
Weight at 6 mo 30lb
Weight at 18 mo 62lb
Weight at 9 years 180
Height at 9 years 6ft 1in.
Size of shoe 37A

You see, Robert Wadlow was the tallest man in the world. He has a disease known as acromegalic gigantism, resulting from a pituitary cancerous growth. He died at 22, not directly because of the disease, but indirectly from it. You see, this large man spent a lot of time on the road, selling shoes. That was his job.

Ironically, one might say he died indirectly because of mis-fitting shoes. You see, because of his height (and weight), he had little feeling in his feet. And at times, he would get blisters on his feet. He got blisters and an infection because of this, and he died of "blood poisoning." So the tallest man in the world, because of his job as a shoe salesman, died. Strange.

When I was in school, we learned about the tallest man in the world, the heaviest man in the world, the man with the largest mustache. Joe Brower Minnoch was the heaviest man in the world, but he seems to be heavier than I remember. Not that I ever met him. I found a site that had him weighing in at a bulky 635 kg (100 stone). That is 1,397 pounds! He lost lots of weight after being admitted to a hospital in or near Seattle, something more than 400 pounds. Now this was before surgery – the man dieted. What a feat! I am trying to loose 20 pounds, and this man lost 20 squared!

I don't have much today, but I was thinking about heaviest/tallest/whatever. I grew up with the Guinness Book of World Records, and it was important, for whatever reason. Okay, I am a grown up now, but I don't hear anything about it, other than a bit about kooky records.

How 'Bout Them Apples

Yesterday, I was sitting at my desk, eating a clementine. It was a tasty clementine, and I enjoyed every bite of it. I really love fruit. But after savoring my last bite, I could not recall the first time I had ever tasted a clementine. Funny thing is that I don't remember them as a child.

There are so many fruits that I can't remember from my childhood. I had star fruit the other day – a fruit I would never have even seen as a girl. And apples? I can remember only three or four kinds of apples as a kid, and now, you know, you normally have 8 to 12 different kinds that change from season to season. A far cry from Granny Smith, Red Delicious, and Golden Delicious of the early 1980s. Now you can pick up a Pink Lady and sink your teeth into said lady. Or now, get a Braeburn and go to town on it. If eating fruit sounds like sex, well, I guess it can be.

I was reading Cinderella today, and loved her line, "I was hoping that these pictures could give you a taste of my world." Taste is such a wonderful word, sort of carnal, primitive.

When I was eating my clementine yesterday, I could feel someone staring at me. Since I was at the computer working, I did not see who it was. Guess he or she finds fruit similarly erotic.

Think of some phrases:

Nice pear (pair).
Peach Fuzz.
Forbidden Fruit
Tangerines (word for breasts)
Twig and Berries

And some people even take pictures of fruit. Oh, my, looks like I am hungry for a good plum.

Uncomfortable Meetings

The other day I was getting lunch on Broughton Street – it was the week of Thanksgiving, so things were a little dead, actually. I don't eat on Broughton Street much anymore. Too long of a walk, actually. I used to work close enough to casually walk down here and eat something.

Well, Friday I was ordering and someone said "Hi, Leesa." And no, he did not grab my ass. I looked up, and I saw a "friend" with his wife. I keep saying that I screwed practically all married men in Savannah, and although that is a gross overstatement, it sometimes feels that way. But even though I feel that way, I rarely run into people that I have slept with. Part of it is me switching jobs. Well, that's most of it.

Anyway, I ran into someone . . . with his wife, of all people.

So we start our pleasantries. The conversation, with name changes, went something like this:

Ex-Married Guy Friend: Hi, Leesa.

What Ex-Married Guy Friend Meant: Hi, Leesa. Remember me? We fucked.

Leesa: Hey George. I have not seen you in forever. How are you?

What Leesa Meant: Oh my God, I don't want to see you here now. Do I have to order a salad now? I am really hungry. Do I have to sit with you and wifey? Can someone just come in and kidnap me?

Ex-Married Guy Friend: I am great. This is Lara, my wife. Do you remember me telling you about her?

What Ex-Married Guy Friend Meant: Don't tell Lara that we fucked, okay? Please let me get away with this.

Leesa: Hi, Lara. Nice to meet you. As I recall, you are a real estate agent.

What Leesa Meant: Good. Your ass is bigger than mine.

Ex-Married Guy Friend: So, you still work at the Girl Scouts?

What Ex-Married Guy Friend Meant: I lost touch with you. Do you still want to fuck in the afternoons?

Leesa: No, I have not worked there in ages. I am with [insert name of company; for the reader's sake, make it a kick-ass company].

What Leesa Meant: No, Lara, I have not fucked your hubbie in ages.

We went on, in this polite, tiptoe through the manure conversation for several grueling minutes.

Monday, Ex-Married Guy Friend called me and asked me out for "lunch." When I said it wasn't going to happen, he proffered "how about a BJ?"

Two things come to mind: (1) Why don't guys think BJs are sex? (2) Why the hell did he call me?

Although I can't answer the first question, I do know the second. I was so nervous when I was talking with Ex-Married Guy Friend; I know I was twirling my hair into ringlets. It is a nervous habit, but some guys think it is some "come hither" move, so Ex-Married Guy Friend got mixed messages.

And I keep calling him Ex-Married Guy Friend. I am not implying that he is no longer married. Just that he is no longer one of my "friends." And why do I call former lovers friends? They really were not friends, most of them at least.

Next time I see Ex-Married Guy Friend, should I ask him why he thinks BJs are not sex in front of wifey?

Regressing to the Children's Table

With many gatherings as I was growing up, I was relegated to the children's table (or kids' table). Well, I was a child, after all. Even in college, I was a member of the kid's table. Even before I knew what a tryptophan-induced coma was, I was sitting at the kiddie table.

Part of the reason I did not graduate to the adult table was that I was one of the older cousins and none of the cousins were having kiddies of their own, even though cousin Robert was doing everything in his power to impregnate his entire high school senior class. Robert was, and is, a man slut. He once told me that he thought women were only meant to be play toys of his, and, well, he treated them that way. In fact, he still treats them, more or less, that way.

Back to my children's table at Thanksgiving. This year I went back to the children's table. We did not have enough room at the adult table, and since I am the most petite adult, I was relegated to the kiddie table.

So I spent the evening, listening to small children argue about who was older than whom. I, by the way, was a heck of a lot older than the rest of the children, and so I won every argument. Other than the lack of sparkling conversation, I also did not get some of the sides – no salad was at the kiddie table, and thankfully, the cranberries that looked like Jello® was on our table (instead of the cranberries that looked like cranberries). I also had to go to the big person table for my yearly supply of ham (two bites, but religiously, I eat two bites of ham per year).

One good thing about the kiddies table is that this table gets desert first – and if you want chocolate pie, the odds are against having chocolate pie at the adult's table (the kids decimate the chocolate pies).

I am a bit hungover today. Not from alcohol, but from the long weekend.

Happy Monday, you people!

Happy Thanksgiving!

You know, tomorrow is Thanksgiving. For me, it is a time for family, not blogger or google or work. So I think I will take a few days off, like many of you. I know Grant has stopped blogging, and I envy him. He is using his energies on something important. Family is important; so is helping out the community. Noble pursuits, in my mind.

Peace, kill and eat turkeys, and stuff yourself silly!

Playing with Google

Okay, unlike Prata, I use Google. Yes, I know Google is an arm of the Chinese government, helping keep more than 1 Billion Chinese from getting unfiltered Internet. Personally, I think the Chinese government does not want their people uploading pictures of Chinese hotties. For if they did, I am sure that red-blooded Americans would want to move to Shanghai and rent out a flat, auditioning them for less than professional movies.

But I digress.

I use Google to pretend I am someone I am not. For instance, there is a way you can use Google to find unlocked directories on the Internet. I use this to pretend I am a spy. Not the type of woman in stiletto heels who can kick a man's ass any time she feels like it. No, I am more the girl next door type, that stumbles onto something she should not see and starts fleeing with an attractive co-star.

And I did look for a document named "secret.doc." Now I cannot speak Spanish, but I did get one interesting find. It appears to be a document by the Columbian Secretary General's office, concerning how to properly go about carrying on statistical functions (or analyze statistical inferences). Again, I don't really know what this is about, but it is cool.

So after my heart stops racing at the possibility of a Government that comes crashing down on my head, I start to think of fun things to look for.

I guess I ought to tell you how I am looking for this stuff. Say I want to read people's resumes. How can I do that, you wonder. First, I think of an easy-to-guess name of a resume file. For starters, lets go with resume.doc. Then you can place the following in the Google search bar: -inurl:(htm|html|php) intitle:”index of” +”last modified” +”parent directory” +description +size +("resume.doc"|"resume.txt")

When I first did this, the first resume I read was actually for a System Administrator. Can you imagine a System Administrator who does not lock down his own files and has a document called resume.doc. I half-thought I would find another file labeled password.doc so I could see his passwords.

But enough of this. I am sure you can find lots of uses for this little trick.

Reverting to Childhood

The other day, I was in the waiting room of a doctor's office. I was there for longer than I wanted to be, and because I was alone, I was people watching.

Anyway, I was just looking around, half-dazed really, and I started listening to some ten-year-old girl talking to a couple of unrelated five- and six-year-old children. She was talking about all sorts of things, keeping them occupied while their mother was slowly suffering in pain.

Part of me wondered why this women would bring two small children to the doctor's office with her. Were it me, I would have ensured they were in school and gone then, not after work. Of course, I like taking off from work to go to the doctor's office.

Funny thing is that this little girl reminded me of me when I was in fifth grade. As I was half-listening to her talking to her two new friends, I started thinking about when I was her age. I can remember vividly my childhood, and as I was remembering when I was in fifth grade, it occurred to me that I perceive that I still think in the way that I thought of when ten-years-old. And I could have not been thinking in the same manner. If that were the case, I would not have grown much more in my twenty-some-odd years. I can't imagine that.

Perhaps when we change, some of our perceptions of past years are re-gauged. As we grow emotionally, perhaps we re-set our memories based on the growth. If we had a temper-tantrum and were unable to control our emotions, perhaps we re-remember not our inability to control our emotions but the events that caused that pain.

When I was in fifth grade, I had a boyfriend. Being a girlfriend in fifth grade meant that I called him my boyfriend, I chased him around during recess, and I dreamed of white-picket fences and owning my own puppy. I have grown a little since then. I don't chase my hubbie around playgrounds, we don't own any pets, and our house does not have a picket fence.

I can't remember what my point was going to be. Perhaps I should buy a half-pint of chocolate milk and take a nap on a light blue pad. Now that would be wonderful.

Day Off Day Two

You know, the internet has given us access to lots of information. We can nearly instantaneously receive information on news from around the globe, research candidate before voting, download entire books on tape from public sources. And what do most people use the internet for? Downloading porn and checking the weather.

Actually, I have been getting lots of messages from someone who lives near me. Well, he seems to know Savannah well, so I assume he is local. And he sends me messages all of the time. He will go months without sending one, and then I get a message each day. It is cute the first couple of days, and then not so much. So this person is using the internet to "stalk."

I wanted to put together an erotic story today, but my mind is mush. The whole story would be – she wanted him, she looked at him, she flashed her tits, and he entered her. Not much of an erotic story. Not the type I want to write, either.

So today is my second day off in a row.

Day Off

I think I will take today off. Some people have said that my recent posts show signs of a person cracking up. LarryLilly, for instance, said:

Leesa, that would be like looking at a mirror, you looking at you, how long would that last? Given that scene, this identical snowflake and you would spend hours trying to find the ONE thing that makes you two different. No, that would be boring. Rather, sit on the plane with someone not your race, sex, national origin, and try to find the ONE thing in common. That would be better, more refreshing I would think.

Lately your blogs have the view of someone who either needs their medications tweaked, or else your mind is going through spring cleaning in the middle of fall. This summer must have used all your resources, your batteries are drained, you’re like the space orbiter Voyager, so far from your world, not sure that your home is really listening to your rants, batteries running low, lights flickering, wires frayed from over use.

Maybe its time to streak around the house outside, naked, yelling; OK, you can do it 3am, no one will see you, but the cleansing will be cathartic. Get outside your comfort level girl, meet your hubby at some motel, on the other side of town, in the daytime, for no more than an hour, for a lunch time fling, make sure you each arrive in separate vehicles, make sure its rushed. Or else just say F’ it, and go back to bed. This too shall soon pass.

Have a sweet day.

So today, I will be tweaking my medication. I am not going to guarantee this, but I may start writing erotica again. Not often, mind you, but it is a safe way of letting off some of my sexual steam. It helps, believe it or not. Sort of like streaking around the house, naked, yelling, without bothering my Baptist neighbors.

Two Snowflakes

Ever since I was a little girl, I have heard that there are no two snowflakes that are alike. And ever since I have heard that, I have thought to myself, "How the heck do you know that?" I will readily admit that I am no expert on the cold wet stuff, but how do we know that there are no two snowflakes that are alike. Do we do this through math, showing that the crystallizing of water is such that there are so many different permutations that it is nearly impossible to have two water droplets that end up with the same crystalline structure.

I have not seen science labs where scientists are looking at crystalline structures, documenting them and comparing them to known crystalline structures. Can you imagine a scientist saying, "Yes, I look at snow structures, comparing them to ensure that no two are alike. I have a super-computer what spends its days comparing known structures, and four graduate students continue to collect data each winter."

That being said, you know that on occasion, two highly unlikely events may occur. In fact, they do occur with regularity. Look at Rutgers for instance. How many people would think they would have been undefeated at the beginning of the year? Highly improbable but possible.

I really think that people may be like snowflakes. We all are so different, but I wonder if there is someone just like me somewhere. Highly improbably but possible. Someone who has gone through what I have gone through, and reacted the same way. Someone who loves flannel pajamas, who has molded her husband in such a way that she catches him saying, "tinkle" and "PJs." Someone who looks into the sky and wonders who else is stealing a glance at the same constellations.

I have read a bit about other dimensions, string theory and such. Mostly I like to have the concepts drift over my head, me being dazzled by the words. Sort of like poetry that you don't understand. You can think the words are wonderful but not have any idea of what they mean.

I know we all want to be special – feel special. But I think it would be really neat to have a friend who knew everything you knew, looked like you looked, felt how you felt, loved all of the movies you have loved. You could braid her hair, she could braid yours, paint her toenails, have her paint yours, just chill with your identical snowflake.

Hmmmmmmmmmm. Perhaps I am a bit flakey. Where the heck is my medication?

"Why do you wake up each day?"

"Why do you wake up each day?"

That was a question that someone asked on YouTube yesterday. I did not see the original video, but I did see Hill88's response.



Okay, she gets silly at the end, but I really think this is something I am going through. I have been thinking about how I spend my time and I wonder to myself, "Am I contributing to my community in any meaningful way?"

When I was first married, I knew exactly what I wanted. I wanted a family (read: I wanted children); I wanted to be called doctor, not medical doctor, but some PhD doctor; I wanted to live in an old house in downtown Savannah; I wanted to be part of a larger family, with lots of nieces/nephews, my kids, my parents and aunts and uncles all living nearby.

Well, looks like I will not have that large family, not even a child. This is something that saddens me greatly. And because of the current state of my marriage, I am not sure adoption is possible at this time (we are working stuff out, so introducing a child into our marriage would be a bad IDEA). I love kids so much and would not want a child to be part of a family in trouble.

Well, it looks like I will never be called doctor. Okay, hubbie calls me doctor when I explore his bod, but that's not really what I was talking about. I wanted to have respect, and I thought having some piece of paper would help towards that end. Now I know this is a false assumption, but I love learning, I love research, and I love smart people.

Well, it looks like my address will not change to a street name in old Savannah. Those houses look small from the outside, but they are spacious on the inside. I have been in a couple of the houses, and they are definitely beautiful. The cost of said houses? I am not sure, but they are out of my price range, I know that much. To be so close to all of the action of downtown and to be able to walk to places. I think that would be lovely.

Well, to be part of a family where we all live in the same area. Looks like that will not happen as well. My brother and sister are not in Savannah, and they will probably not move here in the future. Funny thing is that it seems to be driven with economics. They followed their jobs to other cities, and not the same city. And I know there are better economic opportunities in say, Atlanta, but I really don't want to live there. The traffic is horrible, and the parts of Atlanta I have seen are not so nice. Plus, it is so big that the commute to and from work would be undesirable.

I do have blessings in my life, but today, I guess I am seeing what I don't have that I wanted. Not in a very spiritual place, but you know, we can't all be chipper all of the time. Thanks, YouTube for the buzz-kill.

The original video can be found below (I found it after I wrote this):



There have been over 200 video responses to the video. Wow. Looks like I will waste some time this morning. And I don't even know what "Peace Out" or whatever people say comes from.

Expressing Ourselves

I have not been very creative lately. Not sure why, but as ddot
would say, "I just have not been feeling it right now."

The other day I was watching a little boy draw a picture. It was so interesting to watch and dissect. Dissect what the boy was doing, not the artwork itself. The boy was four or so, and as a four-year-old, he has limitations. His straight lines are not all-that-straight, his pictures lack depth, contour, or whatever. But using his current "toolkit" of artistic methods, he is able to draw very expressive pictures. The house. The tree. The family. Very expressive indeed.

As members of the human race, we have a compulsion to express ourselves. Those on blogger are expressing themselves, obviously, by writing or sharing pictures, words, ideas. Whatever is in your toolkit. Those on YouTube express themselves with video, something that I am not sure I could ever do. I am one of those people who forgets to remove the lens cap, or when in the video, looks incredibly uncomfortable, mostly because I tend to be camera shy. Occasionally, in a party, I can be witty, I can trade barbs with friends, and that sort of thing, but once a camera has been activated, I clam up nearly instantly, as if I do not want a record of my words.

Even my writing is anonymous. I have not really written anything to share that I want to attribute to me. Mostly, I guess, because this blog is about me. I have, a long time ago, written and was published in incredibly obscure magazines. The title of the article was the important part – that got the 36-point print. My name was the same size as the work. At times, I did not even care that the name was on the article. I was young and writing about subjects which I was passionate about – the environment, overpopulation, pollution, whatever. Now I can barely remember what the point was.

I have spent a lot of time just thinking about creativity. For a while, I enjoyed taking pictures. I loved photographing weird things – trees from various angles, common household items, and close-ups of flowers. Okay, the flowers were more normal.

I have been working on me lately. With the getting out of debt, the weight loss stuff, and training hubbie to be a better husband (that was a little joke).

We saw a movie this weekend. What is funny as that when I was in college, I thought movies cost so much. And now, years later, the price seems much more reasonable. I don't think the price of a ticket has kept up with inflation. I read somewhere that when our grandparents talked about the "good ol' days" with nickel popcorn and 25 cent movies, the prices were higher if you take inflation into account. But I bet the food was better, even if it cost more. Off-topic, but something I was thinking about. Guess I had a need to express myself.

Have a wonderful Monday.

You Tubers

What a wonderful YouTube video.

Remembering Our Veterans

Tomorrow is Veteran's Day, and I am at awe at our veterans. Savannah is really close to a couple of Army posts, and so I am sometimes reminded of those currently serving in our military.

I have attached a five-part video series from Mr. Loken, a 94-year-old World War II vet. I do not know the gentleman, but I am constantly amazed at those who have lived such a long life and gone through so much. When I was in elementary school, I remember hearing about a veteran of the Civil War. The oldest living veteran's seem to be from World War I, and of special note is Antonio Pierro, a combat veteran. If course, this centurion is younger than , Emiliano Mercado del Toro, the oldest war veteran – and the second oldest verified human ever. These types of records fascinate me.

But tomorrow is not about growing old, as many war veterans never made it back to the United States. I am just talking about US war veterans because Veteran's Day is a US Holiday – the same sentiments apply to other country's veterans. Other countries have similar days that are celebrated at different times of the year.

About a month ago, I was in a drug store, waiting for the pharmacy tech to fill my prescription, and I noticed a sign, saying something about veterans and active duty personnel perhaps losing some sort of pharmacy benefit. Instead of getting drugs filled at local pharmacies, they will have to get them filled by mail order. Now I don't trust the government to handle my tax refund without problems; how are they going to handle filling millions of prescriptions?

Seems to me that the veterans of this country are sort of getting screwed. I mean, the pay is okay I guess, but you sometimes lay your life on the line for a few bucks, diminishing medical benefits, and a decent retirement. Most of the veterans I have met seem called to some greater good – that it is not all about the money. I just think that we ought to be paying them a bit more, give them decent health care, and not bother them to mail in their prescriptions. Instead, we honor them one day per year. Maybe two days if you count Patriots Day.

I remember talking to one veteran a few years ago. The man was old, but I am not sure how old. He had Parkinson's Disease, and his right arm, hand and leg would shake. His keys would jangle as he shook uncontrollable, talking about his military experience. He was a cook, and I really did not figure out which war he was in. I was embarrassed to ask, as he talked about things that probably should have clued me into the conflict. But his stories were mostly about his buddies, how he had to improvise with everything because the equipment was crappy, that sort of thing. Seems that the US government was skimping back then as well.

I can't imagine having 100 million dollar planes in the air and soldiers not going to Iraq with proper body armor. Just does not make sense to me. So I will be thinking about our war veterans tomorrow. I guess we ought to think of them more often, though. They deserve at least that.

94-year-old World War II Vet's story on YouTube

Les Buzzwell Loken, a 94-year-old World War II vet, tells his story on YouTube today.

For those who have this blocked, here are some imbedded movies.

Luck of the Irish Setters

I am not a terribly lucky person. I am not talking about having a roof over my head or enough food to eat. I am very blessed for those things. I am talking about entering contests and winning prizes.

Case-in-point: I went to some trade show where you place your name in a fish bowl and they pick someone for a prize. I was one of three names for this one vendor who had a really crappy location. He also did not have any freebies and so not many people visited him. Okay, I had a one-in-three chance to win a really cool electronic gadget that I did not need and you know what? I did not win.

A one-in-three chance and I did not win. I also have entered many more of the contests that day, and did not win a single prize. I know, odds were against me winning, right? How come everyone else I knew won something? Again, odds.

I once attended a lecture, and at the beginning of the lecture, we all handed in names for prize drawings. During the three hours (yeah, needed something to keep this interesting), he would pull out names and give prizes. It made that lecture on "Worker's Comp in an At Will State" much more interesting. By the end of the talk, all of the pieces of paper had been pulled and prizes handed out, and you know what? I did not win anything. My piece of paper was not in the empty fishbowl. My luck.

I once was pulled over by a gay cop, and no amount of cleavage could have gotten me out of the ticket. I was thinking about telling him about my boyfriend problems (you know, perhaps he had similar boyfriend problems), but you know, as luck would have it, we probably shared a boyfriend at the time.

When I have a report that is due, I frequently save the report because I am sure my computer will re-boot automatically. True event: once I was doing this, and the entire block lost power. My document was saved recently, but because the power was out, I still missed the deadline – and was unable to call or email the excuse because when you have fancy phones, when the power goes out, you are screwed. I mean, someone does not come under of the cover of darkness and screw you. You are just screwed in the bad sense of the word.

So you lucky souls, fill out cards for stuff, drop your business card in the fish bowls. Me, I must have been a bitch in a previous like, because like the song proclaims, "if it weren't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all."

Not Much to Say - Rumsfeld Resigns

Today is one of those days – I really don't want to write anything. Not sure why I don't, but I don't.

I was talking to hubbie last night, and I cannot believe how time flies. It seems like we have 50 million things to do, and I just can't get everything done I want done. I want to write more (no time). I want to read more (no time). I want to get an advanced degree in astrophysics (no time).

I just heard Donald Rumsfeld resigned. Donald Rumsfeld sent in his resignation after the Abu Ghraib Prison incidents, and President Bush did not accept his resignation. After the mid-term elections, it looks like Rumsfeld resigned again and this time Bush accepted the resignation. Bush is speaking now, and what I don't understand is that Rumsfeld has so much more to do with Abu Ghraib Prison than he does with pulling out of Iraq.

Bush said that people in the US are concerned with a lack of progress in Iraq. You know, some of us don't think we should have gone there in the first place (second place, the first attach of Iraq was different). I still don't see how attaching Iraq gives us less terrorists. None of this has to do with Rumsfeld.

Rumsfeld changed the military - and many don't like what he has done. I don't know exactly what he did, but he has privatized much of the military. If I had more time, I guess I could find out exactly what that means.

I just don't feel good. Maybe tomorrow.

Walking into the Light

I have heard from two people recently - both people cared for aging parents as they were dying. Both people had extremely similar experiences.

And, you know, had I not heard both within weeks, I would have discounted both stories because it sort of flies in the face of what I believe.

Anyway, in the last couple of days of each of these peoples lives, they experienced talking with people who are dead. Let's call the first person ~Deb. Anyway, ~Deb was in her seventies and her heath was failing. And in the last few days, she started having conversations with her mother, a mother who died fairly young, and ~Deb always felt abandoned by her mother.

Her son and daughters each heard ~Deb carry on what they characterized as "sane conversations" with her dead mother. My first reaction was to discount this, asking if she was on any pain medications. Cold, heartless, but the words fell out of my mouth before I knew what I was saying. My friend grinned, not upset, almost knowing that it was something I would ask.

She said she thought Mom was loosing it at first, but then to see her calm face, a face that she really did not recognize. Her mother always got tight-jawed when talking about her mother, but now, in her final days, she seemed much more at peace with her mother. Sure, a preacher did ask if she needed to talk to anyone to resolve issues, but I am fairly sure he did not mean anyone who was no longer living.

She talked about seeing people who were not there, and I wonder now if this woman was caught between heaven and earth. Is that possible? I don't believe that people now dead can interact with us – it is not part of my beliefs as a Catholic, but when I hear about this and other stories, I sometimes wonder.

The other woman who was dying talked with her mother, her father and one sister the last two days of her life. She would ignore people by her bed when talking to them, and then as if something had changed, she weakly came back to the room, talking to people in the room after she regained her composure.

It reminds me a bit of the Movie Beatlejuice. Not the comedy, but something that the "dead handbook" said. The living usually do not see the deceased. Something like that. What if this trite little movie has a bit of truth in it? What if we are not in tune with those who have passed before us? I know that I believe that we sometimes do not pay attention to God. Part of my discernment process. But what if there is more to it than that. What if the dead can see us, and we can sense them?

Nah, I still don't believe it, but darned it, there are some things that are hard to explain. I blame the morphine, but were these two women on pain medications? I never got a straight answer in one case, and I learned my lesson and did not ask the second person.