Mud-wrestling on family vacations

When I was growing up, we, as a family, would travel to a nearby state most summers. Many families do this, I know. So far not a compelling story.

We were not a wealthy family – we had relatives who lived near the water, and the vacation was extremely reasonable. One night, however, we would go – all of us, which totaled two tables normally – cousins, grandparents, etc. – to a restaurant. It was the same seafood restaurant, and we would have a nice meal. Grandfather’s treat, every summer. Again, so far not a "grant-like" story.

Then, when I was a teenager, we noticed a new message on the magnetic sign under the name of the “non chain” restaurant: MUD WRESTLING WED. Here this family-friendly restaurant was hosting mud-wrestling contests each Wednesday evening.

I really did not know much about mud-wrestling, and, unfortunately, here is where the story ends. We probably could not have attended the “performances” since we were less than eighteen. Well, grandfather was older than 18. So were our parents. But taking us there would probably have been classified as “contributing to the delinquency of minors.” So instead, we turned 18, went to college, and became delinquents that were legally responsible for our actions. I am guessing corrupting minors has less of a downside, from the legal perspective. Well, except that you are breaking laws, morals and standard decency. Our world is so much of a give-take, and sometimes you have to break a few eggs in order to make a good cake. How is that for a mixed trite metaphor?

And this mud-wrestling scenario got me to thinking, “I could never be a professional mud-wrestler or a porn “actress” because of a condition I have: OCD. A few weeks ago, I was chatting with someone who will remain nameless about mud-wrestling as a means of dispute resolution (that has a side benefit of generating cash flow). And I would absolutely suck at mud wrestling for the following reasons:

1. I don’t like getting dirty, and because of this discomfort, I am not sure I would whole-heartedly engage in the effort.

2. I don’t like my hair being pulled. As much as I delude myself in believing I am a bad-ass, I am a bit of a wimp and I don’t like my hair being pulled. I can see making a rule about not hair-pulling, but I am also very competitive, and if I was not wrestling a Catholic nun, I am fairly certain I would be pulling out hair by the fistfuls.

3. I am modest. Although I have never seen mud wrestling, I am fairly certain that the uniform involves bikinis, string-bikinis. And once my top was pulled off, I am sure I would be clutching my breasts with my hands. So I would have muddy, yucky hair plastered to my breasts. How attractive would that be?

4. I am strong for a girl, but let’s face it, I have a limited reach. If my reach is less than my opponent, she has the advantage. So my top would be coming off first, even if I were trying to scalp her because of my competitiveness and lack of ethics.
That being said, at least I don’t think the police would bother me. I mean, I don’t want to introduce handcuffs into the equation.

I would want to be able to pick my own opponent. I was looking at the blogs I normally read, and wanted to tell you whose female ass I could kick. And looking over the list, I am sorry to say that I would probably lose to them all. Unless ~deb trips first. I have heard that she is quite a klutz. Perhaps if I get her drunk first. Either that, or I need to find a patsy and train with prata. I hear prata excels at causing maximum pain with minimum effort.

Delusions and Milestones

When I was a little girl – well, when I was still living at home – I remember one birthday in particular. The birthday had black balloons and white shoe polish on cars and other public displays of humiliation for my mother. You see, she turned 4-0.

I can’t remember her 35th birthday – not as a milestone birthday, but that birthday for me seemed like a milestone. 21 was a milestone because of the drinking thing. And 30 was supposed to be a milestone but did not seem like it. 35 is the new 40 for women, I think. It hit me like a ton of bricks. Now, on cue, you are suppose to say, “Leesa, hun, I did not know you were in your 30s; I always thought you were, hey, late 20s.”Side note: my legal driver’s license was taken by a bouncer and destroyed because he thought it was a fake when I was 24 years old. I had to get another license.

But 35 was hard for me. All of this is back-story, because today, gentle readers, I am talking about hubbie. He recently had a birthday. The black balloon birthday. Someone at work actually gave him Viagra – well, it was a Viagra bottle with aspirin in it. Now I know someone at work is packing Viagra. I just hope the guy does not get a hard on for my hubbie.

Anyway, we were doing a little pillow talk the other night, and he, in all seriousness, says, “You know, the worse thing about turning 40?”

And, as my mind is wondering what he is going to say, I answer, “No, babe, what is the worse thing?” And I am hoping it has nothing to do with me.

His answer: “Well, I am realizing that I will never get some opportunities. For one, it looks like I will never be a professional baseball player.”

Good wife that I am, I don’t laugh my ass off. I wanted so much to laugh, but I didn’t. Then he explained that Roger Clements, Barry Bonds and some guy I had not heard of were all over 40, and they could still play. But their skills were diminishing. All I could think of is that these are, I presume, hall-of-fame caliber players. He, Mr. Weekend Softball League, is preparing himself to some of the greatest players in baseball. Okay, I am going to have to make an assumption – since I don’t really like baseball, I presume these are good players because I can recognize their names. Well, except for the guy I didn’t recognize and can’t remember.

I just thought it was cute. Delusional but cute.

I made a mistake

You know, I was thinking the other day. Yeah, back off. Easy shot if you comment on my thinking ability. I was listening to a couple of people justify past mistakes they made. The actual mistakes are not that important, but it sounded like both women sort of wished they had not made them. But they did not really call them mistakes – they called them “life choices.” It seems to me, again, just reading between the lines, that both women don’t want to admit that they have made mistakes. And I wonder how healthy that is.

I have made mistakes. Big freakin’ mistakes. I have a certain moral code – and part of that moral code was “don’t be unfaithful to hubbie.” Well, I blew that. And for a while, I pretended that circumstances, or actions that hubbie made at the time gave me the right to be unfaithful. Now I don’t want to go into great details – heck, I have done that before. But I can remember even thinking for a while – it is better not to tell hubbie about the infidelities. To just be a better wife. There were even national talk show shrinks who counseled to “keep your trap shut” and just be better. But doing that would not have solved the problem.

It was not that I wanted to unload crap on hubbie. I really did not want to burden him with all the crap I had going on in my mind. But in order to be a better person, to live my moral code, I had to do things that I would have a hard time explaining. Hun, could you go to couples therapy with me. Hun, I am starting to take some additional pills. Psychotropic pills, hun, yes I believe they are. I could not have gotten any better without hubbie helping me. So I had to say, “I made a mistake.” And that statement was so freeing.

I am a practicing Catholic. And so I was not living by the rules of the Church. But more than just rules for a church, they are things I believed in but did not follow. And after admitting to doing wrong, I could become a better person. Sometimes I think organized religion does not do such a good job on this aspect of the human experience. Instead of “I’m okay, you’re okay,” perhaps we should be saying, “I’m a sinner, you’re a sinner.” And then learn from our mistakes.

Now I know some of you will say, “Fidelity is overrated.” Dear reader, you are missing the point. Take an example from your past – we have all done things, at times, we wish we had not done because it is against our believe system. Instead of trying to explain it away with situational ethics, “I had to lie to protect so-and-so’s feelings.” Just admit you lapsed, figure out why and go forward. Perhaps with this approach, instead of spending time and energy explaining and defending, to you or others, you will work on bringing your values in line with your actions.

Not sure how I can weave any whip cream into this post. Unless your moral compass forbids you from putting whip cream on body parts. And that is just good clean fun!

Blogger Voodoo Dolls

Okay, I got a rude awakening Monday morning, and I am not talking about the neighbor who insists on cutting his lawn at 6:30 am. If I was a more violent person, I would stew his pets. But I digress. Please continue to view me as that lovable blogger who writes about kittens (but not kitten recipes), butterflies and pink hearts.

Okay, I come on Monday, with albeit, a crappier than normal post but I just wanted to push something out this morning. Wrote the post, saved the post, pressed "publish" and nothing. Looked on blogger's site to see if something was wrong. What I got was:

Friday, April 21, 2006

One of our databases is down, which prevents users from publishing to certain blogs. We are working on getting the database back.

Update: the database was repaired early this morning PST.

Posted by Pal at 00:51 PDT

Okay, that is Friday, today is Monday. I saw lots of blogs published Sunday, for some odd reason. Not sure why. And that was all. I wrote a couple of people (not ~deb, as Monday and Tuesday are her day's off) and all I got was one response: "Ha Ha Ha. I don't use blogger/blogspot anymore. They suck. They are unreliable. They suck." Well, something like that. The girl may have said something about wanting to be me. Not. But anyway, no sympathy.

So blogger, without any public knowledge of anything going wrong, published all of the blogs in the queue at about 1:24 pm (Eastern Time). But after the event was over, a meek entry was seen as follows:

All publishing is broken right now. We’re working on fixing it.

Update, 10:15AM: We have Blog*Spot publishing working again. External publishing coming soon.

Update, 10:41AM: External publishing is working again as well. Plus users, we haven't forgotten about you.

Update, 10:50AM: Everything sorted out now and working fine. Expect possible transient slownesses as we shore up some of the quick fixes that we had to make.

Posted by Pete at 09:42 PDT

I wanted it to also say, "We apologize to Leesa and anyone else who has severe OCD because you must have been very uncomfortable since you could not post. You probably circled your computer, pointing at the screen and wanting the "Publishing is in progress, Files published... 0%" to continue. Knowing that we were just sitting on our butts, wanting to know how many of you OCDs were not getting work done because you habitually blog first, check work-related e-mail second, get that second cup of coffee third. Ms. Leesa, we would like to publicly apologize to you, and as a favor, we will be coming by to wash and wax your car, and power clean your outdoor windows. We are scum."

Okay, that second part of the message never appeared. All I can say is I would like to purchase the materials to make a blogspot voodoo doll and start poking the doll with little pins. Since there is now a scheduled outing at 4:00 pm PDT, I wanted to post this before Blogger updates their databases. Girls and boys, I am sure I will loose all of my best stories. So just pretend I wrote something good.

Oh, and this just in. I have heard from a very reliable source (she gives great oral, I have been told – but I don't have proof, she won't give me the pictures) that the reason that Blogger was so screwed up is because of Mike. Apparently today's post was so controversial that Blogger (wholly owned by Google, a company which helps China with censorship) has chosen to censor Mike's blog. Little do they know they are feeding support for Mike.

Comments, Compliments, and Kindness

I tried posting this earlier, but I think Blogger/Blogspot is not working properly.

Compliments
The other day, my hubbie said the sweetest thing. It was sweet because he was sincere and the quasi-compliment seemed almost unintentional. He said something about a current actress. He said, after looking at a picture of her on the cover of an impulse buy magazine I got the other day, "I don't get why everyone thinks [insert name here] is so pretty." In the early morning air, I could understand the rest of the sentence. He was thinking, "You, wife of mine, are so more attractive than this woman." Now, objectively speaking, the woman he was talking about is very pretty – oh, and I am choosing not to use a name because that is sort of beside the point. But I think I enjoyed the comment because of what went unsaid, what was understood between us.

I like to compliment my hubbie. I mean, I love the guy, and I want him to know I worship his penis. Well, actually, if I were being serious, I want him to know that having him stay by me when I was screwing around was the most touching thing I have ever experienced. But, if I told him that, I am not sure how much of an impact that would create. It is sincere, it is a huge compliment, but I don't know what the impact would be. But if I remind him that I love his penis, it probably makes more of an impression. And I can see so when he struts. I do tell him the other stuff, but I mix it in with the penis stuff. Because I love the guy.

Kindness
I heard a mother say the other day that she wished her little boy was a little girl. I don't think she meant anything mean by it – she was shopping for clothes for the little boy, and let's face it, the little girl's clothes are sooooooooooo cute. Much more variety than little boy's clothing.

But here, I am thinking, "The little boy (probably a four year old) can here each word. I can see the little boy in counseling after this." Now, this young mother loves her little boy – or at least I have to believe this for the world to make sense. Why would you make comments that are not kind? Yeah, little girl clothes are cute, and dressing up a little girl can be lots of fun. But I have friends who have teenage girls. And I think things change a bit. Now, I can't remember me being a witch, but you know, I probably was a bit cruel to some girls. I don't think boys are that cruel. Regardless, you have a little boy – why not love him and make him feel so special? Makes no sense to me.

Comments
Friday, I posted about comments and how when I get more than two, I get a bit confused. Actually, I can handle about 10 comments, but after that, I am over my head. Well, I got a message from GP – you know, she may go by "Underground Queen" by now. Well, that is the name of her blog, at least. Well, anyway, she let me know that someone left a message for me on her blog. Which is good because she gets a lot of comments, too, and I usually just read her posts, not all of the comments.

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Anonymous said...

p.s. please tell leesa to make an anonomous section to comment i would love to leave a message but i don't have an account
rick in n.y.

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While I did not say that I spell "anonymous" a tad differently, I did mention since I freak out about comments, I thought perhaps letting anonymous comments on my blog would be counterproductive. Truthfully, I am not saying, "don't make a comment, darned it." I mean, if I wanted to do that, I would just turn off comments. Someone I respect so much did so a few months ago for a while. And I guess that sometimes people have to make comments. That's why the editorial page in the paper is the second most popular section of the newspaper. People need to chime in on a subject.

Happy Monday. Be kind, compliment people and post comments on other people's blogs!

Ddot, Comments and Foreplay

Oh, I am tired this morning. I did not get much sleep last night, and then I come in to work to get some blogging done, and I notice 21 new messages. Most of them blog comments.

Okay, some of them will never show up on my blog, because several are from some guy wanting to sell me (and my readers) something to increase penis size. I have heard that steroids shrink the sack and the pee-pee, so I wonder how many ball players try to re-adjust their machines with this stuff. Flack seed oil? P-pllllease.

I really want to post some stuff about hubbie. He made such a cute comment the other day. And I want to write about it, but I feel torn. Not about sex. About growing older. I need to think this over, because I try not to have him front-and-center. Know what I mean?

Anyway, I need to post a really crappy piece today to discourage comments. Not that I don't love you, but well, excessive comments really sort of freak me out. Tell me you love me, tell me you want to buy my worn undies, but then I feel compelled to respond. Plus, when I get lots of comments, I sort of get confused.

The first person I ever linked to was Ddot. Actually, his post today is fantastic. It is about how we spend our time. Back to Ddot. He probably has more comments than any blogger I know. Sure, he has great posts – but the people who are drawn to his blog are sort of like a community. They know each other; they are intelligent, and they treat the comments section like a party line. Okay, I learned about "party lines" in Social Studies in 6th grade. Apparently in the dark ages (I think it was when my grandparents were around and sexy), most people could not afford their own telephone lines. So they shared lines. Okay, someone is going to correct me on this, but, hey, this was sixth grade, my boobs were growing nicely, and I was so head-over-heals with Greg, Mark, and Jason. At the same time. What I am trying to say is that the comments section starts out about Ddot's blog entry, and then it goes everywhere from there.

Now, I think I met Grant there, I know I found GP there, and there are a few others as well. Okay, Grant sort of scares me sometimes, but he seems to know an awful lot about writing. And GP is me when I was in my mid-twenties. Well, except I was not African American, and my bodacious ta-tas were not as, er, bodacious.

You know, this is a completely random thought, but when I was in college (freshman and sophomore years) and "having sex" seemed so much more committal and special (okay, this is completely girl talk, young, innocent, daisies, butterflies and locked diaries), I tended to do a lot more creative things. And, mind out of the gutters, I am not talking about 'cuff and whips. I am talking about doing stuff that did not necessarily lead to "penetration." I mean, I don't want to be too graphic, but if Mr. Pee-Pee can't get near my mid-section, how else can we create friction? And when the guy knows that he doesn't have access to where he wants, it is all foreplay. Hours and hours of foreplay. Days and days . . . . Oh, just shut me up. I mean, I like where I am in life. Hubbie who adores me, mostly plain vanilla sex that is sweet and uncomplicated. Heck, before this week, I did not even know many of the positions out there. I feel like some woman who is a "one trick pony." Ouch. Oh, how I love word play.

Well, I better get this posted before the electricity goes out. Lightning scares me so. So those of you wanting to comment, I can give you directions to Ddot's blog. Well, you probably know the way – a heck of a post today. As usual.

Of Labels, hand jobs and Myers Briggs

Some sentences continue to haunt us long after they have been said.

I can remember vividly, talking with a relative of mine about another relative who was a stripper. I have written about her before, but she is involved in this memory as well. I can remember her sister saying about her occupation, "I mean, sure, she takes her clothes off for money, but it is not like she is a hooker. I mean, she sometimes has sex for money in the parking lot, but it is not like she is a real hooker." Sorry for the repetitive nature of the sentences, but those are the words as I remember them.

Now, I know her sister was not saying that she was the English theologian, Richard Hooker (1554-1600). Hand jobs were his specialty. But, pardon my French, L'enfer, oui, elle est une prostituée. I prostitute is someone who exchanges sexual services for money. So, yes, she was a hooker. I mean, it did not say prostitute on her W-2's, but I am not sure that is the be-all-end-all of labeling her. Now, I know that you never want to say that your sister is a prostitute, but if she performs hand jobs for $20s, I am guessing the label fits.

I have read a lot about labels lately and people not wanting to be labeled.

I slept with (mumbling to protect the guilty) guys, and I will tell you now, I was a slut. I mean, I don't know the number that tips the scale from "friendly" to "slut", but if you can't count on your fingers and toes, my guess is that you may be tipped into the slut category. I know, a label. I also am an adulteress – sounds exotic to me. But like it or not, that is a label I wear – me, Hester Prynne, and a few other gals. I think our click is more than a hundred by now. Confessed adulteresses, that is.

And I am not poo-pooing myself, just pointing out that there are some labels I have earned that I desperately don't want to have.

And Joe, one of my favorite people in the world (I have him at the bottom of my list so I can quickly find his name), talked about labeling via the Myers Briggs Type Indicator test lately. This test labels or categorizes you based on your response to questions. I know that Myers Briggs does not sum up someone's thoughts, feelings, dreams and penis size. It is just part of a picture, and yes, it is not necessarily accurate.

And, dear friend ~Deb, had a blog entry about labeling yesterday.

My response follows:

---

Okay, ~deb, I for one would want to see you with a huge picket in your hand walking around topless and chanting "I WANT MY RIGHTS---KILL BUSH!". But I am not a big fan of Bush and I am a big fan of you.

From all that I have read, I am not sure I would label you a lesbian. I see you more as a free-thinking woman who has fallen heads over heels with M (who happens to be a woman). I just looked to see a definition of lesbian and I love the sentence: "One could argue that one is not a lesbian (as a noun) but lesbian (as an adjective). This would depend on self identification, and is different for most lesbians/lesbian women."

So, sweetie, if you label yourself as a lesbian, I will have to retract what I have said. Then, my dear, you are a lesbian.

---

I love the line about self labeling oneself as a lesbian. It just seems to resonate with me.

As I see it, there are many labels:

(1) Definitions. Like "prostitute" listed above. Just part of our language. One would not want the label "felon", but if you have done the time, you get the label. I don't think you can opt out of those labels.

(2) Then there are categorizations. Rather than universal, these are still man-made (or woman-made), in a sense. People with PhD and grants decide on logical or helpful ways of grouping people. But the groupings might not be right – you can drift from one label to another over time.

(3) Then there are self-labels. This is the lesbian label. Maybe slut falls in this category as well. Just because I think Shakira is hot, doesn't make me a lesbian. Who the heck doesn't think she is hot? But if I dream about her hips and other edible parts of her every day, I would be Joe. I mean, I might chose to label myself a lesbian. Either way, I get to label myself, and most of us see that as more palatable than other ways.

Crap, I broke my one page rule. I am not saying what I have written is right or wrong. Just what is bouncing around in my head. Sort of like Shakira. And she can bounce! Then again, so can ~Deb with a picket sign!

The Skirt

I have thought about sharing the following, but it does two things that I am not sure I want to do:

1. Place me in a less-than-wonderful light. I like being the virginal, innocent blogger that you have come to know and love, and

2. Me and some of my co-workers come off as some sort of reverse female-chauvinist-pig.

But what the hey!

Okay, at our work, we lease our copy machines, and along with leasing these machines, we have some sort of service contract. Anything that goes wrong and we (me) pick up the phone and place a service call. Within the day or next day, we get service and everyone is happy. Nothing new so far.

Well, about seven months ago, we got a new fix-it person. I wanted to say that we got a new "copier guy", because that's what I call him, but you see, the new copy repair person is a girl. Well, a woman.

Now, a few weeks ago, I entered a room and a conversation mid-sentence, and they were talking about "the skirt," and without any context, I knew exactly who they were talking about. This woman! She wears the shortest skirts year-round. And I have always seen her in a skirt.

And before you ask, Grant, no she is not Asian! And she is not some hot dentist or dental hygienist. She does have really nice legs, but that is not the point. She is known by what she wears – short skirts. And everyone around here seems to be calling her, "the skirt."

Then I start thinking – and, no, not about this girl. I make many of the calls, and I think I have been calling our copier company more and more since she started working at our location (I almost typed, "servicing us," but it is not like that). Now, this could be that she is really bad at fixing the copy machine. But I don't think that is the issue. I think people are jamming the machine on purpose. I mean, for a while, we had this really hot guy, and some of the girls (including me) would joke about jamming the machine on purpose. But we didn't do it. And I am wondering if people are jamming the machine on purpose. Yeah, those INTJ's out there are probably thinking, "perhaps your machine is aging, and it is more prone to breakdowns." To that, I say, "I am so going to label you!" (Inside joke, sorry.)

And I feel really bad about calling her "the skirt." It reminds me of some class in college, where we learned about certain demeaning names that men have given women over the years (gotta love liberal arts education). One name was "skirt," because it describes women by an article of clothing or that a woman is important because of what the skirt contains. This was one of those classes where I would read a short story, and the professor would talk about all of these sexual innuendos that completely went over my head. The other thing about that class is a story about trucks and trucking – and apparently, it was all about homosexual sex. News to me. You see, the story used the word "Peterbuilt." Apparently, that means big penis. Again, I was a freshman and very naive at the time.

I remember in the cold of winter, our copier person – "the skirt" – coming to fix the machine, and she had this really big coat on. I sort of wanted a coat like it (for the three weeks I could actually use it). Anyway, she takes it off, and there she is, in her little skirt. She must only wear short skirts. And I thought to myself, "I want her legs." No, I thought to myself, "I would be freezing my ass off were I she." And then I thought, "Nice ass." Just joking – I thought, "I sure wish the copier guy was still servicing us. I mean, he was freakin' hot."

Junk Mail, Fires and Telemarketers

I hate junk mail; I really do. I received a piece of mail from a friend yesterday, and I will be placing it at the bottom of this e-mail. I am sure several of you have received the same message. But I am not talking about forwarded messages (this one I would not classify as spam). I am talking about junk mail.

The one good thing about junk mail is that I can tell if our postman is not picking up or delivering mail on a given day – no junk mail, no delivery for the day. Because I get junk mail every day that I get a delivery. I think that's sort of amazing.

And I never respond to junk mail – although I don't count fliers from places I frequent "junk mail." If I get a 25% off coupon from Crabtree and Evelyn, you know I am going to use it. Every stinkin' time. But the charge cards, life insurance policies, mortgage refinancing, lawn services, etc., heck no, I will not do business with them.

If we had a fireplace, I would appreciate junk mail. I figure, it would save me some money. I would bundle up the junk mail, probably make a log a week, and burn them in the winter. Thanks Sears, thanks JC Penney's. You are helping me keep my tootsies warm in the winter. But we have no fireplace. And really, Georgia doesn't get that cold that I would need a fireplace for more than a month or so anyway. If we did have one, I would not even need to buy firewood. Unless we purchased the wood in such a way that hubbie would need to split it shirtless in the backyard. Yum. But I guess if he were splitting wood in the winter, he would probably have a shirt on. Foiled again. You can see why I hate junk mail.

Which leads me to phone calls. I don't like salespeople calling me. Yeah, we are on the do not call list. And it works pretty well. But if you are already doing business with someone, they can call you regardless, to try and sell you more crap and interrupt your dinner. My latest tactic is to sniffle once I know it is one of these people, and then say that my dog just died. I start balling, and the person on the other end of the line usually gives up quickly. They know they work on volume, and I will be chatty and not buy anything else. The worse is our local telephone service. I hate them, but I will not name them because they are evil and I think they actually monitor all of my communications. They always call when I am in the bathroom and hubbie answers the phone. And hubbie is a sucker. So I have to finish up quickly, pat off and then hobble to rip the receiver out of hubbie's hand, pulling my shorts up in the process. "We don't need any more services, and yes, jack ass, it is that time of the month!" It occurs to me that these people have our names and phone numbers, and I pray that some central computer just serves up the information so they can't call again.

I can see their notes in the customer database: "Wife is psycho bitch whore. Hubbie is easy target. Only ask for the man of the house." Sorry for the cursing. It's just these telemarketers get the best of me.

And the link mentioned is for the National Do Not Call Registry – a worthwhile thing, unless you like toying with people during dinner.

GAS WAR - an idea that WILL work. This was originally sent by a retired Coca Cola executive. It came from one of his engineer buddies who retired from Halliburton. It's worth your consideration.

Join the resistance!!!! I hear we are going to hit close to $ 4.00 a gallon by next summer and it might go higher!! Want gasoline prices to come down? We need to take some intelligent, united action.

Phillip Hollsworth offered this good idea. This makes MUCH MORESENSE than the "don't buy gas on a certain day" campaign that was going around last April or May! The oil companies just laughed at that because they knew we wouldn't continue to "hurt" ourselves by refusing to buy gas. It was more of an inconvenience to us than it was a problem for them. BUT, whoever thought of this idea, has come up with a plan that can really work. Please read on and join with us!

By now you're probably thinking gasoline priced at about $1.50 is super cheap. Me too! It is currently $2.79 for regular unleaded in my town. Now that the oil companies and the OPEC nations have conditioned us to think that the cost of a gallon of gas is CHEAP at $1.50 - $1.75, we need to take aggressive action to teach them that BUYERS control the marketplace … not sellers. With the price of gasoline going up more each day, we consumers need to take action. The only way we are going to see the price of gas comedown is if we hit someone in the pocketbook by not purchasing their gas! And, we can do that WITHOUT hurting ourselves. How?

Since we all rely on our cars, we can't just stop buying gas. But we CAN have an impact on gas prices if we all act together to force a price war.

Here's the idea: For the rest of this year, DON'T purchase ANY gasoline from the two biggest companies (which now are one), EXXON and MOBIL. If they are not selling any gas, they will be inclined to reduce their prices. If they reduce their prices, the other companies will have to follow suit. But to have an impact, we need to reach literally millions of Exxon and Mobil gas buyers. It's really simple to do! Now, don't wimp out on me at this point...keep reading and I'll explain how simple it is to reach millions of people!!

I am sending this note to 30 people. If each of us send it to at least ten more (30 x 10 = 300) ... and those 300 send it to at least ten more (300 x 10 = 3,000)...and so on, by the time the message reaches the sixth group of people, we will have reached over THREE MILLION consumers.

If those three million get excited and pass this on to ten friends each, then 30 million people will have been contacted! If it goes one level further, you guessed it..... THREE HUNDRED MILLION PEOPLE!!!

Again, all you have to do is send this to 10 people. That's all! (If you don't understand how we can reach 300 million and all you have to do is send this to 10 people.... Well, let's face it, you just aren't a mathematician. But I am … so trust me on this one.) :-)

How long would all that take? If each of us sends this e-mail out to ten more people within one day of receipt, all 300 MILLION people could conceivably be contacted within the next 8 days!!! I'll bet you didn't think you and I had that much potential, did you! Acting together we can make a difference.

If this makes sense to you, please pass this message on. I suggest that we not buy from EXXON/MOBIL UNTIL THEY LOWER THEIR PRICES TO THE $1.30 RANGE AND KEEP THEM DOWN. THIS CAN REALLY WORK.

Kerry Lyle, Director, Research Coordinator

Easter Sugar, Money, and HNTs

I am in a post-Easter sugar-induced state. I am not sure if I can think straight. See, when you don't have children and still have Easter, there is a heck of a lot of candy that you have to eat. I have never been good at eating candy after Easter – most of it is consumed during Easter.

And when I have this much sugar in me, my thinking is . . . oh, um . . . erratic. Spastic. And "Tiger Woods spastic," not trying to make fun of people with MS spastic. Tiger Woods said that he was a spaz during the Masters. Upset a lot of people in the UK; apparently they forgot that in the US, we have corrupted their language. At least that's what an English acquaintance told me once.

Twice over the last week, I have found dollars with the phrase, "Kathy and Alex" written on the side. The first time I saw the scribble, I thought, "how sweet, little love-birds." By the second time I saw the scribble, I began wondering about Kathy and Alex. I mean, they are just goo-goo in love or they are just want to deface currency. Or something in between.

At first, I assumed that the two lovebirds were male and female, but you know, Alex can be a girl's name too. So these little notes passed from person to person in exchange for goods and/or services that acknowledge their love may have done their job – because I hope these two crazy kids, Kathy and Alex, are doing well. And if I had a naughtier mind, I would wonder if these two young adults are either bumping donuts or reverse cowgirl, depending on their sexes.

Okay, last week I saw a blog that mentioned reverse cowgirl. I had no idea what that was, so I looked it up in Wikipedia, and you know, I am starting to find out that I am a sexual novice. I mean I have had lots of experience, but most of it has been in a relatively few sexual positions. Seems like I have been more in pursuit of the magical "O", and less in pursuit of imaginative sex. And so I am feeling a bit of a novice. Even the missionary position has 10 variations – who would have thought?

As you have probably guessed, I have nothing to write about today. But I am thinking more and more about what I don't know instead of what I do know. I mean, I don't know about Kathy and Alex, I don't know about reverse cowgirls.

I mean, it is not I am campaigning over banning HNTs. I mean, who would be crazy enough to do that.

Woman Finds Imperfect Mate At Outlet Mall

Looks like Giovanna has started a new venture: What if? Now, her nickname is toots, which I think is adorable. Personally, I don't want a nickname that would be confused with farts, but hey, that's me.

Anyway, we will see if this thing takes off. I have been told that Toots will pose with a beach ball and a smile if 20 people start this endeavor. But she will neither confirm nor deny this. Personally, I have created 12 different identities and have signed them all up just in case. I mean, I am not sure how big the beach ball will be, and perhaps she will be so out of breath after attempting to blow up the beach ball, she can't hold it in front of her whole bod. Life is an adventure, and I carry a safety pin. That's what I always say.

Oh, well, below is my first assignment. I had to find a headline and write something based on the title alone. Anyway, I looked on the Onion, and found this title to a news article: Woman Finds Imperfect Mate At Outlet Mall. I have not read the article, but I will write some based on the title alone. I can assure you, any similarity between the article and my tripe is coincidence.

She tapped her foot nervously on the ground, and turned her palm to her face, looking at the petite gold watch around her wrist. Where is he, she thought. Where is he?

It was 6:15 pm, and her ride was not here.

This is the third time in a month that her boyfriend forgot her. Once at a bar, once at a restaurant and now at an outlet mall. Clearly from her actions, he was telling her that other things were more important than her. Mental note: subtract five brownie points.

She looked around – where the hell was she anyway? Oh, and then she saw her sanctuary – the outlet mall. Everything was coming in clearly now. The mall.

After trying on shoes that were too expensive and uncomfortable, she decided to see what the store was next door. The only sign, on the door, was "Open." This did not reveal the nature of the store, or what was inside.

The windows were blackened, and the "Open" sign must have been purchased as an afterthought. What the hell, the thought to herself, if her boyfriend was going to be late, he was going to have to find her sweat ass.

Entering the store with a bit of trepidation, she saw that the walls were black, perhaps charcoal grey, and a short man with thick glasses stood at attention behind a podium. He was waiting for her, it seemed.

"Y--es. May I help you," the man said, spending much time enunciating the "Y" in "Yes" and emphasizing the word "I" as if he was the only one in the word who could help her.

Through the conversation that followed, the woman learned that this man with a thick, hard-to-place accent had just opened a mail-order-groom business. In an outlet mall, no less.

The woman's thoughts at first were of disbelief. She immediately scanned for cameras, first thinking "Candid Camera" and then thinking "Sting Operation."

"I know your zoom is ticking," the man continued.

"Pardon," the lady offered.

"I know your womb is ticking," she deciphered from the man's words, "What it is you would like, Miss."

There was some calmness to his voice, and she began to let her guard down.

"I don't know how to answer your question," she finally said. It was a true statement, but it did not reveal too much. She did not want to hope.

"I want an honest man," she started. All women want honest men. But she added, "Honest, but kind." She wanted him to tell her what he was thinking, but not if it involved sexual acts with Playboy playmates or that she really did look fat in a dress.

She continued with the description, telling this stranger her ideal man. All the while, the man wrote in his little notepad, as if a waitperson was taking a meal order. She continued and continued, and then the man looked a bit annoyed, and then stopped writing all together.

"Ma'am," he interrupted, "how much would you like to spend on your mate?"

She froze, and then thought – did she want to mortgage the house for a man? Did she want to go into debt for a custom-ordered honey?

By the end of the transaction, she left with a receipt for her mate, imperfect though he was. She did not want to leave empty-handed. He was two-thirds off, she thought to herself, and if she did not like him, she could always return him. After wiping him off, that is.

The Meaning of Life

I started out wanting to briefly give you the meaning of like – heck, I normally write a post in 15 minutes, and thought to myself, "No prob, I can knock this puppy out in twelve minutes if I don't go for a laugh or two."

And then another thought hit me – telling you the meaning of life would be unfair. I mean, it seems we all struggle with this, and for me to give you the answer, I would be cheating you out of life's greatest challenge, perhaps even making the meaning of life meaningless. Wrap your brain around that crap, will you?

Cherish had a very poignant post last week that talked about the meaning of life. Well, not in so many words, but you get the idea.

Have you ever wanted to post a link to a site on your blog because you just don't want to lose site of something. Oh, but this has nothing to do with the meaning of life. Just a thought.

When I was in college, I had a good friend – he was a guy I never dated (or messed around with). We talked about all sorts of things. His goal in life, he told me at the time, was to bed as many women as he could. He was handsome, funny, intelligent, and, er, um, shallow. But he knew what he wanted, and he got it all the freakin' time. I mean, at the time, I sometimes was jealous of him, partly because for a while, I was not getting any. And partly, it seemed, that he was not really interested in me. I mean, I would not go to bed with the guy, but make a pass at me, okay? I would have said, heck, no, but I wanted the offer.

But this guy, let's call him Playboy X, is it wrong to do what he did? I mean, he had a set of values and lived his life accordingly. I don't know what happened to Playboy X, but I sometimes wonder about him.

There is a book by Steven Covey called something like First Things First. Now it is not a book about nailing women. It is a book about doing what you think is important. I find Playboy X to be, well, shallow. But if he spend his time doing what he values, will he live a fulfilling life?

There was a movie a few years ago, Good Will Hunting. I love that movie. Anyway, here is a line that I thought is appropriate:

Now you can know everything in the world, sport, but the only way you're findin' out that one is by givin' it a shot. you certainly won't learn from an old fucker like me. even if i did know, i wouldn't tell a piss ant like you.

Anyway, it is about finding out about love. I love that the psychiatrist, even if he knew the answer, wouldn't tell Will. We are all on this big blue marble, spinning through space. And I don't know what is important for you; I just hope you are spending time doing what you think is important. I just want a few of you finding cures for diseases – we can't all be screwing around all of the time.

Milblogs, Cool Chicks and Oscar Wilde

Every once in a while, I start a blog entry, and it goes nowhere. I save it as a draft, and it hangs around for a while. So as I am posting my new entries, I still see the partial entries. At the first of the year, I had no partial entries. I think I finished all of them. And now, perhaps because I have been scatter-brained for the last month, I have started lots of posts that I have not finished. So instead of just deleting them – which would be easy – I am going to paste some together. Pretend this is intentional, witty banter. K?

Military Blogs (milblogs)
You know what I found out the other day; there are specific blogs that address the experiences of military members. Here are three that were recently highlighted in some magazine:

Grey Eagle – A Female Soldier
Who's Your Bagdaddy
Akinoluna

Now, since I started this, at least one of the blogs has stopped. Perhaps they all have. I wanted to write a very poignant post, talking about the sacrifices these military men and women perform for our country. I live in an area of the country where I do see military families occasionally – there is a fairly large Army Post less than an hour from Savannah, with a smaller post/base a bit closer. But I am less than familiar with their individual sacrifices. They sort of remind me of police/firefighters, though they definitely are differences.

The only thing I can think to say doesn't really fit. It is from a Shakespearian play:

Serve God, love me and mend.

But you would have to move the words around, because these service men are serving our nation, loving our nation or their families, and I hope all of those who come back with physical and mental scars will mend. I never finished the post because it is so hard to express my feelings.

Grass is Always Greener
Okay, another post about blogging. Perhaps I will die in a staple mishap today; who knows.

You know, I am not trying to offend any of my commenters, but I think this entry may offend. I apologize for this in advance, and there is no hormonal imbalance that can explain this away. Looks like I am responsible for my actions today. Crap.

I like reading Amber's blog, but she and I are like a decade apart. Amber is a cool chick – you will notice she does not comment on my blog. Marissa, one of her friends, is also a cool chick. She has a very slick blog. As does Alanna and Cheryl. Or Kim Or Lisa. Or Laurie. These are all cool chicks with cool blogs. My blog is boring – I mean, not the words but the layout. I try my best to have every other post mention how I enjoy facials, men with big, er, uh, hearts, and women in thigh high spiked boots and brandishing well-used whips. Where is the freaking backspace? Need to erase the last two lines.

Remember typewriters – I hated typewriters because mistakes stood out, and correction tape was sloppy. Not as sloppy as a good blow job, but pretty sloppy nonetheless. And not as nice.

You know when I start down the sex road, I easily get diverted. I like the people who read my tripe. I really do – and I feel fortunate because they have really good blogs. But part of me looks at these other blogs, pretty and hip blogs, and part of me wants to know what it takes to join their inner circle. It is like being on the dance team in high school and want to be at the chearleader's lunch table. You want to join, but if you ever get invited to the table, after the original thrill, you look around and think to yourself, "I really don't belong here. I like that people can see I am at this table, but, you know, I don't really like it all that much."

Once I dated an extremely handsome man – I liked that others knew he chose me, but after that, he was not really all that interesting, and the sex was actually the worse I have ever had. Worse than drunk sex. Worse than "he needs help finding the proper body parts" sex. The worse.

The winter is the spring asleep
"The winter is the spring asleep." Oscar Wilde

Okay, perhaps I don't have the exact words that Oscar Wilde said, but it is close. These are the words, as I remember them, in a story called, The Selfish Giant.

I wanted to write about this line in a wonderful story. But that is the only line I have written down. And now, I can't remember what the point is to this very brief post. I know it has nothing to do with half-naked co-eds. That much I know. I think it was going to be a sweet post – I sure hope so, because the story is sweet. But I really don't remember what I was going after.

Anyway, thanks for letting me clean out some of my unfinished posts. Sort of "spring cleaning" in my blog. And I will not be Melanie Griffith, in Working Girl. Why do you clean an apartment in your undies and high heals? I mean, really.

Cars, Bikinis and Cheesecake and a Wire Wisk

I was in the supermarket the other day, and I know I had to pick up a few things, but instead of doing the same routine (get cart, go through veggie isle first, go down isle 3 next, etc.), I just grabbed a hand-held basket and walked down isles randomly.

One of the isles I rarely ever travel down is the magazine isle. And so I am just looking randomly at the magazines. And the ones that first catch my attention are the auto magazines. There are like 50 thousand different auto mags, and they sort of all look alike to me. I mean, if not alike, very similar. Car or truck on the cover, with hot girl or girls in bikinis next to the vehicle or on top of the vehicle. My first thought is, "darn, I hope the hood is not hot because it will leave a nasty burn mark." And my next thought is, "Life is not fair."

Press release: life isn't fair. Yeah, I know, we have learned this all of our lives. But come on, the women have little to do with the cars (men's minds are thinking, "without the car, I can't get the bikini-clad hotties"). The target audience is men, and they get to look at eye candy.

And I don't think women have the same.

Here is what I want – I want a woman's hobby magazine to be more like men's car magazines (the cars are hobbies, aren't they?).

Okay, next time I am at the supermarket, I'd like to see a cover photo of a 22-year-old hunk with rippling muscles, Pyrex bowl covering his package, and the title, "Measuring up." I mean, I don't know if the measuring cup with make his wee-wee bigger or smaller. I was in physics in high school, and concave verses convex; I don't know what the different lenses do to images. But wouldn't you buy the magazine? I mean, for the recipes of course.

Or some cutie in an apron and nothing else, wisking some eggs, with the title, "Taste My Cream Sauce." I know, I know. This is not marketable. Women don't like to look at men. To that, I say under my voice, "B----hit."

You could have an article on glazes, and pics that would include a glaze on Orlando Blume. I mean, as long as we are being fair. You could have men talk about their favorite deserts, full of sexual innuendos. I am talking sexually playful, not hard core.

Now, I don't know what the car magazines are about, but it is still about the cars. The hobby. You would still need to write good articles with helpful info. But give us a bit of cheesecake to go along with the recipe. That's all I am asking.

Oh, and "There's a weasel chomping on my privates."

Of Planes and Secrets

A few weeks ago, I was sitting on an airplane, waiting for it to take-off, headed towards Nicaragua. The gentleman next to be started sharing things, things that he should not share. He said he killed a man in cold blood . . . .

Okay, I was not going to Nicaragua; it was much closer, and the information that the man shared was still deeply personal, but it did not involve a capital crime. And throughout the conversation, I kept thinking to myself, "All I want to do is get through the magazines I carried onboard." Actually, I was thinking about how much or how little we all share. There is a phenomenon that some of us share more with strangers than we would our closest friends, family or psychiatrists. Speaking of psychiatrists, what I want to find is a therapist that would give discounts for amusing lives, amusing stories. I mean, if my 50 minutes is amusing, I make the day go by faster for my therapist, and I think compensation is the least that I can expect from him. I mean, really!

Back to my main point: what we share. I think many of us have been on a plane, and heard things, very personal things, that were told to us. Or perhaps we were the ones doing the telling. Shoot, I have read many blogs, and people share all sorts of things on their blogs. I do as well. Heck, the other day, I wrote someone about something deeply personal to me – something that only my hubbie and a few other people even know. Not sure why I shared the information, but I did.

Someone the other day in a different blog had another revelation – apparently their blog persona was a bit of a lie. Someone told me about it, but I didn't recognize the blog so I did not know if I should be shocked or not. Now I did not read how this person deceived – I really was not all that curious – but it occurs to me that when does withholding end and deception begin. I mean, if I don't reveal that I had fish Friday night for dinner, I am withholding information – that paints a more complete picture when you know this. Well, as a good Catholic, one might expect not eating meat on Fridays during lent. But even though it is an incomplete picture, is it a deceptive picture. No.

We all share incomplete pictures to our families, friends and co-workers. And I would think we are fine with this. I don't want to know my boss has a foot fetish, or my sister-in-law can't go to the bathroom without stripping completely. We consider this "too much information," or simply TMI. And if I had a secret, I am not obligated to tell anyone. I am fairly straight-forward here, though I normally keep hubbie out of my writing. I have some interesting incites on him and sometimes feel compelled to write more, but I don't. I also don't talk too much about my sluttiness. Bad past. Well, not details, because (1) I don't want to, and (2) it's not normally pertinent to the discussion.

Addendum
I actually found the site mentioned above this morning. While I did not read the entire post, I did read many of the comments. Some were supportive, and some were really mean. I guess when people are deceived, they get angry.

And then I had another thought. It had never occurred to me that the people on the plane may be stretching the truth with their problems or their careers or their experiences. You know, I tend to take people at face-value. Just seems easier that way – looking for angles, deception, or whatever seems like a waste of good thinking time.

Hmmmmmmmmmm. I guess I need to think of something lighter to post tomorrow. This was suppose to be a light post. Drat.

Quarterly Friends

I have a friend who I have lunch with, perhaps, one every three months. We were fast friends in college – became real college girlfriends. Not the kind where you get naked with; well, not sexual with at least, we have seen each other naked. The kind of girlfriend where you call her up right after you get home from a date and tell her everything about the guy – "his nose seemed crooked; I couldn't help but stare at it", "he tried looking down the waitress' blouse!", or "I think I could be in love". The kind of friend you wanted to share your life with – all the little juicy experiences, the funny moments, and even the pain. That's who we were.

Life changes. She got married to a very rich family. Yes, you don't need to read the last sentence again; I intended on saying that she got married to a very rich family. She fell in love with someone in a social class above us, and she got married. I used to think that there were no social classes in the United States. But that was because I didn't get a glimpse of the rich and figured the poor was like me except they didn't contribute to 401Ks. Sort of naive.

We were still friends when she was married, and at first, I sort of assumed that I would be in the wedding party. Maybe not the maid of honor, but definitely one of those in the tacky, puffy dresses. Not a dream of mine, but an honor I thought my friend would bestow on me. But I wasn't. She explained that her fiancé had cousins and friends of the family that needed to be in the wedding party. I was invited to the wedding – there were eight pairs in the wedding party. Eight! It was the most elaborate wedding I have ever attended or will ever attend, and the only member of her family/friends that was in the wedding party was a brother. Sorry for all of the background, but I wanted to give you a flavor of her and the start of her marriage. She had to make some sacrifices for her marriage – not saying that excluding me from the wedding party was a sacrifice, but it sort of telegraphs the types of sacrifices she may have to start making.

Well that was more that ten years ago. Has it been fifteen years? Nah, a little more than ten. And we have our quarterly lunches – we started having them at "the club," but many years ago, we began meeting around town. I am not part of her life in any real sense, and I sometimes don't even know why we still meet. I wonder if she meets with me to stay in touch with what she was so she won't get totally lost in what she has become. It is hard for me to tell.

And this whole set up is to type one sentence that she told me last week, "It is really hard having money." Like she wanted me to feel sorry for her. She has a live-in nanny helping raise her children; she will never have to worry about retirement; she can buy pretty much anything she wants, and she says, "It is really hard having money."

I felt like saying, "I hear it's really hard to have a cocaine addiction." Or, "It's really hard to be deployed to Afghanistan." Or, "It's really hard when your husband beats you senseless with a baseball bat and you have permanent damage just because you were fleeing with your child." But I didn't.

My short, compassionate answer: "I hear it is really hard to have money."

You see, I have had friends who have committed suicide or attempted suicide, and I always wonder what was so insurmountable that they would see this as the only out. And their lives were not really messed up – there were short-term problems that would probably work themselves out anyway. Okay, I know suicide is really complex, and that people tending to be in danger of committing suicide may have chemical imbalances or other factors giving them that "out" early in life. But my point is that things we may see as no big deal, some people find hard.

I have read lots of strong people lately, and I sometimes think, "I could never survive that." And you know what – most of us probably could survive it because we have to, if given those circumstances.

One last thing – I have been thinking about priorities lately. How and why I spend my time doing what I am doing. Basically, am I doing what I deem important to me? I guess I am asking this of myself to chisel out some time to write. I want to write every day – well, maybe five days per week. And some days, I may have little to show for it, other days a lot, depending on my inspiration. Good thing is that I already write five days per week – but now, instead of this 15 to 30 minute of e-doodling, I will have to carve out another hour or so. Seems doable.

I need to write another light post, for my sanity alone. Have a wonderful weekend, be good, and make someone laugh.

Little Notebooks, Crap and Inspiration

Yesterday, I started my blog with a “crap follows” warning. Two people said, “This isn’t crap.” I was not being shy or modest. I had not thought of a thing to say – and my OCD sort of forced a post. But, at the last minute, something came together.

You see, when I blog, I really can’t figure out how people will react to my posts. I know how I will react, but not others. I remember the most important post I ever wrote – I wrote it one day to be posted the next. I told people, a few bloggers, the next post is good, real good. I mostly just doodle here – and that post, to me, was heartfelt, well-written, and had a message that was important. Real important. I got four comments.

I post about “slut radar” (an old post that struck a chord) or complain about another blogger with the same name (recent post), and I get comments, lots of comments. And I don’t understand why.

I read a blog yesterday that talked about a 100 post challenge – where the blogger gets 100 posts, and then challenges the next person (tags them, I think the phrase is), and then they get 100 posts. I couldn’t get 100 posts if I make a collage of Bored Housewife’s braless Tuesday pictures. A sort of a “tit for tat” post. But I digress.

And that got me to thinking about something else – inspiration. That well-written post that didn’t get many posts – I can’t remember if I was inspired or touched. I can’t remember, maybe touched more than inspired. But inspiration comes and goes so quickly. I have read that some really important people carry a notebook around and jot notes to themselves, before they lose inspiration. And those of you that saw Mike’s last post, I was not referring to him. But he does the same thing.

There are days where ideas flow through me. They are like minnows in a stream – if you don’t have your net ready, you miss them all. I am not a good writer yet, but I wonder if I carry a notebook around, could I remember those little inspirational moments that come and go. Now I can’t see asking hubbie to stop rocking my world while I write down some thoughts. It would kill the mood and he may find that his thingie is not the only thing I have on my mind at that exact moment.

Who knows, perhaps this will make for better blogging. And, I will tell you a secret. Pssss. Come closer. Whispering: I have started writing a book, a real book. I just hope I don’t quit on it if I don’t get inspiration.

Of tragedy, princesses, and butterfly tattoos

Warning – crappy post ahead. I have other things on my mind today, so I wonder how this post will turn out.

I have read a lot of tragic blogging posts over the past two weeks, yet I have failed to comment on any of it. My posts have been light, fluffy – and well, there was the start of an erotic post that turned into a tease. Perhaps I am bitch Leesa and the other Leesa is sweet Leesa after all. Or does it make a difference anyway.

A few of the bloggers talked about abuse – probably many of them did, but I read a few. The blog entries were touching, scary, and maddening. But, for me, they were foreign. I have never been in a relationship that involves physical violence. The closest I ever got was with a boyfriend who had a short fuse – made for some wonderful arguments, and passionate make-up sex, but I ended the relationship because of a feeling, not any violence. Let me explain.

I forget the argument we had, but we were both pissed at each other, both brewing, and I am sure we both thought we were right. Since this is my story, I am going to assume I was right – funny thing is that I don't remember any of the arguments anymore. Not one of them. But here we were, moving around the apartment like two caged animals. Wanting to be somewhere else, wanting to fight, but in a sense, wanting the fight to be over. And we were passing each other in the hall, and my boyfriend bumped my shoulder with his. I did not fly into a wall, but it was a bump, an angry bump. It did not hurt me physically – and my hubbie, when clumsy, has done much worse (not mean-spirited, but let's say, he has a knack for stepping on toes).

That little bump scared me. It was not hard, but it was angry. Now I don't know if most women have "danger radar"; I suspect we do. And my radar was screaming, "Get the f--- out of the apartment now." I stopped seeing him after that.

And I see myself many years later with hubbie, and I have never been scared to go to sleep next to him. I have always felt safe with him. My father, when I was growing up, would tell my dates, "You are in charge if my daughter's safety for the next 3/4/5 hours. I expect you do to anything in your powers to keep her safe." Okay, Daddy scared off a few boyfriends. But can you imagine being a 16-year-old slacker, not responsible for anything in your life, suddenly have this thrust upon you. Scary.

Now that I am older, and somewhat wiser, I think Daddy was giving his little lectures for my benefit over my date's benefit. He wanted to signal to me that I was valuable, important, needing to be cherished. And when I finally went down the isle, I bet if you had a questionnaire that included, "Is the bride a virgin?", Daddy would have been the only person to answer "Yes." He believes more in me than I do in myself. I am still his little girl, and I am worthy of the most life has to offer.

I read about other people's lives and I wonder how their daddies are. Okay, I read about other women's lives and wonder this. For the men, I wonder how their parents' marriages are (or were). I had a heck of an advantage because of the faith, love and respect my father gives me. I wish this on every girl, every woman. We should all feel like princesses, with little pink bows in our hair – or tattoos of butterflies above our butt. All princesses in different packages.

Crossovers

When I was in college, we talked about crossover artists. You know, those artists that reach both rock and country audiences. Alabama, for instance, would have playing time on rock and country stations. Or, Charlie Daniel's Band – "The devil went down to Georgia, looking for a heart to steal." It was okay to like that song even if you said that country sucked.

Anyone that has read me for awhile knows that I know little about music. I mean, I grew up in the 1980s where music was mediocre, at best. And this post is not about music either, not directly.

Joe on Friday announced that he was leaving up his "Hips Don't Lie" music video by Shakira, partly because "Blondie, Leesa, ~deb, Yasmine, MJ," and others made various comments during the week. Notice anything interesting about the list? There are many (all, not sure who MJ is) women in the list. Okay, some of you will notice Blondie is first – but please remember that "blonds have more fun," and I am sure that's why she is listed first. Now I could be mean and talk about various handicaps blonds have, but that would further take my blog into bitterness, something I am trying to avoid.

"Love, Love, Love, all we need is love."

Okay, we can clearly see I take this bitterness crap seriously.

So all of these women are saying that Shakira is so hot. And if you take ~deb out of the equation, most of us are fairly heterosexual. So Shakira is a crossover person – as in I'd crossover for her.

Editorial note: You can't really take ~deb out of the mix. Sexuality is extremely complex, and although she is currently with a woman, she could have been with a man if fortune were different. I mean, she dated men and she still flirts with men (even after snagging Mike). But this is my blog, not ~deb's, so I will go back to me. Heck, I am glad my name is not Deb. Then I would boycott her site. And she puts pictures of all sorts of people on her site, some with teeth.

I am not sure why Shakira is a crossover babe, and some women aren't. It is not like she blogs, but that would not make her sexy – even if she practiced HNT. Please don't click on this site unless you want to see silly nude people.

I have been racking my brain, trying to come up with others. Then I googled, and I came up with some bizarre names:

1. Hillary Duff: Are you serious? She is like 12 years old and cute. Not a sex-pot. I am not sure why she would be wanted by heterosexual women who were not pedophiles.

2. Kristin Kreuk. I will admit it, I have no clue who this is. Apparently she plays a character called Lana Lang on television, though this adds little insight for me. Think that new Superman show on the WB. Well, maybe not so new.

3. I feel a little dirty trolling for women.

4. Sarah Michelle Gellar. Okay, I get Sarah, but not the Sarah that fights vamps (sounds like tramps) with sticks. Sarah in Cruel Intentions. Speaking of Cruel Intentions, that brings us to . . . .

5. Reese Witherspoon. I don't get her, either. Yes, she is pretty, but there are lots of pretty women in the world.

6. Britney Spears. I sort of did not want to find her on other people's lists. Sure, she plays tonsil hockey with Madonna – nice PR move to salvage a faltering career, but could you pick someone who doesn't look like your mother. Fitting that I end with Britney – she crossed over from being a Mouseketeer©, then she did crossroads after crossing over herself during that music awards ceremony.

Guess I should visit Joe's site to ask him a question – he dodged my last question in his comments section. I wonder if I will see Shakira's hips.

Ben Franklin, Daylight Savings Time and Satan

I was a bit surprised by my Friday post. It elicited a lot of response. I was just trying to be a smart aleck. Almost said the a-word.

Daylight savings time has really messed with me. Got up late, in to work late, and this is after being under Daylight Savings Time for a day.

Okay, for those of you who don't know, Benjamin Franklin created Daylight Savings Time to save on kerosene or time or whatever. Personally, I think Ben thought of this as some sort of joke. "How can I get George Washington's panties in a wad?" Okay, he probably thought pantaloons, not panties, but you get the idea. He knew he couldn't make a joke about termites and false teeth – I get the impression that George was the kind of guy that was long on heroism and short on smarts. Again, just my impression. So to make George act at the buffoon in his pantaloons, Ben Franklin invented Daylight Savings Time.

There are several reasons I hate Daylight Savings Time – first, I can never tell when it is on or off. Are we going on Daylight Savings Time or coming off of it? I have no idea, but I do know the people who have figured it out will correct me when I misuse the term. These are Leesa's friends. And not my friends, but that gorgeous Montana-living, talented-photographer bitch Leesa. I just call her bitch Leesa because we are just that close. And she has some gorgeous picture of a hummer (a bird, not a car or a sexual act).

We all remember, "Spring forward, fall back." One year I got it backwards, so I was two hours off of the rest of the word for an entire day. That shows how smart I am.

There are several areas that don't observe Daylight Savings Time in the US. So if you are in Arizona (with the exception of the Navajo Nation), Hawaii and the territories of Puerto Rico, Virgin Islands, Guam, and American Samoa, you don't observe Daylight Savings Time. The rest of the nation considers these places backwards – I remember even a teacher in high school making that statement. And you know, I think we have it backwards. They are the smart ones, and we are jealous of them.

Here is what I want to know – the areas who don't observe Daylight Savings Time – are they more likely not to have good batteries in their smoke detectors? Do they have more fatalities in fires because of this? Do people in these areas even have to change the batteries in their smoke detectors? Or are there PSAs that warn citizens in these areas about changing batteries as if they were observing Daylight Savings Time. Lots of questions here.

Maybe Satan is really responsible for Daylight Savings Time – he wants us to skip church one weekend per year, and by screwing with the times, he is ensured of this. And for those of us less committed, twice per year – you know, when you arrive at church an hour early when returning to standard time and you say, "screw it, we are going home and back to bed."

I like electricity, kites, bifocal glasses. So I am not saying that Ben Franklin is Satan. But someone could make the comparison – Daylight Savings Time would be a given. Now, I don't wear bifocals, but I bet wearing them is a challenge. Perhaps wearers of these glasses would think the inventor of the glasses would be Satan himself. Plus Franklin was a publisher – wanted to get the word out to the masses. Sort of satan-esque. Electricity allows us to do things much more efficiently – and idle hands are the devil's tools.