Lazy Mornings and Superman

I did not want to get up today. I really didn't.

Here I was, lying in bed, being a lazy butt, and staring at the ceiling. Hubbie was already in the shower, getting ready to go to work, kill stuff and bring home the meat. Well, he was actually going to several meetings, will be paid cash, and I will purchase said meat at the grocery store. But it is about the same thing.

So here I was lying in bed, thinking to myself, "I am so tired. I feel so tired. I am not going to go to work today."

And then my mind began to wander. I thought of the movie "Superman Begins" or "Superman Returns" or whatever it was called. Then I thought of Christopher Reeve. I always thought he got the role of Superman because of his name. George Reeves was Superman in the 1950s, so the names are similar. I can't think of Christopher Reeve without thinking of what happened to him – how he was in a wheelchair for those years, and then I start thinking of my lazy butt a little bit differently.

So I got up, wiggled my toes, and counted my blessings. I tricked myself into going to work because of the Superman movie thoughts. My brain is so strange.

I have been thinking about my writing lately. I have been concerned with people, with situations, with whatever. And my blog has sort of sucked. So I apologize for all of the lack of interesting blog entries. My Friday post was suppose to jump start my "fun-loving" blog. But it didn't. I have not re-read my entry, but I hope it did not come across as bitchy.

I was going to write today about liberals and conservatives. I heard some debates over the last few days that made me laugh so hard. I mean, they were not trying to be funny, but they were really funny.

If I knew anything about electronics, I would develop some sort of device that would knock out cellular phone transmissions. I would mount the device on my dashboard and use it when people are chatting on their phone instead of driving. One hand on the phone next to the ear, and using the other hand to turn – even notice that the turns are slower and not as tight. I have seen someone nearly take out a car in another lane. And I am sure the conversations are just that riveting. Probably full of, "oh, hold on, I am turning right now. Almost hit that Ford F150. That would have left a dent in my Lexus."

If someone calls my on their cel phone and they are driving, I thank them for their call, tell them they are driving and say goodbye. No one ever calls me back when they are driving. But then again, most of my friends are considerate of others.

Guess I ought to get some work done today. Sort of wish I stayed home, ate ice cream and watched Oprah. Darned Superman movie.

The House Always Wins

Okay, yesterday Advizor made a comment on my blog and a post to match. His comment on my blog follows:

Leesa hit a real nerve with me this morning which is one of my main reasons for reading her blog first every day. My response got longer and longer and then I decided that it would be rude to take up so much space in just the comments section. But here are the first couple of paragraphs...

Leesa is asking for a balance of two personalities that most men can never live up to. Most women (OK - my wife) have so many unexpressed expectations that walking through the front door after work is like playing the lottery. Does she want me to listen, or give an answer? Does she want logic or emotion, strength or tenderness, discipline or playfulness (with our kids, you pervs... )?

I never know, NEVER KNOW, what she wants. I come into a home where she runs the house 12 hours a day while I'm at work, but that sense of control is never shared or relinquished. She sets down the rules on feeding the kids, bedtime schedules, how the dishes are done, and how the beds are made. She has a rule for everything, and then has the gall to complain that I don't act like a man and lead the house. Lead? I'm barely allowed to follow.

And as for sex, forget about "bend over and take this." If the planets aren't aligned just so, and "the Apprentice" is a rerun, and the dishes are done, and she's checked her e-mail, and if the phone doesn't ring, and her list is checked off, and if she's not "too tired" and if I haven't tripped on some emotional land mine that she left laying around the house, and if it's before 10:00, then maaaayyyyybe, just maybe we'll get it on, but nothing to aggressive, nothing "kinky", nothing new, nothing weird, just "come here and get it over with sex."

I've allowed myself to be completely neutered, and I'm miserable because of it.

I don't read other blog's comments, generally, so I wanted to place his comments so my readers, if with similar tendencies, would get an opportunity to read his comments.

In response to Advizor's message.
Advisor wonders what women want. We want you to be freaking mind readers. I have often thought, on some levels, it is easier to be a woman in the relationship than the man. And here is why.

What do men want: sex. That's it. They want money to get them more sex. They want power for the same. Once we don't give them enough sex, they buy toys. I have often thought if women gave their husbands sex more, there would be fewer bankruptcies, fewer divorces, fewer failed marriages. My hubbie does stuff he doesn't want to do because of sex. Does he want to go to dinner and a play with me? Usually not. But he knows if he does not do this every once in a while, he will have less sex.

What do women want: The hell if I know. And it is not all our fault. My hormones play havoc with my brain, and there will be times that I am bitching to my hubbie about something, and something completely different is bothering me. I'll bitch and bitch. And then hubbie is trying to solve the perceived problem, and all I really want is to bitch. Sometimes he listens – then he gets sex. Sometimes he doesn't – then we fight more and eventually have make-up sex. Okay. That makes no sense. But it is because of my freaking hormones.

Yeah, Advisor, I don't make much sense. And I want the sensitive man, the animal man, the man that can fix my garbage disposal. Yeah, I want all of it. And so far in my comments section, I have women that nod in agreement and Advisor who knows he is freakin' beat. Women are like casinos – you can't beat the house over time. And for this, we have to wear high heals, bear children and the like. For a short time, a man can be "winning." That's what a one-night stand is. Or catching me when I was fooling around. You won for a quickie during the day. Then you tried to win over time, and well, you can't beat the house. Don't even try because you will loose if it is all about sex.

Okay. Rant over. And, please men reading this. Please know that I am kidding.

I had a sex problem in my marriage at one point in time, and when you have a sex issue, 90% of the marital thought are about why we aren't doing it anymore. Well, 89% bitching about the lack of sex, 10% doing maintenance stuff like eating and cleaning the house and 1% of the time having sex. Not a particularly wonderful experience.

There was a movie a few years ago, What Women Want. Okay, it was pretend and all, but it begs the issue that Advisor is discussing. Me I can't solve the problem. I need chocolate. Or a hug. Or my hubbie pulling my hair and taking me roughly from behind.

Falling and He Men

Notice Me
The other day I was at the mall. You know, I rail against malls, but I find myself more and more spending time in malls, just looking at people and eating in the food courts. I just enjoy the experience.

Well, here I was, watching people walk by. It was such a nice experience – lost in watching other people, and all of a sudden, a little boy, probably four or five years old, falls down hard. He initially is shocked, then looks for his mother, a few steps in front of him. About three seconds afterwards, the mother turns around, and as she is turning around, the child starts crying loudly. Delayed reaction – if no one could see his pain, he would not have cried.

He was a cutie, too. His mother cradled him, told him that everything was going to be alright. And she was present during his "pain."

And I think about bloggers, and I sometimes wonder if we are just five-year-olds in adult bodies, writing and wanting others to feel our pain, notice our trials. Just a thought.

He Man or She Man
My husband has been watching musicals lately, and it sort of feels weird. I almost accused him of being gay the other day. It would have been in jest, but it would have really damaged his ego. I am glad I kept my mouth shut.

I keep telling girlfriends I enjoy how sensitive my man is, but I only want him to be "so" sensitive. Take musicals. I mean, I don't want my man to be that interested in musicals. Sure, he might want to see Hair because of the nudity, but some musicals are just not manly. Even though I love Chorus Line, even the "Tits and Ass" number can't save it for the real man. Oklahoma. P-lease. I love these musicals, but having my hubbie love them is different. Yeah, paint me intolerant, but it is mildly disturbing.

No, I don't want hubbie's knuckles dragging on the ground when he walks, but I want him to be a real man. The kind of guy who every once in a while just bangs me because he is horny. Most of the time, I like the tenderness, but I want the passion, the animal "bend over and take this" that he sometimes provides.

I like that he eats twice as much meat as me. That he will eat a salad, but only as a side dish to a meal that needs a steak knife. I like that he goes to church with me, that he opens the door for me after all of these years. But I also enjoy that once in our pew, he is as often liable to dose off during a long Mass. He is my man, and I like his manly habits.

About a year ago, my Dad was being sort of an ass, and my hubbie put him in his place. I could not say anything at the time, but I was so in love with him, wanted him so badly at that moment, just because he was being my man. A strong man who was voicing his opinion loudly and surely.

And I like that he doesn't care if I ask him to buy feminine pads. Because he is a man and does not care what others think. Sure, when we were younger, his friends would consider this being whipped. I never really understood that – if you are p-whipped, I would guess you are getting some. For young men, I am not sure they have much more on their minds.

April Glaspie Article

I wanted to post this on my site, because I have found that the article keeps disappearing from other servers. Taken from: Jang Group of Newspapers. Jang Group of Newspapers web site can be accessed by using http://www.jang.com.pk/ and http://www.jang-group.com.

Is the US State Department still keeping April Glaspie under wraps?

By Kaleem Omar

It is now more than fifteen years since that fateful meeting on July 25, 1990 between then-US Ambassador to Iraq April Glaspie and President Saddam Hussein that the Iraqi leader interpreted as a green light from Washington for his invasion of Kuwait eight days later.

The US State Department, which is said to have placed a gag order on Glaspie in August 1990 prohibiting her from talking to the media about what had transpired at that meeting, is apparently still keeping her under wraps despite the fact that she retired from the American Foreign Service in 2002. .

In all the years since her meeting with Saddam Hussein, Glaspie has never spoken about it to the media, never appeared as a guest on a TV talk show, never written an article or a book about her time as the US’s top diplomat in Baghdad. The question is: why? What has she got to hide?

April Catherine Glaspie was born in Vancouver, Canada, on April 26, 1942 and graduated from Mills College in Oakland, California in 1963 and from Johns Hopkins University in 1965. In 1966 she entered the United States diplomatic service, where she became an expert on the Middle East. After postings in Kuwait, Syria and Egypt, Glaspie was appointed Ambassador to Iraq in 1989.

Glaspie’s appointment followed a period from 1980 to 1988 during which the United States had given substantial covert support to Iraq during its war with Iran.

Before 1918 Kuwait had been part of the Ottoman province of Basra, and thus in a sense part of Iraq, but Iraq had recognised its independence in 1961. After the end of the Iran-Iraq War (during the course of which Kuwait lent Iraq $ 14 billion), Iraq and Kuwait had a dispute over the exact demarcation of its border, access to waterways, the price at which Kuwaiti oil was being sold, and oil-drilling in border areas.

It was in this context that Glaspie had her first meeting with Saddam Hussein on July 25, 1990. Glaspie herself had requested the meeting, saying she had an urgent message for the Iraqi president from US President George H. W. Bush (Bush Senior). In her two years as Ambassador to Iraq, it was Glaspie’s first private audience with Saddam Hussein. It was also to be her last. A partial transcript of the meeting is as follows:

US Ambassador Glaspie:

"I have direct instructions from President Bush to improve our relations with Iraq. We have considerable sympathy for your quest for higher oil prices, the immediate cause of your confrontation with Kuwait. (pause) As you know, I have lived here for years and admire your extraordinary efforts to rebuild your country (after the Iran-Iraq war). We know you need funds. We understand that, and our opinion is that you should have the opportunity to rebuild your country. (pause) We can see that you have deployed massive numbers of troops in the south. Normally that would be none of our business, but when this happens in the context of your other threats against Kuwait, then it would be reasonable for us to be concerned. For this reason, I have received an instruction to ask you, in the spirit of friendship - not confrontation - regarding your intentions. Why are your troops massed so very close to Kuwait’s borders?"

President Saddam Hussein:

"As you know, for years now I have made every effort to reach a settlement on our dispute with Kuwait. There is to be a meeting in two days; I am prepared to give negotiations only one more brief chance. (pause) When we (the Iraqis) meet (with the Kuwaitis) and we see there is hope, then nothing will happen. But if we are unable to find a solution, then it will be natural that Iraq will not accept death."

US Ambassador Glaspie:

"What solution would be acceptable?"

President Saddam Hussein:

"If we could keep the whole of the Shatt al Arab - our strategic goal in our war with Iran - we will make concessions (to the Kuwaitis). But if we are forced to choose between keeping half of the Shatt and the whole of Iraq (which, in Iraq’s view, includes Kuwait), then we will give up all of the Shatt to defend our claims on Kuwait to keep the whole of Iraq in the shape we wish it to be. (pause) What is the United States’ opinion on this?"

US Ambassador Glaspie:

"We have no opinion on your Arab-Arab conflicts, such as your dispute with Kuwait. Secretary (of State James) Baker has directed me to emphasise the instruction, first given to Iraq in the 1960s, that the Kuwait issue is not associated with America."

(Saddam smiles)

At a Washington press conference called the next day (July 26, 1990), US State Department spokesperson Margaret Tutweiler was asked by journalists:

"Has the United States sent any type of diplomatic message to the Iraqis about putting 30,000 troops on the border with Kuwait? Has there been any type of protest communicated from the United States government?"

To which Tutweiler responded

"I’m entirely unaware of any such protest."

On July 31, 1990, two days before the Iraqi invasion, John Kelly, Assistant Secretary of State for Near Eastern Affairs, testified to Congress that the

"United States has no commitment to defend Kuwait and the US has no intention of defending Kuwait if it is attacked by Iraq."

The trap had been baited very cleverly by Glaspie, reinforced by Tutweiler’s and Kelly’s supporting comments. And Saddam Hussein walked right into it, believing that the US would do nothing if his troops invaded Kuwait. On August 2, 1990, eight days after Glaspie’s meeting with the Iraqi president, Saddam Hussein’s massed troops invaded Kuwait.

One month later in Baghdad, British journalists obtained the tape and transcript of the Saddam Hussein-April Glaspie meeting on July 25, 1990. In order to verify this astounding information, they attempted to confront Ms Glaspie as she was leaving the US embassy in Baghdad.

Journalist 1:

"Are the transcripts (holding them up) correct, Madam Ambassador?"

(Ambassador Glaspie does not respond)

Journalist 2:

"You knew Saddam was going to invade (Kuwait), but you didn’t warn him not to. You didn’t tell him America would defend Kuwait. You told him the opposite - that America was not associated with Kuwait."

Journalist 1:

"You encouraged this aggression - his invasion. What were you thinking?"

US Ambassador Glaspie:

"Obviously, I didn’t think, and nobody else did, that the Iraqis were going to take all of Kuwait."

Journalist 1:

"You thought he was just going to take SOME of it? But how COULD YOU?! Saddam told you that, if negotiations failed, he would give up his Iran (Shatt al Arab Waterway) goal for the ‘WHOLE of Iraq, in the shape we wish it to be.’ You KNOW that includes Kuwait, which the Iraqis have always viewed as a historic part of their country!"

(Ambassador Glaspie says nothing, pushing past the two journalists to leave)

"America green-lighted the invasion. At a minimum, you admit signalling Saddam that some aggression was okay - that the US would not oppose a grab of the al-Rumalya oil field, the disputed border strip and the Gulf Islands (including Bubiyan) - territories claimed by Iraq?"

(Again, Ambassador Glaspie says nothing as a limousine door closes behind her and the car drives off.)

Two years later, during the American television network NBC News Decision ‘92s third round of the Presidential Debate, 1992 presidential candidate Ross Perot was quoted as saying:

"...we told him (Saddam) he could take the northern part of Kuwait; and when he took the whole thing we went nuts. And if we didn’t tell him that, why won’t we even let the Senate Foreign Relations Committee and the Senate Intelligence Committee see the written instructions for Ambassador Glaspie?"

At this point he (Perot) was interrupted by then President George Bush Senior who yelled:

"I’ve got to reply to that. That gets to national honour!...That is absolutely absurd!"

Absurd or not, the fact of the matter is that after April Glaspie left Baghdad in late August 1990 and returned to Washington, she was kept under wraps by the State Department for eight months, not allowed to talk to the media, and did not surface until just before the official end of the Gulf war (April 11, 1991), when she was called to testify informally before the Senate Foreign Relations Committee about her meeting with Saddam Hussein.

She said she was the victim of "deliberate deception on a major scale" and denounced the transcript of the meeting as "a fabrication" that distorted her position, though she admitted that it contained "a great deal" that was accurate.

The veteran diplomat awaited her next assignment, later taking a low-profile job at the United Nations in New York. She was later shunted off to Cape Town, South Africa, as US Consul General. Nothing has been heard of her since her retirement from the diplomatic service in 2002. It’s almost as if she has become a non-person.

Success verses Contentment

Years ago, I worked with someone who was mentally retarded. I know that is not the PC way of putting it, but honestly, I can't remember what label we are supposed to be using this month. Mentally challenged?

Not Mentally Challenged
See, I never saw him as mentally challenged. He was in his, er, I am not sure, 40s and he still looked at the world with the eyes of a child. He did not worry about his retirement, the price of gas, or whether his shirt matched his pants. He came to work every day, and he loved his job. He loved the weather, rain or shine, and I am pretty sure he was not sweating out finals in his late teen years. And people loved this man – because he embraced life. He was not mentally challenged at all – I would consider him gifted – as he seemed to enjoy life to the fullest. Would I want to change places with this man? No, I am not saying that at all (though perhaps I am an idiot for discounting this so quickly). I am saying that this man knew joy and contentment throughout his life!

I have met many successful people, and success does not seem to be a good predictor of contentment. I am not saying they are mutually exclusive, but I have met just as many troubled successes as I have met contented successes.

Success
You know, when you say successful, most people think of wealth, position or accomplishments. What most people don't think of is health. Why is that? Is it because most of us have good health? In an obese America, I would say that is not always the case. Sure, our Canadian neighbors spend their daylight hours running from moose and bear. Heck, even some Americans living in those "almost Canada" states may do the same. Plus Bison in North Dakota. Has anyone met a single person who lives or is from North Dakota? If I had the ambition of being a US Senator, that's where I would move.

Oh, what was I talking about? Success. Now don't get me wrong, I would love a $500K book deal (and I would right the darned book myself). But if I had some success, would I sacrifice my health. Funny thing is that many would and do.

I am not sure I would chase success, keeping my eye on one thing, ignoring everything else. I have heard lots of stories of successful people who do this though. In one book I read once (Covey?), one guy wanted to make $1 million in one year. He did it, but his wife left him, his oldest boy started doing drugs, etc. Keeping his eye on a one year goal, he sort of screwed up some "goals" that were multi-year endeavors. Good marriage, good kids. So he can't have an ideal home because of his short-term goals.

Vacation
It seems like a lot of people are on vacation. I have seen relatively few comments, partly because my posts are sub-standard, partly because of technical issues with blogger, partly because I am not talking about cabana boys behaving badly.

Maybe I should find something to write about. To end with a preposition. For shame!

Under the Weather - Wink Wink

Got up late this morning. I hate getting up late – and I think my employer hates it as well.

Calling in Sick
Years ago, I would have called and faked an illness. My favorite "illness" was food poisoning or stomach virus. They are relatively short lived and don't need a note from the doctor. Okay, with the food poisoning – not real, sit on the potty for days food poisoning. I nice little "throw up in the morning" type. "It must have been something I ate."

But then I started thinking about integrity. Crapola. You know, this religion thing sometimes sucks big time. Sure, there is this nice afterlife and all – but right now, to pay the piper, I have to hall my butt to work. Side note: I don't think God keeps you out of heaven for "calling in sick." Can you imagine the surprise on people's faces if Saint Peter said that.

"Okay people, you, you and you. Get on the escalator to go down to hell. Ken Lay – nice to see you. You get a penthouse with a view of the lake. Sure, you screwed around on your wife, cooked the books and caused hundreds of thousands of people economic strain, but boy did you show up to work on time."

I think people would be incredulous. I mean, the Bible could be distilled down to, "Get thy ass into work unless you are really sick, limbs are falling off, or you really are going to the doctor's office." Then there could be parables of Job going to work each day, his family dying all around him, him loosing his sheep to disease, and everything, then you could have a story. And why, I ask you, is Job such an important book – perhaps God is teasing us about this work thing. Think about it. Lesbians of the world unite – show up to work on time and you can eat your lover to your hearts delight. And her delight as well.

Maybe when Moses went was coming down from Mount Sinai, he was looking at this little tablet with the words in Hebrew, "Thou shall not call in sick," he thought to himself, "Is this it. No way I want to be associated with this commandment. I think I will make up some better commandments."

Enough said for this. Although I am almost two-thirds through with my post and I have not gotten to today's subject.

Poor Office
So here I come in late, and instead of doing my job, I am blogging. I sort of feel sorry for my office. Until I get my biweekly paycheck. And then I hope those "son's of bitches" call in sick only once – and spend the afterlife with my in hell. And I will tease them for not doing worse stuff.

Oh. I forgot myself. As Dani would say, "Women: Don't eat thy neighbor's wife." That's one of the ten commandments, right? That and something about evolution being for stupid people. Here is what I don't get – evolution exists, you can see it over time. We have just given an observation a name. The theory behind it may or may not be correct, but we are talking about an observation. Paul got knocked off of a horse and started believing afterwards. Guess for some, they just climb back on that high horse.

Pardon me, I need to get something fattening to eat. I have skipped breakfast!

Addictions and Selfishness

Busy week. Looks like I am going to have a heck of a week this week.

You know, I wonder if the President says things like this.

"Well, Laura, I will be jetting off to the Middle East this week to curse into an open mike, eat some real good food, get some presents from foreign dignitaries, and play video games on Air Force One."

I guess busy weeks are relative things. I don't work 80 hours per week, and don't get paid as if I did. I have noticed that my last few posts have been sort of unfocussed, which bothers me. But you know what, I have been unfocussed.

I have actually written a lot of e-mails in the last couple of weeks. Which is unlike me. Lots of troubles among blogging friends, and this is new to me. Perhaps my eyes or more open than they were.

But here is my problem. I look at other people's problems through my eyes. And my experiences, viewpoint, whatever, has me assume certain things about people. And most of us do this – I understand. Were I an alcoholic, I would probably see someone coping with life, having things not go their way, and my first thought would be, "wonder if so-and-so has a drinking problem."

Someone more logical than I might look at my life and think to me, "I don't understand this Leesa chick. She makes no sense to me. How can she love her hubbie and sleep around on him?" Yeah, I get that.

So here I am, comfortably sitting in my chair this morning, wondering about the world. I wonder what we are all supposed to be doing, who are we supposed to be loving, who are we supposed to be helping.

I really believe that hubbie and I are supposed to help each other be better people. To me, that is very important in a marriage. But what happens when you hubbie beat the crap out of you? Outsiders can tell you to get the hell out of the house, but so many women stay. And to a lesser extent (what is it, about 10% of battered spouses), women beat the crap out of their hubbies, and the hubbies stay. I don't know all of the parameters of such a mess, but the spouse who is getting beat usually stays. Usually continues to get beat. This action is completely foreign to me because I am sitting comfortably in my office chair, never having experienced such a destructive relationship.

But some spouses do other destructive things – I fooled around on my hubbie. How about that for kicking the crap out of his manhood? I looked at pictures online. Another kick to his groin.

Now, he was better than I – he stayed with me because, I believe, he saw that I was changing. That it was painful to change, but I changed for him. Well, I really changed for me – because I wanted to be better than I was, but I also changed for him. Had I only wanted to change for him, the change probably would not have stuck.

That's the bad part of addition – you have to want to change for yourself, and that looks so selfish. Here you are, crapping on all those who love you, and you have to be selfish to change the pattern. Selfish in a different way. It is selfish to drink when you are an alcoholic, look at porn if you are a sex addict.

So I hope all of my friends of selfish spouses begin to see the light. I hope their spouses get help, but if they don't, don't think it is your fault. Don't place the blame where it doesn't belong. It might feel comfortable, but it doesn't make it right.

Lack of Initiative

We all need breaks.

I remember sitting in the water, on the beach, slow waves moving past me, rolling past me to move a bit of sand on the shore. Me letting the waves move my body, almost massage my body, my mind just enjoying being moved, thanking the sun for delivering thought-removing rays.

I don't visit the beach as often as I should. I love sitting and relaxing in the water. Not thinking of the mercury poisoning, the dead fish, the seagulls and going back to the sand – and everybody else's garbage can (I think beach is French for garbage can, actually).

Mallory said something recently about not realizing how good one has it – and I think that's why we all need breaks. I have been working all week, but it is sort of a mini-vacation because I have not done a darned thing. I hope my boss is not reading this.

You know, until I wrote that, I did not really realize that I could have basically taken the week off. I mean, I felt like I was at work half the time, but I accomplished absolutely nothing. I should have mentally taken the week off – an employee-sponsored vacation that does not deplete my vacation leave. That's what it would have been. Sadly, I am not sure my employer would have noticed the hiatus. Perhaps not sadly, if I play my cards right.

If I had more initiative, I could . . . . You can fill in the blanks.

Think about how to fill in the blanks, though. If you had more initiative, you could do a heck of a good job at work and get a small raise at the next performance appraisal time period. Oh, that 2.5% looks mighty tempting.

Or you could get more responsibility, take on more risk and get perhaps a five to ten percent raise. Then the boss wants you to do more each freaking day! Doesn't seem like a plan for me. Oh, and I did not even mention the added stress, the heart disease, whatever.

Or you could work full time, do what you normally do, and then work on a second job while at work. For those of you with nice offices – perhaps you can sublet. For me, I could collect extra income for storage – there are lots of closets in our work. I have the keys to these storage closets, and no one ever takes anything out of them. I would simply discard the stuff – old records and whatever – and then collect rent to store things for others.

I could even squeeze in a full-time job while working. Well, if I am motivated, does it make more sense to work darned hard for the 2.5% to perhaps five or ten percent, or get like 50% more with a part-time job. That kind of math I can do.

Oh, but I have to be motivated. Well, guess I will just start visiting other people's blogs and answering comments. Hubbie can bring home the bacon!

Light Sandwich Fare

Tired Leesa
Okay, Leesa is completely spent. I feel like I walked to work on my hands. I have been thinking way too much lately, and I am wondering if it is because (1) I have a smallish noggin and brain and my brain is being overtaxed, (2) I have limited my chocolate intake because of bikini season, or (3) I have not heard President Bush speak this week. Whatever the case, I am going to limit my intellectual pursuits for a while.

Today we are going to talk about color-coordinated hair clips. Yeah, right. Much more likely to talk about nipple clips around here, but then again, here I go pandering to those people using Google to search for online porn. Pick me, pick me! Drive up my traffic.

One last, half-of-a-thought. Muse placed the picture of a bee stinging someone with the blog entry title, "It'll only stings for a second." I couldn't help but remember something I learned in school. The picture reminded me of it because it was so clear. When the bee stings, her guts come out with the stinger. Imagine if those who hurt us would feel that bad – like the bee, they would only sting to protect something more valuable than their own lives. We would certainly be living in a much kinder world if this were the case. Either that, or we would all be extinct because we are a bunch of bitches and bastards. Interesting thought, though.

On to the useful part of the pose. See, I try to be useful, not just on areas of marriage but in common sense things. So this post is more about how to get free gas. No, not really. Siphoning gas can really do damage on your lungs.

Subway
The real post starts here.

I think I have the best "ordering strategy" for Subway Sandwich Shoppes. Okay, I am not sure if that is the real name for the place – but Subway sounds like I am going from Union Station to Silver Spring.

Anyway, on to the ordering.

The way Subway is set up, you have to order fast, and the person putting together the sandwich has to likewise assemble the masterpiece just as quickly. But the sandwich engineer also, I am guessing here, needs to limit the stuff that goes on the sandwiches.

So I order my bread, meat and cheese first. I sort of smile to see if I get an extra piece of cheese. It has worked once so far, but I still do my smile thing. Just-in-case.

Then it goes to the next sandwich engineer. This is the part that pays off – because you normally don't get any extra meat or cheese unless you are doing the manager – and she has bad breath. So when they ask for the veggies that go on the sandwich, I don't say, "I want everything but onions" which is what I want. I say, "Lettuce and Spinach." They add a little bit more lettuce and spinach than they normally would have since they think that's all I want. And when the last spinach leaf hits the sandwich, I come back with a "green and banana peppers." I continue to use this tactic until my sandwich is swimming in veggies. That is my aim. I mean, the bread is just so-so, and the meat is almost tasteless (actually a benefit), but the veggies are usually so freakin' fresh.

Then comes the dressings – and I only like a dab of whatever. I know that some just smear the dressings on, so I warn them by saying, "I just want a dash of …" and then I pick out the most appropriate dressing type for the sandwich that was constructed solely for moi.

I used to have a Subway right down the street from where I worked. It was on Drayton, a really bad place to be around when it gets dark. People would come in with their food stamps and get sandwiches, drinks and cookies. Personally, I skip the drink if I can find something nearby.

And I never actually eat my sandwich at Subway. I prefer to take it to a nearby square and eat it in the cool spring air. In the middle of summer, only if the humidity is in the double digits (joke). Some of these big old oak trees even make the summer bearable.

McDonalds French fries
One last tip on French fries at McDonalds. Well, besides for the fact that they harden instantly in your arteries, if you like hot French fries – as for fries without salt. They always put salt on them after they take them out of the vat of fat, so they have to give you fresh fries.

Wow, aren't you glad I got through this without mentioning a six inch whatever? Unpredictable, that's what I like. To be unpredictable.

Randomness Second Post

Okay, I am completely frazzled. I don't know what frazzled really means, but I think I am there today.

You know I have a problem with routine. Part of my routine is posting once every work day. Well, I like doing that, and if I write more, then I just save the post for tomorrow. With the extra 15-minutes, I can either drink a latte or have sex twice. Just kidding about the latte – I don't like the stuff. Oh, I meant to say, just kidding about the sex thing – because that would not include clean-up.

Well, yesterday, I tried unsuccessfully pimping my nomination for the Really Freakin' Stupid Awards. I wrote a funny piece about it, and because I really wanted someone to read the following post, I think the pimping post got buried.

So here I am for the second day posting twice. And I feel frazzled. Or is that fraggled.

Another problem was that I spit in the eyes of the HTML gods. Yeah, I know, worship no idols before me and all, but because of my amateurish HTML, I completely hosed my site if you were using any decent browser (e.g., anything other than IE). I don't want to go into any technical details about how I got the site fixed, but it did not involve giving a blowjob to my local IT support.

I have been thinking a lot about my Muse lately. Can't help it, because I see a lot of her in me or a lot of me in her. Some of what I see is probably reflective - because she sort of look like me (not physically but overall), I project my situation on your life. So I could be so "off the mark" in this case. So those psychology majors can just chill out.

I did want to say publicly that Muse is very brave. I would have never have done what Musey is doing - I would have been too scared of the results. I am so Catholic in my beliefs; I believe in saving marriages for most reasons, but even the Catholic Church says there is no marriage without what they call "mutual support." But I would have been too scared to have walked out, be it temporary or the beginning of the end.

Being roomies with a hubbie is so freakin' horrible - fucking horrible (yeah, I dropped the F-bomb). It is so horrible for any woman to experience. When that happens, there is no mutual support.

I want so much for Musey to feel contentment every night her head hits the pillow (even though she has those killer legs, bitch that she is). I am not all into this "be happy" crap. I want her to feel fulfilled. To me, being happy is like having good sex. It is great for the moment, but the feeling goes away. Feeling fulfilled is like making love, when you can be carried back to the experience days later, thinking of the experience. It stays with you.

Me and sex. Crap. It all gets around to a little tickle and a change of the sheets.

I am so frazzled today. Sorry for the second post, but I did want to pimp my Really Freakin' Stupid Awards. Tomorrow I will think of something light. Promise. This is post 250, too. Not fanfare, just pimping and explaining myself. Frazzled.

Dr. Phil, Love and Apathy

I had a dream the other night that was both sad and funny. Even though I spend a little time writing my dreck, I spend much more time thinking about some of my readers. Well, it looks like some of this has crept into my dreams.

The other night, I found myself on the set of the Dr. Phil Show. This is sort of weird because I know little about Dr. Phil. Yeah, I have seen his show once or twice while visiting family, but that's all. Anyway, one of my blogger friends was on Dr. Phil – let me call her Muse. As in, she is sometimes my muse. Okay, we all want a piece of this delightful heart.

Anyway, Dr. Phil is talking about it taking longer for men and women to marry, mostly because the women have to save up to do extensive background checks. You know, see if there are any paternity suits out there, do a bit of psychological testing, whatever. Totally bizarre, but in a sad sense, believable.

Anyway, I don't know what this has to do with Muse. Muse is waiting to get on the show, to share her perspective. And that's all of the dream I remember. No lesbian sex, no sexual innuendos, no Ninja Turtles, and no flying through the air. Not sure of what it means.

Guess it means I have been thinking about Muse, partly because I care about her, partly because she and I seem so alike sometimes. I get bits and pieces of her life – and I don't want to display them here. She does that herself in a more real and raw way than I could ever duplicate.

One thing that struck me was a phrase that I heard recently, "placing the blame appropriately." Okay, I probably heard it on some political show on Sunday mornings, but it means more to me personally. I really think many people do not place blame appropriately, and that is the source of much pain.

When I was going through my toughest struggles, I placed nearly 100% of the blame squarely on my shoulders. Well, I was fucking random guys and being unfaithful. That sort of made sense to me. But the dynamic started a long time before being unfaithful physically. Our marriage became stale – that is the polite way of putting it. I did not hunger for hubbie, and he had little interest in me, physically (which was very evident at the time), emotionally, spiritually or any other way. I really don't know exactly what caused this, and I have tried thinking about it for hours. I took the blame for this, also, and I now realize that we probably shared blame for drifting apart.

Many people think love and hate are opposites. And I did as well, when I was young and inexperienced with the nature of love. The more I live, the more I love, I think love and hate are entangled, like the positive and negative poles of a magnet. Positive needs negative to exist. They are right next to each other, and exist because the other exists.

Loves antonym may be hate in Roget's Thesaurus, but in real life – where people get married, live on and love on – I think love and apathy seem to be more true anonyms.

When hubbie and I started living our own lives, we had more apathy for one another. We made nice at home, divided chores, ate dinner together, and what not. We were housemates who occasionally had sex. Please stress the word "occasionally." And it seemed so comfortable for us. We just did our own thing, and to the outside world, I am sure we looked like a happy couple. No arguing, no fights. How can you fight with someone for whom you have little feeling? And that's where we were.

Then things happened – well, things did not really happen, we did things. Notice how we use passive language when we don't want to acknowledge what we have done? I did not fuck random guys. Things just happened. What a freakin' copout.

Anyway, my Muse and I had similar experience, I think. We have not often talked about it, but we seem to find comfort in each others' stories. But there are differences for Musey. She has children; she moved out. And I did not know if I ever would have moved out unless we were splitting up.

I mean, if my hubbie continued to be apathetic, what would I have done. Moving out would have added some urgency to the situation – apathy and urgency are not bedfellows, and even though hubbie and I were not either (at the time), perhaps it would have helped us heal faster. Perhaps it would not have.

You see, when we were around one another during the early part after the discovery of the affairs (again, wimpy passive), we fought horribly. We tore at each other – and we started to hate again. After a while, when the wounds were not so fresh, we started to love again. Hate and love. Who would have thought? But if we had kids at home, I am not sure the hate would have been good for them to experience. I have forgot about much of what happened, but every once in a while, I remember the hate. Not sure if love is related to the mythological phoenix, who has to be burned to be born. Once love has been damaged, do we have to hate to love again?

This is a messy post, as I rarely finished a thought. I am not as pithy as our dear Dr. Phil. And maybe what I have written is pure garbage, amateurish psycho-babble. For that, I apologize. All I know is that hubbie and I love again; we are no longer comfortable roommates. We love, we hate, we grow together. At times, I don't know where he ends and I begin. He would probably point to his twenty-first digit and proudly say, "This, sweets, is where I end and you begin." And if I argued with him, perhaps I would end up loving him just a little bit more.

Really Freakin' Stupid Awards

This is a bonus post – because I have already written tomorrow's post, and I don't want to spoil it with a request to vote for me for an award. Those of you who have been reading me for a while know that I won some award a few months ago.

Well, gosh, it was an honor because my readers voted for me, and because the name of the award was "the really fucking stupid awards." I can't remember what my category was last time – I think it had something to do with my potty mouth.



You can click on the above image and you can be transported over to the page that has the rules. Okay, some of the voting is lame – you have to e-mail the blog owner you’re your votes. Sort of twentieth century. For all of the spiders on the web, trolling for e-mails to send porn to, her e-mail address is chlnature@hotmail.com. But visit her page anyway. She probably does these awards to drive traffic to her.

My category is "blogger of the month." Which is different than blogger you would like to bitch slap, I am told. Well, if you do want to vote for me, and you will need to e-mail the above address, you might want to have a little fun with it.

For instance, instead of saying, "I would like to place one vote for Leesa for Blogger of the Month. Her daily insight inspires me towards sainthood." You might want to give one of the following responses:

1. Leesa paid me $1 for voting for her for "Blogger of the Month."
2. Leesa has little to live for. Please cast two votes for her. I hear she has leprocy.
3. I hate Leesa, and I know she hates the word "fucking." Please place one vote for her for "Blogger of the Month."

Okay folks, you are creative. For my Texas readers, "y'all are creative." I hear Christie models Jane thongs for anyone who casts a vote. Well, I think I heard that.

Freckle Envy

Yesterday, I spent the majority of the day in the company of a young professional doing accounting services for our office. Because I am the administrative person on staff, I am also the babysitter.

This woman had the most beautiful skin I have seen in quite some time. Well, at least I found it beautiful, and over the course of the morning, I started fantasizing about trading bodies with this woman. Really strange, but you see, I have always wanted freckles ever since reading Pippi Longstockings. You remember Pippilotta Delicatessa Windowshade Mackrelmint Efraim's Daughter Longstocking, don't you? I loved that little nine-year-old, and I wanted to be her. Well, this young woman, had chestnut brown hair and freckles lightly covered her face.

So here I am, showing her around, wondering if I really wanted to switch bodies with this woman. Now, I want the same brain, but I wanted her physical body – or at least I was thinking about it.

Now, her freckles are what drew me to think about making this trade. Her hair was also a nice color, and it had no grey in it. A bonus. But then I started evaluating other parts, first of her face, and then in other places. First, I thought about her eyes. I love my eyes. They are blue and bright and soooooooooo me. And she has brown eyes. Now, I have nothing against brown eyes, and hers were very pretty, but I really like my eyes. I know, Brown-Eyed Girl and all. Some men love brown eyes. But I have never thought of myself with different colored eyes – even with the whole "change your eye color" phase with contact lenses. I just did not get it, really.

She was younger than me, so I would assume her breasts were firmer – they should be. I just did not think it would be polite to tweak her breasts while I was making this decision in my mind. I can see myself called up to see the big boss, and he ask, "Why did you grab her breasts? You are not gay, are you?" And to answer that I was thinking about changing bodies with her, and I was "kicking the tires," so to speak. Lock me up, why don't you?

Then I looked at her butt, and you know, I really did not like the shape. Is that odd? Here I am, being a Stacy-the-Peanut-Queen, looking at her ass, and thinking, "I have a nicer caboose than her." Okay, I broke my 15-minute-rule just to link to Stacey, because it took me forever to find her article. You see, I typed in "ass" to her search engine to find the proper post, and it did not help one darned bit. You see, Stacey, has a thing for ass. I think all of her posts use the word. People are a pain in the ass, she looks as women's asses, she is working on her ass, the PK got a piece of …." Well, you get the picture. She is obsessed with ass. I should have searched the other way, reading all of her archives; it would have been faster.

Back to my donor body – if that is what it is called. I don't really like her ass. I caught myself before I asked her if her ass was due to genetics or cheeseburgers. And I almost asked.

She had nice legs – nicer than mine, but not as nice as musey's. I don't know how you can have a not-so-nice ass and nice legs, but this chick does.

So here I am, looking at this chick like purchasing a new car – I like this feature, I can live with this, and, er, I don't really like this, but does it make up for getting the freaking freckles. You know, perhaps I need to take up another hobby at work that is less impactful on my performance. Perhaps I should drink at work!

A New Look and my Geekiness

Okay, so I am thinking about a new look. I have actually started it, without anyone really recognizing that I have changed things on my site. If you look at my short stories, my blog roll, and my archives, you will notice that I am now using drop down menus.

I am turning into such a geek. I mean, when I started blogger, I knew nothing of HTML (the markup language that the Internet primarily uses). I guess I should make a small aside – I am not a real geek and I am going to describe things that are wrong. Okay, I am not computer expert, so please don't show your geekiness by correcting me. I can see someone with thick glasses and halitosis typing into my comments, "Actually, Ms. Leesa, there are 4 variants of HTML now in common use, and that does not mention any server side or client side … blah blah blah."

Okay, back to me and HTML. When I started blogger, I knew absolutely nothing. And after a while, I got a bit tired of looking at my site that had links to Google and something like "Add a Link." Plus I wanted to get back to ddot, and I did not trust my memory. So I learned something that would link files – something called hyperlink.

So here I was using that confusing code to link other people – and then to hyperlink things I was talking about. What do you know, I look like I know what I am doing. Then I started using a few other tags, to bold and to italicize my words, because frankly, I use these crutches to make my thoughts seem more rational or intelligent. Whatever. Two more markups that could also be used in comments. Impress your friends. You know the drill.

And that's all I knew until Friday. Well, once I figured out how to change colors to text, but I forgot how to do that. That's okay. Well, on Friday, I thought to myself, my side panel was sort of out of control. I wanted a shorter list of stuff on the side. Enter drop down menus.

So I figured out how to do that with my short stories. And it took me some time. A heck of a lot more than 15 minutes. Like more than an hour just for the short stories. And afterwards, I thought I would do my friends and blog tools. Same way, easy enough. And then there are the archives – I notice someone just hard coded the archives. Not geeky enough for this babe. I had to use something else – and now I cannot remember how, and presto, with one line of code, I have all of my archives.

And my drop downs looked okay, but the font was in black when the rest of my lists were in some funky blue color. What to do? Change the color of the drop down menus. Again, I did it on Friday, and I cannot remember what I did, but I like this change.

I have a friend, my musie, who wrote on Saturday about how sexy one of her skirts feels to her. I think most of us have some clothes we buy and then don't wear because the clothes are too revealing – they sort of scare us. Well, now musey likes her skirt – and she had the legs for the skirt. Well, as far as my blog, I am now embracing my geekiness. I wanted something really plain – the writing is what is important – and now I am wondering about changing my header. Not that the header will turn heads, but it makes me feel good. If I can find the time.

15-minute Weight Loss Plan

Okay, I think God has one heck of a sense of humor. I find humor everywhere. For instance, yesterday I said I try and spend 15 minutes to post one page-worth's of a blog, and that is true. So here I am after reading the comments from yesterday, and all I can think is, "Holy Cow, I have no idea of what to write on today. Why did I reveal my speed blogging, and now, one day after the revelation, I am not going to be able to do it." Crap, crap, crap.

I guess I could cut and past that last paragraph 7 times and be done with it, my total post taking two-and-a-half minutes. But then some of you might notice what I did. Crap. Crap. Crap.

I have been thinking about choices lately. Monica said something yesterday about being impressed about me going to a gym. Well, that is a choice I am making. I was sitting on my ass one day, eating bon-bons and watching Oprah talk about self-control, and I thought to myself, "I have to change the channel, darned it." Okay, I really did not do that.

But I was thinking about my weight, and ever since college, I had these five pounds permanently attached to my ass. Well, now I am about 12 pounds above college freshman weight, and I don't like it. I mean, I am not hugely overweight, but I have none of the excuses: (1) I had no baby, (2) I am in relatively good shape, and (3) I don't really eat bon-bons. Heck, I don't even know what they are. I assume they have lots of yummy chocolate, but that's all I know.

Anyway, I thought to myself, "If I loose 2 pounds per week – not a lot of weight – by Christmas, I will weigh as much as a toy poodle. Sorry, the fingers are flying and the brain needs to catch up. What I meant to type was that if I just loose a little weight each week, I will be at my ideal weight in no time at all. Now I have to avoid certain things – I want to eat out only once per week. That is cutting back from probably twice per week for dinner plus one lunch. I can do that. And drink my weight in water each day. Heck, walking to the bathroom should be all the exercise I would need. I can do that.

Growing up, I was sort of poor. Not hungry at night, but I walked everywhere. And it kept me in shape. Now I seem to drive everywhere, especially in the summer because Savannah is so darned hot in the summer. I am told that certain deserts are more arid and hot. Oh, I almost spelled "dessert". Now that would not be good for the waistline. Funny thing is that if calories started with the boobs and then the ass, I bet a lot of us would not mind being a few pounds overweight. Oh, that last comment concerned the ladies – I can't stand man-boobs. Talk about unsexy.

Fourteen minutes – note to self, "Insert some profound saying from Kierkegaard or Aristotle, one that is at least two lines." I always thought Kierkegaard was the father on "Eight is Enough." Guess I was wrong.

Ding – fifteen minutes. Forgot to mention that I started choosing to lose my weight – not because I would have a health heart and live a long time, imparting wisdom to underprivileged children in third world countries. No. I want to loose the weight so I can buy some new clothes. I love fitted dresses, and I just don't want this big ass sticking out. How shallow is that?

Chess, Music and Charge Cards

Speed Chess
Chess fascinates me. Watching chess, that is. It seems so intellectual, so sophisticated, so "grown up." I think about spies playing chess, kings playing chess, Bobby Fischer playing Soviet champion Boris Spassky in the 1970s. Funny thing is that I was alive then, and I had no idea they played the match of the century. Guess they did not have Chess-playing Barbie back then.

One thing that fascinates me is how quickly some chess players play (speed chess). They use these timers and basically take only a few seconds per move. Well, I love watching chess, but I have little interest in really learning the game. I mean, I know how the "horsy" moves, or the one that moves diagonally, but I don't really understand all of the strategies. And saying horsy instead of knight really makes me look amateurish.

But I sort of write like speed chess players play. I open a document, and I start typing. When I reach one page, I finish typing. It takes about 15 minutes when I speed blog, and er, believe it or not, I don't edit a darned thing. So you are getting raw thoughts, from my brain to my fingertips. Sometimes I repeat myself, sometimes I don't.

Stealing Music
You know, I don't steal music. But it is not because I am moral or anything. I just like music that was published twenty years ago, and I can get the CDs for a dollar in used bookstores. What does that say to me? That most people have better taste than I do? Probably. I mean, I could find blogs that talk about music, but if I did, I would want to find out about obscure musicians. I mean, to be obscure is so much more cool than to like what the whole world likes.

Wonderful Wayne's World quote: "I mean Led Zeppelin didn't write tunes everybody liked. They left that to the Bee Gees." Or something like that.

I don't steal music, but I could. My OCD would allow me to categorize all of the music I stole, and I would collect several renditions of the same song. This is the 1976 live version of Song X. And I would also want some rare masters. Oh, stealing songs and watching chess. What I geek I would become!

Great Business Opportunity
I was watching TV at the gym the other day, and there was a credit card commercial (actually, it may have been a charge card commercial, variation on a personal finance theme). I won't reveal the company, but they give you 1% back and put it in a high-yielding money market account for you so you can be a spender and a saver. Sounds great, huh?

Okay, so let me get this straight. I place money on the card, and I get 1% back. And instead of applying it to my balance (let's say you charge me between 12 and 18% interest, you will place it in an instrument that pays 4% (they actually had the percent the savings earned on the commercial).

I want that job – I lend you money at 18% and then if you lend me money, it is at 4%. And you cannot figure out that if you paid me with what was in the other account, you would net a huge savings. What a freaking great business opportunity – for the company.

Total time: 17 minutes. Crap, loosing my touch!

V Foundation Fundraiser

This is sort of a half a post (today's post can be seen below) – because I am just regurgitating something someone sent me via e-mail. Apparently, ESPN is holding a cancer fundraiser for the Jimmy V Foundation. Jim Valvano was a college coach, and I will be honest here, I am not sure who he coached. Okay, I looked it up, and he is best-known for his North Carolina State basketball coaching experience. Well, he got cancer and died in 1993, but before his death, he started the Jimmy V foundation – and announced it on the ESPYs. Anyway, to make a donation, you can visit the foundation's website or call 1-800-4JimmyV.

Here is the most memorable part of his ESPY speech:

"To me, there are three things we all should do every day. We should do this every day of our lives. Number one is laugh. You should laugh every day. Number two is think. You should spend some time in thought. And number three is, you should have your emotions moved to tears, could be happiness or joy. But think about it. If you laugh, you think, and you cry, that's a full day. That's a heck of a day. You do that seven days a week, you're going to have something special."

EB White and NY Talk Shows

Interesting Comment
Okay, I got the following comment from someone from a NY show. Of course, I really don't want to appear as a guest on the show – I just want to let people know who read my blog. If anyone else wants to be a guest on the show, feel free to say you saw the comment on my blog. Just don't say you want to be a guest to have sex with the host – a handsome bald psychiatrist. That would sort of be a bad thing, especially if you are really battling a sex addiction.

---

I work for a new daytime talk show in NYC. We are doing a show on women and various forms of addiction. I am especially interested in women who are addicted to pornography. If you are struggling with an addiction, I would love to talk to you more about it.

This could be your chance to share your story with the rest of America and receive advice from our host (a licensed psychiatrist).

Feel free to call me at our toll free number:
1.888.372.2569 (ext. 4294), or you can email me at
newnytalkshow@yahoo.com.

Thank you!!!

---

Ms. Popular
Here I am, looking at my weekly report from sitemeter, and the numbers are really up. I want to think it is because my writing is intoxicating, riveting, awe-inspiring. But that is not the case. There is some new blog-type search engines, and apparently, because of their logic, my blog tends to bubble up to the top. Well, that, and my sex addiction post seems to have generated some buzz. Not like a ~Deb-Dani mud wrestling frenzy, but a little buzz nonetheless.

So to be less popular, I will start posting about the Baseball All-Star game, or soccer, or offshore drilling techniques. Unfortunately, I know little about the Baseball All-Star game, or soccer, or offshore drilling techniques. Okay, I have seen all kinds of drilling techniques, but I digress.

Almost one page
I have wasted two-thirds of a page talking about almost nothing. There is an art to talking about nothing – perhaps I should start writing a Seinfeld-esque situation-comedy.

I love reading about writing, and I don't know about you, but I have been reading Grant's blog about writing. Well, his blog is really about Ninja Bunny Dentists, but he conceals that fact in his talk about writing or eating Asian food.

I have certain rules, one of which is to limit myself to one page of writing. I violate that rule about once per week, so it is really a guideline more than a rule. And I know there are lots of grammar rules – Grant has been talking about them for a few days. He seems to be the EB White of bloggers. For me, my writing rules are simple – don't let words get in the way of an idea or story. I have seen many people who write well – and can do so for a page or so. Perhaps I just limit myself to a page to hide my poor writing skills. Anyone can write a page that looks half-decent. I rarely actually read my page, though.

I have not been part of a writer's group – well, I guess I have, but instead of Grant's experience, everyone was pussyfooting around the truth. I have read pure trash, and everyone gushes over the work. All I am thinking is, "what the heck do those words mean?" If I can't figure out the reason for the communication, who cares that they use alliteration or onomatopoeia.

Crap, I am over a page again. And this time, I really didn't say a darned thing – a much worse rule-breaker than the one-page guideline.

Ch-ch-ch-changes

Okay, one of my last posts dealt with me changing my insides. But part of me wants to change my outside as well.

Well, these two things don't go hand-in-glove, so to speak. I mean, I have been working on my insides for years. And for the most part, I think I have grown emotionally and spiritually. Actually, the more I learn about religion, the more I think religion belongs with sex. Think about it, but today's post is not about this. It is about something that is superficial. I need to take a break from the deep, sort of like wanting to come back to the shore and sit lazily in the rolling waves, enjoying them for a while.

Okay, another little secret, a secret that I can keep in blogland, but not in my real life. You see, dear readers, I have started getting grey hairs. Now, I would occasionally get one grey hair a while back, and I simply would pluck the hair from my head. No big deal, really. But here I am, in my mid-thirties, and I have a few more grey hairs than I can pull or pluck.

Growing up, I never thought I would ever color my hair – my sister does not color her hair, but my Mother does (same color is her natural hair to hide the grey). So here I am, thinking about coloring my hair. Now, I only have a few grey hairs in my head really, but I have been thinking about coloring for a while. I really like my hair color – have had the same color most of my life, a tad lighter in my youth due to the sun's rays, but the same basic color for years.

So I approached this subject with my hubbie, not that he can tell me not to color my hair, but I do want his view on the subject. His reaction – he really doesn't care. Now at first, I was a tad hurt – hubbie doesn't care what color my hair was. But then I started thinking about his possible words and my reactions to them:

Hubbie's Reaction #1: "Cool. What color are you going to go? Blond?" Oh, that would be the worst reaction possible. I am a bit anti-blond (due to a competitive blond sister). I could never go blond. I know it sounds crazy, but when we made love, it would be like him screwing my sister.

Hubbie's Reaction #2: "Cool. You have been showing a little more grey than normal. Good move." Okay, honest, and the first thing out of my mouth without thinking would be. "Feck Off!" But the feck would be stronger. His ass would be mine for weeks.

Hubbie's Reaction #3: "Honey, don't change a think. I worship you, from the tips of your beautiful head, to the tip of your unpainted pinky toe." Okay, he would never say this, unless he wanted to get lucky that evening.

So he had a safe reaction. Not sure what I will do. I am very cautious about these things. Yeah, I know, hair is temporary. Even a bad cut grows out. But I still am cautious. And I have thought about something I did not even tell hubbie. I think he assumes I will go with my same color. But you know, I don't have to go that way. Now blond is out – because I am psycho – but I could do highlights, or more shockingly, could I be a redhead. Hubbie always says he loves brunettes the best. But I am a brunette, and that is a safe answer. I have seen him looking at redheads. And it would be sort of neat.

Now I probably won't do anything for a while, but I have started thinking about it. And as I think, I wonder if redheads have more fun.

Turn Signals and Orlando Bloom

Okay, I posted early for Monday. I think I actually posted on Friday afternoon for my Monday post. Partly because I didn't want to chicken out, partly because I really wanted to take Monday off. Oooppss. Did I just write that?

This morning, coming to work, I saw someone who was pulled over by the police. A really bad spot, near an intersection. Well, I figured he was stopped for speeding, but here is the interesting part. After the police got back in the car, and he started, he made a right hand turn without turning on his turn signal, and the police officer stopped him again. Can you think to yourself: son-of-a-bitch? And it looked like there was a couple in the car – a man and woman at least.

I would have to bite my tongue were I in the passenger side seat. "So one ticket was not enough, sweetie?" How do you break another driving rule when you were just stopped? I don't get it. And I am not all over the police officer in this one. I mean, the person was violating a traffic rule.

Not sure if you have ever been to Georgia, but we Georgians drive differently. You see, we never use our turn signals. So if you see one of us slow down, odds are good that we are going to turn. See when a tourist slows down, it normally means they are looking for a street or are lost – we just want to turn. Now, I don't drive like a Georgian because I don't assume that people are psychic – I mean, some of these people are South Carolinians, and it is a known fact that these people can't read minds. Heck, half of them can't read. Okay, that was a little bit over the top – I am just pissy because if I look at things objectively, South Carolina has a heck of a lot to offer. I mean, the difference between Charleston and Savannah is that you are far less likely to be murdered in Charleston. I actually think that is in their ads.

Well, I did want to write a bit this morning, if nothing else but to give those who have commented yesterday a chance to read a bit of fluff. I mean, I can't always write deep stuff, especially because I pour my blood into certain posts. Part of me just wants to ask Shakira to sing "Hips Don't Lie" to me while I get a massage by Orlando Bloom. I mean, what girl wouldn't?

Confessions of a Crack Whore

I am a crack whore. There, I said it. Okay, I am not really a crack whore – but I have a confession to make, and I figured this will take the sting out of the confession. Also, this post is not for the meek of heart, or the weak of stomach. And it is definitely not for those under 18, or under 21 in some municipalities. This is a big girl post – so be forewarned.

Last week, I spoke about a strong woman – a woman that wrote about a very deep and personal experience. I was deeply moved by her, in both her ability to share and willingness to "put herself out there". At the time, I wanted to share something deeply personal with me, but, er, I chickened out.

Actually, I once, months ago, asked Dr. ~Deb to allow me to post on this subject on her blog anonymously. I wanted to tell my story, but I did not want it to be attributed to me. Talk about a chicken.

Well, here it goes. Deep breath for real. You see, fellow bloggers, I have an addiction. I am a sex addict. And it is not as titillating as it sounds. I remember snickering about this addiction in college – really thinking that there is no such addiction. It was just people who liked sex a lot and did not want to take personal responsibility for either sticking their thingie in other peoples' orifices or letting others do things to their special places. I am talking about a compulsive behavior that completely dominated my life.

I am not an expert on this addiction – but I have read a whole lot about it. I am not going to talk about what I have learned; you can read that in a book. I am going to tell you about my experiences.

I started out, innocently enough, looking at pictures online. Yeah, I had seen Playboys when I was growing up, but I wanted to be these women, not masturbate to them. And, yes, I had access to these magazines so in the back of my mind, there was nothing wrong with the images. Personally, there is still nothing wrong with nude images – but it throws my life completely out of control. Wrong for me.

I started looking at men mostly. I mean, there were some women's asses receiving penises and all, but my first concern was with the male penis. Then I started collecting images, looking at other images, and then cataloging all of the images. I would feel ashamed, guilty and the like, and stop looking for some time. Sometimes days, sometimes as long as a month. But I still needed to go back to the images.

When the modem fired up and I heard it start, my nipples would go hard. I masturbated to these images, felt guilty, and spent many unproductive hours after hubbie went to sleep. Heck, I was even let go from a job because of my performance. Surfing for images online.

Then I started chatting online. I was so good at cybersex. I am quick-witted, I type fast, and I can describe things well. That and a dirty mind, and you are off to the races.

Again, this really impacted my life. By this time, my sex drive was practically nil with hubbie. Yeah, he complained, and yeah, we had sex occasionally. But it went from the wonderful sex – us becoming one, sharing wonderful experiences, etc. to mechanical sex. Really tragic.

Again, it went from spending hours doing this, more hours thinking about it, and more tragically, not being present for the one person I was supposed to be sharing my life with. I would abstain for a time, feeling guilty, and then back to my normal routine, nipples hard when I would hear the modem, and back to masturbating to images.

Then it spiraled completely out of control. Before, I convinced myself I was not hurting anyone. It was not true, but plausible. And then I started fucking strangers. Fucking friends. Fucking everyone. I would stop for a while, then start again when the temptation grew too strong.

Some of you would say, "You were just having fun. No big deal."

The big deal was that I was ruining my marriage, my work life, my spiritual life, my whole fucking life. There is a lot more than I will put to words right here, right now. I scared the crap out of me the first time I had unprotected sex in a bathroom of a club. What the heck was I thinking? Problem was that I wasn't. Sex had a hold on me, and I was not making rational choices.

A couple of things you might have noticed during my time here blogging: (1) I write erotica, (2) I refrain from using pictures on this site, and (3) I don't masturbate.

About my erotica – this has to do with what I have felt, what I have done. I don't typically masturbate to my own erotica, or, for that matter, any text erotica. But most of my erotica is one particular type. Interestingly, last week, I posted some erotica, and Monica said in the comments, "Nicely tied up, but the story overall lacked your usual roundness and softness. I'm not sure I would have recognized it on a group writing page like your other writings." Okay, I actually wrote it, but she was right, this was a different type of erotica, one that I don't normally write. This would be the type of erotica I would write when experiencing a relapse. Bad Leesa. But it is true.

I don't view erotic pictures, and I probably can't ever do this again. I am not saying that nudes are good or bad, but they start me in my downward spiral. Several times MT Leesa has offered to share some of her pictures. I would love to see them, partly because she is a photographer, and partly because she is a cutie. But I can't. Some pictures don't affect me that way, but I can never tell. Muse took some New York pictures of her in a window. The sun was coming through, and everything glowed gold. They were beautiful pictures of a beautiful woman, and they did not put me in the downward spiral.

I don't masturbate. Not that masturbation is bad. In college, after I figured out how to masturbate in private, it was a small relaxing part of my life. Now, I don't know if it will cause me to do things I have trouble controlling. And I am sure some of you are thinking, "Weak Leesa, can't control her sexual feelings." First, I would like to say, "Fuck you, ignorant bitch." Er, I meant to type: you may think I am making this whole thing up, but I tell you that these feelings/urges are so overpowering. You don't give a rat's ass about the consequences. You just do it. And then you feel awful about it.

One of the most popular books on the subject is Dr. Patrick Carnes' 1983 book, Out of the Shadows: Understanding Sexual Addiction. You can still go to the local bookstore and pay cash for this book if you think you may have a sexual addiction or if you just want to learn more about this. If you think you have a sexual addiction – do not buy the book instead of seeking professional help. Seek professional help.

I know several are saying, "Sure, Leesa, cry me a river. This is just a bunch of BS." Well, maybe it is. Maybe it isn't. All I know is that once I was treated for my sexual addiction, it helped my depression, my marriage, my spirituality, and even my sex life. I am still healing, but I have been doing so for a long time.

Sure, I joke a lot about sex. But that does not fuel this at all. I am learning what does. That last erotica did. Bad Leesa. Again, I feel shame for that. I nearly lost my marriage because of the addiction – and I can remember Prata once asking what made me cheat on hubbie. He could not understand it at all – he is an extremely rational guy, and it baffled him. Perhaps this explains things a little better. I don't know.

I have really struggled with sharing this – but I have seen so much in the past few days, the strong woman, another woman going through a hard time (her hubbie may have the same thing). I don't know. I am breaking all of the rules here – this post is way long, it is too personal, and there are too few jokes.

And I am not the typical sex addict – I am female, and I think 4 in 5 diagnosed sex addicts are male. I was not abused sexually as a child – most were. Funny thing is that when early research in this field was talking place, they found a lot of prostitutes were sex addicts. I mean, getting paid to feed the addiction – sort of brilliant and sad at the same time.

Comments are okay, but not necessary. This is a dirty post about a dirty subject. Some don't believe that this exists, and some don't see it as a problem. Men have asphyxiated while masturbating in a closet (clear bag over head) – nice image for the daughter and wife to see. Some have performed illegal sex acts. Others have driven into trees while masturbating. Sad, sad stories. Hopefully someone reading this may do as I have done and sought help before their live spiraled out of control. Or maybe this will encourage tolerance.

Xtians and Lesbians

Okay, today is all about bugging the crap out of Grant. That's what this post is about.

Actually, ~Deb sort of tricked me yesterday. She said, "Hey, everybody, you have to read this." Don't click on the link – it is a freakin' Christian trap. It truly is. And they sucked me into the discussion.

I know, I know. We only have so many synapses, and I had to waste several firing in this issue. The rest of you can leave, because this post is for Grant. Not that he is a lesbian, but he hates this discussion. Xtians, you know.

This is all about lesbian love. And with Dani and ~Deb, you know it will be a love-fest. First, let's get the Leviticus passage out in the open. It is sitting there, like the elephant in the room that few really talk about.

Revised Standard Version (RSV): "You shall not lie with a male as with a woman; it is an abomination."

New International Version (NIV): "Do not lie with a man as one lies with a woman; that is detestable."

King James Version (KJV): "Thou shalt not lie with mankind as with womankind: it is abomination."

English Standard Version (ESV) : "You shall not lie with a man as with a woman; it is abomination."

Living Bible: "Homosexuality is absolutely forbidden, for it is an enormous sin."

New Living Translation: "Do not practice homosexuality; it is a detestable sin."

I knew an extremely bright person in college. He learned Hebrew, Aramaic, and Greek in college, mostly so he could read copies of the original texts and discern their meaning for himself. At the time, I thought he was fairly egocentric, believing he could upturn truths that have been studied by scholars for millennia. Anyway, I know so much less than this man – and no, you perverts, I did not sin with him. But we are really trying to say that this is a sin or not.

I have read the Leviticus passage (not in the original text, though I have seen it and cannot even read the letters very well), and I am puzzled as to why some focus on this passage. The passage in the ancient Hebrew is clearly talking about male-male sex acts (okay, I got this from somewhere else, because I can't read the original texts). By using the word "homosexuality," the English translation appears to condemn lesbian activity as well. The word "homosexual" was first used in the very late in 19th century. There was no Hebrew word that meant "homosexual." The latter behavior (lesbian sex) is definitely not mentioned in the original Hebrew text of this passage. In fact, lesbian behavior is not mentioned anywhere in the Hebrew Scriptures. A hint for us really stupid Christians: whenever the word "homosexual" or "All Terrain Vehicle (ATV)" is seen in an English translation of the Bible, one should be wary that the translators might be inserting their own prejudices into the text. So we are on shaky ground to start with.

Actually, some believe that this rule is against some form of anal sex in a Pagan temple ritual – one specific type of anal sex. Now, I could not find any sketches of this Pagan temple ritual, but my research is not complete. All I can say is that I have enough reverse cowgirl pics to fill a hard drive!

The term "homosexuality" has two meanings in English: (1) sexual behavior (what some people do) or (2) sexual orientation (what some people are). Actually, the Catholic Church is concerned with behavior, not orientation. I don't know how many reverse cowgirl pics the Vatican has on their hard drives.

Leviticus mentions two types of sins: (1) moral sin and (2) ceremonial uncleanliness. The male anal sex sin is a moral sin, whereas eating shellfish is an example of ceremonial uncleanliness. Incidentally, one type of sin was not necessarily less severe than the other type. Some ceremonial uncleanliness sins actually carried the death penalty. Furthermore, I am puzzled why people don't rally against shellfish with as much fervor as they rally against lesbian sex.

What continues to bounce around in my brain is the following:
"You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind. This is the great and first commandment. And a second is like it, You shall love your neighbor as yourself. On these two commandments depend all the law and the prophets."
--Matthew 22:37-40

It occurs to me that Jesus was alluding to the fact that for many years, Jews would bicker over which sins were worse than other sins. Sort of reminds me what I see from both Dani and ~Deb, two Christian women who spend time daily, meditating, reading, and learning from the same book – the Bible. Dani harps on ~Deb's lesbian sex acts (I think she just likes thinking about lesbian sex) and ~Deb talks about loving thy neighbor. Actually, the neighbor thing is much more well-defined in the Bible.

I am not a lesbian (don't even play one on TV) – but that does not make me without sin. I committed some horrible sins against God and my husband, sins which I am still mending. So don't tell me not to cast any stones. I understand that. I am crude, and rude and sometimes joke about my religion (see above). Well, let me continue to meditate about lesbian sex. I am sure it is what the conservative Christians would have me do.

Bazaar Recluse

Well, I am not the first one to notice, but Ms. Britney Spears is posing "nude" in an upcoming issue of Bazaar. Well, lots of people have made comments about this – apparently she cried with Matt Louer, saying she just wanted her privacy, and others are seeing this as a very public thing.

My initial reaction: Britney, you are wearing more clothes than you usually do!

I am a very modest person, but if I ever get pregnant, I am going to romp around naked for weeks. Hubbie will have to be embarrassed and apologize to the neighbors. "Sorry, reverend, Leesa is just feeling good about her body." Or at least, I hope that's how I am.

I have known many pregnant friends, and I think they all look wonderful, and they have this going on in their heads – beached whale, do not make any comments on my body. Because of hormones and such, I am sure I could rip your tongue out and throw it on the ground. But I am not sure I could step on said tongue. I have a balloon belly obscuring the view.

And I would be, "Hey, neighbor; get a load of my nipples. They are so dark and big now." And hubbie would contemplate suicide.

I mean, with childbirth, as I recall, you have thirty people look right at your pussy, placing fingers inside, going "2 centimeters."

I am sure I want to yell, "Take out your dick, man, I bet you can beat 2 centimeters."

When you are pregnant, I think your modesty has to go out of the window. I have talked to friends, and they were apprehensive about revealing their boobs or whatever, and by the time they were 6 centimeters, they didn't care who saw anything!

I mean, having four or five months of carrying around all of that weight, the hormones going and all, and I am not sure who I was anymore. A good friend admitted to me once that she wished her hubbie would have taken some pics of her naked during pregnancy. Looking back, she says, she missed a golden opportunity.

Perhaps that why Britney posed nude, in part. She wanted pics, and because she is such a ditz, she thought she might loose them. Heck, why not have 5 million copies floating around. Trouble is, teenage boys probably smear 4 million of those copies, if you know what I mean. Britney is such a bitch and I hate her (note: this view is not shared by the Catholic Church) – but looking at her nude pregnant body, she looks so sweet, so nice. I am glad she posed nude – she helped out 4 million teenaged boys and she gets to remember when she was so wonderfully pregnant. Pretty good for a ditz!

Artistic Musings

You know, I don't read blogs as religiously as I did a few months ago. Part of it may be that I am busier than I was even a few months ago, and part of it is the natural attrition of bloggers who I really enjoy reading. And I have not replaced many of the ones I have read in the past.

There is one blogger who I read, but not as much as I once did. Most of it is that I can no longer link to her – she doesn't want traffic (one person actually) to her site. So I have to remember to find her URL in my Yahoo account, and then link from there. The URL she uses is one that I would never be able to remember. But she is definitely worth the extra trouble.

She in her hubbie are having trouble – actually a lot of trouble. Okay, she was one of the first people I started reading, partly because her life and my life seemed so similar. So I have been always the voice of "save the marriage, save the marriage." I am Catholic, so I have a pre-disposition to save the marriage, save the marriage. Okay, I can't solve her problems, but I am beginning to have a different view of the world, and I will share it with you. This new world view has little to do with blow jobs and cum stains. Shocking, I know, but there it is.

And the only way I can think about this is through an analogy. We are like paintings, our parents providing most of the brush strokes early on. Heck, they even provide the frame.

Rich Kids where the Parents Aren't Present
I have met people of influence who had parents who worked on the frame, giving them guilding, ornate workwork, whatever – that is, giving them materially so much. The best schools, wonderful clothing, braces, dermatology services, whatever. But the parents don't spend time with them, so their picture has haphazard strokes that have no feeling, no value. These are the kids that seem to be always lost, even though they have every advantage in the world.

Poor Kids with Great Parents
Okay, this is how I see myself. My parents were of modest means. We had little discretionary income as we were growing up. My parents absolutely gave of themselves. Now, they weren't perfect parents, but we always felt loved. The brush strokes they applied were full of feeling and depth, but the frame was modest. It complimented the artwork – did not detract from the painting.

Poor Kids with Troubled Parents
This is the person who I have been reading. She grew up like me, in a modest household. Her parents had setbacks, be it alcoholism or whatever. It is not that they did not love their children; they just had poor role models themselves. The brush strokes had feeling, for they loved their children, but there were also random marks, caused by their short fallings. Self-taught artists, as it were. Perhaps the children themselves needed to add strokes to make the painting more complete. And because these children often have to grow up faster, there is white space on the canvas, white space that had to be completed by them at a later date.

[I just reached my one-page limit – please bear with me on this one.]

But what I have described is what happens to people by the time they turn 22 or 25, or 18 or whatever. Guys are probably on the 25 side of things, girls on the 22 side of things. And if you have had a traumatic event, maybe the age is younger. And for those of you that started families earlier, your painting had to be finished quicker – you have had to mature earlier because you had to be parents for children.

Over the years, however, these paintings hang on walls – and start to fade. Some paintings are in direct sunlight, and the colors fade. Some fall from the wall, perhaps being damaged by a traumatic event. After a while, we look at our own artwork and we forget who we once were. Life seems to have happened.

One day, you look at yourself and you don't remember the vivid colors you must have been. You don't remember what excited you, what was important to you. Instead, you are more worried about paying the mortgage, the cable bill, perhaps losing that 10 pounds that you keep on your ass. I mean, we are all – most of us, at least – wonderful pieces of artwork. And over time, we forget this. We forget what is truly important, what our core values are.

Now I am no fan of just doing things to make us "happy," but if there is no joy in our lives, perhaps we moved from what we knew we should be doing to what we are doing to make mortgages, to cutting the grass, to whatever. We have lost what is most important to us.

Moving back to this individual – I have always been in favor of "saving the marriage." But what if her hubbie does not help her to be the best person she can be. For a religious person like me, I would describe it as "getting closer to God." But even for those who don't believe in God, I think spouses are supposed to help you become better people. Not change you. We women have a problem with this one. But encourage people to excel – and I am not talking about a fully vested 401-K. You know, when you die, you can't roll over your retirement savings to your soul in heaven. At least, if you can, I am sure that the paperwork is a bitch and few have the proper documents. A joke.

We spend so much time cleaning house and the yard. Sometimes we need to stop and clean our souls. We need to remember what the painting of ourselves truly is. Because if we are not living in harmony with who we truly are, I think we are cheating ourselves and those we touch on a daily basis. Those in harmony with themselves don't work to be happy. They are happy, and they infect others. Their joy is contagious. They are better sons and daughters, better friends, better parents, better lovers.

Now I am not suggesting that my friend end her marriage – but if her hubbie won't help fix himself, help get in tune with her beautiful music, it leaves her with few healthy options. From what I recall, they played beautifully together in the past.

Locked Cars and Strong Women

Recently, I was reading a post by Ed and he mentioned that he was once locked inside a car. That brought back a memory.

Locked Car Doors
I was with a group from work, and we were going out to lunch one day. And if any of you know about downtown Savannah, you know we have a parking problem. Er, if you are the mayor or other public official, perhaps you don't see a parking problem. One exists. Well, we took one car so that we did not have to (1) give up some of our spots, and (2) find only one spot when we got to the restaurant.

So the driver hits the unlock key on her little key ring beeper, and we get in the car. We get to the restaurant, and we get out. Well, the one guy (who was sitting in the back seat) could not get out, or even open the door. There was another woman co-worker in the back, and she was just sitting there, watching him. He tried for five minutes to get out, and the rest of us were just laughing and laughing.

Turns out the one door had the "child safety switch" switched on, and you can't exit from that door. Okay, it doesn't make good blogging information, but it was funny. One of those, "you had to be there" moments.

Slacking
I figure since most people are off today, I could slack in blogging. I mean, I can slack at work. Might as well go full circle and slack on blogging. I could sit at my desk all day, balancing paperclips, and no one would care. Well, balancing paperclips seems like more work than I will be doing, but you get the idea. But I don't even want to blog – write or read them. I mean, most of you won't post because you are tanning your butts on the beach, or doing housework – better yet yard work. Maybe you are driving to Uncle Fred's house, because good ol' Uncle Fred does the best barbeque. So I figure, why should I even try reading blogs.

Strong Woman
I was reading Leigh the other day, and she revealed something that I would never have revealed. She is a strong woman for have posting the blog. I was thinking about posting something about myself, something revealing. And I was going to post it today, since not too many eyeballs would see it. Sure, it is at the right time, but because of the day, I am just too lazy to put the energy in the post.

So I will be going home today – thinking of weenies. Well, I actually am more of a Polish sausage kind-o-gal. Thickness is so much more important than length, you know.