Kiss the Girls

I met someone the other day who kisses girls for fun. Not a guy, but a girl. I know, I know, there is nothing special about that. Lesbians comprise 10% of the adult female population (please don't look this up; it is a wild-assed guess). But this woman insists she is not a lesbian.

I once found a definition about lesbians I once liked. Something like "a lesbian is a homosexual woman. Lesbians are sexually and romantically attracted to other women. One could argue that one is not a lesbian (as a noun) but lesbian (as an adjective). This would depend on self identification, and is different for most lesbians/lesbian women." Definition provided by Wikipedia, and meant for Prata. He is all over definitions.

Oh, and the woman wanted a kiss. This troubled me for two reasons – (1) I thought I no longer was giving out my slut pheromones, and (2) how did she know that I have kissed another woman. I was a little freaked out, and I said something like, "I don't kiss women. I am happily married." And then I wondered if my past was following me. I really wondered about that. You know, you do sexually deviant things in the privacy of a guy's car, and you think it is left there on the car seat, with the used rubber and the cum stain. Okay, that last sentence was for effect. But still, when do you stop being who you once were.

See, to me kissing is cheating. Not a peck on the cheek to someone from Romania who greets people that way. But when you are using tongue, and you have to resist putting your hands in other places, it is cheating.

Getting back to women – I think women look really good kissing one another. You know, when I was surfing for porn the other day, the hottest pics were of women kissing one another. On the lips, and not their lips down there. Just joking about surfing for porn, but you know what I mean. "Women kissing" is erotic, probably more erotic than when couples kiss, unless the man is Orlando Bloom. And you are the woman kissing Orlando Bloom. Yummy. You know, everything good makes its way back to Orlando Bloom. Can you tell I am in lust? Er, love.

I got an email yesterday, saying that I was "most likely to be contacted on August 31, 2006, from Blogsinspace.com.



Here is what I think. Bloginspace just wants me to buy something. But just in case, if I disappear after August 31, 2006, I may be in space, on some cold aluminum table, being poked and prodded by a space alien who looks suspiciously like George W. Bush. I know, too much information. Perhaps they will want me to kiss space alien girls. Or Orlando Bloom. I can wish.

Your Angel is a Centerfold

I may have mentioned this before, but when I was growing up, me and my friends would look at Playboy at other people's houses. My parents did not subscribe to the magazine, but a lot of houses on the block did. And when we were growing up, this was a source for our sexual education. Most of our parents did not talk about sex, and I did not have any slutty friends who had sex yet, so we poured over the pages of Playboy to get answers on the mysteries of sex.

And part of what we were doing, is projecting who we would be in a few short years. We would see these tanned women, purportedly in their early twenties, and they looked like Venus coming out of her orb (please see the Botticell painting for references). We wanted to be these women, and I think each of us assumed that our bodies would develop into copies of the images we were viewing. For most of us, this was not sexual; it was educational. And we would read about them as well; we mostly turned the centerfold over to get a summary of her qualities. For instance:

BIRTHPLACE: Savannah, Georgia USA

BUST: 36"

WAIST: 25"

HIPS: 35"

HEIGHT: 5' 2"

WEIGHT: 138 lbs

AMBITIONS: To become so successful as a novelist that my likeness appears on the Simpsons. Orlando Bloom will call me, hoping to have sex with me so I can write about the experience.

TURN-ONS: Massages, fondue parties, intelligent men, humble people, nice smiles, saxophones in jazz clubs, and sunsets on the Riviera.

TURNOFFS: Dishonesty, apathy, egotistical people and jealousy.

FAVORITE CITY: Having traveled through Europe, I appreciate all cultures, but Venice, Italy remains my favorite because it's so tranquil. [Playboy was always Euro-centric; imagine knowing the world by traveling around Europe.]

FAVORITE AUTHOR: Mystery writer Agatha Christie. [The women always picked an author who was popular or one a high school English reading list.]

FAVOITE MOVIES: Breakfast at Tiffany's and My Fair Lady. Audrey Hepburn is who I aspire to be.

I'M PARTICULARLY WILD ABOUT: Mountains in the springtime; sitting around a campfire while someone plays a guitar; listening to the world wake up on a camping trip.

Over time, we found out that our bodies did not become airbrushed, our boobs were not exactly the same size, and we did not lie around in nothing but rabbit ears and panties with fluffy tails. We became real. Sometimes I wonder what men want – the fantasy or the reality. Would it be better for us to be the bunny or the wife?

Vacations: Real and Virtual

Last week, I was on a virtual vacation. Let me explain.

I actually had planned on going on a real vacation. Asked for time off; time off was granted. Found a hotel room in a nearby city where hubbie and I were to spend several days. Not too far; not too near. And then my work canceled my vacation because other people, many of them, were taking half-days. Something about school starting and people wanting to transition with their kids. My vacation was revoked.

And so I was a bit pissy about the whole thing. I was thinking about calling in sick all week, but I chose not to. Instead I went to work and had the attitude, "Don't bother me; I am on vacation." Childish, I know, but I was supposed to be on vacation.

And you know what, the tactic did not work. I did not get a light sunburn. I did not get to go to work without spending an hour getting ready, I could not stay out late, and I did not get much reading done while at work.

And now I am catching up from my vacation – that's why I did not post earlier today. I was playing catch-up. Completely idiotic. I mean, one would think they would just let me take the time off. Now, I got paid for doing little last week, and I was pissed about it.

Lesson learned: give people time off when you have agreed to it. It is not like I am an integral part of this organization. Heck, better not say that too loud, or I will be looking for another job.

Crap. Guess I better catch up and pretend I love it here.

Encore: Superhero Lover

I am out-of-town this week and I will probably not be about to post due to time constraints. So instead of saying, "be back soon" and leave it at that, I will try to dig through some of my previous (old) posts and re-run them. I have new readers and have scared off some, so this will give you an opportunity to read some of my older work.

Enjoy!

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Superhero Lover

I sometimes think about bizarre things. Fanciful things. Stupid things. This is one of those days.

I was thinking about superheroes, and if they were real, which super hero would be the best to bed. Here is what I came up with:

Superman
Let's face it; Superman is the biggest stud among super heroes. If I were a damsel in distress, he is the one I would want to rescue me. Unless there was kryptonite around. [You would think that the other superheroes would gather up all of the kryptonite and let Superman do the heavy lifting.] But as a lover? P-lease. First off, I would want to be number one, and we all know he has a thing for Lois Lane. Secondly, I would be a little concerned he would crush me. Know what I mean? And I would not want to be Lois Lane (how can she not know Clark Kent and Superman are not the same person?).

Batman
Batman has a lot going for him – really. He is handsome, rich, and well-mannered. But let's face it, he is a bit of a wuss. I mean, fighting villains like the "Penguin", the "Joker" and the "Riddler." He is better than many superheroes, but I would pass.

Robin
Number one: I think he is gay. Number two: see number one.

The Thing
Not sure if I got the name right, but he is one of the Fantastic Four (I have not seen the recent movie; is it out yet?). The guy who looks like he is built from a rock. He has some things going for him as well – he has broad shoulders and a big chest. Dreamy. Plus I think he would always be "hard." Hey, we are talking lover, not husband here. But I would be limited to one position – me on top, always doing the work. No thanks. I like a little more variety than he could provide. Hey, I am one tough bitch when it comes to picking a superhero lover.

Elastic Man
This is an interesting pick. Women, I wonder what an elastic penis would feel like. He can change sizes – and I would guess quickly. But he just looks like a guy who would answer the phone with his elastic long arms while he was humping me. No thank you, you inconsiderate elastic prick.

Wonder Woman
I am not a lesbian, but if I were, I am not sure I could bag Wonder Woman. I am 5'2", and she is an Amazon. She would intimidate me. Plus her breasts look like you could use them as a hat rack.

Others
Then there are the comic book characters from the 80's and onward. The X-men, Power Rangers and so forth. I don't know much about these characters, but it seems to me that they are always plural – and I am not sure I would want a bunch of superheroes having sex with me at the same time. Too confusing, potentially too painful, too weird.

Aquaman
My pick would be Aquaman. As I recall, he could be underwater for hours, doing his telepathic stuff – telling porpoises and sharks to "whale" on the bad guys (couldn't resist that pun). I would like a superhero to go down on me for hours at a time. Plus he could order up some seafood to jump into a pot of boiling water. Hey, fish eat each other all of the time – he has to know that. He shouldn't feel squeamish about making sure his main squeeze got her seafood.

Think before you comment
Okay, I admit it. I don't know too much about comic book characters. But before I get comments telling me why my blog entry does not make sense, take a minute and ask yourself, "Do I really want to be labeled as that much of a geek?" Remember, in Greece (the musical), there was a song about a "pussy wagon." No one with a comic book collection scored. It just is not natural.

Encore: P(opping C)orn

I am out-of-town this week and I will probably not be about to post due to time constraints. So instead of saying, "be back soon" and leave it at that, I will try to dig through some of my previous (old) posts and re-run them. I have new readers and have scared off some, so this will give you an opportunity to read some of my older work.

Enjoy!

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P(opping C)orn

You know, I started out today wanting to talk about a particular topic. Then I started writing about a safer topic. After a couple of hair flips and the scratchin' of my ol' noggin, I decided, what the heck, this is my blog. Bite my ass, if you don’t want to read about this. And as long as you are biting my ass, you may want to take a hunk of flesh while you are at it – because I am not timid about scratching and kicking myself.

I want to talk about porn. Now I am no prude – you sort of lose prudish behavior after you suck a co-worker's dick for the first time, or the first time you have to throw out your panties because of an incriminating cum stain. The guild is off the lily, so to speak. Oh, penises, cum. Wait, what was my train of thought?

Oh, yeah, porn is bad. That's it. And I hesitate to say this because I am guessing a lot of people are surfing for porn today. Big shopping day. Probably a big porn day, especially if the football games start to suck. You know, if the football games suck and wifey is out shopping, most men are going to want to see pictures of other people sucking. Actually, I am not sure if guys want to see women sucking off all sorts of penises. Oh, penises, cum. Wait, what was my train of thought?

Oh, yeah, porn is bad. That's it. Disclaimer: I actually know someone (related by marriage) that was part of the porn industry. She was a "model," and yes, I have seen her pictures. The whole family has. See, she was a shy girl in high school, pretty but shy. Pretty but not terribly smart. She entered the workforce at 18 with a high school diploma and a taste for expensive things (upbringing). Well, McDonalds does not give high schoolers a six digit income for being the fry girl, and she was a bit taken aback for how expensive it is just to get by. Even the Gucci knock-offs were a bit out of her range. So what is a girl to do? Hint: it involves poles. Yes, our sweet 18-yr-old starts stripping at a local gentleman's club. Stripping, penises, cum. Wait, what was my train of thought?

Oh, yeah, porn is bad. That's it. She starts out stripping (and, yes, family members eventually found out – even saw her strip). Now, I don't know much about stripping – although I am guessing it does not take many brain cells to do – but it is not necessarily as "clean" as I once thought. By 19, she is making boat-loads of cash. And she has friends – strippers – in the same demographic, making boat-loads of cash. Think of this – teenagers, lots of cash, lots of idle time during the day. Hmmmm. Well, then she got involved in drugs. Her choice, I understand, but drugs nonetheless. I am not a real expert on drugs, but with the drugs came seedy boyfriends as well. Oh, penises, cum. Wait, what was my train of thought?

Oh, yeah, porn is bad. That's it. So my stripper-in-law continued to strip for cash, but needed more cash to buy expensive drugs. And we are not talking about Claritin. So she starts giving "private shows" after stripping. And we are talking about more than lap dancing. More like lap lapping. And then she also gets involved in porn. I have seen pictures of this beautiful girl – and from the pics, I would not have guessed that she was in a drug-induced stupor when she was at the photo shoot. But for a while, the pics were on the web for anyone to see. More money, more drugs, more nudity. A sort of dirty picture is beginning to evolve. Now, after work she is sucking off guys in cars for $20 a pop. Oh, penises, cum. Wait, what was my train of thought?

Oh, yeah, porn is bad. Now I know, all of these are her choices. Baptist girl gone bad story. But every time I see a professional porn pic, I wonder what drug this girl is on, who she is sleeping with, sometimes for money.

And I am an enigma myself. I love writing erotica – but I am not selling it for drug money. I am not sucking off men in cars for money (ironically, though, I used to do that for free). Puts me on some moral high ground (laughs half-heartedly, indicating tongue-in-cheek comment).

And I don’t think there is anything wrong with HNT (half-nakid Thursday), or Bored Housewife's Braless Tuesday). Seems like harmless fun to this prude. I guess when I see a picture of a young woman spreading her labial lips so you can see her sweet spot, I wonder about her family, her decisions, her life. And I wonder if the porn industry is taking advantage of her. Addicts have a much harder time making informed decisions. And while her pussy may be pink, her soul may feel black.

Encore: Queen of Spades

I am out-of-town this week and I will probably not be about to post due to time constraints. So instead of saying, "be back soon" and leave it at that, I will try to dig through some of my previous (old) posts and re-run them. I have new readers and have scared off some, so this will give you an opportunity to read some of my older work.

Enjoy!

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Queen of Spades

I need to take a deep breath before starting this blog entry.

You see, this issue is personal to me. I mean, I touched on it recently, but I did not really go into it that much. Nervous babbling.

Okay, I did mention that I normally don't really find quickies all that exciting. My hubbie does – not rocket science since it takes me 20 minutes to get fully going, and him two minutes before blast-off. Not really, but pretty close.

So anyway, we have a problem. I love long lovemaking sessions, and occasionally, he just wants to get laid. And he is not all that concerned for me getting off as well (time constraints and all). So we developed a technique that has really helped things – and you probably have all of the materials necessary to do this at home yourselves.

Drum roll, please. All you need is a deck of cards, particularly one that does not have 52 cards in the deck. Remember that deck that you keep forgetting to throw away? Grab it. And take a card – I wanted the Queen of Hearts (predictable, I know). Had to settle on the Queen of Spades (works better actually, think about it).

Here is the deal in my household. I like oral sex . . . I really like it. So when my hubbie satisfies me, I give him the Queen of Spades. Then he has his quickie card. The deal is this – he presents me with the card, and he gets a quickie immediately. The only ground rules are that we don't perform in front of others, and he licks me a little first (for lubrication). That's it. And it works great. I don't worry about helping him cum (he can do this all by himself), and he doesn't have to think, "now I have to spend another 20 minutes pleasing her."

And sometimes it is even exciting.

One morning, I was brushing my teeth in the bathroom, and I hear hubbie get up. I figure he is coming to the bathroom for his morning pee (remember, we are an "old married couple"), and he just places the Queen of Spades on the sink. He takes my panties off, me still brushing teeth, and licks me wet (takes probably one minute or less). I rinsed and spit while he was doing this, and grabbed the sink while he satisfied himself. It was actually quite hot.

We actually lost the card once, and my hubbie buys another deck for the Queen of Spades. I don't play cards as much as I used to, but when I get the Queen of Spades in my hand, my heart skips a beat. Imagine that.

Encore: Wunder Lust

I am out-of-town this week and I will probably not be about to post due to time constraints. So instead of saying, "be back soon" and leave it at that, I will try to dig through some of my previous (old) posts and re-run them. I have new readers and have scared off some, so this will give you an opportunity to read some of my older work.

Enjoy!

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Wunder Lust

You know, looking back on my posts from the last few days, and it occurs to me. I have not had sex in several days, and it shows in my writings. Now I know what they mean by a bitch in heat.

Several years ago, I had an "administrative job" at a non-profit organization. If you are clever, you probably know the business, and I no longer work there (from the looks of things, hardly anyone who once worked there is there now). But you have to know Savannah.

Anyway, the job was sort of menial. It really was. The pay was not great, but I would have to really bust my ass for another $2 to $4 thousand per year, and being the astute person that I am, I thought to myself, "I can either sit on my ass, fuck around (and I do mean fuck – I got paid a salary for sneaking off and fucking) and not get fired, or I could find a job where I would make $2 to $4 thousand more, work my ass off, and they would expect results." I learned about these decision trees in college, but it was a no-brainer for me. Stay in this entry job and have a good time. Hey, I was a giving girl, and I mean giving (wink).

So, every year our non-profit would get audited (not a bad thing, just how things were), and the first year I was there, I was called on to "babysit" the auditor. We were between accountants (I think the title was CFO, but he was an accountant because the pay was measly all around). So my job was to help out the auditor.

The instruction (singular, not plural) I was given is, "If you don't know the answer, don't guess, just say you don't know, and suggest that she ask the president." Since I knew next to nothing (recall, I was screwing in the back room?), I knew I was going to say that a lot.

And then I met the auditor. She was about the same age I was, very attractive, and very nerdy. I am not really all that turned on by women, but every once in a while, I get some sort of girl crush. This was one of those times.

I remember watching her set up her pencils, pens and paper. Everything was so neat, and it appeared that she needed things in the order she placed them. I am OCD, but she was like the ultimate OCD person in Savannah, perhaps the state of Georgia. And she was so nerdy that she had no idea how beautiful she was.

I would watch her as she licked her thumb before inspecting mountains of papers. I watched as she fidgeted with her laptop. She changed the background, changed where the icons were place, tucked loose hair behind her ear, lightly bit her lip and continued to fiddle with the laptop. A new laptop with someone who has a major case of OCD is less than a blessing.

We spent two weeks together, me sneaking glances of this auditor, me not making my move. Not that I was afraid of losing my job – I had already compromised that with no ill effects.

I don't get girl crushes much, but I did those two weeks. Next audit season we had our accountant nerd and I was jealous of him getting to spend his time with her. Here I was married, getting mounted by every Tom, Dick and Harry, and jealous of a co-workers time with a nerdy goddess.

I am married, have only had a few brief lesbian encounters, and I have come to the conclusion that although I really like sucking dick, there is a small part of me that every once in a while is stirred by an occasional and unforgettable woman. Does that make me a lesbian? Probably not, probably. I don't know, and it really does not matter. All I can tell you is that she stirred something inside me, something that is normally quiet and calm. Oh, and that made my week, my month, my lifetime.

Encore: Slut Radar

I am out-of-town this week and I will probably not be about to post due to time constraints. So instead of saying, "be back soon" and leave it at that, I will try to dig through some of my previous (old) posts and re-run them. I have new readers and have scared off some, so this will give you an opportunity to read some of my older work.

Enjoy!

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Slut Radar

Anyone who has read all of my posts can piece together the following:

1. I started out a fairly good Catholic girl.
2. I got married and was a good Catholic wife.
3. I got lost, had mucho sex, and now feel bad about it.
4. I am now becoming a good Catholic wife again.

What I will talk about today is a transformation that occurred in me from being "fairly normal" to slut-de-jour.

After I had seven or eight different men in the course of a year, I developed a sense for the good boys and the bad boys. A sense I never had before. I know, some call it some super power, but it was more like a different sense. I could just hold a conversation with someone, and sort of tell if that person would easily bed. And I thought of it as slut radar.

I can remember vividly meeting someone at the shop where I worked, talking about whatever, and knowing inside of ten minutes if I made some excuse to go to my office for "some paperwork", if he would follow. If he did, chances were high that by the end of the hour, he would have used one of my condoms that I kept in my filing cabinet under "P." The P was for personal, but I guess subconsciously, it could have been for penis.

And I think they could sense it as well. At work with co-workers, it had to be more subtle. Complaining that the hubbie would be out-of-town on the weekend and my car really needed an oil change. Yeah, I got the free oil change, but that was not all that was greased and lubed that weekend.

I have gotten some personal e-mails since I have been blogging, and I know exactly who have more liberal strike zones, if you know what I mean. Sorry, baseball playoffs (people go ape over Atlanta around here, mostly for the second round of the play-offs). I am sure if I had a business trip to Minnesota, for instance, I could make some kind of excuse to visit a photographer friend who would do me if his wife went to a neighbors to borrow sugar. Just the way things go.

I do believe that this slut radar that I have developed is still working. I am in a very administrative position, but I have been asked several times to attend conferences. For my job, there is no reason for me to network. A reward, they say. But the various managers and I both know all they really want is an opportunity to spend a few hours of hot sex with the office slut. Not that I am a slut now, but I think I still probably give off the subtle aroma of a girl that has done a few things she wish she hadn't.

So playboys, beware, my slut radar can sense you coming a mile away. Although you just promise a staple through the navel and instant fame, all you really want is to nail something.

Pillars of Strength and Jello

Have you ever met someone who you knew was a wonderful person, someone who was kind and smart and handsome, someone that seemed to be at peace with himself and with the world? I have. The person I knew had a terminal illness – and still he was upbeat, warm and wonderful.

I don't understand those people.

Every time I have a "little hiccup" in my life, when things are not going well, I feel sorry for myself. And I am not just talking about crying. Crying his healthy. Crying eventually gets the yucky feelings out. I am talking about really feeling sorry for yourself – like your problems are the worse problems in the world.

And then you meet someone with what would be insurmountable problems, and you just don't understand the world.

I wrote about fear yesterday, and when I was younger, I really feared death. Not like Prata was talking about. I mean, I would see beautiful flowers and wonder if I was allergic to them, wonder if my throat would close up and I would suffocate. It wasn't that I was looking at poisonous snakes rattling around at my ankles.

Funny, is that Leesa said "I have this fear of getting a flat tire." What a bizarre fear. When I was in school, I had a fear of running out of pencils so I always had a spare. Always. Years of school with a second pencil that I never used.

All these petty fears for me, and then you meet someone staring at their own mortality, and you sort of wonder how you would be. I have met dying people before, and everyone seems to look at death differently. For me, I would wonder if my life meant anything. That's what I would think of first. Who would it be that I impacted? How would I leave my community a better place, and with Savannah, GA, there is lots of opportunity for improvement.

I have been sick lately, so I start feeling morose when I am sick. I start feeling phantom lumps in my breasts, wondering if the headache is a brain tumor. And then I meet amazing people, and wonder why little things bother me so much. It is a part of who I am, I know this, and I don't think I would trade my health for this profound incite.

On a different note, there is some evidence that JonBenet Ramsey's murderer has been found. One of those cases where I think most thought the parents were guilty. Can you imagine having someone murder your six-year-old daughter and the police target you as a person of interest? How horrible.

Yet another reason to wonder why I think my problems are so significant. What a post to lead off a weekend.

Fear

I don't know why I was doing this last week, but I heard somewhere that fear of public speaking was the most common fear, followed closely behind by the fear of death. And I thought to myself, "Okay, if someone had to give a speech, would that mean that they would consider suicide so that they did not have to speak publicly."

So I searched for a list of fears. The only one I found, seemed to be a site that seemed like it wanted to treat your fears through an Internet online course. For your un-education, I will list it below. I don't believe the list, but it is a list.

I have been scared lately. Scared of lots of things. I have been scared that I will sit down at my computer and just push out garbage for this blog. I fear that because I am blogging, I am not doing something more important. Then of course, I say to myself, actually my employer is paying for my blogging. They are my benefactor, so to speak. An unknowing benefactor, but a benefactor nonetheless.

I have been scared of having a heart attach. Nothing physically has happened to me, but I have had some crises which I have had little control over lately, and they are weighing on me. I don't want to mention the particulars, but I have been thinking about them and they have colored my mood. Funny, though, because I am a 30-something woman, I always discount heart attacks, and I blame this on stereotypes on sit-coms.

One of my blogging buddies is separated from her husband. How courageous this woman is. I can see power in her words, in her thoughts. But I wonder if she is scared, if she doubts what she is doing. I know she does, but she is so strong.

I decided that to test my fears, I should crawl through the air duct in the office (claustrophobia). While crawling through it, I will probably see spiders (arachnophobia), and I will eventually poke my head out of another air return, probably getting a mile high view of another work area (acrophobia). Once there, I may throw up (emetophobia), or worse, wonder if there is anything in the air duct I am breathing which will cause cancer (carcinophobia).

I don't feel so good. I am scared.

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Ten most common phobias
1. Arachnophobia: Fear of Spiders. Half of women and 10 per cent of men have a fear of spiders.
2. Social Phobia: Fear of being evaluated negatively in social situations.
3. Aerophobia: Fear of flying.
4. Agoraphobia: Agoraphobia involves intense fear and avoidance of any place or situation where escape might be difficult or help unavailable in the event of developing sudden panic-like symptoms.
5. Claustrophobia: Fear of being trapped in small confined spaces.
6. Acrophobia: Fear of heights.
7. Emetophobia: Fear of vomit.
8. Carcinophobia: Fear of cancer.
9. Brontophobia: Fear of thunderstorms.
10.Necrophobia: Fear of death or or dead things

Google Trends

Today will be a quick post. Sorry, but it is Google's fault. You see, I have seen their new "Trend" widget, and I have been playing with it. Please do not click on the link I provided – it will suck time out of your life.

You see, you can put terms in the search option and see who is using these terms in their searches. Not who they are, but where they are from. Well, probably more accurately, where their IP address says they are from.

For instance, you search the word "panties", and notice that Salt Lake City is the number one city searching this term. Oh, and I should probably say that they look at the population of the city and normalize the results. So that New York City, or Bombay, India, does not show up as the number one city just because they are so big. I always thought that São Paulo, Brazil, was the largest city in the world, but it looks like two other cities are larger. Who would have known?

So instead of blogging this morning, I am sitting here, looking which city searches for Leesa (mostly in Australia because of some marathoner), penis (Philadelphia, probably has something to do with the number of cheese steaks which are ingested), and infidelity (Chicago, the windy city, perhaps there are lots of desperate housewives giving "blow" jobs). Who knows?

Salt Lake City also tops the "Braless" searches. And we know it is all because of our own Ms. Lisa. Now I am going to see what cities search for my favorite Chinese dish.

More on Sex

Okay, I wrote something yesterday, and I got reactions on each side of the isle. And then I started pondering things. You know, I tend to write one page on most topics for two reasons – (1) it is hard enough for me to be "on topic" for one paragraph, more or less page, and (2) my readers don't need more than a page of my writing per day. This is a blog, not a book.

But I said something yesterday that needed explaining; and I did not explain what I mean. I said that men need sex, and to my surprise, men were questioning me. My first reaction was, "hey, you are not trying to bed me so please tell the truth." Then my next reaction was "what the heck?" I really wanted to use the "F word" but I was not that passionate about the thought. I was a tired Leesa yesterday.

So last night, when I was fucking my hubbie. Just joking. We did not do it last night, and I don't think about bloggers when I am getting it on with him. I mean, I have other things to think about, like giving him directions. I mean, you know, my clitoris does not move from one location to another, but directions are sometimes needed.

Okay, I really want to delete the last paragraph, but I am afraid if I do, I will not meet my one page. Crap.

Anyway, when I said that guys want sex, I was not really saying that they are only interested in their own orgasms. When I was in my twenties, I really thought that's all guys wanted. Their own orgasm, which is silly because a sock doesn't demand nearly as much as I do and a sock will give him an orgasm each and every time. No weeks off when "the aunt visits." But I did not know men. I had been in some relationships, but no long term sexual relationships. So all of my experience was tied to brief encounters. Perhaps "tied" was not the word I really wanted to use there.

So the men were just happy to be getting some, and I did not know what I was doing either. We did not learn each other at all; again in my early years.

Even when I was just married, I thought that men just wanted sex, because when my man had sex, I got more romance, more attention, more everything that makes my heart pitter-patter. But, years into my marriage I figured it out. [I am such a dolt.] Men derive more pleasure from giving pleasure than they do by receiving pleasure (at least in a committed relationship). My man would get puffy-chested after loving me so well, regardless of what he experienced. And lets face it, men get an orgasm every time they cum. But sex still the thing that gets him to connect with me. I am not talking about sex all of the time. But through sex, he seems to become more sensitive, more caring, more in touch with his feelings. And not because he experiences an orgasm.

Now one thing that gets me – all of these erectile dysfunction drug (Viagra, Levitra and Cialis) ads on television. I did not know that erectile dysfunction was a huge problem – okay, huge is not the word that I should have used. Unintentional, but now I have the giggles. These commercials make me think that erectile dysfunction is a major problem in the United States. Either that or finally someone has thought about marketing a drug that you need to take every time you want to get it on. I can see them in the board room of a pharmaceutical company. Okay, we need a drug for horny guys. We have found that horny guys have lots of cash. And the little guy in the corner with the nerdy glasses and the nasal voice says, "We could find a drug that helps with ED. Horny guys that can't have an erection every time will pay a premium for bigger erections." And the guy continued, "There is this one drug that was developed for pulmonary arterial hypertension; thing is, one side effect was that the men all got these massive woodies."

Okay, off point. I start thinking about woodies and don't know what the crap I was thinking about. Was it men that were all about sex?

Sexual Standoffs and Marbles

On July 28, 2006, I wrote a piece entitled, "The House Always Wins." It was in response to a comment that Advisor, and I was sort of a pain in the butt. Since then, Advisor has only written one entry on his blog, some erotica, believe it or not.

And I have been thinking a lot about male-female relationships since then. Male-female? Sounds so scientific. Perhaps I should dawn a lab coat before continuing.

I am not going to recount what Advisor was going through, nor my cheeky response. But I am going to talk about something I have seen so often in marriage, something I call the sexual standoff.

It goes like this. In the beginning, not Bible beginnings when everything was dark but in dating beginnings, men and women are fairly well behaved. I am not talking about manners, per se, but that they look at what their dates want and cater to them. Women love romance, and men love sex.

How many times have men complained about taking his woman to dinner and a show, but you know what, it is romantic. Holding doors open, guiding me with a light touch in the small of my back. Almost enough to make me drip! Heck, who am I kidding, sometimes enough.

Women love romance, men love sex. One of those "duh" statements that we sometimes forget.

Okay, this is fine for the dating scene and the first couple of years' of marriage. And then we start thinking of other things. Maybe a baby is on its way, perhaps we are pursuing our careers. Maybe we just "drift apart."

I have a theory about this drifting. When I was married, a priest told us in Pre Cana counseling that for most, if you took a marble and placed it in a vessel each time you made love for the first three years of marriage, and then afterwards, took a marble out of the vessel for each time you made love afterwards, the vessel would still have marbles in it when you died. One of our jobs, to my husband's delight, was to make sure we had no marbles in our vessel. That, he said, would help us maintain our vows and stay married. Other than the strange feeling of getting a sex talk from a celibate priest, I now see his wisdom.

After the first few years of marriage, we had sex less often. And this drifting that I hear about from my girlfriends or have experienced personally, could start when we don't take out our marbles fast enough.

Women, when romanced, are much more open to sex. And men, when they are getting their share of sex, open their hearts and spend much more time on romance.

But after the first few years, we have this sexual standoff. Men want the sex, but forgot about the romance, and women "don't feel like sex" because the romance is gone. The net result – a sexual cold war. A standoff. Neither side feels like starting – either the men by romancing or the woman by having sex. Embarrassingly, I would say that it is perhaps easier for the woman to start the thaw. And I have had sex that I really didn't want to have. But the trick is that men love intercourse – heck, you can just lay down, do a little groaning and let him do most of the work. Not super-sex, but for guys, it doesn't seem to matter that much, especially if he has not been getting any at home for a while.

Men have it tougher, but since they are "sacrificers", they should be able to "suck it up" and be romantic. Then they can suck on something else!

I am so against this sexual standoff. Make love not war!

Searching for ~Deb

Okay, ~Deb, told me she had a myspace account. So I thought I would find her on myspace.com. Not a good plan.

First site I thought was her until I read her interests: Tap, Hula, Karaoke, delicious food, TV. Okay, maybe delicious food, but I saw nothing about wine and her taste in music was bad. It couldn't be her. I emailed her a dirty limerick for kicks. Just joking, but I would encourage others to do so. Actually, she is really cute and has some nice Independence Day pictures.

Then I typed in "New York" and "sexy lesbian." Five hundred thousand myspace accounts had those parameters. Okay, I did not type "sexy lesbian." I think I typed "music." Anyway, I came up with Deborah Lombardi, a Folk Rock / Acoustic / Country artist. And she had "Premature Grey" playing on her site. Part of the lyrics said something about her not being very attractive. It was a good song, but I don't think it was our ~Deb. I continued to play this New York ~deb's music while still searching.

Next ~deb is an 82-year-old female. In here profile page, you see her bear back with some sort of weird angel tattoo. I would love to look that good at 82, I think, sans tattoo. That site kept wanting me to use Active X control, so I can't tell you too much about her. I think she is dyslexic, and 28 instead of 82. But since I fled that site, and it looked horrible in any browser, I really can't be too sure. Thanks, myspace.

I went back to the first ~Deb. I tried looking at her friends – completely fried in my computer. She is a cutie pie. Could she be our ~deb? Don't know.

Then I went to another ~deb's site. Deborah Lopez. 34 from New York. Her title is "photographer extraordinaire!" I like her photos, but the site is so busy. Duh. Myspace.com. What was I thinking? Plus her site hijacked my music from the other ~Deb. There should be a warning – don't open two myspace.com sites up at a time. Bad things will happen!

Oh, well, as I was doing this, the real ~Deb tells me which site is hers. Her musical influences include Marie Osmond, Tito Jackson, Sony Bono and music from various video games of the 1980s. Who would have thunk?

Me, I think some 14-year-old boy is IMing me. I have to go.

Myspace

A rant today. Pardon me for slamming myspace. I hear they are taking over the world.

Unprofessional
Did you hear about Rich Jackson, the top editor at a small Indiana newspaper lost his job because of a Myspace.com profile? What a moron.

Okay, I don't have a great job and my job has nothing to do with image. But if I was (1) a professional, or (2) had a real image job, I would never have a myspace account. Okay, I think myspace is creepy so I would not have one anyway, but this would be a real reason for not having one.

I have read stories that headhunters and recruitment professionals are actually using myspace to weed out applicants. Holy crap. So to better see what is out there, I typed in my real name in myspace, and I found out that I am a 23-year-old free spirit in Fargo, North Dakota, who enjoys dating high school boys and teaching them the "subtler aspects of lovemaking" and experiencing voyeuristic experiences. Two things: (1) high school boys don't know subtle – they are just happy to be inside of a girl, and (2) where the heck is Fargo? I thought it was in Wyoming.

Seriously, I would google yourselves every once in a while to see what you find. And for heaven's sake, take off the filters. What happens if your ex put naughty pictures of you on the "Exposing my Ex-girlfriend" site? That is the site you want to know about and sick your lawyers on. Worked for Dr. Laura, right? Bad example.

If you are not in high school, stay away from personal myspace sites. Period.

Predators
Well, Rich may have just been unprofessional and was canned. Pete Solis looks like he will be doing some jail time. You see, he found someone one myspace and had sex with the fourteen-year-old girl. Okay, I was a freshman in high school once, and I lied more than once about my age. But then again, I was lying to high school boys, not 42-year-old men! I mean, give me a break.

Yeah, I am sure the girl lied. But if you are even thinking of asking for a current driver's license before having sex with someone, perhaps you should re-evaluate the sexual encounter. Just a thought.

Bad Design
Myspace has sucky design. Sure, my sight is bad, but it is not tacky. With myspace, it has to blink, have 200 non-dithering colors and play music. And those are the simple sights. I have seen myspace sights, not many of them, but ouch, they are loud.

I cannot stand the over-stimulation. Perhaps the younger generation gets off on all of this, but I fail to see how anyone could like the design. If it gave me an orgasm, okay, but I can't see how blinking boarders does anything good.

Yeah, I had a myspace account for 15 days. But I kept getting hit on by high schoolers or sophomoric college guys or 42-yearold creeps. Not worth my time.

Back to School

Kathi blogged the other day about her boys, er, young men, going back to school. Then I read about Heather reenrolling her children. And one thought occurred to me: I miss school.

Okay, I don't miss everything, but school seems to be so natural. Really – hold on. I am not talking about the 50-minute lectures and typical classes, a format used to teach people since before Rome was a super-power. I am talking about how school reminds us of the seasons.

Here me out here. I know – when I perspire between my breasts while walking to the car, I should be thinking we are in summer. Yeah, thank you very much. I know that. What I am talking about is all seasons. In Georgia, we don't have four seasons. Okay, if you are hiking in the mountains, you may see a good autumn. But for most of us "city dwellers", we don't plant crops, we live in air conditioned homes, travel to air conditioned/heated offices, and we sort of know something is amiss when it is daylight at 9:00 pm.

But with school you get seasons. You start school in the fall, with new notebooks, sharpened pencils and, er, in the twenty-first century, a new notebook computer (or at least a fresh battery). You work at school, learning things, seeing the seasons go by.

You get ready for Winter Break, another clue at a season. You study for finals, in between wondering what Santa may bring – or have debates about if Santa is real. Yeah, fourth grade I had Saint Nick's back, though I was secretly starting to doubt him. I don't doubt him anymore – all of that schooling.

In grade school, seasons are even more evident by the art projects you do. Make stove-pipe hats in February for Mr. Lincoln, right before telling Jimmy that he has the neatest notebook in the class. We are talking about grade school – desirabilities in a mate changes over time. Late Autumn is when we learned that the Pilgrims gave the Native Americans small pox and the Indians returned the favor by labeling them Indians (even though Columbus and others knew they were not near India. Actually, I think part of his compensation plan had to do with finding a shorter route to India, so in order to have backup information for his performance evaluation, he said something about seeing Indians. Again, this is the type of information you will only find here.

I really miss school, and not because I liked wearing really big sweaters when it got cold (sadly, almost January by the time you could wear them). And I liked getting new clothes every fall. A whole new wordrobe.

Oh, I miss school, and I have not little lovable children so I can't see school through their eyes. I would even suffer the tests to be able to smell the glue, have a crush, gossip to my best friend again. I am nine!

Shannon
Oh, and now a rant. Where, oh, where is Miss Shannon? She has disappeared from her web site (URL: http://blondiesandfun.blogspot.com). Don't go to the URL – the site is gone. She said she would e-mail people with her new address. Well, crap, she did not e-mail me. She could have left up the site for a day more, so I could snag her e-mail and send her a note. I want to know where she moved. But I guess, she may not want me to link to her now. Seems like she may be hiding, though she said she just needed a change.

I hope the butcher is not hot on her tail. He was creepy.

Feeling pwned

I was reading something the other day, and I read a word I had never seen: pwned. So I looked it up. Here is what wikipedia said about it:

The slang term pwn (past tense: pwned, pwn3d, pwnd, pwnt, or "p00n", various pronunciations) as used by the Internet gaming culture, means to defeat an opponent in a video-game in a manner so harsh it is indescribable in words. In this context, to be pwned can be defined as "to be defeated," with the strong connotation of also having been "made a fool of." It is generally used for "friendly taunting" of a player's in-game enemies, and gently "rubbing in" any victories, no matter how fleeting. Most gamers hold the view that to "own" someone is to defeat them well, but to "pwn" them is to hand them a decisive defeat in which one clearly triumphed, and thus, the word "pwn" is seen as the next step above "own". The term has become ubiquitous in Internet circles and now it is often used outside of gaming contexts. For example "We pwned them hardcore in that basketball game," or "that Spartan_Vice is such a n00b, he is constantly getting pwned."

First I would like to say, I want to be part of a sub-culture. Not some sub-cultures. I mean, I don't want to pierce several parts of my body and wear black. Just not for me. And I don't want to be part of a sub-culture that involves doing time or hanging out with "holier than thou" people. Again, not something I can see myself doing. And don't get me started with the treckies. Or is it treckers. I have a prediction: someone will tell me the difference between the two sub-species of humans. Really. And other than wanting to be mated to Worf (Michael Dorn), what was so special about Star Trek?

There are so many sub-cultures. I mean, Lisa (Bored Housewife) seems to go to movies a lot. And I am not talking about just in the theater. Cannes Film Festival. Or was it Sundance? I think it was Sundance. Point is, people who go to these things are part of a sub-culture. She mentioned "Failure to Launch" in her latest blog entry. I have never heard of it. My initial thought, "Is it some vehicle for Viagra product placement?"

Have you seen ZoomInfo, one of the latest in sites that steals from the Internet. Oh, I am sorry, they harvest information that is already out there. This kind of stuff scares the pee out of me. I was going to use the "S word" but that seems so much more vulgar. It just clips stuff and points to it, saying, look, here is information about "so and so." I would recommend looking for yourself on here. I think I have a twin who is a prostitute in Zürich. Who knew there were even prostitutes there!

And then there is Google Blog Search. I don't know what this thing is, but they take blog entries and repost them as if they wrote them. They steal all sorts of stuff. Here is an example of what I mean. I did a post several month ago, and it was stolen, word for word. A really crappy post, but it was mine, and some robot or spider or whatever took it and posted it somewhere else. Talk about an annoying sub-culture.

I guess I should really be part of a subculture that drinks red wine at 4 in the afternoon, takes long baths and doesn't give a crap about anything that can't be squeezed from a grape. Attitude – that's what I need.

The "No Post" Post

I am an idiot.

Here I am, middle of the day, and I thought I posted today. Guess what? I didn't. Blogger did not eat my post (big surprise); I simply did not post today. Not at all, and I thought I posted. I come back to read my comments, and, well, no new post. Crap.

And I have nothing to talk about.

Yesterday, I was reading ~Deb's blog, and I made the following comment:

Mike: Damn....you sure attract the wack jobs with their little hidden agendas. The Bible was written by men, not God. Although they may have been inspired by God I wish he/she had written it them self.

Leesa: You stated that "The Bible was written by men, not God." Actually, I think the Bible may have been written by highly intelligent ferrets.

I had to include Mike's comment because, well, I responded to Mike, not ~Deb. I responded to ~Deb earlier, trying to get her to leave M for me – but that is not going to happen. Sure, she would make out with me in the Tupperware® isle of Wal-Mart (actually I think they have Tupperware® substitutes), but she is not leaving M. The religious right would have you think that lesbians can't commit; darned religious right because they are wrong about this one.

Anyway, why was I recycling a comment I made yesterday when I have nothing to write about today? Er, to waste space? Can't be. I would not write a line just to waste a line of space. I am not getting paid by the word. Ever wonder why Moby Dick was so darned thick - Herman Melville was paid by the word! Really. Trust me – don't Google it!

Here is what I don't understand. The Cincinnati Bengals have set up a jerk hotline. From the article: "Cincinnati Bengals fans annoyed by bad behavior in the stands can now report it by cell phone. The hot line number should be easy to remember - (513) 381-JERK.

Fans using too much foul language will get a warning from stadium security. Those who continue could be ejected and have their season tickets and personal seat licenses taken away. More serious offenses could lead to arrest."

And I am not giving you the first two paragraphs of the article to waste space – it is just too important of a topic.

Here is what I don't understand – okay, the Cincinnati Bengals are getting tough on jerks (which I support), but isn't it the Cincinnati Bengals that have players going to jail on a weekly basis. I am not going to Google the Bengals, but I don't know why they don't have a number to call if you find Bengals players breaking the law.

Yeah, more than a page! Yeah! I wish I got paid by the word. I would never have to work another day in my life.

Edit: VX is right. The Bengals don't have one player per week arrested. Here is the list:

Eric Steinbach
G
Boating under the influence

Chris Henry
WR
unlawful transaction with a minor (three counts, will stand trial in September), speeding, operating a vehicle under the influence, felony possession of a concealed firearm, possession of marijuana

Frostee Rucker
DE
Spousal battery

A.J. Nicholson
LB
Burglary, grand theft

Matthias Askew
DT
Resisting arrest

Odell Thurman
LB
League substance abuse policy violation

Evolution and Dating

Before I begin this, I want to acknowledge that none of this is based on "fact." So my apologies to Darwin. And for those of you who want to disprove evolution, please don't point to this blog entry. Now crawl back under your 4,000 year old rock and go back to sleep. I am not talking about lesbians tonguing in the Wal-Mart parking lot.

I have been reading about Grant's dating woes. I mean, he is wondering whether he should club this cute girl, take her back to his cave, and play naked Parcheesi. Okay, I am paraphrasing here, but you get the idea. Anyway, Grant sees through our "helpful hints" and intends on using his own council to woo said girl.

The conversation sort of goes like this:

Grant: I think the girl hates me. She is cute and funny but she avoids me at all costs.

Typical Response of Female Reader: You should so ask her out.

Well, Grant tends to think we are just setting him up for some catastrophe so that we will have something interesting to read about in his next blog entry, but let's face it, Grant makes working at BellSouth seem like fun. Why would we need the drama?

Women want to encourage men to ask out other women, partly because most women (myself included) would never dream of asking out a guy. So I think there is something that wants us to have men ask out women. Perhaps it is all of those Friday nights where we were not asked out, so we stayed home, or went over to a friend's house, talking about how dreamy Jimmy Dawson is. My life in high school.

You know, I would like to explain something to you. Please don't Google this, because you won't find it anywhere. Listen closely.

A long time ago, there were two types of "humanoids." One was the primitive Homo Sapiens. And the other is the Neandertals (Homo Neandertals . There have been many theories about these two closely related species – some saying that they intermarried (Neandertals are now hockey players), some say the Homo Sapiens beat the snot out of the Neandertals.

Here is what really happened. Neandertals were sort of like people of today, but their social structure had women asking men out. Yes, you heard it first here. I know that social structure is not imbedded in sandstone, but that's what happened. The women asked the men out – and, well, women are much more pickier than men. A man has bad breath, not asking the man out. A man earns one pig per month, not enough for most woman. Heck, I would want my Neandertals date to earn at least two pigs per month. A Neandertal girl has got to eat. So over time, with these picky Neandertal girls, there was not enough copulation to further the species.

Homo Sapien Men, however, will ask out lots of girls, playing the odds. They don't fear rejection, or if they fear rejection, at least the payoff offsets the fear. So why the Neandertals were dying out, the precursors of the modern man were "getting busy" because men asked out women.

I am glad I don't have to do the asking. I mean, it seems easier because you get to do the picking, but I am wondering about the rejection. It must hurt. And most women don't have to deal with that rejection. Not until he does not call.

Damn Homo Sapiens.

Spam E-mail Message from Claire

I received the below-listed e-mail message today. I knew it had to be a fake, so I checked Snopes, and I was surprised to find out it was real. Click on the Snopes link to read the whole story. Sort of interesting.

From: Chait, Bradley Sent: 07 December 2000 16:06 To: 'Claire Swire' cute "A guy walks into a sperm donor bank wearing a ski mask and holding a gun. He goes up to the nurse and demands her to open the sperm bank vault. She says "But sir, its just a sperm bank!", "I don't care, open it now!!!" he replies. So she opens the door to the vault and inside are all the sperm samples. The guy says "Take one of those sperm samples and drink it!", she looks at him "BUT, they are sperm samples???" , "DO IT!". So the nurse sucks it back. "That one there, drink that one as well.", so the nurse drinks that one as well. Finally after 4 samples the man takes off his ski mask and says, "See honey - its not that hard." -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- From: Claire Swire Sent: 07 December 2000 16:07 To: Chait, Bradley lucky I swallow so that wont be happening to me! -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- From: Chait, Bradley Sent: 07 December 2000 16:10 To: 'Claire Swire' Not ALL the time I hope (or so you would have me believe) -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- From: Claire Swire Sent: 07 December 2000 16:12 To: Chait, Bradley I hadn't swallowed for years but yours was yum and very good for me too! Apparently it's very good conditioner for your hair too . . . getting a funny picture in my head, giggling out loud and now having to explain to Dave what's so funny! -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- From: Chait, Bradley Sent: 07 December 2000 16:25 To: Tarbuck, Andrew; Caffarate, Nick; Townsend, Nathan; McDougall, Jamie; Davies, Stuart; Drummond, Edward now THAT'S a nice compliment from a lass, isn't it? -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- From: Drummond, Edward Sent: 07 December 2000 16:28 To: Driver, Robert; Hames, Joel; Walker, Steven; Murray, Grant; Knight, Peter; Ferri, David; Newby, Chris; Moss, Jason Cc: Banner, Heather; Boxer, Sonya; Williamson, Emma; Falkner, Claire beggars belief. I feel honour bound to circulate this.

Potty Talk

Last weekend, hubbie and I were traveling in a nearby city, visiting a zoo. Not sure why we would want to visit a zoo in the middle of the summer heat when the kids were out of school. Well, maybe because zoos are built for children, and we want to be reminded how to act while at a zoo . . . . Incidentally, I did not pick up popcorn off of the ground and eat it, even though a 4-year-old reminded me that I perhaps should do it.

Anyway, the zoo is not the point of the post – the bathroom is. We went into the bathroom, and when I came out, hubbie was shaking his head. One more random thought – hubbie and I will enter bathrooms side-by-side and he always finishes first. Always. I consider myself a pretty fast pee-er (if that is a word), but he always finishes first. I have a suspicion that most men just enter the bathroom, whip out their thingies and pee randomly on the floor. That would explain sneaker squeaking so near men's rooms.

So hubbie is shaking his head, and I wonder why. And he tells me that when he was using the restroom, one guy violated an unwritten rule: he talked to my hubbie while both were using urinals. I always thought this was a rule because guys can't concentrate on two things at once – I actually still believe this is true and tell hubbie. He never thought about the why, but guessed it had to do with touching one's genitalia while carrying on a conversation. Okay, that makes more sense.

This week, I was using the restroom at work – inside my own stall, and all of a sudden, a woman starts talking to me. I hover over my seat instead of sitting on it, so I normally am concentrating on not touching the seat to my tush – and someone I don't know says something to me. The conversation is not important – but I remember the zoo conversation, and I am thinking to myself, "I want this kind of rule for Ladies Rooms as well."

Not that it would be bad to talk to someone you know when you enter the restroom together – you know, you are talking, you enter stalls next to each other and continue the conversation. I have done this and it does not feel weird. But a complete stranger – weird, unless it involves the quest for toilet paper. Who the heck doesn't, when examining the stall, does not look for available toilet paper? I mean, for me, I look for cleanliness first, toilet paper second (you can always borrow from the next stall if needed), signs of poop third (who doesn't flush a toilet?). Okay, TMI.

Back to my unwritten rule for Ladies Rooms: I don't want strange women (women who are strangers, not just strange women) talking to me in a stall – but I am also a bit uncomfortable about anyone starting a conversation with me in a stall if I did not see them go into their stall. More than once, a friend has said something after I entered my stall. Must have recognized me by my shoes.

At the mirror, I will talk to anyone. No big deal. But when I am on the potty – or really hovering over it – please don't talk to me. It's not that I can't multitask; I just don't want to. Perhaps I will associate peeing with talking, and you know, I make enough trips to the potty without having a conversation remind me that my bladder is small and full.

Age is just a . . .

You know, I am going to talk about a phrase that bugs me, and I am a little hesitant, because (1) this seems like such an insignificant thing to blog about, and (2) I have read a couple of comments on my blog with the same phrase. I really can't remember who said it, but it was someone I like.

Anyway, I have heard a lot of people say, "Age is just a number."

Imagine if you will, some 18-year-old dancing at a club, Rum-and-Coke in her hand, having a good time. Policeman comes up to her and asks for her ID. When he notices that she is not old enough to legally drink in the club, she flippantly remarks, "Age is just a number."

Or how about learning that your brother, age 33, is nailing one of his eighth grade students. When he confers with his lawyer – the lawyer he had to get because he is charged with statutory rape, he says, "Age is just a number."

Or how about the cute 6-year-old girl who wants to go to the Madonna concert – in a different city, late at night. When you say that she cannot go because she is too young, she says, "Age is just a number."

This is one of those phrases that sounds good but I can see several examples where age falls short. Okay, admittedly, the shortcomings occur in extreme examples, and people are too young, not too old. This is the light, easy to destroy, part of the argument. Now for my real thoughts.

We are only on this earth for such a short time. And from what I know, we are all going to die. Age tends to be positively correlated to death – the older you become, the more likely you are to die. Age seems to matter.

We should be cherishing each day of our lives, but the older we get, the faster life seems to become. We are careening into old age.

I remember the lazy summers when I was in middle and high school. The summer seemed to last forever. Well, the last week of summer flew by, but other than that, things crawled. You know, you got up late, had a nice breakfast, showered and whatever, laid out at the pool from late morning to late afternoon (perhaps having lunch near the pool), went home and showered, looking to see how your tan is coming in the shower, got ready for your parents to come home, talked on the phone, whatever. And it lasted forever.

Age should be a reminder. Not necessarily that we need to update our wills (not a bad idea, especially if you have children) – but age should be a reminder that the clock is ticking. We need to be doing what is important to us – whether that be ensuring that we have good relationships with our family, or that we want to work our minds and our bodies, that we want to spiritually grow. Personal values. Perhaps just discerning what is important in your heart is enough right now. The world is so loud and confusing – sometimes it drowns out the voices we have in our heads.

Age is a number, yes, but it is not only a number.

I started saying, "My checking account balance is just a number." You know, that doesn't sound as profound, and, well, if you take the saying to heart, you tend to bounce a lot of checks.

I have a young heart, young eyes. But I can't deceive myself. I will die, whether I think about it or not, and I have a lot I need to do while on this Earth. I need to be a good steward of my time.

Plagiarism Part II

I wanted to comment about this earlier in the month, but, well, I got busy.

First, I had no idea who Ann Coulter was. Hubbie did though. When I asked him if he knew her, he said, "Yeah, she is the blond conservative who wears leather miniskirts."

He says this like there is only one blond conservative who wears leather miniskirts. By the way, I asked if he thought she was hot, and he said he did not find her hot, but others do. I sort of believe him because when his eyes wander, they usually wander over to some brunette's breasts. Yes, my man is a breast man.

So last month, maybe the month before, I wrote about Kaavya Viswanathan. She was this college girl who was advanced $500K, and her first book lifted lots of phrases from a few books. Now Ann Coulter has been accused of doing the same. One of the many articles can be found below (oh, and I did not plagiarize the passage – that's what citing the source is about, Ms. Coulter).

So I am thinking to myself, "why should I work on an original work? Why not lift something from another book."

I mean, I could start my book with the following: "Marley was dead, to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that." But I am not sure I could have Marley's ghost doing the nasty with Leesa. It just would not make sense.

But using Dickens seems wrong. I mean, the sentence is short, the passage is recognizable. If I wanted to steal the longest first sentence I could find, perhaps I could use this one, the opening line from Bellefleur, by Joyce Carol Oates:

It was many years ago in that dark, chaotic, unfathomable pool of time before Germaine's birth (nearly twelve months before her birth), on a night in late September stirred by innumerable frenzied winds, like spirits contending with one another - mow plaintively, now angrily, now with a subtle cellolike delicacy capable of making the flesh rise on one's arms and neck - a night so sulfurous, so restless, so swollen with inarticulate longing that Leah and Gideon Bellefleur in their enormous bed quarreled once again, brought to tears because their love was too ravenous to be contained by their mere mortal bodies; and their groping, careless, anguished words were like strips or raw silk rubbed violently together (for each was convince the other did not, could not, be equal to his love - Leah doubted that any man was capable of a love so profound it could be silent, like a forest pond; Gideon doubted that any woman was capable of comprehending the nature of a man's passion, which might tear through him, rendering him broken and exhausted, as vulnerable as a smalll child): it was on this tumultuous rain-lashed night that Mahalaleel came to Bellefleur Manor on the western shore of the great Lake Noir, where he was to stay for nearly five years.

For those of you who only paused at the ending period, you can breathe now. Wow, what an opening sentence.

On a day when I don't know what to say, I guess I could steal something from Benjamin Franklin. I mean, he had to find all sorts of catchy lines for "Poor Richard's Almanac." I mean, you can see me bust out, " Then plow deep while sluggards sleep, And you shall have corn to sell and to keep." I can getting in to getting plowed deep!

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Expert calls passages in Coulter's 'Godless' book 'textbook plagiarism'

RAW STORY
Published: Wednesday July 5, 2006
Keith Olbermann's MSNBC show featured an interview with the CEO of a plagiarism recognition system which was used to look through conservative pundit Ann Coulter's latest book Godless and a year's worth of her columns, RAW STORY has found.

John Barrie, the creator of iThenticate, called attention to three examples of what he calls "textbook plagiarism" in Coulter's book, as reported on Sunday by the NY Post.

Barrie told Olbermann that he stopped looking after he found more than enough examples of "lifted" passages, and that many of her footnotes appeared to be in error, as well.

The Rude Pundit first blogged about the apparent plagiarism in a June 2005 column by Coulter a year ago, and Raw Story followed up on the blogger's work, revealing that the column was little more that a cut-and-paste repetition of points authored by conservative religious groups in the early 1990s. Barrie briefly mentions the 2005 column in the MSNBC interview as another example found by iThenticate.

One of the three "textbook plagiarism" examples in Godless cited by Barrie was also noted first by The Rude Pundit last month days after the book's release. RAW STORY then reported that Coulter "cribbed" a list of adult stem cell treatments from a Right To Life website for the seventh chapter of her book nearly word-for-word.

According to TPM Muckraker, Universal Press Syndicate, the company that syndicates Coulter's columns, will be reviewing Barrie's examples of "textbook plagiarism." Earlier in the day, Kathie Kerr, the media relations chief for the company, first told TPM's Justin Rood that Coulter "is the one that needs to address this."

Editor & Publisher notes that Coulter's latest column does "address" the NY Post. Coulter attacks the tabloid by calling it the city's "second-crappiest paper," but never refers to the plagiarism allegations that the paper broke first in print.

Wonkette is skeptical about any Universal Press Syndicate "probe."

"But now, tired of the phone calls, the hand-wringing, the tears and pouting, Ms. Kerr has done a totally convincing about-face, and vaguely promised a maybe-tomorrow-maybe-someday investigation which no doubt will totally condemn the woman who makes them wheelbarrows full of money which, placed end-to-end, could totally reach Uranus," writes Wonkette. "Oh, the wheels of fake justice are swift. I’m giddy, aren’t you?"

Illogical Arguments

Prata gave me an idea for a blog entry. That's been my problem lately: lack of good ideas. Yesterday, Prata mentioned a study done that shows that cell phones impair driving. Anyway, the first article I could find is from the University of Utah. Now, when I think of University of Utah, I think of Mormons that couldn't get into BYU (or could not afford it). That's probably not an accurate depiction – but let's face it, I am some chick for Georgia. I have not been past the Mississippi River. Or admit to the traveling that far. Now I understand that there are wonderful and interesting places that far west, but I don't know specifically of any. Just mark this up to dumb chick and move on. Nothing to see here.

Anyway, the cell phone article I found was not the one I was looking for. The one I was looking for said something about talking on cell phones impairs one's driving – decision-making skills and reaction skills, akin to having either a 0.08 or 0.10 blood-alcohol level. Again, I could not find the article, but I normally don't do much research when writing. It sort of interferes with my writing. So I am thinking – most people don't want to outlaw talking on cell phones while in the car. Not sure if it is because of the "big brother" syndrome, a pro-libertarian stance or because talking on a cell phone is just so darned efficient.

Here is a thought. Why don't we just raise the blood-alcohol level for DUIs. I mean, if driving on a cell phone impairs driving and we are okay with this, why not just let people drink and drive. Sounds a bit irresponsible does it? I know, if you drink and drive, you need to put something on top of your car to highlight your impairment. I mean, cell phone users, by in large, can be distinguished by cradling the phone to their ears or speaking into their dashboard so we can easily avoid them in tricky situations. There must be a way to distinguish alcoholics.

On a completely different subject: the other day I heard an argument about global warming. Some conservative was talking about how the "environmentalist nut-jobs" think global warming is occurring because it has been warmer in certain areas for 10 years. Soon-thereafter a caller called to agree with him, stating that when he moved to Pennsylvania, four years ago, they had the worst snowfall they have had in some time. So this accumulation of snow proves global warming does not exist and the talk show host agreed with the person.

My initial reaction was to think – you ridicule someone for using only ten years, and you bolster your argument with one season. But then I thought: snowfall is precipitation. It has little to do with extreme cold temperatures. Sure, in Georgia, we don't get too cold, but in Pennsylvania, if it gets colder, you don't judge it by the amount of snow on the ground. At colder temperatures, I have been told, it gets "too cold to snow." Well, I don't know if this is true or not, but snowfall needs two things – a temperature of around 32 degrees Fahrenheit and precipitation. That seems a really poor predictor of global warming.

Now I don't want to argue about global warming or talking on cell phones. It just seems to me that some of the arguments for talking about them make little sense.

For cell phones, they have said "well, people eating are distracted too." That is sort of like saying that since smoking and a high fat diet will both kill you, we should tax McDonald's French fries because they have so much fat. Other than increasing the price on such a taste morsel (which I avoid), the argument seems to be muddled. Who knows, years from now, perhaps we will have a fat tax. So donuts and lard beware.

My brain hurts now. Guess I should stop thinking for a while.