Blogger on Vacation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dancing at Club One

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

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

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

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

The phone rings.

And rings.

And rings.

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

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

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

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

"Can you get the fuck over here?"

"Sure. Where is here, hun?"

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

"Be there in an hour."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jamie grins, "Surprise."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1000 Words and a Little Fluid

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So anyway, I went to the party as Elizabeth.

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

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

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

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

A Kiss Between Friends

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of Amateur Singers and iPods

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This blog is currently moving

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Forced Promotion

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

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

Anyway, here is the conversation, more or less:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Passionless in Search of Distractions

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Emerald Green Dresses and Listening Ears

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

Blogger Farewells

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

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

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

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

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

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

Penance

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

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

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

VLOGs, Christians and Penis Size

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

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

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

3. Which lead me to see another video response.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's A Wonderful Movie

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Counting Ones Blessings

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Christmas Newsletters

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

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

But here is what the letters don't do:

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


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


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


• They highlight and inflate some accomplishments.

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

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

---

2006 Jones Christmas Letter

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here is wishing you the very best this Christmas Season.

Hugs and Kisses,
Leesa and Mike Jones

Why Haven't You Called

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

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

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

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

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

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

Instinct vs. Feelings

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

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

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


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

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

Okay, this post is officially lame.

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

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

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

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

Ranting on Phrases

There are certain phrases I just don't believe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mud Flaps and Trailer Hitches

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

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

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

Sometimes I do not understand people.

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

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

Warm Soda

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

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

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

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

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

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

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