Friday, August 31, 2007

Three's Company

Three's Company stock image.I remember when Three's Company first was on the air. I was not allowed to watch the show. Some of my friends could watch the show, however.

After a while, I became old enough to watch Three's Company, because my parents thought this was an adult show, and although I was no adult, I was the oldest child.

Jack Tripper: Larry, haven't you ever thought of telling a girl the truth?
Larry: Well, I figure, anyone who puts on eyeliner, fake eyelashes, and plastic nails isn't someone who wants to hear the truth.

The show was full of humor that I only sort of got. I was a tad bit sheltered – I was not allowed to watch Soap even, because of the content.

I was partial to Janet Wood, mostly because she was the smart one and had brunette hair. I was in a hotel room with my husband a few months ago, and I recall that he paused to see this image:

Three's Company opening credits - Crissy
So I would guess that he would rather me be the dumb blond with the big boobs. Actually, it was a bit surprising.

Jack Tripper: Is something burning?
Janet Wood: Oh NO! I left my underwear in the oven.
Chrissy: Too bad hot pants are not in style.

Now, I don't know if Three's Company was a good show or not, but it appealed because it was humorous, and it had a situation where guys wanted to find themselves: sandwiched between a blond and a brunette. And a few years later, when I was in college, it would have been nice to live with a guy who was not threatening sexually, could protect me (sort of), could cook, had a good sense of humor, and who flattered me endlessly. As a girl, however, I liked Jack because he was funny and goofy and sort of handsome.

Stanley Roper: What's the cake for?
Helen Roper: We're celebrating.
Stanley Roper: Celebrating what?
Helen Roper: The tenth anniversary of my spring outfit.

I did not really like Stanley. He sort of reminded me of a dirty old man, though I liked how he stared at the camera after making a joke. Seemed amateurish. And even though Stanley and Helen traded barbs, they seemed like they loved each other. I guess they reminded me of my parents, except for the creepy dirty old man part.

Such a show would not do well today (and I am not talking about the re-runs). I am talking about a new show competing with the OC, American Idol and 24. I don't watch any of those shows, actually, but Three's Company was uncomplicated. And I get the impression that the late 70s/early 80s were a less complicated time.

Well, for me, I was just going to school, playing and watching Three's Company. Simple times.

Thursday, August 30, 2007

Rounding the Bases

When I was a teenager, we talked in code about sex. Remember asking, what base you and your date were on? And you thought only boys talked about the bases. This code, though, was sort of lost on me. I knew that first base is kissing, with or without tongue. And I knew home run is coitus (that sounds so much more scientific than vaginal sex). But second and third base, I had not a clue.

And the funny thing is that I told girlfriends that "Joey got to second base with me last night." But I had no idea what second base meant. Really, I am not sure I know what it means, either. To this day. I ended up deciding that second base means that the guy touched my breasts.

Well, early on, first base was holding hands and second base was kissing. I guess age and experience changes the bases, somewhat. Now-a-days, first base may be anal sex, for all I know. I have read that anal sex is not sex, after all, and that form of sex did not make my list on the bases.

Okay, if second base is touching my breasts, third base is probably oral sex. You know, it seems to be right, because, as is with baseball, there are more home runs and doubles than triples. I did not have oral sex done on me until I had a regular boyfriend. Weird, I know, but true.

I guess we used bases so we could talk in code. It makes sex talk less embarrassing. Point should have been that if you had to talk in code about sex, perhaps you should not be talking about sex.

So all of these years, when I was saying second base, I meant some boob sex. Maybe others thought it was oral sex, anal sex or French-kissing. Talking in code can lead to mis-communication. Perhaps I should sit out a few innings.

Wednesday, August 29, 2007

The Importance of Size

I first knew "size mattered" in high school. I would overhear boys talking, nay, bragging, about their sizes. And at the time, I thought that size mattered. I had not yet had sex or seen a real penis yet, and well, I was a bit scared of a larger size.

In college, my girlfriends and I would talk about boyfriends and dates, and we would talk about size. A lot. Late at night, over pizza, we would talk, nay, giggle over size.

But, you know, if I would have plotted penis size by arousal level, I am not sure that the two dimensions would be positively correlated (I picked that up from Numb3rs). And my friends noticed, as I did. We thought, perhaps, that smaller size meant the boy would "try harder." Not sure that was the case.

I never did think much about the size of my sexual organs. Women have different sizes, too, and I guess, because I was interested in men, I sort of glossed over that obvious fact.

That is, until I met Emma. Emma was a friend of mine I met years and years ago, through church. We got to be fast friends, and we talked about a lot of things. We did not, however, talk about sex. Not really. Until she was getting a divorce.

Turns out, she has a medical condition. She did not even know it was a medical condition, actually. She just thought that's how she is. She was a very private person, but because of the looming divorce, she had to talk to someone.

I don't want to get too graphic here, but her sex organ was not fully developed. In a sense, she was a grown woman in a girl's body. I can't even imagine that. It actually blows my mind that neither Emma nor her husband knew there was a problem "down there." They were married for years, and they did not have sex because of her problem. Why doesn't someone go to the doctor for this? And had this woman never had a pap smear?

So sometimes size does matter, I guess. I never felt that I got the whole story, though, from Emma. It just seems too bizarre.

Tuesday, August 28, 2007


When I was little, pollution was not, or it did not seem like, a complicated problem. Pollution, as I or Chief Iron Eyes Cody1 saw it, as people throwing trash out of a car. The tag line was something like, "People start pollution. People can stop it." Either that, or keep your gosh darned trash in the car, people. I cannot remember which.

Pollution seemed so much more simple. Even though we were in the Industrial Revolution with smokestacks sending all sorts of things into the air and environment, we were worried about the trash thrown out of cars.

Then it turns out, people started suing companies when their kids got cancer at a higher rate, or their lawn started glowing at night, or for whatever reason. Superfunds were created to pay for the cleanup, and I sort of am guessing here, but I am guessing that taxpayers funded most of this cleanup. The companies were doing us a favor, you know, creating jobs and making transistors. Or whatever they were making.

Some lake up north even started burning. Can you imagine having a lake burn because of the trash and whatever in the lake? A tad more unnerving than a Mars bar candy wrapper thrown by the side of the road.

Now we have things like light pollution and noise pollution. I learned about light pollution in school – an astronomy lesson. Heard a few years ago that LA suffered from a blackout, and 911 was flooded with calls from people who saw these strange lights in the sky. Strange that some Los Angeles natives did not ever expect to see stars in their sky – all on account of light pollution.

I attribute noise pollution to politicians – not because they are not addressing the problem, but because they are the problem. Okay, that was a little harsh. Noise pollution can be a bit subjective. I consider noise pollution when I am stopped at a red light and have someone's booming bass rattle my fillings. Perhaps jackhammers and such, when someone is making improvements to their house by taking out the concrete that they no longer need is a better example. Few enjoy listening to jackhammers at eight in the morning.

So now, what kind of tagline should we have to stop pollution?

Pollution. Ignoring it has not solved the problem. Yet …

Oh, looks like I passed 200,000 page views. Pollution of the mind? Perhaps. In any case, thanks, dear readers for reading my stuff. I imagine 190,000 of those page views involved looking for porn. Did I say that out loud?

1The Native American who shed a tear in the 1970s ad campaign (that seemed to last until the 80s).

Monday, August 27, 2007

Jack-of-All-Trades, Master-of-None

The other day, I was eating lunch and surfing the Internet – you know, the restaurant had a "hot spot". As I was googling something, I started wondering about the technology that allowed me to surf wireless. I really don't know how the technology works. I sort of knew about networks with wire – how packets travel through wires and do things. I don't know exactly what they do, but it sort of makes sense. With wireless, I have not a clue.

Wireless phones I sort of get – that the signal travels to towers and then to satellites. It seems simpler.

I don't understand astronomy – how gravity works, how the Universe keeps expanding, how astronomers use radio waves to see the stars. It does not make sense to me.

Well, the point is not that there is a whole lot I don't know. The point is that we cannot be masters of everything. When I was a little girl, I wanted to know how to speak all languages so I could understand everyone all of the time. Then there was the time I wanted to be able to identify all species of bird and mammal. Not sure why I neglected all of the other species, but I did. And it would have been better to identify all insect species – since there are hundreds of thousands more species of them – and I could be some sort of freak, being able to rattle off several species in minutes.

Then there was the time I wanted to be able to recite all of the Shakespearian sonnets, mostly to piss off a teacher who gave me a "C" for not being able to memorize fourteen lines.

I guess what I am trying to say is that we cannot all be experts of all things. Most of us have very limited areas of expertise, and we have to rely on others with the rest. Therefore, it is more important to be able to filter out the bad experts and know when you are listening to the more informed experts. And having that skill far surpasses knowing N|u, Haiphong or Tanzanian.

Friday, August 24, 2007

Off To Bed

I get home a little later than normal on a Friday night. I check the mail, count the bills and enter the house. I eat a small meal, draw a bath, and get my spare key from my drawer.

Then I open my front door, place the key under the door quickly, and return to my bath. I take a slow, casual bath, insuring that I wash my entire body completely. I want to smell good tonight.

After getting out of the bath, I look at the time. 8:00 pm – the sun is still in the sky, and I go to the medicine cabinet and take a sleeping pill. I was prescribed these when I was much more anxious, and they work well for me. After swallowing, however, I wonder if I should have taken half a pill.

I put on a terrycloth bathrobe, and start going through my mail.

The grandfather clock chimed once.

"Crap, it is already 8:30," I say to myself. "I have to get moving."

I go to my room and retrieve a boot box from under my bed. I have lots of shoe boxes under the bed – mostly for occasional shoes.

I take off my robe and hang it in the closet. I am completely nude, and I am starting to get sleepy.

I have four custom-tied ropes in the box, which I have used in the past to bind me to the bed. I also have a cotton scarf, a gag ball, several dildos, a rabbit, twelve condoms and a tape recorder. I place the gag ball, dildos, condoms and rabbit back in the box and neatly place it on the floor next to my bed. I place the tape recorder on the nightstand, right next to my phone, and I put all four ropes on the bed.

These ropes are special, as I have sewn some cotton to somewhat pad my skin. I take the two foot ropes and secure them to the bed and to my ankles. I can do this without any help.

I then take my phone, and press the green button so I am ready to dial. I take a deep breath.

I take another breath, and then hit the play button on the tape recorder.

I count to five, hit the auto-dial button, close my eyes and hit one random number. The auto-dial dials one of three men I know, but I have no idea which man.

I set the receiver next to the tape recorder, plug my ears with my fingers and lay back.

I don't hear the message clearly, but I recorded it in the morning. This is what the message says:

Hey, sweetie, this is Leesa. This is a recorded message, but please listen closely. This part of the message actually repeats itself once, just in case I started the tape recorder prematurely. I have placed my house key under my mat, and I want you to come over and have your way with me. I know in the past I have had you follow several rules about what I would and would not do. As long as you don't hurt me, you can do anything you would like with me tonight. I may be asleep when you get here – just wake me up any way you want to. Oh, I will be the nude women tied up to my bed. Did I mention I want you to have your way with me? Don't bother calling. Leesa.

I kept my fingers in my ears through the message. I did not want to know who got the call. When I could not hear the tape recorder anymore, I quickly pressed the red button on the phone.

I tied the hand ropes to the other posts on the bed and slipped them around my wrists. If I wanted to, I could get out of these ropes. But I did not want to.

The sleeping pills were doing their magic, as I drifted off to sleep.

Thursday, August 23, 2007

Science Experiment in the Tub

During the past week, I have been house-sitting for a friend. The house is probably twice as large as mine, and it has lots of upgrades. Crown molding, granite countertops, two fireplaces. A nice place.

Well, I took a bath in their master bathroom the other day. We are talking about a large tub, with lots of jets. And did I mention that I love baths.

I had a book – I normally have a book when in the tub. So here I am, reading a book, and I turn on the jets. Oh, having jets on was pure heaven. So I am sitting there, jets massaging me, and I have a flashback to when I was in a public pool. We used to stand by the jets in the pool, strong water massaging us when we were kids. It felt good when we were kids, and then I thought of the urban legend that girls and women used those jets to masturbate in broad daylight. Completely insane.

So I decided to do a little experiment. I positioned myself so the jets were moving water across a very sensitive part of my body, massaging me in a place where, if a finger were massaging me, I would eventually have an orgasm. Okay, many orgasms.

The book I was reading was not sexy at all, and I thought I should keep reading the book as a control feature. I did not want my imagination helping me reach orgasm. Furthermore, I did not touch myself at all, another control mechanism.

I will have to disclose that I have not masturbated in a very long time – in some of my previous posts, I talked about why. Don't want to re-hash here.

Anyway, in short order, I was excited – very stimulated. After about ten minutes, I was actually expecting an orgasm, but it did not come. I shifted positions, choosing another nozzle, and again, became excited again in short order. After another ten or fifteen minutes – I did not have a stop watch or other time measuring devise (next time I will be more scientific, not that there will be a next time) – I thought I would reach orgasm but didn't.

This rollercoaster ride lasted an hour. By that time, I had read much of the book and still had not achieved an orgasm. Had I been thinking sexy thoughts, perhaps it would have helped. I don't know.

My point was not to orgasm – but after the exciting and frustrating hour, I sort of wanted to cum. Okay, I really wanted to cum. I have not really proved anything – other than water passing over certain body parts to elicit a pleasant response, and in the conditions I tested, achieving an orgasm for me without any other stimulation may not be possible.

A different way of using the scientific method – not bad for something I learned in high school biology.

Wednesday, August 22, 2007

What, I have to write 400 words today?

Golf Sign: Balls RemovedI love language; I really do. Of course, this may have something to do with me wanting to write.

I sometimes feel, however, that most people are sloppy with their words.

When I was in high school, I loved talking on the phone. I can remember laying on the kitchen floor, receiver glued to my right ear, me yakking away to a girlfriend or a boy about whatever entered my head. I have sometimes wondered if the NSA kept transcripts of our conversations – because if they did, I would like to see them for a laugh. I used expressions like, "it's the bomb" and "radical". I am sure me and my friends were monitored for that type of language.

I have a friend who once said to me on the phone – fairly recently – that he was making a bomb and thought someone should assassinate the president. Then he went on about taxes. I actually was surprised that he is still roaming the street. Well, not completely surprised. He may be dangerous – I get a spooky vibe sometimes – but I knew him before his brains got scattered. I blame his change in personality on weed killer.

The other day, walking in the parking lot for Church, some woman was talking about her umbrella. She said, "My husband has one like yours, and he can't get it up either. I think you have to pull on it a bit." I thought this seventy-year-old woman was talking about erectile dysfunction. So I prayed about it at Church, wondering if God was thinking the same thing. By the way, I believe God has the best sense of humor.

I sometimes get careless with language myself. I sometimes write, "I think this" or "I think that." Obviously, if I am writing something, I probably believe in what I am writing. It would be out of character to write something like, "Little Orange Martians have infiltrated the fashion industry." I mean, tacking on the phrase, "I think …" to the beginning of the phrase just states the obvious. That I believe that.

Come to think of it, saying "states the obvious" or starting a sentence with "obviously" is unnecessary if the statement is obvious.

Wrong way to say the sentence: "Obviously, you think my eyes are situated where my boobies are."

Right way to embarrass the gawker: "You think my eyes are situated where my boobies are."

Me, I obviously don't have anything to write about today.

Tuesday, August 21, 2007

Cursing Change

I was watching a video by minouye this morning. Okay, I will admit it, I have really cut back on my YouTube watching, probably because I have cut back on my complete online activities.

Anyway, he was talking about an online community that really makes change around them. Watch the video for his incite (I don't want to repeat what he so eloquently said), but it got me to thinking, "What do we get out of writing and reading blogs?"

I am very interested in this Web 2.0 thingie1. Where there is a network that shapes, in a way, what we see. Most radio, television and movies does not allow interaction. YouTube does. Blogging does. Okay, over time, perhaps some outlets do accept impact from outside of the production of its medium (the Real News, for instance).

You know, we can all write in our journals – my first journal was pink, and over time has turned to almost a tan color2. But when we write in journals, we don't interact with others, we don't change things.

This morning minouye got me thinking about changes I can make. We all change the world, really, by what we do, by what we consume, by how we treat the guy working at the local Quik-E-Mart. Perhaps we make greater changes by driving more courteously, by talking kindly to our families, by smiling at the grump in the office.

While I don't like minouye's cursing, I do like his message (and I like what his project will help; being near a military post, I get a glimpse at some of the long-lasting effects of war). It is not enough to talk about what should be done; things need to be done. I read somewhere that business schools spend most of there time talking about change – how to change organizations. Most of the time spent is on analyzing current conditions, the process of coming up with the change and communicating that to the masses. Very little is spend on implementation. And that's where the rubber meets the road.

Sure, if you are on YouTube, give minouye a good rating – perhaps he will get featured. But more importantly, much more importantly, change something you feel passionate about. Well, unless you want to gun down a school. Then seek help.

1Web 2.0 grew out of the "dot com" collapse, and the first Web 2.0 conference was full of brainstorming sessions. Some of the changes from the web to Web 2.0 can be seen below:

Web 1.0   Web 2.0
DoubleClick --> Google AdSense
Ofoto --> Flickr
Akamai --> BitTorrent --> Napster
Britannica Online --> Wikipedia
personal websites --> blogging
evite --> and EVDB
domain name speculation --> search engine optimization
page views --> cost per click
screen scraping --> web services
publishing --> participation
content management systems --> wikis
directories (taxonomy) --> tagging ("folksonomy")
stickiness --> syndication

2Makes you think about the color that has come off on my hands over the years. I hope this dye is not carcinogenic. You missed my footnotes, didn't you?

Monday, August 20, 2007

Hotels and Control

I do not travel very often for work – I sort of like it that way, actually. But every once in a while, I do need to travel (do get to travel?). And it is not very healthy for me.

When I am traveling alone, once the conference day is done, I go back to my hotel where the television sits. Those of you who have read me for a while know I don't watch a lot of television. I don't have the time, the energy or the interest.

When I go back to my room, however, I watch everything. I watch shows I would not normally watch – I watched two innings of a professional baseball game on purpose once. I watch the history channel, trying to remember all of the different rulers in ancient Egypt. I watch Barefoot Contessa – she sort of irritates me. But I watch her.

I even go to the pay channels to see what adult movies are available. I don't rent them, but I look at the titles. During the night, I come back to them to see how many are still available. It is amazing how many of these titles disappear, presumably because they are being "rented" out.

I watch MTV – and I am surprised that I can not catch any videos. I watch home improvement shows and wonder why I don't improve my home as often as they do. Oh, I guess it costs money.

I watch portions of movies – just portions because there is just so much garbage to sift through. And I only have 12 hours to do it.

By the morning, my shoulders are aching, I feel hung over and I am exhausted. It just reminds me why I don't have cable: I lack control.

Friday, August 17, 2007

It's Not That Simple

I replied to a comment on YouTube recently, and the response to my comment was, "It's not that simple." I have something like 500 characters – not words – to respond to the cost of healthcare and government influence, and his response was, "It's not that simple."

I can't describe how to turn on a computer in 500 characters – let alone completely describe healthcare in the US. Healthcare in Canada, no problem: "The government provides healthcare for all its citizens. Take a number, wait in line, we will be with you shortly." Oh, and they will not be with you shortly. Government officials, in Canada and in the US use "we will be with you shortly" as a filler. They don't mean it.

The world is an extremely complex place, and just saying, "It's not that simple" seems to be a weasel way out of an argument.

Can you imagine the following scene:

Teenage Boy: "Want to have sex?"

Teenage Girl: "It's not that simple."

Teenage Boy: "I have a condom."

Teenage Girl: "It's not that simple."

Teenage Boy: "I know how to use it; I have been practicing."

Teenage Girl: "It's not that simple."

Teenage Boy: "I love you."

Teenage Girl: "It's not that simple."

Teenage Boy: "I think I am going to call your friend Michelle. She puts out."

Okay, I don't condone teenage sex. Mostly because I am no longer a teenager. And deciding on making love with someone is an extremely important decision. Who am I kidding? I was just sort of going after a laugh.

The point is that just disarming a discussion with "It's not that simple" is in itself simplistic. For those of you who remember the '80s, it reminds me of "Talk to the hand." Another way of disarming a discussion. And heated discussions can lead to teenage sex. Or so I have heard.

Thursday, August 16, 2007

Customer Service: Airlines

I am constantly amazed at the low level of customer service in certain industries. Take, for instance, the airline industry.

On Time Take-Offs
Okay, the last time I was on an airplane, we pulled away from the gate and sat feet from the gate so that we could be counted as "leaving on time." The pilot and FAA may count this as leaving on time, but I am still on the ground, my bladder shrinking to the size of a pinto bean and my overactive imagination wondering how pure this recirculated air is. I swear I sit next to someone with a respiratory disease every time we have to wait on the tarmac. Oh, and I really don't know what a tarmac is, but it sounds aviation-y.

Airline Food
Airline food is the worse food I have ever had – and yes, it is the airline's fault. They could just toss me a piece of fresh fruit and a granola bar and I would be happy. Instead they pick a menu that is bland, that they sometimes have to prepare, and is - what am I looking for - less forgiving than what I really want. Plan simple meals that most of your passengers want.

Airline Fares
Airline industry: simplify your rates schedule. When I looked around the airplane on my last flight, I knew that of the 130 passengers on board, we had perhaps 80 different ticket costs. Okay, perhaps a few less, but it was a bunch of different ticket costs. If I had the time and IQ to figure out how to get the best deal, I would not care about this. But I am not that smart or industrious. If I traveled more, perhaps I would read Airline Fares for Dummies. But I don’t have the time. When I was younger and had no money, I liked the ideas of complicated rate schedules. They favor the people who have time and energy to figure out the codes – think long distance service when you were a college student.

Airline Hunks/Babes
I have been told that flight attendants were suppose to either be babes (think Coffee, Tea or Me) or hunks (Playgirl letters, circa 1982). Well, I think all of this hullabaloo is fiction. Yeah, the book was based on real experiences – personally I think it was written by some marketer of the airline industry to increase air traffic.

Mile High Club
When I was in high school, I knew several boys who claimed to be part of the mile high club. I think people who claim this status are either lying (99% of them) or are airline pilots and are telling the truth. All that turbulence? Another pilot joining the mile high club. No wonder they want to lock cockpit (ever wonder where they get the name?) doors.

Friday, August 10, 2007


When I was dating a long time ago, my dates would compliment me. Now, if I had performed a scientific study, I could have compiled statistics on the types of compliments.

My Intellect
My Artistic Flair
My Clothing
My Eyes
My Hair
My Smile
My Face
My Legs
My Boobs
My Ass
My Body (as a whole)
My Feet

And if I placed tick marks for each time I received a compliment, I would guess that my breasts would receive the most tick marks. And I have a problem with that.

Not that I have a problem with having well-complimented breasts, but you know, for me, certain parts of my body have more to do with genetics than with anything I do. It is sort of like someone complimenting your husband and you saying "thank you." I mean, you really did not do anything yourself.

Eyes are different. Sure, our eyes have a genetic component, but I believe that a person's personality, their character, their essence, can be seen in their eyes. People have kind eyes if they are kind, cold eyes if they have a cold heart. Oh, and I love when people look at my eyes instead of my breasts. Sort of indicates people are interested in me, not just my body. Not that I am offended when someone likes my body.

Now that I am older, I guess I want to make a new list of things to compliment. I am more picky over time, I guess, because I like extremely specific compliments. Instead of just "liking my eyes", I guess now I want my husband to say exactly what he likes about them. And I actually want people to appreciate my financial acumen (well, a stretch, as I am not that much of a Susie Orman1-type), my writing, my wit.

My last post said something about saying goodbye. Yeah, I have thought about it on more than one occasion. I am not trying to create any drama – but I will not be around for a few days. Just have other things to do. Not that I am leaving.

1By the way, I hate Susie Orman.

Tuesday, August 07, 2007

Bilbo's farewell and Bloggers

At Bilbo's farewell party in The Fellowship of the Ring, he announces: "I regret to announce that - though, as I said, eleventy-one years is far too short a time to spend among you - this is the END. I am going. I am leaving NOW. GOOD-BYE!"

That scene has always disturbed me. Not that some shire-folk were frightened at seeing Bilbo disappear. But because people need a chance to say goodbye.

I have been really busy lately, and I have not had an opportunity to blog. Usually when I get busy, I might but not really visit other people's blogs. Well, that is not as much fun or as fair, actually.

Last week, I did not make an entry. And this week I wanted to write something on Monday. But I didn't. What is worse is that I really didn't care.

I don't like when bloggers just stop blogging, and we don't get the chance to say "goodbye". With or without Bilbo's ring.