Random Friday #27

Selective Technophile
The other day, I was looking at my blog (to answer comments), and blogger sort of hiccupped and gave me my blog feed instead. I have not ever seen the feed, and I was a bit surprised. I had heard about feeds for websites that have data that is updated frequently. I am a selective technophile; I understand some technology and don't know much about other things. I can blog and write a few things in HTLM. But I don't do the feed thing. Don't really know about it.

Videos
I have been entertained recently by ~Deb's videos. I mean, she videos Sunday fun, talking about a good porn plot, and my favorite, them just goofing around tp make a music video. Deb is incredibly gifted (has quite an expressive mind). But I sometimes wonder if video editing software is allowing people with smaller budgets and less technology to enter the fray. I would imagine this takes hours and hours to do. I don't have the patience for this, but I am glad that some (~Deb) do. And there are probably a bunch on YouTube that I wish lacked the skill to upload vids, but that is something else.

Academy Awards
I missed the Academy Awards this year, and you know, my life did not change. I did watch omovies summary, and I think I got caught up. I have not been to see an award-nominated movie in quite some time (I did not see Batman because it looked too violent). Don't get me wrong, I like artsy films. But I guess I am more used to a film being in a foreign language to make it artsy.

Blue Juice
I listened to part of Blue Juice, a really bad 1995 movie starring Sean Pertwee as JC, a twenty-something surfer, who is more of a surfer kid than an adult. The best part of the movie is in the first scene, where you see JC with full frontal nudity. Well, there is a strategically placed sock that keeps the movie at an R rating. Catherine Zeta-Jones plays Chloe, his girlfriend. Chole's best line, "Are you telling a woman with a pan of burning fat in her hand that she doesn't know what she is doing?" The film is set in Australia, and I wonder if Catherine Zeta-Jones has a good Australian accent. I have no idea, actually, because I have not been down under.

Anyway, I think if a movie is free on the web (and there is no copyright infringement), I can almost guess that it is old or it is crappy. This one is sort of crappy. There are touching points (about the one hour point, where they talk into a "lie detector blow hole"), but it is normally a bit flat. Or does it go from charming to flat, a bit uneven for a film.

Oh, and is it just me, or could you even imagine Catherine Zeta-Jones being Sean Connery's love interest in Entrapment. He is so sexy, but I just don't see the two of them together.

RPI and Basketball
The RPI (Rating Percentage Index) is a measure of strength of schedule and how a team does against that schedule. Created in 1981, the RPI is a tool used in selecting and seeding the 65 teams for the NCAA Men's basketball Division I tournament. This sentence is taken directly from its definition. But when I looked at the numbers, Tennessee had a #1 strength of schedule. Tennessee plays in the SEC, and according to everyone, they suck this year. Okay, this is by someone who pulls for Georgia Tech. Anyway, how can Tennessee be #1 in SOS when they play in a conference that sucks? I don't know too much about men's basketball, but this makes no sense to me.

Carpe Diem
"If you had one shot, one opportunity to seize everything you wanted. Would you capture it, or just let it slip away?" I heard these lines, or similarities to them, recently on a television program. Okay, I admit it, the lines are a bit lame. I think they were written that way on purpose. But you know, for most of us, I think we let these moments slip away. Sort of sad, really.

Flixter
Flixster.com is a new-ish site. I wonder why they are not being sued by Flicker. Or Twitter. Or both.

Movies
Is it just around here, or do the movie theaters seem more crowded? I want to watch A Powerful Noise but there is some stink associated with the phrase "town hall meeting." Whenever I hear that, I think, "A meeting where we all bitch and agree with one another but nothing gets done." March 6 is when Watchmen premiers. Oh, and that is Malin Akerman on the movie poster. Not sure who she is, but I think people will go just to see her in spandex.


Tagged
I don't like doing memes, and tags are just sort of memes. But since I sort of poked at Ian earlier in the week, he tagged me. Instead of just forgetting, I am going to list 10 sites with attitude. Because I have a bit of 'tude myself, I am not going to follow through with the entire request, telling them that they have an award.

Anyway, here are the rules, some of which I will not be following:

Rules for the award:

1. Put the logo on your blog or post.

2. Nominate at least 10 blogs, which show great Attitude and/or Gratitude!

3. Be sure to link to your nominees within your post.

4. Let them know that they have received this award by commenting on their blog.

5. Nominate your favorites and link to this post.

Here are my nominations, in a particular order, the result of an algorithm that involves numerology, metaphysics and Ti Chi:

1. Let Me Go On and On. Okay, my very own lesbian crush.
2. Grantochrist. If you ignore the J-bunnies, a really funny read.
3. Cup 'o Joe. The only HR person you will ever like.
4. SSC. Joe's main squeeze.
5. Heart of a Family. A day in the life of a super Mom with a child with special needs.
6. Xmichra. 'Nuff said. Don't want to make Deb jealous.
7. Dr. Deb. Always engaging.
8. Mal's Mumblings. One smart cookie.
9. Saur. I don't read her often, but a good blog with good 'tude.
10. A Tail of Two Towns. If you get jealous easily, skip this one. He lives in paradise.

Oh, and if I didn't list you? Maybe that is because I like you more. Did I mention I don't like tags and memes?

Google Error

We're sorry...
... but your query looks similar to automated requests from a computer virus or spyware application. To protect our users, we can't process your request right now.

We'll restore your access as quickly as possible, so try again soon. In the meantime, if you suspect that your computer or network has been infected, you might want to run a virus checker or spyware remover to make sure that your systems are free of viruses and other spurious software.

If you're continually receiving this error, you may be able to resolve the problem by deleting your Google cookie and revisiting Google. For browser-specific instructions, please consult your browser's online support center.

If your entire network is affected, more information is available in the Google Web Search Help Center.

We apologize for the inconvenience, and hope we'll see you again on Google.

I got this message while trying to check Google Mail. Personally, I think my wicked typing speed tricked Google. When I am typing user names and passwords, I type fast. Apparently these skills resemble an automated request from a computer virus.

Me, I think I will take time away from the WWW today. I mean, I am already pissing off Google. I don't want to cause my skills to further hamper the web. Can you imagine this on the nightly news: "Massive Internet outage because Leesa has wicked fast typing skills. A score of geeks are re-writing code to mitigate this type of outage in the future."

A Sexual Addict Among Us

The rapper Kanye West recently admitted to Details Magazine about developing a sexual addition problem in his youth. This prompted me to author this blog entry.

In the summer of 2006, I wrote a blog entry about sexual addiction. In the post, I talked about my own experiences with sexual addiction. The post was titled Concessions of a Crack Whore, and though some may have thought it was meant to be a catchy title or glib, it was really because I felt deep shame about labeling myself as a sexual addict. Probably more shame than if I were a crack whore. Oh, and you can strike the probably.

Anyway, if you want to read a personal post of mine, one that I am really proud of . . . a post of substance that has no concrete answers, follow the link.

But I want to focus today, not with my own revelations about how I developed a sexual addiction, but how I continue to learn to live with this affliction.

Being a sex addict is not nearly as cool as it sounds. I don't have threesomes with neighbors, videotape me "doing it" with the pizza guy, or anything as seemingly glamorous as that. That's not what being a sex addict is all about. For me, it is about cycles. And if you think your menstrual cycle is bad, at least a menstrual cycle is regular. And for most of us, a box of pads and a few Midol or Advil help us cope.

Note: I am only talking about my personal experience. I am not a licensed counselor, and I am not going to be using clinical terms. My brain does not think in clinical terms, and if it did, I would merely bore most of you to tears.

The addiction starts with a stressor. And for me, I have noticed that I have what I call background stress and immediate stress. Background stress would be the state of the economy (when I have not lost my job, but there is all of this chatter about hundreds of thousands of people on the unemployment lines, 401Ks going down, etc.) Then there is the immediate stress. Perhaps I have to work with someone on a project, and there are tight deadlines and I don't really like the person. Perhaps I have not had enough quality time with my husband, and I fear we are drifting apart. All of these are stressors in my life.

When I have more stress than I think I can handle . . . then the cycle may begin.

For me, identification is key. If I know what is going on, and sometimes I don't, my first reaction would be to deal with these stressors in what I consider a grown-up way. Part of this, for me, at least, is hitting the gym. I can run on the treadmill, swim in the pool, do exercise and gather my thoughts. Then I wonder how I can relieve the stress. It could be effectively dealing with a co-worker, reconnecting with my spouse, or realizing that things are not as bad as they seem.

But, if I either don't realize what is going on, or if I am in so much pain/fear/whatever that I don't care, then the sex cycle starts. I have a need to connect and don't choose an appropriate outlet, and it is as if I can see myself from across the room, starting to make bad choices. At this point, I can still recognize what is going on, and I can stop the cycle, but if I don't, I just want to "feel good." Consequences matter not.

It is as if the person I am doesn't matter anymore, and I just want to feel something. It is very primal, and I have described it as if I am going in a rage. And by rage, I don't mean I say mean things or get bloodshot eyes. I can no longer seem to think. I just want to feel.

At this point, before I knew what I was doing, I would make really bad choices. I had sex in my office, not caring if I got caught and fired, or really caring if my husband found out. Certainly, at first, I was . . . careful . . . but when I am in a rage stage, I throw care to the wind. That's actually how I eventually was caught by my husband (and, happily, that started me on my road to recovery).

Anyway, when you don't really care – like reality doesn't really exist – then you begin to pursue some very risky behavior. [Reader, please insert any risky sexual behavior image you would like.] In my previous post, I wrote about having sex in a public restroom in a club. Yeah, unprotected sex in a bacteria-infested restroom. Yuck! And that was not even the worse experience I had. The worst experience was being at a man's house at lunchtime and having him urinate on me. I cried for an hour before having the composure to call back to the office to make an excuse for me to go home early that day.

I mean, these are experiences that I would have never guessed I could do. Never in a million years.

Anyway, after the sexual acting out and gratification (and/or emptiness), I realize that I am a complete moron. I wake up from the stupor and feel extreme shame. I always promise that it is the last time I will do this, and things seem fine for a while.

Then another stressor is in my life, and the cycle may start again.

Since going to counseling, I have not cheated on my husband with another person "in real life." And for the most part, I don't chat online or look at porn. For the most part. And when I fail to recognize the signs or don't care, I may look at porn or chat.

I have had to make other choices as well. Rules, if you will.

I don't masturbate. I am not saying that masturbation is bad. I actually stopped masturbating in college for three semesters. It wasn't until half-way through my sophomore year that I figured I could masturbate in the restrooms after I heard someone else from the dorm doing it. Yeah, Leesa is not the sharpest tool in the shed. My problem is that masturbation starts taking over, and it is hard for me to stop. So it just is not a part of my life. I miss it, too.

I write erotica in a very controlled environment. I love to write, and occasionally, I want to write erotica. But I cannot write erotica if I am depressed or stressed. And I can't violate the masturbation rule when writing erotica. I can promise you that I received more orgasms from my first several stories than anyone else received. It was a part of my writing process that I no longer repeat.

I don't have sex toys. Sex toys would be a temptation. 'Nuff said.

No pornography in the house. Not that we had a lot of porno anyway, but I deleted all of the images I had stored on my hard drive and CDs. Oh, and we got rid of about ten classic books that dealt in sex. Some of them were a bit rare, but they had to go.

Restricted chatting. I used to chat online a lot. Now I rarely do.

The rules that I occasionally break are the online chatting and the viewing of pornography online. Believe it or not, I have only masturbated twice since establishing these rules. Once was by myself at home, and the second time was when I was chatting with a friend (the orgasm was tremendous). Both times I masturbated, I then felt extreme shame. Same with the online chatting, and only occasionally with the viewing of pornography. I have broken these rules rarely, and I get on track shortly thereafter.

Here is one surprise: sex with my husband is better than ever. I won't go into details, but we don't break any rules of physics – and that is okay. Body parts don't go where they were not designed to go, and we have a good time reconnecting. Just thinking about it brings a smile to my face.

I am going to end with the same paragraph I used in my last long post on this subject.

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

Blind Faith

I was looking down at my engagement ring the other day, and I had a strange thought: "How do I know that the diamond is real?" I mean, it looks really sparkly and all, but I am not a gemologist. I have seen quite a few diamonds, but I don't really know if they are real either.

It is not like in ninth grade science class, we were shown diamonds next to cubit zirconiums, and then had to figure out which was which. We did not learn that sort of thing in my high school. Of course, in high school, we dissected frogs, and if someone gave me a scalpel and a frog, I could not identify the frog's spleen from his gall bladder. And I could do that in high school. Okay, I really couldn't do it – biology was not my strong suit. But still, I can't identify (or grade) diamonds.

But I have a diamond on my finger, and I assume it is real. I believe this . . . on blind faith. And I really hope my husband bought me a real diamond. He was dirt poor at the time, and I know the ring cost more than two month's salary. Thanks De Beers diamonds, for all of your marketing.

Another thing.

When we bought our house, I signed a bunch of paperwork. And I read most of the paperwork – nearly all of it. But by the end of the closing, I did not know what I was signing. I can imagine, ten minutes after closing, that if zombies were to be coming out of the ground like daisies, we would have no recourse because I signed the "I take full responsibility for zombies" clause.

Every year . . . at least thirty people in Georgia purchase homes. Okay, pre-September thousands of people were closing monthly. But now . . . oh, where was I? The point is that a lot of people close on houses, and unless you are a real estate attorney, you probably don't know the ramifications for signing all of the documents. You sign, more or less, on blind faith.

Years ago, this would have freaked me out. Now, I am okay with it. I mean, we can't all be experts on everything. Sometimes we have to just accept that we should just stumble along as best we can . . . on blind faith.

Another Thousandaire's Thoughts

Ian had an interesting post a while back. Here is part of the blog entry:

So, by this stage of my life the only thing I want to spend money on is (aside from the obvious like mortgage, food, cable and transportation) is travel. That is never money badly spent.

So, you can imagine the joy in my acquisitive soul when blogger Leslie offered me a cool five grand. That’s right. In her tagging of me she said $5,000 would be laid on me; my personal bailout, if you will. All I have to do is respond to a simple question: What would you do if given $5,000? A nice little sum that. Not a half million, but tolerable. So, when she tagged me you can imagine how jubilant I was.
All I have to do to get my five grand is suggest a worthy use for it. Excellent.

It was only a while later that I realized that the sum was strictly symbolic and that no filthy lucre would change hands between her and me.

I have thought about Ian's challenge. He did not challenge me (insert pouting lips here), but I will take up the challenge nonetheless.

If someone would give me $5,000 with the stipulation that I use it in some way that has an impact on my life, I think I know what I would do. But before I reveal what I consider to be a great answer, I would like to tell you a few things that I discounted.

My first thought was concerning my 401K. Yeah, it needs a little bit of life breathed back into it. I thought about adding to my 401K, but not only is that sort of boring, but it also might not be a good idea as well. I still contribute monthly, but I can't help but thinking I am throwing good money after bad.

Next thought was education - $5,000 will probably be enough for about a year worth of classes at a public institution. It would be an investment in me. But do I really want to go back to school and get a Master's degree. Probably not.

A down payment on a car. I mean, I think automobiles are a bit on sale right now. And my car is getting older. But you know, I think I can stand another year or two before the car starts giving me problems. And it is paid off. A paid off car drives so much better than a car with a note. I don't know why, but there it is.

A ticket to Los Vegas and $4,000 in chips. That would be one way to spend five grand. I have been gambling before, and I just can't get into it. It gives me little joy.

But after careful consideration, I decided that the wisest way to spend $5,000 would be to use it to purchase hours in an art class. A small class where I would learn to paint. When I was in high school, I was a student that enjoyed creating art but was a bit disappointed with what I created. I guess my imagination was at one level, and my skills were at a lower level. I would want to learn to paint, and then paint. And paint.

When one thinks about writing one's own obituary (not that I am sick or wanting to die), one may want to include skills that makes someone unique. I enjoy writing and would eventually want to pen a book, but if I had $5,000 to spend, I would want to buy paints, hours in the presence of an art teacher and canvas. Then turn the blank canvas into something special. Five thousand dollars is not really a lot of money, but it is enough to change someone's . . . anyone's . . . life. The thing is, you have to know how to spend the money.

Random Friday #26 (Half of a Deck of Cards)

Legislative Inefficiencies
We have inefficiencies in a lot of our systems. When many spending bills are passed, there is a certain amount of "pork" attached to it. And senior legislatures think of this as the cost of doing business. I mean, you can see senators and congressmen attaching amendments to bills to fund the building of a road, the additional of a program, whatever. Even in local media, people talk about government grants (based on the passing of some of these bills) as if it were free money. Someone has to pay the bills, or at least print the money.

Healthcare Inefficiencies
We all want health insurance. But if you look at it on the whole, the insurance industry costs us a lot of money. I mean, if you go to the ER, the bill is more than $200 to be seen. Even if the answer is, "Looks like you are not going to die. Schedule an appointment with your PCM to get drugs." I don't know the answer, but I expect when the Chili's waitperson asks me to pay the bill with a Celebrex pen, I am seeing some of the cost of healthcare.

Numerology
I am a big believer that numerology is a bunch of crap, but then I look at how I make decisions. If I go on an elevator, I don't like taking elevator 1 or 4 (if there are many elevators). Completely irrational. When looking at bathroom stalls, I pick an even number from the end, all else being equal. When leaving a tip, I always pay in whole dollars, so a 23.11 becomes 27.11. Why not $27.00 even? Anyway, it seems that so many little decisions are based on completely irrational things, why shouldn't I believe in numerology. I mean, I am half-way there right now.

Being Polite
I have a friend who always says "How are you" as a greeting. The other day, she said this while passing someone. I was with her, and the person did not respond. She said, under her breath but loud enough for me and the offender to hear, "Bitch." If you act polite and then are rude, does that make you a rude person who appears polite on the outside? I think it does.

Boob Jobs
I have known three women at work (over the years) that have had boob jobs. Well, two I knew, and one I suspected. Both women that had them wanted me to feel their boobs. I mean, when I complimented them (more out of social obligation than anything else), both said, "Go ahead, touch them." After an awkward pause, I touched them (more out of social obligation than anything else). I avoided both women for the rest of the day. The third woman – who took a week off for an "elective procedure" I suspected just did not want for us to feel her boobs. Actually, when she came back, my first reaction was to look at her face – I mean, I thought she was having some other work done. After writing this, I think I have revealed too much.

US Post Office
If it will save a bunch of money, I would be okay with having mail delivered 4 days per week: Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday and Saturday. I mean, they are off so many Mondays anyway, and I suspect that they skip a day anyway. I would even endorse them switching it up, the days they deliver, around time zones, if that helps. I mean, when I mail a package, I know there is a 30% chance that it will be lost or damaged anyway, if mailed through the US Post Office. True story: I overnighted something (at the cost of $30 or so), and the US Post Office delivered it one month later. It was a flat envelope that looked like it got caught in some gears or something. It was something like a contract – and when it did not arrive in a day, I had to re-notarize the stuff and re-mail. Not only did I have to pay another $30, but when I found out that the original was delivered a month late, they would not refund the money. Something about them not guaranteeing their service. So now I am a fan of UPS or Fed Ex. Both work so much better.

Market Forces
I am a big believer in market forces. If you make something illegal (drugs), you drive up the price to the point where some will still meet the needs of the people who want illegal drugs. [I am not saying that drugs are good or bad with this example; personally I think most illegal drugs probably do harm to the body.] Anyway, I sort of like The Mentalist. I don't love the show, but I like it. What I did not like was that CBS stopped streaming the show. So then you find sites pop up, just looking for a show or two. I wish CBS would come to its senses and stream the video. In an environment where everyone is scrambling for viewership, this makes little sense.

Being Objectified, or Chickipedia
While looking for an image for a recent post on news and Gnooze, I found a site called Chickipedia. I did not use the pic on the Gnooze blog entry because the pic was a bit too sexy for my blog. I don't buy into objectifying women. Well, I did not until I saw this site. The site boasts near 8,000 women (called chicks), more than 100 thousand images, a bunch of videos and three articles. Okay, there are probably a bunch of articles as well, but they are not featured on the site. Whenever you see an image that lists their approximate bust, waist and hip measurements and then will link to similar chicks, I am thinking "objectifying." And then I think – um, guys, come back to my post. Really. Guys. Please finish my post first.

Caroline Smailes Interview
I just read on SSC's blog where she interviewed Caroline Smailes. I am a tad bit jealous, because I know meeting an author can be a wonderful experience. She even has a contest for a signed book on her site. Not that I want any competition, but I suggest you go over to her site and check out the interview and the contest.

Phallic Symbols on the Brain

I read with interest how ~Deb's psychiatrist pieced together that her venue for her wedding ceremony (a lighthouse) might be a subconscious attempt to suggest that she is missing something. Think of a sex organ that she and Madeline both lack.

I had not a clue, either.

Then I thought of the lighthouse at Tybee Island, a place that I am completely at peace. So I love this phallic symbol. When I went to Washington, DC, years ago, what was one of the highlights of my trip? Visiting the Washington Monument. You know, Washington, DC's 555 foot pecker.

And when I went to Paris, France. What attraction was I drawn to that make me weak at the knees when I experienced rising to the top of it? The Eiffel Tower. More than 1000 feet of iron penis.

My favorite pasta? Butternut squash ravioli – that is, ravioli stuffed with a vegetable that looks like a dick with balls. Speaking of vegetables, what are two of my other favorite vegetables? Asparagus and mushrooms, both resembling little cocks.

Pretty soon it appears that my whole world is all about the male organ. The dream that always scares me? Dreams of snakes. Thanks, Sigmund Freud and your dream interpretation. Long, wiggling penises pursuing me is scary.

Pardon me while I look for a good stiff drink. I just hope the container doesn't resemble a . . . you know what.

Lookists

I have read a lot about the images of women lately. First there was me and my Madonna post. Then there was Ian, with his Jessica Simpson post (really about skinny verses voluptuous). And Dr. Deb and her "F is for Fat" post. Then there was Knot and his pubes (okay, not his, but Playmate pubes or lack thereof). You put that together with SI and their annual swimsuit issue, along with an article in this month's Wired magazine (more on that later), and we are a society that judges based on looks.

I was going to coin a phrase, lookist. But it looks like it is already in use. From Wikipedia:

Lookism is discrimination against or prejudice towards others based on their appearance. The term is not in widespread use, though it appears in major English language dictionaries.

Lookism has received scholarly attention both from a cultural studies and an economics perspective.[2] In the former context, lookism relates to preconceived notions of beauty and cultural stereotyping based on appearance as well as gender roles and expectations. Important economic considerations include the question of income gaps based on looks, as well increased or decreased productivity from workers considered beautiful or ugly by their co-workers.

I was reading in the current issue of Wired Magazine - I don't normally read it - they had a two page article that showed the BMI of both the average woman in the US (it has gone up since Playboy's inception in 1953, from about 21 to 29) and the BMI of the Monthly Playboy Playmates. Yeah, the playmates BMI has gone down over the same timeframe (from about 18.5 to about 17.7 or so).

I see it this way – women and men in the US are getting bigger. But the idealized female form continues to get skinnier and skinnier. Now I recently joined the Operation Skinny Bitch blog, but I just want to track my weight over time. I don't want to be a skinny bitch, but a healthy sized bitch that has really good muscle tone.

I vacillate back and forth from being upset with lookists to understanding that certain components are important in certain circumstances. For instance, I can understand the need to have attractive people on the news – I mean, most are just reading Teleprompters and have good teeth. That does not bother me at all. And face it, most movie stars are attractive as well – we want to see beautiful people on the silver screen. But if I go in my dentist's office, I want a receptionist that is kind, pleasant and guards my health information voraciously. That's about it.

I have often thought that if we went around in bathing suits year round, people would be more fit. Actually, I think I said naked at one point, but because of health concerns, I am amending my thought. A few years ago, I visited San Diego, CA, and I was amazed at how beautiful all of the people were. Tourists stuck out because of their weight and their lack of tans. People from San Diego were almost universally hot. Men and women, most of which were so attractive. It might be the nice weather most of the year (where you can't hide extra pounds) or that attractive people are drawn to the city. Who knows, perhaps lookists flock to San Diego. They form GQ gangs, get their teeth capped in bulk, that sort of thing.

Obituary of a Photographer/Blogger

A little more than two weeks ago (I delayed this post for more than a week, struggling with publishing it), I could not sleep.

I woke up, started to read, but I did not get drowsy. I then turned on the computer. Unlike some people, I rarely use my home computer. At work, I use email, web surf and order things online. When I get home, I don't often even turn on the computer.

I looked at my blog, then someone I read, and I found the image to the side, along with the following: In Memory: Suzanne Horne (Liquid), Aug 13, 1966 - Dec 24, 2008.

Shortly thereafter, I clicked onto Liquid's site, a site from someone who had died on Christmas Eve. There was not a single light on in my study, just the glow from the computer screen, and I started reading the blog. I had read Liquid's blog before – I was an occasional reader of her blog when I read more blogs per week.

Her last post was entitled, "It's That Time Folks!" There was a picture of a fat man, shirtless, ironing a Santa suit. Liquid posted several comments to that post, and one wonders if she knew she was going to kill herself when she made her last post.

Even after she killed herself, some people were giving her well-wishes. There is a mixture of "God speed" and well-wishes, actually, between Christmas day and New Year's Day.

When I was reading Liquid's blog, bathed in the soft glow of the computer screen, I felt close to Suzanne. I felt like she was speaking . . . to me.

If you know Liquid, you know she was a photographer. You can see some of her pictures here. I knew her as an author of her blog, nothing else. So when I read the obituary in the Meridian Star, I got a glimpse of the woman behind the website:

Jeri Suzanne Horne
Jeri Suzanne Horne Services for Jeri Suzanne Horne will be held Tuesday at 2 p.m. at James F. Webb Funeral Home Chapel with the Revs. Joseph Hallman, and Dennis Marks officiating. Burial will be in Pine Springs Southern Methodist Church Cemetery. Mrs. Horne, 42, of Meridian, died Wednesday, December 24, 2008, at her residence. She was employed as a hairdresser. Survivors include her parents, Jerry and Betty White of Meridian, daughter, Isabella Horne of Meridian, son, Campbell Horne of Meridian, brother, Greg White and Ronna of Davie, Fla., niece, Madelyn White of Davie. Visitation will be Monday, 5p.m.-7 p.m. at the funeral home. Pallbearers will be Barry Murphy, Mike Grant, David Medlin, Bo Pierce, Richard Daniel, and Bryan Culpepper.

I paused, not sure I should share the obituary. But a half-a-dozen bloggers have already posted her obituary, so I figured the facts have already been out there. Who knows if this is right . . . .

Anyway, I read somewhere that we die twice. Once when we actually die, and another time when no one left on Earth remembers us. Suzanne died on December 24^th. Her family and friends, who are understandably still hurting from her actions, will remember her for a long time to come. The pain will slowly diminish, and they will remember some of the better times, the times when Suzanne made them smile.

Suzanne, or Liquid (as I knew you), farewell. You will be missed. Those of you who knew Suzanne have the opportunity to sign her guestbook.

Sex While . . .

Warning: your boss may not want you to read this while working.

I woke up the other morning, and the first thing that I thought was: there are 6 billion people in the world, and with all of those people and situations, I would imagine it would be hard to document an experience where at least someone did not do it while having sex.

Some experiences are easy: sex while watching television. Shame on you if you have done it, but I would think that about 5% of blog readers have done this. Oh, I made up a statistic. I bet I will one day be quoted.

Sex while blogging. I would imagine that if you typed "sex while blogging", you would find several blog entries that would have documented this very feat. And then wrote about it.

Sex while working. Been there, done that. Helpful hint: although the copy machine looks sturdy, once there is a bit of rocking going on, those hinges can break really, really easily. Not that I have done that. And, do you just have to be at work, or do you have to be doing something productive? I bet both have been done, more the former than the later.

Then there are some weird experiences. Sex while cleaning the toilet. Probably not as common, but I bet it has been done. Imagine you are getting ready for the mother-in-law coming over. You get ready to take your shower, undress and start the water, and then you notice that the toilet is unsightly. As the water gets warm, you start cleaning the toilet. Unhelpful hubbie comes in and sees you, naked on all fours, hair falling in your face. Two minutes later, you are doing it right next to the toilet. Completely gross, but you can check that experience off the list.

Sex while in the dentist's office. Crap, this is actually one that is highly documented. Dentists are in prison because of this. Ooops.

Sex while in the operating room. Well, I hope no surgeon has done this, but perhaps there were two people who were . . . coupled . . . and could not get uncoupled. So they had to do surgery. More likely, a couple of people in gowns – not sure what their jobs would be – they are masked and not carry scalpels. Problem is, though, it sort of shoots the sterile field to hell.

Maybe I invented a new game. It is quite fun. Play along in the comments if you wish.

At the end, I was thinking of something so specific that there cannot be someone who has had sex while performing the task. For instance, sex while painting the Mona Lisa. There is exactly one person who painted the Mona Lisa (specificity of participants). And the duration cannot be but a month or so (limited duration). But then I began to think: as a woman (Grant, suspend your sense of reality), you are sitting for a painting, spending hours upon hours with the most inventive man in the world. There is no Internet, no Leesa's Stories, no Starbucks. What is a girl to do? So now we know what that smile is all about.

Sort of fitting that this is posted on President's Day! Sex while interning at the White House . . . .

Random Friday #25

Verizon Conversation
I saw this video on YouTube some time ago, and I knew I could write about it. Problem is, I did not want to develop the idea. Guess I should just start a Random Post. Better than developing a post.

Anyway, it is a tape recording of a conversation between two Verizon employees and a customer. And in this case, the customer is right, but neither employee (manager and someone working the phones) can tell the difference between dollars and cents. I think the basic problem is . . . that the employees are idiots. Sorry, it is just that neither employee understand that units of measure are important. Anyone who has ever baked knows units are important - think of adding one tablespoon instead of a teaspoon of salt.

The Watchmen
I just saw a trailer for the movie: The Watchmen. In the trailer, they make the claim, "the most celebrated graphic novel of all time." I have never heard of the graphic novel – just saw some movie posters in movie theaters before reading the above blog entry. I had not a clue what it was about.

I have never read a graphic novel, and I sort of write this with pride. I mean, when I first heard the term, I thought it was an erotic novel. I just did not connect that graphic was in "picture" not expressing the words on the page. I have seen graphic novels in bookstores, but I have not really opened the books. I guess I consider them "comic books" and I am not interested in comics. I am not a 12-year-old boy. Sometimes I think this makes me close-minded. Not giving graphic novels a chance.

Pop Culture: Invading HS Students Lives
I don't do pop culture. I think it is fappid. I found a site that was supposed to teach me about pop culture. Actually, I think it is a guy's top 50 hottest women in all sorts of categories. For instance, in sports, there is a girl by the name of Allison at #3 (her last name is on the site, but she is a GIRL - a high school girl. From the site: "Allison is a pole vaulter for the California high school. She doesn’t have any major sport achievements to date, but she became immensely popular on the Internet after a big website featured her pictures. Well, after I saw the images I became her biggest fan immediately."

She is a high school girl, for gosh sakes. What is wrong with these people?

Reading Comments
I try to read and to respond to comments. And occasionally, very occasionally, I re-read a comment. I have re-read this comment perhaps a dozen times:

Well that's what I mean by text being misconstrued, however I beg to differ re: my extreme creativity, because I certainly cannot transition so beautifully as this: "I believe the ability to create and express yourself in an artistic way is a product of the number of orgasms you can achieve on a given evening."

That my dear, is creative! ;) I love your transitions.

After reading this, I decided to write a few complementary comments of other bloggers. I am not sure my comments had the same effect – probably didn't – but I hope they did. I was on cloud nine.

New Blogs
I was going outside of my comfort zone recently, and I found a New Blog. By new, I don't mean new to me. Well, it is new to me, but it is also a brand new blog. Jasmine is the author, and it is called An Experiment in Poverty. It is always hard to give your heart to a new blog . . . because so many of them don't seem to get off the ground. There are a few good posts, and then nothing. Not sure about this one, though. Perhaps it is the start of a wonderful blog. She posts no pictures of scantily clad Japanese women, she is not a Washington DC insider, and she is not from the refined South (Georgia). But in reading her, I remember what was going on with me right after college. When I was just starting out as an adult.

John Paul Spam?

From: "John Paul"
Sent: Thursday, February 5, 2009 7:05 AM
To: Leesa
Subject: Gift From God

Good day,
I am Mr. John Paul by name, the former Director of operation with a bank in Republic of Benin, but am presently in London for investments programme, I left Benin 2weeks ago after I received a big blessing from God through a fund that was abandoned in our bank by a late customer.

I used my position in our bank there to transfer a big amount of money to a foreign account that belongs to a London Business man who is presently with me here in London. Before I went into the risky transaction with my partner, I first prayed to God and made a strong promise that I shall donate 10% of my total share of the money to the less privileged ones to any society.

Right now, you should contact my Church pastor in Benin. His name is pastor Markson Dums and his email is pastormarksondum@gmail.com. Ask him to send you ATM BANK CARD of one million five hundred thousand Euros (€1.500.000) which I kept with him before I left for London. You should quickly contact him concerning the Bank ATM CARD and be informed that I have forwarded instructions to my pastor on your behalf.

Call me on +447035921427 as soon as you receive the Bank ATM CARD from my pastor. Make sure you utilize the money for the help of the less privileged.

Regards,
John Paul
(KSJ)

My first reaction on seeing "Gift from God" by a sender named John Paul. The previous Pope is in heaven, and he is taking the time to compose an email to me, a member of his flock. Oh my God. Er, you know what I mean.

Then I start reading the note, and I am less pleased. This is not from a Pope who will one day be sainted. Naw, this is from some guy from Benin who is now in London. The second thing I find strange is that there are three letters at the end of the email – sort of like when you were in typing class and included your initials to tell people you typed the letter. Not sure that works with email, but it was amusing.

But then I thought: Is this real? First thing I looked at was the phone number. Hmmmmm. Country code 44 on the phone number. I looked that up in Google, and sure enough, it is an England country code. Then, I looked up where London is (I am American and not so good with the geography), and sure enough, London is in England. Then I looked up Euros, and sure enough, that is some type of currency. Like dollars, but colorful and you can spend the money in foreign lands. Plus, the author of the note used a bunch of surplus letters in composing the letter – you know, spelling "program", "programme." I read somewhere that English stick extra e's and u's in their words.

Anyway, the letter seems legitimate. Trouble is, I am still bummed out about not getting a Papal letter. I mean, I am not sure how far 1.5 million Euros can stretch – if it is anything like Lira, perhaps I can get a bamboo backscratcher and some Italian Ice.

Joe has been getting a lot of notes like this lately. Well, his email has. Apparently Joe and his email are separate entities, with different bank accounts and so forth. I sometimes wonder if he reads my email.

Me, I am going to see if I can get a bamboo backscratcher from Pier 1. I think I have come into some money.

February is Black History Month

One thing I remember hearing as I was growing up: "February is Black History Month". Rochelle Riley of the Detroit Free Press wrote and interesting article about it earlier in the month.

Here is how the article starts out:

I propose that, from this day forward, we stop telling the tale of two Americas and instead document and celebrate the full and storied, multicultural and multidimensional story that is America in all of its colors, geographies and passions, in all of its ups, downs and exhortations.

I propose that, for the first time in American history, this country has reached a point where we are can stop celebrating separately, stop learning separately, stop being American separately. We have reached a point where most Americans want to gain a larger understanding of the people they have not known, customs they have not known, traditions they have not known.

I propose that this month. 142 years after Congress passed the Reconstruction Acts of 1867 that allowed for the Southern states to be re-admitted to the Union, we adopt our own personal reconstruction goals to admit into our lives people who are different, people whose origins differ from ours, people who can teach us so much if we listen.

I propose that this month we become not the America of Rush Limbaugh or the America of Al Franken, but to become an America where all opinions matter and hope trumps hate.

You can go here to finish reading the article. You know, strike that. I encourage you to follow the link to read the article.

I always thought that it was a slap to designate February, the shortest month of the year, to be Black History Month. When I read the above-mentioned article, a question I asked myself was, "Is the author black?" (She is, by the by.) Almost as if one needs to be black (or African American) in order to give legitimacy to racial arguments. Dr. King was thinking of a color-blind society, and this is definitely not a color-blind way of looking at things.

I was listening to the radio a couple of Sundays ago (Sunday morning radio is filled with church-related broadcasts in Georgia), and I heard nearly a complete sermon from a pastor at a local Baptist church. The pastor started out with a prayer for the incoming president.

The sermon discussed how the election of a black president shows the fulfillment of Dr. King's dream. And, you know what, I can't remember Dr. King talking about the goal being a black man in the White House. I thought his dreams dealt with all of us having the same opportunities. And let's face it, most of us will not have the opportunity to be a politician (and politicians definitely are judged, in part, on the way they look).

Now I don't know if we should not have a Black History Month – growing up, it seemed advantageous to learn about Black Americans that have contributed significantly. Granted, there was no Hispanic Heritage Month. And history class was full of White people who contributed. I guess that is the part of the reason for Black History Month. To shed light on the contributions of Black Americans.

I want there to be no need for Black History Month. Not sure we are there, but if electing Obama has brought us closer to racial divides, then I am happy. Confused, but happy.

Comments and Toenails

Okay, I don't read as many blogs as I used to. And for the most part, I don't comment on blogs, either. A few years ago when my blog was more popular, I would pop on blogs a lot more. But I don't often write about when my blog hardly got any readers.

The first day, I figured I would get a few hundred readers, eager to read my words. I got 4 comments the first day. Wow. That sucked.

And then it occurred to me – I could read other people's blogs (I was already reading some; part of the reason I thought I would write my own blog) and them post comments on their blogs. But not just comments like "I totally understand." Or "Nice post." I would post comments funny enough to draw people away from the blog they were reading onto my blog. I would try and be witty.

So basically when I read a blog, I try and be witty or I might say, "Wow, that is a great post." And when I say something is a great post, it is meant for the blog writer, really. No one else. I know it can be hard to write original and interesting material, and it is my way of saying, "That post worked for me; thanks for writing it without thought of compensation."

SSC wrote about how she scared some commenter off in her blog today. And someone said something about my comments yesterday. Who said it? Not important.

I posted a couple of comments that could have been taken a different way – and they were. I was trying to be funny in both cases, and I failed miserably. Some days you are on, and some days, well . . . better to read blogs without commenting or paint your toenails. Yesterday was a toenail-painting day. Where did I place my coral polish?

Connoisseur of . . . Soap?

Today, I was taking a shower, thinking of what I was going to blog about . . . and I was stuck.

I do some of my best thinking in the shower. The thinking is so good that I have told hubbie on more than one occasion – the shower stall is for thinking, not a quickie when Mr. Johnson wakes up all dressed up and no one to play with. Okay, that last sentence was a little vague. Ah, perfect.

Anyway, I was thinking, "How will I delight my blog-reading audience today?" I thought about writing a dirty limerick, but then I would have to research how many syllables each line needs to be, look for the rhyming scheme, then think of cute dirty words, but at least the first line writes itself, "There was an old man from Nantucket." But what rhymes with Nantucket? Too difficult. Not original enough. Scrap that plan.

Then, I looked into my soap dish. I have three bars of soap in my soap dish – two of mine and one of my husband's. Okay, it is a pretty big soap dish, but that is not the remarkable part. The remarkable part is that I have two kinds of soap, not because one is almost gone and I don't want to be in the shower with just hubbie's soap option. I have two bars of soap in the soap dish because I have options on what soap to use, based on my feelings at the time.

If I go under the sink of my bathroom, I probably have twenty or so bars of soap for myself. For myself. And of those twenty bars, I would guess that I have ten different kinds of soap. I have French Milled soap, glycerin soap, organic soap, Scottish soaps, fruit-y soaps, vegetable soaps, soaps made from milk and other artisan soaps.

Before I was married, my husband would use Irish Spring. I told him that if we were to marry, he would have to abandon Irish Spring (and soap-on-a-rope, a bastardization of soaps, really). He, of course, asked, "If I give up soap, is that one thing you won't do in the bedroom going to be on the table?" Of course not, was my response.

So I buy nice soaps for him as well. He really don't care one way or the other (I do other things in the bedroom that keeps Irish Spring out of our home), but I like the smell of good soap on him.

Some people learn about wine and enjoy it by the glass; I am always in search of a good soap. Call it my dirty little secret.

Vague Random Friday #25

I have not done a Random Friday for a while. I feel a bit of scatterbrained, actually. Because I cannot really hold a thought, I figure I would just write on a mode of blogging that does not rely on having a thought held together through two consecutive paragraphs. Oh, crap, I can't hold a thought together for one paragraph.

Brains and Drugs
Not holding a thought. There are some that think this temporary condition is sad, perhaps a disadvantage. Personally, I think my sometimes scatterbrained moments keep me from trying mind-altering drugs.

More on Drugs
Unless you have been living under a rock, you know Michael Phelps has appeared in a picture with drug paraphernalia. I have several thoughts: how come when he did something in South Carolina, the first news comes from England? Guess they were high bidder.

Still More on Drugs
I was driving in the car the other day, listening to a talk type radio program. One of the callers was saying that Michael Phelps is proof that you can be a recreational drug user and still be a productive member of society. "I mean, look at Phelps. He won 8 gold medals and we now know that the drugs didn't hold him back."

Two things: (1) he has won more than 8 gold medals (14 or so, I think – and if I am wrong, I am not stoned; I am scatterbrained). (2) he had like a bazillion drug tests during training and competition and no drugs (performance enhancement or illegal) was found in his system. As far as I know, there is no cause and effect that shows that marijuana use leads to fast swimming. If fact, I think it makes sperm swim a bit slower. Or is that urban myth?

Google Search Features
The other day, I was googling something, and Google suggested that I might find this "tool" helpful: Search Features Way cool, but I doubt I will remember this in days.

AccuWeather Picture
A picture is worth a thousand words. I was looking at the weather the other day – and it suggested a picture. The picture to the side. At first, I thought it was some sort of alien/UFO-type mocked up picture. But then I read about it: "As the anniversary of the September 11, 2001 terrorist attack approaches, a test of the Tribute in Light Memorial illuminates a passing cloud above lower Manhattan. The twin towers of light, made-up of 44 searchlights near Ground Zero, are meant to represent the fallen twin towers of the World Trade Center. Depending on weather conditions, the columns of light can be seen for at least 20 miles around the trade center complex. U.S. Coast Guard photo by Public Affairs 2nd Class Mike Hvozda"

Sexy Dumb
When I was in high school, occasionally I played like I did not know the answers to questions because I wanted guys to like me. In a weird, twisted sort of way, I thought dumb was sexy. I learned way later that guys did not think dumb was necessarily sexy – they just figured it would be easier to sleep with a girl that was a bit slow. Not all guys mind you, but some I know. But in high school, it did not often occur to me that sleeping with girls was a common thought among hormone-rich guys.

Death
I am currently writing two blog entries about . . . death. This disturbs me on so many levels. One I thought about months ago, but never finished it. One I started yesterday – was going to post it today but did not have the energy, brainpower or lucidity to finish it.

Friday makes a better hump day than Wednesday. Have a wonderful Friday. Me, I am going to get paid for inferior intellectual efforts today. All is good.

Operation Skinny Bitch and Blogging

I will admit it; I don't surf blogs like I once did. Part of the reason is that I am so damn busy; part of the reason is that those who I put energy in following have called it quits. The no longer spend countless unpaid hours writing for my amusement. And they should, damn it.

A blog I rarely read but should (meaning I have not had a personal connection with the blog at all but it is well-written and interesting) is in the same funk as I am. Several people who were writing for her amusement have also quit. Why is that unwritten rule (okay I will write the rune down: "that you should to amuse us whatever personal sacrifice you have to make" being violated? I have not a clue.

But anyhow, from her site, I found Operation Skinny Bitch. Okay, most of my blogging buddies are guys. I know. You don't think about losing weight so you can wiggle into that shape-flattering one-piece. You think about breasts, football and spitting sunflower seeds on the sidewalk. And I write about breasts, football and cum shots. Nearly matches what you are thinking about – that's why you read my stuff. Well, that, and I know how to scan google images and place non-copywrited hotties on my blog as well. I get all that. But today, we are going to talk about getting ready for bikinis.

The difference between guys and gals is simple – and we are not talking about chromosomes or sex organs. In February, guys are thinking, "When does the swimsuit SI come again?" Gals see the damn issue in the check-out line, look at the date and think, "four more months to swimsuit weather." Okay six months for you northerners. In Georgia, we can don our swimsuits around spring break.

And that's where Operation Skinny Bitch comes in. This site is where you can share your loss without reprise of those judging people of Weight Watchers. I mean, we all hate skinny bitches, but at the same time we want to be the skinny bitch. In college, if I gained a few pounds, all I had to do was skip a meal or weight until that time of the month was over. Now, those last five pounds (which are really, to be honest, those last 12.5 pounds) are hard as hell to get rid of.

So this year I am trying to (1) lose pounds, and (2) gain blogging buddies. In particular, I would like to lose pounds off of my ass and pooch and gain blogging buddies that are entertaining and won't give up because no one else reads them. Let's focus on me, people.

On Being Fi

Every once in a while, I see a movie or a show, and I wonder what it would be like to be that person. Not sure if it is me wanting to be someone more glamorous, or me just over-analyzing an otherwise uncaptivating movie/television program, but there you have it.

There is a USA Network show (and since I don't have cable, I have to watch it online). I actually saw it first at a hotel – last year, I think. I can't remember now. Not that I spend a lot of time in hotels.

The show is Burn Notice, and the character I desperately would love to be is Fiona Glenanne, the ex-girlfriend of the main character, Michael Weston. Fiona is played by Gabrielle Anwar, who is best-known for her tango with Al Pacino in Scent of a Woman (got to love IMDb). I am unsure I have seen Ms. Anwar in anything other than Scent of a Woman, and Mr. Pacino stole the show in that movie.

Fiona, or Fi as she is often called on the show, is a bomb expert, sniper, kick-your-ass-while-wearing-high-heels kind of girl. She is smart, sexy and has killer fashion sense. She has a sense of humor and she seems to be very sure of herself. All the time.

One thing I have learned over the years is that most women – deep down inside – don't feel confident about themselves. We work and expect our own work to be perfect, and we make 85 cents on the dollar of what men make for the same work. I think part of this is because we know we can do better, and that is reflected in us not asking our bosses for the salary we deserve.

Then someone writes a script that includes Fi. The men, well, they want to ogle her. And the women want to be her. I mean, Michael is a dream man – strong, sensitive, smart, who looks good and treats Fi well. Okay, he is an ass to her on occasions, breaking her heart on occasion and not telling her how he feels, but we like a guy who is a bit broken. Deep down, I think we like imperfections that we can help fix.

Burn Notice is probably mostly a guy show. There are lots of explosions, gun play and camera pans of the Miami beach front (code for "girls in bikinis in the background of the scenes). But it appeals to me as well. I want to be the put-together Fi who can kick a little bad-guy ass and look good doing it.

Anyway, part of me is thinking, I can be Fi, I really can. All I have to do is stop eating (she is too damn skinny), work out my upper body at the gym (I am concentrating on my lower body right now), learn a lot about safe-cracking (I will sign up for a class at the local community college – they have a class for everything there), take a chemistry class or two from the Unibomber, and turn my 401-K into Fi's eclectic wardrobe. When Summer rolls around, not only will I be "bikini ready", but I will be able to hotwire a car, intimidate a gang-banger and make an IED from items found under my kitchen sink.