Writer's Block

I have been asked recently about my personal literary process - it all depends on the type of writing I am doing at the time.

Blog Writing
But when I do my daily blog, I write one way – it takes about 20 minutes per one-page entry. And I try to limit myself to one page per day (most of us don't have the commitment to read more than that per writer). I take a thought and prattle on for a bit. I don't even read what I have written on most days – hence several people have made comments about things not making sense.

"French Mail" vs. "French Maid", for instance. Now, I don't know about you, but I am sure that it would make not a lick of difference if Ms. Amber wears a French Maid costume verses a #10 Envelope. Well, actually, I think that French envelopes are probably a bit smaller than a #10 Envelope. Viva La France.

I am not sure how my writing is classified – a poor man's (or woman's) Flannery O'Conner. But she wrote with stream of consciousness – beautifully, artfully. I am more of a scatter brain. Again, I don't spend tons of time on it. Sharpening the saw.

Erotic Writing
For the erotic blog writing, I need to break this down into during-affair and post-affair work. And affair was not necessarily the physical affairs, as I was not present before they actually took place. I believe you are unfaithful in your heart before you are unfaithful in the flesh (you can tell the difference because one involves naked bodies, bodily fluids, and friendly lies, "you were the best ever").

For the during-affair writing, I thought about something to write about and then start writing. At some point, my pulse quickened, my breath got more shallow, and sooner or later (usually sooner), I started masterbating to the thoughts. Most of the earlier stories (Josette Letter Part I through The Study) were constructed in this way – and I would think that all, or most of them, involved several masturbation sessions).

Since then, I occasionally write erotica – most of which was to satisfy a few readers (yes, you, GP). No more masturbation sessions. Not pulse quickening. Most like my current blog writing.

Novel Writing
When I write novels. Crap. I don't write novels.

Still in writer's block. It was my turn at the plate for Just Walking. My little piece was a bit crappy. But we all go through these dry spells. I have read half a dozen people who are going through this right now. Darned Writer's Flu!

Blogging Randomness

Like my friend, ddot, occasionally says, "I am not feeling it." Meaning I don't want to write today. So instead I will prattle on about a few things I have been thinking about concerning blogging. You know when I talk about blogging, I am reaching. For all of you disappointed, I will cheerfully refund your month's subscription.

Comments
I am consistently fascinating by the numbers of comments that certain blogs garner. In my opinion, the most comments I have ever seen are on ddot's blog. Case in point: last week, he posted a picture of a tennis shoe, and that entry collected more than 200 responses. I think my response was around 200.

~Deb is another blogger who gathers comments. Now, if you filter out the comments from women who want to date ~deb, there are still lots of comments. Someone the other day was amazed at 60 comments, and if I had not seen ddot's counts, I would have been amazed as well.

Names
One of the first names that I really liked was ~deb's name. It is the tilde (~) in the front of her name. At first, I just thought it looked cool. Among other things, the tilde (~) sometimes signifies an individual user's Web site when housed on a server. I thought it was a clever reminder to us that this blog is ~deb's home. But the more I saw Ms. ~deb, the more I thought it sort of looked like the tale of a sperm, which is a little funny considering ~deb's decision to avoid sperm. Sort of makes me chuckle.

I have seen lots of people with part of the name muse. I so adore the word "muse." So fanciful and Greek to me.

Blogs to avoid
You know, there are some blogs I avoid simply because of the name of the individual. I do not have any blogs that I visit who are written by anyone with the name Leesa. It would be too confusing if I posted a comment. Whose comment is that, the author's or this chick named Leesa. I also avoid blogs where they aleady have a Leesa groupie. Identity confusion, I guess.

I get mail from people who read my drivel. Someone who somewhat scares me wrote me and told me some searches that come up with my blog. He said that others have accessed my blog from these real-life queries:

Searches
Google Search: tookus yiddish definition (to the blog entry: Cursing 101)

MSN Search: eating used panties (to the blog entry: Yummy Amber, Cheetos and Mr. President

Google Search: leesas stories (someone doesn't bookmark me, but looks me up on Google each and every day)

Google Search: mimeograph smell (to the blog entry: Mimeograph paper

Yahoo Search: swallow penis (to the blog entry: Penis is too much for Swedish sex exhibition

And he also informs me that by googling Leesa, my blog comes up with either the third or forth entry. Wow. And to think that someone nearly every day searches using "Leesa's stories" to reach my site.

I just scratch my head sometimes at the number of different types of searches that are used to get my site. And then I also wonder how this person knows how people get my site. And sometimes I just don't want to know.

I was pleased with my last Friday's post; sort of embarrassed by this one. Pardon my while I go pee. I have had two cups of coffee this morning.

Pilot Envy

The other day, yummy Amber made the following comment on my blog:

Maybe people fear airplanes because it's such a huge machine and they have a sense of being absolutely out of control. In a car, since you're driving, you feel more in control. Also, most people have seen lots of plane crash pictures and they're always horrible, and while they've also seen plenty of horrible car crashes, there's the element of "that could never happen to me -- I'm a good driver."

Or not. Sorry about the rambling. I'm not totally awake yet.

Okay, I want to draw your attention to a few things in this post:

(1) We need to consider the source. Amber is "yummy." That makes her not only darned credible in the eyes of this reporter (and to Aunt Flannery O'Conner), but since 80% of my readership is male, they are probably no longer conscienceless reading my drivel. They are clicking over to Amber's blog and imagining what she would look like in a French Maid outfit.

(2) Crap. Where was I? Thinking of Amber in a French Maid Outfit? No, I was making a point. Let's move to point three.

(3) Amber in a French Maid Outfit? I am stuck on one point, just like a scratched record. Let me get back to horror, mayhem, and death.

Okay, Amber is probably right – please see Point 1 above (if you can be described as yummy, you are doing something right). I will not look above, for fear that I will be going around in circles in this post. You would be well-advised to do the same. I am a safety conscious girl, you know.

Technically, we know airplanes can fly. For the sake of argument, I am calling them airplanes; yeah, I know airplanes have propellers, and jets have engines that suck helpless ducks and geese through them. They named the comedy "Airplane" and not "Jet." Jet would be a good name for a song, not a movie – the word is just not that funny.

Okay, back to airplanes and flying (note to self: don't mention French Maid outfits on flight attendants). We all know intellectually that airplanes fly – we may not know a lot about lift, drag, and all of those other technical terms. Mallory may know, but most of us don't. Intellectually we know that airplanes and jets fly. But we have to reconcile that with the fact that 875,000 pounds of metal, seat cushions and complimentary drinks hurling at 300+ MPH can actually fly through the air, when people (who are a lot lighter) flapping their arms only get tired arms.

Cars are more concrete – okay, they are made of metal, cup holders and other miscellaneous parts that may or may not be under warranty, but you get the idea. We don't know how an engine works (except for Mallory and mens' egos), but it is understandable that something on the ground with wheels can move without possibly killing the occupants of the vehicle.

Just remember when you were a little boy or girl. When you were not pulling down your pants and exclaiming, "Nous sommes différents," you were probably playing with dolls, cars, and airplanes. You could roll cars on the floor, hoping to trip up giants known as adults, but for planes, you had to hold them in the air. They did not stay there by themselves. Lesson learned.

So in our heart of hearts, we are not sure that airplanes really fly. I understand the "it is out of our control" answer given by many, but if someone else is driving, are you as scared? I mean, when Joe is not driving, of course.

Those of us who may be scared of needles – in our intellectual mind, we have little to fear (unless we smell bourbon on the phlebotomist's breath). And frankly, who hasn't had that experience. I remember the first time I gave blood – I knew that it was harmless, but I saw blood rushing out of my petite arm, and I can remember thinking, "what happens if they completely drain out my blood." Intellectually, I knew that once the pint was taken, no more blood could exit. But in my heart . . . .

We are told to follow our hearts, but that is not always wise. I want my pilots to use their heads – not to wonder why 875,000 pounds of sheet metal, rivets, gears and assorted parts lifts into the air. And other times, we can just sit in awe of our loved ones, either in fantasy costumes or not. How wonderful it is to be human.

Perception of Death

Okay, the title is a bit misleading. I would make a crappy copy editor. Or is it headline editor?

I am fascinated with perceptions – it is one thing that drives me. Take risky behavior – no, not that kind of behavior, but everyday behavior (to some, perhaps they are thinking of the same thing).

Airplanes vs. Cars
We have millions of people who are afraid of flying in airplanes – heck, the insurance industry used to pray on people with kiosks, selling insurance to people like, er, me. I am about to get on a plane, and for a dollar, I can purchase insurance. Sort of like buying a lottery ticket, but instead of me living in the lap of luxury, I get to be buried in a Coffee can and my heirs get to live in the lap of luxury. Already, I do not like where my thoughts are going.

Getting back on point: millions of Americans are afraid of flying. But they think nothing of driving to the airport, and statistically, you are much more likely to be killed if you are behind the wheel of your own car than in the seat of an airplane. Well, if you have severe peanut allergies, perhaps the particles in the air at the moment 53 passengers open their complementary peanuts may cause your airway to close tightly, ending your life. But again, that is highly unlikely for most of us.

Lightning vs. Cooking
Another point – being killed by lightning. I am in a dark mood today. Lightning scares me – I admit it. If I hear lightning, I convince myself the next bolt is going to find me, causing massive damage to my hair and other body parts. God must like lightning, because I know I am more communicative during such lightning storms (oh, and God, if you are reading this and other comments, sorry about lusting after ~deb; we are just friends, okay?). But more people get killed in the kitchen – either cooking, getting stabbed by a wife/lover because you didn't bring home roses, whatever. It is a scientific fact. If you don't believe me, come over and I will cook for you. Perception verses reality – sometime is scary.

Lottery vs. Dead Rich Uncle Ed
Lots of us play the lottery. Heck, you can buy tickets when you are getting gas, buying condoms at a convenience store, or even going to some state fairs. Next, hookers are going to be selling those little $1 fantasies (I am talking about the lottery tickets, people).

But the chances of getting a winning lottery ticket (the millions winners, not the $3 winners) is well, really small. Otherwise, all of us would fill our retirement funds with lottery tickets/winnings. Most of us don't know all of our family, right. So the chance of you having a long lost Uncle Ed kick the bucket and give his entire fortune to you, his second cousin, twice removed, is about as likely. And it doesn't cost you a dollar.

Perception verses reality – the third example sort of sucked, but you know, I just ran out of steam. Actually, the second example was not that hot either.

One other thing worth considering – and I saw this on a graph once. The graph depicted number of deaths and cause of death – basically showing how risky certain things were. "Being in a hospital" was much more risky than most other things – airplane travel (unless your last name is Kennedy), knife juggling, even eating raw fish (known as sushi for all of you California types). Two side notes: (1) I understand that just being in a hospital is not the dangerous part; we are talking about being a patient (the deaths were attributed to "hospital error" not disease state), and (2) I may have mis-remembered some of the risks highlighted in the graph. Give me a break, it wasn't like I thought I would ever need that kernel of knowledge in the future.

So hug babies, juggle knives, eat cold pizza, and ride on airplanes. They are a lot safer than the good ol' morning commute that we perform 200 or so days per year.

Yummy Amber, Cheetos and Mr. President

I read Amber's blog the other day, and one phrase got, as my grand-pappy would have said, caught in my craw: "yummy in bed." It is a rich phrase that is so descriptive and sexy, but I can also see a very shy girl saying this at work. It reminds me of someone eating an ice cream slowly, seductively, milking every ounce of pleasure out of those 820 calories. Okay, prata, 820 Calories. I always hated that calories and Calories, while the words looked the same, were exactly 999 calories apart. But if we used calories on Cheetos bags, we would all be staring at 160,000 calories – that is a heck of a lot of zeros for an ounce of artificial orange cheesy delight. Oh, crap, you probably figure I like Cheetoes now. Yeah, personal information like this is what you get here – notice that in the Playboy centerfolds (I have not seen one in 15 years so bear with me – or should it be bare with me?). Can you imagine one of the questions they ask playmates – what is your favorite snack food? I mean, the playmates or whoever writes for them would be trying to figure out suggestive food items. For example, a playmate may write "oh, ding dongs are my favorite. I just like to roll them around in my mouth, taking care not to get too much of the cream filling on my lips. Cream can be so messy."

Oh, where was I going with this. Oh, "yummy in bed" Amber. Not that I know if she is yummy in bed – I mean, no one has written me, describing a layover in Denver with this Amber chick, saying that she was delicious. From the blog, she seems nice – and her posts are entertaining/well written. Like Amber, however, I do get a few pieces of mail that cause one to scratch one's head. There is a guy who wanted worn panties of mine – and I am guessing it may have something to do with the header for the erotic blogs I link to, "Blogs that Dampen my Panties." It is not like I hermetically seal my panties in Zip Lock® bags if, by chance, they get a tad damp.

You know, I tell you that I am more than some skank, and my mind has been in the toilet all week. Well, not literally.

I am enjoying the world of podcasting. Who would think that people would for no pay or benefit, spend time and energy creating something to entertain strangers. Oh, doesn't that describe blogging as well? Ouch. I hate when reality hits me in the face.

Another random thought that has occurred to me today – well, it has occurred to me several days, on and off, for a while – why do I need to have Word Verification on my own blog? I mean, I understand the value of it on other blogs, but who in their right mind would place spam on their own blogs? And that's what Word Verification is all about, right? Protecting us from robots – spiders, whatever the heck they are – that are little programs going from page to page, posting comments like, "I said the same thing in my blog today. Come over to AutosRUs blog and get a great deal on a Chevy Tahoe."

Here is another scary thought – tens of thousands of people compete for American Idol each season, but only 20 or so people ever seriously compete to be the president of the United States every four years. And I wonder if more people follow and vote for American Idol than they do for president. Holy crap. Now I am scared. I think I will go now. Where did I put the Cheetos?

Career Change

Okay, I am not your biggest sports fan, I will admit that. But if I could have any career right now (within reason – the job of Princess is generally open to people who are related to the Queen; talk about nepotism), I think I would be an NFL offical. And not just any official, the instant replay official.

Okay, I know what you are thinking – the uniforms are cute, but a blond would look better in that uniform. Well, to that, I say that NFL officials make some serious money, and I would dye my hair for that kind of dough.

The hurdles:

Competency. Sure, rain on my parade. I don't know a lot about football. But I am talking "Replay Official." Two weekends ago, the replay official botched 7 calls. Please don't check the facts on this – trust me, after all I own a whistle and a black cap. And I will throw a flag for Interference of you disagree – and may even throw your butt out of the game. See, an official's mentality. But seriously, were I an official, I would have a portable radio that gets the TV spectrum as well. Then I would listen to the game, and just make the call that the announcers say is so obvious. They would be my unpaid and unrecognized analysts. I would not have to know rules, just choose between a couple of choices.

Sexual Discrimination. I don't think that the pros have a female official. And I don't think it has anything to do with competence – I think the NFL would think the official would be tempted to pose in Playboy and embarrass the league. That is the real issue. I would tell the NFL commissioner that I don't plan on doing that at all – I would not want to jeopardize my six figure per year salary for a one time check.

Well, that is all the hurdles I can think of, partly because I just want the job so badly.

And now the arguments to "seal the deal." The NFL doesn't care how the games are officiated – they just don't want to be embarrassed. And if I am listening to the commentary, they tell you which of the two possible outcomes is considered a bonehead outcome. I just have to choose the outcome that is not bonehead. I can do that. If all of the replay calls were handled by popular opinion, I am sure the NLF commissioner would be happier.

Plus, all I would need is to be physically presentable – and have facial expressions that show I am weighing all of the options. I can easily disguise the earpiece; it will look like I am in constant communication with the head official.

And I could care less who wins any of the games. My favorite team is only my favorite because of the state in which I live. I am not a die-hard anything fan. The only prep-work I would need is a chart, showing me which team wore which jerseys. And I would not really even know that, as the officials don't get to talk with the press after the game. I just have to repeat what I hear in my ear.

So if you hear about any openings, please let me know. I already have my whistle.

Changing an Image

I have been thinking about perceptions lately. And being the self-proclaimed Attention Whore that I am, I was thinking of how others perceive moi. Here are three examples that I noticed last week:

Example 1: Erotic Blogs I Like
I guess it started months ago, when I noticed that someone placed a link to my site under "Erotic Blogs I Like." There are actually several people who have me listed under that (GP, monica). Now, for those who have erotic blogs themselves, I understand the categorization. But those who have more generalized blogs, I am sort of set in the section behind the curtain. Perhaps that is appropriate.

Then I remembered my blog categorization – "Blogs that Dampen my Panties." Pretty much the same categorization. I went through the blogs this morning, and we have yet another blogger than has stopped – Ken from Louisiana. I saw that he stopped writing recently, and I did not mention it on my blog the other day. Another brick in the wall – or would this be another brick missing in the wall?

Example 2: Coming Along Nicely
Playfully, monica mentioned that my blog turns her mind to the naughty in the comments section of a blog last week.

Example 3: The Kingy Awards
And if you have been reading for a while, you know I like Ddot. He has one heck of a blog. Last week, the winners of the The Kingy Awards were announced. I really creative idea – he made nominations, and anyone who wanted to vote would cast a vote via e-mail. It is a very funny post – his funniest posts are the ones where he either interviews people or otherwise describe conversations or events (like the Awards Ceremony). I won an award (and was a presenter for another award). The award I won was "Blogger you most want hump female." And apparently I got more votes than anyone else. So it is not Ddot that is saying I am the "Blogger you most want hump female." But the voters (worse). I am a consensus slut. Not sure I want to write an acceptance speech for this one – "yes, thank you for voting on my as skank of the year; I will try to live down to the award." I had a boyfriend once who thought it was a compliment to be called "fuckable," but for some (most?) women, it is no true compliment. And I know the boyfriend was trying to compliment me. Guess this is one of those Venus-Mars differences.

Now, all of the people that I have described above are dear to me – and through their blogs, I generally like them. I know they mean no harm, but they see me as some Hugh Hefner without the pipe and smoking jacket, peddling smut to whomever. That is foremost in their minds. Okay, I guess a better example would be Jenna Jameson – she may have lots of adorable attributes, but generally, people don't get past the sexual stuff. First time I saw part of a Jenna Jameson video was in a conference room – so I think she is fairly "mainstream" now.

Now I have a problem – I mean, I have thought about removing my erotic stories several times. And I have not removed them. That is just part of who I am. And I am writing, for the most part, because I want to improve my writing. But there is a part of me that wants to please others – hence, I try to make Joe's morning by at least posting something. Joe, I hope it is okay if these blog entries are made by 9:00 AM. Call the circulation desk if the blog is late, sweetie.

But I should go back to the last paragraph – I have a problem. Because it disturbs me a little. And I know it shouldn't, but it does. Now, I am wondering why – I hope it is more of a calendar thing (hint for the male readers: almost that time of the month). Now I am asking for my monthly visit – oh, where in the heck is that Paxil sample my shrink gave me.

Sidenote comment. Okay, I just looked up the side effects of Paxil, and here is what strikes me as interesting. 1% of people discontinued use of the drug because of flatulence – and 0.3% of people discontinued use of the placebo because of flatulence. Okay, this is disturbing on two fronts – (1) some people got gas from taking a sugar pill, and (2) people would rather have depression than fart. Granted, I am not sure how much of a problem this particular side effect is. I mean, if you sounded like a trombone section of the local symphony, perhaps the side effects may cause more psychological harm than the normal effects of the drug cause good. I don't know; see your doctor.

Oh, look at me, I am getting away from my problem. Do I really care what others think of me here? Apparently I do – and I am not sure I want to. Now, what I hope doesn't happen is that I make a bunch of people feel guilty. I don't want that. And I don't want people changing how or if they link to me.

I don't know where to go with this. Part of me wants to delete the whole monolog, and I hope that no one takes offense. I have tentatively titled this entry – "changing an image". Perhaps that is not the best title for this. I guess we all have images – I have an image of myself, you have an image of me, and everyone who comments or just lurks has an image as well. I let my ideas flow fairly freely here – more so than at work or in public (although my hubbie knows me better than anyone, including things I just won't share with anyone else - ever). I guess what I am driving at is that if I have a sexual thought, my word processor captures it. If I was having a beer with ~deb, it would not resemble a "Girls Gone Wild" video. You'd have to have video surveillance once she invites me in for a nightcap – kidding. I guess all I am saying is that I have some self-control in public, that I don't grab any guy's ass just because, and that I don't have a potty mouth. Yeah, I think about sex sometimes. But most of us do. I just happen to write about it.

Now for something completely different. So, I wrote a site, asking the following question: "I have several questions about your National Novel Writing Year 2006 - how much exactly is 100,000 words? I want to write a book in one year, and I am trying to find a good motivator."

The answer I got: "100,000 words is one hundred thousand words. Just kidding. It's about a 500 page book. Of course, this doesn't have to be all one book. It could be two 250 pages books, five 100 page books, or some other combination."

Everybody is a comedian. Then I looked at my question and thought – what bad sentence structure. Oh, she is going to think I am some literary hack. Ah, another image problem. Son of a bitch. Maybe I do care about my image.

Perchance To Dream

I just wanted to post a letter written for ~Deb here. I just liked it. I sort of wish people would write me. Oh, I hide my email address. That explains it.

---

Dear ~Deb,

I was wondering if you would post this on your blog. I typically blog about the Bee Gees, installing vinyl floor, and why the WNBA is not a commercially viable sport. You might imagine I have loads of regular readers, but I don't want to post on the subject of religion. I am an avid reader of your blog, and this subject seems much more at home with your blog. Plus, I don't want to be labeled a "kooky religious type" by my readers, so I would like to share these thoughts more anonymously.

I had a dream recently, and this one little dream has changed my entire outlook on life. How can that be, you wonder? I dreamt about my mother, and it was one of the most intense dreams I have ever experienced. My mother died less than one year ago, and if you have ever lost a parent, there are always "loose ends." I said goodbye, but not the best goodbye I could have said.

And I regretted it.

So I am dreaming about my mom, and she is telling me that everything is okay, and that she loves me. I could smell her perfume, feel her touch and her hug seemed so real. I awoke, and the senses were so real. I lay in bed, wondering if I was dreaming or if this was real. I just could not tell the difference.

My dreams are not necessarily very real. I can tell when I am dreaming, so this dream shook me to the core. You see, I believe that my mother visited me in my sleep. I don't have words to describe the experience. Some would say that my mother was an angel, and you know, angel means "messenger." That makes sense. I was deeply troubled over this, and mom came to me to comfort me, to remind me that she was still in my heart.

I think a lot about my religious beliefs, and I believe in an afterlife. Until recently, though, my thoughts of an afterlife have not been concrete. I never thought people "crossed over." Or that there was a blurry line between this life and the next life. I don't believe we will be floating in clouds, strumming harps (though, I enjoy harp music). I just think the experience will be something we cannot comprehend as humans.

When we shed our skin, though, I believe that things will be wonderful, and I thought those who have passed before us have better things to do than to dabble in the affairs of this world. And I think I was wrong, very wrong.

I truly believe my mother has communicated with me. And that may make me a "kooky religious type". Things sometimes seem better when God is a paper dragon, segmented in his own area. You know, think about him on the Sabbath, and spend the other six days worrying about the affairs of men.

And I think I am wrong. Thanks, ~Deb, for posting this, for hiding my kookiness in your wonderful blog.

God Bless,
A Friend

Pink Panties

Okay, last week I was walking somewhere – in a local mall, actually. Normally I don't like malls. But I like people-watching, so part of the mall experience is okay with me. I just feel rushed, like people are trampling one another to get to the next store, the next sale.

Anyway, I was deep in thought, and looked up and saw what I thought were pink panties. As you are aware, one of the fashion trends over the last few years are having pants that dip lower so that you can see the woman's (or girl's) underwear. And it is usually a thong of some sort.

Immediately I thought it was a pink thong, and my reaction – quite odd. But then I noticed it was not a woman but a man, and his undies were pink. Now I don't think to myself WTF, but if ever there was a call for that phrase, it was then in that mall at that time.

If I was more forceful, I should have asked the guy, "What is it with pink undies?" But I am not that bold – plus, he would think it was a come-on. And I don't need some 20-year-old hunk wanting to dive into my panties with all of the issues I have been through these last several years. Okay, no incite as to why this guy is wearing pink undies – briefs, not boxers.

But then I have to tell you –I do look at underwear. If you can see undies, I am looking at them. Not because of anything sexy at all, but because I am curious. When I was in school, the choices in underwear were rather tame by today's standards. That is, if you did not go to Frederick's of Hollywood (VS was around, but their undies were fairly tame by today's standards; they have definitely gone towards more racy). And sorry if I misspelled Fredericks – as I recall, it had a funny spelling.

I buy my hubbie colorful underwear. I do. I am not sure he has bought his own underwear (I normally call them undies, and he corrects me – "underwear") in the past ten years. His mother used to buy them, and that just gave me the willies. You know, Oedipus Rex. Just gross!

There is a secretary in our office – who wears midriff-baring tops and undies-exposing pants quite often. No big deal, but she is in her fifties. She has children who wear that type of thing, but she does too. Okay, she has a body that is really good for her age, but it is just a little weird for me. Guess I am more conservative than I once thought.

I have never bought my hubbie pink undies – heck, he might as well wear mine! Hmmmmmmm. We have not done that before.

Help - Novelist Wanted

You know me – I write for me. Not that I started writing for me on my blog – some of my earlier posts were somewhat manufactured. "I wonder if they would be interested in this." Now I write for me – and I think it is better. Even if it is not, it is all me.

I normally don't ask a lot of my readers – okay, recently, I have asked you to visit "Still Walking." But that is the exception – agree (~deb) or disagree (prata), love (ddot) or hate, I don't care why most read me. Or for that matter, I don't care if anyone reads me.

Anyway – I am doing two things today. I am posting twice (something I really don't like doing) and asking advice (ditto; I like being thought of as "all together" plus I don't follow most advice, even if it is good advice).

Unlike Grant, I did not participate in National Novel Writing Month. And now I want to participate, but it is January, not November. Ain't life a bitch? So, does anyone participate in the National Novel Writing Year? Is there anything else out there that facilitates novel-writing? Sort of like lighting a fire under my lazy ass?

Is there something else that works? Completely different something.

Also, is there a vanity publishing company that someone has used and recommends – not for what I am writing but for something that was written long ago that has no commercial value? I would like a good hardback binding – leather or no. I know, most of you think I would like the leather.

I am just looking for answers that don't involve atomic chickens.

Stormie Days

A couple of weeks ago (has it been that long?), I noticed that a certain blog, Bitterest Pill, was unavailable. [You can click on the link and get the "blog not found" message I received.] I figured blogspot was spotty, sort of like me on day 6 – not a new thing. Sure, in December, Stormie, the author of the blog, said that she was probably going to cut back on her blogging, devoting time to other things. She and hubbie went to Key West to renew vows (I think, perhaps it was a second honeymoon). Next thing I know, she is gone.

Then I read someone else – sorry, not a regular blog I read, and I can't find it again – has a blog about "is blogging dead?" and talks about all of the people who have blown up blogs recently. Now, I am not sure that I want to re-hash this issue. I just thought that I did not have a chance to say goodbye to Stormie. Yeah, I know she is not dead, but for those of us who are accustomed to reading her, her blog is dead. And that's all we knew.

Then I saw a comment, two actually, on Just Walking, that said basically, "I think I am not going to contribute to your writing blog because either your writing is too good or your are just too damn sexy." Okay, you know I don't curse, but I wanted to give you the flavor of the comments. The writing bit – it was not directed at me, but at other writers. And the sexy part was well-masked but we know who they were discussing as well (I am guessing it is one of the cute guys). The only concern I have is that the other writers are a bit too good – and it is scaring me and others away. I hope I am wrong about this one.

There is this site called You're the Man Now, Dog – and I think it is from the Finding Forester movie. I have no idea what this site is supposed to be. It just confuses me. But they have something on Paris Hilton, and it is strange. Sort of fascinating. It flashes through a bunch of Hilton photos – none of the naughty ones on her video – and her face fails to change. I don't know if these are cleverly photoshopped – Kathi may have done it herself, but it is something to consider. Is Paris Hilton real.

Sorry guys – not in the blogging mood today! Guess it is a Stormie Day here. Have a wonderful Thursday!

Phrases that Bug Me

This is a light, fun post. You know, I wonder if Jesus ever said to his Disciples, "Listen, boys, I know I am making you work extra hard talking about the Trinity, or salvation, or whatever, let's say we just go fishing today."

Not that I would compare myself to a saint, let alone the Son of God, but sometimes when I post more reflective posts for a while, I want to take a breather. Know what I mean? It's like when your hubbie has satisfied you a few times (and in various ways) in one evening, and you have to say, "Let's just take a break for a little while. I am getting a little tender."

Today I want to prattle about phrases that bug me.

"To tell you the truth"
This signals to me someone who doesn't always tell the truth. It doesn't matter what follows, I always make a mental note – this person is a liar. But he is a courteous liar, as he is informing me when he is truthful. But then I wonder, can I believe this? Even if I am not wondering this consciously, I believe the unconscious makes these leaps. Not a good phrase to use when interviewing.

"What are you thinking?"
Okay, I will admit it. I use this phrase when talking to hubbie. At first, I thought it was fuller. But the more I think about it, what I am really saying is "I want to talk to you, please make noise and I will start yammering about what interests me." At least that is what ends up happening.

"I don't mean to interrupt, but"
When has anyone ever said "I don't mean to interrupt" and meant it. Yes, you mean to interrupt, and you are being quite effective at doing it. I think what you meant to say is "pardon me." Please notice that saying "pardon me" is more concise and does not paint you a freakin' liar.

"I don't mean to pry, but"
Okay, this is sort of like the above phrase – except this phrase seems to be said by family members. Do family members get a free pass at prying? Heck yes, in my family. My mother-in-law uses this phrase, and if she could have her way, she would attach strings on my arms, legs and mouth. I would be a marionette, because she knows more about her boy than I do.

He is not a mamma's boy, but he generally doesn't want to hurt mamma's feelings. I get that. But I feel like if she could, she would tell me how to cook, clean, and freaking lay her son. And I am a darned good cook! [Just for grins, raise your hand if you thought I was going to say I was a darned good lay?]

"I hate to tell you."
Okay, this is for us women. Some of us are gossips. And real gossips "hate to tell us" but she saw so and so flirting with our man. What the gossip means to say is "I want to tell you because I want to get your reaction" or "I have got some gossip."

I have started saying, in response to "I hate to tell you", "please don't then." And the person's face nearly turns blue (or purple) because the person needs to get the dirt out in the open. Okay, when I worked at a mostly-girl organization, I was a big time gossip. I enjoyed knowing about so-and-so's financial problems, that so-and-so's son got kicked out of school, or anything involving dripping body parts touching other people's body parts. But this really poisons the soul. You just feel bad. So I don't do it anymore (or seldom), and when you interrupt someone to say you are not interested anymore, people stop trying to spread gossip through you.

When people tell you something you think they shouldn't, stop and think, "This person believes that I will not think less of them because I will not call them on the carpet." Others think I am this type of person – and do I really want to be that way? I know I don't.

Crap, I started this out light, and here I am preaching again. Well, if you want to read something more interesting, click on this.

Oh, I just thought of some sagely advice (I am sure someone else has said it, but I have not read it, so this is semi-original):

Leesa Original Quotation: All hyperlinks lead to porn.

Knocking Me on My Ass

I have been given a little bit of feedback lately, and it reminds me that not all of my readers have read every post I have written – and I don't expect people to do that, either. Heck, I don't even do that (most posts I don't even edit), and I wrote the posts. Come to think of it, I probably read about 1/10th of my posts. Only when I am particularly proud of the post.

Girl Next Door, asked Thursday night/Friday morning about one of my statement, "when I was still a slut." And what did that mean.

For those who don't know, I am a married woman. I was married not too young (mid twenties), and me and hubbie started life on our own. We were sort of a fairy-tale couple, actually. Things just fit into place, we hardly argued (but the arguments were heated when they occurred, followed by the most wonderful, sloppy, make-up sex one can imagine). We had our share of problems – some financial problems, infertility problems, just our share of life's problems. Not too much to bitch about, really.

And then, my eyes strayed. Then my hands and lips, and then, well, you get the idea. And it wasn't because I did not love my hubbie; we just stopped working at our marriage. We were spent with some issues, especially the infertility issues. Hubbie started spending more time at work, and I spent more time fucking friends, strangers, and fellow church-members (well, the guys did not belong to my church). And, by the way, some Bible-thumpers are the kinkiest people I have ever knocked ankles with.

A reader who I will call "Coyote," remarked "even mistakes can have value." Screwing all of these guys, did indeed, have value. Our marriage was not perfect; it was failing, and I did not even know it. I didn't even know it when I was "having lunch" with all of these guys. And they were almost always married – because that made them safer.

I am, and I always have been, a religious person. I had to go to Church growing up, so I would think about the homilies, I would read the Bible when bored, whatever. And I would wonder about the rules, what God really wanted from me, and in some cases, even if God was real.

If I had one flaw (okay, I have twenty-three thousand flaws, but if you were thinking that, just back off and write in your own blog), it was that I was not very compassionate about sinners. "Rot in Hell, for all I care," was not something I would have said aloud (against the teachings of my Church), but something I felt within my bones. I could not understand the power of redemption (for Prata, redemption is "the act of delivering from sin or saving from evil", Princeton dictionary definition).

I did not understand redemption until I began forgiving myself – long after the husband I sometimes don't deserve forgave my sorry butt. Okay, I don't really think I don't deserve him, but he definitely didn't deserve getting to have to deal with all of my crap (the infidelity unlocked some secret doors, darned psyche).

Please don't get me wrong, I am not saying, "I am saved." Just that I have sinned in a huge way and through this sinning, I now am more compassionate with those who have also sinned. Personally, God, you could have knocked me on my ass (or off my horse) with a startling vision. That would have, in the long run, been less painful.

Taking Stock of a Dream

I had written another post last week, and was planning to post it today – but that will be delayed for a day because of a National Holiday. Martin L. King, Jr. Day is today, and I spend some time every MLK day to take stock of race relations – now I am not sure that is what this day is for, but that's what I use it for.

Side note: my place of work does not give MLK day off. We get St. Patrick's Day off. When I first found out about this, I thought it was subtle racism. St. Patrick's Day is an Irish holiday, and why would that be "more important" than MLK day. Well, the only reason we get St. Patrick's Day off, it turns out, is that the company is positioned downtown, and it is very difficult to conduct business on this day – Savannah has the second-largest St. Patrick's Day parade in the nation. Yeah, our dinky little city out-performs Chicago!

My memories are generally after the Nixon administration (and the courts) started righting many wrongs – yeah, Nixon was a slime-ball but his administration did several things to implement the Civil Rights Act of 1964 Johnson signed into office. For example, in response to Nixon's Department of Labor hearings that exposed continued widespread racial discrimination, Nixon developed the concept of using "goals and timetables" to measure the progress federal construction companies were making in increasing the number of minorities on their payrolls. In 1970, Nixon extended the use of goals and timetables to all federal contractors, and in 1974, Nixon declared that affirmative action programs should also include women.

End of the history lesson. I have heard more than once that "sports are the great equalizer," meaning that there are no inequalities in sports. Well, this was not always the case – a la Jackie Robinson making history in the 1940s. He was not the first black baseball player, but he was the first black baseball player in a long time that played in the major leagues (AL or NL). Okay, I am swimming over my head when I talk about sports, but there was a Negro League who had fine athletes. Jackie Robinson was not the most gifted athlete in the Negro League (from what I recall from a PBS special), but he was an athlete that the front office of the Brooklyn Dodgers thought could make the transition to the Major Leagues. Not because of skill, mind you (he was elected to the Hall of Fame in 1962), but because he could take the abuse on and off the field.

My father is a sports fan – football, baseball, basketball. Now, I remember casually watching several playoff games for the NBA – sorry if the nomenclature is off. And the two teams that I remember most are the Boston Celtics and the LA Lakers. My dad (and I since I was a daddy's girl) routed for LA. But I remember many of those games, and it looked like LA's team was almost all black, and Boston's team was almost all white. My father was not necessarily an enlightened liberal at the time – he just thought Boston's recruitment practices were racist. Most teams have a mixture of black and white players, and Boston's starting five were usually white. At least that's the way I remember it. It was not stated in the news (as I recall), but it seemed that was the case.

Personally, I would have routed for another team (if one had been good). I don't really like routing for California teams – they have great weather, glamour, most of their inhabitants are attractive, etc. I just think they should not have it all.

Fast forward to the last couple of years. Barry Bonds said he did not want to play in Boston because of the racist fans. He was crucified in the media "because of his racist remarks." Now, I really don't know about the fans in Boston. I have never been there; never knew anyone from there. But those Boston Celtic teams sort of made me think about it.

When I was a little girl, racism was blatant. I recall several incidents. Now racism is much more subtle. When I was a teenager, I remember listening politely to a neighbor of ours tells a story about when her little girl first saw a black child – and she thought it was a monkey. What a horrible thing for them to laugh about – it seems degrading to me. And this person is from "the north," where she said racism does not exist.

It is hard for me to comment on racism because "I am white." I feel less than competent to discuss the issue. But I have discussed the issue throughout my lifetime with close friends who happened to be black. And I get their prospective. Since we have similar ideas on a number of issues, I make the assumption that were I black and have endured the discrimination that they have endured, I may feel similarly. Lots of assumptions, but it is the best that I can do.

I have some friends who will avoid a state entirely just because of racial issues. Today – not twenty years ago, but today. Several people, and some don't know the others, and they all avoid the same state. Strange I know, but I would guess that many reading this would be able to guess the state.

I had a conversation with an elderly black man when I was in school. We talked about lots of things (we both thought Larry Bird was overrated because of his race, by the way). He said that race relations would continue to improve as "old codgers" like him would start to die off. That was the only way – for people like his grand daughter, and my future son or daughter – those not tainted with racism of the past – started to grow up. I believe that people can change – but as I get older, I can see his point, people don't normally change. Like the neighbor who thought it was cute that her daughter mistook some baby for a monkey. I have seen a lot of "first baby pictures" and I think most babies for the first day or two of their lives look more like space aliens. Spindly fingers, elongated heads, buggy eyes – space aliens. But I would not tell my girlfriends or sisters-in-law that because it would be rude.

I remember when the MLK holiday was new – some people (racists, perhaps, I don't know – hard to look into the heart of another) would comment about Dr. King's deficiencies. How he plagiarized when in school, etc. Funny thing is that for Presidents Day, we don't do the same (for the most part – let's exclude more recent presidents) of our presidents, especially our founding fathers.
Okay, this post has been a bit disjointed. I would just ask you to take a moment and wonder how we are doing as a nation – are we better off as far as equal treatment goes?

Tomorrow's post will be more of the normal Leesa.

Story Time

Friday the thirteenth. If you don't want to tempt fate, you need to read, "Still Walking." Just a thought. Trying to nab the all important paraskevidekatriaphobic readership demographic.

I need to finish a post I started in late October. I called it "Story Time", and it is not one of my erotic stories. Sorry, no body fluids in this post.

To set the stage, there is a very nice elderly gentleman who occasionally fills in for our regular janitor. I wish I had a picture of this man – he has a kind face, and at first glance, you would think he had salt-and-pepper hair. But his hair is all white – he is a black gentleman, and he is losing his hair so his scalp and white hair have the illusion of having salt-and-pepper hair. Age? Not sure, but from talking with him, he has to be in his eighties. His skin – which reminds me of the most wonderful chocolate ice cream – does not reveal his age. His skin seems to be all one color – and a very rich color indeed. He was probably very handsome in his youth. Were I a spry 75, I would be looking in his direction now.

Anyway, he told me a story – and in the shortening days of October, I promised to reveal his story (and I didn't do it at the time). Darned me. One of my New Year's Resolutions was to get rid of all of my draft posts in "Leesa's Stories." Finishing this story will accomplish that resolution. Teaching point: If you are tired of not accomplishing New Year's Resolutions, aim low. For instance, "I resolve not to wet myself while camping in a large group." Now everyone, well almost everyone, can nail that resolution. Now I won't embarrass any of you who have done this (that would make me a bitch, and I am sweet as pie), but someone may have written about this on November 7, 2005. Perhaps.

Back to the story. Oh, am I spastic today.

He told me a story of when he was 25 years old. He had returned from the War (I assume WW II), and to his wife. He was injured during the war, and so he was walking with the aid of a walker. Please remember, this is the 1940s, and although I was not there, I am relatively sure there were no cellular phone, and most homes only had one or two phones in the whole home (black rotary dial phones).

So this young, ill man wants to make a phone call – to his girlfriend. He did not call her that, he said, "I needed to call a girl." So he tells his wife, I am going to walk down the block to use the pay phone.

"What is wrong with our phone?" his loving wife asks.

"I just need to walk down the street and make a call," he answers.

This elderly gentleman smiles as he recalls his answer. Then he tells me that she sees right through him – she knows there is another woman.

Her next response was effective – it did was it intended.

She said, "You can go down the street and make the call if you like, but once you get back in our apartment, your ass is mine."

And he reminds me that he was walking with a walker, and he thought she might kill him. At that point, he stopped his cheating. He never made that phone call.

I can't relate the story like this gentleman – my impression is that the story was sweet, a bit shocking, and I needed to hear it at the time. It was like there is some point at which one makes a decision to change – and that was the point for this man.

Getting back to me (attention whore, remember?), after I came clean with my husband. Well sort of clean, anyway. Was I going to cheat again – I was not sure. Probably. Got drugs, went into therapy, cried a lot for the next month, and I did not know what I wanted.

There was a point in an argument when I finally got it – my hubbie wants me to be around even though I cheated. And I saw what he thought our marriage was suppose to be – an image I held for some time. I could not turn back the clock, and I hated how he sometimes looked at me. He looked at me with eyes of betrayal. Earned, yes, but it still stung me to the core.

Now we still fight, I still am bitchy at times, and we are not tossing rose petals beneath each others feet each day. But I look at him differently, with a deeper sense of love. This man's story reminded me of that on that October afternoon. She is now dead, rest her soul, but he had more than 50 years of a good marriage. Well, maybe 45 years of a great marriage and 5 years of a suck-y marriage. I don't know. But I believe I was meant to hear this man's story.

Sure, I joke about a New Year's Resolution that all but VX (sorry, VX, I am a bitch at times!) can live up to – but there is another resolution, not made because the calendar turned from one year to another, that centers on renewing my marital vows every day. That's a resolution worth keeping!

Penis is too much for Swedish sex exhibition

(Article found here)

Published: 12th January 2006 16:04 CET

JÖNKÖPING. An artist contributing to Jönköping Museum's exhibition, Vad sägs om sex? (How about sex?), has been forced to touch up his work after it was deemed inappropriate for children.

The painting portrayed a naked couple, but the director of the museum, Jan Sundström, didn't like the look of the man's penis.

"The reworking created a new piece of art - it was almost better," said the exhibition's curator, Johan Billingsten, to TT.

It was his job to contact the artist, Peter Lundström, when it became clear that the picture was too much for the museum management to swallow.

In response, the artist decided to slip references to society into the piece by covering the man's tackle with clippings from certain sex-obsessed newspapers and magazines.

The exhibition series has been the subject of much discussion in Jönköping since the first part opened in October. Ylva Maria Thompson's casts of female genetalia - all one hundred of them - caused outrage when they were revealed.

"There was a lot of talk, but then it became rather enlightening," said Johan Billingsten.

"They all looked so different."

I saw the above-listed article today, and I just wanted to make a comment or two.

Okay, an artist was asked to "touch up" his artwork because it is inappropriate for children. Who brings their children to a sex exhibition?

In the article, it mentions that the director of the museum didn't like the look of the man's penis. You know, I don’t know many men who say, "I like the look of that man's penis"

And I absolutely love the language – the art was too much to swallow! Wow.

I just can't imagine that art is "shocking" in light of it being in a sex exhibit. I mean, what did they think they were going to see, falsies?

Normally I don't post two posts in a day, but come on, this article was too funny.

Marie Antoinette – Would You Trade Places?

We have all heard of Marie Antoinette – and I am talking about the 18th century monarch, not the porn star. Okay, I am sort of assuming that there is a porn star by that name. By the way, when I googled for the porn star, I got Kirsten Dunst. Apparently she will be playing her in an upcoming film. Who would have guessed?

I was thinking about her this morning – the "Let them eat cake" chick who ended up losing her head. She embodied opulence, not only with the cake reference, but with her wardrobe (she always spent more than the king's allowance), with spending on her friends, with everything.

But would you trade places – would you get all your heart desired (minus perhaps the pure love of your king), be known by all, be able to do what you want, in trade for having your life end at what, 38? Sort of like the Elton John song – "your candle burned out long before your legend ever did". Having what some would call a fantastic life in trade for a short life.

Not sure if you have heard of Marie's "hameau." This was a Viennese retreat where she played at being at being a simple milkmaid. Now, for some reason, guys love the fantasy of a woman being a milkmaid. Or is that a French maid? You know me, I never have sex on my mind. Anyway, it is not like the Queen of France was really play acting on being a simple milkmaid. The retreat was stocked with perfumed sheep and goats (no need to have stinky animals) and the actual milking and other chores were done by servants. Marie saw herself as Helen of Troy – so like Helen, she had Sevres porcelain bowls made using a cast of her own breasts. Yes, ddot, they were reported to be "ample" in nature.

And when I was in school, no one told me Marie Antoinette was a slut. Well, she was. They talked about the opulence, her beauty, her marriage to the French King, her catch phrase, and the guillotine.

I mean, when the Parisian women stormed the palace chanting "kill the Austrian whore", I wonder what Marie was thinking. Was she thinking of the nice things she had, how servants were there, in part, just to tend to her senses? Not sure what she was thinking as she fled, half-naked from her bed.

You don't have to answer this, but what would you rather be? Someone who lived to a ripe old age with little impact on the world. Or would you like a bright flame which burned out all too soon? And I am not just talking about the material things that Ms. Marie embodied. Think of people like Kathi, who teach students – I will always remember some teachers, including one sub who told the best stories. Or your mother or father – if they really shaped your life. I think being a good parent (perhaps I should use the word "mentor"?) is the most impact thing someone can ever do.

Thinking about this makes me want to do something to impact others in a more meaningful way. Thanks, Marie Antoinette, you Austrian whore, you.

Paranoia on a Hot Savannah Afternoon

You know, I am not sure I really want to write about this for a couple of reasons – the biggest being that I don't really want you to think I am paranoid. And I just may be a little paranoid. Oh, well, here it goes.

Okay, if you have read me for any time, you know that for a time, I was Savannah's biggest slut. Well, actually I was Ms. Slut Runner Up, but that's only because I slept with two of the judges and they took those votes away from me.

Well anyway, I met this one guy who came by the shop where I worked. He was going to "take me out to lunch," which was sort of code. He left the shop, went down the street, and drove home. A few minutes later, I went to my car and drove to his house, where his car was already parked and he was inside. Okay, why the cloak-and-dagger. I was a slut, but I did not want to appear to be a slut.

So I get to his house, and he is there. His bedroom is upstairs, and I am a little taken aback by it. There was sort of a medieval theme to the room – huge shield on the wall, lots of other stuff around the room. The room was decorated in a dark brown; it was well-lit, but it did not seem well-lit because of the color scheme. Okay, the guy wants to fuck me and I am being Ms. Martha Stewart (interior decorator). There is an open window overlooking the neighborhood, and he cautions me not to step in front of the window.

I see a few pictures – he has a daughter who is 17 and beautiful. His wife if pretty as well, though she has gained a few pounds. You can tell wife and daughter look very much alike. He is handsome as well – with the beginnings of a small gut. Most people his age have a few extra pounds, though.

I notice a television in the bedroom – and there were several tapes laying in front of the television. Sort of reminded me of when VCRs were new – and you taped every movie you could get your hand on.

We moved to the edge of the bed, and we started kissing. Then we removed our clothes, and I began stroking his penis, then licking it, with him on the edge of the bed.

Then he stood up and turned, and wanted to get a blow jobj while standing up – to make it last, he said. The thing going through my mind was, "Crap, now it will take even longer." When he was getting ready to cum, I could feel him pulling away slightly, and not wanting to get too sticky (remember this is during lunch), I held his penis gently but firmly and caught all of his cum as he came.

He then put a condom on, and started licking my vagina. After a little while, he placed me on his marital bed and fucked me, coming not-so-quickly. It was nice, nothing out of the ordinary.

Afterwards, we were cleaning up – and this is weird, I know, I watched him pee. I like watching men pee. So we are talking, and he looks at his watch.

We talk about what lovers talk about – how incredible "it" was (even if it was not great), how wonderful cuming was, how capable of a lover each was.

Do I need to get back to work? Yes, I do, so I leave.

A week to the day, I find myself in the same spot as before – window open, us by the bed, him touching me before we begin loving.

He wants to give me a pearl necklace this time – which I veto because of work. I am not a fan of the "gift" anyway, and I do need to be clean for work. He wants to fuck my vagina from behind – which actually was my favorite position for new lovers – and he comes quickly. Him in a trusty condom and coming quickly.

Then he starts talking about the blow job I had given him the week before. "You looked like you really wanted to eat me; you really did," he told me. And he went on and on about my facial expressions. Weird.

Then he asks if I want to watch a porno flick – so I wonder if he wants to watch while I am sucking on his lollypop. Not really something I want to do, but there was time. I now realize that those blank tapes were probably copied pornos. The guy said that his brother actually produces pornos. And then I get this creepy feeling.

I am alone in the house with this guy – and I notice that his closet was ajar. During the last "session" he does not talk about my facial expressions when I was sucking his dick. Now he goes on and on about it. Like he replayed the entire affair.

Did he videotape both sessions? Is that why the window was open – is that why he repositioned himself – is that why he warned me about being seen by neighbors?

For a brief moment, I thought about confronting the guy, and I know that is not smart. So I say that I have to be back to the shop a little early. And I get the hell out of there.

Is there a Leesa Porno for sale in Savannah? I don't know – but I am a bit paranoid about the whole thing. This could all be coincidental in nature. I have no way of knowing.

He did come back to the shop, and I lied to him. I told him that I was only working at the shop part time; that on Wednesdays I got off from school to work there. That we had to break it off because I was underage. That I was sorry for the whole misunderstanding.

Okay I was mental, but I may have been caught on tape – my one prayer was that he thought he was taping an under aged woman and he got scared. On second thought, he could have just been having fun.

PS – sorry for the length of this post. Longer than I intended.

Are Looks Important?

This weekend, I needed to take a quick trip to the store. So before I left the house, I had to "make myself presentable." On the way to the store, something gnawed at me – why the flip should I spend this time beautifying me before buying milk and eggs.

I mean, I have good skin, and I don't look like some swamp creature emerging from the murky depths. I am a middle-aged woman who looks pretty darned good for being thirty-mumble. And I have timed myself. It takes me just at one hour to get ready each and every day. That is 360 hours per year – I want to give myself 5 days off, four for being sick, and one for the occasional all-day screw-fest (we all need those, ahem, "sick days").

So each year, I spend 15 full days on showering, dressing, hair and makeup. About 4% of my time is spent doing this. If I really want to see me wasting my life away, I can tack on eating (except eating out which is more "entertainment" than sustenance, sleeping (except for the occasional erotic dream that is more "entertainment" than sustenance), and going to the restroom (except for the occasional masturbation in the restroom that is more "entertainment" than sustenance). All totaled up, I bet all of these overhead activates account for 12 to 15% of each day of my life. How sad.

Getting back to my neighborhood shopping trip – I am so glad that I "made myself up." The first reason is that some shopper looked like a Mademoiselle model (yeah, I know the magazine went under, but those were the models when I was in school). And I was thinking, how long does she take to get ready. And I prayed that it was 2 or more hours per day.

The second reason was that I ran into a past lover. It has happened a couple of times recently, but this was the least embarrassed I have been (the other two times I was with hubbie – he did not acknowledge me, or he was with new wife-y, we actually spoke and it was awkward for both of us).

The guy looked at me in the store, and I could tell he knew he knew who I was, and then if his little pea-brain got oxygen, bang, he realized that we slept together.

"Hi, Leesa," he started. "It has been quite a while."

He got my name right, but he did not commit to when we fucked. Good strategy. A few years ago, and I could probably nail down the month – or did we dance for two months. Yeah, he was married at the time, as was I.

"How is your wife?" I ask, sort of hoping it was an ex-wife by now. He was a player.

"Fine, fine as ever."

He looked at his watch and asked if I had had breakfast yet. That is slut-speak for "my wife would not miss me for an hour, want to fuck?" I know that's what he meant.

And I just said, "No, hubbie and I have plans today. See you around."

I wanted to talk about my growth, about how I think he is a sex addict or a bad person, how it is so much nicer being with one person, but I thought, "Why?" That's all I thought. Did I want to say those things because I had grown and I suspected he did not? Was I going to just show off, be a better person? I really don't know. But at that moment, I wanted more than anything to not be tempted – because I knew he wanted to feel me up in his car, or to swing by the office and fuck in his office.

Yeah, I love my hubbie. But I did not want to tempt myself. It is easy with new people, because I don't know for sure how far they will go in a short time. But for past lovers, it is like each of us holds a free pass to engage in naughtiness because we have already seen each other naked and explored each other sexually.

Yeah, I passed on the thinly veiled invitation, and perhaps I passed another test. Will I ever get past these feelings? I sure hope so. Until then, I am just staying out of these situations.

Yeah, I am a tease, but now I want only to be a tease.

By the way, this was in this month's Glamour (they owned Mademoiselle) magazine:

Glamour List: 13 risks worth taking in bed
By Eliza Marston

1. Waking him up to act out what you were dreaming.
2. Banishing the television, the dog, the phone, the Blackberry and definitely any stuffed animals, leaving you alone...with him.
3. Coed naked karaoke.
4. Telling him there are better things he can do with his mouth than talk.
5. Doing it really fast, even if you're all dressed and ready to head out the door.
6. Not worrying about the neighbors.
7. Making him get naked first.
8. Having sex that answers the question "What would it be like if we (fill in the blank)?"
9. Not letting your period stop you.
10. Any position that makes your belly look flabby but your body feel good.
11. Banning anatomically correct terms (use the dirty words instead).
12. Declaring a do-over.
13. Saying "I love you" during instead of after.

Chatting with a Titan

Okay, I wrote a post for Friday and accidentally posted it Friday instead of Monday. Now I have written something that I will throw away – so instead of throwing it away, I decided to post it for Monday. If you have been following my blog the last few days, you know that several of us will be contributing to a story – it could be great, it could be original, or it could be lame. Let's hope it is entertaining, at least. Prata was first up-to-bat, so click on the link if you want to see the beginning of the story.

The only light in the bedroom was from her computer screen, bathing everything in a cool blue light. Her eyes were on the monitor, and she quickly tapped in information.

She was in a chat room, and she was conversing with someone who said they were from Minnesota. She knew this was a lie, though he was routing his traffic through an ISP in Minnesota.

As she tapped, she wondered who he really was. She knew he did not really want her to know his true identity, and he was very good at hiding it. But how good was he really. She had analyzed his words, his thoughts, everything he let her see. How much of it was a lie, and how much of it was really part of him. She could not tell, though she assumed that part of who he really was had to emerge from their correspondence.

His avatar/handle was "Titan." Titan, she thought. What does that reveal? Does he have an inferiority complex and he has to use such a name to feel better about himself, does he like the football team, or is his ego that big. Judging from his other chats, she knew he was cocky.

She had a piece of paper on this guy. He was cocky, a fast typist, quoted Shakespeare a lot. Was he as young as she was?

She nervously and unconsciously twirled her hair with her right index finger. As her hair bounced back into place, one could see how nervous she felt – the hair looked like she was using a curling iron on that strand of hair.

She really needed to be reading Brontë for English Lit, but here she was typing to an egotistical liar who wanted her to help him do something . . . . illegal.

Doodling

A few days ago, I wrote a blog about writing. And since many of the people who read my drivel are writers or wanna-be writers, it struck a chord.

Okay, I admit it. I read all of my comments, but when I go to others' sites, I don't necessarily read the comments – just the blogs. That is not always true, but it is true some of the time. Just depends how busy I am.

Well, if you are sometimes like me (not the part of me that gives the best BJs in the Savannah area, but the reading of comments part), you do the same thing. So if you missed some of the comments, here they are (editing out some of the paragraphs for brevity):

prata: You know Leesa...(and others) I was just thinking. We should each coordinate a time, and anyone that enjoys writing fiction of some sort, have a little brainstorm event. Somethin' like, we each challenge each other with a form of writing.

What I mean is, each interested individual lay out what they typically write (I am currently writing vampiric fiction) and someone else picks that as their type of short writing to do. Whoever picks that as their category leaves behind the category they normally write about and I am forced to write on that category.

I think that might stimulate some of us into branching out a bit and maybe test our writing skills a bit. Sort of like "organized doodling" lol if that makes any sense.

kyuball: I'm in, or if I fink out, I will take pictures of my penis and post it on my blog. Oh, and Leesa, that Pieces girl is hot.

~deb: What about starting a community blog where each person writes two paragraphs of the 'same story'---creating a fictional outcome. You have writer #1. Who will of course, write the first two paragraphs, then you have writer #2, and so on. ?? Any thoughts of that?

Okay, kyuball didn't type that. But he meant to – I can tell.

Well, prata stepped up to bat and created a site. Now I know what you are thinking: Leesa, why didn't you create the blog because I know you want to see kyuball's erect penis on his site and he is sure to fink out. To that, I answer: stop talking about kyuball's penis – you are making me wet.

But seriously, I think it is a great idea. I don't know how many will participate (I am sort of hoping kyuball will not), but I am game. Visit prata's blog to get more information – and join prata, ~deb, and me!

You are picturing her naked, aren't you?

I couple of days ago, I wrote about Muse, and Pieces congratulated her on her winning Bloggin' Hottie of the Month for December in the comments to that day's post. Classy move from a classy lady. My response to Pieces was: "knowing my hubbie, you would be his wet dream; really! So stay away from Savannah, please. And you are a hottie, sweetie! Darned you!"

Sort of a smart ass comment, but I meant it. I have been with my hubbie long enough to know what kinds of women get his engines running. People who have been in long committed relationships probably know who their mates are attracted to. It is just part of being a couple (married, living together, straight, gay, whatever).

I remember having a conversation about what turns hubbie on years before we were married. And his answer told me nothing: "I like breasts." Thanks, sweetie. So enlightening.

Over the years, consciously or somewhat unconsciously, I began to notice what types of women turned his head. A woman can tell when her man (or woman?) checks someone out while having you on his arm. And lucky for me, most of the woman he looked at were similar to me – brunette, short, not huge breasts (thank goodness!), more cute than sexy – but can be sexy. Young face, looks fresh, nice smile – not sure if I can nail this down. But if you wander over to Pieces, it is just like she looks. Hubbie never told me this, but over time, I figured it out.

Earlier this year – well, technically last year, last summer – we were at an end-of-summer work picnic for my hubbie's work. By the way, a little rant: why do employers want people to spend their free time with co-workers? I never go to anything at my work (hubbie is more of a bread-winner), but we go to hubbie's because of the politics involved. I admit I sometimes want to know what people look like so when hubbie is telling his stories, I can picture the cast.

Okay, so we are at this summer picnic. You know, where you reserve a place at a park, play volleyball (or horseshoes or whatever), eat food that potentially will make you sick, and chat about nothing of substance.

I had noticed my hubbie' "checking her out" (wife of a co-worker) stare a few times, and I went over to where he was, and I whispered in his ear: "You are picturing her naked, aren't you?"

I just wanted to let him know he was busted.

He gave me a little laugh – and I can tell his laughs. I know he wanted it to sound like the "you are full of crap" laugh, but it was the nervous "how can I mitigate the damages" laugh.

When I was younger, I would get mad. But I have figured out that men are visual creatures. He was not picking her instead of me, but she stirred something in him. She was his wet dream that day. And another rant: why don't women have wet dreams when they are in adolescence? It is sort of a rip off, boys get to virtually screw girls in their dreams, and it is so real that they have an orgasm, and girls "get their periods." How fair is that?

Now that I am older, I know my hubbie better, and he looks because he is a guy. Muse is gorgeous – and I know she turns lots of heads. My hubbie would never give her a second glance (unless he were in NY and she was naked in a window). But his eyes would follow Pieces' face, her chest, and watch her ass as she walked down the street. And why I am still a bit jealous (uncontrollably), I no longer get mad at hubbie.

So even if he does picture the co-worker's wife naked, he is coming home with me. He loves me, and I understand that is work – he spends energy in loving me. And that gives me pause to smile, and love him even when his eyes occasionally wander.

Resolutions

Earlier this week, I was going to start off with a New Year's resolution post. I was going to be sort of in-your-face, and it did not work really well. There are others who are much better at this.

The premise is good, though. I saw a t-shirt the other day with the words: "Change is good: you go first." Which led my little brain to think: why the heck do I have to change – you go first, as far as New Year's resolutions go. I was going to rant on easy targets – folks who need changing. It was supposed to be "in your face" and I fell flat on mine when writing it.

So I am picking myself back up, deleting all of the drivel and continuing.

I actually think self-improvement is an important part of growing. I want to grow mentally, spiritually – I just don't want to grow my ass. Know what I mean?

But I was thinking of past New Years Resolutions, and probably for the last several, it included getting rid of 10 pounds. Thanks to VX, I will try to extract 8 pounds this year, and I don't want any of them coming from my breasts (Oprah said that when she lost weight, and she is a pro, that the first thing she lost were her breasts). My resolutions were not really resolutions – I was not resolved to do something. I have been exercising, so I am more toned, but I have not dropped one pound.

Which brings me to writing – I am going to continue to write this year. Lisa wondered last month if her blogging was keeping her from more important writing. And, truth be told, I thought the same thing. But then I thought – you know, I started blogging to improve my writing. I really did. Painters don't start with masterpieces – they start on scraps of paper, and even when planning a great work, they do many other drawings in preparation. I think writing is the same. You just don't start and finish a novel by merrily typing into the computer. Well, I don't think I can.

So this blogging is sort of like doodling to me. It is fun, it is interesting, and I can try out different things, with nothing but an audience of very interesting adults reading and critiquing my stuff.

Over the last two weeks, several things have been bouncing in my little brain – did not write them down. I have noticed that writing is also good for other things – I sort of plan what I want to say and say it. So sometimes I am improving myself just because I want to write about it. It may not make sense – one person journaling said he led a more interesting life because he wanted to write about interesting things. And my blogging is a form of journaling. ~Deb turned her journaling into a book, and while I want to write about other things, I am turning my blogging into something. What? I have not a clue – but if you continue reading my daily rantings, perhaps we can get there together.

Milestones

Today is my 100th Post – I noticed that I was on 99 yesterday. A milestone. I have looked at others blogs, and many don't seem to get past 5 or 10; of course, this is not the case for the active bloggers who post comments on my site.

Instead of talking about the milestone in particular, I started thinking about other milestones – 25/30/40/50/60 years of marriage, certain birthdays (21, 30, 35, 40 and so forth), certain years on the job (after the probational period, for instance, when they can't fire you "just because the boss didn't get laid last night").

Our minds look for order in a chaotic world, and these milestones make order out of chaos. What is the difference between post 78 and 100 (I have no idea), or between 23 and 25 years of marriage (two less orgasms? two more orgasms?), now really. Why do we strive to lose five or ten pounds, not 8.2? Because we like order.

Now, I am very qualified about order. Part of the reason I busted my bum writing all the erotica before Christmas was because I wanted an entry on each and every work day. Why does that really matter?

There is even order in meeting at a bar – staring across the room, eyes meeting for a few seconds longer than comfortable, guy always approaching girl (unless the girl wants to gets screwed in the bathroom that very instant), yelling over music about trivial stuff, buying a drink or asking to dance, and so it goes. Is this a bit over-the-top? Only a little.

And girls have milestones for dates. Unless it is extraordinary, sex on the third date (or whatever the milestone happens to be). For me, it started out as months, then certain number of dates, then fewer dates, and after married and I was screwing around, it was hours and then as soon as I could close the freaking door. A little over the top, yes.

Recently, Lisa had her three year blogging anniversary. Wow. And I am sure I have missed others' one year anniversaries (significant as well).

Car mileage? 100,000 or 150,000 or whatever. Point is, we all look for patterns, and some of the patterns we call milestones. Even at work, every day (how about quitting time, or each Friday for some). We of limited time to concentrate, we have sometimes very short milestones. That's okay, too.

I think calendars were invented, in part, to celebrate milestones. If hubbie ever forgot our anniversary (another milestone), I would staple his testicles to the wall. Hey, I am a sweet Catholic girl, but don't forget the anniversary, hun. Know what I mean?

I have heard that calendars are our biggest downfall – they categorize us into "young", "middle-aged", and "old." I am not sure about that. Just look at Muse. She is probably over 30 – and fucking gorgeous. Please note, I do not use the turn "fucking" much at all, so you know she is hot, hot, hot. She is the Bloggin' Hottie of December. I received this in my mail the other day (I nominated someone for Bloggin' Hottie, and she just needs to place a few more pics on her blog before they list her for the day (wink at GP); now I am on their monthly email – and I am just not a breast kinda gal!):

1. Bloggin Hottie Of December

Muse was voted as the Bloggin Hottie of December so make sure you check her out. She is a killer gal and I am glad to see all of you that voted made a great choice!

2. *NEW* Bloggin Hottie Of 2005!

There is a new poll starting on January 4th, 2006 that will take the past BHOTM's and give them a chance to be crowned as the Bloggin Hottie of 2005. Voting will last for 3 weeks and will end on January 25th, 2006. So make sure you vote! The winner will recieve a special custom button that she will be asked to put on her blog. Congrats to all the BHOTM's!

The site does not have the voting set up yet, but try later in the day. Let's stuff the ballot box for Musey – even though there is another box of hers that is currently, ahem, getting stuffed. Sorry – couldn't resist.

Back to milestones. So here is to our brains, making the number 100 seem much more significant than 99, or 69 for that matter. And why is 69 often forgotten? I wonder.

Erotic images can turn you blind

18:09 12 August 2005
NewScientist.com news service
Gaia Vince

Researchers have finally found evidence for what good Catholic boys have known all along – erotic images make you go blind. The effect is temporary and lasts just a moment, but the research has added to road-safety campaigners’ calls to ban sexy billboard-advertising near busy roads, in the hope of preventing accidents.

The new study by US psychologists found that people shown erotic or gory images frequently fail to process images they see immediately afterwards. And the researchers say some personality types appear to be affected more than others by the phenomenon, known as “emotion-induced blindness”.">NewScientist.com news service
Gaia Vince

Researchers have finally found evidence for what good Catholic boys have known all along – erotic images make you go blind. The effect is temporary and lasts just a moment, but the research has added to road-safety campaigners’ calls to ban sexy billboard-advertising near busy roads, in the hope of preventing accidents.

The new study by US psychologists found that people shown erotic or gory images frequently fail to process images they see immediately afterwards. And the researchers say some personality types appear to be affected more than others by the phenomenon, known as “emotion-induced blindness”.

Okay, I saw this article many months ago, saved it to my "Drafts" and never commented on it. I will comment on it today. Well, sort of. The story is interesting and cute; not sure it is Earth shattering. But I have been very cognizant on my site not to include erotic images. Not because I think you are viewing my blog on your Blackberry while traveling down I-95 going 60 miles per hour. But because for some, erotic images are very intoxicating. Not many, but some.

And I have been going back and forth about composing other erotic stories now that I am a changed woman, whatever the heck that means. Should I still compose such stories, or does this cheapen my blog, my writing, my soul. I don't know the answer to this.

When I first started composing my erotic stories, I e-mailed them to a woman in England. She had an erotic site, and she posted stories of amateur writers like me. Well, every once in a while I would make sure her site was still up. I could tell from the postings that it was dying – we have all seen that from sites. Well, the site has died, not sure when it dies, but it has died.

I am toying with the idea of taking those stories, not the one's I wrote (since they are all on my blog), and posting them to another blog, one at a time. I am not sure how long it would take me to do this, but it would be a chance at not losing these works.

Anyway, here is the site I have chosen. But I cannot promise how long I can keep this up. Perhaps over time, I can add a helper or two, if there are other stories that others want to preserve.

Happy 2006!