When your husband come out of the bedroom questioning you if his jeans shrunk in the wash because they feel pretty tight, then only to realize they’re not his jeans, but YOUR jeans.
P.S. They’re my postpartum jeans.
P.P.S. I’m not fat.
P.P.P.S. I’m big boned.
P.P.P.P.S And no, that’s not just what fat people say because they’re fat. I really have a larger skeletal frame.
Grace in Small Things: Part 3 of 365
lemon meringue pie
Dirty Dancing on stage –> seriously gave me chills; I fuckin’ LOVED it.
Updated:Apparently I should read my feeds before creating a post because when I think I have a great!, funny! idea, it would so happen that I post it on the same day as Jenny, The Bloggess – my blog crush – *waves* Hi Jenny! What up? Can’t wait for your BlogHer vagina party! *fist bump*
Now this posts just makes me look like a total copy cat loser and I totally fuckin’ destroyed her awesome (Destroying her awesome is pretty well impossible, but get the jist – and if you don’t? Well could could get a fist). I just mulched a funny into a clusterfuck of crap. Do yourself a favour and just go read over there. She cuts and pastes and shit. Totally better.
In keeping up with this week’s theme, I thought I’d share this little tidbit with you.
Just picture it: Barack, Michelle and the children sitting down to dinner in their new White House dining room. Maybe a television on near by to hear the latest news and stories about Barack’s first couple days in office only to hear mention of Barack and fisting in the same sentence ON NATIONAL TELEVISION.
What? Don’t look at my like that, it’s entirely plausible.
Seen them, bought them for other people (as gag gifts) but have never owned one. I’ve thought about it a few times, even been accused of it, but never – still – have bought one for myself. I don’t typically shy away from sex conversations, (most) bodily fluids or even Teh Porno, but I just can’t bring myself to buy something.
I waffle back and forth when the topic comes up. Like this week WM is having a giveaway on her site for a toy and I entered. Then I began thinking about why I don’t have one, if I should get one, and what kind I should get.
The giveaway peaked my attention once again and I’ve been a little more interested in finding something for myself. I then realized that the main reason I haven’t got one is because I have no idea where to start looking; how to start looking. If you’re following me on twitter you might have noticed me mention I was um… working on maybe solving my conundrum. But still… where to start… what to get… *sigh*
Then, as if it fell from the heavens, a certain website contacted me to see if I was interested in a product review or a giveaway.
Hello! Fuckin’ A.
But then I chickened on a product review.
Seriously? Maybe I am a prude.
But opted for a giveaway for you lovely readers.
I know! I can pick one for other people, but not for myself? What the hell is with THAT!?
So, for you, I spent a better part of my morning perusing strap ons (Holy Hannah!), lingerie (Umm…), and swings (Weeeeeee!) to find this vibrator for one lucky winner!
And for me?
I came to one conclusion.
I am a fuckin’ prude.
:::
So before Sunday-Â January 25, 2009 at 12:00pm EST – leave me a comment telling me how old you were when you had your first sexual experience and you’re entered to win!
If you’d rather enter anonymously, please email me at (temptingmama AT gmail DOT com) and I’ll enter you for the draw.
The winner will be chosen by the good ol’ name in a hat method where I’ll be assisted by my three year old. Appropriate, right?
I’ve repeatedly tried to correct him telling him that it’s called a Va-gina which he then calls “Bah-China”.
I think I’m gonna call it a Bah-China from now on.
Sounds so much more exotic.
:::
I’m not participating in NaBlopoMo this year. I thought about it, but November first came and went and I hadn’t written a post. I know, I know… you can thank me in Starbucks. Preferably a grande, non-fat Tazo Chai Tea Latte s’il vous plaît (that’s French for please).
:::
I have nothing intellegent to share so go read these guys.
Like the making out that doesn’t really lead to anything else but raw lips and a stubble rash (okay, so I was making out with boys a lit-tle older then moi). The making out that makes you want to get. it. on… but you don’t? Ya, that making out.
At fifteen I was “dating” a nineteen year old, kinda. Regardless, we would make out, a lot and you know? It never got old. That’s the great part about being young and “in love”. The heart flutters when you see them, the rush of panic mixed with lust the first time you hold hands. The bubbling over with excitement when you experience your first kiss together.
Mike and I, we were like that when we first started dating, but it wasn’t so much about the making out as it was about the – well, you know. Like, ALL. THE. TIME.
[Okay, I was going to write crazy hot sex, but then got scared because OMG, what if a family member is secretly lurking on my blog? so I wrote "well, you know" and I'm pretty sure even if there was a family member lurking - they would understand what "well, you know" means. Duh.]
So. Crazy hot sex. We have had it. We were passionate. In love and always in each others arms.
Eight years have gone by and we’ve slowly subsided into that typical parent-like relationship. The obligatory kiss in the morning, when he returns home from work, when we go to bed. In fact, it’s less of a kiss than it is a peck on the lips. Without thought, feeling, emotion – it’s just a kiss.
A kiss should never be just a kiss when it’s between lovers. A kiss should be passionate, heartfelt and warm. It would evoke emotion and urges. It should be meant.
It’s difficult with young children, pulling at you every second, requiring constant attention, that won’t let you put them down, and have needs that must be met NOW!; they don’t realize that when their parents are trying to share an embrace in the kitchen while dinner is simmering that it’s the first time they’ve been in each other’s arms all month week.
Dammit, I want to be kissed. I want to make out with my husband and maybe have it lead to – well, you know – I want a romance novel like scene where I’m swept up in his arms and kissed hard and passionately. I want to wake up in the morning, spooning with my husband and not in a seperate bed with my infant son.
When I heard people complain about not having sex because there was no time or energy for it after having children I scoffed at them. What do you mean no time? There’s always time for sex! I was wrong. At least with small children, sex is just about the furthest thing from my mind.
I’ve tried to explain this to Mike by telling him that as soon as my head hits that pillow I want to nestle into its soft warm-y goodness and doze off to la-la-land rather than have my head banging off the headboard to which he responded: We can do it somewhere else then. The couch? The floor? On top of the washer?
[Okay, and here I was worried about lurking family reading about hot sex. Stoopid.]
You know what would be more appealing to sex at this moment? Having the laundry washed and put away. The dish washer unloaded; the carpets vacuumed. That would be on the verge of orgasmic for me right now.
Maybe he could dress like a Chip n’ Dale. Then we’ll talk about sex on the washer.
I’ve been busy with my new boyfriend Dane. Too busy laughing my ass off to think of something creative to write. Stuff like this has been keeping me occupied:
(Strong language, NSFW)
For the other’s not interested in Dane Cook, a post from the archives:
Queen of Diversion
originally posted April 11, 2007
Mornings in our house prove to be a challenge. As I hate getting up, and dear hubs is an early riser we constantly bicker over the fact that I am a notorious snoozer. The snooze button is my dealer; I am addicted. One any given day, I will hit snooze three times. THREE. TIMES. This drives Mike to the brink of insanity since the first one wakes him then he’s up for the day; not to mention the fact I have it set for about a half hour before I have to get up.
Since he’s on course for work until mid-May he’s actually getting up at the same time as me, (instead of being out the door while I pound away on my snooze button), which definitely is a cause for more conflict in the mornings. For the past week we’ve been feuding over my addiction which as left me to one (sometimes two) hits of the button.
Today I was so sure I would try to get up at the first sound of the annoying – beeeeep, beeeeep, beeeeep, just to appease my ever-loving husband.
I didn’t succeed.
After the first one, I tried so hard to get the next one before he stirred. As it went off I started hitting the headboard trying to turn off the alarm, to my dismay the damn thing wasn’t turning off, at that point I realized: Dumbass, you’re hitting the headboard. The clocks over there.
I got up and headed for a shower. Mike soon to follow. Bitter. Bitter as all hell. Like he’s been everyday for the past week.
I will say, it’s been nice that we can have a shower together in the mornings again though (with no interruptions). Today, may have been a different story.
I sluggishly climbed into the shower while Mike was cursing me from his perch (on the can). Why can’t I just get up like a normal person? This fuckin’ snooze button has to stop. I’m going to take away your alarm clock. Blah, blah, blah-fuckity-blah.
While he went on and on I persuaded myself to make an effort at some foreplay, this would all go away (for the time being) if I just did something – anything, to redirect his attention for the snooze button to …. his penis.
He joined me in the shower, still chattering on and on about the fucking snooze button, so I made my move. I slowly reached down and touched it. Touched. It. He looked at me – and. stopped. talking. HE STOPPED!! So I continued a bit, but (faster then I thought he would) he clued into my intentions and turned to get past me; a bit flustered he started to bring up the alarm clock. Again.
Then it happened.
He stepped on the edge of the shower curtain and fell, bringing down the entire shower curtain rod with him.
There I stood, stark naked, water trickling everywhere as he was bent over, ass in the air, bracing himself against the side of the tub, the shower curtain, in a bunged up mess on the bathroom floor.
My initial reaction was to point and laugh, but I held it together long enough to ensure that he wasn’t hurt and to get the curtain rod in it’s rightful place. Then I bust a gut laughing. Oh, did I laugh! Thankfully, he thought it was pretty fuckin’ hilarious too. Though a little off target, I completed my mission.
The morning conversation was not that of my inability to get my ass out of bed anymore.
But that I tried to kill him in the shower by pushing him out of my way.
This week couldn’t end fast enough. It’s just been one of those weeks where I’m overly tired, kids are a handful and I’ve been a little stressed about Mike and his new job and potential OTHER new job.
I also had an IUD put in again and I’ve been cramping like a mofo.
Was that an over share? Yes?
How about some more?
I started taking birth control when I was 15 years old, in grade 9, and very impressionable. Oddly enough it was kind of like, “all the girls are doing it” type thing, so some friends and I ventured over to the free clinic during lunch hour one day. We naively believed that we’d just walk in there say we wanted pills and we’d be off, fully prepared to have sex, you know, just in case the situation just presented itself. Surprise! It’s Sexy Time!
The three of us stood there, staring at the gargantuan container of FREE! condoms. We were mystified by the colours! and flavours! and so excited about the prospect of losing our virginity to a chocolate! condom. Oh, with. I mean WITH a chocolate condom.
The chocolate turned out to be the most vile and disgusting one.
Just so you know.
Ahem.
Beside that humongous container were brown paper bags.
Bags to fill! with! condoms!
And that we did. Grabbing handful after handful, I wondered if I had enough. In reality, I think I took enough for a small village. But dammit, I was going to have so! much! sex!
Giggling over our stashes, we sat and waited to talk to the nurse. You know to just tell her we wanted drugs and then be back in time for class.
Foolish, foolish slutty teenagers.
Little did we know that getting birth control was a huge process. That shit’s not just handed out like candy at a parade.
The nurse called my name, I was ushered into a small office packed to the roof with books, a desk and in the corner, an examination table. Beside the examination table, a huge floor lamp.
My pulse began to race.
OH! SHIT! I thought. OH!SHIT!OH!SHIT!OH!SHIT!OH!SHIT!
The doctor came in. She looked at me with questioning eyes and sat behind her desk.
‘What are you here for?’ she asked. I looked down, scanning her desk I came across a model of woman’s reproductive organs, I looked up towards her and past her to the medical poster of a man’s reproductive organs.
What the fuck do you think I’m here for? I wondered.
‘Um. Birth Control pills.” I state meekly.
“I see.” she said sternly, “are you sexually active?”
Haha! She said sexually! I thought. So mature, right? “Um. No. But I wanna be prepared. Just in case.”
In case? In case what? A penis just accidentally FALLS into my vagina?!
She accepted my shitty answer.
“All right then. We’ll set up an appointment for you to come back for your pap and then I can write you the prescription.” she stated as she scribbled on a pad of paper.
WHAT! THE! FUCK!?
“I don’t get them now?” I asked. So stupid child. So stupid.
“No. You have to have a physical first, then I can write the prescription for you, you slutty little teenager.”
So she scheduled the appointment. I walked out into the waiting room and was likewise met with ghastly white faces of my friends. It seems they also faced the same situation.
We whispered to each other about having to undergo a pap test and OMG! have the doctor look at our lady bits.
As I clutched the brown paper bag of coloured! and flavoured! condoms to my chest, I convinced myself it couldn’t be that bad. I mean, at least the doctor was FEMALE because OMG! I wouldn’t want a MAN looking at my lady bits!!
So much to learn young grasshopper. So much to learn.
If you’ve been following my Tweets this morning you’d see that I’ve been freaking over the loss of my 2GB flash drive. I admit that I haven’t been entirely careful with it considering it holds a bunch of valuable information for my work’s new websites – yes, WEBSITES. Stupid me hadn’t backed it up to a computer, just kept everything on the flash drive. The flash drive that has been MIA over the past week I’ve been avoiding my boss’ requests for visual updates. I may have even used the excuse that my toddler hid it on me because what good are children if you can’t implicate them for missing items. But being that it’s a new week and *should* of had the opportunity to find it over th weekend, I can no longer avoid his requests. Hence me – freaking the shit out.
Blurred by despair, I agreed giving a blow job should Mike be able to locate the flash drive (since he’s home for the day), and won’t you know, the bugger found the damn thing in less that 15 minutes.
Shit.
I don’t know that I can use the syphilis line again.
Got any ideas to get me out of this one?
Or do I just admit defeat and take on for the team?
[Changing topic - NOW]
I now LOVE San Pellegrino and even Perrier now too.
The reason I’m sharing is because I took pictures of the bottles that I really like. And how else can I prove to you that I am insane but blog about head and soda water at the same time?
See:
Nice, right?
Still fun?
Yeah, it’s a bottle of fuckin’ water you loon.
Not to mention, a couple of Criss Angel’s motorcycles:
He was away for Christmas holidays or avoiding The Crazy Canadian Stalker while we were there, but I did get to see his store, production office for Mindfreak, as well as some of his bikes and cars.
Not to mention, lose my bag full of lens and camera gear near his store!
That sucked.
But! Thanks to some great person, it was dropped off at Luxor security and I got it ALL back.
I like to think that Criss was looking out for me.
[blank stare]
Mike thinks I shouldn’t put off the fitting for my straight jacket any longer.
