Tuesday, December 15, 2009

Random Tuesday

My bank has started this exciting new service. Every day they will send you a text message with your account balance. Just what I need, a daily reminder of how little money I have in there.

There are only 2 ways I can eat lunch at the office: stuff everything in my face within 5 minutes or take 2 hours managing a bite here and there. Both ways suck. The 5 minute plan gives me heartburn or an upset stomach or both. The 2 hour plan entices everyone who walks in my office to exclaim, "You're STILL eating?" I'd give anything for a quiet 15-20 minutes of lunch time. Just me, food and eonline.com.

Dollface and I were in a candle shop on Saturday making up names for all the candles we thought smelled bad. Some of the top winners where "Dirty Old Man" and "Struck Wet Match". I should really go into marketing. I think I have a knack for it.

Sadly, one of our associates died last February. He was a wonderful man and very popular. Unfortunately, many people still don't know he passed away. So, they sent him a Christmas card. (he was Jewish - go figure) I have the glorious task of calling all these people and telling them he died. Just call me Scrooge. I bring you tidings of death and despair.

That's a wrap, lovers. Don't forget to wash where the sun don't shine!

Wednesday, December 9, 2009

When Things Get Boring In Bed...

This year has been a real doozy and I've gotta say, TH and I haven't been our crazy wild selves this past month. We're still gettin' it done, but the wild monkey sex has been replaced by sweet, loving-I'm-so-tired-can-we-just-spoon-and-you-can-wiggle-your-ass-a-bit. I'm not complaining. I'm EXHAUSTED. So is Big K. We're both busy, the holidays make things nuts and there always seems to be someone at our house.

I was doing a little research to see if I could spice things up. Nothing to strenuous. Just something new.
What do you think TH would go for a game of Sheet Twister?

Tuesday, December 8, 2009

Random Tuesday

My 22 year old sister has started this phase where she greets people with derogatory terms like "slut, bitch or whore". It's all in jest, but she's started to do it to me. I don't mind, 'cuz I love to call my close friends and leave messages starting with "Hey, lover" or "Hey Hooker". If I insult you it means I really, really love you. She may think she's cute, but she doesn't know she's dealing with the Mistress of Harassment. Just wait 'til Christmas when I will only refer to her as Meat Popsicle Lover. Who's funny now???

I don't have my own kid, but I like to be a roll model for others kids. It was a proud moment when I "accidentally" taught my 2 1/2 year old nephew the word "fart" on Thanksgiving. He ran around for the rest of the day, screaming at the top of his lungs "I didn't poop. I FARTED."

Speaking of farts, why do guys fart when they pee? And why do they stop mid-stream to do it? Are they afraid there might be some sort of reverse pressure and they'll blow out the end of their penis?

I've always wanted a nickname. People call me the shortened version of my given name, but I long for an interesting pet name. It's not like I can come up with one myself and hope people start using it. Oh well.

I realize I've been slacking with my writing. I have 15 posts just waiting to be finished. I've got some great ones. I'm just experiencing a little writers block. I also need someone to add a few more hours to the day. Who the hell thought 24 hours was enough? Come on! 27 is just as nice.

I've added Fergie to my list of Celebrities That Make Me Puke.

That's a wrap, lovers.

Tuesday, December 1, 2009

RRT - 3 YEARS, New Birth Control and A Random Act Of Kindness

Lately, TH has been making a few noises about wanted kids. Not full blown comments. But, a passing comment here and there. I don't know if he's serious, but it's been freaking me out. After spending Thanksgiving with my nephew, the Tasmanian Devil and my infant niece who screamed bloody murder the entire day, he hasn't breathed a word about it. (I'm not kidding folks. She cried for 7 hours straight) After they'd left, the house was blissfully quiet as he and I sat on the couch and did our own thing. I should have them come over more often. They are the best birth control E-V-E-R!!

I farted in front of TH for the first time last week and he didn't even notice. I'm a little hurt. Was it too much trouble for him to mock me or even act a bit shocked? I know he heard it. And if he didn't, he most definitely smelled it. I deserve to be noticed for my grossness, damn it! It took me 10 1/2 years to do that!

I love all the songs on my iPod. I should. I'm the one who loaded them on there. But, when I use the shuffle mode, I only like 1 out of every 12 songs. I'm guessing it's my mood at the time.

I think Rihanna looks like a rooster now. What's with that hairstyle, girl. Wash that nasty orange color out and stop shaving the sides of your head.

Every day, there is a woman who walks thru the office parking lot wearing a fanny pack. I would like to run outside and tell her the fanny pack fad died many years ago and she looks like an idiot. I'm wondering if she would take my criticism as a random act of kindness or be insulted. Stay tuned.

That's a wrap, lovers. Go forth naked and prosper!

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

RTT - Levi's Penis and Non-Perky Nipples

I have never seen "When Harry Met Sally". I know, I know. It's tragic. The one non-porn movie featuring a public orgasm and I've never seen it.

All this fuss about Levi Johnson posing for Playgirl and he's not going to do a full frontal. I bet he's embarrassed because he has a limp noodle. Come on Levi, man up! Let us see your thang.

**Note on above**Just so you know, I really don't care about seeing Levi's doodle and I wouldn't spend the money on the magazine. I just love me some scandal, ya know?

I forgot to tell you all that I posed nude for for Sarah Holls (famous artist/friend) figure drawing class. 13 people painted me as I stood naked in the center of the room on a platform. It was an amazing experience. I felt like some kind of goddess being worshiped. Modeling is hard work. I had to do three 20 minute sittings with a 10 minute break in between. 5 minutes into the pose and my hands and feet were falling asleep. I was also embarrassed because my nipples wouldn't cooperate. My Ta-Ta's may be boring, but I have adorable nipples. Normally, they perk right up. But, that night they decided to be dull and flat. I felt it would have been in poor taste to say, "Hang on guys. Let me pinch these up for you".

Sarah is just finishing up the paintings she did of me. One of them is so beautiful it brings tears to my eyes. Now, if someone has an extra $2000 and wants to buy it for me for Christmas, I'll be your slave. I got even more validation when she asked me if I could model for her again. She wants more paintings. It's my butt. I have the bootie everyone wants to paint.

I believe I am the only person in the world who hasn't seen/read "Twilight" or "New Moon". Seriously, I just don't have the interest. I also think Rob Pattinson is creepy and he always looks hungover and stoned. (He probably is) He also looks like he might be kinda smelly. You know how some guys just look stinky. Well, to me he looks like he could be malodorous. Something akin to unwashed, sweaty man. All these girls keeping begging him to bite them. Um...Ewww.

As if getting in shape and oogling men wasn't a good enough reason to go to the gym. The National Guard, Army, Navy and Marine recruiting offices have leased space next to my gym. Sometimes the guys play football in the parking lot when they're bored.....in their fatigues. I have a serious problem with men in uniform. The problem is: I wish to mount them.

I hate buying tampons. I always buy a few items that I don't necessarily need because I feel they take the focus off the little box sitting on the cashiers belt screaming "Hey, look at her!! She's on the rag! She's moody, homicidal and bloated. Irritate her, please!!! SHE HAS HER P-E-R-I-O-D!!!!"

Speaking of periods, Dollface and I spend so much time together (we work out at the gym 6 days a week) that our periods have synced up. I'm sure this will make for an extra intense Combat class this week. Nothing like having two crazy hormonal women punching, kicking and screaming.

That's a wrap, lovers. Stay loose.

Friday, November 20, 2009

Mess With Me And Karma Will Bitch Slap You and Make You Fat

I try not to revel in someone elses misery. Sure, I got excited when Jessica Simpson divorced Nick and then proceeded to get fat, make poor fashion choices and date losers. I laughed when Paris Hilton went to jail and even followed the story hour by hour on TMZ.com. But, celebrities are idiots and I feel most of them deserve what they get. If you make a bazillion dollars and drive drunk instead of paying a $15 cab fare or calling one of your seven assistants, you should spend a few weeks in jail in order to embrace reality. But when someone I truely hate gets their just desserts, I roll in the stink for as long as I can.

In the beginning, TH and I had a......hmmmmm, how can I put this delicately.............a tumultuously, stressful relationship. His ex girlfriend just wasn't taking the hint. She would call him excessively, write him notes and show up at bars where she knew he and I would be. In true guy fashion, TH would allow this behavior saying he wanted to try and be friends with her. (READ: He's a big pansy) I wanted him so bad, I swallowed my anger towards the situation and dealt with it the best I could. But soon, things began to get vicious. I came out of my apartment one morning to find two flat tires on my car. I later learned one of them had been slashed. Another morning, I found "He's Mine" written on the rear window in some sort of cleaning fluid. Prank calls became a nightly routine and I had to change my phone number 4 times. TH was convinced all of this had to be the work of someone else. His sweet EX would never do this sort of thing. We fought constantly about and I think I broke up with him 6 or 7 times in 6 months. Finally, his Mom suggested he and I go to couples counseling. Meanwhile, EX had found herself a new man (victim). A gullible 21 year old guy. She was 31 and desperate to get married.

Marry she did and a bit while later popped out a baby. Finally, she was out of our lives. I still harbored resentment and loathed her. Okay, I lied. I damned her to hell and hoped she burned. She is a horrible, evil, soulless cunt.

The years have flown by, TH and I are tucked snugly in martial bliss and the evil, soulless cunt is totally out of the picture. I do a little, light virtual stalking now and then to keep tabs on her. I make no excuses for my behavior. I have a vagina and with it comes psychotic girl behavior. I virtually stalk people I don't like. Get over it. It's my thing.

Last Saturday I was on a girl date with Dollface and we started the popular game of Ex-girlfriend Bashing. She told me about her problems and I sympathized. Next it was my turn. I started in on a few tidbits and Dollface looked at me and gasped:

"Oh My God! Is that Evil Soulless Cunt who works at No Name Construction Company On Cape Cod?" she said.

I gave her the hairy eyeball and said, "Yessssssss. Why?" What I was really thinking was, "Please God. Don't let them be friends. I like Dollface and don't want to hate her for a petty reason like being friends with Evil Soulless Cunt"

"I know her from Useless Business Group That Meets Way To Early In The Morning. I got her the job at No Name Construction Company On Cape Cod." she said.

This was not looking good for me. I had finally found a really cool girl to hang with and she might be friends with Evil Soulless Cunt. Why does God hate me?

I sighed and meekly said, "Do you guys know each other well?"

"No, not really. I haven't seen her for over a year. We didn't hang out or anything. Just business stuff."

I was so excited, I was doing back handsprings in my head. Not only was Dollface a cool chick, she had the right mind to stay away from pure evil. Even better, we could still be friends. Then, she shocked me so much with her next bit of gossip that I nearly drove off the road.

"You know she's getting a divorce, right? It's a nasty one, too"

Hallelujah. Hallelujah. HALLELUJAH! HALLELUJAH! HALLEEEEEEEE LUUUUUUUU JAAAAAAAHHHH!!!!! God loves me again. Evil Soulless Cunt was getting a divorce from her boy toy. Could life be any better?

"Oh, and I forgot to tell you." Dollface said. "She looks terrible. She's fatter than she's ever been and she smokes so much her finger tips and nails are all yellow."

Divorce, obesity, charred lungs and body nastiness. I have died and gone to a heaven. Well, it looks like heaven even though there isn't a naked VinDiesel massaging my toes. The last time I saw Evil Soulless Cunt she had the size and body shape of Jabba the Hut. My imagination was working overload as I pictured a giant, neckless blob with yellow hands and breath so stinky it wilts plants as she walked by.

Some of you must think I'm a terrible for enjoying someones misery. But, I'm in the mindset of what goes around comes around. What ever you send out comes back to you times 3. Karma's a real bitch if you don't treat her nicely. She'll kick your ass all over town and try not to get any on her shoes.

So be nice to me, okay? I don't want to send Karma after you. She's a feisty one and loves me long time. It may take her a few years, but she'll get ya.

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

RTT - Wax, Lap Dances and Urine Stains.


I know I've been terrible about posting to my blog and reading blogs lately. I hope to get back into the swing of things next week. Some time it feels like everyone needs my attention lately. I'm just so popular.

Can everyone agree with me Lindsey Lohan needs help. The girl is a walking time bomb. It's time we staged an intervention. Who's with me?

In the past year, I have embraced technology and given up my handwritten datebook/phonebook for my Crackberry. One problem - when the battery dies (this happens at least twice a week) and I don't have a charger handy, I have no idea where I'm suppose to be and I'm unable to contact anyone because their phone number is stuck in the dead Crackberry.

One of the hottest new toys for the holidays is the Crayola Crayon Maker. Who was the genius that thought this up? I can already see the lawsuits. Do you really want your children melting wax? What were they thinking? Although, I remember doing this as a kid with a Bic lighter. I also ruined one of my mothers saucepans trying to melt them over the stove.

Today is Fancy Pant's birthday. I made the guys sing Happy Birthday as I sashayed into the weekly staff meeting with a plate of cupcakes. Then I proceed to sit on his lap during the song. I fear I may have set a precedent and will have to perform this show for others on their birthday.

If I'm sitting at my desk and one of the guys enters my office, I'm just about eye level with their waist. Of course, my eyes immediately stray to the crotch area. I don't linger, I just glance. Lately, I have noticed a few light, circular marks on their pants around said area. It only took me a few minutes to realize what it was. Apparently, my guys are really busy. They have become one shake men.....too busy for the follow up jingle. Of course, I had to comment. It was too fabulous and gross not too. I don't think anyone else would have noticed. But, I'm a crotch watcher.

You know how I use to complain about my lack of female friends? Well, I've got a few now. Can I just tell you ---- WOMEN ARE CRAZY!!! Why do they call you all the time? What's with all the problems? Why do we have to go over the problems again and again and AGAIN! I'm exhausted. But, I love them. But, I'm still exhausted.

I friended my Dad on Facebook. If you and I are friends, please say something provocative and scandleous on my Wall. I want to torment him. He loves me to pieces but just doesn't understand me.

Speaking of Facebook, what's with all the crazy games like Farmville. People keep trying to give me sheep and turtles. Or they tell me they found a lost cow somewhere. I don't get it.

That's a wrap lovers!

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

RTT - I Have No Title For This One


Some of you were very curious about TH reaction to my day of nude posing. Truthfully, he barely batted an eye. When I called him to say I was on my way home and I'd just been naked for 2 hours in front of 2 women and my nude body was painted on canvas, all he was concerned with was what I was bringing home for dinner. (this was after a few cracks about girl on girl action. I swear, the man is dying for me to be a lesbian) Sorry to burst your bubble. But, seriously....the man lives with me. Do you really think anything surprises him anymore?
I'm sorry to be a traitor to my sex and enrage feminists everywhere, but vagina's are really ugly looking. Sorry ladies, but a full frontage close up of the Va Jay Jay is gnarly. I thought it would be fun to take a sexy picture with my phone and send it to TH as a kind of "look what you're gonna get when you get home". After much twisting, jockeying and total frustration in the ladies room stall, I managed to get a decent shot. I took one look and decided if I really did want to get laid that night, I'd better erase the picture and pretend it never happened.

I'm not sure if you care, but I'm posing nude again this Saturday. Apparently, my butt is really really cute and needs to be painted some more.

If Partner #3 calls my office and I'm feeling sassy and snarky, I'll answer the phone "Yes, Your Highness?" or "How May I Help You, Your Holiness" or the ever popular "What do you want now?" So when he called me the other day, I answered "Good Morning, Your Lordship. How may I serve thee today?" There was a pause on the other end and he said "Um, I have (insert name of major Big Shot at a huge corporation) on the phone with me and we're conferencing you in for a phone meeting". Thankfully, Mr. Big Shot had a sense of humor and said, "WOW! I wish I could get my assistant to address me that way".

I have just learned that my inlaws, my brother in-law and sister in-law are all coming for Thanksgiving.....again. If any of you Facebook stalkers were thinking about kidnapping me, now is a perfect time.

What does one do to get an entourage? I feel I should have one.

Monday, November 9, 2009

Move Over Mona Lisa. My Body's For Sale.

All my life, I've dreamt of having classy nude photos taken. In 11th grade, a bunch of us got together at the local state park and my friend Jonathan took semi-nude photos of us in our mothers (borrowed) lingerie and bikinis. We thought we were Playboy bunny material. Apparently, my friend Andy got a hold of the camera too and I was surprised to find a photo of him with a ginormous boner as I was flipping thru our sex kitten poses. I wonder if I still have those photos?? But, I digress....

I did Glamour Shots when I was 20. I laughed my ass off when I got the photos back. My "sexy pout" looked ridiculous and my "bedroom eyes" made me look like a stoner who'd just come off a weekend bender. It became clear to me, I was not photogenic. I'm the kind of person who can take an excellent "grab the person next to me's boobs and stick my tongue out" shot. But I will never make the cover of Cosmo.

Living on Cape Cod surrounds you with artists. They're everywhere. You cannot drive a 1/4 mile without passing a gallery. The gallery may be a tiny house or a barn, but the artist in residence may be quite famous and has done shows all over the country. The fabulous artist Sarah Holl (http://www.sarahholl.com/) is in my yoga class and has also become a great friend. She is bohemian chic with a heart of pure gold. Her gallery and home make me green with envy. She's one of those people who buy everything at yard sales and can make a room look like is just danced off the pages of a magazine. I sat down in a chair the other day and said "This is awesome. Where did you get it". "Oh, I got it for $5 at an auction", she said. In her house, it looks like a classic antique.

Imagine my surprise, when she approached me last March (before we became friends) and said "Would you consider posing for me sometime?"

Duh? Pose? ME????? An artist (an uber fabulous one at that) wants to paint me???

After I picked my jaw up off the floor and rolled up my tongue, I said, "Sure!".

"You'll get naked, right" she said.

Naked??? Hmmmmm. The thought rolled around in my head. This wasn't fooling around in high school or posing for silly photos at a hair salon. This was the real thing. This was a real painting. This painting would be sold in a gallery. THIS PAINTING WOULD BE HANGING ON SOME STRANGERS WALL!!! Now, that was something! Then, the thought hit me. I was really going to do this. I would be naked in front of a person. A person who sees naked bodies all the time and judges them for their beauty. I don't even like getting undressed in front of women at the gym. Hell, I don't even get naked in front of my mother!!

My desire to do something incredible battled with my horribly low self-esteem. Sarah's paintings feature beautiful bodies with full breasts and gorgeous curves. My body was muscular with tiny ta-ta's. What if I took my clothes off and she didn't get what she'd hoped was under my yoga clothes? What if she was disappointed?

On Saturday, I tucked what little self-esteem I have under my belt and took it all off. For two hours and four paintings, I was in my birthday suit. Dollface even came over to hang out and watch me break my nakedness virginity. I was totally naked in front of 2 women and I didn't care.

Here I am, in all my glory.



She made me look beautiful. Of course, after I said that, she gathered up her tiny, 5 foot frame and furiously shouted at me "Will you SHUT UP! You are beautiful" She likes my bum. Apparently, I have a very cute bottom.

The paintings aren't finished yet. Although, I don't know how she could make it any better. The other 3 have more boob and one is a full frontal. Don't even ask. I will not post them. I'm still trying to get use to the idea of being immortalize......naked.......on canvas.

I'm very proud of myself, I'm gloating a bit and feeling a little giddy at the same time. I keep looking at the picture and thinking "Holy shit! I'm naked!!" I wonder. Would it be inappropriate for me to make this my office computer screen saver and wallpaper? I've already put it on my phone. I just can't stop looking at myself naked.

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

RTT - Major Douchebags, Hippos and Women Wood


I'm in love with this lunch place in Chatham, MA called "The Corner Store". They make the most fantabulous burritos and sandwiches on the entire planet. If you are ever in the area, call me and I will buy you one. It's like sex wrapped in a flour tortilla covered in romance. I was telling a friend about it and he said he would never eat there because one of the owners was gay. After mentally crossing him off my friend list and silently calling him a fucking, small minded homophobe, I asked "Why can't you eat there. Are you afraid the food is going make you gay?" He had no answer to this. The reason is - he's a major douchebag.

I have a new annoying habit. For some reason, I am now leaving the house without putting on deodorant. It is a mental block I cannot get past. I don't know how it's been removed from my morning routine. I get out of the shower, dry off, put on body lotion, put on face lotion and then I'm suppose to put on deodorant. But, I forget the step and go on with the rest of my morning routine. It is only when I'm driving to the office that I realize I've forgotten the pit stick. I've now started leaving deodorant everywhere - in the car, in my desk and an extra in my gym bag.

I hate when guys want you to say their name when you're about to cum. You're building up a good orgasm, you give the "I'm cumming" alert and just as you reach the top they say "Say my name, baby. Say my name!". Well, that just distracts me. I was picturing a shirtless Jake Gyllenhall and your face has popped into the mess.

How do you tell someone they look great if they've lost tons of weight. If you say, "Wow, you look fabulous" it's just like saying "Wow, you're no longer a hippo". But, if you don't say anything, you're the asshole who didn't notice. I see no way to win on this one. It's a lose lose situation.
In case you're wondering, I still hate Megan Fox and Leann Rimes. I have also added Faith Hill and Teri Hatcher to the list. Both of those bitches bug me.

I've found out that Oprah and I could totally hang! She loves corndogs too! Check out the video. She doesn't get nearly as excited as I do, but it's close.

You know how guys get a boner when they're horny or they see a naked chick...or the wind blows. What happens to women? We get nothing. Okay, maybe we get a tingle or two. But, we really got the short end of the stick on that one. Guys get this fabulous wood and we get nothing. I'm starting a petition. We women need our own wood.

Why do my friends and my mother call me during the day on my cell phone and expect me to chat with them. I use to answer because I thought it was an important call. Don't they realize I'm working? Hello Mcfly!
That's a wrap, lovers! Keep your panties off!

Tuesday, October 27, 2009

RTT - Mind Sluts, Sexual Harassment and Hating Eve

Have you ever sat at your desk for an hour and suddenly realized that you've accomplished absolutely nothing because you've been absorbed in the dramatic lives of the Kardashian sisters even though you really could care less about them and now you will never get that hour of your life back?

I am a mind slut. By the time I make my way from the front door of the gym to the yoga room, I've mentality slept with half the guys in the weight room and a few on the cardio deck.

I cannot believe that Kate Gosselin chick is only 1 1/2 year older than I am. I wonder if I look that old and tired and bitchy.

Fancy Pants and I have reached a new level of intimacy. He came up to me the other day, reach towards my face and plucked something off my chin. Apparently age is getting to me and I had a teeny, tiny wayward hair on my chin. (Don't look at me like that. You know you all have something that is similarly icky and weird. Jokes about my being a bearded lady are not welcome). After he did it, he went about his business like it was nothing. Then he asked me to help him pop a zit on his cheek (After careful inspection, I declared it "not ready to go") He is officially my office brother now. You don't do that kind of stuff with just anyone.

We found the offices' policies and procedures manual the other day and had a good laugh at the section on sexual harassment. According to the manual, we all should have been fired on the day we started and then brought up on charges.

Nothing is worse than when your period is late. Even though you've had all the warning signs - bloat, crankiness, the desperate need for something saltysweetchocolateycrunchiechewy, the sudden unexplainable urge to maim your boss and all your coworkers, more bloat, etc - and you know there is no way in hell you could be pregnant, there is still that tiny voice inside your head whispering "Baby...Baby!... BABY!!!!! YOU'RE PREGNANT!!!! NOW WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU GOING TO DO?????" Thankfully, after only a few hours of panic, Aunt Flo arrives. Your initial relief and joy is replaced by annoyance as you realize now you have to bleed for the next few days. Life is cruel sometimes. I blame Eve. Nosy cunt. Why didn't she just leave that friggin' apple alone and have a peach?

That's a wrap, lovers. Stay naked and naughty.

Friday, October 23, 2009

Toy Of The Month - Jane Fonda Would Be Proud

I love me some exercise. I truly do. Alright, I'm kidding. I'm a big fibber. You know if I could lay around all day like a lazy sloth I would. But, my love of french fries, potato chips and pasta keeps me gasping and sweating every day of the week. As the years creep by, the cellulite is harder and harder to keep at bay.

Well, I also love me some sex. I know, you're shocked. I'll give me a minute to compose yourself.

**minute**

Better? Okay. Like I was saying, I love me some good loving. Not only do I like to receive, but I like to make sure Big K is a happy boy. So, I make sure I do my Kegels every day for at least 10 minutes. It's not hard to squeeze out a few while I'm slaving away at my desk. It makes Partner #3's horrid tasks bearable. If he only knew what I was doing as I drafted his contracts. Maybe it makes them extra special and gives them luck.

Ladies, if you don't know what your Kegels are or how to exercises them, please click here before I bitch slap you across the face for neglecting one of the most important muscles in your body. I would let my ass dimple up like cottage cheese before I stopped doing my exercises. Gentleman, you owe me a fruit basket for educating the womenfolk on such an important topic.

As with any exercise program, the more you do it, the better you get. I'd become really good at the basic moves, so I decided to up the program. I'd heard there were tools that I could use to make me that much better. So, I contacted my boys at Eden Fantasy's and asked for some help. A few days later, a surprise package (ha! I said package) was in my box (box! Two in one sentence. I am good)

The Ophoria K-balls are a hands-free vaginal exerciser that provides low-key internal vibrations while strengthening the PC muscles. The vibrations are from something very similar to large ball barrings that sit inside each part. It is made of non-porous silicone without any of those nasty phthalates. Don't let it's 4 inches of length put you off. It makes you work.

I was disappointed there were no directions in the packaging. I opened up the box, pulled out the exerciser and thought "Okay...now what the hell am I suppose to do with this." Not one to back down from a challenge, I made Google my bitch and we sorted it out.

Now, class....follow along with me and try to keep up:

1. Lift one leg up and slowly insert K-BALLS one ball at a time.
2. Squeeze vaginal muscles to keep the balls inside.
3. Keep silicone string accessible externally for easy removal.


They recommend emptying your bladder before your workout. I second that recommendation.

Here are the exercises:

*Sit down on a chair and insert K-BALLS into your vagina. Close your leg after the balls are comfortably in place. Use your vaginal muscles to move the balls back and forth inside your vagina. Difficulty level: easy. This was not comfortable. The exerciser is really rigid and frankly, was pinching in places it shouldn't. Laying down on the bed with your head prompted up was better. I watched a few minutes of " E! True Hollywood Story - Britney Spears" as I worked out.

Stand up and spread your feet shoulder width apart. Insert K-BALLS and hold them inside your vagina as long as you can. Difficulty level: moderate. Piece of cake. I folded laundry and worked out at the same time.

While squatting spread your feet as far apart as is comfortable. Without using any other muscles (i.e. stomach and legs), use your vaginal muscles to hold and/or move K-BALLS inside your vagina. Do not let the K-BALLS slip out. Difficulty level: challenging. This would have been easier if I didn't laugh every time I tried to squat. The whole thing struck me as hilariously funny and I kept picturing Big K walking in on my work out.

I can't really say I received any sexual pleasure from the workout. But, I did feel tired in that area and also almost wet my pants that night. It was my fault. I tired out my poor PC muscles just like if overworked myself at the gym. It is recommended you work for 10 minutes at a time. I fooled around with it for an hour.

On a scale from 1-10, (10 being the highest) here are the ratings.

Strength of vibrations: 2
Ease of use: 10 (It's what you make of it)
Water Play: n/a
Quietness: 10 (Totally silent)
Power Use: none needed!
Cleaning Ease: 10 (I even put it in the dishwasher)

If I got to pick again, I would have chosen the exerciser without the ribs. It would have been less ridged and much more comfortable to insert. It is an excellent beginners toy and I would recommend it to anyone desiring a challenge.

Sadly, Big K hasn't noticed the difference. I need to up my program to 15 minutes now. Go get one, lovers. You....me....Olivia Newton John....we'll all be getting physical.

Thursday, October 22, 2009

There Are Days You Just Feel Like Watching Some Gay Porn....

I will admit it right here for all to read. I do watch, I have watched and I will continue to watch gay porn. Not because it's sexually stimulating (okay, if the guys are hot and aren't sashaying around like Richard Simmons, it can be slightly arousing) but because I find it fascinating. I was trying to explain this to my friend Josh. His secret fetish is he finds pregnant women to be incredible hot. This explains the fact that he has 3 children. He's only been married to his wife for few years and she has been pregnant for that entire time. First he knocks up the poor woman, then he wants to pogo stick her.

I've been thinking about fetishes alot. Everybody has one. Even if it's not entirely sexual. It may be the warm gooey feeling you get when you bite into that first slice of cheesecake. I will continue to be amazed you can hit that pleasure center of the brain without actually having an orgasm. Although, nothing can compare to the real thing.

So, I have drafted a list of some fetishes (in no particular order) I thought would fun to share with you things that almost get me off.

*French fries with truffle oil and shaved Parmesan cheese
*Big K in boxer briefs
*The feeling of fresh, clean sheets on a bed
*The first time you put on an amazing pair of shoes and see yourself in the mirror
*Any hot man in boxer briefs
*Warm brie wrapped in puffed pastry
*Eating cold, caramel sauce directly from the jar with a spoon
*Actually liking the porn sent to me via email (usually it's boring)
*The feeling of old, worn in flannel pajamas after a hot shower on a cold day
*Pictures of Vin Diesel on my work computer that I look at when I'm feeling randy.
*A man with super broad shoulders that taper down to a fine ass.
*Feeling TH's butt cheeks when he's sleeping. (He gets annoyed when I do it while he's awake, so I molest him while he's sleeping)
*Having my hair brushed
*Limo rides
*Skinny dipping (I love the way the water feels.....um...."down there").
*Pot roast with mash potatoes
*Gay Porn
*Winning a massive argument.
*Having that back and forth glance with a random hot guy that says "You know if we were both single, we would totally fuck right now."
*Knowing devious information that I shouldn't. I'm a gossip whore.
*Foot massages. (I'm not a big fan of "feet" but sometimes I want to hump the girl who gives me pedicures.)
*Laughing really hard.

This list is incomplete and as soon as I hit "post" I will think of 7 more things. But, this gives you a vague idea of my lust.

So....what turns you on??

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

I'm Just Unnatural

I am over analyzer by nature. I'll worry a question or problem down to a nub then put it in my mouth and chew on it. Once all the flavor is gone, I'll take it out to peer at it from different angles under a microscope. Still not satisfied, I'll poke at it with a stick until I've tortured ever last bit of information out of it. I just can't let something go until I've worked it over. There is one problem I've never been able to fit into my mouth: Where the hell did I come from?

Let's just forget all the stork jokes and the "When Mommy and Daddy loved each other alot..." talks. I know how the tadpole and the egg hook up and *POOF* there's baby. I'm not talking about my physical, unboob adorned self. I'm talking about my mind. My sick, twisted, perverted, accepting of all things mind. The mind that thinks "Yeah, I could watch some gay porn tonight" or "Sure, I'll listen to you tell me about the time you wanted someone to pee on you". Oh yeah, that mind. The brain that thought up this blog. The brain that fills it with silly, tainted, subjects no one wants to talk about, yet everyone thinks about.

I have to wonder how I evolved into this being. NO ONE in my family is like me. My mother dreads the day I gift her with a promised vibrator and I mortify my sister. She hates it when I meet her friends. My grandmother may stick her toe into the dark side of the pool now and again. She and her friends send twisted little emails back and forth. Some of them have even made me blush. But, she's just dipping her toe in. I'm doing back flips and swan dives, splashing around and tossing in a cannonball or two.

Sometimes I think you guys must think of me the way I look at some idiot on on TV who thought it was a grand idea to run across a football field at halftime dress only in a thong. I might be thinking "Well, that's interesting? But what the hell provoked him to do that?" Why do I like to test sex toys? (I've got a review coming up on Thursday that will make you laugh until your sides split) What makes me dish about my raunchy, orgasm filled life? Do I have a smidgen of exhibitionist in me? Whatever. You all like it. You know you do. That's why at least 200 of you come to visit me ever day. Some of you may hate me, but just like Howard Stern, you're just dying to see what I'll say next.

Where did my accepting disposition come from? When my best friend from high school told me he was gay, my answer was "So?" It wasn't a big deal to me. It was the same as if he told me he had O positive blood. Of course, I now realize it was a big deal for him to tell me he was gay. It was emotional for him. For me, it was one less guy I didn't have to worry about hitting on me.

My reaction to full disclosure can vary. Sometimes I'm pretty enthusiastic about the subject....especially if I could have never guessed. Other times, I couldn't care less. So what if you like to suck on your wife's toes. You're heinous, she's heinous and I bet the both of you going at it is heinous. But, if someone wants to tell me they have a blow job fetish, I will have an in depth conversation without batting an eye.

What molded me into this person? My upbringing was formal, but not overly strict. There wasn't any pornography in the house - except in my younger brothers room and there was no way I would set foot in there. My friends weren't ostentatious and certainly did not think the way I did. I giggled with them over naked pictures or steamy passages in a romance novel. But, at the same time, I found them wildly erotic. Once I found Nancy Friday's book "My Secret Garden" in my junior year in high school, all bets were off.

I know this is rather deep for a Wednesday. But, I've been doing lots of mindless work and my brain has been wandering. Forgive me for rambling.

Tuesday, October 20, 2009

RTT - The Big 10 Inch and Unnatural Attachments To My Waxer


Yesterday, I spent 15 minutes staring at a ruler wondering just how big is "too big" for a penis. This waste of time was inspired by a comment I made about a guy I know. He is the biggest goober in the world and not all that attractive. His wife is absolutely beautiful and sophisticated. I'm convinced the only reason they're together is that he must have a 10 inch penis. After staring at the ruler, I've concluded that 10 inches is pretty darn big and might make things a bit uncomfortable.

You should know during the mindless activity above, I was listening to Bach. I'm not, if anything, a classy perv.
A note to parents who personally put their children on the bus every morning: School has been in session for more than a month now. It is not necessary to have a 20 minute conversation with the school bus driver EVERY morning. Do you see the crazy woman pointing and shaking her fist at you, sitting 5th in the line of cars stacking up behind the bus? That's me. I've got places to go. Please move.
The above comment does not make me a child hater or an asshole. If I was holding up traffic while chatting with someone you would be pissed off too. I just don't have a cute kid to wave at while I'm doing it.

I was sitting behind an elementary school bus the other day, when the kids in the back seat starting staring at me. I smiled and stuck out my tongue. Three of the brats stared to "shoot" me with their fingers. One of them even pulled off a very realistic machine gun. What the fuck? I'm pretty sure I'd just met the next Jeffrey Dalmer and Charles Manson.

There is a woman at my gym who always works out in a sports bra and gym pants. She has a fantastic body and looks amazing. The problem is, she's a cunt. When ever guys stare at her, she gets all pissed off and bitches to the gym staff. A word to the wise, honey. If you don't want the menfolk to oogle you, wear clothes. How come it's always the bitches that get the fabulous bodies.

I've been terrible about working out lately and I think things are starting to jiggle. It was TH's birthday on the 16th and we celebrated all weekend by eating as much as humanly possible. Burgers, bar-b-que, Mexican, brunch....we were gluttons. I'm starting a heavy work out schedule ASAP.

The Wax Nazi has gone to Germany for a month. I am freaking out. I never realized how attached I was to her. She even gave me her home number - just in case. She has become a sort of adoptive aunt. I miss her. My Wooha misses her too. We're both scared she may not come back. One of her clients is a vendor of mine. She's having the same problem I am.

That's a wrap, lovers.

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

RRT - Testicle Trees and Moist v. Damp

Avocado comes from "Ahuacuatl" which is from the Aztecs. Loosely translated means "testicle tree". The ancients thought the fruit hanging in pairs on the tree resembled the males testicles. The Aztec must of had some big ole balls. Avocados aren't small. So, the next time I'm angry at men, I'll make guacamole. Mashing those up with a fork will make me feel better.

I thought it would be fun to give TH a spontaneous lap dance while we were hanging out on the boat. After 10 seconds he made me stop. Apparently I lack finess. He said it was like getting a lap dance from a NFL linebacker.

Now, I'm thinking about guacamole. I think we'll have tacos for dinner tonight.

Does anyone want to go apple picking with me next weekend? For some reason, TH isn't really psyched about going? I think it's a guy thing.

One of our clients visited the office today. Although he is way too short for me, I think he's mighty fine. I get all excited when he comes in our office. After he left, Fancy Pants asked me if my panties were damp. I said no. Then he asked if my panties were moist, thus sparking the debate of which was more - moist or damp. After much thought and consulting the Oxford English Dictionary, we confirmed that they mean the same thing. In our office, it's important all sexual harassment is grammatically correct.

Does anyone really care about Jon and Kate anymore? I mean, really. Do ya?

TH and I did the nasty on our boat for the first time this weekend. I can't believe it's taken us three years to get that done. Of course, having his parents out with us most of the time has made it a bit difficult.

On Saturday, I participate in a Wellness Seminar. At the urging (READ: begging) of my psycho trainer, I took part in one of the demos. For 45 minutes, I was up on a stage doing a Body Pump class. Because of the audience, I decided to show off a bit. While do a set of skull crushers (triceps exercise), I managed to pull a muscle. For the past 2 days I've felt cripple. But, fear not. There were dozens of people videotaping. I bet I finally landed myself on Youtube!

That's a wrap, lovers.

Oh...and I should leave you with this piece of eye candy.

I just want to eat him for lunch. TH and I watched "Fast and the Furious" (the second one) last weekend. The closing credits had just started as I landed on TH. Poor man. He barely made it.

Tuesday, October 6, 2009

RTT - Post Sex Ickiness and True Love on Facebook

You know how in the movies people have sex moments after they wake up in the morning. How fucking unrealistic is that? When I wake up I need a few minutes to clear up the eye crusties, unload the gallon or so of urine my bursting bladder held for 6 hours and brush my nasty ass teeth. Then, and only then I will present myself to the Morning Wood. My morning breath would shrink the hardiest of boners.

I still hate Megan Fox. There. I've stated my case.....again.

If you live super far away from me (like in another county), I'll friend you on Facebook. I figure, if you cross an ocean to stalk me, it's gotta be true love and I have to meet you.

I need to know why men feel the need to have sex just after a woman has taken a shower. I know we smell all pretty and have a fresh, dewy quality to our skin but it's because we're CLEAN! - and we wish to stay that way. That is why we have just taken a shower. The other day, TH decided to "surprise" me in our walk-in closet minutes after I'd taken a shower. I'm all for morning nookie, but not when I don't have time to re-shower. I had to go to the office with "post-sex ickiness."

Speaking of the bathroom, we now have a woman leasing space in our building. Finally! The guys aren't allowed to use the ladies room anymore. This is an excellent development as I had another fit last week about the whole replacing the toilet paper roll thing.

Ben and Jerry's has a new ice cream flavor called "Cinnamon Bun". Caramel ice cream with caramel swirl and bits of cinnamon bun dough. Try it! It has been excellent foreplay the past couple nights.

There is this guy at my gym who is ginormous. I kid you not. He's like Shrek. I've always found myself wondering, "Hey, this guy is massive and wears size 16 shoes. I wonder how big his package is?". Well, last night I got my answer. He's dating (READ: fucking) on of the girls I know. She says he's just average. That information was such a let down. But, she admits he's very good in the sack. I congratulated her. I'm always happy to hear when someone is getting a quality lay.

That's a wrap, lovers! Stay naughty!

Monday, October 5, 2009

A Cell For Two, Please

Over the past 32 years of my life, I should have been arrested and sent to jail at least a half dozen times. I've driven drunk (Don't judge me. We've all done it once. I'm just admitting my sin), trespassed on federal property, had sex in public a zillion times (including on federal property) and a dozen or so other crimes that should have me wearing stripes while sharing a cell with a woman named Big Mama. But, an hour of screwing around on the internet found me in a lot more trouble than I thought. Did you know it is illegal in Massachusetts for women to be on top during sex? I wonder if I could use this line when we're both tired, but still need to have sex before bed. (Once a junkie, always a junkie) TH decides to be lazy and tosses me up on top. I could tell him we're breaking the law thus entitling me to enjoy this session on my back.

Here a few other ridiculous laws:

In Logan County, Colorado, it is illegal for a man to kiss a woman while she sleeps. But, I'm sure it's perfectly OK for the guy to shake her awake and say, "'Mornin' Darlin'. How's about a blow job to start the day?"

Louisiana law prohibits couples who are shopping for a new bed from putting it to the "ultimate test"-- in other words, from trying it out by making love on it, or even simulating this activity. Well that just takes all the fun out of shopping together.

In Willowdale, Oregon, no man may curse while having sex with his wife. So, the next time TH and I visit Oregon, he will have to refrain from calling me his dirty fucking whore. They are so unromantic in Oregon.

In Bakersfield, California, anyone having intercourse with Satan must use a condom. I'm pretty sure TH isn't Satan. I work with the Prince of Darkness and there is no way in Hell (or out of it) I would consider touching him.

Bozeman, Montana, has a law that bans all sexual activity between members of the opposite sex in the front yard of a home after sundown -- if they're nude. But look on the bright side, dry humping and wild lesbian action is ok.

In hotels in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, every room is required to have twin beds. And the beds must always be a minimum of two feet apart when a couple rents a room for only one night. And it's illegal to make love on the floor between the beds! You think I've never had sex in a twin bed? PUH-Leeze. The bed is so passe! So we'll just have sex in the shower, or other floor on the other side of the bed, or against the dresser, or against the wall, or in the chair, or leaning up against the beds or....

An ordinance in Newcastle, Wyoming, specifically bans couples from having sex while standing inside a store's walk-in meat freezer. But, humping up on a giant frozen turkey is ok.

Women aren't allowed to wear patent-leather shoes in Cleveland, Ohio - a man might see the reflection of something "he oughtn't!" Then all the women should make sure they wax.

In Minnesota, it is illegal for any man to have sexual intercourse with a live fish. TH is outta luck, but I can bang all the Bass I want. Slippery little suckers.

A state law in Illinois mandates that all bachelors should be called master, not mister, when addressed by their female counterparts. I would refer to every man as "Master Bater". Get it. Master Bater. The fifteen year old boy inside of me creeped out on that one.

Clinton, Oklahoma has a law against masturbating while watching two people having sex in a car. Instead, you should act like me and scream "Yeah, baby! Give it to her!" I did this in a Boston parking garage after a Bruins game and absolutely mortified TH.

In Connorsville, Wisconsin no man shall shoot off a gun while his female partner is having a sexual orgasm. Why not? I think there should be fireworks accompanied by trumpeting angels and heavenly music.

Of course, every state has laws against anal sex. But, it's just because they're a bunch of homophobes who would rather get it on in an airport bathroom a la Senator Craig. Unlike those of us who are consenting adults and wish to get a little freaky at home or in the car. What is it with politicians and their desire to make laws against sex? It's natural, it's not hurting anyone and if I want to ride TH on a mattress in a mattress store while wearing patent leather shoes as he refers to me as his dirty little bitch I should be allowed to without penalty. What is this world coming to?

Thursday, October 1, 2009

Farewell 20something Girl

In my 20's, I aspired to be a party girl. I felt ever Saturday night should be like the senior prom....dress up, go out, dance dance dance and drink drink drink. I would sit on the couch and sulk if Big K wanted to stay home. I didn't care if he was tired, if I was tired or if the band playing at the local club was worse than Chinese businessman karaoke. I wanted to put on my FM heels and chug cocktails 'til last call. Sundays were for drunken recuperation, going out for eggs and bacon then hopefully something fun would happen that afternoon. I thought we were "losers" if we didn't do something crazy every weekend.

Well, time has a way of changing everything. Now, instead of drinking my face off while grinding my ass into TH as we watch the lamest cover band on the east coast try to pull off something that sounds like James Hetfield being strangled with a guitar string, I can be found sprawled out on my couch, dressed in my jammies, book in hand, glass of wine within reaching distance while TH watches some classic rock documentary for the umpteenth million time while he practices his guitar or surfs the internet. And wouldn't you know it, I couldn't be happier.

In the last 2 years, I have left the crazy 20something party girl behind and grown into a newer 30something chick who loves to just chill. This doesn't mean that TH and I have turned into couch slugs. We're just much more choosy on how we spend our free time. We go to concerts, an occasional action movie (those just have to be seen on the big screen), NASCAR races and other assorted activities that don't require a 2 day recovery period.

Lately, I just love being home. Even though it's far from finished, we have managed to turn our house into a place that I can be at total peace. Spending 3 hours, sitting on my front porch in an Adirondack chair, surrounded by hydrangeas and reading a stupid romance novel is one of my favorite pastimes. Now that the weather is growing colder, I begin to get the gourmet cooking bug. I spent this past rainy Sunday in my kitchen making marinara sauce from tomatoes grow in my very own garden while Bocelli sang in the background and I drank a very nice glass of Chianti. It felt like a friggin' TV ad for pasta sauce. Sometimes, everything seems so serene and perfect, I swear I have looked around for a camera - convinced I must be on some movie set.

I think for the first time in my hectic, crazy life I've had a chance to just "be". The pressure to go out and party or you're a loser is gone. It's surprisingly comfortable and fullfilling answering the question "What did you do this weekend?" with "Nothing much". "Nothing" has become a good thing. Have you noticed we're always rushing some where - work, the dry cleaners, daycare, school, the grocery, the drugstore, the gym. Or we're trying to please everyone at once - family, boss, kids, husband/wife, friends, coworkers. Some days I look at the clock and wonder how in the hell it got to be 9 PM so fast. Hadn't I just woken up? I didn't even remember driving to work. What did I do at work that day? How come I was so tired and did I have the energy to do one more load of laundry before bed. Sometimes it felt the older I got, the fast the days went.

I think this ephipany happened just a few weeks ago. Soon after the great Boob Adventure. I would never say my experience was life changing. But for those 7 days I waited for my results wondering in the back of my usually optimistic mind, "Hmmmm, what if I do have cancer? That is gonna suck." I didn't tell anyone that. I maintained my boucy outlook and when people seemed edgy and concerned, I would pipe up and say "Don't worry. It's totally fine" when in reality I was freaking out. The relief that came with the call from the nurse telling me it was nothing to worry about caused me to to stare out my office window at a tree frame by a perfect, cloudless blue sky. At the moment, I thought to myself, "Ya know, I really have good life."

So Lovers, I'm gonna just "be" from now on. My 20something party girl is in the wind as my 30something self embraces those small moments in time.

Tuesday, September 29, 2009

RTT - Pubic Hairs and Caucasian Rubbish


I don't know if I can watch the new seasons of "Girls Next Door". I was so in love with the first cast of whores that I would feel like I'm cheating on them. And besides, I HATE those twins. They are classless, Caucasian rubbish. (That is the PC term for "white trash".)

Yesterday, I spent the entire day with the Gloria Gaynor song "You Can Ring My Bell", running through my head. I continue to be amazed I was not admitted to a psych ward.

I don't know why Zeva didn't ask Tony if he loved her on the season premier of NCIS. After all, he was on truth serum. As you can see, I'm very upset about all this. If they don't fix this romance thing between them this season I'm going to explode. The sexual tension is killing me.

Last week, I was informed by one of the associates that there were pubes on the urinal again. Seriously guys, what do you think I'm going to do about this problem and why do you keep telling me about it.

If anyone knows how to get funky foot odor out of really nice shoes, please tell me. You know how you can make the mistake of wearing shoes with no socks on a hot day without using the "please don't let my feet sweat" foot spray? And then, your feet sweat like crazy making your shoes smell like swamp farts. Then, you wear them again and even though you remembered the "please don't let my feet sweat" foot spray, your feet still smell. I'm having that problem right now with a fabulous pair of Steve Madden heels.

I made the mistake of giving the trainer the gym my cell phone number. Now he texts me and tells me to get my fat ass to class. Last night, I was tricked into taking an extreme step aerobics class after an advanced yoga class. I thought he was harassing me into a body combat or body attack class. I have enough trouble remembering basic moves, let's just add an obstacle for me to jump on and off of.

My friend Dollface from the gym got engaged this weekend. Everyone, please feel happy for her. I was so happy that I hugged. We all know that I don't hug.....EVER! But, this was a big deal. She's a good girl.

My website will launch by the middle of October. I swear on my shoe collection and my toy collection. There. That should motivate me to FINALLY get the fucking thing launched.

That's a wrap, Lovers

Monday, September 28, 2009

From Ex to BFF

When I break up with a guy, I pretend he disappears, never to be seen again. Upon those rare occasions I do bump into an Ex, I do one of two things: Act like I don't see him or give the "Hey, What's up" nod and go about my business. On the very, very rare occasion I have to actually speak, I make sure I get something into the conversation about how busy I am and then I run off like a big wimp. Confrontational I'm not.

My last serious Ex before TH was my high school sweetheart. Chris and I had met the summer before my senior year after being introduced by mutual friends. He was five years older than me and had a "rebel without a cause" way about him that thrilled my little high school heart to no end. We dated exclusively for 4 years - save for a 6 month break up where I dated more than half of the men on Cape Cod - and lived together for most of that time. Although we had loads fun together, we were oil and water wrapped in dynamite. Our fights were epic; fueled by my insecurity and jealousy combined with his impatience and temper. I still don't remember what prompted me to break up with him on that snowy February day, but I think I saved both of us.

I didn't have to worry about bumping into Chris or pretending he disappeared to the Planet of Lost Men. He moved to Florida shortly after. I had dated a few losers and was on to building a relationship with TH. Chris and I shared a mutual friend and I after a few years, she began feeding me tidbits of information. I was happy he was settling into a new life as I was building a wonderful new life for myself, going back to school and falling head over heels with TH. There was one scary moment when Chris got hooked on prescription drugs and I was almost called in for an intervention. But, he fixed himself up and my presence was not needed.

For a few years, I thought about contacting him. After all, we had been really good at being friends. But, I'd never been friends with an Ex. I didn't know how to go about establishing a relationship. According to our mutual friend, Chris didn't even want my name mentioned. But, it had been 9 years. We both were happily embedded in new lives. Hell, I was a married woman and a totally different person than I once was. I was willing to be he was different too.

I already had his email address. Our mutual friend was forever sending emails to her entire address book without hiding the details. So, I sucked it up and sent him a quick note. For a week and a half there was no response. Then, one day there was an email waiting in my Inbox. He had gotten my message and (shocker!) was happy to hear from me. From then on, we sporadically traded emails back and forth and even talked on the phone a few times. We easily fell back into our old ways. But, the added stress of having a doomed relationship was gone. We were just friends.

A few months ago, I was sitting in my office and got a text from Chris. "Coming up North to do some hiking and planning to stop on the Cape. Do u want to meet up." Meet? I thought he was kidding. This was a man who didn't want my name uttered within a 100 mile radius a few years ago and now he wanted to have drinks? I was excited at the prospect of seeing him again. But, I faced two problems: Insecurity and TH.

The insecurity was easy to conquer. Everyone wants to look good to their Ex. I was hoping that the 10 years hadn't done too much damage to my face. I wasn't concerned about my body. I practically live at the gym. My optimism was short lived as I woke up on the morning of the meeting with a enormous zit on my chin.

TH was a whole other issue. I wasn't sure how comfortable he would be at my meeting up with an Ex. I know I wouldn't be. In fact, I would be hell bent against it. If the situation was reversed, I would be so furious at the idea that I would have made his life miserable. But, Big K is a nicer person than I am. He wasn't thrilled with my plans, but he begrudgingly accepted them. It is during these moments I have to admit I have the most amazing husband and you all should be very jealous.

So, last Thursday, my zit and I met up with Chris. For 3 hours, we talked and laughed. We chatted about old times and the most common response became "I know" or " I remember". There were no awkward moments. Just two old friends having a good time. I even asked him if he was nervous about meeting up with me after such a long time. He said not at all. Of course, he didn't have a zit the size of a volcano on his chin. We hugged goodbye and that was it. He started his drive back to Florida and I brought pizza home to TH.

The relationship myth that you can't be friends with an Ex is just that - a myth. In a world as small as ours and in a place that you're only six degrees from Kevin Bacon, (I can do it in 2 degrees) it is inevitable that you are going to run into one of those people from the Lost Planet. If they are a friend, it will make it that much easier.

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

RTT - I Get My Best Ideas While Naked


I cannot eat nonbreakfast foods (except for cold pizza) in the morning. For those of you that eat leftovers or lunch type items, I ask you this: WTF? That is gross!

I get some of my best ideas in the shower. I was shaving my legs this morning and came up with the solution to a huge problem just as I finished my right thigh. If I could be naked at the office, I would be running this joint. In reality, I am. I just don't get respect, a huge paycheck or credit.

Two weekends ago, I was driving back from visiting my grandmother and ran into a huge thunderstorm. It was raining so hard I couldn't see and I had to pull over into a rest area. All the other people were staring out their car windows at the storm. I was cleaning out my glove box. I hate sitting in a car with nothing to do. Five minutes later, I had jumped in the backseat and was tidying up there.

I love to see a guy driving a car with bumper stickers that say "Well Behaved Women Rarely Make History" or "Bless the Goddess" or "My Other Car is A Broom". It takes a mighty secure man to run errands in that estrogen plastered machine.
Note to Smokers: Alright, so I know that you have rights and all that. But, can you please, for the love of all that is holy, smoke somewhere not near me. There are reasons for "smoking areas". Not everyone wants to smell like a gnarly ashtray and give themselves lung cancer. And for the record, when the sign says "Thank you for not smoking", they mean you assmunch. Not the guy behind you or the chick on your left. YOU! So put out your fucking cigarette before I ram it up your ass.

Congratulations to TH and I. We celebrate our 2nd anniversary today. Two whole years of wedded bliss. It would have been a few years more if he'd gotten off his lazy lump and asked me to marry him sooner. But, I'm not bitter about that. Nosiree! Anywhoo.....we're gonna tear it up tonight - take out Mexican food and watching the season premier of NCIS.

Before all you ladies get a hair across your ass and start cursing out TH for not taking me some place special - just ease up. He took me to a U2 concert last night. Of course, the romance was spoiled by his parents sitting next to us.

That's a wrap, lovers

Friday, September 18, 2009

Who Knew Snot In A Shell Could Make You Horny

I never was one to believe food could make you amorous. Sure, I almost cum while in the process of eating certain foods, but the after effect have always eluded me. Most of the time I take the shape of a gluttonous sloth, laying on the couch, holding my stomach, taking short, shallow breaths and wondering how in the world I was able to eat 10 tacos and still be alive.

Last night, I attended a function held in a massive airplane hanger. For those of you who have been reading my ramblings for a year might remember the results of last years event. This year I decided to eat more than the frosting off a cupcake. I also decided to drink less than a keg of beer. I am a year older and didn't think I would be able to handle trying to keep my head from exploding all over my desk. So, here I am - sober, rested and ready to jump anything with a pulse.

Let me explain....

To make up for last year, I decided to sample everything at the function. I stopped at each table and devoured their offerings - steak tartare, chili, breads, cheeses, steak and cheese eggrolls (I had 2 of those), polenta in Alfredo sauce and......oysters.

For those of you who aren't familiar with oysters, let me draw you a picture.

Okay, so I didn't draw the picture, but you get the idea. It looks like a big booger in a shell. Those of you with a gutter mind are thinking the same thing I am. Looks a bit like youknowwhat, doesn't it? You're thinking it. Don't lie. Nobody likes a fibber. Alright, I say it. It looks like a vagina. Geez! Why do I always have to say it.

For the most part, people eat these in stews, chowders, breaded and fried or broiled. The true lovers eat them raw, alive and right out of the shell. Just dab a bit o' cocktail sauce, squeeze a little lemon and slurp it right outta the shell. Well, I did lots of slurping last night. I sat in front of the raw bar, beer in hand and fixed myself oyster after oyster.

I left the function at 8pm (I'm getting to be such an old fart), picked up some pizzas ('cuz I didn't eat enough) and headed home. At 10 pm, I felt like a crazed porn star. I was ready for action and TH was snoring away. (he's been busy and stressed this week, poor boy) No nooky for me.

I never believed in the power of aphrodisiac foods. I never needed them. But, now I know I should not eat 20 oysters and think my body will digest them as it would pizza or pasta. Apparently, they go straight to my loins.

Historically, aphrodisiacs were around to assisted with performance anxiety and to increase fertility. Making babies was an important issue back then and aphrodisiacs were in high demand. Anything resembling genitalia or sperm was thought to help out. The ancient Greeks, who were the horniest fuckers of them all, finally decided foods that created "satisfied dietary gratification" worked as well. I contest that fact. Eating a ginormous bacon cheeseburger with fries does not make me horny. As a matter of fact, I prefer alone time to digest and to take small naps.

Lovers, I have researched a list of naughty foods to set your loins aflame. Go forth and munch. But, beware the effects or you will suffer the same fate as I. I still have not found release. In fact, it's getting worse. TH, if you're reading this (and we both know you are even those you claim "you don't my blog") you better eat your Wheaties. It's gonna be a long night. For the rest of you, here's the scoop:

Aniseed, Asparagus, Almond, Arugula, Asafetida, Avocado, Bananas, Sweet Basil, Broccoli (and other Mustard Greens), Chocolate, Carrots, Coffee, Coriander, Fennel, Figs, Garlic, Ginger, Honey, Licorice, Mustard, Nutmeg, Oysters, Pine Nuts, Pineapple, Raspberries and Strawberries, Truffles (not the chocolates but a food very much like a mushroom), Vanilla and Wine.

After reading this list, I have finally figured out why I am the way I am. With the exception of Aniseed and Asafetida, I eat most of these foods weekly and in large quantities. Oh well. Now, if you will excuse me, I'm off to snack on some chocolate covered almonds and drink my coffee spiced with nutmeg. For lunch I have a wonderful sandwich featuring pesto (Hello! Basil and pine nuts) and I have a strawberries for dessert. My snack is a banana and I'm wearing perfume called Vanilla Noir. I'm a walking orgasm!

Thursday, September 17, 2009

I'm Awesome

I know that you're looking at this award and thinking, "Well....Duuuuuuuh! I knew that" So, thank you to those of you who know this obvious statement. And to those of you still on the fence, just wait. I'm gonna talk about feet tomorrow. If your fond of the tootsies (or someone else's), stay tuned.
Mad Woman over at Mind of a Mad Women feels I deserve this award. I must tell you that I'm worried for her sanity. But, I love you, darlin' for making me feel all warm and fuzzy inside without touching my special spot. Not many can say they've done that.

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

RRT - The Virgin Goddess, Zits & Bee's Make Me Horny

I don't understand why the pizza guy always thinks we have guests. Why wouldn't you order a large pizza with two toppings, a large steak & extra cheese sub, a large order of mozzarella sticks and a large order of garlic sticks for two people. Are you calling me a pig?

The tomato basil bisque at Lamberts Farm Market, Centerville MA is better than good foreplay. I'm just telling you this in case you're ever in the area and want to cum in your pants.

I figured one of the benefits of being married is you have a captive audience. Someone to share all of your discoveries. So, I don't understand why my husband doesn't want to share the awe, horror and disgust of an excellent new zit.

Speaking of zits, have you ever worked super hard to pop one and when you finally get it done you're secretly disappointed it's over. You know you have. Admit it.

I'm already torturing myself with thoughts of hosting Thanksgiving again this year. Remember the disaster last year? Right now, I'm pretending the holiday doesn't exist.

I miss the show "The West Wing". I wasn't really interested in politics until a few years ago. The West Wing was enough for me. Then I showed my utter ignorance when I confused something happening on the show with real life. Awkward moment.

I get horny watching the Nasonex commercial. The voice of the bee is Antonio Banderas. The man is a 9.5 on the damp panties scale.

Have you ever discovered a gigantic bruise and wondered how in the world it got there? I got out of the shower the other morning and saw an enormous bruise on my thigh. Now, I'm trying to figure out a what point a Mack truck ran into me. Of course, this has nothing to do with my lack of coordination and the fact I walk into objects all the time. This recent bruise is probably a result of walking into the corner of my desk. I do it three or four times a day when I'm rushing out of my office to unjam the copier before it erupts into a ball of flames from an associate trying to use it while it's jammed.

I have decided to go to the library to save money. My book budget is out of control because I read more books in a week than most people do in a year. After looking over my credit card statement from the last two months, I've concluded that I could feed a small nation on the amount I spent at the book store. Unfortunately, my town library is only open when I can't get there. If I find the time to grab a few books off the shelf, I can never get back there to renew them if I'm not done reading. Now I'm spending money on overdue fees. I just can't win.

And that's a wrap.

Thursday, September 10, 2009

How To Use Sex As A Weapon In Business

I love meeting sales reps. Especially if they come to the office believing that they're gonna put one over on the silly blond girl. They talk real fast, cover the conference table with spreadsheets while tossing promotional pamphlets in my direction. They babble on and on about how they're gonna save me tons of money and if I would just sign my name on the X all my problems will go away.

I'm very quiet during this entire performance. Occasionally, I give a half smile, nod my head or let out a cute, bubbling chuckle if what he said was suppose to be funny. I pretend to give the schmuck my undivided attention and carefully make him believe I'm buying every poison word that falls out of his mouth. It's all bullshit. He knows it. I know it. He just doesn't believe that I know it. He also doesn't know I've been studying our account for days. That I made my own spreadsheets, did research on the internet and probably know more about what he's selling than he does. I ask a few simple questions about ways we can save money to which he replies "That way isn't your best bet. You should really go with this plan" Again, bullshit. His idea costs more. He knows it. I know it. He thinks he's got me now. Hook, line and sinker. A minute more and I'll sign on the dotted line. Then, I pull out my favorite weapon. A weapon as old as time itself. A weapon every woman can use if she chooses.

I smiled warmly, turned my chair slightly so I was facing him, reclined just a smidgen, ran my fingers through my hair and then crossed my legs. I didn't pull a Basic Instinct. But, my legs were bare, I had on fabulous Steve Madden heels and a classy deep purple sleeveless dress that stopped just shy of my knees. I'm no Gisele Buchan, but I work with what I got. And it "got" him.

From then on, I managed to not only get some interesting fact about our account that aren't always disclosed. I even got the super secret number that bypasses the horrible 1-800 telaprompt system and would be answered by a real live, flesh and blood human who could (GASP!) actually help me. The bullshit was forgotten as he stared at my legs and I smiled coyly in his direction his fingers flew across the keyboard making all the small changes I wanted. I batted my eyes as I gently turned down his offer for a drink later. What I really wanted to do was shove my wedding ring underneath his nose and say "Are you BLIND? I'm married, you idiot! My husband could out-fuck you any day of the week". Then he asked if I had any sisters who were single. I told him I had a sister who was way too young and was currently going the way of the Kardashian sisters (dating only African American NBA/NFL type guys).

In the end, he declared me a "cool chick". The kinda chick he'd like to hang out with. We bashed the Bruins for awhile, realized we shared a mutual dislike of our bosses and a mutual passion for a good beer and baby back ribs. He told me his life story - recently divorced with two kids, hates his ex wife with the fire reserved for mass murderers and tried dating girls in their 20's for awhile until he realized that he was 45 and shouldn't do that kind of thing.

In the end, I still won. Got anyone you'd like me to break for you? I'm on a roll.

Wednesday, September 9, 2009

And The Winner Of The Fat Ass Award Is......

Me. That's right....me. I won the Fat Ass Award at the Marstons Mills Four Miler this past Saturday.

Let me first start out with saying - I never win anything. N-E-V-E-R! I don't win on scratch tickets, random drawings or board games. Do not pick me for you team in dodgeball. We won't win. Even if we're close to winning, something extraordinary will happen in the last 5 seconds that brings us back to second place. It's inevitable. I do not carry the winning luck.

Every single stinking race I enter, I try hard to win in my age group (30-34). But, it's not gonna happen. It seems to be the most popular age group for extreme runners. The winning girl usually has a body built like a swimsuit model and has kicked my sorry ass by at least 10 minutes timewise. I never bother to hang around after each race to hear the awards. My name will not be called and I don't really know many people in the race. I'm usually in my car and out of the parking lot before the last runner hits the finish line. But, this past weekend, I hung around afterwards. I was chatting it up with a fellow runner and gobbling up watermelon like my life depended on it. I was a bit wary of getting in my car just yet. I had forgotten to hit the bathroom before the race started and halfway through the 2 mile I'd almost peed my pants. Upon hitting the finish line, the control over my bladder came to a screeching halt and I might have tinkled a little bit. I did manage to get to the ladies room before the dam burst. The women at the scoring table must have thought I was going to hurl. Puking is a part of racing. I've learned never to be surprised to see a pile of vomit just over the finish line. Sometimes I have to leap over it. It happens. Some hurl, some shit their pants, some sprinkle in their pants. I'm happy to be a sprinkler. A little pee never hurt anyone.

But enough about my wet pants. On to my award...

Other than the obvious first place award and the age group categories, there are two awards often handed out. The Athena Champion and the Clydesdale Champion. These are weight class categories. The Athena is for women weighing over 150 pounds and the Clydesdale is for men weighing over 200 pounds. Please don't ask me what this has to do with running. My only thought is real runners (the ones who weigh next to nothing) probably think people who weigh the normal amount a person should weigh, can't run a decent race. People like me. I weigh 168 pounds. I am a solid mass of muscle and bone. Sure, I could lose 10 pounds and I would be ready for some photo shoots that don't involve women who have boobs. But any more and I would look like a bobble head doll.

I may be a Fat Ass but I've got a trophy, bitch!

Tuesday, September 8, 2009

RTT - Kegels, Swans, & Ass Smacking Affection

There needs to be a separate line for people who buy lottery and scratch tickets. I'm late for work but I'm trying to buy a friggin' container of cream for the office and they're itching their ass at the front counter while saying "Okay...I'll have a number five, two number tens and a quick pick.....no, not that one....the one with the picture of the alligator on it....oh, wait....I have another dollar....gimme one of those tickets with the Red Sox logo. That otta be a winna." More often than not, these people look like they should be spending their money on clean clothes and not the State lottery.

Ben & Jerry's makes an orgasmic oatmeal cookie ice cream. I bought a pint and successfully mined out all the pieces of cookie. Now, we just have a pint of vanilla ice cream.

I get really excited when I see swans. I know that they are nasty creatures, but I always get a thrill from catching a peek of one on a pond or in the reeds. I think it's the kid in me.

People who wear golf shoes to a golf match they are not participating in are stupid. TH and I went to the Deutsche Bank TPC tournament on Sunday. What a snooty bunch of snots! But, I got to wear plaid capris and I tied a sweater around my shoulders. I felt like I was on the set of Caddyshack. TH and I were acting like the perfect proper couple until he decided to start smacking my ass every chance he got. I had complained he didn't show me enough affection in public. The ass-smacking was his answer. Oh well, beggers can't be choosy.

Have you ever noticed old people never look both ways before they pull out into traffic? They just shut their eyes, gun the motor and plow through the intersection.

The other day, I gave Fancy Pants a sly little smile as he walked into my office. When he asked why I was smiling, I told him I was doing my Kegels. He told me that information was inappropriate and that particular activity was for private time. I was disappointed he wasn't shocked. The poor boy has become numb to my antics. And why wouldn't I do my Kegels at the office?

I became an Aunt for the second time this past week. Bring on the "When are you guys gonna have a baby" pressure. I'm ready for it.
For all of you how emailed me about my biopsy results: I got the answer this morning. Everything is fine and my boobs are still too small. Okay, I added that last part. The doctor didn't say anything about the size of my boobs. I was just taking this opportunity to complain about it again.

iPod Shuffle of the Day.
1. Chrome Plated Heart - Mellissa Etheridge
2. Jump - Madonna
3. You Know You Want Me - Pitbull
4. Already Gone - Kelly Clarkson
5. Burn it to the Ground - Nickleback
6. Abracadabra - Steve Miller Band
7. Sound of Madness - Shinedown.
8. Conga - Gloria Estefan
9. Disco Lies - Moby
10. The Fixer - Pearl Jam

That's a Random Wrap, lovers

Friday, September 4, 2009

A Different Kind of Shower

If you haven't already figured it out, I am VERY open minded when it comes to sex. Even if you and I don't jive on the same perversion, I'll listen to your side, offer up my opinion but I will never hold it against you. It's none of my business if you like to suck lime jello out from in between your lover toes (true story, folks). It's what ever gets you to the Big O. I'm just happy you get there.

I recently learned that an associate of mine had a thing for golden showers. (See, didn't I tell you people come to me and blurt out their most intimate secrets. I'm not even friends with this guy). Not one to judge someone's sexual preferences, I calmly said, "Really. That's nice." and ran to Google up everything I could find on it.

For those of you that are uneducated in what I like to call "The Freaky Side of Sex I Don't Enjoy", a golden shower is basically when you pee on someone or let them pee on you. Personally, it is not on my resume. I feel that all urination should take place on the toilet or if ultimately necessary, in the woods behind a bush.

Unsatisfied with my Google search and (again) reading waaaaayyyy too much about gay sex, I asked him: "Do you like to be peed on or do you do the peeing".

After a few seconds of careful though, he said "Well, I like to do the peeing. But, if someone wanted to pee on me, I might just do it."

Not one to back down from a subject I was still trying to digest, I said, "So is it the humiliation approach? 'Cuz that's what I read about online. It's a way to degrade someone"

"No" he said. "It's just something extra. Like when you're having sex in the shower. It's not degrading, it's just fun"

It's fun to peed on someone? Hmmmmm. I'm having trouble wrapping my head around that one. I know guys like to write their names in the snow, they like to tinkle on tree trunks and find pleasure in seeing just how far and loud they can pee. I don't even think I find the general act of peeing enjoyable. In fact, I find going to the bathroom to be a inconvenience altogether. Maybe because I'm a girl. Guys can just whip it out anywhere. We ladies have to unzip, pull down, sit, pee, wipe, wipe again, stand up, pull up and zip up. Don't even get me started on wilderness peeing. That's a skill in itself.

I started thinking to myself, what would I do if a guy wanted to pee on me. Would I let him do it? I mean, it's pee. Eww. This wouldn't be a jellyfish sting situation. This would be a purpose filled pee. Eww. Then, there is the smell. Eww. Even worse if they've just eaten asparagus. Eww.

Methinks there is no room in my bag of tricks for that one. Cum on my leg? Sure. Take a whiz? You've got the wrong girl.

Thursday, September 3, 2009

#1 Rule In Running Club - Don't Talk About Running Club

I always thought the spinners at the gym were crazy. A troop of heavy legged, Type A women who became so aggressive about sharing the same workout room with the kick boxers and the yogis that the gym is building them their very own room. Their pack mentality was infamous. Their brutality and aggression unmatched. I never thought I would find another group of people like them until I joined the Hyannis Road Runners Club.

Even though I started less than 6 months ago, I consider myself to be a decent runner. I can finish a 7K without someone waiting at the finish line with a defibrillator. My time isn't pretty, but what the fuck? I finished without stopping, didn't I? But, I wanted to get better. My dream is to finish a half marathon. Joining the group would allow me to be trained properly. Silly me, thinking that running was just walking, but faster. There's foot placement, stride, heart monitoring, warming up, cooling down etc etc.

The club separates people into 4 categories: Walk, Walk/Run, Basic Running, and Run/Race. After throwing more than 8 races under my belt I figured I was in the run/race group. Fat Chance. Those guys consider anyone who runs above a 9 minute mile to be a "non-runner". They looked like a bunch of heavy muscled gazelles, sprinting around the track at breakneck speed. I was placed in the Basic Running group. The instructor, an adorable white haired man, looked like he weighed no more than 140 lbs. He was in sublime condition. I felt fat and dumpy standing next to a man that was more than twice my age.

My race running style has always been the same: get to the race, pace around until it starts, run the race, finish, drink water and leave. Well......that is wrong, wrong, WRONG. There needs to be warm ups, stretching and cool downs. My heart rates must be closely monitored and I should never get in my car right after running. Always wait until your heart rate returns to normal. My only thought after a race was how fast I could get to the nearest deli to eat an enormous sandwich.

These people are animals. They do not "cross-train". All they do is run. The thought of kick boxing, weight lifting or yoga was greeted with a curled up nostril. Training is serious stuff as I soon found out after my third set of combination sprints. I consider myself to be in really good shape. But, I was sweating like a pig and to make matters worse, I smelled!!! At first, I wasn't sure if it was me until we were running a grueling "cool down". I started smelling the oniony BO smell again and the woman that I had previously blamed it on was at least 40 paces behind me. I knew it wasn't the girl running next to me.

The more I ran, the worse I smelled. I picked through my brain and tried to conjure up what I'd had for lunch, thinking that was the problem. But, a grilled cheese and lentil soup wouldn't have caused the massive stink that flowed behind me like a cloud. I looked around to see if anyone noticed my foul odor. But, everyone was so caught up in the battle to breath normally, that my stench was unnoticed.

The worst part about it was I had to get in my car after all this. The cloth seats soaked up the funk and now my car smells like a locker room after 20 hairy sweaty men left their used socks on the floor. I have since switch from that weird rock deodorant to regular old Secret. Screw going the au natural route. I don't want to smell like a jock strap again.

Wednesday, September 2, 2009

And Here's Another Thing About My Boobs

I'm gonna talk about gross medical stuff. So if you're at all queasy when it comes to needles, puss or blood, I suggest you wait until tomorrow when I talk about golden showers.

I know y'all get it. I hate my boobs. I want some new ta ta's....yada yada yada. You'd heard it all before. Weeeeeeeeeeeeeellllllllllllllll......here's just one more thing for ya. If you ever thought having small boobs got me out of the boob problems category, guess again. In the last 3 months, I have been felt up more than Madonna at an NBA game, MLB game and all her concerts put together.

It all started when I was at the doctor getting felt up by my physician after hearing (yet again) how fabulously healthy I am. His freezing cold hands were kneading me like bread dough when he said, "I feel a small lump right here. I'm scheduling you for a mammogram." I wasn't alarmed. I had been through the boob squishing machine before. This wasn't my first lump and it wouldn't be my last. I nodded in compliance and took the scheduled appointment.

Boob Squishing Day: I arrived at the doctors office and donned the beautiful cotton johnny that you have to wear as the move you from room to room. As I sat in the waiting room with all the of the patients, I could feel them looking at me from under their lashes as they were reading the latest People Magazine. It was the look of pity. They were all twice my age and in for a routine check up. I was the 32 year old who could have breast cancer.

When my number came up, I pranced into the screening room and smiled at the grim faced technical. She looked like she hated her job. I didn't blame her. I wouldn't want to look at boobs all day either. She tried to fit me up to the machine, but it's not that easy when you're working with someone who basically has only nipples. She pulled, poked and pushed. Finally, she seemed to be happy with the fit. Then she clamped that sucker down so hard that I felt the skin from my face pull. After lots of beeps, clicks and buzzes she finally unleashed me. We both stared down at the plastic tray and the splotch of clear liquid on it.

"Does that ever happen at home?" she said.

"Well" I said. "To tell you the truth, I've never squeezed it that hard."

Her face went blank for a second. Then she started laughing so hard she bent over to catch her breath.

"That was the funniest thing I've ever heard in here" she said as she wiped tears from her eyes. "You are my favorite patient today"

That's me. Comic relief for medical technicians.

Long story short, they were unhappy with the results and scheduled me for a little biopsy. No biggie. Just stick a needle in there and take out a sample for testing. That thrilled me to no end as I'm deathly afraid of needles, blood and all things that probe and poke. I managed to pass out when I got a TB test. (for those of you who don't know how that's done. They slide a tiny needle under the skin in your arm and shoot some sorta fluid in there and wait to see how you react to the poke.) I fainted as soon as the needle touched my skin.

Poking Day: So this past Monday, I was strapped to a gurney and ready to have my boob poked. I told the sweet faced nurse who checked me in that I was really 5 years old and would lost all bodily functions if I saw blood or a needle. She told me not to worry. She was the "official hand holder" and would be by my side if I needed anything. Great, not only was I worried about icky medical stuff, now I had to worry about my personal space being violated. I did not want to cozy with her. I just wanted to have my boob poked and get outta there.

I didn't get my wish. As soon as the procedure started, she swooped into the room with an excited "I'm here!" slapped a cold compress on my forehead and grabbed my hand. Eager to make me comfortable, she started asking me all sorts of questions, "Was I married? Did I have kids? Where did I work? What were my bosses names? Did I like my job". I was being interrogated while the surgeon was practically kneeling on my chest trying to get the needle in. All of a sudden, he exclaimed "Holy shit".

Now, that is not something you really want to hear while some dude has a needle in your boob. Those utterances should be reserved for times when the patient is unconscious, not while she is totally awake and struggling not to puke while a nurse is molesting her hand and draining all the information from her brain.

He must have saw my eyes pop open and stare at him bug eyed in amazement. So he said, "I didn't think it would be this hard to do. It's just that you have alot of muscle in there."

Gee.....no kidding. Even I can see on the ultra sound, you dumbass. Guess those years of medical school are working well for you, huh? I'm so happy you have a enormous needle inches from my lungs and heart. Makes me feel all warm inside.

He finally finished after what seemed like an hour of leaning on my chest and jabbing me with some big thing that made loud clicking noises. There were also a few more "Holy Shits" and "Lordy Lordy's" thrown in there for good measure. The hand holder was chirping away in the background as I gave what I'd hoped were pleading looks to the ultra sound technician to end this quickly.

After promising 4 times not to lift anything heavy for two days and to abstain from strenuous exercise for three days, I left the office with a gigantic piece of sticky saran wrap over my boob. I would have the joyous task of peeling that off on Friday. Unfortunately this "simple procedure" had turned into something more complicated, but I still had to go back to the office. For the next 4 hours, I sat as my desk with ice packs in my bra. Every time someone came near my office I would hunch forward, trying to hide the fact that I had gained 2 cup sizes in my right breast. Of course, this trick fooled no one and Surfer Dude slid up to my door way and said "Um, do you have an ice pack in your bra?"

I glanced up from my hunched position and said, "Yeah. So what."

He smiled and said, "You getting some new ones?"

Dontcha love the concern?

I keep trying to show TH the incision, but he wants nothing to do with it. I plan to ambush him tonight. What's a gnarly scab if you don't have anyone to share it with?

On a serious note, the results should come back negative. This was only a precautionary boob poke. Thank God. I was beginning to feel like a slut! I've been felt up by half the medical staff on Cape Cod!