Friday, February 26, 2010

Parlez-Vous Francias Avec Moi....Oh....and Some Bread Too.

Food Snob. It's a proud badge and I wear it with pride. I won't eat anything unless it’s utterly delectable. What's the point?

This past Saturday, I had a little mid-morning business meeting. Eager to escape the confines of the Starbucks and the cliché chains, I trotted down near the airport and hopped onto Hinckley Road. Destination: Pain D'Avion's Café Boulangerie.

Most of us Codders know about Pain D'Avions bread. Available a specialty shops, area restaurants and on site at the bakery. Dozens of kinds of breads, rolls and bagels. YUM! A few years ago, after a brutal fire, the owners set up shop in a warehouse and the public followed. Tucked away between two industrial buildings, the bakery seems to blend well with the "rustic" area. Stepping in the warm, dough spiced air of the cafe; one is transported to a French market and stands in awe of the bounty of bread. Woven baskets hold beautiful ciabatta, focaccia, bagels, crusty rolls and delicate brioche. Baguette soldiers stood by the dozens. Glass cases were abundant with croissants, quiches, salads, and pain au chocolat. I snitch a sample of the chocolate hazelnut. The moistness of the inside, flecked with deep chocolate bits and hints of hazelnut surrounded by a rough crust was enough to send me into utopia. Butter would have been an unwelcome companion.

Nudge by my dining partner that we were suppose to be eating "healthy". I ordered a Croque Madame, an open faced sandwich with black forest ham, gruyere, and egg served on country bread. For "dessert", a yogurt parfait to share. I also ordered a cappuccino - and in these exact words - "as big as my head" - for you novices, that's a double shot, baby!

After ordering at the counter, we picked our way through the cafe tables to choose a spot in the sun. It appeared the cafe had been very busy moments before our arrival and there weren't any tables clear of dishes. A small downside, but I'm not too good to bus my own table. The cafe also features a long conference-like table perfect for the informal lunch meeting of 4 or more.

The Madame was delivered. One bite and I was transported to the European countryside. The sweetness of the ham played well with the nutty, melted gruyere. The hearty country bread stood up to the pairing and was an appropriate platform. The surprise was a small nest of arugula on top. Not noted on the menu, it was a fresh addition to the dish. The peppery crispness added an excellent finish. The parfait was unpretentious and lovely. Creamy vanilla yogurt, sweet sliced fresh strawberries and granola I would swear is homemade. Luscious as a quasi dessert or a simple snack.

Café Boulangerie has class, superb tastes and an atmosphere that is Paris in a laidback Cape Cod kinda way. The staff was a tad aloof, which I hope is a tribute to the traditional French attitude and not overall rudeness. Utterly Sinful gives the experience eight raised glasses out ten.  The cafe is open for dinner as well and you know I'll be back.

Bon chance, lovers

Thursday, February 25, 2010

Morning Wood Has Returned

Remember last year when I told you about this hard red-headed thing that kept watching me up at 6:45 AM EVERY MORNING?  Well, it's back.....earlier than last year.

Let's set the stage:  It 5:55 AM.  Two people and a dog are slumbering blissfully.  The alarm clocks are due to ring any moment, signaling the start to another hectic day.  But, they have 5 minutes left in dreamland.

Suddenly, a sharp staccato noise  - stimilar to a machine gun shooting inside a metal barrel - shakes them from their dreams.

The pecker is back!

The snow is still on the ground, the robins are still South, but that damn woodpecker is back in action.  Every year, he gets up at the ass crack of dawn and starts pecking at the metal flashing on our chimney. 

So, just like last year, TH had to run outside and toss rocks up on the roof until he flew away.  This morning, the outfit du jour was a Rush concert t-shirt and workboots.  That's it.  He was naked from the waist down,  all the while, yelling "Get the fuck away from our house"

Never a dull moment at our house.  Interesting that all the fun happens when we're naked.

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

The Bad Girls Dinner

What happens when you take food and a case of wine then combine it with a bunch of naughty minded women?
Bread in cleavage.

Of course, you know these aren't my breasts.  We have already established the fact I do not have any.  This fabulous cleavage shot is Dollface.  We grabbed her bodacious TaTa's and jammed a baguette between them.  Aren't they beautiful!  Don't you just want to jammed your face in there and give her a quick motorboat.  But, I'm getting ahead of myself.

This past Saturday, the girls and I gathered at the Casa de Fabulous Artist to wine and dine ourselves silly.  Everyone brings a dish, everyone brings their choice of adult beverage.  I brought a dynamite bottle of Pinor Noir.  I don't remember the label, I just remember it being very tasty.  Next time I'll pay more attention for you.

Here is the table:

Here's the spread:

We had angel hair pasta with pesto, shrimp and chicken lo mein and I made a huge antipasto that had bresaola (dried cured meat), fresh mozzarella, roasted herbed tomatoes, roasted shallots, grilled zucchini and summer squash, roasted red peppers, articokes with roasted garlic cloves, portabello mushrooms and asparagus.

And we had bread:

Glorious bread from a local baker.  But, do you see what I see?

Yup.  It's penis bread.  From that point on, it was all down hill from there.

We did everything with that bread.  That phallic piece of dough became the centerpiece of all our pictures.  We even have a video of Dollface and myself doing the full intro to Sir-Mix-A-Lot's "Baby Got Back", complete with the bread penis.  After a few glasses of wine, we became 12 year old boys.  I'm hoping that Simone does not put that video on YouTube.  Talent scouts from Hollywood will be calling me night and day. I am that good at Valley Girl speak.

On a more mature note, we were celebrating Dollface's birthday.  Being a bit of a closet pastry chef, I whipped out a delicious recipe for "That Chocolate Cake" from The Essence of Chocolate by Robert Steinberg and John Scharffenberge. (see below for recipe)

I think I did pretty well.  The cake was inhaled by all and Dollface brought decadent chocolate covered strawberries.  It was chocolate overload and it was good.

To all my Bad Girls, we rocked that night!  Stay tuned, lovers.  Bad Girl Dinner is becoming a monthly event. 

That Chocolate Cake
For the Cake
Unsalted butter and flour for pans
2 cups granulated sugar
1-3/4 cups all-purpose flour
¾ cup unsweetened natural cocoa powder
1 teaspoon salt
1-1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1-1/2 teaspoons baking soda
2 large eggs, lightly beaten
½ cup canola oil
1 cup whole milk
1 cup boiling water
For the Frosting
1-1/4 cups granulated sugar
1 cup heavy cream
5 ounces 99% Cacao Unsweetened chocolate, finely chopped
8 tablespoons (4 ounces) unsalted butter, cut into ½-inch pieces
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract


For the Cake:
Position a rack in the center of the oven and preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Lightly butter the bottom of two 9-inch round cake pans. Line the bottom with parchment paper, then butter and flour the parchment and the sides of the pans.

In the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, combine the sugar, flour, cocoa, salt, baking powder, and baking soda, mixing on low speed. Min in the eggs, oil, and milk.

Increase the speed to medium and beat for 2 minutes. Reduce the speed to low and mix in the water. The batter will be soupy.

Divide the batter evenly between the cake pans. Bake for 30 to 35 minutes, or until a skewer inserted in the center comes out clean.

Remove from the oven and cool on a cooling rack for 5 minutes, then turn the layers out onto the rack and cool completely.

When the cakes have cooled, check the frosting. It should have the consistency of mayonnaise. If it is still too thin, allow it to cool longer.

For the Frosting:
In a small saucepan, combine the sugar and cream and bring to a boil over medium heat, stirring occasionally. Reduce the heat and simmer for 6 minutes. Add the chocolate and butter and stir until melted. Pour into a bowl and stir in the vanilla.

To Frost the Cake:
Place one cake layer on a serving plate. Spread the frosting with a hot palette knife or icing spatula to give the frosting a beautiful shine. Run the knife under hot tap water and dry with a towel. Spread about ¾ cup of the frosting over the top of the first layer. Top with the second layer. Spread the remaining frosting over the top and sides of the cake, heating the knife again as necessary.

Serves 8 to 10

Tuesday, February 23, 2010

Random Tuesday -

I think when someone wins the Olympic gold medal, they should have to sing their national anthem after they receive their medal.  Just an idea for next time.

Every day, the Basketville Casket Company truck drives by our office.  Is it weird we noticed they were sending an extra large truck during the holidays?  Is it more weird we get a chuckle when it goes by?

I know you're all wondering what I think of the whole Tiger Woods thing. Well, I think he's full of shit.  Why is it serial cheaters always pull out the "I'm addicted to sex and I need help" excuse. Hello!  I'm addicted to sex.  I just don't go out and hook up with every penis that crosses my path.  Duh!  That's all I'll say on the subject. 

I've been thinking about kissing alot.  Remember when you were younger and kissing was such a big deal?  Then, you graduate to sex and kissing seems to take a back seat.  I plan to revisit this kissing topic at a later date. SMOOCH!

Lindsay Lohan has decided she's not a lesbian anymore. Um...who cares?

I hate politics and the news.  But, recently TH and I have become hopeless addicted to Rachel Maddows show on MSNBC.  She follows Keith Olbermann, who I believe to be totally insane, yet perfect for the news.  I can't get enough of him!  Rachel is totally fabulous and the first openly gay talk show host.  Between the two of them, I get the best views of the psychos in Washington DC and nearly die laughing.  People consistantly bad-mouth Rachel, yet she went to Oxford and carelessly tosses around words that I need a dictionary to understand.  You go girl!  If you have a chance, watch the video where she attended the CPAC conference.  I nearly wet my pants I laughed so hard..

That will probably be the last time you read anything about politics on my blog.  Unless the news is delivered in a funny, thought provoking way, I don't watch it.  I'm more of a kinda gal.  I don't care what you say, Brangelina IS news.

That's a wrap, lovers.  Stay warm tonight.

Monday, February 22, 2010

Who Really Controls The Bedroom?

Daddyfiles comment to me on my Moobs post started my brain spinning and it hasn't stopped since. He claims the overall acceptability of men's weight gain during nesting is direct payback because women decide when or if sex is to be had. So, over the weekend I pondered: Who really controls the bedroom?

Society, sitcoms, every men’s magazine and 90% of humans with a penis say the woman controls whether or not a towel shall be draped from the bedroom door knob. The old saying "I have a headache, dear" has been done to death. Even proof of sex curing a headache hasn't shaken society’s death gripe on this age old bullshit. Whoever this man is that had this experience and started this rumor should be hunted down and made to endure childbirth or something equally as heinous. I haven't had a child, but videos and first hand accounts have assured me it's very uncomfortable. He should be hung from a tree by his toes and forced to give my husband a pedicure. (His feet are soooooo disgusting). This man has single-handedly set up a gripe for every man who has come after him.

Personally, I have never used the headache excuse. Oh, be assured, I have used excuses. But...wait for it....those excuses'll never gonna believe it....TRUE! That's right, fellas. At the moment of impending foreplay, I was (and these are in no particular order of use) really tired, not feeling well, having my period, or just not in the mood due to my emotional state. Even I, someone who is ready to drop my pants or pull up my skirt at any point during the day - who is horny 99.1% of the time, is some times just not able to perform. I have taken "one for the team" if I want to make TH happy. But, there are day's when it's just not gonna happen.

Women are given a bad rap when it comes to sex. If we like it too much, we're a slut. If we like it too much and sleep with too many men, we're me a whore. When we're just not in the mood, we're boring in bed. How can we win? Shouldn't we be afforded the same sexual freedoms as men? Should we be allowed at least a pass when we're on the rag?  Doesn't bleeding count?  Nothing irritates me like the statement - "Oh, we can't have do anything 'cuz you're on the rag".  Yeah, like I chose for this to happen to me every month just so I can get out of having sex.  You've got me.  It's a conspiracy.  All this bloating, psychotic behavior and binge eating is a giant ruse. It's just because I don't want to have sex for the next few days. Aren't you the smart one.

For the record, men are just as bad as women. All you guys out there who are saying "I don't know what she's talking about, I'm always ready for sex. I NEVER say no." Yeah right. You're full of shit. You say no plenty of the time. You just have way of saying no which is stealthy. It's sneakier. You just fall asleep. You know even if we are just off a chocolate and oyster eating binge, half drunk and arriving home from a night at an all male strip club, the sight of your slack jawed, drooling face combined with the symphonic range of your snoring will send our sex drive back to our ovaries where it will hide, quivering, until we can revive it again by watching some George Clooney movie. Oh yeah. You know I've got ya pegged.

The control in the bedroom is up for grabs. You could be like me - never take no for an answer and mount your husband even if he is snoring and drooling. He'll wake up before I'm done. I'm sure of it. Or, you can roll over and rub one off. If you're not getting any from the person who took those vows with you - for better or worse, 'til death do you part, sex shall be had at least 3-4 times per week - I suggest you just lay there and give yourself that orgasm you were looking for. Ladies, the guy won't be able to stand if for more than 30 seconds. Even the most exhausted man will get a woody if he knows a chick is masturbating. Even the thought of a nub rub will post a shlong. Gentlemen, you have two results from this act - either she'll be turned on or she'll be so grossed out she'll shag ya so she doesn't have to listen.

Thursday, February 18, 2010

Man Handles and Moobs

I was having coffee with a friend one morning when she leaned over and said in a conspirative whisper, "I have a problem". I waited a beat for the inevitable - yeast infection that won't go away, weird sex request from lover, sex toy question or the admittance of an affair. But, what she said surprised me.

"My boyfriend is starting to get boobs. I don't know what to do about it"

Oh yes. The classic man boobs or, as I affectionately call them "Moobs" have attached themselves to her man as stubbornly as any pair of love handles. (Apparently, he has those too). In seems some men are predisposed to moobs. Any few pounds gained and not destined for the spare tire or love handles adhere themselves to the man breast area and give the appearance of a healthy A-cup.

Women get a bad rap when we're comfortable in a relationship. It is always said once a woman gets her man, she starts to lose interest in keeping up appearances. And after kids - forgettaboutit. Make way for the “mom jeans" and the evitable "mom bob." (short hair cut) I've been guilty of this. Sometimes I just don't feel like prettying myself up after a long day. I'll take a shower, slap on a pair of fugly pajama pants, throw on a ripped, possibly stained sweatshirt and snarl my hair up in a ponytail. This look doesn't even pass as cute. It's lazy and the elastic waist is anything but sexy. But, I'm comfortable and that's all that matters. If he's not turned on, I'm sure my vibrator will be.

I confess, I like a chunky man. I like a little beef on the sides. But, this is not about me and my love of a husky man-candy.

When a man begins to "nest" is it appropriate for him to turn in to an albatross? Let's throw the health issues - high blood pressure, heart attack, stroke etc - out the window. When your man starts to resemble a whiskey barrel and might have to shop for a training bra, is it okay to say those three words a woman dreads to hear:

"Honey, you're fat"

Fat. It's a terrible word. It doesn't have a jovial sound to it like "roly poly" or "pleasantly plump". I would rather be called a filthy whore than be called fat. At least I know the filthy whore part isn't true.

Men have it easy. Once they dazzle us with their washboard abs, meaty biceps and perfectly round derrieres, we're hooked 'til death do us part. Then, the washboard starts to resemble a keg, the biceps begin to sag and the roundness disappears. We're trying the South Beach Diet, the Sonoma Diet, The Zone, Atkins, the Grapefruit - starving ourselves while their banging back Buds. Running miles on the treadmill with Giselle Bundchen's body (pre-baby, during pregnancy and post baby) being hung like a carrot on a stick in front of us. He's laughing with his buddies over his new six pack that was "Built by Bud".

Gentlemen, if you desire us to look like Megan Fox, Pamela Anderson or the latest Sports Illustrated swimsuit model, you have to look like McDreamy, Johnny Depp or that guy from Twilight who's always showing off his abs. It's only fair.

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

Something To Cure The Winter Blahs

As I type, the wind is banging at my window and the snow is swirling outside. It's fucking freezing out. The only sign of spring is the teeny, tiny basil plants which are slowly emerging from the peat cocoons in my little indoor greenhouse. I am hardy New Englander, but even I know when enough is enough. Sadly, we still have a month and a half to go before we can begin to see spring over the huge snow banks in the front yard.

What is it about cold weather and the desire to make soup? Or the need to bake bread. As soon as I catch sight of the first flake of a snowstorm, I am in my kitchen, yanking ingredients out of the refrigerator and pulling my Dutch oven out of the cabinet. This is snow storm foreplay, y'all.

Even though I don't like chicken - (I know I'm weird. Get over it) - I do like chicken soup. I found a recipe on and did a little tweaking. You can go to their website and use their version or use mine. (you had better use mine if you know what's good for ya)

Chicken and Spinach Soup with Fresh Pesto

2 teaspoon extra-virgin olive oil
1/2 cup carrot
1 large (about 8 ounces) large boneless, skinless chicken breast, cut into quarters
1 clove garlic, minced
5 cups chicken broth (I use low sodium)
1 1/2 teaspoon dried marjoram
6 ounce baby spinach, coarsely chopped
1 can (15-ounce) cannellini beans, rinsed
Sea Salt and freshly ground pepper


3/4 cup of fresh basil leaves (packed)
1/3 cup of freshly grated parmesan cheese (don't you dare use that powdered crap in a can)
1/4 cup of toasted pine nuts (put nuts in a dry pan and toasted over a low burner. Watch carefully! They burn quick. As soon as you smell something like popcorn, they are done. Allow them to cool)
1/2 cup (or to taste) Extra Virgin Olive Oil


1. Heat 2 teaspoons oil in a large saucepan or Dutch oven over medium-high heat. Add carrot and chicken; cook, turning the chicken and stirring frequently, until the chicken begins to brown, 3 to 4 minutes. Add garlic and cook, stirring, for 1 minute more. Stir in broth and marjoram; bring to a boil over high heat. Reduce the heat and simmer, stirring occasionally, until the chicken is cooked through, about 5 minutes.

2. With a slotted spoon, transfer the chicken pieces to a clean cutting board to cool. Add spinach and beans to the pot and bring to a gentle boil. Cook for 5 minutes to blend the flavors.

3. Combine pesto ingredients in a food processor. (A blender would work in a pinch) Process until a coarse paste forms.

4. Cut the chicken into bite-size pieces. Stir the chicken and pesto into the pot. Season with sea salt and pepper. Heat until hot.

I have been making gallons of this stuff and it freezes well. I love to curl up with a huge bowl and a chunk of crusty baguette. Just don't tell TH about the bread. We're supposed to be going low-carb. I'm sneaking bits of bread when he's not looking, It will be our secret, okay?

For all my veggie fans out there, I suppose you could use that icky stuff called tofu instead of chicken. Bleeh! I don't know how you do it. I can only choke it down if it's buzzed in a blender.

There you go, my lovers.  My first recipe for ya.  After all, the best form of foreplay is food.

Monday, February 15, 2010

Shopping For Knocker Holders

I don't believe there is a woman out there who enjoys bra shopping. Big, little, small, matter the size of the TaTa's, bra shopping is one step up from a trip to the gynecologist. That form of humiliation only lasts 5 minutes. Bra shopping can last for hours - sweating in a dressing room as you twist yourself into impossible positions trying to fit a 1/2 inch hook into a 1/2 eyelet. Did I mention we have to do this behind our backs. Sure, we can get the front clasp version. I don't know about you, but those things pinch.

Unlike the women with beautiful, bouncing breasts who can sashay into any lingerie store and find the perfect bra, I was given a perky set of A cups and a 38 inch rib cage with lat muscles. I have a better chance of scoring with Bradley Cooper (FYI - he's my fantasy man this week. YUM!) than finding a bra in my size. The only reason I wear a bra - other than the embarrassing "high beam" issue - is to create the illusion of boobs. That's right, bras give me boobs. You heard it here first.

Because Victoria's Secret only caters to the beautiful people, I have to shop at Lady Grace. That's right, I shop at the old lady lingerie store. The store where the bras are unsexy and the nightgowns are floor-length and flannel. Every time I set foot in the store, I am the youngest person by 30 years - that includes the sales ladies.

Two weekends ago, I decided I really needed new bras. I had been switching between two - a gray (formerly cream) Miracle Bra with one strap held together by a safety clip and a black lace demi cup that was missing a gel pack from the left cup. Thankfully, I am married and the only time he sees me in a bra is in the morning before he's put his contacts in. I may cry over a water speck on a suede pump, but I'll wear a bra with no elastic. Yup. That's my little slice of white trash.

I walked into Lady Grace, shuffled by a 400 year old woman looking at slips (does anyone really wear a slip anymore) and walked up to the counter. The sales lady - who I swear could have been my 1st grade teacher - looked up at me and cocked her head in surprise. I'm guessing I didn't look like her usual customer. I was dressed in Uggs, ripped jeans and a down vest. I had on a NFL Hockey baseball cap and was just finishing up a text on my Blackberry. The dinosaur looking at the slips was glaring at me through her cataracts.

I'm a real sweetheart when it comes to retail folks. People love to wait on me. I'm quick, I get to the point and I tell them exactly what I need. This is what I told the confused sales lady:

"I need a 38A bra that will give me some boobs but doesn't look like an Ace bandage."

No sooner than you could utter "Boobs" this fabulous woman - who I have now dubbed "The Bra Fairy" - whisked me to the back of the store, tossed me in a dressing room and said, "Take off your top. I'll be right back".

I stood naked from the waist up, not quite sure what to expect. All of a sudden, I heard a bit of rustling and the Bra Fairy chirped, "Try these" as a waterfall of brassieres rained down from the top of the dressing room door. Every 15 seconds or so, she would toss another over the top. I could barely get my arms in the straps before more would cascade down. I was admiring myself in a beautiful violet satin push up when she came up to the door and said, "What about this?" I looked up and oogled as she popped a black lace bustier over the top. Where the hell was she finding this stuff? I didn't see anything like this when I came in and I'm sure Ole T-Rex out front wouldn't approve. I smiled and told her it was adorable, but not what I was looking for. The rain of bras continued until I was able to find five that fit perfectly. Um....Bradley....I'm waiting.

As the Bra Fairy was checking me out, I said "I have to ask you. Where did all these bras come from? I've been in here numerous times and all I can ever find is stuff that looks like it comes from the 1950's"

She smiled and nodded, "You just need to know where to look, dear"

Oh please. This woman has a stash out back. I'm sure if I'd asked her for the latest Rocco movie and a case of lube, she'd get it for me. I bet she's got some crotchless panties and some leather S&M masks hiding in a drawer, just waiting for the right customers.

To the Bra Fairies at Lady Grace, I applaud you! It takes amazing skill to look like a kindergarten teacher and peddle panties! My boobs and I thank you from the top of the nipple to the bottom of the breast.

Friday, February 12, 2010

Welcome Lovers and Haters!

Hello all you beautiful people coming over from Diamond in the Rough. I'll have something to dish on Monday. You won't believe what I have been working on this week.

Friday, February 5, 2010

You Know - Haters Bring Me the Most Love

Last night, I was going through my fan mail (all 6 of them) and I received a lovely little email from a new fan:

Hiya - Was browsing Craigslist today and found a posting commenting on your blog
Anyway , I'm enjoying your ' views ' despite the negative comments from the CL poster. - Random guy from the upper cape.

I just had to hustle my fanny over to Craiglist and see what it was all about. Well, apparently someones not to happy with me:

The girl or Nasty Ho that writes this blog is soooooo discusting. What a dirty person. Go check it out for youself. I wish I could shut down her blogs. She does a dis-service to woman. Gross Pig. I bet she is gross! Yeah some diamond in the rough......some potential...Porn Industry???

Horrible spelling and punctuation aside (Ahem, spellcheck), someones a little fired up. But, I'm glad she thinks I have potential for the porn industry. Thanks sweetie! You're a peach. I'll call you when I get my big break. We'll do lunch.

After, I trekked over to my blog tracking page to see my numbers for the day were. Wouldn't you know it, that angry little skankpot is the best thing that's happened to me since the we-vibe website and I became BFF's. My hits are up 350% People are cruising around my blog, hungrily eating up my naughties.

And after that, I decided to check my comments page. Sure enough, Little Miss Nasty has been leaving me love notes. But, she's given me a bit more insight situation:

How could my boyfriend Jeff go to your webpage behind my back. You are a nasty Ho and truly tasteless...Ok I just answered my question as to why he goes to your page.

Okay, now we've gotten to the root of the crazy. There's a little jealousy mixed in.

Sweetie, I don't know you or Jeff. I just happen to be writing a blog and he's reading it. It's not like we're fucking. I may be vulgar, tasteless, naughty, crude, out-spoken annoying, whiny, horny, overly sexual, ready to kill a bunch of egotistical lawyers the drop of a hat, not a real blond, 10 pounds heavier than my ideal weight and, at the moment, fighting a monster craving for a Mounds Bar. But, a Ho - that's something I'm not. If I want to have my boots knocked, I call Big K. Did you ever think Jeff might be reading my page for some ideas? I talk about sex alot - likes, dislikes, positions etc. Maybe he reading to....I don't know....find a few tips to please you? Aren't you happy he's here, reading some random blog. He could be trolling the internet for midgets having sex in Jello while listening to Satanic verses. What are you gonna do if you catch him looking at Jenna Jameson porn? Are you gonna write her a letter calling her a Ho? She'd probably like that just as much as I liked getting your comments and care just as little. Oh, and don't diss the Wax Nazi. She's a Goddess. If you doubt her existence and my wonderful adventures with her, I will meet you anytime and introduce you. From the sounds of your frustration, you need an hour with her. She'll put you in your place.

Jeff, if you're out there, thanks for reading. You should know your girlfriend is a wackadoodle and she's snooping through your stuff. She has a gigantic stick in her ass and it needs to come out. Pronto! Give her some good lovin' and get her off my ass. If you've been a faithful reader, you should know how.

Tuesday, February 2, 2010

Random Tuesday - Shmeg & Adam Lambert

Do any of you watch "24"? I love to hate that show. Jack Bauer kicks some serious terrorist ass. But, my stress level goes through the roof and I have anxiety for a 1/2 hour pre-show and post-show. I actually catch myself breathing heavy after a stressful scene.

Do you ever use the drive up lane at the bank with the tube portal thingy? Are you like me and never manage to park close enough thus requiring you to launch yourself through the car window, forgetting you have your seatbelt on and end up looking like a total idiot. Make sure you smile when you do it. You're on camera and the bank employees are surely laughing at you.

I'm quite fond of using the word "shmeg" Like, "Um, excuse me. You have some shmeg on your face.". I thought it was another word for stuff. Well, I was just informed my little cutsie word comes from the word "smegma" which means, " a sebaceous secretion in the folds under a man's foreskin. Really. Check it out. I wouldn't lie to you. For reals! It's in the Oxford Dictionary. No pictures, though. Note to all: I will no longer be using the word "shmeg". Unless, I see someone who truly has "shmeg" on themselves. If that's the

I am the only person not watching "Lost" tonight. Seriously. I don't care.

Facebook has made me it's bitch. I'm logged on all the time. If you haven't become a fan of my page yet, we're just not friends anymore. For reals. No more. Don't call me, don't write and don't even think about asking me to be in your wedding. Okay, maybe I'll do the wedding part. There's a chance I could get some cake.

Dear Tori Spelling,
Thank you, CCG

I have fallen for Adam Lambert. I don't care if he's gay. He's a babe. I wish he was here for my entertainment....right now.

Oh yeah, I've been published on the More Magazine website. You should vote for me. You would know this if you were my fan on Facebook. See, there are benefits to this. Not just cake for me.

Later, lovers!