Monthly Archives: December 2006

Bloody Sunday

Right, so I’m emotional this week.

I don’t mind that I’m sensitive to the monthly hormonal flux that has me crying fat-ass tears when I watch the news. It’s who I am, and I get to feel what I feel without apologies.

Naturally, this morning, the end-of-the-year “People We’ve Lost” segment on CBS’ Sunday Morning had me wiping my cheeks.

This is predictable, for even if I weren’t bleeding from between my legs, that stuff is sad. It’s sad that Ed Bradley (cue video clip of Ed helping Vietnamese boat people ashore), Peter Boyle (roll clip of Peter dancing as Young Frankenstein’s monster), Gordon Parks and (god, I choked here) Dana Reeve are dead.

But it pushed me over the edge of sadness and into head shaking shock and disbelief, incense and, oh yes, disgust to watch the segment on over-the-top parties for which people spent seven figures.

Seven.

Figures.

For a party.

Because, as the event design guru Preston Bailey said, “You can’t take it with you, so you should enjoy it while you’re here.” Great advice, dickhead.

Like the woman who spent over a million dollars for her cancer-survivor husband’s 54th birthday party because she felt so blessed to have him alive and healthy and she wanted to celebrate his life with 400 of their closest friends.

I have a problem with excess, it’s true. But watching that piece disturbed the hell out of me. I wanted to shake the wife and that fey, smug Preston Bailey by the shoulders and shout, “Do you know how many cancer research grants could be funded with a million fucking dollars?”

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Can I Just Say?

On a day when I heard a college student behind me at the bookstore talking on her cell phone about all the expensive shit she got for christmas, sounding totally spoiled and gross, I have to say how proud and grateful and amazed I am that my kids can’t tear themselves away from the Crayola Color-it-Yourself Mini Posters they got from my brother for Chanukah.

They so seriously rock.

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Hooker Geeks

hyperbolic1.jpg
It’s pretty, right?

It’s a goddamn hypberbolic plane, crocheted by a mathematician.

I know! I got all quivery.

via BoingBoing 

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Ho. Ho. Ho.

Sitting in the funky French bistro with my date, a fuckbuddy who’s twenty years my senior, I sipped my wine and admired the art and the other patrons. This guy always takes me to the best places.

I like him. He’s fun and uncomplicated. No strings, no attachments, just nice dates which, while they usually end with nakedness, always include expensive food and wine and the occasional show.

We sat at a small table, drinking and laughing. We genuinely get along and I forget the difference in our ages when we’re out.

A woman sitting a couple tables away, probably about the age of my date, gave me one of those looks which said more than she ever could have with words.

I wasn’t aware of it at first, since I don’t naturally view other women suspiciously, but I felt her eyes on me for longer than it would have taken to check out my outfit, which was awesomely cool and sexy. I met her eyes and smiled hello. She looked down at her meal and said something to her male companion.

A few minutes later I felt it again. I looked up and she was looking at me like I was the Whore of Babylon. I raised my eyebrows and nodded very slightly. I put my glass to my lips and tipped my head back.

Who cares?

I smiled and looked away.

My date looked at me quizzically, “What’s funny, baby?”

I signaled to the woman with my eyes, “I think I just got called a ho.”

“What does that mean, a ‘hoe?'”

It was so charming that I laughed and kissed him.

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Filed under Dating, Fuckbuddies, Girldom, Stories

What The . . . ?

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Not to Poke Fun (Or Diamond Scepters)

 

Constantly take refuge at my feet, my dear…
Be gracious, beloved, and
Give me pleasure with your diamond scepter.
Look at my three petaled lotus,
It is a Buddha paradise, adorned with a red Buddha,
A cosmic mother who bestows
Bliss and tranquility on the passionate.
Abandon all conceptual thought and
Unite with my reclining form;
Place my feet upon your shoulders and look me up and down.
Make the fully awakened scepter
Enter the opening in the center of the lotus.
Move a hundred, thousand, hundred thousand times
In my three-petaled lotus
Of swollen flesh.
Placing one’s scepter there, offer pleasure to her mind.
Wind, inner wind-my lotus is the unexcelled!
Aroused by the tip of the diamond scepter,
It is red like a bandhuka flower.

….Candamaharosana-tantra.

It’s just that now, I’m gonna totally start calling my vag by its tantric name: the three-petaled lotus. And thank god someone finally called a clit a buddha.

Because, really.

(Via The World of Tantra)

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Toasted Marshmallow Jelly Bellies

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Best

 Post

 Orgasm

Snack.

Ever.

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