Okay, pour it on the Sugarbutch herself. I mean, you could pour it on me, and I’d like that, but she’s actually invited it for herself.
See, Sinclair at Sugarbutch Chronicles has this nifty contest going on called Be The Next Sugarbutch Star which involves collecting scenarios from readers suggesting an erotic encounter, with the five winning submissions being featured on her site. From the five, a winner will be chosen by readers, with the winning participant, um, winning something.
Because everyone wants to be a star.
The rules are simple: Sketch out a rough (heh heh) outline of a scene you’d like Sin to write. And if you read her blog, you know that lady can write one hot fuck. She offers a sample submission (heh heh) for the contest here. The best part is that you don’t have to write anything particularly hot or lyrical; that’s her job. Though, that didn’t stop me from going full-on crazy with the details when I started writing mine.
Sinclair just gets me hot like that.
Not to worry, I pared it down to essential info and I’m all aflutter wondering what she’ll do with it if she chooses to use it.
So, come on! You’ve got until the calendar turns (That’s midnight Tuesday, sweeties.) to get yours in. Read the details, jot off a few sentences and send them to Sin at aspiringstud(at)gmail.com.
Man, now I have the Mary Katherine Gallagher “Superstar!” thing in my head.
Holy ass, that movie is hilarious.
After the first 15 minutes of nonstop laughter (seriously, it’s genius), I looked at my friend and said, “They can’t possibly sustain this for the entire movie, and if they do, I’m blowing Matt Groening tomorrow.
So, um, checking flights.
They come out of hiding as soon as my children are gone. Friends and lovers calling to check in. I am grateful for the contact, as it is much too quiet here.
Over the next two days I have plans with nearly all my friends (and several lovers, two of whom I’ve already seen since returning). Here’s hoping the activity level can be sustained and continued over the next two weeks.
I’m busy working and writing, too, and doing big projects in the house, so to all of you who said, “Just keep busy, Maddie. It’ll help pass the time,” check my shit out, man.
Oh, I got another phone call from Jack yesterday, and one this morning at 6:19. Gack. I’m sure the hushed tones as I hid in the bathroom piqued the interest of the person half asleep in my bed:
“Baby, I love you. You are my brave, sweet boy. I know you’ll have a good visit. I saw your photos from day camp and it looks awesome! Take hugs and kisses, and call me whenever you want.”
My phone rang at 7:30 this morning. Jack’s little voice was on the other end.
“Momma, I want to come home. To my house. I miss you. Please, Momma, please. I don’t like it here with Daddy.”
He and Miles won’t be home for another two weeks.
I totally hate it.
So, we’ve been watching Lost on DVD. First week it was Season 1, now we’re nearly through Season 2. 200 minutes each night, which works out to five episodes back to back. It’s a lot of fucking Lost, but fun has ensued.
Example: every time someone on the show says the word “lost,” we are obliged to drink. Whenever Hurley says “dude.” Also, whenever Sawyer calls someone by a nickname (e.g. “Jabba,” “Tokyo Rose” or–sigh–”Freckles”).
It’s a little incongruous playing TV drinking games with the children, but hey, it helps them sleep.
Though, Lost saturation has provided some good lake convo:
Jason: “If we’re evah goin’ ta get off this boat, yer gonna hafta die, Collie.”
Filed under Kids, Stories
Jack (snuggling up at 6:30 AM): Momma, your pillow smells like cheese. Smell it!
Madeline: Dude, your hair smells funky. Like lakewater and. . . ew, cheese! Stop making my pillow smell! (Remembers that normal vacationing people are not awake this early) Um, Jefferson’s sleeping, baby. Hush, now.
Jack: Jefferson is stinky! (raises own arm and points underneath) From here!
Madeline: I know! I’m stinky there, too. I like it!
Jack: Do you want to eat it?
Madeline: Yeah, man, like in a sandwich. Like cheese.