There are few things unattractive as a woman bent over with arse in the air in most public situations -- yoga class, and the gym being two of few acceptable exceptions.
I learned early on to bend my knees instead of bending over...and a little head tilt to the side while bending, followed by a slight hair toss upon standing, oftentimes makes the blunder that caused your need to bend forgettable. I mastered this bend, tilt, and toss method before age 10 and its about as natural for me as placing one foot in front of the other to walk.
Okay – when I lost my wig a few weeks ago, I did a full hip bend to retrieve it, but that’s to be expected after skipping lunch, having several martinis, singing The Jefferson’s Theme song at karaokee, and finding your wig on the club floor after a flawless rendition of a Tina Turner Proud Mary neck snap.
Anyhoo
I was in line, yes, in line, for the restroom – yes a public restroom, in a small, family-owned resturant – fabulous, genorous, fresh Italian dishes.
Yum
Behind me stood a woman and an extremely hyperactive male child. Oddly enough, this family-owned trattoria is not particularly kid-friendly and neither am I. I wanted to grab his ear and tell him to sit his little arse in the corner –a nice half tab of a strong sedative would have done the kid and everyone there a great favor. I wondered if I had one in my purse. Nearby was very attractive and apparently unhappy woman using the public telephone – her hands steadily rotating between temple rubbing and wild arm gestures.
Luckily for the avid people watcher, in this case, the little hyper demon seed - one gesture too many sent her purse hurling to the floor,and its contents to spread about. Soon to follow was a full waist bend by Miss Frustrated to retrieve her things. Little Mister Unruly, who had been begging me for an arse whipping, noticed her actions right away -- jumped up and down, and pointed, but of course no one paid attention since it was consistent with his need-a-pill behavior for the prior 6 minutes.
Myself, and a man who was headed towards the little soldier’s room, however, did take notice of Little Damion -- and low and behold – the kid was trying to lead everyone to the promised land.
Mamma Mia!
An unobstructed view -- full twat shot. And contrary to my thoughts – a natural blonde was she. Gotta give it to her - perfectly manicured blonde pastures where any bull would happily graze for hours. Even a nun would have stared. A gay man even.
The guy, kid, and I looked at her, each other, smiled at each other for a few seconds, and looked away. It was then my turn to use the facilities.
Remember ladies. Always bend your knees.
Is it possible to have a healthy and prosperous non-monogamous intimate relationship?
I realize it’s a new day and we have managed to question and put out traditions as effortlessly and often as we put out the trash – but, monogamy? This might sound great to some, but I think everyone gets screwed in the end.
So – this is definitely not for me.
I know many have openly practiced entertaining multiple partners since ancient times, but it’s becoming more and more common and acceptable today. Some are considering this a new standard and consider it necessary to maintain intimate relationships.
I can barely maintain open non-monogamous non-intimate relationships. My system of “containers” for friends is protected with a velvet glove and iron fist.
And everyone knows it.
Hey. If needs are not being met in an intimate relationship, one is certain the issue is not with Self, and honest efforts have been made to rectify issues, then maybe - just maybe, the solution is to sever the relationship instead of adding a third or multiple wheels to keep it moving along.
Understand the situation and resolve accordingly.
Why not invest time and energy in trying to make what you have succeed if it’s so worthwhile and important to you?
Are more people opening intimate relationships because they are too immature to deal with commitment?
Is it that good new car smell, in love feeling that comes with the new relationships that folks want to keep in their lives?
Emotional immaturity?
Are people opening intimate relationships just for the sexual aspects?
Freedom to explore? Explore being sexually and/or emotionally involved with more than one person?
Need to feel “more love”?
B*llshit.
Grow up people.
Speaking of immaturity, I don’t know – MAYBE id find it acceptable for younger folks who discuss this in the start of intimate relationships to move forward and experiment for a while, but I’ve found that in many situations, with both younger and older couples, its suggested doors open for others to join once things are up and running.
…and oftentimes one partner is not comfortable with changes, but wants to remain open-minded.
Is it just sex? Does it lead to certain sexual deviations? The married “open” couples I’ve had the pleasure and displeasure of meeting have appeared to be truly abnormal.
And to think many have children growing up in with 3 or 4 “parents” or a steady flow of “aunties" and "uncles”.
Go to marriage or sex counseling. Talk more. Talk less. Try role-play. Take a pill – take two pills. Buy some movies, toys -- power tools even.
Group marriages?
Intimate networks?
Expanded families?
Triad relationships?
“Open your mind. Be free.”
F*ck that. Don’t open your mind for everything.
Protect your morals and values.
Protect your children – more and more innocence is being lost with each generation – don’t add to the tainting.
Protect you – against emotional, spiritual, and health harms and roadblocks.
Relationships wherein partners are responsible and have worthwhile employment, and a full spread of responsibilities (i.e., house, kids), just can’t afford time and energy sharing outside of the immediate “container” if the relationship is to flourish.
Too many eggs in the basket – one is bound to crack… and soil the entire container.
This is adding spice alright – Strychnine.
Hey. I know my way of dealing with non-intimate relationships might not be the healthiest for some, but it works for me – I wouldn’t necessarily prescribe this strong medicine for the next person – what keeps your life most organized for YOUR comfort and sanity is, of course, on you.
BUT
Know that there are so many benefits of a healthy, committed, monogamous, and intimate relationship, and a steady growth in fulfillment with Self happens to be one of them. Being with someone does not make a healthy person feel happier with Self, but instead – when with the right person, versus the wrong person, one is allowed to focus on Self and have energies to grow in a positive direction.
Effortlessly.
Find yourself worthy of a loving, one-on-one, intimate relationship. Should you have the opportunity to indulge -- jump in head first, and enjoy.
So I’m unwinding, reading books on deconstruction (as if my way of communicating/thinking isn’t disruptive enough) and decided to instead drift in another direction.
Well sort of.
The direction?
MY REALITY
…now that’s a scary f*cking place folks.
Anyhoooo
I reflected on how interesting my time and new associations have been over the past few days (Easter weekend of all times, mind you) and it made sense in my reality.
Sad, but true -- its human nature to put to service those we consider weaker or beneath us so that our lives are made “better”. I mean hell – oftentimes it’s what the weaker NEED to feel worthwhile, so some might be honestly providing a service for obliging. We work them so that we might be able to focus energies on a magnificently degenerate life. It’s been the goal for many since the earliest times in our history – the ideal way of living has been indulging, degenerately in sex and food.
Well.
Just in case the need for an excuse arises, that’s my excuse for everything I did and witnessed this weekend and I’m sticking to it.
…I’m too old for this sh*t.
...You had to be there to understand this -- but again, its my blog and I'll post what I want to.
*I need to "scrub my soul"*
I believe that all acts are selfish in nature.
Even when helping others, not expecting monetary reward or recognition, it’s still to make YOU feel good or better.
Buying flowers for your lover not only brings joy to them, but it makes YOU feel nice because they feel joyous – or YOU feel better or get what YOU want because they are no longer angry or upset with YOU.
Helping the sick or elderly makes YOU feel better because YOU have helped someone who is not able to effortlessly help themselves – and YOU oftentimes think that if YOU are eager to assist the elderly now, maybe someone will in turn act kindheartedly to YOU once you have reached that stage in your life.
When caring for your kids, it brings pleasure to YOU to care for them, and build for, and prepare them for their futures, because they are from YOU. Your flesh and blood – your personal, very strong bond - because they are from YOU. You want them to succeed in life because they from YOU. You love them for some of the very same reasons.
You are even selfish in worship. You follow guidelines in certain religions and beliefs because YOU want peace in your after or current life. You ask for forgiveness in certain religions and beliefs because YOU want to stay in good grace with your higher being; YOU want acceptance; and, ultimately, YOU want what is promised to YOU.
It all comes back to YOU. Understanding this and how it’s all connected and THEN embracing your selfishness is a good thing.
Self-interest – RATIONAL self-interest – NOT cheating, hurting others for gain, or seeking instant gratification, but, instead having standards for self, which are not to be compromised, is NOT a bad thing.
Selfishness is not a bad thing.
Selfishness is protecting your limitations – an internal police of sorts, and I have several squads working around the clock - things would run amuck if not. I’ve been screwed because a cop or two found a few folks familiar, and thought they should be allowed to test boundaries -- no one is perfect, but, know that self-sacrifice is destructive. PERIOD.
…and you say selfish like it’s a bad thing.
There are individual restrooms where I work – 6 in total around my very creative suite. I, of course, have the pleasure of having a restroom two doors down from my office.
I normally don’t use public restrooms, but for the past several weeks, I have been experiencing water pressure issues at home, so I’ve taken to using the public restroom for “certain things” towards the end of the day after everyone else is gone, here at the office, since I’m here until after 6 on a normal day anyways.
We are a small shop and bathrooms are nice, clean, and pretty, so I feel a bit more comfortable. I even keep a bag with my girlie things in there since I use moist toilet paper instead of that dry crap. Don’t say that’s too much information – it’s my blog and I’ll post what I want to.
...anyhow
For the past several weeks, around 4:30 p.m. or so, I’ve noticed am awful stench and tons of Lysol linen spray or pine spray while walking pass my pretty little two doors down ladies crapper.
I have been unable to take my civilized sweet smelling dump because of the smell of death.
The call of the wild.
The smell of wolf p*ssy.
We all pep up our step and hold our breath until we pass the door.
No one sees the person go in, but we all know that she’s been by and left a little something --- the stench seeps from under the door around the same time everyday.
We have patrolled the area trying to find out who has been dropping the mega load and been unsuccessful.
When we stop patrolling, we simply get a huge whiff when we least expect it.
This smell is unlike any other – I call it doginussy.
The smell of dog shit, gin (pine tree), and wolf p*ssy (just imagine).
I’ve had to use a nearby men’s room after 6:00 p.m. instead and fight my desire to stand at the urinal and take a tinkle.
*yeah, you’d be surprised to know of how many women want to or have tried standing up peeing – pretty f*cking liberating if you are able to NOT piss down your leg -- I’ve managed to master this trick – snicker*
I am seriously considering sending an all staff email in request that they drop the doginussy in another restroom because I cant take it anymore.
In the meantime, sit here in fear, armed with only my Febreeze air spray. The secret shitter must be stopped immediately.
Today I ordered a lamb pannini from a nice little spot not far from my office, and finally got off my lazy arse and picked up my own lunch for a change. My block long walk down M Street was pleasant – I managed to wink at a few people.
So I picked up the sandwich – mouth watering during my stroll back to the office anticipating a nice piece of lamb.
Finally I entered my office and sat at the desk and unwrapped my goodies. I sat for a moment and felt like the Where’s The Beef Lady must have when she saw the burger that was NOT from Wendy’s… and then I told myself to calm down because never should you judge quality based on quantity with food.
*deep breath*
So I bit into the pannini. Yum. Veggies were magnificent. BIG flavor. I taste a bit of lamb – still not enough so I pulled the sandwich apart in search of a decent piece of lamb so that I might reposition it for my next bite, and noticed the one nice-sized piece was surrounded by fat.
Mind you, the sandwiches are served room temperature, so translation: COLD LAMB FAT.
More often than not, since I’ve started working in Georgetown, I’ve found myself disappointed with preparation of foods from high end grocers and restaurants.
I threw a wicked b*tch fit in a high-end grocer because my large carton of seafood bisque was filled halfway with small shrimp shells, and a few whitefish bones – unbelievable how they expect you to pay so much when so little detail is given to preparation. I mean – how hard might it be to run the bisque through a sieve or friggin cheesecloth even…
Even worse – the soup tasted MAGNIFICENT minus spitting shells every few seconds.
What about trimming the fat before placing the meat on my sandwich.
Is that too much to ask for?
No – not if you are paying $10.00 for soup to go or $8.00 for a sandwich.
There is nothing wrong with me. I like things the way that I like them – prepared with care so that folks might indulge. And I despise cold lamb fat.
Cut the fat people!!!
Loving someone unconditionally is an act of desperation. Respecting someone for being f*cked up, because you, yourself, are f*cked up -- is the right formula.
I smell hella sexy.
…and my hair looks fabulous.
I can barely take myself. I wanna take me and get out of here ASAP – skip the dinner, just straight to the house. Vanilla and chocolate scents all over -- what I tease am I, making me sit here for hours and wait this way.
I’m drawn to me I smell so sexy. Like handmade truffles with attention paid to every detail.
You can’t help but want to taste.
Silky
Rich
Buttery
Complex
Delicate
It’s been far too long since I slipped into such a sultry fragrance. The Comptoir Sud Pacifique Amour de Cacao takes me to a magnificent place.
Damn. I smell sexy.
I wear a wig when traveling via early am flights – one less thing to do in the morning since I am NOTORIOUS for missing flights.
I wear a wig when camping – it’s easier to get a bug or snake out of your hair when it’s not really your hair – just pull the damned thing off.
Sometimes I wear a wig weekends when just running out.
Sometimes I run about with special hair treatment on my natural hair, while wearing a wig with my hair pinned underneath – naturally dried for several days.
I wear a wig when I want to be blonde.
I wear a wig when I am doing role-play.
It’s just easy.
I hate anything that has to do with my hair and before I threw a b*tch fit and fired my salon; I went in for hair washings every Saturday morning – faithfully – too lazy to even wash and blow-dry my own hair.
My arms get tired when using the hand-held blow-dryer, and I am too impatient to use the sit under dryer – not to mention my contacts get so dry, it feels that my eyes are gonna crack.
The few times I’ve felt bold enough to use a flatiron or curlers, I ended up with burns on my finger, neck, forehead, back (middle), and knee even (long story).
Well.
I started a new job about 3 weeks ago and haven’t made time to find a new hairdresser, so I thought now might be the perfect time to finally venture to a new category – wearing a wig in the office. I found a fall/wig that’s streaked and pretty much the same as how I normally wear my hair. I have been wearing it every day since joining the new firm.
The fall has made me lazy. I am not sure when the last time my hair had a good brushing and combing.
I’ve had only 2 bad wig days. But the second was enough for me to give up.
One in Bahamas a few summers ago – fresh off the plane with a Bahama Mamma in hand. I took a drunken swan dive from a picnic table into a friend’s arms at a welcome party – he barely caught me and the neck snap sent my auburn curly wig several feet in air.
In front of several hundred people.
F*ck it right? My friends thought it was funny and who cares what the tourists think?
Well the second bad wig night happened the other night.
I went to Windows on 17th Street (and yes, I was the only girl there) and had a few cocktails and then went downstairs to Dupont Italian Kitchen – yes I had “DIK” for dinner. And it was goooooood.
*snicker*
I then went back upstairs to Window’s for karaoke and dancing with the boys – I sang The Jefferson’s Theme Song – Movin On Up and continued to have a nice time.
It was suggested that we leave and go to Cobalt for more dancing.
And lots of dancing I did - on the stage to some really great 80’s music – doing spins using a bar/pole from time to time.
Feeling good and shaking my arse for hours.
Everything is a blur except for the fun people, good music, dancing, and the energy drink in hand....and the crystal clear vision of me somehow ending up bent over picking up my wig/fall from the floor very quickly in a corner area. It was very crowded - folks dancing. I am not sure how many people saw me minus the wig.
Bad thing -- it was day-two of mayo treatment days – so I probably looked bald to the naked eye since my hair was all pinned flat in most places -- but sticking straight up in the middle EXTREMELY curly and tangled as all hell.
So.... I'm done. No more bad wig days.
My hair appointment is this Saturday.
Well maybe sometimes I care when my hormones are off, but other than when pmsing – I find very little is worth caring or thinking about.
I pretty much don't give a shit.
I am who I am and that’s not going to change. I don’t give a shit what anyone cares or thinks except for my daughter and self. There are very few others who are “in” - I can count them on one hand -- and all others are “out”. I pretty much don't give a shit about others.
It’s my observation that a sunny disposition gets you no where. Why waste the energy? I am pleasant most of the time during business hours, mostly when dealing with clients. That matters because it takes care of my daughter and self.
...outside of that...
I do extremely well at not giving a shit.
Not giving a shit is my strong point.
I am seriously considering writing a how to manual to help others not give a shit at the request of friends, but, I haven’t given a shit to make time to start on the writings.
More should really consider baby stepping into this way of thinking/living/feeling - not giving a shit for one day per month, increasing your days per month until you are truly able to live and do ONLY for self and worthy family and friends.
Liberating.
I excel at not giving a shit.
Don’t call me before or 10 am on Saturday or Sunday unless someone has died.
I have an aunt who extended this rule to friends and family and I never understood as a child, but now I do and feel the same.
Better yet, still wait until after ten to call me if someone dies because there is nothing I can do to help that person anyway, and the news can wait until I am at least fully awake. With a cup of coffee in hand even. I'd be pleased as punch to take your call of bad news after ten. Before then, I am not coherent and don’t give a sh*t about anything you have to say.
There are so very few things one would have to tell me that can’t wait until after ten.
Monday – Friday I must wake up between 7:00 – 7:30 a.m. for work. I hate it, but am paid to awaken early during those days. I need to sleep late on Saturday and Sunday if I am not working on those days. If you are not paying me to take the phone call, don’t even think about it. If you wish to pay me to awaken early on MY time then it must be scheduled beforehand. Just because I am cool with folks does not mean they have a pass to call me early in the morning. Why? What’s so f*cking important? I think these people are pain in the arses – ten sheaves of suck is what they are - the reason I have call block on my home phone… now only if Nextel would provide the same service, I’d be a happy camper.
When the phone rings, my brain does not register that I should answer until after the second ring, and that’s when I start reaching for my cordless - I oftentimes can’t find the phone until after the third ring, and my answering service picks up on the fourth ring. So I hardly ever get the early morning wake up calls, just a headache from being startled. Even worse, I am never able to return to sleep after awakened early morning.
Don’t f*cking call before ten. Understand?
And don’t call after 10 pm. During the work week, I am probably just getting in from working late, or happy hour, or dinner. Or maybe I’m watching a movie or relaxing with my daughter. Whatever I am doing does not require your energy. Don’t call me to check up. I am okay.
Yes, I have seen missed calls on my cell that you called earlier and I just have things more important to care for – that’s why I haven’t returned your call.
If you are calling after ten during the weekend, by then I am doing whatever I want to be doing for the rest of the evening and only a small handful of select friends can persuade me to change my path for the evening and they know who they are. They have done so successfully. They are interesting.
I don’t want small talk or to meet you anywhere.
I’m a resourceful and popular girl so you are not helping me by extending an invitation late in the evening. You are probably disrupting a great evening when you call. I probably don’t like doing the things you are doing or going the type of places you frequent or want you coming to where I am – if I wanted you there, I would have called YOU before ten.
Just don’t bother to call me before 10 am or after 10 pm.
No
Non
Nein
Ingen
不.
Hell no
I don’t have a quarter.
I wish I would give money to a panhandler. I’d have to pause a block later to stick my foot in my own arse.
I am offended when asked for money on the street – and depending on how many drinks I’ve had before they ask, I'm likely to respond in a way that will have them cursing me and the woman who gave birth to me within a few minutes.
Like clockwork.
That's when I know my work is done.
I wish I would.
I end up asking them for a dollar instead and following them down the street.
Why should I?
I am working hard and I wish I would give to a stranger on the street. It's not like its Christian Children's Fund -- or giving to victims of a natural disaster.
Hell no.
They don’t even have to pay rent – right?
I don’t know what they did or didn’t do to get into the situation they are in and I don’t want to risk supporting someone who has totally f*cked up the life of another or has no intention whatsoever of improving and supporting themselves. And there is no way I will risk supporting someone else’s drug or alcohol habit.
I have my own wine, Ketel and Delirium to purchase.
Or even worse, I could be helping someone who is planning on, or has potential to f*ck up the life of someone tomorrow with assistance of funds my “feeling soft” at the moment arse provided to them.
Think about it the next time you feel compelled, guilt tripped even, to helping the “can you spare a quarter” types.
Pause.
Look them straight in the eye and say – Nope, do YOU have a quarter? Better yet – a dollar?
… And linger a bit please.
Today I bought something out of the ordinary. A bargain ($18) CALIFORNIA red wine blend – 58% Zin, 30% Syrah, 12% Cab. Not intentionally - I’d rather drink cheap vodka than Zinfandel.
I asked my guy at D&D for a bottle of something warm, strong, and interesting, grabbed his suggestion from his hand, stopped for some cheese and a baguette and ran out the front door to M Street headed home --- I never looked at the bottle.
That will NEVER happen again.
So – I go home, put in my Kansas City Movie Soundtrack (1999) and opened my bottle while my little princess made for us French bread pizza.
Eventually I poured a glass.
I didn’t bother to look at the color or legs.
Swirled a bit.
Caught a whiff.
And then.. the taste…
I then wondered what else might go wrong today.
I mean – bad enough I have to return to the office a little after midnight to finish up a presentation… I had to pause, make entry to my Blackberry to take time to make a call of complaint to my wine guy in the morning.
How could someone suggest this wine to someone who requested something warm and long? And people – I LOVE it long.
This is definitely cold and short. Very short. Nothing is lingering. Not a bit of life. It’s as if I could easily forget I am sipping unless I keep a mouth full. And people – If I am putting something in my mouth, it should be worth tasting AND leave a nice finish.
Anyhow…
I thought in my most primal inner scream - TANNINS PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE!!!!
There is nothing here at home except for whites and champagne. I would be very much pleased with a good strong fruit and tannin… a nice spice to coat my tongue. Long legs. Big flavor. Long Finish. I'm so hungry for this right now. Open my nose and MAKE me recognize and appreciate the finish. Nice and dark.
Twenty Rows “The Grappler” -- I’m offended by your 5 second job.
I’m so into full body – I wouldn’t consider this a medium-bodied wine even – I mean, what might one eat with this??? A big hearty Waldorf salad?
Why me?
California swill.
I’m cheated and I want the full package.
The Grappler? I’m looking at the pretty little bottle thinking someone should grapple my arse so that I feel less slighted for coming home with the WRONG f*cking bottle.
Where the f*ck is my finish?
Okay. I know its late, but I just came back from walking my dog, after drinking a half bottle of a FANTASTIC Cotes de Rhone.
HEY
Either walk her or smell the stinch of pee in the morning -- Miss Thang waits for no one.
Anyhooo...
I live in DC –Adams Morgan/Columbia Heights neighborhood. We have rodent issues. Not as bad as 5 years ago, but an issue nonetheless.
So
I’m walking down the street in my BR jeans, pea coat, black t-shirt, and grey blazer (I love Banana Republic for casual office and weekend gear), black patent boots (don’t laugh – they are waterproof, sexy, warm, and the heel is the lowest boot heel I own at a mere 1 1/2 inches - I bought them for a Moulin Rogue costume/rolepay years ago, and they just lasted... but anyways) with my head bobbing – feeling relaxed – lyrics and music flowing through my head – “Still Love Remains” from Seal’s “Human Beings” CD.
*ahhhh – a relaxing feeling it is with the snow every so lightly falling on my long locks*
All of a sudden - SOFT PETER - my b*tch snatched me forward, catapulting me to a full patent slide down 13th Street.
I pull back on her chain.
It does not matter because she is focused.
I see what she wants – a dirty, nasty, stinking assed rat (reminiscent of an actual Jersey rat) just a hair smaller than my 4 year old cat, which scurried from the alley under a nearby car. She dragged me from what started as a flat foot slide to a full ass slide to the snow covered grass near the parked car in an effort to catch the little nasty cat -- I mean, rat.
A nice catch for any respectful b*tch. I unfortunately have the misfortune of dealing with poor planning. Me and my shiny boots are no match for her.
At the end of my full ass slide ride, I was placed in front of the mysterious cutie’s house – the newbie who just bought the nice brownstone – the one with the Financial Times subscription. The reason I walk the damned dog in the first place instead of paying someone to do so.... anyway....
Mr. Mysterious finally says hello as he reaches to help me to my feet. I will forever be known as the girl on her ass in front of his home grasping the leash for the ranting, rat chasing, b*tch.
How f*cking embarrassing.
...I wonder how easy it is to get a prozac prescription for my dog.
She loves her space at the foot of my bed -- on her personal quilt most nights of the week (nowadays anyways). A situation close to home would have definitely threatened her livelihood.
She knew this.
B*tches I swear. Always out for Self.
That b*tch set me up.