I submitted my application for a job, while in the midst of an indignant fit of rage. I will find a better job, with a better title and better pay, and which does not include the co-worker, whom is secretly referred to at our office by those in the know as: She Who Must Not Be Named. SWMNBN for short.
This was Monday. I hyperventilated for a couple minutes, then went back to work.
Tuesday afternoon, I get a call, asking me to come in for a job interview. Brown paper bags can be found in the drawer on your left, MsHellion. I am to interview next Monday, at 4 pm. She offered to let me interview first thing in the morning. I nearly told her I’d rather be guillotined than have to do something like that first thing in the morning. I managed to keep that to myself.
I have to find something suitable to wear. For the last several years, my casual work wear has lapsed into t-shirts and jeans. If I do wear a skirt at this point, it garners enough attention to warrant a: “What’s going on? Something special going on tonight?”—and that’s before I even bother with makeup, which would open up a whole other box of speculation.
I’ve been here 7 years. I know this job well; and the details for the other job are very good too. Stuff I know. Stuff I could do. But how to present myself when at heart I’m a comfortable slob who would rather be witty than diplomatic? (Well, I can be diplomatic…it just takes more effort.) This is all about effort. I’m inherently a lazy creature. Stepping out of my rut and embracing a free fall into possible chaos, or worse, rejection strikes at my very soul.
On the other hand, if I succeed, I’m going to love telling SWMNBN that instead of me covering all her duties—she’ll have to cover mine now.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Monday, January 29, 2007
A Monday Rant
We women are a pack of fools.
It’s taken a while to reach this stunning conclusion, because I have dozens of women friends, and they seem normal. They are normal. They’re witty, intelligent, beautiful, successful, spiritual, active, and fun women.
Not one of them knows what to make of men.
Don’t get me wrong. You put a handsome, intelligent, kind man in our bed and we’ll know exactly what to do with him there.
Cook him supper. Feed him pie. Offer him coffee. Possibly, if we’re feeling particularly sassy that day, we’ll take advantage of his beautiful body and leave him smiling for the rest of the week. But generally put a handsome, intelligent, kind man in our path, and we’ll find fifteen ways to tell him why he wouldn’t want anything to do with us.
We’re too fat.
We’re too old.
We’re too boring.
We’re too intelligent.
We’re not intelligent enough.
We don’t float in the same circles.
Which in paraphrase for all these excuses, we mean “we don’t think we’re good enough for you because we’ve been brainwashed by society, magazines, friends, ex-lovers, parents, the dog, et al, into thinking we have to be uber-witty-beautiful-successful-and-yet-not-too-intimidating in order for you to want us.” God, we’re stupid.
After all, if we go on a date with you, we don’t dissect you and say, “He was too fat, too boring, and too stupid for me to want a long term relationship.” (Okay, so maybe we do occasionally say, He was too stupid. But that was entirely his fault. He shouldn’t have asked me who Marilyn Monroe was. I mean, who doesn’t know who Marilyn Monroe is?)
No, no, we think, “It just wasn’t there.” Whatever the hell “it” is. I’m not sure I’ve felt “it” since the seventh grade, and even now, I sometimes wonder if it was a real feeling, or if it was some food poisoning undiagnosed and now running my love life through a series of hoops that aren’t even there.
Still, I believe “it” exists. That connection-chemistry magic that sometimes exists when you run into the right person. That elusive sweet something that makes you quit being so hung up on saying the right thing, or doing the right thing—and suddenly you’re just yourself—and that’s perfect. That’s what we want. That’s what men want.
Until they realize that’s boring and generic and they’re totally in a rut—and it’s your fault because you’re not spontaneous enough.
Okay, so maybe it’s George Carlin that’s right.
Women are crazy and men are stupid. And women are crazy because men are stupid.
It’s taken a while to reach this stunning conclusion, because I have dozens of women friends, and they seem normal. They are normal. They’re witty, intelligent, beautiful, successful, spiritual, active, and fun women.
Not one of them knows what to make of men.
Don’t get me wrong. You put a handsome, intelligent, kind man in our bed and we’ll know exactly what to do with him there.
Cook him supper. Feed him pie. Offer him coffee. Possibly, if we’re feeling particularly sassy that day, we’ll take advantage of his beautiful body and leave him smiling for the rest of the week. But generally put a handsome, intelligent, kind man in our path, and we’ll find fifteen ways to tell him why he wouldn’t want anything to do with us.
We’re too fat.
We’re too old.
We’re too boring.
We’re too intelligent.
We’re not intelligent enough.
We don’t float in the same circles.
Which in paraphrase for all these excuses, we mean “we don’t think we’re good enough for you because we’ve been brainwashed by society, magazines, friends, ex-lovers, parents, the dog, et al, into thinking we have to be uber-witty-beautiful-successful-and-yet-not-too-intimidating in order for you to want us.” God, we’re stupid.
After all, if we go on a date with you, we don’t dissect you and say, “He was too fat, too boring, and too stupid for me to want a long term relationship.” (Okay, so maybe we do occasionally say, He was too stupid. But that was entirely his fault. He shouldn’t have asked me who Marilyn Monroe was. I mean, who doesn’t know who Marilyn Monroe is?)
No, no, we think, “It just wasn’t there.” Whatever the hell “it” is. I’m not sure I’ve felt “it” since the seventh grade, and even now, I sometimes wonder if it was a real feeling, or if it was some food poisoning undiagnosed and now running my love life through a series of hoops that aren’t even there.
Still, I believe “it” exists. That connection-chemistry magic that sometimes exists when you run into the right person. That elusive sweet something that makes you quit being so hung up on saying the right thing, or doing the right thing—and suddenly you’re just yourself—and that’s perfect. That’s what we want. That’s what men want.
Until they realize that’s boring and generic and they’re totally in a rut—and it’s your fault because you’re not spontaneous enough.
Okay, so maybe it’s George Carlin that’s right.
Women are crazy and men are stupid. And women are crazy because men are stupid.
The Secret to Writing
I think that the Secret of Life is the Wizard of Oz.
Yes, I’m serious. The Wizard of Oz, man. It can apply to any aspect of your life. Take writing even.
You’re Dorothy. You’re out in Unfinished Manuscript Hell (read: Oz) and all you want to do is get home (read: finish the damned book already); but you’re hounded by this Wicked Witch (read: Inner and Outer Critics who tell you you’ll never get published, be good enough, make a living at it) and flying monkeys (read: every day wear and tear of life, like family, job, school, time-management issues)—and it just seems to be impossible you’re ever going to get back to Kansas.
You’re going to do it—and you’ll do it just like Dorothy with the help of your friends, the Scarecrow, the Tin Man, and the Cowardly Lion, and by the fact you already have seen the movie and know that getting home lies within you if you believe hard enough. See, you’re already ahead. You know the answer.
The Scarecrow=brains. The brains refers to a lot of things. It’s organization, knowledge, and resources.
Time management is key. Organize your calendar and try to scrape out at least twenty minutes a day to write something—because the book isn’t going to manifest itself without you near a keyboard. (I know, I’ve tried.) Like the gym, once you make it a habit, you’ll keep going, but if you stop, it’s hard to go back. Writing is exercise and the more you do it, the better you’ll get.
Read up on plot and structure and character development, and all those things you constantly worry about within your manuscript. Knowledge is Power, baby. One of two things will happen, I assure you: A) You’ll get inspired by something you just discovered and start implementing it immediately; or B) You’ll get so depressed or angry, you’ll stop reading it and start writing. (read: “Fuck it! I’m just going to write the scene how I like!”) Either way, you’re writing, so it’s a win-win.
Draw on your resources. Talk to your writing buddies; form a clan—pass around ideas. Maybe even start a support group to make each other accountable when it comes to writing. Pool your resources with other people; drawing on others; and everyone comes away winning.
Work smarter, not harder. Writing is hard enough as it is.
The Tin Man=heart. Love yourself. If your friend came up with her WIP and showed you the first couple chapters, you would not deride every nit-picky thing wrong with it, nor would you tell her that she has no business writing. Ever. You’d find something positive to say; you’d objectively pick out the things that need to be fixed; then you’d encourage her to keep going because you know it’ll get better. You know this. You do this.
So why let your Inner Critic (read: Wicked Witch) emotionally hijack you because she doesn’t think your love scene was steamy enough—and on top of it, it was utterly cliché? For one, the Wicked Witch has never gotten laid, so what does she know? Nothing. Secondly, she has no business talking to you that way, period. There have been worst things written than what you have down on the page. Some of them have been published. Hell, some of them are being taught in English Lit class. You are not the worst thing to have happened to writing. Don’t let the bastards (especially the fictional ones) grind you down.
But my mother doesn’t support me—and she’s my mother! Uh-huh, well, does she read romances? No. Is she a writer? No? Then really, don’t worry about it. If your mother is not in publishing, her opinion is not the one that matters in the end. And by the time an editor reads it, it’s going to be polished, wonderful, and full of promise.
Also, love what you write. Don’t try to write to some genre or sub-genre because “it’s really hot right now” and it’ll get picked up by a publisher right away. If you don’t like paranormals, don’t read paranormals, could care less about paranormals—then write something else. Paranormals aren’t the only thing being published. Or worse, don’t try to write something because “it’ll be easy.” None of it is “easy.” But it’s all doable. Have heart if you’re writing something that’s not popular right this minute. There are writers who wrote stories that weren’t picked up for years before they finally found a home. Sherrilyn Kenyon, anyone? Believe me, her stories found a home.
Also with love, comes forgiveness. Forgive yourself that your plots are the hokiest things the planet; that your hero is so perfect he must have come out of a factory; and your heroine has no life goals beyond capturing a husband. Whatever. Forgiveness always comes before making the step to fix the problem.
The Cowardly Lion=courage. Courage to begin. Courage to stick with it. Courage to ask for help from friends and family. Courage to show it to other writers—or eek! An editor! Courage to write even if you know in your heart of hearts it will be a shitty draft. (Of course it’s going to be a shitty draft!) Courage to believe you will succeed. If you have courage, if you believe, it will happen. (Self-fulfilling prophesies. If you believe it will happen, good or bad, it will. But that’s another blog.)
If you put these three friends to good use, you’ll find outwitting the Wicked Witch and flying monkeys gets easier—even if it never lets up. And eventually you’ll get out of Oz and back home.
Yes, I’m serious. The Wizard of Oz, man. It can apply to any aspect of your life. Take writing even.
You’re Dorothy. You’re out in Unfinished Manuscript Hell (read: Oz) and all you want to do is get home (read: finish the damned book already); but you’re hounded by this Wicked Witch (read: Inner and Outer Critics who tell you you’ll never get published, be good enough, make a living at it) and flying monkeys (read: every day wear and tear of life, like family, job, school, time-management issues)—and it just seems to be impossible you’re ever going to get back to Kansas.
You’re going to do it—and you’ll do it just like Dorothy with the help of your friends, the Scarecrow, the Tin Man, and the Cowardly Lion, and by the fact you already have seen the movie and know that getting home lies within you if you believe hard enough. See, you’re already ahead. You know the answer.
The Scarecrow=brains. The brains refers to a lot of things. It’s organization, knowledge, and resources.
Time management is key. Organize your calendar and try to scrape out at least twenty minutes a day to write something—because the book isn’t going to manifest itself without you near a keyboard. (I know, I’ve tried.) Like the gym, once you make it a habit, you’ll keep going, but if you stop, it’s hard to go back. Writing is exercise and the more you do it, the better you’ll get.
Read up on plot and structure and character development, and all those things you constantly worry about within your manuscript. Knowledge is Power, baby. One of two things will happen, I assure you: A) You’ll get inspired by something you just discovered and start implementing it immediately; or B) You’ll get so depressed or angry, you’ll stop reading it and start writing. (read: “Fuck it! I’m just going to write the scene how I like!”) Either way, you’re writing, so it’s a win-win.
Draw on your resources. Talk to your writing buddies; form a clan—pass around ideas. Maybe even start a support group to make each other accountable when it comes to writing. Pool your resources with other people; drawing on others; and everyone comes away winning.
Work smarter, not harder. Writing is hard enough as it is.
The Tin Man=heart. Love yourself. If your friend came up with her WIP and showed you the first couple chapters, you would not deride every nit-picky thing wrong with it, nor would you tell her that she has no business writing. Ever. You’d find something positive to say; you’d objectively pick out the things that need to be fixed; then you’d encourage her to keep going because you know it’ll get better. You know this. You do this.
So why let your Inner Critic (read: Wicked Witch) emotionally hijack you because she doesn’t think your love scene was steamy enough—and on top of it, it was utterly cliché? For one, the Wicked Witch has never gotten laid, so what does she know? Nothing. Secondly, she has no business talking to you that way, period. There have been worst things written than what you have down on the page. Some of them have been published. Hell, some of them are being taught in English Lit class. You are not the worst thing to have happened to writing. Don’t let the bastards (especially the fictional ones) grind you down.
But my mother doesn’t support me—and she’s my mother! Uh-huh, well, does she read romances? No. Is she a writer? No? Then really, don’t worry about it. If your mother is not in publishing, her opinion is not the one that matters in the end. And by the time an editor reads it, it’s going to be polished, wonderful, and full of promise.
Also, love what you write. Don’t try to write to some genre or sub-genre because “it’s really hot right now” and it’ll get picked up by a publisher right away. If you don’t like paranormals, don’t read paranormals, could care less about paranormals—then write something else. Paranormals aren’t the only thing being published. Or worse, don’t try to write something because “it’ll be easy.” None of it is “easy.” But it’s all doable. Have heart if you’re writing something that’s not popular right this minute. There are writers who wrote stories that weren’t picked up for years before they finally found a home. Sherrilyn Kenyon, anyone? Believe me, her stories found a home.
Also with love, comes forgiveness. Forgive yourself that your plots are the hokiest things the planet; that your hero is so perfect he must have come out of a factory; and your heroine has no life goals beyond capturing a husband. Whatever. Forgiveness always comes before making the step to fix the problem.
The Cowardly Lion=courage. Courage to begin. Courage to stick with it. Courage to ask for help from friends and family. Courage to show it to other writers—or eek! An editor! Courage to write even if you know in your heart of hearts it will be a shitty draft. (Of course it’s going to be a shitty draft!) Courage to believe you will succeed. If you have courage, if you believe, it will happen. (Self-fulfilling prophesies. If you believe it will happen, good or bad, it will. But that’s another blog.)
If you put these three friends to good use, you’ll find outwitting the Wicked Witch and flying monkeys gets easier—even if it never lets up. And eventually you’ll get out of Oz and back home.
Friday, January 26, 2007
Where Are We Going, And Why Am I In This Handbasket?
And if you thought I was going to hell for all my oral fixations and lusting after my oblivious professors--ha! How little you know. I have a much longer list of why I'll be going to hell, baby. Here's one of them.
Lucifer
I sit in church and identify
With that most troublesome of angels,
One whose aspect is so much fairer than mine.
He can never return.
He is forever damned! the brimstone preacher
Pounds against the pulpit,
And I feel every bit as rebellious as the First Rebel.
Why would an angel be less deserving of God’s grace than I?
Is he not too one of His creations?
I admire his independence for something
Different, something true to himself.
I mourn with him his separation from all that
Is familiar to gain Freedom;
I understand that with every thing that is gained,
Something is lost.
With knowledge, innocence;
With freedom, a Father’s love.
I too wonder what life would have been like,
How it would feel to be in my Father’s
Good graces and loving smile.
I wonder why we are not good enough as we are.
Conformity is the real hell.
If our fathers say love is unconditional,
That we are loved even when don’t deserve it,
Why have I been turned away?
Why does the Fallen Angel still sit outside of Heaven’s Gates?
I pray for Lucifer, and for me,
For if I don’t, no one will. When I pray for him,
I pray for myself. I will that one day our darkness
Will once again find the Light welcomes us
And we can once again love all our parts without shame,
Our darkness, our light, and all shades between.
Lucifer
I sit in church and identify
With that most troublesome of angels,
One whose aspect is so much fairer than mine.
He can never return.
He is forever damned! the brimstone preacher
Pounds against the pulpit,
And I feel every bit as rebellious as the First Rebel.
Why would an angel be less deserving of God’s grace than I?
Is he not too one of His creations?
I admire his independence for something
Different, something true to himself.
I mourn with him his separation from all that
Is familiar to gain Freedom;
I understand that with every thing that is gained,
Something is lost.
With knowledge, innocence;
With freedom, a Father’s love.
I too wonder what life would have been like,
How it would feel to be in my Father’s
Good graces and loving smile.
I wonder why we are not good enough as we are.
Conformity is the real hell.
If our fathers say love is unconditional,
That we are loved even when don’t deserve it,
Why have I been turned away?
Why does the Fallen Angel still sit outside of Heaven’s Gates?
I pray for Lucifer, and for me,
For if I don’t, no one will. When I pray for him,
I pray for myself. I will that one day our darkness
Will once again find the Light welcomes us
And we can once again love all our parts without shame,
Our darkness, our light, and all shades between.
Oral Fixations
I'm in the mood to post my bad poetry. *LOL* So here's another one.
Kate’s Diary Entry, April 14, 1873
His mouth is on me, sucking,
Caressing and consuming me—
And I can but lay and stare at the ceiling
And thank God, I’m a woman.
Oh, He gave them easy Orgasms—never failing—
But for His most contrary creation
He gave us Orgasms as complex as our Sex.
Doc knows just where to fondle
And coax and persuade—He always did have a gifted tongue—
His pale gambler hands are sure as he parts my thighs
And memorizes the most intricate part of me.
“Easy,” he whispers, his broad
Hand stroking up my pale stomach to the
Underside of my breast.
His voice is a gravelly vibration against my inner thigh, almost as
Raspy as the stutter of stubble on his jaw.
“Come to me.”
Oh, I’ll come to me, I think as the ceiling swirls in ocean
Waves of red and gray and aquamarine.
Every muscle hums, building, chugging in starts and spurts,
Like one of those great steam trains.
My panty breath whispers along the air, but I have
No words for this, just gaspy, frantic chugs.
Then like a deck of cards being shuffled,
Cut and bent to mix, arched for the bridge—taut—
I shatter, scattering like cards gone awry from the shuffle,
Fluttering skyward and landing upside, downside,
And bent on the table.
Kate’s Diary Entry, April 14, 1873
His mouth is on me, sucking,
Caressing and consuming me—
And I can but lay and stare at the ceiling
And thank God, I’m a woman.
Oh, He gave them easy Orgasms—never failing—
But for His most contrary creation
He gave us Orgasms as complex as our Sex.
Doc knows just where to fondle
And coax and persuade—He always did have a gifted tongue—
His pale gambler hands are sure as he parts my thighs
And memorizes the most intricate part of me.
“Easy,” he whispers, his broad
Hand stroking up my pale stomach to the
Underside of my breast.
His voice is a gravelly vibration against my inner thigh, almost as
Raspy as the stutter of stubble on his jaw.
“Come to me.”
Oh, I’ll come to me, I think as the ceiling swirls in ocean
Waves of red and gray and aquamarine.
Every muscle hums, building, chugging in starts and spurts,
Like one of those great steam trains.
My panty breath whispers along the air, but I have
No words for this, just gaspy, frantic chugs.
Then like a deck of cards being shuffled,
Cut and bent to mix, arched for the bridge—taut—
I shatter, scattering like cards gone awry from the shuffle,
Fluttering skyward and landing upside, downside,
And bent on the table.
Science
I never had a fondness for Science. Absolutely sucked at it. In fact, I barely scraped by with a "B" in my human sexuality class. Hello. I mean, I could have sex!--but I could never answer the questions like, "What percentage of Catholics use birth control?" I don't know. I put down 80%. It said that it was a much lower percentage. I think there are some Catholics that are going to hell for lying.
In college I took a History of Science class--mainly because I had the hots for the professor. Smart men do that to me...because I assure you he wasn't really anything to look at. But again it was science related, and as we know, I suck, so I spent a lot of time writing little rhyming poems. Usually about the professor. Like this one.
Applied Scientific Theory
I’ve this bit of knowledge to impart:
Love’s more a Science than an Art,
Measured by mind and body as well as the heart,
Each part counted and a counterpart.
You do not believe me; I see your smiles—
But Love’s more a Science than mere Sexual Wiles.
Gravity began it—this physical attraction,
The force that pulls us into animal action…
And for every motion, there’s an equal opposite action
To ensure and enhance your sublime satisfaction.
Oh ho, so now I’ve your attention, I see your eyes,
The interest therein that you cannot disguise.
Circles are countered by a swirl of the hips
And moans are exchanged by the suction of lips;
Electricity is currented through fingertips,
And Topography mapped by tiny kissing sips.
Surely you can conclude this art is a Science.
It should be called in Latin, Sexology-ience.
Potential energy becomes actual as your hand touches me,
Quantums leaping with indivisibility.
Your kiss is kinetic, like a cliff-diving spree,
A leap into Knowledge and insanity.
The equation of X and Y minus all inhibitions
Equals lust expounded by frictionous fission.
Friction, sweet friction, when our bodies collide
Reaching for an Eternity we won’t be denied.
This is so much the sweeter, I truly must confide
When I feel your heartbeat from the inside
Biological emotions enrapture my veins,
Smoldering until only embers remain.
Our kisses evolve beyond evolution,
Circling like suns in an orbital revolution,
Sinking us further into the Delusion,
Sweeping us deeper into sweeter Confusion.
Thermodynamics fissions into chemistry
As your scientific method converts my energy.
Newton may be faulty, but Einstein’s sublime:
Especially once he theorized Relative Time.
I’m no longer certain what is yours and what is mine—
I just know that Science as this is surely Divine.
Galileo saw the Heavens, and now, so do we,
Scattered and shattered across a wide galaxy.
Of course, I'm *sure* scientifically much of this doesn't pan out...but it's called poetic license--and I already told you I barely passed my Science classes.
I got an A in the class, by the way. *cheeky smile* Yeah, I might have sucked with the concept, but I could write like a dream. And my bullshit skills are unmatched. Of course, my buddy Justin swore it was because I wore short skirts and sucked on Blow Pops all through class--but I assured him the professor didn't notice. I think Justin got a B.
In college I took a History of Science class--mainly because I had the hots for the professor. Smart men do that to me...because I assure you he wasn't really anything to look at. But again it was science related, and as we know, I suck, so I spent a lot of time writing little rhyming poems. Usually about the professor. Like this one.
Applied Scientific Theory
I’ve this bit of knowledge to impart:
Love’s more a Science than an Art,
Measured by mind and body as well as the heart,
Each part counted and a counterpart.
You do not believe me; I see your smiles—
But Love’s more a Science than mere Sexual Wiles.
Gravity began it—this physical attraction,
The force that pulls us into animal action…
And for every motion, there’s an equal opposite action
To ensure and enhance your sublime satisfaction.
Oh ho, so now I’ve your attention, I see your eyes,
The interest therein that you cannot disguise.
Circles are countered by a swirl of the hips
And moans are exchanged by the suction of lips;
Electricity is currented through fingertips,
And Topography mapped by tiny kissing sips.
Surely you can conclude this art is a Science.
It should be called in Latin, Sexology-ience.
Potential energy becomes actual as your hand touches me,
Quantums leaping with indivisibility.
Your kiss is kinetic, like a cliff-diving spree,
A leap into Knowledge and insanity.
The equation of X and Y minus all inhibitions
Equals lust expounded by frictionous fission.
Friction, sweet friction, when our bodies collide
Reaching for an Eternity we won’t be denied.
This is so much the sweeter, I truly must confide
When I feel your heartbeat from the inside
Biological emotions enrapture my veins,
Smoldering until only embers remain.
Our kisses evolve beyond evolution,
Circling like suns in an orbital revolution,
Sinking us further into the Delusion,
Sweeping us deeper into sweeter Confusion.
Thermodynamics fissions into chemistry
As your scientific method converts my energy.
Newton may be faulty, but Einstein’s sublime:
Especially once he theorized Relative Time.
I’m no longer certain what is yours and what is mine—
I just know that Science as this is surely Divine.
Galileo saw the Heavens, and now, so do we,
Scattered and shattered across a wide galaxy.
Of course, I'm *sure* scientifically much of this doesn't pan out...but it's called poetic license--and I already told you I barely passed my Science classes.
I got an A in the class, by the way. *cheeky smile* Yeah, I might have sucked with the concept, but I could write like a dream. And my bullshit skills are unmatched. Of course, my buddy Justin swore it was because I wore short skirts and sucked on Blow Pops all through class--but I assured him the professor didn't notice. I think Justin got a B.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Social Behavior of Men
So I promised you I'd tell you about the Pig Guy. He was a smart guy--had a degree, a good job, funny and witty via emails, and a bit of a Civil War buff. (Then again what guy isn't a Civil War buff? What is up with men who like that era anyway? It's either the Civil War or WWII--and it's always about the battles. Doesn't anyone care about the Revolutionary War? The politics? The way people behave--how we've always behaved? Sorry, that's a different rant.) He was rather normal for one of my dates, so I agree to meet him for coffee.
We meet. I'm running slightly late, as in I didn't show up before the 7:15 time. I showed up at 7:16. Yeah, I know that's rude. Sue me. "Hi, I'm Hellion." He shakes hands, "Hi, I'm Bob." Which is totally not his name--and he's obviously said to make me think I introduced myself to someone else entirely and made a jackass of myself. I smile. "Totally kidding, I'm Pig Guy." (Pig Guy isn't his name either, but names have been changed to protect the moronic.) I sit, already slightly put off. We talk for a couple minutes, about nothing--I admit, I wasn't exactly feeling particularly witty at the moment, but then I wasn't sure what to think. I put in my order for coffee, and then sit back down. He starts to fiddle with his phone. (Always a good sign, right?) He shows me pictures of his dogs. I'm amazed by the sheer memory on this phone, because he's got pictures of everything...and then, about after 10 minutes of looking at dog pictures, he says, "Oh, you have to see this." He chooses a video, gives me the phone, and I watch.
I see the back of someone, Pig Guy, I deduce and there is this grunting pig at his feet. Then there is a gun shot and the pig starts to squeal. Blood splatters or something...maybe it's mud from the pig hitting the ground. All I know is: Why in the fuck would you show someone a video of you shooting a pig within 10 minutes of meeting her--on a supposed date?
"Oh, you haven't seen the best part." He takes his phone back, flips a video, then puts it back in my hand. This time I have a clear view of the pig twitching on the ground, obviously in death throes. Huh. And I thought the moment couldn't get worse.
Then he lectured me about how people don't know where their meat comes from since they go to the store and it's behind plastic. I feel a slow burn--and I say, "My father was a cattle farmer. Every year he'd shoot one and hang it in our yard. Occasionally I'd come home to a cow head on the kitchen table and be informed we were having tongue for dinner."
"Oh, I thought you were kidding." He pauses. "You're not really Amish, though, right?"
"No."
"Oh, good."
I don't know. I'm beginning to think it might be shame I'm not Amish, since I'm pretty sure the guys there would know better than to show their prospective girlfriends videos of them shooting pigs. And I don't know where he gets off thinking he's all that cool. He didn't capture that pig. He didn't exactly hunt it or anything. Moron.
I'd like to say I left shortly after this, but I have masochistic tendencies and I stuck it out for another couple hours. He did not improve after this. He got worse. I know, I can't believe it either.
Moving on, my co-worker has an ex-boyfriend she is friends with. I keep saying she's deluding herself. Men and Women can't be friends--see: When Harry Met Sally. For a while they were good friends, but lately he's been acting...strange. This morning, she sends him a joke about a government snow plow. I assure you Bill Clinton couldn't have found the sex joke in this, and yet her ex emails back with "So does this mean you want to plow through a box of condoms?"
She wails to me, "How many times do I have to say no?" I pat her on the shoulder. "Every day. For the rest of your life." This did not comfort her. "I'm sorry, but it might be different if you guys had never dated. The problem is that at one time he tapped that." Yeah, that's the phrase I used. Get over it. She laughs at this statement. "And the problem is that he will continue to pester you because eventually he hopes you'll change your mind because at one time you DID have sex with him. It's like...it's like...a rat who goes to the pellet machine and keeps pushing the lever, even though there are no pellets. Yes, there will never be any more pellets, but the rat doesn't know that. The rat knows at one time pellets existed there and he hopes pellets will exist again. The rat can't help it."
I know. Who'da thought psychology would ever have been useful in my everyday life?
We meet. I'm running slightly late, as in I didn't show up before the 7:15 time. I showed up at 7:16. Yeah, I know that's rude. Sue me. "Hi, I'm Hellion." He shakes hands, "Hi, I'm Bob." Which is totally not his name--and he's obviously said to make me think I introduced myself to someone else entirely and made a jackass of myself. I smile. "Totally kidding, I'm Pig Guy." (Pig Guy isn't his name either, but names have been changed to protect the moronic.) I sit, already slightly put off. We talk for a couple minutes, about nothing--I admit, I wasn't exactly feeling particularly witty at the moment, but then I wasn't sure what to think. I put in my order for coffee, and then sit back down. He starts to fiddle with his phone. (Always a good sign, right?) He shows me pictures of his dogs. I'm amazed by the sheer memory on this phone, because he's got pictures of everything...and then, about after 10 minutes of looking at dog pictures, he says, "Oh, you have to see this." He chooses a video, gives me the phone, and I watch.
I see the back of someone, Pig Guy, I deduce and there is this grunting pig at his feet. Then there is a gun shot and the pig starts to squeal. Blood splatters or something...maybe it's mud from the pig hitting the ground. All I know is: Why in the fuck would you show someone a video of you shooting a pig within 10 minutes of meeting her--on a supposed date?
"Oh, you haven't seen the best part." He takes his phone back, flips a video, then puts it back in my hand. This time I have a clear view of the pig twitching on the ground, obviously in death throes. Huh. And I thought the moment couldn't get worse.
Then he lectured me about how people don't know where their meat comes from since they go to the store and it's behind plastic. I feel a slow burn--and I say, "My father was a cattle farmer. Every year he'd shoot one and hang it in our yard. Occasionally I'd come home to a cow head on the kitchen table and be informed we were having tongue for dinner."
"Oh, I thought you were kidding." He pauses. "You're not really Amish, though, right?"
"No."
"Oh, good."
I don't know. I'm beginning to think it might be shame I'm not Amish, since I'm pretty sure the guys there would know better than to show their prospective girlfriends videos of them shooting pigs. And I don't know where he gets off thinking he's all that cool. He didn't capture that pig. He didn't exactly hunt it or anything. Moron.
I'd like to say I left shortly after this, but I have masochistic tendencies and I stuck it out for another couple hours. He did not improve after this. He got worse. I know, I can't believe it either.
Moving on, my co-worker has an ex-boyfriend she is friends with. I keep saying she's deluding herself. Men and Women can't be friends--see: When Harry Met Sally. For a while they were good friends, but lately he's been acting...strange. This morning, she sends him a joke about a government snow plow. I assure you Bill Clinton couldn't have found the sex joke in this, and yet her ex emails back with "So does this mean you want to plow through a box of condoms?"
She wails to me, "How many times do I have to say no?" I pat her on the shoulder. "Every day. For the rest of your life." This did not comfort her. "I'm sorry, but it might be different if you guys had never dated. The problem is that at one time he tapped that." Yeah, that's the phrase I used. Get over it. She laughs at this statement. "And the problem is that he will continue to pester you because eventually he hopes you'll change your mind because at one time you DID have sex with him. It's like...it's like...a rat who goes to the pellet machine and keeps pushing the lever, even though there are no pellets. Yes, there will never be any more pellets, but the rat doesn't know that. The rat knows at one time pellets existed there and he hopes pellets will exist again. The rat can't help it."
I know. Who'da thought psychology would ever have been useful in my everyday life?
Monday, January 22, 2007
The 10th Circle of Hell: Dating
My friend Terri points out I haven't blogged in two years. Frankly I haven't had anything particularly exciting to put up...but she mentioned it, and I thought about it, and what better thing to post for the entire WWW than my dating life? I know. I don't know why I didn't think of it before.
I have picked out for you, Dear Reader, the best of the worst of my dating career. Not that I've made dating a career...that'd make me something else entirely. Plus, even that would garner me more money than what I make now. Surely.
When I'm not "Cheeky Wench", I'm MsHellion--hence the Hellion references here.
Hellion’s Incredible List of Very Bad Dates
1.) Titanic Guy: “I’m looking for a love like the Titanic, and you’re just not it.”
2.) Boob Guy: “I think your breasts are dead.” *pause* “No offense or anything.”
3.) Parking Guy: “Let’s go Arrow Rock Hunting.” Then he proceeds to pretend he ran out of gas on a gravel road in the middle of no where. Thank God that didn’t turn out as ugly as it could have.
4.) Another Mike: About halfway through the date, we realize we’re fourth cousins. (Sadly, once again, one of my better dates.)
5.) Professor Guy: When the date didn’t go well, and it didn’t go well, he asked me to fill out a survey to explain what I didn’t like about it so he could work on it.
6.) Stupid Coffee Guy: sample dialogue. “You’re so beautiful.” Hellion, looking at her t-shirt and jeans, “Um, thank you.” “My father thinks I have the WORST taste in women—he says they are all dog ugly, but you’re so gorgeous.” Okay, you can shut up now.
7.) Halloween Date Guy: he took me to the dollar movies (no meal before hand), and I had to ride in his lap the whole way to town, ugh. And while waiting for the movie to start, he regaled me with his vandalism record and bigoted remarks about the local people. During the movie, there was a BRIEF scene where two women kiss, and he stood up and shouted: Shoot them both. It will amaze you, I’m sure, we did not go on a second date.
8.) Amish Guy: Hellion got trashed on three shots of tequila at a bar one night and started dancing with the one guy who paid attention to her, made out with him wildly (see: tequila), then later learned he was ex-Amish. I probably should have kept him. He was obviously my other half.
9.) “Sandman” Guy: This was a good date, actually, but it would have never worked out. Mainly because my father kept referring to him as the Sandman because he was from Saudi Arabia. Our dating came to an abrupt end because in order to keep dating him I had to enter into what amounted to a betrothal vow with him—and agree not to date anyone else while we were together. No thanks.
10.) Army Guy: He took me to a Bingo Parlor. I think that’s enough said.
I think we can agree, these are some bad dates. I have more to add to the list, but this is the cream of the crop so far. I have another coffee date guy, but so I don't mix him up...I think I'll refer to him as "dying pig" guy. It'll make sense in another post.
And I'll have to tell the date I had with one of my graduate students from Turkey. Whenever I tell that story, they say it's even better than Titanic Guy--and everyone always loves that date.
I have picked out for you, Dear Reader, the best of the worst of my dating career. Not that I've made dating a career...that'd make me something else entirely. Plus, even that would garner me more money than what I make now. Surely.
When I'm not "Cheeky Wench", I'm MsHellion--hence the Hellion references here.
Hellion’s Incredible List of Very Bad Dates
1.) Titanic Guy: “I’m looking for a love like the Titanic, and you’re just not it.”
2.) Boob Guy: “I think your breasts are dead.” *pause* “No offense or anything.”
3.) Parking Guy: “Let’s go Arrow Rock Hunting.” Then he proceeds to pretend he ran out of gas on a gravel road in the middle of no where. Thank God that didn’t turn out as ugly as it could have.
4.) Another Mike: About halfway through the date, we realize we’re fourth cousins. (Sadly, once again, one of my better dates.)
5.) Professor Guy: When the date didn’t go well, and it didn’t go well, he asked me to fill out a survey to explain what I didn’t like about it so he could work on it.
6.) Stupid Coffee Guy: sample dialogue. “You’re so beautiful.” Hellion, looking at her t-shirt and jeans, “Um, thank you.” “My father thinks I have the WORST taste in women—he says they are all dog ugly, but you’re so gorgeous.” Okay, you can shut up now.
7.) Halloween Date Guy: he took me to the dollar movies (no meal before hand), and I had to ride in his lap the whole way to town, ugh. And while waiting for the movie to start, he regaled me with his vandalism record and bigoted remarks about the local people. During the movie, there was a BRIEF scene where two women kiss, and he stood up and shouted: Shoot them both. It will amaze you, I’m sure, we did not go on a second date.
8.) Amish Guy: Hellion got trashed on three shots of tequila at a bar one night and started dancing with the one guy who paid attention to her, made out with him wildly (see: tequila), then later learned he was ex-Amish. I probably should have kept him. He was obviously my other half.
9.) “Sandman” Guy: This was a good date, actually, but it would have never worked out. Mainly because my father kept referring to him as the Sandman because he was from Saudi Arabia. Our dating came to an abrupt end because in order to keep dating him I had to enter into what amounted to a betrothal vow with him—and agree not to date anyone else while we were together. No thanks.
10.) Army Guy: He took me to a Bingo Parlor. I think that’s enough said.
I think we can agree, these are some bad dates. I have more to add to the list, but this is the cream of the crop so far. I have another coffee date guy, but so I don't mix him up...I think I'll refer to him as "dying pig" guy. It'll make sense in another post.
And I'll have to tell the date I had with one of my graduate students from Turkey. Whenever I tell that story, they say it's even better than Titanic Guy--and everyone always loves that date.
Thursday, June 02, 2005
Sir Galahad Revisited
The day was humid, sweltering, and hot.
I was plainly miserable and sweating a lot,
As I kicked back in my lawn chair, sucking on ice,
Thinking some A/C would really be nice.
My A/C had busted—to A/C Heaven it reside—
In short, to my horror, my A/C had died.
And I was forced to wait miserably for the mechanic
To fix my A/C—no, no, I would not panic!
A long, cool bath, I decided, is what I needed to do
With “blue island” bubbles for a Caribbean hue.
And I could pretend I was on an island away
And not in Missouri on this hottest of days.
I grabbed a book to read as I sank in the tub,
Knowing as the coolness seeped that I was in love.
Cool and relaxed, I cracked my book to page one,
Knowing deep down the Adventure just begun.
Recall Sir Galahad with eyes blue and blazing?
Wicked of smile and stamina so amazing?
Yes, he was the star as I read that tale again.
I was in the mood for some sex, some love, and some sin.
As I turned the page to the opening chapter,
I was distracted by some low husky laughter.
My green eyes lifted to meet some blue eyes so bold;
My lips gave a smile of the oldest invitation ever sold.
“I understand you’re missing me, my sweet little pet,”
He said, caressing my thigh to see how far he could get.
“You’ve heard right, Sir Galahad—do you want to tumble?”
He nodded wickedly as I whispered, “Get ready to rumble.”
His bold hard hands pulled my naked hips to meet his
And I faltered but a second to whisper, “Oh golly whiz…”
He laughed as he kissed me, his tongue playing grammar—
A question, an exclamation, a statement…a stammer.
He’d fumbled a second when my questing hands drifted South,
But he recovered to stop my mission and quiet my mouth.
“Slowly,” he whispered, “Let’s take it one step at a time…”
So I swiveled my hips to drive him out of his mind.
“Or not,” he groaned, thrusting deep as I gasped.
I leveraged his shoulders as he leveraged my ass.
Then setting back lazily as if he could do this all day,
He rocked me until the world dipped and swayed.
Finally I splintered and shivered in his embrace,
And finally I quieted to look in his face.
“Come, Galahad, to a bed, you’ll admit that’d be new…
Tell me, on a mattress, would you know what to do?”
His wicked eyes twinkled as he gave me a wink.
“I think I can manage. What do you think?”
“I think we should hurry before I take you on the floor.”
He laughed, “Keep talking, luv, and talk dirty some more.”
To the bedroom I led him and with a towel, we did dry,
And with a wicked thought, I touched him to make him sigh.
Then I whispered, “Pay attention. I’m about to speak in tongues.”
Then I put my tongue in his navel to work down to some fun.
“Keep talking,” he grinned. “I pick up languages fast.”
And as I played with fire, he came with a gasp.
With a swallow and a grin, I stood and pushed him to the bed.
“Do what you will,” he grinned. “I’m already dead.”
“Well, you’ll find the afterlife has much more to give.”
“With angels like you,” he swore, “who wants to live?”
“Flatterer,” I charged, as I bounced by his side.
All wolfish, he said, “Lie back, ‘tis your turn to die.”
“Sounds serious,” I teased, and on elbows I sank.
Then his tongue did things that later I’d thank.
“Up,” he commanded, and I said, “I can’t get any higher.”
“On your knees,” he laughed, “I’m about to make you a liar.”
Wanting to scream in frustration, I rolled to shaky knees.
“Very good, now grab the brass bars, like that, if you please…”
“What?” “Just do it,” he demanded with a slap to my rump.
“Tilt your hips just like this, butt up, do not slump.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I returned, just before he thrust home.
Holy shit, that’s the G-spot, I thought with a moan.
My fingers clenched the brass bars as his voice whispered dark,
His words were enchanting as I flew apart.
His right hand slipped to the front with wicked intent—
And those next clever strokes were some of the best seconds spent.
From the front and the back I was gloriously taken,
As my thoughts and my morals were gladly forsaken.
One second I was grasping bars, and the next I let go.
“What’s Heaven look like?” he grinned, “I’d so like to know.”
Then with a touch and a thrust, I was there once again
Followed by the Devil who’d led me to sin.
Finally he let me collapse on the bed so sweet,
And I lay there breathing, deliciously weak.
“How do you do that?” I asked in weak wonder.
“Magic,” he confessed as his kiss took me under.
Here, I must admit, I had to pause for a quick nap—
For all of his virtues, Galahad is one exhausting chap.
But like those days, when the workload is a stress to the max,
I found myself waking, caught in more dreams about sex.
Galahad chuckled as I found myself sprawled across his chest.
“Repeat yourself, lass. I like that part about me best.”
“I’m sure you do,” I muttered, “but don’t you ever snooze?”
“Who can sleep with temptresses as beautiful as you?”
Who can sleep with complimentary come-ons like that?
I straddled his hips before he could take it all back.
I clapped my hands, grinning, “Okay, show me the plan.”
And then Galahad proved once again to be a very talented man.
Before he could finish me, and believe me, I was near done—
The doorbell rang and I hollered in frustration, “Son of a gun!”
Okay, that’s not an exact quotation, but you get the drift,
And I stomped to the front door, belting my hastily donned shift.
“This better be good,” I threatened, pulling open my door,
Not caring I sounded like one bitchy bore.
I stammered to a halt at the man wearing a tool belt and levis,
The devil atwinkle in his bold, blazing blue eyes.
“Well, I’d never brag,” he grinned, “but I’ve been told I’m so,
But if you’re unsatisfied, I’m sure you’re confident to let me know.”
Then I said something meaningful, like, “Gah” or “Uh, sure”
And then showed him into my house without one other word.
“You’re A/C is broken, yes?” he confirmed as I watched him come in.
My Sir Galahad was in the flesh—and he looked just as ready for sin.
“It’s in the back, I’ll show you,” I pulled ahead to keep from staring,
Putting a twitch into my sway in case he was daring.
He fixed my A/C with some clever rewiring and a little TLC,
And as I watched his fingers move, I could only wish it were me.
Finally he grinned, “I’m off for the rest of the day if there is anything more…”
“There is,” I agreed and proceeded to show him on my living room floor.
When I finally let the poor lad up for air and he caught his breath,
He said, “Damn, you’re an insatiable wench, you’ll be my death.”
“Don’t be so hasty,” I smiled, “You’ve yet to see thing one or thing two.”
His gaze lowered to my chest. “That was one thing I didn’t miss on you.”
“Sir Galahad, thank you,” I laughed as his nimble fingers challenged me again.
“You definitely make the day fly by with the expertise you have of sin.”
“You have some expertise yourself,” he confided with a smile that was bad.
“But my name is Joe. Who the heck is Sir Galahad?”
I was plainly miserable and sweating a lot,
As I kicked back in my lawn chair, sucking on ice,
Thinking some A/C would really be nice.
My A/C had busted—to A/C Heaven it reside—
In short, to my horror, my A/C had died.
And I was forced to wait miserably for the mechanic
To fix my A/C—no, no, I would not panic!
A long, cool bath, I decided, is what I needed to do
With “blue island” bubbles for a Caribbean hue.
And I could pretend I was on an island away
And not in Missouri on this hottest of days.
I grabbed a book to read as I sank in the tub,
Knowing as the coolness seeped that I was in love.
Cool and relaxed, I cracked my book to page one,
Knowing deep down the Adventure just begun.
Recall Sir Galahad with eyes blue and blazing?
Wicked of smile and stamina so amazing?
Yes, he was the star as I read that tale again.
I was in the mood for some sex, some love, and some sin.
As I turned the page to the opening chapter,
I was distracted by some low husky laughter.
My green eyes lifted to meet some blue eyes so bold;
My lips gave a smile of the oldest invitation ever sold.
“I understand you’re missing me, my sweet little pet,”
He said, caressing my thigh to see how far he could get.
“You’ve heard right, Sir Galahad—do you want to tumble?”
He nodded wickedly as I whispered, “Get ready to rumble.”
His bold hard hands pulled my naked hips to meet his
And I faltered but a second to whisper, “Oh golly whiz…”
He laughed as he kissed me, his tongue playing grammar—
A question, an exclamation, a statement…a stammer.
He’d fumbled a second when my questing hands drifted South,
But he recovered to stop my mission and quiet my mouth.
“Slowly,” he whispered, “Let’s take it one step at a time…”
So I swiveled my hips to drive him out of his mind.
“Or not,” he groaned, thrusting deep as I gasped.
I leveraged his shoulders as he leveraged my ass.
Then setting back lazily as if he could do this all day,
He rocked me until the world dipped and swayed.
Finally I splintered and shivered in his embrace,
And finally I quieted to look in his face.
“Come, Galahad, to a bed, you’ll admit that’d be new…
Tell me, on a mattress, would you know what to do?”
His wicked eyes twinkled as he gave me a wink.
“I think I can manage. What do you think?”
“I think we should hurry before I take you on the floor.”
He laughed, “Keep talking, luv, and talk dirty some more.”
To the bedroom I led him and with a towel, we did dry,
And with a wicked thought, I touched him to make him sigh.
Then I whispered, “Pay attention. I’m about to speak in tongues.”
Then I put my tongue in his navel to work down to some fun.
“Keep talking,” he grinned. “I pick up languages fast.”
And as I played with fire, he came with a gasp.
With a swallow and a grin, I stood and pushed him to the bed.
“Do what you will,” he grinned. “I’m already dead.”
“Well, you’ll find the afterlife has much more to give.”
“With angels like you,” he swore, “who wants to live?”
“Flatterer,” I charged, as I bounced by his side.
All wolfish, he said, “Lie back, ‘tis your turn to die.”
“Sounds serious,” I teased, and on elbows I sank.
Then his tongue did things that later I’d thank.
“Up,” he commanded, and I said, “I can’t get any higher.”
“On your knees,” he laughed, “I’m about to make you a liar.”
Wanting to scream in frustration, I rolled to shaky knees.
“Very good, now grab the brass bars, like that, if you please…”
“What?” “Just do it,” he demanded with a slap to my rump.
“Tilt your hips just like this, butt up, do not slump.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I returned, just before he thrust home.
Holy shit, that’s the G-spot, I thought with a moan.
My fingers clenched the brass bars as his voice whispered dark,
His words were enchanting as I flew apart.
His right hand slipped to the front with wicked intent—
And those next clever strokes were some of the best seconds spent.
From the front and the back I was gloriously taken,
As my thoughts and my morals were gladly forsaken.
One second I was grasping bars, and the next I let go.
“What’s Heaven look like?” he grinned, “I’d so like to know.”
Then with a touch and a thrust, I was there once again
Followed by the Devil who’d led me to sin.
Finally he let me collapse on the bed so sweet,
And I lay there breathing, deliciously weak.
“How do you do that?” I asked in weak wonder.
“Magic,” he confessed as his kiss took me under.
Here, I must admit, I had to pause for a quick nap—
For all of his virtues, Galahad is one exhausting chap.
But like those days, when the workload is a stress to the max,
I found myself waking, caught in more dreams about sex.
Galahad chuckled as I found myself sprawled across his chest.
“Repeat yourself, lass. I like that part about me best.”
“I’m sure you do,” I muttered, “but don’t you ever snooze?”
“Who can sleep with temptresses as beautiful as you?”
Who can sleep with complimentary come-ons like that?
I straddled his hips before he could take it all back.
I clapped my hands, grinning, “Okay, show me the plan.”
And then Galahad proved once again to be a very talented man.
Before he could finish me, and believe me, I was near done—
The doorbell rang and I hollered in frustration, “Son of a gun!”
Okay, that’s not an exact quotation, but you get the drift,
And I stomped to the front door, belting my hastily donned shift.
“This better be good,” I threatened, pulling open my door,
Not caring I sounded like one bitchy bore.
I stammered to a halt at the man wearing a tool belt and levis,
The devil atwinkle in his bold, blazing blue eyes.
“Well, I’d never brag,” he grinned, “but I’ve been told I’m so,
But if you’re unsatisfied, I’m sure you’re confident to let me know.”
Then I said something meaningful, like, “Gah” or “Uh, sure”
And then showed him into my house without one other word.
“You’re A/C is broken, yes?” he confirmed as I watched him come in.
My Sir Galahad was in the flesh—and he looked just as ready for sin.
“It’s in the back, I’ll show you,” I pulled ahead to keep from staring,
Putting a twitch into my sway in case he was daring.
He fixed my A/C with some clever rewiring and a little TLC,
And as I watched his fingers move, I could only wish it were me.
Finally he grinned, “I’m off for the rest of the day if there is anything more…”
“There is,” I agreed and proceeded to show him on my living room floor.
When I finally let the poor lad up for air and he caught his breath,
He said, “Damn, you’re an insatiable wench, you’ll be my death.”
“Don’t be so hasty,” I smiled, “You’ve yet to see thing one or thing two.”
His gaze lowered to my chest. “That was one thing I didn’t miss on you.”
“Sir Galahad, thank you,” I laughed as his nimble fingers challenged me again.
“You definitely make the day fly by with the expertise you have of sin.”
“You have some expertise yourself,” he confided with a smile that was bad.
“But my name is Joe. Who the heck is Sir Galahad?”
The Galahad Rhyme
The day was all snowy, windy, and freezing;
The wind rattled the shutters like the big bad wolf wheezing.
But I was warm and cozy in my cabin-like hovel,
Wrapped in a blanket, absorbed in a novel.
Sir Galahad the Chaste, with eyes blue and blazing,
Was in love with a lass whose wit was amazing.
It made me long for a lover with eyes of blue,
Perhaps like the sky or a storm ocean hue.
I set my book on the table and to the window I went,
Staring at the snow in utter wonderment.
And perhaps a wee bit of boredom if the truth be told…
If my love life were bread, it’d be covered in mold.
And here I was, just made for the taking,
On a nothing day perfect but for hours lovemaking.
Merlin the goldfish swam in a ne’er ceasing loop,
Swimming about and around his underwater hoop.
And with a fishy glare, he sternly did say:
“Take care what you wish for on this strangest of days…”
And it’s then you realize you’re insane, it’s true,
When you believe what your fish are saying to you.
Then a knock to the door startled me to know
Who could be wandering about in this cold winter snow?
And when I opened the door, imagine my surprise,
To see Sir Galahad the Chaste with blazing blue eyes.
“Kick him out, kick him out!” I heard Merlin shout,
“He’s a wicked knight and I know what he’s about!
Why he’ll seduce you thoroughly in a thrice and a grin!”
Gee, now there was a reason for not letting him in.
To give Merlin credit, Galahad looked awful sure.
For being so chaste, he looked anything but pure.
But I could hardly tell such a handsome man to go
To face his chances in the ill-begotten snow.
So I bid him entrance with a flirtatious smile,
And he swaggered in with great knightly style.
And when he was warmed and content from the fire,
He flashed a grin to fulfill my every desire.
Then, Sir Galahad, with one sweep of his arm,
Cleared my kitchen table with barbaric-like charm,
And with a smirk to make me tremble to the tips of my feet,
Whispered, “Now, ‘tis time for some boudoir-ish sweets.”
And as we played ‘round the table running,
He gave a growl that was all too cunning;
Then he pinned me to the table flat
And purred in triumph like a cat.
And when I shivered delicious to my toes,
He laughed and tapped me on the nose,
Then flashed a smile, oh, so winning…
Said, “Come now, lass, let’s start to sinning.”
And his hands made quick haste to all my clothes,
Exchanging each article for a series of moans;
And when I was as naked as a Thanksgiving bird,
He looked romantically awed and whispered, “My word.”
Or “Oh God” or “What pretty breasts hast thee…”
I’m not certain what was said, but it was about me.
Then with two curious hands I traced down his blouse,
Delicate as a spider, quiet as a mouse.
Slow as molasses, I peeled away every line,
Undid every lace until he was mine.
I titillated, he teased, and we both did play
Like adult wicked children locked inside for the day.
Rolling about, we bounced from the table to the floor;
Then with a few realignments, we bounced some more.
Slick as two seals across the tile we did frolic,
Passionately drunk as two alcoholics.
And when we were through screwing around on the floor,
I staggered to my feet and leaned against the door.
“What a marvelous idea,” he cried, “my wench insatiable.
Why it’s even more cunning than flat on the table.”
Then before I could inquire what my knight had in mind,
He made it quite evident as he pressed up behind.
I’m a quack, I know, but I swear I could hear,
Merlin smugly saying, “I told you so, dear…”
Twice? you scoff, why next you’ll be saying
That you two were at it before a fire blazing.
Or perhaps a tub full of champagne bubbles?
A chandelier? Would that be too much trouble?
Alas, yes, I must confess the above is quite true.
Amazing stamina he’s got through and through.
Granted the chandelier number was a bit tricky to master,
But his experience saved us from absurd disaster.
And there before the flaming fire roaring,
Before I could settle in for some lady-like snoring,
He grinned, “Perhaps ‘tis time for a nap for me too—
But not before I show you thing one and thing two.”
“Seen ‘em, rode ‘em, and bought the T-shirt—“
I replied lazily with a bit of a smirk.
He tsked and pulled a pair of die from his jeans.
I blinked at them curiously as to what they could mean.
He flicked his wrist and the pink die rolled.
When I read what they wrote, I smiled, “I fold.”
“Sorry, sweets, ‘tis craps, not poker we play…”
“I beg to differ, mister, you’ve played ‘poker’ all day.”
He laughed and proceeded with his little game,
Nibbling in places I could hardly start to name.
His blue eyes were wicked; my wrists pinned with his hand—
“Your turn to roll; you’re detained; you forfeit; you understand…”
And the die scrambled again with expert ease
And his lips moved with his hands in a move meant to please.
And when every bone melted to pound within my skin,
He rolled the die to start all over again.
Then to the bed, he laid me like a virgin bare
At her bridal bower with her husband to share.
He curled me to deep to him as they say of spoons
And sung lullabies to me of suns and moons.
I awoke alone, with no hint of my passionate knight,
No broken dishes, not a roaring fire in sight.
And Merlin swam, blinking, just an innocent fish,
Unaware of my fulfilled fantasy wish.
So I curled back on my couch, deep in my book,
Listening to the wind howl at the shutters of my nook.
Then a jab to my rear caused me to grope blindly and sigh—
And I gasped as I realized I was holding pink die.
The wind rattled the shutters like the big bad wolf wheezing.
But I was warm and cozy in my cabin-like hovel,
Wrapped in a blanket, absorbed in a novel.
Sir Galahad the Chaste, with eyes blue and blazing,
Was in love with a lass whose wit was amazing.
It made me long for a lover with eyes of blue,
Perhaps like the sky or a storm ocean hue.
I set my book on the table and to the window I went,
Staring at the snow in utter wonderment.
And perhaps a wee bit of boredom if the truth be told…
If my love life were bread, it’d be covered in mold.
And here I was, just made for the taking,
On a nothing day perfect but for hours lovemaking.
Merlin the goldfish swam in a ne’er ceasing loop,
Swimming about and around his underwater hoop.
And with a fishy glare, he sternly did say:
“Take care what you wish for on this strangest of days…”
And it’s then you realize you’re insane, it’s true,
When you believe what your fish are saying to you.
Then a knock to the door startled me to know
Who could be wandering about in this cold winter snow?
And when I opened the door, imagine my surprise,
To see Sir Galahad the Chaste with blazing blue eyes.
“Kick him out, kick him out!” I heard Merlin shout,
“He’s a wicked knight and I know what he’s about!
Why he’ll seduce you thoroughly in a thrice and a grin!”
Gee, now there was a reason for not letting him in.
To give Merlin credit, Galahad looked awful sure.
For being so chaste, he looked anything but pure.
But I could hardly tell such a handsome man to go
To face his chances in the ill-begotten snow.
So I bid him entrance with a flirtatious smile,
And he swaggered in with great knightly style.
And when he was warmed and content from the fire,
He flashed a grin to fulfill my every desire.
Then, Sir Galahad, with one sweep of his arm,
Cleared my kitchen table with barbaric-like charm,
And with a smirk to make me tremble to the tips of my feet,
Whispered, “Now, ‘tis time for some boudoir-ish sweets.”
And as we played ‘round the table running,
He gave a growl that was all too cunning;
Then he pinned me to the table flat
And purred in triumph like a cat.
And when I shivered delicious to my toes,
He laughed and tapped me on the nose,
Then flashed a smile, oh, so winning…
Said, “Come now, lass, let’s start to sinning.”
And his hands made quick haste to all my clothes,
Exchanging each article for a series of moans;
And when I was as naked as a Thanksgiving bird,
He looked romantically awed and whispered, “My word.”
Or “Oh God” or “What pretty breasts hast thee…”
I’m not certain what was said, but it was about me.
Then with two curious hands I traced down his blouse,
Delicate as a spider, quiet as a mouse.
Slow as molasses, I peeled away every line,
Undid every lace until he was mine.
I titillated, he teased, and we both did play
Like adult wicked children locked inside for the day.
Rolling about, we bounced from the table to the floor;
Then with a few realignments, we bounced some more.
Slick as two seals across the tile we did frolic,
Passionately drunk as two alcoholics.
And when we were through screwing around on the floor,
I staggered to my feet and leaned against the door.
“What a marvelous idea,” he cried, “my wench insatiable.
Why it’s even more cunning than flat on the table.”
Then before I could inquire what my knight had in mind,
He made it quite evident as he pressed up behind.
I’m a quack, I know, but I swear I could hear,
Merlin smugly saying, “I told you so, dear…”
Twice? you scoff, why next you’ll be saying
That you two were at it before a fire blazing.
Or perhaps a tub full of champagne bubbles?
A chandelier? Would that be too much trouble?
Alas, yes, I must confess the above is quite true.
Amazing stamina he’s got through and through.
Granted the chandelier number was a bit tricky to master,
But his experience saved us from absurd disaster.
And there before the flaming fire roaring,
Before I could settle in for some lady-like snoring,
He grinned, “Perhaps ‘tis time for a nap for me too—
But not before I show you thing one and thing two.”
“Seen ‘em, rode ‘em, and bought the T-shirt—“
I replied lazily with a bit of a smirk.
He tsked and pulled a pair of die from his jeans.
I blinked at them curiously as to what they could mean.
He flicked his wrist and the pink die rolled.
When I read what they wrote, I smiled, “I fold.”
“Sorry, sweets, ‘tis craps, not poker we play…”
“I beg to differ, mister, you’ve played ‘poker’ all day.”
He laughed and proceeded with his little game,
Nibbling in places I could hardly start to name.
His blue eyes were wicked; my wrists pinned with his hand—
“Your turn to roll; you’re detained; you forfeit; you understand…”
And the die scrambled again with expert ease
And his lips moved with his hands in a move meant to please.
And when every bone melted to pound within my skin,
He rolled the die to start all over again.
Then to the bed, he laid me like a virgin bare
At her bridal bower with her husband to share.
He curled me to deep to him as they say of spoons
And sung lullabies to me of suns and moons.
I awoke alone, with no hint of my passionate knight,
No broken dishes, not a roaring fire in sight.
And Merlin swam, blinking, just an innocent fish,
Unaware of my fulfilled fantasy wish.
So I curled back on my couch, deep in my book,
Listening to the wind howl at the shutters of my nook.
Then a jab to my rear caused me to grope blindly and sigh—
And I gasped as I realized I was holding pink die.
Sunday, May 29, 2005
Johnny Horton Mania
I'm writing this because I cannot find any tributes to Johnny Horton on the internet. I figure if I, at least, have a blog dedicated to the man, I can type in "Johnny Horton" and "Sugar-Coated Baby" in the same sequence and the WWW will pull up SOMETHING.
Sugar-Coated Baby, by the way, for all those people who haven't heard of Johnny Horton is a catchy little ditty (popular with country music in the late 1950s) that has the cute little memorable line: "She's as sweet as honey all the way around and she's sugar-coated all the way down." And when you heard the man sing it, you could hear the rakish-rougish smile in his voice--and I would think, now here's a guy who could show a girl a good time. Or at least he'd have fun proving you were sugar-coated all the way down. God bless him.
If you have heard of Johnny Horton, you probably have only heard of two songs, "Battle of New Orleans" (which apparently is the only way we American kids even know we fought in the war of 1812, and possibly know that we fought against England), and "North to Alaska". It's more likely you heard of the first song, and it's really likely you're going to your encyclopedia to see if I'm right about us fighting England in 1812.
I am right. I'll wait until you confirm it.
Told you.
For those of you wondering how desperately OLD I am, let me assure you the man had been dead for 15 years before I showed up. Of course, I didn't realize he was dead when I knew him. I was just playing my Dad's records, happy it wasn't Jimmie Rodgers and his Mule Skinner Blues crap. (I don't think Jimmie's so bad now; but when I was 9, he was horrible.) At age 9, when you don't realize there is an FM station (my Dad was good about keeping that a secret), Johnny Horton is peppy, fun, and downright sexy. A little like Elvis. Without the hip action though. And cuter. Johnny Horton never got fat or addicted to drugs. From what I read about the poor guy, he never even drank.
How's this for irony? Johnny Horton, who didn't drink, married Hank Williams' (the first one) widow in 1953 or so. (We all know Hank drank.) Johnny Horton in 1960, right before his second biggest hit (North to Alaska) was released, dies in a car accident: he was killed by a drunk driver. Probably Hank's ghost. You know how jealous men get.
If you want to see the movie that goes with the song, you should check out North to Alaska. It stars John Wayne, so you know it can't be all bad. And it's a bit historical, you could say. It's about the Alaskan gold rush.
Other songs worth hearing by sweet Johnny:
The Mansion You Stole
All For the Love of a Girl
Whispering Pines
Honky Tonk Man
Take Me Like I Am
Words
Counterfeit Love
Miss Marcy
They'll Never Ever Take Her Love From Me
I'm Ready If You're Willing
Hooray For That Little Difference
It's the Same Old Tale (That the Crow Told Me)
A Honky Tonk Mind
Lots of others too...but I seem to be remembering only the ballads at the moment. I would think the four disc CD collection of him is good, but it doesn't have the "Sugar Coated Baby" on it. Travesty!
Sugar-Coated Baby, by the way, for all those people who haven't heard of Johnny Horton is a catchy little ditty (popular with country music in the late 1950s) that has the cute little memorable line: "She's as sweet as honey all the way around and she's sugar-coated all the way down." And when you heard the man sing it, you could hear the rakish-rougish smile in his voice--and I would think, now here's a guy who could show a girl a good time. Or at least he'd have fun proving you were sugar-coated all the way down. God bless him.
If you have heard of Johnny Horton, you probably have only heard of two songs, "Battle of New Orleans" (which apparently is the only way we American kids even know we fought in the war of 1812, and possibly know that we fought against England), and "North to Alaska". It's more likely you heard of the first song, and it's really likely you're going to your encyclopedia to see if I'm right about us fighting England in 1812.
I am right. I'll wait until you confirm it.
Told you.
For those of you wondering how desperately OLD I am, let me assure you the man had been dead for 15 years before I showed up. Of course, I didn't realize he was dead when I knew him. I was just playing my Dad's records, happy it wasn't Jimmie Rodgers and his Mule Skinner Blues crap. (I don't think Jimmie's so bad now; but when I was 9, he was horrible.) At age 9, when you don't realize there is an FM station (my Dad was good about keeping that a secret), Johnny Horton is peppy, fun, and downright sexy. A little like Elvis. Without the hip action though. And cuter. Johnny Horton never got fat or addicted to drugs. From what I read about the poor guy, he never even drank.
How's this for irony? Johnny Horton, who didn't drink, married Hank Williams' (the first one) widow in 1953 or so. (We all know Hank drank.) Johnny Horton in 1960, right before his second biggest hit (North to Alaska) was released, dies in a car accident: he was killed by a drunk driver. Probably Hank's ghost. You know how jealous men get.
If you want to see the movie that goes with the song, you should check out North to Alaska. It stars John Wayne, so you know it can't be all bad. And it's a bit historical, you could say. It's about the Alaskan gold rush.
Other songs worth hearing by sweet Johnny:
The Mansion You Stole
All For the Love of a Girl
Whispering Pines
Honky Tonk Man
Take Me Like I Am
Words
Counterfeit Love
Miss Marcy
They'll Never Ever Take Her Love From Me
I'm Ready If You're Willing
Hooray For That Little Difference
It's the Same Old Tale (That the Crow Told Me)
A Honky Tonk Mind
Lots of others too...but I seem to be remembering only the ballads at the moment. I would think the four disc CD collection of him is good, but it doesn't have the "Sugar Coated Baby" on it. Travesty!
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