I've been having a most intriguing e-mail correspondence with a reader, and it's been going on for many days now.
This reader has been lurking about (gives a big toothy grin to all you Lurky Lurkertons) for a few months, and finally wrote in. Exactly why I don't recall, and I could go through my e-mail and find out but Adderall riddled brain is on a tangent and can't take the time. *cough* What inspired this post was that the writer commented that he found me intimidating.
Whaaaaaaaa?
I found that to be totally bizarre. Me, intimidating? Ok, I have to confess here and now that I have heard this for the majority of my life, although I just now remember these occasions. I have even been told, "Yah, you come off as a total bitch. You know, I'm just saying, first impression and all."
At first I was thinking that maybe I just write the things I would never say, and that's why a blog reader, who does not know me in real life, could get such an impression. But, upon further review, I realize it is because I am a burnt marshmallow.
Yes. I have long used this metephor to describe those sorts of people that seem big and imposing and scary, but are really just a pile of soft gooey mush on the inside. I didn't realize I was one of them, but apparently I am. I may seem a bit blackened and crusty, but don't let me fool you, I am all goo.
And so, in my usual soul baring blog-style, I would like to set the record straight. It's true, I do blog mostly about things that piss me off or freak me out or I things that I just find stupidly perplexing. As my corresponding lurker points out, "What good would a blog be if you wrote things like 'Oh, I don't really want to talk about me. What's going on with you?'"
He also wrote this extremely qoutable bit:
"Reading your blog is, at times, like sitting in the right hand seat of a sports car that a friend is driving with one hand, top down, no seat belt, weaving a bit back and forth, laughing manically, radio WAY up ... and I'm sitting in the right hand seat, just wondering if the EMTs will be able to pry my fingers from the hand hold over my head after the car has flipped end-over-end seven times.
OK, it's not that scary. But it is .. interesting. Funny, or sad, or painful .. and occasionally a rant that make me want to back Very Carefully away from the keyboard, lest I make a noise, and you spot me and call out "Look! A MAN! ONE OF THEM! LET'S GET HIM!" and you and your fellow close-knit blogging community start pulling yourselves right through that screen, some of them with a WTF? look on their faces, but still following you out of loyalty or hero-worship.
You're right, it's not that scary, either. But it injects a little drama into my days to imagine that you ready to do so. But I know (I tell myself, in a gentle measured voice) that this is your outlet, this is what you do instead of grabbing the baseball bat, and that really, no, you are simply a gentle soul. A dear, gentle soul. ... a gentle soul who on some days of the month could reach right through that mouse cord and grab you by the arm and hiss "Get your ass back IN THAT CHAIR and finishing READING my fucking blog entry; I SPENT an HOUR writing it, so the least you could do is READ IT ...."
Oh, fine, none of it is really true. But see what you inspire? Melodrama is a much under-rated art."
Damn, did he peg me or WHAT? That last bit about the mouse cord, anyway... SIT YOUR ASS DOWN, I'M NOT DONE YET! *coughs* Yes, where was I? Oh, how not scary I am. Right.
Slowly, as he and I have written back and forth, it occurs to me that I use my blog to say all the things that I have no outlet for in real life. I'm not one to spout off my opinions about things. I hold true to the old saying about opinions are like assholes and everyone has one- I think just blubbering your opinion about something at someone is rude as shit. I mean, if you have some facts to back that up, that's one thing, but I could care less about opinions, and I certainly am far too vain to embarrass myself by forcing mine onto other people.
But...what about a blog? Ah, there's the rub. You see, a blog is PASSIVE ranting, that is to say, you don't have to read it. I'm not shoving this down your throat. Click away, silly person, if you don't like what I have to say, why on Earth would you continue to read my ego-fueled words of prattledom? In contrast, if I'm standing next to you in line at the grocery store and start going off about the medication I'm on, holy shit on a biscuit, that's rude as hell.
Speaking of which, I had some crazy lady do that to me today in the waiting room at my shrink's office. Yah, it's a place for us crazies, but STILL- you aren't paying ME so shut up! That said...
Here in my passive little blogworld I can bitch and rant and opine all I damn want, and if you can't hear the inflection in my voice when I'm trying not to laugh, or if you don't know me well enough (some of you readers know me in real life, but only a handful), you might not catch that I'm just blowing off steam and will return to my gooey self as soon as I hit "submit".
Knowing this, I thought perhaps I should somehow balance the scales by sharing some of my gooiest moments with you. I'm sorry, I have no vomit bags handy, you may want to grab those now or stop reading (SIT YOUR ASS DOWN! HAND AWAY FROM THE MOUSE! *cough*) now, but for the record:
* The movie Gremlins scares the hell out of me. So does Jurassic Park. Don't even get me started about the scarier shit. I don't watch it. I did have a boyfriend make me sit through Event Horizon once and I was so terrified I couldn't even leave my own living room, just plug my ears and cover my head with a blanket while humming happy songs to myself until he shut it off.
* Most of the e-mails you readers send make me pooch out my lip and cry a wee bit. It's true. They're touching and let's not forget...
* I'm a total crybaby. I cry at everything, including, but certainly not limited to mushy commercials, dammit. I used to cry everytime the theme song to "Friends" came on, but mostly because I didn't have any at that time and it was depressing.
* I try to go out and buy at least one "cool" album once a year, just to keep up and not look like a loser. In reality, I would be happy listening to 80's new wave and Frank Sinatra forever. Heavy or angry music makes me sad. Most gangsta rap I find horribly depressing. Weird Al always makes me happy. Always.
* I will frequently take my son with me to go shopping even though my husband is home and could watch him, simply because I don't feel like going to the store alone. I could use the free time, sure, but I feel wussy so I take him. That reminds me...
* My son slept in the same bed with me until he was probably four. That was when I moved in with a boyfriend who was not cool with sharing a bed with a kid. I tried to act like I was cool with it, but I would have preferred sleeping with my son. He's soft and snuggly. Well, he was. Now he's big and floppy and kicks too hard in his sleep. I still love cuddling him while he's sleeping, and think that no matter how stinky he is, he smells like love to me.
* When my husband pets my head and tells me I'm his "good little girl" I get all choked up and weepy.
* I still have nearly every letter ever written to me, ever, except for a few old love letters that I burned during a stupid "letting go" phase. I regret doing so. There is not enough sweetness in the world, why burn some just because it's old? I have locks of friends hair, little notes they scribbled on restaurant placemats, and more photographs than a human should probably have, but don't try to pry them from me, I'll bite you.
* I have text messages saved from a year ago, still in my phone. I probably will have to keep this damn phone forever because of it. Yep, 'Doodles, that one about me being in your pocket is still there.
* If you come to my house I will try to feed you, make you take home leftovers, and anything else I can think of that you might require. I own a few sets of extra sheets and blankets and pillows just so guests don't ever have to sleep on the futon without proper cuddlyness. I will make your bed. Then I will feed you breakfast. I will insist. Please don't try to argue.
* I took down my birdfeeder the other day to put it up in a new spot. Every time a bird landed on the porch I was filled with sadness and guilt until I got it set back up again. I was very relieved once they found the new spot.
* My best friends are the ones who have either proved themselves worthy under great duress ('Doodles nearly single handedly planned my wedding) or I have known forever. I still have friends from middle school. I am searching for one from elementary school, but haven't found her yet.
* If you are crying, I will cry, unless you require that I be strong, but it will take a Hurculean effort. I also cry when people cry during movies, TV shows, whatever. Sometimes I will cry because things are very beautiful, like watching Cirque de Soleil. I have been known to break down in tears when an ambulance passes, just because someone is hurt.
* When I was younger and rode my bike everywhere, I used to see road kill and stop my bike, get a stick and push them off the side off the road, just in case their family squirrel/possums/whatever could see them and maybe it bothered them. I would usually find some flowers to set on them. Gross factor: sometimes they would already be covered in maggots. This did not stop me. I learned about the circle of life that way.
* When my Grandma send me things, I will first open the box and just sit there smelling it for awhile with my eyes closed. It smells like her perfume, and I savor it. Sometimes I even leave them in the box just so I can open it now and then and smell them longer. She lives really far away and I miss her.
I don't know. I'm pretty sure I could go on all day but I secretly fear this will bore you.
My point is: look past my crunchy covering. It's just there so you don't see my delectable white squish. And now that I've told you, please don't eat me.
The funny thing is, I know you won't. If you read this far, you're already too smitten with my particular brand of crazy to turn back now.
Ha ha- you got too close and got stuck in the goo. Now you love me. Oh- I probably should have warned you about that. Sorry. No, I'm not really. The world needs more love. Mine does, anyway. I won't bore you with my opinions about yours.
Monday, July 31, 2006
my marshmallow filling/ a bitch's confessional
I've been having a most intriguing e-mail correspondence with a reader, and it's been going on for many days now.
This reader has been lurking about (gives a big toothy grin to all you Lurky Lurkertons) for a few months, and finally wrote in. Exactly why I don't recall, and I could go through my e-mail and find out but Adderall riddled brain is on a tangent and can't take the time. *cough* What inspired this post was that the writer commented that he found me intimidating.
Whaaaaaaaa?
I found that to be totally bizarre. Me, intimidating? Ok, I have to confess here and now that I have heard this for the majority of my life, although I just now remember these occasions. I have even been told, "Yah, you come off as a total bitch. You know, I'm just saying, first impression and all."
At first I was thinking that maybe I just write the things I would never say, and that's why a blog reader, who does not know me in real life, could get such an impression. But, upon further review, I realize it is because I am a burnt marshmallow.
Yes. I have long used this metephor to describe those sorts of people that seem big and imposing and scary, but are really just a pile of soft gooey mush on the inside. I didn't realize I was one of them, but apparently I am. I may seem a bit blackened and crusty, but don't let me fool you, I am all goo.
And so, in my usual soul baring blog-style, I would like to set the record straight. It's true, I do blog mostly about things that piss me off or freak me out or I things that I just find stupidly perplexing. As my corresponding lurker points out, "What good would a blog be if you wrote things like 'Oh, I don't really want to talk about me. What's going on with you?'"
He also wrote this extremely qoutable bit:
"Reading your blog is, at times, like sitting in the right hand seat of a sports car that a friend is driving with one hand, top down, no seat belt, weaving a bit back and forth, laughing manically, radio WAY up ... and I'm sitting in the right hand seat, just wondering if the EMTs will be able to pry my fingers from the hand hold over my head after the car has flipped end-over-end seven times.
OK, it's not that scary. But it is .. interesting. Funny, or sad, or painful .. and occasionally a rant that make me want to back Very Carefully away from the keyboard, lest I make a noise, and you spot me and call out "Look! A MAN! ONE OF THEM! LET'S GET HIM!" and you and your fellow close-knit blogging community start pulling yourselves right through that screen, some of them with a WTF? look on their faces, but still following you out of loyalty or hero-worship.
You're right, it's not that scary, either. But it injects a little drama into my days to imagine that you ready to do so. But I know (I tell myself, in a gentle measured voice) that this is your outlet, this is what you do instead of grabbing the baseball bat, and that really, no, you are simply a gentle soul. A dear, gentle soul. ... a gentle soul who on some days of the month could reach right through that mouse cord and grab you by the arm and hiss "Get your ass back IN THAT CHAIR and finishing READING my fucking blog entry; I SPENT an HOUR writing it, so the least you could do is READ IT ...."
Oh, fine, none of it is really true. But see what you inspire? Melodrama is a much under-rated art."
Damn, did he peg me or WHAT? That last bit about the mouse cord, anyway... SIT YOUR ASS DOWN, I'M NOT DONE YET! *coughs* Yes, where was I? Oh, how not scary I am. Right.
Slowly, as he and I have written back and forth, it occurs to me that I use my blog to say all the things that I have no outlet for in real life. I'm not one to spout off my opinions about things. I hold true to the old saying about opinions are like assholes and everyone has one- I think just blubbering your opinion about something at someone is rude as shit. I mean, if you have some facts to back that up, that's one thing, but I could care less about opinions, and I certainly am far too vain to embarrass myself by forcing mine onto other people.
But...what about a blog? Ah, there's the rub. You see, a blog is PASSIVE ranting, that is to say, you don't have to read it. I'm not shoving this down your throat. Click away, silly person, if you don't like what I have to say, why on Earth would you continue to read my ego-fueled words of prattledom? In contrast, if I'm standing next to you in line at the grocery store and start going off about the medication I'm on, holy shit on a biscuit, that's rude as hell.
Speaking of which, I had some crazy lady do that to me today in the waiting room at my shrink's office. Yah, it's a place for us crazies, but STILL- you aren't paying ME so shut up! That said...
Here in my passive little blogworld I can bitch and rant and opine all I damn want, and if you can't hear the inflection in my voice when I'm trying not to laugh, or if you don't know me well enough (some of you readers know me in real life, but only a handful), you might not catch that I'm just blowing off steam and will return to my gooey self as soon as I hit "submit".
Knowing this, I thought perhaps I should somehow balance the scales by sharing some of my gooiest moments with you. I'm sorry, I have no vomit bags handy, you may want to grab those now or stop reading (SIT YOUR ASS DOWN! HAND AWAY FROM THE MOUSE! *cough*) now, but for the record:
* The movie Gremlins scares the hell out of me. So does Jurassic Park. Don't even get me started about the scarier shit. I don't watch it. I did have a boyfriend make me sit through Event Horizon once and I was so terrified I couldn't even leave my own living room, just plug my ears and cover my head with a blanket while humming happy songs to myself until he shut it off.
* Most of the e-mails you readers send make me pooch out my lip and cry a wee bit. It's true. They're touching and let's not forget...
* I'm a total crybaby. I cry at everything, including, but certainly not limited to mushy commercials, dammit. I used to cry everytime the theme song to "Friends" came on, but mostly because I didn't have any at that time and it was depressing.
* I try to go out and buy at least one "cool" album once a year, just to keep up and not look like a loser. In reality, I would be happy listening to 80's new wave and Frank Sinatra forever. Heavy or angry music makes me sad. Most gangsta rap I find horribly depressing. Weird Al always makes me happy. Always.
* I will frequently take my son with me to go shopping even though my husband is home and could watch him, simply because I don't feel like going to the store alone. I could use the free time, sure, but I feel wussy so I take him. That reminds me...
* My son slept in the same bed with me until he was probably four. That was when I moved in with a boyfriend who was not cool with sharing a bed with a kid. I tried to act like I was cool with it, but I would have preferred sleeping with my son. He's soft and snuggly. Well, he was. Now he's big and floppy and kicks too hard in his sleep. I still love cuddling him while he's sleeping, and think that no matter how stinky he is, he smells like love to me.
* When my husband pets my head and tells me I'm his "good little girl" I get all choked up and weepy.
* I still have nearly every letter ever written to me, ever, except for a few old love letters that I burned during a stupid "letting go" phase. I regret doing so. There is not enough sweetness in the world, why burn some just because it's old? I have locks of friends hair, little notes they scribbled on restaurant placemats, and more photographs than a human should probably have, but don't try to pry them from me, I'll bite you.
* I have text messages saved from a year ago, still in my phone. I probably will have to keep this damn phone forever because of it. Yep, 'Doodles, that one about me being in your pocket is still there.
* If you come to my house I will try to feed you, make you take home leftovers, and anything else I can think of that you might require. I own a few sets of extra sheets and blankets and pillows just so guests don't ever have to sleep on the futon without proper cuddlyness. I will make your bed. Then I will feed you breakfast. I will insist. Please don't try to argue.
* I took down my birdfeeder the other day to put it up in a new spot. Every time a bird landed on the porch I was filled with sadness and guilt until I got it set back up again. I was very relieved once they found the new spot.
* My best friends are the ones who have either proved themselves worthy under great duress ('Doodles nearly single handedly planned my wedding) or I have known forever. I still have friends from middle school. I am searching for one from elementary school, but haven't found her yet.
* If you are crying, I will cry, unless you require that I be strong, but it will take a Hurculean effort. I also cry when people cry during movies, TV shows, whatever. Sometimes I will cry because things are very beautiful, like watching Cirque de Soleil. I have been known to break down in tears when an ambulance passes, just because someone is hurt.
* When I was younger and rode my bike everywhere, I used to see road kill and stop my bike, get a stick and push them off the side off the road, just in case their family squirrel/possums/whatever could see them and maybe it bothered them. I would usually find some flowers to set on them. Gross factor: sometimes they would already be covered in maggots. This did not stop me. I learned about the circle of life that way.
* When my Grandma send me things, I will first open the box and just sit there smelling it for awhile with my eyes closed. It smells like her perfume, and I savor it. Sometimes I even leave them in the box just so I can open it now and then and smell them longer. She lives really far away and I miss her.
I don't know. I'm pretty sure I could go on all day but I secretly fear this will bore you.
My point is: look past my crunchy covering. It's just there so you don't see my delectable white squish. And now that I've told you, please don't eat me.
The funny thing is, I know you won't. If you read this far, you're already too smitten with my particular brand of crazy to turn back now.
Ha ha- you got too close and got stuck in the goo. Now you love me. Oh- I probably should have warned you about that. Sorry. No, I'm not really. The world needs more love. Mine does, anyway. I won't bore you with my opinions about yours.
This reader has been lurking about (gives a big toothy grin to all you Lurky Lurkertons) for a few months, and finally wrote in. Exactly why I don't recall, and I could go through my e-mail and find out but Adderall riddled brain is on a tangent and can't take the time. *cough* What inspired this post was that the writer commented that he found me intimidating.
Whaaaaaaaa?
I found that to be totally bizarre. Me, intimidating? Ok, I have to confess here and now that I have heard this for the majority of my life, although I just now remember these occasions. I have even been told, "Yah, you come off as a total bitch. You know, I'm just saying, first impression and all."
At first I was thinking that maybe I just write the things I would never say, and that's why a blog reader, who does not know me in real life, could get such an impression. But, upon further review, I realize it is because I am a burnt marshmallow.
Yes. I have long used this metephor to describe those sorts of people that seem big and imposing and scary, but are really just a pile of soft gooey mush on the inside. I didn't realize I was one of them, but apparently I am. I may seem a bit blackened and crusty, but don't let me fool you, I am all goo.
And so, in my usual soul baring blog-style, I would like to set the record straight. It's true, I do blog mostly about things that piss me off or freak me out or I things that I just find stupidly perplexing. As my corresponding lurker points out, "What good would a blog be if you wrote things like 'Oh, I don't really want to talk about me. What's going on with you?'"
He also wrote this extremely qoutable bit:
"Reading your blog is, at times, like sitting in the right hand seat of a sports car that a friend is driving with one hand, top down, no seat belt, weaving a bit back and forth, laughing manically, radio WAY up ... and I'm sitting in the right hand seat, just wondering if the EMTs will be able to pry my fingers from the hand hold over my head after the car has flipped end-over-end seven times.
OK, it's not that scary. But it is .. interesting. Funny, or sad, or painful .. and occasionally a rant that make me want to back Very Carefully away from the keyboard, lest I make a noise, and you spot me and call out "Look! A MAN! ONE OF THEM! LET'S GET HIM!" and you and your fellow close-knit blogging community start pulling yourselves right through that screen, some of them with a WTF? look on their faces, but still following you out of loyalty or hero-worship.
You're right, it's not that scary, either. But it injects a little drama into my days to imagine that you ready to do so. But I know (I tell myself, in a gentle measured voice) that this is your outlet, this is what you do instead of grabbing the baseball bat, and that really, no, you are simply a gentle soul. A dear, gentle soul. ... a gentle soul who on some days of the month could reach right through that mouse cord and grab you by the arm and hiss "Get your ass back IN THAT CHAIR and finishing READING my fucking blog entry; I SPENT an HOUR writing it, so the least you could do is READ IT ...."
Oh, fine, none of it is really true. But see what you inspire? Melodrama is a much under-rated art."
Damn, did he peg me or WHAT? That last bit about the mouse cord, anyway... SIT YOUR ASS DOWN, I'M NOT DONE YET! *coughs* Yes, where was I? Oh, how not scary I am. Right.
Slowly, as he and I have written back and forth, it occurs to me that I use my blog to say all the things that I have no outlet for in real life. I'm not one to spout off my opinions about things. I hold true to the old saying about opinions are like assholes and everyone has one- I think just blubbering your opinion about something at someone is rude as shit. I mean, if you have some facts to back that up, that's one thing, but I could care less about opinions, and I certainly am far too vain to embarrass myself by forcing mine onto other people.
But...what about a blog? Ah, there's the rub. You see, a blog is PASSIVE ranting, that is to say, you don't have to read it. I'm not shoving this down your throat. Click away, silly person, if you don't like what I have to say, why on Earth would you continue to read my ego-fueled words of prattledom? In contrast, if I'm standing next to you in line at the grocery store and start going off about the medication I'm on, holy shit on a biscuit, that's rude as hell.
Speaking of which, I had some crazy lady do that to me today in the waiting room at my shrink's office. Yah, it's a place for us crazies, but STILL- you aren't paying ME so shut up! That said...
Here in my passive little blogworld I can bitch and rant and opine all I damn want, and if you can't hear the inflection in my voice when I'm trying not to laugh, or if you don't know me well enough (some of you readers know me in real life, but only a handful), you might not catch that I'm just blowing off steam and will return to my gooey self as soon as I hit "submit".
Knowing this, I thought perhaps I should somehow balance the scales by sharing some of my gooiest moments with you. I'm sorry, I have no vomit bags handy, you may want to grab those now or stop reading (SIT YOUR ASS DOWN! HAND AWAY FROM THE MOUSE! *cough*) now, but for the record:
* The movie Gremlins scares the hell out of me. So does Jurassic Park. Don't even get me started about the scarier shit. I don't watch it. I did have a boyfriend make me sit through Event Horizon once and I was so terrified I couldn't even leave my own living room, just plug my ears and cover my head with a blanket while humming happy songs to myself until he shut it off.
* Most of the e-mails you readers send make me pooch out my lip and cry a wee bit. It's true. They're touching and let's not forget...
* I'm a total crybaby. I cry at everything, including, but certainly not limited to mushy commercials, dammit. I used to cry everytime the theme song to "Friends" came on, but mostly because I didn't have any at that time and it was depressing.
* I try to go out and buy at least one "cool" album once a year, just to keep up and not look like a loser. In reality, I would be happy listening to 80's new wave and Frank Sinatra forever. Heavy or angry music makes me sad. Most gangsta rap I find horribly depressing. Weird Al always makes me happy. Always.
* I will frequently take my son with me to go shopping even though my husband is home and could watch him, simply because I don't feel like going to the store alone. I could use the free time, sure, but I feel wussy so I take him. That reminds me...
* My son slept in the same bed with me until he was probably four. That was when I moved in with a boyfriend who was not cool with sharing a bed with a kid. I tried to act like I was cool with it, but I would have preferred sleeping with my son. He's soft and snuggly. Well, he was. Now he's big and floppy and kicks too hard in his sleep. I still love cuddling him while he's sleeping, and think that no matter how stinky he is, he smells like love to me.
* When my husband pets my head and tells me I'm his "good little girl" I get all choked up and weepy.
* I still have nearly every letter ever written to me, ever, except for a few old love letters that I burned during a stupid "letting go" phase. I regret doing so. There is not enough sweetness in the world, why burn some just because it's old? I have locks of friends hair, little notes they scribbled on restaurant placemats, and more photographs than a human should probably have, but don't try to pry them from me, I'll bite you.
* I have text messages saved from a year ago, still in my phone. I probably will have to keep this damn phone forever because of it. Yep, 'Doodles, that one about me being in your pocket is still there.
* If you come to my house I will try to feed you, make you take home leftovers, and anything else I can think of that you might require. I own a few sets of extra sheets and blankets and pillows just so guests don't ever have to sleep on the futon without proper cuddlyness. I will make your bed. Then I will feed you breakfast. I will insist. Please don't try to argue.
* I took down my birdfeeder the other day to put it up in a new spot. Every time a bird landed on the porch I was filled with sadness and guilt until I got it set back up again. I was very relieved once they found the new spot.
* My best friends are the ones who have either proved themselves worthy under great duress ('Doodles nearly single handedly planned my wedding) or I have known forever. I still have friends from middle school. I am searching for one from elementary school, but haven't found her yet.
* If you are crying, I will cry, unless you require that I be strong, but it will take a Hurculean effort. I also cry when people cry during movies, TV shows, whatever. Sometimes I will cry because things are very beautiful, like watching Cirque de Soleil. I have been known to break down in tears when an ambulance passes, just because someone is hurt.
* When I was younger and rode my bike everywhere, I used to see road kill and stop my bike, get a stick and push them off the side off the road, just in case their family squirrel/possums/whatever could see them and maybe it bothered them. I would usually find some flowers to set on them. Gross factor: sometimes they would already be covered in maggots. This did not stop me. I learned about the circle of life that way.
* When my Grandma send me things, I will first open the box and just sit there smelling it for awhile with my eyes closed. It smells like her perfume, and I savor it. Sometimes I even leave them in the box just so I can open it now and then and smell them longer. She lives really far away and I miss her.
I don't know. I'm pretty sure I could go on all day but I secretly fear this will bore you.
My point is: look past my crunchy covering. It's just there so you don't see my delectable white squish. And now that I've told you, please don't eat me.
The funny thing is, I know you won't. If you read this far, you're already too smitten with my particular brand of crazy to turn back now.
Ha ha- you got too close and got stuck in the goo. Now you love me. Oh- I probably should have warned you about that. Sorry. No, I'm not really. The world needs more love. Mine does, anyway. I won't bore you with my opinions about yours.
Sunday, July 30, 2006
a small chested lament
Warning: this post originated on the sex blog, and has some rather graphic sexual talk in it. If you find this offensive, please skip this one...
What's the deal with me and boobs? And porn? Are they the same problem? Jack suspects they are. And to an extent, I think he is right.
Let me explain:
I have always been small chested, other than the time I was nursing my son, but we'll get to that.
As I hit puberty, I noticed that the girls with breasts got boyfriends; I did not. The same boys that all the girls wanted as boyfriends would tease me mercilessly about not having breasts yet. The most common jokes were, "Jill, are you ok? Did two misquitos bite you?" (followed by group male guffawing) and "You're so flat you make the walls jealous!" (followed my group male guffawing). Etc, etc, etc...
Can I explain how lovely it is to be publicly humiliated for something you have no control over? I doubt I need to. Any of you women who were small chested, large chested, anyone overweight, really short, really tall, whatever, you know what I'm talking about.
There's something that seems built into us, all of us, the entire human race, to shun those that do not fit into the "norm". And every culture has a different "norm". It's sad, but I digress...
I was also very tall, and a very tall small chested girl didn't get a lot of boyfriends, I can assure you. It didn't make them feel very masculine, at a time when they really wanted and needed to feel masculine. The fact was, I could beat the shit out of any of them, and my lack of tits did not slow me down. I ran track and won ribbon after ribbon. It was a consolation, anyway. A boyfriendless consolation.
As I got a bit older and my hips filled in (beautifully, thank you genetics!), guys noticed me regardless of my small chest. I dated older guys, and I was not so young and naive to let it slip past me that THEY appreciated large hips more. The younger guys were still focused on boobs.
When I was nineteen I moved to Asheville, North Carolina, and suddenly became a goddess. Asheville, at that time, was not the blossomed new age town overflowing with bohemian freaksters like it is today. It was mostly boarded up shops and a few small coffee shops that all of us young alternative culture freaksters hung out in. To my advantage, there was an uneven ratio of guys versus chicks. There weren't that many chicks, and so I was suddenly and completely unexpectedly raised to the status level of goddess worship.
Talk about an ego boost!
I would go sit down in Vinny's (long gone, alas) and guys would flock to my table, wanting to just sit and talk over coffee. I remember being amazed that I came to get coffee by myself but would have six guys crammed into a booth trying to hang out with me.
(hangs head and laughs softly) I must confess, I really thought that it was that whole "Southern hospitality" that I'd heard so much about. I thought they were just really friendly. It took me awhile to figure out what the deal was, because these weren't ordinary guys. These were deep, philosophical, really intelligent guys. They didn't come on to me with cheeseball lines, they actually sat there for hours discussing the mystical nature of the universe.
You want to know how to ring my bell? That's it. *ding!*
My few first years in Asheville, although they were as emotionally turbulent as a tsunami, were also spent lapping up the admiration of guys who thought I was the hottest thing ever, and treated me with both worship and respect. S-p-o-i-l-e-d me rotten, they did.
I strutted the streets in whatever the hell I wanted to, usually braless because I was small and perky and could get away with it. It was a braless kind of place, anyway. I stopped worrying about the size of my breasts and just decided I was hot as fucking hell and the guys in my hometown were obviously retarded. THESE guys could see how hot I was! All right!
Alas, I then met the father of my son, and everything went to hell. On the upside, after my son was born, I had the most humungous boobs ever! At one point they had to be double D's, because I had on a D cup stretchy sports bra on and they were overflowing the thing. How big they got, I don't know, but damn if I wasn't all ABOUT showing those babies off. Finally! I made endless jokes about puberty hitting me at twenty three.
I nursed my son for a year and a half, and my grandmother finally said, "When the hell are you going to wean that baby?" to which I answered, "Just as soon as I can afford a boob job, Grandma!" I loved them.
I did notice I could NOT run with them, however. It made me realize, belatedly, WHY I won so many track meets and why my coach thought I was his golden girl. Ah HA....
Boobs or no boobs, that shitcake of a boyfriend, whom I frequently refer to as Spermdonor, was fucking every other girl in town. When I found that out, it crushed me. I mean, the shitty way he treated me was bad enough, but to find out that he'd fucked half of the small town we lived in was just god-awful.
These were girls I saw nearly every day. These were girls who had babysat for us, who were friends of mine, who served our food when we went out to eat. I was surrounded, literally, by women who were fucking my boyfriend and everybody seemed to know about it but me.
Can you say: Total Humiliation?
I left him and packed up and moved another town over. It was far enough to not run into them but once or twice a year at most. Those small town girls tended to stay put, I discovered. Good for them, fucking ho-bags.
Before I left I lost every bit of baby weight I had put on, due to the Heartbreak Diet I went on when I found out. Did you know that you can lose over twenty pounds in two weeks if you only consume ciggarettes and coffee? It's true. (I had weaned my son by then so he wasn't consuming it, just so we're clear on that.) A modeling company came to town and I went to their stupid auditions, got an offer and turned them down. They wanted me to weigh a nice deathly 115 pounds. Uh, fuck you? I'm five foot ten? Hello? But even if I didn't lose that weight, they said, they could find me all kinds of work. I still turned them down, just on principle, but it was a lovely bit of an ego boost to get picked.
I moved back over to Asheville and even as a single mom I was rocking it out. I found myself a hot little Snack Cake to enjoy my new found love of fucking with, and had a six month blast of unfettered fuckdom. He was twenty, a hot little skateboarder with smoldering good looks and the body of an underwear model, and he could not get enough of my already-had-a-baby ass. Ego boost! We both attended the community college and would skip class and fuck in his car in the parking lot, just whatever. It was hot as hell. I felt better, but not completely. He wanted someone without kids, and uh...I had one. I broke it off.
The next boyfriend was wonderful some ways but an utter disaster in so many other ways. I won't even get into it all. We were together for five years, he really loved my son, he thought I was smoking hot but after five years and HIS endless talk about getting married, he just suddenly had himself a miny midlife crisis and fucked the dumbass twenty-three year old he worked with.
Even he was the first to admit that she wasn't funny, she wasn't smart, she was pretty, ok, but even I could see her best asset- she had the most gorgeous rack. I know this because I could clearly see it through her skin tight see thru Grateful Dead shirts that she wore braless to work.
As my husband points out, it wasn't REALLY the boobs that did my ex in, but fuck- that had to be just impossible to work next to her all day while she endlessly flirted with him. Add in his depression about his life and you have the perfect set up for an affair. He thought he was shit and not going anywhere, she thought he was brilliant and funny and never stopped telling him that. She blew sunshine up his ass, even right in front of me, the likes of which I'd never seen. He really didn't stand a chance. And whatever, good riddance.
The point is, somehow, my ego had been built up but is still riddled with bullet holes, and she's one of them. Some Gollum like part of me whispers, "The breasts! My precious! It's the breasts!"
While I know this to be illogical, I can't shake it.
And then I met my husband.
My husband is the first man who has EVER been completely honest with me about sex. The shit he thinks about, his porn habits, what he finds attractive, etc.
(huge sigh)
Um, I'm kind of a loss here. While part of me is thankful beyond measure that he is willing to let me see the truth, there is still another part that wants to bash him over his monkey brain with a club.
Let's see if I get this into words...
I really did not know how much men think about sex. I also did not know that men look at so much porn. Not all do, granted, but I have blogged before about how naive I am. There have been many a boyfriend that have gone to the bathroom with a Car and Driver magazine (porn tucked inside) and spent thirty minutes in there, only to come out to find me worried about the state of their colon and if they're getting enough fiber. I mean, what takes so long to poop? I don't get it. (Duh.)
I was raised not learning ANYTHING about sex. I have a lot of misconceptions. My life experience has caused more misconceptions than understanding, quite possibly.
This is really all a tangled mess in my brain. I'm trying to untangle it here...
My husband and I go back and forth about porn and if I am ok with him looking at it. Sometimes I have not cared. Sometimes I have cared so much that I have thrown hysterical fits when finding him looking at it, curling into a fetal position on the floor at his feet and sobbing, yes, while he was trying to jerk off.
He pointed out the other day that I seem to have a serious case of boob envy, and wonders how much of that plays into my issues with porn. I am willing to give it serious thought, although I have to confess it is difficult. I am fighting me on this one. There seems to be something under the surface of my own emotions that I do NOT want to see. I don't know what it is yet. I do know that writing about it is like poking it with a stick, and I'm not enjoying this. (sighs)
I will say that my other issue with porn is that there are foreign wieners in it, and sometimes I am ok with seeing them, but sometimes I am not. Explain? Sorry, let me be clearer. I mean, sometimes the sight of a penis, any penis, gives me...it's not quite rape flashbacks, but perhaps flashbacks of the traumatic years of unwanted sex post-rape.
My extreme love of the penis extends as far as the one I am familiar with, and beyond that it all gets into a scary gray area for me. Sometimes I can look at pictures of another mans cock and think it's hot, but sometimes it leaves me with a sickened traumatized feeling.
Putting one and one together here...it's almost impossible for me to comprehend how he can be ok looking at other women's pussies and boobs and whatever... although I KNOW this is my issue and that we aren't the same, that's LOGIC. What I FEEL is a sense that he is some kind of unfeeling monster to be able to look at all of that and get off on it. I realize that it's pretty normal, most men are A-OK with it, and even some women. I know it's me that gets freaked out, but...I can't seem to reach past that.
(deep breath) On another note, but same subject: I belong to a number of networking sites: MySpace, Flikr, Frapr, Friendster. I have a difficult time with these sites. Although I am ok loading up my own sexual pictures and letting people see them, I very rarely ever look at theirs. As a matter of fact, if they use a sexually blatant icon and I have to see it in my profile, I will usually delete them, because some days I am ok with it, and some days I find it incredibly disturbing. I never know how I'm going to feel until I see it.
That's where it gets REALLY baffling. I cannot seem to foresee how I will feel about it until I actually SEE it, and there is no gray area in my reaction. It is extreme, black or white, good or bad. And because I never know ahead of time, I tend to fear it all.
Ok. So, sometimes I am ok looking at pictures of naked men, and sometimes I am ok watching porn. But I don't know when. So, sometimes I am ok with my husband looking at it, sometimes I am not. This is frustrating for both of us.
Back to the boobs...my husband told me that he does like breasts that are larger than mine. He also tells me mine are "fine" and that he loves them. So, I asked him one day what he thought of me getting a boob job, and his eyes lit up and he nodded excitedly.
Houston, we have a problem.
On one hand, I am thrilled that if I wanted to go so far as to get breast implants (interruption: PLEASE KEEP YOUR OPINIONS TO YOURSELF, for real. I will find it insanely irritating to see a pile of opinions about breast implants as comments. I'm not talking about breast implants, I'm talking about my feelings about breasts, are we clear? Thank you. Anyway....) If I wanted to get implants (and I have thought about it, just nice C cups, pretty bouncy C cups would be so delish!), it is relieving to know that my husband would support me in my decision. Not only that, but he would PAY for it. I don't have a job. He even went so far as to research excellent surgeons, because "if we're going to spend thousands to get you boobs, I would rather spend the extra couple thousand to make sure they looked perfect."
On the other hand, did his eyes have to light up so goddamn fast? Mine are 'fine", are they? Then why are you looking like a goddamn kid in a goddamn candy store at the thought of it, you fucking monkey? If mine are fine, why in the hell would you spend around seven THOUSAND dollars to make them, what, more fine?
Do I yell at the contrary monkey or be quiet so if I want them I can get them? Well, neither, really. I just pointed out the fact that he was contradicting himself...
How would he feel if he told me he wanted to get a surgery done to make his cock bigger and I just yelled, "Whoopeee! How's 14 inches sound? Oh...I mean, your cock is fine the size it is, of course..." as I ran off to research surgeons that could do it?
When I asked Jack what his opinion was on a breast size for me, should I have implants done, he once again smiled hugely and suggested "D's". And again, I wanted to beat him over his stupid monkey skull. D's? Are you fucking crazy? Other than when I was nursing, I have lived my life with very small A's!!! I would feel like a fucking mutant! Holy shit, dude, you must HATE my breasts! I can't believe you even married me if THAT is your ideal! He pointed out that he did not marry me for my breasts (yah, OBVIOUSLY), but for all my other wonderful and unique qualities.
And if he could just look at porn and SEE all those giant titties he's missing out on, things would be just fine.
Ok, I'm angry. I'm resentful. And I'm sad.
I'm sad that I got teased and it hurt my feelings,
I'm sad that I have EVER felt like, "If only I had bigger boobs....xxx would not have happened,"
I'm sad that I feel like I'm not enough woman,
I'm sad that I am self concious about it,
I'm sad that it makes me feel so crazy sometimes.
I'm sad that I love to stare at other women's breasts but that I resent them having them.
I'm sad that my husband wishes mine were bigger, and I'm sad that I'm so fucking hung up about it that I just flip the fuck out about it sometimes.
I'm sad that there was a time in my life when I was totally ok with them and that I can't seem to find my way back to that headspace.
I'm sad that I can't find all those adorable bras I see in the store in MY size,
and I'm sad that I HATE shopping for bras.
I'm sad that the bras I DO have were so damn hard to find that I wear them until they fall apart.
I'm sad that a lot of other women feel the same way, or the same way because their's are too big.
I'm sad that society places so much relevance on normalacy, and I'm sad that I buy into it.
I'm sad that I would think of going under the knife just to feel more normal, even though my breasts would be the farthest thing FROM normal, as a matter of fact, they would be fake.
I'm sad when my stripper friend tells me that her fake boobs aren't big enough, and that she thinks of getting hers bigger, because "the girls with bigger tits make more money".
I'm sad that my friend with larger breasts thinks hers aren't pretty enough.
I'm sad that I get so envious I'm resentful when she says it.
I'm sad that I love to stare at breasts but I resent the fact that my husband does because mine aren't good enough to stare at.
I'm sad that I would probably just resent the men who did look at them if I got fake ones, and want to beat them over their stupid monkey heads.
I'm sad that I contradict myself.
I'm sad that I wrote all of this and didn't find an answer to my sorrow.
What's the deal with me and boobs? And porn? Are they the same problem? Jack suspects they are. And to an extent, I think he is right.
Let me explain:
I have always been small chested, other than the time I was nursing my son, but we'll get to that.
As I hit puberty, I noticed that the girls with breasts got boyfriends; I did not. The same boys that all the girls wanted as boyfriends would tease me mercilessly about not having breasts yet. The most common jokes were, "Jill, are you ok? Did two misquitos bite you?" (followed by group male guffawing) and "You're so flat you make the walls jealous!" (followed my group male guffawing). Etc, etc, etc...
Can I explain how lovely it is to be publicly humiliated for something you have no control over? I doubt I need to. Any of you women who were small chested, large chested, anyone overweight, really short, really tall, whatever, you know what I'm talking about.
There's something that seems built into us, all of us, the entire human race, to shun those that do not fit into the "norm". And every culture has a different "norm". It's sad, but I digress...
I was also very tall, and a very tall small chested girl didn't get a lot of boyfriends, I can assure you. It didn't make them feel very masculine, at a time when they really wanted and needed to feel masculine. The fact was, I could beat the shit out of any of them, and my lack of tits did not slow me down. I ran track and won ribbon after ribbon. It was a consolation, anyway. A boyfriendless consolation.
As I got a bit older and my hips filled in (beautifully, thank you genetics!), guys noticed me regardless of my small chest. I dated older guys, and I was not so young and naive to let it slip past me that THEY appreciated large hips more. The younger guys were still focused on boobs.
When I was nineteen I moved to Asheville, North Carolina, and suddenly became a goddess. Asheville, at that time, was not the blossomed new age town overflowing with bohemian freaksters like it is today. It was mostly boarded up shops and a few small coffee shops that all of us young alternative culture freaksters hung out in. To my advantage, there was an uneven ratio of guys versus chicks. There weren't that many chicks, and so I was suddenly and completely unexpectedly raised to the status level of goddess worship.
Talk about an ego boost!
I would go sit down in Vinny's (long gone, alas) and guys would flock to my table, wanting to just sit and talk over coffee. I remember being amazed that I came to get coffee by myself but would have six guys crammed into a booth trying to hang out with me.
(hangs head and laughs softly) I must confess, I really thought that it was that whole "Southern hospitality" that I'd heard so much about. I thought they were just really friendly. It took me awhile to figure out what the deal was, because these weren't ordinary guys. These were deep, philosophical, really intelligent guys. They didn't come on to me with cheeseball lines, they actually sat there for hours discussing the mystical nature of the universe.
You want to know how to ring my bell? That's it. *ding!*
My few first years in Asheville, although they were as emotionally turbulent as a tsunami, were also spent lapping up the admiration of guys who thought I was the hottest thing ever, and treated me with both worship and respect. S-p-o-i-l-e-d me rotten, they did.
I strutted the streets in whatever the hell I wanted to, usually braless because I was small and perky and could get away with it. It was a braless kind of place, anyway. I stopped worrying about the size of my breasts and just decided I was hot as fucking hell and the guys in my hometown were obviously retarded. THESE guys could see how hot I was! All right!
Alas, I then met the father of my son, and everything went to hell. On the upside, after my son was born, I had the most humungous boobs ever! At one point they had to be double D's, because I had on a D cup stretchy sports bra on and they were overflowing the thing. How big they got, I don't know, but damn if I wasn't all ABOUT showing those babies off. Finally! I made endless jokes about puberty hitting me at twenty three.
I nursed my son for a year and a half, and my grandmother finally said, "When the hell are you going to wean that baby?" to which I answered, "Just as soon as I can afford a boob job, Grandma!" I loved them.
I did notice I could NOT run with them, however. It made me realize, belatedly, WHY I won so many track meets and why my coach thought I was his golden girl. Ah HA....
Boobs or no boobs, that shitcake of a boyfriend, whom I frequently refer to as Spermdonor, was fucking every other girl in town. When I found that out, it crushed me. I mean, the shitty way he treated me was bad enough, but to find out that he'd fucked half of the small town we lived in was just god-awful.
These were girls I saw nearly every day. These were girls who had babysat for us, who were friends of mine, who served our food when we went out to eat. I was surrounded, literally, by women who were fucking my boyfriend and everybody seemed to know about it but me.
Can you say: Total Humiliation?
I left him and packed up and moved another town over. It was far enough to not run into them but once or twice a year at most. Those small town girls tended to stay put, I discovered. Good for them, fucking ho-bags.
Before I left I lost every bit of baby weight I had put on, due to the Heartbreak Diet I went on when I found out. Did you know that you can lose over twenty pounds in two weeks if you only consume ciggarettes and coffee? It's true. (I had weaned my son by then so he wasn't consuming it, just so we're clear on that.) A modeling company came to town and I went to their stupid auditions, got an offer and turned them down. They wanted me to weigh a nice deathly 115 pounds. Uh, fuck you? I'm five foot ten? Hello? But even if I didn't lose that weight, they said, they could find me all kinds of work. I still turned them down, just on principle, but it was a lovely bit of an ego boost to get picked.
I moved back over to Asheville and even as a single mom I was rocking it out. I found myself a hot little Snack Cake to enjoy my new found love of fucking with, and had a six month blast of unfettered fuckdom. He was twenty, a hot little skateboarder with smoldering good looks and the body of an underwear model, and he could not get enough of my already-had-a-baby ass. Ego boost! We both attended the community college and would skip class and fuck in his car in the parking lot, just whatever. It was hot as hell. I felt better, but not completely. He wanted someone without kids, and uh...I had one. I broke it off.
The next boyfriend was wonderful some ways but an utter disaster in so many other ways. I won't even get into it all. We were together for five years, he really loved my son, he thought I was smoking hot but after five years and HIS endless talk about getting married, he just suddenly had himself a miny midlife crisis and fucked the dumbass twenty-three year old he worked with.
Even he was the first to admit that she wasn't funny, she wasn't smart, she was pretty, ok, but even I could see her best asset- she had the most gorgeous rack. I know this because I could clearly see it through her skin tight see thru Grateful Dead shirts that she wore braless to work.
As my husband points out, it wasn't REALLY the boobs that did my ex in, but fuck- that had to be just impossible to work next to her all day while she endlessly flirted with him. Add in his depression about his life and you have the perfect set up for an affair. He thought he was shit and not going anywhere, she thought he was brilliant and funny and never stopped telling him that. She blew sunshine up his ass, even right in front of me, the likes of which I'd never seen. He really didn't stand a chance. And whatever, good riddance.
The point is, somehow, my ego had been built up but is still riddled with bullet holes, and she's one of them. Some Gollum like part of me whispers, "The breasts! My precious! It's the breasts!"
While I know this to be illogical, I can't shake it.
And then I met my husband.
My husband is the first man who has EVER been completely honest with me about sex. The shit he thinks about, his porn habits, what he finds attractive, etc.
(huge sigh)
Um, I'm kind of a loss here. While part of me is thankful beyond measure that he is willing to let me see the truth, there is still another part that wants to bash him over his monkey brain with a club.
Let's see if I get this into words...
I really did not know how much men think about sex. I also did not know that men look at so much porn. Not all do, granted, but I have blogged before about how naive I am. There have been many a boyfriend that have gone to the bathroom with a Car and Driver magazine (porn tucked inside) and spent thirty minutes in there, only to come out to find me worried about the state of their colon and if they're getting enough fiber. I mean, what takes so long to poop? I don't get it. (Duh.)
I was raised not learning ANYTHING about sex. I have a lot of misconceptions. My life experience has caused more misconceptions than understanding, quite possibly.
This is really all a tangled mess in my brain. I'm trying to untangle it here...
My husband and I go back and forth about porn and if I am ok with him looking at it. Sometimes I have not cared. Sometimes I have cared so much that I have thrown hysterical fits when finding him looking at it, curling into a fetal position on the floor at his feet and sobbing, yes, while he was trying to jerk off.
He pointed out the other day that I seem to have a serious case of boob envy, and wonders how much of that plays into my issues with porn. I am willing to give it serious thought, although I have to confess it is difficult. I am fighting me on this one. There seems to be something under the surface of my own emotions that I do NOT want to see. I don't know what it is yet. I do know that writing about it is like poking it with a stick, and I'm not enjoying this. (sighs)
I will say that my other issue with porn is that there are foreign wieners in it, and sometimes I am ok with seeing them, but sometimes I am not. Explain? Sorry, let me be clearer. I mean, sometimes the sight of a penis, any penis, gives me...it's not quite rape flashbacks, but perhaps flashbacks of the traumatic years of unwanted sex post-rape.
My extreme love of the penis extends as far as the one I am familiar with, and beyond that it all gets into a scary gray area for me. Sometimes I can look at pictures of another mans cock and think it's hot, but sometimes it leaves me with a sickened traumatized feeling.
Putting one and one together here...it's almost impossible for me to comprehend how he can be ok looking at other women's pussies and boobs and whatever... although I KNOW this is my issue and that we aren't the same, that's LOGIC. What I FEEL is a sense that he is some kind of unfeeling monster to be able to look at all of that and get off on it. I realize that it's pretty normal, most men are A-OK with it, and even some women. I know it's me that gets freaked out, but...I can't seem to reach past that.
(deep breath) On another note, but same subject: I belong to a number of networking sites: MySpace, Flikr, Frapr, Friendster. I have a difficult time with these sites. Although I am ok loading up my own sexual pictures and letting people see them, I very rarely ever look at theirs. As a matter of fact, if they use a sexually blatant icon and I have to see it in my profile, I will usually delete them, because some days I am ok with it, and some days I find it incredibly disturbing. I never know how I'm going to feel until I see it.
That's where it gets REALLY baffling. I cannot seem to foresee how I will feel about it until I actually SEE it, and there is no gray area in my reaction. It is extreme, black or white, good or bad. And because I never know ahead of time, I tend to fear it all.
Ok. So, sometimes I am ok looking at pictures of naked men, and sometimes I am ok watching porn. But I don't know when. So, sometimes I am ok with my husband looking at it, sometimes I am not. This is frustrating for both of us.
Back to the boobs...my husband told me that he does like breasts that are larger than mine. He also tells me mine are "fine" and that he loves them. So, I asked him one day what he thought of me getting a boob job, and his eyes lit up and he nodded excitedly.
Houston, we have a problem.
On one hand, I am thrilled that if I wanted to go so far as to get breast implants (interruption: PLEASE KEEP YOUR OPINIONS TO YOURSELF, for real. I will find it insanely irritating to see a pile of opinions about breast implants as comments. I'm not talking about breast implants, I'm talking about my feelings about breasts, are we clear? Thank you. Anyway....) If I wanted to get implants (and I have thought about it, just nice C cups, pretty bouncy C cups would be so delish!), it is relieving to know that my husband would support me in my decision. Not only that, but he would PAY for it. I don't have a job. He even went so far as to research excellent surgeons, because "if we're going to spend thousands to get you boobs, I would rather spend the extra couple thousand to make sure they looked perfect."
On the other hand, did his eyes have to light up so goddamn fast? Mine are 'fine", are they? Then why are you looking like a goddamn kid in a goddamn candy store at the thought of it, you fucking monkey? If mine are fine, why in the hell would you spend around seven THOUSAND dollars to make them, what, more fine?
Do I yell at the contrary monkey or be quiet so if I want them I can get them? Well, neither, really. I just pointed out the fact that he was contradicting himself...
How would he feel if he told me he wanted to get a surgery done to make his cock bigger and I just yelled, "Whoopeee! How's 14 inches sound? Oh...I mean, your cock is fine the size it is, of course..." as I ran off to research surgeons that could do it?
When I asked Jack what his opinion was on a breast size for me, should I have implants done, he once again smiled hugely and suggested "D's". And again, I wanted to beat him over his stupid monkey skull. D's? Are you fucking crazy? Other than when I was nursing, I have lived my life with very small A's!!! I would feel like a fucking mutant! Holy shit, dude, you must HATE my breasts! I can't believe you even married me if THAT is your ideal! He pointed out that he did not marry me for my breasts (yah, OBVIOUSLY), but for all my other wonderful and unique qualities.
And if he could just look at porn and SEE all those giant titties he's missing out on, things would be just fine.
Ok, I'm angry. I'm resentful. And I'm sad.
I'm sad that I got teased and it hurt my feelings,
I'm sad that I have EVER felt like, "If only I had bigger boobs....xxx would not have happened,"
I'm sad that I feel like I'm not enough woman,
I'm sad that I am self concious about it,
I'm sad that it makes me feel so crazy sometimes.
I'm sad that I love to stare at other women's breasts but that I resent them having them.
I'm sad that my husband wishes mine were bigger, and I'm sad that I'm so fucking hung up about it that I just flip the fuck out about it sometimes.
I'm sad that there was a time in my life when I was totally ok with them and that I can't seem to find my way back to that headspace.
I'm sad that I can't find all those adorable bras I see in the store in MY size,
and I'm sad that I HATE shopping for bras.
I'm sad that the bras I DO have were so damn hard to find that I wear them until they fall apart.
I'm sad that a lot of other women feel the same way, or the same way because their's are too big.
I'm sad that society places so much relevance on normalacy, and I'm sad that I buy into it.
I'm sad that I would think of going under the knife just to feel more normal, even though my breasts would be the farthest thing FROM normal, as a matter of fact, they would be fake.
I'm sad when my stripper friend tells me that her fake boobs aren't big enough, and that she thinks of getting hers bigger, because "the girls with bigger tits make more money".
I'm sad that my friend with larger breasts thinks hers aren't pretty enough.
I'm sad that I get so envious I'm resentful when she says it.
I'm sad that I love to stare at breasts but I resent the fact that my husband does because mine aren't good enough to stare at.
I'm sad that I would probably just resent the men who did look at them if I got fake ones, and want to beat them over their stupid monkey heads.
I'm sad that I contradict myself.
I'm sad that I wrote all of this and didn't find an answer to my sorrow.
a small chested lament
What's the deal with me and boobs? And porn? Are they the same problem? Jack suspects they are. And to an extent, I think he is right.
Let me explain:
I have always been small chested, other than the time I was nursing my son, but we'll get to that.
As I hit puberty, I noticed that the girls with breasts got boyfriends; I did not. The same boys that all the girls wanted as boyfriends would tease me mercilessly about not having breasts yet. The most common jokes were, "Jill, are you ok? Did two mosquitoes bite you?" (followed by group male guffawing) and "You're so flat you make the walls jealous!" (followed my group male guffawing). Etc, etc, etc...
Can I explain how lovely it is to be publicly humiliated for something you have no control over? I doubt I need to. Any of you women who were small chested, large chested, anyone overweight, really short, really tall, whatever, you know what I'm talking about.
There's something that seems built into us, all of us, the entire human race, to shun those that do not fit into the "norm". And every culture has a different "norm". It's sad, but I digress...
I was also very tall, and a very tall small chested girl didn't get a lot of boyfriends, I can assure you. It didn't make them feel very masculine, at a time when they really wanted and needed to feel masculine. The fact was, I could beat the shit out of any of them, and my lack of tits did not slow me down. I ran track and won ribbon after ribbon. It was a consolation, anyway. A boyfriendless consolation.
As I got a bit older and my hips filled in (beautifully, thank you genetics!), guys noticed me regardless of my small chest. I dated older guys, and I was not so young and naive to let it slip past me that THEY appreciated large hips more. The younger guys were still focused on boobs.
When I was nineteen I moved to Asheville, North Carolina, and suddenly became a goddess. Asheville, at that time, was not the blossomed new age town overflowing with bohemian freaksters like it is today. It was mostly boarded up shops and a few small coffee shops that all of us young alternative culture freaksters hung out in. To my advantage, there was an uneven ratio of guys versus chicks. There weren't that many chicks, and so I was suddenly and completely unexpectedly raised to the status level of goddess worship.
Talk about an ego boost!
I would go sit down in Vinny's (long gone, alas) and guys would flock to my table, wanting to just sit and talk over coffee. I remember being amazed that I came to get coffee by myself but would have six guys crammed into a booth trying to hang out with me.
(hangs head and laughs softly) I must confess, I really thought that it was that whole "Southern hospitality" that I'd heard so much about. I thought they were just really friendly. It took me awhile to figure out what the deal was, because these weren't ordinary guys. These were deep, philosophical, really intelligent guys. They didn't come on to me with cheeseball lines, they actually sat there for hours discussing the mystical nature of the universe.
You want to know how to ring my bell? That's it. *ding!*
My few first years in Asheville, although they were as emotionally turbulent as a tsunami, were also spent lapping up the admiration of guys who thought I was the hottest thing ever, and treated me with both worship and respect. S-p-o-i-l-e-d me rotten, they did.
I strutted the streets in whatever the hell I wanted to, usually braless because I was small and perky and could get away with it. It was a braless kind of place, anyway. I stopped worrying about the size of my breasts and just decided I was hot as fucking hell and the guys in my hometown were obviously retarded. THESE guys could see how hot I was! All right!
Alas, I then met the father of my son, and everything went to hell. On the upside, after my son was born, I had the most humungous boobs ever! At one point they had to be double D's, because I had on a D cup stretchy sports bra on and they were overflowing the thing. How big they got, I don't know, but damn if I wasn't all ABOUT showing those babies off. Finally! I made endless jokes about puberty hitting me at twenty three.
I nursed my son for a year and a half, and my grandmother finally said, "When the hell are you going to wean that baby?" to which I answered, "Just as soon as I can afford a boob job, Grandma!" I loved them.
I did notice I could NOT run with them, however. It made me realize, belatedly, WHY I won so many track meets and why my coach thought I was his golden girl. Ah HA....
Boobs or no boobs, that shitcake of a boyfriend, whom I frequently refer to as Spermdonor, was fucking every other girl in town. When I found that out, it crushed me. I mean, the shitty way he treated me was bad enough, but to find out that he'd fucked half of the small town we lived in was just god-awful.
These were girls I saw nearly every day. These were girls who had babysat for us, who were friends of mine, who served our food when we went out to eat. I was surrounded, literally, by women who were fucking my boyfriend and everybody seemed to know about it but me.
Can you say: Total Humiliation?
I left him and packed up and moved another town over. It was far enough to not run into them but once or twice a year at most. Those small town girls tended to stay put, I discovered. Good for them, fucking ho-bags.
Before I left I lost every bit of baby weight I had put on, due to the Heartbreak Diet I went on when I found out. Did you know that you can lose over twenty pounds in two weeks if you only consume ciggarettes and coffee? It's true. (I had weaned my son by then so he wasn't consuming it, just so we're clear on that.) A modeling company came to town and I went to their stupid auditions, got an offer and turned them down. They wanted me to weigh a nice deathly 115 pounds. Uh, fuck you? I'm five foot ten? Hello? But even if I didn't lose that weight, they said, they could find me all kinds of work. I still turned them down, just on principle, but it was a lovely bit of an ego boost to get picked.
I moved back over to Asheville and even as a single mom I was rocking it out. I found myself a hot little Snack Cake to enjoy my new found love of fucking with, and had a six month blast of unfettered fuckdom. He was twenty, a hot little skateboarder with smoldering good looks and the body of an underwear model, and he could not get enough of my already-had-a-baby ass. Ego boost! We both attended the community college and would skip class and fuck in his car in the parking lot, just whatever. It was hot as hell. I felt better, but not completely. He wanted someone without kids, and uh...I had one. I broke it off.
The next boyfriend was wonderful some ways but an utter disaster in so many other ways. I won't even get into it all. We were together for five years, he really loved my son, he thought I was smoking hot but after five years and HIS endless talk about getting married, he just suddenly had himself a miny midlife crisis and fucked the dumbass twenty-three year old he worked with.
Even he was the first to admit that she wasn't funny, she wasn't smart, she was pretty, ok, but even I could see her best asset- she had the most gorgeous rack. I know this because I could clearly see it through her skin tight see thru Grateful Dead shirts that she wore braless to work.
As my husband points out, it wasn't REALLY the boobs that did my ex in, but fuck- that had to be just impossible to work next to her all day while she endlessly flirted with him. Add in his depression about his life and you have the perfect set up for an affair. He thought he was shit and not going anywhere, she thought he was brilliant and funny and never stopped telling him that. She blew sunshine up his ass, even right in front of me, the likes of which I'd never seen. He really didn't stand a chance. And whatever, good riddance.
The point is, somehow, my ego had been built up but is still riddled with bullet holes, and she's one of them. Some Gollum like part of me whispers, "The breasts! My precious! It's the breasts!"
While I know this to be illogical, I can't shake it.
And then I met my husband.
My husband is the first man who has EVER been completely honest with me about sex. The shit he thinks about, his porn habits, what he finds attractive, etc.
(huge sigh)
Um, I'm kind of a loss here. While part of me is thankful beyond measure that he is willing to let me see the truth, there is still another part that wants to bash him over his monkey brain with a club.
Let's see if I get this into words...
I really did not know how much men think about sex. I also did not know that men look at so much porn. Not all do, granted, but I have blogged before about how naive I am. There have been many a boyfriend that have gone to the bathroom with a Car and Driver magazine (porn tucked inside) and spent thirty minutes in there, only to come out to find me worried about the state of their colon and if they're getting enough fiber. I mean, what takes so long to poop? I don't get it. (Duh.)
I was raised not learning ANYTHING about sex. I have a lot of misconceptions. My life experience has caused more misconceptions than understanding, quite possibly.
This is really all a tangled mess in my brain. I'm trying to untangle it here...
My husband and I go back and forth about porn and if I am ok with him looking at it. Sometimes I have not cared. Sometimes I have cared so much that I have thrown hysterical fits when finding him looking at it, curling into a fetal position on the floor at his feet and sobbing, yes, while he was trying to jerk off. He kindly stopped and we talked, although he wasn't very happy about it, and I was too busy being mortified at my own hysteria to communicate very well...
He pointed out the other day that I seem to have a serious case of boob envy, and wonders how much of that plays into my issues with porn. I am willing to give it serious thought, although I have to confess it is difficult. I am fighting me on this one. There seems to be something under the surface of my own emotions that I do NOT want to see. I don't know what it is yet. I do know that writing about it is like poking it with a stick, and I'm not enjoying this. (sighs)
I will say that my other issue with porn is that there are foreign wieners in it, and sometimes I am ok with seeing them, but sometimes I am not. Explain? Sorry, let me be clearer. I mean, sometimes the sight of a penis, any penis, gives me...it's not quite rape flashbacks, but perhaps flashbacks of the traumatic years of unwanted sex post-rape.
My extreme love of the penis extends as far as the one I am familiar with, and beyond that it all gets into a scary gray area for me. Sometimes I can look at pictures of another mans cock and think it's hot, but sometimes it leaves me with a sickened traumatized feeling.
Putting one and one together here...it's almost impossible for me to comprehend how he can be ok looking at other women's pussies and boobs and whatever... although I KNOW this is my issue and that we aren't the same, that's LOGIC. What I FEEL is a sense that he is some kind of unfeeling monster to be able to look at all of that and get off on it. I realize that it's pretty normal, most men are A-OK with it, and even some women. I know it's me that gets freaked out, but...I can't seem to reach past that.
(deep breath) On another note, but same subject: I belong to a number of networking sites: MySpace, Flikr, Frapr, Friendster. I have a difficult time with these sites. Although I am ok loading up my own sexual pictures and letting people see them, I very rarely ever look at theirs. As a matter of fact, if they use a sexually blatant icon and I have to see it in my profile, I will usually delete them, because some days I am ok with it, and some days I find it incredibly disturbing. I never know how I'm going to feel until I see it.
That's where it gets REALLY baffling. I cannot seem to foresee how I will feel about it until I actually SEE it, and there is no gray area in my reaction. It is extreme, black or white, good or bad. And because I never know ahead of time, I tend to fear it all.
Ok. So, sometimes I am ok looking at pictures of naked men, and sometimes I am ok watching porn. But I don't know when. So, sometimes I am ok with my husband looking at it, sometimes I am not. This is frustrating for both of us.
Back to the boobs...my husband told me that he does like breasts that are larger than mine. He also tells me mine are "fine" and that he loves them. So, I asked him one day what he thought of me getting a boob job, and his eyes lit up and he nodded excitedly.
Houston, we have a problem.
On one hand, I am thrilled that if I wanted to go so far as to get breast implants (interruption: PLEASE KEEP YOUR OPINIONS TO YOURSELF, for real. I will find it insanely irritating to see a pile of opinions about breast implants as comments. I'm not talking about breast implants, I'm talking about my feelings about breasts, are we clear? Thank you. Anyway....) If I wanted to get implants (and I have thought about it, just nice C cups, pretty bouncy C cups would be so delish!), it is relieving to know that my husband would support me in my decision. Not only that, but he would PAY for it. I don't have a job. He even went so far as to research excellent surgeons, because "if we're going to spend thousands to get you boobs, I would rather spend the extra couple thousand to make sure they looked perfect."
On the other hand, did his eyes have to light up so goddamn fast? Mine are 'fine", are they? Then why are you looking like a goddamn kid in a goddamn candy store at the thought of it, you fucking monkey? If mine are fine, why in the hell would you spend around seven THOUSAND dollars to make them, what, more fine?
Do I yell at the contrary monkey or be quiet so if I want them I can get them? Well, neither, really. I just pointed out the fact that he was contradicting himself...
How would he feel if he told me he wanted to get a surgery done to make his cock bigger and I just yelled, "Whoopeee! How's 14 inches sound? Oh...I mean, your cock is fine the size it is, of course..." as I ran off to research surgeons that could do it?
When I asked Jack what his opinion was on a breast size for me, should I have implants done, he once again smiled hugely and suggested "D's". And again, I wanted to beat him over his stupid monkey skull. D's? Are you fucking crazy? Other than when I was nursing, I have lived my life with very small A's!!! I would feel like a fucking mutant! Holy shit, dude, you must HATE my breasts! I can't believe you even married me if THAT is your ideal! He pointed out that he did not marry me for my breasts (yah, OBVIOUSLY), but for all my other wonderful and unique qualities.
And if he could just look at porn and SEE all those giant titties he's missing out on, things would be just fine.
Ok, I'm angry. I'm resentful. And I'm sad.
I'm sad that I got teased and it hurt my feelings,
I'm sad that I have EVER felt like, "If only I had bigger boobs....xxx would not have happened,"
I'm sad that I feel like I'm not enough woman,
I'm sad that I am self concious about it,
I'm sad that it makes me feel so crazy sometimes.
I'm sad that I love to stare at other women's breasts but that I resent them having them.
I'm sad that my husband wishes mine were bigger, and I'm sad that I'm so fucking hung up about it that I just flip the fuck out about it sometimes.
I'm sad that there was a time in my life when I was totally ok with them and that I can't seem to find my way back to that headspace.
I'm sad that I can't find all those adorable bras I see in the store in MY size,
and I'm sad that I HATE shopping for bras.
I'm sad that the bras I DO have were so damn hard to find that I wear them until they fall apart.
I'm sad that a lot of other women feel the same way, or the same way because their's are too big.
I'm sad that society places so much relevance on normalacy, and I'm sad that I buy into it.
I'm sad that I would think of going under the knife just to feel more normal, even though my breasts would be the farthest thing FROM normal, as a matter of fact, they would be fake.
I'm sad when my stripper friend tells me that her fake boobs aren't big enough, and that she thinks of getting hers bigger, because "the girls with bigger tits make more money".
I'm sad that my friend with larger breasts thinks hers aren't pretty enough.
I'm sad that I get so envious I'm resentful when she says it.
I'm sad that I love to stare at breasts but I resent the fact that my husband does because mine aren't good enough to stare at.
I'm sad that I would probably just resent the men who did look at them if I got fake ones, and want to beat them over their stupid monkey heads.
I'm sad that I contradict myself.
I'm sad that I wrote all of this and didn't find an answer to my sorrow.
Let me explain:
I have always been small chested, other than the time I was nursing my son, but we'll get to that.
As I hit puberty, I noticed that the girls with breasts got boyfriends; I did not. The same boys that all the girls wanted as boyfriends would tease me mercilessly about not having breasts yet. The most common jokes were, "Jill, are you ok? Did two mosquitoes bite you?" (followed by group male guffawing) and "You're so flat you make the walls jealous!" (followed my group male guffawing). Etc, etc, etc...
Can I explain how lovely it is to be publicly humiliated for something you have no control over? I doubt I need to. Any of you women who were small chested, large chested, anyone overweight, really short, really tall, whatever, you know what I'm talking about.
There's something that seems built into us, all of us, the entire human race, to shun those that do not fit into the "norm". And every culture has a different "norm". It's sad, but I digress...
I was also very tall, and a very tall small chested girl didn't get a lot of boyfriends, I can assure you. It didn't make them feel very masculine, at a time when they really wanted and needed to feel masculine. The fact was, I could beat the shit out of any of them, and my lack of tits did not slow me down. I ran track and won ribbon after ribbon. It was a consolation, anyway. A boyfriendless consolation.
As I got a bit older and my hips filled in (beautifully, thank you genetics!), guys noticed me regardless of my small chest. I dated older guys, and I was not so young and naive to let it slip past me that THEY appreciated large hips more. The younger guys were still focused on boobs.
When I was nineteen I moved to Asheville, North Carolina, and suddenly became a goddess. Asheville, at that time, was not the blossomed new age town overflowing with bohemian freaksters like it is today. It was mostly boarded up shops and a few small coffee shops that all of us young alternative culture freaksters hung out in. To my advantage, there was an uneven ratio of guys versus chicks. There weren't that many chicks, and so I was suddenly and completely unexpectedly raised to the status level of goddess worship.
Talk about an ego boost!
I would go sit down in Vinny's (long gone, alas) and guys would flock to my table, wanting to just sit and talk over coffee. I remember being amazed that I came to get coffee by myself but would have six guys crammed into a booth trying to hang out with me.
(hangs head and laughs softly) I must confess, I really thought that it was that whole "Southern hospitality" that I'd heard so much about. I thought they were just really friendly. It took me awhile to figure out what the deal was, because these weren't ordinary guys. These were deep, philosophical, really intelligent guys. They didn't come on to me with cheeseball lines, they actually sat there for hours discussing the mystical nature of the universe.
You want to know how to ring my bell? That's it. *ding!*
My few first years in Asheville, although they were as emotionally turbulent as a tsunami, were also spent lapping up the admiration of guys who thought I was the hottest thing ever, and treated me with both worship and respect. S-p-o-i-l-e-d me rotten, they did.
I strutted the streets in whatever the hell I wanted to, usually braless because I was small and perky and could get away with it. It was a braless kind of place, anyway. I stopped worrying about the size of my breasts and just decided I was hot as fucking hell and the guys in my hometown were obviously retarded. THESE guys could see how hot I was! All right!
Alas, I then met the father of my son, and everything went to hell. On the upside, after my son was born, I had the most humungous boobs ever! At one point they had to be double D's, because I had on a D cup stretchy sports bra on and they were overflowing the thing. How big they got, I don't know, but damn if I wasn't all ABOUT showing those babies off. Finally! I made endless jokes about puberty hitting me at twenty three.
I nursed my son for a year and a half, and my grandmother finally said, "When the hell are you going to wean that baby?" to which I answered, "Just as soon as I can afford a boob job, Grandma!" I loved them.
I did notice I could NOT run with them, however. It made me realize, belatedly, WHY I won so many track meets and why my coach thought I was his golden girl. Ah HA....
Boobs or no boobs, that shitcake of a boyfriend, whom I frequently refer to as Spermdonor, was fucking every other girl in town. When I found that out, it crushed me. I mean, the shitty way he treated me was bad enough, but to find out that he'd fucked half of the small town we lived in was just god-awful.
These were girls I saw nearly every day. These were girls who had babysat for us, who were friends of mine, who served our food when we went out to eat. I was surrounded, literally, by women who were fucking my boyfriend and everybody seemed to know about it but me.
Can you say: Total Humiliation?
I left him and packed up and moved another town over. It was far enough to not run into them but once or twice a year at most. Those small town girls tended to stay put, I discovered. Good for them, fucking ho-bags.
Before I left I lost every bit of baby weight I had put on, due to the Heartbreak Diet I went on when I found out. Did you know that you can lose over twenty pounds in two weeks if you only consume ciggarettes and coffee? It's true. (I had weaned my son by then so he wasn't consuming it, just so we're clear on that.) A modeling company came to town and I went to their stupid auditions, got an offer and turned them down. They wanted me to weigh a nice deathly 115 pounds. Uh, fuck you? I'm five foot ten? Hello? But even if I didn't lose that weight, they said, they could find me all kinds of work. I still turned them down, just on principle, but it was a lovely bit of an ego boost to get picked.
I moved back over to Asheville and even as a single mom I was rocking it out. I found myself a hot little Snack Cake to enjoy my new found love of fucking with, and had a six month blast of unfettered fuckdom. He was twenty, a hot little skateboarder with smoldering good looks and the body of an underwear model, and he could not get enough of my already-had-a-baby ass. Ego boost! We both attended the community college and would skip class and fuck in his car in the parking lot, just whatever. It was hot as hell. I felt better, but not completely. He wanted someone without kids, and uh...I had one. I broke it off.
The next boyfriend was wonderful some ways but an utter disaster in so many other ways. I won't even get into it all. We were together for five years, he really loved my son, he thought I was smoking hot but after five years and HIS endless talk about getting married, he just suddenly had himself a miny midlife crisis and fucked the dumbass twenty-three year old he worked with.
Even he was the first to admit that she wasn't funny, she wasn't smart, she was pretty, ok, but even I could see her best asset- she had the most gorgeous rack. I know this because I could clearly see it through her skin tight see thru Grateful Dead shirts that she wore braless to work.
As my husband points out, it wasn't REALLY the boobs that did my ex in, but fuck- that had to be just impossible to work next to her all day while she endlessly flirted with him. Add in his depression about his life and you have the perfect set up for an affair. He thought he was shit and not going anywhere, she thought he was brilliant and funny and never stopped telling him that. She blew sunshine up his ass, even right in front of me, the likes of which I'd never seen. He really didn't stand a chance. And whatever, good riddance.
The point is, somehow, my ego had been built up but is still riddled with bullet holes, and she's one of them. Some Gollum like part of me whispers, "The breasts! My precious! It's the breasts!"
While I know this to be illogical, I can't shake it.
And then I met my husband.
My husband is the first man who has EVER been completely honest with me about sex. The shit he thinks about, his porn habits, what he finds attractive, etc.
(huge sigh)
Um, I'm kind of a loss here. While part of me is thankful beyond measure that he is willing to let me see the truth, there is still another part that wants to bash him over his monkey brain with a club.
Let's see if I get this into words...
I really did not know how much men think about sex. I also did not know that men look at so much porn. Not all do, granted, but I have blogged before about how naive I am. There have been many a boyfriend that have gone to the bathroom with a Car and Driver magazine (porn tucked inside) and spent thirty minutes in there, only to come out to find me worried about the state of their colon and if they're getting enough fiber. I mean, what takes so long to poop? I don't get it. (Duh.)
I was raised not learning ANYTHING about sex. I have a lot of misconceptions. My life experience has caused more misconceptions than understanding, quite possibly.
This is really all a tangled mess in my brain. I'm trying to untangle it here...
My husband and I go back and forth about porn and if I am ok with him looking at it. Sometimes I have not cared. Sometimes I have cared so much that I have thrown hysterical fits when finding him looking at it, curling into a fetal position on the floor at his feet and sobbing, yes, while he was trying to jerk off. He kindly stopped and we talked, although he wasn't very happy about it, and I was too busy being mortified at my own hysteria to communicate very well...
He pointed out the other day that I seem to have a serious case of boob envy, and wonders how much of that plays into my issues with porn. I am willing to give it serious thought, although I have to confess it is difficult. I am fighting me on this one. There seems to be something under the surface of my own emotions that I do NOT want to see. I don't know what it is yet. I do know that writing about it is like poking it with a stick, and I'm not enjoying this. (sighs)
I will say that my other issue with porn is that there are foreign wieners in it, and sometimes I am ok with seeing them, but sometimes I am not. Explain? Sorry, let me be clearer. I mean, sometimes the sight of a penis, any penis, gives me...it's not quite rape flashbacks, but perhaps flashbacks of the traumatic years of unwanted sex post-rape.
My extreme love of the penis extends as far as the one I am familiar with, and beyond that it all gets into a scary gray area for me. Sometimes I can look at pictures of another mans cock and think it's hot, but sometimes it leaves me with a sickened traumatized feeling.
Putting one and one together here...it's almost impossible for me to comprehend how he can be ok looking at other women's pussies and boobs and whatever... although I KNOW this is my issue and that we aren't the same, that's LOGIC. What I FEEL is a sense that he is some kind of unfeeling monster to be able to look at all of that and get off on it. I realize that it's pretty normal, most men are A-OK with it, and even some women. I know it's me that gets freaked out, but...I can't seem to reach past that.
(deep breath) On another note, but same subject: I belong to a number of networking sites: MySpace, Flikr, Frapr, Friendster. I have a difficult time with these sites. Although I am ok loading up my own sexual pictures and letting people see them, I very rarely ever look at theirs. As a matter of fact, if they use a sexually blatant icon and I have to see it in my profile, I will usually delete them, because some days I am ok with it, and some days I find it incredibly disturbing. I never know how I'm going to feel until I see it.
That's where it gets REALLY baffling. I cannot seem to foresee how I will feel about it until I actually SEE it, and there is no gray area in my reaction. It is extreme, black or white, good or bad. And because I never know ahead of time, I tend to fear it all.
Ok. So, sometimes I am ok looking at pictures of naked men, and sometimes I am ok watching porn. But I don't know when. So, sometimes I am ok with my husband looking at it, sometimes I am not. This is frustrating for both of us.
Back to the boobs...my husband told me that he does like breasts that are larger than mine. He also tells me mine are "fine" and that he loves them. So, I asked him one day what he thought of me getting a boob job, and his eyes lit up and he nodded excitedly.
Houston, we have a problem.
On one hand, I am thrilled that if I wanted to go so far as to get breast implants (interruption: PLEASE KEEP YOUR OPINIONS TO YOURSELF, for real. I will find it insanely irritating to see a pile of opinions about breast implants as comments. I'm not talking about breast implants, I'm talking about my feelings about breasts, are we clear? Thank you. Anyway....) If I wanted to get implants (and I have thought about it, just nice C cups, pretty bouncy C cups would be so delish!), it is relieving to know that my husband would support me in my decision. Not only that, but he would PAY for it. I don't have a job. He even went so far as to research excellent surgeons, because "if we're going to spend thousands to get you boobs, I would rather spend the extra couple thousand to make sure they looked perfect."
On the other hand, did his eyes have to light up so goddamn fast? Mine are 'fine", are they? Then why are you looking like a goddamn kid in a goddamn candy store at the thought of it, you fucking monkey? If mine are fine, why in the hell would you spend around seven THOUSAND dollars to make them, what, more fine?
Do I yell at the contrary monkey or be quiet so if I want them I can get them? Well, neither, really. I just pointed out the fact that he was contradicting himself...
How would he feel if he told me he wanted to get a surgery done to make his cock bigger and I just yelled, "Whoopeee! How's 14 inches sound? Oh...I mean, your cock is fine the size it is, of course..." as I ran off to research surgeons that could do it?
When I asked Jack what his opinion was on a breast size for me, should I have implants done, he once again smiled hugely and suggested "D's". And again, I wanted to beat him over his stupid monkey skull. D's? Are you fucking crazy? Other than when I was nursing, I have lived my life with very small A's!!! I would feel like a fucking mutant! Holy shit, dude, you must HATE my breasts! I can't believe you even married me if THAT is your ideal! He pointed out that he did not marry me for my breasts (yah, OBVIOUSLY), but for all my other wonderful and unique qualities.
And if he could just look at porn and SEE all those giant titties he's missing out on, things would be just fine.
Ok, I'm angry. I'm resentful. And I'm sad.
I'm sad that I got teased and it hurt my feelings,
I'm sad that I have EVER felt like, "If only I had bigger boobs....xxx would not have happened,"
I'm sad that I feel like I'm not enough woman,
I'm sad that I am self concious about it,
I'm sad that it makes me feel so crazy sometimes.
I'm sad that I love to stare at other women's breasts but that I resent them having them.
I'm sad that my husband wishes mine were bigger, and I'm sad that I'm so fucking hung up about it that I just flip the fuck out about it sometimes.
I'm sad that there was a time in my life when I was totally ok with them and that I can't seem to find my way back to that headspace.
I'm sad that I can't find all those adorable bras I see in the store in MY size,
and I'm sad that I HATE shopping for bras.
I'm sad that the bras I DO have were so damn hard to find that I wear them until they fall apart.
I'm sad that a lot of other women feel the same way, or the same way because their's are too big.
I'm sad that society places so much relevance on normalacy, and I'm sad that I buy into it.
I'm sad that I would think of going under the knife just to feel more normal, even though my breasts would be the farthest thing FROM normal, as a matter of fact, they would be fake.
I'm sad when my stripper friend tells me that her fake boobs aren't big enough, and that she thinks of getting hers bigger, because "the girls with bigger tits make more money".
I'm sad that my friend with larger breasts thinks hers aren't pretty enough.
I'm sad that I get so envious I'm resentful when she says it.
I'm sad that I love to stare at breasts but I resent the fact that my husband does because mine aren't good enough to stare at.
I'm sad that I would probably just resent the men who did look at them if I got fake ones, and want to beat them over their stupid monkey heads.
I'm sad that I contradict myself.
I'm sad that I wrote all of this and didn't find an answer to my sorrow.
We've Got Big Balls!
Planning on leaving your man, but you can't think of the appropriately caustic way of getting the point across? How about giving him a nice set of blue balls on the way out?
Also an excellent present for those men about to have children with their significant others, any pussy whipped men you know and love/hate, useful for the truly butch women in your life that just love to confuse men in traffic behind them, or anyone with a very low brow sense of humor. They come in a variety of colors, even hot pink. My nine year old son finds them absolutely hilarious. That ought to be a clue. You know you want them.
"Purveyors of Fine Quality Truck Balls !
Delightfully tacky, mostly unrefined."
Shit, they even come in brass. An excellent present for the CEO of your company. Sure to be a winner! How could they thank you enough? How about a big fat raise, since you obviously have the balls to go for what you want in life?
"Some balls are held for charity
And some for fancy dress
But when they're held for pleasure
They're the balls that I like best
My balls are always bouncing
To the left and to the right
It's my belief that my big balls
Should be held every night
(oh) We've got big balls
We've got big balls
We've got big balls
Dirty big balls
He's got big balls
She's got big balls
But we've got the biggest balls of them all!"
~ AC/DC, Big Balls
Also an excellent present for those men about to have children with their significant others, any pussy whipped men you know and love/hate, useful for the truly butch women in your life that just love to confuse men in traffic behind them, or anyone with a very low brow sense of humor. They come in a variety of colors, even hot pink. My nine year old son finds them absolutely hilarious. That ought to be a clue. You know you want them.
"Purveyors of Fine Quality Truck Balls !
Delightfully tacky, mostly unrefined."
Shit, they even come in brass. An excellent present for the CEO of your company. Sure to be a winner! How could they thank you enough? How about a big fat raise, since you obviously have the balls to go for what you want in life?
"Some balls are held for charity
And some for fancy dress
But when they're held for pleasure
They're the balls that I like best
My balls are always bouncing
To the left and to the right
It's my belief that my big balls
Should be held every night
(oh) We've got big balls
We've got big balls
We've got big balls
Dirty big balls
He's got big balls
She's got big balls
But we've got the biggest balls of them all!"
~ AC/DC, Big Balls
We've Got Big Balls!
Planning on leaving your man, but you can't think of the appropriately caustic way of getting the point across? How about giving him a nice set of blue balls on the way out?
Also an excellent present for those men about to have children with their significant others, any pussy whipped men you know and love/hate, useful for the truly butch women in your life that just love to confuse men in traffic behind them, or anyone with a very low brow sense of humor. They come in a variety of colors, even hot pink. My nine year old son finds them absolutely hilarious. That ought to be a clue. You know you want them.
"Purveyors of Fine Quality Truck Balls !
Delightfully tacky, mostly unrefined."
Shit, they even come in brass. An excellent present for the CEO of your company. Sure to be a winner! How could they thank you enough? How about a big fat raise, since you obviously have the balls to go for what you want in life?
"Some balls are held for charity
And some for fancy dress
But when they're held for pleasure
They're the balls that I like best
My balls are always bouncing
To the left and to the right
It's my belief that my big balls
Should be held every night
(oh) We've got big balls
We've got big balls
We've got big balls
Dirty big balls
He's got big balls
She's got big balls
But we've got the biggest balls of them all!"
~ AC/DC, Big Balls
Also an excellent present for those men about to have children with their significant others, any pussy whipped men you know and love/hate, useful for the truly butch women in your life that just love to confuse men in traffic behind them, or anyone with a very low brow sense of humor. They come in a variety of colors, even hot pink. My nine year old son finds them absolutely hilarious. That ought to be a clue. You know you want them.
"Purveyors of Fine Quality Truck Balls !
Delightfully tacky, mostly unrefined."
Shit, they even come in brass. An excellent present for the CEO of your company. Sure to be a winner! How could they thank you enough? How about a big fat raise, since you obviously have the balls to go for what you want in life?
"Some balls are held for charity
And some for fancy dress
But when they're held for pleasure
They're the balls that I like best
My balls are always bouncing
To the left and to the right
It's my belief that my big balls
Should be held every night
(oh) We've got big balls
We've got big balls
We've got big balls
Dirty big balls
He's got big balls
She's got big balls
But we've got the biggest balls of them all!"
~ AC/DC, Big Balls
Saturday, July 29, 2006
painful epiphany/ the long road to healing
"You'd say I'm putting you on
But it's no joke, it's doing me harm
You know I can't sleep, I can't stop my brain
You know it's three weeks, I'm going insane
You know I'd give you everything I've got
for a little peace of mind."
-The Beatles, I'm So Tired
Oh dear. I think the thrill of healing has worn off. And there's this Beatles song stuck in my head. And I feel like a million evil gnomes spent the night tromping over over my body in steel toed boots.
I've been seeing a physical therapist for my neck, and the first time was great. It really was. I hurt very little, my neck moved like crazy afterwards, I wobbled a bit but generally I was just thrilled.
The second session was a lot harder. She pushed and pulled and asked me a few times (while I was emitting what could only be qualified as a long slow growl), "You still talkin' to me?" She's a smart aleck, see, and I like her, but I understood why she would ask me that. It fucking HURT.
I lay on the table, face down (already an improvement, couldn't have done that two days before!) and we talked about how Wikipedia discussed myofascial release, and the whole "sweater" metaphor. I told her, "You know, if I hated a sweater this much (referring to her inflicting so much pain) I would just...take it to Goodwill or something." She just laughed and said, "Goodwill? Good God! Why do that to someone else? Just take it out back and burn it!"
It's a weird concept, to imagine a layer of tissue beneath your skin that is so fucked up your therapist is even telling you you should not wish it upon someone else, but take it out back and burn it. That image just does not fit in my head correctly, all pointy jagged corners sticking out and what not, much like the rest of my body currently feels like.
After she finished that mess, they left me on the table, face through the little breath hole and put what felt like really hot lead blankets on me. What they really are, I don't know, I didn't see them. I didn't even care enough to ask at that point.
Hot. Hot felt good. She handed me a bell to ring if it got too hot. I did not ring it.
After fifteen minutes of that they had me sit up and I could barely turn. I was actually stiffer than when I came in, which sucked ass, mostly because I wasn't expecting it. I had gotten my hopes up, you see. The first time spoiled me and I thought every time I went in there I would feel a thousand times better afterwards.
Not so. Not that time, anyway.
They put me in traction, which is basically this thing that pulls on your head for a period of forty five seconds, then releases for fifteen. Every time it released I would sigh, dejected, as my spine compressed itself again. Then it would gear up and start pulling and I would let out the most relieved sigh...
That was much better, and I left feeling semi-ok. My son and I went to the grocery store and I had to hold on to the cart (even when he was driving it) because otherwise I would weeble wobble and fall over. The muscles were yanked? prodded? pushed loose again.
For the most part, I felt ok. Not too bad, really. Again, I've been a bit overly optimistic about it all.
When the pain specialist doctor told me I would be in a lot of pain during this therapy, I poo-pooed his concerns, telling him I was used to pain. That is true. This back problem has never been ok, but I have grown used to it, or at least, grown somewhat complacent with the pain. I'm accustomed to it, although I don't like it, but I'm used to the way it hurts. At least I was, until this most recent neck problem flared up.
What I did not take into account is that this therapy wouldn't hurt in the ways I had grown accustomed to, no, that is actually the antithesis of what this therapy is about. My neck/back/that giant pile of pain between my head and my ass is wrong, very wrong, and she's pushing it around until it relocates itself in the correct position. I really, honestly believed that it would be awesome, and that it would feel great. I've been talking big to my husband about, "I don't care how much it hurts, I've been waiting so long to feel better and I'll do whatever it takes."
I sit at night and do these excercises, balancing myself correctly on a stool, neck and back straight, and it requires that my husband be nearby to keep readjusting me. I can't hold a normal posture. When he pushes my shoulders back and arches my back correctly, I start to wobble all over and can't breath. The muscles needed to hold that posture haven't been used in years. The ones I've used to retain the Make Sure My Spine Does Not Compress In Such A Way To Cause Screaming Agony posture I have got down, people. I am a CHAMP at that one. This sitting up straight shit is for the birds. Hell, not even the birds. I wouldn't wish that upon them, either. Take it out back and burn it, woman. For real.
Then yesterday I felt good. I ran around and did more errands with my son than I've managed to accomplish is quite a while, and I was feeling really good about that. I didn't take any Tylenol (lame, but with an ulcer I can't take anything else more helpful) or my muscle relaxers, I really wanted a clear headed day to see how I was doing. And I felt sore but ok. I was really feeling positive about it.
As with every great high comes the harsh reality of gravity, and I crashed with a mighty splintering of hope. At about 7:30 last night I realized I was in severe pain. It really seemed to come out of the blue. I don't understand it at all. I hobbled into the kitchen and took the Tylenol, took the muscle relaxers, and silently cursed myself for being so optimistic while I hobbled off to the hottest shower I could tolerate. It helped a bit, but I spent the rest of the night (and still into this morning) with flashes of "I feel fine" and then sudden waves of muscle spasms that leave me gasping for air and moaning, picturing myself as Old Yeller.
This was especially noticeable when it was time for bed. Little Monkey went to bed, Jack wanted to stay up and read his scientific hoo haa online, and I wanted someone to put me out of my misery. I just kept looking at my husband, my poor dear husband who has been helping me through all of this all along, and my poor dear husband who is paying for my insurance, and my poor dear husband who is also paying for all this therapy and medication...and I broke down and just whined.
I turned into the most pitiful bitch, and I was desperately fighting it. I just wanted to not be in pain, or to be asleep, but I just stared at him and whined like a dog with a broken leg that stares up at you, wide eyed and pitiful, "Can't you help me?" At the same time I was very resentful that he just didn't put me out of my misery somehow (I certainly don't know how he could have, let's be clear about that) and I resented the fact that he was witnessing my tantrum that I felt unable to hold back any longer. For a few minutes we just stared at each other while trying to figure out what to do. I knew I had to go to sleep, but I also knew I hurt too much and would just lay there crying.
(Take me out back and light me on fire....whispered my muddled pain drenched brain)
He asked me what I wanted. I told him to help me get Little Monkey to sleep and to help clear off our bed (I'd been folding laundry and it was in heaps on top). He did so. I laid down and just turned the light off. I had tissues next to the bed so I could continue my own personal pity party in private where I didn't have to embarrass myself.
He surprised me by coming in and laying down next to me in the dark, and said, "Talk to me."
I just started babbling about everything, and finally realized that whole "Gee, This Fucking Hurts And I Did Not Foresee That" problem I was having. We talked about all kinds of stuff (a lot of which is going into a blog on the sex site later), and when I started crying, my dear sweet husband started crying, too.
I don't even know how I feel about that. Like, it was incredibly sweet but then I felt like if HE was crying, damn, I MUST be fucked up worse than I thought. Which, apparently, is the reality I have not been facing. It was a moment of epiphany for me.
Whenever faced with hardships, I tend to either shut down emotionally and combine that with some sort of denial or resort back to my tough girl persona. I've been pulling out a little of both, brushing it off, trying to be a little trooper.
The truth is, I hurt. A lot. A lot more than I will even admit, even in blog form. I'm not sure how I could do it anyway, other than to tape a video of myself blubbering in pain, and that seems like a rather humiliating thing to do. My ego notes: "That is a bad plan, dummy." (Also, it sounds a bit like Mr. T. Odd.)
In the meantime, while the last few weeks of pain and therapy have been going on, I've had a lot of personal issues going on as well, things that don't get blogged about. Details of friends lives, unless they are unrecognizable or they have expressed permission to blog about, stay here in my head. But some things I can say, like my Grandpas been in and out of the hospital, with yet another stroke or heart attack (who can keep track, there's so many lately) and underwent surgery and pulled through yet again. Talk about guilt- my Grandfathers teetering on the verge of death over and over again and I don't even call and barely answer my mom's e-mails about it, I'm so wrapped up in my pain. Maybe a card. I could send mail. The thing is, if I call they could hear the pain in my voice, and I am a terrible liar. It would be just one more thing for my Grandma to worry herself sick about. My mother and I have a pact, as she may well have with other family members, I don't know. For the time being, and this has been going on for well over a year now, we only give Grandma info on a need to know basis. She's flipping out enough over my Grandpa and his rapidly deteriorating health, and this from the woman who was one foot over the doorstep of death herself a year and a half ago, with cancer and liver failure and who knows what all. She is recovered now, and now might worry herself to death. How can I add to that? I can't.
Things in my own house have been sliding while I am distracted fighting my own inner "No, Seriously, This Doesn't Hurt" battle in my head. My husband was taking care of stuff, but (don't take it personally, sweetness) it was on a Need To Do basis. He would iron the pants he was wearing that day, but the laundry was piling up. He would do the dishes without fail, I give him that. He took us all grocery shopping and carried and lifted everything, but he's not a man to spend an hour cooking a quiche: again, me with the "underestimating my pain" issue. Had I thought about it, I would have just bought purely snacks that they can get themselves. Instead I have cupboards and a fridge full of things that take more energy to prepare than I posess right now.
You should know this about me: I am a clean freak. A little OCD, oh yes. And so watching the gradual rotting of food and the settling of dust, the piling of laundry and the gathering of things Not Put Away is something I have to work at ignoring.
Oh, but I don't. As soon as I feel a little better I attack these things with snail paced gusto, feeling better at having accomplished these menial tasks but I pay for it later.
That's where I get so confused. I'm supposed to do these neck, etc exercises, and I'm supposed to get some exercise to keep the muscles from tensing up, and also to help train them into their new positions. How much is enough? How much is too much?
In the meantime, I'm still working on the chemical imbalance, family issues, assertiveness, and let's not forget the trauma, trauma, trauma, trauma...
Healing is a long road. (sigh)
But it's no joke, it's doing me harm
You know I can't sleep, I can't stop my brain
You know it's three weeks, I'm going insane
You know I'd give you everything I've got
for a little peace of mind."
-The Beatles, I'm So Tired
Oh dear. I think the thrill of healing has worn off. And there's this Beatles song stuck in my head. And I feel like a million evil gnomes spent the night tromping over over my body in steel toed boots.
I've been seeing a physical therapist for my neck, and the first time was great. It really was. I hurt very little, my neck moved like crazy afterwards, I wobbled a bit but generally I was just thrilled.
The second session was a lot harder. She pushed and pulled and asked me a few times (while I was emitting what could only be qualified as a long slow growl), "You still talkin' to me?" She's a smart aleck, see, and I like her, but I understood why she would ask me that. It fucking HURT.
I lay on the table, face down (already an improvement, couldn't have done that two days before!) and we talked about how Wikipedia discussed myofascial release, and the whole "sweater" metaphor. I told her, "You know, if I hated a sweater this much (referring to her inflicting so much pain) I would just...take it to Goodwill or something." She just laughed and said, "Goodwill? Good God! Why do that to someone else? Just take it out back and burn it!"
It's a weird concept, to imagine a layer of tissue beneath your skin that is so fucked up your therapist is even telling you you should not wish it upon someone else, but take it out back and burn it. That image just does not fit in my head correctly, all pointy jagged corners sticking out and what not, much like the rest of my body currently feels like.
After she finished that mess, they left me on the table, face through the little breath hole and put what felt like really hot lead blankets on me. What they really are, I don't know, I didn't see them. I didn't even care enough to ask at that point.
Hot. Hot felt good. She handed me a bell to ring if it got too hot. I did not ring it.
After fifteen minutes of that they had me sit up and I could barely turn. I was actually stiffer than when I came in, which sucked ass, mostly because I wasn't expecting it. I had gotten my hopes up, you see. The first time spoiled me and I thought every time I went in there I would feel a thousand times better afterwards.
Not so. Not that time, anyway.
They put me in traction, which is basically this thing that pulls on your head for a period of forty five seconds, then releases for fifteen. Every time it released I would sigh, dejected, as my spine compressed itself again. Then it would gear up and start pulling and I would let out the most relieved sigh...
That was much better, and I left feeling semi-ok. My son and I went to the grocery store and I had to hold on to the cart (even when he was driving it) because otherwise I would weeble wobble and fall over. The muscles were yanked? prodded? pushed loose again.
For the most part, I felt ok. Not too bad, really. Again, I've been a bit overly optimistic about it all.
When the pain specialist doctor told me I would be in a lot of pain during this therapy, I poo-pooed his concerns, telling him I was used to pain. That is true. This back problem has never been ok, but I have grown used to it, or at least, grown somewhat complacent with the pain. I'm accustomed to it, although I don't like it, but I'm used to the way it hurts. At least I was, until this most recent neck problem flared up.
What I did not take into account is that this therapy wouldn't hurt in the ways I had grown accustomed to, no, that is actually the antithesis of what this therapy is about. My neck/back/that giant pile of pain between my head and my ass is wrong, very wrong, and she's pushing it around until it relocates itself in the correct position. I really, honestly believed that it would be awesome, and that it would feel great. I've been talking big to my husband about, "I don't care how much it hurts, I've been waiting so long to feel better and I'll do whatever it takes."
I sit at night and do these excercises, balancing myself correctly on a stool, neck and back straight, and it requires that my husband be nearby to keep readjusting me. I can't hold a normal posture. When he pushes my shoulders back and arches my back correctly, I start to wobble all over and can't breath. The muscles needed to hold that posture haven't been used in years. The ones I've used to retain the Make Sure My Spine Does Not Compress In Such A Way To Cause Screaming Agony posture I have got down, people. I am a CHAMP at that one. This sitting up straight shit is for the birds. Hell, not even the birds. I wouldn't wish that upon them, either. Take it out back and burn it, woman. For real.
Then yesterday I felt good. I ran around and did more errands with my son than I've managed to accomplish is quite a while, and I was feeling really good about that. I didn't take any Tylenol (lame, but with an ulcer I can't take anything else more helpful) or my muscle relaxers, I really wanted a clear headed day to see how I was doing. And I felt sore but ok. I was really feeling positive about it.
As with every great high comes the harsh reality of gravity, and I crashed with a mighty splintering of hope. At about 7:30 last night I realized I was in severe pain. It really seemed to come out of the blue. I don't understand it at all. I hobbled into the kitchen and took the Tylenol, took the muscle relaxers, and silently cursed myself for being so optimistic while I hobbled off to the hottest shower I could tolerate. It helped a bit, but I spent the rest of the night (and still into this morning) with flashes of "I feel fine" and then sudden waves of muscle spasms that leave me gasping for air and moaning, picturing myself as Old Yeller.
This was especially noticeable when it was time for bed. Little Monkey went to bed, Jack wanted to stay up and read his scientific hoo haa online, and I wanted someone to put me out of my misery. I just kept looking at my husband, my poor dear husband who has been helping me through all of this all along, and my poor dear husband who is paying for my insurance, and my poor dear husband who is also paying for all this therapy and medication...and I broke down and just whined.
I turned into the most pitiful bitch, and I was desperately fighting it. I just wanted to not be in pain, or to be asleep, but I just stared at him and whined like a dog with a broken leg that stares up at you, wide eyed and pitiful, "Can't you help me?" At the same time I was very resentful that he just didn't put me out of my misery somehow (I certainly don't know how he could have, let's be clear about that) and I resented the fact that he was witnessing my tantrum that I felt unable to hold back any longer. For a few minutes we just stared at each other while trying to figure out what to do. I knew I had to go to sleep, but I also knew I hurt too much and would just lay there crying.
(Take me out back and light me on fire....whispered my muddled pain drenched brain)
He asked me what I wanted. I told him to help me get Little Monkey to sleep and to help clear off our bed (I'd been folding laundry and it was in heaps on top). He did so. I laid down and just turned the light off. I had tissues next to the bed so I could continue my own personal pity party in private where I didn't have to embarrass myself.
He surprised me by coming in and laying down next to me in the dark, and said, "Talk to me."
I just started babbling about everything, and finally realized that whole "Gee, This Fucking Hurts And I Did Not Foresee That" problem I was having. We talked about all kinds of stuff (a lot of which is going into a blog on the sex site later), and when I started crying, my dear sweet husband started crying, too.
I don't even know how I feel about that. Like, it was incredibly sweet but then I felt like if HE was crying, damn, I MUST be fucked up worse than I thought. Which, apparently, is the reality I have not been facing. It was a moment of epiphany for me.
Whenever faced with hardships, I tend to either shut down emotionally and combine that with some sort of denial or resort back to my tough girl persona. I've been pulling out a little of both, brushing it off, trying to be a little trooper.
The truth is, I hurt. A lot. A lot more than I will even admit, even in blog form. I'm not sure how I could do it anyway, other than to tape a video of myself blubbering in pain, and that seems like a rather humiliating thing to do. My ego notes: "That is a bad plan, dummy." (Also, it sounds a bit like Mr. T. Odd.)
In the meantime, while the last few weeks of pain and therapy have been going on, I've had a lot of personal issues going on as well, things that don't get blogged about. Details of friends lives, unless they are unrecognizable or they have expressed permission to blog about, stay here in my head. But some things I can say, like my Grandpas been in and out of the hospital, with yet another stroke or heart attack (who can keep track, there's so many lately) and underwent surgery and pulled through yet again. Talk about guilt- my Grandfathers teetering on the verge of death over and over again and I don't even call and barely answer my mom's e-mails about it, I'm so wrapped up in my pain. Maybe a card. I could send mail. The thing is, if I call they could hear the pain in my voice, and I am a terrible liar. It would be just one more thing for my Grandma to worry herself sick about. My mother and I have a pact, as she may well have with other family members, I don't know. For the time being, and this has been going on for well over a year now, we only give Grandma info on a need to know basis. She's flipping out enough over my Grandpa and his rapidly deteriorating health, and this from the woman who was one foot over the doorstep of death herself a year and a half ago, with cancer and liver failure and who knows what all. She is recovered now, and now might worry herself to death. How can I add to that? I can't.
Things in my own house have been sliding while I am distracted fighting my own inner "No, Seriously, This Doesn't Hurt" battle in my head. My husband was taking care of stuff, but (don't take it personally, sweetness) it was on a Need To Do basis. He would iron the pants he was wearing that day, but the laundry was piling up. He would do the dishes without fail, I give him that. He took us all grocery shopping and carried and lifted everything, but he's not a man to spend an hour cooking a quiche: again, me with the "underestimating my pain" issue. Had I thought about it, I would have just bought purely snacks that they can get themselves. Instead I have cupboards and a fridge full of things that take more energy to prepare than I posess right now.
You should know this about me: I am a clean freak. A little OCD, oh yes. And so watching the gradual rotting of food and the settling of dust, the piling of laundry and the gathering of things Not Put Away is something I have to work at ignoring.
Oh, but I don't. As soon as I feel a little better I attack these things with snail paced gusto, feeling better at having accomplished these menial tasks but I pay for it later.
That's where I get so confused. I'm supposed to do these neck, etc exercises, and I'm supposed to get some exercise to keep the muscles from tensing up, and also to help train them into their new positions. How much is enough? How much is too much?
In the meantime, I'm still working on the chemical imbalance, family issues, assertiveness, and let's not forget the trauma, trauma, trauma, trauma...
Healing is a long road. (sigh)
Friday, July 28, 2006
Wikipedia celebration!
With The Onion, it's hard to ever go wrong. In fact, it's just oooh so right.
"The exhaustive entry also includes links to video clips of the First Thanksgiving, hosted by YouTube.
"The exhaustive entry also includes links to video clips of the First Thanksgiving, hosted by YouTube.
vehicular assistance for stupid Mr. Paperface
I'm a snob. It's true. It's time I admitted it.
I have no appreciation for stupid people.
No, I don't mean the TRULY stupid people, but you know, those stupid people that just make you want to go fucking BATSHIT over things. It may just be me, I'll conceed. But, I know it's not just me, really.
Today I was driving along the highway with my son, doing errands. I was watching an SUV up ahead of us, and one lane over, slowly weaving to the right, over the line, then swerve back to the middle. Then over to the side, a slow long swerve over the line, then a quick yank back to the middle. I slowed down to stay far enough back that if this person were blacking out or something, I would have time to react and not end up in a thirty car pile-up doing sixty miles and hour.
Traffic behind me was building, and I was forced to pass the Car That Couldn't Color Between The Lines. So I sped up, quickly, to get around them as fast as I could. And that's when I saw it.
The guy driving the car had a full sheet of paper up in front of his face. Not like, kind of to one side, so you can check directions and glance back up at the road, but RIGHT SMACK IN FRONT OF HIS FACE. I do believe I muttered something witty and caustic, like, "Oh, HELL THE FUCK NO..." and proceeded to wail on my horn as if I could somehow erase this man's Stupid by shoving my hand through my steering column and out into my own engine.
He looked up to see what the noise was about, and then looked back to his paper! At least everyone around us had noticed him...
I got up ahead of him and quickly cut in front of him, and then slammed on my brakes. Did I mention the "Hell the fuck no" part already? Oh, yes, I see I did. Ok.
I'm not totally psychotic, really. It's just that the entrance/exit ramp we were coming up on was one of the most diabolical engineering inventions ever created. Most people can't even merge on or off without completely fucking up traffic, and I have numerous times seen someone NOT be able to get off or on and start flipping people off. It's a nightmare. You can even admire the long sloping skid marks that go down the hill through the grass, from all the people who just couldn't make it...
...And rolling right up on it was Mr. I Drive With Sheets Of Paper In Front Of My Face. Was it Clark Kent in disguise, just messing with me using his X-ray vision? Methinks not, hence me cutting him off and slamming on my brakes.
He threw the paper down, slowed the fuck down in a hurry and that whole clusterfuck of traffic trying to merge managed to get on/off without dying, I do believe because I was the one coming up on them, not him.
I dare say even Mr. Paperface managed to grasp the enormity of what had just NOT happened, because he did not flip me off, honk, or even give me a dirty look. No, when I looked back there was a wide eyed man driving very carefully without a paper in sight.
Perhaps he became a little less stupid today. I will never know. But regardless, I will be vigilant on my quest for those Stupid People who need my pissed off assistance in whatever form is necessary.
Stupid People of the World, I am here for you. But, just so we're clear about this: I don't like you. Stop being so damn stupid.
I have no appreciation for stupid people.
No, I don't mean the TRULY stupid people, but you know, those stupid people that just make you want to go fucking BATSHIT over things. It may just be me, I'll conceed. But, I know it's not just me, really.
Today I was driving along the highway with my son, doing errands. I was watching an SUV up ahead of us, and one lane over, slowly weaving to the right, over the line, then swerve back to the middle. Then over to the side, a slow long swerve over the line, then a quick yank back to the middle. I slowed down to stay far enough back that if this person were blacking out or something, I would have time to react and not end up in a thirty car pile-up doing sixty miles and hour.
Traffic behind me was building, and I was forced to pass the Car That Couldn't Color Between The Lines. So I sped up, quickly, to get around them as fast as I could. And that's when I saw it.
The guy driving the car had a full sheet of paper up in front of his face. Not like, kind of to one side, so you can check directions and glance back up at the road, but RIGHT SMACK IN FRONT OF HIS FACE. I do believe I muttered something witty and caustic, like, "Oh, HELL THE FUCK NO..." and proceeded to wail on my horn as if I could somehow erase this man's Stupid by shoving my hand through my steering column and out into my own engine.
He looked up to see what the noise was about, and then looked back to his paper! At least everyone around us had noticed him...
I got up ahead of him and quickly cut in front of him, and then slammed on my brakes. Did I mention the "Hell the fuck no" part already? Oh, yes, I see I did. Ok.
I'm not totally psychotic, really. It's just that the entrance/exit ramp we were coming up on was one of the most diabolical engineering inventions ever created. Most people can't even merge on or off without completely fucking up traffic, and I have numerous times seen someone NOT be able to get off or on and start flipping people off. It's a nightmare. You can even admire the long sloping skid marks that go down the hill through the grass, from all the people who just couldn't make it...
...And rolling right up on it was Mr. I Drive With Sheets Of Paper In Front Of My Face. Was it Clark Kent in disguise, just messing with me using his X-ray vision? Methinks not, hence me cutting him off and slamming on my brakes.
He threw the paper down, slowed the fuck down in a hurry and that whole clusterfuck of traffic trying to merge managed to get on/off without dying, I do believe because I was the one coming up on them, not him.
I dare say even Mr. Paperface managed to grasp the enormity of what had just NOT happened, because he did not flip me off, honk, or even give me a dirty look. No, when I looked back there was a wide eyed man driving very carefully without a paper in sight.
Perhaps he became a little less stupid today. I will never know. But regardless, I will be vigilant on my quest for those Stupid People who need my pissed off assistance in whatever form is necessary.
Stupid People of the World, I am here for you. But, just so we're clear about this: I don't like you. Stop being so damn stupid.
Thursday, July 27, 2006
Happy Birthday to ME!
Oh Jilly Jill Jill, how WAS your birthday?
Just fabulous, says I.
Tell us the story, you say.
Ok, says I.
My day was mostly spent being a birthday love ho, telling everyone possible that it was my birthday, just to be good and damn sure that I got all the birthday lovin' possible. No, Leo's really have no shame. But then, you love that about me, because otherwise you wouldn't get to hear all the juicy tidbits and look at the delectable morsels, now would you?
The downside, of course, is that you hear all the gory shit, too. Deal with it. I know you like reading about my train wreck of a life because I can see the hit counters on individual posts. And really, when it comes right down to it, I'm a little like your own secret superhero, aren't I, emerging from the wreckage and walking away in slow motion while the flames dance merrily behind me?
Little phoenix me.
A new year, and I am one strangely optimistic, sentimental and emotional crispy-hatchling, as Jack got me the one thing I've been begging for for years- a record player. I haven't had a record player since I was nineteen, and I have stacks of albums, I even have my moms old 45's. Most of my albums take me back to a time a place that was horrible, but they remind of the fact that I was irresistably optimistic, too. No matter how much fucking crap got shoveled down my throat, I was sure the next day would be better.
We listened to a few songs here and there and Jack even got all teared up when I serenaded him with Thanksgiving by Poi Dog Pondering, and I told him how I had played it at our wedding, although I know he didn't have a chance to hear it. He got all misty eyed. It was sweet.
I've spent the morning listening to Sly and the Family Stone, The Grateful Dead and The Beatles. Currently playing is "Dear Prudence", which is one of those tunes that always took my traumatized and stoned teenage brain away to a better place.
"Dear Prudence, won't you come out to play?
Dear Prudence, greet the brand new day
The sun is up, the sky is blue
It's beautiful and so are you
Dear Prudence, won't you come out to play?
Dear Prudence, open up your eyes
Dear Prudence, see the sunny skies
The wind is low, the birds will sing
That you are part of everything
Dear Prudence, won't you open up your eyes?
Look around round
Look around round round
Look around
Dear Prudence, let me see you smile
Dear Prudence, like a little child
The clouds will be a daisy chain
So let me see you smile again
Dear Prudence, won't you let me see you smile?
Dear Prudence, won't you come out to play?
Dear Prudence, greet the brand new day
The sun is up, the sky is blue
It's beautiful and so are you
Dear Prudence, won't you come out to play?"
Ahhh....(sigh)
After spending the majority of my day enjoying the fact that my neck turns and bends, I took Little Monkey down to the pool and got some actual sunlight. I fielded many a phone call and e-mail from well wishers, (even a full length birthday seranade from Daisy on my answering machine!). I got all dolled up purty and 'Doodles came to take me dinner (duh, Japanese, what else?). She even brought me my favorite posies. We sat and ate and laughed over hideous stories of childhood while gourging ourselves on our fabulous feast. I then came home to more musical seranading of Jack and Little Monkey and then Jack sent Little Monkey off to bed.
And then...well, that's another blog, now isn't it? No? Ok.
I pulled the camera into the bedroom and made sure Jack took some birthday pictures so that I can give YOU presents, ha HA. Such a smart ass, which you can clearly see in a few shots...
After a bit of photography, Jack was done with that and kept me perched on the edge of the bed, bent over me from behind with a little vibrating bullet on my clit and his other hand stuffed inside me.
I don't know what the hell he was doing, but it made me absolutely crazy. He seems to like doing that. It makes him smile funny, not that I bothered to turn my head to find out, but I could hear it from his throaty chuckles.
He had me bent forward over the edge of the bed while he was pushing quite a few fingers in and out of me. I had to ask him later what in the hell he did, and he said he was running his fingers really hard along the sides of my pussy, just here, then there, then over there, while cramming his hand in up to the knuckles over and over again.
F-u-u-u-u-u-c-k.
I finally grabbed the bullet from him because my clit was going absolutely numb from it, and just played with myself while he kept on. I was having all these mini-orgasms, the kind that don't bring on a sense of release but actually build and build into a lunacy inspiring crescendo, and continue on like that in waves.
I knew we had to be quiet because the little one wasn't remotely asleep yet, hence my lack of birthday spankings. Jack seemed to hellbent on making sure I came thirty-two times instead of my requisite spankings. I was absolutely losing control on the volume of my own mouth and the ability to give a shit anymore.
I do recall at one point turning my head to tell him, "I feel like a chick in a fucking porno, just getting worked the fuck over." I meant it in a GOOD way, and I don't even LIKE porn. I just felt like some crazed superslut, ready to fuck anything and anyone that got within fucking distance. Had Jack pulled out some vegetables or some shit, I would have been game. Whatever, just FUCK ME with it!
I could have gone on like that forever, and yet, at the same time it was too much, I had to fuck him. I begged him for his cock, while he chuckled and kept going for a little while longer, just to hear me beg and watch me thrash, I'm guessing.
Finally. Cock. Oh. I don't know... I'll try to explain it coherantly, although I was really out of my head by then.
I'm guessing it looked like fairly normal doggy style sex, with his hands gripping my hips as he thrust in good and deep, but that's not what it felt like. I was twirling my clit with my fingers, slowly...
You know how an orgasm feels...you know how those moments leading up to an orgasm feel, when you know you're definitely going to make it there and you're thinking, "Oh, YAH!" (Try not to imagine the Kool AId Guy, ok? Good.) Ok. It was like that, but that period of time stretched out for a good five minutes, maybe? And it was heavenly.
As Jack fucked me, not too fast, not too slow, just deep and hard and eyes-rolling-back-in-head-PERFECT, I slid my fingers around my own slick clit and just KNEW. The whole time was like one extended building of an orgasm, of one massive, delicious, too good to be true orgasm. I remember feeling ridiculously spoiled, as if such pleasures could not possibly be meant for someone such as I. It wasn't that I felt any lack of self esteem, but that it was just too good. No one should feel the way I felt, as if it weren't even possible and I just could not wrap my mind around it.
Have you ever heard that saying about how it takes a long time to warm a woman up, but once you do, watch out? Yah. I was living proof. I had become an undulating, moaning, completely out of her head sluttastic fuckhole. As if there was nothing else my body had ever done, had ever been meant to do, just continue this all encompassing orgasmic dance for all eternity. I was high as hell, and all on the pure joy that emulated from my pussy and soaked my brain in endorphins.
Have I managed to express this feeling? I really don't know. But finally, it built to a breaking point and I came, shuddering, screaming into the mattress and thrusting myself back onto his cock like a mindless piston, unable to stop. He wasn't done, oh no. Jack kept right on, gripping me tighter, harder, and pushed himself into my clamped down cunt with what must have been an amazing effort on his part, over and over again.
The next time there was little building up, just an explosion in my head and cunt, and I clamped down on him again, and again, and then again...
I don't know if Jack acquired supercock powers for my birthday, but it appeared so. No matter how slick my pussy was, how tight it was, how much I thrashed and moaned and thrust my ass back to meet him, he held out for a hell of a long time.
I bow to you, my love. You are miraculous. Truly. Just thinking about it makes me want to cum again, and I don't know how you held out that long...
I don't know what to say. That fucking he delivered last night was so dumbfoundingly incredible that I'm running out of words to describe it. I know it was mainly due to that trick he did with his fingers first. Guys, (or girls) if you want to know what this trick is, please ask. Hopefully it will inspire Jack to describe it to you, because when he does it to me I couldn't tell you what the hell he's doing, it just makes me crazy. Fucking loop-dee-loop bonkers. I'm having a hard time even being serious today, I just feel so..fucked stupid. He fucked me completely STOOPID.
Uh, where was I? Having sex, yes, and he kept going and going, and I kept right on cumming and cumming, just deliriously fucked. When he finally did cum, my pussy was still. I felt him throb, one of those post orgasm throbs that's so damn adorable, I do so love a softening and twitching cock inside me. Usually it would make me clamp down again, uncontrollably, and I got my breath enough to point that out to him. "Do you notice? You throbbed, but it's still. You fucked it silent. Holy crap...." and lay there gasping while he slooooowly pulled himself out and stood there doing his deep throaty chuckle, pinching the muscles of my ass and thighs.
I staggered into the bathroom and cleaned up, then passed the fuck out. All night I dreamed of sex, sex this, sex that, fucking fuck, just sex sex sex. The clearest one I remember was that he and I had started some kind of business (tries to type this with a straight face) renting out my ass. Yes. Renting my ass out for spankings, that sort of thing. I remember being tied hands and feet, completely hung in the air on a balcony, while people admired and decided what they wanted to do with my ass, and I know I was moaning in ecstasy in my sleep, because my own moaning woke me up. Fucking HOT. Whew.
This morning I told Jack about my dreams, but not before he came in to wake my moaning fuck-dreaming self. "I forgot to read you your book last night," he said. "Do you want me to read it to you now?" he asked. I smiled a very sleepy smile and nodded.
He went to go get the book and then crawled into bed beside me, while I laid my head on his leg. He read it, he did very well, as I told him afterwards, "You did great, even with Assosee-eye-ation. Your tongue is as nimble as a funicular goat," and he laughed. Mostly I laid with my head on his leg and cried weepy tears of gratitude, that I could be with a man who had the emotional dexterity required to fuck me so righteously at night and then be so silly as to read me a Doctor Seuss book in bed in the morning.
I am a very lucky girl indeed. Happy birthday to me!
Just fabulous, says I.
Tell us the story, you say.
Ok, says I.
My day was mostly spent being a birthday love ho, telling everyone possible that it was my birthday, just to be good and damn sure that I got all the birthday lovin' possible. No, Leo's really have no shame. But then, you love that about me, because otherwise you wouldn't get to hear all the juicy tidbits and look at the delectable morsels, now would you?
The downside, of course, is that you hear all the gory shit, too. Deal with it. I know you like reading about my train wreck of a life because I can see the hit counters on individual posts. And really, when it comes right down to it, I'm a little like your own secret superhero, aren't I, emerging from the wreckage and walking away in slow motion while the flames dance merrily behind me?
Little phoenix me.
A new year, and I am one strangely optimistic, sentimental and emotional crispy-hatchling, as Jack got me the one thing I've been begging for for years- a record player. I haven't had a record player since I was nineteen, and I have stacks of albums, I even have my moms old 45's. Most of my albums take me back to a time a place that was horrible, but they remind of the fact that I was irresistably optimistic, too. No matter how much fucking crap got shoveled down my throat, I was sure the next day would be better.
We listened to a few songs here and there and Jack even got all teared up when I serenaded him with Thanksgiving by Poi Dog Pondering, and I told him how I had played it at our wedding, although I know he didn't have a chance to hear it. He got all misty eyed. It was sweet.
I've spent the morning listening to Sly and the Family Stone, The Grateful Dead and The Beatles. Currently playing is "Dear Prudence", which is one of those tunes that always took my traumatized and stoned teenage brain away to a better place.
"Dear Prudence, won't you come out to play?
Dear Prudence, greet the brand new day
The sun is up, the sky is blue
It's beautiful and so are you
Dear Prudence, won't you come out to play?
Dear Prudence, open up your eyes
Dear Prudence, see the sunny skies
The wind is low, the birds will sing
That you are part of everything
Dear Prudence, won't you open up your eyes?
Look around round
Look around round round
Look around
Dear Prudence, let me see you smile
Dear Prudence, like a little child
The clouds will be a daisy chain
So let me see you smile again
Dear Prudence, won't you let me see you smile?
Dear Prudence, won't you come out to play?
Dear Prudence, greet the brand new day
The sun is up, the sky is blue
It's beautiful and so are you
Dear Prudence, won't you come out to play?"
Ahhh....(sigh)
After spending the majority of my day enjoying the fact that my neck turns and bends, I took Little Monkey down to the pool and got some actual sunlight. I fielded many a phone call and e-mail from well wishers, (even a full length birthday seranade from Daisy on my answering machine!). I got all dolled up purty and 'Doodles came to take me dinner (duh, Japanese, what else?). She even brought me my favorite posies. We sat and ate and laughed over hideous stories of childhood while gourging ourselves on our fabulous feast. I then came home to more musical seranading of Jack and Little Monkey and then Jack sent Little Monkey off to bed.
And then...well, that's another blog, now isn't it? No? Ok.
I pulled the camera into the bedroom and made sure Jack took some birthday pictures so that I can give YOU presents, ha HA. Such a smart ass, which you can clearly see in a few shots...
After a bit of photography, Jack was done with that and kept me perched on the edge of the bed, bent over me from behind with a little vibrating bullet on my clit and his other hand stuffed inside me.
I don't know what the hell he was doing, but it made me absolutely crazy. He seems to like doing that. It makes him smile funny, not that I bothered to turn my head to find out, but I could hear it from his throaty chuckles.
He had me bent forward over the edge of the bed while he was pushing quite a few fingers in and out of me. I had to ask him later what in the hell he did, and he said he was running his fingers really hard along the sides of my pussy, just here, then there, then over there, while cramming his hand in up to the knuckles over and over again.
F-u-u-u-u-u-c-k.
I finally grabbed the bullet from him because my clit was going absolutely numb from it, and just played with myself while he kept on. I was having all these mini-orgasms, the kind that don't bring on a sense of release but actually build and build into a lunacy inspiring crescendo, and continue on like that in waves.
I knew we had to be quiet because the little one wasn't remotely asleep yet, hence my lack of birthday spankings. Jack seemed to hellbent on making sure I came thirty-two times instead of my requisite spankings. I was absolutely losing control on the volume of my own mouth and the ability to give a shit anymore.
I do recall at one point turning my head to tell him, "I feel like a chick in a fucking porno, just getting worked the fuck over." I meant it in a GOOD way, and I don't even LIKE porn. I just felt like some crazed superslut, ready to fuck anything and anyone that got within fucking distance. Had Jack pulled out some vegetables or some shit, I would have been game. Whatever, just FUCK ME with it!
I could have gone on like that forever, and yet, at the same time it was too much, I had to fuck him. I begged him for his cock, while he chuckled and kept going for a little while longer, just to hear me beg and watch me thrash, I'm guessing.
Finally. Cock. Oh. I don't know... I'll try to explain it coherantly, although I was really out of my head by then.
I'm guessing it looked like fairly normal doggy style sex, with his hands gripping my hips as he thrust in good and deep, but that's not what it felt like. I was twirling my clit with my fingers, slowly...
You know how an orgasm feels...you know how those moments leading up to an orgasm feel, when you know you're definitely going to make it there and you're thinking, "Oh, YAH!" (Try not to imagine the Kool AId Guy, ok? Good.) Ok. It was like that, but that period of time stretched out for a good five minutes, maybe? And it was heavenly.
As Jack fucked me, not too fast, not too slow, just deep and hard and eyes-rolling-back-in-head-PERFECT, I slid my fingers around my own slick clit and just KNEW. The whole time was like one extended building of an orgasm, of one massive, delicious, too good to be true orgasm. I remember feeling ridiculously spoiled, as if such pleasures could not possibly be meant for someone such as I. It wasn't that I felt any lack of self esteem, but that it was just too good. No one should feel the way I felt, as if it weren't even possible and I just could not wrap my mind around it.
Have you ever heard that saying about how it takes a long time to warm a woman up, but once you do, watch out? Yah. I was living proof. I had become an undulating, moaning, completely out of her head sluttastic fuckhole. As if there was nothing else my body had ever done, had ever been meant to do, just continue this all encompassing orgasmic dance for all eternity. I was high as hell, and all on the pure joy that emulated from my pussy and soaked my brain in endorphins.
Have I managed to express this feeling? I really don't know. But finally, it built to a breaking point and I came, shuddering, screaming into the mattress and thrusting myself back onto his cock like a mindless piston, unable to stop. He wasn't done, oh no. Jack kept right on, gripping me tighter, harder, and pushed himself into my clamped down cunt with what must have been an amazing effort on his part, over and over again.
The next time there was little building up, just an explosion in my head and cunt, and I clamped down on him again, and again, and then again...
I don't know if Jack acquired supercock powers for my birthday, but it appeared so. No matter how slick my pussy was, how tight it was, how much I thrashed and moaned and thrust my ass back to meet him, he held out for a hell of a long time.
I bow to you, my love. You are miraculous. Truly. Just thinking about it makes me want to cum again, and I don't know how you held out that long...
I don't know what to say. That fucking he delivered last night was so dumbfoundingly incredible that I'm running out of words to describe it. I know it was mainly due to that trick he did with his fingers first. Guys, (or girls) if you want to know what this trick is, please ask. Hopefully it will inspire Jack to describe it to you, because when he does it to me I couldn't tell you what the hell he's doing, it just makes me crazy. Fucking loop-dee-loop bonkers. I'm having a hard time even being serious today, I just feel so..fucked stupid. He fucked me completely STOOPID.
Uh, where was I? Having sex, yes, and he kept going and going, and I kept right on cumming and cumming, just deliriously fucked. When he finally did cum, my pussy was still. I felt him throb, one of those post orgasm throbs that's so damn adorable, I do so love a softening and twitching cock inside me. Usually it would make me clamp down again, uncontrollably, and I got my breath enough to point that out to him. "Do you notice? You throbbed, but it's still. You fucked it silent. Holy crap...." and lay there gasping while he slooooowly pulled himself out and stood there doing his deep throaty chuckle, pinching the muscles of my ass and thighs.
I staggered into the bathroom and cleaned up, then passed the fuck out. All night I dreamed of sex, sex this, sex that, fucking fuck, just sex sex sex. The clearest one I remember was that he and I had started some kind of business (tries to type this with a straight face) renting out my ass. Yes. Renting my ass out for spankings, that sort of thing. I remember being tied hands and feet, completely hung in the air on a balcony, while people admired and decided what they wanted to do with my ass, and I know I was moaning in ecstasy in my sleep, because my own moaning woke me up. Fucking HOT. Whew.
This morning I told Jack about my dreams, but not before he came in to wake my moaning fuck-dreaming self. "I forgot to read you your book last night," he said. "Do you want me to read it to you now?" he asked. I smiled a very sleepy smile and nodded.
He went to go get the book and then crawled into bed beside me, while I laid my head on his leg. He read it, he did very well, as I told him afterwards, "You did great, even with Assosee-eye-ation. Your tongue is as nimble as a funicular goat," and he laughed. Mostly I laid with my head on his leg and cried weepy tears of gratitude, that I could be with a man who had the emotional dexterity required to fuck me so righteously at night and then be so silly as to read me a Doctor Seuss book in bed in the morning.
I am a very lucky girl indeed. Happy birthday to me!
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
up in Katroo
Want to know a secret?
I never let a single birthday go by, mine, my son's, or my husband's, without someone (usually me) reading "Happy Birthday To You" by Dr. Seuss. A birthday simply isn't a birthday without it.
"Today is your birthday!
Today you are you!
… There is no one alive
who is you-er than you!"
"If you'd never been born, well what would you be?
You might be a fish! Or a toad in a tree!
You might be a door knob! Or three baked potatoes!
You might be a bag full of hard green tomatoes!
Or worse than all that... why, you might be a
WASN'T!
A Wasn't has no fun at all. No, he doesn't.
A Wasn't just isn't. He just isn't present.
But you... you ARE YOU! And now, isn't that pleasant?"
Why yes. Yes, it is!
It was my favorite book as a child and if you've never read it I simply insist you go out and do so right now! Your life is incomplete!
In the meantime, I have a Birthday Pal-alace to go to. I'll be home later, on a very soft platter.
I never let a single birthday go by, mine, my son's, or my husband's, without someone (usually me) reading "Happy Birthday To You" by Dr. Seuss. A birthday simply isn't a birthday without it.
"Today is your birthday!
Today you are you!
… There is no one alive
who is you-er than you!"
"If you'd never been born, well what would you be?
You might be a fish! Or a toad in a tree!
You might be a door knob! Or three baked potatoes!
You might be a bag full of hard green tomatoes!
Or worse than all that... why, you might be a
WASN'T!
A Wasn't has no fun at all. No, he doesn't.
A Wasn't just isn't. He just isn't present.
But you... you ARE YOU! And now, isn't that pleasant?"
Why yes. Yes, it is!
It was my favorite book as a child and if you've never read it I simply insist you go out and do so right now! Your life is incomplete!
In the meantime, I have a Birthday Pal-alace to go to. I'll be home later, on a very soft platter.
I'm a Weeble Wobble!
For those of you following the story of me and my neck, the latest is over here.
And Bear, I'm doing the same thing: looking around. As long as I'm sitting, anyway. (laughs) Gee whiz! I can see! I can see! Aine, you can laugh at me, too, if you want. Jack is laughing, also. Y'all can laugh all you want, I'll be looking around. Wee! Wee! Wee!
And Bear, I'm doing the same thing: looking around. As long as I'm sitting, anyway. (laughs) Gee whiz! I can see! I can see! Aine, you can laugh at me, too, if you want. Jack is laughing, also. Y'all can laugh all you want, I'll be looking around. Wee! Wee! Wee!
weebly wobbling improvements
I went to the new doctor about the neck thing yesterday. She's a physical therapist specializing in myofascial release.
After the pain specialist doctor did his thing the day before, with a horrible result, I went in pretty terrified. The new doc was great, I adored her smart alecky sense of humor and after asking me a bajillion questions and showing me some wicky wack plastic spine model, she started showing me on the model what my neck was doing. Just watching her do it made me all hot and puketastic feeling. Blech.
She also explained why the shots the other doctor gave me would have made me feel so terrible. He basically numbed the muscles that were holding my head in the position that made it hurt the least. "It's a great diagnostic tool," she said, "At least now we know it's NOT the muscles themselves, but that the muscles are hurting because they're overcompensating for something else."
Finally she had me lay down and just started messing with my neck, very gently at first and then a little harder. Nothing terribly painful, certainly not in comparison to how much it's been hurting, and then sat me back up.
"Ok, try to move your head back," she said. When she had asked me to do it earlier I could barely push it backwards and started crying from the pain of it. After ten minutes of her messing with it, I pushed it right back, and just kept it there, frozen, staring at her in shock.
She smiled. "How's that feel?" she asked. I continued to stare at her and managed to get out, "Really...freaking...weird...." She just laughed and said, "Yah, I bet your neck hasn't done that in a few years."
Uh, NO. No, it has not.
The gist of it is something about some disk and some compression and all the muscles have been holding my head tense and still so as to not put any spinal pressure on that spot. Yah, for three years. Gee whiz, why would THAT hurt, right?
Funny thing about it... if I stand up and move my neck back, I fall backwards. My entire torso has gotten so used to this little precarious balancing act that I don't know how to balance normally anymore. If I stand up and push my neck back, I'm a frikkin' weeble wobble.
So, things still hurt but NOTHING like they did. It seems I may have finally found someone who knows how to fix me. And considering that today is my birthday, that is the best birthday present of all.
(stops and twists head to and fro, back and forth)
Yes, indeed.
After the pain specialist doctor did his thing the day before, with a horrible result, I went in pretty terrified. The new doc was great, I adored her smart alecky sense of humor and after asking me a bajillion questions and showing me some wicky wack plastic spine model, she started showing me on the model what my neck was doing. Just watching her do it made me all hot and puketastic feeling. Blech.
She also explained why the shots the other doctor gave me would have made me feel so terrible. He basically numbed the muscles that were holding my head in the position that made it hurt the least. "It's a great diagnostic tool," she said, "At least now we know it's NOT the muscles themselves, but that the muscles are hurting because they're overcompensating for something else."
Finally she had me lay down and just started messing with my neck, very gently at first and then a little harder. Nothing terribly painful, certainly not in comparison to how much it's been hurting, and then sat me back up.
"Ok, try to move your head back," she said. When she had asked me to do it earlier I could barely push it backwards and started crying from the pain of it. After ten minutes of her messing with it, I pushed it right back, and just kept it there, frozen, staring at her in shock.
She smiled. "How's that feel?" she asked. I continued to stare at her and managed to get out, "Really...freaking...weird...." She just laughed and said, "Yah, I bet your neck hasn't done that in a few years."
Uh, NO. No, it has not.
The gist of it is something about some disk and some compression and all the muscles have been holding my head tense and still so as to not put any spinal pressure on that spot. Yah, for three years. Gee whiz, why would THAT hurt, right?
Funny thing about it... if I stand up and move my neck back, I fall backwards. My entire torso has gotten so used to this little precarious balancing act that I don't know how to balance normally anymore. If I stand up and push my neck back, I'm a frikkin' weeble wobble.
So, things still hurt but NOTHING like they did. It seems I may have finally found someone who knows how to fix me. And considering that today is my birthday, that is the best birthday present of all.
(stops and twists head to and fro, back and forth)
Yes, indeed.
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
just a bunch of whining
Yesterday I got my shots, passed out, and felt like unholy shit the rest of the night.
When we got to bed, Jack was feeling randy. I was feeling like a hundred evil gnomes came and beat me with tiny mallets, but I'm not one to turn down some sex.
You knew that, didn't you?
Alas, it went awry. It felt good enough, but every time I came close to orgasm I would freak out that I might pass out again and it stopped me every time. I didn't really realize how badly that shook me up, fainting at the doctors, until that moment.
Jack came, I didn't, and I fell asleep in his arms after crying for a few minutes while he held me and petted my head. I just felt so puny and scared, and really wanted him to be the big strong guy for me while I released my fears.
"I think I would have been ok if (my son) wasn't there," I told Jack. "Because he was, and because he was watching me get those shots, I had to be brave. I'm not brave about needles. If he wasn't there, I would have asked the doctor to stop halfway through and let me breath for a second, but I think I was just holding my breath, without thinking, and hoping I could make it till the last one was done. But he was RIGHT THERE staring at me, and then suddenly I couldn't see him anymore..." and that's what scared the shit out me.
I'm the grown up, I'm the one who is supposed to be in control and take care of everything, not faint in front of my child and scare him half to death. I'm suffering from a case of "I'm A Bad Mommy Syndrome". It freaked me out. And it did not make me feel sexy.
I'm sick of being freaked out. I'm sick of being in pain.
I'm so sick of feeling puny. I want my roar back.
And yes, as a matter of fact, my pussy DOES hurt. Hmmph!
When we got to bed, Jack was feeling randy. I was feeling like a hundred evil gnomes came and beat me with tiny mallets, but I'm not one to turn down some sex.
You knew that, didn't you?
Alas, it went awry. It felt good enough, but every time I came close to orgasm I would freak out that I might pass out again and it stopped me every time. I didn't really realize how badly that shook me up, fainting at the doctors, until that moment.
Jack came, I didn't, and I fell asleep in his arms after crying for a few minutes while he held me and petted my head. I just felt so puny and scared, and really wanted him to be the big strong guy for me while I released my fears.
"I think I would have been ok if (my son) wasn't there," I told Jack. "Because he was, and because he was watching me get those shots, I had to be brave. I'm not brave about needles. If he wasn't there, I would have asked the doctor to stop halfway through and let me breath for a second, but I think I was just holding my breath, without thinking, and hoping I could make it till the last one was done. But he was RIGHT THERE staring at me, and then suddenly I couldn't see him anymore..." and that's what scared the shit out me.
I'm the grown up, I'm the one who is supposed to be in control and take care of everything, not faint in front of my child and scare him half to death. I'm suffering from a case of "I'm A Bad Mommy Syndrome". It freaked me out. And it did not make me feel sexy.
I'm sick of being freaked out. I'm sick of being in pain.
I'm so sick of feeling puny. I want my roar back.
And yes, as a matter of fact, my pussy DOES hurt. Hmmph!
my shameless love for television
Good old TV. It gets a bad rap these days, and I blame that on the fact that mostly stupid people watch it. What stupid people want, stupid people get, that's the way it works as Jack Johnson so poignantly points out in his song, Cookie Jar.
There was a similar theme to an argument I had with a woman when I was nineteen. She knew I wanted to have children and she felt the world was overpopulated as it was, and so to demean me she called me, "Breeder" or referred to me as "One of those damn breeders." I put up with that for a whole day or so (we worked together) before I had it out with her.
Her argument was that there were too many people on the planet, and so the responsible thing for "us smart people" to do was to not breed. I stared at her and pointed out the obvious, "But all the stupid people will continue breeding, raising their stupid children, who will raise more stupid people...soon the intelligent people will die out." Survival of the stupidest? I don't think so, crazy lady. She said, "No, no," as if I were overlooking the grand scheme of things, "we raise their kids to be smart."
It took me a minute to figure out how to politely say it, but I finally came up with, "So...are you planning on kidnapping their children? Because... I don't think they're going to hand them over if you just knock on the door and say, 'You're too stupid, give me your children'."
That stumped her. I figured she meant that she would somehow subtley affect these stupid children, but no, she meant actually raising them. I still don't know what to say about that...
Back to TV. If all the smart people decide that TV is for idiots, than it will be. The less of us that are out there demanding intelligent programming from the producers, the less intelligent programming will exist. The producers want to make money. If the only money to be made is from people who think that "Jackass" and "Jerry Springer" are fucking genius, well, what was once a brilliant invention is going straight to hell.
There really isn't anything on the non-cable channels. I've lived without cable and the TV gathered dust. Finally an ex talked me into getting cable years ago and I was astounded at the amount of interesting programs I could find. (laughs) By no means am I implying that the TV schedule is filled with informative shows, but there are some really great ones out there.
If we didn't watch Colbert Report or The Daily Show, I wouldn't bother with politics at all, the stuff bores me to death. But to have delivered with such sarcasm and wit, THAT I can tolerate. And Mythbusters- all those massive industrial sized science projects to prove or disprove a theory or myth, how the bloody hell could I possibly recreate that to show my son how so many things work? For the matter, the show How Things Are Made- brilliant! How DO they make neon lightbulbs? Cheese? Toilets? I don't know...but darling TV taught me.
Who could live without those glorious nature programs, especially the oceanic ones? When am I going to hire out a deep sea submersible and take my son down to see the critters at the bottom of the ocean? How else could I show him the amazing fact that creatures can actually live next to a hydrothermal vent?
I mean, it's one thing to read about it, but it's another entirely to watch film footage, to see the gasses, to watch the weird and alien creatures moving around down there.
And pictures and text about deep sea critters just isn't the same as seeing the life action video of a bioluminescing jellyfish!
And how can a picture of a tubeworm possbly compare to seeing that weird slurpy thing they do?
Personally, I don't think it can.
Ok, I could buy videos or DVD's of these things, but that's not likely, quite frankly. The DVD could suck. When I see it on TV they have that blip at the end that says, "If you'd like to purchase this film, contact blah blah blah". Hey! I got to preview it! All right!
For pure indulgence, The Sci-Fi Channel has my addictions: Battlestar Galactica, Stargate Atlantis, SG-1, John Doe, and Doctor Who. It's the only night you KNOW I'm watching TV, and the whole family gathers around for this delectable science fiction feast.
The only reality shows I've ever tolerated come from the TLC (The Learning Channel), and those are rare.
Without TV I would never have witnessed the wacky dry wit of Monty Python skits or the freakishly fantastic skills of Cirque du Soleil. I wouldn't have laughed till I cried watching Will Farrel on Saturday Night Live. As a matter of fact, the only time I willingly spent with my parents thoughout my teenage years was when they were watching anything with Jacques Cousteau.
My point is that there ARE a lot of fascinating and wonderful programs on TV, if you have cable and you know where to look. For years I lived around people who thought TV was the root of all evil and so I never really knew how much cool stuff was on there, and now I do. I still don't watch it often, but I do like to sit and decompress once in a while and just relax while watching Adam and Jamie blow shit up.
That's the good stuff.
There was a similar theme to an argument I had with a woman when I was nineteen. She knew I wanted to have children and she felt the world was overpopulated as it was, and so to demean me she called me, "Breeder" or referred to me as "One of those damn breeders." I put up with that for a whole day or so (we worked together) before I had it out with her.
Her argument was that there were too many people on the planet, and so the responsible thing for "us smart people" to do was to not breed. I stared at her and pointed out the obvious, "But all the stupid people will continue breeding, raising their stupid children, who will raise more stupid people...soon the intelligent people will die out." Survival of the stupidest? I don't think so, crazy lady. She said, "No, no," as if I were overlooking the grand scheme of things, "we raise their kids to be smart."
It took me a minute to figure out how to politely say it, but I finally came up with, "So...are you planning on kidnapping their children? Because... I don't think they're going to hand them over if you just knock on the door and say, 'You're too stupid, give me your children'."
That stumped her. I figured she meant that she would somehow subtley affect these stupid children, but no, she meant actually raising them. I still don't know what to say about that...
Back to TV. If all the smart people decide that TV is for idiots, than it will be. The less of us that are out there demanding intelligent programming from the producers, the less intelligent programming will exist. The producers want to make money. If the only money to be made is from people who think that "Jackass" and "Jerry Springer" are fucking genius, well, what was once a brilliant invention is going straight to hell.
There really isn't anything on the non-cable channels. I've lived without cable and the TV gathered dust. Finally an ex talked me into getting cable years ago and I was astounded at the amount of interesting programs I could find. (laughs) By no means am I implying that the TV schedule is filled with informative shows, but there are some really great ones out there.
If we didn't watch Colbert Report or The Daily Show, I wouldn't bother with politics at all, the stuff bores me to death. But to have delivered with such sarcasm and wit, THAT I can tolerate. And Mythbusters- all those massive industrial sized science projects to prove or disprove a theory or myth, how the bloody hell could I possibly recreate that to show my son how so many things work? For the matter, the show How Things Are Made- brilliant! How DO they make neon lightbulbs? Cheese? Toilets? I don't know...but darling TV taught me.
Who could live without those glorious nature programs, especially the oceanic ones? When am I going to hire out a deep sea submersible and take my son down to see the critters at the bottom of the ocean? How else could I show him the amazing fact that creatures can actually live next to a hydrothermal vent?
I mean, it's one thing to read about it, but it's another entirely to watch film footage, to see the gasses, to watch the weird and alien creatures moving around down there.
And pictures and text about deep sea critters just isn't the same as seeing the life action video of a bioluminescing jellyfish!
And how can a picture of a tubeworm possbly compare to seeing that weird slurpy thing they do?
Personally, I don't think it can.
Ok, I could buy videos or DVD's of these things, but that's not likely, quite frankly. The DVD could suck. When I see it on TV they have that blip at the end that says, "If you'd like to purchase this film, contact blah blah blah". Hey! I got to preview it! All right!
For pure indulgence, The Sci-Fi Channel has my addictions: Battlestar Galactica, Stargate Atlantis, SG-1, John Doe, and Doctor Who. It's the only night you KNOW I'm watching TV, and the whole family gathers around for this delectable science fiction feast.
The only reality shows I've ever tolerated come from the TLC (The Learning Channel), and those are rare.
Without TV I would never have witnessed the wacky dry wit of Monty Python skits or the freakishly fantastic skills of Cirque du Soleil. I wouldn't have laughed till I cried watching Will Farrel on Saturday Night Live. As a matter of fact, the only time I willingly spent with my parents thoughout my teenage years was when they were watching anything with Jacques Cousteau.
My point is that there ARE a lot of fascinating and wonderful programs on TV, if you have cable and you know where to look. For years I lived around people who thought TV was the root of all evil and so I never really knew how much cool stuff was on there, and now I do. I still don't watch it often, but I do like to sit and decompress once in a while and just relax while watching Adam and Jamie blow shit up.
That's the good stuff.
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