Tuesday, April 25, 2006

I'll bet you didn't know...

Ten Top Trivia Tips about The Penis!

  1. It takes forty minutes to hard-boil the penis.
  2. The penis has enough fat to produce 32 bars of soap!
  3. Only one child in twenty will be born on the day predicted by the penis.
  4. Human beings are the only animals that copulate while facing the penis.
  5. 68 percent of all UFO sightings are by the penis.
  6. The penis can’t sweat.
  7. The penis never said ‘Play it again, Sam’.
  8. It’s bad luck for a flag to touch the penis.
  9. To check whether the penis is safe to eat, drop it in a bowl of water; rotten the penis will sink, and fresh the penis will float.
  10. The most dangerous form of the penis is the bicycle.
I am interested in - do tell me about

News from the Front: Love Under the Insects, Science

Dreamy, satisfied sigh with a smile on my lips.
Yes, Ms. Y. Heart got herself some. OK, a lot. I think I need to whine to his mom more often, though I would really like to see how it got back to Monsieur:

Belle-Mère: Now, come on, you’re embarrassing me. I didn’t raise you this way.

Monsieur: Mother, please!

Belle-Mère: Do you think your father would have let me or any other needing woman un-serviced? Unthinkable! You need to go console her.

Monsieur: [makes uncomfortable noises]

Belle-Mère: Right now! And call me back when you’re done.

No, she probably didn’t actually tell him to lay me. But he sure got to it, right after the kids were put to bed last night.
“Do you have any work to do tonight?” he said, almost nonchalantly while we were putting the laundry away.
“No, monsieur, I haven’t got my packet from work yet,” I replied. I figured he would then tell me he was going to get on the computer all night.
“Well, if you’ve nothing better to do, why don’t you join me out on the west yard and we can open a bottle of burgundy?
After a half of a glass for me (and two for him) and twenty minutes, we were necking like teenagers, our kisses occurring between mosquito attacks. It was nice, but we eventually moved inside and continued our play sans parasites.

In my inbox, my dear friend KK, who worries about me a lot in this regard, sends me this item: Professor Stuart Brody of the University of Paisley published a study showing sex can lower blood pressure.

Money Quote: “Penile-vaginal intercourse is the only sexual behaviour consistently associated with better psychological and physiological health.”

Penile. I love that word. I want to be sentenced to a penile colony.
“One study even found that semen is a mood-enhancing ingredient,” says a senior fellow from the Obvious Research Center. Friends, I am here to testify, semen has the most amazing properties. It enhances my mood like nothing else. I am now in a much enhanced mood.
Why didn’t I get the call to be a subject in these studies? Oh, I guess it might have been conducted in Australia. Why is American science so much further behind its friends in The Land Down There?

“Recent studies suggest that men who have orgasms twice a week are half as likely to die early as men who orgasm less than once a month.”

Gosh, that sounds so serious. Well, you heard it: get busy, boys and girls: that’s doctor’s orders.

Friday, April 21, 2006

Not All Who Are Lost Are Wandering

Someone did a search for:
and right there, on the 4th page, they found my blog.
Now, I’m not technical, so I can’t explain that. I can only say that they probably didn’t find what they were looking for. They might have found what my feet looked like a couple of weeks ago. I wish they would have stayed longer, but I’m sure they were very busy. I hope they come back when they have more time.
From the other end of the blogoworld, someone else tried:
which, as anyone who knows me, is how to find me in a game of hide & seek. Wait for me to sneeze.

Getting My Wings

In May JJ (the other teacher) will be gone, and at our little co-op school it will be only me as a fulltime teacher. There will always be other teachers that will come in and teach certain things, like crafts, languages, and athletics. There will be other help, too – there’s another mom who will come in on Fridays as a sort of classroom assistant, and we are looking to train another dad as a teacher as soon as he can get the schedule arranged with his workplace.
Many of the other parents (they refer to me as part of the group of “parents” in our parent meetings – I am treated as a parent even though I am not the boys’ mom) have suggested that I try to get state certification in teaching, which sounds great, and all, but I don’t know. I don’t think I would be interested in teaching as a vocation. I think they’re trying to cover the school’s butt just in case there’s some sweeping legislative reform to clamp down on these uncertified ad-hoc home schools.
I don’t have a problem with getting certified to teach. I don’t mind working for it; I just don’t want to pay a whole lot of money for the privilege of educating children.
Maybe they’re not trying to cover anyone’s butt. Maybe they’re just being helpful. I don’t know enough about the certification of teachers to know whether or not getting certified would really make me a better teacher.
I do know that Bigglest Boy now can add two three-digit numbers in his head, in about seven seconds, e.g.:


I sure as heck can’t do that.

Meanwhile, back at home…
I have been (on occasion) e-mailing Monsieur’s mother (who, in these pages, I call Belle-Mère) and once in a while I mention that, while Monsieur and I are getting along well, I think he is a little “distant” sometimes. I mention in this blog (to the point of tears, sometimes – mine) that he doesn’t initiate sex. I have almost come to accept that. I just want a little more of the other part of him. Not that he is any worse than any other guy I’ve ever been with. In fact, in many ways, he’s way better:
  • He is kind to me, and even expresses affection: we kiss goodbye, hello, goodnight, and so forth. He leaves me notes, such as “Remember that I think of you, always” on a little sticky note in my purse.
  • He records the few TV shows I watch just for me, so that I can watch them after boys’ bedtimes, uninterrupted. (I confess I can not figure out how to set the VCR to record ahead of time.)
  • He calls me his “love”, which sends me to the ends of the sky and back: “Why don’t you take a bath, my love, while I finish the kitchen?”
  • Flowers, unexpected, occasionally appear in a vase on the bathroom vanity countertop.
  • He kills cockroaches for me. Ya, every guy does that for any girl, but – check it out: as soon as I make that high-pitched, undignified yelp that all squeamish girls make as soon as they see a cockroach, he is there, with a weapon in hand, and he waits for me to turn my eyes as he dispatches the nasty thing and removes all evidence of its corpse. OK. it’s really more the way he does it. He doesn’t patronize me in any way, he just does it, and then he says, “All gone; that’s that,” and the horrible thing is gone.
I’m sure that a lot of you women would wonder why I would be thinking that he’s a little distant; after all, many of you don’t even get this much affection from your men. I’m greedy, I will admit, and I will always want more. So I mentioned it without meaning to complain to Belle-Mère, who said, “That does not sound as if he is ready to let you truly love him yet, but I am certain that in time his reserve will lessen itself.”
Well. I don’t know what she said to him, if anything, but suddenly it was like turning on a tap, and all these little things from left field started flooding out:
I love you, [Yearning Heart]: Spelled out in block letters, in Purple Dry-Erase Marker on the bulletin board in the kitchen. Someone asked me, once, if Monsieur had ever come out and told me that he loved me. Yes, he does. Not often. I have been told that more often by guys who didn’t really love me. When it comes from Monsieur, it’s very, very sincere.
“Do you have plans for your birthday?” he asked me. My birthday is in a little more than a month.
“Why, no, Monsieur, I don’t.”
“Very good. Try not to make any plans, if you could.”
“Yes, Monsieur. No, Monsieur. I mean, all right.”
“Where,” Monsieur asked one evening this week, “would you like to be in five years?”
“I’m not sure, Monsieur,” I replied. “Do you mean what would I like to do? For a living?”
“Not only that, love, I mean, would you like to be in a creative, artistic endeavor, or would you prefer returning to school if it could be made possible?”
I told him how I thought that the pull towards graduate school hasn’t been so strong lately; also my acting fantasies have hit the wall of reality that come from having to make my way in the world.
He understood. “Do you know,” he smiled, “that I once had the idea of earning my keep as a sort of a traveling song-and-dance man?”
“You’re good on the guitar,” I said.
“You’re good on the theatrical stage,” he replied, “but talent, celebrity and success are three completely different things.” He turned to me, and asked, point-blank, “[Yearning Heart], what do you want to do?”
“Well,” I said slowly, “every time someone asks me that, I usually answer that I don’t know.”
“But do you know, or do you have some idea?” he asked.
I thought about it, for quite a few moments.
I felt cornered, but I tried to be cool. “I’d … well… I like it here,” was all I could say.
“Is this enough for you, this life?” he asked.
I looked at him, then looked away to think about it. When I look in his eyes, I tend to forget what I should be thinking about. I don’t think clearly. I lose perspective. Time for perspective, here. Time to focus. Time for an honest assessment.
“I’m really very happy here,” was all I could say.
I thought about it some more. I am still thinking about it. I still don’t think that I really have answered him.

I hadn’t been happy, I don’t think, since over a year ago, when I knew that I would graduate from college. I was afraid that I wouldn’t get into Northwestern, and then Maggie died, and then I found out I didn’t get in to Northwestern after all. I think I just continued to wallow in a depression that I wasn’t aware of. I’m sure that my awful breakup with SH was a part of that. But once I decided to come here, and once I really comitted to help if Monsieur and the boys would accept my help, I didn’t care so much about all that other ambition. I’ve been too busy to think about what I really want, other than to be with Monsieur and to take care of him and his boys. Maybe that’s what happiness is.

Wednesday, April 19, 2006

History as Roadkill, My Celebrity Lookalike

The more I read Maggie, the more I miss her:
Society is a busy highway; historians have a difficult job because they can only determine the course and daily life of an ancient society through its letters and its artifacts. This is somewhat like trying to describe daily traffic on a busy highway, based upon tire tread marks and the occasional tossed hubcap that has been recovered by the historian, hungry for data. Society is what happened in the road; written history is often a collection of roadkill and other detritus, written by the ones who managed to not get run over today.
From The History of Technology [unpublished] by Maggie.
Who knew I was so hot?
Lisa Kudrow

Lisa Kudrow: 73%

Jayne Mansfield

Jayne Mansfield: 66%

Neve Campbell

Neve Campbell: 66%

Rachel McAdams

Rachel McAdams: 66%

I found this earlier but La Muerta reminded me of it again. Naturally, I’m vain enough to want to know which celebrity I look like. Apparently, it’s Lisa Kudrow (76%) with the rest of these bringing up the field at over 60%. Hopefully Lisa doesn’t ever get on a no-fly list.

Sunday, April 16, 2006

Everyone always asks...

Whaddya been up to?

  • Readings/written work or spelling/math.
  • Play.
  • History/music, or civics/science (nature/geography/physics)
  • Play.

And, the cool thing is, I’ve learned a lot. For example: those cool science experiments in You CAN Do It with Science! never work. When they do, it’s just so lame.

Anything with cranberries in it (ex: juice, fruit bars, extract in capsule form) will NOT come out of any fabric except 8-year-old sweatshirts from middle school that have holes.

Baby spit-up will not come out of anything except baby skin.

Sometimes children cry.

Sometimes, grown-ups do, too.

A chocolate kiss helps.

Sometimes a Peppermint kiss helps, too.

Saturday, April 15, 2006

Class Notes

Gosh I’ve been busy.
Middlest Boy can now read at the officially coveted Second Grade Level. That’s a good thing, because he just turned five last month. He’s past what he would need to know, should he enter first grade in a public school. And he won’t do that, if his daddy has anything to do with it.
I once asked Maggie why they were so adamant about teaching the kids themselves. “Accountability,” she said. “When your school fails, you can’t sue them. If it’s up to parents to make sure that kids get a decent education, then it’s up to us, especially to me, to make sure my kids get an exceptional one.”
This relates to the other day, as I was talking to Monsieur; he was talking about the future and I was talking about the kids. One day, he would like me to go to graduate school – but only if it’s what I want to do. I admitted that, although I once wanted it, grad school was more of a way to avoid life than anything else. Once I finish going to college, I’m supposed to do something, right? But now I’m doing something, so the pull of grad school is not really so strong. In fact, I never think about it unless someone else brings it up.
Now it seems that I measure my accomplishments using the school kids, and Monsieur’s kids especially.
I think of his children as mine, in a way. “Where are my boys?” I say when they need to come downstairs in the morning for breakfast.
One thing that I was never prepared for was the agony I feel when one or more of them is sick or hurt. They hardly ever really get sick, but Bigglest Boy gets allergies, and Littlest Boy has absolutely no fear when it comes to jumping off of the roof of the hen house. A persistent sniffle or a bruised head really tugs at my heart.
Land sakes, I’m turning into a mom. When did that start happening?

Wednesday, April 05, 2006

It is now possible for you to hear the phrase 'five thick slabs' in every accent in the world.

“Ms Peppermint, what do they sound like in India?” Well, how cool is this, kids? First, there is intrigue:
Please call Stella. Ask her to bring these things with her from the store: Six spoons of fresh snow peas, five thick slabs of blue cheese, and maybe a snack for her brother Bob. We also need a small plastic snake and a big toy frog for the kids. She can scoop these things into three red bags, and we will go meet her Wednesday at the train station.
Now, suspense! I want to know what this is a code for. Because, as the above site purports, you can hear this message as if it were delivered by someone speaking in one of the following accents: Afrikaans, Agni, Agny, Akan, Albanian, Amharic, Anyin, Appolo, Arabic, Armenian, Azerbaijani, Azeri Turk, Bafang, Baga, Bahasa Indonesian, Bai, Bamanankan, Bambara, Bamun, Banganthe, Basque, Belarusan, Bengali, Bislama, Bosnian, Bouole, Bulgarian, Cantonese, Carolinian, Catalan, Chagga, Chamorro, Chinese, Chuukese, Creole, Creole French, Croatian, Czech, Danish, Dari, Dholuo, Dinka, Dutch, Ebira, Edo, English, Esperanto, Ewe, Fang, Fanti, Farsi, Fefe, Finnish, French, Frisian, Ga, Gamugna, Georgian, German, Giriama, Greek, Gujarati, Gusii, Hausa, Hebrew, Hindi, Hindi Urdu, Hindko, Hunanese, Hungarian, Icelandic, Igbo, Ilocano, Indonesian, Irish, Irish Gaelic, Italian, Japanese, Javanese, Kannada, Kazakh, Khalkha Mongol, Khmer, Kiha, Kikongo, Kikuyu, Kirghiz, Kiswahili, Kongo, Konkani, Korean, Krio, Kuanua, Kupang, Kurdi, Kurdish, Lamaholot, Lamotrekese, Lao, Latin, Latvian, Lingala, Lithuanian, Luo, Macedonian, Malay, Malayalam, Maltese, Mandarin, Mandingo, Manem, Maninkakan, Marathi, Mauritian, Mende, Mongolian, Moore, Morisyen, Mortlockese, Nagi, Ndebele, Nepali, Norwegian, Oriya, Oromo, Panjabi, Patois, Persian, Pidgin, Pidgin English, Pohnpeian, Polish, Poonchi, Portuguese, Punjabi, Quechua, Romanian, Russian, Sanskrit, Saraiki, Sardinian, Sarua, Satawalese, Schwyzerd?tsch, Serbian, Setswana, Shona, Sicilian, Sign Language, Sikka, Sindhi, Sinhala, Sinhalese, Slovak, Slovenian, Solomon Islands Pidgin, Somali, Spanish, Sunda, Sundanese, Susu, Swahili, Swedish, Swiss German, Synthesized, Tagalog, Taishan, Taiwanese, Tamil, Tatar, Telugu, Temne, Thai, Tibetan, Tigrigna, Tok Pisin, Tswana, Turkish, Twi, Ukrainian, Ulithian, Ulster Scots, Urdu, Uyghur, Uzbek, Vietnamese, Welsh, Woleaian, Wolof, Xiang, Yapese, Yiddish, Yoruba, Yue, Zoroastrian, Zulu which I thought was kinda cool and all but still, what is this a code for? who is Stella and how did she get mixed up in this international Bleu Cheese Conspiracy?

Monday, April 03, 2006

The Means to the End

I was up late the other night.
Catching up on work? No, I’m caught up. Researching some school materials? No. Writing and e-mailing my mom, Belle-Mère and all my old friends from school and work, all of whom I’ve promised I’d write and none of whom have heard from me in two weeks? I wish.
No, dear readers, I was cyber-whoring.
After promising myself that I wouldn’t, recently I failed to live up to that promise; I found myself once again at Lady Ann’s Brothel, taking man after man upstairs and cyber fucking them all silly, happy, satisfied and grateful. I was horney. I couldn’t sleep. I just needed it. Don’t ask why, don’t judge. Some of you look at porn. OK, I look at porn, too. Last night I was looking at porn while I was cyber-fucking one man after the other.
At least Ann’s gives us 30 minutes for each client now, instead of 20 like the old days.
It was good, and I was a limp rag after bringing myself and the guys to orgasm after orgasm. I’m such a good online courtesan. It’s the role I was made for. I feel like it’s what I was meant to do and I’m damn good at it. Monsieur doesn’t seem to care so much so why should I?
Except I did it until I passed out in the chair at an ungodly hour, then woke up at dawn and ran to the shower, scrubbed off the sticky sex smell, and got dressed. While I was slipping my jeans on, Monsieur came in.
“Cherie,” he said, “I would appreciate it if you would kindly close the application window of your naughty pictures when you are done with them, as they are not what I would wish to explain to the children.”
I blushed and sneezed. “I’m sorry,” I said.
“I do wish you to be more circumspect,” he continued. “It is fortunate that the only one in the room was the youngest boy, who did not observe these but was engrossed in the piano.”
“I really am sorry,” I repeated. “Really I am. Are you angry because I look? I love you; you know that I would rather have you than those … things, don’t you?” He looked like he was gathering his thoughts. “Do you want me to promise that I’ll not look at that anymore?”
“I pray you do not promise things of which you will not be able to uphold your end of the trust,” he said, with a tone that made me cringe and shrivel up inside.
“Do you want me to make it up to you? Do you …” oh god what do I do now, I thought, “do you want to punish me?”
He turned away, his hands in his pockets. “There is nothing for to punish you,” he said in a low voice. “It was an accident on your part; I understand and I don’t foresee that it should happen again.”
I couldn’t believe it of myself, but I took his leather belt from the dresser, bent over the bed and lowered my jeans. “Please,” I whispered.
I didn’t think he’d do it, honestly. Then he did. It was odd that I heard the whistle of the belt cutting the air and I had time to think, “oh no,” before it came down on my upturned ass. I was surprised that he would do it. He didn’t seem like he would.
The first one wasn’t so bad.
I didn’t feel the next one either; I think he was doing it so fast that the nerves in my butt didn’t get the chance to catch up with the belt. But around #5, that numb-shock feeling abruptly went away, to be replaced by this … this unbearable sting, agonizing in its intensity. I remember seeing photos of women getting spanked and how erotically helpless they looked. This wasn’t erotic. This hurt like a big sweaty dog.
He paused, and I thought I was done. I guess he was just getting a better grip on the belt, because suddenly that “whizzzz – CRACK!” made me jump and cry out. I bit the pillow, and then around #8 I let out a tiny cry. Two more sharp ones really close together, and I was done.
“Enough,” he said.
I got up. He handed me the tissues. I was crying hard, but I tried not to make a sound. He put his belt back on.
“Are you all right?” he asked softly.
I nodded, blowing my nose, embarrassed. “Thank you, Monsieur,” I whispered.
“Rubbish; you have no cause to thank me. But I sincerely hope that never happens again,” he said.
“You mean, spanking me?” I said.
“Well, that as well, but I mean leaving inappropriate things on the computer screen unattended when they might be found by the children.”
“I won’t, I promise.”
“Of that, I am confident.”
“I love you, Monsieur,” I said, taking his hand in mine.
“Of that, I am glad! though yet I don’t know why, yet.”
“Trust me, you’re wonderful.” I put my arms around him, and kissed him. “I don’t know about you, but I feel a lot better. Can we …”
“Have sex now?” he smiled. I nodded. “I think you should wait, your bottom is covered in some very red stripes.”
“I can take it,” I promised.
“Tomorrow. If I am not too tired, and the time is right, we shall make love.”
“Oh Monsieur, I can’t wait; I was up all night … at Ann’s,” I confessed.
He looked at me, arched his eyebrow, and shook his head and smiled. He went into the closet and I heard him moving some things, and he emerged with my vibrator in his hand. I felt something lurch in my stomach when I saw it. “Kneel on the bed,” he commanded very softly. I did. I asked him how long he knew that toy was hidden in there, but he did not reply, he concentrated only on me.
He was so gentle.
Afterwards, he helped me to a shower and wrapped me in a white robe and towel. I felt helpless. My eyes were red, my body trembling and weak, and my face flushed. I looked in the mirror at myself and laughed, briefly.
“Now, what are you laughing at, chère? What is it?” he asked, toweling me off.
“I look like one of those saints, like a martyr from my Catholic school textbooks.”
“How do you feel?” he asked.
I thought about it. “I feel … clean.”

Saturday, April 01, 2006

Fact is...

I am reading a textbook that is a history of technology, and how often it creates science, rather than the other way around as most people see it. The only reason I am going to include this excerpt in this blog is because the book was actually written by Maggie, and she had planned to use it in her school co-operative. Also, I wanted to show that the reason that I loved her, and love her to this day, is not just because she was a sultry, sexy thing (which she was) but because she was a genius, musically, academically, and in ways I am only just discovering.
(If you came here looking for sex scenes or breast shots, just keep clicking or scrolling down; there are plenty to go around here on this blog. I apologize for this academic tangent for those of you who came here looking for something else – have no fear; you’ll find both. This is here because I am both a teacher, and a big Maggie fan. I don’t think most people ever saw this side of her, or knew it existed.)
This concept [of a fact] is a relatively new idea, having no basis in the medieval world. What was known as a “fact” to the medieval mind, we would now identify as a “belief”. The medieval mind lived in a world that did not change from year to year; knowledge of the world was limited to personal experience and oral tradition, and one lived in a type of “present” without thought to future innovation or advance. The medieval mind was not less intelligent than the modern one. It simply lived in a world unencumbered as we are today with the need for organized and easily retrievable facts. Their lives were unchanging, timeless, and for the most part, local. People did things the way they had always done them, and to do things any other way even might have been considered a threat to society….
[10 pages skipped]
For the most part, we trust the technology that is a basis for our modern life. A passenger on a modern jet liner does not have to understand the technology or the mechanics of heavier-than-air flight in order to trust that technology. The passenger will simply purchase a ticket and line up at the gate, boarding pass in hand. Similarly, millions of people each day turn on their computers to connect to each other and to their culture via a complicated set of protocols and programs, none of which they understand beyond a rudimentary appreciation of the underlying technologies and the small set of commands that they have mastered in order to make those technologies function. They simply point and click; they do not need to know why it works; it simply does, as a matter of “fact”…. The medieval world was much different in its reliance on “lore”….
[12 pages skipped]
The European version of this medieval world changed, almost overnight in some locales, and within a generation in most others, with the dissemination of a technology which was itself an adaptation of another, centuries old technology, that had fallen into disuse. The obsolete technology was the old-fashioned screw wine press. The new technology was simply a modification of that old technology that gave the wine press manufacturers a market for their wares….
[5 pages skipped]
The technology had actually been originally developed in Korea along with the Korean king Sajong’s simplified alphabet of 24 characters. But this was not only cumbersome and hard to maintain, but was limited in use to reproducing the Chinese classics. Had in been used for Korean scientific and popular literature, and had the type fonts been more easily reproduced, the West sooner might have recognized Korea as the birthplace of the printing press…. Similarly, the Dutch inventor Coster and other experimenters in Bruges, Bologna, Avignon, Oxford, and Copenhagen made early developments in this new technology, but in the West, the honors go to a nearly bankrupt son of a Mainz coiner, who was avoiding his debt collectors by hiding out in an attic over an abandoned wine press. It did not all come at once – his father’s coining knowledge handed down to the son included recent advances in metallurgy, there were also advances in textile dyeing that gave this inventor knowledge of inks and oils, and nearby in Bavaria there were advances in paper production. These and innovations and tireless experimentation on the part of the inventor finally gave us the modern printing press, and the world now knows of Johannes Gutenberg….
From The History of Technology [unpublished] by Maggie. Written in longhand, in a very difficult to understand cursive that is making me nearsighted.
It goes on, maybe 500 pages worth in a loose-leaf binder, examining new technology and how it created science. Funny, how I was always taught the other way around – science breeds invention. I wish I could have been in Maggie’s class. How the hell am I gong to live up to that mind as a teacher for these children?