A date!

Monsieur called me from work yesterday.

He asked how things were going and we chit-chatted and he said that I needed a night out, on Saturday.

“Sounds nice,” I said. “I mean I haven’t been out in a while. I get asked out but I’m not especially interested in going out with guys or the dating thing.”

“I understand, of course,” he said. “But I have arranged for a sitter, for until 2 AM.”

“A sitter?” I was watching Littlest Boy and chatting online and should have been paying more attention.

“Yes, of course, if you and I were to go out, someone would need to stay with the children,” he said slowly, as if he were talking to someone dense. Which, he was.

“Oh! You’re asking me …” blush, big sneeze, “sorry.”

“Salud.”

“Thanks. Um, yes! I’d love going out with you!” my voice went up an octave. I cringed listening to how eager I sounded.

“Excellent. For Saturday, then?” I could hear him smile.

“Sure! When will the sitter be here? Who is it?” I had no idea about a sitter.

“Oh, I contacted [H] and she would be very glad to do it.” H is 18, very smart, and just started college. She lives in the small town near us.

“She would? Do the boys know her?”

“Yes, she has watched them before,” he said. I could hear him smiling as he talked. “I must go now but will speak to you of it when I come home.”

“Yes, Monsieur,” I said, somewhat out of breath. “I’ll see you then!”

“Oh, and if we go out, whether to hear music, or whichever – can you please not call me ‘Monsieur’ in front of others? I mean, I know you enjoy to do it, but it is somewhat difficult to explain someone who is so formal with me, whom I am sharing the evening. Do you understand?”

I blushed again but stifled the sneeze. “Oh, OK. I mean, of course, Monsieur.”

“Thank you, ma chère. Au revoir then.”

“Bye-bye, Monsieur.” I hung up.

“WOOT!” I yelled.

Littlest Boy looked up from his road construction work. “Woot!” he replied, and drove a toy ambulance to me, sirens blaring. “Woo-woot! Woo-woot!”

I picked him up, kissed him, and said, “I love your daddy. I love you, too.”

“Pa,” he replied. “Pa, pa. MMMMMM … wah.”

Mwah, indeed.

Am I getting enough out of this deal?

I was talking to my girlfriend J about my living situation, (without going into the detail that I am occasionally getting the Hot French Monkey Love action) and she said I don’t seem to be “getting enough out of this deal.”

To which I said, as politely and sweetly that I could, well, I should be the one to decide what I get out of it.

Am I getting enough out of this deal? Monsieur pays towards my student loans. He pays for my food, and rent is free. The only thing I need to wait tables for is extra money, like for clothes and extras, and to pay on my Visa card debt, which is pretty high. Somehow I racked up about a $4500 balance in five years of college. Which as I hear, isn’t out of the ordinary.

I buy my own health care and beauty stuff. I haven’t bought music or anything like that in a while, since I’ve been listening to the music around here so much. (There’s tons of it, some of it on vinyl that is older than my dad.) Also, for music, there’s a public radio station out of Austin and it plays a lot of the world music stuff I like, at night. It is better for me than the public radio stations in KC but M really thought the ones in KC were far better. Then again, she was into the jazz thing, which the KC public stations were really into.

Anyway, point is, I get plenty out of it. All my needs are answered. I don’t get everything I want, but who does? It’s a good life.

A Reprimand, or Not

Lest you think this life I lead is all just a cheap romance novel (in which Our Heroine is kept by the Lord of the Manor for his personal, private pleasure, [tingle, tingle]), I do work. I get up, make breakfast, dress children, assemble them in a van, take two of them to a school, and care for the toddler. This includes diaper changes, meals, play, reading aloud, nap, reading aloud, doing laundry, picking up toys, assembling lunch, making grocery and supply lists, and generally making sure that the house is safe, clear, clean and stocked.

Also I break up arguments, remind them to share, and I hug, console, and discipline.

It sounds like a lot, but these guys a very self-sufficient. They’re satisfied to come home, and start building and playing with space ships and satellites. When they get rowdy or fussy they’re usually ready for snack. Neither Middlest Boy nor Bigglest Boy has ever hit anyone, to my knowledge, as long as I’ve been here. Littlest Boy has been known to bite.

Yesterday Monsieur got onto Bigglest Boy for muttering to me under his breath in a rather disrespectful way. I usually let that go, or I say, “That hurts my feelings,” or something that avoids confrontation with him. I don’t want to butt heads with the kids. Well, Monsieur is a little more strict, and he got onto Bigglest Boy for it. Monsieur told Bigglest Boy if he ever heard him speak to a lady like that again, his life would be a misery. Then he took away TV for ALL boys until Saturday. Whew.

---

Later, the children were all asleep and as Monsieur was getting out of the shower, I asked him if he thought I was handling things wrong with Bigglest Boy.

He got onto me a little for not being stricter about respect from them. I felt reprimanded. I lower my eyes and said, “Yes, Monsieur,” like a good girl. His voice got gentler and he said, “I really think it’s important for you to be more firm with them, and for them to be aware of certain limitations with regards to behavior. I want that they grow up to be gentlemen.”

“I want that, too, Monsieur. I guess I am afraid of confronting them. [BB] is very strong-willed.”

“So he is, and that is all the more important that he does not behave badly, as he did. I know that most children are not raised quite so strictly but these children are very intelligent and very likely to figure out how to get the better of both of us. If you want to care for them, you must be vigilant that they give you the respect that you deserve.”

“Yes, Monsieur,” I said, my eyes lowered. My face was hot.

“I am not reprimanding you, [YH], I am trying to give you advice rather than telling you what you did wrong. Have I mentioned that you are doing wonderfully in what is a demanding, thankless and overwhelming set of circumstances?”

“Am I really?” I asked.

“Of course, and I really can not do without you now. That is why I want them to respect you, as they will remain in your care as long as you choose to remain. It is really the better for them.”

He needs me. I was floating on air.

“Can I ask you something else, unrelated to this?” I lowered my voice.

“Yes, go ahead,” he replied.

“The other night was … magical,” I continued. He looked embarrassed, poor thing. “Now, don’t look like that. I just wanted to know, if I can ever … expect it. Again. From you,” I added.

“…as I hugged him tighter he kissed me on my cheek.”

He looked stricken. My god, I thought, I went too far this time. I put my arms around him and hugged him. “It’s all right,” I whispered. “I just want you to know that I need it, a lot. And if you do too, then, well, please don’t hesitate to get it from me.”

“I’ll um, I’ll remember that, [YH]. I may not be able to give you as much as you need, but I assure you I give you as much as I can, and as often as I can.”

I grinned. “That’s good enough for me, darling Monsieur,” and as I hugged him tighter he kissed me on my cheek.

It

I can’t for the life of me stop thinking about … It.

Him. It. On me. In me. In my mouth, on my skin. I’m becoming obsessed, an animal craving, hungry, crazed. It’s like a fever.

More than love, more than lust, more than desire, I want to meet him at the door naked, on my knees.

(Of course I won’t, since the boys are awake when he comes home. I’m not even sure how he’d react to that.)

I’ve never, never ever, felt this way for anyone. I’ve always been my own woman, even in high school when I thought I was so immature and so easily pushed around by my boyfriend, I knew where my boundaries were.

Right now I’d do anything to see that look of satisfaction on his face.

Last night, after everyone was asleep, my mouth was hungry for him. Monsieur was reading something or another, work-related, and sitting there at the dining room table. I came to him and put my hands on his shoulders, and he looked up at me and smiled.

I knelt, took off my shirt and my bra, and reached for his waistband.

“You are in need of it again?” he asked.

“This time I need this,” was my reply.

I tugged his pajamas down, and took his fabulous length into my hands, running my tongue over It. It was still soft, but It moved, like a drowsy animal.

My tongue circled the head and then I opened my mouth and sucked on It. I love the spongy feel of a semi-hard one, and my eyes closed. I was deliriously happy.

His hands were on my shoulders and he breathed softly. I took his hands and put them on my head.

He began to fill my mouth and I could sense the heat in my body, rising. I open my eyes, looked up at him and closed them again.

He was beginning to fill my mouth more than I could take, so I pulled off of It and began to lick it from below, getting It wet and cupping his huge sack in one hand. I could feel his pulse in It as my hand circled the base, and I started to feel so randy I needed to lay down.

“Let’s go to the couch,” I said. He nodded, his eyes burning into mine.

“He sat and I lay down perpendicular to him and took It into my mouth again.”

He sat and I lay down perpendicular to him and took It into my mouth again. Stroking, sucking, licking … touching myself, my hair cascading over It and blocking his view. He moved my hair to one side, and I loved that.

It was too much for me to take at one time. My eyes began to water and my mouth, forced open wide just to get the head in, began to tire. My jaws cramped and I knew I couldn’t keep my teeth off of It no matter what I did.

He gently pulled me up to a sitting position. Drool ran down my chin and I wiped my lips, which were puffy and sore. He kissed my lips, and then he picked me up by me waist, and sat me down on his lap. He looked up at me, his dark eyes smoldering.

“You make me feel so … alive,” he whispered.

I blushed. Then, I sneezed.

That’s so embarrassing. I don’t know why I do that. Whenever I get embarrassed, I sneeze. It’s so weird, and then I get more embarrassed and I giggle and sneeze again – which I did, then. He handed me a handkerchief.

“Sorry,” I said. “I’m such a lady.”

“Yes,” he whispered. “You are – such – a lady.”

He lifted me up to my knees, and held It in his hand. I looked down at It – purple and red, almost menacing and yet so beautiful. I felt myself gush.

Placing my knees on either side of my waist, I lowered my hips to meet It with my tiny sex.

He rubbed It over my labia. I moaned. He simply held it there, and I realized, since he knew how big It was, I would have to make the commitment to have It enter me. I gathered my courage and lowered my hips more.

I could feel It flex, so I reached down to open myself. It lodged in my labia, knocking at my door.

I took a deep breath.

Then I lowered myself onto It.

It hurt but not as bad as before. It felt like I was being impaled on a steel fence post. His finger, soft yet rough, found my clit, rubbed it, and his mouth went to my throat and kissed my. He held my hair out of the way and he gasped. I felt another gush, and I felt my wetness running out of me, all over him. I pushed then relaxed. It popped in.

Then it was my turn to gasp.

It’s hard to imagine, I’m sure, how I react when I can actually hear my muscles and tender tissues stretch, but I could hear that. I was scared by it for a second but Monsieur sensed it and I heard him, as if from a great distance, whisper in my ear. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“Oh, oh yes, Monsieur,” I cried.

“You are certain, chère?”

“Oh, oui, oui, oh mon amour … donne-moi le … le…” but my pathetic high school French failed me then and I simply squatted down on It.

Oh … my … god.

The pain was tremendous, but … I could sense something else. She was here, I could feel it. “Maggie”. She was somewhere behind me, and I could feel her, like a warm breeze. I smelled the almond oil that she would put on her skin after bathing and the honey and balsam shampoo that she would use on her hair. There was a certain… lightness to the atmosphere, that would only occur when she entered the room.

I remembered what she told me about opening myself up, and I imagined that, like a flower, my sex was changing from a tightly packed little orchid bud to a flourishing, mature blossom. It was intense, the feeling, but the pain went to another place, and I felt it become bearable.

“Are you all right, my dear?” Monsieur whispered to me. It was as though he was a mile away, instead of right there, his mouth in my ear, his cock stretching me.

I nodded, my eyes closed.

“Don’t allow me to hurt you,” he said, “I only want you to feel good.”

I smiled gently, in spite of the intensity. I looked down and then I realized that he hadn’t moved since he first entered me.

I rocked forward. The pain seemed to ebb, or at least go to a place where it wouldn’t bother me, and it transformed into a feeling of intense joy.

My eyes opened and I could see the concern on his face. I must have looked like I was in agony and to reassure him, I smiled, then I leaned forward and I kissed him.

“Feels. So. Good, ” I whispered.

He made a noise in his throat. I placed my hands on his shoulders for balance, my face alongside of his.

I balanced on my knees and held my sex just over his lap, and he began thrusting up, slowly.

My sex is the red orchid, I kept thinking. I am blooming. I am the result of generations of women who can push babies out of their vaginas. I am strong, powerful; I am the essence of femininity. I am opening up. I am what he wants. I am a woman of pleasure. I give pleasure … “unnnnhhh…”

“Are you all right?” he whispered.

“Yesss … big … thick … cock … fuck … me … Monsieur….”

He gripped my ass, pulling me up and down on it. The blood went straight down to my tender, swollen clit, swelling it further and forcing it to scrape along his shaft with each thrust. I tried so hard to hold off and wait for him….

I couldn’t.

I came.

Hard.

He wasn’t even in all the way.

There was like a snag, something catching inside of me, and I rocked, moving my hips up and down trying desperately to keep up with his timing.

Try as I might, I couldn’t take him all. I was getting desperate. I wanted it, in One Smooth Stroke, but I wasn’t going to get it this time. I felt his hands on me, on my hips moving up to my breasts. When they closed on my breasts I gushed yet again, then I leaned back and whatever caught, was now clear. There was an unobstructed passage, and I lowered slowly onto his lap and I looked up into his eyes.

“I love you,” I whispered, “…Monsieur.”

He began to move earnestly with deliberateness to his strokes.

I took his hands and put them in my hair. “Pull it,” I whispered, pleading.

He gave a slight tug, but I begged in a slightly higher voice, “No, PULL it, give it a yank for me.”

He grabbed it in his fist and pulled down.

I came again and when my eyes stopped swimming and I could see again, I was full of him, my sex yawning open around the base of It.

He wasn’t moving

“Please, don’t stop,” I begged, and he gathered me up in his arms and lifted me up and down on It. I could sense he was getting close and I wrapped my legs around his back ad pressed my body into his, and whispered naughty things right in his ear. “Is that how you like it? Is this pussy yours? Do you like this pussy? Am I your girl? Oh you naught man, you … delicious … mm … sweet … thick … hunk of … mmm … man-flesh.” I cried out and came again and he leaned back, arched, and filled me with his seed.

Sated. For a time. For now. Until I could hear It cry for me once again.

I could feel him, pulsing into me, his heart beating against mine, hugging me so tightly, so warm, so sweet. I felt a fluttering behind me, sensing “Maggie”, watching us and I almost felt self-conscious in front of her like this, on her husband’s lap. Then I knew it was where she wanted me to be. The last thing she said to me, before she went in to the hospital, the day she died: “Take care for them,” she said to me, the last thing she said, before she passed away.

I will. I will, “Maggie”. If that’s all I will be able to do, I will take care of them, as best as I can.

Then, the insecurity comes crashing in...

My friend K from work said today on the phone, something like, “Oh, but [YH], you’ve got a man now, right?

It made me sit down and think. “You’ve got a man now,” – but do I have him? the only thing I’m really sure of is that I’m the nanny to his kids who holds off for two weeks (or more) before he finally asks me, very sweetly, for sex.

I know I willingly am here for the kids, and for him. I put myself in this situation willingly, almost blindly, knowing I would end up in love with Monsieur like I was crazy for “Maggie” – and now my heart is hanging on his every glance.

But. It. Drives. Me. Mad.

I am wondering if that’s not the point, right? for Monsieur – maybe he is trying to keep me on the very edge, all the time, so when he finally does give it to me, like he did the other day, it’s as though he is plucking me like I’m a ripe fruit. I burst in his mouth.

And, like the other day, I yield, like an eager bride.

One. Smooth. Stroke.

Size matters but not how you think.

Yesterday when I was sucking Monsieur (funny how I call him that now, even to myself, in real life) I kind of wanted to measure it. I’ve mentioned he’s big, but I didn’t have dimensions. And, of course, I can’t just say, “stay right there! I need measuring tape,” so I used my fingers, thinking I’ll measure them later. He’s two of my hands plus three finger widths long, and three full fingers thick across just behind the head. He’s maybe another half finger thick at the base. I remembered that measurement so I could measure my hands later. (You wonder why I don’t just ask him if I can measure him? If you knew him, and knew his demeanor, well, you wouldn’t wonder. He just is so proper, and so correct all the time, that it’s not really something I can broach.)

Well, so he’s at least eight and a half inches long, probably more like nine when he’s fully engorged. I’d say he’s almost a full three inches across at the base.

Damn, no wonder I’m sore.

Now, dear blog of mine, unless you think I’m a size slut, I’m not. There are some problems to having to deal with a cock like that. For one thing, good old fashioned deep-throating is really impossible. For me. Right now, that is. Maybe I’ll work up to it.

I’ve seen a tool that big before, I think, but I wouldn’t let it in me then. I think, no, I know I was afraid it would hurt. I didn’t want it in me. I used my mouth and hands on that guy, way back when, then let him ask out my friend Angelica who was into the big ones. He was a nice enough guy – thicker in more places than in his package, though. Not my type.

With another guy, I would have said no. With Monsieur, I’m just so in love that I want to be possessed by it. I want him inside of me. I am totally owned by him whether he knows it or not.

So I guess the point is with anyone else, I would have given up. It’s really too big to be comfortable. With Monsieur, I don’t want to be comfortable. I want it to hurt at first then feel good; that warmth of surrender is what I crave.

When I first saw it, when sex reared its head a few weeks after “Maggie” died, I was scared of it. I didn’t think I could do anything with it. Monsieur’s hands, fingers, tongue, voice, all made me surrender to it. And even then I couldn’t take all of it. So, you remember, I purchased “the Monster.” Mostly to get used to the size of something so huge, and also for my own relief since Monsieur did not consider me his ‘girlfriend’ or whatever and I couldn’t count on him to give me regular sex.. (I still don’t think he think of me that way.) Well, the Monster helped me with it, after a few times. I can now take him all. My next task, which I have chosen for myself, is to be able to take him all at once, the first time. No pausing, no crying, no “Ahh! Easy there!” or pain I can’t handle. One. Smooth. Stroke. To the base.

“Maggie” told me she could take Monsieur all the way, into her throat. I wish I could have seen that. She was so beautiful. Her eyes, her lips. Her voice.

She had a Korean father and a Chinese mother, and her hair was so black it had like blue highlights. Her eyes sparkled with intelligence – with fire when she was angry, and with bubbles when she laughed.

It’s no secret to readers that I loved her too. My first girl crush. I miss her so badly.

Will the Yearning Heart be able to do achieve her goal of taking it in One Smooth Stroke without Monsieur fucking her every other night?

Will Monsieur find a way to let the Yearning Heart approach him without him consumed with shame, guilt or remorse?

Will Emma Lou be able to save the farm before the bank forecloses?

Tune in again for the next heart-rending episode of [Cue Music: the Yearning Heart Theme]
♥ ♥ ♥ The Heart Approaches What It Yearns

Gush

From behind

Delicious, sweet, early-morning, gushy gooey yummy sex.

5:30 AM. Sound asleep, and Monsieur woke me up by pulling my toes. I sat up with a start, worried, I guess that there was a weather emergency or something. I hadn’t slept well since the storm (Rita) started for the Texas coast and I had been asleep since the moment I got home from my waitressing job. He put his finger to his lips then to mine and motioned for me to get out of bed. I followed, obediently. Littlest Boy was sound asleep in the big bed.

Monsieur held my hand and walked me to my old room, what will be Littlest Boy’s room once he can sleep all by himself. I pretended to be sleepy and said, “What is it?” just so I could hear him say it.

“I want to make love with you,” he whispered.

(Gush!)

“You do? Are you sure?”

“Oh yes,” he almost moaned, then pressed his body into mine.

My arms wrapped around him. “I’ve wanted you so much, Monsieur,” I whimpered, “so badly. I didn’t know if you wanted me anymore.”

“I’m so sorry [Yearning Heart], that I have been ignoring you. My heart has been tossing back and forth. I miss ‘Maggie’ and I feel like I am being unfaithful to her when I want you in this way.”

“Hush,” I whispered, “you’re still a man and you have needs. Just let me take care of them.”

I undressed him and slipped out of my jammies. “How do you want me?” I asked.

He gave a little laugh. “I am not particular,” he replied.

I stroked him; it was like an iron bar, so hard. I could feel my desire, like a living thing, inside me. I knelt down and took some of it into my mouth, as much as I could, my jaw stretched open wide. He gasped.

I looked up at him and knew I couldn’t even come close to taking him into my throat. “Maggie” used to brag how she could. She seemed like such a tiny woman. I admired her even more for her ability.

Resolving to be the second-best fuck that Monsieur ever had, I pulled off of his cock and knelt on the bed, bending over and spreading myself for him. I reached back and took his cock in my hand, pulling him to my sex and rubbing it up and down my folds. Then I let go of it and spread myself open with my fingers. “Please, now, in,” I whispered. He pressed it into me. I heard him gasp again and it sent a shiver up my spine. “All the way. Please,” I begged.

It started its long journey, tunneling into me. It felt like a living thing, which, I suppose, it was. Stretching me. Plowing me. It hurt a little – ok a lot – but I wanted it.

I cried out then bit the pillow. He stopped. “Am I hurting you? I don’t want to hurt you,” he said softly.

“Please, Monsieur, please, please take me,” I almost cried. I reached under me and held his balls in my hand, then I rubbed myself hard, in circles, with the tips of my fingers.

He held onto my hips and resumed going in again. My mind was going blank with the sensation, my nipples like burning points of steel and my body blushing crimson. “Oh, oh, I love you,” I blurted out.

He moaned and pulled my hips closer to him. I heard his breath catch then he began the rhythm of fucking me. It felt divine. I wanted him to use me for his pleasure, pull me hard and slam into me. He was so gentle, though. It was almost enough.

“Is that all of it?” I asked.

“No, it is most of it,” he said, pausing to breathe.

“I want it all, you know I can take it,” I whispered.

He held on to me and lifted my hips up, then slowly inched it into me, my sex widening as it stretched to accommodate him. I felt my cervix getting bumped and I started with the pain.

“Ahh!” I gasped.

“Let’s stop a second,” he suggested.

“No. Fucking. Way,” I said, gritting my teeth. I can do this, I said to myself, and imagined my sex was a flower, a tightly packed orchid, blooming, opening up, for Monsieur. I rubbed myself again, then began to rock on my hips.

“Oh, my love,” he cried softly. I was tight; I could feel the heat from the friction. It was delicious. He began to fuck me again, in spite of himself. I could feel the sensation build up, in my womb, spreading over my body.

“More,” was all I could say.

I could sense that his body was taking over. I surrendered to him utterly, biting the pillow and moaning to obliterate the pain of his thick cock plowing into me. Then it hit me suddenly.

“I’m coming – ahh!” was all the warning I could give him.

“Yes, my love,” he gasped and I felt the splash of his seed filling me, completely, bathing my sex and then running out of it. His hands found my breasts and pulled them, squeezing them as his rhythm picked up speed, and I felt another one rising up and consuming me. Sweet, sweet orgasm.

I must have blacked out. I could feel my senses returning, and when my eyes could focus again, he was laying beside me and holding me. I asked him if he’d had enough.

“Do you want more?” he asked.

“No, love, I’m fine. But there is more if you do.”

“I am sated I think,” he said, then laughed and muttered something in French.

Did I mention “delicious”?

Oh, and “yum!”

Sigh.

Just a Wind

It blew east of us.

Rita slammed into the Sabine River pass and all we saw were 30 mph winds. At least we have all the canned food and water we need for a while. And diapers.

Now the storm’s path is curving up towards northern Louisiana and Arkansas.

Work was jamming. There is a music festival in town plus all these people from Galveston, Houston and East Texas. All hungry. I made $113 after tip-outs today and gave $15 to the Red Cross.

I’m going to take a nap. Tomorrow will be even busier, I bet.

“A Whole New Area of Crime”

White Tigers and Dynamic Steppers “Bring It On”.

Wichita KS drill team the Dynamic Steppers, was practicing routines at McAdams Park near 13th and I-135 Saturday. When members of another drill team, the White Tigers, showed up and challenged the others to a “dance-off.”

”When it became clear the challengers were losing,” said police, a 28-year-old woman whacked a 17-year-old Stepper in the face with a drumstick.

The Stepper punched the woman in the face, then jumped in his Ford Exploerer and tried to run down witnesses. His mother, a Stepper coach, sliced open the other woman’s arm, a gash that required eight stitches.

50 people were involved, but only two arrested.

What I like about Kansas is the laid-back Midwestern attitude. You don’t see too much of that inner-city gangsta crap in Kansas.

• Wichita Eagle
• KC Star

One more thing

• Duct tape.

Thanks to Middle Boy, for remembering.

Clearing for Action

I don’t mind the world going to hell in a bucket, but I’d like my own bucket to go in.

Here come the winds, they say.

At 10 AM CDT… 1500Z… the eye of Hurricane Rita was located near latitude 24.3 north… longitude 85.9 west or about 260 miles… west of Key West Florida and about 755 miles east-southeast of Corpus Christi Texas.

Rita looks bigger than Katrina and this time they are looking at Galveston TX or Freeport TX for a landfall.

Location           A  B  C  D  E
Galveston TX       X  1  9  6 16
Freeport TX        X  1 10  6 17
Port OConnor TX    X  1 11  5 17
Corpus Christi TX  X  1  9  6 16
Brownsville TX     X  2  9  5 16
A is % probability from now to 7AM Thu
B From 7AM Thu to 7PM Thu
C From 7PM Thu to 7AM Fri
D From 7AM Fri to 7AM Sat
E Is Total Probability from Now To 7AM Sat
X Means Less than One Percent

Katrina evacuees who are staying in Houston are bugging out. CM, my online friend who (I think) lives in Houston sent me a PM that said she was probably bugging out.

My dad wants me to come home but I think I will stay with this family. I think I’ll likely be needed here.

I’m putting together an evac list and gathering up what we need, and putting it all into boxes:

• 3- to 5-day supply of canned and other non-perishable foods that we can eat cold
• 3- to 5-day supply of water (½ gallon of water per person per day)
• Alcohol-based hand sanitizer
• Any unfilled written prescriptions
• Battery operated radio
• Birth certificates
• Bottled water
• Can opener
• Crackers, peanut butter, etc
• Diapers and sanitary pads
• Disposable cleaning cloths or wipes
• Driver license or other photo ID
• Extra batteries for cell phones
• Extra batteries
• Extra clothing
• Extra eyeglasses, contacts and solutions
• First aid kit
• Flashlights
• Fruits and vegetables
• Health insurance cards and policies
• Ice and ice chests
• Immunization records for children and adults
• List of medications taken by family members
• Manual can opener
• Matches
• Medications
• Prescription medications and containers
• Sleeping bags or blankets, sheets, pillows
• Soap, toothpaste, tissue and other personal hygiene supplies
• Social Security cards
• Toilet paper
• Votive candles
• Water-purifier, such as unscented chlorine bleach or iodine tables
• Ziploc bags (matches, toilet paper and extra clothing in these bags to keep them dry)

Pray for the world.

Avowe yer Love like a Pyrate

e do enquyre why I place the fayth in such a captaine as this, and me bande o’ hearty boyes. This I tell to ye: I sayle wi’ them for mine owne purposes onlie, aye, for in takyng the loot o’ the Dons tho’ I myght cym to possession o’ the Spanyshe Main, the which ys Pyrate Plunder fro’ the first, so I be entytled, crisp me liver if it ain’t! Elsewyse, I be entytled to find mine owne reasons, for the hearte doth speake its owne song and that more playnly to some as to th’ others. So not think amyss that I looke to mine owne hearte, but mend your owne fortunes as chance serves.

And if ye looke presentlie o’er the loom o’ the lande, shalt see me at my sayling. If I goe southe o’ the setting sun, to those islands to the which none bourne can return, doubt me not, for when the sun is o’er the foreyard — forget me nott.

Sygned this daye, wi’ all soothe and be damned to ye else,
Ye Yearning Hearte

"We're the Lucky Ones"

J & B are looking very strongly about cutting and running from New Orleans. They still haven’t sat down and explained to their daughter L exactly what to expect with their little white house. And now they are thinking of moving to Lafayette.

All they keep telling her is that there is too much water to go back to their house. The water is over the first floor of most houses. There’s a very good chance that when the water recedes, there will be nothing left of their home except for a concrete slab.

I feel so bad for this family, for this little girl who has likely lost the only home she has ever known.

Yet B doesn’t want to hear any sobbing about it.

“We’re the lucky ones. We got out with our vehicle, our emergency papers, all our IDs, credit cards – even our Social Security cards and birth certificate, the titles to our van, to the house. We have our retirement we can cash in. There must be a million people who don’t have that.”

I’m just amazed and astounded at their resilience. I know that a house full of memories is simply a collection of things. I just don’t know how I’d react if my parents ever lost their home.

I wouldn’t know what to tell little L. She’s only five and she plays with D’s boys. I can hear their make-believe play all the time. The boys play in space-related themes: space stations, satellites, and the occasional moon and Mars missions. L plays with lots of house keeping and baby care themes. Sometimes a storm comes through and blows down her house, and shuttle lands nearby to pick up survivors and take them to a space station.

Another tragic sex-related injury

OK so I got some lovin’. And right as I got off, I sort of twisted and um … fell off the bed. And I broke my little toe, on my left foot.

Ouch.

Worse, it was before he finished. So I couldn’t finish him.

Plus, I had to wait tables with a broken toe. But I got lots of sympathy tips. So it isn’t all bad.

Goodbye, and Good Luck

We had two couples who living with us who were displaced by Katrina, now we have one. The couple who did not have children have gone back to Louisiana, to see how much they can recover. They have friends who are back in Louisiana, near Baton Rouge. I sincerely hope they are going to end up all right. I told them to please stay in touch with us. I am going to miss them because they are so nice. Also, she's a hella good cook.

Gimme Some Lovin'

It’s been rather hard getting any of what my mom euphemistically calls “intimacy” lately. I don’t know if it’s because of:

• our houseguests (the storm-swept detritus of Hurricane Katrina)
• if he’s really just not in the mood
• if it’s me
• if he feels guilty (I can’t imagine losing someone I’ve been with for 10 years)
• or what.

I just wear my little tank tops and panties to bed and cuddle him every night. And hope for the best.

Classic Dame

Katharine Hepburn

I scored 19% grit, 23% wit, 57% flair, and 14% class!

I am the fabulously quirky and independent woman of character. I go my own way, follow my own drummer, take my own lead. I stand head and shoulders next to my partner, but I am perfectly willing and able to stand alone. Others might be more classically beautiful or conventionally woman-like, but I possess a more fundamental common sense and off-kilter charm, making interesting men fall at my feet. I can pick them up or leave them there as I see fit. I share the screen with the likes of Spencer Tracy and Cary Grant, thinking men who like strong women.

Find out what kind of classic leading man you'd make by taking the Classic Leading Man Test.

Test tracked 4 variables. How The Yearning Heart compared to other people her age and gender:

She scored higher than 40% on grit

She scored higher than 39% on wit

She scored higher than 89% on flair

She scored higher than 11% on class

Link: The Classic Dames Test written by gidgetgoes on OkCupid Free Online Dating

My Bumper Sticker

My new bumper sticker:

I’m not very happy with where my tax dollars are going right now.

In Time of Need

We’re taking in 5 people who are displaced from the storm in New Orleans.

Well, D is. I just work here.

We’re moving me into the downstairs bedroom. A couple who I’ll call J & B and their 5 year old daughter L will have my room.

We’ll pack up the piano, the cmputer and the school things and give them the Music Room. This computer is moving to the dining area.

They’re gonna be here tomorrow.

We’ll be a little short on space but *tee-hee* I’ll be sleeping with Monsieur!

*tee-hee*

To hell with it, I’m going back to wearing a tank top and little panties.

Details! We Have Details!

This isn’t exactly a word-for-word play-by-play; it’s to the best of my memory.

Well, it worked. Hot little red dress, which I paraded and pirouetted in front of Monsieur, and K and I went out after that to see this kinda Celtic/zydeco/square dance band, Zen Pig. Good dancing, loads of fun.

Before we left I had my first drink of the night and the first one in weeks, a whisky rocks, which I sipped slowly and the spilled a little bit of it on my chest. I wanted to smell like I might be a little tipsy.

When I got home, he was still awake so I asked him if he had waited up.

“No, no,” he said, “I just couldn’t sleep.”

I moved the conversation to me, again. “Monsieur, dear? Would you take me upstairs to bed?”

“How many drinks have you had?”

I rolled my eyes and I held up one finger. “Enough to throw myself at you and not be afraid of what you will do to me.”

“Maybe you should go to bed and we’ll talk about it later,” he said, getting up.

I dropped my dress, and stepped closer to him. I hadn’t worn a bra. I was in my panties and my heeled sandals.

He muttered something in French, and then he said, “If you are the worse for drinking, I would not forgive myself.”

And I said, “Well, if we don’t go to bed, I won’t forgive you. So decide now.” I ran my fingers inside the waistband of his shorts. “You just don’t want me, do you?”

“It’s not that I don’t want you...”

“Don’t you like girls?” I pouted.

He laughed, in a feeble way. “Of course I like girls.”

“Well, is it OK if I just sit on your lap and play with myself?”

“You’re really serious?”

“Um, DUH.” I rolled my eyes. Then I kissed him. “A gentleman wouldn’t make a girl beg like this,” I whispered. (A line from Desire in the Threshing Field, a very bad play I was in.) “Should we go to your room or mine?”

“Well, [Littlest Boy] is in my bed,” he whispered.

I gushed my panties; I knew I had him.

---

Did I mention “yum”? Yum.

Practicing with “The Monster” helped, too. He sank into me, all 1/8 of a fathom in

One

Smooth

Stroke.

That’s as many details as I can give about that.

Oh, yeah, he did whisper “unbelievable” as he fucked my brains out. That made my head spin. He’s so good.

---

Afterwards, we talked a bit. He asked me what I “intend”.

(Geez, I don’t know!) “I intend to love you, and to care for your children.”

“Do you want more?” he asked in a whisper.

“That’s totally up to you, sweetheart. I will take what you give me, and smile.”

“I don’t know how ready I am, or whether I will be ready,” he replied.

I giggled. “You’re so wonderfully 17th century. Kiss me and hush.”

He did.

“I just don’t want to hurt you,” he said and I could tell he meant it.

“You’re wonderful. I’m a grown-up. I won’t let you hurt me too badly.”

I was going to make comparisons, just then, but for a second I totally forgot SH’s name – and I lived with him for a year! So I guess there’s no comparison.

Am I Really This Famous Homosexual?

Go and figure:

Which Famous Homosexual Are You?
Brought to you by Rum and Monkey

Soccer

I’m gonna take on a new assignment, in addition to the ones I already am struggling with. It seems Middle Boy has always wanted to play soccer but Mama couldn’t take him because of the mountain of commitments she already had.

I told him I’d be delighted to take him. There’s a group for the home schooled kids in this area and we went and checked it out. They meet at the Soccer Fields in the local central park. I got to talking to SK, one of the coaches, and she practically begged me to help coach when she found out I played in high school.

So, I’m now an assistant coach.

I even have a whistle.

¡¡¡TWEET!!!

The Plot Thickens: the Yearning Heart Picks Out a Dress

I have my dress all picked out. Please see that crazy scheme from a few days ago.

It’s short (of course), red, low neckline, flare skirt, and I’ll wear the strappy heeled sandals and my hair up.

I usually don’t wear perfume or anything but a bit of cologne will do nice.

K is up for it; she doesn’t know about my plan to drive D insane but she doesn’t need to. I think it will go over OK.

I hope it will.

My heart yearns.

Another Scheme

It’s been two and a half months since I last had it with D. It’s making me crazy. He’ll hug me once in a while, and he’ll give me a chaste kiss on occasion. Does he want me? I don’t think he does.

My friend DB says maybe he’s just hurting, I understand that. I can’t imagine what D’s going through. But, he’s still a man (and how) and I think he needs it more than he knows.

My new plan is to get all dress up and go out with my friend K, who works at the restaurant with me. She’s cute, funny and seems like fun. I’ll put on a hot little red dress and go out and tease guys, but I’ll be sure to show off for Monsieur first. Give him a litttle skirt twirl, that sort of thing.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

Yet Another Blog

I’ve moved everything (for the past year) to yet another blog. Thanks, everyone, for following me to Blogspot from Typepad.

Actually, I have my doubts as to whether anyone reads this.

Identity Crisis

I wish I weren’t feeling so guilty about his chica that “Maggie” knew.

She’s an online buddy. Apparently she had a major thing with Maggie and naturally was nuts about her. Well, now she’s just nuts.

She thinks I’m Maggie; like, we’re the same person and have been all along.

At first I was shocked then I felt sorry for her. Poor thing; she really liked her - now she’s just delusional. Then it got annoying and then it made me angry.

The thing is, M kinda “recommended” this girl to me as a fun and imaginative online playmate. Having no experience with girls, I was curious and intrigued.

Also I figured that it was really M all along anyway, and she was playing a game with me.

Then I told her Maggie was gone, passed away.

So she just kinda did this weird 20 questions game, back & forth, back & forth and then, she came out and said, “oh quit playing, I’ve known you two were the same person all along.”

I was floored, and denied it in a very firm way.

She also entertained the suspicion that D is also me. (Did I tell you she was delusional?)

So I did a terrible thing. I said, ok I admit it. I’m Maggie, and you were right all along, and I did it because I’m confined to a wheelchair and I’m 63 years old.

Then we had cybersex. After that, I’ve ignored her and blocked all of her PMs.

That was in June.

I was angry. I was furious. She only liked me because she thought I was Maggie. What is wrong with being me? Why did she do that to me?

Now I regret it. I shouldn’t of led her on. She’s a person with feelings. Sigh.

I’m so stupid. I wish M were here.

Deep Breath

This is embarrassing but.

Deep Breath.

Here goes.

Monsieur is … big. Down there. He’s got a big ‘un. It’s like my arm, when there’s a navel orange in my hand. My god, blog, he’s big.

I knew he was since M was rather proud of him, that way. But I wasn’t prepared for it.

When I finally unpeeled that forbidden fruit (you remember my mentioning) I was astounded. Speechless. And, I was a little scared.

But it was OK as I did finally um … figure out how to handle it. But I think I could have done better. So in case there’s a next time, I ordered a … “work out tool”.

It’s big, too. And it arrived. I’m scared to death of it. But I need to be brave. For Monsieur.

Amber and I are going to try them out together. Online, of course; not in person (oo! That would be sweet). We’ll see how it goes.

---

Yahoo went to shit very quickly after M’s death. It seems that online advertisers discovered that most user rooms were inhabited by – are you ready, people? – perverts. That’s where their ad dollars were going.

Did no one ever look in on these communities? I mean, really. Do you think somebody at Georgia Pacific got all upset at the ‘Role Playing Chat User Rooms’ that say “13 Year Old Girls for Older Guys”?

Of course not. They got upset because a TV station in Houston ran a big story about it, and the Xians complained. Now I can’t pretend to be a 13 year-old girl online.

Joking!

But it’s awful that the perverts (who didn’t go away; never mind what anyone says) have to mingle with the ordinary role-players.

I miss Maggie, at the piano or managing at Ann’s. On the piano, she was pure class. As a manager, she was brutal. I felt safe when she was managing. She was the best one.

Girls Who Beg

I begged for sex.

No I didn’t. I presented a case for it. I need it, he needs it, we’re both here and we like each other.

No commitments, no weepy sentimentality. Just, “Monsieur, I hope you enjoyed me and if you ever could I would very much enjoy it of you were to have me again. I will not lock my bedroom door; it is open to you, always.”

And he smiled and hugged me.

I tried to grope him (there were no kids around) but he gently pulled my hand away. I asked him if he was open to the idea, and he sighed and smiled and said, “There is no one but you, who I consider to be likely.”

A Sweet Offer

I’m not having any Julie Andrews fantasies here; this isn’t the Sound of Music. It would sure help my self-esteem if Monsieur would just throw me down on my bed, rip off my nightgown and plow me like he’s a cultivator tool and I’m five acres of rich bottom land.

On the plus side, Middle Boy has asked me for my hand in matrimony.

Well, he wasn’t quite so formal; rather he said, “Can I be your husband?”

Of course I had to turn him down. But how?

“Oh, [Middle Boy] I’m sure you’d make a wonderful husband. But I’m not really old enough to be married right now.”

“When will you be old enough?”

“Maybe when I’m fifty or so.”

“Fifty is old.”

“Yeah, it is. I think you should try with someone who wants to get married when you’re ready for it, and don’t wait for me.”

Biggest Boy piped up. “[Middle Boy], you’re not gonna get married.”

“I am too. I’m gonna be a guy, and drive a car and be a daddy and a husband too!” his little voice squeaked.

“Oh, you are not,” Biggest Boy said.

Screamed, “I AM!!! I’m gonna be a Husband!!!! ”

Of course, I am the voice of reason. “[Middle Boy], you can be whatever you want: a daddy, a husband, or a truck driver. Right now, you’re a big brother AND a little brother, and it’s time for you to brush your teeth.”

As Usual, Sex Rears its Swollen, Pulsating Head.

He nailed me the other night. Monsieur, that is. I was so happy just to get rid of the tension and yet right afterwards he said to me, “It can not happen any more. Never again.”

Never again. Damn.

Oh, he made these noises and all about how it would be upsetting for the children, and it would be too soon for him but still. Damn.

Doesn’t he need it? Of course he’s mourning. I knew it would get sticky and complicated if I stayed here. But if he kicks me out I’ll die.

But I gotta tell you, blog o’ mine. It was … wonderful. Delicious.

And, he’s hung like the freaking Louisiana Purchase.

Work is the Curse of the Drinking Class

I haven’t blogged in a while.

I found a job, and I have decided to quit drinking.

The job is at this diner; not a bad place, and very family friendly. I like it. I’m the Yearning Heart, and I’ll be your waitress this evening.

The no-drinking thing has been a pretty easy decision. I just don’t have time to get drunk. These kids get me up at 7 AM.

And it begins again. Here comes the baby.

Should I Stay? Should I Go?

I have $800 saved. I need to find my own place.

Kind as he is I doubt D will let me live here forever.

I just threw my backpack and suitcase in the spare bedroom and got to work.

I need to find a job. Back to waitressing. I need to cover those damn debts. I can’t ask D for money; not now. We never talked about it he just called me back and said, “OK, you’re right, I need your help.” I don’t think he could pay for everything eyond food & rent. I’m not having any Julie Andrews fantasies here

Road Trip

We went to Houston to visit M’s parents. I know her mom had some reservations about me but when she saw me she didn’t say anything catty or rude, she was very gracious.

Her dad was really cool. He’s still really shaken up about M’s passing. Understandably. I can’t imagine how it must feel for a daddy to be at his little girl’s funeral.

We stayed at a hotel. I slept in the bed with Middle Boy and the other two boys slept with their daddy.

One night, their daddy kissed me. On the forehead, but I nearly fainted. I thought he was angry or impatient with me, so I said “Monsieur (I call him ‘monsieur’) I’m sorry if I did anything to make you mad,” and he said, “Dear lady, do not trouble yourself, I am out of sorts,” and he took my face in his warm hands and kissed me on the forehead.

I damn near creamed to death. I feel like I’m 16 and a groupie. ‘EEEEEK!’

We went to NASA, which the big boys loved. We just got back today. Whew.

Aching for Him

Yes, I want him, so much, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t. (Who’d lie to a blog?)

Is the age difference is a big deal? I’m 24 and he’s 42. I just had a birthday. May 21.

If he doesn’t want me I would be okay with that too. I just want to help watch the boys as long as they need someone, really. Just change & pick up the baby, help the big boys. Right now they call me Aunt Peppermint, or Pepper.

I’m scared of only two things

1. I’d not be good at it, not be enough help.
2. What would people think?

I just don’t want his family to be angry with me

I feel like M is watching me.

A Purpose, for the First Time in My Life

My online friend Amber helped out somehow, (remember the one who was Girl of the Week at Lady Ann’s about a billion times? Thank You Sweetheart!!! bunches and bunches ♥ ♥ ♥ so much for talking to D) . After (I guess) a lot of soul-searching and talking to everyone he knew, D called me. I am here in my dad’s house and my cell phone was dead out of power, but after I re-charged it I saw his call, and called him right back.

I was right. He does want me to come help. (oh thank you God!) He’s really opened up to me. He admitted that his sister is against it, “Maggie”’s mom is against it, even Bobbi is not too sure (Bobbi?! who is Bobbi?! The one who fired Maggie from Lady Ann’s and believed T instead of me and you and Maggie and just stabbed her in the back - why is what BOBBI thinks any concern of D’s?) but he’s going to give it a chance. PLEASE GOD don’t let me screw this up.

Acting can wait. School can wait. I need a break anyway. I used to be a day care worker (ecch! not very rewarding) so I know a little what I’m getting into, but on the other hand, no I don’t. These kids are geniuses and I better watch out!

But don’t know everything that Amber told D. Did she tell D how I feel about him? I hope not, but so, I guess it’s ok; I just need to know, just so I know. He made a hint about that, something like: “this is a relationship just for the children, do you understand that?” and “We will hardly see each other; you will come here and I hand the boys to you, I will come home and you will hand the boys to me” and made sure that I understand that. So, I think he has some idea that I’m doing it out of love and not just for “Maggie” and the boys.

He also was worried that he couldn’t pay me and I wanted to scream out “You big stupid gorgeous French idiot!!! of COURSE you can’t pay me!” but I bit my tongue and said that the children were their own reward or something noble like that.

OK, I’m about to jump head first into the fire, and I’m leaving tomorrow. (Whew! I’m not looking forward to that drive yet again.) I am (maybe) going to get online tonight but don’t be worried if I don’t.

The plan:

I cleared out my apartment, (thank you Daddy!) I am selling my laptop to my brother (hey, I need the money) and I have moved everything I can to my dad’s house. If is won’t fit into my Saturn I’m not going to keep it with me.

I’m quitting my jobs. I’ve already called them. It’s cool. They’d give me a recommendation, I bet. MOD guy

My roommate actually wants me out of there so her boyfriend can move in. (I have a different roommate than I did months ago; I’m moved out of Stacey-Jesus’s place and was staying with a very nice and cool chica named Ashley. (No, really, she’s nice, even if her name is Ashley. It was her parents’ fault.)

I’m scared. This is like the plot of a novel I wouldn’t even suspend my disbelief for.

• What if I’m no good?
• What if the kids hate me?
• What if D wants me out?
• What if he finds someone? I mean, that would be fine. But I’d be out of there.
• What if … what if I get into Northwestern and I have to leave them?
• What if my attraction to D gets unbearable? And I make an idiot of myself? And he ends up hating me?
• What if whatif whatif whatif whatif whatif whatif whatif whatif …

I have never felt this way. Insecure. Unsure of what will happen, and knowing that I have to – no, I have to – do this.

Memorial Day

I’m trying to get my thoughts down.

“Maggie” was sick from Thursday before last week, till she died last Wednesday. Her doctor had her do a CT scan and they found what Maggie called a tiny dark spot so they ordered an MRI, and she had to go into the hospital to have that done. When she went in she had no idea. But she kissed me, like, right on the mouth before she left.

“Maggie” looked terrible, her eyes were all puffy.

She handed me the baby and said, “Please, take care of them.”

I didn’t even notice it so much at the time. She knew; I’m sure of that.

Her funeral was Saturday. I won’t even say how many people remembered her fondly. Plenty of the musicians, some of whom have records that I’ve heard on the radio.

Even Lady Ann sent roses. White roses. They were beautiful.

There is a web page out there that the Lady Ann people put up; it’s really just a guest book. It has dozens of people expressing condolences.

I can’t stop crying. Neither can Littlest Boy. He’s just a baby, and he wants to nurse. What will they do? Whatever will they do? How can you grow up without your mama?

The Yearning Heart Screws Courage to the Sticking Place

dateline, Sedgwick County, KS

I’ve cleared my head, I’ve thought about it, and I have decided to ask if I can stay at D’s and look after M’s children.

I just don’t know what he’ll say.

Just so you, dear blog, don’t think I’m nuts: I spoke to D and asked him what he might need right now.

He needs child care.

It’s the least I can do. Hell, it’s the only thing I can do. He says I can stay here, in the spare room I’ve been staying in.

My mom thinks I’m crazy. Mademoiselle D, D’s sister, thinks I’m way out of line. Bobbi (you remember, this one) is D’s friend, and she thinks I’m out of line too, that they need time to grieve and be alone as a family.

With all due respect to my mom, to my former roommate, to M’s friend and my former “HR director”: Poo on that. They also need someone to drop off and pick the kids up at school, and someone to watch the baby and someone to get breakfast and someone to help settle arguments and to help teach them what girls are about and all those things and I don’t even know what. But I need to feel like I’m helping. Walking out now and just going up to KC and waiting tables seems so wrong. I can stay down here and make beds, change diapers, hold hands, wipe tears.

I’m not saying I’d be anywhere near as good as M at any of those things. I amnot a substitute mom.

And … I am NOT doing this so I can work my way into D’s heart. I swear to that on M’s ashes, on Cate Blanchett’s diction and on Ireland herself. He’s already worked his way into mine and I can’t deny it. But I want to be there for the kids. He needs time to his grief. I won’t get between him and M right now.

Flopping Around Like a Hooked Fish

I really wanted to stay, and give up my old life, and just stay there and help, but I didn’t know what D would say if I ask.

How long should I wait? a week? a month?

I only need to turn in my apartment keys and help my roommate in Kansas City.

Here I am, I’m totally single and just graduated, no ties, no commitments. A pending application at Northwestern.

I don’t just want to jump in D’s bed, I want to take care of the children while he works. I don’t want to hurt him because of my selfishness.

Gone

she’s gone she’s gone oh my god she’s gone she went in (on wednesday? what day is this?) to get an MRI and she had an aneurysm and collapsed. they took her in to surgery and she ... she didn’t make it. Oh my god oh I can’t bear it I love you “Maggie” I love you oh my god.... the children, poor D, her mom her dad, her music, her beautiful heart, her eyes, I can’t stop crying....

the Spencer Report

He’s cute enough. His name is Spencer. maybe I’ll play him along till he’s insane for me. Very nice smile though he’s a bit young (or maybe I’ve been around D too much; maybe I should go for an older guy). Oh, who am I kidding. I’m sure I’ll do him soon enough. It’s been like, 4 months which is a lifetime for me to go without sex.

Maggie is still - still! - sick with a headache. She can barely move, and I’m worried about it. She couldn’t eat. That ain’t right, for her. I cooked dinner. MMmmm. Spaghetti. She has made an appointment with a doctor.

Homecoming for the Band

The gang is back. Big dinner. M has a migraine, which she occasionally gets. She thinks she’s coming down with something. It started hurting on the way back, through Oklahoma. Oklahoma would give anyone a headache. It seems that gasoline fumes mixed in with tobacco smoke is the Official State Odor there.

On the plus side, the shows they did went well. They got some good reviews in the teeny tiny college papers that they have up there in Fayetteville and Ardmore (is that right? yes). I’m envious, as my performances in my school plays got me no mention at all.

M is gonna fix me up with a cutie boy that she knows. She says he’s cute. We’ll see.

Deep in the Heart of Texas

That’s where I am.

D & M and the boys are totally gone and hit the road, Jack, travelling to Dallas and Okla City and Arkansas – Fayetteville, can you believe it’s a music town?; I’m out & about in the nightlife of Austin and not bored a bit. I’m drinking and flirting and not even missing SH the SHit one bit. If only I had me a nice delicious bit of boy* to share it with.

This computer is a Linux and I’m scared to death of it.

I’m wayyyyy out here in the middle of nobody I know for miles around. I’m trying not to be nervous about it. I know Skip the Gay Rancher who lives on the next hill; gay or not he’s as big as a tank and could be here in no time if I hit the panic alarm button that turns on EVERY LIGHT in the house and sounds this air raid siren; I do not shit you that thing is LOUD. We tested it. The kids stayed upstairs with their hands over their ears. D is big on security. If I had 3 kids and a woman that looked like the Princess Mogul I’d be big on security too.

Speaking of the Princess Mogul, Maggie made me sit through this excruciating pirate movie from like the 50s, one of her favorites starring Errol Flynn. He was way past his prime, I’m thinking. But she said that the redhead reminded her of me. Which was sweet.

Damn that girl makes me hot the way she sits and smolders.

* I’d much prefer a man. Or maybe… dare I dream? Be still, my yearning heart.

Here I go, Boogieing to Texas

As I might have mentioned, me and my 1995 Saturn are goin’ down to visit M & D and their 3 amazing boys. For all I know, the oldest has finally perfected heavier than air flight, like he was working on when they were up here in KC last.

I have no idea how long I’ll be there. I asked Maggie and she said, “Oh, stay as long as you like, we may need a baby sitter when you’re here. And if you stay after we take of you can be a house sitter, anyway.” So it may be that’s what I’ll do. Cool beans.

House sitting’s easy for them, since all I’ll have to do is feed the cat and the chickens. And even baby sitting is pretty easy with that crew. They’re 3 boys and they like to hang all over me, so it’s not like they sneak off to act up, much. Though I may have to occasional get Middle Boy down from up on the kitchen counters, as he looks for sharp weapons.

O, yeah. I graduated. Ho-hum, right? but I feel like I’ve accomplished something. I’m looking forward, as usual. I’m looking towards grad school, etc. I feel like, wow, all that behind me. And I still express myself in phrases such as, “I feel like, wow….”

PLUG PLUG PLUG

Recommended: Nutmeg Burt’s Bees tinted Lip Shimmer/Balm, especially if you are a redheaded girl.

I am in no way affiliated with Burt’s. I don’t get a kick back or nothin’. This stuff is better than l’Oreal by a million miles.

The Scarlet Letter

I feel like a fraud.

Do you ever think that someday someone is going to figure out that you have no talent, that you can’t do what you’ve wanted to do, what you’ve studied and trained and burned for? And someone will somehow put a big scarlet F for False, for Fraud, for Fucked, for Failure – right on your chest?

I can’t sing, I can’t dance, I can’t act, I can’t even behave and I’m about to go into that big scary world of graduate school and get screwed over again. And my dad will, too; I’ll screw him over for him. HE is the one that really worked his whole life for me to get into school.

I should have gone into vet science, except when I screw that up, a calf dies.

Final Finals

This is it, Tell-tale Heart.

Graduation time. Finals, performance evals, director project, portfolio. Wrap it up, girl. No partying for you.

Also, work. That five-top on 17 needs a water/tea/cola refill. The family on 15 needs a check dropped. You’ve been triple sat.

I want to run away.

Strike up the band; Come blow your horn!

Maggie’s back! Back online, I don’t know if she got her old brothel manager’s “job” back. Well, she doesn’t care about that; she only wants to play ragtime and jazz piano in a brothel. Online if necessary, or in New Orleans or Berlin or if possible.

Ain’t that sweet?

I have been talking to her about visiting after I graduate, if I graduate. “Oh, of course I’ll graduate,” I say to myself. “Not if you don’t get off the damn chat rooms and start getting busy in a different way,” myself says to me.

“Nag, nag, nag,” I reply. Boy I can really be a bitch.

I really do wanna visit her and D (tingle, tingle) and the boys, even for a weekend. I’ll be good I swear I won’t even beg her for sex or give D those long, smoldering looks I usually give him. I promise. What are you looking at? What?

-She’s smart. -yeah, she’s smart. -Too smart. -Yeah, let’s ice her.

Maggie’s been kicked out of the game, by Bobbi the HR Manager (!), and kicked off of chat by D, her husband. Please see my letter to Bobbi regarding that shit.

Well, whatever.

Later Maggie showed T that Ann didn’t trust him, by revealing a private exchange between Ann and herself. T shared that exchange with Ann. Ann got upset, naturally. T used that to get Maggie fired as manager.

For some reason, “Maggie” got kicked off of the entire chat experience by D. She did something terrible, I’m not sure what. It must have been something having to do with one of those rules that she has with D. I don’t know what.

Like I said before, they got some kind of discipline relationship going on, and it works for them. Sucks for me, but I’m not gonna criticize it. But if a man tried to treat me that way, in a real life relationship, well. I’m Irish. It wouldn’t fly.

At least I can call her on the phone.

She

Bobbi,

I snipped most of your post to only include the relevant things which I shall attempt to address.

I don’t know how long you’ve been dealing with Maggie. I’ve known the actress who portrays her for about four years. Let me share with you this, which is the opinion of a working girl, not of a manager, and I don’t know how much weight you’ll give it:

• Maggie is a great character in a part played by the woman I know, who is the smartest, bravest, most talented woman I know, and I know plenty of them.
• She also is a woman of great integrity and personal commitment.
• Saying that, she also has a terrible temper and woe to anyone in the path of that temper. I speak from experience.
• This temper can get the better of her and I’m sure you have lost yours at some point. I read the room transcript when Lady Ann returned and announced a new beginning, and in my opinion, you showed bad form; although I understand that you were watching your work over the last year become negated and your position crumble before your very eyes. I tell you this out of respect and admiration for all you have done for us.

Re: your “Details” below – I know you believe what you wrote, but I must say this:

• I don’t believe Maggie was trying to destroy the brothel. I think she had Ann’s own interests at heart, as well as the brothel’s.
• I don’t believe she was trying to drive any wedges between Ann and her staff that didn’t already exist.
• I believe she was simply more loyal to Lady Ann that to “Lady Ann’s”.
• I believe she picked a very strange way of showing it. There is no way that I could explain her behavior; but if you want to love Maggie, you have to forgive a lot every once in a while.

I do wonder how much of what you wrote is an original thought and how much the selected opinion of like-minded individuals in managerial staff? I’m not accusing you of anything – gosh that sounds worse than I meant it… but I wonder and can’t stop wondering.

I’m not trying to be divisive, a squeaky wheel or a troublemaker. Silently would crawl across a mile of broken glass to defend T. Good for her; I admire that among friends.

Despite all of our differences, all of the fights we have had, all of the times I have wanted to crack her cast-iron skull – I hereby pledge that I shall defend Maggie with my life.

Admire that.

Sincerely,
[The Yearning Heart
My Name Withheld on this blog]
Working Girl, Lady Ann’s Brothel

Bobbi <emailaddress_m@sk.ed> wrote:

I promised earlier that I would share some details with you about all the conflicting statements and goings on of the past few days.

The final straw came when she felt betrayed by Maggie_tien_fu_yu whom she long considered a close friend. Maggie misled the brothel about hackers stealing Ann’s account, showed poor judgment in her discretion and created undue suspicion amongst her friends.

Maggie also revealed private issues regarding management decisions and meetings to outsiders, which she knew was improper. Much of Maggie’s actions served to drive a wedge through the brothel.

Most painful to Ann however, was that Maggie revealed personal real life facts about Ann to several people in the brothel that greatly embarrassed her.

I do not fully understand the reason for Maggie’s recent actions. The results of her actions were thoroughly destructive to the brothel and Ann herself. It is clear that her ability to mislead was based upon her access to sensitive information and the website itself. Therefore, Maggie will no longer be serving as a manager in the brothel and will not have access to the brothel’s website.

Speaking of which, I know that there are issues with the current website. We hope to have these issues resolved within 48 hours and to have a site up and running that will make life easier for our new patrons. Additionally, new groups for working girls patrons and managers have been established to replace the old ones. I urge you all to join these new groups as the old groups have been dismantled.

To any others who have recommendations I encourage you to drop me an e-mail at idluv2dueu@yahoo.com. I read all my e-mails, even if I may not respond immediately.

I love you all. Now quit reading and get your tushies back into the room. You’ve been missed!

Bobbi

Meanwhile, back at the whore house...

So what does Ann do? well, Ann said that she’s gotta start over, and everyone has been let go, but that they’re all welcome to apply for their jobs back.

Kinda like a re-boot. Bugs in the operating system, and so forth.

Naturally Bobbi, who was pretty much running the show while Ann had been away, gets furious and says she’s not coming back. Next thing I know Ann says she’s not coming back either. So I figured, well it’s been fun. I won’t miss Bobbi much, I can say that. I think she’s jealous or something, of me. Of Maggie, I dunno why.

I don’t know what happened.

the Other Drama Department: Lady Ann’s, that is

One of the deals, and one of the main reasons I worked there, played there, whatever, at Lady Ann’s is that you don’t have to get on the web cam or on voice chat. In fact, it’s forbidden.

Well, one of the manager’s is a homophobe. I won’t give you his name but his initial is T.

And he refuses to have cybersex with a girl unless she “proves” that she is a girl by letting him hear her voice, or by getting on a web cam with him. Why? Because he thinks any girl who hasn’t done that is a guy pretending to be a girl.

Now get this: he’s an Orthodox Jew role-playing as a black guy.

Hello? It’s role-play, for Christ’s sake. If you gotta hear the chick’s voice then you got some serious issues. (I’m half tempted to let Gay Trey apply as a working girl; he sounds more like a girl than I do when he wants to. But I’d have to tell him how I’ve been spending my evenings online, and he’d laugh at me till he died. But the look on T’s face would be classic. Trey could even wear a tube top hiding his face, and lower his panties down just a tiny bit, teasingly, and maybe caress his thighs rather haltingly or something like that; Trey can really vamp. And then put his goofy grin in the web cam and show T who he’s been messing with. Punk’d!!!)

The funny thing is, I actually thought T was attractive until I heard his voice. If he had sounded like an articulate, intelligent black man he would have been attractive. But he sounds like a smart-assed New York punk. Somewhat pushy, somewhat arrogant, and everything I don’t like about the east coast. Provincial to a fault, in that there’s nothing worth anything outside of New York City. So, he asked to hear my voice, and by the time I had heard his, which I didn’t care for, I wasn’t interested, and I thought he was sleazy. But I let it go, and said, well, very nice talking to you. I’m too nice. It’s called acting.

Well, I told Maggie about it and she was pretty steamed; apparently he’s been asking a lot of girls to hear their voices or see them on web cam. And so I had to get into a chat room with a bunch of other people, like Lady Ann, and this Bobbi woman, and T and a few others, and Maggie, and tell my side of the story which I thought was pretty tame and not a big deal. And I had to go to work, so I don’t know the final of it.

Well, this T guy is a lawyer, a trial lawyer, but he must not be much of one or maybe Maggie is even smarter than I thought she was, because she pretty much chewed T out a new colostomy.

Maggie couldn’t stay or got kicked out of the chat room, I’m not sure which, but the final shot was that T gets a reprimand, 72 hours suspension, but can go on managing at Lady Ann’s.

If only we’d caught him using steroids or something.

My Favorite Performances, My Favorite Parts

… this semester, anyway:

• Anton in Show Business: Jane Martin
Lisabette Cartwright, from LaVernia, Texas. SMU graduate and third grade teacher on the verge of her first break in Show Business. She gets the part because Holly the TV Star fires the casting director and doesn’t want anyone to upstage her in a serious production of Three Sisters, by Anton Chekhov. A great part.

Why? I don’t know. I can’t tell you why other than it’s a deceptively simple part. Everyone plays off of her but she’s the one with so much to lose. Holly will always have TV, Casey will always have the stage. This is Lisabette’s one and only shot at the theatre world.

Favorite line:

“I mean. Here I am, just out of drama school and I am completely drunk, talking with real actors in a real way, including a great actress of the stage and a great actress from TV, and it makes me just want to cry.”

• Collected Stories: Donald Margulies
Lisa, the writing professor’s student/assistant. She is such a huge fan of Ruth’s, her writing professor in a graduate program. Lisa takes a personal episode of Ruth’s life and writes a great piece of fiction out of it.

Why? She grows, from someone who “adds question marks to the ends of declarative sentences” (“God, that makes like so much sense?”) into what she wants to be, a writer who is adept at what she does. She becomes someone who can take the narrative of someone who impresses her and turn it into a real voice. Unfortunately, that someone is Ruth. Another difficult and deceptive simple part. Collected Stories starred by Debra Messing as Lisa in its New York debut. Yes, Will & Grace Debra Messing. Another difficult but deceptive part.

Favorite lines:

“I mean, I’m in treatment, okay?, and moved to Chelsea? So now what do I do? I’ve done my parents. I’ve done my family. I’m not angry with them anymore. Fuck them. I write all day, allegedly. I don’t see anybody. I don’t go anywhere because I’m allegedly writing all the time. My boyfriend’s a lawyer; need I say more? My friends are all boring because they’re all in exactly the place I am. My life? I have no life. Every little quasi-idea that pops into my brain seems so banal, so television.”

---

“If something captures your eye, you told me, grab it. Remember? Like a good photojournalist: Go in and shoot. Remember Ruth? — Don’t walk away! — That’s the way you taught me! Don’t worry about feelings, you taught me that, worrying about feelings is sentimental and God knows we mustn’t be sentimental.”

I would do what Lisa does. I would take something personal from someone close to me, and use it in my art. I would cry to myself, I would agonize over it, and I would avoid them in the end, but I would do it.

My mom.

My love life, what’s left of it.

My friend, or a mentor.

Maggie.

Memoirs

Do I ever really want to write a memoir? I’d be in the same horrible bunch as all those other awful aging actors.

When your husband is not your next of kin

Here’s to a more personal, kinder, gentler nation. The politics of compassionate conservatism.

There are two Americas. One America gets its news from the newspapers, and one gets it from cable TV. There is the America for those who read, and the America for those who don’t.

* personal note to whomever, mom, dad, next-of-kin, husband (will I ever get married?): please, please, don’t let me live like this, whatever happens. Take me out; pillow to the face like McMurphy in Cuckoo’s Nest, whatever. Just don’t let me become a drooling nothing. To me that would be worse than dying in a long agony of pain.

Remembering Archbishop Oscar Romero

Before I was born, before I was even conceived, a priest whom I admire was killed in cold blood, in a church in San Salvador.

Romero was killed because he supported the right of poor Salvadorans to equal citizenship in their own society, and he tried to end the use of repression and violence to thwart it.

If you pray, pray for peace.

If you meditate, meditate on peace.

Iraq - two years’ anniversary

“If tyranny and oppression come to this land, it will be in the guise of fighting a foreign enemy.”
–James Madison, and he was a Federalist.

Well, I for one feel a lot safer.

Amazon sells Astroglide

An on line store my mom actually shops at sells lube. And vibes. That’s so cool.

I never really had a need for this; I don’t “do anal” - ok well I don’t do it more than a finger and usually a lick is all it takes. Like Gay Trey sez, “If it isn’t spit, it isn’t love.” But isn’t it great that Amazon - Amazon - sells “personal care” items that are illegal to own in Bible Belt states?

It is illegal to buy a vibrator (unless it’s for medical purposes) in Georgia, Texas, Alabama, Mississippi, Indiana, Virginia, Louisiana and Massachusetts….

Massachusetts? For real?

Then again, the various governments are always getting in your pants, any way they can. I thought Republicans were all about personal responsibility, and against big government.

St Paddy’s Day comes soon

The patron saint of chicken wings, green beer, showing your breasts and binge drinking. A gold mine to bars everywhere, including the one where I’m employed. Drink up, rednecks and frat boys. See you on the front page.

Stacey-Jesus

I moved out of Mademoiselle D’s and have moved in with Stacy-Jesus. I call her that because she says, “thank you Jesus” for practically everything. “Can’t find my keys – oh there they are! Thank you, Jesus!”

She makes Frito Pie and Tuna Casserole. She’s not so bad, really. She’s very sweet for taking me in but she leaves church programs on my bed every Sunday while I’m at work.

Ex foolishness

Talked to my ex – ok well he called me, to say he’s sorry, “I can’t believe I did that, baby,” “What was I thinking?” “You can’t mean it’s totally over because of this.”

I’ll fill him in:

1. I can, and I do.
2. You were thinking you’ll get free strange pussy
3. See #1.

Fecking douche. I can’t believe I was considering going back to him. Just for the convenience, the familiarity, and the sex.

"Are you a real actor?"

I’m not a real actor; by that I mean I have had exactly three paying gigs. By that standard my mom is more of an actor than I am, since she has been a presenter at a car show twice and has worked in little shows at the county fairs in Butler and Sedgwick Counties back in the late 70s.

My three paying gigs were, as follows:

• a spot for Dick Clark’s Rock ‘n Roll Diner (don’t blink or you’ll miss me)
• an ad for used cars (I walked around the lot looking at used cars I could never afford)
• a Target ad

Perhaps I can get a gig doing moan tones:

“For $2.50 mobile phone users can choose from a variety of moans, and sexual noises all recorded by the blond bombshell. If that’s not enough, [porn star Jenna] Jameson will talk dirty to you when your phones rings, in English or Spanish.”

I can do that. I bet I’m better than Jenna Jameson; she’s so fake.

SH had a couple of her movies. Eh.

Try as I might, I just don’t think porn is exploitative of women so much as it’s exploitative of people who buy it. The shit’s $60.00 a pop for a one-hour DVD.

Wasting the Evening

Hung out listening to Maggie at the Piano in an online brothel. (Please see my previous posts here , here, and here, regarding Lady Ann’s.) There’s a couple of nice guys there and a pretty hot girl, who I’m still not convinced isn’t really “Maggie” in a different screen name.

• Hot Guy #1 I’ll call E. Single, nerdy, likes soccer, totally Blue as in Blue State. Lives in Oregon. Affects English sensibilities and syntax. My type all right. Well, the English thing should go. Other than that, he’s a bit of all right.
• Hot Guy #2 I’ll call DB. DB is married, really hysterically funny, totally in love with Maggie. Never has even seen her. He’s in denial about how much he’s crazy about Maggie but a girl can tell. He’s a bit of all right, too. Won’t mess around with me. Why is that so attractive?
• Hot Girl is a hottie. Let’s call her CM. She’s funny and cool. Total horn dog, kinda like me. Comes in to “hook up”; she’s pretty open and totally frank about what she likes and getting it. I really, no really, thought she was Maggie in another screen name, and the reasons why are kind of embarrassing:
  • she’s Asian
  • she’s got that open, healthy, relaxed sort of sexuality about her
  • “Maggie” was really pushing her as one of the sexier people, and lots of fun to hook up with: “You’d love her, she’s smart and funny.”
  • She’s smart
  • She’s funny
  • I think I have a crush on her
  OK, not that much compelling evidence (like they say on Crossing Jordan), but I really thought she was “Maggie” until they were both online at the same time. I’m sure she’s someone else now, but I’ve already totally thrown myself at her already.

I’m not ignoring her, she’s shut up in the Tower

OK M got someone to PM me and to beg for me to call her.

So I did. Apparently she’s being blocked from chat and can only e-mail. What. The. Fuck.

Apparently she got on voice and chatted with some chick, and now she’s in trouble because she’s not allowed to do that, by D. It’s part of some agreement they have about the whole online chat thing.

Still, I do not get it, how two married people who are otherwise mature and grown-up can have this thing where if she does something wrong, he punishes her. Well, if it works for them, then I wish them all the happiness.

That Bastard, Act I, scene I

That bastard. That shitty fecking bastard; I let him get away with anything everything and all.

He was boinking his ex. His best friend’s girl. I found the evidence that he didn’t even make an attempt to hide. He lied and he lied. I know he did. All those times he was late from work, all those times he was playing ball….

It’s over, I moved out. I would have kicked him out but he’s the one who wanted to live there, not me so much.

If only it were anyone but Rebecca. Why did it have to be Rebecca? The skank, whore sleazey slut queen of them all. His ex. Bigger chested, naughtier. Legs like a stripper’s, not my chicken legs. I know why he likes her. Men are all alike.

I’m moved out, I’m living on the street. I refuse to be a victim I’m gonna live in my car and the last thing I need is to come crawling begging to some one like Mademoiselle D who will only cluck and say “told ya so” (in French) and … and … I couldn’t bear it.

Those lurkers* who remember from my UMKC blog, Mademoiselle D was my room mate, who is perfect, beautiful, brilliant and successful. A law degree. Working on a medical degree. D’s sister, “Maggie’s” sister-in-law. Legs up to there. Well, to hell with her. I will not ask; I will not give her the satisfaction. I am glad that I got all of my CDs and my clothes. And the Glenlivet. (It’s mine. What’s left of it.)

Here I am at Muddy’s and I’m on the Wi-Fi. Sigh. Fucking fucking FUCKED over again.

*what lurkers? who am I kidding? no one reads this but me.

Trouble, right here in River City

M did something wrong and I dunno what. All I know is she’s in trouble with D. I hope it’s not about me, and I hope she gets back on soon.

Memo from the Tramp/Jezebel/Hussy

Don’t know what I did. Called to “Maggie” again and got D, chit chatted with him, kinda flirted and he was cool. “Maggie” called me and told me in no uncertain terms to ‘please just stop calling him, ok?’ I mean what. The. Fuck. She’s on a chat room all night doing god knows how many people - men AND women and she has the freaking B-A-L-L-Z to tell me that. Well lemme clue you in, dear: he’s an adult and he would tell me if I crossed a line. Anyway she said goodBYE in a way that makes me think I’m not gonna hear from her again. Fine. Blocked her #, ignored her PMs.

Happy Birthday M

M’s birthday. I hadn’t called her on the phone for weeks (even though we chat online every day), so I did. She said it was gonna be her “lucky year,” whatever that is. I hope so. I hope she makes it huge. She told me she thinks big things are going to happen to the both of us. Something’s coming and it will be wonderful.

What’s in a name?

What’s the deal with the name of this blog? you may ask. And well you may.

It’s from a Paul Simon song from an album he did, years ago, like, before the time I was born. I got into this album, which is called One Trick Pony, and the song is called “How the Heart Approaches What it Yearns”.

I like Paul Simon. I don’t care what my friends say. They think the music I like is by “old people.” Fuck that. Some “old people” music is good.

Freaking tons of school work to do, work work is dragging me down, and there’s no joy in Yum-Yum Town.

Girl of the Week

Things with SH are getting mundane and I’m sure it’s my fault. I listen to LO and MS and how they get tired of their boyfriends. As if it’s the boyfriend’s fault when you get tired of them. That, as my daddy would say, is bullcorn. I’ve been focused on school, focused on graduating, focused on other things. It’s not his fault. Maybe I should visit Ann’s and get myself in a more romantic mood. I will, in a few.

Did I mention I made Girl of the Week? Well, I did. I was actually thrilled, even though it isn’t that big of a deal.

I mention to “Maggie” that this Amber_Guppy chica is like, getting to be the Next Big Thing, what with getting the award like, every other week. She goes, “Oh Amber, yeah, she’s my protegée.

She has more than one protegée? I thought I was her only one!

Grow up, Miz Limelight.

As the tank drains my credit rating…

A buck 79. That’s what I paid for a gallon of gas today. It wouldn’t have been so bad except I needed 15 gallons. Last year (Jan 04) I paid a buck 58. Next year...? All it would take for gas to get to $5 a gallon is another war, another pissed off regime, and/or another natural disaster. Like if the Big One hits California.