Plans? Who, Me?

He drops me off at school every morning with the children. Kisses go all around to the boys, and there is usually a quick discussion about household logistics. This morning, however, he asked me if I had plans this evening.

Plans? I don’t have plans in the evening! So I told him no, that I was free. I spent the day wondering what was up.

---

So, tonight, he made a very lovely dinner and opened some of his brother’s wine. His brother bottles his own wine, since he has a small vineyard back in France. The wine was actually quite awful – I was too embarrassed to say so in case I just have no taste for wine. But he tasted and said, “Garrgh!” with a very comical cartoon face! so we poured that one out, and opened something else. Dinner was beautiful, with some kind of bean casserole along with some kind of very tender, thin-sliced roast beef that he told me the name of but I didn’t write it down. I will say it had this crust over it, like pie crust, very flaky and yummy. Men who cook well are hot.

Afterwards, he again started asking me about my plans, and asked about what I had said a few weeks ago.

He asked me if I was still happy here, and I answered that I was.

“And this life,” he asked me, “will sustain you for quite a while?”

This life: chasing boys up the stairs, teaching little minds, discovering the universe and wiping noses. That life I turned away from: chasing grades, chasing a career, trying to get one break after another, discovering that most of an acting career, isn’t is all about acting; an acting career is all about waiting and being told ‘no’. Do I want to be told ‘no’ again? Or do I want to stay in the heart of this man, and his family?

Will this life sustain me? I’m blooming! Oh, yes, I thought, going into a trance….

“Oh, yes,” I murmured to myself more than to him.

“Are you quite certain?” he said. I snapped back from wherever I was.

“Yes, I am, quite certain,” I said, simply, wondering where this was leading.

“I only ask because, as I am sure you are aware, I have come to depend on you for so much, and perhaps I have a hard time describing to you how I feel about you.” He looked away, and then he said, very quietly, “My feelings are not easily shared, right now.”

“Monsieur, I understand completely.” I held his hand.

“Just because I may have a difficult time expressing my feelings, does not mean I do not have such feelings,” he said, and it took some time for him to get that much out.

“You don’t need to explain yourself,” I said, still holding his hand.

“I am certain that I do need to explain,” he replied. “I want you to know that I have very strong feelings for you. I have become very attached to you, and I would like this relationship to be on very solid footing.”

I waited, listening.

“I have told you that I had sought grief counseling, as you recall after Maggie….” He paused.

“Yes, Monsieur.”

“Of course one of the things they tell you is not to make any major life decisions for a period of at least one year: don’t sell the house and move. Don’t change careers. Avoid … romantic relationships. This is sensible, and can help the grieving process by not–”

I interrupted him, rolling my eyes. “Ya, ya, ya. I know all that. We’ve been over all that.” I put his hand up to my face, and kissed it. “What is it, exactly, that you’re trying to say without having to say it?”

“I have not been able to treat you as well as you should be treated, and I am sorry for it,” he said, all at once.

“What are you talking about?” I said quickly. “You have been wonderful. Apology accepted.But you really haven’t been so bad. What is it you are really trying to say?”

“Bien,” he continued, “I am not the sort of man who would have a woman live here, under my roof and under my care, enjoying her affections, unless I have hope of something further.”

“Something further,” I repeated. “What does that mean, exactly?”

“Something long-term,” he replied in a voice just above a whisper.

“Again, accepted,” I said gently.

“You don’t know what it is that you’re accepting,” he said, smiling.

“Well, then you don’t know what you’re offering, or to whom you’re offering it,” I replied. “Let me ask you this: how do you really feel about me?”

He smiled, and said, “It is my own failing that you would have to ask.”

“And since I have to ask, what is your answer?” I could feel my yearning heart, beating in my throat.

“I love you, and I hope that you remain,” he answered.

I felt as though I would burst. I could feel my face get red, my eyes starting to get teary, and I’m sure I was trembling. “And I love you,” I said. “More than you’ll ever know. And I’ll stay as long as you’ll have me.”

“I want to ask you something more,” he said, “but I find that I am not able to do it.”

“Ask me when you are able,” I replied. My eyes started flowing and suddenly I was weeping, at first trying not to let him see my tears, but it was hopeless. I kissed him anyway and I felt my heart, my mind and my body turn to complete mush. Mush and goo, and it was soaking my face and my panties, and I needed him so badly.

“Do you,” I said, between kisses, “have any idea,” another few kisses, “how much I want you,” kisses, “right now, at this very minute?”

“I do have some idea,” he smiled.

I pulled back just a bit. “You’re, um, not going to turn me down, are you?” I looked at him.

“No,” he said, “I think that would not be a good or kind thing to do.”

“No,” I said firmly, “it would not.” I sat back, expectantly.

“You’re very demanding,” he said, smiling and took a sip from his wine glass. How can he, I thought, just sit there and sip wine after I almost hump his leg?

“Demanding? I’m a brat,” I countered, then I smiled. “Can you handle me?” I was teasing him, but he was teasing me, too; so I figured, all’s fair.

“Bien, I am sure I don’t know,” he said, laughing. “I don’t think that you’re a brat, at all. You’re very responsible, and you’re quite well-behaved—”

“In public,” I agreed. “But in private, when it’s just you and me,” I lowered my voice, “and when I really,” then I leaned over to him and I lowered my voice to a whisper, “need you inside me,” I finally said, kissing his ear, “that’s when I’m hard to handle.” My hand traveled up his thigh. I kissed his mouth, and his hands went to my waist. I sat on his lap, and put my legs on either side of him. I felt like I was electrically charged.

Finding the right man or the right bra

is pretty much the same, almost-hopeless, exercise:

• You look for one that supports but doesn't cut into you.
• It should look good by itself when nothing is over it, and it should look good in clothes.
• It shouldn't reveal too much and it should stay on you right.
• Try not to let your mom pick one out for you.
• Some last longer than others.
• And when it's completely worn out and there are big gaping holes near the cups, it's time to let it go; don't let your kids play with your old ones, no matter how much fun they think it is or how cute they look playing with one.

The Yearning Heart is so hard to buy things for

Anyone who can, visit my wish list and tell me what I want for my birthday, which will be this Sunday on May 21st. I have no idea what I want. Well, ya I do, but I mean, something from a store.

And they still haven't found what they're looking for

This week’s Search Engine Referrals Fun:

• ass fucking
  ([yawn] - that one has jumped the shark, I would think - oh but they’re coming from a domain in Greece… ‘nuff said.)
• what is avowe
  (from Turkey, and I’m impressed that someone finally found my Talk Like a Pirate Day post after almost nine months)
• girl masturbating mirror
  (hmm … interesting idea)

and the usual suspects:
• pussy (5 different visitors)
• nipples (3)
• naughty girl (7)

but my personal favorite has got to be:
• northwestern women’s soccer underwear and blindfold

Where I'm Coming From

I am from the land of fire ant invasions and preventative tetanus shots, too.

• I am from the prairie, rolling hills of yellow wheat, from Grape Nuts and John Deere.
• I am from the clapboard house with plain white siding, a screen porch and a carpeted basement, smells of cinnamon, of fertilizer and cattle feed.
• I am from the sunflower, the prairie nettle.
• I am from County Meath and County Sedgwick, from red hair and freckles, from Aunt Beatrice and O’Keane, from old feuds and old alliances, from fast friends and slow-cooked brisket.
• I am from the warm hearth, from “why don’t you have off your coat and set a while?”
• I am from the secret clubhouse in the tree, from the suicide swing dive-bombing into the cattle tank.
• I am from Sunday school and catechism, from incense and cassock.
• I’m from the red earth and from the Emerald Isle, from cabbage and pork belly and tuna casserole.
• I am from the infield t-ball home run with two on base, from the first house you call, from the chicken soup for the mom with the flu, from the volunteer fire brigade and the emergency calving.
• I am from scrapbooks, Calcium Gluconate 23% Milk Fever Treatment, from Indian paintbrushes and from ten-foot snowdrifts followed by Indian summer, from the old cedar chest and the new Danish furniture, from the satellite dish and the drive-in matinée.

with apologies to George Ella Lyons

Superior Mother Jumps the Gun

I’m trying – so hard – not to get ahead of myself here. My mom doesn’t help much.

I called my mom for Mother’s Day and, after chit-chatting about gossip and news and recent local tragedies back in my hometown, I told her about my Mother’s Day card.

Mom: Stepmother? [Long pause] Gosh, that sounds like it’s really getting serious.

Yearning Heart: It was serious already, Mom.

Mom: Yes, I know, but I mean! [Another long pause] What are you going to do?

Yearning Heart: I don’t know! I think the ball is in his court, don’t you?

Mom: That ball has been in his court for a while, dear. You better sit and think and ask yourself whether or not he’s really going to want to marry you any time soon, if he does at all.

Yearning Heart: Well, you know, it hasn’t quite been a year, Mom. I don’t have any right to start demanding anything.

Mom: What do you want, dear?

[Long pause]

Mom: I remember how when you were little and your friends used to have pretend weddings when you were, oh, I guess about 9 or 10 years old – do you remember that? You’d always be the minister; you’d never want to be the bride.

Yearning Heart: Yes, [laughs] and I remember playing Barbies and whenever I would stage a wedding, Barbie would walk out on Ken before the ceremony and go off to be a successful single woman; I think a doctor or something.

Mom: Yes, she would end up going to Colorado Springs to shack up with that cowboy doll you had.

Yearning Heart: Yes! [laughs. Another pause.]

Mom: Do you remember watching Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman?

Yearning Heart: Ya, I do. I loved that show.

Mom: Do you remember how Dr. Quinn fell for that rancher recluse way up in the mountains?

Yearning Heart: Yes, Sully, he was cute. I liked him, in my little teenage way.

Mom: And she adopted those three kids?

Yearning Heart: Yes, I remember…

Mom: And they got married, right? and she had a baby?

Yearning Heart: [quickly] Mom, I see where this is going.

Mom: Well, I was only thinking of you, sweetie.

Yearning Heart: I’m not Jane Seymour, Mom, much less Dr. Michaela.

Mom: I know, angel, it’s just kind of odd. Eerie, really, the parallels…

Yearning Heart: It’s a totally different situation.

Mom: Are you two going to have kids?

Yearning Heart: MOM!

Mom: I’ll shut up now.

My first card

Click to view larger image

I got this card today. I cried. The boys and Monsieur handed it to me at breakfast. I opened it and it was so beautiful, but the front said “To a Special Stepmother”.

“They didn’t have any ‘Happy Mother’s Day to Aunt Peppermint’ cards,” explained Bigglest Boy.

“Oh, that’s all right, sweetheart,” I assured him. “I think I like this one better anyway.”

“We all signed it,” said Middlest Boy.

“And me!” said Littlest Boy.

“And me,” said Monsieur.

“I can see that! Thank you,” was all I could say.

---

“Thank you for that card, Monsieur,” I said later as we were cleaning up after breakfast. He was washing dishes and I was clearing the table.

“I wanted it to be more,” he said. “Something a little more substantial.”

“Oh, I think that is pretty substantial,” I said. “No one has ever called me ‘stepmother’ before.”

“Did we presume too much?” he asked, turning to me.

I put my arms around him. “Not a bit. Although to be fair, you should explain to the boys what a stepmother is.”

“Indeed I have,” he said, “and the two oldest boys seem to think that describes your position in the boys’ life.”

“Of course, we would have to do one or two things before it’s entirely accurate,” I said, and kissed his nose.

“Well, you know how impatient boys can be,” he smiled.

“Stepmothers, too.” I went back to cleaning the kitchen. When I turned around again, he was looking at me. I winked at him, though I was trembling inside.

He winked back, and blushed.

Continued, by request

(Continued from here.)

He came downstairs at 10:00, took my hand and led me to bed.

Closing the door behind us, I turned to him and said, “I’m really sorry about being such a–”

“Now, we have already apologized and forgiven each other,” he interrupted.

“Okay,” I nodded.

He kissed me and I responded very passionately, hoping that he wouldn’t change his mind. My hands were on his chest, then down to his waist where I undid his pants. He laughed slightly and said, “You really do need this, don’t you?”

“I told you I need it every day, Monsieur. I wouldn’t say that if it weren’t true.” My arms went around him and we stood there for a few moments, intertwined, my body moving against his. I pull my pajama top up and put his hands on my breasts then arched my back hungrily. His hand went over my breasts and he let his fingers tease my nipples, toying with them with an almost distracted leisure. I closed my eyes then put my hands up his shirt and around to his back, tracing his spine with my fingertips up to his shoulders. His muscles were so tight but as I kneaded them I felt him relax. I slid his shirt off and kissed him, then pulled back to look at his chest.

“Golly, you’re so yummy,” I said, then realized I sounded so trite and silly. I didn’t want to say anything stupid again so I lowered his underwear to the floor, helping him step out of them, and ran my fingers over his cock, gently touching it to even more hardness; I cupped his balls in my hand. He knelt and slid my underwear off. He cupped my vulva in his hand, spreading my pussy gently open with a finger then teased it slightly; I was so aroused I could feel everything swell and start to flow. I wanted to give him pleasure, too, so I pulled him to his feet, pushed him back on the bed and took his cock in my hand.

I love how hot it feels; how it throbs and moves around in its arousal, how the flange around its head starts to swell and expand like a ripening mushroom.

I crawled up on top of him, rubbing my small breasts against him and kissed him. I kissed my way down his body, teasing him, running my tongue in a line down that delicious trail from his navel to his pubes. I looked up at him and his eyes were closed.

“Is this okay?” I asked him quietly.

“Oui,” he replied hoarsely. His hands went to my face and cupped it, pulling me to his lips. He kissed me again and then tried to pull me on top of him, but I had other plans.

“He pumped his cock, driving it into my mouth and out again while I let it try to penetrate its way into my throat.”

I pulled away, got between his legs and lifted them, I ran my tongue over his cock and got it good and wet, then I opened very wide and took the head into my mouth. He gasped. I licked it then sucked it, starting gently and then moving faster, bobbing my head as I sucked, toying with his balls with one hand as I touched my pussy with the other. I got my finger good and wet inside me, then I fed it to him, giving him a taste of myself as I let him suck it. He turned me sideways so he could slide his fingers inside me, opening me up, moving his fingers in a circular motion, making me frantic as I sucked his cock. My mouth opened as wide as it could and he pumped his cock, driving it into my mouth and out again while I let it try to penetrate its way into my throat. I can’t say I took it all, but what I did take got it as good as I could give it.

He pulled me off of his cock and I pouted but he turned me around to lay on my back, and he pressed his face deep into me, splitting me with his tongue and burying his nose into my ass. His tongue moved surely and directly, licking and sucking me then pulling it out to replace it with two fingers. “Oh, fuck yes,” I moaned, then I came as his fingers went from a gentle circular motion to a strong, steady pumping, fucking me with his fingers as his tongue went up to my clitoris. His mouth clamped onto it, and the slow suction drew my climax out, my back arched, my head went back and I saw tiny lights explode in front of my eyes again and again. I cried out and held his head against me as each orgasm rippled through me. I think I lost consciousness for a few seconds.

I don’t remember being turned over, but I remember being on my knees and him rubbing his thick cock head against my pussy, I moaned and pushed back against it. After my orgasms I was tight, swollen shut, but I pushed back against him gamely and soon was rewarded by his thick shaft pushing its way past my engorged labia. I reached between us to feel him. I like the way it feels, all stretched when he’s inside me; I like the way my labia seem like a rubber band almost at its breaking point. I rubbed myself wantonly as he let himself go, biting my neck, whispering in my ear in French and calling me his angel, his sweet, his dear woman.

I came again and was a bit noisy; he pushed my face into a pillow and told me to bite down. I obeyed; his rhythm getting faster as I raised my ass to meet him. I stopped biting the pillow long enough to beg for him to come and fill me, to take me, telling him my pussy was his to fuck, then I felt it hit me again and I went back to chewing on the pillow case.

He pulled his cock halfway out and I felt so hungry for it; I moved back and forth against it, but he just held it there, perfectly still. It was so agonizing for him not to move. I moved against him, calling him a selfish man.

“Selfish, am I?’ he laughed. “You naughty girl, I will give you a selfish man.”

He pulled his cock out as I begged for him. He turned me over, picked me up and carried me over to the wall. He pulled my legs around his waist and then began to fuck me hard, pinning me against the wall with his body as his hips pounded me over and over again. I looked over at the mirror on the dresser and I could dimly see his cock disappearing into me, just before the sparklies went off again in front of my eyes.

Tears were running down my face as I confessed what a naughty girl I am, how I had been wanting him so badly, staying up late at night masturbating, visiting Lady Ann’s Brothel online and taking up man after man, lusting not so much for anyone else but for the attention and for the feeling that I still was desired. I confessed a dozen things, but he still was silent, his eyes were sometimes closed and sometimes burning into mine; and he still fucked me selfishly, deliciously, and thoroughly.

Finally he held me tightly to the wall, his head held up and I could see the veins in his neck as he gasped, held still, then moaned. I felt him expand more inside me and then I felt it running down me, down the crack of my ass and drip to the floor. Still he held me to the wall and I saw a tear slide down his cheek. I kissed it away and told him I’d always be here, his forever and always, as long as he would have me.

In re: acting

I am getting some of the hardest questions lately in my inbox and comments. Among them:

>>Are you still going to be an actress?
>>
>>--
>>Posted by Obesio to The Heart Approaches What It Yearns at 5/10/2006 12:05:48 PM

Short answer: not today.

Long answer: Recently I spoke to several of my drama teachers and coaches and asked them if I had a chance on the stage, since I never seemed to get the kinds of parts that I wanted to get back in college. They all had varying degrees of the same answer: “You have heart and you want it badly but you are not really ever going to be a good actor. With work you can be a better actor, but that spark of something that most really, truly good actors have is not within you.”

Now, being faculty, they said that in a much kinder, gentler way, such as:

• “There are things that you can do with your acting that do not involve acting in the theater, such as teaching drama, PR, public speaking blah blah blah…”
• “You might try to hone your skills by pursuing other venues and you may end up finding something worthwhile and rewarding blah blah blah…”
• “You have a wonderful personality and a great warmth that could turn into something big for you, although it may be nothing but disappointment for a long time yet blah blah blah…”

You know what? I think I am happy right where I am for now. There has lately been a lot of interest in the local HomeSchool network for doing a theatre program, especially since your correspondent is now a part of that HomeSchool network. They are thinking, “wow – we got a real actor, with experience in directing/stagecraft/tech and literature, maybe we could herd some of these hammy kids into a production of Where the Wild Things Are or something.”

Although I think it would be more fun to get the 9- to 14-year-old boys to do Glengarry Glen Ross, just to channel the young hormonal need to say the word ‘motherfucker’ every eleven seconds into something lofty and fine.

National Teacher's Day/the Yearning Heart is Likely to Burst

Today is National Teachers Day – the hand made card I got from two of my students was sweet but that is not nearly as sweet as last night, the first time Littlest Boy told me that he loved me:

“Night night. I love you [Littlest Boy].”
“I yuv you too, Peppymitt.”*

*Trans.: “I love you too, Peppermint.”

Some Scenes Go Better than Planned

Monsieur is so frustrating. I rehearsed the whole apology scene to myself in the mirror, ready to explain myself without trying to justify it, trying to be a grown-up. So what does he do? He apologizes as soon as he comes through the door.

I felt like I had been such a bitch.

Then he tells me that I should try to get out once in a while, have an evening with K or by myself, or maybe on the weekend just go out.

I do get out by myself occasionally to run errands, but he told me that I should get out just for time for myself. “I failed to consider this and I should have known, you see.”

Also he told me not to let things build up so much so that I blow up suddenly, since it makes him nervous to see me in “such a state” (his expression).

I asked for his forgiveness, which he gave without a pause, and he asked for mine. I gave it to him, too.

“Let’s agree on one point,” he said. “Let’s not be sorry anymore, as it was just emotion rather than a disagreement. I suggest, let’s not talk about that, as it is behind us, but talk about how to arrange matters so that you can run errands, visit friends in town, or do whatever is necessary for your sanity.”

He was being so damned reasonable; I felt like a bitch all over again.

I’m no good at apologizing. I’m defensive and self-righteous, and I have this huge streak of pride that will someday be my undoing. People who have not worked with me think I’m all sweetness and light, but I have this fierce temper when I don’t get my way. I guess I’ve been bottling it up, and I blew up at him, which he didn’t deserve, and doesn’t deserve.

I tried to keep my face completely serene for the rest of the day, but inside I was moping. I think he could tell, because when he was bringing up the boys’ clean laundry last night he asked me if I was still angry.

“Of course not,” I said, and I hugged him. “I’m not very happy with myself, though.”

“I would suggest that you find a way to forgive yourself,” he said, “since you are forgiven by me.”

I nodded.

He kissed my cheek and whispered again, “would make-up sex help matters?”

I turned beet red, sneezed, and said, “Oh! Monsieur, I don’t deserve you!” I was beaming.

“Ma chère, you deserve far better than me, but I am all that I am. If you are not too exhausted after we finish bedtime, then I shall put [Littlest Boy] in his own bed and stay with him until he falls asleep.”

The next hour I somehow managed to control the butterflies in my stomach until all the boys were in bed. I showered & shaved (I wanted everything below my eyes as smooth as possible), put on something not-to-slinky but still soft and touchable, and then waited in the living room for him.

He came downstairs at 10:00, took my hand and led me to bed.

love means saying you're sorry when you have to

Well, we had a little tiff.

We disagreed about something or another, and now I am so upset I can’t remember what it started as. I do remember that it was important at the time, and it had something to do with logistics – we have only one vehicle, and I had to stay behind while it was taken out.

Now I remember, I wanted to be the one to take the van in for maintenance, and Monsieur said he’d rather do it. It’s his van; it belonged to Maggie really so I shouldn’t have fussed about it. I just wanted to get away from the kids for a while, and be by myself for a change. But it wasn’t a good opportunity for that, and I made a big stink, and now I’m sorry. I am trying to bring myself to apologize the minute he gets back. So, I blog.

I just wanted a break, even sitting in the lobby of a Jiffy Lube for 20 minutes would have been nice.

Now I have to apologize. Suck it up, girl.

Friends With Bootycall

Fortunately WHNT Huntsville AL is right on top of this disturbing story.

Ever have a Friend with Benefits? Someone asked me that, and as I think back I realize that, no, I never did.

There were a couple of times that I dated guys and we got along great but we didn’t exactly want to move in together. But, we didn’t sleep with other people, and when it was time (I think in both cases they actually wanted to date another woman) we were friends as we broke up. But I never had a “booty call” or FWB or anything like that, only because I never met anyone that I wanted to sleep with but not form an attachment with. I can, however, see the benefits.

Articles like that one which focuses on “teens” and this one, which is seems to be written by a college student for college students, tend to make it sound like the woman is always the one who ends up getting hurt. That didn’t seem to be happening among my friends, though, but maybe that’s because my statistical sample is so small. I knew three – no four – girls who had “booty calls” and none of them formed any sort of attachment emotionally, dumping them when they got steady boyfriends. Of these, I know one guy ended up in love with the girl, and the break up didn’t go so well.

I don’t know any straight guys with regular “booty calls”. That is, I don’t know any guys who admitted that their SOs were really booty calls. I know one guy (I’ll call him “Steve” because that’s his real name and I doubt he’d care) who called the married-but-separated girl he was with his “girlfriend” (I’ll call her “Lorie” for the same reasons above). However, I suspected at the time that Lorie thought of Steve as her rebound booty call, while Steve was pretty certain that Lorie fell for him and left her husband for him. Then she got a job in another state, and it was “So long, Steve, and thanks for all the sex.”

Did anyone ever really have an FWB? Did you fall for him/her? Did he/she fall for you? I’m not really interested in gender data, but stories.

School Schedule

Monday

• Art History/Poetry
• Grammar
• Spelling/Phonics

Tuesday

• Spanish
• Math
• Classical Music
• Independent Reading

Wednesday

• Literature
• Bible
• Geography/History

Thursday

• Penmanship
• Memory Work
• Additional Reading

Friday

• Science
• Latin
• Natural History/Outside

My hope is that we have enough to do to stay out of trouble. Especially me.

Maggie's Margin margarine

This is from the margin of something else Maggie wrote about a mutiny in the British Navy during the Napolean wars. I do not know if it is a quote from an actual mutiny trial or not, but it’s really a treat to see it in her handwriting:

“…I heard the deceased, abusing of the prisoner in a most dreadful manner; he first called him a Dutch galleot?-built bugger, damned him, and asked how he came to be in the ship, or who brought him into her; then he damned the person whoever did bring him. I could not afterwards make out what the deceased said, as he was in a horrid passion, but Jos. Bates, yeoman of the sheets, bade him kiss his arse – he was no seaman….

I would love it if people talked like that – using bade as the past tense of to bid – or even using the word bid not in reference to something on eBay.

I bid you consider it, gentle reader.

? I have no idea; due to a stain that smells like margarine, this word is almost illegible.

86 the Wingnuts

When I worked in that little diner in Austin, I remember there was a cook who would “call” the tickets. He was hilarious, because there was this “code” he would use to tell the other cook what orders were coming in.

For example, I would turn in an order that had a short stack of blueberry pancakes, a #5 (ham and cheese) omelet, a Breakfast Special and two eggs, scrambled, home fries and whole wheat toast. The ticket was written automatically by the order machine:

SS BB
#5
BkFS
#1 OE scram HF WW

and he would pull the ticket off the rack and call out “Short Blue! BuFu! #5! WW! SCRAM!!!” and then they would put the food on to cook. I liked the way he yelled, “SCRAM!!”

He also had other codes, like for a “to go” order he would yell, “Walkin’!” at the end of calling out the order.

It was really funny to hear someone talk that way. I tried to talk like that, unlike the other waitrons, because it was fun and it really broke up the monotony.I would have fun with him by making up my own weird codes:

“Hey, Manny: Wingnut Slipstream, Mary Nine with a Cow! Horse Fist!”

And he would reply back, “Sorry, we’re 86 the Wingnuts till 3 PM.”

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 her him it them

News from the Front: Love Under the Insects, Science

Sigh.

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.

Not All Who Are Lost Are Wandering

Someone did a search for:

photos of happy are the clean of heart, for they will see god

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:

"inevitable sneeze"

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.:

368
+197
565

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

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.

II

“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.”

III

“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.

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: 73%	Jayne Mansfield: 66%
Neve Campbell: 66%	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.

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.

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?

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?

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.”

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?

A Schism in Her Realism

From a chat conversation with a friend, who (I am thankful) doesn’t read this blog (or does she? better check the hits log):

Misty: You can’t tell me atheism isn’t a religion. There’s doctrine, faith in that doctrine without scientific proof, and a cause, principle, and system of beliefs held to with ardor and faith. It’s a religion – and so is communism and all the other -isms I can think of.

Never thought of that. So, after taking a few minutes to check my lucky Merriam Webster’s Used Student Dictionary (and the online version) and finding that definition #4 supporting her claim, I replied:

Yearning Heart: This concept that, not just atheism, transcendentalism, and communism, but all other -isms are religion is quite audacious and I would not dispute it; let’s just call it a truism, admire its heroism, and leave it at that. After all, your major was in journalism – who am I to argue as I am one who merely studied dramatism? – and so I suspect that “religion” for you is merely a euphemism. Anyway, it’s time for my jism prayer meeting, so I’ll sign off now.

Getting there

I didn’t mention it but a few weeks ago I sold my Saturn to pay off a credit card. I felt like it was the smartest financial move I have made in a while. After all, I’m always hauling 3 kids around so I might as well use the family minivan. I don’t go into town to work at the restaurant job anymore, right? And it makes me feel close to Maggie – it was her van.

But yesterday the oil seal on Monsieur’s car melted/vaporized as he was doing 75 mph on the highway, (why do they still use oil seals? why can’t they use a more reliable sea mammal?) spraying oil into a fine mist all over the inside of his engine compartment, and causing the engine to “throw a rod,” whatever that means. Monsieur found out about it tonight from the mechanic.

He told me about it after kids’ bedtime, and said that it will be a hardship. Maggie – well I don’t want to dwell on it but she was manic depressive. When she was manic, she didn’t choose wisely in her spending decisions. When she was depressive, she didn’t want to be around the world and (I say this with all the love for her I have) the world didn’t want to be around her either.

The short story is that when she passed away, she left over $28,000 in consumer debt.

Monsieur’s primary goal right now is to get out from under that, and he sat me down at the living room table with his bills and my bills and we basically figured out that there is no room for a car payment right now. We’re going to be a one-car family out in the country for a while. His look of utter embarrassment confused me, but I think he really thought I would freak out or there would be pouting or an argument or something. And there wasn’t. I said, “well, you take me and the kids to school, and I teach and you pick us up as soon as you can. We get up a little earlier. We plan trips carefully. And, oh yeah,” I remembered, then I picked up my VISA card and a pair of scissors and cut it in two, “we all do our part.”

There was a bit of a pause and he said, “I really was more concerned with my financial situation than yours – although that is often a wise thing to do.”

“My financial situation is intertwined with yours, “ I said, thinking, Shouldn’t this be obvious? “Monsieur, I don’t want to be at this table looking at a similar mess this time next year.”

We talked a bit and he admitted to feeling bad about being under this mountain of debt, and told me of his troubles looking for additional contract work, attempting debt consolidation, talking to neighbors to see if they would be willing to take parcels of his property (they aren’t; these “gentleman ranchers” are about as cash poor as it comes).

“Don’t sell the farm,” I said, remembering my daddy’s troubles back during the 90s farm crisis.

“Oh, cherie, it is hardly a farm.”

“It’s your kids’ house. They got to live somewhere.” He looked at me. I nodded. “We’ll work it out. It’s what we do best.”

I think the thing that was really making me feel good about it all was the fact that he was not just telling me about it, but including me in on it. I was in the loop. I was part of the family, and not just a live-in nanny-with-benefits. He was looking at my bills, too, as part of the family debt. I felt like, well, like a domestic partner.

I put my hand on his knee. He looked at my hand for a minute, and then he covered my hand in his. “I have somehow felt … not as romantic … partly because of this worry,” he said.

“I can understand that. But you know, if you had no house, and no car, and you lived in a tar-paper shack out on the prairie, you’d still have me trying to put my hand on your knee.” He looked at me for a minute, and I said, “maybe even further up.” I smiled, sliding my hand even further up his leg, then resting it there.

“Are you quite sure of this whole situation?” he asked, so softly I could barely hear him.

“This whole situation?” I asked. “Well, no, I’m not sure of everything. Not the whole situation. But I’m pretty sure I’m here to stay.”

“Of that particular situation, I would be in agreement.” He moved my hand even further up. “In this particular situation, I am also … in agreement.” I smiled. I leaned over, kissed him slowly, and thus emboldened, I slid my hand up and in my hand, I cupped the thickest, fattest hard-on that my hand had ever cupped.

“Is that for me?” I said after the kiss.

“Mais oui,” he replied, “if you would deign to have it.”

I unzipped him and got him undressed, then I pulled my jammies off and straddled his waist, before he could change his mind. Kissing him sweetly, tenderly, I lowered myself onto his thick cock and made gentle love to him, muffling my moans by biting his shoulder.

So, I lost one ride. But the one I got was all good.

The Melting Grill

Breakfast tacos.

We don’t have them in eastern Sedgwick County, and you gotta go quite a ways – at least a mile – to get them if you live in ultra-hipster Westport, Kansas City.

It’s not free enterprise, but it’s reasonable priced.

However, in what the clueless ditto-heads of this red state refer to as the People’s Republic of Austin, one can find that capitalism is alive and well in the form of breakfast tacos made, one at a time, if not lovingly, by small brown hands attached to that great symbol of free enterprise, the undocumented business owner in a small trailer on the side of the road. Back during the heyday of the free enterprise system in the late 1600s, the ancestors of this proud population created a concoction based on the most universal of foodstuffs, the flat grilled bread known as a tortilla. While the Cornish have their pasty, and the Irish have their soda cracker, the mighty mestizos of Vespucciland are prepared to bring the 2006 election cycle of the United States to a tizzy fed largely on what they call el breakfast taco. Stuffed with egg and potato, or bacon and cheese, or barbacoa which is, I assume, some form of native marsupial[1], these fat little mothers are what I like about the local cuisine.

I stopped in a “panaderia”[2] known as “El Churro”[3] and waited in line as everyone ordered in Spanish. There was actually no line; one simply elbowed one’s way up to the counter through the comfortably dressed. Not unlike many college age touring shows, but in this instance one was looking for breakfast, not beer or frottage with a hottie. Fat people, by their sheer ballast, had priority. I was squeezed into place before the counter almost by default, sort of a Brownian[4] motion of bodies that moved me in the direction I needed to go. Other customers were greeted at the counter with a pleasant “bueno?” but I accepted the wordless nod of the proprietress as a sign of respect for my pasty lack of melanin and my vivid freckles.

“I’d like two, potato egg and cheese, and a barbaquaw[5] please,” I said.

“¿Quieres tortillas de harine ó masa?” she queried.

I am Taco. I am one with everything.

“De farine, s’il vous plaît,” I replied, reasoning that, if one is addressed in a language one can speak but replies in another, then the instigator of the conversation can justifiably assume that all linguistic bets are off and may now speak Esperanto, Polish or Urdu, to the level of one’s own whim and ability.

“¿Que?”

“De farine,” I repeated.

“No, I said ju wann flour tortillas or corn?” she probed.

“A-ha! Caught you!” I said, with triumph. “Yes, please, flour tortillas.”

Her eyes narrowed to slits as she rang up my purchase, but there was a tacit understanding between us now. I knew, she knew, and I knew that she knew that I knew. There would not be another attempt on each other’s culture. From then on she would speak to me in clumsy English, and I would reply in even more atrocious Spanish. It was, after all, how it should be. De colores, and so forth.

[1] I think it’s a member of the “critter” family.

[2] “Place where they cook with pans”.

[3] “The Churlish One”.

[4] Named for its inventor, James Brown, who discovered it in a super-heated crack pipe 50 years ago and based an entire religion on its principles. This religion has many practitioners to this day.

[5] The closest my Irish tongue can approximate barbacoa.

Blog me, blog me, blog me harder

Freaking freak fork flick fling finger food.

I’m horney again. I swear, the more I get, the more I want – and it’s not like I’m getting enough. Monsieur and I are supposed to talk about this soon. Hmppf. I can’t wait.

Meanwhile I get these dreams…

…like the one where there’s a Hot Blogger convention in San Francisco, and in one seminar, I’m being held down by Venting Housewife while her randy husband bangs me like a screen door slammin’. Or the one where I’m getting blowjob lessons from Desireous, who lets me practice on Sir (“that’s not right, honey, tilt your head back a little – Sir, can you hold her by the head and just fuck her face real steady? Mmm, that-a-girl – get to know it!”). Or how about the Introspectral Spank-You-Very-Much-Workshop, where you get your Continuing Education Certification in Applied Paddle … I’m face down gritting my teeth, ass in the air as Jack applies the paddle in an endless round of smacks hitting my naughty upturned butt … “I can’t take it,” I protest, then Jill gives me a deep kiss that melts me and gives me the strength to handle another ten, twenty, fifty smacks … then I’m being taken by Passionate Man as he vents every frustration he has on me, naked from the waist up and his fatigue pants around his ankles, my legs locked around his waist – but wait, it’s a hotel room and I’m pulling a train – I see Figleaf and Shyrocket are next in line, and the line goes out the door and down the hall, as my stats counter clicks over, another one joins the line … I wake up, soaking, look at the clock, 4 AM. Shaking my head, then spoon my soaking crotch into a sleeping Monsieur’s, praying that I’ll get some this morning. Jay-Sue, PMS is a bitch.

Tonic review

A while back I got a gift from a reader who checked my wish list, sending me a CD and only asked that I give an honest review of it. He’s a sweetie and kinda stuck in a bad situation. I hadn’t had time until now to sit down and write the damn thing, so with apologies for another obligation that zoomed by, here we go:

Tonic Vintage Vocals

[2004] released on the SKM label

Put on a slinky cocktail dress, mix up a pitcher of martinis and prepared to let Tonic hep ya to some jive: this CD is as smooth as baby’s feet and you better be ready to swing. Tonic is a vocal quartet – imagine Manhattan Transfer if they were packing heat – and the melody rules the show. Rigorous attention to detail and perfection in rhythm and harmony both make this a great cocktail party tape. I wouldn’t know – but I love playing it good & loud while picking up the clutter after a busy weekend with the boys. My favorites: “Sammy Slick”, the story of a hard-drinkin’ private eye on the trail of a femme fatale; “Lemon Twist” for a bit of vitamin C; and “Hepster’s Jive”, with a nod of the fedora to Cab Calloway. These all are originals, but they have that authentic flavor of a corrupt Prohibition Era Chicago – sweet horns, tasty arrangements, and sax solos that are so decadent that they make you want to be the kind of woman your mom warned your brother about. I defy you to not get up and dance a lindy hop to the infectious “Second Date Stomp”. The Yearning Heart says, check it out.

http://www.tonicvocals.com

And private to PM; thanks again.

Where the apple falls

I never have any doubts that these are Maggie’s kids.

Scene: Exterior - Day - Playground

Curly Blonde Girl and Bigglest Boy (7 and 8 years of age, respectively) are playing in the sand box. Bigglest Boy is trying to built a sandcastle, using sticks to support the walls around the castle keep. He inverts a bucket of wet sand and lifts it up to make a tower, which crumbles. He tries again; the sand crumbles away as he pulls the bucket off.
Bigglest Boy: [frustrated] Stupid!!!
Curly Blonde Girl: I’m not stupid.
Bigglest Boy: No! This sand is stupid.
Curly Blonde Girl: Jesus doesn’t want you to say “stupid”.
Bigglest Boy: Jesus never says what I want him to say, either.

Civil Disobedience

Fortunately I don’t get mail asking for money from any political parties. At least, I don’t here in Texas. In KC I got them from the Republicans; I eventually stopped them by sending them a check for three cents. They spent more money trying to extract money from me than I ever could have hoped; I finally got a call from one of their telemarketers, who had an obviously rural Midwestern accent and called me“hon". I told her that the three cents was to ensure that I would stay on their list of contributors and force them to spend even more money - to handle the check, to add me to their database, and to pay her to call me right now. I figured that they spent at least $20 on that endeavor, and that my money was well-spent.

“Oh, then,” she replied, dropping the accent and sounding more like the Yankee that my Caller ID indicated that she likely was.“Well, if you’re not going to help, then why did you send that check in?”

“Money well spent,” I repeated.“It was a check for three cents.”

She hung up on me without a “thank you”. I have not heard from them again.