Day 5: A little to the left please

This is what my living room floor looks like right now. And it will still look that way in the morning. Now don't you feel better about yourself?

Also, I bought some sausage gravy and biscuits Lays potato chips when I was out shopping with my daughter Elvira this evening. We tried them, they were OK, and she stuck them behind us on floor of the van. I have absolutely zero anything delicious -- meaning salty and greasy -- in this house to eat with my glass of chardonnay. I know, right? So far I haven't gone out to my van to get those stupid chips. They aren't even that good, and I have a sore on the back of my tongue, but if I were you I wouldn't put your odds on my will power holding out.

It's probably bad enough I'm drinking the chardonnay. You know what they say about people who drink alone. I'm not really drinking alone though. See, I've mounted a mirror right beside me at my computer to keep myself company. Every once in a while I toast with myself and congratulate us for not drinking alone like a couple of big, fat losers. Clink! Somehow, it's the eating potato chips alone that seems like a worse practice anyway. Nothing says loser more than an empty bag of chips you just bought this afternoon.

Hold on ..... I'll be back. I'm going out to the ... I mean, to the ..... I mean, I think the dog's barking out back. Better check.

Bitch, I am right here! Hey, are those chips?

I'm back. Everything is fine. Let's not talk about potato chips. Let's talk about this new app that can allegedly teach a person how to give a woman an orgasm. And, no, this isn't the one I wrote about in the monologue I performed last fall in All the Sex Monologues. That one was worthless. This one might actually work.

(Stolen from
Google Play)

The app, which is sold by a company in Denmark called Lovable Hat Cult, is named La Petite Mort, which means a little death, another name for an orgasm. Because it feels so fucking good you want to die. Although in my experience, it could also mean you're going to die if he (assuming here that women know where the spot is) doesn't find the right fucking spot and stay the fuck on it long enough for la petite mort to happen. Ladies, you know what I mean! (And if you don't, I just might go all Jolene on you and steal your man!)

Anyway, this is an app so unlike a real woman it doesn't have a clitoris. It has pixels. So what you do is you excite the pixels on the screen. And as you're circling and stirring the pixels around with your finger or .... well, I guess you could actually use any part of your body to excite the pixels .... music plays. If you get it right, the music lets you know. And if you get it really right .... if you stir the pixels into the ultimate pixel climax ... if you really kill it, the app rewards you with a satisfying musical climax. Probably something like this.



The game has different "landscapes" so you don't get bored. The company touts the meditative quality of finding the sweet spot and circling ... circling .... building and agitating .... circling as the music builds and guides your finger. I actually think this one sounds kind of cool, so I went to the Google Store to take a look. Apparently Apple won't allow iPhone users to buy it, because it's not family friendly. Whatever. It's not a real pussy, Apple, nor even a facsimile of one.

I, however, could buy this Zen-like experience for the low price of $2.50 in the Google Play Store, and I would have clicked right on that sweet sweet app..... even though, and I feel a digression coming on .... I think we all know I have my own pixels, and circling my pixels eventually brings on a small death that, while it is not accompanied by a musical climax, is nevertheless an experience to die for. And I'll just add, although I don't want to brag, that I've never had any complaints when I've circled anybody else's pixels either, so it's not like I need this app. However, I do know a few people who absolutely do need this app. I'm not naming names, but maybe I should some time just to make sure this app or one like it gets into the right hands, but I digress ....

Anyway, I could download La Petite Mort if my phone weren't several years old (4? .. 5? who knows?) with a memory so tiny it can't remember its own mother. I've had to ditch all but the most necessary apps, and I can't even upgrade Facebook. I can't even play Words with Friends. I can't even upgrade voice mail ....which means, I can't fucking buy the app. I can't buy even a small orgasmic death.

It's not fair. I really wanted to give my phone -- my Android! -- in appreciation of its many years of service, a huge, pixel-shaking, full-orchestra orgasm. Who wouldn't want that?

Fuck it. I'm too depressed to write any more. I really thought this was the one, and yet I can't even give it a decent review.  I can't even get my Android-loving friends together and have contests to see who can make their phones come the fastest. Do you even know how much fun that would be? I know I would win.

Oh, well. Fuck my life, but maybe one of you can download it and tell me what it's like to give an Android an orgasm. It's cutting edge computer fuckery, my friends! Cutting edge.

The company has other apps that look intriguing. All joking aside, if I could I'd try a couple of them out, even if they aren't free. If you do give them a try, let me know what you think in the comments below. I'm disgustingly used to vicarious sex.

Disclaimer #1: I have no affiliation with Lovable Hat Cult. I just wrote this because I was intrigued and I can't stop talking about sex.
Disclaimer #2: I didn't really go to my van and get sausage gravy potato chips. I ate some stale fucking rice crackers instead. All of them. I'm pathetic.

Day 4: Coralineisms #1776

I decided I'd let Coraline write tonight's post. We didn't get home until almost midnight from the last of the weekend's 4th of July parties, and I'm not going to last until 4:00 am tonight. For those of you who are new readers, 1st, welcome. And 2nd, every once in a while I post a selection of what I call Coralineisms, cute or witty things my granddaughter Coraline said to me recently during one of our conversations. Oh, to live again in the mind of a 4-year-old.

1. As we’re walking to a neighborhood meeting, we pass a man walking the other direction. He’s probably in his 70’s. I’ve never seen him before. He says hi; we say hi. We walk on.

Coraline, in a loud voice: He seemed like a nice man.

Me: Sure. He seemed nice enough.

Coraline, in a louder voice: Maybe you could date him.

Me: I don’t date.

Coraline: Yes, but maybe you could date him, I mean.

Me: No.

Coraline: Why?

Me: Just no.

Coraline: But why?

Me: (Long pause) Because I said so.

Coraline: He did seem like a nice man though. He said, "Hi."

Me: That's how it always starts.

2. We’re watching the finale of The Great British Baking Show. One of my celebrity crushes, Paul Hollywood, starts talking on the screen.

Me: Oh my god. He is so cute. (I lose myself in his gorgeous blue eyes.)

Coraline: Who is he?

Me: Somebody unattainable, but terribly hot. Just a guy on TV, in other words.

Coraline: Are you going to send him some texts?

Me: I don’t think he’d appreciate that much.

Coraline: You could send him just one text.

Me: No.

Coraline: But why?

Me: (Long pause) Because I said so.


3. Coraline draws a princess on a post-it note and holds it out to me.

Coraline: Here. This is ready.

Me: What do you want me to do with it?

Coraline: I'm ready to photoshop her.


4. Coraline holds out her notebook to show me a page.

Coraline: Look! There's a fairy in this notebook. I didn't draw it.

Me: Might be one of mine. Did I draw it?

Coraline: Maybe. It looks bad enough.

5. Coraline puts her notebook into my hands.

Coraline: Please draw me a queen.

Me: No, you've already said I'm not good at drawing queens. I don't want to draw a bad queen.

Coraline: I don't care if it's bad. Just PLEASE draw me a queen. PLEASE?

Me: Fine. Don't tell me if it's bad. (I draw a queen. It's not good, but it's not my worst.)

Coraline: This queen is a violin player. She needs a violin.

Me: Why don't you draw the violin? She can hold it with her left hand. (I point it out.)

Coraline: (sighing) OK, fine. I'll draw it. But I decided she's a flute player instead.

Me: You're a cheater.

Coraline: I know.

Day 3: Would you like cream with that?

(Photo credit: Adrian Williams)

First, thank you for all the kind comments on Facebook. I'm glad to be writing again, and I'll try not to stay away so long again.


I went to a lovely 4th of July party tonight. We're saddled with intermittent rain here that's supposed to last through the actual 4th, but in spite of the drips the show went on. We watched the fireworks from a 5th-floor loft downtown, and as you can see, the view was perfect.

We also sang karaoke and ate all-American apple pie and red, white, and blue cake that will probably give us all blue poops, but what's the 4th of July without blue poop? I'm actually looking forward to my next poop now.

And finally, the host asked a few actors to entertain the guests with fiery oratory, which is why I was invited. I played Mother Jones, and in my best Irish brogue, gave one of her speeches. She was, and still is, a fascinating woman. In one of her most famous quotations she said, "I'm not a humanitarian. I'm a hell-raiser." That's a woman I would have liked to have spent the 4th of July with. She died at age 100 in 1930. If she were alive today, I like to think we might be voting for her for president this November.

But that's not what's got me fired up tonight. What's got me fired up is this new coffee shop that's going to open up soon  in Geneva, Switzerland. A coffee shop where a cup of coffee costs about $62 because it comes with a .... were you going to guess muffin? Ha! Fuck, no. Were you going to guess the coffee beans were shit by a monkey? Nope, not even that. The coffee costs so much because it comes with a blow job. We're talking "fellatio cafe."

Here's how it works. Say a man wants a cup of joe and a blow. He goes into the fellatio cafe, orders his coffee, and then uses an iPad to choose a woman to give him a blow job. She comes out and sucks his dick while he drinks his coffee and reads the newspaper. Five to ten minutes later, he wipes his dick off mouth, folds his paper, gets up and goes to work. I assume most men don't get their coffee to go from this place.

Remember last night I said I don't write sometimes because so many things piss me off? Well, this pisses me off, and I don't even live in Switzerland. Even though prostitution is legal there, this sounds like a severe infraction of equality.

Why are men the only ones who get coffee and oral sex? Women are far less likely to get orgasms with their partners than men are. Isn't this a service that would benefit women at least as much as it would men. Probably even more?

And yet, it's hard to imagine a roomful of women sitting there drinking a skinny latte with

(Stolen from Google images)

extra foam and reading the newspaper while some strange guy (I'm sticking with the cis theme here, because that's how reports of this cum cafe read so far) licks her lady bits to orgasm. Can you imagine? 

Can you imagine the sounds? The cacaphony of ah .... uh huh ..... aaahhh .... right there .....  don't stop! .... yes .... yes .... YES ... AAAHHHH YEEEESSSSS .... ahhhh.

Mmmm mmmm good. Another satisfied customer.

If the idea were reversed, would I meet a girlfriend at the Muffin Munch Cafe. where we would order our coffee, peruse the men available on the iPad, fight over the cutest one and then agree to flip a coin, pull down our panties and sit back in special lounge chairs with our coffee while the men we'd chosen go to work with their nimble tongues? Maybe get some Asian guy to give us a mani/pedi at the same time? And would we talk about our kids and how much weight we've put on and whether it's better to go low-carb or paleo and what the fuck is she thinking with that hair color? Until .... ah ah ah .... AAAHHHHHHH ....

Would that be weird? 

Fuck, yes, it would be weird, and you know why? Because it's hard to imagine a selection of men sitting in some room waiting around so they can go down on any old pussy who walks in the door and clicks the box beside his photo, all for a 60/40 split with the house. It's demeaning. No matter how much a guy likes burying his face, he's not going to wait in a back room to be ordered off a menu like a burger and fries, hold the onions.

And it's just as hard to imagine a woman walking into a coffee shop and letting some stranger put his mouth on her most sensitive, delicate bits while she drinks a cup of coffee  and updates her calendar. Who the fuck would do that? You don't know where that tongue has been. And how is that even appealing to anybody who's not a sociopath? That's what vibrators are for!

Maybe it's not even my business. Consenting adults and all that. But this sounds like just one more way to objectify women, and frankly, we don't need people coming up with new ways to do that. The old ways are bad enough.

One of the ways bloggers encourage readers to leave comments is to ask a question at the end of a post. Like now I would ask you if you -- female or male -- would buy oral sex with your coffee. And you would post a comment down there in the comment area with your answer.

Don't worry. I won't put you on the spot. But I will ask this question: What the fuck is wrong with people? And isn't Switzerland supposed to be neutral? 

Day 2: Let's start with failure and go from there

Well, Dear Readers, it's been a while. Seven months + one day. My longest blogging dry spell yet. Does it help to know I write lots of blog posts in my head? Posts about all kinds of shit, like rapists and body image and vaginas and riding my bike and how my neighbors park like assholes and the vagrants who live across the alley and their fucking rooster and how I haven't been to karaoke in a while because I got roofied the last time I went. And no, that's not just an excuse for getting too drunk. It happened, and I do have a story to tell. I have told it and edited it and rewritten it and rearranged scenes and done everything except put my fingers on a keyboard, because these days I mostly just write in my head. If somebody could invent a gadget that would allow me to dictate straight from my head I would be the next Stephen King. Only what's inside my head is sometimes scarier than what's inside his.

Hold on .... the dog's barking out in the back yard ......

I'm back. Some vagrant back there yelling, "Jooooeeeeyyyy. Jooeey. JOE! Joooeeeyyy...." Drives poor Crow Cocker nuts. Earlier tonight I heard one of them yell, "If she gets on top and he gets on the bottom, that will be OK with us! Just do it! Now!" I don't even  fucking want to know what that was about. They might be playing Twister for all I know. I can't see because my garage is between them and me, so all I can do is guess, and that's not the path to mental health.

At least the fireworks have mostly abated for the night. It sounded like Viet Nam in the 60's  around here tonight. I digress.

But no, I don't digress. In just the 5 minutes I tried to sit down here and write the first blog post of July on July 2, all I did was write a paragraph and then bam. Off I went to do some other shit. Because OC that's what it's like living in this house with my 4-year-old princess granddaughter and a 90-pound autistic poodle.

I do have things to write about. But .... and yes, here come the excuses .... once I get Coraline to sleep at whatever time we stop reading -- usually 10:30 or even 11:00, all I want to do is sit down on the couch with a glass of chardonnay in one hand, the remote in the other and a bowl of chips in my lap. And I thought getting rid of cable would fix my addiction. Fucking Netflix.

And don't tell me 99% of you haven't either watched the latest season of Orange Is the New Black or are in the middle or intend to as soon as you're back from your latest vacation. You fucking know it's true.

I will confess, it's not like I don't get an evening or a day off sometimes. I do. And when I do, I either go out with other grownups or I get out my lists and try to get a bunch of shit done or I go to work, like I did today, or I sit on my ass and read a novel. An adult fucking novel. Or I go on a bike ride. Or I take the dog on a long guilt walk ... or ... or ... or ..... Sit down and write isn't even on this list, because I need to unload the dishwasher. TBH, I've lost a lot of the spontaneity that used to drive my writing. I need to regroup.

I don't really believe in writer's block, although I'll admit some people would diagnose me with that dreaded disease. I believe in "writer not putting her butt in the chair." I believe in that affliction, and I definitely have it. Not that my butt doesn't spend plenty of time in a chair. I just don't spend that time writing. Except on Facebook. Let's not talk about Facebook, OK?

I'm working on it though. I've held a couple of bootcamps here at my house for writers and visual artists recently with surprising and inspiring results. And this month I'm going to try to write a post every day here, even though I've got a day to make up already. If I succeed in writing 5 posts a week, I'll consider it a success. If you want to help me out by leaving some comments, that would be great, but if not, I'm still going to keep writing. And after this month, if not here, other places that actually pay a few bucks plus exposure.

Finally, while I'm in confession mode, I will confess that one of the reasons I don't write is because sometimes I'm so disgusted by what's going on in this country if I did start writing, I'd be up all night, every night, writing bitter vitriol and I can't afford to be in that place all the time. I have a queendom to run here, and it's hard to separate that shit from trips to the park (dog and people) and play dates and gardening and snuggling up to watch Cupcake Wars and all the other wonderful things I need to focus on instead of spilling my rage on the page. I could write an entire month of posts just on the subject of rape, but who wants to read about that every day? Not you, right?

OK, that's it for tonight. Excuses and piecrust promises, easily made and easily broken (Mary Poppins). Feel free to send me suggestions for posts. I might not take them, but I will appreciate them. And I'll try to be back tomorrow with something real to say. Pinkie promise.

Somebody proof this for me, will ya? I need to go to bed.

Day #1: Allowables

I'm writing this on July 9, because I need to make up for not posting on July 1. It's late though, and I just finished my July 8 post, so I'm going to share this poem. It says so much, so much better than I could.