Full Moon Musing

I celebrated another full moon tonight with an amazing group of women. We happened to land in the same ritzy neighborhood as last time, so we walked to the same bridge overlooking a busy city street to find the moon rising over the treetops, orange as a wheel of Wisconsin cheddar cheese. Before we left the house, one of the women, Mary*, suggested we moon the moon tonight. I'm not sure why. Maybe singing and howling didn't seem like enough. I said I'd do it. Somebody else said we'd be arrested by the bored and eager for anything at all to happen diligent and highly responsive Oakwood police. I, as the second youngest in the group, replied that pulling our pants up when we saw flashing lights and lying our asses off to the nice officers would probably cover said asses. Who would believe this group of nine women, with at least one member in her 80's, would pull their pants down and stick their butts out over a busy street in a neighborhood where none of the houses sell for under seven figures? Mooning sounded like a fine idea to me. I hadn't done it in decades.

So we walked to the bridge and sang some moon songs and howled, and then Mary laughed and said it was time to moon the moon. I started to unbutton my pants....but nobody else even reached for their waistbands. Several people just kept talking about something that had nothing to do with exhibitionism.

I said, "OK, let's do it. Pull 'em down." We looked at the traffic whizzing by under the bridge and at the headlights playing down the streets on either side, and then Mary claimed she was just kidding. I said, "Forget it. We came here to moon, so I'm going to moon....as soon as that car passes over the bridge." (I'm crazy, but I'm not insane. Don't believe what you've heard.)

So the car passed close by us and as soon as the tail lights cleared the bridge, I pulled down my capris and mooned the man in the moon....and the busy street below. For a moon to be a full moon you have to hold it for at least three seconds. I did. As I was buttoning up, Mary made a motion to my left and claimed she'd done it, but I know she didn't hold it long enough. I don't think her pants cleared her cheeks. I really don't. And I also don't think anybody in a car below the bridge saw my white middle-aged ass shining in the light of the full moon either. Nor did I get arrested, more's the pity. That would have made a much better story.

As I was leaving, the friend who shared her lovely house with us tonight was laughing about how her kids--all grown--treat her like she's too old to make decisions for herself....unless they want her to babysit. I don't think she's hit 60 yet, so she's hardly in automatic dementia range. As I was driving home, I tried to think whether my kids ever treat me that way, whether we ever suffered from role reversals. And I thought of several conversations where, yes, I could say they thought I needed their advice or even protection.

For example, my daughter interrogated me about expressed interest in somebody I'd been dating for several months. She wanted to meet him and I explained that he wouldn't want to meet my kids. It went something like this:
Daughter: I want to meet this guy you've been dating.
Me: He doesn't want to meet you.
Daughter: Why not? I want to meet him.
Me: I don't know. I'm just sure he wouldn't be comfortable meeting you. I guess it might imply....something.
Daughter: Has my brother met him?
Me: No.
Daughter: Does he hate kids?
Me: You're not really kids, but no, of course not. He has kids too.
Daughter: Have you met them?
Me: No, they don't live here.
Pitbull Daughter: Do you expect to meet them?
Me: No, I don't think he'd be comfortable....
Daughter: Hmmm. How long have you been dating this guy? 
Me: You know....a few months.
Daughter: What do your friends think of him?
Me: We don't really hang around with....you know. A few of them have met him a couple of times. But we know some of the same people....
Daughter: What are his friends like?
Me: Would you like to set up a hanging light bulb? Burn me with a cigarette? Waterboard?
Daughter: Just answer the question.
Me: I haven't met them.
Daughter: You haven't met his friends? Why?
Me: He doesn't want...I don't know....
Daughter:  You don't know?
Me: Stop it! He's a nice guy and I like him. Why do you care if he comes to Thanksgiving dinner? When we go out, we just go out together, OK?  Alone. I really like him.
Daughter:  No, not OK. What would you say if I'd been dating somebody for....how many months? Five? Six? and he refused to meet you? What would you say?
Me: Not the same.....but OK, your dad and I would probably put away our swords and poison-tipped arrows for a day and arrange a meeting with or without anybody's permission. But I'm not your daughter and you're not.....
Daughter: And I'm not dating, but you are. Someone you're seeing that much of should meet your kids and your friends.
Me: Not your decision.
Daughter: Are you having sex with this man? 
Me: (letting a long silence pass) You didn't really ask me that. 
Daughter: I thought so. You better think about this, Missy.
Me: I do. And you did make a valid point. Now let's talk about something else, huh? Like if Dean from Supernatural showed  up on the porch and needed help catching a monster, I get first dibs on taking him upstairs because you're pregnant and I'm not.... 
Daughter: We're not done with this conversation.
Me: You're not my mother.

Foam Night

Another conversation, this one with my son, after a night out at a club he and his friends frequent. It was foam night and I was feeling just a little crazy because of something upsetting and deal-breaking that had happened earlier in the night. The kids had been begging me to go out to the club with them on techno-goth night, so I grabbed my friend The Diplomat and we headed over there after we'd closed down the place where we'd been dancing. I think the kids thought it would be funny if  I danced on the pole or in the big hanging cage, but I had no intention....and then there was foam. Lots of foam. It was intoxicating....the foam was intoxicating. My son, his girlfriend, his ex-girlfriend, and another female friend were determined to show me such a good time I'd want to come back again and again, even though I'm pretty sure that, other than The Diplomat, I was the oldest person in the place by decades a few years....except for another attractive older man, a stranger, who danced into our little group after we went inside to boogie in the fog and the flashing lights. And here's how the conversation went with my son the next day.

Son: I don't have to ask if you had fun last night.
Me: I did. It was just what I needed. Crazy fun.
Son: Yeah, I noticed you attracted some attention.
Me: I didn't embarrass you, did I?
Son: Me? No, of course not. You can't embarrass me, remember? I just had to...you know, keep an eye on you.
Me: Keep an eye on me? When have you ever had to keep an eye on me, baby boy?
Son: When we were all dancing a strange guy came up and started dancing with you.
Me: Yes. Yes, he did. And he was pretty cute too, huh?
Son: I didn't notice.
Me: Wait.....is that why you stopped dancing and just stood off to the side with your arms crossed?
Son: Somebody had to keep an eye on things.
Me: I was dancing with the guy....dancing! I wasn't going to take him home and....
Son: ....No! No need to explain! I don't want to know what you were going to do with him.
Me: I wasn't going to do anything with him...yet. I was dancing with him. Or he was dancing with me. I was flattered and I kind of needed the ego boost.
Son: Yes, and not everybody who comes into that place is a nice guy.
Me: He seemed pretty nice to me. I mean, nice to dance with.
Son: Yes, and I was making sure he stayed nice.
Me: Oh my god. I can't believe you said that.
Son: If things had gotten ugly you would have thanked me.
Me: If things had gotten ugly I could have taken care of myself.
Son: Just sayin'.
Me:  Don't ever do that again.
Son: Can't promise that.
Me: You box blocked me.
Son: Don't want to hear it.

And finally, if you've read this far, you probably need another drink a conversation in the kitchen with my son's girlfriend and my daughter a couple of weeks ago as I was putting the finishing touches on my son's birthday dinner.

Son's Girlfriend: What happened with that guy the other night? The one you were dancing with at the Celtic festival? Did you leave with him?
Me: Which one?
Son's Girlfriend: The last one. Not the one in the hat. The one in the kilt who wasn't wearing a shirt. The one you were slow dancing with....
Daughter: Was he cute?
Me: He was adorable. Great guns. I would have really gone for him 30 years ago.
Daughter: (to Son's Girlfriend) Was he really all that? Or is she exaggerating?
Me: I'm right here.
Son's Girlfriend: Yeah, he really was gorgeous. So, did you tap that?
Me: Tap that? No! Of course not. He was a child. Did he even have on a wrist band?
Son's Girlfriend: He was drinking a beer. You didn't tap that? He was all over you!
Me: Yes, he was and don't you think that's weird? He grabbed my ass about a dozen times. I should have slapped him. A guy his age? He's your age. You're all children. And he was drinking a beer, but I ask again, did he have on a wristband?
Girlfriend: I didn't notice if he had on a wristband, but you should have taken him home with you. He wanted you.
Me: I'm not a pedophile! But he did call three times and he left the cutest message....
Daughter: You gave him your number?!? You never give out your number! Mommers!
Me: I know. I didn't mean to. He asked me to put my number in his phone and...he was very persistent... and I thought I transposed the last two digits but for some reason I put in the right number. It was definitely accidental. I didn't answer the phone when he called.
Son's Girlfriend:  Why not? You really should have tapped that. He was so hot.
Me: He was hot, and he was a baby. A hot little boy child. I can't think of any reason why he was even dancing with me. I think it might even be kind of embarrassing that I danced with him. Maybe he was a ho. 
Son's Girlfriend: A ho? Why would you think that? You were pretty hot that night too.
Daughter: Mom is a MILF.
Me: I hate that term. I'm not a MILF. That's disgusting. I'm just a mom. And I don't "tap" kids who are younger than my first-born. And I wouldn't tap a guy who thinks having his own apartment is enough to impress me. I told him my standards are higher than that....
Daughter: You didn't have to marry him. Just do him. Get your cookie and then you're done with him. Get your cookie first and send him on his way.
Son's Girlfriend: What did he say in the message?
Me: He said I should call him back and we should get together .... tonight if possible. And then he thought he'd hung up and I could hear him say in the background, "Oh shit. I really sounded like a dork."
Son's Girlfriend: Awww. That's so cute. Why didn't you call him back?
Me: You're kidding, right? I'm really not a pedophile and I don't need you children to focus so much on my sex life....or my lack of a sex life.
Daughter: Mom, next time some young stud goes after you, just do it. Don't overthink  it.
Me: I'm pretty sure he was a ho. Nothing else about it makes sense. I can't believe you want me to tap a ho.

So, I guess I have reached that age. That age where my children think I'm too old to take care of myself. That age where they think their advice overrides all my years of taking care of myself and them. But as I drove, I thought....hmmm. If I did get busted for mooning the moon and the traffic over Dorothy Lane, who would I call to bail me out? I guess it would be....one of my kids. Wow. That really puts things into perspective, doesn't it? I may have to see what I can do about making that happen the next time a full moon rolls across the sky.

*Name changed to protect the guilty.

Coward

Squirrel!

I'm going to tell a story about how I became a crazy cat lady soon, but for today, I just want to introduce Coward, one of my three alley cats. (Not to imply ownership in either direction. My alley cats don't touch me and I don't touch them. We have no loyalty toward each other. I put out food when I feel like it; they eat it when they feel like it. No strings, especially on me. Alley cats have to be tough and resourceful. More on that later.) Here is Coward, one of my alley cats.

But wait, you say. That's not a cat. That's a squirrel.

Yes, it is a squirrel. I can tell the difference, I say. You don't have the whole picture.

Coward

Today I put out some Alley Cat brand cat food for Coward, who came up to the back steps and hissed at me when I took out the trash. That's how my cats show affection, so I fed her. And then later when I couldn't finish my lunch, I went back out and gave her some grilled tuna steak. Yes, my three alley cats eat like royalty because I am a queen.

Coward was chowing down the tuna steak as fast as she could like any smart alley cat would ...until this squirrel came down out of the oak tree and decided it wanted the Alley Cat brand cat food she wasn't eating. So Coward, living entirely up to her name, backed away from the bowl and waited for the squirrel to finish eating even though there was fresh tuna steak in the bowl with the dry cat food. Here she is hiding around the corner behind the steps while the squirrel hogs the food. "Really, Coward?" I said. "You hiss at me, the person who gives you food and you step aside with your eyes cast down for this....this....squirrel?" I hope that's shame on her face.

Linx

A few minutes later, her sister Linx came by and noticed a squirrel eating from their bowl. Suspecting there might be food there, she hurried across the yard to deal with the interloper and finished both the tuna and the Alley Cat brand cat food. Sorry, Coward. This is why you're the smallest and skinniest of the litter. It's OK to be introverted, but you still have to eat.

The moral of the story: There is no moral to the story, just a fact. Cowards lose. If you don't fight for your tuna steak and your Alley Cat brand cat food, which was given to you with at least some small degree of affection, somebody else will eat it and you won't get more anywhere else. You'll probably end up eating out of a garbage can or licking a fast food wrapper. That's just a fact. Cowards lose.

Romance: The Ping

 

First, I can't stand Will Ferrell. I avoid his movies unless I'm subjected to undue pressure. I don't even know why I watched this silly, sappy clip once I saw his face. However, if Maggie Gyllenhaal came into the room and sat on my lap while I was playing my guitar, I'd put aside my guitar and let her have her way. I would not shove it to the floor like they did, but he's obviously not playing a Gibson so who cares?

I'm a romantic, in a black leather, bare feet, and white wine kind of way, and I'm a sucker for a man playing a guitar (or dancing me around the living room or maybe even singing to the radio in the car....), and I'm a sucker for those little moments that make something inside me go ping. Oh, I do love that feeling. ping It's kind of addictive, that feeling. I have to admit the irony that most of those ping moments can't even be defined as momentous. In fact, when those moments happen, an onlooker probably wouldn't discern that anything special happened at all. Oh, sometimes a stranger will make a comment to me about how happy I look, because I really do wear everything I feel on my face, but that's what shows, not the thing that happened.

Do you know what I mean by those ping moments? The ones that could even be called mundane, except that you feel like the stars lined up and the Universe said, "hey, I think I'll give her a little gift for no reason at all," and you just know you're in the right place at the right time and you wouldn't want to be anyplace else because everything is fucking perfect? Those times when you're just walking along the street holding hands with someone, or you put your heads together and laugh until one of you has to run and pee, or you're singing and the melody and the harmony come in so tight and sweet you get a shiver, or you take a bite of something you've never tasted before off his fork and it's so yummy you don't want to swallow it, or you're just sitting on the porch swinging and talking softly, or he says something funny and you squirt wine through your nose, or maybe you both cry at the end of a movie and then you laugh because his shirt is wet with your tears, or you lock eyes just before his lips touch yours, or you watch him drive away and know you'll see him again soon but you watch until he's out of sight just in case.... I'm really addicted to these crazy, ordinary, unexpected pings. If I could call anything a spiritual moment, these would be the moments.* If I could bottle them up like milk licker, I would do it.

For me today though, it's a trip to the mall to get my glasses fixed and a long, fast bike ride so I can justify stopping at DQ later this afternoon. And then maybe a cheap movie with my son and his girlfriend later tonight. Probably no romantic pings, but by the end of the day, I will have had some just right moments, and you won't find me complaining about that one bit. So tell me: what makes you ping?


*All pings aren't romantic. But for the title of this post to work, that's the kind I'm talking about. Besides they're some of the most unexpected and best, aren't they?

Say Vagina and They Will Come

Wow! You guys really like your vagina cupcakes, don't you? Oh, you didn't know I could track your appetites through my handy little Blogger stats counter? Well, I can. Although Blogger's stats counter is relatively unsophisticated compared to others like Google Analytics and Site Meter, it's kind of fun to compulsively refresh 500 times a day occasionally glance at. I can see things like the number of page visits for certain posts, traffic sources (referring page and keywords), audience (by country or by browser + operating system). It's really pretty boring because it's anonymous information and I don't care that much whether my readers use Firefox or Chrome, Windows or Linux. But this weekend, I've had a couple of surprises that may relate to my recent content or may be a reflection of the specialness of my readership. You tell me.

The first surprise is how many people viewed "I'd Lick that Vagina." The numbers are still coming in, but so far it's slid ahead of almost all the others to become my second most popular post. Already. The only post that's had more hits--and it's way ahead--is ironically one about a cookie, Proust's madeleine, because it gets lots of hits. Evidently not many people have written about Proust's madeleine, so my post comes up on the Google short list.  Now that I know how delicious you find it, my plan is to put the word "vagina" in the title of every post from now on. (To be honest, it doesn't hurt that a couple of people reposted on Facebook, and I seriously do thank you for that.)

Another thing that shocked me--shocked me!--this weekend was when I glanced at the operating systems stats and saw that somebody visited my blog using a Symbian/3. Only I didn't see Symbian/3; I saw Sybian/3. What the self-pleasuring fuck? I thought. Somebody rode into my blogsite on a dildo machine? Pump it up! This is some brilliant technology!  Talk about the ultimate operating system!

Sybian Operating System

And then I thought,This must be the advanced model, the deluxe edition Sybian. You know, the basic Sybian gets you simple up and down action plus vibration. Then with Sybian/2, you get improvements like....oh, I don't know, maybe a TV attached to it, like the treadmills and elliptical machines at the gym. And then maybe Sybian/2.1 would offer a DVD player or even a blu ray. And Sybian/2.5.7 would be the home theater edition. And then you've got Sybian/3, which is like a smart phone, only it's a smart mechanical and digital (digital as in computers, you with the filthy mind) dildo* with an internet connection so you can read your email and text and visit my blog while you....exercise. And think of the apps you could get....candlelight, sweet talk, soft music, hard music, spanks, Eric Northman slllliiiidddeeeshow..... And on Sybian/3.4, you could get a webcam to use with your out-of-town voyeurs. Seriously, I can't imagine why nobody has ridden into Reticutown on one of these before. I'd buy one myself! Giddyup!

Yes, all of this went through my head before I thought....surely not. Is the wine bottle empty already? So I looked again and saw the very small "m." Symbian. Oh. Nevermind. It's a damn cell phone. That's not sexy. I'm pretty sure Nokia means "not sexy" in Japanese. So, I'm sorry to report that you can't get to the Reticulated Writer on a Sybian.** Yes, I was disappointed too. I do apologize if you got excited because I was too and now....well, no Sybian ride for me. It's the story of my life.

However, you can find my blog through any number of keywords, which is one more little clue to my readership the stat counter gives me. Most of my readers get here through Facebook or come directly in, but some (surely not anybody who's reading this post) are probably sitting home eating crayons and talking to their plastic dolls when they're not looking for me in cyberspace. Here, in no particular order, is a list of keyword searches that brought people here in the past week:

• squid has huge penis
• he spanked me
• wife nipple breast torture stories
• argument anything i say is a problem
• my cute little red haired girl poem
• write about when something unexpected happened
• "my pasties" breasts
• inserting things in vagaina and fuking vagaina and dildo fuki  (I can't make this shit up)
• baby stool smells like sour milk
• guys in bike shorts
• girls wearing pasties
• comfy junk on bike ride
• cycle shorts poop   (don't know if it smells like sour milk; don't care)
• picture of fat lady in pasties
• writers who rode their bycicles
• hw to put something into ur vagina
• how to tuck your junk in bicycle shorts   (not to be confused with tucking something into your vagina)
• squid penis missile
• you can win an argument, but you may lose the battle.

Well now. This is one way I get attention, and yet I feel so slutty sometimes. I do not own the copyright on these words, so I dare anybody to make a found poem with that list of starters. Or just choose five of them. I double dog dare you. I triple dog dare you.

So that's what I know about you, dear readers, from using my Blogger stats counter. If you want to either clear up any mysteries created by that list of keywords or redeem yourselves to the world....well, I really have nothing to suggest. I do read all comments though, so if there's anything you want to explain....do it there. Until next time...

*Yes, this is the third week in a row I've written dildo in a post. I don't think I can keep this up though. It's hard.

**However, you can read more about Sybians at the Reticulated Porn blogsite for the low, low monthly price of only $39.95, tax included.***
*** You know that's a joke, right?

Editorial comment: My stats do not show me who clicks on the buttons below. If you clicked "call me" and you want me to call, you have to leave or send me your number. Don't tease the blogger. If you want me to call you so we can discuss riding a Sybian, you should definitely call me today. (Disclaimer: I will write about almost anything and sometimes I take photos so be forewarned.)

I'd Lick that Vagina

For those of you who like to lick the frosting, I offer you this tutorial on how to make a vagina cupcake. As an owner of a vagina that doesn't look exactly like this cupcake though, I'm compelled to add a short bit of commentary. First, the toasted coconut might not work for you--either visually or palate-wise. One friend who isn't into the coconut pubes suggested chocolate sprinkles. For that 70's look, I think licorice whips, either black or red, but not red, would work. Or to keep up with the times, you might even want to paint on some little red bumps for that just-waxed look.

I'd also suggest reducing the size of that clit, which is technically a clit hood, and adding a little ball of frosting under there. If clits were that big, Cindy would have found hers long before she found her toes. Guys, I know you're thinking it would sure solve a lot of problems if it were that big, but then we might have to call it something else, like a penis.

Not part of a vagina

Aesthetics aside, I also have to take issue with a few anatomical terms the decorator used in this video. Vaginas don't have sidewalls. Car tires have sidewalls. Also, even if you're going to use the word "vagina" as a generic term for the entirety of the female genitalia, you still can't tell viewers to put the clitoris inside the vagina walls. This woman probably shares a fantasy with all too many men that the clitoris is found inside the vagina walls. It is not.* And neither the bladder nor the "bladder area" should be found in or even outside of the vagina. However, the opening to the urethra, yes, can be found there between the sidewalls labia. Why you would include that part on a vagina cupcake though, I don't know. It's not really sexy and don't we all pretend it's not really there during sex? Also I'm not sure what a "you know" is, but it might be better to call whatever it is a "you know" than to try to think up another car part name for it like a carburetor or a tailpipe.

Finally, I don't know about you, but what she was doing with that paintbrush at the end kind of gave me a tickle. I wonder if it made the vagina cupcake feel all shivery too.

OK, I think you're ready to go forth and make some vagina cupcakes. I'm brewing a new batch of milk licker today or I'd have my fondant and cherry-poppin'-red food coloring out already. If you do make vagina cupcakes, please remember to share. Photos, I mean. Remember to share photos.

* To learn more about how to find a clitoris, please subscribe to the Reticulated Porn blog, a bargain for the low, low price of $39.95.