Fury


I hate to be absent for so long, and then post a post like the following will be, but it must be done. The fury can no longer be contained.

So, does anyone else that is helping to raise a child that is not their own ever want to karate-chop said child in the fucking throat at times? To quote Sam Smith, “I know I’m not the only one.”

It may be said that, these days, I lack the infinite patience I once boasted because my inner ribcage is being used as a practice boxing ring for my future UFC son. But I do not think the following is EVER acceptable coming from any twelve-year-old:

“You don’t do ANYTHING except work. You don’t help with the dog; you don’t do the dishes; and you only pay dad $300 in “rent” every month. He basically has to do everything else.”

Perhaps the correct response would have been to not respond at all to this blatantly incorrect statement, and to address the attitude behind it, but you know what? I’M NOT FUCKING DEALING WITH THIS SHIT TODAY.

Instead of voicing the thoughts roiling through my head that went something like this- Listen, you spoiled little preteen cuntbitch, I did the dishes more times than you did this week, I pay $400 for half the house payment, as well as half the utilities and food to feed your shitty big mouth,  and how do you figure working all the time isn’t doing anything, you stupid little cocksucker?!- I did the unmentionable. I  took the laundry I washed yesterday that I supposedly “never do”, and threw everything that was hers at her and said, “Here. Since I don’t ever do anything around here, you can fold your own fucking clothes.”

Trust- it irks me to no end that my Rockstar finds the whole situation amusing. I do not expect him to argue with her incorrect informations, because she is twelve, and too immature to be arguing with in the first place, but I DO expect him to address her shitty hooplehead attitude. Maybe he is the one I need to cunt-punch.

I am perfectly aware this post is nothing but a ridiculous rant of almost-stepmomdom, but since I can’t poke her eyes out with excessive force and scream to the heavens my frustration, I have to just type it out and inwardly whine, “Please just let me diiiiiiiiieeeeeee.” Even thought I have no intentions of expiring anytime soon.

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Do I Look Fat With This?


So, I’ve never been one of those girls who would dare ask her significant other, “Do I look fat in this?” Mainly, because I expect an honest answer, and chances are, I probably do look fat in it. Instead, I have waited for the surprising squeeze of the tush, or a comment that remarks on my general fabulousness to lay to rest any self-doubts I may have. It has always seemed to work in my favor.

The difference between those times and now is a little thing, (ok, maybe not so little) called a pregnancy bump. Here’s the thing: I find pregnant women to be adorable. At least the ones you can actually tell are pregnant, and aren’t so overweight you dare not ask them when they’re due. I have also heard from multitudes of men and women that a lot of guys have a thing for pregnant women. (Somewhat creepy, of it’s not their own woman, but who can resist a pair of swollen breasts and a hard belly? Even if it is in the shape of a full-blown balloon?) When I first found out about my Babe, I thought to myself, “Well, I guess we’ll see if my Rockstar has a thing for pregnant women.”

Sadly, he does not. Like, not even a little bit. If my belly were a mini-fridge filled with Budweiser, I still don’t think that would be enough to get him to touch it. Sure, there’s been a few times during the night when he’s accidentally thrown an arm or hand over me carelessly. Apparently such an action trips a silent alarm that only he can hear, because even from a dead sleep, the offending appendage is quickly removed from it’s resting spot as though it’s a vat of acid.

Yeah, ok, I get it. “Pregnant chics aren’t a turn on of his.”- I quote his words. I guess it doesn’t matter one iota that it’s me who is the pregnant chic; the chic he used to do two and three times a night sometimes. Too, it seems to not matter that my ass or thighs have not grown to gargantuan proportions; in fact, I’ve gained exactly seventeen pounds in the last six months- and I’m wearing the exact same yoga pants without my butt bursting the seems. I don’t know if I “glow” as They say pregnant women do, but I even had a dude stop me in the mall, trying to get my digits. (After blatantly ogling my pregnant condition.)

I suppose I should be happy my Rockstar is trying to appease me in other ways. He has been quite amiable about my suggestions to go out to eat, (which he hates to do), and stays silent about the fact that I don’t roll outta bed until at least 8 am. But, alas. Such things do not make up for the lack of sex and affection that is the giant, glittery elephant in the room. (And just to be clear, I don’t know what you’ve heard about pregnant women and their libidos, but this pregnant woman’s libido is working overtime. And you thought I was a horny little devil before….)

Talk to him about it, you say? This is how that conversation goes:

Me: So, um, yeah, are you ever gonna want to do me again? ‘Cause I’m horny as fuck.

Him:

Me: Are you weirded out that there’s a baby in there? Because you know he can’t feel anything, right? He wouldn’t even be able to feel a porn-star dick.

Him:

Me: (Trying a different approach) So… it makes me really sad that you don’t find me attractive anymore.

Him:

You get the picture.

What’s the frickin’ point of having a significant other when you’re pregnant if they can’t even be bothered to do you? I know impotence because of my condition is not the issue, because blowjobs have been issued to ensure that wasn’t the problem. So, what? I’m just supposed to accept that I’m living with an inconsiderate asshat?

I object.

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New Year, New Me


…As if I really needed to improve on me in the first place.

I did decide that I need to be a little bit more focused, but oooh! Look at the pretty Christmas lights across the street! OK, so being focused is something I might really have to focus on. At least I’ve realized that much. It is hoped that becoming a mother this year may help in that department just a little. I do not wish for my son to see me as a flaky person. (I shall do all in my power to hide the fact that I am from him.)

As far as my blog goes, I know how much of a disappointment I have been in the past year, and I resolve to do better. No more all-day marathons of Glee or The Tudors until after I have written on my blog. And just to test me, Netflix has found it necessary to make ten seasons of Friends available for viewing. Bastards.

Too, I find it necessary to finish writing at least one book this year. It would make sense for said book to be the one I’ve gotten the most work done on; however, I feel that authoring and illustrating a children’s book may be in my nearer future. But, since I have no child-like inspirations that come to mind as of yet, I resolve to work on my already-begun book for now, at least two hours a day. (Two hours is many hours for me to stay focused these  days. Perhaps after the Babe is born, I shall jack it up to four hours a day.)

As most normal people do, I ,too, resolve to lose weight this year. The really awesome thing is that I get to wait until April to work on this one. (The second-best thing about being pregnant.) To ensure that my initial goal to be the hottest mom ever is reached, my Rockstar’s Daughter has hinted that she believes I will forever be fat after the baby is born. (Perhaps only in hopes that she can have my never-worn, too-small little black dress.) After telling her how rude such a sentiment was, I silently thanked her for reinforcing my intentions of amazing hotness.

I thought that perhaps I would choose a resolution that would make me a better person- namely, to be kind to those certain individuals that irritate the piss out of me. I then thought better of any such ridiculousness, as I am not so good a person that that objective would ever be met; too, it is just so much easier to ignore such peoples. Luckily, one of these unfortunate souls is no longer employed at my place of business, so any behavior considered rude by my scorning of this person is forgiven already. Yay me.

For my last resolution, I do so intend to be the book whore I so claim to be, with the help of Amazon’s list of 100 Books to Read in a Lifetime. I was a bit saddened that I had read only twenty-nine of these life-changing books, but I intend to make a good-sized dent in the remaining seventy-one. I was, however, excited to find that though I hadn’t read many off the list, I own a surprising number of them. Yay me once again.

As for you, my fine readers, I have found this video to wish you all a wonderful New Year. (My Rockstar has a man crush on Kid Rock, and laughs his ass off at this video.)

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….and I’m back.

Other than possessing a belly that is growing at an alarming rate, and deciding this Christmas sucks, I’ve not been up to to much. I know. Sad.

I did spend several days last week seething inwardly as my Rockstar insisted on stopping at every store in sight just to window shop after my monthly checkup and other things. I seemed to have forgotten that I’m living with another woman. One who loves to shop. But never actually buy anything. I don’t know if it’s my raging hormones or my distended stomach, but I find myself having much less patience than normal. As evidenced by my unrestrained bickering Saturday night with my Rockstar’s Daughter. Let us just say, it’s the first time in five years I’ve given in to the urge to act exactly the same age as she.

As far as Christmas sucking, I know it’s not about the presents, (unless you’re a little kid), but I am a bit saddened that I’ve not been able to afford even gifts for my Beloved and his daughter. And honestly, I’m kinda too tired to give a shit. At least,  a lot of shit. Maybe a little poo I give. But I too, have considered forgoing Christmas at my Rockstar’s parents and vegging out in front of Netflix with a delicious box of creamy Kraft macaroni and cheese.

Is it because he got fired from his job a month ago and I need a little alone time? I’m not sure. So many months had gone by without me seeing him hardly at all when he was working because of our opposite schedules, and it’s been nice to see him for a change. But I think I got used to all that alone time. So now I’m just fucked up.

Once again today, we ventured to town to indulge in half-priced burritos at our favorite Mexican restaurant, and our trip turned into an all-day finish-his-Christmas-shopping outing. My Rockstar clearly did not find me to be perturbed enough, for when I mentioned that I did not desire to battle the masses all day, he said, “Well, you’d probably just go home and take a nap anyway.” It wasn’t because it was an untrue statement, but the fact that he was inferring my general laziness that irked me so. I refrained from releasing my pregnant-woman rage on him though, and sucked it up as we spent another hour in Macy’s looking at cookware for his mother.

I went to work tonight, and soooooo did not want to be there, even though the lack of dollars in my wallet should have given me a different perspective. So I convinced a coworker to close for me, and I arrived home to find the house filled with the calming sounds of Motley Crue. My Rockstar has been downstairs banging away on the drums, oblivious to my being home. As much as he irritated me today, I cannot help but smile when I listen to the over-played band. After all, he is still my Rockstar….

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Mr. Fix- It


Before.

Greg observed his own face in his bathroom mirror, and squinted his eyes in a furious glare at the reflection. He gripped either side of the pedestal sink to keep from putting his fist through the glass, and watched his own jaw clench and unclench. He was a fucking coward, and the fact made him completely livid. He pushed himself away from the sink in disgust and flipped the light switch too forcefully on his way out of the room.

Casey had just left, and Greg’s pulse was still pounding with the left-over desire she’d dumped on him. Just the remembrance of her on her knees in front of him in his own kitchen brought another surge of lust through his body, and he flopped down angrily on his worn-out couch. His longing was interrupted by a wince of pain when he felt the springs dig into his back, and he cursed inwardly.

He tried to collect his thoughts, but the feelings left over from Casey’s visit made his brain a chaotic jumble. He took a deep breath and adjusted his crotch, forbidding his dick to erect itself at every thought of her.

Since he’d fucked her in her apartment, he and Casey had made love on several other occasions. Greg snorted at the thought. “Made love” was not what it had been at all; more like, animalistic, savage, licentious fucking. It didn’t matter that Casey looked like a completely innocent, albeit sexy-as-hell school teacher- the feelings she evoked from Greg were baser than anything he’d ever felt. When he wasn’t fucking her, he wanted to be, and when he was, it was like he’d scored a handful of X at a rave; every time was like the height of his existence, but the after effects made him feel like complete shit.

He ran his hands down the sides of his face and let out a exasperated breath. She didn’t want anything else from him. The idea was like a shot to the chest with an electric jolt. He knew it was completely ridiculous that she would want anything serious from him, given the huge gap in their ages, but he just wanted to get to know her. He knew exactly what her excited cunt felt like to his fingers, and he knew how glorious it felt to have her near-perfect lips wrapped around his cock, but he knew next to nothing about her, and it bugged the shit out of him. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t tried to find out, but she kept her distance, and even after she’d come quivering to orgasm, she maintained her independent attitude.

Greg’s anger was at himself, for not forcing her to open up, or at least for not being able to control his incredible lust enough to turn her down. Casey was clearly emotionally damaged; he’d never met a woman who was able to separated sex from feelings, but she did exactly that. He knew that continuing their liaisons  as they was not the way to heal that damage- he felt proud of himself that, as a man, even he knew that. He was also aware of the fact that Casey perhaps was not looking for someone to take care of her hurts, but Greg couldn’t help it. He wanted to. Her beautiful face and her buoyant persona made him want to fix it. The problem was, with her luscious tits and gorgeous ass, he kept forgetting that.

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For Grampa


I noticed the sky this morning,

the morning you left us.

It was beautiful;

rose-colored and coral.

I thought of the old saying-

you know the one-

Red sky at morning,

sailors take warning.

And I started to cry.

It wasn’t warning sailors,

and I knew it.

It was warning us,

all of us that are left

that the world would be a little bit darker soon,

because you were going Home.

I knew;

that was why I held your hand maybe a little bit too tight

right before I had to go.

I figured it might have hurt,

but I knew you wouldn’t mind.

You would have done the same

if you’d been able to.

Now I have to figure out

how exactly my little boy is going to

grow up knowing just what a great man you were.

He’ll only see pictures of you,

the ones that prove me right-

that you were the best-dressed man that ever lived,

and so handsome.

(More handsome than all your brothers. Shhh.)

When he grows up,

he won’t get to remember what it was like

to wander through your garden with you,

admiring the stunning array of flowers

you and Gramma worked so hard on.

My son will never watch

Gramma, with the most tender of touch,

comb back the glorious strands of white and grey

from your forehead.

You know, I didn’t mind it a bit

when you missed a haircut or two.

There are far too many balding older men in the world.

It always seemed a shame to clip

the admirable abundance of hair you retained.

I’ll tell you a secret now.

Don’t be mad.

I always hated your favorite hymn.

In the Garden was never quite grandiose enough for me.

But you know I’ll play it for you anyway,

when it’s time to say goodbye.

The words, I really don’t mind, though.

And when I am digging in my own dirt,

I’ll sing them to myself

and think of you.

“I come to the garden alone,

when the dew is still on the roses…”

I maintain my opinion that

Crystal Gayle was always prettier than Loretta Lynn.

I keep saying it,

hoping you’ll come back and argue with me.

Loretta never knew what she was missing,

but all the rest of us will,

until we see you later.

 

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642 Things to Write About: Hands


It’s been awhile since I’ve picked a topic out of my handy dandy writing prompt book, but I figured today would be a good day to do so, since I have limited time in which to write, and no ideas in my head. This one caught my interest immediately:

Write a love scene from the point of view of your hands.

Of course I would pick this one!

We itched, my partner and I, as our owner looked at her man lustily. I, the right hand, reached out and caressed his cheek, and the two-days-worth of whisker growth was not unpleasant; it reminded me of velvet- freshly cleaned, rust-colored velvet. My partner, the left hand, couldn’t resist mimicking my act, as our collective body of nerves spoke. She touched his other cheek, and I saw her move her thumb repeatedly over the plush forest of reddish beard. We pulled the beloved face toward that of our owner, and as her lips touched his passionately, a thrill passed through us, urging us to move lower.

I ran my forefinger down the man’s neck as Left moved into the grove of thick, longish hair that was almost identical in color to the whisker grown. She slid the hair between her fingers again and again, pulling just slightly, enough that I could feel the man’s reaction. His pulse started to speed up under the finger I had placed on his neck, and I moved my other fingers into a grip. I and Left once again pulled him forward to meet our owner’s lips, and we heard a quiet moan of desire emitted from him.

Left was planted firm, with no intention of moving from her lush cradle of hair, but as I moved down the man’s body, she loosened her grasp, knowing we together would produce a stronger reaction in our victim. His shirt had been removed already, and we slid down to his chest, admiring the solidness beneath our palms. Our fingers instinctively curled ever so slightly, pressing the tips of our newly manicured fingernails into the ivory skin. Gooseflesh was raised beneath our fingertips as we scored our way down the ribs and past to the waistband of the man’s jeans. He shivered, and our owner smiled, knowingly.

I wanted so desperately to feel what affect we’d had on the man’s cock, as I was sure it was straining against the zipper of his pants, but I resisted. Instead, I flipped over and ran the back of myself back up the way I had come, as Left did the same. Once again, we grazed the pale skin, raising rosy trails as we went. I couldn’t bear it, and tweaked a nipple as I passed, a little harder than I should have. The man inhaled sharply at the unexpected pain, but his breath was cut off as our owner covered his mouth with her own.

We couldn’t wait longer, Left and I, and I stuck two fingers into the waistband of the jeans, tempting Left. She responded by moving a thumb and forefinger over the fly, undoing the button and lowering the zipper achingly slow. We slipped our fingers around to the back, and as we pushed the jeans off, we stopped to grope the luscious ass that was now exposed. I went around to the front, and was not disappointed when met with a throbbing piece of manhood, which I gripped firmly, causing another moan. Our owners lips were there then, and I held a good portion of erection as her tongue met the tip of it before it disappeared within her mouth.

Left was relishing the feel of firm buttocks clenching and unclenching as I stroked my assigned body part. It has always amazed me that something so marble-tough can feel so soft at the same time. I enjoyed myself until I was pulled around to copy my partner, sinking my nails into the pliable flesh as the man’s hand groped the hair of our owner. She moaned and took him in as deep as she could in her mouth, causing him to growl animalistically in his throat before tensing. Left and I held him there tightly, until we knew his pleasure was over.

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