Inspirational? More Like Perspirational

Thanks to Erin and her ass, I’ve been nominated for the Very Inspirational Blogger Award. As I sit here dripping with sweat, (haha, I know you all were thinking I’d be dripping something else) I cannot help but think that just maybe she meant to endow me with the Perspirational Blogger Award. I realize that 80 degrees sounds lovely, but here in Minnesota, 80 degrees is the equivilant of 120 degrees, and causes a permanent river of sweat to flow betwixt my considerable she-mountains. Anyhoo, I digress.

I’ve received enough awards in bloggerville to sufficiently have bored you all with facts concerning moi. So, instead of writing another seven things about me nobody except Art cares about, (haha) I shall list seven people who have inspired me to be… well, me.

1. Maya Angelou.

Maya is not on my list because she has just recently passed. I loved her long before she was spoken of in the past tense. As I read her six biographical books, I realized that perhaps someday, if I have as much courage and pizzazz as she, people might actually want to read my story as well. Though I will never be able to weave words together quite the way that she did.

2. Angelina Jolie.

Incidentally, Angelina’s movie Maleficent released today, after a long wait of almost FOUR years. I’m dragging my Rockstar to it tonight! (YAYAYAYAYAY!!!!!!) Anyhoo, Angelina is beautiful, (I don’t care what any of you say) and she always has been to me. You all know how she is, so I will not go to great lengths to explain my reasons. Suffice to say that she is someone I would love to be friends with. (And maybe more, if she would so have me.)

3. Dolly Parton

Because she’s 127, and is still awesome. If you disagree, you suck.

4. My Auntie.

Because she does so much for everyone else, yet still finds time for herself, and will always listen to anyone who needs her to.

5. My Rockstar.

He inspires me to live up to my potential, even if it is by semi-rudely telling me to quit being lazy. I know he adores me, despite the fact that he refuses to verbally say so, which inspires me to get him to the point where he will say it aloud. Too, he inspires me to wash the dishes, which can never be a bad thing.

6. King David.

If you don’t know who that is, you should read your Bible more often. He inspires me, (even though he is really quite dead) because he wasn’t perfect, yet God still loved him immensely. He is proof that even a fuck-up is worthy of God’s fondness.

7. All the boys in the world. (And some of the girls.)

Even though I have my Rockstar, I do not deny the fact that I adore being adored. These boys (and girls) inspire me to actually shower most days, and to put a little (and sometimes a lot) of effort into how I look, as time-consuming as it is. Too, the smarties of the world who are not moved by just a pretty face inspire me to keep learning, because you just never know when you might run into an attractively-intelligent person you wish to converse with. And many of them don’t give a hoot about the Kardashians.

As for the rest of the rules concerning winning an award, I don’t do that shit. Just click on someone who has commented on my blog, because obviously they are very wise.

XOXO

 

A Farewell to Maya Angelou

My heart is breaking.

It seems silly, to say such a thing because someone you’ve never met has passed away.

But here I sit, silent tears pouring down my face. Tears for the magnificent collection of words that will no longer be sculpted and forged by your contemplative hands.

I see them, all those syllables, lying in a heap at my feet, and think that they look just a little bit forlorn, knowing they were not the chosen ones to be plucked for your masterpieces.

Of course, now that you are gone, you will be wildly popular.

It always vexes me that so many are paid attention to so greatly in death.

People will say, “Oh! Have you read all of her memoirs? She was quite a woman. Phenomenal, in fact.”

I will shake my head, not because the answer is no, but because I have known these things far longer than they, and am sorry they have lost out on all that time they too could have known your words.

You were proud, and not afraid to say so, yet you prayed for humility.

I will feed your ego now, and not fault you if you strut around arrogantly just a little bit in Heaven.

I am afraid there will never be another like you.

Someone who is so unapologetically truthful, and unconventionally beautiful.

Someone who will say words just as they are thought, but in such a way that causes a violent reaction, one of delight, or love, or anger, or wistfulness.

I will forever be sorry I never had the honor of meeting you, and hope that one day in the future, when I pass through those Pearly Gates, I might see you nod your head at me, just so I know that you know I heard you.

XOXO

From one Phenomenal Woman to Another

 

Dance, Baby, Dance

And I’ll still stay, to have thee still forget,
Forgetting any other home but this.

Like Romeo, I’ve been making an effort to have my Rockstar forget any other home than ours; sadly, I work completely opposite hours from him, and so see him (if I’m lucky) a total of about eight hours a week. I have feared that leaving him to his own devices so regularly should cause a rift between us that cannot be repaired.

Fortunately, the both of us wish our home to be ripe with bright colors and pleasant comforts, so neither of us has a chance really to become bored and listless. While my days at home with the dog are filled to bursting with painting of walls, and thinkings of painting of murals, his nights are filled with thoughts of luscious fertilized grass without bald spots. Our little time that is spent together is spent these days at Home Depot and Menards, where we have spent unmentionable sums of money.

This past weekend, we hurried to Menards for their Memorial Day sales and spent a goodly part of our morning navigating the aisles for things to make our house a castle. While I had the intention only of buying a few color-changing solar lights to brighten our sidewalk, my Rockstar insisted on buying a little bit of everything. $400 later, we exited the store with a lovely flower rug (which was his choice), 20 solar lights, garden edging, yard soil, and an outdoor swing. Sadly, I had to rush off to work for the day, so I was to enjoy none of our purchases immediately.

After spending a lovely day with my Auntie on Sunday, I arrived home to my Rockstar and his Daughter, who had decided that we must grill steaks on our new adorable grill. He approved of my mixing of alcoholic beverages for the two of us, and while his Daughter ran around with our Pup and her friends, we proceeded to get happily tipsy.

No drunk evening would be complete without a little Rock-N-Roll, which was filtered through our walk-out screen door. R and his Daughter have this little dance they’ve been working on since long before I was around, and I watched from our beautiful swing as they spun and twirled.

“You’re turn! Dance with dad!” His Daughter urged when the song ended.

I arose from my swinging, and it didn’t take long for R to realized that Phil Collins stole his song title I Can’t Dance from me.

“You’re so stiff! Loosen up! Yeah, you’re not graceful.” His responses to my awkward gamboling just made me giggle. Well, that, and his forceful grip on my drunken ass.

A dancer I may not be, but hey. I cannot be perfect all the time. I do, however, know the steps to the waltz (because I am very cultured) and also the snake-like arm movements of bellydancing, so I coached R and his Daughter on these finer points of dancing. I chose to don a pair of my taller heels to better match R’s height, only to have him say I was better at my own height, because my belly more perfectly bumped up against his man-parts. (This too made me giggle.) When he tired of my unfluid movements, I danced with myself among my many rainbow solar lights, pretending that I was in an enchanted forest.

There comes a time when One has had enough drink, and must retire. When my time came, I crawled into my bed, intent on passing out until the morning, only to be wakened by a hard chomp on my ass. Too, no drunken night is complete without having a long-haired Rockstar whisper in your ear, “I want to hear you come.”

XOXO

Advice For Graduates

is the time when seniors everywhere are growing up and moving on with their lives. Since I am old(er), I feel it is only fair that I give them some helpful advice for their journey. I heard a soldier on the radio give a commencement speech to a senior class, using only three words- “Make your bed.” I think there is something to this, so here we go. (I may take a few liberties by combining words to stay under the three word maximum.)

1. Eat the cake.

As you go through life, some of you may worry more than others about keeping your young and lithe figures. Others may not. Whatever the case, you need to realize that there is nothing wrong with indulging in sweets and other edible goodness, for, as George Bernard Shaw once said- “The most sincere form of love is love for food.” So eat the cake when you get the chance.

2. Do whatcha want.

Three words. If you didn’t understand, that was do what makes you happy. Don’t go to college to become a lawyer if that is not what your passion is, no matter how much your parents pay you. You will be happier in the end.

3. Do stuffu hate.

Along with doing whatever you want, at times, friends, Romans, and/or countrymen may ask you to accompany them in actions that interest you not at all. (For example, stock car races.) If they ask you, just say yes, because they could have asked someone else. And you may just run into a super hot girl who gives amazing blow jobs, or experience the deep-fried goodness of racetrack cheese curds. Whatever the case, you will not regret the things you do.

4. Read more books.

HA! I didn’t have to fudge that one! Which makes it quite clear that it is very sound advice. The more you read, the more you know. Which may very well help you out if you take my afore mentioned advice and follow your friend to a hostel somewhere in Serbia.

5. Get a dog.

Maybe not right now, but someday. You will never regret having a companion who is always happy to see you, and who will never yell at you for leaving the toilet seat up.

6. See the world.

I must admit here that I’ve yet much world to see, but after I make millions on my book, the world shall be my first stop. Experience the magic of earth.

7. Do the dishes.

Because they will stink if you don’t.

And finally- the best for last.

8. Listen to music.

As much as you possibly can. Every kind that you can. Music is beauty in audio.

9. Love like crazy.

Fall in love with as many things as you can. That doesn’t mean, be a slut; it means open your eyes, and your heart, and never let go of that feeling you get when you see something beautiful for the first time.  Love. Love like it’s the last thing you’ll ever do.

 

 

Without Thee, Sun, I Would Be Outside

Ok, that might be a lie.

Yes, I want a Grandma Garden, but why would I want to be outside digging in the dirt when I can be inside here, with you people?

I want to take my puppy for a walk and explore my new little town some more, but I’d much rather sit inside wrapped in a blanket watching Season 2 of Game of Thrones for the 4th time.

Why would I  risk getting skin cancer by hanging around outside on this beautifully sunny day when I have a perfectly comfortable bed asking me to join it for a nap or two?

I’m not really an outside person, as much as I love the outdoors once I actually go OUT the door.

I am, however, a super lazy fucker who has occasional bouts of initiative. Hell, yesterday I cleaned the house, did the dishes, raked TWO planters out, painted the front entryway, got supper ready for the grill, and mowed the back yard. I even had time to play with myself and take a shower. (Not at the same time, because it gets pretty slippery in the shower.)

Today, I have used the excuse that it was cold and dreary outside, so I stayed inside and read the book I’ve been reading for three months. (It really is a good book, I just get distracted easily.) Then I used the excuse that I have to work tonight, so I deserve to be a lethargic piece of shit. Too, I have (truthfully) told myself that if I spend too much time outside, I will end up with tan lines and wrinkles.

When did I start feeling bad about wanting to read? ‘Tis not a waste of time, (despite what non-book people say) so why do I feel like I have to justify sitting for four hours reading by cleaning house or doing laundry? Why must I say to myself, “Self! You stay busy now!” when really all I want to do is nap. Showering? If I didn’t worry so much about stinking, that would probably be the chore I cut out of my day. It’s probably a good thing my metabolism is alright, because otherwise I’d be sitting on my super-fat ass in front of the boob-tube not doing a goddamn thing.

So I shamefully admit now that I kinda just don’t want to do anything right now. And the weather has nothing to do with it.

This is the reason I haven’t finished writing my book.

 

Nothing But Nonsense

I must say that of late, I’ve had not even one interesting Spam comment. For that matter, I’ve had hardly any comments at all. (But I completely appreciate all the comments I HAVE had!)

However, when I was looking through the Spam comments just now, I noticed there were several of the same comment made on a number of different posts. I’m paraphrasing here, because ’tis not worthy of a direct quote: Something something about that’s nothing but nonsense.

Basically, I have been found out. It takes a ballsy Spamator to call me out on my utter nonsense. I’m amazed it took someone this long to realize I’m a hack.  (a excessively busty hack, but a hack all the same.)

Sure, I can be witty, and surprisingly creative at times, (have you read my smut?) but I openly admit my blog holds very little of import. You will not find great life lessons written here, (other than to NOT propose to your forty-something boyfriend in a post-it, because he will deem it  unworthy of an answer) nor will you learn valuable truths (unless they are about me, in which case, if you ever are lucky enough to meet me, are very valuable indeed). To most, it would probably be said that my blog carries less entertainment within than a child’s Dr. Seuss book. (Fun fact: Dr. Seuss wrote for Playboy occasionally.)

To prove it, I will prove how nonsensacle I can be:

It’s true , what They say,

about money growing on trees,

it doesn’t.

But the best things in life are free.

BAM! 30 second poem.

Book Whore My Ass

I’ve been making myself sit down and actually work on writing my book every day for the last two weeks.

I don’t mean to toot my own horn but, “beep! beep!”

To those of you with published and self-published and hell, even completed novels, this may seem small and insignificant.

To those of you who think so, I say, “Well, fuck you!”

Just kidding. (But not really.)

Anyhoo, I don’t know how normal people go about writing books, but I think it’s safe to assume that the process is a lot of staring at a blank computer screen or getting distracted by many other things that shouldn’t be on your computer screen while you’re trying to work. (Get your mind outta the gutter! I don’t mean porn! But that’s only because since we’ve gotten our new computer, my Rockstar doesn’t want to get any viruses on it.) I’m talking about being logged in to Facebook, or Amazon, or WordPress.

Yesterday, while I was busy mulling over whether my main character should have an Irish lilt to her voice or not, I decided to look up a list of the top 100 books to read. Oddly enough, there isn’t just one, so I printed off the one that seemed the smartest, which was actually two. The Modern Library had their board make a list, as well as their readers. I readied myself to amaze myself with how well-read I was.

Amazed, I was not. Astounded? Absolutely. For after reading in their entirety the suggested top 200 books of all time, (several of which were on both lists) I came to the realization that I’ve read only two. TWO?!!?!?!??!? Are you frickin’ kidding me?! I own over 5000 books of every make and model, and yet I cannot  boast that I’ve read even five of the top 100 books of all time.

My shame is palpable.

P.S. At least I can say that I OWN 25 or so of them. Like that’s any consolation.

A Girl Without a Rocker

I may have mentioned that my Rockstar is from South Dakota, land of…… flatness? I’m not really sure exactly what South Dakota is known for, other than that ridiculous wolf movie starring the equally ridiculous Kevin Costner. (To be clear, the movie was only high in it’s ridiculousness factor because of that silly Kevin person.)

Anyhoo, it has been some fifteen-odd years since my Rockstar decided to uproot himself from the land of buffalo and HyVees and move on over a state to the slightly-less-boring Minnesota. According to him, my great state has only gone downhill since then, though he can hardly argue his reasoning why.

‘Tis true our urban road systems are a bit tricky, what with all the one way streets in downtown Minneapolis and all, but who can argue with a Minnesotan, who possesses that certain “Minnesota nice” quality? To be fair, I think there are quite a lot of dumbshits that live here, but as I have not lived anywhere else, I cannot comment on the asshat ratios between here and there.

My Rockstar and I were watching The Big C last night, which is set in Minnesota. (though for some silly reason is filmed in Connecticut). He commented again on the supposed silliness of Minnesotans, and how the show was correctly written, since (according to him) all of us are off our rockers.

At first, I was intending on taking offense, but upon further reflection, decided I was not one to argue against him, as I myself will admit that I am not completely of the sane nature. I did, however, question him to see if he was including me in his statement.

“Do  you think I am off my rocker?” I asked coquettishly, batting my eyelashes.

Since we were lying in bed in the dark, my lashes were of little concern to him. There was a manly Rockstar giggle before he responded.

“I don’t think you ever found your rocker.”

The man has never spoken truer words.

 

 

Almost 20 Questions

It is lovely to be loved. This time, I am appreciated by one JoJo Knows Everything,  who has nominated me for the Liebster Award. As a receiver of several such awards, I have adopted the tradition of not following all of the rules of such awards, but of course answering the questions asked of me, as well as sharing the requested number of facts about moi, because, really, who doesn’t want to know more about me?

The Facts:

(Here I will admit that I am running out of facts about me, because, despite what my histrionic personality will tell you, I really am not all that interesting.)

1. I wear contacts.

When I was younger, I wore glasses, but begged for contacts incessantly, because my blue-plastic-framed spectacles refused to stay put on my nose, and so my ten year old self walked around with glasses on the end of my button nose like an 80-year-old-granny.

2. I have all my wisdom teeth.

Because I am very wise. And have a big mouth.

3. I bite my nails.

A habit I have never been able to break since childhood. I believe one of my life goals at the age of eleven was to have long nails.

4. I fart.

But if you ask me, I will deny, deny, deny.

5. I think about food every second of every day.

Which is why a goodly amount of time and money are spent in a McDonald’s drive thru.

6. I refuse to live in a beige house.

People who live in beige houses are boring and perfect. While I possess a set of nearly-perfect breasts, I cannot boast that the rest of my body and mind is of such  caliber. And so I must live in a rainbow house.

7. I wish to have a “Grandma Garden”.

That is, a garden perfectly groomed like one planted by a person who is retired with very little else to do. Sadly, I am much too lazy, and have things to do.

8. My Rockstar has a perfect man ass.

I realize this fact is not exactly about me, but here you go- I spend an exorbitant amount of time thinking about sinking my teeth into his perfect man ass.

9. I cannot help but stare at the eyebrows of people who have filled them in with eyebrow pencil.

I just can’t help it.

10. I’m having hip problems at 32.

Probably due to the extensive high-heel collection I have, and the sometimes excessive on-top sex I have with my Rockstar.

11. My dog farts.

And if you asked her, if she hadn’t a long tongue, she would probably admit it.

Now on to the questions asked of me!

1. Why do you write?

I write to keep from crying. And I write because I cannot teach. And I write because I’m supposedly good at it.

       2.   Pick one thing, event, or person that has made you a writer.

Earnest Hemingway. Not really, because I haven’t actually read any of his books, but if you can go through life in an alcohol-induced haze and still be recognized for your writing so many years later, that’s something.

       3.   How many people do you know named Josh?

One, two… nope. Just one.

      4.   Who is your writing inspiration?

My blog readers. Because without them, I would just be a diarist.

      5.   How many days a week/month do you work on your blog?

Not as often as I used to, but probably more than I should.

      6.    Where do you feel most at home?

In bed, lying on my back, with my Rockstar’s arm flung over my belly and my legs flung over his.

      7.    If you could have a magical power what would it be?

Being awesome. Apparently, I was born magical.

      8.   The one place you have to see before you die.

Oz.

      9.  How do you feel about Highlander?

I’ve never seen it, but I feel it must be amazing.

     10.  Worst flavor?

Anything on Cornuts.

     11. You’re in a cave. To your left is a mammoth grizzly bear with its arms wrapped around the thing you love most in the world. Armed only with your wits and a small bread pudding, what do you do?

Charge the bear while screaming “aiaiaiaiaiaiaiaiaiiaiaiai!” and bop it in the head with the bread pudding. Duh.

The rest of the rules I shall toss to the wind, but take the time to explore my comments, and you will surely find some smart blogs to read. XOXO

You Men Just Really Have No Idea

Otherwise entitled- Fuck Ya’ll, You Lucky Sons of Bitches.

Yeah, that’s right. you’re all sons of bitches, because your mothers at some point bled like bitches in heat if only for the reason of giving you fortunate assholes life.

I bet you males never even think twice about what we women have to go through every month, (or every other month, in some cases.)

Not only do women have to sit down to pee, (a fact that still vexes me to no end), but while you guys are just standing up shaking your dicks in front of urinals and nonchalantly going about your cramp-free business, women everywhere are suffering because God decided to get us back for one stupid cunt not listening to him eons ago.

Sure, God got credited with a miracle when He turned the Nile into a river of blood, but a woman produced a river of blood from her own body every month, all she gets is dudes bitching about her being on the rag. What the hell?!

I once had a heartless asshat of a coworker who once stated, “What’s the big deal? Girls have periods from the time they’re teenagers. They should just be able to suck it up and deal with it by the time their in their twenties.” I am certain the homicidal look in my eye after he made said statement was enough to scare him straight. But to be sure, next time one of you fuckers eats 20 lbs. of hot wings and downs a case of beer, I’ll be there when your gut is being wretched and your head is pounding and you have fire shooting out of your ass, lovingly smashing your skull in with a baseball bat yelling, “Come on! What’s the big deal?! You’ve been doing this since college! You should be able to handle it!”

Did you ever think for one bloody second, (pun intended) Men, that when an entire aisle of Walmart is dedicated to a woman’s moon flow, that maybe it’s not such a minor thing? Midol, tampons, maxi pads, hot water bottles, chocolate; the only things dedicated to you guys are hemmorhoid cream and little blue pills, neither of which are even in the same goddamn aisle.

When a girl has to curl up into a ball after taking three Midol and a 5th of brandy, and her insides still feel like someone’s practicing their Boyscout’s knots; when her tits ache for weeks before hand; when she gets sooooo pissed off at you because you’re being a stupid idiot, and she tells you so, just be glad she isn’t stomping on your dick with her stilettos, or her motorcycle boots, or what have you, because I guarantee you there isn’t a one of us who hasn’t wanted to do just that when we’re having our periods.

Have a little compassion for your fellow women.