I’ve been preparing. Thinking about exactly what I want, buying supplies, even getting the kids into bed early.  I found my sexy [...]]]> Yesterday was my birthday, and you know what that means: birthday sex. Sex exactly the way I want it – all about me me me me me me me. Yes. Moi Me. MY sex.

I’ve been preparing. Thinking about exactly what I want, buying supplies, even getting the kids into bed early.  I found my sexy nightgown, my sexy toys, and put everything in one place in the closet so it would be ready as soon as both children were asleep.

My birthday has recently (in the last five years or so) been a very emotional day for me. I end up crying for no reason and sometimes with reason, and it doesn’t usually go as planned, but yesterday I knew that I’d have my birthday sex and it would be awesome. It would make this birthday, my 25th, memorable.

Fast forward to last night, 8:30pm. The kids are asleep, early, and DaddyGeek and I are looking at each other expectantly. We watch a half hour of TV and then the foreplay starts. He asks me to get a few supplies, and as I’m gathering things together, we hear Cupcake wake up, whimpering, over the baby monitor. Whimpering, then full blown screaming, shrieking, freaking out.

FUCK.

I ran into the bedroom to assure her that I was there, Mommy was there, she was safe, it was just a bad dream. She’s panicking, though, and I can tell what’s coming next. I cup my hand beneath her mouth just in time to catch the first round of vomit. DaddyGeek is quick to realize what’s happening and shows up with a towel to spread over the bed and baby wipes to help clean things up a little bit. I wipe what I’ve caught in my hands in time for the next round of vomit. Rinse, repeat. She threw up everything in her stomach.  She vomited 10-12 times and after some water, a few back rubs and her binkies back (she still sleeps with them) and she went back to sleep.

Needless to say, catching vomit in your hands is slightly less than sexy, even when you’re doing it in a slinky negligee without any underwear on.

We took a break to watch Desperate Housewives before we tried again. By that time, everything was quiet. The children were sleeping soundly, and it was just us. Oh sweet, sweet silence. We couldn’t find any music to put on, so we decided to forgo it (music had been on my list of “wants” for birthday sex) and get going.

I won’t detail everything that happened next for your sake, but suffice to say it was sexy. Another item on my list? A blindfold. And a lot of foreplay. DaddyGeek delivered – about half an hour later, we were just sampling the main course, so to speak, when we heard some noises over the baby monitor. We tried to ignore it at first and keep going. It was so. damn. good. We couldn’t. You just can’t ignore a toddler whimpering pathetically in her sleep when trying to boink your husband. Or anyone, for that matter.

And so it happened that my 25th Birthday Sexcapade was more like an Almost-Sexcapade with BONUS! Vomit, and very, very memorable.

I wandered [...]]]> I went to what we refer to as “the country store” the other day to get things for dinner. We call it the country store because it’s really more like an olde time General Store than a convenience store. They’ve got a butcher, a produce section, pet section, alcohol – the whole nine yards.

I wandered around and gathered what we needed: marinated chicken, milk, cream, french fried onion rings, Stovetop stuffing, rolls.

I walked by the “home improvement section.” I saw a bundle of rope. It was clothesline.

I couldn’t help it. I grabbed it. I put it in my little basket, thinking of all the delightfully kinky things that we could do with it once the kids went to bed*.

As I got up to the counter, one of the older women who works there gestured me to a free register (there are two) and started to ring me up. She did a bit of a double-take at the clothesline and chatted about how amazed she is that they sell it there- seems they have all kinds of odds and ends there!

I chuckled to myself; if only she knew!

As I took my receipt and gathered my bags, she called out, “Enjoy your clothesline!”

I turned back and gave a wry smile. “I definitely will!”

Yep, I’m moving ye olde blogge host, and therefore, this site will be down for 24-48 hours depending on how quickly I can move it over and get it back up and running.

See you later!

Here’s what [...]]]> I’m catching up on my Google Reader, and some of you folks are writing some damn good stuff.  Since you probably haven’t hacked my Google reader, there’s a chance you aren’t reading what I’m reading. (Though if you peek on the sidebar you CAN read what I’m reading. See that on the bottom right?)

Here’s what I think you’re missing:

Diapers and Wine: I love this blog. This post about her GPS is cracking me up. I nearly spit out my coffee.  I’m also dying laughing at her Captain’s Log

Issa’s Crazy World: Issa is a good friend – a great friend. Her recent post about her 8 year old daughter left me with tears streaming down my face.

For a Different Kind of Girl: FADKOG usually posts something funny, quirky or silly – but this is sweet.

Princess Prose: A very well written post about leadership, the interwebs and responsibility and ownership.

Psychmamma: She hardly ever posts, but she’s very passionate about health related issues. Go through her archives while you’re over there, but you should definitely read her post about fighting H1N1 naturally - whether you plan on vaccinating or not.

But Why Mommy: She’s stepping out of her box and wearing some confidence-boosting lipstick. I applaud you, Renee – I always chicken out of red, too!

BERNTHIS.COM: I would totally hire her. Some days, I just can’t do it. But at those rates I hope she doesn’t expect to get reimbursed for travel.

Is There Anymommy Out There?: I’m not the only one who hides in the bathroom to eat Oreo Cakesters or around the corner to eat sweets so I don’t have to share.

Alright, now don’t say I’ve never done anything for you. Get your read on!

I like to think that we all have them. Even those among us who seem infallible, important, or otherwise set “above the crowd.” Hell, even the man that the majority of America deemed worthy to act as our President (that’s Obama, for those of you who were living under a rock) has a [...]]]>

Vices.

I like to think that we all have them. Even those among us who seem infallible, important, or otherwise set “above the crowd.” Hell, even the man that the majority of America deemed worthy to act as our President (that’s Obama, for those of you who were living under a rock) has a vice – his BlackBerry. First President ever to have a personal smart phone.

I took a cue from Colleen today and asked my husband what my vices were. Either he doesn’t know me very well or doesn’t understand what a vice is, because first he said “your mother” (ok, he totally presented an argument in which that made sense, but that’s a whole ‘nother post that you don’t want to read I’m sure) and eating at 2am.

So,  yeah. Food. If you want to know where I am around 1-3am every single morning, it’s either a) my kitchen, standing by the counter eating whatever I could get my grubby paws on and checking my tweets and email on my phone as it charges or b) sitting on the couch in the dark, eating ice cream out of the carton while checking email and tweets on my phone.

Do you see a pattern? Food and technology. Color me surprised. </ sarcasm>

I’ve stopped buying things like Oreo cookies and chocolate bars and *real* ice cream, not in an effort to be healthier but because I know that I have absolutely no self control and I’ll probably eat myself into my grave if I leave these things in the house. It’s expensive, and yes it’s not good for me but mostly? It’s damn expensive! The food, the new clothes I have to buy and eventually the expensive liposuction and gastro-intestinal surgery I’ll need to keep up my habit.

Let’s not even talk about technology. I’ll admit, we do spend more than the average American family on what my mother calls the newest gadgets or, if she’s in a pissy mood, a total waste of money that you could be saving for a mortgage downpayment.  Chalk it up to our age, our generation, and our proclivity for all things technological – that’s how we choose to spend whatever we deem as “extra” money.

Honestly most of what we receive are gifts – at a gift-giving occasion we tell our families exactly what we want and they can coordinate the cash. One big gift. I’d rather that than a bunch of things I might not use So I got a shiny new phone for my last birthday, hubby got a Kindle for his last birthday, he’ll probably get a shiny new phone for Christmas, and maybe me too. Because yes, I got a new phone last year but it’s not the latest greatest as of Christmas and I’d rather have that than shoes, accessories, clothes, money, jewelery or anything else you can think up.

So.

Vices.

You can pencil me down for technology (which is probably somewhere under Greed) and food (hi, Gluttony!) and we’ll call it a day.

—————-

Don’t forget to join in the fun! I know you’ve got a vice. Right? So either post about it and link it up, or go discuss in the comments at the Girl Talk Thursday blog!

Let [...]]]> It came up on Twitter yesterday, thanks to my darling husband and dear friend, that I can sometimes be a teensy weensy bit foolish. A doofus. A total #fail whale. I promised I’d blog about it because, well, it’s funny, and if I can’t laugh at myself then what can I laugh at?

The Toe Incident

Let me preface this  story by saying that I have a horrible fear of all things creepy crawly. I can’t help it.  I jump, I scream, I freak. My husband believes he might die in a car crash with me one day if I see a spider in the car because I’ll jerk the wheel into oncoming traffic. Our headline will read “Two Killed in Tragic(ally Funny) Car Crash – Spider in Custody for Involuntary Manslaughter.”

Right.

I don’t remember what day it was, or even what year it was. Suffice to say it was at least 6-7 years ago. I believe I was still living at home. (My memory is terrible, in fact it really bothers me that I can’t remember squat, so the fact that I remember THIS much is a damn miracle) My family (mother, sister, brother) usually congregate in the kitchen; it was almost literally the center of our home growing up. It was a small eat-in kitchen but it had a table and enough chairs for all of us. We would sit, and sometimes we would talk and read magazines and gossip, my mother, my sister and I.  Those were some of my favorite times.

One such day, we sat ’round the table just as we normally do. My sister to my left, my mother to my right. The table was likely stacked with mail, magazines and discarded jackets and the like. We each probably had a Diet Coke to sip as we chatted. I sat on the chairs that my mother has recovered countless times (even adult children make big messes) with one foot crossed underneath me and one leg facing forward. I still sit this way often. My feet were bare – a trait inherited from my mother. We love bare feet in our family.

We sat and talked, and it may be that we discussed creepy crawly things and I was on edge. It may be that we were talking about recent TV episodes and I had no reason to be jumpy. However the conversation fell out, I was listening to the gossip when I spied something out of the corner of my left eye.

Me, in my head: OH SHIT. IT’S A BUG.
Me, out loud: [terrified screaming as I nearly leap out of my seat and bash my head on the ceiling cartoon-style]

My sister and my mother are also squeamish – my sister even moreso – and they asked with worried voices, panic creeping in at the edges: “What? What is it?”

Me:  Oh. It was just my toe.

At this point I realize that I should have just said it was a spider, because the guffaws, hoots and chuckles coming from either side of me were enough to make me realize I would never, ever live this down. I was almost right. I might have lived it down if it ended there.

Not even five minutes later, I see something out of the corner of my eye:

Me, in my head: OH SHIT. IT’S A BUG.
Me, out loud: [terrified screaming as I nearly leap out of my seat and bash my head on the ceiling cartoon-style]
Me: Oh. It was just my toe. Again.

I expect my urn to have some sort of witty verse – maybe a haiku? – about how I scared myself with my toe. Twice. My own damn toe. TWICE. In the span of five minutes. TWICE.

The Car Incident

Stop rubbing your hands in glee, I can see you. No, I did not crash the car as a result of a spider. This is something entirely different. And, no, this is not the story of the time that I hit a snowplow with my car hard enough to break the plow off of the truck. In May. In New England. (i.e. No Snow.)

A few weeks ago I realized I forgot something in the back of the car. We have a Mazda 5, which is like a Soccer Mom Minivan Lite or something.  It fits our family well. I loved this car until it attacked me completely unprovoked. Now, I have to say my feelings are mixed. If my little Mazda 5 could speak, she’d probably remind me that we hurt the ones we love. I’d probably tell her she’s a bitch. But that’s neither here nor there.

To the point.

I went to the back of the car and opened up the hatch-back trunk. It’s a pretty tall hatch back and the way it’s designed it swings way out, but I’m a smart gal, so I know that I need to step back in order for it to keep from clipping me. I successfully sidestep the Indiana-Jones style obstacle and grab whatever I need out of the back. I step back, reach up, and pull down the trunk using the nifty little handle, but I make a critical mistake; in my rush to get back inside (it’s a bit rainy out) I pull it down too quickly and fail to evade the deadly downward path of the door.

Scrrrraaaape.

The door makes contact with the bridge of my nose, scrapes my glasses off my face and continues further down to the tip of my nose until I stumble back in a muddle of pain and hurt feelings. I thought you loved me! I hiss, and bend to pick up my glasses. They’ve landed lens-down on the pavement. They are badly scratched. You whore! I’m angry. My nose is throbbing. I wipe off my glasses but I am too distracted by the huge scratch right in front of my right eye to see clearly.

And that, my friends, is why I need new glasses.  As promised, Holly – a diagram, complete with stick figures:

As you see by the above picture, entered into Evidence on 10/19/2009, I was brutally attacked by my car. I’m pretty sure this means my insurance company needs to pay for my new glasses. And the eye exam. And maybe some contacts. And probably a pair of prescription sunglasses too. And emotional distress.

So. I dare you to beat that. That’s right bitches – gauntlet down.

I am not a crafty person. Have you ever been to Craftastrophe? If not give a click. Go ahead. See those things?

That’s what I’d end up with. But more poorly made, and with a warrant out for my arrest, because my probability of homicide goes up the more glitter, glue, felt, stickers and [...]]]>

I am not a crafty person. Have you ever been to Craftastrophe? If not give a click. Go ahead. See those things?

That’s what I’d end up with. But more poorly made, and with a warrant out for my arrest, because my probability of homicide goes up the more glitter, glue, felt, stickers and markers are around.

I made a “Good Job Sticker Chart” for Cupcake to use.

The Good Job Sticker Chart. Note my excited notes about prizes.

It took me a couple of hours. I am not lying. And yes, I know that the potty looks sort of like a sock. Cupcake tells me every day, ok? LAY OFF.

My mother and my sister are very crafty. My mother in particular. (Sidenote: they also love animals, and I’m not so fond. Switched at birth?) They will do any kind of craft be it paper mache or felt, clay or marker, anything.

The kids are lucky if I manage to get out fresh paper and some crayons from time to time.

I think the biggest issue is that I don’t like the mess. My house is by no means clean – but I just get a big ole’ icky feeling when I think of crafts and my carpets. Or my tables. Or my chairs. Or, anything frankly.

I was home alone today with Cupcake and Geeklet (usually I work full time) and I let her paint, but not before laying three trash bags on the floor, a towel on the bench and taping another trash bag to the table top with a stern admonition to not throw any paintbrushes. (The paint is washable. It comes right out. I don’t know what I’m worried about)

Are you crafty? Join in on our Girl Talk Thursday post and let us know what’s going on. I’m looking at you, Undomestic Diva. I heard about your craft room.