Real Soft Porn

I came across this little gem while looking for info on guinea pig care.


Lazy Saturday

Yesterday, with the house all to myself, I was supposed to clean the carpets. But by the time I got the rooms "picked up" and the laundry done, I just didn't feel like going to Publix, renting the steam machine, and dragging it out to my car in the rain, much less actually using it.

Instead, at 7 pm, I put my pink flannel pajamas back on, got in bed with the dogs, ate fried chicken off one of my new French Paper melamine plates Biggy gave me for Christmas, and watched all 12 episodes of Weeds, season II.

It was awesome.


One More Gift

Biggy and Lo left this morning for his parents' in South Carolina. He took the rest of the presents from under the tree. Or so it seemed.

A little something from Fay--all she had to give.

It's the thought that counts.

Can I Shop Frederick's Online?

Fay is a big fan of the flannel pajamas...

but I'm beginning to worry about Biggy.


What Was Santa Thinking?!

Under the tree this morning, Tebow and Rusty:

Lola was ecstatic. This was proof Santa is real, too, because as she said, "Dad would have never let me have ONE guinea pig, much less TWO." All the rest of the stuff she got--the games, toys, clothes, sleeping bag, treasure chest suitcase...did less to impress her.

The big kids were none-too-pleased about getting up at 6 a.m., but Jack was happy enough about his iTouch.

Georgia, however, couldn't work up any excitement for her cash.

We spent the morning getting everyone acquainted. Do note my new flannel pajamas, courtesy of my son.

Stella wasn't interested in anything except the snowman blanket.

For those of you keeping a tally, that makes A Jack Russell Terrier, two Chihuahuas, a turtle, a gecko, a parakeet, and two guinea pigs.

*Pics taken with the new Sony Cybershot my sweet husband and blog enabler bought me.


Tip # 1: Don't

Today's post was inspired by my trip to Publix yesterday. I'm writing it as a mother of four, a wife, a daughter, and a granddaughter. So spare me the excuses for the violations. The following are rules for grocery shopping during holiday peak hours--peak hours being those times when the only parking spaces available are the ones on the shuttle route.

1. Be patient as you look for a spot to park your Suburban; you don't have any more right to park than the teenager in the Taco Bell uniform, driving a Ford Escort.

2. After parking your vehicle, collect at the crosswalk. Wait a couple of minutes for the folks who are coming up behind you (THEY should be hurrying). In the meantime, wave a couple of cars through so they can actually get OUT of the lot to make room for others. The alternative is a lazy string of crossing pedestrians, with a line of cars waiting for them, blocking the entrance from the main road.

3. Unless they fit in the buggy and are asleep (baby) or wearing a muzzle, do NOT bring your children. And by 'fit in the buggy,' I don't mean sprawled on the rack on the bottom with their hands and legs hanging out. Extra bodies are bad. Extra bodies crying, whining, and begging for Cookie Crisp are a capital offense. The only people who should be in the store are those who are actually shopping, their mission being to get in and get out.

4. Along those same lines, do not bring your spouse or significant other if all they're going to do is shuffle behind you and take up space. If they must accompany you, give them half the list, and have them carry as many items as they can in their arms and bring them back to the cart. (Never use more than one cart per party.)

5. No one over 75. It's too dangerous. That's just common sense.

6. Do not park your cart on one side of the aisle and stand directly across from it on the other side of the aisle, creating a roadblock while you try to decide between Bumblebee or Chicken of the Sea. If you move your cart ahead a bit, diagonally across, other shoppers will be able to weave through.

7. During holiday peak hours, you should only be shopping for the items you need for the season's dinner and staple foods for you and your guests. You should have already stocked up on the non-perishables that you know you always need: toilet paper, tampons, pet food, shampoo, vitamins, batteries, Gas-X, and beer.

8. This is NOT the time to purchase lottery tickets or money orders.

9. Nor is it the time to catch up with your PTA friend in the canned vegetable aisle.

10. Don't even THINK about writing a check.


Last Minute

I've listened to a lot more radio lately due to the interstate sludge that is holiday traffic. Awful, unimaginative 30-second spots hawking the worst ideas for Christmas presents since summer sausage. In addition to those are the usual terrible television commercials, like the one with the couple driving down the road where the man looks like Jeffrey Dahmer, and the first time I saw it--before I found out it was a jewelry ad, I thought something BAD was about to happen. Or the one where the woman is singing "These Are A Few of My Favorite Things" with a voice like Melanie Griffith on crack.

As a result, I've composed a list of a few Things I Do NOT Want for Christmas:

1. A "Journey" pendant. Hello--the emperor has no clothes! Looks like it was designed by a chimp.

2. Laser hair removal. I don't care what the commercial claims, don't give your lady anything that says "you're hairy."

3. The "big maroon envelope" from Spa Sydell. A massage might actually be nice, but the commercial promises the buyer he's sure to receive a "special" thank you from his loved one, and I don't think we should have to do certain things on Christmas.

4. Donna Karan's new fragrance for women, Cashmere Mist. The woman in the commercial seems to suggest taking the bottle somewhere private, and I don't want to smell that.

5. A Lowe's gift card.

Friday Nostalgia

I LOVED Mr. Magoo when I was a kid.



World Orgasm Day starts tomorrow. Check the schedule (for those of us in Georgia, it's Saturday, 1:08 a.m.) to sync up and do your part to promote peace on earth.

I don't know if I can stay up that late.

I Plan to Write this Evening

but in the meantime...


Our House is Haunted

But is it the ghost of Christmas Past, Present, or Future?

For the second morning in a row, I came downstairs to find the television on and the volume turned up loud. Yesterday, I assumed Jack had gotten up in the middle of the night and decided to watch TV, even though I thought it was odd he'd be watching Nickelodeon. I didn't mention it to anyone and didn't think about it again. But Jack spent the night at a friend's, so I knew it couldn't have been him this time. Then I figured one of the dogs must have stepped on the remote, but I remembered we've been using the batteries out of the remote for the miniature flashlight since the kitchen pantry bulbs burned out last weekend.

I asked Biggy if he'd gone back downstairs after we went to bed, and he assured me he hadn't budged. When I told him about the TV, he got that look on his face he gets when he believes he might have to use a public restroom for a sit-down. And he reminded me about another strange incident: When he got home from work yesterday, he asked me where the dish towel he'd stuck in the door to the back porch was. I told him I'd found a towel on the floor but didn't know where it had come from; I'd thrown it in the laundry. He told me the rubber molding had worn off that door and he'd stuck the rag there to keep the draft out. The door, by the way, had been deadbolted...

Exactly Like Me

Except I'm not a pharmacist.


Saving Me From Myself

Because Biggy is very much aware of my history as a victim of domestic violence, he sometimes drops little reminders to help me avoid further incident. He's really thoughtful that way. Sunday, we were in the car, somewhere between Target and Best Buys on our Christmas shopping circuit, when I tried to call JackMan at home to make sure he let the dogs out. Having been unsuccessful at reaching him on either the house phone or his cell, I tossed my own cell phone into the cup holder and sank into the seat, a little frustrated with my son. Meanwhile, my husband must have been daydreaming.

Biggy: Did you get ahold of him?

TR: Do you hear me having a conversation?

(silence in the air of sarcasm)

Biggy: That's how you get a black eye, Babe.


But Merry Christmas!

Click image to read page one (yes, there was more) of the for-real, no-joke holiday letter we got from one of Biggy's college friends and his wife.


Friday Nostalgia

Turn-of-the-century excellence. Magnolia, 1999.


Happy Birthday Lola!

She's 8 today.

And an old poem (but she hasn't changed):


Four, she’s mostly boy, all
rib cage and small

of back, naked to the waist.
When I offer

a simple yellow sundress--
the final remnants

of my little princess
dreams, she shakes

the memory
of her copper curls,

swears, Never!

Spirit of the Season

Email I received yesterday:

To all my Democrat friends:

Please accept with no obligation, implied or implicit, my best wishes for an environmentally conscious, socially responsible, low-stress, non-addictive, gender-neutral celebration of the winter solstice holiday, practiced within the most enjoyable traditions of the religious persuasion of your choice, or secular practices of your choice, with respect for the religious/secular persuasion and/or traditions of others, or their choice not to practice religious or secular traditions at all. I also wish you a fiscally successful, personally fulfilling and medically uncomplicated recognition of the onset of the generally accepted calendar year 2008, but not without due respect for the calendars of choice of other cultures whose contributions to society have helped make America great. Not to imply that America is necessarily greater than any other country nor the only America in the Western Hemisphere. Also, this wish is made without regard to the race, creed, color, age, physical ability, religious faith or sexual preference of the wishee.

To all my Republican friends:

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

And my response:

To all my Republican friends:

Please accept my tax-free holiday wishes. May your SUV's keep their shine, your country clubs stay exclusive, and your health insurance cover your Viagra. May the only illegal immigrants you have to see be your housekeepers and landscapers. May all your churches build gigantic recreation centers and none of your karate instructors be pedophiles. May all your mission trips be to Jamaica and all of your volunteer work and charitable contributions be written about in the paper. May your husbands be heterosexual and your wives forgiving. May your daughters be Tri Delts and your sons be Dekes, and may they remain virgins until they marry (just as you did) and become Junior Leaguers and Freemasons.

And, of course, may all your Christmases be white.


Career Change

This morning, during a segment on the Today Show about how increased air traffic is leading to dangerous close calls between planes in the air and on runways:

TR: You know, air traffic controllers make really good money.

Biggy: You should do that. You could blog while you work.


My Wish List

Nick and Nora flannel pajamas. I already have the monkeys, but there's a flamingo print and some dogs I like too.

Any set of melamine plates from French Paper:

Guess What/Chicken Butt Tee:


Petty Beef

The cup of coffee I bought at Starbucks today has been bothering me all afternoon. I mean the cup itself. Where they usually print 'The Way I See It' was a holiday pass-the-cheer story that goes like this:

"At a Starbucks drive-thru in Riverside California, a customer spontaneously decided to pay for the drink of the person behind him. That delighted person was then inspired to pay for the drink of the person behind her, who then did likewise. What then transpired was an amazing chain reaction of cheer passing that lasted for seven cars."

What the heck!

The proper response when someone performs a spontaneous act of kindness is to thank them (even if it's just in your heart), enjoy the gift, and let them be the hero. Then--LATER--a day, a week--you can pay it forward and be a hero yourself.

I'm telling you, if I'd been the original giver in this case, I'd have been-like "What was the point?!"

Friday Nostalgia

The Carol Burnett Show, 1972



God Bless Cindy Crawford

Because Georgia thought I was being vain and mean, I want to clarify the sentiment behind this post. I wasn't trying to make fun of Cindy Crawford. I was elated to see the pictures of her on vacation, paddling a surfboard (in another), enjoying the sunshine, celebrating her good health. She's a real woman, with a real woman's body, albeit a beautiful real woman's body. She's fit. She takes care of herself, and she wears (proudly it seems) the scars of her history and the history of her children's birth.

In my dreams, men love their wives inside and out. When the women give birth to their children, the husbands honor that process and respect its sacrifices. They continue to love and long for the woman they married, and embrace the changes that come with motherhood. They don't start ogling other women or scouring the Internet for "Barely Legal."

But my own experiences and those of many women I'm close to, have proven otherwise. I read once that one of the prime times men cheat on their wives is when the wives are pregnant. I couldn't believe that, but then it happened to me. Often, when a woman's body has been "damaged" by pregnancy and childbirth, she's no longer prized. This is clear in the general response to Cindy's photos. But one would hope her own husband would feel quite otherwise.

I felt I was being punished once my children were born and I no longer met my ex's "standard." I became self-conscious and inhibited. I was ashamed of my body; no amount of exercise or cosmetics could fix the stretch marks or c-section scar. Eventually, after my divorce, I learned once again to celebrate my body and all of its wonderful stories. But even that hard-won victory was short-lived.

One of my favorite poets, Adrian Blevins, has a moving poem called "Turning Thirty-Six" about this very subject. Here's an excerpt:

but what could we have known of the births that would take our
bodies from us?

No matter what, the bodies of girls will fatten on semen
and burgeon with milk
while the fathers with zilch in their hands amble off drunk,
broke, bawling, blind.
In their divergent dreams do the febrile men see us as we once

when we were still little birds in the water? Do they carry us in
the pockets
of their hearts? Do they take us out and throw us down
while we rock like hags in the deadbeat dark?


Because we automatically turn the TV on in the morning so we won't have to talk to each other, and because we're too lazy to find the remote and leave the tv on whatever channel Lo was glued to the night before, Biggy and I have recently caught a couple of episodes of Malcolm in the Middle--one of the funniest sitcoms ever written. If you've never seen it, you should do yourself a favor and catch it in reruns. Better yet, buy all 151 episodes on dvd for about 30 bucks.

If anyone cares, I'd like that for Christmas.


When 'No Thank You' Would Suffice

This morning at breakfast I asked the visiting Georgia if she would like to have the nightgown, since I'm not allowed to wear it:

Georgia: Um, no. Never.

TR: It's so comfortable! You could just wear it in your dorm room. No one except Martha would ever have to see it.

Georgia: I don't want to turn myself off.


About Me

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Writer, teacher, student, mom.

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