Wednesday, December 30, 2009

What's gross

Know what gross things I think about?

90% of American money has trace amounts of cocaine on it. Mostly from people rolling up bills and snorting cocaine. So this makes me wonder if the money also has all that snot and blood on it?

Also, I really like taking Azo-Pro. Its a medicine to help you when you have urinary tract infections that turns your pee BRIGHT orange. I think its exciting. Less exciting is that if you don't wipe thoroughly, you're getting orange stained panties. I don't have a bladder infection currently, but I have a coworker who does. I almost asked to take some just so I could pee orange.

Also about peeing, I don't always flush the toilet. When my pee's pretty clear, I don't. I think its a waste of resources. Seriously, why does water need to be used to flush my clear pee. I also pee in the shower for the same reason. And feel bad, because my husband loves to take baths. But I'm not really sure how to broach that subject at this point. I had a particularly potent pee in the shower one morning when he told me all about how he was going to take a bath. I tried telling him how gross the bathtub was and that he REALLY needed to clean it first. Later I found out he hadn't, and had taken a bath. He said he has a really high tolerance for dirt in the bathtub. Let's hope so.

Also, my husband leaves his hemorrhoid cream out all the time. This is disturbing for numerous reasons. Not the least of which is he doesn't care at all if my family is in town or his friends or anyone else for that matter. He swears he's not ashamed of this. Then he goes off into this story of how he has some ancestor that died of hemorrhoids. The story goes that it was some guy in an infantry that was stuck riding around with a greatly inflamed case of hemorrhoids. "Clearly, infection was involved too." Thanks, honey.
So the hemorrhoid cream is constantly on the edge of the bathroom sink, where it could easily be mistaken for toothpaste. Same shaped container, same local. I'm just waiting for him to do it one day and have numb gums.

So yeah, that's what's gross today. Too much about pee? Well, the site is pissinmycheerios. So what're you gonna do?

Wednesday, December 23, 2009


Sorry for this post. I know I somehow magically just managed to get like 8 readers and so I shouldn't really alienate you all by posting about this but... I decided this would be a no holds barred blog and since this is my deepdark blog where I talk about sex and junk, I've decided to post a fantasy I just started having. I think it came as a dream first. You know, the wet kind.

Basically it involves this giant cock. Its bigger than I am. Its like a treetrunk dick. And its all slick. And I can wrap my arms around it and lick it and slide up and down on it with my whole front side. So I get to suck on it and slide with my legs wrapped around it tight and feel my nipples glide up against it. But its obnoxious because I know this is bizarre but I'm pretty sure this would sensationwise be the best feeling cock in the world.

I've also been having this fantasy about a pussy bar. Basically, a man can walk in and order the type of pussy he wants to eat that day. He describes mine and a host shows him to my pussy at the bar. I'm propped on a wedge, with my legs spread at eye level and he hungrily goes at me.

Its fucking disturbing, isn't it? I normally just have these vanilla, no don't make me cum, yes, no, make me, I hope your wife doesn't walk in, don't cum yet baby, I mean, I'm just the babysitter, normal fucking fantasies. You know the kind where you pretend not to want to have sex but he makes you and you end up really wanting to or he's the poolboy at the resort in Jamaica or whatever. Which always makes me feel like such an asshole becuase there are actual rape victims who would probably sock me in the eye for that fantasy. And I don't really want to be raped. Nor do I really want a stranger to lick my pussy at a bar. Seriously, it would get cold sitting there all spread eagle. I'm just saying, that for the first time my overactive imagination, has spread to my sexual fantasies.

My brain needs a slight vacation I think. Maybe if I start a period soon, I'll take some valium and have some good ole vanilla sex with my husband.

Tuesday, December 22, 2009

In it together

I started a post earlier about the holidays and my family and blah blah blah. I start a lot of posts for this blog and obviously I never post them. Because I feel like this is my deepdown spot. The place I can air my darkness. The place I can't expose in real life colors but can in black and white blog letters.

There's this guy, Paul, my friends befriended a bit. Not really. More just took pity in and were nice to. He had huge alcohol problems. He was supposedly sober these days. But the drinking had clearly lost him some years and some function and some friends and some family. And by some, I mean most, if not, all. So he's this strange drunk guy with no friends and no family and no social skills but my friends are really nice people. And its a small town too.

They'd invite him if there was a BBQ or some other event with lots of people. He was so starved for love and social interaction. He always came and offered every bit of himself. At a birthday party that was thrown out in the woods, he drove a van all night to get people safely to and from the party (since he doesn't drink anymore.) It was heartbreakingly sweet and awkward all at once if you really want to know.

These friends are like that though. They're just incredibly charismatic and bring people together. They can make even the most bizarre person enjoyable to be around.

So anyway, they moved away yesterday. Packed up the kids and the car and moved to California to get new jobs and new friends and new places and things. I should be happy for them. But I'm too busy being sad about me. Me and Paul.

I'm not normally sad when people move away. It sounds shitty but I'm sociable and make friends easily. I've moved a lot and am used to people coming and going in my life. But these folks are different. I didn't realize it until now. Now I've actually dreamt about them moving. And I'm wondering how much of my happiness is tied to them being the center of a group of friends. A group that will likely spin out and members will drop off and drift and I might be left with only Paul.

Except today I got this call at work. It was about a chronic alcoholic who had been missing from his regular medical appointments for about a month. There was no phone number to call and check up on and this was a sick man. A man sick enough that he had regularly scheduled appointments. Turns out he's dying. He's dying and refusing intervention. Not for the alcohol. For the medical stuff.

I was busy dealing wtih another crisis and couldn't go visit him. But I was worried. I mean, the caller said this man was having trouble making it to the bathroom in time. No friends. No family.

So I sent the police to do a welfare check.

Paul was found dead. I don't even know how long he was there. I don't know his family or a single solitary soul to call and even notify them.

Maybe its better this way. Maybe he died before realizing the only people who invited him anywhere had left. He got what he wanted. He didn't want medical intervention. He was dying. His senses failing him. He didn't care that his house stank or that his sink was filthy. He didn't want to go to the ER and prolong the inevitable. He wanted to finish out his life at home.

And while he was finishing out his life. My husband and I are trying desperately to start a new one.

We finally talked this evening. See, we had a screaming (me) fight. His ennui finally got to me. He made one too many committment to me that got broken. And some other stuff. None of which is all that interesting. Point being, we fought.

Then we had company. So there was no resolving a thing. He played pretend and I didn't. I glared and didn't care. I stayed mad as long as I wanted.

And then tonight we talked. He said he thinks I've been different ever since the miscarriage. Which is probably true. He said I'm more apt to react strongly, be it crying or screaming or laughing. He said I'm not as nice. He's probably right.

He also said he avoids me and our relationship. Avoids the stress of trying. Trying to be happy. Trying to make a baby. Trying not to think about the one we'd have right now. Trying to do anything outside of work. Avoids it all.

And only works.

And I'll admit it. I'm angry about the miscarriage. Not really the miscarriage so much as how I don't know how to fix up my life. I couldn't theme it for you or give it curtains to decorate it. My life right now is a blank wall that just had the wallpaper ripped off. I haven't even cleaned the glue off yet. And I'm not sure what to plan for putting up there.

Usually I just flow with it. Get an idea, toss it out there, live that idea until I'm ready to pick something different and then go with it.

But this is a BIG plan. And I can't wrap my mind around it. I can't be happy about having a baby we might never conceive and then if we do conceive it we migth lose again. And I can't be happy about not having kids because I want to have kids.

And I can't just casually try. I write down a small P on the day I start my period every month. So I know when I ovulate and when I should start a period again or not. I don't drink after about the 10th or 12th day of each month or take ibuprofen or valium or eat lunch meat. I work on the same floor as an OB clinic where preggos come and go every day. I'm covering the maternity leave of a coworker right now. The other half of our duplex is occupied by a couple that had a baby I can hear crying who was born FIVE DAYS BEFORE MY DUE DATE!

I can't get away from it.

But he can. Or could.

Now its out there. We've talked about it. It circles the air around us and brings our mouths in toward one another again. We're in it together again.

And maybe that's all it takes. Being in it together.

Maybe if Paul had had friends invite him to a picnic or dinner sooner he would've felt like he was in it with other people. The alone would have felt more crowded. Maybe he'd have started the fight sooner. Maybe he'd have saved himself. Maybe if he'd have had someone to be in it with together, he wouldn't have been found dead in an apartment, alone, with feces in the sink. Maybe he'd have had his own BBQs and invited his own friends and family. Maybe he'd have been happy and healthy. Maybe he'd have been the one moving away, with a family and a future for someone else to be sad and happy for at the same time.

Tuesday, December 8, 2009

The Rules

I used to have a rule that I wouldn’t sleep with a guy my friend had slept with. Groups of friends get so gross and incestuous otherwise. I don’t want a guy I’ve been with to be able to tell one of my girlfriends what it was like after their own hootchie moment. I used to like to think of myself as a remote sexual island getaway. Not many had been, but boy did they want to come back as soon as possible.

Not now. Now I’m just another boring wife. Another boring wife that if I got a second chance at sex, would do it up right. I’d reevaluate every rule. Including the second hand sleeping rule.

When you think about it, there’s all kinds of things you share. I’ve secondhand touched butts with everyone I work with. You prolly have too. Think about it. You pull your pants down, piss and shit in the same watery hole everyone else does. The worst is when you walk in right after someone else has been in the loo. You think about their sticky thighs and how they were just…. there/here where your clammy whites are hanging out. You touch the same door code buttons and handles and money and utensils as they do. You put your food in the same microwave theirs gets heated in. And while I don’t want to swap husbands, I wouldn’t hesitate to give someone my chapstick to use. My husband and I have been known to share the same toothbrush on vacation and I try not to think of his atrocious breathe in the night and how it smells like he must be dying.

I hate other people’s breath in my face. I’m pretty sure everyone does. I don’t know how people in 3rd world countries do it. I know there’s all that supportive togetherness and that seems nice. It seems like a wonderful idea to live in a village where I can pass my brat off to some 16 year old mother of 3 while I go for a 10 mile strole into town to get antibiotics. It really does. Except then I think of all the people who would sleep in my room. And how their breath would go in my mouth. I know I breath other people’s breath now anyway, but at least its usually been through a plant or tree or some algae or something first. I think how it would fill the room with their smells.

Remember when you were a kid and your mom would lean over to help you figure out how to pronounce cyclone and you’d want her close to you because her clothes smelled so pretty but then she’d tell you “sI-clone” and you’d think “get that coffee breath out of my NOSE!” My next thought was fury at English that makes it impossible for a 2nd grader trying to read to herself about the Wizard of Oz to sound out a word that begins with ‘cy’. And don’t even get me started on colonel. That word is fucking bullshit.
And so are many of my rules. They protect me from germs, or parking tickets, or spam, or whatever. But maybe I’m too protected. Maybe I need to throw some more offense out into the world. Lord knows I’m breathing plenty of it anyway.

Monday, November 30, 2009

The all-important dirty talk

I talked to my husband. I started this blog so I could bitch about him in a way that I never would to people I really know, people who really know me. People who would continue to watch us interact. In real life.

In real life if you call your husband a lame lover and bitch about how all he does is work and has no friends, they'll assume that its absolutely true and that there is no saving things. And maybe they're right. Or maybe I just get really pissed and need to say that even though there are many,many times I put my head on his shoulder and know it is exactly where I should be.

So I talked to him. We were on our way to a charity function (which makes us sound rich and fancy but really we just both work in/frequent the non profit world a lot.) He asked something about sex and I told him that I thought we should stop "trying" for a while.

I had a miscarriage in May and we've just started trying again recently. The whole thing has been really hard on everything. But I'll get to that later.

So he said "Because of ski season." I'd actually planned my previous pregnancy around ski season because I'm an insane skier.
"No, because we haven't been getting along."

A look of utter shock passed over his face. This was somehow news to him. Which I found miraculous and infuriating and incredible and unbelievable and many other things. But I shut my mouth about that.

We've had a significant number of talks about sex. Which mostly means that I talk. About how we need to be able to talk about sex. And by "we" and I mean "HE." I can talk about sex just fine. In bed, to strangers, at the doctor's office. Its a favorite topic of mine. The talks not only consist of me telling him we need to have better communication about sex (i.e. more exciting sex with the all-important dirty talk) but also the fact is we don't have enough of it. I want more than a max of twice a week. I remember when the minimum was twice a day. While I don't think that's practical for our lifestyle now, I do think we can manage more than weekly contact. He figured since he'd been upping the amount, the case was closed and all was well in relationshipland.

Sorry. No.

I was quiet and we got in the car to drive to the event. He asked what not getting along meant. I explained that he doesn't DO anything anymore. I told him that he clearly only prioritozes doing his job well and while I respect the work he does, our marriage is not in the priorities rankings. Worse still, I said, was that he didn't seem to have any desire to enjoy his life, to thrive. And I do.

I told him that he doesn't have any fun anymore and that the fun I've had recently he hasn't been a part of.

I told him I could feel myself separating from him. Bit by bit. Activity by activity. Priority by lifestyle. Sexuality by friendship.

He was quiet for a long time and I could tell that it had sunk in.

That night he slapped my ass during sex and took a little nibble hear and there. He talked about buying cross country skis and I am hopeful for a change.

Thursday, November 19, 2009

In Bed

So sorry that my first post pretty much sucked. Ever have that happen? You're writing and you think its all good but then realize that what you were feeling was what was good not what you were writing. Sometimes I do that.

So what I was really saying was how my marriage has been rocky lately. And my husband well, I'm going to go ahead and blame him since he has no way to know this blog exists much less read it. I like having one place where I get to be right all the time. I call that place my house. Ok, really I meant the blog.. I kid I kid.

The marriage thing really started with problems in the bedroom. My husband's sex drive is somewhat lacking. As is his imagination and communication. When things were new it didn't matter too much. And when everything else in our marriage was good, it didn't matter so much.

But now...

Now my patience with it is wearing. And I don't want to be divorced. But I REALLY don't want to be 30 with my sex life over.

So I had a dream about a guy I used to have a huge thing for and it brings all this crap flying back that I haven't really thought about in years.

And true to form, I'm ready to run away. Currently to Canada to see this beautiful distraction of a man.

Mmmmmm I would fuck the shit out of him right now and it'd be better than in the dream, or when I was 20.

Lustover again

Ever have a dream about someone you were previously involved with and it brings back every feeling fresh and new? Its like my mind just opened the dryer and breathed him in all over again.

Nothing went wrong. It wasn't like that. He just lived far. And I lived far. And it was unlikely from the first night.

I still vividly remember that night more than 10 years later. I wandered around aimlessly in Munich and stumbled upon this hostel. I remember checking in to the hostel and seeing him sitting at a table. I remember my leftover adolescense categorizing him as the cool guy. The beautiful cool guy. The one I would sneak glances at just to drink in the way his eyes could pierce even things they weren't focused on.

One who certainly wouldn't have interest in me. Although looking back, I'm not sure why I would have thought that.

I stashed my stuff and sat at a table and ordered a beer. I struck up a conversation with a significantly less cool, not-good-looking guy but who was nice enough. I'd barely slept after travelling around Sweden for a beautiful light summer week of summer sun. So I excused myself to go take a nap before going out for my first night out in Germany. I planned to meet the nice-enough guy and go out. But when I came back hours later, he was no where to be seen while the beautiful man was.


He was with a Norweigan guy and I spoke Swedish which is sometimes close enough so we struck up a conversation. I joined their table and the three of us became fast friends engrossed in discussion of the best political systems and problems with governments that gave way to religion and the universe and everything you can solve with long conversation over beers in Europe.

At some point we headed out to a bar and Dave bought me a drink. I thought it was nice but the thought still hadn’t occurred to me that he might be interested in me.

At some point, we started dancing and that melded into realizing that the beautiful man was interested in me. My body wanted every inch of him.

We kissed and kissed until the sun came up and I had to catch a train to meet up with my class. (I was in Germany for school and had taken an extra week to visit friends and family in Sweden.)

I gave him my email address and hoped. You might meet again, you never know!

I went off to the town I was to spend 2 months in studying German and he continued travelling around Europe. A few days later, I got an email. "Hey gorgeous" which sounds hokey but to this day makes me flutter.

More emails and more. Then we just decided to meet up. I bought a plane ticket, he took the train, and we met up in Bilbao, Spain.

I fell hard.

But he's Canadian, I'm American. I was 20, he was maybe 22. We were too young, too focused, too unsure. We kept talking though.

And visiting. He came to visit me twice and each time was amazing.

But we never went beyond that.

I got married. Maybe I shouldn't have. I was so sure. I remember how sure I was that whole day. So many people remarked on how happy and in love I looked. It was truly the best day of my life.

But the doubt crept in between the sheets the very first night. The night that my husband crawled into our marriage bed and initiated our married sex life with the possibly the worst sex I've ever had.

We'd had sex before of course. Mostly good. I'd never thought my husband to be the best in bed I'd ever had, but I was ok with what we were working with. There was a lot to be sure of.

So when he got off of me and ran to the bathroom and threw up, a seed of fear/doubt/disappointment was planted. I knew we'd both been drinking all day and felt maybe that I should've expected it. But that didn't make the seed go away.

Last night, he didn't sleep in our bed. He got up and slept in the extra bedroom.

And I didn't care. I scooched over and enjoyed sprawling across the middle. I snuggled under the covers and just didn't care.

And I had a dream that pictured the intense look of Dave.

And now I'm finding myself contacting him again, looking at old pictures. And wanting...

Wednesday, January 7, 2009


I was reading someone's blog where she talked about how she can get along with rapists and murderers but has little tolerance for one of her neighbors and sometimes for her family. I can relate.

My mom's moving in across the street from us. There's a cul de sac that Ts into our street. She bought the house at the end of that cul de sac. Which is nice. Right? Right?

It should be. It is.

But the thing is, I've realized that my life has moved on. She's always my mom. I love her. But I moved away. From her.

That wasn't the whole reason I moved across the country. It wasn't even most of it. But it was there.

My mom is a super nice lady. Everyone likes her. She'd do anything for anyone. Except for sometimes me.

Years ago, I started having seizures. Which looking back isn't such a big deal now. At the time it was really scary. I had multiple seizures daily. Sometimes one right after another. I didn't lose consciousness or anything but it was upsetting. My arm or leg would be going all apeshit and while I wasn't unconscious, I wasn't conscious either. So I'd watch and lose it. I mean, you're supposed to be able to control your leg. And meds didn't help. They just added to the problem. And I was tired. Its really tiring to have seizures.

I was also very young. I was in college and lived in a community with little in the way of public transportation.

I remember my mom didn't help. All she did was tell the prayer chain about it and have people pray for me. I don't believe in god. At least I don't think I do. Whatever, that's another post. The point being, she didn't help. She didn't offer to take me to doctor's appointments, in fact, she got annoyed when I asked and asked me if I'd already asked my boyfriend at the time.

I'm not exactly angry about it now. But I can't say it doesn't affect how I feel about our relationship either. I'd always been there for my mom.

My mom has always fought with mood swings. The rages she would fly into when we were kids still scare me. And the depression she's prone to still arrises to this day. She avoids meds and doctors and help in general. And I was always there. I dropped everything all through my adolescense and early adulthood to help her. Whenever she needed.

She'd call up crying or not want to get up in the morning and I'd rush to the rescue. I'd crawl in with her and let her cry and tell her I loved her and that I'd let the dogs out and make coffee or whatever when she was ready to get up. And she'd get up.

And I always thought she'd do the same for me.

Not that she didn't do things for me. She did. She does.

She gets up early and bakes bread from scratch. She would never forget a birthday, anniversary, doctor's appointment, anything. She loves me.

But when I needed her help... well... she was reticent.

And I pulled away. And moved away.

And now she's following me. Which I think will be good eventually. I want to have kids. She loves being a grandmother and she's great at it. But, I have been living without her. Separate. Away. For 6 years. I've built a life that doesn't really include her.

So her moving here scares me in a way I didn't really expect. Now, she's not moving for another year but still. Every time I call her its all she can talk about. And I'm happy for her. But I'm scared for me.

I'm scared I'll be constantly snippy and annoyed. She is overly sentimental in a way that makes me nuts and always talks about god even though she knows I'm not really all about that. She can become incredibly focused on the negative and on getting help from others about it in a way that feels more like she's gossipping than it does that she's reaching out for help. And she gets depressed a lot. The rage seems to have passed with age. But the depression's still there.

And really what scares me more than anything lately, is that many of the things that annoy the shit out of me about my mom, could also be true about me. I want to have a family. And I want her around. But I need her to have her own life. And I'm terrified that if I bitch and moan and have all this negativity of her around me, I'll end up with the exact same relationship problems with my own kids.

Ah, I feel better. Thanks annonyblog.