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.