Do you think Spunky Labia International Porn Star did not notice she has fallen entirely OFF the list of Lijit searches on the right sidebar?
Spunky was once the Queen of the Lijit Searches. Then BNL crept to the front, and now it seems Steven Page has overtaken BNL, and in the tussle Spunky dwindled and then disappeared!
Spunky knew it was time to re-invent herself. She touched up the polish on her big toe (albeit with an entirely different color; she thinks it's daring). She wanted to sport a latex sheath, so she sent the Appendage out for a condom. But then Mr. Appendage called and offered to buy it, and as we see, Mr. Appendage fell through, didn't he? He just came home without any condoms at all.
He offered up this nice stretchy ring, which is surprisingly comfy and cinches her in much better than a baggy condom. Look for a comeback in Spunky's future.
When Sarah, the woman on the sticker from your Lush bottle of Sonic Death Monkey Body Wash says:
"Best Before 21/Apr/08"
...she means it. Expired Sonic Death Monkey reeks.
I tried the Monkey today because I had fond memories of its Tootsie Roll odor, and I needed a smell self-esteem boost today. A few weeks ago Gary asked if I had ever considered douching.
What I should have said:
a. Have you ever considered sticking your dick in a autoclave?
b. No. Why would I? I smell like cinnamon toast and taste like tres leches ice cream.
c. Sorry. Well, you know I have Advanced Labia Rot down there. It won't smell pretty.
What I said:
Really? You think I need to do that?
What I did about it:
I've tried to take a little more care of the area, not just a surface shampoo and a hand swipe, you know, but a scrub past the gates. Not with soap, because I've done THAT once - but with a washcloth full of suds.
Another reason I'm atending to my toilette is I've been riding Western saddle on cold unwashed cans of Diet Rite White Grape Soda this past week. It's official: the labia swell with my cycle, then the week after my period yet again doesn't arrive, there is the external blood. Hence, my intimate relationship with cold soda cans. If in the future your labia swell painfully, go right to the refrigerator and grab a soda. This has been a Pubic Service Announcement.
I should be glad I've found it's cyclical, because that is proof my body does still recognize something is supposed to happen every 28 days. And I'm assured it'll be gone sometime next Wednesday at worst.It's monthly proof I am not pregnant. In my labia. With a Blabia.*
ANYway. When Sonic Death Monkey goes bad, it goes madmonkeybad. It goes so bad it smell worse than my purulent decayed shedding privates.
* A parasitic labia baby. I'm sure it's in Urban Dictionary. Not to be confused with Barbia, or Barbie's labia.
See those hips? That's Barbie. Before her vaginal reconstructive surgery.
After:
I was self-diagnosing on the internet when I came across the graphic below.
Does this graphic look right to you?
Uh, it seems to me it is not drawn to scale. Or else it is accurate and Gary is really well endowed and has stretched me entirely out of shape. Because my parts are not in those proportions.
There more I look at this the worse I feel. I have an enormous vagina! I have a bad body image now.
If that's to scale I've been getting it directly in the ovaries. Right up past the tubes, frankly. No wonder I have an ice pack in my lap right now.
I've been going to Target for a long time. Not as long as Target's been around; it's been around since I was born: 1962. I went to Target when there were two non-Kmart discount stores: Venture and Target, and they were essentially the same.
This is my Target:
I went to Target when Mom called it "Tar-ghey" and people laughed because they hadn't heard that joke before. That's how long I've been going to Target.
Then Target ate Venture and then went through some upscale makeover.
We all went to Target some weekend in 1999 and came out going, "Dang, that's some nice stuff at Target. Too nice for me. Where do I go for my junk -" and then Walmart heard us and erupted from the ground at our feet. Meanwhile, you kids have been going to Target not knowing its lowly position on the Great Chain of Being of Chain Stores - one rung above K-Mart and two rungs above GrandPa Pidgeon's.
I mention this because there's a Target by the Starbuck's by my house and I thought they might have some water-based lubrication products. I thought I was cool because I have a silicone-based lubrication product, but evidently a pricey new friend requires a water-based product.
The lube is by the condoms, and it always makes me feel a little self-conscious hanging out by the condoms, so I was pointedly not standing in front of those naughty condoms when I saw
THIS.
AT.
THE.
TARGET.
This topic horrifies and disgusts even me. And I eat brains.
It is so awful I am putting this all into a jump, so you'll have to click to get the whole story. And if you have a feed reader and you see everything, then I apologize.
June Cleaver says, "Run while you still can."
[WARNING: DISTURBING MENTAL IMAGES AFTER THE JUMP.]
Continue reading "In Which I Am Worried About The Beaver." »
Well, I hate to tell you, but my fantasy life has stalled.
See, the problem is that I do have very detailed fantasy life. I could win a Best Screenplay Oscar for the careful plotting I put into my daydreams. Gary has to be disposed of, either by divorce, or if I'm feeling generous, death followed by a mourning period and convenient heartbreak weight loss. Sometimes I manipulate world events for my fantasy convenience. I can be quite creative.
So, this Steven Page scandal has really challenged my imagination. I just can't ignore it, it's a key plot point, and I don't have enough dramatic suspension of belief to work around it. I've tried to ignore it, turn on the iPod, have a listen and just try to go with just a musical montage, but it doesn't get me anywhere.
So, I figured I would just give myself a rest until inspiration struck, or new details come to light. And then my attention was drawn to this interchange between Wolf Blitzer (gray hair, I can work with that) and my dear Anderson Cooper (also gray, and gay, they say, but as an allegedly bi-woman I would not judge). Gloria Borger, Paul Begala and the almost gray-haired John King were there as well.
From the CNN Election Coverage Transcript
COOPER: ... I mean how much of the Republican convention is going to be about Barack Obama?
BORGER: A lot.
BEGALA: It was like spinal tap and the speaker could go to 11 instead of 10, everything they say ...
COOPER: By the way, if someone doesn't understand the reference of going to 11 they should rent the movie this is "Final Height."
[Ed. Sic. Sic Sic Sic. This is Spinal Tap. The closed captioning guy must have been tired.]
BLITZER: What was that band we saw when we got to the NBA All-Star game? That -- Barenaked Ladies. How good were they?
COOPER: Barenaked Ladies.
BLITZER: How good were Barenaked Ladies when you saw them --
COOPER: They made a song, the Wolf Blitzer song and they sang and that's why I think --
BLITZER: They were fabulous.
COOPER: They were very good.
BLITZER: They were terrific.
All right, we've got more secrets to divulge. That's going to be coming up; much more of our coverage coming up here at the Democratic National Convention.
And then who knows what they did during the break, because when they came back there was this:
COOPER: And it's nice to see that Wolf is still energized and invigorated with the band being silent for the last hour. I was fearful that as the midnight hour approached that you might sort of fade.
BLITZER: It was a terrific band. Great band.
KING: Are you going to reveal your secrets?
BLITZER: You know, I was in a band. I played --
BORGER: Oh, come on.
BLITZER: -- in high school, it was not a very good band.
COOPER: What was the name?
BLITZER: We were the Monkeys, before the real Monkeys, at Buffalo in New York and Wolf Blitzer was doing the keyboards, not very well, I didn't sing.
COOPER: You were rocking Buffalo, though.
BLITZER: We were a little bit. But I'd liked bands ever since.
COOPER: Not too loud. Just a little.
BORGER: We're going to make him do it back at the grill, at the CNN grill.
BLITZER: If we got lucky, I could do a little "Louie Lou-I." something like that not a whole lot of it, the repertoire was sort of limited. All right, let's move on. We've got serious things coming up.
Oh, Wolf, oh, Anderson, I could work with this. The gray hair, the refined musical tastes, the man on man action, this has inspired me. Finally, I can get a good night's sleep.
Click to immensify my new toy:
I love it. It's sleek, shiny, fast, compact and and wireless, just like my new laptop.
As I understand our culture, a woman likes to cuddle during, ah, the afterglow. However, I do not. I like to clean. I feel cuddly for about 15 seconds, and then the same thought always strikes me:
"I should clean the bathroom."
Sometimes the bathroom is already clean. I lie there cuddling. Then my feet begin to twitch. Then the urge to clean becomes overwhelming. It must be some primal nesting instinct. I think:
"I bet this would be a good time to organize the pots and pans."
Gary used to coo, "What are you thinking about?" Now he pins me to the bed and says, "Don't even think about it."
"But it's so dirty!"
"You are not going anywhere."
(pause)
I ask, "Do fresh cookies sound good?"
"You just want to make cookies so you can clean the kitchen after."
I'm not a naturally neat person. For example, if it weren't for the post-coital cleaning urge my master bathroom would never be cleaned. The rest of the house gets tidied up when people come over. This for example, is the current state of my kitchen:
I find six things wrong with this photo. Can you? I have: 1) Stuff on counter 2) Stuff on table 3) Magnets on refrigerator 4) Exposed power strip no longer hidden by coffee maker 5) Under-cabinet knife holder swing out instead of parallel with cabinet and 6)TWO burned-out light bulbs.
Yeah, so I confessed this kinky cleaning urge with a girlfriend tonight. Turns out she has the same little kink. So, I wonder: which are you? Any other cleaners out there? Shh. You can be anonymous.
(Before you question this post's taste or the subject matter, rest assured that as it happened Gary said "You're going to blog this. right?" and I said "Oh I'd never blog something so intimate about you." He said I had to do it, just with some attempt and delicacy and taste.)
Saturday morning Gary, my husband, and I were fooling around in bed. Often the fooling around stops at the fooling around point, because Gary is the Bob Fosse of sex. It's always a two and a half hour long high-quality production, with him as the choreographer. "Faster! No, now slower! And arch your back more! Now, switch positions!" (Five six seven eight!) "Quickie" to him would be like Bob Fosse doing some guest choreography for an episode of Happy Days.
But today, there was fooling, and there was advisement of exactly what Was In Store for Me, and there was advancement to the Big Stage Production. And then, after the first twenty minutes of the Big Stage Production, there was a ding-dong of the doorbell.
"Girl Scout cookies?" I wondered.
"Not this time of year. Don't answer it."
"No prob - shit! Shit! It's the termite inspector. I have to!" (and I, shall we say, exited the "stage" and put on my bathrobe.)
"Let him come back later! Are you insane?"
I explained I'd already spaced out once on the appointment for the yearly termite inspection to keep our termite insurance (if termites destroy the house they buy us a new one, and of course our friends should have had this before their dining room wall and ceiling collapsed onto their dining room table). I also explained that if he came back anytime in the next few hours it might be even more embarrassing, because the audience can be enthusiastic in its praise of the Bob Fosse Big Stage Production. I opened the front door.
"Hi there! I was just getting into the shower! Good thing I heard the bell!" I lied brightly to the termite man. I lied brightly through my poufy kissed lips and heightened cheek color and mussy hair.
Termite man didn't want to call me on the obvious lie, or perhaps he didn't want to be the trois a our menage, or perhaps was just not that into me, but he went on with termite business, which means he looked at the outer walls for termites. Gary had gotten dressed by now and Termite Man had started in the basement, so Gary came out and whispered:
"Dress yourself!"
"No! He'll be gone soon."
"You are not decent!"
"No! (whine) It will spoil the mood."
Gary suggested the mood? it was spoiled. So I got dressed and pouted.
Gary took over the Termite Tour and I busied myself cleaning up dog poo and emptying the dishwasher. Gary and Termite Man looked at all the ground-level rooms; then TermiteMan inspected the backyard. Gary tracked me down and giggled:
"He knows. He must know. Our bedroom looks like a Love Nest. Underwear is everywhere - your underwear, my underwear, there's a towel over the air-conditioner vent, the coverlet is on the floor, and there are two half-drunk wine glasses of Baileys on the nightstand. "
(Gary has developed a strong affection for Baileys, in fact he suggested the other day they should change the label to read "Baileys Mouthwash" since that's how he's been using it. He takes a slug if he has a bad taste in his mouth, or if he's had peanut butter, or if the pantry door is open and he notices it.)
I pouted the Mighty Termito would be gone soon and that this brief intermission should not interfere with the Bob Fosse Big Stage Production, but Gary insisted we pay the Man, clean up to some degree, and go get some Starbucks. Happily, he didn't wear underwear to the Starbucks so that I would know he still meant business.
We got back, locked the dog out of the room, and went On With the Show for TEN WHOLE FREAKING MINUTES before the phone rang. We listened for the Talking Caller Id to say who it was, but instead it read the number, which means it's a number not in our database. I looked down at the phone because Gary could not see it from his vantage point (see, that was delicate) and he said he'd have to take this call.
"Hello?"
"HI Gary! This is Karen!" (His sister, who speaks loudly enough on her cell phone for me to hear both sides of the conversation.) "Where are you? We're standing in line to see Rupert from Survivor at that dentist's office. We thought you'd be here too."
I practiced some basic dance moves until Gary hustled her off the phone and asked me, "Rupert? Who?"
"I don't know. It's from that Survivor show she watches." Evidently this is Rupert:
...and what he is doing at a dentist's office outside Saint Louis I cannot imagine.
We valiantly struggled on until the dog Mac decided he needed to help us keep time by barking a crisp "Hey I'm OUT here" bark every 3 seconds, and eventually we gave up. The show closed in rehearsals. It did not open on Broadway to rave reviews for the choreography, though the dance work was kick-ass, if you catch my meaning.
There was hope for a revival this morning, but Gary checked his Blackberry. Sigh. I think there's a rule you should give up on sex if it isn't over after twenty-four hours.
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