Big and Thick

I can't believe the size of my husband’s, oh what's the word for it... his thing-a-majig. Whatever, I will think of the word for it later. It's so big and thick I can hardly get my hands around it. He said I could use it because I don’t have one, but that I have to be careful with it. Sometimes I can be a little clumsy.

I have been envious of his for years, and sometimes I really need one. When I am desperate and I am at a complete loss for words he lets me use his and a whole new, a whole new….oh, I can’t say what I’m trying to say. It just makes stuff good when he lets me look at it. I better go get it so I can finish this post……….

Mercifully, I am relieved of my anguish. All thanks to my beloved matrimonial cohort and his plethora of apparatus. His generosity is unprecedented among the modern homo-sapiens, especially those dwelling in an urban setting. Endless waves of gratitude egress from my corporeal frame and ratiocination. The tension has been abated!

With great fervor it is my counsel, that if either you or your paramour are sans the most recent lexicon, you obtain one post haste. You need not fret about having one of immense proportions until you become more familiar with its use.

Paying Penance

I am going to hell, directly to hell; do not pass go, hell. H.E. double hockey sticks, Dante’s Inferno, Lucifer’s living room, HELL! Unless I go to confession and get a pass. Oh, settle down, I was just kidding. Anywho, where was I? Oh yes, HELL! Ok, so I ‘m going to tell you what I did, but I have to type quietly as I don’t want Wayne to see this. If he pulled this crap I would flip a biscuit. I’d be so PO’d there would be weeks of endless questioning of his love and devotion for me, his feigned tolerance of my charming little quirks, or if he wished I were younger, smarter, smaller, taller, prettier or had real red hair.

Yesterday I was checking out at the grocery store. An ordinary day, other than the fact that I had actually managed to make it to the grocery store, but other wise an ordinary day with the ordinary sundries: Napkins; paper and sanitary, tissues; facial and toilet, soap; bar and pump, along with low fat everything, sugar free anything, skim milk , et al. As luck would have it, on this particular day I was not buying anything that makes you go, anything that helps you stop, or any liniments, ointments or lubricants.

Innocently unawares of my cougaresk charms, I inadvertently unloaded my cart in a seductive, some might even say, Mrs. Robinson manner. I conversed with the check out lady employing pleasant, sophisticated and witty prose. In a moment of optical fortitude I entered my pin and completed my purchase sans store bought reading glasses, as my super sleek, Dr. prescribed, sexy librarian reading glasses are still on order.

That’s when it happened. The automatic doors opened and a gust of ocean breeze swept in tussling most of my hair and all of his. The sun’s rays gleam on his golden bronze skin, while the fluorescent lights accentuated his aqua blue eyes. There he was, the bag boy, gently handling my eggs. Paper, plastic or me? “May I help you out with your groceries My Lady?” he mouthed in a husky tone that was beyond his 17 and ¾ years. (He may have said Ma’am, but really it’s practically the same thing, at least it had the same effect). See paragraph one…GOING TO HELL.

Not only did I giggle, I squealed a little, blushed and felt a twinge of nausea. I’ll have to buy something for that. In the nano second it took for the transgression to transpire I felt everything from giddy to remorse and shame. 17 ¾ is in no way equal to 50, handsome, smart, loving and my husband, no matter how tan you are. Can you imagine a mature, voluptuous, worldly woman, like I would like to be one day, effervescing like a sophomore cheerleader because one James Dean Jr. bag boy winked at her while bagging her melons? I should think not!!!

Quite shaken, I declined the offer and ran to my car. Well, it was more like a half hearted power walk, after all I was pushing a cart. I threw my bounty in the car and instantly called my girlfriend back home for advice. She has been married 15 years; she’ll know what to do. I told her of the offence to all that is good and moral. I relayed my shame to my comrade in age. I am not used to thinking other males are attractive; I am happily married to a handsome man who I love more than anything.

“Calm down” the old girl told me, “you’re married not dead.”

Well this seamed a rather mannish answer to me. Isn’t that the sort of rationale some chauvinist pig might use while shoving singles in a g-sting or ordering seconds at Hooters? My partner in would be cougerdom then proceeded to tell me of her lustful ogling of a certain Cleveland Indian’s baseball player.

“It’s not that I don’t love my husband or find him attractive,” she claimed, “it just an appreciation for beauty, I would never do anything about it”

Sounds like a slippery slope to me, I thought.

“He’s 24, athletic and fun to watch,” the old girl continued.

“But, there is one important difference,” I replied. “Your thinking a 24 year old is cute makes you a dirty old woman, my thinking a 17 ¾ year old is cute makes me a criminal!” Definitely going to hell!

So, I have instituted a self imposed sojourn in Purgatory. Until my soul is cleansed, I have banned myself from all grocery stores save Wal-Mart. I am absolutely certain there is no chance in hell of me seeing anyone even remotely attractive in a Wal-Mart.

Simmer Down Now

I just can't relax anymore. I was sitting on my back porch, eating breakfast, not due at work for 3 hours, marveling at my yard and the cardinals and woodpeckers and the other side of my brain kept interrupting with post-its about what I should be doing. Geeze! What is it about modern day life that has programed us into some sort of multi-tasking frenzy? I never take the time to relax and enjoy the good stuff. IE; my lemon tree and how big it is getting. I feel guilty if I am not doing at least two things at once. Wayne says that's why I never get anything done when I want to, yet he feels guilty if he doesn't keep up with his workaholic boss and the tons of hours that guy puts in.

Rant Alert:

I miss the good ole days when I didn't feel like everything was a race. When we didn't work our tails off to have so much stuff that we had to have monthly storage spaces.

Cliche Alert:

We used to take time to smell the roses, now we buy rose scented air fresheners with automatic fans to blow the scent around.

I am currently reading Tom Sawyer (and Dr Phil) and I am struck by the slow pace of the world Twain depicts. People worked a lot harder then, but they did not feel the need to fill every moment with work.

I haven’t read Tom Sawyer in 30 years or so and the book reminds me that I can’t remember anything being fast when I was a kid. It used to take a year from one birthday to another and it seemed like Christmas wouldn’t come till sometime after you were dead. I am also struck by how wonderful Twain’s voice was; I hope that I was influenced by his style. He illustrates the simple pleasures of life in the scene where Tom and one of his school boy chums have a game of Pong with a tick. They are amused forever by whacking the bug around with pins. I wish I could get back to that kind of calm. I don't know how I got to where I am bored watching TV, reading a book and eating at the same time? I have a weird need to always be doing something, and it seems I get less and less done.

There are so many things I want to do, but I want to enjoy doing them. I want to be able to really experience each thing and not just move from event to event, task to task, book to book, so that I can cross them off my list.

So, my new plan is to read one book at a time, do one task at a time, and live one event at a time. I want to rewire my brain back to when I subconsciously understood that not doing something is doing something. Take care and slow down.

Wendy

I'll 2nd that emotion

Recently I receive email number eleventy three hundred with a little laughing or smiling or whatever icon on it. It came from my gal pal at work. It was a personal message sent to about 47 of us, encouraging smiles to brighten up a dull work day. In an effort to encourage her to send me something funny versus a picture menu of emotions to pick from, I sent her an old time one liner. It went as follows:


From: lemontreechronicles@gmail.com
A priest, a rabbi and a minister walk into a bar. And the bartender says “what’s this; a joke?”


From: wendy'spal@work
I don’t get it!! I’m not laughing!


From: lemontreechronicles@gmail.com

Well, it is a play on words because a lot of off color jokes begin with the phrase….. A priest, a rabbi and a minister walk into a bar; or some variation of that. Generally it was followed by some offensive reference to one or more of the participant’s dogma. While this type of joke was generally more acceptable in the 50s and 60s, derogatory humor at the expense of others, especially others of a minority, began to lose favor in the 70s. Thereby leading to a benign version of the joke which is really a spoof of the farce and those who found this type of lampoonery humorous.

Does that help?

From: wendy'spal@work

Skip the Popcorn, this week you'll need peppers.

It’s time for Thursday’s non-new review and this week I am on top of the world, if not any women; and hopefully Wayne is just kidding when he says he would like to see that.

Woman on Top (2000)
Directed by: Fina Torres


In this story of love, motion sickness and the art of cooking, there is something for everyone. For the guys: Isabella, enchantingly portrayed by Penelope Cruz, is gorgeous, comical, and has a sexy Brazilian accent. You’ll be running out for chilies after watching her cook. For the girls: Murilo Benicio as Toninho is Isabella’s husband, for now. He is so SEXY and not necessarily the man you may think he is at first. His songs could woo the deaf, his looks could attract the blind and his sex appeal could make a guy change teams. Which bring us to Monica (Harold Perrineau, Jr) who is for everyone in between. Monica, Isabella’s best friend, is beautiful and handsome and quirky and loveable, so much so she gives Cliff the hiccups. Cliff (Mark Feuerstein) is for you Wonder Bread lovers, but is also adorably charming as the nice guy rival for Isabella’s love.

This movie is exquisitely filmed with bright colors, exotic locations and attractive people. It takes you from beaches in the northeast of Brazil to

Lombard Street in San Francisco. The music and song throughout the film give a feeling of love and happiness while the ritual sacrifices to the sea god Yemanja are foreboding. Dabbling with curses and sacrifices to sea gods can have some unforeseen and ultimately unwanted effects.

The story focus on Isabella and how her vertigo threatens her husband’s manhood putting their love, which is hotter than a habanera pepper, in jeopardy. Stifled from taking the lead in the traditional male role regarding inconsequential matters, Isabella’s husband acts out his need to be the man by committing a grave betrayal.

What I love about this movie is its subtleness; nothing is decided for you. Characters are flawed yet still beautiful and engaging; there is no obvious villain. There are very funny parts but there is no rim shot slap stick. And everything is at an easy languid pace, but don’t mistake that for dull. Despite, or more likely because of, the lack of American block buster punch or Indi film righteousness, you’ll be smitten with this film.

And so up and down the streets of San Francisco, Isabella finds everything she thinks she ever wanted and then finds everything she ever wanted. This smoldering love story surrounded by the love of good food makes Nine 1/2 Weeks look like cheap soft porn (which it kinda was anyway). This weekend rent Woman on Top, but don’t rent it alone.

Fake Fake Fake

Turkey chili just doesn’t cut the mustard. I am sorry, I am trying to be healthy, but I just can’t do the turkey chili thing. For that matter; turkey burgers, turkey bologna, turkey hot dogs or turkey turkey except on Thanksgiving. I mean really, what’s next, turkey chicken McNuggets?

Everything is fake these days and the country is fatter than ever, so why bother? Fake butter is bad for your heart, fake sugar can give you intestinal unrest, and fake boobs can hamper your intelligence. A little off subject, but none the less true.

I know there is no startling revelation here; I just had to get it off my chest. My feelings about turkey that is. It seems like the more fake stuff I eat, the more I don’t trim down. Wayne says it’s all about exercise and burning more calories than you take in. So, I bought a stair stepper. Not a real one! This one sits on the floor in front of the couch so you can do it while watching the cooking channel. Fake exercise.

You may be thinking: “All things in moderation”. Obviously you have never tried to eat just a half a cup of Ben and Jerry’s. Or a half of cup of frozen yogurt… fake ice-cream. I have been trying to fake moderation but I keep ending up with nothing.

Oh well, this wasn’t a real post anyway!

Rachel Lucas wrote recently about her ideas of what being a real man is and how women should be held to the same standards. Here is a small piece, but please real her whole entry to really get the feel for what she thinks on this matter. We Need a Real Woman Manifest.

So there’s really not a lot of mystery about what everyone agrees a “real” man is. We all know “real” men are:
Mentally, emotionally, and intellectually strong, even if not physically (crippled and elderly men can still be “real” men). Hardworking, honorable, honest, dutiful, protective of family and country. Brave, courageous, rational, reasonable, kindhearted, and respectful. Knowledgeable about how to survive in rough times and how to solve problems. And so on.
What I started wanting to know when I was about 16 was just how in the hell any of those things were (or should be) exclusive to men. I realized even then that in fact, they are not. All adults should have every one of those personality and character traits as a matter of course.
So then I started wondering why anyone bothered with the phrase “real man” at all. Don’t they just mean “real adult”? As a young girl, shouldn’t I strive to be exactly the kind of person I kept hearing a “real man” would be? I thought so, and I still do. Maybe that’s why you never hear me whining about how my butt looks in these jeans or crying that no one pays enough attention to me. Who gives a crap? I don’t need any reassurances about silly shit because apparently, I am a “real man”, secure in my own “manliness”. Even though I’m a woman

Rachel’s post prompted me to write a little of what I think on the subject.

I have always been proud of my big boned, size 10 feet, sturdy stature. I have felt superior to little whiney cows that have to ask for help to carry milk in from the car. If I want to move the refrigerator to sweep behind it, I move the refrigerator. And, I have always felt superior to nauseating catty bitches that treat men and other women like shit. They think they have the golden p---y and give us real women a bad name. I think women should behave within the real man/woman code but not confuse that with acting like some of the worst traits of some men. I think girls mistake being a real woman with acting like what they think real men do.

Case in point: The rise of the male stripper shows for women. Pardon me this is gross! Why do I want to give some oily ego maniac $1 to feel me up after he has made his way around the room feeling up a gaggle of nasty women who think that this behavior makes them progressive and liberated. I don’t believe it is in the basic female make-up to randomly bed the fantasy type male, so why pay money to have some man with less body hair than me, pretend he would.

2nd case in point: I think girls mistake being promiscuous with being equal to men. Again I think men are programmed different; to spread their seed to all. Women aren’t. So why is different not equal? Why do some women think that acting like a man is what it takes to be equal to a man? We are supposed to be different, that doesn’t make one better than the other, it makes things work.

3rd case point: Girls brawling, WTF? Do they think this makes them more of a woman? In fact it makes them more in common with the lowest dominator of men.

4th case in point: Making out with other girls just to impress boys, (if it’s because you like it, get a room, who cares) and flashing and no underwear. Do you really expect to be taken seriously if the only way you can get or hold someone’s attention is to flash the beave?

So, I do think women should have a real woman code that is like the real man code, but don’t mistake it for thinking you have to act like a man, especially those men who aren’t following the code.

Wendy