P0rn vs Spicy Books

 Language warning.

I've seen the odd post about some old fogey or two somewhere wanting to ban spicy books because they're thought of as porn, because porn is bad (and we all know without a shadow of a doubt that those old fogeys have never watched porn in their entire lives), and how dare women get in the mood without their husbands.

This got me thinking, just what is the difference between Porn and Spicy Books? 

Porn:

Dude: whoa, hey, I, uh, have a pizza? For this address?

Hot Woman: Oh, hey, yeah, why don't you come on in?

Dude Comes. On. In. 

Obligatory hot sex scene on a counter.

Obligatory anal sex scene.

Obligatory two girls one guy sex scene.

Optional boob sex scene.

Obligatory sex on a bed, but not in a position that looks remotely comfortable.

Obligatory blow job scene.

Obligatory someone else is watching the sex scene.

Not necessarily in that order. No story line. Just some random reasons to have sex. If you're lucky, you'll come across a sex scene where both participants look like they're having fun.

And if you're really lucky, the sex will be graphic. If you're stuck in a remote camp with limited satellite porn options, you might have to watch some guy get a blow job while he holds his unbuttoned shirt out so that you can't see the cock in the mouth.

If I wanted to use my imagination, I'd read a spicy book.

Spicy Book:

Meet-cute chapter.

Flirty chapter-character 1's POV.

Flirty chapter-C2's POV.

Flirty let's go for dinner/coffee/camping chapter.

Oh my god he's so cute chapter.

Make out session chapter. Sometimes it's a sex chapter.

Oh my god why is someone that hot into me chapter.

Self doubt chapter #2.

Do stuff together chapter.

Ohmygod she's so hot chapter.

Sex chapter.

Lack of communication chapter.

Almost break up chapter.

Almost sex chapter.

Miscommunication chapter. Or someone gets kidnapped. Or almost dies. Whatever it takes to bring about a big climax. Of the story.

Somebody saves the day / finally says whatever the fuck needed to be said in the Lack of Communication chapter.

Sex chapter.

Super sex chapter.

Stupid epilogue.

Of course, depending on the habanero pepper rating, you could have sex scenes sooner and more often, with more people (at the same time), with tails and/or tentacles, with ropes and whips, and with really creative positions.

What you definitely have is a story.

What's so wrong with spicy books?

Let's say that the porn is hot. Awesome. Chances are that unless dude's wife is watching with him, he's done at the end of the movie. Or the first scene. She misses out. Maybe. Maybe she dodges a mediocre bullet.

Spicy books, on the other hand, can be foreplay. They can rev you up and get your imagination going, and once that imagination is going, keep you hot until your partner is available.

Case in point: 

My husband likes some of the books that I read more than others. 

He has no idea what I'm reading. Just that I am good to go. 

Intentions for 2015

Jennifer Crusie is right. New Year's Resolutions just put pressure on you to actually have will power, energy, and the ability to complete tasks.

Who actually has that?

Intentions are so much better.

I intend to write more. 

Check. It only took ten days to complete this post. Actually, at the time of writing this very sentence, I cannot guarantee that I will actually complete this post.

I intend to have more sex with my husband.

Or with myself. Or with my BOB. Either way. Orgasms every day, please.

I intend to keep my house tidier.

Ha!

I have a 2 and 4 year old boy! I hope you didn't fall for that one!

I intend to enjoy every moment with my children and my husband.

Even when they're being whiny, throwing temper tantrums, and running their syrup-covered hands down the hall walls on the way to the bathroom.

My husband is in no way included in the sentence directly above this one.

I will lose some weight. And/or get into better shape.

I'd be happy with five pounds for the year, at this point, because let's face it: I gained weight in 2014.

I intend to paint the inside of my house this year.

Which leads me to:

I intend to get my house organized and de-cluttered.

Please see the third intention, above.

I intend to go camping with my family more.

And, not the kind of camping where you drag a house behind your truck, park it next to a million other trailers beside a major highway. The kind of camping where there's one other family camping on the other side of the lake, and you may hear a logging truck go by once in awhile. Oh, and you're sleeping in a tent, and if you're lucky, the floor to the outhouse won't be completely rotten, just a little rotten.

I intend to not let my mom's micro-management bother me.

Starting now.

Or maybe tomorrow.

I intend to laugh more, especially with my children and my husband.

This seems more reasonable than the fourth intention, above.

I intend to not let my whiny little bitch out. 

I'd like to add ever on to the end of that, but I may have to give her one PMS day per month. But only one. Because, a week or two is probably driving everyone around me a little bit crazy. I know it's driving me crazy. And then I just feel guilty, so I cry more, etc. etc. Bitch.

Okay, she gets one day per month for the first six months (starting in February. Ahem.), then that's it. The skank is getting cut out of the family.

I think that these are all doable. And, I should be able to stay sane during the process.

BMBR: Touch and Go by Lisa Gardner

Started buying her books a few years ago. Have thought about moving her to Kindle but bought this one at Costco when I saw it. My dad likes mysteries so easier to share this way.

Almost done. So fucking close. I brought it to work do that I could sneak a page in here and there. Left it in the car. Fuck.

I think that I know who did it, and it's killing me not knowing for sure.

Bottom line: One of her best. Definitely good enough to buy ebook if that's cheaper, but good enough for the real book version, too!

The Kazoo Catastrophe

Wow, I kinda dropped off the face of the Earth there for a bit, didn't I? Well I think I'm back. I want to be back. I'd love to be back every day, but that might make things a little crazy. Well, that might make me a little crazy. As it is, I finished the dishes and I thought, Self, you can reconcile your bank account like a good little girl, or you can write a blog post. I'm over a month behind in my bank rec. That's not going to be any different tomorrow, now is it? Kind of like sticky floors. They can wait.

Ah, the patience of chores waiting to be done.

On to the Kazoo Catastrophe.

I picked the kids up from daycare on Friday, and I thought that since it was K2's Birthday Party this weekend, K1 might like to stop at the toy store and pick something out for his brother (and yay, K2 gets to wander around!). 

I laid down the law of a quick visit to a toy store, and K1 (who's 4) agreed with them. K2 of course agreed, but he's just 2, so you always take that with a bit of skepticism. 

Now, this isn't just any toy store. It's not the big-box giant that sells what everyone else sells. It's not the mega-aisles at Wal-Mart. It's a tiny storefront that's jam-packed with real toys like Thomas the Train sets (the wooden ones) and Play Mobil and Melissa & Doug and creative toys (and I'm sorry, I don't have girls so I didn't look in that spot too clearly--probably special dolls and oh! Horses. They had lots of horses) and perhaps best of all, real sets of Lego. Not the sets that must be built a certain way and can only be made in to one thing, but actual boxes of random pieces! Like when I was a kid. Which feels like fifty years ago, but I swear it's not.

So, of course my kids gravitate towards the Thomas table that's set up in the back, and they're playing and not really looking at other toys, and so I drag K1 off to find a bath toy for K2, which he does and it's so cool that I want to have a bath just so that I can play with it (seriously, it's that cool). 

So then I try to round up the kids towards the front. I tell K1 that he has five minutes to pick something out to spend his allowance on, and of course he's too busy playing with the cool baby toys, so I decide that I'll pick, and I spy some Kazoos. Inexpensive, and they sound like fun.

I pay for the gift and the Kazoos, I (literally) drag the kids out to the car after prying toys that we haven't paid for out of their hands, ask K1 politely to get in to the car please, pick up K2 and realize that he's shit his diaper, ask K1 a little more firmly to please get in the car and for the love of all that makes Mommy happy please stop crying I said we had to go. I get K2 in to the back of the car, give K1 a lot of heck for not getting in to the car in a parking lot, hello, get him in the car, change K2's diaper without any wet cloths, yay, in the dark, double yay. Get him in his car seat, get K1 buckled in, and finally oh my goodness, Mommy where is our KAZOO?!

I pull out the kazoos, show the kids how they work (you have to hum to get noise, not just blow air through them), and get in the car. 

Hell. I'm in fucking Hell. But it's kind of a funny Hell, if you have a sense of humour.

I start driving. 

K1: I didn't WANT a Kazoo!

K2: Phhh. Phhhh. Mommy! Phhhh.

Me: Well, next time I say pick a toy, please pick a toy.

K1: But I don't want a Kazoo.. Whaaaawahaaawaaaa. Taaaake it baaaack.

K2: WhaaaaAAAAAaaaaazzzzz. KZzzzzzz. Phhh. Mommy!

Me: We can't take it back. You had your mouth on it.

K1: We can [hic] wash [hic] it!

Me: No. If you really don't want it, give it to me and you can get something else next time.

K2: Phhhh Zzzzzzz Phhhhh.

K1: NOOO! 

Me: Put it in my hand please.

K1: Noozzzzzz (crying in to the Kazoo).

Me: Hey, that sounds pretty good. 

The next twenty minutes are spent listening to K1 cry with and without the kazoo (with is much nicer on the ears) because he hates the kazoo but he doesn't want to give it back and he keeps trying to make music with it, and listening to K2 cry because he can't quite make it work, and every time K1 cries, K2 has to, and I'm pretty sure that by the time we hit the driveway they were both crying on purpose through the kazoo. Wackos. 

Moral of the story: Don't take your kids to a toy store for fifteen minutes on a Friday night when they're tired and hungry and you don't have the proper means to clean up poop, remove the poopy diaper from your car as soon as you get home or you'll hate your forgetfulness come the next morning, and if they tend to be whiny and cry-y on a drive home, get them a kazoo. Crying sounds much better.

Don't Shame Me in to Sharing

This lovely little cartoon was on Facebook.

If the caption above the cartoon had not said "Share if you are against bullying" above the strip, I definitely would have shared.

If the only caption that the cartoon had was "Share if you are against bullying," I might have shared.But since the second caption (the one below the cartoon) said, "I bet 99% won't," I'm not sharing.

Why?

Because I feel bullied (and like I'm being shamed).

This applies to ALL of those lovely cartoons/pictures/eCards that beautifully encourage you to espouse the indicated cause.

By all means, share and post pictures and cards and whatnot for the things that you believe in and hold dear to your hearts.

But please don't make me feel like you're going to think that I'm an asshole if I don't. How about you just share the card without the guilt trip?

I bet you more people would share.

AND, you'd know who shared because they WANTED to -- not because they thought that you'd think less of them for not sharing, and not because they don't have the guts to say, "Fuck off, you bully!"

Has it Really Been that Long??? Random Thoughts for June 4th 2014. BMBR: Smut

Really? May 8th was my last post? Seriously? WTF happened?

I knew I've been busy, but I didn't think I've been that busy.

(Looks down at her legs.)

Actually, that's a lot of hair... Maybe I have been that busy, because judging from the amount of hair that's on my legs, I have been super busy. To busy to shave, anyway. I have an amount of leg hair that's acceptable on tree planters, hippies from the Kootenays, and European Women. I was never a tree planter, I was too yuppy to be a hippy when I lived in the Kootenays (but I was too hippy for the yuppies, so guess how well I fit in there), and I was born in Canada to Canadian-born parents, so I can't really ride the European-Excuse wave.

And, it's been hot out lately, and I want to start wearing skirts to work, but let's face it, even Sasquatches would hand me a razor.

Okay, really, I don't care about hairy legs, and I think all women should feel comfortable enough with having hairy legs. Hair-free legs take less sunscreen, though.

I have been reading a lot. Of smut. Don't tell anyone. About the smut part.

Sure, you say. Too busy to shave your legs, but you can read smut. Uh huh. 

Okay, I have two kids who love to watch TreehouseTV, a husband who loves to watch hockey (It's fucking June. Playoffs should be over in March. I mean, it's hockey. If the ice has melted off of the ponds in the middle of Canada, hockey should be over. Or over by the end of March. I can give you til the end of March. But June? Come on), and two broken feet. Or something. I find out about the feet tomorrow.

So yay, I get to sit down on the couch for large portions of the day (or dose myself on great quantities of ibuprofen) so that I don't end up in excruciating pain, which means that the kids or the hubby hang with me, which means that they've picked the TV shows (otherwise it's Mommy do this and Mommy do that and all of that this-ing and that-ing equals Mommy being on her feet which doesn't really help the broken feet issue), which means that I surreptitiously hold my phone off to the side and read my Kindle.

And lately, I've been reading a lot of smut. My husband's not complaining.

BMBR: I've been reading Shana Galen and Mimi Jean Pamfiloff. Worth the ebook prices.

Read a Joanna Wylde novella called Be Careful What You Wish For, thank god, because it was okay, but I'm really glad I read that before committing myself to the expensive Reaper books that are waiting in Sample Land for me. I was excited for these books, but now, not so much. Maybe the writing got better by the time she wrote them. Sigh. Maybe I'll take one out of Sample Land. In the meantime, check out the cover of BCWYWF. You can judge this book by it's cover. I will allow it. I wish I had.

Did you know that Twizzlers come in rainbows? They make wonderful little caterpillar legs.

I made a caterpillar out of cupcakes for a birthday cake. So cute.

Huh. I've been sitting here for five minutes trying to think of another random thought, but I've actually been zoned out, so I guess my next random thought should be about bed. Or maybe checking out FB and seeing what the 18 messages/notifications are all about.

I bet at least ten of them are invitations to play FB games.

I'd rather shave my legs, thanks.

Crutches Days 1-3

I have a fractured bone in the bottom of my foot that requires that I be on crutches for six weeks. I have kids, and I therefore occasionally walk on said foot, so I'm looking at longer than six weeks. Fuck.

I felt for kids on crutches in school, but I did not feel enough. Here's why:

Day One: (Monday) It's not so bad. I'm getting a good upper-body workout! And, crutching around is great cardio! Awesome! Not so awesome? Other people have to carry my soup/hot beverages for me. I wonder if my boss would hire me a personal assistant just for that? Probably not.

Day One: (Monday Night) I went to class. After sitting, not crutching, for a couple hours, my hands doth protest the pressure of the hand-hold on the crutches. And by doth protest I mean Holy Fuck Lady Don't Touch!

Day Two: I can't brush my teeth, not unless I lay my head down to bring it level with the supportive counter. Shooting pain up my arms for the first few strides this morning. It felt like my hands were on fire. And, apparently, I too have muscles on the fronts of my shoulders and arms. You know the ones: usually you only see them on the fronts of romance novels--the ones with pictures of really buff guys with well-defined muscles, including the small ones on the fronts of your shoulders and arms. I'm not buff, but I have the same muscles. And they really really hurt.

Day Three: I can't reach the ignition in my car. It's too far away. And the key is too heavy to lift. I also have muscles on the tops of my shoulders, but I think that they quit working at about 3pm.

More tomorrow. Can't type anymore.

Random Thoughts for January 09, 2014

I made an iced-vanilla-maple-mocha with some leftover coffee this morning, and as I sipped it at work I thought to myself, I'd love to say that this is delicious, but I can only say that it's good. Then when I was walking to the bank for work, I met up with a bunch of high school kids on the sidewalk, and I wanted to say, "Hey, share the sidewalk," because nobody went single file, but I thought that that might make me out to be one of those people, so I just forged on. At least I didn't step off the sidewalk. Or walk into the lamppost. There was enough room for everyone after all.

I'm not sure how I'm still vertical. Well. Semi-vertical. I'd love to drink a shot of Schnapps from one of my really pretty, long-stemmed shot glasses, but then I'd be horizontal for sure, and then I'd feel like crap tomorrow, and I have to work tomorrow, so I'll just continue with water since I'm probably already dehydrated from all the caffeine that was in that not quite delicious iced-vanilla-maple-mocha that I had earlier.

Getting the kids to bed has been tough the last couple days. Well, one kid in particular. How tough, you ask? Samuel L. Jackson wants to read you a little story about it.

I'm not sure if it's my husband or my dog that's snoring. It's definitely not K1. He just got up again.

Looks like I'll have to read for a while to make sure that everyone is asleep. Oh. Darn.

Steps 2 and 1: Be Happy Now and Stop Believing Your Own Bullshit, Revisited

In past entries I`ve focused on body image when talking about not believing your own bullshit. I can now relate it to how clean, or not so clean, my house is.

A couple weekends ago my house was a disaster. The kind of disaster that arises from getting ready to go back to work after being off for a year. You know, where you focus on things like your back-to-work wardrobe and getting scheduling and daycare stuff sorted out, and finishing the oh-my-goodness-why-did-I-procrastinate list of things to get done before going back to work, which soon becomes the holy-fuck-I`ve-procrastinated-what-the-fuck-was-I-doing list of things to get done before going back to work.

Now, my house was only a two-week disaster, IE it was immaculate for Thanksgiving and this disaster was only two weeks after that. It was bad enough, apparently, to elicit nasty comments from my mother. You know, the kind where when my 3-year old says I`m sick today`` (he was a little tired, I think), your mom says ``That`s because the house was so dirty, so it`s a good thing we`re cleaning it up.`` That was just one comment of many.

The house was not that bad.

The next weekend, after I`ve gone back to work, I felt myself stressing out about the state of the house. It took a comment from my husband to make me realize that I was believing some serious bullshit. I was trying to hold myself up to a standard that would make any woman crack, even Martha Stewart. Well, Martha Stewart without staff.

My house really is respectably clean and tidy, just not so much by Fridays when everyone`s working full-time, and when some of us also work a second job, but that`s just a couple hours on the weekend to remedy.

My bullshit I had to stop believing? That I could be Superwoman and get It All done. And be Sane at the same time. As soon as I stopped beating myself up for not being able to hold up to an impossible standard, I was Happier.

Which brings me to this weekend. It`s my son`s First Birthday Party!

We had a few people come over, which of course means Clean-Up-Time. I'd spent all day Saturday baking, so enlisted hubby's help to tidy on Sunday. My mom, for whatever reason, was walking around with a big frowny face. When she left to run a quick errand, my husband asked, "What the fuck's wrong with your mom?"

I could only imagine that it was because we weren't 100% ready for the party two hours before the party. Well, she would have been 99% ready the day before.

Regardless, I remember thinking that I wished she could just be happy in the moment. It's her grandson's First Birthday!

I had a 30-minute period of time myself where I was stressing out, and it was making me the opposite of happy, so I had a little pep-talk with myself:

The house doesn't have to be perfect, who else would really know that the cake wasn't 100% frosted how I wanted it to be, and people are here to have fun, not watch me cry! And since they all have kids, none of us judges the other--this I know for sure.

I was super-happy after this!

Sometimes, the day is too important to focus on the bullshit that drags you down.

Lily Allen Said It, Not Me.

(Language Warning)

Lily Allen has a Baggy Pussy. Yep. That's what she says here. It's a music video, and I'm sure that she's trying to make a point, and it's a good point to make, but I'm still on the fence as to whether or not she made it.

No, the point is not that she has floppy lips. She's pointing out how hard it is for bitches to have to make music videos where they're pretty much just objectified sex symbols.

At least, I think that that's what she's trying to point out.

I watched the video, and it did make me focus a bit more on how ridiculous the pop music industry has become, but maybe that's because I don't actually give a shit about a lot of pop music. Sure, I like to listen to "dance," or "pop" music--but only the kind that you can actually dance to, and I don't watch the videos--I just want to tune out to a beat that for some reason helps me zone out. Bad thing to do while driving, by the way. Next thing you know, you're going 75 in a 50 zone (that's km/hr). Ahem.

Mostly though, I like rock and roll. I don't watch those videos, either.

Not much for flabby body parts in any music video, really.