Peace, Happiness, Two Virgins, and Seventy Sluts?

Had a scare yesterday where I didn’t completely read a letter I got from the VA. Thought they were cutting me out of the VA system, but actually, they were denying my emergency room claim from January. Y’know, where I did the faceplant on my kitchen floor?

Paying $170 for the damn E.R. visit is much better than having to switch all of my doctors, I have to say. Lesson learned…read EVERYTHING. Then panic.

Doctor visit this morning. My blood sugar readings are highest in the mornings, generally always above 200. So we’re moving back to an evening dose of long-acting insulin. Just a small dose, so I don’t feel all that panicked. Not too worried about crashing – my sugars are fairly under control. I haven’t had a low-sugar event in a couple of months or so.

I go back in a couple of weeks for another follow-up. New lab tests in a month, right after Shannon gets here.

The YOR exercising? Going well. I’m doing the 5-days-a-week thing. And though I haven’t yet found something that trips my trigger, I’m still sticking with it.  This week, the Zumba class starts, and even though I’m told it will kick my ass, I’m going to try it. I figure if I can get in on the ground floor, maybe I have a shot. Then again, if it kicks my ass the very first class?

There’s other stuff I haven’t yet tried, but am already convinced it’ll be too hard. A Pilates/Yoga class. Belly dancing. Hatha yoga. So far, most of my activity at the Y is treadmill (still). I tried a stationery bike thing yesterday, and that was cool. May go with that one some more. If it weren’t for my iPod, I’d be bored out of my skull. I’m still bored, but at least I have tunes. And sometimes Adam Carolla’s podcast.

Tomorrow, I go to see Ben Folds in concert. Woo hoo! Never seen him live before, and I can’t wait. Tickets were a reasonable $34. Now, if I could just cough up $70 or so to see Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers (with Joe Cocker as an opener!), that’d rock even more.

Poppy recently wrote about filling up the self-worth tank. Good post, great idea, but no surprise, considering the source.

Soooooo, here’s the challenge: Fill up someone else’s self worth tank. Let’s say nice things about how awesome each other is so that we feel like our existence on this planet is not a waste of space, time, and energy. If you’re strong enough to say nice things about yourself, then do that too.

I’m gonna start today with the hardest part…saying nice things about ME. That shit gives me the heebie jeebies, but bear with me. I’m not well-versed at this stuff.

I’m smart. I mentioned this briefly in my 100 Things list, but my I.Q. only rarely manifests in obvious ways. Just because I’m smart doesn’t mean I don’t make plenty of bonehead moves. Oh, right…NICE things. See? Told you I’m not so great at this.

On occasion, my brilliance does shine. Case in point:

When I was a little kid, around 9 or so, my parents were both working. I had a babysitter, of course, who was a teenager and more interested in boys and cranking Queen records than keeping up with my sister and I.

My father had this amazing smutty magazine collection, which I’d recently been perusing whenever I had the chance. There were a handful of neighborhood kids over at my house and I told them I had something to show them.

We go into my parents’ bedroom and close the door. I slide open the closet door and point to the shelf up top. STACKS and STACKS of mags, each complete with naked women in lots of odd positions with naked men.

Ages of the kids ranged from 14 down to around 6 or 7. Johnny, the teen, pulled down a couple of stacks for us to look through. We all got on my folks’ bed and started paging through the mags.

Oh my God. GROSS! She has his thing in her mouth!

Why would anyone want a thing in their mouth?

Look at this! His thing is in HER thing!

She looks like she’s in a LOT of pain!

Do you think that’s what ALL policemen do with women?

Our burgeoning education of naked things came to a sudden halt, however, when I heard my father’s car pull up in front of the house.

“Oh no! It’s my DAD!”

And five boys started freaking the fuck out, gathering all the dirty magazines in a heartbeat. Most of them ran from my parents’ bedroom, not heeding my pleas for help to restore the bedroom to its proper working order.

My life was flashing before my eyes. I stacked the mags, and shoved them back up onto the closet shelf.

It was then that God decided to have me killed.

The shelf came toppling down inside the closet. And approximately 847,000 porn mags crashed to the floor, spilling everywhere.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaah!

I was dead meat. My father would be coming in at any moment. All my friends had run out the back door, retreating to leave me to my execution.

Then…a flash of brilliance. Little Karl saw what had to be done.

I shoved all the magazines back inside the confines of the closet, grabbed Midnight (my black cat), tossed her inside the closet, and closed the door. And I ran from the bedroom, just in time to greet my father at the front entryway. I was damn proud of that maneuver, proof that I could think fast on my feet and avoid certain death.

I finally admitted to my father that Midnight wasn’t the culprit…y’know, around 20 years later. Naturally, he and my stepmother both laughed and acknowledged what a smart move I’d made.

Perhaps I’m just a porn-savant, I don’t know. But either way, I’m smart.

I even understand why it’s not such a bad experience to have my thing in her mouth. And that the reason why she looks like she’s in such pain when my thing is in HER thing is because I forgot to pack my lubed shoehorn.

Photo: http://www.flickr.com/photos/36498826@N02/ / CC BY-NC 2.0

Filed under Diabetes, Exercise, Sex, YOR | Comments (16)

My Shirt Is Not Offensive, Right?

Summer of Love.  Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?  Yes, yes it does.  I’m Karl’s last guest poster for his summer lovin’ thing and I’d like to think he saved the best for last.  However, that $100 bill he asked me for to save this spot, is sort of a dead give away that it may not be the case at all.  Jerk.  Love ya, though.

Let me properly introduce myself since I’m all about the proper and stuff.  I’m Sassy Smith, and surprisingly (or not) that is not my real name.  Yes, a lot of people do call me Sassy and I, of course, will answer to it (I’ll answer to almost anything except Edna.  That’s just not a pretty name.  No offense to anyone actually named Edna) and it matches my personality.  Serious and conservative *cough*.  If you follow me on Twitter (and if you don’t, what the hell are you waiting for?  This could be YOUR lucky day), you’ll see just how proper, conservative and serious I truly am. Flirt with a big F.  Anyway, when I joined teh internetz back in 2002, I was told by my paranoid mother to never use your real name online, because?  there are weirdos out there.  Which, yes, true, but Karl is totally harmless.

Let me tell you a little story.  No, it won’t be about that time in the hotel room playing naked poker with one of my best girlfriends (Karl asked me to send the draft to him first, you know, so he could check it out and point out my spelling errors), and maybe I’ll be asked to never come back and guest post again, and I’ll enthrall you with that little bit of porn gem or not.

This is about shirts.  Offensive shirts.  Allegedly offensive.  Are they really offensive?  I mean, what if you don’t know the whole story behind the shirt?  Right?  Remember Karl’s Blogher tees?  A handful of people didn’t like them (bitch please, you had better send me that pink one!  You hear me Karl?!).  I’ve experienced similar discrimination.  And from men, too!  Usually I don’t offend men, but this one dude walked up to me and said my shirt was disgusting and that I was a dirty girl (so disgusting in fact, he licked his lips as he said it).  And he did give me his home number, his cell number, his pager number, his email address and keys to his apartment.  Maybe when he said disgusting and dirty girl, he meant something else?  Whatevs.

So, tell me what you think?  I mean, these shirts are cute, right?  And they are super high-quality.  Had them specially made as you can totally tell hand printed with grape-scented kid markers.  Nothin’ but the best for my chest.

“My pussy is awesome!”

 

Sure, I can sort of see how it might be offensive, but seriously, my pussy is awesome.  It’s just that I can’t take her every place I go.  She sheds.

See?  She’s adorable, right?!  Told you!  My pussy is totally awesome.  So, to that dude who said I was dirty and disgusting, I’m totally returning your apartment keys after I sleep with you just once.  I mean you were totally hot.

“I have a dirty box.”

Seriously, it’s not been cleaned, in like, days.  I get how some might react badly to that shirt caption – it’s not like I take my dirty box with me wherever I go, so people understand what I mean.  So they can see my dirty box.  It’s dirty.  Like, for real, who wants to cart around a dirty box?  Not me!

See?  Dirty box.  To the lady at the grocery store, you know what?  Fuck you.  I didn’t judge you on your poor fashion choice of leggings, crop top and $3 bargin-bin flip-flops.  I applaud you on your courage to show the world your back fat and ugly feet.  You could have shown me the same courtesy instead of huffing away in a jiggly mass after reading my shirt.  Don’t judge my fucking dirty box or my dirty box shirt.

“I heart big breasts.”

 

Who doesn’t love big ones?  Big, juicy breasts.  Smeared with sauce.  Yum.

I mean look at those big breasts!  When they thaw and get tossed on the BBQ and smeared with sauce…yum, gonna be so juicy.  See?  How is that offensive?  Sheesh.

Hey, grandma at the doctor’s office, loosen up, will ya?  There was no need to point your cane at me and cluck your tongue in disgust.  I’m sure back in the day you liked big juicy breasts but were afraid to admit it.  You’re 92.  Time to live a little.  Nothing wrong with BIG, JUICY BREASTS.  I think the crowd agrees with me, right?  Stand up and cheer!

“My milk jugs R full.”

 

Love me some full milk jugs.  All filled up.  Best way to enjoy milk jugs.  Full.  I like the milk in bags, too.  Fun bags, I call them.  Milky fun bags.  Ooh.

Look at those jugs.  Full.  Milky.  Dreamy.

Sure, it may not have been THE best shirt to wear to church, but my friend didn’t give me much time to prepare.  She was all, let’s go to church and confess and shit and I just grabbed the closest thing to me.  The nuns, I’m pretty sure, were not pleased with my tank top, but the priest?  I think he sort of dug me.  I asked him after the service if he like full milk jugs and he nodded his agreement.  He was kind of tongue-tied.  Not sure why?  Hi, is that your robe or are you just glad to see me?  The nuns didn’t like my joking nature.  I’m probably going to hell anyway, so no big.

I like my shirts.  I think they’re cute (and remember, super high quality).  But…

…after much consideration, I think I might give up the shirts.  And not just my specially hand-crafted tees, but all shirts.  I mean people are so damn judgy.  Say the hell with shirts!  Take them off!  Be free of the shirts and the judgment!

So…

…hopefully, my bikini top doesn’t offend you.  Because?  Next step would be to go around topless and I know that shit would really offend people.

Don’t judge me.  Or my shirts.  Or me taking off my shirt.  Let’s all love one another like in a big orgy. I mean, group hug.  Yeah, group hug.

Karl, thank you so much for letting me guest post.  You’re calling security, right?  Now, give me back my hundred bucks.

Filed under Bloggity Blog, Guest Post, Humor, Photos, Rants, Sex | Comments (30)

I was going to write one post but instead you get this one

Hi! So, I’ve been asked and am honored to be a guest poster here in the summer of LOOOOOOVVE.

Is this the part where we all make out now? I shaved my legs just in case.

I had planned on writing a rap about legalizing Marajana Marijana Marjhiana Marijuana but I couldn’t spell it. So I was all “fuck that shit, they probably have their own raps about legalizing Marijuana” so I decided to write about my virgin sex toy experience. Or, future experience.

I don’t know if you know mah 704 beeshes? Maybe you saw us at BlogHer?

That should ring a bell.

We have this website where we are sponsored by Eden Fantasies. Which, you know, is great and all. Except that the actual WORDS “sex toys” makes me blush. I KNOW. Right? I cuss like a fucking trucker but I can’t say Vibrator without turning ten shades of red.

My own grandmother told me once, “You’ve GOT to have a Penis cake at a bachelorette party, Leslie. It’s imperative.” My sweet little 75 year old Grandmother could tell me to get a Penis Cake and I just about had my neck swallow up my head whole.

I’ve been, um, encouraged to just give it a bit of a try. I mean, if a cute little Mormon girl can, why can’t an agnostic trucker-mouth me?

There is no answer to this. Well, maybe there is but it a long, boring background involving being raised by people who think Priests are the moral compass of the world. Cough.

So, lemme as this audience here of dynamic and fun individuals: What would you try first if it was your first… “time”? ‘Cause I’m just about to start clicking things blindly and pick one like the old, “Where to travel to” on a globe. Which just might get me to somewhere like Dubai. Or something lame.

(This post brought to you by Mrs. Flinger and her jacked up multiple personality part-whore-part-OCD-part-shy-part-alcoholic self.)

Filed under Guest Post, Sex | Comments (12)