Pink Petals of Lady Love

I had a bad night last night. Horrible night. I haven't had this bad of a night since I was nineteen, drunk as a young little redneck, and out in a bar, dancing on some speakers hoping to impress that brown eyed boy across the dance floor.

I impressed him alright. It was hard not to be impressed when I drunkenly tumbled off the top of the ten feet tall speakers, landed on my head with my skirt around my ears and my flowered granny panties waving hello to all the boys and girls who had gathered around to see if I broke my neck.

I didn't. But when I stood up I managed to toss my cookies all over my brown eyed boy's sandaled feet.

It was a bad night. And so was last night.

Not that I was dancing on any speaker for any boy, or yakking publicly on anyone's toes. But still it was fairly horrible. So bad that the very first thing I did when I woke up was call my darling Boo to tell him about it and have him chase away the ghosts of the night before.

I had a bad dream. A very bad dream. A scary bad dream. No, it didn't involve my children, any angels or demons or even any natural disasters or unstoppable falls from great heights.

This dream was worse. In it, my best friend and I were at a gym, working out side by side (I know...scary stuff!) when she looks over at me and proclaims she overheard all the boys in the locker room talking and laughing about me behind my back.

She felt it was her duty as my loved one to let me in on why I was the community's biggest joke. I was horrified. I worried that I was a social misfit, doomed to live the remainder of my days alone after the public came knocking with a lynch mob in tow, took my children from me and Boo left me for a more serene, docile woman.

Begging my friend to tell me, I all but cried with fear for what I was about to hear from her.

"They all know your secret T. You can't keep it hidden anymore. It's for the world to know. Why didn't you tell me? I'm supposed to be your best friend. I would love you no matter what." She looked at me accusingly, her body language the polar opposite of the cajoling words she whispered.

"I'm sorry," I stammered, desperately wondering which secret was outted. Did they know I snore? That I stole a lipstick when I was ten from my cousin's purse? Or did they find out that I secretly lust after Mark Wahlberg, stemming from the days of New Kids On The Block? "I didn't mean to keep any secrets from you, I was just embarrassed..." I stammered.

"Well your secret is out. The whole world knows you have the world's ugliest vagina and there is nothing you can do about it. You shouldn't feel ashamed. Not every one's whoo-ha is a pretty flower like my own." She eyed my vagina accusingly, wondering if it's ugliness would spread to her own cute lady parts.

The rest of the dream was me worrying about my pink bits and if they were indeed, the ugliest pink bits to roam planet Earth.

"Well, Boo. You've seen a few, tell me the truth? Is it that ugly? Is it horrible? What's wrong with my lady parts? Don't you like my lady sheath?" The worst part of this is, I feared his answer. I was NO LONGER dreaming. Wide-freaking-awake.

"You do realize I just came off of a fourteen hour night shift, supervising a bunch of hillbillies and making sure they didn't just get the job done, but they didn't maim or kill themselves?" Odd, he sounded a bit incredulous as he spoke this.

"Well, ya, but the dream was really scary. It was so real."



"You understand I haven't slept in 24 hours, eaten in 18, showered in 16 and got laid in almost three weeks..." There it was again...that incredulous tone in his voice. How odd.

"Yes Boo, I get it. Just tell me the truth. Is my cooter pretty?"

Dead silence.

My blood pressure rose as I awaited his response. I mean, I did give birth to three watermelon sized children for him, in a relatively short period of time. How pretty could it be?

"Honey, yours is the prettiest cooter I ever saw. Why do you think I married you? It certainly wasn't for your domestic skills. Why, your vagina rivals the most beautiful rose..."

Funny. That incredulous tone of his was gone. It was replaced by slight sarcasm and a hint of disdain.

"Very funny. Sorry I asked. I'm just having a little trouble waking up is all."

"Why don't you come on up here and I can show you in person just how purdee I think your vajayjay really is?"

"Have a good sleep Boo. I'm going to eat some breakfast now. Love you." (Asshat.)

"Wait...just think of all the fun me and the lady bits could have..."

Click. Odd, I couldn't stop myself from hanging up....

I confess though. Before I made breakfast for the kids and sat down to blog this, I did go into the bathroom and debate with myself if I should check out my girly parts with a mirror. (I'm not that bendy to do it without assistance.)

As I was reaching for the mirror, I stopped myself. After all, if I looked, wasn't I giving the dream credence? What if my whoo-ha really is the ugliest twat in the world? Isn't it just better to live a life of ignorant bliss?

I thought so. The mystery of the world's ugliest cooter will have to remain unsolved until the next time I go to bed after eating pickles and cheese and drinking cheap red wine.

But I'm so booking a waxing appointment this week, just in case.

A Woman's Need

My husband has been gone for three weeks now. Three long weeks of me being alone, with out any other parental support to keep from hanging my children by their toes from the ceiling fan and turning it on high. Three weeks of having to take out the trash by myself or bitch at the kids to do it. Three weeks of watching my lawn slowly morph into a hay field because of my brilliant idea to ignore my better half's advice and buy a push mower.

I always was the brains in this operation. Pipe down out there. It's hard to think over your snickering.

More importantly, I have spent three weeks alone, in my bed, with only the dog to cuddle with. A dog who sheds, hogs my pillow, catches his claws in my nipple rings and has worse gas than a fat man after eating a smorgasboard of Mexican food.

That is a long time to go with out any, people. No hugs, no kisses, no cuddles, no nothing.

Remind me again why I got married?

Oh yeah. I was pregnant. Oh, and I love him. Right. The benefits of being married far outweigh life as a single mommy.

I miss sex dammit. Especially sex with my husband. It's just not the same when you are all alone and dreaming of George Clooney. I actually have to work to get the job done. When Boo's around, I can kinda just lie there and let him go to town.

Not that I do, or anything. That would be wrong. And selfish.

Snicker.

So to pass the time until the Big Boy returns home to fulfill his marital obligations, I have been on the hunt for any sort of romantic primer. I want to be able to surprise him with a treat when he finally does climb into bed with me again. That is, if I don't just rip off his clothes and jump on him when he walks in the door.

Not that I would behave like that. I am civilized. I do like to pride myself on having a little restraint you know. There may be kids around. (Unless they are outside stacking wood if I can time it right...hmmm.)

Don't judge me...

Imagine my delight when I stumbled across this website. It has tips for mommies and daddies! Sweet! I'm all for expanding my horizons, er, my carnal knowledge.

Won't Boo be thrilled. Now I can pass the time dreaming of my husband and our wanton ways instead of my lascivious desire for unattainable, aging Hollywood actors.

Well, maybe split my time dreaming of my husband and some of those sexy actors. A girl has to get her inspiration from somewhere...

So go ahead and check out this site. You never know who's behind the pseudonym. Or what you may learn.

(This is one of those posts where I just know my husband is burying his head in his pillow and wondering where he went wrong. May I remind him: A girl's got needs too. Right ladies??)

Wink, wink.

Ode to Boobs

I should have been born a boy. In fact, up until the moment of my screaming arrival, my parents and the doctor were convinced I was a boy. They had a lovely boy name picked out for me and everything. I wrecked their plans when I had a whoohoo instead of a willy.

But I wonder if all that male confusion somehow imprinted itself onto my personality while I was in utero. Not that I'm not feminine, and my darling Boo will attest to the fact that I not only have all the right female parts but I know how to use them, (wink, wink) but like boys, I am fascinated by one thing.

Actually, a pair of things. Boobs.

I love boobs. Tits, love sacks, fun bags, the girls, breasts. I'll take them all. I tease Boo if he were to grow a pair he'd be the perfect man. However, since he's not much of a cross-gendered transvestite, I have to make do like most of the male persuasion, and oogle.




I love a good pair.  So oogle I do. I try not to be obvious about it, but a good pair of melons captures my attention every time. I am not really interested in the nipple aspect of the boob, just the mammary itself. The shape, the size, the heavy weight of the objects in particular. I'm not really fussy; I appreciate a good pair, but let's be honest. The bigger the better.My best friend is convinced I love boobs because I forgot to stand in line up when God was handing out the goods. Always tardy, I apparently got in line at the end, when only the A-cups were available. It could have been worse. I could have got AA's.
  I was very conscious of my lack of development growing up. I thought I hit the boob jackpot when I finally got pregnant. But lucky me, my stomach protruded more every day while my boobs remained the same. Wasn't I just thrilled when they started to sag southwards after breast feeding. (You'd be surprised how far south those little puppies can drop.)

I now have grown to appreciate my little set. I've decorated them and learned how to make them seem bigger than they really are. I have invested heavily in water bras, pushup bras, underwires, chicken cutlets, foam inserts and even occasionally a roll of duct tape. (Best invention ever!)

I have made peace with my pair. My husband is fond of them. They worked when I asked them to and they haven't dropped to my ankles yet. So why is it, when I see a woman, attractive or not, I just itch to grab her boobs? Just to cop a quick feel. Are they soft, are they real? Do they really feel like the big cottony cushions they resemble?

Is this normal? Do I have some not-so-latent lesbian fascination? Am I alone in my love of the boob?

(Standing up from behind her computer screen and raising her hand) Hi, my name is T and I am enchanted by boobs. Especially your boobs. Please keep them well covered and out of arms reach (and I have freakishly long arms) so as not to entice my obsession.

Or come a little closer and undo that top button. Which ever floats your boat. I promise not to complain either way.