Deb's Rocky Adventure in the Making: Blogging Round the World

I've been inspired to take a big road trip! It's just in the framing period, but I feel the creative seeds taking root in the loamy fertile ground of the part of my mind that holds vaginal imagery. This type of planning is what will happen if Netflix tells you to watch Into the Wild the same week as you hang with a visiting cross-county blog tourist.

I know one thing I won't do on my roadtrip:

Good golly, I won't eat any damn leaves and berries unless they are sold in the proper little ziplock baggies just outside of a school yard. What the hell was that, Sean Penn? That whole story fell about into a crazy ball of snakes in the last ten minutes. So, my trip will not be filmed by Penn and I will not eat things right out of the ground because food that hasn't been through a factory is so risky and sick.

Here's what I will do:

1. I will tour in an Airstream which I will rename the Airmac in honor of my corporate sponsor who gave me a swank PowerBook Pro and other i things.
   
2. The Airmac will be tricked out inside with room for all kinds of nonsense, and it will have a trundle that pops out outside to make a little pup tent for my driver/cook No-Neck Nancy (NNN) to sleep in.
   
3. Stops will be scheduled in the U.S., Canada, on a freight liner, and in Copenhagen, Oslo and Rekyvik so I can sleep in the Ice Hotel, or in the Ice Hotel parking lot. Maybe Turkey too, because my blog stats say I have a reader from there once every 3 days.
4. I will have book tour stops along the way (note to self: push the book finishing thing up to the front burner, ask Vashti in Bangladesh if he has finished drafting Chapter 3: the Unflowering of a Teen Virgin; get NNN to draw cover art.)
5. I will send a tour rider to Borders asking them to always have ready at my readings:

6 bottles of water, Figi
1 pack clove cigarettes
2 packs of Stride, Spearmint
small handgun
Liter of Stoli, no damn flavors, it's vodka not gummi bears
1 deck of Uno cards
2 mani-pedicure specialists (right side, left side)
and menus for the nearest gay bar with the time of the Drag Show (indicate King or Queen) highlighted in yellow.


I'm also going to rent a green Tortoise bus in case anyone wants to groupie around with me. It'll be like Burning Man, but more like Blogging Stuff, and at the end we can set fire to the AirMac and dance with naked, toking underaged runaways like dirty little pervert hippies.

Good times up ahead!

Bossy brings all the bloggers to the yard, cause our blogs are better than yours

My weekend has already been divine because I was lucky-lucky-triple lucky to be a part of a Bossy Visitation. She is as smart-sexy-cool as her blog and she was here in her own sunny-curly-haired self as a stop on her Bossy's Excellent Road Trip!

I love me some internet crushes, because bloggers are so open with their brilliant minds and sassy writing and nothing is better than that. Bossy tops them all, because her blog kicks ass and her road trip is radical fine. Driving the entire country to meet blogging friends--it's never been done before. She is entirely charismatic and is beyond generous. And she's not a diva--I wanted her to boss me around with a whip, but she didn't, not at all.

She's hot, and she's game. Our little contingent included Saige, a gorgeous artist in many media, including digital, pastel and sushi; hottie Inga and her hot drummer girl Julie; blog stalker Blog Starr; and one of Bossy's cool readers Ruth. We got to see Bossy smack a striped ball into the corner pocket and smack a few Florida swamp mosquitoes.

Bossy now holds the secret to my identity, knows why I can't appear in photos, and swore to uphold the witness-protection-program honor if I will keep secret how she made out with three of us in the pool hall bathroom the details of the package she will receive down the road that will make it possible for her to complete her journey. My only disappointment is that I couldn't go with her. I would have been Robin to her Batbossy, Bossy Girl to her Bossy Woman. I tried to thumb a ride, begged, bribed, offered my body, and clutched at her blue jean pant legs, but she left me at the side of the road with only my dust-streaked tears to show she had been here. It could have been me and Bossy McGee, but Bossy is a desperado, out riding wi-fi hook-ups and blogger meet-ups alone for so long now. At least we had each other for a few hours on a spring Saturday night. That will have to do for now. . .

Fwed: Fwd: Fwd: Top Ten Reasons Butts are Like Diamonds

This e-mail was sent to you for someone who thought your BUTT is like a DIAMOND!!!! Read all the way to the end to find out how to get LUCK for your BUTT and DIAMONDS!!! You must read all the way to the end or your BUTT will sag and you will LOSE your DIAMONDS. Don't tempt fate, this has happened at least three times.
<> <> <> <> <> <> <>
Are you still reading? Good. You are protecting your butt. And your diamonds.

Top 10 Reasons Butts are Like Diamonds

1. They both break through glass.
   
2. They both come in round, angular and pear shapes.
   
3. They are both great items to celebrate important days with.
4. Even if yours is gorgeous, someone always has a better one to make you jealous.
   
5. Both are wonderful to receive but expensive to buy.
6. Both always benefit from a few more carrots.
7. Each one is absolutely unique--there are no identical matches to either.
8. Both look infinitely better when sparkling clean.
9. Colors vary.

AND---are you ready for number 10? Keep reading. Don't STOP NOW and risk bad luck for your BUTT/DIAMONDS. U*U

10. You can try to make man-made replacements of each, but they are never as good as the real thing.
<<<<<<<>>>>>>
<<<<<<<>>>>>>
@*@
To make sure your butt doesn't sag (more, ha-ha!) and that piles of diamonds head your way, send this to 10 friends. Make their day, tell them their butt is like a diamond, and share the luck of a non-saggy butt with them.

DO this within 5 minutes ABSOLUTELY, or you will experience an immediate, lasting lack of tone and a permanent dulling of any diamonds or opals in your possession. Please act NOW!

Remember, your butt is like a diamond, and that is a richness no one can take away!!! Send this to 10 friends and make their day. ;P

This is a public service message from www.debontherocks.com

Pastel is the new Black Beauty

Thanks for all of your commiseration at my mama freak-out during the "The Pink Jellybean Incident." It's just that drugs are so pastel these days, it's hard to know what's what. What's wrong with good old primary colors? White, yellow, red, black, even green and brown have served me just fine.

Even crack is playing in the pastels. At least for the holidays. Maybe seeing the story about St. Patty's Day green crack last week alerted me to the pastel problem. Look at those embarrassing pictures. Are those baggies of crack, or wasabi-to-go packets for a Bento box?

Lime green crack? Those irresponsible asses! Don't drug cutters know that coloring shit with dye is BAD for you? Causes ADD, ADHD, cancer, palsies, autism in your spawn and PMS. Just ask the mothers at any decent preschool. Or don't ask--show up with red and green sprinkled Christmas Debbie Cakes when it's your snack day and you'll hear all about it. Plus, one of the chief advantages cocaine has over ice is that it is natural, right? That's why it's more expensive, like Whole Foods is more costly than Safeway. Do you see Whole Foods putting green dye in their organic cheeses? They don't even want YELLOW in their damn cheeses!

So, if these are the suspects for the St. Crack Day Incident, who do you think went all Martha on the goods?

You might guess it was a lady, what with the fairer sex typically associated with decorating, but I don't think it's number 1--she doesn't even have her roots dyed, and the second woman doesn't look like she would want to delight her customers nor wait for the dye to dry before making her sales.

The boys on the bottom weren't anywhere around when the decision for Erin to Go Green Bra was made. They were drunk at the titty bar, waiting for the call to pick up and pack.

The artist in his green period had to be Bachelor #1 from the top row. Flowing long hair moving in the gentle breeze of the precinct booking room--that must be the hair of an artist, and the sharp eyes of a detail man. He's a true-blue dreamer connected to the zeitgeist; an artist willing to slow down the works so that crack users don't have to feel left out when the big machine-city dyes the river green(er) and the men-about-town duck their heads under green beer taps. He's all about art, symmetry, aligning the techno-now with cultural tradition, and justice for the underclass. Celebrations unite us, and art is the bridge between the worlds. For one day, everyone is Irish, and everything is Green!

Too bad he'll be seeing more orange than green for awhile.

Inner monologue upon finding an unfamiliar pink pill on the bathroom floor

Oh my god. What is this? OH MY GOD?!?!? Who is taking pills? I will not survive these high school years, I won't.

What is it, speed, painkiller, what? I've never taken anything that looks like that. What am I going to do? I need to sell this house and homeschool these kids in Idaho until they are 21.

Crap. I need to go to the pill I.D. website and describe this thing and find out what it is. Then I'm going to track down the dealer and go freaky bloody Kill Bill ninja MILF-on-fire lioness on his pathetic dealing skanky existence. Who would sell pills to kids?!?! I'm going to pluck out his eyeballs.

(I reach down to pick up the pill. It feels somewhat soft, like a soft gel pill. I bring it close to my face to see if it has any markings, and I can smell it. It smells like cotton candy.)

Pill identified: squashed mini jelly bean.

Oh my god, they are slobs but I love them, they are such good kids. I love my sweet sweet babies!!!

Swimsuit Shopping vs. DIY

Bossy is coming to visit soon, and so I've been trying to think about presents to give her and activities to do while she's here!

It is gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous here. Exploding rushes of pink azaleas and white dogwoods. I'm sure, since she's coming from up north where some slow people still like to live, she will be excited to feel the sun on her shoulders. Usually when Yankees come down here they want to jump in the ocean, even if it's not warm enough for natives yet. You'll see them splashing like Shamu ready to birth, even on New Years. Especially Brits, for some reason. Our sunny children will see them and then pull their hoodies tighter over their heads, colder just from seeing the dimply expanse of their stark white flesh.

Why are they swimming now, Mommy? they'll plead.
They are from another land, darling, and this is as warm as they've ever been. Mommies will sigh, knowing how fortunate our own little ones are.

So in case pretty Bossy wants to swim, I was going to buy her this C-string suit that I found via Insight of Nothingness a while back.

But then I thought better. That's too something for Bossy, an inner voice (of mine) said. It's probably not good to purchase intimate wear for a woman I only know from her blog! I decided instead that I should handmake it! Etsy style! Bossy's own made to order, one of a kind C-String. Because every woman wants one, even the ones who DON'T plan to pose for Joe Francis.

DIY Micro Bikini:

1. Day after Easter: At Target or Drugstore, purchase 75% off stuffed rabbit, duct tape, Sally home Bikini wax kit, and one plastic Goody headband. (Or, if you get lucky, buy one headband that has bunny ears on it, and this will be a cinch!

2. Put loops of duct tape on 1/4 of headband; set aside.

3. Use scissors or blade to remove one ear from rabbit. Remove stuffing and any wires.

4. Insert headband into rabbit ear. Press to affix.

5. Can use different animal ears (i.e. Beagle, Elephant, Cat) if prefer different coverage.

6. Apply wax according to package instructions.

I think Bossy will love a pink and white one! Hurry up, Bossy, I can't wait to meet you.

I saw her standing there by the Splenda and cream

Today I was sitting at a cafe killing an odd hour between appointments with a little chai, a little sunshine and a little pen and paper. A couple in their late 40s sat near me. They looked okay, a little country, both on the sandy/red-haired side, both in khakis--him in cowboy boots and her in bedazzled flip-flops. Nothing really remarkable, except that they were persistently looking at me. Nodding and gesturing to each other about me. I was certain, and it was very odd. If I looked toward them, he grinned and she looked down at the cookie she was destroying into a crumb pile.

(Do I know them somehow?) I couldn't place them.

They continued with the non-verbal communication with each other. Nods from him, head throws my way. If they were a foreign movie, his subtitle would read: go ahead, do it. Hers would say: no, I can't, stop.

I was growing annoyed. My moments alone are few and precious, and they were making me feel not alone. I scribbled harder. Before long, she approached my table. WTF?

She: Hi, I was noticing you and wondered if I could say something?

(This ought to be good.)

She: We were seeing how hard you were working, and we wanted, I mean I want...

(Okay, she is seriously nervous, darting her eyes back and forth to her husband who is beaming.)

She: We are having a little party on Saturday and thought you might like to come...

(Are they about to set me up with someone? Oh, man...)

She: And there will be pampering! It's a pampering party. I really like pampering, and I'll give you a hand massage because you are working hard, you know...

(Is she picking me up? Really? This is starting to feel like a pick-up. He was sitting and staring, looking expectant, leaning forward and nodding, as though he could make me say yes with the power of the Secret. Oh, no. No, this was not happening. I looked around for a witness or a savior, but nada.)

She: And a facial, we're giving facials, do you like facials?

(Oh. Oh. Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh. A free facial. I see.)

Me: Do you mean like a Mary Kay party?

She: Yes! Exactly. Saturday at...

Me: Ha, oh, whew, I thought you both were asking me out on a date. You're not swingers.

She: Oh, my god, no, Craig, ha ha ha, oh boy, listen Craig, no, see , my husband is helping me get up the courage to tell people about the products and the business, but I don't want to put people on the spot---I told you Craig--but, yeah, it will be really nice and you'll probably really like it....

Me: But just facials?

She: Oh, yes, with other people too, and color matching, and we have new...

Me: Um, no thanks, good for you for asking but good luck to you now!

What a relief! I didn't know until today, but I not really up to threesomes these days. I don't know, maybe I'm getting old, it just seemed like it would have been a lot of extra work. I need to get better about spotting a pyramid scheme, though. That was a close call.

Dear Easter Bunny

I've always though you got the short end of the holiday stick. How did Santa get the sweet gig? Other people do most of the hard work for him. A wife at home to keep him fat and happy. Magical animals of his own. And the world adores the bastard. Adores him. Even Jewish kids. Seriously.

But you work alone. And rabbits don't like to be alone--it must really make your back haunch thump that Santa gets more action than you do! You are a lone ranger, you are IT, no entourage. You have to be your OWN damn magical animal. And what do you get? Not a whole pole to yourself. Just a trailer that smells like a meth lab from all the rotten eggs, and a vacuum cleaner full of plastic grass. People love you, but do you ever feel like you're a reliable character actor, not the star? I understand, bunny honey, I do.

So I just wanted to write and give you some support. You know, it's not all bad, some things rock about your day, big guy. People love the "no shopping" thing, and how you are the only one who has to give out presents. I think you have the best candy--Cadbury Eggs? Genius. And those Hershey's eggs with the crunchy outside? Oh yeah. Plus, I love black jelly beans, so I always score on those. I'm not a Peeps person, though, and I kind of think of them as the "fruitcake of Easter," but to each her own.

It could be worse. You could have ended up pulling Tooth Fairy's job. She works every day, not just on one big day a year! Picking up dirty, sticky child teeth. Having to reach under their pillow and GIVE THEM MONEY in exchange, all the while wondering when you are going to snap and smother the little greedy, gaped-mouth heathens with their own pillows?

So while we are here chatting, sweet funny bunny, I though I would let you know that if you are looking for something to fill my basket, I left a list of my favorites over in the Amazon box to the right. Or....lookey what I found on my pal Swiss Miss' site today. The NOOKA: it's a cool way to tell time. It sort of loads up all dark and heavy as the day goes on, like a web page's loading bar, and I think that really captures the existential qualities of time, don't you? And it's ORANGE. You love Orange! I do too, or aluminum. Or there's more. I really desire one. Sigh.

Regardless of what finds its way into my basket, have faith dear one. Your day is almost here, you'll pull it off (you always do!) and then it's a summer full of hookers and mai tais. Don't forget who loves ya!

I am:

Sometimes when a meme runs its course, someone has to pony up and throw down the finale. Gorilla Sushi's Jason, also known in some circles as Hottie McBloggin Hottie Su-Su-Sushio, has created the last internet personality quiz ever needed. Which is a profound relief, a social service, and a marker of the end of a navel gazing era. I highly recommend that you take his "Most Accurate Personality Quiz Ever" and be done with it.

I asked him for a widget after getting my score, because if this is to be my one and only quiz results posting on my blog, I want to do it right. So here is my score. Go and see how you do on the quiz, and you'll never have to take another personality quiz again!

Unless, of course, you want to know what type of tobacco product you would be: pipe, cigarette, cigar, chew, blunt or joint; or what type of feminine hygiene product you are: pad, tampon, liner, thong liner, douche bag or douche nozzle. Then and only then will you have to keep taking quizzes. Not that you have to keep posting the results. I do believe we're done with that!

Toss the Dogma a Bone

As you know, that Sarah is fucking Matt.
And Jimmy is fucking Ben.

All this fucking talk reminds me of the time when I was fucking Salma Hayek. That's a fine lady, let me tell you. At the time she was almost impossible to understand, speaking English only phonetically, but we made it work. I taught her "oh, yeah, like that." Fast learner!

Sometimes we let Chris Rock watch, because he'd say all of these wild things--he was kind of like a pet. A lot of times he would end up sleeping off his "vitamins" and we would just whisper and try to be quiet so he wouldn't wake up. Salma thought he was really cute when he was sleeping. We would tease each other about adopting him so he could have two mommies, but we ended up deciding that inter-racial adoptions are just neo-colonialism, so we passed.



A couple of times Jay and Silent Bob filmed us. I wish I knew who has those tapes. Someday they'll surface!!!


But we ALWAYS locked the door so that Linda Fiorentino couldn't get in, and we used fake names at hotels--usually Debbie and Sallie Von Slutinsky. Salma made that up! Wow, what can I say about Linda? She's a whacked stalker. She wanted me back so bad, but it was o-v-e-r over. She eventually got over it, but once in awhile she still sends me these "don't you think we're soulmates" e-mails when she's off her meds. Poor freaky puppy. It was all that coke, I bet. Cooked her.


Anyway, those were good times. So good that God looked down upon us and said: "Hell ya. Fuck like rabbits. It's spring, you freaking mammals. I command you: get it on. You know you want to. Amen."

As they say, God is Good, All the Time. All the Time, God is Good! Go get it on, you furry mammals, you. Don't let all my glory days stories keep you from your worship!

~~edited to add that humor-blogs link that I keep forgetting and so you don't click on it to give me humor points and then Diesel gives me a Google-slap-like spanking and it all tumbles downhill from there.

Diamonds are a Girl's Best Advertising

Gov. Spitzer, honey, baby, sugar, what the fuck? I love a dirty romp with a talented girl just as much as anyone, but really, paying for it while you are in office?

I think you should resign, and take Hillary with you for two major reasons.

• You have no business running a state when you are so careless with your own thousands of dollars--because you were clearly overpaying for a piece of jiggle.
• You were working with a whacked pimp. What makes the 5,000 whore different from the 2,000 whore in this diamond rating system? Do you even know?
  

It's hard to blame you, though, because it is hard to be an Ass Consumer. The thing is, it's not just the disparities of different Whore Stores. It's true that what makes for a five-diamond ho at Emperor's is not the same criteria for a five-diamond ho at Applejack's HO-tel. It's not like AAA at all. The bigger problem though, is that there isn't even consistency within the Emperor's system. I can't figure out the Emperor's diamond ranking levels. What do the diamonds mean?

I understand why Sienna is only three diamonds.

• stupid name
• chicken legs
• wears bathrugs

But Eva? Someone needs to tell her to leave Emperor's, because she would be a seven-star girl at Dominant Escorts where her business acumen could be appreciated. I would happily pay to be tied to her chair, and rich boys should pay for their punishment. However, Daniella is clearly a one-diamond tranny whore who is only working until she can afford her breasts but she is not going to work up a sweat or let you jizz in her hair.

Maya, on the other hand, should be a six-diamond:

• flawless lips
• obvious appeal to both men and women
• that wedding dress "be the best man and take the bride" pose is kinky--I'd pay extra for that
  

I don't know what to think about Raquel. Great name, could be good company, but she'll have to show me her tits for me to rate her. What was she thinking posing in that triple wrap sweater? I'm taking a diamond away for that, and another for the ugly necklace.

I believe they may have pegged Chrissy right as a six-diamond hussy. Direct, active pose, looks ready for anything, blonde whore hair just asking to be pulled. I bet she bites that pouty lip and has a voice to melt you. But what is holding her back from the seven is her tits. One half cup too big. She's just, off, you know. She'll never make seven, not ever. It is her tragedy.

Inexplicably, Sydney did rank a seven. How???? Again with a dumb name. And that photo was clearly taken in 1986. So Sydney has to be 43-44 now and doesn't even have those clothes or hair any more. The only explanation for her seven-diamond rating is that she must simply be good at what prostitutes do.

Which is what? Blowjobs, intercourse and companionship, right? Maybe some ass-slapping, biting and dirty talk. So again, I'm left with a problem with this diamond-rating system. It's so subjective, no inter-rater reliability or consistency. No stated criteria--you could sleep your way to the top.

I think I'm going to start a rating company setting the gold INDEPENDENT quality standards for the flesh trade. I'll set the criteria: cheek spreading, requesting showering of smelly men without hurting their abilities to become erect, etc. Then I'll train reviewers to judge the pros fairly. I will be like AAA for hotels --or maybe go multi-reviewer like Rotten Tomatoes or social like Digg. Because if our sons and national leaders are going to buy ass, they better be getting their money's worth.

(Gotta love that "What's New...!" box. So many opportunities for new girls to sling legs! It's a very exciting field!)

I don't know if they sling leg at humor-blogs.com, but I know there are sling blades, so maybe that will work for ya.

Are these quotes from 24, or from Deb's Bed?

This happened from 1 am to 2 am:


"Don't make a sound."

"I have nothing to lose."

"What are you doing?"

"Put it down."

"Standing by..."

"You've got the coordinates so you can't fail."

"Copy that. I'm in."

"Is this some kind of revenge?"

"Give it to me. NOW!"

"Make a clean break."

"Extend your arms!"

"Do what's right!"

"Hurt me and I'll say whatever you want? Is that how it is?"

"Take it down! I said DOWN!"

"Go. Go. Go!"

"You made this happen!"

"I had to. I had to. I had to."

Why again are we saving daylight?

You would think that a Saturday spent emulating a hamster burrowed under a shredded toilet paper roll--as long as the hamster had a remote control--would be a weekend wasted. But it was not. I have learned many things in my couch crash:

1. Watching Fargo on television means that all the f-bombs are replaced, and Steve Buschemi needs a lot of f-replacements. The bleepers had fun fitting the new f-words to the locale. My favorites were "Frugal" and "Frozen." Perfect for Minnesota. I was impressed, because I hate the word "fecking." Fecking is for fucking wusses.

2. Each viewing of Fargo equates to 3 subsequent hours of insane, unnecessary babble to perfect a nasal, upper Midwestern accent, doncha know.

3. Channel hopping netted ONE celebration of International Woman's Day. Not that I was looking for such, but it was ironic that the only mention seemed to be QVC's tribute to female product inventors. I was lucky enough to catch the tail-end of key fobs SPECIALLY DESIGNED with intricate COUNTERBALANCE PHYSICS to hang on the top of your purse WITHOUT DAMAGING THE LEATHER. Then I saw the beginning of a lucite Swiss knife contraption with a lever and a magnifying lens that allows you to put on bracelets BY YOURSELF. Because woman are all about INDEPENDENCE these days. They were buy-one-get-one so that you could keep a spare in your purse. Go Women!

4. That was the most I've ever watched QVC, but I have to say it's oddly comforting. They repeated instructions about how handy the key fob was 80 times, and even more words were needed to extol the virtues of a new way to put on a bracelet. It was kind of like Teletubbies for adults. Simple and reassuring. We need more of that in these troubled times.

5. The Tudors is fucking hot. If you watch show after show late at night, be prepared for some post-show bawdiness.

6. One day of couch crash was enough. Today, I worked, cleaned, took a walk with My Sugar, schemed good schemes with Salo, and tried to eke as much as I could out of the day that was unfairly robbed of an hour by the damn Republicans. They have messed up everything, even Daylight Saving Time. Bastards. (Remember when Falwell and the RR thought that the purple Teletubby was gay? Fucking idiots.)

Hope you wasted some time usefully this weekend.

Yet another example of Canadian superiority

This is a glorious weekend, with no commitments & no travel--just burrowing into the luxury of home. I need it; I've been a girl on fire for weeks now. I'm ready to listen to some weekend public radio, watch and send on all three Netflix red envelopes, and play some music to nest by.

In that mix will be K.D. Lang's new jazzy handful of sweet, twangy goodness: Watershed. MS and I soaked in K.D's performance in Clearwater earlier in the week, and I am still buzzing with the beauty of it all.

This is the third time I've heard her live. First, in the 80s, she whirled like a dervish in cut-off cowboy boots at a Reclines college show. I didn't know what to make of the mixed genre music she belted out, but damn, she was a hot powerhouse. Several years ago I saw her, also in Clearwater, and she channeled Patsy Cline and brought Canada closer through Hymns of the 49th Parallel. She is more brilliant each time.

Her performances are so full of heart and mastery that the shows are captivating and resonate afterwards like serious ministry. Free, at no additional charge: she's smart and charming. After singing Smoke Rings she riffed about smoking metaphorical cigarettes: What brand do you smoke? I smoke Metaphors. And at the end of the night she said as a good Buddhist she would sing us an existential lullaby. Ah, is anything hotter than a smart girl?

I cried when she sang Love is Everything by Jane Siberry followed by Hallelujah by Leonard Cohen, both more emotional and better suited to her voice. So, I'm not a baby and I wasn't the only one, and it was a quiet tears-down-my-face cry, not a sighing-red-nose cry. And then jazzy new stuff and her funky fab accompanying band of plucky boys is buoying me through this (rough and tough) week.

If you can, get tickets to her tour and get a taste. Also, if you have a chance to hear any of your favorites in the Ruth Eckerd Hall in Clearwater, go. Frank Lloyd Wright designed flawless acoustics. The aisles are L.O.N.G., so you'll have a lot of ass in your face. It's never the good ass, but you'll survive and it's worth it.

Please click on that Cohen link to see a 80s variety show oddity. Bonus clip: Dame Edna interviewing KD. Good lord. I may be lost on YouTube all day.

Too much of a good thing?

I love catching up with My Sugar in the car on long drives.

MS: I've been meaning to tell you about this story I saw on TV about women who are aroused constantly and walk around on the verge of orgasm. All the time.

Me: All the time?

MS: Yes. There's a spectrum, some are just mildly buzzed sometimes when they least expect it, and others are on the toe-curling ALMOST.THERE. stage almost all the time. Some say they can't ride in a car, or even walk, without getting turned on. Or they hear sounds, and pop, there they go.

Me: I get hot when the barista flips my espresso switch. I understand.

MS: Yeah, I know you'd love it. But seriously, all the time? Sitting in school pick-up line? When you are trying to fight with your partner?

Me: They'd be like "You have got to be more considerate ....ohhhh, hmmm, ooohhhhh..of my time...ahhhh." It would be hard to make your point.

MS: Seriously. Daily life is torture. They have to masturbate a lot to get relief.

Me: Oh, what horrible medicine. Can I get a prescription for that? RX: Masturbate 3x per day or as needed, preferably on a full stomach. May cause sleepiness or affect your ability to operate heavy machinery.

MS: One lady said on long care drives she looses her mind and has to pull over to reststops to masturbate.

Me: Oh, and you know how bathrooms echo. You can probably here here moaning out by the picnic table. And the poor kids. "Are we there yet. No, OMG, mom has to masturbate again!" And in the bathroom, poor things. Why do all women's conditions get sent to the bathroom. That's kinda like having to breastfeed in the bathroom. We women who are about to come need special rooms!

MS: Two of the women were wearing wigs on the show to hide their shame.

Me: It's time to stop the shame. If it happens to a woman's body, we shouldn't be ashamed. I wouldn’t be ashamed. I’d blog about it! I’d have t-shirts made that say “I could come right now.com!” I’d form an organization called “ArouseHer.” I’d teach other women how to GET this condition and we'd have playdates to spread it like chicken pox. We’d have conventions where we get together to talk about mommyhumming, kind of like Blogher, and the backchannel would rock! We’re gonna fight for our right to ORGASM! Hey, does this condition qualify for disability checks? We could all martch into the Social Security office and finally qualify for a Scandinavian type governmental leave from work for a woman's contitions. We'd all be in the Social Security office all "we need benefits...yes, oh, god, oh damn, ummm, yeeeessss...because we can't work....ohhhhhh ohhhhh.....because w need to come now!"

So I've just realized that the conversation I had with My Sugar comes across a little harsh if you actually HAVE the dreaded coming condition. I shouldn't make fun until I walk a (stimulating) mile in their panties, should I? I tell you what, to show you that I am sensitive to the plight of the perpetually humming, I would like to suggest that we work as women to create a safe, clean space for women to use for masturbation in public settings. Maybe a little room next to the bathroom and the breastfeeding room, equipped with a bed, low lighting and soundproof walls. A place where a woman can really roar and let go. A room of her own. With free wi-fi so we can blog afterwards while our minds are clear. Until we start to ramp up again!

there will be blood

Are you there, Margaret?

It's me, God.

I've been meaning to ask you---remember years ago how you used to nag, nag, nag me? So, do you still think your period is something you need to happen as soon as possible? Was it really a precious, wonderful thing that changed your life in hundred of positive ways? Is it truly a special time to look forward to month after month?

That's what I thought.

I told you so,
The Deity