I'm not supposed to say, "Yum," but...

THIS is waiting for me???? Don't I wish!

I must admit, though, 'tis effective advertisement. He's one good reason to use My Space...

My Wicked Wicken Ways

My dad came to visit once. I love my dad tremendously; he's a bit narrow-minded, though.

For instance, when sweetlings 2 and 3 went to France on their own, my dad was seriously concerned they would be sold into slavery. Huh, what? Is this a problem in France? I should really watch the news once in a while.

Of course he had plenty to say when he discovered that the youngest kidling was dating a half-muslim/half-mormon boy...but only about the muslim part (referred to by my dad as ay-rab). Never mind that polygamy among mormons is actually still practiced in Utah and Idaho.

Sometimes I am sorely tempted to play with his mind just for the hell of it. I fight the urge; honor the hoary head and all that. But when I'm around him for more than a day, the pressure builds and I am overcome with a desire to do mischief. This was one such occasion.

He picked up the book I was reading, Dan Brown's The DaVinci Code. 30 minutes later, he called me into the living room to ask me why I was reading a book that promoted homosexuality. I laughed out loud and went back to burning his eggs on purpose.

Several chapters later, he accused me of supporting the tearing down of the Catholic church...this from a man who has, for 75 years, argued against every teaching of that same institution. Go figure. I added just enough cayenne powder to his coffee to give him heartburn.

Further on into the book, and he was seriously getting concerned that I might believe Woman was actually the true Supreme Being. ο Θεός μας προστατεύει από τον ανόητο μέσα - God protect us from the fool within.

I finally told him to put the book down. He ended up taking it home with him. That's my dad.

Eventually, I caved to the pressure to play with his mind; it was the candles that put me over the edge. He noticed several sitting on the hearth, and asked, "What are the candles for?" I responded without batting an eyelash, "Seances." He nearly choked.

I took pity on him, then, assuring him I was not into witchcraft, and the purple color eventually left his face. I just got him calmed back down when the oldest gosling came into the room to find out what all the fuss was about. I told her my dad was asking about the candles and she responded, "Did you tell him about our seances?"

I actually thought I might soon see some of my inheritance. His face went through a panoply of colors. I am a wicked child...

Women are wired different than men, more's the pity

We cannot do 120 miles an hour. We pee our pants at 90. We tested the theory tonight on a stretch of road far safer than 40th, and it just isn’t possible. And I am fucking drunk. But I wasn’t driving so that’s ok. But drunk or not, the theory holds – we have a built-in mechanism that causes us to pee our pants when the speedometer hits 90. I believe it is God’s way of ensuring the human race survives. Thank God God is so fucking smart.

Come again?

The following instructions accompanied military warheads.

"These wareheads must be stored with the top at the bottom and the bottom at the top. In order that there may be no doubt as to which is the top and which is the bottom, for storage purposes the bottom of each head has been labeled with the word TOP."

I had a conversation last weekend with le plus jeune ange. Topic: boys. Duration: 1.5 hours. Conclusion: boys are human warheads and should be thus similarly labeled.

She met a boy a few months back that she really likes and who appeared to really like her. She wasn't looking for a long-term relationship and neither was he (they are currently on an island - she until the start of summer; he lives there permanently). She wasn't necessarily looking for a meaningless relationship either, and, while he did regularly see a girl on the mainland, he did not appear the type to take advantage of a sweet young thing for a night of meaningless sex. They are, after all, in an intimate setting where everyone there knows everyone else's business.

They flirted some and eventually had an "encounter." He appeared to enjoy the encounter; she definitely did and looked forward to other opportunities to spend time in similar fashion.

So what's the problem? Well, since then, he's made no effort to be alone with her, although he joins the group she's in quite frequently, and often invites her (along with others) to accompany him places.

Usually, though, she is relegated to the back of the truck; another generally gets to ride shotgun in the front. The last time he invited her to join him (and his friends), he spent the entire time riding a bike (motor) with a friend while the girls watched. Sounds like a fun time, eh?

She still makes effort to let him know she's interested - small comments, dressing a certain way, etc. And, while he appears to appreciate all that, he makes no move.

Now, it's only been what, a month? So perhaps he is just slow. Or shy. Either way, she feels like crap. She doesn't know if she did something wrong during their encounter (she is relatively inexperienced, despite her age); she wonders if she is too fat, if she smells, if she is a terrible kisser.

To le plus jeune ange - you are one of the most beautiful women I know, smart and sexy and well worth the effort. Don't sell yourself short. My advice to you - quit trying to make sense of the label; the guidance system of such warheads is sometimes not stored at the bottom or the top, but halfway in between.

Little Miss Hipshake

I have a problem - when there’s a beat on, my hips move. Independent of my brain telling me I likely look goofy. Just like my kids, though, my hips don’t pay any attention to what I say. So what’s a body to do?

I guess the only answer is “go with the flow,” eh? Why fight it? At the very least, dancing is awesome exercise, although thankfully not classified as such. I am violently opposed to the concept of exercising. But if the song says "Run, girl," I say, "Ok!"

The problem is the way I dance. Although I don't intend it to, it sort of attracts attention, which I am also violently opposed to. To start, I am just moving to the beat; before long, though, my eyes are half-closed and my mind is wandering, and suddenly I am thinking about that other oh-so-pleasant activity that requires similar movements. And then my dancing changes...

I think others must sense what I’m thinking, too, judging by the number of men who approach me on the floor. I am in a club with about 500 young adults, and guys are trying to dance with me. HELLO!! I’m freakin’ twice the age of everyone else in the club!! Do you not see the hot 23 year old chick dancing next to me?

At least in a dance club, I’m not completely out of place. Example – my skirt is eight inches from waist to hem; ok, maybe six. But the asian girl next to me is wearing a 4 inch strip of fabric around her waist and a two inch vertical strip over each breast. I am by no means revealing too much flesh in a dance club, even if I am when I wear that same skirt to work or the grocery store.

I dance different under certain circumstances, too. I once tied my wrists together to see what would happen. I danced, then I tied my wrists together and danced to the same song again. The wrist-tied dancing was definitely different; wayyyy. Interesting, yes? I haven’t yet finished my psychological evaluation of that phenomenon. Strangely enough, though, now, when I’m on the floor and cross my wrists over my head, a pair of male hands will invariably find their way to my...um, hips.

I totally agree that rap is crap, no argument there. But COME ON! When the DJ puts Pump It on, and booty start shakin’ double time, there is not a single guy in the club complaining about the words to the song. And mid-song, when the movement changes to a slow "dip and body-thrusting" half-time beat, are YOU gonna complain? Go ahead, put the song on now and imagine T&A shaking 7 inches from your 6-inch hard on. Yeah. Who the hell is listening to the words, anyway. That’s just a waste of time…

Um, gotta go. Hips Don’t Lie just came on. Shakira, Shakira, Shakira 

It's Raining...sort of

Subject: Golden Showers, or what Vicky thinks about at 4 a.m.

This subject came up the other day, in a crowded bar after several drinks, always an excellent environment for such topics. For those who don't know, Golden Showers refers to a particular method of foreplay that some find disgusting and others erotic, that is urinating on the other person. Well, put like that it just seems, "Ewwwww!" Hence the reason they call it Golden Showers and not "urinating on the other person during sex."

Duh. Golden Showers sounds exotic. And, at least for Americans where wordplay is a way of life, exotic = erotic. And thus, a form of waste elimination becomes an intimate sexual act.

The act itself is accomplished in one of four ways, that is when speaking of guy/girl coupling.
1. The guy is inside the girl and pees, flooding her with wetness in addition to whatever she has thus produced on her own
2. The guy is in the girl and she pees, thus warming his likely already heat-infused member
3. The girl is over the guy but not on him, and pees, showering him with a delicate spray of golden droplets
4. The guy is over the girl, but not in her, and pees, shooting a steady stream of golden liquid up and down her naked body

Keep in mind that we pee at least 10 times a day; when women pee, it's a delicate operation - behind closed doors, embarrassed of the sound, no line-of-sight to other similarly-occupied women. Not so with men; they are hanging out while hanging out, holding their proud member, not even aware of the sound or where they are splashing - hence the signs from smart-ass cleaning crews: "We aim to please; your aim will help." You would never see such a sign in the womens' restroom, it just isn't necessary - women are appalled by the tiniest drop splashing out of the depths of the bowl, while men could care less about leaving a trail. That's what cleaning crews are for, right?

Smart men, of course, wash their hands after holding their cock to pee. A woman's hand never actually comes into contact with their nether region during the act of urination, but darned if they don't have to wash their hands 100 times after having insulated it with half a roll of toilet paper in the first place. (Trust me, I've seen women actually counting under their breath. Odd. And the correct number of squares is three.)

All this to say, we bring different perspectives to the act of peeing whether for necessity or pleasure.

The first two ways of experiencing Golden Showers are simply adding a sensation to other sensations, nearly always a good thing when fucking. If wetness is good, then more wetness is better, yes? And, because it's inside, there is an element of intimacy involved, a sharing of something extremely personal. (If you are thinking about trying this for the first time, make sure you have a conversation well in advance; throwing a curve ball in the middle of intercourse can result in striking out.)

The third way has appealing psychological implications. The girl is likely straddling the guy, raised above him, teasing him with already wet fruit just out of reach. He is straining to reach that juicy fruit. She showers him, perhaps a trickle first, still teasing, then more as she loses control. The teasing now borders on taunting, and the guy is aroused to "punish" perhaps? And in most cases, the art of gentle punishment serves only to add to erotic pleasure - spanking, pinching, biting. Her peeing on him is a final taunt intended to say, take that and what are you gonna do about it, hm? He likely shows her, too, and all's well that ends, well, in climax.

The fourth way is by far the most interesting to analyze. The guy is likely either kneeling or standing either next to or over her, when the shower begins. Here, it's all about dominance of the male species. When she pees on him, it's teasing; when he pees on her, it establishes ownership. The alpha being, the male dog, lifting his leg and marking his territory. This one works only if the woman wants to (consciously or subconsciously) be dominated. If she does, then this will likely lead to more good pleasure along those lines - a hard fuck, anal penetration, etc...

Of course, we didn't go into such depth in the bar; I'm not sure anyone was sober enough to follow a train of thought so many miles off course. But folks should know by now that they can't throw seed onto the fertile soil of my dirty mind without expecting me to have multiple follow-on conversations with myself on the topic. No, that conversation was limited to explaining the definition of Golden Showers, then playing truth or dare.

Strangely, they didn't seem to believe me when I said I had never experienced the act. They really have no idea how limited my experiences are. It's all in my head, guys, it's all in my head :)

I AM a good admin. I AM, I AM, I AM...

Two things to note:
1. I am Mary Poppins (Practically Perfect in Every Way), not God.
2. I need a new job - this one is killing me.

When Microsoft asked me to interview for a job, I thought they'd made a mistake. They only take drivers. I am not a driver. I couldn't be further from being a driver. I'm not even in the same car as the driver. I'm the woman walking her dog on the sidewalk as the driver and car drive by splashing me with muddy water, but that's ok cuz I want the driver (and car) to be happy and they will be happy if they can drive however close the the sidewalk they want. Oh, and I'm smelling the beautiful flowers along the way. That's me in a nutshell.

Still, I took the job when they offered it. How dumb is that? (refer to my previous blog, The 60 Second Relationship)

My thought was, if I worked here for two years, I could update my resume to reflect that experience and move to Arizona or someplace where people don't blame the admin if the only conference room available doesn't have a window.

Of course, I was good before I came to Microsoft. I'm even better now, but I feel worse about it. Go figure...

Example: I can take 2 phone calls, create an excel spreadsheet with conditional formulas, book a conference call and send several emails - all at the same time.
Simultaneously, I can review 2 inboxes, update 3 calendars, book dinner for 7 with parking, location map and 2 vegetarian options, knock out a PowerPoint presentation, courier a package and book three hotel rooms and three flights. Of course, I speak all languages and have visited all the countries in the world: I therefore know which hotel is within 3 minutes of the meeting hall, and I know all local customs and visa and vaccination requirements for all nationalities and countries.

I recognize that I will be held personally responsible for the food on the flight, for traffic jams, broken rental cars, overbooked planes, late taxis, the weather, possible war and unrest, and any economic situation or adverse currency exchange rate fluctuations.

I truly possess magical powers which enable me to get a room in a fully booked hotel and seats on fully booked planes and trains. With a wave of my wand and a little pixie dust, I can arrange for planes to start and land at any destination, regardless of what the travel agency tells me. And I know that - even though I was asked to book a flight for Friday - what was really wanted was travel on Saturday.

If meetings are arranged without my knowledge, I telepathically know and will book and prepare a meeting room (with a window) and arrange beverages.

I always smile, am sympathetic, and will happily volunteer to be psychiatrist or punchbag as needed; I am equally happy to be ignored, insulted and blamed in the interests of alleviating the frustrations of senior management in the workplace - always calmly listening and trying to do better next time. I can act, sing, dance and repair the printer. I replace the information desk, directory enquiries and the post office. I am happy to get in early for meetings that may take place and work late for no extra money. I hate having time off - as I obviously have no family or other interests outside the joy and desire to selflessly serve in the workplace. And this is just my B game.

Two things to note:
1. On March 27, I will have been at Microsoft for two years
2. Housing in Arizona starts at $250,000