Scent of a (Wo)Man...hoowaah!

Some like it hot and some sweat when the heat is on...

I'm reading a book where the malevolent character holds a convention for lady killers on a small tropical island where it's like 100 degrees outside, and he turns the air conditioning off so the women will perspire, and he gets all turned on cuz their scents are magnified by the heat and sweat and he can smell their perfume and other scents. Tricky little bastard...

I wonder if this would really work. I mean women are pretty fastidious. Morning ablutions usually include at least two products intended to ensure not a single droplet of sweat is emitted from anywhere on our bodies. A third product may even be added to the coverup lineup, something along the lines of Chanel No. 5 which is supposed to act like Love Potion No. 9. Not only are we not gonna sweat, we're gonna make sure that, if we do, it smells like True Love. (Hm...I didn't know true love had a smell or that it was bottleable. You learn something new every day.)

Guys, on the other hand, have no such concerns. Sweat is manly, no? Once upon a time, maybe; but the metrosexual movement has changed some of the rules and one of them is that guys are now just as worried about pitting out as women even if their shirt is 100% cotton and costs 99 cents to clean while hers is silk and cost $14.99.

Here's the thing. As was discovered this weekend, lots of guys use product under their arms every day thinking it will keep them from perspiring but it doesn't because it's not anti-perspirant. It's just deodorant. So, they basically stink pretty.

Let's face it, we are sweat-averse, at least when we are upright. It isn't attractive. But there are times...

The Story of Girl and Guy (names have been changed to protect the not-innocent)

Girl and Guy are having sex...hot, steamy sex. Guy has deliberately but covertly turned the thermostat up so Girl will shuck her clothes more readily. They are lying in bed, covers shoved to the foot of the bed, she is on top in nearly nothing, he is under her, wearing only socks. And he is so not complaining about her hot hands on his damp chest, her hot lips on his salty neck, her warm tongue behind his burning ear.

There is a damp v- down the front of her camisole between her breasts; there is a ring of dampness around each leg of her panties that may be sweat or something altogether different.

He can smell her; she can smell him. He smells like Old Spice which totally turns her on; she smells like True Love which kinda freaks him out but then he looks at the sweaty camisole and decides that if she doesn't actually say the L word, he can live with it...as long as she keeps licking him like that...

Yeah, that's real unattractive. I know I'm not in the least bit turned on by that, nope, not in the least.

...

Bathtime is another opportunity to sweat without embarrassment. I love my hot bath. If the water isn't 110F, it's frigid. I generally read in the tub and paperbacks swell just from the rising steam. If I should ever allow a guy to invade my bathtime, I would hope the heat of the moment would cause other things to swell...

Thankfully, I have a large water heater that can accommodate a full-to-overflowing tub of hot water. My dad, bless his helpful, cantankerous soul, thinks I should dial down the temp on my water heater. Back the fuck off, old man.

His concern is somewhat warranted; you can scald your hand under the hot water faucet at my house. If you do, though, I have a miracle cure - Desitin, the baby diaper ointment, and I would be happy to help you apply it to your burned body parts.

But I am not changing the water heater settings until one of my daughters gives me a grandchild to go with the Desitin. And since none of them seem to be in a hurry to do so, I'm thinking I have a few more years worth of piping hot baths and swollen paperback novels in my future :-) :-) :-)

In the meantime, maybe I'll rethink having the repair guy come out to fix my furnace. Having it stuck on 89 degrees has some merit after all. Now where did I put Guy's phone number...

Pedal Pushers

I want to ride my bi-cee-cle
I want to ride my bike
I want to ride my bi-CEE-cle
I want to ride it where I l-i-i-i-ke

Every morning, I head to work half asleep. Every morning, I exit the freeway with the same dozy look on my face as every other middleclass American working a 9 to 5. And every morning, at the end of the exit, I laugh myself awake.

The cause? A sign. My favorite road sign ever. It sits at the end of a bike path running parallel to the off-ramp. The fact that it is at the end of the bike path tells me it is meant for the cyclists that plague our Washington roads.

There are no words on the sign, but the meaning is quite clear. There is a car in a lane; there is a bike in a lane running parallel and to the right of the car. There is an arrow in front of the car, indicating the driver intends to turn right. There is a splat in front of the cyclist indicating that, if the cyclist should be so foolish as to think he owns the road, he will become part of it. With dead certainty.

This sign is intended for cyclists like the one I passed this morning. On a two-lane highway with a designated bike lane, this yahoo was riding his bike in the car lane with no hands. Well, technically, he had hands; they just weren't anywhere on the bike. One was hanging casually by his side helping him look cool; the other was holding his cell phone to his ear. But he was decked out in a chartreuse jacket and helmet, so he will look pretty when he is photographed as a splat by the emergency personnel who are called to the scene of the accident.

Now, I know there are responsible cyclists out there - my daughters are such. Respect the road, respect those big heavy metal conveyances on it, and all is well. But, just because we have a helmet law does not mean you are a protected species. In fact, I am ambivalent about the helmet law - it seems to have taken some of the weight off the cyclist to be conservative in their actions while en route.

Exposure makes us aware of our vulnerability, and results in our taking safety to a higher level. The helmet law seems to make people feel they are less susceptible to injury and so they take chances. They also look really dumb.

I grew up on dirt bikes (as in motorcycles). And we wore protective helmets, jackets, boots, kidney belts and gloves. And we weren't even on the road. We were riding up steep hills, yes, and flying at top speed across dry lakes; but we were not contending with lumbering delivery trucks and zippy little beemers. But I would not dream of going out on the dry lake without all that protective gear.

See? I ride the fence.

In the end, though, even with all that gear, we still got hurt. I weighed all of 90 pounds during those years - I could handle the Suzuki 90 and Kawasaki 125. And while I could take a moderate hill on my dad's Suzuki 250, I did lay it over and sported a gigantic goose egg on the back of my leg for 6 months. Not all that attractive...

And my brother, fully garbed, took a spill on a flat dirt road two years ago and now has a really cool metal pin in his hip. So clearly even protective gear is inadequate without a good healthy dose of common sense and a pinch of good luck to go along with it.

Cyclists don't even have the benefit of a slight pull on the throttle to zip away from potential danger. Their bike frames weigh a few pounds, and their helmets only cover part of their head! And they want to challenge the Humvee3 to the road? I'm thinking that new titanium bike frame will look glorious flying 50 feet through the air.

Queen has their own idea of what one should wear when riding a bicycle. In this scenario, it is the spectators in the stands who need the protective gear.

Nietzsche is dead

From wikipedia: The infinite monkey theorem states that a monkey hitting keys at random on a typewriter keyboard for an infinite amount of time will almost surely type a particular chosen text, such as the complete works of William Shakespeare. In this context, "almost surely" is a mathematical term with a precise meaning, and the "monkey"

WAIT, back up...did someone say "MATH?" (BRAIN SHUT DOWN NOW BEFORE YOU GET HURT)

NO, hold on a sec, don't be hasty! They also said "MONKEY"...mm, kitty purring, there's a surprise... (BRAIN RE-ENGAGING AND WALKING DOWN A LONG CORRIDOR...)

Someone asked me if I was a Nietzschean. This person clearly does not know me. I am a piece of fluff; I dance, I laugh, I play. I do not think, and never ever deep thoughts.

Still, it gave me pause, so I did some research. And, because I'm lazy fluff, I did my research through wikipedia, a one-stop shop for all your knowledge-based needs. Then, because I like to be well-rounded (intellectually, not physically), I also researched at the uncyclopedia, which has nothing on Nietzsche, totally appropriate for a site that carries the by-line of being a "content-free" encyclopedia.

It isn't completely content-free, however; I found this and again became temporarily sidetracked from the Nietzsche discussion...

See? Fluff.

What I Know About Nietzsche, a short dissertation by a Woodnymph Covered in Fluff

Nietzsche said "God is dead."

The End.

Merriam-Webster defines dead as (among other things) deprived of life (no freakin' duh); lacking power to move, feel, or respond; incapable of being stirred emotionally or intellectually; grown cold; extinguished; very tired. LOL!

Whether or not God is dead, the church can definitely be accused of a few of these things. Not all churches, of course, and not all of these things. The point remains, though, that the biggest turnoff to Christianity is, quite often, the Christians. Especially when banded together in a group, incorporated and having created a set of by-laws for their organization.

Hm, that may be a little Nietzschean after all. Is it possible that, given enough thinking time, I could (as in the monkey theorem) pop out a thought similar to a great philosopher? Me and Nietzsche think alike?? Good God-who-may-or-may-not-be-dead!

The Fool wrote:

Stone, Wood, and Colored Glass

"They built a prison for their god out of stone, wood, and colored glass, and they confined their god inside.

They came and sang songs to Him on Sunday, and forced Him to forgive their sins: their dishonors, falsehoods, petty thefts, and adulteries. He was made to bless their children while they killed the children of others in His name. He was forced to consecrate their marriages, and to allow for their dissolutions. He was made to watch as the plate passed from hand to hand to hand…year after year.

But He was a wily jailbird. He became a hardened con. He purloined a spoon during a Sunday tea, and removed a tile from beneath the altar. Slowly - spoonful by spoonful – He began to tunnel, seeking a way out. He worked at night when the guards were lax, when they thought He was sleeping.

Night by quiet night, He excavated beneath the conjectures constructed to confine Him, until He undermined the faulty foundations of the form that held Him.

And on that night, it all came tumbling down, and their god escaped with a deafening sound…"

That just about sums up my feelings on the topic; perhaps that's what Nietzsche was getting at all along? God is dead; long live God!

On a different topic altogether, tonight is pool night. And, even though the season is concluded, the final playoff game to determine who goes to the money tournament is taking place in a few short hours and Begorrah is going to smash The Bodies. And yours truly will be cheering them on. I feel an 8-ball break is in the offing for the english lad, and I wouldn't be surprised if the irish or ukranian ran the table, eh?

And likely I will stay out until all hours of the morning, resulting in a complete lack of sleep. Which, of course, means I will be very tired tomorrow, and likely confused with dead. But I will, nonetheless, sit at my keyboard and randomly strike keys, banking on the monkey theorem working for humans too :-)

Raindrops on Roses and Whiskers on Kittens

Monday
7:00 p.m.
We have a guest arriving shortly. This will be his first time to my house. Amy has given him explicit instructions to look for the bright pink mailbox on the left hand side just past mile marker 11. I predict he will miss the driveway, just like everyone else (including me still). Amy says he is smarter than that.

7:35 p.m.
He is calling her now. Was looking for a white mailbox and completely missed the drive. I will not mock him though; as I said, I still miss it and, well, he's hot :-)

7:45 p.m.
Ok, they are sorted and on their way; I walked them to the door and said goodbye...sort of. What I really said was, "Thanks, Amy, for changing my lightbulbs." He gave me one very alarmed look. "Changing the lightbulbs" is Amy's way of telling him she wants to be invited over for sex. He is wondering right about now what sort of bizarre family he has landed in the middle of. Shrug.

The topic of conversation today is masturbation. Now, isn't that just one of the ugliest words you've ever heard? It's no wonder people get themselves all worked up over it.

It's also likely why they don't actually use the word unless they are lecturing on the subject. Ever been lectured on masturbation? These are seriously not fun conversations, generally because if someone is lecturing you on masturbation, it is with the intention of convincing you that masturbation is wrong and you should not be doing it.

I can only say, if masturbation is a bad thing, Vicky is going to hell in a handbasket and she's taking Dong with her.

Actually, Dong sits unused in a box somewhere in my bedroom, I've forgotten exactly where. Dong is too much like the real thing and not enough like the real thing. When I want the real thing, I want the real thing. And it isn't because I want an orgasm - it's because I want to hold that, suck on that...slide down that...and there is just no substitution for the real thing.

Under those circumstances, I want The Monkey.

Girls don't have a monkey; we do, however, have a soft little kitty that likes to be held and stroked until its fur is all glossy and slick. Everyone knows kitty is much better behaved than The Monkey. In fact, kitties sit in the laps of ladies, purring softly while The Monkey gets spanked.

Of course, this makes the kitty want to taunt The Monkey and get him into further trouble. The recently-spanked Monkey is trying to remain calm and not draw further attention to itself, and along comes kitty, jumping up into The Monkey's lap, rubbing her fur in his face, getting him all wet and sticky when he's just gotten cleaned up. The Monkey generally has a hard time resisting such provocative behavior, and gets all feisty and riled and starts poking at pussy who then starts to hiss and spit in return. And then, if the situation is allowed to continue, friction mounts and so does The Monkey, and then everybody ends up wet and spitting and in the doghouse, and that is when the real fun begins. When the puppies are involved, someone is bound to get bit.

Hm...mount, bound, bit - all right up there with whiskers on kittens as some of my favorite things.

10:00 p.m.
I didn't know this until recently, but smart guys spank The Monkey before they go see a girl and her pussy. This is, apparently, how guys keep The Monkey under control and prevents The Monkey from spitting prematurely at the cat. I hear they also spank The Monkey when they aren't going to see a girl for awhile and don't wish to walk around with a misbehaving miscreant climbing up their pantleg.

Girls, on the other hand, stroke the kitty to ease tension, take their mind off other things, and help them fall into a blissful sleep. Which reminds me, it's my bedtime! Come along, kitty, sure hope I can relax...

Tuesday
8:45 a.m.
I had no trouble falling asleep at all. Must have been the exercising I did right before bedtime.

In fact, I was sound asleep with happy thoughts of monkey stirring and kitty purring when Amy texted me to see if I wanted to meet up for coffee. I replied shortly thereafter, indicating that yes, coffee would be grand, and why was her car still here? That was at 6:30 a.m. I didn't hear back from her for quite some time and began to suspect she stirred The Monkey.

Finally, at 8:00 a.m., I texted her. "I'm having coffee alone this morning, aren't I?" She replied, "Yep. And by the way, if my dad asks, I spent the night at your place." LOL!

If Amy enjoys these early morning trysts as much as I do, then I imagine she will not be picking her car up for quite some time.

Urgent, Urgent, Emergency...

Main Entry: emer·gen·cy
1 : an unforeseen combination of circumstances or the resulting state that calls for immediate action
2 : an urgent need for assistance or relief

Main Entry: scur·ry
1 : to move in or as if in a brisk pace : scamper
2 : to move around in an agitated, confused, or fluttering manner

Someone really should remind ERs what the E stands for. When one shows up in an EMERGENCY room, especially in the late evening or early morning hours, they expect a certain amount of scurrying for their dollar, or their one hundred dollars, as the case may be. In fact, for one hundred dollars, I expect scurry with a little dither thrown in for good measure.

When I took Amy to the EMERGENCY room late Friday night, however, I did not get scurry or dither for my one hundred bucks. I did get a little scamper, scurry's playful cousin; but, since the scamper was directed at the doodle-bug, I'm not sure I got my money's worth. She even got a sticker for good measure. HEY! Mr. Nurse! Where's MY warm blanket? Where's MY Strawberry Shortcake sticker? Where's my SCAMPER??

Sigh.

The evening started out right enough - we ate dinner at The Slip on Kirkland's waterfront. It's a dive with the best burgers and gorgonzola fries ever. It also has this adorable goth waitress with a fairy tattoo and the most amazing eyes - green with a ring of orange. (Hey, whaddaya know, Bob was right - I AM narcissistic! LOL!!)

Then we popped into Hector's for drinks, where we met a guy who asked me for my phone number and, because I had had two drinks, I gave it to him. And then, in the space of about 10 minutes, mi ángel pálido blanched and swelled up. Here's a pic.

Amy

A trip to the ER was imminent.

We arrived and checked in and sat...and sat...and sat and sat and sat. And we were the only people in the EMERGENCY room. Then we were shown to a nurse's station where Amy was cuffed and puffed and determined to still be alive. And then we sat a while longer. And then we were taken back to the examination rooms where we sat some more.

And then the slooooooowest moving doctor in the world came in to provide our EMERGENCY care. He was sooooooooo slow, I wanted a BP reading on him just to make sure he really was in the land of the living, and not a corpse that just happened to wander into our room looking for fun and amusing things to do while he waited for someone to realize he was dead and cart him off to the morgue at a slow scurry.

In the meantime, Amy was looking at me with those big blue eyes and trying to speak. She said, "oor aww eor pain ooh," which is Chubby Bunny for "GIVE ME SOME FUCKIN' PAINKILLERS NOW OR I AM RIPPING SOMEONE'S HEAD OFF." I feared for SloDoc's life while simultaneously hating him for making my baby suffer one moment longer than necessary.

He clearly picked up on a vibe because he actually slowed down. He hmmmm'd, then left the room to call the ENT specialist. Yeah. We sat for another 20 mins. and then I could not take watching her puff up like a marshmallow in the fire - seriously, time-lapse photog was not necessary, she was puffing at an alarming rate, and still SloDoc had not returned. I finally went looking for him.

Well, actually, I stepped outside the room and looked to the right. He was standing at the nurse's station doing absolutely nothing. He saw me, straightened up and actually bustled back to our room. Ok, that was worth, maybe, a dollar.

"Well, I spoke with the ENT and he really feels this is something we could treat with antibiotics and check in the morning. He didn't feel...blah, blah, blah...his sleep, blah, blah..."

Say what? Did you just tell me he didn't feel it was worth interrupting his sleep for?? It is now ONE in the FUCKING MORNING; we have been here all NIGHT, in this antiseptic room sitting on hard chairs under BRIGHT LIGHTS, SWELLING LIKE A BALLOON, and he doesn't feel it is worth INTERRUPTING HIS SLEEP FOR??

Now see, if I wasn't such a calm person, THAT is what I would have said to him. Instead, what I said was, "Can she at least have some painkillers?" And he clearly felt he had escaped some unknown but terrible danger, and quickly replied, "Yes! Absolutely! We'll give her some percocet."

And at that point, my beautiful, suffering daughter bursts into tears. And before you can say "johnny jump up!" a cute male nurse is tucking not one, not two, not even three, but four heated blankets around her body, she is hooked up to an IV, a prescription is being sent electronically to the pharmacy down the hall, and she is sporting a cool Strawberry Shortcake sticker.

Apparently, the E in ER is tear-activated. Note to self, start the saline "drip" earlier next time around.