Tag Archives: Big Bang Theory

Angry (Sex) Birds

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My girlfriend, Grayce — yes, I realize I’ve been writing about her a lot, but she doesn’t mind being blog fodder, and I’m not one to turn down free material — decided to have angry sex with her husband. Let me back up a sex here. Sec here. Grayce is married with kids. Those of you who are also married with kids know that, to put it in the most absurdly general terms possible, the amount of sex you have is inversely proportional to how many kids you have, despite all evidence being to the contrary. That is, the more kids you have, the less sex you have, even though you’d think if you have all those kids you’re a fuck bunny. There are exceptions to this rule, but I don’t hang out with those women because they’re too busy going to pilates while managing Fortune 500 mergers on their iPhones as Baby #47 nurses in an ergonomically correct sling made of organic fairy hair.

Maybe if Grayce wore this to bed…

At the moment, Grayce’s sex life is vacillating somewhere between Carole Brady and Michelle Duggar, even though she only has two kids. So that blows monkey chunks if you ask me. And if you ask her. Which you can’t, so trust me when I say Grayce  is not nearly as perky about her marital non-relations as those two Xanax Zombies, so mama needs to get some. I offered to give it up for her, but she doesn’t swing that way, and I’m still not so sure my stem-cell-research-based lesbian scheme is going to work out, so it was really just an “I’m here for you, dude,” offer, although she is pretty hot, so maybe. Anyway, it doesn’t matter, because Grayce doesn’t want to fuck me. She wants to fuck her husband. But the less they do the dance with no pants, the less she wants to do it because the more she resents her husband for choosing Angry Birds over what would, at this point, be very  angry sex. Read the rest of this entry

I Am A Total Douche Canoe.

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In the last 48 hours, I’ve gotten five messages from readers who fall into two categories:

A) Girlfriend: Where the fuck are you? Are you shacked up with Northman and having too much freaky sex to write? If so, yay for you, but you’re a douche canoe for not telling us ALL about it.

B) Mom: Where on God’s green earth are you? Are you ok? Is Northman ok? Are y’all having a spat? Did something happen with your little ones? Did your computer get the virus? You know I know how the computers do that with the Google and whatnot especially with all those dirty pictures you post. Now, whatever it is, you don’t have to write about it, but let us know you’re not lying dead in a ditch somewhere without clean panties or a sweater on for heaven’s sake.

So, first, thanks, y’all. Thanks for worrying about me even if it makes me feel like a total douche canoe for worrying you. And thanks for writing in, which was completely the kick my sorry ass needed to get in gear and explain myself. Here’s the Siri.

(I don’t think we can call it “Here’s the 411,” anymore. Now you go, “Hey, Siri, what the number for the sex store on 4th Ave?” and she goes, “You slut. It’s in your contacts list.” So, “Here’s the Siri,” is way more 21st century than, “Here’s the 411,” and you know I’m aaaall about being up with the times, yo.)

Alright. So, when last we met, I wrote y’all some erotic fiction. Ok, that’s crap. I wrote y’all some smutty porn fabulousness and it was damn awesome and led to some seriously naughty conversations with Northman, so even if you hated it, I fucking loved it, and it’s my blog, so yay for me. After that, I was just waiting for some inspiration because you know, I don’t just write about nothing. I mean, I write about my seriously crazy life and all the weird crap that happens in it. Usually, so much weird crap happens that I have plenty to choose from and I share about a fifth of it with you. But for some reason, early last month, nothing happened. I mean NOTHING.

Nothing funny happened, so I didn’t have any “Donkey Vagina” stories to share. And Northman and I were out of sync for around a week, so there was nothing on that front. Which sucked. Even the douche canoe next door with his fucking motorcycle was oddly quiet. And y’all don’t read my blog for deep introspection, so yeah, I had pretty much nothing to tell you.

After about a week, I sat down and tried to make myself think of something to write for y’all, and I had nothing. Nada. Zero. I started several new drafts and just, yeah, fucking nothing. Writer’s Block. 

So I decided to give it a rest. Here’s where I fucked up. I should have sent out a notice: Hey, web dwellers. I’m not dead. I’m just taking a little sabbatical. Only I’m not getting paid for it like professors do, but then again I don’t get paid for writing my blog, so I guess it only makes sense that I don’t get paid to not write my blog either.

I fully admit to being Cathy: The Asshat Captain of the USS Douche Canoe for the last month.

But I didn’t send out a notice, and so I’m a douche canoe. And I’m sorry. Let’s hug it out, bitches. 

((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((Yeah, I’m sending you a cheesy cyber hug. No copping a feel. Actually, go ahead. I’ll take what I can get these days.))))))))))))))))))))))))))))

Alright. We good? Sweet. So here’s the rundown on your favorite characters who are actual people in my life: 

  1. Northman (obviously): Northman is in my good graces like you would not fucking believe. If my good graces were chocolate, he’d be covered in it like some kind of human Twix bar or something. This analogy is lame, but it also works because you know, licking…biting….yum. Fuck, I’m out of blogging practice.
  2. Jerry (when did we last talk about him?): He’s around. He’s like … well, fuck, y’all. He’s just not that important to me. Don’t know why I made him #2 on the list except that sometimes I think he’s full of #2, which is why he’s not that fucking important.
  3. Penny: Penny. Penny. Penny. What can I say about Penny? (Yes, I did that on purpose, BBT fans.) Penny’s life is so hilarious that I WISH she would write a blog, only she’s a terrible writer, so it would have to be more like a podcast of our conversations so y’all could get some remote clue as to how flippin’ hilarious her life gets. But in the immediate: She’s fine.
  4. My minions (who are always number one on any list except this one because I don’t write about them much): Fucking awesome. 

So, ok, web dwellers. That’s the scoop. I’m off to worship Mr. Coffee a bit. Also, fucking, hello?!!? True Blood comes back on the air in JUNE and there’s a new Sookie “Bad Decisions” Stackhouse book out this week. When I have time to read it, I will tell you what kind of idiotic things she does this time. Also, my favorite blogger, The Bloggess, released a book, web dwellers. And if you don’t read it, I won’t be your friend anymore.

 

Behind The Scenes At COASM

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Hey, web dwellers. I really wanted to give you something special for our 2-month anniversary together, but if you can believe it, there’s no set list of anniversary gifts for site followers by month. Get married and they give you a list for the next 60 fucking years. But look for a blog list and you’re S.O.L. Go figure. Anyway, so I had to come up with something on my own. But I can’t give you all life-sized Eric Northman cutouts (because they’re MINE, ALL MINE!), and I really don’t want to spend more than, oh, anything, so I decided that last month’s “word jumble” image will become a tradition, and I’ll do it each month to see how it changes. Maybe that’s more of a gift to myself than to you, because only dorks like me would want to compare word jumble images from month to month, but you know, if you think about it, when I’m happy, I write more. And when I write more, y’all read more of this dirty, crazy lunacy that I call my life. So, yay. Happy anniversary to us. 

So I used the jumble generator, and here’s what it came up with:

What kind of crap is this? It's like they didn't even try! Not good enough for my web dwellers. Also, kind of weird emphasis on Northman, don't you think?

So I figured it was a fluke and I’d just try again. I mean, what are the odds it would do something similarly sufficient in making me seem creepily obsessed with Northman? The real-life one OR the TV one.

Yeah. So it gave me this. WTF?

Not as bad as the first, but still kind of fucked up if you think about it. Which I’m trying not to do. So I tried again. What can I say? I’m persistent.

Ok, how does this even count? "Northman" isn't even in the shape with everything else.

But I would not give up that easily. No. I would not be outdone and made to feel like some kind of whack-job stalker by an auto-word-generating website thingie. So I did it again.

This one is like an ink blot test that makes me think of sex, so I like it, but it's STILL got Northman ridiculously disproportionate to everything else.

And again….

They fit it all in the shape this time. I'll give 'em that.


And again…

Really?

Aaaand again…

Oh, sweet Jesus in Birks.

Yeah, and again.

How is this different from the last one?

I just would not fucking give up.

Maybe a little better, but also only because I was losing a grip at this point.

And finally, I got this:

My favorite and my gift to you. Or me. Whatever.

Here’s the thing, web dwellers, the jumbles are a hell of a lot like my blog. I generate something, and sometimes it’s awesome, and sometimes it’s a big, fat turd. But, apparently, there’s always some Northman in it, so ultimately, it’s awesome. Happy anniversary.

Douche Canoes: Some paddling necessary

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In honor of the two-month anniversary of Confessions of A Sexy Mom and the phenomenally overwhelming response y’all have shown me via your THREE THOUSAND PLUS site hits in that time, I offer to you a little vocab lesson, Sexy Mom Style.

A Douche Canoe is such an ass-hat as to be eligible for President of the “Summer’s Eve Product Impersonator Club.”

Douche Canoe: Damn near always a man, this term describes someone who far exceeds the range of and capacity for arrogant obnoxiousness common to the far more typical douche bag

  • Known for frequenting overpriced bars with emo bouncers and holding up single fingers to any approaching women so as to Tweet their disinterested followers from their Crackberries®, these exceptionally notable ass-hats are ideal specimens for those researching the very upper limits of douche-baggery in humans. 
  • One who is such a gargantuan douche bag as to necessitate a vehicle no smaller and less unwieldy than a canoe to tote around the figurative amount of douche-baggery he carries in his literally tiny brain.
  • Using the term in a sentence: That douche canoe just cut me off while simultaneously texting and smoking, causing me to slam on my brakes and get stuck behind his smog-spewing ass-hat-mobile. And when the light turned green, he was so busy texting that he took too long to notice, causing me to have to sit through another light cycle. THAT is a douche canoe.
  • Alternate terms include fuckwads, ass-hats, ass-clowns, and anyone who refers to himself as an “agent.” For further definition of “ass-hat” or “ass-clown,” refer back to our friend the pre-first-date barking man.
    • Y’all know I love Jenny Lawson, AKA: The Bloggess, and I first saw this term on her blog, so props to Jenny for improving my vocabulary and giving me a word to describe men who think all women should look like Victoria’s Secret models even though only five men on the planet look like Armani underwear models.

      Even David Beckham doesn’t actually look like this. So why do these douche canoes think women should always be in matching bras and g-string panties (Note: Not always smart for a given outfit) with DDs and less than 4% body fat?

Skype Sex: This activity involves two (or more, I suppose, but that’s just not how I roll, web dwellers) consenting adults engaging in mutual self-gratification via an Internet video connection. During said event, each participant actively facilitates the achievement of orgasm(s) by his or her partner by speaking, moving, behaving, or otherwise performing in a manner the partner finds sexually desirable.

  • Point of interest: All douche canoes are dickheads, but not all dickheads are douche canoes. You know, like, all politicians are liars, but not all liars are politicians.

    Using the term in a sentence: Waving your dick around, jacking off in front of a webcam, and then getting dressed does not constitute Skype Sex, but it does mean you are a dickhead who is also a gigantic douche canoe.

  • Alternate terms include cybersex, video sexting, and Date Night With Northman (But he’s not a douche canoe. Ever.).
  • See Skype Sex 101.

Friends With Benefits: Sometimes abbreviated as FWB, this relationship is defined by the involvement of a sexual component into an otherwise platonic friendship.

  • Without the commitments or obligations inherent in a monogamous relationship, nor the expectation on either friend’s part that such a romantic involvement will result from said encounter(s), two (or, again, more, but not in my book) consenting adults engage in sexual activities up to and including coitus (why are you still not watching The Big Bang Theory?) while maintaining and often enhancing their friendship but having no further expectations or obligations from/to one another.  
  • Paramount in this arrangement is that the two people involved actually be friends before entering such an arrangement. If they are not friends, it’s just casual sex. That is, you can’t be Friends With Benefits if there are no friends involved upon whom to bestow those benefits.
  • Using the term in a sentence: I have an acquaintance who wants to be Friends With Benefits, but I simply cannot have Skype Sex with him because he is a raging douche canoe.

Can you tell I’ve kind of had it with preening, self-important douche canoes this week? Write in and tell me about the ass-hats in your life. And let me know what you want to hear about in the coming month. Thanks for reading, web dwellers.

As usual, please remember to “like” me on Facebook (see link on the right) and “follow” COASM by clicking “follow” where you see “Get Email Updates From The Sexy Mom!” Then you’ll get an email when I post, which is awesome. But I won’t spam you because I hate spam. Also because I don’t know how. And you know, if you read and don’t share this stuff via social media, you’re stealing the blog like people who listen to NPR and watch PBS without ever making donations. Oh, shit. That’s me. Crap. Never mind.

Love Means Never Having To Spackle

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Say it with me! Praised Be!

So, once again, I’m sitting outside with my favorite blanket, my iPad, and a steaming hot cup of bean worship (Praised be, Mr. Coffee!), and I’m freezing my butt off (oh, how I wish that were a literal saying) reading what Yahoo! considers to be “news” these days: an actress and a celeb-stitute were spotted wearing *gasp!* the same dress just two months and three continents apart! How will they ever go on?!? Careers ruined! Stylists fired! World ended! Fuck, people. Sometimes, I am really freaking glad I’m not famous. The rich part I wouldn’t mind. But the 24/7 cameras up my ass? No thank you. I’m good.

Anyway, so I’m braving the cold to enjoy the quiet because there is nowhere, NOWHERE in a house with kids that’s truly safe for a parent seeking a little respite. Back me up here, kid-raisers. How far have you gone to sneak in some quiet? I know every single one of you has run to the grocery store for something you didn’t really need or told your spouse you had a coupon that was expiring so you just had to go out right now and use it or it would go to waste. Or, my favorite, you claimed to need to pee when you really didn’t, just so you could get the hell away from the noise for five minutes, only to have little fingers wiggling at you under the door within 45 seconds and hear, “Are you done yet? Can I come in? What are you doing in there? Are you pooping? I pooped this morning. It was brown. And I wiped and washed my hands, Mommy! Did you know bears poop? Daddy says bears poop in the woods. But you told me poop goes in the potty, Mommy. Why don’t bears poop in the potty? Don’t their mommies give them m&m’s for pooping on the potty? Are you still going poopoo, Mommy? What are you doing in there now? Mommy, um, I need to go peepee.”

Hmmmm... I'll have to think about that.

This is why I don’t hide in the bathroom. Instead, I hide outside on the back porch where it’s quiet and freezing and no one in his or her right mind would go. Like I said, perfect for me, because, as we’ve established at great length, I am most definitely not in my right mind. Case in point, I’m starting to feel like a not-quite-40-year-old virgin…even though I have two kids. I mean, how long can a woman go without getting laid without kind of needing to be shown the ropes all over again, figuratively speaking? (Although, according to Mr. Northman’s dirty mouth, he’d like to show me the ropes quite literally, and that’s just fine with me.)

I am fairly apprehensive about dating again. That alone is a new thing for me. I am not the apprehensive type. I make a choice and I do it. But this is different. I feel like sleeping with someone new now would be tantamount to losing my virginity. The First Guy After The Divorce. I don’t know, somehow that seems like a really big deal and not something to be taken lightly. I was thinking about this last week when the topic came up on The Big Bang Theory, which you should be watching. Seriously. If you don’t know the characters, just replace their names with Nerd 1, Nerd 2, Nerd 3, and Nerd 4 (Super Nerd). That’s all you really need to know.

Howard: Hey, did either of you guys know that three dates with the same woman is the threshold for sex?

Raj: Actually, I’ve never had three dates with the same woman.

Leonard: With Penny and me, it took two years. Now that I think about it…that was three dates.

Howard: Okay, well, before you and Penny hooked up, did she ask for any kind of commitment?

Leonard: No, she was pretty clear about wanting to keep her options open.

Sheldon (arriving): I have something to announce, but out of respect for convention, I will wait for you to finish your current conversation. What are you talking about?

Leonard: The cultural paradigm in which people have sex after three dates.

Sheldon: I see. Now, are we talking date, the social interaction, or date, the dried fruit?

Now you just have to have three dates. WTF?

Here’s the deal. I may not be so oblivious to current dating norms that I’d be astounded if a guy thought three dates meant sex, but I am so far out of the dating realm that I still think this “guideline” was most definitely generated by a man and perpetuated by a gigantic secret-man-code conspiracy. Three dates means sex? How did we go from “No sex before marriage,” to “Lunch, dinner, fuck,” in three generations? How can you get to know someone well in three dates? And would you really want to fuck someone you don’t know well? Wait, ok, see, there’s the point: you can fuck someone you don’t know well pretty easily. But you can’t connect with him on a meaningful level after knowing him for only a matter of hours during which you’ve both been on your “new date” behavior. So, yeah, I can see being so ridiculously attracted to someone that I’d want to jump him in the restaurant bathroom. But I’m pretty sure that would result in meaningless sex that might last a few weeks or months and then the whole thing would fizzle. And I want more than that. I think.

It’s just been so damn long since I was with someone new – and let’s be honest, so fucking long since I’ve been with anyone at all – that I just don’t even know where to start. I mean, yes, there’s Northman and there’s Jerry. And they are fucking awesome…but they’re not fucking me. They’re fun to spend virtual time with and there’s always the chance of a weekend away with one (or the other, or both…) of them, but the odds of my having a long-term, committed relationship with either of them are about the same as the odds of me getting to pee uninterrupted when my kids are awake.

So, I guess I will start dating eventually, but then there’s always the chance I’ll end up meeting some guy who’s even more of a sex freak than I am in bed. Someone like my friend, Sheldon, for example (Yes, I named him Sheldon for the blog before thinking I might ever quote the Big Bang Theory as I did above. We’ll get through it, web dwellers.). For Sheldon, a massively overactive sex drive, coupled with the ubiquity of porn, has inspired him to try some things that make for really incredible stories, and they culminated in this conversation I had with him last week:

Sheldon: So Amy and I had crazy-ass-sex last night. (Amy’s his girlfriend.)

Me: Asshole.

Sheldon: Sorry, kid. I can’t help it. I’m serious. We had circus freak barnyard clown sex.

You don't even want to know what Google gave me when I searched for an image of "clown sex." Seriously. So I'm going the opposite direction here and giving props to Amy's vagina for handling Sheldon's Sexy Sideshow. (Thanks to reader Karen B. for the submission!)

Me: I’m going to regret this. I know it. But, what the fuck is “circus freak barnyard clown sex”?

Sheldon: It’s fucking awesome, that’s what it is. Let’s see. Vaginal, oral, anal, clamshell, DP, doggie, fisting, sixty-nine, spoon, standing, some new positions from this porno I rented…we fucking demolished the bedroom. I may have to spackle.

Me: Wait. I need to…wait. You…nevermind. You know what? You are a circus freak.

Sheldon: And you love me.

And I guess that’s the thing. I do love Sheldon. As a friend. And I’d really like to find a guy I can date and get to know and maybe even love enough to consider having circus freak barnyard clown sex with. Because, in the end, isn’t that what we all want?

No, me neither. Sheldon’s a freak.

Remember to comment here ↓ and both “like” me on Facebook and “follow” Confessions of a Sexy Mom here →.

Got a story for me? A funny image to share? Send it to sexymom@hushmail.com. I want to hear from you! 🙂 

The Monthly Wrap Up: Because I’m too tired to come up with anything that original.

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So, ok, end of our first month here at Confessions of a Sexy Mom, and I gotta tell you, web dwellers, you people are fucking awesome. I just love the heck out of you, and I’m in touch with my emotions enough to say so without having to go bench press or deep fry anything. Damn, I just love being a woman.

So, I figured I’d do a little monthly retrospective. A “confession-all” if you will (see how much lamer the jokes and puns are when I’m tired?), and I’ll toss in some random stuff I laughed at this month but, for whatever reason, didn’t post here earlier.

Heeeere we go.

Northman loves my drunken texts. Which is good, because with the blue-hairs around last month, there were plenty.

First, I saw this ( ←) yesterday and laughed my ass off. This is 100% a GREAT idea, and if you can keep your sense-of-humor hat on instead of going all, “Ooooh, that’s too ‘Big Brother’ if my phone knows I’m wasted,” then it’s pretty fucking funny.

Second, take a gander over yonder at the site hit numbers →. Oh, yeah. That’s more than 2,000 hits in a month. THAT is a blog-gasm. I’m super excited. Now let’s just get some more fans on the Facebook page so people will know when there’s something new here.

Numero Tres: Did you know if you go to the WordPress home page and select “topics” and then type in “fucking” that you’ll find some really freaky crap? Well, shit, searching for “sexy” or “Northman” wasn’t yielding great results, so I went the other direction. I thought maybe I’d find some blogs like mine with some random sexiness in there. Uh, no. Warning! If you don’t want to know what “fisting” is, DO NOT TRY THIS SEARCH. Wow. A lot has changed since I was last out there, people. A fucking lot has changed.

And Four: I found this neat site that lets you make graphic representations of relevant words on your site. I don’t know what people really use this for, but I thought it was neat, and here’s what I made. Didn’t even need to paint any macaroni!

Cinco de Awesome-o: Damn, that would have pissed my high school Spanish teacher off big time. No sense of humor. Anyway, this ↓ is what I posted this month in no particular order (and in kind of a mess because I don’t have a hell of a lot of control over the formatting here), not counting just little crap like a poll and letting y’all know I’m on Facebook. Which I am. And you should be too.

Six…more months until True Blood Season Five, so here’s one of my favorite scenes from Season Four, which I just rewatched because there’s so much Northman sex. Oh, Pam. I thank Mr. Coffee for whomever cast you and made your role so much bigger in the show than the books.

Also… A shout out to Karen B., Liesel B., Rebecca Z., Nicole S., and Tara C. for all your super funny posts on the Facebook wall!! Y’all are hilarious, ladies!! Keep it up, gals!!

And Now, A Message From Mr. Northman

Taking One For The Team

Elves, Men, Monkeys, and MartinisThe 12 Hours of Christmas

JPAMDD

The Versatile Blogger Award.

You People Need Help.

This Is Why Republicans Fear Me

I Sound My Barbaric Yawp Over The Roofs Of The World.

It's Always The Guy With The Panel Van

Did I Miss Something Here?

Blog-gasms

Shaved Pussies Are For Pussies

There Isn't Enough Purrell On The Planet For This Shit.

You're Just Coitusing With Me, Aren't You?

You’re Just Coitusing With Me, Aren’t You?

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I’ve been trying to write some kind of inspiring New Year’s Resolution post for you people, and I gotta say, I suck at that. The truth is, I think New Year’s Resolutions are kind of pointless and stupid. They set us up for failure:

  • Go to the gym every week.
    • What if you get sick? What if the gym burns down?
  • Lose two pounds a week.
    • So you bust your ass at the gym [after it’s rebuilt from the fire] but you also have PMS, so you gain a pound and feel like a failure?
  • Quit drinking, smoking, double parking, letting your dog crap on the neighbor’s grass, dropping acid, or returning library books late.
    • Yeah, because any of these are feasible.

New Year’s Resolutions are just lame, and they feel kind of arbitrary. You eat two (boxes of) doughnut holes and smoke one cigarette, and suddenly your whole year is a waste? By January 2nd? Fuck that.

I’m more for setting New Year’s GOALS. This makes me a lot happier, and we all know I’m all about HAPPY. So here are some of my goals for 2012. Feel free to leave a comment and let me know what you’re planning to do this year, and yeah, smartasses, go ahead and tell me what you think I should do, too, unless it involves finding Jesus, because I seriously only found my own G-spot like two years ago and I can’t even find all the pieces to the toys my minions just got over the holidays, much less a whole person, so the odds of me getting in on that are pretty fucking slim.

Goal Numero Uno: Fuck Mr. Northman. Yes, in the good way. Oh, yeah. This is a goal I can get behind. Or in front of. Or on top of. Or, you know, inverted with. Or, or…wait…wait…um, what was I saying?

Have you still not rented Dogma? Get with it, web dwellers!

Second Goal: Blog a lot. This one is easy as doughnut holes. I dig blogging. Apparently some people dig reading it. A whole lotta diggin’ and I get to curse in cyber-public. Rock on. I’m on it like Birks on Buddy Christ.

#3: Be nicer to myself. Ok, this one’s a bit closer to a resolution because if I fuck up and I’m mean to myself then I feel like a failure, and then I beat myself up for it, and then I’m being mean to myself some more, and then I’m pissed. So I gotta spell this one out goal-style: Being nicer to myself does not mean never engaging in self-bitchery. It means, “work on that.” It means, “Try hard not to say shit to yourself that you’d punch other people in the nads for saying to you.”

Quatro: Watch every episode of True Blood when Season 5 comes out because there has got to be some Eric Northman sex in there somewhere and I vow to see it. On DVR. So I can rewind and stuff. Every list has to have a “gimme.”

And Then There Were Five: As much as possible, do your best to be, feel, speak, work, listen, love, live, sleep, parent, try, dream, do, have, lust, eat, and laugh better.

The deliciously fucked up mind behind True Blood

Well, shit. I just realized I could have skipped 1 through 4 because #5 pretty much sums it up, but then you’d have had less to read, and I’m all about customer service here, web dwellers.

Bonus point of the day: Did you know men frequently experience wrist and forearm sprains from over-jacking? And I don’t mean working on cars, people. I swear to Alan Ball, I hurt my thumb preventing kid #2 from hurting a lot more than a thumb, and I was telling Mr. Northman we needed to video chat instead of typing because my thumb hurt, when he said, “What? Did you hurt it masturbating?” My initial reaction was something like, “What is the fucking matter with you?” but I swear, the man let me in on some kind of man-code-protected secret and told me that he knows at least three guys who’ve had wrist or hand sprains in the past year from spending too much time…at mechanic school.

You need to be watching The Big Bang Theory. That's no bazinga.

So, informal survey here, web dwellers. Is he just coitusing with me here? Is this a bazinga moment, or are men that stupid? I’m serious, people. If that’s true, I am definitely good to go on my Second Goal, because that’s good for at least four posts right there.

Remember to “like” Confessions of A Sexy Mom on Facebook. It makes me feel good. Also, you might win a new particle accelerator if you “follow” my blog. Bazinga!