Tag Archives: Glee

Behind The Scenes At COASM


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…


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.

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


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


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?


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?

The 12 Hours of Christmas: Because I don’t have time to journal for 12 days, people. You get what you pay for, and this shit is free.


So I’m baking holiday cookies before all the blue-hairs descend on us. I’ve got my hands covered in raw-egg-infested dough (which just gives me the boo-hoo-jeebies), I just realized I’m out of powdered sugar, the oven is beeping incessantly, and I burned the shit out of my favorite kitchen towel with the little chickens on it. As I’m opening the oven to put in the next batch of job security for my aerobics instructor, my five-year-old comes tearing ass through the kitchen on a tricycle, buck naked, using one hand to drag along a broken doll stroller with a football strapped into it, singing “Snape, Snape, Seeeeeberus Snape, DUNGLEDORB!It’s 8 a.m.

Puppets rule.

I don’t even know why I bother with the whole cookie-making deal, and I said as much to the checker at the grocery store while I was getting powdered sugar and a bottle of Patron. Both of these purchases have to do with the cookies, but only one is strictly called for in the recipe my girlfriend put on Facebook to shame me into baking. “Oh,” said the perky checker, “It’s not about making cookies. It’s about making memories with your children!” Really? Which part? The part where I say, “That’s hot! Don’t touch!” sixty times a minute? Or maybe the part where my kids lose interest four minutes into the prep work and take off on me to play Super Mario so I drip egg goo all over the floor and yell at them to, “GET BACK IN HERE AND MAKE SOME FREAKING MEMORIES WITH YOUR MOTHER!”? Or the part where I give up on cookies and decide to make rum balls because then I can drink while I bake and it’s totally a necessary part of making sure I have the right ingredients? Fuck. It’s only 10 a.m.

So, the kids are off at playdates, and I can get some work done. And by work, I mean, I can sit here and type random crap for you people (you’re welcome) while procrastinating and trying to ignore the scent of the demise of my favorite jeans wafting from the oven. Why can’t cookies be thin-ening instead of fattening? Why can’t we get caloric credits for what we DON’T eat? Considering how much effort it takes not to eat a dozen snowman cookies an hour, you’d think it would at least count for something. If I got credited 10 calories for every 100 calories of ChrismaKwanziHanukkah treats I don’t eat, I’d be in my really-really favorite jeans by now, and it’s been so long since I wore those that they’re actually acid washed with ankle zippers, but if I could get into them I’d wear the shit out of those skinny fuckers. And you would too. It’s noon, and now I’m hungry.

Before I pick up my kids, I have to run to Target. Again. Last week the manager told me that if I increase my monthly average shopping time by just another 37 minutes, I’ll get my own designated parking spot and a pimped-out cart with my name vajazzled on the handle. Or that could have been a dream. But probably not. Anyway, I make the rounds through Target and get a good look at Middle America while I do so. If what I see at Target is any indication of where we’re going as a society, we are fucking doomed, people. Yeah, you know what I’m talking about. It’s 2 p.m. and I really need to pee, but it will have to wait because I’m afraid to pee in Target in case my cell phone rings while I’m on the toilet and I have to answer it because it’s important but then the person in the next stall starts answering me like in a bad SNL skit and then I’d have to tell her to shut up and then I’d have to explain to my client/friend/grandma/lawyer that I’m peeing in public while talking on my cell. No thanks. I’ll hold it.

Back at home, my kids are quiet. Too quiet. I wash more heebie jeebie egg plasma off my hands. Twice. And then I go in search of mischief. It doesn’t take long to find it. Kid #1 has built a fort by completely disassembling the bed and is playing under the mattress. Kid #2 is naked. Again. And now the oven is beeping. Again. It’s 4 p.m., people. And I am fucking tired.

I spent some time reading in the mattress fort, which was actually pretty damn cool, and later I draped my naked kid in a big tee-shirt for finger painting. We cleaned up all our messes (and by “we” I mean “mostly I”), then bagged and boxed up dozens of cookies and brownies and all sorts of other crap “we” made today, and then started the evening routine: Wash hands. Eat dinner. Wash bodies. Eat cookies. Go potty. Wash hands. Brush teeth. Read a story. Read another story. Go to bed. Come out. Drink water. Go back to bed. Come out. Go potty. Wash hands. Go back to bed. Come out. Beg for snack like a stoner at Burning Man begs for special brownies. Go back to bed. Come out. Get told to go back to bed. Claim to just be coming out for a hug (they learn early). Get hug. And get kiss. And get another hug and kiss. And some Eskimo kisses and tummy raspberries. And some tickles. And another tucking in. Go to bed. Snore. It’s 8 p.m.

Bonus Hour 8-9 p.m. (Don’t say I never do anything nice for you people.)

Fuck you, Sue. You stole my Northman glee.

I texted Mr. Northman to see what he was up to, mostly because the only adult conversation I’d had all day was with the damn grocery checker, and anyone that cheerily stupid doesn’t count as an adult. He texted me that he was getting in the car, and I really love to fuck with him, so I started texting him this really fucking sexy story about what I’d do if I were sitting there in the front seat with him. I mean, I know he can’t read it while he’s driving, but he can hear the little “bloop!” every 20 seconds, and he knows exactly what that means. So, yeah, I’m fucking with him a little, but that’s only because I’m not actually fucking him, seeing as he lives so damn far away. Plus, he really likes it. So, I finished the story and laid down on the couch watching Glee. But it was mostly about Sue, and I can’t fucking stand her, so I fell asleep before Mr. Northman got home and responded (enthusiastically) to my sext-y story. Yeah. Nice for him and all, but all I got out of it was sore texting thumbs and a crick in my neck from sleeping on the damn couch.

Merry Christmas, web dwellers. I’m off to Target.

It’s Always The Guy With The Panel Van


I gotta say, being newly single in my late 30s is pretty damn weird. Everyone and her mother wants to set me up or have me develop an online dating profile. Yeah, because in all my spare time, between running a business and running two kids all over creation, I’d just love to go out with some dude I’ll never have enough time for and probably never trust enough to let sleep over with my kids in the house. “Oooh, Cathy has trust issues.” No. Fuck that. I do not have trust issues. But I do watch Law and Order: SVU, and it’s always the damn boyfriend. Or the guy with the panel van. Or that one time it was the boyfriend with the panel van. Why would anyone drive one of those things? It’s like having a big sign around your neck that reads, “I am a creepy nutjob who sleeps in his van.”

But I digress. The point is, when you’re a parent you have to put your kids first. Wow. I know, right? That’s a big newsflash to some people. You know who I’m talking about. There are plenty of these idiots walking around Walmart yelling at their kids for being cranky while Mommy shops for a new Xbox game at 11 p.m. Someone needs to smack the crap out of those people and tell them to go home and put their kids to bed. Lego Indiana Jones and The Legend of The McFlurry can wait until tomorrow. You are one of these people and you didn’t know that? Well, now you do. You’re a parent which means your kids’ needs come before your wants. Period. You’re welcome.

You know it's true. There's a whole freaking website about how crazy people are at Walmart.

By the way, I hate Walmart. Why does it smell like that?

Cool, digression from the digression! That’s like the blogger equivalent of Shakespeare’s play-within-a-play. Awesome. So, where was I? Ok. I had to go to the top of the document and reread for a sec. That’s what it’s like to be a blogger with ADHD. Ya like that? Yeah, me neither. Plus, my phone keeps going “bloop!” with little Facebook notifications, so I’m probably never going to get through this post.

The point is, dating when you have kids is tricky. I can’t imagine letting a guy get to know my kids right away. What if we break up? What if he turns out to be the panel van guy? It would have to be pretty serious before I’d be willing to introduce the nicest of guys to my little minions. Nothing crazy; say, a year or two after we get married might be long enough.

Who has time for this dating crap, anyway? With kids, a job, a house, family, friends, and community responsibilities, when I have a night to myself, I want to drink a glass of red wine, take a bubble bath, and watch Glee on DVR. Oh, and you don’t? Liar. I don’t have time to sacrifice my rare moments of quiet time for bad first dates. I’ve got Skype and a vibrator. I’m good to go and I’m guaranteed I’ll get to finish first. And I don’t even have to wear heels.

But even while having a sexy Skype text chat with a newly rediscovered friend-with-benefits, there are surprises in store. First, people are less inhibited when they’re typing because they don’t have to say the crazy shit they’re thinking out loud to your face. And men type some freaky crap, let me tell you. For instance, I’m having this IM chat on Skype with a guy I know from (way) back in the day in high school, and he starts with some seriously dirty talk. I mean, filthy, nasty, crazy dirty talk. The shit that came out of this man’s mouth, you would not believe. I didn’t believe it, and I thought I’d heard (and tried) pretty damn near everything. It was the dirtiest sex talk I’ve ever heard, even including the limited dialog in the few pornos I’ve watched. So, all in all, yeah, it was freaking fantastic.

Ok, so that one was a good surprise. Plus, I could save the conversation and reread it later. Saves me money downloading dirty books from Kindle. Think you can save conversations from real-life dates? From what I hear, men these days frown upon being tape-recorded in bed, or even in restaurants for that matter. But they do all seem to want to try the stuff they see in porn movies, and I gotta ask: what the hell is up with all this light choking in porn? That shit was not going on the last time I dated, and I have to tell you, folks, that seems pretty effing stupid to me. Yeah, sure. We’ve only been dating a month, but go ahead and try not to kill me while we screw. That sounds like a lot of fun!

So now I have to worry about pregnancy, STDs, HIV, and the possibility of being choked to death if I want to get laid? It’s no fucking wonder I haven’t gone on any real dates yet. The real world is freaking scary. Plus, I’d really have to shave my legs, and I’d so much rather go watch Glee.