Tag Archives: Jerry

Well, that sucks.

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Hey, y’all. I know, I know. WTF have I been up to that I haven’t written. Well, the truth is, I have a pretty fucking crazy life at the moment, and it’s even crazier than usual, and not in a good way. Not in the “I’m too busy having crazyass sex every night to sit up and blog for you people,” way. More like the, “I’m too busy working my ass off and taking care of my minions while moving and dealing with a bunch of family crap,” way. So, you know, fun.

And now it’s summer vacation, and with the minions off school for the next year and a half (well, it FEELS like summer lasts that long!), I just don’t know how much blogging I’ll be doing. But, you awesome web dwellers, you deserve more than to have me vanish into the ether, so here’s an little snapshot of Cathy’s World at the moment.

Rest In Peace, Mr. Coffee. Praised Be.

I’m still “seeing” Northman virtually. Things have cooled off between us a bit. I think the novelty has kind of worn off. We’re close. We’re good friends. We have rockin’ Skype sex. He’s funny (not as funny as I am, but you know, nobody’s perfect). We have a solid connection and good chemistry. But the fact is, he’s there and I’m here, and even though we still plan to get together later this year, I’m not so sure it’ll be the fuckfest we had initially planned. Above and beyond all else, we want each other to be happy, and so I’m happy for him that he’s been dating someone who actually lives a car ride (and not a plane ride) away. I’m not even jealous or envious. I love him. I want him to find happiness, even if that means I never get to sleep with him. Although sleeping with him — and let me be clear, I mean fucking him — would be awesome. 

Jerry is still around here and there. He’s still kind of a douche canoe sometimes — so cocky — but he’s also a good guy who’s fun to hang out with. Work is busy with clients both interesting and boring as dirt. My minions are little Fonzies. Coolest fucking people you’ll ever meet, but without the leather jackets. Mr. Coffee died and was reincarnated at Target in a stainless steel body. Penny is up to her usual chicanery, always calling because she’s stunned at the idiocy and inefficiency of the average American only to have me remind her that she’s just so much smarter than average that what seems like common sense to her is Advanced Calculus to a person with a 100-point IQ. She hasn’t made me laugh into tears lately, or you’d have heard about it. But it won’t be long.

Oh, and I did read the new Sookie book, and I thought it fucking sucked. But I’ll live because the new season of True Blood starts in four days. Sookie better get some Northman sex. I mean, Sweet Jesus in Birks. At least one of us should.

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.

Everyone wants to see my bra. Obviously.

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Rosie bras are for women who do more than pose in heels.

I love pretty, lacy, frilly bras. I also love bras that can hold my Cinnabon-sized DDs up high enough that they don’t look like an oddly located fat roll under a tight sweater. The two are often mutually exclusive. All the pretty bras are for little macaroon-sized titties, while the Rosie Riveters of bras are up on a wall or on a rack on the bottom (or in the back…or both). Way to make us ladies with chesticle-induced back problems bend over to get what we need. Thanks.

 

These are the mini buns. Mine are not.

In high school, I already had great tits, and they were practically helium-filled.  I was too inexperienced in life (aka: too much of a stupid teenager) to appreciate how fabulous it was that, even naked, they were closer to my collarbones than my hipbones. I worried they were too small because I failed “The Pencil Test.” Yes, at 17, my already-size-Ds were so fucking perky those bitches didn’t even droop enough to hold a pencil underneath. After two more decades, two pregnancies, and two years of nursing (talk about shitty bras), I can hold a fucking case of pencils under them. Each of them. But they’re still pretty awesome, and now I know how to use them.

 

I failed this one back then. Today, I'd ace the crap out of it.

Yeah, being a grown woman is a bitch. While I haven’t acquired the dreaded missile tits my mom had when I was a kid, which I would see every morning when I just barged on into her bathroom whenever I damn pleased, I have been fully introduced to the concept of why a woman whose cup runneth over would ever need a padded bra, something I could never understand when shopping back in the day. And I can’t just run to the store without putting on a bra (frankly, I can’t run anywhere without a serious sports bra), and in another decade, I very well may need to have some talented surgeon tack these babies back up where they belong if I want to continue walking upright. So, yeah. Sometimes, I envy those gals who get to wear the lacy pretties with spaghetti straps that couldn’t support a kiwi.

Yeah, you know who you are, Kiwi-Tit bitches.

On the flip side, it’s hard to find a man who doesn’t love big boobs. They’re programmed from birth through some Darwinian misconception that big boobs mean sustenance and it just never goes away. So, I have to ask: If pretty bras are (at least partially) supposed to be some sort of gift wrapping for men to open, and men like big presents, then why are all the pretty bras only big enough to wrap iPod Nanos when I need to wrap a MacBook?

Even my five-year-old has a thing for bras, maybe because I’m the only one in the house who wears one:

Minion #2: “Is that your bra, Mommy?”

Me: “Yes, honey. That’s Mommy’s bra.”

M2: “It’s a red bra.”

Me: “Yes, it’s a red bra.”

M2: “Can I touch it?”

Me, trying to be more “evolved” and non-self-conscious so I can teach my kids there’s no shame in our bodies but also weighing the whole “some body parts are private” issue, but this is a garment, not my breast, even though my breast is in it, and not answering makes there be an issue where there isn’t one and now it’s been two seconds: “Um. Sure.”

M2: “It’s smooth!”

Me, moving on: “Yes, it’s smooth. What about your shirt? Is it smooth?”

M2: “No. My shirt is white.”

Me, thinking, “Huh?”: “Great. Go put your shoes on.”

You know. Third Date Panties. Not granny panties from Target. (Side Rant: Could lingerie companies hire younger looking models? Maybe some who are still in diapers? Because this trend of having 12-year-olds model because they're the only ones thin enough for the getups is really getting old. And nauseating.)

So I got dressed, found the minions’ shoes, and we headed out to, you guessed it, Target, where, ironically, I needed to stop in the Ladies Unmentionables department. As I’m bending over with my ass in the breeze trying to find the right size and cut of Fruit-of-the-Jockey-For-Her cotton panties (Hey, they can’t all be Third Date panties.), Minion #2 leans out of the giganto-double-cart:

M2 (fucking loud): Look, Mommy! Bras!!

Me: “Yes, honey. Bras. Inside voice, please.”

M2 (possibly louder): “Can I touch ‘em?”

Overheard: Giggling Mom in Next Aisle.

Me: “What?”

M2: “I wanna touch them.”

Me, feeling better about the bra touching at home and knowing it was definitely about the package, not the contents: “Those are not our bras. We don’t need to touch other people’s bras.”

Just then, a text from my sometimes sexy Skype associate, Jerry: Hey, Baby.

Me, two minutes later when I have a free hand because I’m standing in the same spot just taking a deep breath – it was that kind of day: Hey ❤ 

Jerry: I was just looking @ that pic u sent w/ the black bra.

Yes, I sent him a pic of my fabulous tits. And he loved it, which I rather enjoyed as well.

Me, thinking, “What are the fucking odds? What is it? Cathy’s Tits Appreciation Day?”: Good. You should be.

Jerry texted something else but I didn’t get it until later because I tossed my phone in my purse so I could pay proper attention to my kids. Plus, Jerry needs a little Bitch with his Baby, so let him wait. He likes it.

Back to reality…

M2: “How about I just touch one bra? Please?”

Me, exhausted and failing miserably as a parent by giving in to negotiations when, even though it was an unimportant “no,” I had already said no because I’m trying to get my kids to Stop. Touching. Every. Damn. Thing. At. The. Store…but I’m also working on rewarding the minions for using words to ask for things nicely. Shit. What would you have done?: “Yes. You may touch one bra. Thank you for asking first. That’s good. Now use your inside voice, please.”

M2: “Can you move the cart? I want to touch the zebra bra! Look, Mommy (pointing to a black lace bra), it’s just like yours!”

Overheard: Disembodied Cackling Mom Sounds From At Least Three Directions.

So, yeah, at least three people who shop or work at my local Target think I wear zebra-print bras. We’re always good quality amusement for the masses at Target. Check Ticketmaster for your local listings.

 

 

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.

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

“Oh my God. You’re about to jibber jabber about jibber jabber.”

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I wrote most of this earlier this week but didn’t finish until today, hence the outdated references. Way to go, me! Sorry, y’all. I had to be all responsible and crap; aka, I did work I actually get paid for. And it was nowhere near as fun as writing for you guys.

Today is some kind of Internet protest day with no Wikipedia and a bunch of dormant blogs. Politics, money, assholes, and legislation: Not a great combination. Anyway, I figure if I post today, y’all are more likely to read it, seeing as your options are so limited. Plus, I plan to take advantage of my freedom of speech while I still have it, because apparently we’re about to be de-Internet-ized back to the 80s. May as well buy a “beeper,” a 15-pound “car phone” with a shoulder strap, and some acid-washed jeans today so I can beat the time-warp shopping rush. Shit. Now I have to get dressed and leave the house to go shopping. Can’t order that crap on Amazon if there is no Amazon. Wow. I’m living in the Matrix. I think. Never did see that one.

Anyway…

Sheldon: Do you know where the phrase "Jibber jabber" comes from? Penny: Oh my God. You're about to jibber jabber about jibber jabber.

So, what is all this Internet-SOPA-PIPA jibber jabber? I gotta tell you, web dwellers, I try to stay well informed on most things, but on this one, I just have no fucking idea. Sometimes, there’s just so much going on that I kind of miss an issue du jour, and this is one of those times. So forgive me for having no actual info to share. I’ll just say this one thing. I believe in freedom of speech no matter who is doing the talking or what that person is saying. I believe that even the most depraved, homophobic, despicable, moronic, racist xenophobe has the right to climb up on his or her soapbox (Is that even a thing anymore? I bet people use plastic milk crates now.) and spout out a stream of verbal idiocy any time the mood strikes, so long as doing so isn’t likely to cause harm to others. That is, civil rights are relative: your civil rights extend just up to the edge of the point at which exercising those rights infringes on the rights of others.

I wonder if anyone still makes soapboxes. I kinda want one just so I can climb up on it in the grocery store and see what people do.

Ok, I think I said more than one thing (huge surprise). But you get my point. Freedom of speech is a right, not a privilege in this country, or, at least, it’s supposed to be. The way things are going, I’m starting to wonder whether those things we’ve long considered absolute rights are really all that sacrosanct to those in office anymore.

When Monstanto executives are being put into White-House-Appointed positions in the FDA and banks get bailed out while homeowners drown in debt, when we have a healthcare industry that pays no attention to the food industry (and a food industry that doesn’t care about our health), when access to well-rounded educational materials and appropriate sexual and reproductive information is limited or denied, when we actually have to discuss whether to present creationism alongside evolution in public schools when only one of those theories belongs in a science class while the other belongs in church (Why not teach creationism in home economics? It has no more or less business in there than it does in biology class.), something is seriously wrong with our society.

Perhaps we all had more time to think about these things back before the Internet, so we were better able to follow politics and keep better tabs on our legislators despite the comparative lack of information. Perhaps having to work to obtain that information made it feel even more important and urgent. I mean, think about it for a minute. What did you do with all the time you spend NOT on the Internet before there was an Internet to be on? Ok, that was convoluted. What I mean is, we’re grown adults living in high school via Facebook. Who does or says what to whom and when some pseudo-acquaintance defriended a colleague…? This shit was not on adults’ radars 20 years ago. Not even 10 years ago. But it’s a daily part of life now. And it feels important, even if a lot of it is only important because we participate. If no one used social media, we’d all live in the present more.

We didn't spend our time trying to out-smartass our phones in the 80s. I'm still not sure whether that's a point for the 80s or a point for the nows.

Without unlimited cell minutes and free long distance, we’d all invest ourselves more fully in the people around us, not the people in our “networks.” But that’s not how it is today. So we have daily life relationships with people who would, a mere decade or so ago, have been pen pals and twice-a-year phone contacts. We live outside our physical boundaries. We are overly invested in more than that which surrounds us. And it distracts us from the bigger picture. It keeps us so involved in our superficially expanded personal circles that we are too busy to get involved with and stay informed on the issues of the day.

Gilead looks a lot like North America if we were ruled by the Taliban. It scares the crap out of me.

On the other hand, an online-wifi-free-long-distance-instant-messaging life is exactly what enables me to connect with Northman and Jerry and all of you. Freedom of speech and lack of Internet censorship allow me to tell you that Northman sent me two new sexy videos of Quinn last week and that they were spectacular. You think a censored blogger could tell you she had mind-blowing orgasms watching videos of her long-distance lover having his own across the country? I sure as hell don’t.

 There’s bad shit on the Internet. Sure. But there’s good shit on here too. And the Internet brings the crazies together just as much as it connects the “normal” people. Not sure where my blog and I fall in that spectrum, but so be it. Until we’re living in Gilead, I’ll keep writing.

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There Isn’t Enough Purell on The Planet For This Shit.

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So, I’m sitting outside this morning with my big, heavy blanket and Mr. Coffee’s latest offerings (Praised Be!), freezing my ass off again but liking it because, as you may have noticed, something is fundamentally wrong with me. And I was thinking about how unfair it is that Mr. Northman has gotten all the hot press here on my blog while Jerry’s gotten none. Yes, there are two of them, web dwellers, and they couldn’t be more different.

Jim Morrison. For those of you under 30, it's like having an Eddie Vedder fixation if Pearl Jam were just a little bit more awesome. Mmmmm. Eddie Vedder....

Jerry, as my friends call him, lives far away, just like Mr. Northman. And he has a fairly healthy love of sexting and naked Skyping, just like Mr. Northman. But that’s where the similarity ends. Where Mr. Northman is the embodiment of sex, music, and poetry – kind of my personal Jim Morrison fantasy but without all the hard drugs, massive personality disorders, or leather pants – Jerry is the brooding romance novel hero if that guy were a CEO. He’s a full-on alpha male of the confirmed bachelor variety (but, luckily for me, not the gay kind). He’s completely career-oriented, vehemently single, remarkably confident, and one of the sexiest men I know.

The flip side with Jerry is that he wants what he wants and always expects to get what he wants. Part of me really digs this. He’s demanding and never doubts that he’ll get his way, yet he’s calm about it and quietly powerful. He’s actually quite a lot to handle, but I get off on it because, as I said, something is most definitely wrong with me.  

This is the REAL Jerry Rice, and he is in no way affiliated with my blog, so there. Now he can't sue me, right?

The girls call this anti-Northman “Jerry” because he lives in San Francisco, and so they started referring to him as “Cathy’s San Francisco Treat.” This morphed into Mr. Rice-A-Roni, and then Mr. Rice, and then to the most famous Mr. Rice: Jerry Rice. So, now he’s Jerry. When he’s being a fuckwad, which happens (told you, he’s broody), they call him Schmuck-A-Roni, which makes me laugh so hard I usually forget why I’m mad at him in the first place. Or that may have to do with the fact that when I’m with my girlfriends, we’re usually drinking martinis or mojitos, and that doesn’t hurt either.

Jerry asked the pussy question during our very first phone conversation (this, after many, many instant messaging chats that had gotten increasingly heated). He was the first guy to ask me this, so I was caught a bit off-guard when it came up. My immediate response was fairly unsexy. It was something like, “Really? That’s what you want to know? Huh.”

Ok for tattoos. Not for nether bits.

Maybe I’m just not with the times, but I honestly don’t spend much time thinking about how my pussy looks or wondering whether I have enough of a bush to shave a 49ers logo into it, so long as it’s not so out of control that you could braid one into it. And I’ve never worried about whether I need a Brazilian wax so there wouldn’t be a single hair south of my equator. Maybe it’s because when I last dated, I never met a guy who wanted to spend time with his mouth any further south than the Promised Land, never knew anyone who wanted to let his lips venture further back to my … well, to my ass. I’m out of metaphors, people. Sorry. I mean, what the fuck? When did ass-crack-licking become a thing? Am I the only person who finds this completely not sexy at all?

If I were a porn star, I’d buy stock in Pfizer.

I don’t know about y’all, but that shit just does not fly with me. No pun intended. Ok. Maybe a little intended. And I’m not even talking about anal sex here, gang. If that’s your thing, rock on with the butt fucking. Whatever floats your boat, you know? But having someone’s tongue up where the sun don’t shine just seems really fucking disgusting to me. Case in point, Mr. Northman sent me a link to a porn video he likes, and I watched about three minutes before this naked Barbie Doll stuck her own fingers in her own butt and then sucked on THE SAME FINGERS like it was remotely sexy. I turned off the video and said something to Northman along the lines of, “Does this video come with a Z-Pac? Because I feel like I’m going to catch some sort of bacterial infection just watching it.”

There is not enough Purell on the damn planet to make me ok with this.

Northman assured me that the video got better at about 7 minutes in (It did, but I fast-forwarded the hell out of that thing to get to the “good part,” and it was a loss anyway because I was so grossed out already) but in the moment, I was kind of thinking, “How could it NOT get better? How could it be worse?” I mean, Sweet Jesus in Birkenstocks, people, I’m all for sexual experimentation. But I’m more for the kind that doesn’t ensure I’ll wind up with a staph infection. Ugh. I need to go rinse my brain with Purell and maybe get a new laptop because, all of a sudden, this one feels really dirty.  

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