Tag Archives: Sheldon

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.

Love Means Never Having To Spackle


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.


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?

Blog-gasms, AKA: Those Crazy Ripples of Pleasure You Get From Sharing An Awesome Post on Facebook and Getting 20 Comments From Your Friends


Facebook: Like a coffee shop you can go to in your underwear for instant gratification. Wait, that came out wrong.

I finished a big work project last week, sent it off to the client before the MassiveRushNeedThisNowOrTheWorldWillEnd deadline, and got an email 48 hours later that read, “Thanks. I’ll take a look at that when I have time this weekend.” In other news, I posted a funny blog article (funnier than my stuff, so I won’t post it here because then you’ll leave) on Facebook and got 17 “likes” and 22 comments in an hour. End result: Work Headache and Blog-Gasm. Guess which one I feel like having today?

Right. But I haven’t seen anything that funny yet today, so I guess I’ll have to write my own funny crap so I can post it to Facebook and enjoy the ensuing load of gasm-ry. And I better enjoy it because it’s likely the only interactive form of “gasm” I’ll be having today. Damn, I really need to get laid.

This is the part that sucks about being a single mom: lack of sex. To be fair, in my case, it was also part of what sucked about my marriage. But now it’s different because I can freely go out and get my gasm on, but I’m so fucking busy and tired from being a single mom that I don’t have the energy or time to do it. That’s what works about my “relationships” with Mr. Northman and Jerry. They’re, as my buddy Sheldon puts it, G.U.D: Geographically Undesirable. In other words, they live too far away to have a nooner, but close enough that the idea of meeting up when I have a free weekend isn’t out of consideration. But the honest truth of the matter is that having them be G.U.D is actually GOOD for me, because I do have time to sext a little during the day, and I do have time here and there for a naughty Skype, but I don’t have time to actually date.

It took me nearly as long to pick out this picture of Alexander Skarsgard (AKA: Eric Northman), as it did for me to write this whole post. I'm easily distracted, people. And yes, my Northman is this hot.

Sheldon still has a point, though. Eventually, I’ve got to either move or move on. And I’m not moving my minions for a guy. Seriously. It’s just that with an online relationship, my naughty bedfellows are ubiquitous. They’re wherever I am, texting me during the day and remaining present in my life even when I’m just doing my part to keep Target in business. If I were to get involved with a local guy enough to have that kind of constant connection, there’d be dating and overnights and the question of when to introduce him to the minions. And the truth is, I’m not ready for that. 

What I am ready for is what happened the other night. I was sexting with Mr. Northman, and we were both getting pretty, um, involved in the process, alone in our respective bedrooms. And suddenly, my text screen went “bloop!” and lo and behold, there was a photo of um… well, let’s just call him Quinn. Let’s just say Quinn is a really, really close, well-built friend of Mr. Northman’s with excellent posture.

So, there’s Quinn on my screen, standing at attention. I thought my phone was going to burst into flames, this picture was so hot. I promptly dropped the phone because, well, figure it out, people. So I recovered myself a bit, picked up the phone, and responded, only to have Northman follow up with a video. A freaking video, web dwellers. With Quinn in the starring role and Northman’s growly voice in the background. I had to look down to make sure I hadn’t spontaneously combusted from watching this thing. Nope, no flames. All good.

So I watched it again.

I will never wipe this memory card clean as long as I live.

You know that episode of The Brady Bunch when Marcia meets THE Davy Jones, and he kisses her cheek, and she vows never to wash her cheek again? I will never, ever, delete this video. Doesn’t quite have the same ring to it as Marcia’s line, but then again, Davy Jones wasn’t naked in that episode, as far as I can remember. So there. I fucking WIN, Marcia.

Share away, web dwellers. Bring on the blog-gasms. 

As usual, remember to comment here ↓ and both “like” me on Facebook and “follow” Confessions of a Sexy Mom here →. Thanks for being my very own social media campaigners. It gives me my own little blog-gasm (that one’s for you, Nicole S. and Rebecca Z.! Y’all are my Blarfengars! (Did I do that right?!). See, people? When you post on my FB wall, you get shout-outs on the blog. Now those gals are famous and people know they read this dirty crap. Even if I still don’t know what a Blarfengar is supposed to be.

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


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!