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the latest
waddle: good morning, wordpress - 10:36 a.m. , 2009-07-03 elaborate murder attempt - 2:56 p.m. , 2009-07-01 building a tractor in the basement - 10:42 a.m. , 2009-06-19 ask no questions tell just a few lies - 3:17 p.m. , 2009-06-09 my long lasting flavor really lasts long - 1:10 p.m. , 2009-06-04
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I cannot remember where I read this but I think it was in an old issue of Yoga Journal---an article about restorative beverages and about how men can get their "vital essence" back after ejaculation by drinking a beverage made of milk, honey, and various spices. I even dimly recall a reference to an ancient text where it was suggested that the man's partner should be the one to mix up this beverage and bring it to him after his ejaculation. When I read this I thought "what a bunch of crap, I AM NOT YOUR BLOWJOB STEWARDESS" and then I just about hopped up and down with glee at having thought such a wonderful marvelous sentence, and spent all afternoon at work with it constantly running through my head like a daily affirmation. To the point where I had to catch myself from saying it out loud. Hi Mimi, want one of these bagels? I AM NOT YOUR BLOWJOB STEWARDESS. Uh, I mean yes. Any onion ones left? It would be really great if I could verify this half-remembered article and provide you with links, but I got sick of Googling dozens of milk + honey + cardamom + semen + yoga combinations and getting nowhere. You would think searches like that would either lead to exactly what I was looking for or at least some quality smoothie porn, but I just found vague Ayurvedic diet suggestions and nothing worth posting. SOME MORE SEX TALK, TO COUNTERACT THE MOMMY-DIARY TALK THAT IS UNDOUBTEDLY TO COME 1. LT has a bad habit of trying to sex me in his sleep. Sometimes this works out for him, as I will think "sure, why not" and wake him up all the way to do the dirty deed, dirt cheap. Sometmes it does not work, at all, because (1) I don't take kindly to sleep interruptions (2) it offends me a bit that he gropes and strokes me in his sleep, because pardon me very much but an ass as lovely as mine deserves full, waking consciousness. I feel like saying PAY ATTENTION DUDE THIS IS NOT WHITTLING OR PLAYING VIDEOGAMES THIS IS TOP-TIER SMARTYPANTS BOOTY HERE. Two weeks ago, when Nora was newly home and sleeping very poorly, I get back to bed at three in the morning after a marathon rocking-chair session, and soon enough a deeply asleep LT starts kissing and touching, and poking me with that penis he has, and I am so exhausted that I am actually angry. I mean, are you NUTS? She will be up in another two hours at the most! I shoved him over and took my unmolested catnap, and the next morning over breakfast I complained. LT said, "I can't help it, you're just so fine," and the unexpected 1980s-hip-hop use of the word "fine," coming from him, made me laugh and all was forgiven. But still. Please wake me up before you go-go, and wake yourself up before you try to give me the business. 2. Recently there was some sex on the futon during Nora's nap. Although I have a mortgage and a job and a kid, and have purged my house of all milk-crate furniture and cinderblock-and-board bookcases, I still do not feel grown-up enough for a real couch. Hence the living-room futon, in all its faker couch glory, ready to be unfolded at a moment's staggering notice for any of my too-drunk-to-drive-or-ride-in-a-cab friends. Here is the thing about couch (or futon) sex---it makes you feel kind of theatrical and porn-star-ish, because you are forced to get very creative with positioning owing to the lack of space. Which is not a bad thing. LT and I have this routine where we like to pretend that our futon is a sheltered Mormon futon, because some rather kinky stuff has taken place on top of it, particularly in 2002, and we make the futon exclaim about the horror and sin and shockingness of what just happened in its high-pitched Futon Voice. I should mention that we only make the futon talk after the kinkiness is all finished, because I don't want you to think that making furniture talk in puppet voices is part of sex for us or anything. 3. Speaking of making things talk, having a kid affords you so many opportunities! Nora's cast of characters so far is rather unsavory. She has this one postmodern stuffed animal (he is green, and has ears and a bear-style nose, but his shape is kind of nebulous) who keeps trying to sell her fake Rolexes, vacation timeshares, and stereos that "fell off trucks." She has a former-drug-addict monkey puppet who now raps on the subway about Jesus, and a rubber teething ring shaped like a blonde Lego guy who is a swishy hairdresser with a taste for Little-League jailbait. And she has a soft babydoll who we call "Paris Hilton," and we make her say things like "Daddy, I need a hundred grand" and "Oh my god I'm soooo drunk!" and "My vagina itches!" WAIT MIMI SMARTYPANTS, THAT WAS NOT PRECISELY ABOUT SEX BUT MORE ABOUT BABIES AND STUFFED ANIMALS Well, we don't have to talk about plushies in order to combine the two topics. Or three topics, if you count the assignment of personalities and names to stuffed animals, which is done by one's parents when you are very small but then later becomes your problem. I used to have a stuffed lion that I named Queenie, and she was a girl in my head. Then I learned that boy lions have manes, as Queenie did, and it was like this little-kid mental crisis for a while as I struggled to reconcile that fact with the already-formed gender and set of characteristics I had assigned to Queenie. I don't think I ever managed to resolve that but I don't remember how I got past it, if I just postulated that Queenie had a little facial-hair problem and no Nair on the Serengeti or what. Incidentally, Queenie's firmness and size made her my preferred stuffed animal for humping, and what with all her gender confusion it is a miracle that I did not grow up attracted to cross-dressing stone butches or men in full makeup. SOMETHING SLIGHTLY CREEPY THAT ALSO COMBINES THE TOPICS OF BABIES AND SEX There is a fabulous Lorrie Moore story called "People Like That Are The Only People Here" that includes this passage about a new mother: Her unmotherly thoughts had all been noted: the panicky hope that his nap would last longer than it did; her occasional desire to kiss him passionately on the mouth (to make out with her own baby!); her ongoing complaints about the very vocabulary of motherhood, how it degraded the speaker ("Is this a poopie onesie? Yes, it's a very poopie onesie!"). I thought about this passage the other day (and followed that thought with one about how desperately we need another book from her---GET CRACKING, LORRIE), as I was getting Nora ready for her bath, and kissing her all over her adorable, bean-shaped torso. We have this thing we do where she lies on her back and I bend over her and slowly sweep my hair over her face; she closes her eyes, opens her mouth in a total O of amazed sensuality, and looks completely thrilled, losing her mind at the tactileness of it all, and there is something about the intimacy and familiarity with your child's body that is really hard to explain to those who have not experienced it. Not an Ashcroft kid-porn sex thing but a purely human thing, and suddenly phrases like "the power of touch" don't seem so dumb and hippie-massage-therapy clich� anymore. Uh. Now I feel like a dork. I should have stuck with the sex-talk. Here is a picture of Indira Gandhi hugging a koala bear. ---mimi smartypants is a minute on your lips but forever on your hips. back/forward |
