Um, I Think Disney Has Lost It

I traded e-mails with Hotass today. The Cliff's Notes version is that Disney has apparently jumped the shark.

To: Cymber
From: Hotass
Subject: Really?

Cinderella III? Seriously?

That is all.


To:Hotass
From: Cymber
Subject: Re: Really?

Okay, not only is it Cinderella III, to the best of my knowledge, it's a TIME TRAVELING Cinderella. It's "what would happen if something got all fucked up in the space-time continuum and Cinderella's foot doesn't fit the shoe and she never gets with the Prince? THEN WHAT WOULD HAPPEN, BITCHES???? " Cinderella's gone sci-fi, yo.

Turtle. The Other Other White Meat

Turtle is three now, which means there have been a lot of changes since we first brought him home from the hospital. Most of them have been good. After all, I don't have to change diapers any more, which is a big improvement from the early days. Some of them are questionable. After all, he's talking now. In a manner of speaking. (And when I say he's talking now, I mean his mouth NEVER. STOPS. MOVING.) And some of them are not so great. After all, he's stalking around the house, committing murder-suicides on a daily basis with his plastic go-gos. This does not bode well for his future. Or mine, for that matter.

But what is most interesting to me have been the unexpected changes I have seen in Turtle. For example, I had assumed the worst about the first several months of Turtle's life. I had envisioned severe sleep deprivation, potential colic, late-night screaming jags and those moments that make you wonder why humans don't eat their young and whether you should consider trying it, just for kicks. Instead, Turtle was pretty much the best model of newborn on the market. He started sleeping through the night at 6 weeks. He didn't have any kind of colic or stomach problems that a good nap on Mommy's or Daddy's chest wouldn't solve. He had an extremely loud scream, but was easily appeased. And I never wanted to eat him, except in that "you're so cute, Mommy could just eat you up" way.

Now, though, my easy-to-manage baby has given way to a rambunctious, fiercely independent, strong-willed preschooler. He doesn't want anything to do with Mommy's chest, unless he's pumping it full of imaginary rounds of ammunition. He throws temper tantrums complete with deafening screams and he's not finished until he decides he's finished. And that whole sleeping through the night thing that I thought we had down cold? Yeah, we're not fond of that anymore, either. Instead, Oscar and I find ourselves waking up with him a couple of times a night. At least now, he can articulate his problems, which, by the way, run the gamut from "I need to go potty" (two thumbs up for recognizing it, thanks!), to "I lost my binky" (shhh, don't tell your doctor we still let you HAVE a binky!), to "need blankie" (seriously, kid, we live in Arizona and it's not that cold; you will live!) to "I scared" (don't worry, buddy, Mommy will make the monsters go away.)

It all makes me intensely curious as to what the next three years have in store. I worry for my little boy, who in another three years will be in school and on the playground with other kids who may not realize what a beautiful soul he has. Who may tease him because he's very sensitive and hates to see people hurting. Who may take advantage of his giving nature. And who may shun him because sometimes that's just what little kids do. On the other hand, I can't wait to see what happens when his language skills are even more fully developed and he can really communicate how his mind works. I can't wait to see how he takes care of a little brother or sister, if Oscar and I get to that point. I can't wait to see his eyes light up when he learns something new or stuffs a frog in his pocket to bring to Show and Tell. I can't wait to see what new surprises he has in store.

Because honestly, this kid is a mystery to me. Every time I think I have him figured out, he changes the rules on me and he's just smart enough that I'm not sure whether or not he's doing it on purpose. But mystery or not, one thing is certain: I can't imagine my life without him. I can imagine a life without the 2:00am call to find his favorite stuffed animal. I can imagine a life without making pancakes EVERY. SINGLE. DAY because it's the only thing he eats with any kind of consistency. I can imagine life without the Legos on the floor that I find with my bare feet while walking down the dark hallway. But I can't imagine life without that boy.

Which is probably a good thing, because given how his muscles have developed since we first brought him home from the hospital, I would think he would taste pretty gamey by now.

My Inner Porn Star Says Hi

Oooooooooooooooooookay. So apparently I need to go out and live a little. I have wondered about this for quite a while, but seeing how much you guys would be paying if there was actually someone to collect on these fines, I am now firmly convinced that I have been a goody-goody for far too long. Yeesh. Doesn't anyone else have a paralyzing fear of authority and/or the morality police? No? Just me? Okay, then.

Seriously? I've actually done quite a bit of soul searching about my compulsive need to follow the rules. I have found that it often doesn't matter who made the rules, whether I even believe in the moral authority of whoever made the "rules," or whether they are written or unwritten. I simply follow them, lest I be labeled a "bad" girl. (I'm sure Oscar would be thrilled if I was a bad girl now and then, but, as I've mentioned, he's a dirty, dirty man, and I'm not sure his judgment should be trusted.)

The weird thing is, personally, I don't know that I would even have a problem having a reputation as a bad girl. But I learned in therapy this evening that I apparently have yet to overcome my tendency to put everyone else's wants and needs ahead of my own. Which means I'm probably still subconsciously trying to make my parents proud by adhering to their moral code instead of making decisions based on my own values. (See, Nate? Not even I am completely balanced.)

Not that I'm rushing out to have a threesome, or anything. (Although if Eric Dane was interested, I certainly wouldn't turn him down.) (Call me, Eric!) But I am definitely reconsidering whether my objections have to do with me or with the values of my parents, or Oscar's parents, or the religious right, or George W. Bush, or my OB/GYN, or anyone else who might know me. I mean, I don't mind weighing their opinions along with my own. But I do realize that they should not have more weight than mine. Besides, I would hate to miss out on an opportunity to be the meat in a boy sandwich (nice phrasing, Hotass!) because someone might "tut-tut" about it.

So I really appreciate everyone who took the time to post their fines in the comments. Even if some of you didn't pay attention to the instructions and tallied per occurrence. *ahem*McMama*ahem* You have certainly given me something to think about. And you have given Oscar a new hobby, if the amount of time he has been spending in an effort to find a candidate to fill the third position in a Cymber sandwich is any indication.

My Fine Is $215 $240

I found this over on the 'Til The Cows Come Home blog and it amused me so much I thought I should reproduce it. I'm a little tentative about posting my fine, because I have a feeling people will either look at it and think "Holy Shit, this woman is sheltered" or "Holy Shit, what a whore." Neither of which is particularly accurate. But I'm throwing it out there anyway because I have no shame.

I'm not 100% positive I have correctly tallied my fine, either. Mostly because only Alzheimers' patients have worse memories than I do. But I did my best. Those of you who know me can feel free to check my math.

Edited to add: Oscar finally got around to reading this post and reminded me of a little something he and I did that upped my fine another $25. Not that it matters, because compared to you guys, I'm a frickin' vestal virgin. But lest I be accused of down-playing my dark underbelly, I thought a revision was in order.

Here’s how it works: You don’t have to confess your answers, just the amount of your fine. (Not per incident!) Tally up your score and post it on your blog with the title… "My Fine Is…”

Smoked pot — $10
Did acid — $5
Ever had sex at church — $25
Woke up in the morning and did not know the person who was next to you — $40
Had sex with someone on MySpace — $25
Had sex for money — $100
Vandalized something — $20
Had sex on your parents’ bed — $10
Beat up someone — $20
Been jumped — $10
Crossed dressed — $10
Given money to stripper — $25
Been in love with a stripper — $20
Kissed some one who’s name you didn’t know — $0.10
Hit on some one of the same sex while at work — $15
Ever drive drunk — $20
Ever got drunk at work, or went to work while still drunk — $50
Used toys while having sex — $30
Got drunk, passed out and don’t remember the night before — $20
Went skinny dipping — $5
Had sex in a pool — $20
Kissed someone of the same sex — $10
Had sex with someone of the same sex — $20
Cheated on your significant other — $10
Masturbated — $10
Cheated on your significant other with their relative or close friend — $20
Done oral — $5
Got oral — $5
Done/got oral in a car while it was moving — $25
Stole something — $10
Had sex with someone in jail — $25
Made a nasty home video — $15
Had a threesome — $50
Had sex in the wild — $20
Been in the same room while someone was having sex — $25
Stole something worth over more than a hundred dollars — $20
Had sex with someone 10 years older — $20
Had sex with someone under 21 and you are over 27 — $25
Been in love with two people or more at the same time — $50
Said you love someone but didn’t mean it — $25
Went streaking — $5
Went streaking in broad daylight — $15
Been arrested — $5
Spent time in jail — $15
Peed in the pool — $0.50
Played spin the bottle — $5
Done something you regret — $20
Had sex with your best friend — $20
Had sex with someone you work with at work — $25
Had anal sex — $80
Lied to your mate — $5
Lied to your mate about the sex being good — $25

How much have you been set back?

You Say Heretic Like It's A Bad Thing

I love that Snark's Mistress is in college. She doesn't, because she's sick of school and is not looking forward to another few years of class presentations and group projects and 15-page essays. But I do, because I always end up learning things from her hysterical rantings after one of her classes gets her worked into a lather. Usually, it's something from her women's studies classes and has to do with what I need to teach Turtle so I don't inadvertently end up raising a boy whose subconscious behavior supports and upholds an unfairly patriarchal society. Occasionally, though, I learn something about myself and my own personal values and belief systems.

Last semester, for example, I learned that I am an extremely selfish person who is fundamentally incapable of caring for my fellow man. I know. I was surprised, too. I hadn't really thought of myself as selfish before, but Snark's Mistress was kind enough to fill me in after a heated discussion in her psych class. How did she find out? Well, her classmates politely informed her that anyone who grows up without formal religion is doomed to be completely self-centered. Therefore, I, who grew up without any kind of religious background, am doomed to be selfish, immoral, and probably a slut. (They didn't actually come out and say I was a slut. I just kind of assumed that's where they were going with things.)

I am so glad she let me know, because I had been feeling this pressure to do things for other people. Now that I know that no matter what I do, I'm never going to rise above my non-religious status, I don't have to worry about that. Boy, that took a load off.

Honestly, though, I'm kind of getting sick of people assuming that being a godless heathen automatically makes me a terrible person. I think I manage to be a pretty decent human being, despite being crippled by my lack of godliness. I give to charity. I practice the Golden Rule. I love my fellow man. And I really don't think I've broken any more Commandments than your average Fundamentalist Christian. (Not that that is any big claim to fame.) In short, I believe that whether or not you are a good person is hardly determined by your religious background alone. In fact, given that there have been quite a few atrocities committed in the name of one God or another, I think it's fair to say that for some people, religion can have quite a negative effect.

Not that I'm going to go too far in the other direction and say that all religion is bad, of course. We practice more of the "live and let live" philosophy around here. If religion works for you, then you should embrace it, I say. My grandmother, bless her, still prays for me every day. I think she's hoping I'll get to heaven on a loophole. (It had better be a really big loophole.)

I guess I'm just saying that last semester, Snark's Mistress seemed to stumble on a very prevalent attitude that the deterioration of our society's strict adherence to religion is to blame for all of the world's ills. I kind of have a problem with that.

After all, clearly it's all Oscar's fault. Everything else is.

Blogger Breakfast

So, I didn't mention this before because I wasn't sure it was going to work out, but this past Saturday, Oscar and I had plans to meet Flip in real life, off blog and in person. Warts and all. It was iffy right up to the end, but Saturday morning, Oscar, Turtle and I piled in the car and set out in the rain to pick Flip up at his hotel and drive him two blocks to our breakfast location of choice. He could have walked, I suppose, but I really wanted him to have a chance to smell the remnants of the Turtle vomit so that he could report back to you that it REALLY is NOT going away. (Of course, even when he was in our car, he claimed that he couldn't smell it, but I think he was just being nice.)

Flip is the second blogger I have met in person. My Boyfriend, of course, was first. (Hi, Honey!) And since I really didn't have too many preconceived notions of what Flip would look like/sound like/smell like/burp like, I was very pleased by the live and in-person version we met. We had a fantastic time chatting and laughing and talking shit about other bloggers. (No, not you. No, I swear. Okay, maybe just a little.) And it was wonderful to finally put a face to this person I've been reading about and corresponding with for so long. We are looking forward to the next time we are in each others' proximity so we can get together again.

I have to admit, though, it is kind of weird meeting someone in person when your only relationship has taken place online. In fact, I was telling Oscar on my way to breakfast that I was sure I was going to have problems remembering to call Flip by his given name instead of just "Flip." In the end, it didn't end up being as big a deal as I expected, because I just resorted to calling him "Hey you!" much like I do with everyone else I know. But still, it's hard to explain the feeling when you realize you know intimate details of this person's life, and yet, you have no clue what his favorite color is or whether he trims his nose hair with a pair of scissors or a special nose trimming tool. It's really like getting to know someone in reverse.

Thankfully, I'm a complete goofball, who doesn't much adhere to societal norms, which makes it rather easy for us to get by in social situations. Watching me jump up on the table and start dancing to "Islands in the Stream" gave Oscar something to talk about with Flip, and created many avenues of conversation that held up throughout the meal. "Does she always do that?" "How have you never been arrested before?" "Has she considered medication?" And of course, Flip helped things along by being utterly charming and telling us hilarious stories about his family. Odd though the circumstances of our meeting might have been, we had a lovely visit and I am so glad it worked out that we were able to meet.

So if you have a chance to meet Flip, I can wholeheartedly recommend that you do so. You will have a fantastic time. He's an excellent conversationalist and an all-around great guy. Oh, and in case you're wondering, no, he's not a serial killer. I made sure to ask, so you wouldn't have to. You can thank me later.

I'm Going To Be In Real Trouble When He's A Teenager

I was sitting in my living room, having an IM conversation with Oscar when I realized that PBS was no longer playing any of the shows that I don't mind watching with Turtle, but was instead starting the opening credits for Barney. I don't do Barney. I don't let Turtle do Barney. Barney, I prefer to think, does not exist in my space-time continuum. And yet, there he was on my screen, in all of his obnoxious purple perkiness. I ran to get the remote.

"Nooo purple dinosaur. No, no, no, no, no," I said to Turtle as he looked at me, perplexed. "Let's watch the Wiggles instead."

"Noooooooooooooooo!" Turtle wailed. "Di-o-saur! Watch di-o-saur, Mommy!"

I reiterated that we don't do the big purple dinosaur in this house and encouraged him to embrace the Wiggly goodness. Turtle was having none of it. I turned off the television.

"Okay, buddy, if you don't want to watch tv, it's time to take a bath."

"Nooooooo! Don' wan' bath, Mommy!"

"Buddy, you've gotten out of taking a bath all week long. You are getting a bath today."

"No! Mommy! Don' wan' bath!"

"Turtle. You're getting a bath. Let's go."

"But Mommy! It's my birf-day!"

"...."

I....couldn't really figure out what to say to that, not to mention the fact that I was so busy laughing hysterically that it didn't allow much room for rational thought. I mean, how does one argue with that? Even if the birthday in question doesn't technically happen until November? If someone has an answer for me, please let me know, because this kid really is starting to smell bad and his hair can now be formed into any shape you desire without the benefit of product. It's unnatural and it kind of creeps me out.

Really, Clint?

I realized today that our society's obsession with plastic surgery had gone too far when I saw this side-by-side of Clint Eastwood. I don't generally have an issue with plastic surgery. I mostly understand why celebrities feel the need to get it. They live in a world where appearance is often the single deciding factor on whether or not they have careers. It sucks, but it is what it is, and if they feel like it gives them an edge, then whatever. I won't judge.

I also understand why Average Joe or Jane feels the need to get it. Sometimes you feel like everything about you perfectly expresses who you are inside with the exception of this one thing. And if changing that one thing is all you need to feel at one with yourself, then I applaud you for going after it. I won't judge you, either.

But the unfortunate side effect of all of this happy acceptance of plastic surgery and those who get it is that we seem to have made it undesirable to age in any kind of visual way. Never mind that wrinkles can give you character or grey hair can give you gravitas. We're all about Youth! Fertility! Vitality! And we turn our heads away from anything resembling Advanced Age! Maturity! Experience!

That Clint Eastwood is buying into this mentality particularly disturbs me for some reason. He has (had?) one of those faces that tells a story, even when it's perfectly composed. The squinty eyes? The rough, craggy complexion? I knew what to expect from that Clint. I liked that Clint. I didn't love him, but then, I've NEVER loved him. I just liked him. And I thought the more he aged, the more character he had, and the more he grew on me. I don't even know what to think about new, wide-eyed, smooth-faced Clint. He scares the shit out of me and not in an "Are you feeling lucky, punk?" way but in an "I'm going to suck out your soul to smooth out my crows' feet" way.

And if Clint felt so pressured to "stay young" by smoothing out his features and getting an eye lift? Clint? The essence of masculinity to a generation of Dirty Harry worshippers? What does that say about our values? Is it really so bad to grow older?

I just think it's a shame that we seem to be losing touch with what makes people so beautiful. We think it's artificial youth. But what is so spectacular about youth? You don't know anything when you're young. You think you do, but let's be realistic: who here wasn't full of shit when they were young? Raise of hands? That's what I thought. It's when you grow and you mature and you age you get some experience behind you that you start blossoming. So when you smooth out the expressions on your face with a needle full of Botox (Nicole Kidman, I'm looking at you) and carefully cover the gray in your hair and go under a surgeon's knife to nip or tuck every line, you're erasing everything that you gained along with all of that hard-won maturity. You're erasing the very things that make you the most beautiful.

So I may be in the minority, but I'm going to let time march across my face unimpeded. And I'm going to embrace my gray hair. (I only have one at the moment, but Oscar does make sure to check that it's still there and to see if it's breeding every time we go to the salon.) And if Turtle gets teased someday for having a mom whose forehead actually moves, I'm going to dry his tears and consider it a victory. Because when I get to the end of my days, I want people to be able to look at my face and know one thing: That bitch lived a colorful life.

I Still Suck

I haven't been here in a week? In a WEEK? Really? Damn. I suck.

To be fair, it wasn't entirely my choice to be absent from these parts for the last week. I really would have preferred to update my blog than, say, clean up Turtle-vomit from my car Friday night. (The car STILL smells like Turtle-vomit, by the way, so if anyone has any suggestions for getting Turtle-vomit-smell out of a car, I would greatly appreciate hearing them. Febreeze doesn't cut it, in case you were going to suggest it. It just makes the car smell like floral-Turtle-vomit.) I also would have preferred updating my blog to dumping out Oscar's vomit-bucket two nights later. He had pizza for dinner. You could tell. I ALSO would have preferred updating my blog to getting sick, myself, on Monday night, and after vomiting up all of the contents of my stomach, continuing to dry heave until not even stomach lining was left. (Don't you just love the word "vomit?" I wonder how many times I can use it in a paragraph. Vomit, vomit, vomit, vomit. Okay, I'm done. Really.)

On the other hand, I learned quite a lot from this stomach bug. For example, if you know you are a marked woman, and it is just a matter of time before you start puking your guts out, may I recommend chocolate chip cookies? The sweetness of the cookies cuts the acidity of the rest of the crap expeditiously exiting your stomach. And not to say that they are AS good on their way out as they were on the way in, but they're not bad. Also? Not that I'm a big fan of bulimia, but it was nice knowing that after overdosing on the chocolate chip cookies, thus negating my entire workout that day, in the end, my net caloric intake was not as bad as it could have been.

And now that I have spent two more paragraphs talking about vomit than I really should have, I want to discuss something completely unrelated. I had a dream about Ron Rifkin last night. It was weird and involved Antarctica and dog sleds and me almost getting trapped without sufficient warm clothes. But what was really odd about the dream was that once I was rescued, Ron Rifkin came up to check on me, and I kind of wrapped myself around him and we kissed. I did not realize I had such strong feelings about Mr. Rifkin. I mean, I've always been a fan. He's one of my favorite character actors, and he's so adorable, I just want to pinch his cheeks. But I never thought about getting romantic with him.

Snark's Mistress, who is a psych major, once told me that when you have a sex dream about someone, it doesn't necessarily mean you want to have sex with him. It often means that you miss him, or are craving emotional intimacy with him. That came as a big relief to me the night I had a searing sex dream about Snark's Mistress. I didn't have to go into any kind of soul-searching exploration of my sexuality. But it still doesn't explain my sudden interest in getting jiggy with Ron Rifkin. We have never been emotionally intimate, and in the harsh light of day, my interest in getting horizontal with the man has significantly waned. So what was that all about?

I mean, I'm sure if I were to find a book about dream analysis, I would find out that Antarctica represented this and the dog sleds represented that. But I doubt Ron Rifkin has his own chapter. So if anyone can shed some light on why I might be dreaming about getting all romantic with Ron Rifkin, please leave your thoughts in the comments. Thank you.

(Oh, and vomit-less posting will resume tomorrow. Thank you for your patience.)

You Mean This Thing Doesn't Update Itself?

Am I the only one who seems to be having a hard time getting back in the blogging groove now that the holidays are over? No, I know I'm not, because there are quite a few people on my blog list who haven't updated yet since the first of the year. Is there something in the water, do you figure? I mean, it's not that there is a dearth of things to write about. After all, Christmas and the New Year makes the last two weeks of December a veritable whirlwind of activity. And that's just holiday-related stuff. Other stuff happens in our lives, seemingly oblivious to the increased stress we are experiencing as a result of last-minute present buying and having to fit into a little black dress for the popping of the cork after having tossed quite a few too many high calorie snacks in our mouths since Thanksgiving a month ago.

Well, I'm not sure what it is but I'm struggling to find things to say. So tomorrow my job is to a) finish laundry, b) finish washing the dishes, c) catch up on my correspondence, d) play endless rounds of go-gos with Turtle and e) find something funny to say about something relating to anything so I don't have to look at my blog and think "God, I suck" anymore. There really needs to be more hours in the day.

And Now I Will Mime What I Want You To Do With Your New Year's Resolutions

Walking back into the locker room of my gym, the first thing I see is a big sign prohibiting the use of cell phones in that space. It never occurred to me to inquire why, specifically, the locker room was off limits. I suppose I had just assumed that with the proliferation of camera phones, people were wary of having someone make a call and accidentally (or on purpose) snap a shot of someone else's bare ass. But what has occurred to me and what I think I might be asking about during my next visit, is why those signs aren't posted everywhere else in the gym.

I was finishing up my workout today, bobbing my head like an idiot to the music piped into my ears by my new MP3 player, when I heard someone talking animatedly not too far away. I peeked around, hoping that the person in question wasn't speaking to me. No, instead, a blonde in tight workout attire was hogging the leg press while carrying on a very loud conversation with someone on her cell phone. I returned to my own workout, but not before giving her my patented "Really? That's an interesting choice" look.

I honestly do not understand the use of cell phones on the gym floor. Can someone please explain it to me? Because first of all, as I see it, cell phones are for our convenience, so we can nag our spouses about taking the laundry out of the washer and putting it in the dryer before it mildews while we pick up dinner from the Chinese place down the street. Taking a call in the middle of a set on the leg press is just not convenient, in my opinion. In fact, it seems like an unnecessary distraction. I know I would lose count, anyway, and probably end up either pulling a muscle or barely breaking a sweat. Neither seems much the point of going to the gym.

Secondly, it's discourteous to the rest of us who are just trying to get our workouts done. We don't care to listen to your sob story about how you got drunk and made out with this guy only he's dating your sort of close friend Gina and now Gina is pissed at you and she has your favorite lip gloss and won't accept your apology and now how are you going to get your lip gloss back? And yet, you generally have to talk really loudly to be heard over the piped-in music on the floor, so whether we want to or not, we are privy to the sad state of your lip gloss affairs.

Third, there is the part about you hogging equipment. I mean, if you can talk and work out at the same time, I still think you're annoying but I will forgive you, because at least you are not sitting on a machine I need. But if, for example, you are the blonde in the tight workout attire, you are using the leg press as a chair while you whine about your favorite lip gloss, and putting me in the uncomfortable position of having to mime to you that I need the machine and could you maybe take your conversation somewhere else. That is poor gym floor etiquette. I should not have to mime under any circumstances, but it seems particularly egregious to have to do so when I'm already humiliated about the fact that my body is stuffed into spandex like I'm some reject from the sausage factory.

And okay, thankfully, it's not always me doing the miming. But I do see scenes like this play out quite a bit during my time at the gym, which means that there are a lot more people suffering through the indignity of the Spandex Mime, and it's only gotten worse since the first of the year. Everyone with a variation of "I will get more regular exercise" or "I will lose weight" on his list of New Year's Resolutions is crowding the gyms right now and sadly, not all of them are familiar with a little thing I like to call "common courtesy". So, I guess what I'm saying is I just wish that more people would put "I will not be that asshole on the phone" resolution right under the "I will go to the gym regularly" resolution. That way I can get through a little more time before my "I will not bitch-slap strangers, even if they are self-absorbed and have a hefty sense of entitlement" resolution goes down the tubes. I'm just asking to make it to mid-January, people. Is that really so unrealistic?

The Power Of The Internet

So. Oscar was out most of last evening. He worked and then he had a meeting to attend downtown, so I figured I would call up Snark's Mistress and see if she wanted to come over and do a Stargate SG-1 mini marathon. And because she is my best friend, she came over to save me from having to manage a Turtle by myself, although we watched the America's Next Top Model marathon instead of Stargate. I know. I'm kind of ashamed. But I don't know what to say. That show sucks me right in. It's like pop culture crack.

In any event, when I got up to take Snark's Mistress home after our marathon, Oscar called me over to give me a kiss. Except that it wasn't just your usual "drive safe, love you" kiss. It was a toe-curling, temperature raising, "Holy Hannah, you really know how to use that tongue" kind of kiss. I was perplexed. I wasn't going far. I wasn't going to be gone long. It was late enough that I didn't figure that any kind of serious action was in the cards. Why make my knees all wobbly just to send me off to deposit my best friend back at her house? I didn't get it. But I didn't question him either. I just chalked it up to one of those weird things.

When I came home, Oscar was playing a video game. I did a few things around the house and then let him know I was heading to bed. He said he would be along soon. Not too long after I had curled up in bed, Oscar walked in. "Are you asleep already?" he asked. I wasn't, clearly. So he got ready for bed and then curled in next to me. And then he proceeded to seduce me with a single-minded intensity.

My mind sufficiently blown and many exultations made to "God," "Jesus," and "Oh, Yes, Baby" later, I snuggled up to Oscar and asked what that was all about. I mean, after all, it was pretty late, and our track record hasn't been all that great in the bedroom lately. Well, it appears that a couple of people, having read my blog post yesterday in all of its whiny "I. Can't. Get. No......Sa-tis-fac-tion" glory, tracked down Oscar and challenged him to put his best moves on me (and man, has he got some moves.) That crazy hot kiss he gave me before I left the house? Their idea. The focused seduction? Their idea.

But rather than be offended, I was thrilled. You mean all I have to do is whine about something on my blog and my readers start mobilizing to get me what I need? Freakin' FANTASTIC!!! Now what I really want to know is who is responsible for this little number, and could you hurry it up a little? Thanks.

Post Holiday Blatherings

Happy New Year! (Can I still say that, even though it's January 2 and I've been conspicuously absent from these parts since the 28th, which I will say instead of "last year" because I don't want to sound like a total asshole? I can? Okay, good. Thanks.) I hope everyone had a very enjoyable holiday. As previously mentioned, our household spent the time between Christmas and New Year's trying to recover from our various ailments. Turtle has been making up for a week and a half of not eating much by eating anything and everything he can get his hands on, provided, of course, the food he can get his hands on is stuff he enjoys eating. Hide your pancakes. It's just not safe.

Oscar has been playing his Lego Star Wars video game until all hours of the night and early morning. Two nights this week, he has stayed up until past 3:30am, attempting to clear various and assorted game levels. middleageddad will tell you that he is merely trying to avoid coming to bed until his oversexed wife is fast asleep, thereby circumventing the need to haul out the old "not tonight, dear, I have a headache" excuse. But that's not it. Really. He's just really excited about his new game. I know this because there is not nearly enough sex happening in the Cymber household lately. Not even close.

As for myself, having realized my dream of getting a $200 gift certificate to Target, (a better gift than the Holy Grail, in my opinion) I have been spending a great deal of time buying and filling containers. Yes, containers. I've been in quite the organizational mood lately. I bought containers for my Christmas decorations and containers for the Turtle's toys. I bought a bigger container to put Turtle's little containers into. I have containers all over the place. It's so perfectly uniform and does wonders for the whole Stepford Wives look I'm going for in our interior design. Oscar is, naturally, baffled that he could buy me a gift certificate to Target and see it spent in two days on something other than books, music, small appliances or other fun things. But he is happy to indulge me.

Besides, I did buy an MP3 player, finally, too. I wanted one to make it easier for me to listen to music at the gym. My cd player wasn't cutting it (no way to hang on to it) and the music they pipe in over the speakers at my gym is hit or miss. Sometimes you get a great dance mix happening that gets the blood pumping and your body moving, and other times you get a weird rap/alternative/WTF?? mix that I can't imagine anyone finds motivating. Of course, now that I have an MP3 player, I need to figure out how it works. I say that, but what I really mean is "now that I have an MP3 player, I need to hand it over to Oscar so he can figure it out for me and then show me the bare minimum of what I need to know." That is why I married a techno-geek, right? Right.

It's not that I can't figure it out for myself. It's more a "why bother?" thing. I am fine knowing the basics, but Oscar will start asking me in-depth questions like "Can it do THIS?" or "How do you make it do THAT?" That would be fine if he took "I don't know" for an answer, but this is Oscar we're talking about. My not knowing the answers to those questions will start a whole philosophical debate about how I never read the instruction manual and why don't I read the instruction manual and maybe IF I read the instruction manual, I would know the answers to his questions. It ends up being a long, drawn out thing and by the time we're through, we're each exasperated with the other and there ends up being no sex that night. And I'm sure this goes without saying but Oscar + Cymber + Exasperation - Sex = A Very Very Bad Thing. It's a complex marital equation, I know, but I'm very good at math. You can trust me on this one.