February is winding down; I hate to see it end. We've had an absolutely glorious month filled with good food, lots of chocolate, amazing "stuff," and lots of extra special times. We've been swing dancing, tango-ing at a supper club, rode the dinner train that goes through the Cascade Mountain Range, spent a weekend at Whistler's Lodge in British Columbia, and had several memorable sleigh rides. I know you'll be amazed to hear that one can be very naughty under cover of a lap robe on a sleigh. It seems I'm more flexible than I realized.
I have new lingerie and the giant squid has a much finer appreciation for bits of silk and satin and lace. Several nights in a row he decided he didn't need a cardio workout the next day. LOL (However, our water bill is exceptionally high this month.)
A couple dropped by a few nights ago - we've known them for years. They're not close friends but acquaintances we see once in a while.
He's a smoker - Strike One!
She's a vegetarian - Strike Two!
I save green things for her to eat and if she shows up before they turn into science experiments in the refrigerator, fine. If not, she sticks to cheese and crackers or buttered toast. Tsk.
Cowboy says I could easily whip up a veggie and dip platter when they show up if I didn't constantly throw the veggies to the crows. Uh huh. I told him I could do that but the crows were depending on me.
SWAT!
Tsk.
The guy is a chain smoker. He has to do without nicotine while in my house or smoke on the back deck. I don't give an inch on this. Bad enough he stinks like a chimney. Cowboy goes out with him so the guy can have a cigarette. I'm stuck with Ms.GreenBeans who wants to know how I can possibly eat meat...
Er... with a knife and fork and A-1 sauce, although if I'm starving and no one is watching and especially if it's filet mignon, I pick that sucker up and dip it in sauce and eat it with my fingers.
"But... but... that's what the dogs do!" she postulates.
"No... the dogs don't have fingers and they skip the A-1 sauce."
"You should stock soy foods and tofu for your vegan guests like me," she lectures.
"The only soy food I have is soy sauce and tofu is not something I want my pups exposed to," I tell her. "I have standards." I say this as I open a box of Twinkies for my babies. All my pets love Twinkies - even the cats come running.
She drones on about tofu and my mind wanders to other more mouth watering delicacies - Twinkies dipped in melted chocolate, Twinkies in melted caramel and fried. swoon Twinkies instead of bananas in a banana split...
"What?" I just realized Ms.GreenBeans asked me a question.
"I said, did you know that tofu comes from Japan?"
"Well, that's earth shattering news," I say. "Aren't they the same folks that slaughter whales?"
Naturally, His Holiness comes back into the house as I make that pronouncement.
SWAT!
Tsk.
"I'd consider buying tofu if they'd leave the whales alone."
SWAT!
Tsk.
Fun-Gooch!
SWAT!
Tsk.
Do you sense a pattern here?
Fortunately they leave before I stuff Ms.GreenBeans' face in A-1 sauce.
"I want you to have some vegetables on hand when they come over next time," the giant squid frowns as he watches me share Twinkies with the 4-legged family members.
"Sure," I'm agreeable. "What do you think she'd like? Tomatoes, cucumbers or green peppers? Do ya suppose she eats them whole or likes to cut them into small pieces?"
SWAT!
Tsk.
"Just for that, I'll give her raw asparagus and Brussels sprouts," I shout as I flee from the room, the dogs following me since I've got the rest of the Twinkies in my hands.
"Gonna warm your butt," the giant squid yells as he gives chase.
"You and what Army?"
"ARMY?"
For some reason, Naval officers are very sensitive about being lumped with other branches of the military. They're especially sensitive about the Army.
He caught me.
Just as the wrath of doom was about to descend, I reminded him what we did with plum tomatoes one afternoon when we had too much wine and lots of time and I had to change the bed linens anyway. The spanking was brief and sweet and stuff ensued and I really should write a snippet about those plum tomatoes. Every time I see them in the grocery store, I giggle and the giant squid whispers how he's gonna turn my butt tomato red if I don't buy some and do what I did that wild wicked afternoon.
I'm so pleased he appreciates my creativity.
~Sar~
Saturday, February 25, 2006
Sunday, February 19, 2006
February Creativity
It's still February, of course, and His Holiness and I continue to make this month a memorable one. I get creative and do things that should bring a normal man to his knees. It seems His Holiness isn't normal - mostly, he laughs at my shenanigans and sometimes, the wretch catches me up under his arm and delivers a swat or two!
Tsk! And I try so hard, too. For example, when I'm annoyed by something he's commanded me to do... Time out here for an eye rollin' session and sincere smirking. I generally stop cooking for a while to test just how long he can live on takeout or if he's REALLY annoyed me, I dye his undies a nice shade of hot pink. Hot pink undies under his "summer whites" uniform isn't exactly military protocol. This always annoys him since he has to buy new undies and it never fails to get him to retaliate but of course, he has to catch me first. Sometimes he gets to me before I can slide down the banister, escape into the backyard and put 2 attack-trained rottweilers in front of me. Other times, he has to placate the rotties before he can touch me and by then, I've already climbed to the highest possible branch of one of our trees. If I'm certain the wrath of a demented Neanderthal is about to descend on my very small butt, I head for one of the outer San Juan Islands.
By the time he finally catches up with me, he had to put a little effort into the chasing and catching. I think every UNDESERVED spanking should take a little effort on the part of the spanker. After all, I did MY part!
Anyway, I forget what he said that annoyed me but I remember that I was annoyed and that's the important part. And I was out of hot pink dye and it was time for a change. So, I dumped all his new white undies into the washing machine with a light blue dye. Light blue is an acceptable color in men's undies and besides, he's wearing his winter Navy blues right now. After looking at the water in the machine, it seemed that the light blue was a bit too pale and not worth the effort so I dumped in a box of deep purple. Wouldn't you know that deep purple, mixed with light blue and Tide and warm water, makes the undies a deep shade of mauve? Not violet or orchid, but mauve. Mauve isn't what I call a masculine color.
His Holiness had something else to say about it but I'm a lady and can't say words like that. Between you and me I always thought he was blue-green color blind so this was a complete shock when he recognized that his undies were no longer pristine white. Instead of shouting indelicate phrases, you'd think he'd just resign himself to colored undies or better yet, take them to the dry cleaners/laundry where his uniforms get cleaned. I wonder if sailors suffer small strokes of stooooopid as they go up in rank?
Oh yeah, he caught up with me as I was pulling out of the driveway on my way to the Canadian border. I was not happy with his hard and heavy hand and in between gasping breaths and threats of large doses of ipecac in his food, I threw out a few theories about his penchant for spanking me when I was just being ME. You're NOT going to believe this! The wretch laughed!
Well, let me just say that it is not nice to spank me when I'm feeling righteous. So-o-o-o he buys me a beautiful and sexy dress and strappy FM high-heel sandals and takes me out to a most romantic place for an intimate dinner. I was NOT born yesterday. The man wants S-E-X and wants to pamper me as a way of apology for being heavy handed, I'm sure. Trust me, he gets plenty of lovin', he's just willing to make up a bit for jumping on me for dying his undies AGAIN. I mean... they were mauve, not hot pink.
I, of course, am the female of the species and far more vengeful than any man could ever be. And my tush is still burning. So, I'm dressed. We go out, get to the restaurant, get snuggled into a corner table by ourselves and the waiter serves the wine. His Holiness has an arm around me and he's whispering naughty thoughts in my ears, his fingers are heading toward my breast... I move slightly and his hand drops back and here comes the appetizers and he has to wait to try to cop a feel later.
Dinner is served and he cuts my steak and is watching my mouth... I take a sip of wine and kiss him. He's turned on - I slip my hand under the table and discover that things have GROWN considerably since we got to the restaurant. I can't resist. I take his hand and slip it under my dress. His fingers make their way higher... I spread my thighs... his fingers move to the center of his universe and he hisses. "NO UNDIES?"
Oops, I think I might have forgotten to put on undies.
"You're awfully fresh," I tell him as he pulls his hand away.
Have you ever seen a grown man - married forever - blush? And choke on his wine? It's an absolutely glorious sight. And then I let him know I'm not wearing a bra either and put his palm on my breast.
"Okay, we're leaving," he says and signals the waiter for the check.
Tsk. I'm going to finish my steak and then have cheesecake.
"When I get you home..." he says in a controlled whisper.
"When you get me home, you're going to make love to me like there's no tomorrow."
"This is revenge for that spanking, isn't it?"
"Yep."
"You're very very naughty."
"Are you bragging or complaining?"
He didn't answer me but the kiss that followed - while the waiter stood there wondering if he should refresh our wineglasses, convinced me that His Holiness wasn't at all unhappy about my latest bit of February creativity.
~Sar~
P.S. Look at the top right of this page. I've added a link that will show you pics of my babies. Aren't they handsome?
Tsk! And I try so hard, too. For example, when I'm annoyed by something he's commanded me to do... Time out here for an eye rollin' session and sincere smirking. I generally stop cooking for a while to test just how long he can live on takeout or if he's REALLY annoyed me, I dye his undies a nice shade of hot pink. Hot pink undies under his "summer whites" uniform isn't exactly military protocol. This always annoys him since he has to buy new undies and it never fails to get him to retaliate but of course, he has to catch me first. Sometimes he gets to me before I can slide down the banister, escape into the backyard and put 2 attack-trained rottweilers in front of me. Other times, he has to placate the rotties before he can touch me and by then, I've already climbed to the highest possible branch of one of our trees. If I'm certain the wrath of a demented Neanderthal is about to descend on my very small butt, I head for one of the outer San Juan Islands.
By the time he finally catches up with me, he had to put a little effort into the chasing and catching. I think every UNDESERVED spanking should take a little effort on the part of the spanker. After all, I did MY part!
Anyway, I forget what he said that annoyed me but I remember that I was annoyed and that's the important part. And I was out of hot pink dye and it was time for a change. So, I dumped all his new white undies into the washing machine with a light blue dye. Light blue is an acceptable color in men's undies and besides, he's wearing his winter Navy blues right now. After looking at the water in the machine, it seemed that the light blue was a bit too pale and not worth the effort so I dumped in a box of deep purple. Wouldn't you know that deep purple, mixed with light blue and Tide and warm water, makes the undies a deep shade of mauve? Not violet or orchid, but mauve. Mauve isn't what I call a masculine color.
His Holiness had something else to say about it but I'm a lady and can't say words like that. Between you and me I always thought he was blue-green color blind so this was a complete shock when he recognized that his undies were no longer pristine white. Instead of shouting indelicate phrases, you'd think he'd just resign himself to colored undies or better yet, take them to the dry cleaners/laundry where his uniforms get cleaned. I wonder if sailors suffer small strokes of stooooopid as they go up in rank?
Oh yeah, he caught up with me as I was pulling out of the driveway on my way to the Canadian border. I was not happy with his hard and heavy hand and in between gasping breaths and threats of large doses of ipecac in his food, I threw out a few theories about his penchant for spanking me when I was just being ME. You're NOT going to believe this! The wretch laughed!
Well, let me just say that it is not nice to spank me when I'm feeling righteous. So-o-o-o he buys me a beautiful and sexy dress and strappy FM high-heel sandals and takes me out to a most romantic place for an intimate dinner. I was NOT born yesterday. The man wants S-E-X and wants to pamper me as a way of apology for being heavy handed, I'm sure. Trust me, he gets plenty of lovin', he's just willing to make up a bit for jumping on me for dying his undies AGAIN. I mean... they were mauve, not hot pink.
I, of course, am the female of the species and far more vengeful than any man could ever be. And my tush is still burning. So, I'm dressed. We go out, get to the restaurant, get snuggled into a corner table by ourselves and the waiter serves the wine. His Holiness has an arm around me and he's whispering naughty thoughts in my ears, his fingers are heading toward my breast... I move slightly and his hand drops back and here comes the appetizers and he has to wait to try to cop a feel later.
Dinner is served and he cuts my steak and is watching my mouth... I take a sip of wine and kiss him. He's turned on - I slip my hand under the table and discover that things have GROWN considerably since we got to the restaurant. I can't resist. I take his hand and slip it under my dress. His fingers make their way higher... I spread my thighs... his fingers move to the center of his universe and he hisses. "NO UNDIES?"
Oops, I think I might have forgotten to put on undies.
"You're awfully fresh," I tell him as he pulls his hand away.
Have you ever seen a grown man - married forever - blush? And choke on his wine? It's an absolutely glorious sight. And then I let him know I'm not wearing a bra either and put his palm on my breast.
"Okay, we're leaving," he says and signals the waiter for the check.
Tsk. I'm going to finish my steak and then have cheesecake.
"When I get you home..." he says in a controlled whisper.
"When you get me home, you're going to make love to me like there's no tomorrow."
"This is revenge for that spanking, isn't it?"
"Yep."
"You're very very naughty."
"Are you bragging or complaining?"
He didn't answer me but the kiss that followed - while the waiter stood there wondering if he should refresh our wineglasses, convinced me that His Holiness wasn't at all unhappy about my latest bit of February creativity.
~Sar~
P.S. Look at the top right of this page. I've added a link that will show you pics of my babies. Aren't they handsome?
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
'Twas Glorious!
Actually, 'twas abso-perfect-lutely wonderful! A glorious Valentine's Day and I think I'll keep His Holiness for at least another year. *Smiles*
I was a little tired from working with the new dogs the day before. Washed all of them with my special doggie shampoo - a mixture of store bought stuff, oatmeal, liquid Vitamin E and lemon juice - then a follow-up with hair conditioner mixed with moisturizing skin lotion and a good brushing. (Tip: Always brush the fur the wrong way - it gets rid of loose fur.) And they smelled sweet and their fur coats started to get that silky feeling. A few more baths like that and they'll shine.
So I slept later than usual on Valentine's day and when I woke up... this *huge* man was in my bed! And he was kissing me! And I was in my birthday suit!
"Ohhhhhh," I said. "If my husband shows up, you're in big trouble!"
"I'm his stand-in," the behemoth said and kissed me again!
'Twas wonderful!
"You can stand-in *any* time," I assured him and kissed him back.
"Such a hussy you are!" the giant squid growled and before I knew it, I was over his lap and his excessively hard hand was doing the one-clap dance.
Tsk.
"Now that I think about it," I told him between gasps of ouches and sighs of pleasure, "you do remind me of His Holiness."
"What gave it away?" the wretch wanted to know as he continued to practice his drumbeats.
"No one kisses quite like you."
"Who else have you been kissing?"
Oye - poor choice of words.
"Welllll, there's this Neanderthal I'm occasionally fond of..."
"Only occasionally?"
SWAT!
"And a giant squid that I feel sorry for and feel an obligation to kiss every once in a while - just so he doesn't feel neglected."
"Feel sorry for?"
SWAT!
"An obligation?"
SWAT!
"Feel neglected?"
SWAT!
"And then there's His Holiness who thinks I should follow his orders but between you and me, he's just a wussie Navy Seal and I just can't resist a wussie Navy Seal."
"Seals are not wussies."
SWAT!
"Oh yeah? But can they kiss?"
"Damn straight!"
SWAT!
"Prove it!"
~ sigh ~ And he did.
Then there was chocolate and cuddles and lots of laughter when I got tickled till I was breathless and then more chocolate and more cuddles and Cue the violins good stuff.
Breakfast was shared - we fed each other cheese blintzes and strawberries and cream and chicory coffee and cuddled some more.
I had hung several mistletoe Valentines around the house so when he took a phone call on his cell - standing in the doorway to his office, I heard him say "Sir?" Oh joy! That means someone higher ranked than His Holiness was on the phone - a rare occurrence. What's a loving wife supposed to do at a time like that?
I came up behind him and yanked his sweats down and when he instantly turned to face me, I let my hands talk for me. Boy! Was he surprised! And then I slipped to the floor - drum roll, please! - And practically choked on my... errr... laughter... as I listened to him try to carry on a civil conversation with a superior officer and act as if he were immune to what was happening below his waist.
The wretch made some excuse and ended his call and before I could make my escape, I was lifted above his head, told what a naughty girl I was and was bent over his desktop before I took another breath.
Hark! Was that a herd of stampeding longhorns? Thunder rolling in? Fighter jets passing through Mach 2?
Ohhhhh myyyyy! What followed was stingy and not-so-gentle loving... falling to the carpet... rolling over and over fighting to be on top... kissing here, there and everywhere and wowzers! Firecrackers and shooting stars and such absolute bliss I'm struggling to find the right words and I just might leave those mistletoe Valentines up for a while.
~ long contented sigh ~
The rest of the day was equal amounts of chocolate, cuddling, teasing, chasing, catching, and lots of loving. I vaguely remember lunch. But for dinner, Cowboy gave me a sexy number to wear and he donned a jacket and we were soon dressed to go out. I wondered where he was taking me when the doorbell rang.
A waiter showed up with my favorite foods, set my dining room table with linens, et al and served us a delicious meal. There was wine and triple chocolate cake and lots of flowers and when I couldn't eat another bite, the dishes were cleared away and we retired to the sofa in front of the fireplace and cuddled until the man left. The temps are below freezing, the fire was warm and I got up to make a chocolate drink for my beloved - Bicerin - and what followed was so very sweet on the rug in front of the blazing fire.
We weren't totally alone all day. My rott was drawn to the wine... and kept nosing me under the table in case I forgot he was there. The mastiff knows I won't give him chocolate but that didn't stop him from swiping one of the small cheese/dip platters the waiter had put on the kitchen counter prior to serving it. The dog is so large, he just stood on his hind legs and stole the ENTIRE platter. Then both dogs assumed the rug in front of the blazing fire was for THEM and they settled in for a nice long nap until His Holiness made ugly noises in their direction and they retreated to the rug under the kitchen table.
The cats sprawled on top of the fireplace mantle and watched us make whoopee - feline voyeurs.
It was a wonderful day to remember why we wed and to enjoy each other. There's more to February yet to come... and I plan to give His Holiness a few more surprises. With any luck, he'll be *up* to the challenge.
~Sar~
I was a little tired from working with the new dogs the day before. Washed all of them with my special doggie shampoo - a mixture of store bought stuff, oatmeal, liquid Vitamin E and lemon juice - then a follow-up with hair conditioner mixed with moisturizing skin lotion and a good brushing. (Tip: Always brush the fur the wrong way - it gets rid of loose fur.) And they smelled sweet and their fur coats started to get that silky feeling. A few more baths like that and they'll shine.
So I slept later than usual on Valentine's day and when I woke up... this *huge* man was in my bed! And he was kissing me! And I was in my birthday suit!
"Ohhhhhh," I said. "If my husband shows up, you're in big trouble!"
"I'm his stand-in," the behemoth said and kissed me again!
'Twas wonderful!
"You can stand-in *any* time," I assured him and kissed him back.
"Such a hussy you are!" the giant squid growled and before I knew it, I was over his lap and his excessively hard hand was doing the one-clap dance.
Tsk.
"Now that I think about it," I told him between gasps of ouches and sighs of pleasure, "you do remind me of His Holiness."
"What gave it away?" the wretch wanted to know as he continued to practice his drumbeats.
"No one kisses quite like you."
"Who else have you been kissing?"
Oye - poor choice of words.
"Welllll, there's this Neanderthal I'm occasionally fond of..."
"Only occasionally?"
SWAT!
"And a giant squid that I feel sorry for and feel an obligation to kiss every once in a while - just so he doesn't feel neglected."
"Feel sorry for?"
SWAT!
"An obligation?"
SWAT!
"Feel neglected?"
SWAT!
"And then there's His Holiness who thinks I should follow his orders but between you and me, he's just a wussie Navy Seal and I just can't resist a wussie Navy Seal."
"Seals are not wussies."
SWAT!
"Oh yeah? But can they kiss?"
"Damn straight!"
SWAT!
"Prove it!"
~ sigh ~ And he did.
Then there was chocolate and cuddles and lots of laughter when I got tickled till I was breathless and then more chocolate and more cuddles and Cue the violins good stuff.
Breakfast was shared - we fed each other cheese blintzes and strawberries and cream and chicory coffee and cuddled some more.
I had hung several mistletoe Valentines around the house so when he took a phone call on his cell - standing in the doorway to his office, I heard him say "Sir?" Oh joy! That means someone higher ranked than His Holiness was on the phone - a rare occurrence. What's a loving wife supposed to do at a time like that?
I came up behind him and yanked his sweats down and when he instantly turned to face me, I let my hands talk for me. Boy! Was he surprised! And then I slipped to the floor - drum roll, please! - And practically choked on my... errr... laughter... as I listened to him try to carry on a civil conversation with a superior officer and act as if he were immune to what was happening below his waist.
The wretch made some excuse and ended his call and before I could make my escape, I was lifted above his head, told what a naughty girl I was and was bent over his desktop before I took another breath.
Hark! Was that a herd of stampeding longhorns? Thunder rolling in? Fighter jets passing through Mach 2?
Ohhhhh myyyyy! What followed was stingy and not-so-gentle loving... falling to the carpet... rolling over and over fighting to be on top... kissing here, there and everywhere and wowzers! Firecrackers and shooting stars and such absolute bliss I'm struggling to find the right words and I just might leave those mistletoe Valentines up for a while.
~ long contented sigh ~
The rest of the day was equal amounts of chocolate, cuddling, teasing, chasing, catching, and lots of loving. I vaguely remember lunch. But for dinner, Cowboy gave me a sexy number to wear and he donned a jacket and we were soon dressed to go out. I wondered where he was taking me when the doorbell rang.
A waiter showed up with my favorite foods, set my dining room table with linens, et al and served us a delicious meal. There was wine and triple chocolate cake and lots of flowers and when I couldn't eat another bite, the dishes were cleared away and we retired to the sofa in front of the fireplace and cuddled until the man left. The temps are below freezing, the fire was warm and I got up to make a chocolate drink for my beloved - Bicerin - and what followed was so very sweet on the rug in front of the blazing fire.
We weren't totally alone all day. My rott was drawn to the wine... and kept nosing me under the table in case I forgot he was there. The mastiff knows I won't give him chocolate but that didn't stop him from swiping one of the small cheese/dip platters the waiter had put on the kitchen counter prior to serving it. The dog is so large, he just stood on his hind legs and stole the ENTIRE platter. Then both dogs assumed the rug in front of the blazing fire was for THEM and they settled in for a nice long nap until His Holiness made ugly noises in their direction and they retreated to the rug under the kitchen table.
The cats sprawled on top of the fireplace mantle and watched us make whoopee - feline voyeurs.
It was a wonderful day to remember why we wed and to enjoy each other. There's more to February yet to come... and I plan to give His Holiness a few more surprises. With any luck, he'll be *up* to the challenge.
~Sar~
Saturday, February 11, 2006
February Musings
Cowboy here. Sar is still flying high so I'm updating her blog. It's not just chocolate that makes the imp dizzy with happiness although that's a given.
Don't know if she's mentioned that we foster large breed dogs that have been rescued. They come from breeding kennels that have been shut down, were abandoned or the owners died, etc. Sar is skilled in teaching "obedience" and getting the animals rehabilitated and socialized. Most of them earn "companion" dog titles before they're adopted out and some learn the basics of living with a disabled person and assisting them. All animals are attracted to her - 2-legged and 4-legged varieties. I generally push the 2-legged ones away from her.
She's good at this and I'm damn proud of her accomplishments. This morning, I screened a few dogs that need a second chance at life and brought them home for her to rehabilitate and train. When she saw the "pure dog rescue" van pull into the driveway, she flew out of the house to meet us. It took great restraint on her part to keep her hands off until each was individually kenneled. I had to laugh - when Sar can't wait to touch them, she hugs herself and simultaneously tells me to hurry so she can meet the dogs.
I brought home an English mastiff - neglected and too thin and rough patches on his coat. His nails are too long, teeth a little yellow and he's scratching his ears a lot - probably mites. Sar declared him a handsome rogue waiting to strut his stuff. She named him Oliver.
We also took in an older bloodhound - arthritic and torn paw pads, a crooked tail, and chest scars. His name is Archie and when he saw Sar, he bayed. The first time I saw her I bayed too but that's another story.
There's a Scottish Deer hound in the crowd. Murdock - the first time we've fostered one of those. They're sight hounds, should be easy to train.
And last, there's a young Alaskan Malamute. Malamutes are medium sized dogs but powerful and extraordinarily bright. It takes a mentally strong trainer to teach them new habits. Sar chose to call him Tuma, a proud Inuit name.
With me and her rott and mastiff in attendance, Sar introduced herself to each dog, examined their eyes, ears, teeth, paws and coat and made notes on their health problems. This "meeting" always astounds me. The dogs look at me and mostly ignore me or growl low. When they see Sar, they turn to mush, each one wants her attention and wants to sit on her lap. While she talks to them, she's offering bits of peanut butter cookies and they're lapping it out of her hand.
Each dog gets the same lecture while she pets them. Sar tells them what the rules are, what they will eat and what she expects of each one.
"You jump on me, you get kicked in the chest."
"You nip me, you get your nose pinched."
"You fight with the other dogs, you eat kibble while everybody else gets mac and cheese and twinkies."
"You play nice and try hard, you eat large."
"Herbal bath twice a week and daily brushing."
"Daily dose of vitamin C and no spitting it out."
"No growling or backtalk while I clean your ears, brush your teeth and clip your nails."
"You be good to me and I'll make you the happiest pooch on the planet."
The mastiff stands still during the lecture. The bloodhound bays through the whole thing. The deer hound has been nosing Sar's pockets and the malamute is chewing on her shoe laces. I smile at the imp; she has a lot of work ahead of her and she's hyped for the challenge. When she gets through with them, 4 families will get 4 very obedient and healthy pets.
She makes a special supper for them - cooked oatmeal mixed with small amounts of kibble and ground chicken and eggs and I don't know what else. She feeds each one of them from her hand - there is a reason for this. She wants them to know she is the alpha in the pack and controls the food. When she grooms them, she will subtly introduce commands - sit, down, stay. But the main thing she will teach during grooming is "watch me." This is an important command. If they learn to watch her, the other commands will be learned quickly. She'll teach them to respond to voice and hand signals, and when she works with them, her own dogs will be in attendance to keep the peace.
On another note, it is February. Both of us are enjoying the extra effort we have put into sharing this special month. I have ordered imported chocolates for my sweetheart and will bring flowers home on Valentine's Day. She told me she wants more than chocolate and flowers.
What do you want? I asked her. New lingerie?
Sex, she said.
Sex? I try not to laugh in case she is serious.
Lots of sex, she says. And sweet spankings.
You don't get enough?
You're getting old, she tells me. I want as much as possible before you're too old.
I grab her and hug the stuffing out of her. I'm not so old that I can't please my wife on a regular basis. I should spank her for being sassy and I will later. Right now I promise her she doesn't have to worry. I'll deliver everything she wants and maybe more.
Cowboy
Don't know if she's mentioned that we foster large breed dogs that have been rescued. They come from breeding kennels that have been shut down, were abandoned or the owners died, etc. Sar is skilled in teaching "obedience" and getting the animals rehabilitated and socialized. Most of them earn "companion" dog titles before they're adopted out and some learn the basics of living with a disabled person and assisting them. All animals are attracted to her - 2-legged and 4-legged varieties. I generally push the 2-legged ones away from her.
She's good at this and I'm damn proud of her accomplishments. This morning, I screened a few dogs that need a second chance at life and brought them home for her to rehabilitate and train. When she saw the "pure dog rescue" van pull into the driveway, she flew out of the house to meet us. It took great restraint on her part to keep her hands off until each was individually kenneled. I had to laugh - when Sar can't wait to touch them, she hugs herself and simultaneously tells me to hurry so she can meet the dogs.
I brought home an English mastiff - neglected and too thin and rough patches on his coat. His nails are too long, teeth a little yellow and he's scratching his ears a lot - probably mites. Sar declared him a handsome rogue waiting to strut his stuff. She named him Oliver.
We also took in an older bloodhound - arthritic and torn paw pads, a crooked tail, and chest scars. His name is Archie and when he saw Sar, he bayed. The first time I saw her I bayed too but that's another story.
There's a Scottish Deer hound in the crowd. Murdock - the first time we've fostered one of those. They're sight hounds, should be easy to train.
And last, there's a young Alaskan Malamute. Malamutes are medium sized dogs but powerful and extraordinarily bright. It takes a mentally strong trainer to teach them new habits. Sar chose to call him Tuma, a proud Inuit name.
With me and her rott and mastiff in attendance, Sar introduced herself to each dog, examined their eyes, ears, teeth, paws and coat and made notes on their health problems. This "meeting" always astounds me. The dogs look at me and mostly ignore me or growl low. When they see Sar, they turn to mush, each one wants her attention and wants to sit on her lap. While she talks to them, she's offering bits of peanut butter cookies and they're lapping it out of her hand.
Each dog gets the same lecture while she pets them. Sar tells them what the rules are, what they will eat and what she expects of each one.
"You jump on me, you get kicked in the chest."
"You nip me, you get your nose pinched."
"You fight with the other dogs, you eat kibble while everybody else gets mac and cheese and twinkies."
"You play nice and try hard, you eat large."
"Herbal bath twice a week and daily brushing."
"Daily dose of vitamin C and no spitting it out."
"No growling or backtalk while I clean your ears, brush your teeth and clip your nails."
"You be good to me and I'll make you the happiest pooch on the planet."
The mastiff stands still during the lecture. The bloodhound bays through the whole thing. The deer hound has been nosing Sar's pockets and the malamute is chewing on her shoe laces. I smile at the imp; she has a lot of work ahead of her and she's hyped for the challenge. When she gets through with them, 4 families will get 4 very obedient and healthy pets.
She makes a special supper for them - cooked oatmeal mixed with small amounts of kibble and ground chicken and eggs and I don't know what else. She feeds each one of them from her hand - there is a reason for this. She wants them to know she is the alpha in the pack and controls the food. When she grooms them, she will subtly introduce commands - sit, down, stay. But the main thing she will teach during grooming is "watch me." This is an important command. If they learn to watch her, the other commands will be learned quickly. She'll teach them to respond to voice and hand signals, and when she works with them, her own dogs will be in attendance to keep the peace.
On another note, it is February. Both of us are enjoying the extra effort we have put into sharing this special month. I have ordered imported chocolates for my sweetheart and will bring flowers home on Valentine's Day. She told me she wants more than chocolate and flowers.
What do you want? I asked her. New lingerie?
Sex, she said.
Sex? I try not to laugh in case she is serious.
Lots of sex, she says. And sweet spankings.
You don't get enough?
You're getting old, she tells me. I want as much as possible before you're too old.
I grab her and hug the stuffing out of her. I'm not so old that I can't please my wife on a regular basis. I should spank her for being sassy and I will later. Right now I promise her she doesn't have to worry. I'll deliver everything she wants and maybe more.
Cowboy
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
Ya know...
Sometimes a gal's gotta do what a gal's gotta do.
So when His Holiness announced that we were going back to the doctor for a follow-up visit and that I wasn't supposed to eat or drink anything after 10 p.m. the night before, I went into "warrior princess" mode. My savior - Wonder Woman - has been mighty busy lately and her image has been tainted ever since someone posted a pic of her bare bum getting smacked by Super Man on the Internet. I couldn't rely on her to save me so I went to Plan B.
I've learned over the years not to argue with His Holiness when he says we're doing something I object to. I generally just ignore him and make my escape, but this time I knew I couldn't get away in time.
So... in the middle of the night when I got up to go to the bathroom, I scarfed down a few Twinkies, HoHos and DingDongs. I would have had a few Heath Bars but I didn't want to push it. Then, the next morning, while Cowboy was jogging, I made a few boxes of Mac and Cheese for me and the pups. Forget this fasting blood thing - I'm going to get weighed when I get to the doc and I need to carbo load.
When he came back he said: "You didn't eat breakfast, did you?"
Mac and Cheese for breakfast? Nawwww.
"I made breakfast for the pups, dear." (Which was true. And since I've never ever done anything in my life for which I felt guilt, there was no reason to volunteer information that would raise Cowboy's blood pressure.)
"They're going to draw more blood, imp. You don't want our visit to end up with you upended, do you?"
Visit? A doctor's appointment is not a visit. It's a date with doom. And don't they have enough of my blood by now? What are they doing? Selling it to the closet vampires?
"We have to leave as soon as I shower," the giant squid announced.
"I'm ready," I smiled and put the mastiff in the backseat of the car. The doc is obviously afraid of the rottweiler - the mastiff is bigger and has a friendlier face. Fortunately, he also bites on command.
The dog knows where his loyalty lies so he gets down on the floor of the SUV behind the front seat and under a blanket and doesn't pop his head up until we're at the base clinic.
"You brought the beast? How many times do I have to tell you dogs are not allowed in the clinic?"
"You're an Admiral. Rank has its privileges. I'll be much more comfortable with BullyBoy beside me."
"He's not gonna be beside you when I get you home and alone in the bedroom with the door shut!"
ACKKK! I think I was just threatened.
The clinic staff is used to me. They don't get alarmed when I walk in with a 165 lb. dog by my side. I think they're just happy I didn't bounce in with an AK47. So, while Cowboy is talking with the doc, I'm in another room where the nurse is weighing me. I keep her attention on the bar at the top of the scale and BullyBoy puts his paw on the scale next to my foot. It took *forever* to teach him to do that and to hold his paw there until I said "okay" and then remove it as I step off the scale. Between me and BullyBoy's paw, I have gained six pounds! A miracle! The nurse is very impressed with my weight gain. I make a mental note to give the pup extra liver biscuits when we get home.
The doc wants to draw blood.
I say no.
His Holiness says yes.
I run a finger down BullyBoy's back.
BullyBoy smiles - showing his pearly whites. The pup has such a sweet smile. And he wags his tail. Such a well-mannered puppy.
His Holiness arches a brow.
I tap BullyBoy on the head.
BullyBoy morphs into canine terrorist and growls. When a dog growls, it's a bit startling. When a BIG dog like BullyBoy growls, every nerve in your body screams "I DON'T WANT TO DIE!"
His Holiness mutters an unintelligible sound which I'm certain is not a compliment.
The doc eyes the dog and you can just see what he is thinking. RABID DOG! RED ALERT! He says the blood test isn't really all that necessary, just a backup to confirm what he already knows.
I arch a brow at His Holiness and mouth words like "Somalia."
His Holiness makes a hand gesture that clearly interpreted means "spanking" and mouths "you."
Tsk.
We make an appointment to return in 3 months. (As soon as I get home, I cancel the appointment.)
On the way home... His Holiness says he didn't realize BullyBoy's paw weighed so much. Tsk. For someone who was born in the dark ages, Cowboy knows a lot more about my tricks than I give him credit for.
I suggest we stop for brunch and ice cream.
He suggests we high tail it home so he is not tempted to spank me in public.
I suggest Prozac.
He suggests making a stop to pick up some very soft pillows.
I tell him someone I know has referred to him as a "serial spanker."
He tells me he loves that appellation and takes the freeway exit that goes to the road to our house.
I tell him he needs to pull over onto the shoulder NOW.
He pulls over... I grab him and kiss him and tell him I love him for not telling the doc about BullyBoy's paw.
I get a hard swat, a mind blowing kiss, another swat - lighter this time - and since I didn't hurt the doc, I get a promise that we'll go out for a nice dinner later.
"Will I be sitting comfortably at dinner?" I need details.
"Depends."
"Depends on what?"
"On how good you are to me when we get home."
"Ohhhh. I can be very very good."
"You'll have to prove it."
~sigh~
Well, a gal's gotta do what a gal's gotta do... and I did.
~Sar~
So when His Holiness announced that we were going back to the doctor for a follow-up visit and that I wasn't supposed to eat or drink anything after 10 p.m. the night before, I went into "warrior princess" mode. My savior - Wonder Woman - has been mighty busy lately and her image has been tainted ever since someone posted a pic of her bare bum getting smacked by Super Man on the Internet. I couldn't rely on her to save me so I went to Plan B.
I've learned over the years not to argue with His Holiness when he says we're doing something I object to. I generally just ignore him and make my escape, but this time I knew I couldn't get away in time.
So... in the middle of the night when I got up to go to the bathroom, I scarfed down a few Twinkies, HoHos and DingDongs. I would have had a few Heath Bars but I didn't want to push it. Then, the next morning, while Cowboy was jogging, I made a few boxes of Mac and Cheese for me and the pups. Forget this fasting blood thing - I'm going to get weighed when I get to the doc and I need to carbo load.
When he came back he said: "You didn't eat breakfast, did you?"
Mac and Cheese for breakfast? Nawwww.
"I made breakfast for the pups, dear." (Which was true. And since I've never ever done anything in my life for which I felt guilt, there was no reason to volunteer information that would raise Cowboy's blood pressure.)
"They're going to draw more blood, imp. You don't want our visit to end up with you upended, do you?"
Visit? A doctor's appointment is not a visit. It's a date with doom. And don't they have enough of my blood by now? What are they doing? Selling it to the closet vampires?
"We have to leave as soon as I shower," the giant squid announced.
"I'm ready," I smiled and put the mastiff in the backseat of the car. The doc is obviously afraid of the rottweiler - the mastiff is bigger and has a friendlier face. Fortunately, he also bites on command.
The dog knows where his loyalty lies so he gets down on the floor of the SUV behind the front seat and under a blanket and doesn't pop his head up until we're at the base clinic.
"You brought the beast? How many times do I have to tell you dogs are not allowed in the clinic?"
"You're an Admiral. Rank has its privileges. I'll be much more comfortable with BullyBoy beside me."
"He's not gonna be beside you when I get you home and alone in the bedroom with the door shut!"
ACKKK! I think I was just threatened.
The clinic staff is used to me. They don't get alarmed when I walk in with a 165 lb. dog by my side. I think they're just happy I didn't bounce in with an AK47. So, while Cowboy is talking with the doc, I'm in another room where the nurse is weighing me. I keep her attention on the bar at the top of the scale and BullyBoy puts his paw on the scale next to my foot. It took *forever* to teach him to do that and to hold his paw there until I said "okay" and then remove it as I step off the scale. Between me and BullyBoy's paw, I have gained six pounds! A miracle! The nurse is very impressed with my weight gain. I make a mental note to give the pup extra liver biscuits when we get home.
The doc wants to draw blood.
I say no.
His Holiness says yes.
I run a finger down BullyBoy's back.
BullyBoy smiles - showing his pearly whites. The pup has such a sweet smile. And he wags his tail. Such a well-mannered puppy.
His Holiness arches a brow.
I tap BullyBoy on the head.
BullyBoy morphs into canine terrorist and growls. When a dog growls, it's a bit startling. When a BIG dog like BullyBoy growls, every nerve in your body screams "I DON'T WANT TO DIE!"
His Holiness mutters an unintelligible sound which I'm certain is not a compliment.
The doc eyes the dog and you can just see what he is thinking. RABID DOG! RED ALERT! He says the blood test isn't really all that necessary, just a backup to confirm what he already knows.
I arch a brow at His Holiness and mouth words like "Somalia."
His Holiness makes a hand gesture that clearly interpreted means "spanking" and mouths "you."
Tsk.
We make an appointment to return in 3 months. (As soon as I get home, I cancel the appointment.)
On the way home... His Holiness says he didn't realize BullyBoy's paw weighed so much. Tsk. For someone who was born in the dark ages, Cowboy knows a lot more about my tricks than I give him credit for.
I suggest we stop for brunch and ice cream.
He suggests we high tail it home so he is not tempted to spank me in public.
I suggest Prozac.
He suggests making a stop to pick up some very soft pillows.
I tell him someone I know has referred to him as a "serial spanker."
He tells me he loves that appellation and takes the freeway exit that goes to the road to our house.
I tell him he needs to pull over onto the shoulder NOW.
He pulls over... I grab him and kiss him and tell him I love him for not telling the doc about BullyBoy's paw.
I get a hard swat, a mind blowing kiss, another swat - lighter this time - and since I didn't hurt the doc, I get a promise that we'll go out for a nice dinner later.
"Will I be sitting comfortably at dinner?" I need details.
"Depends."
"Depends on what?"
"On how good you are to me when we get home."
"Ohhhh. I can be very very good."
"You'll have to prove it."
~sigh~
Well, a gal's gotta do what a gal's gotta do... and I did.
~Sar~
Sunday, February 05, 2006
Football Fever!
It's Super Bowl Sunday!
big deal!
I've never been much of a football fan, never had football fever but this year... it's the Pittsburgh Steelers vs. the Seattle Seahawks. I live in the Seattle area and this is the Seahawks' very first time in the Super Bowl. The football fever here is at an all-time high. Everywhere you go, "have a nice day" has been replaced with "Go Seahawks!"
yawn
I attended a lot of football games when I was in college. They were held every Sunday afternoon during the season and the reason I went was because I knew my date would buy hotdogs and chips and soda pop. I'd eat my share and then, whenever he jumped up to shout and make a fool of himself along with the other football fiends... err... fans, I could help myself to the rest of the food. I rarely went to a football game with the same guy twice. They always seemed to wonder when they had eaten their hotdogs and I know you won't believe this, but some of them actually looked at me with great suspicion. I think those were the days when I spent a lot of time practicing my innocent look. I entered college as a 16-year old freshman so I had youth on my side. Those were the good old days.
~sigh~
I knew absolutely nothing about the game until I went off to college and even though I spent most of my time eating... some of what was happening on the field eventually rubbed off. A lot of people today - females - know as much or more about the game than the men do, but there are still people - in third-world countries - who don't understand the intricacies of the sport. Well, I'm here to clue you in.
The rules are very specific:
1/There are two groups of guys. These groups are called teams. Each team has to have the same number of players. Offhand, I don't know how many but it can't be too many because I don't think football players can count too high.
2/Each team has to wear a uniform in different colors than the other team. This is so a mama can tell if it's her little boy running like a bat out of hell down the field or if he's the one on the bottom of a pile of oversized testosterone getting squashed. This is not a game for the faint of heart.
pass the chips
3/The football is not round like a baseball or a basketball. It's oval shaped and get this: It's made out of pig skin! Is that disgusting or what? I wonder how many little piggies they have to slaughter just to cover that thing. And what's worse! It's brownish and leathery. I do hope they didn't roast that poor little piggie until it was already dead. Tsk.
4/The game is played for 60 minutes. The playing time is divided into 4 quarters. After 2 quarters, there's a few minutes of entertainment. This is called the "half-time show." The reason there's the half-time show is because the football players have been running around like chickens with their heads cut off and now they need a break so they can pee and have a beer. "Sporty" guys do that a lot.
4/In addition to the players, there are men with somber faces watching everything they do. They wear uniforms too - stripes. Since the game is seasonal, it's possible they get these guys from the work-release programs at the local penitentiary. Isn't that lovely? I forget what they call these guys - umpires or referees maybe. Whatever... they're the watchdogs and not one of them ever cracks a smile. I bet they don't floss either.
5/Also on the side of the playing field are the team coaches and in a lot of games, the media is also there. The coaches are the ones wearing portable microphones and carrying a clipboard. Clipboards are very important accoutrements of a football game. I don't know why; I think it's a part of the uniform. There's usually one coach that chews gum through the whole event and it's truly disgusting. First, he chews with his mouth open and second, he chews a WAD of the stuff. Of course, this makes his dentist happy because the guy probably also grinds his teeth. He can't wait for the half-time break so he can shove a new wad in. Ewwww.
6/The game begins with someone singing our national anthem, "The Star Spangled Banner." Then the two teams face each other in the middle of the field and act all macho. They crouch over like someone just kicked them in the gut, the really big fellas just sort of lean on their knuckles and channel King Kong in the hopes of scaring the beejeebees out of the other gorillas on the opposing team. This is a case of "my shoulder pads are bigger than your shoulder pads" or... something like that.
7/Then the quarterback goes into action. This is the star of the team and everyone on the opposing team wants to tackle him and smother him. The reason he's called a quarterback is because he's about 1/4 the size of the gorillas. He can run faster than they can which is a good thing. I think they need to paint him with pig grease (from the pig they slaughtered) so he can slip through the gorillas more easily.
8/I forgot to mention that the football players wear helmets with face guards. This is so nobody gets a fist or a foot in the face in the heat of all that good sportsmanship. They also paint thick dark lines under their eyes. Is this really necessary? It makes they look like wussies.
9/When a team gets the ball, they play "4 downs" and then the other team gets the ball. Once in a while, they don't get all 4 "downs" because the other team "intercepts" the ball. Okay folks, since little kids are watching, they call this a "ball intercept," but you and I both knew what really happens is that the other team gets greedy and can't wait their turn and they steal the ball. And every time this happens, the crowd goes wild! Very very sad grown men can't play nice.
10/The "4 downs:" Every time I hear it's the "1st down" or the "2nd down," etc. I can't help wondering when it will be the "1st UP." There are certain immutable things in life: Day - night, black - white, vanilla - chocolate, left - right, down - up. All those "downs" and no "ups." And nobody ever mentions it, either! Unbelievable.
11/The goal of the game is to get the football to the far end of the field with all of one's body parts intact. This is called a touchdown and everybody makes a big deal out of it. This is really my favorite part because everybody jumps up and down and goes crazy and nobody notices that I just grabbed the last of the nachos, etc. At least I have *my* priorities in order.
Okay, who's up for pizza?
12/After a touchdown, the team gets to play for an extra point. This is usually done by kicking the football between two goal posts. The team has a "kicker" and as far as I can tell, that's all he does. Everybody in the stands is watching this guy. The TV cameras are watching him. The coach is chewing like crazy and he's watching him. His mama is watching. This puts a lot of pressure on the poor guy and it's a really tense moment. Sometimes that one point can make or break the game for the team. Will he make the kick?
Like I care. Pass the pizza.
I asked His Holiness to look this over to make sure I explained everything. He said it wasn't quite accurate. Now he tells me!
And would you believe the wretch is laughing?
Tsk. Now, I'm not sure if I should explain the rules of basketball and baseball to you.
~Sar~
big deal!
I've never been much of a football fan, never had football fever but this year... it's the Pittsburgh Steelers vs. the Seattle Seahawks. I live in the Seattle area and this is the Seahawks' very first time in the Super Bowl. The football fever here is at an all-time high. Everywhere you go, "have a nice day" has been replaced with "Go Seahawks!"
yawn
I attended a lot of football games when I was in college. They were held every Sunday afternoon during the season and the reason I went was because I knew my date would buy hotdogs and chips and soda pop. I'd eat my share and then, whenever he jumped up to shout and make a fool of himself along with the other football fiends... err... fans, I could help myself to the rest of the food. I rarely went to a football game with the same guy twice. They always seemed to wonder when they had eaten their hotdogs and I know you won't believe this, but some of them actually looked at me with great suspicion. I think those were the days when I spent a lot of time practicing my innocent look. I entered college as a 16-year old freshman so I had youth on my side. Those were the good old days.
~sigh~
I knew absolutely nothing about the game until I went off to college and even though I spent most of my time eating... some of what was happening on the field eventually rubbed off. A lot of people today - females - know as much or more about the game than the men do, but there are still people - in third-world countries - who don't understand the intricacies of the sport. Well, I'm here to clue you in.
The rules are very specific:
1/There are two groups of guys. These groups are called teams. Each team has to have the same number of players. Offhand, I don't know how many but it can't be too many because I don't think football players can count too high.
2/Each team has to wear a uniform in different colors than the other team. This is so a mama can tell if it's her little boy running like a bat out of hell down the field or if he's the one on the bottom of a pile of oversized testosterone getting squashed. This is not a game for the faint of heart.
pass the chips
3/The football is not round like a baseball or a basketball. It's oval shaped and get this: It's made out of pig skin! Is that disgusting or what? I wonder how many little piggies they have to slaughter just to cover that thing. And what's worse! It's brownish and leathery. I do hope they didn't roast that poor little piggie until it was already dead. Tsk.
4/The game is played for 60 minutes. The playing time is divided into 4 quarters. After 2 quarters, there's a few minutes of entertainment. This is called the "half-time show." The reason there's the half-time show is because the football players have been running around like chickens with their heads cut off and now they need a break so they can pee and have a beer. "Sporty" guys do that a lot.
4/In addition to the players, there are men with somber faces watching everything they do. They wear uniforms too - stripes. Since the game is seasonal, it's possible they get these guys from the work-release programs at the local penitentiary. Isn't that lovely? I forget what they call these guys - umpires or referees maybe. Whatever... they're the watchdogs and not one of them ever cracks a smile. I bet they don't floss either.
5/Also on the side of the playing field are the team coaches and in a lot of games, the media is also there. The coaches are the ones wearing portable microphones and carrying a clipboard. Clipboards are very important accoutrements of a football game. I don't know why; I think it's a part of the uniform. There's usually one coach that chews gum through the whole event and it's truly disgusting. First, he chews with his mouth open and second, he chews a WAD of the stuff. Of course, this makes his dentist happy because the guy probably also grinds his teeth. He can't wait for the half-time break so he can shove a new wad in. Ewwww.
6/The game begins with someone singing our national anthem, "The Star Spangled Banner." Then the two teams face each other in the middle of the field and act all macho. They crouch over like someone just kicked them in the gut, the really big fellas just sort of lean on their knuckles and channel King Kong in the hopes of scaring the beejeebees out of the other gorillas on the opposing team. This is a case of "my shoulder pads are bigger than your shoulder pads" or... something like that.
7/Then the quarterback goes into action. This is the star of the team and everyone on the opposing team wants to tackle him and smother him. The reason he's called a quarterback is because he's about 1/4 the size of the gorillas. He can run faster than they can which is a good thing. I think they need to paint him with pig grease (from the pig they slaughtered) so he can slip through the gorillas more easily.
8/I forgot to mention that the football players wear helmets with face guards. This is so nobody gets a fist or a foot in the face in the heat of all that good sportsmanship. They also paint thick dark lines under their eyes. Is this really necessary? It makes they look like wussies.
9/When a team gets the ball, they play "4 downs" and then the other team gets the ball. Once in a while, they don't get all 4 "downs" because the other team "intercepts" the ball. Okay folks, since little kids are watching, they call this a "ball intercept," but you and I both knew what really happens is that the other team gets greedy and can't wait their turn and they steal the ball. And every time this happens, the crowd goes wild! Very very sad grown men can't play nice.
10/The "4 downs:" Every time I hear it's the "1st down" or the "2nd down," etc. I can't help wondering when it will be the "1st UP." There are certain immutable things in life: Day - night, black - white, vanilla - chocolate, left - right, down - up. All those "downs" and no "ups." And nobody ever mentions it, either! Unbelievable.
11/The goal of the game is to get the football to the far end of the field with all of one's body parts intact. This is called a touchdown and everybody makes a big deal out of it. This is really my favorite part because everybody jumps up and down and goes crazy and nobody notices that I just grabbed the last of the nachos, etc. At least I have *my* priorities in order.
Okay, who's up for pizza?
12/After a touchdown, the team gets to play for an extra point. This is usually done by kicking the football between two goal posts. The team has a "kicker" and as far as I can tell, that's all he does. Everybody in the stands is watching this guy. The TV cameras are watching him. The coach is chewing like crazy and he's watching him. His mama is watching. This puts a lot of pressure on the poor guy and it's a really tense moment. Sometimes that one point can make or break the game for the team. Will he make the kick?
Like I care. Pass the pizza.
I asked His Holiness to look this over to make sure I explained everything. He said it wasn't quite accurate. Now he tells me!
And would you believe the wretch is laughing?
Tsk. Now, I'm not sure if I should explain the rules of basketball and baseball to you.
~Sar~
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
A quick note
I adore your comments on the blog and I am really delighted to read the emails you send to my addy. However...
A few weeks ago, someone sent me an email... the "sender" line was blank; the "subject" line was "none" and I mistakenly opened it. It turned out okay - it was someone commenting on my stories. But...
In this age of virus scares and undesirable email i.e., I'm not in need of a penile enlargement device, Viagra, breast enhancement, nor a mortgage and I definitely do NOT want to see Candy on her webcam or celebrities "doing it."
In the past few days I have received about half a dozen emails with blank lines on sender and subject line and I have not opened them. If you want to comment, please put something in the subject line so I know it has to do with my website fiction and/or blog. A "sender" name would be helpful, too. I reply to most emails - ignoring the few ugly ones I receive that boast about the size of their equipment and/or "ya haven't lived till you make it with a female dom." Oye!
So, if you've sent email and I didn't reply... I'm not being rude, just cautious.
~Sar~
A few weeks ago, someone sent me an email... the "sender" line was blank; the "subject" line was "none" and I mistakenly opened it. It turned out okay - it was someone commenting on my stories. But...
In this age of virus scares and undesirable email i.e., I'm not in need of a penile enlargement device, Viagra, breast enhancement, nor a mortgage and I definitely do NOT want to see Candy on her webcam or celebrities "doing it."
In the past few days I have received about half a dozen emails with blank lines on sender and subject line and I have not opened them. If you want to comment, please put something in the subject line so I know it has to do with my website fiction and/or blog. A "sender" name would be helpful, too. I reply to most emails - ignoring the few ugly ones I receive that boast about the size of their equipment and/or "ya haven't lived till you make it with a female dom." Oye!
So, if you've sent email and I didn't reply... I'm not being rude, just cautious.
~Sar~
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
February!
Tomorrow is February 1st! Oh joy!
February, as you know, is the month of hearts and flowers and in our house, it's also a big chocolate month. It's a time when lovers can make a public display of affection and get away with it. Not that we ignore loving the other 11 months of the year, but in February, well... it's extra special.
A year or so after we were married, Cowboy came home from the other side of the world via a commercial flight. He had been gone for over a month and we were both anxious to reunite.
It was February.
So... I put on one of my more risqué sets of lingerie - red demi bra and panties - hip hose and knee-high black leather boots. I covered up with a flannel-lined black raincoat and drove out to the airport to meet him. We were in the DC area at the time and it was really chilly that time of year so no one would wonder why the raincoat was buttoned and belted even in the airport. He came down the jetway, I jumped into his arms, we hugged and kissed and neither of us could let go of the other. Finally, we came up for air and Cowboy said he couldn't wait to get home and say hello properly and in a more intimate way.
There's a small waiting area at Dulles airport that is off the beaten path and generally reserved for military. I pull Cowboy in that direction and tell him I have to kiss him some more before driving home. He is agreeable.
We get into the waiting room, I pull him into a corner away from the few people waiting there and push him back against the wall. Then I open my raincoat.
Tsk.
When the squid is startled, he often curses... in Italian.
I'm certain those words are unbecoming to an officer and a gentleman - no matter what language he uses.
"Do you like what you see?" I ask him, posing seductively and totally ignoring his naughty outburst.
"I could spank you right here! I *should* spank you right here!" he growls as he grabs either side of my raincoat to cover me up.
My back was to the room. Why does he automatically think I should be spanked? Not looking for answers here... Double tsk.
"You only spank for safety and health issues," I remind him. "And what I'm wearing is neither of those." I am indignant. I dressed to please him and he's threatening to burn my butt.
Truly, this man needs a refresher course in couth.
"My mental health!" he grumbles.
And then I notice that his pants seem very snug. I know he hasn't gained excess weight... do ya s'pose...? Hmm...
Okay, I feel better and because I'm such a loving spouse, I part my raincoat and lean into him... and rub against him... and whisper very naughty words about what I'm going to do to him when we get home.
He mumbles, moans, utters unintelligible noises as I rub against him but I clearly hear:
"I am gonna burn your butt!" And with that, he puts his arms around me under my raincoat and swats my rear end.
We hear the door close and suddenly, we're all alone.
Ut-oh!
"Time to go," I announce.
"Not quite yet," the giant squid retorts and there! In the waiting area! Of Dulles Airport! In front of ceiling-to-floor windows! I am upended under his arm! And spanked!
A commercial plane taxis by... Air Canada I think... *everyone* on that side of the plane can see my rear end being swatted! Thank God they couldn't see my face but I'll tell you right now. Haven't flown Air Canada since and I burned that bra and panty set.
This February... I have *other* ways to show my affection... in public.
Cowboy calls me his birbantella - naughty imp - for a reason.
~Sar~
February, as you know, is the month of hearts and flowers and in our house, it's also a big chocolate month. It's a time when lovers can make a public display of affection and get away with it. Not that we ignore loving the other 11 months of the year, but in February, well... it's extra special.
A year or so after we were married, Cowboy came home from the other side of the world via a commercial flight. He had been gone for over a month and we were both anxious to reunite.
It was February.
So... I put on one of my more risqué sets of lingerie - red demi bra and panties - hip hose and knee-high black leather boots. I covered up with a flannel-lined black raincoat and drove out to the airport to meet him. We were in the DC area at the time and it was really chilly that time of year so no one would wonder why the raincoat was buttoned and belted even in the airport. He came down the jetway, I jumped into his arms, we hugged and kissed and neither of us could let go of the other. Finally, we came up for air and Cowboy said he couldn't wait to get home and say hello properly and in a more intimate way.
There's a small waiting area at Dulles airport that is off the beaten path and generally reserved for military. I pull Cowboy in that direction and tell him I have to kiss him some more before driving home. He is agreeable.
We get into the waiting room, I pull him into a corner away from the few people waiting there and push him back against the wall. Then I open my raincoat.
Tsk.
When the squid is startled, he often curses... in Italian.
I'm certain those words are unbecoming to an officer and a gentleman - no matter what language he uses.
"Do you like what you see?" I ask him, posing seductively and totally ignoring his naughty outburst.
"I could spank you right here! I *should* spank you right here!" he growls as he grabs either side of my raincoat to cover me up.
My back was to the room. Why does he automatically think I should be spanked? Not looking for answers here... Double tsk.
"You only spank for safety and health issues," I remind him. "And what I'm wearing is neither of those." I am indignant. I dressed to please him and he's threatening to burn my butt.
Truly, this man needs a refresher course in couth.
"My mental health!" he grumbles.
And then I notice that his pants seem very snug. I know he hasn't gained excess weight... do ya s'pose...? Hmm...
Okay, I feel better and because I'm such a loving spouse, I part my raincoat and lean into him... and rub against him... and whisper very naughty words about what I'm going to do to him when we get home.
He mumbles, moans, utters unintelligible noises as I rub against him but I clearly hear:
"I am gonna burn your butt!" And with that, he puts his arms around me under my raincoat and swats my rear end.
We hear the door close and suddenly, we're all alone.
Ut-oh!
"Time to go," I announce.
"Not quite yet," the giant squid retorts and there! In the waiting area! Of Dulles Airport! In front of ceiling-to-floor windows! I am upended under his arm! And spanked!
A commercial plane taxis by... Air Canada I think... *everyone* on that side of the plane can see my rear end being swatted! Thank God they couldn't see my face but I'll tell you right now. Haven't flown Air Canada since and I burned that bra and panty set.
This February... I have *other* ways to show my affection... in public.
Cowboy calls me his birbantella - naughty imp - for a reason.
~Sar~
Friday, January 27, 2006
'Fessing up:
I'm a BDSM virgin.
My public email addy is posted on my website and gracious readers occasionally drop me a note. Sometimes, they ask questions. One common question is whether or not Cowboy and I engage in BDSM activities.
Nope.
A lot of years ago I was in the Toronto area for a few weeks - a couple of friends were into the BDSM scene. I didn't know what that was at the time and the very thought really freaked me out. They convinced me to attend a "play party" where I could just sit on the sidelines, sip a cool lemonade (no alcohol allowed) and observe various scenes in action. Sure, that sounded great.
I step DOWN, literally, into a basement that has most of the center of the room dimly lit and there are "things" everywhere: St. Andrews Cross, hoists, spreader bars and whips, tails, paddles, floggers, spanking benches and other paraphernalia. (I learned all the words later.) The ONLY things missing are Vincent Price, Bela Lugosi and Edward G. Robinson.
I immediately went into "fight or flight" mode. Scared the beejeebees out of me. My friends were hysterical with laughter but what can I say? I wasn't very discriminating in those days. The various "acts" had my eyes as big as saucers and my heart in my mouth. You know the way kids peek at horror movies through their fingers? I slipped under the table and watched under cover of the tablecloth - I kid you not. Peeking was more than enough.
Years later, I exchanged chitchat with a gentleman from the Toronto area who participated in one of the Toronto area BDSM groups. He enjoyed my commentary and I listened wide-eyed to a lot of what he told me. Lost track of him - if he still reads at my website, hope all is okay.
I am amazed at the wide range of interest and various activities people enjoy and engage in. Each to his/her own. If the harsher and heavier forms of "this thing we do" is your cup of tea, bravo and brava! I don't care what consenting adults do. Life is short; enjoy every minute.
Will Cowboy and I ever move into that scene? Not in this lifetime. Sweet sensual erotic spanking suits me just fine. On the few occasions when he thinks a harder hand-to-tush discussion is necessary... welll, that's why revenge was invented... along with pink boxer shorts, food tasters, brownies with saltpeter additives, and islands to escape to while he tears his hair out worrying about me. I've said it before; I'll say it again. I am too good to that man.
~Sar~
My public email addy is posted on my website and gracious readers occasionally drop me a note. Sometimes, they ask questions. One common question is whether or not Cowboy and I engage in BDSM activities.
Nope.
A lot of years ago I was in the Toronto area for a few weeks - a couple of friends were into the BDSM scene. I didn't know what that was at the time and the very thought really freaked me out. They convinced me to attend a "play party" where I could just sit on the sidelines, sip a cool lemonade (no alcohol allowed) and observe various scenes in action. Sure, that sounded great.
I step DOWN, literally, into a basement that has most of the center of the room dimly lit and there are "things" everywhere: St. Andrews Cross, hoists, spreader bars and whips, tails, paddles, floggers, spanking benches and other paraphernalia. (I learned all the words later.) The ONLY things missing are Vincent Price, Bela Lugosi and Edward G. Robinson.
I immediately went into "fight or flight" mode. Scared the beejeebees out of me. My friends were hysterical with laughter but what can I say? I wasn't very discriminating in those days. The various "acts" had my eyes as big as saucers and my heart in my mouth. You know the way kids peek at horror movies through their fingers? I slipped under the table and watched under cover of the tablecloth - I kid you not. Peeking was more than enough.
Years later, I exchanged chitchat with a gentleman from the Toronto area who participated in one of the Toronto area BDSM groups. He enjoyed my commentary and I listened wide-eyed to a lot of what he told me. Lost track of him - if he still reads at my website, hope all is okay.
I am amazed at the wide range of interest and various activities people enjoy and engage in. Each to his/her own. If the harsher and heavier forms of "this thing we do" is your cup of tea, bravo and brava! I don't care what consenting adults do. Life is short; enjoy every minute.
Will Cowboy and I ever move into that scene? Not in this lifetime. Sweet sensual erotic spanking suits me just fine. On the few occasions when he thinks a harder hand-to-tush discussion is necessary... welll, that's why revenge was invented... along with pink boxer shorts, food tasters, brownies with saltpeter additives, and islands to escape to while he tears his hair out worrying about me. I've said it before; I'll say it again. I am too good to that man.
~Sar~
Thursday, January 26, 2006
Verklempt!
I was just composing a new blog entry when I heard a box of Twinkies calling my name. As some of you have surmised, I believe that doctors are evil creatures until they prove otherwise. Even though I am "well," I do have another medical appointment coming up soon. I'm going in to placate the medic who has delusions of omnipotence and between you and me, is probably also incontinent the moment he sees me in the waiting room. No matter how much I consume, my weight is always a little less than what they show on national insurance charts. (Now you know why Cowboy can upend me with one arm.) There is a reason for this - I have an extremely fast metabolic rate. I take meds for this. If the doc increases the dosage, I shall turn into a lethargic doofus. Soooo I'm trying to gain a little weight prior to the appointment so he-who-knows-what-is-good-for-me-and-will-die-a-painful-death if he increases my meds lives to worry the beejeebees out of his next patient.
His Holiness will be with me... tsk. So I won't argue if the Neanderthal prescribes more meds. I will, however, cut them in half, etc. Better to be a little on the slim side and get to eat EVERYTHING than to conform to... whatever.
Back to Twinkies: Of course I've had frozen Twinkies. They taste just like ice cream. Have you ever dipped the frozen ones into hot chocolate? swoon
Oh ye who are truly deprived! There are CHOCOLATE Twinkies and strawberry ones, too. Yes, I've fried them and poured chocolate glacé over them. Naturally, being a Twinkies veteran, I don't share those. And I'm certain the Twinkie Farmers of America are due to give me an award.
Alas! IF Twinkie looks like they are going the way of "boxed" Cracker Jack... I shall have to buy up the entire inventory west of the Mississippi. I can still get boxed Cracker Jack(s) by smuggling them in from Canada, although customs agents and the mounties are starting to get suspicious. Ya s'pose it's against the law to let the Cracker Jack prizes cross the border?
And... are you sitting? Someone asked me if I really let my pets eat Twinkies. I said yes, of course. Then the person who picked on my Twinkies by posting that Twinkie torture article went on to tell a horror story about pets eating people food. Tsk and double tsk! It will be a cold day at the equator before I share any Twinkies with her!
Oye! I was so distraught - the pups and the cats and I ate two whole boxes of Twinkies. I had mine with chicory coffee, the Rott had a glass of merlot, the cats drank "half and half" and the Bull Mastiff washed his down with beer but as you might guess, he takes after the squid who frequently is in need of a refresher course in couth.
~Sar~
His Holiness will be with me... tsk. So I won't argue if the Neanderthal prescribes more meds. I will, however, cut them in half, etc. Better to be a little on the slim side and get to eat EVERYTHING than to conform to... whatever.
Back to Twinkies: Of course I've had frozen Twinkies. They taste just like ice cream. Have you ever dipped the frozen ones into hot chocolate? swoon
Oh ye who are truly deprived! There are CHOCOLATE Twinkies and strawberry ones, too. Yes, I've fried them and poured chocolate glacé over them. Naturally, being a Twinkies veteran, I don't share those. And I'm certain the Twinkie Farmers of America are due to give me an award.
Alas! IF Twinkie looks like they are going the way of "boxed" Cracker Jack... I shall have to buy up the entire inventory west of the Mississippi. I can still get boxed Cracker Jack(s) by smuggling them in from Canada, although customs agents and the mounties are starting to get suspicious. Ya s'pose it's against the law to let the Cracker Jack prizes cross the border?
And... are you sitting? Someone asked me if I really let my pets eat Twinkies. I said yes, of course. Then the person who picked on my Twinkies by posting that Twinkie torture article went on to tell a horror story about pets eating people food. Tsk and double tsk! It will be a cold day at the equator before I share any Twinkies with her!
Oye! I was so distraught - the pups and the cats and I ate two whole boxes of Twinkies. I had mine with chicory coffee, the Rott had a glass of merlot, the cats drank "half and half" and the Bull Mastiff washed his down with beer but as you might guess, he takes after the squid who frequently is in need of a refresher course in couth.
~Sar~
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
Twinkies!
On a site I frequent regularly - someone posted a gawd-awful alleged research report on Twinkies. I am certain none of the facts were true. The blasphemy included ugly things that happened or didn't happen when Twinkies were nuked, radiated, drowned, boiled and other couthless torture was heaped on that sweet confection. I was so distraught I had to grab a box of Twinkies and eat every single one.
The fact that Cowboy is making dinner this evening - ungodly and horrific green things - had little to do with my need to get stuffed on a sweet treat. In my response to the Twinkie torture article, I reminded the writer of the following:
Eat a Twinkie - feel good.
Eat a box of Twinkies - get HIGH!
I happen to know that a tall muscular marine from Arkansas eats Twinkies. And so does my neighbor, Ms.HairUpHerAss. See! Both ends of the human spectrum eat Twinkies: the good, the brave, the few as well as the nosy, the evil and the shameful. You can quote me.
Twinkies have so many attributes I don't think I have enough room on this blog to list all of them.
It is an indisputable fact that when you give a kid a box of Twinkies, he will be so busy stuffing himself and licking all the sticky gooey filling off his fingers that you'll have plenty of time to rob his piggy bank... or sneak a quick bourbon straight up.
Pour hot chocolate sauce over a Twinkie - serve with a glass of chilled wine - wait 5 minutes. THEN present His Holiness with the VISA bill. (The Twinkie is for me; the wine for him.)
You know that big busty blonde making goo-goo eyes at your husband at that Christmas party at the office? Hold a Twinkie over her head and she'll follow you anywhere. When you get her alone... stuff that Twinkie... somewhere nasty.
And the dentist who swore he wouldn't hurt you... and did... and you couldn't retaliate because His Holiness was in the room... seek out his children and force feed them Twinkies until giant cavities appear!
Don't mess with MY Twinkies!
~ sigh ~
I'm already making quilts for Katrina families and lobbying to save the whales. Now, it seems I have to start a campaign to support the Twinkie Farmers of America!
~ Sar ~
The fact that Cowboy is making dinner this evening - ungodly and horrific green things - had little to do with my need to get stuffed on a sweet treat. In my response to the Twinkie torture article, I reminded the writer of the following:
Eat a Twinkie - feel good.
Eat a box of Twinkies - get HIGH!
I happen to know that a tall muscular marine from Arkansas eats Twinkies. And so does my neighbor, Ms.HairUpHerAss. See! Both ends of the human spectrum eat Twinkies: the good, the brave, the few as well as the nosy, the evil and the shameful. You can quote me.
Twinkies have so many attributes I don't think I have enough room on this blog to list all of them.
It is an indisputable fact that when you give a kid a box of Twinkies, he will be so busy stuffing himself and licking all the sticky gooey filling off his fingers that you'll have plenty of time to rob his piggy bank... or sneak a quick bourbon straight up.
Pour hot chocolate sauce over a Twinkie - serve with a glass of chilled wine - wait 5 minutes. THEN present His Holiness with the VISA bill. (The Twinkie is for me; the wine for him.)
You know that big busty blonde making goo-goo eyes at your husband at that Christmas party at the office? Hold a Twinkie over her head and she'll follow you anywhere. When you get her alone... stuff that Twinkie... somewhere nasty.
And the dentist who swore he wouldn't hurt you... and did... and you couldn't retaliate because His Holiness was in the room... seek out his children and force feed them Twinkies until giant cavities appear!
Don't mess with MY Twinkies!
~ sigh ~
I'm already making quilts for Katrina families and lobbying to save the whales. Now, it seems I have to start a campaign to support the Twinkie Farmers of America!
~ Sar ~
Thursday, January 19, 2006
Shoot Me Now! Part 2 of 2
The doc comes toward me like I was happy to see him...
"I would like to take your blood pressure," he says and wraps this cuff thing around my arm while I narrow my eyes at him and growl. My normal blood pressure is in the low range and it comes out fine; the doc's blood pressure is obviously sky high by now and I decide not to kick him... yet.
"Where did you go to medical school," I ask.
"Back East," he mumbles.
"Did you go to a real medical school or did you earn your degree online? At Google?"
"I went to a real medical school and now, I need to listen to your heart," the fool says.
"I need to see your medical school transcripts before you touch me. Did you pass everything?"
"Yes!" he shouts.
Tsk. Obviously, he slept through the course on "bedside manners 101" and "patience with patients."
I'll hold the "heart end" part of the stethoscope and you can listen," I tell him.
"Can't do it that way," he says, digging the hole he's standing in deeper.
Cowboy says to let him listen to my heart.
Hmmm...
I let him listen... he's listening a long time... I pick up the stethoscope end that's touching me and I blow into it.
Doc jumps.
"Why did you do that?" he yells.
"Would you rather I kicked you?"
Cowboy whispers in my ear and what he's whispering is that when we're alone, he's gonna burn my butt.
Truly, the man says the sweetest things.
"You really need to change into a gown," the doc says.
"Why? What's the difference between a gown and the shirt I'm wearing?"
"I can't do a breast exam when you're wearing a shirt," the easily demented man explains.
"I don't need a breast exam, thank you very much. I have two of them and both are just fine. And I get a mammogram every year and the scans are good there, too."
"It's part of the exam," he says.
Oye, I bet he flosses after every meal, too.
"I'll skip the breast exam. What else do you have to do?"
"I have to look in your mouth."
"Better not," I advise.
"Why not?"
"Because if I breathe on you, you'll disintegrate. I took anti-demon pills before I got here." (I learned that by watching "Charmed" on TNT.)
"Sir..." the doc addresses His Holiness who is rolling his eyes.
"Sar," the eye-rolling giant squid says.
"Did you go to a reputable medical school?"
"Yes," he says.
Does the man actually think I'm gonna take his word for this?
"How many bones in the human body? What do you prescribe for an upper respiratory infection? What's the difference between eczema and psoriasis? Why is a canine heartbeat slower than ours and what's the TSH range for a normal person?"
"Sir..." the doc repeats his fervent plea to my husband who has just arched a brow in my direction. This means Cowboy's patience is at an end. I'm not sure if that's because he's thinking of having one of those hand-to-my-tush discussions or he's unhappy that the doc didn't answer any of my questions.
"Why don't you wait outside, dear?" I ask.
"NO!" the doc protests.
AHA! He's afraid of me.
I love fear in a doctor.
Cowboy stays in the room and the doc gets very brave and says he wants to run a series of tests.
"What kind of tests?"
"Abdominal scan, GI series, throat cultures, that kind of thing."
I get off the table and leave the room.
"I'll wait in the car," I tell the giant squid.
"Sarrrrr."
I hear the doc tell Cowboy he'll be happy to admit me overnight if that's what it will take to get the tests done.
I hear Cowboy's answer. "You want to be reassigned to Somalia?"
There is dead quiet in the car on the ride home but Cowboy holds my hand. Once we're home, he hugs me tight and tells me he's relieved I didn't hurt the doctor but he's gonna spank me for being uncooperative.
WHAT?
"I was in the room, baby. You could have been nicer to the doctor. He didn't exactly hurt you and he barely touched you. And I forgot to tell you," he says as he reaches into his jacket pocket. "He gave me these pills for you to take before your next appointment. As soon as your blood work comes back, we're going to see him again."
I look at the pills... happy pills. Hmmm....
So... if you happen to see a story on the 6 o'clock news about a doc that requested a transfer to Somalia... you'll know I had absolutely nothing to do with it.
Tsk. The man didn't even know the difference between eczema and psoriasis. Probably doesn't even know the difference between his ass and a hole in the ground. Probably doesn't even....
"Sarrrrr."
SWAT!
Tsk.
~Sar~
"I would like to take your blood pressure," he says and wraps this cuff thing around my arm while I narrow my eyes at him and growl. My normal blood pressure is in the low range and it comes out fine; the doc's blood pressure is obviously sky high by now and I decide not to kick him... yet.
"Where did you go to medical school," I ask.
"Back East," he mumbles.
"Did you go to a real medical school or did you earn your degree online? At Google?"
"I went to a real medical school and now, I need to listen to your heart," the fool says.
"I need to see your medical school transcripts before you touch me. Did you pass everything?"
"Yes!" he shouts.
Tsk. Obviously, he slept through the course on "bedside manners 101" and "patience with patients."
I'll hold the "heart end" part of the stethoscope and you can listen," I tell him.
"Can't do it that way," he says, digging the hole he's standing in deeper.
Cowboy says to let him listen to my heart.
Hmmm...
I let him listen... he's listening a long time... I pick up the stethoscope end that's touching me and I blow into it.
Doc jumps.
"Why did you do that?" he yells.
"Would you rather I kicked you?"
Cowboy whispers in my ear and what he's whispering is that when we're alone, he's gonna burn my butt.
Truly, the man says the sweetest things.
"You really need to change into a gown," the doc says.
"Why? What's the difference between a gown and the shirt I'm wearing?"
"I can't do a breast exam when you're wearing a shirt," the easily demented man explains.
"I don't need a breast exam, thank you very much. I have two of them and both are just fine. And I get a mammogram every year and the scans are good there, too."
"It's part of the exam," he says.
Oye, I bet he flosses after every meal, too.
"I'll skip the breast exam. What else do you have to do?"
"I have to look in your mouth."
"Better not," I advise.
"Why not?"
"Because if I breathe on you, you'll disintegrate. I took anti-demon pills before I got here." (I learned that by watching "Charmed" on TNT.)
"Sir..." the doc addresses His Holiness who is rolling his eyes.
"Sar," the eye-rolling giant squid says.
"Did you go to a reputable medical school?"
"Yes," he says.
Does the man actually think I'm gonna take his word for this?
"How many bones in the human body? What do you prescribe for an upper respiratory infection? What's the difference between eczema and psoriasis? Why is a canine heartbeat slower than ours and what's the TSH range for a normal person?"
"Sir..." the doc repeats his fervent plea to my husband who has just arched a brow in my direction. This means Cowboy's patience is at an end. I'm not sure if that's because he's thinking of having one of those hand-to-my-tush discussions or he's unhappy that the doc didn't answer any of my questions.
"Why don't you wait outside, dear?" I ask.
"NO!" the doc protests.
AHA! He's afraid of me.
I love fear in a doctor.
Cowboy stays in the room and the doc gets very brave and says he wants to run a series of tests.
"What kind of tests?"
"Abdominal scan, GI series, throat cultures, that kind of thing."
I get off the table and leave the room.
"I'll wait in the car," I tell the giant squid.
"Sarrrrr."
I hear the doc tell Cowboy he'll be happy to admit me overnight if that's what it will take to get the tests done.
I hear Cowboy's answer. "You want to be reassigned to Somalia?"
There is dead quiet in the car on the ride home but Cowboy holds my hand. Once we're home, he hugs me tight and tells me he's relieved I didn't hurt the doctor but he's gonna spank me for being uncooperative.
WHAT?
"I was in the room, baby. You could have been nicer to the doctor. He didn't exactly hurt you and he barely touched you. And I forgot to tell you," he says as he reaches into his jacket pocket. "He gave me these pills for you to take before your next appointment. As soon as your blood work comes back, we're going to see him again."
I look at the pills... happy pills. Hmmm....
So... if you happen to see a story on the 6 o'clock news about a doc that requested a transfer to Somalia... you'll know I had absolutely nothing to do with it.
Tsk. The man didn't even know the difference between eczema and psoriasis. Probably doesn't even know the difference between his ass and a hole in the ground. Probably doesn't even....
"Sarrrrr."
SWAT!
Tsk.
~Sar~
Shoot Me Now! Part 1 of 2
BANG!
I was thinking of writing a blow-by-blow account of my medical appointments but I'm not sure if there's a maximum word count law on each individual blog entry. So I'll try to give you the highlights.
1/ I'm fine.
2/ Score:
a/ Sar - 10
b/ Vampires - 1
c/ Docs - 2
d/ Giant Squid - IN THE STRATOSPHERE!
Normally, when I have a doctor's appointment, I try hard to disappear for a few days. The pups and I take the ferry out to the out islands and count orcas, run on the beach, eat mac and cheese and drink milkshakes and I nibble on chocolate while they consume my Twinkies and Cracker Jacks. By the time His Holiness catches up with me, he's already made formal apologies for my failure to show up at the appointment I didn't want in the first place, and made a new appointment. He's also vowed to get to the "bottom" of this "conduct unbecoming" the spouse of an officer, and in general, has uttered threatening noises into his cell phone. I don't why he does this. It's not as if I had been listening. Orca whales and chocolate bars are far more interesting than his threats of retribution, yada yada yada.
However... this time I didn't get to sneak away. He kept his evil eye on me for days... and instead of telling me to get dressed so we could go to the base - I was in a sweater and jeans - he just tossed me over his shoulder! Caveman style! And in an instant we were in the back of a Navy car and he was holding me so I wouldn't fly out the door while the car was in motion and his driver - who I will personally maim - snickered the whole time we were on the road.
I have several rules about the military. Sailors should not laugh when they are spanking their wives. Sailors should not snicker when they are driving. And of course, marines should never chortle... or call me SweetCheeks.
So we get to the base and the first stop we make is in front of the entrance to Vampires R Us! The lab tech comes out to greet us and I swear on all that's holy, the wretch was a dead ringer for Bela Lagosi! I immediately pull a huge silver cross out of my shirt and wave it in front of him. Surprisingly... he steps back. AHA!
Cowboy snorts... "You're not Catholic, Sar."
"It only works for Catholics?" Who knew?
To make a long and unpleasant story shorter, Cowboy sits in the chair meant for me, pulls me down to sit on his lap, wraps his legs around mine so I can't kick, his arms are holding my down and I yell.
"Fire!"
"Pervert!"
"Blood sucker!"
"Does your mother know what you do for a living?"
Whatever it takes...
None of us are surprised that my blood is brownish-red. Cowboy says it's all those tootsie rolls I eat.
When the ordeal is over, I smile sweetly and kick the heathen vampire in the shin. I would have kicked harder and higher but the Navy doesn't pay for "sex reassignment" operations.
Next is the doc. It's a "she" and she's about 5 feet tall and 8 feet wide. "You're in the Navy?" I am incredulous.
"Sure am, sweetie."
Sweetie? Ut-oh.
"The Navy thinks you're fit for combat?"
Well... that was a silly question. She sits on the enemy - they're dead. Of course, she's also a rather large target...
"I'm ready for you," she smiles.
"Great! You get to examine the Admiral first. If he survives, I'll let you examine me."
Cowboy objects. LOL!
The doc from the Planet Sappho smiles and says to jump up on the table, sweet thing, and we'll get this over with.
"Touch me and die!"
She's says she's highly insulted and leaves to get another doctor. Pardon me while I yawn.
Here comes Doc # 2.
"Ha ha," he laughs. "That was a civilian contract worker. We dressed her up just to scare you."
"Really? Gosh... I hope *you* don't scare easily."
"Sarrrr!"
Tsk.
Okay, this is the end of part 1. Will post the rest shortly.
I was thinking of writing a blow-by-blow account of my medical appointments but I'm not sure if there's a maximum word count law on each individual blog entry. So I'll try to give you the highlights.
1/ I'm fine.
2/ Score:
a/ Sar - 10
b/ Vampires - 1
c/ Docs - 2
d/ Giant Squid - IN THE STRATOSPHERE!
Normally, when I have a doctor's appointment, I try hard to disappear for a few days. The pups and I take the ferry out to the out islands and count orcas, run on the beach, eat mac and cheese and drink milkshakes and I nibble on chocolate while they consume my Twinkies and Cracker Jacks. By the time His Holiness catches up with me, he's already made formal apologies for my failure to show up at the appointment I didn't want in the first place, and made a new appointment. He's also vowed to get to the "bottom" of this "conduct unbecoming" the spouse of an officer, and in general, has uttered threatening noises into his cell phone. I don't why he does this. It's not as if I had been listening. Orca whales and chocolate bars are far more interesting than his threats of retribution, yada yada yada.
However... this time I didn't get to sneak away. He kept his evil eye on me for days... and instead of telling me to get dressed so we could go to the base - I was in a sweater and jeans - he just tossed me over his shoulder! Caveman style! And in an instant we were in the back of a Navy car and he was holding me so I wouldn't fly out the door while the car was in motion and his driver - who I will personally maim - snickered the whole time we were on the road.
I have several rules about the military. Sailors should not laugh when they are spanking their wives. Sailors should not snicker when they are driving. And of course, marines should never chortle... or call me SweetCheeks.
So we get to the base and the first stop we make is in front of the entrance to Vampires R Us! The lab tech comes out to greet us and I swear on all that's holy, the wretch was a dead ringer for Bela Lagosi! I immediately pull a huge silver cross out of my shirt and wave it in front of him. Surprisingly... he steps back. AHA!
Cowboy snorts... "You're not Catholic, Sar."
"It only works for Catholics?" Who knew?
To make a long and unpleasant story shorter, Cowboy sits in the chair meant for me, pulls me down to sit on his lap, wraps his legs around mine so I can't kick, his arms are holding my down and I yell.
"Fire!"
"Pervert!"
"Blood sucker!"
"Does your mother know what you do for a living?"
Whatever it takes...
None of us are surprised that my blood is brownish-red. Cowboy says it's all those tootsie rolls I eat.
When the ordeal is over, I smile sweetly and kick the heathen vampire in the shin. I would have kicked harder and higher but the Navy doesn't pay for "sex reassignment" operations.
Next is the doc. It's a "she" and she's about 5 feet tall and 8 feet wide. "You're in the Navy?" I am incredulous.
"Sure am, sweetie."
Sweetie? Ut-oh.
"The Navy thinks you're fit for combat?"
Well... that was a silly question. She sits on the enemy - they're dead. Of course, she's also a rather large target...
"I'm ready for you," she smiles.
"Great! You get to examine the Admiral first. If he survives, I'll let you examine me."
Cowboy objects. LOL!
The doc from the Planet Sappho smiles and says to jump up on the table, sweet thing, and we'll get this over with.
"Touch me and die!"
She's says she's highly insulted and leaves to get another doctor. Pardon me while I yawn.
Here comes Doc # 2.
"Ha ha," he laughs. "That was a civilian contract worker. We dressed her up just to scare you."
"Really? Gosh... I hope *you* don't scare easily."
"Sarrrr!"
Tsk.
Okay, this is the end of part 1. Will post the rest shortly.
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Pray For Me!
It's that time of year when I'm due for a medical checkup. This does not make me happy. Doctors and I do not get along very well. They like to touch me. I don't want them touching me.
I think they should stand on the other side of the room and wave a body x-ray thingy in my general direction and get the same results.
Ya see... it's like this: First, they want me to change into a flimsy paper gown. Forget it! They're not getting free nudie entertainment from me. I'm keeping my clothes on.
A few years ago, a doc cupped my *naked* breast while listening to my heart! What's a gal supposed to do when that happens? Naturally, I decked him, stepped over his unconscious body and got out of there. I was so distraught I bought a chocolate cheesecake and ate the whole thing on the drive home.
Cowboy was worried we'd be sued but I assured him I hadn't broken any bones. The next doc wasn't so lucky when he tried to put a stethoscope under my breast... I bent his thumb back but it wasn't like he was performing surgery the next day. He yelled just like a girl, too. Tsk.
Then there are the vampires that draw blood. I had no idea they could work while the sun was out. I'm taking a vial of holy water and a wooden stake and a silver cross with me when I go to the lab.
Cowboy thinks my concerns are blown out of proportion. Oh sure, he's an admiral and when he needs to get a physical, hoards of female navy docs rush to be the one that gets to examine him. I grabbed his yummy stick and other goodies one night after he had an exam and asked, "Did she say cough?"
Tsk! The man actually blushed and gave me a swat!
Of course he thinks I can't be trusted to go to a doctor's appointment on my own. Of course I can! Last time I went, I took the rottweiler with me... the doc really kept his distance and you know what? He said I was in very good health! So there. I was almost moved to give him a chocolate bar but then sanity reared its head and I ate it, instead.
His Holiness says he's taking me to the appointment. I have the distinct feeling he's going just to protect the doc... My appointment is on the navy base at the clinic. The blood drinkers drew straws to see who gets to try to get blood out of my veins. I like to shout uncouth phrases at them while they're trying to stick that humonguous needle in my arm. You can't tell me they're not drinking it; they take enough blood to get a football player through open heart surgery. Cowboy says I have to behave or else. Folks... if they're still alive and all in one piece with only minimal bruising to show that I was there... I *am* behaving.
And for the record... it is pure rumor that two docs requested an overseas transfer prior to my appointment. Such exaggeration! It was only one doc and his excuse was that he had a family... tsk. They don't make sailors the way they used to.
I'll post a damage report if I can sit comfortably when I get home.
~Sar~
I think they should stand on the other side of the room and wave a body x-ray thingy in my general direction and get the same results.
Ya see... it's like this: First, they want me to change into a flimsy paper gown. Forget it! They're not getting free nudie entertainment from me. I'm keeping my clothes on.
A few years ago, a doc cupped my *naked* breast while listening to my heart! What's a gal supposed to do when that happens? Naturally, I decked him, stepped over his unconscious body and got out of there. I was so distraught I bought a chocolate cheesecake and ate the whole thing on the drive home.
Cowboy was worried we'd be sued but I assured him I hadn't broken any bones. The next doc wasn't so lucky when he tried to put a stethoscope under my breast... I bent his thumb back but it wasn't like he was performing surgery the next day. He yelled just like a girl, too. Tsk.
Then there are the vampires that draw blood. I had no idea they could work while the sun was out. I'm taking a vial of holy water and a wooden stake and a silver cross with me when I go to the lab.
Cowboy thinks my concerns are blown out of proportion. Oh sure, he's an admiral and when he needs to get a physical, hoards of female navy docs rush to be the one that gets to examine him. I grabbed his yummy stick and other goodies one night after he had an exam and asked, "Did she say cough?"
Tsk! The man actually blushed and gave me a swat!
Of course he thinks I can't be trusted to go to a doctor's appointment on my own. Of course I can! Last time I went, I took the rottweiler with me... the doc really kept his distance and you know what? He said I was in very good health! So there. I was almost moved to give him a chocolate bar but then sanity reared its head and I ate it, instead.
His Holiness says he's taking me to the appointment. I have the distinct feeling he's going just to protect the doc... My appointment is on the navy base at the clinic. The blood drinkers drew straws to see who gets to try to get blood out of my veins. I like to shout uncouth phrases at them while they're trying to stick that humonguous needle in my arm. You can't tell me they're not drinking it; they take enough blood to get a football player through open heart surgery. Cowboy says I have to behave or else. Folks... if they're still alive and all in one piece with only minimal bruising to show that I was there... I *am* behaving.
And for the record... it is pure rumor that two docs requested an overseas transfer prior to my appointment. Such exaggeration! It was only one doc and his excuse was that he had a family... tsk. They don't make sailors the way they used to.
I'll post a damage report if I can sit comfortably when I get home.
~Sar~
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
Shiitake Mushrooms!
As a rule, I don't curse. It's true that quite a few characters in my stories have cursed a blue streak, using foul language the same way they suck in oxygen - constantly. But that's fiction. In real life, I don't curse. Okay... once in a great while "damn" or "hell" creeps into my speech but only when I'm really irritated. I don't care if other people curse; I'd rather they didn't do it around me but if they do, it's easily ignored unless... it's directed at me.
Back in our "early" days, I had a habit of saying "FARK!" when I was startled or irritated or exasperated or fuming. His Holiness said he didn't want to hear me say that so I started saying it softly so he couldn't hear it. When that didn't work, I started whispering it when he acted like a baboon butthead. A few firm swats later, he said he didn't want me to say it in front of him. So I only said it when he left the room. Unfortunately, that's not what he meant.
Then... I heard the word "fun-gooch!" Ohhhhh it is very satisfying to say fun-gooch. We were at a dinner party with a bunch of sailors and marines and their spouses and I got really excited when I saw we were having chocolate cheesecake for dessert and in my excitement, I said "FUN-GOOCH!"
One of the marines, recently returned from overseas, almost choked on his wine. You'd think he never saw a chocolate cheesecake before. Tsk.
Cowboy almost choked, too. Between you and me, I don't think they make sailors and marines the way they used to. I mean... it was just a chocolate cheesecake - not a loaded grenade.
Later, someone mentioned that fun-gooch was a slang expression in Portuguese and it was a very rude expression. Wellll, how was I supposed to know that? Much later, Cowboy said it was a rude expression in *any* language. Sheesh. Another perfectly good word down the toilet.
Fortunately, it didn't ruin my appetite for chocolate cheesecake. I ate my piece and while Cowboy was apologizing to our hostess, I ate his.
Then there's the "F" word. So impolite to use that word. I was under the impression that it was an acronym. "For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge." Ya know... sometimes, when you've been antsy all day (=horny) and you can't wait one minute more for your beloved to get home... and he/she finally sails through the doorway... Well, what happens after you tear each other's clothes off isn't always a sweet and mellow sexual union. Sometimes, it's just plain ol hot and heavy "For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge-ing." Okay, we're married so it's not unlawful. But the way it happens... raw and wild and naked and on top of the clothes dryer or in the foyer or halfway up the staircase... with the dogs watching... and the cats so startled, they've stopped washing themselves... and they stare... married or not, that's "For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge-ing."
Ever been to a Vietnamese restaurant? A great place for the "F" word. So many things on that menu have "pho" or "phuk" in it. The first time I saw "phuk" on the menu, I thought it was a typo. Cowboy laughed at me when I pointed it out to him. But when I realized I had the pronunciation right... well, that word just has so much "oomph" in it. I love ordering dinner in those places. ~ sigh ~ I notice he doesn't take me there very often.
As some of you know, I love to cook and bake. His Holiness is Italian on his mother's side and English (Cornwall) on his father's side. I learned to cook Italian from my mother-in-law and we enjoy those dishes several times a month. A common ingredient in a lot of Italian dishes is mushrooms. There are many varieties of mushrooms, of course. I favor Criminis and Portabellos but my favorite is the Shiitake mushroom. A cooking demonstration I attended years ago had a guest chef from Spain. He was all in favor of using "sheet-tahkey" mushrooms in his cuisine.
So now... when I'm incensed beyond reason and desperate to scream FARK! Or Fun-gooch! I now yell SHIITAKE Mushrooms!
Would you believe His Holiness is not amused?
Tsk.
~Sar~
Back in our "early" days, I had a habit of saying "FARK!" when I was startled or irritated or exasperated or fuming. His Holiness said he didn't want to hear me say that so I started saying it softly so he couldn't hear it. When that didn't work, I started whispering it when he acted like a baboon butthead. A few firm swats later, he said he didn't want me to say it in front of him. So I only said it when he left the room. Unfortunately, that's not what he meant.
Then... I heard the word "fun-gooch!" Ohhhhh it is very satisfying to say fun-gooch. We were at a dinner party with a bunch of sailors and marines and their spouses and I got really excited when I saw we were having chocolate cheesecake for dessert and in my excitement, I said "FUN-GOOCH!"
One of the marines, recently returned from overseas, almost choked on his wine. You'd think he never saw a chocolate cheesecake before. Tsk.
Cowboy almost choked, too. Between you and me, I don't think they make sailors and marines the way they used to. I mean... it was just a chocolate cheesecake - not a loaded grenade.
Later, someone mentioned that fun-gooch was a slang expression in Portuguese and it was a very rude expression. Wellll, how was I supposed to know that? Much later, Cowboy said it was a rude expression in *any* language. Sheesh. Another perfectly good word down the toilet.
Fortunately, it didn't ruin my appetite for chocolate cheesecake. I ate my piece and while Cowboy was apologizing to our hostess, I ate his.
Then there's the "F" word. So impolite to use that word. I was under the impression that it was an acronym. "For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge." Ya know... sometimes, when you've been antsy all day (=horny) and you can't wait one minute more for your beloved to get home... and he/she finally sails through the doorway... Well, what happens after you tear each other's clothes off isn't always a sweet and mellow sexual union. Sometimes, it's just plain ol hot and heavy "For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge-ing." Okay, we're married so it's not unlawful. But the way it happens... raw and wild and naked and on top of the clothes dryer or in the foyer or halfway up the staircase... with the dogs watching... and the cats so startled, they've stopped washing themselves... and they stare... married or not, that's "For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge-ing."
Ever been to a Vietnamese restaurant? A great place for the "F" word. So many things on that menu have "pho" or "phuk" in it. The first time I saw "phuk" on the menu, I thought it was a typo. Cowboy laughed at me when I pointed it out to him. But when I realized I had the pronunciation right... well, that word just has so much "oomph" in it. I love ordering dinner in those places. ~ sigh ~ I notice he doesn't take me there very often.
As some of you know, I love to cook and bake. His Holiness is Italian on his mother's side and English (Cornwall) on his father's side. I learned to cook Italian from my mother-in-law and we enjoy those dishes several times a month. A common ingredient in a lot of Italian dishes is mushrooms. There are many varieties of mushrooms, of course. I favor Criminis and Portabellos but my favorite is the Shiitake mushroom. A cooking demonstration I attended years ago had a guest chef from Spain. He was all in favor of using "sheet-tahkey" mushrooms in his cuisine.
So now... when I'm incensed beyond reason and desperate to scream FARK! Or Fun-gooch! I now yell SHIITAKE Mushrooms!
Would you believe His Holiness is not amused?
Tsk.
~Sar~
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
Happy Pepperoni!
It's only January 4th and I'm already exhausted from being so good. Cowboy says I have another 360+ days to behave. I had no idea they taught squids to count. I always thought "3" was as high as he could go and get the numbers in the right order. When His Holiness and I were first married, he'd count to 3 when he thought I was doing something I shouldn't be doing. The premise is the parent/child thing. Today's kids know when mommy or daddy gets to 3, their world is going to come to an end... ergo, a spanking ensues. The first time he did that, I had no idea why he was counting. Nobody ever did that when I was growing up and if they had, we would have laughed. Where I lived, you hit me and I retaliated ten-fold no matter how much bigger you were. Not too many people hit me twice. So... the squid counts to 3 and I hint that 4 is next.
"Then 5, then 6. I think that's as high as you should go till you practice a little," I told him.
SWAT!
Truly, the man is sensitive about his counting skills.
Now, on the rare occasion he forgets that counting is something I ignore, and yells "ONE!" I roll my eyes and try not to mutter "Outstanding! Do I have a bid for two? This is a gem, folks. How about the gentleman in the back - did you want to bid again, sir?" Inevitably, I finish my little speech from the "over his shoulder" position and if I'm really feeling like a warrior princess, I still mutter when he upends me.
Run Amok Week was a huge success if I do say so myself. I won't incriminate myself by spilling details but suffice to say, MsHairUpHerAss, my nosy neighbor, has enough cat litter to "toilet" a dozen cats for a year. Now... to get her a dozen cats...
I heard David, a senior ranked officer in the US Marine Corps, is checking out the benefits of enlisting in the Air Force. FOFL! VISA charge, $100 for the gay men's chorus singing telegram; a photo of his startled homophobic face when they "touched" him while singing - PRICELESS! This is all hearsay, of course - 5th amendment and all that. Is this country great or what? I didn't want him to feel badly when I learned all these details so when he came over to spend a night with us - he lives on one of the islands in the San Juans - I made his favorite chicken and dumplings dinner with Boston Creme pie for dessert. Of course, I also short-sheeted the bed.
I discovered that one of the Christmas gifts the wretch gave to Cowboy was a long-handled wooden bathbrush. Egads! I immediately turned that into firewood. David casually mentioned that cheese boards and large wooden trivets make interesting "implements." Interesting? More firewood and now I will cut the cheese on a fiberglass tray and purchase very small trivets... iron. I think we won't need to buy an extra cord of wood this winter. I am such a thrifty housewife.
Ohhhh, did I mention Santa was very good to me this year? He was and I thanked him in ways he really liked. I plan to get my first 2006 letter composed to him shortly. I like to update him quarterly; it's just so efficient to keep him in the loop.
So, last night... we ordered pizza for dinner. I've been cooking and baking for eons and needed a break. We got 1 extra large mushroom and pepperoni pizza for me and the squid, 2 extra large pizzas for the 4 pups. (The outside pups aren't going to let us get away with eating pizza and not get some.) All of us want extra cheese and when the pies were delivered, I faithfully cut 2 of them in half, gave half to each pup and saved a small wedge for each cat.
Then Cowboy gets a phone call he says he has to take.
I'm starving.
The phone call goes on for a few minutes.
I'm getting hungrier by the second.
The pups have finished their pizza and are eyeing the pizza on the counter.
Cowboy is still on the phone in another room.
I'm salivating along with the pups.
I sneak a piece of pepperoni off the pizza, give one to each of the 2 indoor pups (outside pups back in the yard) and quickly close the pizza box.
Cowboy is still on the phone.
That one piece of pepperoni has my stomach growling.
Ergo: The pups and I eat ALL the pepperoni off the pizza.
I disappear upstairs to brush my teeth, dragging the dogs with me and spray their mouths with Binaca to hide the evidence.
Cowboy finally finishes his phone call and... did you happen to hear a sound that was similar to a jet hitting Mach 2 last night? That was Cowboy when he discovered the pizza only had mushrooms... Oops.
He calls the pizza place, makes loud noises into the phone, mumbles, and about 30 minutes later, voila! Another pizza is delivered - free of charge - and it has LOTS of extra pepperoni.
He tips the driver.
I, of course, have suddenly become mute and am an innocent bystander. Folks, please remember that the first rule of survival is "never admit guilt" - not even to your lawyer. The second rule is "Deny! Deny! Deny!" If all else fails, act indignant and then, sniff audibly and shed a tear or two. This doesn't always work, but it's always worth a try.
"Sarrrrrrrrrrrrr." Cowboy growls after we eat.
"What?"
"I'm gonna count to 3."
"Is that as high as a squid can count?"
Have I mentioned that the wretch can laugh and spank at the same time? I have no earthly idea why the man automatically assumes I was the guilty party. It's enough to make me think I should run amok 52 weeks a year.
Oh wait. I think I already do that.
~Sar~
"Then 5, then 6. I think that's as high as you should go till you practice a little," I told him.
SWAT!
Truly, the man is sensitive about his counting skills.
Now, on the rare occasion he forgets that counting is something I ignore, and yells "ONE!" I roll my eyes and try not to mutter "Outstanding! Do I have a bid for two? This is a gem, folks. How about the gentleman in the back - did you want to bid again, sir?" Inevitably, I finish my little speech from the "over his shoulder" position and if I'm really feeling like a warrior princess, I still mutter when he upends me.
Run Amok Week was a huge success if I do say so myself. I won't incriminate myself by spilling details but suffice to say, MsHairUpHerAss, my nosy neighbor, has enough cat litter to "toilet" a dozen cats for a year. Now... to get her a dozen cats...
I heard David, a senior ranked officer in the US Marine Corps, is checking out the benefits of enlisting in the Air Force. FOFL! VISA charge, $100 for the gay men's chorus singing telegram; a photo of his startled homophobic face when they "touched" him while singing - PRICELESS! This is all hearsay, of course - 5th amendment and all that. Is this country great or what? I didn't want him to feel badly when I learned all these details so when he came over to spend a night with us - he lives on one of the islands in the San Juans - I made his favorite chicken and dumplings dinner with Boston Creme pie for dessert. Of course, I also short-sheeted the bed.
I discovered that one of the Christmas gifts the wretch gave to Cowboy was a long-handled wooden bathbrush. Egads! I immediately turned that into firewood. David casually mentioned that cheese boards and large wooden trivets make interesting "implements." Interesting? More firewood and now I will cut the cheese on a fiberglass tray and purchase very small trivets... iron. I think we won't need to buy an extra cord of wood this winter. I am such a thrifty housewife.
Ohhhh, did I mention Santa was very good to me this year? He was and I thanked him in ways he really liked. I plan to get my first 2006 letter composed to him shortly. I like to update him quarterly; it's just so efficient to keep him in the loop.
So, last night... we ordered pizza for dinner. I've been cooking and baking for eons and needed a break. We got 1 extra large mushroom and pepperoni pizza for me and the squid, 2 extra large pizzas for the 4 pups. (The outside pups aren't going to let us get away with eating pizza and not get some.) All of us want extra cheese and when the pies were delivered, I faithfully cut 2 of them in half, gave half to each pup and saved a small wedge for each cat.
Then Cowboy gets a phone call he says he has to take.
I'm starving.
The phone call goes on for a few minutes.
I'm getting hungrier by the second.
The pups have finished their pizza and are eyeing the pizza on the counter.
Cowboy is still on the phone in another room.
I'm salivating along with the pups.
I sneak a piece of pepperoni off the pizza, give one to each of the 2 indoor pups (outside pups back in the yard) and quickly close the pizza box.
Cowboy is still on the phone.
That one piece of pepperoni has my stomach growling.
Ergo: The pups and I eat ALL the pepperoni off the pizza.
I disappear upstairs to brush my teeth, dragging the dogs with me and spray their mouths with Binaca to hide the evidence.
Cowboy finally finishes his phone call and... did you happen to hear a sound that was similar to a jet hitting Mach 2 last night? That was Cowboy when he discovered the pizza only had mushrooms... Oops.
He calls the pizza place, makes loud noises into the phone, mumbles, and about 30 minutes later, voila! Another pizza is delivered - free of charge - and it has LOTS of extra pepperoni.
He tips the driver.
I, of course, have suddenly become mute and am an innocent bystander. Folks, please remember that the first rule of survival is "never admit guilt" - not even to your lawyer. The second rule is "Deny! Deny! Deny!" If all else fails, act indignant and then, sniff audibly and shed a tear or two. This doesn't always work, but it's always worth a try.
"Sarrrrrrrrrrrrr." Cowboy growls after we eat.
"What?"
"I'm gonna count to 3."
"Is that as high as a squid can count?"
Have I mentioned that the wretch can laugh and spank at the same time? I have no earthly idea why the man automatically assumes I was the guilty party. It's enough to make me think I should run amok 52 weeks a year.
Oh wait. I think I already do that.
~Sar~
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
Fleeing for my life!
Err... well... for my tush anyway.
Here I am, having been saintly for soooooo long and ZAP! In an instant, all my saintliness flushed down the commode. It's almost enough to make me give up Twinkies.
The giant squid is acting like a baboon butthead! And I told him so. So there! And let me just add that was not the smartest thing I've ever said to someone who is 6 feet 5 inches tall and has a hand as large as any I've ever seen. Truly, it's a very sad state of affairs.
It's "Run Amok Week!"
And he doesn't care.
I care.
Ya see... it's like this: Santa has completed his annual trek around the globe and is resting...
Mrs. Claus has shredded the 2005 "naughty vs nice" list. The new list doesn't begin until January 1, 2006.
Which means...
December 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, & 31, 2005 = 6 days when Santa isn't keeping track of who is naughty and who is nice!
It's a FREE zone!
We are free to run amok without fear of retribution! And since Santa isn't taking notes, then it's obviously a run amok/spank-free week.
I look forward to this week all year long and His Holiness, who is currently grumpy about something is being very "ghost of past run amok weeks" because... hmmm... because... well... there was that time when I was mad at him and put a little too much dye in the washing machine and his white boxers ended up more carmine than pink and he was in summer whites at the time and it was Christmas in July... sort of... and... For fear he would match my tush with his boxer shorts, I... um... took a leisurely ride - about 6 hours away - to the end of the earth on this side of the planet. And even though I feared I'd fall off the edge... that didn't scare me half as much as the giant squid's excessively hard and heavy hand painting my tush carmine.
Oyyyyy, I've lost my train of thought. A tush painted the color of his port wine does that to me. By the time he caught up with me, I was in deep doo-doo but he was so happy to see me, I got lots of cuddling and loving. The spanking that followed wasn't as bad as it might have been. He was more upset about my taking off for a few days than his deep red boxer shorts. Err... he had to buy more undies so he could get through the summer without being snickered at. He must have dozens of boxers... maybe I should buy more dye... just in case. Hmmm.
One "run amok" week I managed to get David's email password - don't ask - and I sent a "Nobody loves me" email to a few websites... the kind that cater to men loving men. Two years later, the sexy devil dog still gets offers. (Frankly, I think I'm way too good to this man.) The giant squid accused ME of sending that email! Can you believe that? Err... the question was rhetorical; you don't have to reply.
If that wasn't bad enough, Herr Baboon Butthead also accused me of sending a large spinning top to the base commandant for Christmas. (The base commandant is ALWAYS spinning his; everyone says so.) Not true! I made sure it arrived *after* Christmas.
And then... the piece de resistance of "run amok" weeks was the weekly flower bouquet I sent myself with love notes attached. His Holiness was furious! And jealous! And demanded to know who they were from. I told him I sent them, of course - which I had - but he didn't believe me! Oh! That was so much fun. After much contemplation, the giant squid decided I needed far more attention and gave me the kind I wanted.
Um... let me add that it's possible I shouldn't have charged all those flowers to his credit card... When the bill arrived I just happened to be at the mall waxing enthusiastic over the shoes on sale and then the chocolate shoppe across the aisle had samples of imported goodies and by the time I got home - with shoes and chocolate... Is there a better combination than that? I was flying pretty high.
He never said anything else about the flowers but he did warm my butt over the bill - tsk. He did add that he wanted to match the color of my tush to the color of the flowers but hey! I didn't just fall off a turnip truck! I had ordered *white* flowers and a just a few that were very very lightly stained pink. Whewwww. The butt warming I got for the bill stung like the dickens but there's something to be said for feeding one's ardor on a bed of petals. ~ sigh~
Soooo when I announced it was "run amok" week, he rolled his eyes and unfortunately, also rolled his sleeves. Aacckkk! I might have to run away again.
~Sar~
Here I am, having been saintly for soooooo long and ZAP! In an instant, all my saintliness flushed down the commode. It's almost enough to make me give up Twinkies.
The giant squid is acting like a baboon butthead! And I told him so. So there! And let me just add that was not the smartest thing I've ever said to someone who is 6 feet 5 inches tall and has a hand as large as any I've ever seen. Truly, it's a very sad state of affairs.
It's "Run Amok Week!"
And he doesn't care.
I care.
Ya see... it's like this: Santa has completed his annual trek around the globe and is resting...
Mrs. Claus has shredded the 2005 "naughty vs nice" list. The new list doesn't begin until January 1, 2006.
Which means...
December 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, & 31, 2005 = 6 days when Santa isn't keeping track of who is naughty and who is nice!
It's a FREE zone!
We are free to run amok without fear of retribution! And since Santa isn't taking notes, then it's obviously a run amok/spank-free week.
I look forward to this week all year long and His Holiness, who is currently grumpy about something is being very "ghost of past run amok weeks" because... hmmm... because... well... there was that time when I was mad at him and put a little too much dye in the washing machine and his white boxers ended up more carmine than pink and he was in summer whites at the time and it was Christmas in July... sort of... and... For fear he would match my tush with his boxer shorts, I... um... took a leisurely ride - about 6 hours away - to the end of the earth on this side of the planet. And even though I feared I'd fall off the edge... that didn't scare me half as much as the giant squid's excessively hard and heavy hand painting my tush carmine.
Oyyyyy, I've lost my train of thought. A tush painted the color of his port wine does that to me. By the time he caught up with me, I was in deep doo-doo but he was so happy to see me, I got lots of cuddling and loving. The spanking that followed wasn't as bad as it might have been. He was more upset about my taking off for a few days than his deep red boxer shorts. Err... he had to buy more undies so he could get through the summer without being snickered at. He must have dozens of boxers... maybe I should buy more dye... just in case. Hmmm.
One "run amok" week I managed to get David's email password - don't ask - and I sent a "Nobody loves me" email to a few websites... the kind that cater to men loving men. Two years later, the sexy devil dog still gets offers. (Frankly, I think I'm way too good to this man.) The giant squid accused ME of sending that email! Can you believe that? Err... the question was rhetorical; you don't have to reply.
If that wasn't bad enough, Herr Baboon Butthead also accused me of sending a large spinning top to the base commandant for Christmas. (The base commandant is ALWAYS spinning his; everyone says so.) Not true! I made sure it arrived *after* Christmas.
And then... the piece de resistance of "run amok" weeks was the weekly flower bouquet I sent myself with love notes attached. His Holiness was furious! And jealous! And demanded to know who they were from. I told him I sent them, of course - which I had - but he didn't believe me! Oh! That was so much fun. After much contemplation, the giant squid decided I needed far more attention and gave me the kind I wanted.
Um... let me add that it's possible I shouldn't have charged all those flowers to his credit card... When the bill arrived I just happened to be at the mall waxing enthusiastic over the shoes on sale and then the chocolate shoppe across the aisle had samples of imported goodies and by the time I got home - with shoes and chocolate... Is there a better combination than that? I was flying pretty high.
He never said anything else about the flowers but he did warm my butt over the bill - tsk. He did add that he wanted to match the color of my tush to the color of the flowers but hey! I didn't just fall off a turnip truck! I had ordered *white* flowers and a just a few that were very very lightly stained pink. Whewwww. The butt warming I got for the bill stung like the dickens but there's something to be said for feeding one's ardor on a bed of petals. ~ sigh~
Soooo when I announced it was "run amok" week, he rolled his eyes and unfortunately, also rolled his sleeves. Aacckkk! I might have to run away again.
~Sar~
Sunday, December 25, 2005
Happy Holidays!
Quick Note
Cowboy here - the imp is in the kitchen putting final touches on our holiday dinner and more than likely sneaking treats to the dogs. They sit under the kitchen table when she's cooking ready to sample what she's making. Bull is here and he is sitting at the same table and telling her he needs to give her food a taste test. David is adjusting young Patrick's new stationery bicycle. I'm drinking my Merlot in peace for a change.
Traditionally, Sar and I spend Christmas Eve alone. She always makes a special dessert for the 2 of us and we sit in front of the fire and sip a little wine and remember other times. We open just 1 gift then and save the rest for Christmas morning. The imp spends a great deal of time deciding which one to open. She is usually overwhelmed by what is there and I have to pick 1 for her.
I don't know if she will tell you this but on Christmas Eve - before we get settled in front of the fire and before I come into the room - Sar gives me my first gift. She wraps a large red bow around her hips and another around her breasts. When I come into the room I find her under our tree and waiting to be unwrapped. It is the best gift I ever receive and each year it just gets better. I have said this before. I will say it again. I am a lucky man.
I want to thank you for your gift of friendship to Sar and to me. I also add my thanks to those of you who read my wife's writing. I am very proud of her even when I am included in her stories as a Neanderthal. Rest assured I love her very much.
Here's to a happy holiday season and a New Year with greater peace!
Cowboy
Cowboy here - the imp is in the kitchen putting final touches on our holiday dinner and more than likely sneaking treats to the dogs. They sit under the kitchen table when she's cooking ready to sample what she's making. Bull is here and he is sitting at the same table and telling her he needs to give her food a taste test. David is adjusting young Patrick's new stationery bicycle. I'm drinking my Merlot in peace for a change.
Traditionally, Sar and I spend Christmas Eve alone. She always makes a special dessert for the 2 of us and we sit in front of the fire and sip a little wine and remember other times. We open just 1 gift then and save the rest for Christmas morning. The imp spends a great deal of time deciding which one to open. She is usually overwhelmed by what is there and I have to pick 1 for her.
I don't know if she will tell you this but on Christmas Eve - before we get settled in front of the fire and before I come into the room - Sar gives me my first gift. She wraps a large red bow around her hips and another around her breasts. When I come into the room I find her under our tree and waiting to be unwrapped. It is the best gift I ever receive and each year it just gets better. I have said this before. I will say it again. I am a lucky man.
I want to thank you for your gift of friendship to Sar and to me. I also add my thanks to those of you who read my wife's writing. I am very proud of her even when I am included in her stories as a Neanderthal. Rest assured I love her very much.
Here's to a happy holiday season and a New Year with greater peace!
Cowboy
Monday, December 19, 2005
T - 6 Days and Counting!
Remember that bit about being saintly? I'm not sure how long one has to be saintly to be canonized but I'm sure I'm close. I thought I'd call the Catholic priest at the church that Cowboy occasionally visits and ask him. To say he was frightened that I had called is an understatement. Not sure if he was scared I might want to join his flock and influence the other parishioners or if he thought he was having a conversation with someone who was not nearly as saintly as purported.
Tsk.
There was quite a bit of background noise while we were talking. Err... I was talking; he was giving his Rosary beads a pretty good workout... I was afraid he'd stroke out so I decided to google saints and canonization. Google had a lot of information but nothing on being saintly so long just prior to Christmas.
Then I had an epiphany! No, didn't call the Greek Orthodox priest - I called Ms.KeptWoman a.k.a. Lady Chatterly. She lives in my neighborhood and is "kept" by a very wealthy man who visits her monthly. He lives in Europe and comes here on business. I've seen him a few times; very debonair and silver-haired and obviously well-off. He's very generous to her and what they do behind closed doors is not anything she talks about. I have a fertile imagination. I can guess what they do.
Anyway, Lady Chatterly gets a LOT of presents ALL the time. So I invited her over for coffee and babka and asked her about saints and canonization. She assured me that canonization wasn't all it's cracked up to be. She says you get to be sought after for a day now and then and after a year or so, people forget to pray to you. Bummer!
She said it's better to be slightly naughty because that makes "Santa" give you far more attention and that the attention you get invariably leads to "stuff" and new leather boots and pretty lingerie and the latest best selling books and plenty of imported chocolates.
Ohhhh... I could live with that.
"What kind of naughty things do you suppose I should get into?" I asked.
"Just be yourself, Sar. I'm sure that will do it."
Hmmm... was that a dig... or was she being complimentary? Tsk. I might not give her that chestnut cheesecake for Christmas, after all.
So... thinking naughty might be the way to go... I just happened to hear the giant squid get out of bed in the wee hours. When he didn't come right back, I got up to investigate. There was a light on downstairs. Just as my feet reached the last step on the staircase and I was ready to sneak into the family room to see what he was up to...
"That better be one of the pups coming down the stairs and not an imp who should be in bed," the soft but firm voice announced.
Jeez!
"And if I catch you," his voice got just a little louder, "you'll be sleeping on your belly!"
Crumb! Who knew Santa could be so stern? I rushed back to bed and when he came upstairs, I feigned sleep.
"I know you're awake, Sar."
SWAT!
Mumble... groan... whine... complain...
The temperature has really dropped so the next morning the giant squid was in the backyard checking the heaters in the kennels. I knew that would take a while so I decided to check the downstairs closet in case Santa had made an early delivery. I was standing on a chair... reaching up to one of the top shelves... certain there was a huge box there I didn't remember seeing before.
"What do you think you're doing?"
Good God! The man has radar!
Before I could even think of a reason for being there... dusting the cobwebs, dear... rearranging stuff... thought I heard a noise...
I was over his shoulder and his grizzly paw was pounding away like a little drummer boy! How is it the man can laugh and spank and climb stairs at the same time? This is not my idea of multi-tasking and I told him so.
Oy! Bad idea.
It's one thing to get spanked for fun and another to get a firm swat just because the target was available as he was passing by. But to get spanked because His Holiness thinks I might be up to something naughty... even if I was? Double tsk!
"Do you know why I am spanking you, imp?"
Yes, it's because you're anal retentive.
"Because you're a baboon butthead!"
"Wrong answer."
SWAT!
Jeez!
"Poke your nose into places it has no business being and your tush is gonna be as red as Santa's suit."
"You're jumping to conclusions," I told him. "I needed to get something out of that closet."
"You're a terrible liar, Sar," the Neanderthal chuckled as he delivered another firm swat.
"Hey!" I protested. "I've been an absolute saint!"
"A what?"
Would you believe he had the nerve to laugh?
"That was really very rude of you," I said, rubbing my butt as he turned me over on his lap.
"Is this rude, too, baby?" he asked, his hands and mouth beginning to do very naughty things.
~ sigh ~
The band played on... "stuff" ensued and I still have to get into that closet to see what's in that big box.
~ Sar ~
6 days = 144 hours = 8,640 minutes = 518,000 seconds until Santa's sleigh lands on my roof, slides off because of black ice and the jolly ol fat man lands on his butt in my backyard where my two attack-trained Rottweilers will nose around in his giant bag to see if he brought them liver flavored biscuits.
Tsk.
There was quite a bit of background noise while we were talking. Err... I was talking; he was giving his Rosary beads a pretty good workout... I was afraid he'd stroke out so I decided to google saints and canonization. Google had a lot of information but nothing on being saintly so long just prior to Christmas.
Then I had an epiphany! No, didn't call the Greek Orthodox priest - I called Ms.KeptWoman a.k.a. Lady Chatterly. She lives in my neighborhood and is "kept" by a very wealthy man who visits her monthly. He lives in Europe and comes here on business. I've seen him a few times; very debonair and silver-haired and obviously well-off. He's very generous to her and what they do behind closed doors is not anything she talks about. I have a fertile imagination. I can guess what they do.
Anyway, Lady Chatterly gets a LOT of presents ALL the time. So I invited her over for coffee and babka and asked her about saints and canonization. She assured me that canonization wasn't all it's cracked up to be. She says you get to be sought after for a day now and then and after a year or so, people forget to pray to you. Bummer!
She said it's better to be slightly naughty because that makes "Santa" give you far more attention and that the attention you get invariably leads to "stuff" and new leather boots and pretty lingerie and the latest best selling books and plenty of imported chocolates.
Ohhhh... I could live with that.
"What kind of naughty things do you suppose I should get into?" I asked.
"Just be yourself, Sar. I'm sure that will do it."
Hmmm... was that a dig... or was she being complimentary? Tsk. I might not give her that chestnut cheesecake for Christmas, after all.
So... thinking naughty might be the way to go... I just happened to hear the giant squid get out of bed in the wee hours. When he didn't come right back, I got up to investigate. There was a light on downstairs. Just as my feet reached the last step on the staircase and I was ready to sneak into the family room to see what he was up to...
"That better be one of the pups coming down the stairs and not an imp who should be in bed," the soft but firm voice announced.
Jeez!
"And if I catch you," his voice got just a little louder, "you'll be sleeping on your belly!"
Crumb! Who knew Santa could be so stern? I rushed back to bed and when he came upstairs, I feigned sleep.
"I know you're awake, Sar."
SWAT!
Mumble... groan... whine... complain...
The temperature has really dropped so the next morning the giant squid was in the backyard checking the heaters in the kennels. I knew that would take a while so I decided to check the downstairs closet in case Santa had made an early delivery. I was standing on a chair... reaching up to one of the top shelves... certain there was a huge box there I didn't remember seeing before.
"What do you think you're doing?"
Good God! The man has radar!
Before I could even think of a reason for being there... dusting the cobwebs, dear... rearranging stuff... thought I heard a noise...
I was over his shoulder and his grizzly paw was pounding away like a little drummer boy! How is it the man can laugh and spank and climb stairs at the same time? This is not my idea of multi-tasking and I told him so.
Oy! Bad idea.
It's one thing to get spanked for fun and another to get a firm swat just because the target was available as he was passing by. But to get spanked because His Holiness thinks I might be up to something naughty... even if I was? Double tsk!
"Do you know why I am spanking you, imp?"
Yes, it's because you're anal retentive.
"Because you're a baboon butthead!"
"Wrong answer."
SWAT!
Jeez!
"Poke your nose into places it has no business being and your tush is gonna be as red as Santa's suit."
"You're jumping to conclusions," I told him. "I needed to get something out of that closet."
"You're a terrible liar, Sar," the Neanderthal chuckled as he delivered another firm swat.
"Hey!" I protested. "I've been an absolute saint!"
"A what?"
Would you believe he had the nerve to laugh?
"That was really very rude of you," I said, rubbing my butt as he turned me over on his lap.
"Is this rude, too, baby?" he asked, his hands and mouth beginning to do very naughty things.
~ sigh ~
The band played on... "stuff" ensued and I still have to get into that closet to see what's in that big box.
~ Sar ~
6 days = 144 hours = 8,640 minutes = 518,000 seconds until Santa's sleigh lands on my roof, slides off because of black ice and the jolly ol fat man lands on his butt in my backyard where my two attack-trained Rottweilers will nose around in his giant bag to see if he brought them liver flavored biscuits.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Saintly!
You're all a bunch of voyeurs. I'm not saying that's a bad thing but I have this feeling you're just waiting for me to stop being so saintly... and do something that will get the giant squid's attention so that a hand-to-tush dialogue takes place.
Tsk.
Bunch of voyeurs.
The other day I was especially saintly. I had a roast in the oven, all the side dishes ready to be warmed up and the table set for the two of us. I even put candles on the table and fresh flowers. Is that saintly? Ubetcha! Of course, I sacrificed my own health to make sure His Holiness had plenty of veggies. I gave him my share along with his. Talk about saintly!
So, I'm in my sewing studio and auditioning fabrics on my design wall for a wonderful new creation that currently resides only in my head. In the course of continuously bending down to select fabric swatches, the drawstring on my sweat pants came loose. Wouldn't you know that the moment my pants fell to my ankles... the giant squid came into the room! I was bent over, my tush - ivory at that particular moment - was obviously a target he couldn't resist!
SWAT!
Jeez! It's a good thing he caught me or I would have flown right into my design wall! And it's a new design wall and I would have uttered more than a few indelicate comments if it cracked.
As it is, I remembered I was being saintly and refrained from telling him he was a first class baboon butthead!
The wretch laughed and upended me and swatted me again and said it was my own fault since I rarely wear undies. Err... when I'm home and working that is.
Tsk.
Fortunately, his hands did other things to distract me from the impromptu spanking and "stuff" ensued and now I have to re-wash the fabric that was still on the floor because... um... because.
~~~
We went to a cocktail party the other night and met the hostess from hell - platinum blonde hair that was lacquered with Elmer's glue I think - a bosom that was desperately trying to leap from her tight bodice, and collagen lips that would frighten a blowfish.
The hors de oeuvres a.k.a. horses ovaries were veggies! There was a platter of crackers and some stinky cheese and very salty nuts. I stuck to the wine and the crackers and His Holiness stuffed himself on veggies. Talk about no couth! Of course, I was saintly and only smiled at the witch when she offered me a veggie ovary from her very own plate. I had an overwhelming urge to stuff it down her throat while simultaneously throttling her. Egads! I hope Santa was watching to see how good I was. The giant squid was watching me, too. He arched a brow in my direction when I politely declined the evil morsel the woman was trying to force on me. Later, I reminded him how saintly I had been.
The wretch snorted! Tsk. Admirals can snort with the best of them.
I would like to add that more than a few of us drank a LOT of wine to get through the evening. I had no intention of inviting these people to our home for any of the holiday festivities we will be hosting but the wretch I live with did the inviting before I could tell him I didn't want them.
Just to be sure I remain "Christmas good," I'll be serving lots of high calorie, high cholesterol, high fat, and high sugar content foods... hope the "vegan" doesn't choke.
Am I saintly or what?
~Sar~
10 days = 240 hours = 14,400 minutes = 864,000 seconds till the jolly ol fat guy burns his butt coming down my chimney.
Tsk.
Bunch of voyeurs.
The other day I was especially saintly. I had a roast in the oven, all the side dishes ready to be warmed up and the table set for the two of us. I even put candles on the table and fresh flowers. Is that saintly? Ubetcha! Of course, I sacrificed my own health to make sure His Holiness had plenty of veggies. I gave him my share along with his. Talk about saintly!
So, I'm in my sewing studio and auditioning fabrics on my design wall for a wonderful new creation that currently resides only in my head. In the course of continuously bending down to select fabric swatches, the drawstring on my sweat pants came loose. Wouldn't you know that the moment my pants fell to my ankles... the giant squid came into the room! I was bent over, my tush - ivory at that particular moment - was obviously a target he couldn't resist!
SWAT!
Jeez! It's a good thing he caught me or I would have flown right into my design wall! And it's a new design wall and I would have uttered more than a few indelicate comments if it cracked.
As it is, I remembered I was being saintly and refrained from telling him he was a first class baboon butthead!
The wretch laughed and upended me and swatted me again and said it was my own fault since I rarely wear undies. Err... when I'm home and working that is.
Tsk.
Fortunately, his hands did other things to distract me from the impromptu spanking and "stuff" ensued and now I have to re-wash the fabric that was still on the floor because... um... because.
We went to a cocktail party the other night and met the hostess from hell - platinum blonde hair that was lacquered with Elmer's glue I think - a bosom that was desperately trying to leap from her tight bodice, and collagen lips that would frighten a blowfish.
The hors de oeuvres a.k.a. horses ovaries were veggies! There was a platter of crackers and some stinky cheese and very salty nuts. I stuck to the wine and the crackers and His Holiness stuffed himself on veggies. Talk about no couth! Of course, I was saintly and only smiled at the witch when she offered me a veggie ovary from her very own plate. I had an overwhelming urge to stuff it down her throat while simultaneously throttling her. Egads! I hope Santa was watching to see how good I was. The giant squid was watching me, too. He arched a brow in my direction when I politely declined the evil morsel the woman was trying to force on me. Later, I reminded him how saintly I had been.
The wretch snorted! Tsk. Admirals can snort with the best of them.
I would like to add that more than a few of us drank a LOT of wine to get through the evening. I had no intention of inviting these people to our home for any of the holiday festivities we will be hosting but the wretch I live with did the inviting before I could tell him I didn't want them.
Just to be sure I remain "Christmas good," I'll be serving lots of high calorie, high cholesterol, high fat, and high sugar content foods... hope the "vegan" doesn't choke.
Am I saintly or what?
~Sar~
10 days = 240 hours = 14,400 minutes = 864,000 seconds till the jolly ol fat guy burns his butt coming down my chimney.
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