RSS Feed


Posted on

Oh Roooooossssse! I came across this post from going on four years ago. The post is interesting, but the really interesting things are in the comments section. Girl, we got some wisdom going on between us.
I’ve also figured out some writing projects and stories. Cuts down tremendously on the blogging time, but life changes. Talk to you soon, lady!

Oh I DO Blather on, don't I?!?

I woke up this morning realizing the REASON for all the coincidences between The River Guy and The Hurting Guy: They are two sides of the same coin!

The Hurting Guy, analytical, whip smart, logical, practical, willing and able to weigh and balance, slightly on the dry side…even his humor is dry, which I, of course, love!  He also has the issue of getting “stuck” emotionally, due to all that thinking (I can certainly relate to that!)

The River Guy, on the other hand, all about passion, and the now, how things feel…plans and ideas and goals change on a whim, at a moments notice, or, often, without even that moment to prepare…hard to deal with as a partner, but never less than exciting.

The other downsides to The River Guy are that he wants things to go HIS way at all times, even when he’s vague and hazy about…

View original post 307 more words

From fugly to fabulous in three minutes!

One weird tip to turn you from grungy to gorgeous – this little trick has cosmetic companies biting their nails!

Now, I am many things, but I am not a pretty girl (not pretty, not a girl).  So imagine my delight when I realise (about twenty years after the rest of the world) that I can transform myself from fugly to fabulous with three minutes worth of simple Photo Editing for Idiots. Like so…


And then…!

IM000087 (2).JPG


I picked one of my worst photos, for the challenge – imagine how stunning I could be if I picked a nice one to start with!  If you feel like playing this silly game, just post up your transformation from photophobic to photogenic, and post the link in the comments:)

I know you’re thinking about my penis…aren’t you?

Being a certified nymphomaniac isn’t easy.

You’ve got this reputation to uphold. And THEN – you’ve got this reputation to unfold. What can a nice girl do!

I always thought men liked sex and lots of it. Boy was I wrong. Men want to be the object of your romantic affections, they want to pick out furniture with you, they want to watch tv with you, and then – only then – do they want to get lustful.  ‘You only want me because I’ve got a big..’ they say, when you admire their assets in the early morning light. Yes, and?

The penis is a bit like the lesser spotted marsupial mouse.  It only comes out at night – and it goes right back in if it sees anything dangerous, like the hot glance of a lecherous woman.  Just about any shock can cause it to keel over in a faint, paws in the air – the faint tinkle of a daughter’s giggle as she surfs youtube in a room far below, a position which doesn’t quite work, the sight of an unopened condom, a stray thought streaking across the dark alleys of the mind like a black cat…

I wish I’d never said I liked sex a lot.  I wish I’d said I was a shy spinster awaiting her awakening (but never quite coming awake) by the right man.  I wish (short of actually being that shy spinster) I was a better actress.  Sex is fifty percent genuine delight and fifty percent acting, so maybe instead of sex ed at schools, they should have half-hour drama lessons instead.  Yes, your penis is big enough.  Yes, you satisfy me supremely, my darling. No, I’m not the least bit horny – not unless you are, sweetie.  Yes, you just gave me the biggest orgasm I’ve had this week.  No, I never notice other men, really!  Nymphomaniac – who me?

Anyway the funny thing is, I’m not a nymphomaniac, not any more. There are any number of things I like more than sex – lying in bed with a book, a nice warm cuddle, sleep. For some reason, though, my baby clings to the belief that I’m a fiery hotbed of desire, liable to explode if I don’t get my daily satisfaction. But I AM satisfied, I insist. He heaves a suspicious sigh. Are you sure? Because I’m not getting any younger, you know, and I may not be able to keep up with your incessant demands.  What incessant demands? The ones I think you’d make if you really were a nymphomaniac.

Ah,those ones. I give up!

Is sex like having a finger stuck up your butt?

I could say, depends on the guy.  Sometimes it’s more like a whole hand…

But I’m not crude like that.  Kingmidget has just been to the doctor and been proctorally examined, and he wants to know, is THAT what it’s like for a woman to be, erm, penetrated.  Because if it is, no wonder we get so many headaches at sexy time.

So is it?  Well, like medical butt exploration, sex hurts to begin with, quite often. I don’t know what it is about the way we’re laid out inside, but it seems to me that when you stick a penis in a vagina, other things have to make room.  Things like bowels, and kidneys, and uteruses, and so on and so forth (she says, revealing a hazy knowledge of what lies beyond the abyss).  So I often experience a sharp pain (especially if I’m full of wind or dinner) and I gotta wriggle around to get rid of it.

Luckily, a gasp of pain ‘ahhh’ sounds a lot like a gasp of ecstasy ‘ahhh’ – so I’m the only one who knows that a whole set of internal organs is being shifted around like living room furniture to get out of the way of this oncoming train. And luckily, it doesn’t last very long – it goes pretty much as soon as I’ve moved the coffee table. Anyway, I know I’m not the only one – a couple of boyfriends have noticed that women flinch when they’re getting it hard from behind (nobody likes rough removalists).

And luckily, I actually enjoy the whole thing, once my body has got used to it.  Which is more than I can say for fingers in the butt (although I know afficionados are pretty keen).  If you want to know what sex is really like for a girl, Kingmidget, it’s like being stroked on your dick (only it’s inside out) and like sucking on a big honey-covered dummy (only it’s in your vagina and not your mouth – well, sometimes your mouth).  Mmmm!

That’s my experience, anyway.  What’s yours?

The real dirt on how to catch your man

What do you think a man is – some kind of game animal?

When I was young my mum told me that you had to let men pursue you.  Your role was to act as if you didn’t give much of a stuff, and that would make them pull out a ring, eventually.

Robert Wright says, in his controversial tome Why We Are the Way We Are, that women instinctively know where they are on the Great Ladder of Desirability, and that girls who know they’re hot will hold out, while girls who know they’re not will grab it where they can.  Reading this, I instantly recognised myself as a girl who grabs.  The only men I hold out for are the ones I don’t want, and the ones who don’t want me (this last, obviously, involuntarily).

Moral ANimal

But after fifty-one years of puzzling over the correct way to catch a man, I think finally I’ve come up with a few nuggets of wisdom, and they are these:

  • It doesn’t matter if you sleep with a guy on the first date.  They don’t care.  If they like you they’ll still want to get serious, and if they think you’re a slut, you wouldn’t have wanted them anyway.
  • Every man is different.  You can’t apply the lessons you learn in one broken relationship, to the next one, because each one is its own challenge.  One man might be a rabid cheater, so alright, you decide never to tolerate another flirt – but the next one will inevitably be something else entirely.  Different shit happens.
  • Men are romantic.  They’re more romantic than women – who, let’s face it, are often scarily pragmatic at bottom.  They like buying roses and whispering sweet nothings and the thought that one day you might be seen together in Harvey Norman looking at couches.  Try telling one all you want is his body for the night, and you’ll see what I mean.
  • Some men, like some women, get anxious when they have to chase you around.  River God seems to blossom on assurances of everlasting devotion and availability – and he gets very upset when I don’t text him something nice at least twice a day.  It’s hard for a girl that was brought up on ‘whatever you do, don’t show them you like them’.
  • I haven’t met a man yet who really likes the fact that I’ve had sex with lots of guys before him.  I’ve met guys who say they do ‘oh that’s great, that just makes you more experienced and sexy!’.  I’ve met guys who say they don’t care.  But inevitably, it makes them nervous, and then they either get jealous ‘But can you REALLY just give it all up…for me?’ or competitive ‘I too can rack up double figures of meaningless bodily interfaces, if I want, so there!’.
  • There’s no hurry.  You don’t have to ‘catch’ a guy when you’re young.  Lots of guys like women more or less their own age (although I will admit they tend to have a bias to 5 years younger) and I personally know of many romances which have blossomed in the nursing home, so relax, do what you want with your life, and pay no attention to The Princeton Mum (instead, read the Other Princeton Mum).
  • You don’t have to be beautiful.  There are all sorts of men and they like all sorts of women.  Some of them even like me, and I’m not remotely beautiful.  If you are beautiful, it doesn’t really help, anyway.  Men leave beautiful women broken-hearted too – you only have to read Who Weekly to know that.
  • Men are not the Buyers and women are not the Product (or vice-versa).  It’s more like an op shop kind of arrangement – you go in looking for a black jacket and come out with a purple silk shirt, and that’s all good.  Don’t think you have to sell yourself – you’re a person, not a used car, for chrissake!

There are three slogans it’s pretty useful to have up on the wall above your bed, as you embark on your quest for lurve.

One: Be Happy.  Don’t let him interfere with that.  If he’s bringing you down, go watch a funny movie.

Two: Chill.  If you feel yourself getting into a tizzy, take a deep breath and sit on it.  Now is (probably) not the time to have a tanty or make big decisions about make or break.  It will probably look different in a day or two.  If Romeo and Juliet had just chilled…we would never have heard of them.

Three: Everything that is wrong with your guy, is going to be apparent in the first three weeks – if not to your cerebellum, to your gut.  If you’re like me, you’ll probably go ‘oh yeah, whatever, I can deal with that’.  Ok, but don’t say you weren’t warned.

And never EVER darken my doorstep again, you evil bitch!!!

Yes, tis the season for receiving long scorching letters of disgust and disapproval from disappointed suitors…am I the only one who gets these? Am I really the baddest ass in town?

I seem to do romantic disengagement really badly.  For instance, years ago, I told a guy I was dating/sleeping with that I didn’t see it going any further.  We were in bed at the time – not the best choice of venue – and he’d just given me a red rose to symbolise…whatever red roses symbolise.  But WHY, he asked.  Tell me, I really want to know! Well, after a while, I did – I didn’t find his body shape attractive.  He was nice about it.  He got out of bed and went home.  He slid into a state of serious depression which lasted about two years and nearly cost him his job. Nice work, evil bitch.

Then there was the mad guy I dated a couple of years back who was already planning our honeymoon after two meetings, and who got very annoyed indeed about having romantic phone conversations cut short by phrases such as ‘but now I have to go and cook dinner.’  That ended in an email so excoriating I had to put it behind a firewall for several weeks until it was safe to touch, and a threat that if ever he saw me again he couldn’t be responsible for the demonic fury which would then be unleashed.

And now, there is the letter tucked in my bottom drawer at work, of which so far I’ve only dared to read the first two sentences.  I’ve been dating this man for eight months, and so far we’ve held hands, kissed (with our mouths closed), and walked a few blocks clasping each other’s waists awkwardly.  Enter my beautiful river god, and I soon realised that this dalliance would have to end.  But I don’t know what got into me – instead of just sending a Dear John email, I had to accept the guy’s invitation to dinner and a movie, and then – sitting in his loungeroom clutching his specially bought fizzy grape drink – come out with ‘I’m sorry but I’ve met someone’.  The atmosphere turned in a second from cozy to icy.  And no wonder.  In the ensuing silence, I felt impelled to add that things had been going along rather slowly between us, and so, um, and so…Yeah, quite.  Anyway now I am the Hitler of interpersonal relationships, and serve me right.

It hurts.  I normally think of myself as a nice person.  But clearly, on these occasions, something goes badly wrong. I break rules, I behave with ill-considered callousness – to tell the truth, I get hopelessly embarrassed and then my limbic system takes over and woe betide!

Phew!  Clearly, there is a right way and a wrong way.  But what are they?  Come on, I need a crash course!!

When you expect sand..

I’m the kind of person who’s always expecting to get sand kicked in her face.

So what I do is, I hang back from people.  I draw a line around them, at the point where if they do kick sand in my face, I’m too far off for much of it to stick.  Then if they say ‘nyah nyah, got you that time!’, I can pretend I didn’t hear, or they were talking to someone else, or that it doesn’t matter.

There are downsides to this.  The main one being, if anyone happens to come within the magic circle, I get irrationally anxious.  WHEN will they kick the sand?  WHAT if I’m not ready to jump back when they do?  WHAT if they start shouting nyah nyah, and I turn red and cry?  Crossing that line is a scary thing.

Hippy boy and me have run foul of the line several times now.  But I think he’s ok.  I don’t think he will kick sand in my face.  I trust him not to.  I MAKE myself trust, because it’s the only thing to do.  To me, it’s like walking into a lion’s den with my eyes open, because Daniel said it’s alright.  They’re pussycats really.

Does anyone else get this?