The other day I was on our PC and noticed my son, turning 15 in a couple of months (oh my God — 15?? No!!) had been to a popular porn site. After ensuring the porn he’d clicked on didn’t involve animals or children, just young women with nice racks, my heart rate returned to normal and I pondered my options.
We have had the sex talk. There is a box of condoms in the downstairs bathroom. I have even had the porn talk, reminding both my children that what they see going on in pornography is not realistic. Normal men and women do not look like that. Nor do they do many of the things they will see being done in pornography. It is not reality, just as the action movies they like to watch are not reality. It is all exaggerated and crazy and cartoonish, and some of it is degrading to women.
And so I decided there was no need to get on his ass about doing what every normal boy and girl his age is doing. If there had been Internet pornography when I was a horny 14-year-old, I reminded myself, I would have been online constantly. In fact, I am a horny 44-year-old, and I have my moments.
And so, when he came upstairs, we had the following conversation.
“Did you know that when you go to certain sites on the Internet, I can tell where you’ve been?” I asked with a cocked eyebrow.
He cocked an eyebrow back. (We have the same eyebrows, it should be noted — naturally arched and easily cock-able).
“No, I didn’t know that,” he replied, looking mortified.
“Well, there’s a way for you to clear your history if you’ve gone somewhere that perhaps you might not want your mother knowing about. Would you like me to show you how?”
“Yes please,” he said.
And I showed him how to clear his history on both Firefox and Internet Explorer.
Hey there. This week I’m going to share my conversation with our friend SinisterRouge. (Don’t worry, I didn’t mention politics. Down South it’s just rude to discuss such a thing.) Now, SinRoo has never fed me, but she will whisper sweet nothings to me in Spanish, and I do enjoy that. This week it’s only 16 Questions for City People, because one question was not answered. (more…)
(As a SORT OF follow up to Trixie’s post on her adoring kitty). I would probably be distressed if I had a sweet, scrawny pre-teen daughter dancing her heart out like this, in her best Britney Spears impression. But I would cherish this video forever. I like how she carries on, like a real pro, instead of screaming, “Mooooooommmm!!! Buddy’s messing with the snake again in the middle of my routiiiiiiinnnnee!”
Recently I have been cursing my tortoise-shell cat. She is too in love with me. Everywhere I go, she follows. If I sit or lie down anywhere, she is soon at my side, 0r climbing on top of me, usually gazing deeply into my eyes with a look of sheer, demented love on her face. I give her lots of love but she won’t let up. It gets to the point that if I glance at her, she goes crazy with the purring and the rubbing and the writhing. For this reason, I sometimes force myself not to look at her, because it will continue for hours.
If I have my iPod on and start to absent-mindedly sing, I feel the vibrations on my legs of her purring and look down to see her once again staring back at me drunk with love, the sound of my voice having set her off. When I get home for work, she literally comes running down the stairs to greet me. When I leave the house, I look back and there she is, sitting in the living room window watching me go.
Sometimes it is off-putting.
There have been four living creatures who have loved me this much. My son when he was a baby. His eyes would follow me wherever I went, and if I walked out of the room, he would cry. My daughter as a toddler could not get enough of me, and never wanted to leave my side. An old boyfriend who still loves me with the same intensity as my tortoise-shell cat. I have seen that demented look of love on his face many times.
Which brings me back to the cat. Today I told some of my closest girlfriends my tale of woe. It is something I carry with me but don’t talk about much because I assume people won’t understand it. Of course, these amazing women did, and it was cathartic and weepy. And tonight, I sort of felt scared and alone after telling it, and there was that sweet little cat, pressed against me, purring and gazing up at me with all the love in her little kitty heart. And I was very grateful for her. No one and nothing can ever love you too much.
We know you’re out there, fucking off at work just like we are. Here’s something productive you can do for the day, help out a grad student who emailed us for some help with her survey. And when you’re done, you can come by my desk for free candy.
As a young adolescent, I wasn’t really one to fantasize about celebrities. I didn’t see much point in crushing on pop stars who didn’t know I existed, preferring instead to crush on local, unfamous teenage boys who didn’t know I existed. It’s a normal rite of passage for young girls to harbor elaborate daydreams about celebrities, a natural and unthreatening exploration of romance and sexuality safely confined to the daydreamer’s head. Like practicing tongue-kissing with your hand curled into a fist or stuffing socks down your training bra, plastering your bedroom with ripped-out magazine photos of the Teen Idol du jour is a time-tested method of preparation for impending puberty and the confusing rush of hormones that accompany it.
Around the age of eight or nine, I recall my girlfriends obsessing over the New Kids on the Block – sadly, theirs was the first live concert I ever attended. Fairly immune to the Kids’ charms and confused by the screaming fanbase around me, I spent the majority of the experience with earplugs in and my head between my legs, fighting a pre-pubescent panic attack. It was my best friend’s tenth birthday and I feigned interest in the entirely New Kids-themed affair, including my party favor (a poster of Jordan Knight that was subsequently abandoned years later, still rolled-up and dusty in my closet). It was a slumber party and the rest of the girls stayed up late into the night, high on excitement and Coca-Cola after the concert, eagerly chattering in the dark about which New Kid they’d most like to kiss. I didn’t really get it, but I tried to fake it.
I don’t even recall what other celebrities were objects of pre-teen girl interest in those days. I remember that Christian Slater was definitely considered hot (it doesn’t get better than Heathers), but most of my romantic fantasizing was centered around the few boys I actually knew and could chase around the playground, shrieking, after they stole my snap bracelet. I didn’t watch television much and the only music I really listened to was Madonna, so I was fairly removed from pop culture crushes. Or I was, until I discovered my one true love, the boy I was meant to be with, my soul mate, and the focus of every searing, devastating fiber of my yearning being.
Y’all? Winter needs to end. Like, now. It’s been teasing me the past few weeks. Like, there’ll be one glorious, balmy 60-degree day and then that night the temp will drop like a stone and OH! Snow flurries the very next day. Seriously, this shit is out of hand. Add to that my apartment is all dark and dusty due to all of my shit in boxes, which are stacked up near the windows. My place feels so small, cluttered and closed-in. It’s like I’m living in RuPaul’s tuck garments- oppressive snugness. And I can’t escape outside for the freezing, 20mph winds. This is awful. AWFUL. I blame Punxsutawney Phil. That little beady-eyed motherfucker cursed us all.
Laugh and the world laughs with you. Predict 6 more weeks of winter, and you’re all alone. In your stupid groundhog hole. Prick.
Since spring is not likely to appear anytime soon, allow me to share with you my lusty longings for the upcoming season. (more…)
Off Mt. Timpanogos with Utah State Sen. Chris Buttars!
Oh, those crazy queers. I keep forgetting how immoral they are.
Well, you know who doesn’t forget? Utah State Senator Chris Buttars. Thank goodness for him, because he takes pride in saying he’s “killed” every piece of pro-equality legislation in Utah for eight years. Senator Buttars agreed to take part in a documentary by (openly gay) filmmaker Reed Cowan about the Proposition 8 campaign to ban gay marriage in California and the involvement of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He told Cowan that gay activists are “probably the greatest threat to America going down.” These remarks were not made behind closed doors, but openly and unapologetically in a January 30th on-camera interview with Cowen, taped in Buttars’ official Senate office. Other highlights of his interview include these comments: (more…)
Hi there! This week I ask the ’17 Questions for You City People’ to our friend London_Calling who, as it turns out, served me my very first Yankee Thanksgiving meal. It was different than what I’m used to, but it was very, very good (seriously, what in the world is tofu turkey? I didn’t try it). And, as mentioned last time, she was the only one to correctly answer the last question, and that conveniently allowed me to post a picture of two of my favorite things.
Genius and philathropist Michelle Collins at the Best Week Ever blog has kindly pulled together a collection of 100 Silver Foxes for our viewing pleasure. While most of them are a given (Rahm, George, Anderson, Jon, Paul Newman), there are a few surprises. Who has she left out? And as a side question, how old were you when you realized that guys with graying hair were actually completely hot (as opposed to just giving you “Dad” vibes)? Clooney exacerbated it, but I think it only really kicked in for me around 22 or so.
Anyway, go check it out, and pass the salt, please.
As a young adolescent, I wasn’t really one to fantasize about celebrities. I didn’t see much point in crushing on pop stars who didn’t know I existed, preferring instead to crush on local, unfamous teenage boys who didn’t know I existed. It’s a normal rite of passage for young girls to harbor elaborate daydreams about celebrities, a natural and unthreatening exploration of romance and sexuality safely confined to the daydreamer’s head. Like practicing tongue-kissing with your hand curled into a fist or stuffing socks down your training bra, plastering your bedroom with ripped-out magazine photos of the Teen Idol du jour is a time-tested method of preparation for impending puberty and the confusing rush of hormones that accompany it.
Genius and philathropist Michelle Collins at the Best Week Ever blog has kindly pulled together a collection of 
