They'd get scared off by the smut...

I highly recommend Megan Hart's erotica

Friends want me to join them on "Goodreads."  I would, but I worry that they'd get scared off by the smut.  I read smut.  And lots of it.  I could varnish the truth and say I read romance, but really, it's smut.  I'm not dog-earing pages in these books to re-read passages for their pithy wording or great insights into philosophy.

That's not to say that I don't also read lit-ruh-cha... (please read that with a poncy upper class British accent).  I do.  I've read and continue to read Pulitzer Prize, Governor General and Hugo award-winning books.  Shakespeare's my guy!  It might be surprising to realize, but there is smut out there that is well-written.  And no, I ain't talking Fifty Shades of Grey.  I did a whole other post about that last summer.

It's just that I'd feel bad, say, if a friend who might have wanted a closer bond with me by looking through my "want to read" section, then panics when s/he discovers many of my titles might involve... threesomes featuring strong men with single syllable masculine names like Nick, or Zach or Jake spending all their waking hours pleasuring a woman whom they both love and worship.  Though honestly?  Most of the time I read for escapism and what better way for me to escape ... then to imagine two men making sure that my breasts are warm?  A gal has two breasts, she might as well have a mouth on each of them... I'm just saying...  But To Kill A Mockingbird is still totally my favourite book.

ps.  Thank you to Badger for reminding me of Tom Leher's take on SMUT

JK Rowling got it right...

A respectful deviation on Wingsdomain Art and Photography's - Quoth the Raven Nevermore

Picture, if you will, a raven.  Now imagine that raven on the inside of your skull.  Imagine that raven has its claws firmly around your eyeballs.  Your optic nerves haven't been severed... yet... but you can actually feel the claws around the eyeball.  That is what a migraine feels like.  Raven claws around your eyeballs."RAVENCLAW" The perfect description for an ocular migraine.  JK Rowling must get them.


Am I right?  Can I hear a "TESTIFY!!" from all the other ocular migraine sufferers?  It doesn't take the pain away, but knowing exactly how to describe it?  Gives some measure of comfort.  And it makes me feel like I know JK Rowling just that much better.  She's probably an asthma sufferer too - I mean, come on... HUFFLEPUFF?!?   I'm not saying that I'd fist bump her or anything upon sight, but I think we'd give each other this knowing, yet pained, looked.

Hooray for Bollywood!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=alpOkCbt5SU

Bollywood.  I want to be covered in Bollywood.  I want to wallow in its delicious colour and music.  I've been on the periphery for several years.  I saw Bride and Prejudice,  Monsoon Wedding and Slumdog Millionaire.  I love when So You Think You Can Dance assigns Bollywood as a dance style.  But last weekend?  Last weekend I experienced all that was Jhoom Barabar Jhoom.  There should be appropriately placed Bollywood Bangra music to accompany that last sentence.

It was perfection.  I had a big stupid grin on my face the whole time.  I was almost crying I was so happy.  Rissa and David thought that I'd lost my mind, but they didn't understand the brilliance of the film.  It was cheese from beginning to end.  Spontaneous dance numbers, over-the-top comedy, self-aware irony - PLUS (but wait there's more!) a seemingly endless dance competition sequence!  And yet... and yet in the midst of all of this... there were a couple of tender and true dramatic moments that honest to God, caught my breath.

I need more.  I need recommendations.  I want the best.  I want the worst.  I want to get on the ride again and wave my arms in the air shrieking with the all-encompassing joy of it.  I mean, sure, I can make my way through Netflix and just try everything...   Wait!  What am I saying?!? That's exactly what I'm going to do... The good, the bad, the ridiculous - I will discover it all.  BRING IT ON!!

I am now officially pretentious...

David bought me a single serving Bodum.  I have a freaking French Press.  I'm going to start using he word 'whom' from now on.

Thing is?  In its adorably wee and compact single coffee serving sized carafe, it makes a helluva good cup of coffee.  I feel so Cosmopolitan.  And pretentious.  I am prepared to accept the pretension because I am now enjoying my morning coffee so much more on account of the fact that it tastes like, well, coffee... instead of weak chicory-flavoured bark.

Death sucks

Big time.  Really a lot.  I mean, HOLY CRAP does death suck!  You think you're doing okay until the deathiversary happens.  That day bitch slaps you every time.  Four years gone and your heart ruptures all over again - an explosion of cardiac tissue splattering your rib cage and spine.

You struggle for breath. A sip of air dragged into your red-covered lungs.  How is it that you can still breathe without a heart?  Cling to a memory - one of the good ones - where you were laughing together, being silly.  That split-second of joy chased away by anger and sadness and pain.  The hurt.  Not as bad as when you first found out, not as bad as that first fortnight staggering through life without her in the world, but those waves of pain tearing through you, in the now, have you teetering on the edge of nausea.

And even though you know she wouldn't want you to wallow in it - to drown in that pain - you think you're entitled.  Just for today.  For today you will rage against the fucking senseless loss of her.  You can remember the good tomorrow.  But today, the anniversary of her death, you're going to wail, you're going to scream, you're going to pray for the calm to eventually return.  Tomorrow, you'll smile when you think of her, but today... today you're fucking decimated.

memoria meus amicus

Pouty Mc-Pouts-A-Lot...

In the continuing saga of how Heather is a brain-dead bunny...  Apparently, I caused my own withdrawal. Because why?  Because I am a moron.  I mean, seriously.  WHAT. THE. FUCK.  There should be a picture of me next to the "Do not operate heavy machinery" warning.  

Last week?  When I tried to circumvent the pharmacy staff to get the refills on my old angina prescription?  I didn't even need to. The pharmacy had already filled the scrip.  The day I went in.  A week before I ran out of meds.  They called my doc and he faxed it in, I guess.  But did the pharmacy call to tell ME they did this?  NO.  They did NOT.  So here I was, trying to tricky-dick my way around the system and I didn't even need to.    I should have double-checked with the pharmacy!  Why didn't I check with the pharmacy?!?  Because I'm a moron.  Because I forgot.  Because my body is being held hostage by thyroid and/or  peri-menopause symptoms!

This entire last week of me not being able to sleep because of horrendous hot flashes, nausea and chest pain?  Could have been completely avoided...  if I weren't a moron.  Next time, and there WILL be a next time, I'll send myself reminders through my email...  Or maybe, I should just hire an assistant to help me with all of this!  A fit, attractive, young man who could, you know, keep me on task.   By reminding me of my appointments... whispering hotly in my ear as he gave me scheduled back rubs...  I'm pretty sure that would keep me on the ball... so to speak...

I won't wear pajamas! I won't! I won't! I won't!

I don't know if it was a byproduct of me still jonesing for my angina meds or the couple of glasses of wine I had last night during dinner, but Sweet Bleeding Yoni - Saturday night's night-sweats were EPIC.

Jenn from The IT Crowd during Aunt Irma's visit

I was UP.  All night.  Every hour on the hour from 12:30 a.m.  Jet engine torso - whipping off the blankets - micro-seconds of cool-air respite before room temperature chills upon my naked body forced me to reach for the blankets once more. Cycling through that chain of events ALL freaking night.  I might have to wear freaking pajamas in bed.  I hate pajamas.  What is the point of having spouse to snuggle with under the blankets if you can't be naked with the spouse!?!

David is researching how he can help me (and as a by-product of that, help him) through this time of my life.  These can apparently trigger hot flashes:

• Stress
• Caffeine
• Alcohol
• Spicy foods
• Tight clothing
• Heat
• Cigarette smoke

I don't smoke - boo yeah - big line through that one!  I try to avoid caffeine because I already knew that was a trigger.   How tight are we talking for clothing??  I don't wear skinny jeans and my torso apparel is generally loose to mask my back boobs and armpit boobs, so I think I'm good there.  That leaves stress, alcohol, spicy foods and heat.  Right now, until I get more angina meds, my reaction to stress is challenged, at best.  Alcohol - when I'm stressed - alcohol is incredibly helpful - not only does a Rusty Nail taste freaking great, the relaxation factor cannot be underestimated.  Please, oh please, please, please - I don't want to give up alcohol.  I will give up spicy foods if I'm allowed to keep the alcohol.  And  then there's HEAT.  It's Canada in the early spring.  It's not HOT.  At night our thermostat already goes down to 17 degrees.  Heat should not be a factor right now.

David's top idea is to have a small freezer in our room, storing specially-made cold pack gloves that he can whip on in the middle of the night when my core is heating to boiling and then he'll just rub them all over my naked body.  If we're both up anyway - we might as well do something fun, right?