Sex is GOOD...

WARNING!! Adult sexual content in this post!

The grinding of pelvises, the bumping of uglies, the making of the beast with two backs...  The orgasm that makes you laugh or cry or yodel.  It's so freaking good!

For the first time in at least a month, David and I reconnected... intimately.  Right afterwards, we turned to each other and said "This is SO GOOD.  We should do this more often."  That night, I slept like a baby.  When we came down the next morning, we shared knowing glances.  I giggled like a school girl, he waggled his eyebrows at me.   The tension release was fantastic!

And yet we don't make it a priority.  It doesn't take that much effort.  I mean, once you get through the squaring of the shoulders in preparation for the mount.  You know what I'm talking about.  You're tired, your pillow whispers dirty nothings to you, or that last chapter in your book beckons.  You lean in for that half-assed attempt at a kiss, mentally rolling your eyes.

But then... if you're actually present in the moment?  You remember that kissing this person is not just a good thing, it's a great thing.  That tasting this person makes you wet... If you can just get through the first part and get to the remembering part?  The sex is pretty much always good.  I mean, if you're doing it right.   And after almost 15 years of marriage, David and I are definitely doing it right.  We excel at sex.  We should be given medals for it.  We just have to keep jumping up into the saddle and embracing the yodel.

That is NOT vacuuming!

I love my husband.  I adore him.  I do.  He is the best spouse in the world.  He buys me pre-emptive chocolate when he senses the arrival of my period, he tells me I'm beautiful, he gives a great orgasm.  But he cannot vacuum for shit.

Our house is still on the market.  (Want a quick way to add stress and lose your mind?  Put your house up for sale.)  Now that it's been on the market for 6 weeks, some of the blush has come off the rose.  We're not in that constant state of readiness because 1) we have to live in the freaking house when its on the market and 2) nobody puts shit away any more.

When we get the call for a showing, it's always the same thing.  We have the 24 hours notice and then we have a 3-4 hour cleaning blitz, which, if we were selling a 1000 sq. foot condo, would render the place spotless, but in a 2.5 story century home with furnished attic and basement spaces?  Ain't enough time.  And this week?   Our living room was covered in set decoration and tools from our recent production of Peter Pan.  The house cannot stay clean. Or at least not my level of clean

It comes down to this: I want the people who come to view the house not to think we're white trash.  Which means that I want to clean and dust everything.  In a house so freaking huge, after getting home from work, I don't have time to spend the remains of my day, ensuring that our dust bunnies haven't morphed into dust rhinoceroses and that the baseboard dings have touch-up paint on them.

David is all about the cursory clean.  The 'First-Glance' clean.  "They're not going to notice this stuff!"  My problem is that on my way out of the house, I'll notice that the kitchen tap hasn't been polished or that the front hall runner has cat hair on it... again.  I'll dust and polish and David will do the vacuuming.  But then, when I see where he's vacuumed?  It's not vacuumed.  There are still bits of things ON the carpet or the vacuuming marks suck.  We have  a shag carpet in our study - if you haven't vacuumed the WHOLE carpet - it totally looks like you HAVEN'T VACUUMED THE WHOLE CARPET.  The vacuuming marks don't lie.  And yes, I'm anal about vacuuming marks.  You don't just willy-nilly vacuum - you start at the farthest end and work your way back in little archways of recently-sucked clean.  You leave a pattern.  You've got to take out the attachment wand for the vacuum and suck off the bits of dirt that are beside the front hall runner.  The cat hair on the occasional chairs needs to be gone. 

David doesn't see these things.  And because I don't want to nag, and I don't want him NOT to volunteer to help, I do the surreptitious 2nd clean after he's gone.  My level of clean.   It's mostly working out.

Riding the Red Roller Coaster - a bloody beat poem

True peri-menopause is upon me. It has been 15 days since my last ride on the red roller coaster.  17 before that.  23 before that.  Desperately seeking the silver lining while my body is reeking of blood...  Perhaps this portends the end?  Blessedly sooner than my worry of 60?  It does explain my cravings for salt, chocolate and fetal positioning.  I thought I was developing yet further symptoms of thyroid failure when in actuality, the cause isn't so rare.

My mother, who also began her journey towards menopause early (at the age of 37), gave me her PollyAnna take on the menstrual legend.  "If you're irregular now - it could be a good thing.  I was spotting and spotting before I had the Period from Hell.  It was the DELUGE to end all deluges but it ended my time tied to Tampax and pads with wings."

I'd been worried, see?  Figuring that the bleeding and the hormonal imbalances would leave me unbalanced, prey to the pain and inconvenience more frequently, until I could flash my senior card for discounts on Tuesdays.

"How old were you Mom?" I ask.  "When the bloody roller coaster stopped?"  And my mother, who charts time in postings from my father's career in the Air Force, easily replies: "Colorado."  Which then has her doing the mental math, equating that location with actual dates.  Her eyebrows dip down towards the bridge of her nose as she subtracts from today - or maybe adds from her birthday.  "I wasn't 50 yet," she states.  "I think 48."

48?!?  48?!?  With me turning 45 this summer, the possibility of less than half a decade of this nonsense throws the silver lining at my feet.  I thought this rapidly unravelling cycle would have me under its thumb for another 15 years.  The glimmer that this lunacy could now disappear?  It has me smiling... hugging that silver lining...

And then my mother, soon to be 68, says, "I'm still prone to the occasional hot flash."  But her PollyAnna quickly pipes up. "Winters in Canada can be rough.  Being your own mattress warmer can be a feminine perk.  And when you really think about it?  A hot flash doesn't actually hurt."

Trophy Kills

This morning, as I was stumbling to the bathroom in a near catatonic state - I noticed something in the hallway.  I couldn't quite make it out - I had yet to wipe the sleep from my eyes.  In the dawn's early light, the something was dark and lumpy.  And possibly rodent-shaped.  And I'm not talking a mouse - I'm talking teenaged-rat-size.  I took a tentative step or two closer.   Actually it wasn't that lumpy.  It was kind of uniformly... dome-shaped.  Again, being half asleep I'm wondering how the cats managed to get a small turtle  into the house.  Wait there was another one!   Another step closer...

Okay, so you know how a lot of sports bras have those padded, smoothing inserts to add support and hide your nipples?  (Cause we all know how excited gals get while exercising...)    I wash them separately in little meshed lingerie bags so that they don't disappear into the realm of lost socks.  They usually end up stacked on the shelf in the laundry room, depending how many of those sports bras I use during the week.

So what I woke to this morning?  Was a trail of sports bra insert kills from the upstairs hallway to the laundry room.  Which, when my first thought had been a trail of rodents?  Way better. 

Astronomy 101 with Rissa

We are coming home late.  The stars are brilliant in the night sky.

Rissa says, "I know Orion's Belt."

I say, "I really only know the Big Dipper.  And maybe the North Star."

"Well, that one?" Rissa says.    "That's the, um... triangle... and over there is the octagon constellation and that one... is the irregular trapezoid constellation... OH MY GOD!  That one looks like a boob!"

"Does it have a nipple in the centre?"

"It does!  And that one there looks like a dog eating a duck."

And here is a picture of Rissa pointing to the Bala sign "Everyone's been to Bala..."

It's an honour to be nominated...

I have been nominated for the Very Inspiring Blogger Award by Menopausal Mother - very kind of her indeed!  Please check out her blog! 

These awards encourage bloggers to read each other's blogs and to let the public at large know about the blogging community.

I am, in turn, nominating 15 other bloggers.  It's like a Blog Hop but with pretty pictures attached and more patting on the back!

Fresh Parsley
T-Rex Trying
Ugly Renaissance Babies
My Drunk Kitchen 
Lesbians Who Look Like Justin Bieber
That Artist Woman
Twin Dragonfly Designs
Soul Pancake
Improv Everywhere
Daily Grommet
Girl's Gone Child
Dooce
Kate Inglis
Blog Con Queso
Fin Slippy

 

 

The rules for this award are the same:

1.  Link back to the person who nominated you.
2.  Post award image on your site.
3.  List 7 random facts about yourself.
4.  Nominate 15 other bloggers.
5.  Notify the bloggers that they have been nominated and link back to their site.

7 Random Facts about me:

1. I have a NO-FAIL sound that will make all babies laugh.
   
2. I dressed my younger brother in my old clothes and called him Cynthia when he was too young to know to stop me.
   
3.  I was a surrogate for another family.
   
4.  I have been known to eat peanut butter on hotdogs.
   
5. I lived in California for 2 years and came back beige, not tanned.
   
6.  My husband made a list of all the qualities he wanted in a woman before he met me.  I meet all those qualities except for "healthy."
   
7. I am fiercely loyal to friends and will fight dirty to protect them.

Kitty Litter Cloud

From canitbesaturdaynow.com

We have three cats.  We have three boxes of kitty litter.  You'd think that would mean that each cat would use its own box.  You would be wrong.

Two boxes are used for number one and one box is used for number two.  Which means that one box is mostly dry with stinky bits of poop and two boxes are somewhat wet with rounded balls of cat pee.  And no matter what anyone tells you?  The clumping kitty litter doesn't really stay clumped.  It's more like disintegrating kitty litter that can't really be sifted, but needs, rather, to have the top layer skimmed to take all the grody, stinky wet stuff out.

And the one kitty litter box that holds the number two?  When you sift it to gather ye olde cat poop, there is this cloud of kitty litter that then permeates the air. Which means that when one is leaning over said kitty litter box, the hazy fog of odour that you can practically taste, tends to cling to one's clothing and hair.  Which makes the cleaning of the kitty litter job even more pleasurable, on account of the fact that when you leave the basement with three tidy boxes of kitty litter left behind you, you can smell the stench of feline feces on your person. 

At first you don't notice it; you're pleased with having accomplished the kitty litter chore.  But then, as you make your way through the house... there is this niggly sensation... something on the tip of your tongue - and seeing as what's on the tip of your tongue is a cloud of kitty litter, that's when you start the dry heaving...  that's usually when you need to either have a full-on shower or at least immerse yourself in a vat of baby powder to remove said stench.  On the bright side?  The kitty litter cloud serves as a particularly pungent reminder of when you have to completely change the litter from the one box that holds the number two.