Tuesday, January 30, 2007

Can I interest you in Cumming?

With Valentine's Day just around the corner, it's my belief that we all need to start thinking beyond the usual wilted flowers, novelty teddy bears and satin g-strings. Here are a few suggestions.

1. The Scent of Cumming

I love the smell of Cumming in the morning, don't you? Yes, there's a new fragrance called Cumming on the market, and it smells like, er ... well you'll have to go here to find out.

The fragrance is named after actor Alan Cummings, and maybe it's meant to demonstrate that he has a highly developed sense of irony, but it's still a godawful name, don't you think? Buy it for a lover you're too scared to give the elbow to.

2. Celebrity butt plugs

When you give your beloved a lovingly crafted butt plug replica of her favorite celebrity, it will bring a tear to her eye every time she uses it.

The top sellers are:

* George Dubya Tush

* Smell Gibson (Braveheart Edition)

* Parass Hilton

You can also have a friend, family member, boss or colleague made into your very own butt plug. Truly a gift to treasure.

3. Artificial Foreskins

Is your lover circumsised and wishes he wasn't? Look no further, the Artificial Retractable Foreskin is here.

A new product called Senslip is being marketed as "the world's first ever artificial retractable foreskin for circumcised men."

The company claims that SenSlip will help restore the sensitivity of the penis, and protect the glans from the dryness and chafing caused by constant exposure to, and rubbing against, clothing.

The company's website actually has a video of the foreskin being used (I didn't watch it because I'd just eaten, but please, go right ahead).

And don't take my word for it, there are lots of testimonials about this product including P.L. in Houston who says, "this is bringing my glans back to its former glory. I made a big mistake getting cut in the first place."

4. Pee like a man

As well as a deep and abiding belief that having a penis would make us insanely happy, what many men don't know is that we girls have always had a dream of one day being able to pee standing up, just like a man. This Valentine's Day, why not make your lover's dream a reality with the P-Mate.

Karen Diamond, the President of Go Your Way, the first US distributor of the P-Mate, says...

"This is a revolutionary product that has taken Europe by storm. It allows women to pee standing up, just like the boys, giving a whole new slant on equal rights for women."

And here's a final thought: If we could all pee side by side, wouldn't the world be a better place?

Thursday, January 25, 2007

Losing my Techno-Virginity

One of the reasons I am such a technophobe, is that I was brought up solely by my mother, whose philosophy to life is: 'if it can be fixed with glue/sellotape/nails/a staple gun, don't throw it out.' Consequently, we kept several electronic appliances for many, many years. Also, men are more into technology than women, and tend to get rather excited, say, about the purchase of the latest car or plasma TV, and since no man lived with us, I don't think I ever saw this techno-arousal first hand and consequently never developed a taste for it.

Due to having a young husband, these days I have made baby steps into the world of technology. Without him I would not have the foggiest what the words iPhone, broadband, modem or Podcast mean.

When I arrived in the USA six years ago, I did not have a car. I hated the idea of driving, polluting the environment, becoming consumed with road rage and having to drive around hot asphalt streets in a sweaty metal box. But after having two kids, I realized I had get my license, because the public transport here was up shit creek. I still hate driving, but I do it.

I also hate people who have cell phones and chatter on them in public:

"Where am I? I'm on top of the number 73 bus on my way home."

"Do you want fish fingers or hamburgers for tea?"

"Can you check in the medicine cabinet whether my hemorrhoid suppositories are past their sell by date? If they are I will have to to pick up fresh supplies from the pharmacy on my way home."

No. Shut up about your boring life.

Just shut up.

Ah yes, it was all so different in our day. In the dark ages, back when we Gen Xers were kids, you were allowed to use the telephone for half an hour a day (in my case, mum being a skinflint, I was only allowed incoming calls, talk about a deprived childhood!) Anyway, half an hour a day, and that was it. Switch to today. These days the kids are getting busy with it 24/7. Staring at porn on the monitor while spanking the monkey with one hand, texting or IMing with the other, all the while yacking away on their cell phones.

Why do these kids have to be permanently plugged in, to be permanently 'communicating'? It makes me feel so old that I don't understand what planet these 'kids' (anyone under 30) are on.

Technology, it sucks. Everything made past the seventies is just hideous.

For example, what's up with modern cars? Why, say, did they stop making the Karmen Ghia? What was wrong with it, apart from the fact that if you sat in the back you lost the circulation in your legs:

And what about old phones? This was a phone you could fall in love with:

Who could love a horrid little cell phone?

And now a so called friend - bitch! - has bought me a cell phone, and now I have been forced, kicking and screaming, into the modern age.
God I hate technology. Give me the days before electricity, give me the pen and quill, candlelight, no indoor plumbing, give me the heady days of syphillis, of lice and rotten teeth, when people drank ale for breakfast and poured their chamber pots out of their windows...ah, let me take a pinch of snuff and reminisce.

A Condensed History of my Technophobia:

In 1995 Emma still played vinyl and to this day hates CDs.

In 1998 she had a black and white TV (actually that was because I think things look better in black and white).

In 1999 she had her first email account.

In 2003, at 34, she reluctantly learnt to drive.

Christmas 2006, she was the last person in America to get a digital camera.

January 2006 she got her first cell phone. She was so proud of being technologically illiterate - and now she's like everyone else - texting stupid messages and trying to avoid calls.

What about you? Are you technophobe or technophile? Do you have to have the latest gizmo or would you prefer it if trains still ran on steam?

Tuesday, January 23, 2007

The perils of cyber-sex

Wow!! An exciting day for us all. The results for the Climax poll are in. I initially did this for a girlfriend who was worried that she was abnormal in that she finds oral sex a snooze and comes from intercourse like some sort of speeding bullet, I think in under a minute (wow, hats off to you girl!). Well, I'm afraid my questioning was a bit open to interpretation, but I think we can say no, dear Fast-Comer, you are no freak. In fact, most of you ladies orgasm through Intercourse (31.5%), Oral (29.6%), Anal (15.7%), Hand (13%) and Device (10.2%).

Now then, my weekend. I went to Manhattan with my husband, let us call him John. Now, we were all set to have a carefree, lovely time without the kids. We had an adorable apartment to stay in in a fab location. We had two bottles of champagne. The world was our oyster. The only problem with NYC was it was freezing. The sort of freezing where even in a terrible hat with ear flaps, gloves, tights, trousers, boots, fake fur coat, earmuffs and scarf you feel like your brain has frozen into an ice block.

So, what to do? When you have an empty apartment, have drunk two bottles of champagne, happen to be wearing lingerie (me), and happen to be fiddling round with a digital camera (him). It's obvious really, isn't it? Take dirty photographs.

"Ooh, yeah, that's it, show us a bit of skin," he said, playing the game. And soon I was doing XXXX and a bit of XXXX. Wow I feel so sexy, isn't this fun?

Then you get home at the end of the weekend and yes, some of the photos are quite good. But then the subterfuge starts. You have to hide them somewhere on your computer so that no one can find them. So that when my mum comes to visit she doesn't click on 'Your Pictures' and find her daughter in the altogether posted breast by jowl beside an innocuous shot of 'The Kids Feed the Donkeys at the Zoo.' The trouble was, naturally, that John consequently had to put the pictures somewhere on his server in cyber-space and I will probably never see them again.

Still, I had already caught the bug. Suddenly I could see why people send anonymous nude pictures to sites on the internet. You want to show yourself off. So thank God my husband has the pictures and I will have to beg him to even let me look at them. Because I have been known to do rather stupid things while drunk. Like email drunk. Phone drunk. Leave answer messages drunk: "I really really love you. What time is it in England? Four am. Oh I'm sorry, did I wake you?"

And I have no doubt that I would send pornographic photographs drunk. You can never tell what a bit of nostalgia and half a bottle of tequila can do to a girl. You might feel like Googling an ex and sending them a picture of your luscious bod. And then, alas, you do.

Now in the old days, people just smashed cameras and pulled out reels of film if they wanted to get rid of this sort of stuff. They made great bonfires of photos or cut heads out of pictures. Not so in this day and age. God help anyone, who in a moment of drunkeness, idiocy, vanity or one too many joints, posts a picture of themselves up on the internet or sends it off to some intimate 'friend' they have never met in person.

Warning to all of you out there: Those erotic photos may come back to bite you in the butt. Once something goes up onto the net you can never get it back. It's kind of terrifying.

So I think my photos will be staying on a server somewhere in the stratosphere. And the moral of the story is, if you have a cyber-lover, think outside the box a bit, try writing her a poem, instead of sending her a bit of your penis.

Thursday, January 18, 2007

How Do You Climax?

Thanks everyone for talking about what the term 'slut' means to them. In my opinion, I think a slut can be defined, as Ella says, by his/her approach to sex: "Attitude is key. With 'slutty' there's an air of desperation too, like one is getting validation from the sex and needs to put one's self WAY out there in order to get it."

As for the Slut Podcast, I think I might be able to upload it here later on. But for the record, regarding penis size, Rachael said that a big dick is important to her. Gets her off, apparently. While I said I've had a few big dicks and found them to be pretty uncomfortable. I don't recall ever sleeping with an underendowed man, mainly because if the guy takes his pants off and it looks like a pencil, you basically usually remember an important appointment you have to get to, even if it is one in the morning, and you get the hell out of there, don't you? Average sized dicks are perfectly fine, in my opinion.

I'm in a bloody good mood because for once in my life Lady Luck is shining on me. A fortnight ago, when I was in New York at a comedy club, I filled out a raffle ticket. Yesterday, the comedy club phoned me to inform me that I have won ten free tickets to the club. The hand of fate is once again pushing me towards New York. Yes, I am going this weekend. With my husband. My friend Annabelle is still in Uganda so we can stay in her apartment on the Upper West Side. Fucking excellent! Daisy, in a moment of madness, said she'd watch the kids. So we are off.

It took the edge off yesterday, which was my birthday. I turned thirty-six, which is ridiculous. The kids made me thirty-two sheets of paper, each with a candle painted on it and stuck the papers on the wall as a birthday tribute. This is because I had told my husband that I do not want to get older than thirty-two. Or rather, I refuse to get older than thirty-two. So, here's to me having a great thirty-third year!!

Women, please take some time to do my Orgasm Poll (on the left). A female friend of mine (perhaps unusually?) can only orgasm through intercourse and hates oral sex. She comes very quickly through intercourse and wonders how typical this is. She feels she is just like a guy (?) in that she doesn't want to have sex for very long, and just wants to come. She doesn't have time to poll all her friends so I said I'd help her out. She wants to know whether it is unusual to not like oral sex and only want to climax through intercourse?

I am also thinking of starting a new blog answering sexual problems. What do you think I should call it? I am looking for something funny/quirky.

Thursday, January 11, 2007

Baby Survivor

Those that know and love me know that I have a disability. Yes, I am domestically disabled. Others would call me a lazy git, but I'm going to go along with the idea that the reason my house is a tip is that I was born without the gene that most women have to clean, wipe, sweep and generally tidy things up. I will admit that I don't see the point of making beds when you are just going to get in and rumple them up again. Also, I feel tense in a tidy house. The point being, my husband is far neater than me and before he goes to bed is often found wiping up the crumbs in the kitchen to ward off the rabid band of mice that I have (unwittingly) been feeding with my slovenly habits.

In fact, my domestic situation is a lot like this clip of the Drunk Family from the Fast Show, (minus the alcohol, but I must admit my driving isn't much better than this. I will post a picture of the dents on my car one day to show what I mean).

My household situation is compounded by the fact that my children are - how to put this politely - somewhat feral, and tend to break/scratch/ruin most things they touch. The younger one, Sausage, also has a tendency to eat anything that isn't nailed down. The other day she came home with a picture she had made at school of a snowman made of glued on marshmallows. Before I could hang it up, she had eaten the marshmallows, glue and all. To be honest, Sausage is more or less a baby albino gorilla. She has furry forearms and loves to pull, twirl and hang from my hair as well as dangling around my neck. I'd love to have her take part in a reality TV series where kids had to live with a tribe of gorillas to see if they survived, a kind of 'Baby Survivor'. I'm pretty sure that Sausage would win hands down, happily living off lice picked out of the gorillas' hair.

This is why I could never have a boy. Seeing as how hyper my girls are, the boy would be like the Incredible Hulk, smashing through walls. For example, Sausage will bomb down from the steps in the basement onto the sofa, a height of about six feet. Often she will bomb down on top of Scarlett, which is probably a bad idea. Or one will stand on the door handle of a door while the other swings the door violently back and forth. Or once they both managed to open a window and climb out into the street. Certainly they are very acrobatic and clever but their, um, athletic skills have left the place a mess and frankly...ah yes, now I remember where I am going with all this, frankly I do not envy my husband the fact that he will be in sole charge of the kids, (affectionately known as 'the Pigs') for three days while I swan off to Seattle this weekend.

So, my husband has asked me the bizarre question, "What do I pack into Sausage's lunch box?" And while the answer would certainly be, "Anything with a pulse", I answered, "five chicken nuggets, a yogurt and a banana." This seemed to quash his lunch box anxiety.

I am almost feeling, well, guilty, about going away this weekend. I just feel like my husband does so much more around here than I do. Like this morning I get in my car to find he had scraped the ice off my windscreen before going to work. Like it would ever occur to me to do that for him!

Oh dear, I do feel bad. The thing is, he doesn't seem to care about my domestic disability. Admittedly, I am a very good cook. And I am amusing. And, er, I am intelligent. And I am fabulous. But, anyway, let me not put myself down, all I am saying, dear readers is, I think my husband deserves a present for looking after the kids this weekend, don't you?

So, all suggestions welcome, and let's try and have something a little more original than 'a blow job' please.

Have a great weekend, I know I will!

Wednesday, January 10, 2007


Well, since I am going to Seattle this weekend to see my buddies missdevylish and crankmama, I was googling Seattle, and naturally enough came across the incredibly interesting Pillow Angel story.

This Seattle based case involves a severely disabled nine-year-old girl called Ashley X (who her parents call Pillow Angel), who has, under their requst, undergone a hysterectomy, had her breast buds removed, and is having daily oestrogen treatments to ensure she will never grow taller than her current 4ft 5ins or weigh more than her present 75lbs.

Despite the fact that Pillow Angel has static encephalopathy and will never develop beyond the level of a three month old, I don't think anyone can help feeling horrified that parents would sanctify the mutilation of their child with unnecessary surgery.

But obviously there are two sides to this. Pillow Angel's parents want to care for her at home rather than putting her in a home, so it seems understandable that they want the child to stay small so that she is easier to carry about. They also say that they are protecting her from a hypothetical unwanted pregnancy as a result of hypothetical child abuse. This fear of abuse is also behind the removal of her breast buds, since apparently “large breasts run in the family”. They also say, "Ashley has no need for developed breasts since she will not breast feed," her parents argue, "and their presence would only be a source of discomfort to her."

The ethics committee of the Seattle Children's Hospital who allowed the treatment to go ahead essentially did a cost-benefit analysis and concluded that the rewards outweighed the risks. Keeping Ashley smaller and more portable, the doctors argued, has medical as well as emotional benefits: more movement means better circulation, digestion and muscle condition, and fewer sores and infections.

Ashley’s parents, responding to accusations that what they’d done was “grotesque”, wrote: “The oestrogen treatment is not what is grotesque here. Rather it is the prospect of having a full-grown fertile woman endowed with the mind of a baby.”

There is undoubtedly something incredibly creepy about parents who do not wish their daughter to become sexually mature. On the other hand, why should she be allowed to sexually develop, since she will never have sex (unless coerced)?

So mingled in with all the feelings of horror, I can understand why they did it. And if you want to attempt to understand their motivation, go to her parents' blog.

Okay, I don't know exactly where I stand on this issue. But one thing occured to me that maybe no one else has thought about. What if, in the future, when the girl has grown up, maybe even after her parents have died, what if there are new developments in medicine, whereby Pillow Angel is able to think in a more mature, maybe even in an adult fashion, maybe even be able to walk and funtion normally? How would she feel knowing her parents had done this to her? How would she feel, knowing they had stopped her from ever having a normal life? That's what really freaks me out about all this, that no one's given any thought to what could happen in the future.

Sunday, January 07, 2007

Veni, vidi, vici ...or what I got up to over the weekend

Friday night Daisy and I arrive in Manhattan by bus.

I came...

and flashed my tits outside Macy's.

We dump our stuff at Daisy's sister Annabelle's flat and go to a comedy club. Later Annabelle is pleased to get rid of us and goes home to pack for her flight to Uganda (which she has to catch in the morning). Daisy and I head to a bar and there follows a long period of drinking, but only a spoonful of debauchery.

When men try and talk to us, Daisy says, "You do know we're old and married, but if that doesn't bother you then we'd be happy to chat." Which is a bit embarassing, but in her defence, she is a bit tiddly. Still, we do get some interest. Some Irish guys chat us up but they end up being a bit up their own arses so we ditch them and move on to a Jesuit Priest called Jim, and his friend Jeff (a non-priest) who keeps telling me he loves my accent (how original). We had a good laugh though...

If you're reading this Jeff: I don't believe your story that you wore two condoms one on top of the other once when you scored with a particularly skanky bird. Or did you??

Top Tip: To pull birds wear a dog collar. My husband informs me that in Ireland priests' dog collars are known as 'pussy magnets'. And this Jesuit priest confirmed this. He told me that he has got loads of female attention since he became a priest. Women constantly want to seduce him, to see if they can crack his vow of chastity etc. Now, I'm not saying wear a dog collar every time you go out on the pull, just say you're studying to be a priest. Try it.

On the way home, Daisy barfs out of the window of the cab.

A top night all round.


I saw ...

that I looked like fuck in the mirror. Also, Daisy has bloodshot eyes. We eat eggs benedict and feel better. Then we walk about Manhattan for five hours giving it the finger (see crosswalk signal to get this 'joke').

In a Eureka! moment I realize that I have a filming facility on my camera and make Daisy film me:

I think you'll agree, A Star is Born!

Later we go and see a French film called Comedy of Power. Be warned. This is not a comedy. It is simply an excruciatingly boring tale of political corruption.


I conquered... some cats (more info later).

We go to a fabulous flea market:

Since we need to take two cats, Gabby and Smokey, on the bus to Baltimore with us (Daisy is looking after them while Annabelle is in Uganda), we go back to Annabelle's flat and search for them. I don't think they are very keen to spend three hours on a bus inside a carrier. We find Smokey trying to auto-asphixiate herself with a bra.

"Nice try," I say, putting her into the carrier. I get Gabby into the other carrier and we hop on the bus back to Baltimore, at which point, Gabby vomits inside the carrier.

Daisy: "Give me a section of the New York Times to clear up this vomit."

Me: "The Arts Section?"

Daisy: "God no, just give me the most boring section." I hand her the sports pages and she mops up the cat puke.

The rest of the bus trip passes without incident, although I reckon the cats are pretty sick of us (ha, ha) by now.

What a great weekend!

Saturday, January 06, 2007

Cat on Heat

Well, my friend Daisy and I have escaped to New York, and have so far had groovy times. Wow, New Yorkers are so friendly. Last night a Jesuit priest and his chum bought us drinks all night. Who knew Catholics were so generous in their pursuit of spreading God's love through alcohol?

We are staying at Daisy's sister Annabelle's apartment, who is leaving today for a stint working in Uganda. Daisy and I have to take two cats back to Baltimore on the bus (in carriers obviously). Gabby is Annabelle's cat and Smokey is Daisy's (Annabelle was minding her). The downside of cats, apart from the fact that I am allergic to them, is that six month year old Smokey has come on heat.

So during the four hours of fitful sleep I had on the sofa last night, Smokey was wailing and moaning, like, well exactly like a bitch on heat.

As the cat books say, "The queen may vocalize excessively, sometimes crying in a loud and plaintive tone. She may roll on her back, becoming more docile and solicitous of petting or attention. She may groom herself more, frequently licking her vulva. During peak estrual behavior, the queen presents her hindquarters, elevating her hips by leaning on her forepaws with tail quivering. This behavior becomes more and more insistent. The estrual queen may display this behavior toward her owners, who may at first find it amusing. After several sleepless nights, however, they may be less entertained."

After constantly trying to stop her rubbing against my legs and squirting stuff all over me, I am definately no longer entertained. When Daisy gets Smokey back to Baltimore she will get her spayed.

Last night we went to a really good comedy show. We sat away from the stage because the stand-ups humiliated anyone sitting too close. One comedian picked up someone's drink, stared at it with disgust and said, "That is the gayest drink I have ever seen. What is it, a dirty martini? That is so gay. The only gayer drink than that is sperm."

Which I thought was hilarious.

Later we tried to get into a club, but I had left my photo ID back at Annabelle's so they wouldn't let me in (some bizarre new NY law). So we hung out at a bar all night with all manner of charming characters. And now I can hardly keep my eyes open but I am sure I will be back in the swing of it after an eggs benedict.

Daisy barfed out of the window of the cab on the way home last night. The driver was so sweet and handed her a tissue and said, "Why don't you stick your fingers down your throat. That'll get it all out." Then he gave her a plastic bag, bless his cotton socks.

I love New York so much. But it's too exciting for me. If I lived here I would definately be out every night. And my wallet would be very depleted indeed and my liver very pickled. Still, I LOVE NY!!

Wednesday, January 03, 2007

Ahhhhhhhhhhh, the joys of motherhood

Never mind the energy generated by Global Orgasm Day, today you could hear the collective sighs of mothers, shuddering across America, as the children went back to school after the holidays.

As usual, I was a lone premature ejaculator.

Yesterday I had a strong feeling, maybe more of a belief, okay maybe more of a longing, that school had officially begun. So I stood there at eight thirty with Scarlett, waiting at the corner where the school bus picks up.

I suppose it did vaguely cross my mind that no other kids were waiting.

"What do they know?" I thought. "They are fools."

Turns out I was the fool. While the other moms and kids were still tucked up in bed, I was freezing my ass off for a phantom bus that never arrived. Oh well. Still, today I climaxed with ecstasy as I waved my dear daughter onto the bus.

My husband, John, who does research on brains which frequently requires him hanging out in morgues and getting brains out of heads and scanning them, has been eagerly awaiting the death of a seventy-two year old woman. The woman, who had signed her brain over to medical research, has an extremely rare brain disease, and John and his colleagues have been dying to get their hands on this rare brain and its diseased cerebellum.

So, yesterday morning he gets the call that the woman is dead, and his eyes light up with excitement.

The way he told it, there was mass hysteria in the morgue as he and his colleagues high fived each other with glee. I just hope to God there were no grieving relatives about to witness the spectacle.

It reminds me of that scene from Borat. Borat is in a hotel and the manager brings him up a telegram and reads it out to him.

Borat, looking morose, "You are telling me my wife is dead?"

"Yes sir, I'm afraid that is what it seems to say."

Borat grins. "My wife is dead. High five!"

He and the manager high five.


Monday, January 01, 2007

Blast from the Past

New Year's Day must be the most depressing day of the year. I don't have a hangover though, so it's not too bad.

Why am I the only one who ever notices all the bad things in the world? Like yesterday I was on the Internet at the library and I happened to read what the guy beside me was writing. He was fat, sweaty, typical paedo, but it wouldn't have mattered if he looked like Brad Pitt, the guy was scum. He was writing to some teen on myspace:

"Yes, I am fourteen too. Yes, I do think you could be a model. I think you have star quality and I am sure you would look as good in real life as you do on the screen."

I mean, what do you do about people like that? Do you report them to the librarian? Or do you just slink off and leave some kid to be preyed on by a whack job, and forget about it, until it happens to your own daughter? That's it, I am not posting any more pictures of my kids on the Internet. Except maybe this one...

Well, I'm not going to make any resolutions, because I never keep them. I am pleased that I am slim now and my eating is under control. Frankly, I look hot. Frankly, I am a little too obsessed with my appearance. Frankly I need to get a grip.

Strange message on the answer phone from my husband's ex-girlfriend last night. He knew her when he was at college, and she was pretty unhinged. She had a baby at nineteen, and also spent some time in a mental institution. Still, apparently, he loved her something fierce. He sees her sometimes when he goes to Dublin. Well this woman, let's call her Sinead, leaves this long rambling message, saying, essentially, nothing.

"Hello John and family...I'm just calling to wish you all the best....[long pause]....I wonder what time it is there...I think you are about five hours behind...well, I was just calling to say Happy New Year and good luck for 2007 and, er, best wishes for the future..."

Answer phone cuts message off.

So, John is a bit perturbed by the call. He wonders what she wants. I wonder if she is still in love with him. I reckon she is.

He is convinced I sent her a Christmas card to annoy him, like I even know her address!

I feel a bit threatened by this woman, although I don't know why. My husband is sulking at the moment. He says he is tired of telling me what I need to do in life, since I never listen to him.

But that isn't strictly true. He just tells me what he would do if he was in my position.

Like, I just want to go out and party all the time. I know that is stupid, I know that means I am having a late adolescence, still, I have a need to do it. Not that I hardly ever even indulge these impulses.

I am trying to be a good wife.

I am doing the reparations on the house.

I am trying to teach the kids German and not be so impatient.

I am trying to be good, good, good.

Yet, still I feel so Bohemian, I have all sorts of impulses that are not good. I did some very foolish things last year. Problem is, I never regret any of these things. I think I need to go through them to get to the other side.

Maybe the best resolution I can make is not to be so hard on myself. What about you? Any resolutions?