Wednesday, October 31, 2007

Three's a Crowd?

I have left my car lights on and run down the battery three times in the last two weeks. And by that I mean that because I am way too tight to pay for triple A, well-meaning friends have been coerced to drive round and rather than throttle me with their jump leads, have kindly started up the car for me.

Now, the first time I didn't realize I had my lights on (it was daytime), and I also didn't know that leaving your lights on for an hour kills the battery (in my defence I have only had a licence for four years).

The second time my daughter Sausage left the interior reading light on.

The third time I left the lights on but had no recollection of doing so.

My husband said if it happens again he is taking the car and leaving me the bike, which I wouldn't actually mind, but what would I do with the kids? (I know, strap them to the back of the bike). In any case, I reckon I'm going to have to be less forgetful because I kind of need the car to get around.

You may be wondering where I am going with all this, and it is here: I have recently realized that if I cannot remember to check whether the lights are on before I get out of the car I will never be able to be in a polyamorous relationship.

For a while there I was decrying the claustrophobia of monogamy, and then a lightbulb went off in my head: you do not have the organizational skills to juggle multiple partners!

Rita, Sue and Bob Too, a film about a married man carrying on with two schoolgirls. This film is ace but will put you off polyamory for life.

I remember at university being part of a polyamorous relationship with two guys and actually the triangle relationship worked quite well for a while. Only that ended when one of the guys became crazily jealous of the other one. Even so, I have often been in friendships where me and two guys were close and would hang out together. It is less intense than being one on one. I think I would have liked to have been Liza Minelli in Cabaret in that love triangle with those two guys (below).

Anyway, regarding multiple partnerships, I read this article the other day about a social club where people of polyamorous persuasions gather in Manhattan. One woman said it gave her the ability to road test a lot of men at once, therefore taking off the pressure to find Mr Right, the one she was going to settle down and have kids with. Someone else said they divided their partners into primary, secondary and tertiary groupings.

Firstly, can you imagine saying to your partners:

"You are my primary relationship, you are my number two and you are my number three, for when the other two aren't available and I'm feeling as horny as a dog on heat."

Secondly, I can't imagine getting everyone's personal histories straight. I can't remember to turn my car lights off, remember! And can you imagine trying to schedule them all? It would be like a full time job. Double the orgasms but double the work, I reckon.

Thirdly, I have realized I don't want to be anyone's number two, three, four, five or six. I want to be someone's number one and I don't want them having a number two either.

I know polyamory works for some, but I have realized it will never work for me, even though the idea of messing around with a lot of sexy singles has its appeal.

For now, I am in a very good state. I am simply so happy it is getting ridiculous. Yes, there was some rather fabulous sex the other night. But it is also, the Fall weather. It is so unbelievably beautiful here. Oh God what am I going to do if I become too content. What will I do if I am so happy that I have nothing to blog about?

Monday, October 29, 2007

The Scent of a Woman

I wrote this story a while back and would be interested to know what you make of it.

Lauren is perfect. No, scratch that. She would be perfect, if only she didn't wash quite so much - a shower a day plus some sort of rose scented spray under the armpits, after they've been shaved of course. What is it with women and hair removal? Even her intimate area is trimmed to resemble a landing strip. Doesn't she know anything? All that hair is there for a reason, to trap her natural scent and billow it around her person in order to attract a mate. No wonder she's single, ponging up the place with her creams and feminine hygiene sprays, shaving herself as bald as a cue ball. It's no way to attract a man.

I don't care that she hasn't found Mr. Right, but I know she does. On the phone to her best friend Janice, she's said often enough that although I don't fulfill all her requirements, no one could ever replace me. In fact, sometimes she goes so far as to say she can't imagine sleeping with anyone else. Well, who can blame her? She knows which side her bread's buttered. And okay, I admit I have a roving eye. When a prime bit of ass wiggles itself in front of my face, what am I meant to do, ignore it? Sorry, but that's not the way I'm wired. I like the ladies and they like me, and I'm not going to apologize for sometimes getting a tad carried away while chatting up some gorgeous young thing on the street, while Lauren stands there calling my name. Like I was her property or something. And okay, so Lauren's my number one girl, but that doesn't mean we're exclusive. It's something that's understood between us, without me ever having had to explain it to her. Truth be told, I'm a man of few words. A man of action.

We met by coincidence, a year ago. Not for us an Internet match where people put up photos of themselves that are years out of date, and spend days frantically texting and instant messaging each other, only to meet up in person and find there's absolutely no chemistry. Waste of time, if you ask me. I don't have a cell phone and I don't own a computer. Call me a Luddite, but I happen to believe that there are too many words these days, burbling from TVs, seeping out of the radio. And words can also cut deep. When I met Lauren, I was wandering around Roland Park, my previous lover's harsh words still ringing in my ears. Three days before, I'd fallen out with Danielle van der Post, and she'd shown me the door. What can I say? She didn't like me scratching my balls while she was having some fancy schmanzy dinner party. Well, fuck her, that's what I say.

Since she kicked me out, I'd been sleeping rough, cursing the day I ever laid eyes on Ms van der Post. An architect with a string of high profile commissions under her Gucci belt, she was also OCD and had serious intimacy issues. You probably know how it is: we fall for the same personality time after time. I always fall for these obsessively groomed, uptight bitches. And I suffer for it. Do you know how it feels when the woman you love kicks you in the ribs at three in the morning, only to tell you that your breath stinks? Oh, I put on a tough front all right, but it still hurts. By the end, things had deteriorated so much that we were sleeping in separate rooms. I begged, I pleaded, for her to let me back into her bed, but she was having none of it. Fine, I said, although I missed her terribly and would sometimes sneak in beside her while she was asleep. I’d snuggle myself under her armpit, where, if I was lucky, I'd get a tiny sniff of the woman, the real Ms van der Post.

I knew all about the way she liked to spend hours scrubbing the kitchen floor with a toothbrush. I knew about how she had to wash her hands three times every time she used the bathroom. She's a famous woman, the press would have had a field day. But I'm loyal. I could have made a buck selling her story. But I didn't.

Sorry, where was I? Oh yes, how I met Lauren. There I was, half crazed with hunger, on the streets of Roland Park, when I see this tall blonde woman, mascara running down her face, hurrying down the street. Evidently, she couldn't see where she was going, because we collided. She was very apologetic, pulled out some tissues and dabbed her eyes. I stared at her. She stared back, with these big blue teary eyes. There was so much emotion running between us, that for a moment neither of us spoke. We didn't need to. Even before the whole sorry tale of finding two timing Mark in bed with some floozy tumbled out, I knew what had happened.

"No need to explain," I wanted to say, followed by, "Men, they're all bastards." But I didn't. We didn't need words, only gestures. She reached out and touched my neck.

I didn't flinch. Baltimore is a friendly place. People greet total strangers with a cheery How are you doing? every day of the week. This isn't L.A. You don't have to worry that the baguette in someone's pocket is actually a gun. Still, you don't expect beautiful young women to just reach out and touch you.

"Where do you live?" she said.

Hey lady, slow down, is what I was thinking, but I guess she was so emotionally messed up she didn't know what she was saying.

I explained to her about Danielle van de Post and our abusive love affair. That she'd chucked me out and that I was basically a free agent.

We talked, oh how we talked. She invited me back to her place, and yes, into her bed. It's been the happiest year of my life. I'm here now, stretched out on her mauve bedspread. I'm dozing, but I'm also listening to a man, Andy, who's in the sitting room with Lauren. It's a pretty rare occurrence, her entertaining a man for this length of time. Lauren is very literal, and when she invites a date back for coffee, that's exactly what she means. One cup of exquisite capuccino and they’re shoved out the door, quick as you like. Afterwards, we giggle together over their various shortcomings.

"He tried to grope my breast in the cinema."

"He smokes."
"Oh please. Get rid of him already."

"He split up with his long term girlfriend a week ago, but he says he's totally over her."
"Forget about it."

Oh, what good times we had, laughing about the suitors that were so wrong for her. So wrong, because they weren't me. She couldn't see it, of course. Thought there was someone out there who was more intelligent, more sensitive, more in touch with his feminine side. If you want someone to bring you Eggs Benedict in bed, hire a maid, that's what I say. But you know women, they're never satisfied. She had me, but she wanted something else. Good luck to her. I wasn't going to tell her that the macho, hairy brute she so desperately needed was right here, and if she wanted another brute she'd have to stop using scented sprays and frequenting the kind of cocktail bars with brushed steel walls and little leather cubes instead of chairs.

Come to think of it, Andy's voice is rather loud and deep and resonant. He's not her usual type. And, oh God, he's been here for hours. How much coffee can he possibly drink? Why doesn't she just get rid of him, so we can tear him apart?

Now the bedroom door is opening and Lauren and Andy are stumbling in. Oh sweet Jesus, my Lauren is drunk. I've never seen anything like it. My ears prick up with alarm. I'm getting very bad vibes about this situation.

Then the oaf sits down on top of me, squashing me flat.

I act outraged. Well, wouldn't you? But rather than apologizing about the fact that a swarthy individual in a tight black t-shirt is rolling on top of me, she just smiles the smile of the inebriated and tumbles on top of him.

While I struggle for freedom, Andy says, "Can't you get rid of the dog? I don't think I'll be able to do much with him watching."

"Just a sec," says Lauren, getting up off this mountain of hair gel and muscle, and shooing me out the door.

The door is slammed and now I'm trembling. You know that sense you get, deep in your gut, when you know you've been usurped? That's what I was feeling.

Peeing all over her three thousand dollar sofa helped a bit, it's true. But nothing could really erase the basic fact that it was Danielle van der Post, all over again.

Sunday, October 21, 2007

Selfish Bitch

Don't get me wrong. I love kids. Or let me rephrase that. I used to love kids. Before I had them. Yes, babies are cute and kids are cute. But.

Please. Let's call a spade a spade. Having kids can be torture.

Here's a quiz for you to see if you are ready to have a kid:

Do you enjoy:

1. Having sex on a regular basis?
2. Going out for a nice meal more than once a year?
3. Drinking a few glasses of wine every night?
4. Sleeping eight hours?
5. Being woken up by murderous screams at 6 am?
6. Having no life for at least six years (at which age kids enter full time school)?
7. Talking to other mothers about stuff like potty training, how their vaginas are saggy since they gave birth and how their tits now droop?

If you ticked 5, 6 or 7 you are ready to have a kid. If you ticked 1-4 you are not ready to have a kid. Here's a couple of things to consider before you try to get pregnant:

1. Talking to kids is like talking to a retarded person, or at best, an amnesiac. And, for the record, conversations like this can go on for hours:

Scarlett: "Why is that person sleeping at the side of the street?"
Me: "Because he's homeless."
Scarlett: "What does homeless mean?"
Me: "That he doesn't have a home."
Scarlett: "But why doesn't he have a home?"
Me: "Because he's poor."
Scarlett: "Why is he poor?"
Etc. etc. etc. etc.

2. To all you childless people out there, you know how you are in a fucking bad mood in the morning? You know how you are a homicidal maniac until you've had three cups of coffee/a fag/a joint/a wank, and have been left alone to stare out the window for at least an hour? You know how you are in a bad mood until you get to the office and are forced to be nice? Well, I'm a self-confessed coffee addict, and why don't you try waking up in a bad mood and not being able to say to the kids "What the fuck? Don't talk to me about Barbie dolls in a high pitched scream until I've had my coffee." You see what it's like to have to make sandwiches and cut up bits of melon for packed lunches when what you really want to do it put the knife through your hand? And this is often before you've had your coffee.

Anyway, you're probably wondering what set me off on this train of thought. Well, it was firstly that the kids had Friday off for some Teacher Training Day, and three days running with the sprogs makes me see red. Add to that, an incident that happened this morning. My 4 year old daughter Sausage has the propensity to get up at six and make a huge racket, waking my other daughter etc etc. Now, I like to sleep in until at least seven, call me a selfish bitch. So it was something of a relief when Sausage started getting up on her own, going downstairs, putting cereal into a bowl, pouring milk on top and taking it to the basement where she would put in a DVD and be quiet for at least half an hour. Imagine, I didn't even have to train her to do this! Imagine my dismay then, this morning, to come downstairs to find that a gallon of milk had been poured into a teapot, into a cup, into a glass, mixed with sugar and spilt all over the floor. Naturally I couldn't be angry, but I realized the 'do your own breakfast' plan was seriously flawed because, for God's sake, she could have spilt the sugary milk onto my keyboard! It doesn't bear thinking about.

Before anyone thinks me crazy, my husband actually called me an above average parent the other day and he wasn't drunk. My friend B. (above, I am on the right), however, beats me hands down as the gold standard for Glamorous Bitch Mums everywhere. She wore wax earplugs in her ears at all times until her son was three ("I can't stand the frigging screaming!"). Also, B. hates primary colours and always had her son's toys squirreled away in paisley or brown covered boxes so as not to spoil the decor.

Anyway, don't think I'm complaining, things could be worse. Like, I might have to work for a living. And eventually Sausage will be trained up to bring me a fried breakfast in bed. Until then, I'm counting the days.

Friday, October 19, 2007

Bad Boyfriends, I wrote the book

Okay, before I regale you with bad boyfriend stories, I must tell you about a couple of bloggers I’m crushing on right now. Firstly, the divine Marcelle Manhattan. Now, when I say that this woman’s erotica is smokin’ hot, I really do mean that. You all need to get over to her blog right now and read about an FMF she experienced. And if you don’t find yourself throbbing all over after reading that, then check your pulse, for you may very well be dead.

Also, I think I may have found a kindred spirit in Captain Smack. I first ran into this bearded blogger at a protest rally. He was carrying a placard which said, ‘Vote for Bush.’ I was turned on by his beard and yet, offended by his politics, so I went up to the dude, who was wearing long flowing robes, and said, “Hey man, you serious? Haven’t we been shafted enough by Bush and Dick?”

To which he replied, “No sister, not that Bush. I’m a pro hair activist, who’s sick and tired of the oppression men and women suffer at the hands of the razor. I mean, since when did it become cool for women to wear Hitler moustaches down there? Back in the seventies you were no one unless you had a huge afro or bush.”

“Right. So you mean, bring back bush?”

“That’s exactly what I mean.” Wow, the man was deep.

“Tell me more.”

“Well, men should be able to wear their beards with pride and women should be able to wear their pubic beards with pride and no longer have to suffer the indignity of the Brazilian.”

Well, I was awed by this radical thinker and I know you will be too. Please check out his blog for ways to sexually stimulate yourself with toothpaste and other useful stuff.

And now, to get back to my post about bad boyfriends. People often ask me why I got married, to which the only really conclusive answer I can give is that I had amassed such a terribly high number of bad dates and boyfriends, that I just had to call it quits and get out of the game. For all of you still in the game, I wish you the best of British and hope you find your soul mate soon.

To give you an idea of what I was dealing with, I have written a few letters to some of the men in my past.

Dear Bengt,
You were a Swedish conceptual artist who invited me out on a date and forgot to mention you were gay. You played footsie with me over dinner, then snogged me in a dark alley behind the restaurant. I was a little tiddly or I would have thought that it was a little strange that when you felt me between the legs you said, “Wow, it’s so weird, feeling nothing jutting out there. Weird, but in a good way.”

Thank you for telling everyone the next day that you “just kissed me because I seemed to want it.” Thank you for teaching me that not having a penis is not a crime, unless you are a man. And that getting off with a girl is a little bit stupid if you identify as gay.

Dear Dave,
You were an Australian accountant living in London. We met at a German conversation class, where, you said, you were learning German so that you could converse with your German girlfriend. Did that girlfriend ever exist, Dave? I’ll never know. At the end of each evening class we would all go to the pub and have a bit of a laugh. You were very amusing, for an accountant, and although you wore glasses and your hair was kinky, you were geek-sexy. I realized you were fairly immature when, after everyone had gone home one night, you said you had missed your last train and could you stay at my flat? Okay I said, and put you in the spare room. I suppose I should have realized you were a dick when you came into my room twice during the night and said you were scared of sleeping on your own and could you get in with me? I told you to piss off and then, weeks after the German class ended, you kept phoning me up asking me out. So, in the end I thought, okay fine, and we went out on a date and got blind drunk and had some rather functional sex, like I was a prostitute you’d paid for the night and you’d better get your monies worth. Like, you’d wake me up every hour and just get on top. By the morning I was sober, not to mention a little sore.

When I saw you in the cold light of day, I made the mistake of laughing at your very hairy chest and started rubbing it for fun. And you said, “Can you please stop doing that, you’re creating static electricity.” I thought it was funny that I was generating static electricity, but you’d lost your sense of humor. You were dying to get out of there, even though I’d made it quite clear I thought of you as nothing but a (rather poor) one night stand. Thank you for teaching me, that while there may be twenty-three go rounds, for you, there is only one position in a one night stand. Your ‘girlfriend’ is welcome to you.

Dear James,
I dated you when I was eighteen. I thought you were very deep and meaningful because you listened to the Smiths. We went camping and watched the sunrise on the sea. I didn’t want to go all the way with you, I suppose, because I didn’t fancy you all that much, but it was all very romantic. You wrote me love poems. Then I started at university and started shagging someone else. You might have still had a chance if you hadn’t sent me some stuff copied from a German porn magazine with Emma and James inserted in the text as the protagonists, i.e.

“Oh, shove your great German sausage deep into me,” sighed Emma. “It is so huge and wide and red.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” said James, “I am dying to perform the Geschlechtsverkehr with you (bit of info: did you know that sexual intercourse is translated in German, literally as ‘genital traffic?)

For some reason, this porn letter turned me off you, so I sent you the old dear John letter. Why then did you come up to the University and stick a note on my door asking to meet you at the Cathedral? When I didn’t meet you, why did you phone me a year later telling me you were “still a bit upset at the way things ended between us.”

I can only hope you’ve gotten over me now.

Dear Steve,

Thank you for replying to a personal ad I put up on the Internet. While I appreciated your offer to play naked squash with you (“The grounds are totally secluded, we will have total privacy. You have not know exhilaration until you have played squash naked,”) you must understand that I had a small voice in my head telling me you were a raving lunatic who enjoyed taking young women away to secluded houses and murdering them. You may have just wanted a game of squash. I’m sorry if I judged you unnecessarily, and if your intentions were honorable.

Dear Craig,
I was twenty six and old enough to know better when I met you, a man of about fifty. You said you would take care of me, that I was “a little seed that just needed careful nurturing to grow.” I never seemed to understand why, every time you took me to a restaurant or pub, you seemed to have forgotten your wallet, and I had to pay for everything. I cheered up considerably when you said you had purchased a little love nest for us both on Portobello Road. You told me the number of the flat and when I went to check it out, I found it didn’t exist. I began to realize you might have an ulterior motive for dating me, i.e. robbing my flat, when you asked me to have a key cut for you so that you could “surprise you in the morning with fresh croissants and orange juice and slip into bed beside you before you woke up.”

I got my own back one evening, when I invited you to dinner with my mum and dad, two people who loathe each other and hadn’t seen each other for years. When you turned up, your face went white. You probably thought I was getting serious and wanted to introduce you to my dear parents, when in fact I just wanted to get rid of you. My dad was drunk and was having a go at my mum. He is an upper class twit and was yelling, “My dear, you are just a fucking Austrian peasant!” And while they were having a screaming row, you looked like you were going to cry. You’d thought I was a bit of posh who you could get some money out of, but now you were having to deal with her awful dysfunctional family, and you didn’t like it one bit.

Well, I hope it taught you a lesson, you self-deluded old fool.

There are more, and I’ll tell you about them some day. But what about you? Do share. Please tell Auntie Emma about your worst dates.

Tuesday, October 16, 2007

Storm in a J-Cup

Do you remember when that headline came out? Dramatic wasn't it? But I have to say, that's exactly how I felt when I heard that Jordan, yes, she of the huge baps, had penned a novel called Crystal, which has now outsold all the Booker Nominations combined.

When I heard the shocking news, well, I have to say, I briefly considered taking my own life, but in the end, I figured it wasn't worth making a mountain out of Jordan's molehills. And yeah, maybe you will say I am being a tad melodratic here, but think about it for a second. A woman who is, let's be perfectly honest, not exactly known for her brains, pens a novel that sells in the squillions. It's the end to literature, plain and simple, and anyone who believes that silicone endowed chavs shouldn't write books, should get into a ship right now and head off for a nice island where there are lots of bookshelves full of real books nestled beside cosy leather armchairs. I'm thinking this will make a great holiday resort in twenty years time: The Book Resort. Because by then, your average novel will be ten pages thick and made up of text messages. Just you wait and see.

Please don't misunderstand me, I don't think there is anything wrong with Jordan making money hand over fist. The day she thrust her tits at the world, she had an army of wankers reaching for the hand lotion, and now, every time her melons appear in Hello! sales of Kleenex hit the roof. I also applauded her initiative to record an album with her husband that targeted a key demographic, deaf people. Indeed deaf people all over the world have remarked that it is simply one of the best albums they have ever heard. Don't believe me? Just listen to the clip below and I'm sure that you too will be transported into another world (Warning: may cause extreme nausea):

Alas, it is my humble belief that Jordan having written a best selling novel is the end of literature as we know it. What do you say?

Friday, October 12, 2007

This Is Not Just Mental Masturbation

It has recently come to my attention that some people actually believe that blogging is pointless. And that there are those who even dare to call it mental masturbation. Well, I'm afraid I've had it with the naysayers. It's time we bloggers fought back. To show that blogging can have a massive impact. Move over Angelina Jolie, I'm about to blow my trumpet. Here's ten ways in which blogging has impacted the real world:

1. After reading troika's post, Fuck I Hate Poor People, I was appalled by the indignities he suffered at the hands of the penniless lard arses that are a blight on today's society. Since then, I have successfully implemented a campaign to stop poor people boarding planes.

2. After the kidnapping of legendary blogger Ms. Robinson, a news report I broadcast helped find Ms. Robinson and bring her safely back to the blogosphere:

3. Steph is a blogger who rocks my world! I recently saw a picture of a guy painted as Spiderman on her blog. Having always been a sucker for a beer gut and a small penis, it was love at first sight for me. After something of a worldwind romance I left my husband and moved in with Spiderman. We live in a big web and I am currently expecting five blue spider babies. Thank you so much Steph for playing cupid!

4. I was totally frigid until reading this post about a practice of shoving ginger up your arse called figging. Intrigued and excited, I tried the practice, my nerve endings exploded in pleasure and I orgasmed many, many times. Since then, I am never without a piece of fresh ginger in my purse. It's cheaper than a vibrator and I believe I am even soaking up vitamins through my bum.

5. After being alerted by troika about the hazards of using cheap toilet paper when wiping one's vagina, I launched a public awareness campaign called 'Use Four-Ply If You Want Oral.' I believe I have saved the sex lives of millions through this campaign.

6. After reading this post, I learnt that fisting is a feminist statement and that we can fist our way to a better tomorrow.

7. From Jungle Jane I got all the advice I will ever need about one night stands:

When it comes to the actual sex there is really very little etiquette to bear in mind – drunk people don’t make notes. Ladies if he’s drier than your mum’s Sunday roast its perfectly fine to spit on his knob – he’ll never remember. Lads, this is your chance to try out your Ron Jeremy moves – girls love a man that slaps his knob around your laydee-parts like they fainted and need resuscitating. Don’t bother using that condom either folks – you totally can’t get diseases if you only fuck once.

8. I was once, maybe, like you, obsessed with someone and keen to stalk them. But are there any good books on how to stalk? Are there any stalker support groups where you can swap tips and talk about how you want to wear the object of your affection's skin as a cloak? Of course there aren't. No one was brave enough to start a stalker's support network until Mermaid stepped up to the plate and made people once again, find pride in stalking.

9. Three cheers for Misssy M, who in an attempt to reduce incidents of matricide, started a check list for mothers who want to avoid any unfortunate 'accidents' with blunt objects. In order to stop their daughters despising them too much, they simply need to follow basic rules such as:

i.I will not get my hair cut short and permed. I will also not go grey without a fight.

ii.I will not wear tracksuit bottoms

iii. I will not collect crystal/pottery/china/creepy dolls/illnesses

You will be relieved to know that as a result of this initiative, rates of matricide have been slashed.

10. And last, but by no means least, Gorilla Bananas has just got a law into parliament decreeding that young men should be forced to become sex slaves for older women:

My preferred solution would be to force them to work as sex slaves for older women. These women would be unattractive spinsters, unable to find a mature mate, but harbouring the normal desires of the human female. They should also be big and fat enough to be able to overpower the young male and compel his obedience.

And if that hasn't made the world a happier place, then I don't know what has!

And what about you? How has blogging changed your world?

Thursday, October 11, 2007

How Tight Is Too Tight?

My mother is tight. Very, very tight. One way in which she cuts costs is that she used to take some dirt cheap flight from Vienna to Baltimore via London, in which you had to transfer by rushing from Gatwick to Heathrow within an hour. Frankly the stress would have killed me, but there is no amount of discomfort she will not put up with to save money. And I just do not feel the same.

Any of her money saving activities could win her a place in the Guinness Book of Records, but this incident stands out in my memory. A couple of years ago, my husband's fifty year old uncle, Uncle Sean, who had been a heroin addict but was cleaning up his act, decided to take a five day package holiday to Vienna. A few days into the trip, my husband's dad phones me from Ireland and says that Uncle Sean died while staying at the hotel, and that the family have been trying to talk to the Viennese police to sort out releasing the body (they wanted it shipped home for a Catholic burial), but weren't making much headway, since the police only spoke German etc. etc. Could I call my mum who lives in Vienna, and get her to sort it out?

So I tell her the story and she is happy to get her teeth into the project. She goes round to the hotel and discovers that Sean spent the first three days of the holiday locked in his room, and, she notes, did not partake of the free breakfast, nor of the clean sheets and maid service. After a few days of no one going in or out of the room, apparently the management opened the door and discovered the body. Doctors concluded that he'd died from a methadone overdose, probably taken purposely. And while this was all very sad and tragic, mum had a few unanswered questions she wanted answers to. Such as asking the hotel manager,

"His body was removed from the hotel on the third day, but he had paid for a five day vacation, correct?"

The manager looked at her blankly. "So?"

"Well, it is obvious, is it not? He should be given a refund for the two days he did not stay at the hotel."

"But he's dead," the manager pointed out.

"Nor," she went on, "did he use the hotel facilities while he was staying at the hotel, so he should have a refund for those days also. Your behaviour is outrageous. Do you really think you are going to get away with this?"

Apparently, she went on and on until she got the dead guest's package holiday refunded.

Amazing, what? But there's times when I wish she wasn't quite such a spendthrift and enjoyed herself a little more. Or let me enjoy myself a little more. The situation that has arisen, is that my husband and I have been invited to go to Madras in February for an Indian friend's wedding. I am actually really excited to be going and I don't get excited about much. The guy getting married is of the top caste in India and there will be 1,200 people at the reception so I reckon it will be quite a swanky do. I even told him I would wear a sari for the occasion. I know in some ways that seems like an embarassing thing to do, because Hinduism is not my religion, only I thought I would look even more stupid wearing western clothing and standing out like a sore thumb. Really, I have always been fascinated by India. Just, the people, the colors, the sounds, the scenery. Everything. And John's parents have even agreed to stay here to look after the kids while we are away!

But in any case, I'm not going to tell my mum about it right now. It's just so boring to always have her rain on my parade. She will say, "But it is so expensive to fly to India!" And I will say, "So what do you suggest, going by camel?"

I admire her ability to squirrel away money, but for God's sake, what is life for, if not for living?

Also, check out a great new movie reviews blog I am involved with here!

Monday, October 08, 2007

No Pot for Pensioners

I am not usually one who demands legislation on basic human rights. For example, until Saturday night, I did not believe that people over the age of sixty should be banned from smoking dope, but now I do. I'm going to come straight out and say it, most people over sixty are too embarrassing to be doing this shit. Okay, okay, maybe I am just talking about my mother, who is sixty-one, but how would you feel if your mum scored some weed at your party?

My party, which I threw on Saturday night, was quite successful i.e. no one got food poisoning and I didn't get drunk and scream at my mother. I'm not sure if my mum was drunk. She says she wasn't, but anyhow, at some point in the evening she's giggling at the back of the garden in the dark with my mate Karl (who, at forty-two, must have appeared like a toy boy to her). Then she starts sounding off to me that Karl and his wife, Barbara, have invited her, me and the kids to their house Tuesday night, where, after dinner, we are all going to sit in their open air hot tub and smoke joints.

"It is so exciting!" she squawked. "Karl has said he will get me some marijuana!"

Right mum, please shut up. This is so embarrassing. First rule of matters of scoring weed, do not get all excited about it because, well, just don't. Next, my husband John gets angry, saying he doesn't necessarily want my mother or me getting stoned near the kids. I suppose he has a point, but since she's been here she's lost no opportunity to one up him, and now tells him, "You are so square. It's just a bit of fun!"

Okay. Then we bump into Karl in the street today, who tells her he has scored the stuff. Then even he starts to look embarrassed because she's gushing away going, "Ooh, how wonderful! It will be such tremendous fun to get high!"

Later she tells me, "Karl is so keen to smoke with me. See how quickly he got hold of the stuff!"

What? The guy's house smells like a dope cloud. He did not just rush out to get it for you, I wanted to tell her, he probably has it delivered along with his morning paper. But I kept my gob shut.

The woman has no shame and I fear we are going to get into a rather embarrassing scenario Tuesday night. Now, I can't roll joints very well, and I'm not very cool, but you don't puff on a joint and wax lyrical about it, or like the last time my mum smoked in my company, cry, "This isn't doing anything for me! Is it doing anything for you Emma?"

All of which has made me thing about starting a campaign called No Pot for Pensioners, getting some signatures and sending it off to Bush. What do you think?

And meanwhile, Tuesday night. If my mother asks me to give her a blowback in the hot tub, I think I will have to top myself.

Monday, October 01, 2007

Keeping It Real

Vi just did a post about how soft core porn films have a certain formula and go along in a way that (surely??) most people do not climax from:

It's always the same.

Woman undresses.

Man touches woman's boobs, but doesn't suck them.

Woman always shown full frontal.

Man goes in between woman's legs, and pretends to lick.

Woman has instant orgasm.

Woman then hops on man, cowboy style.

Man then turns her over and does her doggy style.

Then they 'o' together.

And that's it.

Do they ever show the man's penis? NEVER! Geez, you see more penis on BBC after watershed!

How the hell can you get turned on by watching a guy PRETEND to hump a woman?

Well said, Vi!

I just saw the movie, 2 Days in Paris, which is quite funny. A well established couple, made up of a French woman (Julie Deply) and an American man (Adam Goldberg) live in New York and are travelling around Europe. They end up in Paris, where the woman is originally from, and much to the boyfriend's horror, every male friend the woman bumps into is an ex-lover. Well, he had no idea she had so many ex-lovers, and she hadn't even mentioned most of them, and well, the trip mainly makes the boyfriend realize that he doesn't really know anything much about his girlfriend at all.

But what's unusual about the film is that basically the sex is realistic, albeit in a an awful but funny way.

Sex Scene 1:

In Paris:

Scene: the couple is under the covers. The guy says:

"This condom is too fucking small for my dick."

Girl: "You said that in Italy too. In Italy the condom was too small too."

"I can't help it if in Europe they make condoms for gnomes."

They don't manage to laugh it off. Sex aborted.

Sex Scene 2:

The couple are having sex, the girl gets on top.

Guy: "Why do you always have to go on top?"

Girl: "Because I like to go on top. It's how I can come the easiest."

Guy: "Yeah, it's how you like it. But what about me? Maybe I don't get that much out of it. For all the talk about men see women as objects and and use their bodies for their own gratification, what I'd like to say is, fuck that. It's crap. The only emphasis these days is on the penis and how the woman can use it in any way she likes to get off. All that matters is the female orgasm!"

Girl gets off him: "Okay, I don't want to have sex any more. You've rejected me. I feel rejected. Do you know how it feels when a guy rejects you?"

Those scenes are realistic I think, if you are in a bit of a shitty relationship. But what got me was that those were the only two sex scenes shown and were meant to be representative of this couple's relationship. And I couldn't help thinking, if this is what the sex is like for them after two years, then why are they still together? Usually after being together that long, the sex gets better, because you are less self-conscious and able to communicate what you want. Still, it was good to see some realistic sex scenes.

And now I'm thinking of the hottest realistic sex scene I saw in a mainstream movie. It was in Sea of Love with Ellen Barkin and Al Pacino. Barkin takes Pacino home and grinds him up against a wall. He's facing the wall and he's clothed and she's half undressed, and she rubs her groin against his arse and rubs her naked legs up and down his clothed legs and whispers, "Is this what you want? Is it?" while he's breathless with desire. And she undresses him slowly, just grinding her body all over him. Aah, it is so steamy, that scene. Wow!

All of which leads me to ask, what's the most erotic sex scene you ever saw in a mainstream movie, and also, what's the stupidest (most unrealistic) way you ever saw a woman orgasm in a porno (i.e. from a man brushing a feather over her nipples etc.)?