WTF Wednesday: A Dirty Little Secret?

In talking to one of my guy friends about dancing, he said he liked that the act of dancing was an erotic precursor to sex. Foreplay.

WTF?

Natch, I wanted to shout those words out loud and proud, but I was a good girl. Instead, I said, "That is completely wrong."

I have heard that gobbledy-gook from other guys over the years, and I just think, "You've seen too many lap dances." Sadly, I know many guys who won't "let" their women dance with other men because they think it's too suggestive or sexual and therefore like cheating. We women must carry this dirty little secret around on the down low apparently. Cuz we're sneaky like that?

Geez. Now, let me clarify, I'm not talking about a very close, slow dance between lovers (or potentials). We all know what can happen when you're up against Mr./Ms. Hottie. Intimate contact begets more intimate contact. No this is about all that other dancing . . .

. . . all that other dancing that the puritanical religious don't like. To them, dancing is sinful. It's like the pot to heroin argument, the certainty that there's a predictable and insidious progression from the benign stuff to hard core addiction; and from there, you can only burn in Hell. If that's true, I'll go down smilin'. You saw Footloose, right? Kevin Bacon proved in the movie this clear and single point:

Dancing is pure, simple, natural FUN.
It's a celebration of movement and therefore a celebration of being alive.

Plus, not even a suggestive hip grind and come-hither look will get you any action if you dance like Big Bird. But who cares? There's something so uplifting about letting loose to the sound of a catchy beat and not worrying about what you look like. It's a kind of full-body, senses-and-soul freedom that you can't experience any other way. Women understand this. That's why they can dance together without some subversive intention to have sex with each other. Wipe that pity party off your face, guys.

Not saying that a certain style of dancing can't be performed in a sexual and enticing way. Of course it can. But when I'm out on the dance floor kicking it up or gyrating, there's no imaginary pole out there with me. If there was, I'd expect to roll into my house at night with a waistband stuffed full of dollar bills. No, I'm out there dancing because it is BIG fun and a workout that does wonders for a body. It's rejuvenating and healthy and I just want to keep doing it all night long.

Good lord, I AM going to hell, cuz I am addicted to dancing. Damn you SYTYCD!!
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WTF Wednesday: Blocked

Some of you know I'm working on the editing/rewrite of my novel. It's a romantic comedy. Unfortunately, I'm a rusty after being away from the manuscript for awhile. My creative juice is a little watered down. Plus, much as I love my story and I'm anxious to finish it, some days it's not easy changing up the things that need changing up. Like today. Who can so easily kill off all her darlings? So I hope you'll indulge me as I send this little gift out to the universe, in gratitude. It's my personal love Haiku for all things creative.

Writer's block is vexing me,
Flexing, hexing, perplexing me.
Fucker.

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WTF Wednesday: Tingly's Not Good?

Sorry, no. Tingly bad.

You thought butt cleavage and camel toe were the bane of trendy women. I'm here today in public service mode to talk about the heartbreak of tingly thighs.

Here, take this quiz so we can get on with it:

1. Are your thighs tingly?
2. Are your thighs numb?
3. Are your thighs burning?

Oh stop it! We're not talking porn, people. This is serious. On occasion, even I have tingly thighs, or to put it in medical terms: Tingling Thighs Syndrome, or to put it in unintelligibly scientific terms: meralgia paresthetica.

No, this has nothing to do with microscopic parasites scuttling gleefully between your legs. That would be crabs. (All right, raise your hand if that crossed your mind. Michel, being in Sudan does not prevent me from seeing you in the corner giggling. Mesopotamia my ass.) No, tingly thighs has nothing to do with bugs and everything to do with low-cut, skinny jeans.

My sister hipsters, wearing those tight jeans is liable to cause strange and nonsensical disturbances in your thighs -- specifically, the outer part of your thighs -- that can last up to six weeks (once you cut them off with scissors, I assume, because if you keep wearing them, tingliness will be on this, like, continuum or something). Anyway, constant pressure from the skin-tight denim compresses the peripheral nerve, or the lateral femoral cutaneous nerve. (Heh, heh, I think Mensa is trying to reach me right now).

So some news report by somebody somewhere said that in most cases the condition can be relieved by wearing looser clothing. Phhht, looser clothing. Do these people know how hard it is to get a man to look at your ass, let alone your thighs, when you're wearing your great grandma's frumpy dumpy jeans? Don't they know there's a reason god invented skin-tight jeans? It's called BAIT!

So as part of my public service schtick, for which you may provide me monetary compensation by clicking some ad somewhere on this page, I must advise you that you wear trendy skin-tight hipsters at your own risk. I know I will!

And yes, tingly thighs can happen to men too. I ain't namin' names, but you know who you are.

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WTF Wednesday: The Horror!

Yesterday, my friend invited me to attend a Chamber of Commerce mixer with her. "Dress hot," she advised, for good-looking men abound.

Stuck in traffic on I-35, I replied flaccidly, "Awesome," my tone sucking the steam right out of the word. But then it occurred to me that I am still single and could actually meet someone interesting there. I brightened, and accepted her invitation for this evening.

But this morning, upon looking in the mirror, I saw something that made me recoil in horror. A zit. Not just any zit, but a zit positioned prominently on my chin, waving the ugly flag and shouting, Look at me, look at me, LOOK. AT. ME!

It's not enough that I've sprouted the occasional man-whisker (ever since my hormone saturation levels dwindled to the depth of pond scum). Now I have to contend with the haunting glow of a ZITgeist, and there's no exorcising it in time for the mixer -- though Holy Father of Demonomania, I have tried.

I thought getting older meant moving beyond social awkwardness, which is a sure bet to be my calling card for tonight. People will say, "Why don't you zit down over there." And "The economy is in a zitiful state, isn't it?" Or "Oh, zit! Look at the time!" All memory of me in everyone I meet will be -- yes, blemished.

Why is there no zitmus test for your social life where, upon consideration of your RSVP, an instant color would flood your eyes with a "go" or "no-go" signal. Green: Zit-free, baby. Hokey pokey all night! Or, red: Whoa there, Bride of Freddie Krueger! Stay out of the public eye!

Oh, the horror. The horror!
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Update: I just found a nice coffee stain on my crisp white blouse (apparently from nearly falling out of my car this morning). Right. Over. My Left Nipple. OMFG. People won't know whether to not stare at my zitty chin chin or my boob. I am an equal opportunity disaster today.

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WTF Wednesday: Peter

OMFG. The Universe works in strange and wondrous and awesome ways.

My friend Cindy, after viewing Penis Week here on Fragrant Liar, sent me a couple pictures she took on Saturday of a mushroom growing in her back yard. Look at that little guy, posing for us. I'm going to call him Peter.

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WTF Wednesday: Penis Envy?

Given that it seems to be Penis Week here at Fragrant Liar, I’m going to take you down a dark path. Darker than usual. No, darker. Where it’s slick and wet. And salty. And all kinds of scary – with only a smidgen of hope and light. If you have are weak and wimpy, turn back now. I don’t want to be responsible for your nightmares.

Still with me? Oh, but you are brave.

Let us begin. Imagine that you are a hermaphrodite, half male, half female. (I told you it was dark.) Let’s further imagine – and this is your hope and light – that you have not one but two penises. (Imagine the possibilities when two dicks do the thinking.) You, my hermie friend, have an ego the size of the Great Barrier Reef because you are able to brandish your dexterous penises like swords. But what you do with your rare endowment is crucial. Your actions, Duodicks, will impact your future, and in fact, your species. What will you do in the clutch – what will you do?

Now imagine that you are in your prime, young and virile. Your secret weapons are sheathed beneath you as you cruise and flutter along the sandy ocean bottom in search of action. It is then that you spy another one of your kind, up ahead. It is Pairapricks, looking for a fight, gliding in close. The two of you issue silent but deadly challenges to duel.

You, fearless Duodicks, rise up like a cobra, revealing your mighty twin sabers. “I told you, I’m not doing it!” you shout at your opponent.

“I’m not doing it either!” Pairapricks rumbles, strutting deceivingly like a peacock, for hidden in his underbelly are his own masters of magic, King and Kong. Pairapricks rises up to take you on, both of you brandishing your weapons to and fro, thrusting and poking in a mad, mad flurry of penis fencing and “I know you are, but what am I?” until Pairapricks gets in a lucky jab and with it a fatal goop of ejaculate.

As you realize your failure, the hermie spermies absorb into your pores, awakening your egglets and girly parts; and suddenly you are pregnant. Adding insult to injury, Pairapricks chants, "You are a gi-i-irl, you are a gi-i-irl!" Sadly, Pairapricks' victory ensures his status as the de facto male and you the de facto female -- and also that you will get so fat with babies that you won’t even be able to see those double daggers you’re so proud of. This is your lot in life, Duodicks, for you are the weird marine flatworm (phylum platyhelminthes).

Because I knew you'd want a keepsake of the conception for your babies' scrapbook, I filmed it all for you. Just click here at Our Conception, then sit back and enjoy yourself, like Daddy Pairapricks did. Kind of.

Did I warn you people or what?

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WTF Wednesday: Blog-Agog

Kinda like Hollywood, the blogosphere loves to award itself and its members for all kinds of things. We get all agog about the best blogging host, best blog about blogging, the Blogitzer blog, best humor blog, best WTF blog. Okay, I made that last one up, but I think that should be a category. I might have been nominated then, cuz I'm not sure I can be categorized as anything but, WTF?

Anyway, in keeping with the Blog-Agog Awards, Julie at 47 and Starting Over has honored me with the Sexy Blogger Award! Somehow Julie thinks all the trash I spew has got some sex appeal. And I love her for it! Sing it with me now, "I'm too sexy for my blog, too sexy for my blog, so sexy I'm agog."

That was fun. I even did my little thing on the catwalk. (Clean up on Aisle 5!) So now go visit Julie, a sexy single woman who's also looking for Mr. Right and who was also given the Sexy Blogger Award -- deservedly so. You know there are rules to these blog-agoggies, and this one says I have to offer up five things that are sexy about me. So here you go:

• I chew with my mouth closed, as long as I can fit everything in.
• I wear jammies to bed, and nothing else.
• I wipe front to back. (This is a test to see if you're reading.)
• I dot perfume in all the pulse spots (versus pulsating).
• I do a little dance when I eat ice cream with peanut butter and toffee.

The other rule is that I have to pass this most coveted award along to others. But I think it belongs to anyone who thinks they're sexy enough to wear it. That's you!

I thank my beloved sister bloggers, who make my day everyday, and I appreciate wholeheartedly the Blog-Agog acknowledgements that you like my stuff.

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WTF Wednesday: Gassed

Florida is raising quite the stink. Since November, two boys have been identified by the authorities as gas-passing disrupters. To wit:

NOVEMBER 21 -- A 12-year-old Florida student was arrested earlier this month after he "deliberately passed gas to disrupt the class," according to police. A Martin County Sheriff's Office report . . . notes that the 4' 11" offender admitted that he "continually disrupted his classroom environment by breaking wind and shutting off several computers."

Then there was this:

LAKELAND, Fla. (AP) -- An eighth-grader was suspended from riding the school bus for three days after being accused of passing gas. The bus driver wrote on a misbehavior form that a 15-year-old teen passing gas on the bus Monday to make the other children laugh, creating a stench so bad that it was difficult to breathe. Polk County school officials said there's no rule against flatulence, but there are rules against causing a disturbance on the bus. The teen said he wasn't the one passing gas.

Looks like the police are fart knockers, and your young fart blossoms are no longer allowed to break wind, at least not at school. Probably would have been okay, if the boys had just yelled, "Ducks!" first, so everyone would know it was coming and take cover. Of course, boys can't help this fascination with their own sphincters. It's a learned behavior, after all. As toddlers they stumbled to Daddy for the reward of pulling his finger and hearing the windows rumble from the roar of his personal Howitzer.

Still, we want kids to be safe from the noxious fumes and borborygmus noise pollution that accompanies the breaking of kid-wind. People, we've passed clean air legislation, but it's not enough. Before Congress retires, we ought to make Toot Reform our number one priority. We'll call it the No Child is Bereft Due to His Behind Act.

We’ll start in our public schools, for where is there a greater need to teach our children that when they smell an SBD or hear a ripped blast, they need to "plop, flop, and coil" into the fetal position, noses buried in their cupped little hands? Some experts suggest that kids should stop, drop, and army crawl out of the room, but the ensuing stampede and mass hysteria would only cause needless injuries and even deaths – plus everybody knows that the stench follows you wherever you go and so will the little gas bag who dealt it.

As a patriot, I will request the No Child is Bereft Due to His Behind Act be included in a colonic stimulus package worth one billion dollars in veto-proof porkmarks. The No Child is Bereft Due to His Behind Act will ensure that all teachers maintain order among their student body in the event of cataclysmic cheese. Let's put the Kindergarten teachers to work first. Vodka Mom, you in? The funding will ensure that every classroom in America has a fart extinguisher and that all children participate in fart escape drills and learn asphyxiation coping skills that will last a lifetime.

Or we could simply separate the boys from the girls, so that girls could be spared the testosterone immersion and hazing that goes along with this most egregious of male-bonding activities. Boys pride themselves inexplicably on their intestines being locked and loaded like a submachine gun with a hairpin trigger and blowback action.

I'm so glad I have daughters, because girls don't fart.
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Don't forget to sign up to follow my blog in the right column. Instead of wind, I'm trying to break 100!

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WTF Wednesday: Cougars Demystified

The "cougar," per the online Urban Dictionary (which the public writes) says:

A 35+ year old female who is on the "hunt" for a much younger, energetic, willing-to-do-anything male. The cougar can frequently be seen in a padded bra, cleavage exposed, propped up against a swanky bar in San Francisco (or other cities) waiting, watching, calculating; gearing up to sink her claws into an innocent young and strapping buck who happens to cross her path. "Man is cougar's number one prey."

Who writes this shit? That's the definition of a streetwalker. There were other definitions, but this one was voted to the top of the dung heap by the masses. Let me clarify that this definition of a "cougar" is akin to, "Oh yeah, they got nukyoular weapons in Iraq. Lots of 'em." People tend to believe the most generated propaganda without question. It's as unfair as it is insulting and wrong.

As a woman who fits solidly into "cougar" territory, having had boyfriends and a husband from 10-16 years my junior, I'm offended by the idea that “older” women who date younger men are calculating hunters in tasteless, revealing leopard prints, boobs overflowing en masse, and too-tiny skirts that give away all the mystery. Au contraire! My math skills are entirely unimpressive, my animalia is always tasteful, the boobage is generally contained (though cleavage is completely appropriate for evenings out), and my skirts aren’t giving away anything I don’t want you to see (Uh-uh, no behind until it's time).

Cougars, as some like to call them, are not skanks skulking in the shadows of your local bar, ready to pounce on eager but unsuspecting "tadpoles" and turning them into sex slaves. Anybody who thinks that is incredibly ignorant – not that I don’t want to put my fuzzy, fuchsia handcuffs to good use.

First, those younger men are anything but innocent -- or gullible or unintelligent. They know exactly what they want, and they're confident enough to pursue an older woman who attracts them. Second, cougars are quite particular in whom they choose to spend time with. They do not "prey" upon anything but a happy, fulfilling life. Third, contrary to popular culture's propensity for finding the worst faults in controversial phenomena, cougars do look for interesting men with whom they can engage in healthy relationships, usually long-term.

Sex? Oh yeah. Hell yeah! But most cougars want love and romance just like their traditional, dare I say "tame" counterparts. (I'll bet women like being labeled "tame" as much as single older women like to be called cougars.) Grrrr!

So where is the law that says you must date/mate/copulate with a person your own age? What is the rationale for this? And please make sure it IS rationale and not just some icky feeling in the pit of your stomach that you can't quite put your finger on. Men have been doing it forever. Do we call them cougars? Lions? Grizzlies? Pigs? Okay, pigs, but for different reasons, and then they deserve it.

AARP says 34 percent of women over 40 are dating younger men. Sounds to me like a revolution. But let's narrow things down, since this is my blog. What do I see in younger men? Vitality. Playfulness. Daring. Energizer Bunny erections. More importantly, they treat me as an equal and don't belittle or compete with me like older, less secure men sometimes do. They enjoy pleasing me on all life levels. They appreciate the things I do for them in return, rather than taking it for granted or positioning themselves as the Master of my universe. Please understand: I would be just as happy with an older guy who had these same qualities. Dude, you out there? Call me!

There are, of course, boundaries. Short of trolling the high schools and colleges, love and attraction are where you find them, and that's pretty much all there is to it. I think my work is done here.
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Thanks to Julie at 47 and Starting Over for giving me my WTF rant, based on her Sunday Rewind.

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WTF Wednesday: Go Left, Young Man

Okay, you're in the left turn lane at a traffic light and though the signal has a green turning arrow, it's not lit. However, the green circle is lit, and the adjacent traffic heading your same direction is flowing through it. The question is, do you pull into the intersection on that green light? Or do you hang back, pretend no one can see you pick your nose, and wait for the green arrow to appear -- even if it's not going to show it's cute little pointy self until it cycles through the pretty amber and red lights, and the cross traffic gets to take its turn? Hmm? Do you stay or do you go? Hmm? HMMM?

You GO!! When a gap appears in the oncoming traffic, and you can make that turn safely, hit the gas! Seriously. It's legal! Do not wait for me to lay on my horn because we both could have gone through the light were it not for your remedial driving skills!

Sorry. I can't tell you how many times I have idled behind people who either don't realize they can go left on a green without the arrow (Hello-o-o, green means GO!) or they're too timid to freakin' drive their car the way the law says they can – and should.

I have been driving since I was 15. That means I've been behind the wheel for, um, a really long time. (Wowee, was there even sliced bread back then?) Way back in 1970 and for most of the last 35 years, we did not have green sissy arrows for making left-hand turns at traffic lights. If you didn't scoot into the intersection and grab your opportunity when it was clear, you never got through an intersection. You think I'm crabby about this? Imagine a bitchin' hopped-up '74 Duster 360 on your ass, pushing you through, bumper to bumper. Since the law used to allow for two vehicles to make the left turn, you had to be alert and quick (no time for picking your nose) to breeze through before cross traffic started to move. Those were the days.

Here's the second most important point:  if there is no space or time in the oncoming traffic to make your turn, you are supposed to wait for the light to change to amber (or even red, my dear) for the oncoming traffic to stop before you proceed. I know you won't believe this, but really, it's okay. This is just how it's done. You're not doing anything wrong by being in the intersection under an amber or red light till you can safely make the turn. Capiche?

And one more thing? When it's okay to go, GET OUT OF THE INTERSECTION!

One caveat -- a good reminder from MoreThanAnElectrician (N*ked on the Roof) who just got hit by a car -- watch for pedestrians! Go see what that crazy driver did to him!

Listen, this is not about being in a big rush to get nowhere fast. Nobody's asking you to take chances with your life. And maybe in your state, there are little green arrows everywhere, but not in Texas. Not yet. So we have to do it the old-fashioned way. Think of it as the missionary position. Engine growling, driver at the ready, and you have a go. Put it in gear and shoot on through!

This has been a public service message. You’re welcome.

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WTF Wednesday

Since everybody has something going on Wednesday, and I hate to be left out, I decided I was hopping on the bandwagon. Hence, WTF Wednesday. So I was surfing the web and happened upon a site that reprints old (very old) news. For example, the following are actual "articles" from the Carroll County Democrat (1896) and the Tennessee Republican (1889):

1. Misses Josie and Ida McDowell, two of the finest specimens of womanhood at Clarksburg, were in town Tuesday.
2. Jim Hickman is shipping persimmons which look most tempting.
3. Mrs. Y. P. McLemore of the 1st district died last Sunday of consumption. She was about 55 years old and a most estimable lady.
4. Sam Owens is on the sick list.
5. An eagle with a wingspan of 7 feet was killed in the 15th district of Henry County by Mrs. Nannie Thomas. The bird attacked a flock of geese when she killed it with a stick.
6. Frank Patterson, a Negro of Shelbyville sentenced for stealing hogs, later pardoned by Gov. Turney, was arrested for stealing a greater number of hogs.
7. E. T. Gill is improving.
8. CORRECTION: Charley Wilson is very much aggrieved. We credited him with a girl baby at his house. He says that there is no mugwump about him, that all his girls are boys and all of his boys are Republicans . . .

Now because I'm bored, let's take the same 1800's community reportage and give it a 2009 twist. And by reading the following, you swear you will not express hate, disgust, or anything else that might hurt my highly sensitive feelings. You can, however, say WTF?

1. Last Tuesday in Clarksburg, that slutty whoredog at 22220 Skankalicious Lane, nobody's namin' names, flaunted her brand new fakies in front of Josie McDowell's ass-wipe husband, who had apparently never seen boobs. Mrs. McDowell's sister Ida got all up in her bro-in-law's face and whacked him upside the head with the makin'-it-my-business side of an ax. Fo' shizzle.
2. Jimmy Hickman received express delivery of ten kilos of ganja via white, unmarked van. Looks like he got himself a hormone-free organic crop that should turn him a nice profit and still provide leftovers for Mrs. Hickman's On-the Downlow-Carb Brownies.
3. Fifty-five-year-old Yvonne P. McLemore of Westlake died suddenly on Sunday when she rammed her pink Mary Kay Beamer into the Taco Bell. McLemore's daughter's friends' mothers recalled that McLemore had just received her AARP membership and was unable to breathe. They reported she then chugged half a bottle of Cuervo, whined something about life being over, and lamented she might as well eat gorditas.
4. Sam Owens is a dumb, nerdy, sicko perv. In broad daylight and wearing his Windex clean coke-bottle glasses, he peeped inside his nextdoor neighbor Leo Funkenfeller's window while the guy was pumping iron in the nude. It was then that Mr. Owens' lenses reflected a harsh glare into his own kitchen window where his wife was cheerily preparing grilled cheese and avocado sammies. After stomping on his glasses and macing him, she called the police on his sorry ass.
5. While tanning in her back yard, kindergarten teacher Nancy Thomas attacked an endangered American bald eagle with a Louisville Slugger when it strafed Fifi, her beloved pet goose. The startled eagle righted itself with a few Blue Angel maneuvers, choked on Fifi, and dropped her 300 feet into Henry County.
6. After President Bush pardoned Frank "the Ay-rab" Patterson from his five-year home in Gitmo, Frank accidentally boarded the flight to Hamasville. In a cruel twist of fate, his flightmates then waged a small fatwa in his honor and porked him just for being American. (I know, bad!)
7. E. T. Gill is improving but will still be unable to phone home as he is still unable to pay his 300-freakin'-dollar AT&T bill.
8. CORRECTION: Charley Wilson is very much aggrieved. We cited that all four of his ultra-liberal daughters stumped door-to-door for Obama (oh yes, they did); when in fact, they had only stumped him on a daily basis with indecipherable riddles about who was on first and who was on second – Rush, Daddy-O, or neo-mugwumps?

Boy, news has come a long way, baby, hasn't it?
WTF you say? I seem to recall giving you the disclaimer that I was bored. So, I cannot be held responsible for any damage to your psyches.

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