Uhhh…

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There’s really no way to beat around this (heh) bush, so here goes: I had incredible sex with one of my colleagues last night.

I don’t remember much about it (which means it probably wasn’t great) except that I was on top (which is *so* not my thing) and that he’d shaved his beard. And before you start judging me, I’d like to state for the record that our libidinous activities were the direct result of the heinous actions of a rogue hog. There was also a white shirt (very strange, indeed; I’ve never seen him in anything but black) and a ferris wheel and a funky heated vibrating chair adorned with flashing lights.

I was concerned for a moment about how his wife (also a colleague) would handle the news of our copulation, but she was equal parts encouraging and oblivious. Probably because all of her attention was focused on adjusting her head gear so she could get on about the business of boosting a helicopter.

A helicopter!

Which is just as well. Because the swooshing of the chopper’s blades reminded me of the thundering of water rapids, which reminded me I had to pee, which promptly caused me to wake up.

And wake up, I did. Disturbed.

*

It is incredibly rare for me to remember my dreams (which can sometimes be frustrating, considering that more often than not, I wake up aroused), but I think ~ in the best interest of the participants ~ this is one dream I’d prefer to forget.

I mean, seriously. Would YOU want to remember a sex dream that included a hog?

I think not.

*

Interpretation, anyone?

Thick

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This post brought to you by Dictionary.com, Jif, and Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer.  (If that doesn’t warn you about what you’re getting into, nothing will.  Proceed at your own risk.)

*

According to my husband, I am cherubic.

I like the idea of being a cherub, because anyone who’s ever looked at an artist’s depiction of those winged little devils (erm…angels…) can easily ascertain that a cherub is mischievous (in a good-natured way…maybe…), naked (clothes?  what clothes?), and ~ regardless of the fact that their muscles are protected by a layer of baby fat ~ strong.  I can relate.  (The strong part is particularly obvious when I’m being both naked and michievous at the same time.  As in, I have really strong PC muscles.  *Grin*)

So to the Mister’s way of thinking, I’m a cherub.  I like this description.  It works for me.

However, throughout my life, other people (read:  males) have referred to me as thick.

No, not fat.  (Trust me:  You do NOT want to go there.)  Thick.

I realize a cherub might be described as thick, but in terms of descriptions, I generally prefer the former to the latter, thankyouverymuch.

That is, I preferred the former to the latter until approximately 8:35 this morning.  At which time I had an epiphany.

Yes, that’s right.  An epiphany.

  • Epiphany:  sudden, intuitive perception of or insight into the reality or essential meaning of something, usually initiated by some simple, homely, or commonplace occurrence or experience

Let’s just ignore the ‘homely’ part, okay people?

And what, you are wondering, caused this epiphany, Feve?

Aaaaannnnd the answer is…

Fog.

Yes, you read it correctly the first time.

Fog.

F-o-g.

I embraced the term thick (at approximately 8:35am local time this morning) due to a sudden, intuitive insight gained while driving through fog.

Confused?

No worries.  All will be revealed.

I embraced the term thick while driving through fog, and I have the classic Christmas special, Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, to thank for it.

Uncross your eyes, people.  I told you I would explain.  Here goes:

You see, the fog was thick (a-ha!) this morning.  And while I was sitting in the parking lot (also known as the freeway) on my way to work, I was reminded of an exchange between Herbie (the elf) and Yukon Cornelius (ummm…the Yukon Cornelius) when they get lost in the fog.

Yukon:  Fog’s as thick as peanut butter.

Herbie:  Erm…  Don’t you mean pea soup?

Yukon:  You eat what you like, and I’ll eat what I like!

So I was driving through the fog, replaying that insightful exchange in my brain…  And just like that (insert finger snap here), I embraced the term thick.  Because I totally dig the idea of being thick like peanut butter.  Yes, peanut butter is thick.  Peanut butter is also creamy.  It’s decadent.  It’s flavor explodes on your tongue.  It’s yummy.  It’s delicious with breakfast (hellloooo, toast!) and enticing with dessert (mmmm, chocolate!).  It’s tasty goodness is a welcome treat any time of day.  Or night.  And it’s thick.

Like me.

You eat what you like, and I’ll eat what I like.

Please note:  I like to be eaten.

(Insert contemplative pause here for the purpose of entertaining naughty thoughts.)

So, yeah, I’m a cherub.  And I’m thick.

THICK.

Like peanut butter.  😉

*

And now I want a snack…

 

Wanton Wednesday: My Personality Isn't The Only Thing That's Bubbly

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Death By Couscous (a.k.a. Bumper Stickers Suck)

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I had a near death experience today.

Yes.  You read that correctly.

Near.  Death.  Experience.

How the heck, you are wondering, did you almost DIE, Feve?

I’ll tell you!

There I was, complacently munching on some couscous, when all of a sudden one of the tiny little grains I was ingesting decided to stop and to a tap dance in my throat.

*

If you’ve never experienced this particular fright, let me break it down for you:

Feve is breathing.  Breathing, breathing…  Suddenly NOT breathing!

SHIT.

Can’t swallow, can’t swallow!

Eeeeeep!

*

So I coughed…  And coughed…  And coughed and coughed and coughed.  And my eyes watered and there was (caution:  eeeew alert!) snot, and I couldn’t breathe, and my pets were all gathered around me with curious little expressions on their faces (I need to teach the little buggers CPR; they were absolutely useless in my time of plight), and I coughed some more, and I thought to myself Holy fuck!  I can’t die today.  I’ve never had my palm read, but I *know* I have too many lines on my hands for my life to be this short.  So I coughed as hard as I possibly could, and just as that cantankerous little cuss of a couscous came spewing forth unto my kitty’s forehead, I said to myself, If I get out of this alive, I *must* get around to writing that blog post about bumper stickers.

Bumper stickers!  WTF?!?!

I thought impending death was supposed to conjure visions of one’s life flashing before one’s eyes.  Not so, me.  Apparently, the visions that flash before my eyes while choking to death have to do with not leaving things undone…  ???

I know not the whys or the wherefores.  All I know is that my brain was working like crazy to get some sort of DO eet!  Do eet noooow! commandment across to me.  Like a little mental message in red flashing neon (maybe *that’s* what they mean by ‘walking toward the light’):  Leave No Blog Unwritten.

Gah!

Far be it from me to ignore curious communications from the beyond, so…

If there are any choke-to-death-ologists out there who can give me some insight into my bizarre desire to write a blog entry (again:  WTF?!?!) as a result of my Death-By-Five-Minute-Meal experience, have at it.  In the mean time, I’ll just go ahead and write.

About bumper stickers.

Oky-doky then.

*

So here’s the thing about bumper stickers:  I can’t stand ’em.

Can’t.

Stand.

Them.

Point Number One:  The body of a car ~ much like the body of a person ~ should be naked.  At least when it comes to my car.  And my body.  N-a-k-e-d.  Bumper stickers are just…  Unnecessary.  (Like panties.)  Uncomfortable.  (Like bras.)  They leave behind a sticky residue.  (Like cheap condoms.)  And, more often than not, they reveal information about the driver that falls into the TMI category (see point number two for expository notes on this subject).

Even if the message on your car’s booty (well, what ELSE do you call a bumper?) seems innocuous, it probably isn’t.  It’s obnoxious.  And ~ not to put too fine a point on it ~ it’s ugly.

Point Number Two:  TMI.  Too Much Information.  Waaaaaay too much.  I don’t care what radio station you listen to, how many guns you have, whether or not your mother-in-law is a witch, or if your child is an honor roll student.  If I was in your shoes (or, more accurately, in your car), I wouldn’t want anyone to know any of that information.  I especially wouldn’t want to advertise how many children I had and where they could be found.  (Have you SEEN some of these bumper stickers?  They’re a child booster’s dream!  Proud Parent Of Child’sNameHere, 8th Grade Honor Roll Student at ComeStealMyKid Middle School.  *shudder*)  But that’s just me.  I don’t think it’s safe to advertise too much about who you are.  Or who your kids are.  Then again, I have a thing about security.  I prefer not to invite people to disrupt mine.  But I am not you.  Maybe you want someone to take your car/truck/guns/kids/mother-in-law off your hands.

(Insert contemplative pause here.)

Come to think of it…  If I had your mother-in-law, I might feel the same way.

Ahem.

Anywhoo…

Back to TMI:  Security issues aside, too much information is just too damned much information.

Take, for example, the jacked up 4×4 with the little sign in his back window (I realize a window and a bumper are two different things, but the same concept applies; work with me people, I almost died today) of a spike-haired cartoon dude pissing on a Ford/Dodge/TruckOtherThanTheKindIDrive symbol.  What does this tell me?

The answer, my friends, is obvious:  JackedUpTruckDude is into water sports.

Erm…

While this may be helpful to know if I was entertaining the idea of going on a date with JUTD (water sports are not my thing, but at least I’d know ahead of time that he’s into kink), it is otherwise completely irrelevant (and ~ some may feel ~ irreverent) to the casual observer.

Moving on.

Point Number Three:  Just because a word passes the Spell Check examination does not make the phrase worthy of an A+.  More often than not, bumper stickers get a failing grade in this department.

Case in point:  I saw an SUV a while back with a bumper sticker that said something along the lines of Blahblahblah…I’ve Gone Rouge!

So I read “I’ve Gone Rouge” and thought to myself…  Wow.  Really?  Um, *rouge* is a cosmetic.  It’s used to color people’s cheeks.  And lips.  (Um, the ones on your face.)  That’s rouge.  So thanks for telling me that you’ve gone rouge.  I have no idea what the hell that means, but I’m fairly certain (due to the bad-ass skull stickers that are adorning either end of this odd turn of phrase) that what you *meant* to say was “I’ve Gone Rogue.” 

In situations like this, it’s best to take a look at the driver.  If the driver resembles a circus performer, I may have a glimmer of doubt (perhaps I’ve Gone Rouge is a new slogan for clowns-in-training?) about the apparent misnomer, but most likely the driver has the build of an elephant.  Or at least an ego the size of an elephant.  If that’s the case (and it was, indeed, the case in the situation described in the above paragraph), I think to myself Rouge Dude needs to learn how to spell, followed by I need to write a blog about bumper stickers.

Which is a decision I was reminded of when I nearly choked to death today.

*

So, to review:

  • Leave no blog unwritten.  Again, in neon:  Leave No Blog Unwritten.
  • Be careful of couscous.
  • My pets do not know how to perform the Heimlich maneuver.
  • Bumper stickers annoy me.
  • Cars look better naked.
  • Rethink that Honor Roll advertisement.
  • I’m glad I don’t have your mother-in-law.
  • Water sports.  ‘Nough said.
  • Rouge and Rogue are NOT the same thing.

Ummm…  Any questions?