Well, it’s patently obvious that I’m not great at updating this thing daily. Daily is just asking too much. I can barely manage to put on real clothes daily. Plus, I’m still recovering from the trauma of seeing actual RAIN yesterday. Not that I’m complaining or anything. It was lovely… an entire freaking day of rain (after more than 2 weeks of dry spell). Hopefully this means they’ll start taking down all the hundreds of signs around town that verily scream “Burn Ban” at you while you’re driving by. As I live on acres and acres of pine trees, whose dead little needles make a crackly dry three-foot deep carpet beneath your feet, I’m deathly afraid of wildfires. That being said…
This past weekend’s Pleasure party was not as bad as I thought it’d be. At least the parts I managed to stay awake for. The CroMag came over the night before – for my fabulous German food (Rouladen & Spaetzle) and my lovely witty to-die-for company. He stayed over, as he normally does. And then we stayed up talking like teenagers until 5:30 a.m., like we normally do. It would have been fine, except I had to be up at 8:45 a.m. because Baby Sis would be arriving at 9 a.m. As much as the evil little me wanted to – I couldn’t leave her on the front porch wondering if I’d changed my mind and was pretending to not be home. I Really Really wanted to – but then she’d probably have woken me up by banging on my bedroom window. Scaring the ever-loving wits out of a non-morning person like that… not safe for either party let me tell ya.
So, on a hair more than 3 hours sleep (this after only getting 4 hours the previous night!), I did the Morning Zombie Shuffle to the kitchen and prayed I could fix coffee while blinded by the sleep faerie grit in my eyes. I was quiet like a mouse – a miracle in itself as the coffee pot is a brand spanking new stainless steel God of bells and whistles, which requires I still look at Instructions! to figure out how to make it spit out a cuppa (and me being blind and all didn’t help). The bright aroma of Jamaican was like toothpicks for my drooping eyelids.
Lo and Behold, the first thing I was able to focus upon was my Doodlebug. He sat on one of our living room couches; his little head the only thing visible beneath an explosion of quilts. He cast a longing, impatient look towards the other couch and whispered, “Can I wake up Uncle CroMag now? Puhleeeeeze?”
I shook my head vigorously for a brief second – all it took for me to realize I was definitely suffering from a chat hangover and whispered back, “Absolutely NOT.”
He gave me the puppy eyes and stuck out his bottom lip (this look should be trademarked. Seriously.). “But I’ve been waiting such a long time,” he told me.
See, Uncle CroMag is the Doodlebug’s personal play toy, his very own life size action hero. I should probably make him a special cape or something but I’m just not crafty like that. I’m sure he’s very thankful. I whispered back, “Not. Yet,” and hoped like hell his next reaction would be mostly silent. [Quick digression: I have to give the kiddo credit. Mr. Clean later confirmed the Doodlebug had been up since 7 a.m. How he managed to refrain from jumping on his Uncle CroMag for almost two hours is undoubtedly one of those national secrets black-lined by the government. I wish he could show that kind of restraint while I’m trying to write. Of course, he was up for two hours while we were all comatose, so for all I know he’d already tried everything short of shoving his fingers up the CroMag’s snoring nostrils and nothing had worked. Digression over.]
He stuck his head beneath the blanket and proceeded to pout – out of sight – just as I like it. I proceeded to wipe the bleary from my eyes. 9:15 a.m. rolled around. No Baby Sis and CroMag’s snoring was like a lullaby luring me back to the Land of Nod. I did what I had to. I kicked Doodlebug off his couch, stole his quilts, and went back to sleep. Baby Sis managed to drag her butt through my door just past 11 a.m. Obviously, being on time is not her forte.
Now, the night before I had heartily nudged and hinted that CroMag should stay for the party as… ummm… the guinea pig. He just as heartily refused, claiming his gender difference would definitely conflict with many of the… ahhh… products. It was therefore no big surprise that as soon as Baby Sis arrived, he woke like he was still in the Army and an air raid siren had gone off. I barely had a chance to say “Bye” before the screeching of tires and a cloud of chicken feathers heralded his rapid departure. The lack of a chicken shit... err... guinea pig was disappointing but we managed to get over it. All of my boys boot-scooted not long after for a day of male bonding at the movie theater.
Significant details of the party itself:
This past weekend’s Pleasure party was not as bad as I thought it’d be. At least the parts I managed to stay awake for. The CroMag came over the night before – for my fabulous German food (Rouladen & Spaetzle) and my lovely witty to-die-for company. He stayed over, as he normally does. And then we stayed up talking like teenagers until 5:30 a.m., like we normally do. It would have been fine, except I had to be up at 8:45 a.m. because Baby Sis would be arriving at 9 a.m. As much as the evil little me wanted to – I couldn’t leave her on the front porch wondering if I’d changed my mind and was pretending to not be home. I Really Really wanted to – but then she’d probably have woken me up by banging on my bedroom window. Scaring the ever-loving wits out of a non-morning person like that… not safe for either party let me tell ya.
So, on a hair more than 3 hours sleep (this after only getting 4 hours the previous night!), I did the Morning Zombie Shuffle to the kitchen and prayed I could fix coffee while blinded by the sleep faerie grit in my eyes. I was quiet like a mouse – a miracle in itself as the coffee pot is a brand spanking new stainless steel God of bells and whistles, which requires I still look at Instructions! to figure out how to make it spit out a cuppa (and me being blind and all didn’t help). The bright aroma of Jamaican was like toothpicks for my drooping eyelids.
Lo and Behold, the first thing I was able to focus upon was my Doodlebug. He sat on one of our living room couches; his little head the only thing visible beneath an explosion of quilts. He cast a longing, impatient look towards the other couch and whispered, “Can I wake up Uncle CroMag now? Puhleeeeeze?”
I shook my head vigorously for a brief second – all it took for me to realize I was definitely suffering from a chat hangover and whispered back, “Absolutely NOT.”
He gave me the puppy eyes and stuck out his bottom lip (this look should be trademarked. Seriously.). “But I’ve been waiting such a long time,” he told me.
See, Uncle CroMag is the Doodlebug’s personal play toy, his very own life size action hero. I should probably make him a special cape or something but I’m just not crafty like that. I’m sure he’s very thankful. I whispered back, “Not. Yet,” and hoped like hell his next reaction would be mostly silent. [Quick digression: I have to give the kiddo credit. Mr. Clean later confirmed the Doodlebug had been up since 7 a.m. How he managed to refrain from jumping on his Uncle CroMag for almost two hours is undoubtedly one of those national secrets black-lined by the government. I wish he could show that kind of restraint while I’m trying to write. Of course, he was up for two hours while we were all comatose, so for all I know he’d already tried everything short of shoving his fingers up the CroMag’s snoring nostrils and nothing had worked. Digression over.]
He stuck his head beneath the blanket and proceeded to pout – out of sight – just as I like it. I proceeded to wipe the bleary from my eyes. 9:15 a.m. rolled around. No Baby Sis and CroMag’s snoring was like a lullaby luring me back to the Land of Nod. I did what I had to. I kicked Doodlebug off his couch, stole his quilts, and went back to sleep. Baby Sis managed to drag her butt through my door just past 11 a.m. Obviously, being on time is not her forte.
Now, the night before I had heartily nudged and hinted that CroMag should stay for the party as… ummm… the guinea pig. He just as heartily refused, claiming his gender difference would definitely conflict with many of the… ahhh… products. It was therefore no big surprise that as soon as Baby Sis arrived, he woke like he was still in the Army and an air raid siren had gone off. I barely had a chance to say “Bye” before the screeching of tires and a cloud of chicken feathers heralded his rapid departure. The lack of a chicken shit... err... guinea pig was disappointing but we managed to get over it. All of my boys boot-scooted not long after for a day of male bonding at the movie theater.
Significant details of the party itself:
- My Stepmom did not make it for the party after all. While the squick factor was therefore erased, I missed seeing her and was sorry she couldn’t make it.
- GypsyRose, sister #2, also did not make it. I totally missed her raunchy blunt comments. On the other hand, she might have freaked out the college girls. Honestly, though, that would have been rather entertaining. Heh.
- It was mighty interesting to hear about the sexual habits of college girls (Baby Sis is in her last year of college). One of them was even – gasp! – a virgin. She was very cute and I applaud her willpower. I could never have lasted that long. I wasn’t born with willpower. It genetically skipped my little DNA strands. As such, I have not been virginal for quite a long time.
- But!! Apparently, you can get a nifty cream that transforms you into a brick wall of virginity again. Heh. Heh. Expensive shit too!
- Everything is flavored Strawberry. Can I just say, Ewww. I love Strawberries. I hate anything flavored with fake strawberry. And Mr. Clean – I might as well douse myself in bug spray for all the play I’d get with something strawberry flavored. In their defense, they did have some rather yummy chocolate-flavored stuff – and it actually tasted like chocolate! Not that fake bitter aftertaste crap you normally find, either.
- Everything was annoyingly expensive. I spent EIGHTY BUCKS.
- I learned that it’s okay to go out of budget if you’re spending money on stuff from a Pleasure party. Mr. Clean didn’t even blink. When I spend eighty bucks on books, he looks like I’ve attempted to give him a vasectomy with a spoon.
- Like going to a male strip club – once was enough for this whole party thing.
- As there won’t be a next time, I won’t have to worry about Baby Sis leaving penis shaped ice cubes in my freezer for Shaggy to find and then comment on. Upon seeing him hold one up, I prepared myself for a hysterical pre-teen giggle fest. Instead I got, and I quote: “Don’t you think this is just a little inappropriate?” Nope. Don’t have to worry about him for a bit. Thank God.
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