C'est la vie

I'm a harmless flirt. I guess it comes naturally, and some people are either extremely offended by me, or extremely intrigued.

I always hated reading posts where people announced their demise, or that they needed a blogging break. Maybe it's more for me that I'm writing it...I don't really know.

I'm taking a little blogging break. I might be around commenting a bit, but I probably won't be blogging much or at all for the next couple/few weeks. I don't know how long the break will last. If it even lasts, but I have my reasons.

I'd like to formally apologize if I've ever personally offended anyone by my words, or actions.

Happy New year, everyone. Looking forward to it!

I Love the Rain the Most...When it Stops

It's not often that I have the house completely to myself. Between my Mom and my sister, I'm usually dodging one of them left and right. This weekend my Mom went out of town to my aunt's funeral and my sister went to work, heading to her boyfriend's after.

So I was sitting in front of the fire with my pet laptop, when one of the dogs started crying and begging me to take him out. I got up, wandered to get his leash, still warm and lethargic from the heat of the fire I had going, and before I put it on him, I opened the door. Please note I was wearing nothing but a wifebeater, undies, and flip flops when I flew out the door after him screaming for him to stop because he managed to slip past me, before I got the leash on him.

Where I live, it's pitch black. It's in the middle of the woods, in the mountains, and you really don't run out without a flashlight. It was pouring rain and the dog was nowhere to be found.

Push Play

I stood in the middle of the clearing in front of the house, Christmas lights flashing, shivering just a bit, rain pouring down on my head and shoulders, and I let my head fall back and the rain pounded onto my face, dripping down over my neck, chest and body. I forgot all about the dog, and I could hear the music in my house playing behind me and I began to sway, letting my hands rise toward the sky and I smiled. I smiled so big that giant tears began to mesh with the rain falling, and I spun in circles, arms stretched out at my sides, palms up, in the pouring, cold, rain. Occasionally I slowed even more just to wipe the vast amounts of rain getting in my eyes and nose.

With Mazzy Star lulling in the background, I crossed my hands over my chest and realized I wasn't smiling anymore. I was full on bawling in front of the house in the rain and still swaying to the soft sounds of the rainfall and dim music. I cried for everything and everyone. I cried for all the times I forgot to cry when I've lost something or I hurt in the past. I cried for all the pain I had hidden away so well when people were watching me. I just cried. I cried for me. Knowing no one could see me or hear me because of the rain, I bawled to a point where I could hear myself sobbing. Still spinning in the rain, slowly; soaked and shivering.

Eventually the dog came back, standing at my feet, looking at me, perplexed as to why I was standing, sobbing in the rain, almost naked. I imagine in his mind he was calling me a stupid human.

I knelt down, scraping one of my knees a little bit on the gravel rocks, and with a slight stinging ache, watched him run around me, count, four times before he stopped and let me put the leash on him. I walked around the house, not crying anymore and I felt more cleansed than I'd ever felt. Sometimes, all we need is a really good cry, all alone, in the pouring rain.

Just remember...rain is cold and you'll be shaking uncontrollably for about 20 minutes, even after you're back in the house and in front of the fire. I'm STILL cold.

I thought shit like this only happened in the movies...

Christmas at Gramma C's with the Little Wooden Hand

This was the first Christmas for years that I was there and (semi) sober and able to enjoy everyone's company. Sitting around the table and cracking obscene jokes. It was the first Christmas in my life that I didn't get a call from my Father wishing me a Merry Christmas, or some completely inappropriate gift from him. Anyway, it's almost the new year and soon, bigger and better things will erupt in my life.

I can feel it. After dinner my uncle D, fell in love with the stocking stuffer that my Grandma gave him. It's a wooden back scratcher. It's long and at the end it has a little wooden hand shaped just so, for scratching. I'm sure you're thinking,"Oh, I have one of those, I love it too. They reach all the right spots."




Well this wasn't exactly the same kind of love. D found this thing to be the funniest object in the world. It was his new best friend. I really can't begin to describe the love here. You see, the hand extends and retracts, and it does look just like a tiny little hand, so it has become the source of great amusement. Perhaps you should all get one for yourselves. I had no idea how many possibilities were loaded into one little wooden hand. Why you can:

• Hi five with a little wooden hand.
• grab objects from across the table with a little wooden hand.
• caress your lovers cheek without having to move from the couch with a little wooden hand.
• scratch your chin like an intellectual with a little wooden hand.
• pose like The Thinker with a little wooden hand.
• put a little wooden pinkie into your mouth and say "one million dollars"
• scratch the dog with the little wooden hand and not get any hair on you.
• smoke a cigarette with a little wooden hand without having to bring your hand all the way to your mouth.
• drive like a low rider with a little wooden hand.
• brush your hair back with a little wooden hand.
• bitch slap someone with a little wooden hand.
• "raise the roof" with a little wooden hand.
• smack the back of someone's hand for grabbing something from across the table when they shouldn't with a little wooden hand.
• have the worlds smallest wooden hand stroke the worlds smallest wooden penis (don't ask).

How could I possibly think of all these uses for such a seemingly creation? Put the little hand in a room full of friends, family and beer and see what happens. And if it's on Christmas night when tensions are already high, you're in for a treat. Be prepared because...
YOU CAN PAY FOR PIZZA WITH A LITTLE WOODEN HAND.

Of course in our state of of wooden hand giggles, the next logical step was to share the love of the little wooden hand with perfect strangers so they too could see what a genius invention it is.

There is a knock on the door. Everyone hides in the kitchen, except for D, little wooden hand in...well, hand, and I'm on the sofa with an engineer whistle in my mouth. Everyone is silent. It's amazing how how well this is going to come off. D opens the door and the pizza guy doesn't even bat an eye. (I should add that D was wearing and old engineer's cap and aviator glasses and weighs about 250 pounds) He stares at D and starts to hand him the pizza. D flicks out the little wooden hand, which has money in its tiny wooden grip. The arm extends, and the hand reaches out to the pizza guy. This is too much for D, who is already well aware of the comedic power of the little wooden hand, and he begins to giggle. He giggles right in front of the pizza guy who now just wants to leave.

D invites the pizza guy in with a creepy "Hi. You wanna come in?" This forces em to hide my face in the sofa. I mean, come on, it was fucking funny. It's a big city but a small neighborhood, and who knows. I might see this guy on the bus in a week and he could scream out, "Her and her freak train conductor uncle tried to seduce me with a little wooden hand!" The pizza guy leaves, snatching the money from the tiny wooden hand and running down the stairs so fast I thought he was going to fall down and we were going to be sued. D eventually closes the door, after waving goodbye with the hand for a minute or so and smiling. The rest of the bunch come out of the kitchen and blame him for ruining what would've been "The ultimate Pizza guy, little wooden hand Joke."

Now you probably thought my life was all glitz, glamor and fun late night parties in New York with strange rich men, that just treat me like a princess. But in reality, all I do is sit around on Christmas night thinking up new trick for the pizza guy. And while most of the time, I go home drunk at the crack of dawn after these types of events, I instead think about how great the the look on the Pizza guy's face was when we extended a little wooden hand with a twenty dollar bill crammed into its little fingers, at his appalled face.

It's been a hard holiday season for my family. I'm sure you all know that. I'm just trying to make light of a hard time and there isn't much I wouldn't do to try and see my Mother smile again, even if just for a split second. Any ideas?

P.S. Mom, if you're reading this, please close it and try not to peek too often. I love you dearly Mom, but this page isn't really a place for my Mommy's eyes. I'm sure you understand.

They say it happens in 3's

I apologize, but this post has been lost. I'm leaving it up because I appreciated the comments, but the words are just nowhere to be found.

I'm in NYC! Bittersweet Symphony...Ahhhh

This is going to be an incredibly, LONG post. So if you don't have time to sit and read it all, you're probably better off not starting it. I promise you won't be sorry if you do.

I had an incredibly hard time staring Guinness in the face at first. I don't know how I got so nervous. It felt like I was in Middle School and he was asking me to dance. We gave each other the quickest answers to every question. Where were the jokes and flirting we'd grown so accustomed to? How did we end up scaring each other like this?

I grabbed the drink menu and it fell out of my hand. As I lurched over to pick it up, my elbow hit my water glass, sending it tumbling over. I jumped up and cursed. Guinness was quick with the napkins preventing the spill from pouring into our laps. Water dripped off the table on to the floor. I was humiliated as a busboy came over to mop up the floor. I could feel my face flushed as people stared at us. I was right. We were going to ruin everything by meeting face to face.

Guinness looked up at me and smiled, making eye contact. "Let's get out of here, k? I'm not all that hungry anymore." When we walked outside, I spoke first. "I'm sorry. I'm nervous."
"Do I make you nervous?" he asked. I answered,"No" and we both smiled and began our walk to the car.

I had imagined our first meeting together so many different ways, but I never thought it would be me saying stupid shit while he wished he were somewhere else. He was much taller than I was, and I could see a small nick on the back of his neck where he must have cut himself shaving. I imagined his face being so soft to the touch, but I wasn't bold enough to touch it. Bear with me folks, I know I'm probably boring you but I want to savor every moment of the first encounter.

We ended up in Applebees and we had a couple drinks. 2 mudslides later we were much more relaxed. We were able to look at each other. We made jokes and even touched each other a few times, casually. We avoided conversation that was too deep. We stuck to things like sports, movies, and music. We had the coolest waitress that brought me an extra little bowl of cherries because my drink lacked one. I sat in my little corner sucking on cherries and giggling. I was getting a little tipsy. I took a sip of his drink and it was a lot stronger than mine was, and I began to hiccup immediately. He told me how beautiful I was and I hiccuped and smiled. My foot accidentally brushed against his under the table. I know he said things after that, but I didn't hear them. I was imagining what our hotel looked like, and exactly where I'd be pinned as he slowly worked me over. Would we be in front of the door? Would we be in the hallway near a bathroom? Would there be a mirror where I'd spot myself smiling before I closed my eyes and allowed myself to fall into him?

I don't know if he even asked me, but within an hour we were at the hotel. It was a really nice room, but there was a little too much light in it, for my taste. I looked around, my mouth dry and I ran to pee. I'd been drinking after all. I sat down on the edge of the bed, and asked him if he could bring me some water. As he handed me the water, our fingers touched. I blushed for noticing it. Behind him was a section of the wall, close to the mini fridge, that would be a great place to get pinned against. I could hear my pulse in my ears and I could feel my blood rushing through my wrists.

He pulled out a little bag and inside was a scarf that he got me for an early Christmas present. "I love it," I said. I could feel his breath on my skin, next to my left ear. "I'm glad,"he said quietly, and the scarf fell from my hands on to the floor, as his gaze weakened my grip on it. I took a step back and went to the bathroom again, sitting on the toilet, with my face in my hands, and I tried to catch my breath and compose myself. As I found my way back to Guinness, he smiled when he saw me. "Hey you," he said. "It still trips me out that you're here. It seems so unreal...just a bit." I smiled and he kissed me on my cheek. My body sort of fell into his, and my arms went around his waist, and my mouth found his neck as I blew hot air on his skin in an exhale. I heard him gasp. He looked at me and smiled with a smile that told me I could do no wrong. He was absorbing me with his eyes. Taking in ll of me. I think I felt more beautiful than I've felt in a very long time. I felt captivating. Important. We kissed. "You're a good kisser," I giggled. "So are you," he exhaled and leaned in to kiss me again.

The next time we came up for air, he asked, "Are you okay? Is this all okay?" I just nodded, unable to talk. I was panting. "You make me weak," he said, and we both smiled and started kissing again. We kissed and kissed. We kissed against the front door. We kissed in the hallway. We kissed with me pinned against the wall. We kissed with him pinned against the wall. I was ready for anything, wanted him to do everything. I wanted him to steal me and keep me in this room forever. I just wanted to let him have me.

He pulled me toward him again and moved his hand to my breast. He kissed my collarbone as he whispered words I couldn't make out into the skin of my neck. W climbed into bed. He was on top of me. Our bodies weren't used to each other.
"Ouch. You're on my hair, I said. "Sorry, he panted. He moved a little to the right. "Ow!" he yelped. "That's my arm." It continued like this for awhile. A little bit of tossing and turning, trying to make it work. We started out slower and got better at it. By the time the night rolled around, we were very, very good at it. We screamed over the sirens as the ambulances passed. We talked and kissed and had sex over and over. I had orgasms that made me blind. The arches of my feet were aching from being clenched for so long. I kept craving for more and more. All of those quick fantasies I'd been having over strangers were surfacing and he'd answer my cravings instantly with completely with complete satisfaction. He hit all of those aching spots inside of me. I just couldn't get enough.

Eventually he got enough, because he's lying here next to me, sound asleep with a slight smirk on his lips. The little tip tap of my fingers on the keyboard aren't disturbing him. I imagine tomorrow morning we'll wake up and without saying a word, we'll begin kissing, and starting the process all over agin as light creeps into the room. Our bodies will be aching from the night before, but we won't care. Morning sex is beautiful. It's quiet and hungry. Hushed and bittersweet. There will be bruises and muscle cramps. My hips will probably groan from the mere wight of him, but I won't care. I'll welcome the dim pain. I wish I could feel him on top of me for weeks.

I'm sure I'll find time t run around and read over all your blogs tomorrow night after I tire him out again. Note to Sara Sue, I asked him about taking a picture and he said he'd think about it. So that sounds promising. I'm trying to think of something creative that I can get involved in, too.

I'll be back, all.

Love and kisses from NYC!

-SCG

Up, up, and Away!

This will be my last post until I get to NY.

I'm off tomorrow, and staying for a week. I'm nervous as hell. Ahhhhhhhhhh.


Anyway...wish me luck, everyone!


-SCG

I'm 13 again. God help me.

I was tagged by Ted (isn't he just the funniest fuckin' guy around?) to do the letter to my 13 year old self, thing. I honestly avoid tags like the plague, but something about this tag just kept calling to me, over and over again. It's a little hard not to sound like others that have done this tag before me, but I'm going to give it a shot, anyway. Over the past few days that I haven't posted and I've lurked on other blogs, I couldn't help but flash over my life just a little and think that it might feel good to jot some of it down.

OK. Rules are, to link back to the person that tagged you, write a letter to your 13 year old self, and then tag 5 people to do the same. (I think)

In turn I tag:

Sara Sue
Ann
Sweet Ass
Dyna Girl
Jen
Winnipeg Princess



Dear S,

This letter is reaching your hands from the distant, or, not-so-distant, future. There are a few things I wanted to tell you, while I have this once in a lifetime opportunity, and I hope you listen to me. Maybe tomorrow I'll wake up a little less fucked up, if you do.

Right now, you're probably late for volleyball practice and wondering if anyone will notice. They won't. So you're better off going home, because you'll spend years of your life trying to impress those little blond bitches just to be spit on, over and over again...

Next year you're going to have one of those huge fights with your Mom, and you'll say "I hate you and I want to go live with my Dad" in her face for the last time. It'll hurt her to the point that she'll walk to your room in tears and start packing your shit. Let me tell you now, that you don't want to go there. All those stories your Mom told you about him are true. He'll drink and verbally abuse you. You'll leave home all the time and stay gone for weeks at a time and he won't even notice. Stop hurting your mother. She's the only one that will always stand by you.

Before your 15th birthday, a boy named Jayme is going to steal your heart. In an attempt to keep him, you're going to lose your virginity to him in his tree house and he's never going to speak to you again. Your dad is going to find out you had sex because he hears you one night giggling on the phone and he drags you to Planned Parenthood where they're going to tell you that you're pregnant. 2 weeks later you'll be drinking with your friend Sandra and have a miscarriage. Jayme's an asshole. Sandra's a bitch. Keep away from them and keep your legs closed. Later you'll find out that he got HIV from a girl named Kia and died before he turned 23. Be glad that wasn't you and thank God.

When you finally come back to your senses, your Dad puts you on a bus and sends you home.

You'll meet a girl named Tia, and she'll convince you to steal a car and drive it to LA. You two will decide to go dine and ditch at Denny's. Since you know you have a good heart, I don't have to tell you that you get caught because you felt so bad that you left the waitress your Mom's phone number so she wouldn't get in trouble with her boss. You'll spend a minute in Juvenile Hall and then your Mom will come and get you. I told you. She's always there for you.

Remember that asshole that touched you when you were little? This year he's going to get into an accident and lose a leg. That's right. It's true. What comes around goes around. You'll see him gain over 200 pounds over the years and become one of those old, fat, limping men, that you secretly hope won't sit next to you when they get on the bus.

After your stupid escapades as a teen, you'll slowly start to grow up. Of course you dabbled in drugs. Drugs were the least of your problems after a point. Never EVER stick your finger down your throat. You're not fat. Don't let anyone tell you that you're anything but beautiful. You only have big calves because you dance, and trust me, being limber will come in handy down the line.

You'll fall in love again. He'll break your heart and open your mind at the same time. I'm not going to tell you to avoid him, because it was a good life experience and makes you a very strong woman.

You'll go to Columbia University and decide it's not for you. You'll blow off a full academic scholarship so you can take pictures. I'm not going to tell you not to do it. Good for you. Do what makes you happy. You never wanted to be a lawyer, anyway.

On that note, I'm going to close this letter, and chin up little girl. It's a long bumpy road, but I promise you, one day you won't be so awkward. One day you'll be completely comfortable in your skin. And one day, you'll see, all those bitches that you thought were so hot in school, and they'll have fat, saggy asses and tits and they'll gnash their teeth when 'they see how amazing you've turned out.

Oh, and stop trying to act stupid to get in the retard class. They'll never let you in.

-SCG

Pre-Flight Jitters~Updated

White and simple panties for a first meeting; or black and racy?

I'm so excited about my trip that my brain has turned to mush. I leave in less than a week for NY and every time I think of it, I get that nervous, mushy feeling in the pit of my stomach. It's like having a crush on a guy for the first time, all over again in middle school. Guinness called me this morning, just to let me know he was as excited as I am, if not more.

This post will be kept short and sweet, because I have so much shit to do before I leave, and I haven't done a fucking thing yet.

First note. If you haven't voted yet in the Bloggers Choice awards, what are you waiting for? The guy that's ahead of me jumps up 5 votes every time I get one. Here are the people that need your votes.

1) Me. Duh. Click here to vote for me for the Best Blog About Stuff.

2) You have Mike, over at Tongue in Check. He was nominated by Sara Sue, one of my favorite bitch, I mean female bloggers, for Best Humor blog, and best blogging Host. Vote here and here. He has an eclectic, funny blog, that grabs you at first glance and will keep you reading.

3) The Joey Polanski Show for Blogitzer. Honestly, I don't know what a Blogitzer is, but if anyone deserves it, he does. Sara said so, so it must be true. Vote here for Joey.

4) Cissy Strutt has been nominated for Best Photography blog. Sissy deserves this award a hell of a lot more than those in the lead, so shoot her a vote people, right here.

5) Angel, one the bloggers from South Africa was nominated for Best Parenting Blog, and Hottest Mommy Blog. Shoot her some votes, too. You can vote here, and here. I'm forgiving Angel for voting for someone else for Best Blog about Stuff. Go vote for her.

So, I know you have to register and shit for the site to vote, but it's a small price to pay for those bloggers that you love and care about, right?

OK. On that note, I'll probably post again in a few days, before I leave for my trip. Can I trust you all to sit and amuse yourselves in the comment section? I'll allow you all to talk quietly amongst yourselves until I return. It will probably be Friday.

Behave. (or don't)

-S


P.S. I want more balloons. I'm putting them on my sidebar. Get creative and send me some fucking balloons. I completely blame Ted for getting me started on this weird fetish.

Now, you have something to look at to vote properly. Fuckin' A, I'm supposed to be cleaning and packing and instead I'm trying to find the cutest pair of panties?!?! Where the fuck are my God damn Balloons? :(

The gun in Sister Rose Marie's Handbag

For those of you that belong to a church or at least pretend to, you know that every Christmas there's some kind of boutique. They sell presents that you wouldn't buy for anyone but your Grandmother or great Aunt Edna. Everything from crocheted crosses, to little handmade aprons for your dish soap. (if you don't know what that is, look below and cringe)

click to enlarge if you dare or care

Today, I went to visit my Grandmother who is all of 82 with all of her wits about her. Don't let this woman fool you. She's a cunning, sneaky woman. I love her to death because she raised me right. Coming in at night with her yardstick making sure we said our Our Fathers and our Hail Marys was always a treat. I go to visit her every single Saturday and she plays all old and innocent and shit. I'm getting distracted, as usual. OK. So, today she calls me on my way there and asks if I'd like to accompany her and go to the Christmas boutique. I absolutely despise these events but I knew that if I didn't go, she wouldn't get there, since she's completely immobile and she really did seem to have her heart set on it.

After practically carrying her up a flight of stairs, we get into the room and I see 75 old withered women look at us coming through the door. A luncheon! She tricked me into taking her to a League of the Sacred Heart, luncheon! She turned to me and swore up and down, I'm sure with her wrinkled little fingers crossed behind her back, that she forgot it was a luncheon. (For someone that forgot it was a luncheon, she was quick to pull that envelope with her dues that was obviously made way ahead of time.) Along with lunch, they were having a little boutique, as I mentioned before, with strange crocheted or knitted, (I really don't know the fucking difference) toilet paper holders and handmade quilts, along with all kinds of other shit you hate getting for Christmas, and will never use. Not once. Not ever. Also included, for the low price of 6 for $5.00, were raffle tickets. On the table of things that were being raffled off were 5 bottles of booze, and some other stuff. After seeing the booze, my vision became tunneled and I bought my raffle tickets.

I didn't win. I never win a thing. With a room full of lucky Irish people, some are bound to be less lucky than others. The raffle went something like this...Cue obnoxious swishy music. ~~~~~~~~~

A woman named Rose, screamed out, "Number 2806!!! I SAID, number 2806!!! Does anyone have number 2806?? Last call for number 2806!!!" Last call came at least 4 times. Everyone sat there squinting at their pile of tickets, wondering if it was them, and I hear a deep, raspy voice scream, "Beengo!" I turned around to see a man! *GASP A MAN* An elderly man, named Patrick had slipped in. I suppose he was married to one of the women. He was waving his raffle ticket in the air, calling out,"Beengo! Beengo!" Women looked appalled and whispered, while another woman walked over to him and told him gently that it wasn't bingo, but it was, in fact, a raffle. In any case, he traded the winning ticket for the Vodka. (I don't know how these old people can in good faith, take these bottles of alcohol when they know damn well they can't drink with all those fucking medications they're on. My Grandparents have whole tables full of pills) Or maybe they can. My grandmother was a little loopy this afternoon. Maybe she's been nipping at the cooking sherry with her Codeine. I wonder if Patrick thought he had died for the sake of Jihad and realized the Quran had a typo. It wasn't 72 virgins after all. It was one 72 year old virgin and her name was Sister Rose.

The day was pretty uneventful other than my Grandmother tricking me into an old lady fest... I bought a few handmade cross magnets for the fridge that already has too many magnets from my many travels and escapades. Does anyone know why 7 out of 10 women over the age of 70 are named Rosalie? Whenever someone screamed the name Rose, 10 people turned around. I'm glad I have a name that isn't common.

Until we meet again,

S