the strangest thing...

I was on my way back from dropping a friend off at the airport (6 in the am...it was earl-eye) when I saw the funniest thing.  There was a cat wandering around in the street, but obviously chasing something.  I thought it was a pinecone.  When I got closer, I saw the silliest, most animated-looking mouse.  No joke.  It looked like a teardrop turned on its side!  And it was moving on what looked like its tiptoes!  The mouse would move, then the cat would move, then the mouse would move again...I don't know what kept that cat from just pouncing!  There are pictures:



Here's the pair of them.


And the cat...


...and creepy mouse.

what you see is what you get

I moved this weekend. ALL weekend. It took for-freakin-ever. My muscles feel as if they've been twisted and rung out like wet washcloths. Muscles I didn't even know I had are crying out with each step I take. I haven't had hardly any sleep...but more on the move later.

My point is, I'm tired. This morning I got up knowing full well I was going to be later for work. I contacted my boss, hit the snooze, and got a little more sleep. When I did finally get up to get ready, I dashed out the door without any makeup on. Before I went in, I put on a few quick swipes of mascara, slicked on some tinted lip gloss, and puffed on some pressed powder. I checked my reelection and felt okay with the way I looked. "I'll just put on some foundation later," I thought.

When I got to my desk, I pulled out my compact. I didn't think I looked too bad for someone with no makeup (really) on. Little did I know.

I went to someone's office to chat for a sec, and she took one look at me and said, "Whoa, you got some sun! Goodness, your face is so red!"

"Um, yeah...that's it," I responded.

I went to the kitchen to snag a cup of coffee. A co-worker doing the same took one look at me and said, "Ooh, long weekend? You look really tired."

A bit perturbed, I said, "Yeah, moving weekend...busy time."

Walking up the stairs, I was met by yet another co-worker, who stopped me by the arm. "Hey! ...oh, you don't feel too good either? Everyone's been sick...you look like you don't feel too well."

Good gravy! I just ignored this last person and dismissed them with a shoulder shrugged as I trudged up the stairs to my office.

I'm looking for my makeup sponge as we speak.



I didn't think I looked that bad...
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

valentine's day...yes, I know it's march.

I didn't get a chance to write about Valentine's Day...so I'm doing it now. And I know it's March, but I don't care. Boo ya.

Ah, Valentine’s Day. Usually a day I like to avoid but never could—I worked in a restaurant for over 5 years. V-Day was more like D-Day in that it was an inescapable evil, perpetuated by insatiable couples pawing at each other while we made sure they had enough cheese biscuits on the table and water in their glasses (as if they needed it; I had a lot of customers who looked like they were going to each other alive as it was). $2 tips from the happy couples only helped to fuel my fire and convince me that February 14 was a day I wanted no part of. Here’s a brief look back at where I was three years ago. EDIT: Ok, the link isn't going where it should, instead it's just linked to this page, so here's the actual link: http://thatswhatsummersaid.blogspot.com/2006/02/happy-tuesday.html

This year was different for me. I've never really had a valentine, never been dating anyone around that time of year. Well, except for that one time. In fourth grade. He turned out to be my very best friend in the whole wide world. (Also, did I mention he’s gay?) But it was a good one. I remember V-Day was on a Wednesday, and he gave me balloons and other presents on that Monday and Tuesday, and then he gave me this adorable stuffed white tiger from Hallmark. I still remember the poem on the card:

I wild about you, and that’s putting it mildly
But then, tigers always do everything wildly!
So love me to pieces, it won’t be atrocious
Because I’ll be loving you something ferocious!

But I digress.

This year is different. J and I have been together (officially) for 10 months, dating almost a year. I didn't really expect anything for V-Day, considering I didn't really have anything to compare it to (save for my white tiger). All I really wanted was to cook dinner and hang out, but I really wanted to recognize the fact that it was Valentine’s Day, for the very reason that it meant something to me. Maybe that’s dumb or whatever, but that’s how I felt.

The week leading up to Valentine’s Day, nothing was really said about the fact that Saturday was February 14. All that had been discussed was that I had an appointment to go check out apartments that day, in the afternoon, and there was a party at my friend’s house the night before. We went to look at places, as was planned, and he helped me by being my voice of reason. Afterward, we decided to walk down to 5 Points for coffee. Once we got there, he gestured over to the 5 Points Grill and asked did I want to just go for lunch, since we were going to need to eat soon anyway. So we did.

We were treated to a sign advertising Valentine’s Day specials, including $2 mimosas and $8 bottles of champagne. Being the lushes that we are, we opted for the latter. Our waiter brought us both the champagne and a carafe of orange juice in a nice little ice bucket, accompanied by champagne flutes. It was all so fancy. And delicious.



We ordered our food, and while we waited, we talked about the day’s events, and then, the day.

“I’m sorry I didn’t really have anything planned,” he told me. Then he said we should cook dinner that night. I told him that’s all I really wanted…that, and to actually make plans. I just wanted to know that it was Valentine’s Day. I told him that.

Then, after talking about it, I realized that I didn’t have to have plans, or hear him say it to know that he loves me and that he was glad to be spending this day with me. He took my hand in his and told me he loved me anyway, and that was really all that mattered.

We finished our yummy lunches and headed back out into the crisp air. Later that night, we headed back to his place to make dinner, where he surprised me with a box of chocolates. It was then that I remembered all the little things he does—playing my favorite music (actually knowing my favorite music!), cooking my favorite foods, watching my favorite TV shows—and all the reasons why I love him. I love the silly things, too—like when we were looking at my new place for the first time, and he spun me into a slow dance, humming one of our favorite songs, then singing along with his own made-up lyrics.

I love him just as much on March 3, or November 8, or July 21 as I do on February 14 and every other day of the year. I already feel special enough; I don’t need a special day. Nonetheless, it was the very best Valentine’s Day ever.

My delicious lunch.
J was equally as excited about his food.

My chocolates!

sober summer, day two

I love to drink. I really do. And it's not a "whoo-hoo, let's all go get drunk!!!" thing, either (not all the time, anyway). I love a good beer, one I can really taste. I also love a good cheap beer, one that makes delicious pizza that much better. Or even crappy pizza that much better. The smell of a dark roasted porter makes my mouth water. And wine...oh, wine. Wine not? That’s what I always say (I also like a little cheese with my wine ;). I love a nice, spicy Shiraz or a warm Cabernet in the wintertime. I love having a glass (or seven) of perfectly chilled Pinot Grigio in the summer, especially on a porch somewhere. My friend Kristin and I co-founded the "one-bottle club" one night when we stayed up, all night, talking and laughing, when we realized we'd gone through an entire bottle—each!

My point is, I love beer. I love wine. I love food and cooking, friends and fellowship, and I feel that all these things are inextricably linked with some occasion-appropriate adult refreshment. These things paint the story of my life: Had a bad day? Head out for a beer. Get a big promotion? Break out the champagne! What's that? It's 530pm on a Tuesday? Wine all around!

That's why it is so hard for me to say this: I've decided to give up alcohol for Lent.

It’s like telling your best friend, “No, thanks, best friend. Can’t go out tonight. I can’t see you for another, oh, six weeks or so.”

Don’t get me wrong; I don’t have to drink to have a good time. I do a pretty damn good job of that on my own. I frequently join my close friends over at the karaoke bar, and I’ve been completely sober doing that before. Of course, it is a little easier to hit the high notes in Electric Light Orchestra’s “Don’t Bring Me Down” when I have an ice-cold Pabst Blue Ribbon clenched in my grateful hand.

What’s even more difficult is not being able to indulge in the sacrament with J. We cook dinner together often, and as I stated before, I love to have a little wine while preparing dinner. I told him he’s free to do what he wants, and just because I’m not drinking, doesn’t mean he has to give up the good stuff. I wish he wouldn’t have agreed so heartily…I think he’s just glad he gets to help himself to my leftovers in the fridge.

So it is with a heavy heart and a wistful sigh that I put my good friend back on the shelf for the next 40 days or so. But it’s not goodbye, but merely so long; until next time.

And next time is April 10***, circled in red on my calendar.

Hmm...going through my pictures...I swear, it's not my fault! It's the beer! It's addicted to me!



***This is the day after Holy Thursday, when Lent supposedly ends, as I’ve read. I’ve also read that Lent ends on Easter Sunday, or rather the day after…anyone care to enlighten me?

Notes to self: on cleaning out the refrigerator

I have a little problem. I keep EVERYTHING. I’m such a packrat. When my sister and I moved out of my parents’ house, we left all our high school memories and mementos behind. One night, my dad said “enough” (actually, I think he said “get your shit out of my house”) and told us to throw it all away. I found notebooks I scribbled on in high school, notes I passed to my friends in junior high, and plays I’d written in elementary school. I found gum wrappers, candy canes, and magazine picture cutouts. As hard as it was, I was finally able to let go of a lot of it.

Anyway, I digress.

What I’m trying to say is, even though I left all those things behind, I still took my bad habits with me. I’ve lived in three houses and four different apartments (counting Saturday’s move), and I’ve accumulated so much crap it’s not even funny. This packrattiness follows me to the bathroom (I’ve got four bottles of half empty shampoo in my shower right now) and the kitchen (which is what brings me to my next point).

The kitchen.

My dad raised me not to waste anything, especially food. At restaurants, leftovers were always boxed up to take home (if there were any—my dad would discourage from ordering huge portions), napkins and such followed us home from fast-food joints (please see blog “reduce, reuse, recycle”), and any food that remained on the table from breakfast, lunch or dinner went directly into the nearest Tupperware (or Cool Whip container) and into the fridge were “someone would surely eat it.”

In a house of four with the occasional dog or cat, this makes sense. If we didn’t heat up leftovers for lunch the next day, my dad would take them in his lunch while working third shift at the steel mill, scraps would go to the dogs, or my mother would “dispose” of them—this consisted of her going out to the back porch and carport area and flinging the leftovers into the woods. After all, woodland creatures like week-old macaroni and cheese, too.

However, when you live by yourself, or even with a roommate, this isn’t always as economical. I mean, sure, you think you’re going to eat the rest of that chicken Rice-a-Roni, but it quickly gets shoved to the back behind old milk and fresh beer.

Which brings me to now. Last night, I was trying to finish packing up the last of my kitchen stuff. I opened up the fridge and realized there was so much stuff crammed in there that the light was growing dim from the items blocking its feeble glow. I tend to put off discarding leftovers until I absolutely know I’m going to take the trash out, so as not to forget I did so and let the food continue to spoil in my garbage can (learned that lesson the hard way). I decided that it was time.

The next time you decide to purge your fridge of forgotten foods, here are some handy guidelines on what to look for:
1. If your food has been in the fridge long enough to knit its own fuzzy sweater in order to protect it from the harsh climate of 35 degrees or so, it’s probably time to let go. I found a container of Uncle Ben’s J and I made a while back that was enrobed in a mass of green fur. It was such a shame…it was really good.
2. When your jarred goods have managed to reseal themselves completely, take it as a sign that you shouldn’t open them again anyway. I lost a jar of salsa and one of roasted red peppers last night. Farewell.
3. The refrigerator has this incredible ability to liquefy solids and congeal liquids like you wouldn’t believe. If you could eat your milk with a fork or cut gravy with a knife, go ahead and chuck them. I did.
4. If you open your crisper drawer and it looks a production of Honey, I Shrunk the Produce, I’d dispose of those. I found a box of blueberries that looked as if they’d been placed inside the RonCo Food Dehydrator.
5. When sandwich meats and yogurts begin producing their own gases and their containers plump out like a blister just begging to be popped, resist the urge and lead them over to the trash. Maybe even put something heavy on them so that they don’t float up, up and away.

I would recommend printing out this helpful guide for future reference. Maybe even stick it to your fridge. If you’re like me, there’s a good chance it’ll never make its way to the trashcan.

No need to thank me. Just consider it a public service.

P.S. Why is it "fridge" but not "refridgerator"?

PSAs from the p-a-s-t

Oh, how I remember all of these...this first one I used to find especially terrifying on Saturday mornings. That was when I used to see a lot of these...



The dad in the next one doesn't look cool enough to smoke weed in front of his kids. At least, enough so that this aspiring drummer would pick up on it. And sheesh, talk about defensive. Easy, junior.


Here's the one that everyone knows—brain on drugs=fried egg. However, it bothers me that he says, "THIS is drugs." It's the whole subject-verb agreement thing, I think. I mean, if the man poured oil into a pan and said "THESE are drugs," I think it'd still sound weird. Maybe if he said "This is an example of an illegal substance."


And hahaha...this next one I SO remember. "I'm not a chicken, you're a turkey!" And I have to agree with one of the commenters on the youtube page: Who would offer pot to a nine year old? Maybe if you smoke weed and then watch TMNT, it'll make more sense. Still, if one of the turtles told ME to stay off the stuff, I know I'd take it seriously.


Re: the below video: Pee Wee Herman is a GREAT role model. I think they use the same "serious" music noise on this one as the swimming pool one. It reminds me of the opening for A Current Affair which can hear here.


This next ad I don't remember personally, but I've seen it before on something else, I believe. I love how the singing pills rhyme "serious," "delirious," "fear of us," and "dangerous." Once the pills start talking to you, it's probably time to lay off the hard candy.


This is just...awful. These people have no rhythm. At all. God, this sucks.


And here...the REAL kids on the block..."walter dos drugs."




But she DID party all night! Who lied?

And now, with all of those, I leave you this, one of my favorite childhood memories regarding anti-drug PSAs. I remember watching this cartoon feature in school every year. Where else can you get Winnie the Pooh talking about smack and crank? Awesome.

Nancy Drew and the Case of the Missing Peanut Butter

I love peanut butter. I do. I like it on sandwiches, on toast, on crackers, with pretzels...it's so good. About a month ago, my dad came to visit me here in Bham. After we had dinner, he took me to buy some groceries. When we passed the pb aisle, I decided to go ahead and pick up a jar since I was about 1/4 of the way from being done with my current canister of deliciousness.

The next day, I decided I want a pb half sandwich, or a "bend it back," as an old roommate and dear friend of mine refers to them. I went for the peanut butter, and I just couldn't resist opening that brand-new jar. For the next few days, I continued to dip from both jars, even though I knew I should just use the old one until it was gone.

One day, I went to get the newest peanut butter, only to realize that it was nowhere to be found. I looked everywhere. All over the cabinets, the kitchen, even the den and living room. I questioned Dave underneath a hot lamp, but he gave me no useful information. Where was the peanut butter? I demanded to know.

I begrudgingly used the rest of my other peanut butter until it was gone. Then I had none. I wanted a pb sammie sooooo bad, but I had none. And I couldn't justify buying more when I knew there was an almost full jar...somewhere.

Last night I caved. I had just gotten paid, and I rationalized that if the other one turned up, I wouldn't have to buy any for a while.

As I was putting up groceries, I went to move the the bread machine that was on my counter, blocking the bottom cabinet. Let me just say that I looked in these cabinets, though I never completely moved the bread machine. As I went to pick it up, I was met with a sight for sore eyes: My peanut butter had fallen, just lying on the counter behind the bread maker, waiting for me to come and rescue it from the dark prison it had been for at least a week.

Why is it that you only find things like that (well, not necessarily food things, but other personal items) until you've given up on them and decided to find a replacement? Now I have two jars of peanut butter again.

Note: I realized throughout the course of this blog I referred to my "jar" of peanut butter, and that's what everyone calls it, unless you use the Southern "a thing of peanut butter;" however, this pb is in a plastic container. What do you call that? I think I said canister earlier, but that doesn't feel right. Plastic jar? Or does jar always denote being made of glass? Hmmm....

Protester Parkway

Right now I’m browsing apartments here in Bham because I’m not terribly satisfied with the place I’m living in now. I mean, I like it, but due to some extenuating circumstances, I’m a little perturbed with my current dwellings.

I started with a simple Internet search in the surrounding area. I’d like something that is close to work, fairly affordable, with washer/dryer connects, preferably a dishwasher, and that accepts pets. The dishwasher, though, is negotiable. I found several that could possibly work, wrote down the address, Googlemapped it up, and then printed the directions out so I could peruse these apartments after work.

I found most of them fairly easily, though there were one or two that gave me a little trouble. Anyway, I finally found the one that had evaded me for the better part of about half an hour. It was in a good spot, affordable (cheaper than I’m paying now), and had a laundry facility on site. Looked okay to me.

However, I started driving down the street and noticed several people dotting the street side all the way back down to the main road. They were holding signs, I noticed. I squinted as I got closer to read what they said:

“Pray to end abortion!” and “Abortion is murder!” and “All babies want to get borned!”

Okay, that last one was made up. But seriously, it was like a scene straight out of Juno. These people stared at me as I cruised by, a confuzzled look on my face. They pointed their signs at me and even moved as I moved. There more signs, but I couldn’t quite read them all. There might’ve even been a McCain/Palin sign or two in there.

My confusion was met with realization as I approached the end of the street. The business on the corner sparked it all—Planned Parenthood of Birmingham.

Excellent. I think I’ve pretty much marked that one off the list. It didn’t even have a dishwasher anyway. They should put that information on the Web site: “Rent, $500. Roadside morality lessons, free!”

Bathroom Brouhaha

So I work in this old historic building. We share it with another company. And while we remain fairly separate, there is one element in which we are all forced together: the bathroom.

While the bathroom has been the source of a few stories for me before, I think this story is on a different plain.

I will preface this story by saying this: When I’m in the bathroom, that is MY time. Time for me. Not only to do what I’ve gotta do, but also to reflect and enjoy one or two precious moments of silence and savor the time that I do not have to talk or interact with anyone else. I’m not ashamed (okay, maybe a little) to admit that I like to wait until everyone else has left the bathroom before I will emerge from my stall. I hope to avoid those awkward conversations at the sink where you feel the need to say things like “Morning” or “Brr! Sure is a cold one today, eh?” These are only slightly worse than those pre-stall meetings where you see someone you DO indeed work with, and they feel the need to talk to you as you conduct business (see stall talkers).

Anyway. The women at the other office here are a little…how can I say this…snooty. There are several attractive younger women and a few older women, and I always feel as if they look at me with such disdain when I’m entering the bathroom. Which is funny, considering I know what everyone goes into said room to do, and no matter how great and wonderful they think they are, they are not above (for lack of a better way to put it) going number two. They have a large set of drawers alongside the wall in the vestibule type area of the bathroom, each of which is labeled with their names (yeah, I looked. Sue me.) in which they can put personal effects. And there is one thing it seems they all have—a toothbrush.

I don’t know this because I looked in every drawer, but instead I know this because they are always. Brushing. Their. Teeth. Always. I ‘m not sure if they all have really bad teeth or if they are all just that concerned with good oral hygiene.

Again, I digress. Excessive brushing is not at the heart of the story, though the bathroom behavior of my neighbors is. Just this morning, I was in the bathroom, minding myself and reveling in the silence that had settled in. I hear someone walk in. However, this person does not go to a stall. I hear her rummaging around in the drawers. Then she goes over to the sink to settle in. I sigh, knowing she won’t be leaving any time soon. Little did I know that this lady in the loo would be taking commandeering the commode (oh, yeah. Check that alliteration.) to a whole new level.

As I exit the roomy handicapped stall that I am so fond of, I see that this woman (yes, woman, older, gray hair, so-so appearance) is not only brushing her teeth, but there is a makeup bag with various products strewn about on the counter and she has plugged up a curling iron. It was 1130! And yes, I said woman. She was older than my mother, but concerned enough that her dark silvery locks didn’t have that voluminous bounce as did the youngsters in her office. So concerned that she felt the need to curl her hair in the community bathroom, even though we were well into our 8-hour workday. I mean really.

Have any of you ever encountered something…strange in the bathroom?

style and glass

Last night I was over at a friend’s house to watch The Office and enjoy some delicious German-inspired cuisine. We had bratwursts, sauerbraten, ginger cookies, and my contribution, soft pretzels.

The soft pretzels were fairly easy to make, but there was just a lot of rising and kneading time. It was about 2 hours later after I started that we were able to enjoy these buttery and delicious treats. They were a little bit of a pain to roll; it was difficult getting them thin enough and long enough to twist into pretzel shapes. But with the aid of Craig’s cutting board and countertop, I made it happen.

Fast-forward a little bit. We’ve all enjoyed our food, and are saying our goodbyes. I had made one last pretzel with the remaining dough and decided to take it home with me. Once I arrived at my apartment, I began putting things away. But there that pretzel was. Taunting me in its little Ziploc bag. I was considering waiting and just taking it to work with me in the morning, but….I couldn’t.

I reached into the bag and tore off a chunk and proceeded to it. Yum! I did a few more things around the apartment, promising myself that I’d just take the rest of my treat to work in the morning.

Easier said than done.

I went back and helped myself to another piece. So, here I am, nomming away at this yummy pretzel, when suddenly…CRUNCH.

Something was not right.

I had bitten down into something…crunchy. Thinking it was just a clump of sugar or something from the dough, I bit down again.

CRUNCH.

Ok, this was weird. I spit out the chewed-up pretzel piece and began to examine it. That’s when I saw what made the CRUNCH:

A piece of glass.

That’s right, glass. I have no clue how it got in there or what it wanted with me, but there was glass in my doughy delight. Needless to say, I did not finish the rest of the pretzel, though I did examine it further for any more intruders. Maybe I should’ve bitten into the glass sooner. Oh, well.

Anyone else have any other weird stories about food surprises?

how nice.

So, my mom asked me about my blog site the other day. Bless her heart, she's adorable. Anyway, I gave it to her, and then later on, I get a text from another family member asking for the address, too. Yay, readers! But it gets better. My mom (who works at a bank) was talking to one of my favorite English teachers from high school, and mother told her what I was doing, and about my "Web site." (She doesn't realize it's just a blog site.) The teacher asked for the address, and my mom gave it to her, but noted that sometimes my language is..."colorful." Meh. Anyway...it's nice to know or at least pretend there are people reading my stuffs ;)

a sexy cosmo-not.

Once again, I have to thank the brilliant writers over at Cosmopolitan magazine for these sexy, sexy tips.

Temperature Tease
Forget about just stroking your man with a simple pair of satin panties! For a real treat, pop those silky numbers in the freezer a day before you're ready for action. Then loosely wrap the icy fabric around his package and gently slide it up and down.

And if you happen to forget the panties in the icebox, voila! Instead ice cube for a sexy cocktail. And I do mean cocktail…but seriously. Panties in the freezer? The only thing more ridiculous than planning this sensual man-member massage ahead of time is the after move listed below…

But act fast — the heat coming off your man's below-the-belt region will melt the chill rapidly. So once the panties hit room temp, go the opposite route and really warm things up. Paget suggests microwaving a damp washcloth for about 15 seconds. Then use it to rub his member in an up-and-down motion, just as you did with the underthings.


“Wait, honey hold on! Hold that thought! I have to run into the kitchen to microwave this damp washrag for 15 seconds! It’s going to be so sexy, I swear!”

Naked Chef
Incorporating food into your passion play is a classic carnal activity. Turning your bodies into a sexy buffet is a fresh, tasty spin. Take a few of your favorite erotically appealing flavor combinations, like peanut butter and honey or whipped cream and chocolate sauce. Put a dollop of, say, peanut butter on an area where you'd like to be licked (avoiding your genitals). Then dot the honey on the same spot on the opposite side of your body. Instruct your man to first lick off one flavor and then make his way over to the other, providing a pleasurable sensation for you and a flavorful sensation for him. Continue mixing up yummy treats in symmetric spots all over your body.

Okay, since when is peanut butter an “erotically appealing” food? I have never (okay, maybe that one time) found myself so completely turned on whilst preparing myself a satisfying PB&J. And I feel like people that take advantage of this tip are just asking for ants. Honey? Cool whip? Chocolate sauce? What is this, your bedroom or the dessert bar at Ryan’s Steakhouse?


Pleasure Map
Okay, now this is going to sound a little out-there, but trust us, guys say it feels un-freakin'-believable. Heat up some massage oil, and put it into a turkey baster. Then use the baster to draw shapes, spell out naughty words, or create trails on his body — from his neck, over his arms, then down his back, butt, and legs. "The hot oil moving in specific lines will excite the skin more than a broad stroke of oil would," explains sex therapist Ian Kerner, Ph.D., author of He Comes Next. Once you've left your hot, slippery mark, knead your designs.

Ooookkkk…..I’m thinking, if I’m a guy, about to get it on with a girl, and she comes at me with a turkey baster, I’m outta there. All I have to say.

Body Paint
For a unique sensation, use a clean artist's paintbrush to tickle each other's skin. "Take turns running it across the inner arms, behind the knees, over the tops of the feet — any area where you're very sensitive," explains Paget. "The bristles arouse the nerve endings, sending a message to the brain that you're yearning for more touch and sensation." For varying effects, test out different brush sizes.

Wow, nothing sexier than a great, big, bristly…paint brush.

Naughty Pearl Necklace
Believe it or not, this country-club accoutrement can be a passion prop. Pick up a 36-inch fake strand (this trick will ruin the real deal) and wear it all day so your body warms up the balls. "When you're ready to romp, take off the pearls and cover them generously with lube," suggests Paget. "Coil the pearls around the shaft of his penis comfortably but snuggly enough that the beads rest against his package."

I have to stop right here and say that the phrase “wear them all day so that your body warms up the balls” has to be the greatest phrase ever printed. Ever.
And I also like the idea that you have to tell someone not not to use their good pearls to douse in oil and wrap around your man’s shaft as an “erotic passion prop.”

Intertwine your fingers and place the palms of your hand on either side of his penis. Next, slide your hands up and down in a wave motion, causing the warm, smooth beads to roll over the length of his shaft.


Has anyone ever worn a pearl necklace? Have you ever had your hair get caught on one? Do I need to say anything more?

Scrunchie Tip 2007
If you've kept up with your Cosmo sex tips, you may remember reading that a scrunchie can be used on a man's member to help him maintain an erection. Now we're upping the ante and taking that technique in a new direction. Start by stacking six scrunchies on top of each other over his package. "Then remove them one by one using your lips and tongue," says St. Claire. "As each piece is removed, it releases a little bit of pressure in his penis, which will make his orgasm more intense when it happens. Plus, the movement of the fabric will feel wild on his skin."


I want to meet the woman still wearing scrunchies in 2007 that is getting laid. And I also want to meet the man who wants to have six scrunchies stacked on his member. Of course, I’m sure there are…height requirements for this raunchy ride as well. Just how big are the scrunchies in question? This just doesn’t sound sexy to me.

Frisky French Kiss
Mix up your usual oral sex routine by having him take his above-the-neck technique below the belt. "Even if his skills are already stellar, it's a fun, unique, and pleasurable experience to have him French kiss your down-there area the way he would your lips," says Jane Bogart, coordinator of health promotion at the University of California at Santa Cruz and author of Sexploration. He can tickle the area with his tongue, wiggle it in a circular motion from top to bottom, and gently suck the skin.

NO comment. (Except this: Did we really read this in ninth grade???)


The W
When moving down south, many women converge on their man's General, inadvertently ignoring the surrounding areas. But his pelvic region has tons of sensitive spots aching for attention of their own.

His…General?

Stuck on You
During intercourse, you're all wrapped up in each other. So extend that carnal concept even further by literally tying yourselves together. Take a really long piece of sturdy plastic wrap (long enough to fit around your body about eight times). Then fold it in half, twist it into a long rope that fits snuggly around both of your bodies twice, and secure it with a knot at your waist so you're locked together. (You can also use a Pilates stretch band or a knitted scarf that has a bit of give.) Whether you then get into girl-on-top, missionary, or straddle him face-to-face, you won't be able to move more than a few inches from each other. "This not only increases the intimacy but also the fun factor, as you find inventive ways to move in sync," says Bogart.

This is absolutely ridiculous. It sounds like too much work.

Passion Prop Play
To put a creative spin on standard missionary, stroke his back with a few sensual, around-the-house items. Keep a paddlebrush, a soft scarf, and a baseball (yes, a baseball) on your bedside table. While he's on top, alternate between scratching his back and butt with the bristles of the brush, stroking him with the scarf, and rolling the baseball over his skin. "The changes in sensation will keep him on his toes during the act and provide him with an extra dose of pleasure," says Kerner.

What? Doesn’t everyone keep a baseball on their nightstand?


Not-So-Hot Moves

These may sound hot, but they're not.

The move: Using food below the belt during oral sex
Reality check: Tasty treats can be erotic, but putting sugary edibles down south can lead to a vaginal infection.

The words "vaginal infection" are sure to stop any ambitious bedroom chefs dead in their tracks.

The move: Dripping warm wax on your erogenous zones
Reality check: If it's too hot, the wax will adhere to your nipples or inner thighs and sear your skin.

Sexy.

The move: Going way too far with the superkinky stuff
Reality check: Light love taps can make the action more playful; tying each other up can feel dangerously lusty. But anything more extreme (wooden paddles, whips, chains) may be too intense for most.

Yeah, screw that. Wrap me up in Saran wrap instead any day.

I wanna run to you

One thing I've noticed about moving to the city of Birmingham and living and working within the confines of the city: There are so many runners. All sort and shapes and sizes. But the ones that seem to catch my eye the most are the old men.

Daaaaaaaang.

There are all these really old, gray, wrinkly men that run constantly on the street I work on and even where I live. Is it wrong that I saw a man the other day that looked like Wilford Brimley from the neck up and delicious from the neck down and wanted to drool? His legs were amazing, all muscly and sinewy and strong. I mean, really. It's a crime to be that old and look that good.

I wish I had a runner's drive and dedication. But I just can't do it. I never could run when I was in school. I hated it. I got all out of breath and itchy and wanted to throw up. Now, I love a good walk, and you get basically the same benefits without all the stress on your joints, but it doesn't sound as cool to say "I'm going out for a walk" as it does when someone says "I'm going for a run." I used to like to draw a line down the middle and say "I'm going for a jog," because now that I can do. I like to blame it on my knee (which does prevent me from doing much more than a swift walk or light jog), but I really know it's because I hate to run.

But God bless the men who don't hate it. And the girls who are always running on my street? I hate them.

I think I'll stick to walking and yoga.

what's in a name?

I love it when people use my name when they are talking to me. I think it shows a certain amount of respect, if you will, to refer to someone directly and not just treat your interaction like a routine chore. I usually try to use someone's name at least once in a conversation. If it's my superior, I usually greet them with their name.

This whole thought came back up this morning when I first arrived at work. I was in the ladies' room, trying to avoid Stall Talkers, and I was on my way out when I heard, "Summer?" I walked back in to see who it was. It was a woman i work with here, with whom I have never really talked. She was just letting me know her response to an email I'd sent out to several employees regarding a project we're working on in Product Development. I thanked her for letting me know (using her name), and went about my way.

This is what struck me: I've never even spoken to her, and I think that e-mail was the first contact we had. However, she knew who I was and cared enough to use my name rather than be like "Hey!" There are some other people here at the company that say "Good morning Summer!" when I see them in the hall, and it usually makes my day.

I will say this, though. I worked in a restaurant for over five years, and I had to wear a nametag. While I always gave my name to customers at my tables (in addition to the tag), and I would so much rather someone call out my name rather than snap at me or say "hey you!" it kinda creeped me out to have people call me by name when I had no clue who they were. Not so much my tables, but just random people in the restaurant. Yeesh.

quit stalling

There is something so sacred about certain places. Churches. Cemeteries. Libraries. Small bookstores.

Bathrooms.

Once I enter that swinging door that separates me from the rest of the world, it is purely me-time. I want my bathroom time to be about one thing, and one thing only. Ok. Sometimes two things. But that's beside the point.

One thing that I absolutely cannot stand is bathroom meetings. They are always so awkward, unless it's your very best friend in the world. I know what we are both about to do or have just done, and I don't really want to talk about it. If I hear the door swing open and I think I won't have enough time to make a hasty getaway, I sit. And I'm not even kidding. I've had battles with people that probably don't even know it, and a few who do know it, because they are on my level.

I've also encountered a new breed now that I've been working in an office for the past several months: The Stall Talker.

I remember one of my first Stall Talkers at The Magazine. It was another intern, and we met at the front bathroom door. She followed me in. I made small talk and then proceeded to enter my stall.

But she wasn't finished.

"So what are you guys doing this weekend?" she asked, as I was in mid-stream.

Honestly? Can't this wait?

"Um, not sure," I replied. You also have to think about the fact that there are other people in there, too. For Pete's sake, there were about 10 stalls total.

"Well, we're having a party if you're interested" —pause, flush— "just give me a call."

I was mortified.

My new company is no different. I was in the stall of the mere three bathroom facility, when the woman next to me began spouting off.

"Oh, great. I hate it when people use the last of the TP. Don't you? I just hate it. Luckily there's an unopened roll. Now I have to replace it. At least I didn't get caught without, you know? Oh, what cute shoes!"

I had no choice but to respond as best I could. Which in this case, was a shaky "Mmm-hmm."

Let's keep the commode conversations to a minimum, people.

seriously, cosmo?

Sometimes I get a little bored, and my mind tends to wander while I'm on the internet. I hardly ever peruse magazine Web sites online, but somehow I came across Cosmo.com. This one article's teaser caught my eye, and I felt so compelled to laugh out loud. I feel as if I must share this with you.

The article was "Sex Tips From Guys," and here are a few of the sparkling gems I chose to disclose to you, my friends. My comments are below:

"The night after I got a big promotion, my girl announced that was going to give me only oral sex—all night." Kenneth, 32
Oh really, Kenneth? My only hope is that you rewarded her with a huge tube of Chap-It and some Ibuprofen.

"My fiance will lean back on the bed and use her fingers to spread herself wide. It's as if she's inviting me to explore her body." Art, 29
Maybe she just had an itch.

"Wet your lips and moan that you can't to taste me." Sam, 22
You have got to be freaking kidding me. Sam,22 has seen way too many porn movies.

"An ex once came to bed in a soaking wet t-shirt. The sight was jaw dropping." Nick, 30
Not too mention unpractical and unhealthy. She could have caught her death of cold.

"News flash: Guys have nipples too." Rory, 21
WTF??? Are you serious? Guys have nipples too?

"Wear silk gloves to bed and rub them against sensitive regions, like my treasure trail." Louis, 24
Oh yes, let me get out one of my many, many pairs of silk gloves. And treasure trail? Really?

"My girlfriend pretend not to want to kiss me. I had to pry her mouth open passionately with my tongue." Ron, 25
Maybe she wasn't pretending, Ron. That's not foreplay; it's date rape.

"Do what my first girl did: Moan my name while I pressure you." Eddie, 28
Must we dwell on the past, Eddie? "Eddie...oh, Eddie...Eddie..." That does sound like mystical music.

"Right before I climax, spread your legs wide. It allows me plunge really deeply as I explode with pleasure." Meyer, 26
'Explode with pleasure'? Really? Who wrote this, Meyer, 26 or Fabio?

"While we were going at it from behind, this woman I was with let out a guttral scream. I'd sure like to hear that again." Nick, 28
Why don't you try punching her in the face?

"Brush your teeth with some minty toothpaste before going down on me. It'll feel extra shivery." Patrick, 24
Doesn't that defeat the purpose of brushing your teeth?

"My old girlfriend would have me pull out so she could rub my shaft against her external wetness." Spence, 22
'External wetness'? That sounds like a phrase you'd use after the one, "i peed my pants."

"One night, my girlfriend stopped the action and pointed to a camera she had set up in the corner." Justin, 21
That sounds like an episode of Law & Order waiting to happen.

water under the bridge...

By now, most everyone has heard about the crazy Vietnamese man Lam Luong who chucked his four children off a bridge in Dauphin Islan.

It's an absolutely terrifying story, and I can't imagine what that woman must be going through. The kids were aged 4 months to 3 years, and I don't even want to know what was going through their minds as someone they trusted picked them up and flung them to their deaths.

However.

That being said, one must try to find some sort of light side in the wake of a tragedy such as this. Though this is a horrifying tale of bad parenting, there is only one thing more horrifying than the deaths of the children.

And that is the woman that CNN chose to speak to and broadcast in a video I found on CNN.com.

Some still photos:


Here this lady is, in all her glory. All the reporters seem to be hanging on to her every word.



Can you blame them? She looks like a pretty credible source.



"Thems was just BABIES! Baybies...them dint deserve that...thems was BAYBIES!!!"



Check out that sweet hairdo. Two scrunchies—that do ain't goin nowhere.



This is the moment where she just got fed up with all the reporters and decided to leave.



Look. At. That. Face.



She's outta here.



The reporters later explained that she felt so moved and compelled to lay flowers at the site.

Silk flowers.

These kids are DEAD lady. You couldn't have sprung for some live ones? Or at least taken the time to rip them out of someone else's yard on your way over?

This is Alabama they way the world sees us, folks.

not-so-cordial cherry

I've written a blog before about the many disgusting flavors of soda there are out there. Pepsi and Coke have each had their own foray into flavored fizzies, but when it all comes down, Dr. Pepper has really taken it to the next level. A level that I, and perhaps some others, was not quite prepared for.

Kaitie and I were in the sketchy Wal-Mart (the one out on Lakeshore - Stephanie, you know what I mean) purchasing some necessary items. We'd been discussing purchasing a soda inside, and soon after we walked in, Kaitie announced that she was really in the mood for Cherry Vanilla Diet Dr. Pepper, but hadn't seen one in a while.

As we walked over the cooler near the front of the store, I gave out a cry - I thought I had actually found a CVDDP.

Alas, I was mistaken. Upon closer scrutiny, I realized that this was not a CVDDP, nor was it Berries 'N Cream, or any of the others. No, no. It was worse.



Yes, folks, it was Cherry Chocolate Diet Dr. Pepper.

On a whim (actually, we debated about whether or not to drink it for a few minutes), we decided to check it out. I took the first swig. When it first hit my tongue, I was thinking, "Okay, not so bad."

Then came the after taste.

It was so nasty. It was just....ugh. I don't even know how to describe it. Weirdly enough, it did taste like chocolate and cherries.

And crap. Don't let those cute little cherries dripping with chocolate fool you. Aesthetics are only half the battle (or the bottle, rather), my friend.

Here is the description you can find on the Dr. Pepper Web site:



I have to say, I wasn't quite 100% satisfied. I wasn't even 50%. I was almost willing to trade in some extra calories for some flavor. Thank GOD it's only for a limited time. I can't imagine many tears will be shed when they take this little jewel off the shelves.

Bottom line: No soda should ever incorporate the flavor of chocolate. Never.

when red-eye goes horribly awry

I was fixing some old pictures to put online from a friend's birthday, and I realized that I had a ridiculous amount of red-eye to correct. In order to make sure my friends didn't look like posessed demons in all the pictures, I sat down to work.

If any of you have ever used the red-eye reduction function, you know that it has a tendency to not work. Or worse, it has a tendency to turn other things blackish-blue. Sadly, while touching up a picture of my friend Kevin, this happened:



It reminds me of the commercial that Joey did on Friend's for Ichiban, Lipstick for Men!



I will never be able to look at/think about this picture (of Kevin) and not laugh.

I'm laughing now.

More on Ichiban:

I don't have a clever title. That's a first...?

I guess it's totally objective as to what clever is.

They say time flies when you're having fun.

I'll second that.

I will also add that time flies when you had no clue what hell you are going to do with the rest of your life.

I'm graduating in less than four weeks. It's hard to believe that I've been in college for almost four and a half years. They have, however, been the best years of my life. I've met some amazing people and had some great times.

I've been finishing up my internship at The Magazine in The Big City, and it's been awesome. I've loved working here and learning about the magazine industry while working for the largest magazine publisher in the United States.

Which is why this next piece of news is so great: Last week, one of my supervisors informed me that they would like for me to stay on here for another six months as a freelance copy editor.

While the pay won't change, I won't be considered an intern and I will have a more regular schedule. Also, I have some security as far as a job for the next several months while I'm applying for more permanent positions and gaining more valuable experience.

In recent news, I just got back from New Orleans. I want to spend some time trying to write a more detailed blog about my experiences there, but for now I'll just tell you that it was life changing. I had a great time meeting some very interesting stories, and more than once I was moved to tears. There is still so much devastation in that area, and it's been over two years. It breaks my heart. Here are just two pictures of the areas we visited:




What else, what else…

This week is Thanksgiving, which means turkey and dressing – delightful. However, it also means spending time with my family.

Not so delightful.

Ah, just kidding. Somewhat. I love my mom and dad and the like, but sometimes I can't wait to get back my current home so I can go back to "missing" them.

Hope everyone is doing well.