she doth protest

huff.

dainty toe tap tap tap.

petulant incline of the head.

furrowed brow.

quick check of her person. lips? check. full, soft, slightly glisteny. tongue? well, duh, i still have one. breathe? nice. like a georgia peach.

so where did it all go astray? my first birthday since i arrived at kissability with no kisses. nothing deep, searching, playful, urgent, soft, warm, wet, bitey, swelling, hungry, tender, no nothing.

i even waited an extra day. just in case. but now, i have no choice but to put my foot down. somebody's either gotta step up to the plate and put a tongue in my mouth or...

i'll be forced to write across the chest of my tight white ribbed tank top with a black sharpie-

"KISS ME, BITCH!"

-and stand on the corner of sunset and vine until it happens.

then, if i end up smooching on a particularly well hung tranny, or decent smelling hobo, so be it.

don't say you weren't warned.

feliz revolucion!

he plunked it down with a wide shit eating grin. must've weight fifty pounds. when people 'talk around the water cooler', they do it around one of these. a big ole sparklets water bottle.

filled to the brim with change, mostly the silver stuff, and some wadded up bills.

"happy birthday, moan. double digits, that's a big fucking deal. that's the big time, kid."

"thanks, dad." truth be told, i wasn't so hot at math and didn't comprehend that there were several hundred dollars contained in that birthday gift. it seemed like a kinda dumb present. it sure as hell wasn't a malibu barbie or combat rock. but oh well. i was an ingrate like that.

so we went lost weekend tripping. me, my dad, my step mom in her impossibly teeny short shorts, and dana, my ten year old step-aunt.

the idea was to have an 'ass kicking road trip. laguna beach, wild animal farm, tijuana, and vegas baby.

a quick highlight reel reveals-

my dad almost drown in laguna beach. he kept pushing himself to go out farther and farther until a wave knocked him under and we didn't find him until he washed ashore 20 minutes later. laughing, coughing up seaweed.

at the wild animal farm, he parked his truck between two angry rhinos and baited them until they charged the car.

in tijunana, my dad and terry left dana and me on the avenue de la revolucion where we were greeted by hungry children, men selling firecrackers, and friendly hookers. they finally came back around midnight with the biggest pair of longhorns you ever saw. stuffed to the rim with high grade pot.

as for vegas? what happens in vegas stays in vegas.

didn't you know that?

happy birthday to yours truely. double digits plus, and counting.

hello solopsism, where you been?

i've heard that the desire to create a weblog is akin to the desire to participate in a reality show, wet tee shirt contest, or other display of wanna be famedom. that the wired world is the perfect place for frustrated fame seekers and exhibitionists. and that's cool, ain't nothing wrong with seeking some sun on your face, a little unconditional love, the chance to be a star in the digital universe.

but i don't think that's anywhere near the whole story. at least not for me. people who know me in the flesh and blood world (methinks) would say that i don't like to share the private stuff, that i hold those cards right up close to the old vest. i've been accused of not letting people in, of helping but not accepting help. of a refusal to be vulnerable.

people who love me have been frustrated that they don't hear about the hard times and heartbreakes until they are long past their ability to sting. until they become fodder for an amusing anecdote. when i'm in it, you don't hear about it.

then i started this site. and the idea was to be vulnerable and put it out there and not fear what others might think or how my words might affect an image people have of me. and it's been beyond the pale wonderful. wonderful and freeing. and the people i've come to know inspire me daily.

here's the rub. how does a private person, who chooses to write in a public arena, share the stuff that's going on-- in real time? hmmm.... i never really learned how. that's why i've been quiet lately. so much swirling. so hard to find the words.

maybe i should invite you all over and we'll drink too much root beer and get silly. lotsa group hugging. then it'll all go south. pudding. ninjas. generalized shenanigans. that's what i'm hoping for.

we all go south.

oh la la....ewwww

i get it. sort of. short black skirt. off the shoulder lace collar. fishnets. feather duster. i get the somewhat vanilla kinky appeal of a girl gussied up like a french maid. i imagine how a boy would enjoy the various and sundry associations of 'banging the help.' she cleans, but she's dirty. she's a hearty sexy gal, a subserviant with a lust for life and (presumably) your cock.

i even get why a woman might enjoy playing french maid dress up. halloween and beyond. not this woman. but A women. some woman. people must be buying these costumes, cause they're still selling them. and cool, if you wanna play it sexy servant style, have at it.

here's where i become bewildered and bothered.

why in the name of all that is holy do they have french maid costumes in young children's sizes?! what brain trust at the costume factory thought that one up?

"let's see. we've got dorothy from the wizard of oz. and a fairy princess. a pink kitty. and, yes, a li'l french maid! i love it! put it in the box right next to 'mama's little hooker', it's precious."

i don't know of any children who actually long to go into house cleaning as a profession. nor has any child i know ever seen a housekeeper dressed in fish nets and spiked heels. in my neck of the woods they're mostly no-nonsense el salvadoran women.

whose choosing this for their little girl? "here honey, never to young to start shakin' what god gave you."

not me. no siree. i'm going with the matching mommy/daughter lady godiva costumes. 'cause i'm all about family values.

i, me

i was never a ballerina and i never loved horses.

i don't own or buy a lot of shoes.

i never found a man in uniform to be particularly sexy.

i am not a shopaholic

i am not a chocaholic

i don't love manicures

wait, i am a chocaholic

i don't cry if my pantyhose run

i don't wear pantyhose

i don't think boys are dumb

except the ones who are

i never say 'you go, girl'

yesterday i tried to steal a dessert tortoise from the natural history museum and make him my partner in crime.

i named him diego.

but the security guard caught me and made me give him back

i never did like a man in uniform