Hammered Home

We had a five-hour carpentry date the other day.

(I know, you're all madly jealous, aren't you?)

I was pretty psyched about it, however.

In large part because it puts me within a hair's breadth of packing the hammer and paintbrush away for the season ... but even more because it was vanilla time spent together -- at his offer, his suggestion.

Protocol, low tho' ours is, was set aside. This was getting to know each other better, learning that we work really well together, and an ideal opportunity for me to show off my assortment of tools. ("Hey! This is almost identical to mine!" "Perfect. I have that exact one.")

Handymanitude is not everyone's cup of tea, I realize this -- and that's OK. But it is part of mine. It's the culture I grew up in, the default setting for most of my circle. It's not poverty-based, it's practicality, sensibility, and capability.

And I absolutely loved realizing it's one more area where BG and I see eye to eye.

Today's Disappointing Realization

My bandsaw skills have not improved with time.
*sigh*
I'd love to blame the fact that it's a 60-year old machine that hasn't been run in 10 years.
But a good mechanic never blames his tools.

The plain truth is, I just can't follow a straight line.
(Which does not bode well for this winter's planned upholstery project but I'll cross that bridge when I come to it...)

The good news, however, is that I still have all of my fingers.
The God of The Ladder has already been propitiated by the blood drawn when I sliced my hand open with the paint scraper and no further injuries were called for, apparently. Which is okey-doke by me.

But there was a lot more sanding and hand planing and running up the ladder to check the fit and back down the ladder to sand and plane a little more than should have been absolutely necessary.

On the bright side, I'm almost done!!!

I Laughed Until I Cried

In a most timely stroke of serendipity (I have no time to compose anything at the moment -- VERY busy weekend here,) I just received permission to publish this.

So once again, A Post Cribbed From SP.  :-)

"The Statement" was nothing but a little email joke that I forwarded along to him.

I'd expected that he would just laugh and agree. 

(Silly, silly Jz...)

It was hours before I was done wiping tears of laughter from my eyes.

Hope you guys like it even half as much...

The Statement:

SP's Rebuttal: 

“Nice, but I don't know if I can accept the first statement as axioma.  If we go with axiomatic statements I could just as easily say that: girls=time+money

Now, if BOTH statements are correct, it would mean that time and money both are two which would makes girls and "all evil" four  --  assuming that the saying "money is the root of all evil", refers to a square root.  (Does this mean that "girls" need to be in groups of exactly or at least four to reach the level of "all evil"?)

However if the only true statement is:

     girls = money + time

we get:

     girls - sqrt(all evil) =time

or, of course:

     girls - time= sqrt(all evil)

The first conclusion seeming to indicate that life is bloody boring without girls who aren't at least a little naughty.

The second one seeming to indicate that not spending time with girls leads to discontented misbehavior, possibly even petty crime.

In this formulation it actually doesn't matter if it is a square or cubic or whatever root.

So, the "+" statement is preferable because it is more in sync with reality as can be observed and the issue of the root has been rendered unimportant. 

We learn from this, at least from my perspective: 

1) girls should be taught from early on that some evil is very good (if not even yummy)

2) guys need to spend time with girls

3) then there will be happiness and peace all over this world

There, once again I have resolved all problems and have created a simple and attractive path to world peace.

All I charge for this tremendous service is: one (1) eurocent per person presently living, and one (1) eurocent from every new-born until my death. I am not a greedy person."

*****************************

(I wanted to exercise my editorial prerogative and add in "And a Nobel Prize" between the last two sentences, to keep a certain continuity of theme going, but I was asked not to. He wasn't at all sure, "that such a simple equation is really Nobel worthy ... plus, [he'd] rather have the money.")

SP Responds

"You certainly know to pick the silly stuff that will get fun responses!

After reading the comments, I started to mull over the development of a small computer/projector with voice-to-script capacity that women can wear as a pretty necklace but that, when turned on, projects what they are saying on their boobs.  If I can come up with a successful design it will probably win me the Nobel peace price for improvement in human communication..."

(Have I mentioned his humility?)

Isn't It Ironic?

The other night, I was ravished with kisses.

*bliss*

Kissing is one of those things that I adore, when well done. 

A good kisser can melt my knees and make me not care if we ever do anything else, because the lip sex is so glorious in and of itself.

The sheer sensuality, the unhurried exploration, 

    the want, the demand, the cherishing, the … 

     mmmmm, yeah …. 

(oh, sorry! where was I?)

Yes, I love a good kiss. 

But my dream kiss?

My dream kiss comes complete with a slow, deliberate cupping of my face. 

You know, like in the movies -- where every guy in the world seems to do it, as opposed to my reality, where almost nobody does… 

(Which, I have to tell you, really used to bug me. I could never quite figure out if the dichotomy was a result of Hollywood fantasy or poor selection criteria on my part. But whatever the reason, I felt the lack… In my world, good kissers were pretty thin on the ground.)

Fortunately, these days I have BG -- who both kisses like a fiend and face cups like a dream.

Call me Happy Girl.

There is a certain paradox here, however. When he and I first met, my focus centered around the joy of breaking a long dry spell of uninspiring sex. Finally, there was someone who could curl my toes with the heat of our physical connection. 

Let the mad fucking begin!

I never expected to end up whimpering in disappointment at being required to stop kissing and move on to that other stuff…  ;-)

More Missed Dinners

He has a knack for contacting me just as I'm about to fix my evening meal.

"Whatcha doin' in about an hour?"

"Nothing much. Wanna have dinner?"

"No, just a blow job…"

Now, this is all very well and good.

Except at this point, I'm hungry, dammit.

"So? You've got an hour…eat!" you say.

But it's not that simple.

Because it has recently been revealed that, contrary to my original understanding of the art of the blow job, the goal is not to stop gagging. Rather, gagging is actually a reflex greatly to be desired, because he loooooves the way it feels around his cock. 

So lately, he's been focused on ways to trigger more of that very reflex.

Angles, depth, speed, force, duration … 

All parameters are calculatedly manipulated and pushed.

And much gagging ensues.

(Not to mention gasping, retching, heaving, and streaming of the eyes.)

Which may please him but none of these reactions bode well for someone foolish enough to have just bolted down some dinner. (Trust me on this.) At least with an empty stomach, there's a faint hope that I will not disgrace myself completely. 

Kinda gives new meaning to the expression, "hungry for your cock"…

Further Brushes With Somatoparaphrenia

A while back, I made a mistake. 

I ordered a "T-shirt" bra without really paying attention to the description.
Turns out, this bra has "lightly molded cups"…

Now, it is a very pretty bra… but women of my size generally don't need or want "lightly molded cups." I myself had always avoided them on general principles because, "who needs more padding?" (Not to mention not having nearly enough room in my undies drawer for freestanding lingerie…)

But it had been on deep discount and it wasn't worth spending money on the return shipping… so I kept the bra 'for emergencies."

This week, the emergency occurred. 

A disruption in laundry scheduling left me without a light-colored bra to wear beneath the snug white T-shirt of that day's outfit. There was momentary panic until my brain kicked in… "oh, wait!"

T-shirt bra to the rescue!  Ta-Da!!!!

It wasn't long before my relief was being overshadowed by a different emotion, however. Because that day, I realized another drawback to this style of brassiere… "lightly molded cups" is actually code for "completely obfuscates the natural contours of your bosom."

My boobs are round.

I'm used to my boobs being round.

I LIKE my boobs being round.

This bra? Prefers a soft point.

And implies a nipple direction that is approximately 10º off of true.

Not a huge difference, to be sure, but enough to be thoroughly off-putting when seen peripherally. I kept catching glimpses and thinking, "wha'…?"

Which means I spent the day alternating between being disoriented and suppressing urges to rush to the ladies room to "adjust"…

Not a distraction I needed this week.

On the other hand, I have to admit that there are some advantages to the design.

One certainly need not fear getting caught in the rain -- because nothing untoward will ever show through this puppy. (This could be important some day, if he ever does convince me to pierce…)

Bounce and jiggle are also completely contained -- this bra forces you to present a united front.

In fact, the girls could practically watusi inside this thing and the world would never know...

Unfortunately, however, I just don't feel like ME in it.

It's going stay "emergencies only", I'm afraid.

What's that saying about "round pegs"…?