But…I would never use that info to blackmail someone.   That’s why the guys are ok with bringing me (the chick) along.  I don’t get jealous (although I did lose some of the attention when we hopped to another bar and that pissed me off, cock-blocked without even wanting the cock!!) and I won’t tell their wives they ogled every waitress and I couldn’t care less if someone has a little too much to drink and whoops!, accidentally on purpose touches my boob. 

They know that when I say “Come here and show my kitty some love!”, I just mean come here and pretend like you’re going down on me and everyone will have a good laugh.  When I flip one of the guys off, he mimics jacking off and shooting cum all over table and we all move our drinks out of the way.

I did a bump and grind with a guy and a lesbian, 2 guys, then put on a little show all by my lonesome.   We sang till we were hoarse, laughed till we cried, I threw up because I drank Dragonberry rum and Diet Coke with no dinner, and I think I might have peed my pants but I’m not completely sure about that one.

It was all completely innocent and there were no regrets.  We all laughed and reminisced when we got in Monday morning, compared notes and asked questions because somebody invariably missed something.   I hear there were some pissed off wives which is just stupid but expected I guess.  They should be happy their hubbys had fun and let them do it once in a while without fear of “getting in trouble”, but I know that this is just not how it works.   Wives should get the same privilege (as I do).

The only thing hubby asked me was where we went and did I have fun.  He totally rocks the casbah.

 What-the-fuck-ever.  *condescending eye roll

I’m not one of those people.  Not because I want a lot of stuff, I actually hate having lots of stuff*.    I just want GOOD stuff.

*That means I have to dust it (correction, I should dust it…wait, that’s the maid’s job!!).

I buy my shoes from Payless but I want Jimmy Choos.  I buy my purses from Kohl’s but I really want a purple leather Michael Kors  handbag (rich people call purses “handbags” which I discovered when I tried to Google “purse”)  I shop at Wal-Mart and Target (tarjay is fun though) but I really want to shop at Nordstroms and Saks.  I want some of that “If you have to ask, you can’t afford it.” lingerie.  I want to eat brunch at the Ritz Carlton and dinner at Morton’s and winter on the islands with my entourage.  

I want a housekeeper, an assistant (ya know, to do all that crap stuff like renew licenses and pick up prescriptions), a manicurist and pedicurist.  I want a dude that details my car (my 2009 Corvette Stingray) and a gardener that can cut straight lines in the grass and actually NOT run over the flowering shrubbery.   I must have a pool boy for the in ground pool* I would have in my modest 4000 square foot home overlooking the city skyline

*if you let me have one, I promise to exercise, REALLY, I promise!

And I don’t like nice things because of the ”designer” labels (I lie, I do just a little), or the expensiveness.  I love the quality, the feel of rare materials, the delicious smells of natural fabrics and properly prepared foods.  I like it when someone says “Cute shoes!” or “I’ve never seen a purse like that before.” 

But I’m a bumpkin.  I wouldn’t know a Gucci from a Chanel except that I do know G from C.  I also wouldn’t know fake from real.  I’ve nearly exhausted my vocabulary of designer names above.    Most of them I learned on ”Sex in the City” like Blahniks and Hermes.

 I did get a Coach bag once from my husband when he got a promotion.  He surprised me with it, it was fucking awesome.  I had seen it through the glass case at Macy’s but never imagined I would own one.   It was $258.00!!!  I treasured it, till I was at a fall festival and the acne infused angst filled teenage boy forced to be a funnel cake dipper sprayed grease on it.  They bought me a new one but it just wasn’t the same.

I’ve never spent more than $50.0 on a pair of tennis shoes or more than $30 on a pair of jeans.  I can’t recall the last time I paid full price for any piece of clothing (except my 6 pack of underwear and if all your underwear are dirty…well then you just have to pay full price).  My own daughter bought herself a pair of Miss Me’s  and I cringe when I see them.  $100.00 on a pair of jeans?!  My last pair of sunglasses were $9.00 and I think I paid $19.99 for my last watch.    It killed me to pay $6.00 on some eyeliner Saturday and I eat off the dollar menu at Micky D’s.  I dye my own hair and pluck my own eyebrows.  I even have a fake wedding ring because our original set was very very…young and I wanted something more mature but we couldn’t afford it.

Just once, I would like to go to Stein Mart and not have to think about having to transfer money out of my bill account to the spending account so I don’t go in the hole if  buy these 2 tops off the clearance rack.   I would like to buy the ultra toilet paper instead of the store brand, Lancome instead of Mabelline and Crown Royal instead of Southern Comfort.  (So-Co and diet coke please…)

Now, I’m going to go ignore the story floating around FB about the dude with no arms and legs.

Sunny

1) shrinking like Santa Claus (impossible)

2) employing Harry Potter and have him turn me into smoke..or a mouse,* 

*sorry but if I get one chance with Harry Potter, it ain’t gonna be this stupid ass stunt.  I would have him give me [get your mind out of the gutter..just for a sec babe] my idea of the perfect body.

2) denting your car (not a horrible option but would involve denting my door as well so..no)

3) crawling inside the passenger side, hiking my fat ass over the center console/arm rest and shimmying under the steering wheel (winner winner chicken dinner).

This infuriates me so bad, I get an anxiety attack and I actually have to talk myself down from keying the side of their car, kicking in the quarter panels or hiding somewhere close till they show back up, then jumping out and going witchshit crazy on their ass.  Just get over it Sunny, no big woop, think happy thoughts…like them getting rabies or a pilonidal cyst or…or a squirrel crawling into their vent system only to be discovered 5 days later.

And yes, my rage continues onto the road but I’m much better than I used to be.

My dad used to say, when indicating a very small amount of length, “Move that to the left just an RCH.”  Through context, I learned an RCH meant oh…about 2 mm, give or take a mm.  For an embarrassingly long amount of time, I never bothered to ask what RCH stood for.  It meant the TV was too far to the right, the picture needed to come down a skosh or move over in the car so he could slide in.

Then, I asked.  Oh.  Really?  Gross.

RCH  ← click here.   Scroll down to the 2nd section and prepare to be shocked.

A couple of weeks ago, my hubby used the term.  And I asked, why Red?  I mean, what’s the significance of Red vs. say Blonde?  He said “Because red hair is thicker.”  HA, HE WAS WRONG!  (I will have to point that out to him at a convenient time.)  It’s SMALLER than a regular hair. (see link above)  Hair=small, cunt hair=smaller, red cunt hair=smallest.  hahahahahahahahahahaha.  Real fucking funny.

Several months ago, after relieving myself in the bathroom at work, I turned around and noticed I had left an RCH on the seat.  Gross.  I grabbed some TP and got rid of it.  A few weeks later, the same thing happened.  It kind of freaked me out.  Now, I know that I don’t have mange or crotch rot, and maybe it has to do with age (every fucking thing else does), but I realized I have probably been doing this SINCE I’VE HAD PUBES!   I’ve just never thought to check the seat to see if I left any evidence behind! 

 Holy shit, everyone knows it was me for gawdsake!  It’s RED!  I’m mortified.  I apologize to anyone who has used the bathroom after me and I accidentally left you a souvenir.

I now thoroughly inspect the toilet before AND after. 

Now go scroll down just a BCH and read my previous posts.

Sunny

I was taking some pics of myself the other day, head shots really, so I could post one on here.  I had to alter it of course to save my anonymity but wow.  I’m really sad to discover that I’m even uglier than I thought I was.  I’m 46 (47 in August so might as well call it 47) and I expected the wrinkles but not the hideous deformation that is my face. (ok, I’m not that ugly but I ain’t happy with what I saw)

My eyes are big and a very pale blue-green, so pale that they show up as light gray in photos.  It’s slightly spooky.  They also turn down drastically at the outer corners so I always look sad like Droopy.  My nose is slightly crooked and smashed down a little in the middle.  It looks like I use to be a boxer (holy shit, this is an actual malady and it’s fucking called BOXER’S NOSE, I should never have Googled that).  I’m overweight and my face really shows it.  My cheeks are sagging down with the weight of the fat on each side so it looks as if my face is melting.

My chin extends down too far as if I’ve had an incorrectly proportioned implant stuck in there.  (so add the droopy cheeks and the big chin, the bottom of my face is…scalloped.  And no, there isn’t such a thing as scallop face, I looked it up)  At the time I’m writing this, I have around 12 zits.  I’ve been using a lot of wrinkle cream and zits seem to be the effect.  (is the wrinkle cream working?  Uh…no)  You don’t get to have no wrinkles and no zits at the same time apparently.

I have a gigantic deep crevice known as a “frown line” between my eyes.  That’s not exactly accurate in my case.  It’s more of a “what the fuck are you doing now?” scowl line.  It seriously needs Botox but who can afford that on a regular basis besides rich people?  (I ain’t rich, who would have guessed?)  I have freckles, and some of those freckles are looking suspiciously like age spots. (shut up, they’re freckles) My mouth is slightly crooked, it turns down on both ends so it looks like I’m always frowning (again with the frowning!)  I actually have a great lower lip…but I have only a couple of bumps for an upper lip.  Even if I had collagen implants, it would just look like I had 2 strategically placed mosquito bites above my bottom lip. I thought my pores weren’t so bad, till I examined the photo and holy fuck, it’s like the surface of the moon.

I have blond eyelashes and blond eyebrows (I’m redheaded for those of you who didn’t know) so they are invisible.  Luckily, these items are easily fixed with products  found at Target.  The other items, unfortunately, are not.

I know what you’re thinking, you think I’m sexy, you want to kiss me, you want to love me, you want to date me.

Well, I’m not as hideous as that sounds but this is exactly what when through my mind as I was altering the pic.  And it really really upset me.  I’m now so self-conscious, I can’t think of anything else when I’m out in public.   And I know, I know, there are people out there that don’t even HAVE a face and I should feel lucky but I don’t

Hubby says the right thing every hundred years or so.  “I love your crooked smile.”  But it’s so rare that I forget.  Since guys conveniently never remember the time they do anything  monumentally stupid, he doesn’t remember when he nearly broke my heart with a comment about my looks.

We had been dating about 3 weeks and we were full on in love.  Hubby is very good-looking so he honestly could have had anyone he wanted.  He was dating a model before he started dating me.  I visited him at the restaurant where he worked and I met a couple of his co-workers.  A few days later, we were talking and I can’t remember how the subject came up but he said (and I fucking seriously quote) “John says you aren’t like the other girls I’ve dated.  I told him that you made up for it in other ways.”

*blink

He totally meant it as a compliment.  I think I threw up in my mouth.  And yes, after 20 years it still bothers me.  Yeah, yeah, he picked me, he married me…what the fuck ever, it still hurts.  I used to bring it up every once in a while but realized that was just mean.  He didn’t mean to hurt me.  And I DO make up for it in other ways…

Sunny

I drew a picture of how I now see myself

um...yeah, I know right?

Here is an actual picture of me smudged, blurred, color corrected, darkened and impressionist-ed.

Yes, this is really me...sort of.

My drawing in amazingly close, huh?

Sunny

We exchanged e-mail address and started writing to each other.  Him-innocently, me-describing in full detail of the bj’s I would give him and the wild sex we would have behind the next bar he played at.  Yeah, I’m not normal.  Just exactly what was I trying to do?  I told him how much I admired him for being faithful, and I completely understood his situation and would never expect anything to happen between us physically.  Even though I wanted it to happen really really bad.  People who purposely try to break up marriages are cuntslop.  And even accidentally (is that like ooops, my dick fell in her vagina?) putting someone through that much pain and guilt is too much for this heart to bear.

I’m sure I scared the shit out of him.  I wasn’t playing by the rules exactly.  I wrote long elaborate erotic fantasies and he would reply in as little words as possible.  “Wow, that was awesome.  How was work today?”  or “I had to sit at my desk for a while after that one, I couldn’t let anyone see my, you know.  Have you heard the new Buck Cherry?”  I felt like I was writing to Ward Cleaver.  I burned tons of CDs for him (damn right I went there, who doesn’t fall for a mixed tape!), hugged a little longer after gigs, made my leg nonchalantly touch his leg when he sat by me between sets, and I would get tipsy and got too close when we spoke, blaming it on the alcohol.

I finally got the hint after a while, he just wasn’t into this like me.   I cooled my jets and tried to just write about music or work or family.  I pretended that I wanted the same relationship he did and I became sadder and sadder.  I was in love, and he was in like.  I finally told him how I felt and I pretty much got the same reaction as before.  “You’re awesome, sorry I don’t write more, boy work is kicking my ass, ttyl.”  Eventually, I would write and his responses became farther and farther apart.  I stopped writing.  I finally wised up and got out of my fantasy world and moved on.

Then about 3 years ago, I got to thinking about him.  I got his new e-mail from my friend, and I wrote a short and sweet letter, how are you, how are the kids, sure miss seeing the band.  They had quit performing together a few years back and I really did miss the fun I used to have at the gigs.  He wrote back an enthusiastic letter.  Great to hear from me, no he wasn’t playing right now, he would write more when he had more time.  A couple of weeks went by.  1,209,600 seconds give or take but who was counting?  I finally wrote him back, good to hear from you, life sure is busy, isn’t it, works sucks.  He never wrote back.

Fast forward to last Friday.  Since hubby works 5 nights out of 7, I get bored.  I read a lot and watch tv.  I don’t surf the net at night because I do a lot of surfing during the work day, I’m not busy and it makes the day go by a little faster.  But I wanted someone to talk to.  I thought about the guitar player and what he might be doing.  I found my friend’s husband on Facebook, found his friends, and found the guitar player.  He now plays in a band and was playing last Friday night.

So I dolled myself up (but not too much), showed up at the bar and surprised him.  Boy was he surprised but he seemed genuinely glad to see me.  I got lots of hugs, he totally talked to me during each break and I thought he didn’t want to let go during our last hug, and I got two, yes boys and girls TWO kisses on the cheek.  It was way more than I expected, it was fucking awesome.  I gave him my e-mail address and he swore to keep in touch better.  Swore several times in fact, and apologized for not keeping up in the first place.  I drove all the way home that night with a gigantic smile.  He likes me, he really likes me.

Sat:  I didn’t get any response to my Friday night Facebook message.  hmmm, he probably slept most of the day because he was out so late.

Sun:  No message in all three places he could possibly have replied.  Uh, hello?

Mon:  WTF, I see he was online on Sunday, he posted something on Facebook.  Couldn’t he freakin see my message???  I sent him a new message “I hope you break the middle finger of your right hand.”

Tues:  Message from him “Holy smokes.  How are you?  Sorry I haven’t written, I don’t get on Facebook much.  Good seeing you again!  I will do better about keeping in touch, sorry about that too, take care, E.”  WTF?  Take care?  Fucking take care??  Are you shittin me?  You can take that “take care” and shove it up your ass sideways.  That’s what you say to co-workers, not chicks you’ve discussed her creamy white double D’s and your 7.5″ dick with!!!!   *pant pant pant, heavy sigh*

Tues evening:  Message from me “If you wanted to stay in touch, you would figure out a way. (insert diatribe about how I’m lonely, had expectations of him wanting to write as much as I wanted him to write, I would never want to cause him problems, I’m an idiot, I promise not to wish bodily harm again, blah blah, blech, hork) it was great seeing you again, I had a blast on Friday, delete all my messages.”

Wed:  omg…I reread my messages to him.  I’m insane and need to up the milligrams of my meds.  Was that me?  I’m a fucking stalker.  Sorry E.

Wed Evening:  Message to him: “Ok Sunny, stalk much? Sorry. Waiter, can I get a double?”  Do you think he will think that’s funny?  I sure hope so.  Maybe I should message him and ask…or not.

I did turn on the vibrator and FUCKING HELL, it was like one of those mini blender things you use to mix up diet shakes.  That was on high so I will definitely try the low setting right out of the gate.  I have to admit to being a little nervous.  I picture my vajayjay turning into mashed potatoes or breaking a pelvic bone right now but I’m sure I will figure it out.

Update:  Uh…it works?  I’m a little numb and I did have trouble walking out of the bedroom but YEAH BABY!  The numbness is  probably because I used the “wand” more than once.  Ok, 8 times.  But I’m cool like that.  I could go on forever but a girls gotta eat.  And walk.

The point?  I want more cake.  I love my husband with all my heart.  He’s kind, funny, still gorgeous to me after 20 years, intelligent, loves heavy metal music and is truly awesome in bed.  He is devoted, tells me he loves me everyday and kisses me each morning and each night before we go to sleep.  He does most of the cleaning and all of the cooking.  Yes girls, he’s your goddamn wet dream.

Then why do I want more?  He doesn’t talk much.  Yeah, yeah, I know.  Be happy with what you have, be grateful, shut the fuck up and whatever.

Oh, unless it’s about football, music or golf.  I can’t even get him to talk about sex.  What he wants, what he likes, what he doesn’t like, nothing.  I have to prompt him.  “Does that feel good?  Do you want me to do this?”  And all I are get grunts and nods.  Finally, last week I just flat out asked him.  “Do you have trouble talking about sex with me still?”  He answered “Yes.” as he turned back to watch Lebron, or the World Cup, or whatever noise he was watching.

This troubles me because I want to really experiment more.  I want to find my “fetish”.

Do we all have one?  I mean, porn gets me wet but is there something that will put me over the edge?  Like I just look at it or touch it or smell it and I like cum instantaneously (ok, maybe not shoving me off a cliff but maybe like to the “oh gawd, oh gawd, don’t stop, don’t stop” point) I know what I don’t like, but the elusive turn on has not been discovered.  So I would love for hubby to get as excited as I did when I found www.holisticwisdom.com

Me:  “Honey, they have great articles on better sex.”

Him:  *nods

Me:  “Look, with these position pillows, there’s less straining and awkward balancing!!”

Him:  “uh huh”

Me:   “Look at this vibrator, it’s supposed to vibrate me and you as well as make the fit more snug for you!”

Him  “hmm.”

Me:  “They actually have a video that shows how to get the ‘female ejaculation’  *actual hands making quotes in the air*, you know, squirting!”

Him: *blink

Oh for fucks sake.

So of course, in research, the internet is the greatest thing since well…ANYTHING!  I type in “vibrator reviews” and BEHOLD!  Ask and ye shall receive!!  And now I’m even more confused than before.  They just shouldn’t give us that many choices.  Rubber and latex, glass (wtf), hard, soft, bumpy, warm, up and down, back and forth, round and round (eh..I think I just came a little bit) and PEARLS??  And what is with the blinking lights and pretty colors??  I have a nightmare about clown rape and this just perfect filler for that.

After hours of comparison shopping and “real live” testimonials, I’ve decided on the Hitachi Wand.  Gigantic, electric (no fucking batteries to run down, I hate when I have to rob the remote), and guaranteed to “get you off!”  Sounds like a keeper to me!   Pricey for a sex toy (as I have now found out, you can spend thousands on all this awesome, uh… I mean strange and kinky stuff), they say it will “last for years”. 

Oh, and I added the blow up version of the angled sex pillow (as seen in “Burn After Reading”) to my cart cuz that just makes sense.  All these years we’ve been doing things the awkward way, shoving pillows here and there, and I shit you not, I pulled a muscle in my neck from lifting it off the pillow for so long.  Explain that one to the chiro. 

I really really want one of the rabbit pearls.  But that’s going to have to wait until my next paycheck…

She has father issues since her dad left me for my best-friend when she was four.  Yeah, there’s that. (hence the unprofessional psycho analysis that this is why she sleeps around)  He was an absentee dad, unless he wanted to play with her like she was some kind of doll.  He’s broken her heart more times than not because she’s not mentally healthy and he’s a mother fucking prick.  It’s taken a long time just to get to the only crying for a little bit when he disappoints her point.  I’ve had to clean up his messes each and every time.

She’s so beautiful, so loving.  She has a great sense of humor and extremely loyal to her friends.  She’s not Mensa material but has a great talent with hair so she’s going to cosmetology school which is the first decision she’s made that has made any sense.

She’s also whiny, needy, has my temper, could have stared in “He’s Just Not That Into You”, addicted to that goddamned cell phone, always broke, can tolerate no pain so she screams when she gets a splinter and is moving back home again.  Yesterday, she hurt her back.  I can fix her back, if someone loaned me a gun.