Ah… Peace and Quiet

Both of my birdies have flown the coop, and some people have asked me if I am sorry my nest is now empty. I can say with all truthfulness that, no, I rather like being one of two mature adults in a large four-bedroom home. We keep it tidy, and have the bonus of having sex right out in the open whenever we want.

Ah, but that was not to last for long.

Ms. MiniD came home from the Left Coast on Sunday. I don’t know why. She hates it here, and has alienated most of her high school friends with her high jinx regarding her ex-boy du jour. (That’s because her best friend is now with ex-BDJ. It appears the two were commiserating during my daughter’s dumpage of the boyfriend, and ended up together. I say, bully for you! And yes, my daughter is mad at me too, for thinking that.) She has a Left Coast boyfriend, but his mother doesn’t like her. I’m thinking the shelf life on that relationship is coming due soon.

I wanted to make something nice for dinner Sunday, something benign that everyone likes, so I chose a half of pork loin. It’s the new white meat, and I can make gravy, which all Demonics love. (Except for me. That’s because I’m Asian, and they are Bohemian. Bohunks lurve the gravy. They crave it. They bitch when they can’t have any. Me, I can take it or leave it.) I made some of my fresh Brussels sprouts newly picked from the garden and sauteed them with garlic. It was a dish meant for royalty.

Ms. MiniD turned up her nose and said, “I don’t eat pork anymore.” When that happened, I don’t know. She did inform me that she now consumes guacamole. I pointed her to the avocados and told her to have at it. She left with her friend before dinner was ready, and didn’t come back until after I went to sleep.

The next day, Ms. MiniD slept in until noon. She left sometime in the afternoon with her friend, and returned later that night. My husband, the dear Mr. Demonic, could not sleep that night, so he woke up at 2 a.m. to go to the office. (If you saw his office, you would know that he needs many, many 2 a.m. wake up calls to clean up that disaster.) He informed me when he returned at a more decent hour of the morning that Ms. MiniD had male company, and “who was that guy?”

If you know me, you know that I am clueless, particularly when it comes to Ms. MiniD. The other child tells me everything, and this one lies like a rug. Mr. D said the two were awake but under a furry throw, implying that some adolescent hanky was being pankied. I said, “Didn’t you ask her who it was? Didn’t you ask what they were doing?” To which, he replied, “NO!” Mr. D plays the Denial Game to its fullest potential.

Ms. MiniD and her friend have been after my husband to take them snowboarding at the condo. My husband doesn’t snowboard (or ski, or snowmobile) but Ms. MiniD is Daddy’s Little Girl. (Yes, even though she is over 18.) And of course, you know me. I despise our Tundra winter with a passion that could illuminate several Christmas trees, and don’t like to go outside at all until the crocuses pop up.

The upside to all this is that Mr. D, Ms. MiniD, and her friend are now 200 miles away. Last night, I was able to work on my novel for five, uninterrupted, peaceful, gloriously quiet hours. Well, except for Grace the dog snoring at my feet.

The Demonics will be gone until Friday. I’d better take advantage of the peace and quiet and work quickly.

Frank Sex Talk with the Daughter’s Boyfriend

That’s right, you heard me correctly.

I was answering my Facebook mail when I witnessed a rather tense exchange between my daughter, Ms. MiniD and her current boy du jour. BDJ is still in our Midwest Rust Belt declining city, going to community college and working at the local broasted chicken place (18 outlets in the metro area), and pining away for Ms. MiniD, while she has been busy at school, making friends, and going to the beach and Disneyland.

He has a visit to LA planned for a month from now, and their notes to each other started out with “oooh baby, baby, miss you, love you, blah, blah, blah” and have now ended up with tense “get off my dick”s (that’s from Ms. MiniD… yes, colorful language she has, I agree).

So, I wrote an encouraging private email to the lad, advising him to lay low when she gets bitchy. Her level of bitchiness comes and goes, just like the tide. She can be an annoying pain in the arse, but she means well and snaps out of it once the meds take effect. I also stressed to him that she really needs to get straight As or Mr. Demonic is going to have a major fit. He’s already pissed off about the school situation, and none of us wants to see him SUPER pissed.

BDJ wrote back and asked me what I meant about putting the chill on the situation. (You’d think an 18 year old would know what that means, but hey…) So I explained it to him in words that a twelve year old could understand. Then I said, “Oh, by the way, I found some interesting surprises in Ms. MiniD’s room as I was shoveling out the garbage. Care to explain yourself?”

The interesting thing was an empty condom wrapper.

My daughter is 18, which makes her a legal adult in the eyes of the law. Also, in my eyes. It’s her body. I’ve been trying to talk to her about sex since she was 8, but she is loathe to ask my opinion or discuss the topic. I remember the first day of her first period, which also happened to be the first day of middle school. She was aghast, mortified and crying, but still didn’t want to talk to me.

BDJ hurriedly wrote back that the wrapper belonged to the previous BDJ, the dude who up until last week worked in our office. OH, GREAT, is what I thought. I was contemplating if my daughter was indeed a skanky ho, or just a girl with a lot of hormones. But I thought I would use this moment of incredibly uncomfortable candor to slip something else in.

“Do you think you can talk her into getting on BC?” I wrote back. “You know, condoms are NOT 100% effective. I’m too friggin’ young to be a grandma.” Then I said, “Oh, by the way, you’re welcome around the house any time.”

BDJ wrote back that he would certainly work on that for me. Then he told me when he would be online next and that he would talk to me later.

Hmm… That worked fairly well. Now I have to get Mr. Demonic Jr.’s girlfriend to talk him out of taking a year off and into applying for graduate school.

When Office Sex Become “HO-hum”

For the squeamish of heart, I would skip this post entirely.

I never thought I would live to say this, but office sex has become routine. Mundane. Run of the mill.  HO-hum. Bordering (need I say it?) boring.

You’re probably thinking, “Why doesn’t she just do it in her house? Doesn’t she have a bed?”

For the uninitiated, yes, we do have a bed. Several of them, now that many are empty because of nest evacuation by the little birdies. We also have a hide-a-bed in the basement, but there’s a brigade of centipedes down there, and I don’t spend much more time other than running to the laundry room and back.

We also live in a house that is largely windowed with no window treatments. The upside is that the cat doesn’t have to scratch his way up the drapes to get to a window sill. The downside is that everyone, including God, the meter reader and the retired doctor neighbor down the street can see inside straight to the back yard.

Office sex used to be exhilarating. There was a bit of taboo in having sex almost in public, along with incorporating inspiring moves among the furniture usually not conducive to sex. (Ever do it in a standard office chair? That takes some imagination.) We would hurriedly clean up. Sometimes, we would forget the box of Kleenex and have to run willy-nilly (heh, heh… willy?) down the hall to get something to absorb body fluids. (The poor leather couch!) Then there is the fact that we buy Febreze by the case, just to get rid of the lingering odor of sweat and stuff. We own the building, so we can do whatever we want. The business doesn’t officially open until 9, so we would usually make hot nasty love between 8 and 8:30. Our walls are paper thin, but that psychologist who leases the space below my husband’s conference room is never there at that time of day anyway.

Yesterday, while putting my clothes back on, I thought, “Hmm, this doesn’t feel quite as exciting as it used to.” Perhaps it’s because we’ve overused the space. It used to be kind of thrilling in a weird way when the one employee who has been trying to catch us in the act shows up at 8 a.m. to see what we’re doing. It was quite hair raising when the workmen came at 8 to make repairs on the roof and they weren’t scheduled until 9.

I’m thinking a change of venue might be in order. Hmm… I wonder if we can get into a nearby now-closed sports arena?

I’m opening up the floor to suggestions.

Living in a Glass House

I’m usually pretty open about myself. On other online forums, I use my own real name. Now my thought is that eventually I’d like to be considered seriously for my writing, thus the use of my real name. Some people might think that is a pretty foolhardy move. There are some online who are a little off kilter, just plain weird or downright dangerous.

I started using my own real name for a couple of reasons. One, I was naive. I thought everyone did it. Two, I am very bland. You could say really boring and saccharine to the Nth degree. I can’t really think of a cutesy moniker. I even have the same email address for many different service providers, you know, *.msn, *.aol, *.yahoo, *.gmail, *.hotmail, etc. I have certain things go to certain email; for example, I use the MSN address when I buy things online. I shouldn’t say this, but I use the same two or three passwords for all the email. This is because I can’t remember diddley in my old age.

I know of people who don’t do that, for whatever reasons. Mostly, they don’t want to be bothered, and I can appreciate that. Also, if an online persona has young children, I believe that one should be careful about posting their names, ages and photographs. I understand completely that there plenty of whackjobs out there.

On the other hand, I am “out there” as myself. My children are adults (well, one is, and one is almost an adult, in two months and seven days, as she keeps telling me ad nauseaum) and I’m an adult. Last I looked, my husband is an adult. My real name is rather unique. In fact, every person on the planet with my surname has an ancestor that came from the same small village in eastern Europe, so we’re all related by blood or marriage. I figure, might as well be out there and keep my “enemies” where I can see them.

Do I have enemies? Well, I’m not sure, but I’m not naive enough to think that the Internet is one happy bubble of pleasantness and joy. I’m sure there are some who have Googled my name and found a treasure trove of information which could be used to smite me. It happened to my husband. On the other hand, I have had long-lost friends find me online, and that alone has been satisfying to have my information in a public forum where they could contact me.

I’ve been extremely lucky and greatly blessed by the people I’ve met as a result of my online world. I love all of them. As I have told MIB, the Internet is the new neighborhood. This is how we meet people with similar interests and passions. This doesn’t mean that we’re here to hook up or do something weird. This is the Brave New World.

I was just thinking about this because I called an online friend today who is not feeling very well. In our conversation, I asked him if he would be interested in meeting me or the rest of the motley crew that we’ve known in the last year. He said no. I can understand the hesitation.

The other reason I thought of this today is because of my house. My husband, who was feeling a bit randy today, gave me a grope in the kitchen and asked “quickie?” but then remembered he had a guy coming over at 7:30 to give us an estimate on repairing the old rotting wood in our sun room. We don’t have sex in the lower level of our house, because it’s all windows and no window coverings. Talk about a glass house.

That’s why God made offices and office sex.

But I digress… my point is, I’d rather have it all shook out in public online than a quickie in our “glass” house.

All of My People Have Died, or I’ve Become Grossly Uninteresting

True, this week I’ve been beset with a terrible cold. I’ve also been busy with life and have not been able to post as much or as thoughtfully as I have in the past. However, I’ve just checked my WordPress stats (now that I have found them in what is now the “brand new” WordPress) and found that my readership has dropped down to ZERO as of today.

Zero?

Not even a visit from MIB? (Okay, I know where he is. Busy with his own life too. At least he had the decency to email me.)

I also see from the stats that my two biggest article draws ever were on posts about having sex in the office. (Just as an aside, since I’ve been sick, I haven’t felt amorous enough to make whoopee anywhere, much less at the office. Now that my health is taking a turn for the better, I should investigate this and report on it soon. Perhaps I can move from the conference room to another location.)

Our other venture online seems to be suffering as well. I don’t know if it is because everyone has spring fever or if some of my peeps have been kidnapped by aliens. I’ve noticed that the number of other writers’ posts has diminished, too. Perhaps the government should conduct a study. There are studies on other things a whole lot less important.

I think I’ll take advantage of this lull in the action. However, it is raining and will be raining (they say) until Tuesday, so that precludes digging up dirt in the yard or a round of golf. This means I am trapped indoors, where I may have to *gasp* clean the basement, work on my book or my violin playing. (I’m so bad. With all three of those things.)

Anyway, this is a shout out to those who will listen, or those still with a heartbeat.

“Hello?”

Hope you all have a great weekend.

The Tide Must Be Out

I just realized that my husband and I haven’t had any remarkable sexual encounters lately.

Oh, we’ve had plenty of sexual encounters, they’re just not very remarkable. In fact, you could probably say they were bordering on the mundane.

I wish that I could teach my husband how to use a digital camera. Then he could take pictures of my ass like another well-known blogger’s husband takes of her ass. You can check that out HERE. My husband has a camera in his phone, but the only photos on it are those that I or my daughter took. He is using my old cell phone, the one I gave up when I got my BlackBerry. Once I sent him a photo of San Francisco taken from the top of Twin Peaks. This was back in April 2005. He’s never figured out how to open it. I used to text message him, because if he’s teaching a class, he can’t be disturbed by a phone call. Again, he’s never figured out how to read my messages.

Speculation is that office sex must becoming ho-hum. I’m sure I could get into it more if he could take me on his desk. We used to do it there, because we often couldn’t make it across the room to the couch in time. Unfortunately, right now his desk is covered with papers, pens, crap, crap and more crap. If the contents of his desk were in a house, it would be a garbage house, no doubt. I’m not sure what color the desktop is. If I were to sit on it today, I’d likely break something either on me or on the desk.

We could move over to my office, but I don’t have any comfortable furniture in it. Since I do a lot of layout, I mostly have tables. Tables are hard and cold. The floor is an option, but my rug needs cleaning in the worst way. We had our Christmas party in there, and I think someone spilled something made from cranberries. Anyway, I’m too old to be having sex on the floor.

We’ve done it in the car, which is not very comfortable either, especially in the wintertime. Our winters are brutally cold, and you have to be really horny to have sex when it’s any degree below 32. When you get to be my age, comfort is of utmost consideration. After seeing “Titanic” where the two lovers do it in a car (and someone’s hand wipes the steam away from the window), I lost my enthusiasm for in-the-car sex. If my ship were going down, I think I’d be looking for a life jacket and a sturdy boat and not to get my rocks off. We’ve also done it on the car. (Don’t worry, folks. The car was parked in the garage. The garage door was closed.) My personal tip: if you’re going to do it on your car, make sure you’ve taken it to the car wash first.

Perhaps we could move from his office into a classroom. The thought of having sex where teenagers normally congregate is so very wrong. Teenagers equals hormones. It’s so wrong, it just might get the juices flowing again.

The one thing they say about the tide is always true. If the tide is out, it will no doubt come back in again, sometime.

A VERY Quick Quickie

You’d think that because I’m a woman, I’d be all for a lot of foreplay, touching, and general tending when it comes to sex. Granted, there are some times when this frying pan needs a red-hot poker to fire me up, but on the other hand, sometimes all that’s needed is a quickie.

Men are, without a doubt, the Lords and Masters of Fast Sex. Men can get an erection by the mere thought of women. The woman need not be a curvy computer-enhanced photograph from Playboy. Of course, most men can get an erection thinking of just about anything; a Corvette, hairbrushes, ice cream cones, hot dogs, their spouses slaving over a hot sink washing dishes… (That last one belongs to my man. I see nothing erotic with the way I wash dishes, but obviously I’m missing some magic mojo that I don’t even know I possessed.)

My house is currently filled with children and their significant others. This is what happens when the holidays bring them back to the nest like the hungry homing pigeons they are. (An aside, my little birdies are eating us out of  house and home. There will be some measure of relief when we drop the older ones off at the airport on Sunday, as the grocery and water bills will take a nosedive into normalcy.) A houseful of people is not conducive to consummating one’s undying love with one’s spouse. This is dangerous territory; don’t try it at home. Trust me on that one.

Since both children and their significant others are spending their first holidays together, there’s a lot of lovey-dovey-smooching-and-groping going on. This is cute to me, but my husband finds his libido on overdrive. He wants some action. I can’t decide if it is just the mere mention of sex, or if he’s in some kind of perverted competition with my son. (We are trying to ignore the little one. At 17, she doesn’t need any prompting. I maintain that I’m too young to be a grandma. I have noted, however, that her boyfriend has been exceedingly more demonstrative during this time. I have to think his male ego is in competition as well.)

After a week of being perpetually cut off, I decided to take matters into my own hands. For those of you who are unaware, THIS POST explains that my husband and I don’t really have sex in the marital bed. We usually have sex at the office. In case you don’t know me, that is because we own the business as well as the office building. Being the boss does have its perks, which comes in handy, because this woman has needs!

Today, as I was leaving for work, fully intent on bagging my husband upon my arrival, I noticed that my kitten had taken my knitting and wrapped the entire family room in a kitty-spider-web of gigantic proportions. It took me almost a half an hour to extricate my daughter, who was sleeping on the couch beneath the web totally unaware.

By the time I got to the office, I had a whole four and a half minutes to do the deed. “Take your clothes off, NOW!” took on an entirely new meaning, and if Guinness has a speed record for disrobing, we probably are contenders. We were both ice cold from the drive in. (It’s so close to the house that the car never heats up.) It was the first time we’d made love not using our hands and in four minutes flat.

It was a VERY quick quickie, indeed.