Mary Had A Little Lamb (But All I've Got Is Harry)

Harry is a very hinky dog, and he gets "spooked" by a lot of things.

When Harry gets nervous, he wants to clamor on to my lap for shelter. Never mind that he is 90 pounds of shuddering muscle, he wants to be protected.

When I awakened this morning and came downstairs, Harry was waiting for me panting. I walked to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee and Harry climbed under my robe for safety. Harry moved with me almost in unison as I tried to cross the kitchen floor. Unfortunately for me, the "almost" part of this 6-legged walk nearly knocked me off my feet. After one cup of spilled coffee, I tried to make Harry get out from under my robe, but he would not be budged.

After a few minutes, I telephoned Alex to ask him, "What's wrong with your boy?" and he claimed not to have a clue. Harry ate breakfast while I straddled him with my robe covering part of him including his head. It's the only way he would eat.

Trying to get into the rather small pantry with a 90 pound appendage affixed to me was somewhat difficult, as was walking and not falling. I came into the office to check emails and look at the internet but Harry put his front paws on my lap and his head right under my chin as he shivered and panted. Reaching the keyboard was difficult and not worth the effort.

Meanwhile, Honey, my other dog, was giving Harry the "stank eye". She is the alpha, and is extremely jealous of any perceived attention Harry may be receiving. Honey even bared her teeth at Harry which usually is enough to send him into hiding for at least 2 hours. Not this morning.

Finally, Alex called to see if Harry had calmed down. I assured him that he had not. At this point, Alex remembered installing mosquito zapper equipment outside in the yard yesterday. We concluded that the "zap" noise was the culprit causing Harry's dismay.

I went outside, nearly falling down the flight of stairs because Harry was walking between my legs and I got the "zapper" unplugged.

Harry's a very sensitive guy. Since the noise is no longer bothering him, he has returned to being a manly man dog again.

I'm glad of that.

Size Matters

Would you look at the size of my lemons!

Now, don't be jealous. We all can't have huge mutant lemons. Each one of these lemons weights well over a pound. That's a lot of lemonade! I think it's safe to say that I will never have a lemon juice shortage at my house.

I have another photo that shows my hand near the lemons so you can get a better idea of how big they are.

Now you may also notice that I am wearing a good-sized diamond ring on my finger. This is an area where size matters.

There are other areas where size really does not matter. A lot of men claim to be very attracted to women with large breasts, in fact, it's sort of a fixation in America. In actuality, a lot of men prefer smaller breasted women. I saw a fantastically gorgeous woman at the Gay Freedom Parade in San Francisco last year who had one breast. She wore a black leather contraption that exposed her one breast but covered the area of the missing breast.

There was not a straight man in the crowd who didn't look at her with interest. The woman looked like a warrior princess who had perhaps lopped off her own breast to improve her archery skills. She was gorgeous.

Another area that people talk and joke about is penis size. More is considered better, but I really don't think most women actually care one way or the other.

Having a big penis does not make a man good in bed. As long as he has enough to get the job done, it's just fine. In fact, I've turned down a club or two in my life and I have never regretted doing so. There was really no reason to stretch the boundaries.

I do like big lemons and big diamonds though.

Bad Hair Days

I don't know of much that disgusts as much as a bad hair day.

I can put on the cutest clothing in the whole wide world, step into the most fantastic stilettos anyone has ever seen, and spray on the Coco. I'm still going to look like shit.

Now people who see this photo are maybe going to say, "...just comb it and it'll be fine." Uh, no, it won't be fine. I have combed it. I have brushed it. I have put goop on it. I have put a hat over it. There is nothing fine about it.

The hair itself has it's moods and today is surly. It doesn't matter what I do to it, I will not be able to open the front door even to get that check from Publisher's Clearing House. My hair is not too clean or too dirty either. It just woke up this way.

On this day, my husband will come through the door after work and say "Hi Honey! You look pretty!" Is it any wonder that women stab their husbands? Is there any wonder that women sometimes hate their husbands? I think not.

Even my dogs are looking at me with a "What the F is wrong with your hair?" expression. Unconditional love? Not really, the little bastards.

I had every intention of going to the store today. I need a couple of important things and the store is one block away from my house. I took a look in the mirror and decided nothing is important enough to show off this hair to the public at large.

I hope this gets better sometime this week.

Affairs of the Heart

The first time I fell in love, I was 12.

I was at summer camp and we had a counselor named Jan. She was a blond girl about 20 years old. Jan could swim like a fish, use a bow and arrow and hit a target, and had sort of protruding teeth that looked very sexy to me. I loved her and her funny teeth and boy haircut and slim tanned legs.

The second time I fell in love was when I saw my son for the first time. He was funny looking and had a long pointed head. He was pulled out of me with forceps and one had caught his eye and left it swollen shut. I had prayed for a son, and for just a moment I thought this child was god's way of punishing me for screaming in labor "if it's not a boy, you fucking keep the kid" to the nurses. If I had a girl, at least I could use cosmetics to make her look better. Fortunately, by the time we went home, he was pretty close to perfect. Even funny looking, I knew this child had changed me forever because I finally really understood what love was.

The next time I fell in love, it was when I first saw my daughter. She was perfect to begin with, and she's stayed that way.

It was about a year after my daughter's birth that I fell in love for the 4th time. I was in the hospital the day before surgery to remove my thyroid gland. A long-haired hippie doctor walked into the room and introduced himself to me with the most wonderful southern accent I had ever heard. He was 6'6" and the most amazing man I had ever met. He had long golden curls pushed into a pony tail. The good doctor and I became lovers and remained such for several years. He left me for a nurse. C'est la vie!

I loved all of my husbands at least for a time anyway. I still do love my current husband most of the time. (Yes, I hate him on occasion.)

The last time I fell in love was at the Oakland SPCA. I was looking at the dogs and saw a beautiful German Shepard mix named "Fern". She was the calmest dog in the whole place and she smiled at me when I walked up to her cage. I called my husband over and said "This is the one for me." Alex was unconvinced and thought that the dog looked like a pit bull. I was undeterred by his opinion. Whatever she was, she was mine for life.

We brought her home two days later. Since "Fern" is a goofy name, I renamed her "Honey" and that suits her much better. She's still not demonstrative in the slightest. She is not a tail wagger type of dog. To show affection, Honey pushes her body up against a person and leans her shoulder into them. It's enough.

Honey smells of warm musk. She has the most wonderful scent I have ever encountered from any man, woman, or child. She lays on the bathmat next to the tub when I am bathing and the smell that rises from her intoxicates me.

I am pretty certain I will fall in love again, and it's always such a wonderful surprise when it happens.

I may have even already done it.

Photos Lie

Two weeks before the birth of Sheila, my second child, my husband and I were in Palm Springs.

I looked pretty radiant in my pregnancy and my husband looked like a proud papa to be. I doubt anyone looking at us knew that we were actually on the verge of divorce.

This photo was taken about the 1st of September and I gave birth to my daughter days later on September 12th. By December 12th, my husband and I had called it quits and he had moved out of our house.

It seems funny that we looked so normal, happy even. We were far from happy and probably further from normal than most couples. Why can't I see that in this photo?

We fought about everything after the first year of marriage, maybe even before that. The second baby had been an accident of sorts. Even if you fight, when you are young, you still have sex.

Neither of us was pleased when we found out I was pregnant with this 2nd child because we both knew we were not going to be a couple much longer. Still, ending a pregnancy was not really ever an option.

I'm amazed we looked so calm and so damned happy. I'm amazed that I looked calm and happy in photos with my 3 year old son and my 3 month old daughter.

Smiling for the camera covers so much and lets you show what you want to show. I've always been good at that.

Lucky me.

The Problem With Marriage Is Sex

Marriage is a time-
honored institution in many countries including America.

For a lot of years, men and women have been getting married. Why? Well, because they love each other, of course. They want to share their lives with each other. That's a sweet notion, isn't it? In most cases, there's even an element of passion that goes along with this sharing. Having that loved person in one's bed every night sounds like a good deal to a lot of people.

What a crock!

Okay, there are tax advantages to filing as "married" rather than "single". There are frequently even other less obvious advantages for the married. People tend to "trust" married people more than single people. Bosses seem to feel married people are more worthy of promotions. Yeah, society smiles on the married folks.

Now, there is one subject that many married people do not talk about because it may not be the most attractive part of being married. That subject is sex.

Single people think nothing of having 3:00 PM sex if they feel like it or 11:00 AM or 4:00 AM sex. Single people have sex in the laundry room if the urge strikes.

(I've even known single people who might have had sex at the laundromat and even in phone booths, but that was at night, of course.)

Many single people have sex in cars. This is not because they have no place to live, but because they don't want to wait until they get home.

Single people are not usually "too tired" to have sex. Or if they are, it's because they stayed up all night having sex and didn't get any sleep at all the night before. Married people are frequently too tired. And it's even worse once a married children complete the pact with (eek!) children.

Sex itself is frequently more entertaining when one is single. People try harder to impress their partner in bed. Single people are more inclined to be adventurous than married people are. Many married people would either laugh or gasp if their spouse pulled out a dildo, a paddle, or other entertaining "equipment". Single people are more likely to roll with it.

Of course, married people don't have to risk nasty diseases or blackmail photos or videos just to get some, and there's an element of "comfort". That's an advantage. I guess the "Saturday Night Special" has its quiet charm too.

But I still think there's a lot to be said for the way the single people do it. Maybe it's risky and maybe it's morally "bad" but damn! It certainly is fun.

(Okay, I'm admittedly over-sexed.)

Parisian Perfection

The women of Paris are the most chic women I have ever seen.

One of their style secrets seems to be "the art of understatement". If you look closely at the photo, you'll notice that this woman is wearing one item of jewelry, a plain gold wedding band.

Although the woman is wearing is a slightly short skirt, (undoubtedly to showcase those perfect legs), everything else is quietly tasteful and even modest.

The women in Paris wear a lot of black and they sometimes add a colorful scarf. Done right, those bits of silk that add a flash of color help to create a look that is stunning. Parisian women also give meticulous attention to grooming; their manicures are perfect, their hairstyles and makeup are flawless, but generally as subtle as their fragrance.

While dining in a bistro in Paris one night, we were able to pick out a table of foreign women very easily. They had bigger hair, longer fingernails, bigger jewels, and louder voices than the Parisian women. These ladies also wore brighter colors and their clothing was more eye-catching than any of the local women. Even from across the room, it was obvious they were tourists.

During dinner, I saw a woman on the street outside the cafe and she looked slightly "off" to me. She was well turned out, but her heels were a little too high, her skirt was just a little too short (showing a snake tattoo winding up her thigh) and her lipstick a little too red. She seemed to be waiting for someone. I watched her as a group of men walked by and she said something to them. They smiled and kept walking, but then turned around after they had passed her to take another look. I pointed out to my husband that she was a prostitute and he told me I was crazy.

We watched her speak to every man who walked by her and finally my husband recognized that she was soliciting business and probably not selling telephone systems.

That would complicate things where I come from. A well dressed woman on the street, with perfect make up and hair, saying "hello, do you want to party?" would be a strange sight indeed. I think most prospective customers would think she was a cop or feel pretty sure they had misunderstood what she was saying in the first place.

I did feel a jolt of "happy" and "smug" when the hostess and the waitress both addressed me in French. Of course, my pleasure was short-lived once they realized I was not "one of them". Still, I had 'em fooled for a moment and took pride in it.

The last time I was in Paris, it was in February and extremely cold. My basic wardrobe for two weeks consisted of a pair of black leather boots with a two inch heel, two pairs of identical tailored black wool trousers, a mid-calf length black wool coat, two almost identical cream colored silk blouses, and two Hermes scarves, one with a bright yellow background, the other in a deep green. In other words, I fit right in! I left the jewelry at home except the wedding ring, the Cartier watch and the modest diamond stud earrings. I settled for one subtle spray of "Coco" by Chanel. No more, no less.

But I have to admit, it's not the real me to be understated. My real taste runs to almost gypsy inspired bright red low-cut dresses, hooker shoes, jewelry everyplace one can wear jewelry and preferably the kind that jingles, flashy mink coats and heavy perfumes. (I very seldom give in to my real taste because I realize it's really a lack of taste.)

Paris brings out the best in women and I'd be much more chic if I lived there.