Friday, April 30, 2010

A Slut's Life in 140 Characters or Less... (Part 1)

A collection of recent tweets about S&M, Boobquake, metal stirrup fantasies, and an old lover in town... Snapshots of my mindstate throughout the past couple of weeks...
  • Work 24 hrs tomorrow... yuk! Homework all day Sunday... double yuk! Monday I am going to skip class and play with Sir all night... yay!! ;D
  • I need it, but can't get enough of it. I am very cranky & moody without it. Why are you smirking? I'm talking about sleep, you perverts!! :P
     
  • Working on my blog site. I would appreciate any critiques, hints, etc.
     
  • @ButchtasticKyle I am torn between wanting to be "cool mom" or "mean mom" for my girls when it comes to boys and sex... i am SO NOT READY!
     
  • @ButchtasticKyle mine is getting boobs. at NINE! and she acts just like me in so many other ways, that hubby is already worried about boys.
     
  • @ButchtasticKyle *putting up one hand* but she is still technically pre-pubescent
     
  • A serious question: How wet is too wet?
     
  • Happy HNT! "Enjoying a Nice Day":
     
  • How many times you have to poke someone back and forth before it is considered facebook sex?
     
  • "How to Capture an Imaginary Bird"  Ah... the stuff I have to do at work... :D
     
  • When you can't be a slut... chat...:
     
  • I am starting to think this cleric is wrong. ;) I am right on a fault line and about 1 km from another. #boobquake
     
  • Hmmm... No earthquakes here yet... Time to go up the "promiscuous woman" ante a bit... ;) #Boobquake 2010:
     
  • I'll show you mine if you show me yours. ;) Cleavage, that is... #Boobquake 2010
     
  • "...when I am sitting there in a paper gown letting my mind wander... being strapped to one of these tables and used..."
     
  • FINALLY everyone is asleep at work. Now I can get down to some serious masturbation! (Especially since SOMEONE fell asleep at his computer)
     
  • @ButchtasticKyle don't give the troll the power to upset you (has for an hour now). disapprove the comment and ignore further communication.
     
  • Ladies, show some cleavage Monday 4/26, and help scientifically prove an Iranian cleric wrong! More info at #boobquake
     
  • Forced to work with an all-you-can-eat-buffet of young, fit, sexy, and willing men 24 hours a day. (Miss it sometimes)
  • Haze gray, blue coveralls, cold steel, and waves still make me wet...
      
  • Me: Sir, next time you will have to leave the bruises on my tits if you want the doc to notice them. Sir: I'll cover ya!! Me: Please do!
     
  • Time to get nekkid, put my legs into cold metal stirrups, and get felt up... Too bad it is just for a doctor's appt. Another fantasy... ;)
     
  • A great day after all...
     
  • The old BF was happy that I am happy with this "kinky stuff". I seem to pick the greatest guys! Hubby and this 'Other Hubby' are so cool! <3
     
  • An old lover is in town. Hubby will mention Sir, and I will be lectured on "BDSM is for sick people". How to explain w/o getting defensive?
     
  • @masterslaves Cock-Master 3000 task for today
     
  • For me, begging for an orgasm is so much easier to do in person. Text does not convey sincerity, and urgency, as well as pleading eyes do...
     
  • Happy HNT! "Hanging Out with Sir"
     
  • @badbadgirlx Sorry, I don't have much of a gag reflex.
     
  • I am about to go into class and am trying to focus. But intrusive thoughts keep distracting me and making me grin like an idiot. Dammit!! :D
     
  • Into the distance, a ribbon of black; Stretched to the point of no turning back...
     
  • Only 13 hours and 40 minutes until some serious beating and fucking... but who's counting!!! :D Why is time going so SLOW?!?!
     
  • Work all day (and night) Saturday... but Sunday is looking good... :D
     
  • @badbadgirlx LOL! I put mine in yesterday to make housework more interesting... but i can't leave it in. Ripped out once during sex... OUCH!
     
  • @badbadgirlx Are you wearing your njoy and/or smartballs? might make a good walk way more interesting...
     
  • :D "Beat off now! Balls in, plug in, and clamps! You have 5 minute to cum or 3 swats starting now! And you have to put that stuff on first!"
     
  • I DID hear "Who you callin' a cootie queen you lint licker" on a commercial on Nickelodeon. Thought I was crazy.
     
  • Text: "I was thinking of covering you in clothespins and hitting them off you like tee shots with my crop." Gotta love a sadistic mind! :D
     
  • If this is a new type of competition the Army is doing, I bet I could do better than 3rd place! LOL ;)


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    Thursday, April 29, 2010

    How Wet is Too Wet?

    I read things all the time about how to increase female lubrication.  The lube section even at “vanilla” stores is vast.  I feel very odd sometimes because I have the opposite problem.  I am wet all the time.  Really, really wet.  I don’t need physical stimulation to become lubed.  I don’t even have to be thinking dirty thoughts.  (I am sure that each day, at least 15 minutes occasionally go by where I don’t think about sex.)


    Let me clarify, I am not talking about gushing or squirting during orgasm.  I am talking about soaking my pants if there is simply a breeze blowing.  Sir comments about it often.  Phrases “sloppy cunt”, “fucking faucet” and “puddles on the carpet”, while degrading in a good way, also often really do embarrass me in a bad way. 


    During sex ‘slippery’ in an understatement, and often there is no friction at all. A little friction is the point, isn’t it?  The excessive wetness also often causes those oh-so-sexy squishy, farty sounds.  A towel is required nearby.  Sir does not seem to really mind.  In fact he seems to take great pride when I am literally dripping onto the floor.


    I think the benefits do outweigh the negatives, but I wonder sometimes how common this is.  I have never personally met another woman with this issue.  Not that I know of, at least.  Being bisexual and working with strippers for so long, this topic of conversation came up frequently.  But I was always the one staying quiet while the others talked about being too dry. 


    Other men have said that they had never been with someone that gets as wet as I do.  They mention it repeatedly.  Sometimes they stress it so much I begin to feel a bit like a freak.


    I see others on the internet with the same issue, but have not seen any studies on what causes it, or percentages of women that get “too wet”.  How wet is too wet, anyway?  How do men feel on this?  How do other women feel?  Hmmm...  Maybe I could get a grant and research it myself...
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    HNT: "Enjoying a Nice Day"

    Happy HNT!

    The other day I was sitting outside in my robe enjoying the sun. I pushed the wrong button on my cell phone, and got this shot. :D


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    Wednesday, April 28, 2010

    How to Capture an Imaginary Bird

    (A fictional essay based upon events in my life. Written for my English Comp class.)  

    Dealing with Dementia can be extremely stressful and frustrating.  Believe me, if you know someone with Dementia and you haven’t yet wanted to scream out loud, or thought duct taping them to a wall seemed like a good idea, just wait. It will happen.

    Contrary to popular belief, Dementia is not a disease.  Instead, it is a term used to describe a progressive loss of brain function.  Progressive means their mental abilities will never improve, only get worse.  Birth defects, traumatic brain injury, drug or alcohol abuse, and Alzheimer’s disease are just a few examples of causes.


    Although slowly losing their minds, they are still living, loving, feeling humans.  They deserve as much respect as they ever did, no matter how annoying (or hilarious) their actions.  Reasoning with them does not work, and logic is irrelevant.  Whatever is going on inside their mind is absolutely real to them, and in their world, you are the one that is crazy.  Never forget that.


    Since they won’t change, that leaves you with two choices.  You can stand your ground, defend your reality, and go insane; or you can embrace the absurdity and join in the fun.


    One of the issues you may deal with is hallucinations.  The solution is a change of thought process, not for the person with Dementia, but for you.  The following is one scenario of dealing with a simple hallucination.

    “There’s a bird in my room.”


    Step 1 Bite your tongue. The first logical response out of your mouth will always be the wrong thing to say. Remember, to her, it is real. Perhaps when she was young a bird did get into her room, it frightened her, and she is reliving it. It doesn’t matter why, really, but that thought helps get me in the right mindset for the task ahead. It may be 2:30 am. It may be the fourth time in three days (or the fourth time that night).


    Step 2 Get up. No matter how tired you are, or crazy you know it is, there is no chance in hell of getting back to sleep until you save the day yet again.


    Step 3 Shut the door to her room. If you don’t the imaginary thing just might get out and that will make your job much harder. And there is always the one-in-a-billion chance that this time, maybe, there really is something there. Always err on the side of safety.


    Step 4 Tell her you will take care of it. Reassure her also with a hug or hand squeeze. She may not remember in two minutes what you said or did, but she might remember the feeling of protection.


    Step 5 Make sure she feels safe while you gather your supplies. A comfy chair in a softly lit room with music is my choice. (Maybe she will doze off.) A glass of water or other beverage is a nice touch, too.


    Step 6 Tell her you will be right back. Again, she may forget, or not even understand what you said. But if she feels abandoned, it can escalate simple fear into complete hysteria, and then you will never get back to bed. I bring back my supplies one at a time to “check-in”. You may have to keep starting over again at Step 4. Don’t get angry. Just suck it up. Someday this may be you.


    Step 7 Don’t take too long to gather your tools. You will need supplies to capture a bird. They can be totally realistic, or exaggerated. The funnier it is to you, the less stressful this whole thing will be. My choices are
    • a broom for shooing the bird from high places
    • her floppy-brimmed hat that says “Grandma” on it to protect from imaginary poop
    • rubber gloves just because they make it seem “official”
    • a big kitchen colander for that final victory pounce
    • a pillow case for removal. (I was informed the first time that a trash bag doesn’t let the “poor thing” breathe.)
    Step 8 Draw upon any acting skills you may have. A person with advanced Dementia will not critique your performance; but you are up anyway, dressed like an idiot, and ready to chase an imaginary bird. Have fun with it! Now with hat and gloves donned, pillowcase tucked into your waistband, and brandishing a broom sword and colander shield, you are a knight rescuing a damsel in distress from a fire-breathing sparrow.


    Step 9 Check on her when you return. If you are lucky, by the time you come back with the tools to defend the household, she will have forgotten completely about it. In that case, quickly remove your gear, tuck her back into bed, and proceed to Step 16. If not, continue on to Step 10.


    Step 10 Ask her to show you where the bird is. She will either be too scared to go in, or want to watch you capture the bird to reassure herself.
    Step 10A If she does not want to go into the room, your job just got easier. You can go in, close, the door, make some noises for a bit, and return triumphantly with something bird-sized captured in your pillowcase. A pair of socks will work well. “Release” it outside, tuck her in, and proceed to Step 16.


    Step 10B Many people with Dementia have trust issues. If she wants to make sure you actually capture the bird, and aren’t lying to her, continue to Step 11.
    Step 11 Lead her into the room shielding her with your own body. Ask her to point out where the bird is. After all, there is no point in capturing something over by the closet when the bird is clearly sitting right there on the dresser.


    Step 12 Don’t forget to ham it up! If you are a good enough actor, you might almost begin to see the bird, too. As you shoo the bird around trying to corner it, keep an eye on where she is looking. Those invisible birds are quick, and you might not have seen it go under the bed.


    Step 13 Capture the bird with your shield when you and she are both convinced it is finally cornered. Say “I think I got it” then check her eyes for confirmation. If you didn’t get it, ask where it went and repeat Steps 12 and 13.


    Step 14 When capture is confirmed, swoop up the bird, colander and all, into the pillowcase and tie the top tight.


    Step 15 “Release” the bird outside, tuck her in, and talk about the adventure the two of you just shared.


    Step 16 Go back to bed. The broom, hat, and stuff can be put away in the morning. Or it may be needed again that night. Either way, you need to get sleep while you can.
    Perve more of "How to Capture an Imaginary Bird"

    Tuesday, April 27, 2010

    When you can't be a slut, chat.

    (One IM conversation I had yesterday. I was home all day and could not be as "promiscuous" for Boobquake as my slutty side wanted to be.
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    Monday, April 26, 2010

    Boobquake 2010



    Maybe not the most scientific experiment ever, but definitely one of the funnier ones!
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    Sunday, April 25, 2010

    Hmmm...

    I had my "girly" exam Friday. I used to hate them. Now they don't bother me much. I was worried this time that I would get questioned about the bruises on my ass, but I sat on them the whole time. Good thing last Sunday wasn't a tit torture kind of scene! (I have since been informed next time I will be covered in bruises...)

    I can't help, though, when I am sitting there in a paper gown letting my mind wander to fantasies of being strapped to one of these tables and used. The doctors have never commented on not having to lube the speculum before this appointment. This doctor forgot it and when she noticed, said "Good thing you were wet."

    I mentioned this fantasy to Sir, and his response was "Hmmm..." (That response always sends chills through me.) Maybe one of these days he will take me to the CSPC. I have heard they have these tables available for use... as well as so many other interesting things...
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    Friday, April 23, 2010

    Ah, the memories...




    I was remembering some great times last night.

    Being a slutty woman in her sexual prime, and forced to work with an all-you-can-eat-buffet of young, fit, sexy, and willing men 24 hours a day... It's a sacrifice I made for my country. ;)


    Haze gray, blue coveralls, cold steel, and waves still make me wet...

    Perhaps one day soon I will start writing down some of my favorite Navy memories... (as always, the names of the guilty will be withheld.)
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    Thursday, April 22, 2010

    I Really Know How to Pick 'Em!

    I spent hours today worrying that my old boyfriend and my husband would decide to gang up on me to "talk some sense into me" about exploring BDSM and my relationship with Sir. Both are great guys, but perhaps too protective of me. In the past, they have always intervened when they felt I was doing something foolish.

    I am SO GLAD I was wrong. I was nervous when he got here, watching him walk up to me. I hadn't seen him in three years, and only briefly then. The great big hug helped! This was my friend, my 'Other Husband', and the same guy that had lived with us for a very long time. This wasn't a bad guy here to take away my new toy. ;)

    The subject didn't come up until much later. By then I was sitting comfortably next to him on the couch talking about old friends (and lovers). I was the one that brought it up, mentioning it offhandedly. Being the really smart guy he is, he got it and asked if I was enjoying this 'kinky stuff'. I said I was. He said "Good."

    Now I am not sure why I let myself get so worked up earlier. If he wasn't a smart, cool, and understanding guy I never would have put up with him for that long. Sometimes I forget to trust my own judgment in men. And I have impeccable taste! :D 


    Perve more of "I Really Know How to Pick 'Em!"

    HNT: "Hanging Out with Sir"

    Happy Half-Nekkid Thursday!
    Me nearly passed out on Sir's cross. This cross and I have a love/hate relationship, and I crave it...
     

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    Tuesday, April 20, 2010

    Nothing Really Matters

    (A fictional essay based upon real events in my life. Written for my English Comp class.)

    I work with death.  I feel its presence, but life goes on until it doesn’t.  The women I care for are near the end of this journey.  Still, each day meals must be made, clothes must be washed, and make up must be put on.  Game shows must be watched, memories must be revisited, and terror must be banished if only for a little while.

    It is night now.  I hold a sobbing woman in my arms, comforting her.  She is close to her end and is beginning to realize it.  She will likely be the next to die.  Every possession is gone, already divided between quarreling children.  Pain fills every moment.  Even her memories have been stolen.  But she is still afraid.  I rock her stroking her hair.  “Everything will really be all right” I say, “Trust me.”

    She looks into my eyes and sees I really believe it.  “I am scared.”  I don’t answer.  I simply smile and squeeze her hand.  I wish I could explain, but I can’t.  No matter.  She will know soon enough.  As her sobs begin to slow, I tuck her back into bed and remember.

    It was Halloween night and very cold.  I was bound.  I was completely powerless and did not know what was going to happen.  I did not know where I was and could not see.  I was terrified. My screams and pleas to stop were ignored, and the pain was unbearable.  It went on forever.

    At some point the fear faded.  There was no more pain.  I could hear a voice, but words no longer made sense.  Though I was blindfolded, I found myself looking around a room I had never seen.  I saw my body, still bound.  I could hear my hoarse cries but was not aware of making any noise.  I tried to speak but couldn’t.  I was confused and worried.

    A moment later, I was drawn away from this scene and felt myself lifting.  The world lost focus, and then I was somewhere else.  I felt warm but had no body to feel with.  I was buoyed up by currents of amazing colors, swirling with them toward some point in the distance.  This was sensed, not seen, as I was merely energy.  Every detail had more clarity, though, than I had ever known.  It was wondrous.  I knew I was dead, but I was not concerned.  It was okay.  Time was passing but it didn’t matter.  Seconds, hours, even years lost all meaning.

    As I drifted higher, I understood that I was moving toward something important.  Infinitely important.  I was not alone, and the realization surprised me.  There were others here, millions, but instead of fear I felt overwhelming joy.  I was connected with each.  A complete awareness came over me.  I could feel everything and I was everything.  All was right, and I was perfectly content and at peace.

    Suddenly I sensed I was no longer moving toward my goal.  This wonderful and perfect place began to fade.  I began to fall.  An intense rage came over me.  I had been so close to it, whatever it was.  I struggled to fly again but couldn’t.  Vaguely I became aware of someone speaking, although I could not grasp what was said.  I began to feel things physically again and, too soon, I found myself back in my body looking out at the room I had seen earlier.

    I was no longer blindfolded or restrained.  I was sore, trembling, and frustrated.  I was alive.  No!  I did not want to be.  I screamed in fury with every ounce of my remaining strength.  I needed to go back and would have given anything at that moment to return.  It was the most important thing of all.  It was the only thing.  I began to cry.

    Held in strong arms, I returned to reality as I used to know it, slowly and regretfully.  It was after midnight by then, so it was my birthday.  My gift had been to live my deepest, darkest desire.  To be taken.  Tortured.  Raped.  I received so much more.  I had stumbled upon Nirvana.  Fulfilling my fantasy had become trivial when compared to immortality.

    I had never believed in a soul or afterlife.  I doubted a higher power, universal consciousness, or ultimate truth.  Now I have no doubt.  Sadly, details later faded, but this was more real than any dream.  This was more real than life.  Had I had been offered the choice I would have remained there forever.  No hesitation.  No regrets.  The memory of absolute bliss remains.

    I have tried to explain the essence of this epiphany before.  I failed.  I might as well attempt describing a beautiful sunset to a man born blind.  I accept what it means to me, and perhaps that will just have to be enough.

    As I sit on the side of the bed watching this woman finally fall asleep, I feel sad.  Not because she will die, but because I wish I could dispel her fear and help her understand the peace and joy ahead.  However, that is her new journey to discover.  Everything she ever was, ever had, and ever did does not matter anymore.  It is not the end. It is becoming “more”.  I turn off the lamp and quietly leave her room.

    The others are sleeping peacefully for now.  Death is elsewhere, for a while.  I lie down on the bed in the office and, still smiling, I drift back off to sleep.

    Perve more of "Nothing Really Matters"

    Monday, April 19, 2010

    Computer People

    (A fictional essay based upon events in my life. Written for my English Comp class.) 



    My husband and I are Computer People.  We spend way too much time on our computers each day.  Neither of us has watched television in a very long time.  There is always something important to do, and it can only be done on a computer.  We sometimes even Instant Message each other instead of walking into another room for a simple question or statement.  But while we have many common interests, we have very different opinions on everything, and I think our computers emphasize this fact.


    The first obvious difference is that he is a Desktop kind of guy, and I am a Netbook kind of girl.  Apparently in his mind no mere laptop, even full-sized, can support his needs.  No laptop could hold the terabytes of important television series re-runs, funny video clips, and video game maps.  You can’t open up a laptop and install two DVD burners (leaving one slot open, of course, for that Blu-Ray burner he will have someday soon), more gigabytes of RAM, or the fastest processor available.  He is compelled to “tweak” every other possible thing to make his computer better than everyone else’s.  It must be a guy thing.


    I, on the other hand, cannot comprehend why anyone would want a computer that is tethered to one spot.  I like doing my homework in my hammock on a sunny day, and having the recipe I plan to make actually on the screen in the kitchen.  I love having my own entertainment at the playground while the kids are playing, and they love being able to watch their movies in a shopping cart.  As for speed, my little computer goes as fast as it can.  If it takes a few microseconds longer than his, I can wait.


    Another thing I do not understand about his point of view is cords.  Cords must be a status symbol.  Miles and miles of cords, branching out from the CPU all over the room, attached to every conceivable thing you can connect to a computer.  Most are never used.  The biggest computer desk made is not big enough for it all.  Additional shelving units are full.  I think the only thing he doesn’t have hooked up is a USB Pet Rock, and that is only because he does not have one yet.  I wish I could say that at least the cords are neatly organized, zip-tied, and hidden from view.  I wish I could, but I can’t.


    My computer has one cord, and I don’t even have it plugged in unless the battery is running low.  The keyboard and monitor are built in.  I don’t even use a mouse.  I just pop the whole thing into my bag and go.


    Monitors and speakers are another area of contention.  My ten inch screen works just fine.  I can see things on it.  My speakers reproduce sound.  Who needs more?  Apparently, I am an idiot.  The resolution on his 42” wall-mounted LCD screen is satisfactory, for now.  And the Bose Surround Sound system is a requirement, even though he can never turn the volume up past one without waking the neighbors.  For those times a higher volume is necessary, though, he has headphones with a frequency range that goes twice as high as normal human hearing range.  Maybe he is planning to play something for bats.  He swears there is difference between these and, well, let’s just say a considerably cheaper alternative.  And yet he does not hear me when I ask him to do something.


    The biggest difference, in my opinion, is what we actually do with our computers.  He can spend hours playing video games, watching movies, listening to music, editing his photos, and never actually do any “work” or communicate with another human being.  For him it is an escape in high definition, at warp speed, and with surround sound.


    My computer is my connection to the world.  I do work and school related things with it, I pay bills, and I learn new things.  It is my support network.  I keep in touch with family and friends around the world, talking with and seeing them in real-time, with no airfare required.  It is my memory with important documents and information that my head won’t hold stored on it.  It goes everywhere with me.


    In order for me to escape and relax, I have to turn the computer off and walk away.  I can do that anywhere.  He has to be at home and turn the computer on.  If he can’t he becomes stressed.  I think I will stick with my little red netbook. The next time he tells me why his desktop is so much better I will just shake my head uncomprehendingly.


    Perve more of "Computer People"

    Sunday, April 18, 2010

    Bubbles, Legos, and Whales

    (A fictional essay based upon events in my life. Written for my English Comp class.) 


    It was the morning after a horrible 24-hour shift at work. I seriously needed a nap, but there was too much to do.  There is always too much to do.  The wreckage of a three-year old human tornado was strewn about the entire house.  The kitchen desperately needed cleaning before new life forms began to evolve.  My laundry pile had begun to resemble Mount Rainier.  The lawn had not been mowed yet this year and had become a jungle inhabited by small, colorful plastic natives and animals.  To add insult to injury, I still had not come up with a topic for my English Comp essay due soon.  Sighing miserably, I began to pick up.


    As I cleaned, my personal little un-helper followed closely behind pulling things from where I thought they belonged and placing them where she thought they did.  Apparently everything belongs on the floor when you are three.  Frustrated, I pulled a disposable glove from my uniform pocket, blew it up, and popped in a video.  She  and her new chicken balloon friend happily settled on the couch to watch, and I was free to clean unaided.  Kids are so easy to please.  Thank goodness for SpongeBob.


    Soon some order had been restored inside.  Mount Laundry had eroded, though it was barely noticeable.  The living room still needed vacuuming, but at least I could see the floor again after the toys had been picked up.  Pots, pans, and dishes were clean again even if they would probably not get put away today.  It seems that nothing ever gets completely done around here anymore.  The best I can hope for seems to be one step ahead of total chaos.    I glanced at my daughter watching her show without a care in the world.  I was envious.  Being grown-up sucks sometimes.


    Now all that remained between me and my nap was the lawn and my homework.  The choice of which to start first was made for me by my aching back.  I sat in my chair and opened a blank document.  The little blinking line in the upper corner mockingly waited for my inspired thoughts.  There were none.  There hadn’t been for days.  I could not focus.  I could not think.  I still had crap to do.


    I tried very hard to talk myself out of tackling the lawn.  Although it was growing unchecked, I had not actually lost a child in it, yet.  But Barbie and her friends had gone missing weeks ago, and were feared eaten by packs of wild Happy Meal toys.  Dora and Diego had taken a rescue expedition in, but communication had been lost.  It was up to me to save them.  Dammit.


    While mowing, I thought perhaps I could write a descriptive essay about it.  I could describe the smells, the sounds, the gritty dirt blown into my mouth.  No, that would be boring.


    Two hours later, I was sweaty, covered in dirt, green from the knees down, and even more tired.  The hammock had been recovered from the overgrowth and beckoned me, but I could not give in.  The jungle had been tamed and everyone had been rescued.  Well, almost everyone.  Dora had been decapitated by the lawn mower.  Fortunately my daughter had been occupied next door and did not witness the murder.  As I would soon find out, she had been competing in a mud pie cook-off.


    Back inside I headed straight for the shower.  At least that would be the one pleasant thing I had in this awful day.  A long, hot, relaxing soak in a bath would be better, but that takes too much time.  Mommies are rarely allowed luxuries, and homework and my nap were still waiting.


    Just as I started the water, my little one came in.  Her entire body was covered in mud, and she was grinning from ear to ear.  She does love her mud.  Once again, Mommy’s needs would have to wait.  The elusive nap moved further out of reach.


    I turned the temperature of the water down a bit, and plugged the tub.  I grabbed a bottle of bubbles and poured some in.  Then I poured in more.  She likes lots of bubbles.  Elmo and Cookie Monster grinned idiotically at me from the label, but I did not smile back.  As the tub filled and the water foamed, I peeled my own monster’s clothes off and hiked them to the summit of Mount Laundry.  When I got back, the tub was ready, and I could see she had added some of her bath toys.  Legos were her favorite.  I plunked her in and sat down on the toilet seat to wait.  Just like dishes, kids are easier to clean if you let them soak a bit.


    While she was happily splashing and playing, my mind turned back to my homework.  I had nothing interesting to write about because I don’t ever get to do anything.  No one would want to hear about my life.


    I mourned that nap I probably wouldn’t get.  The gritty dirt I had thought about describing began to feel as wonderful as it was interesting.  Not one bit.  It was time to hurry and wash the child so I could at least get my shower.


    As I knelt down, my aching muscles screaming, I was surprised by a face full of water.  She had shot me with one of her little squirt toys.  I began to get angry, but her delighted look and giggles won me over.  Well, two can play at that game!


    I peeled off my own clothes, and just tossed them aside.  The mountain could wait.  I plopped right into the tub with her, and sat down.  I had not planned for my body mass when I filled the tub.  The water level rose quickly, and for a moment I thought the bubbles would spill over the edge like a soda poured too fast.  It was close.


    The water was cooler than I would have liked, but the smell of the Orange Mango Tango bubbles was delicious.  My mouth watered.  It was definitely not a grown-up scent.  It was a fun scent.  I could feel toys floating hidden in the bubbles bumping into me with every movement.  I was being shot over and over by streams of water by a giggling child.  It was silly, and I could not help but laugh.  I would think about homework later.  At least I could wash her faster this way.


    I grabbed the big cup used for shampooing, filled it up, and doused my tormentor.  Her laughing stopped and her eyes grew serious.  Was the fun already over?  Mommy was going to take her joy away.  That’s what mommies do.  I gave up.  I gave in.  I grinned at her, filled the cup up again, and handed it to her.  She hesitated only a moment then stood up and dumped it on my head.  In addition to water and bubbles, I was pelted with toys had been scooped up also.  “Mommy’s turn,” I said, and she handed the cup over, smiling again.  We bombarded each other until I squirted shampoo into our hands.  We began to lather each other’s hair.


    “More shampoo, Mommy.”


    “Ok, a little more.”  By the time we were done, our heads had more bubbles than the tub.  I molded all of her hair straight up and twisted the top into a curl. She looked like a Dairy Queen cone.  I giggled and did the same to my hair.  She liked that.  She and I molded and modeled several more bubble hairstyles on my head.  Of course each time she wanted her hair done the same way.  We rinsed and finished washing each other, and I began to get out.  The water was cooling, and I had homework.


    “No Mommy.  Play.”  She fished about in the bubbles and pulled out two Legos.  She handed them to me with eyes pleading.  I accepted them and clicked them together.  She beamed with joy, and I decided homework could wait a little longer.  I had nothing to write about anyway.  She began fishing again for her own Legos.  It quickly became a contest to see who could find and connect the most Legos.


    I could have easily won, but I didn’t.  I was distracted.  While fishing, I had located the squirter.  I was armed.  I kept my hand submerged and moved the weapon closer.  When I squeezed it, a waterspout shot up through the bubbles two feet into the air.  It caught her by surprise, and when the plume shot up again, but from a different spot, she was fascinated.  I kept moving it, and kept her guessing where it would appear.  Where would it come from next?  It had all the suspense of Jaws, but with an imaginary whale instead of a shark.  I could imagine the tense movie theme music in my head.  Da-Dum...Da-Dum...Da-Dum, Da-Dum, Da-Dum...  The whole thing was fun, and oh so silly.  Her hysterical laughter echoed loudly in the small bathroom.  She futilely tried to catch the water, and occasionally got hit by it.  I did not know who was having the best time.  I was laughing as hard as she was.


    Finally, we both started to notice the cold water.  We were two happy, pruny girls.  We had been in the tub for a very long time.  We got out, dried off, and got dressed.  Strangely, I wasn’t tired anymore.  I felt renewed.  I sat down at the computer again and words began to pour out.


    Perve more of "Bubbles, Legos, and Whales"