Wednesday, October 5, 2005

It's ranting, it's pouring...

Why is it - when you get married - people expect you to be pregnant?


If I say "Ohhh - I feel sick all of a sudden." Their eyes double to the size of tricycle wheels and dart to my chubby middle, "Are you pregnant???"


First of all - Noooooooooooooo - I'm NOT preggers! There is no bun in my oven, just a taco bell burrito doing the can-can against my sternum and an ill-advised cocktail of mentos and diet coke adding in to the fun!

Secondly, if I were "with child", if somehow one of my husband's mighty mini men of the spermy variety managed to get lucky - I still have been on the pill for YEARS - my eggs will stay over-easy until I decide to slap 'em up for service!

AND thirdly, shame on you people for having nothing better to do than to picture my tubby behind in the middle of a tantalizing horizontal tango with my hairy Harry! That's just wrong - and really, I've been there, it's not all that interesting for outsiders to have to view. Not that outsiders have viewed, um, well, never mind - let's just say that no one has had to witness the tubby tango - to date.

Which brings me to point number two on the Tirade of Holly of today: Why on earth would you want to video tape yourself having sex? I am not one to mull about in the nude. I don't even like the word "nude". I would dress in the shower if I didn't think that my shirt would get stuck halfway down my arms rendering them useless and would lead me to having no other choice but to run out of the bathroom like a right-side-up bat, arms up in the air, hands waving like I really do care, and have my poor hubby untangle me from my outfit.

So - I'm not real comfortable with the idea of propping up a Sony cam and recording the nasty act of coital bliss on film.

Why? Well, other than my obvious dislike for my own nakedness - I think that if I had to witness it omnisciently - I would NEVER DO IT AGAIN. And I think many others would feel the same. There are some things left to the imagination that should never come to pass into reality.

Like Lust Objects.


I have switched subjects again.

"Lust Objects" is our new topic.

Please keep up.

No, really, take notes if needed.

So - Lust Objects are not mere crushes. Crushes are what you get in sixth grade when the boy you like makes your orange hyper-color tee turn bright pink in two seconds when he asks to borrow your eraser. Crushes are mindless, fun, flirty and never serious. Lust Objects are obsessions of body and soul. Crippling fear and paralization of lips and mind are often symptoms of a close proximity with a Lust Object.

I had one Lust Object who will remain nameless due to the fact that he is married with kids now and, of course, everyone who knew me from 1994-2000 knew my unquenchable desire to do unspeakable things to this cutie-patootie (sorry for the Rosie quote - but it hopped into my brain with little to no warning - I promise not to lob Kooshes at you now).

Anyway, I obsessed over this boy, went to the movies where he worked EVERY Saturday, daring, and promising myself that I would speak to him, make him mind by uttering that single phrase that would turn him on his cute pinkened ear: "One, please."

Oh well.

Six years later I finally went out with him.

It was going to be Heaven, bliss, pure magic, our chemistry would erupt before the date began and make our loving cups runeth over (holy crap - that was a BAD description! :) ).

It was awful.

He fell off of his pedastol so fast and furious that I mistook him for a real person.

We never went out again - I put him back on his pedastol. Tried to rekindle my lust, but alas, it was gone.


Things were so much better when all of our dates and important relationship milestones were taking place in the comfort of my own imagination!

My last, and hopefully final, rant is on a really weird subject.

Janis Joplin.

I just found out that she was 27 when she died. She was my age when her life ended. At that young age, she had bellowed out songs in front of thousands of people, all of them instantly judging her and deciding about her on the spot. She put herself up there and sang, unafraid of what people thought about her or her voice.

I'm afraid to go to the grocery store by myself.

How messed up is that?

It's not like I'm petrified of produce or anything like that - I don't fear the grapes of wrath, or the sour apples, or the - um- kumquats - I just find the whole place to be very intimidating.

So - I'm adding that to my list of thing to do before 30

- "become unafraid of scary-ass grocery stores."

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