Grades of Hot

The Sniper used to have Titillation Tuesdays (now it's kind of whenever) for the dudes and, for equality's sake, had Bridget the Flogging Molly Chick do Manmeat Mondays (now defunct) for the dudettes. The Sniper is nothing if not full of equality and democracy.  However comma since Bridget and her MM selections have been missing lo these 18 months or so, I feel a vacuum in the Hotness universe.  I would not presume to try and fill her stylish stilettos (knowing that no one named "Bridget the Floggin Molly Chick" would ever wear sensible pumps), and yet I feel the compunction, nay the downright need to express my Grades of Hotness scale.

There is Boy Next Door Hot:

(sometimes known as Cyclops hot)

Jailbait Hot:

Mutant Hot:

Average Smart, Snarky-as-hell- Dude Hot:

And, of course, Classic Kilt Hot:

Okay, I think I'm done now.  I'm gonna need a moment to myself, please.

I was just thinking; is there anything that feels more fanTAStic than a nice orgasm? One would think Persistent Sexual Arousal Syndrome would be a cause for celebration.   That is, until I found out the definition is "spontaneous, persistent, and uncontrollable genital arousal, with or without orgasm"  Well, that sucks.  It's also referred to as "Restless Genital Syndrome" which brings to mind "Restless Leg Syndrome."  I had Restless Leg Syndrome when I was pregnant and I had to continuously bicycle my legs or I felt like I was going to lose my tiny little mind.  Not exactly what I'm looking for in the arousal department.

In a slightly related vein, heeeeeeereee's RODNEY! (going to see him Novemeber 26th. Yayski! Oh, and beware of language. Funny, but language.)

Since I had to stop running because the arthritic ankle threw off the line of my whole leg and it felt as if gremlins were shoving pieces of shrapnel into my bones from my foot to my hip, I have let things, ahem, slide. So, now in an effort to regain lost ground, I have once again turned to that rabid freak, Tony Horton. Yes, I have restarted P90X. It was so effective the last time I used it, I'm almost sure I can get through it, despite yelling all manner of abusive and insulting remarks at Tony. Poor Tony. An hour a day a day I heap vitriol of the foulest kind on him; he who is only trying to help.

I refuse to do Pyleometrics this time, however. I don't care how much shame I feel because the one legged guy and his prosthesis are jumping all over the screen with nary a wince, that shit hurts me. And speaking of hurt. Why, oh why, does it hurt more the second time around? Yeesh. All I've done is Synergistics (core and cardio mostly), Cardio and that freaking Yoga, which is enough to make you get down on your knees and beg for Percocet. My abs, lats, and shoulders hurt so bad I can't cough or laugh without crying like a big girl. And don't get me started on sneezing. Soaking in a hot tub sounded like heaven. Unfortunately, I don't own one of those. I do have a big garden tub. And as soon as I got into it, someone rang the doorbell. Just as well I guess. If you think about it, the concept of bathtubs is kind of gross. Sitting in your own filth in stagnant water. Oooohh, relaxing.

Hot tubs, however, a genius idea. Just hope you don't run into these peeps.

Sometimes You Just Need Some Cameo

Really just because there aren't enough nasally singers wearing giant, scarlet codpieces anymore. And I dig that about them.

Glinda Will Cut a Bitch

Being the single mother of boys has lost it's glamor.  Humor. Har.  Seriously, I didn't plan on being a single parent and there are aspects of parenting that I was preeeetty much betting on being handled by the Y chromosome half of the parental unit.  For instance, testicular exams, foreskin maintenance and hygeine, you get the picture.  It's not that I'm squeamish about sharing this information with my boys; I'm a Labor and Delivery nurse for the love of Mike!  I'd just like someone to relief pitch once in a while.  It's frankly exhausting.  And I'll tell you why.   The other night, I arrived home from work, spent some quality time with the boys and then went to my room to decompress and read for the last half hour before it was time to beat them into submission and get them to bed, when I hear, what can only be described as caterwauling, coming from downstairs.  Think Siamese cats fighting over a PA system.  I heard one of the offspring pounding up the stairs and took bets on which one would come apprise me of whatever hideous sin the other had committed. SoS came to my door and with an outraged, bordering on horrified, expression on his face exclaimed, "Mom!  FB was lookin' at NUDED WOMEN!"  Well, just hell.  I walked downstairs and FB was coming out of the office, books under his arm, computer shut down and a resigned look on his face.  I didn't even get a word out before he said, "I know."  All I could think was, "Buddy, you have NO idea."  So we had a chat about how looking at porn was inappropriate and disrespectful to women, how I understood that he had all these feelings and he was curious, but dealing with it this way was, again, inappropriate, and when he was an adult and married he would have a naked woman he could look at whenever he wanted.  I know that is not completely accurate, but why burst the kid's bubble now?  With any luck, he'll marry a woman who is more like his mother in that department ( having been referred to as "oversexed" and "like a guy") , rather than what seems to be the norm among my friends.  He is grounded from the computer for however long I feel its going to take for me to beat (ha) this dead horse and when he's allowed to trip the Internet fantastic again, he's going to find his freedom curtailed.  Nuclear missile firing controls aren't as locked down as our family PC. And, why yes, I do find it ironic that the porn surfer turned out to be the low key First Born rather than the boob loving little perv, Spawn of Satan.

I have purchased several items of bedroom furniture for the boys and it has all arrived in flat, heavy boxes.  You want to know the sweetest words in the English language?  "No Assembly Required."  From now on I'm buying all my furniture in this condition, extra cost be damned.  I have spent several hours a day using a screwdriver and my right forearm and palm is so sore that it is difficult to use it in any twisting type motion.  It would probably feel better with some kind of brace, but I am just perverse enough to tell anyone who asked how I injured it that my batteries died at an inopportune moment.  And then snicker up my sleeve.

In the last three weeks I have been a part of four postpartum hemorrhages (one of which resulted in a airlift to a higher level facility and an in flight hypovolemic MI), a cord prolapse and subsequent emergent c-section, had to perform three ECGs, a nasty forceps delivery, and a postpartum fainting episode that presented like a postictal event.  Yay.  Thus, I haven't posted lately.  And yes!  I have come up with yet another excuse!