Nashville, You Tickle Me

1.  Pagan means not Christian.  That’s pretty much the textbook definition of it.  A pagan temple filled with a statue of a giant pagan god, therefore, looks hilarious when lit for Christmas.  Just saying.  (By the way, beautiful picture, Chris.)

2.  Speaking of Chris, I was tickled the evening I was driving home from East Nashville and he pulled up next to me at a stoplight.  Granted, he was also coming home from East Nashville, but it just made me feel all of a sudden like the whole town had been left to us–no other cars on the road except ones filled with people I know.

3.  Due to an enormously generous gift, Nashville now has 65 acres of open battlefield.  God, I hope we don’t fuck this up. 

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Help is on the Way! So is Penis Talk!

The Recovering Baptist is going to come over and help me clean.  Y’all this makes me so happy I can’t even tell you.  I feel kind of relieved, like I can start to get some stuff done before she comes, because she’s coming to help, so no matter what I don’t get done, it’s not the end of the world.


But let’s talk frankly.  Not having a clean house makes me feel like a failure as a woman.  I’m embarrassed to admit that, because if anyone should be over the whole “A woman’s got to keep her nest in order” crap, it should be me.  And, you’d think, if it really makes me so unhappy, I would just clean.


But there is little I hate worse.  Seriously, if milking your dog’s anal glands would get me out of cleaning the house for the month, I’ve got some rubber gloves right here.


And the Butcher lives here, too.  It’s not like he looks at the now easily three foot stack of crap sitting on the coffee table and says, “I am a failure as a man.  I have no worth.”  He certainly doesn’t think that when he throws his trash in the sink and leaves it for me to fish out.


I used to tutor this kid and sometimes I’d spend the night at his house while his parents were in Florida.  In their bedroom, there were only two things–a bed and a wardrobe.  That’s it.


It felt so decadent, that they could have this whole room that contained nothing but a bed and a wardrobe.  I could not keep my whole house that sparse, but I long for a bedroom that is pared down to just a bed and a dresser.


Anyway, when it was my turn to sleep on the couch last night, I was dozing through a conversation about how unpleasant to look at naked men’s bodies are.


Gentlemen.


Really.  What the fuck?


I can understand that you don’t want to run around all the time thinking, “Oh, god damn, am I H-O-T hot!”  “Look at my dick.  Good lord almighty!”  “Woo-hoo, I have a back a person would love to run his or her hands all over.”


But let me fill you in on a little secret.  When you denigrate the things people love, people get insulted.  When you talk about how unpleasant to look at naked you are, it makes me feel like you must think that people who do like to look at you naked are fucked up.


Or when you are all like, “I could never give a guy a blow job, how gross!”  Well, great.  I’ll keep that in mind, that you think blow jobs are gross.


Seriously, how can you walk around feeling so shitty about yourselves and thus, by extension, us?


Today, for me, at least take your penis in hand and smile at it.  Maybe wave at it a little, just acknowledge that it’s there and charming in its own way.  And, if you’re feeling particularly ballsy, just whisper, “Look at my dick.  Good lord almighty.”


Or, shoot, come clean my house naked and I’ll yell it from the couch every time you come by with the vacuum cleaner.

A List of Things That Are Pissing Me Off

1.  My arms and hands itch.  It’s the peppers, I just know it.  God damn it. 

2.  I finished Fallen by David Maine, today, which is a retelling of Adam, Even, Cain, and Abel.  It’s really good, but it put me in a funk.

3.  Did I mention my arms and hands itch?

4.  I didn’t get to the park all weekend.  Which is stupid.  I know it puts me in a foul mood, and yet I still didn’t go.

Fight for the Couch

There comes a point on a Sunday afternoon when three mammals will want to sleep on the couch, but only two will fit.

The Butcher is trying to argue that he deserves to sleep on the couch because football is on.

Mrs. Wigglebottom could be making some kind of amazing, articulate argument, but since none of us read minds, I’m going to assume that her claim is that she is just too cute to stay off the couch.

I wanted to sleep longer on the couch because I was feeling like my life was going no place, which is clearly a more important reason to sleep on the couch than football.

However, you’ll notice, I lost.

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