The Stall at the End

Last week one of my besties came to visit me. One of the best weekends I have had in a while. Here is a highlight: Of course I had to show her around the great city of Houston. Ikea was high on her list. So we stroll into the restroom before we get going in the superstore. I head down to the handicap stall (there is something about all that space). Unfortunately the last one was occupied. So I mosey into the next to last one. Then as I am sitting on the porcelain throne, I see two pairs of feet. There are TWO people in the next stall. Then I see one of those pairs of feet disappear…. *cue raise of eyebrow*. Then the thump against the stall wall… *cue big eyes*. OMG They are fucking in the next stall (on repeat in my head).

I couldn’t get out of the stall fast enough to tell my friend what was happening. Then I realized how jealous I was of the people in the stall at the end, and how turned on I was. There is something amazing about public fucking.

Author Anger

Do you write reviews? I spend too much time on amazon I always read the reviews, but I never write them. The need simply wasn’t there until now.

Never in my life have I come to resent an author. I feel led on, betrayed, and as if I have been slapped in the face by failed expectation.

The Crossfire Series by Sylvia Day was supposed to be a trilogy. I am not sure what the thing is with trilogies these days as if people can’t simply write one book anymore, but honestly I welcome the continuation of a story when it is necessary. A lot of times when I am finished with a book I find myself missing the characters, but the truth is eventually the story has to end.

I read the first two books of this trilogy, and I loved them. They were right up my girly alley. Then I waited for December to come to read the last book Entwined With You. It was pushed back time and time again. Then when I get it, I get this piece of crap book. I am pretty sure with an awesome editor I could have written that book, maybe even better.

There is a certain rhythm to books, we all know it. Different variations of starting, different variations of middle, but a vital part of a book is the climax. It happens at different spots, but there should always be at least one climax that is resolved. A moment to let the reader get all built up and invested, and then something to let the reader breathe, and say ‘ah, all will be okay–for now’.  Sometimes there is a climax, with a cliffhanger that sends the reader into another book. What you don’t do, is give readers nothing but a boring two week look into a fictional characters life, with no climax, and no resolution. What you don’t do is decide that your readers are complete idiots and don’t know crappy literature when they read it. What you don’t do is decide that your wallet is more important that your loyal readers and say screw them all, you can wait.

Such shameful disappointment. Now I need an excellent new book to read so I can quit being pissed about this one.

Guilty Pleasure of the Day

Today was a pretty sad day in Houston. Last week four firefighters were killed in a hotel fire. The memorial service was held today at reliant stadium. The procession, although moving, was insane, and traffic was more horrendous than normal.

So this afternoon when I got off work, and I could actually drive I was excited. I love driving. What makes driving better than simply speeding? Having a great song blasting as you do it. Now on a normal day I’d have pandora playing all the songs I am sure to like if not love. Today the actual radio was on and as I flipped through the channels I heard the familiar strum of a guitar. It was AWESOME. The only problem was that this particular song, isn’t one you want to love. As a matter of fact, you wish you’d hate it, but it is just so damn catchy. My head started nodding, my hips started moving, my hand started tapping the steering wheel,  and then I gave in when the chorus kicked in, and I sang.

so I put my hands up
they’re playing my song,
and the butterflies fly away
noddin’ my head like yeah
movin’ my hips like yeah
I got my hands up,
they’re playin’ my song
I know I’m gonna be okay
yeaaaaaaah, it’s a party in the USA
yeaaaaaaah, it’s a party in the USA

 

The song goes off as I hit a red light, and I look to my left and my right. Good, no one saw…. The moment is over, except its not. That DAMN song is stuck in my head. So I came here to my dear readers. Misery sure loves company.

I’ve watched the video twice now much to the chagrin of the man that has to listen to me, Enjoy!

 

 

The Rare Occurrence of Friendship

Last night was ladies night. The mother and I had a wonderful time. Spent the evening eating a great dinner. I am not a lover of seafood, but I had one heck of a grilled catfish. We drank a big Willie, and a frozen Jim and coke. They were amazing. Then we headed to the cheesecake factory for some sweetness and coffee.

The best part though, was the conversation. I don’t have many friends, that word is special to many. My mom is by far one of my besties though. I can’t go dancing with her, or get drunk with her. I can talk to her though, and she listens. Most of all she can be trusted to tell me the truth no matter how painful. Best Mom EVER.

Winter Sucks

It isn’t the snow that makes me hate it, or the cold. Living in the steamy city I enjoy the miniscule prospect of snow. The cold is warmly invited. What I hate more than anything is how dry it is. My skin is miserable. No matter how much lotion and oil I put on it, it is dry, and it itches. It is beyond irritating. What is worse my poor baby is suffering too. The man of the house, just doesn’t care, but I feel it! Which to be honest is just as frustrating.  Winter is interfering with my sex life. Tomorrow I am off to try Eucerin arg

We Were Arguing, I Was Wrong

But don’t tell anyone!

I have a vagina, which by definition makes me crazy sometimes. I don’t have a problem with admitting that fact. We were going back and forth in the truck tonight after dinner. Even my poor child asked us to stop fighting. (He doesn’t really know the difference between a fight, and a disagreement 🙂 ) That caused me to stop arguing, for the moment.

I knew that, he knew, that I wasn’t done. I wasn’t. After my son was in bed, and Jackson and I were hitting the night time routine, I started up again. I thought I was right. (Can someone tell him now that I am ALWAYS right?) Yet, when he finally got it through my thick skull, that I was wrong, I felt bad. I hate being wrong.

We were in bed, and I tried my hand at an apology. “I have no idea how you put up with me.”

“It’s a challenge.”

I smiled, “I’d say sorry, but then I wouldn’t be me, if I wasn’t challenging.”

He put his book on the night stand, “Never stop being you,” he said, turning to look at me.

“I won’t,” I said, moving to rest my head on his chest. “Thank you for putting up with me.”

I kissed his chest, and the rest, well I think you already know. . .