For those of you who missed me last month…you are all very sweet 🙂
And for those of you who didn’t – go take a hike, you’re banned for life!
(Sure hope there is more of the former and less of the latter).
OK, so I decided to take a impromptu break last month…(excuse me for a moment while I go take another break to look up what impromptu means…Ah yes, good, splendid, that makes sense, even if my sentences are borderline incohesive nonsense).
Now then, where was I? Yes, I decided to take a brief sabbatical to recharge my creative batteries and as it so happens, something came up in the news this week that brought into perspective what I thought I should be focus on for this article.
I overdosed on Trump this week. It was my fault. “Just one more article,” I kept telling myself, fully intending to avert my eyes from the cake-batter mess unfolding across computer screens around the globe.
Thankfully, Trump has yet to lessen the tribe of writers and bloggers who are determined to expose him for what he really is…a man who lies even when it’s in his best interests not to lie. This trait is burrowed deep into his psyche and guides his every act. There is no hope he will change. Because people with serious personality disorders know when they do something that is morally or ethically wrong. The difference between them and us? They just do not care. And will say so to your face.
I had enough this morning so bounced over to The New Yorker and found these two gems. Humor…it does a body (and mind) good. *smile*
Happy [fill in the blank with your holiday of choice because we can’t be bothered to referee any fights that break out because we used a holiday that’s not on the approved list of holidays] from management and staff of The Nudge Wink Report.
It’s been a year of ups and downs and round and rounds here on NWR. We lost some bloggers and gained some bloggers, lost some battles but won the war and will live to blog another year here on WordPress.
In the spirit of the season, Management decided to cut a rug…cut the mustard…fuck. CUT US ALL A BREAK and told staff to take the rest of the month off. Hopefully to spend that time with friends and family.
For those field reporters without friends or family, management has made arrangements with a cut-rate discount motel in downtown Cleveland to set aside one standard room for the duration of the holidays that staff can share. The room is free but if staff want fresh sheets and towels, they have to take turns being the Elf on the Shelf in the motel lobby.
To all of our faithful readers, we wish you a merry [fill in the blank] we wish you a merry [fill in the blank] we wish you a merry [fill in the blank] and a happy new year!
It’s that time of year again. Halloween is just over a week away and pumpkins everywhere are busy being stabbed, sliced, jabbed, disemboweled, and carved into outdoor decor for your front porch. Where they’ll sit until they rot and the stench becomes so strong it attracts feral cats and winos.
Pumpkin carving is an art. Most of us see pumpkin carving as a craft and try to DIY them into something cute. Something that makes a child go all “ooh” and “ah.”
That is not the purpose of a pumpkin. Pumpkins distain cute. Pumpkins don’t want to bring a smile to your face. Pumpkins want to be the scariest part of your day come October 31.
So when P.U.S. (Pumpkins United Society) contacted me to help get the message across, I agreed. I said I’d take a stab at carving out a post as long as they didn’t hold a knife to my throat. Continue reading “Pumpkins Get No Respect”→
Hear that sound? That’s the sound of summer passing. With the ringing of the school bell, parents everywhere are muttering, “I know I shouldn’t wish my life away but it’s time. I NEED MY LIFE BACK!”
Even if you don’t hold down a full-time paid position of some kind of soul (sucking or fulfilling, you choose) job, summer is intense. It’s not that parents don’t enjoy spending every freaking waking moment of summer vacation with their kids. For the first few weeks it’s a wonderful feeling to have your child’s undivided attention.
It’s Tuesday, February 23, one day away from my monthly report! I stare at the calendar and scream out “GAH!” as if my cat just stuck his claws in my neck and started kneading.
It reminded me of this guy I once knew who thought that choking made orgasms better.
No, I’m not going to go into more detail.
Speaking of sex, I’ve watched a few Outlander series segments, and a Marco Polo, finding that I’d rather use the sex scenes to make hot tea, prepare a snack or go to the bathroom than watch someone simulating sex.
If I want to observe something copulate, I’ll go to a ranch during mating season. It’s the same old bull, and the movements aren’t that much different.
Whether the guy can get it up for the camera or not, watching someone have sex on my monitor is like taking a vacation by watching a Nat Geo special. There are some things that just aren’t the same unless you’re there doing it, like…
that moment when you’re meditating
and feel the oneness all around you…
where the chains of absence, of hate, of fear,
of danger and mortality are lifted away.
It’s true that orgasm, and the 5 minutes of afterglow, reaches for that experience, but that’s like comparing dollar store milk chocolate to a box of Godiva truffles.
You’re probably yawning about now, wondering where I’m going with this. As the title suggests, to a woman, having sex with her is a lot like inviting you into her house.
Any woman with an ounce of self-respect rarely invites a stranger into her home.
When you enter her home uninvited, you’re invading her space.
If her house looks like this:
She will love you for life if you believe with all your heart that her house looks like this:
Or, better yet….THIS:
She might even invite you for a swim in her pool.
When she thinks enough of you to make you dinner, wear that cute lingerie you love, lay in bed and bare her…uh, soul to you — and all you want is a blow job — you’re like the family druggie who broke into the house, ate the best food in the fridge, left the kitchen a mess, and absconded with her computer to sell it for enough money to buy one more rush.
If you think that all women in the western world want candy and flowers on Valentine’s day, and you can slide by the other 366 days this year, the battering ram you call your second brain might as well tear down her house and get it over with.
Any man who can fix the plumbing, mend the fences, lovingly care for the landscape in just the right way at just the right time, and care for her home as much as she does, will NEVER have to buy another box of chocolates or another dozen roses again.
For most women, a man who treats her house like a mansion is a far greater gift than living in a mansion while being treated like she’s a shack (up).
Like one of those blue tarps adhered to a roof damaged by a hurricane, that about covers it.
Peg calls me “Boss Lady” but that’s because I once told her how much I like Bruce Springsteen. It’s not like I’m really the boss. Is it?
I update the writing schedule. I retweet posts. I promote those posts on Facebook. I invite bloggers to guest blog on NWR.
I keep switching the toilet paper around in the bathroom so that the paper comes off the roll FROM THE TOP, as it should.
Okay. It was me. What can I say. I’ve been under considerable stress lately what with not winning the Powerball lottery. What. A. Rip.
[pause to shake it off — get a grip — get back to the point]
I’m single this Valentine’s Day. And I was kinda freaking out. Until I realized this year won’t be much different from the last 15 years. Because I can count on one finger the number of times the ex bothered to buy me a gift. How do you spell asshole? C-H-E-A-P.
And there was never anything special planned. He had my adoration so why bother doing anything extra to keep the love alive? How do you spell asshole? L-A-Z-Y.
I’ve spent the last 15 Valentine’s Days with someone who is cheap and lazy. It wouldn’t have been so bad if he was any good in the sack. So cheap, lazy, and…lazy. If I’d known I was going to live over a decade of my life with someone who acted like he had one foot in the grave, I would have pushed his other foot in and handed him a shovel.
But I guess Valentine’s Day is as good a day as any to figure out what I want in a guy. The list is short. Four things, really. Nice is one. Being a guy is the other. For a while there I played around with the idea of swinging my saddle over to the other side but I’ve always been a meat & two veg kind of girl.
The third thing I’m looking for is someone without dead eyes. Have you ever met anyone with dead eyes? Eyes that are veiled and express no emotion? Even when they are caught in a lie or they just got the best news ever? Eyes that express no happiness or shame. A dog will hang it’s head when it’s done something wrong. A snake will look you right in the eye.
The final piece of the perfect-for-me guy is a sense of humor. Someone with a big ole belly shaker of a laugh. Someone who “gets” Stephen Colbert.
Someone who doesn’t look to me to explain why Abbot & Costello’s “Who’s On First” is one of the funniest skits ever in the history of people making other people laugh.
Life is hard. Life is short. Life is love. So carpe diem. Surround yourself with people who love and support you. Who respect your choices, even if your choices are not their choices. Be with people who know the difference between “their” and “there.” (Proper word usage is the unspoken fifth element I’m looking for in a guy. Not Bruce Willis though. He’s married.)
This Valentine’s Day, don’t throw a fit if the significant other in your life shows up at your door with a block of Swiss cheese instead of a bouquet of flowers. Love them anyway. Because if you have someone in your life who thinks this is hilarious, you are one lucky fish. (That was a reference to “carp-e” diem. Up there? In the previous paragraph? You got that? Are you single?)
Happy Valentine’s Day!
Hope you enjoy a day of memories and that you don’t spend it with a dick.
A penis is fine. Just not a dick.