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Tuesday, April 30, 2013

No flames left in the fire



I’ve thought about deleting this blog a million times. Feels like the chapter is closed. Life has moved me in some strange directions since 2004 when this all began.

I rarely make time to write for pleasure anymore. It isn’t because I stopped enjoying writing. 

Feels like the blog died a little with my dad and more with my mom. The drive is no longer there without them around to read it I suppose. 

This is it for me. Virtual death if you will. Don’t mourn the end of Home Fires, or Home Fries as so many have called it over the years, I’ll still be on Facebook as Lois Twater - until that chapter closes too. 

Thanks for taking the ride with me.

Monday, December 03, 2012

Mahna Mahna!

December 6, 2009, was the first time… ever I saw her face. Fast friends because of our common interests, twisted senses of humor and some other connection you just feel with certain people.


An unfamiliar voice singing the Muppets, Mahna Mahna, was the first phone call she ever made to me. It has become our song. We recently learned it originated in a porno – funny and fitting.

Our bond is certainly a form of Crazy Glue.

We “knew” each other for quite some time via the blogs and similar internet stomping grounds (Read: porn sites) As I look back on the last three years and as our anniversary approaches, I want to share my favorite thing about her with all of you. 

Her laughter.

It is music to my ears.

Brings a smile to my face.

It makes me not want to take my eyes off of her.

She rocks like Rainman, as tears pool in her eyes.

She flings her head back, mouth agape, as she gasps for breath, squealing, snorting and impersonating labor and childbirth.

Squeezing her thighs together to keep from peeing her pants, or as we say, letting the tears of joy run down her legs. I call that move the clapper, imagine a movie director's clapper being her legs.

Her entire body jolts and jiggles as a variety of sounds emit from her face.

I love that! And more than anything, her reaction feeds my crazy. She makes me feel much funnier than I really am. She loves me like a sister but handpicked me from the big ol’ world. How can you not fall head-over-heels in love?!

I have!

In the last three years, we’ve spent a lot of time together. We’ve learned, loved, laughed and lost. Through it all, even the toughest patches, we’ve laughed, mostly at ourselves but what makes our relationship so special is that we’ve done it together. 

Jodi and I had a speedy quick visit planned and this past weekend, she was bringing…her man. We thought it was time he witness the crazy that takes place in Le Château De La Ho - the same crazy that brings my friends back for more often.

It would be his first-ever visit, yet Jodi’s millionth. We thought it was time he see where his wife’s second home is and that we don’t have a secret boyfriend here for her or anything weird going on…besides our own weirdness. 

I’m not sure how he felt when he walked into my house.

He is a stoic man, a bit tough to make laugh, or to make smile, especially compared to his wife. I thought he did well under the circumstances.

When they arrived they were greeted by Ella Jayne and her friend, who I just realized never did get a name. 

Ella Jayne, my alter ego, was dressed in turquoise shorts, knee-high argyle fuzzy socks – a gift from Jodi, a green v-neck tee-shirt with a googly-eyed monster on it, painted on freckles, rosy cheeks, black waterproof mascara between all of my teeth and lopsided pigtails.

Go back and reread that description so you too can visualize my overflowing sexiness!

Little did Jodi know Turtle was here too. As my brain formulated the plan I also thought there was no way I was going to get Turtle to go along with it. But to my surprise, she was ready, willing and able…long as there was no photographic evidence.

Dressed in shorts, fuzzy striped colorful socks, an alligator print blazer (the only really fucking weird piece of clothing I have of my mother’s) with her hair also in lopsided pigtails, with rosy freckled cheeks, Turtle looked like Ella Jayne’s long lost sister.

Hot fucking mess times two! (Really wish I had not made a pinky swear to no photos so you could see for yourselves!)

We planned to greet Jodi that way because Jodi loves her some Ella Jayne, and let’s face it, I was looking for some of that great laughter from her.

She didn’t know Turtle was in town and was so shocked to see her there at my house, she looked right through our ridiculous costumes. She laughed, but not like the typical “Oh my fucking hell” squeal I expected.

Once the shock wore off a bit and we ditched her old man with my old man, the three of us sat at the dining room table, talking, drinking, laughing and maybe recording…


video


This was much more tame than her usual "back labor" laughter because she knew I was recording her.

How can I not be crazy in love?! 

Happy anniversary to my sweet, beautiful, Crazy Glue sister. 

I love you more!

Tuesday, October 23, 2012

I Get Off… great song by Halestorm

And conveniently fits the theme for what I am about to tell you. Family and squimish, save yourselves now and do not read any further.

Not sure what I was waiting for, really. What I expected, anticipated and maybe even hoped for, wasn’t in the cards, apparently.

I thought there should be some intensity in the moment. I may have considered the notion that the gates of Heaven could open and the light of the rapture would shine down upon me.

“Take me now, sweet Jesus!”

My engines revved at the thought of what was about to happen. And, in an odd way, I hoped it would be addictive. Plus, if it was, I was completely willing to forgo anything in my life, fuck you A&E’s Intervention. When I say I’d give anything, including my eyesight, I mean, everything!

If there is an opportunity to be addicted to pleasure, I was ready for it. Who wouldn’t be?

Like crack for your clit, marijuana for your muff, a bong for your beaver. Hook me up, dear dealer, this ol’ girl is in the prime of her life!

It was not so. Perhaps it was simply not meant to be.

A tingle, warmth, a feeling of something, anything? “Is this thing on?” I yelled to my nether region.

Although I’m unsure what the street value is on drugs, I am smart enough to know if something, natural or synthetic, is going to cost me $32.00 for POINT 34 ounces, it is going to take me for a ride and it better be good!

Seriously .34 oz.

I expected my twat to trip the fuck out. And yes, I wanted a cool sensation of being in the Swiss Alps. I mean shit, if a York Peppermint Patty can do that for 50 cents, it’s the least I should presume. Right?

KY Intense is “supposed” to make your toes curl.

Guess what? It doesn’t.

And how do I know this? Like I said earlier, I’m in the prime of my life and a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.

The instructions come with a diagram, and I guess if you are not familiar with pussy, you might need a map to find Mt. Clitoris, which is north of The Cave of Wonders, at the top of Labia Lane – no relation.

Maybe that was all they meant when they said intense. Because let’s face it, if you never knew where that little Mexican Jumping Bean was, this shit would be intense and would curl your toes.

In the real world, if you already can locate the clitoris, that’s all the intensity you ever really need. And there’s really no need for lube. The vagina is, in a way, a self-cleaning oven, in that it doesn’t need all those chemicals to get things cooking.

I am Lois Lane and I approve this message.

Thursday, June 21, 2012

The House That Built Me

A couple of days ago, I was home, ringing in my 40th birthday, minding my own business, when someone came to the door. It was a man and woman. He was holding a camera, she was wearing a floppy sun hat.

They were both in their late 70s…you gotta size people up before you randomly open a door for strangers even out here in the middle of nowhere. Seeing I could “take them” both, I opened the door, smiled and asked if I could help them.

They both started to talk, nervously but excitedly. Words were flying on top of each other and I had no idea what they were saying. I stepped out onto the porch. She grabbed my arm and said she was sorry to barge in this way but was hoping I wouldn’t mind her and her cousin taking photos of the outside of the house.

This house was built in 1860. Being from Chicago, I was always taken aback by people who randomly stop by to talk to me, a stranger, but in the six years I’ve been here, it’s happened a lot.

I have been in the garden and people literally driving by on lawn mowers (has happened so many times) have stopped to tell me they lived here in XXX year, or like what we’ve done to the place.

A couple from the suburbs stopped by (think I blogged about them before) who were just driving by and admired my garden and pergola, so they thought they should stop and talk. They did and we are still in touch as garden buddies.

Many others have walked by saying they too have lived here or knew people who had.

Once had a pizza delivered by a man who asked if he could come in and take a tour because, “This place was a real shithole (when he lived here back in the late 60s) when it was a two-flat apartment. Shittiest house on the block, maybe even in town.”

I remember my first year here. We were smack-dab in the middle of building a wrap-around front porch. I ran to the little market to pick up a few things and two people in the store, people I’d never seen, independently, said, “Porch is coming along very nicely.” “Oh, you’re the one who lives in the house where the porch is going up, lookin’ good.”

Growing up in a big city, these kinds of things just don’t happen. Here in the sticks, happens all the time.

So many construction projects have taken place in this old house, even before we lived here. Which means, not enough of it is original to get it on the national registry of historic places. But I guess enough people lived here and knew others who did that it really doesn’t need all the fanfare that comes with being on the registry.

I finally realized the treasure I live in, and what better day than on my birthday to find out?

I told the lady she wasn’t barging in and it was okay for them to photograph the house. As he fidgeted with his camera, she began to tell me about her great-great grandfather who lived here in the 20s. With a twinkle in her eyes and child-like excitement in her voice, her memories flowed.

“That barn back there was there when I was a kid. All of us kids used to go in there, sit on the old tractor, pretend we were driving and plowing the fields. Grandmother worked her garden right over here and she could grow anything. There were two big oak trees over there. Guess they are long gone now…”

I listened intently and she strolled down memory lane and he snapped picture after picture.

When he finished, he stepped onto the porch with us. He too had a lot of fond reminiscences to share. But again they began speaking on top of each other’s words as he mentioned their great aunt.

Her bedroom was my bedroom. When her beau would come to town from Chicago, she would sneak out of that bedroom window to meet him. When he would visit and the law would come looking for him, the girl and her mother would hide him in the floor boards of the attic. Because of his many disappearing acts, he was denoted a nickname, “The Ghost.”

Eventually, she eloped with the gangster who ran with Bugs Moran. He was his bodyguard. He was the same bodyguard who was running late the night of the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre in the late 1920s, keeping Bugs from being inside the warehouse when shots rang out. The hit was rumored to be called by Al Capone, Bugs’ archenemy.

To say I was fascinated is an understatement. My dreams have since been filled with images of myself climbing out of that window to meet some handsome, bad boy from Chicago. The rat-a-tat-tat of a hit is what awakens me.



I did invite them inside for coffee. Oddly enough I was drinking out of a birthday gift Lane 2 bought for me. The coffee mug has a pistol shaped handle and it says, "Fuck you, you fucking fuck." Fitting, huh?

As they looked around, more stories were told, memories unfolded and smiles lit up each of these old rooms.

“Grandmother used to sit right here,” she said pointing. “There was a potbelly stove here. She’d sit on the end of the sofa, and crochet the most intricate and beautiful blankets.”

As she told me these stories, she kept drawing her arms to her chest. It was like she was physically drawing the memories to her heart. Was about the sweetest thing I have ever seen a grown woman do.

They stayed for more than an hour and she gave me the biggest hug when they left. I listened as they walked back to their car. They were gushing about their visit, how many years (over 50) had passed since they had been inside of the house, and said how nice it was that a "sweet person" was taking care of "grandpa’s pride and joy."

It made my day listening to them and it made me appreciate this old house so much more.

Wednesday, May 16, 2012

Mee-Ooow!

You all know what a Brazilian is, right? You know how you go about getting one of these…sphinx pussies, right? Certainly there is more than one way to skin a cat…ooh, bad pun, sorry. The most common are self-waxing, salon waxing, shaving and electrolysis.

Personally, I can’t see letting my hooha out in public, paying money to let some stranger play Karate Kid with a wax on wax off treatment, while causing me quite a bit of pain, and never mind the kind of positions you’d have to get into for them to get every single hair.

But really, that shit hurts, and if you say it doesn’t you’re just a sadist. And that is why self-waxing is also out for me. I am not into pain of any kind, especially the self-inflicted stuff.

And really, who wants to even think about electro-cunt, I mean electrolysis?!

I shave. It doesn’t hurt… as long as I haven’t overdone the coffee. (Please don’t get a visual, especially by the time you reach the end of this post.)

There is a great debate about the bald beaver. Some say it is too “child-like” making the person who enjoys dabbling in it a pedophile. I say that’s bullshit. To me just feels better, cleaner and more sensitive. And I dabble in my hot pocket plenty. Wait, what?!

Some like to have a landing strip or a design so it still has a little something going on. But, ladies, a vadge has always got something going on. It really doesn’t matter if it has hair or not. It doesn’t matter if you have designs cut into it like Bobby Brown’s hair in the 80s, a V or heart-shape, etc. as long as you don’t have a hip-to-hip fro, it’s all good.

Some even think you can be too old to trade the “carpet” in for linoleum. Funny thing about that is nature makes enough fall out that you become baldish by default eventually anyhow. For some, that is even before gray pubes start popping.

So whether you are for or against clean-shaven cooches, please note, I have a point, I just haven’t reached it yet.

Brazilian, we know the meaning of the word. So why when we see a product called, “Nair Brazilian Spa Clay” wouldn’t we think it is made to trim the trim in an easier, pain-free at home setting? That is what we would and should think, right?!

Well, my friends, I am here, barely living proof, to tell you, that is not what the product is for, unless you want a flaming fish taco. One might think to actually read the instructions and warnings on the label, even if they are in the finest of fine print. And then there’s me.

Get your glasses on and read the label before putting this…napalm on your meat curtains or your puckered poo hole. Holy mother of fuck!

I wonder if this is what “the clap” feels like. It certainly has a fiery sting down stairs. (Singing Johnny Cash’s Ring of Fire in my head right now.)

Besides the fact that now due to an allergic reaction, it looks like I need to invest in Proactiv panties. Do they make those for the pimply assed? It didn’t even take all the hair off! I am pretty sure my snatcharoo isn’t made of steel wool, yet for whatever reason, I look like I’ve got a case of chemo crotch. Patches of hair clung to my cave of wonders, as well as to the “convenient sponge.”

I won’t even go into the thoughts I have about a reusable snatch sponge because you all know what kind of bacteria a dish sponge can hold.

Honestly my butt cheeks felt like I’d drank a bottle of tequila while eating a platter of spicy Mexican food the night before. (We all have a little butt fuzz, right? If you don’t please lie to me.)

Those Mexican folks must have colons of steel. I mean, ay, caramba! My asshole sure felt like a god damn piñata that had just been cracked open. And I had to see, but without a mirror handy, I had to improvise. While still naked and bowlegged, I squatted as low as I could go. I bent over, craned my neck far as I could, because I was certain flames - no, no, white hot flames should be flying out of that general area.

But due to my lack of flexibility, I was unable to see what clearly must look like it had been beaten with a stick. In a way, I was hoping candy was going to fall out of my piñata poop chute.

Where was I? If you want to have a chemo crotch and a burning bung, go ahead use that shit. But I won’t make that same mistake twice. It works just fine on the tuff muff part, but don’t let it touch those tender lips or go anywhere near the crack. So true about crack killing, incidentally.

Now if you’ll please excuse me, I think I need to go ice my asshole.

Friday, May 11, 2012

Mother's Day date with Lane 1

Crazy moments of cuteness just don’t come along often enough when it comes to Lane 1. He’ll be 20 in a month. God, where does time go? He isn’t around very often, but when he is that boy just melts his ol’ ma’s heart.

Yesterday he took me on an early Mother’s Day date. It was a great day. Weather was perfect and all conditions were right due to recent rainfall.

We went for a hike that went on for miles and miles, for hours and hours. We went up and down hill, over the river and through the woods - literally.



Over the rough terrain, he kept reaching out for my hand to help me or asked if I was okay. I remember doing the same to him when he was a little guy. Man, how times change…

Even on our way out the door he reminded me to wear shoes I don’t care about since they’d probably get muddy.



The whole time in the car there and while hiking he told me stories about things he and his buddies have done and told me about places they’ve been. He even asked if I minded his choice of music in the car. He’s growing up so fast.



We climbed and talked, did I mention he even turned his cell phone off and stuck it in his pocket? He actually wanted to talk to his mom. We joked around, making fun of each other. We laughed and walked into the mud, onto the rocks… and then as the day was coming to a close, one of us fell waist deep into the water.

The funny thing about making fun of your mother is karma is always on her side. He’s learning the hard way. As we went around a designated trail to get a better view of a waterfall, I believe my son said something like, “Come this way.”



I protested saying I felt nervous and didn’t want to.

“Come on, Ma. It’s not that hard and the water isn’t even deep. There is nothing to be nervous about.” I didn’t budge and he said, “You’re so old!”

No sooner did those words pass his lips, while he was showing me how “easy” it was, and he was swept away by the current. He fell in about cell phone deep, I mean waist deep.



It took every ounce of me to not laugh. I wanted to take a picture almost as bad as I wanted to save him from drowning, but I was fighting my laughter too much for either. Thankfully he recovered his footing quickly and came up… cussing a blue streak, until he looked at my face and we both started laughing.

He kinda whined most of the way back about being cold, ruining his phone, complaining his thighs were chaffing and his balls were becoming prune-like.



I was amused. I think secretly he was too.

Thank you so much my young man for making me so proud and treating me to a great day. I love you, bud.

Thursday, February 09, 2012

Wow!

These taste way better than abortions!



By now, everyone has seen the story about Plan B (the morning after pill) being available in vending machines, right?




Some will abuse the machines hoping to gain popularity. You’re not fooling anyone, virgin.

I’d love to see a commercial, but how would it go you ask??? Well, lucky for you, my mind is a wasteland for this sort of shit.

I have visions of these machines being setup in school cafeterias, in workplace lunchrooms and in bar entrances where they used to have the cigarette machines.



Can you see some broad pulling on one of those impossible levers with all her might, sliding to the floor in her hooker heels?



"No, you get it for me! You're the only one who came that night, you prick!"

I also see ladies approaching the machine shifty-eyed, watching over their shoulder nervously as they deposit their money. (It’s only takes coins by the way $20-$60 in change.)

And maybe she had to break into her childhood piggy bank to gather enough cash. I could also see her digging in the couch cushions, or frantically looking in her car ashtray, lifting floor mats and hanging upside-down, cramming her hand under the seats to find enough change.



You knew it was bound to happen. I can clearly see once all that money is deposited and the number code is punched in – Plan B gets stuck, like a non-compliant bag of Cheetos hung up on the metal spring. It just dangles there, taunting her. In my head a woman stands there kicking the shit out of the machine and calls it every name in the book as if she were talking to the guy who knocked her up.



Could they possibly come in an old fashioned gumball machine, just to make it easier on that fertile slut? (I think there is a blowing joke in there somewhere.)

The tagline at the end of the commercial is where I’m having trouble. How would it go?

When Plan A doesn't work and… you can't control your internal whore.

When Plan A doesn't work and… the condom breaks.



When Plan A doesn't work and… you can’t find a rusty wire hanger anywhere.

When Plan A doesn't work and… and the dude says, “I’ve smoked so much weed I’m probably sterile,” and what a shock, he isn't.

When Plan A doesn't work and… you live in a ground-level apartment with no stairs to throw yourself down.

When Plan A doesn't work and… he promised to pull out.

When Plan A doesn't work and _______________.