NEW YEAR’S RESOLUTION(S) (WITH PUGS:)

IMG_20131224_215625_952pugs asleep

Love me baby, huh week after week
And baby let’s make promises
That we can keep
And call it a new year’s resolution, yeah, oh

Otis Redding – New Year’s Resolution

1.  BLOG MORE, DRUG LESS

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2.  READ MORE, BARK LESS

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3.  CHOOSE WELL, DISAPPOINT LESS

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4.  REMEMBER ROOTS, ENJOY SUCCESS

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5.  ROCK RECYCLING, RESIST TEMPTATION

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6.  RAVAGE BOOKS, SAVOR BOOKS, READ…READ…READ

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7.  PLACATE PUGNACIOUSNESS, LEND A PAW

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8.  PLAY MORE, SCREEN LESS

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9.  DO LESS, BE MORE

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10.  LOVE MORE, PUG MORE, DRUG MORE (I MEAN, LESS:)

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Oh, let’s try it again just you and me
And, baby, let’s see how happy honey, yeah
That we can be
And call it a new year’s resolution, yeah, yeah, yeah

HAPPY 2014!!!

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A DIVINE (the person, not the adjective) CHRISTMAS

Last week, John Waters ended his one man show, A John Waters Christmas, at the Birchmere in Alexandria, Virginia, with the thought provoking question: “What could I give you for Christmas?”  The response which immediately popped into my mind, as if I were the one asking that very question, was, of course, a brilliant one–a copy of Broken Hallelujah: notes from a marriage (perhaps–dare I say it–a signed copy).  But, do not fear, dear reader, as I just as quickly realized that this is something each of you (other than the signed part) most certainly already has.  A second copy would just be indulgent….But John Waters, to his credit, provided throughout the show examples of the kind of gifts he (inimitable director of such scatological cult classics as Polyester and Pink Flamingos) would like to receive, thereby helping out the clueless and the uncreative.  For example, he made the excellent and incontrovertible point that one should forgo the easily acquirable basket of fruit (even if the intended recipient is considered something of a fruit) in favor of more desirable items, such as cigarettes, porn, and drugs.   He left the list kind of general, leaving room for the eager giver to personalize such said collection of goodies with some of his or her personal favorites.  Now, you know, if I could I would happily send each and every one of you, dear readers, a personalized basket of porn and drugs (but no cigarettes, as they occupy a permanent place on this writer’s no fly list), but that is just not possible (unless, of course, you surreptitiously send me some funds to subsidize the purchase and an email with the words “Green Day” in the subject line..wink, wink), so I will give you what I can, what I  hope will prove invaluable to each and every one of you as you venture forth through this crazy thing called life (or trip, depending on your particular proclivities).  I give you, the gift of my greatest hits, if you will, those lessons that can only be learned from the vantage point of hindsight, the priceless product of experience, my experience and all that I have gleaned from the years of gross neglect that I have given to my responsibilities…and, yes, Virginia (the state, not the little girl), there are people who pick up the slack, parents and other participants in all aspects of life who prove to be better than I, and that, in this holy time, is, by this writer, most wholly appreciated.

LIFE LESSONS LEARNED:

1.  Times change.  For example, if I had known that this country, in an uncharacteristic bout of sanity, was going to start legalizing marijuana, I would not have worried so much in college and graduate school about the hours, ok-days, spent in an ecstatic though at times unproductive haze, of dope induced euphoria.  Indeed, as I read the current articles detailing the soon to be marijuana dispensaries in Chicago, readying themselves for the ruthlessness of free market competition, about to be unleashed on January 1, I now realize the many nights spent stoned, eating Cheetos, and watching the 1950’s anti-marijuana propaganda film (which played more like a parody), Reefer Madness, can acceptably be redefined as market research, as an uncanny ability, my uncanny ability, actually, to– if not predict–then anticipate the future (see, Charlie, I was right to believe we were prescient after all:)…

2.  Worry is not productive.  For example, If I had known early on that something called Facebook was going to be introduced into my adult life and prove that my worst fears were, in fact, true…that other people were happier, that other people’s children were more accomplished (and, apparently, happier), that other people’s marriages were better, that other people worked better, shopped better, ate better, vacationed better, and were, well, better than I…then I would not have wasted so much time worrying about being subpar and would have focused on the things that made me subpar and, in fact, happy, like drinking, and, well, drinking…

3.  Love and commitment make sex better.  For example, I have found that right along with the myth that a prince is out there for every young girl who believes she can be Cinderella, is the misconception that really good sex is somehow a happy byproduct of an emotionally satisfying relationship, that the precept of passion exists more completely for those adhering to the moral mandate of monogamy.  While I agree that a bit of creative configuring can invigorate conjugal mating, I most definitely would like to posit that sex with someone you love is not necessarily better than sex with, say, several people at one time that not only do you not “love,” but that you in fact do not even know very well, if at all…sex with toys can also be surprisingly satisfying…

And, so, dear readers, may this holiday season be filled with all the delights each and every one of you can acquire!  As for me, my true gift was what I witnessed at that aforementioned John Waters’ show–yes, watching a cross section of America actively embrace humor rife with illicit drugs, anal plugs, and homosexual love (well, sex), is what really just made me believe in the magic of Christmas…really, really believe…

JAMMIN JO

So many wonderful things have happened since the publication, almost one year ago, of Broken Hallelujah: notes from a marriage, not the least of which is the way that when one publishes a book–especially a book which deals with a somewhat taboo topic–long missed friends appear, figuratively,  out of thin air (or at least out of Facebook:)!  My friend, Jo, a vibrant (and apparently vibrating) blast from my Berkeley past, shared with me her hysterically funny take on a wife’s life, after recognizing in Lauren (BH’s protagonist) a kindred spirit.  Of course Jo, in her inimitable way, outdoes Lauren in her frustrating quest for sexual gratification and takes matters, literally, into her own hands!

Thank you, Jo (happy mother of two, miserable wife of one, lover of running, bourbon, and sex), for sharing your funny and authentic voice with this blog’s readers!

A RUNNER’S QUANDARY

To run before or after the blast, that is the question…

I have spent the past year and a half out of love with my marriage and in love with Angelo, my purple  “pocket rocket,” as a very dear friend calls him.

Angelo is the most magnificent, vibrant color of purple, almost neon but not quite.  He has a slight curve and a little clit tickler and though he is magical, he is not a rabbit.  Angelo has four buttons, which can be daunting early on in the love bubble.  However, once all of those buttons have been pushed, it’s pure mind-blowing, thigh quivering ecstasy.  What’s more, Angelo can go on and on, no Viagra needed.  This works perfectly for me because, somehow, in my mid forties, I am insatiable.  Perhaps it is because I have been sexually dormant for years as an unhappily married woman or perhaps it is the strange concoction of hormones that rage through a woman’s body at my age? A combination of both?  This, however, is a topic for another blog…

Since Angelo came into my life, and quite frankly before he was even around, I have found myself getting my groove on and on and on and on… Why blog about it?  Well for the cathartic experience, I suppose… But let’s be honest peeps, shall we? There is no fucking way that I am the only unhappily married, stay at home (mostly) mother of two, with way too much time on her hands, who has discovered sexting, pornhub and other mobile porn sites that can whet anyone’s appetite (if they would really fess up to actually enjoying a little porn), who loves blasting herself day in and day out, sometimes three or four times a day, right??  Whew, that was descriptive, huh?

Don’t get me wrong; I have always loved sex, lots of it… and masturbation too.  But this place I am at right now in my life?  This is the apogee of fucking oneself… This love affair, not only with Angelo but also with rocking the fuck out of (or maybe into?) my own world, is consuming at times.  There are times when my pussy is just plain worn out.  Still, I think to myself, “Why haven’t I been doing this religiously for the past eight years (one has to recover from childbirth and crying babies, etc)??

Before I became an ardent sex fiend these past 18 months, I was a mostly once in a while husband-fucking tried and true runner.  I have been running marathons for the past seven years, but now, I often find  myself in a bit of a quandary… I wonder whether to run before my date with Angelo or after?  I have decided there are pros and cons to both.  While a good blast really gets those endorphins running rampant throughout the body and makes for a great run, there is also the issue of a sore pussy and sometimes ass… There, I said it… Deal with it…

Any runner will tell you that with running comes chafing… They are partners for life, they will be together longer than most marriages I know of…  It’s not enough that my right inner thigh (only the right) is chafed from my shorts but my pussy is now chafed too??   I will say that before Angelo’s namesake insisted I needed a pussy of a much younger girl, I had a little landing strip to protect my lovely hills and valleys… However, I have grown to love my bare little twat, it’s hot.  A HOT TWAT.  But with that hot twat comes a little more care than back in the days of bush and I don’t mean GW.  I haven’t tried my anti-chafing creams; I am afraid to set that hot twat into a tailspin.  What if she runs and hides and I can’t fuck myself silly every day???  So that’s when I think, run first, shower and then get at it.  Because that run will get those endorphins flowing as well, and I won’t feel the swell of a well worked over pussy during my run.  But it’s so nice to send those kids off to school and get after it while my bed is still warm.

So, what’s a woman to do?  I think Angelo and I, and sometimes Baby Angelo (a tiny blue vibrating bullet that will make you feel like you rubbed coke all over your hot twat), do the most amazing job either way.  And often times, I am a before AND after girl… I think I will keep it that way…