According to my mother, it never hurts to do the following things:
Noted. I’m gonna spend my first BC Family Day doing all of those things.
When lady magazines run out of ways to thrill your man with an unexpected prostate massage, they print articles about “keeping the love alive” (hint: don’t surprise anyone with a finger up the ass, and testicles don’t like being yanked on – in fact, just stop getting sex tips from Cosmo altogether). It’s important, they say, for couples to engage in playful, romantic games to maintain a level of excitement in the relationship. When things get stale, a pair of sexy dice will get your stereotypical motor going, or maybe some saucy role playing. If those don’t do it for you, you can try sexy coupons or naked Twister or any of this stuff, which is totally sexy for people who live in sitcoms from 1982. Keep it fresh. Renew that spark. Put on your robe and wizard hat.
Ed and I are not immune to the need for spark (although I feel it more keenly than he, as I insist upon an exciting life of fireworks and illegal organ trade), but as our romantic games with 20-sided dice usually end in jail time, we’ve invented a new sexy pastime:
We hide the lint.
That isn’t some sort of sexy cool euphemism like “hiding the salami” or “shifting into second” or “going to Timmy’s for a large
double-double”; we actually hide lint from the dryer.
I know what you’re thinking – “oh god that’s so hot” – but let me explain:
Ed’s bathroom is next to the laundry, and has the nearest garbage can. When I put clothing in the dryer, I clean the lint trap first and toss it in his garbage. Thing is, lint doesn’t weight very much. When I throw it, it never makes it to the bin and ends up everywhere but – the floor, the counter, on the toilet, in the shower. It’s not a big deal, but each time it happened, Ed would comment on it to the point where I started missing the garbage can on purpose: placing the lint in the center of the toilet seat, balled up on the hot water tap, floating serenely in a full sink. Ed would find it and go “ARGH!” and I would giggle and life was good.
Then Ed started playing along, and it became a contest to surprise the other person .. with a ball of dryer lint. To date, the lint has been hidden in:
.. and so on and so forth. It’s so dumb, but it makes me laugh SO HARD; even more so now that Ed does it too. And that, my friends, is romance: not flowers or candle-lit dinners or reluctant cunnilingus or Hallmark chocolate, but pure simple ridiculous good times.
May the laughter (and enthusiastic cunnilingus) never end.
Gotta go. It’s my turn to hide the lint.
Following in the excellent footsteps of Sweden and along with other countries such as Ireland, New Zealand, Australia, Canada has a curated Twitter account of our very own: @PeopleofCanada.
And for the week of February 4th to 10th, the voice of that Twitter account will be me.
MUAHAHAHAHAH *ahem* I mean, I am excited to bring my own personal Canada to the world at large. Please follow the @PeopleofCanada account (and me, if you’re not already) and see what kind of trouble I can get myself into in the name of patriotism over the next seven days!
Check out the project’s website, and consider applying to be a curator – it can be anyone in or from Canada, and is a completely awesome idea (that we borrowed from Sweden).
This may be the first time I’ve ever been nervous about Twitter.
Also, if you do happen to follow my personal account, sorry about that tweet from Saturday night. Inappropriate dinner theatre was *really* inappropriate (even if it made me laugh a lot).
So, yeah. I’ll see you all next week as the (unofficial) Voice of Canada on Twitter!
Yay!
In very early January, we ordered (and paid for) an ottoman for our living room. It was supposed to arrive on January 23rd, at which point we would lounge to our heart’s content; pantless and fancy free. It was a good plan.
As I am currently wearing pants and full of fancy, you can tell things have not gone according to plan. As we neared our delivery date, I thought to check the website .. and to my surprise, the delivery date for our item was now February 2nd. A day later, February 3rd.
Then, February 7th and 9th and 13th. Next, February 23rd! And on Friday, we finally breeched March with a delivery date of March 2nd. Today? March 5th! Hooray!
We’ll keep you posted as the situation progresses, but as it stands, we’re expecting the ottoman to arrive at some point in 2015.
Back to you, Martin.
The company I work for released an app last year called “Poop the World“.
My brain cannot process this.
Seriously, I think my brain just broken into pieces.
how .. what .. why .. what
WHAT
truer now than ever before.
Several weeks ago (coincidentally right around the time I started watching All the Porn) I realized it had been quite some time since I last purchased any rage dildos, so I did some advanced-level internetting to find out what all the cool kids are using on their genitals these days. I carefully selected several items, placed an order to test out my new credit card, and eagerly watched my mailbox Scott Pilgrim style. Things took a little longer to arrive than immediately (and because I wisely shipped the box to my home instead of work), but last night I gamed the postal system and successfully brought home a box of shiny new bras AND a box of complicated sex toys to both cover and titillate my inappropriate areas.
not shown: a bunch of random free things they threw in the box including various flavoured oils and a weird rubbery purple vibrator
I grew up reading all the smutty books my parents had hidden around the house, so I’ve been curious about the Hitachi Magic Wand since I was 10. While I never got around to doing anything with that curiosity until recently, there is now a terrifying looking “massager” on my nightstand peering at me with its weird marshmallow eye and getting tangled up in the cords for my 3DS and PSP. I also splurged and bought an njoy Pure Wand because it is shiny and got enthusiastic reviews. The Pure Wand is surprisingly heavy, which I am excited by. I’d always had a thing for glass toys, but they’re dangerous – stainless steel is much less so, and can be cooled down or warmed up for different sensations without fear of Pyrex exploding in your nethers.
I have not tried any of my new toys yet, because I am still angry at my vagina for the stunt it pulled last Saturday. I can’t imagine this lockout will continue much longer, though. I’m certain an agreement shall be reached between the owner and the VPA by the time I get home from work today.
Hold my calls, please.
Look alive, people: this post is going to contain too much information. In fact, it’s going to be the next evolution of too much information. It’s Too Much Information 2: Electric Boogaloo. If you were terribly clever, it would be considered Two Much Information. Whatever you want to call it, you’ve been warned: there is too much information in the words below. Take cover!
On Saturday night, I experienced an exciting new chapter in personal discomfort. It was utterly unbelievable, and something I had never imagined was possible – but there I was, doubled over with symptoms and frantically Googling for answers in a desperate attempt to keep my hands occupied.
I was having an allergy attack. I get them from time to time, usually because I’ve been neglecting my daily antihistamine: I’m allergic to a whole lot of things (dust, cats, grass, pollen, Ed) so I dose myself year-round to keep my ducts in check. As with all things though, sometimes I get a little cocky and I think “nahhh, I’m fine – I don’t need to take my meds!” and then Bad Things happen just to remind me who’s in charge (hint: it’s not me).
Most of the time the Bad Things are a nasty case of mouth itchiness (officially known as an Oral Allergy Syndrome), and sometimes tattoo hives. The tattoo hives are the worst, because I want nothing more to lay into my skin with a scrubbing brush until I am satisfied and all the black ink bumps go away, but that is just not a good idea so I settle for slapping my tattoos as hard as I can. It hurts, doesn’t really help, and I look mighty stupid while doing it. I also pop an immediate extra-strength Reactin, and hope it kicks in quickly (which it usually does). Then the air stops being itchy and my hives go away and I can stop swearing as I promise to never, ever forget my meds ever again. It seems like a relatively minor inconvenience, but it’s really annoying and second only to forgetting my brain pills in terms of bad reactions (no matter how itchy I get, it’s still better than brain zaps and non-stop vertigo).
Then Saturday happened.
It started out with itchy palms, which spread to the soles of my feet. These are notoriously difficult areas to scratch, and I was jittery with a need for relief – even more so when the itch began to spread down my arms and legs, causing my shins to get all bloody where I scratched too hard. I took a pill in an attempt to quell the discomfort, but it wasn’t helping .. and then things got a whole lot worse.
Did you know that you can have an allergy attack inside your vagina?
I didn’t. But I do now. AND I NEVER WANT TO EXPERIENCE IT EVER AGAIN.
The itchiness I was feeling all over my body took root (no pun intended) in my most private of delicate flower gardens, and amplified itself a thousand fold. It felt like someone had shoved a handful of steel wool into my nethers; steel wool that was covered in several other kinds of wool like rabbit and lamb and lion. It was intensely terrible and I quickly learned that it is not possible or ladylike to properly scratch an all-encompassing vaginal itch (not to mention that properly relieving myself of an itch this bad would have caused some serious damage to quivering velvet, and I did not sign up for wearing bandaids all up in my tinkle flower). I had to sit on my hands to keep my fingers from wandering down south and trying to fix all that ailed me, and screamed for Ed to make haste with the last weapon in my arsenal: an extra-strength Benedryl from my nightstand. Even that didn’t really help, but I knew it would make me fall asleep before I could hurt myself with my newly grown nails (even if I would have totally done so if I thought it would stop the itch).
I eventually passed out while twitching helplessly, and things were fine when I woke up. This was by far the worst allergy attack I’ve ever had, and I never want it to happen again: I’ve been OD’ing on Reactin since Sunday morning, and with every twinge or tickle I panic thinking that The Itch is coming back. It was horrible. My vagina is a big stupid jerk.
I have never, ever experienced an itch like that. If I never experience it again, it will be too soon. You win this round, vagina .. but I will have the last laugh when I render you helpless with various items I have coming in mail.
SO. ITCHY.
Heading back on air after a long, long absence. Come listen to me be Rusty as Fuck (voice only; I’m afraid of webcams): http://www.twitch.tv/warwitchtv
We’ll be covering Return to Castle Wolfenstein matches from 11am to question mark each Sunday, for the ClanBase RtCW Hosted Cup 2012 International.
I haven’t worn the DeeAy hat in years. I hope it still fits.
Last night everyone was my mom.
When I dragged my carcass home from work, our self-appointed building manager advised me not to take a shower because “there’s a man on the roof!”. My bathroom is nowhere near the roof, and I live on the third floor of a 4-storey building .. so the warning made absolutely no sense, and I used a great deal of my remaining brain power to try and figure it out (to no avail).
As I settled myself on the couch for an evening of misery and intestinal discomfort, Ed flopped onto the love seat and tried to turned on the hockey game. This is when things got even more mom-like, as Ed gave voice to his internal monologue: “Why isn’t the TV working? … Ohh, the window is open!”.
WHAT.
Why is everyone my mom.
Stop talking in non-sequiturs. Only I may do that, as it is an inherited trait.
I am sick and it is not fair that people are not making sense at me all over my brain face.
Sooooo sick! *blergh* :(
Apparently Cleavage Appreciation Day is a thing, and it is today. Twitter is full of boobs (more so than usual), and as I am appropriately dressed for the occasion (because it is a day that ends in Y) I am basking in the assorted afterglows.
At least I was, until I checked my email:
SO RUDE.
And NO, you can’t MAKE ME.
BOOBS!
delicious juice dot com 