Thursday, November 20, 2008
Wedgie
I've had a wedgie all day. I don't get wedgies. Oh I used to get the intentional, pre-pubescent variety in the school hallways of my youth. Violent tuggings by cackling toughs with yellow teeth and bad breath. But naturally occuring accretions of friendly underwear between the lobes of my ass? Never. Notice though, that within days of posting to this blog about panties and ass-cracks, what? I get a day-long wedgie that I just can't shake! It's like elastic- I pluck it out, forget about it for a minute, and then before I know it I'm right back to that squeamish feeling of something trying to gain entrance to my bung hole. My hygiene is good, I think, so it's not a matter of adhesion. And I've worn these particular briefs before, plenty of times. They know me, and they know what I like, and what I don't. Could my ass-dimensions be changing since the last wearing? Am I becoming more woman-like? They're plagued by wedgies, aren't they, if I'm not mistaken? But guys? No way. Ain't right. The label says they're 95% cotton and 5% spandex. Can spandex reproduce? Maybe they're dividing and multiplying, like a zygote, pushing aside the more liberal, freedom-loving cotton to get to a heightened, invasive state of awareness? Maybe someday the whole thing will be spandex, and then I'll have to call them speedo's?
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Past Tense
A thick gray blanket
Frayed at the edge
From too many washings
Or too much use.
Hard use.
It used to be white, once
Many years ago.
A beautiful, warm
White blanket.
Now it hangs heavy over the city
Sooty, and worn
Full of the threat of rain.
Who cares.
Drizzle on, gray cloud.
Let it rain
Hard and savage.
I've got a raincoat.
Frayed at the edge
From too many washings
Or too much use.
Hard use.
It used to be white, once
Many years ago.
A beautiful, warm
White blanket.
Now it hangs heavy over the city
Sooty, and worn
Full of the threat of rain.
Who cares.
Drizzle on, gray cloud.
Let it rain
Hard and savage.
I've got a raincoat.
A Miracle?
How in God's name did I end up with a bra in my hand? Whose is it, and where did it come from? No kidding, why in the hell is it draped from the fingers of my right hand as I go to hang the dog's leash back up in the pantry? I just walked two freakin' miles in November's cold drear with my dog and now I'm home. I open the back door, take off my coat, walk to the pantry with the leash in my hand, go to hang it up, ... and there it is, a set of dainty pink cups hanging from the fingers of my right hand, from absolutely nowhere! They're not the dog's, and they're not MINE! So how did they get there??? I'm seriously beginning to think MIRACLE here. Craziest thing I've ever seen...
And now perhaps the stupidest thing I've ever seen: while walking up at RPI (Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute) on my lunch hour yesterday, on yet another cold, gray November day, a group of young men are out on the common, hawking $2 shish-kabobs. A fundraiser of some sort. As I approach I hear some good-natured arguing about adding heat to the fire. One of the students, in an ardent and passionate move, bends down to HUG his hibachi to prove the point! Remember- RPI is a top-notch engineering school. They take only the best of the best from around the world. And yet, one of them sees skewered, sizzling meat come hot off the grill. He exchanges it for money with passersby... then bends low to hug his hibachi to make a point???
Yes, he burned his youthful face, and everyone laughed. Well, not me. I'm 47. I just shook my head and kept walking.
And now perhaps the stupidest thing I've ever seen: while walking up at RPI (Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute) on my lunch hour yesterday, on yet another cold, gray November day, a group of young men are out on the common, hawking $2 shish-kabobs. A fundraiser of some sort. As I approach I hear some good-natured arguing about adding heat to the fire. One of the students, in an ardent and passionate move, bends down to HUG his hibachi to prove the point! Remember- RPI is a top-notch engineering school. They take only the best of the best from around the world. And yet, one of them sees skewered, sizzling meat come hot off the grill. He exchanges it for money with passersby... then bends low to hug his hibachi to make a point???
Yes, he burned his youthful face, and everyone laughed. Well, not me. I'm 47. I just shook my head and kept walking.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
You've Got to be Flexible
Life isn't always what you want it to be. It takes you to some pretty strange places sometimes, and quite unexpectedly. Take last night for instance. I was really looking forward to doing some overtime at work today. But then I get a call from my mother at about 8 P.M. telling me that my uncle's memorial service was this morning, and I'll be there, right? "Godd...yup, absolutely." "Did you forget?" "Yup, absolutely." So $38/hour goes out the window to attend the memorial for a beloved man (and I do mean that) whose survivors include a widow and an ex-widow, who happen to be sisters. I guess no one counted on THAT ever happening. See? And it made for an awkward service, with a widow whose ideas for the memorial differed greatly from those of his surviving children, who happen to be the widow's neices and nephews. See? Once upon a time we were all on the same page, and everyone knew their place. Today we stood by a small wet urn in the cold rain of late autumn, two camps huddled under wind-tossed umbrellas, as the fading notes of TAPS drifted off into the gray, alone.
And what about the crack of your daughter's boyfriend's ass? Did you ever think you'd end up THERE on a tired Friday night? I did, and quite by accident. His accident, actually. Last week he fell down his stairs, riding his coccyx all the way to the bottom. He gutted it out all through the week, but when he got to my house he felt that things were getting out of hand. Something was oozing out of his bottom. My wife being a nurse could not resist, even though we were snuggled deep into bed in our jammies, waiting for sleep to take us away. But life had other ideas, and life this night took us to the northern edge of the boy's ass crack. And a good thing it did, too. He was oozing pus from a small hole that had been bored into him as infectious ass pressure sought a fissure. Jennifer alternately squeezed the cheeks of his ass and then spread them, collecting great gobs of putrefaction on white cotton balls wedged into his crack. Over and over and over. Thought I was gonna puke, but she handled it as only a nurse can, with good humor, a tender touch, and some antibiotics we'd been holding in reserve since last year's trip to Aruba.
You'll be happy to know that the young man is doing better today. Sometimes life takes you to some good places too...
And what about the crack of your daughter's boyfriend's ass? Did you ever think you'd end up THERE on a tired Friday night? I did, and quite by accident. His accident, actually. Last week he fell down his stairs, riding his coccyx all the way to the bottom. He gutted it out all through the week, but when he got to my house he felt that things were getting out of hand. Something was oozing out of his bottom. My wife being a nurse could not resist, even though we were snuggled deep into bed in our jammies, waiting for sleep to take us away. But life had other ideas, and life this night took us to the northern edge of the boy's ass crack. And a good thing it did, too. He was oozing pus from a small hole that had been bored into him as infectious ass pressure sought a fissure. Jennifer alternately squeezed the cheeks of his ass and then spread them, collecting great gobs of putrefaction on white cotton balls wedged into his crack. Over and over and over. Thought I was gonna puke, but she handled it as only a nurse can, with good humor, a tender touch, and some antibiotics we'd been holding in reserve since last year's trip to Aruba.
You'll be happy to know that the young man is doing better today. Sometimes life takes you to some good places too...
Friday, November 14, 2008
Peace Protest
Two roads intersected many years ago, making four corners and a small town, charming and intimate, called Delmar. They have two pizza shops there, a Chinese restaurant, an eclectic book store, a market of the regular kind (before we became behemoths), a trendy coffee shop, a wellness clinic for after we became behemoths, and a peace store, Who would have ever thought we'd need a place to purchase peace. But we do, don't we.
There's also an island, of sorts, a tiny nook of land in the midst of the intersection, with park benches and a big clock, so that everyone can tell the times. And the times they are still a changin', for at 5:00 P.M. on every Monday afternoon since 2002, sandwhiched between the Afghanistan and Iraq invasions, a group calling itself Bethlehem Neighbors For Peace meets here, at the concrete island and its outlaying corners, to demonstrate against war. They're mostly older men in beards, and older women in sunglasses. Mostly. They hold signs of the liberal kind, some of them encouraging rush-hour traffic, such as it can be in Delmar, to honk for peace. There was a lot of honking, for Delmar is a liberal town, and not without money or education. All told there may have been fifty peace-loving, well-educated Delmar liberals there.
Opposing them was a smaller group of maybe ten stalwart individuals, led by a former Marine biker of the Nomad clan, apparently. He was youngish, in his thirties I would guess, and wore a digital desert cammo scarf pulled tightly over his head and tied in back of his neck, in the fashion of pirates. I immediately loved him, for he was sunbeaten and weathered. Gritty. He walked with a hard edge of menace, very confident despite the superior numbers arrayed against him. I would most certainly want him with me in a firefight. He brought some fresh-faced, pimply boys with him, college Republican types. I would most certainly NOT want them with me. There were also a few grim faced older men holding flags proudly, glaring across the street at a group of smiling liberals holding their own flags. The flags all looked the same to me but the groups seemed to differ over the fate of "the troops." While both sides held placards admonishing the rest of us to support the troops, one side of the street thought it best to bring them home while the other side wanted to leave them where they were. It all got very muddled, as reflected by the conservatives' signs: "REALLY Support the Troops" - "We Did Pack Our Bags!" - We are NOT BNFP!" The lone woman in the war group proudly held a sign that said "I married a soldier." Now, I've thought long and hard on these things and I still can't tell what these folks actually wanted!
So... sixty people milled about for one hour out of twenty-four, one day out of seven, on a cute but insignificant corner in a politically insignificant town, with most everyone taking credit for the same-sounding car horns, all splashed about with the same Stars and Stripes cologne, probably enjoying the same pizza afterwards.... and this is a threat to whom? We know it's not stopped any wars, and we also know it probably hasn't started any new ones. So what is it?
Well, to a curious outsider, it looks a lot like group masturbation: feels good, but no reproduction.
I sipped my boutique coffee silently, watching all, and then walked slowly back to my car, whistling the Star Spangled Banner.
There's also an island, of sorts, a tiny nook of land in the midst of the intersection, with park benches and a big clock, so that everyone can tell the times. And the times they are still a changin', for at 5:00 P.M. on every Monday afternoon since 2002, sandwhiched between the Afghanistan and Iraq invasions, a group calling itself Bethlehem Neighbors For Peace meets here, at the concrete island and its outlaying corners, to demonstrate against war. They're mostly older men in beards, and older women in sunglasses. Mostly. They hold signs of the liberal kind, some of them encouraging rush-hour traffic, such as it can be in Delmar, to honk for peace. There was a lot of honking, for Delmar is a liberal town, and not without money or education. All told there may have been fifty peace-loving, well-educated Delmar liberals there.
Opposing them was a smaller group of maybe ten stalwart individuals, led by a former Marine biker of the Nomad clan, apparently. He was youngish, in his thirties I would guess, and wore a digital desert cammo scarf pulled tightly over his head and tied in back of his neck, in the fashion of pirates. I immediately loved him, for he was sunbeaten and weathered. Gritty. He walked with a hard edge of menace, very confident despite the superior numbers arrayed against him. I would most certainly want him with me in a firefight. He brought some fresh-faced, pimply boys with him, college Republican types. I would most certainly NOT want them with me. There were also a few grim faced older men holding flags proudly, glaring across the street at a group of smiling liberals holding their own flags. The flags all looked the same to me but the groups seemed to differ over the fate of "the troops." While both sides held placards admonishing the rest of us to support the troops, one side of the street thought it best to bring them home while the other side wanted to leave them where they were. It all got very muddled, as reflected by the conservatives' signs: "REALLY Support the Troops" - "We Did Pack Our Bags!" - We are NOT BNFP!" The lone woman in the war group proudly held a sign that said "I married a soldier." Now, I've thought long and hard on these things and I still can't tell what these folks actually wanted!
So... sixty people milled about for one hour out of twenty-four, one day out of seven, on a cute but insignificant corner in a politically insignificant town, with most everyone taking credit for the same-sounding car horns, all splashed about with the same Stars and Stripes cologne, probably enjoying the same pizza afterwards.... and this is a threat to whom? We know it's not stopped any wars, and we also know it probably hasn't started any new ones. So what is it?
Well, to a curious outsider, it looks a lot like group masturbation: feels good, but no reproduction.
I sipped my boutique coffee silently, watching all, and then walked slowly back to my car, whistling the Star Spangled Banner.
The War of the Panties
We argued about the panties. A scalding, vicious little engagement in the crosshairs of the Crossgates Mall. It had been simmering for some time by the time we got there, though when we got there we were happy. We shopped for jewelry armoires at J.C. Penny's. I even skipped overtime to be there, and it seemed a wise choice. At first.
It was I who remembered that we hadn't remembered them, so we drove back to where we'd started so happily just an hour before, went into the very same entrance, but everything looks different when you're hunting for panties, especially freebies. It was the wrong entrance, but that's okay. It won't hurt. We'll just take our time and stroll till we get there, arm in arm; foreplay. No rush, they're giving them away, for god's sake! But I tried one too many times to steer her my way- NO! She wriggles out from under my arm, and back to the car we go, for a closer, more appropriate entrance. But by now it was busy, and there was a misunderstanding. I'll let you out here, by the doors, and you meet me down there. Or so I thought. Parking far down the row I did what I always do when she gets mad at me while I wait for her panties: I read. It was a book about the war.
Twenty minutes went by. Can panties take so long? Surely not. Maybe she can't find me. Maybe she's wandering the aisles of cars even now, panties dangling from her hands, searching fruitlessly for me. I know- I'll give her a better target. I'll get out of the car and read on the back bumper, so she can see me. But I look up and there she stands, one hundred yards away, alone and forlorn. She hasn't moved. She has no panties, but I can see that she's packing an indelicate load of fierce anger, all of it directed at me. You see, I'd remembered the forgotten panties the first time, but forgot that I needed to be there with her to claim the prizes, to hand in that second postcard, which is silly, because surely they must know I won't be wearing them. It's beginning to look like I'll never see them again, either, these hastily grabbed undergarments. She tries to hand one to me as we queue, but I refuse with all the force I can muster from my suddenly queasy stomach: "I'm not holding them!" I do wait in line, however, the only man there but for the disinterested youth who processes our transaction. I can't help but wonder: does he wonder what she'll look like in them? I would.
We skulk back to the car in great silence. She takes the elevator, I take the stairs. I arrive before her and wait patiently, hoping that when the doors open she'll be gone, or at least changed. No luck. One would think that free panties would buy an awful lot of good will, but no. Not today. We argue rabidly in the car as I careen across the parking lot, each of us unloading our pent up hostility until finally I scream, and she rubs her forehead. "Take me home. I have a headache." That ends the conversation, such as it is. She probably puts the panties in the drawer.
We're going out with friends tonight. Maybe she'll put them on?
Maybe. But I damn sure won't ever find out...
It was I who remembered that we hadn't remembered them, so we drove back to where we'd started so happily just an hour before, went into the very same entrance, but everything looks different when you're hunting for panties, especially freebies. It was the wrong entrance, but that's okay. It won't hurt. We'll just take our time and stroll till we get there, arm in arm; foreplay. No rush, they're giving them away, for god's sake! But I tried one too many times to steer her my way- NO! She wriggles out from under my arm, and back to the car we go, for a closer, more appropriate entrance. But by now it was busy, and there was a misunderstanding. I'll let you out here, by the doors, and you meet me down there. Or so I thought. Parking far down the row I did what I always do when she gets mad at me while I wait for her panties: I read. It was a book about the war.
Twenty minutes went by. Can panties take so long? Surely not. Maybe she can't find me. Maybe she's wandering the aisles of cars even now, panties dangling from her hands, searching fruitlessly for me. I know- I'll give her a better target. I'll get out of the car and read on the back bumper, so she can see me. But I look up and there she stands, one hundred yards away, alone and forlorn. She hasn't moved. She has no panties, but I can see that she's packing an indelicate load of fierce anger, all of it directed at me. You see, I'd remembered the forgotten panties the first time, but forgot that I needed to be there with her to claim the prizes, to hand in that second postcard, which is silly, because surely they must know I won't be wearing them. It's beginning to look like I'll never see them again, either, these hastily grabbed undergarments. She tries to hand one to me as we queue, but I refuse with all the force I can muster from my suddenly queasy stomach: "I'm not holding them!" I do wait in line, however, the only man there but for the disinterested youth who processes our transaction. I can't help but wonder: does he wonder what she'll look like in them? I would.
We skulk back to the car in great silence. She takes the elevator, I take the stairs. I arrive before her and wait patiently, hoping that when the doors open she'll be gone, or at least changed. No luck. One would think that free panties would buy an awful lot of good will, but no. Not today. We argue rabidly in the car as I careen across the parking lot, each of us unloading our pent up hostility until finally I scream, and she rubs her forehead. "Take me home. I have a headache." That ends the conversation, such as it is. She probably puts the panties in the drawer.
We're going out with friends tonight. Maybe she'll put them on?
Maybe. But I damn sure won't ever find out...
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