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Him: Shall I do this for your parents: Him: “These are the balls that bounce off your daughter’s ass.” Me: Sure, that’ll work too. Him: Shall I ask if they also want video? Me: Oh yes. Me: Ask if they’d prefer “Infant Sacrifices Volume One.” Me: Or “Buttsex Volume Twenty-Seven.” Me: They’ll love it! Last Friday night I wandered over to Etsy. I’ve been massively, unabashedly addicted to Etsy since the very lovely Pear McGee agreed to make me a custom bag for all my bits and pieces. Lest you think that Etsy is home only to knitted jumpers and artful crockery, let me show you otherwise. With the help of Etsy you can:
But on that Friday night I was uninterested in naughty dolls or fuzzy dong holders. One thing on the main page caught my eye. I hesitated for only a fraction of a moment before dashing off an email to the fun folks over at BoingBoing, because this item belonged on BoingBoing. It was fated to be on BoingBoing. If any item on the planet was born to be on BoingBoing it was this one. And out of the goodness of his heart, Cory Doctorow posted it on BoingBoing. My friends, the item in question is an Upsidedown Baby Head Bowl lined with red glaze created by artist Susan Kniffin Davidson. Some called it “sick.” Others, “twisted.” Still others, when presented with the incredibility of the item, let out an anguished “ewwwwwwwwwwww.” But I think it’s fabulous. It’s beyond fabulous. It’s the stuff of legends. I checked back on Kniffin Davidson’s page a few days after the BoingBoing post. I was thrilled to see that she’d sold out of Upsidedown Baby Head Bowls. And I found a note from her in my Etsy inbox, offering me an Upsidedown Baby Head Bowl of my very own. Squeee, I intoned with joy. I perused her works a bit more, then shyly asked if perhaps I might instead have this one, and glazed in blue? See, it’s still a head, but while the Upsidedown Baby Head Bowl looks like it could actually be an upside down baby head (you know, with the red interior and all), the Baby Head Cup looks…er…less realistic. Because, you know, a real baby neck couldn’t actually support a baby head like that. Considering the floppiness. And all. Ahem. And this is why I adore the internet. How without the internet would the world at large know that something as wondrous as a baby head bowl even existed? How would we connect the person who envisioned said bowl with the people who would find it astounding enough to wish it upon their shelves? And how without the internet would a baby head bowl of my very own be firing in a kiln somewhere in the Chicago area even as we speak? Um, have I said the words “baby head bowl” enough times in this entry? When we first started here some twenty-seven months ago, did you ever think we’d get to the point of discussing baby head bowls? Me neither. But I’m not complaining. —— I’ve been hearing about some site issues lately: slow load times, error messages with comments, etc. If you are experiencing problems, please reload the page and try again. And let me know. Thank you! “You start stories and you never finish them,” I hear you saying. “Whatever happened about that thing, or that other thing, or especially that funky vagina thing?” You ask me these questions through email, IM, phone and via anonymous and overwhelming psychic energy directed at me from every corner of the globe WHICH NEVER EVER STOPS AND WHICH GIVES ME A TERRIBLE HEADACHE PLEASE STOP THINKING ABOUT ME RIGHT NOW. While I’d love to tell my little tales in exactly the manner I choose with no outside influence, I will agree from time to time to divulge additional details as you ask for them. Solely as a means to avoid donning the dreaded aluminum hat, you understand.
There. Did I cover it all? Feel free to remind me in the comments if I’ve missed something. ‘Tho I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that. “Didn’t you ever smoke?” my little ones’ mother asked while lighting a cigarette of her own. I shook my head no. “Well, for about five minutes,” I admitted. “I never liked it. Which is a good thing, because if I’d liked it, I never would have been able to stop.” She nodded. “I stopped when I was pregnant for the first time, but with this one?” She nodded toward her second child, my little boy. “I drank, and smoked, and smoked cigarettes.” The boy in question chose that moment to attempt a dive off the picnic table, so the thread of the conversation dropped. Moments later (perhaps encouraged by his aborted acrobatic efforts), the boy filled his diaper. “You never got him circumsised?” she asked, watching the changing process from a safe distance. “Aren’t you going to?” “No, I’m not planning on it. He’s perfectly fine intact.” “He’ll get an infection,” she worried. “It’s a scientific fact that guys get infections if they don’t get cut.” “If he wants to have it removed when he’s older, I’ll help him set it up,” I said, hiking up the pants of the boy with difficulty, as he was straining to get back to the very important business of climbing. And then someone tried to play with the trash can, and someone else tried to break toward the parking lot, and someone else’s toy fell into the mud. Both of us responded to these little issues until the time allotted for the visit was over. It wasn’t until the drive home that her comments sunk into my head. How is one expected to reply to the perfectly casual mention of alcohol and drug use during pregnancy juxtaposed with the irrational worry about an intact foreskin? After the first group of dreadful dating site messages came through my inbox, I thought I’d exhausted the supply. But they just kept coming. To relieve the pressure on my brain, I shared a second set with you. I thought that surely we were done with the topic. Unfortunately, we were not done. I’m now resigned that this may have to be a regular occurrence. I despair. Will you bear with me as I once again unburden my brain of these words? I’d be most grateful. Their words are first, in bold. My thoughts come after, in italics.
—— After an email conversation the other day, 24 Crayons wrote a public service announcement about the futility of comparing our naughty bits to those we see in porn. Go check it out!
*I have a couple coffee dates coming up in the next few days. I’m dreading them. There’s nothing I’d like more than to cancel them and hole up in my underground bunker, alone. *Every day (or couple of days) I bring out The Folder and fill in a few more lines. At some point soon I’ll open it up and find that there are no more empty lines. When that happens, I’m sure the simultaneous relief and sadness will be overwhelming. *The other day I drove the stb-ex’s car and found on the cup-holder/console thingie an almost-fresh rose petal and leaf. Looks like Esmerelda’s getting flowers. *At the moment, my queue of sexy things to be reviewed is daunting. I’ve had to develop a new organizational system to keep track of the toys. Hm, someone is going to be reeeeeally surprised if I die unexpectedly and my things need to be sorted out. I need to appoint a Custodian of the Toys to come in after my death and clean out all the naughtiness, because there’s no doubt but that my mother would be the one appointed to go through my things, and she’d have a heart attack if she saw my collection. I’ll get right on that. Just as soon as I finish with The Folder.  Can you tell from the photo that these tulips are frozen solid?
Have a happy weekend celebrating whatever you celebrate. I’ll be attempting to keep my little ones from celebrating with too much chocolate. Oh, I still need suggestions for toys, below. Thank you!
See you Monday!
At some point this weekend or early next week, it’s likely that my little blue hit counter will roll over into 7-digit territory. This shouldn’t thrill me, but I have to admit that it does. Is that wrong? Send me the screen-shot if you are the one to roll it over, ok? I’d appreciate it. Also, there’s a review of a really lovely butt-plug over at Jane’s. Go see what fun I had with it, please. I’m going to be as busy as a one-armed paper-hanger (as my dad used to say) this weekend, so stay out of trouble and I’ll see you soon. And don’t drink too much green beer. :)
I suspected the little “users online” button was waaaaay off; thank you to those of you who questioned it. TwoSpots must have changed their methods of counting when they redid the buttons. After some tinkering, it’s working correctly now and my ego is sufficiently deflated. The new button is first and the old (incorrect) button is second in the right sidebar. Go look if you want a chuckle. Let me know if you have one of those buttons and you’d like some help fixing the code. There’s a review of the Cherry Dildo up in Jane’s toy review section. I had so much fun with this toy. Go see what I did with it. Digger shows no signs of truly desiring his release from the cock cage, and I am disinclined to let him out until he begs. He’s spent fifteen days caged now. He’s a strong man. Wonder when he’ll break? At this rate he may make it ’til Easter. A site called How Not to Get Laid: A Compendium of Coitus Rejectus showed up on my radar a few weeks ago. The site owner, Stewart Fox, collects stories of dating and sexual misfortune and publishes them. I bet some of you could contribute. It’s for a good cause; as Fox says, “…we learn more from our failures.” Hm, I probably have one or two I could send him too.
As you might imagine, it’s quite a melange of the gorgeous, the odd, the desperate, the freaky, and the plain. (In case you are wondering, I’d consider myself to be a happy mix of all the above…er…without the desperation. Without much desperation.) The other night I stumbled across an ad with a title remarkably similar to the title of this post. See it above? Ok then. Keep that title in the back of your mind. On this particular site, there’s a also place for a headline–sort of a brief introductory phrase about yourself. The woman who titled her ad as above wrote a phrase for her headline that I can only imagine she thought was a take-off on the old saying that when a door closes, another one opens. Right? You know that one? Lame way of promising that it’ll get better soon and all that happy crap. Surely that’s what she was trying to convey. Because she didn’t mean…that other thing, did she? It’s just my filthy mind seeing it that way, right? What was the headline, you ask? . She wasn’t advertising her desire for buttsex, was she??? Nooooo… |
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