What happens in the hot tub stays in the hot tub

I was at a party when I noticed that some friends were hopping into the hot tub in various states of undress.

Some wore bathing suits.

Others wore half a bathing suit.

And still others wore their birthday suit.

Well, there is nothing I like better than socializing au naturel, so I stripped and climbed (almost fell) inside.

I’m so dignified (cough).

I know you’d like to think that there was action.

And perhaps there was.

A little.

But it was all PG-13 rated.

I swear!

No one got past first base!

Sadly, I had to get out of the hot tub prematurely because my dear friend Tejas needed encouragement to consume water (not booze).

[How he managed to find CINNAMON SCHNAPPS when I told him to drink water for a while I WILL NEVER KNOW.]

That man is nothing if not resourceful.

So I have saved the memory of the hot tub activities firmly in my mind and will enjoy watching it play on repeat to my utter delight.

Lousy F*ck

This post is for all the guys out there.

There’s something you need to hear and I’m gonna be the one to say it:

Aftercare.

It’s a thing.

And it’s an important thing.

You don’t just slip your clothes back on and beat a hasty retreat out of the bedroom.

No.

Part of the commitment to sex involves a minimal commitment to AFTERCARE.

Meaning you and your partner make pillow talk for at least 10 or 15 minutes post coitus.

When you leap up and wash, get dressed, and leave, it feels like an abrupt and rude ending to what might have otherwise been a fun evening.

So, I’m curious. . . what will it take to make you give a shit about being respectful and connected post coitus?

I’ll give you a tip.

It doesn’t matter how good a lover you are, IF YOU DO THIS THEN THE LOVEMAKING SUCKS.

A smooth transition from the bed to the kiss goodbye ensures that the entire event will be viewed in a positive light.

If you tell us we have a lazy eye. . .

If you put on your clothes IMMEDIATELY. . .

If you fail to provide ADEQUATE AFTERCARE you will be remembered as a LOUSY FUCK and we will PURGE YOU FROM OUR PHONE AND OUR MEMORIES.

That is all.

When you start hitting on friends

He’s single.

I’m single.

We’ve known each other for decades.

He’s a decent guy.

I’m a decent (if slightly naughty) gal.

So when I found out he’s single, I took a leap of faith.

You see, the guys I meet online who are good guys are few and far between.

The Swede and basically NO ONE ELSE.

So even though I’ve been friends FOREVER with this guy I thought, “Why not?”

So I told him when he’s in a good place for dating, we should go on a date.

I suspect he will not take me up on my offer.

And that’s okay.

Going from vanilla relationships to me is like switching from the kiddie roller coaster to the Sky Scream – it’s a real mind fuck and you just may puke but it’s also quite exhilarating!

So I put it out there in the universe.

And even if he isn’t the man for me, someone decent will come along.

I’m keeping my eyeballs peeled for him.

Santa Rosa Fires

I have two lovely sisters. One I grew up with and is my best friend, the other I met when I was 22.

One lives in Reno, the other lives in Santa Rosa.

I was desperate to get in touch with my birth family while fires were raging in Santa Rosa, Napa and Sonoma.

My sister was the first person to respond.

She told me that our mother’s house was likely burned to the ground.

I was heartbroken and yet I didn’t cry. . .

. . until she sent me a photo of a gutted building.

I burst into tears.

All I could think of were lost memories. The history that house contained. How special it was to me because it was where I reunited with my birth mother’s family and met my stepfather and his enormous family.

I cried and cried.

I forwarded the photo to my boys and my family.

I sent it to everyone who mattered to me to let them know that the house was gone.

10 minutes later I got a message from my sister.

It was a picture of her school and MOM’S HOUSE IS STILL STANDING.

From the depths of despair to the wings of angels, I was lifted up out of sorrow and so thankful for this miracle.

How blessed are we?

The house survived. All my family survived. Their pets survived.

What more could we ask for other than to mitigate the suffering of those who did lose everything in the fire?

I could KILL my sister for letting me think Mom’s house had burned, but I’m just too happy that my family is intact to stay mad about anything.

Really at times like this you realize that we all have each other and that’s all you really need to be happy.

God bless the families who lost property or loved ones in the fires.

Up in flames

As soon as I stepped outside the house, it hit me.

The overwhelming scent of fire.

One thing was clear: Something had burned during the night.

I drove to work and was walking to my building when I got a text from Barbara.

“Hope your family in Santa Rosa is safe.”

What?

Was there a shooter? An earthquake? What happened?

I immediately called Barbara back.

“There’s fires in Santa Rosa,” she told me. “It’s bad.”

I immediately got on the phone and tried to reach my birth mom.

In my haste, I inadvertently walked into a crosswalk that was closed due to construction, incurring the wrath of a very tall, beet faced man.

He was waving his arms at me wildly.

I stepped out of the crosswalk but he continued to make wild gestures at me.

Sigh.

So this is how the day is going to go.

First, the fires, and now an angry construction worker.

I burst into tears.

Panty Fetish

I’m not sure how to write this post without using a lot of euphemisms, so bear with me.

Recently, I’ve run into a guy who has a panty fetish.

Not THAT kind of panty fetish.

He doesn’t like wearing them (though I’ve come across those who do).

He likes to, ahem, sniff them.

Not a clean pair fresh from the laundry pile, mind you.

He prefers panties that have been worn all day and are slightly, ahem, damp.

He asked me to describe what my panties smell like after a day of work.

Now.

I don’t know about you but the only time I sniff my panties is when I’m trying to figure out if that pair on the floor is clean or dirty.

So I said the only thing that came to mind.

They smell sweet and musky.

Well, he just about DIED.

Say it again, he requested.

Sweet and musky.

So now, when I go out on a date with this guy, he is expecting me to hand over to him the panties I am wearing.

Gah!

I do believe that I am going to wear TWO pairs of panties that day.

One pair for reals, and one pair for him.

He’ll get to keep the outer pair of panties while I can continue to enjoy the comfort of my inner pair of panties.

And both of us go home happy.

Nightmare

I had a nightmare.

Not your average wake-up-stressed-out nightmare.

No.

This was a wake-up-barely-breathing nightmare.

I started to sing an ABBA song to myself to calm my nerves.

Waterloo.

Something peppy and upbeat to combat the fear coursing through my body.

“Alexa, turn on the light,” I commanded.

Alexa, that smarmy little bitch, did no such thing.

“Alexa, turn on the light,” I repeated.

My Amazon Echo did not respond.

So I reached over and turned on the light.

Relief.

I dreamt that someone was hurting people and I was chasing it. I cornered it in an old, scary house and looked it in the face.

The face was black, like a dementor from Harry Potter, but gradually a face emerged.

My brother.

That’s when I woke up.

I texted The Swede.

I knew he’d be up at 1 am PST, 10 am Swedish time.

Sure enough, he texted me back.

He calmed me down and settled my nerves.

He didn’t laugh or make fun of me.

It’s as if he sensed that I needed to get it out of my system before I could go back to sleep again.

So he just let me vent.

What can I say?

He’s just an amazing man.

Maybe it’s because he has daughters that he seems particularly in tune with the feminine, my feminine, particularly when I’m freaking out.

But I’ll tell you, had he been in the bed with me, I would have wrapped myself around him and thanked him from the bottom of my heart.

I was SO GRATEFUL!

Shit! Shit! Shit!

I know I said I would STAY AWAY from policemen.

My ex-husband was a police officer, after all, and look how that turned out.

It’s not that I dislike policemen.

Not at all.

I admire the work that they do – keeping the peace and maintaining law in society.

Every day, they see people having the WORST day of their lives, which can’t be easy.

You couldn’t pay me enough money to do what they do.

Thank you, I’ll keep on planning events and balancing the budget.

Which is why I’m shocked that I like Chad.

Chad is a DOUBLE WHAMMY.

He’s a cop and was in the military.

The Air Force to be exact.

Actually, he was a policeman in the Air Force.

I find this combination of careers oddly fascinating.

Lord knows I have loved me some military men in the past (you know who you are).

And I do know some very upstanding police officers (Hi Jon).

But usually, I hear the word “police” and I run the other way.

This time around, none of my warning bells were going off.

Chad sent me a picture of himself, which looked oddly familiar.

A man, dressed in blue, with a navy ball cap on. . .

Looks like an academy photo, smells like an academy photo, MUST BE AN ACADEMY PHOTO.

I freaked out (a little) and said, “You’re not a cop.”

He replied with the EYES WIDE OPEN emoticon.

Shit! Shit! Shit!

Old friends are the best friends

The other day I managed to go out with an old friend.

Someone I’ve known for nearly 30 years but haven’t seen in the flesh since 2010.

Seven years!

And I’ll tell you, there’s nothing like an old friend.

You can go years without seeing them or talking to them and then just pick right back up where you left off as if no time has passed.

It’s awesome.

My dear friend, we’ll call him Rob, has had some rough times.

A lot can happen in seven years.

Which is why it was so great to see him and catch up with him.

We talked about difficult topics, like our divorces and our friend who died in 2001.

And we talked about cool things, like our awesome kids and our hobbies.

In the end, I didn’t want to go home.

I just wanted to hang out like we used to in college, playing pool, drinking white Russians (me) and beer over ice (him), and listening to grunge until we passed out.

What I wouldn’t give to live one of those days over again with him and our dear departed friend.

One thing is for sure, old friends carry your story with them and know you like no one else.

Old friends are the best friends.

Nooner?

I LITERALLY just started messaging this guy Jerry.

He seemed nice enough.

A bit of a daredevil seeing as how he sent me a pic of him way up in the air overlooking power lines.

Well, he DARED to be as ASSHOLE and I DARED to turn him down.

Has he even READ my profile?

You know, the one where I say that there’s more interesting things to me than just what my VAGINA can do?!?!

Good fucking grief!

I can’t win, can I?