I’ve been neglectful of the blog lately, I know. I’ve been crushed under the trifecta of having a shitload to do, getting none of it done, and feeling guilty about it. You’d be surprised at how quickly a few weeks – or 55 years – fly by that way.
So I turned 56 last week. Nothing much new to report about that. I have a feeling that this is pretty much how it’s gonna roll for the next few decades: A few illnesses, a crisis or two, two catastrophes (one false, one real) a couple of great moments, an epiphany, maybe a nice piece of salmon, and in-between it all, waiting for Dansko clogs to go on sale. It’s not like the first twenty or so years of life when new milestones appear regularly, unless, come to think of it, you count reverse milestones like, when I stop eating solid foods, lose my driver’s license, need a babysitter and, finally, poop in a diaper.
Note to self: is there a reverse to every forward? Mull this over the next time you are pretending to listen to Robin’s fishing report.
Okay, well, there was a bit of news around the birthday: a couple of friends gave me some pot. Hidden in a huge pinata of candy. I was thrilled enough when I thought they just gave me candy but then I found the pot and everything changed. I want to tell you, after the years of Barbie doll birthday gifts, then Bonnie Bell Dr. Pepper Lip-smacker birthday gifts, then Pachouli oil, Adopt A Whale, coupons for foot rubs, then jars of homemade pesto, ethnic jewelry, wild yam cream, aromatherapy candles, and – lately – pedometers (yeah, like that is going to motivate me), there is nothing -nothing- that beats a baggie of pot as a birthday present. And if fifty-six is the new thirty, then pot is the new pedometer. Especially because if you smoke some, it is really wild to watch the pedometer not move while you sit on the couch eating candy from a pinata.
Also noteworthy during my birthday week: While getting a haircut, my friend – and salon owner – Vesta said that she gets sexually aroused while giving her husband a blow job. Which, fyi, is not something you want to hear while stoned.
Or not stoned.
Or awake. Or alive.
Oh, I am happy for Vesta and all; I mean, blah blah fucking blah yippee for her lucky husband. She had no reason to lie, either, particularly since the other women and I quickly responded that we certainly do NOT get all whipped up over doing it (although, speaking for myself, personally, I appreciate the quiet time with my own thoughts while I am down there). Still, Vesta’s comment has stayed with me, causing me to stop suddenly in crowded supermarket aisles or at green lights, just to process. I believe she is telling the truth; I just don’t get it.
Oh, and I don’t need to hear from all of you about Vesta is normal and the same thing happens with you, and every woman can learn to have an orgasm while doing it, or any shit like that. Really. The rest of us are thrilled for you, honey, just beside ourselves with joy for you, so run along and go sit with the other blowjob- giving- orgasmics and leave us to our wine and snark. Shoo, I say. Shoo!
I choose to believe that it is not normal, nor is it typical.
My theory is that it was one of those zany Freaky Friday switcheroo scenarios involving Vesta being hit by lightning while having her teeth cleaned at the same time her mom was hit by lightning while she was getting a Pap smear that resulted in Vesta’s, er, condition.
Now, there’s a movie sequel that has Lindsay Lohan’s name all over it.
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Originally published on The Seattle Lesbian
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