To the blog I can't stand but can't stop reading...

Something that erks me is when a sex worker calls a vibrator a dildo. It doesn't bother me when someone not in the industry does so, how would they know? But a fricken sex worker!

A dildo is a phallic shaped rubber or silicone piece with a flared end that can fit inside a harness. Some of them can vibrate with the assistance of a small bullet vibrator that fits into its base but the vibration is not the focus. A vibrator may also be shaped like a cock but it may not. It may be used inside the body, it may be only for the clit and there are some that can be used for both. It’s purpose is to use the vibration first and the shape enhances it. So unless there is some magical dildo in the shape of a rabbit… then your rabbit isn’t a dildo it is a vibrator. It is also a toy that went out of fashion when Sex in the City went off the air. Most women don’t enjoy using the shaft and the rabbit at the same time but because their friends have one, they feel like it is the cool thing to have for a sex toy. The things waste batteries and there are a whole pile of wonderful vibes out there made specifically for the way you orgasm. You don't gain cool points by saying you own a "rabbit dildo" in your profile.

So.. These are dildos:


These are clit vibrators:

Here is a very expensive clit vibrator:

Here is 4 internal vibrators and a vibrating dildo:


Here is the infamous Jessica Rabbit:

Petra Pan

The wedding is in a month. The last thing on my mind is writing. The only reason I am doing so now is because I am procrastinating other wedding related duties. Because we aren’t having a traditional ceremony, we are having a lot of things to ponder that would otherwise be taken care of by a priest, church, mother-in-law. At the end of the day this has become a larger event than we thought it would. In the most beautiful way. Also in the “if my dress doesn’t clear British customs in the next week I am going to vomit” way. There is a lot of transition. I think that is the biggest thing that surprises me. Our lives have become categorized as things to be done before or after the wedding. Topics such as child rearing, career changes, housing and pensions are all on the plate. We both don’t feel like we are old enough to be having these sorts of conversations. I can’t keep my room clean, how am I supposed to deal with a retirement fund?

wool, fabric, sperm

Next to the couch I am sitting on is another couch covered in bags. Wool bags, fabric bags, felt bags. The sewing machine has been fixed and if I had my way I would spend the next few weeks stitching and knitting until the wee hours of the morning. I feel crafty. I feel fertile. Give me some fabric and give me some sperm. Not together. I am in touch with the womanly side of myself. I want to make.

Saint Patrick's Day

stormy shiny

There was a storm on the way back from the dentist today. It has raged for a few hours since. The waves are so high that they are pushing the rocks from the beach up past the promenade and onto the grass lawns in front of our house. It has been a hard week this week. I have spent most of it ill and off of work. The cognizant times I have had I have spent making amoebas and paramecium out of felt. Cute little unicellular organisms that I can wear as a broach. It is the sort of thing you do when everything else is hitting the fan. In better news, our tickets to South Africa are booked. Our safari honeymoon is planned, after much research and anxiety, and we are heading off a week after wedding number two. Wedding number one, for those of you who don’t know, was a PVC event (sans family) at the registry office. Shiny shiny.

Early mourning X

It is 7:31 in the morning. An hour I never visit unless before getting on a plane. My friends with children would scoff at this. Oh how lucky I am, I know. On the other hand I have been up all night with this cold I can’t shake and this sort of week long sleep deprivation gets you into funny head spaces.

I had a fitful dream between coughing last night. Not the night that I am still in, the night before. It involved an ex. The only ex worth mentioning other than the ex that tried to kill himself when I was 17. This ex was my 4 year lover that I lived with on that little island off the coast of Washington state. Before Thailand. Before self esteem. In my dream I introduced him to my husband. I was torn as I felt I was really hurting the ex. I didn’t know how to best serve the situation.

Being up at strange times makes you remember your past. I remember a friend once telling me that everyone in your dream is a reflection of who you are. If this is true, my before lover self and my current lover self are having a show down inside my heart. Not a gun battle but a challenge of letting go of the past. In my dream I didn’t love the ex anymore, I just didn’t want to hurt his feelings and focused on this worry more than I focused on my current partner. I am judging myself against who I was a lot lately. Logically knowing that I am a much happier person now than I have been in years but mourning some of the adventure that gets mixed up in drama.

the land of the scalp

The thing with working with people is you get what they get. I have dodged the lice bullet for over a year now. The boys I take care of seem to rotate them on a far to regular basis. I try not to think about it too much. They do a special hair wash, they have there linens cleaned and then a few days later they are back again. It seems like this has been the way of life for a while now. I always tie my hair up and am conscious of being too close to their heads. It was only a matter of time. I woke this morning, my first real day off in weeks, with a raw throat that wouldn’t let me get back to sleep. I went into the bathroom and decided to brush my hair thoroughly. It isn’t as easy as one would think. My hair goes down beyond my bra now. It is curly and it is very thin. It dreads often and it doesn’t like brushes. If I were to brush it every day I wouldn’t have time to ever leave the house. So those spare few hours every few days comes in handy and today was the day I was going to dig in. After a few minutes of brushing I looked down to see little bugs swarming the bristles. My throat clenched. It was nine am. Nothing is open in this country at 9 am on a Sunday. I got dressed and told a still sleeping D that I was off to find a rinse. With each step around town I felt my head was electric with bugs. I have psoriasis on my scalp so I am normally itchy but all of a sudden I had visions of larva and egg laying and I almost lost my mind. It was a frantic walk.

Two hours later I sat perched on a chair in our living room. D proceeded to pull egg sacs of my hair kissing my cheeks every now and then. Then, as if some comedic moment from the ether, D exclaimed.

“Oh! You have a grey hair!”

We plucked it so I can stick it in my memory box. My first grey. It made the rest of the lice picking, combing and rinsing seem small. I have entered into a new phase. I remember when my mum got her first grey. It seems significant.