Sunday, September 14, 2014

I let another man rub my....

feet, both of them, and it was ah-ahhh-amazing!

Don't get your shorts in a wad, I would never let another man touch me inappropriately.

Friday, Mama (aka G. Mama....Mama G. or half of the "prentals") had lunch and than got a pedicure.
Mama was the first person to introduce me to the joy and elation of a pedicure.  I immediately loved it.  And being that, as I've stated before on this blog, I may not be much of a runner, but my feet show the extent to which I attempt to be a runner.

We arrived and the nail salon was busy, busy, busy.  A young gentlemen got us seated, a cup of water, and hot water added to soak our tootsies in.  I admit I was hoping that he was just doing the prep work and someone else would take the tools to my hooves.

He sat down and started to slowly and meticulously trim my disgusting overgrown cuticles and dry skin and ill-shaped, home trimmed nails.  The nice, twenty something man, masculine, gently chastised me for trimming my nails so short and leaving sharp ends.  He's totally right, when I trim my toenails I'm usually doing something else, listening to music or Riddick and not at all paying attention to what I'm doing.

The bliss continued as we got to the massage part.  His massage technique was very, very firm.  I could feel the tender spot where I slammed my shin into the trailer hitch the weekend before.  But the most glorious thing was the moment when he pressed his thumb into the arch of my foot......Oh mercy, holy buckets, it was not as good as sex, not even close, but it was very relaxing.  

The whole experience was almost ruined when he actually popped my big toe.  I hate having my toes popped, I mean who, besides Riddick and this salon dude, think it's pleasant to give the distinct impression that you are going to rip my toe off?

Other than that minor digression, it was a wonderful pedicure.  And I bet when you saw this headline you though I went-a-whoring :-)

Thursday, September 11, 2014

Jack the Ripper identified

You may have read the headlines of late.  A DNA test on a blood and semen stained scarf found with one of the White Chapel victims has been linked to a Polish barber Aaron Kosminski.  The young Kosminski was in and out of lunatic asylums for much of his life and died in one.

My first introduction to the "Jack the Ripper" mystery was in the form of pure 80's television.

"Fantasy Island" season 4, episode 6, original air date of November 29, 1980.  The episode title was "With affection Jack the Ripper/Gigolo".  It was a strange pairing of a authoress that wanted to go back to 1889 White Chapel to unmask Jack the Ripper and some meek little guy who wanted to be a gigolo to get some confidence with women.  Really? confidence with women, obviously written by a man.

I'm sure I had no idea what a gigolo was and the questions probably prompted answers that as a 8 year old I wasn't at all interested in.  I don't remember that part of the episode.

But I do remember a immediate fascination with the idea that someone so long ago, in the "Laura Ingalls" of my brains history could also be a killer.  I grew up with stories of "the green river" killer.  A monster serial killer that was yet to be caught.

And all this interest was started from a evening soap opera where Charlene Tilton could be a figure skater, they had little cars for Tattoo, and you could time travel.  Who said 80's television wasn't educational.

Tuesday, September 9, 2014

I miss my mom!

I can't express to anyone why the ache of missing my Mom comes and goes at is does.  Perhaps it's because I am approaching the anniversary of her death, September 28, 1988.  But beyond that, right now, this moment, I am aching for my Mom.

I had such jealousy of my friends who passed by the bullshit of teen years and got to know their Mom's as fellow adults.  Cohorts that supported each other.  In reality of my three closes friends none of them have had that much extra time with their Mom's.  Missy and Prissy lost their mom to cancer not long after I did.  Graybelle has lost her mom to the absence of other distractions.  But still I ache.

I want to know what my Mom's favorite color was.  I want to know what she wanted to be when she grew up.  I want to know how she felt about gay marriage.  My gut tells me she wouldn't have given a fig, which is how I feel.

But mostly I want the warm embrace.  The hug she gave me when I started my period at Burgerville.  I wish she would have lived long enough to stop me from marrying my first husband.  Because I know that she would have raised holy hell if she had been alive.

What I do remember of my Mom, she was kick ass.  She loved me like crazy.  She was kind to my friends, and never let me be a "mean girl".  In fact she would jerk my chain if I tried.  She knew what was classy and hated my "guess" jean mini skirt.  She wasn't afraid of a fight, but wouldn't pick one.  In all she was amazing.  If I am half the women she was, well than I'm doing well.

For all of you that have your Mom still with you, please be grateful for her.  Even if she is a roaring pain in the ass.  For the rest of us, that are missing our Mom's, just be  understanding that part of our hearts have gone ahead of us to heaven.