Some whine for my Cheetos

1. The fact that I was wide awake enough to feel obligated to work out.
2. That the video exercise dude promised me “only 10 more seconds” of grueling cardio before nattering on to the chick with the 6-pack abs for at least 30 more seconds, extending my agony for nearly 20 unnecessary seconds; seconds I could’ve used to barf up a lung rather than further damage my heart.
3. That I’m so unaccustomed to exercising I had to pretend to “get a drink of water” so I wouldn’t pass out.
4. My new shoes, one of which makes a crazy stick-clicking noise that can be eliminated only by walking on my tiptoes. Not that I walked on my tiptoes for an extended period or time or anything, that would be CRAZY.
5. The cold. I would very much like to have a fist-to-face conversation with one of those alarmist global warming people right about now.
6. No Cheetos to be found at Workplace.
7. Being overbooked on the work board today, to the point that I was scheduled for 10+ hours. Ha – NO.
8. It is not yet Friday.
9. I am losing our annual cribbage tournament by 23 games.
10. I do not work for one of those companies that gives out huge holiday bonuses.

Hairy Legs

Yep, I’m so going there. My husband was out of town for work for a month. Which means that I let the self-maintenance go a little bit. As in, I didn’t shave my legs for nearly the entire month of January. As I used to say when I was younger and a tad neglectful of that task during the cold months — “I’m growing my winter fur.”

I had some major winter fur growing on my legs. Some of you might be grossed out. Some of you might come by this post because you have a hairy leg fetish. I bet more than a few of you will be thinking, “I do the same thing.”

Go ahead and admit it. I just did. I can’t believe how hairy my legs got! Makes me realize that when I read historical romances and the hero runs his hands along the heroine’s smooth legs, that’s TOTALLY BOGUS. More like he’s running his hand over her smooth fur.

Oh yeah I so totally went there. Hairy legs on women aren’t really sexy, huh? I mean check out these ladies:

Selma and Patty have got it goin’ on! Now confess – do you really keep up the leg shaving during the winter months? Or hey, maybe you’re single and have no man currently in your life. How about then? (Guilty of that too). Let’s talk hairy legs!

The Flow

I’m talkin’ words. Yesterday, after being in revision and edit land for the past two weeks, I finally finally wrote like a maniac. It was hard to start but once I got into it, man those words just flowed. And flowed and flowed and flowed.

As you can tell, I’m quite pleased.

Why it really needs to rain here

Last night I got home from work and set out to expose my greatest failure as a human being: my complete and utter lack of spatial ability, as demonstrated by my attempt to properly water the lawn.

Now while Jason is some kind of lawn-grid genius who knows exactly where to position the sprinkler for optimal water saturation, I am not. In fact, despite wearing a path into the newly mowed grass from the faucet to the sprinkler after adjusting and adjusting and readjusting, I could not figure out how to place the sprinkler so that only four rotations were needed to adequately hydrate the grass.

After running back to shut the water off YET AGAIN in order to reposition the sprinkler, I decided to just move it while it was still running. And to tell you the truth, I’m guessing that grabbing a running sprinkler is a lot like grabbing a snake’s head. Only wetter and more amusing to the neighbors.

I finally got the front yard sprinkler set up how I liked it. (Actually, the sprinkler was getting more of the street than the lawn, but at that point 15 minutes had escaped from me and I NO LONGER CARED.)

That left the backyard. After I finally positioned the sprinkler in a semi-logical spot, it started to rain.

“Yes, yes, yes!” I thought, envisioning myself dancing through the rain-slicked grass to perform the blessed activity of shutting the water off.

The rain lasted for four minutes.

Which was about half as long as Jason’s speech about my crappy sprinkler placement.

CSI: Kitchen

I cannot figure out why our cats have been attempting to eat the following items:

– White bread
– Freshly baked chocolate chip muffins
– Bakery croissants
– Freshly baked chocolate chip cookies

I don’t know what the deal is. I just know that I now have to hide the above items in cupboards, because despite the plastic wrappers, hard plastic boxes, or industrial-strength Ziploc baggies, it is not enough to deter two felines who obviously have developed a serious carb addiction.

Last night I had put two chocolate chip cookies in a Ziploc and threw it into my lunch bag, stupidly forgetting to zip said lunch bag and place it in a hermetically sealed fortress surrounded by laser security technology operated by rabid dogs. So I was treated to a 1:48 a.m. wake-up call consisting of rustling sounds and tell-tale forbidden activity. On my way to investigate, sans proper eyewear or clothing, I stepped on a cookie that had been freed from its plastic prison, smooshing it into a thousand pieces before finding the other cookie still in the bag, on the floor, surrounded by tell-tale chewed-out holes.

Dental hijinks

Lesson of the day: Dental hygienists cannot receive telekinetic messages while wearing scrub masks.

Yesterday at the dentist, the hygienist asked me if I would have a problem with her using a water-pik to clean my teeth instead of a normal pik. I’m thinking, Why would I have a problem? It’s WATER.”

No, my friends, it’s not water. It’s a unique device that paves a direct neuro pathway into your BRAIN. It hurts – muchly. And I’ve never had any issues at the dentist.

My feeble attempts to send her “ABORT! ABORT!” messages through my brainwaves failed.

When that didn’t work, I used a little body language to get my point across; namely, clenching my fists, breathing shallowly, involuntarily willing my eyes to water, and mentally punching her in the throat and kicking her fallen body. After an eternity in which I died three times, she finally stopped and said cheerfully, “There. We’re done.”

And then she reached for the regular metal pik.

Whoa, Whoa, WHOA, sister. We had a deal! Water pik instead of regular pik, not in addition to.

In addition, she then had the gall to tell me I have the beginnings of gum disease, because a few spots in the back of my mouth seemed “swollen.” I wonder how that could have possibly happened. Any ideas?

To top it off, I had to wait an additional 25 minutes for the actual dentist to come over and poke in my mouth for 2 seconds while two bratty kids in the chair around the wall kept peeking over at me and pointing and whispering and laughing.

But I got the last laugh, because I didn’t have any cavities and Brat Girl had 5. HAHAHA.

They did it where??? ~by Jen Lewis

Now that I have a few books under my belt I’m starting to notice some things about myself. As a writer, I mean ::clears throat:: Obviously, romance authors write what appeals to us—heroes that haunt our imaginations, heroines we enjoy identifying with, locations that we want to hang out in—at least mentally—while we’re writing the book.

And I’ve noticed that my characters like to have sex outdoors.

There, I’ve said it. And the evidence is in print.

In my first book, THE BOSS’S DEMAND, my hero and heroine made love for the first time by a mesquite fire in the dark Nevada desert. In my second book, SEDUCED FOR THE INHERITANCE they make love under a blossom laden tree in one of the hero’s Florida orange groves. And in BLACK SHEEP BILLIONAIRE (out now!) they get wet doing it in a sandy Maine inlet under a summer moon.

I guess I just love the idea that the sexual tension is so taut and snapping and the characters are so wrapped up in each other that they just can’t stop.

Of course, sex outdoors in real life is fraught with problems: mosquitoes, nosy neighbors, grit, biting winds. The classic cliché of lovers going at in a hayloft makes people shake their heads and mutter “but hay is so scratchy!”

Who cares? It’s fiction. If you can’t have sex on a beach in a romance novel, then where the heck can you? I try to soothe potential nay-sayers by pointing out that yes, the heroine in my first book was worried about roaming coyotes and snakes (not until after they were done, of course, but still!). I was careful to point out in my current book that Maine was warmer than usual but that the ocean was still chilly (because the ocean off Maine is NEVER going to be warm), and that yes, they were all sandy afterwards.

And, let’s face it, people have been making love outdoors since the beginning of time. For most of human history, there was no indoors J

Do you enjoy reading about people making love in interesting places? Or do thoughts of the uncomfortable realities distract you from enjoying the scene? Is there an outdoor lovin’ scene from a book that sticks in you mind? One commenter will win a signed copy of BLACK SHEEP BILLIONAIRE.

Jen

Give it to me, baby!

Ha ha. Now I have that song in my head! Okay, here we go:

1. Chocolate or Whipped Cream: Chocolate, preferably in M&M form.
2. Leather or PVC: OMG leather. Well, considering I’m a vegan now I probably shouldn’t say leather. But if I was naughty, (and I am) I’d say leather.
3. Outdoor Sex or Indoor Sex: Why do I need to choose? Can’t I do it both ways? Well, I guess if I had to choose I’d say indoor. You can use props that way.
4. In the Jacuzzi or In Bed? I don’t like to have sex in water.
5. Bad Sex or No Sex: Does bad sex still include an orgasm? If not, then no sex at all.
6. Dominate or Be Dominated: On your knees, bitch.
7. Thigh highs or Bodystocking: WTF is a bodystocking?
8. Fast or Slow: I prefer slow. Again, why must I choose? I guess I’d say slow.
9. Rough or Gentle: Rough.
10. Bite or Suck: I’m a vampire, like Karen.
11. Role play or Reality: My entire life is roll play.
12. Dirty Talking or Dirty Talking To: I like a bit of dirty talking done to me.
13. Edible panties or No Panties: I don’t own any underwear.
14. Spanking paddle or Bare-handed: Paddle, but only if I’m the one doing the paddling.
15. Landing Strip or Kojak: Hm, I guess landing strip. As long as it’s a short runway.
16. Multiple Sessions or One Good Fuck: Nothing better than a good fuck!
17. Moaning or Screaming: I’ll quote Karen: I’m not a screamer. I’m a moaner.
18. Older Men or Young Men: It’s great if he has an AARP membership.
19. Threeway or No Way: Three way.
20. Swing or No Swinging: No comment.

On raising male children.

I wrote this for my main blog and then figured it would fit in pretty well here, so here it is for your dissection.

I’ve read a lot in the radical feminist blogosphere about how radical feminist women ought to refuse to care for male children (funny how this doesn’t apply to say, Biting Beaver or Heart, both of whom have male children who as far as I am aware, raised/are raising their boys into adulthood and in Heart’s case at least, haven’t disowned them).

Regular readers will know I have a son, who is three and a half years old. I made a choice to continue with my pregnancy, using a choice that feminism gave me. If I hadn’t wanted a child, I could have easily chosen abortion, as I live in the UK and it is (still, so far) legal here. I didn’t choose that, I chose to have a child. The funny thing about conception is there’s no telling what you’re going to get. Without being told by one’s sonographer, it’s pot luck as to whether you get a male or female child. Here in Portsmouth it’s against the rules for them to tell you the sex of your foetus; you have to wait until it’s born. And I don’t know about you, but the women I know don’t have switches in their uteri to decide to only carry female foetuses.

So having made the choice to continue with my pregnancy, and having spent nine months carrying my baby, he was born and pronounced to be Orion (rather than Amidala, isn’t he lucky he wasn’t born female with that name picked out!). What would the anti-boychild feminists have had me do? “No thanks, I wanted a girl one, you can take this one away.” Quite aside from the fact that there are already too many babies and children unwanted in the adoption system as it is, I chose to have this child. I do not believe that raising a boychild in itself is an antifeminist act and I’ll tell you why.

One of the problems with a patriarchy is that we are all born into it. Children (and most adults!) don’t even realise they’re in it, and by the time that realisation is made by the few who do so, it’s often too late to undo all the ingrained thoughts, feelings and actions that have been imprinted since birth. Most parents don’t realise the damage that can be done by gender stereotyping, and go along with it because it’s just so normal to them.

Surely then, the best person to raise a boychild is someone who as a feminist recognises patriarchy and its stereotypes and constructs, and can actively work against it to try to raise the men of tomorrow to be unlike the men of today? I’m not saying they’ll be perfect. It might take a few generations to get it right. But we’re not going to destroy the patriarchy overnight either, that too will take decades or even centuries. The two – destroying patriarchy and raising boys into men who recognise and are active in destroying patriarchy – seem, to me, to go together like… well, two things that go together really well. 😛

None of us is perfect. My son will have all sorts of influences on him, going against the feminist upbringing and education he is receiving at home. But I’m not the only one doing this, there are thousands of feminists raising boys, and this next generation will, with any luck, have a hell of a lot more boys-raised-by-feminists than the current one. And then the next generation will have even more, and even more. I’m not saying it’s women’s job to educate men/boys; of course it isn’t. But those of us who, having been given male children by the luck of the draw, decide to do the best we can to minimise patriarchal impact on our own boys should not be vilified.

I love my son. I had a choice and I chose him, and like many mothers I choose to do the best I bloody well can to raise him into a happy, healthy adult. I also choose to do the best I bloody well can to raise him against, rather than according to, the patriarchal stereotypes of the way that boys must be. Right now he’s too young to know that his penis means he’s meant to dress/play/act/behave in a certain way, and I have no intention of telling him any time soon.

Of course there are, and will be increasingly in the future, forces working against me to push him into a gender mould (my ex, his father, being one of them). Like I said, we won’t get it perfect the first time round. But we might change things just a little bit, and then we can pass the banner onto the next generation for them to carry on moving in the right direction.

Raising boys is very much a feminist issue. Boy children are always going to exist; better to raise them into decent human beings than to pass them on for the patriarchy to do as it will. I am utterly fed up of feminists who tell me it’s all about treating women as adults, turning around and telling me what I should and should not be doing according to their narrow view of what is and isn’t good for women. I think raising men who are aware of their privilege is good for women, because who knows – we might just end up with a neutral, equal society one day.

Department of WIN: Polarn O. Pyret

What a slogan!

Not for girls.

Not for boys.

We make clothes for children.

I love this slogan. It sums up everything I want in a clothing store for my child. We gender children’s clothing way before there is much in the way of difference between body shapes, to the extent that even clothing that we might describe as “neutral” (no bows and ribbons; no skulls and crossbones) is gendered by the colour it is (olive green for boys, pale yellow for girls, for example; even blue clothing, for example, has a “girl” shade and a “boy” shade), and vice versa (and orange top, for example, will be marked as “girl” or “boy” by either a subtle puffing up of the sleeves or a small car motif, for example). And it will be gendered, in most shops, by actually putting clothes in different aisles according to gender. (In my local Asda, for example, “boy” and “girl” clothes are even separated by the service counter!) And I’m sick of it and have been sick of it for a long time. (Also, lest we forget, “boy” and “girl” are not the only two genders in the world; we also don’t know for certain that our female assigned child is a girl, and our male assigned child is a boy, until they tell us, which relies on them having the words and us listening. So talking about “children” makes much more sense!)

So in terms of slogan and the idea behind it, Polarn O. Pyret gets my vote. Also in terms of placement within online store; clothes are sorted by type (trouser, dress, top, etc) rather than by gender. This is exactly how I want to search for clothes for my child; does he need a new pair of trousers? Let’s look at trousers then; rather than having to sort by boy or by girl, I can get the full range and choose for myself.

The clothes also look to be of a good quality; outdoorsy, rough and tumble clothes rather than decorative (actually, I don’t have a problem with decorative, and most children enjoy self-adornment; it’s when it’s limited to one gender that I’ve a problem).

The only drawback? The price. And here’s the thing; once again, being able to afford to support a shop with such important ideals, being able to dress your child in good quality, ethically sourced clothing, is very much the privilege of those with a certain amount of money. For example, should I want to buy my child a pair of trousers, I’m looking at over thirty quid. I couldn’t even justify spending thirty quid on a pair of kecks for myself, let alone a child that’s going to grow out of them in about a year’s time.

I do understand why places like this are expensive; it’s not cheap to be ethical, it’s not cheap to care about who makes the clothes you sell and it isn’t cheap to care about where the material in your clothes comes from. I get that; I’m glad they exist even though they’re way out of my price range. I hope parents (and anyone who buys clothes for children) with money will support this store as much as possible.

What doesn’t cost a company money, however, is having a unisex slogan like Polarn O. Pyret; it also doesn’t cost money to sort clothes by size and type rather than by gender. I hope the kind of companies I can afford to shop at follow suit. I might even add one or two bought pieces to my child’s lovely pre-loved hand-me-down collection then!