Twenty Four At Heart

Why is the Car Industry (Still) So Sexist?

* If you don't see a post from me one or two days this week, it's because I will HOPEFULLY (finally?) be making the transition to my redesigned site.  I didn't want you to worry if I go quiet for a short time. *  

As I mentioned in an earlier post, my current car is leased and my lease is almost up.  I need to get a car to drive ... and soon.

A week ago, my rarely-in-town husband and I went dealership hopping.  Salesmen came out the minute we appeared on the various car lots, eager to show us cars.

By the way?

Every car salesperson I've encountered so far has been a man.

I haven't seen a female sales person on any of the car lots I've visited.

Do female sales people exist in the car industry?  And if so, as what percentage of the sales workforce?

I find the lack of female presence shocking.  This is (almost) the year 2012, right?  

People are concerned about what when they buy a car?

•  Gas mileage?

•  Safety?

•  Horsepower?

•  Reliability?

•  Stereo systems, navigations systems and cup holders?

And why can't a woman discuss any of those things?

This last weekend, I went car shopping by myself.

Not one sales MAN, at any dealership I visited, greeted me or offered to help me.

What the HELL??

At one lot, I walked up to three salesmen who were just standing there doing nothing.

"Do you work here?" I asked.

"Yes," they nodded.

"Well, could one of you help me then?" I asked nicely.

They looked puzzled.  Maybe shocked?

Where was my husband?

It was clear, by the manner of the salesman helping me, I wasn't being taken seriously.  I asked questions; he answered as if he was indulging an amusing whimsy.

I requested a test drive and he replied, "Really?"

During the test drive, I asked questions about horsepower and torque ...

He seemed surprised.

(By the way, I happen to be much more opinionated about engines than my husband.)

After my test drive, I left the dealership feeling like I was never once considered a "serious" buyer.  The salesman's last comment to me was, "And so if you like it enough, your husband will come test drive it and see what he thinks?"

Um ....

NO, no he won't.

My husband is not going to be the one driving this car, I am.

He doesn't want to test drive it - why would he?

Would he want to test drive our neighbor's car that he also won't be driving?

Also, guess who won't be getting my business?

The first car I ever bought (years ago) was a Honda.  The salesman who helped me was friendly, nice, and treated me like an adult.  There was no man involved in helping me buy that car.  

Why would there be? 

I was a single woman, fully supporting myself.  I had a boyfriend at the time, but he wasn't the one buying the car and he wouldn't be the one driving it.  I got a great deal on that Honda.  I drove it for many years.  Eventually, my employer provided me with a "company car" and I no longer needed it.

Why do so many car sales MEN assume a woman is incapable of buying (or selling?) a car?

I honestly can't get over my indignation.

I've now narrowed down my current search to two types of cars.

Guess what?

They were both offered at dealerships where I was treated like an intelligent adult, not an appendage of my husband.

Coincidence?

No, absolutely not.

I will not buy a car from someone who treats me without the same respect they would treat a male customer.

Wake up car industry - 

It's (almost) 2012.

© Twenty Four At Heart

Man Cold

My weekend was pretty ... meh.

Briefcase has a Man Cold and most of you know how that goes.

Is there anyone in the world who hasn't seen this hysterical video?

 

Man Cold video.

I'm hoping I don't catch it from him.

(Yes, I tried my best to avoid my husband all weekend .... while still being an annoyed a loving, impatient supportive, eye-rolling sympathetic wife.)

I've got a busy week planned, including a trip to the east coast next weekend.

I might try find time to buy a long sleeve shirt to wear while I'm back there.

I refuse to buy a coat for one weekend.

Stop laughing at me ...

(Expect a future post about me freezing my ass off because I'm on the east coast at the end of October without a coat.)

© Twenty Four At Heart

Rejection and Disappointment

Everyone experiences negative stuff, it's part of living.

The scent of rejection, and the disappointment it brings, may lighten in time - but it pervades and shapes our lives in definitive ways.

One of my girl friends and I were talking recently about the highs and lows of life.  How had particularly painful moments defined us?  What bad moments in life still sting years later?  What negative experiences are laughable now, regardless of the pain they caused once-upon-a-time?

I've realized the most painful moments in my life have been those caused by the betrayal or abandonment of friends and/or lovers. 

Job interviews that didn't work out, less than a perfect grade on a test I studied my ass off for, vacations with bad weather and ruined plans, being told no one would ever read my writing .....

Those things don't seem to matter in the long run.

Taking someone into your life though,

Trusting them with your inner thoughts and vulnerable heart -

Having people you love betray you,

Abandon you,

Reject you ...

Those are the hurts that never go away.

At least not for me.

It isn't a matter of forgiving, or not forgiving ...

It just feels, for me, like having my heart shredded by a jagged piece of glass.

I don't open my heart to people easily or quickly.

Once I love someone, I love deeply whether that person is a friend, family member, or mate.

How dare they decide they no longer love ME?

(I laugh at myself ...

And yet, I don't.)

My friend told me a story of an experience she had several years ago.  

She gave me permission to share it with you.

We laughed about it in the re-telling, but I honestly can't imagine how much it must have hurt her.

For storytelling purposes, I will call my friend Jane (not her real name).

A man Jane knew "courted" her for a long time.  (For writing purposes, I'll call the man Mike.)

Jane was vaguely interested in Mike, but having just come out of a break-up, she wasn't eager to get involved with anyone.

Mike was patient.

Mike was not pushy.

Mike was always "there" for her.

Mike made her laugh.

Mike was consistent and steady and persistent in a non-threatening way ...

Eventually, little by little, Jane opened her heart to Mike.

It didn't happen quickly,

It was a slow, gradual, bonding over the course of about 18 months.

Once in awhile Mike would try to move the relationship to a more romantic level, but he always respected Jane's wishes when she said she wasn't ready.

Mike became a friend, and then eventually a "best" friend to Jane.

One day she realized she couldn't imagine not having Mike in her life.

He had pretty much made himself a fixture in her life.

Mike called Jane "just to check-in" almost every day.  

He was always hanging around, just casually there on a pretty frequent basis.

After quite some time, about a year and a half to be exact, Jane invited Mike over for dinner.

She lit candles, she put romantic music on -

She was ready to take the relationship to the next step.

Mike appeared overjoyed initially.

They had a nice dinner at her apartment, "accidentally" touching each other throughout the meal.  Eventually they held hands, then kissed, then moved to the couch.  Mike was eager, Jane "slowed him down" a few times.

They sipped on wine and kissed some more ....

Things progressed and they soon found themselves intertwined or her bed.

Mike finally had her naked -

After all this time of pursuing her -

He had what he wanted, right?

She, on the other hand, was more than just naked physically.

She had (after the longest courtship in modern history) opened her heart to him, completely.

Mid-heavy-duty-make-out-session,

Mike, for whatever reason, suddenly "changed."

He went from being eager and affectionate to suddenly distant.

The change was obviously very unexpected by Jane.

(This was, after all, the man who had been "after" her for over a year.)

She was baffled and unsure of what had happened to cause this sudden and abrupt change with Mike.

Affectionate and horny Mike was replaced by distant Mike in a matter of minutes.

Fifteen minutes later, Mike left.

My friend was naked.

Alone.

Confused.

Rejected.

Hurt.

Devastated.

Now she jokes, "The sight of me naked sent him running."

She laughs, but I can hear the doubt in her voice like maybe it really did.

She's beautiful, by the way.

I may be biased because I'm her friend, but she's a gorgeous person inside and out.

(She's been in a very loving relationship with someone else for many years now.)

She never heard from Mike again.

He just disappeared.

After all that time of calling her, 

Of pursuing her,

Of spending time with her -

He basically ran away and never looked back.

She tried to get in touch with him initially,

Mike avoided her calls and refused to talk to her.

His silence, his avoidance, hurt Jane more than his abrupt departure.

She kept asking herself,

What had she done wrong?

(She still wonders ....)

He couldn't really be walking away forever, after all that time chasing her, could he?

He wouldn't really stop calling her, after talking almost every day for months and months, would he?

But he did.

Just like that, and with no explanation, Mike was gone.

We laughed about this story when she told me,

"Once upon a time a guy saw me naked and ran real fast" type of laughter.

But?

Ouch!

Underneath her laughter I can still hear the hurt years later.

Maybe that is what touched me most about her story.

She may try to laugh it off now, but Mike left a permanent wound.

I hear wistful sadness when she explains how much she missed his friendship, for years, after he "dumped her."

I don't think she'd ever admit it, but it seems like she misses him still.

I know she still questions what she did to disappoint him.

What must be wrong with her, to make him run like that?

The answer, or course, is not a damn thing.

The flaw is not with her,

It's somewhere within Mike.

But ...

Will she ever, truly, one hundred percent, believe that?

I don't think she will.

© Twenty Four At Heart

Do You Believe in Fate, Destiny ... Magic?

Do you believe things always work out for the best?

Do you believe in fate?

In destiny?

Karma?

Magic?

I realize it's easy and reassuring to say, "Things will work out the way they were meant to be."

But is it true? 

When I was young, I believed all the pieces of life fit together in a gigantic puzzle just the way they were meant to.

Now ...?

Not so much.

Bad shit happens.

Gray is the predominant color where black and white used to rule.

Good people frequently suffer.

Bad people often rise to the top.

Not always, of course - but more often than I used to believe.

Is it fate I married my husband?

Whatever happened to Mr. Electric whom I dated just prior to meeting Briefcase?

(And no, he's not on Facebook!) 

Did he become the lousy husband I feared he'd be?

Or someone's Knight in Shining Armor?

Is it fair, or right, when someone with little (or no) talent becomes a success because they've got the "right" connections?

What about the uber-talented person who is never discovered?

And I mean, never ....

Dying without recognition, even posthumously.

What is all that talent about, if not to be shared?

Is it destiny my computer crashed AND my camera memory card went bad in the same week?  (Okay, this might not be a life-shattering situation, but really??)

What happened to the man who drove recklessly through a stop sign and irrevocably changed my life?

Has his life gone forward perfectly, with no thought for the havoc he caused?

Do you ever think back to old lovers and/or old friends and wonder if they were in your life for a reason?

How can certain people have such a big impact, 

And then POOF!

Be gone, out of your life forever ....?

Is it all random chaos?

It's so easy to say people come into your life (and leave) for a reason - but that just might be the best line of bullshit ever.

OK, now it's your turn -

Fate, destiny, whatever you want to call it -

Do you believe in it?

© Twenty Four At Heart

Romeo, Oh Romeo!

*  Oh look!  It's another repeat post.  I must be having a nice vacation.  I'll be seeing the "real" Romeo in the next few weeks so it seemed appropriate to share this post.  Enjoy!  *

I've fallen in love.  

Well, maybe it isn't really love - but who cares?

And before I tell you this story, I want you to know I can be a cougar in my own mind if I want to.  Especially after a week like this one.

During the hour before my surgery I was hanging out on a gurney in my sexy hospital gown, with my granny panties on, and my hair tucked into a too-hawt-to-handle hospital cap on my head.  After a night of no sleep, I was definitely looking my most awesome best.

A man in surgical scrubs approached me, looked me in the eyes with the sexiest green, smoky, bedroom eyes I've ever seen and said, "Hi.  I'm Romeo and I'll be the one turning you on."

"Promise?!" I laughed, unable to tear my eyes away from the gorgeous hunk of Italian man in front of me.

He blushed.

I sighed.

And no, his name isn't REALLY Romeo ... but it might as well be.  (And the above photo isn't really him either - he is SO much hotter!)

We all have our "types," right?  You know, a physical LOOK that makes our heart pitter patter and our mouths drool.

Romeo is IT for me.

Tall, dark, handsome ... with dark curls surrounding his rugged, sexy, face.  He has green, intense, eyes that seem to smolder with a glance.  He looks at ease with his nice build ... muscular, but not muscle-bound.

Romeo has lots and lots of sexiness wrapped up into one drool-worthy package.

Yum.

Never mind, Romeo is way too young for me - 

Romeo is cougar-fantasy material and that's all that really matters.

Have I mentioned there was a roomful of people in the operating room with me the other day?

Two surgeons, numerous nurses, an anesthesiologist, other confusing I-don't-know-who-they-were people, and two men from the company that makes the neurostimulator.

Romeo was one of the people in the operating room with me.

You know what that means?

Romeo has already seen me buck naked except for my sexy granny panties.

Romeo works as a stimulator expert.

I kid you not ...

Romeo is an official Expert Stimulator.

Romeo faithfully calls me at home every night to ask how I'm feeling.

We talk about pulsing sensations and how many batteries I might want to take care of my needs.

Romeo not only told me he would turn me on, he actually did!  

Quite successfully too.

"You made me tingly," I told him yesterday.

"Do you want more?" he asked.

""Yes!" I answered eagerly ....

And that is exactly what my time with Romeo is like.

Sometimes I want to giggle and giggle because - oh, the jokes and innuendos!

Romeo has told me I'm "cute" and that I "have a great laugh."  Clearly, that means we will run away together and spend our lives in green-smoky-eyed bliss.

Clearly.

Yesterday, I spent close to two hours with Romeo.  He turned me on repeatedly.  Sometimes the feelings were more intense; sometimes the feelings built slowly.  Once or twice, things got a little more intense than I could handle.

"Do you want me to slow down?" he asked.

"Maybe just a little," I answered.

"Are you sore?" he answered, concerned.

"No, it's okay.  I like it," I reassured him.

Today, Romeo and I are getting together again.  This time he said he'd show me three NEW ways to be turned on.

"I can make you feel all different types of sensations," he confided.

Romeo, Oh Romeo ....

© Twenty Four At Heart

Caught Naked

* Because I'm on vacation right now, I'm posting a repeat of a very popular post I wrote back in October of 2008.  (How is it even possible I've been blogging for that long?)  I hope it makes you smile. * 

I know you'll be surprised to hear I did something kind of stupid yesterday. 

It wasn't really stupid. 

I mean, it wasn't a result of a low IQ or anything like that. 

No, I'm pretty intelligent with the stupid things I do.  Most of the time they're the result of being preoccupied, or trying to do way more than any one person should try to do in any given day. 

So now we've established I'm a very bright individual, right? 

Good, fine. 

Remember that forever and ever.

I didn't get much sleep on Tuesday night. 

The whole blah, blah, blah pain and trying not to take any pain meds blah, blah, blah thing.  As a result, my intelligent brain might not have been firing all it's neurons on Wednesday.  I thought I'd hop on our elliptical (exercise equipment for you couch potatoes) and get a quick workout in before my standing 11 a.m. PT appointment.  Exercise creates endorphins and endorphins decrease pain. 

Supposedly. 

Sounds like a load of crap to me, but I'll try anything.

I finished my stellar workout having burned off maybe three calories.  I work out really hard like that. 

I came downstairs because all morning long my retrievers kept wanting to go outside every few minutes.  If you're one of the poor suckers people who follow me on Twitter, you got a message yesterday saying something along the lines of, "Let dogs in, let dogs out.  Let dogs in, let dogs out.  Let dogs in ...."  Honestly, my two retrievers have never been so annoying.

And yes, I really do send out earth-shattering messages like that on Twitter.

It never occurred to me maybe the dogs were going out a lot because there was something interesting for them to look at outside.  I admit, I was a little concerned initially because we had a rattlesnake pay us a visit the day before.  My backyard backs up to a canyon and lake.  There is nothing but wilderness behind our back fence.  It's very pretty.  It's been killer hot out here lately.  With the heat, sometimes we get critters like  mountain lion, deer, coyotes, bobcats, and rattlesnakes. 

I did have a brief moment where the thought of the dogs and the rattlesnake passed through my head, but I dismissed it.  That snake had plenty of time to move on from the prior day.  Also, the dogs weren't barking at anything.  Once a rattlesnake was right next to my foot and my Golden Retriever went berserk alerting me.  Retrievers are lovable, but also protective, and my dogs were not barking at anything.  They were just going in and out, and in and out, over and over again.

I finally got so frustrated with them I left our back door, leading to our backyard, wide open so they could go in and out without bothering me every two minutes.  For those of you who know me well, this is not normal behavior for me. 

No, I'm one of those neurotic people who always keeps the doors closed, and locked, all the time when I'm home.  Because it isn't normal behavior for me to leave a door wide open, I promptly forgot I had done so.  I was busy trying to knock out a few chores before I left for PT.

At one point I found myself in my laundry room tossing in a load to be washed.  I suddenly realized I might as well wash my workout clothes at the same time.  I stripped down naked in the laundry room, tossed some detergent in the washer and walked out.  I was going to head upstairs for a shower.

I like being naked just as much as the next person, but I'm not an exhibitionist. 

Also, hello? 

I'm in my forties.  Things don't look as great as they used to.  Come to think of it, things never looked great.  I'm the last person in the world to go advertising my stuff around town.

I walked out from the laundry room and found myself staring straight down a hall leading to our back door.  Both of my retrievers had retired to another room for a nap.  The door itself is glass, as is pretty much the entire back wall of our home.  We have lots and lots of windows so we can look out at the beautiful mountains and canyon. 

Standing there buck naked, I immediately noticed the back door wide open.  I hesitated.  I could head upstairs and take a shower.  However, I'm neurotic enough to be worried about showering with a door to my house wide open.  My other choice was to walk to the back door completely naked, shut the door, and then head to the shower.

I just couldn't take a shower with the door wide open. 

Besides, there's nothing but canyon behind our house. 

At least, not normally. 

I was about three feet from the door when I saw them.  Probably six landscaping men standing on the other side of our backyard fence.  Four of them were in discussion with their backs to me.  Two of them were turned towards me with their eyes glued on me. 

Naked me. 

Once in awhile our community hires landscaping teams to come in and clear brush from the perimeter of our neighborhood.  They do this in the name of fire prevention, which is of course, very important here in California.

I froze mid-step.  I'm not even kidding, it was as if I turned into a statue.  Should I take three or four more steps closer to those men to shut the door?  Or turn and run?  The door is glass, so even if I shut it, the men would have full view of me after I closed it. 

I couldn't move.  I stood there frozen for what seemed like hours, but was probably only seconds.  They didn't move either.  And then one of them did.  He turned and nudged one of the men next to him who was not yet staring in my direction.  He was alerting his buddies to the naked blonde woman they hadn't yet seen.

That was all it took to snap me out of my trance. 

In a millisecond I sprung forward, slammed the door shut, turned the lock, and sprinted away.  I'm sure they all got a nice view of my bouncing breasts and fat ass running away.

I suppose it gave them something to talk about? 

I wonder how many times they see naked women when they're out in wilderness areas clearing brush? 

It must happen every day. 

Or at least, that's what I told myself as I showered and quickly departed for the day.

© Twenty Four At Heart

Scattered

I'm going with scattered thoughts today.  (Scattered because my brain is making adjustments to new pain meds and I feel very scatter-brained.)

•  I'm almost halfway through my Invisalign treatment.  At this point, I'm very happy with both the process and the results.

I warned you.  I'm on drugs!

Ha!

•  I sent a package to Boston (for my daughter's birthday) via UPS "two-day-air."  It was sent over a week ago and it still hasn't arrived.  UPS has the package, but can't seem to get it delivered.  I've never had bad UPS service before.  I'm beyond frustrated at this point.  I feel like I'm banging my head against a wall every time I try to get the damn package delivered.  

•  I ran into a woman I know at the mall a few days ago.  I didn't recognize her.  She had a facelift, but her face FELL.  I've never seen such a strange look.  I can't figure out HOW it happened.  I still can't get her face out of my head either.  

It's haunting me.  

She used to be so pretty.  Wrinkles would look better on her than the FaceFALL she got.  If she hadn't come up to me and started talking, I wouldn't have even realized it was her.

•  When/If you're having a bad day, get on the Damn You Auto Correct! website.  Click on the "Best of DYAC" tab.  You will find it impossible not to laugh.

•  Here's a recent photo I took in a public bathroom.

Why did I take that photo?

I don't even know ....

It gives you a good look at how I take photos with my bum arm though.  Left arm/hand holds the camera/phone up.  Right/damaged arm has a permanent slope down to it.  It works okay from my hand to my elbow so without any movement to the top part of my arm, I manage to click the shutter/press the button.

Magic.

•  Here's another.  This one I took so I could show you maternity clothes are back in style for non-pregnant women:

Please excuse PR's unmade bed, laundry basket, and general mess behind me.  (He's a teen - need I say more?) 

* Both of these photos were taken with a mirror.  One person commented it LOOKS like I'm holding the camera with my right hand, but everything is reversed.  It is truly my left hand holding the phone.  (Note the thicker ring on that hand?  That's my wedding ring - left hand!)

•  Did you read the recent Time magazine article?

I think Arnold was the pig-of-the-week when it published.

•  Several of you asked if the bike/flip flop photo is for sale.  It's on my website (Beach 2011) both in color and in black and white.

•  Speaking of photos, I've been using the PhotoCard app to send my daughter occasional (snail mail) postcards.  It's fun because the postcard arrives with one of my photos on it making it more meaningful to both of us.  So far, I've just sent her sunflower shots because they're her favorite flower.  She loves getting "real" mail and is planning to frame a few of the sunflower postcards together.   (They're big.  Around 8.5" x 5.5" I think.)

It's a fun, cheap, way to make someone's day.

OK, was that scattered enough for one day?

I think it was ....

© Twenty Four At Heart

You Should Have Kept Your Wee Willy In Your Pants, Arnold

* Warning:  If you think celebrities can do no wrong, you will not want to read my opinion on the recent Schwarzenegger scandal. *

I don't normally comment on what goes on in the life of celebrities.  

I grew up in Southern California, and I'm the last person to be star struck by anyone.

You might even say I'm jaded.

Celebrities bore me.

(Well, except for the night Harrison Ford was at Angel Stadium's Diamond Club ... he did get my attention, I confess.)

Governors (and now, ex-governors) with big egos also bore me.

However, I'm so disgusted by all the latest Arnold Schwarzenegger hubub, I can't help but address it.

Arnold?

You're gross.

Gross as in, absolutely disgusting.

I don't know who would want to sleep with you in the first place.

Steroids create muscle bound men with teeny tiny, microscopic, peckers ...

Everyone knows that.

What an awkward combination - having a body all out of proportion like that.

In fact, the very idea of your wee-willy gives me a bad case of heebie jeebies.

Rumors have circulated, for years, of you manhandling women, sexually harassing women, bullying women for sex and basically making a giant dick out of yourself with women.

Now?

Now, you've humiliated your family.

Your poor kids.

(The kids everyone knew about, and the kid whose existence you've denied all this time.)

Your offspring are the people being hurt the most.

It's hard for a kid to walk into school when the newspapers and Internet are headlining their dad's schlong.

And why?

So you could feel more like a man by screwing the household help?

Seriously, Arnold?

The household help?

Did you threaten her with the loss of her job for sex?

Did you bully/harass her as you are purported to have done with other women?

Even if it was a willing, consensual, sexual encounter leading to a "love child" ...

I think you're pathetic.

I don't know anyone who respects a man whose ego lives in his dick.

I don't think anyone respects you.

© Twenty Four At Heart

On Being Your Girl [space] Friend

I had a rather awkward encounter with your wife recently.

I saw her from a distance, and hoped to avoid encountering her.  It seems it was inevitable.  In fact, the only real surprise is that it doesn't happen more often.

Your wife and I exchanged pleasantries as we both thought to ourselves, "This is awkward; how quickly can I get away?"

Outwardly, you have the perfect life.

People envy what you have - the material wealth, the beautiful home, the perfect family.

You're one of my favorite friends, and have been for years.

(Platonic friends, of course ... I need to clarify that fact for those who are reading.)  

I already know I'll hear from people saying men and women can't be friends, blah, blah, blah ... but the fact is, we are friends.

Once upon a time, I witnessed a display of bad public behavior by your wife and she's hated me ever since.  I think, in truth, she hates having embarrassed herself in front of me.  I'm an annoying reminder of how badly she behaved.  She sees me and she cringes.  She treats me coldly.  

I'll be honest, I don't like her much either.

Your wife wins the award for being The Biggest Bitch On Earth difficult.  

It's hard to warm up to difficult.

But in truth, there's more behind my dislike of her than the manner she treats me.  I don't like your wife because I saw that horrible scene incident of extremely public bad behavior, and plenty of subsequent examples of her trashing everyone she knows poor character too.

I would never say that to you, of course.  I will always be polite and cordial to her.  I go out of my way to be polite to her because you are my friend and she is your wife and I owe you (not her) that respect.

Although my recent encounter with her was brief, it left me thinking, pondering, for a long time.

I thought about all the things I know about you, about your life - things your own wife doesn't know.  For one, I know we're close friends.  As far as she's concerned, we're not much more than acquaintances.  We both know how much she dislikes me, so you never mention me to her.  And in truth, there's no reason to.  Likewise, when I do happen to encounter her (which is rare), I don't tell her I know what the latest is with her kids/vacations/career.

Why poke the bear, after all?

I suppose a lot of people have friends who they talk to more freely than they do with their own spouse.  

(You know, a friend you can get together with, share bad and/or good news with over an occasional lunch, and just feel comfortable with minus the complexities of a romantic relationship.)

How many people have secret friends though?

Maybe a lot of people do, for one reason or another ....

I know how much you love your kids, I know you would do anything for them - including stay in a difficult marriage.  You've told me you haven't been a perfect spouse any more than she has been.  (Is there such a thing?)  I know some of the ups and downs you've gone through with your career, with your friends, and with your family life.

I know a lot and yet, I suppose, I know nothing at all.

I don't know what it's like to live with so many secrets.  I don't know what it's like to have to hide things (like simple, casual, platonic friendships) "by omission" from your significant other.  I don't know what it feels like to be striving so hard to keep up appearances.

I know you're a good person, a decent human being, a person with virtues and, yes, faults.

I understand you ....

Like a person understands any friend they've had for many years.

I know you're doing the best you can in a less than perfect world.

And so, maybe I do know what it's like.

Because really,

Life is far from perfect for all of us.

We all do the best we can.

Each of us lives in our own, less than perfect, world.

© Twenty Four At Heart

I'm Really A 12 Year Old Boy

Yesterday, very early in the morning, I paid money for a good ballhead.

And then I giggled.

Yes, I am writing today's post about my stressful, exhilarating, and somewhat lengthy (snicker) ballhead experience.

First of all, who names something a ballhead?

Clearly a man, that's who.

For those of you who don't know what a ballhead is ...

A ballhead is a device that sits on top of a tripod, or monopod, for photography-related use.  There are websites devoted to ballhead varieties, and other websites debating which ballhead would make you happiest.

I was hilariously amused reading ballhead information.  (Proving, once again, I have the sense of humor of a 12 year old boy!)

Did you know your first attempt at getting a ballhead probably won't be your best?

Choosing the right ballhead can be a challenge.

Some ballheads cause quick release and others come with knobs and rubbers.

You can also get a screw ballhead, which is what I ended up purchasing.  Screw ballheads are slower to release which seemed to fit my particular needs.  (I much prefer a slower release.)

I'm giggling again, I can't help myself.

I was so confused by ballhead websites, I ended up calling a ballhead company to ask questions and place my order.

A very knowledgeable man took my call.

"Can you explain your favorite ballhead to me?" I asked.

:: pause ::

And then?

I giggled.

Yes, I did - right then, on the phone, I giggled.

I couldn't help it!

The nice man on the phone ignored me (after all, he has spent his entire career focusing on nothing but the best ballhead).  Then he began a detailed, informative, discussion on what he likes to see in his ballhead.  Trust me, he has very high expectations.  In fact, he has requirements that would never even occur to me.

I learned a lot.

For one thing, you can't have a discussion about ballheads without getting into detailed information about mounting them.  The mount you choose can have a big effect on the results you get from your ballhead.  

You want to have well supported ballhead or, apparently, there's no point to it.

Also?

A good ballhead is expensive.

"I'd easily pay $300 for a good ballhead," one male photographer friend told me.

Some people prefer double-action ballheads.

As one website said, "Any frustration with the head will very much aggravate you."

I could go on and on for days with ballhead quotes, but I'm going to make myself stop now.

However?

I suppose I should share this ...

I've been told the best ballhead is smooth and fast.

© Twenty Four At Heart 

Why American Women Should Boycott American Men

There is *someone* who keeps leaving spam comments on Twenty Four At Heart.  He's made his rounds through the blogosphere, leaving the identical comment on blog, after blog, after blog.  I'm not sure if he's skipped a single author of a blog anywhere in the universe.  He doesn't care if the blog author is male or female.

Mr. Troll has made at least three stops here, each time leaving his signature comment touting the reasons why American men should boycott American women.  

Oh, and there was also the time he came by "screaming" (all caps!) obscenities at everyone who was making fun of him in my comments section.

(By the way, you - my wonderful readers, wrote some hilarious responses to him!)

The best thing to do when a "troll" seeks attention is to ignore him.  I've deleted his comments as soon as I've seem them.  I've also blocked his IP address, but he keeps coming back with new ones.

However ....

He got me really thinking with his comment.  I very quickly realized American women should actually be the ones to boycott American men.

By just changing a few words in Mr. Troll's comment I arrived at the following:

•  I am an American woman, and I have decided to boycott American men. In a nutshell, American men are the most likely to cheat on you, to divorce you, to get fat, to steal half of your money in the divorce courts, they don’t know how to cook or clean, and want you to have their children.  (Oftentimes, ruining your vagina in the process!)  Therefore, what intelligent woman would want to get involved with American men? American men are generally immature, selfish, extremely arrogant and self-centered, mentally unstable, irresponsible, and highly unchaste. The behavior of most American men is utterly disgusting, to say the least. American men are inferior to foreign men (especially in bed), and American women should boycott American men, and date/marry only foreign men. BOYCOTT AMERICAN MEN!  •

In addition, I'd like to add the following ...

•  Despite scientific evidence to the contrary, there can be no doubt American men DO have periods.  The moodiness, the irritability, the anxiety, the overeating, the angry outbursts, the beer-belly-bloating ... shit, who needs that?

•  American men go through manopause.  In America, it's called a mid-life crisis and it's frequently accompanied by the purchase of a sports car and a much younger woman.  (And yes, the younger women are "purchased" through gifts, etc.  You don't really think a young'un is interested in Mr. Middle Aged Man for himself, do you?)

•  American men work too much and their entire identity is wrapped up in their jobs.

•  American men sit on couches watching ESPN for most of their lives.

•  American men want their wife to be their maid, mother, nurse, chef, laundress, and sex tigress all on a moment's notice.  Don't, however, expect them to reciprocate unless you want to be accused of nagging or (gasp!) being a bitch.

•  American men consider their belches, and particularly their farts, to be an art form.  

I'm sure you have some thoughts of your own to add.

Ready?

Set?

Go ...!

© Twenty Four At Heart

An Early Valentine's Celebration

Last night, I spent the night here:

It's the Fairmont Hotel in Newport Beach.

Briefcase booked a night here as an early Valentine's celebration.

I'll have more (but not all) of the details for you soon.

© Twenty Four At Heart

Deja Vu?

A few months ago, I rose early one morning.  I cleaned my lenses, packed my camera and drove to one of my favorite, secret, secluded beaches.

The beach was deserted.

It was a beautiful, spectacular, morning.

I was thrilled to have the beach to myself, but not surprised.  It was early in the day still, and it was off-season.

I took a leisurely walk down the beach, snapping photos as I went.

After quite awhile, I turned around and walked back in the direction I came from.

And that's when I first saw him.

From a distance he was no more than a mere speck of red, sitting on some rocks out on the point.

"Annoying," I thought.

How dare he show up and ruin my solitude.

I walked toward him, because my final destination was the cove on the other side of the point.

As I approached, I knew he was as aware of my presence as I was of his - and yet, he ignored me. 

He sat there, taking in the beauty of the morning, with a cup of coffee in his hand.

I crossed the path behind him on my way to the cove.

"Beautiful morning," I said because I felt I had to say something.

"It really is," he agreed, still not looking in my direction.

And then, when I had taken one step past him, he asked, "Where are you going?"

I turned to face him.

At the same moment, he stood.

Our eyes met.

I've thought about that moment over and over again.

What happened next made no sense.  

Recognition.

Surprise.

I felt startled ... stunned, actually.  

He had a similar reaction.

He actually took a step backward, as if in shock.

"It's you!" my brain seemed to scream, but instead I just stared at him wide-eyed.

And then, we were talking ... making inane small talk.

I'm going to the cove.

You're a photographer?

I write about, and photograph, The OC. 

Do you live here?

Yes, right there ... (with a wave of his hand towards the homes on the sand).

It wasn't physical attraction.  

It wasn't romantic. 

It wasn't sexual.

It was unexplainable recognition of a total stranger, and it was so strong it was almost frightening.  There was no question we were both experiencing the same sense of overwhelming familiarity.

"I know him, but I've never met him.  This doesn't make sense," I thought.

But at the same time, for some reason - it did.

After a few minutes, I went on my way.  

I felt shaken and disconcerted by the encounter.

I hiked to the cove. 

I began shooting photo after photo.  Rocks, tide pools, waves, the bluffs ... click, click, click went the shutter.  With each photo I wandered a little further down the beach.

About twenty minutes went by.

I knew, before I looked up.  

I could feel him watching me.

I turned back, towards the point ... now fairly far away from where I was.

He stood there at the tip of the rocks.

Facing me.

Riveted.

He was wondering who I was, just like I was wondering who he was.

We stood there, staring across the distance, for a few minutes.

I turned away first.  Raising my camera to my eye, I began shooting again.

In time, I made my way back up to the point.  It was time to head home.

He was gone.

My eyes searched the houses ... one of which, is his home.

"Who are you?" I whispered.

All these months later ...

I still find myself wondering.

© Twenty Four At Heart 

Romeo, Part II

I humiliated myself in front of Romeo recently.

My regular readers, I'm sure, aren't surprised in the least.

Humiliation is something I do frequently well.

My newer readers are asking, "Who's Romeo?"

Romeo is the good looking Expert Stimulator who turns me on.  (And up.  And down.  And re-programs me.)  

Romeo is the technical expert for my bionic arm and the 24 electrodes in my arm and shoulder.

He's also just-walked-out-of-a-magazine gorgeous.  Smokin' hot.

Let me tell you what happened ...

I had an appointment to see Romeo first, followed by an appointment with my doctor.  (Same building - same office although Romeo doesn't work for Dr. Painless.)

The waiting room was packed when I arrived, and it quickly became clear I was in for a long wait.

After about 40 minutes of waiting, the receptionist - while on a phone call - turned and looked at me and said, "She's here; I'll tell her."  Then she hung up and informed me Romeo was stuck in traffic but would be arriving soon.

"He's definitely worth waiting for," she quipped.  Then she gave me a look communicating just how much she admires Romeo's body charm.

(Romeo has this affect on woman worldwide - I'm not the only cougar one who drools a little when he walks into the room.)

A short while later I was in one of the examining rooms with Romeo.

I want you to know, up until this time, I had always been very calm, cool, and collected around Romeo.  Oh, I might have giggled once or a zillion times twice when he talked about turning me on, but for the most part I was a very professional, studious, patient.

I know, it's very unlike me, isn't it?

It took a lot of effort to suppress my personality to that extreme.

Anyway, Romeo was giving me an additional two programs on this particular visit.  We began chatting.  He turned me on.  Then off.  Then I asked him to turn me on again because I could.  He explained things to me, I asked questions ... everything was on the up and up until he said something about my recent complimentary trip to the spa.

?????

I wondered how Romeo could possibly know about my trip to the spa.

"I've been reading your blog, I even went back and read some of your archives" Romeo said blushing.

::  Stunned silence  ::

"Oh my God!" I thought, "He's blushing!  He read what I wrote about him in the Romeo post."

If you'll recall I wrote things like:

... unable to tear my eyes away from the gorgeous hunk of Italian man in front of me ...

And -

Romeo has lots and lots of sexiness wrapped up into one drool-worthy package.  Yum.

And -

He turned me on repeatedly.  Sometimes the feelings were more intense; sometimes the feelings built slowly.  Once or twice, things got a little more intense than I could handle.

Memories of what I wrote made me blush too.  

Profusely.

I wanted to die; I was so embarrassed.

"Oh, you read what I wrote about you in the Romeo post," I said - wanting desperately to come up with words to explain it away.

"Romeo post?" he asked.  "You wrote a post about me?"

Oh shit ......!  

He hadn't, in fact, read the Romeo post.  

Yet.

Foot in mouth, anyone?

It was too late, of course.  There was no doubt in my mind Romeo would be reading exactly what I wrote about him as soon as he had the opportunity.

Why was he blushing then?  I wondered.  Then I realized he could have read posts about my brazilian bikini waxes or any number of other subjects that might make him blush.

"Do you have a sense of humor?" I asked.

Smoldering, green, bedroom eyes pierced mine.

"Ah, um, I ... um ..," I stammered.

Right then one of the doctors walked in the room to say hi to me.

"We've all been reading your blog every day," she said cheerfully.  (Yes, those were the first words out of her mouth.)

"Ahhhhhh ....!"  I answered, feeling as if a giant spotlight had emerged from the ceiling to shine light on the inner workings of my brain.

My eyes darted around the room, trying to find an avenue of escape.

(I know it doesn't make sense because I do write on the Internet, but I'm still shocked - and I do mean SHOCKED - when I find out people in my every day life are reading 24.)

I quickly changed the subject to arm-related topics.

Quite awhile later, after seeing Dr. Painless, I was finally done with my visit.

When I got home, I went back and re-read the Romeo post.

Then I blushed a lot (!!) more.

Next, I tried to block the afternoon out of my mind.  I decided, the next time I met with Romeo, I would simply pretend our conversation never happened.  He had probably already forgotten the entire discussion anyway.

I should have known better.

The next morning I woke up to an email from Romeo.

He had read the post I wrote about him.

"You are very talented," his email said.  

Talented?

At what?

(And now, I'm blushing again.)

© Twenty Four At Heart

Whoa! I'm 24 AGAIN!

Yay!

Happy 24th birthday to me once again!

I'm, hopefully, at a spa getting wrapped up in eucalyptus leaves and rubbed with warm oil while you're reading this.  (Or am I doing laundry?  Take your pick!)

I had all these wonderful ideas for a post today, but then I kept dismissing them as not being appropriate for my 24th birthday.

I mean, what if my parents stop in to wish me a happy birthday and I've chosen to do a post about the sex toys random strangers mail me?  And what if I even listed the names I've chosen to give each particular toy ....  

Do you think they'd understand?

Yes, people HAVE sent me sex toys and no, I'm not quite sure why.  I'm not quite sure why I name them either, except there are now so many of them - how else would I keep track of them?

Perhaps readers send me sex toys because I mention them from time to time in my posts so they think I need MORE sex toys.

(Because five dildos is never enough!)

Someone even gave me a vibrating ring.  Yeah, like a ring you wear on your finger.  It's bright orange.  I have a few questions about that particular toy, but let's not get into them right now.

If I die in surgery tomorrow someone is going to find an entire cabinet of sex toys and I don't want to be remembered for them.

I haven't even tried most of them yet!

Now, LOOK what's happened!

This has turned into a post about not writing a post about sex toys.

How did that happen?

I might as well have just written about the damn sex toys in the first place.

In addition, apparently I was politically incorrect yesterday.

(Don't act so surprised.)

There's been drama and scandal in the blogosphere recently.  

Shocking, I know!

A popular, married, male blogger has been surreptitiously sending female bloggers his penis.

* Ahem *

I mean, photos of his penis - via email/text.

Sexual harassment of any sort is not something to laugh about, and yet - way too many funny one liners keep popping into my head.  

I don't think what this blogger did (purportedly to multiple women) is at all funny.  In fact, I think the man involved is in strong need of some serious psychiatric care if the allegations are as they've been presented.

I'm qualifying my statements because I wasn't there and I, personally, haven't received this particular man's penis wrapped up in a bow (or email) in my inbox.

And yet, I still have funny (to me) one liners cursing through my brain.  I can't make them stop, but I have managed to keep myself from saying them out loud.  

So far.

In the midst of all this blogging drama, and the concentrated effort on my part to bite my tongue and not let loose with the one-liners I SO want to let loose with ...

I, unthinkingly, and with ill timing - posted a photo on twitter yesterday.  (Yes, right in the middle of all the penis drama.  My timing really was unintentional.)  

The tweet and photo:

I originally took this to be artistic, but instead it just looks phallic. #PhotographyFail 

I wasn't trying to make light of The Penis Controversy.  I think all the penis talk just colored my view of the photos I was editing at the time.

Or maybe the photo really does look like one gigantic penis?

What do you think?

(Whoa!  I just wrote a birthday post which had nothing to do with birthdays and at the same time I managed to mention sex toys and penises several times.  I.Am.Amazing!) 

© Twenty Four At Heart

The 21st Miner

I assume most of you have watched, along with the rest of the world, as the thirty three trapped Chilean miners were rescued from 2,300 feet beneath the ground.

Before The Haters jump in and start telling me I'm a shitty person for writing this post, I'd like to say I was riveted by the story of the miners from start to finish.  I was absolutely thrilled with the rescue of the men.

It was emotional, amazing and just incredible.

Yesterday, a lot of publicity was focused on the fate of Yonni Barrios who was the 21st miner to be rescued from the collapsed mine.

Yonni, as you probably already know, was greeted by his mistress when he emerged from the mine.  As it turns out, Yonni was not the only miner to have both a wife and a mistress, but his story became the most public.

Marta, Yonni's wife of 28 years, just recently discovered he had a mistress.  Prior to the 69 days he was trapped, she had no idea.  After learning of Yonni's indiscretion, Marta chose not to be there to greet Yonni when he popped his shaft out of the shaft.

Ahem.

There is just SO much material here ...

Trapped for 69 days.

The mistress (instead of the wife) was waiting for him at the end of his shaft ...

Stuff like this is irresistible to my warped sense of humor.

Susana, Yonni's mistress, has apparently been having a relationship with him for over five years.  She greeted him with sobs, kisses, and hugs.  

Yonni seemed a little uncomfortable during her display of emotion.

The greeting by his mistress, with cameras zooming in to capture every moment, seemed a little awkward.

Yonni probably knew his wife was at home watching the exchange on television.

It must be a little strange and uncomfortable for Yonni to have his illicit extramarital affair revealed to the entire world.

Go figure ....

Now, I personally don't care how Yonni chooses to live his life.

Who am I to judge?

I know very little about Yonni, his wife, his mistress, or his life.

I've experienced enough of life to realize not all situations are black and white.

I also wouldn't pretend to know the slightest thing about Yonni's particular love triangle.

I do, however, know Yonni was allowed to choose three people to be present to greet him when he emerged from the mine.

He invited BOTH his wife and his mistress.  

Really, Yonni?

Really?

I'm wondering how Yonni expected that to work out?

Who was he going to hug and kiss first?

Apparently his wife, although upset upon learning of his mistress, had initially planned to be there to greet him upon his rescue.  That is - until she found out he had also asked his mistress to be there.  At that point, Marta pretty much told Yonni to fuck off.

My bet is, now that Marta has left Yonni - he'll want her back.

It seems to be human nature to want what we can't have.  If Susana had been the one to tell Yonni to fuck off, he'd probably chase after her.

It isn't easy to love two people at the same time.

Yonni's story made me think.

I thought about what I would do if I were Marta.  I thought about what I would do if I were Susana.  I wondered how often affairs are discovered when one of the involved parties becomes ill, involved in an accident or tragedy, or dies.  

I bet it's actually a pretty common phenomenon ...

I also thought about Yonni.  I tried to imagine being him.

I tried to imagine ...

And yet, I couldn't.

He asked both his mistress and his wife (who had just found out about his mistress) to come and rejoice together at his rescue.

It's hard for me to imagine being that stoopid.

Clearly, the man must have been oxygen deprived down in the mine.

So tell me, do you think I'm way off base?

What are your thoughts on the situation?

What would you do if you were Marta, Susana or Yonni?

© Twenty Four At Heart

The Big Nipple Debate

I readily admit, I was a little stressed during the two days preceding my surgery last week. 

My mind was racing.  I had very little notice regarding the timing of the surgery.  I had a lot to do and a short amount of time to get it done.  When I wasn't thinking about my "to do" list, I tried to ease my surgery anxiety by visualizing what the experience would be like.  I've been through so many surgeries since the car accident, I began going through a mental checklist of what things would be similar or dissimilar about this particular experience.

Two nights before my surgery, it occurred to me - putting electrodes on both the front and back of my shoulder and arm would mean being completely uncovered for Dr. Painless.

"I won't have a hospital gown covering my upper body," I realized suddenly.

This realization came to me as a bit of a shock and I felt my cheeks flush in embarrassment. 

I'm not shy about my body and I've had my share of accidental flashing incidents over the years, but this ...

This felt different.

I see Dr. Painless on a regular basis.  He wears designer suits and fancy ties.  He's a big shot, world-famous, doctor.  Somehow, his "normal" day-to-day formality made the thought of being topless in front of him even more awkward.

I began airing my anxiety-ridden thoughts to Twitter.

I asked my friends on Twitter if they thought heterosexual male doctors "peeked" at women's nipples given the opportunity to do so during surgery.  I mused that maybe I should draw a smiley face around my right nipple to find out.  (My right arm/shoulder being the one to be operated on.)  If the doc began laughing, or commented, I'd know his eyes had wandered off track.

Then I re-framed my thought and asked Twitter if there were any male surgeons following me, and if so, would they be willing to answer honestly whether or not they "check out" the breasts of their female patients during surgery.

It didn't take long until I got a direct (private) message from a male surgeon in the midwest.  Now, I happen to "know" this particular person and I know he is, in fact, a doctor.  What I'm saying is, for reasons I won't go into right now, I know this is a person I can trust to be honest with me.

His answer?

Yes.  If the opportunity is available, doctors "take a peek."

First of all, I really appreciated this particular person trusting me enough to be honest with me.

Second, I was shocked by his answer although I don't really know why.  

"Looking" is human nature, isn't it?  My Twitter friend wasn't saying doctors "do" anything inappropriate, he just acknowledged if a heterosexual male doctor has a female's breast right in front of him - he's probably going to take a "peek" at it.

I decided I should, in fact, draw a smiley face on my nipple to test out my theory.

Twitter egged me on, of course.  I even had people offering to pay me money simply to draw a face on my right areola/nipple area.  I had visions of a perfect smiley face on my nipple and hearing Dr. Painless burst out laughing mid-surgery.

"Busted for looking!" I imagined myself saying.

I began pondering the merits of the smiley face.  Should it be looking up at the doctor as he worked on my shoulder?  Or should it be facing straight ahead?

Of course, at some point I realized I'd be sedated and miss the surprised look on Dr. Painless's face when he saw my nipple smiling at him.  I convinced myself I'd "know" if he'd seen it when I woke up even if I'd been asleep through the entire smiling-nipple encounter.

Are you amazed at the inner workings of my brain yet?

I think, perhaps, I was cracking under pre-surgery stress.

Or something.

The night before my surgery, the topic came up again on Twitter.  People asked me, "Are you going to do it?"

It was then I realized the only markers I had in the house were "permanent, archival quality" markers.  If I drew a smiley face on my nipple, it wouldn't be coming off any time soon.  I might die fifty years from now with a permanent, archival quality, smiley face still on my nipple.

The idea concerned me greatly.

I tweeted my concern, and the dismal lack of "washable" markers in my house.

Twitter friends began giving me other Nipple Decorating Ideas which included suggestions such as glitter, sparkles, rhinestones and little plastic winking eyes.

OK, so maybe the little plastic winking eyes were MY idea.

I thought it would be hilarious to have plastic winking eyes on my smiling nipple watching Dr. Painless perform surgery.

It was right about then, when I sent out the following tweet:

If I'm not going to have a shirt on at all I really should make matching nipple decorations. Otherwise it would just look weird.

(Because matching smiling/decorated nipples are altogether more normal than just having ONE smiling nipple, right?)

I'd like to clarify ...

I was not on pain meds when any of this was taking place.

In the end, simply due to a lack of crafting supplies, I did not decorate my nipple or nipples.

I was disappointed, of course, but I knew if the "trial" of the neurostimulator went well, I'd have another opportunity for surgery-nipple-decorating very soon.

As it turns out, there was an unexpectedly large crowd of people in the operating room with me the next day.  I was glad I hadn't decorated my nipple(s) because if I had - at least 10 people, in addition to Dr. Painless, would have been privvy to my decorating skills.

"Whew! I'm glad I didn't make a smiling nipple after all," I thought as the initial pre-surgery drugs began to kick in.

The room began to swirl and whirl.  I felt punchy and lightheaded.

And that's right when it happened ...

I looked up at Dr. Painless and smiled through my giddy, drugged up, haze.  

Then I blurted out, "I was going to surprise you with a smiling nipple today but I didn't have the right kind of markers."

His eyebrows raised questioningly, and then ...

Everything went dark.

© Twenty Four At Heart

Romeo, Oh Romeo!

I've fallen in love.  

Well, maybe it isn't really love - but who cares?

And before I tell you this story, I want you to know I can be a cougar in my own mind if I want to.  Especially after a week like this one.

During the hour before my surgery I was hanging out on a gurney in my sexy hospital gown, with my granny panties on, and my hair tucked into a too-hawt-to-handle hospital cap on my head.  After a night of no sleep, I was definitely looking my most awesome best.

A man in surgical scrubs approached me, looked me in the eyes with the sexiest green, smoky, bedroom eyes I've ever seen and said, "Hi.  I'm Romeo and I'll be the one turning you on."

"Promise?!" I laughed, unable to tear my eyes away from the gorgeous hunk of Italian man in front of me.

He blushed.

I sighed.

And no, his name isn't REALLY Romeo ... but it might as well be.  (And the above photo isn't really him either - he is SO much hotter!)

We all have our "types," right?  You know, a physical LOOK that makes our heart pitter patter and our mouths drool.

Romeo is IT for me.

Tall, dark, handsome ... with dark curls surrounding his rugged, sexy, face.  He has green, intense, eyes that seem to smolder with a glance.  He looks at ease with his nice build ... muscular, but not muscle-bound.

Romeo has lots and lots of sexiness wrapped up into one drool-worthy package.

Yum.

Never mind, Romeo is way too young for me - 

Romeo is cougar-fantasy material and that is all that really matters.

Have I mentioned there was a roomful of people in the operating room with me the other day?

Two surgeons, numerous nurses, an anesthesiologist, other confusing I-don't-know-who-they-were people, and two men from the company that makes the neurostimulator.

Romeo was one of the people in the operating room with me.

You know what that means?

Romeo has already seen me buck naked except for my sexy granny panties.

Romeo works as a stimulator expert.

I kid you not ... Romeo is an official Expert Stimulator.

Romeo faithfully calls me at home every night to ask how I'm feeling.

We talk about pulsing sensations and how many batteries I might want to take care of my needs.

Romeo not only told me he would turn me on, he actually did!  

Quite successfully too.

"You made me tingly," I told him yesterday.

"Do you want more?" he asked.

""Yes!" I answered eagerly .......

And that is exactly what my time with Romeo is like.

Sometimes I want to giggle and giggle because - oh, the jokes and innuendos!

Romeo has told me I'm "cute" and that I "have a great laugh."  Clearly, that means we will run away together and spend our lives in green-smoky-eyed bliss.

Clearly.

Yesterday, I spent close to two hours with Romeo.  He turned me on repeatedly.  Sometimes the feelings were more intense; sometimes the feelings built slowly.  Once or twice, things got a little more intense than I could handle.

"Do you want me to slow down?" he asked.

"Maybe just a little," I answered.

"Are you sore?" he answered, concerned.

"No, it's okay.  I like it," I reassured him.

Today, Romeo and I are getting together again.  This time he said he'd show me three NEW ways to be turned on.

"I can make you feel all different types of sensations," he confided.

Romeo, Oh Romeo ....

© Twenty Four At Heart

Popcorn, Sex, and Twitter

* You've been absolutely awesome with name suggestions for my new website.  Comments on yesterday's post are still open and remember - I am giving away a $100 Amazon gift card.  For details go here! *

Some of you follow me on Twitter, and others of you don't.

Twitter is a different world where you get little bits of information here and there about people.  There are days when I'm not on Twitter much, and other days when I get quite chatty.

Lately, it seems like I've been on a bit of a roll.  Even if you do follow me on Twitter, chances are you haven't read all of my stellar 24 moments.

Here is an assortment of some recent and random tweets I thought might make you smile:

•  Do massive quantities of steroids make a person hungry? Because holy shit I just ate the entire couch!

•  Someone just asked me how much money I make. Don't most adults know better than to ask someone shit like that? Rude, rude, rude.

•  There is not enough coffee in the world for the first morning of the school year.

•  I swear to God, I can attract a pervert from 1,000 miles away.

•  Dear Newport Beach - You might be shallow, but you're sure pretty.

•  Driving down PCH because? I can.

•  My pain doc is not afraid to drop F bombs right and left when talking to me. Makes me laugh and it makes him real.

•  As in, "You really need a f*cking photo assistant." Ha! : )

•  In order to have a f*cking photo assistant, first I'd have to make some f*cking money selling my f*cking photos.

•  So Dr Painless & I also discussed the merits of implanting vibrating electrodes in me.

•  Do you really want to know what direction that conversation took?

•  I'm so filled with snark today I need to clamp my jaw shut to keep myself out of trouble.

•  An outright sexcicle. Sort of like a popsicle for sex. #WhatAmIsaying?

•  I'm walking around the house w/one boob hanging out and the other in my bra. Waiting for topical pain med to dry on my arm/shoulder.

•  There's nothing like a brand new tube of mascara to make a girl feel pretty. *flutters eyelashes*

•  Dear Money Town Car Wash - someone should make a sitcom out of you.

•  The bulb on my baster just popped and then exploded. #SoundsDirty #Cooking

•  My iPod is hissing at me. I take that as a very bad sign ...

•  I wore an apron today for probably the first time in my life. A red one. Do you ever wear an apron? #TalkingAboutCookingNotSex

•  I love when "important" people visit my blog for the first time on a day when I'm discussing my friend's period. Sheeeeeeet!

•  Seriously asshole? I'm not giving you a text link on my blog for 30 bucks. Try again.

•  When you hug a physical therapist friend he will instantly appraise your bum arm whether you want him to or not. #OneArmedHugs

•  When I "clean" it involves a lot of shoving stuff into cupboards and drawers. #NotSoDomestic

•  Dear Drug Companies: Please make a steroid drug for pain that will not destroy my body and cause cancer. It will make you rich. Thanks.

•  My FIL who doesn't know about 24 or photo business suggested I might consider a career as a photographer since I "take good pictures" : )

•  Some guy kept taking pics of me down at the surf contest. Really weird. He must have been attracted to my big lens.

•  Uncontrollable and sudden urge for popcorn. We have NO popcorn in the house.

•  Told my husband I would do *anything* for popcorn but he isn't getting the hint!

•  Men? You are so dense sometimes. Sex for a popcorn run is a good DEAL!!

•  He's watching football. I don't think he hears what I'm proposing ....

•  He's searching the pantry for popcorn. He still DOESN'T GET what I'm saying.

•  OK I finally said, "SEX FOR POPCORN" and he said "What?" Now he's getting his wallet and going to the store.

•  Guess I'm getting laid tonight. Sheesh ... the work you men makes us go through! : )

•  The popcorn is popping - and that's not a euphenism

•  Buttering the popcorn .... #SoundsSoDirty

•  He doesn't know I'm on twitter. Did I mention I added salt?

[Thus began a flurry of sex/popcorn jokes for a few days on Twitter]

•  Wearing my body brace for my arm/shoulder. I look like a stuffed boobless sausage. #Sexxaay #NotAtAllActually

•  On the other hand, do sausages EVER have boobs? I think not.

•  I'm tweeting with a surfing dog. What has become of my life?

•  My husband & I are arguing over the thermostat. This f*cking body brace makes me hot. He says it's freezing and I'm sweating. Ugh!

•  I just told him Twitter thinks he should put on a sweater. It must be very exasperating to be married to me. : )

•  OK, I just took my brace off and guess what? It's freezing in this house! #PoorMan #NotMyFault #BraceIsLikeAwetsuit

•  I think I'm a pain in the ass tonight. Now I wigged out over a big hairy spider in the shower and made him kill it  #SpidersHaveTooManyLegs

•  Something bit me. Repeatedly. And no, it was not my husband.

•  There are few things in life as nasty as eating a rotten nut #ThatsWhatSheSaid

•  I don't understand men who "expose" themselves. Do they really think we want to see their winky-dink?

© Twenty Four At Heart

The Valet

About a month ago, I was in a local photography store when a man struck up a conversation with me.  Initially, we started talking about photography, camera lenses, and things of that nature.  I mentioned some photos I had just taken and he asked what I was going to do with them.

In hindsight it was kind of a strange question.  (What does anyone do with their photos?)  Without thinking I answered, "Oh, I'll be posting them next week."

"Post them where?" he inquired.

Careful not to mention the actual name of my blog, I answered, "Oh, I sometimes do a little writing on the Internet."  

(Ahem, almost every day ... but I didn't mention THAT.)

This led to a host of questions as to what I write about. 

I had barely answered, "It's a lifestyle blog - I write about my life here in Orange County, share photos, and .... "

Before I could say another word, the man began talking and I don't think he stopped for the next forty five minutes.

He wanted to share with me his Orange County stories.

As it turns out, the man had owned, for many years, a valet company.  His company serviced a lot of the "best" restaurants, hotels and establishments in Orange County.  He said, "There's absolutely nothing I haven't seen."  

The Valet proceeded to tell me story, after story, after story.  He flung around the names of celebrities and the richest of Orange County's rich.  His stories had the ring of truth.  I can spot a bullshitter a mile away and this man was sincere.

What I learned from him, however, is the rich go to a lot of work, and spare no expense, to have illicit affairs.

I've never had an affair, but I imagine it's a lot of work to keep up with two separate relationships regardless of your finances.  I can barely keep straight the lives of the people who live in my house, let alone adding anyone else into the mix.

The valet told me about celebrities paying him to "hide" their cars so their spouses/friends/acquaintances wouldn't see their cars where they weren't supposed to be - whether it be a hotel or a restaurant.

Can you imagine?

"Excuse me, here's an extra $100 for you to go hide my car until I'm ready to leave."

He also told me stories of people paying him to drive them back to where they were supposed to be in the first place.  That's right - they arrived at a hotel with someone they shouldn't have, presumably enjoyed their rendezvous, and then paid a valet generously to drive them back to wherever their car had been left.

As an example, Jack tells his wife he's at the local sports bar with the guys.  He drives there and leaves his car, visible, in the parking lot.  His girlfriend picks him up and they go to a hotel.  Jack leaves his girlfriend, cozy in bed at the hotel, at 2 a.m. and pays the valet to take him back to his car at the sports bar.  From the sports bar, Jack then drives back home to his wife.

So much planning!

The valet also told me about people who paid his attendants to drive them to other locations.  For example, Mike shows up at a fancy restaurant.  Mike told his wife he has to attend a business dinner there.  Mike pays the valet to park his car in a visible spot.  He then slips the valet an extra $100 to drive him a few blocks away to a nice hotel where he will be meeting his mistress.

I've used men's names in my above examples, but The Valet told me stories revolving around both men and women.  I know affairs are common.  I know rich people in other locations probably do similar things.  It just never occurred to me before that anyone would go to so much effort.

I suppose there's nothing new here, but it's new to me.  

I walked away stunned at the amount of work, deception, money, and effort people put into pulling off an affair.  If it's worth going through that much to spend time with someone other than your spouse - why not just get a divorce?

© Twenty Four At Heart

I Don't Love Vampires

Well, yesterday's post set a record for "fuck you's" in my comment section.  

Getting so many fucks in one day will most likely make me ineligible for any blog awards during the year 2010.

That didn't sound right ...

Also?

That big corporate sponsorship I was recently contacted about probably just disappeared, but that's okay!  I haven't had a big corporate sponsorship previously, and I never intended to have one when I began Twenty Four At Heart.  If Corporate America thinks I've had too many fucks from my readers then ... oh well.

(Wait .... that didn't sound right either!)

I think I'd better change the subject before I make things even worse than they already are.

Apparently another Twilight movie just came out.

I'm sorry, but I don't get it.

I can understand ten and twelve year old little girls squeeing over vampires and werewolves, but grown women?

I tried, I really did try.

I downloaded the first Twilight book to my Kindle awhile back and I forced myself to read the entire thing.  I thought the writing was incredibly weak and the story juvenile.

**  Ducking from thrown objects **

I couldn't bring myself to go see the movie or, for that matter, to read any of the other books.

I realize my opinion is not a popular one.

I realize my opinion will probably create fuck yous in my comment section again today, except this time they will be directed at me.

Why would a grown woman wait in line for four hours to see a movie written for 12 year olds?  Why, why, why?

Why would a grown woman fantasize about a pasty white man with fangs sucking blood out of her neck?

Why would she find it titillating to think a werewolf would compete with a vampire for her?  (Yes, a hairy beast of a man who likes to howl at full moons.)

It's no wonder so many men say they don't understand what women want.

I don't understand either.

I, personally, like a real man.

You know, a warm bodied man with real flesh, kind eyes and ... ok, maybe a talented tongue.

Did I just say that?

I believe I did ....

© Twenty Four At Heart

Pool Party

 

While I was out of town for Mother's Day weekend, Briefcase volunteered our house for a pool party and barbecue this weekend.  

No, he didn't check with me first before volunteering us me to do all the work.

This isn't a small affair either.

We are hosting around 75 people from my son's baseball program this afternoon and evening.

Everyone we're expecting is very nice and I'm sure I'll enjoy myself once it begins.  On the other hand, I can't say throwing a large party is remotely exactly what I needed right now.

Someone pass me a margarita, please!

© Twenty Four At Heart

Eighties Flashback!

Prepare to smile BIG by the end of this post.

First, my apologies, I have no Photography Friday post for you this week.  I will definitely have one for you next Friday.

Why?

Well, the last 24 hours have been purely chaotic.  My oldest son returned home from his freshman year at college in North Carolina.  Doesn't it seem like I was just crying my eyes out as I dropped him off?  Summer break begins early for the southern schools and he arrived home last night.  I am, of course, thrilled.

Remind me of that when he leaves dirty dishes all over the house.

My youngest son caught the crud I had a week or two ago, was home sick from school, and needed to be run into the doctor.  (He's fine ... just needed some meds!)

Also, I'm on my way out of town early today for a long girl's weekend.  I'm sure you understand how crazy it sometimes gets as you're packing and preparing for a trip.  I'll be in Santa Barbara and neighboring vicinities until Tuesday.  I do plan to post while I'm gone, assuming I'm able to find decent Internet access at the dump hole in the wall I'm staying in.  I may, however, be posting when I can vs. my normal, fairly reliable, schedule.

(If you've emailed me in the last few days, forgive me for not yet responding.  See above craziness!)

Photography Friday posts take quite a bit of prep time on my part, and I just couldn't pull it off this week.  Instead, I thought I'd end the week by providing you with a smile.

Recently, I posted a photo of what I looked like in the 90's.

One of my readers and twitter friends (VanMacGuy on Twitter) asked me what I looked like in the 80's.  We agreed to swap photos.  Unfortunately, I have yet to find the right box with my photos from the 80's.  When I do, I'll post one of myself.

In the meantime, VanMacGuy was nice enough to allow me to share with you his photo from the eighties.

I love it!

If you'd like to send me a photo from your past too, along with permission to post it on 24, I'd love to see it.

In the meantime, a huge thank you to VanMacGuy for bringing a smile to my day!

© Twenty Four At Heart 

I'm Blaming My Friends, Part II

** I'm hosting a giveaway on some fantastic skincare products.  Click here for details! **

Let's see, on Monday we left off with this:

A giant sized mojito, or several, a group of friends, a rooftop bar in Laguna Beach with stunning ocean views, and yours truly right smack dab in the middle of things.

I must not get out enough.

I was in quite a "let loose" mood as was my friend, Nike.  My other friends were having a good time too, but Nike and I?  We were having a really good time!

Also?

You should always eat before you drink a bunch of giant sized mojitos.  It slows down the drunkeness-factor.

For instance ...

Who are these people?

Their photos were on my camera, but I have no idea who they are.

I know they were at K'ya; they were seated near us.  How and why I ended up taking their photo is beyond me.  I think maybe I wanted to show you some OC people and they were kind enough to indulge me.

Let's just go with that ... 

(Yes, I am a lightweight with alcohol, why do you ask?)

This is Nike hugging Jim.  We met Jim at the bar.

I never knew Nike was such a man-magnet.  Maybe that's because we often have our husbands with us when we go out.  The opening line (all night long) involved men approaching Nike and telling her she looks like Jamie Lee Curtis.

What do you think? 

Jim seemed like a nice guy.  He was very friendly.

I think Jim liked Nike best.

Then there were these men:

They were there with the Laguna Beach Cowboy.  They seemed very nice.  

No one seemed to think it at all odd that a random drunk woman was approaching them and asking if she could take their photo and put it on the Internet.  

This is Casey.  Casey was our wonderful bartender at K'ya.

Casey makes a mean mojito.  Or two.  Or three.  Or ....

Look at the tattoo Casey has on his elbow:

Ouch!  It must have really hurt to get that tattoo.

This is a very horrible picture of me with Mike:

 

My bangs look exactly the same in this photo as they did when I was five.

F-I-V-E!!

(Dialing a hair stylist ...)

Mike, who is married and declared himself "relatively harmless", was visiting from Sacramento.  Mike wanted us to meet him at a bar after we went to see Can You Be More Pacific?  

That didn't happen ....

I think Mike liked all of us.  He was very friendly to everyone.

What happened next?

Well, I'll tell you about the conclusion of our evening in one of my posts next week.

(Make sure to join me for Photography Friday tomorrow and the announcement of the iS Clinical product winners on Saturday!  If you haven't yet entered to win you can do so by clicking here.)

© Twenty Four At Heart

Laguna Beach Cowboy

I went out with some girlfriends on Thursday night.  

I had too so much fun!  I'll tell you more about it next week.

Once I've fully recovered.

For right now, I just want to share a photo I took while out.  I'm proud of this photo, although it's far from perfect.

I was at an outdoor, rooftop, bar overlooking the ocean.  It was beautiful.  

I *might* have had one too many mojitos.

This gentleman was sitting near me.  He had the ocean and sky behind him.  The sun acted as the perfectly positioned hair light.  All I had with me was a pretty beat up point and shoot camera.

And yet, still I got this ...

 

I don't know his name, but he gave me permission to take his photo.  (Thank you!)

I gave him my business card so he could see his photo here on Twenty Four At Heart.

I think it's an awesome photo, don't you?

© Twenty Four At Heart

I Love This!

I was at the Plastic Surgery Party last night and had no time to write.  I had a lot of fun and actually won something in one of the raffles!  Woo hoo!  I'll tell you all about it soon.  In the meantime, I'm going to share with you this Old Spice commercial.  It's hilarious - I absolutely love it!

© Twenty Four At Heart

Revisiting the Well Endowed Man

** If you will be in Southern California THIS THURSDAY, March 11th, and you're interested in attending the Plastic Surgery Party, you can click here for details. **

There's a saying in the Internet world, "Don't feed the trolls."

A troll is someone who stays hidden behind the anonymity of the Internet while casting stones (negative, hurtful words) at Internet writers.  If someone disagrees with a post or an opinion they're not a troll if it's done in a respectful manner.  If they spew hate, and hurt, and venom just to get attention they are.

Sometimes the term "troll" is used more loosely by bloggers to refer to anyone sending us weird shit just because they can.

I say all this, because surely someone is going to read today's post and then write and tell me I shouldn't have written it because by doing so I'm "feeding a troll."  (Giving a troll the attention he/she craves.)

I've thought about this very thing for a few days, however, in this case I don't consider the person involved to be a troll.  Also?  The story is just too funny not to share.  Lastly, the person involved in this situation isn't a regular reader so I think it's okay to share the story with all of you.

Every morning I check my email inbox just like millions of other people.  Writing Twenty Four At Heart guarantees I never know what I'll find when I do.  Last week I received an email from "just a regular guy" in England who had read my post on Well Endowed Men.

As background, I wrote that post originally strictly for the laugh factor.  It made me laugh, and I knew it would make many of you laugh.  A funny thing happened, however.  It has become one of my most widely read posts.  Tens of thousands of people all over the world have read my Well Endowed Men post.  I certainly didn't expect that to happen when I wrote it.  

In addition, I've gotten a lot of emails from people regarding its contents.  Most of them are from Well Endowed Men wanting to agree or disagree with points (ha!) made by the men interviewed.  Many of them want to share the ups and downs (ha again!) of being a Well Endowed Man with me.

These are serious, very sincere, emails I receive.  It will give you some idea of how many I've received when I tell you I've become very accustom to Well Endowed Men writing to me.

"Oh, it's another email from a Well Hung Endowed Man," I think when I open them to read.

Ho hum.  Just another day in the life of Twenty Four At Heart.

Come to think of it, maybe I should start a dating service?  Who else hears from Well Endowed Men as often as I do?

All of that being said, I was not surprised to get yet another email from a Well Endowed Man last week.  He wanted to give me feedback on my post and share with me some of his experiences as a Well Endowed Man.

He told me of experiences like neighbors and teachers and "mums good friends" pursuing him due to his ... natural assets.  Like the men I interviewed for the original post, he explained the difficulties of finding appropriate fitting clothing and condoms.

He also sent photos of himself so I could see he's just a "regular guy."  The photos were of himself, clothed.  Yes, there was a quite visible bulge in his pants, but for all I know it was a sock he stuffed in there before having someone click a few photos.

Intriguing, nonetheless.

(Oops, maybe I shouldn't have admitted written that?)

I've cropped his face out of this photo (to protect his identity) just to give you a general idea of what he was referring to.

The humor really kicked in when I took the situation to Twitter.  Honestly, the reason I love Twitter so much is because of the laughs it gives me.  People can be so witty in 140 characters or less.  

I haven't asked for permission to share tweets here so I'm going to leave the authors quoted below anonymous.  Here's a sample of some of the Twitter conversation regarding the correspondence from my Well Endowed reader.

TwentyFour:  Some guy in England just sent me an email about his 12 inch .... Why did he think I needed to hear about that?

TwentyFour:  He even sent photos of himself (clothed) to prove he's just a "regular guy"  Why, why, why??

TwentyFour:  And yes, there is a big bulge in his pants, however it might just be a SOCK.

Tweeter#1:  Or a sausage.  Sausages are big in England.

Tweeter#2:  Dude.  Ask him for a penis shot.

TwentyFour: @Tweeter#2 I hate to encourage him. I don't want him mailing me a free ticket to England. Altho it has been a long time since I visited

TwentyFour:  Visited England that is ... not a 12 incher.  That's nobody's business now is it?  : )

Tweeter#3:  What the heck are you talking about, woman?  I'm afraid to look at the thread.

TwentyFour: @Tweeter#3  You'll have to look at thread on this one.  It's an *ahem* loooooooong story.

Tweeter#4:  (A man)  Tell him to bugger off.

Tweeter#2:  Hey you're just asking for a photo of his 'little man,' it's not like you're proposing or anything.  heh.

Tweeter#5:  Email him about your bionic nipples!  They don't shrink to nothing in the pool! Lol!

Tweeter#6:  Just caught "12 incher" ... thus attracting my complete attention.

Tweeter#3:  Got it ... Apparently we are going to England to check out a dude that wants to show @TwentyFour his ample natural asset.

Tweeter#6:  If you insist. RT @Tweeter#3 We're going to England to check out dude who wants to show @TwentyFour ample natural asset.

The funny thing is ....  The women who are Tweeter#3 and Tweeter#6 have not been heard from since.  I do believe they might really be on their way to England to meet him.

© Twenty Four At Heart

Only Me?

I'm a walking train wreck this week.  I thought I'd share my train wreck-ness with you in all its glory.

Yes, I'm slightly under the influence of narcotics as I'm writing this, but only slightly.  I might still make sense.  

Or I might not?

You be the judge.

So, it turns out I have an allergy (a BIG, BAD, allergy!) to a certain type of medication.  I didn't know I had any medication allergies.  I've been feeling pretty miserable for a couple days now.  I haven't been sleeping, I've been real itchy, blah, blah, blah.

Oh?

And because of no sleep?

I *might* have been real bitchy right along with real itchy.

Yesterday it all came together in a gigantic, "Why the hell am I feeling so incredibly shit-abulous?"  

Also?

Hives are really not an attractive accessory.

Finally, with the help of one of my doctor friends, a medication I recently began taking was pinpointed as the source of my problem(s).

There's never a shortage of problems in my life, right?

Thank you Universe, for that.

By the way, I sent a tweet out yesterday about having an allergic reaction.  Many of you sent messages back saying you hoped it wasn't my new Valentine's thong I was allergic to.  You think you're funny, don't you?  Well, I think you're funny also ... but no, I haven't developed a thong allergy.

It would be really uncomfortable if I had, don't you think?

I'm told, in another day or two, I'll be feeling much better now that the cause of the allergy has been discovered and eliminated from my life.  I've, in fact, already stopped clawing my own skin off of my body.  Thank goodness, because omigawd.make.the.itching.stop!!

I had to drive on one of Orange County's finest freeways to visit the doc yesterday.  Along with what I now know were bad allergy symptoms, my bum arm was killing me.

Yes, I'm a TRAIN CAR WRECK, I know!

I started getting muscle spasms in my upper back as I drove.  This is what happens when I don't have The Torturer stretching my body in ways I can't stretch it by myself.  (Does that sound dirty?  I think it does, but then I tend to have a dirty mind.  Maybe it sounds fine?  It's hard to tell when I'm slightly influenced by drugs.)

So there I was sitting in bumper to bumper traffic when I felt my back muscles start cramping up on me.  I knew I had to get the pain to stop immediately, before it got worse.  I arched my back against the driver's seat.  I pushed my upper back deep into the seat in an attempt to put pressure on those muscles.  I began to thrash against the seat trying to "work" my back muscles into relaxing.

It was helping, it really was.

All of a sudden, I felt someone staring.  You know that feeling, when you know even before you see them, someone is watching you.

I looked out my side window.  There was a man seated on the passenger side of a big red truck in the lane next to me.  He was looking down at me ... mesmerized.  When our eyes met, he smiled lasciviously and then ... he gave me a thumbs up sign.

Yes.He.Did!

Apparently he thought I was, ahem, enjoying myself while I was driving.

I blushed.  I sputtered.  I began talking to myself saying things like, "Oh wait, I'm not ...!  I have a bad arm ...."

Of course, he couldn't hear me.

For that matter, his lane had moved ahead of mine and he no longer could even see me.

I've been obsessed with a need to explain the situation to him ever since.  I have no idea who he was.  

I'm hoping maybe one of you knows the perverted man in the big red truck?

And if so, could you please clarify for him the reasons behind my behavior?

Thank you!  

I appreciate it so much!

© Twenty Four At Heart

iSuck (Just Ask Me To)

Last month Las Vegas hosted the AEE - better known as the Adult Entertainment Expo.

No, I didn't attend.

I would love to next year though.  Think of the giggles blog material!

A man named Douglas Hines unveiled a sex-robot at the Expo.  Her name is Roxxxy.  She is the most advanced sex robot ever invented.  Roxxxy won't be available for purchase for a few months still, but supposedly thousands of men have already pre-ordered a Roxxxy of their very own.  (If you're interested, you can contact Hines' very graphic site here, but I should warn you in advance it isn't appropriate if you're at work.)

I found this photo of (anatomically correct) Roxxxy with her creator online.

Did you notice her mouth is open?

* snicker *

Personally, I don't find Roxxxy very attractive but I'm a heterosexual female.  You may have a different opinion.

Here's Roxxxy in a different outfit and position (and apparently with a companion).

 

Roxxxy comes with a high price tag.  She costs $7,000!  

That's right seven thousand dollars!

I suppose her price tag makes her perfect for rich, lonely, OC men.

Roxxxy is five foot seven inches tall and weighs a thin 120 pounds.  Her skin is made out of the same soft, silicone, material that artificial limbs are made out of.  Heated air blows pumps through her body to keep her warm to the touch.

(I'm really, really, trying to give you all the information about Roxxxy without making any puns.  It's very hard difficult.)

Why is Roxxxy so special?  Well, there are several reasons.  Roxxxy comes with five different personalities including Frigid Farrah and Wild Wendy.  Her companion can pick whichever personality he/she's in the mood for.

Can anyone tell me why someone would pay $7000 for a frigid rubber sex robot?

Roxxxy is also a product of artificial intelligence (as are many Orange County women.)  She can carry on conversations, express emotion and answer questions.  She can't move on her own so her owner won't have to worry about Roxxxy wandering off with another partner when he needs her most.  She, however, can be contorted into most "natural" positions for your enjoyment.

I'm going to leave that last sentence alone.

Writing this post is taking amazing restraint on my part!

Roxxxy has "sensors" in her hands, and genitals (and breasts? does she have bionic nipples?) so she will respond orally vocally when touched.  I'm not sure if she's a moaner or a screamer.  It might depend on which personality her companion has chosen at the time.  

Roxxxy shudders when she has an orgasm.

What happens to a man's ego if he can't make his sex robot cum?

Roxxxy isn't perfect.  She snores in her sleep.  Yes, she really does.  There's a button to turn off her snoring if you find it irritating.  (I'm trying to get a button installed on Briefcase with the same feature!)  Also, Roxxxy's battery only lasts about three hours on one charge.  When she needs to be recharged, her companion uses an electrical cord which plugs into her back.

When I need to be recharged, I head out of town for the weekend.

If you want to pay extra, Roxxxy's creator can program her to discuss particular topics.  Are you into the stock market?  Does it turn you on?  Well, he can program Roxxxy to discuss the market with you for an extra fee.  Have you always wanted a woman who loves to watch, and discuss, lacrosse with you?  Roxxxy may be the answer.

In the future, versions of Roxxxy are expected to do even more.  (Which begs the question, what won't Roxxxy do now?)  

A male sex robot is in the making also.  He'll be named Rocky.

I'm sure it won't be long until Apple comes out with a similar doll of their own.  Possible names for an Apple sex doll?  How about iSuck?  Or maybe it should be iFuck?

© Twenty Four At Heart

The Nipple Story, Part II

** Tomorrow, I will have some exciting news to share with you in celebration of what will be my 500th post.  Make sure to check back tomorrow/Tuesday so you don't miss out! **

Last Friday, I shared with you Part I of The Nipple Story.  If you haven't had an opportunity to read it yet, you'll want to click on the above link and do so now.

It's okay ... I'll wait.

...   ...   ...

All right then?

When I left off last Friday, I had just watched Average Joe (who wouldn't stop staring at my rack) leave the PT building.  I walked across the room to see what The Torturer wanted me to do next.

To my surprise, The Torturer informed me he was putting me in a Game Ready.  A Game Ready is a (very, very!) cold type of therapy.  It's an ice machine that inflates to squeeze the injured part of your body (compression) and continually circulates ice cold water around the injured body part at the same time.  It is extremely cold!  The Torturer hadn't used a Game Ready on me for nearly a year, but I had just completed some new activities and he wanted to minimize my swelling/pain/inflammation.  He thought the Game Ready would be more effective than my usual ice packs.

This is what the Game Ready for a shoulder/arm injury like mine looks like:

 

You see where this is going, don't you? 

When I'm in a Game Ready I keep my t-shirt on, unlike the man shown in the photo above.  Not that it really makes any difference, because the damn thing gets cold enough to make me gasp.  The initial shock of cold water on my chest, literally, takes my breath away.

A year ago, when I last used a Game Ready, I had not yet had my breast reduction.  I had my same, very nice, cute, nipples, but they were not bionic.  I distinctly remember telling The Torturer (pre-bionic nipples) that he was freezing my tits off.  He laughed and ignored me, as he always frequently does.  

I might have been high on pain meds at the time, but nonetheless, I spoke the truth.

So there I sat, last week, for quite some time with the Game Ready strapped to my bodacious boobs.  (Twenty minutes?  Thirty minutes?  I lost all sense of time.)  

I frantically texted one of my girlfriends saying, "The Torturer is freezing my nips off!!  SERIOUSLY!"

As I sat there with my icy, tightly-bound tits, The Torturer left to work with another patient.  When my time on the Game Ready was finally over, one of the techs unstrapped me and informed me I was done for the day and could leave.

I did.  

I left.  

I got in my car, and I drove about two minutes across the street to the post office.

If I had bothered to even momentarily glance down at my breasticles I would have gone straight home instead of out in public.

My nipple-erections were protruding so far out of my chest, they would have put any well-endowed man to shame.

But I'm getting ahead of myself (*ahem*), because I didn't realize the condition of my hooters at the time.

I parked my car and then tossed a bundle of bills in the big blue mailbox outside of the post office door.  At the same time, I realized I was hungry, in fact starving.  By now it was 1 p.m. and I'd had little more than my morning coffee the entire day.

There's a sandwich shop right next to the post office.  I decided to run in and order something to go.  I ordered a turkey sandwich, on wheat, no mayo.  (That's really not important, but I thought you might be curious.)  

While my sandwich was being made, I decided to make a quick trip to the restroom.  I walked down a little hallway.  As I did so, two men exited the men's bathroom.  The first man was talking to the man behind him and not looking where he was going.  He collided right into me.

Have I ever mentioned how graceful I am?

Perhaps not.

There was some water on the floor (which was tile) and when he collided with me, I ... sort of went flying.

Really, what happened next is just a blur.  I was flying and then it seemed like there were arms all over the place ... and I never really landed.  I suppose you could say, I was caught in mid-air.

Or mid-fall.

When time finally stopped, my feet were on the ground and Average Joe was standing there with his hands holding my boobs.  My peaks were in the valleys of his hands.  

Also?

My peaks were very peaked.

He had broken my fall, caught me mid-air, by my knockers.

In fact, one of his thumbs was right there on top of my very turgid nipple ... in the deli ... at just a few minutes after 1 p.m. in the afternoon.

It all happened so quickly, I was momentarily too stunned to take it in.

Was I supposed to thank him for breaking my fall?  Curse him for running into me?  Slap him for grabbing my golden globes?

Average Joe's hands lingered longer than they should have and damn if he didn't give a little squeeze before he let go of my boobs.  His thumb rubbed my nipple as if he couldn't help himself and he licked his lips before he moved away.

I was so flabbergasted by the whole sequence of events, I couldn't utter a single word.

I was shocked into silence and if you know me at all, you know silence on my part is not something that happens ever very often.

It was probably only a few seconds, but it seemed like an hour before his eyes left my breasts and he actually looked at my face.  Recognition washed over him and he, at least, had the decency to act flustered.

He asked me if I was all right.

I managed to stammer, "I'm fine."

"I'm glad you're okay," he said.  Then he added, "Well, I'm sure I'll be seeing you again at physical therapy soon."

Then, just like that, he departed with his friend.

I walked into the women's restroom.

I was greeted by a full length mirror and a vision reflecting back at me of my twin protruding princesses.

I wanted to die.  Or, at least, hide in the bathroom for a year or two. 

I know it's only a matter of time (a few days?) until I run into Average Joe at PT again.  Maybe now that he's actually felt my boobs, he won't stare at them so much?

Aaaack!

I'm blushing at the very thought.

© Twenty Four At Heart

The Nipple Story, Part I

My nipples found themselves in the most embarrassing situation the other day.

If you've been reading here for any length of time, you already know I went in for breast reduction surgery last June and came out with bionic, hyper-sensitive, constantly alert, nipples.  As time has passed, I've learned how to live with my new Bionic Nipples.  I try not to ever, accidentally, brush up against strangers in public (or private, for that matter.)  I've found bras which do a pretty good job of concealing my nipples most of the time, etc.

It's not as easy as you might think - having Bionic Nipples.

It's changed my whole way of life.

Well ... sorta.

In any case, the other day I was at PT (as usual) and The Torturer had me doing some stuff out in the "gym" area.  It's basically a big room with lots of tables for patients and lots of equipment to help people get their bodies healthy again.  It was a pretty normal PT day.  The Torturer and I had already spent some one-on-one time in a back room.

Wait a minute ... that last sentence sounds so wrong.

And it shouldn't.

There are different rooms for different things ...  

And it was time for the gym.

As soon as I entered the gym, I noticed a man staring at me.  He stared, and he stared, and he would not stop staring at me.

He was just an average forty-something Money Town man.  He wasn't particularly good or bad looking.  Let's just call him Average Joe.

Now it would be really nice if I were twenty again (instead of 24), and super hot, and stare-worthy.  I, however, have been 24 for several years now.  I still get occasional looks from men, but men don't often ever find themselves unable to look away for hours on end.

Things change a lot between the ages of 20 and 24.  It's sad what time does to the body, isn't it?

When I realized Average Joe would not stop staring, I became a little self conscious.  First, I glanced at The Torturer to see if he was staring at me too.  The Torturer smiled at me with his terrifying, evil, grin, in the exact same way he always does.  He didn't tell me I had spinach in my teeth or anything.  (And trust me, if I did, he wouldn't hesitate to tell me so.)

Next, I gave myself a quick once-over in one of the wall mirrors to make sure there was nothing obvious glaring back at me.  My shirt was on, my pants were zipped ... there was nothing readily apparent staring back at me.

I shrugged it off.  I thought, Maybe Average Joe has an obsession with blondes or something. 

As I went about my gym activities, with The Torturer issuing constant orders to me, I frequently looked up to find Average Joe staring at me.  I tried really hard not to look in his direction.  You know how that goes ... the harder you try not to look at someone, the more you do.  Every single time I glanced in his direction, Average Joe was staring at me.

Pretty soon I realized Average Joe wasn't really staring at me; he was staring at my tits.

I really dislike men like Average Joe.  Why is it, some men can't look at anything else if there's a set of (bionic, perky) jugs in the room?  

I wanted to say, "Hey, Average Joe, there are other women with boobs in the room.  You can take your eyes off of mine for a few minutes and get some variety in your life."

But I didn't.

Because basically, I'm very shy.  (Even though I write words like nipples and boobs and tits and jugs on a fairly regular basis.)

A few minutes later, as I was finishing up my PT exercises for the day, Average Joe was leaving.

"Good riddance," I thought as he walked out the door.

Right then, I heard The Torturer call my name and I turned and walked over to stand by his side.

I didn't realize at the time, my nipples and I hadn't seen the last of Average Joe after all.

** Part II of The Nipple Story, the conclusion, will post on Monday.  I will try to have one or two short posts up this weekend if the Computer Gods are willing. **

© Twenty Four At Heart

Happy Twenty Ten!

I rang in the New Year with some old friends last night.  To be honest, I'm still a little fuzzy-headed this morning.  As I recall, one of our male friends celebrated at midnight with a pink party hat strategically positioned on the lower portion of his body.  (I never realized how phallic an improperly positioned pink party hat can be!)  When I hugged him at midnight he said, "Be careful, I might poke you."

And he did!

Happy New Year to me?

Wishing each and every one of you a wonderful, healthy, happy, fun, Twenty Ten!

© Twenty Four At Heart

Well, Crap ...

I came down with a fever yesterday.  You know, because I didn't have enough on my plate already.  I'm not that sick - just enough to make me feel like shit.  As a result, I'm going to continue my attempt to keep you entertained with absolutely no effort on my part.

I'm getting good at it?  

Maybe?

My sister sent me this via email.  I thought it was really funny.  I hope you do too.

The Latest Woman's Car

  

Renault and Ford are working on a new small car for women.

They are mixing the Clio and the Taurus, and calling it the "Clitaurus."

It comes in pink, and the average male thief will not be able to find it, even if someone tells him exactly where it is.

© Twenty Four At Heart

Viagra

Well, like many of you I'm absolutely swamped with "to-do's" right now.  I'm at PT in the mornings for my bum arm.  I have about an hour break and then I pick my son up from school and go back to PT so The Torturer can work on his ankle.  (He's now in an ankle brace and can limp walk without crutches.)  In other words, I'm living at PT - or so it feels.  I might just bring my toothbrush and stay there 24/7.

The Torturer loves me.  I'm sure of it.

In the meantime, family has arrived for the next several weeks and there's a lot to do at home.  Plus, of course, there's all of the holiday stuff going on.  (Parties and parties and maybe a few more parties!)

I explain this to you with the hope you'll better understand I'm utterly exhausted if I miss a post here and there over the next two weeks.  Also, it's important you understand why I'm cheating and not really writing anything at all today.  

Instead I'm sharing this with you:

 

The label that comes with it says:

"If the light stays on for more than four hours, call your erectrician."

It made me smile - I thought you'd like it too!

© Twenty Four At Heart

Seriously CBS?

The other night I was sitting in my favorite over-sized leather chair.  I was trying to fight off my turkey coma (caused by eating copious amounts of turkey and trimmings).  I was staring into the depths of my laptop as I guiltily contemplated the many emails I've neglected recently and really must get caught up on.  

In the background, the TV blared and I ignored it.  I'm not much of a TV person, but Briefcase is.  When he's home, the TV is usually on.

My attention was suddenly caught by a man's voice saying (rather loudly) from our TV, "Pap smears save lives."

Startled, I glanced at the TV.  A very handsome Josh Pais stared back at me with Christmas bells jingling in the background.

For a moment, I questioned if I had really just heard what my brain and ears knew I had.

A handsome man surrounded by jingling Christmas bells doesn't normally discuss pap smears.  (Especially on TV while many of us share a relaxing evening with our family/kids surrounding us.)

Don't get me wrong.  I agree, pap smears do save lives.  One of my neighbors died from cervical cancer and I'm very aware of the importance of the test.  I'm in no way disagreeing with the idea of pap smears, their importance, or even the fact that Public Service Announcements on TV about them might help save lives.

(And also?  Don't even get me started on recent women's health issues such as the new mammogram and pap smear guidelines!)

But Josh Pais?  Pap smears and jingle bells?

As my brain was trying to fully wrap itself around what I was seeing and hearing, Josh Pais continued.

"This Christmas impress her.  Give her the gift that even Santa can't deliver."

<Background: ho-ho-ho-ing as the commercial fades out.>

I gasped!

"Did you hear that?" I asked Briefcase as he re-entered the room.

He hadn't.

"CBS thinks you should book a pap smear for me this year as my Christmas gift," I informed him.

I grinned and added, "It's the gift even Santa can't deliver."

Briefcase rolled his eyes.

A sudden vision of Santa poking between my legs came to my mind.  I shook my head violently trying to dispel it.

I'm sure Briefcase was contemplating my reaction if I woke up Christmas morning to find out my big! surprise! gift! under our Christmas tree was an appointment for a pap smear.

In my mind I can hear him saying on Christmas morning, "There's a pap smear in a box for you 24!  I even put a big red bow on your extra special pap smear!"

Then he would beam at me with a smile on his face and I would start stripping off his clothes right then to show my appreciation for his gift.

Do ya think?

Or maybe not?

Here's the PSA.  I knew you'd want to see it in it's entirety.  (It's short, I promise!)

Watch CBS Videos Online

If you're a man ... would this PSA convince you to book an appointment for an important woman in your life?  You might save her life.  Of course, by choosing a pap smear as her gift you might be risking yours!

© Twenty Four At Heart

Facebook

I'm still on pain meds - but I *think* I'm making more sense today.  

Honestly?  I was drugged out of my mind yesterday!  I have never, ever, before attempted to write with that level of drugs in my system.

I apologize.  (Even though a lot of you wrote to tell me you laughed quite a bit at yesterday's post!)

By tomorrow I, hopefully, won't need to be taking pains meds anymore.  Today I'm still a little looped, but I'm only taking one pain pill at a time ... which is still a lot because they're very strong, but not as much as yesterday.

Rambling much?

Last June I wrote about my college boyfriend finding me via Facebook.  It came as quite a shock because up until that time I believed I was invisible.  Sort of.

I don't get on Facebook very often and my facebook account is primarily there as a writing tool.  When I joined FB I didn't enter my high school or college info into my profile because I didn't want anyone finding me.  I wasn't interested in delving into the past.  Over time, however, some non-blogging friends have found and connected with me there.

The other day I was checking facebook and on a whim, without even a millisecond of thought, I typed the name of a long ago friend into the search box.  Up popped the friend - right in front of my very eyes.  It's a male friend, of course.  Ninety eight percent of my friends during my life have been of the male persuasion.

The friend is someone I knew from kindergarten through high school graduation.  This is someone who I was very close to until about 10th grade when we drifted apart as we got involved in different things in high school.  He got interested in things like being Class President, Head Jock, and Valedictorian and I got interested in  .... hmmmm???  

Being an awkward teen?

My old friend is now a doctor and lives in the mid-west.  Once I found Mr. Doctor, I glanced at his friend list and saw many of my old high school cronies.

First I looked for Bitchiest Mean Girl.  This particular girl was the meanest female ever to walk on the planet earth.  She took pride in shredding girls like me to pieces with her finely manicured nails.  She was evil incarnate.

She now looks like hell and I couldn't be happier about it.

Next, I couldn't resist looking to see if my first-ever crush was listed on Mr. Doctor's friend page.  They had been best friends.  

He was.  

I pulled up Crush's profile.  The "boy" who dumped me for a cheerleader (boo hiss!), the first boy to break my heart ... was in a photo right in front of me.  Did I mention Crush also proceeded to stomp on my heart repeatedly and, seemingly, with an immense amount of pleasure for several years?

(Not that I remember it or anything.)

Now Crush looks twenty years older than I do.  

I'm not exactly a prize myself, I realize that ... but!

Honestly, I am in my forties twenty four (as is he) and his picture makes him look like he's at least in his mid-sixties.  

Am I a terrible person if I confess, seeing his picture gave me a small sense of satisfaction?

This isn't a photo of him, but the good looking boy who once held my heart now looks very similar to this man:

You think I'm joking, don't you?  

I'm not!  

It took me a few minutes to fully comprehend it was the same person I once knew and, I hate to admit, longed for.  I stared, and I stared, and I stared a little longer at his photo in an effort to get my brain to accept what my eyes were seeing.

Have you experienced this type of Facebook Time Warp?

I just can't get over it!

© Twenty Four At Heart

Please Excuse This Interruption ...

**  This post was written under the influence of serious narcotics.  My pain meds had not yet kicked in when I began writing ... but then they hit me full force.  Really, really, full force!  Can you tell at what point in my writing I became a druggy?  It's all a bit of a blur.  **

I am temporarily out of my fucking mind in pain sidelined.  I mentioned to a friend yesterday, when my pain levels get out of control like this, it makes it impossible to think clearly enough to write.  On the other hand, when I take pain meds I can write ... but I just never know what might come out of my brain onto the Internet via my typing fingers.

No, the skyrocketing pain level is not a result of playing hooky from PT for one day so please don't tell me it is.

The pain is also not a result of using my new camera although using it did make me sore and certainly didn't help.

This hell pain is a result of several new things The Torturer decided to try with me on Monday.  

He likes to experiment with new things.  (*snicker*)

I have not forgiven him yet.  I sent him text messages Monday night while he slept and I writhed in pain didn't sleep, saying things like:  You're evil.  I quit you.   And:  I will never trust a man named The Torturer again.  And:  You are not my friend anymore.  

There might have been a few more, but you get the idea.

In the morning The Torturer began texting me back.  He wasn't the least bit fazed by any of my messages.  He informed me he would be seeing me at 10 a.m.  I wasn't supposed to go into PT on Tuesday, but he insisted on seeing me and I was in too much agony to protest.  

I called my doc before I left for PT and screamed begged for more pain meds.  He was in surgery so I had to wait until the very end of the day to get my prescription renewed.  

It was not a good day.  My jaw hurt from having my teeth clenched all day.  There really is a reason for the expression teeth clenching pain.

The Torturer lectured me about letting my prescription for pain meds run out.  I informed him I had been quite sure I would never need them again.  He looked at me and sighed.  He's had to deal with my denial stubborness for a long time.  "Don't ever let yourself be without them again," he said firmly.  Then he spent a few hours working on pain reduction techniques.  

He says I need to stay drugged up for a few days till I get over this "hurdle."

I don't like taking drugs.  Drugs are bad!  I can't think on drugs.

The best part of PT was when he wrapped me all up cozy-like in a really soft blanket so I could stay warm while my shoulder and arm were surrounded by ice.  I really liked that blanket.  It was brand new.  I might need to steal it and bring it home with me.  I'm already attached.  I love cozy blankets.

Blankets.  Zzzzzzz ... 

Do you sometimes wonder if anyone has ever really experienced an erection lasting longer than four hours?

Just curious.

Would it be something to complain about if you did?  

I just don't think I'd be the one complaining is all I'm saying.

This is a serious issue and I think it warrants discussion so please leave me comments today letting me know about the erections you've experienced.  And whether or not you have, or have even considered, complaining about them.

Can I reword that a little?  I don't want to hear about every erection you've ever experienced.  Like that one guy?  The one who had such a crooked penis it looked like a winding mountain road?  Or perhaps more like one of those curly-swirly straws that go round and round till it gets to your mouth?  I'd rather not be reminded read about that one.

The part I just wrote about the hypothetical straw reaching someone's hypothetical mouth wasn't intended to be the sentence it turned out to be.

I'd fix it but things are getting very confusing.

Things, like the room I'm in, are really spinning quite a lot.

The world spins too.  Every day.  All the time.

Wowwwwwwwww!  

These drugs are really a lot stronger than any drugs should be.  These drugs should be illegal.

Oh, they are?  People actually shoot up these drugs.  All illegal-ish-ly.  Crazy!

Next time I better only take one of these pills.  No, it is not Vicodin.  It's Vicodin's BIG BROTHER or some other such type of analogy.

I might have not used the word analogy exactly correctly, but I really do know what it means but just not right now. 

I think I took too many pillzzzzzzzz.

A palm reader on Twitter asked if he could spend some time with me and heal my arm.

What does reading palms have to do with healing arms?

He would look at my palm and say, "Your arm is really screwed up!"  

He would know instantly because I wouldn't be able to lift my palm for him to read.

Also, maybe because he read my tweet saying, "My arm is really screwed up!"

Oh my ... the keys on my keyboard are jumping around and rearranging themselves!  I'm not even kidding.  It's making it really hard to type.

Speaking of hard ... weren't we discussing erections?

I can't remember the exact thing I asked you about erections, but leave me a comment about a memorable erection or two.  (R rated comments at the most please ... no X rated comments or I will delete them.)

I had more things to tell you.  Really important things.  I think.  But I can't remember now because everything is spinny and dizzy-ish. 

I might have messed up this post.  Really sorry if I di.d.

© Twenty Four At Heart 

Sex Addict?

** Thank you to Secondhand Radio for the interview last night.  It was really a lot of fun.  The interview went over the allotted hour by quite (!) a bit.  It is/or soon will be available as a free podcast on iTunes.  You can click here to find the correct iTunes link if you are interested in downloading it. **

The topic of sex addiction has been brought up to me three times in ten days.  Most recently, a friend told me her marriage is ending as a result of her husband's sex addiction.

Seriously?

I don't know if I believe in sex addiction.  I don't know that I DON'T believe in it either.  

It seems like sex addicted women used to just be called sluts.  Sex addicted men were called ladies men, or more likely, pigs.

Now it seems like every bad habit is called an addiction.

My friend tells me her husband "needs" constant sexual stimulation.  Porn, and a variety of partners (who he has tried unsuccessfully to keep hidden from his wife), are his methods of feeding his habit.  A (big) part of me feels he's throwing the word "addiction" at his wife as an excuse for bad behavior.  If he's addicted to sex then she is expected to be more understanding of his escapades, I suppose.

After all, an addict cannot be expected to have control over their habit, right?  At least not without professional treatment and guidance, and maybe not even then.

I happen to know this particular man, and my nonprofessional opinion is that he's just a self-indulgent asshole with little regard for the damage his selfishness causes other people.  

Not to be harsh or anything ....

I'm not condoning infidelity, but it's easier to wrap my brain around someone having a meaningful affair vs. someone who wants to screw everything in sight. 

I don't really have a lot to write about this topic.  It's on my mind right now because I see my friend in distress over the demise of her marriage.  I brought it up here today because I'm curious as to what your thoughts are.

Do you believe sex addiction is a real addiction or just an excuse for infidelity?

Do you think people with this "addiction" can be cured or learn to control it?

Would you stay with a partner who was repeatedly unfaithful and blamed their behavior on being a sex addict?

I'm curious to hear your opinion.  You are also welcome to share any experiences you might have with this topic. 

© Twenty Four At Heart

The Red Cup

Do you remember last week when I wrote a post titled The Unspoken Coffee Cup War?

It was a topic which obviously resonated with a lot of you.  Many of you took the time to leave a comment or send me an email regarding your very own War on the Homefront.  (By the way, your comments and emails were both enlightening and very amusing!)

Briefcase was out of town when I went public with our marital war regarding The Red Cup.  When he called home while on his trip he never mentioned my post at all.  I assumed he was busy working and never saw it.  

A few nights later Briefcase was back home again.  I was busy typing away on a project when I glanced up and saw this in front of me:

 

A three year war has ended?  

© Twenty Four At Heart

Heartbroken

Recently, as a result of some of my posts here on 24, people have been coming to me and sharing personal tales of love and/or betrayal with me.  Sometimes they let me share their stories with you.  I change identifying details to protect them and always ask their permission, of course.  

I'm really honored every time someone chooses to share their heart with me.

What's been surprising to me, is more men have shared their stories with me than women have.  I think, perhaps, it's because men aren't free to discuss deep feelings to the extent women in our society are.  Sharing with me via email, however, is easy and more acceptable to them.  (That's my theory, anyway, and I'm sticking to it.)

Recently, the love of Jack's life told him their relationship must end.  Jack is heartbroken.  Jack is distraught.  Jack understands fully why she wants to stop all contact but he can't imagine not having Katie in his life.  

"I can't bear the thought of losing her again," he wrote.

Yes, again.

Jack and Katie dated in their early thirties for three years.  Jack was just coming out of a serious relationship when he met Katie.  Jack felt like he needed a little time "to play the field" before settling down.  He hadn't expected to meet Katie when he did.  He hadn't expected to fall in love, but he did.  Jack and Katie were a couple, but they were also best friends.

"She's the best friend I've ever had," states Jack.  "We just clicked on every level.  I didn't realize at the time how rare it is to find that."

And yet, Jack says he knew he needed some time on his own, without a partner for awhile.  In his words, "Katie was the right person, but at the wrong time. I wasn't ready to settle down coming right off another relationship."

Katie and Jack broke up when Jack was 33.  They stayed in touch at first and then they began dating other people.  Jack was "absolutely positive" they would get back together for good.  Apparently, Katie was not as sure.  He wrote, "She gave up on me.  She gave up believing I'd ever be ready.  She wanted to start a family."

Katie married someone else.  She was 35 when she married and her relationship with Jack had been over for two years.

Jack tells me that he understands intellectually why things happened the way they did.  Emotionally, however, he felt "betrayed" when he heard Katie was marrying.

"I didn't believe she could love anyone else the way we loved each other.  We were soul mates.  I kept asking myself how she could do this to me?  How could she marry someone I knew she didn't love as much as she loved me?  At the same time, I knew it was my fault I lost her.  I didn't give her any reason to believe in me."

Fifteen years have gone by.  Katie and her husband have two young teenagers.  Jack just turned fifty.  

He wrote, "I just floated around with no focus for a long time after Katie got married.  I think a part of me was hoping she'd realize her mistake and we'd end up together after all.  Instead, I never heard from her again.  I finally gave up.  I was convinced I'd never talk to or see her again." 

Jack got married when he was 39.   He says he loves his wife and has a good marriage, "but it's not the same."  

"I tried to find another Katie, but there is no other Katie," he wrote.  Jack also has one daughter who he loves "dearly."  He told me he has never stopped thinking about Katie.

"There's just something magical about her." 

Eight months ago Jack and Katie ran into each other.

"Time stopped the minute our eyes met," he reports.  They both made a quick change of plans and spent two hours together talking and catching up on each other's lives.  

"It was as if no time had passed.  I think we could have talked for ten hours straight.  I immediately had my best friend back."

Jack felt euphoric after seeing Katie again.  He alleges they have a "connection like no other."  Then he went home to his wife and child and felt guilty.  

Since that initial, unplanned, reunion Jack has seen Katie only one other time.  They met for coffee one afternoon.  Jack has also called Katie at her work four or five times, "Just to see how she's doing."

He's asked to see her again, but she has refused.  Jack says he is "dying" to see her.  She's told him that being with him evokes too many emotions. 

Katie told Jack she's scared.  She told him she doesn't know if she can handle all the emotions that come along with a former lover.

Jack says he thinks about Katie "day and night."

"In a perfect world I'd like more, but I'm willing to settle for a platonic friendship with Katie just to keep her in my life."

I emailed Jack back and asked him if he really believes he could keep an ongoing relationship with Katie platonic.

He answered, "I'd like to think so.  To be honest, though, I'm not sure.  I just feel like I have to see her.  I need her."

The last time Jack called Katie she told him they should break off all contact.  (Not because she doesn't want to see or talk to him, but because she does.)  She told Jack she still loves him but she wants to do "the right thing."  She was crying when they said good-bye.

Jack asserts he wants to do the right thing also, "but is it really the right thing to walk away from a person you love this much?" 

Jack closed his letter with this:

"I will always love her.  It seems impossibly sad to think of not having her in my life now that we've finally found each other again.  Losing her again is killing me."

Pain is etched in every word he writes.

© Twenty Four At Heart

The Unspoken Coffee Cup War

If you've never been married, or if you've been married only a few years, you may find today's post puzzling.  Possibly, you'll find today's post horrifying.  I don't write about my own marriage ever often, but today I'm making an exception.

I've been married for an eternity.  The dynamics of a relationship change a lot over the course of a bazillion years together.  Cohabiting becomes a bit routine.  

Predictable.  

Partners have their roles.  

Expectations exist.

Wars break out.

For three years now, Briefcase and I have been having a silent, but very serious war over a red coffee cup.  To be more specific, it's my red coffee cup.  It's an old Starbucks cup and it's more insulated than any cup they've put on the market since.  It keeps my coffee hot for hours upon hours and I love my red coffee cup.

Please don't even think about suggesting I replace my favorite cup.  I'm emotionally attached to The Red Cup.

The Red Cup has to be handwashed.  It can't be put in the dishwasher.

And therein, begins the war.

Let me back up just a little.  Briefcase has a job which requires a lot of travel.  He's been gone a lot over the years.  I often think his travel is similar to what a military wife faces.  When he's gone, I, of course, do absolutely everything for our house, kids, life.  I am like a widow and a single mom of three rolled into one.

Commence with the violin playing now.

However, when Briefcase is home he's very good about helping out.  He doesn't cook, but if I fix dinner he generally does the evening dishes. 

It's our very own unwritten contract.

I cook dinner.  He washes the dishes after dinner.

Except for one thing ...

He won't wash my red coffee cup.

I use that cup all day.  At the end of the day I set it in our sink to be washed.  When Briefcase travels, I think nothing of it.  I hand wash it each night when I do all the other evening dishes.  It takes less than thirty seconds and then it's ready to be reused in the morning.

If I do the dinner dishes when Briefcase is home, I wash (surprise!)  ALL OF THE DISHES!  Even his!  However, when Briefcase is home, he takes care of the evening dishes the majority of nights.

Except ... he always leaves The Red Cup sitting in the sink unwashed.

Over, and over, and over, again.

War!

With my vast psychological expertise (after all, I did take psych 101 in college), I've decided Briefcase is exhibiting classic passive-aggressive behavior.  I've even explained his passive-aggressive behavior to him.  I'm quite sure he appreciated my insight into his psyche. 

I've approached the whole subject of The Red Cup with different strategies.  I've tried washing it myself.  The problem with that is - it breaks our unwritten contract!  He's supposed to do the dishes when he's home and I cook.  I'm very law abiding and I'm just not comfortable breaking our contract.

I've left The Red Cup in the sink to see how many days Briefcase will wash every dish except for it.  (The answer is ... many, many, more days than I can handle watching it sit in the sink.)  

I've even threatened to wash all the laundry except for his, just like he washes all the dishes except for my cup.  I might need to carry through with my laundry threat soon if things don't change.

I'm not asking for your advice or a solution.  No, I figure sooner or later The War Over The Red Cup will come to an end one way or the other.  (Briefcase is probably going to destroy that cup while I'm sleeping one night!)  The War Over The Red Cup has only been going on for three years now, and as wars go, I suppose it's not long at all.

Instead, I'd like to know what The Red Cup issue is in your house?  What does your spouse or partner do that drives you crazy?

© Twenty Four At Heart

Appraising? Or Judging?

Where to start ... where to start?

Did you know I have a high IQ?  I'm just pointing that out because you would never believe it if I didn't tell you in spite of that amazing fact, I have Idiotic Episodes on a fairly regular basis.  Maybe I should make Idiotic Episodes a new category in the sidebar of 24?

We're in the process of refinancing our house.  We're doing it to take advantage of lower interest rates.  Or better said, we've got two kids in college right now and college costs a shitload of cash. 

Briefcase is in charge of the refi.  It's only fair.  He travels all the time on business.  I'm responsible for absolutely everything else in our lives since he's never home.  It seems only right that he gets to handle The Refi Project.  Also, I don't have any a lot of patience for that sort of thing.  

In addition, I've kind of been a walking disaster lately.  (See yesterday's brazilian waxing post if you question the validity of that statement.)  I'm blaming H1N1 and Tamiflu for every absent minded thing I do.  Seriously, I don't think the drug is out of my system yet and I'm blaming it for Mental Confusion because I can.  (See the Tamiflu listed side effects and you will see Mental Confusion listed!)  It would not be a good idea for me, in my current mentally confused state, to be in charge of refinancing.

(By the way ... yesterday Briefcase asked me exactly how much my little "incident" at the waxing salon cost to repair.  Can you believe it?  He never would have known if he would just stop reading my blog!  Who told that man I have a blog?)

(Also, yesterday The Torturer stood there just shaking his head at me in amazement  in bewilderment  totally dumbfounded as I told him about the "waxing mishap."  He says he "just doesn't know why" I "seem to have so many more mishaps than other people."  Do you think he was insulting me by saying that?  I don't think the man appreciates the humor I've brought to his life at all.  Let me tell you, he would be bored to death without me.  I'm sure of it.)

(Also, yesterday I got an email from my old college boyfriend.  The email said he had just finished reading that very same brazilian waxing post and wanted to know "how much of that story was real?"  Um, ex-boyfriend?  I can't make up shit like that.  I wrote back to him and said, "All of my posts are real, aren't you glad you escaped me?"  He didn't reply, so I take that as a resounding YES!  He's probably laughing his ass off at Briefcase having to pay for shattered hurricane lamps.)

What was I saying before all those parentheses?

Oh yeah, the Refi.

So, an appraiser was supposed to come out to our house this Friday for about 45 minutes to take a look at our house and take photos.  This was a good plan because every Friday a house cleaner comes to our home to do all the things I can no longer do since the car accident.  You know, things that take two working arms like changing sheets and mopping floors and tedious chores I could do but pretend I can't.  Mr. Appraiser was going to come when the house would be clean and sparkly for pictures.

Except, Mr. Appraiser showed up yesterday!  Yesterday was only Wednesday.  Yesterday was not Friday.

Briefcase forgot to tell me there had been a change of plans.

I answered the door, flipped out when Mr. Appraiser explained who he was, and slammed the door shut in his face.  Well, I didn't really slam the door shut, but I sort of did.  Then I reopened it and said, "Just give me a minute, I'll be right back," and shut the door in his face again.

I looked around at the clutter on my coffee room table.  I grabbed magazines and books and newspapers and scooped them in my arms.  I tossed the whole mess in the oven to hide it.  I saw a few dog toys on the floor.  I picked them up and hurriedly tossed them into the pantry.  I went back to the front door and opened it with a smile.

Well, who knew?

Mr. Appraiser was very thorough!  

Mr. Appraiser made notes on the type of oven I have right before he opened the door of it revealing the newspapers and magazines I was about to bake.  Mr. Appraiser wanted to see our "walk-in" pantry also.  He discovered 1) It is not a walk-in pantry and 2) We have dog toys sticking out of cereal boxes.  

Mr. Appraiser liked our pool and the large upstairs deck we built onto the house.  I'm not quite sure what he thought when he went through our bedrooms though.  I was downstairs on the phone as he made his way through them.  It wasn't until later in the evening that I realized my rabbit was sitting out in plain sight on my bedspread.

Do you suppose it increased the value of our bedroom?

© Twenty Four At Heart

The Hairless Man

I was in the waiting area of a Money Town salon last Friday.  I had an appointment for a very needed, and long overdue, pedicure.  (Will you still be my friend if I confess my toenails were beginning to look like talons?)

It became clear, pretty quickly, I would have a long wait.  I walked over to Starbucks and purchased a Venti Green Iced Tea - extra ice and half the normal amount of sweetener, please.

I returned to the waiting area of the salon.  A man was seated across from me.

I am nothing, if not a trained observer of Money Town residents.

Something seemed very, very, different about the man.

"What is it?" I asked myself as I surreptitiously stared at him.

He was, in my estimation, in his late forties.  He had reddish hair and it did not look natural in color.  

"He must be here to get his hair dyed," was my first thought.  I don't run into that many men with dyed red hair.

"But no," my inner voice nagged ... "There is something more."

I took in his clothing.  There was nothing unusual there.  The man wore shorts, flip flops and a v-neck t-shirt over his fairly large midlife paunch.  The man wasn't in good shape.  His clothing was pretty standard for a day when temperatures reached 100F.  He had on a wedding ring with a very large (3 carat?) prominent square shaped diamond.  

Money.

Imagine that!  Another man with money in Money Town.

And then ... a light bulb went on in my mentally confused blonde head.

The man had a good amount of dyed red hair on his head, but he was a Hairless Man.

I quickly confirmed my initial observation.

Arms - hairless.

Legs - hairless.

Chest - hairless (he was wearing a v-neck shirt)

I immediately appraised him again because the first thought that went through my head after I realized he was hairless was "swimmer."  I glanced at the man's big paunch. 

** Photo credit Ron Mueck courtesy Google Images ** 

"Maybe not?" I pondered.

Certainly, he was not in good enough shape to be a competitive swimmer.

Right then the waxing technician appeared to escort Hairless Man back to the waxing room.

This is where I turn to you, my readers for help.  

Educate me.  

Why?  

Why is this Money Town man having his entire body waxed on a regular basis?  Hairless Man is very fair skinned.  He is not a dark, hairy, gorilla type of man.  I understand some men have their chests and backs waxed frequently.  Why would a man wax his arms and legs?  (And yes, if I had to guess I'd say he waxes everywhere else too.)  

Maybe it's just me, but it didn't look right.  Or maybe it just didn't look right on him because of the contrast it presented with his full head of dyed red hair?

Enlighten me.

© Twenty Four At Heart

The Shrink's Wife

I have a friend who lives in Money Town.  She has a situation going on in her marriage which has caused her a lot of frustration.  We talked about it at length and she agreed to let me share the circumstances with you.  She's curious to see what perspective my readers might have.

Her husband is a professional.  For the purpose of today's post we will say he's a psychologist.  He's really not a psychologist but this is my small attempt to disguise their identities.  Please don't email me and say, "A shrink should know better."  He's not a shrink.  I'm just calling him one for today.

Mr. Shrink is very successful.  He and his wife have been married "forever" and have a nice home in Money Town.  They've raised two kids who are now in young adulthood.  Mr. Shrink is older than Mrs. Shrink.  I don't know if that's a significant detail or not.  Mrs. Shrink is not a young twenty year old trophy wife, but Mr. Shrink does have at least ten years on his wife.

About eight years ago Mr. Shrink brought someone new into his business.  He needed help and he hired a young professional to work with him.  We will call her Ms. Intruder.  At the time she was hired, Ms. Intruder was only in her late twenties.  Ms. Intruder is not, and has never been, married.  Over the last eight years, Ms. Intruder has gradually become more and more entrenched in Mr. Shrink's business.  In fact, Ms. Intruder is now a full partner.

Yes, in only eight years Ms. Intruder has become a partner in the business Mr. Shrink spent his entire adult life building.

In the entire eight years she's worked with Mr. Shrink, Ms. Intruder has not had a romantic relationship to speak of with anyone of either sex.  At least, that is what Ms. Intruder says publicly.  Ms. Intruder is now well into her thirties.

Mrs. Shrink is disturbed by the friendship that has developed between Ms. Intruder and Mr. Shrink.  The two business partners have become best friends.  Mr. Shrink has also become friends with, and entrenched in, Ms. Intruder's family.  He's even attended weddings of Intruder family members.  Mr. Shrink doesn't take his wife, Mrs. Shrink, with him to these Intruder family events.

Mr. Shrink and Ms. Intruder regularly exclude Mrs. Shrink from the time they spend together.

As an example, whenever there is a birthday in the office, the entire office goes out to dinner together to celebrate.  They don't do this right after work, but instead - they schedule the event on a Saturday night.  Ms. Intruder often brings her sister or family members along to join in on the celebration but Mrs. Shrink is not invited.  Ever.  She spends her Saturday night alone at home, or makes plans with a girlfriend instead.  She's, understandably, not happy about being excluded.

It's okay for Ms. Intruder to bring others (never a date) to these celebrations, but Mr. Shrink and Ms. Intruder always exclude Mrs. Shrink.

Mrs. Shrink is convinced Mr. Shrink and Ms. Intruder are not romantically involved.

Is Mr. Shrink just thoughtless?  Clearly he's disrespectful of his wife's feelings because he's quite aware of her unhappiness over the situation.  Is Mrs. Shrink kidding herself about a romance between her husband and Ms. Intruder?

As the years have progressed, these birthday dinners and celebrations have escalated.  Now, they've turned into full day events.  Mr. Shrink and Ms. Intruder will disappear on a Saturday and spend the entire day away at an event in Los Angeles or some other such thing.  One time Mr. Shrink even booked a hotel room and spent the night saying he didn't want to drive home late at night after drinking.

Mr. Shrink tells his wife other people are with him and Ms. Intruder at these events.  He also told her Ms. Intruder went home and did not spend the night at the same hotel on the one occasion he didn't come home until the next day.

Mrs. Shrink feels angry, resentful and hurt at her husband's behavior.  He makes no indication of changing.  In fact, he's not willing to even consider changing the situation at all.  Mrs. Shrink is in her fifties and has spent her entire adult life married to Mr. Shrink, raised two children with him, and doesn't want the marriage to end.

Thoughts?

© Twenty Four At Heart

What Scandal?

Do any of us really care who David Letterman has sex with?

I don't.

You can argue that men in power should not have sex with their employees.  You may also contend a married man should not have sex with a person other than their spouse.

I agree with both of those statements.  I do.

Really though, who gives a shit?

He's just another famous person who had affairs.  The topic bores me.

I did wonder, however, who in the world would want to sleep with David Letterman?  An acquaintance on Twitter told me she finds him very sexy in a nerdy sort of way.  I also know there are women who are attracted to money, or attracted to fame, or attracted to power.  (I'm not one of them.)  David Letterman has money, fame and power.  

I, personally, don't find him the least bit attractive.  I know some women do.  David (I'm sure he doesn't mind me calling him by his first name) is just not my type.

It got me to thinking who I would want to have sex with if my only choices were late night TV hosts.  Here are the choices I came up with:

First choice is David Letterman:

Second choice is Conan O'Brien.  He's the one on the right in the picture below:

Third choice is Jimmy Fallon:

Last, but not least is Jay Leno:

Personally, I'd pick the chimp.

I realize different people are attracted to completely different people/types/personalities.  If you had to spend a night having crazy, hot, sex with one of these men - who would you pick?  If you're a heterosexual man, I want to hear your answer too!

© Twenty Four At Heart

A Harmless Affair?

Infidelity is a topic I've touched on a few times before.  In the past two weeks, however, I've had some pretty heated infidelity discussions with friends.  Why?  Because it seems more and more people I know are involved in affairs, contemplating affairs, feeling guilty over affairs, divorcing because of affairs, or trying to repair the damage from them.

After all, who doesn't want hot, steamy, passion in their life?

The other day I found myself vehemently arguing the negative impact of affairs with someone who was countering my argument by saying affairs can be harmless to a marriage and possibly even have a positive impact.  

Positive for who?

The pro-affair argument came from a man.

Does gender determine your opinion on this topic?  Do most men think affairs are harmless and most women disagree?  Would the same man express his pro-affair opinion if he discovered his wife had an affair?  Or if she retaliated after discovering his affair with one of her own?

My pro-affair acquaintance argued that if his wife never found out about an affair, it would be harmless.

I made the following points:

1.  If you have an affair, you have to assume at some point it will be discovered.  To assume no one will ever discover, and reveal, your infidelity is naive.

2.  Even if your partner never discovers your affair, the energy you expend on the affair (mental, emotional, sexual, psychological) is energy you are not funneling into your marriage.  By giving less to your marriage you are hurting it whether or not your spouse knows the reason behind it.

3.  If you are having an affair, or seriously contemplating an affair, there's something lacking in your marriage (or yourself) that needs attention.  To convince yourself that your marriage is "fine" or "great" while you get involved with someone else is nothing more than denial.

4. If an affair is never discovered, the participating spouse is still plagued with destructive guilt for years to come.  

5.  If an affair is discovered, it often takes years to rebuild even a fraction of the trust which existed between spouses prior to the betrayal.  (If the marriage survives, which it often does not.)

The pro-affair gentleman countered with:

1. Having sex on the side might make a person happier and more willing to stay with their spouse for the long term.

2. What about prostitutes?  What if a man uses a prostitute once in awhile and there is no emotional attachment?  If the wife never finds out and it's only an occasional thing, what is the harm?  (Assuming he uses condoms to avoid bringing home diseases to his wife.)

To that I replied, "Really?  Because ewwwww!"

He added he, personally, would never hire the services of a prostitute.  He was just trying to make a point that going outside of your marriage can be harmless.

Can it?

What do you think?

Are affairs ever harmless?

I'm really curious to see if the opinions on this topic vary a lot by gender.

© Twenty Four At Heart

Secrets

Do you have any secrets?

I bet you do.

I think everyone has secrets.

I'm not telling you mine.  What?  Do you really think I would take my deepest, darkest, secret and publish it on the Internet?  Actually, I don't think I have too many mysteries to share even if I wanted to.  I do, however, have a few secrets.  I'm of the opinion that everyone does.

Have you ever wondered at what point undisclosed information becomes classified as a secret?

Can secrets between a couple actually be a healthy thing for a relationship?

Do all secrets destroy trust?

The married man who has an affair but never reveals it to his wife has a secret.  The wife of that man may know he had an affair but perhaps she's chosen never to reveal her knowledge.  She also has a secret.

I have girlfriends I feel I can tell anything to.  Anything.  Whether it be the condition of my uterus or my frustration over an argument with Briefcase.  They, in turn, can pour out their hearts to me.  We can chat on the phone, or over a cocktail.  We offer each other support, advice and companionship.

Do I then go share these conversations with my husband?

No, I do not.

To me, it's girl talk.  It's what we women do.  We talk, we share, we confess our hearts to one another.  

Do we have secrets?  I suppose we do.

Do I think of our conversations as secrets?  No, I don't.  I think we share confidences.  Is there really a difference?

Almost every family has "family secrets."  Uncle Joe may wear dresses when no one is looking.  The entire family knows, but no one discusses it.  Parents may get divorced and tell the kids, "It's no one's fault."  In reality, maybe mommy has had ten affairs and can't stop abusing alcohol.  Sometimes a secret is the same as a lie.

When is it wrong to keep information to yourself?  

What if you don't tell your spouse something because you don't want to hurt her feelings?  What if your wife gets jealous easily so you "never mention" a platonic female friend you are actually very close to?  What if your husband questions you unmercifully about everything you do so you "forget to mention" certain things in your day just to get him off your back?  In both these situations, the "secret" may actually be harmless information which is hidden so it won't be misconstrued.

I know some of you will say all secrets are bad.  Some of you are thinking spouses should know absolutely everything about one another.  

To that, I say bullshit.

Look in the mirror and then look again.

Everyone has secrets.  I, personally, think keeping some things to yourself is healthy.  I'm not condoning cheating or outright betrayals of trust.  I just think every individual needs a little space to call their own.  Sometimes not sharing everything can be better for a relationship.

What do you think?

Is it healthy to have a secret?  At what point does a secret become a betrayal?  

© Twenty Four At Heart

Cars Are Getting Smarter But I'm Not

For about ten days I've had a minor problem with my car.  Whenever I turn, the signal indicator has been going berserk.  Berserk!  It clicks at about 100 mph and flashes at me repeatedly until I feel a strong need to put blinders on to block it out.  

While driving.

I thought both indicators were broken.  (Do you call them signal indicators?  Because I call them BLINKERS.)  It was driving me (get it?) nuts.  I must be a little OCD or something because I found it really annoying. 

 

I started playing with my blinkers intentionally <blush> yesterday and that's when I realized only the right one was broken.

Do you play with your own blinkers too?

(Sorry, I couldn't resist!  Can you tell I'm on pain meds?  Only half of one pill, but it does affect my writing, don't ya think?  Plus, it makes me get very cozy with parentheses!  Also?  I need to live up to my reputation as a SEX WRITER.)

() () ()

My week is overbooked so I had made no attempt to take my car in to get the blinker fixed.  Also, because I'm so mechanical, I had decided my car must need a new fuse.

Stop laughing.

I had a car that needed a fuse once and now whenever something goes wrong, I assume my car needs a fuse.   It's very reasonable.  

Especially with blinky things.

Being a car mechanic is really not my thing.

I had just finished up with an appointment yesterday when I noticed a car dealership matching my car's very make across the street.  I had a half hour to spare so I decided to drive over and beg them to change the fuse for me.

The guys who work at (most) car dealerships are vultures.  I think I speak for the majority of women when I say we don't like being ogled as if we're naked when we show up to have our cars worked on.  I'm an adult woman and it shouldn't make me uncomfortable, but it does.  Car Men have the ability to strip off every ounce of clothing a woman wears with only their eyes.  It's disconcerting.

(Not only that, they perform deviant sexual acts on us with their eyes too.)

Anyway, Car Man approached me upon my arrival.  After checking out my cleavage, he asked me what he could do for me.  I hopped into my car, turned it on and showed him the Blinker Gone Berserk.  

"It needs a new fuse," I informed him.

He smirked.

"You need a new light bulb," he said.

A light bulb?  

Apparently, my car is very smart.  It is, in fact, much smarter than I am.  It knew my front signaling light had burned out and it was going berserk trying to tell me.  Unfortunately, no one ever taught me how to speak Blinker.  We had a communication breakdown.

Car Man told me it would take about a half hour to change the light bulb.  I agreed to wait, all the while wondering why it would take thirty minutes to change one effing light bulb.

I sat in the waiting area being ogled by more Car Men.  I was the only woman there.  I tried to act like I didn't notice the Car Men.  I played with my Blackberry a lot.  I kept pulling my top up to better cover my cleavage. 

I have a theory:  Less Cleavage = Fewer Car Men Hanging Around.

An hour later, Car Man reappeared and told me my car was being washed "as a courtesy" and it would be ready in ten minutes.  I was tired of waiting, but hey - free car wash!  The Money Town Car Wash costs $20.  Waiting a few more minutes wouldn't be the end of the world.  Who doesn't like to save twenty bucks?

A few other Car Men decided to take their break sitting just a few feet away from me.  I ignored them.  They stared lasciviously.  You would think they'd never seen a female before.  Honestly, is there a rule that you must be a boar of a man to be a Car Man?

Thirty minutes later I impatiently looked up from my Blackberry.  Two Car Men remained seated across from me.  They stared shamelessly as if I was stripped down naked for their entertainment.  I'd had enough.  

"Stop staring at me!" I said firmly, staring at them defiantly.

One of the men raised his eyebrows in surprise.  He turned and looked at his friend.

"She doesn't like us looking at her," he said to Car Man #2.

Car Man #2 grinned, exposing his tobacco stained teeth.

"But she's purrrrrrrrdy!" said Car Man #2 with a grin.

I got up and walked out of the room.

I went to the cashier's office and asked if I could please pay and get my car.  The cashier didn't have my paperwork yet.  I waited for another twenty minutes while she tracked it down.  Once she had my paperwork she informed me she needed my signature.  

There was no charge for the new light bulb.  

There was no charge for the two hours of "labor" it took to change the light bulb.

There was no charge for the car wash.

I lost two hours of my day.  I left feeling a strong need for a shower.  As I drove out of the car dealership on my way home, my signal indicator once again blinked at me calmly and lovingly.

An hour later, I was still wondering ...

How many Car Men does it take to change one light bulb?

© Twenty Four At Heart

What Midlife Crisis?

I'm going to ramble about midlife crises today.  Not that I have any experience with any such thing.  In case you've forgotten, I'm only twenty four.

Ahem.

I thought only men went through midlife crises?  Apparently, that's not the case.  I'm hearing from more and more women that their lives are in turmoil too.  Many of them are attributing this to their own midlife crisis.  Some of these women are as young as their thirties and some are well into their sixties.

Who's to say when "midlife" occurs these days?

Are men aware that women go through this too?

Something odd is happening in the last few months.  People are coming to me with their stories.  People I know, and people I've never met, are opening up their hearts and sharing tales about their lives with me.

I have, unintentionally, become a collector of poignant life stories.

In turn, I am sharing some of their narratives (when given permission) here with you.

Hearing so many heartfelt stories has caused me to think a lot more about many life issues than I most likely would on my own.

I've heard heartbreaking and inspiring stories about deep, forever-lasting, love since I wrote about the man with One Love.  I've also had readers confess to me about illicit affairs, childhood and domestic abuse, falling out of love with their spouses, and on and on.  I'm fascinated by these stories.  I'm grateful to those who feel comfortable sharing with me.

At times, it feels like a lot to carry around with me too.  There is almost a physical weight that is passed to me along with the words of someone's life experience.  

Lately, several women have shared with me their midlife discontent.  Wives who live with their husbands out of duty instead of love.  Women who want to begin a new career, or new adventure, they would not have considered earlier in their lives.  One woman told me she wished she could take a "sabbatical" from her husband for a few years.  She was convinced if she could just get away for a few years she'd eventually want to return to her current life.

I wonder.

Last Friday I watched, admittedly in horror, as a 70+ year old woman walked past me in very short denim shorts and a skin tight, tummy exposing, camisole.  Her gray hair fell to her mid-back.  She was thin.  Her skin sagged inches below where you would expect to see it.  She was dressed like a twenty year old, but she had the body of an old woman.

Why did she dress like that when it looked so terrible?

And yet, I know why.  She's living in denial of her own age.  Does she need to dress like an old woman?  No.  Would it be nice for everyone around her if she didn't expose quite as much skin?  Yes.  

It made me wonder why people don't accept themselves as they are.  Why not embrace and own whatever life stage you happen to be at?  

Celebrate it!  Live it!

As I contemplated the old woman I assured myself I would never be like her.  I intend to live each life stage embracing it.

That same evening I enjoyed a girl's night out.  When I got home I uploaded a picture one of my friends took of me.  Looking at it made me realize others might see me and say, "There goes a woman who is clearly having a mid-life crisis!"

** cottage cheese thighs and fat ass intentionally hidden from view!

What do you think?  Am I a walking mid-life crisis of my very own?

How about you?

© Twenty Four At Heart

Skinny Dipping

** My Random Number Integer thingy picked #24 as the winner of my contest.  Isn't that ironic considering the name of this blog?  My 24th comment was from Kari-Mel.  Congratulations Kari-Mel for winning the Twenty Four At Heart/beach scene t-shirt.  Please contact me with the mailing address you'd like the shirt sent to.  Thank you to everyone who participated.  **

If you've been reading Twenty Four At Heart for awhile, you already know I am very fortunate to have a pool in my backyard.  I say very fortunate because it gets extremely hot here.

You probably also already know I love being in the water.  It's the one place where my arm can move freely without a lot of pain.

Some of you may even remember my backyard is pretty secluded.  I have no neighbors behind me.  There's nothing but a canyon, a small lake and beautiful mountains behind my house.

I do have neighbors to the right and left.  My neighbors on the right are a married couple.  Their kids are grown and gone.  They're at home fairly frequently on weekends.  I have a new neighbor on the left.  He's a single, very hot, thirty-ish man who recently moved to the United States from South Africa.  He's gorgeous.  He also has a very cool accent.  I *might* have noticed his attractiveness.

Hot South African Man is never, ever, home.  He travels constantly and I've only seen him on perhaps four occasions since he moved in over six months ago.  He's spent most of the last several months in South Africa.  It's pretty much as if I live next door to an empty house.  

Last Friday my neighbors to the right, the married couple, asked me to bring in their newspapers over the weekend for them because they were going out of town.  

No problem.

On Saturday afternoon Briefcase and PR took off together for a boy's afternoon.  I was left at home on my own.  I threw some laundry in to wash.  I edited a few photos.  I baked some banana bread to put in a care package for RC.  My oven really heats up my kitchen.  I was really hot by the time it was done baking.  I decided to go for a swim.

There seemed no point in putting on a bathing suit.  There was no one who could even possibly see into my backyard.  I stripped off my clothes by my back door and left them in a heap on the floor.  I casually strolled outside towards my pool.

When I got to the pool I grabbed a can of spray-on suntan lotion and took my time putting it on.  I didn't want to burn, and I especially didn't want the parts of me that don't usually see the sun to burn.  I made sure I didn't miss any spots so I wouldn't end up in pain later in the day.

Then I submerged myself in the water.

It felt great.  The water temperature was 85F/29.4C.  It was perfect.  I swam several laps with the modified stroke I use with my bum arm.  When my arm tired (quickly) I did more laps hanging onto a kick board and using just my legs.

Finally, exhausted, I hopped up on a float to relax.  I've had a lot on my mind lately and I haven't been sleeping well.  The combination of very little sleep, swimming all those laps, and the hot sun beating down on me made it easy to drift off to sleep.

Floating.  Naked.  Asleep.

I was dreaming.  I will not share what I was dreaming about.

<blush>

Something about being naked in the warm sun always puts me in a risqué mood.

Awhile later I stirred.  I was still floating on the raft.  The sun was beating down on me.  Groggily, I realized where I was.  It hadn't yet occurred to me that something had woken me up.

And then I heard my neighbors startled voice (South African accent very evident) saying, "Oh!  Oh!  Excuse me!  I'm so sorry!"

I shot up into a sitting position on my raft in a millisecond.  My eyes searched frantically around me.  

And there he was.

On the far side of my yard, peering over the wall that separates our two homes.  Our eyes met.  

I plunged into the water in less than a second.

You would think he would have wanted to stab his eyes out after seeing me naked, wouldn't you?  

When I resurfaced from my emergency plunge under water, my neighbor stammered nervously.

"I ... I ... I didn't think you were home! I'm so sorry!" he exclaimed uneasily.

Before I could respond he added, "I just wanted to show my friend .... I have a friend visiting and I wanted him to see your beautiful pool."

Right then I noticed his friend.  Another man was peering over the wall just a few feet away.  He grinned at me and waved.  Unlike my neighbor, he seemed to have no embarrassment whatsoever at having caught me in the buff.  In fact, it looked like he was thoroughly enjoying the whole situation.

After a minute or two of sputtering out further apologies my neighbor retreated.  His friend waved at me jauntily and called out, "It was really nice meeting you!" as he laughed.

I stayed in the water until I was sure they were back inside my neighbor's house.  I rose out of the pool, grabbed a towel and wrapped it around myself.

The next afternoon I came home from running some errands and found flowers at the front door.  Attached to the flowers was a card from my neighbor apologizing once again.  It was a nice gesture on his part, but it won't lessen my embarrassment next time I run into him.

Also, I don't think I'll be inviting him over to swim anytime soon.

© Twenty Four At Heart