Foxy Totty

Because I can't tell this shit to real people.

It’s been how long?

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Okay, so I let November and nearly half of December slip by without any kind of update. Shameful, I know. See, the thing is, in real life I do freelance stuff, which is great because it allows me to work from home, but that also means I have times when there’s absolutely nothing going on, and I cling to any distraction over folding laundry. Like piddlefarting around on the computer. That beats housework any day.  Then of course there are the times when I’m so busy that I can’t possibly clear enough head space to so much as string a sentence together. Needless to say, this past month has been one of the hectic times, to say the least. I’ve had quite a lot to do, while at the same time trying to work a little ahead to make up for time I won’t have once the kids are off school for the holidays.

For anyone wondering, my damn hairdryer is still working. Why that piece of crap hasn’t done the decent thing and died by now is beyond me. I also have not cut my hair. Even though I desperately need to at least get the nasty split ends trimmed off. That will have to wait until after Christmas is over and done with.

Speaking of the dang holidays… I used to love Christmas, but now it all just gets on my nerves. Those “Game On Santa” Best Buy ads are a perfect example. What the hell is wrong with people? You don’t try to one-up Santa. First of all, Santa is symbolic of giving. There’s no competition in giving! Secondly, these bitches are downright rude to poor old St. Nick, and that’s not cool. But what bothers me the most is the message it’s sending out to young minds: that big box retailers are better than Santa. The fact that they would even have the nerve to suggest as much pisses me off, but they see no harm in expressing such sentiments because they believe that it will convince you to shop there. Remember, Santa is giving. Best Buy just wants to con you into spending more money than you really should on shit you can probably do without. All in the spirit of giving, of course.

Honestly, I didn’t intend to rant about the over-commercialism of Christmas. And now I can’t remember what exactly I had in mind for this post. No telling when my next one will be, though.


The other man.

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I’m not having an affair or anything exciting like that. I know how it feels to be cheated on, and I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I ever caused that pain on somebody I care about. But having said that, I understand why people cheat. And I’m sure we’re all tempted from time to time. I know I certainly am. However, as the saying goes, “I love looking at the menu, but I always eat at home.” Or something like that, anyway.

I like to think I have a rich fantasy life, and that’s where the other man comes in. Yes, pun intended. Aside from celebrity crushes, which are nothing but pure, totally-made-up-in-my-head fantasy, my first boyfriend is usually the main player in my sexual fantasies. This would be the same first boyfriend who broke my heart. My first love, my first kiss, my first everything. He cheated on me. With my roommate, and it took me years to recover, as pathetic as that sounds.

He lives many, many miles away, and I seriously doubt we’ll ever see each other again. So like my celebrity crushes, my fantasies involving him will never happen, but they’re not so far-fetched. I tend to base them on actual experiences and memories, often laced with nostalgia. I may not know what Johnny Depp smells like in real life, but I do remember very vividly how Felix smelled. And no, that’s not his real name. But compared to the Oscar I live with, it seems suitable to call him that.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my Oscar, and I’m ever so glad that I ended up with him and not Felix. But I don’t think about my husband when I fantasize about sex. There’s no point. He’s my reality. Part of what makes my fantasies therapeutic is knowing that I’m safe to explore my dirty thoughts as far as they take me. And after I’ve played them out in my head a few times with somebody familiar but not shackled to me for all eternity, quite often I get inspired to try something new in my real sex life. So ultimately my husband benefits.

The end results vary, but I think making the effort should count for something. Kind of like trying to recreate your favorite restaurant recipe at home… sometimes it doesn’t work out like you expected, sometimes it’s good but just not the same, and sometimes it’s better because you were able to season it to your own tastes. Yes, I agree that’s a corny analogy, but I can’t think of anything better.

Written by foxytotty

October 23, 2011 at 11:48 am

Up and down

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Something’s up, and I don’t know what. Every so often my husband gets in these funks, for lack of a better word. He basically turns into a miserable bastard, not that he’s the most cheerful person to be around on a good day.

We have communication issues that we’ve been working on for the past few years, and while things are generally improving, it’s a slow progress with the usual ups and downs of marriage causing occasional setbacks. Or maybe it’s the lack of communication that contributes to the rough patches. Either way, that’s how we’ve been together for nearly two decades, and yet I still don’t feel like I really know him half the time. I mean, by now you’d think I’d be able to practically read his mind, but no. I never have a clue what he’s thinking. So who knows what’s bugging him this time.

In the past, I always assumed it was me and did my best to just stay out of his way and make sure I didn’t do anything else to piss him off. So I gave him plenty of space. This was more for self-preservation, actually. When he gets like this he only brings me down, and I don’t want to be miserable. But my withdrawal made things worse over time. Because he took my distance as rejection or something, when really all I want is a quiet life.

Lately I’ve discovered that making more of an effort to be affectionate helps. It’s sort of like killing him with kindness, only instead I distract him with sex. Openly expressing my desire for him seems to quiet whatever insecurities he’s feeling and lift his spirits. Again, whatever it takes for a peaceful life, right?

Except… I seem to always be the one who initiates intimacy, and that’s just not sustainable. Especially when his mood and attitude make him rather repulsive. So, during these times I have to exaggerate or all-out fake my desire for him. This leaves me resentful. Why am I the only one to make an effort? It’s a lot of work, and honestly, very hard for me to always be the seducer when I’m not genuinely feeling it.

I haven’t been able to bring myself to do it this time around. The past two nights I simply allowed myself to fall asleep. And Mr. Grumpy lives on. Sure, I could ask him what’s up, but I won’t get an answer. Really, at this point I don’t care, as horrible as that may sound. I just want him to cheer the fuck up, already. His life isn’t that goddamned hard.

I only hope we’re not starting a downturn on our rollercoaster of a marriage because I seriously don’t think we hit much of a peak this last time. Guess I’ll try fucking his brains out tonight and see if that helps. If I can be bothered.

I’m sure punctuality is a virtue.

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Due to errands not taking nearly as long as expected, I’m a full thirty minutes early for my chiropractor appointment. I’m one of these people who would rather be twenty minutes early than five minutes late. I get very stressed out when I think I’m not going to be on time, which triggers my anxiety so it’s best all around if I avoid being late. But I’m not a patient person, so I have to find something to do while I wait. Guess I’ll write a blog post about it.

I’m convinced–and my therapist doesn’t openly agree with this, but she doesn’t dispute my theory, either–that growing up with a pathologically late father has made me this way. For family get-togethers, his own mother would lie about the start time, telling him to be there at least fifteen minutes before she really wanted us to arrive. That worked until he figured out what she was up to.

During my school years, every morning I was paranoid I’d be late for school. It would be time to leave, and he’d think of about eighty stupid little things that had to be done before we left. Watching him piddlefart around wasting time shredded my nerves to bits. The fact that I was dependent on him for transportation, and therefore had no control over the situation, didn’t matter to my teachers. If you’re late, you’re late. And you get in trouble. Even though it’s not your fault. How fair is that?! Getting my license and a beat up old truck of my own to drive saved my teenage sanity.

Bottom line, I’m an overly punctual control freak. Most of the time this drives my family crazy, but at least we’re always on time. Okay, we’re usually early and spend a few minutes waiting in the car. But hey, we all do what we gotta do, right? Hopefully my insane timekeeping won’t backfire and turn my offspring into perpetually tardy layabouts.

I’m off now to get my back cracked. Only ten minutes early.

Backyard bollocks

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We bought our house nearly 14 years ago. It’s in one of those cookie-cutter developments where you pick your plot, chose a floor plan, and then the builder gets your house up and habitable in a matter of weeks. Back in the late nineties, these types of subdivisions were all over the place, and it made home ownership possible for many. Then the housing bubble burst or whatever, but that’s another story.

I want to talk about our lawn. See, when these contractors come in, they scoop off all the topsoil to level the lot before pouring the foundation. Then presumably they sell it on to the local garden centers so that whoever sells their soul to the mortgage company purchases the house can then buy the dirt back so they have a chance to grow a somewhat decent yard.

Except we never did that. Partly because we’re lazy and get bored very quickly with manual labor, but we also had NO money left for anything by the time we closed. That’s what happens when you get ideas above your station and buy a house you can’t afford. For months after we moved in we racked up credit card debt just buying groceries. Then I changed jobs, my husband got a raise, and we could afford to eat again. But we still couldn’t be bothered to do anything about our grass, or lack thereof.

Honestly, we didn’t (and still don’t) know how to make our yard look good. Neither one of us had any gardening experience whatsoever, so we’d randomly fling out grass seed every once in a while. Nothing ever grew but thistles, dandelions, and weeds, so after a few seasons we didn’t even bother doing that.

But then this spring, for reasons known only to himself, my husband decided to make the backyard his pet project. Perhaps he sensed the start of a mid-life crisis or something and needed a distraction. I personally had no expectations because he has a habit of starting something–or maybe just getting a grand idea and talking about it for weeks on end before forgetting it altogether–and never quite following through to the end. This is why since March I’ve had twelve bags of topsoil sitting on my back porch and a barren patch of land for a backyard.

Despite me begging him–numerous times–not to do this, he went out and bought a year’s supply of RoundUp and sprayed it all over the backyard, effectively killing everything. I was so pissed off about that. Most people would have spent the same money and rented one of those machines that tills or aerates or whatever it’s called when you churn up the ground. But no, that requires physical effort, you see. Rather, his theory was that if he kills it all, then the ground would be ready to start all over. Right.

What actually happened is that the ground was left alone after he poisoned it for many months. There was no grass or anything growing on it, so every time it rained it turned into a giant mud puddle, and I’m convinced even more of the top eroded away, leaving the whole thing more uneven than ever.

This morning there was a flyer in our driveway for some one-man local operation who will come aerate and seed our entire lawn for only $160. Looks like he’ll be here this afternoon to do the job, thankfully while I’ll be at work. Never mind that my husband has already spent at least twice that on toxic chemicals to spray all over and bags of dirt he never used. I kinda doubt this professional lawn care guy will stick with the $160 price when he sees the hard, compacted and cracked, dry rocky clay that is our backyard. But I’ve completely detached from the situation. It’s the only way I can stay sane.

Written by foxytotty

October 15, 2011 at 9:09 am

Posted in home ownership, life, marriage, rant

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That monthly business.

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Ah, yes. The joys of being a human female. Nearly all other species have an estrous cycle, but not us. In exchange for being receptive to mating whether we’re actually fertile or not, we have to contend with a menstrual cycle. Which of course involves menstruation, and all the accompanying unpleasantness.

My Aunt Flow has been overly punctual in her visits recently, arriving a few days early for the past several months. She must have known my husband was going to be out of town this week and decided to keep me company in his absence, because not 12 hours after he left, the bitch moved in. She brought her heavy baggage this time, too. As I sit here in agony waiting for the advil to kick in. This is a topic other bloggers are writing about as part of Red October, and I thought I might as well participate.

I remember the first time I got my period. It was actually a bit of a shock, because I didn’t have any kind of cramping or pain, so I had no warning. I went to use the bathroom, and when I wiped there was blood all over the toilet paper. It must have just started, too, because none of it got on my underwear. After the initial freak out moment, I realized what it was, and then I cried.

I hated puberty. I was so self-conscious about my body in general, and I had a difficult time coping with its changes. This was yet another source of embarrassment. I didn’t want to grow up and was essentially in denial about it. Once I started my period, I had no choice but to face the fact that I was becoming a woman whether I wanted to or not. Because bleeding from your nether regions is something you can’t ignore.

Despite being an avid masturbator from a very young age, I was scared of my sexuality and worked hard to repress it. It was only after I hit my thirties that I began to embrace who I am, release my sexuality, and be at peace with my body. Even though there’s a few days every month when its functions are a source of inconvenience.

But it’s true about periods changing over time as we age. Mine certainly has, and I’ve heard other women report pretty much the same thing. Plus, there are many factors that can affect our cycles. When I was on birth control pills, my periods were a breeze: light, no cramping and only lasting a few days. If I even bothered to have them… you can do that will some pills, you know. Simply don’t take the placebos and continue on to your next pack, just ask your doctor about doing that first. But the pill made me a crazy bitch with no sex drive.

When I finally started cycling again after the birth of my kids, my periods weren’t too terribly bad. I breastfed both, and lactation suppresses ovulation, thereby delaying menstruation. Win, right? Because who wants to deal with bloody tampons AND hourly diaper changes.

But after my youngest weaned, Aunt Flow came back with a vengeance. I would get horrible cramps and heavy bleeding that lasted an entire week, sometimes more. On the heaviest days I experienced pain radiating down my legs that was so bad I had trouble standing for more than a few minutes at a time. The only answer my gynecologist offered was to put me back on the pill, and I tried that for a while but soon gave them up. I’d rather be miserable for one week out the month than a crazy-ass bitch from hell ALL the time.

Several years ago, my regular doctor told me to start exercising and eating better. We can all work towards living healthier lifestyles, right? So I gave that a try, and I soon saw an immense improvement. Not just in my periods, but in my overall outlook and attitude, and I noticed my anxiety even improved.

In the last year or so, though, my periods have become a little more unpredictable. They may be short and light, or heavy and drawn out. Lately they come early, effectively shortening my cycle length a little each time, but occasionally they’ve been up to 10 days late, sending me into a mad panic thinking a birth control blunder went undetected. Probably the only consistent change is that I now get cranky the week leading up to my period, instead of being moody while I’m actually having it. I suppose that’s why it’s called PRE Menstrual Syndrome, right?

Written by foxytotty

October 13, 2011 at 1:00 am

Motherless Children

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My mother died within weeks of my fourth birthday, and I have very few memories of her. Unfortunately, most of them involve her admonishing me for masturbating. Of course, I didn’t know any better. I was a little kid. They–ahem, WE all masturbate. It’s healthy to explore one’s body, and children have a natural curiosity.

I must have been at it a lot, because my mother hated me doing it. I distinctly remember her picking me up from day care early and catching me in the act. Then she lectured me all the way home. I didn’t care. It felt good, and I wanted to do it. I guess I must have started doing it a lot more after she died, because a couple of years later I had to start seeing a shrink. That was also around the time my dad decided to remarry, so I’m sure I did have a few issues.

I hated my step mother for a while. By the time I hit puberty, though, we started to get along better. She essentially took me to raise as her own, and I think overall she did an alright job. I can’t stand the bitch now, but she stepped up when I was younger, and for that I give her props.

It’s a good thing she came along because my dad was struggling on his own. I didn’t see it at the time, but now that I have kids of my own I understand a lot more. Poor man. Widowed with a preschool princess. Apparently I nearly ran my step mother off a few times. Well, she had to pass the tests, right? What’s that old saying, “if you can’t love me at my worst, you don’t deserve me at my best” or something like that anyway, I’m too lazy it look it up.

Well, so maybe I was the worst part of my father. But hey, she stuck it out, I became slightly less of a brat over time, and they’re still together.