Sexual Napalm…

…is the latest catch phrase according to a new report.

Leave it to the Gen-X crowd to come up with that one. Obviously they have yet to be medicated, and secondly, they haven’t got a fucking clue about life yet.

Guys revealing their inner most desires when it comes to what turns them on is nothing new. Selfish bastards!

They say they like girls who go down on them because that doesn’t happen that often…

Excuse me while I puke?


I call Bullshit on this one! Just ask the Hubby!

In my limited experience with dating, the first thing out of a guys mouth was definitely not my ‘gina’.

Maybe I missed the class in semaphore they offered in high school that said go here not there!

Another biggie that came to ‘light’ in this report is that guys like girls who like having sex with the lights on. Some said they’d like to do it under a spot light so they could see every inch of whom they were about to do.



Not only would this make me uncomfortable, I don’t know that I could suck my stomach in that long. My biggest complaint is that this ‘revelation time’ could add an extra hour to what should take under ten minutes.

Romantic Interlude under the SPOTLIGHT:

Me: “Are you done yet?”

Him: “I think you’re going to have to roll over one more time, I think I missed a spot. Can you move the light closer?”

I begrudgingly move the freaking light.

Me: “Why is this taking so long, are you fucking blind?”

Him: “I didn’t know it was going to take this long, okay?”

Me:“What are you saying?”

Him: “Ah…absolutely nothing!”

I begrudgingly roll over.


Me: “What?”

Him: “Nothing!”

Me: “Then what was the hmmmm for?”

Him: “Do you want to walk in the morning?”

Me: “WHAT?……Why do you ask?”

Him: “I don’t know, just thought we could use some exercise.”

Me: “Bastard!”

Him: “What, I’m just sayin…”

Me: “I’ve got a suggestion too! Why don’t you just roll  yourself over and get some sleep.”

Him: “But?”

Me: “Nite, nite!”

Spotlight…my ass!

If hubby had to take that extra time to scan every part of me we’d probably end up not having sex.  With two kids still living at home our time’s limited to stolen moments so there will never be a spotlight in the bedroom. Besides that, I don’t want to always wonder whether this is another one of those obviously un-obvious fat checks?

At this juncture of my life the words ‘sexual napalm’ bring to mind my ever constant problem…my mid-life gas tank.

Now there’s sexual napalm I can relate to.

I’ve learned over the years to keep a spare pack of GasX in my bedside table in case I see that glint in hubby’s eyes. There’s a lot of things we let slide in our long time marriage but the passing of gas during a romantic interlude is not something we can let go. There has to be rules and this falls into the top ten.

This theory has been tested here and there, when on rare occasion we’d pull out ‘the book’ and try on a few Karma Sutra positions. Most of the time I’d just stare at the pictures completely dumbfounded. I’d sit there wondering whether, if even in my twenties I could ever accomplish some of these positions!

This is where you double up on the GasX!

I know last time we tried one of those convoluted twisted up, twirling, crazy ass positions it wasn’t exactly what I’d  call fun. Shortly after the paramedics left claiming that our dilemma did not constitute what they’d call an actual emergency…I put that book away.

If I want to look that ridiculous I’ll just dust off our Twister game so everyone can laugh their ass off!

I’ll tell you what sexual napalm is.

It’s when your guy takes out the garbage without you having to ask ten times. It’s when they don’t drop their clothes on the floor in their normal heap because they know you’ll go into  maid mode as soon as you get out of bed. It’s when they look at you ‘that’ way without you wondering if there’s something wrong with your hair/makeup/clothes/size. It’s when they see that little bit of cottage cheese hanging down at the bottom of your butt but they hold their tongue. It’s when they hold your hand when you least expect it. It’s when……………

Dear Ms. Le. Bido…

…I know you’ve had a lot on your mind over the years but I wanted you to know that I miss you terribly.

O M F’ing G do I miss you!

Oh and yes, if you’re wondering, Mr. Dick Wad misses you as well!

I know that for a long time you’ve been down in the dumps and tossed around like a cheap salad because I’ve been so busy with my life, but I just don’t understand why you’re not responding to any of my e-mails or calls?

I don’t remember abusing you or misusing you in any way so I just don’t get it!

I’ve been searching for you non-stop these past few years.

I’ve looked under the couch hoping maybe you’d somehow accidentally slipped out that night I had one to many tequila’s and slept with my legs askew. That would have been an easy fix since I could have just slipped you back inside and no one would have been the wiser.

But no, you were nowhere to be found!

I’ve looked in the back of my closet and inside all my boots thinking maybe you felt you needed a break and quietly slid down my leg that day I had to stand in line at Costco.

I have a vague memory of a horrible itch that day. I seem to recall it was really hot and my panties were making me uncomfortable, but it would have been too embarrassing to scratch ‘down there’ in public. I’m sorry if that made you uncomfortable , so again I apologize if you felt neglected.

I’ve searched and searched endlessly!

Hell, I’ve even scoured my underwear drawer several times hoping that perhaps you just got stuck on one of my thongs but my search proved fruitless. You have simply vanished.

I recently put up posters hoping that someone would recognize you and bring you home safe and sound, but apparently posting pictures of our atrophied ‘Ms. Gina’ is against the law here.

I found this out the hard way after two uniformed officers showed up at my house informing me that in order for me to continue putting up these posters I would have to add a pair of underwear to the picture to cover Ms. Gina and I wasn’t sure, since you’ve been gone so long, which underwear you would recognize.

It’s been a tough road without you, and although it’s far more work these days to get my mojo on, I persevere.

I’m still holding out hope that one of these days we’ll cross paths again.

Until we meet again,



Dear Mom,

Whaa, whaa, whaa!

Here’s the deal. You’re very needy. I had to make a stand. My biggest beef is that I felt over worked.

Sex, sex, and more sex! Whoo Hoo for you!

Jesus Christ!

You never gave me a break so I did what I had to do. I slipped out the back door during one of your, ahem, midnight silent killers.

I knew this would be the only way I could make a clean exit. Well actually, I guess it wasn’t exactly clean in that sense, but your hubby was so busy trying to get the pillow over his head I knew you wouldn’t even notice my abscence.

Just to let you know, I plan on coming back some day, but it’s not going to happen any time soon. I NEED MORE TIME. You’ve worked me hard for the last 35 years or so, I think I deserve some time off for good behavior.

I know you’ve been trying to lure me back and I’m appalled at the depths to which you can sink.

That Horney Goat Weed shit was child’s play. You actually thought you could drug me into returning?

By the way I’m currently in rehab THANK YOU VERY MUCH!

You’re such a fool.

If you were serious about trying to get me back you might want to step on the treadmill once in a while. I hear exercise really helps.

And while we’re on the subject, perhaps you’ll consider one less shot of tequila at night. This fucks with your brain as well as mine.

These are not threats but, I want you to take me seriously!

I know what you said to Thing One and Two and you just don’t scare me anymore.  One and Two still speak to me and they agree with the exercise thing.

Your’s truly,

Ms. Le. Bido


Dearest Bashing Bido,

You suck!

Please do not rush back for my sake…bitch!

You should know better than to bite the hand that feeds you!

You know who.

In Passing…

…gas that is, I’ve come to the conclusion that every time I let one rip I’m adding yet another X on my carbon footprint. CRAP! That’s why I never attend those ‘green’ conferences. Without a doubt I’d be the one walking around with the big neon sign hovering near my ass that say’s “guilty, guilty, guilty”. I’ve tried to do my part for the environment.  I’ve been pretty diligent about changing my light bulbs and unplugging appliances, but this internal gas thing it seems is completely out of my control now.

Age tends to load us up with lots of aches and pains, and from my experience, after you let cheek-flapping farts loose, many of those aches and pains disappear. I swear to God, ninety-nine percent of the time I’m spot on. I’ve always been a big believer that everything that ails you boils down to gas.

My kids tell me their stomach’s hurts.

“Once you fart you’ll feel better”, I say. “Let her rip.”

“But Mom!”

“I think I have appendicitis.”

“Fart, you’ll feel better. Trust me.”

“But Mom!”

“I think I broke my arm”.

Just fart…oh…wait…maybe we should see the doctor.”

I hate it when they throw a wrench in the engine.

Okay, sometimes it’s not gas and you actually have to do something to cure what ails them, but for the most part, it’s a pattern they follow as they reach for attention.

In mid-life I’ve come to the conclusion that gas is one of life’s perks as you age. It’s a glorious thing too! We can write off nearly everything that’s going on in our body as gas related. Who wants to think of the alternative? Yes, I tend to live in the mind-set where ‘ignorance is bliss’.

When we were kids, we never thought too much about it, we just let it go whenever. We didn’t care who heard it. As a matter of fact, the grosser we made it sound the better we felt. It became a job well done! Oh yeah, if you could press your butt against something solid, something that would enable the noise to become this thunderous crescendo, whoo hoo!

We used it as a tool to gross out our friends. We did it in the classroom because we knew no one could escape from the foul air.

We did it in the car when we knew our parents had the safety locks on the windows so none of us could accidentally fall out of the moving vehicle. We waited patiently for the aroma to waft forward from the backseat waiting for signs of recognition on our parents face, and then we waited with great anticipation for that age-old question of ‘WHO FARTED’?

“Not me”.

“Not me”.

“Not me”.

“Not me”.

It was a game we all played very well.

It was always a giggle inducer as my sisters and I sat piled on top of one another watching as my mother secretly surveyed my fathers face out of the corner of her eye to see if she could detect any signs that he was the culprit. Even if she did suspect him she’d never say anything because it was never good to embarrass the husband in front of the children. She’d just crack the window a little and maintain her presumption that it was one of us kids. Why is that father’s don’t need an excuse for this kind of behavior? They just do as they please and expect everyone to ignore it?

Fortunately, or unfortunately, somewhere along the way we developed this sense of  pride and that took all the fun out of it. If we got gas we’d undo a button, let a zipper open an inch or two to help relieve the pressure, or we’d suck back some kind of bubbly drink hoping it would diffuse the bubbles in our belly without having to let them pass naturally. We suffered through countless seconds, minutes, or hours until we could find a private place to let our suffering go. We had reached the age where it just wasn’t polite to fart in public anymore because we knew we would suffer ridicule if we got busted. It didn’t matter how bad you felt holding it in, you just sucked up, squeezed your butt-cheeks together and waited until an appropriate time and place arrived where we could undo the evil that lurked within.

On a recent visit to my local grocery store, the one that offers seniors shopping day every Friday, I was inexplicably possessed with joining my elders in their unpretentious symphony of sound. I showed up at the store with that awful gurgling feeling in my gut. I tried to wait it out at home but realized I was running out of time to get all my errands done so off I went. I knew the evil was lurking and ready to go but pride was fighting me tooth and nail. I sucked up, walked up and down the aisles squeezing my cheeks together like I was doing some kind of cardio-muscular exercise to improve the look of my butt.

But try as I might, there was no doubt in my mind that there was no holding this one back. I started to become desperate because there were more people in the store than usual, and most of them seemed to be around my age. I began searching for that ‘golden aisle’, the one that had a couple of senior citizens ambling along. BINGO!

“Hello shoppers, we’ve got two old farts on isle ten.”

I think by this point there was even a tear in my eye as I approached them. I’m not sure if it was relief or disbelief that I was going to blow and let them take the fall. The fact was, I didn’t care at this point. I managed to manouver myself between the two of them. I reached up and grabbed a can of something from the shelf in order to maintain my position. I felt ‘it’ move and prepared myself for release. Ahhhhhhh! There was no sound, thank God, but it took longer than anticipated.

Out of the corner of my eye I could see one of the seniors slowly approaching my position. Unfortunately, just beyond her was this very handsome guy also making his way towards ground zero. “Oh no”, I thought to myself. I knew I had to bust a move so I set the can down and headed directly towards the two of them. If I could get next to that old gal then I’d be home free. Like most things in life, timing is everything.

I got next to her, and because my nose is very sensitive, I knew that foul odor had followed me. I took two steps beyond her, which put me about five feet from the handsome guy. He looked my way and I reverted to my old acting chops. I grimaced. I pointed my thumb towards the old lady and then appropriately waved my fingers under my nose. Then I made that ‘whew’ expression and kept on moving. It was going to be okay.

In the check out line, I stood there waiting for them to slide everything over the scanner. Low and behold both the old gal and the handsome guy got into the same line as me. I tried to ignore them but suddenly found the front of her cart bumping into my hip. When I turned to look at her in protest of this physical intrusion I couldn’t help but notice this odd look on her face.

Girl, you should take something for that,” she says to me. “Jesus Christ, you just about bloody killed me back there.”

The handsome guy of course is privy to this dialogue and starts to laugh uncontrollably.

I left the store vowing that I will never, ever again, pass gas at the grocery store no matter how old I get!