Tuesday, Feb. 25, 2003
Dear Diary:

I would like to say right here, right now, that pressing the organ that puts the "tri" in the term "tripod" against one of the two globules which comprise the buttal region does NOT count as foreplay.

I realize this may come as a bit of a shock to some of my three loyal readers who are of the XY chromosome persuasion. If any of you feel the need to sit down and take a few sips of cool, refreshing water, well, I understand completely.

There. Feel better?

Yep, so as I was saying earlier, when you're trying to amass that 22.45 minutes of foreplay required by law in most jurisdictions, you are not allowed to add in tripodal buttal nudging.

I can see that one or two of my three loyal readers are asking themselves, "How did this topic uhhh come up, as it were?"

Well, as the more perspicacious amongst you might have gathered, there were what the diplomats term "full and frank discussions" here recently about the marital duties and that was one of the issues um raised.

Any rumours that you may have heard to the effect that the words, "Do that again and I will break it off and beat you with it" are totally, totally untrue. I would Never Say That Out Loud.

Sometimes you don't need words.

Sometimes A Look Can Be Enough.

I know what the problem is. One of the side effects of my relentless pursuit of the title Marn, Warrior Princess has been a certain amount of muscular soreness. Because of the discomfort, I have not been, oh, how to put this delicately ... I have not been "putting out" with the normal frequency.

No, my attitude recently has been more along the line of, "Um, haven't we 'done it' once already this month?"

(Pay no attention to that whimpering sound you hear in the background. The spousal unit eventually cries himself to sleep.)

The thing is, it's not like I don't um, er, ah Have Needs, it's just that right now I seem to have misplaced them somewhere. Maybe they've crawled behind the fridge and been mugged by a ferocious pack of rabid dust bunnies. I'm not exactly sure where they are.

What I do know is that as a result of our um full and frank discussion, something has to change.

I'm working on a plan. Right now it involves massive amounts of chocolate, sprinkles and Marvin Gaye. If any of you have a better idea, feel free to let me know.

--Marn

As GeekGrrl rightly pointed out, I discussed matters which touch upon the marital duties and forgot to include the words "wangitude, stamina and prowess" as required by spousal edict. Can you feel my contrition?

Mileage on the Marnometer: 106.57 miles (171.47 kilometers) Ten percent there rubber duck.Ten percent there rubber duck.
Goal for 2003: 500 miles - 804.5 kilometers

Going Nowhere Collaboration

Old Drivel - New Drivel


Subscribe with Bloglines


Want to delve into my sordid past?
She's mellllllllllllllting - Wednesday, Feb. 15, 2012 - Back off, Buble - Monday, Dec. 19, 2011 - Dispersed - Monday, Nov. 28, 2011 - Nothing comes for free - Monday, Nov. 21, 2011 - None of her business - Friday, Nov. 04, 2011 -


.:Cast:. .:Diaryland Notes:. .:Comments (0 so far):. .:E-mail:.
.:Adventures In Oz:.
.:12% Beer:. .:Links:. .:Host:. .:Archives:.

Cavort, cavort, my kingdom for a cavort Globe of Blogs 12 Per Cent Beer my partners in crime


A button for random, senseless, drive-by linkings:
Blogroll Me!


< ? blogs by women # >
Bloggers over forty + ?
<< | BlogCanada | >>
[ << ? Verbosity # >> ]
<< x Blog x Philes x >>


This template is a riff on a design by the truly talented Quinn. Because I'm a html 'tard, I got alot of pity coding to modify it from Ms. Kittay, a woman who can make html roll over, beg, and bring her her slippers. The logo goodness comes from the God of Graphics, the Fuhrer of Fonts, the one, the only El Presidente. I smooch you all. The background image is part of a painting called Higher Calling by Carter Goodrich which graced the cover of the Aug. 3, 1998 issue of The New Yorker Magazine.

Kids, don't try viewing this at home without Netscape 6 or IE 4.5+, a screen resolution of 800 X 600 and the font Mead Bold firmly ensconced on your hard drive.

2000, 2001, 2002 Marn. This is me, dagnabbit. You be you.