Wouldn’t It Be Great If Good Things Could Be Transmitted Through Sex?

Wouldn’t it be great if good things could be transmitted through sex? What if we could catch things like education, fashion knowledge and Super Spider Man Powers? He could say things like: Oh yes, Sexy, I’m going to make you a Mathematician tonight. I could reply: Oh give me those mathematical equations and give them to me good. My girlfriends will ask me: Did you get lucky last night? I will open up my briefcase and pull out a piece of paper and reply: Just check out my new resume! We could pass on fashion knowledge to each other and speak in a new love language. He will now know how to speak Coach and Gucci to me. We would beCOME fashionistas together! Most exciting would be the Super Spider Man Powers we would pass along. She would say: Oh, Baby, I’m going to have you climbing the walls tonight. He would say: And I’m going to take you to the edge of the highest sky scraper and swing you down and up until you can’t take it anymore. If sex transmitted good things, men and women would no longer be from different planets. Instead, we would co-exist in perfect unity. • No more explaining to him how I feel when he leaves his socks on the floor. I could just nail him and he would know. • No more of him sharing with me that I snore in several different languages. He could make sweet love to me and I would know just how he feels. • I would not have to explain to him why I need to stop clipping his toenails in bed. He would understand through our love language and just stop on his own. If sex transmitted good things, the world would be a better place. I know it’s not going to happen but a girl can dream, can’t she?

Jessica de la Davies - Author, Writer & Social Media Expert

Tattoos, Summer Camps and Kat Von D

I saved all year living on rice and beans so that I can give my child the best. My oldest child, Chris, is going away to a sleep away summer camp for an entire month. I want to have Kat Von D tattoo the words, “Handle with Care” on his forehead, but Chris won’t even consider it even though I offered to pay for the tattoo! I feel sad as Chris packs his sleeping bag, his flannel shirts, his favorite baseball cap, our flat screen TV, our family computer, the contents of the pantry and all of the bath towels. I think he left one for me and one for our dog, Mr. Pooh…my thoughtful young man. I am crying a little as Chris loads everything into the back of the car. As I hug him goodbye, he mumbles something about needing money. I hand him my wallet. It is a special moment between a mother and her eldest son. As Chris drives away with his friends to the airport, I try to put into words what I am thinking. Instead, I snort out through my tears, “Don’t forget to use your deodorant. Floss only the teeth you want to keep. Comb your hair at least once a week. I love you!” I blow him kisses and run behind him waving as the van pulls away. Chris is pretending not to know me. I am stressing out as there is so much Chris doesn’t know about yet. I still have so much to share with him. • Chris needs to know that for every mountain he climbs, there is a reward of a GREAT view at the top. • He needs to learn how to find his laundry hamper with his socks. • I need to teach Chris to avoid fake people and never to believe people when they ask him to be honest with them. • He needs to know to never ask a woman if she is pregnant unless he can see the baby’s head crowning. Most of all, I want to teach Chris to text his mother once in a while.

Secret Crazed Stalker Chicks & One Hot Mess!

So, I’m trying to log in to Facebook so I can post a comment onto Lady Gaga’s page. I am trying to figure out what I’m going to actually write. I don’t want to sound too clingy even though I am the oldest Monster in my Bible Study Group. After I think about what I am going to write, I am ready to make my post knowing that I don’t want to be perceived as an UBER fan or worse, as a crazed stalker chick. Speaking of crazed stalker chicks, I am watching this show on TV (FYI-I’m home with the flu-not some lazy coach potato) called The Secret Lives of Women. I read the word “Secret”, grab my Tylenol and I am tuned in. The subject de jour, you ask? YEAH: Crazed Stalkers Chicks (they may have used the word “women” instead of chicks and I’m not sure about the use of the word “crazed” either but to Hell with it-who cares! So anyway, I am not missing this show. On this show, these “allegedly” crazed stalker chicks do NOT think they are real stalkers! This one crazed stalker chick- let’s call her “Hot Mess”- not her real name- is a TEACHER. It gets better…she teaches JOURNALISM-seriously…I AM NOT KIDDING. The only way this could get any better is if Hot Mess was a police woman. Anyway, although she is a convicted stalker, Hot Mess, does not think that what she did - following one of her poor male students everywhere he went - was really stalking him. “I was just keeping track of him,” Hot Mess says. Pretty funny right? Unless, of course, one of these Nut Jobs is chasing you around the block with a butcher knife in one hand and a camera in the other… Oh, I got way off track… So anyway back to my question which is this: Why when I get a “letter puzzle” to solve so that I can prove to Facebook that I am not a computer (??) and I screw up the puzzle…then why does Facebook give me an even harder one to solve? If I am too slow to get the first one right due to a bit of “Night Time, Coughing, Aching, Sniffling, Hurry Up And Get Back To Work” Medicine, what makes Facebook think I’ll get the harder one right?!? Anyway, I have to stop writing now. I see that another episode of The Secret Lives of Women is about to start. This one is titled “Women with Extreme Beliefs.” Does this mean… Do these women have Coo Coo for Coco Puffs beliefs? Allegedly…I meant to ask do these women allegedly have Coo Coo for Coco Puffs beliefs. If so, I’m thinking that Hot Mess could be in this episode too. Where did I put the remote?

Live Like No One Else So Later You Can Afford To Live Like No One Else!

At least that’s what Fox’s financial guru, Dave Ramsay, is always advising us to do. I like Dave Ramsay. He knows how to make a recession fun. Dave’s got Americans lined up to cut up their credit cards in new and dramatic fashions like chopping them in the kitchen with their new “Chop Chopper”-only $19.95 plus $5.95 for shipping and handling. Thanks to Dave, we’re now hanging up on our debt collectors in record numbers. “Why do you need credit?” questions Dave. “Live like no one else so later you can afford to live like no one else,” is Dave’s motto. I like it! Most of my friends are talking about the recession in terms of gas price, milk prices and what kind of vacation they can’t afford to take this year. Some of them are turning to “at home” vacations. These are vacations where you don’t leave home with or without “IT”! I personally like the concept. • No more packing all my clothing into my wallet to avoid the airlines’ charging me extra if I want to take a suitcase with some clothes to wear with me to Belize. • No more waiting in line in my bare feet only to have my underwire push up bra set off the alarm at the security gate. • No more cavity searches for pipe bombs done behind a sheet that some random passenger is holding up at my request while an enormous sweaty woman with bad breath molests me. “Just when was the last time an American thirty-something woman set off a bomb on an airplane?” I ask, as the sweaty woman tells me to bend over. “Oh we don’t do profiling, Ma’am,” she replies, snapping off her rubber gloves and waving me toward the gate, where a hostile looking flight attendant is waiting to cram me into my seat. With passengers puking their guts out headlining news broadcasts every few weeks, this whole at home vacation thing is sounding pretty smart. First, I Google “at home vacation ideas” and Google comes up with some interesting options. I select the “Make Your At Home Vacation like a Cruise” option as it is WOT certified and sounds like it might be fun. A week later, I am ready for my vacation. I decide to rename my home the “Freebies by the Sea” ship. My kitchen is stocked with prepared meals from the grocery store and is now sporting a sign that reads “The Grand Dining Room.” I have some movies from Netflix turning my living room into “The Show Lounge.” I decide to make it non-smoking. At the Dollar Store, I buy a deck of cards and scatter them around my office nook to create the “Shipboard Casino Royale.” I drag my mattress into my walk-in closet and tape a sign reading “Cabin 1” onto the outside of the closet door to simulate a real life cabin cruise ship experience. Finally, I decide to splurge and spend $38.99 on a baby pool from Walmart for the backyard and stop at the liquor store to pick up a few bottles of wine. I want this to be a classy cruise. The first day of my “cruise”, I put on my bikini and head over to the pool to work on my tan. I wonder why people say they are “working on their tan” when actually, they are just lying slathered in suntan lotion doing nothing. While I’m lying in the backyard next to my new baby pool, I notice a few weeds popping up in the grass. I decide that I’ll go ahead and pull them. Four hours later, I’m fertilizing the yard and clipping the hedges. Later that evening, I head into “The Grand Dining Room” aka my kitchen and reorganized the pantry while drinking a glass of wine. I opened a can of Chunky Chicken Noodle Soup and pop it into the microwave. The soup is my first course and from there, I move onto my canned spaghetti. I give kudos to Chef Boyardee! He never messes up a meal. As I am making my way into “The Show Lounge” to watch one of my Netflix movies, I noticed that there are cobwebs on my TV so I get out my Swiffer. I Swiffer the TV, mop all the floors and moisturize my leather sofa, loveseat and recliner. Then, I head into “Cabin 1” aka my closet, finish off the bottle of wine and fall asleep with my pillow tucked in next to my Jimmy Choos. On the second day of my vacation, I decide that my cruise ship the “Freebies by the Sea” is in port and I am going on a shore excursion to do some sightseeing. I walk around the block and check out my neighbors’ houses. Mrs. Hendricks is standing in her front yard, watering her lawn and she asks me if I would mind helping her move a dresser from her garage into her guest bedroom. I help her and have to cut my shore excursion short as I have pulled my back out. I head back to “Freebies by the Sea” to soak my aching back in the baby pool. I wake up 6 hours later only to realize that I have not applied sunscreen-I’m burned. On the third day of my at home vacation, my cousin, Lizzie, calls and asks if I can watch her 4 year old son, Clive, for a few hours as she is going to get her hair done. Lizzie arrives just 10 minutes later and unloads Clive, a laundry basket of toys and a McDonald’s Happy Meal. During the next 7 hours, I become an expert on Clive. For example, Clive can run his dump truck into the base of my coffee table 83 times in just one hour. He also enjoys throwing handfuls of dirt into the toilet bowl and flushing the dirt to “make it disappear.” Clive can also blow into his McDonald’s Happy Meal cola drink through his straw to make bubbles to “decorate the kitchen table.” He has a pretty good vocabulary but he does not seem to understand four basic words: Do not do that. The plumbing bill from the dirt in the toilet set me back $225. When the plumber leaves, I crawl back into my closet-I mean cabin and put my head down on my shoe rack. Somehow this at home vacation just isn’t as relaxing or inexpensive as I thought it would be. So on my fourth day aboard the “Freebies by the Sea,” I call Delta and book a flight to Cancun for a week. I pack up my wallet with everything it can carry, pull 3 dresses on over two swimsuits so I will have something to wear on my trip and head for the airport. I am not wearing a bra. The booking agent stares at me silently as I tape my credit card back together with duct tape at the counter. He hands me my ticket and points toward the security check point. I take off my shoes and get in line. I feel hopeful. Maybe with a little luck, I’ll have just enough room on my credit card for a Pina Colada…or two!