Furries. Cat videos. Cartoons. Sex. Sweetness. Just your normal Saturday.

Here's how my Saturday went:

A walk in the fog on the beach. I text daughter M about the blurb my book has gotten in my college's alumnae magazine.

Some more texting ensues.

Later I send daughter C this.

This ensues.

What would I do without the daughters? Danger. Danger.

My House: The Aviary of Desire

Yesterday I heard moaning. You know, "Oooooh, Ooooooh, Oohhhhhh." I was sitting in my living room with the patio door open, and the moaning seemed to be coming from upstairs. My upstairs. I was home alone...or so I thought. 


Two pigeons were perched on the balcony off the master bedroom, and well....they were in a rather interesting position. One of the birds was straddling the other bird's head while the cooing continued apace. I raced downstairs to get my camera, but when I arrived back on the scene, they'd separated.

This morning, as I made us fresh carrot-apple-kale juice, the man who loves me read an article to me that he'd just stumbled upon on the Internet. It  began like this: "Do these beetles have oral sex? By the window of a country house I found two celeoptera performing an incomprehensible dance for me: the ..."  I'd include the link, but have only been able to come up with this message when I search for it: "But the Requested data is not available Currently." Perhaps too many people have read the article and now no one is at work.


It's spring. As Cole Porter sang, "Birds do it. Bees do it. Even Educated Fleas do it." Soon the heat of summer will be upon us. Enjoy those balmy breezes now before the urge to eat ice cream and drink beer engulfs you in lethargy.


photo of cliff swallows' nest under my eaves

Just remember, this could happen to you. 
Not to me, fortunately. But perhaps to you. Baby birds will be peeping soon. Parent birds frantically feeding them. Defending them. Protecting them. Teaching them to fly. 

swallow's nest #2--with a third in progress

Have a lovely evening, dear readers. Look at the moon as she fills herself up. Savor the coming of the sweet dark before summer delivers its longest day.

Christian Louboutin Explains It All

I've been getting caught up on my New Yorkers. Here are some of my favorite snippets from a piece called, "Sole Mate" by Lauren Collins that appeared in the March 28th issue.

"I hate the whole concept of the clog!" Louboutin said. "It's fake, it's ugly, and it's not even comfortable!" He continued, "And I hate the whole concept of  comfort! It's like when people say, 'Well, we're not really in love, but we're in a comfortable relationship.' You're abandoning a lot of ideas when you are too into comfort. 'Comfy'--that's one of the worst words!"


Louboutin knows a couple who met, and married, after the man approached the woman about her red soles. With their erotic connotations, Louboutin's shoes have served as props in many romances, not all of them innocent.


"Men are like bulls," Louboutin said. "They cannot resist the red sole."


So, yeah, I have 3 pairs of clogs. They're comfy. I like comfy. But I prefer to be barefoot if it's warm enough.

Here is my absolutely most favorite pair of shoes.

Not exactly man bait, I suppose. Deliciously comfy though.

How about you, would you rather be comfortable or uncomfortable?

Shoes and Sex

I've been dreaming of footwear.
I don't usually dream. Or I don't remember my dreams.
I complained about my pitiful dream life to my brother's girlfriend last week. "I'll send you a dream," she said.  The next morning I awoke still feeling the soft brown suede of a pair of boots I'd worn in the dream. It was almost all I remembered. There had been a party. Supposedly with friends, but in real life, I didn't know these dream people. They vaporized when I opened my eyes. The boots though. Over -the-thigh supple tawny suede with variegated brown and white fur at the top. What my daughters and I might have once called "hooker boots."
This morning it was shoes. Black. Brown. Pumps. Sandals. Round-toed flats with ankle straps.  I'd gone to my new book club meeting with two bags of them. I was in a hurry and couldn't decide what to wear. Late--because I had my mother in tow. I abandoned her  unceremoniously at the door of the bathroom and went into an alcove where one of my fellow readers--a demure Asian woman--sat in a chair with a book. The room was nearly dark, and there was a bed jutting from one of the corners. After a brief hello from a tallish thin man who looked a bit like Errol Flynn, he and I began pulling off our clothes (was he wearing a cravat?) and dove under the covers. Enthusiastic sex ensued. Never mind my mother wandering alone somewhere in a house she was unfamiliar with. Never mind the reading woman in the chair. We could hear the hum of voices getting louder. Drinks being poured. "I thought I saw Denise come in," someone said from the next room.
When Mr. Flynn and I were finally sated, I was a bit embarrassed and began to throw on my clothes. The shoes--oh my god, the shoes. Which ones should I wear? Wait--there were no matched pairs.

I woke up feeling anxious and guilty. I'd just had sex with someone that wasn't The Man Who Loves Me. Wait! Hadn't he said he'd go to book club with me? Was he in the next room while....then I came to my senses. It was just a dream. And those shoes--I didn't own any of them in real life.  Which leads me to ponder shoes. The Little Missus is into shoes in a big way. A closet full of Christian Louboutins, I've been told.  Is that why I'm dreaming about shoes?

Tiger's Tail

It's true, I think, that we are a nation of Puritans obsessed with sex--especially sex that other people are having. I don't know why we feel so entitled to poke our noses into other people's bedrooms. Tiger cheated on his wife, and because he is a public figure, we think it's our business. I'm not sure he or his wife need our intervention. She did a pretty fine job of going after him with his golf clubs. If he's going to apologize to anyone, it ought to be to her and in private.
HOWEVER, I think there is something about bad behavior within certain "trusted professions" that shouldn't be tolerated. Clergyman shouldn't have carnal knowledge of their parishioners. Doctor's either. Or psychologists. Teachers should sleep with other teachers, not their students--or at least wait until they graduate. Cops shouldn't patronize hookers unless they are going to forego rounding them up. And lawyers....I think their word--personal & professional--should be good and that they should uphold it as if it were the law.
Years ago when Mr. Ex was getting ready to graduate from law school and was interviewing for jobs, I remember that the wife of one of his classmates had her own take on which firms were most suitable for her husband. She didn't care about salary or clients or prestige. She wanted to know how many of the partners were still married to their original wives. If there was a culture of divorce at a particular firm, she didn't want her husband to work there. I don't know if they are still married.
I didn't worry about Mr. Ex. back then. I was sure he loved me. He was terrified of both hell and herpes, and I figured that alone was enough to keep him from cheating on me. But big L. A. lawyers are easy prey. The same sense of entitlement that overpowers celebrities can take them down, too.
I don't really care what a golfer does with his balls or his putter, but it seems to me that an attorney is professionally obligated to give his ex-wife what is rightfully hers under the law.

photo credit: Kaboodle.com