digi-history in the making: first text ever from my husband

Whereas I am ever one-pay-scale-away from becoming a device-slut, it could be said that Sam has bought a ticket on the slow boat to digi-land.

As in,

- it was the year 2010 before he replied to his first email

- 2011 before he composed one from scratch

Put a nail gun or a miter saw in his hand and he is home on the range. Digital texting? Not gonna happen.

Until tonight. He is away tending to his mother. He and his sister are at her house. It's looking to be the first step along the path of moving her toward an assisted living situation. Convincing her. Not something any son or daughter looks forward to.

So while I was grocery shopping, I sent him a text for the first time*

A bit anti-climactic, wouldn't you say? Instead of replying, I just smiled. And waited for him to call, i.e., bypass the whole confounded texting nonsense. In his mind, not mine. Me? I lubs me some texting.

*Thanks to Mental P Mama and her Parentexting series, I was able to take a screen shot of her screen shot and pretend that I can take a screen shot of my own.

a dream and a determination

I just woke up from a bad dream. Or I guess you could call it a middle-aged-married-woman-with-three-kids version of a nightmare.

In this dream I was driving in an unfamilliar area out in the countryside looking for the house of friends. My husband was there waiting for me and we were meeting for dinner. I remembered his directions, "If you drive into the historic part of downtown, you've gone too far." (Never mind that winding country roads never lead to historic parts of downtown. Our mind's acceptance of dream unreality is a strange phenomenon.)

Sure enough, I approach the historic district with it's four story homes, six feet tall shuttered windows, wrapping front porches adorned with strands of tiny white lights. It's a restaurant district.

I become lost in this downtown area and try to wind my way out when I spot my husband's car. Strange, what is he doing here?

I park my car and wander into the restaurant in search of my errant husband. I find myself

standing on a 2nd story balcony, looking down just in time to see my husband who looks nothing like my current husband but like an amalgamation of my former boyfriend and the actor Edward Norton.

Yes, I have the hots for Edward Norton.

I see husband Norton dart across the landing below, smiling over his shoulder in a flirtatious manner, reaching for the hand of an equally firtatious blonde 20 years my junior and 60 pounds my lighter. Think Naomi Watts. And yes, I am a brunette who carries a natural resentment toward all blondes for all the fun I imagine them having.

Also pertinent, my relationship with the former boyfriend partially starring in my dream ended when he began a real life flirtation with a skinny-ass blonde to whom he introduced me nonchalantly one night as he was bartending and I instantly knew something was up. But that's a digression I will resist at the moment. The point is, there's meaningful emotional memory here and I'm staring at it from my balcony perch in a deja vu of disbelief.

The dream goes on to my finding Norton and Naomi in an even more compromising attitude, on a couch in some back room of the restaurant, with me confronting him/them (because Naomi will not take a hint and leave my dream) only to have him/them give me the equivalent of a shoulder shrug, as if to say, "So?"

And there's hardly a more crushing feeling than to have your shocked, broken hearted, cheated on indignation shrugged off as if it's no more of a biggie, than say, finding a small parking lot ding in the rear of your eight-year-old car.

And then the dream winds it's way to a point where I run away with plans to ignore him, in the vein of, I'll show him! But then I remind myself that this is exactly what husband Norton and Naomi would want. So I turn around and desperately hunt them down. I confront husband Norton a second time, a third time with my tears and my hysteria and my How Could You's, my How Could You Do This to Me? To Us? To US?!? only to find him, once again, looking at me quizzically, as if to say, What is your problem?

And to hear him ask what did I expect, after all I was a sour puss, was no fun, was a downer, was boring, never smiled. (The not smiling thing? Something I have heard all my life.) The only thing he didn't say was, And you're fat. But he didn't need to.

And then I see me turning away, finally. Defeated. Devestated. Resigned.

So this is how it's going to be. Divorced and alone at 50. Overweight, out of shape, and out of a steady sex partner and second income.

My head drops, I walk out into the misty night rain, skulking back to my car, heart heavy. I pass a single friend of mine from graduate school who is enjoying a girls night out, and say, "Don't be surprised if I start joining you." She looks at me with an uncomprehending expression but I don't stop to explain.

I wake up with the same sinking feeling I had many years ago, thinking, No man is trustworthy. No man cherishes the longterm intimacy and attachment that comes with years of companionship. No man can resist the younger, thinner, shapelier temptress.

And then I really wake up. I locate myself in my bedroom, under my sheets and my wedding ring quilt, listening to NPR's Steve Innskeep tell us Liberace's Museum is Closing Its Glittery Gates.

I then hear the comforting sounds of Sam getting our kids ready for school. I hear him shouting at our daughter, Don't tell ME to calm down. I tell YOU to calm down! And her usual refrain, Dad! You are SO MEAN!

I stumble out of bed and walk my bleary-eyed self into the kitchen. I nod my head sleepily as Sam tells me his version of the yelling.

All at once I feel better. I smile. And am determined to smile more often.

pay attention, guys

And speak up, women. If you're saying it's okay, how is he to know? You'd think it would be a no-brainer but when someone is told "no big deal," often enough, he starts to believe it. Be as generous to yourself as you want him to be.

This postcard is courtesy of PostSecret.

some mornings are sheer poetry

Belinda Del Pesco

Watercolor: Saturday Morning Sleep-in

I don't think of myself as someone who likes poetry. I don't usually seek poems. I've been known to run from them on occasion. At a fast gallop.

I might have taken a book of poetry out of the library once or twice, Erica Jong comes to mind. But I don't think I've ever read more than a few lines before I put the book down and then forgot where I put it and then it was time to take it back to the library.

I do, however, love to listen to The Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keillor. I catch it some mornings when I'm getting dressed for work. Often hoping the timing of the blow drying of my hair will not coincide with Garrison's reading of his selected poem of the day.

Below is one such poem I managed to catch.

This poem has stuck with me. Some mornings it is consoling. Some mornings it saves my marriage, maybe.

After a Noisy Night

by Laure-Anne Bosselaar

The man I love enters the kitchen

with a groan, he just

woke up, his hair a Rorschach test.

A minty kiss, a hand

on my neck, coffee, two percent milk,

microwave. He collapses

on a chair, stunned with sleep,

yawns, groans again, complains

about his dry sinuses and crusted nose.

I want to tell him how

much he slept, how well,

the cacophony of his snoring

pumping in long wheezes

and throttles—the debacle

of rhythm—hours erratic

with staccato of pants and puffs,

crescendi of gulps, chokes,

pectoral sputters and spits.

But the microwave goes ding!

A short little ding! – sharp

as a guillotine—loud enough to stop

my words from killing the moment.

And during the few seconds

it takes the man I love

to open the microwave, stir,

sip and sit there staring

at his mug, I remember the vows

I made to my pillows, to fate

and God: I'll stop eating licorice,

become a blonde, a lumberjack,

a Catholic, anything,

but bring a man to me:

so I go to him: Sorry, honey,

sorry you had such a rough night,

hold his gray head against my heart

and kiss him, kiss him.

"After a Noisy Night" by Laure-Anne Bosselaar, from The Hour Between Dog and Wolf. © BOA Editions, Ltd., 1997. Reprinted with permission (on the Writer's Almanac but not here on CoffeeYogurt)

what not to do during your first couples therapy session

1. Do not show up at the first session with a bill board size list of all the things your spouse does that annoys you. You look controlling and narcissistic. And there's nothing that puts a shrink in a worse mood than a controlling narcissist.

2. Do not, when asked what you think after your spouse has listed a complaint, say, "I don't know." You look like a passive-aggressive numbskull. And there's nothing that puts a shrink in a foul mood like a passive-aggressive numbskull, except maybe a controlling narcissist.

3. Do not, when your spouse is rambling about her complex and convoluted feelings, doze off. You look like you don't give a sh*t. And since you're paying the shrink a hefty fee to occupy that comfy couch? You look like a spend thrift and an ignoramus. And there's nothing that gets under the skin of a shrink more than finding out you don't give a sh*t and apparently don't mind wasting hard-earned money while you perfect being an ignoramus.

4. Do not, when asked how you feel after listening to your spouse's rambling, complex and convoluted feelings, say, "Huh? Uh. What do I feel? Uh. Nothing." You look like a 1950's out-of-touch suburban slacker. And nothing makes a shrink side with your spouse faster than realizing you are a 1950's out-of-touch suburban slacker.

5. Do not, after your partner explains in a sensitive and carefully worded way that she is not having orgasms with your decades-old, same-old routine, say, "Huh. None of my ex-girlfriends ever complained." You look like a cad who has spent far too much time in front of cheap porno movies pushing the rewind button until your thumb is sprained.

And P.S. Your old girlfriends were lying.

You probably also bought the line, "You're only my second."

6. Do not, after listening to your spouse take responsibility for faults and overwrought, coming-unhinged emotional tendencies, say, "Well, as for me, I won Best All Around three years in a row." You look like an insensitive clod whose sense of self is as fragile as that English soccer goalie's ego after this now infamous World Cup move.

Speaking of the English goalie, here's a must-see video clip of a never-before-seen camera angle, complete with Green's never-before-heard internal dialog as the ball slips past. If you missed that link, it's What the English Goalie was Thinking.

7. Do not fool yourself into thinking that you will be let off the hook that easily.

You will not. You will, instead, look like a spouse who needs intensive individual therapy if your relationship stands a snowball's chance in July in New Jersey. Your spouse has drug you into therapy not because he wants to humiliate you but because she wants this relationship to work, i.e., your partner loves you. Now quit being a bonehead, wake up, take some responsibility, and show some love back. Because nothing makes a shrink feel more optimistic than two people willing to talk openly and risk showing the love back.

best summer read - my nomination

It's awfully early to say this is the best damn light read of the summer. Especially since some parents, teachers, and kids are not even out for the summer (Hi, Sis!) So I won't say it.

I'll just nominate this novel and say I'll hold my real vote at the end of summer (wink, wink).

It qualifies as a light read because there are no longer-than-your-driveway sentences, it's not thicker or heavier than your Websters New Collegiate Dictionary, and it's written in a three-paragraph-per-section style, i.e., you can pick up the book soon after sitting your feeling-fat, matronly self down at Barton Springs Pool, surrounded by the hundreds of young, single, hip, tattooed, hard-bodied University of Texas coeds, and immediately jump right back into the story, without being distracted once.

I loved this book because Julia is such the anti-heroine. She reminds me of an all grown up and married with a kid version of Bridget Jones. And I lurrved Bridget Jones.

Julia's conversations with herself are such a contrast to the out loud conversations I have with the moms I run into.

You know the type, the I only buy organic, gluten-free, lactose-free, corn syrup-free type and the Gotta run, my son has a soccer tournament in Dallas and my daughter has a soccer tournament in Houston, busy day!! type and the I'm so tired I stayed up reading the entire Harry Potter series to my identically dressed, identically hair-styled triplets type.

The type where I walk away, thinking, My kids are soooo screwed.

But not true with Julia. This is a mom who writes honestly about her parenting foibles. Who shares her dissatisfactions within her marriage (read, mediocre to forgettable sex) . Who does all the wrong things, thinks all the most irreverent thoughts, hopes for all the most immoral endings.

And I loved her. Lots of cynical, gutteral sniggering in my beach chair.

My one complaint - I wish it were the size of my Websters New Collegiate Dictionary.

If you like self-loathing, sardonically witty, modern-parenting-trend-bucking moms who still have a naughty sex life, at least in their minds, and occasionally in real life, you might love Julia too.

green stamp sex lamp

A few days weeks months ago, Mary M. posted on the Women's Colony about her boyfriend's heirloom table lamp. She feared that when he moved in, "that hideous lamp is probably going to be the first thing he carries through the doorway." If her boyfriend is anything like my husband, Sam, he will be carrying his ugly-ass lamp straight to his urn.

On his bedside table, Sam has what he likes to call the sex lamp. It looks like this:

Yes, that's right. You saw correctly. The sex lamp looks like this:

Now, I ask you, is there anything even remotely sexy about this lamp? Of course not. But then, that's not why he calls it the sex lamp.

I laid eyes on this luminary gem soon after meeting Sam. I found it endearing, assuming as I did at the time that it represented his post-divorce poverty. But it remains on his side of the bed to this day, after many years of post-nuptial combined income bliss.

And you only thought you had bedroom decor issues.

Design challenges aside, this lamp has a strong fluorescent bulb. So bright it could light up Yankee Stadium.

Now, if there's one thing everyone in the porn industry can agree on, it's that fluorescent lighting is sexy. Says this highly sensitive person who cringes under the charged mercury vapors.

Be that as it may, I agreed to allow the sex lamp in our shared bedroom when he held it aloft and shouted "from my cold dead hands!" said he planned on keeping it. I agreed in a pleasing manner that succeeded in appearing sincere, even. I agreed because the lamp holds sentimental value for him. He acquired the lamp as a mere lad in grade school. Traded green stamps for it, even. I agreed because my feminist values dictate that home decor is not the sole dominion of women. And I agreed because, as I figured it, old lamps burn out.

But twenty years later? That butt ugly lamp is still burning.

I am finding, much to my emotional detriment, that there is truth in the old maxim: They sure don't make 'em like they used.

So why does he call it the sex lamp, you are wondering? Well, here it is. The bright spot in all of this lamp lunacy. When the sex lamp is turned on? So are my husband's good intentions. And so am I. He likes to see what he's doing when he's working his magic. And work it he does.

Which leads me to my own personal maxim: An agreement made is an agreement kept.

In short, I'm stuck with the lamp.

Until the bulb burns out. Because in this case, I don't believe in fixin' that which is broke.

And now, good reader, PLEASE please leave a comment with your sure-fire, covert means of hastening the demise of an ancient, obnoxious flourescent light bulb.

And if you haven't already, stop by The Women's Colony where this, and other real women sexplorations appear.

when shoes matter, part 3, the conclusion

So Sam, with the bad shoes and the El Camino, was history. Because shoes matter.

Or so I thought.

Fast forward to mid-December. The winter weather had put an end to tennis and an end to seeing Sam.

I was busy preparing for a January trip to a list of interviews on the east coast. My schooling was nearly over. I was choosing to leave Texas behind. Close the chapter. Head back to the direction of my family and old friends. Feeling really good about it, too. For the first time, no man in my life to hamper my career plans.

But then, shortly before Christmas, Mindy called to tell me that Sam's best friend Austin had died suddenly. Suicide. Oh my god, how shattered Sam must be.

The funeral was held on an unnusually crisp and sunny afternoon. I saw Sam, one of the pall bearers, inside the church wearing this:

and a pair of these:

My heart broke for him.

The church was crowded. I squeezed in next to an older lady, also by herself. As the eulogies progressed, she handed me a tissue and we both cried.

Someone told me Sam was having a gathering at his house that night for Austin's friends. I was so tired. I had worked the early shift so that I could make the funeral. What I really wanted was to go home and go to bed. I settled for a late afternoon nap that nearly turned into an early bedtime. But I made myself get up. So in my smudged mascara and rumpled funeral clothes I went.

I showed up to a large gathering of old fogies older people I did not know. And no Sam. He was visiting with Austin's parents. I grabbed a can of beer and uncomfortably mingled. I waited to offer my condolences.

That's when Sam walked through his front door wearing these:

and this:

and this:

And most vitally, these:

Roughout pigskin Wellington style boots. Bought in the mistake pile of a Justin Outlet in Fort Worth, he later told me. The mistake? Leather soles when the bootmaker meant to use rubber.

The bootmaker's mistake transformed Sam into hawtness.

Suddenly I was seeing him for the first time. Gone was the older divorcee. Gone was the arrogant talker by the lake. Gone was the fuddy duddy in the El Camino. In this instant I was seeing a tall, handsome man, a person who was grieving for his friend.

So, there I stood, across the room, head doing a double take, jaw hanging open to my waist, thinking, for the first time since knowing him, I want this man.

I must have this man.

He dropped down in his recliner. Someone handed him his drink, a Weller and water. He looked drained and beaten and really sad. Here sat a man who truly had lost his best friend.

So it was more than the clothes. Or was it? I often wonder about the dynamics of this emotional whiplash. I think as I stood across the room, trying to observe him without being noticed, I saw a side of Sam that I'd never seen before. He was always so arrogant confident, before. Emotionally aloof. Socially at ease. Unruffled. Never revealing a weakness. Seeing Sam in those Levi's and boots the depth of his grief let me see past the superficial appearances. And remember, I was studying to be a psychologist at the time. I was driven to help people with their distress. The helper in me wanted to reach out to this man in need. To understand and comfort.

I bided my time, watching from my awkward perch as he was approached by one friend after another. Eventually Sam and I had a few awkward conversations but always surrounded by groups of people. And I couldn't read him with all of that grieving weighing him down. Was he still interested? Did I even stand a chance at this point? Had I blown it?

I racked my brain. How to make a move? If I should make any move. I mean, my god, what was I thinking? This was his best friend's funeral.

But I was due to leave town for a long weekend. And then it was Christmas. And then I was leaving for two weeks of internship.

It was now or never.

And apparently, I was not the only funeral attendee with sex on the brain romance on my mind. I was nearly cock blocked foiled twice: a slimeball trying to pick me up and a surprise visitor, Old-Home-Week-Holly, a tall, beautiful, blonde photographer trying to pick Sam up.

The crowd thinned out. It was time for me to leave lest I start to look like Maude stalking Harold.

Sam walked me to the front door. My heart was thundering in my chest. I turned to go. And then, at the last possible nano-second, I barely squeaked out, "Let's go out for a drink soon." He smiled, knodded and said he would like to do that. I called him the next day.

It wasn't long before I was wearing this:

And the boots were under my bed. For good.

Epilogue:

The older lady at the funeral who handed me a tissue?

Turns out she was my future mother-in-law.

The inspiration for this three-part-post?

I came up behind Sam the other day as he was surfing the internet. He was shopping for a pair of boots.

The boots he was planning to buy?

These:

pass that wand to me, please

Blognut at More Mindless Rambling wishes she knew magic whenever her kids ask her to find their lost items.

Well I say to Blognut, if you find that elusive magic wand, pass it to me, please. And I will then immediately pass that wand right over to my kids. Leave me out of the equation altogether, thank you so much.

I don't want to know that the goggles have grown fins and swam away for the thousandth millionth time this summer.

I don't want to be distracted by the search for a matching pair of socks because noone bothers to go through the unmatched sock bucket sitting right on top of the dresser.

That goes double for the husband looking for his mango pomegranite yogurt in the fridge but refuses to kneel down before the altar of the bottom shelf and move the tupperware containers blocking the view. No, he wants me to kneel down. He always wants me to kneel down. What is up with that? Zheesh.

in which she discovers she likes to be dominated

I've had clients who were into all kind of kink. Try it, they said, you'll like it.

Uh, thanks but no thanks, I was thinking.

But recently? Tried it. And I gotta tell ya. That dominance and submission business? To my great surprise, I liked it. No wait. I loved it.

It wasnt' even my idea. Who knew SAM knew anything about D & S? Let alone that he would spring it on me out of the clear blue? In the kitchen!

I was standing at the sink, cleaning up after a mediocre fantabuloso dinner, made by moi. I was just at the point of getting this stubborn, baked-on, crusted-on foodstuff off the pan when he made his move.

Or, made me move.

It went like this:

SAM, using his tired husky, most-manly, take-no-shit voice, said,

"Move out of the way. Come on. Now."

And then, using his elbow bulgy, most-manly bicep muscles, he nudged shoved me to the side and said demanded,

"Here. Let me get these dishes. You get outta here."

Now. I have never hailed myself as the submissive type. But I found myself meekly sliding over and backing away, quiet as a mouse, like a good little sub should.

I watched his back butt as he rinsed and scrubbed caressed the dishes.

And let me tell you.

I felt the earth.

Move.

Under my feet.

I decided then and there I had to grab his dishrag shirt, rip it right off his body and wipe the stove down sweat off my brow because I know he never wipes down the stove I had to have him right then and there.

So, interested readers, do you feel your heart beat intensifying?

Well, as much as I'd like to give you more, that's all you get. There's your glimpse.

Sorry, but an old kitchen hag a demure and obedient submissive has to preserve the fantasy honor the vow of silence.

Oh, and men? I hope you are taking notes.

When I am asked, in all seriousness, for my professional opinion about female libido enhancements, my standard reply is this: there is only one scientifically proven female aphrodisiac -- a man with a scrub brush in his hand.

Now go and spring some of these moves on your special someone and see what happens.

Image source: Here. Well, on second thought, I'd rather not link there.

all I want for christmas

Massage chair.

Time saving tip: scroll to 1 minute 05 seconds.

sex video for real women

It's been awhile since my last juicy sex post. So let's get started, shall we?

I am going to do light hearted, yet serious, review of one of the self-help-sex video's I purchased several years ago. Expand Her Orgasm Tonight! It has the potential for being a great video for women to share with their partners. It can be helpful for men who think they have "tried everything" to help the woman in their life have regular, dependable, orgasms. Maybe even batting-1000, Big O's. This video teaches skills that help women achieve multiple orgasms, too. Now wouldn't that be nice?

Very important, though. Read this first: There are many causes of inorgasmia in women (or men). Most causes are due to psychological factors: inadequate technique, performance anxiety, shyness, sexual identity issues, and conflict in the relationship, to name a few. In some instances, however, physical or medical factors are at root. Women and men experiencing orgasmic difficulty should see a physician or psychologist or certified sex counselor who has expertise in the area of sexual dysfunction to assist in ruling out medical problems. But many people who are comfortable with sexual intimacy and comfortable with their partners can be helped by learning a good skill set. And this video addresses technique enhancement.

Next very important. Read this second: This video requires quite a few up-front disclaimers. Humorous pointers that I think help viewers get the most out of this video (and in some cases not run out of the room laughing). But an overall good rule of thumb: Adjust expectations according to your own goals. This video is promoting marathon orgasms. What woman doesn't want that, right? Well frankly, many of us. Most of us are looking for our partners to give us orgasms on a reliable basis. Mulitiple orgasms are a really, really nice bonus. Extended orgasms are an entirely different matter. Both partners should be on board for such a goal.

I suggest thinking about the video in this way: Think of a jogger who wants to improve her running time or increase his distance. This video would be like picking up an instructional video on running a marathon. You can learn to run a marathon here. But you can also learn simple skills for improving your running performance, no matter what distance you choose.

View with the understanding that noone has to go for the marathon orgasms. It's probably better if people do not, at least not initially. This video is a means of teaching people a set of skills to enhance orgasm. Period. Too often, men especially take on a competitive mindset. If he can do it, so can I. If she can do it, so can my partner. Not necessarily. Each woman is unique. Goals need to be reasonable and in sync. And woman friendly first. Her preferences matter most here. If you push too much, you could sabotage good sex.

More commentary and disclaimers:

1. The participants in this video are not professional actors. They are sex educators. The teacher of expanded orgasm is Dr. Patricia Taylor (Dr. Patti, to her students). She has a PhD in Transpersonal Psychology. I don't know what that is exactly. But in this instance, it doesn't seem to matter. She is not treating anyone for major depression or bipolar disorder. She is teaching sex skills here. And I think she does a good job.

Brief mention of Dr. Patti's dissertation title: Expanded Orgasm as a Pathway to the Transcendence of Consciousness. That's what I call a cocktail party conversation starter. Dr. Patti began her career path with an MBA in Finance from Wharton. No small fry, that. She eventually decided studying and teaching about orgasms was more fun than managing mutual funds. Who would guess?

2. The man who "co-stars", Jim Heynemann, is also purported to have a PhD and an MBA but I haven't been able to verify where he got his degrees or what in. Again, the degrees aren't what matter in this video. The man has incredible hands and the willingness to teach.

3. What Dr. Jim is not so good at, unfortunately, is pillow talk. When he strays from the instructional script, he gets a little, um, canned sounding. Maybe he watched too much 1970's porn. Or not enough. I don't know. But after my husband and I viewed this video I gave him this gentle warning: If you ever say "Now you're cookin' Patti" to me, I will go postal on ya.

You may want to issue a similar gentle warning your partner as well. It is that un-sexy.

4. Last word on Dr. Jim. You will never look at a short, silky turquoise blue robe in the same way again. In fact, I had the severe misfortune of having bought a short, silky turquoise blue robe for myself a mere few months before viewing this DVD (WTF?). A few days after my husband and I watched the video, I came home in the middle of the afternoon to find my husband waiting for me. He was wearing nothing but a mischievious expression and said blue robe. His idea of funny. My idea of "burn the goddamn blue robe already."

5. Most of us get used to Hollywood style movie actors who are stunningly beautiful or distractingly hawt. Well, these educators do not fall into either category. So advice to readers: Get over it. These are real people having real sex. And I can almost guarantee you have never seen this kind of real sex portrayed on your home DVD player before. Unless you, like me, review how-to sex improvement videos. But seriously, it takes a bit of getting used to, these average looking video stars.

6. An important word about lubricants. This video may have been made before personal lubricants were widely available. Maybe before lubricants were invented. So when you practice the skills in this video, for the love of goddess, substitute "petroleum jelly" with one of the many water based personal lubricants or "warming jellies" available. Several brands are sold at your garden variety chain pharmacy and in the personal health section of department stores, such as Tar-jay. Do yourself or your partner a huge favor. Buy some. In my case, hubby doesn't like the smell or feel of personal lubricants. He prefers good old fashioned saliva. (TMI?) And it works for me. The bottom line is, whatever works for you. And if petroleum jelly is all you've got, so be it. It seems to work for Patti. But know that petroleum jelly is generally thought to be drying and that's not what we're after here.

7. A final word about lubricants in this video. Or specifically, about the massive amount of petroleum jelly used by Dr. Jim on Dr. Patti. Anytime I watch this, all I can think about is how many repeat showers it must have taken Dr. Patti to wash all that gunk off of her love nest.

In other words, it may take a second, or third, viewing for the actual skill set to make inroads. To get past the distracting elements. And to get past feeling embarrassed. I felt quite embarrassed when I first watched this. Its way more intimate and real than porn. It took some getting used to.

I wish I had excerpts from the video here, but I don't. You can listen to a podcast or read the transcript of an interview with Dr. Patti where she describes expanded orgasm, here. You can read more about Dr. Patti here. And I found a blog she hasn't posted on in many months, here. You can see her on YouTube giving a talk about using tantric concepts, such as being more "springy" here to get an idea of who she is. The Expand Her Orgasm Tonight video, however, does not get into the concepts of kundalini, or Kashmiri Sharvism, or tantra. It is strictly nuts-and-bolts, practical information and skills.

Last Warning: This video could lead to pregnancy. Not the skills or activities presented in the video but activities that are likely to occur directly afterward. I gave the video as a gift at a white elephant party. Several months later the recipient of the gift showed up at the next party pregnant with her third child. And with a big smile on her face, I might add.

you and your partner's name - sound the same?

Cognitive Daily asks whether people with similar names are more likely to hook up and enjoy longer relationships. Good question.

Click here to find the link in the post. You will see "click here to participate." Give a few seconds to science and take the survey (you have until October 23rd). It took me about one minute (or less). Easy schmeezy.

It gave me food for thought, too. While my grandparents names aren't similar, I did realize my husband's name is similar to one of my grandfather's, the one I cherished most. I hadn't thought about that before. I wonder if name similarity to a loved one is correlated with longer unions.

The other interesting name thing in my love baggage: I have had three long term (five years or more) relationships. Each of them have similar sounding names. Something along the lines of Dan, Randy, and SAM (current). Which has meant that my parents often mistakenly call my husband by the name of a former boyfriend. Fortunately, he's a very good sport. He doesn't even mind when I accidentally call him Dan during an arguement. Ouch.

Any interesting name similarities in your relationships?

Oh. And if you want to see a really funny, inadvertent, adult-only result of my google search, click here. Irreverent but hilarious ad, it won a Clio. I call it, "because women like a man with a moustache."

fall colors texas style

This beautiful flower is called the Mexican Bird of Paradise. It grows in a flower bed planted by my husband, SAM.

It's more than just a pretty plant, however. It's a political statement. An inside joke between us, between my native born husband and this yankee born wife. We don't see much in the way of fall foliage here in central Texas. The one disadvantage of living here, he'll concede. And not very often. Ok, maybe he has never actually said those words. In fact, I'm sure he's never issued such a statement disloyal to his native state.

But it is true there is little in the way of fall colors on the trees here. And on a larger scale, no true fall. Just one long, never-ending-summer followed by a quickie of a winter. This makes September the longest, slowest month, followed closely by October. The summer heat that refuses to bend to the will of a traditional autumn plus the green to faded-green to brown change of colors. It's more than a little depressing for this Jersey girl.

In fact, I feel a serious stab of envy everytime I open blogs which shamelessly display the fall colors of other regions -- Mama Milton's beautiful new header, for example. Man, its so beautiful, it hurts. Even Minnesota Matron with her picture of trees losing their leaves. I see those bright yellows and oranges hiding on the underside of the brown leaves. And I can feel that cool, crisp breeze that blew those leaves to the ground. A ground made of lush, green grass. These fill me with a longing for my East Coast roots. Every year I feel it. Every year I distract myself with, um, what? Food binges? Alcohol? Prickly pear cactus juice? Well, that's a post for later day.

Knowing that I yearn for the colors of fall (some color, any color) my husband has made it his solemn marital vow to bring me as much color as his green thumb can muster. He knows which side of the bed his libido is buttered on, afterall. But mostly he just loves to garden. And hold his hose. He spends hours holding his hose.

In honor of SAM's efforts, and his upcoming birthday, I've put together a display of a few splashes of color that are now in the landscape around our house. Photos are courtesy of our son. I appreciate his efforts, too.

Texas Red Sage or Red Chihuahuan sage.

Blue plumbago.

Not sure what these are called but I love the papery texture of the tiny petals.

This cluster of red flowers comes from a Father's Day gift to SAM. None of us can remember the name of the plant, though. A few days ago we gave one to a friend who lost a parent. We read the long, Latin name, repeated it, said it out loud, all in an attempt to etch it into our brains. We still can't remember what it's called. But SAM did learn that this is the plant that is used most often for the making of biofuel. Its a tropical plant that is, apparently, very oily.

Yellow Bulbine.

The spectacular Spider Lilly.

Pretty purple Mexican Heather.

Morning glory. One of my favorites. I get to take a little bit of credit for these. I water and fertilize them occasionally. I also built a slip shod trellis out of coat hanger wire and ligustrum branches. Not very pretty nekkid, but when covered in vine, I'm happy.

Deep pink Swamp Hibiscus or Swamp Mallows. A perennial hibiscus.

These are called Oxblood Lillies. Or Schoolhouse Lillies, as my mother-in-law calls them, because they only bloom during the early fall.

Lantana. A staple that surrounds our house. There's the pink and yellow variety called Confetti Lantana.

And the orange and yellow variety. They begin yellow and turn orange with age. Lantana grows wild in the fields behind our house. It requires little to no watering and maintenance.

Less hose holding, in other words. Which spells more hand holding with me. And I like hand holding even more than I like his gift of fall colors. A big thank you to SAM. A big happy birthday. And a big wish for happy gardening.

UPDATE: The red father's day gift flower is called, Compact Jatropha. My neighbor just phoned it in.

And in case any of you want to start your own biofuel farm: