as we walk in the woods of winter

At some point on our slow weekends there's a good chance you'll find Sam and I walking in the woods adjacent to our backyard. We're really lucky to have a mini-greenbelt behind us, protected by local environmental laws.

Here's a look at some of my favorite sights along our trail.

Nandina berries give such a bright splash of red

against their dark green leaves.

Some people cut it down. A nuisance plant that sprouts up

everywhere. But I love to see it growing in my backyard.

A grand, old oak.

A dry creek bed common in our area. The limestone bedrock immediately beneath the soil means very little rainwater soaks into the ground. I'm determined, one of these rainy days, to put on a raincoat and umbrella and see this gully gushing with rain.

An abandoned deer blind.

My guess is they they saw more of the bottom of their beer bottles than deer sightings.

But that's really the point of hunting trips, isn't it?

Pretty sure their flavor of choice was Miller High Life.

Red tipped pencil cactus.

Look but don't touch.

Pencil cactus close up.

An old lantern of sorts.

Who put that there, we always wonder?

The beer drinkers deer hunters?

Behind it we've seen evidence of what might have been a house or cabin.

Chile pequin (puh-keen) all exposed and nekkid of it's leaves.

Sam's dad used to fill a small jar with chile pequins and vinegar to make a hot sauce.

Something like this.

Bluebonnet seedlings.

They won't present their deep blue and white splendor until March or April.

Once in a very blue moon they give us a red bonnet.

I'm not sure what this is. It grows in widespread clusters and looks like

a native baby's breath, only more golden in color. I love the texture this time of year.

Like a carpet of soft and inviting tumble weed.

A few prickly pear cactus bulbs left for the picking.

And eventually, the drinking.

Tall live oak trees circled by a coven of cedar trees. I'm not sure why they grow this way. Sam says it's because the birds sit in the tree and their, uh, droppings leave seeds behind. I prefer to think they are seeking shelter from the storm.

My own personal grapevine courrier.

What might he be saying to himself, do you think?:

(A) What's she taking a picture of now?

(B) She wonders why she can't lose any weight?

(C) Look at this crazy bitch.

All three?

deceived no more

I'm onto you, my little golden bar of soap. You can't fool me: Your sleek size. Your shrinking weight. Your newly slenderized waistline.

Your same price.

You used to be 4.5 oz. You are now 4 oz. And I am not the only one who has noticed.

At the end of each of our relationships, I used to cherish your remains. Take your soap slivers and lovingly place them flat along the inside of the rounded contour of your replacement bar. In the soap divot, if you will. A sliver pit for soap shavings. A token remembrance of all those showers we used to share.

In fact, your carved out cavity seems designed for the express purpose of holding my leftover slivers, doesn't it? Aiding we spurned lovers in our quest to slide you close along our nekkid bodies ever longer, until the inevitable end.

But in doing so, I see that I am covering your logo. Your crafty product designers wouldn't let that happen, would they? And break their cardinal rule of marketing? Thou shalt not cover thy product's trademark?

So no. I will not suffer fools gladly. Your cored out concavity isn't there for my convenience. It isn't there so I can scrimp and save and get an extra two showers out of your incredibly shrinking bar-hood.

It isn't there for my ease or protection either, so that the soap fits more precisely in my hand, preventing those potentially embarrassing and increasingly dangerous drop-soap-reach maneuvers.

Come back, Heath-soap, come back!

It isn't about me at all, is it?

No, the concave hollow is merely a way for your makers, the manufacturers, to fool me, the loyal customer, into thinking the price remains the same. So that they can continue selling more, but smaller, bars of soap. So that they can keep their jobs. So that their stockholders, your pimps, can continue to maintain their lavish lifestyles.

Make me the cuckhold, will you?

Think a-gain.

So, dear soap, no more recycling for me. No more lingering last moments of lucious lathering. No indeed.

I've hatched a plan. I'm saving your golden slivers in a plastic pouch, otherwise known as a baggie. I'm also saving my empty breath mint dispensers. Because it's only a matter of time before your personal size bar of soap will shrink to the size of a Tic Tac. When that day comes, I shall be ready.

So look for me in the back alley ways. I'll be the woman with the wig and the fake moustache, with the look of spurned longing on her face, frantically waving to get your attention, standing behind her car with the trunk open to reveal thousands of candy sized slivers of soap, encased in plastic dispensers, disguised as orange breath mints.

And on that day? Fear not. I shall no longer be your fool. Your cuckhold. Your spurned latherer.

I shall be free.

But the soap won't be.

$1.09 plus tax, please.

it's hard work

First an airplane terrorist couldn't manage to set off a bomb in his shoe. He was dubbed The Shoe Bomber. Now we've got a terrorist who could barely manage to set fire to his crotch. He was dubbed The Undie Bomber. Or, if you're a faithful Deb on the Rocks reader, he's now Captain Underpants.

But seriously. What's next ? The Earlobe Lobber? The Nostril Nabber? The Bra-Cupped Crusader? The Vaginal Villain?

In response to this most recent on-board bombing bungle, airports in Amsterdam and Nigeria have announced that, in future, they will use full body scans to peep on screen passengers. Security workers will be able to play peek-a-boo, I see you ... ALL of you.

In effect, they will be provided the airport perk of porn-on-demand.

While the screenee, one presumes, will feel embarrassed and violated, the professional peeping toms screening techs will feel titillated and transfixed.

And the passengers in the long waiting lines? Impatience will be replaced with a mix of anxiety and

If these full body scans make it to American airports? It will be a whole new world for the employees of the Transportation Security Administration. Absenteeism rates will plummet. Boredom complaints will vanish.

These workers, may, in fact, be demanding longer shifts, shorter breaks, and fewer vacation hours.

This news of heightened erotica potential for airport security workers may be the perfect answer to the ongoing debate about the unionizing of the TSA.

Future arbitration meetings might sound something like this:

You drop the union bid and we give you unlimited, in-person, pre-flight porn. Deal?

We'll consider it. But first, we will need between-scan conjugal visits. Because, in the words of our former president,

a cowboy hat to remember

The other day, Motherscribe was reminiscing about how she met

her husband, here and here. Mrs. G at Derfwad Manor was describing a defining moment when she knew that Mr. G was her forever and ever man.

It got me to thinking about the defining moments in the early days of my relationship with Sam, my husband of 16 years. Maybe I'll post about a few defining moments later. But right now I want to tell you about one of the most memorable moments. One of those moments I wondered what in the hell I had gotten myself into.

It was late on a Saturday night, probably 2am. SAM and I had just gotten home from our favorite dance hall, a place we called the "Hall of Shame," or "Shame" for short. As in, "You going out to the Shame tonight?"

Earlier in the evening, like any night at any Texas dance hall, there were a ton of guys wearing cowboy hats. It occurred to me that I had never seen SAM in one, or I didn't remember if I had, and I told him so. SAM was born and raised in Texas. He owned nearly a dozen pairs of cowboy boots. His grandfather was a horse trainer and a horse trader. His father routinely wore a hat (Stetson for most of his life, then a sudden switch to Resistol). So with that background, I knew he owned one. SAM told me that yes, he had owned a hat or two in his lifetime, but that he pretty much only wore a cowboy hat to shield himself from the sun when he was framing a house. He couldn't remember if I'd ever seen him wearing one, either.

So I'm in the kitchen, leaning over the sink, eating one of my favorite late night treats: an egg, potato and cheese taquito from WhatABurger, with lots of hot sauce. Which explains why I was leaning over the sink, to protect my shirt from the dripping. Or, this is how you do it when its 2am and you've had one too many longnecks.

I looked up and realized that SAM wasn't in the kitchen. His taquito was getting cold. Where did he go? I presumed he made a trip to the bathroom.

A few seconds later, I hear SAM say my name. I turn around to find him standing in the doorway, buck nekkid except for a pair of boots and a cowboy hat on his head.

"What are you doing?!?" I yelped, egg and potato dripping down my chin.

Sam replied, "You said you couldn't remember if you'd seen me wearing a hat. This way, you won't forget."

I reckon.

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."

fun test: do women concentrate better than men?

Below is a video of a one minute concentration / perceptual test

from the research of Daniel Simons, Ph.D.*

at the University of Indiana.

See how well you do on the test.

But before viewing the test, take this poll.

Now test your concentration. View the video clip, below.

Now comes a second poll.

Complicated, multi-part blog post, I know.

Try to keep up.

According to one source, and I can't verifiy it's reliability, about half of people who view this video do not see the gorilla due to the phenomenon of "inattentional blindness." My husband SAM said "put a nekkid woman in there and I bet people wouldn't miss it." Ah. He'd sweep up the research grant money with that proposal.

Inattentional blindness may help explain the higher rate of car accidents by cell phone users. It may also explain why lifeguards have trouble seeing bodies at the bottom of the pool. Finally, and I have no reference for this, it may explain why my daughters never see their dirty socks strewn in the middle of the playroom floor.

To learn more about inattentional blindness, read a summary written by Daniel Simons here.

*Simons, D. J., & Chabris, C. F. (1999). Gorillas in our midst: Sustained inattentional blindness for dynamic events. Perception, 28, 1059-1074.

ooops

One morning over the weekend I finished showering and noticed my bedroom door was wide open. My husband was doing yardwork, my son was sleeping and my other kids were at a neighbor's house playing. So, still nekkid, I walked across my bedroom to close the door and finish dressing.

.

Just as I reached the door, my teenage son turned the corner. There we stood, facing each other, for what seemed like the longest millisecond in the history of time and space. In a futile gesture, I did the two handed cover-up and grabbed the door shut. Once hidden, I peeked around to croak, "Sorrrrrry!"

.

Just in time to see him turn his back, raise his face to the ceiling, and groan, "ewwwwwww."

.

Yeah, he nailed it. On so many levels. Poor kid.

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The above image snagged from one of my favorite pick-me-up blogsites bitsandpieces.

school bus named desire

I just phoned the husband. Yeah, he's not allowed to call me "the wife" but I can call him "the husband". But to avoid offending the rougher sex, I'll refer to him as my simply amazing man, or Sam. So I was calling Sam from the office, checking to see which of us needs to be home to meet the school bus. Sam informs me that none of our kids will be coming off the bus today. Each has play dates or after school plans. Yeah??!! Really?! How did I miss this rare piece of news? This must be the first time since elementary school that we've have a kid-free afternoon at home. Wooohooooo! No dillydallying in the office for me! My kids are my world, but it sure is nice to enjoy interruption free conversations, not to mention interruption free activities of the nekkid variety.

Which brings me to the larger subject. The effect of kids on marriage. I could go on for a very long time about the joys of being a parent, like the heart sqeeze I still feel when I see them sleeping, the feeling of a family all my own. But I'm not as eloquent as some of the mommy-bloggers I like to read, so I'll spare you the token ode to joy.

Back when my girls were babies, I read that divorce rates skyrocket after having twins, at about the 2-3 year mark. As the months and then years rolled on, it made complete sense. The battle fatique. The endless work - diapers, baths, cleaning dried crust off of high chair tray tables. I still get PTSD when I see those cute pictures of spaghetti faced babies. Add to all this the sleepless nights. Argh, those nights of sneaking under the crib trying to locate the fallen passy, not once or twice, but dozens of times. Sick baby? Be prepared to feel wiped for a week AFTER the baby is healthy. (Goddess love all of you single moms and dads. You've got my lifelong admiration). So there's the physical toll. And of course, nobody is at their most patient or loving when they are under constant physical strain. We connubials turned slave workers suffer from the small, accusing looks, if not angry words flying. The slow burn of resentments, either imagined or earned.

But with tweens, the physical drain has diminished. At this stage, its more about the lack of alone time. Heck, the lack of complete sentences. On the weekdays, the kids are up later and later. On the weekends, they often stay up past mom and dad. And when we do steal a few moments of private conversation? Conversation interruptus. Can't share two comlete thoughts before "Mom!" or "Dad?" or "Hey Mom, I need to print my homework but the printer's not working!"

And so goes married life with pre-teen intimacy siphons. We're no longer gazing lovingly into each other's eyes across the candle lit dinner table. We're co-drill sargents, commanding our kids on proper table manners and polite dinner conversation. No, we don't want to hear about the kid at your lunch table who gagged on his shoelace. By the end of the meal, I'm ready to go into an underground nuclear silo and think very seriously about dialing the ignition code.

So I've resigned myself to the fact that sweet nothings are replaced by curt phone calls signaling the all's clear and get-your-ass-home-NOW. Its not excactly the advice you read about in "keep the romance alive" books but it is the call-to-arms of battle weary parents who need to grab alone time when they can get it.