Not a lot of sex content in this one today (although a tiny bit). But due to building sexual frustration, I think this blog may get steamier.

I have been having a bit of a dialog with a friend about religion (thanks Johnr, for making me think!), and thought perhaps it was just as pertinent here. It's about religion. And the fact that I have none of it (unless you count my devotion and worship of curry, which I don't think is what we're talking about here).

Religion and I just don't get each other. I will believe in something, if you show me proof. Which defies the whole point of faith (and this has indeed been a complaint amongst a number of ex-boyfriends. But then, this BBC finding explains several of those in the parade of idiots I dated).

As I said in an earlier post, I went to Catholics Anonymous. Now, CA is a 24-step program, since 12 steps is just not enough to get over the guilt. And we feel bad about everything. A car bomb goes off in a small country, very far away? I feel bad. My karma must have contributed. Someone lose their life savings due to a swindler? Catholic guilt kicks in.

Of course, I don't feel bad about the stuff I do, really. Get drunk and make an ass of myself? Oh well. Feel tempted to go for some adultery? Shit happens. Seems I just feel bad about other people's lives. This is both a benefit and a curse-it means I am very sympathetic but that I am definitely bound for purgatory. But that's ok-if I go there, I imagine I will be seeing lots of other people there that I know. I just hppe they put me on the entry gates and I can make them queue up for hours.

Catholics and Hell are a strange combination. I remember the church I went to-the Priest went on and on about how we were all damned. There was no choice between Hell or High Water, there was just Hell. And we were all going there, get your Heavenly Passports out and ready, cause that stamp will be a long time coming. I even went to First Communion, although I remember absolutely nothing about it other than cutting out puffy letters for some banner and then being dressed up as a real-life My First Bride Barbie.

When I was twelve, I confronted the Priest. I asked for proof of God. He gently tried to explain this whole concept of "faith". You just have to believe. Again, I asked for proof. If he, as an adult, could invest his life in a concept, then why must I also "just believe" when I would get told off for being a believer of the boogey man under the bed? I left the church and did not go back.

Later as a teenager stuck in the Deep South, I went to this baptist church camp for a week once. To say it was a very bizarre experience is like saying Dr. Phil is a megalomaniac. In other words, an understatement. I was still not religious (still am not and never will be) but a friend coerced me, so I went. It was weird-they searched all your stuff when you arrived. Every last item. And they had a mountain of cigarettes and alcohol on the campers before the thing even kicked off. And that's not even mentioning the towering inferno of condoms, the glistening foil wrappers alight like a Christmas tree in June.

Then we had to attend all these classes-why God didn't want us to have pre-marital sex (even though my friend and I were about the only virgins in a 100 mile radius), why God wanted us to pray together on our dates, to prove that we had a common faith (can we say: LOSER!) and God obviously wanted us to attend endless sermons and rampant singing sessions until late hours of the night. I guess God thought that 500 teenagers screaming themselves hoarse would be just what He needed for a little bedtime sleep. They kept trying to get me "saved". This was unusual to me, since I had not realized I was ever lost. Clearly, the Stepfords thought I was. being saved was going to involve dunking in the only human-sized fishtank I had ever seen, but since the whole thing didn't mean anything to me, I felt it best to simply avoid having to get my hair wet. They kept asking me if I had found God. To be truthful, I didn't know I was supposed to be looking for Him. Seems like a milk carton ad, running a spot on "America's Most Wanted" or something like that would be more effective than asking me. After all, I couldn't even figure out how to:

- orgasm
- get my hair to do that cool bouffy thing
- open up nail clippers in one fluid movement
- drive

And so on.

In college, I dated a guy for a while that was a born-again Christian. He was also a stutterer, which was amazing on my part since I am about the most impatient person in the world. Waiting for an average person to get through a sentence is sometimes difficult. Add a really serious stutter, and it was effort on my part to not finish his sentences. He was a nice guy, but to be honest, I didn't really like him that much. And it got to me-I didn't want any kind of permanent commitment (at all!) but one evening at dinner, I asked him some things.

"B, do you desire me?"
"Why yes." (which is, of course, what he should answer). "Of course I do. In fact, I was wondering if tonight is the night where we can take our relationship to the next level."
"We're buying a cat together?"
"What?"
"Pardon?"
"I meant, maybe tonight is the night we can physically consummate our mutual respect and admiration for each other." (or some other weird, thesaurus-like proposition for "Wanna' fuck tonight?")
"Um, OK. Sure." I grabbed my bag and we headed out to the cars.
"Say B," I asked, stopping and turning to him. "You want to sleep with me, right?"
"Well, yes, but in a more respectful way, as a way of nurturing and respecting our relationship."
"Yeah, whatever. But what do you think of me as a partner?"
"Well, I think you are a lovely and incredibly brilliant and gorgeous woman" (my memory may be allowing for embellishment here) "but you have not chosen Christ as your Mentor and Savior. So I cannot marry you."
Something clicks in my brain. "OK, I see. So...you'll fuck me but wouldn't marry me?"
He turns red. "Not perhaps with those words, but the sentiment is correct, yes."

I drove away, left him in the parking lot, and went home and made a booty call to my fuck buddy. It's not like I wanted to marry the guy, but although I want to be the whore in the bedroom, I don't want to be only that.

I gave up on religion. And religion gave up on me. I dabbled a bit with Buddhism (but can't get my head around the whole "just accept it" facet) and Wicca (a bit overwhelming with the whole worship of nature thing. Plus, I can't really explain why I am waving around a lavender twig, burning an orange candle, and chanting at 2 am under the full moon with any satisfactory result that will keep me out of the loony bin). So I gave up.

God is for the masses. I guess I am a maverick.

-H.

PS-feel free to sound off about your religious run-ins in the comments section.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 11:43 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 1310 words, total size 7 kb.

I work for a company which I will call X. It is a good company (a great company) that is seeing some rough times. I have been through 4 rounds of redundancies, and am headed for a fifth. The last round was bad-56% of my department (and some people very dear to me) went. This time, rumors put cuts in my department at anywhere from 25 - 90%. Am I worried? You betcha'. Losing my job means a whole lot of turbulence opening up in this poor little white girl's life.

So I have thought of how to go about cuts this time. Last time it was about length of service and skill sets. This round, rumors have it will be on job competence and key positions. But what if we styled cuts in the "Robinson" way, like that strange reality TV show where everyone is on an island and can vote people off?

I already have this figured out in my head. I would have to be very cunning-I do have enemies here (and that is not me being paranoid. I have at least 3 people that can't stand me. Which is ideal, since I can't stand them. Their reasons for hating me are a little fucked up and of the personal nature, but I guess I can understand-if I weren't me, I would probably hate me, too.)

We are our own desert island, my company X. We are trapped together in the 8 floor building, and in the evenings we build a big bonfire in the reception, using old PowerPoint Slides to fuel the flames. We use the display from our mobile phones to light the way through the hallways at night as we scavenge through people's desk drawers for old Snickers bars.

A new round of voting is up. I am called to a challenge. I must present our company's long-term strategy to a bunch of engineers. I am matched against one of my mortal enemies (whom we shall call Annika, but that is not the fiend's real name). Annika and I must battle neck and neck. The ratings that the engineers give us will determine if we are awarded the Golden Badge. The Golden Badge will be worn around our necks and will save us from being voted out. It also opens the doors to the ladies shower, which we need since the soot from the burning PowerPoint slides has made us all pretty funky.

Annika presents first. She is smooth, agile, and has slide after slide of graphs. Real data smatters throughout her slides. The engineers sit back, impressed. They like pretty pictures. They need these numbers to survive, to rattle around in their head and make the synapses work. Their balls itch from the endless information that the attacks them with. She does not stumble, nor make any grammatical errors. I know that this is fierce, fierce competition, but I am ready.

I go up. My slides are simple, basic information. I think Death by Slide Animation is not a good move, a more sophisticated track is needed here. I am subtle, but crack technical jokes that get a nice titter from the audience from time to time. Annika is on the side, sucking on a pig leg. She is leering, looking victorious, pig grease on her upper lip. But this is not over yet. I dexteriously move through my slides, and as I near the end, I unleash my Secret Weapon. I drop the pointer that I had been massaging in my hands, using on various slides. I bend over.....sloooooooowly....to pick it up, ensuring that I bend from the waist down. I feel my skirt ride up, and then...It happens. I feel the edge of my short skirt glide gently up, revealing a tiny lace suspender holding on to the tops of my thigh-high lace topped pantyhose. They are treated to a full length of very long leg (finishing in the perfect stiletto heels, of course). I hear the men in the audience suck in their breath, and indeed the movement sways the air. I stand up, sloooooowly, and turn around, smiling a bit, allowing the skirt to catch on the clasp of my garter. Yes, Boys. I am that type. I do wear garter belts and thigh high stockings. And I know it is sexy.

The men look shell-shocked. Annika looks furious. I continue my presentation, nearly sure I have it in the bag. But I need to do something to drive it home, to go over the edge. At the end of my presentation, I ask for any questions. As hands go up in the air, I realize that if my audience must be recovering from the flash of lace I sent them if they are stable enough to finish fullthought patterns. So I shrug off my jacket, revealing a tight tank beneath. And as I take off my coat, the tank rises...just a bit...and the men see a flash of silver. My navel ring.

The hands drop. I take the final move-I yawn and stretch, massaging my stomach quickly with one hand, then finish and coyly jut one hip out. I hear someone whimper in the audience. The men look stunned, and I see more than one have to adjust their notebooks on their laps. One man is groaning loudly in the back row. Annika is busy trying to keep her head from rotating 360 degrees in her fury.

The men give me ten out of ten. I am awarded the Golden Badge, and that bitch Annika is voted out of the building. She must extinguish her laptop and go.

Victory or death.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 12:54 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 954 words, total size 5 kb.

...from Layne meant that I was going to be needing some action of my yesterday.

I had been concerned that I would have to operate my pocket rocket in the disabled toilet at work, but was spared the discomfort of having to do so (it is a great toy, but unfortunately a little noisy. I am already worried about redundancies coming in our company, I suppose "masturbating in the bathroom" would be a mark against me. Then again, this is a Swedish company, you never know what they will or will not approve of) as my lover sent me a message asking if we could meet up. So I grabbed my briefcase, my laptop, and bunked off work for the rest of the afternoon.

I drove home, anxious and full of anticipation. I haven't seen my lover for a while, so I knew that every moment passing before we would meet was a wasted moment, dripping with anticipation, regretting that a second slipped by, wasted and empty. I changed out of my suit, slipped on some shorts, and sat on the front steps, sipping my coffee, waiting.

Then he showed. He stood in front of the gate to my front yard, his face lit up. He came charging up the walkway, an enormous smile on his face, and in one movement opened his arms and grabbed me, kissing me deeply.

"Hello, Darling." he said, still smiling.
"Hello, You." I replied, instantly dismissing any petty grudges I had been holding against him. He can do that. I can forgive him anything upon seeing him, it seems.

Still kissing me, he half-carries, half-pulls me inside and takes me up the stairs. He lays me on the bed, and the wind plays with the curtains in the bedroom, turning them into drifting question marks. Fall is in the air, there is a crispness to the air that hadn't been there before, and it laces itself around our bodies as each part of us disrobes. The air massages my ankles, then my torso, and finally wraps around our bare backs as we continue to hold each other on the bed. He kisses me deeply, almost harshly, and holds my arms above my head to give him closer access, more control. I am a very dominant person in general, but when a man takes control in bed it drives me wild. I grind myself against him, hoping to feel him slide inside soon. That fabulous moment, the split second where suddenly you feel as though the ache inside of you has subsided, the tightness that you yearn for is complete. When a man slides into you, with excruciating slowness, there is nothing more fabulously rewarding than the moment you both feel he is as deeply buried inside of you as he can be.

But he doesn't do this. Instead, he slides down and buries his face between my legs. And. It. Is. HEAVEN. He does this magical move with his tongue that no other lover I have ever known is able to do. I orgasm within two minutes, and then he does it again. And again. Then he slides up and aims himself towards me. And the beautiful slide is started, he is incredibly hard and perfect inside of me, and even able to tease me for a bit, lurking only in the entrance, before completing the move into me and making me orgasm nearly at once. The weather outside begins to change, it grows balmly and hot, almost, as an approaching rainstorm makes the air stand still. Sweat stands out on our skin, and when I lean forward, I can lick droplets from the hollow of his throat and shoulders. We grow slippery against each other and inside of me.

We spend ages just moving inside of each other, fantasizing with each other, touching each other, allowing me to orgasm repeatedly, talking of wonderful, beautiful things, each of us just hoping to make the minutes last longer, since we never know when the next time we can meet is. I am captivated by his intense stare, the feel of his body against mine and inside of mine, and the sound of his voice, which will need to give me enough to live on for a little while longer without him.

When he finally comes, it is huge. A ragged gasp and much shuddering put to end a lovely afternoon. And as he orgasms, the rain starts, brushing the room with a gorgeous breeze. We exchange a few more words, a few more kisses, and then he goes.

As he walks away, he turns around. "You have no idea how hard it is to leave you."

Um...yes, I do. Actually. About as hard as it is for me to watch you go.

-H.

PS...yes, this was a Mitty-ism. Didn't happen yesterday. Well, ok it did happen yesterday, but only with self-relations acrobatics. My day yesterday was spent creating a presentation for an internal workshop. Sadly, few of us lead as exciting a life as Layne. But this is material enough for me to live on for a while. I am tempted to start a "Fantasy A Day" webpage-I am actually good at coming up with material for self-relations. Might be a business opportunity in there somewhere.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 09:13 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 891 words, total size 5 kb.

In the U.S., this wasn't even a question. You car'd. But abroad, in major cities, a car is not necessary and can even be a pain in the ass. So we lived in Stockholm for 3 years before we bought a car. This was very, very strange to me. One the one hand, I am the type who is prone to road rage and is best separated from a vehicle that can go 150 mph. On the other hand, the Swedish rail system seems to fall apart in the winter (every winter, without fail) due to the cold. That's right. They are taken surprise every year by the icy snow and cold. Um...hello? This is Sweden, right? Land o' No Light in the winter? Just checking. I would've thought they would have worked out the temperature snag by now, but guess they are always hoping El Nino will do the work for them.

We bought a car just after taking a train ride to visit my partner's mother, in what I call the Armpit of Sweden. It's about a 5 hour trek to Tick-land (in the summer) or the Tundra (in the winter). In other words, I absolutely hate going there. But we went there two years ago in the late summer (Tick-land then, and as I indicated in a previous post, I will jump out of moving vehicles to avoid the little bastards) and got a kitten. I named her Mumin (after this weird Finnish cartoon here, in which Mumin is a giant grey hippopotamus). And we had to take said new acquisition on the train back to Stockholm.

The day we went back to Stockholm was cold, rainy, and miserable. Mumin was not pleased to be in a cage (the cat carriers here look more like bird cages, which seem more practical than the hard plastic ones in the US, but a little more open also). We get on the train, and sit in great, roomy, comfy seats-the first class seats that we had purchased. We stretch out, once again thinking how great it is to not need a car if you live in Stockholm, but can use mtero, train system, and inter-city train system. Then the conductor comes for our ticket, and sees the kitten. We are immediately banished to the pet section. It is time to bring on the pain.

Now, the pet section is for people that they hate. They hate the pet people. There are eight rows of cramped, tight seats enclosed in glass (to help with allergic people. I do understand this, honestly, but it felt very criminal. I had visions of standing on one side of the glass, banging the window, tears pouring down my face while my family stood on the other side, desperately trying to pass me tampons and cured ham.) We headed there, and I swear to God it was something out of movies of third world countries, where you expect to see someone holding a roped goat with a huge bell clanging around its throat and people passing skins filled with yak milk. There are huge dogs everywhere. Literally. Someone a few rows up has several parakeets in a cage, cheeking and playing with a bell (I knew there was a bell on that car!). A dog near us has a nervous stomach and has had an accident, and there are paper towels hiding the waste (it is solid waste, by the way, so I am not coping well). My spouse sits one row away. I sit next to a man and am holding Mumin, whom I think is close to a heart attack. At the next stop, more people get on and my partner is forced to stand. The woman beside me has no pet, but instead of being sweet and taking our more comfortable and vacant seat in the good car (which we offered her and was still vacant) she tells my partner she is going to sit there, and he can deal with it.

It pisses me off, but actually, I understand this. I always hate it when I get on an airplane and someone wants to switch seats with me. I feel like that is tempting fate. You know, as the plane goes down, Death comes through the cabin, swinging his scythe. I hysterically produce my boarding card "No, no! You're got the wrong person! I am 24E! 24E! I only switched places with that guy so that he could have a window seat! I am not the passenger you seek!"

Anyway, my partner was pissy, I was pissy, the place smelled, and there were two kids (raised by wolves I think) who kept tearing through the car, closing the glass doors and screaming when they come across dogs (which was every row, basically).
Before we get to our destination, I decide to be a good human and switch with my man and let him sit while I stand. Then someone by me yells, and I notice that water is pouring out of the bathroom next to me. It turns out the system was overflowing. A conductor comes and shuts off the water, but not before I am traumatized by what I saw in there. We're talking floaters, folks. I am still traumatized. We get to Stockholm, weary, in need of a bath, and with plans the very next weekend to buy a car.

And we haven't taken long-distance train travel since.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 10:19 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 919 words, total size 5 kb.

Cheddar Time:

1. What's your worst alcohol related experience?

Ah...there are so many that it really is nearly impossible to count. I think the worst behavior I have ever exhibited due to alcohol was at a work conference in the Netherlands that was held at a convent. I kid you not. We actually stayed and roomed at a convent (this was labelled as "cost saving". Indeed. It was literally a foam mattress over a teeny-tiny single bed and a shower room that I had to bang on the lights to get it to work. The meals were held in a dining hall with the biggest crucifix that I have EVER seen in my young life adorning the main wall.) Nuns would pass by in the hallway, and I am sure that they had sniffed me out, seeing as I am a member of Catholics Anonymous.

Anyway, one evening a severe looking nun led us down to a grotto in the bowels of the convent. In said grotto was masses of alcohol. We all dug in like sailors put to port after a year of no beaver. We went mad. And I got into an argument with an English mate (we always get into petty regionalism wars, he and I) and when another guy handed me a British pound note, I thought they were taking the mickey out of me and I-brace yourself-tore the note in half. Yes, I know. Seriously bad behavior. And it turns out that the note was from the isle of Jersey, where the guy had been with his girlfriend on a romantic vacation. This was the only souvenir he had. I tried to make it up to him later by being funny-he took a phone call and went out to the hallway with it. I dashed out there, sat on his lap, and told him loudly that he still had twenty Euros left on his tab, and another twenty minutes of loving left. I thought this was hilarious. His girlfriend, whom he was on the phone with, did not. She dumped him. I felt horrible. And I felt even worse the next day-it was the second worst hangover in my life (the worst was on another work trip in Gothenberg). To this day, I do not drink with colleagues. No good comes of it.

2. What's the absolute dumbest thing you've done?

Oh you name it. The list is endless. And sadly the list just keeps getting longer.

3. What is your biggest crossroad in life? That is, what choice, action, non-action most brought you to where you are instead of where you might have been?

This one is easy-it is a trip to Paris that I took in March 1995. I met a man there that turned out to be crucial to my life. He opened my eyes to travel, to orgasms, and was the trigger in a series of decisions that got me where I am today. I owe whatever I am and wherever I am to that Spring Break.

4. Who are your favorite bloggers and why?

The ones I check in daily are: Better to Grieve than Rescind, Primal Purge, Rambling Rhodes, and Bunsen TV. Some others get checked on a nearly daily basis, including Side Salad and Snooze Button Dreams. And let's not forget our friend Cheddar.

5. What's your best example of ironic justice?

Can justice be ironic? I am stumped. Perhaps because I am still a gullible idealist.

6. Which is more futile, the war on drugs or the war on terrorism?

Gotta' go with the war on drugs here. After all, not many people view "terrorism" as a rite of passage, and most view a little inhaling as such.

7. How many copies of the Sobig worm have you had to delete this week? (round off to the nearest hundred thousand if you like)

None. Does that make me a winner or a loser? Actually, I think it's because we have serious Internet security at our workplace, they fight these fires before they ever get to us.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 12:15 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 690 words, total size 4 kb.

...So VW thinks they can fuck around with me.

I made the enormous mistake of buying a VW Beetle last year. A used one, since I can't be bothered to buy a car that is only going to reduce 40% in value the second rubber touches the motorway. I bought said cute chicky car (confess one attraction in buying the car was that partner unit would never want to borrow it, hence my seat and radio preferences would remain intact) in November last year, and I have only had problems with it ever since.

First, one month after buying the car, it would suddenly randomly beep at me. Out of nowhere. It had no connection to any mechanical lights, that the car was too cold, I was under a mustard gas attack, or that I had accidentally left my hair dryer plugged in. It would just beep. And then the light on the dashboard of the man with an airbag exploding in his face went off (poor unfortunate LED), along with the brake light. A visit to the VW dealer only resulted in making me feel like I wasted their time, however at least the problem went away.

The end of January, I took the car back. This time, the trunk and gas lock wouldn't close. Or they would close, only to spring open again, suddenly in the middle of me driving too fast down the motorway at top speeds, or when I was headed to the airport. Let me tell you, it is not much fun to endure a Swedish winter with the trunk popping open and exposing imporant bits of mine to the chilly air. This, along with the brake light coming on again. I took it back to the dealer.

Unbelievably, they told me it was simply too cold out. That's right, folks. Apparently, VW is of the opinion that their cars don't need to work if it is below freezing outside. So only buy a VW if driving through the Sahara (after all, the air-cooled engines revolutionized the war. For a period.)

February, I had new problems. The brake light kept going off, combined with me occasionally being locked in the car. That's correct. LOCKED IN THE CAR. I would have to sit in the car until some arbitrary period had passed, in which the car decided to free me and open the locks on the doors. I went back to the dealer. The work that was done: they replaced the lightbulb in the brake light LED in the dashboard. That's all they did. It took them a whole week to do this, too. So I was still subject to being held hostage by a rabid German car whenever the whim struck.

Monday this week, it all went horribly wrong. I was stuck in a traffic jam for 50 minutes. 40 of those minutes were spent with the brake light on and the car beeping at me with a high pitched beep in regular intervals of three times every two minutes. I couldn't turn around, I couldn't pull over, I was simply stuck in traffic. So it should come as no surprise that when I got home I was in a rage not seen since...oh, maybe a week ago (I tend to be a very angry person). I got out of the car, screaming, throwing the manual at the car. My partner unit just calmly observed me from the yard. It went something like this:

Me :I HATE THIS FUCKING CAR! I HATE IT I HATE IT I HATE IT! (and remember, I am a loud person. Very loud. Big lungs.)
Him: Honey, what's wrong?
Me: I HAVE BEEN STUCK IN A TRAFFIC JAM FOR FIFTY FUCKING MINUTES, FORTY OF WHICH THE FUCKING THING HAS BEEN BEEPING AT ME!
Him: Honey, what's wrong?
Me : I HAVE NO IDEA. I AM NOT A MECHANIC, I ONLY PLAY ONE ON TV (OK, I added that one. Humor was not on my side then.)
Him: Are you OK?
Me: I HATE THIS FUCKING CAR! I HATE IT I HATE IT I HATE IT! (I am very loud and very repetitive, actually).

He got up, walked into the garage, and got me a crowbar. This I used to bash an old doghouse to bits. Then he went back to the garage, got an axe, took my crowbar away, and let me beat the rest of the doghouse to kindling. I confess, it made me feel better.

Once the car and I had cooled down, I checked the brake fluid, and saw that it was empty. And VW designed the car in such a way that only a Rhesus monkey with a funnel attached to the end of tis tail could reach said fluid container. But I would not acquiesce to the VW Bastards. I rigged up a lawn-mower hose and a funnel, and fed the thing brake fluid myself. It worked. I was victorious. I had gotten one over on those self-serving uber-idiots at the VW shop.

Until Wednesday, when the problem returned. The brake fluid tank was totally empty. I had to admit defeat. I drove to VW in a rage and proceeded to give them masses of grief. When done, I looked up and saw my neighbor there. Apparently she is having VW problems of her own.

"I knew you would be here." she said calmly.
"Really?" I replied, surprised. "Do you work for Dionne Warwick?"
"No," she replied. "I heard the screaming on Monday night 'I HATE THIS FUCKING CAR'!

Boy did I feel stupid.
Car is (sort of) fixed now, and an appointment made on Monday to discuss swapping the car with the manager of the dealership. It turns out my brake line had been disconnected. Now I have Oliver Stone worthy paranoid fears running through my head, perhaps someone wants to kill me. I do have ample enemies, this would not surprise me.

But let this be a lesson-don't buy VW.
And if you do, prepare yourself and repeat after me: "I HATE THIS FUCKING CAR!"

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 09:37 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 1023 words, total size 5 kb.

Another template change. What a nuisance. And I wanted to add a nice pic of me on the side, but after asking around blogger for help, I have been informed that "it sounds like an HTML problem". At which point, the techies run for cover.

This is a note to the Chinese government-all your problems can be solved. Just invite Richard Gere. I understand he has worked with this before.

More later.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 09:13 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 83 words, total size 1 kb.

I checked my stats today, and found that people have hit my site using the following Google searches in the past week:

-Naked guy
-Masturbate
-Weight watchers
-Louise Labe
-Naked
-Seasick got
-Ex-girlfriends caught cheating
-South African Diplomat Masturbate

What the hell have I been writing? Even more so, who the hell uses these search criteria?

I have been on a bit of a depressed spiral, due to:

-Coming back to work from three weeks holiday
-Upcoming Fall weather alluding to the screwed up darkness that can only mean a Swedish winter is on the way
-Having a bust-up with a best mate
-Further redundancies in our company mean all of our necks are on the line
-Arnie has not called to ask me to join his campaign team. And here I thought I was more than a one-night stand. He said it would be forever. Or at least "Four more years, Baby."
-A possible one night business-trip to the U.S. Depressing, since I have no driver's license, so can't get out of the hotel or office, and it will mean further bust-up with best mate. All that, and I won't even be able to buy more Orange Ginger shampoo from the Body Shop.
-Weird itchy rash beneath my right breast. Suspected shingles, worried it could be something on scale of Godzilla grossness, that takes over my body and forces me to live an Elephant Man type existence.

No worries, though. I will be drinking tonight.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 12:43 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 257 words, total size 1 kb.

From the website of our friend, Cheddar X, the weekly questions!

1. How do you relax after a difficult day?

I don't, really. I tend to never be able to relax, ever EVER. Not even on holiday. The word "relax" and the connotations that come with it do not compute for me. If I do reach some modicum of relaxation, it is through the following:
- Quality company
- Champagne
- A hot bath
- A snuggle before falling asleep

2. What's your favorite form of transportation?

I enjoy many forms, in moderation. After all, a plane trip can be exciting, but only after a few hours (I have even taken the Sydney-London flight, which is the longest flight out there, topping off at about 25 hours. It was indeed hell, and not something I want to repeat, even though I very much want to go back to Sydney). I used to love boats, but ever since I was seasick one horrible time (now there's a story for another time) I have a paranoid fear of boats. There is no feeling-hangover, heartbreak, loss of satellite reception on the tv-that makes you wish you were dead more than seasickness.

3. What is your worst travel experience?

See the seasickness item above. Oh, all right-the story is this: some friends of ours bought a sailboat in Finland, and asked us to sail it with them from Helsinki to Stockholm in May. I thought this sounded terribly glamorous, and had images of me swilling martinis wearing a tiny swimsuit on the deck. In reality, I have never been so cold in my fucking life-at one point of the very rocky passage, it was actually snowing and we had an ice storm. It was wearing so many layers of clothes and a life jacket (since the sea was so rough) that I couldn't put my arms down, a la Michelin Man. I threw my guts up repeatedly, had more gas than a beached whale, and then stubbornly wound up steering the boat a record thirteen hours just so I could stare at the horizon and not be seasick. I have not been sailing since, and I don't see it happening anytime soon.

4. When did you know you were an adult? I.e. what event made you stop and recognize that you were no longer a member of "those damned kids"?

I was always kind of a grown-up anyway-I don't actually ever remember being very kid-like.

5. Why do you blog?

A chance to express myself, really. It's nice to be able to write, in complete anonymity, anything that's on my mind. I have seen criticisms that blogs are self-indulgent tirades, for the most part. Damn right, Skippy.

6. How does your real life persona compare to your blogger one?

I am much more honest on my blog than I am in real life. In reality, I don't really tell people deep or personal things about myself. I don't see the point. On a blog, it seems easier to let it all hang out-after all, the internet is the Land of Anonymity. And may it stay that way. I've had over 1,000 hits since mid-June, so perhaps I am doing something right.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 03:33 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 548 words, total size 3 kb.

I have noticed in the news, more and more, references to the upcoming 9/11 anniversary in some blogs. This, coinciding with reports of the Bali bombers being arrested, and the end of a rocket launcher buying ring, allegedly designed to bring down commercial aircraft carriers in the U.S.

Now, I am one of the masses of people that was in a special situation for 9/11-I am an American but am living abroad, so not only did I have to watch the horror unfold with the same impotent terror that my fellow countrymen that live at home felt, but I had to suck it up since I was not even on home soil to stand and face the fight. My feelings of helplessness were about tenfold to those who got to live in the U.S. and be strong together. So I did what other expatriates did-I went to the U.S. Embassy. I called friends and family. I cried a lot.

I am not one of those hard-core, vocal, demonstrating patriots. But I am a patriot. I was born an American, and I will die one. Above all, I find the rights and privileges (for truly, we have so many privileges as Americans that we take for granted) as absolutely sacred. In the words of my man, Thomas Jefferson:

"We hold these truths to be self-evident,
That all men are created equal,
That they are endowed by their Creator
with certain unalienable Rights,
That among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.
That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men,
Deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed."

The key words there, for me, are "life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness". This does not mean I get to indulge myself in hedonistic pleasures or manipulate people to be subordinate to my whims, but that I have the right to shape my life the way I want and to enjoy myself along the way. I read these lines many years ago in Junior High, and they have stuck with me since.

So what am I saying here on my soapbox? Well, my way of fighting back on terrorism and showing the bad guys that they can't make Americans cower is simple. I buy a plane ticket.

I am not an economist, so I cannot include gorgeous pie charts and economic demographics, but I can say this-after 9/11 the economy slumped. People were afraid to travel. Companies floundered and lay-offs rocked the world. I am not saying that all of these things are due only to the tragic events on 9/11, but I understand it was a snowball effect. So if I make a stand-and after all, in the history of our country, all it takes is for one person to take a stand in order to make a difference-then maybe others will follow suit.

Days after 9/11, I bought a plane ticket. And I used it. Six months after that, I bought another one. A few weeks before war was due to break out in March this year, I bought a plane ticket. The anniversary of 9/11 is coming up, and guess what? Yesterday I bought a plane ticket (bound for New York City, no less).

Maybe I don't have flags on my car and home. Maybe I don't have a tattoo of Old Glory. Perhaps this is silly, my one-woman crusade. But seeing as how I can't fight in the Middle East, and I can't be the speaker for rallies to bring people together, in my way this is doing my part. What I do have is a sense that no one is going to scare me from pursuing my happiness. If terrorists threaten to bring down more planes, then I will take to the friendly skies with increased gusto. If they threaten trains, then rail travel it is for me. And if, along the course of my fatalistic patriotism something happens to me, then I guess it was meant to be. And then I hope someone else will take up my torch for me, and not let themselves be intimidated. The very nature of terrorism is to instill us with fear, to make us afraid, and once afraid, we can be controlled.

And no one gets to control me, or take away my piece of mind. In my world, that means they win. And in my world, that is simply not an option.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 11:47 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 750 words, total size 4 kb.

Have finally added a comments section, for your abusive enjoyment.

And by the way, this is me.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 12:25 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 26 words, total size 1 kb.

There is a sport that has been of medium interest to me for some time, but not enough interest for me to do anything about. I mean, should someone have come up to me and hand me all of the accoutrements that I needed to perform said pasttime, I probably would have accepted them and taken it as a symbol that it is meant to be. But otherwise, my ass really was not on fire to take up the sport.

This sport is golf.

Now, golf has always been a bit contentious to me. I remember my mother and father having terrible rows about golf, since he would wake up at oh-God-hundred on a Saturday and take off for a full day of 18 holes (or however many holes constitutes a whole day, I really wouldn't know this stuff. I guess it also depends on the alcohol consumption at the clubhouse, whether or not there was anything interesting on offer for dinner, and how well you are getting along with your spouse to determine how many holes you play. And as I type that, my head is screaming with immature one-liner comebacks that I will refrain from.) My father used to tell my mother that golf was a way of being outside with nature, to walk and relax. Sounds awfully familiar to the guy excuse that they read Playboy for the articles. Sure. And I go shopping to listen to the elevator music.

Golf to me either smacks of the very posh, wearing weird checked clothing and swirling martinis while talking out the the corner of their mouths, or people along the line of "Caddyshack". I have not been able to get behind the game. My one and only time of exposure to it was a time my father took my sister and I with him, and my sister and I managed to wreck the golf cart (I kid you not. Even at the tender age of 10, it appears I was destined for bad driving.)

It seems like everyone in Sweden plays golf, and they all like to sit around talking about it for hours and hours, throwing around such words as "birdie", "eagle", and "chipped". It amazes me that people can talk about golf for so long. I can't even talk about sex for that length of time, and it's the most interesting subject in the world to me. I remember being at a wedding where the newlywed couple came up with the ingenious idea of separating all of the attendee couples and seating people next to people they had never met. It was an absolute stroke of Emily Post brilliance, and an absolutely fabulous time (can my text be dripping with sarcasm? Can you see it? 'Cause if not, trust me, that's my intent.) I was put next to three men that spent the next three hours talking about their last golf games, good cigar experiences they have had, and the wacky stunts they pulled in the compulsory Swedish military service. I almost killed them all with my bread knife, grabbed the bottle of wine on the table and ran out of the room doing the conga I was so bored.

So I have been resistant to playing golf. Until now.

My partner unit found a driving range literally up the road from our house, so I got dragged there today, finally. He has been going for the past week, and enjoys nothing more than whacking some golf balls a fair distance, in which later a young teenager must collect later in the day. I went there, hit some golf balls for the first time ever, and managed to:

1) get angry with my partner, since I am not very good at taking instruction from him
2) hurt my fingers a lot, since you have to lace two of them in a very weird way
3) finally convince myself that the golf club is not a hockey stick and should not be held like one
4) refrain from striking things with the golf club. Not out of anger, but hey-how can you hand someone a big metal stick and expect them not to smack things around them?
5) threaten the life of the man behind me with my extremely erratic backwards-flying golf balls

I have signed up for a golf lesson next week by an English speaker. I am willing to give this golf business one more try, and if it fails, then it only proves what I have always known-I am really more of a contact-sport person.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 05:05 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 772 words, total size 4 kb.

...and that subject is masturbation.

Now, I am not using said subject as any kind of shock value, or any kind of way to spike up my stats since anyone doing an internet search will be able to find the word "masturbation" in a Google search and thus click on my page.

I am hoping to discuss masturbation in a pure, taking-care-of-myself kind of way.

I am possessed with a very high sex drive, and yet with a very conservative partner. We do not talk about self-relations, nor do we allude to the fact that they are done, even though my pants are down and I am at myself like a rabbit whenever the opportunity presents itself, or else if there is nothing good on tv and I think I can get away with the vibrating sounds upstairs. My partner does it when I am asleep or in the shower (a la "American Beauty", as I think most of the male population does). He thinks, despite my protestations to the contrary, that it bothers me that he does it. I would be more bothered if he didn't do it, actually. I asked him once to give himself a little knuckle loving in front of me in bed, and after he turned twenty shades of purple, had an explosive K-Y Jelly airborne temper tantrum, and a few days of stony silence, we agreed we are not the kind of couple that has mutual masturbation.

So, Colin baby, I am all yours.

Everybody does it. Everybody. I had a close guy friend who to this day maintains he has never touched himself sexually and never will, even in the times he had a sex draught. After me righting myself from my explosive laughter and strings of obscenities which translate, at the end of the day, to "I don't believe you, no one has one of those things and keeps his hands off it!", he still stands by his word. But I still don't believe him. After all, be around any man, of any age, and you will notice that they have subtle ways of touching themselves and "adjusting themselves", which I believe is just a male euphemism for pocket pool.

It's hard to masturbate if you are a woman and have no idea of what to do. They don't teach you this stuff in sex ed. They don't say "Right. Forget always jamming things up the hole. Explore the little triangle of flesh. Play with your nipples. And for God's sake, just give up on pearls!" I tried it when I was in college, in the bathtub. I lifted my hips and held myself under the faucet, waiting for this gushing torrent of liquid pleasure. All that happened was I got water-logged. I then tried my hand-many, many times-and just as I started feeling something nice, the little triangle disappeared (guys, take note: sometimes, when you are providing us with oral pleasure, this happens. Just keep moving. Trust us.)

It all finally came together when a boyfriend of mine went to work, and I was at home. I noticed his mini-massager, which he used on his back, and one thing led to another, and BAM!!!! I had my first self-orgasm and never went back again. Thanks to the TV show with those lovely women with libidos greater than Kobe Bryant's, women can take a greater role in making sure that they are pleased, all thanks to the lovely rabbit. Which I bought, wore out, and bought another one of. I also have a number of incredibly small and quiet gadgets, and since I was just in Ireland over the weekend, a few more have been added to my collection from a helpful store. I think it's important that women learn how to give themselves shuddering, fabulous climaxes. After all, if our men won't do it, why can't we?

-H

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 02:52 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 657 words, total size 4 kb.

...while I take a few days away to try to get my groove back. And buy some strappy shoes.

So I will be back to my blog next Monday. In the meantime, I leave you with some very wise words from that fab bit "Rent".

There is no future
There is no past
Thank God this moment's not the last!

There's only us
There's only this
Forget regret, or life is yours to miss

No other road
No other way
No day but today!

See ya' on Monday.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 01:19 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 99 words, total size 1 kb.

Compliments of our friend, Cheddar X:

1. What are people's biggest misconception about you?

People think that I am very, very confident. The word "arrogant" has even been bandied about. This is because sometimes I can talk shit like a pro, I have no problem with confronting someone that I think is talking out of their ass, and that if I don't understand a situation, I used to bluff my way out of it. Now, I just clam up and act cool, so people perhaps think I have answers and am not telling them since I am cool and intellectually superior. Not sure. The truth is, I am extremely insecure, and often wonder if people have figured me out and will expose me as a fraud, not unlike the way that Itchy and Scratchy constantly fillet each other.

2. What is your most over used expression?

Fuck. I am not saying that for shock value, it truly is my favorite. It tends to wind people up, too. I love the term, it can be used in a variety of ways-good (orgasm moment), bad (stubbed your toe), demonstrative (pointing to a guy who spilled some beer on you, like "That fuck!"), exclamatory (as in the crude way of saying "Unbelieveable!"), or if you add "ing" to the end, it can be a great adjective. Sometimes, it helps to combine it with other terms, in order to get your point across (an example, I heard the term "Fuckshit" on the movie "Lake Placid", and it is currently a favorite in the household). Currently, I am actually trying to weed it out of my vocabulary, but then Rome wasn't built in a day. Runners-up in the over-used expression are "Big fun", "Whatever", and "I hate my life" (this often said in a whiny tone when I don't get my way).

3. If they made a movie of your life, who would you want to play you and who do you think would end up playing you?

Well, if they made a movie about me, I would suggest they use me for the role, since not a lot of method acting would be needed then. Failing that bid for fame, I would want someone gorgeous, like Keira Knightley (Bend It Like Beckham, Pirates of the Carribean), or adventurous (Angelina Jolie, albiet not in the brother-kissing, blood-around the neck wearing aspects), but I suspect they would be trying to cast and demonstrate the role as a nutball, and no one plays nutballs better than Parker Posey.

4. If you could have sex with anyone, ever, who would it be?

John Cusack. Hands-down. If I am allowed to fulfill said fantasy, however, it would be an evening of a hat trick with John Cusack, Colin Firth, and Tony Blair. Different rooms, of course, so not to intimidate the men and maybe I would shower between performances. Different performances, too. I picture Johnny as a bit of a naughty boy, he would be all fantasizing and wild positions, I would definitely need him in his "Grosse Point Blank" persona. Even dressed in all black, and outrageous descriptive phrases. Colin would be my dreamy romantic sessions, complete with taking me on his ruffled "Pride and Prejudice" type shirt. Tony-well, he's for the points, baby.

5. What's the best and worst thing you've done for or to your appearance?

Best thing-I let my hair go back to its natural color, which is an almost black color, from 11 years of dying it Julia Roberts red. The worst thing-those years of horrible agony in the 5th and 6th grade when I thought a perm was a good idea. Never again. Poodles are not meant to be copied, man. Anything that is covered in tiny curls and is the size of a football is not a good idea for a hairstyle.

6. What's your best physical trait?

My legs or my breasts. Seriously. My legs are very, very long and quite nice-shaped. My breasts went under the knife over a decade ago, and are, I believe, fucking perfect. Damn, there's that term again.

- H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 06:42 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 694 words, total size 4 kb.

...But seeing as I am a chronic insomniac, it's likely not going to be me.

I'm back, having survived a 7 day trip to Turkey. My brain is a bit fried, seeing as how I have been up for about 30 hours now, so this blog will be a bit short, to be edited later when the circuitry is all hooked up in the synapse pathways later tonight. Or until I am halfway through a bottle of chardonnay, which gets the little bastards fired up anyway.

How was Turkey? It was great. A few highlights:

- On these charter trips the people on the plane actually applaud when you land and are done with the taxi down the runway. That's right. Applaud. Doesn't exactly inspire confidence, but it has me convinced-from now on when I badge out of the revolving doors at my office, I want a standing ovation. Talk about validation!

- Managed to avoid "The Sultan's Revenge". You know. Also called "Montezuma's Revenge", or any other tribal leader. Managed to avoid it...until Saturday night, that is. Then it hit, and with a startling vengence which I will spare you the details of. Let's just say that life is currently very unpleasant.

- Managed to get a deep dark savage tan. I have some very serious white bits, but the rest of me is brown as a raisin (why do we say that? Are raisins even brown?). I would have gone topless, but seeing as how the beach was populated by tourists and the native (largely Muslim population) alike, I thought that was really flaunting it. I went topless in the Seychelles, for only the second time in my life, and I gotta' say...once they're exposed to the sun, you never want to cover them up again. Heaven. But I think it ill advised to be a foreigner, on someone else's beach, flashing egg whites up to the sun when the others are dressed far more conservatively. Besides, I think my nipples are ugly.

- Went parasailing. That's right, I spent about 10 minutes at 100 meters (that's about 35+ feet or so for us non-metrics types) The only things between me and a seriously unpleasant death were a black lycra bikini and the equivalent of a nylon pillowcase strapped to my back. I absolutely loved it. What a fabulous time. Recommended for adrenaline junkies, basket cases, and people with fatalistic attitudes.

- Discovered that the Turkish people are not only infinitely patient, but extremely kind and honest. Three times we overpaid someone, and all three times they corrected us (and once even chased us down the bazaar) to give the money back. Hey, laugh if you want, but if you are looking at bills that are 5 million lire or 500,000 lire, and you've had a drink or two, the zeros get a bit hard to count.

- Had my first real encounter with dolphins. Incredible. They swam alongside our boat (we were not allowed to swim with them, for their protection, but that didn't prevent me from having "The Big Blue" type Mitty-isms, in which a dolphin would choose me as the great and noble person on the boat, jump up, gently grasp my wrist and pull me into the ocean for a very long swim, since I would of course have an almost Dr. Doolittle ability to understand their every need. Sadly, this did not happen. But at least the dolphins did not pick anyone else on the boat, either.)

- Ran out of books. That's right, I went through the whole stack, at which point, I could not find a bookstore that sold them in English, and the hotel only had a large tattered collection of Swedish and German novels. Then, I found three books in English. Romance novels. And I have to say, I was so desperate that I read them. Yes, I got to read about Lord Ranulf sweeping the spirited Saxon wench Giselle off her feet and protecting her from the evil robber baron. And I was treated to two Catherine Cookson novels-which say, on the cover, that she is "Britain's Best-Loved Storyteller". High praise indeed. Tolkein, Milne, Lewis, (to name a few) must be turning over in their graves as we speak. It was too horrible. I realized that a whole 20 pages were missing from one of the Cookson novels, and I didn't even notice.

- Fed many strays, which actually endeared me to wait staff and they comped drinks. This did not endear me to the hotel staff, when said strays tried to follow me into the hotel. This would explain why they never refilled our toilet paper and we had to buy the damn stuff. Turkey+holiday+no toilet paper=not an attractive combination.

I think that's a bit all right now. I'm a bit wound up and actually quite angry about a non-related blog issue, so will return when I make more sense later.

-H.

PS- I did read two extremely exquisite books on holiday, which I recommend. The first, "The Only Boy For Me," by Gil McNeil, made me laugh so hard tears poured from my eyes. It could be the heat or the Turkish beer (Efes-what a hangover!) since it is not usually my kind of book, but I loved it. The other one, "Lovely Bones", by Alice Sebold, had me more enraptured than a book has had me in a long, long time. She is brilliant, fucking brilliant in fact, and makes me want to quit writing ever, since the comparison falls way short.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 08:18 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 937 words, total size 5 kb.