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Two days left.

Two days for me to get my fill of Twitter and Facebook and blogs.

Two days to wonder how good the cell signal is there.

Two days to wonder if I’ll be able to blog. I’m definitely bringing my journal and notebooks to write in. It’ll be blogging from my phone, if at all, since I’m told there’s no wifi and no Internet.

Two days to get my laundry done and choose 5 sets of clothing that’ll last me a month. Two days to figure out what shirts I’ll take with me.

Two days to squeeze in phone calls.

Two days to figure out what books I want to bring with me. Hell, two days to drop off my library book because I can’t renew it beyond my stay in the inpatient program.

Two days to fill my iPod with music to last me a month.

Two days to enjoy my own bed. Do I bring my own pillow?

Two days to stay up as late as I want. And attempt to sleep in as late as I want (9:30 AM is usually as far as I can get).

Two days of having my schedule be whatever the fuck I want it to be. Eat when I want, test my blood sugar when I want, give myself insulin when I want. Something tells me my schedule will be dictated much differently…in two days.

Two days to wonder if I get a roommate while I’m there. I’m assuming I will, because I can’t believe I’ll be lucky enough not to.

Two days to clear off as many shows from my DVR as possible.

Two days to be thankful that “Lost” finished before this wild psychological experiment. Maybe this is my “sideways timeline.”

Two days until I have to watch what everyone else is watching (Lord, let it not be “Jersey Shore”).

Two days to gather toiletries.

Two days to get a haircut that’ll last me through a month. Considering a crew cut. It’s only gonna get hotter in Florida for the next several months. And a crew cut seems appropriate for scenes that may match “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.”

Two days to let the anxiety build and fester.

Two days to keep telling myself this is voluntary and I can leave whenever I want. Two days to keep telling myself this may be the only shot I get at an inpatient program, so leaving prematurely would be asinine.

Two days to wonder why asinine only contains one “s.”

Two days to freak the fuck out.

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

Thanks to all of you that sent in entries for the Funniest Sex Story contest. We had eight funny stories. They’ve all been read and the votes are in. Thanks to Shannon, Mike, and Janet, my amazing judges.

The Runner-Up is Sandi, who wins a special prize from the SecondHand TryptoGear store:

As a diligent public servant, I worked as a court clerk in a public safety building which consisted of only 2 stories. Rumors were rampant as police, fire, and the courts were all in 1 building, and well, boys will be boys. I kept my nose clean and my reputation cleaner refusing to “fish off my own pier.”

I had been dating someone in the legal field, which often brought them to the building several times a week. As our relationship intensified (got closer to having sex), one day 3 dozen long stem roses were delivered to my office, to celebrate our 3 weeks of dating and his 3 weeks of waiting. This of course caused quite a bit of ruckus in the rumor mill and secretaries to cops were putting out APB’s trying to figure out just what innocent little me could have done to receive 3 dozen roses.

Shortly thereafter, he arrived at my office with a single rose. He had paid his penance and waited quite gallantly. We used the NEVER used elevator since the building was only 2 stories, pushed the emergency stop button, and I began to show my appreciation for the flowers. However, a building full of firemen and cops that hear an emergency bell tend to come running quickly, and our episode was cut short. It was clear to the huge crowd when we exited the elevator either something of a sexual nature had/was going to happen or this young man had a subway sandwich in his pants.

Embarrassed highly – but not thwarted – our hormones took over once we entered my office just off the courtroom. It was a Tuesday, meaning no court, no judge, empty huge room with solid furniture. I slipped on the judges robe (why? who the fuck knows? I was horny) and we began to “make mad passionate rulings” right there on top of the judges mahogany bench.

I had the gavel in my hand and it was just insane crazy good shit, like when you haven’t eaten in a week and you eat a cracker. Yeah, damn good cracker. We were letting loose over a month’s worth of pent up sexual anxiety and tension and it was awesome. Well until the point the mayor and the local news crew with cameras rolling came thru the court room double doors and looked straight at us.

Yeah, apparently it was “student government day” and there was a high school boy shadowing the mayor and the stupid TV News thought that was a worthy story. As the mayor was showing this kid around his kingdom, I don’t think they thought they would run across a court clerk being pounded on the judges bench with cameras rolling.

Much to my pleasure, the local news was kind enough (paid off) and didn’t air the story. The guy I was dating sent more flowers but I just knew it would never be as good as it was that day so I dumped him. Plus, the mayor kind of said something about conflict of interest. Oh yeah, I had to have the judge’s robe cleaned and apologize …that sucked.

And the Winner of the $25 gift certificate from Eden Fantasys is…

Certifiable Princess! Congrats, CP. Here’s her story:

So there I was, minding my own business.

No. Really. I was.

“Minding my own business” is probably a very polite way of saying “so I was in front of the computer, getting myself off, when all of a sudden…”

Oh yeah. Like you don’t. Pffft. Whatever.

Let me take you back, back, back…way back, to a time before the hotband was in the picture. To a time when internet porn reigned supreme in my life, because frankly A) I was checking out women, not men, B) The ex was a little lacking in the “give it to me night and day, baby” department and finally C) I don’t know. I was bored, it was there.

Again. Don’t judge me. You know damn well you do it too. You just don’t admit it on your blogs.

So there I am, in my computer chair. No kids at home. No (ex) husband was home at the time. It was just me, my computer and my portable little friend, Buzz Lightyear.

*blinks* Yeah. Like you don’t have a name for your vibrators (and/or penises!).

Lawdy, so judgmental!

I am pullin’ up some sweetass lesbo porn, a few threesomes, some gangbangs, couple of upskirts…you know, your average male porn, except it was being enjoyed by me…a female. Isn’t that so erotic? *eye roll* (I can literally hear my hotband panting all the way from NYC) *snort* HONEY! You’ve heard this story already. Get over it.

Anyway, when I feel I am primed and supremely ready for the thrills to begin, CLICK! On goes Buzz Lightyear! Yes! TAKE ME THERE! To Infinity…and BEYOND! Mouse in the right hand, Buzz in my left (yes, I am ambidextrous. I am also sodium free and low in monotriglycerides) and going to funky town! Wee hoo! When all of a sudden…

*snap*

My nail breaks.

Now, most women would have ignored this completely and continued with their quest to find the honeypot, the top of the mountain, the promised land. Nope. Not me. I cannot bear to look at the brunette babe, spread-eagle in front of me, a vision of celluloid perfection…WHILE I AM SPORTING A BROKEN NAIL! No. The Jewish princess in me takes over. This simply will not do. I mean, come on. How tacky is this? I won’t even look at porn that has a poorly manicured or pedicured model. It’s not that I am a porn snob, it’s just that I am…well, okay, so I’m a porn snob. But if I expect the most from my porn, then dammit, I will be nothing less than perfect when I cum too!

I place Buzz down on my bare lap, pants down around my ankles and lean down to my purse to get out my nail glue.

SQUEEZE.

Nothing.

SQUEEZE.

Nothing.

*stab stab stab the top of the tube of glue with safety pin and SQQQQQQQUUUUUUUUUUEEEEEZE…*

SPLOOGE!

Crazy glue explodes everywhere. I drop my fingernail. Bends over to pick up said fingernail, gluing her extremely large tits to the crazy glue that has pooled in my lap.

“SHIT!” I exclaim.

“Bzzzzzzz,” replies Buzz Lightyear with a muffled cry from below my mammaries.

“HA!” snorts extremely hot brunette spread eagle on my computer screen. If she could be laughing at me, she would be.

“What the fuck could be worse than this,” I think aloud, while trying to dislodge her vibrator from between her nipple and her labia.

*sound of garage door opening*

“HOLY FUCK,” I shriek, and jump jump jump, bent over, ass out, tits glued to thighs, into my bathroom and turn on the shower.

“Honey,” says the (ex) husband, “are you here?”

“I’m in the shower,” I call back.

“But I’m here,” says the hot brunette still dangling on the computer screen.

Fuck.

It was sort of hard explaining to my (ex) husband why there was a naked woman on my computer monitor.

“There was??? Really???” I feign complete ignorance. “Oh my gosh, someone must have sent me a virus.”

*blink. blink*

After 8 years, I think the patch of skin on my upper thigh is finally the same color as the rest of my thigh. For a long time, I had a tell-tale dildo shaped white spot where my tan tore away in the shape of my vibrator.

I now refer to it as my “birthmark”. It’s this version of the story that allows me to keep my PTA membership intact.

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I’ve gained 7 pounds. Not sure why. I have been exercising. Isn’t that the point of moving, to LOSE weight? Or at least not gain any?

Sigh.

Waiting. I hate it. Yesterday, I waited with Mom at the doctor’s. Almost an hour. With weak Edge, at best.

Visit went well. Mom is now officially without both her leg brace and the thumb brace. We should hear from PT this week to schedule her therapy. You couldn’t pay me to be in that room when they start working her knee. I’m not ready to hear my Mom talk like Hilly.

Fucking cocksnuggling sonofaWHORE! Touch that knee again and I’ll rip off your head and shit down your neck, you festering pool of donkey piss!

Today, we went to Social Security to ask a few questions. They have a brilliant system. If you go into Social Security at, say, 15 years old…then, by the time you get to the window, you’re probably eligible for Medicare.

They also tell you to turn your cell phone off before entering. Whatever. Listen, I’m barely convinced that my cell phone is a threat on a plane 33,000 feet in the air. I’m certainly not shutting it off in the Social Security office. I did, however, mute it.

What? I’ve got to get my Moxie on.

Patience. I don’t have much of it. I quit asking God to give me patience, because it inevitably means He provides me a shitton of situations in which I HAVE to be patient. Screw that. I don’t have the patience to gain patience legitimately.

I don’t like waiting, especially when the ball is totally not in my court. I chomp at the bit, grasping at something to do while I sit around and do, well, nothing. Waiting on YOU. Ugh.

Waiting on friends. Waiting on doctors. Waiting on the assclown in front of me in the checkout line at the grocery store to pay with all coins. Waiting on my meds in the mail. Waiting on 2HT to be finished. Waiting on April to get here so I can see Shannon. Hate it all.

SecondHand Radio Returns

One thing I have been waiting for is SecondHand Radio to return. It’s been months since Mom broke her kneecap. I tried one show after that and it didn’t go over well. I needed a break while Mom healed from her break. Well, she’s walking around now – slowly, but steadily – without a splint, so that’s good.

Thursday at 10pm Eastern, 2HRadio comes back. My guest is the lovely Maria, aka Mommy Melee.

Please mark your calendars, tell your friends. We’re back. I’m returning to one show a week, though. Thursday nights. Twice a week was too much.

Live chatroom to play in while the show is on. You’re all welcome to call in and talk to Maria, say hi, ask questions, whatever. Go to the SecondHand Radio page and get all the info.

Looking forward to it. I’ve missed my show. Thankfully, the waiting for that is nearly over.

I haven’t lined up any other guests. If you know of someone you’d like to hear as a guest, let me know. Even if it’s you.

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By now you’ve probably heard…I mean, if you follow me on Twitter or Facebook. My mother broke her kneecap Monday morning. She slipped on the icy sidewalk and broke it. The kneecap, not the sidewalk.

Perhaps now is a good time to remind you that I live in FLORIDA. Yes, my mother slipped on the ice IN FLORIDA, fell down, and broke her kneecap.

Here’s the part where I discover the fact that my mother is probably some rogue Black Ops agent who can chew up nails and spit out BB’s.

Mom’s cell phone battery was dead (bet that never happens again), so she couldn’t call me to come help her. So she crawled on a below-freezing sidewalk. With a broken kneecap. 40 FEET to the front door.

Then she reached up and rang the doorbell around 175 times. What can I say? I sleep hard.

The last thing I expected to see when I opened that front door at 8am Monday was my mother on the ground looking up at me.

It was like that Life Alert commercial: “Help! I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!” Except less funny.

Not that seniors falling down and not being able to get back up is funny, mind you. It’s the Life Alert commercial that’s so funny; or rather, the actresses they get to portray the fallingdownedness. Course, maybe that’s just me.

(And credit for that Life Alert reference goes to my niece, Lauren, who better not have this blog in her fucking browser.)

Got Mom to the Emergency Room and after a series of x-rays she was given the official, “You broke your patella.” Patella, by the way, reminds me of Nutella, which is very yummy…but I digress.

We go to the orthopedist in about 90 minutes. It’s going to require surgery, that we know for sure. Just not sure when yet. Within 2 weeks, most likely. We’ll know more in a while.

My mother is going to be 65 this year. Sorry, Mom. I believed you for many years that you were 36 - for decades in a row - but I suspected something was up when I turned 36 myself and realized you were either slightly exaggerating or had, in fact, discovered a way to bend the laws of time and space.

She’s a nurse in (ironically) home health-care. (I say ironically because her health insurance doesn’t cover home health-care.) She’s also fiercely independent. While she may be in a lot of pain physically, I’m sure she’d take twice the pain if she could only do everything by herself. But she can’t. And that, as they say, chaps her ass.

Mom hates feeling helpless. She hates being idle. She hates being a pain in the ass. Not that she IS, of course, but she FEELS like she is.

I had to break it down for her. “I know you hate the situation, Mom,” I said. “But you’re gonna have to suck it up and deal.” Then I shoved a handful of percoset into her mouth, knocked her over the head with a ball-peen hammer, and let her sleep for a while.

The prospect of mothering my own mother is a tad scary for me. “What you should be most scared of, Mom, is the notion that I’m in charge of feeding you for the foreseeable future.” Hell, that’d terrify the entire Al Qaeda network.

I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing. I’ve seen my mother’s panties twice now in the last 24 hours, and if that doesn’t make the Matrix Therapist’s mouth water, then the prospect of helping Mom bathe has GOT to make the MT’s nether regions all a-tingle. (Fortunately, Mom’s girly friends offered to help with the shower part. Whew.)

We’re slowly getting a system down. I think we can get Mom from her bed to her toilet in a matter of minutes instead of hours. If she needs me in the middle of the night, she has to call me on her cell (which is fully charged, believe you me) because her room and mine are on opposite sides of the house.

And she did call me this morning so she could go pee. At 6:15. In the MORNING.

I may have my moments, but I didn’t have the heart to say, “Mom, can’t you wait 45 minutes till my alarm goes off?”

Mostly because I knew I’d have to clean her up.

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I had a great freaking holiday weekend. I really needed it. So much stress, so much bad juju floating around my neck of the blogosphere. Many loved ones in pain right now, myself included.

So I really needed the laughs, and I got them. You can’t not laugh around children; and if you can, we probably won’t get along.

A dear friend of mine - Faith, 6 - routinely makes me spew beverages through my nostrils. She’s a lover of fine cereals, as am I. Her favorite is Lucky Charms, mine is Crunchberries…whatever, it’s a personal preference.

Faith was disappointed to find that the Bob Evans restaurant does not have cereal on their menu. (Course, even if they did, they probably wouldn’t have Lucky Charms.) So the other night, we were all talking about where to go for dinner and I suggested this buffet place.

Before we left, I asked her if she knew where we were going.

“Yes,” she said. “The buffet.”

“You know something, Faith? I’m not sure I understand what a buffet is. Can you explain it to me?”

She nodded. “A buffet,” she said, with big sweeping arm gestures, “is a place where you can have aaaaaaanything you want…except cereal.”

Had I been drinking at the time, I’m sure I would have spewed said beverage about 20 yards through my nostrils. I need more of that for the new year. Laughter. Less stress. I’d forgotten what it feels like to truly relax, to play and be childlike. I hope it’s not something I forget again.

It’s the last day of 2009. Time for me to get my crap together, snap out of the fucking fog that this year has been for me. Time for me to work, get back on the horse, make life a lot less stressful by earning some money.

I have a lot of ideas I want to see happen, a couple of them could really take off.

I want a blog redesign. I want to blog. I want to READ blogs.

I want to continue cutting toxic people out of my life. I simply don’t have the patience to deal with them. And even if I did, I don’t have the desire.

2010 is going to be different. I can feel it. Big things are coming. Good things. The final season of Lost, for one. Listen, I’m not ashamed to tell you this… in my darkest hours, when I’ve all but given up on life? It’s my need to know all the answers on Lost that keeps me hanging on. And they damn well better give me those answers. And if, in the last 3 minutes of the last episode, they show that John Locke IS the Smoke Monster, I’m gonna go postal.

Right, the good things. It’s going to rain Butterfingers in 2010. Cancer will die forever. A Greatest American Hero/Quantum Leap TV reunion mashup movie will be announced. Tiger Woods will join Sexaholics Anonymous. Balloon Boy will inspire a new cult, filled with Balloon Boys and Balloon Girls, and the skies will be filled with mylar and Twitter will freak the fuck out. Again. Dickish ex-spouses and ex-significant-others will stop harassing my friends. Sarah Palin will announce her candidacy for President in 2012, thus assuring that I will vote Democrat for the second time in my life.  Fox TV will stop being an asshole about trying to charge people for broadcast fucking television, like the ads aren’t enough revenue for them.

A shiny new 32GB iPhone will be mine.

People around the world will realize that we all have far more in common than not, and they’ll all stop fighting and killing each other over stupid ass shit, like land and drugs and politics and (for the love of God) God. The lion will lay down with the lamb and all that jazz. OK, maybe I’m getting a little crazy.

It’s gonna be good, people, that’s all I’m saying. I demand it.

I’m off to celebrate the end of this hot mess known as 2009. I hope you all have a great night and that none of you drinks and drives (cuz then I’d have to disown you). For those alone tonight, I hope you’ll take in some warm, fuzzy movies on the telly…or some schlocky B-movie sci-fi. And those of my friends that have my cell can call me, of course. Or text. Just know that I plan on getting my drink on tonight, so I can’t guarantee a speedy delivery on the response track.

So all of you have a great New Year.

2010 - now with Improved Flavor and 90% less injunctions!

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