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Many of you ask me about my religion, wondering if I truly adhere to the belief in an all powerful, all-knowing God.

Here’s what I think: None of us can truly know if God exists, but anyone who admires nature, must see that there is a Grand Organizer serving as the CEO of the Universe. Season come and go, babies are born; life is a perfect cycle, the ultimate musical symphony. Even the parts of life that make no rational sense at first do HAVE MEANING, once we devote ourselves to examining the mysteries. All you need to do is OPEN YOUR EYES.

Let’s take the idea behind aging. We get old and die. It is rather dumb idea. If you were going to create a MAN in your image, would you really go out of the way to make him start out as young and strong, and then, as then as he gets older and wiser, have his body and mind fall apart until he is just plain dead, lying in a hospital bed.

Makes no sense, right? This God should be fired, or at sued, like Toyota is being sued with their faulty accelerators on the Prius.

But hold on. Let’s approach it from another angle — a philosophical method — one operating under the assumption that God carefully and methodically plans life out with an organizer on his heavenly iPad.

This morning I took a walk outside. Summer is approaching in Los Angeles. The flowers are blooming. Women are walking around in tight t-shirts and shorts. I found myself attracted to several of these women. Some were young, some were older.

And what type of thoughts were flying through my head? Yes, the existence of God.

Here’s why –

When you are a man in your early twenties, you spend most of your time trying to get into the pants of a woman your age. All other women seem too old, unless you are a Mrs. Robinson type perv.

As you move into your latter twenties, you notice that your female friends are ALSO in their late twenties. It shocks you to realize that they are actually SEXIER now than women in their early twenties. What happened? They have more confidence, more life experience. Of course, you wouldn’t refuse to hop in the sack with a twenty-two year old, but your age range has expanded, creating more opportunities.

I know every man remembers the moment he turned thirty and opened his eyes, and said, “Holy shit, women in their thirties are f**king hot!” Ten years ago, these would seem like old women. Now they are in their prime. These women have lose their shyness, and it is not uncommon to hear a thirty-five year old woman telling a man on a first date, “How about after dinner we go back to my place, watch the last episode of Lost, and I’ll give you a blowjob you will never forget.” No woman in her twenties would ever say that. Of course, as a man, you are still attracted to women in their twenties. But now, in most cases, you are attracted to women in their twenties AND THIRTIES.

You see where this is going. This natural selection continues as the man ages, so by the time a man is in his eighties, he is interested in fucking every woman from 21-89. Without God lower his libido, can you imagine how difficult it would be for a 90 year old man to go outside without tripping over his erection and breaking his hip?

Luckily, God is merciful. Even with the lessening of the libido, there is a point in a man’s life when he is attracted to women his own age, his daughter’s age, his granddaughter’s age, AND HIS great-granddaughter’s age. The pain is just too much for anyone, and God, in his wisdom, allows him to die.

God exists.

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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This week has been a total write-off as far as exercise is concerned. I’ve been sick for a week now, and even though I’m pretty sure it’s just a cold, it’s been kicking my ass. Major snot factory, coughing, wheezing, headaches, sore throat, etc. (And yes, I’m keenly aware that smoking isn’t helping…that Resolution will come later this year. Not ready for that one yet.)

Being sick isn’t something I do well. It’s a rarity to begin with, perhaps once a year (twice if it’s a bad year). In this case, it’s been over a year since I was last afflicted with anything. Physical, I mean. Mentally, I’m afflicted many times over, of course.

We’re nearly done with March already, but I’m calling the exercise Resolution successful. I’ll start on it again as soon as I’m up to snuff. Let’s take a look at the Resolutions so far, yeah?

January: Diabetes. This is still going strong, mostly. I’ve been a bit lax on checking sugar this past week. Getting on the horse again, though. My sugar this morning (before meds or breakfast) was 211. High, yes, but again…haven’t been great about everything this past week. Sugar the last week has averaged 146.

I’ll be filling my weekly pillboxes when I finish here. Doing really good taking my meds most of the time, too.

February: Work. Meh. Not so great here. Plan to get to work today, as well. Gotta write a story. And I haven’t even begun looking for another writing gig, though I’m totally open to more.

March: Exercise. Already mentioned. I plan on continuing with this. I’ve seen how it affects (positively) my blood sugar…knocks it down quite a bit. And that’s a good thing. That was part of the idea behind the Year of Resolutions: that they’d interplay in various ways, all to make me feel better physically and mentally.

Now it’s time to think about April. We’re only days away from it and I need to come up with another Resolution. I have it narrowed down to a few ideas, but am open to more suggestions. I’m leaning toward something spiritual at the moment. We’ll see.

I’ll be announcing the winner(s) of the Funniest Sex Story contest tomorrow. Got some really good entries.

Lordy, I need a new computer. Finally fixed my problematic mouse by getting a new wireless mouse. Works fine now…must have been the old mouse’s receiver that was the problem. But my 4-yr-old Dell laptop is just sluggish. Takes nearly 7 or 8 minutes to fully boot. Maxed on RAM, dependent on an external hard drive.

Oh, Apple, why can’t you send me a shiny new MacBook Pro on a scholarship or something?

In the good news department, I’m mending things with a friend, and that feels nice. The last few months have been a whirlwind of a roller coaster ride. The Matrix Therapist noted that I seem “different” at our last session. Not sure what that means, exactly, but she said I seem “mellower.”

The new meds seem to be doing something, I’m just not sure what, exactly. My energy levels seem higher (this past week notwithstanding). My mood? Perhaps better, but not markedly so.

The new 2HT design is coming along. Not on the schedule I was hoping for, but then that’s what happens when your designer has sick kiddos. Fucking priorities…ugh. The development site is up and running. I’m thinking it should only be a couple of weeks, but can’t be sure. In the meantime, the runner-up from the Funniest Sex Story contest is getting a sneak-peek at the new design with a specially-made item from the 2HT store.

Speaking of which, there’s a new shirt for the dudes. I already had a girl’s shirt made up. Now the guys are free to tell it like it is, too.

Seriously, It’s Not Me. It’s You. MEN SHIRT by karlerikson

Naturally, you can customize the color and style of shirt.

Lastly, I decided to end my relationship with my ad network. I love BlogHer, don’t get me wrong. I just got tired of being suspended for the occasionally offensive post, or for running a giveaway. If I was pulling in hundreds of dollars in revenue, that’d be one thing, but I’m not. I barely cover my monthly hosting costs. Just not worth it any more.

So that’s what’s going on with me at the moment. How about you?

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CONTEST

Eden Fantasys is providing me with a prize to give away to you, my lovely, dirty readers. It’s a $25 gift certificate to their shop, and believe me when I tell you, there are lots of things for girls and guys alike in that store. You could even use that $25 toward their Kissa glass vibrator. It’s waterproof and everything.

RULES

1. Email me your funniest sex stories. I want the stuff that makes me spit beer through my nose. Confusing super glue for lube is tragic, by the way, not especially funny. Email your stories to karl at secondhandkarl dot com. Be sure to put Crazy Sex Story in the SUBJECT.

2. Deadline is MIDNIGHT on Wednesday, March 24. That’s just before we officially hit Thursday. Don’t be late.

3. One entry per person, please.

4. I will not be judging the contest. Instead, I have chosen three remarkable individuals to read the stories and come up with a winner and a runner-up. The judges are: Michel (LeSombre), Shannon (Bubblewench), and Janet (IzzyMom). They won’t see the names or emails of the people sending the stories, just the stories themselves.

5. Funniest story receives the $25 gift certificate to Eden Fantasys. Runner-up will receive a special prize from the SecondHand TryptoGear store. It might even contain a peek at the new 2HT design, coming to a browser near you very soon.

So…get to writing. Make us laugh with your dirty, dirty self.

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CONTEST

Eden Fantasys is providing me with a prize to give away to you, my lovely, dirty readers. It’s a $25 gift certificate to their shop, and believe me when I tell you, there are lots of things for girls and guys alike in that store. You could even use that $25 toward their Kissa glass vibrator. It’s waterproof and everything.

RULES

1. Email me your funniest sex stories. I want the stuff that makes me spit beer through my nose. Confusing super glue for lube is tragic, by the way, not especially funny. Email your stories to karl at secondhandkarl dot com. Be sure to put Crazy Sex Story in the SUBJECT.

2. Deadline is MIDNIGHT on Wednesday, March 24. That’s just before we officially hit Thursday. Don’t be late.

3. One entry per person, please.

4. I will not be judging the contest. Instead, I have chosen three remarkable individuals to read the stories and come up with a winner and a runner-up. The judges are: Michel (LeSombre), Shannon (Bubblewench), and Janet (IzzyMom). They won’t see the names or emails of the people sending the stories, just the stories themselves.

5. Funniest story receives the $25 gift certificate to Eden Fantasys. Runner-up will receive a special prize from the SecondHand TryptoGear store. It might even contain a peek at the new 2HT design, coming to a browser near you very soon.

So…get to writing. Make us laugh with your dirty, dirty self.

*****

Allow me to share a few photos from the amazing Ben Folds concert the other night. Great freaking show, and my first time seeing him live. Also got to discover a new artist (for me, anyway): Zach Williams. Another outstanding performer.

He played everything I wanted to hear – “Annie Waits,” “Landed,” and even “Gone.” Banged on that piano like you wouldn’t believe. Rocked.

Back to an ongoing project…filling up that self-worth tank. Mine’s a little rusty, but y’know…

There are people that fill that tank up for me on a routine basis. Well, they try, and I’m trying to be better about absorbing the love.

Just a few of them:

1. Angel. I wrote a post about some of the things I love about that woman. All those things are true. The woman is amazing and helps keep me sane almost daily. Level head, smart as a whip (a really smart whip), and amazingly patient with me. Believe me, I require a lot of patience, particularly when it comes to buying into the nice things people say about/to me. She talks me off the proverbial ledge a lot. Makes me think about things I’m not thinking about, see things from a different perspective. She’s also woman enough to let me know when I’m being an unreasonable fuckhead. Adore, adore, adore.

2. Shannon. My Prick Buddy, and also the woman most likely to make me cough up a lung from laughing so hard. Shannon is real beyond real. She says what’s on her mind, often without a filter, and I really dig that. We text every day, swapping blood sugar readings and diabetic woes, and I wouldn’t have my diabetes under the control it’s under if not for Shannon. I admire her for the way she’s taking care of herself lately. Like me, she’s lost a lot of weight the last year, is actively working more of it off and taking an active role in her health. We talk on the phone every so often, too, and she’s one of the elite people that don’t make me want to rip my ears off if the conversation goes more than 10 minutes. (And it pretty much always does.) Good, solid people. I’d trust her with my life.

3. Sybil Law. Despite her having the blog URL from HELL, Sybil is another amazing gal who I can talk to for hours. Funny as shit, snarky, intelligent. She, too, helps ground me with her level-headed laid-back attitude. Another real-as-you-can-get girl, you pretty much know where you stand with her at all times. She has a problem, she’ll let you know. She’s great to bounce ideas off of. And she occasionally pumps sunshine up my skirt, which I’m prone to believe because I don’t think she’d say nice shit if it wasn’t something she believed. Unless it involved Dave Grohl. Love her.

Three people that make my world a better place.

Photo: http://www.flickr.com/photos/brokersaunders/ / CC BY 2.0

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Tonight at 10pm Eastern, it’s SecondHand Radio with my guest Father Muskrat, who you can find on Twitter here. I met the man at BlogHer ‘09 and enjoyed his company a lot. Course, that was before I learned he has a giant tallywhacker. Now I feel slightly threatened. Nevertheless, the show must go on.

Sadly, I just learned BlogHer is sold out, so it’s pretty much a given me and my offensive t-shirts won’t be there this year. Damn unemployment.

Showtime: 10:00 PM EST, 9PM Central, 8PM Mountain, 7PM Pacific. Chatroom opens 15 minutes before showtime.

Call-In Number: 724-444-7444, Call ID 23738

Show Link: http://www.talkshoe.com/tc/23738

List of future guests can be found here.

HIGHLY RECOMMENDED: To avoid browser problems (which some people tend to have with Talkshoe), you should do the following:

1. REGISTER AT TALKSHOE BEFORE THE SHOW.

2. DOWNLOAD THE TALKSHOE CLIENT.

3. If you have trouble logging in, feel free to call in and I’ll leave you on mute. You can listen to the show live that way.

The Talkshoe Live client works great and (for my money, though it’s free) offers a better chatroom experience.

Look forward to seeing you all there tonight. You’re all welcome to call in and chat.

CONTEST

Eden Fantasys is providing me with a prize to give away to you, my lovely, dirty readers. It’s a $25 gift certificate to their shop, and believe me when I tell you, there are lots of things for girls and guys alike in that store. I may own some things myself. What? A boy likes a hot pink vibrator. Don’t judge.

You could even use that $25 toward their Kissa glass vibrator. It’s waterproof and everything.

RULES

1. Email me your funniest sex stories. I want the stuff that makes me spit beer through my nose. Confusing super glue for lube is tragic, by the way, not especially funny. Email your stories to karl at secondhandkarl dot com. Be sure to put Crazy Sex Story in the SUBJECT.

2. Deadline is MIDNIGHT on Wednesday, March 24. That’s just before we officially hit Thursday. Don’t be late.

3. One entry per person, please.

4. I will not be judging the contest. Instead, I have chosen three remarkable individuals to read the stories and come up with a winner and a runner-up. The judges are: Michel (LeSombre), Shannon (Bubblewench), and Janet (IzzyMom). They won’t see the names or emails of the people sending the stories, just the stories themselves.

5. Funniest story receives the $25 gift certificate to Eden Fantasys. Runner-up will receive a special prize from the SecondHand TryptoGear store. It might even contain a peek at the new 2HT design, coming to a browser near you very soon.

So…get to writing. Make us laugh with your dirty, dirty self.

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Had a scare yesterday where I didn’t completely read a letter I got from the VA. Thought they were cutting me out of the VA system, but actually, they were denying my emergency room claim from January. Y’know, where I did the faceplant on my kitchen floor?

Paying $170 for the damn E.R. visit is much better than having to switch all of my doctors, I have to say. Lesson learned…read EVERYTHING. Then panic.

Doctor visit this morning. My blood sugar readings are highest in the mornings, generally always above 200. So we’re moving back to an evening dose of long-acting insulin. Just a small dose, so I don’t feel all that panicked. Not too worried about crashing – my sugars are fairly under control. I haven’t had a low-sugar event in a couple of months or so.

I go back in a couple of weeks for another follow-up. New lab tests in a month, right after Shannon gets here.

The YOR exercising? Going well. I’m doing the 5-days-a-week thing. And though I haven’t yet found something that trips my trigger, I’m still sticking with it.  This week, the Zumba class starts, and even though I’m told it will kick my ass, I’m going to try it. I figure if I can get in on the ground floor, maybe I have a shot. Then again, if it kicks my ass the very first class?

There’s other stuff I haven’t yet tried, but am already convinced it’ll be too hard. A Pilates/Yoga class. Belly dancing. Hatha yoga. So far, most of my activity at the Y is treadmill (still). I tried a stationery bike thing yesterday, and that was cool. May go with that one some more. If it weren’t for my iPod, I’d be bored out of my skull. I’m still bored, but at least I have tunes. And sometimes Adam Carolla’s podcast.

Tomorrow, I go to see Ben Folds in concert. Woo hoo! Never seen him live before, and I can’t wait. Tickets were a reasonable $34. Now, if I could just cough up $70 or so to see Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers (with Joe Cocker as an opener!), that’d rock even more.

Poppy recently wrote about filling up the self-worth tank. Good post, great idea, but no surprise, considering the source.

Soooooo, here’s the challenge: Fill up someone else’s self worth tank. Let’s say nice things about how awesome each other is so that we feel like our existence on this planet is not a waste of space, time, and energy. If you’re strong enough to say nice things about yourself, then do that too.

I’m gonna start today with the hardest part…saying nice things about ME. That shit gives me the heebie jeebies, but bear with me. I’m not well-versed at this stuff.

I’m smart. I mentioned this briefly in my 100 Things list, but my I.Q. only rarely manifests in obvious ways. Just because I’m smart doesn’t mean I don’t make plenty of bonehead moves. Oh, right…NICE things. See? Told you I’m not so great at this.

On occasion, my brilliance does shine. Case in point:

When I was a little kid, around 9 or so, my parents were both working. I had a babysitter, of course, who was a teenager and more interested in boys and cranking Queen records than keeping up with my sister and I.

My father had this amazing smutty magazine collection, which I’d recently been perusing whenever I had the chance. There were a handful of neighborhood kids over at my house and I told them I had something to show them.

We go into my parents’ bedroom and close the door. I slide open the closet door and point to the shelf up top. STACKS and STACKS of mags, each complete with naked women in lots of odd positions with naked men.

Ages of the kids ranged from 14 down to around 6 or 7. Johnny, the teen, pulled down a couple of stacks for us to look through. We all got on my folks’ bed and started paging through the mags.

Oh my God. GROSS! She has his thing in her mouth!

Why would anyone want a thing in their mouth?

Look at this! His thing is in HER thing!

She looks like she’s in a LOT of pain!

Do you think that’s what ALL policemen do with women?

Our burgeoning education of naked things came to a sudden halt, however, when I heard my father’s car pull up in front of the house.

“Oh no! It’s my DAD!”

And five boys started freaking the fuck out, gathering all the dirty magazines in a heartbeat. Most of them ran from my parents’ bedroom, not heeding my pleas for help to restore the bedroom to its proper working order.

My life was flashing before my eyes. I stacked the mags, and shoved them back up onto the closet shelf.

It was then that God decided to have me killed.

The shelf came toppling down inside the closet. And approximately 847,000 porn mags crashed to the floor, spilling everywhere.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaah!

I was dead meat. My father would be coming in at any moment. All my friends had run out the back door, retreating to leave me to my execution.

Then…a flash of brilliance. Little Karl saw what had to be done.

I shoved all the magazines back inside the confines of the closet, grabbed Midnight (my black cat), tossed her inside the closet, and closed the door. And I ran from the bedroom, just in time to greet my father at the front entryway. I was damn proud of that maneuver, proof that I could think fast on my feet and avoid certain death.

I finally admitted to my father that Midnight wasn’t the culprit…y’know, around 20 years later. Naturally, he and my stepmother both laughed and acknowledged what a smart move I’d made.

Perhaps I’m just a porn-savant, I don’t know. But either way, I’m smart.

I even understand why it’s not such a bad experience to have my thing in her mouth. And that the reason why she looks like she’s in such pain when my thing is in HER thing is because I forgot to pack my lubed shoehorn.

Photo: http://www.flickr.com/photos/36498826@N02/ / CC BY-NC 2.0

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Nana (pictured here with Uncle Saddam)

My grandmother, pictured above with her second favorite dictator, passed away Friday night. This is the same grandmother I've written about previously. She was suffering from the late stages of Alzheimer's, and her death, while sad, was merciful.

Eileen was the oldest of 15 children. She raised many of her younger brothers and sisters as if they were her own children, and supported many of them, paying for college and other expenses, just like a parent. She was the matriarch to the Irish Catholic side of my family. By the time I knew her, she was the very strict, serious, older lady that you didn't dare disappoint. She was very religious, never swore, was fair to each grandchild to a fault, and disapproved of fully half of anything that a child would do. This isn't to say that she didn't love – she cared deeper than she showed, and loved everyone equally and unconditionally. But you sure as fuck didn't want to do anything to disappoint her. "You had better hope that your Nana doesn't hear about this!" was a familiar mantra heard around my home. Today, I got the chance to interview her posthumously which means, thankfully, that her mental state had returned to how she used to be. (NOTE: The following is a PARODY and in no way reflects my actual grandmother, who was about as close to a saint as you could possibly be.)

Me: Hi Nana.

Nana: Hi dear.

Me: I'm sorry you're not here anymore. I miss you.

Nana: Is that why you only visited me once when I was in the home?

Me: It was too hard to see you like that. And I didn't think you'd really want any of us to see you in that state.

Nana: So does this mean you're skipping my funeral too?

Me: If it wasn't to be there for Mom and Papa, I wouldn't go to that, either.

Nana: And what's this I hear about you getting a divorce?

Me: Ohhh, ummm, yeah.

Nana: You know you're going to hell, right?

Me: For getting a divorce? That's not fair.

Nana: No, not for the divorce – that's just what you get for living in sin before you got married.

Me: Then why?

Nana: Because I can see everything now – and there is no way God is letting you into heaven with all of that porn you look at.

Me: You can see THAT?!?

Nana: Yes, and you should be ashamed of yourself. If I wasn't already dead, finding out that there's something called "tranny porn" would have killed me on the spot. And then how would you have liked finding out that you killed your poor grandmother?

Me: But I didn't! And that was just for research purposes.

Nana: You need a hand down your pants to research?

Me: I . . Uh . . Um . . .

Nana: I'm just fucking with you.

Me: NANA!!!

Nana: What? Can't a woman drop an f-bomb on you?

Me: Not when you're my Nana, and I've never even heard you say "hell"!

Nana: I usually reserved that type of language for the bedroom.

Me: Oh God.

Nana: You don't want to hear about me and your grandfather having sex? You do know that your mother wasn't immaculately conceived, even if she's convinced you she was, right?

Me: No no no no no no (rocking back and forth)

Nana: I used to joke that your Papa's name was destined to be Howie . . .

Me: Please stop (crying)

Nana: . . . as in "how he makes me feel down there"

Me: shh shh shh shh no shhh shh

Nana: And by "down there", I mean my vagina.

Me: GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA…..

Roy Scheider
Zelda Rubinstein and J.D. Salinger
Brittany Murphy
Oral Roberts
John Lennon
Ken Ober
Henry Gibson
Patrick Swayze
Ted Kennedy
John Hughes
Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett
Walter Cronkite
Billy Mays
Ed McMahon
Stephen Hawking
Robert Novak
Caylee Anthony
David Carradine
Martin Luther King, Jr.

So I mentioned that my Resolution this month hit a snag. Big time. Bottom line is, I got fired. From one of my gigs, not both.

Not that it’s a huge shock, mind you. After all, I haven’t worked in quite a while. I take the blame for that.

I won’t say exactly which site fired me, but it doesn’t involve travel blogging, and it might rhyme loosely with Brain Trawler.

No matter. It’s lit a fire under my ass. I plan on doing more travel stories until I find another gig to add to the hotel blogging. So if you know of anything, please let me know. Especially if it involves me writing more humor’ish, slice-of-life stuff. I’m also going to get my other little project going. I told you, I have ideas.

Course, this reaffirms what I’ve already said. TequilaCon is definitely out for me this year. And it doesn’t look good for BlogHer, either. Disappointing, to say the least. For you, I mean. Ahem.

In the meantime, I thought I’d write a little letter to any future employers I have. I’m sure they’re all reading this and are interested in anything and everything I have to say.

Dear Future Employers:

Hi, I wanted to take a moment to give you a list of things you might try in order to make my life with you more pleasant. Or more professional. Whatever.

1. You should know up front that I prefer being notified when I get fired. You know, as close to when you hire my replacements as is convenient for you. To clarify, telling me months later – only after I am ready to return to work – is just a tad late for my taste. I realize it’s a personal preference, but it’s MY personal preference.
2. If you simply must fire me, I prefer getting a phone call over getting an email 15 minutes before end-of-business. It’s more professional and, as an added bonus, it doesn’t make your company seem like it truly doesn’t give a fuck about their employees.
3. Please don’t try to explain your decisions for firing me, unless you’re giving me REAL reasons. I’m not as dumb as I look. For example, saying that it’s because of “budgetary constraints” when you only have a finite number of writing slots per day, and it doesn’t matter who writes them or gets paid for them, is kinda bogus’ish.
4. If you’re going to fire me, please do me the kindness of removing me from the company email lists first. I have enough email to wrestle with every day, I don’t need more.
5. If you happen to be in, say, the gossip industry, please don’t pretend to class up the joint by not using words like “butt” or “nude.” Especially if it’s a blog skewed toward mommies. Because moms happen to be nude a lot, and they also have butts. And they’re also there to read GOSSIP. Running a gossip blog – and again, this is only if you happen to be in that industry – and telling the writers they can’t use words like “sex” or “boobs” is a little like telling TMZ not to take photos. It can be done, mind you, but no one is going to want to read it any more. And I think the traffic reflects that. Or *would*…sorry.
6. I like employers who send me things like free coffee or Cherry Coke Zero. And massage gift certificates. Even without the Happy Ending added on, it’s still a nice perk.

I have other ideas, too, if you care to ask for my input. Most involve naked women, but I do have a great one that includes a shaved giraffe.

Sincerely,

Karl Erikson

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I wrote this late last Sunday for CheekySweetie’s blog. I know it was overdue, but I did get it done. -K

So there was this bet that Angel and I made. She claimed that the carpet in her bedroom was the ugliest carpet on Earth. I told her that I have 10 years on her, grew up in the 70’s, and have seen a TON of ugly carpet. Hello? Lime green and burnt orange, people? Shag carpeting?

If, in fact, she did possess the ugliest carpet on Earth, I would have to write her a guest post for her blog. This, during a time when I barely touched my own blog. Good choice. She wanted to make me work.

If, in fact, she did NOT own the nastiest carpet on the planet, well…shit, I forget what I would have won. It doesn’t matter, clearly, because I’m here, aren’t I?

I lose. Story of my life.

She really does have the ugliest carpet on the planet. It has dark orange and blood red and puce and cream, all swirled together in this melange that you’d think would look like a creamsicle but, in fact, looks like someone vomited all over her floor. I wish I’d gotten photos of it.

Thought about it a lot over the holidays. Wasn’t sure what I’d write, but came up with a Top 10 list because I’m lazy.

I don’t ever talk about my love life on my own blog, but then, I’m not exactly AT my blog, now am I? See? This is what you get for getting me to write a guest post for you, Angel. Next time you’ll think twice.

Why CheekySweetie Rocks

1. Angel blogs. I’ve always said that my future girlfriend was going to have to be a blogger. Blogger girls are the only ones who’d understand all the time I spend on a computer. Facebook, Twitter, blogging…she does it all and more often than I do. She doesn’t even blink when my thumbs are blazing across my iPhone’s virtual keyboard, mostly because she’s on her Droid Eris playing Bonsai Blast and doesn’t give a fuck. Me likey.
2. Angel is smart and shit. Like, really really smart. Case in point, she beats me at least 50% of the time on Words With Friends (a Scrabble clone). This is why I like her intelligence only 50% of the time (at least). Seriously, smart chicks are very sexy, and she has the sexy in spades. She’s not *too* smart, though. She still gets that impish grin when I say something juvenile like, “Heh, you just said ‘hard.’”
3. Angel is geeky. One time (not in band camp), I was on my iPhone and I gasped with excitement. “You know what I love?” I said to her. Without even looking up from her iPod Touch, she said, “When you go to the App Store and there are updates for your apps waiting?” Oh. My. God. I showed her my phone…4 app updates ready. “YES!” She totally gets me.
4. Angel is low-maintenance. I need to make this the criteria for all my relationships, friendship or otherwise. I like low-mai. She doesn’t care that my main wardrobe consists of silly t-shirts and cargo shorts. She doesn’t demand a lot of phone time. In fact, half the time, our dialogue is via text messaging. Don’t get me wrong. We talk on the phone frequently, and I always enjoy it, but she’s not big into the phone talk, and either am I. Usually.
5. Angel is generous. Spent a few days with her and the kids in Daytona Beach right after New Year’s. I was outside on the balcony smoking (what can I say? I’m smoking hot) and she told me what there was for lunch. I said I’d make a sandwich when I got back inside. When I did get back inside (brr! It was FREEZING out!) there was a sandwich already waiting. “You didn’t have to do that, babe,” I said. She just smiled and said, “I know.” That’s just one example out of dozens, if not hundreds. Oh, and she rubs my shoulders a lot, which kinda makes me purr.
6. Angel is kind. Time and time again, I’ve watched her with others. She’s always encouraging, always has nice things to say…kind of the opposite of me, really.
7. Angel makes me laugh. A lot. This fits well into my new life philosophy: Laugh more, laugh more. On top of that, she has a great laugh herself, though she might not agree with me on that. Always makes me smile to hear it, and really, aren’t I what matters most?
8. Angel says what she’s feeling. Like, without head games and crap. Do you know how rare this is? She tells it like it is, and doesn’t mince words about it, either. I dig that. Heavily. Her honesty is refreshing and never laced with malice, and I dig that, too.
9. Angel is a phenomenal mother. I’ve watched her with those children of hers, and I’ve spent time with those kids. They’re super-smart, polite kids, all three of whom are a delight to be around. Well, save for the teen boy, who is excelling at his misanthrope duties. Angel is amazing at showing her kids that they have choices, and that there are consequences for our choices. She’s also very good at follow-through, which many of us parents sadly lack a lot of the time.
10. Angel doesn’t think I suck. Really, this should be at the top of the list…y’know, if I were prioritizing the list. It should go without saying that a girlfriend would not think her boyfriend sucks, but I continue to find this amazing. My insecurities run rampant (depending on the day) and I often wonder what any woman in her right mind would see in me. Angel doesn’t hesitate to tell me. And I almost believe her.

So, to sum up, Angel is like a comedic slightly-raunchy version of Mother Teresa. Just with better boobs.

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