It's a well known fact that there are four distinct kinds of female orgasm.

There's the Positive Orgasm, "Oh, yes. Oh, Yes! Oh, YES!"
The Negative Orgasm, "Oh, no. Oh, No! Oh, NO!"

...read the rest...

Over the long weekend I deliberately avoided any kind of work. Even the voluntary and therapeutic work of writing Fiddley posts. NaBloPoMo can NaPoMoBlow me.

I had (have) a great post in my head to write today but no time in which to write it. I promise you, later tonight or tomorrow I will download it from my brain and upload it to the interwebs.

I haven't had free time in quite some time. Now, faced with a four-day weekend that includes only two nights of performances, I hardly know what to do with myself.

Donna asked, "So what are your plans tonight?"

"You know... I. Just. Don't. Know."

I'm going to be building an updated blogroll very soon. I hope to make a cool little rotating sidebar or something. At the very least I want to update to list I currently have.

But I need your help. If you want to be included in the blogroll or have a site I absolutely must make part of my daily reads, post it here now.

If you post your URL, I promise, it will be in my blogroll. If you post someone else's, I promise I will check it out. If you don't have a blog yet... what are you thinking? Get one going, start writing and let me be the first to link to you!

"How's that rum smoothy treating you?"

"It made me a little dizzy."

"The word you're looking for is tipsy."

Sometimes when I read what Pete has written about me, I cry and I feel stupid. I wonder how I ever deserved to written about in this way. I wonder if all the nice days that we have had ever happened. Because he chooses not to write about them.

How come he doesn't have "Pete" under the word "Topics" with all the crap he has ever done that was stupid or self-destructive? Rational or not, today is one of those days where I am going to feel sorry for myself, You will have to excuse me.

Back when I was but a wee Mormon boy, I learned all the Primary Songs. I Am A Child Of God, The Chapel Doors, Book of Mormon Stories.

Ah, Book of Mormon Stories. Remember the hand actions to that one? Where you pound your fist in the palm of your hand to the beat of imaginary war drums then put two fingers behind your head like a couple of eagle feathers? Everything about that song, from the rhythm of the bass line to the lyrics and pantomime Indian stereotypes reinforced a single, simple message. That the people talked about in the book, the Lamanites who defeated the Nephites in an epic battle Cecil DeMille would be proud of, are today's American Indians.

That message was echoed in the introduction to the copy of Book of Mormon that my Branch President gave me the day I was baptized. "After thousands of years, all were destroyed except the Lamanites, and they are the principal ancestors of the American Indians."

I've had a hard time catching up on my sleep lately. After a couple days on the road and a weekend full of shows and rehearsal I was finally able to sleep in on Sunday morning.

Usually sleep-in mornings are interrupted by the kids or the dog or the insane urge to empty my fifty-nine gallon bladder. But this Sunday I was able to sleep soundly well into the ten o'clock hour. Which was followed by me not showering and instead watching television in my underwear until about one o'clock.

So far so good.

I'm leaving our fair Zion for yet another babysitting... err... business trip today. This time to St. Louis, MO. Well, Ofallon, to be specific.

I enjoy travel, for the most part but have become weary of traveling with co-workers and spending my time in offices. Business meetings in conference rooms are exactly the same everywhere as they are here. Exactly. The. Same.

But, off I go. To rescue this project and be the only one of three vendors who meet our deadlines only to have the entire project delayed at the hands of less-in-every-way companies who can't manage to look at a calendar and realize that it's been a week since our last meeting and they've done nothing at all. Such is my life.

So I had this ambitious idea that I would kick ass on this whole NaBloPoMo thing. That ambition got me exactly two days in before a Saturday full of rehearsal, a show, and a beer-and-karaoke-filled birthday party for Sarah distracted me. So, unless you count drunken Twitters and iBlog entries, I am a total failure at the daily posting thing. Just add that to the pile of things I'm a total failure at.

On the upside, Donna and I are keeping up on our other once-a-day-every-day-of-November commitment. We call it NaFuEvDaMo.

I assure you, I will try very hard to keep it up.

Donna reminded me the other day that, while I spend a good deal of time bitching about my current problems, I rarely talk about what she feels is a more likely candidate as the root of my problems... my parents. I've mentioned my mother from time-to-time before. Her neglect, her awkward boundary issues and even how she got knocked-up back in the summer of love. So this time, let's give my dad a turn.

My father is what some would call a compulsive groom. A serial marrier. He just can't manage to stay single no matter how hard he tries. He falls into marriages, despite his obvious lack of matrimonial ability, with surprising ease. My brothers and I have run out of ways to address all of our mothers.

First, of course, is Mom. Our biological mother. That one is pretty obvious.

To kick off NaBloPoMo this year, I'm introducing a new blogger and NaBloPoMo participant. Many of you have been begging to hear more from her so here's your chance. Donna is in the house, people.

She assures me she'll be much nicer than I am. Something about no one liking an asshole. Whatever that's supposed to mean.

Donna is an unbelievably talented crafter. I'm not talking about lame-ass tole painting and plastic grapes either. She's a master with a pneumatic stapler and an industrial sewing machine. If you want to get serious about rebuilding your grandmother's old chair or repainting your dining room, pay close attention.