My last presentation tonight, on the fascinating topic that is the local Exide Technologies factory. What's that? You're not interested?
I have an essay due next week, and then it is over rover. Praise be.
And as an aside, I'm trying to make my fortune (or at least reduce the mortgage slightly) by selling all our worldly possessions on Trademe. Not going too badly either. One buggy down, no end of rubbish to go.
I was ABSOLUTELY MORTIFIED the other day to see my blog in IE. It had my stupid screenshot about the size of a toaster across the screen twice, shoving all my fascinating details to the bottom of the page.
I know I must check it more often in other browsers, but why don't you just get Firefox? Ta.
I really really wanted to enjoy Kathryn Ryan on National Radio. And I'm willing to keep an open mind.
At this stage she isn't really winning. She keeps laughing at bad self-made jokes, and using lots of puns. I heard her talking to a male nurse the other day, who was a very interesting and professional bloke. After talking for a while about the role of a male nurse, and whether he enjoyed his job, was taken seriously etc, she said "now you'll probably hate this question, but are you one of the girls?" wtf? (I can't swear on the blog anymore apparently - hahahahhahahahaha).
National Radio always seems to employ people who love Emmylou Harris. I want someone who likes Madonna for a change, thanks.
Actually, someone exactly like me would do. Cheers.
Paradise email is down. I'm sitting here clicking the 'get mail' button like a monkey.
In fact, I remind myself of the scene in Zoolander, when Ben and Nose are trying to get the information from the computer.
I'm sure if I keep pushing the button this so-called "network fault" will spontaneously repair itself, and I will at last receive all the fascinating emails waiting for me in cyberspace.
Update - it worked! I fixed paradise mail with my cunning clicky action.
And I remembered Owen Wilson's name. It is Owen Wilson.
Less than 200 hits 'til 30k people! Now if I had a dollar for every one of them.... well, I'd have 4 Reuben Paterson paintings.
Actually I've already broken through the 30k mark, but not since I've had statcounter.
And I'm sure less than 50% of the hits are me.
It has been a while since I ran a poll.
Your selection on this will be deeply revealing, and you're welcome to ask me what your choices mean, as I am very nearly a psychiatrist.
I can tell you that all the answers represent an important part of me.
It really is very deep. Really.
This is what happens when you don't prune lavender, and then find yourself with a spare 20 minutes in which to pull up the mess.
Lovely Sunday gardening. Yay.
The baby has landed. Long live the baby.
And she is a she. And she was born on the 27th. We can now stop our candlelit vigil and return to normal.
Allow me a moment to grizzle and whinge.
My flickr pro account has expired. I know I can't complain to anyone, because I admit I didn't read the fineprint, but I think it is mean spirited that it will now only display my last 200 pictures.
Whinge over.
Off to pay the bastards their money before the exchange rate gets even worse.
Here is the latest dream piece.
Lotto day today. Who knows, perhaps I'll get lucky.
Really!
When we went to the Wairarapa a month ago for an extended Anzac weekend holiday (read: shopping and peering at Peter Jackson's house to see if he is building a railway, he is!), we somewhat randomly ordered some curtains, without doing any of that tedious checking out samples to see if they'll match the house stuff.
The woman is delivering them today. We can't remember what they're like at all.
And we can't think why we decided to spend money on curtains rather than cases of wine and cocaine.
Middle-aged I suppose.
Although not about boobs (sorry).
I have fallen victim to insomnia of late. The key problem is my brain isn't racing with, well, racey stuff, but with boring "must remember to get some milk for the kids cereal i wonder if they will like thenewcerealfunnyhowcereallooksdifferentbuttastesthesame..."
Not riveting. So I asked Glen for something to think about.
"All Black squad" he muttered.
Now, I've lived in New Zealand my whole life, and watched a reasonable amount of rugby. However, I haven't ever been able to get my head around positions on the field, nor in fact any of the rules. Hence my team looked like this:
Murray Mexted - every team needs a mo'
Graham Thorne - one word, perm.
Grizz Wylie - every team needs someone called Grizz
Fitzy - Because he played until he was 86, and that is inspiring stuff
Christian Cullen - because my sister-in-law set her sights on him, and scored.
Tana - every team needs pigtails
Ma'a Nonu - Best. Name. Ever.
Rodney Soi'alo - Petone reprazent!
Pinetree Meads - A treeman. Like in LOTR. Cool.
John Timu - Got him once in a drinking game (he played rugby, I drank to him).
Foxy - because if I remember rightly, he put an end to all that nasty running and tackling biz.
Norm Maxwell - eye candy, and who is called Norm these days?
Apparently I'm missing a half back. Even with my meagre knowlege of rugby I suspect I must be missing a few other positions as well.
If you can suggest some additions to the dream squad, please do so. You have to have a really good reason they should be there though.
I got a replacement mouse that works. The beauty of the Warehouse for your technological needs is that they refund you on anything, no questions asked. I rate them highly for this service. My new mouse is snazzy matte black with a neon light. Much more grown-up than my previous disco one. It shows a new found level of maturity.
For some reason I found myself watching Breakfast on TV1 this morning.
That bloody idiot sports guy (Stephen something) was talking about the oldest man to conquer Everest - a 70 year old Japanese guy - who left a picture of his dog on the summit.
Stephen somefuckingthing said "lucky he didn't take the dog, I probably shouldn't say this, but lucky he didn't eat the dog".
Am I missing something? To my ears it sounded like a racist slur, but perhaps there is something I don't know about dogs on mountains. I know that Saint Bernards frolic around with wee barrels of rum tied to their necks. Perhaps dogs on Everest taste like chocolate?
Dear Llew, he writes, and he goes on ad hominem about all manner of ad hominem topics which ultimately cause him to find his ad hominem lacking.
While I ad hominem him for the effort, the epitome of ad hominem must surely be the total ad hominem consumed?
This is a very late New Year's Resolution.
I am determined to get myself into the society pages by the end of the year. I'm going to have to make some serious efforts at getting out to some exhibition openings and suchlike, but I WILL DO IT.
I don't care where the society pages are. Anything will do, and I suspect I have a pretty good chance of getting into the Petone Beach Kindergarten newsletter (if I write and publish it).
I'll need a gimmick so that the photographer notices me. Perhaps I'll become a crazy hat lady, or start dressing like Madonna (in her Confessions guise), or I'll carry around a monkey.
Anyone got a monkey?
I was intending to write a joyous account of how nice it is to finally have a mouse again, instead of a tedious trackpad.
However, the mouse I was assured is fit for a USB port, isn't. It took so much energy to actually get around to going out and buying one. I have learned my lesson, and will never stray from trademe again.
Someone has taken offence to how dumb I am, and also some of my readers here.
The search that lead them to my site? "horoscope text".
Yeah, god doesn't answer texts, but the horoscope people that do are really straight up.
Yes, I have got better things to worry about.
No, I don't want to.
So place your bets here for birth date, time and gender for the Namibian born starchild. Due date was the 18th, but who can say if that is true.
Also take a punt on a name.
I'm guessing Kali Pitt-Jolie for a girl and Afafa Pitt-Jolie for a boy (which means first child of a second husband).
I should point out a certain amount of interest in how this baby turns out, as frankly Glen and I often get mistaken for the Jolie-Pitts.
Look at me! I've learned how to use powerpoint (well, it is bloody easy). Better still I have learned how to do a screenshot. This is a screenshot of a screenshot. Bloody hell.
My cup runneth over.
Sharnelle from Riding for the Disabled just called. Shit. I completely by accident hung up on her with my shoulder on the cordless phone, and now she'll think I'm an evil bitch, and she was really sweet. I even forked out the 25 cents to *52 her, but her number is unlisted.
I feel really bad. Sharnelle, if you're out there you can call me back and I'll give you some money for the disabled to ride the horses.
I know I can give them money anyway, but poor Sharnelle.
Every year since I stopped being a student I have regarded a letter from Inland Revenue with ABSOLUTE TERROR. I've got nothing to hide, but you know, it is the same feeling as when the cops pull you over and even though you've got a new WOF and reg, and were driving bang on 50km, you feel the fear.
Today a letter from IRD arrived. I filed it on my large pile of magazines, kids books, old bills, crayon drawings, books - you know, the important stuff file. And just now I thought, ah fuckit, lets see what the online service is like.
Bless! It took 2 minutes, and now I've done my return - months early.
The fact that my income was zero didn't do any harm.
Quiet house. 3 assignments to do. Procrastinating taken to a new level.
I don't think I'm going to do a course next semester. I only need to do one more paper to finish my PGDipverylongtitle, however it totally cramps my style. How can I be this kind of earth child, footloose and fancy free, hard rockin' mama, when I have to sit around reading articles and presenting information.
I tried to find a boring article title to make the previous sentence more interesting, but to be fair the course I'm doing is hellishly interesting.
Next semester I'm enrolled in Political Communications. That sounds hellishly interesting too, and I can see that I'm not going to be the freewheeling mama for a good while yet.
Sigh.
My health is restored. I'm not sure what it was, and I am damned pleased that I don't appear to have any permanent problems. I was pretty stunned at the mention of arthritis, and did one of those promises in my head of "when this is all over I must give some money to Arthritis New Zealand". I haven't quite got around to it yet, but today there was a knock on the door, and a charming old guy asked if I'd be interested in door to door collecting for... you guessed it... Arthritis New Zealand.
Of course I'll be delighted to collect for them at the end of September. I'm amazed how these things come out of the blue.
And before you say anything, this is completely different than being hounded by Greenpeace. As I mentioned, I'd happily support Greenpeace if they didn't try and stop me in my tracks every time I enter the city.
I have been trying to find pictures of messanger Michael Ryan. You know, I might have passed him on the stairs at an old workplace or something, so eager to know what he looks like.
I couldn't find a pic, but I found this of a young chap named Ryan, I thought it would do.
He is a model. You can book him here if you like.
I went into the big smoke this morning. I was very excited because I had lots of vouchers to spend.
I bought:
10 placemats
6 teaspoons
4 cups
1 bag
I only tell you because I know that if you had been shopping, I'd want to know what you got.
Walking merrily back to the car I could see looming in the distance a bloody hippy holding a bloody clipboard.
Now, in the 80s I loved Greenpeace. In the 90s I didn't give them a thought, and now, with this new 'hassle everyone and make them feel guilty' approach - I bloody can't stand the bastards.
Why can't they stand with little boxes and stickers one Friday a year like every other worthy cause? You pay, you get your sticker, you leave, nobody bothers you for the rest of the day. The problem with the Greenpeace people is they NEVER leave you alone. And if you don't want to appear evil, you have talk to them every time.
I said pleasantly to this particular woman "I already joined!", which in all honesty is a complete lie. And she made this "that is a complete lie" kind of noise. Bloody disbelieving bloody mutter mutter...
GREENPEACE! Stop it with the fucking annoying people on the street. You do a good job of protecting our environment and raising awareness, but you are DRIVING PEOPLE AWAY.
I realise I'm not the first person to complain about this, and in fact I believe I've mentioned it when they invaded my stomping ground in charming Petone.
Update: I have no problems with hippies. Ms Guinness Girl was a little worried. Hippies are fine as long as they're not stopping me in the street to make me feel guilty and buy something. Some of my best friends are hippies. And ethnic. And of diverse sexual persuasions.
Update on the update: Guinness Girl has someone else in her life called M! I can't believe I'm not the only one....
I love a free Cuisine...
Now you can stop singing.
I got a free Cuisine mag today. Which is very nice, because I am a subscriber, but I gave my one away this week (Oy Vey, sorry, it is slightly pre-loved - but the window of opportunity presented itself to send the thing, so I thought you might be able to handle it).
It is nice to include intimate exchanges amidst blogging don't you think?
I like Cuisine now. I liked it then too. A lot of people have been whinging about it lately, all the ads la di da. I still like it. I like the new editor (although his music choices on Nat Radio last weekend - yawn... I'm such a pleb. I never liked Six Volts - this is kind of another intimate exchange, but for everyone *Doctor Nick voice* "Hey Everybody!").
I like the fact that I love cooking, and love reading the mag. Realistically I have probably cooked from it less than a dozen times. I still think it rocks, and aim to die in a house full of little piles of Cuisine magazine everywhere.
I want my children to have some challenges when they clean out the estate.
I wonder if I'll hear back from Bluebird, after all I only bought the Cheezels for my mega prize.
Hi,
I'm disappointed that my unique code appears to be blank. I was looking forward to winning one of the major prizes (any would do).
I hope you can help.
Kind regards,
Martha
Chief of Exercise here. Early start at the gym. That sounds very odd. I didn't do all of my programme, as I had no recollection of how to do the sideways one armed push up, nor of the Grabthars Hammer pull, nor of the lunge. I wouldn't want to muck up the lunge and frighten people. I did all the other things though, the cross-training, the rowing nowhere, the lateral pulldowns (laterally), the pelvic tilts. It was okay, not really to be recommended, but if you do it early enough you're not really aware you're there, and you don't have to do it for the rest of the day. Hooray!
The boys ran around for 2 hours at Junglerama in Newtown, and didn't even crack a sweat. I'm prescribing more lateral pulldowns and static rowing for them.
It all "no pain no gain" from here on in, baby.
Hutt City (doesn't that make the Valley sound more classy?) was chock full of people in white on Saturday.
I looked for kabbalah bands, but couldn't see any, so it wasn't a Madonna convention. The people actually looked kind of normal, but en masse they were spooky as hell.
Update!
Ahh, through a goodly amount of Google searching I've found the source of the white. What the hell is John of God? Can I be Martha of God? If there is going to be a cult in Lower Hutt, I feel I should be invited. It would add a great deal of texture to my life.
The day started very nicely with a visit from Finn and a lovely card. He is starting to write quite well, and I'm blown away by it. It seems so damn clever.
The follow up to the card was a tray with a cup of tea and some french toast. Luverly. I was a tiny bit jaded after a night out in the mightly Petone. A few beers were drunk at Murphy's bar, which was full of people watching the big screen. We stopped into Chow on the way home and had a delicious gin and tonic. Whoar. I love gin and tonic.
This was a remarkably big weekend for me, as we went to Hollie Smith on Friday. I'm a total 12 year old though, because I got a bit bored during the concert, so we went and got some coffee and cheesecake. This is no reflection of Hollie Smith's skills, she is damned talented.
Glen is at Phoenix Foundation tonight. I'm pretty jealous, but it isn't really a good night for booking babysitters, they all seem to have to get up for work in the morning.
I don't mind too much though, as Dancing with the Stars is on later. The drug of the nation.
I don't think I'm quite the demographic that Webstock are after, but it looks bloody interesting. Is anyone going?
Me old cobber Rachel McAlpine is giving a talk, and it is obviously an opportunity to stalk Russell Brown.
I most likely won't get anywhere near it. Mainly because it costs $995 for the conference alone. Also the amount of time it took me to put the picture in my banner indicates that I'd understand as much of what they're saying if they all spoke Russian.
This morning at 7am I was at a very large, scary place.
Lord help me. After my recent running experience I realised that actually, I quite like being a little bit fit (primarily because you get to wear really comfortable clothes for that portion of the day). But it is very dark in the mornings now, and cold, and I can live without these excuses preventing me from exercise. So I joined the gym.
Last time I went to the gym was when I had my own shop. It was very off-putting to be huffing away on the treadmill and see a customer. Not to mention the fact that the Hurricanes trained there too. I'd be lying prone, trying to work up the energy to make my middle bit bend upwards, and some hulking great rugby player would walk past. It was very disconcerting.
I had my assessment today. First time. I don't think the nice young man really understood that people might not know how to lie on one side, working their obliques, teetering on one elbow.
I did like the instruction to have superman chest though. That means sticking out your bosoms (he he bosoms), and I'm down with that.
I'm so high-brow. Especially if you compare me to someone who enjoys Home and Away. In fact, only if you compare me to someone who watches Home and Away. I've got bloody suckered into watching American Idol.
Instead of listening to Kenneth Branagh read Hamlet on talking books while I cook dinner, I have the telly on to the evil that is American Idol, and frankly, I'm loving it.
Every time Paula opens her mouth she says something lascivious about one of the boy singers, and I wonder who she'll shag. Every time I see Ace doing his Blue Steel look I feel a little nauseaus. Every time Randy dogs it up I quietly wish him silent so that it will be Simon's turn to tell it like it is.
How has this happened? I've avoided every previous series. I didn't give a shit whether Clay or Ruben won. I still don't care if Clay is gay or not. Well, I don't mind if he is gay or not.
I am determined to seriously avoid the New Zealand series. All the choir kids that the programme coughs up don't really inspire.
And any moment I'll become too cultured for the telly anyway.
Hollie Smith is playing tomorrow at the MFC. Looks like it could be fun. I love going to the Michael Fowler Centre, it always feels like a special occasion. Tickets are only $15.
Update: Fabulous thing about having a blog is that people see you want to go to a gig, and ring up and offer to babysit. Wahooooo. Thanks Pamela.
Ahhhhhhhhhhh. That is me having a big hearty, happy sigh.
Glurrrrrrrrrp. That is me having a hearty, glurpy glass of wine.
The whole student gig is almost worth it for the joy of finishing another piece of assessment. Not done well, but managing to include Madonna. Thankfully over with.
And my god South Park is hilarious and irreverent. Whale on the moon! (Exclamation marks appear to be okay today too).
Another presentation to do tomorrow. I've been sitting at the table gazing past the computer at the wall for about an hour. Then I remembered the wine. And the telly. It is easy to decide you're a fan of House when you have something else to do.
The day you decide to give up trying to be an 'A' student is a very liberating day indeed.
I got this from Duff, and she gave me "h".
This is how it works: Comment on this entry and I will give you a letter. Write ten words beginning with that letter in your journal, including an explanation of what the word means to you and why, and then pass out letters to those who want to play along.
1. Health! Drinks all round to mine, long may it last
2. Harold. My cool grandad, who is dead now, but when he was alive he rocked.
3. Hippopotamus. I bought one for Finn today, so he could make a zoo. I hope it gets along with the camel, bear and rhino.
4. Hallelujah Picassos. Bodega. Late. Drunk. Lovely.
5. Hotere. Because when I was 17 I managed to get my hands on one of his prints, and it still has pride of place.
6. Heliotrope. I'm just going to look up what it means... Damn, it raced into my head sounding scientific, but relates to several things. I was going to cleverly relate it to Glen, who is a scientist, but now I can't.
7. Hana. My sister. Long may she reign!
8. Hutt News. The paper, which arrived today. I can say without word of a lie that it is better than the Western News.
9. Honey. A nasty thing from a bee. Who eats food made by insects? Ergghh. Except it is very good in that rice bubble caramel thing. So I'm not really a committed honey-hater.
10. Holiday. Now. Please.
Ask me for a letter! Go on! I dare you! You can use exclamation marks today! No-one will judge you! It is very liberating! But never use them again!
Hey, I'm almost better! After an extremely appalling 10 days or so (I'm very stoic, so you wouldn't have known the extent of my suffering *stills a quivering lip*), I'm almost through the woods. A bit sore in a few spots, however nothing a few days of clean living won't fix.
Dammit though, you know what this means. As well as being more cultured, and looking more rich, I'm gonna have to be more healthy too.
Very soon I'll reach my goal of being EXACTLY LIKE MADONNA.
My boots arrived today from America. Very very pleased. Small anxious moment squeezing them on, but all fitting nice and snugly now.
Lovely jubbly.
Well I couldn't not talk about what will be the next big obsession of the nation - Dancing with the Stars. To be honest though, I haven't got any good guesses as to the winner.
I'm gagging to see Lorraine Downes (for my international readers, she was Miss Universe in the 1980s). She is a hottie, and definitely wins babe of the contest. Angela Bloomfield is an actress, so probably pretty confident physically. I cannot wait to see Rodney Hide. For years I thought he was the most horrid little bulldog, but then I came to love him, and now I think he is just as cute as a button. Not politically cute, but physically cute.
No idea about the sport billys. All power too them. I wish Hamish Carter were dancing.
I hope Christine Rankin isn't in for too long. Nuff said.
I'll make some more earnest picks after I see a bit of form. Much like the rest of our fair nation I'm a total expert at ballroom dancing after the first series.
And thank the gods they're not having any of those 'stars' from Celebrity Treasure island, because they're all on P and party drugs, and that is just squalid.
This video holds very limited appeal to the vast majority of the universe, as it is my kids dancing to Bootylicious. If you do watch, please notice how I taught them to shake their arses.
Ooops. Seems I loaded the one with my voice. There goes all that imagining you were doing of me with an exotic french accent.
This blogging is a funny gig. Obviously it is a glimpse into people's lives, and I feel like I have a lovely bunch of virtual friends, but how much information does one give?
My damn back is very sore, and is now in my neck, knees, hips, ankles and wrists. When I went to see the doctor, I fully expected a "here is some voltaren, you'll be fine in a couple of days". Instead I have to get some blood tests to see if there is evidence of a rheumatic condition (have I just made up a word?) - essentially arthritis. Of course I've been naughty, and been obsessively reading anything I can get my hands onto on the internet. I feel a bit glum. These things happen to other people.
...on the (desirable) eastern front (of Petone).
I'm taking it very easy, as the back has spread to the neck and legs. My clever father has got me an appointment with a good doctor, who will take me on. Thank god. There is something wrong with the universe when you can't bloody well see a local GP.
And I've watched the latest episode of Top Chef. Has anyone watched it yet? It is so brilliant I could weep (and may have in fact, a little, although I blame the excessive pharmaceuticals).
I've still got this goddamn sore back. I've gone through all the nurofen in the house, and now I'm working my way through the cataflam. I should be okay for a while, as I've been hoarding panadol in case of a bird flu outbreak, and have enough to medicate a small town.
I tried to get an appointment with a doctor this morning, but they seem to not exist these days. I was offered a registrar, but I have to go in and fill out the forms today to make the practice my healthcare provider. Then I'm only able to ever see registrars (who are only there for 5 months), and not until tomorrow. No offence to them, but I kind of have that old school idea that you might actually try and build a relationship with your doctor, and grow to love and trust them, eventually stalking them at the supermarket.
If my back is still sore tomorrow, that is when I'll make the appointment. I'm an optimist, and I don't believe in doctors appointments a day ahead. We all know that doing so will make you recover about 20 minutes before you shell out $65.
So I've gone to my old friend the internet, diagnosed a back strain, and prescribed sugar, any available painkillers, strong coffees and time. I anticipate I'll be dancing on tables again by Saturday.
As happens this time every year I'm sitting on the computer trying to book a tropical holiday. The only time I've even vaguely made it is 7 years or so ago when I went to Thailand. And that isn't what I'm talking about really. I'm thinking of a Pacific tropical holiday.
It is never simple though. In this case it seemed so outlandishly reasonable that there was no good reason not to book this very minute. Except it was priced from Auckland, and from Welly is another $700. Buggeur.
We had this brilliant idea, which would turn our humble palace into the palace of our dreams. It involved a small screen (about 600mm x 2000mm) made of plywood, with 12 holes, about 100mm in diameter, cut out of it. It was a total copy from a gorgeous house in a magazine. Very simple and effective.
How much would you reckon it would cost to get the holes cut out of a piece of ply? The ply is probably worth about $30. The holes? $650 + gst = $680 + gst.
We've moved into a crazy universe. Our builder removed a window and weatherboarded the large gap for less than that. Needless to say we're going to have to live without a small holey piece of timber.
I guess you're wondering how my 'being more cultured' plan is going. Not too badly, if you count watching The Apprentice, House and now Boston Legal as culture. Dammit.
I was going quite well. I've read a few books, A History of Tractors in Ukranian (great), Fried Green Tomatoes (fab! Who knew it was about lesbians? I avoided the movie thinking it was just Driving Miss Daisy meets Steel Magnolias), and now I'm halfway through Amy Tan's A Hundred Secret Senses.
Curses though, the telly has been on all night, and it is frickin good stuff.
House is so baaaaaad (as in good, like Michael Jackson), and James Spader is so funny.
And wine is so tasty. I think that is the root of the problem. And the route. The way I got to where I am. I could go on forever. Although don't get me started on the Pak n Save ads. Jesus.
Sorry to people who aren't getting my feed. It looks like it is the Atom upgrade, but as I have nothing to do with the feed (relying totally on blogger for the technical stuff), I couldn't work out how to fix it. Someone who writes using brackets and punctuation marks in irregular places doesn't even seem to think it is straight forward - so what hope have I?
I've had a sweet 3 weeks of no lectures. Being a student kind of sucks. I really enjoy the using my brain stuff, and the hanging out with other people stuff, but the doing work stuff is a pain. Why can't they assess me on my contribution to the class? Or on my good intentions?
I suppose that would end up with a lot of schmoozing and apples for the teacher, and other people might be better at that than me... so I guess it is just going to have to be essays and presentations.
Sigh.
It all starts again tomorrow. On a positive note, this has benefits for the blog, as procrastination is the best bullshit writer I know.
Does anybody have trouble with my feed thingy? Make Tea does, and I imagine it is driving millions of loyal readers insane....
My ole fave google search "pokey nipples" - which landed more hits on my site than even the Wiggles - has lowered me from fourth to 13th.
I guess I'm just not writing enough smut these days.
