Nothing Says Love Like a Chocolate Boob

Do you ever come across an idea and think, “Oh, my gosh, this is SO awesome!” and “Why didn’t I think of that?” Yea, but, then it doesn’t turn out so awesome (and, you’re kinda glad it wasn’t your idea?). I had one of those things happen today. I don’t know where I got the idea, so sorry that I can’t give proper credit. It was either in a long-distance relationship ideas article or maybe a romantic ideas article. Anyway, it struck me as super cool so I jotted it down. It said, “Mold a chocolate body part.” I’m thinking, chocolate and boob. Wow! Doesn’t get much better than that! You would think.

So, Valentine’s Day is right around the corner. Five Eleven still lives 2400 miles away and we can’t be together. A blizzard is bearing down on us here in New England. If I’m going to get this out in time for her to get it by the 14^th, it needs to be in the mail today.

After barely sleeping because of a headache, I grab a cup of coffee and take a quick shower. After all, if I’m going to put chocolate on my boob for her consumption, it should be a clean boob.

Maybe I should Google how to do this? No. Can’t be that hard. I went to art school. Melt some chocolate. Don’t make it so hot that I burn my nipple off. Slather it on fairly thick. Let it harden. Pop it off. Wrap it up. Voila! Valentine’s Day gift is ready to mail.

If only chocolate boobs were that easy. I’m afraid to say that is not how my chocolate boob adventure went. It started off like that…somewhat.

So, here I am wearing jeans and a zip up sweatshirt, fresh out of the shower. It’s too cold to be totally topless. I melt some nice 60% Ghiradelli chips down; add a touch of Grand Marnier…ready to go. I get a towel and some paper towels because I know me. Grace is not my middle name. Made a note to grab a hand mirror but forgot to. Lay down on the couch, bare my right breast and spoon on some warm chocolate. Hope I have the edges looking good. Can’t see because I forgot the mirror. Nice.

The fateful ingredients.

Flip on one of those morning shows that I never watch figuring it’ll only take a few minutes. Touch the edge. Still liquidy. Lick my finger. Hmm… Try to sip my coffee. I am not in a comfortable position. Hope this doesn’t take too long.

Test it again. Not even close. Lick my fingers. I shift to get more comfortable. The inside of the sweatshirt now has chocolate on it. The sun starts shining in through the window directly on my breast. Well, that balmy stream won’t help it. The furnace is running non-stop, too, since I turned it on. Should have left it at the 53 degrees like it was in here when I woke up. So, I carefully get up, turn the furnace down and reposition out of the sun. Of course, I get more chocolate on my fingers. Lick it off.

A half hour of morning show dribble goes by. Touch the chocolate. Dang! Not even close to solidifying. Lick my finger. It must be too warm in here along with my warm body temperature. So, I go to my side door, crouch down and open it up. I’m hoping the air that can now seep in around the ill-fitting storm door is cool enough to harden my chocolate boob. As I’m crouched on the floor, I can see movement at my neighbor’s. Oh my god, I think they can totally see me! They see everything I do anyway. No, wait, the window is fogging up. I’m good. Why is there so much glass on this storm door? I lean back against the inside door hoping to blend in, just in case.

The cool air comes in. Nothing is happening. So, I lift the storm window to let more cool air in. Did I mention that it’s 18 degrees out? Yes. One. Eight. So, now, my other nipple is totally erect and the chocolate is not getting any harder. Somehow, I manage to bump it with half my hand. I lick it off.

Okay, now I’m desperate. I need to get really cold. I grab the key to the shed. Cover the non-chocolate boob, hold my sweatshirt out like a wing to shield the chocolate boob so I don’t freak out my neighbors and I make a dash for the shed.

I close the door behind me. I can see my breath. It’s freaking cold in here. I start shivering. I can see goose bumps all over my stomach and chest. Both my nipples can now cut glass. The right one will drill itself out of its chocolate sheath if this takes too long. I test the chocolate. What the heck?! Lick my finger. I’ll bend over. Maybe if my boob is hanging away from my body, it’ll finally harden. So there I am. Bent over two Ziploc baggies full of smelly shells from beach walks and a five gallon tank of gas. Wow. This is a romantic gift in the making.

Hey, my boob looks like it’ll be a good shape though. Perky and round. I’m starting to feel hypothermic. I test the chocolate. Barely firm but I swear I feel it pulling away from my skin. It must be time. Maybe, just maybe it’ll work? I try to pop off my chocolate boob.

The chocolate in the bowl hardened up just fine.

Instead of a nice chocolate cup that I was envisioning (ooh, to fill with ice cream?), I get a handful of thick, mushy chocolate. I jam it into my mouth. Scrape off another handful. This is breakfast. Way past breakfast time. I wipe my hands off on some of those manly blue paper towels I keep in the shed, pull my sweatshirt closed and run back into the house.

Strip off the sweatshirt and jeans and jump in the shower. Again. Sadly, the rest of the chocolate boob goes down the drain. I still had to go to the post office to mail other things. Just not a chocolate boob. So, sorry, Five Eleven. You’ll be getting a nice Valentine’s Day card from me anyway. But, wait. Did I mention that I took pictures of this whole adventure? Just for you. Nothing says love like pictures of a chocolate boob.

@Ybbeige

http://facebook.com/barbarabeige

www.barbarabeige.com
Unexpectations on Kindle

Don’t Bite My Junk aka Things in Your Toilet

Do you ever get a creepy thought in your head that just won’t go away? Five Eleven told me that she was always afraid of a hand coming up out of the toilet. I had never thought of that. I had heard of snakes doing that and really only worried in the summertime (when snakes would be out). But, now, I have to worry about hands coming up to grab me while I’m peeing? What the?

If only the critters we needed to worry about were of the plush kind.
How about that scary Kandoo lizard on the tank? Can't get much cuter than that.

If I think of the design of toilets, this is nearly impossible, but when one is fearful, one doesn’t think rationally. Now, Five Eleven grew up with an outhouse most of her childhood. By a “crick” (we pronounced creek that way too) and a holler (I only knew that term from a Loretta Lynn song). Imagine a rickety old outhouse with a few holes in a bench kind-of-thing in the middle of nowhere (well, by the edge of some creepy woods). Yea, I could see a hand coming up from that. No thank you.

This is also why I don’t watch scary movies. I have enough of an imagination. Five Eleven loves scary movies. I told her that I’d watch them with her only if she’ll protect me (like a good Butch should) and not freak out if I scream or jump while watching them. And, only if she doesn’t have to be away for work immediately following the watching of any scary movies.

I Googled things in toilets and found quite a list. Many of these sightings have happened in other parts of the world, but depending on cracks in your pipes, they could happen anywhere.

Snakes. Yep. Snakes are definitely on the list. All kinds of snakes. Ten foot boa constrictors. Water moccasins. Pythons. I knew that.

Rats. These are just furry critters with a snake on their butt.

Baby possums. See the description for rats above. Same thing. They’ll also come down your vent pipes and end up in your toilets if they don’t swim there.

Carnivorous lizards. Yea. Because we don’t have enough meat-eating reptiles in our lives trying to nibble on our junk.

Frogs. Like the skies sometimes rain frogs, they can be found anywhere, including in our toilets. Frogs like water. Our toilets contain water. That’s all you need.

One other critter to watch out for…just because that list isn’t long enough…are spiders. They like to hide under toilet seats. Isn’t that a lovely thought? And, not always just regular spiders, but deadly spiders of course. Black widow spiders and brown recluse fit that bill in the US. Swell.

So, now, with the thought of creepy critters in my toilets and documented cases of creepy critters in other peoples’ toilets, I won’t worry so much about the hands coming up to grab my bits. I just now turn on the light at night and do a little check. And, that could be a good thing. My junk will thank me.

What are you afraid of coming out of your toilet? Or, had you not even thought of it until I mentioned it? (Sorry if that was the case.) Have you ever had a creepy critter in your toilet or bathroom? Please share!

@Ybbeige

http://facebook.com/barbarabeige

www.barbarabeige.com
My Chick Read...bring the tissues

You’ll Eat It and You’ll Like It!

Little One has a few bites of food left on her plate. Literally just teaspoons. I see the look in her eyes. She’s full.

“Baby Girl, don’t eat it,” I say.

“But, I feel bad.”

“What? For the starving people in Africa? I gave you too much. Never force yourself to clean your plate. I’ve always told you that.”

Right there, I did it. I was like my parents in one of those parent quotes talking about the kids in Africa. Remember your parents saying stuff to you about how there were starving kids in Africa? Or Ethiopia? And how you needed to clean your plate because they didn’t have food? And, if you said anything about mailing your food to them, you’d get a slap in the head? And, if you didn’t like the food, tough beans.

“You’ll eat it and you’ll like it!”

This is that table where I'd spend many a long evening.
This was obviously a better eating moment.

Where do parents come up with this stuff? And, how big did they think our bellies were? No wonder so many of us have weight issues. And, why did they assume liver was so delicious? If you like it so much, you eat it. More for you. (I would never say that out loud or I’d get my mouth washed out with soap, but I’d sure think it).

I remember long evenings sitting alone at the kitchen table trying to choke down some eraser-like substance called liver.

I already got the, “You’ll just sit here all night until it’s gone!”

You can only put so much masticated liver in your napkin before they catch on. And forget about going to the bathroom more than once with a mouthful to hopefully spit into the toilet and flush away forever.

And, you’d sit there crying with what seemed like a piece of fiberboard in your mouth and get the, “Stop crying or I’ll give you something to cry about!” You already did. It’s in my mouth, remember?

So, did our parents get manuals at the hospital with all these saying when we were born? Even Five Eleven and her cousin, PJ, heard similar things and they were raised 2400 miles away. And, with all these sayings, remember how they were always yelled or screamed at us?

“Were you born in a barn?”

“You’re letting all the flies in!” (Like, really? ALL the flies?)

“I’m not heating the outside!”

“I’m not air-conditioning the outside!” (Even though we didn’t have air-conditioning).

“Either you’re in or you’re out!”

“Slam that door one more time, Missy!”

“Were you raised by heathens?” (If you’re a heathen, then yes.)

You’d want to come in for a drink from having been sent outside to play all day when it was like 100 degrees out. And, you’ve already been screamed at for going in and out a “hundred times.”

“Just drink out of the hose!”

Yea. That was safe advice. Hot hose water from the toxic hose.

Then, there were the times when you were bored. Remember in those days we only had a handful of toys in our rooms?

“Because we aren’t made out of money!”

Yea, my face stuck like that. I'm the one with the long hair on the left.

 And, if you mentioned you were bored, you’d get the, “Oh, I’ll give you something to do!” I’m not sure what that was, but the way it was said, it never sounded good.

“Heaven forbid” it should rain and we were stuck inside in our rooms.

“Don’t make me come up there and smack you!”

“Just wait until your father gets home!”

“It’s all fun and games until someone gets their eye put out!”

“Don’t come crying to me!”

“I’ll slap the taste right out of your mouth!”

“Don’t make me get the wooden spoon (or spatula, belt…) out!”

“If it hurts, it’s working.”

You’d get that last one if you got cut or scraped and your mom was pouring alcohol on your wound because that’s what she did.

And, remember driving somewhere in the car? No one had air-conditioning. It was always 900 degrees and you’d be sandwiched between your little brother and sister and one or both of them were poking you.

“He’s poking me!” you’d yell. Bad idea.

“Do you want me to stop this car?”

“Do you want me to come back there?”

“Shut your mouth or I’ll shut it for you!”

“He’s making faces at me,” you’d say and be pouty and half-ready to cry.

“Stop it. Your face will freeze like that!” you’d get back.

Then the disembodied hand would come from the front seat and start swinging wildly trying to hit anyone or anything that was within reach. All hell would break loose and the car would be swerving and we’d be screaming and crying (or laughing which was never a good idea in that situation).

Gosh, those were the days, huh?

I guess I made different decisions about parenting when my kids were born. I’m lucky that they are darned good girls though, too. Imagine, if I had jumped off that bridge with my friends, I wouldn’t be here to do that.

What did your parents say to you? Do you say the same things to your kids? Or, do you just think them?

@Ybbeige

http://facebook.com/barbarabeige

www.barbarabeige.com

Unexpectations on Kindle

So, You Finally Met Your Girlfriend? And, She Wasn’t a Catfish?

Here’s the scoop. I just spent the past month with Five Eleven (formerly known as 5-11 SexyBoi SexyTwang). Day in. Day out. And, it was absolutely wonderful. Better than wonderful. But, she’s your girlfriend and you’ve been dating, like, eight months, you say? Yep. So true. But, it was long distance. 2400 miles apart. We hadn’t actually met until December. Things just came up. With jobs and travel plans and stuff. And, with my head injury, I couldn’t travel out there, so that also limited things.

Friends would say that we just needed to meet. Hurry up, already. To see if we liked each other. To see if there was chemistry. Sparks. Fireworks…that kind of stuff. What if she wasn’t a good kisser? Um, no, that was not the case. (Phew! That could have been bad!)

Five Seven and Five Eleven isn't that much of a difference...

I met Five Eleven online. On Twitter, actually. I wrote about her in The Baby Photo Dating Story. I started talking to her as just a friend. A friend going through a breakup just like me. Only her most recent relationship was a longer one. But, I had once been there too. We talked as friends about chocolate. If you know me, you know I love chocolate. She does too. And, we talked about life. About love. About our hopes. Our dreams. About sex. Or, lack thereof. We talked “as friends” for months. She wasn’t “my type.” But, she seemed safe. She was good people. Yea, I was wrong on that. The not-my-type thing. I was totally right about the good people part.

After my heart did its flippy thing and I fell for her, at times I’d feel the outside pressure to have to meet her. But, if there’s one thing I’ve learned from having a brain injury, it’s patience. In our world of technology and high speed everything, things that are worth the most, aren’t always immediately attainable.

I feel that we were fortunate to have time to build such a good relationship long distance. Based on friendship first. She also helped me a lot with my head injury and keeping me organized with appointments, helping me ask the right questions, get the right treatments… Most people could have walked away right then and there. And, I always half expected it. But, not Five Eleven. Like she says, “through thick and thin, sickness and health.” Even while she was here, she took care of me. Drove me everywhere I needed to go. Did the things that she knew made me most nauseous. She made sure I rested and didn’t do too much that would have hurt my head. How lucky am I?

So, when I first met her, she was exactly what I imagined. Maybe better. Yea. Better. Watching her movements and mannerisms was nice. And, her swag. Yea. She’s got swag. She was as sweet and as kind as I had thought. And handy. Holy handiness! I thought I could rock a toolbelt. Wow. Not quite like her. And, after an entire month, things never changed…well, not for the worst…they just got better and better. Plans are already in the works for more face time.

Sorry the eucalyptus is covering up some of the swag. Dang! That's good swag.

Isn’t this how people used to date? In the “old days?” The really old days? Get to know someone over time with hand-written letters and correspondence? (I recommend doing that, too, even with technology). Other people are also doing this long-distance dating thing from what I hear. Unfortunately, for some of them, it turns out to be a scam. Can you believe that? A scam! It’s called catfishing. Or, to catfish. There’s a movie and TV show about it now. Both called Catfish.

Catfishing is trying to find love online and someone totally misrepresenting themselves as someone else. I couldn’t imagine doing that. Life is too short to lie about anything and to not be yourself. It’ll come back to bite you if you do. Just look at the case of the Notre Dame football player, Manti Te'o. Lying about having a girlfriend who dies from cancer? Really? Why? What the heck? Google that story and tell me what you think.

Meeting someone and dating long distance takes trust. And, honesty on both sides. Pics and videos are helpful. Along with the talking on the phone. Long distance rates aren’t like they used to be…most everyone can afford some talk time. You can hear a lot in a person’s voice. And, hopefully enough to know if they are sincere and good people. Or, if there’s something fishy about them. Catfish fishy.

Have you ever been in a long distance relationship? Five Eleven and I have found the link above (dating long distance) to have helpful ideas. What has helped you? Would you ever date someone long distance? How long would you wait before you met them? Please share!

@Ybbeige (follow me on Twitter - you just can't date me)

http://facebook.com/barbarabeige

www.barbarabeige.com

Unexpectations on Kindle

Forever Changed

I wrote this in response to the shooting in Connecticut that killed 27 people.

Having lost two children of my own, I understand the fragility of life. I try to rejoice and celebrate every moment that I have with my two girls. Not only do I tell them often that I love them, but I try to show them in everything that I do.

My heart is so saddened by yesterday’s shooting in Connecticut. I feel like a ripple went through the universe tearing into the mesh of mankind and humanity. The grief of so many parents, families and friends can be felt by all.

           

Years ago, I took this picture of Little One looking like a little imp with a dear friend that
I lost to cancer. Too wonderful a soul to have been taken so soon. No one should ever
feel the pain of losing someone they love too soon. For whatever reason.

I cry just thinking about the cowardice and instability of the young man who senselessly took innocent lives. If you don’t want to live, don’t take that option away from others. I know I shouldn’t wish ill upon others, but at this moment I do. I hope that if there is a hell, that he is in the worst one imaginable. It won’t take away the pain being felt, but it seems like there is a slight consolation in that thought.

I wish I could hug everyone affected by this horrible tragedy and make their hurt go away. Their lives are forever changed. As are ours. I can only hope that a new message is sent through the universe. A message of changing thoughts. Of delicate lives. Of kindness. Of peace and love for ourselves and others. A strong enough message felt by enough people that we can change the world. Yea. The world where I talk about fluffy bunnies and happy rainbows. Is that too much to hope for? Is that too much to ask?

How Big is Your Beaver?

So, the other day, Five Eleven showed me the cutest Youtube video. It was called ‘Beaver waves hi to a little kid.’ I’m trying to figure out if the beaver was slipping off the glass and it looked like it was waving, or was it actually waving? Can we now add beavers to the realm of animals like dolphins and chimpanzees?

I know they are curious animals. I remember canoeing alone in a small New England lake once and I was stalked by a beaver. I could see it watching me. It would be on one side of me, then next thing I know, it would be somewhere else. Then, I’d unknowingly get too close to its next spying spot and it would slam its tail on the surface of the water and scare the bejeebees out of me.

I’ve always liked beavers but that term has more than one connotation. And, yes, I like all the definitions. Beaver, as the critter Castor canadensis here in North America, or beaver, as a reference to the female genitalia.

I have never got a picture of a beaver, just beaver dams. Because, as I said,
they'd probably scare the crap out of me and I'd drop my camera in the water or something.

So, that brought me to another memory. Once upon a time, I was on the Board of Directors for an environmental group. We were having a meeting with the woman who would be the new Project Coordinator, a position I had previously held for many years. (I may have to write about that in the future and how I beat Al Gore out for an environmental award we were both in the running for. My resume actually says exactly that. “Beat Al Gore for Environmental Award.” Not everyone can say that.)

Anyway, our small Board was gathered in a casual setting with big comfy leather furniture, because that’s what kind of group we were. Our new Project Coordinator was telling us about her collection of taxidermy animals that she had (with the license to actually have them). Since her role would be going into schools and teaching kids about being good earth stewards, I thought this was a wonderful addition to have. She told us about the kinds of animals she had, which honestly, I can’t remember anything else but one. The beaver.

Sorry I don't have any more exciting beaver pics than this.
Came out of a giant ClipArt book I have.

I was so excited that she had one and I knew they could vary in size from about 35 to 75 pounds. So, without thinking, I asked her the question that could only be brought up in this exact situation. The question that would otherwise only be used in some skanky sex chatroom.

“How big is your beaver?”

I’m sure she answered me, or us, at the time. I, however, was so distracted by one of the other female Board members who suddenly left the room without even excusing herself, that I couldn’t tell you the answer. At a break soon after, I went outside to check on her. We’ll call her Lisa. Lisa was outside in the cold, brisk air. Tears were streaming down her face.

I went to console her because that’s what I do, but soon realized that she was crying because she was laughing so hard. You know when someone tries to tell you something so funny and you can’t understand what in the heck they are saying because they are laughing so hard and you end up laughing with them just because they are laughing? That’s what happened.

Yea. It was one of those moments. When I finally got the gist of why she was laughing, like her, I was now an uncontrollable mess. All I could think was, ‘Oh my god! How could I not have realized that I asked another woman how big her beaver was?’

I think, in this rare instance, in this moment of taxidermy conversation, that this was the only moment in the history of mankind where one woman could honestly and innocently ask another, “How big is your beaver?” You try that, Al Gore.

@Ybbeige

http://facebook.com/barbarabeige

www.barbarabeige.com
Married Woman Coming Out Story

Two Halves Make a Whole

Thoughts go through our minds when we are with the one we love...

@Ybbeige
http://facebook.com/barbarabeige
www.barbarabeige.com