Sunday, January 8, 2012
Thursday, January 5, 2012
How cool is this - from their press release:
The only problem - I have to buy a new phone. Poop.
Posted by Rebecca at 7:09 PM
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
And, honestly, I had no idea what to tweet about. Who cares about my dates, really? At least, what could I say in 140 characters that I can't say better here? But it came to me two days ago when Betsy gave me another bit of dating advice.
I bet there are loads of women just like me, new to dating who could use some good advice from a couple of girls who have some experience in the area. I wish there'd been a site for me to check out in my early dating days. Well, that's what @MyLavaLife is all about.
A new dating lesson every day. Some from my own experience. Some from Betsy. And a few from the men I've met over the last year. At least, that's my plan. Follow me!
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Well, it’s mid-December again. Time for the Trojan Sex Survey in the Georgia Straight.
Seventh year they’ve gathered this data. It will be my second year completing it. Some of the questions still make me feel like a babe in the sex woods. What’s the most surprising request I’ve received in bed? I have no idea how to answer that one.
Being asked to let a man put his penis in my bum? Not that surprising… don’t most men want to try that? Being asked to let a man masturbate using my breasts? Again, how surprising is that? Having a partner ask if I mind if we open the curtains of his hotel room and take me from behind so we can a) be on display (if the cleaning staff of the office building across the street happen to look out the window) and b) watch the beautiful people walking around Yaletown?
Since I really can’t think of one surprising thing a man has ever asked me to do in bed, I can only conclude that either the men I’ve slept with are deadly dull or I’m a square… which is hard to believe given I’ve had sex with a man in drag, an ethical slut bisexual man many times, and a woman - just in the last year.
And then there’s the question about how many times I had sex in the past month. A quick look at my DayTimer tells me… 29 times. What can I say? I’ve had the good fortune of sharing a bed this past 30 days. We missed a couple of mornings but made up for those with double servings on other days. I love this man('s libido!)!
The 2011 Lust and Thrust Report results tell me that as a divorced female I am in the minority since only 11.8 percent of us had sex more than 20 times. You know what’s really sad though - among married women, just 3.8 percent had sex more than 20 times in the previous month. That’s less than once a week. I’m never getting married again! (Truth be told, when I was married, by the end we averaged less than once a month… so really… I’ll never get married again!)
One hundred questions. Lots of fun thinking about many of the answers… being taken back to some special moments both during my teach-me twenties and this past year, as a newly single, serially-dating forty-year old. This is My Lava Life! Woo hoo!
Posted by Rebecca at 9:54 PM
Friday, December 2, 2011
Ahem... now I don’t expect anyone will believe me when I say that I came upon this site with a purely professional interest in marketing techniques. And that’s fine. I know I’m telling the truth.
I subscribe to a marketing e-newsletter. On most days I delete it without reading... just too much email to bother with anything not addressed directly to me.
But today... today I had time to goof around. So I glanced at the marketing enewsletter. There was a mention of a this product.
In case the site is overwhelmed with traffic when you go to check it out, boys, here’s what you’ll find:
“Your country has never been prouder and neither have you! The new 'wondercup' technology in these attention-grabbing, all-cotton Patriot briefs will have you seriously looking bigger and feeling amazing.”
Virtual hands-up from any of you who think this product is a good idea… anonymously, of course!
I am so unbelievably grateful not to be single and living in Australia, the USA, England, France or Germany. Obviously, since there’s no Patriot product labeled “Property of Canada,” we can conclude that Canadian men don’t need to embellish their family pride with padded panties.
Hooray for Canadian men!
Sunday, November 13, 2011
As a teenager I had it in my head that I would become an RCMP officer. I loved the idea of upholding the law and riding horses and having a gun. I didn’t get far down that path, however. I did learn to shoot a rifle, but an astute career counselor and a battery of personality tests directed me away from any career that would require me to follow rules. Apparently, I believe in following the law, but boy do I despise rules!
The other career I recall wanting to follow was when I was much younger. Some age in elementary school. I wanted to be a nun.
It didn’t worry me that I wasn’t being raised Catholic. Nor did it worry my grandmother, who as I recall supported my goal. Nonny came from a long line of Anglican ministers - starting back in 1845. Her brother was an Arch-Deacon and a good friend of the Reverend Billy Graham (the only TV evangelist she watched). My dad’s generation was the first in over 100 years that failed to provide the family with their Reverend... so I guess she thought that making up for that lapse with a wee little nun wouldn’t be a bad thing.
I’d forgotten all about that goal... And about the time I came home from Bible Camp and tried to secretly convert my 3-year-old brother to a born-again Christian life. (Oddly, my parents didn't send me back to that camp the following summer...).
But two weeks ago these old lives of mine came flooding back (I'm sure if I thought hard I could come up with a clever Biblical pun, but those really are old lives). What happened two weeks ago? I had a past life reading and guess what? Several hundred years, but only two lives ago, I was … a nun!
It’s true. I lived in Rome. I was very devout and I never sinned. But – and this is the information that has me convinced that the reading is accurate – I was a nun who challenged certain rules of my Church.
Apparently, I could not reconcile the fact that, as a woman of God, I could only show my devotion with my spirit. I wanted to use my body as well. I was one of those progressive nuns who believed that we should be able to serve God and be allowed to experience bodily, as well as spiritual, ecstasy.
It may have been several hundred years and two lifetimes ago, but I still hold that same belief… why have the ability to feel spiritual, emotional and physical pleasure (and pain, of course) and not explore all of these as fully as we can?
I think I’ll get a piercing tomorrow…
Monday, November 7, 2011
My friend Darcy confided to me a few years ago, while she was in the first weeks of dating a new man, that her biggest fear was farting while she slept. She told me, with great concern, that one cannot fart in the company of a lover until that relationship has passed the six month mark. I thanked god that I was married and had successfully cleared that important watershed moment over a decade earlier. Who knew that just a few years later I’d be laying in bed with a relative stranger (a man I’d known but weeks) and mulling Darcy’s words... pondering her advice, with some amount of concern, I admit.
This man - the man I was just getting to know - was clearly not trained in the same school of common courtesy as Darcy had been, however. Not only did he fart in his sleep, but he farted in the ensuite bathroom while I was in earshot and he even farted while his bum was touching my belly as we spooned one night.
Was I offended? Not at all. I was relieved.
I was raised to fart. My father took great pride in the passing of gas. Sometimes, though, when the scent was too much even for the dog to accept, he’d blame poor old Kojak, our golden retriever, who inevitably had left the room (due to the awful smell) and could not defend himself. I can picture my dad’s blushing pride and see my mom rolling her eyes as though they were here with me now… and I can almost conjure the smell of my dad digesting steak, mashed potatoes and petit pois.
I was recently talking to a good pal and she said that farting in her house was verboten. When she or her sibs would inadvertently pass gas, they had to excuse themselves saying, “Excuse me. I pooted.”
Excuse yourself after farting? Weird! When I was a child we didn’t say “excuse me” when we piffed, we’d say, “can you smell it yet?” or “look out, silent-but-deadly heading your way,” or “ahhh… that feels better!”
Farts are funny. And nobody can honestly say that it doesn’t feel amazing to just relax and let one rip… take a deep breath… deep into your belly… relax… thtttpppttt… ahhhh…
Posted by Rebecca at 2:08 PM