So I took a break.

Then I decided it was time to come back.

But then I couldn’t figure out what the fuck to say.

Then SOMEONE pushed me to spend a little money.

And SOMEONE else had offered a pretty nifty birthday gift.

And this SOMEONE just said fuck it, sent some money, made some demands, and wouldn’t you know it?

I’ve got my own domain.

www.justonemiss.com

Holy fucking shit right?

Sorry to make you update your readers and links and all that again but I just fucking showed you my boobs for fuck’s sake. Consider this your thanks to me.

The about page is revamped AND there’s a REAL post up.

So mosey along little ones. Hugs and kisses and all that.

For more go to WordlessWednesday.com

I feel just about as shitty as one should feel right now. See, I asked Elly to guest post for me and she wrote stuff and she took the time and I never posted it. I am SO blaming “the worst two weeks in April of my life ever” for my fuck up. So Elly, I apologize. You are kick ass and wonderful and I should have put this up a while ago. I sucketh.

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The other day I had to admit to my work colleagues that yes, I was one of those geeks. Yes, I know how to use twitter. And yes I have a feedburner account and understand the difference between a ‘subscriber’ and a ‘reach’. Yes, I know that that second ‘S’ in ‘RSS’ is ‘Syndication’. And yes, I actually do HAVE a blog. That I update. Every weekday.

That probably doesn’t sound that geeky to you, my dear blog friends. You, after all, are reading the fabulous blog of Just Miss so you must on some level understand. But to them I might as well have been an alien with multiple heads. Didn’t I have a LIFE, they asked?

Now, I’m not really in any of the popular or acceptable niches. I’m not a Mommy Blogger, I don’t have kids.  I don’t bake, or have any kind of greenery skills so there aren’t any recipes or photos of my garden, and I’m just not fan enough to post about my tv loves and write fanfic or make fan videos. I don’t own my own home nor super care about the inside of it, so there aren’t any posts about decorating or organising or cute little rooms filled with cute little things. I don’t make cute crafty anythings, so there’s no arts and crafts, or pretty slightly askew photos of my creations that don’t exist.

I don’t post sex-toy reviews, or about my sex life (The Boy would probably not appreciate my telling the world how generous his private parts are). I don’t post about the mental illnesses I don’t have, and I (mostly) don’t post about how hard my life is, or have any tips on how to survive the recession, or what’s going on in the design/science/technology/political/fashion/music world.

That life that my work colleagues asked about? That life is what I post about. About my dog, and the great changes at work, and what I did with The Boy on the weekend. Cute projects and youTube videos that I found on the great big interwebs. Something stupid that my friend said, or how I’m a bit bummed that my sister bought the pair of shoes I wanted. And how I prefer Vitamin Water over Nutrient Water (that post got me a sample pack – hurrah for Vitamin Water!)

Perfectly ordinary and mostly insignificant (to anyone other than me) events and experiences.

So when Miss asked me about guest blogging, I thought she was a little mad is all.  Not only because I was as ordinary as ordinary could be, but because I’d just told her how using my wordpress design that I had offered as a birthday present was going to cost her money. I had expected a MUCH different outcome.

And then I got all proud that she’d asked me. And then the more I thought about it, I got all proud that I was one of those bloggers. The no niche, perfectly ordinary geek kind.  And about that time I stopped giving a shit that people at work think I’m a geek and I now have that weird stigma of (*gasp*) blogger!

So what, you know? Yesterday I walked one the account managers through how twitter works and now there are plans in the pipeline to use it as a media form in one of our brand campaigns. And guess who gets the credit for that? (Give you a hint, not the person whose brain couldn’t quite grasp the concept of ‘tweets’.)

So hell yes I’m blogging about the mostly insignificant perfectly ordinary stuff I do. And hell yes I’m proud about that, even if it comes with the geek title and the stigma. Blog on, I say!

Am I the only one out there like this? Are you proud of your blog and the perfectly ordinary things you post about?

Drunken bloghopping. How I have missed you. Jumping back on board with an excuse to drink and leave incoherent comments on people’s blogs, while exciting, also reminded me that I would need to post something. Revealing this issue on twitter only helped resolve it. (Seriously. Twitter. Better than google. People be helpful ya’ll!)

So here’s the story of two girls and their boobs. Honestly, I know for a fact that I don’t even need words here. That I should just throw up the bewbs and be done with it. But I’m not going to do that. Consider it like those pornos you hate, the ones with the shitty story lines. You know, the parts you fast forward.

I may not be smart enough to get into Harvard like some people, but my boobs are.

Wow so Twitter’s best idea was boobs. Actually, it was Kaiseralex’s idea. And then mah cracker Vdog casually mentioned that she owed me a guest post. To which I casually mentioned that she should just send me a picture of her fun bags and I would share some pics of my sweater puppies and be done with it.

She agreed.

And then she told all of twitter that she emailed me an obscene picture. You’d have thought someone threw a bucket of bloody meat into shark infested waters. Fucking cry babies. “waaaah how come Miss gets to see the pic and we dont?” Jesus. You all wanted to see it. So here.

Hear that? It’s the sound of thousands of computer mouses and laptop pads being right clicked at once.

 I know. I KNOW. They are impressive. I mean, are there even words? I’m having trouble myself. All I feel like doing is motor boating those babies.

Her husband is luckier than he knows.

Which makes it hard (that’s what HE said) for me to put up my next pic because um HELLO. My ta-ta’s ain’t nothing compared to hers. But I still had to take this pic when I realized how badly I should probably wear a tank top under this shirt when I went to work.

 Some VP’s might approve but I don’t condone that, least the VP’s from MY job. Others, yes.

Now let me tell you a secret. There are few things better in this world than cozying up to Vdog’s love pillows. At least for me. They are a great source of comfort and she fucking KNOWS it. If you are looking for me at BlogHer, this is where I’ll be:

 I almost passed out drunk here once and damn it, I will do it again. Also? Those are some happy mother fuckers. Can’t blame us!

What is left to say? Am I glad that the Weekend Bloghoppers was brought back to life? You bet your sweet gazongas I am! Happy Hoppin’!

Cheers bitches!

If you want in on the Bloghopping action, go here. (Poke around a bit. The rest of that blog is alright.)

So I try to take a break, line up some guest posters and what does Sandy go and do? She refuses to guest post for me and cons me into writing for her.

While she was on a VACATION.

But. I’m a sucker for a beautiful woman so go visit me over at Momisodes today would you?

This guest post comes from one of my best friends on the face of this planet. I met her last year, which she will explain, during a time in my life when I felt empty. She helped fill a hole in my heart and has always been there for me. I feel like if I tell you that she is a wonderful and amazing person, it just isn’t enough to describe her. Nic, you and D have been one of  the greatest additions to my life. I love you both so much. Thank you for your friendship, it has never once wavered and I can only hope that I am as good a friend to you as you have been to me. You deserve everything that is headed your way.

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I met Miss on good ol’ Plurk last year.  There was something about this foxy lady that drew me in.  Her life story gave me so much hope and comfort during that time in my life.  One of the things I loved about her blog was how she could tell her feelings and what is happening in her life through lyrics of a song.  I have always loved music, but there are very few songs that really spoke straight to my heart like they have for Miss.  That is until I heard Whitehorse by Taylor Swift.  I first heard this song when she sang it on the American Music Awards in November 2008.  I listened to that song every day for about 4 months.  And every time would belt it out while tears welled up in my eyes.  Then the song started to take on a new meaning for me.  It started giving me hope and I found myself smiling when I finished singing it.  The world is a big place.  Life is filled with surprises and possibilities.  And, there is love and friendship to be found in even the most unexpected of places.

Love you, Miss!  Thank you for letting me guest post and loving me unconditionally!  You are the truest of friends and I am so lucky to have you in my life. 

 

 Say you’re sorry / That face of an angel comes out / Just when you need it to / As I pace back and forth all this time / ‘Cause / I honestly believed in you / Holdin’ on, / The days drag on / Stupid girl / I should have known, I should have known

I lost count of how many times you came home drunk or did something stupid while intoxicated.  The next morning you would say that it wouldn’t happen again.  You said you would take a break or cut back on how much you drink.  I would encourage and support you in this healthy decision, but after a week or two you are spending our money at the liquor store or pub.  I would remind you of the promise you made, but it would fall upon deaf ears and repelled with excuses.  Years of empty promises slipped through my fingers so that it was too late for things to change.

That I’m not a princess / This ain’t a fairytale / I’m not the one you’ll sweep off her feet / Lead her up the stairwell / This ain’t Hollywood, / This is a small town / I was a dreamer before you went and let me down / Now its too late for you and your White Horse, / To come around.

My parents worked hard for what they have.  Thanks to them I learned that a good education and hard work pay off.  Like many women I had a dream to meet a man who put his family first, who was the breadwinner allowing me to be a stay-at-home mom while I free lanced as a writer.  I dreamed we would live in a nice home, in a nice neighborhood and close to family and friends.  Instead, my parents had to help you purchase your work truck, helped us pay our bills, provided us with meals and groceries, and helped clean our condo while I worked full time to be the stable support for our family.  There was only one way to make things change for the better … I had to leave.

Maybe I was naïve, / Got lost in your eyes / I never really had a chance. / My mistake, I didn’t know to be in love you had to fight to have the upperhand. / I had so many dreams about you and me. / Happy endings; / Now I know

I was only 24 when I met you.  I had been dating guys who always put their career before me.  I thought I was not worth as much as I really am.  You swept me off my feet with all of your promises … empty promises.  I don’t know when or how I lost my ability to speak up for what I want or deserved.  I don’t know why I felt like your behavior was acceptable.  I dreamed about the man I thought you could be, but he is not the same man you are turned out to be.  You said yourself that you are happy with who you are.  That you have no need for self improvement.  You will never change.  I see that now.

And there you are on your knees / Begging for forgiveness, / Begging for me / Just like I always wanted, / But I’m so sorry

Now that I have walked away from our marriage I have seen who you really are.  Your anger has turned towards me.  Your real opinions of me and my family have come out.  You say you are sorry, that you are trying to clean up your life, that you realize you could have done more to help.  You say your daughter is the most important thing in your life and that she makes you want to be a better man.  But, you are still drinking, you are still not working, you are still putting YOU before HER, and you are still making more empty promises. 

Cause I’m not your princess / This ain’t a fairytale / I’m gonna find someone, Some day / Who might actually treat me well. / This is a big world, / That was a small town / There in my rearview mirror, / Disappearing now. / And it’s too late for you and your White Horse, / Now its too late for you and your White Horse / To catch me now.

I can never (and will never) change that you are her father, and I hope that you will become a better man for her.  But, I deserve so much more.  It is time for me to open my heart to a world of possibilities and a greater love that you could ever give to me.  Goodbye. 

I miss the sound of your voice
and I miss the rush of your skin

Two things out of thousands of different thoughts that dance across my mind at any give time. Your smile. The times I would glance over and catch you staring at me. Most times its a flash of a memory, sometimes I dream about you. Either way, you’re there, in my heart.

I miss the still of the silence
as you breathe out and I breathe in

You made all the static in my head go away. That loud buzzing noise was always much quieter when you held me. Sometimes I can think of nothing better than laying next to you, my head on your chest, the fan turning lazily above us, both of us wearing nothing but a smile. Music quietly playing, and drifting to sleep because the sound of your heart beats louder than any music that is playing.

Make you believe
Make you forget

I’m well aware of what I did. I did what I never intended to do, what I thought I could overcome. The thing is, I knew from the start that I was going to end up hurting you in some way. I thought you had taught me enough not to but I was wrong. You’ll never understand this now, but I’ve learned a lot about myself, about life, about the things that I did and the things I took for granted. Without complication, easy IS simple. We don’t have that complication. Loving each other always came easy anyways. I hope you don’t deny that too.

I ache to remember all the violent, sweet, perfect words that you said

We said some pretty mean things to each other, didn’t we? I always tried not to be petty but I’m sure I failed. I knew how to hurt you and I hate myself for doing it sometimes. No one deserves that. I know that. Is this part of the reason you won’t talk to me now? I’m trying not to make assumptions but I’m struggling to understand.

Pull me down hard, and drown me in love

I don’t mind not being able to breathe because of you. But I wish it was because you were taking my breath away, and not because of the tears.

It’s all wrong
but
It’s so right

None of this matters. What I say, what I try to do, it all means nothing. I’m impossible to love, I’ve never been worth fighting for. The one person who tries to fight for me is the one person I hate most in this world. Is this what I deserve? It must be. Because I always seem to be the one at the end of it all that loved more than they were loved.

Because everything works in your arms

It always has. I don’t know if anything will work again, now.

I’m going to be honest here. The only reason I got The Remote Body Wave Vibrator was because it has a remote. I mean, come on! A remote?  A remote with 7 different kinds of vibrating options? That’s all kinds of awesome.

Yea. All kinds of awesome if you have someone to USE the remote for you. Which I do not.

First off, this thing is a pink monster. I mean, it’s freaking THICK. When I opened the package, I was intimidated. I looked at it and immediately thought that it wouldn’t be very comfortable.Turns out it wasn’t uncomfortable, just a bit awkward.

I had to relax. A lot. I mean, I’m no stranger to thickness (props to R) so really, this shouldn’t have been so bad. But I really had to relax and use the round end to get excited enough to where inserting this bad boy didn’t feel awkward. This is about where the remote became totally obsolete. First of all, this thing is big so I had to keep a grip on it that allowed me to also attempt to use the little buttons ON the vibrator. Which, if you know anything about me and my coordination, this wasn’t exactly easy. I thought I would use my free hand to work the remote but I was always putting it down to re-adjust the actual vibrator. So I ended up giving up on the remote and using one hand to keep the vibrator steady, and one hand to work the buttons.

Yea.

Not only was I having internal issues, but that little pointy tip thing that is meant for your clit? Would not stay in place. So I was constantly aware of it’s placement as well. And constantly having to re-adjust here too. Maybe if the tip was thicker? Maybe a little flatter? I’m not sure really, but the pointed tip was not as pleasurable as I would have hoped.

Cleanup wasn’t as bad as I thought it might be. This vibe is made from a material called Jelly. The material rating of 2 should have been a good indication that I might not like this. Believe me, material rating is a very big deal to me now. Jelly happens to be one the least safe materials. It cannot be sanitized so no boiling. If you plan on sharing, you need to use a condom. The best way to clean vibrators or dildos made of jelly is warm water and a toy cleaner. Another thing about the jelly vibrator is that hair and dust can stick to it very easily. It’s annoying.

The Remote Body Wave comes with a pretty silver storage bag with a cinch tie, which I like. Any sex toy that comes in a nice box or bag for storage gets a thumbs up from me.

My biggest complaint about this vibrator? The buttons ON the vibe, not the remote, are extremely sensitive. Being that I keep my toys in my bedside drawer, every time I reached in and brushed against this vibe, it turned on. I’m assuming that I didn’t notice leaving it on because when I pulled it out to do this review, the battery was dead. The 9 volt battery that it takes. Lucky for me I bought the two pack. The remote takes 2 triple A batteries. I guess I’ve learned that when not in use, I need to take the 9 volt out of this sex toy.

Overall, there were many things about this vibe I didn’t like. I can honestly say that I probably would not recommend it at all. The remote feature is a fun novelty but I think that is the only thing going for this vibrator. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll still use it of course, but I wont recommend it, especially with a price tag a little over $60.

It’s no big secret that I’m a cuddler. If there is one thing I am looking forward to in July (one thing amongst MANY things), it’s getting the chance to cuddle with Terra. And we are sharing a room! A room where we will both be intoxicated. That means either some hot and heavy action, or taking turns throwing up. Either way, we’ll be doing it TOGETHER. I love her, I cannot wait to blubber all over her in the airport (because you KNOW there will be tears) and I’m excited to have her guest post for me. Being published in the newspaper and she still has words for this place? She rocks.

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When I was four, something happened in a bathroom with an 11-year old boy that my brain has nearly completely blocked out. I know the results involved a beating of my defender and a lack of further invitation to the home.

When I was ten, a man who lived in the low-income apartment across the playground from my own low-income apartment tried to convince me and at least one other girl to come up the stairs to his suite. The term “rosebudding” came up in the conversation and my manner of reporting this heinous exchange was to ask my dad, after I ran home, what the term meant, tattling on the man who’d said it. My father stormed out, then came home a short while later, washed his hands, changed his clothes and called the cops. A little girl, I’d find out later, had been raped in that playground only a little while before then. I can only assume that my dad instituted some vigilante justice, it was never discussed again, and I wasn’t allowed to play there, anymore.

When I was 13, a man handed me my third glass of champagne of the afternoon, put a $20 on the table in front of my skinny knees and asked if he could touch me.

Last week, I was walking down the sidewalk with my daughter, when a familiar feeling crept up my neck.

Looking across the street, I saw a man walking, to cross in front of on-coming traffic, and his eyes were magnetized on Isobel. We were going to the rec centre – her to the afternoon playgroup, while I went to the gym. It was a sunny day and I was already dressed for my run, while she had picked out a princess-worthy dress, cardigan and wore sneakers, bare-footed. her bangs were pinned off to the side of her face and she looked like a little doll.

My kid is kind of beautiful, when we clean her up. I admit it, even if I’m supposed to biasedly think she’s beautiful all the time, that some times it’s a lot easier to see the bags under her eyes, the bangs in need of a trim and the hands that have been stained with mud. But when we clean her up? People stop and stare.

It’s annoyed the shit out of my for about 27 months. She’s not quite three yet, so you do the math. People have always stopped and stared, often cooing and awingat her. I’m not bragging, this shit’s gotta stop. When a heavy-tourism area receives a lot of Asian traffic, a bunch of senior citizen groups and conventioneers, a lot of whom seem to fall in love with a blonde haired, blue eyed living doll? Cameras get pulled out, she gets confused by accents talking at her, and it takes us twice as long to get from point A to B.

Fuck off, people, seriously. But that’s relatively okay. It’s even nice a lot of the time, especially when compliments on her beauty are followed with “she looks just like her mom.” *ahem*

What is intolerable is when some fuckwad crosses the street into oncoming traffic, seemingly hypnotized by the imagery of my kid. When, after he narrowly avoids being run over, after car horns have blared and her attention has been drawn to him, and she’s asking “what’s the man doin’, mama?” he still stands on the street. When he doesn’t even stop to close his fucking mouth and step onto the sidewalk, because he’s so busy unblinkingly looking at her.

I didn’t exist. I wasn’t holding her hand, there was no cars about to break his bones, or other people on the sidewalk with us, noticing him noticing her. The woman that stood beside Isobel and I as we waited for the crosswalk light to change was brushed past, once he finally walked forward. Directly toward her.

“Hi, Sweetheart,” he said when he was about five steps away. The fucker wasn’t blinking, still. Just Staring.

And her back was immediately tense. She didn’t answer him, didn’t wave, and I didn’t remind her that not responding when someone says hello is rude. But yet, he kept walking toward her.

“Hi, honey. What’s your name?” he breathed that one out.

Seriously? What fucking universe is this man from, wherein he thinks that looking at my daughter in a way that makes her either dinner, porn, or a circus sideshow.

I’ve never felt so violated as the moment when he got one step away from our side and he knelt down.

“Hello. How are you?”

And he reached out to brush her hair out of her face.

She gripped my hand harder, I swear. And I pulled the fiercest voice out of my head possible as I said “Do not touch my daughter.”

The light changed and we ran across the street without me even needing to ask her to hurry. Half a block later, she asked me again, looking back over her shoulder, what the man was doing. As I weighed how to answer her, I looked back, too. And saw him still standing on that same corner, staring in her direction.

I have never had instinct speak so sharply to me as when I felt the creep up my neck. I’ve never put thought into who might be in my neighbourhood, assuming that if she was with me, she would always be safe from anyone who might want to harm her.

And I’ve never immediately judged someone as a pedophile before. This instinct to protect her from this man was so strong, I’m 99% sure of it.

For all I know, this man has lost a daughter, she died or was kidnapped, and Isobel is the spitting image of his own. His pain hasn’t receded, or it just has, and then he saw her and it was like seeing his past. Maybe that’s the hopeful person inside of me, who wants to believe that everyone has good intentions and actions. Maybe that’s the supposed-to-be-multiple-timed mother in me, that saw his look of breathlessness and could, days later, attribute it to having the air sucked out of him by grief.

Those are maybes.

I know exactly who I would have been, if his fingers had actually graced her hair. A wild fucking banshee, intent on ripping his eyes out, if I hadn’t accidentally pushed him into oncoming traffic. Someone willing to turn Isobels’ back to me, place her hand in the one of the woman standing next to us, and deliver a hip-dislocated kick to his balls. One who would spit on him and he writhed in pain on the ground as I dialled the police.

What would you have done or thought?

This guest post comes from my really good friend Ashley, or as most of you know her, Bosssanders. Let me tell you something about Ashley. She is hysterical. She’s witty  and clever and about 50 weeks pregnant so most of her jokes right now are about bladder control. Which is fine. I mean, who doesn’t like jokes about pee? Anyways, take a minute to giggle and then send her some good labor vibes. At this point, her kid will be old enough for kindergarten by the time it decides to come out.

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I’ve only met Miss online so far, but I consider her a pretty close friend.  She’s stood by me and listened to me talk smack and cry and told me to put my big-girl panties on when I needed to hear it most.  She’s a great friend, and it’s amazing how much in common we have…

I mean, Miss is so hot that she has to fight the boys off to keep from being manhandled.  Me?  I get manhandled all of the time, too – only they just want to touch my pregnant belly, and it’s all women.

Miss sleeps on pretty white sheets with blue flowers that envelope her and lull her to sleep.  My sheets crinkle beneath me because I thought a vinyl protector cover might be a good idea just in case my water broke in bed… or I got really lazy one night and decided to not get up and pee for the umpteenth time.

Miss can’t remember what thread count her pretty sheets are … I didn’t know I was supposed to count.

Miss likes good conversation.  I rarely shut up.

Miss’ favorite shoes are her Steve Madden heels or the sexy high heeled boots she owns.  I can’t even see my feet anymore…

Miss enjoys spending time with her friends over a beer… I consider myself lucky to hang out with friends without wailing children climbing on me.

Miss blogs about vibrators and sex.  I beg my husband to just hurry up and do it because the doctor SAID it could induce labor, dammit – and this baby needs to be BORN.

Miss gets to have fun sex.  My uterus twitches at the thought.  On its own.

Miss enjoys clean clothes and does laundry at least every week.  I only have two pairs of pants and a handful of tops that fit and only wash after they fail the sniff test.

Miss’ first crush had a mullet.  My 2 year old daughter has a mullet.

Miss meets boys in bars and loves an ice cold newcastle.  I meet boys in the men’s room when I can’t wait in the ladies’ line any longer.

One of Miss’ biggest pet peeves is self-centeredness and I devote an entire blog to MYSELF.

Miss likes to shave at least every other day.  I can’t even see what I’m shaving anymore and am willing to bet it’s beginning to look a little artistic…or something.

Miss likes men with a little facial stubble…I’m fairly sure I have some.

We’re like two peas in a pod.  REALLY.  It’s like we were meant to be best friends or something.  I know, the similarities freak me out, too…