Milf Alert

Phishing for Memories

1hpb — Thu, 03 Dec 2009 18:27:55 +0000

Several weeks ago my husband asked me if I wanted to go to the Phish reunion concert at Madison Square Garden. Of course.

I cannot remember how many Phish shows that I’ve attended, but I know every concert has been loads of fun, between the music, the crowd and the extra curriculars. The first time I saw the band was in 1993 at Jones Beach, I had yet to appreciate what a fine venue that is for seeing shows. I begged my brother to bring me with his friends and once we left the tailgate party he handed me my ticket and said I’ll meet you at the entrance at the end of the show. At least I think he said that. I know my sister felt the same way when we went to see Phish another year at Jones Beach. Or at least I presumed she felt that way, not wanting me around her so she could enjoy her extra curriculars and not feel the need to babysit me.

Consistent with much of the feelings of my youth, I was once again a burden.

I don’t think my husband, the oldest of three boys, had similar feelings in high school towards his brothers. He enjoyed partying with them and did not feel the need to regulate every move, only if one of his brothers got out of hand, in which case he was there for him. My husband still looks forward to partying with his brothers while I often feel judged by siblings, or at least my sister. I’m getting better at overcoming my inhibitions and living for myself and not some elusive approval from the peanut gallery of my life, but it’s taking some time.

I remember being a the concert, trying to get closer to the stage, comparing my dance moves with others. Was anybody looking at the way my shoulders shifted and think I was moving to a different beat. My band teacher had all but told me I had no rhythm. I was concerned about fitting in, and emulating my sister who did not want to be seen with me in the hopes that perhaps she would want to include me not just in a ride but in her circle.

Last night I wore a Phish T-shirt that I picked up in Israel. Jerusalem perhaps, but I don’t remember. It has the band’s logo in English and Hebrew and the name of some songs on the back. The underarms and collar are yellow from sweat and who knows what else over the last fifteen years. I stood there in my vintage Israeli Phish shirt, dancing without inhibition feeling like I finally belonged.

Then I went home to relieve the babysitter.

Keeping Score

1hpb — Mon, 30 Nov 2009 21:17:24 +0000

One of my high school friends used to log on her calendar each time she had sex with her boyfriend. I’m not sure if she logged the number of times she cheated on him, but she felt the need to keep a tally of actual intercourse.

My boyfriend at the time, and roommate to her boyfriend at boarding school, thought if you have to keep track, it’s not enough although it’s hard to imagine his hormones surging more than mine.

I’m thirty one and I’ve heard that my hormones have not yet peaked, another concept I struggle to grasp. Lately, I’ve been anything but interested in intercourse. My boobs that were once so sensitive they would leak milk from stimulation now hang like limp lumps from my body.

Last night I rolled over and I rubbed my foot against my husband’s leg. His disappointment and lack of interest in any sort of contact was immediately apparent. At first I was not sure what he was protesting, but perhaps in some diluted male mind, the contact of one foot and one leg means foreplay.

Maybe I need to be seduced more. Sure. That sounds great. I just can’t imagine it is going to go much beyond, “The kids are quiet. Quick. Strip.”

Cheating in My Dreams

1hpb — Thu, 12 Nov 2009 20:49:14 +0000

Last night I dreamt I was kissing this attractive well built young guy. I’m sounding like a real MILF when I refer to someone in their mid twenties as young. He began rubbing me and eventually I succumbed to his advances. Other than him being well endowed, I do not remember too much about our physical action, but I do know I was disappointed that we did not meet up again.

My sister and I had been talking about sexual choices we made when we were younger that night and I am not proud to admit how I used my body, or rather let my body be used for ulterior reasons, mostly for attention and feeling included. Who knew not being popular in middle school could have so many ramifications later on in life?

Sex was always the big thing. It was okay to get completely naked with someone and do everything but sex because there was still something left “to do”, a reason for the guy to come back. And as one friend said, once you sleep with someone you have to add him to your list, even if you did not want to because otherwise what was the point of a list.

We did not sleep together in my dream, me and that young stud who showed know signs of developing the inevitable gut. He didn’t want to because it meant something more. In Pretty Woman Julia Roberts would not kiss her johns on the mouth because that was too intimate, as if giving someone a BJ while he is driving the car is not.

perhaps these sexual dreams are a mere outlet for my desires and fantasies, none of which I’m eager to act upon, but still tantalize and empower me.

Driven to a food drive

1hpb — Wed, 11 Nov 2009 20:50:25 +0000

I’m trying to do well. Really. Whether it is how I conduct myself in my new/my mom’s old business, my relationships with siblings and father, and as a mother, I think I’m doing okay. Two years ago I started a food drive at my building and was so motivated as a new and practically unemployed mother I put boxes up at local stores, my lobby, my old lobby collecting who knows how much food for New York’s hungriest. Or at least those who benefit from City Harvest.

I had all of the food collected once the box in my current lobby was overflowing and once the super in my old building reported that some food was stolen from the box in that lobby. I figured if someone took food from a box for the hungry then he too must have been hungry and if not, well karma has a way of equalizing that too.

So this year I asked the management office for permission and got the green light. I made my poster even though it looked like my daughter colored in the letters and placed my wrapped box in the lobby, only to find it behind the doorman’s desk the next day. This year they don’t want a more discreet drive.

Considering I have had another child and lost my mother since the previous call for food, I don’t have the drive to place boxes all over the neighborhood so I’m trying to encourage others to do so. I constantly hear moms talk about their desire to give back, and this is a perfect non totally consuming yet tangible way to do so. I posted this idea to my parents message board and did not receive one response. Grr.

Perhaps it’s too early in the giving season and people are not yet motivated. Or they are simply content to donate a canned good or a check to another drive. Or, naively I’d like to think that my post was so succinct, no follow up was necessary. Then again, I was posting to the same parents who take notes during a PTA meeting for preschoolers. I’m trying.

Stop asking about my father

1hpb — Mon, 09 Nov 2009 01:49:44 +0000

My dad has cancer.
He is going through chemotherapy.
It’s taking a toll on his body and naturally his psyche.
His prognosis is fine.
He is a pain in the ass, please stop asking about him

Everybody has been asking about my father, some out of politeness and others with a little more concern. How shall I answer?

He is still a narcissistic nuisance and every visit with him feels like an obligation.

I know I am lucky to have a father, and one who loves me unconditionally. I wonder how I would feel if he passed away tomorrow. After feeling sad and like an orphan, I’d be at peace with our relationship. Not satisfied with how it all played out, but content that I behaved ethically.

The nucleus of my family has evolved to my husband and kids and not my father. So his disapproving remarks, or snide comments (He’ll answer the question How are you? with “Waiting for you.”) are no longer going to motivate me to seek his approval. I still love him and will attend to his legitimate needs but I am not going to alter my schedule to satisfy his whims and narcissistic desires.

I don’t indulge my dad’s descriptions of his procedures, most of which involve waiting for the doctors. I know it’s not fair to expect my father to behave in the same brave and somewhat nonchalant way my mother handled her more severe and dire cancer.

So when people ask me how my father is, I just don’t know what to say. I’m sure he’d love me to recite his lengthy responses he offers to the same question but I am not his puppet. And I cannot believe it took me this many years to say this.

First Move

1hpb — Thu, 29 Oct 2009 16:59:42 +0000

Most of the parents in the park are mothers. That’s not anti-feminist or gender biased but a fact. A dad at the playground with his children is a minority.

There is one dad who I see frequently and I find him recognizable because he is at the park frequently and he is highly unkempt. I see him with his shaggy light brown hair in his eyes, poor posture and lanky figure and wonder what woman would want to bare his children, let alone trust him with the kids. I know it’s terrible how I judge people, but I find him so slouchy and unappealing.

Imagine my surprise to discover he not only sends his girls to the same school as my daughter but is also on the PTA, and is in fact the secretary. He had to chose the most emasculating titled position. I’m still weirded out by him. I just want to see him showered and groomed.

On the upside, I’ve met a dad I do not find even remotely attractive.

The other day I had the luxury of sitting in a coffee shop with my laptop looking out the window. Who should pass the window but Dirty Dad. A moment after we made eye contact I offered a smile which was quickly returned.

I’m slightly ashamed that this was the first time we really had any sort of interaction where we acknowledged the other. Then I began to wonder why he did not initiate the smile. He likely recognized me and did not mistake me as a random smiler. Did he know that I do not shower daily? Or that some mornings I forget to brush my teeth- doesn’t Listerine kill the bad germs? Or that I’ve occasionally conveniently “forgotten” to brush my children’s teeth? Does he know I only like to wash my jeans monthly?

It’s been said that what you love and hate in another person is only a reflection of what you love and hate in yourself. Hmm.

Horny and Faithful

1hpb — Wed, 21 Oct 2009 15:43:31 +0000

I tried telling my 91 year old grandma last night how I enjoy flirting and I think she completely misunderstood what I was saying.

I know I’ve got it great on many levels and I am smart enough not to jeopardize it.

I think my husband respects my desire for attention so long as he does not have to see it and so long as it does not interfere with our lives.

I focus on what’s important, family.

Perhaps I was too attracted to the man at the party last week and could not quite shake him from my head. That was/is a minor problem. Even if I did have a way of contacting him, I did not. Flirting when you are at the same locale is one thing, communicating beyond that is not necessary.

One friend discovered his wife was having an affair for half of their marriage by helping her fix her email address. He came across many emails that she had sent to her paramours. I wonder how my husband would feel if he discovered this site – which he may have already. I’m not certainly not advertising or advocating anything I would not own up to and if it was an issue, I’d happily oblige my husband as our relationship is paramount.

Not sure why I am feeling defensive. When I came home last weekend from the party I simply wanted to get under the covers and pull out my husbands cock and suck it. I was more attracted to him and hornier than ever.

The Tease

1hpb — Tue, 20 Oct 2009 22:30:31 +0000

One of the fun things about flirting is the anticipation or tease of what could possibly come next. That excitement where your mind fills in all of the blanks of what you do not know about the other and the possibility of more is more appealing than the actual act. So naturally, I love to flirt.

If things get a little too intense or steamy I may slip in the conversation that I have two children and a husband. I’m not hiding anything, just dancing on the boundary. Plus, it is a total position of power when you (or rather I) have something that someone (hot!) wants, it’s a dance. A risque dance.

I went to a party last weekend and had more fun than I ought to admit. There was one particular guy who I found attractive. We bonded over the loss of our moms and…well I had a bit to drink so I do not remember everything so clearly. I do recall him talking about himself quite a bit (he’s a musician so perhaps it is in the blood) and him telling me about his open relationship with his girlfriend. Perhaps if he used a less crass expression than “my girlfriend knows I may fuck someone else.”

I believe if two parties are on the same page with a mutual understanding respect for one another and it works for the couple, then go for it. My husband and I are not there, nor do I think I want us to be.

Yeah, maybe it was a little inappropriate for me to stare directly at his crotch when we were talking to a few people, but when he commented on my snake style pants, I warned him that they, like me, are venomous and can bite. I left a little abruptly surprised that he did not try a little more aggressively. But little good can happen after 1:30am for a milf like me.

Do I need an Astericks?

1hpb — Fri, 16 Oct 2009 17:26:13 +0000

The other night my single girlfriend invited me to Karaoke which was more fun than I could have expected, and not just because I was not the worst singer. There were drinks and a bunch of 90s songs that I knew by heart.

Considering most people were drinking and all of the songs were classics from our childhood, people from different “parties” joined the other singers on stage. We danced, we made fools of ourselves, there was physical contact.

There was a particularly cute young guy that grabbed the mic to sing Sexual Healing with my friend while I watched from the booth. Then he joined us for a rendition of a Billy Joel number casually placing his arm around my waist and sometimes my friend’s.

Is this what kids do today? My friend is older than me, but as I mentioned single, and she lives in India and is horny. Their contact appeared natural. But mine! Me! His hand on my body! Touching the same shirt that had to replace the earlier one because someone threw up on me. His hand on a little girl’s mommy.

What to do? I pulled gently away feeling like I was betraying my family. Flirting is one thing, physical contact another. He did not seem to notice. Then the song was over and we both sat down in separate booths. He was mostly talking to my girlfriend as her side of the booth backed up to his. But then my Guns and Roses song popped up and he jumped on stage with me. That Sweet Child o Mine.

I felt like I needed a disclaimer, to let him know I was not only married but also a mother of two. When/where does that fit in during casual flirting at a karaoke bar?

Turns out most of the drama was in my head. Surprise surprise! Shortly after he barely said goodbye to my friend and gave me a nod when he went off to another bar. *My friend later told me that he was 5 years younger than me. I guess I should be flattered in a dark bar on a Saturday night I look half a decade younger.

Zen Head

1hpb — Fri, 16 Oct 2009 17:20:05 +0000

I tried being a DeadHead but I liked the tye dyes and the pot more than the music. I was too high strung to chill out and sway to the music. I’d love bumming hits of weed off others at concerts and try my hand at dancing, wondering if everyone knew that I was an impostor.

There’s a joke, what does a Deadhead say when you take away his weed?
What is this crap I’m listening to?

Some of those real mellow songs or super long solos felt like something I’d groan about my parents listening to, not something I’d seek out. I was more into it for the culture and the clothes.

Now that my husband is full blown music fan and has loaded my ipod up with hippy music, I’ve begun to appreciate the actual music talent more, of course not when I am running and looking for something with a little more beat.

But I am trying to apply this relaxed attitude to other areas of my life. After losing my mom, so much of everything feels like the small stuff.

One psychopharmacologist I visited to work out some kinks in my medication suggested I try Cognitive Behavior Therapy (CBT). From what I understood after meeting with two graduate students is it’s a finite type of therapy (no years of commitment like in analysis) to help patients become more “present” to their emotions and thus control them better. With their pre-scripted answers and specific vocabulary like mindfulness, and eagerness to get me to commit, I was suspicious. So I met with another counselor, actually a PhD student younger than myself. The fact that the secretary made a snide remark did not so much offend me but turned me off from the place.

I comment that she’s younger than me because she, like the other PhD student did not represent an authoritative figure. She was no smarter than me, just trained. I had memorized answers and found ways to handle multiple situations when I met with tutoring students or their parents (a career in my past life) and it appeared these therapists were drawing from a similar finite well. I put the woman on the spot and asked her how she would advise me when I lost my temper with my daughter.

“I’d try to help you identify where the emotions are coming from?”
“I’m stressed, I’m late, I’m tired, and I’ve become impatient.”
She went on saying how she’d tap into the source, but listening to her I deduced that a parenting class would be more productive.

I’m accepting this Zen attitude, not blindly following one person, regardless of medical degrees, advice and instead focusing on what’s important. Like my family. And finding that rare bootleg concert CD for my husband.