beauty and the bitch

“Every little thing she does is magic, everything she does just turns me on.” The Police

I’ll return to the aforementioned quote later. Let’s take the day in chronological order: I rose early, drank coffee, walked the dog, swam with Megan, established a blog site and entered my first blog (no longer a blog virgin am I), rewrote a bullshit article on infertility, played the ponies (caught a 4-1 shot), picked up some Baileys (Megan’s favorite) and vodka at the ABC store, downed a few dirty martinis, smoked some pot, picked up food at Hard Times (veggie chili and mac n’ cheese wedges), came home and hunkered in with my lovely lady for the evening. On the mental plain: I was fairly level most of the day (no roller coaster rides, though I did experience intermittent panic attacks); and I had a good conversation with god (though he did most of the talking).

Now back to the opening quote. For me, most everything Megan does turns me on. I’ve never been present for one of her famed pooping sessions which she usually describes in fairly great detail, but even that doesn’t give me the willies. Perhaps I have a shit fetish. Anyway, let us not stray.

One of the traits in women that turns me off most is stupidity. Ginger, my last wife, at times displayed extreme forms of the disease—especially when she was on the bottle, which, frankly, was most of the time. She was an obnoxious repeater, and after about six stiff vodkas the girl would start rehashing the same material she had spewed forth an hour earlier; often this would persist throughout the evening. Are you catching the drift? Drunk, delirious, brain dead and pathetic all wrapped up in one pernicious package. Am I being to harsh? No, I say! Not harsh enough! However, let’s segue to the brighter side of the female specious: Megan.

Last night, during a glorious pot/pill invested conversation (Megan takes prescription drugs, legal of course, and periodically I puff pot). In the course of dinner I used the word mute, saying, “yadi, yadi, yadi, but that’s a moot issue.” I’ve always liked the word moot, and have used it often in conversation and writing. So for emphasis—and to display my intellectual superiority—I stated adamantly, “And that’s spelled M-U-T-E!”

Big mistake! It had to be the pot.

Megan’s eyes widened as if she had just corned a rat and was moving in for the kill.

“I don’t think you spelled it correctly,” she said, now grinning ear to ear. (I knew she was holding aces because she was all too calm and collected). “I think its spelled M-O-O-T.” Now being a macho man of sorts, I immediately disputed the facts and vehemently argued my point, all the while sensing I had just stepped into a huge pool of quicksand.

“Let me look it up,” she says, confidence oozing. So she pulls out her internet laden phone and goes to work. Of course she turned out to be right (are we noticing a trend here?); but in a desperate effort to save face I immediately blurted: “I’ve been using the word both in speech and writing for years and haven’t had a problem. Mainly in speech, mind you, and only occasionally in pen.” That got me to thinking. How many fucking times have I’ve written the word incorrectly? And because mute is a word, the spell checker would never have alerted me.

Mind you, I didn’t misuse the word verbally, but as she pointed out, rightly so, mute describes someone who is unable to speak. All of this was rough to take since I won a spelling contest in third grade by soundly defeating two mentally challenged students when I spelled the word shit face correctly. Anyway, it’s a mute issue since the damage is already done; and if I do error in that direction again, please hang me by the balls from a tall oak tree.

So let us return to the Police song. Besides being a gorgeous, mature, witty, humorous, sexy woman, blessed with good looks and a fine ass, Megan also possesses a keen and beautiful mind; and that’s why every little thing she does is magic and every little thing just turns me on.

P.S. I had to inject the last paragraph since Megan is my editor.