Thank You For Not Smoking

Here’s a story I never thought I’d write. I smoked for over 30 years, with about 3 years break for being pregnant and breastfeeding. After I found out it was bad for you (lol) I continued smoking because I was truly addicted. But in the last 6 or so years that I smoked, I did try to quit several times because even I was having problems with it.

Once I managed to give up for around 4 months, but usually it was only for 2 or 3 weeks. At some point, some major stress would rear its head and I would be back on those babies. But finally, around about a year ago, the problems started to get much worse. I got out of breath climbing the stairs and my blood pressure increased to borderline high. It wasn’t so much a case of me having the choice about quitting smoking any more, it was more like my body was telling me – either you quit or I do.

Don’t Relax, Don’t Do It

That Frankie Goes to Hollywood song (you will know the one I’m referring to) came on the radio as I was driving home this evening, and this time I turned the radio off.

This was because a) I’m a prude and b) I think the lyrics are utter nonsense. Either there’s something I don’t know about the male orgasm (and I would be the first to admit that I know next to nothing about the male orgasm) or this song is an excuse to sing about a lot of naughty things regardless of whether the lyrics make sense or not.

Anyway, I’m not getting it. No pun intended (ladies, please!).

From what I’ve always understood (getting my information only from books, magazines, TV and the like, of course) the reason many people can’t achieve orgasm is precisely because they DON’T relax. If you do relax, you will apparently shoot straight to orgasm. And from what I’m hearing in this song, that’s precisely what Frankie is trying to prevent you from doing.

Although why he should be such a party pooper is beyond me. Again, it must be something about the male orgasm that I’m missing.

Surely it would make more sense to sing, Don't Relax, Don't Do It, or Relax, Do It or even, Stop! Don't Do It or Retreat! Don't Do It, although the last one might defeat the whole object of the -ahem- exercise.

Little Miss Noisypants

Back at the end of March, I got a new neighbor. I like to call her Little Miss Noisypants. That’s just behind her back, of course.

Before Miss Noisypants moved in, I had a family living in the appartment above me. A young man and his wife, and two fairly noisy little boys, both under the age of four. Sometimes, the little boys ran up and down the hall, and because we have wooden floors in this building, I could hear them. I could also hear them if they fell over and hurt themselves and when they woke up crying at night, and I could hear their parents going for showers in the morning. It was normal noise.

Little Miss Noisypants makes more noise than this entire family put together, and I don’t think she’s running up and down the hall.