Instead of lying in bed, reading and watching tv and sleeping, I went out.
I intended to get a mani-pedi. BUT, it would seem that every salon I went to had those "chairs" - you know the kind that can never really be cleaned? Yeah. Those spa chairs. So I guess it's back to the beauty school.
I began at Einstein's bagels because I had a coupon for 25% off and I lovve nova lox! Usually I get it as a combo with the potato salad-and it's just an exercise in stuffing myself, so I got chips (for later) instead. And then, I was hungry very soon after, so I went to Rubio's and had this salad. I can't remember the name of it, but man it was good!
But then, I was hungry AGAIN very soon after, so I went to my old stand-by, Seven Eleven and got a tuna sandwich and a Diet Pepsi with a squirt of vanilla (mmm! my favorite!)-and ate the chips. I ate half the sandwich and the chips in the parking lot before I headed over to Henry's in search of cacao nibs. But, before I could get there, I felt hungry AGAIN and ate the rest of the sandwich and chip and finished the soda.
I was not hungry for the rest of the day.
And then, the strangest thing happened at the market: the grocery boy mentioned my blog! He kind of LOOKS at me...and..
Yeah. You know you love me.
Hilda Stinson
Monday, February 28, 2011
Friday, February 25, 2011
Cap and Me
Picture it: Friday night and I awake from a long nap.
He's there, looking at me, but I can't see him.
I turn on the tv and lie in bed, watching. I'm completely starkers.
Before dinner, I must engage in the ritual of Squeem (TM). The Squeem(TM) is a waist cincher that really tucks you in. I highly recommend it. But, you can't eat in it. And you can't sit in it either. Which means, it has a limited use: which is to reshape my square-ish torso that I inherited from godknows which side of the family. The point is, it works. When I take off the Squeem (TM) my abs are sucked in and they are CUT. But then, I have to eat dinner and of course, after dinner, I look like a snake that just ate a mouse. LUMPY. But it's just how I'm built. VAR VAR unfortunate.
After dinner, I look up, and he's there I can see him. He reaches out for me and I pull away, lest my dishes clatter to the wooden floor of my closet apartment. I place the dishes up and to the right of the Captain and I gaze upon his perfectly cut beautiful body.
He is six four, with creamy white skin, blue eyes and black hair. And, like I said before, very cut. I run my hand over his abs. So hard, and yet, the skin, so soft, as are other parts of him.
And then, there's the chocolate pudding. Here's the recipe for this: Drive to Von's, purchase a snack-pack of four, come home, dump on fiance-and lick off.
Oh, did I not mention the proposal?
Well, it's irrelevant, because he's not of this universe.
But I digress. After a time, after all the pudding was gone, there was salt-and I kissed him and let him swallow it all.
He's rare. Var, Var.
I remain,
Hilda Stinson
He's there, looking at me, but I can't see him.
I turn on the tv and lie in bed, watching. I'm completely starkers.
Before dinner, I must engage in the ritual of Squeem (TM). The Squeem(TM) is a waist cincher that really tucks you in. I highly recommend it. But, you can't eat in it. And you can't sit in it either. Which means, it has a limited use: which is to reshape my square-ish torso that I inherited from godknows which side of the family. The point is, it works. When I take off the Squeem (TM) my abs are sucked in and they are CUT. But then, I have to eat dinner and of course, after dinner, I look like a snake that just ate a mouse. LUMPY. But it's just how I'm built. VAR VAR unfortunate.
After dinner, I look up, and he's there I can see him. He reaches out for me and I pull away, lest my dishes clatter to the wooden floor of my closet apartment. I place the dishes up and to the right of the Captain and I gaze upon his perfectly cut beautiful body.
He is six four, with creamy white skin, blue eyes and black hair. And, like I said before, very cut. I run my hand over his abs. So hard, and yet, the skin, so soft, as are other parts of him.
And then, there's the chocolate pudding. Here's the recipe for this: Drive to Von's, purchase a snack-pack of four, come home, dump on fiance-and lick off.
Oh, did I not mention the proposal?
Well, it's irrelevant, because he's not of this universe.
But I digress. After a time, after all the pudding was gone, there was salt-and I kissed him and let him swallow it all.
He's rare. Var, Var.
I remain,
Hilda Stinson
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Hate Mail vs Fan Mail
Today I got some hate mail and some fan mail.
Here is what my readers had to say:
The first (the hate mail) had written back to me writing to them.
I wrote: "Have we met?" Because the dude looked like an uggo I'd met before. Yet, I couldn't be certain if he was an uggo or not. If I'd met him, I'd know that he WAS an uggo, but if not, maybe he wasn't.
He wrote: "No. I don't think we've met.
Interestingly enough, I do NOT want children and I've read Atlas Shrugged. I once left blankets for the homeless by the Pier in PB one morning around Christmas time in a box and I signed the message that I wrote on the box John Gault.[sic]
But alas, I don't like your Blog. Or this "Supplements. Tonalin and Borage. ALA, DMAE, Hyluronic acid. Amazing stuff. I look 27 (or so my last date SAID-and I think he meant it because I WAS carded the other day. Or maybe he just LIKED me)" or your dedication to TV.
Peace.
If he MEANT peace why in the fuck did he bother to write back? If you don't like my blog and you don't like me, then you can fuck off. You know? I don't need to know that you hate me. Peace, indeed!
I wrote back: " It's John Galt. How long ago did you read Atlas?"
You know, I think HE did meet me and he's just pissed because I wasn't interested. I'm just sayin'. And if he can't even get John Galt's name right..well, SERIOUSLY?!
Now for the fan mail:
" Your blog is awesome! Love what goes on in your mind and the food and sex"
Okay. And then he said it reminded him of Water for Chocolate (which I've seen and forgotten) Give me a mo' to remember. Is it that movie with all the shots of the chocolate in the chocolate shop? Hmm. Yes, I think it is. Well. Okay then. That's flattering.
I LOVE FLATTERING.
Kisses!
Hilda Stinson
Here is what my readers had to say:
The first (the hate mail) had written back to me writing to them.
I wrote: "Have we met?" Because the dude looked like an uggo I'd met before. Yet, I couldn't be certain if he was an uggo or not. If I'd met him, I'd know that he WAS an uggo, but if not, maybe he wasn't.
He wrote: "No. I don't think we've met.
Interestingly enough, I do NOT want children and I've read Atlas Shrugged. I once left blankets for the homeless by the Pier in PB one morning around Christmas time in a box and I signed the message that I wrote on the box John Gault.[sic]
But alas, I don't like your Blog. Or this "Supplements. Tonalin and Borage. ALA, DMAE, Hyluronic acid. Amazing stuff. I look 27 (or so my last date SAID-and I think he meant it because I WAS carded the other day. Or maybe he just LIKED me)" or your dedication to TV.
Peace.
If he MEANT peace why in the fuck did he bother to write back? If you don't like my blog and you don't like me, then you can fuck off. You know? I don't need to know that you hate me. Peace, indeed!
I wrote back: " It's John Galt. How long ago did you read Atlas?"
You know, I think HE did meet me and he's just pissed because I wasn't interested. I'm just sayin'. And if he can't even get John Galt's name right..well, SERIOUSLY?!
Now for the fan mail:
" Your blog is awesome! Love what goes on in your mind and the food and sex"
Okay. And then he said it reminded him of Water for Chocolate (which I've seen and forgotten) Give me a mo' to remember. Is it that movie with all the shots of the chocolate in the chocolate shop? Hmm. Yes, I think it is. Well. Okay then. That's flattering.
I LOVE FLATTERING.
Kisses!
Hilda Stinson
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
The Sin of KFC-A Fantasy
My darling readers, I know you are wondering, what with all this dating, "Where is the Captain?"
Well, he came and got me and took me to his estate. Or rather, the estate he was borrowing for the weekend. No matter.
We stepped inside and onto a dark green rug that felt soft under my feet (I had taken off my shoes immediately). The Captain walked into the living room, wearing his dark black boots and sat down on the couch. He put his feet up.
"Ah, that's better," he said.
I slipped under his arm and let him cuddle me for a bit. "Are you going to take off your boots?"
"Yeah," he reached down, unbuckled them and pulled them off. "There, happy?" he kissed me.
"Hmm. Yeah." I got on top of him and felt his hands massaging my back.
"This is going to have to come off," he said, removing my black mini dress which had pink applique designs.
"You know, I have confession to make," I said.
"What?" he kissed me and ran his hand down my body, carefully fingering the lace of my panties. "These are nice," he said. "And, this," he ran his hand under the lace on my bra, gently caressing the nipple, "gorgeous!" he kissed me again.
"But I have sin to confess," I said.
He leaned back, exasperated. "Hilda."
"What?"
He picked me up and carried me to the bedroom, kissing me as he went. When we got to the room, he lay me gently on the bed and ran his hands over my panties, "Mmm," he said, kneeling at the bottom of the bed and running his hands up and down my thighs, and then, his mouth.
"Captain."
"Shhh," he said as he removed my panties and then my bra.
"But-"
"No buts, except this one," he said, lightly slapping mine.
And then: it was on.
When we finished I said, "Now, may I speak, may I give you my confession?"
He shrugged.
"I have committed the sin of Kentucky Fried Chicken."
He looked at me, his face grave, blue eyes twinkling, "And what is that?"
I got up out of bed and padded out to the foyer where I had left my bag. In the bag was a bucket of KFC, kept warm by the insulation. I brought it into the bedroom, and still naked, climbed on top of the Captain, while holding the bucket.
"What is this?" He sat up and I nearly fell off him.
"It's chicken. Chicken done right!" I grabbed a breast and bit into it: fried chicken heaven! "Here, have a bite."
"Mmm. Certainly beats yeast extract," he took the rest of the breast and polished it off. "I do love the 21st century," he declared.
Together we ate the entire bucket.
By the time we had finished, he was hard again.
So we did it again. And again. The Captain is insatiable. And very very good at what he does.
And then there was a tender and moist chocolate cake with mocha buttercream icing.
The Captain ate most of it off my stomach.
And then? There was more sex!
I remain,
Hilda Stinson
Well, he came and got me and took me to his estate. Or rather, the estate he was borrowing for the weekend. No matter.
We stepped inside and onto a dark green rug that felt soft under my feet (I had taken off my shoes immediately). The Captain walked into the living room, wearing his dark black boots and sat down on the couch. He put his feet up.
"Ah, that's better," he said.
I slipped under his arm and let him cuddle me for a bit. "Are you going to take off your boots?"
"Yeah," he reached down, unbuckled them and pulled them off. "There, happy?" he kissed me.
"Hmm. Yeah." I got on top of him and felt his hands massaging my back.
"This is going to have to come off," he said, removing my black mini dress which had pink applique designs.
"You know, I have confession to make," I said.
"What?" he kissed me and ran his hand down my body, carefully fingering the lace of my panties. "These are nice," he said. "And, this," he ran his hand under the lace on my bra, gently caressing the nipple, "gorgeous!" he kissed me again.
"But I have sin to confess," I said.
He leaned back, exasperated. "Hilda."
"What?"
He picked me up and carried me to the bedroom, kissing me as he went. When we got to the room, he lay me gently on the bed and ran his hands over my panties, "Mmm," he said, kneeling at the bottom of the bed and running his hands up and down my thighs, and then, his mouth.
"Captain."
"Shhh," he said as he removed my panties and then my bra.
"But-"
"No buts, except this one," he said, lightly slapping mine.
And then: it was on.
When we finished I said, "Now, may I speak, may I give you my confession?"
He shrugged.
"I have committed the sin of Kentucky Fried Chicken."
He looked at me, his face grave, blue eyes twinkling, "And what is that?"
I got up out of bed and padded out to the foyer where I had left my bag. In the bag was a bucket of KFC, kept warm by the insulation. I brought it into the bedroom, and still naked, climbed on top of the Captain, while holding the bucket.
"What is this?" He sat up and I nearly fell off him.
"It's chicken. Chicken done right!" I grabbed a breast and bit into it: fried chicken heaven! "Here, have a bite."
"Mmm. Certainly beats yeast extract," he took the rest of the breast and polished it off. "I do love the 21st century," he declared.
Together we ate the entire bucket.
By the time we had finished, he was hard again.
So we did it again. And again. The Captain is insatiable. And very very good at what he does.
And then there was a tender and moist chocolate cake with mocha buttercream icing.
The Captain ate most of it off my stomach.
And then? There was more sex!
I remain,
Hilda Stinson
Monday, February 14, 2011
The Pizza Has No Clothes!
This is about Naked Pizza, a restaurant that I had the misfortune to patronize this past Saturday, the 12th.
First, my date, a Canadian named Kevin, kept me waiting. This did not bode well for him.
But the waiter was nice. Not hot, btw, but nice and we chatted amicably as he seated us.
We were hungry. REALLY hungry. At least, I was.
So we ordered meatball sliders and stuffed mushrooms for apps and then a bruschetta pizza.
The sliders were woefully short of meat. The meatballs were so TINY. About the size of a fingernail, each one was. TINY.
And the bread was not so hot.
Next, the stuffed mushrooms. Also, very tiny portion. But, they were delicious. In fact, I have no compunction about recommending the mushrooms, save the tiny portion size. If you order four portions that should be enough. But be ready for pay for four portions. And if money is no object, I think that yes, you should go ahead and order four portions of stuffed mushrooms.
The pizza. Cardboard with tiny chopped tomatoes and cheese. And then, shortly after we left, the hell began. I was hungry again. Not two blocks from the restaurant. But how could I tell my date this? I had just said I was full which was why I didn't want to get gelato. When the truth was, I didn't want to have to pay for more stuff on this date. Yes. Believe it or not, this is what happened when the bill came.
"So, do you want to split this?" he said.
"What?!" I screamed inside my head. "You've GOT to be kidding me. Split the bill? Really? Do you make less than 24k a year like me? Is that it?"
But no, what I really did was just pull out my credit card.
I should have known. BECAUSE, earlier we had this phone conversation where he talked about me buying lunch. Or rather he said something to that effect. It was very similar to another experience I had where the boy in question had said I should bring him food. Both men were self employed. Working in the financial district. One a broker, one a publisher of breaking advice.
I'm sorry. I can't AFFORD to go dutch. If you want to go dutch find someone else.
Anyway, it could be that he did this because he wanted to make sure I wasn't a gold digger. But whatever the reason, it really turned me off.
But later, when we went through the Jack in the Box (after I confessed I was starving) he did pay for everything. But by then it was too late. I already hated him. Although the food made me feel a little better, and as I filled up I was starting to kind of like him.
Then he made his move. I was weak and I was tired and he was feeling my boobies. And then, he was-oh, man, he was biting me! And if you know me, you know I have but one motto: "NO BITING!"
And then I had him take me home. I was exhausted. And later, not too much later, I was hungry AGAIN.
He called me yesterday and didn't leave a message.
I didn't call back.
I remain,
Hilda Stinson
First, my date, a Canadian named Kevin, kept me waiting. This did not bode well for him.
But the waiter was nice. Not hot, btw, but nice and we chatted amicably as he seated us.
We were hungry. REALLY hungry. At least, I was.
So we ordered meatball sliders and stuffed mushrooms for apps and then a bruschetta pizza.
The sliders were woefully short of meat. The meatballs were so TINY. About the size of a fingernail, each one was. TINY.
And the bread was not so hot.
Next, the stuffed mushrooms. Also, very tiny portion. But, they were delicious. In fact, I have no compunction about recommending the mushrooms, save the tiny portion size. If you order four portions that should be enough. But be ready for pay for four portions. And if money is no object, I think that yes, you should go ahead and order four portions of stuffed mushrooms.
The pizza. Cardboard with tiny chopped tomatoes and cheese. And then, shortly after we left, the hell began. I was hungry again. Not two blocks from the restaurant. But how could I tell my date this? I had just said I was full which was why I didn't want to get gelato. When the truth was, I didn't want to have to pay for more stuff on this date. Yes. Believe it or not, this is what happened when the bill came.
"So, do you want to split this?" he said.
"What?!" I screamed inside my head. "You've GOT to be kidding me. Split the bill? Really? Do you make less than 24k a year like me? Is that it?"
But no, what I really did was just pull out my credit card.
I should have known. BECAUSE, earlier we had this phone conversation where he talked about me buying lunch. Or rather he said something to that effect. It was very similar to another experience I had where the boy in question had said I should bring him food. Both men were self employed. Working in the financial district. One a broker, one a publisher of breaking advice.
I'm sorry. I can't AFFORD to go dutch. If you want to go dutch find someone else.
Anyway, it could be that he did this because he wanted to make sure I wasn't a gold digger. But whatever the reason, it really turned me off.
But later, when we went through the Jack in the Box (after I confessed I was starving) he did pay for everything. But by then it was too late. I already hated him. Although the food made me feel a little better, and as I filled up I was starting to kind of like him.
Then he made his move. I was weak and I was tired and he was feeling my boobies. And then, he was-oh, man, he was biting me! And if you know me, you know I have but one motto: "NO BITING!"
And then I had him take me home. I was exhausted. And later, not too much later, I was hungry AGAIN.
He called me yesterday and didn't leave a message.
I didn't call back.
I remain,
Hilda Stinson
Terra/Mimi's/Panhandlers
I wrote this post about a week ago, the site went down, but not before I saved it. Just not the beginning.
Ergo, this bit is fresh:
This is about what happened when I had yet another blind date with a guy who was in from out of town. I like out of towners because they often wind up being in your pansters. I mean, you know, IF they happen to be hot.
Unfortunately, this guy was the anti-thesis of hot. But he was nice. We had decided to meet at Terra for drinks and apps.
The manager, a slender brunette who DID seem to find my date attractive (yeah, please go ahead, have him-and btw, so did the bartender-also, yes, please, go ahead, with my compliments!) told us that Terra was moving because the landlords had the audacity in "this economy" to raise the rent four thousand dollars a month. Yes, RAISE that. So the total rent would be fourteen thousand dollars a month. Can you imagine? (Well, I can't, it's bad enough I pay 780 for the crappy place that I live in!)
SO they are moving to La Mesa. And not the good part of La Mesa. They are moving to the crappy portion where black teenagers roam the streets freely. Yeah. I'm sorry. Not going into that neighborhood. NOT GOING!
Okay. Go ahead, I know you want to: call me a racist. To be far I also cross the street when I'm about to encounter a bum walking past me. I can't bear to share the same air with those people. Do NOT even get me started on the subject of bums!
In other restaurant news, Mimi's proved to be totally incompetent in that right after serving us, four employees stopped by the table to check on us. Really? Yes. One after the other. Each time they were told we were fine. And yet they kept coming. Idiots. And then, there was nothing. My water glass needed filling, but I had to steal my companions' water, which luckily they weren't drinking, but still. And my steak was lukewarm. As if the plate had been sitting in the window too long.
"Is there anything I can do?"
"Yes, you can go back in time and have the plate delivered the second it appeared in the window," I snapped at the server.
Also, our server went on break and gave us to somebody else, who ignored us, for the most part. It was at that point, the announcement of the changing of the guard that the check was delivered. Tre' tackay!
Over all, Mimi's you get a D minus! Because I'm pissed. If you can't even refill my water glass in a timely manner than you are truly truly a bad restaurant!
I remain,
Hilda Stinson
Ergo, this bit is fresh:
This is about what happened when I had yet another blind date with a guy who was in from out of town. I like out of towners because they often wind up being in your pansters. I mean, you know, IF they happen to be hot.
Unfortunately, this guy was the anti-thesis of hot. But he was nice. We had decided to meet at Terra for drinks and apps.
The manager, a slender brunette who DID seem to find my date attractive (yeah, please go ahead, have him-and btw, so did the bartender-also, yes, please, go ahead, with my compliments!) told us that Terra was moving because the landlords had the audacity in "this economy" to raise the rent four thousand dollars a month. Yes, RAISE that. So the total rent would be fourteen thousand dollars a month. Can you imagine? (Well, I can't, it's bad enough I pay 780 for the crappy place that I live in!)
SO they are moving to La Mesa. And not the good part of La Mesa. They are moving to the crappy portion where black teenagers roam the streets freely. Yeah. I'm sorry. Not going into that neighborhood. NOT GOING!
Okay. Go ahead, I know you want to: call me a racist. To be far I also cross the street when I'm about to encounter a bum walking past me. I can't bear to share the same air with those people. Do NOT even get me started on the subject of bums!
In other restaurant news, Mimi's proved to be totally incompetent in that right after serving us, four employees stopped by the table to check on us. Really? Yes. One after the other. Each time they were told we were fine. And yet they kept coming. Idiots. And then, there was nothing. My water glass needed filling, but I had to steal my companions' water, which luckily they weren't drinking, but still. And my steak was lukewarm. As if the plate had been sitting in the window too long.
"Is there anything I can do?"
"Yes, you can go back in time and have the plate delivered the second it appeared in the window," I snapped at the server.
Also, our server went on break and gave us to somebody else, who ignored us, for the most part. It was at that point, the announcement of the changing of the guard that the check was delivered. Tre' tackay!
Over all, Mimi's you get a D minus! Because I'm pissed. If you can't even refill my water glass in a timely manner than you are truly truly a bad restaurant!
I remain,
Hilda Stinson
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