My Baby Girl

My daughter phoned me at one a.m. Now some might think it is no fun to be awakened at one a.m. for any reason at all. I never mind it. Especially if it's my daughter's voice I get to hear on the other end. A lovely girl, who can't figure out why people never tell her what bugs them about her. I mean, honestly, there is nothing wrong with her! There is nothing unpleasant about being with her! She has an opinion, but she's not opinionated. She is friendly to a fault. Her smile lights up a room. And even when she has to be mean to the drunks at the bar, she is nice about it. Firm, but nice. She's had a couple of scrappers. One guy was tossing barstools around and while everyone stood there in shock, Erin pressed him up against the wall, told him he had to go, and then proceeded to press him on out the door (which she then closed and locked while the police were called). She's small of frame. I believe she's about 5'6" (taller than her mother by at least two inches). Long, blonde hair and BIG blue eyes. Eyes that stop traffic. Every woman she meets feels protective toward her and every man she meets dies inside at the knowledge that he can't possess her. She's sexy, she's funny, she's smart.

So there we were, on the phone together, she was on her bed, I was on mine. Together, apart. We laughed and cried. She's not much for small talk. Neither am I. So what we talk about matters. An hour and a half later, I chose to read a blog post to her as my parting words. You can read those Words of Wisdom here. :)

Teri Needs

My Stalker (Jenn) said I should type those two words into Google and see what hits came up. Here are the top three:

Teri seriously needs to create a no-close-up-unless-an-army-of-photoshop-assistants-are-within-50m clause in her contract.

That's probably true. Wait. I have a contract?

Teri needs saving.

Mmm hmmmm. Teri needs to be saved from her own damn self!

Teri needs meat.

Can't argue with that!

Tutu Me, Tutu You

Hey peeps! To enter the tiny tutu contest
Click Here

And give some love to Tutu Fantasy while you're at it!

While I'm at it, I'll tell you about my weekend. Well maybe not. I mean, after all that cuteness, I shouldn't talk about fucking. *wink*

God Is Not Mocked

This post has nothing to do with that title. I just wanted to say that. Because... well... He's not! :)

You know what I hate? I hate comments by anony-mouses. I mean, talk about fuckin chicken shit! Get a damn name for your damn comment. When I come across those mousey comments, I don't even read them because if you can't claim your own words, I don't have any interest in them. Even if you are in the witness protection program you can have a fake blogger name! Sheesh! So if you want to be a mousey anony person, then just keep the cloak on and hang around with Murky and Lurky.

There, I said it.

Also, Part Deux of the world of gentle mans, I have a story to tell. (No doubt this shocks you.)

When my youngest was a newborn, I had occasion to ride a bus from Ogden, Utah to Santa Ana, California. My parents were living there and I was going to surprise Mom by showing up to ride with her on the trip back to Utah (they were moving back, God knows why... oh and by the way... God is not mocked). Dad would be leading the convoy of two with the moving truck.

I was not about to leave that baby, so I took him with me. (No, not because I nursed him. I never nursed a baby in my life and I never will. THESE beauties shall not be used for that!) There were several young men from the nearby Job Corps on the bus, too. They were lively things, as you can imagine. Good natured. They didn't pester me or anything. In fact no one did. It was a fine bus ride, me and my baby. (By the way, I can count on one hand the number of times I've taken a bus in my life, so this was no small matter!)

About the time we hit Vegas, a conflict began. There was a snarly old fella on the bus who decided he wanted a smoke. One of the JC boys piped in (hehe.. piped in) and advised him that there was no smoking on the bus, and besides, there was a young baby on board and it was just not appropriate. He was very polite in his approach. The man replied, "Who's gonna stop me?" JC said, "Well I'll tell the bus driver." and the guy said, "No you won't because I'm gonna kick your ass." Then the fight started. But you know what was so cute? One of the JC boys rushed over to my seat and shielded my baby and me with his body so that no stray punch could bring us harm.

Anyway, the bus driver wound up throwing them all off the bus, which I though was hardly fair. However, he did have a job to do and he didn't have time to sort out "who started it," like a playground guard.

But those JC boys impressed me that day. They saved me and my little baby. They were my heroes.

Where Have All the Gentlemen Gone?

For those of you who tagged me, all two of you, I will be dutifully posting my taggy response in the very near future. But this was on my mind, so it took precedence.

This I started to say at Mister Write Now's Blog and decided to finish it up here:

I was walking toward the office building, after stepping over to the nearby deli for some nosh to go, hands full. A man and a woman were ten paces or so ahead of me. He was of the totally nerdy techie type and she was of the totally nerdy office dumbshit type. She was giggling like a schoolgirl at everything he said. I have no idea what he was saying, but she was clearly making far too much of it, in my estimated opinion. I thought, "I wonder if he's wooing her?" I was walking faster than they were (I guess they were out for a pleasure walk), so by the time we were at the door, I was fairly on their heels. I now knew what he was talking about, which was entirely unentertaining on any level, and decided that, yes, he was trying to impress her with geektalk and she was falling for it.

He opened the door (which opens OUT by the way) for her, held it while she walked through, turned his head aside to glance at my approach, walked through the door and let it close right in my face! Right in my fucking face! That rarely happens to me. Not only am I a woman (not that I think you should do that to a man) but I am a very womanly woman. And I don't expect men to fall at my feet and worship me, but it's clearly presented ALL the time in ALL ways that I am the weaker sex. This is not something that is missed! Oh man, I was just pissed. I stumbled through the door, and managed to catch up with them at the elevator, just as it opened. I half expected him to run in and close the elevator doors before I made it in, but he didn't. He kept up his idiotic talk (which could have been completely made up for all the ditzy head knew) and she kept up her giggling. I saw that he had on a wedding ring. I was sure this woman was not his wife. As I stepped off the elvator at my floor, I was so tempted to say, "I hope you are not thinking about entering into any kind of intimate relationship with this man, because a man is easily measured by how he treats strangers, especially female strangers."

I have noticed, of late, a decline in the gentleman's mindset. I mean the mind of the gentle man. No, I'm not talking about all the fucking fuss about women's lib and how-men-stopped-opening-doors-for-women-because-they-said-they-could-do-it-themselves-thank-you-very-much. That is WAY behind us now and it's high fucking time we stopped using it in a discussion. I have not seen men (of any age) stop behaving in a mannerly way. Until just now. I notice it happening, and this is not young men. Young men are very polite. I had a man in his sixties muscle past me between cars in a parking lot. I know for SURE that this man knew better!

So, give me gentlemen or give me death!

P.S. I am only using the "nerdy" term as a generic adjective, neither being positive nor negative. Only making a point that they were extremely thus, each of them. :)

Yay! Wordless Wednesday~!

Never a sweeter thing was seen than this:














Never a sweeter sound was heard than this:
I_uff_oo.wav Serviced By

Ba Doozie...

... is a floozie! (She's not really, but it rhymes!)

Here's something I never want to hear a man say to me:
"Which bus line do I take to get to your house?"

My sister was asked to participate in a fund raising event, in which she would have to play soccer. She said, "Can't you just put a little love sack out on the field and pretend it's me?"

I'm just rambling, because I want to try this linkage thingy that ba dooz sent me.

Here's where I'm going to buy all my furniture. One piece at a time.

Something to Sell About

Also (since I fuckin know how to do this shit now!) EVERYONE go read Diesel's commentary on a recently released movie: (Spoilers dead ahead... and I mean dead!)

Spiderman Fan Loses Heart

Vixen on the Loose!

Well, I had a fun Saturday frolic! I've known Vixen for over a year now, in the blogosphere. She has a feisty blog where she openly talks about whatever might turn your crank! And if you don't have a crank, she'll help you know what to do with one when you happen to run across it! This little beauty has tons of knowledge about intimacy, women, men, relationships, etcetera and she's definitely worth a regular read.

So what happened yesterday? She and I met for lunch! It was fab! She chauffered me around her little city, which was beautiful, while we looked for the perfect place to eat. We did a lot of talking (ahem... I mean I did most of it) and laughing and even a little shopping on the side!

So, my friends, I'm here to invite you to her most excellent blog, The Bad Girls Guide, which is:

... a journal created by a woman for women. However, if you are a man in tune with your feminine side (or trying to get there), feel free to read on. It's mainly the stuff we talk about but that noone ever wrote down. It's all the stuff in all those self help books that we read, all the stuff that should be said but aren't. This is just a venting spiel, about the idiosyncrasies of dating and how to make it better.

Now, if she can teach ME something, then you know she's good! ;)

Thanks, Vix, for a lovely meeting and I look forward to seeing you again soon!

(I'm too retarded to know how to blogroll you peeps, so I'll just post her link here.)

Bad Girl Vixen

Get Up Lazy Mary ~

We need the sheets for the table!

Me mum used to sing that song to me, while waking me on Saturday mornings. She was always so cute about that. I never had a single rude awakening in my life... until I got married.

So, today, Lazy Mary will be posting an entry from another place, from days gone by. Enjoy.

All I Need is the Air that I Breathe
Funny how you just go along in the drudgery of your life, thinking that something new could never come across your path. Well it’s true. There isn’t much that is really new. In fact it has been well said that there is "nothing new under the sun." And that was said a long, long time ago. But sometimes there is a breath of fresh air. It can manifest itself in a million ways and if you’re not paying attention, I’ve no doubt you will not even discern its difference among the rest of the air around you.

Last week, while I was working… sending faxes, making copies, giving directions, answering phones, weighing and shipping boxes… a woman came into the store, entirely unnoticed. She sat down at our little table and was going through some things. I didn’t really notice exactly what she was doing, as many people come in and sit at that table and do things. I did notice, however, that she was toting a large tapestry case. Or, what I thought was a case. On closer observation, I realized it was a pet carrier. It was somewhat elegant and of course I could only see the face of the creature inside. It was the frightened face of a cat. Some kind of a long-haired, gray-striped tabby. Soon, the woman got up and came to the counter. Her face was serious and drawn. I half expected her to be a bit of a snob. She dressed meticulously and she was very well kept. She was beautiful and yet not made up in any superficial way. She had long auburn hair, which was pulled back into a loose ponytail. She was tall and thin and carried herself with a great deal of dignity and grace. She wore a long, straight skirt… burgundy in color, with subtle flowers on it. She had on a short sleeved mauve sweater, with a delicate belt over it. When she spoke, her speech was deliberate and confident. She asked me about a notary form, to give her son the ability to sell her car, as she was leaving the country for awhile. I said, "You mean a power of attorney?" She said, "Oh yes, that’s it. I don’t know what I was thinking." Her humility was unfeigned and I began to like her immediately. I showed her the different types of documents she could use, explaining that she could give him full power of attorney to act in her stead or just a limited one, which would allow him to only function as her representative in the instance she specified, for the specified amount of time. She decided to purchase the form for the full power of attorney, declaring she had full confidence that her son was trustworthy. But she added, "I did notice that it does not give him the authority to put me in a mental hospital, though. Which is good." She sort of laughed then. She talked about having worked in such a hospital, with people who seemed perfectly sane who said that their children put them there because "it was the best thing for them." Then she shrugged and said, "But I’m just teasing. My son would never do that to me." I asked her where she was going and she said, "Back to Prague." Now I can safely say that I have never heard that response before. I said, "Is that where you’re from?" She didn’t have an accent at all, so I would have been surprised if she’d said yes. She sighed and said, "I don’t really know where I’m from." Her sudden melancholy touched me and I told her, "I don’t really know where I’m from either." She eyed me with brief interest and said she didn’t have a home since her husband died. They had lived in Temecula for nine years. And recently she had lost her job (due to budget cuts) and then lost her apartment and now has no home. She’d been living in a tent in the mountains and was now staying with her son. She can’t think now of anything to do but go to Prague, which is where her husband is from, I discovered. I told her that I don’t have a home either. She gave me a kindred look and said, "You don’t??" I said, "Well I rent a room from a friend, but I’m really just sort of a gypsy." She said, "My son calls me a gypsy." When she quoted the way he says it, it didn’t seem to be a positive thing. I told her that I could tell she’s a gypsy like me. She said, "I think maybe you are right. I’ve been wondering if this is just the real me and it’s just coming out because it’s been hidden away." I said, "I think so." We talked a little about what she’d be doing in Prague. She wasn't altogether sure, but she did mention a plan to stay at least a year. She introduced me to her cat, which is a champion show Persian. She had shown him in Prague, but never here in the US, so she was going to show him in another country so that he could have international status. This was all Greek to me, but her relaxed, conversational abilities made it interesting. Alas, in the end, our business transaction was done. She thanked me for my help and my time and then she said, "Well good luck." I laughed and said, "Oh I don’t need any luck! My life is this way on purpose!" She smiled and said, "Good for you!" It was a strange lingering goodbye and as she left I felt a little bit of my spirit drift away with her and turn to tell me that I should have known her better.

Oh Dear... What Can The Matter Be?

Yes, this is she. The baby who says, "fuckin." She's probably thinking, "How am I going to get that fuckin shoe?" This picture has nothing to do with this post, I was just in the mood to see this cuteness every time I visit my blog page tomorrow.

Seems a fascination abounds regarding my nombre of choice... whore. I have to say that I get a negative response much of the time when I refer to myself thus. I suppose in the days of Shakespeare, if you said you were a player in the theater... the arts, if you will... you were also thought of in a negative light. It was just not done among the rightly minded people.

And why is it so shocking for a woman who calls herself "Cathouse Teri" to say she's a whore?

I don't much like explaining myself. I prefer to let others figure out what they can about something and then settle on whatever makes them comfortable about it. But, since I'm in a sassy mood, I'll endeavor to shed some small amount of light.

I do not, I repeat ~ do NOT ~ believe I am in any way demeaning or devaluing myself by calling myself a whore. I do it to indulge those lesser spirited creatures who insist upon labels. I could just as well say, "You think I'm a bitch? Okay, call me a fucking bitch if it makes you feel better. I ain't gonna change."

Very sexually free, I am. And free in many ways. I will not be bound by a name or by a thought, or some societal righteous norm. And if I want to fuck a different man every night, I will. And I certainly have done that. If I want to meet a stranger at a hotel room, never even knowing his name, I will. And I dare anyone to tell me that I'm all screwed up because I might do such a thing. I have a perfectly healthy and intact ego. I am much averse to the idea that just because a woman likes sex, even casual and raunchy sex, she hates herself in some way. This is simply not true. It may be true in some cases, may be true in even most cases. I can only attest to the fact that it is not true in mine.

So if, in order to be free to express myself sexually, I have to be called a whore, so be it. In fact, I shall embrace it, thorns and all. I spent a great many years trying to be a "good woman." I found that this brought only bondage and despair. I shan't live under that dark shadow any longer. I had to redefine the good woman. I believe I'm an honest woman. I can't think of anything gooder than that. ;)

About the word Fuck

It's interesting the response that word gets. I'm a mother. I'm a grandmother. I don't cuss around the children. But I have known people who do. I mean people who have a healthy view of things and who explain to their children that they don't get to say those things, any more than they get to have a glass of wine with dinner. It's all very natural. And those children don't wind up running around inappropriately swearing.

But it can be a bit of a problem around little ones. They cannot comprehend that one word is okay to say and another is not. They see their parents passionately express something and they pick up on that because it is passionate. They learn very easily when those words apply. And the reaction they get.

So, here's a story about my granddaughter. She is two and a half. And around the word fuck a lot. She knows exactly how to use it, too. Her daddy (my son) was changing her diaper one day and he was getting frustrated looking around for the baby wipes, which seemed to have disappeared. He said out loud, "Now where are those wipes?" She said, "Where are the fuckin wipes, daddy?" She KNEW he had left out that word! Another time, she wanted her mommy to participate in her game of naming shapes. She was holding up a triangle and saying over and over, "Look mama, a triangle! Look, a triangle!" Mama was tired of that game, having been playing it all day long, so she was no longer responsive to it. Then darling BrynLeigh said, "Look Mama! A fuckin triangle!" (That's my baby!)

At any rate, I've lost the need for feeling repulsed at a word. Every word depends on the tone and the meaning behind the sayer. A person can be entirely demeaning to you without saying a single cuss word. Yet, a friend could say to you, "Are you out of your fucking mind?" or even call you a "motherfucker" and not mean a bit of offense. (And what's wrong with a mother fucker, I might add?)

I once had a conversation with a man who wanted to live alone, and not have a roommate any longer. I asked why and he said he felt uncomfortable bringing women home. I understood. Or so I thought. He went on to explain that he thought it was an inappropriate thing to do in the awareness of others. What the fuck? I said, "So... you mean you think it's like... a sin or something to bring her home and you don't want him to know that you are a sinner?" He said, "Something like that." Then he added that his children are around a mother who brings men home all the time and they call their mother a whore. He felt oh so much more righteous because he takes his fucking to a hotel where he can do it in secret and in the dark. He prefers the message to his children that he is doing something wrong but at least has the decency to conceal it! Now, true, a woman should NOT bring a bunch of men into her home of children. This is bad on many levels. So I'm not advocating that. I'm speaking of hypocrisy here. The kids know he's a hypocrite. They are grown children. When I asked him what he would do if one of them wanted to bring someone home, he said, "I would advise them to do it in a hotel room, like I do." I said, "I tell you what. I have grown kids and I don't teach them that fucking is wrong. Because it's NOT! I mean, I do it! Am I to teach them that I go about doing wrong things?"

I think the thing that is wrong is that we indulge in the "sinful" things and think we're hiding it from them. We are not hiding it. We are just teaching them that it needs to be hidden.

My children absolutely adore and respect me. They wouldn't say a harsh word to me if their lives depended on it. And they don't care about what I do and say. Because what matters to them is that I'm happy.

It's a Morning in May

And I'm running around looking for pieces of April.

So you know when you're lying there, sort of drifting in and out of consciousness, getting ready to fall asleep ~ and random thoughts just pop into your head? Here's the one I had: Why do people refrigerate onions? That just don't make no sense to me!

Continued randomosity:

I heard a line of dialogue in a movie once. I'll see if I can excerpt it for you. Dammit. That's proving to be more trouble than it's worth. Okay, lemme sum up.

Girl asks guy, "Why do you live out of your car? Why don't you just get an apartment or something?" He says (in effect), "Well, I have a key to my car, and if I get an apartment, I'll have another key. And then I'll have to have a job to pay for the apartment, so I'll get another key for work. Then they might give me different keys for varying responsibilities. And I might have a key for storage, because ultimately you do acquire things that may or may not fit into your apartment. And on and on it goes ... but I really like just having the one key."

I can relate. I want to have just one key.

Another favorite movie line:

"I want to stay here only marginally more than I want to die trying to escape."

Mother's (Grand) Day

It's time to share my (grand)babies. Along with poems I wrote for each. Meow.


















Alexa Jade

Precious pearl, such small perfection.
Couldn’t wait, her entrance hied.
Swaddled tight among so many,
Every night, her daddy died.
But now he holds her sleepy head
Brightened by the morning light.
Her eyes, her smile, his heart all warming
Making day’s approach his rite.




BrynLeigh Jade

Sweet light that shines from those bright eyes,
Makes heaven wish for bigger skies.
The sun could warm the darkest place,
Yet still not match that precious face.
And in her orbit, gorgeous moon,
Seeks to make a dim world swoon.
But all her efforts pale in vain
When those small sighs our hearts obtain.

It's Mom's Turn (Inspired by a true story. Or two.)

Disclaimer: I’m not trying to ignore the value of a father here. But in honor of Mother’s Day, I’m going to focus on the woman, if you don’t mind. I am hoping not to be attacked with an onslaught of readers who think I’m dissing the male counterpart. I will write about HIM on Father’s Day. So, have patience, grasshoppers!

It’s been said that “A man works from sun to sun. A woman’s work is never done.” Now, I know men work hard. Some of them work too hard. (And they should get a regular blow job for that, but they too often don’t!) I also know there are lots of lazy women in the world. But that type of woman is not the sort of which I am speaking today.

Too often, when a woman is at home doing the “support work” while the man is out “supporting” the family, she gets overlooked. Yes, strides have been taken to get us all caught up on that. A working mother is a redundant statement. We all know that many mothers work outside the home, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t work in the home. And a woman who does not work outside the home is no less of a worker. That said, regardless of where or who you are, if you are a mother, your work is so all consuming that years go by and you don’t know where they went. You’re not even sure where YOU went. You remember a blur of events. You remember being behind the wheel a lot. You remember a lot of fast food. I think they should design a vehicle where a woman can leave her left leg out on the running board, so she doesn’t have to get entirely in the car before she just has to get out again at the next stop!

So a woman devotes these years, of her own free will, to the care and nurturing of the family. Then one day, she takes a breath. And then another one. She looks around to see if anyone saw that. No one did. A few weeks later, she does a quick twirl in the kitchen. Still no one sees. Wow. Where did that tiny spark of youth and life come from? She takes three breaths! In a row! Soon, she finds whole blocks of time where she has no demands placed upon her and catches herself even fully dancing for MINUTES at a time! From time to time, someone drifts in from another room. “Mom, what’s for dinner?” She replies and moves back into her routine.

One day, she has a whole day with NOTHING on the agenda. Kids are at camp. Dad is out of town. Whatever. Something happens and she’s alone. Does this feel good? She’s not sure. Wait. “I can take a bath with the bathroom door open and when I’m done, I can walk to my room with nothing on. I can even walk all over the house that way, if I like!” Or, “I can put something down and when I come back it will still be right in that same spot!” Wow. She likes that day, but it gets a little long and she gets a little lonely.

Next time a day like that happens, she calls a friend. The friend is alone because her kids are about the same age and her hubby is working late. “Let’s do something!” And so they do. This is fun.

Time passes. Mom has now found some things to do that are her own interests. She doesn’t share them with a single soul! They are all hers! And you know what? She can do them or she can do them not, it’s all up to her! She starts walking or working out. She goes on a diet. Dad comes home and wants to know what’s for dinner. She says, “Whatever you make for yourself. I’m on a diet.” He laughs. He’s a good sport because he knows she’s feeling good. And he likes seeing her feeling good.

On the weekend, big brother comes home from college. He sits down with his soon-to-graduate-from-high-school brother to play video games and they have a grand old time. Big brother goes in to the kitchen to get a snack. He sees a receipt on the counter and reads it aloud to himself, “Water, beer, soda, chicken wings.” Hmmm. Mom comes down the stairs and he says, “Mom, what is this?” She says, “A grocery receipt.” He says, “These are the groceries? Do we live in a dorm now?” Little brother pipes in and says, “Yes we do, and don’t try to do anything about it. Just live with it.” Mom smiles. It’s my turn.

Interview With A Gunfighter

Here are the questions the Gunfighter sent me, along with my answers:

You like to swim every day... has that been a habit throughout your adult life? or is it a new-found favorite form of exercise? Are you a lap swimmer? or do you just have a set amount of time that you spend in the water?

I don’t like to swim, I LOVE to swim! :) When I left my husband, I moved into a guest house on a large property. There was an enclosed swimming pool on the property, as well. It was full of warm, salt water and I can’t possibly describe the soothing wellness this water offered. I would swim at night sometimes, but one day, I decided to swim before I went to work. I found this to be both meditational and exhilarating. Like a supercharge for the day. Letting that warmth envelope me as I stepped in. Beginning the slow, decided movements through the placid water and building up to a full lap swim, releasing those precious endorphins and giving my heart and body the exercise it craved. I used to take aerobic classes every day, and then taught for awhile. One day, my lower back decided it was time to stop. (I attribute this almost entirely to the epidural I had while giving birth to the third child.) The swim proved to be the perfect way to fulfill many needs in my life and still does so. I swim laps, without stopping, for twenty minutes at least four days a week.

During that time, I also fell in love with the moon, because she watched over me and bathed me in her light whenever I was outdoors. And as you know, I was fairly starved for the light. So the water became my sister that warmed me and the moon became my mother that fed me. And my bed became my resting place. People would ask me if it was hard sleeping alone after being married for eighteen years. I answered, “I much prefer sleeping alone to sleeping with someone and being lonely!” I’ve never felt alone since the day I left him. (After all, I now had the water, and the moon, and my bed!)

You mention in your blog that you were a military dependent for 27 years... was that because you were married to a military man? Were one or both of your parents military? Or was it a combination of those things? Where did your military life take you (geographically)?

My father was a pilot in the Air Force. My parents had four girls. I was born third in line in Kansas, moved to Arkansas, Alabama, Oklahoma and South Carolina all before I was four years old. Then we went to Japan for three years. I loved it there. Between the ages of eight and ten, we lived in Oregon, New Mexico and landed in Utah, where my dad retired from the AF. My family continues to live there to this day, all of them living within five miles of one another and seeing each other very often. I talk with one of them at least once a day. I visit every couple of months and spend major holidays there.

The year I turned twenty-one, I got married. Two weeks after the wedding, my new husband left for Navy boot camp. A month and a half after that, I gave birth to my first child. A boy. He was about two months old when we moved to Mission Beach (near San Diego) to join his father. We didn’t live there long before we had to move to Waukegan, Illinois (just North of Chicago). We then went to Bremerton, Washington and on to San Diego. We lived there for a couple of years, where he trained to become a Navy diver and he got his first assignment in the Philippines. By the time we left, I was pregnant with our daughter. She was born in Cubi Point Naval Air Station at Subic Bay. After three years there, the Navy stint was over and we moved back to Utah. I was pregnant with number two son when we arrived. While he was still an infant, we all moved to Sacramento, while daddy was going to the police academy for the CHP. After that, it’s been pretty much Southern California living.

You have three children. Do they live near you? If not, where are they?

My oldest son lives in Utah, near my Mom and Dad. He has a beautiful daughter. She and her beautiful mother live very near them, as well. He is a brilliant (and unemployed) pianist. He goes over and takes care of the little one, while mommy goes to work. My beautiful daughter lives in the L.A. area. She’s a cocktail waitress at a cowboy bar by night, and a part-time nanny by day. My youngest son is a nanny, too. And a new daddy. He and his girlfriend live closer to San Diego. I see my oldest when I visit Utah and I see the other two when I drive to Oceanside every weekend. I am very close to my children and I talk with them almost daily. I am also very close to the mommy of my oldest granddaughter in Utah. I haven’t had the opportunity to get close to the mommy of my youngest son’s daughter, but I see her often and we have a friendly relationship.

Tell us about your relationship with the word "Fuck"

Sometimes, just no other word will do! I like the word fuck and I love to fuck. So it is a purrrrrrrrrrfect word! Meow.

Please tell us why you decided on the name Cathouse Teri... was there some thought of flipping a philosophical finger at the sensitivites of other bloggers? Is there some work experience that you want to share with us? Was it just for laughs?

My nickname is a bit of the “philosophical finger,” to be sure. It would likely turn away those that are too sensitive for some of my subject matter.

There are many reasons for the origin of the nick, but mainly I am trying to convey two things: It always costs something to be with a woman and I want it known up front that I’m a whore (and by that I mean immoral woman) so there are no unreal expectations. I always say I’d rather have you think I’m a whore and find out I’m a saint, than think I’m a saint and find out I’m a whore!

I do have a bit of a fantasy about running a cathouse. I think I’d be really good at it. I would like to have all women know how important it is to give their man a blow job. Because if she doesn’t, someone will, and it will probably be me! ;)

Yes, a man says he wants a lady in public and a whore in bed, until one day he wakes up and says, “Shit! I married a whore!”

Who is Lester?

I have no idea who Lester is! Hehehe. I just randomly came up with it to go along with the play on words. I could have said, “The Road Leslie Traveled,” but then, since I’m a woman, people would think my name is Leslie or something. I love the Frost poem, and I also love the book by M. Scott Peck, where he borrowed the line from the poem as his title. It really is the road less traveled that makes all the difference, in my opinion.

You live in Oceanside, CA., home of CAmp Pendleton. Do you encounter many Marines in your day to day life? In what way? Is most of your contact positive or negative?

No, I don’t really travel ‘round the base. I mean, I guess I see Marines from time to time, but it doesn’t phase me, as I have spent a fair amount of years around military men. (And did a fair amount of drinking with them in the Philippines!)

I have never had a negative encounter with a Marine. I did one time have to rescue one, who had haplessly wandered into a Navy Seal bar.

Also, I don't live in Oceanside anymore. But, for personal reasons, I'd rather not make it too plain where I'm living now.

Do you have any tattoos? If so, where are they?, what are they?, and why did you get what you got?

I have one tattoo (pictured). I got it last summer. It is located on my right ankle and is about 3" x 2". I chose a Maori tribal symbol, in honor of my granddaughter’s heritage. She really is a Maori tribal princess. Having children is a hard thing. Having grandchildren is harder yet. You have even less control over their well-being and the things that will influence their lives. I have written previously that being a mother is like having a steel post driven down through your body and the only way it will kill you is if it’s removed. Being a grandmother is double that. So I almost chose the symbol that means, “sorrow.” Instead, I chose “hope.” At the bottom of the symbol are her initials, “BJ.” (to which my boyfriend said, “well if anyone needs BJ tattooed on their body, it’s you!) And at the top of the tattoo is a butterfly, in honor of her mother, whom I adore.

When my youngest told me his girlfriend was pregnant, my immediate response was, “Shit! Now I have to design another tattoo!” (And he’s gonna hold me to it, too!) It was a good way to break the strain of his having to give me the news. He has never been anything but happy about his child’s birth, even though he is young and unmarried. (I’ve written about that previously, too, but hell, who has time to read all of those old entries?)

In spite of everything I say, I’d rather kiss the face of a baby than do anything else in the world. It is the children that matter.