Tag: who didn’t know green beans is a euphemism for sex?

Sex: Do You Prefer Steamed, Sautéed, or in a Casserole?

NaBloPoMo Day Twenty-Seven:
Sex: Do You Prefer Steamed, Sautéed, or in a Casserole?

Over at Law School Sucks and So Do Lawyers, Tranny Head has announced the Great Thanksgiving Green Bean Giveaway. Readers of Tranny Head’s hawt blog know of what we speak when we say “green beans.” For the rest of you, green beans pretty much stands for sex. Hawt, huh? Tranny Head had a most noble cause in mind as she announced the Great Thanksgiving Green Bean Giveaway – to spread “green beans” across the Blogosphere and have “green beans” end up in Urban Dictionary. I can see the definition now, right next to a photo of Tranny Head’s hawt rack (because we’ve never seen her Tranny face):


A can of what you’re willing to hump when your husband is serving in the armed forces.

What you get lots and lots of when you’re husband is home on leave.

Green beans are best served hawt.

So, Tranny Head, this is for you. After you read it, send me my dang prize because based upon my helping you get green beans in the urban dictionary, I’m pretty sure that my mother-in-law will have disowned me, my children will run away from home, and my husband will . . . well, my husband will forgive me because I’m too expensive to get rid of now and he likes the way I make green beans. Here goes:

Sex: Do You Prefer Steamed, Sautéed, or in a Casserole?

In every long-term romantic relationship there are bound to be peaks and valleys, as Mrs. G. once told us. Those peaks and valleys happen in the bedroom too.

When you first fall in love, you can’t get enough of each other.

After you’ve been married for a while, you sometimes fall into a pattern.

After you’ve been married for a while longer, there are times that you fall out of the pattern.

And there are times when you fall head over heels out of the pattern.

Often it is very comfortable.

Sometimes you do it for a higher purpose.

Sometimes you do it for a lower purpose.

Usually? High or low or in between, there is one underlying reason that keeps you coming back for more.

But this one time? For me and Tom? There were multiple partners. Just thinking of the Googling pervs who will show up from that keyword search makes me {{{cringe}}}. Go away Google-searching pervs. There is nothing here for you.

One night, while I was spending some time with my laptop boyfriend, Tom came into the room. He sort of had that look in his eye, but it was really more than that look, it was that look from sixteen years ago. I recognized it as he gazed at me lovingly, and then started caressing my arm very gently, as though my bicep might be the holy grail of appendages.

Just as I was wondering what the frick had gotten into Tom, just as I was trying to figure out where this demonstration of adoration was headed, just as I was pondering why this moment was happening, just as I was attempting to over think this particular encounter like I over think everything . . . Deepak Chopra popped into my head and spoke to me. I. Swear. To. God. He. Did. And this is what he said:

So I stopped thinking and allowed myself to feel the simple joy that my husband’s love offered. After Tom stared into my eyes for a while, and rubbed my arm for another while, he took my hand and started walking with me to the bedroom. And then? He stopped six feet from the bed and started kissing me gently, and still looking into my eyes adoringly, he continued caressing me. And then? He began slowly removing my clothes.

Just as I was wondering what the frick was going on here, just as I was trying to figure out why Tom was so fervent but gentle with his kisses, just as I was attempting to unearth in my mind the purpose for which Tom was being so attentive to every detail came the moment in which I swore off reading any future Oprah’s Book Club selections for the rest of my life . . . Eckhart Tolle popped into my head and spoke to me. I. Swear. To. God. He. Did. And this is what he said:

So I stopped thinking and allowed myself to be in the present moment. I noticed that Tom was so competent and confident. I noticed how he could at once be strong and gentle. I started feeling overcome by how expertly he was handling the matters at hand. He was so attentive to every detail.

Just as I was wondering what I should do, just as I was pondering whether I should do anything, just as I was asking myself whether Tom wanted me to reap the benefits of his efforts or participate in them . . . Jesus popped into my my head and spoke to me. I. Swear. To. Uh. His. Father. He. Did. And this is what he said:

So . . . I thought about what Deepak, Eckhart, and Jesus said to me, and then I kicked everyone but Tom out of the room.

The end.

Readers, Do you prefer your green beans steamed, sautéed, or in a casserole?

(Images courtesy of Google Images.)

A Wicked Case of Elphaba Toe

NaBloPoMo Day Twenty-Six:
A Wicked Case of Elphaba Toe
(Actual Retouched Photograph)

I have received an outpouring of emails asking for an update on the condition of my big toe or I just made that up because it is day twenty-six of NaBloPoMo and I ran out of things to write about on day four. I share this information with everyone only because in so doing, I might be reaching out to another human being with a big toe condition and save a life by encouraging someone else to seek medical assistance or I am happy to talk on and on about myself and another one of the medical mysteries that prey upon my otherwise healthy and cheerful existence on this planet.

After a two-week stint on a broad-spectrum antibiotic for cellulitis of the big toe, yes, it was cellulitis, a true affliction, I had to go back to the doctor because my big toe got worse. It started turning green, and I’m not even joking. The doctor named a type of bacteria that was known for turning flesh green, something like elphabaphylococcusareus (they last four syllables are pronounced “you sorry ass”). So the doctor put me on a thirty-day round of antibiotics and recommended vinegar soaks. Vinegar soaks? Apparently the vinegar can penetrate skin and weaken bacteria. While I will embrace western medicine with both arms when it’s a decision between life or life without a big toe and death, I’m all about the homeopathic remedy. So I was totally down with giving vinegar soaks a try.

My vinegar-smelling big green toe totally made me think of Easter eggs. Totally. So, while my toe was soaking, I pondered whether I should pack my bottle of vinegar for our Thanksgiving trip to the Bay Area to see Kristen and Adam, or should I stand in line with last-minute Thanksgiving shoppers to buy vinegar there. Then I remembered this post on Adam’s blog, about how he and Kristen have six different kinds of vinegar in their pantry. Foodies. So now my big dilemma is whether I want to stick with big green Easter egg toe or go for big green salad toe.

When Tom and I were in bed on Monday night, I told him all about my visit to the doctor earlier that day. Tom listened attentively. I made a compelling case about the seriousness of my condition, emphasizing multiple doctor visits and antibiotics and green flesh and, you know, that it is an actual condition. Tom listened attentively. I told Tom that I had already thought over the possibility that the doctor might recommend amputation, like they might have to remove my big toe to save my life. Tom listened attentively. I told Tom that I thought that getting a second opinion on a recommended big toe amputation would be worthwhile. Tom listened attentively. I told him that I’ve heard that you can’t walk properly without a big toe, something to do with balance. Tom listened attentively. I told him if they amputated my toe to save my life, I might have to buy a strap-on toe in order to walk properly. Tom listened attentively. Moreover, I told Tom, I’d need a strap-on toe so that I could run from the car into Target when it rains so my hair doesn’t frizz. Tom listened attentively. I asked Tom if it were his big toe would he get a second opinion because the doctor called in one of his partners to look at my big toe because even the doctor wanted a second opinion about my big toe. Tom listened attentively. I told Tom that neither one of the doctors mentioned amputation yet. Tom listened attentively.

And then Tom wanted sex.

So . . . by way of a warning to my mother-in-law and children, tomorrow I will be posting about sex as part of Tranny Head’s Great Thanksgiving Green Bean Giveaway (“green beans” being Tranny Head’s euphemism for sex). Tranny Head is giving away a number of items as part of a “Holiday Survival Kit” including Starbucks and Target certificates (since I will be able to run into Target with my strap-on toe, I hope to win this), so enter the giveaway tomorrow. What do you have to lose by posting about sex? Heh.

So, Mom, Kids, maybe just stick with actual green bean casseroles on Thanksgiving and stay away from my blog tomorrow. Everyone else? Stop by to find out what I have to say about sex in a long-term marriage.

Readers, who thinks my big green toe and I should start practicing “For Good” right now?

Help a Tranny Head Out

NaBloPoMo Day Ten:
Help a Tranny Head Out

I posted about hawt green beans the other day. And then G from Doves Today posted about green beans too. The whole hawt green beans thing started with a Tranny Head post over at Law School Sucks and So Do Lawyers. If you haven’t checked out Tranny Head, her baby Sumo, and the hot blog design created for her by Nap Warden, heck, do it. Law School Sucks and So Do Lawyers is a smokin’ hawt blog, with flames to prove it. I think Tranny Head is hawt too, but I can only go by pictures I’ve seen of her trantastic rack. She keeps her tranny head a big secret. It’s how she rolls. Totally hawt, huh?

Anywho, when Tranny Head saw my post and G’s post, she emailed me and was all “Two posts about green beans” and all “Hawt” and all “Urban Dictionary someday!

So I got to thinking.

Since my work to defeat Proposition 8 went down in a statewide-violation-of-civil-rights-ball-of-flame, maybe I could start a campaign for someone else. (This doesn’t mean, by the way, that the Proposition 8 battle for civil rights is over by a long shot. No sir! No ma’am! California just became the fertile ground upon which nationwide civil rights for same-sex marriage partners will be built. More on that later. Boo-ya.) So I emailed Tranny Head with a proposition of my own about hawt green beans.

Dear Tranny Head:

We have much to be thankful for in our country. George Bush is packing up his shit. And there will be hawtness in the oval office once again.

Let’s throw a green bean party to celebrate. How about on Thanksgiving Day everyone will post his or her hawtest green bean story?

Are you in?

Signed: Thankful for Hawt Green Beans

And that darling Tranny Head? She was undeterred by my losing campaign record. Hawt, huh? She liked the idea of spreading hawt green beans across the land. She posted breaking news of the Hawt Green Beans Challenge on her blog today!

Click on over to Law School Sucks and So Do Lawyers. Say hello to Tranny Head. And if you join the Hawt Green Bean Challenge, let her know so you can enter her contest. If you join the cause, you can take Hawt Green Bean Challenge badge over at her place or from here:

Hawt Green Beans are delicious served warm, on blogs, and in the Urban Dictionary! Help a Tranny Head out. Spread the word. Spill the beans.

Readers: Are you in for Tranny Head’s Hawt Green Beans Challenge?

(And here’s another challenge: Can you write a post in which you use “hawt” more times than I just did?)

I Had a Nightmare

NaBloPoMo Day Six:
I Had a Nightmare

You thought this was going to be about politics, huh?

Or maybe religion?


It’s about the other one.

You know what I mean.

(My mother-in-law and my children should avert their eyes now.)

I had a nightmare. In my dream I found out that Tom had “visited” a hooker. You dream-interpreting bloggers may feel free to go to town with this one. I think I dreamed it because we’ve been having lots of hawt “green beans” these days, and I had even written a post about having lots of hawt green beans when you’re married, which I may or may not eventually post here depending upon how desperate to meet the daily NaBloPoMo daily post quota gutsy I’m feeling at the time. Tom, perhaps attempting to create a diversion, told me that he thinks I dreamed he went to a hooker because of a Law & Order: Special Victims Unit rerun we watched the day before. Uh huh. So. Whatever my dream may or may not have meant, when I awoke I was all emotional and told Tom that my dream felt real.

Cheri [whiny]: “I’m all sad and mad at you.”

Tom [lovingly]: I’m sorry you’re sad, but you can’t be mad at me for something I didn’t do.”

Cheri [whiny]: Well, the dream felt real, so I’m sad and mad.

Tom [tenderly]: I love you.

Cheri [still whiny]: “Tom, tell me you’ve never had sex with a hooker. Please.”

Tom [smiling and feigning an Arkansas accent]: “I never had sexual relations with a hooker.”

Cheri: “Crap.”

Readers: When was the last time you had green beans a nightmare that felt real?

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