Lieutenant Ilia

It's a Man's Man's Man's World
Sunday, August 25th, 1974, 1:59 PM:
Boy Twin B: It's warm and cozy and I'm not leaving. Out you go! *kick*
Me: Waaaaah!

Sometime in 1977:
Boy Twin B: I want ice cream. Go get it for me.
Me: But Mommy said no.
Boy Twin B: Pleeeeease?
Me: Okay. (drags stool to refrigerator, climbs up, gets caught.)

Sometime in 1991:
Me: How come (Boy Twin B) gets to go hang out in the city with his friends and I can't?
Dad: Because.
Me: But why?
Dad: I said no. Enough!
Me: Grumble grumble chauvinist grumble so unfair.

Later in 1991, Port Authority Bus Terminal:
Random man: Hey, nice ass!
Me: Fuck off. Oh... I get it now.

Early 1998:
Mr. Network Administration Instructor: As a woman, you'll have to work ten times harder than anyone else.
Me: To do what? Get a man to do the work for me?
Mr. NAI: Huh?
Me: Exactly.

October 2000:
Cantor: So under the chuppah, do you want to walk around him seven ti...
Me: Oh hell no.
Husband to be: Why not?
Me: Because you already have a throne, and it's called the toilet.

August 2005:
Ultrasound tech, staring at the monitor: And that's a penis.
Me: WHAAA? Where? Are you sure?
Dad to be (grinning enormously): Thank goodness.
Me: Where's the penis? Are you sure?!? Absolutely sure?!?
Dad to be: Be quiet and let her do her job. And, thank goodness.

Tuesday, July 12, 2010, 3:45 AM
Boy Kid D: Mommy! I'm scared.
Me: Whuh? Everything's fine. Go back to your bed.
Father of the Year: Mmmhhh get lost mmmrrrmmm. *snore*
Boy Kid D: But I'm scared.
Me: Okay. (Drags self to kid's twin bed, stares at ceiling, awake for the day.)

It's still a man's man's man's world

When Al Gore invented the Internet, he forgot a very important component: tone. In my inaugural post, I was making fun of the fact that I haven't grown a magic pair of balls for myself. At least one person interpreted my post as being a feminist rant against evil, evil men. So, here's some clarification.

In reality, Lieutenant Ilia is far from a ball-busting baldie. (I have shaved my head, but I'll get to that later.) In fact, I think that if women ruled the world, not much would ever get done. Can you imagine Barak Obama refusing to be in the same room as Joe Biden because "he's being a major bitch"? But, if it were Hilary Clinton and Nancy Pelosi? Let's face it, you could totally see that happening. This "I don't want to ever see that woman, ever" mentality is currently in play within the leadership of a group with which I volunteer. Sadly, the "Get Over Yourself and Move On" trait is lacking in most women. And that really, really sucks.

I can tolerate girly girls... hell, I get my nails done and eyebrows waxed on a regular basis. However, my closest female friends have been strong, outspoken, and more than occasionally vulgar - stereotypical male traits. Since I can telepathically read Captain Corky's mind, I have to disappoint him right now and say that I would make for a really bad lesbian. After all the fun and games, I'd want to skip the cuddle and pillow talk and leave immediately.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go get a cold bottle of beer, turn on ESPN in HD, and scratch my crotch, all in the name of solidarity.


William Shatner: what the!????? fuck?
George Takei: It's your turn to take him for a walk. Make sure he doesn't try to lick himself.

And that's what happens when the special effects department spends all their money on beer and acid.

The last two posts on here were serious, and I couldn't let it go to three in a row. I have enough serious, and eventually I'll refer to it, but for now, I'll ride the tiny vodka-fueled motorcycle of anonymity that I have left. In the meantime, I'll try to steer clear of the barbed wire.

The Beginning

(Stardate: Tuesday, June 24, 2008)

"Yeah, it looks like cancer."

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

(No reaction to my cursing.)

"It's treatable."

(Notice she didn't say "curable").

"But I want another kid."

"Not right now."

"Is there a chance it's not cancer?"

"No. Probably not."

"How bad is it?"

"From the radiology report and the mammogram films?  Stage 3B."

Stage three?  What makes it B?

"Am I going to live?"

(long pause)

"You'll need chemotherapy and radiation."

Holy fucking shit.

This cannot be happening.

My OB/GYN told me it was a swollen milk duct. 

So did the mammography techs nine months ago.

I want another kid.

Somebody make this stop.

(To be continued)  

Everything's coming up roses

Scanxiety. It's a word we cancer freakazoids toss around when we have upcoming dates with the CT donut, or the bone scanner coffin, or the MRI spaceship, or the mammomasher.

Oddly, I had none when I first became acquainted with those machines. No Ativan or Xanax required.  I just sat there and let them do their work and didn't think of what (else) they could possibly find.

I didn't react when I was told that the MRI results revealed that an area north of the original tumor "lit up".  It was going to be scooped out anyway.

Fast forward to the Walk of Terror to the pre-op area. The staging area for us lucky fucks that get to be under the influence just like Michael Jackson, only with less dying.

After I put on the highly fashionable shower cap to cover my (soon to be ex) hair, I was fitted with these ridonkulous automatic compression stockings that my fastidious plastic surgeon always orders so that his patients don't wake up with elephant legs in addition to their highly altered body parts.

Thanks to the power of Versed, the last thing I remember is looking at the now-breathing stockings and wanting to rip them off.

Seven hours later, I was the proud owner of:
- A nippleless saline boob balloon, with skin grafted from my back replacing the cancerous areola.
- A horizontal back scar the likes of which hurt worse than labor.

I was awake in the recovery room, but not aware of anything.  Apparently I was one feisty bitch in there.  The nurses were treated to me shouting repeatedly: "I CAN'T FUCKING BELIEVE I HAVE CANCER! I'M ONLY 33!" No one in my family was allowed to see me in the recovery room, which makes me think they shot me full of Haldol or something to make me stop yelling.

I regained awareness in a tiny hospital room with flowered wallpaper. My husband and parents were standing in front of my bed. They had been talking to me but apparently I was staring at them and not answering. When the curtain finally lifted, I remember my husband saying "The lymph nodes didn't have any visible cancer, but pathology has to confirm that."

Wow, my first lucky break. That could bump me back a stage.

"And she thinks she got clear margins."

I could a drop a letter! Stage IIA!

I could win 38% more chance of survival within five years.



Luke Skywalker and I dated on and off for seven years. However, when "on" and "off" was seems to be open to interpretation. We remember it differently. I hope I wasn't on when he was off, because that would be rather humiliating.

Holy crap, I'd better make up for not seeing other people when he was!

Wanna date?


Oh, maybe that's not such a good idea, as I'm married with a child.

Over the course of those seven years I watched Skywalker go through some highly amusing phases. The first and most ongoing phase was Skywalker Van Zeppelin. After our requisite makeout session I would lie back on the couch as Skywalker would pick up his Holy Grail Guitar and try to play each Led Zeppelin track in chronological album order. Unfortunately, he would stop midway through "Good Times Bad Times" because he kept playing the wrong notes. (Just kidding, he made it all the way through Led Zeppelin and Led Zeppelin II before I had to get home, otherwise my parents were going to call the police.)

The next phase was hip-hop.  Nineteen-naughty-three, y'all. This one was by and far the most mortifyingly ridiculous. Thanks to a combination of French and Italian genetics, Skywalker is whiter than a proverbial sheet, and listening to him try to sing along to Naughty By Nature was nothing short of aural rape. Thankfully, that phase was short lived as Skywalker eventually admitted defeat against the reigning Sith Lord, I mean Positive K.

At the midpoint of these seven years, we both found other people to have sex with for a while. (This is probably the only time we can agree things were definitely "off".) This was the beginning and end of Skywalker's Skinny Blonde phase. Being an athletic brunette, I fell off Skywalker's radar with a resounding thud.

Despite the fact that we were 750 miles away from each other, and that Skinny Blonde had her considerable inseam wrapped around him, my then-bed-partner The English Mental Patient kept asking me about my relationship with Skywalker. Always at very inopportune moments. It gave a whole new meaning to coitus interruptus. This makes me think The English Mental Patient was far more interested in Skywalker than in me. (The EMP is still single and I'm afraid to ask if he's still holding out for Skywalker.)

Skinny Blonde and The English Mental Patient both became history after about a year. Enter Skywalker's Whatever I Can Get phase. If it had tits and a pussy and wasn't grossly overweight, he was totally interested. Although absolutely nothing was stopping me from living the Chelsea Handler Horizontal Life, I was far too reserved to stop, drop, and spread.  I couldn't even get it together to participate in a drunken "sure thing" threesome with Skywalker and my friend, The Magnette.  Skywalker didn't have the same problem. In fact, he and The Magnette had a rather lovely, very special six hour relationship.  Despite having my ego clubbed like a baby seal, I continued to sleep with him due to a lethal mixture of inertia and extreme cynicism.  Working a dead-end job and living with my parents, seemingly no way out, I'm a friggin Journey song... Looking back, the least I could have done was indulge in night after night of meaningless sex with strangers.

Hey, let's make up for lost time!

Oh, yeah, I'm married with a kid. That would be somewhat expensive.

After about two years of living at home post college I had to get the fuck out in the worst way. After five months of being the token tits in my network engineering class at the Chubb Institute, I took the first job that was offered to me... in Joliet, Illinois. New job, new life, new bed, new schlong. The Ilia Phase, if it ever existed, was over.

Sunday, August 22, 2010

Between a Chris Rock and a hard place

“A man is only as faithful as his options.” --Chris Rock
You're a typical guy, toodling along through midlife, married with a kid or two.  Your hairline has seen better days, not to mention your midsection.  One morning at work, your decent-looking female colleague mentions that she has to leave work early to attend her son's band concert, and then all of a sudden she's telling you about her husband who is singlehandedly killing the marriage by refusing to take antidepressants.  Do you:

A) Nod and smile at the appropriate points and offer the name of your wife's psychotherapist friend

B) Assure her that all marriages go through rough spots and that eventually things will work out one way or another.

C) Ask her to go out to lunch to talk about it more, but instead drive to the nearest Super 8 Motel to screw her brains out.


A)  I really don't want to run with this because I love my wife and children more than anything.  Plus, my wife totally digs it when I go down on her while jamming a vibrator up her ass.  I'm getting hard just thinking about it.

B)  This looks tempting but I can't afford the trouble.  And maybe I can sweetly talk my wife into anal play if she drinks enough wine.

C)  Carpe diem!

To paraphrase another article on the topic:  Faithful men are made before the relationship. Relationship conditions notwithstanding, the choice ultimately lies with the male's character.  Excluding women, and excluding circumstances.  Oddly enough, just because a man is faithful, it doesn't make the marriage easier.  Why?  Faithful men are the ones that attract the most females anyway. Life is just so fucked up that way.

Objects in mirror are blonder than they appear.

I found out yesterday that I got a significant raise.  This is monumental because:

1.  I can now afford weekly Patron purchases.

2.  I did it all without the help of this essential item.  Wow, I must have smelled something fierce.

3.  But I did eat a healthy breakfast.

Not Ilia's I-cups

Technically, my tumor was staged as IIA, but upon its departure from my body, it was found to have been 2 millimeters away from attaching to my skin.  So, while that was considered a "clean margin" by my surgeon, it was considered as Stage 3B by my oncologist, aka "put it up to 11".  The end result was 50% more chemo than the standard course.

Thirteen days after my first dance with chemo, I was sitting in front of my computer trying to deal with various English-challenged citizens of Bangalore when I felt something tickle my face.  No, it wasn't General Ilia with a feather.  Strands of my hair had just bailed on me en masse.  I put up with it for maybe two hours before I decided that I didn't want to look like the "before" in a Rogaine ad.  I couldn't bear to shave my head right away so I cut my long hair to Requisite Butch Length.  However, my RBL hair failed at being Sapphic and kept on falling out.  Four days later, I surrendered to reality.  My husband sang this song as he shaved my head.

At this point I had told only a few people outside of my family that I had been diagnosed with breast cancer.  I had decided to be open about it after I was "all done".  (In reality, one is never actually "all done" with cancer until they're dead.)  I'm not sure why I did this, but I sent a few friends pictures of me wearing a bandanna, wearing my wig, and bald.  Luke commented that my bandanna picture made me look like a white Aunt Jemima.  Everyone else said stuff like "You look great!" and "That suits you!".  To this day I don't know if Luke was just trying to extend our eternal pissing contest or if he was being honest and everyone else was full of shit.  The wig looked OK, but it felt like my head was wearing a hairy condom.  Thus, Lieutenant Ilia the Bald was born.  I would wear the hair condom in public only because I didn't want to have people look at me with that "she's gonna die" look.

Throughout the six rounds of chemo (one every 3 weeks = 18 weeks of hell), I still could not believe that this was now me.  The evil steroid Decadron which prevented me from copious Exorcist-style barfing had made me gain 20 pounds in one week.  (Suck it, Supersize Me Guy!)  Also, I had to take a leave of absence from my job.  I had just enough left to acknowledge my family's existence, and anything past that was unpossible.

After the fourth round of chemo, my saline implant started to leak.  I'm sure that was my fault, but damned if I know how I did it.  My short term memory was totally shot. (Who are you again?) My plastic surgeon refused to operate on me until at least six weeks after my last round of chemo.  So now my husband had a deflated-boobed fat bald lady to sleep with.  Surely there's a "tube" out there for that look?

After it was all done, I wanted to go back to "normal" as quickly as possible.  However, there is no normal anymore.  It's a twisted form of existence, but being on the green side of the grass is all that counts.

And now, back to the funny.

"I don't know if this is too much, but I can actually mentally give myself an orgasm. You know, sense memory is quite powerful." -- Lady Gaga

Yes, it is too much.  Too much BULLSHIT.  I thought about an orgasm for ten minutes and all that happened was a craving for nachos.

"What most people know about tantric sex is that Sting does it and it lasts eight hours. But he's not having sex continually. You can take a bath, massage your partner, listen to music. The idea is that you let the whole thing build very slowly until finally you merge with your partner. It works for me." -- Heather Graham

Oh yeah, Heather?  Then I've been having sex for TWELVE YEARS STRAIGHT.  Changing diapers at 2 AM is so partner merging.

"I mean, I have unbelievable orgasms alone. They’re always the best. They always end the way I want them to end."
"Rather than meet somebody new, I would rather go home and replay the amazing experiences I’ve already had."
-- John Mayer

Of course I masturbate to my exes on a daily basis.  Because it's healthier than a cocaine habit. But just barely.

"I think you like [sex] when you're, like, in your thirties. That's what someone told me. We'll see."  -- Paris Hilton

No wonder she looked so bored in her porno.  She was just waiting to turn thirty.

My fellow foulmouthed friend and boobtastic blogger Sarah posted about this article"According to the fine folks at, there are '12 Kinds of Sex Every Woman Has to Have Before She Settles Down'.  Seeing my fucking didn't hit double digits, I highly doubt I reached any sort of pinnacle with the 'kind' of screwing I have done." 
Yeah, mine didn't hit double digits either.  Thank goodness there's someone else out there who is as much of a schmuck as I am.  Since she commented item by item, I'm going to blatantly rip her off emulate her and then give or deny myself points:
1---Sexy Foreigner Sex.  I give myself a half point for this one because of the half Vietnamese factor.  After we broke up, I never had any desire to find the other half. +0.5

2---"The One" Sex.  Being that my legs didn't flop open for just any guy, I had a cringe-worthy tendency to think every guy was "The One".  Per Sarah: "The point being made is women shouldn't get hung up on the idea that sex equates everlasting love."  Superfantastic bigfail! A pity +1.

3---A Big D.  These Cosmo rejects couldn't just say "dick", they had to say "dragon".  Because apparently a dick is just a dick, but a dragon has a long neck. +1
4---Bad Sex.  I can't say this has ever happened.  Low mediocre bordering on lame, but never absolutely terrible. I might be in denial, but: 0

5---Angry Sex/Hate Sex/Breakup Sex.  The article says, "It's a wrestling match where everybody wins!"  Only if the "wrestling match" involves biting, hair pulling, and spanking should the first 2/3 count for anything.  As for the last 1/3, note to self:  Completely break up with person B and do not give them pity sex before screwing person A.  On the same day.  Something I conveniently forgot to do once. +1

6---Rock Star/Movie Star/Athlete Sex.  I've never actually met anyone famous, unless you count a glimpse of Alec Baldwin yakking on his cell phone while I was killing time in Bryant Park before a date I should never have agreed to.  So, yet another fail. 0

7---Booty Hole Sex.  And I quote, "You should know if anal is your thing before you settle down. Test it out with someone you trust, preferably a mild-mannered sweetheart who is super gentle in the sack and who’s also dispensable in case you don’t like it and never want to do it again."  Did this person ever exist?  If so, I'm thinking they died out with the tyrannosaurs.  As for admitting or not admitting to the point for this one:  I've been married for ten years.  People can only go through so much before the Final Frontier has to be acknowledged.  Drunk +1

8---Two Girls are Better Than One Sex.  Can someone tell me exactly when this became cool?  Because it never was when I was in school - high school or college.  Not even Lesbian Until Graduation was respected.  Wow, girls today have it so easy - you can be a lesbian whenever you want, lickety split, and no one judges: 0

9---Jump the Age Gap Sex.  Definition:  Sleep with someone ten years older or ten years younger.  The biggest age gap of mine is the current one of 2 years 5 months with me being the younger one.  When I was 18, I Did Everything But with a 25 year old, but now that I think about it, most 25 year olds don't have foreheads that wrinkled.  So I'm guessing he was actually around 35. Since there was never any penetration: 0

10---Dominating Sex.  Per the article:  "Three words: woman on top. You totally dominate this sexual experience. It’s you, in control, doing and getting what you want. Bonus points if it involves leather!"  YAWN.  Call me back when it involves restraints and ice cubes. +1

11---Incomplete Pass.  Why does a softie count on this list?  WTF? That's like you can't masturbate because the batteries in your vibrator died. +1

12---Flying Solo.  Per Sarah again: "I would like to think lots of ladies fly solo but something tells me there is a lot of talk and not much action." Who the hell has any time to fly solo anymore?  I have to create a calendar reminder on my phone. +1

Total: 7 1/2 for 12.  Oddly, I don't feel like I missed out on anything.  Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go check out the W4W section on Craigslist.

Monday, November 22, 2010

Radio Silence

Corky, Peter, and I have been lulled into a non-blogging fugue.  I can't speak for them, but I was yanked out of a state of un-writing by a private Facebook group consisting of members of General Ilia's high school Class of '90 and me, random Jersey girl.  This has got to be the filthiest message board ever, on par with the old Penthouse Forums.  From feminine squirting to breast-only lesbians, this group (un)covers it all.

One of today's topics was scrotum tightness from the female's point of view.  Within that thread, this Line of the Year was typed:

"...nothing is hotter than a solid set of nads smacking you just right to bring you to the big O!"

(Mind you, I barely know the woman who wrote this.  All I know of her is that she is 38 years old, has four kids with three husbands, and was a top gymnast in high school.  Apparently that last characteristic got her a LOT of action. According to her, Husband #2 had the nicest nads, but it couldn't make up for an abusive personality.)

A nurse-in-training replied, "You think breasts sag with age... you should see some of the sacs I've had to look at."

My response:  "Would those patients require a 'bro'?  Perhaps a 'mansierre'?  Or how about implants?"

Of course this led directly to me googling "scrotum tightening".  I'm surprised that my laptop didn't implode from the level of shame.  On a Nevada surgeon's web site, I found out that there's a word for this:  scrotoplasty.





Saturday, February 12, 2011

Mom of the Year

Scene:  Last week, driving 5 year old son home from preschool.
Kid:  Mom, I'm sad.
Me:  Why?
Kid:  I don't have anything to give you for Valentine's Day.
Me:  That's OK, I don't want anything for Valentine's Day.  You love me, I love you, and that's enough.
Kid:  But I need to get you something.
Me:  No, you don't.  You see, Valentine's Day is a Hallmark Holiday.  A company called Hallmark made it up so people would feel obligated to buy things like cards and candy and roses.
Kid:  [pause]  That sucks.

Sunday, May 08, 2011

Corky's Next Fishing Trip

Subtitle:  Lieutenant Ilia's Worst Nightmare

Back in the Fugawe Period of the Precambrian Era, I dared to go fishing with Corky, willSIX, and various other action figures.  I actually sort of enjoyed myself.  That can almost definitely be attributed to willSIX's making fun of me for joyfully freaking out over catching a turtle.  (Even the Double Rainbow Guy would have been embarrassed for me.)  

The fun was short-lived.  At the tender age of seven, a box of Gorton's Fish Sticks (fish dicks?) caused me unspeakable gastrointestinal distress.  As a result of that digestive Hiroshima, I have not been able to endure even the faintest whiff of fish. (Insert joke here.)  My husband enjoys fish (thank goodness) but is not permitted to cook it while we still share a household.

Osama is sleeping with the fishes now.  Personally, I couldn't think of a better resting place for him.

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

Buzz Off

June 1998:  The lease was signed and all the utilities were turned on.  The fuck buddy was left 750 miles behind.  What was my next priority?  Finding a replacement.  However, I just didn't have it in me to go to the nearest bar to post a signup sheet next to the men's restroom.  Craigslist existed, but only to sell used Futons, person on Futon optional.  So, I decided to settle for something that didn't talk back.  Unfortunately, the local Yellow Pages didn't have a separate section for "Vibrators" or even "Sex".  Finally, under the "Marital Aids" heading, I hit the jackpot:  Lover's Lane!  I immediately got into my car and sped east to this supposed onanist mecca.  I was expecting Pink Pussycat West.  I was greatly disappointed to find that it was a rather tame chain of stores containing ho-hum lingerie and vibrators that wouldn't even generate a 1.0 on the Richter Scale.  Since I was desperate, I quickly selected a "massager" with "attachments".  It got the job done, albeit not very well. Two months later, this story actually turned out to be a "marital aid", as I recounted it when I first met my now-husband.

Fast forward to present day...  [Insert musical montage of vibrators here]

Lots of relatively stressful events have transpired or are about to transpire, and I am in need of a quick and easy way to relax.  (Draining a wine bottle would work but I can't spare either the 8 Weight Watchers points or the ensuing DUI.)  Plus, I have a live-in fuck buddy now that needs to be rewarded for occasionally taking out the garbage.  What device could possibly unite those two initiatives?


The We-Vibe ii (now with nine distinct speeds!) is designed to hold the clitoris and g-spot paper-clip style while still allowing for penetration.  This looks like the greatest thing in the world, next to Dilaudid and this blog, of course.  I'd run out and get it right now, but... $99.00?  Really?  Is there a used market somewhere?  Oh, wait... eBay to the rescue!  

Uh oh, my company-issued PC is starting to make funny noises... 

Hey, stop it with the Remote Desktop!  Get your own damn toy!