A Secret Lover Is Trying To Get In Touch With You...

OK, I am going to go out on a limb here and say that if I had a secret lover, he would not be a secret to me.

...and if I don't yet know of him, can he really be my secret lover?

I mean, wouldn't that make him more of a bunny boiling/stalker type than a secret lover?

I happened upon this email in my spam box because one of my friend's emails keeps going in that box and so now I have to check it periodically.

There it was...

A secret lover is trying to get in touch with me.

Really?!?!

OH GOODY!

Does he have a fantastic dog, a bicycle and functioning penis?

Sign me up!

Still, if he's pimpin' his shit through the spam mail, he is likely to be a butter face and a garbage dick.

EWWWWWW! Gross!

The message said: "Your Secret Lover has instructed us to tell you they won't wait long for your response, so Click the link below to talk to them now!"

So my secret lover is also a lazy fucker who can't send his own effing emails and expects that I will snap to a response?

Clearly, this mystery man is unfamiliar with my particular brand of indifference.

Uh-oh, someone else may snatch up *snickers* my lazy lover and leave me with no secret love of my own!

Seriously, a man this lazy could not possibly be good in the sack.

*yawns and grabs vibrator*

Eh, at least I don't have to cuddle it after and it doesn't give me Dutch Ovens in the name of "fun".

((((bzzzzzzzzzzz))))

Jump Around!

I am not sure why Calista and I thought it was a good idea to spend the better part of 5 hours jump dancing in flip flops on a brick patio at the winery and treating it as our personal mosh pit on Saturday, but I assure you, it kicked my ass something awful the next day...

Today is worse.

...and I was the sober one!

Calista is in tragic shape as well.

We are a pair, for sure.

Yesterday I spent the day lubing my legs with a stick of Icy Hot. I won't even get into how hawt that was not at the Queeny Park event yesterday. It's tricky to flirt with boys when you have like 4% range of motion and reek of Icy Hot.

...Though at least one person mentioned that I cleared their sinuses.

I have felt better after car accidents and bike wrecks than I did yesterday...and today is by far much uglier.

I mean, the average time for a woman in our age demographic to complete a full marathon is 5:06:08...and they wear the right shoes for fuck's sake!

...But some of those fuckers shuffle their way to 26.2 miles...

The quick bitches who actually run it are doing it for less than 5 hours...

However, they do not jump up and down and up and down and up and down and up and...You get the point, yes?

At least we had good tunes and the band was pretty-ish. (Did ya like that fancy hyphen usage right there?)

...I feel that it is no cute coincidence that "Jump Around" was recorded by a band named "House of Pain"...

Yeah...I get it!

Hyphens Get a Bitch-Slap

Well, there it goes. Hyphens have been bitch-slapped by the Shorter Oxford English Dictionary.

"People are not confident about using hyphens anymore, they're not really sure what they are for," said Angus Stevenson, editor of the Shorter OED.

(Shall we address sweet Angus' grammar now or later?)

Oh goody!

People are poorly educated so let us enable that by dropping parts of the English language to accommodate them and enable their ignorance.

Not sure why a hyphen is used?

Look it up.

If you have time to play around on MySpace, Facebook, and Friendster and send text messages to your friends, surely you can allot some of that precious time to master the language you claim to speak, yes?

Another factor in the hyphen's demise is designers' distaste for its ungainly horizontal bulk between words...

Sooooo, what you're saying is that the hyphen is not "pretty enough"? Really? Should all things that are simply less pleasing to the eye be tossed away and disregarded?

There goes Rush Limbaugh!

*waives maniacally at Rushie-Poo*

Ba-bye, Rush!

I mean, he fits the reasoning. All of it. He is bulky and displeasing to the eye and I long ago lost confidence in him and still have no idea what purpose he serves in society other than being a study on "what not to do".

And what about Poor Britney Spears?

She now fits into this category. Shall we do away with her?

What about the people's lives who will be affected by the discarding of the hyphen, Rush and Britney?

Rush's maid needs the money he gives her for those drugs.

Perez Hilton would be bored beyond tears without Britney (though her children would likely be better off).

And my name has a hyphen, dammit.

This OED step is surely just a foreshadowing of the complete elimination of the hyphen in modern society.

My name will be changed forever!

(Thanks, Mom! I told you that hyphen was obnoxious!)

Angus does go on to say that, "There are places where a hyphen is necessary. Because you can certainly start to get real ambiguity."

He then used this example:

"Twenty-odd people came to the party", he said. "Or was it twenty odd people?"

And that made me smile.

You're pretty funny, Angus.

Pretty Enough to be That Dumb?

I walked in on my 15 year old son doing something just awful...

AWFUL!

Well...

I mean...

He wasn’t doing THAT...

That's normal.

He was...

He was...

He was watching the season premier of Beauty and the Geek with one of his friends.

Oh my!

Now, I am a bit of a wise ass. This we know.

I have been known to say things like, “She’s not pretty enough to be that dumb” or “He’s not pretty enough to suck in the sack.”

Hey, it’s sarcasm. It’s what I do.

Now truth be known, NO man is pretty enough to suck in the sack or be flat out dumb...and that goes for chicks as well.

Now all the studies will say that regardless of what we claim, the human eye trends toward beauty.

Yeah sure.

DERRRR!

The eye is for visual stimulation.

If I am looking at something, I would prefer it to be pretty.

We look at art. We (hopefully) do not talk to it or sleep with it.

I once had a very beautiful boyfriend/fiancé-for-a-week.

(SOOOOOO pretty!)

His body was a piece of art.

However, he was dumber than a box of rocks.

I mean...REALLY not wise and almost zero common sense.

(Did I mention that he was SOOOOOO pretty?)

He also was entirely sub-par in the sex department, though his penis was spectacular. He simply had no idea what to do with it and proved to be un-teachable. He performed cunnilingus like something I had never imagined. Not in a good way. More of a “freak show” way that still puzzles the mind...and the minds of anyone I have attempted to describe it to. If there was ever a way for someone to completely miss the entire point of cunnilingus, it was certainly this man-boy. It was like he was painting a fence…upside down and diagonal. It was maddening.

Needless to say, I broke it off and advised him to date girls just out of college who may not have had an actual orgasm yet and were still in party mode and not yet expecting actual conversation over dinner or at any time.

Now, it did take me longer to break it off, as every time I went to talk to him about it, I would see his pretty little face like a puppy and back down. I did do it though. And it really didn’t take that long.

So walking in on Beauty and the Geek last night, I was intrigued, as I walked in during the interview process with the “beauties”.

Oh boy.

I found myself saying the, “She’s not pretty enough to be that dumb,” comment a lot.

What message was I sending to my son?

I didn’t want him to think that there IS a pretty enough to be that dumb, because there just isn’t.

It’s not like these women were adorable and dumb but huge humanitarians. They were bimbos. Not one of them contributed anything positive to society except premature ejaculations and spontaneous erections for the “geeks”.

Most balanced males that I know want a woman who can at least tie her own shoes.

One chick thought that the sun and moon was the same thing. Literally. She said it right out loud. I heard her.

One of them paid $8,000 for her boob job because she was able to factor in her pretty little head that the amount of money she would save on drinks bought for her by horny men out-weighed the cost of the surgery.

*scratches head*

What?!?!?

What must young girls think if they see this?

Boobies and make-up are all they need?

What message does it send little girls who are a bit unfortunate looking?

“Sucks for you, sweet tits?”

Sadly, both the geeks and the alleged beauties are socially retarded. However, I am just curious enough to watch this train wreck happen.

Ehhh...

Who are we kidding? No I’m not.

Dumb is not sexy. Period.

They brought on a dumb guy this year as a “beauty” and just hearing him speak made my ears bleed.

Don’t get me wrong, I’d love a “hot” guy...but he better know how to read, shag, and not think that Mozart composed Beethoven’s 5th.

...Just sayin’.

Grandma, Gucci, and Priorities

I was raised a good portion of my life with my grandparents. My grandma had a huge influence on me. She was definitely the other side of the coin to my grandpa, whom I worshipped. That being said, Gran was amazing in her own right. Both wonderfully and horribly amazing.

I picked up a few of her traits along the way, however. Some I am proud of and others not so much. I acquired her love of fast cars and fantastic footwear...and I probably knew about Gucci way before I should have. I used to sneak into her closets and go nuts when she was out. And if she was out of town...OH LORDY!

She used to love how I soaked up her fashion knowledge like a sponge. For some reason however when I turned 11 and started wearing a training bra, the shit hit the proverbial fan in our relationship.

I wasn't still trying on her stuff and had embraced my "inner Madonna" at that point, but she started viewing me as the most dreaded thing in her world...another woman.

I repeat, I was 11 years old. My second year in the double digits. I had a Double A bra cup and like 3 pubic hairs. I was a threat.

It was upon this trip home for her that she saw my bra line and immediately declared that the combo of bra and Loves' Baby Soft she had bought me for Christmas the year before made me seem like a French whore.

"You smell like a French whore!" she exclaimed 2 minutes after walking through the gate at JFK.

I responded by looping, "Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer" the entire drive home on my portable cassette player from the back seat where she could not reach me.

(My then-in-the-closet-lesbian-aunt who was driving and at odds with "Mommy" thought this was hilarious.) In retrospect, I realize that she was probably drunk. My aunt. But that would go on for some decades and is another blog/book entirely.

As it turned out, some years later in the summer of my 14th tear...errrr...year, I moved in with Gran and Grandpa ("Poppy") full time.

This was in Hollyweird, FL and not the return to NYC that I had hoped and prayed for upon my mother's greatest spazz session ever! (Again, another story for another time...sheeesh!)

Gran took me shopping for back-to-school things and I was convinced that my shoplifting days at Macy's with Lisa were over. Gran LOVED Macy's! Macy's was her Walgreens. More importantly, she loved all stores that offered pretty little cards that allowed her to shop.

Gran's "fix all" was shopping. If she was angry, she shopped. Happy? Shopped. Sad, depressed, bloated, cranky, weepy, chipped a nail off her coral frosted manicure...she shopped.

The more in a funk, the more high end the store where she sought her therapy would be.

Luckily for me, manic depression, unhealthy behavior, denial, and co-dependency run deep in our blood.

Crappy days for her meant the Bal Harbor Shops for me.
I learned early on that nothing made her teeth unclench like Gucci.

Gucci had it all! Shoes, purses, clothing...trinkets for the 2 men she was juggling outside of her marriage to my beloved Grandpa.

I stared at it and hovered by the counter every time we were there. I had learned at like 4 years old that if I hovered and stared and did not ask for it, she would buy it. (I did not realize at the time that she bought me things out of guilt.)

I would stare and stare and when asked what I wanted on birthdays and Christmases, I would articulate that I indeed wanted this watch.

It was NOT very pricey. Probably the least expensive watch that they had to offer.

I could not understand how it was that I did not yet own this watch but had 2 Gucci purses, 2 Fendi purses, a Louis Vuitton key chain and a tragic little Liz Claiborne that I received upon my entrance into the world of "being a woman".

(Yes. I got a purse for getting my period. I told you she was effed up.)

I could have had the watch 3 times over by that point. I didn't comprehend it. At all. It got to the point where I just stayed away from it altogether.

Then...one day...I walked in the door of the house and sitting on the desk in the entranceway was the little green Gucci box.

It was just sitting there.

Where I go every day after school to deposit my keys and check for enveloped love.

I thought that possibly it was just some other Gucci trinket she had purchased.

Maybe it was cuff links for the husband whose money she was spending on other men. (Even though I didn't know that then.) Maybe it was a new keychain for the car Grandpa had just surprised her with.

However, I had to peek. I could not get on with my life without peeking!

Homework could wait. The dogs could wait. Chores and gossip with friends about the day's events could wait. There was a Gucci box on the desk! A small one! If you are thinking that you wouldn't look, you're full of crap!

It's not like it was wrapped. It was right there. RIGHT THERE! My turmoil was palpable! She oft left me sweet little material treats and today was pay day!
I opened the box.

There it was!

Holy hell!

THE watch!

My watch!

In my mind, I nearly fainted.

I remember jumping up and down and giggling...

I put it back.

I didn't want to deprive her of the treat of seeing my joy.

I would wait until she came home to give it to me.

I think I skipped off to my room and fell into some delirium based stupor. Time was a blur until I heard the garage door open.

It was Grandpa.

Then her.

Nothing is said out of the norm.

Dinner.

The entranceway is in plain view behind Poppy's head.

Dinner is over.

In completely random conversation she says to Poppy (not me, Poppy!), "Did you see what Joey sent me for Mother's Day?"

It was June.

I am still blank at this moment and admittedly my misplaced delirium had clouded my concentration. My uncle (Joey) has a record for giving the worst imaginable gifts, so of course I am thinking that in the Florida heat he has mailed her something knitted...or possibly some snow boots lined with dead kittens...

(I had clearly moved passed Madonna and was now having torrid imaginary affairs with Robert Smith and Morrissey...)

She goes and gets the precious Gucci box and places it before Poppy.

Now because Poppy and I are funny pranksters, I forget that she has no sense of humor to speak of and I believe her to be playing a prank.

I keep waiting for it.

I think I lost like 15 pounds just sitting there waiting for it to drop...

H-h-h-h-hellooooo?

Wait...

What?!?!?

It was true. The watch was for her. HER!

My. Watch.

I have no proof, but I believe she either directed him to it or lied and flat out bought it herself. My uncle thinks Gucci is something you say to babies to make them smile.

I think this was my first tangible memory of graciousness and diplomacy. (It needed some work.)

I said nothing and smiled that toothless smile I reserve for golf claps and children's flatulence.

4 more birthdays, 4 more Christmases, a graduation, a wedding, a birth and 2 funerals would pass.

No watch.

Admittedly, after 1 more birthday, the graduation and the first funeral I stopped caring. Life had changed.

Then...

On my 21st birthday...

After the birth of my son, the loss of the two most important people in my life and the legal right for me to finally be able to embrace the family legacy of alcoholism...

There was the box.

I could have punched her.

I needed tuition money!

Diapers!

A college fund for my son!

Medical insurance!

SLEEP!

Not a fucking Gucci watch!

I started bawling.

I hated her.

She knew it, though my words graciously thanked her.

My eyes never left hers.

She was no fool.

I had put so much into my desire for that damned watch over the years that I had over-looked some truly wonderful things at that earlier and innocent time.

I had by this point learned what was important.

Only then did she feel that I deserved that watch.

A watch that I could have gone out and purchased myself if I had really wanted it.

Because I didn't, she did.

It was her way.

It was suddenly the bestest gift ever!

It was also the last material gift she ever gave me.

And I love her for it!

It still sits in a box next to the other watch that she wore every day when not wearing her matching Gucci...an alligator strapped gold Mickey Mouse watch. I think it reminded her that life, like Disney is scary, a bit depressing, a bit fun, very colorful and all wrapped up in the lessons that we take away.

The remaining members of my family have been fighting since March of 2003 for her diamonds and money. I asked for and received with a smirk the Mickey watch, an eternity band we found together at an estate sale, and the giant mother of pearl ring she wore every day and frequently thumped me on the head with when explaining Gucci and life to me.

I hope to goddess I never need to take either watch out of the box to remind me of life's lessons.

WWJD at a Singles Mixer?

Last night I attended what can only be described as a "singles mixer".

I am not exactly sure why I went, as I am not really "looking" and am pretty shy when I am out of my element. However, I have been told I need to "get out there". I am not sure that I agree with that.

Raquel knows everyone. EVERYONE! She is St. Louis' answer to Anywho.com. So she is in the know about events and people in this cute little town. She knew about this little "party" and so of course she let us know too.

Now, the party invitation did describe the environment to be "single, professional Christian/Catholic/Spiritual men and women typically in their 30ishes and 40ishes."

This raised my eyebrow.

Although I did my time in Catholic school, I was now a non-practitioner. I could talk the talk, but seriously, I hate the bullshit.

My own beliefs had evolved beginning when I was 13 and the exact moment that I received the "Religion Honors Award" at my eighth grade Catholic school graduation ceremony.

I think it was my mom's fainting accompanied by various family members' gasps and confused looks as they shrugged at each other that did the trick.

I am spiritual, but having lived in this town for 11+ years, I was used to the idea of "spiritual" not including my beliefs in the philosophy of the Four Noble Truths or the Eightfold Path. I do not subscribe to organized religion. I don't try to get anyone else to believe as I do and have always had my neck hairs raise a bit when people use their religion for personal labeling.

I don't like cramming people into a box. I know some great Christians and I know a few 7-Layer-Loser Christians. I know some great non-religious people and I know some completely awful, non-religious humans.

Admittedly, I am always on guard with people who use their religion like a merit badge. Religion is not the effing Boy Scouts of America. If you need to be patted on the back for believing in a higher power, then you are likely full of shit, using religion as a crutch, and should have a s'mores rammed up your ass for good measure.

If I haven't spoken to you about it but still know for a fact what your religious beliefs are, I will make a mental mark against you. Your beliefs should be personal, not an exploited detail on your résumé of life.

Christians here know Christianity (just ask them!) and many here do not even acknowledge that Catholicism is a branch of Christianity and segregate them to the "naughty table".

They do know about The Twelve Steps here, but not so much the Eightfold Path. Nor do they realize how my beliefs can be (if one chooses to do so) incorporated into their own belief structure, so I was at a loss about this particular party detail.

Luckily, us sinners were meeting at Raquel's for cocktails first. We really should have just stayed there.

Raquel, Skye, Kelly (token male) and I arrive at the party house and although we somewhat coordinated what we were wearing (not Kelly) so that we would blend better, it was as if they could see the sin radiating off of us.

Dammit!

It was as if they just KNEW that the last people we had sex with were not our ex-husbands. Jeezus! I barely had sex with my ex-husband when he was my husband!

We had dressed conservatively. I mean, no turtleneck sweaters, but we had left our padded bras at home as to not invoke a bitchslap from the Holy Ghost.

We made our rounds and at some point I find myself in a discussion with a very sweet man. He is very tall with salt & pepper hair. No chemistry, but very sweet. He is telling me of his interests and he has good manners. He lets me know that he is "exceptionally conservative" (uh-oh!) and a CPA (well, now that explains it) and although he is a corporate slave, it has afforded him much financial success. He then tells me a story about how he is afraid of bugs and slept with the lights on while on a trip with a male travel buddy.

All I think to myself is "billable hours".

I will later find out that he is a youth camp minister.

*scratches head*

Now either he thought I really needed "saving", or drew the short straw with the other Christians and therefore had to come talk to me, or is just one of those super nice humans who really enjoys human interaction. Now, because he never once mentioned his beliefs to me, I can dig him. Not in "that way" but I would hang out with him in a group again. As long as he never again mentions his financial success to me.

Many of the other people were too scared to speak to us. Even Skye who can talk to anyone is at a loss!

Naturally, we end up in the sun room where conveniently the beverages and the music are stored and Skye takes over as DJ.

She digs through a box of CDs (yes...CDs) looking for some up-tempo music so we can "feel the spirit".

*snickers*

She of course selected Prince.

The Bible Coalition is watching us dance through the glass as if we are exhibits at the zoo. They are fascinated by us. Seriously, there was no pelvic gyration or grinding up against anyone. We were really doing more of the overly Caucasian 80s dance thing, so maybe that was it.

Upon realizing we are at a loss and surrounded by some people who were living the whole "Footloose" experience, Skye promptly puts on some Eminem and we bolt, like the sinning juveniles we so clearly are.

Sometimes You Feel Like a Nut, Sometimes You Don't

No secret that I am picky about the twig and berries.

In a town where blow jobs are a dime a dozen and safe sex means that they don't (usually) fuck while driving, I am a mite selective with what I put between my legs or dog forbid in my mouth.

(The Lou is consitantly in the Top 10 for Gonorrhea and Syphilis according to U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.)

Oooooooh! Now we are talking FUN!

I would rather chomp on a piece of gum I find on a gas station bathroom floor than to screw some of the garbage dick that roams aimlessly around this town.

YIKES!

That being said, even once I have determined that IT is cleanish, which for me entails me actually being in a relationship with the dude and his agreeing to be tested, IT still needs to be maintained properly or it's a no go.

Nothing will turn my head faster than discovering that my companion has a wookie bush.

Truth be known, I like my men shaved pretty much everywhere and possessing a bicycle (and/or a fantastic dog), so if you don't have a bicycle or a dog, you better not have a wookie bush either.

Wookies are not pets.

Last year I started dating a very sweet and pretty boy (28 yrs old) who looked simply amazing naked. Fantastic (and functioning) penis. Very tall. Employed. Post-grad. So cute.

However...

He had the dreaded "wookie bush".

Holy hell and damnation.

Fooling around was like going on a safari.

It seriously limited my play time, as who wants to die being smothered by a mass of wiry, itchy hairs?

Now, because he was "polite for male", he never asked me to go downtown, but I used the one time we got on the topic to bring up his pet wookie.

He had read my previous blogs regarding the subject when I had discovered Detective Wookie Bush, but somehow did not think it applied to him.

SO cute!

He looked at me and blinked a lot.

I could see that he had been able to get by solely on his cuteness in the past and did not know what to do with a woman who knew what she wanted.

Awwwww! It was simply precious how he looked at me as if he could not fathom the possibility that I had not been sitting at my townhouse those years on the edge of my front steps just awaiting him to move into a neighboring condo and bless my life with his penis.

I mean, I had been...in a way...as I just expected a hot guy with a fantastic penis to drop right out of the sky, and I put zero effort into "looking" for a mate, so he was pretty close.

But still. Wookie is wookie and it must go.

I came home one night and called him for our nightly chit chat.

He told me to come over because he had a surprise for me.

Being a girl, when I hung up I squealed and tried my best to look cute and less exhausted and casually (with hidden excitement) walked the 4 doors to his place.

Because he is a sweet and adorable goofball, he is wrapped in his sheet when I walk into his room.

He drops the sheet.

There, with the second most beautiful penis on the planet is my surprise.

He has gone Edward Scissorhands on his wookie bush.

I swear he must have used garden shears.

Oh my!

There were paths shaved into it like when one shovels snow.

There were like 5 straggly hairs hanging from his balls.

It was a mess.

But it was a sweet mess.

This scared little man-boy had attacked his genitalia with sharp objects to make me happy.

And all the important stuff was still there so I could do nothing but reward him.

He never quite grasped the art of maintenance and only trimmed the wookie about bimonthly, but it was still sweet.

I would later get a proposal from this man and I can say with certainty that the wookie bush moment was by far a sweeter (and more satisfying) thing.

Men, if you do little else, learn the fine art of manscaping. The rewards are plenty.

The Evolution of the Garbage Dick

Being a huge fan of gender equality, you can just imagine how excited I get by double standards.

No. It's true. I love 'em. I gobble them up like a fat kid gobbles up cake.

Sex has always been one of the areas where this nonsense has come into play.

It's really quite precious.

Guys can diddle anything warm and wet and merely be labeled as a "player". A chick can screw two guys in the same month and she's labeled as a slut.

What the fuck is that?

Now, I may not be the best person to argue this case as we all know that I am sexually frigid and dead on on the inside...

*snickers*

...But come on!

I was having a three-way a few weeks back...

...ummmm...

*rewinds*

...I was having a three-way conversation a few weeks back with two other females.

At the time, two of us had no idea that the third was a bit cuckoo.

To be fair, it's really a sad fact that her cheese has just slid right off her damn cracker, but whatever.

Two of the three of us are realists when it comes to "sexual labeling".

We used the term "garbage dick" about some fellas that we know.

Two of them were dating former "garbage dicks" and I was the asshole who happened to use the term. It's funny. It was funny then and it is funny now.

My friend, "the realist" and I were puzzled by the odd look the third was giving us over the term.

We explained that a "garbage dick" is merely a male slut.

We saw the light click on in her pretty little insane head.

He wasn't now a garbage dick. At that very moment. But he had been before they went "exclusive" and he never lied to her about it. She was no virgin. No prude. So we had no idea that she allegedly took offense to the statement. We wouldn't have, because she laughed pretty hard at it and she herself lacks filters when speaking, so it was not like she was a descendant of Miss Emily Post for fuck's sake.

Later in the weekend when she was cooking up a nice batch of bunny boiler stew, she dropped the bomb on our friend that I called him a "garbage dick" while she was flipping out about one of his past sex partners. Someone before and not during her.

Now, in the conversation I had with him, he is laughing at the term, as we call each other names all the time. In the conversation he had with her, she is wigging out like an ADHD kid on crack.

What is the big effing deal?

By modern standards, a slut is "a person who has taken control of their sexuality and has sex with whomever they choose, regardless of religious or social pressures or conventions to conform to a straight-laced monogamous lifestyle committed to one partner for life. The term has been "taken back" to express the rejection of the concept that government, society, or religion may judge or control one's personal liberties, and the right to control one's own sexuality."

Hmmmm...

That pretty much defines an awful lot of people in the real world.

So, maybe "garbage dick" is funny. Maybe it's not. But it is no worse that "slut" and neither are the exception anymore. Women and men are just fine to throw the term "slut" out there regarding females. But males are sluts too.

Why can't we have a funny name to call them?

Why do women get all the grief?

"Player"? Come on now. They get a name that sounds like "fun" but is really not so much actual fun.

People are always quick to blame it on the sexual revolution when it really just boils down to what's good for the goose is good for the gander. Regardless of how I personally feel about the psyche of people who feel the need to sleep around with multiple partners and I'm a bit of a germaphobe, so I have to remain impartial. This just addresses that males and females are equal in their actions when it comes to this sleeping around business.

People are going to do what they want. The sluts I know are still sluts and the garbage dicks I know are still garbage dicks.

If you don't agree with their behavior, you don't sleep with them.

If you don't want to be labeled as a slut or garbage dick, you don't act like a slut or a garbage dick.

This is really not gene splicing, people.

However, if you act like one, you forfeit the right to then bitch about someone else doing it.

Let's say it together, "Don't be hypocrites, boys and girls."

*tosses bulk of condoms*

Now you kids go have some fun!

Smells Like Old People

So last week some time my pal Tits wrote a blog about "weird sex". It was hilarious because obviously it is subjective.

Well, what she decided was weird to her crossed over into a place in me that I had not considered when pondering what I considered "weird". And then there it was. It hit her and then her hit hit me and before I could stop my eyes from reading, it was there...

Burning...My eyeballs...Make it stop!

"My folks having sex. That is weird to me, and disgusting but why?" she wrote.

I tried to blink.

I covered my mouth.

Not at the thought of her parents having sex or at the thought of my parents having sex. I was raised by my grandparents and it wasn't even the thought of them having sex.

Suddenly, I was reminded of a conversation my grandmother had with me that damn near melted my eardrums at the time and made me want to shower with a Brillo pad.

I can say "at the time" all day long and know that I am still not old enough to hear what she told me.

It was after my grandpa died and she had a boyfriend whom we all despised. It is safe to say that we most accurately despised his existence in hers and our lives, as he had been my grandpa's best friend...and she had had an affair with him for 20 years before my grandpa died.

Grandma was a slut.

That being said, she never spoke about sex and would have liked us all to believe that the stork delivered babies.

She used goofy names for body parts and whispered all "unmentionable" topics.

Breasts, vaginae, and buttocks were all called "whatsis"...

Sometimes she would venture out and call the ass, a "toukis". That's when she was pissed.

But in Gran's world, I had to guess which body part she was addressing...which slowed the conversation down a hair.

When it came to talk about sex, I was given a pamphlet about menstruation by the nuns and a book on sexual health with mediocre pictures that was written in the 50's.

So you can imagine my shock (read: "choke, gag, shoots-shortbread-cookie-through-nose" type delight) while sitting one day at the table when my son was about two, she started babbling about her boyfriend, Carl.

It had gotten to the point that any time his name was mentioned, anyone she was speaking to would suddenly: get busy, have to pee, fart, fall on the floor in a fit, or simply hang up on her.

I was right there.

There was no escape.

Drinking a cup of tea and nibbling on a Stella D'oro Breakfast Treat.

I had let my mind wander and had no idea what she was saying until I hear, "You know, Carl can't get it up anymore but he is VERY good with his hands."

I screamed.

Loud.

High pitched.

More of a shriek.

Horror movie quality.

People have heard this.

Then I started coughing uncontrollably as cookie and tea watered my eyes and shot out of my nose.

This broke her into hysterics. Hysterical laughter from a woman who had no sense of humor to speak of.

My son stopped playing at our feet and looked up at us. His eyes grew large and his lip puffed out.

Grandma had made Mommy scream and now was laughing at her.

He got up, kicked her in the leg and buried his head in my lap.

This made her react much like I had and she cracked up harder.

However, she never discussed sex with me again.

And that is why I have two children, loathe erectile dysfunction and upon meeting someone named Carl, my skin turns green.

The End.

At YOUR Age...?!?!

Sooooo a few weeks back I was partaking in some retail therapy. I was under the weather, so a little debt could not, would not hurt me. Period. At that point I had been pissing my PJs and not sleeping. Rationale was out the door.

I had a "thing" to go to that night and I wanted to dress like a girl.

I wanted a dress.

And shoes that were not flip-flops for said event.

Now, truth be told, I have girly tops and heels that I wear...but I had worn them all and with having that damn cold and the cough...I needed some extra help.

I headed with The Teenager to Saks. Actually, we planned on just walking through Saks to the mall and to the BCBG store, but I got stopped by what would end up being my dress.

Fine.

She was on sale and made my tits and legs look spectacular.

Done.

Next, through the shoe department.

I had been eyeing a pair of Spiga Italy peek-a-boo heels and had to see if they were still available.

I am greeted by Hedy.

Hedy reminds me of "Juno" (Sylvia Sidney) in "Beetlejuice". Voice and all...only shorter, with more makeup and alive...allegedly.

Hedy embodies every bridge playing bitty that my grandma chummed around with. She even had a faint "Lawng Eyelund" accent. Priceless.

Hedy is a snob. The St. Louis kind. How do I know? We run into her all the time. And every time she waits on us she asks The Teenager what high school he goes to. Like she is summing up whether or not Mommy can shop for shoes here.

I want to shake her until her make-up slides off her face.

Even The Teenager is hip to her tricks.

She grabs his face and declares him, "So handsome!"

She asks if he is my only and I mention The Sassy One. She asks her age and I tell her.

(Why the hell must she know this to dress up my feet?)

I spy my Kates and ask to try them on.

She retrieves them and crams my piggies into them...taking notice of my tattoo.

"What are you wearing them with?" Hedy asks.

I nod my head at my hanging dress and indicate that that is my first plan for the stunning heels.

She instantly grabs my garment bag and yanks out the dress.

"Oh yes. These will work", she decides.

I smile and think, "No shit, Sherlock...they are BLACK heels. DERRRR!"

She ponders for a moment...

"This dress is a knock-off of the vintage Pucci line. I used to sell Pucci. I've sold this dress."

I blink charmingly and smile “that one smile” as The Teenager's eyes grow larger.

"Let me show you these" she says and pulls me to a quite lovely pair of Chanels.

She flips them over to expose the price tag.

$650.00

I confirm her evil thoughts by replying, "I love them! Now all we have to do is find me a sweet boyfriend to buy them for me, Hedy."

I giggle like the polished bitch I can be when I really want to shove one across a glass table of Jimmy Choos.

Hedy doesn't miss a beat. She says, "At your age with two kids? A boyfriend is going to be difficult to find, Dear."

Simultaneously, The Teenager's and my lips disappear.

"Oh Hedy, you're a card!" I chuckle. "I'll take the Kates."

Hedy smiles just enough to keep her makeup from cracking.

"OK, Dear. Will that be on your Saks card?"

I think, "Don't fuck with me bitch!"

The Rebel Princess Coalition Sans Two

This weekend is now a blur.

In 3 days I relived fears I had thought I was long ago over, some of my darkest high school bully nightmares, awkward adolescence moments long abandoned, black eyeliner/too much make-up/too much jewelry, teen aged angst and insecurity, emotional torture inflicted by parental units, sorrow, pain, happiness, excitement, anger, frustration, and my ability to always find time to squeeze in some needless shopping.

Two friends with whom I attended high school came to town for a much needed get-together.

We were at least two fabulous females shy of a perfect get-together, having not planned ahead far enough, leaving the other two with practically zero notice.

The 80s party that was planned for Friday night proved to Weirdo and me that we could still have fun and be completely inappropriate in a paper sack. Not the party itself, but the shopping at the Goodwill and other little shops while we searched for vintage treasures to adorn our less-than-80s-bodies.

Weirdo and I had never shopped together in high school. That was a treat shared by Goofball and myself. Instead, in high school Weirdo and I exchanged talk about nails. Mostly, I would give myself French manicures with Liquid Paper on the drive to school and she would bite her nails while I bribed her not to.

Goofball and I were shopping goddesses. We knew the ins and outs and could teach a class on the topic. The current irony being that she now loathes shopping and is married to someone who has a career firmly rooted in women's fashion. She hit the goddammed husband lottery, other than diamond broker, when it comes to fru-fru shit. I won't even mention that he is also a more than decent human who actually loves her. If I didn't love her and like him, I would trip them both. I married a rocket scientist. I'll let you know the next time I need an effing fighter jet.

Saturday was spent from sunrise to almost sunrise again with the three of us (plus 2 male offspring) giggling, snorting, comparing, constructing, climbing, posing, cackling, crawling, and crying our way through The Lou.

It was a blast!

It was absolute glory to be surrounded by two fab chicks who knew and loved me when I was an awkward, insecure, damaged little brat with Flock of Seagulls hair and a shitty attitude...regardless of my imaginary fantastic fashion sense.

It was fantastic to be surrounded by these girls who still do not give a crap what I have accomplished and/or what I have not accomplished either personally or professionally and only care what I have accomplished with regard to our friendships.

We sat there, the three of us, reveling in how we were and are so different and so alike and how none of the latter was abundantly obvious until we were deeply ensconced in discussions about the bowels of our personal hells.

We are all pretty introverted in personality. Oddly, that picture is very different for each of us. Weirdo being the most verbal in her thoughts was both astonishing and exhausting. And although my frustration at the lack of silence I have incorporated into my little world was at times palpable, I knew in a very short time her excited and animated voice would be gone.

Over the weekend I had found myself wishing that we were the women we are today back then and how much we could have supported each other or even simply been the silent comfort in the corner of each others' conscious.

As it was, none of us knew of the others' private hells and we became who we are. Mothers, teachers, healers, comedians, leaders and advocates.

As I arrived home early in the morning after dropping Weirdo off at the airport, I stepped into a room thick with sorrow at the loss of her presence. The silence I had thought that I had wanted exposed itself for the truth it was like a mule kick to the face. They were gone.

I was alone again in the scary world that wanted me to be things that I am not.

I was again without the friends who knew that I was more the punk than the cheerleader. More the shy little girl than the outgoing social butterfly. More Liquid Paper than eraser. More Suzanne Vega than Madonna. More alive than dead.

There is no way to sugar coat or minimize it. I miss them.

The Trembling of a Lost Emotion

I had been aware of his presence for quite some time, having spied him upon his arrival. I intentionally stayed out of his line of vision, as I had no desire to engage in even the most elementary of conversations with this man.

I had never met him in person, however we shared acquaintances in common. This fact alone was disturbing to me.

I had interacted with him briefly, to extend some condolences regarding the pain he was suffering at the termination of his marriage. He had expressed this pain on my friend's blog and was confusing his pain and anger at his wife's abandonment with the topic of the day which involved inequality among the sexes.

Because I originally viewed him as genteel, I wanted to make sure he stepped back and did not involve himself in the very intense debate that had arisen.

He verbally expressed his appreciation and little more was said. A few days and a few blogs later (after my debate opponent had sent him an email) he "friend requested" me. Having little worry about a man who seemed more of a pussy than a prick, I accepted. It was simply easier.

He continued to send emails and I attempted to keep the tone light and a bit dismissive. I was not looking for a mate.

Last weekend he extended several invitations to the same event. Although he could see that I had not opened the invitations, he continued to send them. He also sent them to my friend who writes the blog. She told him she was seeing someone, and it worked (or so we thought at the time). She advised me to do the same.

Having already had my fill of the multiple variables in this incestuous little MySpace world, I had already decided to delete my page and thought nothing of the unanswered invitations from this new contact. Mostly because I opened them after the event to which I had been invited.

I was not accustomed or comfortable with random invitations to join complete strangers out in any venue. Especially when there was no acquaintance who could speak to that person's level of perceived sanity.

I also never quite grasped why people would be anxious to spend quality time with complete strangers that they have not a thing in common with other than a pulse.

It mattered not, as my page was now gone and I believed that to be the end of it.

Fast forward a week to the same friend's birthday party.

She had extended an open invitation to anyone and their mother. Literally.

It was not my party. Not my deal.

She's my friend.

I attended the party.

And then I saw HIM walk in. The email guy.

*FUCK!*

I maintain eye contact with another friend as I see HIM notice me. I had already told her of HIM.

I ignore his presence and continue chatting with her.

He moves to stand in my peripheral.

He hovers awaiting a chance for me to turn and acknowledge him.

(Why do I need to? We have never met! This is not my effing party and he is not my friend!)

I can feel myself yet again getting pissy about people's lack of respect for another's personal space and general social etiquette.

I turn and he says, "Hi Cory."

*blood runs cool and hairs raise on back of my neck*

"Hi," I reply.

Feeling I have dismissed him, I say nothing more and scan the room for my high school friend who has flown in for the weekend.

He, being socially retarded and more than a mite obtuse continues to speak and confronts me about why I deleted him from my friend list.

I smile understanding the confusion and calmly explain to him that I didn't delete him, I deleted my page. I expect that to be the end of it. Nope.

"Why?" he inquires.

I look at him with a smirk.

"It was just a decision I made. I have a lot going on and it seemed unnecessary to keep the page."

Period.

Period.

Period.

I am honestly irritated at this point because I do not feel that I owe a complete stranger any explanations as to why I take a shit or the consistency thereof. I quite frankly don't think I owed anyone an explanation and feel that anyone who was afforded one was either quite fortunate or actually important to me.

He was neither.

I smile as sweetly as possible, considering that I am loathing the general environment and many of the people in it. I spot my high school friend and walk over to her.

Multiple times this man would seek me out and attempt to engage. I would always smile. Chat for a moment and move away.

I do not like strange men.

I do not like strange men who are so lonely and dysfunctional that they seek out a party of total strangers and expect to be accepted as if we too went "way back". We had already had ourselves such a poser in the early Spring. I felt our quota had been met.

At some point I wind down and relax on one of the number of comfy leather couches in this quaint little bar and make myself cozy by an open window.

HE of course hovers somewhere close by. The type of hovering where he is maintaining the visual contact and is very literally observing my every move.

It is my unfortunate luck that a friend sitting next to me on the couch leaves to fetch another beverage.

HE uses this opportunity to sit next to me.

*dammitfuthamuckersonofabitch!*

Having committed to keeping the birthday bash centered on my friend, I simply ignore HIS new position and gaze out the window up at the sky and over at the architecture of the tall building just outside.

I let my mind wander to the activities of the people inside and what their view might be...

He starts speaking to me.

He is asking personal questions.

Originally, I smile politely and say nothing. I look him in the eye. Smile. Say nothing. I am trying to silently convey to him that I am affording him the peace and respect that he is not affording me. He is however, on a mission.

"I watched that cancer trailer", he says. (He is referring to "CrazySexyCancer". I had posted something about it.)

I look at him.

"I watched it for you, you know." He smiles at me in a way that seems as though he believes this will bond us much like Crazy Glue bonded that construction cap to that steel beam. Yeah, marketing is fun.

I smile. I thank him. I look away.

His voice and speech patterns make my skin crawl. He looks like the love child of John Mayer and Charles Manson, with the speech pattern of Billy Bob Thornton's character in Slingblade. This could not be any less intriguing or attractive...unless he were to defecate right there on the coffee table. (Is that a clear enough visual for you?)

He has no idea my fear of men who act this particular way. He has no idea how I do not like unfamiliar environments until I have made myself feel at ease. I would never feel that sitting next to this intrusive man next to an open window that was not at ground level. Never.

He was getting angry.

I was frustrating him.

This only served to make me more tense.

I had done this before to males and it did not work out well for me.

I started to get goosebumps. I felt nauseous and panicked. I had stood to hug another friend good-bye and knew my legs were not stable.

I was angry at myself.

*dammit!*

I knew I should not have come.

I searched in my head for a way to relax him without lying to him and knew that there was not one.

As he continued to ask penetrating questions that I quietly ignored, I finally looked at him, smiled and tried in my most joking tone to ask him, "You do know this is a party, right?" I softly chuckled and returned my gaze out the window.

My body language could not have been any more closed off without leaving a bruise.

I was noticeably and visibly nervous and freaked out by this man. Anyone who knew me saw this. I had started trembling. This alone pissed me off...at myself.

He finally got up and walked away, but continued to hover and continued to keep his eyes on me. He even went so far as to follow me to the restroom area. I was thankful that my friend from high school was tuned in to my frequency. She was my eyes when I could not be.

I ducked and hid from him a bit more, before finally going outside to the street below for some fresh air and a new perspective. My fresh perspective brought the new emotion of frustration.

I had watched him out of the corner of my eye once the red flags went up. I had observed him interacting verbally and physically with other women. This should have relaxed me. It didn't. Why were these women not holding his attention? Why was he seeking me out and following me around?

We spot a bar next door and duck in to relax.

I breathe.

I cannot simply leave as I am the designated driver to my friends. I have to stay close.

Another friend I had been awaiting the arrival of arrives and thinks I have left. I talk to her on the cell and get her up to speed. She has only moments before met this man and knows exactly whom I am speaking of. She texts me that HE is coming down.

Again I feel cold and shiver.

I move behind a wall and watch him walk past the restaurant window never considering that I am there and not on my way home.

I exhale.

We stay for a while and the friends that have trusted me with their safe arrival home come down to join us as does the other friend who had arrived late.

I am ready to leave, but have mentally regressed to that one day back in college. I am angry at myself. I am angry at this man. I am angry at my friend who keeps her filters open to so much dysfunction. I detach.

You never know what your words or actions will trigger in another. I have to be responsible for putting myself in that situation. I make conscious steps to avoid certain situations. Now I know that I cannot attend functions coordinated by this friend and will have to simply make separate arrangements to spend quality time with her, if our schedules allow it.

It was a fascinating experience for me, once I detached. Once detached I was able to explore my fears and emotions and the "why factor". I was able to consider what might be going on in HIS head as well as what drives the psyche of my friend to welcome such individuals into her personal space.

Happy that this was the last big "function" planned for the season, I concentrate on the road ahead and crash heavily in the comfort of my perfect little bed in my personal little room in my personal little space. I am home.