Wednesday, March 30, 2011

having young friends is totally fucking weird.

my radio show starts sunday, and i am hella nervous. because the shit is on the real radio, on northwestern's station, and i am not young. so i'm totally fucking smart and into cool shit and everything, but i still sometimes record shit on cassette. and for that i apologize.

here are three things i decided yesterday that make me feel fucking old:

1 i am going to see a rheumatologist about my useless goddamned joints. i was talking to the doctor on saturday about how i am almost at the point that i need a walker (not really) and that the minute that happens i am going to steal a car, fill it with kittens, and go on a killing spree (probably) before driving off a cliff with susan sarandon duct taped against her will to the passenger seat (definitely). and his response was "let's call a rheumatologist." you virile, healthy people probably don't even know what the fuck that is, and i'm too depressed about it to tell you. that's what the fucking internet is for. seriously, though, i keep having to ask my friends to please slow down when we're walking anywhere together and that is embarrassing. BECAUSE I AM THIRTY-ONE GODDAMNED YEARS OLD. and typing this blog hurts my bad hand, so you bitches better ship me some celebrex or something before i shut this shit all the way down.

2 i am not going to wear real pants anymore. this was an especially shocking decision, even to me, because it forces me to violate one of my most cardinal rules, "thou shalt not wear soft pants in public." FUCK IT. if it doesn't feel like pajamas and i can't pull it off with one arm then i am not wearing it. I MEAN THAT. i just ordered 900 pairs of nice-ish black yoga pants, and i am never wearing anything else. no more thigh teeth chewing through 100-dollar fucking slacks. no more setting my pubic hair on fire from denim friction. i know this is a trend that typically doesn't start until after retirement, but i don't care. a quarter of my hair is gray. to hell with it. and all of my hippie birkenstocks just came in from zappos, so i'm GOOD. i just need a book club and a pinot grigio habit, and my transformation into modern housewife will be complete. i was hesitant at first, because i hate any article of clothing that enhances VPL, but the lesbian at my starbucks yesterday was like, "hey girl, do you have a mirror in your pants? because i can see myself in them." ugh, i'm lying. what she really said was, "i accidentally made this extra hot. be careful not to spill it on those thin pants." and then i did just that. fucking third degree thigh burn. stupid soft pants.

3 i am going to jamaica to have sex with some tropical dudes this summer. no one in chicago is trying to fuck me, no one in america is trying to fuck me, and every single time i've been the caribbean has been very hospitable to my vagina. srsly, EVERY FUCKING TIME. you can hardly exit the plane before some asshole is trying to hand you a pineapple with his dick in it. AND A COUPLE HAIRY COCONUTS. zing. and they might want green cards or whatever, but they have no idea that i have neither the money nor the tolerance for sustained human company to fly them the fuck back here. i only need three days of making out to "three little birds" and i'm set. all that sunshine and island air suits me. in antigua i was banging this dude paul for the entire time sarah and i were there, and it was AMAZEBALLS. he took me to soca parties and told his bartender friends to give me free vodka tings (heavy on the vodka, light on the ting), he drove me around the resort in a golf cart that i fell out of twice due to rum punch inebriation, and he found me asleep (read: PASSED OUT) on the beach at four o'clock where i'd been since ten a.m. on a 99 degree day and dragged me to the infirmary to treat my sun poisoning. despite the fact that i was sunburned so badly i needed steroids, despite the fact that my shits turned black because you can buy any drugs you want over the counter there, and despite the fact that i was sober .01% of the two weeks my friend and i were there, that dude LOVED MY GUTS. and so do they all. really, all you have to do is ask "is there a singles mixer?" when you check in to your resort (it's fruity, i know, but that shit WORKS) to let them know you're available, and before you can turn around some mandingo is at your side sliding your luggage onto his erection so he can "show you to your room." and don't worry, i've never caught any island cooties. or any full-grown dependents. all you do is give them your email address, promise to keep in touch (pfffft), and then go to barbados next time. piece of cake.

so the producer of my show is a senior at northwestern and she rules. she's got really cool style and ridiculous tastes in music and fun shit, plus i like listening to her talk. and she likes listening to me talk, which is my only prerequisite for friendship, as i am a pompous egomaniac who lives and dies on the validation of others. let's pause for one second, especially considering this sex stuff i just wrote: i was talking to man omar the other night. a call i made in response to this text message: HEY GRRRL. READING YO BLOG. HOLLERRR IF YOU NEEDZ SOME DYCK. I GOTCHU. first of fucking all, abbreviation is one motherfucking thing, but WHY ARE YOU INTENTIONALLY MISSPELLING A WORD?! really, dude? DYCK?!?!! even if i was trying to "GET [MY] BANG ON" (subsequent text), reading the word DYCK would render my vaginal region a virtual desert. when i was like, "that's gross" he was all, "WHUT" and then i was all, "what you misunderstand is that i have very few PHYSICAL needs, what i'm looking for is the VALIDATION of someone's sexual interest in me."

bitches who pretend to have insatiable carnal requirements are fucking full of shit. your body needs to rest, eat, and move around; everything else is mental. i really doubt that the ache in your lower back is your body SCREAMING for some cock. i'm not one of these broads who pretend that not having enough sex (or EVER) is akin to a physical ailment. i have this one hoe-ass friend who says, "oh my god, i need to get LAID" the same way a starving motherfucker would say, "please give me a bite of that sandwich before i collapse." i haven't taken a razor to my armpits since 2009 and I JUST TOLD YOU I'M NO LONGER GOING TO WEAR PANTS WITH A WAISTBAND, so for me it is .1% about the act of having sex and 99.9% about knowing someone would want to if presented with the opportunity. which i would turn down because i'm hairy and lazy and tired all the time at the moment.

so friday night producer kate and i got manicures at some fancy place and went to big star, because i have some sort of magnetic attachment to that place that requires i go to it at least twice a week. i got this sparkly glittery pink nail polish despite the fact it is obviously intended for children, and i told a lot of hilarious jokes and made one of those little manicurists fall instantly in love with me. seriously, she was giggling SO MUCH. too bad it was the one doing producer kate's nails, because the bitch i had nearly ripped all the skin off my fingers trying to beat my raggedy cuticles into submission. when she was lotioning my hands she was looking at me like, "do YOU ever consider doing this, asshole?" and i looked back, "NO, I DO NOT."

after nails we were in the car and producer kate introduced me to "math rock," a new genre of music that i am obviously too old to know existed. i'm not a music critic or anything, but i felt like a hillbilly admitting i didn't know what the fuck that is or who plays it. this is the beginning of the end, right? when entire genres of music are slipping by me? HOLY BALLS. then i was talking about my colorful past (bwahahahaha) and told her about my first real job working for judy and that shitty apartment i lived in when i was 18, in 1998. "i was in the third grade," she said, and my pride just liquified and slid all down my face. WHAT THE FUCK, gurl. is it legal to be friends with someone who was a child when you were an adult?! i was sitting there feeling like a pedophile or some shit, like dateline was going to get in the back seat at the next red light and show me the pixellated pictures of my raggedy old vagina i'd unknowingly sent to their decoy. i don't know how you old people who have sex with young people do it, but my guess is that you NEVER EVER TALK ABOUT ANYTHING EVER. that's the only way it can work, right? if you never talk about how you got your first ipod at 47 while this bitch had wi-fi in her bassinet?! i imagined for a second, which is obviously all i have before the dementia creeps in and takes over my whole brain, what i'd feel like if i'd been a dude trying to put it in her butt later that night. or a lesbian trying to caulk her tub later that night. whatever.

when i was twenty i was banging this hot fifty-year-old for a while, but i was so nervous that he'd discover i sucked my thumb or had only had my license for a year that i never brought up ANYTHING young. at that point i'd had my own place for a couple years and enough old people problems and responsibilities that i'm sure i was considered "mature for my age," but i also lived on ramen and hot pockets and peanut butter on toast. i didn't talk about what bands i liked or what books i read; he never came to my apartment or saw the inside of my car; i never introduced him to a single one of my dumbass friends. i hung out at his house and pretended i liked watching documentaries and reading anything other than the style section of the new york times. every time he asked me a probing question my response was, "want to have sex again?" and he always did, so i didn't have to say SHIT.

his body was old but i didn't care because i was making $8.25 an hour baking cookies and taking cake orders, and that dude kept his pantry STOCKED and didn't mind supplementing my magazine habit and the occasional tank of gas. he had crepey testicles and scraggly chest hair and was fond of saying "just because there's snow on the roof doesn't mean there's no fire in the furnace." except there was snow in the furnace, too, as evidenced by his dirty grey pubes. it was like a dust bunny was curled up asleep on top of his boner. and sometimes he couldn't get an erection when he was stressed out, but i didn't care because i am lazy and it gave me an excuse to pretend i was salty and sleep by myself in the guest room. i hate sleeping in bed with another person. i can't fucking relax enough to get a good night's sleep and am irritated IMMEDIATELY if they can. we should both be tossing and turning, ahem. wake your ass up.

two reasons i couldn't get serious about that dude: 1 he was thirty when i was born and 2 sometimes he talked to me like a parent, and that is weird because my dad never lectured me with his penis hanging out of his robe in the middle of the kitchen after breakfast. maybe he felt guilty for fucking a college-age girl who was too broke to go to college or something, or maybe i reminded him of one of his shiftless children, but every time i would spend the night and stay long enough the next morning to let him fix me up a few pancakes he would always start asking what i was doing with my life. like in the light of day this motherfucker really cared about my future, when at night it was just "let me dip my scrotum in your mouth and try not to gag." all i wanted was the most important meal of my day, not an after school special. SHUT THE FUCK UP. one morning after i'd let that dude shave my privates the night before, he brought a handful of college brochures to the table. FOR REAL. i came down the stairs and retrieved a diet coke from the fridge and barked "two eggs, scrambled!" at his back while he stood at the stove. i sat down at the table ready to doze off while my breakfast cooked and noticed a bunch of college brochures fanned out on the table.

at first i thought the whole thing might have been an elaborate recruitment scheme. are colleges really this desperate for students? GODDAMN. then it dawned on me that he was either suffering from some MAJOR guilt about putting his dick in my high school diploma OR he really did hear me when i'd said, "i like cinnamon toast crunch" under my breath at the grocery store. i wasn't offended, just amused. i might have even been flattered, but then i realized that I MADE $8.25/HR SLINGING DOUGHNUTS and COLLEGE WAS A FISCAL IMPOSSIBILITY. "we should get your transcripts," he said casually, sliding a plate of eggs and sausage on the table in front of me. "what could it hurt?"
my pride, apparently. i wasn't trying to talk to some dirty old lawyer who liked to come in my butt like he was my fucking guidance counselor! suddenly i was all hot and embarrassed, and i said i needed to make an emergency phone call and had left my cell phone upstairs. "i'll put your plate under the heat lamp!" he called cheerfully after me. i didn't even put on real clothes, just sunglasses and gym shoes and my nightgown and shoved everything else into my overnight bag. i knew his wallet was in his pants pocket, and i helped myself to fifty bucks and tiptoed down the front stairs and got into my shitty car. my shitty car that refused to start. i hoped one of those brochures had been for that mechanic school that advertised on daytime television. *sigh*

at big star the security dude kept circling the bar to ogle my tender companion and, even if you don't want to, old people simply CANNOT HELP shielding and shepherding the young. so i scowled at him menacingly and made sure producer kate didn't need the emergency bib i keep in my purse. (she did not.) here's what i don't get, dudes. if you want to fuck a girl, and she is hanging out with her salty drunk friend, why would you insist upon annoying circling around them like a vulture rather than interrupt, apologize profusely, plead your stupid case, and move your ass along? i block no cocks, not ever, and i know how to shut my pie hole and go to the fucking bathroom so you can use your dick to stir my homegirl's drink or whatever. really, i do. but what i CAN'T do is pull your dick out for you and place her on top of it. sometimes you have to do a little leg work yourselves. hovering over a bitch isn't sexy. ASKING HER OUT IS. i knew he wasn't looking at me and the high-waisted briefs under my bootcut yoga pants, and if he had been i would have stopped him the second or third time and handed him the business card i reserve for people i might sleep with but don't feel comfortable giving my address to. then everyone involved could get back to whatever the fuck they were doing IN PEACE.

we fought through the capacity friday night crowd to get out of there, high on horchata and pork belly. as we squeezed past the entrance and out into the cold air security jerk made a point to stop us in front of a bar full of people so that he could say, "goodnight, beautiful" to producer kate and her delicious mini-skirted legs. WTF. what am i, her au pair? mrs. fucking doubtfire or some shit?!
YES. yes, i am. good thing she's already in college. i'm fresh out of course materials and applications for devry.