Wednesday, February 23, 2011

i miss the 90s.

so HBO is really trying to fuck my life up right now. as usual, my birthday debauchery (in this year's case, a NINE HOUR FUCKING BIRTHDAY PARTY) has resulted in some throat and head and lung plague. seriously, every year i wake up two days after my birthday with a head full of mucus and kathleen turner sotto voce. and while that is undoubtedly sexy, it gets in the way of the rest of my life. namely, getting drunk, restaurant week, and oh yeah, GOING TO WORK. i had 1 taco, 1/2 a cupcake, and approximately 97 cocktails within the first hour. because my friends are amazing people, they just kept handing me drinks. and i just kept drinking their drinks. my gorgeous girls lisa leone and were drinking beer with hot sauce in it, and i sipped a bunch of that. keely and my hot lesbian table were drinking tequila, and i sipped a bunch of THAT, too. then the rest of us, who were drowning in buffalo trace. i had to tap into my inner bulimic three fucking times, and that is gross. but i rallied, and the party that started at one ended at ten. then i got home and passed out on the bathroom floor before puking in the tub, after which i sat on the floor in there shivering like a crackhead until the sun came up. then i went to bed, and woke up later with a head cold. BALLS.

all that to say that 1 my birthday ruled and 2 i've been home a lot. which means some quality time with my husband slash indentured servant slash babysitter, the television. and i'll be damned if "reality bites" hasn't been cycling through one of my seventeen HBO channels (seriously, there are a LOT of them) on a continuous fucking loop, making me wax nostalgic for the simpler times when all that mattered was listening to Q101's ten at ten and picking out the most perfect grandpa sweater at the salvation army.

reality bites was a such a pivotal movie in my youth. i totally got sucked into all that nineties shit. i read coupland's "generation x," i had a million converse that had all been sharpied half to death, and SO MANY worn out flannel shirts. seriously. so many. i might have seen that movie in the theater three times, maybe four. i wanted to move to houston, have a houseful of roommates, spend my days in coffee shops, fold jeans at the gap, keep a notebook full of the names of random dudes i'd fucked, chain-smoke cigarettes, have "good times" trivia parties, spend my nights talking to telephone psychics, and eat gas station junk food. i was never particularly interested in documentary filmmaking, and at the time my friends weren't interesting enough to devote any camera time to anyway, but those people were effortlessly cool and glamorous in a totally accessible way. watching it now i think, "god, troy is SUCH a lazy piece of shit slacker and lelaina is a goddamned whiny brat," but sam circa 1994 was ENAMORED OF THOSE FRUITY HIPSTERS. i played that soundtrack 8 million times while wearing red lipstick and platform mary janes sitting on the floor of my bedroom. even now i think i could sing that lisa loeb song both forward and backward, start to finish.

i miss doc martens. being "in style" in the nineties was SO MUCH FUCKING EASIER than it is now. all you needed was a handful of flower print dresses and chunky shoes, some grandpa sweaters, and gigantic flared jeans. dressing grunge was fucking easy: flannel shirts and jeans that looked like you slept in them. IN A DUMPSTER. dressing hip hop was fucking easy: cross colors, karl kani, and as baggy as you could without your clothes falling off at the first sign of a stiff breeze. i thoroughly enjoyed my hip hop phase. nothing better for a self-conscious girl with overdeveloped breasts than slouchy clothes one might literally drown in. i fucking looked like grimace for half my freshman year of high school. goth and punk were easy enough, too, although neither of those was a trend i was ever really trying to embrace. nor was i ever into lycra or spandex, and the thought of wearing something on my body that would GODDAMNED CHANGE COLORS every time i got sweaty and overheated was repulsive to me, so i never wore any silly hyper colors, either. preppy wasn't my style, but it seemed easy enough for the bulk of my classmates, what with their interchangeable gap t-shirts and eddie bauer backpacks. i shaved my head the summer before senior year, and even that wasn't too out of place. i mean for cereal, how hard is it to fuck up a bunch of hemp necklaces and sweaters with worn-through elbows? every style was in style! but these skinny jeans and designer dresses are WEARING ME OUT today. which are you: disheveled or high fashion? I AM TOO OLD TO FIGURE IT OUT ON MY OWN. help meeeeeee. thank god i'm at the age at which wearing all black is totally acceptable and no one is checking the labels inside my goddamned clothes. how do you kids do it, just buy everything at american apparel and urban outfitters or whatever? no one has a job anymore, so from where are you getting all this money?!

was i the only one who really, REALLY wanted lelaina to choose michael?! come on, people, stop breaking my fucking heart. all of the saps i know had this overly romanticized view of greasy, dirty troy and his arrogant posturing posed as philosophical rhapsody, but i was OVER THAT SHIT. i know a broke, smelly loser when i see one. and i know he was in a band and everything, but COME ON. is that enough for you girls?! i can't stand a dude who talks in circles, i really fucking can't. i know a few dudes like that, vacuous assholes who speak like they're reading from a deepak chopra manuscript. and that's all good until you actually try to parse through all that flowery nonsense and get to the heart of their arguments. people like that usually do what they do because no one is blunt and horrible enough to point out the inconsistensies in the stupid generalizations they are wont to make. enough of these platitudes and truisms, dickballs, WHAT IS IT YOU ARE TRYING TO SAY? regular people are either too nice or intimidated without reason so they never call these assholes on their shit, but not me. i relish a debate with some fruity armchair polemicist. listen, next time some obnoxious asshole is big-wording all up in your face, just ask, "what does that really mean?" every time he takes a breath. that's what i do, and it knocks them dead every time. for example, when some dickbag is spouting off in a bar about the fountainhead at you (always in a bar, GODDAMN), don't feel bad and flush with shame because he made fun of you for not having read that 900-page piece of garbage; just say, "well WHY is it a flawed yet prophetic work of literary genius?" and sit back while he tries to stammer out a plausible explanation in a room full of bitches just trying to get drunk. motherfuckers are dumb and full of horseshit, and it's not very hard to point out just how much.

i miss the radio and mtv. you know what stresses me the fuck out? trying to stay on top of the next new thing, the shit i should be watching and listening to. i miss having the next new thing dictated to me by whatever magazine was popular (and WIDELY AVAILABLE) at the time. all this discovering things and trying not to be left behind is EXHAUSTING. i have thousands and thousands of records and cds and mp3s, and despite this wealth of music i'm still up have the night scouring pitchfork and gorillavsbear trying to find some shit no one else i know is listening to. there's like this unspoken competition to see who among the people you know is riding the next music wave, or reading the edgiest undiscovered writer, or watching that little-known french film that's playing for one night only at the music box. just thinking about it makes me tired and, frankly, i'm too fucking old to even throw my hat in the ring. that shit is for kids with no job and free high-speed internet access. i can be all, "have you heard that fang island record?!" and some thirteen-year-old is rolling her heavily-lined eyes like, "bitch, that is SO two weeks ago." but i don't want to be old! i don't want to be happy listening to the mix and lite fm! i don't want to be playing elevator music in my car! i could give a shit about face lifts and collagen injections to stay young, but i will be damned to the pit of hell before my ipod rotation resembles that of the billboard 100. seriously, if you catch me with a maroon 5 record you have full permission to take a shotgun and blow my fucking head off. when i was a kid you could read rolling stone and listen to the radio and watch mtv and feel 100% au courant when it came to what was happening in the world of music. i want mtv to tell me that i should be listening to ska and caring about east coast rappers vs. west coast rappers. all this figuring shit out on my own is EXCRUCIATING. god, remember when vh1 was for old people?! now vh1 is for BITCHES MY AGE who remember why salt n' pepa are famous enough to have a reality show and mtv is FOR GODDAMNED TODDLERS. teen mom makes me want to asphyxiate on my own vomit and i feel my IQ lowering one point for every minute of jersey shore i consume. it's gross.

troy always represented to me the very worst in human male ethos. we're supposed to somehow believe that this shiftless misogynist also happens to be a sensitive, misunderstood artist and therefore have empathy for him while ignoring what a douchebag he is just because he strums a guitar and almost finished a degree in philosophy? YEAH FUCKING RIGHT. that dude was an asshole who used women and treated them like shit, and every single one of my teenage friends wanted to fuck the shit out of him. WITH THE LIGHTS ON. i was a caustic misanthrope as a young adult (as i remain now that i am an adult adult), and i wasn't having any part of that. then and now i'm picking the dude with a job who actually acts like he gives a shit about me. i can't pretend that i have never suffered fools gladly, nor can i act like i haven't lusted after some unattainable bag of dicks, but NEVER has either of those things happened at the expense of someone awesome waiting in my wings. throughout my history of plundering the bottom of the ocean for whatever i could coax into my net, there has never been an occasion on which i have chosen a floating piece of lifeless chum over a magnificent, glistening SHARK. the shark usually takes a giant bite out of my goddamned leg before shitting out a lesser fish and saying, "here you go, sam. date THAT."

i miss ricki lake. remember 1995? when you only had like two or three shows to keep track of? and everybody all watched the same shit? the only shit i watched with any regularity was 90210, melrose place, and martin. and i tried to keep up with the real world when we had cable. and when it was actually about real-ish people, and not wannabe celebrities transmitting herpes back and forth in the requisite in-house hot tub. back then if someone said "bruh man" while holding up four fingers you knew EXACTLY WHAT THE FUCK HE WAS TALKING ABOUT. nowadays every show has a "thing:" a catchphrase, a character, any little anything that manages to encapsulate the zeitgeist of right now. and by RIGHT NOW i mean "this five-minute chunk of our cultural history." because last week it was "yo quiero taco bell," and yesterday it was "let's hug it out," and today it's "GTL and DTF." who can even keep up anymore? and heaven forbid you be the out-of-touch asshole who still calls shit "DA BOMB" or tells people to "TAKE A CHILL PILL." no quicker way to alert the lifestyle police that your ass is painfully unhip and needs to have your street cred snatched away posthaste. i refuse to order a goddamned DVR for two reasons: 1 it's ten extra dollars a month and i'm on a budget, remember? (pfffft) and 2 i can't keep up with the shows i already fucking WATCH. i'm, like, eight weeks behind on gossip girl and five weeks behind on everything else except the bachelor, because that is appointment television, as you already know. i've resorted to just waiting until the end of the season and getting the whole thing from netflix for 90% of the shows i like; the other 10% is shit on HBO and bravo that run on repeat for a week until the next episode, giving jerks like me a chance to catch up. i mean, i would be all set if good shows came on at eleven on sunday mornings, but everything comes on during my getting drunk and eating dinner time. and sometimes even when i'm home i have to choose between two shows i totally wouldn't mind watching. just last week it almost broke my heart to pick FOREST WHITAKER'S NEW SHOW over law and order: svu. thank horus for you facebook bitches who tweet every plot twist and cliffhanger of every popular show. between you dudes and television without pity i manage to stay somewhat afloat. pffft.

when michael said, "i care about you, i want to make you happy" i nearly melted into a puddle. i was like, "fuck artistic integrity, gurrrrl, he loves you! AND he drives a convertible!!!" i couldn't believe she fucked troy after that, just because he selfishly admitted he looooved her. PSSSSH. the broke ones always do! and seriously, he only said that shit because he could feel her slipping away into the arms of a dude who could actually afford her 44 oz big gulp habit and didn't waste his time fucking around with tired-looking groupies. and that sex scene with troy was 100% BLARF, all greasy, stringy hair and scraggly hipster beard. and then he bailed in the morning! omg hate. you kittens better believe that i'd sell out immediately for a big enough paycheck. i couldn't stop rolling my eyes when lelaina threw that hissy fit at the premiere of her butchered-up reality show. you'd rather continue whoring out your dad's credit card to pay your phone bill, honey? to keep your credibility intact? good for you, gurl, but NOT ME. i like drinking and having clothes too much. i might be lame, but i have never understood that whole starving artist bullshit. of course i believe in independent art and music, and i also believe i should be able to write DICKHOLE as much as i goddamned want, but i also believe in slinging dog shit all day so my work can be my own. i don't sell my writing because in the age of the internets NO ONE IS BUYING, and last time i checked my landlord does not accept righteous indignation as payment for my living quarters. and i can't eat that shit, either. which is why i work for someone who can pay me. because i can't pay my goddamned self.

i miss cassette tapes. one of the things for which i am THE MOST THANKFUL is that, despite the fact that we were poor when i was a kid and could barely keep the electricity on, i am not a teenager in this new millenium. i still had a walkman when all of my peers had graduated to their compact disc counterparts, and i was listening to records on a record player NOT because i was so hip and retro before it was cool, but because that was all we fucking had. i used to spend my afternoons cross legged on the floor in front of our old record player with headphones on listening to my mom's old scratched-up barbra streisand and nina simone. and sometimes i would record those records onto tapes. i was the only kid on the playground listening to lou rawls on my walkman. i feel bad for these kids nowadays, because i have a full time fucking job yet can't keep up with the newest ipods and laptops and kindles and whateverthefuck else. i JUST got a smartphone. up until november i was the only bitch on earth using a thirty-pound rotary cell phone with no internet access! i can't even imagine what it must be like these days when every new technology is obsolete five seconds after it's introduced. i'm TERRIFIED to buy a new computer because i am convinced that the minute i do, and i really need to get a new one because my startup disk is fucking full and i CANNOT STOP downloading music and shit, whatever i buy will be out of date next week. and then what? two grand falls out of the sky? WRONG. i'm back in the computer dark ages again. HOLY BALLS. and you can't just give up and live off the grid; not if you're a person who enjoys having friends and going places, at least. it's pretty much a crime to tell someone "i'll check my email when i go home then get back to you." what does that even MEAN, old timer?! check your email when you get HOME? why isn't your email, date book, calendar, contact list, gps, camera, facebook, and entire music library in your pocket like mine is?! but i have to cave in to new technologies, lest i risk behing left behind. because "left behind" equals OLD. and no one ever wants to fucking be THAT.

when michael shows up at the coffee shop (or the bar maybe? i was always confused about what that place actually was, because they always referred to it as a coffee shop yet in this scene they're all drinking beers), two plane tickets to new york in hand to whisk lelaina off and undo his mistake, i always hope against all hope that she'll make the right decision and pick him. (goddamn ben stiller, can a bitch get an alternate ending?!) alas she never does, no matter how many times i sit and watch that shit all the way to the end. and i get totally mad at troy's bullshit "i might say mean things and i might hurt you" diatribe, and the way he ruins violent femmes' "add it up" (one of the greatest songs on one of the greatest records) is INFURIATING. that song is a jam, and he fucks it up. maddening.

but i'm a sucker for a fucking happy ending. yay vicky doesn't have AIDS! yay sammy comes out to his mom! yay lelaina and troy end up together! yay THE PHONE BILL GETS PAID! as a person with dead parents (and therefore a veritable expert), i am wary of the "parental death as catalyst for major personality overhaul" plot trick, so when troy shows up in that raggedy brown suit (blarf!) after burying his asshole of a father i was all "I STILL HATE HIM," but every other vagina i know was smiling and weeping, their faith in true hipster love collectively reaffirmed. man, i have to stop watching hbo. because it is obviously turning me into a crazy person. in the meantime, i'll just keep dancing in my bee costume to everclear and watching my vhs tape of the crow.


Thursday, February 17, 2011

how to be awesome at banging.

sexy vagina update time. so i went to the gynecologist finally, only to discover that my vagina is broken. OF COURSE. how is it that the one part of my body i rarely fucking use is the ONE PART OF MY BODY THAT CAN'T GET HER ACT TOGETHER? first we sat and talked about my uterus, which keeps rsvp-ing yes to my monthly period party yet bowing out at the last minute to wash her hair or whatever. bitch. he asked if i could be pregnant, and i was like, "are you insane?! I AM NOT HAVING SEX." but slow down, whore, wait a goddamned minute. you DID have sex. WITH THAT AFRICAN DUDE. "holy shit, vagina doctor. i banged another import. it is possible that i could be pregnant with the next heir to the throne of zamunda. i guess i'm going to need some bloodwork." he scribbled furiously in my chart. we talked about birth control, which i am lazy about taking, but that's okay, because my ovaries are apparently lazy about ovulating. we talked about drugs, we talked about booze, then we talked about babies. "none for me, thanks," i said as if he were trying to pass me the brussels sprouts at dinner, "i don't like those." he asked if i was performing my routine breast exams once a month, and i said, "nope. doing that makes me feel gay." plus, the one time i laid on my back in the bed with one arm slung over my head while pressing little circles into my boob and armpit 1 helen keller bit me and 2 i got totally grossed by the number of hair follicles tits have. BLARF. fucking monkey boobs. plus they're all fibrous and weird and every little thing i felt made me fucking hyperventilate. and i don't need that kind of stress. we talked about STDs at length, during which i asked, "hey handsome, is vaginal malaria a real thing? or did i just make that up?" he flipped through my chart some more and said, "oh no, i think my notes are incorrect. i thought you'd said the gentleman was from africa, not that you'd been there when you two had sex. did you get the malaria vaccines from your GP? have you been feeling feverish?" "i didn't go to africa, i'm just a bitch. don't start crossing anything out just yet." my doctor is cool, because all my doctors are cool, and he laughed. "you can't get malaria from seminal fluid. would you like a pamphlet?" what's more depressing than not having sex? READING ABOUT SEX WHEN YOU ARE NOT HAVING SEX. don't waste the paper on me. yet i remained undeterred: "what about ebola? i could have THAT, right?!"

he sighed and snapped on a glove then tried to pull out my fallopian tubes with his fingers. or at least that's what it felt like. goddamn these dudes are SO ROUGH. "do i need to do a rectal?" he asked, and i rolled my eyes and was like, "i have had 937 colonoscopies in the past three years. you can skip that part." out came the speculum and that awful noise it makes when they screw it into place, then all of that uncomfortable scraping that makes you want to die. die and shit on the table. and then die again because you SHIT ON THE TABLE. thank goodness i didn't. after i put my clothes back on the doctor told me he wanted me to start taking a course of hormones to force myself to hatch a few eggs and some strong antibiotics as a prophylactic against infected taco meat. in case i sometimes i get poo in my vagina. which is happening to all of you, just so you know. being a human is so fucking gross, man. fucking cats are goddamned cleaner than we are, with all that licking and so forth.

speaking of licking cats, during our lengthy Q and A i told the doctor about my plans to start letting chicks sit on my face or whatever. i don't know if i was expecting a ticker tape parade or what, but he just sat there looking at me like, "so...?" and then i stammered like a fucking asshole and was all "so this will be the last year of all these std screens right, homie? woot!" and THEN he hit me with a bunch of gross shit. like how i should use a dental dam on a bitch who has her period, because menstrual blood is concentrated. (and he obviously could tell that i'm an asshole and cut my gums when flossing, but more important than that, I AM SUPPOSED TO PUT MY MOUTH ON YOUR PERIOD?!) and how i shouldn't share sex toys, and if i have to i should put a condom on them. (word?!) he said i also should be careful not to ingest a woman's breast milk until she's been tested (whut), that vag-to-vag scissor action should be protected by a latex dam (whutt), and that i should wear snug-fitting latex gloves for finger-banging. (WHUTTT?!)

are you bitches really doing all this or is this dude just setting me up to look like an asshole the first time i encounter a freshly-made, sweetly-scented bed full of estrogen?! can you fucking imagine? she's pulling out her lacy bra and panties when my dumb ass walks into the boudoir dressed like bill nye the science guy, decked out in goggles and gloves and a motherfucking hazmat suit. goddamn it, i thought having some dude trying to shoot syphillis in my butt was tough shit to worry about, and NOW i gotta think about some hot broad leaking period AIDS on my hand?! i have lots of hang nails and busted cuticles and shit! seriously, though, not to sound too much like that sketchy dude you just brought home from the club, but don't all those gloves and dams get in the way of all the smokin' hot sex?! i'm trying to get LAID, not do a goddamned chemistry lab. safe sex is a drag. HOLY FUCKING BALLS. then he dismissed me with a handful of prescriptions and told me he would call the next day with my bloodwork results. which were all negative. like my salty attitude.

last weekend jeff emailed me a link to a self-help seminar he was thinking of going to and asked whether or not i'd like to go. i love everything about seminars (weirdo people-watching, raggedy snack tables and watery punch, dank conference rooms within shitty one-star hotels, instructors who barely made it out of the eighth grade yet feel qualified to bill themselves as life coaches and experts), so i immediately said YES. jeff has always been similarly unlucky in love as yours truly, and we have spent COUNTLESS HOURS in tiny classrooms and smelly auditoriums taking notes about connecting with our inner children and finding our love paths and blah blah hippie bullshit blah. i looooove that shit. and i go because what the fuck else am i going to do? go out on fabulous dates and field phone calls from my many suitors? AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. yeah right. the seminar was called "improve your lovemaking techniques and bring a woman ultimate pleasure" or something fruity like that, and the dude in the email looked confident and virile and masculine and SEXY. so i paid my fifty bucks and squealed with glee the minute the confirmation hit my inbox.

you can never tell with these things, but from the course description i gleaned that not only would we be taught the technical aspects of the female genitalia (yes) and how best to cater to it (YES), but we'd also be given the chance to demostrate our current methods and get critiqued by the instructor (OMGYES). it's worth mentioning that since i have been taking this shitload of hormones my sex drive is turned up to to TWENTY. holy fucking shit, dudes, i'm burning hot 100% of the time, my tits are so swollen my bras almost don't fit, and i immediately want to mate with anything that walks too close me. god, hide your kids hide your wife FOR REAL. i've never felt anything like this in my entire life. sex is literally pouring out of my mouth. i just want to tackle every person who maintains eye contact for too long. this shit is better than ecstasy, for serious. and i'm not sleeping with anyone currently, so i'm forced to rub my crotch on my office chair and spend extra time alone with the shower head. which is not detachable, so you can imagine the kind of awkward mess that is. heh.

i'm supposed to take this shit for two weeks every couple months, and i don't know how well i'll be able to control myself. eventually i'm going to need a straitjacket, just to keep from yanking bitches pants off on the train. maybe you kids could organize a gangbang or something the next time i fill these meds. i hate to think of all this unbridled sexual energy going to waste. needless to say, i was AMPED to sit in a room and talk about vaginas all afternoon.

jeff picked me up in his fancy truck and we stopped at this bar that only alcoholics go to because you can start drinking there at ten in the morning for a couple of road beers. places like that are TERRIFYING, because even in broad daylight they are dark and smelly and old dudes with yellowing gray hair are always sleeping with their heads on the bar in a puddle of their own vomit. GROSS. i walked in, looked around, and immediately decided that we were going to drink our beers in the hotel parking lot. and we did exactly that after driving an hour out to the suburbs blasting ghostland observatory ("kick clap speaker" is a goddamned JAM) and the rapture. party music. i've never understood the appeal of living in a place surrounded on all sides by strip malls and schools. i hate all those trees and weather. i like being in the city where it's filthy and smells like nutsacks outside. and let me tell you how many black people we saw: NONE. and i'm not that black, but i like to see one or two dotting the landscape every few miles or so. because i need to know that there's someplace nearby i can find some chicken or get a weave.

we chugged our beers under the scornful eye of the valet whose services we'd refused as we pulled up (he literally tried to yank me out of the car!), then tried to walk in the hotel like normal, non-drunk, civilized assholes. first thing i noticed the second we walked in? some sort of old cat lady sewing circle symposium happening simultaneously. the lobby was full of future sams: grouchy old broads in kitten sweatshirts and easy spirits toddering around bitching about how cold it was with unlit cigarettes dangling from their lips. i peeked into the conference room in which they'd congregated with its tables piled with homemade crafts and scrapbooking materials and said, "let's just hang with these bitches." unamused, jeff said, "you can, but I NEED TO LEARN HOW TO FUCK." and that was that.

we found our appointed meeting room and the minute i walked in the decent-looking black dude at the podium in the front of the room (the same one from the online brochure!) called out, "no need to worry, lesbians are welcome here!" i was too caught off guard to blush or make any coherent words come out of my mouth, so instead i grabbed my crotch (isn't that how you girls say hello?) and found my name tag on the table near the door. "SEMANTHA ERVING." really, dudes? FOR REALS?! is there ANYONE ON EARTH who spells "samantha" that fucking way?! and considering i'd filled out the application myself and am unlikely to have forgetten my own last name, i decided immediately that if this homeboy couldn't get my name right there was NO WAY IN HELL he could teach me how to get a woman to let me stick my powder-free latex gloves in her babymaker. ASSHOLE. so i snatched the tag intended for "HERMAN JENKINS" (there are still real people named herman?!) and pinned it to my sweater. because fuck them. the room was full. and by full i mean PACKED. and not just weirdos and perverts, either. actual normal-looking dudes. i'd say the median age was maybe forty-five, and the crowd was made up of mostly professional-looking gentlemen, most of whom you'd call "sir" if you had to get one's attention and didn't know what his name was. which is tough for me, because i like calling dudes "dude." or "homie." or "butthole." anyway, it was a pretty nice-looking bunch, all suited up and smelling nice with fresh haircuts and shit. truth be told i was expecting a room full of sad sacks wearing too-short dockers and their shoes on the wrong feet, so color my ass surprised.

good thing i decided to put my grownup clothes on, these black donna karan pants that cost too goddamned much and a sweater from eileen fisher that i borrowed from your mom, otherwise i might have felt like an asshole sitting there in my regular clothes. seriously, i have to stop leaving the house in pants with the goddamned crotch eaten the fuck out. i'm too old for that silly shit. anyway, we each got a folder full of study materials and a syllabus for the day's lesson, then were ushered to a cluster of tables on the other side of the room. i made a note of the exits (the number one thing i check for after THE BATHROOM) and picked the table in the furthest corner, so i could inconspicuously eat everything on the catering table behind me and giggle to myself in peace. okay so i knew the minute i signed up that i'd probably be the only woman at that shit. which is cool. and i expected some staring because, COME ON, i'm a bitch at a seminar on how to seduce bitches. but these dudes were flat-out GAWKING. and not in a hot way that made me feel sexy, but in a gross way that made me feel like i was intruding on some super secret boys' club, a fuck failure fraternity. just as i was admiring all those men's wearhouse $50 suits and shit, these assholes were all giving me MAJOR STANKFACE. jerks.

i don't know, i suppose if a dude walked into my weight watchers (i should do that) meeting at curves (i should go there) i might be salty (i totally should), but i would at least give him the chance to explain that he was gay or had mommy issues or listened to too much lady gaga or whatever before i TOTALLY SHUNNED HIS ASS. these dudes were looking at me like i was their ex-wife and shit, like i was going to make fun of their tiny penises or wack kissing style. i just wanted to shout, "HEY, SIRS, I COULD GIVE A SHIT. I'VE GOT DENTAL DAMS TO WORRY ABOUT," but i decided to let them wallow in their shame while i instead wallowed in the pulled pork arepas and crab cakes. i told you this shit was fancy. after a brief introduction and overview (ie three arepas, half a crab cake, two bites of jeff's bruschetta, and a teriyaki chicken wing) maurice, the dude from the internet!, got started with our lesson. you dudes better thank whatever dieties you pray to that all anyone ever gives me as gifts are journals and notebooks (really, friends? you don't think this WRITER likes to eat food or spend giftcards? trust me, i am NOT that introspective. and my preferred medium is the computer,  so anyone who wants to get me a laptop, HOLLER), because i pulled one out and took notes on all this awesome. i wouldn't want you to miss it.

so the first half of the seminar (semenar?!) was labeled "common mistakes men make in their approach to lovemaking" and was accompanied by a powerpoint presentation so mind-numbingly terrible that if kind of breaks my heart that you weren't there to witness it firsthand. i'll do my best to do it justice.

mistake #1: MOVING TOO QUICKLY. women generally have a different attitude to sex than men and most do not want to be treated as sex objects. so, move slowly and deliberately. take note and be considerate. so i burst out laughing at this one. SERIOUSLY?! you dudes need to be told this?! i'm sorry, but if i have to remind you that i am a walking, talking, THINKING human being, then you better get the fuck out of my bed, because i am going to chop your penis off. HO-LY SHIT. "go slow," i wrote in my lesbian handbook. "don't treat bitches like a fleshlight."

mistake #2: NOT KISSING. make sure sex is preceded by plenty of kissing and cuddling. women LOVE the intimacy of a kiss.
i like to be kissed. FOR REAL. and it makes me feel like a fucking hooker if a dude is DTF but won't let me taste his chapstick. and you gentlemen need to memorize this shit. good kisser trumps your terrible grammar and hideous jeans, so practice on your hand or your pillow until you've mastered it. kissing = awesome. so do it, and do it OFTEN. "smooch these bitches up."

mistake #3: NEGLECTING FEMALE EROGENOUS ZONES. great areas to target are the neck (kissing and nibbling of the neck is highly erotic) and the bottom. the bottom is an area all women tend to be conscious of so kiss it, caress it, and make sure your partner knows you love it. other great erogenous zones to touch and kiss are the inner thighs (she knows what's coming next) the feet, the back of the knees, the spine and lower back (just at the end of the spine is a highly sensitive area). these areas will drive your partner wild so target them.
it totally weirds me the fuck out when adults use the word "bottom." like, when is the last time someone said "sit on your bottom" to you? or told you there was "cat hair stuck to your bottom?" i couldn't even focus during this one, as the powerpoint displayed a picture of a dude kissing a bare ass cheek while maurice kept saying the word "bottom. don't be afraid to kiss her BOTTOM. be adventurous and put your tongue in her BOTTOM. i was squirming like a little kid in church. why did he have to keep saying that?! i swear if anyone said, "may i caress your bottom?" during foreplay i would fall over dead. nibble is another repulsive goddamned word. BLARF. "lick her butt and knees."

goddamn it i have so much to say about this that i don't even want to write what he said, but that would make me an asshole. quite simply, if a position is to complicated you will spend more time trying to maintain your position than you will focusing on your partner's pleasure. and that, in a nutshell, is why fucking dudes is horrible. i literally shouted "amen!" when he said that position shit and jeff, mortified, grabbed a mini club sandwich and tried to stuff it in my mouth. maybe you dudes will finally learn that trying everything you see in porn is useless and wack, but until then i'm just going to relax  my muscles and let some lady spoon me. here's how sex with chicks looks in my brain: two kittens snuggled in a soft blanket barely moving and not saying anything mean about each other's body issues, not trying to pin each other's heels behind their necks or whatever. and maybe it doesn't work like that, but ignorance is bliss. so leave me alone. "side-by-side, zero exertion banging."

mistake #5: MAKING A WOMAN WORK TOO HARD WHEN SHE IS ON TOP. for most women, sex a passive activity except when she is on top. most men take this as a signal to lie back and let her do the work.
he said some other shit on this subject, but i stopped listening after that because 1 i hate doing that on top business and 2 A DUDE FINALLY CAME IN A SET UP THE WET BAR. jackpot. jeff was already halfway across the room by the time i even stood up, and he waved for me to stay in my seat and guard our lamb kabobs. "i'm going to skip this part entirely."

seriously, has this dude been reading my diary OR WHAT? it's like every single one of my old boyfriends and fuck buddies used this shit as a goddamned how-to manual. "concentrate solely on my own orgasm? don't mind if i do!" BLARFFFF. communication is the key to good sex so don't be embarrassed talk to each other and learn each others innermost desires and then try and satisfy them. chicks love talking and, despite the fact that i bore easily, listening to someone talk about sex isn't that hard. i imagine the only problem would be salivating with your eyes bugged out of your skull wanting to GET THE FUCK GOING ALREADY, but patience is a virtue. or so i hear, because i don't goddamned have any. let them know how much you enjoyed sex with them kiss, cuddle, hold, and compliment them. i know that female currency is subjugation, deference, and compliments, but i don't know if immediately after the coitus i could lie there (and remain sentient and AWAKE) long enough to think of compliments that don't sound lame. i mean, could anyone? "thanks baby, that sexytime was, um, amazeballs."

we had been sitting in that hot ass meat locker for almost three hours at this point, and i was starting to get fidgety. besides, i already know how to make the bedroom look special and smell nice. plus, "making love on top of rose petals" sounds MOST and ITCHY. i was too self-conscious to participate in the question and answer period after he listed each mistake (OMGTHEQUESTIONS), so eventually my eyes started to cross and glaze over because i was bored. and also because i was a little drunk. that bell boy who was mixing our cocktails (there is NO WAY he was a licensed bartender) was really heavy-handed with the booze. LIKE.

i laid my spinning head down, for just a second i swear to god, and when i picked it up i glanced at my phone (which NO ONE HAD CALLED, ahem) and realized another two hours had elapsed while i was "giving my eyes a break." pfffft. jeff was standing at the front next to a diagram of a human vagina, pointing to her various parts as dudes shouted the names from their seats. "clitoris!" "rectouterine pouch!" "mons pubis!" that shit was really bumming me out, man, so i grabbed my bag and made the MEET ME AT THE CAR WHEN YOU'RE FINISHED eyes at jeff, then i went and sat at the hotel bar with one of the many novels i am always carrying around with me. you know, like a winner. twenty minutes after i sat down my reverie was interrupted by a cloud of toxic waste fumes that turned out to be the cigarette smoke wafting off a grubby old cat lady's sweatshirt. i snapped my book shut with excitement, trying to come up with an amazing icebreaker.

"let me get a seven and seven!" she barked loudly at the bartender. "extra ice!"

a goddamned seven and seven?! this old broad was my DREAM COME TRUE. i wasn't on no dirtbag sexual shit (ew,) but i imagined her regaling me with tales from bitter spinsterhood while i sat at her feet petting one of her eighty cats and eating werther's originals. right before she took me to the bingo hall. i was just about to ask what shade of memaw blue she dyed her hair when she turned to me and chuckled. "i don't know what's in that book you're reading, but if you really want a laugh there's some guys in that conference room down the way playing vagina flashcards or some shit. what a bunch of FRUITCAKES."


Tuesday, February 8, 2011

my funny valentine.

I am a single gal and with Valentine's Day coming up I was wondering if you have any suggestions for not erupting into a murderous rage on this dreaded holiday?

surround yourself with miserable couples. and turn off the television for a couple weeks. unless the only shit you watch is on HBO or espn. my birthday is the day before valentine's day (february 13th, for those interested in purchasing a gift or doing my astrological chart), and as miserable as that might seem in theory, in practice it's actually quite awesome. i just make such a fucking big deal about my birthday that valentine's day gets absolutely no attention. this year, i am having my birthstravaganza at big star (1531 n. damen) in the middle of the day (starting at 1 pm), and will be too high on cupcakes, tacos, and whiskey shots to notice all of the blissful lovebirds. and who gives a fucking shit ANYWAY? is your single ass giddy at thanksgiving? blissfully happy at christmas? because THOSE are the holidays that really get you down, and they are fucking ENDLESS. thanksgiving starts in mid-october and christmas ends at the beginning of february. you survive fourteen weeks of walking solo through crowded shopping malls and eating leftover ham by yourself in your pajamas in the dark with a continuous loop of "a christmas carol" flickering across your face, but you can't make it through ONE DAY of manufactured romance? i don't believe you. but if you insist on pulling my dick, you probably know at least nine people going through a vitriolic shitstorm of a divorce, so invite yourself over and help saw the dining room table and the couch in half because he won't admit to the judge that she paid for them and she's too petty to let it go. read all the text messages she printed out between him and the bitch at his office that he's been banging for two years. take a peek at the retainer she's paying for her divorce attorney. help her figure out the custody arrangement. ask how much child support he owes. feel better now? SO DO I. ps, getting our sorry asses through this silly day is totally what heart-shaped chocolate was made for.

Me and my boyfriend split for seven months. I dated one guy the whole time we were apart. My ex and I just got back together and I found out I'm nine weeks pregnant. How do I tell my boyfriend?

i hate shit like this, because i am a terrible person and situations like this just bring the worst in my character right out into the forefront. I would have had a d+c seven weeks ago, but that might just be ME. and everyone else i know. for real, man. i don't really know people like this, people who have babies with random rebound dudes they picked up at the bus stop or wherever their old boyfriends left them crying. sam knows bitches who take a couple personal days and give birth eight months early, so this is really outside of my scope of comprehension. BUT. i'm nothing if not empathetic, and if this happened to me (it never would never fucking ever happen to me goddamned EVER) and the rebound dude knows how to go mind his own business for the rest of his life and is of the same ethnic background as my boyfriend i PROBABLY WOULDN'T SAY SHIT. get out your pitchforks and stones and wooden crosses, friends, because i probably really wouldn't. and if you think that makes me shitty then you are probably right. and raising a kid you can't afford by yourself. listen, if my boyfriend is black and my rebound is black and i'm going to shit out a little black baby, my scandalous ass would never tell a soul. dudes are such morons that they have no idea of how long gestation takes, and even if you met the ONE DUDE ON EARTH WHO UNDERSTANDS CONCEPTION, he's probably dumb enough to trick. but i'm a convincing goddamned liar, and unless you are, too, you might not want to risk it. on second thought, if he is just a regular-ass dude, not some CIA-trained operative or FBI profiler or navy seal or forensic psychologist, you could probably get away with it. so just vomit in his lap one morning and announce, "look, honey, we're pregnant." happily ever after.

My ex-boyfriend asked for his love letters back. Why would he do that?

searing shame, hopefully. i'm an asshole who thinks lasting love is a fallacy, so i immediately destroy any seemingly heartfelt cards or notes or letters of adoration in which some sap has pledged undying love. that is not real, and those letters serve no other purpose than to mock you from the grave of that dead relationship once it has painfully ripped your fucking heart apart. i burn that shit as soon as i've absorbed and memorized the lies within, because life is hard enough without my clutching a wrinkled love letter full of deceit to my tear-stained bosom while curled in a ball listening to sad music. fuck that. i like to get over a break up with a container of lemon cake frosting and a push-up bra, not reading the words "i love you more than my music" (yep, i got that once) over and over wondering why he would say that when he obviously didn't mean it. your guy probably realized how moist he sounded in those fruity love notes right before he remembered that you have a scanner and WE LIVE IN THE AGE OF THE INTERNETS. he doesn't want facebook to know what a pussy he is. and if you haven't published them yet, what the fuck are you waiting for? do that shit, then tell him he can fish them out of the dumpster behind your apartment. DICKBALLS.

A guy recently, drunkenly, explained the "one week rule" to me. He said, "I can't believe I'm telling you this because it's a cardinal secret of manhood, but we always take one week to call. It's just a guy rule." Is this true?"

well in my vast dating experience it's always been the "three month rule." or the "let me see if i can fuck your hot friend before i settle for you" rule. or the "trying to find a few free minutes when my wife is out of the house and won't catch me" rule. so if a dude calls you in a week i would consider yourself goddamned lucky.

What is the hottest way for a girl to act at a party or social event?

i don't know about you, but clinging desperately to the hostess alternating with hovering anxiously over the snack table has always been a surefire winner for this party animal. who's got two thumbs and sucked up all the crab dip?! THIS GUY. i'm a total fucking winner.

So I just went on a date with this guy and things got pretty hot. Afterward I sent a text saying that I had a really good time and I'd love to do it again. His reply: "I'm definitely taking you up on that, I really enjoyed our night." What does he mean?

probably that he is never going to call you again ever. not even after a week. i don't know, sister, dudes just don't make any sense. i banged that dude and he broke our next date, i had to reschedule the rescheduled date, then i never heard from that dude again. INEXPLICABLE. and it was a bummer for five minutes and then i stopped thinking about it and got over it. here's the thing: if a dude was like algebra you could go back and check your work and see where you messed up, erase your mistakes, and correctly solve the problem. but dudes are like abstract art: they can mean absolutely anything and don't have to make a lick of sense to anyone but the artist, and even then they don't have to fully commit to the explanation they've given and can tailor it to the audience at the time. which is why i'm always bored to tears in museums, because i think linearly and don't like shit that is open to interpretation. i want a concrete goddamned answer. women are jigsaw puzzles, and not even the complicated ones with a thousand pieces or whatever. we're those big wood puzzles that kindergarteners play with; it only takes a couple tries and then poof!, WE'RE SOLVED. "hey girl, what would make you happy? would you like for me to turn on the wnba game? [ ] would you like to spend three hours walking around lowe's? [ ] would you like to arm wrestle? [x]" see? piece of goddamned cake.

When it comes to dating, is it true that actions speak louder than words?

not if you're dating a dude, unless that action involves the WITHHOLDING OF SEX. and even then he'll just go put it in your sister or the neighbor's dog or whomever he can catch while running through the neighborhood with his pants around his ankles. lisistrata is a dangerous game, kittens, especially if you have any sort of libido of your own. if there's a warm body in my bed (let's pretend for a minute, okay? damn!) i can't help but to want to pull it closer to me. just ask helen keller, who (against her will) spends all of her nights wedged between my butt cheeks or forcibly wrapped around my head. so even if i'm mad i'll put the anger on hold to get a little piece, or if it's that fucking bad we've already broken that party UP. you already know i don't believe in "working through it." work your way the fuck out of my life. passive aggression is the absolute WORST, because people JUST DON'T GIVE A SHIT WHY YOU'RE STOMPING AROUND WITH YOUR LIP POKED OUT. seriously, we don't. i have some passive aggressive friends, and you know what i do with those hoes? IGNORE THEM. if you can't sack up and tell me why you're mad, i'm not going to kill myself figuring that shit out. no, i'm going to hang out with bitches who AREN'T mad. and that's how dudes do it. trust me, there isn't a single man sitting alone in his room crying and listening to records wondering why you seemed cold on the phone. if he even noticed at all, i'm sure he chalked it up to menopause or that ten pounds you recently put on or the disappointing last episode of gossip girl. the one person he isn't blaming is HIMSELF. so say what you gotsta say, gurrrrl, and ACT like you want to FUCK.

I have a crisis! My boyfriend loves classical music and always tries to "convert" me away from my love of The Shins and similar bands. I can appreciate classical music for what it is, but he makes fun of my tastes. Is this need to improve me flattering or bad news?

i'm with him. what is this, 2004? who the fuck is still listening to the shins?!
um, just kidding. (no i am not.) i am the most vicious music snob, and it is difficult for me to spend even a minute with someone who listens to shit. or shits on what i listen to. conversely, i instantly fall madly in love with anyone who makes me a brilliant mix. FOR INSTANCE. at my last reading a woman who reads my blog but had never met me before made me a cd that brought tears of joy to my eyes. her name is maira, and i am now hers forever. especially since there is a banging ass remix of one of my favorite miike snow songs ("animal")  and chromatics and ladytron and peaches and caribou and new young pony club on that shit. that little peach is now in the possession of my unfaltering devotion. it really is that simple. music is fucking powerful. if a hot piece of meat landed on my doorstep with an ipod full of non-jams i wouldn't be insulting (well, i might), but i can't promise i wouldn't strip his or her ipod in the middle of the night and fill it up with the SOUNDTRACK TO AWESOME. i'm probably a really shitty fucking girlfriend, but i have most definitely improved the musical sensibility of everyone i hollered at. and a precious few have done the same for me, which is good considering i used to bone a lot of DJs. so while my knee-jerk reaction is to tell you to broaden your sonic horizons, getting made fun of BY A DUDE is 100% unacceptable. especially a moist-ass dude who listens to CLASSICAL MUSIC. that shit is boring. tell him to kick rocks while humming a concerto in the key of D.

deez nutz!

How many men should I have slept with by age 25?

if my diary has anything to say about it: 1,728. wait, hold up. is that not enough?!

Do guys like drunk girls?

i think so, but that's because i'm always drunk when i'm talking to one. don't you have to be? ugggggg there is this painfully hot dude i know who i'm rapidly losing the desire to have sex with because he just seems SO FUCKING DUMB, and every single conversation i've had in person with him has been one during which i am thoroughly intoxicated. and alcohol apparently blurs all the stupid shit he says into a big warm swirl of handsome, because he's left me a few voicemails and SERIOUSLY, dudes, HE IS NOT SMART. i keep hanging out with him because he's hot, then i get drunk because he is boring and dumb, then i think of an excuse for him not to come over. so far: "the heat in my place isn't working," "the cat doesn't like strange dudes coming over late at night," "i'm hosting an exchange student and i don't want to wake her up," and "my uterus is swollen, i think i might have a tumor." oh, shut up. I TOLD Y'ALL, I BE DRUNK. and what an idiot he is. a swollen uterus? without a mobile ultrasound machine behind the bar, there is absolutely no way for me to know that shit. but he's a dummy, so what does he know? anyway, that dude still calls and all he's ever seen is tipsy sam, but you know it's only because he's hoping that eventually he'll be able to replace the beer bottle at my lips with his penis. and maybe one day i'll let him. unless my hair hurts or the troll guarding the bridge to my castle says i'm not allowed to invite anyone over. *snicker*

I'm dating a guy who is ten years my junior. I'm 32, he's 22. I can't hang out with his friends nor can he hang out with mine. Will it ever work?

i think the whole "friends being friends with your boyfriend" is fucking overrated. mostly because my friends NEVER LIKE ANYONE I HAVE EVER BEEN WITH. and i refuse to sit around bored and sexless just because a bitch might have something negative to say. so if the friend thing is your only hindrance, forget about that shit. i think in an ideal world your girlfriends all love your man like a big brother and everyone's happy and getting along, but in the real world bitches get insecure and suspicious of every woman within a five-mile radius of their boyfriends and kill themselves trying to hide him from her friends and dismantle his existing female friendships. that's why i only fucks with orphans and social outcasts. i don't need any goddamned competition. and even if dude isn't some skirt-chasing lothario, i don't want to spend the christmas party watching him across the room and running over to make sure he hasn't said anything retarded or offensive to anyone. not everyone is charming, and i don't need to get fired because someone doesn't know when not to tell polish jokes. so your only problem is if you're one of these do everything together people. and if you are, GET OVER IT. people are boring, so you have to switch it up. go refinance your mortgage while he and his friends are at the skate park! you don't have to the midnight show to see the human centipede, he can do that with his homies! while you and kathy see a matinee of eat pray love before gorging yourselves on lettuce wraps at pf chang's, followed by passing out on your couch at nine pm! he'll break into your place stoned at three in the morning, bang the shit out of you while calling you "mommy," then shuffle into your kitchen and eat ALL OF YOUR FUCKING CHIPS. just as god intended.

I haven't been in a relationship in years, and I find myself becoming very bitter about the whole dating and love thing. I used to be the girl who believed in the fairy tale love story, and now I wonder if that Princess madly in love with her Prince will ever be me? How do I keep the dream alive? It's on life support right now.

pull the plug, baby. smother it, cut its throat, shoot it in the head. sometimes i think i'm batshit crazy for even entertaining the idea that on this earth might exist a person willing to laugh at my jokes and let me pick the music 70% of the time and eat tacos and flip through photographs of kittens on the internet with me on a regular basis, and THEN i run across a broad who is still holding on to this white knight princess fantasy shit and my humble goals don't seem so out of reach. this isn't going to happen to you if you're over twenty-five. it also isn't going to happen to you if you didn't go to college. when you were supposed to go to college, ahem. probably not in your cards if you've already had a child. or if you work more than forty hours a week. and i'm not hating on any of that because, aside from the kid, i just described myself. and myself is what you get when real life starts peeling the lid off your fucking dreams and taking a dump on them. the lower your expectations, the better your chances of not being so MASSIVELY disappointed. that's why i aim low; don't have to worry about cushioning my fall. at this point my prerequisites are: breathing, minimal brain function, some sense of humor, job of any variety, reads books, not boring. age/race/gender not important. oh, and not religious, because fuck if i don't like me some swear words. and don't put it past me, dudes. if times get desperate enough you might catch me out here with an illiterate bore on my arm. try not to judge me too harshly. bitches gotta eat.

happy valentine's day to everybody who ain't got nobody to fuck on, everybody who's fucking some idiot you hate just to keep the lights on or the bed warm, everybody whose cold black heart full of impenetrable death still gets sad this time of year, everybody who's being cheated on, and everybody who is trapped with some dickbag you can't get away from but the sex is good and that's why you haven't murdered him yet. don't kill yourselves.

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

but would you go down on a woman?

you can blame the fuckery that's about to go down in this post on laura. so we were bullshitting around on the interwebs last tuesday afternoon, bored out of our gourds and dreaming about the delicious dinner we were going to have at the southern, and she was on dlisted and read me the post about melissa etheridge's ex-wife being delivered a package of dildos that were intended for the woman she was cheating on her with. sucio. now for those of you who aren't obsessed with celebrity lesbians and all of their crazy, and how could you not be?, melissa was married to tammy-lynn michaels, this chick who used to be on the show popular. which i watched DEVOTEDLY, despite the fact that i was way too old to be into that stupid shit in a serious way and probably should have been somewhere learning how to knit booties and beguile a man. anyway, now these bitches are separated, and melissa is moving her more-famous ass on to greener carpets. while tammy-lynn is totally losing her fucking shit all over the internets. FOR SERIOUS. her blog is like a peek inside a glamourously decorated insane asylum, full of enraged outbursts and shitty "poetry" rife with lurid details about their defunct relationship. it is amazeballs. we're talking serious trainwreckery. anyway, when TL got them she picked up the catphone and called melissa and said "i have your new dicks on my kitchen counter," which is quite possibly the greatest thing any one person has said to another. then i told laura about how i need to get the ball rolling on my transformation into a lesbian.

now let's be serious. i don't want to be a gay woman nearly as much as i want to be a heterosexual man. i want to find a hot, nurturing mommy-type broad with a sporty haircut to bake me shit and drive me around in her SUV. don't you dare act surprised. dudes are so fucking stupid and inconsistent, and even if you find one you think is awesome it's only a matter of time before you catch him with his dick in the nanny, so i'm going to skip all that noise and spend my chico's years with a retired gym teacher rescuing shelter dogs and going on fishing tours of alaska.

doesn't that sound relaxing and nice? i'm tired of jumping through hoops for these thoughtless-ass dudes. chicks are just better. i need to be around somebody who will remember my fucking birthday without having to be reminded twenty goddamned times and heat up my pajamas in the dryer while i'm taking my night shower. and GUARANTEED i'm not about to get that shit from a man. i need a health-conscious dinner to be waiting for me when i get home after work, and i want someone to read the newspaper to me while i eat it. then clean up my dishes afterward before giving me a soothing scalp massage and letting me pick whatever we're about to watch on television. you think i can't trick a broad into doing that shit?! my vagina is ten times smarter than most men, and she talks A LOT LESS. stand back while i get my gay on.

i know exactly what to say to a woman.
dudes always think a bitch wants to hear shit like, "i'm gonna fuck your brains out through your eye socket" or whatever, but that's just dumb. no one wants to be spoken to like a goddamned hooker. women need to feel beautiful and perfect and special. i'm not going to bore her half to fucking death with bro talk and chest flexing, i'm going to say, "hey girl, you look really pretty today. and totally skinny. i like the way that flannel shirt accents your eyes. your new haircut is cute, too. and it's so shiny. i thought you might be using a different conditioner! are those new jeans? you look SO GOOD in them. oh, stop it. i love cellulite, girl. nobody wants a bone but a dog." listen up, gentlemen: THAT IS THE LINE THAT IS GOING TO MAKE YOUR WIFE LEAVE YOU TO GIVE ME BACK MASSAGES AND DO MY TAXES. and you fucking deserve it. jerkballs.

they also want to know that you fucking care about them, and that you're fucking listening. and fake empathy (femme-pathy?) is something i can goddamned DO. "hey girl, i'm sorry traffic was bad on your way back from home depot. how was your golf tournament? how's that bitch at work that you hate? i bought your favorite cookie dough brownie caramel chocolate cake potato chip nacho cheese pizza crust ice cream when i was at the store earlier. i'm sorry you're sad, lover. would you like to cry together? should we have another discussion about our emotions? do you have any feelings you want to talk about? want me to go grab your cleats out of the back of the subaru?"

are you fucking kidding me?! your panties are wet ALREADY. and it isn't just lies and lip service. women are less boring, and dudes don't really have interesting conversations. i already know everything i've ever wanted to about comic books and kung fu movies, thanks. have you READ anything today? this week? this MONTH?! yep, i know derrick rose made the all-star team, but what did you think about the mayoral debate last night? oh, you missed it? you didn't even know there was an upcoming election?! AWESOME. i don't know what men do when they're hanging out other than rattling off basketball statistics and banging their dicks together, and that's nice and everything, but i sort of want to know what you think about other shit. not too much, because you're pretty boring, but talking for an hour about the sweet carbon fiber wing and coax speakers you just got for the 2002 celica your mom handed down that you've been "working on" for three years while "saving money" from your job at starbucks to move out of your childhood bedroom (note to dudes: GETTING YOUR OWN PLACE > CUSTOM-KITTED VEHICLE) does not make me want to see your penis. your impassioned rant against the cowering of the president by the conservative establishment? yes, please: penis time. but a lengthy, tedious debate about who would win a fist fight between doctor doom and magneto? holy fucking shit, dude: VAGINA TIME.

i read a lot of fucking books and i know about a lot of fucking shit. plus i'm interesting and i do stuff that's fun. my jokes are hilarious, and i'm not going to mispronounce the name of some regular shit and embarrass a woman in front of the goddamned waiter. true story: i went out with this dude maybe five or six years ago who waited until we'd met in person for the first time to reveal to me that he was dumb. i fucking hate that. how is it possible that you maintained some semblance of intelligence during TWO telephone conversations yet devolve into a bumbling mess the second i introduce myself to you? i don't even remember this dude's name, but i met him on a sunday at this bar in the south loop. there were cards on the table that listed the bar's "special drinks," ie DRINKS FOR LADIES. you know, vaginaritas and tampontinis and fruity shit like that. i saw him eyeing the card and thought "strike one, idiot" but didn't say anything because i try not to be such a jerkballs before i've gotten the chance to disappoint someone sexually. the waitress came over and i asked for a shot and a beer, and then she turned to my companion. "i'll take a black orsh," it sounded like he'd mumbled, and the waitress and i exchanged "um...what was that?" glances. "i'm sorry?" she said politely. "A. BLACK. OR-SHUD," he deaf-person shouted. i flushed with shame and tried to calculate how much of an apology tip i was going to have to leave this bitch. what a fucking asshole. finally, when she still hadn't written anything down, he snatched the card from its holder and pointed midway down the list. "BLACK! OR-SHUD!" (sam = dead.) "ohhhhhhhh, you mean a black ORCHID?" she said, matching his obnoxious "are you dumb?" volume. "an ORCHID? like the flower? the ORCHID FLOWER? coming right up."

STRIKE FUCKING TWO. listen, honeypants, i'm a product of the public school system, too, so don't give me any of that bullshit about my upscale edumacation from the university of fancy learnin'. we drank our drinks then walked to that movie theater connected to that bowling alley that is always teeming with black folks on any given evening and saw "notes on a scandal." (sam's choice, OBV.) he was asleep before the end of the opening credits (and why not? pssshhh. british movies? totally snoozers!) and that was just fine by me. let me enjoy my movie jams in peace. EXCEPT. he started fucking snoring. AUDIBLY. which i might not care so much about a year into it. or even a month into it. or, quite possibly, a week into it. but on the FIRST DATE? come on, man! i put on silky underwear for this! and you're just going to FALL ASLEEP?! so that was the end of that.

point is, that's what some dudes are out here offering. which is why, i'm almost certain, when a woman sees that i can speak intelligently about current sociopolitical happenings and converse while keeping all of the food in my mouth she will fall hopelessly in love and want to spend the rest of her life separating my colors from my whites because i can hardly be bothered to do that shit. women need compliments and adoration; and not cheesy "your eyes are like the stars" bullshit, but ACTUAL PRAISE, like "i can totally tell that the nutri-system is working" and "thank you for organizing my desk drawer." that fruity shit is for suckers. i want dudes to pretend to care (or even fucking NOTICE) that i categorized and alphabetized their dvds while they were passed out on the kitchen floor. i mean, sometimes that shit is helpful, like when you want to look through all his shit and can't reliably put everything back in its exact place, but i want you to pay attention to me. as do most girls. and they never will, which is why i now have to channel my inner billy dee williams.

women know how to make shit comfortable.
if i never got banged on a king-sized bed with NO SHEETS and ONE LUMPY PILLOW ever again in my fucking life it would be too goddamned soon. pffft. dudes always want to try to fuck you in the abandoned warehouse in which they're squatting. or at least that's what the shit fucking LOOKS like, all bare walls and "furniture" procured from alleys and shit. would it kill you motherfuckers to put a mat in the bathroom? to buy soap with a moisturizing agent? to have anything other than gatorade or muscle milk or power juice in your fucking refrigerator? to put all twenty-seven pairs of jordans in a closet rather than the arranged display over which i am bound to stumble in the middle of the goddamned night?! i like soft things that smell awesome. i like multi-colored le creuset rubber spatulas. i like coffee mugs with handles. i like fresh gerbera daisies. which is why i have to learn to like strap-ons. or marry a gay man.

why do you dudes only own one towel? and a HAND towel at that?! why do you have no paper towels? why is all your shit in garbage bags even though you moved in two years ago? why does it smell like gym shoes and testicles in your apartment? why do you refuse to purchase a fitted sheet AT THE VERY LEAST? do i really have to SLEEP IN MY GODDAMNED CLOTHES TO STAY WARM UP IN HERE? why don't you have BLANKETS? why do you need SO MANY remotes? why do you have a roommate at forty-two? why do you own a leather couch and a 573" flat screen but not a single motherfucking plate? do we really have to share CUTLERY?!

every time i have nearly BROKEN MY GODDAMNED NECK tripping over the 20+ wii and playstation and xbox cords in the dark in some dude's raggedy house trying to find my way to the bathroom that has paper towels in lieu of toilet paper and a cracked and dried-out bar of dial melted into the sink i think, "i really have to start fucking women." and eventually won't we all? standing in the cold and dark, feeling beard stubble and dirt from outside being ground into your bare feet (why did you get that pre-date pedicure again?), shaking your hands dry because you used the last square of 1-ply toilet paper to try to soak up whatever droplets of post-sex pee it could absorb, you mean to tell me you didn't wish HE was a SHE? or that you were at least in your own fucking house? where there is plenty of toilet paper?!

you won't want to eat at my house because crohn's food is awful (dry toast!), but you'll want to do every goddamned thing else. there are nice candles everywhere and dozens of expensive soaps and lots of blankets and clean, crisp sheets. there are paper towels and toilet paper and hand towels and bath towels and a rug and both a shower curtain AND a liner in the bathroom. and dudes don't have the market cornered on technological fun shit. i have a little flat screen! a couple hundred dvds! ten thousand records! a mac! an evo! three ipods! THE INTERNETS! if i bought a fucking video game system you'd never have to goddamned leave. especially since peapod is the jam. i'm not saying a dude has to have an interior decorator, because that is moist, but 99% of them can't even clear the empty mcdonalds and taco bell bags from the bed before trying to put it in your butt. come on, man! you're getting special sauce in my pussy hole! and NOT the sexy kind.

i refuse to plot and hunt and trap a man only to spend the rest of my life trying to get him to turn off espn and pick up a book that doesn't have pictures in it, let alone being the only one in the house who cares enough to buy paperwhite bulbs in season and change the plug-in when it starts to get all dried out and ineffective. i mentally and emotionally cannot cope with being the one who notices that the curtains need to go to the cleaners and the knives in the drawer are all dull. that is exhausting and robs you of your joy. so i'm just going to be a dude and be happy all the time. just not in the ways that suck. i am going to make a bitch feel so amazing that she'll be falling all over herself to let me lounge on the plush couch in her comfortable house that smells like pine cones or pumpkin pie or whatever scent martha stewart says is hot this year. and i will NOTICE that pine cone scent! i don't give a shit about staying in and having a romantic evening for two; i am going to order shit on pay-per-view in my jammies while she takes recipes she printed off of rachael ray's website and tries them out in the kitchen, getting drunk on white wine and listening to the indigo girls. sounds like a perfect night to this asshole, especially if she keeps refreshing my plate of chewy cherry chicken cheesies. or naughty nachos on noodles. or bacon brisket brownies. or crazy carrots and crackers. or eatza meatza pizza. (you get the idea. rachael ray is blarf.)

i like laying around without a bra on in cozy, shapeless inside clothes and passing out drunk on boxed wine at 9:00 pm in front of a lifetime movie, and those things make me an ideal lesbian. plus, i don't have to be reminded to change the cat box and i know how to properly make a bed with a duvet. in other words: i'm perfect.

i could eat a bitch out, i guess.
the FIRST THING laura and ginger asked me, simultaneously, when i said my sapphic ass was steering my canoe toward the island of lesbos was, "but would you GO DOWN ON A WOMAN?" my answer? "TOTALLY." i like oysters and mussels, so what's the problem? i'll just pretend it's a taco and sprinkle a little lime juice and chili oil on it. nom nom nom. seriously, how hard could it be to have sex with a goddamned lady? i have TWO EARS and the SAME GODDAMNED ANATOMY, so what's the big deal? "hey girl, what kind of sexing do you like?" i'll ask, and when she answers i will LISTEN TO HER and then DO WHAT SHE SAYS. what a novel idea, right? you dudes oughta take note. fucking really is that easy.

HAVE YOU EVER HAD SEX WITH A MAN? if he's not obliviously pounding away at every orifice on your body like you're a fucking blow-up doll, he's outrageously over-selling his abilities only to mimic some dumb shit he saw on redtube once he gets his dick out in your presence. and then he'll have zero qualms about leaving you 100% UNSATISFIED. and THAT is only if he can maintain a fucking erection. do you know how many times i have had to say, "my vagina is not your hand, asshole" to some neanderthal dude who was rabbit-fucking so rough my sensitive meat was chafing and shooting sparks? GODDAMN YOU. and why are you trying to force the head of your penis through the back of my skull? PLEASE STOP FUCKING MY FACE SO HARD, SIR. even the "sensitive" dudes! once you get them naked they just do whatever the fuck they want, no matter what you said will get you off or what you told them works best for you. they really do just do whatever the hell works for them, and if you happen to have an orgasm too that's just icing on the cake. pfffft. just reading this makes me never want to have sex with another dude for as long as i live, and i'm sure there's some old softball coach who installed her own heated bathroom tiles out there who feels the EXACT SAME WAY.

and goddamn it, i have fucked every single CUNNILINGUS EXPERT and ORGASM SPECIALIST in the fucking city of chicago. apropos of nothing, dudes always want to tell you how amazing they are at banging. ALWAYS. you could ask what type of food this motherfucker eats and he'll be all, "baby, you know what i really love to eat? pussy." EXAGGERATED EYE ROLL. "great, blind date whom i've never met before and am not sure i'm even going to fuck, but where should i make our DINNER RESERVATION?" bla-arf. it's infuriating. every dude i've ever met claims to have a phd in fucking, and that proclamation is usually made before we've even finished the first (inter)course at a restaurant he can't really afford. i can barely get my water refilled before dude is trying to tell me how he makes bitches squirt and shit. and that is lame. i wouldn't care about a little harmless braggadocio after he's slayed this dragon in bed, but before we've even established that his fire hose can temper the flame? YEAH fucking RIGHT.

i don't have to tell some hot lady i'm the president of pussytown or whatever, i just have to show up with my suitcase of sex goodies and ask which hole she likes the vibrator in. women use chapstick and floss their teeth and files their toenails; we spray perfume behind our knees and replace our fancy underpants frequently; we make bruschetta for fun and buy good wine and fold cashmere throws over the arm of the couch in case our company gets cold during movie night. now who couldn't cozy up with a little bit of that? most grown women know how and where they like to be touched, and if a dude ever bothered to pay attention i wouldn't be writing this blog. a little "where is your g spot?" can save everyone involved a whole lot of goddamned trouble. basically, i'm going to do the opposite of everything men do. because they do just about everything wrong. guaranteed success.

making a woman happy is easy.
you know what makes me happy? unexpected phone calls in the middle of the day. remembering what i liked at that one restaurant we went to that one time. half-dead grocery store flowers just because they were on sale. a good morning text that says, "have a good day and try not to burn anything to the ground in a furious rage." i think dudes like to pretend that we're so difficult both to please and comprehend, but that's got to be because they watch too much dumb shit on television. sure, there are broads who aren't happy unless a man is subjugating himself at her feet while direct depositing his paychecks into her account, but for the most part she is the exception. the rest of us are just trying to get a phone call every few days and maybe get banged twice or three times a month.

and that i can totally do. burn up a few anytime minutes and tinker around in her tool shed every once in a while? TOTALLY. i'll even buy a twenty dollar bottle of wine and rent  "chocolat" on dvd. i will prepare a beautiful dinner, keeping in mind that she hates both onions and smelly cheeses, and serve it on one of my many PLATES, accompanied by an actual GLASS. she won't have to pout alone in the bedroom because my boy tee and i decided to order the fight on pay-per-view, nor will she have to worry that I'M the one who got her friend sharnay pregnant. i won't ever ask to "hold a few dollars" or borrow her car to go drop some formula money off at my baby mama house. fuck all that. i'm going to go to roll my eyes through her book club meetings, listen to her josh groban cds in the car without complaint, continue building my shrine to our patron saint, rachel maddow, wear pink ribbon t-shirts and cargo shorts, obsess over the kitten colony i started in her basement, and let her go down on me every night while i watch conan. in other words, my shit is about to get AWESOME.

i'm so ready for this. i even got a haircut.