Friday, May 25, 2012

when can you fart in a new person's bed?

FARTING IS SO GODDAMNED SCARY. for normal adult women with healthy self-esteem and a positive outlook on life, spending the night with a dashing paramour is an exciting milestone that not only solidifies that YES THIS PERSON LIKES ME FOR REAL, but it also provides the opportunity to engage in some morning sex, if that's your kind of thing, and relax in the afterglow snuggled into the armpit of a dude who went to the trouble of hiding his nineteen pairs of identical gym shoes in the hall closet before you got there. for an over-thinking crazy person, the sleepover means a lot of internal hand-wringing and trying to mentally calculate whether or not i’m going to have to take a dump in the next twelve hours. did i feed the cat? do i have any prilosec in my bag? where is my phone charger? do i have enough cash to get a cab home if his girlfriend comes over unexpectedly? can i fucking fight?! then a lot of fidgeting and drifting in and out of sleep while wondering whether or not he can tell how much i’m snoring. after lying totally still for what feels like an eternity, finally the sun drags itself up and maybe i can convince this dude to buy me some waffles and an iced tea before i get the bus and go home to lapse into a coma because i spent the entire night mostly awake trying not to audibly breathe or wonder too hard whose weave that is all over the bathroom.

now everyone knows i'm not shy about a little shitarrhea, but farting is different. farts are noisy and unpredictable; it's like having an angry baby trapped in your butthole. i laid there listening to dude's steady breathing hoping that if i just clenched tight enough that smelly gas would reabsorb into my body and maybe kill off some of my vital organs or whatever. ANYTHING other than risk waking this asshole up with a toxic blast of moist intestinal air.

the little fart that could, a love story:

chapter 1 first i laid on my back, feeling the gut monster writhe its way through my small intestine down into the large and back again, willing it to just go away for a few hours and GIVE ME A FUCKING BREAK, for god's sake. i just met this guy! stop trying to ruin my life, delicious burrito i obviously should not have eaten! i was terrified to breathe too forcefully lest it unleash its unbridled fury and embarrass me half to fucking death. it's instances such as this one that keep me convinced that i have been cursed for some bad deeds done in a former life. or is this kind of thing happening to everybody?!

chapter 2 maybe i can fart without waking him up? i could try to sneak it out, but what if it was a tuba fart? sometimes my farts sound like a short gust of wind, but other times it's like the entire brass section of the CSO is playing arnold's opus 123 in my pants. how could i be sure it would be quiet? how could i be sure it wouldn't smell like old eggs or raw sewage? what a terrible houseguest, sharting up some crisp white sheets that don't belong to me. i rolled onto my side and envisioned a little pocket of air dissipating into the ether, hoping that my body would take the hint and cooperate with some new age visualization techniques. um, yeah right. that yoga shit was NOT WORKING.

chapter 3 after what length of dating time is bed farting okay? i've known this dude for five fucking minutes; potentially shitting his fucking sheets seemed a little premature. and a lot out of the question. i adjusted my eyes to the darkness and decided that maybe i could go to the bathroom and fart in there and come back to bed without his knowing? unless, of course, i woke him up on the way out because i am a clumsy ape. after nearly falling out of the bed i burned my nipples on the radiator because i'm blind as a bat and my glasses disappeared to wherever glasses go when all you care about is getting all four of your bra hooks undone.

chapter 4 i peed while trying to quietly splash cold water on my tits, and at the end of the pee i sat and waited. and waited. and waited some more. my fart had finally gone about its business attacking my liver or whatever and, flushed with joy, i washed my hands and slid my blind ass along the wall until i found the bed and climbed back in it. homeboy hadn't moved an inch. YES, I AM SUCCESSFUL. GOOD THINGS ARE HAPPENING FOR ME. feeling the tide turn on my outlook on life, i yanked the blanket away from him and settled down to pretend to be comfortably asleep. the minute i adjusted into the position least likely to result in a cacophony of snoring the gas i thought i'd gotten the better of came rocketing from its hiding place and began to knock impatiently at my back door.

chapter 5 i got up again, this time taking care to shield myself from the sizzling radiator, and tried to find my shirt in the pile of clothes next to the bed. it was dark and I COULDN'T SEE A THING, so i was thumbing through articles of clothing going "not mine, not mine, not mine" when he moved and i froze. my worst nightmare, other than using my asshole as an alarm clock, is for a dude to think i ever want to dig through his shit. so, having located my impractical frilly date night underwear, i stood up and went to the bathroom before he sat up and accused me of trying to steal his wallet or something.

chapter 6 my new strategy was to pace. pace the bathroom and work the gas out. pace the bathroom and fart as hard as i could so that i might be able to close my eyes for five goddamned minutes before i had to wake up and pretend that i sleep nicely rather than snoring and drooling w. after a minute of this i sighed and gave up when there was no movement. "what is wrong with you?" i pleaded with my belly. "WHY DO YOU HATE ME SO MUCH?" my burnt nipples were painfully raw and i tried to remember where i'd left my bag and the fancy chapstick tucked into the front pocket that i could use as a makeshift burn cream. i had no idea where i'd left it, so i tried to use the cold side of the pillow to soothe them. to no avail. them shits was crispy.

chapter 7 when the dawn came shining through his curtainless window i breathed a sigh of relief. it was only a matter of time before he'd want to get up and get his day started, and i could scramble into my dirty clothes and go outside where i would finally be free to what? what did you just say? you have morning wood that needs tending to? OH. um, okayyyyy. i quickly made a mental deal with my asshole. "listen bitch, if you can hang on to that fart for twenty minutes i promise i won't drink as much eggnog as i did last year and i will QUIT EATING HOLLANDAISE. deal?!" with a little wink she reluctantly agreed, and i steered him gently away from my back entrance.

chapter 8 at the bus stop there were a handful of other lonely losers too lame to have plans on thanksgiving day. one dude was shouting into his cell phone about getting drunk at a bar to watch the packer game while everyone else just hovered and tried not to make eye contact with anyone else. my dumb friend jeff texted me something dumb and i texted back "how many dates before a girl can fart in front of you without you acting like a goddamned crybaby about it?" the bus came and i weathered the pitying look the driver gave my day-old clothes. "HAPPY THANKSGIVING," i said loudly, because fuck her. a few minutes later my phone buzzed. "i don't have sex with girls who fart." then, a few seconds later, when i guess it dawned on him that i might be asking for personal reasons: "god, you disgusting jerk. i hope you at least let him put it in your butt.” i had not. i mean imagine what that would've sounded and/or smelled like.

an hour later i let myself into my apartment and withered beneath the gaze of my judgemental cat helen keller as she inspected my shoes and day bag. i changed into my pajamas and crawled into bed where i finally, LOUDLY, broke wind. and then i gave thanks.

Thursday, May 24, 2012

men are simple creatures, darling.

before he died, my father never once sat me down to give me "man advice." my dad was SERIOUSLY MANLY. a grizzled korean war vet, this dude didn't do soft shit like "eat fruit" and "wear shorts." he didn't "own pajamas" or "ride a bicycle." samuel "one iron duke" irby slept upright, next to the front door, with an aluminum baseball bat across his knees. i didn't grow up in a house where men "talked about feelings" or "verbally expressed their affection." we played two games: watch daddy drink and listen to daddy cuss a dumb bitch the fuck out. he loved me, for fucking sure, because i was the baby and incredibly precocious, and he showed this love by peeling my grapes and teaching me how to make mash and distill grain alcohol in the bathtub. his way of saying "i love you" was to teach me how to break a dude's nose in one swift motion. in addition, i can also: hotwire an old car, beat the brakes off a dude at spades and dominoes, load a shotgun, cure a cast iron pan, smoke a cigarette down to the filter while having a conversation without ever touching it with my hands, tie a proper bow tie, and make steak tartare.

and i also learned that if you need to get drunk and your mother hid the goddamned keys to the motherfucking liquor cabinet when she left for work that you could use a loaf of bread to strain a bottle of shoe polish and drink what came out. "she's just overreacting," he would say, sipping a highball glass filled with nyquil, "i don't have a drinking problem. i just like to feel good. now go get me the wonder bread out of the pantry." what a handy trick, responsible parent!

when i was in the fourth grade i had a crush on a boy who played clarinet next to me in the band. devastated that he hadn't understood that the unused reed i'd offered him basically symbolized my undying devotion, i walked home near tears to find my father sitting at the dining room table eating a summer sausage while sharpening his knives. i explained my dilemma, giant tears sliding down my cheeks as he listened thoughtfully. i begged him for some insight. "why don't boys like me, daddy?" i sobbed. he took a swig from a bottle of crown royal (at three in the goddamned afternoon) and placed his hand on my shoulder. he looked into my face, a mirror image of his own, and said, gently, "because you can't do fractions." i'd been anticipating the answer to an ages old mystery, i had been bracing myself for a GODDAMNED REVELATION, and this asshole was blaming my heartbreak on fractions?! i slammed my clarinet case on the table. "I HATE YOU!" i shouted.

"what's 1/3 of 9?" he asked, then erupted in laughter as i paused and started counting on my fingers. i stormed into the kitchen, probably to eat 1/2 a cake or 2/3 of a gallon of ice cream, his laugh mocking me the entire way. and that's the last time i ever asked him about how to deal with a goddamned dude.

men and their fucking stupid code. even my own father, who cut my meat for me until i was sixteen years old, wouldn't break that archaic shit to help his forlorn little daughter. i continued to be crushed by that crush until well into high school, when i finally decided my classmates were too immature for me and that my time was better spent talking to grown ass men who pretended they wanted to know what happened on "my so-called life" last week while interrupting every few minutes to ask if i was really a virgin. i have a lot of dudefriends, and even the ones with whom i can carry on an actual conversation that doesn't consist of just grunts and hand signals never give me any insight into the male brain. they're all, "sure, forward me his emails and let me take a look at that text," and as i sit on the edge of my seat drooling in anticipation, eyes widened to the size of dinner plates as i await what i've always dreamed of, a real-life analysis of some foggy double talk from a man BY A MAN, what i usually come away with is the exact opposite: a friend who says he loves me yet pretends he can't translate the subtext of a 160-character message sent by a dude he's never met yet somehow all of a sudden has an allegiance to protect. WHAT THE FUCK, BRO?

either they fake like they don't have the faintest idea whether or not "i'm going through a transitional period in my life" really means "i'm fucking someone else, bitch" (it does, apparently) OR they immediately turn around and blame the shit on the ladyfolk. FOR EXAMPLE: a couple months ago i was talking to my joke-writing partner, ian (have you read our blog, irbyandian? it's amazing, and you totally should, but wait until you finish this) about some stupid-ass goddamned dude, and his response was, "listen, men are like vampires." and my heart soared. finally! finally some insight and understanding into men from someone else with a goddamned y-chromosome! what a lucky girl i am! oh my goodness, please continue! "men are like vampires," he said, "they can't come in your house unless you invite them."

WHAT THE FUCK, BRO? seriously? that is your sage advice?! it's not like dudes show up on my doorstep, female corpse slung over their shoulders, fangs dripping with the still-fresh blood of their most recent victim, and i'm all, "hey vampire guy, wanna be in a relationship? you're not going to do the exact same thing i have visual evidence to corroborate to me, now are you? you aren't?! well, super. let's give it a shot. COME ON IN." they show up in timberlands and baggy jeans talking that good shit, and then later, once i'm comfortable, i discover a big ol' piece of baggage stuffed with the decaying carcass of the last woman who didn't really understand exactly which date is the right one to get naked on. (and if you ask a MAN, it's either the first or the twelfth. but maybe the seventh? or sometimes the fourth, if you don't mind his thinking you're a total whore. six dates? yeah, that's long enough to know if he's really into you. second date might be okay, though, if you feel like you have a connection, but he'll still reserve the right to never call you again because you're such a silly slut. hmm, the ninth might be best if you really want to keep him, though. as a matter of fact, you probably just shouldn't ever have sex ever.) make room for me in that suitcase, sister. I'M DUMB, TOO.

my friend blaximus called me last week and was like, "you got dumped again, homie? look sam, imma break the shit down for you. i am going to give you the only tool you willl ever need to know how to deal with men." i was waiting for the train in my party clothes, and a homeless dude walked by and complimented my outfit by simulating masturbation with one hand and pinching his nipple through his shirt with the other. "BARF, i'm over dudes, they obviously hate me," i whined at him, moving further down the platform. "stop that right this minute," he scolded. "now listen, girl. all you need to know is this: YOU HAVE THE CONTROL. i'm not kidding, especially since i'm about to lose my man card for telling you this. women are smarter than men, they are more capable than men, and we are suckers for you. you have the control, sweetheart. now act like it."

my first thought was: this dumb ape just wants to bang me. he's just gassing me up with all this smart and capable talk so i'll let him put it in my butt. this is some reverse psychology mind-fuck type of shit and i am NOT GOING TO FALL FOR IT. i am a smart and capable woman, goddamn it, and he's just telling me some bullshit to make me feel good. this is NOT a real fucking thing. then i thought about my dad, who pretty much serves as the blueprint for the kind of man who would fit best in my life: manly, direct, drunk, and a little bit scary but would cut up a tough piece of meat if i couldn't. could i really be in control of someone like that?

"not like that," blaximus snapped, rudely interrupting my reverie, "not like a dog on a leash, you idiot. men are simple creatures, darling. we like what you tell us to like. if a girl who is 5'2" and four hundred pounds with a bad weave walks into the club wearing a miniskirt like she is THE ABSOLUTE SHIT at first we might balk, but give us ten minutes of watching her strut that confidence around and every dude in that place will want to get with her. men don't organically know what the fuck stretch marks are, we know what they are because women tell us what they are and how we shouldn't like them. and now we don't. if you never would've told us we never would've cared."

i glanced down at my veiny green-ish purple boobs. "okay, so if i'm getting sexy with a dude, right, and he's hot and i'm hot and everybody is ready to fuck? and it's awesome? then i slide my bra strap off and say, 'you know what, son? you fucking LOVE these textured grooves my big girl bra has worn in my goddamned shoulders, YOU FUCKING LOVE THESE WEIRD HAIR FOLLICLES AND DISPROPORTIONATELY TINY NIPPLES. that right, those veins make them look like an old bruise when we do it with the lights on, but that's okay because YOU LOVE THESE OLD FLESH WOUND TITS, SON. and then we just will start going off on some unbridled passion type lovemaking?' is that what you mean? is that me exerting my ladypowers and shit?"

there was a long silence on the other end, followed by a sigh. "just be confident, sam. men like confidence. BE CONFIDENT. also, stop texting in the place of actual human conversation, stupid." GOT IT. NO TEXTING. TALK ON THE PHONE. CONFIDENT AS FUCK NOW. i pictured myself sashaying into a nightclub wearing booty shorts and a halter top and high heels that give my feet muffin top while acting like sex on legs with a come get it look on my face, primed to have an interpersonal face-to-face conversation with an actual human being . "can i be confident in full-bottomed underpants with cat hair on them?" i asked meekly.

"you better tell them they love those granny panties!" blaximus shouted like a football coach during playoff season. "now get your ass back out there and tell these dudes that they want to put their dicks in them orthopedic birkenstock sandals, girl!"

i still think this is mostly bullshit, because all the confidence in the world can't make someone keep banging you once he's decided he doesn't want to. i've got a genius-level IQ, man. i'm fucking funny. my problem (and i think most of our problem) is that when i think i've done everything right (neither calling too much or too little, using a variety of sex moves and not on the first date, only talking about shit that is exciting and fun, paying my half even though i suggested a cheap restaurant and only ordered 1/3 of what i wanted), the fucking thing still goes to hell anyway. i'm not worried about being the hottest cupcake in the room, i need whatever it is that makes him want to keep eating even though he licked all the frosting off. riddle me that shit. give me that pep talk. dudes always (falsely) think you want to figure out how to get one to go home with you. we already fucking know, man. 1 have a vagina 2 see number one. aside from chaining him to the radiator, how do you convince him to stick his ass around?!

yet here i remain, putting a brave face on, jogging in place and slapping the sides of an imaginary helmet while squirting gatorade into my mouth (gross) and adjusting my jockstrap (ew), psyching myself up for the big game. since a good sense of humor, ridiculously good taste in jams, and an encyclopedic knowledge of internet memes apparently aren't enough muscle, my rippling biceps are made of confidence and a grudging willingness to do anal every once in a while, and i'm still on the goddamned sidelines, but as soon as that other girl you're talking to gets hit by a bus or you remember that you haven't called me in a while i'm going to charge the goddamned field and let you know that YOU FUCKING LOVE THESE MOM JEANS, BRO.

Thursday, May 10, 2012

cockblocking fools!

issue ten. damn, have you seen this bitch lately? no?! well NEITHER HAVE I, and that's mostly because she has a new boyfriend and no longer has time to sit in dark rooms doing shots out of my boobs and listening to me shout the same story for the 9,576th goddamned time over whatever rockabilly band is playing nearby. what about all of the super important stuff i need to talk to you about, ginger? i know you've already heard it before, and yes i'm going to ask you to decipher that one email again for the third time this week, but that's what friends are for! you mean, you don't want to scroll through my text messages anymore?! i'm heartbroken. HOORAY FOR LOVE and everything, but man, i hate when my most important ladyfriends get boo'd up. shit always changes for the motherfucking worst. okay, sometimes things get better, especially if he isn't an asshole and offers to put my shit on his tab despite the fact that i crashed their date uninvited because i just "happened to be in the area," but usually it's worse. for instance, the other day i saw something really hilarious in walgreens and wanted to pick up the phone and call amanda to tell her about it, then i realized that she and her BOYFRIEND were at ikea for, like, the second time in as many fucking weeks and it would be rude to call and interrupt her relationship bliss. all i could picture was these assholes cooing at each other over SLACKDRAB end tables or some shit and her rolling her eyes at my name on the caller ID.

because her relationship is about me. and what i want. and my happiness. OF COURSE. fine, i'm thrilled for her. especially since that dude made her bacon-wrapped filets and is smart enough that he totally beat me and rachel down at trivia a few weeks ago. for which i blame rachel, because i knew almost every single one of the hair metal bands in the photo round and that ho is a teacher who didn't know the world's longest river. WHAT THE FUCK? is this why american kids are so goddamned dumb?! okay, i didn't know that shit either, but i went to public school and dropped out of college to sell doughnuts and work on political campaigns, so the best i can do is make change for an apple fritter without using a goddamned calculator and compare your signature on my petition to the one on your voter card. they only invite me to trivia to answer all the questions in the obligatory black round, anyway. one time there was a round called "famous rap hits" or some shit and everyone was like, "sam...?" knowing full well that "obscure indie fanboy twee" is more my fucking genre. destined to lose, i guess. our team name is pretty awesome, though. "sucker and fucker." i'll let you decide which one is which. but then again i might be lying about being thrilled, though, even though ginger's new dude is seriously nice. plus he was pretty sappy and lovey with her which, after i discreetly emptied the entire contents of my stomach into my handbag, was quite endearing and adorable. despite the fact that he'd TOTALLY STOLEN MY GODDAMNED FRIEND.

it's not like i'm threatened or anything (i'm totally threatened) and it's really not like i'm jealous AT ALL (i'm also seething with envy), i'm just wondering why she hasn't responded to my email yet (because she's getting fucked sideways and eating fancy bacon meats all goddamned day).

if i ever get a boyfriend, which i have been dreaming of ever since the day i clawed my way out of my mother's oozing womb hole, JUST YOU BITCHES WAIT. i'm going to shut this stupid blog the fuck down and spend the rest of my life picking nits out of his fur and practicing any other animal mating rituals i can glean from the discovery channel. that is my life's dream, to suspend all of my partyfuntime to swoon breathily at some hot dude. no more taco time, no more trivia night, no more drinking beers in fancy restaurants at two am, i'm just going to be over there strolling through the textile department at ikea every weekend with the dude who's starting to look more and more like me SINCE WE SPEND ALL OF OUR TIME TOGETHER. until then, though, imma still be right here sprinkling some internet salt on the open wound that is our miserable lives.

cockblocking for dummies.
speaking of being a hating-ass piece of shit, let's talk about how to wrest the attention of the hot dude that's drooling all over the dumb broad in your entourage away from her and onto you. i'm pretty goddamned sexy, obviously, so i've never had to resort to any behavior like this. everyone wants to fuck me all the goddamned time. but occasionally i'll run into a dude who just so happens to be interested in the broad who's only at the bar because i asked her to designated drive me, and for those rare circumstances, i have no other choice than to BLOCK HIS COCK. isn't it my humanitarian duty to save a dude from fucking my lame-ass third tier friend when he could be back at my apartment eating cheese and watching HBO instead? i'd be doing him a disservice if i just stood aside and let him take this ridiculous woman home! oh, just kidding. i'm the perfect wingman.

but i will cockblock the shit out of a wack dude, though. every single time jeff and i hang out i just sit at the bar singing, "herpes herpes syphillis aids!" under my breath and every woman in the place immediately steers clear of wherever we happen to be sitting. it's not my fault that his pimping is so weak that my STD song scares off the ladies. seriously, though, i have some dirtbag male friends: the married dude who pretends he isn't, the player, the "sensitive thug," the surly misanthrope, and any time i catch them hitting on some unsuspecting young woman in my presence i break that party up real quick. "he'll cheat on you, girl" is my usual line, or "his crazy ex-girlfriend will totally blow your car up," and even if she bangs him once that seed has been planted there's no way she's going to let this dude fuck her over. that's what you get for being friends with a hating-ass broad, gentlemen. game over.

SANS FARDS. i've finally reached my night cream years, man. no fucking joke, if i wear makeup, i use ponds cold cream to take it off. that's right, your grandmother and i share the same nighttime regimen. don't hate, THAT'S WHY WE LOOK SO GOOD. and i was going to try to write a beauty post and give you a step-by-step guide to how to look this good despite the meatloaf gravy on your shirt, but i really couldn't get it together so instead here is a list of five beauty tips and tricks (more or less) i'm obsessed with you're welcome:

1 benefit brow-zing. the salesgirls at benefit really know how to get you to spend your rent money on bullshit, and i fall for the game every time. a couple months ago this very pretty blonde complimented my "striking eyebrows" and insisted on "just shaping them up with a little powder," and after i finished blushing from head to toe and trying not to breathe with her face so close to mine, i spent $187 on ABSOLUTELY NOTHING. seriously, i got home and was like, "what the fuck is this goop for? who in this house uses primer?!" that eyebrow shit is my jam, though. there's a soft wax that you use a hard angle brush to apply, then you follow it up with a little powder to fill it in. and i'm not kidding, it makes you look amazing. dudes will walk up to you and ask to suck your toes, just because. it's a little miracle.

2 some of the other crap i got at benefit. of all the other fruity shit i bought, i am most happy with the cha cha tint and sun beam, and i feel like such an asshole even typing those names but i didn't make them up. i like bright orange cheeks, and that cha-cha is like liquid mango for your face. i also let that girl talk me into getting a tinted moisturizer, which makes me feel like i have geisha face unless i put it on with a brush. and standing in my bathroom brushing light brown shit on my face makes me feel like a SUPER DUPER asshole. so it's in the cabinet, right next to that primer. and the eye-brightener. sigh.

3 neutrogena rainbath and body oil. if you invite me over, chances are i will leave a grease spot on your couch. i can't fuck around being all itchy and dry, so i use oil to keep my leather supple. it's 100% of the reason i am late 100% of the time, because i'm dripping wet in front of the fan trying to get some scented crisco to sink into my goddamned skin. but i'm soft as a motherfucker, thanks to that grease. you could fry a chicken in the small of my back, real talk.

4 mac ruby woo lipstick and devil blush. this shit isn't for the faint of heart. ORANGE CHEEKS and BRIGHT RED LIPS are probably too drag queen for most people, but so is this penis i've been tucking next to my butthole for most of my life. seriously, though, i might have to wear red lipstick every day of my life. except you can't eat with that shit on. and the only people who want to kiss you are girls, and even then they don't really want you to get that shit on their nice white blouses. dudes are NOT EVEN TRYING to get near any of this, unless you're playing that blowjob game little kids get into while their parents are at PTA meetings or whatever. this shit is matte and, if you do anything other than nod politely and open your mouth at brief intervals to take tiny sips of air, you'll have lipstick crumbs and be so grossed out. it's pretty, though. sometimes beauty is suffering.


put your hair on a diet. what are these mystery foods we're all worried about? you know, the ones that are sneaking up on our unsuspecting asses in the middle of the night and making us fat? here's something awesome: i'm "watching what i eat" again. which means that, as of monday, i started doing crazy shit like "bringing my breakfast from home" and muttering insane nonsense like "i'll have mine without cheese." i mean, are those even real human words? WHAT DO THOSE THINGS MEAN?! yesterday i drank three liters of electrolyte water and spent forty-five minutes on the elliptical and afterward, as i was dry-heaving over the rubberized mats next to the hip abduction machine, feeling strong and healthy and positive, i thought to myself, "i should just commit suicide. this shit is for jerks." then i ate a child-sized unbuttered popcorn while watching the avengers with kate who made fun of me the whole time because i had to wear those stupid 3D glasses over my real ones because i'm totally blind. kill me, please.

according to magazines, you're always fat for some new goddamned reason: hidden calories in your nail polish! not scrubbing your ass fast enough in the shower! and i'm the first one making a list of all of the hair conditioners that might add five pounds to my hips when what i really need to be doing is throwing out that box of girl scout cookies i keep in my freezer "in case of emergencies." have you ever had a motherfucking cookie emergency? NEITHER HAVE I, but there they remain, that three-year-old green box of thin mintsicles, tucked behind the ice cube trays and that bag of whole shrimp i can't seem to find a use for, just in case duty calls. those are the real hidden calories, the ones stored at the back of the pantry in case that date goes badly or your promotion doesn't go through.

so what they really should tell us to do is toss out those bad day snacks we keep hidden in dresser drawers and the bedside table rather than convincing us that our toothpaste, and not that chips and guac you had for breakfast, is the reason our collective pants don't fit us anymore. maybe they're right. everybody knows avocadoes are fucking good for us, isn't that shit a vegetable?!, so i'm pretty sure this new face wash i've been using is the real reason i've been looking so bloated lately.

overalls at your age? if you ever see me out in the street wearing something questionable, do me a favor and PULL MY ASS ASIDE. i pretty much wear some version of the same uniform of black pants and black shirts and fitted jackets 100% of the time, so it's not as dangerous for me as it is for those of you who think "bodysuits" are a thing your grown ass should be outside wearing. i'm all for self-expression, i really am, but sometimes people make my eyes hurt with their adventurous clothing. and i don't mean some alexander mcqueen haute couture; that shit is FABULOUS. i'm talking about real bodies in clothes with mesh or lace or cutouts. or some deadly combination of all three. please, no.

it's about to be summer and, aside from hating being hot and having bugs feast on all my soft bits, i dread having to walk around looking at everybody's exposed meat and cheese. there's no way you can convince me that it's cooler walking around in labia-slicing denim cutoffs than it is to slip on a breathable pair of cotton-blend culottes. science tells me that you are lying, sister. you look uncomfortable, that chafing noise is making me uncomfortable, and you smell like a yeast infection. now go put some real pants on and air that shit out.

as of right now, i am officially too goddamned old and/or smart for the following items:
-booty shorts.
-impractical non-cotton panties worn anywhere but the inside of a bedroom.
-bras that fit weird.
-light-colored denim.
-pink lip gloss.
-shoes that hurt.
-spaghetti strapped anything.

and, i know i know. more old than smart. i get it.

single malt, neat? JUST DRINK BEER. it's way easier. and cheap. just like you.

Thursday, May 3, 2012

my steamy sex fantasy.

"hey sam, what is your steamiest sexual fantasy?" a couple weeks ago i was eating a sandwich at the nail salon, and eve posed this question to me from the pages of some trashy magazine she was reading while getting her callouses scraped off. "you're looking at it," i said, motioning to my daytime pajamas while sucking grainy mustard from my fingers. "i am currently having mind-blowing sex with a quarter pound of fresh corned beef. also, words like 'steamy' gross me out when referring to human body parts. BARF." unsatisfied with that answer (what is she, vegetarian? that sandwich was pretty goddamned sexy), she tried again. "no, seriously. spill it. i've known you for five years and you've never told me your innermost sexual desires."

is that even a real goddamned thing? since i mostly use my imagination to come up with witty facebook statuses and hilarious tweets, i leave very little in my mind grapes for the purposes of sexual arousal. that's what the fuck porn is for. why do i have to sit around for half an hour picturing that captain america dude having buttsex with jason momoa when i have an internet connection and mister marcus? who has that kind of time?! i just want to slide the crotch of my underwear to the left and be done before celebrity apprentice comes back from commercial. i'm too busy trying to stay awake after eight pm to concoct elaborate fantasy scenarios to get off to. and okay, let's say i spend my saturday morning off luxuriating in my target duvet and decide to dream up a boyfriend. what happens when i'm finished? i crash land back into reality, irritated and with an incurable case of emotional blue balls? man, fuck that.

i love the nail salon.
there is no greater joy in my life than sitting stiffly in an uncomfortable chair once a week, racked with middle class shame, apologizing with my eyes and pretending not to notice the bleeding as some salty bitch stabs me with an orange stick while talking shit about my cuticles in vietnamese. "kelly," my favorite nail technician, emerged from the back carrying a STEAMING bowl of soup and tapped the chair she wanted me to sit in. here's why i like this mean-ass bitch: 1 her name tag says "kelly," with actual quotation marks. i can appreciate that shit. it's always disconcerting when a person whose name obviously has a lot of x's and h's and maybe some n's calls herself "jane" with a straight fucking face. 2 she is ROUGH. her sentences never consist of more than three words, and all she does is scowl. especially when i show up with glitter polish she basically has to use her teeth to scrape off. and she doesn't argue when i ask her to skip the lotion and hand massage part. i'm just uncomfortable with all of that forearm rubbing and finger-pulling. and 3 the first time i sat across from her she talked about nothing but selling herbalife and going out to excalibur that night to go "find white men," while WEARING BIKER SHORTS AS REAL CLOTHES. and i was like, "holy shit, this bitch's whole life is like a commercial for 1997." i was smitten immediately.

i explained to eve, and all of the other patrons of the JC nails who had all halted all of their own conversations to participate in ours, that i don't really have a sexual fantasy, that there is nothing much to tell. "i call bullshit," she said. "every woman has some super hot shit she's just dying to have happen to her." the old woman who i thought was asleep in one of the vibrating massage chairs cracked open an eye. "that's right, babygirl. everyone has a naughty fantasy." ew, grandma.

"meat under nails!" "kelly" tsk-ed as i offered her my paw, giving me the "BITCH, BACK IN LAOS I WAS A MOTHERFUCKING NEUROSURGEON" face as she dropped my hand onto the table in disgust. i apologized with my eyes and went to scrub my fingers at the sink. a few minutes later eve walked over on her heels to continue interrogating me about my nonexistent sex dreams. "kelly" loves her some sex talk, and she immediately followed eve's lead. "tell us," she prodded. "what sex fantasy?" i looked into eve's and "kelly's" expectant faces, saliva glistening at the corners of their mouths. "fine then, gosh. i'll fucking tell you my one sex fantasy."

LADYPORN TIME. "i can smell him before i see him: it's a pungent, manly smell, like sawdust and flank steak and recently-read newspapers. i can just barely make out his silhouette in the darkness of the hotel room i'm sitting in. he's tall and built like a loveseat or something, square and comfortable to lie on while watching tv. he sets his chainsaw down near the door and drops the car engine he just rebuilt at my feet before caressing my face with one of his rough, calloused hands. my heartbeat quickens. this anonymous stranger then kicks off his work boots and shakes out of his coat, at which point i notice several pages of handwrittend poetry fluttering to the floor from where he'd hidden them in an inside pocket. oh yeah, and he probably has a boner. a fucking enormous one. anyway, he grabs the back of my head, gently though, and he stares deep into my eyes, BORING A HOLE RIGHT INTO THE CENTER OF MY SOUL. he clears his throat and then he says," i paused dramatically.

"WHAT DOES HE SAY?!" shrieked eve hysterically, balanced on the edge of her chair, panting like a hot dog left in the sun.

"this is some real romantic shit, you guys." i lowered my voice an octave, getting them ready for the climax. "he leans over me, and i can feel the heat of his breath on my cheek. i swoon, of course, awaiting his instruction. and then he puts his mouth right next to my ear and says, in a low growl, 'i don't care if you keep your shirt on while we make love.' and then it ends."


demanded "kelly," who had been filing my pinky so hard during the story that it started to bleed. "WHERE SEXY PART?!"

"well, i'm sure he jerked off in my hair or some shit after that, and maybe he got up to get me some cheese afterward, but for me the fantasy ends right there. i'm saying, my HOTTEST WET DREAM is basically to make ON-TOP-OF-CLOTHES-SEX a real fucking thing." eve threw her magazine at my head.

i have a drawer at home that contains the following: gross pajamas for when i'm in bed by myself; a weird assortment of donated lubes courtesy of all of my sex worker friends; a handful of vibrators varying in size, strength, and durability; cute bras not meant for a twelve hour workday; and CLOTHES TO HAVE SEX IN. here's the thing: i would be much more relaxed and comfortable sticking a crowbar in your asshole or lighting the tip of your dick on fire or whatever dirty, slutty thing you want me to do if i don't have to spend the entire time worrying about my fucking tits rolling into my goddamned armpit. seriously, if i could just tie this shit down i would be SO MUCH MORE FUN.

you can have ass jiggle or boob waddle, JUST PLEASE DEAR GOD NOT BOTH. oh my cellulite, i just cannot keep track of where all my shit is and what all my meat and cheese is doing while also giving you the best possible sexual experience. NOR CAN I FULFILL ANY OF YOUR STEAMY FANTASIES WHILE WORRIED I MIGHT STEP ON MY OWN NIPPLES. okay, so i'm not saying i have to wear a turtleneck and football pads in order to have a hot time; i don't need to wear a goddamned snowsuit to bed. but can't i just keep on this bra and frilly robe thing that cost so much goddamned money (flimsiest shit = most goddamned expensive) so i don't have to cringe in horror while listening to all that skin flapping around? *welp*

i have two different types of sex clothes: vagina time plus maybe a little anal chic, which means sexy things that are secured like fort knox on top and open wide enough to get a human head comfortably in there at the bottom; and pretending i'm on my period couture, which consists pretty much of long black maternity pants and sometimes socks if my radiator is acting like an asshole. if you girls can't get with this YOU ARE LYING. come on, now. you know you would attempt some reverse cowgirl acrobatics if you knew your boobs were strapped into a harness and not going to embarrass you while sliding all over the goddamned place. tits not unwieldy enough to potentially result in a black eye for you or your partner? i'm jealous. but you also know you'd rather lick the underside of some dude's balls without him fishing around inside you and fucking up all your good bacteria. SEXPANTS TO THE RESCUE, HO.

this ain't about no body shame, either. THIS IS A MATTER OF LOGISTICS. this is about theprocurement, maintenance, and transportation of materials, ie getting his bumblebee into my flower without awkwardly fumbling around and ruining everything and destroying the sex. the ability to conceal my weird birthmarks opens up a whole new world of potential activity, gentlemen. next time your ladyfriend resists when you tug at the hem of her nightgown, just ask, "if i let you keep it on, do i get to come on your face?" and i'm not sure if she'll say yes but, at the very least, she'll be wearing the towel she usually makes you jerk off into. everybody wins!

i know a lot of sensitive dudes, the kind who are all "i appreciate every blemish" and make sustained eye contact with you while they bang you, and those are the ones who are the least likely to let you get away with pulling your pants halfway down and letting him do his business while you finish the dinner dishes. you know the ones, the dudes who want to make love to every stretch mark. those are tough nuts to crack, especially since they really do (or really seem to) appreciate all of those moles you keep meaning to have lasered off your back. for them, you have to break out the heavy artillery: i either 1 say "ay dog, you can keep most of your stuff on, too. we'll save time and energy and be way less likely to get bodily fluids on my clean sheets. doesn't that sound so good?" or 2 "listen bro, it'll totally be like having sex with a victoria's secret lingerie model if i keep this bra and chemise on. doesn't that sound so amazing?" OKAY FINE, a lane bryant lingerie model, but you know what the fuck i meant. smartass.

so while you girls are waiting for your white knights on horseback and your strapping fabio lookalikes to storm the tower and rip your clothes off before making passionate romance novel love to you on a feather bed made from angels wings, imma be over here plucking petals off a daisy in breathless anticipation of a dude who doesn't mind getting busy through the pee hole in his boxers. SWOON.

Wednesday, May 2, 2012

me and all my bullshit.

it's always the worst when your homeboys get girlfriends. jeff texted me last week to see if i wanted to "catch up over a burger." hmph. that motherfucker has been ignoring me now that he has a new girlfriend, and that is SO TOTALLY FUCKING LAME. why does it always go like that?! i mean, i know why: she's banging him. and all i ever do is test out new material on him and regale him with stories about my dumbass friends. so i understand why that bitch might win. despite the fact that the contents of my refrigerator included an only an onion and a package of salami from the butcher, i haughtily texted back, "why?" here's something i hate: when your friends start banging new people and all of a sudden stop calling your ass until they have a fight or that other bitch remembers she has a life or those assholes break up or whatever. that is unacceptable. although when girls do it, i kind of get it, because there's a tiny window of time during which you have this dude's undivided attention, and you have to make the goddamned most of it. two weeks from now once the honeymoon is over this jerk is not going to give a fuck about what happened on last week’s episode of the bachelor, and because that’s pretty much all you have to talk about you better tell him that shit while you still can.

and wouldn't you know, he'd extended that dinner invitation to me because the chick from weight watchers he's still sleeping with (seriously) is so on edge about calorie consumption that she still won't fucking allow FOOD DATES and he'd just dropped her off after "hanging out at some art galleries" and was about to goddamned starve to death. let's start here: it is utterly hilarious to me what some dudes will subject themselves to in the pursuit of some goddamned ass. and, conversely, TOTALLY FUCKING BAFFLING when one i am falsely assured is into me for real (like, FOR REAL for real) won't do some regular-ass shit like see a movie with subtitles or meet me at an indian restaurant for dinner. remember that time i couldn't get a dude to eat bowtie pasta i'd made because "he only eats angel hair?!" or that other time when i had tickets to the civic opera and he said he didn't understand why people would get dressed up just to "sit around and listen to some dumb singing?" and he wore a blazer with jeans and listened to the bulls game through the entirety of wagner's das rheingold?! mortifying. and holy mother of god, i still had sex with that dude after that. le sigh.

who are these women who can coerce dudes into anorexia while milling around an art gallery looking at shit they cannot fucking comprehend?! i want to be one of these women! how do i get to be so fantastic that i can say, "look handsome, we're going to see some performance artist stick needles into his testicles for three hours and then you're taking me to that new restaurant that specializes in bacon-infused puffs of air" and get a dude to go willingly along with that shit? i don't even care if he rolls his eyes the minute i suggest it or if he orders thai food the second we get home as long as i can get him out of the house and into some cultural shit in between. I WANT TO SEE THAT WOOLLY MAMMOTH EXHIBIT AT THE FIELD MUSEUM, MAN. *welp*

that woman must have kryptonite pussy, because even though i had taken a cab and only stopped in the liquor store for approximately ten seconds to get money from an ATM, by the time i got to kuma's jeff was already on his second goddamned burger. they'd spent the entire day together, apparently; a day that involved art galleries, an exhibit at the MCA, a movie at siskel, a browse around the men's department at macy's, and a trip to starbucks, BUT NO FOOD. "she wouldn't even let you get one of those little sandwiches or cake things?" i asked him, spilling half a pint of allagash down my front and on the floor while trying to reach for his fries. SIGH. i suppose that is the real reason why i can't drag a dude to see some pedro almodovar with my slovenly ass: i'm gross and covered in beer and unworthy of human affection. anyway, jeff explained that he was trying to be sensitive to her diet of broccoli and steamed fish, which reminded me of one of the many times i've been "dieting" (read: having a lean cuisine for breakfast and lunch and a handful of gummy vitamins for dinner) and this asshole came over to my house with A PIZZA THAT HE PROCEEDED TO CRUSH POTATO CHIPS ON TOP OF BEFORE EATING RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME. i was so food-deprived i cried. i cried over a potato chip pizza. remember, children, there's always a bottom.

old sugar walls has obviously taught this dude some manners in these few weeks they've been banging, and he put down his sandwich to get up and help me out of my vest, which was TOTALLY FUCKING AWKWARD, especially since we were standing in a puddle. i like a chivalrous dude as much as the next girl, but you ain't really gotta take off my hoodie, sir. i hate when people do shit that makes other people look at you funny. just sit there and eat, for god's sake, don't make everyone watch me try to double-joint bend my elbow to get this shit off because it's a size too goddamned small. i already spilled beer everywhere and pissed off the bartender, do you really have to brush nine people in the face with my suburban outerwear?

i could hardly put my right arm back into the sleeve he'd inadvertently yanked it out of before he exclaimed, "WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS SHIRT YOU'RE WEARING?!" so, because i came equipped with a vagina, it should be my knee-jerk reaction to hanging outwith a dude, even if it's one who isn't on the market or interested in me, to wear decent-ish clothes when out with him in public. but i'm fucking tired.

"this is my meat shirt," i said, looking down at the blob of sheer grease stain covering my entire left breast that wouldn't wash out even though i'd pre-treated that shit and everything, "you mad?" not too mad, i guess, because instead of answering he just rolled his eyes dramatically and waved the waitress over so i could order some pork fries.

"that meat shirt is why you don't have a goddamned man," that asshole replied, and as i opened my mouth to protest he continued, "you're a free agent again, aren't you? didn't you get released from the having sex and going on dates team a few months ago? your problem is that your impossible standards for men remain way too fucking high while your personal standards for your interests and physical appearance remain way too fucking low. let's write you a new okcupid profile and exclude the words 'smart' and 'successful' from that bitch."

first of all, i already updated my fucking okcupid profile and it is the awesome. example, first things people notice about me: biker tattoos and food in my beard. goddamned hilarious, am i right? makes you want to fuck me with the lights on, DOES IT NOT?! i have yet to receive a single message from some hot gentleman petitioning to put it in my butt, nor has anyone stopped me on the street to demand that i let him offer me an alternative to my otherwise drab existence, and this is what i've decided to delude myself into believing: regular-ass dudes just aren't ready for someone as awesome as me. yeah, that’s it.

and second, WHAT IMPOSSIBLE STANDARDS? jeff is fond of reminding me that everything changed when i shifted my priorities from "breathing and willing" a few years ago to "manly, smart, jokes," and ONLY A MAN would recommend working your way backward down the evolutionary chart just to get a look at a new pair of testicles. and sure, i could have half a dozen prison penpals if i was hard up for attention, but i'm saving that silver lining for when i'm too fat to leave the house. in january i wrote a list of MAN REQUIREMENTS that included such lofty expectations as "reads books" and "doesn't live in his childhood bedroom," and much to my surprise i received a shit ton of hate mail in response. apparently it's too fucking much to ask that a man not introduce himself using a rap alias or commit to an actual cell phone contract, or that he actually work with his hands and put the xbox away for a couple hours a day. BITCHES WAS SO MAD at that fucking post. zoe sent me a link to some moist dude who wrote a response to it for his feminist studies class or some shit and posted it on the goddamned internet, and i was dumbfounded. counterpoint one: this is hyperbole. acquaint thyself. counterpoint two: GET YOUR WEIGHT UP, SON. unless you wrote that shit to get some pussy, imma say that you've got shampoo for blood and probably nursed until you were thirteen.

so since it's such a goddamned problem to have expectations, why not instead try to hunt down a dude who's willing to put up with some of
my bullshit? if it’s too much to ask that a dude skim a newspaper a couple times a week, in exchange for that willful ignorance i’m going to need him to understand how much i love my armpit hair. and that silky underwear is a waste of money that could be better served in my “buy a new mac that actually burns cds and shit” fund. THAT SAID, a man can be dumb and have no ambition as long as he:

1 will not balk at either the wearing of a meat shirt or the ordering of pork fries. listen dudes, i think i decided that all i'm going to wear until i die is jeggings and birkenstocks. i apologize in advance. thinking about clothes makes me tired, and i feel dumb every time i wear anything complicated. i'm done with clothes. i just can't even think about that shit anymore. i'm just going to pretend to be a fashion designer and say that wearing the same outfit every day is part of my art or whatever. who cares. and i'm over dudes who have an opinion about meat shirts. and eat dinner salads. this is my dream: me and a dude, tacos, whiskey, flat shoes, home in bed by eleven pm. and a blowjob or something as long as i can keep my shirt on and not sweat. maybe i should put that in my okcupid.

2 understands that the majority of our conversations are going to be conducted via text. i used to be a phone girl, an up all night giggling at things that aren’t even funny cooing into the wee hours of the morning phone girl. but if i want to get laid in 2012, i had to learn how to use the old text machine. no one makes phone calls anymore, EVER, and now that i’m kinda used to dating in the new millenium i don’t want to talk on the phone, either. especially since i’ve had to teach my phone so many swear words so that it doesn’t autocorrect my artful phrases into nonsensical jibberish. i want my love letters to be of the 160 characters or less variety, and sent within five minutes of the one i just sent that dude. nothing is worse than trying to sext the BUSY GUY. oh, i know. it's so hard and your thumbs get so tired. you can handle it, though. i promise.

i really do fucking hate this whole texting thing. i do it, because making phone calls is basically the modern day equivalent of using a mimeograph machine or a goddamned road atlas, but i would much rather hear a soothing voice in my ear. one who can discern that that mean shit i said really was a joke. (comedy texting is the worst.)

3 tolerates my hipster snobbery. i don't even fit the hipster demographic, really. the size of my jeans has too many digits and i'm not in a band and i don't work at a co-op and my neighborhood isn’t painfully cool and i don't have a record player, but i have snooty music tastes and a lot of dirty artsy friends who wear vintage clothing and often speak in a way that doesn’t really make that much sense. you know the ones, the kind of people who refer to inanimate objects as having a "soul" and kiss each other on the lips. anyway, i read check gorilla vs bear, goddammit! and look at my ironical tattoos and heavyweight plastic glasses! look at me writing a blog! look at me shopping at the farmer’s market for sustainable, locally grown kohlrabi and artisanal handcrafted sausages!

well, some of that shit might not be entirely true, but i do go to lit readings and nod like i really know what the fuck those people are talking about while i wait for my turn to read that one story i wrote about holding in a fart in front of a dude. i've attended my fair share of costume parties. i also know more than one dj who specializes in "experimental ambient noise." so if you want to have regular sex with me, we’re going to a lot of storefront galleries, homeboy. i don’t know shit about art, and yes, i was totally falling asleep during that one installation at the MCA, but we’re going anyway. all this to say that you're going to have to learn how to pretend that you like that electro-trash psycho funk band all the cool young people i know are obsessed with, because i just bought tickets to their show and you're my fucking date.

4 doesn’t need a home-cooked meal every goddamned night. here’s the thing about cooking: sometimes it’s awesome, and breaking down a leg of lamb to make a heady, fragrant rogan josh is supremely satisfying work that makes me feel accomplished and worthy of my vagina, but some other times it’s a sweaty dirty mess and i don’t even want to eat what i made when i’m finished with it. have you ever done that before? spent an entire evening painstakingly slaving over the most perfect dinner that could possibly come from the kitchen in a studio apartment (i'm talking uniformly diced onions and expertly julienned carrots, fish with no scales and braised meat that doesn't have a single speck of char) and then once it was ready to serve you would rather drop dead than eat it? yeah, ME TOO.

i’m not such a barbarian that i can’t appreciate the look of satisfaction on a man’s face while i watch him eat something i’ve cooked, but i just can’t help, as the dishes pile ever so high in the sink, thinking about when he’s going to ask me to do that shit AGAIN. because that is your punishment for showing any little bit of domesticity: neverending requests to do whatever it was you did again and again and
again. every time i have ironed a shirt or hemmed a pant leg it has always resulted in my opening a veritable pandora’s box of requests. and there are too many things i need to watch on television. well, no, okay. i would do it, i just would much rather be domestic in the sam way: paying the delivery guy for dinner and picking up the dry cleaning on my way home from work.

5 thinks my secret single behavior is cute. or, at the very least, doesn’t ask more than once why i walk around my apartment with headphones on or why the toaster is plugged in next to the bed. living alone is amazing, because you get to just DO WHATEVER. i can leave shit wherever i want, and no one makes me pick it up. i don't have a place in my bathroom for toilet paper, but who cares? the lightbulb over my bed has been burned out for six weeks, who the fuck is going to notice that shit?!

but sometimes you forget what it’s like to have other people around, especially when those are people you want to see you as an exotic creature of mystery, not a woman who has three half-eaten bowls of cereal on her bookshelves. i pile magazines on every surface and am too lazy to hide the cat box behind a decorative screen, and none of these things seems like a problem until i am faced with the prospect of some judgmental dude not wanting to bend me over the stack of folded t-shirts i left in the middle of the hallway next to the bills i tape to the wall so i don't forget to pay them. in order of importance, of course. my towels don’t match and my broom is easily four years old, and if you don’t think those things make me adorable, hanging out in my bed watching “deathproof” for an entire afternoon is going to seem like a terrible fate to you. especially when i keep reaching across your lap to make my frozen waffles.

so if you're down with this, i'm down with you. bring on the meat shirts and empty conversations. i promise i will totally shave if you can use a multi-syllabic word in conversation, though. real fucking talk.