As a dog. Lame. But before I down this NyQuil cocktail and go back to bed, here's an adorable video of a turtle on a roomba! A-TEE HEE HEE! I'd totally give credit to the reader who originally sent this to me, but I mysteriously can't find the email. God I suck today. And I'm breaking out. And I need chapstick. And my throat hurts. And I'm hungry. And my bangs are at an awkward length. And I'm out of eye makeup remover. And the NyQuil is kicking in.
Welp, night!
5.11.2010
5.10.2010
SORR ABOUT THE RAG
We get a lot of strange mail at our house. The neighbors’ subpoenas, previous tenants’ car insurance bills, and a flyer for an art show featuring a picture of a weeping black couple kissing a Bible. We’ve also gotten a coupon for discount Botox, which… I’m not going to lowball my face poison, I don’t know about you. The only person I ever knew who was a Botox technician was dumb as a stick. So it wasn’t that big a surprise when we got mail from Kotex the other day.
Kotex sent us a sample pack of their new, “fun” feminine hygiene products – a pad, a pantyliner, and a tampon. As near as I can make out, the “fun” is limited entirely to the brightly colored packaging.
(UPDATE: I was wrong, the pads themselves have a jaunty swirl design.)
I’m not sure that’s enough to qualify as “fun” in my mind. Superhero pads? Fine. That’s fun. Rag all over a Ninja Turtle or an X-Man. The commercial could feature Wonder Woman single-handedly holding back a tide of mysterious blue liquid. Or they could have fortunes. Imagine a tampon that said “You will have significant abdominal discomfort today.” It’s always correct! Just being in a neon green package doesn’t make it “fun.” Full disclosure: I’m not a woman, so technically I don’t know if this zesty approach works, but I know it’s turning me off faster than a pick-up line from some guy named Snakebite.
Setting aside the materials themselves, we’re left with the informational brochures. YES. We have:
- A sheet with a fancy pattern on one side, and warnings about toxic shock syndrome on the other. It sucks you in with the fetching design, and then hits you across the beak with blood poisoning. A for amazing.
- Instructions in French, Spanish, and English.
The French word for pantyliner translates to “under-protector,” in case anyone’s going on vacation. The English set has a series of questions and answers, including everyone’s favorite old tune, “Am I Still A Virgin If I Use A Tampon?” (It’s the same tune as “And The Band Played On.”) The instructions are oddly detailed and begin with “Wash your hands” and “open the wrapper.” A diagram is provided that looks nothing like an actual pelvis. If she needs a diagram, shouldn’t she have a good one? The instructions also advertise that the tampons are “pocket size.” Really? Are there non-pocket-sized tampons? Granted, some might be smaller than others but… too big for a pocket? For like, Amazons and valkyries? The last instruction is “Remember to remove the last tampon at the end of your period.” I… really? There’s also a chart so you can estimate whether you need regular, super, or super-plus, based on your flow. There are two problems I have with this. One, it doesn’t have a time period – 6 to 9 grams per what? Two, what woman knows her flow in grams? How do you find this out? Do you block out a day to menstruate into a graduated cylinder? (If you have, please don’t tell me because I don’t want to know.)
- Third, we have a little brochure purely devoted to how fun these products are. Quotes:
“Any more exciting and you’d be busted.”
Exciting? Women call it the curse. It involves blood and pain. I guess warfare is exciting while involving blood and pain, but… having a period? Exciting?
“Farewell, dullsville. Time to shake things up for care DOWN THERE. Fresh look. WOW protection. Extra attitude."
So, you’re all pert and sassy, but you’re still calling it your DOWN THERE, in all caps? And how does a pad have attitude? If a waiter is rude, do you hit him in the face with it?
“Stash a few in your purse, your bra.” If this were under the picture of pads, I could imagine clever dual-purpose marketing where you could pad your bosom and then if Aunt Flo called, just downgrade from C to B and pop your erstwhile bust into your underwear. But it’s under the tampons, so presumably, the fresh, sassy new approach to women’s bodies involves a bosom lumpy because your brassiere is full of tampons. Spontaneous, vibrant tampons.
“Comfy, thin. Shockingly discreet.” Shockingly discreet? Isn’t that like “Mexican government?” And what’s the alternative? An overt pad? Discreet things don’t have brochures.
“What planet are we living on where care down there seems strangely taboo? Or where ads for pads make us cringe? TIME TO (finally!) BREAK the CYCLE.” What planet are you living on? THEY’RE PADS. They absorb blood so women can go to work without leaving telltale, “Family Circus”-style tracks. The cycle of what? Not jumping for joy and running down the street screaming “the Vex of Venus is here! I can use my frolicsome new Kotex products! They’re so vibrant and free!”
UPDATE:
So, I had this giddy night making fun of women’s products, and then the next day the other shoe dropped. Giant Camel and I went to a bar for lunch, and ESPN was on behind the counter. They were talking about the NFL draft and taking their damn sweet time getting around to the only conference that matters, the NFC South. While I was waiting, I saw the same men’s deodorant commercial five times. It starts out like they all do: shirtless man applies deodorant in well-appointed, steamy bathroom. Then it zooms in on his armpit and tiles it across the screen, so there are four identical plump armpits in view, underarm hair sticking out like malnourished beach grass.
Then, squares cut out of the armpits sink out of view, to be replaced by tropical island scenes.
Armpits. Replaced. By islands.
So, “fresh” and “zesty,” the man goes about his day, and the new flavors of deodorant are shown. “Matterhorn,” “Denali,” “Cyprus,” and “Fiji.” Now, the mountain-armpit-freshness axis is well-established, if stupid. I want to talk about Cyprus and Fiji.
Actually, first, I want to talk about on-screen armpits. It’s completely tasteless. If someone came up to a stranger on the street and showed them his armpit, mountain fresh or not, the police would be called and there would be tears. Happens on TV? Oh, cool. Vomit while you’re at it.
CYPRUS and FIJI. I’ve never been to either one, but I have been to Israel and New Caledonia, which are in the general areas. They are hot, sunny, sandy, and full of Europeans. They are not FRESH. I was sweating like a whore in church, and I had deodorant. You sweat so much you get in the ocean to dry off. Everyone stinks like a French fish market. It’s not their fault. It’s hot.
What idiot threw darts at a globe to pick these places? Was every mountain and ice floe already in use? “You know what’s brisk and fresh and oh-so-suave? Hot islands.” If they named rum, or bathing suits, or luxury hotels, or even cologne after these islands, I wouldn’t care. (As much.) But deodorant? Is there sand stirred into it for authenticity?
So what do you think? Are these insane marketing ploys, or am I an old grouch who doesn’t have enough fun with his hygiene? Or both?
Kotex sent us a sample pack of their new, “fun” feminine hygiene products – a pad, a pantyliner, and a tampon. As near as I can make out, the “fun” is limited entirely to the brightly colored packaging.
(UPDATE: I was wrong, the pads themselves have a jaunty swirl design.)
I’m not sure that’s enough to qualify as “fun” in my mind. Superhero pads? Fine. That’s fun. Rag all over a Ninja Turtle or an X-Man. The commercial could feature Wonder Woman single-handedly holding back a tide of mysterious blue liquid. Or they could have fortunes. Imagine a tampon that said “You will have significant abdominal discomfort today.” It’s always correct! Just being in a neon green package doesn’t make it “fun.” Full disclosure: I’m not a woman, so technically I don’t know if this zesty approach works, but I know it’s turning me off faster than a pick-up line from some guy named Snakebite.
Setting aside the materials themselves, we’re left with the informational brochures. YES. We have:
- A sheet with a fancy pattern on one side, and warnings about toxic shock syndrome on the other. It sucks you in with the fetching design, and then hits you across the beak with blood poisoning. A for amazing.
- Instructions in French, Spanish, and English.
The French word for pantyliner translates to “under-protector,” in case anyone’s going on vacation. The English set has a series of questions and answers, including everyone’s favorite old tune, “Am I Still A Virgin If I Use A Tampon?” (It’s the same tune as “And The Band Played On.”) The instructions are oddly detailed and begin with “Wash your hands” and “open the wrapper.” A diagram is provided that looks nothing like an actual pelvis. If she needs a diagram, shouldn’t she have a good one? The instructions also advertise that the tampons are “pocket size.” Really? Are there non-pocket-sized tampons? Granted, some might be smaller than others but… too big for a pocket? For like, Amazons and valkyries? The last instruction is “Remember to remove the last tampon at the end of your period.” I… really? There’s also a chart so you can estimate whether you need regular, super, or super-plus, based on your flow. There are two problems I have with this. One, it doesn’t have a time period – 6 to 9 grams per what? Two, what woman knows her flow in grams? How do you find this out? Do you block out a day to menstruate into a graduated cylinder? (If you have, please don’t tell me because I don’t want to know.)
- Third, we have a little brochure purely devoted to how fun these products are. Quotes:
“Any more exciting and you’d be busted.”
Exciting? Women call it the curse. It involves blood and pain. I guess warfare is exciting while involving blood and pain, but… having a period? Exciting?
“Farewell, dullsville. Time to shake things up for care DOWN THERE. Fresh look. WOW protection. Extra attitude."
So, you’re all pert and sassy, but you’re still calling it your DOWN THERE, in all caps? And how does a pad have attitude? If a waiter is rude, do you hit him in the face with it?
“Stash a few in your purse, your bra.” If this were under the picture of pads, I could imagine clever dual-purpose marketing where you could pad your bosom and then if Aunt Flo called, just downgrade from C to B and pop your erstwhile bust into your underwear. But it’s under the tampons, so presumably, the fresh, sassy new approach to women’s bodies involves a bosom lumpy because your brassiere is full of tampons. Spontaneous, vibrant tampons.
“Comfy, thin. Shockingly discreet.” Shockingly discreet? Isn’t that like “Mexican government?” And what’s the alternative? An overt pad? Discreet things don’t have brochures.
“What planet are we living on where care down there seems strangely taboo? Or where ads for pads make us cringe? TIME TO (finally!) BREAK the CYCLE.” What planet are you living on? THEY’RE PADS. They absorb blood so women can go to work without leaving telltale, “Family Circus”-style tracks. The cycle of what? Not jumping for joy and running down the street screaming “the Vex of Venus is here! I can use my frolicsome new Kotex products! They’re so vibrant and free!”
UPDATE:
So, I had this giddy night making fun of women’s products, and then the next day the other shoe dropped. Giant Camel and I went to a bar for lunch, and ESPN was on behind the counter. They were talking about the NFL draft and taking their damn sweet time getting around to the only conference that matters, the NFC South. While I was waiting, I saw the same men’s deodorant commercial five times. It starts out like they all do: shirtless man applies deodorant in well-appointed, steamy bathroom. Then it zooms in on his armpit and tiles it across the screen, so there are four identical plump armpits in view, underarm hair sticking out like malnourished beach grass.
Then, squares cut out of the armpits sink out of view, to be replaced by tropical island scenes.
Armpits. Replaced. By islands.
So, “fresh” and “zesty,” the man goes about his day, and the new flavors of deodorant are shown. “Matterhorn,” “Denali,” “Cyprus,” and “Fiji.” Now, the mountain-armpit-freshness axis is well-established, if stupid. I want to talk about Cyprus and Fiji.
Actually, first, I want to talk about on-screen armpits. It’s completely tasteless. If someone came up to a stranger on the street and showed them his armpit, mountain fresh or not, the police would be called and there would be tears. Happens on TV? Oh, cool. Vomit while you’re at it.
CYPRUS and FIJI. I’ve never been to either one, but I have been to Israel and New Caledonia, which are in the general areas. They are hot, sunny, sandy, and full of Europeans. They are not FRESH. I was sweating like a whore in church, and I had deodorant. You sweat so much you get in the ocean to dry off. Everyone stinks like a French fish market. It’s not their fault. It’s hot.
What idiot threw darts at a globe to pick these places? Was every mountain and ice floe already in use? “You know what’s brisk and fresh and oh-so-suave? Hot islands.” If they named rum, or bathing suits, or luxury hotels, or even cologne after these islands, I wouldn’t care. (As much.) But deodorant? Is there sand stirred into it for authenticity?
So what do you think? Are these insane marketing ploys, or am I an old grouch who doesn’t have enough fun with his hygiene? Or both?
5.07.2010
Hagman, BO and the politics of cybersex—it must be Friday!
Question: What do you get when you cross Jack Daniel's glazed short ribs with Major Anthony Nelson?
Answer: T.G.I. HAGMAN, bitches!
As of 4:21am on May 7th, 2010, Larry Hagman is...alive! And by "alive", I mean my best friend.
So at circa 1 o'clock this morning, I was in bed with a face mask on, eating slow-churned ice cream and watching an episode of Night Court on youtube because I'm questionably attracted to John Larroquette, when Alex called to regale me with his night's sexual conquests. Yep. Just two best friends having the exact opposite night. I thought while I had Alex on the phone, it wouldn't hurt to run this week's Queer Abby questions by him. Because, you know, a third opinion never hurt anyone.
I really had to dig deep for this one—a lot of soul searching. Granted, it is a tough question, but in my mind there’s really only one obvious answer. So the fact that you still asked made me wonder: would guys do this differently? Are there other options I haven't considered? Is my tendency toward being way too honest for my own good coloring my judgment? So to be sure, I really tried to look at it from a lot of different angles. I even polled all sorts of people—boys, girls, queers, breeders, etc.—to, you know, explore some alternative solutions. As it happens, they pretty much echoed my sentiment that you are, in fact, being a pussy.
SO, the 12 year old boy in me wants to suggest that you pick up some deodorant for your buddy next time you run to the store to buy your maxi pads. However, the feminist in me is deeply ashamed of myself for saying that… and feels like you should counsel your friend on good hygiene in a friendly and non-confrontational manner—perhaps with a card or a crocheted pillow.
Collectively, we think you should split the difference and say something along the lines of “Listen, I’m not trying to be an asshole here. I really like you and I’m really glad we’re friends. But, as your friend, I want to let you know that you should consider bathing more, changing deodorants or investing in some cologne so I don’t always have to breathe through my mouth when we hang out.
OK, while it's generally my stance that whatever Amy says is the way to go, I'm just letting you know that if Alex ever sat me down and said, "I really like you and I'm really glad we're friends. But, as your friend, I want to let you know that you should consider bathing more, changing deodorants or investing in some perfume so I don't always have to breathe through my mouth when we hang out," I would do the following, in order:
a.) Burst into tears
b.) Punch him in the face
c.) Disinvite him from our upcoming Ireland trip
d.) Take a shower
e.) Wear enough deodorant to wax a medium-sized speed boat
f.) Never talk to him again
So, while points D and E are considered a win, points A, B, C and F might suck a little bit for both of you. Then again, I'm a hyper-sensitive pussy. (Ohhhhh, mercy!)
This really is a tough one. I don't know, can't dudes just be like, "DUDE YOU REEK, BRO" and nobody gets offended because emotions are for dames? Also, I have a question: is your friend a normal dude who has BO, or is this part of a lifestyle? The reason I ask is because I had a friend in college who was a vegan gutter-punk with notoriously god awful BO because he only showered once a month and as much as it sucked, we all kind of just had to accept it because it was his prerogative to believe that bathing is a waste of water and natural resources. I mean, I thought he was full of shit and wanted to set myself on fire when he asked if he could wear my coat one day when he was cold, yes, but his friendship was worth it. (And I never wore that coat again, too. Which sucked because it was a really nice Banana Republic trench coat, but I'm too lazy to get anything dry-cleaned. See! We all make interesting life choices! Because it's our prerogative.)
Now, if this isn't part of a bullshit lifestyle choice and he just honestly has bad hygiene, if it were me? I'd probably create a fake email address and send him an anonymous tip telling him that hygiene called and it wants to get back together. And then when he showed it to me all upset, I'd be like, "WHHHHAT?! What kind of a horrible person would do such a thing....?" But, again, I'm a total pussy and I've breathed through my mouth to sustain a friendship before.
Alex's advice: Have your friend banished to an island. Which given the fact that your friend also has halitosis, I don't think is a completely horrible idea.
______________
Seriously though, I’m really sorry. There is nothing good about this situation and I hate that I have to say everything that I’m about to say.
With respect to your questions: You don’t have to be upset about the cybersex, per se, be upset about the lying. Someone can get freaky online all day long if that’s what they’re into, but not while keeping it from their partner. And it doesn’t matter if you call it ‘cheating’ or not, she knows it wasn’t respectful of you or your relationship—otherwise she wouldn’t have felt the need to keep it from you.
As for the questions you didn’t ask (possibly because you didn’t want to hear the answers): Now, there is definitely more to this story than she has owned up to. Her behavior now is not consistent with someone who made 1 huge mistake and really wants to work on rebuilding the trust she abused. So unless you can objectively look back and say you have a history of being jealous or untrusting, you really need to go with your instincts on this one.
And by extension, I really think you need to leave. After keeping a pretty fucking intimate part of her daily life from you for AT LEAST two months, she’s still being super dodgy and refusing to acknowledge or respond to your completely legitimate feelings. No matter how you look at it, she’s being incredibly irreverent and self-centered. That’s not ‘A mistake’; it’s at very least a huge character flaw, and at worst pathological. Either way, you can’t fix her and you deserve better.
Interference: There’s an app for that! Seriously, if you have an iphone check out the application Fake Calls. It sends phantom calls to your phone on command for just such an occasion.
Deception: Make up bogus company policies about accepting gifts from clients and spending time with clients who aren’t there on business. Or tell him that you have a meeting…...or a raging case of herpes.
Dissuasion: Start using the same deodorant as Anonymous 1’s buddy. Better yet, maybe you guys could trade. Everybody wins!
Those are just examples, but I’m sure you get the concept. Also, if you see a co-worker get cornered by this guy, go interrupt and say you need them for something. Pay it forward, and will come back around.
Alex, after hearing this question:
"So, let me get this straight. She has her dream job—and must be nice—and the only down side is that people give her too many gifts?"
But don't worry, girl. I had your back. Because one time I was temping in this office the summer after freshman year and it was pretty much perfect, except that they paid for our wardrobes, but only if we got it from Bloomingdale's. It's like, could you have picked a more inconvenient store for me to get to? Not to mention the fact that the vending machines in the break room were free, which sucked because I was really trying to get rid of my quarter collection that summer. That and the commute was hellish, although every time I was stuck in traffic on 495, James Franco would pop in the car, turn on the ass warmers and go down on me. I guess that was kind of nice. But my point is, I totally get where you're coming from.
My advice to you, however, is to run. Run fast and run hard because Alex is en route to your office as I type to steal your job and shove a stapler up your ass. And hopefully grab some chocolate for me.
That's gonna do it for us here at 2b1b this week! If you have any questions you'd like us to answer (and "answer" obviously = convince you that your girlfriend is cheating on you and berate you if you—god forbid—complain about anything) shoot an email to QueerAbby@2birds1blog.com! Sometimes tough love is the best medicine and here at 2b1b, we have it in spades.
Thank you so much for reading, forwarding to your friends, joining our Facebook page, following us on Twitter, asking Queer Abby and just generally being you. Have yourself a merry little weekend and we'll see you back here bright and early Monday morning! L8R.
Answer: T.G.I. HAGMAN, bitches!
As of 4:21am on May 7th, 2010, Larry Hagman is...alive! And by "alive", I mean my best friend.
So at circa 1 o'clock this morning, I was in bed with a face mask on, eating slow-churned ice cream and watching an episode of Night Court on youtube because I'm questionably attracted to John Larroquette, when Alex called to regale me with his night's sexual conquests. Yep. Just two best friends having the exact opposite night. I thought while I had Alex on the phone, it wouldn't hurt to run this week's Queer Abby questions by him. Because, you know, a third opinion never hurt anyone.
Dear Queer Abby,
My friend has B.O., like bad. Like so bad that when I go out with him I have to wear extra cologne because I'm afraid his B.O. will rub off on me and people will think I have it. And I'm sure you're thinking, oh anonymous, everyone has a little B.O, you know like after you work out or after walking to work from the metro on hot days in DC, but no, not the case with this kid. He always has it, and IT is bad. So, how do you tell your friend he has body odor? Advice on telling a friend he has halitosis would be great too. Maybe advice on how to attract less smelly friends in general would be good?
–Anonymous 1
I really had to dig deep for this one—a lot of soul searching. Granted, it is a tough question, but in my mind there’s really only one obvious answer. So the fact that you still asked made me wonder: would guys do this differently? Are there other options I haven't considered? Is my tendency toward being way too honest for my own good coloring my judgment? So to be sure, I really tried to look at it from a lot of different angles. I even polled all sorts of people—boys, girls, queers, breeders, etc.—to, you know, explore some alternative solutions. As it happens, they pretty much echoed my sentiment that you are, in fact, being a pussy.
SO, the 12 year old boy in me wants to suggest that you pick up some deodorant for your buddy next time you run to the store to buy your maxi pads. However, the feminist in me is deeply ashamed of myself for saying that… and feels like you should counsel your friend on good hygiene in a friendly and non-confrontational manner—perhaps with a card or a crocheted pillow.
Collectively, we think you should split the difference and say something along the lines of “Listen, I’m not trying to be an asshole here. I really like you and I’m really glad we’re friends. But, as your friend, I want to let you know that you should consider bathing more, changing deodorants or investing in some cologne so I don’t always have to breathe through my mouth when we hang out.
OK, while it's generally my stance that whatever Amy says is the way to go, I'm just letting you know that if Alex ever sat me down and said, "I really like you and I'm really glad we're friends. But, as your friend, I want to let you know that you should consider bathing more, changing deodorants or investing in some perfume so I don't always have to breathe through my mouth when we hang out," I would do the following, in order:
a.) Burst into tears
b.) Punch him in the face
c.) Disinvite him from our upcoming Ireland trip
d.) Take a shower
e.) Wear enough deodorant to wax a medium-sized speed boat
f.) Never talk to him again
So, while points D and E are considered a win, points A, B, C and F might suck a little bit for both of you. Then again, I'm a hyper-sensitive pussy. (Ohhhhh, mercy!)
This really is a tough one. I don't know, can't dudes just be like, "DUDE YOU REEK, BRO" and nobody gets offended because emotions are for dames? Also, I have a question: is your friend a normal dude who has BO, or is this part of a lifestyle? The reason I ask is because I had a friend in college who was a vegan gutter-punk with notoriously god awful BO because he only showered once a month and as much as it sucked, we all kind of just had to accept it because it was his prerogative to believe that bathing is a waste of water and natural resources. I mean, I thought he was full of shit and wanted to set myself on fire when he asked if he could wear my coat one day when he was cold, yes, but his friendship was worth it. (And I never wore that coat again, too. Which sucked because it was a really nice Banana Republic trench coat, but I'm too lazy to get anything dry-cleaned. See! We all make interesting life choices! Because it's our prerogative.)
Now, if this isn't part of a bullshit lifestyle choice and he just honestly has bad hygiene, if it were me? I'd probably create a fake email address and send him an anonymous tip telling him that hygiene called and it wants to get back together. And then when he showed it to me all upset, I'd be like, "WHHHHAT?! What kind of a horrible person would do such a thing....?" But, again, I'm a total pussy and I've breathed through my mouth to sustain a friendship before.
Alex's advice: Have your friend banished to an island. Which given the fact that your friend also has halitosis, I don't think is a completely horrible idea.
______________
Queer Abby,Well, Name Withheld, fortunately for you I get questions all the time from people with live-in girlfriends who are secretly having kinky, graphic cybersex with ‘a friend from college’ and then trying to manipulate their partner into thinking they don’t have a right to be upset, concerned or suspicious about it. So, I’m pretty sure if your gf happens to read this, she’ll never know this particular query is about her…
So here's the setup. My gf and I have been living together for a bit over a year now, and things were good for a while. Lately, there's been an issue that has me very concerned, and I'm hoping an outside perspective will help. Ready for a long story? Good.
Well, the problem is, a while back she worked late, and I got home from my job and took a nap on the couch, and accidentally (seriously!) hit a key on her laptop, parked on the floor next to the couch. The screen popped on to reveal a private chat room open, full of a two-month-long cyber-sex fantasy thing with another man. I'd seen his name come up on her cell phone a few times, but it was a 'friend from college'- some friend! The stuff was VERY graphic, kinky, and to be blunt all of the kind of stuff she's never even hinted at with me. And as I said, it had been going on for two months in that chat box, perhaps much longer.
I confronted her about it, and she said it was a one-time thing and she'd never do it again. But Pandora's Box is open, and I'm still very hurt by this, over two months later. I'm still wary of her 'late-night study sessions' for her classes, and the fact that she's put a password lock on her computer now doesn't exactly make me feel better. I'm not snooping, don't get me wrong, but it looks like she has something to hide still. And of course, if her phone chimes in with a message or call, she always takes it in another room before even reading a text message.
My question to you, now that this novel is closing: Should I be as upset as I am about the whole cyber-sex thing in the first place? Does it even count as cheating? She says no, I'm kind of leaning towards yes, but it's not like anything more than 'harmless' chat happened- that I know of, anyway. She's refused to discuss this any further with me, but it's still a big problem to me. And the fact that she's still acting funny about the calls and such has me very alarmed.
Thanks, hope you can help!
Seriously though, I’m really sorry. There is nothing good about this situation and I hate that I have to say everything that I’m about to say.
With respect to your questions: You don’t have to be upset about the cybersex, per se, be upset about the lying. Someone can get freaky online all day long if that’s what they’re into, but not while keeping it from their partner. And it doesn’t matter if you call it ‘cheating’ or not, she knows it wasn’t respectful of you or your relationship—otherwise she wouldn’t have felt the need to keep it from you.
As for the questions you didn’t ask (possibly because you didn’t want to hear the answers): Now, there is definitely more to this story than she has owned up to. Her behavior now is not consistent with someone who made 1 huge mistake and really wants to work on rebuilding the trust she abused. So unless you can objectively look back and say you have a history of being jealous or untrusting, you really need to go with your instincts on this one.
And by extension, I really think you need to leave. After keeping a pretty fucking intimate part of her daily life from you for AT LEAST two months, she’s still being super dodgy and refusing to acknowledge or respond to your completely legitimate feelings. No matter how you look at it, she’s being incredibly irreverent and self-centered. That’s not ‘A mistake’; it’s at very least a huge character flaw, and at worst pathological. Either way, you can’t fix her and you deserve better.
Oooo! Alex and I did not see eye-to-eye on this one! Way to spark some debate, my friend. I agree with Amy. Any way you look at it, this is bad news bears and I'd be dunzo for the following reasons:
1.) People who are happy with their partners don't feel the need to have freaky cybersex all day long like 13-year-old girls with acne who don't have a date to the dance. I mean, they just don't. So I wouldn't accept that "oh swells! This is just going to occasionally be part of our relationship! I'm in a kickball league and she sometimes internet 69's with Japanese businessmen in a Manga chat room! We all have our hobbies!" It's disrespectful and a symptom of a bigger problem.
2.) To me, the fact that she knows this guy is a total dealbreaker. Like, let's say she just gets off on having cybersex with random strangers, that wold be one thing. One completely unacceptable thing if it were me, yes, but it's different than having a fantasy sexual relationship with someone she knows. Because as my dear friend Jenny Lewis once told me, "the talking leads to touching, and the touching leads to sex, and then there is no mystery left. And baby, it's bad news." And I was like, "man J-Lew, that is a good point right there." And she was like, "I know, right? Do you want to try on pretty dresses and braid each other's hair?" And I was like, "Um, does a bear shit in the woods?" And then we made out and went boot shopping. And it was the best day of my entire life. But the point is, all that built up sexual energy is just a slippery slope into And Then We Kind of Fooled Around Town, USA. Population: Him and her. And it's bad news, baby it's bad news.
3.) Alex thinks that if you didn't specifically establish that cybersex and/or sexting with someone else is a no-no in your relationship, it's fair game. I disagree with that wholeheartedly. If we're dating, I expect you to keep your dick in your pants when it's not in me—in life, online or otherwise. Sorr about the nag.
4.) Alex also thinks that if you get kinky with her in bed, she won't need to get it online. I disagree with that too. If you're not satisfied in bed, be a responsible adult, open your mouth and ask someone to choke you. Don't go online. Christ. Not to mention that it would be rewarding really bad behavior and setting a dangerous precedent for the future. Although it could be fun.
But yeah, I'd end it. Where there's smoke, there's usually fire. I'm sorry, buddy. You can come over and watch the emotional Christmas episode of Night Court guest-starring Michael J. Fox as a troubled juvenile delinquent who doesn't believe in Santa Claus if you want and we'll cry and hold each other. She just kind of seems like she sucks. UNLESS SHE REALLY DOES READ MY BLOG, in which case love ya girl!!!!!
______________
Queer Abby:
I have the job of my dreams (not to brag) but there is one flaw. VELCRO client. He comes to town weekly (though not necessary for business purposes) and is all over our staff like white on rice. He will literally corner you and talk forever, there's nothing you can do to get away from him, he will follow you and keep talking. I don't mind a chatty friend, but he crosses the line of polite business conversation, including, talking shit about his wife, talking about his annual physical, etc. It has gotten worse: he has started to bring presents. Sure, it started out small, but now there's a box of chocolate involved and I'm no longer annoyed, but CREEPED OUT. I don't take this lightly--I've given out joke-y hints and not-so-joke-y hints like "haha you know I'm happily married" "whoa--uhh awkward" etc but they keep coming. I don't want to 'tattle' to my boss that he's creeping me out because he hasn't done anything egregious, and last time I checked, creeping isn't illegal.
What should I do in the future?Thanks,
Anonymous 2
It’s hard to advise on this without knowing more about your office culture, but generally speaking I would suggest trying one (or any combination of) the following: a. interference b. deception or c. dissuasion.
Interference: There’s an app for that! Seriously, if you have an iphone check out the application Fake Calls. It sends phantom calls to your phone on command for just such an occasion.
Deception: Make up bogus company policies about accepting gifts from clients and spending time with clients who aren’t there on business. Or tell him that you have a meeting…...or a raging case of herpes.
Dissuasion: Start using the same deodorant as Anonymous 1’s buddy. Better yet, maybe you guys could trade. Everybody wins!
Those are just examples, but I’m sure you get the concept. Also, if you see a co-worker get cornered by this guy, go interrupt and say you need them for something. Pay it forward, and will come back around.
Alex, after hearing this question:
"So, let me get this straight. She has her dream job—and must be nice—and the only down side is that people give her too many gifts?"
But don't worry, girl. I had your back. Because one time I was temping in this office the summer after freshman year and it was pretty much perfect, except that they paid for our wardrobes, but only if we got it from Bloomingdale's. It's like, could you have picked a more inconvenient store for me to get to? Not to mention the fact that the vending machines in the break room were free, which sucked because I was really trying to get rid of my quarter collection that summer. That and the commute was hellish, although every time I was stuck in traffic on 495, James Franco would pop in the car, turn on the ass warmers and go down on me. I guess that was kind of nice. But my point is, I totally get where you're coming from.
My advice to you, however, is to run. Run fast and run hard because Alex is en route to your office as I type to steal your job and shove a stapler up your ass. And hopefully grab some chocolate for me.
That's gonna do it for us here at 2b1b this week! If you have any questions you'd like us to answer (and "answer" obviously = convince you that your girlfriend is cheating on you and berate you if you—god forbid—complain about anything) shoot an email to QueerAbby@2birds1blog.com! Sometimes tough love is the best medicine and here at 2b1b, we have it in spades.
Thank you so much for reading, forwarding to your friends, joining our Facebook page, following us on Twitter, asking Queer Abby and just generally being you. Have yourself a merry little weekend and we'll see you back here bright and early Monday morning! L8R.
5.06.2010
Middle School: Hey, at least it wasn't when I peaked?
Uh, so the world of e-commerce is slightly more complicated than I thought. Specifically because I've decided to Jew out and order everything in bulk and set up the store and handle the inventory and shipping myself. Because let's not lie; I've got the time. That and I don't need an e-pimp taking the majority of my hard earned sorr about the bag money. I saw Hustle & Flow. I know how that shit works. Plus, if anyone's going to monetize off of the severe emotional trauma caused by "sorr about the bag," it sure as shit isn't going to be Cafe Press. I don't remember them wiping away any tears after the incident or taking the X-Acto blade out of my shaky little talons.
I think my mom is 97% sure that my little 2b1b merch store is going to be audited by the IRS within it's first two minutes of being open. And honestly, I don't blame her. I'm a wile, shifty little character, to say the least. If I'm trying to get from point A to point B, I'm pretty much willing to do whatever it takes to get there no matter what corners I have to cut or which morals I have to throw to the wind. I mean, need I remind you that I recently dreamt I exchanged unspeakable sexual favors involving my parents' shower for a role in the fictitious 2010 remake of Shag? My subconscious cooked that up, looked it over and said, "Yep. Seems about right." and threw in the towel. Some people call this characteristic "being a horrible person"; I call it dedication.
The point being, I can understand why my mom would think I'd try to dick over Uncle Sam upside down and sideways. But, surprisingly, I'm not. I'm being responsible. I spent the better part of today researching this whole LLC/Inc/sales tax/income tax/we'll put a boot in your ass, it's the American way tax, thing and I won't open the store until it's all figured out and I know that all of my ducks are in a row. Which sucks because everything's designed and looks sexy and I want to show you guys now now now! But no! Must. be. responsible. Which is why I keep sending manic emails at all hours of the night to our good friend Nate asking him 9,000 questions (accompanied by delightful Leverne & Shirley clips) about the world of e-commerce. Nate's been super helpful and nice about taking time out of his day to answer my questions, despite having just been fired himself (TWINSIES!!!!!1), so if you get a chance, you should totally head over and check out his store. Thanks Nate!
This afternoon (in between doing tax research and masturbating to the sorr about the bag design) I started feeling overwhelmed by my e-commerce confusion, so I decided to take a break and make myself a relaxing cup of chamomile tea. You know how a scent can take you back to a really specific time or moment in your life? Like, white musk reminds me of 8th grade OBGC field hockey season, "Very Sexy For Her" reminds me of Junior year of college and Dolce & Gabanna "Light Blue" reminds me of slicing wrists in New York? Well, the smell of chamomile tea instantly transported back to sitting on the couch with my parents at 8pm on a weekday night, watching TV and sipping chamomile tea while trying not to cry and/or have an anxiety attack because I had to go to school the next day. But not just any school—middle school.
To say "middle school was hard for me" is such a gross understatement that it's just laughable. My middle school experience was straight-up traumatic. I am in no way saying this just for effect, but I would rather suck Paul Simon's dick for days on end with a stadium full of anonymous blog commentors watching and emailing me their in-depth critiques of my fellatio techniques than relive even five minutes of my middle school experience. That is how much I hated it. Elementary school was elementary school, high school was awesome, college was irritating but still fun, and middle school? Middle school was the equivalent of being emotionally waterboarded for 8 hours a day, 5 days a week, for 3 years in a row. Why was middle school so traumatic for? Well, truthfully, I had a few things working against me:
- For the better part of middle school I had braces, board shorts, less than mediocre hygiene skills and a perm. I mean, what part of that doesn't scream "middle school was hard for me"?
- I went to Farquhar Middle School in Olney, Maryland. (Or, Farqueer, if you will.) Farquhar is what every middle school in America must have looked like in 1972. Nothing in Farquhar has been updated since the Nixon administration and the walls are painted in neon yellow and powder blue spirals so when you walk down the ramp from the library to the cafeteria, it honestly seemed plausible that this all just might be a bad acid trip and at any point it's going to wear off and you'll wake up safe in your bed, far, far away from this pre-pubescent Hunter S. Thompsonian nightmare.
To up the creepy factor even further, Farquhar was located on a plot of land isolated in the middle of a cornfield, in the middle of a forest, in the middle of a small town in the middle of Maryland. Every morning on the ride to school, there was this disturbing moment when the bus would turn from Dr. Bird Road onto Bachelor's Forest Road and as you approached school, the only thing you could see on the horizon was a small, rundown, brick building, surrounded by nothing but ominous cornfields back-lit by the eerie red morning sky. Shit was fucked up. Like going to school wasn't hard enough, we had to do it on the set of a Tim Burton period piece.
- Children at that age, specifically girls, are down-right cruel. I could expand on this topic but it would go some place very real, very fast.
- OK, I'm going there: I had a bully. I was bullied. I'm scared to say her name because the mere thought of her puts me right back in those board shorts, but let's just say that it rhymed with Schmessica Schmith. Schmessica Schmith was total a cunt to me. I think that might have been because she was kind of a cunt in general, but she caused me a lot of anxiety in middle school. (Side note: I just found her on Facebook and she scares me just as much as she did in '96, if not more. Mostly because her Facebook photo utilizes the Photoshop charcoal filter. Snobbery. Proceed.)
The only specific example of her cuntyness that I can think of is this time in 6th grade gym class floor hockey unit, I was talking to one of my "friends" (and I put that in quotations because I clearly didn't have any) and this "friend" was complaining about how weird this kid in our class Jonathan Bligh was and desperate to join the conversation, I was like, "Ohmygawd, I know. Jonathan Bligh is such a prick."
Now, looking back, I seriously misused the term "prick" there. Jonathan Bligh was like, a painfully shy nerd with glasses who kept to himself in the corner and did puzzles. I think referring to him as a "prick" was giving him a lot of credit. The truth of the mater was that I didn't know what the word meant; I was just really eager for a chance to use it. And when I did, Schmessica Schmith just so happened to be walking by. And being kind of "schwite shrash," Schmessica Schmmith did know what a prick was and shamelessly made fun of me for misusing it and for making fun of Jonathan Bligh in the first place. Because glass houses Meg McBlogger, glass houses.
I realize that Schmessica Schmith making fun of me for misusing the term "prick" during a game of floor hockey doesn't seem that traumatic, but trust me, it was. (Side note: I just found Jonathan Bligh on Facebook and according to his picture, he just got married. Mozel tov, ya old son-of-a-prick!)
Another one of my middle school bullies was this short, stout African American girl who's name escapes me right now, but she scared the shit out of everyone, including me. Even in high school. She was always screaming at someone and being really aggressive and confrontational and just generally really unpleasant. (Jesus Chris, what the fuck was her name?? Ali and/or Eileen: I expect a text when you read this.)
Now, the halls in Farquhar are very, very narrow and one day in 8th grade, said girl was standing in front of her locker with all of her shit—her jacket, backpack, books, purse—carelessly strewn about the floor. BY COMPLETE ACCIDENT, I stepped on a tiny corner of the hoodie of her jacket, didn't notice and continued to walk on.
Suddenly the girl got all up in my face and screamed, "AWWWWWWWWWWW HAAAAAYYYYYLLL NO, BITCH! [Said girl is now AN single inch away from my face with her own.] You do NOT. Step. On a black woman's clothing."
I swear to fucking god.
I like, peed my pants. I have never been so scared in my entire life. I was like, "WHAT?!?!?! HOW DID RACE GET INVOLVED, MA'AM?!?!?!" and ran into my social studies class and hid until the bell rang. Jesus Christ. Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with people?
- I stand that Farquhar had specifically evil teachers. I know everybody looks back and thinks, "Oh man, my teachers were the worst!" But seriously, Farquhar was like, oddly chock full of horrible teachers. I'm specifically thinking of my 6th grade writing teacher, Mrs. McVeigh. Jesus Christ. What a waste of a vagina. I remember one day we read this story that was from the perspective of a thorn talking about how great it is to be a thorn and how it felt bad for the rose bud, so then we had to write a story from the perspective of something typically considered ugly or undesirable and what it felt sorry for. Everyone did their stories on weeds and shit, but I wrote mine from the perspective of the wrapper of a liverwurst sandwich and how it felt sorry for the so-called "delicious" smelling popcorn bucket. (Imaginative and hungry; even back then.)
When Mrs. McVeigh asked for volunteers to share their story, my little Meglet hand shot up immediately and I was picked to share with the class first. Shortly after I started, Mrs. McVeigh stopped me and told me that there wasn't time in her class for "these funny little stories" and if I wasn't going to take the assignment seriously, I might as well not do it at all. And oh my fucking god. To this day, I am still livid that upon hearing this, my mom didn't call her up at her home, during dinner and tell her to suck a rock and die. I mean, what's the point of having hippie parents if not for calling close-minded teachers and telling them to suck rocks and die?! When my kids ask me why they have to go to a weirdo School Without Walls where they're graded on a sliding scale of Tibetan prayer beads and hugs, this is the story I will tell them. And they're welcome.
- The combination of all of the above made it impossible for me to sleep at night because I was so consumed with anxiety about school the next day. It was bad. I wouldn't sleep all night and then the next morning, the combination of anxiety and lack of sleep would make me sick to my stomach and I'd routinely vomit all over first period. (Again, I didn't have any friends for the better part of middle school?—SHOCKER!)
We tried everything to cure my insomnia naturally—aromatherapy, noise machines, classical music tape after classical music tape after classical music tape, therapy sessions for my anxiety, herbal teas (which is where the chamomile tea flashback comes in)—and the only thing that worked was getting a lava lamp. Let me repeat that for you: the only thing that cured my debilitating anxiety and insomnia was a lava lamp. I swear to god. One day my parents took me to Sharper Image in Lakeforest Mall, we picked up a snazzy silver lava lamp with neon pink lava and from that night on (for a considerable amount of time), I was lulled to sleep by the zen-like amorphous shapes of its neon pink lava and it's warm glowing-glow.
...Do you know how much I internally struggle with this? Do you know what a complete douchebag I feel like because my body's natural Ambien is a lava lamp?? I mean, was I Shaggy in my past life??
I don't even remember why I started talking about middle school in the first place now. Why did I do this to myself? I'm completely lost in a series of anxious flashbacks. What was I talking about? Merch store -> more difficult than I thought -> taxes: whaaa? -> overwhelmed -> chamomile tea -> flashback to middle school. YES! OK. Well, so, yeah, in a nutshell: middle school was hard for me and I wouldn't go back for all the tea in China. Specifically all the chamomile tea in China. ZING!
(Yes that ZING! was forced, but I have now completely lost my concentration and all I want to do is curl up in a little ball, listen to the Spice Girls' Spice World on repeat, channel my 6th grade self and forgive.)
I think my mom is 97% sure that my little 2b1b merch store is going to be audited by the IRS within it's first two minutes of being open. And honestly, I don't blame her. I'm a wile, shifty little character, to say the least. If I'm trying to get from point A to point B, I'm pretty much willing to do whatever it takes to get there no matter what corners I have to cut or which morals I have to throw to the wind. I mean, need I remind you that I recently dreamt I exchanged unspeakable sexual favors involving my parents' shower for a role in the fictitious 2010 remake of Shag? My subconscious cooked that up, looked it over and said, "Yep. Seems about right." and threw in the towel. Some people call this characteristic "being a horrible person"; I call it dedication.
The point being, I can understand why my mom would think I'd try to dick over Uncle Sam upside down and sideways. But, surprisingly, I'm not. I'm being responsible. I spent the better part of today researching this whole LLC/Inc/sales tax/income tax/we'll put a boot in your ass, it's the American way tax, thing and I won't open the store until it's all figured out and I know that all of my ducks are in a row. Which sucks because everything's designed and looks sexy and I want to show you guys now now now! But no! Must. be. responsible. Which is why I keep sending manic emails at all hours of the night to our good friend Nate asking him 9,000 questions (accompanied by delightful Leverne & Shirley clips) about the world of e-commerce. Nate's been super helpful and nice about taking time out of his day to answer my questions, despite having just been fired himself (TWINSIES!!!!!1), so if you get a chance, you should totally head over and check out his store. Thanks Nate!
This afternoon (in between doing tax research and masturbating to the sorr about the bag design) I started feeling overwhelmed by my e-commerce confusion, so I decided to take a break and make myself a relaxing cup of chamomile tea. You know how a scent can take you back to a really specific time or moment in your life? Like, white musk reminds me of 8th grade OBGC field hockey season, "Very Sexy For Her" reminds me of Junior year of college and Dolce & Gabanna "Light Blue" reminds me of slicing wrists in New York? Well, the smell of chamomile tea instantly transported back to sitting on the couch with my parents at 8pm on a weekday night, watching TV and sipping chamomile tea while trying not to cry and/or have an anxiety attack because I had to go to school the next day. But not just any school—middle school.
To say "middle school was hard for me" is such a gross understatement that it's just laughable. My middle school experience was straight-up traumatic. I am in no way saying this just for effect, but I would rather suck Paul Simon's dick for days on end with a stadium full of anonymous blog commentors watching and emailing me their in-depth critiques of my fellatio techniques than relive even five minutes of my middle school experience. That is how much I hated it. Elementary school was elementary school, high school was awesome, college was irritating but still fun, and middle school? Middle school was the equivalent of being emotionally waterboarded for 8 hours a day, 5 days a week, for 3 years in a row. Why was middle school so traumatic for? Well, truthfully, I had a few things working against me:
- For the better part of middle school I had braces, board shorts, less than mediocre hygiene skills and a perm. I mean, what part of that doesn't scream "middle school was hard for me"?
- I went to Farquhar Middle School in Olney, Maryland. (Or, Farqueer, if you will.) Farquhar is what every middle school in America must have looked like in 1972. Nothing in Farquhar has been updated since the Nixon administration and the walls are painted in neon yellow and powder blue spirals so when you walk down the ramp from the library to the cafeteria, it honestly seemed plausible that this all just might be a bad acid trip and at any point it's going to wear off and you'll wake up safe in your bed, far, far away from this pre-pubescent Hunter S. Thompsonian nightmare.
To up the creepy factor even further, Farquhar was located on a plot of land isolated in the middle of a cornfield, in the middle of a forest, in the middle of a small town in the middle of Maryland. Every morning on the ride to school, there was this disturbing moment when the bus would turn from Dr. Bird Road onto Bachelor's Forest Road and as you approached school, the only thing you could see on the horizon was a small, rundown, brick building, surrounded by nothing but ominous cornfields back-lit by the eerie red morning sky. Shit was fucked up. Like going to school wasn't hard enough, we had to do it on the set of a Tim Burton period piece.
- Children at that age, specifically girls, are down-right cruel. I could expand on this topic but it would go some place very real, very fast.
- OK, I'm going there: I had a bully. I was bullied. I'm scared to say her name because the mere thought of her puts me right back in those board shorts, but let's just say that it rhymed with Schmessica Schmith. Schmessica Schmith was total a cunt to me. I think that might have been because she was kind of a cunt in general, but she caused me a lot of anxiety in middle school. (Side note: I just found her on Facebook and she scares me just as much as she did in '96, if not more. Mostly because her Facebook photo utilizes the Photoshop charcoal filter. Snobbery. Proceed.)
The only specific example of her cuntyness that I can think of is this time in 6th grade gym class floor hockey unit, I was talking to one of my "friends" (and I put that in quotations because I clearly didn't have any) and this "friend" was complaining about how weird this kid in our class Jonathan Bligh was and desperate to join the conversation, I was like, "Ohmygawd, I know. Jonathan Bligh is such a prick."
Now, looking back, I seriously misused the term "prick" there. Jonathan Bligh was like, a painfully shy nerd with glasses who kept to himself in the corner and did puzzles. I think referring to him as a "prick" was giving him a lot of credit. The truth of the mater was that I didn't know what the word meant; I was just really eager for a chance to use it. And when I did, Schmessica Schmith just so happened to be walking by. And being kind of "schwite shrash," Schmessica Schmmith did know what a prick was and shamelessly made fun of me for misusing it and for making fun of Jonathan Bligh in the first place. Because glass houses Meg McBlogger, glass houses.
I realize that Schmessica Schmith making fun of me for misusing the term "prick" during a game of floor hockey doesn't seem that traumatic, but trust me, it was. (Side note: I just found Jonathan Bligh on Facebook and according to his picture, he just got married. Mozel tov, ya old son-of-a-prick!)
Another one of my middle school bullies was this short, stout African American girl who's name escapes me right now, but she scared the shit out of everyone, including me. Even in high school. She was always screaming at someone and being really aggressive and confrontational and just generally really unpleasant. (Jesus Chris, what the fuck was her name?? Ali and/or Eileen: I expect a text when you read this.)
Now, the halls in Farquhar are very, very narrow and one day in 8th grade, said girl was standing in front of her locker with all of her shit—her jacket, backpack, books, purse—carelessly strewn about the floor. BY COMPLETE ACCIDENT, I stepped on a tiny corner of the hoodie of her jacket, didn't notice and continued to walk on.
Suddenly the girl got all up in my face and screamed, "AWWWWWWWWWWW HAAAAAYYYYYLLL NO, BITCH! [Said girl is now AN single inch away from my face with her own.] You do NOT. Step. On a black woman's clothing."
I swear to fucking god.
I like, peed my pants. I have never been so scared in my entire life. I was like, "WHAT?!?!?! HOW DID RACE GET INVOLVED, MA'AM?!?!?!" and ran into my social studies class and hid until the bell rang. Jesus Christ. Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with people?
- I stand that Farquhar had specifically evil teachers. I know everybody looks back and thinks, "Oh man, my teachers were the worst!" But seriously, Farquhar was like, oddly chock full of horrible teachers. I'm specifically thinking of my 6th grade writing teacher, Mrs. McVeigh. Jesus Christ. What a waste of a vagina. I remember one day we read this story that was from the perspective of a thorn talking about how great it is to be a thorn and how it felt bad for the rose bud, so then we had to write a story from the perspective of something typically considered ugly or undesirable and what it felt sorry for. Everyone did their stories on weeds and shit, but I wrote mine from the perspective of the wrapper of a liverwurst sandwich and how it felt sorry for the so-called "delicious" smelling popcorn bucket. (Imaginative and hungry; even back then.)
When Mrs. McVeigh asked for volunteers to share their story, my little Meglet hand shot up immediately and I was picked to share with the class first. Shortly after I started, Mrs. McVeigh stopped me and told me that there wasn't time in her class for "these funny little stories" and if I wasn't going to take the assignment seriously, I might as well not do it at all. And oh my fucking god. To this day, I am still livid that upon hearing this, my mom didn't call her up at her home, during dinner and tell her to suck a rock and die. I mean, what's the point of having hippie parents if not for calling close-minded teachers and telling them to suck rocks and die?! When my kids ask me why they have to go to a weirdo School Without Walls where they're graded on a sliding scale of Tibetan prayer beads and hugs, this is the story I will tell them. And they're welcome.
- The combination of all of the above made it impossible for me to sleep at night because I was so consumed with anxiety about school the next day. It was bad. I wouldn't sleep all night and then the next morning, the combination of anxiety and lack of sleep would make me sick to my stomach and I'd routinely vomit all over first period. (Again, I didn't have any friends for the better part of middle school?—SHOCKER!)
We tried everything to cure my insomnia naturally—aromatherapy, noise machines, classical music tape after classical music tape after classical music tape, therapy sessions for my anxiety, herbal teas (which is where the chamomile tea flashback comes in)—and the only thing that worked was getting a lava lamp. Let me repeat that for you: the only thing that cured my debilitating anxiety and insomnia was a lava lamp. I swear to god. One day my parents took me to Sharper Image in Lakeforest Mall, we picked up a snazzy silver lava lamp with neon pink lava and from that night on (for a considerable amount of time), I was lulled to sleep by the zen-like amorphous shapes of its neon pink lava and it's warm glowing-glow.
...Do you know how much I internally struggle with this? Do you know what a complete douchebag I feel like because my body's natural Ambien is a lava lamp?? I mean, was I Shaggy in my past life??
I don't even remember why I started talking about middle school in the first place now. Why did I do this to myself? I'm completely lost in a series of anxious flashbacks. What was I talking about? Merch store -> more difficult than I thought -> taxes: whaaa? -> overwhelmed -> chamomile tea -> flashback to middle school. YES! OK. Well, so, yeah, in a nutshell: middle school was hard for me and I wouldn't go back for all the tea in China. Specifically all the chamomile tea in China. ZING!
(Yes that ZING! was forced, but I have now completely lost my concentration and all I want to do is curl up in a little ball, listen to the Spice Girls' Spice World on repeat, channel my 6th grade self and forgive.)
5.05.2010
Way to ruin it for everyone else, Smug Pug(s)
From yesterday's (numerous mighty self-righteous) blog comments:
I'm sorry, but I honestly don't get that. Why do I have to be financially stable to get a dog? I mean, lets examine the reasons I why want to get a dog in the first place, shall we?
- Target practice for my brand new BB gun
- To pit up against other neighborhood dogs in a vicious Dupont Dog Fighting Ring (the DDFR, if you will) (ddfr.org)
- Two words: Snowpocalypse transportation
- To occasionally walk so I can hit on guys in the park
- Because sometimes it's nice to listen to something squeal like a pig
- Fall 2010: Pug sweaters and matching Shiba Inu hot pants!
- So I have something to bitch slap when I'm listening to Dre and want to feel included
- To burn with cigarette butts
- To test my new line of Dynasty inspired electric blue eye make up on
- Because as of right now I have nothing to chain to a stake in my closet and and yell at when I'm drunk
- To throw in a bag and toss in the river: if it sinks—it was a good Christian dog. And if it floats? WITCH!!!
- Because that choke chain and metal cage have been collecting dust ever since I lost interest in S&M
- To breed with Cella and so I can start my very own puppy mill. EaSy MoNeY!
- Because I want to be a vampire for Halloween '10 and plastic fangs can't hold a candle to the authenticity of a dog's canines
- So I can shoot at it's paws and watch it dance, monkey, DANCE!
- To practice my budding punting career with
- Shish kapug
- To serve as a fury stage for my one-man production of Stomp The Yard
- To fatten up and sell to Mei Wah by the pound
...I mean, I just don't get why I have to be financially stable to do any of those things, you know? Cock? You know?
Asshole. And now you get this:
I'm irritated. I'll be raping purebred puppies if you need me. Good day.
I'm sorry, but I honestly don't get that. Why do I have to be financially stable to get a dog? I mean, lets examine the reasons I why want to get a dog in the first place, shall we?
Official reasons why I, Meghan McBlogger, want a dog
- Target practice for my brand new BB gun
- To pit up against other neighborhood dogs in a vicious Dupont Dog Fighting Ring (the DDFR, if you will) (ddfr.org)
- Two words: Snowpocalypse transportation
- To occasionally walk so I can hit on guys in the park
- Because sometimes it's nice to listen to something squeal like a pig
- Fall 2010: Pug sweaters and matching Shiba Inu hot pants!
- So I have something to bitch slap when I'm listening to Dre and want to feel included
- To burn with cigarette butts
- To test my new line of Dynasty inspired electric blue eye make up on
- Because as of right now I have nothing to chain to a stake in my closet and and yell at when I'm drunk
- To throw in a bag and toss in the river: if it sinks—it was a good Christian dog. And if it floats? WITCH!!!
- Because that choke chain and metal cage have been collecting dust ever since I lost interest in S&M
- To breed with Cella and so I can start my very own puppy mill. EaSy MoNeY!
- Because I want to be a vampire for Halloween '10 and plastic fangs can't hold a candle to the authenticity of a dog's canines
- So I can shoot at it's paws and watch it dance, monkey, DANCE!
- To practice my budding punting career with
- Shish kapug
- To serve as a fury stage for my one-man production of Stomp The Yard
- To fatten up and sell to Mei Wah by the pound
...I mean, I just don't get why I have to be financially stable to do any of those things, you know? Cock? You know?
Asshole. And now you get this:
I'm irritated. I'll be raping purebred puppies if you need me. Good day.
5.04.2010
State of the Meg — May, 2010
So, not to be that guy in your office who talks about the weather and says asinine things like, "woahhhh, can you believe it's May already?!", but, woahhhh, can you believe it's May already?! That's crazy. I feel like just yesterday it was Snowpocalypse and I was stuck in my apartment binge eating packages of pre-cooked sausage and drinking straight from a bottle of Manischewtiz wine I found hidden behind my DVD collection, covered in an inch of dust. Now it's 90-degrees outside and May. That's nuts. Time flies when you're not stuck in a cubicle. And it's May 4th. That means we're 4 days overdue for May's State of the Meg. BLASPHEMY! Thus, I present that State of the Meg to you now.
- Sweet & Sour Chicken. Why do I do this to myself? I always see Sweet & Sour Chicken on the menu at Mei Wah and think to myself, "Well I like chicken. And I appreciate the east-meets-west juxtaposition of sweet and sour flavors in my mouth at the same time. I should order Sweet & Sour Chicken!" And then I do and it gets here and I see what it looks like and remember that I don't like at all and it ruins my night. Much like this night. It's all fried and you have to add the queer sauce with the peppers and the cherries yourself and feh...if I wanted to cook, I wouldn't have ordered in, now would I? I should have gotten Sliced Pork in Plum Sauce. I regret this decision. So, I guess that's the first order of business.
- FYI: A 2b1b merchandise store is absolutely going to happen in the near-future, so get excited for that! I've already designed the sorr about the bag-bag and two different logos for shirts, hoodies, mugs, et al. Now I just need to find out which online store situation will yield me the most money because that's kind of where my head's at these days. I actually told someone yesterday that I was quote, "hurting for a fiscal squirting." I've never wanted to hop into a Delorean and gun it to 88 so badly in my entire life.
- I had drinks with Billy after work tonight. His leg hair seems to have grown back nicely.
- I made an important life decision that might shock you: I don't want a pug anymore. BEFORE YOU FREAK OUT, HEAR MY REASONING. I still love pugs and would kill a hooker to stare at one in person for five seconds, it's just that they have so many health problems and I really amhurting for a fiscal squirting broke these days. Perhaps getting a dog that's going to have 9 billion health problems over the course of it's life isn't the best decision in the world? Plus, puggies hate the heat. And have you been outside recently? It's like walking around in Joy Behar's bra all day. As much as I want to stab my mom and Ex Co-Blogger Eddie in the eye with a tuning fork every time they lecture me on why getting a pug is a horrible idea, I'm starting to think that perhaps they have a point. I don't want to get a puggy and have him die prematurely due to a heat related illness because I can only afford to take him to the free pug clinic on New York Ave. (Side note: new life goal—open a free pug clinic on New York Ave.)
- Instead, I'm all about getting a Shiba Inu! I actually wanted to get a Shiba Inu way before I ever wanted to get a pug. When I was 14, I had an after school job at a bookstore near my high school and one day a woman came in with a dog that looked like a straight-up fox. Now, as we all know from the embarrassing (yet not embarrassing at all because I dare you to hug him and not fall in love) fact that I sleep curled up with a giant stuffed fox named Jason, I love foxes. So I obviously freaked out about how ungodly adorable this little dog was and the owner told me that he was a Shiba Inu. Years later when Ex Co-Blogger Chris and I lived in Brooklyn, we discovered that one of our neighbors had a Shiba Inu and I was pretty much physically incapable of not peeing my pants and shrieking "AWWW, FOX DOG!!!!!!!!" every time I saw him walking around the 'hood. It then became my dream to get a little Shiba Inu and name him Steve The Fox Dog. This dream was put on hold, however, when I decided that I wanted to get Ichabod the Rasta Pug instead. But when you think about it, Steve The Fox Dog would probably be much more conducive to living in a warm city with a broke-ass ho for an owner than a pug, right? So, new goal: July 2010. Steve The Fox Dog and Meghan McBlogger. Ghetto Superstars. Coming to a district near you.
- Something embarrassing happened to me Saturday night. Well, that's obviously a lie—many embarrassing things happened to me Saturday night, but three things happened that are specifically worth noting:
1.) Before going to Anna & Talia's party, I cut my shin shaving in the shower (alliterations!) and it would not clot for the life of me. Seriously. Like, I've gotten little nicks on my legs that have taken a while to clot before, but this was on a whole other level. This was some Romanov shit right there. It bled when I was in the shower, through doing my make-up, through doing my hair, through getting dressed, through pregaming, through the metro ride from Dupont to Grosvenor, through the cab ride to Anna and Talia's house and probably like five minutes into the party. I mean, what the fuck is that? It was a tiny-ass cut. But it was bleeding profusely. And because it was bleeding profusely, I had to carry my quote, "blood rag" on the metro to occasionally dab with so blood wouldn't trickle down my leg and make me look like a 12-year-old girl getting her period for the first time.
As I was standing on the metro chatting with Ex Co-Blogger Chris and Alex and trying not to lose consciousness, an attractive guy wearing an ironic neon 90's hat got on with his bike and stood in front of me. A few minutes into the ride, I glanced down and noticed that a significant amount of blood had accumulated on my shin and it was time to give it a good old-fashioned dab with my blood rag. However, I didn't really want Irono-90's Guy to see this going down, so I did an oh-so-suave little, DOO-BEE-DOO-BEE-DOO, don't mind me! whistle and kicked my right leg over my left so I could discreetly bend down and dab it. Unfortunately, not being an oh-so-suave person to begin with, I blatantly kicked the guy's bike and drew way more attention to myself than I would have had I just bent down and dabbed it like a normal person. It also didn't help that after this happened, I loudly moaned, "GOD DAMNIT! I HATE BEING ME! ALL DAY. EVERY DAY." Sigh.
2.) This isn't really so much an embarrassing moment as it is an embarrassing observation. The drink of choice at Saturday night's party was gin bucket. A gin bucket is pretty much exactly what it sounds like—a giant bucket full of gin, various fruits and ice that you shoot into your mouth (or have shot into your mouth) via turkey baster.
...My jaw muscles still honest-to-god hurt from holding my mouth open to have gin bucket squirted down my throat. I don't know if that's a reflection of how much I drank or how out of shape my jaw muscles are, but I do know that I'm embarrassed for myself. This embarrassment is second only to when you give head for the first time after not hooking up for a while and your entire neck and jaw muscles kill for like a week afterward. Yes? No? Just me? Blokay, sitting back down. And then getting right back up to go to the gym. Or give more head. Probably neither, if I'm being honest.
3.) When Chris, Alex and I got back to the metro to head home, we were hot, sweaty, tired and covered in gin bucket. When we boarded the train, however, Alex realized that we were on a ghost car (meaning we were the only ones in the compartment) and proceeded to shoot awake, freak out in excitement, race up and down the aisle, provocatively swing from pole to pole and shout, "GHOST CAR!!!!!" at the top of his lungs. I've never seen someone go from near pass-out to 5-year-old-realizing-there's-a-pony-at-his-party-style excited that fast in my entire life. Alex later said of the ghost car, "I don't think I've been that happy in months." And his excitement was contagious! From Grosvenor to Bethesda, the three of us just ran around that car like jackasses, swinging from poles, taking lewd pictures, and shouting, "GHOST CAR!!!!" over and over again. Unfortunately this only lasted a few stops, as a bunch of people got on at Bethesda and we had to sit down in our seats and act like normal human beings again.
However, a bunch of people got off a few stops later at Van Ness and for a second there, I thought we were back in the Ghost Car. I was so excited that I audibly gasped at the thought. Giggling, with eyes as big as saucers and the cheesiest fucking grin on my face, I whipped my head around to see if we were the only people on the train and was instead met eye-to-eye with a drunk girl sitting behind me, tears streaming down her face. No two people have ever looked more directly into each other's eyes in the history of the world. And if you paused that moment, it would seem like I had whipped my head around to look and laugh at this poor girl crying her face off on the metro at 2 o'clock in the morning. But I wasn't! I just thought we were in the Ghost Car again, but how could I explain that to her?
Our eyes still locked, the smile on my face vanished and I awkwardly was like, "GHO—G-G-GHOST...NOPE, NOT A GHOST CAR. SORRY!" turned back around and slumped down into my seat. I started talking to Alex to take the embarrassment edge off and while I was talking to him, he reached down and grabbed my knee like, "dude, check out the girl behind you," which in turn made me laugh, because of the absurdity of what just happened. Which made him laugh. Which made me laugh even more. BUT WE COULDN'T LAUGH because that poor thing was like, curled up in a little ball hysterically crying and it was like the 9/11 mini-flag situation all over again. Because who am I to laugh at her? Crying in public, much like vomiting in public or losing your cell phone, is the great equalizer: we've all done it drunk and have been retrospectively embarrassed by it the next morning. Like I haven't been escorted out of a bar crying to the point where I can't catch my breath about something that the next morning, if not about poached eggs, is of little-to-no importance to me. It happens. And I honestly wasn't laughing at her or her misfortune. I was just SO DAMN EXCITED ABOUT THE GHOST TRAIN! GHOST TRAIN!!!!!!11
- I grossly have to clean my apartment and do laundry. So put that in your pipe and smoke it.
- I really like my job, which although not funny, I feel is worth mentioning.
- Speaking of jobs, I have a phone date with Helena's maybe future employer tomorrow because she put me down as a reference. I recently decided that I'm going to tell them that she founded her own white supremacy group and has a nasty little meth habit. Why? Just as a goof.
- And speaking of Helena! I know this is old news by now, but we watched Precious: Based on the Novel "Push" by Sapphire together the other day before work and that shit is FUCKED UP. Like fucked up in the way that we couldn't hug each other goodbye afterward because it was too much physical contact too soon, fucked up. Shudder, shudder. Never again.
- I need summer clothes. And shoes. And Steve The Fox Dog. Hurting 4 Fiscal Squirting '10. Here we are again.
- The guy in my building who's always an asshole made polite small-talk with me the other day in the elevator and even made a joke! BAHAHA! BOOM! It only took 14 months, but I knew I'd break him down like a racial barrier. Meghan McBlogger: like a drug that's not immediately addictive.
- Hmmm...yeah. That's all I got for you. Slow month.
State of the Meg: sore and sour. Zing!
State of the Meg — May, 2010
- Sweet & Sour Chicken. Why do I do this to myself? I always see Sweet & Sour Chicken on the menu at Mei Wah and think to myself, "Well I like chicken. And I appreciate the east-meets-west juxtaposition of sweet and sour flavors in my mouth at the same time. I should order Sweet & Sour Chicken!" And then I do and it gets here and I see what it looks like and remember that I don't like at all and it ruins my night. Much like this night. It's all fried and you have to add the queer sauce with the peppers and the cherries yourself and feh...if I wanted to cook, I wouldn't have ordered in, now would I? I should have gotten Sliced Pork in Plum Sauce. I regret this decision. So, I guess that's the first order of business.
- FYI: A 2b1b merchandise store is absolutely going to happen in the near-future, so get excited for that! I've already designed the sorr about the bag-bag and two different logos for shirts, hoodies, mugs, et al. Now I just need to find out which online store situation will yield me the most money because that's kind of where my head's at these days. I actually told someone yesterday that I was quote, "hurting for a fiscal squirting." I've never wanted to hop into a Delorean and gun it to 88 so badly in my entire life.
- I had drinks with Billy after work tonight. His leg hair seems to have grown back nicely.
- I made an important life decision that might shock you: I don't want a pug anymore. BEFORE YOU FREAK OUT, HEAR MY REASONING. I still love pugs and would kill a hooker to stare at one in person for five seconds, it's just that they have so many health problems and I really am
- Instead, I'm all about getting a Shiba Inu! I actually wanted to get a Shiba Inu way before I ever wanted to get a pug. When I was 14, I had an after school job at a bookstore near my high school and one day a woman came in with a dog that looked like a straight-up fox. Now, as we all know from the embarrassing (yet not embarrassing at all because I dare you to hug him and not fall in love) fact that I sleep curled up with a giant stuffed fox named Jason, I love foxes. So I obviously freaked out about how ungodly adorable this little dog was and the owner told me that he was a Shiba Inu. Years later when Ex Co-Blogger Chris and I lived in Brooklyn, we discovered that one of our neighbors had a Shiba Inu and I was pretty much physically incapable of not peeing my pants and shrieking "AWWW, FOX DOG!!!!!!!!" every time I saw him walking around the 'hood. It then became my dream to get a little Shiba Inu and name him Steve The Fox Dog. This dream was put on hold, however, when I decided that I wanted to get Ichabod the Rasta Pug instead. But when you think about it, Steve The Fox Dog would probably be much more conducive to living in a warm city with a broke-ass ho for an owner than a pug, right? So, new goal: July 2010. Steve The Fox Dog and Meghan McBlogger. Ghetto Superstars. Coming to a district near you.
- Something embarrassing happened to me Saturday night. Well, that's obviously a lie—many embarrassing things happened to me Saturday night, but three things happened that are specifically worth noting:
1.) Before going to Anna & Talia's party, I cut my shin shaving in the shower (alliterations!) and it would not clot for the life of me. Seriously. Like, I've gotten little nicks on my legs that have taken a while to clot before, but this was on a whole other level. This was some Romanov shit right there. It bled when I was in the shower, through doing my make-up, through doing my hair, through getting dressed, through pregaming, through the metro ride from Dupont to Grosvenor, through the cab ride to Anna and Talia's house and probably like five minutes into the party. I mean, what the fuck is that? It was a tiny-ass cut. But it was bleeding profusely. And because it was bleeding profusely, I had to carry my quote, "blood rag" on the metro to occasionally dab with so blood wouldn't trickle down my leg and make me look like a 12-year-old girl getting her period for the first time.
As I was standing on the metro chatting with Ex Co-Blogger Chris and Alex and trying not to lose consciousness, an attractive guy wearing an ironic neon 90's hat got on with his bike and stood in front of me. A few minutes into the ride, I glanced down and noticed that a significant amount of blood had accumulated on my shin and it was time to give it a good old-fashioned dab with my blood rag. However, I didn't really want Irono-90's Guy to see this going down, so I did an oh-so-suave little, DOO-BEE-DOO-BEE-DOO, don't mind me! whistle and kicked my right leg over my left so I could discreetly bend down and dab it. Unfortunately, not being an oh-so-suave person to begin with, I blatantly kicked the guy's bike and drew way more attention to myself than I would have had I just bent down and dabbed it like a normal person. It also didn't help that after this happened, I loudly moaned, "GOD DAMNIT! I HATE BEING ME! ALL DAY. EVERY DAY." Sigh.
2.) This isn't really so much an embarrassing moment as it is an embarrassing observation. The drink of choice at Saturday night's party was gin bucket. A gin bucket is pretty much exactly what it sounds like—a giant bucket full of gin, various fruits and ice that you shoot into your mouth (or have shot into your mouth) via turkey baster.
...My jaw muscles still honest-to-god hurt from holding my mouth open to have gin bucket squirted down my throat. I don't know if that's a reflection of how much I drank or how out of shape my jaw muscles are, but I do know that I'm embarrassed for myself. This embarrassment is second only to when you give head for the first time after not hooking up for a while and your entire neck and jaw muscles kill for like a week afterward. Yes? No? Just me? Blokay, sitting back down. And then getting right back up to go to the gym. Or give more head. Probably neither, if I'm being honest.
3.) When Chris, Alex and I got back to the metro to head home, we were hot, sweaty, tired and covered in gin bucket. When we boarded the train, however, Alex realized that we were on a ghost car (meaning we were the only ones in the compartment) and proceeded to shoot awake, freak out in excitement, race up and down the aisle, provocatively swing from pole to pole and shout, "GHOST CAR!!!!!" at the top of his lungs. I've never seen someone go from near pass-out to 5-year-old-realizing-there's-a-pony-at-his-party-style excited that fast in my entire life. Alex later said of the ghost car, "I don't think I've been that happy in months." And his excitement was contagious! From Grosvenor to Bethesda, the three of us just ran around that car like jackasses, swinging from poles, taking lewd pictures, and shouting, "GHOST CAR!!!!" over and over again. Unfortunately this only lasted a few stops, as a bunch of people got on at Bethesda and we had to sit down in our seats and act like normal human beings again.
However, a bunch of people got off a few stops later at Van Ness and for a second there, I thought we were back in the Ghost Car. I was so excited that I audibly gasped at the thought. Giggling, with eyes as big as saucers and the cheesiest fucking grin on my face, I whipped my head around to see if we were the only people on the train and was instead met eye-to-eye with a drunk girl sitting behind me, tears streaming down her face. No two people have ever looked more directly into each other's eyes in the history of the world. And if you paused that moment, it would seem like I had whipped my head around to look and laugh at this poor girl crying her face off on the metro at 2 o'clock in the morning. But I wasn't! I just thought we were in the Ghost Car again, but how could I explain that to her?
Our eyes still locked, the smile on my face vanished and I awkwardly was like, "GHO—G-G-GHOST...NOPE, NOT A GHOST CAR. SORRY!" turned back around and slumped down into my seat. I started talking to Alex to take the embarrassment edge off and while I was talking to him, he reached down and grabbed my knee like, "dude, check out the girl behind you," which in turn made me laugh, because of the absurdity of what just happened. Which made him laugh. Which made me laugh even more. BUT WE COULDN'T LAUGH because that poor thing was like, curled up in a little ball hysterically crying and it was like the 9/11 mini-flag situation all over again. Because who am I to laugh at her? Crying in public, much like vomiting in public or losing your cell phone, is the great equalizer: we've all done it drunk and have been retrospectively embarrassed by it the next morning. Like I haven't been escorted out of a bar crying to the point where I can't catch my breath about something that the next morning, if not about poached eggs, is of little-to-no importance to me. It happens. And I honestly wasn't laughing at her or her misfortune. I was just SO DAMN EXCITED ABOUT THE GHOST TRAIN! GHOST TRAIN!!!!!!11
- I grossly have to clean my apartment and do laundry. So put that in your pipe and smoke it.
- I really like my job, which although not funny, I feel is worth mentioning.
- Speaking of jobs, I have a phone date with Helena's maybe future employer tomorrow because she put me down as a reference. I recently decided that I'm going to tell them that she founded her own white supremacy group and has a nasty little meth habit. Why? Just as a goof.
- And speaking of Helena! I know this is old news by now, but we watched Precious: Based on the Novel "Push" by Sapphire together the other day before work and that shit is FUCKED UP. Like fucked up in the way that we couldn't hug each other goodbye afterward because it was too much physical contact too soon, fucked up. Shudder, shudder. Never again.
- I need summer clothes. And shoes. And Steve The Fox Dog. Hurting 4 Fiscal Squirting '10. Here we are again.
- The guy in my building who's always an asshole made polite small-talk with me the other day in the elevator and even made a joke! BAHAHA! BOOM! It only took 14 months, but I knew I'd break him down like a racial barrier. Meghan McBlogger: like a drug that's not immediately addictive.
- Hmmm...yeah. That's all I got for you. Slow month.
State of the Meg: sore and sour. Zing!
5.03.2010
It's not you, it's me
[TRUE STORY: I got home from Anna & Talia's joint birthday party Saturday night at approximately 3am and instead of going straight to bed because I had to be at work in the morning, I stayed up eating instant oatmeal and watching the Chris Rock documentary, Good Hair. Why? Because I make unique and horrible decisions when I'm drunk. (Side note: those unique and horrible decisions used to involve things like, hooking up with strangers and/or general drunk drama. Now they involve fiber-rich breakfast foods and documentaries about African American hair. Meghan McBlogger: this is your life.)
I got home from work tonight and was like, "well, I'll just take a wee, tiny little cat nap and then wake up fresh and rejuvenated and write something. It's now 2:47 in the morning. I fail. Again. AND THEN! I remembered that Tulane Chris sent me two blog posts last week! Yep. No big deal. But he kind of SAVED THE DAY. No Post Monday avoided! And I want to make sweet, gentle love to him on a bed of hot oatmeal for it. Soooo, enjoy that mental picture. Take it away, Chris.]
After my mother, my boyfriend, and the Catholic Church, I am the first to admit my faults. I’m short-tempered, gassy, and lazy. I have combination skin and for the life of me can’t understand economics. I eat practically no vegetables and will sleep with almost anybody. But you know what I’m absolutely the worst at? Dating. Not in a sitcommy, “There are no good guys, I’m 32 and still not married, Chandler and Joey have a duck in the house” wacky way. I’m just bad at it.
Full disclosure: I am amazed that I have a boyfriend. I never wanted one. It seemed like too much trouble. Dating was a way to get laid, pure and simple, so I went into it with a bad attitude, the same way I approach most things. My shortcomings were as follows:
- I am terrible at small talk because I genuinely don’t give a good-God-damn. I can’t talk about my upbringing because I grew up in a boring town with weird people, so I can either talk about my town’s Slovak Heritage Museum or I can talk about my mom’s friend Bev who lived with us and was a topless waitress for the Lord. Both of these are bonershrinkers at best. I can’t talk about music because I simply don’t care about it the way other people do. It doesn’t make any sense to me to use “bands I’ve heard of” as a status symbol, which is why I hate Decemberist fans – they were so busy talking to each other about other bands and so concerned with BEING SEEN AT A DECEMBERISTS SHOW that I couldn’t hear the fucking music. I wanted to make lampshades out of all their fucking ironic Nintendo tattoos. I can’t talk about travel because I’ve been to Israel, New Zealand, and New Caledonia, and no one ever knows what to ask me about those places, so unless someone wants to talk about religious violence and weird birds, I’m still out of luck. I can’t talk about politics because I have weird political beliefs and I can’t stand earnestness. The second someone starts talking about “Getting out the vote” I just leave, because there’s no way I can get it up after that. The only safe topics are really pets and food, and that only gets you so far.
- On some weird inherent level, I don’t understand people who don’t go on dates at least somewhat planning to have sex. Intellectually, I know that some people do it to “meet people” or “have a good time,” but I can’t feel that. So whenever it looks like the evening is not going to end in sex, I get uncomfortable because I cannot fathom what this other guy wants. Does he just want me to buy him dinner? Does he want to “get to know each other” first? That’s a wash, because asking someone you know or, God forbid, respect, to have dirty sex is awful. If some stranger won’t do it, who cares? If someone you like won’t do it, then there’s A Conversation About Feelings and Boundaries.
- I hate having them over to my place, because then they’re in my house, and what if they won’t leave? Going over to His Place is bad too, though, for totally different reasons. SO many people have such DULL apartments. It was especially terrible when I lived in Austin, because there are so many boxy apartment building superstructures that it was like having the same one-night stand reflected over an axis or with different carpet. Also, most gay people have the same fucking wall art. Sarah Bernhart with absinthe in 1900? Wow, never seen that over some dude’s shoulder before. I also hate having sex with people with really tidy apartments, which – again – most gay people seem to have. I was always afraid I’d ejaculate on something that would have to be dry-cleaned.
- There are still people who don’t use condoms. I… what? Granted, I’m going to bed with people I don’t know terribly well, but I don’t want fluids just hither and yon, flowing like the mighty Nile.
- I’m not wild about emotions, so I don’t see the point in dating someone unless you’re completely head-over-heels or need a project to get you through a boring patch. I’ve known so many people who were always having these passionate, dramatic relationships, and it made me tired just to watch. Dating someone you dislike just so you’re not alone is incomprehensible to me – I’m dating someone I love despite preferring to be alone. I don’t understand wanting someone there just so someone’s there. I’d legits rather cut.
- I have night terrors. Not often, but regularly. So occasionally, I’d go home with some guy, Things Would Happen, and then in the middle of the night I start screaming in my sleep. Not like a little cute talk in my sleep, like actually screaming “No, no, no, no, no, no!” while sound asleep. Try talking someone into being friends with benefits after that. I do, however, take comfort in the fact that I turned into the story about The Guy Who Had Night Terrors.
- One guy insisted that we have sex to Linkin Park. VOM.
So, see? I have literally none of the skills required to be a good date except good table manners and being a decent lay. If Giant Camel ever leaves me, I plan to just write my phone number on men’s room walls. It may not be glamorous, but those boys seem to know what they want.
“Knock, knock.”
“Who’s there?”
"Sorr."
“Sorr who?”
“SORR ABOUT THE BAG”
I got home from work tonight and was like, "well, I'll just take a wee, tiny little cat nap and then wake up fresh and rejuvenated and write something. It's now 2:47 in the morning. I fail. Again. AND THEN! I remembered that Tulane Chris sent me two blog posts last week! Yep. No big deal. But he kind of SAVED THE DAY. No Post Monday avoided! And I want to make sweet, gentle love to him on a bed of hot oatmeal for it. Soooo, enjoy that mental picture. Take it away, Chris.]
After my mother, my boyfriend, and the Catholic Church, I am the first to admit my faults. I’m short-tempered, gassy, and lazy. I have combination skin and for the life of me can’t understand economics. I eat practically no vegetables and will sleep with almost anybody. But you know what I’m absolutely the worst at? Dating. Not in a sitcommy, “There are no good guys, I’m 32 and still not married, Chandler and Joey have a duck in the house” wacky way. I’m just bad at it.
Full disclosure: I am amazed that I have a boyfriend. I never wanted one. It seemed like too much trouble. Dating was a way to get laid, pure and simple, so I went into it with a bad attitude, the same way I approach most things. My shortcomings were as follows:
- I am terrible at small talk because I genuinely don’t give a good-God-damn. I can’t talk about my upbringing because I grew up in a boring town with weird people, so I can either talk about my town’s Slovak Heritage Museum or I can talk about my mom’s friend Bev who lived with us and was a topless waitress for the Lord. Both of these are bonershrinkers at best. I can’t talk about music because I simply don’t care about it the way other people do. It doesn’t make any sense to me to use “bands I’ve heard of” as a status symbol, which is why I hate Decemberist fans – they were so busy talking to each other about other bands and so concerned with BEING SEEN AT A DECEMBERISTS SHOW that I couldn’t hear the fucking music. I wanted to make lampshades out of all their fucking ironic Nintendo tattoos. I can’t talk about travel because I’ve been to Israel, New Zealand, and New Caledonia, and no one ever knows what to ask me about those places, so unless someone wants to talk about religious violence and weird birds, I’m still out of luck. I can’t talk about politics because I have weird political beliefs and I can’t stand earnestness. The second someone starts talking about “Getting out the vote” I just leave, because there’s no way I can get it up after that. The only safe topics are really pets and food, and that only gets you so far.
- On some weird inherent level, I don’t understand people who don’t go on dates at least somewhat planning to have sex. Intellectually, I know that some people do it to “meet people” or “have a good time,” but I can’t feel that. So whenever it looks like the evening is not going to end in sex, I get uncomfortable because I cannot fathom what this other guy wants. Does he just want me to buy him dinner? Does he want to “get to know each other” first? That’s a wash, because asking someone you know or, God forbid, respect, to have dirty sex is awful. If some stranger won’t do it, who cares? If someone you like won’t do it, then there’s A Conversation About Feelings and Boundaries.
- I hate having them over to my place, because then they’re in my house, and what if they won’t leave? Going over to His Place is bad too, though, for totally different reasons. SO many people have such DULL apartments. It was especially terrible when I lived in Austin, because there are so many boxy apartment building superstructures that it was like having the same one-night stand reflected over an axis or with different carpet. Also, most gay people have the same fucking wall art. Sarah Bernhart with absinthe in 1900? Wow, never seen that over some dude’s shoulder before. I also hate having sex with people with really tidy apartments, which – again – most gay people seem to have. I was always afraid I’d ejaculate on something that would have to be dry-cleaned.
- There are still people who don’t use condoms. I… what? Granted, I’m going to bed with people I don’t know terribly well, but I don’t want fluids just hither and yon, flowing like the mighty Nile.
- I’m not wild about emotions, so I don’t see the point in dating someone unless you’re completely head-over-heels or need a project to get you through a boring patch. I’ve known so many people who were always having these passionate, dramatic relationships, and it made me tired just to watch. Dating someone you dislike just so you’re not alone is incomprehensible to me – I’m dating someone I love despite preferring to be alone. I don’t understand wanting someone there just so someone’s there. I’d legits rather cut.
- I have night terrors. Not often, but regularly. So occasionally, I’d go home with some guy, Things Would Happen, and then in the middle of the night I start screaming in my sleep. Not like a little cute talk in my sleep, like actually screaming “No, no, no, no, no, no!” while sound asleep. Try talking someone into being friends with benefits after that. I do, however, take comfort in the fact that I turned into the story about The Guy Who Had Night Terrors.
- One guy insisted that we have sex to Linkin Park. VOM.
So, see? I have literally none of the skills required to be a good date except good table manners and being a decent lay. If Giant Camel ever leaves me, I plan to just write my phone number on men’s room walls. It may not be glamorous, but those boys seem to know what they want.
“Knock, knock.”
“Who’s there?”
"Sorr."
“Sorr who?”
“SORR ABOUT THE BAG”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
