I never intended to use this blog as a political soapbox, but I have to say one thing: I am so glad it's an election year. Yesterday I got a letter from AHCCCS (AZ Medicaid) outlining the changes to coverage starting October 1st. Our unelected governor has pared down coverage for the poor (of which there are more of every month) to try and flush some more money into the budget. The only nice thing about these changes is they do not affect coverage for children. For adults over 21 however, a lot of things have been cut. Liver transplants are now unavailable for those with Hep C unless they are getting a kidney transplant at the same time. Why this is okay, I don't know. Maybe surgeons throw in the liver for free with every kidney transplant? Dental care was never great for adults. Pretty much the only thing you could get done on the state's dime was getting a rotten tooth pulled. You're not even allowed that anymore. There's a dentist, great lady, her whole practice is pulling teeth for poor folk and she's the best. What is she going to do now? What the hell is anybody who needs a tooth pulled going to do now?
The worst change by far has to be the physicals. They're gone. If you're not in pain then you have no reason to go to a doctor. For ladies, you're allowed to have a pap smear every year if you're sexually active. You are not allowed to have STD tests anymore unless you have reason to suspect a problem. What the fuck? So, pap only, no exam for cysts lumps or bumps? Fantastic. Even better is if you have had 3 normal paps in a row and are not sufficiently sexually active the state can now dictate to you how often you can have paps, if at all. Just because the governor doesn't care about early detection of cervical, ovarian, endometrial and uterine cancer I have to be put at risk? I have to pony up for an STD test? Given how many nasty little bugs have a tendency to wait around for years before fucking with you, I think it's only responsible to do so, or not fuck I suppose. What the fuck else can I afford to do, Gov? I'm poor! Yes condoms cost money but they're a hell of a lot cheaper than STD tests and cancer screenings.
Why is it that in the era of the American Universal Health Care Reform this happens? Isn't every American supposed to be able to count on a certain amount of care in order to make this a HEALTHIER nation? How can we be healthier if we don't have the chance to have physicals, preventative screenings, or even the most basic dental care? The governor thinks the system gets abused now? The only thing she has accomplished is to once again pull shit against people she doesn't like without putting it up for a vote by the very people it affects. The horrible immigration bill the feds smacked down? Hers. The "anchor baby" movement looking to change the goddamn 14th fucking amendment to the US Constitution? Right here. Her homies. Why not target Medicaid recipients? Most of them are damn Mexicans anyway, right? Wrong, bitch. I work, I pay taxes, I don't cheat the system and I'm not Hispanic. You know what else I do, Madam Unelected? I. Fucking. Vote.
That's why I'm glad it's an election year.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Tales from the Leasing Desk Pt. 1
My job today was to babysit this swanky property in the rich part of town. I love going to this property not just because it is usually very quiet, but because the "haves" are always hilarious to me, a definite "have not".
There were only 2 story-worthy folks today, but they were plenty. One was a lady who, the last time I met with her she was trying to convince me that someone cased out her apartment to steal two glass decorative lizards. Two. Glass. Decorative. Lizards. It wasn't that I didn't believe her at the time, it's just I didn't care. What on earth was I supposed to do? They were on her patio, that's not exactly Fort Knox, no matter how inflated the rent.
Today our heroine, A, called me to tell me that the landscapers were playing horseshoes by her apartment. Horseshoes. That's not a euphemism or anything, they were just playing horseshoes. On their lunch break. Fiends! I feel for A, I really do. She's a mom with little kids at home which of course makes her insane and I get that. I'll tell you one thing though, there is no damn excuse for keeping a screaming baby propped up on the same shoulder that the phone is propped on. My right eardrum will grow back someday. Anyway, she kept saying how the landscapers were loudly playing horseshoes and that's really unprofessional and why would I pay such people who do these things? Um, I'm a TEMP I'm not paid to care about vendors at any particular property, sorry. When that line of reasoning didn't do the trick, she started telling me that they were walking on the rocks close to her railing and that's just like somebody doing whatever they want on my front yard! Yeah. There's a chihuahua that does whatever it wants on my front yard. I usually just yell at it and it goes away. But wait, there's more! They are also peeking in her window and watching her TV! This actually is a serious charge. If I caught somebody peeking in my window they'd be short a couple bits below the belly button, know what I mean? Anyway, I get the crazy lady calmed down and tell her that I'm sending the maintenance guy to check it out. She begs to be anonymous. Yeah. Whatever. I tell her the peeking will be taken very seriously and we will get it stopped. Um, wait, she says, the peeking isn't a big deal, but they are being so unprofessional playing horseshoes by her apartment! So now I know A's lying about the peeking, I will no longer listen to anything she says. It has become obvious to me she wasn't looking for a problem solved so much as she simply wanted me to chase away the brown people. Yeah, no. Not in my job description, but I did ask the maintenance guy to take a look. According to the landscapers they asked her if they could play horseshoes over there and she said yes. Head? Meet desk. Repeatedly.
The other guy, I don't know who he was. Given his attitude I would guess he's a condo owner and not a renter. The owners seem to have this combination of helplessness and snobbery about them that permeates their very aura. This guy comes charging in the office asking for a printer cable. Parallel port will be fine. No. No it won't. I'm not a Staples, Best Buy, shit, I'm not even a goddamn Wal-mart. I have never, and I doubt this will change, been in an office that keeps spare printer cables around for resident use. I tried to politely tell him that in the incredibly unlikely event that there was a spare printer cable around the office, I would have no idea where to find it as I am a TEMP. He started telling me where it MIGHT be. What the fuck? Are you kidding me? There. Are. No. Printer. Cables. I am not going to go on a one-woman scavenger hunt for a stupid cable that in the time he took trying to bully me into pulling one out of my ass, he could have gone to Target and bought one for under 10 bucks. He actually scorned me! Scorned me for not having Mary Poppins' purse or pulling a Geek Squad member from my cleavage. Douche. I hope he gets herpes. Parallel Port Printer Herpes.
The last thing I saw today wasn't at work, it was on the way home and it was awesome. An obviously homeless guy complete with scraggly beard standing on the median of a busy road holding a cardboard sign that said "Blah Blah Blah". I laughed and shot him a thumbs up. It was just the perfect ending to my day up in Snobby Valley.
There were only 2 story-worthy folks today, but they were plenty. One was a lady who, the last time I met with her she was trying to convince me that someone cased out her apartment to steal two glass decorative lizards. Two. Glass. Decorative. Lizards. It wasn't that I didn't believe her at the time, it's just I didn't care. What on earth was I supposed to do? They were on her patio, that's not exactly Fort Knox, no matter how inflated the rent.
Today our heroine, A, called me to tell me that the landscapers were playing horseshoes by her apartment. Horseshoes. That's not a euphemism or anything, they were just playing horseshoes. On their lunch break. Fiends! I feel for A, I really do. She's a mom with little kids at home which of course makes her insane and I get that. I'll tell you one thing though, there is no damn excuse for keeping a screaming baby propped up on the same shoulder that the phone is propped on. My right eardrum will grow back someday. Anyway, she kept saying how the landscapers were loudly playing horseshoes and that's really unprofessional and why would I pay such people who do these things? Um, I'm a TEMP I'm not paid to care about vendors at any particular property, sorry. When that line of reasoning didn't do the trick, she started telling me that they were walking on the rocks close to her railing and that's just like somebody doing whatever they want on my front yard! Yeah. There's a chihuahua that does whatever it wants on my front yard. I usually just yell at it and it goes away. But wait, there's more! They are also peeking in her window and watching her TV! This actually is a serious charge. If I caught somebody peeking in my window they'd be short a couple bits below the belly button, know what I mean? Anyway, I get the crazy lady calmed down and tell her that I'm sending the maintenance guy to check it out. She begs to be anonymous. Yeah. Whatever. I tell her the peeking will be taken very seriously and we will get it stopped. Um, wait, she says, the peeking isn't a big deal, but they are being so unprofessional playing horseshoes by her apartment! So now I know A's lying about the peeking, I will no longer listen to anything she says. It has become obvious to me she wasn't looking for a problem solved so much as she simply wanted me to chase away the brown people. Yeah, no. Not in my job description, but I did ask the maintenance guy to take a look. According to the landscapers they asked her if they could play horseshoes over there and she said yes. Head? Meet desk. Repeatedly.
The other guy, I don't know who he was. Given his attitude I would guess he's a condo owner and not a renter. The owners seem to have this combination of helplessness and snobbery about them that permeates their very aura. This guy comes charging in the office asking for a printer cable. Parallel port will be fine. No. No it won't. I'm not a Staples, Best Buy, shit, I'm not even a goddamn Wal-mart. I have never, and I doubt this will change, been in an office that keeps spare printer cables around for resident use. I tried to politely tell him that in the incredibly unlikely event that there was a spare printer cable around the office, I would have no idea where to find it as I am a TEMP. He started telling me where it MIGHT be. What the fuck? Are you kidding me? There. Are. No. Printer. Cables. I am not going to go on a one-woman scavenger hunt for a stupid cable that in the time he took trying to bully me into pulling one out of my ass, he could have gone to Target and bought one for under 10 bucks. He actually scorned me! Scorned me for not having Mary Poppins' purse or pulling a Geek Squad member from my cleavage. Douche. I hope he gets herpes. Parallel Port Printer Herpes.
The last thing I saw today wasn't at work, it was on the way home and it was awesome. An obviously homeless guy complete with scraggly beard standing on the median of a busy road holding a cardboard sign that said "Blah Blah Blah". I laughed and shot him a thumbs up. It was just the perfect ending to my day up in Snobby Valley.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Insights from the produce section
Today I found myself shopping for a few groceries around midday. It's not so bad a time to grocery shop, the store wasn't busy, parking was great, and it has nice cold air conditioning for the hottest part of the day. So here I am pushing my cart, kiddo damn near asleep in the big part of the cart surrounded by shredded cheese and salsa verde, and I decide to get some bananas. Kiddo likes bananas at breakfast, so do I, and at $0.49 per pound you can't beat the price. So here I am looking for a bunch that aren't too green and don't look so much like victims of domestic violence, and I find myself humming along with the music. In a grocery store. Out loud. Once I realized what I was doing in an almost epiphany-like state I said to myself, "I'm humming along to Duran fucking Duran while I pick out bananas. What the fuck happened to my life?!"
Then I got home and made myself the nutritious lunch of unbuttered microwave popcorn and a handful of M&Ms and realized how funny the whole situation was. There must be someone at Fry's with a sense of humor. I remember seeing a shelf tag for something or other, one of the ones that says "additional product located ____" for the stock overflow of something popular that happens to be on sale. This one I saw directed us to the "Dairy Bunker" for more cookies. Not Dairy Case, or Dairy Dept., or even Milk Dept. Dairy Bunker. This made me think of that mysterious back room being sandbagged and Fry's employees in helmets and coordinating polos shaking down a spy from a competing store. "Tell us another one, ya traitor! We know you're lactose intolerant! WHO DO YOU WORK FOR?!"
Then there was the joker who put a "WIC approved" sticker underneath the V8 fruit and veggie juice. I wish WIC let you get that shit, man. To a mom with a kid at the "vegetables are disgusting" age, that stuff is a godsend. All the nutrition, none of the taste. That part isn't really funny but it does make me wonder why the feds don't let you use WIC for that. They let you get fruit, veggies, fruit juice, veggie juice, but not fruit and veggie juice. The juices they do allow do not blend well, either. Welch's white grape with Original V8? Yeah. Don't think so.
The last thing that made me smirk was the Duran Duran at the bananas part. Yeah it's uber lame to be caught humming along to grocery store music, but when you consider that a grocery store was playing "Hungry Like the Wolf" at lunchtime, it is kinda funny.
Okay, I'm blogging about the rationalization process I used to turn an ordinary grocery trip to a playground of irony. WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED TO MY LIFE?!?!?
Then I got home and made myself the nutritious lunch of unbuttered microwave popcorn and a handful of M&Ms and realized how funny the whole situation was. There must be someone at Fry's with a sense of humor. I remember seeing a shelf tag for something or other, one of the ones that says "additional product located ____" for the stock overflow of something popular that happens to be on sale. This one I saw directed us to the "Dairy Bunker" for more cookies. Not Dairy Case, or Dairy Dept., or even Milk Dept. Dairy Bunker. This made me think of that mysterious back room being sandbagged and Fry's employees in helmets and coordinating polos shaking down a spy from a competing store. "Tell us another one, ya traitor! We know you're lactose intolerant! WHO DO YOU WORK FOR?!"
Then there was the joker who put a "WIC approved" sticker underneath the V8 fruit and veggie juice. I wish WIC let you get that shit, man. To a mom with a kid at the "vegetables are disgusting" age, that stuff is a godsend. All the nutrition, none of the taste. That part isn't really funny but it does make me wonder why the feds don't let you use WIC for that. They let you get fruit, veggies, fruit juice, veggie juice, but not fruit and veggie juice. The juices they do allow do not blend well, either. Welch's white grape with Original V8? Yeah. Don't think so.
The last thing that made me smirk was the Duran Duran at the bananas part. Yeah it's uber lame to be caught humming along to grocery store music, but when you consider that a grocery store was playing "Hungry Like the Wolf" at lunchtime, it is kinda funny.
Okay, I'm blogging about the rationalization process I used to turn an ordinary grocery trip to a playground of irony. WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED TO MY LIFE?!?!?
Monday, August 23, 2010
Potty time is over...
Just like every other mom on the planet I was so looking forward to having a potty trained kid. If nothing else, I wanted the money back in my pocket instead of in Pampers'. I thought it would free up that time spent on changings and wipings and stuff.
Yeah, right. Here's a typical conversation with my newly potty trained kid:
You need to go potty? No? Okay.....now wait a minute, your hanging on to that thing like it's about to run away. You think someone's gonna try and steal it? No you're not, stop being a smart aleck, go potty. Go potty. Go. Potty. Go in the bathroom. Go. Yes. GO TO THE BATHROOM. DROP YOUR DRAWERS. GET ON THE TOILET. LIFT THE LID DAMMIT! No you shouldn't repeat that. Okay, now go for it. Oh I have to stay here. Fine. Go ahead then, dazzle me. Okay, honey, honey, HONEY you just hosed your own leg and you're sitting down. It's okay to separate the penis from the testicle it is stuck to. Okay, good. Isn't that better? Wait, no. No. NO! Point it down! Down! DOWN AT THE WATER FOR GOODNESS SAKE! Okay, here's a square of toilet paper. Dab the end. Dab it. So you don't drip all over the place because you haven't figured out the shake yet. No I didn't mean hop down and shake like the dog! Good LORD child, doesn't that hurt when it's slappin' all over the place like that? Wow. Okay. Weirdo. Put your underpants back on. Put them on. PUT YOUR UNDIES BACK ON NOW! Don't you "okaaaaaaay" me young man! Just pull em' up! Honey. Honey? Woo hoo? Your penis is sticking out the bottom of the undies. Why is that? "It's comfortable?" I don't think so. Let me get those things untwisted. Because if your dork's hanging out it kind of defeats the purpose of underpants. Now lets get these shorts back on. They're backwards Sweetie. Backwards. Remember? The tag goes in back. The. TAG. Goes. In. BACK. THANK you! Now flush. Thank you. You can let go of the flusher now. Let go. Okay let's go and- what? No I won't take off the tank lid again so you can watch it. No. Because it's fixed now. I said no. No. What did I just say? That's right. Remember I'm still bigger than you.
So let me ask you this. Who's actually the trained one?
Yeah, right. Here's a typical conversation with my newly potty trained kid:
You need to go potty? No? Okay.....now wait a minute, your hanging on to that thing like it's about to run away. You think someone's gonna try and steal it? No you're not, stop being a smart aleck, go potty. Go potty. Go. Potty. Go in the bathroom. Go. Yes. GO TO THE BATHROOM. DROP YOUR DRAWERS. GET ON THE TOILET. LIFT THE LID DAMMIT! No you shouldn't repeat that. Okay, now go for it. Oh I have to stay here. Fine. Go ahead then, dazzle me. Okay, honey, honey, HONEY you just hosed your own leg and you're sitting down. It's okay to separate the penis from the testicle it is stuck to. Okay, good. Isn't that better? Wait, no. No. NO! Point it down! Down! DOWN AT THE WATER FOR GOODNESS SAKE! Okay, here's a square of toilet paper. Dab the end. Dab it. So you don't drip all over the place because you haven't figured out the shake yet. No I didn't mean hop down and shake like the dog! Good LORD child, doesn't that hurt when it's slappin' all over the place like that? Wow. Okay. Weirdo. Put your underpants back on. Put them on. PUT YOUR UNDIES BACK ON NOW! Don't you "okaaaaaaay" me young man! Just pull em' up! Honey. Honey? Woo hoo? Your penis is sticking out the bottom of the undies. Why is that? "It's comfortable?" I don't think so. Let me get those things untwisted. Because if your dork's hanging out it kind of defeats the purpose of underpants. Now lets get these shorts back on. They're backwards Sweetie. Backwards. Remember? The tag goes in back. The. TAG. Goes. In. BACK. THANK you! Now flush. Thank you. You can let go of the flusher now. Let go. Okay let's go and- what? No I won't take off the tank lid again so you can watch it. No. Because it's fixed now. I said no. No. What did I just say? That's right. Remember I'm still bigger than you.
So let me ask you this. Who's actually the trained one?
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Well, well, well...
It's that time of year again, apparently. I've noticed that ever so often conservative media outlets like to trot out one of their pet projects whenever there's a slow news day or their peers on the other side of the spectrum are getting a little too close for comfort on something they screwed up. Liberal news outlets do the same thing. It's the name of the game in propaganda and I doubt it will change anytime soon. I just find it hilarious that ever so often the conservative media feels the need to remind us that they don't approve of teh gays, or teh buttsex, or socialized medicine. We know! We got it the first few hundred times, okay?
ChristWire.org published an article on 8/14/10 titled Is My Husband Gay? which is really nothing but a Top 15 list of stuff to watch out for. I don't know why they didn't try to cash in on a few different demographics and boost themselves up on Google by calling it "Top 15 Ways to Tell If Hubby Is Homo", but I suppose the good people at ChristWire don't want to be mistaken for Cracked. For the record, for all the info I can find about this site it could be a subsidiary. No one can seem to figure out if the whole thing is fake or not. You can follow the link for the whole shebang, or check out Huffington Post for their take on it. For the rest of you, here's my take on the article, which instead of filling this space full of thoughtful arguments and impassioned pleas for equality (read: minding your own fucking business) I'm just going to rip this piece mercilessly for it's blatant stereotyping and unintentional try at "science". Please read the damn thing at the source for all of their "data". I'd cut and paste the whole damn thing but Lord knows I don't need to be on these people's radar.
TOP 15 WAYS YOUR HUBBY MIGHT BE SHOWING YOU HE'S HOMO
2. Looks at other men in a flirtatious way
If your man is checking out other dudes openly, that may seem odd. I would think 9 times out of 10 such a thing is more likely to trigger an internal response of "Badass jacket" or "Fucking Packers fan" than "Hello, Sailor". The article includes doing such things as being visibly upset when "visibly upset when someone does not return a compliment about his physical appearance". That's not a sign of gayness, that's just straight up douchebaggery.
3. Feigning attention in church and prayer groups
So all little kids, bored adults who worked a late shift the night before, and people coming down with colds are gay? Come on, even Jesus thought a couple of the Pharisees were boring and full of it, chances are you may just have a boring pastor.
4. Overly fastidious about his appearance and the home
"Natural men have a certain amount of grit about them. They sweat and they smell. Homosexuals often abhor this sort of thing..." Really? I can think of one time when 99% of men and women of all sexual proclivities love some sweat and smell. How are these "natural" couples having sex? "Just a second Husband, let me turn on this Neil Sedaka CD and grab the Febreze. That way your pungent man smell won't choke me this time. Lah Dee Dah, at least I know you're too gross to be gay!"
5. Gym membership but no interest in sports
So....yeah. This is just plain retarded. The "reasoning" here is gay men use the gym as a way to hook up after looking at other hot sweaty men. First of all, wait a minute I thought teh Gays didn't like to sweat, and secondly, if the gym is where all the buttsex is happening then why hasn't the Casual Encounters section of Craigslist disappeared?
6. Clothes that are too tight and too “trendy”
Again, he may just be a clueless douchebag. Does he watch Jersey Shore?
7. Strange sexual demands
"If there is a sudden interest in sodomy, sadomasochism, lubricants, role-play, sex toys or other non-traditional intercourse methods, this is clearly an indication of deep emotional abnormalities." So....I'm gay now? What the fuck? I'm not even a dude! Does this automatically make me a lesbian, or should I just have the doc double up on my meds? Look folks, you will never go wrong with the assumption that everybody is kinkier than you think and you will be even more correct when you realize unless they're fucking you it's none of your fucking business.
8. More interested in the men than the women in pornographic films
Confession time. I like looking at chicks in pornos more than dudes, and I'm not a lesbian. Unless the cock in question is about to be mine (figuratively speaking of course) I really don't think about them too much. They're kinda funny lookin'. Vaginas aren't exactly that gorgeous either, aesthetically speaking, but I guess it's a "devil you know" kind of thing. Also, if I'm looking at a porno I'm looking more at the actresses makes it easier to really visualize and internalize the types of stimulation I'm looking for. When you're watching a movie of, say, someone swimming don't you start to feel the muscles in your arm flex a little, or maybe smell the ocean a little bit? I betcha someone who doesn't know how to swim would not feel those muscles or smell that air. Think about it.
9. Travels frequently to big cities or Asia
How dare you make a living with a career that may not allow me to watch your every move?!
10. Too many friendly young male friends
Oh fuck me sideways, just rewrite this one. Is your husband Oscar Wilde?
11. Sassy, sarcastic and ironic around his friends
12. Love of pop culture
"Gossip websites, Glee and The Golden Girls are three well-documented icons of the gay movement..." Really? That explains all those floats during Pride featuring a quartet of Betty White impersonators singing Lady Gaga tunes and being conducted by Perez Hilton. Speaking of the Lady, why isn't she mentioned? You're dropping the ball here, ChristWire!
13. Extroverted about his bare chest in public
"Does it seem like he’s purposely standing right in the middle of a crowd to show off his chest and arm muscles, peppering people with questions about how strong he looks?" Well then he might be a caveman, an extra off the "300" movie set, or just a douchebag. Really, folks, have you even heard of Occam's Razor?
14. Sudden heavy drinking
15. Ladies, have you dated men in the past who turned out to be gay?
"ask yourself whether you’re honestly looking for a man or just a shopping companion. Is sharing gossip more important to you than raising children? Ultimately, it’s a question of getting your priorities straight!" I'm not touching that one with a rainbow-colored disco stick. Shrinks. They help. Just sayin'.
ChristWire.org published an article on 8/14/10 titled Is My Husband Gay? which is really nothing but a Top 15 list of stuff to watch out for. I don't know why they didn't try to cash in on a few different demographics and boost themselves up on Google by calling it "Top 15 Ways to Tell If Hubby Is Homo", but I suppose the good people at ChristWire don't want to be mistaken for Cracked. For the record, for all the info I can find about this site it could be a subsidiary. No one can seem to figure out if the whole thing is fake or not. You can follow the link for the whole shebang, or check out Huffington Post for their take on it. For the rest of you, here's my take on the article, which instead of filling this space full of thoughtful arguments and impassioned pleas for equality (read: minding your own fucking business) I'm just going to rip this piece mercilessly for it's blatant stereotyping and unintentional try at "science". Please read the damn thing at the source for all of their "data". I'd cut and paste the whole damn thing but Lord knows I don't need to be on these people's radar.
TOP 15 WAYS YOUR HUBBY MIGHT BE SHOWING YOU HE'S HOMO
1. Secretive late night use of cellphones and computers
Yeah, because straight guys don't ever cheat and get caught because their secretive phone calls turn out to not be as secret as they thought, and no straight happily married man looks at porn on the computer. BWAHAHAHAHA! Sure thing, folks, and there aren't lots and lots of happily married couples who indulge in porn together. If you don't like your man checking it out on the DL then try sharing it with him, make suggestions, hell, make a video!
2. Looks at other men in a flirtatious way
If your man is checking out other dudes openly, that may seem odd. I would think 9 times out of 10 such a thing is more likely to trigger an internal response of "Badass jacket" or "Fucking Packers fan" than "Hello, Sailor". The article includes doing such things as being visibly upset when "visibly upset when someone does not return a compliment about his physical appearance". That's not a sign of gayness, that's just straight up douchebaggery.
3. Feigning attention in church and prayer groups
So all little kids, bored adults who worked a late shift the night before, and people coming down with colds are gay? Come on, even Jesus thought a couple of the Pharisees were boring and full of it, chances are you may just have a boring pastor.
4. Overly fastidious about his appearance and the home
"Natural men have a certain amount of grit about them. They sweat and they smell. Homosexuals often abhor this sort of thing..." Really? I can think of one time when 99% of men and women of all sexual proclivities love some sweat and smell. How are these "natural" couples having sex? "Just a second Husband, let me turn on this Neil Sedaka CD and grab the Febreze. That way your pungent man smell won't choke me this time. Lah Dee Dah, at least I know you're too gross to be gay!"
So....yeah. This is just plain retarded. The "reasoning" here is gay men use the gym as a way to hook up after looking at other hot sweaty men. First of all, wait a minute I thought teh Gays didn't like to sweat, and secondly, if the gym is where all the buttsex is happening then why hasn't the Casual Encounters section of Craigslist disappeared?
6. Clothes that are too tight and too “trendy”
Again, he may just be a clueless douchebag. Does he watch Jersey Shore?
7. Strange sexual demands
"If there is a sudden interest in sodomy, sadomasochism, lubricants, role-play, sex toys or other non-traditional intercourse methods, this is clearly an indication of deep emotional abnormalities." So....I'm gay now? What the fuck? I'm not even a dude! Does this automatically make me a lesbian, or should I just have the doc double up on my meds? Look folks, you will never go wrong with the assumption that everybody is kinkier than you think and you will be even more correct when you realize unless they're fucking you it's none of your fucking business.
8. More interested in the men than the women in pornographic films
Confession time. I like looking at chicks in pornos more than dudes, and I'm not a lesbian. Unless the cock in question is about to be mine (figuratively speaking of course) I really don't think about them too much. They're kinda funny lookin'. Vaginas aren't exactly that gorgeous either, aesthetically speaking, but I guess it's a "devil you know" kind of thing. Also, if I'm looking at a porno I'm looking more at the actresses makes it easier to really visualize and internalize the types of stimulation I'm looking for. When you're watching a movie of, say, someone swimming don't you start to feel the muscles in your arm flex a little, or maybe smell the ocean a little bit? I betcha someone who doesn't know how to swim would not feel those muscles or smell that air. Think about it.
How dare you make a living with a career that may not allow me to watch your every move?!
10. Too many friendly young male friends
Oh fuck me sideways, just rewrite this one. Is your husband Oscar Wilde?
11. Sassy, sarcastic and ironic around his friends
This includes such behavior as "excessive back talk and speaking with one’s hands." So that covers toddlers and Italians. Good job!
12. Love of pop culture
"Gossip websites, Glee and The Golden Girls are three well-documented icons of the gay movement..." Really? That explains all those floats during Pride featuring a quartet of Betty White impersonators singing Lady Gaga tunes and being conducted by Perez Hilton. Speaking of the Lady, why isn't she mentioned? You're dropping the ball here, ChristWire!
13. Extroverted about his bare chest in public
"Does it seem like he’s purposely standing right in the middle of a crowd to show off his chest and arm muscles, peppering people with questions about how strong he looks?" Well then he might be a caveman, an extra off the "300" movie set, or just a douchebag. Really, folks, have you even heard of Occam's Razor?
"Does your man disappear on drinking binges for long hours without answering his cellphone? Is there a strange odor about him when he returns, some strange mix of cigarettes and gel?"
1. Like straight men don't binge drink? That's not a sexuality thing, that's an alcoholic thing.
2. What's a wife in this scenario supposed to do? Stay up until he returns, lean in and say "Is that...appletini I smell?"
3. GEL?!?! What the FUCK! 15. Ladies, have you dated men in the past who turned out to be gay?
"ask yourself whether you’re honestly looking for a man or just a shopping companion. Is sharing gossip more important to you than raising children? Ultimately, it’s a question of getting your priorities straight!" I'm not touching that one with a rainbow-colored disco stick. Shrinks. They help. Just sayin'.
Friday, August 20, 2010
A foray into a serious subject
I have never, and will never, claim to be a Writer. I can write, duh, but Write? Nah. This is just for shits and grins. Be that as it may, sometimes I like to pretend I could be if I wanted to, and this is what happens when I try. Enjoy M'Dears. Try not to pelt too many tomatoes at your screens in order to block the self-serving crap.
When you hear the term “single mom” what’s the first thing you think of? Hood rats with 5 babies by the time they’re 20 years old, collecting welfare but gabbing to their friends on an $800 cell phone? Trailer park denizens who trash pick for baby clothes but pay cash for Coors? Maybe you think of your own mom? I know my mom was a single mom until she married my dad. She was even a teenage mom, having had my sister at the age of 17. Her unwillingness to quit high school when she started showing caused the enlightened minds of 1973 Rialto to screw her out of a diploma for missing a gym credit. She was pretty much home-bound by her own mother who couldn’t deal with the shame of an obviously unwed pregnant teenage daughter. My mom still wonders that her mom didn’t make her wear a fake wedding band to her Ob/Gyn appointments. These are the things my mom likes to remind me of when I get in a funk about my own situation. She’s right, of course, there are now certain laws in place to protect pregnant teens from getting screwed out of an education, but as for the rest? 1973 ain’t as far off as you’d think, even if you’re out of your teens.
“When are you getting married?” That’s a fun question to get asked, isn’t it? Especially when my stomach was all round and feet-obscuring, and my ring finger all too bare, not even a tan line to vouch for it. I never got asked this when the Baby Daddy was around, oh goodness no. Babydaddies get mad props just for sticking around after the girls get fat. They’re expected to take off and when they don’t, well, they’re goddamn saints. There are guys who do in fact stick around for the child and maybe even stay with the mother, but those are Men. I’m talking about the far more plentiful Babydaddies.
You can’t give an answer to the person asking about your marital status, because even “mind your own goddamn business you hag” is all the answer they need to correctly ascertain the situation. You’re not going to get married. Right away the distinction is made. You are not loved. You are not lovable. You are stupid, because only stupid girls get knocked up. You are damaged. You are easy and slutty and it caught up with you. You will be easily found at the welfare office. You failed. This is all the same now as it was back in 1973. It is also just as much bullshit as it was back then, but it still stings. Of course, now there are plenty of women who have gone parenting alone and there is safety in numbers, yes? There’s a sort of comforting anonymity in numbers to be sure, but you don’t feel safe. You feel like hiding.
Then you wake the fuck up and realize, look, if nothing else you have a lot of goddamn work ahead of you. Birthing plans, maternity clothes, stocking up on baby junk, picking a hospital, doctors appointments, ultrasounds, circumcision or no, Catholic, Protestant, both, neither, none at all? Names! First names, middle names, who’s last name will the baby get? Shit, man, you can do this crap, of course you can! If you need to finish high school, you can! If you need to work, then you can! If you need time off when you give birth, there’s a 70% chance that you can have that too (if qualified). The government is there to help you, but of course you can help yourself, right?
Well, there are a few problems with that. Who is going to watch the baby when you go back to work? Day care is expensive and not every place takes infants. The cheapest palatable day care around here is $135 a week. I don’t begrudge them a penny of it, but that totals out to almost the same as my monthly rent. Is there government help for day care costs? You bet! If you qualify with the proper kind of work hours, and you’ve risen to the top of a waiting list with several thousand names ahead of you. Several. Thousand. Okay, you shanghai a friend or a relative to watch your kid so you can work and not go on the road to welfare. You’ll just take your breast pump and keep the milk going during the work day. There are lots of laws in place to protect the rights of breastfeeding mothers that they have to be okay with it, right? Of course! If you’re lucky enough to live in a state that has the same rules in place for breast pumping mothers. My state was not one of those until very recently. My employer at the time was within their rights (and they exercised them) to ask me to leave my pump at home, pump on my lunch time, and then dock my pay for the extra time I took getting home and back to the site. I could do nothing about it. I complained, but it came to nothing but a lecture on “assuming” I had the rights of a “normal” breastfeeding mother. The attitude is very much still “if you have to work then formula feed your baby.” Never mind the well documented fact of the superiority of breast milk, or the fact that the Feds push it like no tomorrow in every WIC office and health department around. The Feds are so into those babies getting the best food they can get that they have YET to pass a universal law protecting the rights of working mothers and their pumps. Even employers who had children and nursed them referred to my pumping as “fake feeding”. If you want to nurse that baby then you better stay home until it’s weaned. Let the Husband take control of the…oh. Right. Sorry.
*Sigh* Okay, so you’ve gotten past the weaning stage and the baby is now sleeping through the night. Your body may be a bit closer to normal and you have caught up on some of your much needed rest. You’ve figured out that you are still a human being and you’d like to maybe find somebody to share that with. After all, you’re still a desirable human being with a brain and great (if perhaps saggier) rack and bodacious (if a bit wider) hips, right? You may be getting a little help from the government since it’s pretty hard to properly feed 2 for the price of 1 and of course Medicaid sure helps with those immunization costs, but for goodness’ sake you are a vibrant young woman! You’ve got a few Mommy pounds, maybe a little wrinkle by the eyes, or a stray gray hair or two, but it all adds to that new layer to yourself as that sacred being of Mother. It’s a beautiful thing, isn’t it?
Beautiful, yes, but there’s no reason to be fat! That’s THE cardinal sin of womanhood! You see so many single moms around, (celebrities, for instance) that there is no goddamn reason you should not be an educated, successful, self-reliant, thin, gorgeous, well-read, ubermom, who bakes cookies, cooks nutritious meals every night, keeps an immaculate home and then turns into a lithe sex kitten ready to have multiple orgasms with her fantastic boyfriend as soon as Babydaddy takes junior for his court ordered visitation time. That’s not too much to live up to is it? Why are you so tired, Honey? Honey? Come out of the bathroom, Hon. If I hear “Mother’s Little Helper” by the Rolling Stones one more time I’m leaving. Are you crying? Honey? Honey?! Are you going to drink all that wine? HONEY!
I have heard it said, and had it attributed to a single male under 30 that the leap in the number of single moms can be used as evidence against the effectiveness and overall benefits (or lack thereof) of the Feminist movement. The solution is that Babydaddies need to man up, sack up, and MARRY those girls! Provide! Lead! Be MEN. Sure. That’ll happen. All those scared little boys will just snap right into the role of Ward Cleaver no problemo. I have a different idea. Call it crazy, call it unfeasible, call it whatever you like, but how about just treating single moms like fallible human beings? We were people before children and we are people afterwards. We have baggage, you bet. It may be true that we have lumps where there were no lumps before, and that we cannot be expected to just drop our lives on a whim to go on an impromptu road trip to nowhere. We aren’t little girls anymore. Despite our chronological ages we aren’t girls at all. We are Women. We are Mothers. Respect that. Realize that what you may trade in youthful fantasy you gain the mature experience of someone capable of being more than a breathing masturbation toy. We are Capable. We can be your partners, your lovers, your friends. Give us some slack, some room to breathe away from the judging horde and we may just learn to loosen up and turn out to be exactly what you’ve been looking for.
“When are you getting married?” That’s a fun question to get asked, isn’t it? Especially when my stomach was all round and feet-obscuring, and my ring finger all too bare, not even a tan line to vouch for it. I never got asked this when the Baby Daddy was around, oh goodness no. Babydaddies get mad props just for sticking around after the girls get fat. They’re expected to take off and when they don’t, well, they’re goddamn saints. There are guys who do in fact stick around for the child and maybe even stay with the mother, but those are Men. I’m talking about the far more plentiful Babydaddies.
You can’t give an answer to the person asking about your marital status, because even “mind your own goddamn business you hag” is all the answer they need to correctly ascertain the situation. You’re not going to get married. Right away the distinction is made. You are not loved. You are not lovable. You are stupid, because only stupid girls get knocked up. You are damaged. You are easy and slutty and it caught up with you. You will be easily found at the welfare office. You failed. This is all the same now as it was back in 1973. It is also just as much bullshit as it was back then, but it still stings. Of course, now there are plenty of women who have gone parenting alone and there is safety in numbers, yes? There’s a sort of comforting anonymity in numbers to be sure, but you don’t feel safe. You feel like hiding.
Then you wake the fuck up and realize, look, if nothing else you have a lot of goddamn work ahead of you. Birthing plans, maternity clothes, stocking up on baby junk, picking a hospital, doctors appointments, ultrasounds, circumcision or no, Catholic, Protestant, both, neither, none at all? Names! First names, middle names, who’s last name will the baby get? Shit, man, you can do this crap, of course you can! If you need to finish high school, you can! If you need to work, then you can! If you need time off when you give birth, there’s a 70% chance that you can have that too (if qualified). The government is there to help you, but of course you can help yourself, right?
Well, there are a few problems with that. Who is going to watch the baby when you go back to work? Day care is expensive and not every place takes infants. The cheapest palatable day care around here is $135 a week. I don’t begrudge them a penny of it, but that totals out to almost the same as my monthly rent. Is there government help for day care costs? You bet! If you qualify with the proper kind of work hours, and you’ve risen to the top of a waiting list with several thousand names ahead of you. Several. Thousand. Okay, you shanghai a friend or a relative to watch your kid so you can work and not go on the road to welfare. You’ll just take your breast pump and keep the milk going during the work day. There are lots of laws in place to protect the rights of breastfeeding mothers that they have to be okay with it, right? Of course! If you’re lucky enough to live in a state that has the same rules in place for breast pumping mothers. My state was not one of those until very recently. My employer at the time was within their rights (and they exercised them) to ask me to leave my pump at home, pump on my lunch time, and then dock my pay for the extra time I took getting home and back to the site. I could do nothing about it. I complained, but it came to nothing but a lecture on “assuming” I had the rights of a “normal” breastfeeding mother. The attitude is very much still “if you have to work then formula feed your baby.” Never mind the well documented fact of the superiority of breast milk, or the fact that the Feds push it like no tomorrow in every WIC office and health department around. The Feds are so into those babies getting the best food they can get that they have YET to pass a universal law protecting the rights of working mothers and their pumps. Even employers who had children and nursed them referred to my pumping as “fake feeding”. If you want to nurse that baby then you better stay home until it’s weaned. Let the Husband take control of the…oh. Right. Sorry.
*Sigh* Okay, so you’ve gotten past the weaning stage and the baby is now sleeping through the night. Your body may be a bit closer to normal and you have caught up on some of your much needed rest. You’ve figured out that you are still a human being and you’d like to maybe find somebody to share that with. After all, you’re still a desirable human being with a brain and great (if perhaps saggier) rack and bodacious (if a bit wider) hips, right? You may be getting a little help from the government since it’s pretty hard to properly feed 2 for the price of 1 and of course Medicaid sure helps with those immunization costs, but for goodness’ sake you are a vibrant young woman! You’ve got a few Mommy pounds, maybe a little wrinkle by the eyes, or a stray gray hair or two, but it all adds to that new layer to yourself as that sacred being of Mother. It’s a beautiful thing, isn’t it?
Beautiful, yes, but there’s no reason to be fat! That’s THE cardinal sin of womanhood! You see so many single moms around, (celebrities, for instance) that there is no goddamn reason you should not be an educated, successful, self-reliant, thin, gorgeous, well-read, ubermom, who bakes cookies, cooks nutritious meals every night, keeps an immaculate home and then turns into a lithe sex kitten ready to have multiple orgasms with her fantastic boyfriend as soon as Babydaddy takes junior for his court ordered visitation time. That’s not too much to live up to is it? Why are you so tired, Honey? Honey? Come out of the bathroom, Hon. If I hear “Mother’s Little Helper” by the Rolling Stones one more time I’m leaving. Are you crying? Honey? Honey?! Are you going to drink all that wine? HONEY!
I have heard it said, and had it attributed to a single male under 30 that the leap in the number of single moms can be used as evidence against the effectiveness and overall benefits (or lack thereof) of the Feminist movement. The solution is that Babydaddies need to man up, sack up, and MARRY those girls! Provide! Lead! Be MEN. Sure. That’ll happen. All those scared little boys will just snap right into the role of Ward Cleaver no problemo. I have a different idea. Call it crazy, call it unfeasible, call it whatever you like, but how about just treating single moms like fallible human beings? We were people before children and we are people afterwards. We have baggage, you bet. It may be true that we have lumps where there were no lumps before, and that we cannot be expected to just drop our lives on a whim to go on an impromptu road trip to nowhere. We aren’t little girls anymore. Despite our chronological ages we aren’t girls at all. We are Women. We are Mothers. Respect that. Realize that what you may trade in youthful fantasy you gain the mature experience of someone capable of being more than a breathing masturbation toy. We are Capable. We can be your partners, your lovers, your friends. Give us some slack, some room to breathe away from the judging horde and we may just learn to loosen up and turn out to be exactly what you’ve been looking for.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Oh, for fuck's sake...
When I was pregnant, there were certain things I wanted my child to get from me. Every mom-to-be does this, any that deny it are lying or already on the good drugs. When I thought about my boy to be, I was hoping he'd get my squinty, slanty, Indian eyes. Check. My chin (his father has none)...check. My brains, I'd like to think so. My allergies? FUCK NO.
I didn't get my wish. This poor kid, starting yesterday, has been nothing but a burbling snot fountain. His eyes are so red-rimmed I've dubbed him The Strawberry Raccoon. When he talks, he's about as easy to understand as a congested platypus.
I give him Benedryl, it works, kinda, for about 2 hours tops. He is, of course, a zombie, but a fairly less snotty one. Today I'm trying Claritin. It's what I take (of course I don't get the yummy grape kind, dammit) so here's hopin' it'll help him. These are the kinds of things they just didn't have when I was his age and suffering, and dear Lord did I suffer. At Trader Joe's today the checker and I were swapping stories about growing up with fucktastic allergies. Apparently I wasn't the only kid with their own box of Puffs Plus on their desk. I also wasn't the only kid who loathed tests because they got glared at every time they sneezed and broke some poor kids' concentration.
As I grew up my allergies got much easier to manage, but that didn't come until I was well into and on my way out of puberty. I love the parents that get all Granola Holier (Granolier?) Than Thou and talk about antibodies and histamine reactions and the healthy immune responses of children like they're all God's Own Allergists. Fuck them. When it comes to drugs I'm definitely in the "kids don't need drugs, their parents do" camp, but for allergies? Pass the antihistamines. Pass the decongestants, and not the cutesy PE shit, the real meth-makin motherfuckers! Do you know how hard it is to sleep, eat, function at all normally with a head full of snot? An adult can understand and persevere. A child, especially a toddler, knows only two things- 1. They don't feel good, and 2. Mommy isn't fixing it. Well, THIS mommy ain't gonna try and explain the whys and wherefores of it. She's gonna set up shots of grape flavored magic until she finds one that works (following the directions on the packages of course) and if they don't she's hittin' up the doctor for something better. This is 2010, and there is NO reason on God's Green (and ragweed filled) EARTH that my son should have to sound like Elmer Fudd and feel like shit for 3/4 of the year. You hear me Faux-hippie motherfuckers?! Put that in your goddamn free-trade, organic mud, hand-spun, recycled glass embellished, Grateful Dead bear shaped pipe and smoke it.
I didn't get my wish. This poor kid, starting yesterday, has been nothing but a burbling snot fountain. His eyes are so red-rimmed I've dubbed him The Strawberry Raccoon. When he talks, he's about as easy to understand as a congested platypus.
I give him Benedryl, it works, kinda, for about 2 hours tops. He is, of course, a zombie, but a fairly less snotty one. Today I'm trying Claritin. It's what I take (of course I don't get the yummy grape kind, dammit) so here's hopin' it'll help him. These are the kinds of things they just didn't have when I was his age and suffering, and dear Lord did I suffer. At Trader Joe's today the checker and I were swapping stories about growing up with fucktastic allergies. Apparently I wasn't the only kid with their own box of Puffs Plus on their desk. I also wasn't the only kid who loathed tests because they got glared at every time they sneezed and broke some poor kids' concentration.
As I grew up my allergies got much easier to manage, but that didn't come until I was well into and on my way out of puberty. I love the parents that get all Granola Holier (Granolier?) Than Thou and talk about antibodies and histamine reactions and the healthy immune responses of children like they're all God's Own Allergists. Fuck them. When it comes to drugs I'm definitely in the "kids don't need drugs, their parents do" camp, but for allergies? Pass the antihistamines. Pass the decongestants, and not the cutesy PE shit, the real meth-makin motherfuckers! Do you know how hard it is to sleep, eat, function at all normally with a head full of snot? An adult can understand and persevere. A child, especially a toddler, knows only two things- 1. They don't feel good, and 2. Mommy isn't fixing it. Well, THIS mommy ain't gonna try and explain the whys and wherefores of it. She's gonna set up shots of grape flavored magic until she finds one that works (following the directions on the packages of course) and if they don't she's hittin' up the doctor for something better. This is 2010, and there is NO reason on God's Green (and ragweed filled) EARTH that my son should have to sound like Elmer Fudd and feel like shit for 3/4 of the year. You hear me Faux-hippie motherfuckers?! Put that in your goddamn free-trade, organic mud, hand-spun, recycled glass embellished, Grateful Dead bear shaped pipe and smoke it.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Let's get serious for a moment
I'm sitting here in my bra, blogging (Bragging? Brogging?) wondering what this little experiment will turn into. Will it be simply a venting space to bitch about life in general? Will it have a singular purpose- a sole focal point? Will it be just a vain attempt to try and grab some attention as a very small voice in a very crowded room? I don't know. What I do know is three things:
1. I met a guy for coffee yesterday evening. It was nice. He seems to be really not looking for anyone steady right now, so I don't know if he will be calling me back for a proper date or not. He knows I'm interested. Let's see what happens. I'm fabulous, if he doesn't want to date me, then he's a dumbass, right?
2. The next blog post will be a serious attempt at writing on a serious subject. Stay tuned.
3. Reese's PB cups are, and always will be, the bomb.
Laterz.
1. I met a guy for coffee yesterday evening. It was nice. He seems to be really not looking for anyone steady right now, so I don't know if he will be calling me back for a proper date or not. He knows I'm interested. Let's see what happens. I'm fabulous, if he doesn't want to date me, then he's a dumbass, right?
2. The next blog post will be a serious attempt at writing on a serious subject. Stay tuned.
3. Reese's PB cups are, and always will be, the bomb.
Laterz.
Monday, August 16, 2010
For the love of chocolate chips...
What the fuck is going on goddamnit? I didn't get to go on my coffee date yesterday due to an unforeseen puppy paw injury, and a firm reschedule has not been set. Sucks. So now I need to come up with something else to write. Well I could bore the ever-loving shit out of you by describing the absolute clusterfuck this damn cooler has caused and railing against the landlady that let it happen and continue to happen during one of the hottest weekends in August, but I save that shit for my nearest and dearest (don't you guys feel privileged?)
Then I thought I might do a funny piece on these ass-ugly weird panties you get by mail order which are studded front and back with dozens of tiny magnets, but I lost the flier and I couldn't find a picture of them to include. Pity because these were some fucked up panties. I'll find them again somewhere I'm sure. Note to self: scour web for weirdest and worst panties.
What I am going to do, you lucky people, is talk about an increasing issue in the lives of women today. The Shared Man Experience. This is what happens when two female friends are connected in something more than a casual way to the Same Guy. This isn't like swapping emails or having lunch with your ex and his new lady, no no no. This is two women, friends, who are having a Shared Man Experience over a guy neither of them is with anymore. It's like this- Friend A wants a relationship with Guy B, but it fails on takeoff due to numerous boring reasons. Friend B becomes friends and wants a relationship with Guy B, but the sparks don't fly. Friendly enough, but for a minute there was bad blood between Friends A and B over Guy B. Well now that Friend B is not with Guy B, Friend A wants to commiserate a bit, try to turn the Shared Guy Experience into a bonding exercise, but what is the etiquette there? See if it was a Shared Douchebag Experience it would be easy:
Girl A: Guy B wanted to stick a pogo stick up my ass and make monkey noises. In church.
Girl B: Yeah, sounds about right! Did I tell you about the time he wanted me to wear his dead grandad's old suit while we made out on his casket? During the funeral?
Girl A: The same funeral he hit on your auntie and punched a pallbearer?
Girl B: Yeah, what a douche.
Girl A: Agreed. More tequila?
Girl B: More tequila! More chocolate! More strippers!
Girls A and B: MORE TEQUILA SOAKED CHOCOLATE COVERED STRIPPERS!!!
However, with the Shared Guy Experience it can be a little sticky. You may hear something from a friend, or in these days a blog, and find out that Guy B said something along the lines of "Feminism created all these single moms nowadays" while on a date with Friend B. Well Friend A would love to use this as a jumping off point for a conversation about feminism and single moms, but because it was inspired by a time between Guy and Girl B it is firmly in the Shared Guy Experience and could be construed as a way Friend A is trying to get into a Shared Douche Experience or simply start a Bitter Woman Flame Fest (tm).
What is the etiquette here? Is there a code word for "I heard about this thing that happened and I want to talk about it, but not really about him even though he was there" that I don't know about? Is this an argument for or against extroversion? Where does one procure a tequila soaked chocolate covered stripper in Tucson? The answer to all this shit is I don't fucking know, but now I want some chocolate, booze, and decent conversation.
For the record, I do not believe that Feminism created more single moms. Feminism created capable and unashamed single moms. Suck on that Guy B.
Then I thought I might do a funny piece on these ass-ugly weird panties you get by mail order which are studded front and back with dozens of tiny magnets, but I lost the flier and I couldn't find a picture of them to include. Pity because these were some fucked up panties. I'll find them again somewhere I'm sure. Note to self: scour web for weirdest and worst panties.
What I am going to do, you lucky people, is talk about an increasing issue in the lives of women today. The Shared Man Experience. This is what happens when two female friends are connected in something more than a casual way to the Same Guy. This isn't like swapping emails or having lunch with your ex and his new lady, no no no. This is two women, friends, who are having a Shared Man Experience over a guy neither of them is with anymore. It's like this- Friend A wants a relationship with Guy B, but it fails on takeoff due to numerous boring reasons. Friend B becomes friends and wants a relationship with Guy B, but the sparks don't fly. Friendly enough, but for a minute there was bad blood between Friends A and B over Guy B. Well now that Friend B is not with Guy B, Friend A wants to commiserate a bit, try to turn the Shared Guy Experience into a bonding exercise, but what is the etiquette there? See if it was a Shared Douchebag Experience it would be easy:
Girl A: Guy B wanted to stick a pogo stick up my ass and make monkey noises. In church.
Girl B: Yeah, sounds about right! Did I tell you about the time he wanted me to wear his dead grandad's old suit while we made out on his casket? During the funeral?
Girl A: The same funeral he hit on your auntie and punched a pallbearer?
Girl B: Yeah, what a douche.
Girl A: Agreed. More tequila?
Girl B: More tequila! More chocolate! More strippers!
Girls A and B: MORE TEQUILA SOAKED CHOCOLATE COVERED STRIPPERS!!!
However, with the Shared Guy Experience it can be a little sticky. You may hear something from a friend, or in these days a blog, and find out that Guy B said something along the lines of "Feminism created all these single moms nowadays" while on a date with Friend B. Well Friend A would love to use this as a jumping off point for a conversation about feminism and single moms, but because it was inspired by a time between Guy and Girl B it is firmly in the Shared Guy Experience and could be construed as a way Friend A is trying to get into a Shared Douche Experience or simply start a Bitter Woman Flame Fest (tm).
What is the etiquette here? Is there a code word for "I heard about this thing that happened and I want to talk about it, but not really about him even though he was there" that I don't know about? Is this an argument for or against extroversion? Where does one procure a tequila soaked chocolate covered stripper in Tucson? The answer to all this shit is I don't fucking know, but now I want some chocolate, booze, and decent conversation.
For the record, I do not believe that Feminism created more single moms. Feminism created capable and unashamed single moms. Suck on that Guy B.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Friday the 13th ain't got nuthin on today
I thought I was supposed to have a shit day yesterday. I was expecting it yesterday, so I guess that means I got it today just to show me? FML.
Yesterday the maintenance guy replaced the dodgy motor on our swamp cooler. Awesome. That should stop the damn thing from freezing up and making the switch spark. Today the swamp cooler decided that not only should it start to smell like ozone and burnt plastic, not only should it make sounds like it's being hit with a sledgehammer, not ONLY should it NOT blow any cool air out of any vents as well as make the switch spark again, but today should of course be about 103 degrees. Even with all the curtains drawn and blinds closed and every appliance possible turned off it was still 90 in the house. I was afraid there'd be another dead dog by the end of the day, but luckily they seem to be okay. The kiddo wouldn't keep still or take a nap for love nor money which means by the time sunset is here he's red as a strawberry and nuttier than a fruitcake.
But, where is the intrepid landlady? The homeowner sworn to keep things running smoothly while she cashes my rent checks? Well, she didn't call me back until after 5 or six voicemails and after 5pm to tell me she could not get a hold of the maintenance guy, and the secondary maintenance guy is in Phoenix. However, if we wanted to pack up everybody, the stuff we'd need including sheets, towels, and pillows we could camp out in one of her partially furnished mobile homes. That would have been great if she had offered it, oh, 5 hours ago! Amazing. I'm still not sure when or if someone will fix this thing tomorrow when the temp is supposed to be a measly 105. I am seriously considering going to see legal aid Monday morning and seeing what we can do about this, maybe even breaking the lease and moving.
In other Saturday the Fuckteenth news, I made a gorgeous stew for dinner. Lamb cooked in a stock with red wine, rosemary, garlic, carrots, onions, and celery until the lamb practically dissolved off the bone. My mom, who has never really had lamb but maybe once or twice, took a bite and declared it tasted to her fubared taste buds like plywood pulp. Oh joy. I don't take this personally, she really does have fucked taste buds, but now I'm stuck being the only one that will eat an entire 3 quart crockpot full of lamb stew. *Sigh* I hope it freezes.
However, that coffee date I was going on next week has been bumped up to tomorrow morning, which is pretty cool. I hope I don't look too much like that celery I pulled out of the pot after a few hours.
Yesterday the maintenance guy replaced the dodgy motor on our swamp cooler. Awesome. That should stop the damn thing from freezing up and making the switch spark. Today the swamp cooler decided that not only should it start to smell like ozone and burnt plastic, not only should it make sounds like it's being hit with a sledgehammer, not ONLY should it NOT blow any cool air out of any vents as well as make the switch spark again, but today should of course be about 103 degrees. Even with all the curtains drawn and blinds closed and every appliance possible turned off it was still 90 in the house. I was afraid there'd be another dead dog by the end of the day, but luckily they seem to be okay. The kiddo wouldn't keep still or take a nap for love nor money which means by the time sunset is here he's red as a strawberry and nuttier than a fruitcake.
But, where is the intrepid landlady? The homeowner sworn to keep things running smoothly while she cashes my rent checks? Well, she didn't call me back until after 5 or six voicemails and after 5pm to tell me she could not get a hold of the maintenance guy, and the secondary maintenance guy is in Phoenix. However, if we wanted to pack up everybody, the stuff we'd need including sheets, towels, and pillows we could camp out in one of her partially furnished mobile homes. That would have been great if she had offered it, oh, 5 hours ago! Amazing. I'm still not sure when or if someone will fix this thing tomorrow when the temp is supposed to be a measly 105. I am seriously considering going to see legal aid Monday morning and seeing what we can do about this, maybe even breaking the lease and moving.
In other Saturday the Fuckteenth news, I made a gorgeous stew for dinner. Lamb cooked in a stock with red wine, rosemary, garlic, carrots, onions, and celery until the lamb practically dissolved off the bone. My mom, who has never really had lamb but maybe once or twice, took a bite and declared it tasted to her fubared taste buds like plywood pulp. Oh joy. I don't take this personally, she really does have fucked taste buds, but now I'm stuck being the only one that will eat an entire 3 quart crockpot full of lamb stew. *Sigh* I hope it freezes.
However, that coffee date I was going on next week has been bumped up to tomorrow morning, which is pretty cool. I hope I don't look too much like that celery I pulled out of the pot after a few hours.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Dirty Talk
Back when I was pre-child (barely) a good friend of mine hooked me up with an at-home job as a text-chat operator. That is a nice way of saying I talked dirty for money. Instead of being on the phone with an electric toothbrush in one hand and the tv remote in the other, I was on the computer holding 6 different IM conversations at once. We were supposed to never let on that we were anything but horny ladies (between 18-22) texting them on cell phones. It goes without saying that we were also never supposed to admit that we weren't paying $2.99 every time they texted us. That's right folks, they paid 3 fucking dollars per received text, which makes the other part of my job even more amusing. We weren't allowed to swear. I shit you not, no 4 letter words were allowed, several five letter words, and a couple of six letter ones would get you fired immediately. If you called a guy "Dick" even if he'd said his name was Richard, you got in trouble. Dirty talk without the dirty words. It kind of stifled the creativity a bit, but with enough imagination you could prevail, or they could pay $4.99 per received text to do an x-rated chat where you, the pleasant 18-22 year old dominatrix with a scat fetish, could call them motherfucking pussy shitting cunt licking fucktrumpets to your hearts desire.
My favorite chat that I ever had is the guy who through the power of "I can see past chats on my totally not a cell phone, you retard" I knew he wanted to get down with a big round bellied preggo lass. This made my day since for once I didn't have to lie! At the time I was a big round bellied 8 months preggo lass, complete with action stretchmarks and kung-fu ankle swelling. As soon as I told him this (in an entirely sexy way, of course) he...DIDN'T BELIEVE ME. He cut off our chat because although the "hot co-ed" he spoke to before who was only "3 months pregnant" was totally legit (in reality she was a 400 pound woman in a mobile home outside of town) I, the real thing, heartburn and all, was a fake. Now I had dudes on there who believed I was an amazonian dominatrix willing to beat their asses Xena-style if they smudged my toenail polish. I had dudes who believed I really was a barely legal Catholic schoolgirl going for extra credit. I had dudes who believed that I believed they were in the middle of a hot threesome while texting me at the same time, but the one goddamn time I was telling the truth about being fetish material for this champion hand jockey, he didn't buy it.
Well, he did kind of buy it in that he still had to pay $2.99 every text he got.
Shortly before I gave birth the department closed down and we were all laid off. Such a pity. I miss that job so much.
My favorite chat that I ever had is the guy who through the power of "I can see past chats on my totally not a cell phone, you retard" I knew he wanted to get down with a big round bellied preggo lass. This made my day since for once I didn't have to lie! At the time I was a big round bellied 8 months preggo lass, complete with action stretchmarks and kung-fu ankle swelling. As soon as I told him this (in an entirely sexy way, of course) he...DIDN'T BELIEVE ME. He cut off our chat because although the "hot co-ed" he spoke to before who was only "3 months pregnant" was totally legit (in reality she was a 400 pound woman in a mobile home outside of town) I, the real thing, heartburn and all, was a fake. Now I had dudes on there who believed I was an amazonian dominatrix willing to beat their asses Xena-style if they smudged my toenail polish. I had dudes who believed I really was a barely legal Catholic schoolgirl going for extra credit. I had dudes who believed that I believed they were in the middle of a hot threesome while texting me at the same time, but the one goddamn time I was telling the truth about being fetish material for this champion hand jockey, he didn't buy it.
Well, he did kind of buy it in that he still had to pay $2.99 every text he got.
Shortly before I gave birth the department closed down and we were all laid off. Such a pity. I miss that job so much.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
A couple of odd thoughts and a small story
Odd Thought #1- My son is part camel. I always wondered what was in that melon of his, and now I guess I know. Seriously, he could pee a gallon not two seconds before getting in the tub, and yet somehow he has another gallon ready to go. At least it's sterile. Blech. The bright side? When he starts taking showers he won't have to worry about Athlete's Foot.
Odd Thought #2- Ever since I remembered I was in charge of cooking lamb tomorrow, I've been thinking in a Greek accent.
Small Story- Ithreatened promised to tell the story of Rerun being the Household Fart Detector. It's not really much of a story. Ever since she was a puppy when she smelled a fart she went butt-hunting. She'd start with whatever male happened to be in the room, (I totally did not train her to do that, dogs ain't all that dumb, yo) then she would go through the females by age, then go to the rest of the dogs until she found the culprit. She would then point at them. She would stay pointed at them until the farter excused themselves. I don't just mean the humans, if the culprit was canine she's get a lick on the nose or something. The absolute best? One day she went through the whole house looking for the perpetrator, failed to find it, sniffed her own ass, tried to point at herself, and fell over.
If I could make this shit up on the fly I'd be rich.
In other news, it looks like I've got an OkCupid date. Will post more as bulletins warrant.
Odd Thought #2- Ever since I remembered I was in charge of cooking lamb tomorrow, I've been thinking in a Greek accent.
Small Story- I
If I could make this shit up on the fly I'd be rich.
In other news, it looks like I've got an OkCupid date. Will post more as bulletins warrant.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
How I get to wake up
Not the most thrilling title is it? I wish I could say the same for the way my days get started around here. First of all let me explain the dynamics of the household a little bit- due to many extenuating circumstances, mostly involving money and how little there is around these days, my mother, myself, and my son share a house with the animals. I recently lost my dog to heat stroke, so we're down to mom's 3 beagles and my cat.
Introducing..the Gang:
1. Max- Beagle. 11 years old and refuses to admit it. Horrible breath and wrapped around the paws of
2. Lucy- Beagle. 10 years old. The Brains of the Operation. Alpha of the pack. Total princess.
3. Rerun- Beagle. 9 years old. Built like a whippet in a beagle suit. Household fart detector. No, really.
4. Bean- Cat. Mama was a longhaired orange tabby, daddy was a Maine Coon. She likes earlobes.
5. The Kid- Toddler. 3 years old. Likes to pretend he's Doctor Who.
So here I am trying desperately to attain my goal of sleeping past 8 am and through my happy little haze of dreamland I hear the first signs of life. The sharp, annoying, poke-your-brain-with-a-stick signs of life. Rerun. In case you have had the misfortune to never be acquainted with beagles, let me explain these little hounds don't bark usually, they bay. That means instead of being greeted with barks or yaps you get an ear-splitting AHH-WOOOOOOOOOO. You get used to it. Really. Rerun, however, never got the memo about how a proper beagle is supposed to sound. Oh no, this little oddball sounds more like a car with a bad starter. ERR-ERR-ERR-ERR-ROW! That sound can pierce through the most pleasant dream and make you long for things like tri-color fur slippers. That was the first thing to wake me up. Next came The Kid.
Well, technically I did get to sleep past 8am. It was 8:18 when The Kid came in, ran up to my face yelled "Wake up Mama I need to talk to you!" and straddled me so I couldn't run away. There's no coffee in the world with the wake up power of "Toddler On Bladder", lemee tell ya.
"What do you want to talk about, Kiddo?" I mumbled, knowing that sleep was not gonna happen anymore.
"SUPAH LETTERS!"
"Super letters, huh? What about them?"
"SuperFly (Super WHY, a show on PBS I hate) and Alpha Pig *something something*"
"Uh huh. Okay. Listen, can you get off me? I really need to pee." I'm so feminine, aren't I?
"Princess Pee?" (Princess PEA, another character on the show)
It was at this point I tried to play dead, hoping The Toddler, like The Grizzly Bear, would lose interest. You'd think I know better by now. Cue a toddler hand on each cheek, squishing my face into a fishy shape and shaking my head all around while yelling, "MAMA TALK TO ME!!!!"
"Can we talk about WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOUR BRAIN?"
"My brain. Yes. It's sick, Princess. We need to fix it. Open your mouf."
At this point thankfully my mother decided to check and see where The Kid was, which distracted him enough to allow me to get up and shuffle to the bathroom. Of course I wasn't alone in there, good lord, no. Privacy? In a bathroom? Surely ye jest! Nope, I got "The Doctor" sitting on the edge of the tub chanting rhythmically "Go Princess, go Princess, go! Go Princess, go Princess, go!" while I pee. After that, he handed me ONE square of TP to "dab dab" myself and asked to flush the toilet for me. It's kind of like having my own bathroom attendant, if bathroom attendants got tipped in fruit loops.
My last thought before heading for the coffee pot? I gotta blog this shit before I forget. Later I'll explain how Rerun became known as the household fart detector.
Introducing..the Gang:
1. Max- Beagle. 11 years old and refuses to admit it. Horrible breath and wrapped around the paws of
2. Lucy- Beagle. 10 years old. The Brains of the Operation. Alpha of the pack. Total princess.
3. Rerun- Beagle. 9 years old. Built like a whippet in a beagle suit. Household fart detector. No, really.
4. Bean- Cat. Mama was a longhaired orange tabby, daddy was a Maine Coon. She likes earlobes.
5. The Kid- Toddler. 3 years old. Likes to pretend he's Doctor Who.
So here I am trying desperately to attain my goal of sleeping past 8 am and through my happy little haze of dreamland I hear the first signs of life. The sharp, annoying, poke-your-brain-with-a-stick signs of life. Rerun. In case you have had the misfortune to never be acquainted with beagles, let me explain these little hounds don't bark usually, they bay. That means instead of being greeted with barks or yaps you get an ear-splitting AHH-WOOOOOOOOOO. You get used to it. Really. Rerun, however, never got the memo about how a proper beagle is supposed to sound. Oh no, this little oddball sounds more like a car with a bad starter. ERR-ERR-ERR-ERR-ROW! That sound can pierce through the most pleasant dream and make you long for things like tri-color fur slippers. That was the first thing to wake me up. Next came The Kid.
Well, technically I did get to sleep past 8am. It was 8:18 when The Kid came in, ran up to my face yelled "Wake up Mama I need to talk to you!" and straddled me so I couldn't run away. There's no coffee in the world with the wake up power of "Toddler On Bladder", lemee tell ya.
"What do you want to talk about, Kiddo?" I mumbled, knowing that sleep was not gonna happen anymore.
"SUPAH LETTERS!"
"Super letters, huh? What about them?"
"SuperFly (Super WHY, a show on PBS I hate) and Alpha Pig *something something*"
"Uh huh. Okay. Listen, can you get off me? I really need to pee." I'm so feminine, aren't I?
"Princess Pee?" (Princess PEA, another character on the show)
It was at this point I tried to play dead, hoping The Toddler, like The Grizzly Bear, would lose interest. You'd think I know better by now. Cue a toddler hand on each cheek, squishing my face into a fishy shape and shaking my head all around while yelling, "MAMA TALK TO ME!!!!"
"Can we talk about WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOUR BRAIN?"
"My brain. Yes. It's sick, Princess. We need to fix it. Open your mouf."
At this point thankfully my mother decided to check and see where The Kid was, which distracted him enough to allow me to get up and shuffle to the bathroom. Of course I wasn't alone in there, good lord, no. Privacy? In a bathroom? Surely ye jest! Nope, I got "The Doctor" sitting on the edge of the tub chanting rhythmically "Go Princess, go Princess, go! Go Princess, go Princess, go!" while I pee. After that, he handed me ONE square of TP to "dab dab" myself and asked to flush the toilet for me. It's kind of like having my own bathroom attendant, if bathroom attendants got tipped in fruit loops.
My last thought before heading for the coffee pot? I gotta blog this shit before I forget. Later I'll explain how Rerun became known as the household fart detector.
Monday, August 9, 2010
Out in the online
Well, in my search for attaining availability I have joined OkCupid, or if you prefer, OkStupid. Some of it is stupid, I gotta admit. Some of those questions are just, well, remedial is a nice way to put it. No kiddin, here is a real match question from OkCupid I was given to answer:
I shower:
a. once a day or more
b. usually once a day, but I skip some
c. something disgusting (I may be paraphrasing)
d. I wallow in filth (not really paraphrasing)
And after answering this for yourself, you are supposed to indicate how your partner should answer, and how important it is to you that they answer in that way. Okay, okay, fine. Some people need things spelled out to them, I understand that, but then to make it Public you must expound on your reasoning behind this. I couldn't help myself, folks, I had to answer "I have to explain why showering often is a good thing? Really?"
Look, I'm not a strictly picky person, but there are some things I absolutely will not put up with. You must not chew on kittens for fun, you must not burp the Gettysburg Address until date 3, and you must fucking shower often! I'm not asking for a guy to walk around fastidiously smelling like a potpourri emporium but parmesan-crusted HOBO isn't an option either!
Have the rules changed so much that Nuclear Funk can be considered a viable option for a lifestyle? Has Rule 34 truly permeated the zeitgeist? What the fuck, people, just what. the. fuck.
I shower:
a. once a day or more
b. usually once a day, but I skip some
c. something disgusting (I may be paraphrasing)
d. I wallow in filth (not really paraphrasing)
And after answering this for yourself, you are supposed to indicate how your partner should answer, and how important it is to you that they answer in that way. Okay, okay, fine. Some people need things spelled out to them, I understand that, but then to make it Public you must expound on your reasoning behind this. I couldn't help myself, folks, I had to answer "I have to explain why showering often is a good thing? Really?"
Look, I'm not a strictly picky person, but there are some things I absolutely will not put up with. You must not chew on kittens for fun, you must not burp the Gettysburg Address until date 3, and you must fucking shower often! I'm not asking for a guy to walk around fastidiously smelling like a potpourri emporium but parmesan-crusted HOBO isn't an option either!
Have the rules changed so much that Nuclear Funk can be considered a viable option for a lifestyle? Has Rule 34 truly permeated the zeitgeist? What the fuck, people, just what. the. fuck.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
A typical conversation about my son pt.1
My son is 3. And weird. Very, very weird.
This is a short conversation between my mom and myself regarding my son:
Me: "The Wicker Man" is on, but that's not really appropriate for the kiddo, huh?
Mom: With the kind of deranged little mind he has, there isn't much left that would be considered appropriate for him. That's why he now plays with pretend guns and knives, and that's just what he's picked up from the commercials! Have you seen his "knife"?
Me: Do tell.
Mom: He walked up to me with his hand like this (in a "knife holding" manner I suppose) and said, "I have a knife!" So I asked him, "Well, what are you going to do with it?" He said, "This!" and then grabbed his Froggy and went like this (chopping motions like he's giving Froggy a massage).
Me: He minced the frog?
Mom: Yup! That's how many cooking shows he's seen, that the first instinct he has with a knife is to fillet his enemies. My grandson...the Serial Chopper!
Me: I'm so proud.
This is a short conversation between my mom and myself regarding my son:
Me: "The Wicker Man" is on, but that's not really appropriate for the kiddo, huh?
Mom: With the kind of deranged little mind he has, there isn't much left that would be considered appropriate for him. That's why he now plays with pretend guns and knives, and that's just what he's picked up from the commercials! Have you seen his "knife"?
Me: Do tell.
Mom: He walked up to me with his hand like this (in a "knife holding" manner I suppose) and said, "I have a knife!" So I asked him, "Well, what are you going to do with it?" He said, "This!" and then grabbed his Froggy and went like this (chopping motions like he's giving Froggy a massage).
Me: He minced the frog?
Mom: Yup! That's how many cooking shows he's seen, that the first instinct he has with a knife is to fillet his enemies. My grandson...the Serial Chopper!
Me: I'm so proud.
Why? Well, why the fuck not.
Hi. I'm Lorrie. 29 year old female with readily available internet access. The pic really is me although my hair is different now and I don't look quite so much like a Che Guevara t-shirt.
I don't have a Facebook, I've never had a MySpace, and this is the first blog post I've ever written. Based on that you would think I lived under a rock or worse, Detroit. See, I've always had this belief that unless someone is one-on-one with me in an email, IM, text, or Heaven forbid, IRL, the general public at large doesn't give a flying fudge monkey what I have to say. This is still true, but, the rules seemingly have changed insofar that anyone under a particular age (i.e. dead) who doesn't voluntarily at least pretend to be an outgoing social unappreciated genius must have something to hide. This never bothered me until recently.
Due to a large amount of drama involving some dude I thought was worth waiting around for, the girl who originally introduced us who I had no idea was even into the guy, and a lot of stress, tears, and other bullshit, one thing did sink into my notoriously thick skull.
This is a fucking long-ass way of explaining this blog. Sorry. (Not really, it's my blog after all. It took me long enough to do this shit I may as well make the most of it, right?) One thing she said to me before she stopped speaking to me was that she was much more Available than I was. She has her FB page, her blogs, her hotline, and of course her picture splashed all over the place. More power to her. She is talented and if she ever speaks to me again, she may even let me link to her blog. More importantly, she has a point. 1 in 5 relationships start online. Information about anything and anyone is so undeniably easy to find, why bother putting forth the effort of a blind face to face meeting? As much as I think it sucks, people comparison shop for their mates just as much, and more often, than they do for sofas. Case in point, one little ad online in less than 2 hours snagged me a coffee date the next day, and that was without a picture. I can't argue with results. So here it is folks, my wit and worldview (such as they are) available for your perusal 24-7-365.
Enjoy, bitchez.
I don't have a Facebook, I've never had a MySpace, and this is the first blog post I've ever written. Based on that you would think I lived under a rock or worse, Detroit. See, I've always had this belief that unless someone is one-on-one with me in an email, IM, text, or Heaven forbid, IRL, the general public at large doesn't give a flying fudge monkey what I have to say. This is still true, but, the rules seemingly have changed insofar that anyone under a particular age (i.e. dead) who doesn't voluntarily at least pretend to be an outgoing social unappreciated genius must have something to hide. This never bothered me until recently.
Due to a large amount of drama involving some dude I thought was worth waiting around for, the girl who originally introduced us who I had no idea was even into the guy, and a lot of stress, tears, and other bullshit, one thing did sink into my notoriously thick skull.
This is a fucking long-ass way of explaining this blog. Sorry. (Not really, it's my blog after all. It took me long enough to do this shit I may as well make the most of it, right?) One thing she said to me before she stopped speaking to me was that she was much more Available than I was. She has her FB page, her blogs, her hotline, and of course her picture splashed all over the place. More power to her. She is talented and if she ever speaks to me again, she may even let me link to her blog. More importantly, she has a point. 1 in 5 relationships start online. Information about anything and anyone is so undeniably easy to find, why bother putting forth the effort of a blind face to face meeting? As much as I think it sucks, people comparison shop for their mates just as much, and more often, than they do for sofas. Case in point, one little ad online in less than 2 hours snagged me a coffee date the next day, and that was without a picture. I can't argue with results. So here it is folks, my wit and worldview (such as they are) available for your perusal 24-7-365.
Enjoy, bitchez.
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