Finally! A Vibrator Decision

I did it! I finally ordered a usable vibrator and not a collectable one. I think I am beginning to understand this whole vibrator thing… you must be able to take it out of the box.

The only bad part was the shopping part. Jesus! So many sizes and materials and speeds and attachments and colors. What’s a girl to do? Why can’t I just get a 10 platter sampler kit and place my order after trying them all? I don’t even remember what I like!! It’s been so long! And so the quest for the holy vibrator began…

Size – Look, vibrator companies, not all us women what to cram a 9 inch plastic pipe up our vaginas. The old saying that ‘size matters’ is not a lie. But anything over 8 inches is terrifying. Not like I am a virginal little flower but, god damn it, I am delicate. And a little protective of what the hell goes in there. 9 inches? Are you out of your fucking minds? I decided that anything between 6 to 7 would be just fine. Which limited my selection greatly.

Material – Who the hell thought to make vibrators out of hard plastic? OUCH! Or metal? Still OUCH! But worse of all, glass. Whoa. Just whoa. I am not shoving anything with the potential to break into shards up there. I can imagine explaining that to the ER doctor.

ER Doc: How the hell did you get shards of glass in your vagina?

Me: It was my vibrator.

ER Doc: You really need to reassess your sex toy decisions. Looks like we’re going to have to put you down.

Me: I thought so.

See what I mean? Only soft jelly for this girl. Soft, unbreakable, ER free jelly.

Speeds – Okay. I get the awesomeness of speed. It’s what makes vibrators so appealing. But there is such a thing as too much speed. I don’t want to feel it in my teeth, people! The point is to have an orgasm, not to throw yourself into a seizure. 10 speed?!? God, no!

Attachments – Oh! Look at all the little detachable pieces. Way to appeal to my gadgety nerd side. So what’s the problem? I will lose every single piece. I can imagine having wine night with friends…

Friend: What’s this in your couch cushion?

Me: The bunny ear attachment.

Friend: The what?

Me: It’s for my clit. Pay no mind. More wine anyone?

Colors – Really? I could give a rat’s ass if it was pink or blue or red or black. Most the time the lights will be off. And since I can’t display it, what the hell does it matter? Do girls really base something as important as a vibrator decision on color coding? Idiots.

In the end, I think I found the vibrator of my dreams. It’s 6 ½ inches. Perfect! It’s made of a soft jelly. It has three amazing speeds. It’s blue (who gives a shit). It has awesome reviews. But here is the best part of all. It’s waterproof! What? Showers just got way better. I am going to be the cleanest bitch you ever met. Ever.

An Evening with the Pope's Peeps

Not too long ago I made the decision to go back to church. What, me in church? Yeah, you heard it right. I may be morally bankrupt, have the mouth of a sailor, drink like a pirate (okay, more like a Dorothy Parker… you remember her, the poet who suffered from love and loss and a horrible champagne addiction… I drink like her), but every now and then I get this spiritual awakening in me. Like perhaps there is a God. And even though God most likely exists outside the bounds of organized religion, maybe it is in religious metaphor that we can find that understanding, that kinship I suppose.

Don’t worry. I won’t get too deep here.

Since I’ve made this decision, I have gone all of one time. Just one time, you ask? Don’t judge me! It isn’t my fault that church people decide to hold services on Sunday morning, the one morning where I am usually incredibly hung over. Just getting out of bed to take a piss makes my whole body ache. Imagine what a room full of singing people and screaming children would do to me. I would lose it, maybe beat a kid over the head with a hymnal, maybe chuck a bible at some old lady who was singing too loudly, maybe use the pew as a makeshift bed. Anything could happen.

The Catholics, however, they understand this. Sure they don’t have the whole animated sermons, people screaming ‘amen’ randomly, choirs with synchronized dancing. But what they do have is Saturday evening services. Ah, thank you everyone in Ireland. Thank you for being liquored up enough to convince the pope that Sundays were not going to work for drunk people. I owe you. All of you.

So Saturday it was. I didn’t want to go it alone so after a little cajoling, I was able to drag Spitfire with me. She’s a natural born church girl so convincing her was easy. She truly loves God and Jesus. Where I approach religion warily (I have reasons for this), poke at it philosophically, search inward, and then run for the hills, she dives in head first, singing halleluiah, with no trace of doubt or suspicion. It’s part of why I love her.

We decided to sit in the very back of the church at the edge of the aisle, near the exit doors. This was in case we needed a quick exit. Usually Catholics are formal in their preaching, sticking to reading passages and doing a lot of Latin crap I never understand. But you need to play church safe. What if the priest wants to start lecturing us on premarital sex and the importance of family values? Yawn. Time to leave. Plus in the past I have heard everything from praying over Fruit Loops (yeah, I guess God can help in all your cereal dilemmas) to demons living in Harry Potter books (at least they have good taste in children’s literature). In other words, I have been traumatized enough to make sure I always have an escape route.

First thing I noticed when we got there was the amount of children running around. At least five per family. Whoa! How can these people afford this? How do they sleep? Why are they torturing themselves? Hey, every Catholic in the world, your rhythm method is not working. Wrap it up and do 100 Hail Mary’s. You’ll thank me, I promise.

And it isn’t that I dislike children. It’s just that they remind me of very tiny schizophrenic adults with zero social skills. I mean, if I started running through the aisles with my hands down my pants screaming, “I’m peeing myself!!” everyone would be appalled. I’d get kicked out, possibly arrested. Little Sammy does it and all the women coo over how cute he is. He’s not cute! He’s pissing all over the church!

Then came the eating Jesus part. Communion. I actually like communion. Everyone is quiet and reflective. The gesture and symbolism is quite beautiful; death and sacrifice are always the best part of a hero’s journey. And the fact that there is a physical ritual that produces a spiritual connection feels ancient to me.

But the Catholics do the one thing that terrifies any decent germaphobe. They drink out of the same cup. Same cup!! Okay, I’d have to have a game plan if I were one of them. Maybe turn the cup to the opposite side, the spot no one else drank from. No! You can’t even do that!! Why, you ask? Because the crazy cup guy has a white cloth that he uses to smear the germs all around the edge. There is no safe spot! All I could do is watch in horror as everyone received herpes and the flu. (shivers)

Finally, the Catholics do a lot of kneeling, then standing, then sitting, then kneeling again. I guess this is fine but I never knew when it was going to happen. All of a sudden the entire church was standing. Did I miss something? Was there a secret code word that caused this? It’s as if they were the Borg, locked into a collective just knowing when to do something. Which meant I was the last one to do anything. Oh, shit! We’re supposed to stand! Holy crap! We need to kneel! What the hell? We need to stand up!  After half an hour I was exhausted. I finally gave up and just sat there with an ‘I am Lutheran’ look on my face. Resistance was not futile after all.

Anyways, we made it out alive. And if I find a church that understands my drinking schedule, isn’t full of a bunch of white people and their bazillion children, doesn’t pass out herpes and small pox, and doesn’t speak a secret language, I am totally down with trying it out. I feel God and I would get along fabulously.

Post Script: I realize this has nothing to do with men or dating or drinking. Why? Because I like throwing you a fucking curve ball, that’s why. Want men, drinking and dating updates? Fine!

Men – I pissed off Wil Wheaton by being drunk and jumping to conclusions. I made up for it with my super cute sad face and sex, the apology tools of every smart female.

Drinking – I drank a shit ton this weekend. A. Shit. Ton.

Dating – I went on a date, ate sushi, and made a man shower with me just to prove how ridiculous I look wet. Boom!

Kiss of Death, Squirting and Breeding

Do you remember Out of Shape Sex Girl? No? Jesus, I wrote an entire blog about her. I’m beginning to think you don’t read these posts. Anyways, she had a date the other night with a guy she’s been talking to. She met him on OkCupid (I didn’t even know that website was still around) and they hit it off fabulously. The bonus is that he has a 50/50 chance of being a decent man. Why? Because he’s from San Louis Obispo. Not a bad place to meet someone interesting and/or intelligent. There’s a college there, people usually have jobs in that area, the ocean causes people to be hippie-chill, tons of artists live there, blah blah blah.

So how did it go? Exactly the question I wanted an answer to too.

Me: So how was your date with Steve?
Out of Shape Sex Girl (OOSSG): (giggle)
Me: Hello? How was it?
OOSSG: (still giggling)
Me: Your laugher implies that you had sex.
OOSSG: (giggling) We did!
ME: Wait! I have to ask. Were you in shape enough for this one?
OOSSG: I don’t know. I made him do all the work.
Me: Fair enough. This is starting off good. Break down the date for me.
OOSSG: Let’s see. I had to go back to Bakersfield the next day but I drove out from Tehachapi. Yeah… the date was good.
Me: That is hands down the worst description of a date I have ever heard. In fact, that has nothing to do with your date. I want details! Where did you eat?
OOSSG: Fine. I walked in the door and immediately ravished him and dragged him into the bedroom.
Me: Wow. Even I have never done that on a first date. I’m impressed.
OOSSG: Yep. Then we had amazing sex all night.
Me: Did you ever eat anything? Besides his cock?
OOSSG: We had lunch the next day. Does that count?
Me: Sure.
OOSSG: But the sex. Oh, god. The sex was amazing. I even looked into his eyes when we were doing it.
Me: No! Oh, no no no! You NEVER do that. My god, have I not taught you anything? Looked into his eyes during sex? That’s the kiss of death! For two decades of my sexual life I purposefully never did that. I was married and I never did that! Jesus! What were you thinking?
OOSSG: I liked looking into his eyes. It was nice. I think your over-dramatizing this.
Me: Really? Are you bat shit head-over-heals about him now?
OOSSG: I am.
Me: You know why? Because you looked into his fucking eyes while his dick was in you. You know what you did? You turned a fun sex night into some romantic lovemaking session. Now you’re screwed. We need to find a way to undo this for you.
OOSSG: Where the hell do you look then?
Me: You close your eyes like a normal person! That way you aren’t throwing your entire soul out there. Once you do the looking into his eyes thing… you’re hooked. That guy has you. It’s much harder to lock down your emotions after that. Trust me. And now you have the capacity to feel sadness and be heartbroken if shit goes awry. Whatever you do, don’t do it again. We might be able to fix this.
OOSSG: I think you need to try it more often.
Me: You are out of your fucking mind!
OOSSG: Apparently I squirted too.
Me: What do you mean apparently?
OOSSG: He said I did but I didn’t feel it.
Me: I think you’d know if you did something like that. That’s some magical crazy sex shit. You’d have to know.
OOSSG: Not really. I know squirters and none of them can ever feel when they do it.
Me: I don’t know how to feel about this. It sounds like a mess.
OOSSG: Oh. And he has a daughter.
Me: Is that good or bad?
OOSSG: It’s good. I told him I was glad he has a kid so he won’t want to breed off of me.
Me: Nice! I like that.
OOSSG: That he has a daughter?
Me: No! That you aren’t going to breed! Duh.

In other news: It’s my birthday!! Which means a night of wine and shots and dancing and possibly not remembering a thing! Woo hoo. It also means that at 39, I live in neighborhood full of college-minded 20 year olds, I drink nearly every night, I play video games and watch movies until my eyes bleed, I have a dog that is my child, and I have no nutritional food in my fridge. Not really where I pictured myself being at 39. But god damn it is fun.

A Revelation and the List

Last night I came to a revelation. Not like a smack-you-in-the-face sort of epiphany. More like a wow-I-think-I-get-it-20-minutes-after-talking-about-it thing. So what was this aha moment, you ask? Jesus, I’m only five sentences deep, calm down… I’m getting there.

It all started when somebody asked me what was the longest amount of time I had ever spent single. I had to think about it for a minute. That’s a tough question for me. Embarrassingly, the longest I have gone without a boyfriend has been a year. What the fuck? That’s it, I thought? A year? How could that possibly be? I enjoy being by myself, maybe more than I should. I like not answering to anyone, not having to clean after anybody, not being held accountable for my bad decisions, not being judged, not arguing, owning the remote control, decorating my own space, jumping on my furniture, singing to my dog, living off of mac & cheese and champagne, and so on. So what’s the deal, me? Why such little time alone?

And then it dawned on me (this was not my revelation… wait for it). It wasn’t a fear of loneliness that pulled me into relationships. It was my incredible naivety.

 

There used to be two ways to sweep me off my feet. Be charming and pursue me. If a guy was persistent in these two categories, I was hooked.

Not anymore, though. Charm and pursuit mean little to me now. Don’t misunderstand, I like charm. But real charm, not packaged-from-the-movies charm. And although I love being pursued (what girl doesn’t), it is most certainly not a deal maker. Neither of them are.

So for eight months I turned down dates, said no to being exclusive, and discovered that a night of Netflix and Hulu Plus was remarkably more interesting than the guys who were asking me out. 5 years until Mr. Right shows up? Sure, I’ll be drinking wine on my couch, watching Supernatural and eating veggie chips. Tell him to bring another bottle and some In-N-Out when you see him.

Of course, then Wil Wheaton came around and my waiting 5 years plan went all to hell. Why? Well, shit, he’s god damn Wil Wheaton. Don’t ask me stupid questions.

What does this have to do with my revelation? Okay, fine, I got wordy in my intro. Fucking deal with it.

 

THE REVELATION

Being single in Dallas was the easiest thing in the world to do. Sure, I can say, “Oh, I am so picky now blah blah blah.” Which is sort of true but also bullshit. The reality? The men from here are horrible. Seriously horrible. Like stab-myself-in-the-throat-before-I-spend-more-than-15-minutes-with-them horrible. Horrible enough that being single is a relief. Think I am exaggerating? Come hang out in my neighborhood for an evening. You will be amazed!

And if you are a decent woman who happens to live in the DFW area, for god’s sake find someone who moved here from somewhere else or who hasn’t been here longer than four years. Because the level of shithole douche-baggery is astounding.

I have a list of things that I cannot stand in men (yeah, I have a list for everything) and although it doesn’t seem like it could be possible, all Dallas men fall into one or more of these categories. ALL DALLAS MEN. Hence the 'easy being single here' phenomenon. Here is my ’7 Types of Men I Cannot Stand List’, also known as the ‘The Men Who Are From Dallas List’.

THE LIST

1.      The Superficial Asshole – I hear guys complain all the time about women being superficial. Don’t worry, boys, we ain’t got nothing on you. Sure, I adore a nice pair of shoes, a cute handbag, a tailored dress, a few diamonds here and there. But mostly I like comfy pajamas and matching hoodies. What I’m saying is, don’t fucking size up my income by what I am wearing or my potential to be your arm candy by what I look like. I may not be a size 3 with big tits and a large bank account but I’m god damn funny, halfway smart, annoyingly optimistic, and a clever little bitch. This is what you should be focused on. And who the hell wants to be with a guy that can’t appreciate Hello Kitty pj’s and fuzzy slippers? Who?! Nobody, that’s who.

2.      The Rude Boy – Is it really that hard to say please, or thank you, or open a door for the people behind you, or give a compliment, or understand that sometimes waitresses have bad days, or help an old lady carry her groceries, or let someone talk, or not yell at my dog because he happened jump on you and then look at me like I’m the bitch even though I obviously had him on a leash and you’re the dick who wanted to pet him despite my warning you that he is a jumper? Real sexy, no manners guy. Real sexy.

3.      The Bullshit Nice Guy – Some men have smartened up in the last few years and have finally come to realize that most of us women actually do like nice guys. We don’t just like them, we adore them. The problem is, is for far too long men have been under the impression that we all go for the bad boy type. So they’ve been spending decades fine tuning their asshole abilities in order to get laid. It’s become ingrained in them. Now, suddenly they are starting to understand that we see bad boys as infantile and piggish. Oh shit, they think, we got to change course. Time to be nice. Guess what? We can see through this. At least most of us can. Being nice to the girl you’re trying to hit on and then treating everyone else around you like a piece of shit does not fool us. I suggest behavioral therapy. Maybe working out your mommy issues. Or dating a horrid bitch. All of which are suitable.

4.      The Uninteresting Man – Ok, being uninteresting does not make you a bad person; it just makes you someone I cannot stand being around. There are millions of things going on in this world, millions of things to explore or to learn about or to study or to experience. If you can’t find one thing to be passionate about, then I will think something is seriously mentally wrong with you. Look, it doesn’t have to be interesting to me. Just interesting enough to you that it evokes some sort of emotion. If you sit across the table from me with a monotone voice and no hobbies or interests whatsoever, then the only thing I will be thinking about is what it feels like to stab myself in the face with a fork just to get over the pain of being in your company. Oh, you think I’m being dramatic? No! I’m being interesting. Face stabbing is a hobby of mine.

5.      The Bitter Boy – This might actually be the worst one of the bunch. This is the guy who got burned by the love of his life and is now convinced that all women are evil whores. Here’s his process:

Pick a girl who gives all the signs of being an evil whore (not that hard to see which of us are).

Fall in love with her.

Date and/or marry that girl.

Act shocked when she lies/cheats/steals/fucks your best friend.

Come to the conclusion that all women must be like her.

See, it isn’t his anger that makes him intolerable. It’s his clear lack of any intelligence. You want to know a secret? I’ve been cheated on, lied to, stolen from, etc. Why? Because I dated shitty people. How can I be bitter over my own terrible decisions? And guess what? Not all guys are like that. Some are beautiful and kind people who treat women with respect and love. I know. I’m friends with these types.

So when a man whines to me about all women being awful people, all he's actually saying to me is, “I’m too fucking stupid to make good decisions.” And stupidity is ugly. Very very ugly.

6.      The Male Slut – Jesus Christ, this one is annoying. I get it, men like to get laid. They are hardwired to like getting laid. I don’t judge guys for having these urges. Maybe even acting out on them occasionally. But here’s the thing that male sluts never understand… there is a reason that the only women who actually want to be with them are trashy, emotionally unstable, insecure, mentally off, or amazingly stupid girls. Or all of the above. And there is a reason that good women are disgusted by them. Why, you ask? Because when a decent and confident female knows that a guy will sleep with anything or try to sleep with anything, she knows there is nothing special about him sleeping with her. And let’s face it, a stable woman wants to feel special. Emotionally and sexually. She knows that she is worth more than what he wants to give her. How does she know? Because what he wants to give her, he wants to give to anything with a hole.

The worst part is that most of these men act this way not out of out-of-control sexual urges but because of a desperate need for attention and deep down insecurity. So it’s not like you can be mad at them for it. Just very sorry. At a distance. Usually a bar lengths apart.

On a side note, I have seen a lot men fall into this trap after a terrible break up. This is the only time it is forgivable. It usually lasts for 6 months to a year (sometimes longer) and is part of their process, a revenge of sorts. But if it is not in their nature, it will never last. Just be careful ladies, wait until he finishes his sex tantrum before you try dating him.

7.      The Dolt – Fucking hell. If I have to explain anything to a guy like he is a Kindergartener, I’m immediately put off by him. He doesn’t have to be Albert Fucking Einstein. Maybe just know that the sun is a star, or that Africa is not a country, or that Joe Biden is the Vice President, or that Germany wasn’t the only country we fought during World War II, or that mixing blue and yellow makes green. It isn’t like I am being an elitist here. It’s just that if a man says he has graduated from high school, I want to be able to believe it.

Here are conversations I have had that have left me both ashamed of public education and completely in awe of how ridiculously stupid people can be.

Me: What’s the last book you read?

Him: Where the Red Fern Grows. They made me read it in high school.

Me: Okay… did you enjoy it at least?

Him: I don’t remember it. Was that the one where they shot the dog?

Me: No, that’s Old Yeller.

Him: Oh yeah. I liked that movie. 

Him: We went surfing in the Atlantic Ocean.

Me: I thought you were in Ventura? Like as in California.

Him: I was.

Me: The movie is on the 12^th chapter, thirteen minutes in. Just remember so we will know where we left off.

Him: How do you know that?

Me: It says on the DVD Player. CH12. 13:02.

Him: Wow. It’s like you read code!

Him: Our old house had a peanut tree in the backyard.

Me: No it didn’t.

Him: Why would I lie about that?

Me: No idea. But peanuts do not grow on trees.

Him: These did!

Me: No. They most certainly did not.

 

Whew! That took forever! It's like I never shut up.

BTW: Here's a little secret. If you are a man and you are reading this, most normal women have this exact list and we are judging you.

In other news… I feel like tonight I’m going to switch things up. Red wine and soup. Then Flying Saucer and cigars. For some reason, I felt you should know this. You are welcome.

A Moment of Nostalgia

Today I got nostalgic. It happens. It’s usually annoying. And it always comes on the tail end of some emotional moment I am having (part of owning a vagina, I suppose).

Back many years ago, before my marriage/divorce, I used to spend all my free time following local bands. Not in any groupie sort of way. More like an indy-nerd, support-local-bands sort of way. I had my favorites. Blood Sledge Electric Death Chickens being one of them. And I was a loyal follower.

I have never lived in a city with a punk music scene quite as talented and saturated as Detroit. Say what you will about that city (post-apocalyptic, murder on every corner, roads beyond repair), live there long enough and it will steal your heart. Especially if you have a little bit of rebellion in you. Especially if you have an ear for music.

Anyways, I decided to do a YouTube search on one of my favorite bands from that time, Grayling. I found only one video of them. The drummer was a different guy, the singer looked strung out, the bass player was lost. I posted it anyway, tagged my friend Shawn (the real drummer and one of the most amazing musicians I have ever had the privilege to meet and know), and asked if they would ever do a reunion.

Shawn emailed me immediately. The answer was no. There was a long and sad story as to what happened with the band and all the members. A book-worthy story, actually, fraught with tales of rockers gone wild and talent wasted on drugs. You know, a typical punk band break-up saga. There is never a happy ending to such things.  

His email brought back some heavy memories. Good and bad. I learned a lot of lessons the hard way back then. Not all of us made it out alive or drug-free or stable. But Shawn did. And I did. And a handful of others. And even though we are not the closest of friends, there is an unshakable bond between all of us. (Putting on my crazy war face) “We’ve seen things…”

I think all of us from that scene have an edge we try to keep buried. We throw alcohol on it and pretend we’ve always been the people we are now. Yet the one thing we seem to have in common is loyalty. I don’t know if we were born this way or if our situations have forced us to become this way. We support each other and show love to each other. And it is beautiful.

Here is a glimpse of two people who made it out alive –

Shawn: (After telling me the Grayling breakup story) I am on the road all the time now. Different city every week. Play in a crazy screaming band. We just got signed and have a cd/record coming out.  I’ll get the 3 Grayling CD’s we recorded to you. They are out of print but I can burn them.

Me: If you could do that I will pay you for it. You were fabulous in that band. One of the best drummers I have ever seen live. Also, let me know when your new CD comes out. I’d love to support you.
Shawn: You don’t have to pay anything. Just thank you for even thinking about me. My ex’s all took my original cd’s so I will have to burn them from old friends. I’d gladly hook you up.
Me: That would be awesome! But I definitely will pay you for your time and for being amazing.
Shawn: No money from you, honey. It’s all good!!
Me:  Ok. Let me know when you guys come through Dallas. I’ll come see you play.
Shawn: Absolutely.

See. Us old punkers, we are a sentimental bunch.

Speaking of musicians, you remember Musician Dude? Well, he’s back to the ‘I miss you’ texts. I refuse to answer him but if I thought it would do me any good, this is what I would say:

“Ahem! No, mother fucker, you do not miss me. You barely even knew me. I gave you advice about your ex (go to a therapist for that), listened to you bitch about your job (I’m sure your groupies will do this for you) and cracked a few witty jokes (Comedy Central, asshole, get it). You were self-centered and your gun collection speech was scary. Worst of all, you quoted Rush at me. Rush! God damn Rush! Any band would have been better than that. And if we are trading sentiment, I do not miss you in the slightest. I knew nothing about you and I am glad I kept it that way. I would tell you to piss off but I have come to my senses and put your number on my spam list. Au Revoir weird guitar player. May your death metal band bring you peace and happiness.”

An Evening With Wil Wheaton

Hanging out with the Wil Wheaton look-alike is always an adventure. Even if we do nothing. Don’t believe me? Well, fuck you. Case in point, last night…

The Meal

Wil: I feel out of sorts.

Me: Physically or mentally?
Wil: Physically. I think I just need to eat.
Me: Want me to bring you Taco Bell?
Wil: No. Not junk food. Something healthy.

A few hours later, Wil texted me asking if I would make him mac and cheese. Good choice, Wil. But not exactly a ‘healthy’ meal. Before I agreed to such a simple request, I offered to make him a quinoa casserole (sans veggies, of course). The idea of vegetables may scare Wil into starvation, but throw in a grain he has never heard of… a mega-healthy grain, nonetheless… and Wil will politely tell you to go fuck yourself. Mac and cheese it was.

I’m not the kind of girl to force healthy choices on anyone, myself included. Hell, my dinner had consisted of a handful of Ruffles and some French onion dip. Who was I to judge? So I didn't argue. And just to make sure his liver could participate in the slow-suicide-by-shitty-food-choices the rest of his body was enduring, I picked him up a four pack of Guinness before heading to his apartment. I’m thoughtful like that.

The Apartment

To say that Wil’s apartment is a ‘little messy’ is like saying a prostitute is a ‘little loose’. No, she isn’t a little loose, she is a gaping wide open whore. Okay, I know what you’re thinking. You’re imagining some TLC Hoarders shit where boxes of useless items are piled to the ceiling. Well, you are wrong. Wil doesn’t hoard, he just doesn’t clean. So erase that image and picture this:

Will drinks a beer and leaves the empty can wherever he last sets it. Eight months ago. He takes off his clothes to play Super Mario (don’t ask) and leaves the pile of discarded garments on the floor. Six months ago. Even fluffs the dirty clothes up so his kitties can lay on them comfortably. If he finishes a pack of smokes, the empty pack is abandoned on a table, a counter, the carpet, the cat tree, the desk, the floor, etc. All of them have been there since 2010, I am sure of it.

So instead of some insane hoarder look, his place more closely resembles the morning after a very intense party where all the men got naked, drank a lot of beer, read historical fiction, smoked an insane amount of cigarettes and played video games all night.

Usually, I find messy places disturbing. I’m a germaphobe. The idea of nine month old pizza still sitting in a fridge is enough to make me want to pass out. But, strangely, Wil’s apartment does not upset me. His place is a living historical record. I can see exactly what in the last year he has eaten and drank, how many cigarettes he has smoked, what he has been wearing, what he has read, which games he has played, what color his hair was for Halloween, what his soda choices have been, how many times he has had a cold, where he went shopping (receipts are also cat toys) and every piece of mail he has received. It’s better than Facebook stalking. It’s real-life-but-without-any-effort stalking. Fascinating.

Why don’t you just clean it for him, you ask? What is this, 1953? Never ask me that again. Plus the sweet-girl-that-does-nice-things part of me is ALWAYS overshadowed by the lazy-girl-who-doesn’t-do-shit part of me. You should know that by now.

Anyways, last night I played a game I call “How many packs of cigarettes can I throw away without being noticed?” I made it to 11. It’s my new high score.

Hanging Out

We hang out and have sex. What more do you need to know? Sometimes we end up at a bar. Sometimes we never move from the couch. There is always intrigue and mystery and occasionally there is a dead body and a crime that needs solving. I might have made that last part up.

Sleeping with Wil

The most fun part about being around Wil is his sleep talking. I tell him it is like having tea with the Mad Hatter and I am not lying. Awake Wil is a little off in the head. Asleep Wil is completely bonkers. Here are some fun conversations we have had while he was sleeping.

Last Week –

Wil: (sitting up and holding down my head) You’re blocking ninja #9!!

Me: I’m sorry. Can you see him now?
Wil: No… he’s in the ocean.

This Weekend –

Wil: Do not get shit on my white pants!
Me: Why the fuck are you wearing white pants?
Wil: That’s not your business. Just keep your shit away from them.

Last Night –

Wil: You’re putting too much salt on it!!

Me: It needs flavor.
Wil: Look at what you’re doing! Do you really need that much salt?
Me: Yes, I do. I’m going to use all the salt I have on this thing.
Wil: Typical. I’m not eating it. (turns his back to me angrily)
Wil: (2 minutes later) Are you done yet?
Me: Still pouring salt.
Wil: On who?
Me: I thought we were talking about food?
Wil: People are going to be really mad at you.
Me: You included?
Wil: This isn’t about me. Now hush up.

You know, I am beginning to think everyone should spend an evening with Wil. I might have to capitalize on this idea. Maybe rent him out to friends and strangers. Hmm...

 

Let me know if you are interested.

 

Insane Bartender Boy

I had met him in a dive bar not far from where I lived. He was my bartender and he was damn good at it. At the time, I was a vodka martini girl. Dirty, of course. It isn’t easy to get a vodka martini ‘just perfect’. But he always did. Sadly, that was what won me over. His ability to pour a hell of a drink.

Had he not been a genius mixologist, I’m not sure I would have ever given him a second look. He was tattooed from head to toe, dressed like he was straight out of the 1950’s and was kicking the James Dean pompadour. Not that that look isn’t sexy. I’m just smart enough to know that Rockabillies are trouble. How so, you ask? Because I almost married one once.

Also, that look is so over (I’m doing my best Portlandia impression right now). I swear to god, if a guy is covered in ink and plays in a band, 9 times out of 10 he will ask me out. And I am neither of these things. In the first impressions department, I actually come off as a bit of a prude. I don’t sport any sort of edgy look, I certainly don’t look like a groupie and my guitar playing skills are… well, fucking awful. Maybe 20 years ago I looked the part but there is none of that in me now. Unless you count all my empty holes and my forever over-processed hair.

Anyways, I guess it was the way he asked me out that also won me over. Most men’s idea of a date is to meet up at the bar, possibly followed by late night beers at their place. Not a horrible way to spend an evening but not exactly a ‘date’ either. My bartender had gone the traditional route. He offered to pick me up for dinner and then to have cocktails at a wine cellar. Seemed old fashioned enough to be romantic. I said yes.

First thing he did was bring me flowers. How cute, you say? No. Not cute. I’m too lazy and awkward to be carting around a bunch of lilies everywhere I go. To me, flowers are something a guy should SEND to you, not give to you. Want to impress me? Try just being polite and classy and holding off on the dead plants until you’ve done something you need to apologize for or are looking to cheer up my bad day. Otherwise, I don’t want them.

Second thing he did was open all my doors. No complaints about that one. I may be a little snarky, I may come off as one of the guys, but deep down I am probably one of the most girly girls you will ever meet. I like pink things and kittens and pedicures and summer dresses and high heels and any sort of cheesy sentiment. And I like my doors opened for me. Take that women’s liberation!

He chose Italian, my second favorite kind of food, and we sat in a corner table and ordered our meals.

And then it happened. What happened, you ask? What usually happens when I go on actual ‘dates’? He opened his mouth and a shocking level of crazy came out. Maybe not ‘alien jesus’ crazy. But crazy enough for me to regret not meeting him in a bar… the one place where making a quick exit is the easiest.

Bartender Boy (BB): Have you ever heard of the Masons?

Me: Who hasn’t?
BB: Well, I’ve been doing some research and I’ve discovered some secret Mason documents.
Me: All Masonic documents are secret.
BB: Yes. But these are plans to take over the world.
Me: Are you serious or are you messing with me?
BB: I’m very serious. I’ve also discovered that they have secret meetings.
Me: Of course they do!! It’s a private organization for fuck’s sake!
BB: Yes but why all the hush-hush meetings and why all the hidden books and pamphlets?
Me: Please stop. My dad is a Mason. They aren’t trying to take over the world. And the secrets are only about how to be an individual with good character. There are no plans for world domination.
BB: Your dad is a Mason?
Me: I didn’t stutter did I? Look, I grew up with the Masons. I spend half my childhood in Masonic lodges. It’s just a bunch of old men getting together to network and to bring a little meaning into their lives. Hell, most of the secret meetings are about organizing charity events. It’s not evil-take-over-the-world shit. I promise.
BB: How do you know they haven’t brainwashed you? That’s what they do, you know. They enter your dreams and change the way you think.
Me: Wow. I get you might be a little crazy, so I am trying hard not to get mad at you, but you’re talking about my family right now. My father is a 3^rd degree Mason and belongs to the Knights Templar. So your paranoid delusions are hitting close to home. You should really research things before you start spewing History Channel conspiracy bullshit at people and calling my dad a god damn dreamwalker.
BB: Knights Templar? Like the medieval knights?
Me: No. Like Freemasonry, you fucking idiot. It's the 21st century. There are no more knights! 
BB: Don’t they have the hidden holy grail?!
Me: No! What the fuck is wrong with you? There is no such thing as a fucking holy grail either. Jesus.
BB: Oh my god. I am so fascinated by your family. I really want to pick your brain. I could talk to you for hours.
Me: I want you to take me home.
BB: No! I want you to see these documents. Will you come back to my place?
Me: Fuck no. In fact, I’ll take a cab home.
BB: Did they ever abuse you?
Me: If you open your mouth at me one more time, I swear to god I will shove my fist down your throat and rip out your insides.
BB: They really got into your head, didn’t they?

It was at this point I left the restaurant. I even left my jacket there. I didn’t have time to hail a cab and I certainly did not want to wait outside and risk seeing him again. Instead, I headed over to the Mexican Cantina next door and got sloppy drunk on margaritas. And when the bartender at that place started leaning in close and asking me questions, I politely told him to go fuck himself. I may make poor choices in the men I date, but I never make the same mistake twice.

Bartender Boy was also the last Rockabilly I ever said yes to. Let that be a lesson to all of you.

My Attempt at Advice

Every now and then, a friend of mine will call or text me asking for advice. Don’t get me wrong, I love playing therapist. The problem is… I suck at it. At least with women I do. My guy friends are easy. I just lay down the truth, fill their bellies with alcohol and find a girl to sleep with them. Boom! Problems solved. Women, however, are not that simple. They require a delicate approach, a sunny prospective on the future, tissues for their tears, someone to hold their hand and talk through their feelings. And let’s be honest, I’m not good at tissues or happy-faces or motivational clichés. I’m more like the suck-it-up and bottle-your-feelings-like-a-man kind of girl. Why? Because crying women are scary. Myself included.

Last night a good friend of mine from Michigan called. She has been having trouble with her boyfriend. Well, she calls it trouble. I call it “that’s what happens when you date a cheating asshole with no moral standards and drug problem”. Potato potato.

Here was our conversation and my less-than-amazing advice.
 
Michigan Friend (MF): Kyle broke up with me last week.
Me: Wow. Sorry to hear that.
MF: I already miss him. I feel like my heart is in my stomach.
Me: I wish I could say something to make you feel better but you know I suck at this. I love you, though. Does that help?
MF: Yes. Sort of. How did you get over your breakup so easy?
Me: Easy? Are you fucking kidding? I don’t do anything easy. Watching me sort through my issues is like watching a train plow into a house full of babies. It’s very messy, the public is usually outraged, blood and screaming everywhere, people threatening lawsuits… you know, typical stuff.
MF: That isn’t at all how your breakup went.
Me: Yeah, but it would have been a hell of lot more interesting if it had. Look, you can’t ask me for breakup or relationship advice. Have you seen my life? My formula for dealing with anything is to eat an entire box of macaroni and cheese and chase it with a bottle of Korbel Brut. If I am not sitting in a bar or drinking with friends, I’m dressed in pj’s, eating chocolate and  watching ungodly amounts of TV. My life is a day by day catastrophe. If you ask me where I see myself in 5 years, I’ll stare at you blankly and picture myself wrestling a polar bear for a granola bar and a block of cheese. I won’t share that image with you, of course, because it makes no sense. In other words, I’ve got limited wisdom here and zero inspirational bullshit quotes to throw at you.  
MF: But you seem so happy right now. How did you do it?
Me: Okay. Here’s what I did, take it or leave it. I stopped feeling sorry for myself and created a life around the things I enjoyed. Once I realized that the one person who will never leave me is me, because it’s physically impossible to do, and I started loving myself enough to build a life around the things that make me happy, then everything just fell into place. At least, I think everything did. I don’t fucking know. Also, I’ve been doing this whole ‘trust my gut’ and ‘don’t overthink stuff’ thing lately. Seems to be working.
MF: How do you not overthink stuff?
Me: Hmm… I keep busy, I tell myself to shut the fuck up and when my mind starts getting too creative in the paranoia department, I pour wine down my throat and go to bed. It works fabulously.
MF: I think you are downplaying your process.
Me: I’m truly not. I’d love to Dr. Phil your ass about your breakup but there are worse things in this world than the end of relationships and more important things than dating. If you want to waste your days boohoo-ing over men, be my guest. Me, I want to finish my novel, travel the world, survive a week in the wild, destroy my fear of water, start volunteering again, find god, take a physics class for no reason, live in Tibet for a month and learn the violin. You know, things that do not require me chasing a man and giving up my life. So if you’re looking for someone to pander to your broken heart, you’ve come to the wrong place.
MF: That’s not what I’m looking for.
Me: Then find your formula. And for god’s sake stop searching for someone else to make yourself feel complete. The world is a big place with lots of things to do and you’re a smart enough girl to conqueror it on your own. When the right man comes along, be stable and happy enough to enjoy it with him. When the wrong one leaves, celebrate. Keep lots of wine on hand and never underestimate the power of shopping for shoes. That’s all I got.
MF: You're not going to give me the scientific/evolution speech about breakups?
Me: Nah. I gave up on that one years ago. No one listens to logic.
MF: You really do suck at this.
Me: I told you. I’d love to keep cheering you up but I have half a bottle of wine to finish and a season of Sherlock to start. I’ll call you tomorrow and make sure you’ve snapped out of this self-pitying bullshit thing you’ve got going on.
MF: Thank you. I think.
Me: Love you.
MF: Love you too…

Interrupting Buffy

I put on my pj’s and uncorked a bottle of Chardonnay. It was Friday and I was home alone. My boyfriend at the time, Tom, was at Mark’s party, my girlfriends were out barhopping and my dog was sleeping. There was nothing that could possibly ruin my evening.

I was already halfway through the Buffy seasons and was hoping to finish most of them by midafternoon the following day. Faith and Buffy had just switched bodies and Faith was about to have sex with Riley. Shit was getting serious. Tonight was going to be a heavenly marathon. At least that was what I thought. Then the phone rang.

Me: Hello?
Mark: You need to get over here. Like, now.
Me: Are you fucking kidding? Look, Willow and Tara are about to do a spell and solve this god damn body switching thing. I’m going nowhere.
Mark: Tom lost his mind and is trying to fight everyone. You need to come calm him down.
Me: Just call the cops. He’ll settle down if you do that.
Mark: Seriously?
Me: No. Yes. Cops always settle him down. But wait until I get there. You gave him cheap whiskey didn’t you?
Mark: I didn’t give him anything. He brought it himself.
Me: I hate all of you. All. Of. You.

I was too comfortable to change out of my penguin pajamas and so I threw on a coat and headed to Mark's. As I made my way toward his front stairs I noticed a small group of people gathered next to his building. One of them was waving at me. I squinted and noticed it was Blaine, Tom's best friend. He was the only one I recognized. 

Me: Where is Tom?
Blaine: I don’t know. He just took off.
Me: Okay. Explain to me what the hell happened.

The three other guys in the group started telling their versions all at once and I had no idea what anyone was saying. The more I told them to shut up, the louder they got. Just as I was starting to piece together the beginnings of a story (some girl’s boyfriend had pushed Tom down the stairs?) Tom came running around the corner, shirtless and reaching for the tall guy next to me. Yep, he was definitely going to kill this guy.

Me: (stepping in front of Tom) What the shit are you doing? And where is your shirt?
Tom: Where did you just come from??
Me: Home. You remember my plan, right? Me, Joss Whedon, a bottle of wine, no boyfriend bullshit? Remember?

Besides Blaine, the rest of the guys began to walk away quickly and Tom lunged toward them. I grabbed his shoulders and got as close to his face as possible.

Me: You want to go to fucking jail? Because unless you tell me what the hell is going on, I’m not bailing you out! And seriously, put on a god damn shirt. You can fight like white trash all you want but at least try not to look too much the part.
Blaine: You don’t even know what happened!
Me: So someone tell me.
Blaine: Well, there was a girl here and Tom was joking with her. Told her she looked like a cheap hooker.
Me: He used the word hooker?
Blaine: Yes.
Me: What is this? 1953?
Blaine: (Ignoring me) Anyways, she pulled out a knife and told him she was going to stab him so he wrestled it away from her and threatened to knock her teeth out. Her boyfriend heard what Tom said and then everyone started swinging and yelling.
Me: Real classy, guys. Sorry I missed your inbred hoedown.
Blaine: It wasn’t like that!
Me: (Turning to Tom) Did you really tell a girl you were going to knock her teeth out?
Tom: She was going to stab me.
Me: Have you lost your god damn mind? You don’t threaten a woman! Jesus. Get upstairs before Mark’s neighbors have him thrown out.

I pointed at Mark’s apartment.

Blaine: But it wasn’t his fault.
Me: Both of you!

The apartment smelled like stale cigarettes and moldy beer. Mark sat on the couch looking… defeated.

Me: You couldn’t handle this on your own, Mark? Really?
Mark: He wouldn’t listen. Not to me or Blaine or anyone.
Me: And do your friends always carry knives?
Mark: I have no idea.
Me: Can’t you guys just play poker, drink some beers, get a few strippers? Act like normal men?
Mark: I’m sorry. I think we all had too much to drink.
Blaine: And I think you aren’t understanding. She was going to stab him!
Me: No, you dumb ass, she wasn’t. People who stab other people don’t stand around threatening to do it. They just do it. And she was a GIRL! You’re telling me all you dudes couldn’t handle one emotionally unstable woman?
Blaine: You know, you could have stayed home.
Me: And miss all this? Nah! I love cleaning up your fucking messes.
Tom: (from the bathroom) I’m getting sick. Someone bring me water!
Me: He’s your problem. I’m going home. Keep him here for the night. Tomorrow, tell him he owes me flowers for keeping him out of jail. Or something with caramel. Like Rolos. I’ll take Rolos.

By the time I got home I had calmed down. People could interrupt me during a million different things and I probably wouldn’t mind. Watching Buffy was not one of them. Or watching anything Whedon for that matter (you should have seen me during Firefly). Especially if penguin pj’s and white wine are involved. Then everyone needs to politely piss off. I don’t care who is stabbing whom.

Magic Rings and Wretched Drunks

Conversation with doctor this morning after getting the NuvaRing –

Me: So this isn’t going to fall out?

Doc: No.
Me: How does it not come out during sex? It seems so low, so easy to remove.
Doc: It won’t come out.
Me: It feels like it is dangerously close to my g-spot. Maybe not exactly near it, but definitely on the same path. If it blocks my g-spot, I’m going to be pissed.
Doc: (laughing) You won’t even notice it. And it won’t block anything.
Me: Good. Then I think this might end up being my most favorite ring ever. I used to have an emerald one that I wore all the time; loved that ring. But all it did was look pretty. This one, however, has magic.
Doc: It's just a release of hormones that causes your body to stop producing eggs. That's all it is.
Me: Like I said. Magic.

Phone conversation this morning –

Sumo Baby (SB): Did you go to the doctors for the flu or for birth control?

Me: Birth control. I got the NuvaRing.
SB: Can you feel it?
Me: Nope. My doc said I had the perfect pelvis for it. I guess I have some sort of arch. Who knew?
SB: That’s creepy.
Me: My arch is creepy?
SB: No! That your doctor knows the shape of your vagina.
Me: Uhm... he had his fingers up there. I think he had a pretty good idea about my shape.
SB: I still don’t understand why you have a male doctor. It’s so strange.
Me: Oh! I forgot to tell you. When he shoved it up there I almost said, “One ring to rule them all.” Which made me laugh the whole time he was putting it in. I’m pretty sure he thinks something is mentally wrong with me.
SB: Is that some Star Trek shit?
Me: Lord of the Rings. How do you not know that?
SB: And why did your doctor have to put it up there for you?
Me: To show me how to do it. He put it in and left the room so I could remove it and do it myself. Then he came back to check if I had done it right.
SB: He left the room?
Me: Yeah…
SB: Why?!?
Me: To give me privacy.
SB: He just had his fingers all up in your vag and he leaves the room to give you privacy? I think at that point the two of you were close enough that he could have stayed! I never understood that. Some doctor shoves binoculars up my vagina and then gives me privacy to get dressed. It doesn’t make sense!
Me: I never thought of it like that.
SB: I think of it like that all the time.
Me: I’m beginning to feel like he should have bought me dinner or something.
SB: Exactly.

So now that I am officially baby proofed, I think I will celebrate with wine and fettuccini alfredo. Maybe a zombie movie. I mean, nothing says ‘I hate babies’ like merlot, pasta and zombies. Am I right?

In other news, I know I wrote in a previous blog about how the writers I admire were all crazy drunks but I am beginning to think my love of this trait extends to all the men I have ever admired or adored. Case in point: My favorite comedian EVER has got to be Doug Stanhope. He is a wretched drunk, an amazing performer, a great writer, and a god damned genius. He is the most interesting train wreck in the entertainment industry and definitely one of the most underrated comedians.

Today I was youtube-ing through some of his old material when I came across a bit he did on marriage. People have asked me why I do not feel the need to jump into another marriage. It’s hard for me to explain. It isn’t necessary, I want to tell them. It’s a very expensive concept that we have invented for very selfish reasons. And it isn’t like I am opposed to the idea of marriage… I just feel ‘meh’ about it. Sure, you guys go do that, I’ll be over here saving money and not dealing with lawyers and churches.

Anyways, I think in the below clip, Stanhope expresses EXACTLY what I think about this subject. I am going to have to memorize this so I have an answer ready for the next person who thinks a woman my age should be ‘settled down and married.’

BTW: You must go to his website and click on his contact page. He really will drunk dial you. And he will write you back. And you will love it.