Monday, November 30, 2009

I really need to get out more.

The sad thing about this past weekend is not that I had to deal with irritating and/or unruly family members. It’s that I was disappointed when nothing really happened.

No one came to blows. No one got really drunk and fell in the lake. No one offered me any illegal drugs. And by no one, of course I mean my dad.

There are a few things worth mentioning here and there, but considering the material my family usually presents me with around the holidays I’m deeply disappointed.

Wednesday

I left the office and headed straight home. My dad arrived early that morning and my stepmom flew in that afternoon. I was sure I’d find him on my Papa’s patio, a sloshing brown paper bag in one hand and a cigarette in the other, telling my stepmom in no uncertain terms that she was to fuck off and leave him to his work.

Instead I found him asleep in the recliner. What a waste. I kicked the side of the chair and he continued to snore.

“He’s really tired”, my stepmom said.

“Eh”, I replied shrugging my shoulders.

My Papa has seven dogs. One of them is a round, chocolate colored Cocker Spaniel named Bud. I hate that dog with a fiery passion. If I could I’d have him butchered, skinned, roasted, and served to my Papa’s Filipino girlfriend. This has nothing to do with her nationality and everything to do with the fact that she encourages the fat fuck. (Although I do have my suspicions about her mother’s dietary habits in particular.)

Every time I set foot in the door that dog charges me like a bull. Sometimes the bastard even nips me on the leg. Everyone says it’s because I harassed him when he was puppy, but I didn’t. I was just in the vicinity when he was being harassed by my cousins. They tormented the dog and for some reason, he’s seen fit to torment me in return.

Anyway, I was facing my sleeping dad, my back was to my Papa in his chair and I was talking to my stepmom when I felt a sharp pinch on the back of my leg. I immediately whipped around, ready to kill Bud who had been barking at me for the past three minutes straight. As I turned I shouted, “YOU SONOFABITCH!” and came face to face with my Papa. He was laughing so hard he nearly died.

“You shouldn’t talk to your Papa that way”, he said still laughing.

I glared at him. The fat bastard had pinched the fuck out of my leg!

He spent the rest of the weekend telling everyone the “hilarious story” about how I thought the dog bit me and I called him a sonofabitch. Hilarious indeed.

Because I love my Papa and I know what’s good for me, I went home and made him the apple nut cake he requested for Thanksgiving dinner. I also had to make a pound cake for Thanksgiving lunch at The Grandmother’s. I still maintain the theory that if a man eats my cake, he’s smitten forever. Which is why I never bake for anyone but family.

The rest of the night, that wasn’t devoted to baking, was spent watching movies with my sister. She insisted that I watch a scary movie called Paranormal Activity. I hate scary movies, but I heard from several people that saw it in theaters that after they watched it they didn’t sleep for days and that intrigued me a bit.

But it was stupid. I didn’t find it scary in the slightest. My sister, however, was terrified and begged me to sleep in her bed. We haven’t really slept in the same bed in years. I took the opportunity to make it a miserable experience to keep her from asking again in the future. I’m a bit of a thrasher and she’s prone to nose bleeds.

Thursday

I bundled my cake and various other odds and ends into the car early that morning. I’d promised The Grandmother that I would come over before the others and help with lunch. Of course I was 45 minutes later than I said I’d be, with wet hair and no makeup. It’s become a disturbing trend, looking like a bum.

My Aunt, bless her, recently moved in with TG. From personal experience I know that TG is one of the hardest people on the planet to live with. But in her case I’m not sure what’s worse: staying with her husband or living with TG. I probably would have jumped ship too. The man is an absolute nutter.

I wasn’t there an hour before I was hitting the rum and coke. Eleven in the morning and I was drinking liquor. Dear lord, I’ve become my father.

The minute we returned to the kitchen for orders she said, “Are you two drinking?” Nothing gets by that damn woman.

Of course we denied it. “I’m high on life Grandma”, I said grinning.

“Well that’s the only thing anyone should ever be high on!”

“And Jesus”, I replied.

She glowered.

After arguments over seating arrangements and who was going to say grace (it was unanimously agreed that I wasn’t fit to pray for our health), we finally settled down to eat.

I decided to do the smart thing and give up on my diet for the weekend. It would have been unfair to my family to have me ripping out my hair at the table and salivating all over their turkey and dressing. There was no conversation for the first five minutes or so and I was in a heaven no granola bar could ever take me to.

Being an important member of the family (read: being put in charge of name tags and being a lefty) I was sitting at the head of the table. My mother was at the foot, my Aunt D (a different one) to my left, and TG to my right. I love sitting next to Aunt D. She always smells of pot and looks around like she’s lost. Sometimes she even laughs out loud for no reason and talks to herself.

When everyone finally started talking it was, of course, about politics.

So while my mother flashed me bits of “see-food” from her end of the table, TG and my Uncle yelled at each other across the turkey. All because someone had to mention (angelic face) that TG had ordered Sara Palin’s new book.

My Uncle hates Sarah Palin and began a loud and lengthy monologue on her less than adequate intelligence. TG loves Sarah Palin and began even more loudly interrupting him. Soon they were shouting and pointing at each other while the rest of us played ping pong with our heads.

D turned her glazed eyes on me, smiled and asked me to load her plate up with more turkey, my mother flashed me another chewed up mouthful of food, and my sister texted her boyfriend.

A typical American family dinner.

My sister, the kid, and I left around 4pm in order to make it to Papa’s for dinner. Never as formal as TG’s, everyone fixed their plates when they felt like it and sat scattered about the house.

For the first time in years there were no eggrolls and no pig with an apple in it’s mouth. And though I didn’t eat anything except for a bit of my own cake, I was happy I didn’t have to look at a whole pig. There’s something disturbing about them and for some reason they always make me think of that book Lord of the Flies.

My dad passed out with his pants unbuttoned minutes after dinner and there was no liquor consumed by anyone. I’ve never been so disappointed in my redneck side of the family.

Friday

In a moment of weakness I agreed to help my Aunt pack up her things and move them to her storage building. She hired Two Men and a Truck to help.

I showed up at TG’s at eight that morning, grumpy and hating life. We drove the 30 minutes to her house and waited for the movers to show up.

Two Men and a Truck finally came. Or rather, three hung over stoners. The leader was a skinny white guy and his cohorts were two hulking black men.

They took forever to get started, laughing, joking and complaining about needing a drink. I went about my business, packing things here and there, but before long one of the hulks started following me around and questioning me.

Where are you from? Where did you go to school? What year did you graduate? Do you know so-in-so? Do you mind if I call you “babe”?

What? Fuck off dude. It’s 10 in the morning on the day after Thanksgiving. I’m sweating like a whore in church and all I want is to take a shower and crawl into my bed with a book. Yes, I mind if you call me “babe”.

He continued to follow me around throughout the morning, offering his help to me instead of assisting the other two guys with the really big stuff. I eventually got my ipod and tuned everything out.

I was standing in the dining room wrapping pieces of glass from a china cabinet in bubble wrap. The song Crazy Bitch by Buckcherry came on which never fails to make me move, maybe even head bang a little, and I started shimmying around. Right when they shout “You’re crazy but I like the way you fuck me!” and I was doing the required pelvic thrusts against the table, there was a crash to my right. I looked and stopped mid thrust when I saw a large leg protruding from the living room ceiling.

The guys were supposed to be getting a few things from the attic but one of the hulks wasn’t walking on the beams and fell through the ceiling. It took me half an hour to calm my Aunt down enough to get her moving again. What made it worse was that the guys found it absolutely hilarious.

After almost five hours, with a timely appearance from my mom’s boyfriend, we were finished. The movers and my Aunt headed to the storage building while Ray and I headed to TG’s to unload his truck. He suggested we stop by Chick-fil-A for lunch since neither of us had eaten that day and knowing my diet was already shot to shit, I agreed.

Bliss. Food. Oh, mayonnaise...how I love you.

Moving on.

By the time I made it home that night I felt like I had bricks tied to my limbs. After a bit of excitement over a package of pig faced gummies I received in the mail (which I’ve decided may have just been the highlight of my weekend) and a shower, I was asleep by 7:30. Only sick people and geriatrics are in bed by 7:30pm. The shame!

Saturday

The only thing I did all day was read, watch the Carolina vs. Clemson game, and lounge on my Papa’s couch. I did drink a beer with my dad to celebrate the Cocks winning their first game against Clemson since 2006. WOO!

I also managed to find out that my dad will still be working in New Jersey after all. We’ve planned my visit for late February. New York and handbags...here I come.

Sunday

We spent that morning cleaning and rearranging furniture, the afternoon picking up last minute things from the store, and the evening putting up the Christmas tree.

Throughout the day, my sister’s boyfriend and I became quite close.

He smiled at me. I gave him the finger.

He said pass me the hooks. I said fuck off.

He touched my sister inappropriately. I made a finger cutting throat motion. (That one gets um’ every time.)

Yeah, I’m pretty sure my weekend sucked balls. It’s ok if you say so. Just be nice about it.

On a positive note it’s almost time for my yearly vagina violating appointment. They have Jesus posters on the ceiling. Oooooh baby.

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

I suppose I do look quite tasty.

Things have been a bit dull lately. I have a feeling that I’ll regret that statement come this weekend when my family shows up en masse for Thanksgiving, but there it is anyway.

I could tell you about what happened at court today, but I don’t particularly feel like talking about it. Let’s just say it went neither badly nor well. Though I did look quite smart, if I do say so myself.

Instead...

I always get a bit nostalgic around the holidays and today I found myself thinking of one incident in particular. I can only assume that the reason I dredged up this memory is that the person it involves reminds me a bit of Santa Claus – if Santa Claus sold marijuana.

Several years ago I lived in a small house on the more questionable side of town with five other people. One of those people was my cousin Dooby. His girlfriend and I worked together in a Greek restaurant close by. I have no idea what the others did. When we weren’t working we were getting drunk, getting high, and playing video games.

I also have no idea how we smoked the amount of marijuana that we smoked and functioned. Hell, for all I know we didn’t. Most of my time there is a great big blur. But there are a few things that stand out. One is the time Dooby tried to whore me out for pot.

He had a friend, aptly named after snack food, that was his regular pot dealer. I never saw the guy much because I always went through Dooby to get my stuff...or just smoked his.

One night we were sitting on the couch playing a video game when Dooby said to me, “You know, Dude likes you.”

I wasn’t really paying him much attention. “Uh huh.”

“I told him you were single.”

“Mmm....”

“So, you know he’s got this good shit that just came in right?”

That got my attention. “For real?”

“Yeah...”

“So are you going to get some”, I asked him.

“Well”, he said looking all shifty, “it’s kinda expensive and I’m broke.”

I sighed and turned back to the game. “Oh.”

“But...I was thinkin’. What if I invited him over to hang out with us? He’ll come because he likes you and he’ll probably smoke some of it with us too.”

I didn’t have to think about that for long. After all, all I had to do was sit in the same room with the guy and he would light it up and pass it around. Sounded good to me.

“Ok, whatever. But don’t tell him anything stupid like I’m into him!”

“Yeah, ok.”

So the guy came over.

He was over six feet tall, had a shaved head, and was very...round. I couldn’t begin to guess at a weight, but the fucker was huge. I looked like the Rob to his Big, only you know, a girl. And he had really red cheeks, like Santa Claus...but less jolly looking.




He sat down and we all hung out for awhile. I relaxed a bit because everything seemed ok. He did in fact break out his awesome new pot and share.

I got up to get something to drink and Dooby followed me into the kitchen. I was stoned off my ass.

“Hey”, he said. “I’m going to go to bed.”

“You can’t leave me in there with big un’”, I hissed.

“Why don’t you flirt with him a little bit and see if he’ll give you some pot?”

“Are you crazy?!”

“...man, if you slept with him you’d be set for like, a whole week!”

I was getting horrified. “Did you say anything to him?”

He looked sheepish and amused at the same time. “I might have said that you MIGHT do him...”

“WHAT!”

“....or something like that.”

“I’m going to fucking kill you! Get him out of here.”

But he didn’t. He ran for his bedroom and shut the door like a little wimp.

So there I was faced with an enormous drug dealer who was sitting on my couch, most likely waiting to get laid.

I decided to do the only thing I could do: I went back in there and played video games.

I told myself, “Self, if you stay busy and be aloof, he’ll leave.”

Let me tell you something about Self. She was a fucking retard.

I played the fuck out of that video game and while I played, he lit up another blunt. And I smoked it. And by the time I finished smoking it, I was so high I could have been on the goddamn moon.

The next thing I know he had his fat mouth on the back of my neck and I was crawling across the couch attempting to get away. Unfortunately, since I was so stoned, it seemed more funny than horrifying. I started laughing uncontrollably and he took that as an invitation, I guess.

I remember laughing and thinking, “Don’t crush it! Don’t crush it!” but I’m not sure if I said it out loud. And by “it”, I think I meant myself.

He kept pawing at me, but I finally managed to stumble to my feet.

I told myself, “Self, if you go to bed and leave him sitting here...he’ll just leave.”

Oh, Self! No!

The thing about my bedroom was...it was actually a dining room. It had double glass doors that led into the living room, but I had installed a curtain rod over them and hung long, dark curtains. Problem solved. But there was another entrance that led into the kitchen that didn’t actually have...a door. I’d fixed up a blanket over the opening.

And the thing about my bed was...it wasn’t actually a bed. It was a gigantic air mattress. Unfortunately, I’d poked a hole or two in it somehow and I’d have to hook up the electric pump at least twice a night to lift myself back up off the floor. But it was fucking awesome when it was inflated!

So anyway, I stumbled to my feet and out of the room. I may or may not have said goodnight, good riddance, or save the whales.

I flung myself through my blanketed doorway and onto my then inflated bed. I was so high all I could do was lay there and think about...whatever it is high people think about.

Then all of a sudden there was an eclipse.

Actually, big un’ walked in the “door”, but same thing.

Before I could move...or maybe that’s not true. I probably could have moved, but my brain wasn’t on speaking terms with my limbs. Or my mouth, since all it said was, “Uh...mumble mumble huh.” Anyway, he fell like a giant redwood onto my bed and, as it happens, on top of me.

Unfortunately I have trouble breathing when I’m being smothered, so I was unable to tell him to remove himself at first. I’m not sure exactly what he was doing while I was folded up in the air mattress and he was squishing me like a bug, but I’m thankful that Self didn’t tell me to undress before I got in that bed.

I felt my back hit hard floor. The fucker had managed to deflate my bed in the matter of minutes...maybe seconds. My concept of time wasn’t really at it’s best.

He grasped my arms and rolled, causing what air was left to shift to one side and dump us unceremoniously onto the floor. This left me sitting astride the great beast, stunned and slightly angry that I’d have to pump up my air mattress sooner than usual.

It was then that I noticed he’d managed to partially remove his clothing and I began to shriek and scramble off of him. Who knows what he was saying. Probably “Feed me Seymour!”

I finally managed to extricate myself and still oblivious to the danger of having a horny, mammoth drug dealer in my room that may or may not have just tried to eat me, I went straight to the fucking air pump and started fixing my mattress.

Fortunately he’d had enough of my shenanigans and plodded out in search of something more fulfilling...like an aisle or two at the grocery store. Again, I remember nothing he said. I may or may not have called him “bone crusher”.

It wasn’t until the next morning when I sobered up that I realized I might have just angered the wrong person. Then I remembered who was really at fault. Dooby.

That’s why I never told him about the bag of pot the giant dropped in my room in his struggle to swallow me whole.

I smoked it all by myself...to the FACE. And it was awesome.

I was surprised that the guy never came back for his bud, but I can’t say I blame him. I’m not used to fighting with my food either.

Monday, November 16, 2009

Why does everyone keep calling me weird? Is it a fat thing?

The holidays are closing in and we all know what that means!

That’s right, FOOD.

I know some people say it’s all about Jesus, but listen to me: Jesus isn’t food. Unless you’re counting those flat, dissolvable cardboard disks those church goers call “the body of Christ”. I totally don’t.

But here’s the thing. There will be no mounds of macaroni and cheese, brown sugar glazed ham, or buttery, succulent rolls for me.

I’m on a diet.

I know. I know. EVERYONE is on a diet.

But the thing about me and dieting is we hate each other. We’re unfaithful. We tried to make it work for the sake of the kid, but there was just too much bitterness there.

Unfortunately, the doctor says we have to try again. He also acts like the problem with our relationship is 100% my fault, but what the fuck does he know?

The scene: Doctor’s office. The purpose: A doctor’s excuse. Why: Because I didn’t feel well and my throat might have been a little sore. Maybe. A week ago.

I attempted to look as forlorn and sickly as possible while the nurse took my blood pressure and asked me boring questions.

Then I waited, sitting on the crinkly papered exam table and swinging my legs back and forth. Heel struck table: clang! Heel struck table: clang!

Wait...wait...was that? I think it was! “Clang clang clang clang, clangclangclang”...and vocals: “I said what what in the butt! I said what what in the butt! You wanna do it in my butt, in my butt (clang clang clang clang clang clang)! Let’s do it in the butt...Ooooook!”

Enter Doctor Have-No-Soul.

Doc: “Good morning.”

Me: Totally not embarrassed about kicking exam table like a four year old and singing Southpark assholery. “Good morning.”

Doc: “So we aren’t feeling well today?”

Me: “Number one feels ok, but number seven needs a little work.”

Doc: Bland, sheep face. Does not compute.

Me: “Heh, you know...we...multiple personalities....”

Doc: Bland, sheep face. Does not compute.

Me: “Alrighty! No, we don’t feel well today. We didn’t feel well yesterday either.”

Doc: Pulls out stethoscope and starts asking medical questions.

Me: “We might need medicine.”

Doc: More medical questions. Touchy feely, under the shirt action etc.

Me: Medical answers, stray giggle at tickley under the shirt feely action.

After more examining:

Doc: Looks at chart, flips page. Frowny face. “You’ve gained 15lbs since I saw you this time last year.”

Me: “15!”

Doc: “Yes. 15.”

Me: “Shit. Oh gawd! We’re getting fat!” Deliberately bland sheep face.

Doc: “Mmmm.” Fake noncommittal face, but in actuality...judgmental face.

Me: “I’m sick though, so...we’re not talking about weight.”

Doc: “You should be aware that you gained 15lbs in a year.”

Me: “Could you stop saying that out loud?”

Doc: “Yes, but you should be aw...”

Me: YEAH AWARE, I get it. So what do you think?”

Doc: “I think you should go on a diet.”

Me: “ABOUT MY SICKNESS, NOT MY WEIGHT.”

Doc: Bland, sheep face. “I’ll write you a prescription for antibiotics just in case.”

Me: “Great. Wonderful. Are we finished?”

I got my paperwork and headed to the check out counter. A girl I knew from school was working the desk.

“So, how did it go,” she asked.

“He called us fat.”

She stared at me. “Well, you aren’t”, she said.

I tore out the check I was writing and handed it to her.

“We’ve gained 15lbs in a year.”

She stared at me like I was crazy. “Um...really, you’re not.”

I sighed. “Are we done here?”

She glanced at the check, did a double take and started laughing. “Yeah! Ha! Man, that’s funny!”

On the Memo line at the bottom of the check I’d written: “Cash this before we eat it.”

“Fat people are funny”, I said knowingly.

I went back out to my car and called my boss.

“Well, what did the doctor say”, she asked.

“He said we’re fat.”

“What?!”

I repeated myself, then gave her a run down of the appointment (the edited, I’m too sick to work today version).

“Well, don’t worry about it. Didn’t you say he was an asshole anyway? I thought you were getting a new doctor after the last time when he called you a hypochondriac.”

“We forgot.”

“You forgot to get a new doctor?”

“We haven’t seen this one in a year. Besides, fat people are forgetful.”

“For god’s sake! You are not fa...”

“It’s an alliteration thing, I think. Fat, funny, forgetful, food, freezer, fellatio.”

“You do realize how weird you are right?”

“Yes, we know.”

“What’s fellatio?”

“Gelatin. We have to go now.”

She sighed. “Call me and let me know if you’re coming in tomorrow...and quit saying “we”. It’s weird.”

“We’ll be there. If we can fit through the door. F.....Fit.”

“Yeah, you need to go home and lie down. Feel better.”

“Bye.”

Fast forward.

Last night I was sitting on the couch talking to mom’s boyfriend Ray.

“I’m starting my diet tomorrow”, he said.

“Really? I should do it with you. It’s easier to diet with a partner.”

“Ya’ll are crazy. I’m waiting till after the holidays to do any dieting”, mom said.

“That’s the best time to do it”, he replied.

Mom looked at me. “You don’t diet well.”

“Well, I know we’ve had our differences in the past but surely we can hang in there for just 15lbs.”

She laughed and shook her head. “Ok. We’ll see.”

An hour later:

“Who ate my M&M’s”, my sister asked.

“I did”, I admitted from the couch.

“Uh! What the hell!”

“Listen, there has to be one last fling before monogamy starts tomorrow.”

“Mom, what is she talking about?”

“Dieting.”

“Really”, she asked me. “You’re going to diet?”

“Yes.”

“You know Thanksgiving is in like, two weeks.”

“Yes.”

“How are you going to keep from eating all that junk?”

“Fellatio.”

She looked confused. “What’s fellatio?”

“It’s what fat people do to keep from eating....food”, I said.

Mom glared at me. “That’s enough.”

“That’s not what it means, is it”, my sister asked.

I shrugged. “I forget.”

“Whatever. You are SO weird.”

And that’s the story of why we started a diet today.

Now you'll have to excuse us, we're off to lunch.

Not sure what we're having today...but I hear Jesus is low in calories.

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

I must, I must, I must increase my bust!

I was going to write a short post thanking all the guys that participated in Penis Week, but I’d rather do a video. So I’m thinking I might enlist the services of my best friend and make it a little extra special. (And that is not a girl-on-girl reference.) It’s in the heterosexual works.


**********



I’ve always said that I’m glad my kid is a girl. I just didn’t think I could raise a boy. If I’m being completely honest, I didn’t think I could raise anything other than a penis or my hand...but here I am, doing it.

I took her shopping for fall clothes recently and was delighted to find that she and I have more in common than our freakishly long toes. We shop alike: Grab, try on, put back or keep, and get the fuck out. Fast, efficient, and leaving extra time for lunch.

There was only one exception: underwear.

My four year old decided she wanted a bra. Not a training bra, mind you, a REAL bra...with cups and adjustable straps. It took me about 15 minutes to get her away from those racks, sans bra and inappropriate panties, and hustle her, whining and pleading to the check out counter.

I told my mother about it when we got home.

“She wants a bra. Not a training bra with rainbows and butterflies all over it...a real one, with a matching set of bikini panties.”

"Are they made for her size?"

"Yes, the cups (air quotes) are flat, but"

She laughed. “Then why didn’t you get her one?”

“She’s four. Bras and bikini panties? Seriously?”

“Eh”, she said shrugging.

“I could be setting her up to be a....a....”

“A what? It’s no worse than the shit you used to wear.”

“Yeah, well you didn’t help me buy any of it!”

“Nope! And I’m not helping you with this one either!”


I got my first bra when I was six.

It was Fourth of July weekend and I was standing on my grandparent’s porch with my nine year old cousin, waving sparklers. She was making fun of me for not wearing a bra, pointing and laughing at my flat chest. This was the same she-devil that taught me about sex with a Barbie and Ken doll and how to steal the candy from our uncle’s army food packs.

The more she taunted me the angrier I got, until finally I took my sparkler and stabbed her in the hand with it. She ran off screaming and crying, eighties hair still visible over the bushes as she cut through the yard.

My Nana came out the side door, cigarette in one hand and the obligatory gin and tonic in the other. I didn’t know she'd been watching.

“What did ya do that for, dawlin?”

“She was making fun of me.”

She stood staring at me for a moment, blowing smoke out of her nose, before finally saying, "You come on with me.”

I was sure she was going to take the yard stick to my ass. It wouldn’t have been the first time.

She went into the spare bedroom, opened up the closet and started digging through a drawer. I stared at the lengthening ashes of the cigarette clamped between her bright pink lips. I remember thinking that if she dropped it, I had to step on it quick and make sure it was out. Because Papa always said, “Jackass, you make sure your Nana don’t burn this house down, ya hear?”

She finally found what she was looking for and turning around, held it up for me to see. It was a pale blue training bra with one of those sticky appliqu├ęs on the front of Strawberry Shortcake.

“This was ya cousin’s first training bra and now it’s yours.”

I didn’t want a hand-me-down training bra, but I knew better than to say that to Nana. She handed it over and told me to go to the bathroom and put it on.

The rest of the day she made sure to tell everyone that I was wearing that fucking bra. I was mortified. The only consolation was my cousin had a nice, red welt across her palm and was getting no sympathy. Training bra trumps sparkler burn.

My mom didn’t deal well with “girl issues”. It made her uncomfortable to talk about anything relating to underwear, boys, and especially periods. Nana used to say, “That woman just needs to touch herself, that’s all there is to it! Pain and simple.”

So Nana continued to buy my bras, panties, and other girl products as I grew up.When she passed away I was 12 and I started buying my own things.

My she-devil cousin was old enough to drive then and we would go to the mall with Papa’s credit card, buying whatever we wanted. My first run-in with Victoria’s Secret was on one such trip.

It was around my 13th birthday and I wanted something new and special to mark the occasion, but I wasn't sure what that was yet. She-devil marched into VS like she owned the place and started digging through the racks and bins. I was too busy gawking at all the leopard print and lace. Obviously this place had never heard of white cotton.

I finally started looking around, trying to draw as little attention as possible. I had a strong dislike for women that measure you for bras (still do actually) and I didn’t want one of them feeling me up in the VS dressing room in front of the she-devil.

I was rummaging through a bin when I saw a sign I couldn’t ignore. Glancing furtively around, I made my way toward every teenage girl’s destiny: the padded bra.

I found love with an emerald green, satin Wonderbra that day. The padding in that sucker was un-fucking-believable.

I took it to the counter, paid, and immediately went to the dressing room to switch it out with my plain white “Virgin” screamer.

BAM! Insta-titties!

I was so fucking proud of those things. Until I got home.

I stowed my bags in my room, made myself something to drink, and settled on the couch with a book. A short time later, my dad and mom came home from wherever the hell they’d been. It couldn’t have been 60 seconds before....

“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON WITH YOUR CHEST?” My dad was gawking at me.

“What? What’s going on?” My mom peered around him and her mouth promptly fell open.

“Let me see what you bought today”, she said reluctantly.

“Papa said I could get whatever I wanted!”

She started to my room. “Just show me.”

My dad was still yapping to himself, trying to wrap his pea brain around what was going on. “Don’t know what’s wrong with...is that green....I don’t think....”

A bright, emerald green strap was poking out from underneath my tank top and I shoved it back.

My mom started digging through my things and pulled out the Victoria’s Secret bag, empty except for tissue paper and a receipt. She read it and looked up at my dad standing in the doorway.

“It’s a MIRACLEbra”, she said with tears in her eyes, horrified. My dad looked at her, and then looked at my chest. Back and forth he went before finally bursting into laughter.

“MIRACLE! IT’S A MIRACLE”, he howled.

My face was bright red. I snatched the bag from her hand and stomped out.

“Call him”, I heard my dad say.

“I WILL not”, my mom replied.

Then I heard the unmistakable sound of the speaker phone. Ring. Ring. Ring. I stood in the hall, horror struck.

“HELLO”, my Papa shouted into the phone. He always shouts.

“DAD! THERE’S BEEN A MIRACLE!”

“WHAT?”

“WE’VE HAD A MIRACLE AT 154 blank ROAD!”

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKIN BOUT, JIM?”

“YOUR GRANDAUGHTER BOUGHT A MIRACLE BRA WITH YOUR CREDIT CARD! SHE’S GOT 'ER BOOBIES PUSHED UP TO 'ER CHIN!”

Loud, obnoxious, old man laughter.

“AND IT’S BRIGHT GREEN!”

More laughter.

For the next several years I became known as “The Miracle at 154 blank Road”...all because my mother was too embarrassed to help me shop for underwear.

Now it’s mine and my daughter’s turn to go through these rituals. I guess I'm about to buy her first training bra. Weird. Hopefully I'll do alright with this girly, parenting stuff and not embarrass her too much. It's definitely not all sugar, spice and everything nice.

But it will probably be fine.

After all...I have no problem touching myself.

Monday, November 09, 2009

You think National Geographic is bad?

I don’t like blood and gore, children, or the smell of bleach. As a matter of fact, I’m such a complainer that I could probably write a book thicker than the dictionary on things I do not like. But those three things make up Chapter one.

Before I continue, allow me to give a small warning:

If you are a mother, if you are pregnant, if you think childbirth is the most beautiful thing on the planet, or if you are Octomom...you might not want to read this. If you are a man, you might not want to read this. If you are my mother, The Grandmother, or a member of the department of social services...I urge you to turn away before it’s too late.

Now that everyone is gone, let’s begin.

I hated pregnancy. HATED it. Of course it stripped me of all my happy vices in one fell swoop. Cigarettes? Gone. Pot? See ya. Alcohol? Buh bye!

That is not to say I didn’t love the kid in utero, I did... eventually. I just wish she could have popped out of a cabbage patch rather than my vagina, complete with cute outfit, plastic shoes, and certificate of authenticity.

The first few months were mostly fine because I ignored the “goings on”. Getting out of the shower and muttering to myself in the mirror about “eating that fucking basket of teriyaki wings and half of that goddamned pie” was my way of denial. And wearing hoodies.

One night, right before I finally told everyone I was knocked up, I met a guy. I was hanging out with friends from work when he approached me. We started chatting and he was insanely nice and good looking, and come to find out a few hours later, insanely wealthy.

That night when we left, my friends gave me the scoop. His family was very well-to-do and he owned several prosperous businesses in the area. I was already interested before I found out he was loaded, that was a bonus.

But no, not really. Because when I got home that night and did my shower, stand in the mirror and mutter about wings and pie routine, I just couldn’t deal. I couldn’t pretend anymore.

At first I was sad because now, not only would I not get the chance to spend his money, I wouldn’t get to fuck him either. I don’t care what you’ve heard about men wanting to fuck pregnant women...forget it, unless you’re married or in a relationship. That’s not to say that there aren’t some weirdo perverts out there that have this life long dream to put a dent in a baby’s head or have strange bragging rights. I’m talking about normal men.

And do you know what sucks REALLY bad? Pregnant women are off the charts horny. At least for awhile. When I wasn’t thinking about stupid teriyaki wings, I was thinking about sex. It was fucking miserable. Kind of like how things are now, come to think of it. Just without the bun in there, slowly baking.

Anyway...so I was sad. And then I got angry.

I was living alone at the time. (Well, if I’m being technical it was me, my fetus, and my special ed cat named Nugget. Named so because he ate an entire bag of some of the best pot I’d ever gotten my hands on when he was a kitten.) There was a lot of throwing things and a lot of “FUCK MY LIFE’S” going on, when the kid started kicking. Of course, that’s when I broke down and was all “Fuck my life, but now I should probably stop being a retard and tell people this isn’t fat, it’s fetus” crying sort of deal.

I told the people at work a few days later. Right before, as it turns out, the wealthy hot dude came to visit me. Thankfully, I didn’t have to tell him myself. Sigh. The rich one that got away.

I was working as a waitress, having left my old comfy job. Getting knocked up by the boss will do that to ya. But it was probably one of the most awesome jobs I’d ever had. It’s where I met my best friend and several other people I’m still in touch with.

It’s also where I found the worst roommate in the history of roommates. And that is saying some shit, because I once lived in a three bedroom house with 5 other people in the ghetto and one of them liked to walk around naked and invite gangs of hoodrats back from the local Little Cricket gas station, one of which was a really scary black man with dreadlocks and a glass eye that actually tried to stab me with a knife. Yeah, I’m serious.

But this story isn’t about my psycho roommates or hoodrats. It’s about me, me, me. So, skip some drama, skip some bitch slapping, and skip to the part where I quit my job and moved back in with my parents.

My mom had been harassing me to move back so she could “help take care of you and the baby”. (This has since turned into “get the fuck out, but when you do be sure to leave the kid”.)

I became a fucking lunatic.

It was like George Foreman, Martha Stewart, and Hitler all possessed me at once. If I wasn’t grilling meat, baking cakes, scrubbing some obscure corner of the house, or barking orders...I was obsessively doing word finder puzzles. I have no idea why, but I bought them in huge books and took them everywhere. Can’t stand them now, of course.

Once I decided I was going to change bedrooms and there was no one there to help me but my 80lb little sister. I was determined to move every single piece of furniture in that house and if anyone tried to stop me, by gawd, I’d sit on them.

I believe they call it nesting.

I have no idea where I found the strength I had that day, but I lifted an entire bed frame, my sister only balancing the other end, over the bar that separates the kitchen and the living room because I didn’t want to take it apart. I shoved dressers and lifted tables. By the time my mom came home I was triumphant and pissed off.

Everything smelled of bleach. I poured it on anything in my path. I would have poured it on the animals too, but no one would let me. Now I can’t even be near the stuff.

Do you believe me now when I say pregnancy sucks? You’re large, moody, and think you’re Two Men and a Truck...which causes you back problems later in life. What is beautiful about that? But wait for it....it’s not over yet.

My OB/GYN was fantastic. He was a tall, older man and he wore the most adorable glasses I’d ever seen. He was always smiling, always making jokes, and made me feel comfortable.

However, you can only be so comfortable with someone ALWAYS up in your stuff. I suppose if you’re a teenage girl you’d like it...forever getting fingered and all that. But I was over that stage in my life. Fingering was so three years ago.

The Grandmother insisted on driving me to every doctor’s appointment. Those were some of the longest car rides of my life. I made the mistake of allowing her back to see an ultrasound once. She asked the doctor so many ridiculous questions and embarrassed me so much that I refused to let her come again.

Before long I was a little past a week overdue. I’d been to the doctor’s office every week for the past month.

On this particular day I waddled in with my mom in tow, miserable and cranky due to lack of breakfast. It was around 11am. The doctor came in, checked me out, gave me a grin and said, “Well then, if you’ll go on over to the hospital I think it’s alright to induce labor today.”

Today? TODAY! FUCK YES TODAY! Let’s get this sucker cleared out!

“That’s great! I’ll just go home and get my bag, grab some lunch and...”


“Oh no, you should go on over. Someone else can bring your bag. And you can’t eat anything.”

I fixed him with my pregnant woman death-ray glare. “What do you mean I can’t eat?”

“They’re going to give you the medicine to induce you and you cannot eat.”

I almost cried. “But labor could take forever and I haven’t eaten since dinner last night!”

“You’ll be fine! They’ll give you popsicles and ice chips...”

“Fucking ice chips”, I muttered.

The doctor went over more details with my mom since I was no longer inclined to listen. I was too busy devising ways to secretly get my hands on some food.

We arrived at the hospital, signed in, and they immediately took me to a room.

The next two hours were rather boring. They stuck me in a gown and settled me in the bed with an IV drip of whatever it was. Members of my family had already started to gather in the waiting room. The only events more important than birth to a southern family are fishing tournaments and the start of deer hunting season.

The Grandmother was of course let into the room, along with my mom and godmom who wandered in and out getting me ice chips and relaying news to my subjects.

Every now and then a nurse would come in, lift the sheet and check things out. I’d taken to trying to amuse my self and embarrass everyone else in retaliation for not being fed.

“What do you see down there”, I asked her once.

She looked up at me. “Erm, nothing yet...”

“It’s pretty, huh?”


“What?”


“My...”

“Alyson!” My mom and TG shouted simultaneously. They were used to my antics.

I rolled my eyes and contented myself with crunching as loudly on my ice chips as humanly possible.

Then I felt a bit of pain. A sharp jab that made me suck an ice chip down my throat, start choking, and then yelling, as three women advanced on me and started wailing on my back like they were in a Rocky film.

I shooed them away and assured them I was fine. I’d had a few pains in the previous hours, but that was the first one that really, truly hurt. The nurse asked me if I wanted drugs.

“Hell yes! Fill ‘er up!”

The first drug they gave me was Nubain. It was lovely. I was high as a kite.

I don’t remember much of what I said while on the Nubain, but everyone was laughing at me so I imagine it was a lot of nonsense. I DO remember that at one point they all left and in my drug haze I noted the phone on my bedside table.

I picked it up and dialed my best friend, who I hadn’t had a chance to talk to yet.

“Hello”, she said.
“Hey! It’s me!”
“Hey, what’s up?”
“I’m having a baby!”
“Um.....right now?”
“Yes!”
“Um....ok. Maybe you should call me when you’re, you know....done.”
“Ok!”

Talking to her later, she thought I was in actual, pushing labor. So much for getting her to sneak in contraband.

The Nubain wore off and they came in to do the epidural. Just remembering it makes me shudder. It didn’t exactly hurt, but it was very strange. It pinched and I felt a kind of jolt along my spine. After it was in though, I felt nothing from the waist down.

I said out loud to my godmom, “I had sex with someone once and it felt just like this.” (It was just a joke at the time. Little did I know it was going to become a reality one day.)

Finally the nurse said it was almost time. In came the doctor, but it wasn’t MY doctor.

My mom was all, “Oooh! Al! You remember Dr. So-in-So! He delivered your sister!”

“I was seven”, I grumbled. “And that is soooo weird...”

“Do you want a mirror brought in so you can watch”, the doctor asked me.

“No the hell I don’t!”

Then for some reason someone let my bastard ass father in the door. “Oh, there’s my girl...you’re gonna do great...go get um’ Al...”

“Get. The. Fuck. Out.”

He backed out grinning and waving just as massive pains started. I had no idea why the fuck my stomach was hurting so badly. I shouldn’t be able to feel anything.

“They didn’t give me enough drugs! They didn’t give me enough drugs!”

“It hurts because you aren’t pushing. You need to push”, the doctor said.

That’s when it dawned on me. If I pushed, a living human being that I’d have to take care of was going to come out of my vagina, and no amount of shoving was going to get it back in there. Not that I really wanted it back in there, but considering the alternative...

I refused to push because I was scared. I stalled.

In the movies they let you have a sheet over your legs. Not in real life. I’d yank it over me, and then the doctor would yank it off. We did this routine a few times before he finally pulled it off completely and handed it to the nurse. I was livid. I’m pretty sure I called him a fucker.

I looked up and there, reflected in the big, shiny black TV was my bizness. ALL my bizness.

“AHHH! The TV! Cover that damn TV!”

My mom says that she was so embarrassed that I made the doctor climb up on a chair and cover the TV before I would push. Well they got me back later, I’ll tell you that.

The doctor instructed my mom and godmom to get on either side of me, one holding one leg and one holding the other. At one point I looked at them and they were both staring down, wide eyed.

“What the fuck”, I yelled. “Stop looking!”

They both turned their heads up in the air quickly.

I’ll leave out the rest. Not for your sake, for mine. Suffice it to say it’s all blood, goopy stuff, and naked embarrassment.

It was over in record time...about 5 minutes after I started pushing and 5 hours from the time I was induced. I’ve heard stories about women being in labor with their first child for days. Fuck THAT. Somebody would have gotten me a plunger.

They cleaned up the kid and handed her to me. For the few minutes they let me hold her before taking her to the nursery I was in awe.

But when they took her away, everyone went with her. Nurses, family, everyone left assuring me they’d be right back. An hour later I was still waiting and getting angrier by the minute. Once they took the kid away, I remembered how fucking hungry I was.

I finally picked up the phone, called my dad and he answered, clearly emotional. “WHERE THE FUCK IS EVERYONE!”

“Oh, we’re looking at the baby! She’s beautiful! You did such a good job!”

“Can you PLEASE get a nurse in here? I'm starving! This is probably why some female animals eat their young!”

They finally sent someone to take care of me and moved me to a regular room. A few minutes later, with a room full of people, The Grandmother came walking in with a big bag of Chick-fil-A.

I almost cried I was so happy.

I was sitting up in the bed, blissfully stuffing my face with chicken sandwich and ignoring everyone, when a nurse came in.

“Here you go”, she said. I took a thick envelope out of her hand.

Still chewing, I nodded at her, set my sandwich down and pulled out the contents. Then I promptly spit out the wad of food, hopefully in her direction, and screamed.

They were Polaroids. Of my bizness. And the stuff...and my bizness...and the...oh gawd, it was horrible. Who the fuck authorized them to take photos? Not me! And more importantly, how the hell did I not notice that someone was snapping away?

I eventually calmed down and continued eating. I’d waited too long for that food to let them ruin it with birth porn. I made up my mind to burn them when I got home.

They brought the kid in a little while later and I made everyone leave so we could have our first mother/daughter discussion.

“First things first”, I said. “You are perfect. And clean now, which is even better. I don’t know what I’m doing, but it’s going to be ok. I’ve given up sex and drinking, I’ve gotten stitches in my vag, and I’ve had about 10 people I’ve never met see my junk and document it. I wouldn’t do that for just anybody. So...it's you and me kid."

I continued jabbering and cooing at her for a few minutes while she looked at me with those blue, new baby eyes. Then I had an epiphany.

“Ha! I’m not going to burn them!”

I grinned at her tiny face.

“I’m going to show them to you when you’re older! Free birth control. Hahahaha! This parenting shit is easy."

Sunday, November 08, 2009

Guest Posting day 7: Steve

Today is the final day of Penis Week. I will be returning tomorrow with quite a long post. Be prepared.   I hope you enjoyed my all male review. I know I did.

Last, but certainly not least, we have Steve. He's irritating, funny, and far too busy to post regularly...jerk. He writes some pretty amazing stories about his family and if you have a chance, you should definitely check him out. Read on.



The Women In My Life



Good day, you filthy bastards! Or wait… Am I the only filthy bastard here? Really? Damnit. In any case, this is HardlyHearsHimself, also known, as Steve “Is he serious?” Brown (not really, I just made that up. I hope it catches on though) from Conversation With Myself reporting derisively in place of OtherWorldlyOne. It’s been a long and surprisingly arduous weekend folks, mostly because I was out drinking copiously and gallivanting about this horrid city in place of writing this post I’ve been so honorably asked for. But the time for rabblerousing is long past, it seems. Or perhaps not, depending on just how it is you react to this mass of text I’m about to cram down your ocular cavities. What the hell was the topic again?

Ah, right, the women in my life.

I never wanted a brother. This seems entirely off topic, I know, but bear with me here, I’m going somewhere relevant with this, I swear. Right, I never wanted a brother. It was a strange disappointment the day my parents brought home my penis bearing younger sibling. You see it was early on in life that I realized I was much fonder of the fairer sex, for no discernable reason really. It’s possible I found them intriguing, at first. Particularly since they were so far out of my stubby reach; I was rather corpulent in my younger years (not to say I’m that old now, regardless of my rampant misanthropy and general loathing of teenagers), so the girls I was so fond of didn’t readily approach me. Instead, as I was left with no other options, I studied them from afar; obsessively so at first, but as I grew older and found not all of these cruel she-devils were repulsed by me, more casually.

Socializing has never been my strong suit, be it with men or women. Inevitably I did of course befriend males over the years, but not until the 8th grade did I ever associate with a girl I could, with sincerity, call a friend. And before I knew it, I had more of these girl friends. As I had suspected from the start, I found them much easier to harmonize with. According to them, it was because of my “understanding nature.” Apparently I listened, where most others waited their turn to speak. I’m not so sure if this applies to me still, at least not in the majority of cases. I was a nicer guy back then, and if you know me now, you’d find this claim preposterous like the rest of my current friends, male and female alike.

So I made girl friends. Which, by the way, is very awkward terminology. The subtle push of a space bar completely altering the meaning: girl friend, girlfriend. I realized it was not so difficult a task, befriending the ladies. At that age, it was a really just a matter of flattery and charm more than anything, which I wasn’t exactly adept at, but to my benefit I had humor on my side. Ah, yes. Humor has always served me best in these situations. Chicks dig funny guys, right? So I made them laugh, and they loved me for it.

Since then, the women I’ve known have come and gone. Friends, girlfriends, and bitches I can’t stand. Whores who broke my heart, girls I’m still secretly in love with, so on and so forth. I’ve often thought about just why it is that I find myself able to connect better with females, but never gotten to the bottom of it. I’ve been told it has something to do with my relationship with my mother, but there is no relationship there to speak of. My mother is a woman I can’t stand, as she epitomizes everything I hate about people in general. So that wouldn’t be a valid explanation.

Regardless of the explanation though, I do love the women I keep close to me quite dearly. If I went through the list of the people I speak to most often, I’m sure at least 75% of it would be comprised of females. And I’d bet at least 50% of that list would be girls I’ve at some point had feelings for. I think that’s just inevitability when it comes to guy-girl relations, be it plutonic or otherwise. Can you really think of a pair of male and female best friends who have never felt something more towards each other? If they claim so, I assure you it is fallacy. One of them is keeping it secret, for reasons I can completely understand, having been that position time and time again.

Right now though, I’d say out of all my female friends there are two I know will play significant roles in my life. The first would be my best and without question closest friend, Mersiha. The story there is a good one for sure. To shorten it, basically, I spent most of high school day dreaming about having sex with her as she sat in front of me in Spanish class. Once we were both in college years later, I’d added her on Facebook and she remembered me as “that guy who slept behind her in Spanish”, yeah, sleeping and dreaming of that magnificent ass of hers. Forward about a year or two, and here we are now, inseparable. There isn’t much to it really; we are just completely and utterly compatible. We think alike, talk alike, and feel alike on most things. More often than not we come to the same conclusions on any topic, and have almost identical everyday habits. When she told me once that at times, her inner monologue would slip into a British accent, I knew then and there that we would be friends forever. Because I do the same shit and how ridiculous a coincidence is that? It was clearly meant to be, and I can’t imagine my life without her.

The other all-important and irreplaceable lady in my life right now is someone I’ve wished for since childhood. I’d never wanted a brother, you see, but I have always wished for a sister. And, to my great fortune, I got one this year. Just this summer, my mother adopted a baby girl, and it was definitely an unbelievably joyous occasion for my family. She was only 2 days old when we got her. Apparently she had been abandoned shortly after birth at an old folks home, and the people there knew my mother and knew that she was looking to adopt, so they called her first, and she jumped at the opportunity.

I have yet to meet her, as she lives in Bangladesh with my mother and younger brother, but I leave in a few weeks to go visit, and I really can’t wait. The prospect of playing older brother to this darling little girl makes me quite giddy. I can’t wait to watch her grow up and be there for her when she needs me for anything at all. I’ve seen too many brothers be intolerable and overbearing/overprotective bastards to their sisters and seen how awful that can turn out, so I can’t wait to be the kind of brother she can always rely on.

Ladies and gentlemen, my baby sister Azra:




Saturday, November 07, 2009

Guest Posting day 6: Mysterg

This guy kept me on edge and waiting for this post until the VERY last minute. Shithead.

I'm actually out of town and about to get ready for my first tailgating/complete college football game day experience (Clemson vs. Florida State). That means tomorrow's guest post will not go up until much later than the others. It's a long drive home. Everyone have a great weekend and please enjoy my last two guest posters and show them some love.

Mysterg always has an entertaining story to tell, it seems. He alternates between posts that are very moving and heartfelt, and posts that are laugh out loud funny. He's even been known to start a debate or two. I knew he'd have no trouble writing about women. Read, enjoy, comment, and then go visit him at his lovely blog: Meditations in an Emergency.



She...


She is the woman who after breaking her foot in three places and spending the night at a hospital where a flasher in a mac kept indecently exposing himself to her, helped me get over the first girl that I ever loved...

She is the woman who got me drunk on a whole bottle of Austrian Schnapps, covered me in make-up, stole my shoes, then sent me to work where I danced on a food counter in front of 100 people before throwing up everywhere...

She is the woman that came to my aid when I overdosed on jalapeno peppers and half-collapsed inside a walk-in fridge whilst foaming at the mouth...

She is the woman that on my 18th Birthday, despite not knowing where I lived, took me home absolutely wasted...even if I did wake up on the doorstep with my front door keys in my hand...

She is the woman responsible for the funniest karaoke moment I've ever witnessed, a duet of the B-52's Love Shack, with the campest, baldest, most deadpan gay guy you can possibly imagine...

She is the woman that taught me all the dance moves to the STEPS version of the Bee Gees song "Tragedy", which led to me being inappropriately touched/violated by a gay guy during a Lost Weekend...

She is the woman that was a good/bad influence on me, my drinking partner in crime who encouraged me to makeout with her best friend on and off for several years, until said friend got married...

She is the woman who gatecrashed a total strangers house party with me, gave me a drunken lap dance in the middle of their living room until we were thrown out, walked her home and put her to bed...then woke up in a shop doorway...

She is the woman who educated me in the ways of the world, including most importantly how to both toast and swear in other languages...

She is the woman who shares in my love of Partridge, Morris, Bailey...

She is the woman who disappears for months or sometimes years at a time, but always returns to me...

She is the woman who reigns as queen of all the redheads that I've ever had the pleasure to know...

She is the woman that has always listened to me instead of waiting for her turn to talk...

She is the woman whose shoulder was there to cry on when my whole world fell apart...

She is the woman whose bed I would crawl into and snuggle with, on and off throughout many years, whenever I needed the warmth and comfort of another human being...

She is the woman who has restored my faith in womankind countless times...

She is the woman that I trust, something I cannot say of anyone else, except perhaps my immediate family...

She is the woman that I would do anything for, no questions asked...

She is the sister I never had...

She is the lover I never took...

She is the wife I will never marry...

She is the mother of the children I will never have...

She is the lifetime companion I will never grow old disgracefully with...

She is the one that I love with all my heart but have never fallen in love with...

She is the friend I will always have...

She is the one that got away...yet I wouldn't have it any other way...

She is the one that I miss...

She...

Friday, November 06, 2009

Guest Posting day 5: Organic Meatbag

I came across Meatbag's blog several months ago, but a little pop up that said "ADULT CONTENT" stopped me from going any farther. I mostly blog at work, so I was a little hesitant to click on anything with those two words, loudly proclaiming my intent to go against policy. Poor Meat thought I didn't like him. I finally got over that ridiculous fear and started reading anyway. After all, even though I don't classify my blog under "ADULT CONTENT", I still talk about penises almost daily. If I'm going to get in trouble, it won't have anything to do with him.

Anyway, Meat is my funny muse. (It's because of him that you were able to experience the Richard Simmons's story.) He writes some of the most hilarious posts I've ever read. Today he's graced us with something a little more heartfelt. Something about this week's topic has really brought out the love in the fellas. Pussies. (Kidding. Sort of.) Go Meat!


So when Alyson asked me to do a guest post for her this week, naturally, I said "What's the topic, you harlequin?" She thoroughly implored me to go fuck myself, but then she lightened up and said "Oh, the topic will be about a meaningful relationship, either past or present, or maybe a humorous dating story"...OK, just kidding, she never told me to go fuck myself, although I am sure she wanted to, but that is what the topic was really about.


The truth is, until 11 years ago, I never had a real relationship of any substance in my life...at least I wouldn't consider them of any substance on my part. There aren't a lot of good dating stories in my life, or relationship stories, and not too many good memories for me to dwell upon with girls in my early days, so I retracted myself into a pseudo-party boy lifestyle, especially when I was old enough to frequent clubs, but I wasn't happy, not even in the slightest sense of the word... nothing mattered to me...until I met her.

I met her in September of 1998. We got married on April 30, 1999. So yeah, we knew quickly that this thing we felt was real. We clicked on every level. We shared the same warped sense of humor, we shared a love of The Simpsons and Seinfeld, our upbringings were different enough to pull that old "opposites attract" theory, and oh yeah, we most definitely found instant chemistry in the bedroom...wink, wink!

I never thought I would find anyone that would accept me for everything that I am, and admittedly, I am flawed in many, many ways. She doesn't care...she accepts me, she helps me through my pain, she puts up with my idiosyncrasies, she puts up with my KISS music, she deals with my old wrestling tapes, she put up with the deafening loudness of my drums for all of these years, and I feel damn lucky...every single day, I feel damn lucky. I thought I would wander this world all alone. How in the hell I found my soul mate in the most improbable chance meeting of all time, I will never know, but I'm not going to question it.

Eleven years later now, we are still as happy as ever, we still laugh incessantly at each other, and life is good. We never had any kids, but we do have a dog and a cat that we consider to be our kids. Will this whole "procreate and repopulate the Earth" thing happen with us? Maybe...you never know. We're not trying but we're not avoiding it either. If it happens, it happens, we'll just have to wait and see.

And oh yeah again, just to snuff out any possible questions about it: Yes, we are still red hot in bed. Hehehehe...yep. We have managed to keep things exciting through the years. Like the time we had sex in our old apartment complex's indoor pool, or the many times that we would open the patio door right outside the same complex's outdoor pool and have sex on the floor in full view of anybody out by the pool. And oh yeah, did I tell you about the time we were stuck in a complete traffic jam on I-75 North between the Georgia and Tennessee border? Yeah, we had sex in our old truck. Right there. In the middle of the traffic jam. With people walking alongside the interstate next to us to see what was causing the traffic jam. Well, I'm sure they were walking by us to watch us having sex. That was hot...hahahaha!

So do you see why I love this woman?

Thursday, November 05, 2009

Guest Posting day 4: The Kid in the Front Row

Today's guest post comes from The Kid in the Front Row. He writes a film blog, but it's much more than that. Inspirational pieces on making your goals a reality, short fictional stories, and random hilarious posts make his site one of the most interesting I've come across. Even though he is currently in New York and I'm sure very busy, he consented to do this for me. I didn't even have to bribe him, though I probably would have. So read on, enjoy, and go visit him when you're done.


The women in my life are great. In fact, they're very loving and affectionate, unfortunately just not towards me. I used to think it was maybe because our interests didn't quite match, or maybe because I'm not quite their type - but now I have a more logical explanation for it - it's because I'm completely ugly and uninteresting. Okay, no. No, I don't want to go with that explanation. How about this one - all the women I've ever met/been with, are completely insane? Yep, I prefer that one. It works for me.


The language of women confuses me. 'I don't love you anymore' often means 'I still really love you' and this one time, 'I love you so much,' I found out, was code for 'I am sleeping with Marcus Dilberry.' How we are meant to decode these things, I'll never know.

Girls have also broken up with me for the most crazy reasons. For example, this one girl, Nia, forgave me when I slept with her sister - but dumped me after I left the bathroom seat up for the 4th night in a row. WHY DOES IT MATTER? It's not like she was going to fall down it and get her ass stuck. Okay, that did happen once, but it wasn't my fault -- she was dieting like crazy (another weird obsessive thing girls do) so it was her own fault she plummeted deep into the mirky depths of the bowl.

I wish I had more positive stories to share with you, and I am trying my best to remember some seedy sex stories. Many of the women I've been with love sex, yet it's still hard to convince them to have it in the same room as me. Again, many weird codes have often come into sexual relationships, like when 'don't worry, it's not too small' has been followed deep into a night of passion with, 'i'm ready when you are.'

I remember one girlfriend who, well, okay, I don't remember her that well, was it Nicole or Nicola? Maybe it was Jenny. Anyways, you can't expect me to remember, it was like two years ago and I've nearly dated a girl since. Anyways, she was always going on about how I should be more of a 'modern' man. so I tried to be more modern, I figured being a modern man was doing the dishes and my share of the cleaning. In the end, she showed me what modern loving really is, she married some man from craigslist.

Women - I can't figure them out, I have no idea what they're thinking - the only thing I know for sure is that they have really nice breasts.

Wednesday, November 04, 2009

Guest Posting day 3: The "devastatingly handsome" MLS

The guest today truly needs no introduction, but I’ll give him one all the same.

He has been one of my top favorites since I began reading his blog months ago. Humorous and reflective, with a talent for the descriptive that I would sell virtually anything to possess, Mr. London Street’s entries are never dull. He doesn’t shrink away from the controversial and I admire his opinionated nature. I hesitate to make his head any larger than it already is, but I suppose there’s no help for it. I’m honored, even without his having mentioned it (and he did), to be the first recipient of a guest post from him. Actually, it was more like an air-fist pumping HA! So without further ado....


Two nights in the Purple Turtle

Many years ago I met my friend Kirsty for lunch on an anonymous summer day. On the face of it, this was no different from the dozens of other days we had met for lunch, with one exception - this time Kirsty brought her along. We clicked instantly. We spent the whole lunchtime talking as if we’d known each other far longer than we had – far longer, in fact, than I had known Kirsty.

At the end, I went back to my desk to uselessly move work around from one part of an org chart to another in the name of productivity and efficiency. And that afternoon, my email pinged with a message from Kirsty. “She thinks you’re dishy!” it excitedly said. I didn’t think anybody under the age of 50 ever used the word dishy.

Over time, I came to realise that this was exactly the sort of thing she would say.

The emails between us began. Several emails a day – long, chatty emails about everything and nothing. When you first meet someone it’s all there, off in the distance, waiting to be discovered. All those tiny facts that you absolutely have to know when you really like someone – where they went to school, their childhood embarrassments, their favourite bands. What their mother’s like. What they like to eat. What they’re scared of. And then there is that bizarre feeling you get if you‘re really lucky, when you begin to realise that somebody you really like might want to know all those things about you. We have all been there. Those early stages are wonderful, where everything about that person fascinates you, and you want to know it all, piece by piece. All that potential.

The early stages of what though? My jealous, miserable and controlling girlfriend made the answer to that problematic.

The mistakes were all lurking out there, waiting to be made.

Back then I used to escape the house early each morning and hide from everything in Costa Coffee. I had a large coffee and a copy of the Mirror in front of me, along with four cigarettes and once I had finished them all I was almost ready to face my colleagues. It was time to myself to spend not thinking about how my life was going wrong, but then she started joining me. The coffee and the cigarettes still got finished, but the newspaper soon became surplus to requirements.

I never socialised with her outside work, I knew that was against the rules. My girlfriend was busy alienating all the women I was already friends with, initially through conventional means such as extreme chilliness. Later on, she developed more imaginative methods like sending them offensive texts from my phone late at night while pissed, pretending to be me.

So over those months, my life turned into a negative of most people’s lives. My days at work were full of colour, life and ideas and I didn’t want them to end. When I reluctantly shut down my computer I would head back to the house to a greyscale existence of rows and bickering. It felt an awful lot like falling asleep. The only things that were vivid at night were the daydreams and the sadness. The former led inevitably to the latter.

The exception was her leaving do. She was leaving Reading to go study a long way away and we had some drinks in a pub next to a gloriously hideous multi-story car park. Despite the build up, all the action happened elsewhere as my friend Ivor ended up dry humping Kirsty against the side of a transit van in a state of total inebriation. By contrast, she and I seemed like the grown-up chaperones, but none the less in a quiet moment she finally made explicit what had been crackling unspoken between us all summer.

“Something for you to think about when I’m in the frozen North” she said.

Out that back of the Purple Turtle at two in the morning she made a more tangible offer. By this stage we were both quite drunk. She talked about me moving to Newcastle with her, I had absolutely no idea whether she meant it. She invited me to walk her home. I was pretty sure she meant that, and I knew what it really meant.

There was only one problem: I couldn’t be that person.

I had spent that summer wanting to be that person, daydreaming about being that person. But when it came to it, it was beyond me. So I sat there at the bus stop and watched her walking off into the distance, leaving me with only my shortcomings for company. They made for very lousy company.

My girlfriend found out and was furious. She punished me not for what I did but for what I could have done, and I began a protracted stretch living in the worst of all possible worlds. Meanwhile my correspondence with her limped on for a few months but it wasn’t the same. Now she knew this one thing about me, she seemed far less fascinated by everything else. And one day she contacted me from university and told me that our friendship couldn’t continue. It was too painful, she said. I could hardly blame her, since I felt it was no more than I deserved.

If I had liked myself better back then, things would have been very different. For that matter, my whole life could have been very different. But it took somebody else - on another summer’s day, flowing with gin and chemistry - to start to teach me to do that. And this, whatever it is, is not that story.

Life moved on and some time later I got an email from her. “I was looking through some old mails” she told me “and I thought ‘I can’t delete him’.” So we caught up. She filled me in on her news and I told her mine, that I had left that girlfriend and got married to someone I had known for seven months. I decided not to labour the point about the gin and the chemistry. The fact that I had one day done what I couldn’t do back then was in the background of our conversation like static on a phone line, but it was never discussed. I thought it would be okay.

She came down to visit. Kelly liked her and we all got along famously. I had a feeling that something had been mended, that we would be friends now and I was proud of that. Since conversations were no longer forbidden we used to have epic chats on the phone. I usually had to put aside time for them, block out a Saturday afternoon. And then when Kelly and I bought our first place I invited her to the housewarming party. Everyone liked her. My friends liked her. The two guys she picked up in the After Dark and brought back to my living room at 2 in the morning liked her. Even the floor held her in a warm embrace as she drunkenly toppled from her chair, after we had invited her new friends to leave.

And then I ended up sat in my doorstep with her at four in the morning feebly attempting to comfort her as she cried onto my shoulder.

“I always thought it would be me in the end after you split up with Cheryl. I always thought you were my boy.”

What could I tell her? I had always thought that too, but we had both been dead wrong.

The sun was coming up, and she didn’t want me to walk her home. So as before I watched her totter off into the distance but, this time, I went back upstairs to my life.

A curious detail of this saga is that many of the protagonists got back together with their exes. My jealous girlfriend got back together with her ex and now they live in Wolverhampton with a child and presumably a large collection of personality disorders. The man Kelly left for me got back together with his ex. He was decent about it all and I hope he’s happy. And she got back together with her ex too, the ex she was getting over when I first met her many years ago. I think they want children, something I would never have countenanced. I suppose these things have a habit of working themselves out.

The last time I saw her was a few years back on a chilly December night between Christmas and New Year’s Eve when people who wouldn’t normally set foot in Reading, like her, come back to spend time with their family. We went to the Purple Turtle and sat again in that back garden doing what we always did best, talking for hours about everything and nothing. Mended at last, perhaps.

In that setting, with those drinks, I thought it was inescapable that we would get round to discussing the only other time we were in the Purple Turtle together, many years ago. And, at about two in the morning, leaning against a fence and watching the revellers stagger past - younger than us, all their mistakes waiting to be made - we did precisely that.

“I just would have slept with you, you know that?” she said “It wouldn’t have been a relationship.”

I smiled inwardly.

“I know.”

Tuesday, November 03, 2009

Guest Posting day 2: Jerrod

This second guest poster is one of the most genuinely nice guys I've ever had the opportunity to speak with. Normally I'd say that "nice guy" is like a death sentence, but in this case it's clearly an exception to the rule. His real life posts on blind dates and drive-through employees are hilarious, and even though he's clearly frustrated, he can still find the humor in those situations. Not to mention he was a killer four year old Mr. T. Please welcome Jerrod, from The Yellow Factor:


Let me start off by stating that when I asked Aly to pick a topic, this was probably the one I wanted to do the least. Being habitually single leaves only the relationships that have expired. Past tense. Some good, mostly bad relationships where you are left thinking "What the hell was that?". Those that read me know about my single life...the blind date characters I've endured.

This post will be different. This is a post about the girls that I don't have to impress and they are always with me. This post is about a group of friends. Randomness about some truly great girls. You know, the ones that don't expect anything more from you than your laugh and smile.


The friend that vents to you about serious stuff. They have others to confide in but they choose you.

The friend that knows you the most and despite that information, still hangs around.

The friend that convinces you that someone particular Saran wrapped your car... to the point of helping you get revenge on that person's car.... then confesses that she was in fact responsible in the first place. Mastermind.

The friend that you text with while you're both in the backseat on a road trip. Texting because actual audio conversation has been denied by the driver who just so happens to be out of her mind.

The friend that looks for your shoulder. No matter the time.

The friend that can make a day road trip so fun simply by the music played and how it is sung in the car.

The friend that believes in you so much more than you do yourself.

The friend that got you watching TV shows that you thought you would never ever watch. Ever. Spencer is such a tool, by the way. Whatever.

The friend that can quote TV and movies with you on the spot, just to break up the boring work day.

The friend you know that you will do absolutely anything to make sure she is happy. Absolutely anything.

The friend that you don't have to worry about intentions with. You just be.

I was told a bit ago that I have such heart for my friends. I may be picky with relationships but one thing I know is that I've got some great friends in my corner. The kind you will protect with your life. Now if they would only introduce me to one of their single friends.... jerks.

Monday, November 02, 2009

Guest Posting day 1: Mo.Stoneskin

Today is the first day of Penis Week - my all male guest posting extravaganza. I'm overworked, underpaid, and I've misplaced my blogging mojo. What better way to take a break than to showcase some of the best male bloggers out there? They'll be talking about the women in their lives, past or present...good, bad, or ugly.

First up to bat is Mo.Stoneskin. His humorous tales of strangers and their quirks are a treat to read every Monday. Occasionally he gives us a story about his own life, like the following, and it's just as entertaining. Read it. Love it. Then go visit him at his place and beg him to post more often.


I slouched lazily with a can of Stella in my hand, casually held at a slight tilt. I rotated it slowly, the gold top reflecting images from the TV and light from the fish tank. Fascinating, could have done that for hours. Nothing compares to watching shadows of fish dancing across a can of lager. I suppose fish swimming in my can of lager would be pretty awesome, though it might spoil the taste and cause the fish to get rowdy.

"Can I tell you about my fantasy?" I asked.

My wife looked up from her cookery book and raised an eyebrow. "Go on," she said.

Fantasies, fetishes, quirky personal preferences. Fascinating subjects aren't they? Everyone fantasises at some level, but it is tricky to determine where fantasies come from or how they develop. It has been suggested that they express an aspect of our unconscious and often incorporate fetishes, some of which are understandable. Heels and boots for example, what man doesn't love them? But some are just weird, especially if they involve feet. Some people have a foot fetish, but how weird is that? Feet are disgusting, I've long believed that feet are the most revolting part of the human body. Grotty, cheesy, skanky, stinky, I just don't get it, what could possibly cause a foot fetish to develop? Overexposure to cheese as a child? Unhealthy proximity to a pedicure clinic? But anyway, that's just me, and it is healthy to talk about these things with your partner.

My wife waited patiently. Fun-loving criminal that she is I sensed surprise. Surprise and scepticism. Married for five years, I suppose she thought she knew me as well as she possibly could.

"Well," I said, glancing down at her cookery book, "when we were kids we used to have roast lamb most Sundays. We only got a couple of slices each and it was never enough. I've always fantasised about buying a huge leg of lamb, dragging it home, roasting it and then scoffing the lot. It would be the most incredible moment of my life."

I have never seen her laugh so much.