Explaining relationships formed through blogging, to people that don’t blog, can be touchy. Many don’t get it – they don’t understand how a complete stranger can become a dear friend.
Even with the boom in online dating and social networking sites, there’s still a stigma attached to internet-born relationships – especially, for some reason, in relation to blogs. It’s oddly more acceptable to jet off to meet a friend of a friend of a friend on Facebook, than it is to spend time with a person whose life you’ve been reading and commenting on for years. Blogging, for me, is far more personal than a daily status update and a handful of pouty faced photos.
I’ve trusted a few close friends, that I knew would understand or at least be accepting, with the truth about my online dealings. Some read my blog and some only know about it, but what they all have in common is that they realize the relationships I’ve made here are no less valid than ours. Different, but no less valid. The ones that read it see it first hand – in how comfortable I am being honest and in the way people respond in the comments: relating to my current situation, being compassionate whether they understand or not, laughing with me or simply letting me know they stopped by. The ones that don’t read it simply know that it makes me happy, and that’s good enough for them.
I’ve been writing here for over six years and I’ve made a lot of friends, but up until two weeks ago I’d never physically met any of them. I’d made plans on several occasions, but for one reason or another they always fell apart. This year I was determined to make it happen and with some long overdue luck, a no nonsense attitude and the help of my completely oblivious father’s yearly gift of a plane ticket...I met three amazing people.
The first was Jerrod, who writes the blog Breaking Awkward (some of you may be more familiar with his old blog title, The Yellow Factor).
We’ve been friends for a little over two and a half years now – talking so frequently that he became one of those people I contact immediately when something notably good or bad happens. I don’t remember who found who first, but we began good-naturedly insulting each other and the rest, as they say, is history.
Jerrod just so happens to live in Oklahoma a half hour away from my stepfamily, who I visit every summer. After weeks of planning it was decided that we’d not only hang out while I was in town, but we’d also take a weekend trip to Kansas City to visit another blogger, Paige.
However, just because the plans seemed to make themselves and everything was already arranged, from the hotel to the road trip play list, doesn’t mean the execution was entirely easy.
See, the only person that knew I hadn’t actually met Jerrod was my sister...and she was sworn to secrecy in order to avoid rioting. I knew that none of them, especially dad, would understand or approve. All they were told, before I got there, was that I’d be spending a weekend in Kansas City with friends and bumming around Oklahoma City with them too. And, before I got there, dad was completely fine with it. He didn’t press me for details.
We went straight to sleep when we arrived at their house around 1am Thursday morning. I was supposed to meet Jerrod Thursday night and had arranged for my stepsister to drop me off in the city. But that afternoon my dad suddenly decided that I was 12, not 26, and I wouldn’t be going off for the weekend with someone he didn’t know...especially a man.
We were sitting on the patio glaring and occasionally shouting at each other, neither of us willing to concede defeat, until he pointed out the obvious.
“I’ll be taking you into the city to meet this motherfucker and if you don’t like it, you can stay your ass here...where he’ll have to come get you and then I still meet him. Period.”
Poor Jerrod was going to meet the infamous Jimmy, whether either of us liked it or not.
I was terrified and, knowing Jerrod, I was positive he would be too. I’d long since gathered that he isn’t used to people like Jimmy.
I’ve only ever introduced three men to my dad, with embarrassing results, and though Jerrod wasn’t a boyfriend the scenario actually seemed worse to me because we’d never met before. I didn’t picture my first blogger meeting including my drunk, obnoxious father telling stories about his dick.
But that’s exactly how it went down.
He rushed me out the door that evening, interrupting my makeup routine every few minutes and making me furious in the process, because he had to drop off some air conditioners (don’t ask, I don’t know) at his “brother’s” house. I made my sister come along because she’s usually a calming influence, but he’d been hitting The Crown all afternoon and there was no controlling him.
He spent the ride to his “brother’s” deliberately scaring the shit out of me by telling me the horrible things he was going to ask Jerrod and by insisting that he wouldn’t meet him anywhere but at a biker bar called VictimZ. Yeah, Victims with a fucking Z.
“Tell him to get his ass in there and have me a beer waitin’.”
Of course I didn’t. It was bad enough I actually had to type out the name to that ridiculous biker bar and have Jerrod reply with, “I put VictimZ in and Google maps laughed at me.” I was mortified.
When we pulled up to drop off the stupid air conditioners, he made us get out of the truck to meet the guy. He was about seven feet tall, wearing overalls with no shirt and had a bandana wrapped around his long hair. After unloading the cargo, they immediately started laughing and punching each other in the sides like children.
“C’mon man”, dad said while jabbing at him repeatedly. “Ride with us! My daughter comes down here to visit me, then thinks she’s going to take the off to Kansas City with some motherfucker I haven’t met! Oh hell no. I told her to have him meet us at VictimZ.”
His brother stared at him for a moment and then, to my absolute horror, they both burst out laughing. “Oh shit”, the guy said, looking at me with a mix of pity and amusement.
“Aw, I’m not going to help embarrass your daughter, Jimbo”, he said.
But dad talked him into getting in the truck anyway. I sat in the backseat with my sister, silently panicking.
When we pulled into the parking lot fifteen minutes later, I saw Jerrod’s car across the street. Dad didn’t even look around – when I hopped out he locked my things in the car so I couldn’t leave until he allowed it, and they immediately disappeared around back into the “beer garden”.
I waved at Jerrod, who was still hiding in his car across the street (not that I blame him), and he drove over. I walked around to the driver’s side, he got out and that’s how we first set eyes on each other. In the parking lot of a rundown biker bar with my father waiting for him in a beer garden, which was actually nothing more than a dirt-packed backyard with big wooden spool tables and rusted chairs made of scrap metal.
He looked worried, but accepted my apology for the oddness of our first meeting and followed me around the corner. Dad’s brother had parked himself at a table a respectable distance away with my sister, who wasn’t allowed in the bar.
“Where’s dad”, I asked.
“He went in for beer.”
A moment later he came wandering out the door with an evil grin on his face, clutching a bucket of beer. I introduced them, watching as my 5’7 father looked up at Jerrod and shook his hand...and it was apparent by the flash of tendons that he was squeezing the shit out of him.
“Drink a beer with me”, he said, shoving one into his hands.
I reached for one myself, twisted off the top and turned it straight up.
Then other than a few “motherfuckers” (in reference to other people this time, not Jerrod), a few embarrassing remarks and a demand to know if Jerrod could “fight”, they proceeded to have a relatively normal conversation. They talked about what they did for a living and where they lived and how long they’d been there. But even so, I knew my dad and I was going to be keyed up until we got out of there.
Jerrod, who was apparently no longer worried, laughed at me for being so visibly nervous, sucking down the beer and lighting a cigarette when I’d planned on not smoking at all. “Relax”, he said.
And I’d just about managed it because we’d finished our beers and I felt as though escape was just around the corner.
But no – dad insisted that we weren’t going anywhere until we went inside and met his other “brothers”. Apparently they’re all in the same biker gang or something – they wear one spur on one boot or some such nonsense so they recognize that they’re “related”.
As we both trailed reluctantly behind dad Jerrod said, “I thought you said we didn’t have to go in...”
“Sorry”, I mumbled, “I didn’t think we would.”
The ceiling was completely covered in bras, except for a small square of removable tile where a stripper pole was shoved inexpertly through a jagged hole.
“I put the pole in”, dad told Jerrod proudly. I shook my head and sighed.
He tried to call over a long haired old man that was absorbed in some sort of game, but the guy was taking his time. There were a few tables of degenerates (mostly really ugly women) that were giving us the stink eye. I wasn’t sure if they were simply unfriendly or plotting to kill me and take off with my Coach bag.
While we waited for the old guy to grace us with his presence, dad decided to tell Jerrod a lovely little story.
“This is my hangout, man. One time I got so drunk that this woman drew a smiley face on the head of my dick and I didn’t even know it. She called my wife and told her she did it, so when I got home she said, ‘You’re not getting in this bed like that with a smiley face on your dick!’ I woke up the next morning and was like, shit, man!”
“Dad! That’s enough! Don’t ever talk about your dick in front of me again. Ever.”
They both laughed and I glared at Jerrod. “Don’t encourage him.”
The old guy chose that moment to make his way over and we were introduced, though I can’t remember his name, and he hugged me uninvited...as all dad’s weirdo friends seem to do.
“This is my daughter’s boyfriend”, dad said, launching into his complaint about me taking off for the weekend again.
“He’s not my boyfriend”, I interjected, feeling a fresh wave of embarrassment.
They all ignored me and dad launched into his dick story again for the benefit of our new companion. “Hey remember the time...”
“Yep”, old guy said, “it was my old lady that did it.”
I was close to hyperventilating at that point and, thankfully, none of dad’s other friends seemed to be there so he was ready to go. We were finally off the hook.
We said our goodbyes at the truck, with Leigha sitting unhappily in the driver’s seat ready to cart dad and his friend off to “church”, which is what his biker group calls sitting around drinking and talking about their penises.
As I climbed in the passenger side of Jerrod’s car, dad may have said something to him like “take care of my girl”, but I was so relieved to be getting away that I wasn’t really paying attention.
He got in a moment later, looked at me and smiled. “It’s ok”, I think he said. My nerves were still jangling a bit as we drove away, sure that any moment he would turn around and take me back, wondering what in the hell he was doing taking off with a relative stranger whose father was a drunken biker not above breaking his kneecaps just for lifting an eyebrow the wrong way.
Instead he seemed amused by how unsettled the whole thing had made me. “I think that helped make it less awkward, don’t you?”
I couldn’t help but laugh a little. “Yeah, I guess it did.”
I wasn’t entirely sure if I felt that way or not, but later, when I could laugh about it, I realized he was right. It had.
What I was sure about at that moment, though, was that there had never been a first blogger meeting even remotely similar to ours.
But maybe that was a good thing because, after all, our friendship began unconventionally. And there was absolutely nothing wrong with that.
Showing posts with label blogger interaction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label blogger interaction. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Wednesday, December 01, 2010
BONed
Monday morning started just like any other. I was honing the fine art of procrastination - swilling coffee, possibly picking my nose, and flipping through my blog reader. Being back at work after the long holiday weekend put me rather far behind and, though I was itching to put off the reading and post something of my own, I knew I’d end up deleting half without a glance if I waited too long. I get overwhelmed and distracted quite easily, you see.
My boss, having missed me terribly, wouldn’t stop coming by my office door and making random remarks. “Did you watch the football game Saturday night”, she asked.
“I got home in time to see the second half. I went to see Harry Potter.”
She raised her eyebrows in surprise. “You missed the first half of the Carolina vs. Clemson game...to see Harry Potter?”
“Yep. STUPIFY”, I shouted, pointing my letter opener at her.
As usual she laughed a little too obnoxiously. Then, blowing a trumpet blast of a fart, turned around and ran back to her office, red faced and giggling – leaving me with the stench of my own joke. It was quite rancid.
That woman has taught me many things about becoming older and shared lots of valuable life lessons, but none more helpful than: “When you get as old as I am, you just can’t hold it in anymore. My pucker reflex is plum puckered out.” It is, apparently, the only acceptable excuse a Southern woman can use to justify public flatulence. That or “my husband did it”. And try as I might, I simply can't justify getting married in order to let one rip whenever I choose.
I had a can of Dust Free Multi-Purpose cleaner (its compressed air that you spay to clean your keyboard and the like, in case you weren’t aware) so I sent a few blasts into the air around my head to clear the fog a bit, then got back to my blog reading. But as soon as I started, my phone vibrated with a new email. It was a comment notification.
The comment said a few things, lovely things, but the part that caught my eye was “I found you via blogs of note”.
My very first thought was, “Psssh, no way.” My second thought was, “They probably meant ‘through one of the blogs of note’ since so many of my friends have won it. I’ll bet they came over from Philip, Baglady, or Mr. London Street.”
Still, I couldn’t stop myself from clicking the mouse (which, in this case, I am not using as a euphemism for masturbation) until I reached my dashboard and the Blogs of Note tab. And there it was...my URL. I was completely bowled over. My normally dull Monday suddenly resembled a Friday. A Friday when I get off work early, have money in the bank, have a babysitter, and a date for marathon sex.
So now it’s Wednesday and here we are. I’m still insanely excited.
Welcome to all of you new folks and thank you for all the wonderful comments. I’ll be responding to them soon and checking out your blogs in return. If you haven’t yet had the chance to flick through my archives or check out more than the first one or two posts, here’s what you can expect to find (and read more of in the future):
I swear a lot and I occasionally write about sex in a graphic manner – not Harlequin throbbing-manhood- and-heaving-bosoms sort of graphic. It’s a bit more real than that. Like the time some guy insisted I call him “The Shump Daddy” and produced more sweat than an entire football team or, when I realized that I’d have to make an appointment to spend time with my own vagina.
I write a lot about my family (the main characters being my mother, my mother’s fiancé Ray, my teenage sister Leigha, The Grandmother, and my five year old daughter Hannah). Those posts are occasionally sentimental, but more often than not, full of exasperation. I also have a very large extended family and they make plenty of appearances.
And, just over the past few months, I started writing about my foray into the world of online dating. It’s definitely been an interesting experience...sometimes disturbing, occasionally satisfying.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy what you’ve read so far and that you’ll stick around for more.
Next up on the agenda is “Thanksgiving – Part two”, and possibly a rant about a man that is obsessed with himself and taking the dirt road.
Cheers.
My boss, having missed me terribly, wouldn’t stop coming by my office door and making random remarks. “Did you watch the football game Saturday night”, she asked.
“I got home in time to see the second half. I went to see Harry Potter.”
She raised her eyebrows in surprise. “You missed the first half of the Carolina vs. Clemson game...to see Harry Potter?”
“Yep. STUPIFY”, I shouted, pointing my letter opener at her.
As usual she laughed a little too obnoxiously. Then, blowing a trumpet blast of a fart, turned around and ran back to her office, red faced and giggling – leaving me with the stench of my own joke. It was quite rancid.
That woman has taught me many things about becoming older and shared lots of valuable life lessons, but none more helpful than: “When you get as old as I am, you just can’t hold it in anymore. My pucker reflex is plum puckered out.” It is, apparently, the only acceptable excuse a Southern woman can use to justify public flatulence. That or “my husband did it”. And try as I might, I simply can't justify getting married in order to let one rip whenever I choose.
I had a can of Dust Free Multi-Purpose cleaner (its compressed air that you spay to clean your keyboard and the like, in case you weren’t aware) so I sent a few blasts into the air around my head to clear the fog a bit, then got back to my blog reading. But as soon as I started, my phone vibrated with a new email. It was a comment notification.
The comment said a few things, lovely things, but the part that caught my eye was “I found you via blogs of note”.
My very first thought was, “Psssh, no way.” My second thought was, “They probably meant ‘through one of the blogs of note’ since so many of my friends have won it. I’ll bet they came over from Philip, Baglady, or Mr. London Street.”
Still, I couldn’t stop myself from clicking the mouse (which, in this case, I am not using as a euphemism for masturbation) until I reached my dashboard and the Blogs of Note tab. And there it was...my URL. I was completely bowled over. My normally dull Monday suddenly resembled a Friday. A Friday when I get off work early, have money in the bank, have a babysitter, and a date for marathon sex.
So now it’s Wednesday and here we are. I’m still insanely excited.
Welcome to all of you new folks and thank you for all the wonderful comments. I’ll be responding to them soon and checking out your blogs in return. If you haven’t yet had the chance to flick through my archives or check out more than the first one or two posts, here’s what you can expect to find (and read more of in the future):
I swear a lot and I occasionally write about sex in a graphic manner – not Harlequin throbbing-manhood- and-heaving-bosoms sort of graphic. It’s a bit more real than that. Like the time some guy insisted I call him “The Shump Daddy” and produced more sweat than an entire football team or, when I realized that I’d have to make an appointment to spend time with my own vagina.
I write a lot about my family (the main characters being my mother, my mother’s fiancé Ray, my teenage sister Leigha, The Grandmother, and my five year old daughter Hannah). Those posts are occasionally sentimental, but more often than not, full of exasperation. I also have a very large extended family and they make plenty of appearances.
And, just over the past few months, I started writing about my foray into the world of online dating. It’s definitely been an interesting experience...sometimes disturbing, occasionally satisfying.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy what you’ve read so far and that you’ll stick around for more.
Next up on the agenda is “Thanksgiving – Part two”, and possibly a rant about a man that is obsessed with himself and taking the dirt road.
Cheers.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
The Interview
I'm always interested when I see that a blogger is being interviewed - both for the types of questions that are asked and the answers to those questions. The thing is, though, that most of those interviews are actually just questionnaires. There isn't any real interaction between the question asker and the person that's answering, the questions aren't usually tailored to that specific person, and let's be honest - it seems to be the same gig over and over.
So, I asked someone to help me put a spin on the blog interview process. Rather than just emailing me a list of standard questions, I asked that he email only one and wait for my answer before deciding what to ask next. I also chose someone that I thought would ask unique and difficult questions...and he didn't disappoint. Some were so hard to answer that I might have even stamped my foot once or twice.
My interviewer is Mr. London Street - a fantastic writer and a good friend. His contributions are in bold.
I'm always struck by the idea of boundaries; how some bloggers will tell you about everything and anything (especially their sex lives) whether you want them to or not whereas other bloggers barely talk about anything above the mundane. What, if any, are your no-go areas?
Wow. Starting off with a bang, aren't we?
Obviously I don't care much for boundaries where blogging is concerned. This is the age of "too much information" and I enjoy participating in it. Being honest, over sharing, ignoring boundaries others wouldn't dare - it’s an addictive, heady feeling. I think part of the reason I feel that way is that I had a real problem being honest when I was younger.
My old issues aside - There are always going to be people that dislike what I have to say and I will always be crossing someone's boundaries. Fact is, I like being shocking...and as far as the topic of sex is concerned, its full steam ahead.
If I have any no-go areas, I haven't yet run across them. Maybe one day, if I'm ever married or in a serious committed relationship, that will change. Then again, maybe they'll be boundary pushers too and shrug as I type away about their bedroom preferences, et al.
How important do you think the social element of blogging is? Do you mainly see it as a medium to write and get your writing read by other people, and how much of it is about other people's writing and getting to know them?
I've enjoyed reading the blogs of the friends I've made and I've enjoyed getting to know them, but yes, this is largely a medium to write and have my writing read.
I think of blogland as being split into three sections - 1) bloggers that blog, 2) writers that blog, and 3) readers that do neither. It is much easier for me to connect with writers that blog because, like me, they tend to be more selfish and understand when I say things like "I just spent an entire day reading my own archives". We take this blogging gig far more seriously than others and we're always trying to improve, because we want more. This isn't just a hobby - it’s a stepping stone. Or rather, we hope it is.
I think the social element of blogging is very important, which is funny because obviously I would rather write than socialize. People respond more to bloggers that reach out and connect with their audience outside of the comment section. However, regardless of how much I enjoy my blogroll, I don't add new blogs to my reader often and I will always prefer to write rather than read. It is, as they say, "all about me".
That sounded terribly bitchy, didn't it? A third of you won't think so.
I'm impressed to see such an honest answer. Some bloggers can get away with that and get really huge without ever replying to a single comment or giving a single award; the rest of us have to toil away knowing we'll never find it that easy. Whose success do you envy?
Yes, that's true. And speaking of awards, I wish there were more out there without all the bloody stipulations. I don't participate as much as I used to and that's mainly because all of them require the same thing - Answer these 7 questions and tag 7 people! I love receiving them because it means I'm liked, and lord knows I love talking about myself, but you can only answer the same question so many times. There are a few out there that come with no strings attached, that are simply there to acknowledge a great bit of writing, but there ought to be more. (Hint, hint.) I'd make one myself, but I'm not nearly popular enough to pull it off.
Whose success do I envy? Anyone that's been able to use blogging to propel them into the writing arena of their choice. I generally stay away from the "famous" blogger's sites though because I've never found one that didn't irritate me. They're so full of ads and propaganda. Where's the damn writing? I'll probably never be one of them because I refuse to ever put an ad on my blog...turning it into, basically, a stat counter with pretty pictures and a few paltry sentences.
You know what I envy more than success? Talent.
Okay. We might come back to that in a while. In a meantime, imagine that eventually they make the movie of your life. I'm not going to ask you who'd play you, that's far too boring and obvious a question. Instead, I want you to describe to me the opening scene, which has no dialogue at all. What does it show you doing? What does it look like? And what's the song playing to kick off the soundtrack?
The first scene starts with a completely black screen. There are faint murmurs, a cough. With a loud pop a spotlight comes on and wavers a moment before highlighting a lone figure on a stage.
The figure squints, her round face pale, teeth clenched in a grimace that intentionally fails to be a smile. Beads of sweat appear above the thin red line of her upper lip and she blows the bangs of her frizzy, white blonde hair up with a single quick puff of air before clenching her teeth again. A black and gold spandex outfit hugs her too large frame and the sequins around the elastic cuffs squeeze notable indentations into the exposed flesh on her thighs and arms.
Another pop fills the silence, then the hiss of an old sound system coming to life. Just as the first strains of Crystal Water's song "100% Pure Love" begin, and the girl's wide hips reluctantly start to swish back and forth, a loud laugh echoes across the space.
The girl gallops and scuffles through her routine, her steps pounding along just a bit off from the beat. As she breathlessly hits her finishing stance she raises her jazz hands high overhead and let's her middle fingers detach from the rest, flicking toward the politely applauding crowd.
Brilliant. I want to watch what happens next now. What do you think would surprise people who read your writing most, were they to meet you in person?
I suppose that all depends. I've never asked my readers what, if any, preconceived notions they have about me. They could be surprised to know that I have a loud, obnoxious laugh or that my feet are enormous and I trip over them constantly. Little things that aren't really of any consequence.
But probably they'd be more surprised by how awkward I am. I'm far more comfortable with writing than I am speaking. I'm not an unintelligent woman and I believe that, for a person of my age and limited education, I have quite an extensive vocabulary. However, I suppose in person that could be misconstrued - partially because of my southern accent and shortening of most words in the English language, and partially because of my undeniable urge to use swear words in every other sentence.
I make friends relatively well, but I'm always very nervous when I meet a new person. Sometimes I stumble over my words and ramble a bit in the beginning. It takes me awhile to get settled.
Since I haven't yet had an opportunity to meet another blogger, who has gotten to know me already through my writing, I don't know if it will be the same. I'm hoping that it will be less awkward than meeting a relative stranger. You'll have to let me know how I do.
I wonder whether that's true of a lot of bloggers. I suspect there's often an element of constructing a persona which more closely reflects who we'd like to be, like Second Life avatars. What's your biggest disappointment in writing so far? And which of your posts are you most disappointed that people didn't love? Be honest, we've all got at least one.
I think maybe my biggest disappointment is that I can't seem to make it all come together. I write blog post after blog post, but when I've tried to sit down and think of, or write, something on a larger scale I become overwhelmed and I panic.
It happens with some of my longer posts - I get paranoid about how lengthy they become and I end up essentially cutting my story off at the knees and sewing the pieces back together, minus a few inches. Conclusions are something I often struggle with anyway, because I get so caught up in writing the meat of a story that I forget what the main ingredient was supposed to be. I may have had a point to make in the beginning, but let me start concentrating on the little details and it all falls to shit.
A more specific and recent disappointment, one that's really been eating me, is a post I attempted to write and never finished. It's about my mother. I have two pages of material and it just isn't right - it's too hard. There are so many layers to our relationship and I'm afraid I can never peel them all back sufficiently enough to make people see the whole picture. And having them only see part of the picture is out of the question. So, it sits mocking me in my documents folder and I've almost started to hate it.
Which of my posts am I most disappointed people didn't love? That's hard. I think I've been pretty lucky because the posts I'm proud of have gotten a decent amount of praise. I don't get many "that was total shit" comments and on the occasion that I have, my readers rally like a mob of villagers with torches. It's awesome.
But there is one that is a secret favorite of mine; one I wish everyone would have oohed and ahhed over more (though I never would have admitted it before).
I wrote it in about 20 minutes or less. It's full of run-on sentences and things that would normally drive me (and a lot of writers) crazy, but I love it. It's a lot like how I am with my friends - random, eccentric, always trying to make people laugh even when the joke is on me. And, at the risk of crawling even further up my own ass, it kind of reminds me of a Vince Vaughn monologue. It's this one: “Does it feel hot in here to you? Must be me. Do do CHHH!” Great title, right?
One thing I'm really struck by about your blog is that it doesn't say a lot about where you live. Tell me a bit about your home town, what you like and don't like about it. If someone visited you for 24 hours where would you take them, what would you show them and what would you do?
What can I say about small town America that hasn't been said before? Everyone knows your name, your medical history, and how much you deposit in your bank account every other Friday evening. It's a living, breathing Norman Rockwell painting. I alternately love and hate it.
I'm the sort of person that craves culture and new experiences yet, because of where I live, rarely have the opportunity to go after them. I often feel smothered by my lack of options. There aren't any fantastic art museums or ancient ruins. There aren't any chic boutiques or glamorous restaurants. If you want to go to a movie, go bowling, do much of anything really...you have to go into the city almost an hour away.
However, there are almost just as many days when I can't imagine living anywhere else. It is a very beautiful place.
The town itself is tiny; there's only one stoplight. Main Street is lined on one side with old buildings - some painted, some left to their original brick, and one renegade furniture store paneled with dark wood. They are all smashed together, some with roofs shaped as you'd see them in an old western. The drugstore still has its original sign and you can still buy an ice cream cone inside from the old fashioned counter.
On the other side of the street there's a small gas station, a Laundromat, and row of shops. The shop on the end would be almost invisible if its far wall that meets the end of the sidewalk wasn't covered in an enormous mural of rolling green hills, sheep, and a cartoon man in lederhosen. It’s a German restaurant that's almost never open, run by an eccentric German woman that chain smokes and shows everyone pictures of her passel of German Shepherds. She wears bright red lipstick and complains loudly, and in a thick accent, about the lack of appreciation for German cuisine. She only takes reservations when she feels like it and there's never a menu - you eat what she fixes or you don't eat at all.
The town square is immediately past the restaurant and contains a small parking lot and a very large old clock. Directly behind the clock is a white gazebo surrounded by grass and flowers - it's where the old ladies sit during every parade, whispering behind their fans and watching their husbands nearby. On one side of the square are a hardware store and a steakhouse made to look like a stable, but with two stained glass windows on either side of the bright red doors. On the other side the buildings, a salon and an antique store, are fronted in huge glass panes; a derelict looking dry cleaners seems stuck on as an afterthought, when in fact it's been there forever.
If you continue down Main Street things spread out a bit. You'd run into two banks, a crumbling brick apartment building, the old elementary school that now serves as a police station, a few churches, a baseball field, and "the walking track" where the high school kids park on Friday and Saturday nights. With nothing else to do but eat and shop, walking around a pavement oval and sitting on tailgates in the adjacent parking lot is what passes for entertainment.
My house is about 15 to 20 minutes outside of town - 10 when I'm feeling reckless. Houses, trees, churches, and a lone country gas station are about all there is to see between point A and point B, but it's a lovely drive none the less. As I've said before, I live by the lake so I feel I'm lucky there. I've never been much on nature, but watching the sun set over the water still has the ability to make my throat feel tight.
So, obviously, 24 hours would be plenty of time to show someone everything there is to see. I'd take them on a boat ride and show them the marina, maybe browse through the antique store and have dinner at the pizza parlor. Then, if they were really lucky, I'd take them to an authentic country party...outside...at a barn. We'd play beer pong, discuss the merits of light vs. dark beer, and argue over who likes Johnny Cash the most.
Have you ever travelled outside the States? If not, where's on your wish list?
Yes, I took a two week trip to Spain when I was in high school. It wasn't a school sponsored trip, but rather a tour group open to anyone that wanted to go and put together by our Spanish teacher every other year. We toured the whole country, hitting a lot of the major cities, and took a day trip to Morocco. It was the most fantastic thing I've ever done.
I had a wish list of destinations before I went to Spain, but it's since multiplied. Ireland, England, France, Peru, Australia, Switzerland, and that's just the tip of the iceberg. I want to see and experience them all...and I will.
What's the appeal of Switzerland? I'm genuinely interested in how people outside Europe might see it, because believe me, in England it's known for chocolate, neutrality, Nazi gold and euthanasia clinics. Are you a big Sound Of Music fan or something?
Yes I am. I adore the Sound of Music. What of it?
I suppose the majority of the appeal is in the scenery. And of course the fact that it isn't here. Besides, I love chocolate.
But...euthanasia clinics for what, exactly?
Well, euthanasia clinics are for euthanasia (what do you mean "for what?" honestly). It's not legal in England so people fly off to Switzerland to die with dignity in a special clinic. Or they just go somewhere like Croydon for a weekend and find that the will to live soon ups and leaves.
Here's a question for you. Why didn't you have an abortion? Was it a difficult or an easy decision to have your daughter?
I worked for a vet's office for two years so when I hear euthanasia, I automatically think about animals. I've never heard of a euthanasia clinic for people - that's what I meant.
I had an abortion when I was 17 so when I got pregnant again a year later, I was afraid to tell my mother that "oops, I know we spent all that money fixing my life once already, but we're going to have to do it again".
I never wanted to have children and when I found out I was pregnant again, by someone that had told me that was impossible (yes, I was naive), I immediately planned to have another abortion without telling my family. He said he would help me with the money for the procedure, and then promptly disappeared.
Then I did what I do best and procrastinated. I ignored what was going on with my body because I was too terrified to do anything else. So the decision to have her was more like indecision turned inevitable action. I put it off so long that I had no other option.
It was my decision to keep her, not have her, that was the difficult part. I seriously considered adoption for awhile, but ultimately my family swayed my vote. My mother wanted me to keep her and she promised to help me raise her. And she has.
When she was born (I never thought it through before the fact...not really) I realized that nothing would ever be the same, that my life would never be easy again. But she's been, and will always be, worth every single sacrifice.
Which things about your writing would you least like your mother to read? What about, one day, your daughter?
Well, funny you should mention that. Sometimes, when I haven't quite finished a post, I'll print them out to read over and edit later. Recently my mother came across two of them. The first was “Love is blind, friendship tries not to notice” and she said, "You really are a good writer. You get that from your mother." The second, "Safe Words (Alternate title: No pain, no gain)", was met with considerably less enthusiasm. "You really shouldn't leave these lying around where anyone could read them. Disgusting!"
Truthfully, if I didn't live with her, she could read my blog all she likes. But since I currently do its best if she doesn't. We fight often enough already and if I were to mention her, unfavorably or not, it would just spark another argument. She became aware that I was writing a blog at the beginning of this year, though she isn't privy to the address of course, and has said many times since, "You'd better not be putting shit about me on there!" She's very sensitive.
Though it would make me a tad uncomfortable for her to know so much about my sex life, which I write about quite frequently, I could get over it.
As for my daughter...I'm not ashamed of anything I write. When she's old enough, she's more than welcome to read all of my archives. I've been systematically printing them out and putting them in a binder so maybe one day she'll read them all and say, "God, my mother was embarrassing...but funny." Who knows, maybe they'll go a long way in helping with her inevitable therapy sessions.
What's your favourite item of clothing that you've ever owned? Tell me what it looked like and, more importantly, what it meant to you.
I was never a very stylish person. My school years were riddled with embarrassing clothing choices; I honestly can't believe anyone would be seen speaking to me. Being a large girl didn't help either - for some reason the people that make plus size clothing for girls and women seem to think you shouldn't dress mutton as lamb, and they chose the most horrendous cuts and patterns. Between my mother's love of all things frilly, my own misguided choices, and the (as my Papa used to say) seamstresses at the local tent and awning store...I developed an unhealthy hate for clothing in general.
But over the past few years I've gotten a lot better. I've become more adept at picking items that flatter me and I think it's safe to say that I've finally formed my own sort of style.
Rather than just one item of clothing, I have a favorite outfit. It's so simple, but it gave me a confidence I hadn't felt before. Three (or was it four?) years ago I bought a pair of tight, dark blue jean capris that you could cuff if you wanted; unrolled they reached about mid-calf and I preferred them that way. I'd had them for awhile before I went on vacation to Oklahoma to visit my dad. While I was there I went shopping with my stepsister and stepbrother, looking for an outfit to go out clubbing. I ended up picking out a plain white V-neck t-shirt, a plain black button up vest, a black trilby hat, and a pair of red and black Kenneth Cole strappy high heels.
When I went out that that night, I knew I was hot. I danced on a stage, something that would usually take a large amount of alcohol for me to even consider, and I walked around in those shoes like I owned the place. I've played at that sort of thing before, but that was the first time I actually felt that sort of confidence. In the past it was "fake it till you drink enough". And even though by the time the sun came up I was hobbling (and sneaking) barefoot from a cab to the front door, bruised and looking a lot worse for wear, that night and that outfit were the start of a beautiful relationship between me, myself, and I. I still have bad days, like every other woman, but most people are surprised when they realize just how healthy my ego really is.
The sad part is I only got to wear the outfit that launched my vanity once more. A few months after its second debut, it was packed in an overnight bag and left in my (accidentally) unlocked car downtown while I went out drinking with my best friend. When we stumbled out of the bar a few hours later, we realized that someone had taken the bag full of clothes. I still have the shoes, as I was wearing them at the time, and my hat which I'd left at home, but the rest was gone. Now every time I'm downtown I stare at the bums that wander by, wondering if they're the ones that took my clothes...and if they're wearing my underwear.
One last question: what question were you most dreading that I'd ask?
I wouldn't really say I was dreading a specific question, but I hoped you wouldn't ask any that I would have to decline to answer.
I wanted to be completely candid for this interview and that wouldn't have worked well had you asked me something that would betray someone's confidence (someone that reads this, obviously) or like, oh, "how many people have you slept with". Because there's no way in hell I'd answer that publicly. (So, back to your first question, apparently there is a no-go.) Unless, of course, I'd stand to make a large sum of money from sharing such information. It happens, you know - just look at Chelsea Handler.
So, I asked someone to help me put a spin on the blog interview process. Rather than just emailing me a list of standard questions, I asked that he email only one and wait for my answer before deciding what to ask next. I also chose someone that I thought would ask unique and difficult questions...and he didn't disappoint. Some were so hard to answer that I might have even stamped my foot once or twice.
My interviewer is Mr. London Street - a fantastic writer and a good friend. His contributions are in bold.
**********
I'm always struck by the idea of boundaries; how some bloggers will tell you about everything and anything (especially their sex lives) whether you want them to or not whereas other bloggers barely talk about anything above the mundane. What, if any, are your no-go areas?
Wow. Starting off with a bang, aren't we?
Obviously I don't care much for boundaries where blogging is concerned. This is the age of "too much information" and I enjoy participating in it. Being honest, over sharing, ignoring boundaries others wouldn't dare - it’s an addictive, heady feeling. I think part of the reason I feel that way is that I had a real problem being honest when I was younger.
My old issues aside - There are always going to be people that dislike what I have to say and I will always be crossing someone's boundaries. Fact is, I like being shocking...and as far as the topic of sex is concerned, its full steam ahead.
If I have any no-go areas, I haven't yet run across them. Maybe one day, if I'm ever married or in a serious committed relationship, that will change. Then again, maybe they'll be boundary pushers too and shrug as I type away about their bedroom preferences, et al.
How important do you think the social element of blogging is? Do you mainly see it as a medium to write and get your writing read by other people, and how much of it is about other people's writing and getting to know them?
I've enjoyed reading the blogs of the friends I've made and I've enjoyed getting to know them, but yes, this is largely a medium to write and have my writing read.
I think of blogland as being split into three sections - 1) bloggers that blog, 2) writers that blog, and 3) readers that do neither. It is much easier for me to connect with writers that blog because, like me, they tend to be more selfish and understand when I say things like "I just spent an entire day reading my own archives". We take this blogging gig far more seriously than others and we're always trying to improve, because we want more. This isn't just a hobby - it’s a stepping stone. Or rather, we hope it is.
I think the social element of blogging is very important, which is funny because obviously I would rather write than socialize. People respond more to bloggers that reach out and connect with their audience outside of the comment section. However, regardless of how much I enjoy my blogroll, I don't add new blogs to my reader often and I will always prefer to write rather than read. It is, as they say, "all about me".
That sounded terribly bitchy, didn't it? A third of you won't think so.
I'm impressed to see such an honest answer. Some bloggers can get away with that and get really huge without ever replying to a single comment or giving a single award; the rest of us have to toil away knowing we'll never find it that easy. Whose success do you envy?
Yes, that's true. And speaking of awards, I wish there were more out there without all the bloody stipulations. I don't participate as much as I used to and that's mainly because all of them require the same thing - Answer these 7 questions and tag 7 people! I love receiving them because it means I'm liked, and lord knows I love talking about myself, but you can only answer the same question so many times. There are a few out there that come with no strings attached, that are simply there to acknowledge a great bit of writing, but there ought to be more. (Hint, hint.) I'd make one myself, but I'm not nearly popular enough to pull it off.
Whose success do I envy? Anyone that's been able to use blogging to propel them into the writing arena of their choice. I generally stay away from the "famous" blogger's sites though because I've never found one that didn't irritate me. They're so full of ads and propaganda. Where's the damn writing? I'll probably never be one of them because I refuse to ever put an ad on my blog...turning it into, basically, a stat counter with pretty pictures and a few paltry sentences.
You know what I envy more than success? Talent.
Okay. We might come back to that in a while. In a meantime, imagine that eventually they make the movie of your life. I'm not going to ask you who'd play you, that's far too boring and obvious a question. Instead, I want you to describe to me the opening scene, which has no dialogue at all. What does it show you doing? What does it look like? And what's the song playing to kick off the soundtrack?
The first scene starts with a completely black screen. There are faint murmurs, a cough. With a loud pop a spotlight comes on and wavers a moment before highlighting a lone figure on a stage.
The figure squints, her round face pale, teeth clenched in a grimace that intentionally fails to be a smile. Beads of sweat appear above the thin red line of her upper lip and she blows the bangs of her frizzy, white blonde hair up with a single quick puff of air before clenching her teeth again. A black and gold spandex outfit hugs her too large frame and the sequins around the elastic cuffs squeeze notable indentations into the exposed flesh on her thighs and arms.
Another pop fills the silence, then the hiss of an old sound system coming to life. Just as the first strains of Crystal Water's song "100% Pure Love" begin, and the girl's wide hips reluctantly start to swish back and forth, a loud laugh echoes across the space.
The girl gallops and scuffles through her routine, her steps pounding along just a bit off from the beat. As she breathlessly hits her finishing stance she raises her jazz hands high overhead and let's her middle fingers detach from the rest, flicking toward the politely applauding crowd.
Brilliant. I want to watch what happens next now. What do you think would surprise people who read your writing most, were they to meet you in person?
I suppose that all depends. I've never asked my readers what, if any, preconceived notions they have about me. They could be surprised to know that I have a loud, obnoxious laugh or that my feet are enormous and I trip over them constantly. Little things that aren't really of any consequence.
But probably they'd be more surprised by how awkward I am. I'm far more comfortable with writing than I am speaking. I'm not an unintelligent woman and I believe that, for a person of my age and limited education, I have quite an extensive vocabulary. However, I suppose in person that could be misconstrued - partially because of my southern accent and shortening of most words in the English language, and partially because of my undeniable urge to use swear words in every other sentence.
I make friends relatively well, but I'm always very nervous when I meet a new person. Sometimes I stumble over my words and ramble a bit in the beginning. It takes me awhile to get settled.
Since I haven't yet had an opportunity to meet another blogger, who has gotten to know me already through my writing, I don't know if it will be the same. I'm hoping that it will be less awkward than meeting a relative stranger. You'll have to let me know how I do.
I wonder whether that's true of a lot of bloggers. I suspect there's often an element of constructing a persona which more closely reflects who we'd like to be, like Second Life avatars. What's your biggest disappointment in writing so far? And which of your posts are you most disappointed that people didn't love? Be honest, we've all got at least one.
I think maybe my biggest disappointment is that I can't seem to make it all come together. I write blog post after blog post, but when I've tried to sit down and think of, or write, something on a larger scale I become overwhelmed and I panic.
It happens with some of my longer posts - I get paranoid about how lengthy they become and I end up essentially cutting my story off at the knees and sewing the pieces back together, minus a few inches. Conclusions are something I often struggle with anyway, because I get so caught up in writing the meat of a story that I forget what the main ingredient was supposed to be. I may have had a point to make in the beginning, but let me start concentrating on the little details and it all falls to shit.
A more specific and recent disappointment, one that's really been eating me, is a post I attempted to write and never finished. It's about my mother. I have two pages of material and it just isn't right - it's too hard. There are so many layers to our relationship and I'm afraid I can never peel them all back sufficiently enough to make people see the whole picture. And having them only see part of the picture is out of the question. So, it sits mocking me in my documents folder and I've almost started to hate it.
Which of my posts am I most disappointed people didn't love? That's hard. I think I've been pretty lucky because the posts I'm proud of have gotten a decent amount of praise. I don't get many "that was total shit" comments and on the occasion that I have, my readers rally like a mob of villagers with torches. It's awesome.
But there is one that is a secret favorite of mine; one I wish everyone would have oohed and ahhed over more (though I never would have admitted it before).
I wrote it in about 20 minutes or less. It's full of run-on sentences and things that would normally drive me (and a lot of writers) crazy, but I love it. It's a lot like how I am with my friends - random, eccentric, always trying to make people laugh even when the joke is on me. And, at the risk of crawling even further up my own ass, it kind of reminds me of a Vince Vaughn monologue. It's this one: “Does it feel hot in here to you? Must be me. Do do CHHH!” Great title, right?
One thing I'm really struck by about your blog is that it doesn't say a lot about where you live. Tell me a bit about your home town, what you like and don't like about it. If someone visited you for 24 hours where would you take them, what would you show them and what would you do?
What can I say about small town America that hasn't been said before? Everyone knows your name, your medical history, and how much you deposit in your bank account every other Friday evening. It's a living, breathing Norman Rockwell painting. I alternately love and hate it.
I'm the sort of person that craves culture and new experiences yet, because of where I live, rarely have the opportunity to go after them. I often feel smothered by my lack of options. There aren't any fantastic art museums or ancient ruins. There aren't any chic boutiques or glamorous restaurants. If you want to go to a movie, go bowling, do much of anything really...you have to go into the city almost an hour away.
However, there are almost just as many days when I can't imagine living anywhere else. It is a very beautiful place.
The town itself is tiny; there's only one stoplight. Main Street is lined on one side with old buildings - some painted, some left to their original brick, and one renegade furniture store paneled with dark wood. They are all smashed together, some with roofs shaped as you'd see them in an old western. The drugstore still has its original sign and you can still buy an ice cream cone inside from the old fashioned counter.
On the other side of the street there's a small gas station, a Laundromat, and row of shops. The shop on the end would be almost invisible if its far wall that meets the end of the sidewalk wasn't covered in an enormous mural of rolling green hills, sheep, and a cartoon man in lederhosen. It’s a German restaurant that's almost never open, run by an eccentric German woman that chain smokes and shows everyone pictures of her passel of German Shepherds. She wears bright red lipstick and complains loudly, and in a thick accent, about the lack of appreciation for German cuisine. She only takes reservations when she feels like it and there's never a menu - you eat what she fixes or you don't eat at all.
The town square is immediately past the restaurant and contains a small parking lot and a very large old clock. Directly behind the clock is a white gazebo surrounded by grass and flowers - it's where the old ladies sit during every parade, whispering behind their fans and watching their husbands nearby. On one side of the square are a hardware store and a steakhouse made to look like a stable, but with two stained glass windows on either side of the bright red doors. On the other side the buildings, a salon and an antique store, are fronted in huge glass panes; a derelict looking dry cleaners seems stuck on as an afterthought, when in fact it's been there forever.
If you continue down Main Street things spread out a bit. You'd run into two banks, a crumbling brick apartment building, the old elementary school that now serves as a police station, a few churches, a baseball field, and "the walking track" where the high school kids park on Friday and Saturday nights. With nothing else to do but eat and shop, walking around a pavement oval and sitting on tailgates in the adjacent parking lot is what passes for entertainment.
My house is about 15 to 20 minutes outside of town - 10 when I'm feeling reckless. Houses, trees, churches, and a lone country gas station are about all there is to see between point A and point B, but it's a lovely drive none the less. As I've said before, I live by the lake so I feel I'm lucky there. I've never been much on nature, but watching the sun set over the water still has the ability to make my throat feel tight.
So, obviously, 24 hours would be plenty of time to show someone everything there is to see. I'd take them on a boat ride and show them the marina, maybe browse through the antique store and have dinner at the pizza parlor. Then, if they were really lucky, I'd take them to an authentic country party...outside...at a barn. We'd play beer pong, discuss the merits of light vs. dark beer, and argue over who likes Johnny Cash the most.
Have you ever travelled outside the States? If not, where's on your wish list?
Yes, I took a two week trip to Spain when I was in high school. It wasn't a school sponsored trip, but rather a tour group open to anyone that wanted to go and put together by our Spanish teacher every other year. We toured the whole country, hitting a lot of the major cities, and took a day trip to Morocco. It was the most fantastic thing I've ever done.
I had a wish list of destinations before I went to Spain, but it's since multiplied. Ireland, England, France, Peru, Australia, Switzerland, and that's just the tip of the iceberg. I want to see and experience them all...and I will.
What's the appeal of Switzerland? I'm genuinely interested in how people outside Europe might see it, because believe me, in England it's known for chocolate, neutrality, Nazi gold and euthanasia clinics. Are you a big Sound Of Music fan or something?
Yes I am. I adore the Sound of Music. What of it?
I suppose the majority of the appeal is in the scenery. And of course the fact that it isn't here. Besides, I love chocolate.
But...euthanasia clinics for what, exactly?
Well, euthanasia clinics are for euthanasia (what do you mean "for what?" honestly). It's not legal in England so people fly off to Switzerland to die with dignity in a special clinic. Or they just go somewhere like Croydon for a weekend and find that the will to live soon ups and leaves.
Here's a question for you. Why didn't you have an abortion? Was it a difficult or an easy decision to have your daughter?
I worked for a vet's office for two years so when I hear euthanasia, I automatically think about animals. I've never heard of a euthanasia clinic for people - that's what I meant.
I had an abortion when I was 17 so when I got pregnant again a year later, I was afraid to tell my mother that "oops, I know we spent all that money fixing my life once already, but we're going to have to do it again".
I never wanted to have children and when I found out I was pregnant again, by someone that had told me that was impossible (yes, I was naive), I immediately planned to have another abortion without telling my family. He said he would help me with the money for the procedure, and then promptly disappeared.
Then I did what I do best and procrastinated. I ignored what was going on with my body because I was too terrified to do anything else. So the decision to have her was more like indecision turned inevitable action. I put it off so long that I had no other option.
It was my decision to keep her, not have her, that was the difficult part. I seriously considered adoption for awhile, but ultimately my family swayed my vote. My mother wanted me to keep her and she promised to help me raise her. And she has.
When she was born (I never thought it through before the fact...not really) I realized that nothing would ever be the same, that my life would never be easy again. But she's been, and will always be, worth every single sacrifice.
Which things about your writing would you least like your mother to read? What about, one day, your daughter?
Well, funny you should mention that. Sometimes, when I haven't quite finished a post, I'll print them out to read over and edit later. Recently my mother came across two of them. The first was “Love is blind, friendship tries not to notice” and she said, "You really are a good writer. You get that from your mother." The second, "Safe Words (Alternate title: No pain, no gain)", was met with considerably less enthusiasm. "You really shouldn't leave these lying around where anyone could read them. Disgusting!"
Truthfully, if I didn't live with her, she could read my blog all she likes. But since I currently do its best if she doesn't. We fight often enough already and if I were to mention her, unfavorably or not, it would just spark another argument. She became aware that I was writing a blog at the beginning of this year, though she isn't privy to the address of course, and has said many times since, "You'd better not be putting shit about me on there!" She's very sensitive.
Though it would make me a tad uncomfortable for her to know so much about my sex life, which I write about quite frequently, I could get over it.
As for my daughter...I'm not ashamed of anything I write. When she's old enough, she's more than welcome to read all of my archives. I've been systematically printing them out and putting them in a binder so maybe one day she'll read them all and say, "God, my mother was embarrassing...but funny." Who knows, maybe they'll go a long way in helping with her inevitable therapy sessions.
What's your favourite item of clothing that you've ever owned? Tell me what it looked like and, more importantly, what it meant to you.
I was never a very stylish person. My school years were riddled with embarrassing clothing choices; I honestly can't believe anyone would be seen speaking to me. Being a large girl didn't help either - for some reason the people that make plus size clothing for girls and women seem to think you shouldn't dress mutton as lamb, and they chose the most horrendous cuts and patterns. Between my mother's love of all things frilly, my own misguided choices, and the (as my Papa used to say) seamstresses at the local tent and awning store...I developed an unhealthy hate for clothing in general.
But over the past few years I've gotten a lot better. I've become more adept at picking items that flatter me and I think it's safe to say that I've finally formed my own sort of style.
Rather than just one item of clothing, I have a favorite outfit. It's so simple, but it gave me a confidence I hadn't felt before. Three (or was it four?) years ago I bought a pair of tight, dark blue jean capris that you could cuff if you wanted; unrolled they reached about mid-calf and I preferred them that way. I'd had them for awhile before I went on vacation to Oklahoma to visit my dad. While I was there I went shopping with my stepsister and stepbrother, looking for an outfit to go out clubbing. I ended up picking out a plain white V-neck t-shirt, a plain black button up vest, a black trilby hat, and a pair of red and black Kenneth Cole strappy high heels.
When I went out that that night, I knew I was hot. I danced on a stage, something that would usually take a large amount of alcohol for me to even consider, and I walked around in those shoes like I owned the place. I've played at that sort of thing before, but that was the first time I actually felt that sort of confidence. In the past it was "fake it till you drink enough". And even though by the time the sun came up I was hobbling (and sneaking) barefoot from a cab to the front door, bruised and looking a lot worse for wear, that night and that outfit were the start of a beautiful relationship between me, myself, and I. I still have bad days, like every other woman, but most people are surprised when they realize just how healthy my ego really is.
The sad part is I only got to wear the outfit that launched my vanity once more. A few months after its second debut, it was packed in an overnight bag and left in my (accidentally) unlocked car downtown while I went out drinking with my best friend. When we stumbled out of the bar a few hours later, we realized that someone had taken the bag full of clothes. I still have the shoes, as I was wearing them at the time, and my hat which I'd left at home, but the rest was gone. Now every time I'm downtown I stare at the bums that wander by, wondering if they're the ones that took my clothes...and if they're wearing my underwear.
One last question: what question were you most dreading that I'd ask?
I wouldn't really say I was dreading a specific question, but I hoped you wouldn't ask any that I would have to decline to answer.
I wanted to be completely candid for this interview and that wouldn't have worked well had you asked me something that would betray someone's confidence (someone that reads this, obviously) or like, oh, "how many people have you slept with". Because there's no way in hell I'd answer that publicly. (So, back to your first question, apparently there is a no-go.) Unless, of course, I'd stand to make a large sum of money from sharing such information. It happens, you know - just look at Chelsea Handler.
Wednesday, September 08, 2010
Love is blind. Friendship tries not to notice.
There are all sorts of friendships. And, though it’s safe to say that some are preferable to others, I believe that the way we communicate (IE: email, text, video chats, etc) in this day and age has changed the way we rate their importance.
It’s so very rare, I think, to have a friendship that stands the test of time, but what about distance? Are friendships like romantic relationships in that respect – near to impossible to keep going when you aren’t sure when you’ll see that person next? What about if you’ve never even met that person?
My best friend in elementary school was my cousin Ben. He was three months younger than me and, consequently, in the same classrooms until about the age of 10, when they suddenly realized that separating us would not only benefit our learning abilities, but the sanity of our teachers. Unfortunately for our parents this was not an option at home as we happened to be next door neighbors.
We spent many an afternoon discussing the merits of karate vs. street fighting or seeing who could spit the farthest. I was pro street fighting, Ben was pro karate and, though I’ve often had reason to believe he cheated, he always spit the farthest. He would pull me, blinking and irritable, away from my latest paperback and out into the sunshine. We were the last of the Mohicans running through the woods, he in his bare feet and I in my navy Keds, only discarded when I was a safe distance from my prissy mother and her entirely rational fear of snakes and poisonous spiders. We raced bikes, played horrendous games of basketball, and made solemn promises with sticky handshakes.
Over the years our friendship changed, adapting, like so many boy-girl relationships, to make way for the things puberty claimed we needed. He became my protector rather than my sparring partner, and I became his sounding board for all things female – an idea as preposterous now as it was back then.
Though we remained close through the few teenage years we were allowed, and though I continued to call him my best friend, we branched off and found people that met with our often changing qualifications and fads. While I dabbled in a particularly heinous Goth phase, he was trying his hand at the All-American jock. While I practiced the art of the hanger-on, he took up afternoons with the fishing club. However, by the age of 15, we seemed to be moving within the same circle once more. The common circle, collector of teenagers everywhere – trouble.
I was only just discovering the feeling of constantly having him around again, of being on the same wavelength. Afternoons were spent using every curse word we knew, playing video games, burning rap CD’s that would make our mothers faint, and smoking cigarettes on the sly. My favorite pastimes were riding in the car with him next to me, singing Afroman at the top of our lungs, and lying in his bedroom at night giggling over things that only made sense if you were stoned. I’d barely begun to appreciate our new relationship when he was killed suddenly in a jet ski accident.
Losing my very first best friend – my brother – my blood – in such a terrible way, crushed me. But after the anger had run its course, after the hurt dulled to a controllable throb – he managed, in death, to give me something. He pulled me out of my shell again.
In the years that followed Ben’s death, I made friends with an ease I’d never had before. I still disappeared behind my books from time to time, but I wasn’t the same withdrawn child being coaxed to come out and play. Interacting with all those different people was necessary.
When I think over all the friends I’ve had since, there are only a few that even bear mentioning and I’m glad - glad that I had so many imposters, so many which passed through quickly. It’s made it much easier to recognize the real thing.
Rachel, whom I’ve written about before, was the next person to make a big impact in my life – helping me move into adulthood with honesty (I had a significant problem with that.) and much needed hilarity. And though she’s still my best friend, things seem to be at another turning point. I’ve changed yet again, and I suppose when that happens, you need new people in your life to reflect that change.
I’ve recently (over the past year) developed some unexpected, unconventional friendships. At times, especially in the beginning, I couldn’t think of them as anything special because it would just be too weird. But I’ve since readjusted my thinking.
I’m talking about my friendships with you guys.
This whole online dating fiasco I entered into recently? I’ve been pretty embarrassed about it, depending on who I’m talking to and what day it is. But in all honesty, it’s not that different from blogger. Sure I don’t have any romantic intentions as far as the lot of you are concerned, but I’ve formed some pretty close attachments despite myself – without even being aware of it happening at first.
Every comment and every reader has a special place in my heart. I love all of you guys for giving me the validation I wasn’t aware I needed until I started this blog. The support I’ve received here, through some of the most difficult times, has occasionally been the push I needed. Your comments are always encouraging, more often than not hilarious, and usually better than any anxiety pill. See, even having a great group of “in-person” friends, I just don’t get much encouragement on the writing front. I needed that, and you all gave it freely – so thank you.
But as with any large group, there are always a few standouts – a few people I’ve gotten to know a little better than the rest. A few people who started as encouraging strangers, and ended up becoming close personal friends.
Mr. London Street, whose real name I wish I could use here, if only to make myself sound more plausible, has been, in a manner of speaking, the driving force behind almost everything you’ve read on this blog since spring of last year.
I’ve always been an ok writer and I knew it was something I desperately wanted to do, but it wasn’t until I read his site that I realized just what possibilities really lay behind blogging. I was using my site to vent and occasionally tell a funny story or fill out a meme. And here was this man, writing so beautifully about everything from humorous bus expeditions to painful childhood memories. It was a wakeup call.
He gave me the courage to write in a way even I had no idea I was capable of and encouraged me to push boundaries. And I will be forever grateful, because one of the best feelings in the world is seeing something you’ve written and thinking, “I can be proud of that.” It might be “just a blog”, but it’s also a record of just how much I’ve improved. I’m a long way from reaching my full potential, but I have a feeling I’d be even farther away if we hadn’t become friends.
And I do consider him a friend...a real one. A mentor of sorts, obviously, but a friend first. Not a week goes by without an email or a twitter message that makes me laugh, think, or roll my eyes in amused exasperation. We have quite a bit in common for all our surface and cultural differences and, of course, our geographic distance. I plan on remedying the latter sometime in the first months of the new year, if only for a brief visit, and I can’t tell you how excited I am at the prospect of meeting him in person.
There’s another blogger that I’ve become close with, though I prefer not to name them as they’re quite funny about their privacy. Suffice it to say that if a few days go by and we haven’t spoken, I wonder what’s going on. They make me laugh constantly and even, on occasion, irritate me to the point of insanity, as friends are wont to do. Our phone conversations often leave me in stitches, but even when they turn serious, I’d be hard-pressed to find someone I enjoy talking to more. I genuinely hope that this is one friendship that will prove the distance theory wrong. (Note to person in question: Just because I’m being nice does not give you license to torment me about it later. I will retaliate, as you well know.)
There are others that I have occasional correspondence with and would love to get to know more. I believe there’s a wealth of possibilities here. A great big world of people that share the same sense of humor and aren’t afraid to say what they think. People that are open-minded and intelligent. People that when you finally meet them for the first time, it feels like the twentieth. And people that, even if you never get the chance to meet, change your life for the better.
Every now and then a commenter has said, “You should stop giving this stuff away for free.” And in the beginning I felt inclined to agree. But as you can clearly tell, if you’ve been paying any attention, I’ve been getting a lot more in return than meets the eye.
I have no idea how long I’ll continue to blog. I suppose as long as it continues to be something that makes me feel good, that makes me feel like I belong to something bigger. And, of course, as long as it continues to introduce me to some truly wonderful people.
It’s so very rare, I think, to have a friendship that stands the test of time, but what about distance? Are friendships like romantic relationships in that respect – near to impossible to keep going when you aren’t sure when you’ll see that person next? What about if you’ve never even met that person?
My best friend in elementary school was my cousin Ben. He was three months younger than me and, consequently, in the same classrooms until about the age of 10, when they suddenly realized that separating us would not only benefit our learning abilities, but the sanity of our teachers. Unfortunately for our parents this was not an option at home as we happened to be next door neighbors.
We spent many an afternoon discussing the merits of karate vs. street fighting or seeing who could spit the farthest. I was pro street fighting, Ben was pro karate and, though I’ve often had reason to believe he cheated, he always spit the farthest. He would pull me, blinking and irritable, away from my latest paperback and out into the sunshine. We were the last of the Mohicans running through the woods, he in his bare feet and I in my navy Keds, only discarded when I was a safe distance from my prissy mother and her entirely rational fear of snakes and poisonous spiders. We raced bikes, played horrendous games of basketball, and made solemn promises with sticky handshakes.
Over the years our friendship changed, adapting, like so many boy-girl relationships, to make way for the things puberty claimed we needed. He became my protector rather than my sparring partner, and I became his sounding board for all things female – an idea as preposterous now as it was back then.
Though we remained close through the few teenage years we were allowed, and though I continued to call him my best friend, we branched off and found people that met with our often changing qualifications and fads. While I dabbled in a particularly heinous Goth phase, he was trying his hand at the All-American jock. While I practiced the art of the hanger-on, he took up afternoons with the fishing club. However, by the age of 15, we seemed to be moving within the same circle once more. The common circle, collector of teenagers everywhere – trouble.
I was only just discovering the feeling of constantly having him around again, of being on the same wavelength. Afternoons were spent using every curse word we knew, playing video games, burning rap CD’s that would make our mothers faint, and smoking cigarettes on the sly. My favorite pastimes were riding in the car with him next to me, singing Afroman at the top of our lungs, and lying in his bedroom at night giggling over things that only made sense if you were stoned. I’d barely begun to appreciate our new relationship when he was killed suddenly in a jet ski accident.
Losing my very first best friend – my brother – my blood – in such a terrible way, crushed me. But after the anger had run its course, after the hurt dulled to a controllable throb – he managed, in death, to give me something. He pulled me out of my shell again.
In the years that followed Ben’s death, I made friends with an ease I’d never had before. I still disappeared behind my books from time to time, but I wasn’t the same withdrawn child being coaxed to come out and play. Interacting with all those different people was necessary.
When I think over all the friends I’ve had since, there are only a few that even bear mentioning and I’m glad - glad that I had so many imposters, so many which passed through quickly. It’s made it much easier to recognize the real thing.
Rachel, whom I’ve written about before, was the next person to make a big impact in my life – helping me move into adulthood with honesty (I had a significant problem with that.) and much needed hilarity. And though she’s still my best friend, things seem to be at another turning point. I’ve changed yet again, and I suppose when that happens, you need new people in your life to reflect that change.
I’ve recently (over the past year) developed some unexpected, unconventional friendships. At times, especially in the beginning, I couldn’t think of them as anything special because it would just be too weird. But I’ve since readjusted my thinking.
I’m talking about my friendships with you guys.
This whole online dating fiasco I entered into recently? I’ve been pretty embarrassed about it, depending on who I’m talking to and what day it is. But in all honesty, it’s not that different from blogger. Sure I don’t have any romantic intentions as far as the lot of you are concerned, but I’ve formed some pretty close attachments despite myself – without even being aware of it happening at first.
Every comment and every reader has a special place in my heart. I love all of you guys for giving me the validation I wasn’t aware I needed until I started this blog. The support I’ve received here, through some of the most difficult times, has occasionally been the push I needed. Your comments are always encouraging, more often than not hilarious, and usually better than any anxiety pill. See, even having a great group of “in-person” friends, I just don’t get much encouragement on the writing front. I needed that, and you all gave it freely – so thank you.
But as with any large group, there are always a few standouts – a few people I’ve gotten to know a little better than the rest. A few people who started as encouraging strangers, and ended up becoming close personal friends.
Mr. London Street, whose real name I wish I could use here, if only to make myself sound more plausible, has been, in a manner of speaking, the driving force behind almost everything you’ve read on this blog since spring of last year.
I’ve always been an ok writer and I knew it was something I desperately wanted to do, but it wasn’t until I read his site that I realized just what possibilities really lay behind blogging. I was using my site to vent and occasionally tell a funny story or fill out a meme. And here was this man, writing so beautifully about everything from humorous bus expeditions to painful childhood memories. It was a wakeup call.
He gave me the courage to write in a way even I had no idea I was capable of and encouraged me to push boundaries. And I will be forever grateful, because one of the best feelings in the world is seeing something you’ve written and thinking, “I can be proud of that.” It might be “just a blog”, but it’s also a record of just how much I’ve improved. I’m a long way from reaching my full potential, but I have a feeling I’d be even farther away if we hadn’t become friends.
And I do consider him a friend...a real one. A mentor of sorts, obviously, but a friend first. Not a week goes by without an email or a twitter message that makes me laugh, think, or roll my eyes in amused exasperation. We have quite a bit in common for all our surface and cultural differences and, of course, our geographic distance. I plan on remedying the latter sometime in the first months of the new year, if only for a brief visit, and I can’t tell you how excited I am at the prospect of meeting him in person.
There’s another blogger that I’ve become close with, though I prefer not to name them as they’re quite funny about their privacy. Suffice it to say that if a few days go by and we haven’t spoken, I wonder what’s going on. They make me laugh constantly and even, on occasion, irritate me to the point of insanity, as friends are wont to do. Our phone conversations often leave me in stitches, but even when they turn serious, I’d be hard-pressed to find someone I enjoy talking to more. I genuinely hope that this is one friendship that will prove the distance theory wrong. (Note to person in question: Just because I’m being nice does not give you license to torment me about it later. I will retaliate, as you well know.)
There are others that I have occasional correspondence with and would love to get to know more. I believe there’s a wealth of possibilities here. A great big world of people that share the same sense of humor and aren’t afraid to say what they think. People that are open-minded and intelligent. People that when you finally meet them for the first time, it feels like the twentieth. And people that, even if you never get the chance to meet, change your life for the better.
Every now and then a commenter has said, “You should stop giving this stuff away for free.” And in the beginning I felt inclined to agree. But as you can clearly tell, if you’ve been paying any attention, I’ve been getting a lot more in return than meets the eye.
I have no idea how long I’ll continue to blog. I suppose as long as it continues to be something that makes me feel good, that makes me feel like I belong to something bigger. And, of course, as long as it continues to introduce me to some truly wonderful people.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Seven things I like - Part seven
7. Sex
Who doesn’t like sex, right? Honestly I think you’d be surprised.
I used to work with a girl who loathed it, said it made her skin crawl. And not just with a certain guy, with any guy. She just couldn’t enjoy it. I, of course, assumed that she’d had some kind of bad experience in the past, but after getting to know her, becoming friends, and point blank asking – I found out that there was no real reason at all. She’s been with the same guy for about five years now and he has to pretty much beg for it, the poor lamb.
I love her to death, but if I were her man, I’d be singing “What’s love got to do with it” as I moonwalked out the door on my way to stick my wang in the first hot chick available. Which might be why she calls me Al instead of Alyson.
I wasn’t always that way. I suppose in some ways I used to be worse.
When I was younger it was quantity over quality – As long as you were getting some, who cared if it was great? Like smoking cigarettes, it was cooler to do it than it was to abstain, even if you weren’t sure you liked it. I don’t know if that attitude was simply peer pressure or more of a combination of things.
My mother never mentioned sex to me. Ever. I figured that I knew the basics well enough anyway from reading the Judy Blume book Forever and watching my cousin Ashley demonstrate with naked, dry humping Barbies. And then there were the scenes in Days of Our Lives. Until the age of 15 I was convinced that if sex was going to be any good at all, it had to be done between purple sheets, in a candlelit room, and he’d better be using his John Black raised eyebrow face right as the over the top saxophone music started playing. Which really made going to that Kenny G concert awkward because I kept looking around in horror, waiting on the other spectators to start arching their eyebrows and touching each other.
My first time was so far away from any of that. I remember thinking, “This is what all the goddamn fuss is about? THIS is what guys want? Psssh, whatever.” There was no pain, no bleeding, nothing. Now that I’m older that doesn’t surprise me. I spent my summers riding horses, jet skis, and tubing on water rougher than two day stubble on a transvestite. My cherry hardly had time to settle in before it was being popped unobtrusively, like just another zit on the collective face of adolescence.
Being introduced to the world of “sexual activity” with so little fanfare had a marked affect on my attitude. There was power to be had, and all I had to do was assume the position and make a bit of noise. A horrible outlook for a teenage girl, but there you go.
After discussing it with my therapist there is, I suppose, a distinct possibility that I was a complete whore bag because my daddy didn’t love me enough. And, of course, a bit later, because sleeping with one person for any length of time brought up that nasty word “commitment”. I couldn’t say exactly how many people told me that most women end up marrying men like their fathers, but it was enough to fuel the fire for quite awhile - better to be safe and dip out in the middle of the night carrying your panties in your purse, than be sorry and have all your hard earned money and your gold wedding band spent on the crack rock.
The sad truth about all of my sexual encounters in the beginning was that they were unremarkable. I accept partial blame for those first however-many-we’re-talking-about-here, because I didn’t know any better and I didn’t care. Sure there were small moments here and there when something was “ah’ight” or “felt kinda nice”, but in general it was just a whirlwind of who really gives a fuck?
Did I tell the guys or my friends that? Absolutely not. Sex was totally awesome and shit. Me? I came all the time. Yep.
The one exception was oral sex. Though I didn’t enjoy receiving it at all, I enjoyed giving it quite a bit. In the beginning because it meant I wasn’t required to demonstrate just how much I was enjoying his sexual prowess and later because of that old ego booster – power. Being good at anything can be a welcome rush. Being good at giving head, having a man bigger and stronger than you trembling under your mouth and your touch, well, it’s twice as welcome.
It was unfortunate that my very first orgasm happened with one of the most revolting men I’ve ever met in my life. My therapist would have taken one look at him and asked, “Is his middle name ‘I Told You So’? Or maybe ‘Predictable’?” He was blonde, lanky, and good looking, but clearly from the wrong side of the tracks. The sort of boy my grandmother would watch from her window with the cordless phone in her hand and a scowl on her face, whether he had a plausible reason for being there or not.
I was living with his brother and his brother’s girlfriend at the time and that was a whole new experience in and of itself (threesome number one, in fact), one I’m glad I don’t remember much of. One afternoon I needed to get some things from my parent’s house and decided to take Mr. Bad News with me. My mother was absolutely horrified. She pulled me aside and asked me all sorts of questions about him, most of which I didn’t know the answers to. “You’re going to regret it”, she said. And she was right, though not for the reasons she implied.
I regret it because I hate him. And I hate that the memory of my first really good bout of sex, the one with the big finish, if you will, belongs to him. The sleazy bastard.
But as much as I dislike the man that started it all, I can’t deny that it completely changed my sexual outlook. I went from giving in, to actually wanting it. And if I reached numbers that a woman my age really shouldn’t be reaching, well, I can blame that on him too. Because after the first orgasm, you’re always in search of the next one and the next one. And I found them, sporadically and in between some of the most horrific and amusing sexual encounters likely known to woman, but still, I found them.
The funny thing, though, about those horrific and amusing sexual encounters, is that I started to like them too. Even if I didn’t get the desired result, the story itself was almost as valuable. This has less to do with the sexual aspect of it all and more to do with my love of writing and/or making people laugh. I’m sure the male inspirations behind my stories wouldn’t be too thrilled with my logic, but hey, I didn’t fuck them for the story. That was just a bonus.
For instance, I doubt the Brazilian would be thrilled to know that I made fun of his child molester van and the way he said “I fuck you, yes” repeatedly. Though props must be given for introducing me to being slapped. Well done, Junior.
And I doubt The Shump Daddy would like everyone to know that he sweats more than should be humanly possible, and screams in the faces of the women he’s bestowing his penis upon...at warp speed.
No, I doubt they’d appreciate that at all. And neither, I’m sure, would my family. Which is why I suppose I’ll have to wait until the majority of them are dead before I publish a book entitled: Daddy Issues – How I fucked my way through my fucked up life and enjoyed almost all of it.
And I have enjoyed almost all of it, aside from the first few encounters when I was too young to be enjoying it anyway, though as most of you know I’ve slowed down considerably. Eight months and counting, goddamn it.
It’s frustrating, of course, missing out on one of the things I enjoy so much. But just like all those years of unimpressive practice, all those orgasms, all those clit stabbers, sweaters, and fetishists – being (not completely unwillingly) abstinent is a learning experience. I’m sure I’ll come off of this long stint of inactivity enriched by all the knowledge it’s created. Or, I’ll just accidentally kill the first man that gets there with my super human vagina that’s had eight months of kegels and relatively little else, and end up as a character on the Lifetime Movie Network. Either way I still get laid, so it’s a win.
I haven’t yet decided if I’m still afraid of commitment. It really just depends on what day it is and whether or not I’ve eaten breakfast. I have, however, decided that it’s ok to be a woman with an impressive list of past lovers, no matter what people say. It’s not really shameful if you aren’t ashamed. If I ever do settle down with a nice man, maybe I can teach him a thing or two. And if hell doesn’t freeze over, I’ll always have a valuable life skill.
Now that I’ve finally finished this meme it’s time to pass it on to seven more bloggers. But before I do, let me tell you this:
I thought choosing seven things I like and writing an entire post about each one was going to be cake. It wasn’t quite that way. I made a list of things to write about in the beginning and only two of them actually made the cut. For me, probably like most people, I never really thought beyond the basics of what it means to like something. I like cake because it tastes good or I like reading because it’s a welcome distraction. I realized that if I really wanted to test myself, I needed to approach things a little differently. So I did. Or rather, I tried to. Several of the posts were about things I hadn’t planned on sharing at all, but I think we all know that sometimes blogging takes us in directions we hadn’t before considered. I hope you enjoyed reading my seven things, as unorthodox as some of them were. And I really hope that the bloggers I’m about to name decide to continue this meme in the new tradition.
They don’t have to be seven things you like/love. If you choose to participate, you can do seven things you wish you knew back then, seven influences on your life, seven ways your mother in law tried to ruin your marriage, or seven things the neighbor does that makes you want to shank her in the ovaries. Whatever you want, it’s your choice.
All of these bloggers are favorites of mine and I look forward to seeing what, if anything, they come up with.
Baglady
Jerrod
Sara
Vegetable Assassin
Girl Interrupted
Ally
Didactic Pirate
Thank you. Come again.
Who doesn’t like sex, right? Honestly I think you’d be surprised.
I used to work with a girl who loathed it, said it made her skin crawl. And not just with a certain guy, with any guy. She just couldn’t enjoy it. I, of course, assumed that she’d had some kind of bad experience in the past, but after getting to know her, becoming friends, and point blank asking – I found out that there was no real reason at all. She’s been with the same guy for about five years now and he has to pretty much beg for it, the poor lamb.
I love her to death, but if I were her man, I’d be singing “What’s love got to do with it” as I moonwalked out the door on my way to stick my wang in the first hot chick available. Which might be why she calls me Al instead of Alyson.
I wasn’t always that way. I suppose in some ways I used to be worse.
When I was younger it was quantity over quality – As long as you were getting some, who cared if it was great? Like smoking cigarettes, it was cooler to do it than it was to abstain, even if you weren’t sure you liked it. I don’t know if that attitude was simply peer pressure or more of a combination of things.
My mother never mentioned sex to me. Ever. I figured that I knew the basics well enough anyway from reading the Judy Blume book Forever and watching my cousin Ashley demonstrate with naked, dry humping Barbies. And then there were the scenes in Days of Our Lives. Until the age of 15 I was convinced that if sex was going to be any good at all, it had to be done between purple sheets, in a candlelit room, and he’d better be using his John Black raised eyebrow face right as the over the top saxophone music started playing. Which really made going to that Kenny G concert awkward because I kept looking around in horror, waiting on the other spectators to start arching their eyebrows and touching each other.
My first time was so far away from any of that. I remember thinking, “This is what all the goddamn fuss is about? THIS is what guys want? Psssh, whatever.” There was no pain, no bleeding, nothing. Now that I’m older that doesn’t surprise me. I spent my summers riding horses, jet skis, and tubing on water rougher than two day stubble on a transvestite. My cherry hardly had time to settle in before it was being popped unobtrusively, like just another zit on the collective face of adolescence.
Being introduced to the world of “sexual activity” with so little fanfare had a marked affect on my attitude. There was power to be had, and all I had to do was assume the position and make a bit of noise. A horrible outlook for a teenage girl, but there you go.
After discussing it with my therapist there is, I suppose, a distinct possibility that I was a complete whore bag because my daddy didn’t love me enough. And, of course, a bit later, because sleeping with one person for any length of time brought up that nasty word “commitment”. I couldn’t say exactly how many people told me that most women end up marrying men like their fathers, but it was enough to fuel the fire for quite awhile - better to be safe and dip out in the middle of the night carrying your panties in your purse, than be sorry and have all your hard earned money and your gold wedding band spent on the crack rock.
The sad truth about all of my sexual encounters in the beginning was that they were unremarkable. I accept partial blame for those first however-many-we’re-talking-about-here, because I didn’t know any better and I didn’t care. Sure there were small moments here and there when something was “ah’ight” or “felt kinda nice”, but in general it was just a whirlwind of who really gives a fuck?
Did I tell the guys or my friends that? Absolutely not. Sex was totally awesome and shit. Me? I came all the time. Yep.
The one exception was oral sex. Though I didn’t enjoy receiving it at all, I enjoyed giving it quite a bit. In the beginning because it meant I wasn’t required to demonstrate just how much I was enjoying his sexual prowess and later because of that old ego booster – power. Being good at anything can be a welcome rush. Being good at giving head, having a man bigger and stronger than you trembling under your mouth and your touch, well, it’s twice as welcome.
It was unfortunate that my very first orgasm happened with one of the most revolting men I’ve ever met in my life. My therapist would have taken one look at him and asked, “Is his middle name ‘I Told You So’? Or maybe ‘Predictable’?” He was blonde, lanky, and good looking, but clearly from the wrong side of the tracks. The sort of boy my grandmother would watch from her window with the cordless phone in her hand and a scowl on her face, whether he had a plausible reason for being there or not.
I was living with his brother and his brother’s girlfriend at the time and that was a whole new experience in and of itself (threesome number one, in fact), one I’m glad I don’t remember much of. One afternoon I needed to get some things from my parent’s house and decided to take Mr. Bad News with me. My mother was absolutely horrified. She pulled me aside and asked me all sorts of questions about him, most of which I didn’t know the answers to. “You’re going to regret it”, she said. And she was right, though not for the reasons she implied.
I regret it because I hate him. And I hate that the memory of my first really good bout of sex, the one with the big finish, if you will, belongs to him. The sleazy bastard.
But as much as I dislike the man that started it all, I can’t deny that it completely changed my sexual outlook. I went from giving in, to actually wanting it. And if I reached numbers that a woman my age really shouldn’t be reaching, well, I can blame that on him too. Because after the first orgasm, you’re always in search of the next one and the next one. And I found them, sporadically and in between some of the most horrific and amusing sexual encounters likely known to woman, but still, I found them.
The funny thing, though, about those horrific and amusing sexual encounters, is that I started to like them too. Even if I didn’t get the desired result, the story itself was almost as valuable. This has less to do with the sexual aspect of it all and more to do with my love of writing and/or making people laugh. I’m sure the male inspirations behind my stories wouldn’t be too thrilled with my logic, but hey, I didn’t fuck them for the story. That was just a bonus.
For instance, I doubt the Brazilian would be thrilled to know that I made fun of his child molester van and the way he said “I fuck you, yes” repeatedly. Though props must be given for introducing me to being slapped. Well done, Junior.
And I doubt The Shump Daddy would like everyone to know that he sweats more than should be humanly possible, and screams in the faces of the women he’s bestowing his penis upon...at warp speed.
No, I doubt they’d appreciate that at all. And neither, I’m sure, would my family. Which is why I suppose I’ll have to wait until the majority of them are dead before I publish a book entitled: Daddy Issues – How I fucked my way through my fucked up life and enjoyed almost all of it.
And I have enjoyed almost all of it, aside from the first few encounters when I was too young to be enjoying it anyway, though as most of you know I’ve slowed down considerably. Eight months and counting, goddamn it.
It’s frustrating, of course, missing out on one of the things I enjoy so much. But just like all those years of unimpressive practice, all those orgasms, all those clit stabbers, sweaters, and fetishists – being (not completely unwillingly) abstinent is a learning experience. I’m sure I’ll come off of this long stint of inactivity enriched by all the knowledge it’s created. Or, I’ll just accidentally kill the first man that gets there with my super human vagina that’s had eight months of kegels and relatively little else, and end up as a character on the Lifetime Movie Network. Either way I still get laid, so it’s a win.
I haven’t yet decided if I’m still afraid of commitment. It really just depends on what day it is and whether or not I’ve eaten breakfast. I have, however, decided that it’s ok to be a woman with an impressive list of past lovers, no matter what people say. It’s not really shameful if you aren’t ashamed. If I ever do settle down with a nice man, maybe I can teach him a thing or two. And if hell doesn’t freeze over, I’ll always have a valuable life skill.
********
Now that I’ve finally finished this meme it’s time to pass it on to seven more bloggers. But before I do, let me tell you this:
I thought choosing seven things I like and writing an entire post about each one was going to be cake. It wasn’t quite that way. I made a list of things to write about in the beginning and only two of them actually made the cut. For me, probably like most people, I never really thought beyond the basics of what it means to like something. I like cake because it tastes good or I like reading because it’s a welcome distraction. I realized that if I really wanted to test myself, I needed to approach things a little differently. So I did. Or rather, I tried to. Several of the posts were about things I hadn’t planned on sharing at all, but I think we all know that sometimes blogging takes us in directions we hadn’t before considered. I hope you enjoyed reading my seven things, as unorthodox as some of them were. And I really hope that the bloggers I’m about to name decide to continue this meme in the new tradition.
They don’t have to be seven things you like/love. If you choose to participate, you can do seven things you wish you knew back then, seven influences on your life, seven ways your mother in law tried to ruin your marriage, or seven things the neighbor does that makes you want to shank her in the ovaries. Whatever you want, it’s your choice.
All of these bloggers are favorites of mine and I look forward to seeing what, if anything, they come up with.
Baglady
Jerrod
Sara
Vegetable Assassin
Girl Interrupted
Ally
Didactic Pirate
Thank you. Come again.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Seven things I like - Part six
6. Mail
“Was there any mail today”, mom asked 12 year old me when she returned home from work.
“Nope”, I replied, eyes wide and suspiciously innocent behind my glasses. As soon as she turned her back I scampered off to shred the stolen evidence that was burning a hole in my pocket.
Disciplinary letters from school were a frequent occurrence at my house. I had a smart mouth, clogged up ears, and an immense dislike for authority. Especially one authority figure in particular: The bus driver. Her name was Ms. Wessinger and she was an absolutely foul creature. No one was exactly sure how old she was, but her face was wrinkled and scrunched up like a bulldog, jowls flapping in the breeze from the always open side window. She detested me and had a stack of pink suspension slips already filled out with my name. It’s likely to her that I owe the beginning of my love affair, my obsession, with our mailbox.
Every afternoon when I returned from school, by way of bus or someone’s car, I’d glance furtively around and approach the beckoning black boxes lined up on an old water pump. Even though what I was expecting to find was bad news, the thrill of pulling out an envelope and opening it was always the same. If there was an extra letter covered in stickers and drawings from my grandmother alongside the inevitable pink slip, so much the better.
I was sneaky and I was thorough. If I knew I was going to receive a disciplinary slip, and one always knew, and realized that I wouldn’t be the first person to arrive home, I made alternate arrangements. Older kids that lived around the corner or a certain middle aged neighbor with a penchant for mischief could always be persuaded to slip by our box and whisk away the proof. On the rare occasion that one of my cousins was unable to retrieve their own matching slip, I’d do it for them too. All for one and one for all.
However, there were times that getting caught was unavoidable. Times when a parent took sick and returned home unexpectedly, times when the school became suspicious about hearing no comment from a parent on their daughter’s active life of crime. But those times were rare, especially when I became driving age and didn’t have to bum rides or pretend to wait at the bus stop in the mornings.
The pink slips slowed to a trickle and I had to rely on pen pals for my weekly mail fix. I loved to write letters, loved to fold them and sign them with a flourish. My writing was a bubbly scrawl of mismatched cursive and print, taking up entirely too much room. I’m ashamed to say that I even went through a phase of dotting my i’s with hearts. But writing letters definitely took second place to receiving them.
It was that someone thought of me enough to write or that they took the time to mail the things they could have easily called to say, in considerably less time. It was just the mailbox...just the mail. But it seemed like such an important thing. I mean, they made their employees get up and deliver my adolescent musings rain or shine, sleet or snow. Bills even seemed exotic to me, with their little plastic windows and bright red letters proclaiming this or that was late.
Once, in typical idiotic kid fashion, I met a guy on the internet in a chat room. We exchanged addresses and, fortunately for me, he happened to be my age and not a child molesting murderer that planned to show up at my house and hog tie me in the basement. He lived halfway across the country and we wrote letters back and forth so often that I’ve got a shoebox full of them. (He’s actually the one that got me started on this whole blog thing in the first place, though we’ve lost touch since then.) Getting one of his letters in the mail used to make my day.
It was such a simple, innocent pleasure. I had a few other pen pals over the years, but none as prolific. And while I shudder to think of my own letters being stored in someone else’s shoebox, proof to the world that I was a complete and utter weirdo, reading their side of the exchange always makes me smile.
Now I get bills, fliers, invitations, bank statements, cards, and packages. And I can’t lie, I love them all. The bills, fliers, and statements I pile up without opening until there’s a leaning tower of correspondence on my book shelf to indicate just how important I really am. Only when it’s big enough will I open them. Cards, invitations, and packages I rip open immediately, gleefully. But letters...I don’t get those anymore. Not now, with email and text messaging being the preferred method of communication.
Don’t get me wrong, I love technology. I love getting emails and instant messages and texts. I just love opening my mailbox more.
Lately, thanks to several of you bloggers, I’m been excitedly ripping open more packages than in previous years. It’s definitely made up for the loss of pink slips and pen pals.
So, a lovely thank you to the following:
Baglady – Who I believe was the first blogger to send me a care package. It contained not only a bag of delicious Percy Pigs, but a beautiful black and white photo in place of a postcard. Brilliant idea.
Erin – From whom I actually ordered a lovely array of crocheted items, but really, it was still a package.
Mylittlebecky – She sent me a huge box full of goodies! A float (which I LOVE because I live by the lake and rarely get out of it), my favorite candy, writing goodies, etc. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she’d been stalking me to find out what I like.
Ally – I commented on an awesome necklace she had and she actually sent me one AND a package of the cutest earrings ever, shaped like Russian doll things. I love her for it, but my family is so very tired of the vulgar message displays...especially "MyCuntRocks", which is the one I use most frequently. I mean, it's not like it's false advertising. Pssh.
Jules – From whom I won a lovely bright pinkish purple sex toy. So technically it was mailed in a discreet brown box from Babeland, not Jules, but she was the force behind my win. (Also, somehow the brown box wasn’t that discreet...)
Oh, and of course, I can’t forget about Kid in the Front Row. He sent me the DVD Lost in Translation because I’m smart and I won his contest a million years ago. And an English coin (2p?), which was cool because I collect them. Coins, that is, not specifically English money.
I currently have two packages that are LONG overdue to be mailed out and I’m remedying that immediately. Judearoo and Erin, that means you guys.
As for the rest of you, I’d like to offer to have a little contest and mail something fabulous to the winner but for some reason people are afraid to receive mail from me. I promise I know nothing about anthrax and I do not have a habit of sending strangers my underwear.
So, if you aren’t afraid leave a comment saying so (etc! I mean, don’t just comment on THAT.) and I’ll drop your name in my bra, swish it around, and pull out a winner. It might even come with your very own disciplinary pink slip.
“Was there any mail today”, mom asked 12 year old me when she returned home from work.
“Nope”, I replied, eyes wide and suspiciously innocent behind my glasses. As soon as she turned her back I scampered off to shred the stolen evidence that was burning a hole in my pocket.
Disciplinary letters from school were a frequent occurrence at my house. I had a smart mouth, clogged up ears, and an immense dislike for authority. Especially one authority figure in particular: The bus driver. Her name was Ms. Wessinger and she was an absolutely foul creature. No one was exactly sure how old she was, but her face was wrinkled and scrunched up like a bulldog, jowls flapping in the breeze from the always open side window. She detested me and had a stack of pink suspension slips already filled out with my name. It’s likely to her that I owe the beginning of my love affair, my obsession, with our mailbox.
Every afternoon when I returned from school, by way of bus or someone’s car, I’d glance furtively around and approach the beckoning black boxes lined up on an old water pump. Even though what I was expecting to find was bad news, the thrill of pulling out an envelope and opening it was always the same. If there was an extra letter covered in stickers and drawings from my grandmother alongside the inevitable pink slip, so much the better.
I was sneaky and I was thorough. If I knew I was going to receive a disciplinary slip, and one always knew, and realized that I wouldn’t be the first person to arrive home, I made alternate arrangements. Older kids that lived around the corner or a certain middle aged neighbor with a penchant for mischief could always be persuaded to slip by our box and whisk away the proof. On the rare occasion that one of my cousins was unable to retrieve their own matching slip, I’d do it for them too. All for one and one for all.
However, there were times that getting caught was unavoidable. Times when a parent took sick and returned home unexpectedly, times when the school became suspicious about hearing no comment from a parent on their daughter’s active life of crime. But those times were rare, especially when I became driving age and didn’t have to bum rides or pretend to wait at the bus stop in the mornings.
The pink slips slowed to a trickle and I had to rely on pen pals for my weekly mail fix. I loved to write letters, loved to fold them and sign them with a flourish. My writing was a bubbly scrawl of mismatched cursive and print, taking up entirely too much room. I’m ashamed to say that I even went through a phase of dotting my i’s with hearts. But writing letters definitely took second place to receiving them.
It was that someone thought of me enough to write or that they took the time to mail the things they could have easily called to say, in considerably less time. It was just the mailbox...just the mail. But it seemed like such an important thing. I mean, they made their employees get up and deliver my adolescent musings rain or shine, sleet or snow. Bills even seemed exotic to me, with their little plastic windows and bright red letters proclaiming this or that was late.
Once, in typical idiotic kid fashion, I met a guy on the internet in a chat room. We exchanged addresses and, fortunately for me, he happened to be my age and not a child molesting murderer that planned to show up at my house and hog tie me in the basement. He lived halfway across the country and we wrote letters back and forth so often that I’ve got a shoebox full of them. (He’s actually the one that got me started on this whole blog thing in the first place, though we’ve lost touch since then.) Getting one of his letters in the mail used to make my day.
It was such a simple, innocent pleasure. I had a few other pen pals over the years, but none as prolific. And while I shudder to think of my own letters being stored in someone else’s shoebox, proof to the world that I was a complete and utter weirdo, reading their side of the exchange always makes me smile.
Now I get bills, fliers, invitations, bank statements, cards, and packages. And I can’t lie, I love them all. The bills, fliers, and statements I pile up without opening until there’s a leaning tower of correspondence on my book shelf to indicate just how important I really am. Only when it’s big enough will I open them. Cards, invitations, and packages I rip open immediately, gleefully. But letters...I don’t get those anymore. Not now, with email and text messaging being the preferred method of communication.
Don’t get me wrong, I love technology. I love getting emails and instant messages and texts. I just love opening my mailbox more.
Lately, thanks to several of you bloggers, I’m been excitedly ripping open more packages than in previous years. It’s definitely made up for the loss of pink slips and pen pals.
So, a lovely thank you to the following:
Baglady – Who I believe was the first blogger to send me a care package. It contained not only a bag of delicious Percy Pigs, but a beautiful black and white photo in place of a postcard. Brilliant idea.
Erin – From whom I actually ordered a lovely array of crocheted items, but really, it was still a package.
Mylittlebecky – She sent me a huge box full of goodies! A float (which I LOVE because I live by the lake and rarely get out of it), my favorite candy, writing goodies, etc. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she’d been stalking me to find out what I like.
Ally – I commented on an awesome necklace she had and she actually sent me one AND a package of the cutest earrings ever, shaped like Russian doll things. I love her for it, but my family is so very tired of the vulgar message displays...especially "MyCuntRocks", which is the one I use most frequently. I mean, it's not like it's false advertising. Pssh.
Jules – From whom I won a lovely bright pinkish purple sex toy. So technically it was mailed in a discreet brown box from Babeland, not Jules, but she was the force behind my win. (Also, somehow the brown box wasn’t that discreet...)
Oh, and of course, I can’t forget about Kid in the Front Row. He sent me the DVD Lost in Translation because I’m smart and I won his contest a million years ago. And an English coin (2p?), which was cool because I collect them. Coins, that is, not specifically English money.
I currently have two packages that are LONG overdue to be mailed out and I’m remedying that immediately. Judearoo and Erin, that means you guys.
As for the rest of you, I’d like to offer to have a little contest and mail something fabulous to the winner but for some reason people are afraid to receive mail from me. I promise I know nothing about anthrax and I do not have a habit of sending strangers my underwear.
So, if you aren’t afraid leave a comment saying so (etc! I mean, don’t just comment on THAT.) and I’ll drop your name in my bra, swish it around, and pull out a winner. It might even come with your very own disciplinary pink slip.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Blog-ish news and a new meme
It’s been more serious than usual around here lately, hasn’t it?
I’m one of those bloggers that, 97% of the time, doesn’t plan their posts. I’ll occasionally get an idea or write down some dialogue that I find entertaining, but generally my posts start by staring at a blank white screen. Honestly, I just start typing. Sometimes I’ll write an entire page before I figure out just what I’m working toward. Maybe that’s why I have trouble with conclusions. (There’s a life lesson in there somewhere.)
Serious posts are necessary for even the most dedicated humorist, I think. And some write in such a way that their personality and wit shine through even the most unforgiving of topics. I won’t give you examples of those bloggers – there’s no need and I've done it more than once already. Take a look at my blogroll and you’ll stumble upon one or two.
Nearly all of the posts I’ve written that I’m proud of aren’t funny at all. I find this highly amusing because I’ve never wanted to be that sort of writer. It’s easy enough to relate embarrassing stories about yourself or make fun of your surroundings. It’s a great deal harder, for me anyway, to write about more meaningful things. A lot of the serious happenings or feelings I’ve shared on this blog, I’ve never shared elsewhere. I’m a very private person in terms of emotional displays – tears, sadness, and even love. They make me uncomfortable and embarrassed.
I could delve into why I have issues with those things, but I’ll leave that for another white screen and beckoning cursor. This was merely an impromptu service announcement, a just in case you were wondering what the hell’s been going on around here sort of deal. Now it’s time for the real post.
It’s been a long time since I’ve done a meme or acknowledged an award of any kind. Please accept my apologies and gratitude if you’ve recognized me at all over the past several months. I know I’ve been a bit slack.
I’ve been wracking my brain for something lighthearted and/or disgustingly vulgar to share with ya’ll this week, but until this morning I was at a loss. It’s not that there’s been an absence of humor in my daily life; it’s just that they’ve been small things barely worth sharing. (Not to worry though. Only one more week and there should be plenty of stories to share. Beach + Birthday + 7 women = definite blog post.)
Anyway, BugginWord recently gave me this award:
Apparently I’m supposed to “list (and then explain your reasoning) 5 characters you’d like to do the horizontal whiplash with”.
I thought, “Well that shouldn’t be difficult...” Then I started looking over previous lists and realized that all these bitches sole my fictional characters. I can’t use either of my True Blood crushes, my favorite TV King of England, OR the best Scottish hero to grace a steamy romance novel. Sigh. So, I had to think a bit harder.
Then I got tired of thinking harder and trying to be all creative and just got down to business:
He’s lewd, he’s crude, and he’s filthy. Ladies (and gentlemen, if you’re into that sort of thing): He’s Captain Jack Sparrow.
Now, vast arrays of women love Johnny Depp. He’s one of the most heralded hotties to grace the big screen. But in all honesty, even though I’ve always thought he was good looking, I never really gave two shits until he played the role of the devilish Jack Sparrow.
I’m usually not attracted to hairy, dirt under their nails, manual labor type guys. But for some reason, Jack fits the “I’d tap that” bill. Even in that scraggly get up, with those horrible teeth...I’d get sand in all the wrong places for this pirate.
Savvy?
Next we have Jeremy Grey from Wedding Crashers:
I love Vince Vaughn in pretty much everything, but his character in this...yum. He’s a womanizing, fast talking bastard and it’s hot. Everything he does is ridiculously over the top, but somehow it works. There’s one scene in the beginning of the movie, where he’s talking to his secretary who suggested setting him up on a blind date, which sums it up perfectly:
“Janice, I apologize to you if I don't seem real eager to jump into a forced awkward intimate situation that people like to call dating. I don't like the feeling. You're sitting there, you're wondering do I have food on my face, am I eating, am I talking too much, are they talking enough, am I interested I'm not really interested, should I play like I'm interested but I'm not that interested but I think she might be interested but do I want to be interested but now she's not interested? So all of the sudden I'm getting, I'm starting to get interested... And when am I supposed to kiss her? Do I have to wait for the door cause then it's awkward, it's like well goodnight. Do you do like that ass-out hug? Where you like, you hug each other like this and your ass sticks out cause you're trying not to get too close or do you just go right in and kiss them on the lips or don't kiss them at all? It's very difficult trying to read the situation. And all the while you're just really wondering are we gonna get hopped up enough to make some bad decisions? Perhaps play a little game called "just the tip". Just for a second, just to see how it feels. Or, ouch, ouch you're on my hair.”
I don’t know about you guys, but that’s my kind of man. Sigh. As a matter of fact, that is me...with a penis. (Or used to me, before I got all sentimental.) And I’d totally sleep with me. You know what I mean?
Character number three is an oldie but goodie:
Dear Rhett Butler,
I give a damn. In fact, I’d give a damn all night. All.Over.Your.Face.
I’d take your money and your lovin’ and shove scrawny, broody Ashley Wilkes off a cliff. Word?
I’m sorry, but if Clark Gable doesn’t make your nips stand to attention in GWTW when he gets all shouty and angry, with a lock of that sexy hair falling over his forehead...you’re either one of two things: dead or not into men. He’s the perfect balance between naughty and nice, between sophisticated and rugged/manly. Southern charm indeed.
This next one, if you’ve been reading my blog for any length of time, will come as no surprise. (Though it may disgust a few...cough...Veg Ass...cough.)
James Spader, as the creepy E. Edward Grey in Secretary, turns – me – on. I get goosebumps every time I watch. I can’t deny that the setting, the plot, and Maggie Gyllenhaal’s sexual awakening help fan the flame of my interest, but he’s definitely the spark.
Moody, secretive, darkly funny...Weird. I’d gladly assume the position.
(On a semi-related note, his character on the TV series Boston Legal, the chauvinistic man whore Alan Shore, also does the trick.)
And last, but not least, we have a bit of a surprise twist:
I’d like to be the filling in a Diane Lane/Oliver Martinez sandwich please.
There are only a handful of women I find attractive enough to consider getting busy with, and Diane Lane’s character in Unfaithful, Connie Sumner, is one of them. Paul Martel, played by Oliver, is no slouch either. The two of them together...RAWR! I’ve already talked about this one a bit before too, so I’ll leave it at that. And, if you haven’t ever seen this movie...Go out, get it, turn off the lights, and pull the shades. You know, until it gets to the bloody part.
So that’s the list. I’m supposed to now nominate five people to do this thing and that’s a bit of a tough call because A) I hate making people feel obligated and B) I hate just saying "whoever wants to do it, do it", because if they’re like me...unless they’re specifically chosen, they won’t.
Since option A bothers me just a tad less, I suppose I’ll go that route:
Veg Ass
Sara
Erin
Jules
And the reclusive, laid up with a bum leg and surely has the time to do a meme, person that I'm about to prove doesn't read this anymore (HA!):
Jerrod
Pass if you like, bloggers, but I’d love to see your choices.
Hasta mañana.
I’m one of those bloggers that, 97% of the time, doesn’t plan their posts. I’ll occasionally get an idea or write down some dialogue that I find entertaining, but generally my posts start by staring at a blank white screen. Honestly, I just start typing. Sometimes I’ll write an entire page before I figure out just what I’m working toward. Maybe that’s why I have trouble with conclusions. (There’s a life lesson in there somewhere.)
Serious posts are necessary for even the most dedicated humorist, I think. And some write in such a way that their personality and wit shine through even the most unforgiving of topics. I won’t give you examples of those bloggers – there’s no need and I've done it more than once already. Take a look at my blogroll and you’ll stumble upon one or two.
Nearly all of the posts I’ve written that I’m proud of aren’t funny at all. I find this highly amusing because I’ve never wanted to be that sort of writer. It’s easy enough to relate embarrassing stories about yourself or make fun of your surroundings. It’s a great deal harder, for me anyway, to write about more meaningful things. A lot of the serious happenings or feelings I’ve shared on this blog, I’ve never shared elsewhere. I’m a very private person in terms of emotional displays – tears, sadness, and even love. They make me uncomfortable and embarrassed.
I could delve into why I have issues with those things, but I’ll leave that for another white screen and beckoning cursor. This was merely an impromptu service announcement, a just in case you were wondering what the hell’s been going on around here sort of deal. Now it’s time for the real post.
******
It’s been a long time since I’ve done a meme or acknowledged an award of any kind. Please accept my apologies and gratitude if you’ve recognized me at all over the past several months. I know I’ve been a bit slack.
I’ve been wracking my brain for something lighthearted and/or disgustingly vulgar to share with ya’ll this week, but until this morning I was at a loss. It’s not that there’s been an absence of humor in my daily life; it’s just that they’ve been small things barely worth sharing. (Not to worry though. Only one more week and there should be plenty of stories to share. Beach + Birthday + 7 women = definite blog post.)
Anyway, BugginWord recently gave me this award:
Apparently I’m supposed to “list (and then explain your reasoning) 5 characters you’d like to do the horizontal whiplash with”.
I thought, “Well that shouldn’t be difficult...” Then I started looking over previous lists and realized that all these bitches sole my fictional characters. I can’t use either of my True Blood crushes, my favorite TV King of England, OR the best Scottish hero to grace a steamy romance novel. Sigh. So, I had to think a bit harder.
Then I got tired of thinking harder and trying to be all creative and just got down to business:
He’s lewd, he’s crude, and he’s filthy. Ladies (and gentlemen, if you’re into that sort of thing): He’s Captain Jack Sparrow.
I’m usually not attracted to hairy, dirt under their nails, manual labor type guys. But for some reason, Jack fits the “I’d tap that” bill. Even in that scraggly get up, with those horrible teeth...I’d get sand in all the wrong places for this pirate.
Savvy?
Next we have Jeremy Grey from Wedding Crashers:
“Janice, I apologize to you if I don't seem real eager to jump into a forced awkward intimate situation that people like to call dating. I don't like the feeling. You're sitting there, you're wondering do I have food on my face, am I eating, am I talking too much, are they talking enough, am I interested I'm not really interested, should I play like I'm interested but I'm not that interested but I think she might be interested but do I want to be interested but now she's not interested? So all of the sudden I'm getting, I'm starting to get interested... And when am I supposed to kiss her? Do I have to wait for the door cause then it's awkward, it's like well goodnight. Do you do like that ass-out hug? Where you like, you hug each other like this and your ass sticks out cause you're trying not to get too close or do you just go right in and kiss them on the lips or don't kiss them at all? It's very difficult trying to read the situation. And all the while you're just really wondering are we gonna get hopped up enough to make some bad decisions? Perhaps play a little game called "just the tip". Just for a second, just to see how it feels. Or, ouch, ouch you're on my hair.”
I don’t know about you guys, but that’s my kind of man. Sigh. As a matter of fact, that is me...with a penis. (Or used to me, before I got all sentimental.) And I’d totally sleep with me. You know what I mean?
Character number three is an oldie but goodie:
I give a damn. In fact, I’d give a damn all night. All.Over.Your.Face.
I’d take your money and your lovin’ and shove scrawny, broody Ashley Wilkes off a cliff. Word?
I’m sorry, but if Clark Gable doesn’t make your nips stand to attention in GWTW when he gets all shouty and angry, with a lock of that sexy hair falling over his forehead...you’re either one of two things: dead or not into men. He’s the perfect balance between naughty and nice, between sophisticated and rugged/manly. Southern charm indeed.
This next one, if you’ve been reading my blog for any length of time, will come as no surprise. (Though it may disgust a few...cough...Veg Ass...cough.)
Moody, secretive, darkly funny...Weird. I’d gladly assume the position.
(On a semi-related note, his character on the TV series Boston Legal, the chauvinistic man whore Alan Shore, also does the trick.)
And last, but not least, we have a bit of a surprise twist:
There are only a handful of women I find attractive enough to consider getting busy with, and Diane Lane’s character in Unfaithful, Connie Sumner, is one of them. Paul Martel, played by Oliver, is no slouch either. The two of them together...RAWR! I’ve already talked about this one a bit before too, so I’ll leave it at that. And, if you haven’t ever seen this movie...Go out, get it, turn off the lights, and pull the shades. You know, until it gets to the bloody part.
So that’s the list. I’m supposed to now nominate five people to do this thing and that’s a bit of a tough call because A) I hate making people feel obligated and B) I hate just saying "whoever wants to do it, do it", because if they’re like me...unless they’re specifically chosen, they won’t.
Since option A bothers me just a tad less, I suppose I’ll go that route:
Veg Ass
Sara
Erin
Jules
And the reclusive, laid up with a bum leg and surely has the time to do a meme, person that I'm about to prove doesn't read this anymore (HA!):
Jerrod
Pass if you like, bloggers, but I’d love to see your choices.
Hasta mañana.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
