Tuesday, May 31, 2011

"What sized gift will give me entry to her vagine?" or how Borat's twin tried to woo me in my (late) teens.

This happened so long ago I'd almost forgotten. I was about hmm, 19?

My sister had set me up with her hubby's nephew, a cute, funny, athletic, outgoing and talkative guy my age and I couldn't wait to meet him. I'd seen him at her wedding and thought he was totally hot.

We made plans to rent a movie and watch it at her house, the halfway point.

We both arrived and conversation was easy enough. We promptly popped in a movie and plopped down on the couch and my sis disappeared to give us privacy.

Shortly into the film, he looked over at me, paused and then shyly put his arm around me. I shifted toward him and then noticed his hand was balled into a fist. Hmm, I thought. A fist? Maybe he's nervous? Or just has itchy palms?

Whatever. I dropped the thought and continued watching.

Two hours later, the movie's almost over and his arm had not moved. Nor had his fist - still tightly balled up and resting on my shoulders.

I found this kind of curious and asked him sweetly, "Is your hand ok?"

He looked sheepishly at his fist and back at me. "Um."

Long pause.


I waited patiently. I'm not a judgmental person. If he had a disorder turning his hand into a claw, fine. I turned and smiled encouragingly in his direction.

"See," he began.

Another pause.

Then he looked back at me and down at his fist again, grinned innocently and opened his palm.

Nestled comfortably inside was a condom, wrapped and ready... warm, even!

I know this isn't really what it looked like, but this is what I SAW.

I looked at it, annoyed. Really guy?

He looked back at me hopefully. When I did not respond by tearing off my clothes, his grin faded.

The opposite of what actually happened.
"Uh," he began awkwardly, "I just thought maybe... I mean, um. I know it's good to be prepared and stuff."

I looked at the condom and back at him. "And what made you think that would happen?" I asked in my best cold, annoyed kindergarten teacher's voice.

I would like to point out that I am NOT a cold person, it's just that there are all these things that happen in between meeting and having sex. Like... um, a relationship.

He stuttered, "Well, I've never been with anyone before."

I stared at him.

"I'm a virgin! I've never done it before."

I continued listening to his confessional, not believing a word.

"I mean, I just met you but I just knew YOU were the one. I can tell. There's something about you. I knew it when we first met*." (*He could totally tell by the way I popped in the movie. That must be it.)

I just about died laughing. Which seemed to puzzle him. (My plan! She's not working!)

When and where did he think it was going to happen? On the couch in my sister's living room while her kids looked down the hall? On the floor in front of the couch while everyone peers from the dining room? Behind the palm fronds next to the TV? This sounds like a bizarre game of sex Clue. "Where could it happen?" "In the living room on a couch with a stranger!"

The date ended awkwardly and we never talked again. The End.

Maybe this guy was just practicing Borat's guide to dating:

"What sized gift will give me entry to her vagine?" lol!

Tuesday, May 24, 2011

make it or break it: how do you tell?

Today's entry is from Quinn Cummings at The QC Report. She asked her readers "What should couples do to determine compatibility before actually dating?"

My favorite replies:
"To determine compatibility, I think nothing beats taking someone to the Emergency Room. You learn a lot about someone when you are bleeding profusely, waiting for them to transport you to the Land of Lidocaine, watching them figure out what to do for you. Are they the kind of person who is decisive enough to know when you need a doctor and when ice and a drink will suffice, and if it requires an ER visit, are they the kind of partner that can locate their car keys, your health care card, and some chocolate for the road, and has the forethought to grab change for the lobby coke machine, a book to read while they wait, and your purse and cellphone, or are they going to let you bleed half to death while they fumble around the house vaguely wondering if you 'need anything'."

"Have Sex First. Nothing like spending tons of time finding out you're mentally compatible and then spending 10 minutes to discover that sexually you are on different planets. Chemistry NOW, compatibility in the morning."

"Take a road trip overnight. Is your partner a nag about driving, speed, directions, etc? does your musical taste jive? can you sustain a conversation - or, can you handle the silence in comfort? what about sleeping accommodations? activities - lots of physical stuff, just eating, see the sites or relax in the room?"

"I recommend attending a large family gathering in the hometown of one of the participants. This combines travel arrangements, dealing with family, dressing appropriately, and handling uncomfortable questions. For illustration: I may not have told the entire truth about how long this family wedding was going to take. But my mother provided a very accurate timeline as we were leaving for the ceremony. Oops. Where is this country church exactly? Oops. No don't wear that, my mother will hate it. Don't tell my mother about that one thing. Or about that other thing. Or that either. And no one mention that thing about my uncle ever. No, I'm not acting weird. Why would you say that? I always act this way around my family. It's fine. Are you sure you want to drink that much? My aunt's been watching how many times you go to the bar. Why does my cousin want to beat you up exactly?"

"Having attempted this feat more times that I would like to count, I am convinced that you should never, ever, choose a long term partner until you have attempted to assemble a piece of furniture from Ikea. Your day begins around 10:30am, by taking a trip to Ikea to pick out a desk, you know..the kind that has 50 faux wooden pieces that are attached together with 100 tiny pieces of hardware. First you must choose a desk, agreeing on the style and function. Once the desk is chosen, you load up your vehicle with the ten (or so) boxes. When you get home, you unload the boxes and sort the pieces, quickly realizing that you forgot to buy the hardware (sold separately). You are forced to take a trip back to the store to pick up the pieces. Now back at home, a full 3 hours since you first embarked on this journey, you prepare to put together the desk. Since it is afternoon, you are both starving but are not allowed to eat until the desk is completely assembled. You pull out the instructions and show them to your potential partner. Both of you look at each other, then back at the instructions which are full of pictures and arrows and confusing diagrams. Finally, you are able to plod through and actually succeed in assembling, oh, about a third of the desk. At that point, after searching and searching for a piece of hardware that is pictured on the instructions, you conclude that it is missing from the packages. You have no choice but to, once again, return to Ikea. When you arrive, you see that there are at least 10 other people in line at Customer Service. You wait and wait and wait. Once you reach the desk, you explain the problem and are told that, because you did not return all the original hardware (by taking apart the parts of the desk you had already assembled), you would have to re-purchase the entire set of hardware. (I am exhausted and grumpy just typing this) Finally, you return home...for the third time...with all the needed pieces now in your possession. Hours later, as the sun starts to set, you fasten together the last two pieces. Feeling a grand sense of accomplishment, you both carry the desk into the room to place it in what was already deemed... the PERFECT spot...only to realize that the desk you chose...and just spent an entire day assembling..is entirely too big for the room."

"Someone must vomit, and not from drunkeness. I thought I was being helpful, and brought him a glass of cold water. Little did I know that I set it on one of those sink-indentations and actually poured cold water down his fevered back. His comment? Is this some weird family tradition of yours, pouring cold water down the back of the sick? Advance a few years to find me pregnant/giving birth. While I vomited, he announced that if I wanted him to, he would pour a glass of cold water down my back. My comment? Is this your idea of 'funny'? Thirty-one years of marriage and counting."

"Spend 10 mins in a two person kayak. it's make or break almost immediately."

"Backrubs. Can they give a good one? A properly thorough one that goes on until you've fallen asleep? and then cover you with something soft and tiptoe out without checking to see if it was "okay"? Are they complimentary about your backrubs, while understanding that really, you need one a lot more than they do virtually always? Do they have warm hands?"

"Garbage Jenga. Oh, you've never played? This is when two people ignore the garbage when it needs to be taken out. If your intended partner is a well-adjusted, rational person, he or she will remove the bag, and take it out to wherever the garbage goes. The other 99% of humans just keep balancing trash on top until the whole thing spills. Battle of wits or battle of twits? Find out in a hurry." 
 Have you tried any of the above? How do you test a relationship? What tips you to make it or break it status?

Saturday, May 21, 2011

why I hate talking on the phone

I'm so irritated I'm going to scream. My phone SUCKS at making phone calls. Being on the phone is absolute torture for me. I was never a phone talker (after age 14) but new technology has made it even worse.

First, no one can hear me through the crappy earpiece, which, due to some anti-cell phone ear birth defect, does not fit. In fact, none have ever fit. This is how I know it is me. My grossly misshapen ear canals attempt to eject anything I put in, near, or around them, forcing me to hold the earpiece with one hand and the microphone with the other, effectively rendering me a paraplegic as once I settle into a position that works, I cannot move. I used to like cleaning or working while on the phone -- at least I could be productive, but now that's out.

Balancing the phone between my shoulder and ear is also out. The touch screen is so sensitive that my face invariably disconnects the call. (Not to mention that I don't want to throw my neck into spasms -- which HAS happened -- or get brain cancer, all highly motivating factors forcing me to use the also hated, but better option of speakerphone.)
Typical conversation:

Me: And that was the diagnosis.

Friend: What??

Me: It was piles.

Friend: I can't hear you.

Me (shouting): Piles!

Friend: It sounds like you're in a tube surrounded by cotton. Piles of what?

Me: Hemorrhoids! That's what he was dealing with.

Friend: Are you on your earpiece again?

Me: *sigh* yes. Here, I'll remove it. Hold on. Ok, that better?

Friend: Aweso--

OR my face presses the mute button, adds a conference call, redials the previous number and enters my voicemail pin before hanging up on my victim.

Try this four times in a row and see how often YOU still want to talk.

So, if I haven't called you, this is why.


&*$# it

A friend of mine emailed me today with the question, "What am I doing to make it a great day?"

Nothing. I am sitting here fighting with the fucking yahoo merchant account. Fuck website design. Fuck freelancing and fuck backend programming, fuck buggy html, fuck dreamweaver extensions that crash my program, fuck the developer I paid $20 for an extension that didn't work, fuck them because they'll think it's stupid user error and probably be right, and fuck deadlines that I unrealistically set because I like to punish myself. fuck it all!!! Fuck it.

Charlie Murphy singing "fuckit" in Sesame Street in the Hood on YouTube.

Tuesday, May 17, 2011

Kill it! Wait, it's already dead.

This weekend, I found myself in the horrible dilemma of discovering a threat while hurtling down the Interstate at breakneck speed. An insect (notably one bearing the ability to pierce, sting, jab and threaten) revealed itself as my nemesis. There was a bee in the car.

I kept steeling glances at it to make sure I still knew where it was.

As long as it wasn't moving, I could remain calm.

Things were okay for a while until...

(dun dun DUN!)

They weren't!

Tweet stream:

"To the bee polishing his stinger that just ducked into my car during a rainstorm in which I stupidly left window open: friends?"

"Also, a side note to the universe: I would like now not to be the time to test possible allergy dr warned me about. #EpipenAtHome"

"He's kinda cute though, even if not exactly cuddly: http://twitpic.com/4y7le0"

"Not sure how he just ended up ON me but this experiment in insectivarian kindness has just ended. NEED not to be trapped in traffic now."

"This vehcle has just turned into a Far Side cartoon. Or a Seinfeld episode. Not sure which. In other news, the "fling" reflex is alive&well."

"I do not care if I look like a nutjob on the side of the beltway shaking out clothes. I will not rest until I locate the body."

"Not one, but TWO bodies located, the considerably-larger one dying. A mating pair? Does copulation kill them?"


I don't know if either bee stung someone else and got flung into traffic or HOW they otherwise ended up in my car during a rainstorm but I felt kinda bad for the poor critters when I saw they were dying.

No sympathy, though, for the thin, mean fucker that stung me on the first day of vacation to an exotic locale in California. FIVE minutes into a beautiful hike RIGHT after I finished reading the "Beware -- heavy bee activity!!!!" sign, I got pierced by a tiny thing helicoptering around me

He sent me to the hospital where they speared me with a giant needle: 1,000 mg of steroids right in my ass. (Steroids, by the way, make you moody as FUCK.)

I spent the rest of the vacation trying to keep the hot (very UNsexily) throbbing, wobbly tennis ball in my forearm from getting smashed.

Doc said I was either allergic to the venom itself or some bacteria on the stinger that got inserted when he jabbed me.

I am *very* grateful I didn't have to verify which 2 days ago.

I suppose I could be like a buddy of mine who was told he could have a fatal seafood allergy. He loaded up a plate of shrimp and drove to the emergency room to dine in their parking lot, figuring well, here's the test. If his throat closes, he'll just run inside!

Maybe I need to stage bee confrontations a little better.

Monday, May 16, 2011

Reflections on a past relationship

"So, I'm going to color my hair."

"You're what??"

"Um, color my hair?"

"What's wrong with your hair?"

"Nothing, I just like to cover up some of the gray. I've been getting gray hairs since I was 19."

"Wait, I'm not sure I like this."

This was an early warning sign.

He loved me, but there were conditions.