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Thursday, August 31, 2006
Packing Heat
Handguns are hot. Everybody knows that. They are way better than dogs when it comes to hustling a little ass, because if the ass rejects you, you can just threaten it and make it lay down on the floor ‘n shit until it does what you want. Dogs are for amateurs. Unless you have an attack dog, in which case, maybe it's as useful as a handgun, but it's definitely not as hot.
That guy just flashed me his handgun. I wonder if he knows he flashed me or if it was just an accident, like when you walk out of the ladies’ room with the back of your skirt all caught up in your drawers and flash the whole world your ass. Maybe him showing me his gun was just one of those situations.
Or not. It sounded like he was ripping duck tape off the floor when he loosened the holster straps. Then the thing just dropped from his calf to his ankle, and I thought to myself, holy shit that thing is huge. But I'm not really familiar with guns, so I don't know what constitutes a big one or a small one, or if it has to be a certain size before it qualifies as packing heat. Maybe the smaller ones just qualify as packing an overnight bag.
But handguns are hot, and everyone knows that, so it was cool to get a little flash for free. I love boys with handguns. Why, back in college, which I also affectionately refer to as The Drunken Blackout Years, there was a sweet young man who kept a Beretta on his nightstand. Looking back on it, one can clearly see that The Drunken Blackout Years were not a good time to be handling firearms. I mentioned this at the time, particularly because of the firearm's conspicuous placement, but he seemed to disagree.
“If someone breaks in here in the middle of night, I'm going to be prepared,” he said.
Oh good, because in the semi-rural, tourist-ski town where we went to school, population 50,000 during the school year, crime was rampant. Anyone could bust into your apartment at any time and just fuck you up.
“OK, if someone walks into your room in the middle of the night, what are the chances that it's your drunken roommate vs. an intruder?” I countered.
“I just want to be prepared. That's the chance he takes.”
I wonder if he knew that when they got the apartment together. I mean, I don't think it was on the lease or anything.
“OK then, what are the chances that it's me walking into your room in the middle of the night vs. an intruder?”
“I just want to be prepared.”
I still spent the night. Ah, the Drunken Blackout Years. Money well spent.
He was not the only heat-packing man to cross my path. Maybe it's just me, or maybe it's because I grew up in Arizona, and we love our guns in Arizona. This one kept his gun collection in the trunk of his car. Not just the one, the whole collection; the shotgun, the Magnum, the Beretta, the AK-47. God, he was so cool.
He busted out the Magnum in the parking lot of Safeway. We had just bought beer. It was about 6:30 p.m., still light out in the sprawling suburb that is Phoenix. One could still see all the way out across the desert, past all the half-built custom homes, as we were at the edge of the suburb. He got it out of the trunk and threw it in the glove compartment.
“You're not going to like this, but I just have a bad feeling,” he said.
I looked around. There were a few families coming out of Safeway, probably the ones that had just come out to check on the construction of their custom homes.
“You have a bad feeling? What are you gonna do, tell some soccer-mom-attacker to hang on while you whip the gun out of the glove compartment and probably blow my feet off in the process?”
“I just have a bad feeling.”
The thing is, they both proved the stereotype about boys and guns and compensation. They really did have microscopically small penises. The latter was the owner of the smallest thing I've ever seen in my life. So much so that I wanted to take a picture, because I knew the girls would never believe me. That's the only time I've been interested in making my own porn. For Guinness World Records purposes.
The leg-holster flash was new. I'd never seen leg-heat before. Just bedside-heat and glove-compartment-trunk-heat. It was a lot hotter than the bedside and glove-compartment heat. Made it look like he really knew what he was doing. Like not only did he know he had a small penis, but he knew what to do with it.
Don't get me wrong, I love me some Second Amendment rights. Go, go Second Amendment. But it's not there to make you look hot. The Founding Fathers were not trying to hustle ass for you. They were just trying to make sure the Brits didn't come into your house and take your stuff. That's why they wanted you to pack heat.
I guess they didn't know that handguns were hot. So maybe everybody doesn't/didn't know that.
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
I Hate It When You Do That
What will we learn to dislike about each other? In this process of being enchanted with each other, what will we learn to dislike? Six months from now, when we are familiar with each other, and we recognize each other's freckles and morning breath and bad habits, what will make you say, “Goddamnit, I hate it when she does that”?
This is the fun part. It's the beginning that leads into the even better part, the even harder part. The more we grow to care about each other, what will we find that we don't care for? What will we decide is worth the good stuff? What about my nail-biting, my constant lateness, my high-maintenance morning routine, my filthy language, my completely nonexistent sense of direction (which is loathsome even to me, because it is so stereotypically female, yet has always plagued me), the gobs of hair I leave in the shower no matter what I do; what about all these things?
Six months from now, what will we say, “I love that about you,” and what will make us say, “God, I hate it when you do that”?
The Shoes Are Not Bad Luck
Is it wrong to want to strangle the girls in the bowling lane next to you? Is that really so wrong? Why do they insist on bowling with no shoes on? Why? That shit is:
A) Not safe. You will break a toe or pick up a nasty case of plantar warts.
B) Not cool. You do not look cool or unique because you are bowling barefoot. You look like you are going to break a toe or pick up a nasty case of plantar warts.
They explained away their bare bowling feet by saying, “The shoes are bad luck.”
Oh, for shit's sake. That's the kind of shit that will get you strangled.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
The Cuban Urination Incident
They love me at Habana Village. They really do. I can't salsa to save the lives of a thousand baby seals, but I really just need an experienced partner to throw me around with authority, and then I do just fine. A girl can always expect to come home bruised and battered the next day, what with all the throwing around and hip movement that is fairly unnatural to an American girl who grew up on ballet, but it's always a good time anyway.
It seemed like the most appropriate place to take one of my dearest friends ever, the prima-ballerina-turned-belly-dancer, and mother of the Junior Diva. Where else would you take a girl who was raised a ballet-dancing debutante and broke free from it all to master the hip-swivel? It was either there or an orgy, but she still hasn't broken free from the debutante part, so no orgies. That would have meant too many thank-you notes.
Habana Village it was.
We were immediately lured in by the macho men outside telling us how la bonita we were. We can't lay off that shit. It's like giving Pixie Stix to children with ADHD. We just love it.
“I feel the need to go and present that man with my rump,” she said upon hearing the la bonita compliment. Yes, I had to agree. I felt the same magnetic pull on my own rump.
They loved us there, the minute we walked in. It's as though they could sense the weakness in our rumps, smell our love of the la bonita. We thought we were tough enough, we really did. We thought we could keep under control. But we are so weak. So, so weak.
We thought we were strong—we started out dancing with men who easily qualified for senior-citizen's discounts at the bar, and were just loving teaching us the secrets of salsa. And we thought we were fabulous. So fabulous, in fact, that we didn't see the incoming enemy fire.
We were overtaken by young Cuban men, who were also loving imparting to us the secrets of salsa, but in addition were using their superior salsa abilities to maneuver their thighs between our legs. It was so stealth—they twirled us around, appealing to our innate ballerinas, and when we completed the twirl, we were suddenly straddling their thighs. Amazing. They must teach that in the advanced salsa course.
As a friend and as the girl who led her into the lion's den, I had to keep an eye on my dear friend. I figured as long as I had a visual on her, we were safe. She was laughing hysterically, to the point that said Cuban man had to hold her up. I tried using mental telepathy to ask her if she was OK, but it was intercepted again by said Cuban man. Not being able to get a clear read on her thoughts, I deemed it necessary to do an immediate intervention. I extracted myself from my own Cuban partner, removed her from the trenches, and had to carry her out because she was so overtaken by laughter.
“What is going on?” I didn't know if she was finally having the nervous breakdown we've both been waiting for all these years.
It was so much worse.
She peed on him.
“You what?”
She peed on him. The Thigh-Between-Your-Legs Maneuver made her laugh so hard, she peed on him.
“You peed on him? You peed on his leg?”
She pointed at her black pants. There was a big dark spot that started at her yoni and went all the way down to her knees.
“Ohmigod. You peed on him.”
She peed all over his leg, and he just kept dancing. I'm sure he thought he had just made her night, but really she just has no bladder control after giving birth to the Junior Diva.
She peed on him.
For lack of a better defensive move, she peed on him. We agreed later this was the most brilliant maneuver we had ever executed. Granted, I did not pee on anyone, but was an accomplice to the maneuver, and hence can receive half the credit.
And they still love me at Habana Village. Pee or no pee, they still love me there.
Monday, August 28, 2006
Taboo Will Fuck You Up
Taboo will fuck you up; don't think for one minute that it won't. The shit is more than just a game.
It's never just a game.
It's a measure of intimacy, compatibility, communication, and general soul-mate-dom. If you and your significant other can't play Taboo successfully, that's because you're a bad match and you're doomed as a couple. You can't just roll into a party and play Taboo cold. You have to practice, you have to be ready, you have to read through Wikipedia and brush up on your trivia; you have to master mental telepathy, because if you don't, everyone around you will secretly judge your relationship and they will prescribe doom. “They'll never make it,” they'll say. And quietly, in the cold dungeons of your mind, you will think the same. Taboo is an indicator.
Everyone knows that.
For example, behold, the couple that will last forever:
“OH! When Elijah when to heaven—”
“Chariot!”
That was the right answer. Now who exactly the hell can do that? Who the hell can say “Elijah went to heaven,” and trigger their spouse to cry out, “Chariot!”? The couple that has chosen well, that's who. The couple that will be together forever because it was written in the prophecy. There's no other explanation. Because you can't just do that. That shit ain't right. And you cannot win when you play with the Prophecy couple; not in points and not in relationship longevity. They will go to heaven together in their chariot and you and your significant other will end up in some lower level of heaven, because you chose poorly. You and your significant other were not truly soul mates. If you were, you could make each other yell out “Chariot!” whenever you wanted. But you can't, can you? Being able to make your significant other yell out the name of God whenever you want does not count. That's what everyone yells out, just to make sure they don't call out the name of their ex. It's the safety call-out.
Everyone knows that.
It is also possible that this couple is not ordained per the prophecy, but merely a well-read Jewish couple. In which case, they are still going to heaven in a chariot. It says all over the Bible that the Jews are the Chosen people. If you read that and you still choose not to be one, then you deserve to be kicked out of Chariot heaven, in addition to losing at Taboo.
Behold, another couple:
“OK, it's a thing, and you use it to do this thing—”
“Herpes!” her husband hollered, and with great glee at that.
That was not the right answer. But it was his default answer for everything, and it did not faze her. She simply continued until he yelled out something other than herpes, and it worked.
One of two judgments is being passed by the other Taboo participants:
- Ohmigod, I cannot believe she puts up with him. Can you imagine?
- They are a great couple; they're just hilarious and they really understand each other.
Either way, judgment is being passed. People are watching your Taboo skills, and they are giving your relationship a shelf life; six months, six years, or a lifetime of misery/bliss.
You know it's true. You know you watch the couple that can't get any answers right, and you pity them; you think, oh no, it'll never last, or you think, oh, they just haven't been together that long.
Because it's not just a game, people; it's never just a game.
Taboo will fuck you up. The shit is more than a game.
And the List Gets Longer
Coming home with slightly swollen lips from a scratchy face—
Add that to the list of things I love about men.
You whores, I bet you read the title and thought I was talking about The Roster. You all a bunch of trashy bitches.
Friday, August 25, 2006
Let's Not Make This an Emergency
Emergency contraception is available OTC for all of us over the age of 18.
One would expect that there would be a rant following that statement.
But let's leave it be.
Emergency contraception is available OTC for all of us over the age of 18. We're glad. Let's not get our shit in a tizzy over this.
Let's just all be responsible about sex and sex ed, and give everyone equal access to health care and birth control and call it a day. That's so much easier.
Instead, let's waste our time and energy talking about other shit.
Let's talk about Northwest D.C., and all of the money crowded into that one little area.
Let's talk about Southeast D.C., and all of the money that's not crowded into that area.
Let's talk about colors; let's talk about Northwest D.C. and its whiteness and Southeast D.C. and its blackness, and how that's no accident. Let's talk about poverty, and how it's still racist. I'd much rather get my shit all up in a tizzy about something like that, rather than the morality of sex and life and the jazz that comes with it. Let's just all be responsible about sex and sex ed and health care and birth control; it just seems so much easier.
Funny how contraception methods that men control—condoms—are rarely disputed and readily available. Funny how contraception methods that women control—the pill, emergency contraception, etc.—is grounds for a civil war.
But we said we'd leave that be, so let's move on.
Two years back, before the March to Save Women's Lives, I asked my Parisian friend if she wanted to march with us.
She looked at me like I had only just now figured out how to tie my shoes. “You people are still talking about that here?” she asked. No one gives a rat's damn in France, she said. It's legal and nobody thinks about it, for better or worse. It just is.
That sounds so refreshing.
Thursday, August 24, 2006
Sex in a Minute
The human brain thinks about sex five times in one minute. That's once every 12 seconds, and yes, I did that math myself bitches, so those a-holes at the GRE can just fuck right off then, now can't they?
That's not true; I just made that shit up. Not the shit about the GRE, they really can just fuck right off—the shit about five times in one minute. Boys, I'm sure you're all going to claim it's higher than that, but don't worry, we all have complete faith in your virility, so you can save your breath. I'm sure all you dedicated young professionals out there are going to exclaim that you simply don't have time to think about sex that much, but you can save your breath, too. We all think you're really cool because you work 80 hours a week and we're sure you'll be a senator in no time, but we still won't fuck you even after you're elected, so I guess it's good you don't have time to think about sex, now isn't it?
Random sex thoughts within the last minute: A Overview
- Why did I sleep with that arrogant, emotionally stunted cretin I met in yoga class? I should pee in my own eye sockets for that one.
- Falling in love, falling in love…makes all the co-workers beautiful again and global warming seem trivial, fuck Al Gore for inventing it anyway…the last time I had sex with someone I loved, it was horrifically underwhelming. What will happen this time? How do you strike the appropriate balance between “I love you” and “Harder, harder, slap my ass and pull my hair?"
- And that being said, how do you maintain respect and equality outside the bedroom when you like to be dominated in the bedroom? How do you keep the tie-me-up philosophy from spilling into your everyday interactions?
- And that being said, I am not a bad feminist just because I like to be dominated. The two are not mutually exclusive.
- Who tests out the different types of condoms and reports back, “No, you need to make the tip more rounded if you're going to call it ‘Her Pleasure’”?
- Why do people think those condoms make a difference? They don't.
- Should I move my bed? It's kind prohibitive to good sex when it's up against the wall like that.
- Why do women sleep with senators? They all nasty. Is power really that hot?
- Do female senators get as much action as male senators? Who gets under the desk for them? Who's blowing Hillary?
That's nine times in one minute. Damn if a girl didn't lie about that “five times” shit. I even tried to Google it. There's the one time when Google failed. It didn't seem to understand “times the human brain thinks about sex in one minute,” but it's always grand to Google that stuff at work, just in case your co-workers are looking over your shoulder. They all think you the nasty one now. Just wait til they see they title of this post. Then they know you nasty.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Courting, the Follow-Up
This one I think I'll keep to myself. It's too good to be broadcast. It's a divine little secret, all tucked away in a treasure box, just for me.
There's a wine stain on the quilt we brought with us. It's the one my aunt made me for my high-school graduation. I flipped a little when my foot knocked over the glass, but really, I didn't mind a shred. Now the quilt has a nice little love story, its own little history that I can recount, no matter the outcome. It has a lovely little evening all to itself that is hopefully just the beginning.
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Tell Me a Secret
Tell me what you love about women. You know how I feel about MEN; you know that I love that muscle and the nonchalant way men wander around the house shirtless. Tell me what you love, and don't say T&A. OK, you can say T&A, but everyone loves T&A, so do get creative and be sincere. I want to know what you love about women.
Monday, August 21, 2006
Courting
One e-mail and not only can I not think, I'm masturbating like a 13-year-old who just discovered her fingers. It's just an e-mail, but it's heating me up from the inside out, all coming to a point right between my legs and making me all giddy and giggly and smiley like a toothpaste commercial.
I think he's going to kiss me tonight. The anticipation is enough to send me straight back to bed with my hands. Combine that with the e-mail and I may never leave--he may have to come in after me with the Jaws of Life.
Wouldn't that be lovely?
He's been courting me, and it's just divine. First date, second date, third date, pick me up, open my doors, call on Tuesday to ask me out for Saturday, what a doll, I just adore it, and him. He's the sweetest thing since sweet potatoes with marshmallows.
And I think he's going to kiss me tonight—how am I going to pass the time between now and then? Maybe I should jump up and down some more; I hear that's good cardio.
The last time I felt this way was after my first kiss when I was 13 years old. I was so excited I couldn't eat and I lost eight pounds.
“Girl, this is the first normal situation I've ever heard you talk about,” she said over Sunday brunch. “Usually it's like, 'Oh, we met and we were together eight days straight and then he disappeared.'”
That's true. The usual MO is to hook up and figure out the details later. But this is just divine, and so is he. He says things like, “Call me soon,” and “I'd love to see you Monday night,” and he brings me Rolling Stone because he knows about my love of heavy metal.
And I think he's going to kiss me tonight.
Back to bed with me.
Why Didn't They Just Ask?
There was no need for a study to prove this, for shit's sake. All they had to was ask.
"Redheads 'have more sex than blondes or brunettes.'"
Friday, August 18, 2006
First Date (In the Key of Hypothetical)
No, you can't come in for coffee or a drink.
I haven't cleaned my apartment since my dad died. Two-and-a-half months ago. There aren't any clean mugs or glasses; they are all piled up in the sink with the rest of the dishes I own. Even if there was a clean mug or glass, there isn't any coffee and there isn't any drink to fill it. I haven't been to the grocery store since my dad died. Two-and-a-half months ago.
What am I eating? Take one look at my bank account; you'll see what I've been eating. You'll see the money I don't have putting the coffee-shop owner's kids through college. It seemed like a noble cause. Take one look at my floor; you'll see what I've been eating. You can count the delivery boxes. You'll note there are less than there should be, considering how long it's been since I've cleaned. Sometimes a girl just can't stand to drain her bank account like that. So the choices are to scavenge or starve. I've scavenged everything there is to scavenge, so that leaves option B. No, it's not a good option for a girl recovering from an eating disorder. But it's that or go to the grocery store, and I'm just too tired to do that.
Why am I so tired? I haven't slept since my dad died. Two-and-a-half months ago. Of course I've done some sleeping, or I'd be dead myself, but I just can't figure out when it happens. I lay down at night, and I hear my alarm in the morning, but I'm aware of each passing unit of time in between. I'd lie down to take a nap, but I'm not tired. I mean I am, of course I'm tired, but I know I won't sleep. I'll just lie there half conscious and wake up feeling just as tired as I was when I laid down—and why would I do that?
So no, you can't come in for coffee or a drink.* I'd love to invite you, but I can't (see above).
*Disclaimer: This is in the key of hypothetical. It is a hypothetical situation created to express what I'm feeling right now. Any resemblance to real situations is purely coincidental. To be as clear as possible, this is does not apply you. You know who you are, and you can come in for coffee or a drink any time, no matter how filthy my apartment is. That's a lie, but it's the sentiment that counts.
Thursday, August 17, 2006
This Is One of Those Favorite Times
This is one of those favorite times. Today felt like autumn, as opposed to the middle of August. The window is open right now, and it's past any sort of appropriate bedtime.
The A/C is off, thank Jesus. The upstairs neighbor's window unit drips, drip, drip, drip, right on to my window unit, and the sound incites my need to strangle someone. There's enough homicide in the world; I'd hate to become a statistic.
All I can hear are the crickets and some sort of little chirpy thing that my Southwestern ears think must be a bird. I was raised in the desert; we had to buy these sorts of noises on tape. They didn't come with the real estate, the way they do here.
Tonight I'll crash diagonal-ways in my bed, the way I usually do, and listen to the live version of the chirpy-thing soundtrack. It's really quite novel if you don't grow up with it.
I always crash in my bed diagonal-ways. It's one of the perks of having a big-girl bed. Twin beds are a cruel joke, played on you buy your parents all the way up until you leave the house, and have the finances to purchase a big-girl bed. Remember squishing two people in a twin bed during college? It was not fun or quaint or romantic; stop shitting yourselves. It sucked. I had to do it last summer. What a fucking reality check.
It's a problem when there's someone else in the bed. They take up a lot of space, and you can't crash diagonal-ways. That's one of the pleasures of being single—always having the bed to yourself.
That's just one in a long line of perks that includes things like having your own bathroom, having your own closet, and never having to clean up after yourself. I've been single a long time. Were I in a situation where I had to share things, like, oh say, a relationship, I'm not quite sure how I would rearrange things. This is how I've rolled for years now. Where do you even start to integrate someone into your life, let alone your bed, your bathroom, and your closet? The sharing gene has been beaten out of me since preschool, by the sheer joy of having shit to yourself. Sharing is highly overrated; I don't do it anymore, especially with desserts. It is not cute to split a dessert. Get your own goddamn dessert; I'm woman enough for my own.
I'm sure that when the time comes, I'll just love integrating my life with someone else's and making room for them in my closet, blah, blah, blah, gag me with a spoon, it's all so romantic. But for now, when I'm listening to the concert-version of chirpy thing, everything is perfect and mine, all mine.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Co-Starring Your Nipples
The Platinum Blonde said nipples are sexy. All torpedoed out and ready to poke you in the eye, that's sexy, she said. “Men love it, it's like sex staring them in the face,” she said.
She is insisting that pointy-ass nipples that poke through your shirt are sexy. This goes against my most dearly held beliefs. Every bra I've ever owned has been padded down like a psychiatric cell, not because I'm compensating, but because my mother beat it into my head that no one should ever, ever know you're cold. And we lived in Arizona.
Despite that, even my training bras were padded, and if that's not bound to give you a complex, Jesus knows what is.
As a result, I have never allowed my nipples to make a cameo appearance. Never. In fact, I go so far as to chastise other girls for unauthorized nipple appearances. Didn't your mother teach you about that? I think. What, were you raised in a nudist colony or some shit?
Nevertheless, here I am, standing in the dressing room in a little black strapless thing, nipples ready to poke someone's eye out.
“It's a part of the outfit,” the Platinum Blonde said.
Apparently, nipples are a sexy accessory. The new chandelier earrings, if you will.
Stop, Drop, and Grab Yourself
Boys, please take a private moment at your desk to reach down and grab your large and skillful penises. Give them a good feel. Now grab your large and manly jewels and do the same. Reach underneath, give a little squeeze in between, take them out for a good walk around a block.
Everything feel good? Everything is where it's supposed to be? Was that as good for you as it was for me?
Now reach out and grab the phone. Wash your hands first. Reach out and grab the phone and make an appointment with your doctor to get your PSA level checked. I don't give a goddamn if you think you're too young to be worried about prostate cancer. Think about how much you love your large and skillful penis, and your large and manly jewels, and how much you want the former to always become erect for you whenever you please. If you don't make the phone call, and you skip the first paragraph, you run the risk of your large and skillful penis no longer being so large and skillful, and believe me, none of us want that.
We love penises on this blog, and we are going to do everything we can to nurture and care for every single one of them, beginning with this public-service announcement. We are going to take three different swings at a scare tactic:
- Prostate cancer, in its moderate-to-advanced stages, requires removal of the prostate gland. In short, that means you can't get it up ever again. Forget about Viagra, you're dead in the water.
- Prostate cancer is about as common as, oh, say oxygen. If you're a man, and you have a prostate, your chances of getting prostate cancer are pretty damn excellent. It's not genetic. It just is.
- My daddy died of prostate cancer at the age of 60. Want to live longer than that? Start feeling up your goods and getting PSA tests.
While we are big fans of penises here, we are also apparently big fans of asses. Boys, get over any anal hang-ups you may have about yourself and get a colonoscopy. Colon cancer just loves to eat people for breakfast, no matter what the age. My daddy also had half of his large intestine removed, which was a barrel of fun for everybody.
While we're at it, ladies cop a good feel and make sure there aren't any lumps. And you need to have a colonoscopy, too.
So quit your bitchin’ and show a little love to the goods. At least use it as an excuse to feel yourself up during the work day.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
It Is Clear I Will Have to Strangle Someone
It is clear I will have to strangle someone. Not for any particular reason, but merely because it would be so satisfying at this point in time. A girl cannot be happy-go-lucky and thinking about sex all the time; sometimes she just wakes up grumpy and can only be pacified by strangling someone.
Today, for example, I am increasingly irritated by the state of my apartment. It is a complete shithole, and I cannot figure out who is responsible for this. As soon as I find them, I will clearly strangle them.
The dishes have been sitting in the sink for quite some time now. It really isn't a bad place to store them. They are not clean, but I'm not using them either, so it's not a problem. The state of my closet is much more disturbing, particularly because it has been brought to my attention that I can deal with the dishes simply by throwing them away, which is brilliant, and I am irritated I didn't think of it myself. My closet, however, is all over my floor, and I cannot figure out how it got there. I also cannot figure out who is going to put it away. Whoever it is, I am going to strangle them when they are done.
My hair has also become a problem. I have a lot of hair, so much so that it could be mistaken for a small forest animal. I try to avoid washing it at all costs, because it is a motherfucking chore, people. A motherfucking chore. The amazing thing about the small forest animal on my head is that it is constantly shedding, and yet does not thin out. Hence, one could make a full wig of human hair from what has been shed onto the floor of my apartment. It cannot be controlled. It's everywhere. Like roaches.
I have considered an unsuspecting victim for the strangling. For example, all the random people who seem to be showing up all over the newspapers and radio stations telling me that I need to plan for retirement because medical insurance for old people in the U.S. sucks shit and because Social Security is going to run out, blah, blah, blah. Yes, I know this. I know I am going to be completely broke when I am old. I do not need some a-hole all up in my grill every goddamn day telling me this shit when I am simply trying to remain comatose through my commute to work. It would also be very satisfying to strangle Jessica Simpson, or any of the many ineffective managers out there. They've had it coming for some time now.
At the moment, my only thoughts about sex go like this: Why can I not have a flat belly without doing sit-ups, so I can look like a porn star whilst having sex without having to go through any sort of physical strain to get there? How can I let a man within five feet of my face, let alone kiss me, when my eyebrows look the way do? They are a train wreck, all over my face, and all because I cannot control myself with a pair of tweezers. Oh no, now someone is going to say I have an unhealthy body image or some sort of demented obsession with my appearance that equals insecurity. I'd think motherfucking twice before I left a comment like that, my stone-throwing friends, you just might get your shit strangled.
A Few of My Favorite Things
“I just hope he has a big dick, that's all I care about.”
—A member of the Strangle-Someone Squad, debriefing a first date
Monday, August 14, 2006
Thou in a Mercedes
The old Iranian man is waxing philosophical over coffee and mimosas. With him are his nephew and his nephew's wife, who is pregnant with the couple's first child. He quotes to them Omar Khayyam:
“A loaf of bread,
A jug of wine,
And thou under a bough,
This is paradise.”
“That's all you need,” he says.
His nephew's wife snickers. Their dear uncle, now 80, has amassed a hell of a lot more than bread, wine, and a bough throughout the course of his life.
“And what about the Rolex, the Mercedes, and the beach house?” his nephew asks, referring to the old man's spoils.
“These things don't hurt,” he answers.
Friday, August 11, 2006
Give It to Me Dirty: Everybody's a Comedian
We haven't done the Friday round-up in a while, but it just couldn't be skipped this time. You people were killing me up in here this week.
In response to Pretty:
At 9:23 AM, Anonymous said…
As a guy, I respond well to “you have a large and skillful penis.” Makes me putty… I mean, hard steel, in their hands.
At 11:10 AM, Anonymous said…
as a woman I respond well to large and skillful penises.
At 6:41 PM, The Penis said…
As a penis, I respond well to pretty girls.
In response to Don't Get It: Why do boys always stare at my mouth?:
At 2:35 PM, Anonymous said…
Speak louder… They are trying to lip read.
At 3:06 PM, Anonymous said…
Perhaps they are wondering when you will pull your coat down from around it.
And from a certified genius:
In response to Do You Know Where Your Sanity Is?:
At 4:58 PM, Anonymous said…
Mela, Why do you keep letting these guys off the hook? Why do you keep saying it's all okay, it's just me that's insecure? It's a strange thing about our American brand of feminism that to be equal we have to play by guys’ rules. That our emotions, our sensitivities - all the things stereotypically feminine - are devalued and male reactions valued. So we feel that we need to apologize for our sensitivities. For not being immove-able. For not being male.
It's hard to buck this sang froid value system, even though I'm not sure how it got called feminism when it sounds like something a man dreamed up.
But I'd submit that it's okay to be hurt. It's okay to demand more sensitivity. More consideration. More charm. More romanticism. You deserve it, Mela. We all do. And I think it's time to term femininity valid/valued, not a demon.
Cock Cures Feminism
Why, we'd always known that massive, rock-hard, domineering cock was a cure-all for everything that ails us; that it can also cure our attitude problems about equality should come as no surprise. If only we'd known this earlier, we could have been bettering ourselves with lots of massive, rock-hard, domineering cock and instead of pestering you boys with the ERA and such. Maybe we wouldn't have even made you teach us to read.
Just listen to Nirpal Dhaliwal talk about how he gave his wife the cock beatdown, all for the improvement of their marriage:
“Last Christmas, my wife threw me out after discovering I'd been cheating on her. On the night we got back together, I made strong, passionate love to her. Unfaithful as I'd been, I was not going to let her have me over a barrel for the rest of our marriage. I needed to keep a sense of self and not allow her to mire me in guilt and a desperate quest of forgiveness.
I needed to let her know what she would be missing if we broke up for ever. I gave her a manful bravura performance that night, and at the height of her passion, I asked her: ‘Who's the boss?’
The question threw her. Initially she wouldn't give me a reply, but I enticed it from her. ‘You are,’ she finally gasped. ‘You are!'”
He's a genius.
Just listen to how grateful his wife, writer Liz Jones, is for his manly virility:
“I am watching telly and he turns over without a word. I get his back in bed. I had more sex when I was dating, which, considering my track record, must be grounds for divorce. The last time we did it was on Christmas Eve.”
He is so manly and virile; I can't wait to have a husband just like him.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Fall Out
From: Two-in-one-week
Sent: Wednesday, August 09, 2006 11:41 AM
To: Melanie Boyer
Subject: grrr
Damn it, Mela now I just read your blog [Do you know where your sanity is?] and feel like a complete ass. Let's talk about this, shall we?
From: Melanie Boyer
Sent: Wednesday, August 09, 2006 12:24 PM
To: Two-in-one-week
Subject: RE: grrr
We can talk, baby. We can also just let it go, honestly. You didn't do nothin’ wrong, there's no need to feel like an ass. I know my insecurities when I see them.
From: Two-in-one-week/Egg on my face
Sent: Wednesday, August 09, 2006 1:07 PM
To: Melanie Boyer
Subject: RE: grrr
Well, I just want you to have the facts straight too, seems like your insecurities are having you boxing at shadows, deary.
Partially, I also feel like I have egg on my face for my earlier cavalier tone. My understanding was that we were swapping ribald tales of dating life from the trenches. So, I was looking at you as a sort of comrade. Take it from me: comrades swagger, non? I thought it a unique character of our relationship that some regular boundaries (like, oh, class) were down. But now I feel like I was wrong and therefore, low-class.
Point the second, I do like you/did like you. Don't want you to think me disingenuous. Currently, like you: do you think I'm having any of these conversations with anyone else?? Previously, liked you. If you recall our parting of dating ways: it's that I wasn't ready for something serious… the more I like the more I'd be in “danger” (my insecurities at work here) of being swallowed up, eh? So there's less of me tossing you aside and more of me not being in a position to take you up.
more later
From: Melanie Boyer
Sent: Wednesday, August 09, 2006 2:05 PM
To: Egg on Your Face
Subject: RE: grrr
Sorry about the egg on your face, it wasn't my intention. Your/our behavior wasn't low-class at all- you were right about the character of our relationship. Honestly, I slipped up by thinking I could be ok with it. My reaction to the two-in-one-week reminded me that I can't, I'm still nothing but a girl on the inside. None of my reaction makes any sense, particularly because I had done the same thing. Comrades definitely swagger- Platinum Blonde and I do it with each other. I think the difference here is that I was still vulnerable and tender in the soft spots because when we are talking about dating, I'm still one of grand total- sort of give things a different spin. Now again, that's me, not you, which is also demonstrated by the fact that you're one of my grand total and it doesn't bother you- so it comes back to my demons. You assessed the character of our friendship correctly, it just came to a point where I realized I wasn't up for it. It also hit me right in the kisser of my biggest, grandest, boldest insecurity, which is that I really, truly believe in my heart of hearts that I'm not worth a dime. So when stuff like that happens, it goes straight into that little demon and says, “I told you so.” That's also where my take on the parting of ways came from, I think. What I remember about it was you saying “I do want to date you, but not as much as I think you want to date me.” Which was honest and a perfectly acceptable thing to say. My little ears heard, “I'm just not that into you, baby,” and then my demon said to me, “you're not worth a dime, sweetheart.” You were also another in a long string of guys who said, “It's just that I haven't dealt with my ex yet,” which is also a totally honest and valid thing to say- but when I heard it again for the millionth time, I was like, “Ok, universe, I get it, I'm a rebound girl and I'm not worth the real thing, thanks for the heads up.”
Note you didn't tell me I was a rebound girl, and you didn't tell me I wasn't worth a dime, it's what I told myself. It's all me, baby.
I've just painted myself as a complete mess. I don't think I'm a complete and total mess only because I know that I do that, which is huge. I haven't retrained myself to think differently yet. That's the next big step. My dad's death is really catalyzing it. Every time I start to do it, I think, “Mela, you're breaking his heart. He's with you all the time now, and you're breaking his heart.” And I think about my niece, and how if she ever thought the same thing about herself, it would just slay me- I think that's how my parents must feel about me.
So that's why the cavalier tone hit me in my Achilles Heel.
This is a heavy e-mail and I know you don't like to do this shit over e-mail. I also don't want to be one of the many women who are up in your grill right now about this and that, however, I suppose I am now, so that's that. I'd also understand if you wanted to run screaming after reading all this.
From: Egg on my face
Sent: Wednesday, August 09, 2006 2:42 PM
To: Melanie Boyer
Subject: RE: grrr
nope, not run screaming. It's cool.
not-not-worth a dime. rather, very special, too special to f'up when not ready for what you wanted. Done out of respect, not disregard
From: Melanie Boyer
Sent: Wednesday, August 09, 2006 4:38 PM
To: Egg on your face
XOXO, baby.
It's About Damn Time
A Texas school district is banning cleavage. Well, it's about damn time somebody did something about that shit. All y'all little Delilahs have been flinging that shit around like it's free for years. If you're not offering it up for storage, we don't want to see that shit anymore.
Don't Get It
Why do boys always stare at my mouth?
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Do You Know Where Your Sanity Is?
This is an odd one to put down on paper. It's still coiling around and around in my brain, trying to find an all-inclusive, peace-granting theory. But it's still coiling, so what I'm going to do is keep typing, and we will scavenge for the pearl of wisdom that will explain it all.
Deal?
Deal.
Actually, let me recant that deal. There are too many people in the world just salivating to tell the rest of the world they are insecure and full of “issues,” and then tar and feather us with street-corner-self-help-psychological bullshit. Merci bien en avance, but worry about your own sanity. Quick, turn around, it's escaping.
But let's get to the story, shall we?
Were this to be written down by the more flippant version of me, it would start out something like this:
“Well doesn't that just feel like a pile of shit being dumped down your neck?”
But it seems to be being written by the more brooding version of me, so we have begun differently and will try to continue with a dusting of flippancy, so as to not be too serious. Mother Mary knows there's too much serious in the world.
He and I dated for about five minutes almost a year ago. Whoopee-dee. Not a big deal.
He's just told me that during that first week of the five minutes we dated, I was the second girl to hit her back for him. Whoopee-dee. Also not a big deal. The first girl happened before he and I even met.
But damn if that doesn't feel like a load of ass. I could have lived my whole life without knowing that.
My immediate response was self-righteous indignation, in a who-does-this- muthafucka-think-he-is? kind of way. That transformed very quickly into sadness, in a girl-you-know-better-you- can't-trust-any-of-those- damn-fools kind of way. A little deeper memory diving recovered the fact the he was actually the second man for me during that same week. I was seeing somebody at time. I could tell you it was a casual thing, and that we were at the tail end of it anyway, but that would be in an attempt to make me look like the angel and him look like the villain, so let's skip all that.
Bottom line: I was not betrayed and my trust was not broken, so why the long face, little girl? I'm fairly positive he doesn't have a long face because of his own sloppy-second status, so why the long face?
Here comes the “issues” part. Street-corner psychologists, be sure to take your downers, we wouldn't want you to get too excited. Oh look, there goes your sanity.
It's Insecurity Demon #1 responding to the tone in his voice. He is very smug about the whole thing, quite pleased with himself and the number of women he has coaxed (willingly, I'm sure) out of their pants. It's the smug-a-liciousness that reminds me I was just a number on the roster, which is valued for it volume.
I had been so convinced that he was quite taken with me. How he said, “I'm powerfully attracted to you,” and how he dipped me and kissed me in the middle of the sidewalk, that all convinced me that clearly, he was quite taken with me. He detonated me when he said, “[My best friend] said this would happen. I told him I liked the single life, and he was like, ‘You'll meet someone you really dig like next week, just because you said that.'” I just loved every minute of that.
Oooh, that was a sneaky paragraph. I've just painted him to be the Big Bad Wolf devouring my Little Red Riding Hood.
Bottom Line: I thought I was oh, so special. How I let myself believe that he was really digging me; it was just precious. Girl, get it together, them's the signature moves of a playa.
Let's be fair and transparent, he did no wrong by bedding two women in the same week. He is not evil for patting himself on the back for it. This is all me, this is Insecurity Demon #1 responding to the smug-a-licious tone. He is so pleased with himself, and I am part of the net total upon which he is beaming. That feels a little bit like shit when you had so willingly convinced yourself that you, you my dear, were different from the rest. It's a far way to fall when you realize you were just cannon fodder.
Them's the breaks, kid. There's nothing new about this story, it's been told a million times by a million other girls for the last million years, I'm sure.
There you go, have you heyday, romp all over me and my “issues.” The truth of it all is that I liked a boy who didn't like me back, and that always sucks a little bit, no matter what the underlying cause, reason, or “issue.”
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Can This Thing Go Any Louder?
You have not never rocked out like this before.
Check it: The iBuzz.
You don't want to sit next to anyone with an iPod anymore, do you?
Monday, August 07, 2006
Pretty
Tell me I'm pretty and I'll do anything. It's that easy. Tell me I'm pretty and I'm yours on a platter. A paper plate, even. I really don't require a platter.
“Pretty” knocks me out more than “beautiful,” “hot,” “sexy,” or any other flattering word a man can muster. Pretty is so simple, so basic. It lacks the seduction of words like “hot” and “sexy” and the extravagance of “beautiful.” It's the absence of the seduction and extravagance that make it seem so honest. “Hot,” “sexy,” and “beautiful” are loaded with agendas—“pretty” is innocent. “Pretty” is a little boy staring at his feet and blushing and trying to find something to do with his hands. “Pretty” is vulnerable.
“Pretty” stops my breath and makes me stutter. It makes me blush and transfix my stare on the anything else but him. He thinks I'm pretty. I'll stare at a wall for as long as possible, so I can imprint that feeling on my psyche. He thinks I'm pretty.
“Pretty” is everything I thought I wasn't. That is, of course, probably why the adult version of me responds to it like kryptonite. It's also possible that it's not that complicated. Maybe every girl likes to hear she's pretty. All psychoanalysis aside, it's possible that it's just that simple.
“Pretty” is really all I need to hear. I'm easy, I know. We've all got our kryptonite; that's mine. “Pretty.” Just “pretty.”
Friday, August 04, 2006
The Nonsense Dog
Behold, the nonsense dog.
Bless her little tampon-eating heart.
So far, she has hooked me up with a hot vet and she snaked me a cutie at Doggie Happy Hour last week. I have no confirmation yet that Hot Vet and Doggie Happy Hour Cutie are not axe murderers, so we will wait before we deem her an asset.
Thursday, August 03, 2006
He's My Cousin
The dog's owner was not too impressed with the whole “He's my cousin” move. One might go so far as to say he was a bit irritated.
“What? Couldn't you just say that we're friends?”
I tried to explain to him that friends don't usually rush friends’ dogs to the Doggie ER and generally freak out over the animal's well-being. Those activities are reserved for girlfriends. He still didn't get it. He's usually not so slow on the uptake. He's also one of those over-30-mature men, so it could be a hazard of the age. He seems to have let his playa genes wither, and replaced them with nurturing nerve endings that think friends don't let friends’ dogs die. Which is not to say I would let any of my friends’ dogs die. I would just save them under the guise that I'm a family member.
And really, what does he care if Hot Vet thinks he's my cousin? Where's the harm? There's no harm there. What's a new cousin here and there? Everybody loves cousins. This is what happens when a man stops thinking like a playa. He starts caring if you tell lies about him to further your own agenda.
Before anybody starts flinging shit, let me backpedal and say I'm not advocating for playas here and I'm not a playa myself. I've tried to make various plays in one form or another at various times in my life and foul out every time. I'm a complete failure as a playa, for the same reasons I would be a failure as a CIA agent. I just can't keep shit to myself. I'm always like, “Hey, let me be honest with you, I totally dig you,” after about 24 hours or so, in the same way I would be like, “Hey, I really feel like I have a bond with you, let me tell you about these top-secret maneuvers the U.S. government is about to pull down,” to some random person sitting next to me on a plane.
Complete failure. Later, when the entire world is in shambles as a result of my own handiwork, I would be like, “What! How could he? We really had a connection!” and then I would swear to never fall for that shit again. But it wouldn't matter because the world would be in shambles, and that's when I would need to start seeking out a ninja-boyfriend, or become a ninja myself, which is totally out of the question, because I bet they make you do sit-ups in Ninja School.
So no, no, there's no playa advocacy going on here. But let's be real here, the dog owner has clearly stopped thinking like one, and as a result, he's freed himself from the paranoia that comes along with playa-dom. When you're not constantly worrying about outsmarting your opponent, you forget that you need to cover all your vulnerable spots and stay at least one move ahead of everyone else. You lose the paranoia that is part of being, or being exposed to, a playa.
A playa can make a girl go from relatively normal to psycho-bitch-Glenn-Close crazy at the speed of sound. Mother Mary forbid that any man, even the bus driver, do so much as say good morning to her after a playa's had his hands on her:
Good morning? She thinks. Now what the hell is that supposed to mean? Oh hell nah, he will not pull this shit over on me, I am not going to fall for that shit. Like hell if I'm going to say good morning back, that'll teach him. He'll be begging for me to say good morning tomorrow.
Bless his little soul; all he did was say good morning. He had no idea he just tripped the alarm.
The playa is never safe, not even as a mere friend. One look into his little world and you're ruined. Not only will you start ignoring the bus driver, you'll start wearing a helmet during the bus ride—because that is when you know the truth. When a playa is your friend, and you peek into his little head, you know—you've got no idea what you're dealing with here.
You know that if you guess he's dating another girl while simultaneously dating you, you've grossly underestimated his harem. You know that when he doesn't e-mail you back, it's because he's tending to the rest of the flock. You know that when you are spending the evening flipping out because he hasn't called, he's spending the evening in bed with someone else.
Arguably, it is better to never befriend a playa—the paranoia will ruin you. We say we are beyond these things—oh yes, we are tougher than this, we are more mature than this, we are too secure for these little games—but it is amazing how all that resolve melts when all you really want is his attention. Isn't it?
Really, I've Already Got Plans
“I've been too fucking busy, and vice versa.”—Dorothy Parker
A Brazen Girl's Lament
I sent Hot Vet a thank-you note with my number in it.
I sent Hot Vet a thank-you note with my number in it.
For shit's sake, I sent Hot Vet a thank-you note with my number in it.
Why did I do that? What was I thinking?
What the hell is wrong with me?
You don't have to answer that.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Nonsense
The dog seems to be passing all the nonsense, thank Jesus. A girl cannot mourn the loss of her G-string and her cousin's dog all in one week.
He's not really my cousin, but I think we covered that.
That is, of course, what Hot Vet thinks, and that idea will be reinforced when he receives the thoroughly unprofessional thank-you note I mailed to him today. It is complete with my phone number at the bottom. One would not go so far as to call this thank-you note “stealth.” No, no, this hit is not going down in stealth mode. I am full-on hustling a little ass with zero cover.
He's a vet, though, so arguably, he could be a little more than an ass-hustle. He has an education and a stable income, and those are always good starting points. I've got the former covered, but fall seriously short on the latter. But I find I make up for that with charm and personality.
His value as a vet is, however, questionable. A girl has to ask herself, does he pass the War of the Worlds test? While his doctoring skills would no doubt come in handy when the electrical squid and their bloody veins start fucking shit up, one has to wonder, wouldn't I be better off with a ninja?
In light of this, a girl needs to keep her wits about her. What do I really need? she may ask herself. What sorts of skills would really complement mine, what is it exactly that would enrich my life and serve me during Armageddon? “Ninja” seems to fit all of those scenarios. “Vet” seems to fall short in the Armageddon category. Hence, one has to really analyze things: What is the risk that the electrical squid are really coming? I suppose the answer depends on how much The X-Files one watches. But really, what sorts of practical skills does a girl need in her mate?
I have an aunt who lives in Wyoming. She lives on land. I explained that to someone once and they said, “As opposed to what, water?” I thought it was clear the first time, but I said, “No, she lives on land, meaning acres.” It seems like everyone in Wyoming lives on land. There aren't too many people in Wyoming, so there's enough to go around. No need to build houses on top of each other. She breeds dogs on her land and lets other people's horses graze—it's the best way to mow the lawn, she said. There are always between two and five dogs at her place, and a few feral cats that keep the mice under control. But it's the dogs that mean the most. It's just her and her dogs, and she likes it that way.
She wrote me an e-mail a few years back, explaining exactly what skills she needed in a man at the moment:
It was approaching on the winter months, she said, and the ground was going to freeze. Her favorite dog, her very best friend, needed to be put down. He was about 17 at the time. He wasn't going to make it through another Wyoming winter, and he wasn't feeling very well in his old age. So she started to make the preparations to put him down. There would be the vet, hopefully someone who could come to the house and do it, so she wouldn't have to move the dog back to her house. He would be buried in the yard.
Which is where the Wyoming winter became a problem. She had to dig a grave before the ground froze. She needed to go out into the yard and start digging.
“So that's what I need in a man right now,” she said. “Someone to help me dig a grave for my dog.”
It's simple when you remove the War of the Worlds from the equation. As simple as someone to help you dig a grave for your dog. It's the simple things that seem to be the most heartbreaking. Someone to help you dig a grave for your dog, someone to pick you up from the airport, someone to help you with the laundry. Someone to just be your companion, and help you out with the day-to-day things. Someone who will worry about your sick dog when you are out of town. It's the small things.
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
G-String Fatality Factor
It didn't seem like a big deal. I mean, what is so lethal about a G-string? You just have to adopt the Zen approach to lingerie and accept that the G-string belongs there. You can't fight it. Never fight it.
But I've never eaten a G-string. That's the key difference. I've never eaten a G-string, so I don't fully understand their lethal characteristics.
“You need to take your dog to an emergency center,” the vet said. “Since she ate it on Saturday, they may need to cut her open.”
Jesus Mother Lord on the Cross, the dog is going to die. It's not even my dog. I'm just dog-sitting. What if the dog dies on my watch? What the hell am I supposed to tell her rightful owner? How am I supposed to explain the real problem? Because it's not the G-string that could kill her, for God's sake, nobody ever died from a G-string. It's that other business she ate. Jesus Mother Lord, help me.
The dog busted into the trash and ate my tampons. Why did she do that? Why did she have to do that to me? Now they are expanding in her tummy, and she could die from intestinal tampon blockage. It was never the G-string; that was just a front.
“She needs immediate attention; you'll need to take her in as soon as possible.” Holy shit. I leapt gazelle-like about the office in my four-inch heels looking for my boss. She was eating lunch. Yes, of course she was eating lunch. Why did she have to be eating lunch? Why did I have to explain this to her while she's eating lunch? Because this is my life. That's why.
“Oh, gross,” she said. “Go, go, go, take care of the dog.”
I cabbed it back to the apartment, just in case the dog ruptured from tampon disease. I busted through the door like Kramer. “Puppy!” I said. “Remain calm! Do not freak out about this! Repeat, do not freak out!” She perked her ears and looked at her leash. She looked back at me and wagged her tail. “OK, yes, we are going outside. We are actually going in the car.” She then had a complete spaz. She doesn't love anything more than she loves the car. She usually lasts about five minutes before she climbs in my lap and co-pilots the car with me. She won't sit anywhere else. F the passenger seat. She has to sit with the driver.
“Well, what do we have here?” asked the Triage Nurse. Holy Lord, now I have to explain this again. I lowered my voice and spilled the story. She leaned over the counter and looked at the dog. “Honey, what did you eat that for?” she asked.
OK, that's what I've been asking this whole time.
The dog responded by sitting up and begging for a treat. “I think we've had enough treats, don't you, little one?” Those were my feelings on the situation, anyway.
“Step in here and the vet will be in with you in a minute.”
Puppy and I sat on the floor together because she wanted to play and I wanted to make sure she didn't die. It was a good way to handle the situation; it made both of us happy.
“Hello there.” The vet offered me his hand so I could stand up. I looked up to take it. Goddammit, he was a babe. Of course he was a babe. Of course. Jesus Lord, why did you have to make him a babe? Oh that's right, because this is my life.
“So someone ate some nonsense, did they?” he asked. Thank you Lord for letting him use the word “nonsense.” I can say anything in front of anybody—I can say penis, vagina, clitoris, orgasm, whatever, in front of huge crowds of people, and have, for that matter, but I can't say tampon in front of a hot vet. No, no. That is where I draw the line.
“Let's get some X-rays of you, little one,” he said. “Did she eat anything else I should know about?”
Lord, I take back my previous prayer of thanks for the word “nonsense.”
I paused. Pause, pause, pause. Awkward pause.
“She ate my G-string.”
“OK, well, on that note, why don't we take some pictures of your tummy, little one?”
That's the best goddamn idea anyone's ever had.
“And just so you know,” said the hot vet, “This is not the worst thing we have seen. Dogs have eaten much worse, much stranger things than this.”
Thank you, Lord, I rescind my rescind-tion of the prayer of thanks for “nonsense.”
I sat in the waiting room with the other sick-doggie owners. All middle-aged women with 300-year-old dogs that suffered from at least 12 different fatal diseases and had to have surgery on a regular basis. OK, I love dogs and everything, but at some point you have to draw the line. When a dog gets to have Lasiks and I don't, there's a problem.
The Hot Vet returned with the verdict. “She looks like she's going to be OK,” he said. Thank you, Lord. Thank you a million times for “nonsense” and resilient dogs that do not die from tampon disease.
“OK, well her owner will be back in a few days, so he'll be relieved.” Strike out. Do not tell Hot Vet that the dog's owner is a “he.” Only girlfriends dog-sit and take dogs to the Doggie ER. Except in this case. We're just friends. We never even see each other. We just leave the keys for each other at the front desk when we do the dog handoff.
“He's my cousin,” I said. “He'll kill me if I kill the dog. You know how it is. Family.” It was a completely obvious recovery attempt, and totally unnecessary, because what was he going to do, ask me out right there in the Doggie ER? Desperate measures, desperate measures.
“There's still a chance the residual could block her intestine,” said the Hot Vet. “So keep an eye on her for the next five days.” That was clearly a veiled attempt to ask me out. “But she looks like she'll be fine.”
Thank you, Lord. You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. Thank you for the nonsense and the resilient dog and I will never, never wear a G-string again.
That's a lie.
Seem Contrived
Spurred on by jealousy, I broke down and put my online profile back up on Friday.
After a five-month hiatus, the first e-mail I received went like this:
Subject: Are you for real?
Seem contrived
For shit's sake. Did he really just waste an entire credit to be an asshole, or is that him running game? This shit is why the profile came down in the first place.
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