STOP THE INSANITY!!!

I am seriously thisclose to cutting off all ties with men who are not related to me by blood. Every time I turn around lately I find another dexter with a boner in my face giving me suggestions on what to do with it. How about NOTHING, stumpy? Can't a girl ever just go out and have fun without alcohol clouding your judgment to the point where you think it's somehow okay to sexually harass me?

The worse offenders aren't even strangers, they are my own friends. If I can't do my own thing without interference from my own kind, what can I do? I surround myself with man friends not only because they are usually fun and cool, but also because they serve the dual purpose of cock-blocking would-be admirers who have both too much alcohol in their blood and too much misplaced confidence in their pick up abilities. Guys are wonderful about running interference when their lady friends are getting hit on by some weird looking schmuck. All it takes is an arm slung casually around my shoulder, and the doofus usually gets the hint and stumbles off.

But lately, the proverbial arm around the shoulder is remaining there, stroking my back through my shirt. I generally tend to think nothing of it, since said arm belongs to a friend and clearly, since he just chased off some other weiner, he understands that I am not looking for ANY weiner, even his... right? Right!? Apparently not. Apparently I am giving mixed signals, so maybe it's my fault. From what I can tell, my mixed signals including dancing with a girlfriend and having fun (nothing overtly sexy... I wasn't even the one who used the stripper pole!), laughing at jokes that are funny, accepting random hugs from said group of guy friends, and complaining to a certain guy friend about how I resent being treated like a sex object... only to have him turn around and craftily proposition me. Hello... where were you during that conversation where I poured my heart out to you about how situations like this make me feel bad? Were you just watching my tits move as I talked, and waiting for me to shut up?

Here's some free hints about me that I think pertain to all women. You're welcome in advance. 1) Just because we put out an easy going vibe doesn't mean we are actually easy 2) Even if we slept with you in the past, you don't have cart blanche when it comes to our vagina 3) The best trick to getting into our pants is to pay attention when we talk! You WILL be quizzed later 4) If I haven't slept with you in the past year, chances are slim to none that I will ever sleep with you again 5) If you're trying to bang me, DON'T talk about how hot my friend is. Do you want me or her? Did the threesome thing, it was unimpressive, and not happening ever again 6) If you can't even be bothered to learn the most rudimentary things about me (like, my last name) your chances of scoring are minuscule. The chances of me kicking you in the nuts for being a pig, however, are much higher.

Most of the men I am bitching about here are actually pretty good guys most of the time. But lately this sort of treatment has gotten out of control. I did not name names because I don't want to embarrass anyone (besides, they know who they are), but the fact that I had to make this post in the first place, as a last resort to get my point across, is disheartening. If this post offends the people it is about, that's too damn bad. Think of how offended I was when you were being inappropriate with me. If this post is a wake up call, and they start treating me like the friend I supposedly am, instead of like a hole with a person attached to it, then I accomplished what I set out to do. If, however, this post makes me lose said men as friends, then that is a sad thing, but if that is the case, than clearly they are not the people I thought they were, and they dont fucking deserve my friendship anyway.

On love, in sadness

For the past few days, I have been a complete jumble of emotions. I am super excited about the new opportunity that awaits Brenden, but anxious about moving away from the friends and places I have known for most of my life. I can't wait to pursue a job where I will have a bigger clientele, but mourn the loss of the almost sorority-like sisterhood that I have established with some of my current co-workers, not to mention the hard work I put into gaining and maintaining my current regulars. Thinking about the changes that await me leaves me both restless and exhausted. Even writing this blog feels conflicting. I want to get everything out, but my thoughts aren't coming out as elegantly as I know I am capable of; right now it just feels like a scattered narrative of a schizophrenic.

I'm frustrated at the uncertainty of things like where exactly I will live and work, but pleased that the one important thing is down lock, stock and barrel. Part of me is excited to meet new friends, especially new men, since I have seemingly exhausted the choices in this town. But then another part of me realizes that a bigger sea just means there will be more sharks. As if I haven't been bitten enough already. Also, when will I have TIME to meet said men? And do I really want another relationship, or just someone to fall back on when it's convenient for me?

I hate to admit it, but I am afraid of the cities. I barely know anyone there. I have no idea how to get around. I don't know which bars are cool and which ones suck, what kinds of activities there will be for Bren and me to enjoy together, what little hole-in-the-wall diners are good, and whether I have to worry about 13 year old "thugs" vandalizing my car because they are bored. I will be living uncomfortably close to my ex... as if moving its self wasn't bad enough! Now I have to worry about the awkwardness of chance encounters, debating whether to acknowledge him or ignore him, and praying that my ass looks better than when he saw it on a regular basis. God forbid his mother finds out... she is sold on the idea of us being soul mates, when in reality things couldn't have turned out any worse.


I have to go. There is no other choice. I've done all there is to do here, and I would be a bad mother if I let this opportunity slip past him. This is the best thing I could do for him. For once this can't be about me.

dreams

When I awoke in the jail cell, I was dotted with bruises and still had the thick taste of desert air in my throat. On wobbly legs I pulled myself upright and wavered, the lightheaded feeling nearly knocking me out flat again. I coughed and watched as golden flecks of sand ejaculated from my mouth and fluttered to the floor, taking on the magical quality of falling stars. A strange though not unfamiliar sensation was coming over me again. I braced myself against it and tried to figure out how I ended up here.

        The last thing I remember was driving through the desert, drag racing my car against two male strangers in a red muscle car that kept laughing and shooting cute smiles my way. In my junky little Cutlass Supreme, I struggled to keep up and got the distinct impression that the men in the penis mobile were screwing with me, that if they so chose to they could gun it and leave me behind in a cloud of dust and embarrassment. Why the charade? Was it because I looked especially cute in my tank top and new sunglasses? Or was it simply the fact that there was nothing else to do out here in the middle of nowhere?

        After that things got foggy. I had flashes of memory that involve the police chasing after us, sirens blaring as if the end of the world was near. I believe that I bit my arresting officer. I seem to remember the red car speeding out of my peripherals as I was being handcuffed and tossed into the back of the squad car, hoping to God that the beautiful strangers would get away.

        I don't know how long I was in lockdown until my father showed up. He towered over me, tall as a giant, and for the first time I looked past his mustachioed face and thinning hair, and saw the mixture of disappointment, sadness and fear in his eyes that was magnified even more by his cokebottle glasses. He was quite the wild man himself back in his day; I assumed something like this would make us chuckle together over our after-dinner beers. But instead he just looked pained and told me it was time to go home.

        As he was signing me out at the front desk, I stared hard at the police officer who was blatantly lying to my dad. His version of events involved me spinning donuts in the sandbar at a local golf course. I snickered when he said that when they came upon me I was pushing a red toy car across my dashboard while yelling insults at it. Where did he come up with that? Instead of being amused my dad flushed and stammered something about me being off my medication. I don't believe it. I'm surrounded by liars.

        I get outside and climb into the backseat of my dad's car, pleased to find that my daughter is strapped into her car seat where I had left her earlier that day. I coo and pat her hand as my dad starts up the engine and begins to drive, shooting me worried glances in the rearview mirror as we go. Within twenty minutes we have pulled up in front of my boyfriend's apartment, and I lean back in my seat and sigh.

        "I already talked to Mark and he agreed to watch you while your mother and I are at work. So don't give him any crap."

        I laugh and quickly unfasten baby Katie from her plastic confinement and jump out of the car before my father can object. Once I'm safe on the sidewalk I turn back and wave gaily, than stick out my tongue and make horrible faces once he pulls away. Who does he think he is? I am a grown woman who just had the adventure of her life; where's the admiration? As I head into Mark's apartment I drop Katie once but she barely cries; she's such a good girl.

        Mark opens the door and asks why I am carrying a doll, but I cut him off and start to kiss him so fiercely I feel that my lips will fall off. I am not in the mood the least bit, but I've played this game before. The only good warden is a placated one. After we're finished he falls asleep like I hoped he would, and I slip out of bed, bundle up Katie and head off into wherever the night will carry us.

        Once I get outside I am stunned to see my car out front. So much for being impounded! I hop in, toss Katie into the back, stick in my favorite CD and turn the key, which was thoughtfully left in the ignition. As I turn onto the highway I start to hear things; my Pink Floyd is sounding suspiciously like some cheesy country tune. I turn off the offending music and continue to sing along right where I left off, at the top of my lungs. I fiddle with the perfume in the cup holder and spray until the whole car smells like flowers. I don't know what else to do.

        Then it appears before me, like an oasis. A Wal-Mart! What a great idea. I needed to do some shopping anyway. I find a parking place, grab Katie and walk through the automatic doors, which snap shut after me so fast I can hear the woman behind me groan as she is squished to death. I place Katie in the cart and begin my slow decent down the long, hypnotic isles.

        For the first time in days, everything makes sense and seems to be at peace. People rush past me in slow motion, dragging their brats behind them. The fluorescent lights hum like a lullaby. The frozen foods isle is pleasantly cold and the individual compartments seem to breathe in and out as I walk past them. I'm about to reach in one and grab some much-needed ice cream, when I notice a strange glow before me and turn to its source.

        It's a family; a grandmother, her daughter and son-in-law, and the grandson. The boy is about ten and playing with a laser pen. I look past him and notice that the older people are taking up the entire isle. How rude! I approach slowly, hoping they will notice me and move before I have to say anything. They don't. I stand and stare for a moment, and when the old woman turns to look at me, before I can stop myself, I burst out with a single word.

        "BITCH!"

        The family turns and gasps. The mother pulls her little boy closer like I am a rabid dog that is ready to attack.

        "Do you mind moving your crap out of my way? I have things to do, lady. And standing here staring at your fat ass isn't one of them!"

        The old woman, who doesn't look the least bit surprised, opens the brittle pink hole in her face and croaks "Go around."

        I pause. A stranger has never challenged me before. My family has, and I was able to take them down easily. Who does this lady think she is? What makes her think that she will win? I feel the confusion abating, replacing itself with rage. My body goes loose and rubbery. I want to hit her, but I can't. What's a girl to do?

        I run. I had to get out of there. I head back into the parking lot and start to sob when I can't find my car. It's just plain not there. I cover every inch of the parking lot and turn up empty handed. I sit down on the curb and realize that Katie is no longer with me. Better so. She would have probably just ended up getting hurt anyway.

        Suddenly my parents show up, as if by magic. They hustle me into their car and hand me tissues as I look out the window and cry. My mom explains that I am headed back to the hospital until they can get me under control. I don't say a word but feel more alone than ever before. When we arrive tall, burly Gus is waiting for me, and this time I don't give him any trouble. He leads me inside like a prisoner.

        Once I'm back in my old room the fear sets in, and I start to struggle. Escape is my only hope. Gus and two nurses hold me down while a third jabs a needle into my rear. I gradually relax and let myself drift off peacefully. I return to the place where disembodied hands and feet are encased inside shiny bubbles. A place where clocks run backwards and a sea of eyeballs burst spontaneously at random intervals. Where deserts end in cliffs and are inhabited by little old ladies who may have not existed in the first place.  A place that is much more interesting than reality.

Relationship Limbo

Spring is finally here again, and I realize that I have come full circle from my haphazard relationship with the former love of my life. Full circle, and nothing to show for it. In the last year, I have done it all. I've had a few random booty calls (which were not that impressive, but few are). I did the actual boyfriend-girlfriend thing, which was sweet but ultimately not what I wanted. I even experimented a bit, briefly joining an existing relationship to make us a quaint little threesome. I spent a good deal of the year flirting and letting sexual tension build, than bailing before bothering to cash in on it. None of it did the trick. None of it made me feel like I was a part of something, or that I belonged. Sure, there were times that I experienced closeness, and even fondness and affection, but never once did I feel the rightness of being with that special someone who was my other half.

Oddly enough, the times during this year when I felt the most like my old self was when I was doing things solo. A wry part of my thinks that's because I am so narcissistic that I can't love anyone more than I love myself, but that's not quite it. I have not been completely comfortable in any of the situations that I have tried out because none of those people is the person I am supposed to be with. There were times in the past that I would stay in an unsatisfactory situation rather than be alone. But not anymore. I am no longer afraid of my own company. I am happy being my own best friend. I take better care of myself, my needs, and my wants, and my goals.

Even stranger, I am no longer interested in sex. I used to equate sex with closeness, and would take that route to feel connected to someone. Now I am just fine with doing it once a month or so, then relegating my partner back to the sidelines of my life. I no longer use sex as a weapon or as bait. I will treat it as a necessary urge when it comes up, then go back to what I was doing beforehand. I will have much more time now that I am not coming up with schemes and setting boyfriend traps.

I think the most interesting thing, though, is the fact that the more I stop trying to cast my net for available men, the more they turn towards me. It almost seems to intoxicate them that I no longer want them. Guys that barely showed an interest in me before seem to be calling or texting me, or randomly showing up at the places I go. I'm not sure how long that trend will keep up, but hopefully once I've decided to give dating another go, I will still have a few options to chose from. But for right now, they should turn their attentions elsewhere. I am too busy being me.

Why being famous would suck donkey balls

In a world where reality tv shows outnumber programs with real actors, I sometimes feel that I am the only person on the planet who does not aspire to be famous. It seems like these days everyone is looking at Snooki or The Situation and thinking, why not me? It's no secret that actors have tons of cash and get to play make believe games in a make believe world, but the downsides are huge and obvious. Take the paparazzi, for example, the only people on the planet who are court sanctioned stalkers. They can engage in car chases, rifle through your garbage, and egg you into being aggressive, all in the name of snapping a picture. And anything you do to them in self-defense can get you slapped with a lawsuit, or worse.

Then there is the love-hate relationship with the public. Quick, what do you think of when you hear the names Paris Hilton, Omarosa, and Donald Trump? They're all kind of buttholes, right? The majority of the country seems to think so, and they have no qualms about telling people. How would you handle it if every time you turned around, people were belittling you? Even when you do good things, it is perceived to be nothing more than a publicity move. Basically, it's a lose-lose situation, and because of who you are, and what the world at large thinks, you are always going to have that image. And it's not like you can go incognito when the whole world knows your face.

Speaking of what makes you who you are, how do you feel about gay marriage? Or abortion? Or eating babies? Doesn't matter. Once you become famous, all your thoughts, feelings and beliefs become null and void so you don't offend the masses. Sure, you can have a broad affiliation, like working for the Democratic party during an election year, but even that is risky. You can't even dish out an occassional nugget of gossip for fear of gaining a misdemeanor change for slander. Was your co-star from your latest flick a total bitch? According to you, she was sweet as sugar and you guys are BFF's, even though you can't stand the heffer. Is the heartthrob from the new vampire movie a pole-smoking queer? Not as far as you're concerned, even if you saw his fingers up some dude's butt. Not only would that kind of talk (which EVERYONE does) put you in hot water with the subject, it may also get you blacklisted from Hollywood. And for a species that LOVES to gossip, that may be one of the hardest habits to break.

If you are anything like me, I bet you enjoy taking a leak in peace. Well, that is one luxury you will no longer be able to afford. From obsessive fans following you into the porta-a-john, to autograph hungry tourists interrupring your romantic dinner with your new boyfriend, it's all in a days work in your new famous life. You suddenly become less a person and more of a commodity. You are FAMOUS, darling. How dare you ignore your fans in favor of your children... you are famous because of US, damnit! And you will never, ever get a moments peace as long as you continue to be... you. Because you are now public property, no longer a person in your own right.

Even the upsides aren't so great. Every perk has an equal and opposite reaction of suckiness. The best example would be fame. Sure you have millions of fans, but for every website dedicated to your awesomeness, you have people that are going to hate on you out of jealousy, vindictiveness, or just plain insanity. Not to mention the stalkers that come with the territory. Is being recognized really worth the free meals at In and Out Burger when compared to having to travel with a bodyguard?

Then there is the money. Oh, what you wouldn't give to be able to have a toilet made of solid gold, and a bidet that shoots Cristal champagne up your cooter in place of water. But with great bank comes great responsibility. Not only are you expected to make charitable contributions to places that deserve it, like homeless shelters and AIDS research, but you are also going to be expected to make donations to your third cousin twice removed who will get his kneecaps busted if he doesn't pay back his gambling debts. After all, you are FAMILY, and you have so much that you wont miss the $100,000 they NEED to keep their house/get medical treatment for their hampster/buy a stripper for grandpas 90th birthday bash. No matter how much you give, there will be more people in need. It's a vicious cycle that begins and ends with your wallet.

The thing about reality stars, though, is usually they aren't getting most of the perks real celebrities are. Their pay is a small fraction, most are only known to a relatively small audience, and they have to suffer the ire of people with real talent who are indignant about having their jobs taken away by people who are willing to make an ass of themselves in front of the entire nation. So what it really boils down to is just wanting to be seen. But if everyone was on tv all the time, who would be left to watch?

New Year, New Babe

Every single year I make resolutions, with nothing but the best of intentions. But by mid-February, they are all but forgotten as I go back to my bad girl ways. This time around, things feel different. Either I am honestly ready to become a different, and better, person, or the wine I've been greedily sipping all evening has taken effect. In any event, here are the promises I will make for 2011, and hopefully I will make a better attempt to keep them, and thus improve my life. We will see how I feel after my hangover tomorrow  = )

1. Lose 30 pounds by my birthday. I feel that this is a decent, attainable number, and the fact that I have a set time period is more helpful.

2. Stop stalking my ex! Who cares whether his car is parked at his parents house, or what he changed his Facebook status to. He's my ex for a reason... he was a loser douchebag that squandered the chance he had with me, and didn't deserve me in the first place.

3. Save more money. My tips alone could make me a millionaire, if I didnt blow them on useless crap. Also, I am going to try to limit my eating out to 2 times per month... except when I am on a date, of course.

4. Do one new thing every month. Be it join yoga, start a book club, learn to snowboard, whatever. I should be doing things I want to, and meeting new people in the process.

5. Keep up on my housework. I HATE dishes, get lazy about vacuuming, and sometimes leave clean clothes in laundryt baskets/the dryer for weeks. Not cool, and not helpful in the long run.

That's it for this year. Usually I make insane list of up to or over 10 things, but 5 is a small number for my standards, and since each of the things are certainly doable, I don't think I will disappoint myself. So lets finish my wine and head to bed to start the new year without a hangover for the first time since... I don't remember when.

Hot chick turf wars

When I was a teenager, I was a pretty primo piece of ass. I'm really not bragging, just ask anyone who knew me back than. I was smoking hot. These days I'm still cute, but it's a mere shadow of my former prettiness. I'm slowly making my way towards 30, and have been forced to act like an adult since I was 17, so time and baby weight have naturally taken its toll on me. No matter. I still have pretty eyes and great hooters, and therefore rarely have to buy my own drinks at th bar. But my youth and hotness and obvious conceit caused many problems; first and foremost, all other hot girls were considered competition.

The mark of a hot, snotty girl is how many boys trail after her. It's how she gauges her worth and popularity. Even if I had no interest in a boy, I would flirt endlessly until I had convinced him how great I was, and once he started to persue me, I would turn and flee, wagging my ass temptingly to make sure he would give chase. And usually he would, even if during our courtship I would do insensetive things like avoiding his phone calls, or do outright mean crap, like flirting with his much hotter best friend. I honestly just expected boys to put up with it, because I was worth a little suffering. I tended to hang out mostly in large groups of boys, and would never let them forget my femaleness even for a second. I was worshipped. I was adored. They thought I was sweet and funny and that rainbows shot out of my ass and I farted Lucky Charms... at least they pretended to so I would make out with them. But every so often, another girl would blip onto their radar... and than it was war.

There are many classifications of hot chicks. There's the classic beauty, who makes heads turn wherever she goes. There's the smart hottie, the one that makes you fantasize about naughty librarians. There's the sexy bad girl, who smokes by age 14 and gives handjobs under the bleachers. There's the cute jock chick that could probably beat you at basketall and steal your heart at the same time. Let's not forget the pretty drama queen... you can tune out her crazy and focus on her bouncy boobies. And of course, who would forget Gothika, with her short skirts and heavy eyeliner. You'd listen to her lame, angsty poetry in the hopes she will someday let you tap that ass.

I was, of course, one of the bad girls. I don't know if this is a universal hot chick thing, but all other bad girl hotties I came across instantly disliked me, and each other. It's like we could smell the bitchiness, and it offended us. We would make an instant decision, depending on how much of a threat the other girl posed. We would either become mortal enemies and bash each other to whomever would listen, or we would pretend to become besties so we could keep tabs on each other. Either way, we would give each other a wide bearth while we were with our fans. Even among the bad girls, cat fights were rare since they exposed our claws to the possessors of Y chromosomes, and that scared them away. A good chick fight can be hot, but once you realize she is going for the jugglar, it loses its appeal pretty quickly.

But I grew up. I got played by a few guys, and that certainly put me in my place. I became a person, just like the people I had been so heartless to. It took some practice, but eventually I learned some humility, and how to compromise. And now I get to sit back and watch the new generation of hot girls duke it out, and know that while pretty is fleeting, bitchy is forever. Thank God I upgraded!