The Art of F*cking, or a Pocket Guide to Sexual Vernacular
So, the other day, I was out with two very good girlfriends, having a very nice dinner at a Vietnamese restaurant named C'om. A restaurant that I couldn't pronounce, yet simultaneously struck a phonetic chord in my head and made me think of ejaculation. Interesting.
Anyway, we're at dinner, and we're going around the table trying to brief one another on what's going on in our lives, when we begin discussing love lives. And then, without warning, one of my girlfriends said it: the dreaded phrase. The phrase to end all phrases.
"I am getting f*cked by him."
FWUMP!
Did you hear that noise? It's Webster, turning over in his grave.
Why so bothersome, you may ask? Well, obviously, what stuck out at me like a sore thumb was her passive tense. She is what? Getting f*cked
by him? She is a smart girl and I love her to death, but were we not paying attention in English class? Did we not learn about suffrage? Did our mothers burn bras solely to get more beads at Mardi Gras? Can we reference this without sounding like a piece of wood in a vice getting pounded by whatever those things are with the cross on the end that screws stuff in? (That was a joke. I swear!)
Dick f*cked Jane.Jane f*cked Dick.No one was f*cked by anyone. That's just unprofessional.Seems to me that we all could use a little crash course in grammar. So let's discuss the acceptable ways to state the above:
"He f*cked me." (transitive verb)
"I f*cked the hell out of him." (first person)
"He threw me down, bent me over, and we f*cked." (narrative sentence)
"We are f*cking." (present participle)
"We f*cked last night, and we f*cked this morning." (past tense)
"I'd like to f*ck him." (infinitive)
"He's one hot motherf*cker." (verb incorporated into pronoun)
"F*ck me." (command)
Sadly for my friend, there is no room in the list above for passive tense.
So let's move forward with the newfound knowledge that claiming that "getting f*cked by someone" is no longer (if it ever was) a valid description of a sexual situation.
Class is adjourned for today. Enjoy your recess. I'm going to f*cking sleep.
Some fireworks, a spark plug, a butt plug, and have my post titles really come to this?
Lookee here. It's 11 pm and I just got home from work 2 hours ago - long enough to heat up a Lean Cuisine Sesame Chicken (delicious for anyone living an "on-the-go" lifestyle, as I do), catch up on some phone calls, finish a memo that is due first thing tomorrow morning, and sit down to write. Good times.
This is day #18 in a row of getting home from work after 8 pm, but I am not worried. I am not worried because after I make the huge presentation on Thursday, I will have a life again. I will have a life because after spending 4 billable hours writing the Powerpoint deck, 2 hours perfecting my public speaking skills, 12 hours making follow-up phone calls for the RSVP list, 1 hour at Office Depot buying nametags, and 17 hours shitting my pants with fear that I will choke, one of two things will happen on Thursday: I will get sacked for presenting so poorly, or I will triumph and celebrate a fantastic, stress-free weekend, knowing that the burden is finally off my shoulders. I will be singing, "Happy 4th of July! Where are my fireworks, bitch?" just like Rick James.
And this weekend, in case anyone is wondering, I will be spending what may be my last weekend ever in my childhood home of 15 years. Oh yes, it's back to Ohio for some quality time with the family and friends. (Although don't tell my dad - it's a surprise visit for his birthday last weekend.) I am SO looking forward to a nice little vacation, because for as much as I love Atlanta, I am sick of being here right now. I've been here for three months straight, and a change of scenery (other than the Napoleon Dynamite poster in my cube and assorted Post-It love notes from Humpy, Jeff, and Matt on my bulletin board) will be welcome. Also, this upcoming holiday weekend is momentous because Tuesday marks my first day off since I started my new job. Woo hoo! Days off? I forgot what those feel like.
So yes, this weekend, I am looking forward to the fireworks and time with my family. I am also looking forward to spending some time with my little Ohio spark plug, Sandy. I miss Sandy like the dickens, and think that spending some quality holiday time with her will be beneficial to both of our wellbeings. Well, that, and the copious amounts of alcohol we are bound to consume in the Valley/Downtown. Well, that, and the inevitable drama that will ensue by virtue of us hanging out together again after three months of inactivity. There is always something interesting bound to arise when we're out on the town...
Now that we've covered fireworks and a spark plug, let's discuss the next thing on the agenda: butt plugs. I think it's fair to say that they're disgusting.
And finally, have my blog post titles really come to this? Yes they have. Cut me some slack - I've spent 13 hours in front of a computer today. My little bit of amusement at seeing the word "butt plug" in a blog post is almost too much for me to handle. But it's keeping me awake, and writing. I'll go with it.
Six Flags: A Breeding Ground For Socioeconomic Issues
Whew! It's been a busy weekend. Perhaps most notable about my weekend was that I went to Six Flags over Georgia yesterday for a daylong excursion with a large group of friends and co-workers. At first, I was really excited. It's been a couple of years since my last amusement park outing, and since the friends I went with last time got sick of the park after 3 rides and 4 hours, I was looking forward to going with people who actually - dare I say it - wanted to have fun and get their admissions' worth.
The park itself was great. We rode Superman (twice), Batman, Mindbender, Ninja, and a handful of other rides that were fun, but nowhere near as wonderful as any ride at Cedar Point. (You can take the girl out of Ohio, but...) We ate chicken fingers. We walked around the park. We didn't get sick, although after the rickety wooden Georgia Cyclone I was convinced that my brain had successfully been knocked out of place in my skull. Everyone was having fun. And yet I was depressed.
Yes, amusement parks have that weird effect on me. As we were walking around, I couldn't help but engage in people-watching, which is one of my favorite pasttimes. And what I saw really f*cking freaked me out. Maybe it was the fact that we were at a Six Flags, maybe it was the fact that we were in a semi-rural area of Georgia, but I have never seen that concentration of mullets, fat rolls hanging out of Chic jeans, and airbrushed unicorn t-shirts in one geographic location. I saw parents blowing cigarette smoke in their kids' faces, little kids walking around a dirty park barefoot, and a whole lot of other disgusting things that made me wonder if this is how Bush was re-elected last year. Yikes.
A Well-Deserved Break
Did you read my last post? Pathetic. I am grumpy, and while I reserve the right to change my mind, I am announcing that I am taking a week off from the blog. I'm not sure anyone cares, but life has just gotten incredibly busy, and my love life has steadied a little, so I don't have anything fun, flirty, and fabulous to report (but I did manage to make good use of alliteration just then, didn't I?).
I will definitely be back shortly; I just need some time to relax. If you want, feel free to leave any suggestions, comments, declarations of love below.
What A Miserable F*cking Week
Wiiiiiiiine. White wine. Whine. Whining.
This has to be one of the worst weeks in recent memory. Tonight was the first night I left before 8 pm (and I worked on Sunday), and I love my job - but we are f*cking busy and that makes life stressful.
My parents sold the house I grew up in last night. They are moving out in September. I cried, polished off a bottle of pinot grigio all by myself like a big girl, and passed out. I'm happy for them, but my house was the last - and only - piece of my childhood that I had left. Now my childhood will consist of some shit in a storage area and a guest room with a beach painting in a condo in Florida.
I have had no time to spend with my friends from outside of work. I haven't even had time to call them. This is embarrassing, sad, and upsetting. I haven't seen Amy and Hilla in three weeks. I think I am suffering from major withdrawal.
The Dairy Queen guy paged my cell phone tonight. By the way, who the hell does that? I'm sorry, but I'm not interested in you, not even for the free Blizzards. Please don't page me. This is not 1997, and I don't have a beeper.
I miss my friends in Chicago. I don't miss living in Chicago, but I miss my friends. I miss ImAnonymous and Roberto, who sent me a very funny sex toy thing in the mail. I miss Sanders, who doesn't know anything about my love life here. I miss Grant, who could get me to go out and get drunk any day, any time, so long as I was within a 50-mile radius of Chicago. I want to see them, but I can't find a weekend. I also can't seem to find the $250 I would need to purchase a ticket.
Okay, I feel better now. Good times.
The Pinot-Weeno Test, A Perfectly Acceptable Replacement for the First Date
I hate dating. Hate it, hate it, hate it. There is something so forced about it - like when you buy a present for someone and buy a gift box and realize that you bought the wrong size and you're trying to fit a new sweater into a box that could hold a sock. Not to mention the pressure. Who's paying? What are we doing? And can't we just get this shit out of the way and make out already? (This is, of course, assuming there is a very strong attraction to the person. If you're not sure, it's worse - the inevitable "Well, would I want to kiss him?" will pester and plague you for most of the night.)
I haven't been on a million dates, but I've been on enough to decisively say that I've really only had 3 great dates in my entire life. And I knew all three of the guys prior to the date, which probably explains it. Every other "formal" date I've had has been a bust. Trust.
Most times, the best way to really feel someone out (no pun intended), and the best way I've ever known to figure out if you really like the person and want to potentially be with them, is to rent a couple of movies (preferably action movies - they're dramatic enough to pay attention if it sucks, but usually don't have sex scenes, which could make things uncomfortable), pop open a couple bottles of pinot grigio (or pinot noir, if you're a red fan, although I prefer Beaujolais), and let it flow. If the conversation dies anytime before the first bottle, it's time to either pop open the second, or call it a night. If you've decided to hit the liquor store together for a third bottle, well then, looks like you're either getting laid, having a second date, or maybe both. If you hit the liquor store up for bottle #3 by yourself, you might have a drinking problem.
This whole concept has been coined as "Pinot-Weeno", for lack of a better term. Have some pinot, hopefully it leads to some weeno action. I think that our society should just chuck the idea of dinner and a movie (or dinner and drinks, what have you), and go for Pinot-Weeno. From now on, I am definitely going this route.
Throw Your Pheromones In The Air, And Wave Them Like You Just Don't Care
June. A month of many good things. The most important being the kick-off to hookup season. Every summer, after Memorial Day, crazy shit flies around in the air and people start hooking up left and right. I don't know if it's the odiferous sweatiness that attracts, or the fact that people are now walking around half-naked, but if your winter has been less than desirable, your summer will usually rock, in the name of getting laid...a lot. And this summer is no exception.
You gotta love the beginning of a relationship, in all its giddiness and glory. In many (if not most) cases, two strangers meet, give one another the batty eyelashes, and the games begin. There's the inevitable number exchange, the phone call game, and sexual tension so thick you can cut it with a knife and slather it with hand-churned butter. (Shit, this is making me hungry.)
I always dig the first stages of getting to know someone...maybe because it's so similar to our biological nature. It's a survival of the fittest, where notetaking and comparing is essential. If the other person in question can swim through the tests of going out with the person in public, introducing them to your group of friends (if necessary), and most importantly, determining whether or not you could stand to see them for consecutive mornings, they've made it, because all of those things are potential obstacles. But hey, if you can overcome them, you're golden. (Or pregnant, but we'll hope for the former.)
It's so exciting to see the person's name on your caller ID, or to run into them somewhere, or to work yourself up to the frenzy of the first kiss, or the first sleepover, or whatnot. Shit, I love it.
I really don't have a whole lot to say beyond this, other than that I wish everyone an ass-filled summer.
The In-Roads to Circle Jerks
I haven't ranted lately, because all has been going well in the Boy Department, but there really are a few general things I have been thinking about lately that I must get off my chest, so here is a running list of Things That Will Inevitably Ensure That You Will Go Home Alone:
Being passive-aggressive: Okay, so everyone goes out and is having a good time, and said Boy decides to take off and go to another bar, and then proceeds to call/text message you the rest of the night asking you where the hell you are and why you're not at the bar that he is at. This has never made any sense to me. Show up, or go home alone. Simple choice.
Going out in droves: This can apply to girls as well. Why, unless you're with an extremely huge group of people for a specific reason, do boys go out in groups of five or six? Frat time is over. Play foosball at home if you want to hang out with that many people of the same sex at one time, seriously. If you're looking to get a piece of action, and you go out with five other guys, it is almost mathematically proven that one of your friends will be hotter than you. Your odds decrease dramatically as the number in the group goes up, as does your approachability. Is this hard to understand? Do this, and more often than not, you will go home alone.
Boys who dance with you, and then proceed to get off on your leg: This only applies to a small percentage of the male population, but it is a small percentage too much. If attempting to climax while simply dancing with a girl at a bar is all it takes, why don't you stay home, or at least go out with a group of six guys, where you're guaranteed to go home and participate in circle jerks.
Boys who can't close the deal: You like a girl. You talk to her. You call her, or show up where she is. You obviously like her. Yet despite being given every possible in, you do not bite the bullet and ask her out. Not only do you look like a weenie, but you don't get laid. Save your breath and stay at home...alone.
I feel like all of these situations are obvious, yet I continue to come across repeat offenders. I swear I need to write a book about this shit.
I'm Famous! Well, Not Really
So I'm routinely surfing some staple websites tonight, including that of my very own employer. And then I found
this random press release, which announced (two months late, but better late than never) that I was hired. Sweet! And I thought I was temping all this time...
If you're interested in finding out more about my career history, or where the hell I am, or just even for general stalking purposes, feel free to check it out. You might have to do some guessing as to which hire I am, unless you know me, in which case this will be obvious. And if you're really such a fan, be sure to send an email through the web site letting them know what a major gem they managed to snag.
Surfing the Net From the Pot
Saturday night. Hung over. Still. From Friday.
Can someone please tell me where my tolerance, energy level, and enthusiasm went after college? I was at Waffle House with three other people last night at 5 am, and despite the consistent laughter and drunken face-stuffing, by the end of the meal we were not still kicking. We were four twentysomething people who needed to lie down and take an Advil to combat the hangover that had already set in.
On the plus side, I did manage to avoid the Clermont Lounge, aka the Fattest, Dirtiest Strip Club Known to Man (or so I've heard). So maybe this maturity thing will evolve one baby step at a time.
Anyway, my parents are in town, as I might have mentioned, and should explain for lack of posting. But it is fantastic - today, my dad came over to my place and knocked off my "Man To-Do List" one thing at a time. And one of those tasks was to set up my wireless internet, which I am proud to announce, is finally working.
Do you ever buy or set something up and wonder how you ever lived without it before? Well, this wireless internet is one such thing. Today, I have been checking Friendster, sending IMs, and writing drafts of future posts from all over the damn place, and I'm not quite sure how the hell I could have ever not have had this. Right now I'm in bed with the computer, which is not my first choice, but the ability to surf eBay as I'm laying in bed is just about as good as an average pair of biceps. Seriously.
I Was Sort Of On Hiatus, But I Did Buy A New Toy From A Tranny Redhead
All right, okay, I know that I can't fool all y'all into believing that my multiple posts in the past 24 hours should compensate for the lack of posts this past week. But what can I say? It was a long weekend, and I was busy. Over the course of the past week, I have battled a barrage of questions, concerns, and speculation. I even had a reader tell me tonight, point-blank, that my blog was "dying...dying a slow death". So fine, allow me to break down my weekend for you:
I slept...a lot. I slept at least a good 16 out of every 24 hours of each weekend day.I watched Patches O'Houlihan school it in "Dodgeball" on DVD. (again)I cleaned my apartment, in honor of parental arrival tomorrow, from top to bottom.I engaged in crack-whore activity, aka watching the first few episodes of "Alias: Season One" on DVD. I went to the Braves/Phillies game on Friday night, courtesy of free tickets from Fox SportsNet. (Thank you, advertising industry. I owe you one.)And I bought a replacement adult toy from a transsexual redhead.Yes, you heard me correctly. I was hesitant to post this story, but since I have been hit with the dramatics of my blog "dying a slow death", I thought I'd throw this out there and send an electroshock current right to your respective crotches. (And yes, I really did just say the word "crotches".)
Saturday afternoon, 4:07 pm. I had just awoken from one of my many naps and was bored, to say the least. Seemingly out of nowhere, my faithful toy, Humpty Dumpty, died. Just up and died. Frustrated and irate, I applied a little technological diagnostics and troubleshooting, and determined that the problem was overusage and old age. So I did what any self-respecting, independent woman would do, and Googled my nearest adult entertainment center. (This, by the way, made me sad. I used to have a designated toy store in Chicago, on Broadway and Diversey, but Toto, I'm not in Chicago anymore. So sad.)
So, Woman With Needs that I am, I drive myself up and down Cheshire Bridge at 5 pm on a Saturday afternoon looking for action. For those of you unfamiliar with the Cheshire Bridge Road in metro Atlanta, it's a very main road that will take you from Buckhead to Midtown, but due to lack of funds and poor urban planning, is coincidentally host to a variety of hetero and gay strip clubs, adult stores, and seedy areas built for loitering by the sketchy. All of which continues to beg my question of why they don't just have an "adult toy" section at Target, since they seem to have every other f*cking section in that store.
Anyway, I finally find a place with a big banner outside that says, "Adult Entertainment". Red flag number one: the store had an adjacent, darkened motel. Red flag number two - as I pull in, I see a fake, blonde-haired woman, with a negligee and a faux-fur jacket tightly pulled around her waist, with mascara and eyeliner smeared, emerging from one of the "hotel rooms" and walking to her Chevy Impala (no joke). I then realize that "entertainment" does not include self-gratification. I am, in fact, in front of a whorehouse. Pretty sweet.
I peel out of the parking lot as fast as possible, and drive farther up the road until I see another sketchy sign, "Uptown Novelty". There are no other cars in the parking lot. So I strategically plan - much like Ron Mexico, I am going to waltz in there with confidence, head right to my destination, get what I need, use an alias if necessary, and hopefully get out of there without being scratchy. (Ron Mexico failed at the last one, but I was going to aim high.)
I walk in, and a nice redheaded woman with a long ponytail smiles at me. I quickly glance, smile, and head straight for the goods. On my way to my destination, I took note of a giant, human-sized arm (from the elbow up) that looked like Rick Moranis accidentally blew up a giant Ken doll arm in yet another poor "Honey I Blew Up..." sequel. It was encased in plastic, with a label at the top: The Fist. "Bend me, mold me, make me yours!" Ahhhh...yet another successful marketing case study from the porn marketing execs. (And by the way, I must say that if I ever, EVER found one of those Ken arms in a friend or boyfriend's closet, you would never hear from me again. Sorry, but that's sick.
Add that to the dealbreaker list, would you?)
I pick out a comparable toy (poor selection, none of which Humpty's cousins were a part of), and make my way to the front. And once I am there, I notice that my friendly redheaded clerk also has long, painted-pink fingernails, a face full of Wet and Wild makeup, a five o'clock shadow, and a penis. Excellent. In his deep, throaty man voice, he asked if I needed him to test out the batteries. Gee, really? Please pull my new toy out of the box, maul it with your grubby Malibu Pink Lee Press Ons, and put it back in the box for me, ready to use? Could this experience possibly get any better? I politely declined, paid, and got the hell out of there.
The worst part of this story is that my replacement is nowhere near as effective or cute as Humpty Dumpty.
Slow blog death, eh?
