One Night Stand With A Pig

I'd say this wasn't one of my finer moments, but I can pretty much attach that disclaimer to damn near every incident I blog about, and this one doesn't disappoint.

So here it is:  I was nearing the end of my drinking.  I was on the down slope of a failed business manufacturing racing go-karts (yeah, that's a thing) and a long-term relationship that practically combusted.  So I was in a really good place emotionally.  I went back to bartending, and when my shifts would end, I would take my tips and donate them to neighboring bars, and in exchange those bartenders would get me drunk.  Commerce is a beautiful thing.

So there I was, at my favorite local wine bar (because wine bars are way more sophisticated than bar bars, and I liked to delude myself into thinking I was some kind of classy lady) when I stumbled into a real sick puppy.  By that I mean he had a reputation for being an animal with a voracious appetite for all matters of sin.  (Also, he was no puppy, being close to 20 years my senior).  I didn't know him well, but I didn't not know him, and that night, I had a hair up my ass to get to know him better.

Here's why:  somewhere during the course of the evening I heard he had chips (our cutesy word for ecstasy).  A quick bit of backstory about my recent breakup:  it ended in infidelity with a non-gender specific prostitute on Craigslist and a case of the Clap so, you have to understand, I was living in a purgatory of numbness.  Now add bankruptcy to the mixture.  So I jumped at the opportunity to feel - anything - and chips were all about feeling good.  Good was better than bad, and bad had been my residence for a year.  More accurately, it was as if The Nothing from The Neverending Story had devoured my spirit.  So I drank.  A lot.  And fueled by liquid destruction, I had all the justification I needed to excuse the following series of poor choices:

1) I made contact.  This was the worst move I could have made, because it was all down hill from there.  This guy had a bit of money, so one glass of wine turned into a magnum, which turn into a proposition, which turned into...

2) A cab ride to his place, where upon I decided to turn up the heat with a sexy strip tease, but my lack of coordination wouldn't allow it.  I stumbled around like a freshly born calf, barely aware of the two THUDS my silicone "chicken cutlets" made when they hit the ground after being released from my bra.

3) I proceeded to round third and head for home with this ass clown, despite the news that he "couldn't find" any chips.  Yet again, I was in a situation I was way too sober to be in, but far too drunk to get out of.  I felt claustrophobic beneath him, looking up at him as he struggled to get his rocks off, grunting like a wild boar; and just as his asthmatic thrusting was about to launch me into an anxiety attack, he collapsed into a hyperventilating heap beside me and fell asleep.  If only he had died.  But the real cherry on top of this shit-show sundae was...

4) The ride back to my car the next morning.  It was worse than any walk-of-shame I could conjure up:  he threw a helmet at me and told me to hop on the back of his motorcycle.  Great, one more fucking hog I had to ride before I could get away from this guy.  But at that point, I was so ready to get the hell out of there, I didn't care.  I didn't care that I could only find one chicken-cutlet.  I didn't care that I'd be out in the open, on full display for the world to see me with him as we rumbled into town on his unreasonably loud Harley.  I mean, I wanted to kill myself, but I didn't care.  I saw a light at the end of the tunnel, and that light was a shower and a warm bed.

Have you ever heard of incomprehensible demoralization?  Well I was becoming all too familiar with it, so I can tell you from experience, it's the shittiest place to be - way worse than "bad."  I don't recommend it.  In fact, I suggest avoiding it at all costs, and the best way to safeguard against it is to have full control over your faculties at all times.  Unless you want fodder for your own blog.  Then, hey, bottoms up.

There is a strong possibility this was my FB post the morning after the above incident. 

A Hairy Situation

Here's a little horror story for your next night around the campfire.  It's really more for the ladies (and maybe the gay guys), but is also an ode to all the supportive boyfriends who have to suffer the emotional roller coaster of a woman's bad hair day.

There is nothing on God's green earth that can jack up your psyche more than bad fucking hair, except maybe being molested or raped or neglected or any other variation of abuse  - okay, I guess there are a number of things that can mess with your head besides bad hair; but hair is definitely up there in the top ten. 

If you're lucky, you can escape the permanence of a dye job gone horribly wrong, or - worse yet - the dreaded botched haircut.  What I'm trying to say is, if your bad hair is confined to a day, thank your lucky stars.  I've recently been reacquainted with this very sense of gratitude after two humbling days of unholy hair.  If you think I'm being vapid, you're probably right, but also, fuck off.  This shit's traumatic, as I'll explain.

It was Saturday morning.  The air was calm.  There was nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to indicate that this would be a day of reproach.  I was on my way to get my hair did at this little place in the Valley, one I had been to twice before without incident.  I met my girl and (I think this it where trumpets sounded, the ground beneath me cracked open and all Hell broke loose), I said: "I wanna bump it up this time." 

Things started out normal enough, despite a subconscious premonition spurning a growing apprehension in the cockles of my being.

I'll spare you the details and just cut to the chase - THIS is what I ended up with:

My mother was quick to point out that the yellow rubber band holding my hair up was virtually undetectable against my Valley porn-star-o-rific new do.  In fact, I look like I'm either cringing at my bad dye job, or awaiting the "money shot."  And it's not just that I look like a Corn Pop, but hiding underneath this glowing monstrosity was RED.  All I needed to complete my tore up new look was a set of acrylics and a pair of ripped fish nets, and I could dust off the 'ol resume and walk into Vivid tomorrow if I wanted to.  I've got the experience…

…But that's my PLAN B, and as long as I've got a roof over my head, there's no need to drop to my knees (unless it's to pray).  You better believe I was praying this was just a nightmare, but alas, this was my reality - confirmed the second I saw my boyfriend (who, subsequently has the same size hands as I do).  He didn't have to say a word, his face said it all: You belong in a Gonzo film.  But what he actually said was, "Why don't you put a hat on, and we'll go get some dinner."  And then later, "Why don't you keep the hat on, and we'll have some sex."

Sex!?  Right.  This hair put a serious hitch in my giddy up.  I couldn't stand to look at myself, so unless we were talking doggy-style with my head down in a pillow, sex was the last thing on my radar.  My dyed hair killed my libido.  I needed to fix this, stat.

I felt divinely guided to Kazumi, a color correction Ninja in Beverly Hills, or in other words, NOT in the Valley.  Only problem was she couldn't see me until Tuesday, which meant I had to log a day at the office, which under normal circumstances wouldn't be too terrible, but I work with a Wolf pack of highly intelligent, quick-witted writers. 

So this is how Monday shook out.  My Fidel hat only made me look like one of Castro's minions for a day.  

The next day I took a "personal day" (legit, cuz I was having a freaking crisis), mustered up my pride, and walked right past Mila Kunis on my way in to the salon.  The place immediately felt pricier.

The most pleasant surprise may have been that I wasn't greeted the way Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman was greeted the second she stepped foot inside that boutique on Rodeo Drive, although I did earn a few double-takes.  As opposed to condescension, I was showered with pity.  A consummate professional, Kazumi kept her game face on while assessing my hair (she wore plastic gloves) while the front desk ran a credit check to make sure I could pay for my appointment (I looked that cheap).   Then she did a side flip out of sight before repelling down a rope from a trap door in the ceiling with a bowl of toner.  (Okay, I totally made that up, but it's how I imagine a hair Ninja would move.)

I'll admit, I was skeptical at first:

(Ugh, time for Botox again.)

But realistically, it couldn't get any worse than it was.  My only choice was to go with it.

They dyed me, dried me, and washed me three times.  Then they topped me off with a five-step treatment process, spun me around around in my chair, sprinkled me with fairy dust, and this was the end result:

P.S. Check out the size of those hands

$$$$ and a $$ parking ticket later, I could finally breathe again.  This picture doesn't even do it justice, and it's a process (I'm still a few restorative "surgeries" away from being back to normal), but more than fixing my hair, Kazumi the hair Ninja saved my sex life.  For that, I am eternally grateful.

I Have Man Hands

My body is a wonderland... of quirkiness.  For example: I have an extra rib.  True story - it's a little nubbin of a rib, a riblett, if you will - located on my right side, which, subsequently, is smaller than the left side of my body.  My right foot is smaller than my left, my left breast is larger than my right.  I have teeny, tiny little ears. (If you thought I was going to say nipples, wrong.  Those are like flap jacks.  Just kidding, they're small, too).  But seriously, I have elf-like ears.  Like I could totally be in Lord of the Rings or something.  And I have huge feet that match my ginormous man hands.

That's right - I have man hands.  Standing 5'9" is apparently no excuse for this abhorrent anomaly from which I suffer.  There is NOTHING sexy about a pair of mittens that can palm a basketball, or a couple meat paws that could literally tear someone's face off.  I became aware of this very fact the moment Jerry Seinfeld dedicated an entire episode of nothing to the topic of man hands (above).  I knew I needed to put a spin on this situation, stat, but failed to see the silver lining in this:

A "BIG BOX" of Junior Mints, for scale.

THIS is what I'm dealing with - a hand that covers a big box of Junior Mints.  For the record, this bad boy weighs in at 12 ounces, with dimensions that stand at 10.01 x 5.38 x 7.5 (inches).  If you're reading between the lines, which I'm sure you men are starting to do, it means that anything less than 7.5" long is going to look very, very small in my hands.  Did I mention the average penile length of an erect, red-blooded American male is 5.6"?  That may or may not be dead on, but… C'mon, Science!

Now do we understand the severity of my problem?  Compounding matters is my permanent Dr. Evil pinky (see above), which I broke some years back in a wicked game of drunken Dodgeball, and never participated in PT after my surgery.  So not only are my hands big, they're also ugly.  But I digress.

I know what you're thinking, "Get over yourself, Carey.  It's not all about you.  Look at the bigger picture:  We're dealing with a National epidemic of tiny proportions!"  To those of you I say: Go fuck yourselves.  A) because it's always about me, and B) there are a bajillion tiny girls in this country who can make 5.6" look HUGE.  Lacking is the quantity of men who won't feel immediately emasculated the second I take their best friend into my hand.  This all spells out a lifetime of loneliness for me.  I mean, I can only get by on my stunning charm for so long.  And believe you me, Botox isn't gonna cut it in the looks department forever.

So, I'm contemplating metacarpal surgery to remove some phalanges (no idea if that makes any sense, but I'm gonna run with it).  I think by taking away some length I can trick a cursory eye into believing I have petite and dainty hands.  I mean, it's worth a shot.  It's not like I'm reinventing the wheel or anything, people do fucked up shit to their bodies all the time: stretching their necks, binding their feet, women implant boobies, men remove ribs so they can suck their own ding-dongs… it takes all kinds.  My point is, I'm no more a weirdo than any of the other weirdos out there making doctors rich.

I realize I've completely gone off the rails with this topic.  I've over-sexualized everything, but more importantly, I don't even know my own strength!  These hands are a menace to society and small animals.  I'm like Lennie in Of Mice and Men.  I just want to tend the bunnies!  I don't mean to kill them!

It's settled.  I'm chopping them off.  The hands are coming off entirely.

Weddings: aka, Another Excuse to F**k A Stranger

My "I'm available" face.  Also why I should never be a Bridesmaid.

Generally, weddings are a shit show of prurient gestures and advances.  They're a celebration of the coming together of two unfortunate bastards punching their times cards and retiring from "the game," and somehow that act of surrender promotes an atmosphere of free-love.

Alcohol and I have always had a natural proclivity towards salacious behavior, so for me, weddings were like the Serengeti: full of tasty Gazelles ripe for my inner lioness to devour.  At least, that's how I like to recall them.  Realistically, I was probably more like a wounded Zebra (no where near as majestic or graceful as a Gazelle) in a room full of Cheetahs (or the likes of any other unfaithful animal).

Weddings are similar to Halloween in the sense that they're both comprised of parties filled with drunken sluts; the obvious difference being that at weddings the girls start out pretending to be pure as the driven snow, but at the end of the night, the line separating the two is indistinguishable.  Now, at the time, I thought I was "getting lucky" - I had the kind of track record at weddings that would put John Beckwith and Jeremy Grey to shame.

I retract that statement, because it just makes me sound like a dirty, filthy whore.  I was no where near the number of weddings they were in attendance of.  Nor was I as smooth.  (Or as fictional, for that matter).  Regardless, four particular instances come to mind, which I will share with you now:

*For the record, a "real wedding" consisted of one at which copious amounts of alcohol was consumed (on my part).  I have since attended weddings, sober, and they are a nothing more than arrogant, braggadocios snooze-festivals.  But I digress.

1)  The first wedding I attended as an adult was at a winery.  Theoretically, this would be very convenient for me.  What was inconvenient, however, was the ignorance of youth - I was 20, new to alcohol, and hadn't yet mastered the elusive "maintenance."  If there was a "line," I blew right past it.  As luck would have it, this was the Holy blissful nuptials of my parents' best friend's daughter, so mom and dad were right by my side to peel me off the ground and drive me home.  Literally.  I was so wasted by dinner my parents had to escort me out the back in an attempt to hide me (aka: their embarrassment), and take me far away from any discerning guest.  Their biggest mistake was leaving me to stand on my own while they brought the car around, because by the time they pulled up, I was making out with the gravel parking lot.

How is kissing the ground getting lucky?  Technically I wasn't unlucky.  Moreover, this incident sets a tone for future weddings to come; a) that I was drunk and b) that my parents were in attendance.  It just unravels from here.

2)  The next wedding I went to was much more "successful."  It was the ceremony of my mother's best friend's 19 year-old son, and I was inspired to act just as dumb as they apparently were for pissing away their youth.  I caught a lift with my parents and made the three hour drive to the event - a responsible move on my part because I knew I'd be imbibing in a few dozen celebratory libations.

I made it through dinner (yay!) and thank God I did, otherwise I wouldn't have seen him cuttin' a rug on the dance floor.  Not only did he have moves that would put Jerry's kids to shame, he had a British accent - a real panty dropper.  I'm painting a Monet for you, cuz from far away (and through beer goggles) all of this looked really good, but up close it was a big 'ol mess.

Ironically, it was the 19 year-old groom (sober - by default, because he wasn't old enough to drink at his own wedding - and clear headed) who handed me the red flag: "Stay away from Roger.  All he wants to do is f**k you."  First off, I eat red flags for breakfast.  Second, DING DING DING!  Thank you Captain Obvious, that's what I was going for.  Not all of us are trying to get married, you little freak.  (His bride wasn't even pregnant at the time.  They got married young cuz they were "in love."   Weirdos.)

The part where I showed real class was when I told my mom and dad that I would not be needing a ride home with them, cuz I would be accompanying my new friend.

#SaveMeFromMyself

3)  Moving right along, I found myself in Pismo Beach a few years later at a wedding I was invited to by my best friend (who later made me a bridesmaid in her own wedding. See above pic.)  She asked me to be her wing woman, and I never turn down an opportunity to be of service.  Her cousin was getting married, or something like that, and all I cared about was that it was far the hell out of town and an opportunity to hook up with someone I'd most likely never see again in my life.

A bit of back story: my high school boyfriend and I kept up a "friendly" relationship that extended into my twenties.  Now, there's really no good way to spin this, so I'm just going to say that at his behest, I may have shared a certain skill set I possess for oral copulation with a friend of his.

Fast forward to Pismo, where as fate would have it, this "friend" just happened to be a wedding guest. (To say "it's a small world" is the goddamned understatement of the century.) I felt cockblocked, to say the least.  Not to mention a little dirty.  How was I to proceed without looking like a total hooker?  The logical answer, of course, would be to hook up with him again.  Though, what a fucking bummer, cuz I was really looking for something new.  After all, variety is the spice of life.  What a waste of mileage.

4)  My favorite wedding conquest, to date, was with "Clark Kent."  That's what I called him, because he had steely eyes, dark hair and black-rimmed glasses, a muscular build beneath his suit, and also because I have no idea what his real name is.  I met him at the wedding of the brother of the bride from wedding #1, so the pressure was on for me to keep it together.  There would be NO gravel parking lot debacles this time.

By now I had a few weddings under my belt, and knew that my plus one had to be a friend who was fun, but didn't upstage me.  I wasn't interested in competing.  I needed a Best Supporting by my side, and she really pulled through.  If there was an award I could have bestowed upon her, I would have, because this bitch snuck into my bedroom the next morning as Clark and I laid in bed to CLEAN MY ROOM so he wouldn't be repulsed by my pig pen when he woke up.  Now THAT is a fucking good friend.  But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Clark had me at double windsor knot - that is to say, using his tie, he placed it around my neck and taught me how to tie one - and that's where it stayed all night, long after I lost every other article of clothing.

Of course because he was the only wedding hook-up I was interested in ever having call me again, he never did.  My karma finally caught up with me.  Sure, there would be other weddings, but they all fell short of my sordid evening with Kent.  I searched phone booths before resigning myself to the insides of bars, and found other action figures to spend time with, but never a super hero.  Booze will betray you more than men, but it took a while for me to piece that together.

Compliments of the Bride.  I'm so grateful I have friends willing to remind me of how classy I was.

Takin' One For The Team

People say I was a selfish drunk.  Aside from being a charming and charismatic group, being selfish and self-seeking is part of the disease, so I guess I could argue that I was just being true to my nature.  But I'll have you know that I spent a whole summer selflessly dating a tweaker for the benefit of my friends, and this is a big fucking deal because I detest "better" living through chemistry.

Here's how it went down: it was a particularly hot year, and we needed a boat.  What more can I say?  I possess the sort of effervescent personality that's like catnip to the druggos.  It's my blessing and my curse.

Anyway, this guy was a functioning meth addict, and by that I simply mean he also had a shanty on the Delta.  If you're not familiar with it, the Delta is a series of waterways traversing the innards of methamphetamine colonies between Sacramento and Stockton, and it's where people who enjoy wakeboarding and suffering the occassional brain-eating amoeba like to frequent.  

Delta Country

That is to say, it's about as clean as it's customers.  

Fun Fact: My friend (we'll call her "Nicky") was on her way to the Olympics in synchronized swimming before she started swimming in booze.  She still had the diving underwater part down, cuz she kept darting to the bed of the river and resurfacing with tiny white "clams," which I had to point out were actually teeth. 

The Delta is also a popular site for body disposal.

But when you're high on meth, racing through the canals in your boat, you don't notice these kinds of things.  What was impossible to ignore were my summer-love's big, black eyeballs and lock jaw.  I was on the opposite side of having fun, and summer couldn't hurry the fuck up and end fast enough.

Of course, we didn't spend all our time on the water, but I had to keep up relations when we were landlocked so we'd get the invite when it was time to go boating again.  I know what you're thinking: Why not just find someone else with a boat?  Seems like it would be easy enough, right?  Sure, but I had invested a lot of time and energy into this project, and I don't like to give up on things.  Also, at 20-something, my insides didn't exactly match my outsides.  To the layman, this means I had low self-esteem, and the only criteria a potential partner had to meet in order to date (fuck) me was simply sending a hint of interest my way.  Pathetic, I know.

Back on dry land, my special friend shared a guest-house in a rich neighborhood with a friend of his, (which further lent itself to the appearance he could keep his shit together, and maybe meth wasn't so dirty) and this friend owned a 1985 white limousine, complete with a tape-deck.  Yet another fucking nail in my coffin, as there was no way my friends were gonna let me consider ditching out early.  To add insult to injury, the only tape these guys seemed to own was Sir Mix A Lot, so at night my friends and his would all pile in the limo and drive down to one of the two local dive bars in town screaming, "My posse on Broadway" out the sunroof.  

My only hope of getting out of this relationship was being stricken down by an STD, which never happened, much to my surprise.  Surely the odds of that were in my favor.  Not a big one, but maybe a little gonorrhea or something.  That's no worse than anything I could have contracted from the Delta…  I mean, sure, like a normal person I lived in fear of HIV or an Indian Summer.  These are all things that should have bothered me, but what ate at me the most was his height: 5'7" (I'm 5'9").  And he was cut (roids?) so he just stood there looking like a gacked-out Mighty Mouse. 

Mighty Mouse

I felt dirty by association.  How much more of this could I possibly take?

When summer finally did come to a close, I felt like I had won my first marathon.  Suffering three long months was a true test of endurance, and I was a goddamned champion.  I got through it with a renewed sense of street cred and vigor, and above all else, my hoo-ha in tact.  My relationship naturally fell off with the cool breeze of fall, so I didn't have to lose face with my friends.

Years later when I got sober, I ran into him - clean, and with his pregnant wife.  It made me kind of happy for him - it's not every day a meth-head gets a happy ending.  

My 1st Gyno Visit

Speculum

I was seventeen and a late bloomer.  That is to say, I was still a virgin.  So, by today's standards, a "late bloomer."  There was really no need to visit a lady doctor up until I decided to go on a hunger strike in protest of post-pubescent weight gain and ended up with amenorrhea.  If there's anything I'm really good at, it's overshooting the mark.  So, off to the doc I went.

My first mistake was taking the advice of my mother and going to her doctor: a MAN.  Not that I have anything against male lady-doctors… I see one now.  I mean, what straight, hot-blooded American boy wouldn't wanna grow up to be elbow deep in clam juice all day long, and get paid for it!?  I get it.  But I had never been with a man before.  I had barely even kissed a guy.  Now I was on my way to have one open me up so he could stab me with his instruments… medically speaking.

My second mistake was staying for my appointment after walking into the waiting room.  It seemed this "doctor" had a thing for "themes."  Maybe he was from New Orleans or something?  I hear they like a good theme party.  I have a friend from there and she's a regular Martha Stewart when it comes to that sort of event.  But I digress.  Dr. Feelgood went in a different direction, dedicating each examining room to a male celebrity heartthrob (and a questionably straight one at that,) i.e. Tom Cruise, Richard Gere, etc.  I guess he thought that's the sort of thing that would put a woman at ease as she experienced the cold metal of a speculum.

Dead.  Sexy.

I was set up in the Patrick Swayze room.  Or maybe it was the Mel Gibson room… it's difficult to remember from the blackout I slipped into.  (The body has a miraculous way of protecting itself.)  Either way, the only Braveheart in the room that afternoon was me, as I vaguely recall laying there, looking up at a bouquet of beefcake pics that had been crudely cut from People Magazine's Sexiest Man Alive of 1985.

People Magazine

People Magazine

To add insult to injury - if that were even possible at this point - because I was still a delicate flower and my lady parts were all in-tact, the doc had a difficult time performing a standard exam, so he had to do it anally.  Hand to God, I can't make this shit up.  I think a little part of me died that day, and the seed of my affinity for butt sex was planted.  (Not really, but I sure did like to talk about butt sex years later when I was drunk at parties with my parents).

In hindsight, I don't see how any of this could have been legal, but I swear, it's all true.

Kids...

… ruin everything.

Pretty Woman

When it comes to pointing fingers, like any normal child who's seen the inside of a therapist's office, I blame my parents.  After all, the nut doesn't fall far from the tree.  (I've heard the "apple" doesn't fall far from the tree, but in my family, it's all nuts).

Example: this morning I was described as bawdy, aka: someone who is humorously indecent.  Aside from the fact that I can't disagree with this character assessment at all, in my defense it would serve my audience to know a thing or two about my mother. 

I'd love to be able to say she's a cheap, no good, down-and-dirty, tawdry hussy; and that's how I turned out to be the fast and loose kind of drunk that pens a bawdy blog… but I can't.  The fact is, that couldn't be further from the truth.  But she has made a few missteps along the way, for which I will pin everything on.  

Point in case: this is the woman who lost me when I was two years-old… at a race track.  Never mind my grandfather's horse was racing at Santa Anita that day and there's a perfectly good explanation for why I wandered off, SHE lost me.  I mean, who brings their toddler to a straight up gambling establishment in the first place, am I right!?  When they found me 45 minutes later, I was sitting on a bench in a wine shed next to a bum, which should have been a pretty good indicator of what I would later become.

This is also the same woman who, for my 5th grade birthday party, took me and my friends to see Pretty Woman: the Cinderella story of a prostitute who finds true love with her John.  Seriously, the official tagline for this film is: Who knew it was so much fun to be a hooker?

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?

And they lived happily ever after...

These were formative years, people.  I spent many an hour in various wine sheds and bars looking for my "John,"  but all I found were a bunch of Barney's.  Thanks, mom.  Thanks for nothing.   

Wet T-Shirt Contest

Agh, the wet t-shirt contest - an American tradition since the inception of Spring Break, maybe even stemming as far back as the first car wash - but, none-the-less, one that has practically become a right of passage for blossoming slooters nationwide since Joe Francis' Girls Gone Wild took the country by storm in 1997.  Coincidentally, also the year I graduated from High School.

As a traditionalist, who am I to forgo my induction into this pop culture Hall of Shame?  So when presented with the opportunity to participate in my first wet t-shirt contest, I was just drunk enough and young enough not to turn it down.  Never mind it was the opposite of springtime, and I was in some Star Wars bar in the Bay Area filled with action figures, instead of a beach polluted with half-naked, tan dudes.  Fuck it, nothing a few more shots couldn't take care of.

My wet t-shirt contest looked eerily similar to this, but this pic is courtesy of tourwa.com.au 

*Side note: nothing a few more shots can't take care of was my best thinking, like, always.  Boring party? Nothing a few more shots can't take care of!  Fight with the boyfriend?  Nothing a few more shots can't take care of!  Unplanned pregnancy?  Nothing a few more shots can't take care of!

So there I was, onstage in front of a crowd of men that left a lot to be desired and a handful of my brother's friends (the ones who stayed behind after my brother left in disgust when I took the stage), sizing up my competition and feeling pretty good about myself, until I noticed… HER.  The fucking bar had brought in a goddamn ringer - some pro (probably off Broadway in SF) - complete with her own bodyguard (pimp).  I mean… C'MON!  She had fuck-me-pumps that could spear olives and I had on Converse.  Who wears heels like that out on a Wednesday?  So, that dumb bitch won.

Fun Fact: like most contests of this nature, the show was video-taped - recorded for posterity - so that in the event I ever become famous or have children, it will be exhumed from the depths of God-knows-where for all to see.  Something to look forward to.

Emo Service Animal

There are a number of reasons I chose to go to great lengths to unearth, like a truffle pig, a head doctor on some Indian Reservation in Colorado who would diagnose me as "mentally disabled;" the main reason being I think it's ludicrous I'm forced to pay for a dog - who takes up the same amount of room as my purse - to fly on an airplane with me.  Essentially, I'm paying for the air my dog breathes, like I'm being punished for her carbon footprint.  Either way, it's bullshit, and I won't do it.

So I'm forced to take a bullet, and risk any future employer finding out the status of my mental health, or lack thereof.

At first, the pros still seem to outweigh the cons: not only do I not have to pay for my pooch to fly, she also gets to sit on my lap - and contrary to what I originally thought, turns out people don't want to sit anywhere near a dog, which works well for me because I'm not particularly fond of people.  Double also, if I ever find myself in a situation where I need to move, having a "service animal" will not preclude me from renting in a non pet-friendly complex.  I can bring her to work… Hell, I can bring her anywhere I want and people aren't "allowed" to question me.  Service papers are like my golden ticket, even though they come at the expense of my IQ.  It's not like I'm Einstein, trying to get away with some outrageous farcical claim that I'm actually closer to Forrest Gump.  I'm just a bit high strung, a little tightly wound.  Or, to the layman, sober.

But according to the Chilhowee Psychological Services, I'm riddled with anxiety, debilitating and incapacitating anxiety.  Me, certainly not my dog - my furry little Mogwai - who was smart enough to discover my strategic flaw when packing her up for one of our last flights (because I'm mentally handicapped).

May I present Exhibit A:

Notice the position where the two ends of the zippers meet - right there at the top of the backpack.  Now imagine said pack laying on the ground under the seat in front of you - where is the zipper now?  If you said perfectly positioned for a quick escape, you would be correct.

Ironically, my emotional support animal is riddled with debilitating and incapacitating anxiety.  To such an extreme degree, in fact, that upon takeoff - as if possessed by panic demons - she dug her way out the top/ front end of her carrier, and hauled ass under a few rows of seats.  I didn't realize what had happened until I heard the woman sitting behind me scream as the Gremlin ran over her feet, before darting into the aisle, running hot laps up and down the plane.

All I could do was reach above my head and hit my flight-attendant call button to claim my crazed monster, because the fasten seat-belt light was on, and I'm the kind of girl who follows the rules.
*Truth: I don't break rules (anymore).  I find ways out and around them.*

In summation, it's 100% accurate to say that I have an "anxiety" dog.  However, I'm the one emotionally supporting my animal during travel.  Do I think it's fair that I have to register a personal disability?  Of course not.  My dog's obviously the retarded one.  But I'm a tight ass who would rather suffer the embarrassment of looking like a goddamn, prissy, Paris Hilton wanna-be, LA idiot than pay for my dog to fly.

#Romance

People fall in love in different ways.  When I'm in the throes of a budding relationship, my view of the world shifts.  Around every corner, I'll see something that reminds me of him.

They sky looks a little more blue.

I recognize ceremonial sand paintings.

Signs appear… from God. 

Dessert... 

… Even holidays seem a little more joyful.

And when you find a guy that sends you a text like this...

… after your home team kicks ass in a playoff game, you know it's time to take it to the Twittersphere (aka: Mountain top) and hashtag (shout out) Romance, cuz this shit just got real. 

The Birds And The Bees

One of my mother's fondest memories of me from when I was a kid was my fifth grade "birds and the bees" assembly.  The guys went with their dads and the girls paired up with their moms and the California public school system was entrusted with the duty of effectively communicating how babies are (accidentally) made.  They did a real bang-up job - passing the buck to some "after school special" production house that made "educational videos" (read: soft core porn) about sex.

Stark silence enveloped the room after the video ended and the lights came back on.  I'm sure if a pin were to drop you'd be able to hear it, but instead everyone heard me turn to my mom and say, "I know you know how to do all that stuff, but I think I'm going to need lessons."  Adorable. 

Fast-forward to some years later when I'm disrupting the Open House at my apartment complex with screams of pure, unmitigated ecstasy during an hour of afternoon delight.  I blame the swimming pool.  Sound carries on water.

But at the time, my little fifth-grade brain couldn't comprehend what had just befallen my eyes.  So - and I'm being sincere right now - my parents thought a little follow-up tutorial with the aid of this text book would help.

Buy at Amazon!

Would help me know what, exactly?

Where Did I Come From? by Peter Mayle

Know that when a naked man in a bathtub offers you his toy ship, it means he's going to put his tiny penis in you?

"This is the closest two people can get."

Or is the real lesson here that fat people find love, too?

Regardless, I think my greatest take-away was that "this is the closest two people can get."  So, according to this book, I'm not a slut, I'm a deeply caring philanthropist.

Anyway, against my better judgement, I'm leaving all you parents with a parting gift: the Where Did I Come From movie.  Now your kids can grow up to be just like me.

Kids: The Ultimate Cock Block

This appeared in my Facebook inbox.  My comments are in (italics.)

• Conversation started Thursday
• 1/9, 2:53pm
  

  "Mr. X" 
  

  
  

  I have advice (amazed I continued reading after such strong language) and a new story for you. One day you or your partner may have kids. (Gonna go with partner. Planned Parenthood has seen fit I remain childless.) This brings up two problems: (Only two?)

  
  

  (1) 6 year-olds like to look in things, (not something I'll have to worry about after I ship the kids off to boarding school) and 

  
  

  (2) one day you will have a teenage babysitter over so you can enjoy a night out for 3-4 hours. (Please note: 30 or so minutes of bliss has yielded a max playtime of 3-4 hours, tops. Enjoy that.)

  
  

  When you realize both of these are going to happen, you will need to take the day off of work - the entire day - to go through every nook and cranny of the house where you've hidden the dildos, vibrators, plugs, ropes, leather cuffs, ball gags, and lube. (Kill yourself. But sounds like you used to have a pretty fun life.) Yes, lube. For each hiding spot you have you will find lube. So far we have found 8 bottles in 8 different locations today. (The lube informs a few things, mainly that the person you're fucking is obviously NOT a teenage babysitter.)
• 1/9, 2:55pm
  

  "Mr. X" (cont.)
  

  
  

  Moral of the story, to take 3 hours off, it will cost you:

  -$30.00 for sitter (for a cheap ass sitter)

  -$100.00 for dinner (and a cheap ass dinner)

  -$300 (varies) for having to take the day off so your child doesn't accidentally catch you "dildo-handed," (They're gonna have to learn about the birds and the bees sooner or later,) or run the risk of your sitter freaking out when she discovers some butt-plugs hidden between the couch cushions. (Ass on the couch, beads in the ass… Totally makes sense why that would be a hiding spot.)
  
  
  MY TAKEAWAY: While I appreciate the "advice," Mr. X, the only thing I think I've learned here is don't have kids. Problem solved.

Goodwill

Funny, because I've never tried to return anything to any dude in my life.  My knee-jerk reaction is to see how much money I can make off selling his remains.  Then my philanthropic side begs for attention and urges me to donate the rest to my local Goodwill, but I usually just end up feeling sorry for the homeless sap that gets strapped with wearing an extra-medium hot pink polo shirt drenched in bad karma… for example. 

I guess what I'm saying is that when it's over, it's over.  As my BFF says: 

When the past calls, send it to voicemail.  It has nothing new to say.  

If you live by this rule, you can chalk your ex up to a loss, he (or whoever) can do the same in regards to their shirts, and you can avoid blatantly hypocritical condescension from douchey ex-boyfriends. 

You're welcome.

Quittin' Time

Four years ago today I had the worst hangover of my life, physically and emotionally.  After more than a decade of rippin' and runnin', I was toast.  It was fun, then it was fun with problems, then it was just problems - if you consider passing out in your parents' living room with your dress hiked up to your waste a problem.

And you're not wearing panties.

Which your mother points out to you the next morning (aka: Thursday) in the photo she took of you… Right before showing you the video she captured of you trying to stumble your way to bed.

(Also you're 30 and still living with your parents.)

And that third bottle of wine you thought you didn't touch?  Come to find out you managed to polish that off, too.  Pretty impressive, considering you opened it in a blackout, which is nothing but unmitigated skill.

And by "you" I mean me.  So that's when I decided it was time to quit.

Naked Mini-Cake Goblin

Disclaimer: I have no prejudice towards mini-cakes.  Goblins, on the other hand, are gauche.

Mini-cakes are delicate treats for people who enjoy a sample of heaven.  You don't have to commit to an entire slice, you can have a taste.  It's dainty, and is usually accompanied by little to no outside judgement.  To be clear, I'm not talking about those bite-sized gimmick cakes popular at weddings.  I'm talking mini cake, as in smaller than a regular-sized cake, still intended for sharing, not individual consumption.  SHARING.

Mini-Cake

Mini-Cake for scale

 Mini-Cakes are a delightful birthday surprise for (hypothetically speaking) a weekend get-a-way planned by a new and well-intending boyfriend.

Goblins are what boyfriends become if they can't wait to pull their sweaty, fat bodies off yours after disappointing sex, and sit at the foot of the bed, gobbling down an entire mini cake in the nude.  Just naked, staring off into the darkness; the moisture of the cake smacking between the tongue and the roof of the mouth with every bite, begging for a glass of some type of fucking liquid to make that wretched sound stop.

© Copyright 2011 by Jenny Orosel

And you just lie there, pretending to fall asleep as quickly as possible so the Goblin doesn't try to come back for round two, all-the-while with the realization that you've made a terrible mistake.

Hypothetically speaking.

Fucking Selfies

http://www.nedmartin.org/v3/amused/the-day-einstein-feared

I think we can all agree that selfies (check out Selfies at Funerals) are fucking ridiculous.  I'd contend that social media has become a wrecking ball to common sense and proper manners, but that supposes society had any in the first place.  It's a debate within itself to suppose I ever did, anyway, so I'll stay away from a Pot/Kettle situation.  But I think it's safe to say that a rapidly evolving media platform more easily accessible than pizza delivery has fostered a heightened level of self-awareness, and has ushered in an age of shameless self-promotion.  To this, I am a guilty party, but I'm in the middle of pointing fingers right now, so we're not going to talk about me.

A couple weeks ago, I was sitting poolside at the Mondrian hotel in Miami, trying to cover my fading spray tan with a real one.  (My attempts were futile, as I'm on the whiter side of being Irish.)  So there I was, looking like Michael Jackson, when I noticed her noticing herself through the lens of her iPhone, trying to get the perfect shot.

This went on for OVER HALF AN HOUR.  Making kissie faces, posing with sunglasses, without sunglasses, pool in background, hotel in background, hair sweeping down across her face, seducing herself, cracking herself up… SO MANY CHOICES!  While on public display.  She was a one-woman show, and I had a front row seat.

Maybe I was bitter?  Jealous of her perfectly glowing skin while I sat with self-imposed Vitiligo.  Regardless, she was fucking ridiculous.  So I took a picture.  There's was no way she would notice, she was too self-involved.  And what the fuck?  I even decided to post it, because I'm a whore for anything I think will get me a few laughs, and with her sunglasses on and phone blocking the other half of her face, who would recognize her!?

Brazil.  That's who.  Fucking Brazil recognized her.  Apparently she's Patricia Bonaldi, the crowned jewel of design down there.  Even Gisele Smugface Bundchen loves her.

At first I didn't believe it.  So I did a bit of fact checking, and sure as shit, there on her Instagram page, was THE selfie.  And all I could think to myself was: really?  THIS is the shot you went with?

Patricia Bonaldi, Instagram

Whatever.  I'm not feeling sorry for, or apologizing to a chick that got over 14,000 "likes" for this.

That Einstein was a real smarty pants.

Also, I'm an asshole.

2014

Photo by Yemista.com

January 1, 2014

Hump day.

Bla bla bla bla bla.  Rose parade.  Bla bla bla.  Football.  Bla bla bla bla.  Eating.  Bla bla bla bla bla bla bla bla.  Resolution to diet will start tomorrow, because these Bowl games deserve nachos.  Blabitty bla bla.  No one is reading this right now anyway.

But on the off chance someone is, here's an anecdote:

My brother works at a Super Market in seafood. He brings a level of expertise and working knowledge of fishy things from his personal life.  This is to say, his experiences are of benefit to the customer.  So when John Doe from the meat dept. inquired as to whether or not seafood sold "crab juice," naturally, my brother did not hesitate to direct his co-worker to pharmacy.

His market doesn't have a pharmacy.

What my brother didn't anticipate was the customer standing right next to the meat packer, which he discovered upon shifting his attention from the tuna he was preoccupied stabbing to the co-worker making the inquiry.  The woman was not amused.

Happy New Year.