okay, one would think after my last post containing photos of my devil dogs looking all pretty in pink that the animal kingdom would stay clear of me these days. after all, their eyes said yes, as their lips said "you'd give me cookies if you loved me" as i snapped their pictures that evening in my kitchen. i can be one mean muthafcuker.
do they believe me? nope.
seems like my home is the friggin' promised land for all creatures great and small. neighborhood dogs find their way to my door when they escape the clutches of their guardians grasp, knocking, breathlessly, "hey lady, is this chloe and sadie's house? i hear you have good cookies. lemme in, will ya?"
in the wintertime, we have tiny mice and the snakes that love to hunt them move into my basement.
now, it seems a little bird with a highlighter yellow body is convinced he should reside at our house as well. how do i know this? because the little fcuker keeps hurling his little day-glo body at my kitchen window. the first time i heard the clicking, i didn't think much of it. i was doing laundry after all, a time when all machinery on high begins to clink and wheeze and whirrrl throughout the house -- what's one more chink-chink really?
this time though, he's going to get hurt. seriously, having watched the movie the omen last week late at night (two thoughts on this: 1) never watch a scary movie of that magnitude late at night by yourself, and 2) why is it always rottweilers who are portrayed as the hounds of hell? when the devil seed need to be protected, who popped up -- rotties, looking all mean and vicious, too! do they ever show one in his or her true element -- curled up in ball, soundly asleep with one of their squeaky toys and her golden retriever sister? maybe passing a little gas for good measure? noooo...)... where was i?
anyway, the little bird hurling himself at the window reminded me of the scene where the monkeys and gorillas freak the fcuk out when damien goes to the zoo. i mean, these monkeys weren't having none of him in their house, that's for damn sure.
so after watching this bird hurl himself at the glass repeatedly, i began to look around the room. is there any sign of the pending apocalypse happening in my kitchen?
i wasn't cooking, so we could scratch that one of the list. as if my first ever successfully cooked meal could inspire the four horsemen to dinner, that would be my friggin' luck.
oh, wait? i am not pregnant, am i? because aside from sucking big hairy donkey balls, that surely would be the sign of the second coming. the alien creature would be checked for 6-6-6 on every part of its body before slain at the very unholy altar of martha stewart living in supreme and utter sacrifice for all of man- and womankind. puppy-kind, too.
good thing i lost that tampon last week to remind me, no, i will not bear the spawn of satan. or mam, for that matter.
nope, this little bird just wanted inside. just call me doolittle, and be sure leave your doo-doo outside the door, please.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Monday, May 28, 2007
because i can
normally, i scoff at people who dress their dogs in little outfits. these same folks are usually the ones carrying their little dogs around with them in $1100 specialty purses. (do you think those little dogs leave little "presents" for mommy in those purses? just a thought...)
anyway, when i was cleaning out my closet a few weeks ago, i came across an old navy sweater that met its fate with the washing machine and died a horrible shrinking death. (this shrinking death is nothing like the horrible shrinking death my "fat clothes" have undergone recently -- that is merely one of the unsolved mysteries of the universe. or a big fat clue my big fat ass needs to go back on a diet in a big fat way. but i digress.)
so what better way to say goodbye to a old friend but to drape it around the shoulders of my two favorite girls in the universe -- buffy and muffy. otherwise, known as the devil dogs, chloe and sadie.
all they need is pearls to make jen lancaster proud.
anyway, when i was cleaning out my closet a few weeks ago, i came across an old navy sweater that met its fate with the washing machine and died a horrible shrinking death. (this shrinking death is nothing like the horrible shrinking death my "fat clothes" have undergone recently -- that is merely one of the unsolved mysteries of the universe. or a big fat clue my big fat ass needs to go back on a diet in a big fat way. but i digress.)
so what better way to say goodbye to a old friend but to drape it around the shoulders of my two favorite girls in the universe -- buffy and muffy. otherwise, known as the devil dogs, chloe and sadie.
all they need is pearls to make jen lancaster proud.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
schlitzed
schlitzed (shlitzd)
verb. past tense. slang, as in "to be a drunk". to drink a cheap beer for the sole intention of getting blitzed beyond reason.
my grandmother was schlitzed again. this time, when she awoke, she was laying outside in the middle of her lawn, sore and bruised, surrounded by neighbors and ambulance workers who tried to take her to the hospital after she fell. blacked out, really. she says she lost her balance carrying grass clippings out to the trash. the neighbors have stopped calling us when these things happen any more.
if it wasn't so fcuking sad it may just be comical. think about it - a 79-year-old female alcoholic. most drunks don't last that long -- their livers give out long before they reach that age. or a heart attacks stops them cold in their tracks. nope, like a fine wine, my grandmother's fermented with age.
you may think this is sudden or strange her neighbors no longer take an interest in alerting us to her misdeeds. her old neighbors would certainly call to tell us if anything was wrong -- like the time last year when she fell in her living room. as she teetered around her living room in her $5 walmart sneakers (because she won't let us buy her anything better), she lost her footing and fell.... butt first into her glass-topped coffee table. she didn't cut or injure herself in the fall. nope, she just got stuck. so she does what anyone would do, she yells her bloody head off until someone hears her. we arrive just as the ambulance is taking her away to the hospital to be checked out, just enough time to clean up shards of broken glass from the table and the window where the neighbors broke in trying to get to her. to make her stop screaming.
living alone, she's taken to bouts of self-medicating her loneliness from time to time since my grandfather died.
in 1985.
that was when she gave up her "booze" as she called it in favor of beer. schlitz. or whatever cheap beer the local warehouse has on sale.
when my brother was in college, in between classes or before work he would run her to the grocery store for a food order or run other errands for her. as a mature looking 19-year-old, he rarely got carded in bars, but somehow taking your 70-year-old grandmother into the beer distributor for three cases of the cheapest beer possible raised some suspicions. as he'd load the cases into the trunk of his car, the shop clerk would chat up my grandmother, hoping she'd slip and let on that my brother really intended throw a keg party. nope, she just said that it was for her. and it was, a week's supply.
we stopped taking her on her beer runs. so she arranged for weekly delivery instead.
it doesn't shock me this time. her face is beaten and cruised, her shoulders sore. her neighbors have stopped calling each time she falls down and these days, my grandmother lets a day or two slide in between her falls and when she gets around to telling us what happened.
but she stopped drinking alcohol she told the doctor when at her appointment he flat out asked her if she was drinking before her blackout. "i only drink beer to make me poop" she tells him of the sage wisdom a doctor supposedly told her in 1962 and that no one person or shred of medical evidence has since been able to convince her otherwise.
so my stubborn old grandmother can drink with the best bike messengers, swilling cheap beer until she blacks out or gets into a barfight. doesn't everyone's?
verb. past tense. slang, as in "to be a drunk". to drink a cheap beer for the sole intention of getting blitzed beyond reason.
my grandmother was schlitzed again. this time, when she awoke, she was laying outside in the middle of her lawn, sore and bruised, surrounded by neighbors and ambulance workers who tried to take her to the hospital after she fell. blacked out, really. she says she lost her balance carrying grass clippings out to the trash. the neighbors have stopped calling us when these things happen any more.
if it wasn't so fcuking sad it may just be comical. think about it - a 79-year-old female alcoholic. most drunks don't last that long -- their livers give out long before they reach that age. or a heart attacks stops them cold in their tracks. nope, like a fine wine, my grandmother's fermented with age.
you may think this is sudden or strange her neighbors no longer take an interest in alerting us to her misdeeds. her old neighbors would certainly call to tell us if anything was wrong -- like the time last year when she fell in her living room. as she teetered around her living room in her $5 walmart sneakers (because she won't let us buy her anything better), she lost her footing and fell.... butt first into her glass-topped coffee table. she didn't cut or injure herself in the fall. nope, she just got stuck. so she does what anyone would do, she yells her bloody head off until someone hears her. we arrive just as the ambulance is taking her away to the hospital to be checked out, just enough time to clean up shards of broken glass from the table and the window where the neighbors broke in trying to get to her. to make her stop screaming.
living alone, she's taken to bouts of self-medicating her loneliness from time to time since my grandfather died.
in 1985.
that was when she gave up her "booze" as she called it in favor of beer. schlitz. or whatever cheap beer the local warehouse has on sale.
when my brother was in college, in between classes or before work he would run her to the grocery store for a food order or run other errands for her. as a mature looking 19-year-old, he rarely got carded in bars, but somehow taking your 70-year-old grandmother into the beer distributor for three cases of the cheapest beer possible raised some suspicions. as he'd load the cases into the trunk of his car, the shop clerk would chat up my grandmother, hoping she'd slip and let on that my brother really intended throw a keg party. nope, she just said that it was for her. and it was, a week's supply.
we stopped taking her on her beer runs. so she arranged for weekly delivery instead.
it doesn't shock me this time. her face is beaten and cruised, her shoulders sore. her neighbors have stopped calling each time she falls down and these days, my grandmother lets a day or two slide in between her falls and when she gets around to telling us what happened.
but she stopped drinking alcohol she told the doctor when at her appointment he flat out asked her if she was drinking before her blackout. "i only drink beer to make me poop" she tells him of the sage wisdom a doctor supposedly told her in 1962 and that no one person or shred of medical evidence has since been able to convince her otherwise.
so my stubborn old grandmother can drink with the best bike messengers, swilling cheap beer until she blacks out or gets into a barfight. doesn't everyone's?
Friday, May 18, 2007
lost in a blood red sky
as a teenager, my friends and i laughed in amazement at the stories our friend melissa would tell us about her aunt. the one in particular that shocked us was the one in which her aunt landed herself in the hospital after having sex without removing her tampon.
"how could she not know she had one in? how could she just forget?" we wondered aloud. as 16-year-olds goddess girls, we were new to our bodies but we knew enough to never have a guy pull on the string, let alone have sex with one in.
which is where we start this post. it seems my va-jay-jay is now the blackhole (so to speak) for tampons. like george bush's elusive search for WMDs, i too, had a fruitless search looking for a tampon that i swore was there.
the lightbulb finally registered over my head the other evening as i got changed after work. by the time that "whoops, i forgot to take something out" blinked overhead, the tampon had already decided to play hide-and-seek. and it was nowhere to be found.
"i don't understand, what do you mean, you can't find it?" mam asks. "they don't just wander off by themselves. where did it go?"
listening to his questions, i realized his tone changed from this is not a new version of "not tonight, dear i have a headache" to "what the fcuk did she do this time" as i am hunched over the toilet spelunking in search of this elusive tampon string.
"are you sure you put one in this morning?"
wordlessly, i point to the applicator discarded in the trashcan and go back to digging rooting through my va-jay-jay like a homeless person searches for food in a trashcan -- mumbling incoherently as i look. but i am starting to panic as those same words are forming in my throat - where the hell can it go?
flat like a tube of toothpaste
my health education classes in a catholic high school were a joke. as the track coach sweated profusely at the front of the classroom, he would provide such gems of wisdom like "the vagina is flat like a tube of toothpaste" and "the cervix is the size of a typed letter O".
forget any chance of actual sex education or -- goddess forbid -- any mention of birth control except to point out failure rates. then they push their own agenda of the natural family planning, with like a 50% failure rate. it's like trying to sell someone on a car whose brakes work only 50% of the time when the car they want has brakes that work 99%. (in a way that would make any lawyer proud, they also point out the 50% failure rate is user error. as in, if you were a better driver, you wouldn't need effective brakes to avoid a crash, would you?)
we educated ourselves on our bodies, through each other, planned parenthood, and good old fashion research in the days prior to the internets". (seriously, how did we advance civilization prior to having this wonderful series of tubes at our disposal?) and we certainly all learned how to use a tampon.
which is why now, at age 31 and seemingly wiser than my 16-year-old self, this is so disturbing. frankly, i am not sure which is more disturbing -- that i can't remember taking the tampon out or the fact that i lost the tampon without realizing it. either way, i feel like i've got more serious issues than a missing wad of cotton and string.
just call the doctor
after checking the internet to see what ills will befall me with this wad of cotton that must now be lodged somewhere between my uterus and my breastbone, i broke down and called the doctor knowing full well the advice i would receive. (this is after the serious of tubes told me to put my legs onto a wastebasket while squatting over the toilet and pretend to give birth (pretend?), pushing downwards to use your muscles to rouse the tampon from its hiding place, mind you. mam had quite the chuckle when he opened the bathroom door to find me in such a position with a mirror on the floor between my legs.)
dialing the number on my cell phone, i reach the lovely answering service who assures me that if this is an emergency i should go the emergency room at the hospital. the memories of sitting in the waiting room for hours waiting to be seen by a doctor still fresh from my mc-clotsky days, i told her i just wanted to speak with the doctor instead. now that it's 8 pm, and the office closed exactly 30 seconds prior to my call, i wasn't hopeful for a quick call back.
the next morning, after a fitful night worrying that the symptoms of toxic shock syndrome would take hold before the doctor called me back, i preemptively called them. i began my spiel with my best legalese (i've been hanging around lawyers too much these days) "i may or may not have taken it out, to the best of my knowledge..., i cannot recall such an event" .... so much so, the receptionist may have recognized the language as being legalese and decided to bring me in to see the doctor just in case i was a lawyer with a lost tampon (i'm not.)
at the doctor's office, the assistant takes my blood pressure. "rough day at work today?" she asks while looking at her watch to see, now that it's 3:30 pm and i've been sitting in the waiting room for a half-hour now. "you might say, what with scoring your last available appt for months, ducking out of work early a week before a deadline, worried sick that either i have lost my mind or a wad of cotton is hiding behind my cervix, waiting to let loose a nasty wave of toxic shock syndrome which, with my luck sister, will just plain. old. suck."
damn, my inner voice is tough.
thankfully, my sadist otherwise known as my gynocologist, decided the office was too warm, and turned the thermostat down a few degrees before i would need to disrobe. this helped eliminate the steam that shot from my ears, too.
the temperature finally hit his intended 57 degrees just as i scooched my butt to the end of the exam table, feet high in stirrups waiting for the clicks of the medieval torture device they call a speculum. the pink paper sheet kept me toasty warm, too, as the table that was so thoughtfully positioned over the air vent meant to keep the doctor who worked above it cool, never mind freezing the bejeezus out of the naked woman draped in paper who lies in close proximity as well.
click, click, click. "you don't have any children do you?" he asked, making me wonder why he's asking that question. (am i flabby and out-of-shape down there too?) he looked left. he looked right. he looked in every single place, in every single light, as the assistant watches over his should making faces at the sight of my obviously ugly va-jay-jay (why else would she have that scrunch-face look?).
it was nowhere to be found. it wasn't hiding by my cervix, nor did it flip around, do a backflip and land sunny side up somewhere. it just disappeared.
so dearly beloved, we gather here to say our goodbye to the tampon lost under a blood red sky, who obviously along with it, has taken my mind.
"how could she not know she had one in? how could she just forget?" we wondered aloud. as 16-year-olds goddess girls, we were new to our bodies but we knew enough to never have a guy pull on the string, let alone have sex with one in.
which is where we start this post. it seems my va-jay-jay is now the blackhole (so to speak) for tampons. like george bush's elusive search for WMDs, i too, had a fruitless search looking for a tampon that i swore was there.
the lightbulb finally registered over my head the other evening as i got changed after work. by the time that "whoops, i forgot to take something out" blinked overhead, the tampon had already decided to play hide-and-seek. and it was nowhere to be found.
"i don't understand, what do you mean, you can't find it?" mam asks. "they don't just wander off by themselves. where did it go?"
listening to his questions, i realized his tone changed from this is not a new version of "not tonight, dear i have a headache" to "what the fcuk did she do this time" as i am hunched over the toilet spelunking in search of this elusive tampon string.
"are you sure you put one in this morning?"
wordlessly, i point to the applicator discarded in the trashcan and go back to digging rooting through my va-jay-jay like a homeless person searches for food in a trashcan -- mumbling incoherently as i look. but i am starting to panic as those same words are forming in my throat - where the hell can it go?
flat like a tube of toothpaste
my health education classes in a catholic high school were a joke. as the track coach sweated profusely at the front of the classroom, he would provide such gems of wisdom like "the vagina is flat like a tube of toothpaste" and "the cervix is the size of a typed letter O".
forget any chance of actual sex education or -- goddess forbid -- any mention of birth control except to point out failure rates. then they push their own agenda of the natural family planning, with like a 50% failure rate. it's like trying to sell someone on a car whose brakes work only 50% of the time when the car they want has brakes that work 99%. (in a way that would make any lawyer proud, they also point out the 50% failure rate is user error. as in, if you were a better driver, you wouldn't need effective brakes to avoid a crash, would you?)
we educated ourselves on our bodies, through each other, planned parenthood, and good old fashion research in the days prior to the internets". (seriously, how did we advance civilization prior to having this wonderful series of tubes at our disposal?) and we certainly all learned how to use a tampon.
which is why now, at age 31 and seemingly wiser than my 16-year-old self, this is so disturbing. frankly, i am not sure which is more disturbing -- that i can't remember taking the tampon out or the fact that i lost the tampon without realizing it. either way, i feel like i've got more serious issues than a missing wad of cotton and string.
just call the doctor
after checking the internet to see what ills will befall me with this wad of cotton that must now be lodged somewhere between my uterus and my breastbone, i broke down and called the doctor knowing full well the advice i would receive. (this is after the serious of tubes told me to put my legs onto a wastebasket while squatting over the toilet and pretend to give birth (pretend?), pushing downwards to use your muscles to rouse the tampon from its hiding place, mind you. mam had quite the chuckle when he opened the bathroom door to find me in such a position with a mirror on the floor between my legs.)
dialing the number on my cell phone, i reach the lovely answering service who assures me that if this is an emergency i should go the emergency room at the hospital. the memories of sitting in the waiting room for hours waiting to be seen by a doctor still fresh from my mc-clotsky days, i told her i just wanted to speak with the doctor instead. now that it's 8 pm, and the office closed exactly 30 seconds prior to my call, i wasn't hopeful for a quick call back.
the next morning, after a fitful night worrying that the symptoms of toxic shock syndrome would take hold before the doctor called me back, i preemptively called them. i began my spiel with my best legalese (i've been hanging around lawyers too much these days) "i may or may not have taken it out, to the best of my knowledge..., i cannot recall such an event" .... so much so, the receptionist may have recognized the language as being legalese and decided to bring me in to see the doctor just in case i was a lawyer with a lost tampon (i'm not.)
at the doctor's office, the assistant takes my blood pressure. "rough day at work today?" she asks while looking at her watch to see, now that it's 3:30 pm and i've been sitting in the waiting room for a half-hour now. "you might say, what with scoring your last available appt for months, ducking out of work early a week before a deadline, worried sick that either i have lost my mind or a wad of cotton is hiding behind my cervix, waiting to let loose a nasty wave of toxic shock syndrome which, with my luck sister, will just plain. old. suck."
damn, my inner voice is tough.
thankfully, my sadist otherwise known as my gynocologist, decided the office was too warm, and turned the thermostat down a few degrees before i would need to disrobe. this helped eliminate the steam that shot from my ears, too.
the temperature finally hit his intended 57 degrees just as i scooched my butt to the end of the exam table, feet high in stirrups waiting for the clicks of the medieval torture device they call a speculum. the pink paper sheet kept me toasty warm, too, as the table that was so thoughtfully positioned over the air vent meant to keep the doctor who worked above it cool, never mind freezing the bejeezus out of the naked woman draped in paper who lies in close proximity as well.
click, click, click. "you don't have any children do you?" he asked, making me wonder why he's asking that question. (am i flabby and out-of-shape down there too?) he looked left. he looked right. he looked in every single place, in every single light, as the assistant watches over his should making faces at the sight of my obviously ugly va-jay-jay (why else would she have that scrunch-face look?).
it was nowhere to be found. it wasn't hiding by my cervix, nor did it flip around, do a backflip and land sunny side up somewhere. it just disappeared.
so dearly beloved, we gather here to say our goodbye to the tampon lost under a blood red sky, who obviously along with it, has taken my mind.
Friday, May 04, 2007
crybaby
stuck on a fairly packed train ride home (who are all these slackers who leave the city at 3:30pm on a friday?), i have just figured out i can post to my blog from my crackberry.
ooh sweet goddess, if i don't go blind from writing on a 1" screen or have my thumbs fall off first, this may turn out to be a very exciting discovery. although it's a pain in the ass in someways (blindness and cramped thumbs aside) because of how technology is made for all the stoopid people who can't remember to capitalize the first word in each sentence.
ahem.
(i choose not to for stylistic reasons and as a direct fcuk you to the man. wherever he may be.)
seriously, the reason i am so happy i can now post things almost immediately is because i can post things immediately. no more simmering on septa, no more artfully crafting prose in my head with a "oh no, she din't" shoulder swivel -- just real emotion right now.
which leads me back to crybaby.
here's a dirty little secret nobody knows... I'm a crier. oh sure, i'm tough as nails but if pushed too far, those lil buggers spring to my eyes as i hold back my fury. (or while I kick your ass, all depends on the situation.)
and i hate it -- every stinking minute of it. it makes me weak, it makes me a girl for crissakes!
some might say it makes me human, too, but let's not dwell on those things, shall we?
but when push comes to shove and i am about to come undone, there's little i can do to stop them. the buggers well up and begin to cloud my vision, and the embarrassment of showing that it, you, or anyone else can crack my thick shell adds to their number.
on the inside, i may scream "oh no" but on the outside, i merely smile and say, "i can do it" while discreetly pulling on my shitkicking boots to jump right in.
because the reality is i think i can do it all and when confronted with maybe -- just maybe, that I can't -- well, that reality can be too much to bear.
because "no" is a word i hate almost as much as "crybaby".
ooh sweet goddess, if i don't go blind from writing on a 1" screen or have my thumbs fall off first, this may turn out to be a very exciting discovery. although it's a pain in the ass in someways (blindness and cramped thumbs aside) because of how technology is made for all the stoopid people who can't remember to capitalize the first word in each sentence.
ahem.
(i choose not to for stylistic reasons and as a direct fcuk you to the man. wherever he may be.)
seriously, the reason i am so happy i can now post things almost immediately is because i can post things immediately. no more simmering on septa, no more artfully crafting prose in my head with a "oh no, she din't" shoulder swivel -- just real emotion right now.
which leads me back to crybaby.
here's a dirty little secret nobody knows... I'm a crier. oh sure, i'm tough as nails but if pushed too far, those lil buggers spring to my eyes as i hold back my fury. (or while I kick your ass, all depends on the situation.)
and i hate it -- every stinking minute of it. it makes me weak, it makes me a girl for crissakes!
some might say it makes me human, too, but let's not dwell on those things, shall we?
but when push comes to shove and i am about to come undone, there's little i can do to stop them. the buggers well up and begin to cloud my vision, and the embarrassment of showing that it, you, or anyone else can crack my thick shell adds to their number.
on the inside, i may scream "oh no" but on the outside, i merely smile and say, "i can do it" while discreetly pulling on my shitkicking boots to jump right in.
because the reality is i think i can do it all and when confronted with maybe -- just maybe, that I can't -- well, that reality can be too much to bear.
because "no" is a word i hate almost as much as "crybaby".
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
things that go together
some things are just meant to go together. this worldly pearl of wisdom came to me, funny enough, not while eating a reese's peanut butter cup. although i have been known to experience bouts of wisdom while eating chocolate and peanut butter on occasion.
nope, i had just finished flipping through the interoffice envelope sent to me which held a brochure, a contract and various postcards when it hit me. something just go together. and it pissed me off.
my friend jillian and i planned to host a sex toy party (on june 9th at casa michalski) which should be a wild and crazy time. hell, anyone who can go to kinky quizzo and enjoy reading my stories about me and my vibrator is a-okay in my book. but the brochure she forwarded specifically said "no men allowed", "no children allowed".
i gotcha on the "no kids" part unless you plan to serve them as a tasty appetizer.
but surely, this doesn't mean gay men, does it? there goes some of my guest list. because surely, i can't imagine hosting a sex toy party without my favorite gay man fluglicious. this party hostess-with-the-mostest doesn't discriminate and would hope that someone who peddles lube for a living would recognize the HUGE friggin' market potential having gay men join the party could bring...
some other things that go together (besides chocolate and peanut butter):
+ goddess girls (what can i say, we're earned our bitching stripes together)
+ coffee and cigarettes (even though i haven't partaken in years)
+ wine and adelle
some things that do not go so well together:
+ rottweilers and tennis balls (amazingly, such a small ball in a big dog's mouth can cause much destruction in a living room)
+ ann coulter and just about anyone
+ catholic priests and boy scouts (just asking for trouble with this one)
that's it. please go about your business. no other deeper meaning here to find. just a little chocolate deprivation rantings going on...
and remember kids, it's not cool to discrimate against gay men in your sex toy parties.
nope, i had just finished flipping through the interoffice envelope sent to me which held a brochure, a contract and various postcards when it hit me. something just go together. and it pissed me off.
my friend jillian and i planned to host a sex toy party (on june 9th at casa michalski) which should be a wild and crazy time. hell, anyone who can go to kinky quizzo and enjoy reading my stories about me and my vibrator is a-okay in my book. but the brochure she forwarded specifically said "no men allowed", "no children allowed".
i gotcha on the "no kids" part unless you plan to serve them as a tasty appetizer.
but surely, this doesn't mean gay men, does it? there goes some of my guest list. because surely, i can't imagine hosting a sex toy party without my favorite gay man fluglicious. this party hostess-with-the-mostest doesn't discriminate and would hope that someone who peddles lube for a living would recognize the HUGE friggin' market potential having gay men join the party could bring...
some other things that go together (besides chocolate and peanut butter):
+ goddess girls (what can i say, we're earned our bitching stripes together)
+ coffee and cigarettes (even though i haven't partaken in years)
+ wine and adelle
some things that do not go so well together:
+ rottweilers and tennis balls (amazingly, such a small ball in a big dog's mouth can cause much destruction in a living room)
+ ann coulter and just about anyone
+ catholic priests and boy scouts (just asking for trouble with this one)
that's it. please go about your business. no other deeper meaning here to find. just a little chocolate deprivation rantings going on...
and remember kids, it's not cool to discrimate against gay men in your sex toy parties.
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