varied things, now a trilogy!

Seriously, guys, I wish I had something substantive to write about that would take up a whole post. Then I could stop just spewing the random contents of my brain at you. However, until that day comes, this is what you get.

1.) You can't expect me to be intelligent or clever today anyhow, because I had like three hours of sleep. Why did you have three hours of sleep, Andrea? Because I could hear it raining hard outside and I was afraid/paranoid/flipping out my basement was flooding again. I went down to look at 1 am and all was fine. I was wide awake at 6 am and all was still fine. None of that helped me to sleep. Sigh.

2.) Monday on the holiday I was out walking all over the city of Boston, drinking and eating crap, and incidentally getting my feet chewed up by my sandals. Tuesday I had a big weird blister on the bottom of my right foot. I put a blister bandaid on it and hobbled all day. Yesterday, however, not being in work, I wore my UGG sweater boots--without socks--and walked about in fleecy comfort. Four miles in fleecy comfort, to be exact. Today my bad foot is all better. Coincidence? I think not. Still trying to justify that expense? Shut up.

3.) If this offends anyone reading this, apologies in advance. Every time I write a post saying I disapprove of or mocking something, I find out my blog readers all run up the stairs at Porter Square station or some such shit, and I've just insulted them. It's not personal, I swear to god. If I make fun of something and you do it or like it, you are the only exception to the rule. Remember that, por favor.

Okay! Here goes.

3.) I have never approved of people naming their kids after themselves. You know, like John Smith, Jr. I, first of all, have a visceral reaction to it, like, "Give the kid his own name, don't make him share yours. Damn." That doesn't necessarily make any logical sense; it's just a visceral reaction. But secondly, it leads to the kinda thing where a friend of mine calls her (26 year old, for god's sake) grandson "Little Ronny." This is to distinguish him from his father, Ronny, and his grandfather, Ron. The lack of dignity grows all down the line. The chance of having a grownup name kinda depends on the forebears kicking off. Do you want to be referring to your child as "little So n So" or calling him Junior when he's a Supreme Court justice? C'mon now. (Though, I must say, I do know a [Dominican] kid or two whose legal name is Junior, the mom just liking the sound of it and it not necessarily having the same connotations to her if her native language isn't English. I suppose this is better than naming your child Apple or Blanket, especially if you don't have a fortune for them to inherit.)

But it just occurred to me the other day that there is another pitfall to naming your child the same first name as his father, from the mother's point of view. If your husband's name is Harry and your son's name is also Harry, does it not make it impossible to then gasp out, "Oh, Harry, fuck me harder!" at the appropriate moment? Wouldn't doing so kill the mood, like, irreparably? So, yeah, you'd have to train yourself to only call your spouse by a special nickname in those, uh, intimate moments or you'd be back to only ever thinking of, or referring to, your child as Junior or whatever. Am I off base here? Is it just me? (Bonus points for figuring out what brings this up, ahahaha.)

4.) I was watching ESPN news yesterday morning and they were talking to Nomar, who does a lot of work for them, about the story in the Globe alleging all that stuff about Tito being ineffective because of his marital separation and/or pain pill usage, and the starting pitchers drinking beer and eating takeout fried chicken in the clubhouse while their teammates were out there sucking, and all the rest. So Nomar says, "Well, first of all, I haven't read it, because I don't read tabloids." Ooooo, burn. I guess Nomar is still a wee bit bitter, huh?

5.) OMG, I'm so excited, you guys. Beauty and the Beast, the TV series from the 80s with Linda Hamilton, is on Netflix instant view now! I watched a couple episodes last night while I was having my insomnia. The 80s really really were a bad fashion decade. But I like Linda Hamilton, even without her metaphorical and literal guns. She should get some acting jobs again, now that she isn't married to whatshisface anymore. She'd probably need to get a little work done, though.



55 year old women aren't allowed to look like 55 year old women in Hollywood.

I think that's it for now. Kiss kiss.

xoxo

are you people sick of me yet today?

[In my defense, the first post was really yesterday. It could have posted at 11:59 pm had I walked up the stairs faster.]

I knew this was going to be a comedy goldmine full of blogging potential. It's almost as good as riding the prison bus without earbuds in. Let's have a tutorial this afternoon on how to not win at internet dating! I'm sure none of all y'all need it because you have enough social skills not to NEED internet dating or you're all happily coupled up with the love muffin of your fondest dreams. Or both. But just in case some random person wanders through here, let's be instructive.

Tip #1 for not winning: send a woman you have never spoken to before an email in which you say, "I'm interested, but I need more pictures." Dude. No, you do not. I can guarantee you I am too hot for your 57 year old, balding ass, even with my rapidly atrophying vagina, and I do not intend to prove it to you photographically before you deign to speak to me. Besides, you don't know the difference between "seen" and "scene". Get someone who's not illiterate to proofread your profile, and while they are doing that, you can contemplate whether the reason you've never been married and/or found "that one special person" is that you are a clueless, and apparently entitled, dick.

Tip #2: send a woman you have never spoken to before an email in which you nicely ask how she is doing and then say that you are doing fine, except for the crushing loneliness. Leading off with a portrayal of yourself as incredibly needy and pathetic will not make chicks take pity on you or even give you points for honesty. Instead, it will make them fear that you will cling like Saran Wrap on Tupperware and that you have the potential to go full stalker mode if rejected.

Tip #3: send a woman you have never exchanged a word with a short email in which you suggest that since you live close together, you meet for coffee or a drink. When woman does not immediately reply with enthusiasm to go out with a complete stranger, wait a couple hours and email again, this time saying that you're now at your computer, not on your Blackberry, so you can write more. Tell woman that your compatibility score is in the upper 80s and it doesn't get much better than that. So you should go out for coffee or a drink. Hint: this is roughly equivalent to approaching a random attractive woman on the T and suggesting she go on a date with you because you are getting off at the same stop. And when she is not enthusiastic about the prospect, trying to convince her that since you've read that book she's carrying too, you really really need to go out.

Okay, and when all of the above are blissfully married by next year while I am still planning my LL Bean Sex Repelling wardrobe, you can tell me the reason that I am still single is that I'm a big bitch and that my advice is worthless. I will not argue with you.

xoxo

true confessions

What do you think is the modern day equivalent of those '40s and '50s confessional magazines? Could it be...blogging??!?!!??

Not in my case, I hasten to add, because everything I tell you is 100% true. Mainly because, really, you can't make this shit up, as I remind you every freakin' week. The things I see, hear, and do are far stranger than most fiction***, and that's not even taking into consideration that I don't tell you people EVERYTHING. But, I digress. I'm here to unburden myself. Bless me, father, for I have sinned (against good taste and judgment)...

Yesterday was apparently National Bad Decision Day. I went to the gym, as I do almost every Sunday afternoon, it being my most favorite day to work out, and then I proceeded to do some errands. There were a few things I needed to pick up. My son needed minutes for his ghetto cell phone, and I prefer to buy an actual card, because I don't trust the Tracfone website. I also needed some mineral powder so that I can continue to look beautiful (ahem) and some conditioner (ditto, and also, ahem.) None of those errands would, on the surface, require a person to go to DSW, since, y'know, all they sell is shoes. Nevertheless, there I was.

You see where this is going, right? They had UGG sweater boots for $99.95, which is totally the universe telling me I should have them. (Plus, I never spent the hundred bucks I won for building my muskles, it's still sitting in my paypal account.) Not exactly the same ones I showed you; they don't have the fold-over with the buttons. Which, really? I think that's a plus because needless doodads like those buttons are the kind of thing that fall off when you least expect it. Also, they had that brown color and it doesn't look as nice in person. So I bought cream. Cream-colored sweater boots. Why, yes, I have lost my mind, thanks for asking. They're adorable. They're lined in sheepskin, so you can wear them without socks. (You may or may not know, but I dislike socks. And also, when I go to yoga, and you have to take your shoes off before entering the room, it'll save a step.) Let's just hope for a dry and snowless winter, so that I can wear these for more than the months of October and November.

I felt I needed to confess all this solely because if any of you all see me wearing these boots, I wouldn't want a little bell to go off in your brain (ding!) and have you say, "Um, Andrea, aren't those the UGG boots you made such a fucking big deal about NOT buying?" No, total transparency here, yo.

The next confession, however, is motivated entirely from some kind of base impulse to publicly humiliate myself. (Hey, it won me that hundred bucks, so don't knock it.) Well, that and the fact I think it is hilarious and I would like to brighten up the beginning of your work week. Because I love you all.

Luxuriating in my haze of bad decisions made and the afterglow of boot-buying, and also being in that state of tiredness last night where you are too exhausted to do anything useful and yet you can't sleep, and spurred by someone else's blog in which they mentioned the embarrassing way the met their future (and current, haha) husband, and having just last week discussed with Led Zep Girl how, shockingly, the old geezer dating sites want our business, I made myself a dating profile. NOT on an old geezer site, thanks very much, I hasten to add. The last time I did this kind of thing was in 2005, and it lead to my very brief but very bitterness-inducing acquaintance with The Lawyer, the only man whom I can honestly say I deeply regret fucking (and you all know my ex-husband, if only in theory, so you know that's saying something.) So, yeah, my track record with this kind of business is not, y'know, stellar. But neither is my track record in any kind of romantic shenanigans and I haven't become a nun yet, so why the hell learn from experience?

And so I had to choose a profile picture. Since the vast majority of the pictures I have of myself on my computer are underwear shots in which I am trying to ascertain whether my lats are growing quicker than my thighs are getting even fatter than they already are (short answer:no) and have all or most of my head cut off, I went with the same picture I use as my avatar on my other blog and on my weightlifting boards, the "delts in the mirror" shot. I like it 'cause it's kinda artsy, my shoulders look fabulous, and because I was concentrating on getting the angle of my delts right, I didn't do anything weird with my face in it. So, lo and behold, I got messaged by a gentleman who said it was the most surprisingly sexy picture he'd seen on the dating site, and the juxtaposition of my guns with my stern but pretty librarian look (wearing my glasses, all y'all) was, and I quote, yummy. Huh. Not surprised to hear I look yummy, because that's what you pick a picture you like for, nomimsayin, but stern? There you go. More proof positive that I have bitchface all the time and I don't even know it.

Okay, maybe I do know it. A few weeks ago, someone confided to me that she's having a torrid affair (is it an affair if you aren't married? she isn't, it's all legit) with a guy she met at her gym. I was like, "hey! how do you meet guys at the gym and I never do?" and then, immediately, "oh, wait, it's because I have my bitch face on all the time, right?" And thus, boys and girls, I am driven to the ignominy of internet dating. Where apparently bitchface is alluring.

Anyway, if I do actually blind date anyone, I'm sure my horrible evenings will make entertaining blog fodder. Sacrifice for art. I live to serve, y'all.

xoxo

Oh, for god's sake, I forgot the footnote.

***Any fiction writer will tell you that you can base a plot entirely on real life events and have an editor tell you it's not believeable. "But it really happened!" is not justification.

secrets of ancient chinese medicine

This is going to be a TMI post, so bail now if you need to. I have *got* to tell this to someone and I didn't think I should bring it up at work today. I mean, with the conversations that go on in my office, I probably *could* have, but I decided to err on the side of discretion. Ahem.

Yesterday I went to see Marcy. I was telling her that I'd noticed I'd been feeling a little down, a little depressed, in a flat sort of way. Not sad and crying, not particularly cranky or anxious, just meh. Flat. Well, when she got me on the table, she put four needles at the top of my head, sorta in an north-south-east-west pattern. She said those were "extra points" which were not on a meridian. There's something called the Governing Vessel running up through your body and out the top of your head, and the Chinese believed in stimulating those points to draw energy up whenever you had something that needed to be lifted up. Not only your mood, as in my case, but for instance, they would do the same if you had a prolapsed organ or to prevent miscarriage in a pregnant woman. Marcy said she would definitely NOT do those points on me if I were in one of my anxious phases, because it would probably crank the crazy dial to 11.

I left Marcy's and took the commuter rail back to the gym. Unlike when I had the horrible gym session unwisely lifting right after getting a massage, I figured the hour it would take me to take the Green Line to North Station, then take the train home, then walk to the gym from the station and change clothes would be quite enough time for any post-acupuncture fuzziness to clear. Indeed it was. I killed it, including the shoulder presses I'd been whining to my lifting friends about my lack of progress with last week. Some of that can be attributed to my taking their advice to cut down on my warm up set, but in retrospect, I feel like my energy might have been elevated too.

Came home from the gym and ate a late dinner and was wide awake. Physically tired but very alert. I went to bed to read, hoping that might make me sleepy. As I was reading, I became aware that I was, well, physically aroused. Very physically aroused. To be clear, the novel I was reading, while containing some mild sexual content, was in no way titillating or particularly spicy. Neither was I, or had I been, daydreaming about anything exciting. Anthony Kiedis was not eating ice cream out of my navel in my subconscious, is what I'm saying. I was just physically horny as hell.

One way to take care of that. (Well, technically, more than one, but I only had one way at my disposal. So I used it.) And I think I may have mentioned before, but I am like a dude. Usually an orgasm leaves me satisfied and ready to just roll over and crash. Not yesterday. I was still not sleepy in the least. I turned the light back on and recommenced reading. After a bit I realized that not only was I not sleepy and not getting sleepy, I was still/again aroused and to the point of physical discomfort. Ignoring it and concentrating on my reading did not make it go away. Well, I was really perplexed by this party in my pants, but it was, like I said, uncomfortable, so I went for round two. After which...

Can you see how this story is going? I swear to you all, I ended up finally having to take an ativan to knock me out, because it was 2:30 am and I had to get up for work in the morning.

It makes me wonder...do the Chinese treat erectile dysfunction with those points? Was the ol' penis one of the things this is supposed to elevate? Because I felt like the Cialis warning about the erection lasting four hours or more. I was tempted to email Marcy today and ask.

Anyway, that, boys and girls, is the story of how ancient Chinese medicine turned me into a nymphomaniac. Let's just hope tonight is one and done.

xoxo

a line has been crossed

That could apply to a lot of things this week, but Ima just discuss one.

I don't know whether I discussed it in the blog or not, but in debating the pros and cons of getting a kindle, Mr Indemnity and I mused that one of the pros was the ability to bring pr0n--excuse me, EROTICA--anywhere and read it in public without embarrassing oneself. A small point in the kindle's favor, but a point nevertheless. Well, yesterday, after owning my device for six months, I broke down and for $1.99, bought myself a piece of literary smut. As an experiment. And because I needed a little inspiration last night, if you know what I mean and I'm sure you lot do. And this is my reaction:

Are you fucking kidding me?

People buy and sell this stuff? I am very sure that with the right amount of effort (i.e. barely none) I could have found for free, on the internet, "erotica" of similar literary merit (i.e. absolutely none.) [But it got its job done in the inspiration department, so what the hell am I complaining about?] The idea that I could, if I were the enterprising type, just write down a bunch of my sordid sexual fantasies without any attention to plausibility, plot, characterization, or for godsake, spelling, slap them up on kindle self-publishing under a pseudonym and get people looking for wank material to pony up $1.99 for them is both tantalizing and upsetting. As you all know, I have written smut, but it was smut that was labored over with as much care as any other piece of fiction I ever wrote. They were actual stories***. I couldn't write one in a couple of free hours, is what I'm saying.

But, having crossed the self-respect line far enough to purchase this shiz for my kindle, could I cross the self-respect line a little further and bang out (unintentional pun, I swear to god) this dreck for money? Lord knows, extra money for very little effort would be awesome. You kids know I like to buy stuff and I don't use credit. But this is the writing equivalent of prostitution, I fear, and more the crack ho than the high-class escort type. I'm really tempted and yet horrified by being tempted.

xoxo

***my very favorite review of anything I ever wrote was by a somewhat well-known genre writer who, in his blog, said the story I had published in the erotica webzine his also somewhat famous author wife was editing was so good that it wasn't until after you finished it that you realized that it was kinda, technically, furry pr0n. Heh. [It was a takeoff on Goldilocks and the Three Bears, dudes. Papa and Mama Bear were status-conscious yuppies and Goldilocks was their internet sex slave. It was hilarious. But with dirty parts. It took a while to write. There was a lot of pointed satire in with the wank material. That's all I'm sayin'.]

i r getting stupider

You people know I consider myself, by and large, an intelligent person. No one's going to hand me a Nobel Prize in anything anytime soon or ask to study my giant brain after I die, but I think I'm well above average. I always got good grades without doing much in the way of actual work. I've always been able to learn new things fairly quickly when taught and I've always been able to figure things out on my own pretty well when not taught. I can construct a logical argument. I can come up with new ideas. My point being that, really, I am not a drooling moron.

Except lately.

A couple months ago I had an appointment with Marcy. I see her every four or five weeks these days, usually on a late Tuesday afternoon. There's a regular pattern to my visits. But a couple months ago, I just completely and totally forgot I was supposed to be there. I had no inkling until I got a voicemail from her asking if everything was alright, since I hadn't shown. I emailed her back profuse apologies and she was all, "oh, don't worry about it, I was just concerned that something had happened because you NEVER are even five minutes late for an appointment." I sorta attributed it, jokingly but not, to what I've heard from other women: that the perimenopause turns your brain to mush and your memory to shit.

So, yeah, totally forgetting an appointment is not good, but I suppose it isn't totally indicative of an incipient brain lesion. The next two episodes of gross stupidity? Not so sure. And they are particularly concerning because they both occurred at work. Not only do I consider myself intelligent, I sorta pride myself on being competent at my job. These lapses into idiocy in a professional setting are, shall we say, worrisome.

A couple weeks ago, on a Monday afternoon, it was very slow and I had no one on my schedule till the last appointment of the day. Which, y'know, SIGH. But anyway, 3:30, 3:35pm comes along and I have no patient and I think to myself, well, they are half an hour late, they are not going to show, and I cannot sit around here being bored one minute longer. So I cancel them in the computer, put my coat on, say goodbye to Receptionist Without Colorful Nickname, and leave. The time I punch out is 3:42 pm. The next morning my boss says to me, "Your patient came yesterday!" "What time?" I ask. Oh, 3:40-3:45ish. Oh, well, I think/say. And then it hits me. They were supposed to be here at 3:30, not 3pm. The last appointment on a Monday is at 3:30. So basically they were a little over ten minutes late and I was gone. Oops. Luckily, Receptionist Without Colorful Nickname covered for me and invented an excuse why I wasn't there. But, yeah. Another complete and total brain lapse.

It gets worse.

So this morning I had a teenaged patient who because of HIPAA laws I shall refer to as Roger. When we were almost all done testing, I was attempting to wake him up by calling his name. "Roger! Roger!" He arouses and says (to the crazy lady calling him repeatedly by a different name), "My name's Rob." "Wait," I say. "Is your name Roger and they call you Rob?" "No, my name's Rob." What the hell? I ask myself. When he gets up from the stretcher and the lights are turned back up in the room, I pick up his registration sheet and ask him his date of birth. It matches up. (I had already, when they first came in, verified the address, phone number, insurance, etc, with his mom.) I walk him out to the waiting room and say to his mom, "We have him down as Roger, but his name is Robert?" Yes, that's his name. Very strange, we concur, especially since he was recently registered in the ED. I tell mom I will fix the mistake in the computer. They leave. I walk back into my office, pick up the registration sheet I'd just looked at, and it says his name is...Robert. OMFG. If that is not a sign of a brain tumor or big stroke, I do not know what is. I swear to god, two minutes earlier that paper had said "Roger" on it.

Now, I could attribute this all, like I said, to the perimenopause, 'cause, like I said, rumor has it it turns your brain to mush. Or I could attribute it to my being all stressed out, but seriously? While I am extremely stressed out, I have been stressed out for the better part of the last seven years and this stupidity is of recent origin. Or I could attribute it to depression, because I think that makes you not-so-bright as well, but again, see above. How is that new?

Then I remembered that Seinfeld episode. The one where George becomes brilliant from his enforced celibacy while, meanwhile, Elaine gets stupid from hers. Oooohhhh. Maybe they were on to something. (There is no event in life that cannot be correlated with a Seinfeld episode. Trust.)

In other news? Jhoulis is the new Ubaldo. And Felix Hernandez is the new James Shields. Look it up.

xoxo

presented without comment

Read and learn.

Okay, one comment. She does have a provocatively-titled single to promote, so take it with a grain of salt. Also? Matt Kemp will probably suck less this year when he's not being all, y'know, distracted n' shit. See? It all comes back to baseball, bitches.

xoxo

i figured it out my ownself

This was going to be a nostalgia/TMI/Boston-peeps-help-me-out post, but since the answer to my question spontaneously popped into my head while I was bathing, I don't need yous people. So we are left with nostalgia and TMI. Weigh carefully the balance of listening to yet another excruciating story about my life with the promise that we're gonna mention seks, and proceed at your own risk!

On jezebel yesterday, there was a post about bodysuits coming back into fashion, and how the author was firmly saying NO to this. Bodysuits being those leotard-like shirts that snapped at the crotch that were extremely popular and fashionable in the early-mid 90s, in case my male readers are unclear on the terminology. After I had to explain "romper" I take nothing for granted, all y'all. The comments were full of nostalgic fondness mixed with loathing. People who were in college during the said period remembered with horror the difficulty of using the facilities in a bodysuit when you were out drinking beers and women of all ages who ever wore one remembered the aggrevation of your bodysuit spontaneously coming unsnapped and the semi-panic of finding a restroom or other place that you could resnap before the damn thing worked its way up out of your pants or skirt. Plus, people had stories about particularly fugly examples that they at the time thought were the shit, but face it, anytime we ladies discuss what we wore for fashion, there will be those. But one commenter brought up how certain bodysuits with particularly irritating snaps combined with the tight, high-waisted jeans of the period led to a couple of days of needed recovery for one's labia after the wearing. Ha! And thus Andrea went down memory lane.

It's not only the tightness or the high-waisted-ness of early 90s jeans. It's the fact that there was no such thing as stretch denim in those days, and the fact that the denim was usually of a much heavier weight than today's fabric. I hear women these days commenting often about how much more comfortable jeans are these days and how they would never go back to non-stretch denim, but they are missing one important point, to my mind. Those heavy-weight, non-stretch, tight early 90s jeans had crotch seams that were capable of rubbing and pressing upon one's, um, special lady places in a most delightful manner, a manner that could liven up one's dull day when one was in such a mood to appreciate it. The snaps on a bodysuit were too low placed to directly contact that area, but yes, they could rub on one's labia, and if not actually strangling one's crotch, add to the party in one's pants. (Guys, admit it. You had NO idea about any of this, huh?)

And thus we finally come to our story. The question I was going to pose was, "OMG, what was the name of the bookstore that used to be on the corner of Exeter and Newbury in the 90s?" but: Waterstones! I loved Waterstones. I think it was the first bookstore that I was aware of that had the comfy chairs scattered around in which you could plunk yourself down and waste a good portion of a Sunday afternoon that your kid was with his father reading a book you had absolutely no intention of buying. Ahem. And so it was that one Sunday, in delightfully crotch-seamed jeans and perhaps a bodysuit beneath my flannel (shut up, just shut up) I came across a book that I will not mention the name of, but which I will tell you is a famous piece of absolute pornography written under a pseudonym by a well-known author of non-pornography. I had heard about this book, like unicorns, but didn't expect to find it right out there on the shelf of a lovely store where people bought, y'know, literature.

As further background, let's just remind you all that the early 90s were a sad, sad time for Andrea's sex life. Andrea was split up with D's dad and while she would occasionally and regrettably find herself making out with him, that was as far as it went, and she was not yet dating Whatever He Was to Me, or anyone else. Andrea was that other c-word, celibate. The horror! Let's just say Andrea appreciated crotch seams rather more than most people and leave it at that.

So on that fateful day, I took this piece of absolute disgusting filthy smut to a comfy Waterstones' chair and proceeded to have, with the help of, god bless 'em, my crotch-centric 90s garments, the first public and no-hands orgasm of my life. In fact, first and only! I was very sad when that store burned down and was turned into a fucking chain restaurant, lemme tell you.

I will not be buying any bodysuits this time around.

The end.

xoxo

Addendum: Okay, it was a chain restaurant, then Waterstones, then a school (?!?), then another chain restaurant, I believe. But the emotion still holds.

sometimes a compliment is just a cigar

I recently bought myself this long flowy vest, purposely to wear over some things that otherwise are slightly too sheer or too floofy to wear to work. Well, today I am wearing it with the infamous wedding cake dress/top, leggings, and boots. As soon as Led Zep girl saw this ensemble this morning, she went nuts. She loves the shirt, she loves the vest, she loves the two of them together. And when Receptionist Without Colorful Nickname came in, she started telling her to go check out my outfit because it's so cute and stylish.

Apparently my boss overheard all this and so felt compelled to stick his head in my office and say deadpan, "I hear you're looking stylish today."

I gave him my wide-eyed disingenuous look and my most sincere voice. "I'm wearing my new vest."

Cut to later in the day. I was in the back room and he came in to get coffee. "Nice outfit, Andrea!" Because, much like this blog, in my office we never let a joke drop.

I smirked at him. "You wouldn't have noticed if you hadn't been told."

And so he started telling me that, yeah, his wife will go to the salon and come back with a slightly different hair color that he of course *won't* notice, and he is then subjected to many pointed remarks about how insensitive he is. I told him, yeah, it's unfortunate, but we women do many things we think will make us more attractive to our men, and it's always stuff yous people never notice. (Cleavage and a plate of cupcakes, amirite? I'll figure this shit out yet!)

He countered by saying that if you say "you look nice today," you are implying she doesn't look nice all the other days, so by saying nothing it means you always think she's beautiful. I said, "No, no, no. You say, 'you're looking particularly beautiful today.'" He was slightly awestruck and had to admit that was damn good. I suggested he go home and try it tonight. Uh uh. The response to that would be, like the response to spontaneous flowers, "Okay, WHAT have you done?"

His closing thesis statement was that you therefore cannot be nice, because nice is always equated with guilt. I wanted to rebut this, but I realized that in some relationships, it probably is. There has to be some kind of precedent set before you bust out the "you're looking particularly beautiful today" or someone's gonna assume you bought a motorcycle or fucked a flight attendant.

Cliff notes: Girls--provide boobs and pastry. Boys--set the precedent ASAP or you will suffer. That'll be $200. You're welcome. God, I should write a book.

xoxo

breaking medical news

Did you know that some people with severe food allergies (dairy, peanuts) are so sensitive they cannot ingest their partners', um, bodily fluids if their partners don't abstain from the allergens too? And I mean, like, totally abstain? I didn't either!

If if came down to the choice of a.) no blowjobs ever or b.) no cheese ever or c.) dumping said partner, which would YOU choose? (Clue: if you would give up either blowjobs OR cheese, it must be twue luv. In the immortal words of Ms Carter-Knowles, put a ring on it! Stat!)

xoxo

tuesday tmi edition plus other stuff

First of all, I need to publicly announce that while I was digging out yesterday with the entire rest of my neighborhood--everyone seemed to come to the conclusion that the storm was mostly over at the exact same time--the old guy (not one of the sons) next door came over with his GIANT snowblower and shushed me out of the way and proceeded to do my whole sidewalk plus the part of the driveway I hadn't finished yet INCLUDING the tough part where the plows pile up the snow. Cookies apparently get you somewhere.

No, as I was saying elsewhere, apparently the whole family has decided to take pity on poor pathetic husband-less me. Part of me was going, "No, no, I've been going to the gym, I can handle this, I'M IN SHAPE," but fortunately I subdued it. I hate to perpetuate the stereotype of a weak and helpless woman, but sometimes it's just convenient to roll with it. (Yeah, I know, I'm going to hell.) But I'm sure it gave him the warm fuzzies to do his good deed for the week, I *was* the only chick out on the whole street for serious, and he has a GIANT SNOWBLOWER. That thing is monstrously powerful.

I don't know why I'm shouting at you with the cap lock key. Excuse me.

So now onto the TMI portion of our mutual day. Those of you who were cyber-with-me during D's long hospitalization four years ago may or may not remember that I truthfully maintained that, other than being at the hospital, school, or working, I spent the entire two and a half months distracting myself with baseball, bad TV (especially VH1 and VH1 Classic), and reading about and discussing other people's sexual exploits on the interwebs.

Well, yesterday, after sobbing about the cat and digging out/being dug out of the snowstorm, and having been told by Led Zep Girl that our department was staying closed, in my grief and sadness I really couldn't concentrate on anything other than zoning out on the internet. One of the weightlifting forums that I always read has a huge number and variety of different boards, including one that is simply "misc". Misc is almost completely populated by 15 to 24 year old males at their most obnoxious, sexist, and homophobic prime. If you took anything you read there as anything but a bunch of chimps posturing for each other, a.) your head would explode and b.) before it did, you would weep for the future of the entire English-speaking world. But if you keep in mind that it's really just a bunch of boys and men who haven't quite yet stopped being boys dick-measuring and showing off for each other, it can be amusing at times. Yesterday? In my inability to cope with anything else, I ended up on misc.

And thus I came across a "dat ass" thread, consisting of post after post after post of pictures of women with magnificent booties clad only in thongs or other brief undergarments. (If I didn't know Mr Indemnity is on vacation, I'd have sent him the link, 'cause that's the kind of friend I am.) I was fairly mesmerized because this was certainly the largest collection of female gluteal perfection I had ever seen. After some time perusing it, I also became aware that I was, uh, aroused. Now this was extremely surprising for two reasons. First of all, as you are all aware, I am the most heterosexual woman in North America. I enjoy looking at pretty women on an aesthetic level, but it doesn't make anything happen in my pants, yo. And, secondly, I am not generally visually aroused anyway. I read pron, not look at it.

I was musing over this and I remembered what I referenced above, how when D was in the hospital, one of the few things that diverted me was reading about other people talking about sex. And then I thought about how the summer after my mother's death, I distracted myself with what was, for me, unusually casual sex. It all came together into this stunning (haha) insight: grief makes me horny. In fact, the day of my dad's funeral? Oh, yeah.

I have no idea what this says about me, but it's probably nothing good. And nothing that years and years of expensive therapy couldn't cure, I'm sure. Maybe I'll get right on that.

xoxo

shmexxy

Here's a quote from Elsewhere. For context, this is a man in his early 40s whose wife is a former personal trainer who has "let herself go." She's 5'3 and now 165lbs. So, a little chubby, yeah, but not, y'know, Discovery Channel needs-to-be-cut-out-of-her-house fodder. Here's what her loving spouse has to say:

The hard part is giving compliments that are not true. She has talked to me about that. Wants be (sic) to tell her she is sexy, but that is hard to do. I tell her I love her all the time and that she is beautiful, but she has 42% bodyfat. I feel if I lie and say she is sexy, then she will think "Oh he is happy with me just like I am." Maybe I am wrong I don't know.

I honestly am perplexed. Is "sexy" totally determined by someone's looks, most specifically their body's looks, to this guy? To most guys? Is "hot" the only thing that equals sexy? I know all y'all are supposed to be visual creatures, but sexy has so many other components to me this does not compute.

Is a beautiful woman with whatever is your personal perfect body type still sexy if she never wants to have sex? What if she's willing to have sex but it's a very small and rigid set of things she'll do and she's never willing to try anything else? What if she's willing to have sex but she doesn't much care for it and is bored or passionless? What if she loves sex but she's selfish and it's all about what she likes, and your needs and likes are unimportant? Isn't sexiness more of an attitude than a look? Wouldn't you rather fuck an enthusiastic, generous, experimental, skilled "six" than an uptight, joyless, selfish "ten"? ARE THESE LEADING QUESTIONS (from a 6.5)? Ha!

Seriously, menfolk, tell me what's going on in your heads and penises. If your wife gained 40 pounds but you loved her and she was still the freakazoid she always was, would you not want to do her? Explain.

xoxo

service-y, yet again

Go forth, blog readers, and experiment!

I'll just be sitting here knitting or something, you bastards.

xoxo

(I suppose none of yous hit up the beer and fries this weekend in search of performance enhancement. Sigh. I can only lead you in the right direction, bitches, you gotta want to help yourselves.)

the happy trail

Due (I'm sure) to hormonal upheaval, I developed one when I was pregnant and it stayed for a long time. Long after I gave birth, long after D was weaned, it hung on. I bet my kid was three before I finally lost it. And when I did, I was disappointed. I thought it was sexy as shit. It wasn't much--don't mistake me--just a thin line of dark peach fuzz down my belly to the pubes--but it was like an arrow pointing to my business. How can that not be sexy? Well. Go look it up on urban dictionary. Just about every definition includes the opinion that if a woman has one, it's gross. Kids these days. Sigh.

What brings this up, Andrea? Oh, according to Jezebel, Cosmo has an article this month about how pubic hair is back. Or, rather, as Cosmo says, "Untamed Va-jay-jays." The baby Jesus is weeping at that headline for many reasons. Don't tell me he isn't. And, anyway, it set me to reminiscing about the 80s when all our vulvas were as nature intended, and the full expression of that, which in my case was postnatal sexeh peach fuzz.

It occurs to me that my perception of what is sexy is not shared by everyone of course. Mr Indemnity and I were talking the other day about married orthodox Jewish women covering their hair, and as I thought about it, I thought, hell, yeah, that's pretty hot. You know, to have your beautiful hair be for your husband's eyes alone. Like Angelina saying her new mystery tat was "just for Brad." There's something incredibly erotic about having something that is just for your spouse/lover alone. I was trying to articulate this to Mr Indemnity and he just didn't get it. So, yeah, we don't all share the same tastes. Maybe even in the 80s, there might have been someone who didn't think my peach fuzz road map was teh sex. I guess it's possible. But they would have been wrong.

xoxo

oh, kids

Sometimes life is tough.

But why dwell on it? Instead, amuse yourselves with all the interwebs have to offer. There's this. And then there's this. Not to mention this, which never gets old, lemme tell you. It's an Adventures classic!

In other cheerful news, which I am very sure you have been waiting for with bated (baited?) breath, as of today I am officially one pound below my goal weight, so maybe I will stop bothering you with details of my food plan and exercise ambitions. You're feeling more cheerful already, aren'tcha? I can tell. Despite that (uh, the scale success, that is) no one saw me nekkid on my day off, which is not how the universe is supposed to work out. Oops, sorry, that's dwelling. Go look at Ewan McGregor, who is a sop to sexually frustrated women everywhere. As far as I am concerned. Ahem.

xoxo

things i need to tell you, for some definition of "need"

Do you guys know who fuckin' (cheater cheater) A-Rod is dating now? Cameron Diaz. I've never like her, so I don't even have to suck down some haterade! But, y'know, another blond? Way to be predictable. Is it a fetish or something? Wouldn't you want to bang a brunette or redhead once in awhile, just for variety's sake? I don't understand. Explain to me.

The is-Elena-Kagan-a-lesbian-or-not bullshit is irritating me no end. I don't see unmarried, short hair, and played softball as irrefutable evidence, dudes. Nor do I see "dated guys in college" as an irrefutable defense. But since I don't think it's anyone's damn business either way, STFU, news media and pundits. Shut up shut up shut up.

Speaking of politics (ha!), and defying my oh god who cares stance, I must admit I clicked on this. And was disturbed. He's fucking creepy, and I can't tell if it's because all guys looked creepy in the 80s or because he has the eerie Ken doll resemblance. I mean, don't you look at those photos and picture a smooth and featureless groin and knees that don't bend? Just me? Okay.

xoxo

giving freud his props

I'll direct you to this essay, and the comments thereon. It's pretty funny in its own rights, but the plethora of "OMG, I thought I was the only one!"s in the comments section I find fascinating. There's this weird denial in our culture (most cultures?) that many little kids have sexual feelings well before puberty, and if it's acknowledged it makes some people wicked uncomfortable. (We've talked about IGS in here before, right?, and how some parents are relieved and happy at that diagnosis and how others freak the hell out. They'd almost rather hear that their kid is having seizures than that she's learned how to masturbate at age 2.)

It will surprise probably none of you that your humble correspondent was one of those little kids who had a strong drive way, way before she ever knew what sex was. Despite my policy of TMI all the time, I'm not gonna discuss everything, but I will discuss a couple of things. When my friend K and I were in, I think, third grade, we would play this game where we would take turns shutting each other in my bedroom closet and not letting the person in the closet out until they begged. I found this an extremely diverting, thrilling, and tingle-making way to pass the time, but OMG, did my mother freak out when she caught us doing it. I'm not exactly sure *how* she deduced there was some kind of twisted sexual element to this little game, but I'm sure she did, based on the threats of how much trouble we were going to be in if we ever did that again. Ha!

I'm sure I've also discussed in here how my mother used to have tons of ladies' magazines around the house and how she for whatever reason never minded if I read them. I learned the majority of the sexual education I *didn't* pick up on the street from them, because I sure as hell didn't get any at home or in school. I remember being about eleven or so and reading about orgasms and having the lightbulb go on over my head. Ohhhhh, so that's what that is! Who knew?!?

D was probably in third grade or so himself when I found him sitting on the floor of my bedroom absolutely pouring over a stack of my catalogs, the Victoria's Secret ones being prominent. "I just wanted to see what's in your magazines, mom," he said in an embarrassed voice. And the difference between 1970 and 1993 is that *I* said, "Sure, D, go ahead." If I knew how much boob pron and probably fake nude pictures of Alyssa Milano this was going to lead to being downloaded onto *my* computer six years later, I might well have reconsidered!

Okay, I think that's as much as I feel comfortable talking about in a public forum. But if you're my close personal friend and you want to know more fascinating stories about, say, my confirmation and the moment at which I knew I am indeed going to hell, or what happened in first grade that was a precursor for some of the best times I've had in my adult life, or what the precursor to *that* was, you just ask me some time. Meanwhile, you just read that article and reflect on whether you were a weird child or not.

xoxo

sexual politics of sex

There's probably going to be some TMI in this post because I can't conceptualize how to say everything that's whirling around in my head without throwing in a personal example or two. So, y'know, if you have a weak stomach, look away.

Have you heard the Larry King stuff? Apparently his breakup with wife #whatever is due to his cheating with her sister. Dude. Of all the women in the world, you gotta sportfuck a close blood relative of your spouse? That's...an unfortunate choice. But never mind Mr King's lack of personal judgment. I want to talk some about a point that's been brought up in response to it.

It's been opined in the press that this is all the fault of Viagra (Cialis, etc) because Mr King is part of the first generation of elderly men who didn't have to give up on sexual intercourse. I mean, I'm sure that of course there have always been outliers: healthy and randy guys in their 70s and 80s who could get it up and keep it up long enough to complete the act on at least a fairly regular basis. But I think we'll agree that, generally, that has probably been the exception rather than the rule and that most people, before the invention of these pharmaceuticals, would assume that after a certain age sex would become a rare or nonexistent experience. If, of course, we're defining sex as intercourse, more about which very soon.

I think we also would all agree that the invention of these drugs has not always been a boon to these elderly guys' wives. Many of them are of an age to have been brought up with the idea that wimmins don't like seks, so they never let themselves. Or perhaps, their husbands sucked in bed. It happens. In any case, these ladies might well have been happy to stop doing it, and the introduction of the magic pill means that damn, there's a chore I thought I was done with that's popped back up again. Um, so to speak. There's also the possibility that some of the sucked-in-bed guys, when deprived of the ability to go straight to the P-in-V, may have diverted their drives into more creative activities that were to their partners' liking, and the magic pill and resumption of P-in-V means back to less satisfying times for the ladies. (Speculation about that in the media, too. I don't make this shit up.)

Now, I am somewhat torn. I think I have made clear in this blog, and in conversation with those of you who are my close personal friends, that I think that if you are in a relationship, there is some duty to provide sexual gratification to your partner, and vice versa, whether or not you are particularly into it. But "duty" isn't the right attitude to take to the duty. My hard-won personal philosophy is this: you can't go wrong by remembering this is the person you love and are bonded to and that you should want them to have fun and feel pleasure, and that if you are the one providing that fun and pleasure for them, even better. It should make you happy to make them feel good. So, no lying back and thinking of England, or grudgingly performing cunnilingus with the attitude of "are we done yet?" If your partner is really randy and you are really not, just go along with the attitude what can I do that's gonna give them some fun? and I can almost guarantee you, by the time you're done, you'll be having fun too.

In fact, I will guarantee it. If you try it and it doesn't work for you, I'll refund what you paid to read this blog entry. If people could wrap their brains around this concept, there'd be a lot fewer divorces and a lot less infidelity in this country. (Um, not that the Larry Kings of the world wouldn't still cheat 'cause, c'mon now, her fucking sister?) As I've also said before, I was into my 30s before I grasped this concept, so I won't claim to have never been selfish myself. In fact--as I've discussed with some of you all lately--the only time in my life that I was ever completely uninterested in sex for a prolonged period of time was when I was pregnant and for the first few months after I gave birth. So, basically, I expected my husband to go without for a solid year because I didn't feel like doing it. I can look back now and feel really regretful about that. If I didn't want the P-in-V, I should have at least been sucking a lot of cock, is what I'm saying. Now, S and I had a lot of other problems in the relationship, so I don't think my being more sexually available during that year would have necessarily *saved* our marriage, BUT IT WOULDN'T HAVE HURT. Ahem.

But okay, even taking my stance into consideration, I gotta tell you: I do feel bad for these 75 year old women whose husbands go to the MD and demand (or just accept what's handed out like candy!) the Viagra. If you didn't enjoy sex when you were 25 and you were both a lot more spry, to say the least, you ain't gonna enjoy it fifty years later. Your thinning vaginal walls and arthritic hips aren't going to add anything to the proceedings, but medical science isn't quite as concerned about at least one of those things as they are with the apparent god-given right of everyone with a penis to have an erection at will.

But that brings me back to another conversation I've had recently. I also think that if, in a relationship, you really are not willing to satisfy your partner's sexual needs, the only fair and good and right thing to do is to freely allow them to get it elsewhere. I think it's preferable, intimacy-wise, if you make the effort and don't totally disengage sexually, but if you do, then open up the relationship. Maybe all those 75 year old women whose husbands take the Viagra scripts should say, "You have my permission to get it wherever you can, darling." Though, that's probably the kind of event that leads to really old men offering me a ride in their cars when I'm just walking home from the 7-11. Sigh.

The whole thing is a big can of worms. But as long as the pharmaceutical industry is making bucks, who the hell cares, right?

xoxo

again, go carla

I'll direct you to this piece on my close personal friend and hair role model, Carla Bruni. (Even if you don't want to humor me by reading it, click the link just so you can see the adorable pic of her.) Oh, Andrea, I hear you thinking, you just like to post articles that agreed with your own personal pet theories. To which I say, duh. Why the fuck else would anyone have a blog?

Anyway, I just wanna say that life would be a lot easier for, uh, some people if our culture could wrap its collective brain around the concept that not all committed relationships are monogamous and that's okay. I'ma give props to my girl Carla, to Monique, and to Tilda Swinton as public figures who are open about that concept. Hell, I even have to give props to the evil Facebook for the fact that apparently one can list one's relationship as "it's complicated". Ha!

In other somewhat unrelated news, I put a pot roast in the crockpot for my dad to eat tonight and I got some mild complaints that it's all in one piece. Srsly. It's not enough that I leave him home cooked food when I'm not here, it's gotta be cut up. I'm this close to signing him up for meals-on-wheels so he'll appreciate what he's got now. And, yeah, okay, if he cuts off a finger when I'm not here, I will feel guilty. Better leave my cell on. Eye roll.

xoxo

notes

1.) Graffiti seen in North Station ladies' room this week: Punks Rule, OK? No, what punks do not do is ask permission. Kids these days. Sigh.

2.) So, last night trivia was cancelled because the guy who runs it did *not* bounce back from major abdominal surgery in less than a week as he had expected. Go figure. Instead Mr Barma and I went out to see some music. He warned me in advance that the venue was bad, and not in a good way. In fact when we were eating dinner, he suggested that if I thought I was going to need to use the bathroom at any point during the evening I do it then. (And when I needed to go a second time during the evening, I took his keys and ran across the street and up the block to his condo and then came back. Swear to god.) We discussed that some places could be filthy and disgusting and that is part of the whole experience (See: The Rat), but this place last night had not earned the cred for that. It's just a poorly managed pit. Example? Mr Barma goes to the bar to get us a couple crappy beers ('cause they don't sell good beer, silly), the bartender takes the order, wanders off from behind the bar, comes back several minutes later empty handed and asks, "What was that you wanted again?" But what I would most like to convey to you all is the decor. There were all these water features, one of which was, no lie, a fountain spewing TidyBowl blue water. There were gogo cages sans any dancers. There were private booths with gem names over them: pearl, sapphire, diamond, etc. There were weird club chairs on wheels and tables covered with tablecloths last seen at a christening at the VFW. And, y'know, keep in mind the filthy floor and bathrooms. It came to me while Mr Barma was off taking ten minutes to buy two beers in a mostly empty bar. This was a Las Vegas ultralounge for people who have gone to hell. (Yeah, see, now at least I know what the nightlife is gonna look like in the afterlife for me.) Oh, and I have to mention the little Asian cocktail waitress who has SUBLIME tattooed across her back, begging the question: the band or the adjective? If it's the adjective, I gotta give her props. Most people don't have that kind of self-confidence!

3.) Finally, in the Metro today (or maybe yesterday, I just found it on a bench) there's a piece about one of Tiger Woods' mistresses saying he is cheap, and that all he ever bought her was a wrap from Subway on one occasion. The article then snarks that her problem is that she thinks he's the cheap one in that story. Excuse me? Slut-shaming, what? Leaving aside any personal feelings I have about women who fuck famous married guys and then kiss n' tell in order to land a book deal or 15 minutes of fame, that's just totally unnecessary. A multimillionaire who doesn't even provide his paramours with, say, a nice room service dinner, a good bottle of wine, effin' cab fare...that's just outrageously cheap, and bad manners. Just add it to the tally of Mr Woods' poor behavior, and don't use it as an excuse to take a shot at some woman because she's a "slut." Grr.

xoxo