Wednesday Wipeouts

First let me say this: I'm also helping Jeff over at This is Why Your Hold Time is So Long today. He asked me to come up with the rules of etiquette for the ladies' room. So yeah, you heard it right: Jeff and I put our brains together to give you a list of bathroom rules. I'm scared, too.

~~~~oOo~~~~

I'm not sure how much longer Wednesday Wipeouts will last, so enjoy 'em while you get 'em.

I particularly enjoyed this message. It came to me from a man with "daddy" in his profile name. And no picture.

Subject: hey there

5 10 160lbs (32" waist) athletic 45yo (eek!!). Clean, ddf and safe, (still married tho separate bedrooms 8 yrs now and an open marriage) courteous :o) non smoking, (though I don't care if you do) open minded, fun English guy (you'll love the accent) living in [you don't need to know], just north of [somewhere] and south of [somewhere else], looking for a mature, longterm, exclusive friend I can spoil, exclusive and hopefully permanently
All the info you need to contact me is here.
Please get in touch if your interested in me despite my dysfunctional life, send a email here or hotmail and I will get in touch.add me on yahoo messenger as [is it bad that I kind of wanted to leave this one in here?]
meet me - u might even like me! lol
I'd love to take you to lunch/dinner/coffee w/e you're more comfortable with. Sometimes older is better :o)
lets exchange some pics if ur interested and open minded enough and then maybe we can meet for coffee
[name]
Hope you have a great weekend!
[phone number] I will ALWAYS reply - if you dont receive one please resend as my cell was prolly powered off :o)
I'm sorry if my email freaks you out - but I simply want to be totally honest and up front from the get go

I know. It's shocking I didn't call him, right?

Also, my dearest Gofahne had me in stitches with tale of a horrible date. While I wish I could share it with you here today, alas, she has to write about it herself. And she's still...traumatized. Let's just say the words "I love my penis" (completely out of the blue) were the highlight of the evening. Well, I mean, aside from it being over.

Keep it like a secret.

My favorite Built to Spill album. What? Center of the Universe rocks the shit.

That's really not the point though.

Today, we're going to talk presents.

1. I am totally one of those people who thinks that you should know what I want as a present. If you have to ask and I have to tell you, I may as well just go with you to buy it. Suck it. Pay attention and it's not so hard to figure out. I know of at least one ex-boyfriend who would likely argue with this...

2. I haven't really gotten a present in quite some time (unless you count that plastic dead grandma in a rocking chair I got at the White Elephant Christmas party I attended last year, which I don't). My last boyfriend didn't "do" presents. Giving or receiving. Which was actually fine as he would have been completely horrible at picking them out anyway. Paying attention? Not really his strong suit.

I don't really remember any Christmases before my sister was born. And in fact, I don't remember any before she was old enough to open presents. But we are exact polar opposite present-openers.

My baby sister would get up at the ass-crack of dawn, drag me out of my slumber, race to the presents and put her hands on EVERYTHING. Presents from Santa were unwrapped (he doesn't have time to be wrapping presents, yo), while presents from family were wrapped immaculately. We are excellent present wrappers.

She would rip the paper off of everything, try everything on, play with everything, and name everything in about 15 minutes.

I, on the other hand, would sit and stare at the presents. The unwrapped ones. From Santa. Just taking it all in. After a while, I would reach for a wrapped present.

I actually hate opening presents in front of people. To me, it's such an experience and I'd rather be able to take my time. I like to savor the moment.

The anticipation is usually the best part. That's why I don't want to know what the present is. Because until you open it, it's perfect.

Present opening by Shine:

Feel the present in your hand, experience the weight and/or shape of it.

Then, slowly, remove each piece of tape one at a time, careful not to rip the paper.

Unfold the paper from around the present.

Carefully lay the paper aside.

At this point, you're probably holding an unwrapped box (PERVS. Yeah, I giggled).

Slowly lift the lid and peak inside.

Remove any stray tissue paper and set aside.

See that the present is, in fact, a diarrhea poop brown T-shirt, given to you by four of your relatives. It came from the Mens department and is an X-Large. Wonder if you possibly received a present destined for some relative no one likes. Realize that no, four of your relatives thought that this would be the perfect gift for you. Wish you had just left the wrapping on the present.

And that? That is why I hate opening presents in front of people. And why I'd prefer to open them slowly and savor the anticipation.

There's something in my life that feels an awful lot like a present. And for now, I'm carefully looking at the wrappings (which are pretty amazing, so far), but I'm not ready to peak inside. What if it's another diarrhea poop brown T-shirt?

Drugs, I haz them.

On Friday, I had reason to be under the influence of some (completely legal) drugs. Normally, the strongest drug I do (aside from alcohol) is Advil. And I don't even take that very often. Here's a random collection of thoughts that I wrote down to share.

Gosh, my bathtub is deep. I wonder if I could put in a diving board?

My teeth don't really feel like a collective any more. What if they decide to go to war with each other in my mouth? (This was a recurring issue all day.)

I know I'm supposed to be asleep, but I think I'll get a pedicure instead.

It's probably not a good idea to trim my bangs right now...but that one strand is really long... (get scissors)

If I fix my hair and do my makeup, no one will know I'm on the drugs.

I'd really like to take a picture of my ass right now. It looks juicy. Wonder if I could bite it? (The answer is no...but not for lack of trying.)

Huh. I'm pretty.

Ice Cream. WANT.

I should really...groom. (This? Was a horrible idea. Who knows? It could be a TMI Thursday post!)

What the hell color are my eyes any more?

I wish someone were here to give me a hug. Someone without boobs.

My dress is wrinkled. But it's so pretty!

Ice Cream. WANT.

My hair straightener is REALLY hot. Does this count as heavy machinery? It's not very heavy. But it's...REALLY HOT. Hmmm...(continue to straighten hair in the hopes that no one will notice I'm high as a kite.)

America's Next Top Model makes more sense on drugs. This explains the mindset of the producers, I guess. Except the Tyra Banks part. Where are her calves? Maybe my teeth ate them.

Cheese is what's it's all about. Not that hokey pokey bullshit. I wish I had some cheese. Oh well, hokey pokey it is.

Yep. Pedicure. I'll go get one. (Get in the car.)

Uh, those trees vaguely resemble the scary ones in The Wizard of Oz that tried to hurt Dorothy. I'm scared.

Ow. Ow. OW! Asian people should not be allowed to massage. And now I kind of want Chinese food. Does that make me racist?

Someone really should have stopped me from driving. But this is kinda fun. AAHHHHHH! TREES!

So, the question is: Don't you wish you had talked to me? It was quite the experience from what I hear. Also, this is why I don't do drugs.

See? I'm not the only one who has bad dates!

Today I've got a special guest post lined up from Jay of Genius Pending fame. Jay is a minimum 30 kinds of awesome, and I truly aspire to be like him in at least 27 of those ways. He was nice enough to offer to shorten this post if I thought it to be too long, but honestly, I don't think I would want change a single thing about it.

(Jay took it upon himself to write his own introduction and I can't really do any better. Although I would have probably said he was 37 kinds of awesome because 37 is my favorite number. I also would have said that I'm more awesome than Jay, so I don't really aspire to be on his level of awesome, as I surpassed that around age five. But we all knew that anyway, right? And without further ado, I give you Jay's worst date, which almost beats the crap out of all my bad dates. But not quite.)

(Oh, and I'm currently working out a way to send Jay anthrax and/or herpes via internets for that Burger King link. I have nightmares about that. You could have at least linked me to a hot picture of Shirley Manson, but noooo...all I get is the Burger King. Watch your back, Jay. And I'm writing over there today...so click and read, bitches!)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~oOo~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hello there to the sexy readers of Shine's blog. Trust that I'm intimately aware of your collective sexiness because Shine outsources all of her Facebook stalking to me, and yes, that picture of you in the "WWJD Inside of Me?" t-shirt did help to sway my sexy decree. However, I'm not really here to talk about how incredibly sexy either of us is. This is a guest post, and the rules of engagement clearly state that if I'm going to fawn over anyone, it must be the host blogger. Although Shine did say that I could also fawn over Shirley Manson, or exploit her odd obsession with The Burger King.

What I'm here to talk about today falls right in line with a popular topic on these pages. As we all know, Shine's prone to having awkward dates, or more to the point she somehow manages to discover a previously uncharted sector of dating hell with each new guy that she meets. Normally I'd assume such a situation to be her fault, as she's the only constant in this never-ending vortex of bad conversation and creepy douchebags, but I've yet to find any overarching flaws in her that would necessitate such blame (read: she's not the bad kind of crazy). In fact, the only plausible theories that could be attributed to her dating woes are 1. she was somebody horrible in a past life, or 2. she stole something from an Indian burial ground and has yet to return it.

Now while Shine is admittedly a pro with bad dates, I imagine that very few of us can claim total inexperience with them. There are some dates that you just know something is off with and/or you simply have no connection. Things can get a little crazier, like the girl with the cold sore you can't stop staring at (who STILL tries to kiss you at the end of the night). You might also experience mid-range bad dates, where they won't stop talking about their ex, ditch you halfway through the night, or drop a racist joke before the first drink even shows up. Sadly, those are all examples of girls I actually went out with at one time or another. Sadder than that is how none of them even come close to touching what I went through on the worst date of my life. We all have one of these stories, and I hope you appreciate mine:

It was the summer of 2000, and I had recently moved to Oregon from Texas. I was living in Portland, and my brother in Salem about 50 miles south. He was adamant about setting me up with his co-worker, I was adamant about getting laid for the first time in over 6 months, so we set something up. I didn't have a car because I didn't really need one where I lived, so she agreed to come to Portland for the day. We went to the rose gardens and the Zoo, had lunch, and honestly I thought we were hitting it off quite well. On our way out, she told me that her sister was having a small "get-together" at their apartment that evening, which we could gladly let our date spill over into. "You can stay the night, it's no big deal" she said. This should have thrown up a red flag immediately, but all I heard was "Please come sleep in the same house with me after a night of drinking." So I said yes.

This is where it all started coming apart, as if I were a superhero in the capture of some supervillain, and she now felt confident enough to expound on her master plan of crazy to me. Over the course of the hour-long ride down to Salem, she shared the following tidbits about herself:

• That her Mom had left her Dad 5 days ago, and wouldn't tell anyone where she was staying.
• She had an abortion last year because she dropped so much acid the first month of the pregnancy (before she found out).
• Her previous boyfriend of 2 years, who was the father of the lost baby, had sold naked photos of her after they broke up -- ONLY 3 WEEKS AGO.
• How much she hated science fiction, especially Star Wars and Star Trek.
• She once woke up in the back of a police cruiser completely naked, save a blanket from the cops and one of her socks.
• That pain and pleasure are often good bedfellows.

My head was swirling by the time we arrived at her place, and the quaint "get-together" turned out to be a 30 people crammed into a two-bedroom apartment. I was already planning my retreat, but decided not to put any plans into motion after seeing the insane amount of alcohol they were hosting. I had surmised after our car trip down the TMI Expressway that this night would not be ending well, and it sort of made sense that the best approach to the situation might in fact be a drunken one. Many beers later I was feeling much better and not just from the beer, but also because my date had been noticeably absent from the crowd for over an hour. Then I got peer-pressured into taking a shooter I had never heard of before, something called a “Prairie Fire.” It looked reddish and soupy, and in my mind I imagined it as some kind of cinnamon liqueur and Kahlua combo

Wrong.


A Prairie Fire is actually shot of tequila with a dash of hot sauce for flavor. Only in this case as I later learned, my impromptu bartender opted for a liberal amount of habanero sauce instead. My throat and mouth were instantly on fire, as were my eyes a moment later after accidentally rubbing them. The pain I experienced faded slowly, although it was quickly replaced by a far worse one in my gut. I knew what was coming long before it arrived, although I daresay we've all been at that point where you know you're going to puke but choose to fight anyway. Once I could fight no more, I ran into the bathroom and without a moment to spare fell to my knees, lifted up the lid, and proceeded to turn and projectile vomit all over their bathtub. While I had in fact made it to the toilet just in time, it was too full of someone else's... business for me to even consider sticking my face in there. Although if I were to be completely honest, it looked more like the business from a demon that had been eating from a taco truck for the past week.

The night continued to carry on against my favor, subjecting me to such personal tortures as round after round of charades and an impromptu rap battle. Somewhere past 2am, the party finally dispersed and my date's sister gave me the all clear to sleep on their couch. No doubt she felt bad for me since her sister disappeared several hours ago, and that despite the multiple angry voicemails I left with my brother, a rescue mission didn’t appear to be in the works.

Cut to 4am. I'm abruptly awoken by my date climbing on top of me. I can tell she's drunk because of the way her breath smells as she tries to make out with me; a wonderful milieu of cigarettes, gin, and what is possibly throw up. "You're so nice for sticking around" she tells me in a slurred voice. It was either sleep here or pay $60 for a cab back home, I think to myself, and it's really too bad I'm so close to broke right now. I sat up and got her off of me, launching into my normal nice guy routine, "You're drunk, this isn't a good idea, so on and so forth..." and she loses it. Near hysterical crying, blubbering things like "I just want to know where my Mom is" and "We were supposed to get married," each belligerent declaration doubling the size of the red flags I had been skillfully ignoring all night.

But you can only take so much crazy you know? Especially when it's 4 in the morning.

I knew what had to be done. In my nicest nice guy voice I gave her the "let's get you to bed" line -- I even went the extra mile by carrying her to her room. After laying her down gently in bed, pulling the covers up nice and close, I told her to try and relax while I go grab her a glass of water. Although instead of fetching the water, I opted to get the fuck out of there immediately.

Two hours later I managed to backtrack to the freeway and get to my brother's house. Upon finding me on his doorstep, all he said was "So I guess the night didn't turn around for you after all?" When asked – since he had obviously received them – why he didn't return any of my desperate pleas to be evacuated, he said it was because he knew this girl was a sure thing, and that all I had to do was tough out a little bit of crazy for her to eventually come after me. This pissed me off, but only because it made pointless the rage that had been building towards him all night. After all, he was right about the whole thing, even if he did severely underestimate the level of crazy I’d have to work with.

Violence UnSilenced

I know that today is TMI Thursday (click for all of LiLu's TMI goodness). And this post? Is certainly TMI. But it's not funny or silly. If you want funny and silly, stop reading now (and come back tomorrow for an awesome guest post that makes my bad dates seem tame). This is the story I wrote to submit to Violence UnSilenced, a website dedicated to giving men and women an outlet to tell their stories domestic violence and sexual assault. Anyone can submit a story, and it can be done anonymously. The stories I've read have brought me to tears. This is mine (no tears necessary).

I didn't write this for your sympathy. I didn't write it to persecute anyone. I wrote it because it's part of me. I've told a few people over the years, but it's not something I generally share. I had a lot of trouble putting it in this little box. I'm having a lot of trouble clicking the Publish button. Trust me, it's not easy. It's my story, though. And now I'm going to tell it.

~~~~oOo~~~~

My mom was always “over-protective.” She practically interviewed my friends’ parents before I was allowed to sleep over at their houses. I wasn’t allowed to go to parties or stay out late or do any of the normal things that teenagers do.

Of course I didn’t understand. And of course I wasn’t okay with it. I whined and moaned and complained. And then one night (yeah, okay, no…this wasn’t the only time), I lied.

I was 15-years-old and there was a party. My high school boyfriend (though we weren’t together at the time) was going to be there and a bunch of my friends and I wanted to go. I knew my mom would ask if parents would be there. And if I said, “Yes,” she would say, “Then I want to talk to them.” So I lied.

I had been told that a bunch of people were just going to crash at the party, and I was welcome to do the same. So I told my mom that I was spending the night at a friend’s house and went on my merry way.

I may have been going to a party, but I had no intention of drinking. I didn’t drink and had never drunk, so I didn’t even really know what it was like.

Someone handed me a bottle of Coke and I drank it. I thought it tasted a little funny, but I didn’t want to complain. It tasted funny because about half of it was rum. I know what you’re thinking, and yes, now I would know the difference. But then I just didn’t want to complain or seem less cool. So I drank the damn Coke. All of it.

At some point in the evening, the party got a little loud and someone called the police. We all scattered like ants when the police arrived. I ran with one of my friends, to his car. We hopped in and he drove us down the street, where we parked and waited.

He was a cute boy (sort of). And I sort of liked him. I think he kissed me in the car.

After about 15 minutes, we drove back to the house. Most of the party had cleared out. This is when I discovered that “a lot of people crashing at the party” meant me and eight guys. Me. And eight guys.

I was freaking out. And more than a little drunk.

My high school boyfriend secured me a room by myself and I went to bed. A few minutes later, there was a knock on the door. The boy I liked.

“Can I please sleep in here? I have practice tomorrow and if I sleep on the floor, my back’s going to be all screwed up.”

I didn’t really know what to do. So I just sort of stared at him for a minute.

“You mean, you want to sleep in here in this bed with me?”

“I won’t touch you, I swear. I just can’t sleep on the floor and you have the only other bed.”

This is where the smarter, stronger girl says, “Too fuckin’ bad.”

But I said, “Um. I guess.”

And so it began.

The rest of the night is a blur of touching and crying and pain. I don’t know if I ever said “No.” I really can’t say that I did. But I was crying and trying to push him off me. The weight of him was so overwhelming that I couldn’t keep pushing. I tried to roll out from underneath him, but he had me pinned down. He was a basketball player; tall and strong.

And he was my friend.

So I thought.

But he wasn’t my friend.

I gave up. I gave up and let it happen. And when it was over, he rolled onto his side and fell asleep. All night, he snored while I cried quietly. I didn’t sleep much at all. I went to the bathroom to try to clean myself up at some point. It wasn’t pretty.

In the middle of the night, he rolled my way and carelessly tossed an arm over me. He was still sleeping, of course. His arm almost made me throw up. As I squirmed to get away, he rolled into me and pushed me off the bed. I hit my cheekbone on the bed frame on my way to the floor and gave myself a bit of a black eye.

Pretty.

I didn’t know what to do the next day, so I talked to my best friend about it.

Turned out she wasn’t my best friend at all.

She told everyone what had happened. Unfortunately, he didn’t see it my way. He called me a couple of times over the next weeks. Cussing at me, telling me that he didn’t rape me.

But he did.

I never told my mother. I never really told anyone else, save for one or two close friends. I don't think anyone believed me, so I just pretended it never happened.

A few years later, I ran into him at the mall. He walked up to me, smiling, and tried to hug me. I looked him dead in the eye and said, "DON'T touch me."

He seemed puzzled by my reaction. I walked away. He didn't think he did anything wrong. I'm sure he still doesn't.

But he did.

Wednesday Wipeouts

For your reading pleasure, two more strange or awkward messages I've received on OKCupid. I promise I am in no way editing or making these up. I'm not that creative.

The first begins: Greetings, fellow humanoid!

I must state the obvious, and then it will be out of my system...

Thirty-seven!

*ahem* There, I'm done.

You seem like an interesting member of the earth species known as human and I would like to pick your brain *ahem* have a conversation. By the way, "I may shove my ovipositor tube down your throat and lay eggs in your stomach... But I'm not an alien." (which is perhaps the strangest thing you may have heard on a website geared towards dating)

Archaeology, eh? I'm sorry I don't know more about the subject, although I have a slightly related hobby that when I go to a used book store, I prefer the books that have been written in over a clean one.

Have you actually met someone who doesn't laugh? I've heard of people who "don't vomit", but purposely avoiding a pleasurable social act seems odd.

[redacted], good; doubt in the mythos of the popular, good; getting to have a conversation with you, great if it happens.

--[redacted]

No, but really. He may shove his ovipostor tube down my throat and lay eggs in my stomach. It's in quotes. Is this from a movie?

I'll admit to being completely freaked because 37 is my favorite number and there's no way he could have known that, so...is that also from a movie? If it had been 42, I would have understood. Or even 34. But 37? Anyone?

~~~~oOo~~~~

These next messages are from the same dude. I must have left myself logged in to OKCupid on a Friday night, while I was out.

(11:09 pm, I'm at dinner with friends)
Subject: hey there

its friday night and we are both online, i was just checkin you out and saw that you are online... wanna chat

(11:10 pm, I'm still at dinner with friends)
Subject: or

maybe meet up and have a guinness somewhere

(11:18 pm, you guessed it, I'm still at dinner)
Subject: reread your profile
getting the idea that the perfect weekend would involve watching crank, death race, the new star trek movie, a case of guinness, and laying in bed watching the cowboys on sunday. i have a laptop, netflix, and a leadfoot that can get me to the beer store on time...
:-) [name]
[email address]
[phone number]

Really? And I hadn't responded to any of that because I didn't even get the messages until the next day. I was kind of creeped out.

Oh, they'll pick you up all right. But then they'll bend you right over that counter without even buying you coffee first.

"Call Enterprise! We'll pick you up!"

Yeah, no. They won't. Well, they might, but it will take three hours.

This weekend, I had a little car trouble. And by little, I mean a lot of car trouble. Like, my car is in the shop and I can't get it out without paying them more money that I have car trouble. Good times.

I was in my car Friday night, driving to girls' night sushi, when I realized that my car didn't really want to accelerate. I mean, it would accelerate, but it clearly didn't want to do it. Which is weird, since acceleration is most of its purpose.

I made it to the sushi place, had a rockin' time with my girls, then we went for some karaoke and I had a date. (Brave soul came out and met me with all of my girlfriends...)

I made it home, but the car still felt really weird. It was 4am, though, so I went to bed and didn't think about it until the next day.

As I was driving to my rock climbing gym, I found that my car wouldn't really go over about 45 MPH. Huh.

Then when I left the climbing gym, it wouldn't go over about 30 MPH. Oh dear.

I knew I was due for an oil change and I was hoping that would solve the problem. No, I'm not stupid enough to think it actually would solve the problem, but a girl can hope, right? Plus, it wasn't making any weird noises, so I couldn't do my usual turn-up-the-radio-and-drown-it-out plan, hoping it would spontaneously go away. Silent but deadly; it has a whole new meaning.

I sat at the oil changin' place for quite some time while they changed the oil, topped of the fluids (TWSS) and inspected my vehicle. I had mentioned my little acceleration problem, hoping they would locate the issue and tell me all about it. My car passed inspection with flying colors and I drove off the lot...once again realizing that I couldn't accelerate. But this time, it wouldn't go over 15 MPH. It seems that passing inspection has nothing to do with the car actually...going. Interesting.

The Move Trading Company parking lot was looming, so I pulled in there and had my car towed to the dealership. Which meant I was without car for the rest of the weekend.

It was too late to rent a car that day, and I was in a hurry because I was supposed to have a date, which I had to move to the bar across the street from my apartment (so I could walk), rather than going to Oktoberfest.

Rental car places are closed on Sundays. Who knew? So I made a reservation and asked that Enterprise pick me up the next morning. The guy on the phone said I had to call them an hour before I wanted to be picked up.

The next morning, Monday, I talked to the people at the dealership and talked to my boss to remind him I would be late. I called Enterprise for a ride and was told that the driver was out picking someone up, but that as soon as he got back, he would be on his way to my place.

Thinking I had a limited amount of time, I hopped in the shower and got ready quickly. Then I settled in to wait. And wait. And wait.

Two hours later, I called the office. No answer. GREAT.

Another hour later I called back. No answer.

Ten minutes later I called again and got the same song and dance about how the driver was out picking someone up and would be on his way as soon as he got back.

"That's what you told me at 8am. I'm really late for work now..."

FINALLY, an hour after that they called to tell me that the driver was on his way. Twenty minutes later they called to tell me he was lost. The office is three miles from my apartment. (I should have walked.)

When the dude finally arrived, I was beyond annoyed and he was trying to tell me what I should have done about my car. I almost killed him.

He walks me into the Enterprise office and asks for my ID and my insurance and all that jazz. (JAZZ HANDS!) I hand him my debit card (I don't like credit cards, so I don't have any) and he said, "Oh, do you have a major credit card?"

I said, "No, I have my debit card."

He said, "Oh, if you're going to use a debit card, we have to charge you a $250 deposit AND we'll need to see two recent utility bills."

Um...what?

I said, "Don't you think it might have been wise to tell me this before I left my apartment? Do you really think I just carry two utility bills around with me at all times in case someone wants to look at them before letting me use my own ACTUAL money from my own ACTUAL bank to pay for something?"

He said, "Adam? Did you not tell her about this on the phone?"

Adam said, "I didn't know she was going to pay with a debit card."

I said, "So this is my fault? You don't think if you had mentioned any of this on the phone, I might have mentioned I was paying with a debit card? You know what? This is fucking ridiculous. Give me my card back, I'm leaving. And if you charge me even ONE CENT, I will be back in here with some words for your manager."

With that, I walked out the door and realized I was stuck, three miles from home, with no car and no way to get to work. Of course, it was noon anyway, so I'd already missed half the day.

Sometime in the middle of all that, the dealership called to tell me that my car needed new coils and spark plugs and the pistons were misfiring so much that they couldn't even tell if this would fix the problem, but that these things had to be replaced for them to even look any farther.

"How much?"

"Ma'am, with labor and everything, that will be $878."

"Fuck."

Here's my thinking at this point. I've already spent money having my car towed there (For which they, of course, accidentally charged me twice, so I have $200 sitting on hold at my bank for three business days. Goody.). They charge $100 to even look at it, which they'd already done. This money comes out of the repair cost, if they repair it. I can't drive the damn thing as it won't accelerate, so I'd have to have it towed somewhere else anyway. Just to likely find out exactly what they just told me and have someone charge me almost the same amount, which, when you add in towing fees and $100 would possibly even be more. So I said, "I don't really see what choice I have. Go ahead and do it."

And please, please, one more person tell me that they're doing too much to my 7-year-old car which has 140,000 miles on it. PLEASE. Guess what? It's a piece of crap, but I have no payment and I don't want one. And sometimes cars need work. Especially when you know nothing about cars and haven't bothered to do anything you're supposed to except change the oil. SHIT HAPPENS.

Every single time someone not at the dealership has tried to work on my car, from individuals to other auto shops and such, it has been a SHITSTORM OF FAIL. I don't know why. Also, the dealership people work fast and I know where they are and they're unlikely to be gone next time I need something.

Ahem. Can you tell I've been dealing with this for three days straight now?

I had a little bit of a breakdown when I walked out of the Enterprise place. So I called my mother. Which I was trying damn hard not to have to do. I'm almost 30, for cryin' out loud. However, at this point, I was stuck and trapped and they have an extra car.

I walked home and my Aunt Dana (who's been working on cars since she was old enough to walk) came to pick me up. We went to the dealership and evaluated the situation. As it turned out, the car needed several other things, including a new timing belt (which should have been replaced at 100,000 miles) and a coolant flush because the asshats at the oil changin' place had put the wrong coolant in and now they were all mixed in there and my car is old, yo. Dana said that the car gods had clearly been smiling on me and she thought that the work they suggested was warranted if I wanted to continue to drive the car.

SEE? I didn't just go with whatever they said. I'm not a complete idiot. (Even if someone did happen to call me one for being an atheist...on our first date. Wanna guess if we had a second one?)

At this point, making it to work was out of the question, so I went up to my mom's to work there and pick up my sweet ride. For the next two days, I am the proud driver of this:







Oh baby. HOT. It has the same size steering wheel as a racecar bed, I think. Maybe smaller. And it's ELECTRIC blue; inside and out. And doesn't the exhaust pipe look a little...phallic? Oh yeah.

Aunt Dana and I also saw this gem on our way to my parents house from the dealership:





The first thing Dana said? "That's a Pops move, right there."

My Pops (her dad, my granddad) is the master of all things bungee cord or rubber band or duct tape or...bubble gum. He tried to fix a gas leak in my mom's car with bubble gum when I was a baby. Bubble gum. Just in case you're thinking maybe that's pretty clever...it's not. Gasoline takes all the sticky out of gum in about five seconds flat. But he's cute. And he's the only person I've ever known who actually drives just as well asleep as awake.

It's Friday, we should break up - Expectations

As a general rule, I feel like a disappointment. At least to my mother.

I'm never going to be a doctor or a lawyer or some other respected profession where the participants typically make a lot of money. And the truth is? I don't care a lot about that. But I hate feeling like a disappointment. Because I had all this potential, and I'm wasting it by not pursuing something that probably would have made me miserable in the long run.

My mother would never ever tell me I'm a disappointment, at this point. But deep-down, I know it's there. She struggled most of her life to make sure that we had everything we needed financially. And she wants us, as her girls, to be financially secure.

My priorities are different, though. As the little girl who never got to see her mom because Mom was always out working, I see things through different eyes. I'd rather enjoy the time I have (and not have a lot of money) than work through it and miss out on everything.

I love my mom. And I appreciate everything she's done and continues to do for everyone in her life. But we are cut from a different cloth. I do not have her drive and determination. I want to be me. And I want to be happy being me.

So today, I've been thinking...and here's my list:

I'm supposed to: Have a clean apartment at all times.
In reality: My apartment is forever strewn with clothes. If I know someone is coming over, it's a mad rush to make things appear presentable.

I'm supposed to: Go to graduate school or medical school.
In reality: I want to be a writer. And I don't want to go to medical school. Even if they pay me.

I'm supposed to: Want a husband and 2.5 children and a house with a picket fence.
In reality: A husband seems like a lot of trouble and rather expensive to get rid of once he pisses me off, children barely speak English and are usually more of a pain than they're worth and the idea of having a child scares the bejesus out of my vagina, and I like living in an apartment and calling maintenance to fix my sink.

I'm supposed to: Make mature decisions regarding love and finances.
In reality: I'm still feeling my way through life and making the wrong choices. But my stories are damn interesting!



The girl I should be: One who walks through the grocery store with her healthy salad and bag of fruit for dinner. And a bottle of water. The big one.
The girl I am: One who has a cheeseburger, fries, and a beer. Possibly with cake.

The girl I should be: One who is put together impeccably, and floats around in heels like they were made for her feet.
The girl I am: One who's usually wearing jeans or cargo pants (or a skirt and thigh high stripe-y socks, yes!), never irons anything, and usually wears heels for no more than 15 minutes before kicking them off in favor of her flip flops. My feet hurt, damn it.

The girl I should be: One who owns her own car and owns or is in the process of owning her own home.
The girl I am: One who is still driving a hand-me-down from her parents because she'd rather buy heels she'll rarely wear or take vacations than have a car payment. See above for home-owner question.

The girl I should be: One who never gives anything away. One who never admits that she drank too much and threw up, or that she fell in the shower and busted her ass, or that she doesn't have any food in her fridge that wouldn't go on a hot dog (but no hot dogs). A lady.
The girl I am: Is a pretty open book. About her flaws and her indiscretions. Lady is not a word used to describe someone who ass-plodes all over the work bathroom after some McDonald's and then tells the internet about it.

Truth? I love who I am. And I wouldn't change it for anything. The girl I am is pretty awesome. She's a good friend. She cares about other people. She will stand up for what she believes in, but she knows how to admit she's wrong. She can tell you a damn good story. She will make you laugh through your tears. She works hard and plays hard. She doesn't think she's better than everyone else (even if she accidentally makes it sound like she does on occasion)...except Paris Hilton...she is definitely better than Paris Hilton. She can cook. She will always buy you a drink, and never expect one in return. She is generous and helpful, sometimes to a fault. She will punch you in the vagina before she'll watch you hurt yourself. She always says the hard thing, the thing no one wants to hear. She's willing to ask the question, whatever the question may be. She will listen to your opinion. She's willing to make an ass of herself, pretty much any time. And she is a damn lot of fun...most of the time.

So while I may never make a lot of money, or achieve success by society's standards, I will always be a person I'm proud to be. I don't need a Masters degree or a PhD or an MD to be a good person. I am a good person. So screw your expectations (not you, Mom). I have my own.

TMI Thursday - Possibly my worst date ever.

Hold on to your hats, ladies and gentlemen. It's time for LiLu's TMI Thursday!

Yeah, I know. I've already told you about some bad dates. But this one happened a really long time ago.

About six years ago, I had a friend. I know, right? I had a friend! Okay, no. But this friend had a little boy who...was my world (and you guys know how I feel about kids). Cutest little thing you ever did see. He was three when I met her and five when she chose to cart him off to Louisiana to marry a crazy, controlling freak of an asshole.

None of this has anything to do with the story, except to say that I had this friend who wanted to join Match.com. So of course she wanted me to join Match.com. So I did. And this is the story of my very first online date.

His name was something I didn't bother to remember. James or John or Jeff or something. We chatted for about a week before we finally bit it and met up for a drink. Now, at the time, I didn't really drink at all. So when I say "a drink," I do in fact mean, one drink. We met at Gloria's in Dallas (really far away from where I lived). I had a margarita, he had a beer, we ate chips and salsa and talked and everything seemed okay.

He asked if I wanted to do something after the drink, so I said okay. But then he discovered he had left his wallet at his apartment.

"No problem," I said. "I can get this."

Thinking all the while, "Oh great...he's one of those..."

I paid for our drinks and then he said, "Yeah, but I can't be without my wallet for the rest of the night. I need to go get it."

Let me back up a second to say this, he was already at the table when I got there, and the waiter brought him his beer shortly after I arrived. He had already ordered it. When I ordered my drink, they asked for my ID. But this isn't unusual because as a general rule, I look about 15. I hadn't really thought about whether or not they would ask him for his ID, though.

I said, "Well, okay, so do you just want to tell me where we're going and then meet me there after you get your wallet?"

"My place is really close. Why don't you just follow me there and and I'll get it and then you can follow me to the next place."

This seemed harmless enough in my naive little mind, so off we went. I followed him to his place, fully expecting to sit in my car until he came out with his wallet.

"Why don't you come up and see my place, since we're here?"

"Uh, that's all right. I'll just hang out here," I said.

"What? You think I'm going to lock you in or something. Just come up for a second. You can stand in the doorway, if that makes you feel more comfortable."

Yeah, I'm an idiot. I went upstairs.

He showed me around and then said, "Oh, and this is my room."

I walked in and stood there, willing him not to toss me down on the bed and rape me, while he fumbled around in a drawer, presumably looking for his wallet.

Then he turned around with this weird look on his face and said, "I thought maybe we could play with this?"

I look up and he's standing there, with this really strange creepy yet hopeful look on his face, holding a pocket pussy. A POCKET PUSSY.

Now, I don't know if you've ever seen a pocket pussy before, but it looks like (NSFW! REALLY REALLY NSFW!) this.

"Wanna touch it? It feels really real." (I have serious doubts at this point that he'd ever touched a real one.)

I was so freaked out that I kicked him in the shins, turned around and ran out the door. I discovered that he had indeed locked me in, but I knew how to work a lock, so I unlocked the door, ran down the stairs and got in my car. I spent the next 30 minutes shaking like a leaf in my car, on the verge of tears, lost in Dallas. In another hour, I was home and in the shower.

I'm sure there was some flirting while we were having drinks. But flirting to the point of trying to put your sex toy on me? No. Just no.

He messaged me the next day. Not to apologize. To see if I wanted to hang out again.

Serious.

Wednesday Wipeouts

Oh, OKCupid. Oh, the men on OKCupid. Actually, from what I hear from our dear Phronk, the women are just as bad...but I don't have to deal with them.

Wednesdays will now, for the near future at least, be devoted to weird messages and/or conversations I've had with men on OKCupid. I know, try to contain your excitement.

This week's winner:

Well hi

My name is [it would be mean to tell you] I am 200 lb and 6ft I am from [somewhere], and I think your cute (just so you know its hard to tell a total stranger that they are cute or pretty threw a computer without sounding creepy, please forgive me).. Just the same I am white I shave my head I love the cold not really into sports that much but I play volleyball twice a week I have a dog and I take great pride in being Irish.. So if you like guys that are strong quiet that have tattoos and love to cook stop buy and say hi or text dosent bother me [for his own protection] wish you the best..

It just hurts my head. PUNCTUATION, people. Figure it out.

And since it's our first week of Wednesday Wipeouts, here's a bonus conversation I had with a dude because I just couldn't stop myself. Later, as I was telling Gofahne (ahem, please to sit your ass down and write your first blog, thanks) about it and we had a nice chuckle. Then I sent her the link to his profile and she said, "Um...remember how I told you that I was maybe having coffee with someone this week? Well, that's him."

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Oops.

It went like this...

Him: hey, what are you upto?

(Now, I had been chastised for never really responding to people, so this week I was trying to be a good girl and at least say something. I went to check his profile and his list of "I'm really good at..." things was this:

Kick boxing
Tigers
Water Falls
Jet Skiing
Para Sailing
Scuba Diving
Muscle Cars
BMWs
Roller Coasters
Basketball
Kite Surfing
Chess
Horse Riding
Bowling
Pool
Card Games
Long Drives
Racing my car
Movies
Music
Reading
People
Dancing
Salsa
Camping
Nature
Photography
Travelling
Massage
Reflexology
Eyes
Kissing

Which is...a lot of crap that makes little sense, but the first "move" we learned in pole dancing class was "water fall," so I found it amusing that he's good at that. Anyway, it seemed like a bit of douchebaggery, but I decided to respond. But not much.)

Me: No good.

Him: oh no. what's wrong?

Me: Um, nothing. You asked what I'm up to. And I am up to no good.

(This is no longer amusing once I have to explain it. Now I just sound weird...)

(Also, is this no longer a frequently used expression? I thought it was...)

Him: lol no good means something is not good...are u living your life?

Me: (Trying to refrain from saying, "No, I'm dead.") It's an EXPRESSION. And everything in my life is lovely.

Him: Are u lovely too?

Me: Generally speaking, yes.

Him: Generally is the keyword here...It saves more lot of worries...so what would u prefer for yourself...intelligence or looks ?

(I still have no idea what the hell that means...it saves more lot of worries?!?)

Me: Intelligence.

Him: do u think intelligence is perfection?

Me: No.

Him: explain

Me: You want an explanation for "No."?

Him: (Fifteen hours later) nopes...i want an explanation for why u like me :)

Me: Whatever would have given you that impression? (Which should have been my other choice, "That's easy. I don't.")

Him: (Five hours later) YOU...and dont try to make me scared of it...its ok to like someone :)

I can't even think of a response to that that isn't "drop dead." So I'm just leaving it there.

The long and short of it.

I have this problem.

I'm shallow. I really never thought of myself as shallow, but it turns out, I just might be.

As a general rule, I only like tall boys. So, if you're funny and smart and generally awesome, but two inches shorter than me? I'm probably not going to even look twice at you.

This presents a particular problem with online dating. As I will be intrigued by a profile, look over at the height and see that the person is 5'5" tall and think, "Crap."

And then I can just pretend you never existed.

I'm not going to tell you what the problem actually is with short guys. Because, well, I'm just not. But trust that it isn't about wearing heels or what people will say or anything of that nature. Don't call me Jessie Spano.



(You know, because of that episode where she goes out on a great date with the short guy and then ditches him when she finds out he's shorter than her? First, how did he not stand up when she got to the table? Second, why would Lisa do that to her?!? Third, those jeans! How did she breathe?)

It's something else.

And the thing is, in person, you might win me over. But "on paper," ahem the internets? It's really unlikely.

I was...encouraged by at least one friend to stop being such an ass and just go for it. So I did. I sent a message back to both of the shorties that have messaged me.

In my head, though? Sex with a short person is just...really weird. Like I'm some kind of giant and he'll just be crawling all over me or something. For serious. I'm ridiculous.

I'm still calling it a dinner party.

My friend The Willis is moving to Oregon this week. And the thought makes me want to cry. She's leaving her boyfriend behind, but he's insanely anti-social without her, so I'll probably never see him again either. And he's actually one of the good ones.

To say goodbye, I decided to have a little dinner party at my place on Saturday.

Of course, since I'm kind of a hot mess, I got off to a late start.

I was making margaritas (okay, those were actually made by LOB), creamy chicken and spinach enchiladas (well, one without chicken for our resident Pretty Bitch), chicken and shrimp nachos, and this amazing cheesy corn dip (seriously, this shit is incredible). And Puppy Chow, because it's The Willis's favorite.

I was too much of a mess to take any pictures of the spread (TWSS?), but trust: It was awesome.

After college football was over, someone (who shall remain nameless) suggested a drinking game. Mostly a drinking game in that you stand around and drink while you do it. Now, I was on my fourth margarita and LOB didn't skimp on the tequila. So I was already a little tipsy. And the game is this:

Take a paper bag and place it on the floor. Like so:



The first person must lean over, touching only the soles of his or her feet on the floor (so no hands, knees, or elbows) and pick up the bag using only his or her mouth. Everyone takes a turn, all the while hoping no one has the herp. What?

After everyone has had a turn, someone cuts one inch off the top of the bag. And the whole thing starts again. If you fall, you're out. If you touch the ground with your hands, you're out. If you just can't do it, you're out. This proceeds until only one person is left standing.

Now, let me explain something about The Willis. She's very tiny. Except for her boobs, but that's not really the point. She's 5'2" tall or so (as is Gofahne, but for some reason she seems taller to me). Her boyfriend is probably 6'0" tall at least. And LOB is 5'10" tall, I think. I'm about 5'7" tall. So you can see that The Willis and Gofahne might have a bit of an advantage.

I'm pretty flexible, but the lack of friction between my bare feet and the carpet got me far sooner than I expected. Soon, it was just The Willis and her boyfriend. Two of the most competitive people I've ever known (aside from my Aunt Dana). The paper bag had maybe a 1/2 inch ring around the bottom. So far The Willis hadn't even looked strained. But her boyfriend wasn't going to give up easily.

After watching her essentially curtsy down and pick up the bag with no problem, he stepped up to the plate.

There was stretching and straining and a little grunting and a lot of lunging. And, after a minute of trying, he plucked the bag up between his lips and stood. Victorious. Sort of.

So we did what any slightly drunk party goers would do. We cut the rest of the lip off the bag, placing just the bottom of it on the ground. It was completely flat. The Willis pulled her curtsy move again and popped back up, immediately. Her boyfriend struggled, but still managed to get the thing.

Now what?

DO IT ON ONE LEG!

Yeah, that ended in both of them nearly face planting. I'm sure my downstairs neighbors love me right about now. We had to call it a tie.

After one more drinking game, in which I took a shot of tequila to avoid having to drink 40 drinks of my vodka/Bailey's cocktail, we called it a night. That tequila pushed me right over the edge. And I spent some quality time with the toilet after that.

When I woke up in the morning, I found that my friends had cleaned my kitchen, almost entirely, even going so far as to run the dishwasher, put away the dishes, and run the thing again. I love you guys. Seriously. LOVE.

But really, none of you could bother to fix the garbage disposal? My sink nearly overflowed twice. Geez...

I keed! I should really call that in, huh?

It's Friday, we should break up - That guy with the Hitler mustache I met at the bar last night (UPDATED)

(Oh, dear. It's 9/11 and I just now realized. Moment of silence.)

Some (most) of my friends get a real kick out of hanging out with me because I'm not scared to go up and ask anyone anything. And last night was a prime example.

First, I watched my Titans lose in overtime to the damn Steelers. Troy Polamalu? Please stop being so awesome (and on the wrong team) or I will have to lick your face. This is not a joke.

I was sitting on a patio, enjoying a beer and some insanely nice weather when, suddenly, three extras from Robert Palmer's Addicted to Love video (embedding disabled by request, bastards) walked by in the parking lot.



My friend DD was like, "Um...what the hell?"

So we stared awkwardly as they walked across the parking lot. And I do mean awkwardly.

Me: "Do you think they know they're dressed like the chicks from the Robert Palmer video?"

DD: "I don't know..."

Me: "Should I go ask?"

DD: "I will buy your next drink if you do. Please do!"

Shit. I ain't scurred.

I walked over as they were getting in their car.

"Um, hi! Excuse me. I'm sorry. But...are you dressed like the ladies of Robert Palmer on purpose?"

As it turned out they were doing a roller derby photo shoot with a Robert Palmer Addicted to Love theme. YES! I love roller derby. I would be doing it right now if I knew how to skate. Or had time for practice. Because I? Look good in some fishnets.

With that mystery solved, DD and I proceeded to do some karaoke. Yes, we're that lame. And we love to be that lame. Shut it.

Sometime in the middle, our bar - our awesome, laid back, not full of douchebags bar - flooded with what appeared to be preppy, yuppy Greeks (You understand here that I mean fraternities and sororities, not people from actual Greece. That would have actually been kind of cool.) from our local private university (we assume, because we're assumers).

Me: "Uh, what are all these pretty people doing in our bar?"

DD: "One of them is walking around with a Hitler mustache."

Me: "NO! Why? I'm going to go find him."

DD: "YES!"

I started searching through the crowd to find this mustached man. It took me more than a little while because he was about five-feet tall, but all his friends were of at least average height. Finally, the only guy I hadn't checked was the tiny one. He had his back to me, so I tapped him on the shoulder.

Me: "Eureka! Uh, what's the deal with your mustache? Please tell me that's an Inglorious Basterds thing (You STILL haven't seen it? Go see it!) and not a Hitler thing."

(In case you live under a rock and somehow don't know what Hitler's mustache looked like...)


Him: "It's not a Hitler thing. I don't want to be like Hitler. Or Obama...since they're basically the same person." (This was said with a great amount of disgust.)

Me: "Turn back around before I punch you in the vagina."

Cue walking away.

Uh, really, dude? Obama is just like HITLER? That doesn't even make sense. Does it? Someone explain it to me. I'm just not smart enough to figure it out.

My awesome friend Joanna posted a link to this in the comments, but I know no one else will likely bother to paste it into their browser to see it. So here it is.

TMI Thursday - Be vewy quiet, I'm bweaking wabbit.

Hold on to your hats, ladies and gentlemen. It's time for LiLu's TMI Thursday!

Okay, so I had another post all lined up about some lame softball failure. Then, somehow, while talking to Just A Girl, I managed to let slip that I had...um, done something TMI-worthy not too long ago.

Mom, Aunt Kim, um, other relatives and/or coworkers who aren't my sister? Please stop reading now. Seriously. I take no responsibility for your discomfort if you keep this up.

Last chance.

Stop.

NOW.





Okay, at this point, it's on you.

So I have a rabbit. No, I don't mean the cute, cuddly, furry kind. I mean (and this is NSFW. Really.) this kind (except it's orange).

A small while ago, I was...playing with said rabbit. Playing? You know what I'm talking about.

(As a side note, all of this really works better for me if I'm...on top. Even where a toy is concerned. This may or may not be important information.)

Suddenly, I heard a crack. At a crucial moment, if you catch my drift. And the whole thing just stopped. Cold.

I almost cried.

Upon further inspection, I discovered that in my, ahem...excitement, I had actually broken my rabbit.

No, no. It wasn't worn out. Though I've had that problem on many an occasion. What?

This time I had broken it. Nearly in half. The part that houses the batteries was hanging on by a thread.

Sadly, I did not take a picture. So I give you this MS Paint rendering:



Vibrator FAIL.

Some people just shouldn't pole dance.

And that person is me. Well, and my friend Gofahne.

If you know anything about anything, you know that Alice, over at Alice's Wonderland has just started level 5 pole dancing. And she seems to love it. Well, aside from that amazing upside down drawing of herself on the pole the other day. By the way? That was awesome.

This is a lot of the reason I thought this would be a good, fun thing to do. I mean, if Alice does it...how bad could it be? She doesn't really seem like a skank whore, right?

(And she's not, folks. Seriously. Okay, I don't really know, but it doesn't sound like she is.)

So when Gofahne sent me the link to the Groupon for pole dancing class, I said, "Um, yes please! LET'S DO IT!"

(A fact I later denied vehemently while trying to blame the whole experience on Gofahne. What?)

Well, last Friday was the day. The day of the pole dancing class.

First, let me say that the studio is a "half address." Meaning that it's a tiny little unmarked door in a strip of other bars, clubs, and restaurants. Meaning that I couldn't find the damn thing. Of course, I had left my phone at home. So I stopped and asked a valet guy, who suddenly was a whole lot more interested in what I was doing than necessary.

Gofahne had the same trouble finding the place. She tried to call me, which was useless. I realized that this might be the case, so I walked outside to see if I could find her. Lo and behold, she's driving down the busy street in front of me.

I yelled for all I was worth, jumping up and down, flapping my arms, running after her car. I chased her up and down the road (I was on the sidewalk) at a run about three times before I finally got her attention. That's when I noticed that everyone on the side of the road was staring at me.

Hell, I would have been staring at me, too. I waved, curtsied, and jogged off to meet Gofahne at her car.

We went upstairs and...all skank broke loose.

I'm not kidding.

The instructor, I can't remember her name, but let's call her Talula, was wearing little boy shorts underwear, as were half the girls in the class. I was wearing yoga pants. Clearly I didn't get the memo to just arrive in my underwear.

My favorite part of the Groupon description?

"Note: Bring comfortable, fitted workout wear and bottled water to class. Prior to class, don't apply lotion to your arms, hands, feet, legs, or steering wheel."

STEERING WHEEL? Um...

I asked Alice about this. She had no idea. I think it must mean something else. Hey baby, don't put lotion on my "steering wheel."

Within the first five minutes of class, Gofahne and I were given advice on "doin' it doggy style." Because, ladies, you know you have to pop your booty out, if you want him to hit the spot.

I nearly lost it at this point. And we were only five minutes in. Gofahne was little more than horrified.

I have to admit that I didn't expect it to be so challenging. I also didn't expect that the beginner class would involve immediately spinning around the pole with my feet off the ground.

Honestly, I have no skills in that department. I have huge bruises on my knees from trying. My arms were sore for days.

Also, to the girls in front of me? I had no urge to see your vagina. Also, you need to do some trimming.

I keed, I keed! Well, except about the vagina part.

The other thing I wasn't expecting? Being told (over and over) to "love my poonanny" or to "rub my poonanny."

Listen, my "poonanny" and I have a great relationship. But I don't really spend a lot of time loving or rubbing on it in front of fifteen women and a floor to ceiling mirror. Well, the mirror might be okay, but the fifteen women...yeah, it was just very odd.

Never realized how much I hate that word until that class.

To make a long story long, I'll just say this: I've never felt less sexy in my whole life. Ever. Including when I fell and busted my knee a couple of weeks ago.

It was the skankiest, most classless, least sexy thing I've ever done. Wherever my sexy is, it's not in pole dancing class.

And I think that chair I molested owes me dinner or something.

And I have two more classes. Why couldn't it have been a Groupon for Burlesque dance classes? Now that, I can get down with.

(HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO GINGERMANDY AND RACHEL!! 09/09/09!)

It's Friday, we should break up - But let's not because instead I need some advice

One of my friends is having a dilemma. I'm here to ask your advice on her behalf. I completely understand that this will make some of you think less of my friend, but nothing is ever black and white. If you know me, and you've already heard about this, I apologize. Feel free to weigh in with the advice you've already given.

She dated a guy years ago, for a really long time. They, being young and stupid, broke up 37 times. The last time, this guy met a new girl a week after they broke up, and married her about a year later (His reason: "She never fights with me.").

Cut to two or three months ago. My friend and her ex-boyfriend got together to have a couple of beers and catch up. This generally happened every couple of years or so, over the course of the last seven years (since their breakup). It's always a dangerous game to play because this particular guy is...well, let's just say that when my friend pictured her "dream" guy in her head when she was younger, this guy was pretty much it. Except his eyes are brown instead of green, but she was willing to compromise on that.

They still get along pretty well. Aside from one errant "You always vote Republican" statement from him that caused her to say, "Well, no, actually. I don't." But all in all they get along.

While they were together, they fought about really stupid stuff. She was 19 when they met, he was 22. She felt really self-conscious around him because he was good at everything. So she wasn't very willing to look a fool in front of him. There was one ski trip...well, let's just leave that alone.

So two or three months ago, they got together and had some beers and caught each other up on their lives. Unfortunately, the chemistry between them was still strong. Like crackling in the room strong. Knowing he was married, though, obviously my friend didn't want to act on it. And the guy is generally a good one, so he didn't act on it either. But there was a bit of a lingering hug when they parted ways.

My friend suggested that maybe it would be better for her ex-boyfriend if they just didn't see each other any more. He agreed. He didn't want to do anything to hurt his wife. They walked away and she never expected to see him again.

That was fine with her. It had taken her a long time to get over him in the first place, but she had done it years ago. Having him in her life in some capacity was nice, but not necessary.

They texted about random stuff every once in a while, but that was it.

Cut to last week.

My friend received a text from her ex-boyfriend. It was suggestive in nature. After some back and forth, she determined that (SHOCKER) he's maybe not so happy in his marriage, at least where the sex is concerned. As in (again SHOCKER), they don't really have it. He doesn't know what to do and he thinks about her a lot and blah blah blah. He asked for her opinion and she gave it.

She told him that she didn't really think he should be married. And that in her opinion, he married the wrong girl and he did it for the wrong reasons and now he was sort of stuck. He said he'd thought about that a lot and about her a lot.

Basically, he thinks he wants to have sex with her. He says he doesn't want to get divorced, but that something has to change because he can't live like this. She told him that things weren't likely to change. If his wife hadn't developed a sex drive by now, she probably wasn't going to, so he needed to consider that. And this wouldn't fix anything in his marriage. She also told him that if he went through with this, it was likely he would want to do it again. She reminded him that she had walked away from him once and she could easily do it again. So if, for some reason, they went through with the whole thing, she could walk away and not see him or talk to him again. But she didn't really think that he would be able to do the same.

She's discussed this situation with some of her friends, and received a variety of different advice. All of which is valuable. But she's still a little torn. After all, she's not the one who took vows. She's not the one who's married. Hell, she doesn't even believe in marriage. And she already knows the sex is good and that this guy won't bug the crap out of her all the time. Obviously, she knows this isn't the best decision, but...she can't seem to stop thinking about it.

One of her other friends suggested that maybe this guy is "the guy." My friend isn't really a believer in the concept of "the guy" (Even though, in many ways he is "that guy." A subtle distinction, but an important one). But some part of her feels like maybe there's a reason that they haven't been able to lose each other over all these years. Even though that's a sappy thought and not one she's prone to have. If she does go through with the sex thing, that's all it could ever be, and it could easily be more trouble than it's worth (not to mention she's doesn't really want to be a home wrecker, though I would argue that the home is already a bit wrecked). If she doesn't and he actually gets divorced, it could be something else (but oh dear, please don't tell her mother, as she's not a fan). If she doesn't go through with the sex and he never gets divorced (which she suspects will be the case), nothing has really happened except an awkward conversation and a lingering hug.

She knows the answer should be WALK AWAY. But it's somehow just not that simple. She's a good person, but no one is perfect. So I ask you, dear readers, what do you think?

TMI Thursday - In which I don't have time to write something new, but I wrote this before I knew about TMI Thursday, so you should read it.

Hold on to your hats, ladies and gentlemen. It's time for LiLu's TMI Thursday!

A while back, something strange happened to me in a Kinko's parking lot. You may or may not have already read about it (sorry!). It really falls into the TMI category, so...

Please to click here.

Also, I know everyone in the universe has probably already seen this since that's the way it always goes with me and YouTube, but this? Made me giggle ALL DAY yesterday.

How (not) to have a good birthday.

I haven't really had many good birthdays. In fact, that was so much the case, that at one point, I decided that I would just spend them alone (and for a few years, I did). So as to circumvent the disappointment of having a crappy one.

My last two were marred by my boyfriend either yelling at me (at which point I cried) or bitching and moaning about fucking square plates at the burger joint where we were eating for half an hour.

No, I'm not joking. Yes, feel free to call me an idiot for dating him for over a year.

The one stand-out birthday should always be your 21st birthday, right? Well, let me tell you about mine.

I was living with a roommate at the time. Sweet girl. One of the nicest people you'll ever meet. Not always the brightest, but a wonderful human being. Aside from that nasty passive-aggressive streak.

She was a little younger than me and we were both super excited about my birthday. She told me not to make any plans; she was going to take care of everything. Like an idiot, I listened.

What she had neglected to contemplate was that she was still only 20. So, you know, she couldn't do anything that I couldn't do the day before. I hadn't really thought about it either, since I had no idea what the plans were.

On the big night, I looked at her expectantly. I was sort of hoping for a party. No one has ever thrown me a birthday party. Including me.

Her big plan? We would go to the grocery store, I would purchase some Mike's Hard Lemonade (the only thing we would both drink), and then we would stay home and play games.

So.

Let's recap.

My 21st birthday was spent drinking lame-ass, sugary, malt beverage whilst sitting on the living room floor playing Uno. Just the two of us.

This year, I turn 30. I'm thinking about going on a cruise. Or renting out the bounce house.

What are your awesome/lame birthday stories?