Who Farted?

No. Seriously. I couldn’t figure out whether it was him or me.

For the last three weeks I’ve been in rapturous bliss. Not only because I’ve been living inside a bottle (or two) of Montepulciano, but also because I’ve been hanging out with a really dope guy. (I know, I’m gushing).

Our interests include:

a) Make people sick by the way that we look at each other
b) Drinking
c) Cooking for each other (Well, he cooks for me…not my fault he went to culinary school)
d) Spending every night together
e) Drinking
f) Saying things that we possibly half mean and making promises we probably cannot keep.
g) Drinking and then saying things that we don't mean at all and making promises we DEFINITELY cannot keep.

So, as you can see, this is a fast train to “Dude shoots wad too early on in relationship, Cookieface ends up on stoop smoking and drinking wine like a pirate sobbing to the homeless person rummaging through her recyclables.”

It’s a pattern but I can’t seem to help myself.

Anyway, last night we brilliantly combined a-g during and after the first double date I’ve ever been on with my best friend. Conveniently, her boyfriend not only works with my New BF, but they are also pretty good friends.

We went to dinner at an old school Italian red sauce joint in our hood where copious amounts of alcohol, garlic, and gossip were consumed. I looked adorable. No really, I wish I had a picture before I started drinking because I sort of looked like this girl (less goth), before I turned into this girl. (Again, less goth).

We gratuitously went out for one more, but I needed to go home so I could tell him how I was sure he was going to break my heart accompanied by the old “I think I’m falling for you.” In other words, it was important that we go home so that I could humiliate myself because that’s my favorite side-effect of drinking.

This morning I sort of half woke up to him spooning me. We sort of kissed and said good morning. It was lovely. I started to drift back to sleep when all of a sudden there was a noise and a vibration.

Startled, I woke up fully. Oh God, I whispered in my head. Did I just fart on him???

I began to get very hot. I have no idea if he noticed or if he was even awake. I started to sweat.

Wait though, I thought. Mine are usually much more intense. Or they burn so I know they are going to smell. This really wasn’t like that. Maybe it was just my stomach (or his) making a noise.

Or maybe it was him.

Honestly, I don’t even know if it was a fart. But I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it all day.

And it’s not as if I can do detective work to get to the bottom of it. (No pun—no wait, always pun intended).

Emails I will Never Send #2

Dear Himbo:

How are you?/I don't care. I'm well/Fucking a lot.

So, it's no secret that you are the absolute last person on the planet that I would call if I needed something manly done, like mowing the lawn or shaving. However even i wasn't expecting such a shocking display of cowardice on your part.

I forgave you when you told me (to your credit, a bit sheepishly) that you gave yourself mango facials because I wanted to believe you when you said that it was to prevent breakouts due to your 3 hour gym sessions and I really didn't want you to stop going to the gym because your body was really all you had going for you in the looks department.

I forgave you when you refused to go into Trash & Vaudeville with me because "Baby, it looks scary," despite the fact that 75% of my wardrobe comes from there because hey, I knew you might feel a bit out of place in your lime green polo shirt (collar popped) and Khaki shorts amidst all the pleather.

I even forgave you for not responding to my text message a few weeks after we broke up that read "Hey, just checking in, nothing loaded, hope you are okay," because I figured that you were at a spa getting a paraffin wax treatment with your mama and friends trying to sort out whether you are precious like a baby lamb or precious like a golden angel, and that you probably just didn't get service there.

But REALLY. We were together for five months. You want to open up a line of communication? Send me a text. I'm a texter. Call me. I'll pick up and say hello. Email me. I'm at work all day in front of the computer. If you HAVE to (and I mean as your VERY last resort), send me a message through Face Book. I won't respond to the lameness right away, but I'll acknowledge it in my mind as a half-assed effort.

I am disgusted by what I saw on my Face Book page. Like, horrified, insulted...a little nauseated. We haven't spoken since August. And yet you thought it would be okay to "Poke" me? Like, "Hey friend, been thinkin' about ya!" Wrong kind of poke, asshole.

So FYI, I'm not going to remove you as a friend because I want you to be able to continue to access pictures of my exploits and me looking hot for as long as you like, but I am going to remove your "poke" and not return it. I'm stunned. Truly. Nut up or shut up.

Signed:

I Can't Believe It's not Butt-his Face Book

(Yes, I'm aware that probably doesn't make sense to you, but it made me laugh, Douche.)

Things that WILL make me Drop my Panties

9) Four words: "I have a job."

8) Skull tattoos. (evidently)

7) The phrase "The drinks are on me." (100% of the time, it works all the time)

6) Roofies. (But honestly, no need. See #8)

5) Joe Tex (look him up)

4) The phrase "Do you want to hear my old band?" (Accidentally, this falls under both the "Drop my panties" list and the "Never drop my panties list," because last week after I had written the latter list, I found myself in a situation where my panties were already halfway off when he asked me if I wanted to hear his death metal band from the early 2000s...perhaps this was planned? A clever ploy? Touche.)

3) Two words: "Health Insurance."

2) The phrase: "Here is my unlimited credit card. Go have fun." (No, I've never heard it and I probably never will, but I figure if I don't get fat, there's a chance).

1) Actually following through with the promised home repairs and improvements. I've had more than a dozen dudes come into my apartment, offer to fix my shelves, construct a bookcase that doubles as a bar, design a bed that solves mysteries and fights crime, and maybe ONE of them has actually followed through. And by this, I mean he changed a light bulb. Begrudgingly.

Phrases That Will Not Make Me Drop My Panties* **

10) "I'm an Actor."

9) "You just caught me in the middle of a burp. I'm just pounding it out."

8) "I've taken quite a few classes on women."

7) "Do you want to come back to my place and play Guitar Hero?"

6) "I hate condoms." (Yeah, Guy. We all hate them. But you sound like the Clap and you smell like Herpes).

5) "Do you want to listen to this song I just recorded with my band?" (God, no).

4) Imitating this soundbite every 5 minutes.

3) "I have a little gas."

2) "I live with my parents."

1) Guy: "You and I are going out after Labor Day."

Me: "Why? is that when your Olive Garden Coupons become valid?"

Guy: (Completely missing joke). "No. Because I have my kids until then."

*All of the above have been part of exchanges I've had in the past 3-5 months.

**I deeply apologize to anyone who is offended by the word "panties." I feel your pain, but "panties" just doesn't bother me for some reason. And yet "package" makes me want to stick a nail file in my ears.

Greeting Cards

If there's not one already, there should be a card like the following that I can send to people who suck at life:

On the front: A person of indeterminate sex (probably one of those black and white crude sketches) sitting on a toilet, clearly trying very hard to squeeze one out.

Then you open the card, and inside it reads:

"Have a Crappy Birthday."

I'm here all week.

EMAILS I will Never Send: #1

Dear Himbo:

I would like to take this opportunity to thank you for being such a douchestick in the last week of our relationship, forcing me to dump your ass over text message because it made it much easier than it would have been if you had actually been a legit citizen and ended it like a man.

However, as grateful as I am to your ugly ass parents (and I do mean ugly...I've never seen a man with a nose that big or that purple or a woman with an ass that wide and that flat) for not having a cool gene in their bloated bodies to pass on to you, I do feel as if I never got to say a few things that were on my mind during and subsequent to the last days of our relationship, so I do hope you wouldn't mind if I bend your eyes for just a few moments.

a) When you began sobbing in my bed the Sunday of our third week of dating, and you divulged to me that you used to be bulimic and I hugged you and told you everything was going to be okay and that I thought you were strong for telling me, I was actually thinking "Jesus Christ, what a fucking pussy."

b) When you asked me if I thought you were a pussy for crying and I said "No," I was lying.

c) No matter how long you primped in front of the mirror like you were going to the fucking prom, your hair always looked like shit. And yes, it was fucking red, not blonde.

d) You aren't actually funny. At all. It's not really your fault that you don't know that, I suppose. I did make the unfortunate mistake of laughing at your one joke the first 50 times you told it.

e) It kind of grossed me out when you did your gay impression. I guess because you reminded me of my 88 year-old female cousin when she's fussing at the air-conditioner.

f) Honestly, I thought the fact that you did yoga was a little gay. I know I shouldn't have, but when we were doing the warrior pose during that Bikram Yoga class we took together, you looked pretty fucking gay.

g) Although i repeatedly assured you that you were, you weren't actually the best sex I had ever had. But thanks for playing.

h) That Member's Only jacket that you bought from the thrift store in my neighborhood was about 2 sizes to small for you. And looked pretty gay and douchey at the same time.

i) Only pussy's talk to Mommy and Daddy about whether or not they should be with their girlfriends anymore.

j) Come to think of it, I think that your ex-girlfriend's friends may have been right when your ex told you that they all thought you were gay.

Anyway, I think that's all I have to say to you besides good luck with future projects, whomever he may be. Oh, and that I wish you had choked on that cookie from the batch your mommy was making you when she told you I was "different" and that it would be wise to "get to know me better." Fuck you and Fuck her too.

Yours never,

Cookieface

:-)

Rectal Bleeding

My most recent ex stuck his finger down my pants, took a little survey, smelled his finger, and then presented me evidence that apparently I had been a tad hasty the last time I was decorating the toilet paper.

My Uncle George has often decided to visit when I’m passed out in the beds of men I barely know. Unlike water, apparently your period does not stop in other people’s beds.

I have snorted, farted, queefed (terrible thing, that), smelled myself (yes, twas the "black-out period," I remember fondly), and I have almost puked during sex.

As I'm sure you are inferring, my life is essentially one huge embarrassing moment. I am a perfect example for why you should never be too lazy to get a condom.

This tale I'm about to tell is more of what I would call humiliating rather than embarrassing, and, unbelievably, it also involves my ex-boyfriend and a brown finger.

About a month ago, all of a sudden my precious boyfriend decided that he needed to be single. I got the "I need some time to think about us," accompanied with the old favorite "It's not you, it's me" line, which at least made me laugh during an otherwise grueling, boring conversation.

So, being me, and me being “comfortable” with "change," I picked up a pack of smokes for the first time in a year, grabbed a bottle of wine and got to work.

For days the only thing I ingested was nicotine, alcohol, and water. Solid food held no interest to me, and the only real side effects of this diet seemed to be weight loss, bad breath, and bad circulation. Yes, hold onto your fellas, ladies. You wouldn’t want them to see what they are missing.

However, it was my sister's birthday, and since I'm only 99% selfish, I took her to dinner, so we could talk about me and my situation more, and I consumed my first real solid food of the week.

The next day, I woke up feeling good. I had a slight cramp in my liver, but otherwise, I had moved past the "picturing myself in a music video" phase into the "I'm so strong look what I'm going to do with my life to prove my self worth to the world" movie montage phase.

Now at work, I had my morning coffee, and about ten minutes later, like clockwork, it was number 2 time. I used to have a pretty big issue pooping in public places, but then I single-handedly destroyed the ladies room at the Waldorf Astoria. They considered evacuating the entire hotel. So. I’m over it, I guess.

I’m always curious to see what comes out of me. Sometimes, I’m proud of the length or the width or the color, and other times I’m ashamed by my performance. *Shakes Head* “Could have done better.”

So that morning, I turned to rate my work before I flushed and *SCREAM.*

Everything in the toilet was red.

My heart started beating, my armpits started sweating, and I was swallowing uncontrollably.

I ran back to my desk, told my boss I was going to the clinic and flew out of the building across the street to the Medical Center.

I took a deep breath and walked into the clinic. I approached the front desk.

“Good morning,” I whispered.

“Hi, honey, what’s the problem?” the short little woman paper clipping files asked me.

In my head I said “My liver is bleeding out of my asshole and I’m going to die,” but aloud I whisper-stuttered “I-I-I-I went to the bathroom and there was blood in my stool.”

“Okay, honey,” she said. “Have a seat, I’ll get the Doctor.”

I sat down on the sterile blue-grey couch-chairs that they have in all Doctor’s offices, and in my head began delegating my belongings to my friends and family.

Just as I had decided who was going to get my state quarter collection, a woman who looks exactly like this appeared in the doorway. Not looking up from her clipboard, she called out my name. If I hadn’t thought I had anal cancer, I would have found this humorous because there really wasn’t a need to call as I was the only one in the waiting room at the time.

I followed her back to a typical examining room. At this point, she looks at my file and asks me what was wrong.

I repeated my issue, and without looking at me, she took off her glasses, sighed, rolled her eyes to the ceiling and said “Oh, God.”

I paused. Not exactly the reaction I was hoping for.

“Umm…” I was a bit bewildered.

“You probably have hemorrhoids,” she said matter-of-factly.

“But I’m going to have to perform a rectal exam to be certain. Are you giving me permission to give you a rectal exam?”

“Umm…” I wasn’t sure what to respond to, especially considering I think I’d rather have brain cancer than have this woman stick her finger up my ass. She continued:

“Listen, I don’t want to give you one either, but we have to check to make sure. I repeat: Are you giving me permission to give you a rectal examination?”

“Yes,” I squeaked.

“Okay.”

She got up and started opening cabinets, slamming them, opening drawers, slamming them.

“I don’t know where anything is in this place,” she muttered as she exited the room.

The Doctor’s bedside manner was probably not what got her hired. I hope it was her rectal exam proficiency.

She came back a few moments later with some drops and slides.

“My hands are shaking,” she said. “I hope they don’t shake when I’m inside of you.”

Pause.

“That’s comforting,” I said.

She sort of snorted which I suppose is how she expresses laughter.

“It’s because it’s so cold in here. Don’t worry, I’ve performed this procedure a million times. Lie down.” She slapped on her rubber gloves.

Now, I have had many colonics before, and I did go to college, so I’m not exactly new to things going up the exit ramp. However, there was something about having a finger rummaging around up there that made me…squeamish.

“Pull up your dress, she ordered.

What, no robe, I thought?

“Now, roll over on your side.”

Christ, in another situation, I might enjoy this.

“I’m just looking right now, and I don’t see any hemorrhoids.”

Good to know.

“But they could be internal.”

Great.

“Now, take a deep breath, and, don’t worry, my fingers are small.”

As I stared at the stark-white walls, I felt a little intruder moving back and forth.

After a few moments, it was over.

She presented her gloved finger to me, (sort of how my ex had) and said,

“Looks brown.”

(Sort of how my ex had).

She then proceeded to do a little test with the drops and the slides.

“Yes, there is no blood…maybe it’s NOT hemorrhoids.”

Wow. Did you get your Medical Degree from Toys R US?

“Well….then what could it be???” I asked.

“Do you have your period?” she asked.

“No.”

“Are you sure the toilet was red?”

“YES.”

“Did you eat anything strange yesterday? Perhaps something that had food coloring?”

I wracked my brain while having the mild thought that these were all questions that could have been asked before the rectal exam.

All of a sudden, something dawned on me.

The night I had taken out my sister, I had eaten an enormous beet salad.

“BEETS!” I squealed.

“Beets?”

“Yes, BEETS!”

She gave me a disgusted look, and sighed heavily.

“That’s probably it, then. Come back if your problem persists.”

I did a fist pump and practically cha-cha’ed out the door I was so relieved.

Now, yes, the experience itself was a tad humiliating, but the truly humiliating part came when I decided to share this story with the guy I was about to get under to get over my ex.

He laughed, but I noted that we didn’t do it doggy-style that night. Hmmm.

www.thegirlwho.net

Genius

A lightbulb that I thought was burned out literally came on over my head this morning.

I had no idea.

But I thought it was funny.

The Flabulous Fornicator: Chevy Runs out of Gas.

As the proprietor of the dirty "bodega," read: front for a crystal meth lab, hablad loudly into his phone, I slowly looked from my phone to the pint of ice-cream that was beginning to sweat in my hand, and then back to my phone once more.

The ice-cream I was holding was not so close to Ben and Jerry's Peanut Butter Pretzel as it was to a slab of under-cooked fried chicken.

What occurred in my (pea-sized) brain at this point is kind of complicated:

1. Part of me wanted to walk in with the generic ice-cream because it would be a funny story to tell later.
2. Part of me wanted to go on a search for the Peanut Butter Pretzel because
a) I looked forward to the challenge of trying to find this brand of ice-cream
b) It meant that I would be even MORE late than I already was which would make me look like I was too busy to get to his place on time and
c) When he asked me what took so long, I could think to myself "I was finding you the ice-cream you wanted to make you happy," but not actually tell him that, (which would be a lie anyway)...so that I would, in effect, be kind of (and here's where it gets twisted) a martyr...TO MYSELF. I know. Sick.

And part of me wanted to burst into tears and run home and call my ex-boyfriend whose favorite flavor was Cherry Garcia which is carried in every fucking bodega in New York City.

I chose option 2 because looking like a hero and being a martyr sounded like appropriate behavior for a third "date."

I was, however, faced with a few dilemmas:

1) There really wasn't another bodega within five blocks
2) Which would mean I'd be required to back-track and pass by my group of friends again which wouldn't have been such a big deal if
3) I hadn't shot my mouth off to my group of friends about how annoying it was that i was asked to get ice-cream for this guy who isn't even close to being my boyfriend, and then proceeded to cavalierly pronounce that I was going to get him a pudding pop.

So i did what any normal person would do. I went around the block the long way to avoid the awkwardness that running into the sages would incur.

This is not just a block, mind you. This is a long stretch of road. After about 10 minutes of walking i finally found a bodega that looked like it wasn't actually a front for the illegal trafficking of body parts.

I rummaged through the ice cream case to find Peanut Butter Pretzel. It, of course was nowhere to be found.

"Is peanut butter cup ok?" I texted.
"I guess. I've never had it." He replied.

WHO has never had peanut butter cup ice cream? Baby killers, maybe.

Exasperated, I pulled out the next pint of ice cream I saw.

"How about American Dream ice cream?"
"Oooh! is that the one by Steven Colbert?" He had the nerve to text.

I, at this point can't believe I'm having this conversation, even though I was the dumb one who was giving him a choice.

I ended up getting fucking American Dream ice-cream because he was so enthusiastic about the fact that an actor from a Comedy Central show endorsed it.

As i walked back up the street triumphantly clutching the pint of ice cream, who would i HAVE to run into, but one of the sages. How was i to know that these girls would be done drinking so quickly?

"Did you just walk all the way back here to get ice-cream?" she inquired incredulously.

Lie, I thought.

"Yes." I hung my head.

"Seriously?!" She inquired more incredulously.

Lie, I thought.

"Yes." I stared at my shoes and blinked twice.

"Girl, he better go down on you for hours."

Lie, and pretend that you would actually like that, I thought.

"I know, right?!" I exclaimed.

With that verbal high five, we went our separate ways.

I arrived at Chevy's apartment about an hour after I said I was going to. The only indication that he noticed was the fact that the wine had already been opened.

I proudly presented the ice-cream that he wanted, and waited for the accolades.

"Thanks," he said, and tossed it into the freezer. My heroic act was not at all acknowledged. This made me want to tell him all I had been through for him, but then I would no longer be a martyr, I would just be a complainer.

As i settled into his broken armchair from 1933 (he doesn't actually have a couch), he handed me a glass of wine an pulled up his desk chair to sit next to me. He offered me a selection of DVDs to watch, and after a bit of passive aggressive debate we settled on The office, Season 4 even though he definitely wanted to watch 'Son of Rambow,' which, let's be honest, I'm not going to watch, because, well, it's foreign.

Just as the opening credits ended and the first scene began, Chevy turns to me and asks,

"So what, are you lactose intolerant?"

"Excuse me?" I was startled.

"Well, you don't eat ice-cream."

"I never said I don't eat ice-cream. I just didn't want any.'

"Oh. Wanna smoke pot?"

So we smoked.* And we smoked. And everything started to get funnier.

Some notable funny moments:

1) The armchair repeatedly lost it's stick, effectively throwing me backward on to the floor, which although quite painful, would probably be hilarious to watch. Particularly since it happened every 15 minutes.

2) He asked me what Imodium was exactly, and he actually said the word "gas" (which I hate) out loud. But I explained and was actually thankful that he had switched his object of drunken conversation from gay people to bodily functions.

However, my humor was lost after he polished off the entire pint of ice-cream on his own, and then ate an entire bag of potato chips.

Because it was then that I realized I was about to sleep with a slightly less hot and hairier version of this guy.

Luckily for me, we both passed out before anything gross could happen. Well, that is until the next morning.

Sick.

The Used Car Lot and the Flab-ulous Fornicator

Ever since I stopped feeling feelings and became totally dead inside thanks to my eager willingness in my early 20's to get worked like Jane Fonda's thighs by older, uglier, less intelligent men, I've viewed my dating "pool" (read: puddle), like a used car lot.

I'm really not looking to buy…mainly because I can’t afford the insurance, but I'll test drive a few so I don’t forget how to drive stick.

Besides, even if the paint job is scratched up and faded, it might have a great engine.

Or it will always smell like gas.

Either way, I’ve been forcing myself to at LEAST take a spin around the block.

There is nothing like a sophomore metaphor to kick off a tale starring a pale skinny-fat 36-year old man, and, of course, yours truly.

For the last several years I've been half-heartedly seeing guys, sort of clinging on to a past relationship that was actually only recently completely severed...and by severed I mean the band-aid that you have been slowly ripping off for five years finally loses it's sticky and falls off in the dirty wave pool at the water park…and unfortunately floats smack onto a dirty slut-whore.

This decapitation occurred during a time when I was sort of hanging out with this guy, we'll call him "Chevy" because Chevy's are semi-unattractive cars, but generally pretty safe.

Chevy is very nice, however Chevy possesses many qualities that I find extremely unattractive:

1) His skin is milky white

2) He has a high-pitched laugh.

3) The way he parts his hair causes a perfectly formed wave on the side of his head.

4) He is from the West Coast.

5) When he drinks, he talks about gay people a lot. This is accompanied by his unfortunate lispy West Coast accent.

6) Yes, I am a tad racist* against West Coast folk. I think they are an odd people.

7) He is skinny, but he has a gut, forming what I can only describe as sort of a pooch. A man-pooch. A mooch!

8) He doesn't really have anything that interesting to say, mainly because he's usually smoking pot or talking about gay people because he is always drunk.

I realize I am being very hard on the guy, but before you pass judgment, let's go to the tape.

Chevy invited me over to his apartment last night to drink wine and watch a DVD.

I should back up.

Chevy invited me to dinner last night to make up for the night before when, after begging me to come over at 1:30am (after I had been traveling from the west coast the entire day) he passed out in his chair, and left me standing outside of his apartment ringing his buzzer over and over again. And calling his cell-phone. And leaving threatening messages. Like, “Chevy, if you don’t pick up the phone, I'm going to burn your house down.”

He didn’t pick up and I decided to never speak to him again.

I changed my mind after receiving multiple groveling messages.

I don’t mind a man who begs.

I declined dinner because I’d rather shit than eat in front of people I don’t know that well. I decided to accept his second offer go to his house to drink wine and watch DVDs because I needed to get laid and I really didn't care by whom.

On my way to his house, the following texting exchange ensued:

Chevy: Can u pick up some ice-cream maybe? I have wine.
Me: Ok. What kind do you want? (Thinking: Do you want me to pick up your laundry too?)
Chevy: I’m easy. Something ben and jerrys but no cherry Garcia. I hate hippies. Whatever u like!
Me: I’m not going to have any. What kind do you want?
Chevy: u don’t like ice cream!?? Surprise me. Oo much pressure!
Me: no response.

I will touch upon the “u don’t like ice-cream?” in part II of this post.

En route to his apartment, I ran into three friends of mine who were having a drink outside at a bar near his house. We had a nice chat and I explained to them that I was picking up ice cream before I went to a boy’s house to drink wine and watch a DVD. One of the three sages informed me that there really wasn’t a place around to get ice cream.

She wasn’t entirely wrong.

Rummaging through the dirty bin at the dirty bodega across the street from his house, I did find some generic brand peanut butter and chocolate ice cream that wasn’t encrusted in freezer goo and texted Chevy to ask him if he liked chocolate and peanut butter (cause, you know, some people are deathly allergic to chocolate and/or peanut butter and I thought it might be unfortunate if he died because of me) which prompted him to text:

Chevy: Is it peanut butter pretzel? I love that!

I sighed. There wasn’t any other bodega in sight.

Stay tuned for Part II: "The Flab-ulous FornicatorWhat is Imodium Exactly?"

*I am also slightly racist against redheads.

Hey Xmastime! Remember This?

TOP TEN ways someone breaks up with you and the translation of what each phrase means. If you have any to add, please feel free...I'd love to get to 100...this is going to go in the Anthology I'm putting together called: "Piecing together the tattered remains of my pride and my unflagging pursuit of complete self-distruction" #10: "Lets take a break." Translation: "I've found someone else to do, but I still might want to do you so I don't want to completely lose you as an option."

#9: “I don’t wanna risk losing our friendship that means so much to me.” Translation: “Im not sexually attracted to you, but I still want you there if it’s a Friday night and nobody else has asked me out. Also, I’ll need someone from the opposite sex to whine to when blows me off”

#8: “It’s not you, it’s me.” Translation: “WOW, is it you. I’m desperately trying to shovel in my whole double quarter-pounder so I can sprint out of here and begin my post-you life.”

#7: "I'm not good enough for you." Translation: "You are a loser. I'm going off to find someone with a job and health insurance."

#6: (a classic if there ever was one) “I love you, but I’m not IN love with you.” Translation: “How long after this awkward talk does society insist I wait before I can fuck all of your friends?”
#5: "I need to concentrate on my career and am afraid I might neglect you." Translation: "I found someone else to do and I really don’t think I’ll want to do you again.”

#4: "I want to learn to grow, to find new and different experiences." Translation: "I’m an idiot, and I’m still looking for a man who is so perfect he ejaculates chocolate. In the meantime, I will settle for fucking the rugby team."

#3: "I have Ebola.” Translation: "I'm dumping you!"

#2: “I think we might be moving in different directions.” Translation: “I got into college!!! Have fun working with your dad at Safeway, you fucking hick!!”

#1 "I'm afraid I'm falling in love with you and that scares me." Translation: I am not in love with you at all, I am just too much of a pussy to tell you the truth which is, you are kind of ugly, a little fat, I really only had the intention of doing you once, but got sucked in because you paid for everything, and my girlfriend was off at college. She's back now. We do it all the time…please stop calling me.

'She's Crazy"

I recently went on a date with a guy who repeatedly referred to his ex-girlfriend as crazy.

1) This guy was seriously cheap. For our second date he suggested, and I quote, "Why don't you come over and we'll drink PBRs in my back yard (on the upper east side) so we can save money." I laughed out loud.

2) His nose was seriously pert.

If I had a nickle for every time I heard "I don't know, she's crazy" in response to the question "Why did you break up with her?" I'd melt all 5 gazillion of the nickles together to form one enormous coin and shove it up the ass of the next Fucklehead that utters that phrase in my prescence.

Apparent reasons why Cheapo's ex was crazy:

1) She was upset when he flirted with other girls, DESPITE the fact that he told her that he couldn't help who he was.

2) She farted on him in bed one time...ON PURPOSE! And then laughed about it.

Yes, those were the two reasons he gave me for her being crazy. After a quiet pause, I calmly asked him,

"Did she ever piss in your bed, break $10,000 worth of your computer equipment, or put your house up for sale on Craig's List? Because these are things that I have done to my exes...for starters."

Oddly, I never heard from him after our second date which took place at the ever glamorous "Cheap Shots."

"She's crazy." Yeah, I'd be crazy too if I had to look at that stupid little nose all day.

Sigh.

Italian Americana--The Chronicals of Mrs. C

A few weeks ago, I went to a movie had dinner with my ex-boyfriend's mother. After M and I broke up, she and I remained close. Mrs. C is 100% Sicilian, born and raised in Brooklyn and the Lower East side. She got married very young, had 3 boys, got divorced, worked at a bank, and now lives with her ex-husband and her middle son in Brooklyn. I think she is one of the most interesting people I've ever met, and yet we pretty much have the same conversation and tell the same stories every time we are together.


But I've never met anyone who can crack me up without even trying the same way this woman can.


A sample conversation from when we were in the ladies room at the movie:


Mrs. C.: Ugh! I can't believe that women could be this disgusting! These are women!



Me: I know!


*Pause*


Mrs. C: Well, put down some paper. Just don't let your vagina hit the seat. The skin is very porous down there.



I died.

Later that day we were back at her house after our movie and she proceeded to list aloud every Hollywood actor from 1940-2008 who was/is/probably is gay. This took half an hour.

The first time I went to her house for dinner, a giant bowl of spaghetti was placed in front of me. Wanting to be polite, I polished off the entire bowl. I quietly congratulated myself for being such a good guest. All of a sudden, the entire contents of her refrigerator appeared on the table. A roast, a ham, lasagna, eggplant, mashed potatoes, etc. I couldn't believe it. I gulped and took a tiny spoonful of everything. Mrs. C. took one look at my plate and said, disdain dripping from her voice:

"What, you on a diet or somethin'?"

Needless to say, I went back for seconds.

At another dinner, about a month after the first dinner incident, M.'s best friend, I call him "Cap," short for "Captain Inappropriate," says to Mrs. C., right in front of me,

"So how do you like your new daughter in law, Mrs. C.?"

She looked me up and down and replied:

"I accept all people."

Needless to say, this time I went back for thirds.

Then there was the one time when I was over at her house that somehow, I don't remember how, she found out I had my period. She discretely brought me aside and gave me a plastic bag.

"Don't flush your sanitary napkins down the toilet...my pipes can't take it," she said in a low voice out the side of her mouth.

"Put your business in here when you are done, give it to me, and I'll walk it out to the garbage. M doesn't need to know."

"M doesn't need to know," I thought with a smile. M was always the first to know when I was menstruating.

But what was really funny about the whole thing was that on every subsequent visit, she would soundlessly hand me a plastic bag, and explain to me again about her pipes.

The woman thinks I'm always on the rag.

She's also gotten me into a few misadventures. Stay tuned to learn how I ended up inside a Hasidic Jewish household on the first day of Hanukkah after being chased by a pit bull on the roof of a 2-story brownstone occupied by an old Chinese couple.

Would You Like To Take A Survey? The First Time I had Sex

I lost my virginity when I was 21 to a 29-year old punk who at the time airbrushed T-shirts for a living. I liked him because he was hot in a dirty way. And he had tattoos. However, he was not very bright. He was so dumb in fact, I would drink a liter of wine before I hung out with him so that we could have conversations. And keep in mind that my IQ could quite possibly be in the single digits.


Our relationship was a volatile one. We broke up pretty much every day that we were together which was about a total of 4 months.


Once, he stormed out of my apartment because I said that I thought Ted Nugent might be a bad father.



Once, he jumped out of my car on the highway (tucked and rolled) because I said I didn't care for Insane Clown Posse.


Once, he broke up with me in the middle of the street during a Mardi Gras parade because I hadn't noticed that a cop had come up to him and told him to move his dog away from the floats so that she wouldn't get hurt.

Once, he kicked me out of his house in the middle of the night for stealing the covers. I deserved it!

Once, he broke up with me and I threw rocks at his car. He told me that that wasn't nice, so I threw rocks at his head instead.

Ah, young love.

I remained a virgin for so long mainly because I knew it was going to be painful and because I didn't want to get a disease, or worse, pregnant.


One morning when I was 21, I woke up and decided that that day would be the day. I didn't have anyone in particular in mind, but I figured I should probably at least know the guy to whom I lost my virginity. (Looking back, it really wouldn't have mattered, but I was so innocent then).

So, I called up (we'll call him Dirtbag) Dirtbag and asked him if I could come over later that night. At this point I believe we had been broken up for 2 weeks for probably the fifth time. I told him I'd bring over a movie and beer.

I carefully selected our movie for the night, Requiem for a Dream, and brought a 40 for him and magnum of wine for me.

As I watched Jennifer Connelly get gang-ass raped by large African-American men, I couldn't help but wonder: Did I want my first time to be special? Or did I just want to get it over with?

After having picked up some helpful hints from the movie and after downing the equivalent of 2 bottles of wine, I decided I was ready.

I pulled Dirtbag into his room--ah, wait. I forgot to describe Dirtbag's "house."

Dirtbag lived in a shotgun-shack in the middle of Elysian Fields, or as the locals fondly referred to it, "Death Row."

Every single one of the walls was covered in graffiti and not even good graffiti. More about this later.

The whole house smelled like Dirtbag's dog, Papoose, a sweet German Shepard, and one of Dirtbag's roommates, whose name escapes me, but whose face was covered in tattoos and he used to shoot junky crack into his veins right in front of me as I had to go through his room to get to the bathroom, which was a little disconcerting, but, you know, REALLY sweet guy.

So, there I was. I bring Dirtbag into his room and I look up at him lovingly and say "Can we do it now?"

Dirtbag: "Huh?"

Me: "Can we, you know, do it?"

Dirtbag: "Do what?"

Me: "Get it on."

Dirtbag: "Get on what?"

Me: "DO YOU HAVE A FUCKING CONDOM?"

Dirtbag: "Oh! Yeah! Wait. Really?"

Me: Yes.

I lay back on the bed. We commenced. All of a sudden, something started to sting really really badly.

Me: MOTHER FUCKER!!! THAT FUCKING HURTS!!!

Dirtbag: (immediately stopping). Am I hurting you?

Me: *sigh* YES. (i wished for another bottle of wine)

We commenced...again.

I started snapping my fingers and cursing to distract myself from the pain. So it went something like this:

Sex sounds: Week-a-wack-a Week-a-wack a

Me: Snap snap snap!

Sex sounds: Week-a-wack-a-week-a-wack a

Me: FUCKING SHIT FUCK WHORE

Sex sounds: Week-a-wack-a-week-a-wack a

Dirtbag: Uh! Uh! *grunt*

And so forth.

And then it stopped hurting and Dirtbag I guess got off, I don't remember for sure, but I do remember thinking how funny it was that I was losing my virginity as I was staring at a cartoon pile of steaming poop on the ceiling..and then it was over. I got up and started collecting my things.

Dirtbag: Wait! Does this mean we are back together?

Me: Absolutely not. See ya later.

And with that, I pushed through the broken screen door and went out into the balmy New Orleans weather, got in my car and called everyone I knew.

A week later I would find out that Dirtbag had told everybody he knew that I wasn't a virgin, but that I had faked it and had really just had my period in his bed.

A week and one day later, I would sleep with his third roommate who was slightly brighter than Dirtbag, but not quite as good looking. Sometimes, I like to pretend it was this guy who was my first. He was so sweet, wrapping me up in his comforter after spilling beer all over me in the middle of the night having fallen asleep with a Natty-light clasped gently in his hands, like a Teddy Bear. Like an angel.

The next morning, I snuck out of that shotgun shack for the last time. A few years later I would return to New Orleans, and found myself driving down Death Row. As I approached the spot where the dilapidated old "shack of love" with the peeling yellow paint and broken windows used to proudly stand, a slow smile spread across my face. There, in it's place, in all its pink and white glory, stood "Elysian Field's Wedding Chapel." How appropriate.

Walking to Work

I saw a really hot homeless man.

Shyly, I glanced his way. He looked at me and gave me an impish grin. And then went back to rummaging through the trashcan.

I walked on air for the rest of the day.

How I Know I May have just had Sex with a Sociopath

He declared his love for me over and over again before, he called my (throat clear) "vagina" my (double throat clear) "Shame-Shame," during, and instantly rolled off of me, walked over to the couch, and settled in to read New York Post directly followed by The Daily News after.*

This happened every. Single. Time. We. Did. It. The. Exact. Same. Way.

Yes, i realize that some of you probably consider him a hero.

I sort of do too.

*Eventually, I would try to get up first and beat him to the couch, reasoning that somehow this was salvaging some sense of pride. And so that I could do the crossword in the Daily News before he read it.

How I Know The Sex is Going to Be Bad

He smokes a bong in front of you right before and doesn't offer you any.

How I know it's about to be Shark Week*

1) I burst into tears because the moon is so beautifully terrible

2) I review my Netflix Queue.

* To be clear, Shark Week is referring to the week when I experience womanly nature, not to the A&E special that airs once a year. Check your local listings.

How I Know He Doesn't Really Like me

I get the hug with the back pat.

Things I learned in Vegas

1) Drinking at breakfast is one of my favorite things to do. Second only to drinking all day.

2) The Playboy Club is very different from The Playboy Mansion. Who was to know?

3) People in Vegas take their pants off when you tell them to take their pants off. I know this because I told three people to take their pants off and all three of them took their pants off. This never happens in New York. Read: At work.

4) It is possible to eat breakfast twice and pass out twice with two different people in two different rooms in one night.

5) People are actually more dumb and more pathetic than I thought. And I am currently watching a commercial for "The Greatest American Dog" where human beings are asking dogs questions like "What do you think of Obama's health care plan?" and then pausing for a response. My dog liked to sniff other dogs butts. And lick where his balls should have been.

6) I perfected my theory on the "Hot Stupid Guy and his Ugly but much Funnier, Intelligent, Charming Friend," which I will explore in future posts.

7) I don't sweat as much in dry heat, but my hair grows twice as fast.

8) I shouldn't drink two martinis, 4 glasses of wine, eat 3 pounds of sushi, 1 large cup of TCBY frozen yogurt, and 1/4th a bag of Chinese rice crunch mix before getting on a redeye back to New York. It was unpleasant for both myself and the two unlucky individuals that were seated next to me. (But still, kind of funny for me).