Month: July 2011

WTF To Do List?

Holy shit, my fucking asshole To-Do list!

Sorry… I swear for the stress relief.

I’m having a hard time with my To-Do list. My To-Do list is a little too long these days. You know how I know? Because *get a new vibrator* is on my To-Do list and I can’t seem to clear enough time and space to do that. (You may recall from a previous post that I lost my vibrator in a move and believe it now resides in the dingy office of the moving company I employed.) I realize that vibrators are available many places—even right here on this very internet. Yet, as I write these words… I am without vibration.

Your grandma's vibrator.

Ordering a vibrator online requires me to know where my laptop and wallet is, at the SAME time. I do not possess these kind of fancy, uptight, corporate, organizational skills.  I am an ar-teest! I am also so *frustrated* that I’m about to cry. This is not a solicitation for personal sexual offers (I’m me and if I wanna get laid, I’ll get laid.), but it is a solicitation for a vibrator NEW vibrator. You know, so I can scratch it off my To-Do list. It’s a long shot, but someone once told me that you never know what you’ll get until you ask. (Right back at you, someone.)

So while I’m making pleas for free sex toys I may as well give you some parameters…

Color: I like disco colors–blues, purples, greens, hot pink–and sparkles.  No red, yellow, or flesh tones please.

Features: waterproof is nice; soft jelly exterior; multiple speeds; that rabbit-thing is fun but sometimes overkill; I don’t need a lot of bells and whistles or the latest technology, I’m more into the classics.

What else?… I don’t want something I can pass off as a “massager.” On the flip side, I don’t want anything advertised as “incredibly realistic.” If you’ve been reading this blog, you know better than to send me anything with balls. No balls.

I think that about does it. If I get a bunch of extras I will surely find good homes for them at my next Hot-Divorced-Chicks-Drinking-Club-Support-Group meeting. If you’d like to send me a new vibrator, please leave a comment below and I’ll be in touch.  

(Note to self: put *rent post office box* on the To-Do list so I don’t end up with 47 vibrators delivered to my house. “Ding-dong! Dildo!”  Btw, how awesome would it be to give my mail carrier one of the extras as a holiday gratuity?!)

Oh hell yeah! We are so doing this at my next backyard party.


I’m a Catfish

In a recent post for my other blog, I wrote about unsolicited relationship advice. I take particular issue with the advice women give other women to “lower their relationship standards and/or expectations.” I believe that women who follow this horrible advice are twice as likely to suffer from depression. In fact, one of the main functions of anti-depressants is to decrease pain and suffering caused by living with an asshole or idiot. True story.

The topic of lowered expectations was on my mind as I watched the movie Catfish tonight. Great movie; you should see it immediately. It’s a documentary about an online relationship….and a whole lot more. Catfish is (in part) a cinematic warning against the dangers of settling–but it’s way better than an after-school special. I laughed, I cried, I cringed… good stuff.

The movie follows Nev, a 24-year-old photographer from New York, who meets and become friends with the family of Abby, an 8-year-old painter from Michigan, via Facebook. That’s all the plot you will get out of me because you have to see the movie for yourself. (I liked this movie so much that I watched the bonus material. I never do that.)

Watching this movie reminded me that I want to be an artist when I grow up. I want to think about art, talk about art, look at art, and hang out with artists, all day long. I want artist cohorts for planning and execution of whack-a-doodle projects and schemes. I want big stretches of time to devote to art. How do I do that? I’m not talking every single day (homegirl likes pedicures and a greasy burger once in a while too); but I want more art, more often. Please?

While I’m at it, I would also like someone hot and amazing (not ugo and creepy) to worship me. Ha! You heard me. I want someone who will get off on stroking my ego… all… day… long. I want a court jester too— cuz I am tired of always being the entertaining half of a relationship. Entertained and worshiped; I think that pretty much covers my needs at the moment. Thoughts?

I may never outgrow making stupid faces for photos.

I Like the Backyard Party

Like my title? I love the idea of some greasy porn junkie wading through all my foul-mouthed feminist whining looking for the money shots. Anyway…

My backyard party (can 4 people be called a party?) yielded more inspiration than I could have ever hoped for (without serious health or legal consequences, that is). Much of the inspiration was due to my brilliant foresight (located just above the foreskin) to buy the latest copy of Cosmopolitan magazine.

What in holy-hell happened to the magazine I read in high school? I mean, not that I thought it was good (even then I knew it was air-brushed bullshit), just that….was the sex advice always so nasty and graphic? I remember a lot more euphemisms and romance. Well, at least it’s still misogynistic. Some traditions stand the test of time. In this months issue of Cosmo, readers can learn all about “His 6 Secret Sex Spots.”

Yep. Because female sexual empowerment is all about pleasing your man. Anyway, here are the tips:

1. Think of his shaft… like the outer curve of you breast.  They spend 2 paragraphs on the ground-breaking news that men like it when we touch their junk. They also describe, in detail, how to give both a BJ and a Handy J. I don’t know how I feel about that info being in Cosmo; mostly I’m just saying I do not remember reading it  when I was 16. Have times changed or do I have amnesia?

2. Think of his testicles… like your nipples.  I’d rather not think of his testicles, thank you very much. I have worked long and hard to convince myself I am only seeing a penis when I look down there I and I will not allow some bullshit magazine ruin that delusion. I gagged 4 times before finishing this sentence when I read the following “tip” out loud to my girlfriends:  “Pull the skin away from his jewels (please, they don’t sparkle) with your thumb and forefinger (*verp*) and lightly massage.”  Yeah. That’s not happening.

3. Think of the base of his penis… like your pubic mound.  Okay this one had some merit and real-world application. To save myself from being sued by the media giant, I’m going to suggest you pick up a copy of Cosmo if you want the details.

4. Think of the head of his penis…like your clitoris.  Knock, Knock? Hello, 17, 24, and 38 year-old women who read Cosmo? Can your boyfriend/husband find YOUR clitoris? Can YOU find your clitoris? I think we should start there. Let’s make sure everyone is on the same page and experiencing consistent results before we move on to how we can make sure that his (virtually guaranteed) orgasms are even better. 

5. Think of his perineum (you may know it as taint) like your G-spot.  Please refer to answers 2 and 4. I know where my G-spot is and I’m pretty sure that makes me enough of a minority to receive a college scholarship. 

6. There was no 6. Stupid fucks. They should pay me to write AND edit that ridiculous mess. 

The moral of the story is…. humans; we have been having the sex since the dawn of time and we still don’t know what the fuck we’re doing. We are a very stupid animal. 


Some of my favorite girls came over to lounge and talk trash in my back yard today. When it comes to girlfriends, I’m drawn to hot smart chicks with big balls. In addition to big balls, my girlfriends all have hippie names–but that’s just because our parents were all stoned when they named us. Around here, women in my generation are either named Sunshine Moonbeam Flower Love, or Jennifer. Anyway, on with today’s discussion…

There is a cute young thing I run into from time to time. He’s adorable, with a sly smile and a lot of bravado. He flirts shamelessly with me and gives me the “WhatchUdoin’?” eyebrows. I don’t mind a bit. To be fair, I flirt back. Please! I’m a lonely mom in the middle of a divorce–I’d practically pay for this kind of attention.

Of course I had to share these juicy tidbits with my girlfriends. Their responses were unified: “Go for it!… then tell us ALL about it.” (My girlfriends are selfish bitches! Their need for juicy tidbits is not enough to convince me.)

“He’s 12!” I said. (Okay, not 12, but he’s in his early 20’s and that’s practically the same thing.) “He’s barely legal.”

“He’s been legal for 5 years; that’s not barely anything!” Breeze said. (Whatever, she’s been married for 15 years; she wants me to “go for it” more than any of them.)

Sunflower tossed her long blond hair and said, “Not only should you do it, but I’ve done it. And I’d do it again!” (We air high-fived across cupcakes and empty beer bottles.)

I think the nice folks at Full Sail should send over a few cases of my new favorite back porch beer.

I asked April what she would do, but I couldn’t understand her words through all her giggling. (April was our token 20-something on the patio today…and I think we scared her a little.)

I explained that I have a mommy block about the whole thing. Not because I’m a mommy— the block is about his mommy. I can’t think about him in that way without wondering if his poor mother would be horrified if she knew. (I mean come on, I have 2 sons myself!)

“Well then, I guess you can’t be a MILF.” Sunflower said.

Breeze laughed, “Yep. You pretty much failed the test with that one.”

I think they’re right. I guess the answer to the Mr. Eyebrow question is… I let you know.