So everyone has heard the bemused meandering thoughts of the general male population about how someone like Helen Keller would make the perfect girlfriend. She's blind, deaf, and mute! Cut her off at the knees and every guy in the free world will be chasing after her.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Except, you know, she'd probably run into a wall attempting to run away from the hordes of admiring cock-wielders.
However, due to a conversation I had with a friend, I began thinking about how terrible of a girlfriend she really would make. No really, kittens; hear me out.
I assume that unless you're over the age of 50 or have been living in a goddamn cave, you've heard the phrase, 'bitch, get in the kitchen and make me a sandwich'. Now do me a favor, and imagine someone who is blind, mute and deaf making a sandwich.
How would she know the difference between turkey, ham, roast beef or salami? Between swiss and havarti? What the hell would happen if she cut herself? I mean, it's not like she can scream for help. She'd sit in the kitchen slowly bleeding to death, running into the wall in panic with an amputated thumb while you sit on the couch hungry.
And can you imagine how much of a pain it would be to have to either stomp your feet or throw something at her to get her attention? It's far too much of a pain in the ass to deal with. I mean, really, who has time to learn that sign language bullshit? Maybe you could create an abbreviated sign language. A slap on the ass means, 'on your knees, bitch.' A slap on the hand means, 'I'm hungry, go make me some food.' A slap on the face means, 'you're drooling, knock that shit off.' You get the gist of it...
And if you enjoy dirty talk in bed, fuggedaboutit.
No more, 'Oh yes, harder! Deeper! Fuck me with that huge cock, you porn star!' or 'Dear sweet jesus, no, not again!' or even, 'Rrruff, rruff... *whimper, whine*"
All you will be getting, good sir, is a bunch of muffled moaning that sounds like a zombie with a mouth full of pantyhose.
Enjoy that, along with your thumb-less, drooling sexual partner. Don't say I didn't tell you so.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
I was in top form this Monday night.
It probably didn't help (or maybe it did) that I was in a semi-pissy mood from yet ANOTHER GODDAMN MACHINE breaking down... Or at least, that I thought it had.
I was describing to my father (the same man who exclaimed, 'look at that gorgeous crushed velvet dress!' and, 'oh my god, that's a real Tiffany lamp!' watching Auntie Mame) the house my coworker rents a room in. The man who owns it has a house full of gorgeous antiques, and he can talk about them and their history like he's an appraiser. I was creaming my panties listening to the history of all these beautiful pieces. My dad can obviously appreciate my appreciation.
This somehow leads to this:
Me: "Dad, you are so gay."
Dad: "I'm not gay, I'm just happy."
Me: "Yeah, happy to have a dick in your mouth."
Mom: "She's in peak form tonight!"
Yes, I really do talk to my parents like this. And they're all for it. And things like this are just a few of the many reasons I love them and am so thankful I can be myself around them. So many of my friends have to censor themselves and put on a face for their parents. And it's not that I don't respect them, because I really do. I only make remarks like this in good humor.
Later on that night we were discussing my dating post, and my dad asks, "What's the worst pickup line ever?"
To which I respond, "Does this rag smell like chloroform to you?"
He cracks up laughing, because that's exactly what he was going to say.
The reason this is pertinent information, kittens, is because I actually used this line last night. It wasn't a real come-on, but I used it all the same. Felt like a douche the entire time.
My friend and I went out for apps and drinks at one of my favorite (and expensive) local bars last night. They have a fun drink menu, they play lots of old swing like Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra, and the atmosphere is just fabulous. As we're drinking, her coworker texts her telling her he is at a nearby bar. She invites him over for a drink. He shows, but doesn't see us snuggled in the comfy armchairs in the corner, and heads to the bar with his friends. My friend is blocked from his sight by the piano, but I am not. I'm laughing watching him scan the bar for us. I asked her if I should go get him using my 'chloroform' pickup line. She dares me.
Kittens, I cannot back down. I've got a mad dope street cred rep to uphold, yo.
I should be hanged, shot, drawn, quartered and dipped in boiling oil for typing that.
Anywho, I grab my napkin and walk over. I linger behind him as if perusing the bar contents, because I'm all blushy and nervous. My heart was pounding. I'm such a goddamn pussy.
I walk around to his side, and say, "Hi."
Motherfucking linguistic master, that's me.
He replies, "Hi there." But it was like one of those drawn out, "Hiiii there..." replies. Keep in mind that I am wearing a gorgeous dress that totally highlights copious amounts of cleavage. And I had on a pearl necklace. Not that kind, you dirty whores. One that dipped into said cleavage. And gorgeous 3 1/2" stilettos. Even my thick skull was registering that he found me attractive.
I blurt out something retarded like, "I am coming over on behalf of a friend who dared me to use this pickup line on you."
He tells me to go for it.
I hold up my napkin and say, "Does this smell like chloroform to you?"
He laughs. Women with him look annoyed. It's obvious neither is his girlfriend, and if they can't take a joke, fuck 'em.
Then I tell him friend and I are sitting over there *gestures to where friend is peeking over the top of the piano laughing* and he's welcome to join us.
He stops me and says, "Is that all you've got for me? No more pickup lines?"
I reply, "I'm not very good at the pickup lines, I'm better at witty comebacks."
He begins firing off hilarious lines like, "Is that a keg in your pants? Because I'd like to tap that ass." and, "Do you wash your pants with Windex, because I can see myself in them."
Thinking back, I should have fired back with something witty like, "Nice pants, they'd look great on my bedroom floor." But I was trying to gather my synapses to keep from turning into a giggly pile of girly jello simply from being flirted with, so I was understandably preoccupied.
He did end up joining us for a while, and he had the whole geek thing going on that I fall for. I have no idea what it is about men in (well-chosen, appropriate) glasses that makes my panties wet, but it just is.
Thus I had my first recognizable flirtation with a guy I've never met before. It was sort of like heroin... Now I can't shake the craving for it. :)
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
So remember how I said my parents would never set me up on Match.com?
Well, now I'm not so sure. Probably not on match.com, because they apparently don't want me to find someone to love... I was having my weekly Castle date with them on Monday, and we were talking about my blog and the entry where Amy threatened to set me up a profile. We began discussing my re-entry into the dating world -
Or, let's face it, it should be entry into the dating world. Erf and I met and began dating when I was 16, I've never really 'dated' anyone before.
- and I told my parents that I don't plan on getting married again anytime soon, and therefore I am not looking for someone to be in a real relationship with. I want, like any other sane (or insane) woman who finds herself single after being with one person for so long, to date. I want to be asked out on dates, I want someone who will buy me dinner, I want the confidence boost of knowing that I'm wanted by someone. If I ever do settle down again, I don't want the nagging fear and doubt following me wherever I go...
Am I with this person because I don't think anyone else could possibly want me? Is there anyone else who finds me attractive?
Not that I particularly find either of those statements to be in the resounding negative, but I've always wondered.
(Here comes the self-centered retrospective where I sound pathetic... FYI.)
Back in high school (which, in the words of a friend, high school fucking sucked anyway), I was hardly ever hit on. I had two serious boyfriends and one not very serious boyfriend. Maybe I radiated that oh-so-sexy, 'serial-monogamist' vibe. I have no idea. But whether the guy-like glitch in my brain just didn't pick up on it or it just wasn't there, I never saw longing glances. Never saw myself get checked out. Never noticed flirtation. There was a guy I was and still am good friends with that indicated interest, but he was pretty obvious about it. I couldn't have missed it if I tried.
So all of this planted that seed of doubt. Why didn't guys seem to check me out? Why have I never once been asked out since Erf? Not that I would have said yes while we were together, of course, but the sentiment would have counted. I would have been flattered. My head would have tilted from the inflation. Alas, nada.
Perhaps that guy-like glitch causes me to miss anything less subtle than a sledgehammer to the cerebral cortex. Or maybe I'm just over paranoid. I think I'm pretty, (and I'm not looking for reassurance here) and I see no reason why I shouldn't have been at least asked out once. I know I can be quite intimidating, but I've got a great rack and nice eyes. What the hell, guys?
So anywho, I want to know I'm wanted. That a guy found me and my charisma attractive enough to ask out. That my brash exuberance isn't a deterrent. Jesus, I sound like a fucking nutjob. I want to slap my own face and tell myself , 'Stop being such a fucking douche canoe!'
So my parents tell me that I should get married again... But this time, I should marry for money. Because dammit, someone needs to take care of them in their old age.
I responded that they should be nice to me, since I'll be the one picking their nursing home. And if they're nice, I'll put them in one with nice big rats they can chase down to eat.
Also, I'd like to give my awesome, fabulous parents a shout out. They gave me the coolest birthday gifts I never would have thought to ask for...
A bottle of Silver Patron and Jagermeister, and a coupon for $100 toward a new mattress that I've been needing since I moved in.
As they eloquently phrased it, 'Something to make you pass out, and something to pass out on.'
I love my parents. They are wicked awesome.
Erflet and I went hiking on a local trail, and my back and leg muscles are still a little stiff. I haven't done any real hiking since the fall, and I missed it so much. There were a few gorgeous scenic overlooks that we stopped at, all of them overlooking the bay and harbor of Lake Superior, the Aerial Lift Bridge and Ely's Peak. I can't wait to take him hiking again, I'm hoping that this Sunday it's gorgeous out. Or maybe next Wednesday, if I my new tech is comfortable enough to close alone.
I'm thinking of starting the Superior Hiking Trail at a different trail head, or perhaps wandering around Gooseberry Park up near Silver Bay.
Either way, its something fun, healthy, and a great bonding time for me and my son. I love that little guy so much. He's the love of my life... :)
Friday, May 6, 2011
Birthdays. I have a serious love/hate relationship with them.
Not that stupid, 'Oh em gee, I'm getting older this sux!' sort of love/hate. The love of being adored for the day, of having people pay some miniscule amount of attention to you (cause if you can't tell by the fact that I, oh, BLOG, I am a bit of an attention whore), of everyone being curious 'what you're doing for your birthday'...
And the hate that for me, birthdays just never seem to pan out. I think it all began with my 18th birthday. Up until that 'magical' (read: bullshit) year, birthdays were pretty okay for me. Then my grandma died. And when the discussion for when her memorial was going on, my aunt suggested Thursday.
Any day but Thursday, I pleaded.
Why, they asked.
It's my birthday...
And I think that kind of ruined birthdays for me. My family felt terrible and did what they could to make it up to me. (Also, Molly Ringwald; fuck you and your sixteen candles) Of course I forgave them, and I hold no ill will, but my birthday track record kind of blows goats.
My 21st birthday was spent not being wished happy birthday by my fiancee, then cleaning the house and cooking dinner for my aunt and cousin.
My 25th was spent cleaning and cleaning up vomit. (Though I did get a job a few days prior - the one that made me a manager in less than a year - so that was a good gift)
My 24th had a great beginning... Met my parents for drinks at a local bar that I love, went to Applebees for dinner and was in the process of doing blowjob shots with my dad... Then my sister fell asleep babysitting and I had to rush home to make sure everything was ok because no one could reach her. Obviously I did not go back out after I got home.
This year, I have no idea what's in store for me. Tonight I picked up Erflet at my grandparents' house, and my grandpa had baked me a cake, and spelled out, 'HB' (for happy birthday) in Jelly Bellys. It was a lovely surprise. :) It's supposed to be in the low 60s and sunny, so I'm hoping to take Erflet for a hike. I haven't gone hiking since the fall, and I think we both need a dose of vitamin D. Besides, it will be a lovely way to spend the day with my little love.
Then I'm going to come home and bake chocolate bacon cupcakes. Fuck you, work people, it's my birthday and I want chocolatey pig for my birthday.
Also, on a similar note, I'm apparently trying to fatten up my co-workers. I brought a huge batch of homemade salsa (read: YUM. My salsa rocks) in to work on Wednesday. Monday, I'm bringing those bitches cupcakes. Bitches love cupcakes.