On gay marriage

I could talk about how proud I am of New Paltz, and what an intolerant monster I think our president is, but others are saying it much more brilliantly than I could, like Amy Blair (I love you Amy Blair!) and Belle. So read what they have to say. And take 10 seconds out of your life to take USA Today's poll.

Bad TV, bad movies

I finally broke down and watch The Apprentice last night. I have to say, I was enthralled. If I wasn't usually busy on Thursdays or had TiVo, I'd be all over that.

I'm not at all ashamed to say that I am exhausted today because I stayed up until the wee hours of the morning watching Duets on USA. I knew the cable in the bedroom was a bad idea. I'm also not ashamed to say that I thoroughly enjoyed it, although I do wish Gwyneth would stop playing such passive characters. I know she can act, but I'd like to eventually see her do it.

Duets got me thinking. One, that I should start taking voice lessons because my karaoke set list is limited by the fact that I have a very low singing voice. And two, that we bloggers are the karaoke singers of writing. We love to write. Like die-hard karaoke singers, we do it in a public, rather than a professional, space. For some of us, it's because we prefer it that way. For some of us, it's fear. For me, it's that I haven't really figured out what I want to say yet. Sometimes we're funny, sometimes we're entertaining, sometimes we're just plain dull and sometimes, we go a little off key. And like the amateur chanteuses, we perform mainly for each other and a small smattering of friends and family. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Anyone who says life lessons cannot be learned from bad movies isn't looking hard enough.

Part of the problem

I'm going to hell.

I read today that 90 percent of women have cellulite. This statistic was followed by several articles on how to get rid of cellulite. Tell me this, why don't we have an article targeted toward the freaks that fall in the 10 percent category?

Hey freak of nature! Wanna be just like everyone else? Find out what foods you can eat to pack on a little cellulite!

Seriously, I'm sick of the fact that our beauty ideal is an impossibility for most women. And I hate the fact that my job is to promote this shit. Okay, end rant.

Now I'm going to go completely the other way. I'm a feminist, but even I have my limits. I got an email newsletter inviting me to a Do-It-Yourself OB-GYN and Menstruation Health event. At the end of the event description, it said, "Come out to learn and ask questions about feminine protection to work against the corporate and cultural constructions of menstruation."

In theory, great, yes. I'm a firm believer that Tampax and Playtex are evil and that the chemicals in tampons are probably causing more undiscovered reproductive problems than "women not having children." Does this mean I want to wash a reusable pad or squeeze out a sea sponge every couple of hours? Absolutely not. And I'm not nearly limber enough to perform any OB-GYN work on myself. And I practice yoga.

Was that really three whole months ago?

After much drinking, obsessing over cute boys, having obligatory rebound sex and finally, deliberation, it occured to me that I've avoided dealing with the breakup completely.

Now that the rage has worn off, I'm in a very weird place. I'm still remembering the bad times, of course, and there were many, but I've been reminded that there were good times, too. It's so much easier to be angry and blaming.

So, in the interest of my sanity and future healthy relationships, the Nerve profile is going on hiatus, sleeping in my bed will be a strictly solo affair and any cute boys I get serious crushes on will have to be destroyed. Until I 1) get my head back on straight or 2) change my mind. The latter is much more likely, I'm afraid.

Stalking ex-boyfriends

Ther's nothing worse than finding fully stalkable ex-boyfriends on Friendster and having them not be in your personal network. Damn you Friendster!

Are you a mouse potato?

Today's Daily Candy is a riot. I'm beyond teenile.

Things about blogging that weird me out

When people I know but have never given my url to email me to comment on a post.

At least three of my ex-boyfriends are regular visitors. That I know about.

When people stop responding to my emails, but still come to my site several times a day. I know this because Dreamhost tells me who comes here. Harvard student, New Zealanders, I see you.

If I was a dance floor, would you shake your thang?

Everyone's cracking me up this morning, so I thought I'd share.

Tati: (on Passion of the Christ) The guy who plays Jesus is pretty hot.

Jake: Something snapped in my head last night and I thought "My God, I really need to start listening to the Lemonheads again. Have they ever even come close to making a foxier rock star than Evan Dando?"

No, no they haven't. And the thing is, I nearly forgot about the Lemonheads completely. Now I'm listening to Come on Feel the Lemonheads and wishing a hot rocker boy would serenade me with Being Around, because you know, there ain't nothin' more romantic than If I was a booger, would you blow your nose?

Tour Guide Sean says he can't access my site at work because it gets blocked as pornographic. Guess the potty mouth, which is the reason Mom swears I'm still single (complete with an overly dramatic "I just don't want you to end up living your life alone") is getting me blocked. TGS also said that he's glad he met me before reading the blog, because I seem kind of naughty. In case y'all didn't know, this is my Bad Girl alter ego here. I know some of you think I'm really this dirty and entertaining all the time. Alas, no. And I probably wouldn't talk about sex so much if I were actually getting any.

Old friends, old challenges

Michelle, my college roommate and I were inseparable.

All the things we had in common were all the ugly parts of our personalities that most normal people strive to keep in check. We were wild, and wildly self-destructive. To this day, Julie remains convinced that we were "lovers" (ew, hate that word) but we most certainly were not. We may have been kindred spirits bent on self-annihilation, but that's about all.

We used to have challenges, like, all the time. We'd go out for the night, and while listening to Cannonball and putting makeup on, one of us would say, "You know, I feel like hooking up tonight." The other would concur and upon arrival at the bar, we'd make our selections, and then proceed to take the object of our affections home.

Some of our more disgusting challenges were as follows. When I was in college, Doritos was launching a billion different flavors, which quickly died out. I remarked to Michelle, fellow Doritos lover, that one could eat nothing but Doritos and never get bored because of all the options. She said, "Let's see how long we can do it." For five days we existed on nothing but booze, pot, cigarettes and five flavors of Doritos. If my memory serves me correctly, we only stopped because Kyle came over and saw us smoking from the four-foot bong on the pull-out couch and eating Doritos on the final day and said, "You guys are disgusting. Get dressed. I'm taking you to Taco Bell."

Our other challenge was even more vile, but much more impressive. Michelle looks over at me one night and says, "How many night in a row do you think we could go out and get trashed before we just can't do it anymore?" Incidentally, it was three and a half weeks. I can't even do three days now, which is probably a good thing.

Is it any wonder we both had nervous breakdowns halfway through our senior year and decided we were not healthy influences on one another?

On Following Directions...

When I was a teacher, I always told my students about the importance of reading directions. In fact, I'd sometimes put things like "put a star next to your name" in the directions of the tests I made up and would give them five points off if it wasn't there just to teach them a lesson. Some might call it cruel, but they seemed to get the point after a while. The only one who didn't seem to get it was me because you'll almost never see me reading directions for anything. So it came as a huge shock to me, when I was at the local Suds Cafe on Saturday and something possessed me to read the dryer instructions. The first instruction in the 7-step drying process (who knew drying could be so complicated) said the following:

"Check inside machine for children, pets and foreign objects before loading and starting."

Thank God I read that before starting the machine because, lo and behold, I found a whole army of toddlers in there and who knows what might have happened had they gotten mixed in with my whites. Could've been really ugly. Seems I've finally learned my lesson.

--Julia

(By the way, I really did want to post this on Saturday during Jess' absence, but I had Internet troubles until today. So, Jess, please retract your earlier statement about knowing that I'd hang you out to dry...because unless you are a child, pet or foreign object, I would never do such a thing.)

The psychic connection

Julie and I have some sort of weird psychic connection. No really, we do. Maybe it's because we've known each other ever since Tina DeLoreto's slumber party in 6th grade, when Julie mooned the boys next door through the window on a dare and I though that was The. Coolest. Thing. Ever. Maybe it's something else. Whatever the case, it freaks people out.

Case in point. Julie, Marina and I are walking down the street in London and we saw a sign for Vicarage Gate. Julie says, "What's a vicar? Is it like a priest?" and then minutes later, "Jess, when does that come out?" to which I replied, "Bridget Jones II? I'm not sure." Marina stares, puzzled.

We do that all the time. Maybe our minds just work the same way. We both thought, "Vicar. Tarts and Vicars. Tarts and Vicars party in Bridget Jones. I loved that movie. When's the next one coming out?" We didn't compare notes, but I know that's how we both arrived there.

An old one that's a little more unsettling, even to us. Many years ago, I pick Julie up to go to the mall. She gets into the passenger seat and says, "You know that little girl?" to which I reply, "The one from Interview with the Vampire?" and then we have a discussion about a then-very-young Kirsten Dunst. Five minutes later:

Julie: How did you know that?
Me: I have no fucking clue.
Julie: Weird.

On boyfriends

Last night, I entertained the notion of finding myself another boyfriend.

Don't worry, I got over it fairly quickly. It all happened because of a lightbulb.

You see, I have fairly high ceilings in my apartment, and I stand at a whopping 5'4". I have these hideous dome-shaped overhead lights. In addition to being afraid of heights, I am not tall enough to take the dome apart, change the lightbulb and put it back together without risking life or limb, even with the ladder. In last night's case, both the lightbulb in the bedroom and in the hallway leading to the bedroom burned out within a matter of minutes. This means that on top of an already difficult task, I now have to accomplish it in the dark.

As I sat there, exploring my options, I wished I had a very tall boyfriend to change my lightbulbs. And then I prepared a mental list of other things he could do; i.e. fix the kitchen closet doorknob and the bathroom cabinet door. Hang my Christmas lights. Go shopping with me and carry things back to the apartment. And um, have lots of sex with me. It didn't sound so bad, for a minute there.

Then I remembered the downside of having a boyfriend, which is pretty much everything else. And I got over it. Quickly. So the search for a casual boy toy is still on, except now I'd like to add "tall and handy" to the job description.

Along the same vein, read Sheila's Long Insane Monologue. You will not be disappointed.

Like the hair?

Just call me Red

In an effort to ensure that I always look like my head is on fire, I'm taking it up a notch and going for dye job #2 tonight. In case you were wondering, the reason I stopped dying my hair red two years ago is because I got to the point where I became immune. It wouldn't look red to me. It was never red enough. My friends would say, "I've never even seen hair that red before", but I was completely blind to it. It's starting again, I can tell.

Maybe I'll try something new and post a pic with the new hair tomorrow. If you're lucky.

I left my heart in London

Sights:
Stonehenge: Amazing. I outgrew my new agey thing a long time ago, but there's something there. You can feel it. Funny moment when Marina held her audio guide up to her ear like a telephone and said "Stonehenge? Is that you? I told you never to call me here." That girl kills me.
Windsor Castle
Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace: Lots of walking back and forth. The marching band guards played, I shit you not, Mrs. Robinson, All at Once by Whitney Houston and Love Lift Us Up Where We Belong. This spawned four days of impressions of the Queen saying things like, "Guards, are you familiar with that J.Lo? I quite fancy that "Jenny From the Block" song. Learn it for tomorrow."
Harrod's: Unbelievable. Seriously unfuckingbelievable.
Westminster Abbey
Etc. etc.

Food: I've never eaten so much meat in my life. How I was a vegetarian for seven years blows my mind.

Drinks: There's only one reason I could never live in London -- the pubs close at 11. At 11! I've never been much of a club person, and after 11 it's the only option. We did our duty as tourists and partook of the clubbing, though. I shook it like a Poloroid picture until the wee hours of the morning.

Boys: *Drool* Boys in London make an attempt to chat you up before making with the bumping and grinding in dance clubs. That was a nice change from American boys, who think dry humping you on the dance floor and "hello" are synonymous.

Miscellaneous:
Girls in London don't wear nail polish.
We were lucky to have Sean, Tour Guide Extraordinaire and Sweetest Englishman on Earth, take two days out of his life to show us the sights and drive us all the way to Stonehenge.
I am in love with Dom from Dick and Dom in the Bungalow, a Saturday morning kid's show. Seriously, I want to marry him. I might send him a love letter.
I bought the most gorgeous black velvet fedora and I'm never taking it off.
We saw the most hilarious card in a store. It had a picture of a naked woman standing on a scale and said "Amelia wondered if a crap would make a difference." I can't tell you how many times some form of that was said while we were on holiday.
There is a David & Goliath store in London. I procured a "Boys are stupid. Throw rocks at them" T-Shirt. I love it.
TopShop is my Mecca.

So there you have it, folks. My trip to London in a nutshell. Wondering which juicy details I left out? Good.

And another thing

Props to my blogging bitches!

Roommate and Brenda, you rock my world. Julia, I knew you'd hang me out to dry. Holly, you are so getting your ass kicked.

Did ya miss me?

I hope so, because I sure missed you.

London tales are coming soon - I haven't worked out the pretty packaging in my head just yet. Besides, I have lots to say about Chuck Palaniuk.

On the way back from Stonehenge, I finished Diary, his most recent novel. I'm not going to review it here, because I was not an English major and have no experience in that area. What I will say, however, is that I'd like to shrink myself down, climb into his head and hump the right side of his brain for 4-6 weeks. The wordsmithery of that man gets me hot.

I totally aspire to literary groupiedom. Imagine how dull my memoirs will be.

In his tweed jacket and sensible slacks, he wasn't much of a looker. But when he read, "Just for the record, the weather today is partly furious with occasional fits of rage", I felt my face flush, and a familiar tingle started somewhere down below. I was sure the crowd gathered at Barnes & Noble could feel my fire raging within. I had visions of Chuck Palaniuk taking me up against the books in the A-F fiction section.

What really happened was some subtle flirting during the book signing, followed by a moderately priced meal at a nearby Italian place. Then he invited me back to his hotel room, where we drank Scotch, watched VH1's "I Love the 80's" and had some rather pleasant sex early enough in the evening that neither one of us would be tired the next day.

Years later, he wrote this about a character named Red. "Just for the record, Red was partly sane with a 90 percent chance of total self-annihilation." Just for the record, that's me, thinly veiled. I've always wanted to be thinly veiled.

Hot stuff, right? Go wipe the sweat from your brow now, and come back tomorrow for tales of London.

Hey there everyone, Jess' roommate here....

It's Friday and I decided to pick my head up off my keyboard, wipe the drool off my face and give y'all something to read.

Now, running a burlesque show as I do on Thursday nights, I don't honestly have a lot of comedy firepower today. However, I would like to take this opportunity to share a bit of Internet gold with you , a piece I picked up and actually printed out some time ago because I was so terrified I would never see it again. And here it is....don't read it while eating. Especially not, like, meatloaf or egg salad.

Talk Dirty to Me: Things Overheard at the STD Clinic

by Paul Denko

The quotes below are complaints reported by clients of Room 111, a public health clinic in St. Paul that treats people for sexually transmitted diseases. Nurses at the clinic began creating the list two decades ago; it now inclides several hundred comments.

"I have reason to believe my penis was exposed to LSD. When I ejaculate I have flashbacks."

"My hair is falling out and the sun hurts my crotch."

"I went to a party, had a few beers, woke up in a closet later on and my face stunk and my dick hurt."

"My last period looked like meat."

"My balls feel soft and mushy."

"I be messin' with these nasty women from Minnesota and they don't tell you they got something unless they mad at you."

"How am I supposed to do lap dances smelling like a dead fish?"

"I got the dripper."

"I have food chunks in my urine."

"Had sex with my daughter's fiance and then douched with Lysol - feelin' a little raw down there."

"Scabs on my butt and I'm losing my mind." (**Note from Jess Roommate: This will be the titile of my autobiography.)

"I'm releasing semen when I take a crap."

"I was poked in the rectum with the infected finger of a 70-year old homosexual man."

" I live at the VA and my roommate has his girlfriend from Minneapolis over. They throw ticks at me that bite my neck and when I pop the sores, they smell like vagina juice."

"I had sex with my baby's momma, sex with my other baby's momma, and my other new baby's momma has disease."

"Last time I had sex I passed something that looked like Cream of Wheat before it's cooked."

"My cervix hurts when I jiggle."

"The seam in my circumcision split open."

"I be messin' with my ex-wife and my girlfriend and I don't trust neither one of them."

"My whole body smells like a menstruating woman, especially my armpits."

"From the looks of my penis, I believe they are sucking the adrenaline out of me."

"I think they hypnotized me and put implants and poltergeists in my brain and had sex with me."

"I think my boyfriend know's what's going on. He's been calling me a "chlamydiahoris".

"My pee smells like ham." (**Jess' Roommate Note: Alternate Title for autobiography.)


Well kids, I hope you all enjoyed this visit to Genital Hell...and I hope you all learned something: Don't be messin' with no nasty women from Minnesota, cause they won't tell you they got something unless they mad at you.

Jess' Roommate

And remember, support your local burlesque show! www.starshineburlesque.com

Bitch #1 Reporting for Duty

Oh the pressure to fill Jess's mighty big blogging shoes! Visualize if you will, oh ye dedicated readers of blindcavefish.com, your guest blogger with clammy palms and copious beads of flop sweat on her brow as she composes this. Please... be gentle as you are on hand to witness my blogging deflowering.

So for my inaugural (and perhaps only) entry, I will not regale you with informed social commentary or make any sort of grandiose, philosophical statements. In preparing for this moment, it occurred to me to perhaps try to impress you lot with something brainy-sounding but then I thought about it and well... I'm just not qualified. In terms of philosophy, I can't get any deeper than pondering who the first person was to yank on the udder of a cow and decide that what came out was fit for human consumption. That and the popularity of Al Roker just boggle my mind and can keep me occupied for hours.

So now you know what you're dealing with at least. And as for you, Jess, you'll be happy to see that I fulfilled at least one of your requirements -- there is nary a mention of poop in this entry. Perspiration and teats, yes, but no poop.

And on that classy note, I bid you adieu. Please feel free to let me know how I did!

Brenda

Yes, I'm still here

My flight doesn't leave until midnight -- I just didn't think I'd have any time to write today. I am pleased to announce that I have secured four very funny ladies to blog in my absence. I apologize in advance if there is any shameless self-promotion, obscenity or poop stories. Anything offensive or unfunny will be deleted immediately upon my return.

Get to work, bitches.

London calling

Unless I can tear myself away from hot British boys long enough to find an Internet cafe and update, y'all won't be hearing from me for the next week. However, there might be a guest blogger or two, so by all means check back.

Had a lovely weekend. Went to the Cowgirl Hall of Fame with the girls from work Friday and drank entirely too much. Saturday I was in recovery, and rather than attend the Black Hearts Party, I decided to stay in my pajamas all day, watch movies and do nothing. It was everything I thought it would be and more. Made baked ziti with spicy sausage for the girls Sunday night and watched Sex and the City (Yay Big!) and Iron Jawed Angels, which was both amazing and inspiring.

Today I went to my first hockey game. I'm all about rooting for home team, but boy do the Rangers suck. I haven't yet learned all of the chants and when they should be chanted. It was all very Rocky Horror Picture Show.

So tomorrow I'm leaving on a jet plane. I've been instructed by Yael, who cannot join us, to kiss as many cute boys as I can get my hands on, and ditto by Jake, who also requested that I buy lots of hats. I'm beyond psyched.

A little help from my friends at Blogger

Read Blogger's Tips on Blogging and Dating. Don't look at me like that, just do it.

The Valentine's Day that was

The year is 1991. The boys have decided to make a Valentine's Day dinner for Amanda and I. The Mom is elsewhere. There are candles, music that isn't Danzig, wine, skirts and button-down shirts. It's all very civilized in a very high school way.

K brings out a giant (bigger than my head giant) plate of chicken parmesan. Assuming it will be shared, Amanda pokes me and whispers, "That's yours, Jess." I giggle. T brings out two more bigger than my head plates. Amanda and I burst out laughing. K brings out a massive bowl of pasta and the final plate. Amanda and I try not to laugh, but not very hard.

"Where's the rest of the pasta?", I ask. Amanda literally snorts. K looks at me quizzically. "Well, I mean, if that bowl's mine, what's everyone else going to eat?" I nod at the two-pounds-of-pasta bowl. Amanda is crying at this point, and the boys have no idea what we're laughing at. The more Amanda laughs, the more I laugh, and the less likely it will stop any time soon.

K gives me a very disappointed look, and I'm fairly certain I've ruined Valentine's Day.

"You guys are assholes", K says, gets up and walks into the kitchen.

Promos I wish I could write at work, but instead just IM to Brenda

Got vaginal sores? Find out what they could mean you dirty, dirty whore.

Can't say "cock" without giggling? Learn how to talk dirty to your man!

How does your cervical fluid look today? Record it in your fertility chart!

Do you have a big, fat ass? Pick a fucking diet plan, for God's sake!

Are you a hypochondriac? Lucky you -- we've got symptoms for thousands of illnesses!

Not sure if your water just broke? Take this quiz to find out if you're in labor. No, dumbass, don't call an ambulance. Take the quiz!

Is your dog a leg-humper? Find out what you may be doing wrong, you pervert.

Butt ugly? Buy this lip gloss and you'll look just like J.Lo!

On romance

I received my paper Valentine from The Spinster yesterday. Delightful, as is she. Check her out.

Last night at class, Jean announced that she would like to fix me up with one of her guy friends.

Jean: I want to fix you up with one of my guy friends.
Me: Are they your age or my age?
Jean: My age.
Me: Jean, you're 22.
Jean: So? You can work the sexy older woman thing.
Me: No.

I do, however, have big matchmaking plans for Brit and Petey, but they don't know it yet.

Jake and I have an ongoing debate about romance. He's a hopeless, hopeless romantic. A big ole softie. I am not romantic, and he refuses to believe it. An ex that I spent the better part of three years told me once, "You are the least romantic person I've ever met in my life." Following my musing that Belle's ex may have anonymously given her a rose, Jake said, "You're entertaining swoony notions of a call girl and her lost love, and you're telling me you're not a romantic?"

It's all about the drama, kids. Not the romance.

Mom away from home

Every group of girlfriends has a mother-figure. For my group of college friends, it's always been Cindy.

Cindy dutifully put us in cabs, intervened when we entertained notions of going home with boys who would later end up in the "What was I thinking?" file, held our hair when we puked, ran interference with security when trying to get us home drunk and made sure we didn't forget to eat. In addition to her big brain and hilarious sense of humor, it's why I love her.

Years later, she's still very much my Mom. She called me today to let me know she booked both of our flights for Peg's May wedding in Huntsville, Alabama. We're not even flying home together and she booked me a flight. Also booked is our hotel room and car, which she will be the only one driving. I LOVE that girl.

Because I'm a big fan of tangents, I'm going to go off on one about the "What was I thinking?" file. There was an actual file. It was a notebook with a few pages for all of us. We had to catalog who we hooked up with, how much we had to drink prior, what we actually did with them (there were codes for all the different possibilities), how they enticed us and a description of what exactly was so horrible about the whole experience. Anyway, toward the end of the year we all noticed we had Henry somewhere in our pages. Henry was a gorgeous fucked-up alcoholic who managed to woo nearly all of us during the course of two semesters. Sample WWITF entry:

JESS
Hooked up with: Henry ??? (What's his last name?)
Drank: 4 shots of Jaeger @ Nightcap, 2 vodka and cranberry earlier @ Rennies
Enticed by: Leaned over @ Nightcap and said, "Hey Jess, wanna get out of here?"
Acts performed: TB, TC, SIB
Notes: Ow. Wouldn't leave the next morning.

Marist College had a horrible tradition for the senior class called the River Awards. (Hudson River, get it?) The senior girls would go to one bar and the senior guys would go to the other. We would make up categories like, "Came in hot, left not" and "Most likely to be a child molester" and then all meet up in a third bar and present the awards. Really brutal stuff. The morning of the River Awards, Henry's friend Andy came over to hang out. He grabbed the WWITF and despite our protests, read some of it. Then he said, "You guys are assholes." Pour quoi? "Henry bet me 50 bucks at the beginning of the year that he was going to hook up with all of you girls by the end."

Guess which senior boy got the "Worst Hookup" award? Revenge is sweet.

Although I did not win anything, the boys told me my name was tossed out for "Biggest Frat Groupie". I so wasn't. I slept with exactly one frat boy during my four years at Marist. Maybe I kissed 30 or 40, but that hardly makes me a groupie.

Talents

I was watching an old Friends episode last night. It was Thanksgiving, Phoebe smuggled in a puppy, Rachel's hot assistant came -- hilarity ensued. Ross couldn't name all 50 states. I was floored by this, because not only can I name all 50 states, I can do it in alphabetical order.

So then I started thinking about useless talents I have. I can hula hoop like a rock star. Seriously - I never drop the hoop. I just stop when I get bored. I do some of my best thinking with a hula hoop circling my waist. While it earned me a 1st place ribbon during my 4th grade Field Day, I don't see much real-life application for that one.

Not a talent, but something freakish that I should be able to do something with -- I have the longest tongue on Earth. Seriously. I put Gene Simmons to shame.

Once, Julie and I were at Kelly's, a dance club in Yonkers (we lived there briefly). She went up to the bar to get drinks, came back with no drinks, grabbed my hand and dragged me up to two guys at the bar.

Stick out your tongue, she commanded.

Turns out she'd gone up to the bar and one of the guys had informed her that his friend had the longest tongue on Earth. Julie bet him a drink that he was wrong. She won. He bought her a drink. So I guess my tongue has been useful in getting Julie those silly, fruity drinks she likes. Oddly enough, no one bought ME a drink. I feel a little exploited, in retrospect.

Just quit it, Sarah Michelle Gellar

While Buffy is certainly a favorite of mine, I don't have much love for the girl behind the stake. Seems SMG wants to play Wonder Woman in the movie remake. And I don't like that.

I think it's greedy to think you can just run around playing superhero after superhero. (and if ANYONE tries to tell me Buffy Summers is not a superhero, I'll mess you up, yo) Honestly, I don't even think Lucy Lawless could be Wonder Woman, not because she isn't great but because she's Xena. It's just the way it works.

Good news, though. Sometimes Buffy rival, sometimes Angel lover and all around fun hottie Charisma Carpenter wants the role too. I'm rooting for her. And SMG, go work on Scooby Doo 6 or something.

Mad for Marbles

Dear people in my office (especially those I definitely report to or kind of report to in a way I don't entirely understand),

This office is a maze. A big one. There are printers everywhere, and any number of ways to get from point A to point B. The fact that you need to walk by my desk every five minutes is greatly hindering my Marbles progress.

I know, I know. I'm being selfish. But choosing an alternate route is really a win-win situation for everyone. I don't want to get fired, and most importantly, I know you don't want to fire me. Let's not make the situation awkward -- just don't walk by my desk.

I don't know if this is going to help me or hurt me, but I think it's important to be honest here. My brain cannot do work past 4:30pm. Maybe it's the lunch kicking in, maybe it's the post-caffeine crash, or maybe it's even my general malaise with life inside these four walls. Whatever the case, my brain can physically not function. What would you have me do? Smoke out in front of the building? IM with my friends? Shoot up heroin in the handicapped bathroom? I don't think so. I think you'd rather I used my strategic skills, set a goal and accomplished it. And I have a goal -- 400 points. And I'm close! Please, I beg you -- leave me alone and let me get there. For the sake of all of us.

With many thanks,
Jess

Ruby Wednesday

Ruby from The Witching told Jake she's ready when I am, and she loves "breaking in a new girl". And now, instead of being excited, I'm just a little scared, frankly.

Daydream believer

The seat next to me, in my cubicle, has been recently vacated by my Partner in Crime. I'm sad and lonely.

Last night, I had a dream that the WB filled the seat. He brought me a bag full of orange Mardi Gras beads, and then tried to steal my whiteboard.

I have absolutely no idea what that means.

On Valentine's Day

In honor of the upcoming barf-worthy holiday, take this quiz I wrote for bitter 15-year olds.

I've never been a big fan of Valentine's Day, or a little fan either. Pretty much not a fan at all. That said, Sean was lamenting about being the only single guy in all of Rhode Island (it's possible, it's pretty tiny), and was thinking about coming here for a visit, except that all of his friends here are sewn to significant others as well. Although I will not put out, I dutifully offered to have dinner and drinks and be a pretend date. So I might have plans after all, even though I swore I wouldn't make any. That's okay, I swear to do things all the time and then change my mind five minutes later.

Ithaca is gorges, and so is Ruby

If ever there was a night to switch teams, this is it.

Jake nodded toward the throng of Cute Dancing Lesbians, but as far as I was concerned, there was no one in the room but Ruby, lead singer of The Witching.

For somewhere between five seconds and two weeks, I couldn't take my eyes off that hot, writhing, growling creature. I've always had a thing for lead singers. For the entire set, that incredible woman commanded not only the stage, but the genitals of everyone in that room. In the words of Willow Rosenburg, both after her vampire doppelganger tried to feel her up and when she met the love of her life, I leaned in to Jake, eyes still glued on that sex kitten, and breathed out reverently, "I think I'm kinda gay."

Turns out I'm not kinda gay after all. Apparently, Ruby has that effect on everyone, regardless of gender or sexual orientation. The fact that I'm not kinda gay was later reinforced when I chatted up one of the bar regulars, a charming, adorable, train wreck of an alcoholic boy who made me say, "He's broken. I want to fix him." It's a very good thing I don't live in Ithaca.

All in all, the weekend ruled. I saw me some waterfalls, ate some delicious food, drank my weight in Maker's Mark (I'm having a little trouble breaking off that love affair), flirted outrageously with the locals and got to see The Animal in his natural habitat. My favorite quote of the weekend remains...

I kinda want to touch your leg, but I'm afraid Jake will kick my ass.

Celebrity

After a particularly harrowing rape crisis training session about stalking, femicide and all things domestic violence, my Sharona suggested we all go get drunk. We all didn't go, but some of us did, and it was a fantastic time.

Maybe there's something about sitting in a room for six weeks discussing your feelings about rape and domestic violence that imposes a certain level of imtimacy on a group, because I found myself very loudly telling them and asking them things that I whisper to friends I've had for years. I now know the gory details of everyone's dating situations and sex life. I know who has had anal sex, and what they thought of it. I know about bikini waxes, phone sex and older men. It was hilarious.

After awhile, we started telling celebrity stories. I told my aforementioned John Cusack anal sex story (NOTE: I was not a participant in that story). Here are a few other stories I heard last night.

A male friend of one of the girls followed Justin Timberlake into a club bathroom to check out his penis. Apparently, it's quite small. (Michelle says, "In my eyes he can do no wrong. That would just make him work harder.")

The ridiculously hot star of one of the "Law & Order" shows who shall remain nameless picked up one of the girls at a club, bought her a drink, made out with her and then invited her back to his apartment to bend him over with a strap-on. On. She didn't go at first because her legs were too hairy. She didn't go after that because she was a little weirded out by the strap-on discussion. (Jess says, "How could you not go? I've been wanting to do that anyway -- I certainly wouldn't turn down the ridiculously hot star of one of the "Law & Order" shows who shall remain nameless.")

#1 on one of the girls list of three celebrities she's allowed to sleep with and her boyfriend can't get mad -- Johnny Depp. She had the opportunity to meet him once, and told him she was allowed to sleep with him. He looked at her like she was a lunatic and slowly backed away.

If I could go out and talk about strap-ons and phone sex after every rape crisis training session, I think it would all be a lot easier to deal with.

What did you have for breakfast?

Until I get my "uterus scroll" up and running, I'll give you the search terms bit by bit. Today, from the search query report...

uterus on toast

Seriously, who the fuck ARE these people?

Poor little matchstick girl

Azee has not yet been paid by the evil beast she freelances for. Azee is broke. That's why I fed her pizza and wine last night at my apartment, rather than go out and spend our life savings on Kettle One and Cranberry's and Gin and Tonics. We also watched White Oleander on Demand, which I thought was much better than the scores of negative reviews would imply. Because we're big saps, we even cried.

The thing about the film, in my opinion, is that you can really relate to it. Well, maybe not if you're a boy. But after watching it, we had long discussions about the beliefs of our parents, and how either absorbing them or rebelling against them has shaped our various neuroses.

And then we talked about sex. And boobs. And food. This is why Azee is my favorite drinking buddy. Even if she doesn't put out when you buy her pizza, wine and a movie.

Hey Jake -- your movie's on

baconordeath: JR is telling the most rambling story in history.

baconordeath: I think it involves a movie on Lifetime

kittyacupuncture: Which one? I bet I know it

baconordeath: Please, I'm trying to block it out

kittyacupuncture: Come on!

baconordeath: Something about some couple and their missing kid, and the small town cops and DSS railroad the couple, and then the aliens abduct someone or some shit

kittyacupuncture: Was Shannon Doherty in it?

baconordeath: He didn't get into details like that

kittyacupuncture: Ask him if Shannon Doherty was in it

baconordeath: Are you trying to kill me?

kittyacupuncture: ASK HIM

baconordeath: The only person he knows is Ed Asner

kittyacupuncture: Hmm

kittyacupuncture: When was it on?

baconordeath: Stop the abuse

kittyacupuncture: Just looked it up! It IS the one with Shannon Doherty!

kittyacupuncture: That's a good one ;-)

baconordeath: Why must you hurt me, Jessica?

kittyacupuncture: It's called Gone in the Night, in case you were wondering

baconordeath: I'm going home, somewhat ironically to both clean the house for your visit and to escape your television cruelty

I never knew I could feel this way

I'm in love.

Where were you when I was temping?

When they fire me because I can't stop playing this game, I will have nothing to say in my defense.

Driving Zach crazy

I have this little game I like to play with my friend Zach. I send him one line emails like "I'm moving to Australia" or "I'm going to shave my head" or "I'm in looooove". He writes back these frantic, inquisitive emails like "What?! Did something happen? Are you okay? Why would you do something like that? What's with the one line emails?" I giggle maniacally and write back more ambiguous one-liners. Because I'm evil.

I was going through old emails yesterday and found an old I want-to-write-for-the-Onion article I sent Zach, about three years ago. Now I'm going to share it with you. I changed his last name, so don't try to stalk him.

Area Man Totally Thinks Area Woman is Funny
NEW YORK, NY -- Despite his lame attempts to prove otherwise, area man Zach Smith totally thinks his friend Jessica is funny.

Smith's initial claim of Jessica's unfunniness, which took place over MSN Messenger late Tuesday afternoon, was met with opposition from the unquestionably hilarious Jessica.

"Whatever", Jessica said to the lying Smith. "You totally think I'm a riot".

Smith's very real, very wrong insistance that Jessica is not funny, resurfaced on Wednesday when Jessica worried about her upcoming date with "Joey the hip-hop writer guy".

"I told Zach that I was worried I wouldn't be as charming face-to-face as I was on the phone and over email.", said the obviously wounded Jessica. "He said, 'you're not."

Jessica followed with "I was charming enough to get your ass into bed."

"LMAO" was Smith's response. "LMAO" is Instant Messenger speak for "Laughing my ass off". It is a widely held belief that people "laugh their asses off" when they find something funny.

At the present time, it is not known whether it was Jessica's wit and charm or her thong underwear that got Smith into bed.

Upon reading this account, Smith exploded into laughter, further proving Jessica's assertion that he totally thinks she's funny.

On hair color

I am a full-fledged redhead again. For the first time in a year, I feel like me again.

Other hair colors I've had:
Blue
Purple
Blond with black underneath
Pink
Crayola Red
Green (not intentionally)
Black (everyone hated it but me -- I thought it made my eyes look cool)
Orange
Every shade of red imaginable
Brown (boring)
Blond (natural)
Yellow (accident)
Red with blue and pink streaks (loved it)

My favorite? Red. Even Moms thinks I look better with red hair than my God-given dirty blond locks.

IM 20 Questions: Final Scores

Jess:
Princess Diana, got it in 8 questions
Maureen Dowd, got it in 11 questions
Peter Jackson, got it in 6 questions

Julia:
Ashton Kutcher, got it in 18 questions
Ozzy Osbourne, didn't get it
Carson Kressley, got it in 19 questions

I RULE.

Trash-talking excerpts:
This better not be a WB show like "Reba" or some shit like that
Down to the wire! Down to the wire!
Shut up...I can't take the pressure!
You get all the easy ones
Make it harder then, beeotch
You're the beeotch
Just because you suck
That's wack
Dude, i'm like psychic and shit

Because everyone needs their own house boy

The roommate just sent me this. We've already made a list of things for him to do.

Redheads have more fun

As of tomorrow, my hair's going to be this color. I'm so excited -- I can hardly wait.

Competition

Dirty Holly and I have a little "competition".

Actually, it's not really a competition at all. About two years ago, DH was horrified to find out that I had more notches on my bedpost then she. Determined to be the biggest slut in our group of friends (hey, everyone has to have a goal), she quickly ran out and racked up a few so she could be in the lead. She also thought that the ex and I were never going to break up, so she'd always have the title. Now that I'm single and she's in what will likely be her last relationship, she suddenly wants to ditch the competition in favor of a new one. She's also telling dubious tales of all-girl threesomes in an attempt to boost her numbers.

DH: Maybe we can have a bloody knuckles contest instead.

Sorry Holly, this slut's taking her title back.

DH: Make sure people know the girl thing is not a lie to boost numbers.
Me: It's my blog, and I can talk as much shit as I want to.
DH: That is so not fair.
Me: I can call you a virgin if I want to!
DH: Shame on you!

Rainy days and Tuesdays

I used to hate Mondays, but they're definitely moving up. I'm starting to like them about as much as I like Wednesdays, and that's Angel night, so it's saying a lot.

I'm so...tired...I haven't slept a wink...

I sleep only when I am drunk or depressed.

Since I have been neither with any frequency lately, insomnia is rearing its ugly head. I have a new habit of waking up at 4:00am, completely wide awake. It can take me up to three hours to fall asleep again. I. Am. So. Tired. Saturday night/Sunday morning, after chain smoking, meditating and counting things to no avail, I gave up and decided to watch the first movie I could find that had just started. It was Two Weeks Notice. I am a huge Romantic Comedy Hater. Like, they drive me CRAZY. But even worse than your typical romantic comedy is the romantic comedy where the asshole gets the girl. Those make me furious, and Two Weeks Notice was one of them. I'm sorry, but Hugh Grant spent the entire movie cheating on women. Are we, the audience, supposed to believe that to Sandra Bullock he will be loyal just because she's the only brunette? And how dumb is she?

Also on my most-hated Asshole Gets the Girl movies list -- High Fidelity and Reality Bites.

New York: The City of Lost Love

Fix, my first friend in this fine city, is moving to Texas, and while I will certainly visit, I shall miss her terribly. Something about her husband getting a job, and non-celebrity married people living together in the same state being a norm, or something. Anyway, now she's on a mission to visit her old haunts before she must pack up and go. So Fix, Nicola and I shlepped out to Queens to have one of the best dinners ever at Mezzo Mezzo. For appetizers, orange scallops and flaming cheese. Wine. Enormous, delicious entrees and baklava for a grand finale. Yum.

While we shoveled food into our mouths, Fix talked of New York as if she'd already left -- the way you talk about someone you knew once that you fleetingly thought might have been The One, but for whatever reason, left. We discussed how much this city can kick your ass on a day-to-day basis, but how it's impossible to leave. In Take the Cannoli, Sarah Vowell compared her relationship to the United Sates to one of a battered wife. She said, "He may knock me around from time to time but boy, he sure can dance." That's how I feel about this city that I call home, and will never leave for Texas -- no matter how cute the cowboys are.