God is not a DJ

I'm going to Connecticut tonight. Cindy and Zoraida's friend is DJing at some club, and we're going to dance the night away and drink until we fall down. This is the warning Cindy gave me about Hey Mr. DJ:

He's going to fall madly in love with you. He'll lavish you with compliments. You'll be tempted, because he's a lot of fun. Don't go there though, because he's a little boy and just as fast as he falls in love with you, he'll forget all about you.

I wish I had a similar lowdown on all the guys I meet.

Misunderstood song lyrics and how they can affect your perception of love

A few years back, I read the book Namedropper, a cute little British novel about a teenaged girl whose jaded view of love is based on these Don Henley lyrics:

And I can't tell you my love for you will still be strong
After the boys of summer have gone

Except, if you know Boys of Summer, you know it's I CAN tell you, which she finds out at the end of the novel. I thought of this because I just got done listening to Sometimes Always by Jesus and Mary Chain (with the angelic Hope Sandoval). For a very long time, I thought the last bit of the song was:

I got down on my knees
And then I begged you please
I'll always need you, take me back

I thought, okay, he went away. But now he's back! Then much later, I found out it's actually I always knew you'd take me back. And that just changes the whole song, doesn't it?

Single girl, I don't wanna be a single girl

Last night, I met My Sharona, Summer and Jean at Grassroots on St. Mark's. I had errands to run so I had to skip dinner beforehand, but drinks were in order as I haven't seen those girls in far too long. As soon as I arrived, they inquired about the Hot Doctor Sex.

Them: So tell us about the Hot Doctor Sex.

Me: First tell me about the Boston trip.

I got the full scoop on the trip. It sounded like a blast. I wish I had gone.

Them: So tell us about the Hot Doctor Sex.

Me: Where did you ladies have dinner?

Them: Across the street. So tell us about the Hot Doctor Sex.

So I started telling them about the Hot Doctor Sex, sort of.

My Sharona: You're really bad at this. I thought we were going to get all sorts of hot details. Will you answer direct questions?

Me: Maybe.

After a few minutes of my lame answers, they gave up and we moved on to other subjects. Then Jean went home. Then Summer went home. As My Sharona and I helped the Hot Bouncer with his crossword puzzle, we started lamenting about being single girls. While the Hot Bouncer was off performing his Hot Bouncer related duties, of course. We both agreed that when you've been single too long, you start to look for things that aren't there in the guys you meet, to convince yourself that you can overlook this, that you can overlook that, that nobody's perfect. Then we started talking about how casual hook-ups are really fucking depressing. It may seem like a good idea at the time, and the next morning I may be thinking "SCORE!" but then a couple of days later, I think my time would have been better spent with ye old Magic Wand.

My Sharona: Is that why you were so short on Hot Doctor Sex details?

Me: Yup.

In other news, I'm going to chop off my hair around Thanksgiving.

The Roommate's famous

The Roommate has a funny story up on Overheard in New York today. Read it.

I don't even iron my blouses

Me: I want to move

Ian: I have a spare room now

Me: Hm, not that far

Ian: It'd be super cheap, if you promised to be my slave

Me: I don't think I'd be a very good slave

Ian: You would enjoy the discipline

Me: I don't think so

Ian: How about if you did my ironing?

Me: I hate ironing, and I'm no good at it

Ian: You'd enjoy handling my undies, don't deny it

Me: You iron your undies?

Ian: OF COURSE

Me: Freak

Ian: Wench

Jess gets an anal probe

Colonoscopies are a blast, y'all should go and get one.

So I've been having an ass problem that I won't go into because as you, my dear readers know, I'm a very private person. My regular doctor sent me to an ass doctor who sent me to an internal medicine doctor for a colonoscopy.

The disadvantages of this particular procedure were many. I couldn’t eat anything for a day and a half. I had to drink vile preparations that had vile repercussions. I couldn't drink anything for a really long time. The sole advantage was getting to stay home from work today and watch Dawson's Creek, 10 Things I Hate About You and Bring it On.

So I showed up, starving and weak and dehydrated and grumpy and terrified. They stuck an IV in my arm, and as I drifted out of consciousness, all I could think of was The Roomate's prediction for the procedure:

I bet the doctor will think you have a nice ass.

All in all, it wasn't that bad. I was completely out for the probing and my poor ass doesn't even hurt. And if the doctor did think I had a nice ass, he certainly hid it well. He told me he's done 12,000 colonoscopies, so I'm sure he's seen some real beauties.

Holy Land USA

Message left for Cindy:

Cin, it's Jess. We're going to Holy Land USA in Waterbury, as soon as possible. Call me back.

Cindy called me back and said this:

Where the fuck are you taking me? "impenetrable assemblages of junk? creepy tunnels and blasted out buildings? stories of gang murders? a mysterious order of nuns? Visitors explore with caution (and with an up-to-date tetanus shot)? The nuns still control Holy Land and discourage people from visiting?" And it's in Waterbury? Do you know how dangerous this is?

Me: I know, isn't it awesome?

Cindy: Yes. Come up next weekend and we'll go.

Best celebrity sighting ever

I see celebrities a lot, and don't get terribly excited. It is New York, after all. However, when one sees MERYL FUCKING STREEP walking down Houston at 9 in the morning, well then, that's pretty exciting. So much so that I stared at her, mouth agape, until she looked at me like "what?" and then I finally looked away.

Meryl Streep. Walking a little yippie dog on Houston. She lives in Connecticut. I don't know what the hell she was doing on Houston, but I'm psyched I saw her.

Date verdict

He was hot. Hotter than the pics had led me to believe.

He was clearly a total player and not even close to being boyfriend material.

So I took him home.

I hate dating

And I seem to forget this until hours before I'm supposed to go on a date.

Tonight I'm meeting Dr. Scott (not to be confused with Dr. Paul) for drinks. It just occurred to me that I know very little about the good doctor, since we haven't yet surpassed the "witty banter" phase of our acquaintanceship. First dates are like job interviews, only they are interviews for either a relationship or sex or both. I did not shave my legs or clean my room and as a general rule, I don't go home with strange boys, so the latter is not on the agenda. I did, however, put on ass pants and make an effort to show a hint of cleavage.

Here's what I know so far. He's a doctor. He's cute. He's funny. He lives in my neighborhood. He hangs out at different bars than I hang out at. He comes with a free set of Ginsu knives (or so he claims). That's it.

I haven't had any successful first dates since The Breakup. Either I wasn't ready or we just didn't relate to each other. I haven't gone into a first date knowing that I kinda sorta maybe liked the guy, and dating like that seems weird. Maybe it's just the whole online dating thing that's getting to me, but since I'm not meeting anyone who's blowing my mind a lot or at least a little in the real world, it seems like the only option. If I don't do it, I'll get too used to being alone and end up a spinster with 10 cats, too much chin hair and an addiction to daytime television.

Ugh, did I mention I hate dating?

Ghetto fabulous

I live in a super ghetto apartment building.

The lock on the door into my apartment, which isn't much of a lock to begin with, is breaking a little bit more each day. The super, of course, will not fix it until either the roommate or I are unable to get in or out at a crucial moment in time. The tiles are falling off the inside walls of the shower, one by one. We've lost a doorknob, and the cabinet under the bathroom sink is dangerously close to losing a door. There are occasions when hot water is not hot. There is a critter problem. And that's just inside the apartment.

The speaker/buzzer system works based on the speaker/buzzer's mood. Electricians came in three weeks ago and tore walls apart in the hallways. Now it looks as though a giant termite had a big meal on every floor, and no efforts have been made to fix it thus far. The lock on the building's front door is frequently broken. The fire alarm goes off no less than 12 times a day for no apparent reason. And now we get to what this is really about -- the elevator.

When I first moved into my apartment five years ago, I knew I was lucky to have an elevator. No walking up five flights of stairs for me. Except that, most of the time, the elevator doesn't work, or something vile has happened inside the elevator that makes the stairs seem the far better choice. Over the past year or so, people have started getting stuck in the elevator with alarming frequency. As I'm never in it on these occasions, I don't mind ogling the hot firemen that come in for the rescue. I thought I was locked in the elevator once, but really it was just not opening on my particular floor. After a few moments of panic, I rode up to six and all was right in the world again.

Since last week, there have been signs all over the building saying the elevator would be out from Monday, October 18th through (2012) Thursday, October 21st. I of course wandered in dazed and hit the button both Monday and Tuesday, but nothing happened. Last night, The Roommate and I were hanging out and heard a fierce banging coming from up above. Then we see sirens. Then I walk down the hall with the garbage and see the firemen of my dirty dreams. No one has any idea how this man got into the elevator, or how long he had been there.

Why don't I move out, you ask? Because I adore my 'hood and my apartment is rent-stabilized. Plus I have a huge bedroom with three windows on the sunny side of the street. But someday, I'll have a kitchen too. I just know it.

Florida, you're grounded

Dear Florida,

I've decided that, effective immediately, you no longer have the right to vote. I'm hereby ordering you to your room, where you will stay until you're ready to prove you can handle the responsibility of 27 electoral votes. And no Playstation, either.

Love,
Jess

He's just not that into me

I just got done reading He's Just Not That Into You: The
No-Excuses Truth to Understanding Guys by Greg Behrendt and Liz Tuccillo. If you've somehow missed all the hype surrounding this book, it came about when the authors were sitting in a Sex and the City writers session. One woman was talking about some guy she'd met that she hadn't heard from, and the other women started making excuses like, "maybe he's just busy" or "maybe he didn't get your email." Greg chimed in, "maybe he's just not that into you." They used it in an episode of the show.

Now, I don't run out and buy over hyped self-help books. I skipped Men are from Mars and Women are Stupid entirely. I only read The Rules under extreme duress, and found it evil and offensive. Nonetheless, this one intrigued me. I asked our Relationships Producer if she'd gotten a copy into the office, she had, I read it. I am forever changed by this book.

Every single excuse I have ever made for a boy that wasn't treating me right is debunked. He's busy, he's turning 30, his ex-girlfriend won't leave him alone, he's depressed, he just started a new job. This is what we do. We sit around with our girlfriends and overanalyze male behavior. If he didn't call, we try to figure out if we said something wrong, or acted too needy, or if external factors are conspiring against us. We read and reread emails from guys who just disappeared off the face of the Earth. We try to figure out what they really mean. None of us end up with these guys we waste so much energy trying to make excuses for, because when it comes down to it, they're just not that into us, or they wouldn't be acting the way they do.

Now, am I saying I'm never going to obsess over a boy that I shouldn't? No. But I hope that when there's a voice in my head that's saying, "what did I do wrong?" and another voice saying, "he's really busy this work," there's at least one more voice that says, "maybe he's not that into you." And you know what, ladies? Maybe if we collectively stop making excuses for guys who don't treat us right, all those lonely dudes are going to have to stop acting like jackasses if they want a little female companionship. You know, if we stop spending three nights a week at the guy who refuses to call us his girlfriend's apartment, or tell our drunk dialing ex-boyfriends that no, they can't come over and if they want us back they're going to have to prove to us that they've changed, then maybe they'll quit it with the lazy and step up. I'm just sayin'.

As it turns out, I really can handle the truth

The lovely Gina was kind enough to alert me that Britney has, in fact, posted her Letter of Truth. Gina's married, so she opted not to claim her big, wet smooch, but I'll buy her a margarita next time I see her. The letter is, quite possibly, the most disappointing thing I've ever read. I shouldn't be surprised, but I wanted more. Here's a tidbit:

My prerogative right now is to just chill & let all of the other overexposed blondes on the cover of Us Weekly be your entertainment... GOOD LUCK GIRLS!!

Masturbation inspiration

A Friend Who Wishes to Remain Nameless (but still wants me to tell this story and will probably confess her identity in comments anyway) and I had a long, graphic sex discussion on Saturday. At one point, conversation gravitated toward masturbation inspiration. I told her that when I have a hot and heavy crush, I need little more than my own imagination. When crushville is at population zero, I turn to my trusty friends at Cinemax After Dark. My Friend Who Wishes to Remain Nameless (but still wants me to tell this story and will probably confess her identity in comments anyway) gets her inspiration elsewhere. Elsewhere being Rate My Cock (clearly not work-safe). What she does is this. She clicks "next" until she finds one she really likes. Then she goes to town on herself with that image in her mind.

During the Farah Fawcett Fantasticness that was Lifetime Sunday yesterday, I pulled up Rate My Cock. The Roommate stood behind me and we checked out the cocks while also watching The Burning Bed. For twenty minutes, it went like this.

The Roommate and I (looking at a cock): Oh my God!

Farah Fawcett gets smacked by her husband. We look at the television.

The Roommate and I (looking at the television): Oh my God!

I hit next. Big cock comes up on screen.

The Roommate and I (looking at the cock): Oh my God!

Farah Fawcett screams. We look at the television.

The Roommate and I (looking at the television): Oh my God!

Then we finished cleaning the apartment. I didn't get hot and bothered, but I have to say, I was truly amazed by all the porn star cocks that are out apparently out there. Who knew?

This just in

I haven't had much to blog about lately, because all I've been doing is watching Law & Order and sleeping and kickin' it with my Magic Wand and wondering why it's taking Britney so long to finish her Letter of Truth and wondering if I will, in fact, be able to handle the truth. I believe the changing season is having an effect on my energy and motivation level. Thankfully, I just heard what might be the most exciting television news of my lifetime. From today's NY Post (and edited because the NY Post apparently has no copyeditor. I also fixed the spelling of Ms. Nielsen's name, because apparently they don't have a fact-checker either. NY Post? Get it together. Seriously):

Rapper Flavor Flav and '80s action star Brigitte Nielsen, the most improbable couple to come out of a reality TV show yet, now have their own series. "Strange Love," which picks up the couple's unlikely love affair where it left off at the end of last season's edition of "The Surreal Life," is slated to hit the air in January.

You can get the full story here. I will be glued to the television in a state of rapture and morbid fascination, starting in January.

I just sent the link to this story to The Roommate. Her response? YES! fucking YES YES YES!!!

That's MS. not Miss

Me: Date with the doctor is set!

Jake: When?

Me: Next Thursday

Jake: Is Azee having any luck with the actor?

Me: This is a different doctor. Not Dr. Paul.

Jake: Sorry, I forgot you were trying out for the traveling production of "ER: The Musical"

Me: Sean Conrad called me Miss MD-Lovin' Fancy Pants

Jake: Yeah, that's about right.

Dirty Holly sells stuff

That's right, folks. Dirty Holly, aka misshawklet, has launched her site. Soon, she will be selling books, scarves and all sorts of other handmade goodies. If you head over to misshawklet.com right now, you can sign up for her newsletter, which will certainly be an entertaining and informative read. Plus, you'll know the minute the store is live. A dirty girl's gotta eat. Go sign up now!

Misadventures

The bad news is I can't accompany the rape crisis girls to Boston this weekend because I can't find anyone to cover my Saturday shift at the hospital. The good news is I'm THIS close to a fab writing gig and I have a date with a cute doctor next week. Yee haw.

Hey Red Sox, who's your Daddy? Ha ha. That's never going to get old. Oh, and boys? A collective haircut, please.

This is a classic Jess-is-an-ass story. I ordered this screen so the cats could have a little privacy. We have no doorman in my building, but sometimes the UPS guy catches me in the morning or evening. After three tries, he didn't, so I had to trek over to the UPS on West Houston and pick it up.

The plan was this. I'd carry it a block over to Hudson and hop in a cab home. Only it weighed 44 pounds and was over 6 feet tall. I made it across the street with it, but cabs wouldn't pick me up. I called a car service to inquire about a van. I was told it would cost me 75 DOLLARS PLUS TIP TO TAKE ME ACROSS TOWN. It was then that I started to panic, so I called Curly for advice. She decided to come down and help me assess the situation.

When Curly arrived, we decided to carry the box over to 6th Avenue and hop on the cross-town bus with it. I was worried about actually getting it onto the bus, but figured it couldn't be that bad. We made it a couple of blocks and then couldn't go anymore. I called Carmel (Going to the airport? Just call Carmel at 666-6666.) and they gave me a still-ridiculous-but-slightly-more-reasonable price for a minivan. I hopped across the street to buy cigarettes (for me) and potato chips (for Curly). We waited for a long-ass time and finally, our minivan came.

When we got back to my place, a cute boy on a bike held my end of the box while I repeatedly tried and failed to open my building's front door. A few days prior, my ghetto elevator had decided to stop opening on my floor, so we were prepared to take the box up one floor and carry it down. Luckily, it opened and we didn't have to. Once we dropped off the screen, I bought her some Mama's and beer and we watched the Red Sox get spanked.

My new goal is to find a boyfriend with a car. Well, at least until my apartment is fully furnished.

On Hamburger Helper, and cunnilingus

This is completely unrelated to the following story, but I don't understand my complete inability to wear fishnets without destroying them. I bought two pairs at The Sock Man on Sunday, nude and black. This morning, I put on the nude for the first time. Rip 1: I got them stuck in the zipper of my skirt as I put it on. Rip 2: I was walking down the stairs of the subway and got them stuck in the zipper of the boot on the opposite foot. I'm a mess. Anyway, on to my story.

I had a friend in high school that loved Hamburger Helper. He also loved going down on girls. This is how he compared the two:

Going down on a girl is like someone putting a giant bowl of Hamburger Helper in front of me with one spoon.

I told Mrs. F and Julie that story one day as we drove to meet HH and two of his friends for a hike. Julie thought it was hysterical. Mrs. F thought it was fascinating. We went. We hiked. We drank some beer. We got ready to go home. HH invited us over for more beer. We went. We drank more beer. Julie and I decided it was time to go home, and attempted to collect Mrs. F. She decided to stay. Later, HH called me and accused me of telling Mrs. F and Julie about the Hamburger Helper analogy. He told me he and Mrs. F had a long discussion about Hamburger Helper, which apparently ends in cunnilingus more often than not.

Mrs. F never mentioned being a vegetarian.

A side note. HH could also blow smoke out of his left eye. Great party trick.

Your kisses are as wicked as an M-16, and you fuck like a volcano and you're everything to me

I have a new boyfriend. His name is the Hitachi Magic Wand. I am in love.

Tough choices

Cousin Desiree: I like the shirt that says, "I survived my abortion"

Me: Oh my god, that's funny.

Cousin Desiree: I'm sorry but this site is hilarious.

Me: I love my Martha shirt.

Cousin Desiree: "Herpes is sexy."

Me: I want that. Which one are you getting?

Cousin Desiree: I'm going to get "I survived my abortion" I think.

Cousin Desiree: "Save a horse, ride a cowboy."

Me: Oh man. I want that one.

Cousin Desiree: Do I want "Total retard" or "Sexual predator?"

Me: As a rape crisis counselor, I think I have to vote for "Total retard."

Cousin Desiree: Or "I survived my abortion?" Or "Jesus had a mullet?"

Me: We are so related.

Cousin Desiree: It's times like this you wish you were rich.

Me: I wish I were rich so I could buy more demented t-shirts?

Cousin Desiree: Yeah. Want to wear them on Christmas?

Everyone needs a cause

I just bought this T-shirt:



If you'd like one too, you can order one here.

Free Martha!

A letter to Donald Trump

Dear Donald Trump,

I really think giving Pamela the boot was a bad idea.

Not that Pamela is someone I would want to hang out with. She isn't, she scares me. I do, however, think that as far as leadership goes, she was the only hope for APEX. I don't understand, Mr. Trump, how you could have gotten as far as you have in the business world without any apparent knowledge of female politics.

I'm going to betray my gender here, and I'm going to feel bad about it but you need some enlightenment. There are many nice, healthy ways girls bond -- watching Lifetime Original Movies, playing croquet, kickboxing. There are also some unhealthy ways girls bond, one of which (and this is the one you need to pay attention to) is shared hatred for another girl. It's ugly, it's awful, but we do it. Hell, we did it in rape crisis training. That's how we all became friends -- shared hatred for the girl who Would. Not. Shut. Up. I'm not proud, but I am happy to have those friends.

This, Mr. Trump, is what the women of APEX are doing. Every week, they gang up on one member of the team, exaggerate her inadequacies and get her fired. And you play into it every time. Stacey J? Maybe a little nutty, but certainly not a paranoid schizophrenic. Jennifer C? I'll give you that one. Pamela? Sorry, but she kicks ass and takes names.

Let's look at the remaining women of APEX and see if there's a leader in the bunch, shall we? Elizabeth, who cries and takes everything personally. Ivana, who thinks she knows everything yet every time she talks all I hear is blah, blah fishcakes. Maria is just a bitch, and not in a good take-charge way either. Jennifer M. and Sandy, the blonds -- no real opinion of them yet although I thought Jennifer did a nice job on-camera at QVC. Stacy R, in addition to being the most annoying girl to ever walk the Earth, is a huge instigator who does nothing but yap and stir up dissent.

Mr. Trump, I think you are either clueless as to the machinations of female competition, or you want the women to fail. I certainly hope it's the former. And please fire Stacy R. next time. I hate her.

Love,
Jess

P.S. Can I run one of your companies?

A very Seinfeld date, or something like a date

Azee and I went out with Actor Chris and Dr. Paul last night. Before the big night out, Azee and I had been trying to figure out which one of them likes which one of us, to no avail. And we still don't know.

We arrived at the bar ½ hour before they were scheduled to arrive so we could get all of our talk about other boys out of the way. When they showed up, Actor Chris bought a round and then we moved from the bar to a table. We sat boy-girl-boy-girl. Actor Chris and Dr. Paul both complimented me on my girl-hula-hooping bag and how nice my hair looked down. (It had been up when they met me) Actor Chris also complimented me on my hot pink corduroys with the rhinestone detailing that I wore on a date once and was told I looked like a rock star in them.

Azee and I went outside to smoke and compare notes. She thought they both liked me. I disagreed. Azee is beautiful, and every boy that meets her falls in love with her. And she's consistently beautiful. I, on the other hand, need to make an effort to look presentable. When they first met me, I hadn't. Last night, I had. It's all about the contrast.

Actor Chris couldn't drink because Dr. Paul had put him on antibiotics and wouldn't let him. He drank Diet Coke after Diet Coke and got more and more manic with each one. And he's pretty manic to begin with. Nonetheless, about halfway through the night I found myself wondering if I might like to kiss him, but it could have been the gin.

Eventually, Azee had to go home and the boys and I went to the corner deli for some snacks. Actor Chris tried to buy Salsa Doritos, but I strongly advised him against it and he switched to Nacho Cheesier. Crisis averted. Actor Chris went home, and Dr. Paul and I decided to hop on the subway back to Manhattan. When we got into the station, he asked me if I liked Actor Chris. I said no and he scoffed at me, and then began a mini-tirade about how all the girls they meet like Actor Chris. It was a little uncomfortable. Then we started talking about domestic violence victims in the ER. We fared much better with that conversation.

Azee and I agreed that, despite the fact that neither one of us feel any strong desire to date either of them, they're fun and we'll hang out with them again and play it by ear. It's nice to have boys to hang out with again. In other boy news, I met one on Nerve and after two days of emailing about Ginsu knives, I'm convinced he's my soul mate. Hopefully more on him later.

It's been at least five minutes since we talked about Britney

This not just in, but in yesterday:

Britney's Message to Fans
Pop superstar Britney Spears is busy writing a "Letter of Truth" for fans who visit her official website. The singer - who married dancer Kevin Federline in a secret ceremony last month - says the letter will explain her deepest thoughts and emotions and "state where her life is right now". She says of the journal, which she dubs "Letter of Truth: I hope you can handle it", "It was a life-changing letter for me, and I just want my fans to read it. It really states where I am in my life right now. It is making closure with a lot of things and I think this is my ultimate truth."

Now, one needs to be a Britney fan club member to gain access to this, which comes with a hefty price of $24.95. That could buy me at least two Maker's Marks, so I just can't do it. It will no doubt be circulating on the Internet soon. I'll be looking, but if any of y'all come across it, please send it me. I NEED this. I'll give you a big smooch. With tongue.

You can climb in my window anytime, baby

I've made an executive decision not to see Ladder 49 in the theater. If I'm going to see Joaquin Phoenix in a fireman's uniform, I'm going to have to see it in the privacy of my bedroom. If I see it in the theater, I might get arrested. I'll be counting the days until it's on In Demand.

He's not a serial killer, he's just British

I had a lovely, if busy, weekend. Saturday night I went to Hoboken, where Marc and Nicola stuffed me full of shrimp and friend green tomatoes and hot cherries and ice cream and wine. Yum. Last night, the crew came over and I stuffed them full of baked mac 'n cheese and salad with creamy garlic dressing and wine. Really, nothing makes me happier than food.

Friday night, Pete celebrated his entry into a new decade. After having a lovely dinner at Café Colonial, My Sharona and I headed over to Botanica to wish him a happy 30th birthday. Over dinner, My Sharona showed me her brand-new "stunt ring." I had not heard of this stunt ring business, so she enlightened me. A stunt ring is a fake engagement ring or wedding band that you slip on if you don't want to be hit on. I briefly wondered if I should get one, and then thought, "Why wouldn't I want to be hit on?" I mean, if the guy's awful, it's fun to mess with him and if he's not awful, then by all means bring it. Either way, good times.

We arrived at Botanica before Pete and his minions, so we sat at the bar and observed a man who was sitting by himself. After 30 seconds, we determined he was crazy and had great fun at his expense for the rest of the evening. Later, we all found ourselves waiting in line for the bathroom together and he leaned over and said something to My Sharona. Once he was safely out of earshot, she leaned over and said, "He's not a serial killer, he's British."

Actually, he was Australian, which we found out when he approached us while we were outside smoking. Never in my life have I engaged in a more painful conversation. He mostly just stood there, and would make random statements that didn't exactly inspire a two-way conversation. My Sharona quickly withdrew herself, leaving me to deal with the bad conversationalist from down under while she sat off to the side, smirking. We left him to go back into the bar and when I remarked to My Sharona that the conversation was painful, she responded that it was painful to watch, too. I should have kicked her then, but I didn't.

When Pete's friend Saara arrived, he introduced us by saying, "I can't believe you two have never met before. You're the two most vulgar women I know." Awesome. We got along famously, as vulgar women often do. My Sharona and I resurrected our earlier conversation about the hottest thing anyone's ever said to us and we took a mini-survey. Unfortunately, no one's ever said anything hot and noteworthy to me, but I remembered Linus' fuck me like you own me story, so I told that. I also decided that I could never say "fuck me like you own me" to anyone without laughing, and if I did manage it, I’d be worried about what would happen next. Ownership is a very subjective thing.

I'm expecting an email from Linus any minute now, asking why I just did a search on "fuck me like you own me" on his blog.

I meant what I said, but...

It appears that my "no further contact" rule is being obeyed by the ex. I didn't expect that. I also didn't expect to, in a very small, very confusing way, miss being driven crazy.

John Kerry needs more CAKE

Last night, I took Curly to her first CAKE party. It was at Crash Mansion (LOVE that name) on the Bowery, and it was politically themed, pro-Kerry to be exact. They showed the debate, and then Apocalypstik and Lez Zeppelin played. I got more action at that party then I've had in months.

First, the girl who pinned the "make CAKE not war" sticker on me totally groped my boob. Then, I was getting my 8th or 9th glass of wine at the bar and someone lovingly stroked my hair. I asked Curly who it was and she pointed to a girl that was standing behind me. I told Curly that CAKE parties were the gayest straight girl parties ever. She wasn't paying attention, though -- she was too busy watching the CAKE dancers grind on each other.

I was dancing like a madwoman, and a man started dancing with me. Which was fine, until he upped the creep factor by about 10 thousand. He told me he saw me the minute I walked in and fell in love with me. He told me he wanted to take me out to dinner Saturday night, and that I should cancel my plans. He told me he always gets what he wants. At that point, I decided to run away and avoid him for the rest of the night. He cornered me once after that, but I got away mostly unscathed.

I usually slut it up for the CAKE parties. As I walked to the bar last night in my "My Bush would make a better president" tank top, my denim mini, my fishnets, my fuchsia flower flats and glittery eye shadow, a dude in a car asked me how much I charge. Yup, the cavefish was mistaken for a hooker. Good times.