Sexy Pumpkins

A Halloween post, in honor of one of my all-time favorite holidays. (What can I say? I'm a total sucker for dressing up, and the candy doesn't hurt either.)

However, rather than extoll the virtues of this grand day, I'm going to take this opportunity to write about a problem with Halloween that is near and dear to my heart: "sexy" costumes.

You guys know what I mean. I don't mean costumes that by their nature are sexy, like a stripper. I also will give a pass to certain costumes that aren't sexy most of the time but are given an extra dose of sex on Halloween based on long-standing, general fantasy, such as schoolgirls, cops, nurses, maids. Mind you, you will not see me dressed as a schoolgirl in public, but I will give the pass.

And, I get it. I totally get it. We all-- men and women-- want to look sexy. Those of us who wear jeans, sneakers, and t-shirts to work and get told we "dress like a little boy" by our male coworkers really want the opportunity to go as feminine as possible. But because you're wearing a costume, psychologically women are able to think-- and the rest of the world accepts-- "I'm not a whore, I'm just dressed up as one because it's Halloween." It's totally the one day a year where we get a free pass to dress as sexy as we want with no repurcussions.

However, there are still problems with this. First, I think there's a way to do sexy without looking like a whore. There's a way to do sexy without looking like a complete moron. My rule is, you should not look like you are dressing like a whore just because you can. You should not buy one of those "Legs Avenue" costumes (that they sell in porn stores year-round as fantasy outfits, fyi) just because it's Halloween. If you have to look like a total slut, at least make it funny and/or creative and/or homemade.

Second, it's total misogyny. Do a search for the "sexy" costumes on a website and they are ALL for women. Why don't men seize Halloween to advertise their inner trollop? More importantly, why isn't it expected for men the way it is for women? It just boils my blood.

So, that being said, I will punch in the face any girl I see tomorrow wearing any of the following costumes (which exist, I took all of these from Halloween costume websites): sexy pilgrim, sexy Uncle Sam, sexy bee, sexy FBI agent (I don't wear hot pants and a midriff-baring bustier to work, sorry), sexy Raggedy Ann, sexy "Tin Girl" and Scarecrow (from the Wizard of Oz. . .), sexy Eve (as in, from the Bible), sexy Napoleon, sexy corpse bride (really??). . . ugh,I can't even finish the list.

But I will close with my number 1, all-time most hated sexy costume. This exemplifies so well the misogyny at play: Spongebob Squarepants. If you want to go as Spongebob, expect to be dressed as a giant, Velveeta-colored hunk of square foam all night. It's funny. And alas, the hunk of foam costume is juuuuust fine for men:



And here's the women's version:


Are you fucking kidding me?

Maine: A Travelogue

What the fuck is a travelogue, anyway? I just realized I hate that word. I looked it up, Mirriam-Webster's has one definition as "a piece of writing about travel," which totally makes sense, I just hate the word. For the record, I also hate the words purchase, moist, dud, tot (as in tater), and smoothie.

So Maine! Joe and I are now at 4 1/2 months of dating. Whoo-hoo! But who's counting? Well, I am. And I was expressly granted permission (by my older, wiser sister) to be "one of those girls" until six months of dating. One of those girls where I get to talk about Joe incessantly and in annoying ways.

This won't be annoying, though. I mention it only because Maine was a test: it was to be our longest period of consecutive time spent with one another. Maine was almost a full week of 24/7 contact, to be rendered that much more hostile by the trials and tribulations of traveling together. Anyone who's anyone knows that travel is a true test of a relationship's-- romantic, friendly, family-- strength.

And . . . we made it through. Not a blip on the relationship-strength radar. Sooooo . . . awesome.

And, oh yeah, in other news, Maine was pretty good too. Our trip, we discovered, was destined to be a dual exploration of the state: culinary and scenic. We ate ourselves into comas, and decided that, if we said we were taste-testing our way through the state, there was legitimate, scientific purpose for said comas, and it was all OK. When we weren't eating stuff, we were looking at stuff.

We started the trip in Kennebunkport, land of the Walker-Bushes. Our B&B was here, and we spent one day in Kennebunkport and one day in nearby Portland. Kennebunkport is cute, very cute. If I were a 70-year-old white lady (which one day I will be), I would love it. I think there's more going on there in the summer, cause there are pretty beaches. But in October, Joe and I just walked around the town, which is full of jewelry stores, art galleries, and other cutesy shopping. We dined on award-winning lobster rolls (a New England thing; Joe's first; and not an award-winner in my book), and. . . that's pretty much it. A welcome easy first day.. .. This picture is from a cemetary in Kennebunkport. Pretty, no? Look at that foliage!! I could die.(For all these pics, you can click on them and you'll go to a bigger version of them....)

Portland was next-- not the capital, but a cosmopolitan city that reminded me a lot of my hometown of Providence, RI. Small, with character even in the business buildings. . . the "Old Port" section with cute shops and cobblestone streets on the waterfront was adorable. Another day spent walking around, exploring, window-shopping, eating. Portland is the home of Duckfat, a restaurant that specializes in . . . cooking things in duck fat. Joe saw this in our guidebook and, unlike normal people, his little ears perked up.

Not only did the idea of random things cooked in duck fat excite him, he specifically wanted to go there to eat poutine, a culinary . . . thing. . . that involves french fries doused in both cheese curds and gravy. Yes. The image in my head showed steak fries covered in cottage cheese bathing in heavy brown gravy soup. In reality, it was a lot less disgusting looking (see below) and even pretty good to eat.



So, of course, we needed to keep things light for dinner, so we high-tailed it out to a little lobster shack on Cape Elizabeth, where you ate your $10 lobster overlooking an endless dark ocean. It was so gorgeous. Lobster was one of the things we taste-tested through Maine. The official judging included boiled lobster, lobster rolls, seafood/clam chowder, cole slaw, and blueberry pie/blueberry desserts.



The next day we rose early to drive the 4 hours further up the coast to Bar Harbor, which is the big town on Mount Desert Island. The rest of the island, pretty much, consists of Acadia National Park, which is famous for being, like, the most gorgeous place on earth. Rockefeller, back in the day, created 20-something miles of "carriage roads," dirt paths that only horse-drawn carriages, not cars, were allowed on. Today, you can bike/walk them. Also famous is the 27 mile "Park Loop Road," which you drive (or, for the Lance Armstrongs among us, bike) and which takes you through a good majority of the Park, hitting all the famous scenic sites. Joe and I were giddy with anticipation for Acadia. He loves all things outdoors and I love pretty views. I was even looking forward to stopping eating and getting my now-fat ass on a bike through the park.

Acadia was everything we dreamed. In October, the whole damn thing was just flush with color, those vibrant oranges and yellows and fiery reds that only New England can boast. The air was crisp and cool and you can take a deep breath without coughing. We drove the Park Loop Road with the windows down. We biked through the woods on the carriage roads. We had popovers at the Jordan Pond House, which are world famous. We sat and stared at trees and leaves and flowers and water and mountains and woods, which, in Acadia, are all within inches of each other. We drove to the top of Cadillac Mountain, which is the first point in the U.S. to see the sun rise. The one day we managed to get our asses out of bed at 5am to see said sunrise, it was raining. But we did sit, snuggled in 14 blankets and each other (it was damn cold), on top of Cadillac and watch the sun set.

I can't even choose pictures from Acadia to show what it was like. But I'll try:






The culinary tour continued in Bar Harbor, although by that point we had lobstered ourselves out. The chowdering continued strong, as did anything involving blueberries and dessert. Bar Harbor was also the first, and only, time we indulged the curious Maineism of "whoopie pies," which are . . . like, 2 chocolate cupcakes sandwiched together by vanilla frosting. They were everywhere! Pretty good, not my favorite.

We also took a whale-watching tour. I grew up in New England but have never done this. It's kind of like how I live in New York now but don't deign to go to the Empire State Building or Statue of Liberty, even though whales are totally cooler than that shit. Still. Also the whales are only on the East Coast from like April to the end of October. We had a great time-- we hit on at least two pods of whales and dolphins, and the big guys were so close to the boat! None of them fully breached all Free-Willy-style, but there was plenting of blowing and flipper and tail showing. The temptation to jump off the boat and ride a whale like Seabiscuit, if only for a moment, was somewhat overwhelming, but I managed to restrain myself.



A special note about our Bar Harbor B&B: Amazing. It hugs the cliffs overlooking Frenchmen's Bay, one of the bodies of water that surround Mt. Desert Island. 80 steps lead to a private beach, another path leads to 2 chairs on a deck on the edge of the cliff. It was truly breathtaking. I could have stayed in that chair for our whole time there. And our room had this supremely comfy bed and a whirlpool bathtub, which was so nice after a day of biking in the cold. (Actually, unbeknownst to us prior to getting there, but which is advertised inside the B&B, Jenna Bush stayed there and got engaged on the beach. That is truly icky to me, but it shows ya how gorgeous and romantic the place was.) This was the view from the B&B's back deck, although it scarcely does it justice:



Lesson of the day: So . . . overrall, the trip gets an A+. We managed to combine relaxation with activity, adventure, exploration, eating ourselves silly. . . and, despite about 18-20 hours with each other stuck in the cab of a pick-up truck, cramped and tired and repeatedly getting lost, we managed to do it all without so much as a snarky, fatigue-induced snap at each other. I think we are destined for great things. In Maine.

Best Friends in October

I have been sorely neglecting my blog, and for that I am sorry, to my 5 or so loyal fans. I honestly don't know what to write about anymore, now that I'm stuck like a fly in honey in my sickeningly sweet relationship bliss. I try the pop-culture bit, I try the my-random-thoughts-bit, but both of those get written when the inspiration hits, and clearly inspiration comes at times few and far between. Feel free to leave comments on what you would like me to expound upon.

I will say this: October is, and always has been, my favorite month. I loooove the cold weather, and I love the in-between coldness that October brings. I lurve Halloween. I love love love fall foliage, which of course we don't get here in NYC. Anyway, I'm excited for the rest of this month.

Also, because Joe and I leave in 2 days for a week-long vacation to Maine. Growing up in New England, I've been there a few times, but Joe never has and has always wanted to go. We're going at "peak foliage season" so I can barely contain myself. We're also spending 3 days in Acadia National Park hiking and biking around mountains, ponds, and those glorious leaves. So I'll be sure to post some sappy blogs when we get back full of gorgeous pictures.

Until then, please enjoy this Joe-taken photo of my cat Eliot and my snake Norman sharing some best friend time.

I love white people!!

I love all other peeps too. . . It's just, you know. . . I'm white, my family is white . . . is it wrong to have a little pride? It's been a rough ride for us white folks, you know, historically and all. Gimme a break once in a while.

Anyhoo, my sister (who's also white!) introduced me to the website Stuff White People Like awhile ago. This is a truly hysterical, entertaining site (and satirical, people . . . don't get your white or non-white panties in a bunch). Besides the funny general articles about white people, it's like a game for white people to play: look at the Full List of Stuff White People Like and see how many you fit! And how many you don't fit, so you can be like, "oooh, that's not me! I'm sooooo soulfull! I'm so ethnic!"

How do I rate so far? Before my induction to this website, I thought I was a fairly non-white white person. I have many facts for this claim: I have many non-white friends. I dated a black guy! My favorite music is old-skool soul and R&B. Um. . . . that's about it, but if you weight those facts, the math will show you that I'm at least, what, like Puerto Rican or something.

And the website supports me. I do not like rugby (#95), St. Patrick's Day (#89), outdoor performance clothes (#87). I despise shorts (#86) and lord knows how I love my TV (#28). Unfortunately, out of the now 109 things on The List, I think I totally embody like 100 of them. Even weighted, I don't think a black boyfriend can override the severity of my love of sushi (#42), grammar (#99), Arrested Development (#38), and coffee (#1). And in fact, I think me even trying to gain street cred with my black ex-boyfriend makes me whiter (#14).

Well, as I was perusing this site today, I came across #104 on The List, and all of my dreams of being cool and not-so-white were shattered. I literally embody #104, "Girls With Bangs." I quote: "It is a known fact that white people love women who wear their hair with bangs that hang straight down." Shit!! That's totally my haircut. It gets worse: "But for white people, this simple haircut makes a bold declaration by saying that the wearer is artistic, deep, and has probably dated a guy in a band you like . . . For white people, the haircut-with-bangs is an important symbol that a female has completed her transformation from a nerdy girl to a cool woman."

Well, I'm definitely deep and totally cool, although I've never dated a guy in a band. I will say that for me, I don't think I've completed my transformation, even with my "white" hair: I'm in the middle-- I'm a nerdy cool woman. Alas, I think I'm getting a little too technical, which is probably another affliction of me being white. And do you all want to know the most embarrassing thing about this? I brought in a picture of Lindsay Lohan to my hairstylist when I got my bang haircut. Lindsay fucking Lohan. Jesus, I should just kill myself. She had really great bangs, though.

Shout-Out of the Day: Copycat Emily and Shirlotta, I'm friends with you out of some deep-seated unconscious racial need! Although I'm technically exempt from this one, but still. I can't resist you Asian girls.

Friday means lists.

Things I hate:

- Babies-as-flowers photography. Babies-as-anything photography,for that matter. Babies are pretty cute on their own. Why muck them up by making me want to vomit?

- Commercials that address babies. People, you have your marketing audience aaaaall wrong. The babies aren’t actually buying the diapers!! You don’t need to entice them!

- Pimps. Don't get me started

- Shredded iceberg lettuce. In salads, sandwiches, anywhere. It should not exist. Why is it so gross?

- Chewing tobacco. More gross than shredded iceberg.

Things I love:

- Infomercials where they show people having a really hard time doing normal things, like boiling water and using scissors. Such entertainment.

- Sour Patch Kids commercials, the French bull California cheese commercial ("Hello ladies, je m'appelle Bob!"), and the gibberish-talking stain Tide pen commercial.

- The smell of the supermarket coffee aisle and sulphur from recently-lit matches

- The Burger King king. Yes, he's creepy, but in the funniest way.

- Little kids falling. Actually, anyone falling. The best falls are really bad ones, which are made better when people get up really fast and look around and just sort of pretend it didn’t happen. . . . priceless.

- America's Funniest Videos (AFV). It used to be uncool, probably due entirely to Bob Saget as the host. But now it's some funny shit. If only for the 2-minute montages made up entirely of clips of people falling. I love both the montages and the fact that someone else loves it so much they make the montages

- Animals stealing stuff from unsuspecting others. My friend sent me this video and I laughed for hours. I re-wound it to watch the 3rd clip, with that utterly confused but nonchalant kangaroo, like 15 times in a row. THAT is comedy. (Also, this clip comes to us from AFV, so. Holla.)

Lesson of the day: This blog leaves out the obvious and annoying to state, such as that I hate Sarah Palin’s stoopit face and I love my friends and the way Joe giggles (he calls it “chuckling”) . . . Y'all don't need to know all that. AFV, ya needs ta know.

Brenda rocked my world.

By now you all know my intense passion towards crappy, trashy television. I can't explain this. I'm a pretty intelligent girl. Why my brain feels the need to gravitate towards stupid people doing stupid things on stupid shows is an eternal enigma. I can't even tell you all the shows that are programmed to automatically record with my DVR. I can't tell you because they are too numerous to remember, and because despite my very no-holds-barred shamelessness about my life, some things are too embarrassing to reveal. Suffice it to say that I hold a place in my heart for Adrianne Curry and Christopher Knight (no doubt some, if not all, of you are like, "who??").

Perhaps it all started when I was a teen lump of clay, ready to be molded into whatever my master the TV wanted me to be. Apparently, the TV wanted to be one of those exceedingly well-rounded people who could carry on conversations about politics (go Barack!) AND Denise Richards. Because the first trashy show that I loved was Beverly Hills, 90210.

I still remember the summer of 1991. I was a fair child of 13, on my way to summer camp in Vermont. I remember the passionate, pleading converstation I had with my mother on the subject of the absolute need for her to tape (back in the VCR days) every single episode of 90210 that summer, or else I would be very upset. It's so funny to reflect on as a fair woman of 30.-- I can actually remember how desperate I was for her to remember to tape them, and how, excited as I was for camp, upset I was that I would be missing 90210 for so long.

This post was actually inspired by my blogging-colleague Copycat Emily's recent post on moving, as she lists "her life in moving boxes." Because the first thing it made me think of was this one episode of 90210 where Donna's all freaked out about this English class essay she has to write, an autobiography. But then they read them out loud in class, and nerd Andrea's literal, chronological listing of events in her life isn't so exciting. Donna, who has chosen to write her life out in terms of a chronology of all the shoes she has owned, therefore showing the evolution of not only her style but of herself, people, woos the class and the teacher.

Why do I remember the specifics of a meanlingless scene from a meaningless show, 17 years later? I do not know. But alas, I do. I also remember the white, skin-tight dress with weird holes/metal grommets all over it that Brenda wore in the pilot episode to go to some LA nightclub. I remember the episode where Donna gets like a 600 on her SATs, decides she's stupid (um. .. .), and drops all her friends to hang out with the "bad" kids (who are denoted as bad by their leather jackets and cigarette smoking). I remember Emily Valentine, a punkish girl who has a crush on Brandon, and so to get his attention, she burns down the stage of the school's talent show (but not before performing a rousing rendition of "Breaking Up Is Hard to Do" with Donna, Brenda, and Kelly as back-up). Also, I remember my undying love for Luke Perry, aka bad boy Dylan . . . I thought he was SO hot. He still is pretty hot, actually. And, to THIS DAY, there is a poster of Dylan/Luke hanging in the basement of my parents house, leftover from the early 90s.

Another thing you might all be wondering is, why am I wasting my time writing about 90210? The answer is twofold: I was reminded of my love for my original trashy TV due to Emily's blog, and then that reminded me that the CW's 90210 starts next week. 90210 is a newly imagined "re-creation" of sorts of the original show. I have absolutely no idea why I'm so excited for it, because there's really no guarantee, and even less hope, that it will be anything like the original show. It will probably end up being more like the crap that even I don't watch, like The Hills. I don't even watch Gossip Girl, despite that seeming like it's right up my alley and I've heard only great things about it. (Plus, I'm loving their current ad campaign, which is to show the characters in sexy postions with "negative" reviews of the show-- "mind-blowingly inappropriate"-- by insignificant reviewers-- the Parents' Television Council-- splashed across the posters.)

So, I give major kudos to the marketing people for the new 90210, who are going to manage to get at least one viewer based solely on the fact that they geniusly named the show after a classic, whether or not they live up to the namesake. Plus, they brought back Jenny Garth (Kelly) and Shannen Doherty (who's bitchy Brenda was the best thing going in the 90s), so that's too exciting for words, really.

Lesson of the day: I really need to get a life.

I can't decide how I feel about this.

Hello lovelies!! I have been on vacation for a bit and thus no new posts for your entertainment. For this I am truly, truly sorry. It almost ruined my vacation. Alas, during my daily review of the news, I came across some tidbits that I wanted to share. Rants and raves! Actually, one rave and one, hence the blog title, item that I can't decide if it deserves a rant or a rave.

Rave: To Hallmark. Because although they write some truly trashtacular crap in their greeting cards, and cost $4, they issued a press release recently announcing that they are starting a line of same-sex marriage greeting cards. Despite same-sex marriage being legal in only 2 states so far, I imagine there are a lot of people who have already felt the burning desire to send a congratulations via an over-priced greeting card. I know that I was bummed I couldn't say my congrats to Portia and Ellen in Hallmark-style. I'm being snarky here but I'm actually really proud of Hallmark. You go guys.

Also, I'm excited to send them for non-same-sex-marriage reasons. Jax can attest that for her engagement, I gave her a card whose cover featured a charming photo of two horses nuzzling. I gave a 50 year old man a card with N'Sync on it for his birthday. This is not because I'm making fun of either birthdays or engagements. On the contrary, I'm a big supporter of both. It's mainly because I tend to abhor greeting cards but find that sending a silly or completely inaproppriate one lessens the shame I feel in not just sitting down and creating my own witty card. And it makes me laugh. So. If any of you ladies out there receive a "congrats on marrying the woman of your dreams" card for your baby shower, well . . .

So the other, completely un-related news item comes to us from MSNBC, who report on an Italian priest organizing an online beauty pageant for nuns: Miss Sister 2008. His logic is to "give them [the nuns] more visibility within the Catholic Church and to fight the stereotype that they are all old and dour." Also, "external beauty is gift from God, and we mustn't hide it."

Ha ha, I can barely keep from laughing over all the things I want to say about this. I mean, I really, really doubt that this is the kind of "visibility" nuns want, within or not within the Church. I also really doubt that they care whether people think of them as old and dour or as little sex kittens just covered-up all sexy like in those hot habits.

My gut reaction is to hate this and write some long-winded thing about misogyny and my hatred of beauty pageants for any reason. But if we're all being honest here, my agnostic and atheist self dislikes the Church more than Miss America, and I find some kind of hideous amusement in the idea of them debasing themselves so much in this manner. What's next? Holy water wet t-shirt contests?

So, rant or rave on this one, people? I rant because there won't be a "Mr. Friar 2008" pageant, and so (surprise, surprise) misogyny reigns on in the Catholic church. And I hate that nuns will be doing this. But I rave because . . . yeah, I just love it when the church looks stupid.

Lesson of the day: I will totally buy stock in Hallmark when they start producing "Congrats on your Miss Sister win!" cards. Ooh! Ooh! How about, "Thank you, Jesus! You make me want to bang my Sister!" cards?

My kind of sandwich.

So, it's Friday night. My boyfriend may or may not have mono, so my plans for the evening were derailed. I haven't had a night in to myself in a bit, so it was nice.

I ordered the Katherine Heigl classic 27 Dresses from Movies on Demand for my evening entertainment. One the one hand, I really just wanted to watch something funny and mindless, and it didn't disappoint. Moreover, I had read that it was filming in my hometown of Providence, RI, and I thought I could catch some glimpses of my beloved city. I couldn't, and the whole thing was set in Brooklyn, NY . . . This movie was actually much better than the trailers had led me to believe. Not that it was good, per se, but it surprised me. And it included this line:

sister: "You wouldn't hurt me. I'm your sister."

Katherine Heigl: "That was yesterday. Today you're just a bitch who broke my heart." Snap!!

Also, it featured a bar-top dance to Elton John's "Benny and the Jets." For real.

The real selling point of 27 Dresses, however, besides activating my wedding gene, was James Marsden. Aaaah, James Marsden, where have you been all my life? I first noticed you in last year's Hairspray, where you sang, danced, and battled racism your way into my heart. I think you've been in other stuff. I think you were Prince Charming in Enchanted, but I haven't seen that. But you are hot. You are Prince Charming.

James Marsden, I want to be in a sandwich with you and James Franco. James Franco, you won me over with your moody, tormented soul with dad issues in the Spiderman movies, and even though you were forced to act opposite that skank Kirsten Dunst, it was magic. I have no idea what else you've been in, but if we're being honest with each other, I don't like you for your acting skills.

James and James: you have the same first name, and you actually look a helluva lot like each other. But these are no deterrents. Let's make a sandwich, boys. You know you want to.

James Marsden above, James Franco on my right. Be still my beating heart.

Lesson of the day: I feel I should apologize to Joe, but I said I wasn't going to censor myself just cause he's reading the blog now. And my public has to know about my sandwich. And if you're nice to me, I could be persuaded to share . . .

My brush-- or sensuous feel-- with fame

A couple of you already know this story, but I was reminded of it again this morning thanks to a radio advertisement.

I went to college with a certain D-list actress by the name of Anna Chlumsky, who recently has done nothing, but who will forever remain in our hearts and minds as the ill-named Vada Sultenfuss of 1991's My Girl (and, of course, 1994's My Girl 2). Since I was a fair child of 13 when this movie came out, of course I saw it and loved it. If any of you hear or have heard me randomly spout, "he can't see without his glasses!", it's my small tribute to My Girl and MacCauley Caulkin's bee-induced demise. And, of course, to Anna's extra-dramatic delivery of this pivotal line (Caulkin is dead, already, see, so he doesn't need his glasses. But Vada is really upset about him being dead. They were friends.).

In any case, Anna was the only celebrity who deigned to study at my uber-nerdy school, so it was a really funny big deal when she was there. So imagine my excitement when we end up in Social Dance class together. The only other thing I remember about her from college is that she dated this Brazilian guy who always wore the tightest jeans possible. Luckily for me, he was not in our dance class.

So picture this: social dance class, nerd school. Dance lesson of the day: the tango. As usual, there were way too many girls in the class and not enough boys, so when we have to pair off to tango, I am paired with. . . Anna Chlumsky. I can barely suppress my giggles as "he can't see without his glasses!!" runs repeatedly through my head. We embrace as if at an 8th grade dance: arms straight out as we touch each other's hands and shoulders, both of us tense and straight. The un-sexiest tango ever. The tango is a fairly intimate dance to be doing with a complete stranger, same-sex or not, but we took discomfort to a new level.

The instructor, however, decides that Anna and I are not nearly intimate enough. He comes over, declares loudly that the tango is a dance of passion, and, with one hand on each of our backs, shoves us together. Now, Anna and I are about the same height, and we are both, um, rather well-endowed through the chesticle area. The result of the instructor's shove sends my boobs smack into Anna's boobs and vice versa. The resulting passionate embrace leaves our boobs lovingly smacked up against each other for the duration of our tango. Had this been a friend of mine, we would have laughed about it. This being a complete stranger-- and not, you know, within the confines of a swingers club-- we were mortified. And our boobs are big!! You couldn't ignore what was going on! If we were in Alabama, we would've been forced into marriage, the way we were touching each other. Anna and I both blushed and neither of us mentioned it as we tangoed our way to friendship. Indeed, Anna and I always said hi to each other after that, and even though we both knew it was because of the time our breasts spent nuzzling each other, we never talked about it.

I was reminded of this story this morning because I heard a movie trailer/advertisement on the radio, and Anna is in it. Not only that, but she's in it enough for the announcer to say "starring Anna Chlumsky" and the other people. I can't remember the name of the movie or even who else is in it, cause the minute I heard her name I was transported back to that romantic day in social dance class. And then came to work to blog about it, because really, who doesn't want to know about my mutual-boob-molestation with a where-are-they-now celebrity??

Lesson of the day: It will all pay off when those passes to the premiere come in the mail. It will aaaaaaaaall pay off.

Another post . . .

. . . about Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2?? What is wrong with me?

Before I discuss SotTP2, let me answer my own question, 'what is wrong with me?'. I do not know. But I fear that it has something to do with Joe. Not SotTP2 per se, but the nicer, more welcoming, less snarky Braids that you will see is in attendance after reading this post. I don't know why this is, because Joe thrives on his own snarkiness and encourages mine. But I'm not doing anything on purpose. The only reason I even suspect Joe/my relationship as causing some deep-seated changes in my personality is because of recent events:

Whenever my boss asks me how my weekend was or when I'm seeing Joe again, I answer with what I think are totally normal responses, such as "good!" or "tomorrow." These responses elicit hysterical laughter from my boss, who, when questioned about said laughter, reveals that I "grin" when I respond, and he then starts teasing me about being in love. Then today a co-worker, when she asked how things were going with Joe, said I was "glowing" when I responded. Then my friend called me "Mrs. Joe." How supremely irritating!! I am a fucking Federal agent. I am tough. I am tough as nails, and no emotion should be getting through this iron-clad exterior!!

And now I fear that it is worse than just exterior. . . I fear that I am softening, like soft-serve in the sun. Soon I will be nothing but a gooey puddle of sweet liquid on the sidewalk, at the mercy of dogs and children. I am melting into a shell of my former self, a shell of sweetness and goodness and pigtails and rosy cheeks. Please, I implore of you, my friends, save me from this tragedy. Make fun of me or something, do anything that requires sarcastic, tactless, and shameless Braids to react in kind. Please!

Because the latest manifestation of such sickening goodness is that, despite writing a classic-Braids post a mere 5 days ago about my distaste for the likes of SotTP2, I am now doing a slight re-consideration. For my darling sister, she of the "you should dump her, Joe" comment in the last post, forwarded me this article: http://jezebel.com/5031521/sisterhood-of-the-traveling-pants-2-isnt-amazing-but-you-should-see-it-anyway

As per the article, the movie contains some things close to my heart. As someone who has been in interracial relationships and who's group of closest friends looks like an old-skool Benetton ad, the fact that this movie contains two interracial love interest scenarios warms my soul. The real deepness of this is that race is not even mentioned about said scenarios. AND this movie is marketed towards tween girls. It reminds me of Harold and Kumar Go To White Castle, which normally I would not use for comparison in a cinematic scholarly article such as this, but it was written by my college friend, so. Harold and Kumar were Korean (I think. Right? You all look alike) and Indian, and race is never even a thing in that movie. It's just like, why can't the two leads of a movie be minorities, and why can't that movie not be about why the two leads are minorities?

Further, as the article notes, the movie is directed by a woman, stars women, and is based on books written by a woman. I don't even need some ridiculous anecdote here to explain my joy with this one. Go ladies!

Lesson of the day: Perhaps with SotTP2 and other movies marketed towards the new generation, we will get closer to the singular-race and singular-gender (and that would be female) ideal that I dream about. Oh, the days when we can self-fertilize our eggs. . . .

Princess Chunk

So the purpose of today's post is twofold. Both purposes are to inform you, my public, of the things you need to know.

The first thing you need to know is that in a haze of loving mushiness and that weird feeling you get when you like somebody that you want to share everything with them, I granted Joe access to this blog. So he has read all my "mean" (he politely called me "snarky") posts AND all of my damn lovey-dovey posts about him, which thrilled him to no end. You, my public and loyal readers, should know this because he also read all of your snarky comments. Hahahaha. He knows we all suspect him of wanting to Mandalorian-marry me and that we've been plotting to get rid of his goatee for months. Anyway, I am not censoring myself for him and neither should you all. Hi Joe. Unfortunately, there's nothing to really write about on that front, so I'm back to commenting on pop culture crap.

Hence purpose number two, to educate in the ways of the pop culture feline. Anyone who has been to my house has met my cat Smokey, whom I describe to those to who haven't met him as being a "mutant," "pony," or "badger" because of his size. Smokey is a big dude. My coworker used to have a t-shirt that said "Big Dude" on it and I so wanted it to come in a feline size, but alas. Smokey is a fat cat, no doubt, but he also just has really big bones and a big build. He's exactly the way I like 'em: big, dumb and sweet (hi Joe!). Smokey weighs 16 pounds.

So on that note, please meet "Princess Chunk" (that's her above), a cat found wandering the streets of Southern New Jersey, and who is now in a shelter and in need of a home. Princess Chunk weighs 44 pounds. 44 pounds!! I'm not a mother or one of those women all into babies, but I'm pretty sure that's the size of like, what, a 2-year-old or some shit? People, this cat is huge. So huge, in fact, that she's the subject of even an Associated Press article. Apparently, the Guiness Book of World Records had the largest cat ever on record at 46 pounds, so Princess isn't doing too bad for herself.

I would also like to comment on the state of New Jersey, and how it is possible that a homeless cat could nonetheless inflate herself to 44 pounds eating your garbage. Your garbage, New Jersey! Your garbage, and, no doubt, your oversized pigeons and squirrels and maybe even small children. Who weigh less than this cat, or just don't have any fightin' skills yet. Which they get early in NJ. Especially Camden. Princess doesn't look like a Camden cat, though.

Lesson of the Day: I generally don't have anything against New Jersey per se, but I find it really amusing that this cat would be from there. Am I right? Would it be as funny if Princess was from New Mexico or something? I guess if she hailed from Alabama I would absolutely make fried chicken and Red State obesity jokes . . . but I'll take what I can get.

Say It Ain't So

What, you ask, would possess me to write two news-related blogs within an hour? Well the first was to illicit sympathetic comments to ease my overactive imagination. This, however, is pure rant:

Kyle MacLachlan is an actor known for many things, but he will always and forever remain in my head as FBI Special Agent Dale Cooper from Twin Peaks, and with whom I was madly in love.

So what news is it that prompts my rage? This little nugget of gold (excerpted from an article on Kyle's new baby): "The former Twin Peaks player returns to the big screen next month in The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2".

Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2?? Oh Kyle, for shame. That's worse than anything Nicholas Cage sold out for. Was there really no alternative? You've progressed from the minds of the small group of Peakers into those of the general public with your stints on "Sex and the City" and "Desperate Housewives," and even those transgressions I had trouble forgiving you for. Were no other directors knocking on your door? Was no other script appealing? Are you really just not getting hired for anything else despite your turn on exceedlingly popular and yet mind-numbing primetime TV? Agent Cooper would be ashamed. If, you know, he was real and all.

Lesson of the Day: Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2???????

Is this my future??

Recent posts of mine have revealed (a) my boyfriend is/was/likes to talk about being a Dungeon Master (oh, it hurts even to write it); and (b) my lifelong self-concept of myself as a nerd has been bashed away by said stupid DM, who put the idea into my brain that I'm actually a geek, an idea reinforced by others who know me. I'm still coming to terms with this, as I can see the argument for my geekdom but am still stuck in a zone of denial and my own logic about the issue.

Alas, with such a confused state of mind, can you blame me for seeing the below "Odd News" story and having my first thought be that this could be in my future? Only far, far worse, as I like Star Wars. And of course this couple had to meet online. But my Comic-Con wedding would be Dungeons and Dragons-themed. Or Joe's other love, Robotech, some weird cartoon from the 80s that I don't even remember but contains the word "robot" in it, so is already pretty scary (for matrimonial purposes). I would appreciate it if my loyal audience would comment on this post, and if all comments had a format of something like, "No, don't worry, you're not that much of a geek and anyway you could beat up any guy who tried to force you into an comic-book/geek-themed wedding". Thank you for your compliance.

"The bride wore dart launchers at Comic-Con wedding":

SAN DIEGO (Reuters) - The bride and groom grasped one another's dart launcher-clad wrists and stared into each other's starry eyes. Fifty armour-clad guests, including several "Jedis" and a white caped "Elvis" in a rhinestone-studded ammo belt, stood reverently at attention. A couple of superheroes showed up late.

What better place to hold a "Star Wars" themed wedding than a green patch of grass just outside the famed Comic-Con convention where thousands of fans have congregated this week to revel in all manner of superhero and sci-fi lore?

Friday's wedding ceremony, based on the language, costume and lore of a fictional Mandalorian race in the "Star Wars" movies, was the brain child of Tenille Kuhlman, 30, and Thomas Kuhlman, 39, avid fans who decided that the convention was a perfect place to gather far-flung members of their close-knit "Star Wars" fan club to celebrate their special day.

The couple met online two years ago, said Tenille Kuhlman, who said she was at first was hesitant to embrace the Mandalorian lifestyle. "When I met him I knew what every Joe Blow knows about 'Star Wars.' It just sort of turned into life for us."

The guests -- in full regalia including helmets, boots and jet packs -- formed two lines and created a light sabre arch leading toward the altar. "I don't have my fake gun!" somebody shouted. "That's OK," said another guest. "This is a wedding ceremony. I left mine in the car." The bride and groom held their helmets in their hands, a solemn sign of Mandalorian respect. As they grasped wrists, Tom Hutchens, a 30-year-old IT professional and erstwhile Mandalorian preacher, began the ceremony. "Vodas," he said, using the Mandalorian word for "friends," "Outsiders, Jedis, everybody, welcome. This is a contract between two Mandalorians who made a journey and future together and bled together and will continue to bleed together until their last day," he said.

After reciting their vows in both Mandalorian and English translation, the jubilant crowd shouted: "Oya!" which in Mandalorian language means "celebration." "I now pronounce you Mandalorian husband and wife," Hutchens said.

Lesson of the Day: By far my favorite line from this article (which I edited above) is "but according to clan creed, Mandalorians don't make threats, they make promises." Hahahaha. Now how to work that into everyday speech . . .

And then there were three.

In addition to my geeky-nerdy (the debate rages on) love of things like Twin Peaks and Harry Potter, I am obsessed with trashy TV. And I mean really trashy TV. There are those people who consider shows like "Project Runway" trashy just cause it's a reality show, and those people would have a heart attack if they saw my DVR line-up. For example, VH1 (the pinnacle of all things fabulous) has a new show called "I Love Money," which I will not/cannot explain, but suffice it to say I am hooked.

Along those lines are my old favorites, that don't quite attain trash-status but are equally embarrassing to admit I like. And still watch when available. Such as "Saved by the Bell" reruns and "SpongeBob SquarePants" (that show really isn't for children). Alas, yet another of my all-time favorites is "The Golden Girls." It is one of my many wishes in life to be Blanche one day. Not in an 'I want to be an aging Southern slut' way, just, um . . . yeah, I want to be an aging slut. I would like to bang the pizza boy when I'm 65. Is that wrong? OK, I'll re-phrase. I would at least like to be able to bang the pizza boy when I'm 65. So sue me.

And although it's hard for me to pick my favorite Golden Girl, Sophia was definitely top 2. As I'm sure you've all heard by now, Estelle Getty, who played Sophia (and won 2 Emmys! Who knew people other than me watched/liked that show?) died yesterday. So, a moment of silence for yet another female comedic genius gone. Although actually, I don't think I've ever even seen her act in anything other than GG, except for bit parts as Cher's mother in "Mask" and as the department store owner in "Mannequin," quite possibly one of the worst movies of recent history, and a favorite of my sister's and mine nonetheless.

So: RIP Sophia, you are my model for the type of snarky, sarcastic, wild and yet loving mother I hope to be. (FYI, for those of you in the NY area, "The Golden Girls" is on Lifetime at 9am, 930am, 4pm, and 430pm. Oooooooh yeah.)

Lesson of the day: Don't do things you might regret. Estelle, we will all try to forget this (um, the tagline is "She did the laundry and washed the dishes. Now she's cleaning up the streets"):

Meet the new man in my life.

No, not Joe! My other new man: Norman, my brand-new baby corn snake! Isn't he a doll? In 3 years he'll be about 4 feet long. But right now he's just a baby! The pic on the left is without flash, he still looks adorable but his colors come out more in the right one. . .

I forgot to mention . . .

The dreaded goatee: gone. Not gone gone, but shaved down to a respectable length. Allegedly, it was not due in any part to my repeated, but subtle, hints about my distaste for it. Frankly I don't give a shit why it's gone, let's just all be thankful that it's gone. Cause now I can bring him home to my mom. Huzzah!

The Laws of the Universe . . . Meet the Universe of the Law.

Doesn't have quite the same ring, does it?

Alas: "Joe" and I had "the talk" and we are now officially boyfriend and girlfriend. Aaaaaw. The talk was really cute. It basically consisted of him asking me to be his girlfriend on Saturday and me telling him no. Just cause I wanted to. For the rest of the night he teased me by telling me that whatever I wanted to do at that moment, he only did with girlfriends. I accused him of blackmailing me into it and he said "not blackmail, just pressure." Ha! I love a persistent man.

He finally won the prize that is me by using my own argument against me: he accused me of being afraid of labels (as in the 'label' of girlfriend). I said I'm not afraid because labels don't mean anything. It's like marriage: the people getting married don't need a marriage certificate to show each other how they feel. It's really for the rest of the world. Marriage is a social contract: it's useful so that everyone else knows you're taken and by whom and what your level of commitment is to each other. He said, "Exactly . . . it's the same thing with the boyfriend/girlfriend labels." Damn! He's smart. I love a smart man. So I acquiesced and now I'm all happy.

Here comes the good news for some of you: do you all recall a couple of posts ago when I said "If any of you ever see me with that glazed-over dopey look in my eyes, please punch me in the face"? Well, for those of you who have dreamed of nothing but punching me in the face, your moment has come. I'm glazed, I'm dopey, I smile to myself at random moments during the day. I'm so disgusted with my own mushiness I might punch myself in the face.

And, we both took down our Match profiles. Big steps, people, biiiiiig steps.

So, assuming all goes well, I think the laws of dating met their match (ha!) with me. I will continue to blog because I really like it. But I'll focus on other matters. Besides, my Harry Potter post got more comments than any of my dating posts, so I must give my audience what they want. I'll take suggestions for what you want to hear me rant about (and it better be Daniel Radcliffe's body .. . ha, no I jest. Sort of.)

Lesson of the day: If I end up marrying someone I met online, can I make up a story about how we met? And can it involve unicorns?

Realization of my own nerdiness.

As predicted, things with Joe have been going well enough that I (a) haven't been going on other dates and (b) am protecting the baby, with the combined result of no blogging. One of my loyal readers emailed me after my last post (where I suggested different blog titles) and said, "I love your general commentary on life," which is a pretty awesome compliment. Moreover, I can only assume that the rest of you feel the same way, so here I go.

I was trying to not disclose this to you all because it's just embarrassing, but Joe is also-- sigh-- a former D&D "master." Like everything else, he has an awesome sense of humor about it and while he harbors some deep mystical love for the game, he also recognizes why I laugh at him. He does try the whole "it's a thinking game, an analytical game" thing, and professes to have never played the live action part of it (thank god). He also alleges that "only smart people play D&D," and while I'm sure that's true, I reminded him that 98% of the time, "only white male teenagers with no other social outlets play D&D."

I would have won that conversation, but he turned the tables on me!! He retorted with, "at least I can't name all the spells in Harry Potter." Now, I can't name all the spells, but the point was made. I was speechless. Was I really in the same category of nerds as he is because of my love and devotion-- dare I say obsession-- with Harry Potter? Of course I would never think so, because everyone knows that HP is awesome and D&D is not. Don't they? Or are there people out there who turn up their noses at me when I wear my "PostPotter Depression" t-shirt to the gym? I had never even considered this before. But I had to admit to myself that perhaps the dungeon master had a point.

He went even further. Even more than HP, I was once obsessed with David Lynch films, so much so that I went to David Lynch conventions every year for about 4 years. Yes, as an adult. One year I even won the trivia contest-- do you know what it means to win a trivia contest in a competition of rabid, obsessive fans? It's sort of like tattooing "Rabid Obsessive Fan #1" on my forehead. At any rate, there you go. And Joe had the nerve to imply that this went even beyond nerdiness-- going to conventions pushed me over the barrier into the world of geekdom.

I'm a geek?? Holy fuck. My whole 30-years worth of self-actualization was just tossed out the window. I always knew I was a bit of a nerd, but I really and truly thought that was due to simple facts like I like to learn, love to read, studied in college in lieu of going out, etc. I recognized my tendency to get . . . er, caught up with certain things that I like . . . and that I tend to like, um, more intellectual pursuits. But that it equated me with the poor saps who sit around a table and collectively dream of wars and dragons and dungeons and shit? My lord.

In other, slightly related news, we all know that Daniel Radcliffe, who plays Harry Potter in the films, is doing nekkid scenes on Broadway. Since this blog is sort of about HP and more about my general outlook on life, I just want to say that I find nekkid Radcliffe to be sexy and I really like ogling his body. And that this realization makes me feel soooooo dirty and confused. I know there are others of you out there and you just don't have the cojones I do to admit it. And if I'm the only one, then just add 'pedophile' to my growing list of newly-realized characteristics. Although for the record, he's 18.

Lesson of the day: mmmm . . . . harry potter pecs . . .abs and shoulders . . . put a spell on me daniel . . . uuuuh

I'm Bored.

It's Friday. 2:51pm. My boss is off today. Whoever he left in charge as my "acting supervisor" is unknown to me. I've been surfing the 'net all day and am tired of that. I'm waiting till 3pm and then I run for it.

So. Yup. What's going on with all of you guys? No way. That's fascinating. Can all of my friends who have blogs please write on them, so I have something with which to procrastinate?? I suppose you might feel the same way about my blog, since it's been a week or so since my last post.

Well, I have nothing to report. In the last five days I've gotten 11 new emails and 10 new winks from Match men, but I'm not interested. I read all their emails and looked at their profiles. In my old life, I might have responded to one or two of them, but they didn't seem better than Joe, so I'm leaving it alone.

Joe. We have date #4 tonight. He also invited me to a wedding on July 4th, which is big. That may or not be date #5. It won't be #5 because my birthday is on Tuesday. If he's as good as I think he is, he will attempt to see me/take me out on my birthday. So the wedding will be date #6. Mine and Joe's wedding will be date #7. But I jest. Christ! Get me out of here!

Lesson of the day: I'm boring myself here. I might have to change the name of this blog if my non-dating streak continues. What can I write about. . . Trashy TV with the Law (ooh, I'd LOVE to write that one). What The Law Looked At On The Web Today. What the Law's Cats Do and Don't Do. The Law's Favorite Restaurants. The Law at Home.

Protect the baby.

So. A lot of you have asked me how it's going with Vas deferens guy, with whom I have had 2 good dates (I believe I referenced the 1st date, briefly, in the June 9th post). The second date was better than the first-- just as many laughs, great conversation, but without all the stupid weirdness there is on a first/semi-blind date. And in between those two dates and since the 2nd on until now, lots of good phone calls and text messages and emails. Forgive me, please, for saying this, but it is very apparent that he is "just that into me." And, I am into him. And, I love it when a guy makes it apparent that he is into you. But I suppose that's the definition of it. And I will give him a new nickname, since 'Vas deferens guy' is getting annoying. From now on I will call him "Joey Joe Joe Junior Shabadoo." Hahahahaha. . . OK no. How about. . . Joe.

Here's the thing. A very dear friend of mine was given a little nugget of gold from her omniscient therapist. Said therapist reminded her that people don't reveal that they are pregnant until after the first trimester. Biologically, this is because the chances of miscarriage and the like are high in the first trimester; psychologically, it is harder for people to tell everyone they know about the pregnancy, have something happen, and then have to be all "psych!," than to just wait and say something when they are sure. The therapist coined this "protecting the baby." She then applied this to my friend's relationship, in telling her that it was very important to not talk too much about a relationship, both good and bad things, especially when the relationship is new-- essentially, to protect the baby. There is a myriad of reasons for this, according to the therapist, such as to protect the relationship from negative energy from potential nay-sayers and jealous types. Also, of course, to prevent you from having to be all 'psych!'

[Incidentally, during the course of my internet research for this blog post, I discovered that it is a matter of current and continual debate over whether 'psych' or 'sike' is the correct way to spell that. Being a studious type, I opted for the nerdier, less ghetto version, but to each their own.]

Why am I talking about protecting the baby? Because I am a deeply, deeply cynical person, who tends to believe the worst about humanity and all that jazz. I am therefore a very cautious person with being open with my emotions and so on, and am pretty sure that things will not work out the way I want them to. So I fall square into the category of people who should protect the baby for fear of having to write one giant PSYCH-titled blog post about Joe.

So that is why there is so little information on him on this blog. That alone says a lot-- as evidenced by my flagrant kiss-and-tell behavior, I have yet to protect the baby. Indeed, there have been no babies to protect. So the fact that I am even worried about telling you all the great things about him and how it's going so far for fear that it won't last shows just how into him I am.

Alas, given all that, I still like to talk, and write, and amuse, and . . . brag. I will discuss this about Joe: he has already, in 2 dates, rivalled the now-2nd-place guy in terms of treating me well. He holds open doors for me and won't let me pay for meals, but that's not what I mean. So far he has already complimented me in the most amazing ways. On physicality, he has said some unbelievable things. Bragging interlude-- these are direct quotes from text messages and/or emails: "you are a stone cold fox," "you are a wonderful example of what a woman SHOULD look like," and, "you are so ridiculously gorgeous that I get a little nervous sometimes". Come on! But more than that, he has already commented on personality traits. When I was telling him a story about how all the guys at work tease me about my voice and stuff (they think I sound like Stewart, the man-child from 'Mad TV'), he commented that it was ridiculous because I was so obviously tough. I laughed and said I talk a tough game but really am not all that tough. He said something about how he didn't doubt my physical toughness, but that he was really talking about a core of inner strength. It didn't sound nearly as hokey as it does now, I promise. And he knew I was strong and tough that way because I exude confidence, and I'm able to be so "demure" because I don't have to prove anything to anyone. Wow.

Whether or not it's true, it's a truly amazing thing to have someone-- a freaking man-- notice such non-surface things about you and tell you about them. Even more so, that someone might see something in you, and appreciate it, that you don't see in yourself (because I really would have bet my life that 'demure' would be a word never used to describe me). You know what I mean? Joe went most of the way towards a Master's in psychology because he wanted to be a therapist, and I'm pretty sure this is that coming out. The attention to nuance, the listening, the machismo that is being able to be open and honest with your feelings . . .

Lesson of the day: FUCK! I have a crush.

Apology of the day: For this being a somewhat sappy and not so funny post. Eek. If any of you ever see me with that glazed-over dopey look in my eyes, please punch me in the face.

Now that's what I'm talking about.

Is this a real man or what?? Email I received today, from a new Match dude:

From: XXX
To: XXX
Date received: June 14, 2008
Subject: so nice to see

I just wanted to say that I think it's great that you're curvy, and comfortable posting a bikini photo. It says I'm comfortable with who I am. And that's damn sexy.

Shit!! His mother raised him right.

Fun!

Aaaw.. .. my sister made 'art' from my blog! Biggest words are the most used. Fun to look at, if you're into my blog that much (I am). .. click on the mini-pic for a bigger one.

I have Match stalkers. How quaint.

So, any of my loyal followers know about the man I affectionately refer to as "Cat Boy," who also goes by "Bob," who can be read about in the blog post from April 29, 2008, entitled "The Cat Story."

For some unknown reason, Cat Boy text messages me the other day (a full month after I told him to go away, and a full month with no contact whatsoever). His text message says something like, 'we almost ran into each other the other day [he lives in my 'hood]. how have you been?' So I write back something pleasant-but-why-are-you-texting-me: 'Oh? I'm fine.' So he writes back, 'yeah, and it was weird because I was just thinking about you. We should grab a beer and catch up. I want to see you.' Get a beer and catch up? Catch up? Dude, I don't need more friends. I have plenty of friends. And about what exactly are we 'catching up' on? For chrissakes.

This guy is worse. He wrote me for the first time in late April, maybe? I didn't write back, because he/his profile wasn't as appealing to me as others. So he wrote me a second email maybe 2 weeks later, expanding on why I should write to him. I figured he was putting a lot of effort into me, so I'd give him a chance. I write back and ask him something mundane like where he's from. He proceeds to write me this long-ass email describing his day that day, which, as a public-interest attorney, consisted of giving a lecture on the 4th Amendment to a Police Academy. But he wrote like 2 long paragraphs about the nature of his speech, and how it can sometimes be 'intimidating' addressing a roomfull of cops. Now, to anyone I think the email would have seemed arrogant and braggy, but to a cop, it was not only that but also it just fell so flat of being impressive-- which is what he was clearly going for. I just wanted to write to him and tell him to be mindful of his audience, cause you don't know what you're writing to who, you know? He's just lucky he didn't say anything bad about cops.

So I don't write back. Maybe 3-4 weeks later, I get another email from him, entitled something like 'my third try.' I have cut-and-pasted it for your amusement (I would've done so with the others but they aren't saved in Match for that long....): "I thought it would behoove me to write to you but one more time, hoping for some sort of continuous exchange of sweetly comedic nerdity. I decided to paint for you a paragraph: I'm sweetly sardonic, which is kinduv a rare thing (most sarcasm rots away in a sea of dark and rather unpleasant wit). I am graceful in my goofiness and I can give you an analysis of Muholland Drive that will knock you off your ass (really). I'd like to shift between irreverence and acute pertinence with you at one time or another." What? Dude, give it a rest! Sweetly comedic nerdity? Nerdity? You want to shift between irreverence and acute pertinence? What? I want to shift between you're-trying-too-hard and leave-me-the-fuck-alone. Then maybe my fist will shift into your balls. By accident.

So I write back. Something like this: "Your persistence is impressive. And I appreciate your offer of a Mullholland Drive break-down. I'm actually more or less dating someone now, seeing how it goes . . . so thanks again for flattering me with your numerous emails, and good luck with Match." It's only half-true, but I figured telling him I was seeing somebody would save his pride a bit more than me telling him he's a stupid jerk who can't write emails. However, dude is SO not intent on saving his own pride.

Not hours after I send my thanks-but-no-thanks email, I get this response email: "Well, my personality, wit, intelligence, humour, and artistic ability, to name a few, are even more impressive. You're missing out by not giving me a chance. Take care (no need to write back, it's over, as you said). " OK. One hour after that email, I get this: "Actually, if that last email sounded bitter (it probably did), then I apologize. Bottom line is that I take a lot of stock in myself, and when I see someone who I like, I don't take rejection well. Frankly, the idea of two attractive, intelligent, humorous, creative people not spending time and enjoying each other's company as friends is foreign to me. Whatever the case, best of luck."

You don't take rejection well? Dude, this is online dating. I get rejected on a daily basis, and I don't go home and cry about it. And enjoying each other's company as friends? What's with these guys? We're not doing online dating to make friends! Maybe I should email him back and ask if he wants to grab a beer and 'catch up'? Christ.

Lesson of the day: Boys are stupid.

Good dates, bad dates, and curvy confirmation.

Sooo . . . I had three new dates last week. One was fine, one was great, and one was bad. The fine one I can't write about, it's too boring: nice guy, nice date, I'd go out with him again but won't be heartbroken if he doesn't contact me, etc.

Great date was with Vas deferens guy! The only thing bad about him was his goatee, which I knew about beforehand, because he brags about it on his profile that it is "long enough to braid," which it was, and which I do not find appealing. However, I referenced his "scary goatee" during the date (the dude is shaved-head-bald with a long goatee-- I also told him he could be an extra in American History X), and he suggested it was some sort of exercise in personal tolerance or something, so it shouldn't be too hard to cut that sucker off if we get to that point in our relationship. And he has already contacted me looking for date #2. It was great just because we have a lot in common, and it was one of those dates where we talked and laughed the whole time. At one point he sheepishly mentioned that he almost became a sex therapist and that he was really interested in various things about sexuality, to which I replied that I am obsessed with deviant sexual behavior (which I am-- it's partly why I got into law enforcement, because I want to lock up/interview sex offenders), and he responded by asking what my 'favorite' paraphilia is. Got that people? One IM session and one date and we've already covered male anatomy and freaky fetishes. We should just get married.

The bad date guy was awful. For those in NYC, he was a Williamsburg Hipster type, only less trendy and somehow more arrogant. We go to a dive bar and play pool all night, which is fine. Before I get to the bad stuff, a funny anecdote that relates to my previous post: during our first game of pool, he says, "sooo, it took a lot of guts to put that picture in a bathing suit up, huh?" I laugh and say it's a long story, then tell him the story. He has a really funny look on his face. I say, "What?" He says, "it's not our fault." I say, "what's not whose fault?" He says, "that guys on Match think curvy means fat." I say, "So it IS true!" He nods and suggests that I change my body type category. He also tells me that his old college roommate is also on Match and just for fun they tell each other about all their dates. So Roommate had queried my profile and allegedly told BadDate, "funny, she doesn't look curvy . . ." Niiice.

Bad stuff: it's so funny how the little things seem so much more significant after you've had a few days to think about them-- the good little things and the bad little things. BadDate guy was just a bunch of bad little things that add up into a big flaming doucheball. He suggests that we play our own music on the jukebox since the alcoholic regulars in the bar had some craptacular country shit on. I think this will be fun-- we will scroll through the jukebox's offerings together and laugh at the bad songs we should play and so on. But no. He, like, searches for specific artists and creates this playlist that is just soooo. . . pretentious. Not just the playlist, but that he created it in a bar on a fucking jukebox with a date standing right there who had no input. It just seemed so contrived. So we ended up with Bob Dylan, followed by Kinky Friedman, followed by The Staple Singers, followed by Sam Cooke . . . whatever, dude. Then this random guy came over and put a quarter on the pool table to play the winner of our game. Which turned out to be me, because even though BadDate and I were fairly equally matched on pool skills, he was slowly getting drunk on the Jameson-on-the-rockses he was drinking. So I'm trying to play this new guy, and I think it was the Allman Brothers playing now, and BadDate says something to this guy like, "Have you ever heard the so-and-so version of this song on the such-and-such album?" I had never heard of either so-and-so or the such-and-such, and doubted the dude I was playing had, and I was right, and he gave BadDate a weird look, but BadDate just kept on talking about music like he was a fucking record producer, and it was just arrogant. I really doubt that how distasteful all of this was is coming through over the blog, but trust me.

So then, after a 3 hour date, BadDate is drunk on Jameson. I am perfectly sober, having limited myself to three Amstel Lights, because I think-- unlike some, obviously-- that getting drunk on a first date is not desirable for either person. I'm sitting in one of those bar-high swivel-stools and he's standing next to me. He thinks it will be fun to swivel my chair for me, loses his balance, falls into me, and almost causes me to fall off the stool. I say, trying to be polite, "Um, you're pushing me off the chair." Can anybody guess what his response is? "No, I'm not." Sigh. So I start yawning, which, unfortunately, is common for me these days at 11pm on a Friday night (long week, etc.). Then I start yawning even more, on purpose. I admit this probably wasn't the most tactful or forward of ways to end the date, but whatever. But instead of being considerate himself (not to mention saving his own pride), and saying something like, "Well, it is late, do you want to call it a night?" He gets defensive and starts saying things like, "What? You're so lame! You're tired already??" Um. I manage to sit at the bar for another half-hour, genuinely yawning, before I had to be like, "OK, well, I'm going to go home now."

Oh yeah, and in three hours, he managed to not ask about my job at all. Dude has no idea what I do . . . or, for that matter, much about me at all, save that I yawn late at night and can kick his drunk ass in pool repeatedly. What did we talk about for 3 hours? Him, and music (courtesy of him), and . . . I don't even know.

Lesson of the day: It's funny how you can read people so quickly-- at least in terms of whether or not you like them. I was just thinking how I never tell people about my deviant-sex-obsession until I've known them for awhile (it's just one of those things you don't bring up too often in casual conversation), and how it was just natural to tell Vas deferens guy about it. And on the flipside, that if BadDate had asked me what my favorite paraphilia was, I probably would've punched his non-curvy hipster body to the floor.

I think I found a husband.

You all recall, no doubt, my love of nerdy men: intelligent, witty, funny, sarcastic. Love 'em. I have a date tomorrow night with a new guy. Today we IM'ed over Match and had a lovely conversation. At one point, he made me laugh so hard with the nerdiest joke ever, I just had to share.

Some background: On my profile, under "last read," I have that I am currently reading a book about "sex from the evolutionary perspective," which I am. I then write: "Such insight! Ask me about your testicles." I like this. I think it's flirty but too funny and weird to be straight-up sexual; slightly nerdy; and a good conversation-starter (for the right guys). Indeed, many men have used this as an opener in their emails. So. (For those of you dying to know, there is apparently a direct correlation-- in any species-- between the size of the males' testicles and the level of sex competition (finding a mate). Yup. Now you know.)

So during today's IM session, NewGuy writes: "actually, I'd like to ask you what you know about my testicles . . . because there's a Vas deferens between reading about them and KNOWING about them."

Vas deferens!! oh my god. I have to marry him.

Who's nerdier? Him for saying that or me for thinking that that pun makes marriage material? Maybe we're just perfect for each other . . .

Lesson of the day: I can't believe I enjoyed that joke so much I blogged about it. I am a DORK.

He made me dinner! And bathing suits.

Yep. Senor Nerd. And it was good-- really good! And he used whole-wheat pasta cause he knows I'm trying to eat healthy. How cute is that?

OK, every time I get together with my friends they yell at me about the lack of activity on my blog. I'm sorry people!! Because I value the integrity of my writing/stories, I only write the truth. Therefore it follows that I must go on blog-worthy dates to have experiences to write about. And although it doesn't seem far off, I'm not quite at the level of pimping myself out on dates just for y'all's entertainment. However! I am conversing with a few men right now which I assume will lead to a first date, so fear not.

So, since I haven't had any dates to talk about (besides one-- did I mention he made me dinner?) I'm reverting back to making fun of people. Well, one person.

Here's the thing. After much deliberation, I added as one of my Match profile pictures (you can have up to 25 or something) a picture of me in a bathing suit. This took major cojones, because like most people I have problems with the way I look and definitely the way I look in a bathing suit. However, it's as flattering a shot I've ever seen, and I was having an issue. My issue was that the multiple choice answer I chose for my Match 'body type' was 'curvy,' which I am. I started to think-- and was corroborated in my thoughts by a friend who told me that a guy actually told her this was true-- that men might think 'curvy' is a euphemism for 'fat.' Curvy I am, fat I am not. Some dudes don't find me attractive and others do, obviously. So I wanted to preserve the 'curvy' answer for those awesome guys who appreciate a woman who looks like a woman, while also showing that I am not fat. Hence, the bikini picture. You can see I have thighs, hips, boobs, and a little meat (more cushion for the pushin', I say), but you can also see that I am not a poster child for gastric-bypass surgery.

The good news is that many men still contact me, and I'll never have to know about those who look at me in a bikini and don't contact me because of it. However, I recently got an email from a Match guy, and this is who I am going to make fun of.

Here is what he wrote: "hello pretty lady. i like your profile especially the bikini pic. i just want to grab u. i have a really nice bod also, u might not be able to tell in my pics."

OK. Obviously, it is always flattering to be told someone likes the way you look in a bikini and that you have "a really nice bod." But is it really necessary to tell me that you "just want to grab" me? That sort of turned the whole thing from a compliment into a weird sexual context, no? And why the "u" in an email? Just type the extra two letters. And "bod"? Also, that was the extent of the email (well, beyond a 'get back to me' and his name), so between telling me he wants to grab me and telling me about his own nice bod, it's like, what the fuck? Even if I didn't find that email kind of creepy, what sort of dialogue are you hoping to initiate with an email like that? I can see my response now: "Hi! Thanks for noticing my hot bod. I'm glad yours is equally hot because I'd really love to grab u 2!!!! So, who do you think will get the Democratic nomination?" Sheesh.

On another, but related, note, I got another Match email from another guy with the subject line "hey there cutie." This bothers me also, although I'm not entirely sure why. I think what it boils down to is your first email is my first impression of you, so it's akin to you hitting on me in a bar. And while I always appreciate being called cute and do kind of think it's sweet of this guy to admit it, I think that if he approached me in a bar with the line "hey there, cutie" I wouldn't fall for it. Plus, I've gotten so many other emails from guys where what they focus on is something I actually wrote in my profile. They make a joke about me or it in their subject line . . . so perhaps I feel that to write "hey there cutie" as opposed to something more intellectual suggests that this dude is focusing more on my looks than on my personality. Which is a harsh thing to say coming from someone who posted a picture of herself in a bikini on her profile, but that same person also used 1900 of the maximum 2000-word limit to describe herself and what she is looking for, so.

No matter what I write my sister is going to tell me I'm mean.

Lesson of the day: You are all a bunch of fuckers. Not a single one of you emailed with a dating story, as per my Assignment America. So you just want me to date and date until my brain explodes, and write all about it to help you live vicariously through me, or perhaps just to procrastinate at work, and I don't get a single bit of effort on your part at all? Selfish readers! For shame. Thank you for your attention.