It's getting hot in herrrrrrrre

So.

The past couple of days have been brutal friends. I mean, really fucking awful. I pride myself (in one of those weird ways when people think they're responsible for being tall) on my ability to handle all temperatures. At Christmas, my father and I will be sitting around pleased as cucumbers (is that a saying or am I insane) while Michael, Grace and our mom will be freeeeeezing. Similarly, in the midst of the summer, as cool as cats (oooooh. Cool as a cucumber, pleased as cats? No that's not a saying either. What am I thinking of?), thanks to an amazing ability to sweat, while everyone else is fanning themselves with whatever they can get their hands on.

In other words, I am a bitch to live with.

However, this fantastic genetic mutation is only so capable. What I mean to say is, when it goes from 0 to 50 or really, 50 to 90 in two days flat, my body gets whiplash. And I am miserable. Because it was hot folks. Really fucking hot. So hot that if my legs so much as thought about touching each other, I feared I was going to explode in a goodness gracious great ball of fire.

Nothing for it except naked time.

Rachel has been out of town for a few days, first at Foxfields and then for work, so I've had the place entirely to myself. And so I have not been wearing clothes. I mean, don't get me wrong - I don't sit on the leather couch completely commando. I put down a towel first. But other than that - it's been one long streak fest.

I've been an alwaysnude!

And while this is great, it lends itself to a few problems. For example, what to do when I need to go grab something from the deckony? On most occasions, I put on a robe. But at 11pm on Monday, when I realized no one could see me (because my pasty white skin doesn't reflect the moonlight, of course not) I went out on the deckony starkers.

Starkers!

And there is no story post that, like some hot neighbor of mine was looking up and decided to shout Shakespearean (Taylor Swiftian?) things to me and now we're eloping. No no. That's it. I just stood on a balcony for all the world to see in my birthday suit.

And I'm vaguely proud of myself.

Mostly because I beat the heat that night. It won the war, no doubt, but for three minutes on Monday evening, I won. I was pleasantly cool and happily warm at the same time, there was no profusion of sweat, no need for sweats, and I was completely comfortable.

Take that, weather gods.

And so my friends, though it is now 50 again and those damn weather gods only know when will have lovely (or hawt) weather again, I have a piece of advice from our bud Nelly. When it gets hot in herre, take off all your clothes! You'll feel great.

Or at least give the 10 year old across the courtyard a show.

With a little help from my friends

So.

Yesterday morning I got a forwarded email from Anne that she had gotten from EWN1 about Adriana's bach party (that I am planning) with a bunch of questions and clarifications and requests for info.

Anne isn't invited. And I wasn't on the email.

I cannot stand this girl. Seriously. Passive aggression redefined. I blasted off a forward of my own to a bunch of my friends, and raged in the shower, and thought it was over.

Except of course it wasn't.

The rest of the day was a complete waste. I was angry at acquaintances for harmless glances, impatient with friends who were only trying to help, and I ate three - THREE! - hot dogs at our bbq because I could.

Oy vey.

Last night I got home, went online and started flipping out at Becca. So and so hates me, I'm never going to get a job, it's so hot I think I might vomit, etc etc. And she calmly, and amazingly, said "this is about EWN1 isn't it? Go have a dance party in your room."

I love her.

Seriously. What would I do without my friends? Not just Becca, although I heart you lady. But everyone - you guys rock. Just thought I should let you know. This is a crappy love letter, but you know. Dear Friends, you are the most amazing people in the world, and I think without you I would be somewhere in a dark corner, unwashed and alone, glugging tequila straight from the bottle, worm included. Yay y'all.

True life confessions: potty naps

So.

In a career of drinking, a few nights stand out as truly epic. My 21st birthday, obviously. The night Becca and I became friends. Alumni Weekend when I was still in college. All subsequent Alumni Weekends. Beer tasting with an ex. My first Hobo St. Patty's. The 2006 Chicago alumni party. The second Christmas party at Evil Corp. Two weeks after that on a random and amazing Friday night. NYE 2007. My farewell party in August.

And I think last night will join the list.

I had a... just fanfuckingtabulous time, truly. There really are no complaints, except for the fact that my head feels like it's going to split open and my stomach is so upset that I'm vaguely suspicious that this isn't in fact a hangover, and is instead that swine flu that is taking down spring breakers around the globe.

Ugh. Tequila. Vom.

Anyway. The music was great, the dancing was better, and quite simply, I fucking love my friends. They all - ALL! - looked gorgeous, were fantastic to be with for hours, and in the case of one (you know who you are), provided excellent late night entertainment by making out with (not!) her date on the dance floor.

In true prom style!

But I'm not merely writing a recap. I'm writing because in the tradition of truly alcoholic nights, an alarming trend is starting to emerge.

I fall asleep on the toilet.

Not while peeing mind you. What typically happens is that I go to the bathroom, do my biznaz, and finish. Then, because I'm weird like that, I rest my head against the wall before I get up. I get up, pull up my pants (or whatever), and think - man. That wall felt nice.

And then.

Putting the toilet seat down, I say to myself, "ok, just a minute to cool off." A minute turns into two, then ten, and then Emilia is calling me from upstairs to find out what the hell happened.

Well, one time.

One time I passed out and woke up when the bartender started pounding on the door. One time at a house party (that shall remain nameless, ehem) I fell asleep ON THE FLOOR.

Yeah. Gross. In my defense, it was totally clean.

Last night I sat down, put my head against the cool metal and didn't wake up until the girl in the stall next to me started throwing up (awesome). But the nap did me well - I got back out on the dance floor, grooved along to some Bon Jovi, and then got myself another drink.

Well right.

I mean, a girl's gotta do, what a girl's gotta do. Even when that entails taking a small bathroom nap to ensure that in the history of great nights, the one she's having makes it to the top 5.

When I was 17, it looked a lot like 25

So.

As you may recall, I really don't want to turn 26 next month. I am seriously anti that age. Why can't I just be 27?

Or better yet, 21??

And so I suppose it is heartening to realize that lately, I've been regressing to about 17 in several parts of my life. The first - acne. Because of an increased breast cancer risk (long story, don't really want to) I'm officially off the pill for the first time in, well, a long time. And I'm freaking because that means I'm breaking out like I did the summer I spent all my days outdoors playing soccer.

And not showering.

In addition - my sickness last week (through this week)? Strep throat. That's right. Strep freaking throat! You know who gets strep?! CHILDREN. Not ADULTS. WTF!

Ehem.

But I'll take the acne and the strep, because in addition I get the ultimate in being 17 - prom.

That's right.

My school is throwing a big dance party tomorrow night with fancy dresses and corsages and big hair and lots of make up and "No Diggity, no doubt" and right, open bar, which may not mirror my actual prom experience, but it comes pretty damn close.

My dress is poofier than it was back then, par example.

And I am just SO FREAKING EXCITED!! Joe is my "date" in the sense that at some point in the night I will force him to dance to a slow dance with me, and if I'm allowed to drink as much as I possibly can, at a later point in the night I will make a clumsy pass that the thought of anything happening between us will cause me so much mirth I'll start cracking up on the dance floor and end up as a wine-stained heap of poofy dress, fancy hair and laughter.

Aw. I can't wait.

No really! I can't! I've been planning for this all week. Boutonniere is ordered, nail appointment secured, dress steamed, shoes polished (ok, not really, but that's cause I'm a girl), playlist created.

And it is FANFUCKINGTASTIC.

And you know what? I really can't think of a better way to ignore the fact that not too long from now, I'll have to own up to being 26. I'll take the acne, the strep and any other angsty teenagery crap thrown my way, if for one night I can remember what it was like to blast "No Scrubs", think life was like a Taylor Swift song, and wear a pretty dress.

As long as it's open bar.

A little slice of Heaven

So.

This isn't in any way a real post (today's is below this one), but a friend just pointed me in the direction of my new favorite song ever (don't worry Billy, you're still my no 1 singer) and I HAD to share it with you guys.

I Want to Fuck (All Night Long)

And if you like that, you'll LOVE the rest of their music. I've been grooving out to it um, longer than I'd like to admit. Yay Heaven Seventies!

The Always a Drunk, Never a Bride Guide to Sex Slang

So.

Today is tax day. If like me, you're so poor the government gave you back the (minimal) taxes you paid this year, then hey - join me in spending your (minimal) refund on a pedicure. If, however, like poor LiLu, you've been taken for everything you're worth by the federal government, go buy yourself a cheap bottle of champagne (wine, beer, vodka, all of the above) and drink yourself silly tonight to forget it.

Or you could go tea bagging with a bunch of Republicans.

Have y'all heard about this? FreedomWorks, the billionaire-funded "Astroturf" (as opposed to grass roots, thank yoooooooou Paul Krugman) is hosting a crapload of events (publicized by Fox News) to protest the 95% of them that got a tax cut from the Obama administration.

Yeah it makes sense to me too.

And in a beautiful (and clever!) twist of fate, they're calling them tea bagging parties, ostensibly to commemorate the "no taxation without representation" spirit of the revolutionary Bostonian colonists in the late 18h century, or perhaps to protest the 1773 Tea Act.

I've heard that the East India Company has been fucking us over.

Anyway, the best part is that, much like 14 year old girls, these conservatives have NO idea what "tea bagging" means to a majority of Americans. Or at least, a majority of people I hang out with (who I'll grant you, are not a representative sample of America. But hey, people on the Huffington Post who I don't know agree with me, so there!).

And that got me thinking.

When I worked at Evil Corp the last name of one of my colleagues was "Sanchez". A young lady I worked with called this person "Dirty Sanchez" for about four months until my colleague got up the balls to tell her that it kind of really sucked as a nickname. The girl was totally confused until someone finally enlightened her as to what a "Dirty Sanchez" is.

In a similar vein, when I was in college I was hooking up with a young man who liked to get me riled up before we hooked up by making dirty comments about my (then baby. Ok, 16, whatever) sister. Before she came to visit one time, he was commenting about how excited he was to meet her and give her a "pearl necklace", and I was so surprised about how nice he was being that we did some seriously dirty things that night.

In my defense, he was filthy rich. It was a possibility.

Last anecdote (for today, not ever bish plzzzz). I was studying abroad in Rome and we were at the Villa Borghese for a project. There c'e' una beautiful picture called "[Something] and the Golden Shower" (Asterix? Maybe). A boy who was on my program with me, who was also adorable, brilliant, hilarious (and yes, Republican) made some snarky comment about enjoying a golden shower. And being the naive young woman I was, with an eye to impress the hot funny Republican, I decided to reply. Unfortunately it was along the lines of "that sounds just lovely - a golden shower. Like being bathed in light."

He is not on the list of repub exes, alas.

And my dear poppets, I never want you to be in the same situation. So for all of you out there who do not know what a "pearl necklace", "dirty sanchez", "golden shower", "tea bagging" or a variety of other things are, and to honor our dear Republican revolutionaries, I offer up:

The Always a Drunk, Never a Bride Guide to Sex Slang

Tea bagging - the eponymous act for today's events, tea bagging has come a long way from Earl Grey, chai lattes and the aforementioned East India Company. What essentially happens is a gentleman contorts himself into a crouched squat over his partner's mouth. He then (delicately at first!) lowers his dangly bits into her mouth, gradually working himself up to a fastish dunking pitch, much like you would with your bag of chamomile in the morning.

Dirty Sanchez - dirty Sanchezes owe their title to a nice little bit o' racism. What occurs is that a person (typically a man) sticks his forefinger (or pinky, thumb, what have you) into the bum hole of his sexual partner (typically a woman). He removes his finger, than uses the, ehem, remnants to draw a nice little 'stach on his ladyfriend's face, that perhaps resembles the stereotype of a Mexican.

Pearl necklace - unlike the beautiful piece of jewelry I thought that nice young man was going to bequeath to my sister, a pearl necklace typically results from the previously dicussed titty fuck, though that particular act is by no means necessary to achieve said necklace. Whenever a gentleman ejaculates on the chest/neckline of his gf/sex buddy/whore, he has given her a pearl necklace. So presh!

Golden shower - those of you SATC fans might be familiar with this particular game (as it were). Remember the episode when Carrie is dating some politician, from Manhattan I think who was supposed to be someone IRL (anyone remember who? I digress). Point is, this wily politico enjoyed urinating on people he was sleeping with, which is why he and Carrie never worked out. And now he's the boss man on Mad Men!

Rusty trombone - I won't lie, this is probably my least favorite, probably because I was a band nerd in high school, and so I just have the unfortunate ability to remember my band director grabbing trombones out of people's hands and pumping away. Anyway, what happens is that a person sticks his/her tongue into a gentlemen's pooper and works it vigourously while reaching around and using his/her hand to play his instrument, if you will (and no, I don't know why I used the British spelling there).

Donkey punch - the first dirty sexy move I ever heard of, and it put me off sex even more than "The Miracle of Life". For the life of me I can't imagine anyone other than Chris Brown engaging in this (ouch. Too soon? Maybe). So two people are engaging in anal sex, and right before the thruster (pitcher, what have you) is about to ejaculate, he hits his partner on the back of the head - hard. The ensuing pain causes the catcher to clench his or her ass in pain, which apparently feels nice on the peepee. Hope that still feels good when the cops show up because your neighbors called in a DV spat.

A tossed salad - last but not least, we have the tossed salad, which is a little confusing. I'm not sure exactly why it's called a tossed salad, because there is no tossing, and I don't think an asshole is like a head of lettuce. But names aside, a person uses his or her mouth, and most importantly, its tongue on the rim of the anus, which is why this is aka as "rimming".

What other common sex slang have I left out? And what is your preferred dirty deed?

NB: I have never (ever) participated in the above acts. Don't get me wrong, I can be freaky. But not THAT kind of freaky.

Deli specials: an extra serving of awk.

So.

I was in the infamous A&P yesterday buying Easter candy (or as Grace wrongfully said, "regular candy in pastels." Um, hello. Malt balls? Peeps? Cadbury cream eggs, vomitacious as they may be?!) and in general, wandering the aisles to see if there was any NJ food I hadn't eaten yet, and hit upon the deli where I spotted prosciutto (fine, it's not *NJ*, it's Italian, and yes DC has it. But it's cheap, yummier and plentiful here), and grabbed a number. As I waited on line, I checked the other people out to see what they were buying. Mozzarella knots, yum. Roasted red peppers, yum. A big ass ham, yum, and slightly scary.

Then I saw the sign.

"Just in time for Easter!" it read. "Rabbit - only $7.99 a lb!"

Holy inappropriate food, Batman!

I mean, don't get me wrong. I've eaten rabbit (well, coniglio, in Italy) before. It's OK - it really does taste like chicken, and I know there's nostalgia for it from some (immigranty parent) quarters. But on Easter? REALLY?! Hello kids! I'm the Easter bunny! I bring you chocolate! And later, I'll be your meal!

Ugh.

As for me I'll be eating lasagne, meatballs (made from good old cows) and yes, chocolate, for the next 24 hours or so, but I just wanted to take this opportunity to say Buona Pasqua, all!

PS - Pasqua in Italian means Easter AND Passover. So I'm not just being you know, Catholic-centric. The story was about Easter, yes, but as there was no "Today only! Fingers of Moses, 99 cents each!" I figured I couldn't really work in the Seder angle. In short, I hope all your holidays are lovely.

Let's go fly a kite, and other childhood mementos

So.

This post is actually in no way about the major motion picture entitled or any current or former musical productions of Mary Poppins. However, when I was a little girl (ie, through my early 20s) whenever I felt spring had finally sprung, I felt the urge to get on a swingset and sing, at the top of my lungs, the song "Let's go fly a kite". Pumping my legs, soaring higher and higher, I'd punctuate my movements with the cadence from the song. "Lets go flyyyyyyyyyyyyyy a kite. Up to the hiiiiiiiiiiighest heights. Let's go flyyyyyyyyy a kite and seeeeeeeeend iiiiiiiiiiit soooooooooooarrrrrrrrrring."

Up through the atmosphere, indeed.

When I was a slightly older child, I used to go to the nearby all-night A&P with friends to hang out, kind of. The grocery store is (in typical NJ fashion) in a larger strip mall with a few places to get food, a video rental place, and probably 16 nail salons.

Ah, nails.

Anyway, because we were too young to drink legally and (mostly) too nerdy to want to drink anyway, we'd do a lot of staying in to play board games, watch movies, or going out to have scavenger hunts, late night playground runs, or bowl.

We were the epitome of cool.

Anyway, all these events would somehow end us up at either a diner (for obvious reasons) or the A&P, searching the aisles for horribly delicious completely fabricated neon orange foodstuffs to cram down our highly metabolized throats.

That was a fun sentence to type. I still epitomize cool, obvi.

Anyway, yesterday was an odd day in that I relived both of those experiences. I went for a bike ride around the (very hilly, jebus) neighborhood, and found myself at the local playground. Ignoring the sign (that my father had a large hand in procuring, it should be noted) that said for 2-12 year olds, I hopped off the bike and onto the swings. I haven't gotten on a swingset since I lived with Joey and Maria in Chicago, and we had a huge fire alarm (one of maybe 100 that quarter) that caused the entire building to evacuate into the snow. Being the brilliant girls we are, we headed straight for the swings and enjoyed ourselves, rather than freezing our be-socked feet off in the melting snow because some asshole tried to microwave a bagel.

But I digress.

I gingerly sat on the swing, testing my weight. Assured that I was not about to break it (pissing off my neighbors, and more importantly, my father), I swung slowly forward, then backward. Then forward, then backward. Dude. This was FUN!

Later that night Grace and I had to go the grocery store to pick up a few things for our day today. Raiding the Easter candy aisle while she was being productive, I was searching the bins for the ever-elusive malt balls when for snotty nosed teenagers who were so wrapped up in their self absorbtion (sp?) they didn't see my (sizeable!) ass hanging out and rammed right into me, bumping me way away from the malt balls and into the Reese's.

Mmmm. Reese's.

Anyway, the one girl apologized, and then they all snickered. "C'mon let's find the DORITOS!" one little shit said. "Yeah" said another child. "And RED BULL!" With one last bratty look in my direction, they headed off down to find some DORITOS and RED BULL and I was washed with a wave of reminiscence.

Also, loathing.

But the best part of the day was back at the swingset. I had started to pick up a pace, finally having let go a little of the adult anxiety that has plagued me for years, keeping me away from roller coasters, scared of planes, and off of ferris wheels. I floated high into the air, came rushing down, and then went speedily back up, past the top of the swingset. I giggled aloud, looking around to see if anyone was watching. Then I realized, you know what? I don't fucking care.

I shouted: "Leeeeeeeeeeeeeet's go flyyyyyyyyyyyyy a kite! Up toooooooooooo the hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiighest heights. Leeeeeeeeeeet's gooooooooooooooo flyyyyyyyyyyyy a kite and seeeeeeeeeeeend ittttttttttttttt sooooooooooooooooooooaring!!!"

Who needs Red Bull when you have youthful bliss?

Girl on Girl

So.

I was procrastinating yet again from this massive assignment that is due in, oh I don't know, five hours (btw - did I have a conversation with one of my grad school lovelies about the due date? Where someone was tsk tsking me? And someone else said "no no, it's self-imposed"? Or was that a dream, which, coupled with the dream about flying, raised my blood pressure so much that I woke up? Maybe?) by reading Jezebel.

Shocker.

And there was a bunch of haterade all over that site about Katherine Heigl. Who I LOVE. Like, a lot. And it got me thinking.

WTF is up with us chicks?!

Why do we hate on each other ladies? Katherine Heigl, Jen Aniston, Lindsay Lohan? Mention their names and girls everywhere tear into these celebs like an "everything" pizza that guaranteed to somehow destroy other calories you ate.

Mmm. Pizza.

Point is - why we gotta be so mean ladies? You don't see dudes writing into Maxim being all, "I fucking hate that fucker Judd Apatow. Who the fuck does he think he is, writing all these movies? And Leslie Mann is WAAAAAY too hot for him."

I couldn't think of anyone else. I suck at life.

And don't get me wrong, I do it too (Angelina Jolie, anyone?). But I'm wondering WHY? Why do we all feel this compunction to rip each other a new one, when totally letting jackass men off the hook for everything from cheating on their wife (Brad Pitt) to being a diva (Tom Cruise).

Divo?

Anyway, I really need to finish this damn paper, so I'm off and I'll try to post again later in a much funnier, less pissed off, not commenting on society's ills manner.

Maybe I'll talk about titties again!

Tis a gift to be single, tis a gift to be free

So.

I was (not) doing schoolwork on Saturday and one of my ways to (not) do schoolwork (other than reading all your fabulous blogs) is to read up on all the Yahoo! feature articles I've missed. Mostly because, with titles like "50 ways to please your lover" and "7 things women do that annoy men" I enjoy mocking Yahoo!'s misogyny and feeling smug that I am on the Google gravy train.

I'm a nerd. Just not a school nerd.

Anyway, the feature article THIS weekend however, was a lovely little treat called, "The Upside of Being Single in a Recession". For once, I thought, Yahoo! wasn't telling me that my lifestyle of choice was something to be mocked. For once, I thought, Yahoo! understood that sometimes it's nice to be able to sit in bed until 11:55 on a rainy Monday morning eating grapes and drawing pretty pictures on my unshaven legs with pen so I don't have to write my memo.

Oh yeah I am.

However I thought slightly wrong. It was true that Yahoo! (I can't stop! with the exclamation! points! I'm so! so! sorry!) was giving reasons that being single in a recession isn't a bad thing. For example: you don't have to pay the marriage penalty tax. Hey! That's exciting. Except, I thought, not all my non-single friends are married. Well whatever, I was willing to give Yahoo! the benefit of the doubt.

But then?

They say "take it from Ruth Madoff" that it's no fun when the IRS decides your spouse has been you know, cheating good people out of all their money and spending it blissfully on jewels. Except what Yahoo! neglects to mention is that Ruth Madoff is STILL WEARING THE JEWELS. Ignoring the fact that if Ruth hadn't been married to Bernie (as above), and the fact that she actually hasn't BEEN indicted at all (because she might be. Maybe) the fact remains that I hope if I ever do settle down with a lad, he won't be a MOTHERFUCKING PONZI SHITHEAD.

Moving on.

The next raison d'etre single in a recession truly takes the cake. "Without a laid-off spouse to support or kids to worry about sending to college, you can afford to take more risks with your money." Does anyone else, when reading that, think "it's ok single cat ladies, even though you've completely disappointed your family and renegged on your biological imperative, hey! You can invest in Bernie Madoff's stupid Ponzi scheme. Although I suppose once it comes out that your money's gone, there's no hubby or working children to support you. Hmmmmm."

Fuckers.

The rest of the list is great - you can save money you'd be spending on your kids and get more AND I QUOTE "mani-pedis". You can move in with mom and dad! And HEY! Men will "pay your way on dates".

Annnnnnnnnd the misogyny kicks in.

Honestly Yahoo! you know what? I enjoy being a single girl (points to the winner. It's not a good one, but it will do). With or without a recession (actually, false. I enjoy EVERYTHING without a recession. Also, with a job. And margaritas). And I don't need your stupid non-reasons to make me feel like I've made a bad choices in your eyes.

In other words, fuck! you!

PS - There's a story about the title of this piece, but it's my friend Becky's and I don't want to take it from her in a public fashion. But it's goodish, so if you want it, email moi. Warning: you may be singing "Simple Gifts" for a RE-HE-HE-HEALLY long time.

"You know they're just boobs, right?"

So.

I have a question for my male readers (and female readers who wish to hypothesize). Let's do like, a situation, and you can pick your response from multiple choices.

Situation: You're in a van on a bridge in DC. Let's call it the Key Bridge. And you're riding along, not speeding, it's a nice day, and BAM! You see a chick that maybe you find attractive. Or maybe you just like that her shirt is ever so slightly low cut and you can see a hint of cleavage. Whatever. What do you do? Is it:

A) Keep driving. After all, you're almost at the end of the Key Bridge and the counter on the walk sign says you have 15 seconds to get through the light;

B) Slow down, admire the boobies, then drive off into the sunset. Or, Rosslyn;

C) Lean on your horn as you pass her, startling her and everyone around, and since she's on her BIKE, you know, she swerves and almost hits an old lady, but you don't give a shit because you got to HONK at BOOBS like you were one of those "whip it out wednesday" brainless losers!

Ok, who picked C.

Because honestly I don't understand this. Now, as I think I've elucidated, I'm not lacking in the breasticle department. Don't get me wrong, I'm no Dolly Parton, but it's not like the girls are unnoticeable if I wear a shirt cut down to "there", wherever there is.

However.

I don't really think that means I'm "asking" for honks along the Key Bridge, or Lee Highway, or M Street, or Dupont Circle, or WHEREVER. Not only do I not buy the whole "asking for it" concept, but duh, honks are fucking dangerous. And when I look up and see some asshole waving at me, my first thought is to flip him the bird and my second is "I wish I was for guns so I could shoot a warning shot".

Ok. Not REALLY.

But honestly, I hate it. I don't like it either when men whistle at me on the street, or make comments because today I decided to - GOD FORBID - show a little calf. I mean, what year are we in? 1920? I'm pretty sure that unless I'm wearing a bikini on the highway, or a shirt that says "Honk if you like titties!" there is absolutely no reason to believe I will respond positively to your little gesture.

And ALSO?

I mean, hello. You're driving (or walking in the opposite direction, or standing there unloading crates) and I'm walking AWAY from you. What do you think your honk/whistle/comment is going to do? Make me stop dead in my tracks and throw myself at you saying "take me! Take me now! Here, in the middle of a bridge named after the dude who wrote the Star Spangled Banner!"

Um, no.

So dear readers, I ask you - why. Why are these men doing this. Because I've tried to come up with reasons, but all that happens is an angry buzzing fills my head. And it's FRIDAY for chrissakes.

And also?

I'm sorry for writing such a pissed off piece. But I'm still worried about that old lady. She looked scared out of her life by the one-two punch of honk and "holy shit, I'm so sorry" when I went careening in her general direction.

Some news

So.

I know I never explained what happened with my original TMI Thursday, wherein I contemplated whether or not my On Again Off Again Ex slash hook up buddy sex toy nerd love would put out while he was in DC.

Well he did.

You also may have noticed that my posts have been a little boring lately. I know I addressed this briefly when I said I was "back" but for those of you who have been paying attention, all my posts have been missing a kind of key component of this blog.

Namely, alcohol.

And while only one of you out there in cyberland has put those two things together, and so there is no kind of momentum building for this, I still feel it is finally time for me to out myself to all of you and to come clean, as it were.

In short: I'm pregnant.

We knew this was a serious concern that weekend when he came because I had just switched my birth control from yasmin to ocella (generic), and had skipped a week in betwixt and between. So of course, being the smart little girl I am (and he being the nerd he is) we used a condom.

Which proceeded to break.

THEN because I am also an empowered woman, I went to get the morning after pill. But because I am lazy, I didn't go until Monday morning. Lucky for me (sarcasm), my health insurance doesn't cover the morning after pill because I go to fucking CATHOLIC SCHOOL. And by the TIME that I finally got the DAMN WAIVER, my 72 FUCKING HOURS had elapsed.

Obviously, I'm dealing with it very well.

Anyway, the point is that I had my first pre-natal appointment WITH On Again Off Again Ex yesterday, and... we've decided to keep it. I know it seems rather Catholic of us, but honestly? He's a great guy and I'm lucky to have him in my life. Obviously my parents (ehem, my father) aren't exactly pleased, and we're going to avoid telling the g-parents until after Easter is over (heathen! Heathen!), but I do think there's a small bit of relief there that I haven't turned out to be a lesbian.

Sigh.

Anyway, I know this is a controversial subject, which I (for the most part) try to stay away from on this blog, but I couldn't very well keep going like this without telling YOU all, you know? You really mean a lot to me, and this is a huge thing in my life right now.

So if you didn't know, now you know.

I hope you guys can understand why I'm doing this and not judge (too much). He's financially stable (ish), I'll be graduating a bit later than planned because I'll be taking next semester off (I'm due on Hallofreakingween, of all days. I suppose I could be a slutty mummy! Ohmygod what the hell am I getting myself into. And don't even get me STARTED on seeing EWN1 two weeks beforehand), but you know, am relatively well educated. No discussion of marriage, really, and that's because when he said "do you think we should" I said "do not fucking finish that sentence, because you will make me vomit AGAIN today".

I'm a LEETTLE moody.

Anyway, I'm sure I'll do a poll on baby names at some point in the nearish future, but for now, I think I will go back to bed because I am exhausted. Yes I know it's 8am. What, do you have a PROBLEM with that? Honestly, I just had to tell you guys. I hope that:

1. You wish me well;
2. I never become a Scummy Mummy;
3. You guys know that this was all an April Fools.

YAY!!!