This week’s installment of “What The…?â„¢” features the following image. The first person to sucessfully identify the object pictured below will win…well nothing, but hey it’s fun, right?

And remember, it’s never what you think.

UPDATE!
The answer is revealed… (more…)

The other day I was reading an entry on Lauren’s blog about vivid dreaming and I was reminded of my own nocturnal psychosis.

You see, I’m very picky about my sleep. I have deeply ingrained patterns and habits. For example, I can only fall asleep spread-eagle on my stomach - as though I had been caught by the police and forced to lie down on the sidewalk for a search - of course, minus the handcuffs (well…). I also CANNOT have my feet under the covers, but I like the bottom of my sheet tucked in, so to achieve this I have to free my feet via the sides of the sheet. You probably realize by now that in order to maintain this position it’s required that no one else be in my bed.

But most importantly, I like waking up fairly early, early enough to sit around for twenty minutes post-preparation and drink my coffee, check my email, read pink is the new blog, etc. I hate having to rush. I usually forget something running out the door and on approximately 3 occasions it was my keys. More than anything I just hate being late.

You can imagine my relief the other morning when as the alarm was sounding my mother walked in my room and said “don’t worry honey, I’ll take care of everything, you just keep snoozing your alarm.” I didn’t occur to me at the time to question the fact that my mother lives 3000 miles away. So, of course, I snoozed my alarm and when I awoke that trickster was nowhere to be found.

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.

Interestingly enough, when my alarm went off this morning I was elated as Pauly D told me over the video phone on my ceiling that it was Saturday and I should turn that darn thing off. Though, it did seem odd at the time that Pauly was wearing a rainbow clown wig and busting some crazy krumping moves.

Growing up, my mother was single raising 3 kids and working in the film and TV business. She rarely ever dated, as you can imagine. Most nights I remember her locking herself in her room with a book and a glass of wine while my sisters and I roamed the neighborhood like wild banshees or watched episodes of the Brady Brunch (which was strictly forbidden in our house because as mom put it, “it portrays an unrealistic view of family life”). For mom Saturday nights were no different than any other night of the week except maybe she afforded herself an extra glass of wine.

One Saturday night at about 11:30 pm mom was doing her usual thing (while my sisters and I were probably setting fire to something in the cellar) when the phone rang. It puzzled her who would be calling so late. She answered with slight trepidation since calls that late usually meant bad news,

“Hello?”
“Hi Barb, how are you?”
“Who is this?”
“It’s Erik.”
“Erik, who?”
“Erik Estrada!”
“Oh hi Erik, is there something I can do for you?”
“Well, I was just wondering, you know being Saturday night and all, if you’d like to go out with me, maybe grab some drinks.”
“Wha..?”
“I kinda got the feeling when we worked together that you might be interested in, well, spending some time together.”
“Erik..”
“Yes?”
“It’s almost midnight which can only lead me to one conclusion: You have been going through your phonebook for the past few hours trying to find a date and since my last name begins with W that means you’ve been rejected from A to V. Now you can include W. Thank you, take care and why don’t you just go to sleep.”

Hello! Anybody there? Where did my other girls go?

So, it would seem that Casey and Rizzo are MIA. I’ve been left here to hold the fort. And I haven’t been doing such a great job at it. You see, this is what happens when I am left to my own devices. I start pimping myself. I even posted a picture of my bed, for chrissake. And, you should’ve seen the deleted posts.

It’s no wonder that the recent spike in visitors has led to a severe spike in my ego. In fact, I was just thinking about the possibility of a hostile takeover. It seems that the burgeoning diaspora of male fans out West (do you guys all know each other?) would support this action, insofar as I start posting naughty pictures.

I fear, my dear compatriats, that my will is weak and my penchant for rankings has blurred my vision.

I beg of you, save me…save me from myself.

I have a challenge for all you fabulous readers. Seeing that I haven’t shared my bed with anyone in such a long time I’ve nearly forgotten what it looks like having someone else in it. So here’s the challenge: photoshop yourself or someone hot into my bed. You’ll be helping me, at least mentally, get back into my game and perhaps spur me into action. You know: If you build it, they will come. The winning image will be featured in an upcoming post. So get to work, I’m depending on you!

Send submissions to meme at girlspoke dot com.

BlogStud: hi
Meme: hey
BlogStud: have you been getting emails from your profile?
BlogStud: by the way, you need to watch this ABC show
BlogStud: hooking up or something
Meme: I know, I saw it last week
BlogStud: I thought of you
BlogStud: and how much cooler you are than all these freaks on that show
Meme: ahh, you thought of me and my pathetic dating life, how sweet!
BlogStud: yup!
Meme: you wanna see the response I got from the ad this morning…I took a screen shot of it
BlogStud: k
Meme: brace yourself
BlogStud: bracing.
Meme: ok sent

BlogStud: what the-?
BlogStud: is that from a girl, wanting some hot girl-on-girl action?
Meme: I guess so…it’s gotta be a joke
BlogStud: or maybe NOT
BlogStud: maybe you should explore that.
BlogStud: you never know - could be FUN!
BlogStud: especially if you videotape it.
Meme: and send the video to you?
BlogStud: well, I wasn’t saying that…but sure
BlogStud: in a brown paper bag.

Okay, so it seems that staying home and hiding in the corner is not getting me very many dates, go figure. Here’s the thing, and I’m not ashamed to admit this, I’m horrible at all of it. I mean the making myself girly-pretty, flirting, picking up on signals, returning phone calls, etc. So even if you do get me out of the house I’d probably bore you to tears over dinner while you’re trying to feel me up under the table (that sounds kinda hot actually). I digress.

I’m not looking for any handouts, no pity dates, and certainly none of those young boys looking for a woman in her sexual peak to rapture him with all of her feminine wiles. I like ‘em to be more or less like me, not the pathetic qualities but all of those great qualities that my friends rattle off to me when they’re trying to make me feel better. You know, like “You’re beautiful, intelligent, funny, blah, blah, blah.” I swear, that’s what they say, and I’m inclined to believe it because they say it with such authority and sincerity.

So, despite my better judgement, I have been coaxed by certain people I know (who shall remain nameless…unless this all blows up in my face then I’m naming names) to complete a profile on Nerve personals. It was arduous, painstaking, and unnecessarily time-consuming. The last time I felt like this was when I wrote the personal essay for my college application (though, I did get into every school I applied for so maybe I’m not half bad at self-promotion).

Well, I guess, let the games begin…

I live in what’s dubbed as a Luxury building, this is confirmed by a placard on the exterior and the exorbitant rent. (Although being the savvy sort, and don’t you dare tell my neighbors, I pay about $300 less then other people in the building.) The thing is, I’m not really sure if I have any neighbors at all. I see them outside, on the shuttle bus, in the gym and on the elevator. But I never ever see anyone in the halls. When you exit the elevator on the second floor there is an eerie silence. The walls have non-descript beige flowered wallpaper and matching slightly darker carpet. But never is there even a glimse of a neighbor. I have heard doors closing, but when I turn to look, nothing. Once I thought I heard some love-makin’ next door but it was my TV.

Here’s what I imagine is going on in those other apartments. Apartment 207: Empty aside from a family of small gnomes that live inside the walls. Apartment 204: Kept vacant solely for the purpose of afternoon trysts between the maintainance men and lonely housewives. Apartment 204: The Paraguyan Government’s secret depository for its unclassified stash of pirate booty. Apartment 206: Rented by my mother with holes drilled in walls and cameras pointed into my apartment. Apartment 202: Top Secret laboratory studying the viability of dust bunnies as an alternative fuel source. And apartment 201: The Official Quiet Party headquarters.

That would explain it.

I’m heading over to 201.

It has finally happened. It’s so shameful, I’m not sure if I could possibly tell you. Since moving to the East Coast I haven’t had to worry, but last weekend I was in L.A. and it became a hot button issue among the West Coast division of my clan. It went something like this. “Meme, did you bring your swimsuit because we’re all going to the pool?” Ahhhh, did she just utter the ‘S’ word. I can barely say it without stuttering, ’ssswimmmsuittt’. Oh fuck. I was only in for the weekend so I thought I could sucessfully avoid it, but no, apparently EVERYONE was going to the pool. So I let mum drag up me to the local surf shop.

Although I’m not as ‘fit’ as I was a few years back, I’m not entirely out of shape. I go to the gym, I ride my bicycle almost everyday, and I walk tons. That being said, I look (deceptively) good in clothes, but nekked or less than clothed, well, let’s just say I’m no prize winner.

So the swimsuit.

First of all, mum took me to a surf shop for the young chickies, not a single 1-piece in the place. So I picked about 7 different bikinis and escorted myself into the dressing room of shame.

It was that 3-way mirror that spoke the loudest. “What are you thinking??!!” it said. I whispered back, “Would you mind turning down the lights a bit?” The mirror glared back, unforgiving, “Nothing can help you my dear, but perhaps there’s one there that you haven’t tried on yet.” The mirror was right, but I gasp when I found it at the bottom of the pile. It was…oh, I can’t tell you…oh alright, it was the dreaded skirtini. You know the kind, the bikini with an attached skirt on the bottom, the kind I so affectionately remember being popular among the grandmother set in garish colors truly hiding nothing. So against my will I tried it on. And, dare I say, I liked it. I really liked it. I liked it so much that I wore it all day yesterday around the house. I may even wear it to go sunning in Central Park. Nothing’s stopping me now, now that I have a skirtini.

Is it that creamy goodness? Is it the rich choco-nutty spreadable love? Or is it the fact that it’s widely accepted as a breakfast condiment the world over? Whatever it is, I love you Nutellaâ„¢! If I could marry you I would wear a baguette dress. If I could quit my job, lie in bed, and eat jar after glorious jar, I would. I would devise a contraption that could hang from the top of my headboard and drip dollups down into my awaiting mouth at regular intervals. I would fill my bathtub and then lick my way out. I would incorporate it into all my daily activities. I would no longer care about being single. In fact, I could start the Nutellaâ„¢ Single’s Eat-A-Thon and Lovefestâ„¢.

I think I’ve got a money-maker on my hands here.

*_{Disclaimer: Please disregard this post. I am suffering from a post-gym endorphin rush and under such circumstances I cannot be held responsible for any of my actions or words. Should you attempt any of the above mentioned activities I do not accept any responsibility or liability for any claims arising out of the overconsumption of chocolate hazelnut food spreads. No legal responsibility is accepted for any misuse or misleading statements.}