I know you are all eagerly awaiting the audio from my spot on Playboy Radio. I’m here to tell you it’s coming, soon, I swear. It will be up at some point today once those dudes at Playboy stop staring at their Playmate co-hosts pole dancing long enough to get it to me.

This coming Monday our very own Jenna will be going on air in my place to talk about some hot chick blogs. This is gonna be fun, for sure.

So, as soon I have the audio I’ll post it up. Check back many times throughout the day.

In the meantime, you may have noticed a new picture on the sidebar. Her name is Molly and she’s gonna knock your socks off. She’ll be debuting next week so stay tuned.

Good stuff.

*UPDATE* Seems like our boys at Playboy are slacking big time. They promise to have it to us by Monday. I suppose the point is to subscribe to Sirius Radio. And we’ve got nothing but love for all the guys, so I’ll stop talking smack. Stay tuned.

Well to blatantly rip off Betty’s theme of transportation and societal annoyances this week’s rant is also going to be about public transportation, kinda. Okay so not really but sometimes it takes place on public transportation. Oh whatever, enough with the fucking intro already. Basically, my gripe of the week is the famously awkward faux friendly co-worker run in outside of the work place. It’s happened to us all, in the elevator, on the bus, at the bar, in the drunk tank, etc.

By far my worst encounter was at 8:30 in the morning, on my way to work, hung over as a mother fucker and just barely hanging on to my humanity. All I wanted to do was lie down in the aisle of the bus, curl up in the fetal position and start sucking my thumb. Instead, as I drag my ass up the bus stairs and past the surly driver, who to my wondering eyes should appear, but my arch-nemesis from work. Now granted, she doesn’t know she’s my arch-nemesis because as I’ve mentioned before, us ladies are nothing if not congenial. But, to make matters worse, next to her was the only empty seat on the bus. Here’s where it got difficult. Walk to the back of the bus like a rude bitch or take the seat and rest my gin-soaked body? With a heaving sigh I sat down, begrudgingly took out my earphones and proceeded with a painfully awkward conversation. For the ENTIRE thirty minutes. As if dragging myself to work wasn’t cause for a purple heart, the loss of those thirty minutes to collect myself and meditate my way back into functionality was fucking horrendous.

Now I’m not fooling myself here, I’m sure she was less than thrilled that I ruined HER morning commute. But such is the social tyranny of politeness. It’s just one of those things that truly and utterly SUCKS. I understand it greases the wheels of commerce and civility and all that nonsense but let’s just give a little amen to how much if fucking blows. There are quite a few people at work that I genuinely like and am excited to run into outside the office but those awkward acquaintances that you have no connection with are just enough to add a little more anxiety to your day. As if you needed it.

The problem is really those in-between people. Not the people you really like, and not the people you only say hi too. It’s the people that you’ve had minor conversations with or have a work project in common with. Perhaps you should be work friends, but you’re not quite there yet. They might be very nice and not at all horrible like my arch nemesis but it’s still isn’t what you wanna be dealing with after a day of shuffling faxes and updating your blog. I mean its hard work after all.

That being said, I think as we get older we are less tolerant of the little inanities that serve no other purpose than to piss us off. I notice how some of the older partners at my firm will make chit chat for a moment and then politely beg off in the other direction despite the fact that you live at the same train stop. I can get behind that. I appreciate that. It’s a subtle gesture that says, I respect you enough to say hello and good day, but when it comes down to it, I’ll forgo making either of us uncomfortable by walking AROUND the block before I head on my merry way. I find myself doing that at least once or twice a week. I’d just rather walk an extra block than to have a meaningless interaction for the next half an hour. (Holy shit I sound anti-social)

So, safe to say unless I look REALLY happy to see you and am super vocal and engaged, I’d actually rather you just be rude and put your ipod on, cause guess what? Then I can do it too.

Best Friends Forever,
Lo

P.S. If you’ll notice, the photo above has little or nothing to do with this post. However, it’s fucking hilarious and a striking example of why gold lame is NEVER okay. Especially when it’s accompanied by aquanet, cowboy hats and junk in the trunk.

P.P.S. I’m a little low on vitriol this week but I expect the male gender to rise to the occasion shortly, it never fails. In the meantime feel free to say something to piss me off. Provocation, welcomed.

I don’t drive. I guess I technically know how to drive since some sicko made up a law that you can’t get your high school diploma without passing driver’s ED. But I never actually got my licence. I have a bit of a “phobia” if you will (Let’s just say it’s hard to drive when every time you get behind the steering wheel you start balling like a little girl). So I am a very savvy public transportation expert. I also walk distances to get to grocery stores that my car toting friends wouldn’t dream of attempting, but that’s neither here nor there.

In my twenty-some odd years of being part of the public transportation horde, from buses in Chicago, to Subways in New York to ferry boats in Paris, I have amassed a large knowledge of public transportation etiquette.

I’ve decided to impart this information onto you, lest we meet on a crowded subway train, you unwittingly commit one of these faux pas and I then proceed to rip you a new asshole because of it. Which I’m sure is an out come we’d all like avoid.

Faux Pas #1 Wearing a real fur coat and then shoving the dead carcass all over me for the entire metro ride.

The worst thing about when this happened to me (May that nouveaux-riche French bitch die a gruesome death) was that the metro car wasn’t even crowded. We all had plenty of space, I was standing up, while holding one of the poles and this woman comes on, leans against my hand with this hideous fur coat. Now I’m not some lettuce wearing PETA nut, but I don’t like fur, and while I won’t pour red paint on a complete stranger, I don’t think I should be forced to touch dead animal when I’m trying to get home from work.

Which brings me to Faux Pas #2 Don’t hog the poles! If the subway/tube/metro what have you is crowded, causing an unpleasant sardine effect and forcing many to stand and hold onto one of the poles in the middle of the train you DO NOT lean against the pole as if you own it, as if you’re some cheap 2 buck stripper taking a break between sets. The last thing I want is my hand stuck in your back fat just because you’re a lazy greedy fuck.

And now for my Faux Pas #3. Guys, listen up because this one is for you. While sitting on the bus DO NOT spread your legs as wide as possible. Those plastic lines separating once seat from another are there for a reason. What are you guys trying to do with this one? Try to force me to sit cross-legged so you can catch a glimpse of more thigh? Are you trying to give off the impression that your dick is so big you have to “give my big boy some breathing room,”. Or perhaps you’re sitting spread eagle in the hopes that some big-breasted bimbo will mistake that metal rod in front of you as a strippers’ pole and proceed to give you a lap dance. Either way the only effect it is having on me is creating a strong desire to dig my nails into your crotch and throw your balls out the window.

Hope to see you on the 6!

Kisses,

Betty

Dear Mona,

Last weekend, I got hammered and confessed to my best male friend that I have “feelings” for him in the cab on the way home. I know he’s not interested and I honestly didn’t think I was going to change his mind or anything. Luckily, he’s been cool about it since it happened but I feel like a dildo. What should I do to minimize the amount of fall-out drama? I’m not normally like this, I swear.

Best,

Still Nauseous and Out of Saltines

Dear S.N.O.S,

You definitely wanted something out of it.

Before I can help you, you must disillusion yourself from thinking you didn’t want the big drama that now surrounds your Ephron-esque confession. I’d say you were out of good “…and then I yakked in the water glass and handed it back to him” stories. People always say they’ve grown beyond the need for teary morning-after conversations to their girlfriends or excuses to eat the second calzone. They always say they prefer a life that’s drama-free and look down on their friends who take up coffee house time with the whines of “so of course he’s never going to call me back” and “I hope she can forgive me. I totally forgot they had been engaged.”

Those people are always full of shit.

Everyone loves a little drama in their house. It keeps you sharp. You can either spend your Saturday night flying on to the sidewalk after being ejected from the club because you are too clouded to realize that the girl at the end of the bar did not steal your boyfriend in the 4th grade and even if she did, you shouldn’t go throwing peanuts into her extensions…OR you can spend your evening on your couch, rearranging your Yankee Candle collection. Only one these activities gives you a story that will get funnier every time you tell it, connects new synapses in your brain, and gives you an excuse to buy new boots to replace the heel that snapped as you tried to right yourself without flashing your period panties. The other scenario gives you a headache from too much exposure to the smell of Prairie Home Country Land.

Clearly, we know where your social calender centers itself.

So accept your need for attention. It’s a force powerful enough to make you give up a comfortable relationship in your life. You have to respect its power for it has now reduced your next few months to weirdness over standard behavior like eating dinner together or picking phantom pieces of lint off his sweater. He will continue to talk about his pathetic love life, not to punish you or make you jealous, but following the norm is the boy way of letting you know that nothing has changed between you two. You will start avoiding eye contact with him as a reflex. You might pull something in your neck from making jerk movements away from him. Stretch often.

At some point, probably while you’re scrubbing the hidden flecks of vomit from your toilet grout, you will come to several conclusions about your life. For the sake of your emotional growth, I hope they are close to the following:

1) When you’re ready to act like a big kid, then you can drink like one too.

2) Sex is simple. Booze makes it simpler. There’s a reason why you haven’t fucked your friend yet. And it probably has more to do with your knowledge of his personal proclivities than your personal swerve. We have crucial qualifiers that we use to complicate mating for a reason. Don’t ignore your instincts.

3) How did you go 6 weeks without cleaning this up? That might be an indicator of a much larger problem.

If you have stupided your way into a tangled jungle of bullshit, you can seek rescue by sending an email to mona@girlspoke.com

There’s something that has only recently come to my attention, and ever since, it has quite simply consumed my brain. We–the sexy, horny, beautiful, sultry, hormonal, erotic women of the world–have no quality pornography to satiate us. It’s true. Let’s take a look at the numbers.

In the men’s corner, we have…

Magazines

Catalogues

The Stars

Maybe it’s not all quality, but at least there’s a selection. At least there are some faces that match the caliber of the bodies. At least there is something substantial. I think we can say with confidence that the boys are set, right?

So, let’s see what we’ve got in comparison…

Magazines

Ugh. This is depressing.

Catalogues

As if that should even count, I don’t think there are any others.

The Stars

Should I go on? I mean, do you really want that image?

So, girls of the Internet. This is a call to arms. Or, penises, perhaps. Are we simply going to sit back and attempt to be OK with such a measly selection of schlong? Shouldn’t they at least attempt to match the face to the cock? I mean, I cannot–will not–take another Real Men! Amateurs Exposed! submission. Who in their right mind thinks that 59 year old. nudist, 198 pound Larry-from-Iowa is something that anyone wants to see?

Seriously, who? And more importantly, who, in turn, thought this person was a solid applicant for employment at Playgirl? And could you even imagine the backlash if that kind of stunt were pulled in Heffner’s Headquarters?

We need to join hands in this, raise our buzzing vibrators, and let our voices be heard. We demand good porn!

Are you with me, ladies?

Big news! I will be appearing Monday morning on Playboy radio to talk about sexy blogs. If you have Sirius radio tune in at 7:30 am EST to hear me make a complete ass of myself.

If you don’t get a chance to listen I will try and post it up for the Friday DrunkCastâ„¢.

Did you feel left out when we called for writers on Girlspoke because of an unfortunate extra appendage?

Do you believe the world will go to hell in a hurry if the “boys” don’t speak up?

Have you ever been a member of the Olympic swim team?

If you answered yes to any of the above questions you may be just who we’re looking for.

Now that we’ve stocked up the Girlspoke clubroom with some fine new writers we are looking for our counterparts, you know our *cough* better halves *cough* to join the crew at boyspoke. So send us a writing sample, a link to your current blog, a viable death threat, or whole lot o money to Meme’s Paypal account.

Woohoo! It’s TGIDCF! And I have outdone myself here. I mean really. My skills are off the hook. I don’t understand why WNYC hasn’t knocked down my door to start my very own program.

You may have noticed that sweet little pink button. Shush, I mean the one on the sidebar, gosh. This means we are officially fashionistas, or some kind of -istas. Anyhow, we’re happy to be a part of the Glam Network, who have assured us we won’t get kicked out for our content, but we will if we don’t party with them every Saturday night.

Lo’s Rant of the Week

Okay, so last week I gave the guys a good tongue lashing, in fact, it took me days to convince my boyfriend to talk without a cheeky “oooooo oooo ooo eeeeeee” monkey noise at the end of every sentence. This week it’s the ladies turn. Myself included of course.

In short, I am completely and utterly sick of the way chicks fight. It’s fucking obnoxious.

Sometimes I think all the estrogen has clouded our brains and all we can do is emote all over the place. It’s too god damn much. “Well Vicky, I feel like you are being unfair and it’s really distressing”, and “Charlie, you hear but you just don’t listen”. For the love of sweet baby jesus, shut up.

I somehow got caught in the cross fire of a fight between two of my male co-workers. Being cc’d on their emails I found myself gasping behind the thin walls of my cubicle, mouth agape and fists clenched, I was upset for them for chrissake. It didn’t even have anything to DO with me but I was shocked at how hurtful and severe they were being towards each other. I quickly ran upstairs to the office of the guy I’m friends with and said with maternal concern, “Hey, are you ok? He’s being so harsh! I can’t believe it!”. His response was to shrug, roll his eyes and say “Eh, whatever, he’s being fucking ridiculous.” He was completely unfazed! Here he was being dressed down by a superior, called out, and essentially bitch slapped and he was totally unconcerned. Stunned by his under-reaction, I furrowed me brow, crossed my arms, and muttered “huh”, completely intrigued.

If this had been a confrontation between two WOMEN co-workers it would have played out with Oprah-like drama over a five day period requiring the intervention of three friends, two cocktail hours, five xanax, and 350,000 words.

One of the gems thrown around during the male email anti-drama fest was,
“You’re an embarrassment”

Now, if this had been a chick talking it would have come out something like this.
“Lo, I’m really distressed by your lack of execution on this project. I thought the parameters were clear and that we were on the same page. This doesn’t look good for the firm and it is my responsibility to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

Another male beauty…
“That’s bullshit, you’re just incompetent”

Chick-speak….
“Lo, I really don’t think that’s an adequate justification for your lack of follow through on this. You had plenty of time to correct the mistake and if you needed assistance you should have asked. Instead you just put it off until it became too late to remedy the situation. That isn’t an acceptable response to a problem.”

Gag me. Please.

Now don’t get me wrong, I like the world to be a nice place too, and women certainly are good at using all the feeling words to make that necessary, but sometimes, just SOMETIMES, wouldn’t it be nice to compartmentalize shit like guys do? They can call you an asshole one minute with complete conviction and the next minute they’re pointing out the chick with the great rack and leering conspiratorially. Women just CAN’T do this. I don’t know what it is but whenever I’ve been in the midst of a knock down drag out where, gasp, women actually SAY what they mean directly, it’s an emotional fucking holocaust. Therapy, cocktails and several calls to eight of your best friends are necessary to flesh out exactly WHY she called you a bitch, like, “right to your face!”. It’s never pretty, and more importantly it’s never brief.

I like a soap opera as much as the next person but I truly believe if women would just cut the shit, and I mean ALL of us, we would RUN the world. World domination aside, it would just be NICE, wouldn’t it? I think that’s why I’m always so surprised at how much FUN it is to hang out with all guys when the occasion arises. Granted, they are simplistic creatures, but simple is fun right? It’s kind of like dating the guy with the great pecks and the empty head, every once and a while it’s just refreshing.

So I’m instituting the no-bullshit clause for the next week (if not longer, and you’re going to do it too), basically I’m going to cut to the chase, call people out and generally just say what I mean in the simplest terms, without too much regard for people’s feelings. I may emerge with no girlfriends at the end but on the bright side I will have cracked boy-language and can begin my quest for world domination.

Kisses,

Lo

It’s official. I no longer am where I was and am currently now where I is. It’s a new city, but not new to me. A city in which I grew up and of which I have many adolescent memories. I am looking forward to replacing these adolescent memories with those of the adult kind, the fun ones like, gee, remember how I was unemployed for 6 months when I first moved back here, or remember that record-breaking heat wave summer when my truck had no air conditioning and remember how funny it was when I had to move in with my parents when the place I thought I was moving in to crumbled during the earthquake of ‘06? I know, I know. As my teenage self would say, don’t jinx yourself!

Despite what people say, the folk here are of the friendly variety. Yesterday I took a walk–strictly verboten in this town–to my sister’s house. I passed by many cheerful people who, while not walking per se, were getting in to or out of their cars and occasionally checking their mailboxes. We had brief but meaningful exchanges like, nice car! and got mail? and you should really check that fuckin’ exhaust pipe, cabron! I was excited to be some place new and eagerly anticipated getting lost in it’s Rube Goldberg freeway system.

The welcoming committee has been particularly, well, welcoming. The minute I arrived at my parents, they were off to the emergency room wherein my father passed a kidney stone only a few hours later. He has been high on Vicodin ever since and we have had some really, really wonderful and unprecedented conversations. I only hope he remembers them next week and the promise he made to bequeath me his entire collection of beer steins. The room in my friend-from-high-school’s house, the room I have already paid for, was not ready when I and the moving-van-full-of-my-stuff showed up on Saturday. Me and the five charming ex-cons hired to move all my things (and I’m not kidding about charming) stuffed them into the garage where they still remain (and here I’m not talking about the cons) three days later. Who knows when my friend from high-school will actually kick out her boyfriend who is supposed to be painting my room so that I can move in and so that he can move on out. I decided to give them a week to sort it all out and a week to stare at all my crap in discomfort. Finally, I’d like to personally thank all the encouraging people driving on the roads of my new town who have salutarily honked at me and have ever so subtly suggested I get the hell out of their way. You above all have made me feel quite at ease in my new home and on it’s foreign streets.

Did I mention the 5 charming ex-cons who moved all my stuff? Oh, I did? Oh, yeah, well, they were really sweet and very tattooed and quite young and uh, really strong and um, very welcoming….