I am sure you will all be happy to know, I have moved from the multiple-partner dating stage to the monogamous dating-one-person stage. Not yet boyfriend and girlfriend and no sign of the L word in sight, we are still having great sex, going out and doing fun things, and getting drunk together without either one of us picking any fights. All in all I have to say, things are going well. I don’t yet know how to push his buttons and I’m not looking too hard for anything to hate. It’s that perfect middle ground and as long as I don’t dwell too much on I hope he likes me as much as I like him, I can’t complain.

Except for one thing.

The toilet seat. I know, I know, it’s an age-old argument. And one left better to the dorm room. But friends, I am dating a man who leaves the toilet seat up. And I don’t quite know what to do about it.

There are many qualities this particular man has that I truly appreciate. He is a real MacGyver. He can make a boat out of twigs, a radio out of dead batteries, and, most importantly, he can fix a flat tire, as was proved just last week. The man is handy and I suppose there are other, more rustic characteristics that go along with this. His wardrobe is limited, he’s not much of a gusher, and let’s just say his idea of dessert is a well-placed cigarette. But need a shelf put up? Want to gerry rig your IPod in your car that has no stereo? Your vibrator suddenly die even though you just put in fresh batteries? He’s your man. I mean, my man.

But the toilet seat?! This is by no means a deal breaker. Not yet in any case. I just don’t know exactly how to broach the subject. And to be honest, it’s been a decade or so since I’ve even had to. I just don’t believe that at our age, he hasn’t yet learned the skill of putting the seat down. Perhaps he has his own post-collegiate ERA arguement about why he should be able to leave it up. Perhaps it is a warning sign about the perennial bachelor that he is. Perhaps, perhaps. But truth be told, I am afraid to ask. I am afraid of what his reasoning might be. And afraid it will reveal some unbearable truth about him that will, in fact, be the deal breaker of all deal breakers. Besides the fact that it provides its own host of problems. What if I have to pee in the middle of the night and I accidentally fall in? What if my mom comes over and she falls into the toilet. What if we have children and one of our children turns out to be a son and god forbid, he learns to leave the seat up? What then? I will have failed as a mother, as a wife and as the woman-who-will-take-no-shit girlspoker that I am.

So to you, dear readers, I beseech you. Is this the price I pay for a real man—perhaps my own Prince Charming—who can fix just about anything, grow his own vegetables, owns a small sailboat, happens to be an excellent chef and is good in bed? Or should I grow some cohones and just confront him?

It has come down to this. We’re afraid we’ve lost track of some of the girls. You see, the heart-shaped bed is quite big and well, when you leave the nightly head count up to Jenna it seems this is what happens. Damn you Jenna, we told you we had 8 girls…wait 1, 2, 3, 4…fuck someone get the calculator.

If Meme hadn’t seized all their passports when they joined girlspoke we’d be afraid they’d never return. But it seems letting them wander the streets alone to sell girlspoke key chains with sign language cards was a bad idea.

Though we must caution you that these girls are considered armed with sex toys and dangerously intoxicated. If you spot either, call Meme; she will send out Heather and Jenna, properly equipped with latex suits and whips, to retrieve them.

Any tips that lead to the safe return of our heart-shaped-bed companions will recieve a MAJOR AWARD. This award may consist of, but is not limited to, lap dances, verbal assault, inappropriate comments (if you’re underage), and possibly a drink tossed into your lap. Of course, this is all negotiable as suggested by our Girlspoke lawyers.

Rizzo, Molly, if you’re listening: We miss you. We miss the way you play with your martini olives. We miss the way you hold our hair back on a Saturday night, or morning for that matter. And mostly, we miss the income you brought into the Girlspoke apartment. Jenna’s pittance pay is doing jack for our weekly liquor requirements. We all pinky swear not to spank you too hard if you just come on back. Like now. Seriously. Did we mention the liquor?

So, I was reading Heather’s post from yesterday and I couldn’t disagree with her more. I am here to add my 2 cents. See, here’s the thing: the guys with the six pack abs do NOTHING for me. For serious. Nada. Niente. Null. And highschool boys…I just look at them and think to myself, “I’d break you in half.” I like ‘em bulkly and well lived.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I don’t go for old dudes. But I draw the line at guys who cannot remember the 80’s. I like my guys burly and rugged, not in that Kenny Rogers (eww) kinda way, more like John Corbett, and apparently I’m not alone.

See, the thing is I’m somewhat on the tall side and average/slim build but I always tend to feel like a big bumbling amazon. Especially living on the East Coast (I think they breed them short out here.) I get on the subway and tower over the majority of my fellow straphangers. And the dudes are freakin skinny, think heroin chic. The only guys with some meat on their bones tend to congregate around Christopher Street, and while I may come off as a bit butch I think those boys are looking for something I ain’t got.

“That’s right, lemme feed you some cheesecake, baby.”

I love feeling the weight of man on top me. And knowing that I’d have to get a belt to wear his jeans…let’s not forget how goddamned sexy I look wearing his t-shirt and nuthin’ else. Not to mention having a guy who can flip me around like a rag doll. Rarrr.

God, I am so turned on now. Viva la healthy 30-something guys!

_{(Heather: This means we won’t have to worry about competing for the same dudes when we go out. You can have all the youngins that wouldn’t know your clit from your elbow.)}

practice makes perfect

I don’t know about you, but I sure could do me some high schoolers. And I really haven’t hooked up with one since high school. I got close last summer when I was 24 and I met this unspeakably hot 19 year old from Kentucky and then blew him in the bathroom of my Jersey shore beach house. Because I have good values.

But really, I can see my future, and it goes a little something like this:
I’m a 40 year old milf and the neighbor boy with swell grades and washboard abs needs to make a little extra cash. He’s saving up for college, and aw hell, let’s go Desperate Housewives and have him cut my lawn. After all there ain’t no shame in being like Jesse-please-lick-my-ass-Metcalf. So I let him mow my lawn and in the end he learns a valuable lesson about how one must lick it before he kicks it.

that’s right, mow that big lawn, baby

Maybe it’s because I have a penchant for educating and enlightening the youth of this fine American nation.

Or maybe it’s because I’m only 25 and mothafuckas are already transforming their “I used to play some hockey or maybe baseball.” bodies into “I reached into my purse to grab my tampons cause I am now a lazy pussy ass bitch with a beer gut and belly folds that resemble a ‘gina so I might as well bleed monthly.” bodies. I mean, damn, yes- it is hard to keep in shape and as we age it becomes more difficult to maintain a young physique. BUT LEAVE THE WHINING AND EXCUSES AT HOME. Just be HOT already- ok guys? I really don’t know what I can do with you if you aren’t- like, have you do my taxes or some shit? As I said, I really don’ t know. But to be fair, I don’t have much time in the day to go to the gym myself; however, gyms are everywhere. Many come with wonderful membership packages.

Oh, and do something about maintaining that erection, Mr. Post College. Or else I wouldn’t mind if you could please introduce me to your younger brother.

I’ve written about those weird quirky things that men often do, things that leave me puzzled. But I have found women guilty of equally quizzical behavior. Today I’ll address the thing that bothers me the most: the bachelorette party.

First, let’s look at what the celebration is supposed to be. Often, it’s the bride-to-be and all her female compatriots living up her last moments of freedom. In theory, after the vows are exchanged, she will no longer be able to spend the night on the town acting without inhibition or care for her partner. This, my friends, is her last hoorah with her female friends.

Ok. Despite the obvious flaws I have with the logic of this celebration, let’s now take a look at the traditional games and activities that are inherent in most of these celebrations of a dying freedom.

1. The wearing of everything PENIS.

So let me get this straight…you’re out celebrating your last moments of single girl behavior, and you’re wearing a penis? Shouldn’t that be the last thing on your mind? I mean, aren’t you really just celebrating yourself? Unless you actually have a penis, I’d suggest you don’t wear them to your own party.

2. The drinking of everything PENIS.

Again, this is supposed to be your night of freedom. Don’t you always bitch about sucking your boyfriend’s dick? Don’t lie; you totally do. Then, explain to me why you’re sucking on a blue plastic one? I’m sure it’s ruining the taste of that seabreeze you’ve got inside the damn thing.

3. The bashing of everything PENIS.

Hmm, now this one seems to make some sense on the surface, doesn’t it? But if we think for more than three seconds, we’ll remember the foundation of this inane party: your marriage. If you don’t like the cock, you should probably be re-thinking this whole heterosexual thing.

4. And, closely related to number three, the mocking of everything PENIS.

This bachelorette party tradition is all about the various stupid things that women have each other do to and with men on the night of their party. This includes, but certainly is not limited to: measuring the size of a stranger’s dick, getting digits of other men in case the groom realizes what an amazing wench you are, tip a stripper $5 but ask for $4 change, and demanding the various other unsuspecting males to buy your beverages for the evening. Two thoughts run through my head with this one. First, see #3, lesbo. Second, if you’re planning on harboring such manipulative feelings for the male species, your marriage will likely last about as long as this stupid little party you’ve got going.

What about just hanging out with the girls and checking out the occassional fine piece of ass that walks by? What ever happened to that?

So my folks are visiting. Last night my Ma and I had a girl’s night out. We went shopping and then out for dinner and drinks in the West Village. It was hot and muggy and Ma doesn’t do so well outside her comfort zone so I plowed her with Key Lime Martinis to stifle her moaning.

“Strozzapreti con Gamberi, per favore”

The waiter was impressed.

Ma said “He’s flirting with you.” I glared at her. Of course he is, he’s Italian, they flirt with female sheep for chrissakes.

“Sei sposata?” He asked. I answered “NO, no, no.” And laughed.

“Did he ask you if you were married?” “Yes.” “See, I told you…he’s cute.”

Right Ma, have another martini. Again I glared at her.

Here’s the thing, I’ve been down that Italian road more than once. And I’m not talking about the the Joey’s in NY but the Giuseppe’s from Calabria. You just don’t knock yourself in the head with a sledgehammer more than a couple of times before you say to yourself, “ouch, that hurts.” But I’d figured I’d have fun with it anyway.

As I fan myself with a menu sitting with my skirt hiked up I ask him, “Scusa Signore…vorrei gelato, c’e l’hai?

“Si, signorina, abbiamo cioccolato…lo vuoi?”

“Mmmm, si…grazie”

Of course ten minutes later I notice him outside with the boys kissing his fingertips and mouthing the words “ciao bella” as some fine bootied gal walks by. Ah, the Italians…you gotta love ‘em. Just do me one favor ladies NEVER marry them. Trust me on this one.

Gianormous boobs, The Lord Xenu, Champagne and Inappropriate T-Shirts

See, this is what happens when I venture north of hipster land. Last night I went to this fundraiser thing at a swank champagne bar north of Market. My best friend and I thought it would be fun to dress up like Marina girls for the night (read four inch heels and flat ironed hair) and create some scandal, her with her lip ring and tattoos and me with my acid tongue. It was an interesting night to say the least.

Most fascinating was the pack of weirdo guys there. They were all very well dressed, (and coiffed) but they were lacking a certain “je ne c’est quoi”, and by je ne c’est quoi I mean an ounce of normalcy.

First there was the the guy hitting on the poor girl in our party that henceforth will be referred to as Big Boob Girl. She’s a very lovely girl and I mean her no disrespect by reducing her to her chest size, I’m just completely fascinated by them. THEY ARE HUGE. I even said to my close friend, who’s a friend of hers, “Dude, seriously, can’t she put those things away, they are distracting me and I don’t even have a penis!”.  Basically the guy hitting on her most definitely DID have a penis because literally his eyes didn’t come off her chest for more than five seconds for the duration of their “conversation”. He was absolutely flagrant about it. I stood there in awe of his shamelessness. She however, seemed completely clueless, but I guess she’s just had to get used to it. Apparently a guy ran a stop sign the other day staring at her tits and rear ended someone in the process. Ooops. Either way guys, they’re just boobs, while I may have been momentarily distracted, I certainly wasn’t so magnetized that I couldn’t look a sister in the eyes.

My favorite choad of the night was probably the anal sex t-shirt guy. You’re probably wondering what the hell THAT means. Well I’ll tell you, I don’t really know. All I remember was a short man in a suit with glasses coming up to my friend and I and insisting that he buy us the “blanc de blanc” even though we were drinking Maker’s.  So he did and we chatted, and the next thing I know conversation has devolved to the point where he busts out with “And you know, all I want to do is make a t-shirt that says, Anal: It’s not just for homosexuals“. Whoa, man. Whoa. That’s not even a third date confession, that’s a “We’re engaged and my continued attempts to poke you in the bum compel me to make a t-shirt” confession, and even then, it’s fucking weird.

The next winner of the night was quite a prize. I’m inclined to think he has some sort of learning disability or hearing problem but in actuality he’s probably just weird. I was sitting quietly, sipping my bubbly, when this dude comes over, points to the table where a brochure for palm readings is sitting and says “So you gonna give me a reading”, and sticks out his palm. “Umm. No. They’re reading palms over there, it’s a flyer.” I say in my sweetest, fly the fuck out of here voice. He continues yapping about past lives or some other nonsense and I immediately pull the “I’m gonna go have a cigarrette” getaway cause I’m pretty much assured no man in this crowd smokes. Despite my EXPLICIT verbalization to the contrary he says, “Oh, you’re gonna go get your future read? cool cool, tell me what they say.”, I stand there for a moment, a little confused and a lot annoyed and just reply, “Yeah I’ll let you know how it goes”. The good news is that sarcasm is lost on a lot of West Coasters so I walked away from a happy man. Happy but fucking CUCKOO.

Which brings me to the Lord God Xenu. Supremely bored and enjoying the complete scandal that my smoking a cigarette is bringing to the Marina crowd, I am feeling a little sassy. I’d seen him across the street all night standing in front of the ornate corner building that said “Scientology” in big gold letters. He was handing out brochures and looking a little defeated. He was by no means attractive but I found him intriguing nonetheless. In a fit of curiosity I crossed the street. You should have seen the look in his eyes when he realized I was coming to talk to HIM. He’s used to accosting people, not the other way around. Cigarette in hand I walk over and say, “Okay, you’ve got until I finish this cigarrette to convince me that I don’t need a vat of morphine during childbirth.” While I wasn’t doing it to be cruel at all I felt more than a little bad as he bumbled and stuttered trying to figure out how to answer when the question deviates from the script. Softening a little to his complete loss of articulation I continue with, “Why do you believe in this stuff, what does it mean to you?”, sue me - I’m curious. After about five minutes of hemming and hawing I got nothing but vague entreaties and passionless explanations. The most amusing thing he said was, “So when I first heard about this I was like, these guys are fucking weird…”. Yeah? NO SHIT. Thank you captain obvious.

Thus, ending my attempts at making interesting conversation with the opposite gender for the night. I walked back into the bar, sat down and had an amazing conversation with my friends. All the while though, you can be sure that the gianormous boobs were sticking out in my peripheral vision like a car accident on the side of the highway…god damn it.

Imagine if you will you wake up with that carpe diem feeling, birds singing around your head and find yourself mouthing the words “Yeah baby, bring it.” It’s precisely that moment you really should just climb back into bed and shove multiple pain killers in your mouth because optimism that early in the morning can mean only one thing: it’s all going down hill from there.

Now imagine me, skipping off to work and tucking the latest issue of some unnamed weekly NY magazine under my arm. I wave to my neighbors, “Hello everyone! Have yourselves a fabulicious day my fair friends! Joy, joy joy!”

Oh barf all over me. I even make myself sick.

Now, if I had a dollar for everytime I open a magazine and am confronted with a blast from the past, aka an ex-bf, well, I wouldn’t have much but I could at least treat a few friends to a cup of coffee on the corner. This morning was no exception. There I was on the subway cracking open the freshly unread pages of my magazine. One article caught my eye so I fastforwarded to that page. I was confronted by the most eerily disturbing photographs. I starting reading the article but my eyes kept going back to the pictures. They seemed so familiar yet I knew no one in them. And there it was, lo and behold, on the photo credit, Mr. Heavily Medicated on Antidepressants Small Weiner Dicktard.

I had to put it down. I couldn’t even read the article. Now it curses me as it sits beside me on my desk. It’s saying to me “Pick me up, read me” and “He may have been overly emotive but his shit’s in a major magazine and what are you doing?” or “He knows you have a subscription so the jigs up, just take me to the bathroom and read me already.”

Seriously, I need someone to cut out the pictures and scan it in for me. I’m going back to bed.

Comment from my last post->
Dave Says:
June 13th, 2006 at 4:55 pme

I wanna hear the post about how you want to get laid but the boys just want to be friends. After all, most of us already know that our female friends get pissed when all we want to do is bang them.
——————–

Ok Dave, you want to hear about how I want to get laid but boys want to be just friends? Why you little bitch? Cause you want to relish in the joy of women not getting what they want or being satisfied? God, I fucking hate you! I hate you soo much! I hate all men for that matter! I hate dick too!!! Somebody please get me to a flooring store cause I gots the major munchies for some carpet!

Oh, oh, oh … just one second, who am I kidding? I love dick and everyone knows it. Why, if there was a weiner buffet in China, I’d find me a way to fly over there and grab up them pigs like I was wrappin’ em in blankets.

Nah, that’s precicely the problem. I LOVE men. I get so wrapped up in them so easily. I am positively boy crazy!

When I set my eyes upon the juicy steak of my desirings, I pounce pounce pounce. Cause I have no patience. And I’m also not a fan of waiting for some guy to tell me he wants me. If I did, I would let them do all the choosing instead of me going out and getting exactly who I want.

So that means I’m more open to rejections and denials.

I mean, gosh, there’s plenty of these stories. I often fall for all american boy types and those types don’t like nice Christian girls like me. Well actually that’s exactly the problem. They like nice Christian girls and I say really filthy things sometimes, don’t believe in organized religion, and I like comic books. For many guys I am a weirdo. I make boys uncomfortable. I want them to eat my pussy all the goddamn time.

So yeah, there’s a decent handful of reasons why I’ve been denied, even during friendship. I don’t feel like telling stories though. I’ve conviently forgotten the bad ones and replaced them in my mind with dancing butterflies eating cupcakes in disney land. I’m an optimist.

You tell me a story, Mr. Dave. Tell me the one about the clown.

Interaction is the foundation of a healthy…well…anything. Relationship? Check. Social networking? Check. Now, how about meat-market hunting? Oh yes, we’ve got that too. Girls, gay boys: I’m talking to you. The messiah has spoken.

What you are about to see is a lovely, interactive map of NYC pinpointing the location of all the single men! I mean, fucking Hallelujah, right?! But, wait, it gets better. I guess I should let you see it first. But I’ll warn you; you’re going to want to stare. I sure as hell did…along with copious note-taking, Mapquesting and Google stalking. Click here and oggle for a while, but come back so I can show you how to use this tool efficiently. Go ahead. I’ll wait.

Did you notice that the dark red (think blood, meat, etc) is the highest concentration of eligible bachelors? Of course you did! They’ve virtually taken over lower Manhattan! You could throw a thong and lasso at least 4-8 single lads. Even for those of you in hipster Brooklyn or King of Queens, you’ve still got a 1 in 10 chance of randomly picking up a single dude.

Now let’s mosey on over to the side-bar-o-fun and start clicking some of those buttons. Let’s see…we’ve got, wait…FEMA Flood Areas? That’s kind of strange, but maybe you’re into that whole woman-to-the-rescue thing. House addresses, in case you want to find out just how beneficial it is to go hang out in Meme’s neighborhood for the weekend, Landmarks…um, in case you’re a fucking tool. And let’s just skip to my favorite…Toxic Sites!

Not only can you find an aread for some serious cock hunting, but you can also leave your Geiger Meter at home when you’re ready for play time! Go ahead and click on that box…and, well, shit. All that blue means that most of our great city is damaged goods.

I’d walk you through the rest of it, but I think you get the picture. I mean, virtually all of the coastline is FEMA territory and–for the life of me–I cannot get the average income function to operate. But, then again, if in the midst of all that radioactivity you’ve managed to score yourself a non-toxic, non-waterlogged single dude in Manhattan, you should just leave well enough alone. Who cares if he’s temporarily unemployed? At least he won’t give you cancer.