Ok, it’s been a bit quiet around here lately, so I’m calling upon you all to get a bit more interactive. So here’s a cool-ass caption contest with the fucking motherload of all prizes. I don’t think much more needs to be said than that.

Are you ready? Do it up, my lovelies.

Image #1:

Image #2:

Image #3:

And saving the best for last,

Image #4:

The winner will be chosen in a completely biased and subjective manner. And the prize? Are you sitting down?

Winners will receive a photoshopped picture combining all the GS girls’ best body parts. (And two of us have the most spectacular tits.)

Let the games begin!

I got an email not too long ago from the folks at Bristol 6. They wanted to know if I may want to try their product Nippies. I said, “Sure!” Essentially these are pasties for the new era of nip-slip celebs. Cute, fun, and stylish. Don’t let your nipples slip out, let your Nippies! (I should totally do marketing for these people.)

So they sent me some samples in the mail and I brought them into work (of course, wouldn’t you do the same thing?). After looking at these things I knew the best use they’d get from me would be trying them on and dancing in front of the mirror, letting my boob fall out and saying things like, “Oops, one of the ladies got out of line,” or “What are you looking at bitch, jealous?” In a British accent, of course.

Instead I gave them to my coworker who happens to be in a relationship and therefore would have the opportunity for interaction with another person. My own personal guinea pig. So she took them home and had her girlfriend test them out. She wrote me the following email (I hope she’s not litigious.)

“I’ve always been suspicious of pasties, as they tend to evoke an image of a cheap late-night stripper shimmying down a pole - you know, the kind that can get tassels to twirl in different directions? This is not an image that was contradicted by the set of star-shaped, sequined gold pasties I was handed by a coworker yesterday. All the same, my girlfriend has been complaining about how her nipple piercing shows through some of her work shirts, so I thought “what the hell, I’ll bring them home for her to try.” As usual, she thought the idea was fun (she’s pretty much up for anything ridiculous). She was so excited by the stupid things, in fact, that she put them on as soon as we got home - running into the kitchen and flashing me her boobs. The gold stars covering each nipple only confirmed what I’ve always known - the broad has great tits. What’re ya gonna do? Anyway, she said they were surprisingly comfortable, and I thought we had a pasty-convert on our hands. Over the course of the next several hours, she even forgot she had them on. I was sold.

Then she tried to take them off.

All I heard for 5 minutes was “Ow. Ow. Ow. OWWW! OW! Motherf@#$er! God Damnit! Bloody pas-OW!!” Watching her peel off the extremely tacky (in both the “sticky” and “classless” senses of the word) pasties off her extremely sensitive nipples was about as much fun as watching someone peel off a band aid that is stuck to a fresh scab. In any case, it turns out that these delightfully naughty little acoutrements are just another decorative item that women wear to please their mates, despite the undeniable pain involved. Like high heels and corsets before them, pasties are unavoidably uncomfortable. Can you even IMAGINE a man putting a giant sequined band aid on the sensitive skin of his penis just to show off and add a little spice? HELL NO! You’d have to hog-tie one before you got the damn thing on. Anyway, suffice it to say that - while the sticky gold stars are a LOT of fun on the side of the observer - they are not so much fun on the side of the wearer. In a celebrity death match: “Nipples V Pasties”, pasties would win every time.”

Yikes, sorry ladies.

The folks at Bristol 6 also sent me some Stylin’ Tape, which you do not affix to your nipple. You actually use it to keep your shirt on. It’s double-stick tape that you put on the inside of your plunging neckline and the spot on your chest you want it to stay. I tried these on myself, at home, with a cotton nightie. The neckline wasn’t all that plunging but for what it’s worth the Stylin Tape worked and there was nobody in sight to witness this feat. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll dress at little sluttier this summer now that I have the tools to defy the natural nip-slip we inevitably face when our necklines go down to the belly button.

I’m a really good chameleon.
I can play the part of a well-mannered woman from the right side of the tracks speaking eloquently and with decorum just as effortlessly as I can play a foul mouthed beer guzzlin’ white trash mamacita. I consider it a gift.

The truth is, I relate more to the latter (although I will ferociously deny any claims to being white trash). I love art, cosmo’s, and just about everything in the summer Pier 1 catalog. I’ve traveled the world, been on a yacht and come from a long line of doctors and surgeons. Okay, yes, as a kid I did live in a mustard yellow single-wide trailer. BUT, that was only because my parents were planning on building a home on the same property and it was the most economical choice. And yes, I did give my first blowjob in a barn. BUT…well, crap. I don’t actually have an excusable explanation for that one. It’s also true that my first wedding embodied all the elements of one very tasteful white trash wedding. However, my family was typical middle of the road middle-class. During the second half of my freshman year of high school I moved in with my dad who lived in a fairly affluent suburb outside of Houston and it wasn’t uncommon to see beamers or Saab’s in the school’s student parking lot. I happened to drive a 1983 Ford Escort, but still, money was there. But I never bonded with those with money. They were more judgmental, more stuck-up and definitely more likely to be assholes. I preferred the more laid back easy going chill of those who listened to Metallica and could care less about designer threads. I still do matter of fact.

Most of my family is drawn to snobbery. My mom, although not wealthy, always bought expensive clothing and cosmetics and hand bags. She’s friends with people who are well off and as such she’s adopted a lot of that lifestyle mentality. When she and I went to NYC a few years back I wanted to stay in Greenwich Village, but she wanted to stay in one of the more luxurious hotels near 5th Avenue. Since the trip was on her dime we stayed at the Helmsely Park Lane. Hmph. While there I dressed the part of a pseudo-classy tourist but I stayed true to my deep southern trashy side when I had a shouting match with a bitch in a cab. My mother was mortified. My foul-mouthed antics, love for tattoos and lack of want for all things posh and glam continues to confound her to this day. She thinks she raised me better than that. HA!

But I do have my standards. Although I am more found of the casual attitudes of the white trash nation I draw the line at missing teeth, redneck speech, country music, wearing jammies and/or slippers to Wal-Mart and making out with your mom for Larry the Cable Guy tickets (be forewarned, watching this clip could cause sporadic vomiting).

Holy mother of all that is evil and wrong in the world. WHY? More importantly, HOW in the hell could someone stoop to such a disgusting atrocity at all, let alone for $20 tickets to some stupid hillbilly jack-ass comedian? Dear god. Not even for a million dollars would I tongue my mother. Some would say it’s just tongue, there’s no meaning it, no big deal. And those would be the same people who love Larry the Cable Guy, Nascar and mud boggin’. And all of Alabama, of course.

On behalf of the southern portion of these great United States I want the world to know that we’re not all white trash, even though some of us have dabbled in white trash behavior. My hand-to-god (assuming I actually believed in a god) the vast majority of us would never ever in a billion katrillion years make-out with our moms.
Our cousins maybe, but never our moms.

It had been so long since I had been on a date with someone that I wasn’t already good friends with through work or whatever; that I had forgotten how nerve-wracking it could be. Not just the actual date, but all the doubts and confusion that inevitably follows the date. It seemed to go well, but like every other girl I wondered: Will he call? Did he really enjoy it? Blah, blah, fucking-blah. So, I did what most gals do and turned to my closest friends to analyze the shit out of the date and look for clarity.

The conversations with my three closest friends — none of which actually talk to each other — proved to be more enlightening than I could have imagined. Not one gave me any real advice or help where the dating front is concerned, but each one brought to my attention that I inadverently come across as aloof and uninterested even when I am in fact quite interested. Apparently I send off mixed signals — ALL THE TIME! (These bitches have been friends with me for over twenty years and NOW they tell me???)

They used words like: bubbly, outgoing, sweet, but they were followed by words like: stand-offish, aloof, confusing, uninterested and even bored! What the fuck?? I was also told that because I am so outgoing and flirtatious, open and often times direct; that men get very confused around me because they expect me to be more forward and expressive when it comes to my interest in them, so when the traditional, girl-should-never-make-the-first-move side of me appears; men don’t know what to think. My profession of course doesn’t help, cuz the minute a man hears “sex writer”; it conjures up images of the Playboy mansion and promiscuity, when I in fact am very tame and ol’ school when it comes to men… for the most part…

So, as if dating isn’t difficult enough, now I have to worry about whether or not I am sending off mixed signals and try to be aware of getting that “constipated” or “smelling strong cheese” expression off my face.

Thanks amigas.

I stopped believing in God when I was 8. I never told my family. I still went to church and Sunday School every week. Where I come from Jesus is pretty much the only option. Church is a big part of life. Religion is the backbone of my family’s social being.

I had personally always hated going to church. I was really jealous of all my white friends. Either they didn’t go to church at all or their services only lasted for an hour and then they all got to go on ski trips. I spent the majority of Sunday worshiping Christ. Sunday School from 10 to 11, church from 11 to 2, after church festivities from 2-5. I spent most of this time playing Hangman and tic-tac-toe with my brother on the backs of various church programs and swapping him red and purple Skittles for pink Starbursts which we would then wrap in sticks of Cinnaburst gum for an amazing taste sensation. I knew that Jesus was supposedly the answer to everything and that I was probably definitely going to hell because I always forgetting to say my prayers at night and during the preacher’s sermon I doodled my name alongside the last names of my favorite celebrities and imagined my future charmed life as Mrs. Jonathan Brandeis or Mrs. Eddie Furlong.

So I didn’t have the strongest foundation in the Lord, to start with.

When I was in the third grade I was obsessed with New Kids On The Block. I had all of their unauthorized biographies, I could recite their birthdays and their fav foods. Joey McIntyre was the man of my dreams. My eight year old heart yearned for him. I decided that then was as good a time as any to start praying. I wanted Joey and I wanted God to help me get him. So every night I got on my knees and prayed that the New Kids’ tour bus would break down near my house and they would have to stay with my family for the night. Joey would have to sleep naturally. And just as a joke and because I’m so cute his bandmates would sneak in while we were sleeping and put us in a what I liked to term a “French kissing position.” I was never sure on the specifics of this but basically, Joey Mac and I would have to French kiss in order to get out of this wonderful position.

I prayed for this every night and at the end of the prayer I would throw in “Please bless everyone in the world,” just for kicks.

Well folks, that tour bus never even came close to my town. And I did meet Joey McIntyre but I was 24 and drunk at a club in the Meatpacking District with a date when it happened.

Eventually I stopped praying about it and became even more not fond of church. I was always such a good girl, I didn’t understand why God wasn’t listening. I never talked back to my parents, I was friends with some of the uglier kids at school, I made good grades, and I smiled a lot. I’d even started praying. My preacher always said put your trust in Jesus and he’ll provide, he’ll make a way. Well I did pray. And Joey McIntyre did not come my way.

So I became a closet Atheist in third grade. My mom has always been religious but recently she has rediscovered Jesus with a vengeance. My dad never went to church but did always threaten that we would convert to being Jehovah’s Witnesses because they don’t celebrate holidays.

I do however have to go to church this Sunday. A couple of days ago I had about $6000 worth of checks in my purse that I had to deposit for my job at my job’s bank. I went out for a drunken night on the town and in the cab at 2am to a friend’s house, I remembered about the checks. They weren’t in my purse. I’d gone home before going out and tried to tell myself that they must still be at my apartment. I slept over at my friend’s because I was too drunk to make it back to the east side. I woke up and started for my apartment at 7:00 the next morning. I prayed the whole way and listened to gospel on my iPod. God if you let those checks be at my apartment I will not make fun of Jesus for two months and I will go to church this Sunday. I promise, I promise.

I walked into my apartment and the checks were on the floor by the door. They’d fallen out of my purse before I walked out the door the night before.

So I have to find a church on Sunday.

Sometimes my manfriend and I will be watching a movie or something & want some more information. Or maybe we’re at the bar and can’t—for the life of me!–remember the name of that actor in that movie.

So, we check out IMDb. Simple enough. Not at all very interesting, really.

But the other day, after clicking around to look up the actor who played Grandpa in Little Miss Sunshine, we stumbled upon Ron Jeremy. Only mildly amused that he actually has his own page, we became increasingly amused as the page loaded and saw that he had almost 1000 listings. Oh yeah. They listed them all, even Tales from the Crapper & Your [sic] the Boss.

That was fun for a few moments, especially after realizing that he’s been doing porn since before both of our births. And that’s just a lot of fucking sex, people. Documented, no less.

But anyway, we started looking a little closer. The true amusement came in reading the good ol’ boy’s character names. For example, in Secrets of a Willing Wife, he plays Creep at Porn Movie. Ball in the Family? Itchy Bonkers. The Adventures of Buttgirl & Wonder Wench? The Poker.

Classic. And perhaps, all this just goes to show you that I am, in fact, still humored by immature material. So, to go along with this realization, here’s something from none other than College Humor dot com.

This is a woman talking about penises & vaginas. But the humor is in how she seems to be acting like she’s on Meet the Press, consulting on the latest trade restrictions or foreign policy. She kind of goes on and on at times, but keep going. The one-liners are endless.

“Wait a second…jackrabbit?!”

This video is awesome, but think about it: when was the last time you were in a video store? I don’t know about you but for me it’s been years, what with Netflix and all. So I was trying to think of place I spend plenty of time looking at titles I could play this game with. I immediately thought of all the evenings I stand in the frozen food aisle staring at the Ben and Jerry’s containers.

But suddenly I’m not sure what exactly I’m hungry for: gooey ice cream or creamy chicks. And I haven’t even finished my morning bottle of wine. I don’t know. It must not translate well beyond the video store. Maybe we could play it at the Library? DMV? With douchebag co-workers at the office? I’ve already seen it done with American Idol contestant Sanjaya…

Whatever. I’m overthinking this one. Clearly the bottom line is that I need to go revisit my classic VHS porn collection this weekend. Hope your weekend brings you the same kind of joy. Now where’s my wine…

Seriously world, we have got to come up with a way to tactfully inform our fellow humans of their public, yet oblivious, embarrassment. For example, I could, and should, tell the assistant Girl Scout leader of our local troop that the bushel of hair sprouting in every which direction on her third layer of chin is damn disgusting. I can barely have a conversation with the woman without upchucking a little bile into my mouth.

Likewise, someone could have, and should have, informed me of the fact that I looked as if I’d been bludgeoned with a sharp object across the front of my scalp this morning while at the gym. As I was peddling my way to an ass of less flab (god willing) on the elipitical apparently I was sweating little streams of vampire red Manic Panic down the sides of my face. And not one jerk told me. I only realized it when I stopped at the store on my way home and did a face check in the mirror.
And here I’d thought that the hottie on the machine next to me was staring at my fine physique. Uh,not likely. To say that it was embarrassing is an understatement. And you know what’s really fucked up? The girl on the other side of me could have said something to me when she stepped up to her machine. In some la-la fantasy land it would be awesome if there was some sort of girl code in place wherein we all have each others back, strangers or not. But no. Instead, we have a tendency to be vindicative little bitches and get pleasure off of other womens awkward misfortunes because in our skewed little heads that means we’re all that much better. Sad, but true. Then again, maybe I’ve just had really bitchy friends.

I’m letting you know now that if you ever see me out and about with chin hair, leaky hair dye, broccoli in my teeth or a whitehead on the tip of my nose it’s okay to come up and tell me. Please. I promise I won’t punch you.

Now if I can only manage to tell Mrs. Chin Bushel of her little problem. My guess is she already knows and simply doesn’t give a shit. White trash are funny like that. Still, I’m thinking of slipping a pack of Bic razors in her handbag at the next meeting. It may be slightly lacking in tact but I’m betting that the type of woman who is unconcerned about looking like sasquatch’s long lost cousin doesn’t really give a rats ass about tact.

If I had written about Facebook a couple of months ago, it would surely have been to rip it apart and bitch about how I just can’t seem to get into it and can’t be bothered, but these days I am singin’ a very different tune. Before you throw up in your mouth a little; this is not going to be some cheesy eulogy about how some old friends or lost loves have found their way back to eachother, but instead a selfish little diddy about how Facebook has been great for my undeserving ego.

Me: a sex writer, single in my early thrities, still quite juvenile in my behaviour and probably less ready to settle down now than I was even in my teens. While these are all things that I am not ashamed of; I did struggle with them many times. I have cried and bitched and been cried to and bitched at for not being married. I have tried desperately to understand why I don’t yet feel ready to settle down and been constantly haunted by the bar that my parents and many relatives set: married by twenty, two or three children by thirty and happy together for eternity. As for the sex writer part — the many men who aren’t intimidated by it are just downright offended. My bad for still thinking I could marry someone Portuguese and ol’ school like my grandparents always wanted.

Anyhow, I got invited to Facebook by several people and just disregarded the invites until being practically beaten into submission. I was very half-assed about the whole thing; no stats but my name, and as a profile pic — a mildly offensive but funny pic of Chuck Norris. I would pop in every couple of weeks and find messages from former co-workers, classmates and the occasional random guy who just liked Chuck Norris. I was still very much bored by the whole thing, until one morning after one of those horrible dates where you pity yourself like never before and curse God for not making you the marryin’ kind — something on Facebook cheered me right the fuck up –making me take notice of the amazing tool I had in front of me. There on my screen was a message from a girl that I hadn’t talked to in years. In her email she referred to that fact that I was still single as though mocking me. I clicked on her profile just wanting to see what I was dealing with before shooting off a sarcastic reply and what I found shocked me like never before. This girl (and I use the term loosely) who was once one of the most attractive girls I had known, had become an ugly, crusty, soccer mom. Nothing against regular soccer moms of course as I do looove my soccer, but this was white trash at its finest! You know what; soccer mom is the wrong label as it’s clear that she is more the tracker-pull or smash-up derby type.

It was at that moment that I decided to check out other profiles and look up some of those people I had lost touch with when they got married and decided that they were just too ‘grown up’ to stay friends with a simple singleton, a.k.a. slut like myself. Much to my elation, each profile seemed to have at least one of the ego boosters that I was hoping for: the word “divorced” or a horrible pic or rant about how much they loathe their jobs or their lives. Priceless.

In a matter of minutes I found that the girl whose relationship, engagement and then marriage that I had been most envious of was in the process of a divorce. The prettiest girl in my class whose frost and glow hair was the envy of many; now heavy, tattered, bored and working at Wal-Mart. A guy who I messed around with and secretly burned for even though he was in a relationship — still dating the same women who, judging by the pics; seems to have more wrinkles on her face than the ass of my ninety year old grandmother!

Thank you Facebook for making me proud to be single and holding out for THE guy or nothing at all. And for making me even prouder to be flighty, juvenile and a self-admitted perv who spends much of her day thinking of and writing about sex. Also, thank you for the joy that comes from realizing that others haven’t aged nearly as gracefully as I have.

Oh my dearest Facebook, you’ve made me prouder than ever to be me.

My post today is lighthearted and fun but I wanted to say that my heart goes out to everyone at Virginia Tech. It’s an awful, awful tragedy and my thoughts are with them.

Now for an awkward transition into my blog for today.

She keyed your car and cloroxed all your clothes. He fucked your best friend in your bed, on your couch, and on top of the stove in your kitchen. You’ve been in almost four serious relationships since graduating college and they’ve all ended because “you have issues, and I’m not at a point to deal with them right now.”

“Welcome to my baggage.”

That’s one phrase that I’ve learned since moving to New York three years ago. One that has stayed with me, and one that I usually have to use during the course of the relationships I’ve had here in the city.

New York is a city full of selfish people. We want what we want when we want it how we want it. We want bigger and better. Success by the age of 30 is not an option but a requirement of citizenship. We arrive with BAs, MBAs, and ABJs in advertising, business and communications in hand, ready to conquer the world. We want the duplex in Tribeca, the SoHo loft, the West Village townhouse, and we want it now. If we wanted mediocrity we would have stayed in the mundane suburbia of whatever second-tier city we migrated from. With so many Type-As crammed into a space as small as Manhattan the issue-laden abound and chances are that guy you met at your friend’s art opening has baggage spilling out of his ass.

Unless you’re twelve and embarking on your first quasi-meaningful relationship, every date you have from here on out will more than likely be with someone who has, for lack of a better term—“some baggage.” Once we’ve reached our mid-twenties it’s highly improbable that we will be anyone’s “first love.” Lest you forget, your first love happened back when you accidentally lost your virginity at age sixteen in the rec room of your first boyfriend, who definitely wasn’t your boyfriend at the time but did introduce you to the fact that kool-aid and vodka don’t and never will mix. By 25, we’ve had high school sweethearts and college romances and more than a few broken hearts So don’t bank on that new amazing person you’ve been seeing for two weeks to be completely issue-free. There’s always a psycho ex somewhere in the back story of two years ago and there’s always The Reason Behind The Divorce. Add to these various issues and veritable pounds of baggage the fact that I along with a few million other single kiddies are living in New York City and it’s easy to see why everyone here complains about dating. To the naked eye we are a city of self-centered egocentric social climbers who stop at nothing until everything we touch is coated in success even if that means stepping on the hands of a few hundred toddlers in the process. We stop at nothing to get what we want. Which explains why so many of us are still single. We go into possible relationships knowing that our last boyfriend cheated because he was an asshole and also because in the last year of the relationship, we ceased communication which was one of the reasons he started sleeping with his coworker. But still we expect Mr. Right Now to have absolutely no Miss Used To Bes slouching around in the background leaving quasi-psychotic messages on his machine. We expect him or her to be glistening with perfection, doing all the right things, all the right way.

It’s here that we take a little detour into Reality. Relationships are about growing. You meet, you like. You like some things a lot, other things not so much. You break up because things aren’t right and you start again. The mistake most of us make when starting again is simply not remembering what led to the last break up. True, all relationships are different but by the time a person reaches the quarter century mark, your personality, your self is pretty much in tact and or pretty close to where it needs to be, for better or for worse. This baggage that we take from boyfriend to boyfriend, or girlfriend to girlfriend, we need to view this not as something that’s holding us back and weighing us down. It’s not some burden to bear. Baggage is just the accumulation of knowledge gleaned from prior experience. Learn from your past and know that it’s okay to have one. Recognizing one’s own faults is the first step in being able to accept another’s. Everyone’s got some kind of baggage and accepting only perfection will lead to a lifetime of unfulfilled expectations. As I stated before, relationships are about growing. Instead of prefacing a conversation with “Welcome to my baggage” while you’re at Cipriani with some new hot cassanova, why not try “Hey—I’m a real person, with real issues and if we’re going to be in this together, you have to take me, the good and the bad. . . .and I have to take you too.”
Only try not and let that come out on the first date because no one is into that kind of talk right away.