(My timing is horrible, but let’s pretend this is about a month earlier and my post title is socially in sync with current evens, ok?) I’ve been thinking about changing up my hair for a few weeks now. Currently, it’s brown, layered, long. You know…boring. I’ve already done the whole platinum thing, which was fully exciting, but horrifically expensive to maintain. I could go with the firey redhead look, but I’m not so sure I even like the style of my cut anymore. So now, I’m seeking out your advice. I’ve compiled a collection of “enhanced” images for your perusal. By “enhanced” I mean that I hacked and sawed in Paint and you’ll probably have just as much fun looking at the hairstyles as my, um, skills. Be nice or at least be a funny mean person.

But moving onward. I found this nifty software online…it’s called Hair Pro 2006 if you’re bored at work. But back to this highly important, super-intelligent topic of my post!

Look, you don’t even need to comment. Just vote in this nifty poll thingy. It’s not like your civil duty or anything, but you will be one of the many that will suffer if an ugly hairstyle prevails. No one wants to look at that shit.

God, this is kind of creepy isn’t it? All those heads? Does anyone remember watching Return to Oz??

After the topic of and commentary on my last post, I got to thinking about an age-old discussion centered around the social behavior of females. Coupling that with an observation that my boyfriend made recently (Him: You’re an alpha female. Me: Oh. So, wait. Is that hot?) I figured I needed to do some exploration on the topic. And by “exploration” I mean that I’ll list a bunch of theories and questions, probably offer no further insight, and then hope that someone will figure it all out for me. That someone? You. Ready?

Of course, you’ll need some clarity here first. This “topic” that I’m referring to is the notion that women dress, act, and strut–essentially–for other women. I suppose this could also be tied in to address how women really seek approval and respect from fellow females more than they do from males, hot and sexy or otherwise.

I tend to believe this theory holds water; in fact, I don’t think that’s the part that’s ever in question. The part to investigate is why these women behave this way, and how many of us do? I’ll admit that I am guilty of dressing, acting, and strutting for chicks. And, no, I’m not necessarily trying to get any action. I will also admit that recieving a compliment from a certain type of female will trump that of one from a guy. Though, not always. But let’s not get into the loopholes before completely exhausting the premise. (Don’t I sound scientific?)

The easy response to identifying the girls that participate in–consciously or subconciously–this type of social conduct is to lay the burden on low self-esteem. Women who are not fully confident in themselves will feel the need to compete with other females or seek their praises. While this seems to float in the logic pool, I’m not so sure it rings true with me. Are all bitches simply insecure? Is aggression always a sign of weakness? It’s easy to say yes, I think. But let’s look at the gender flip side. When a guy decides to get into a fight at a bar, is he suffering from a low self-image? Or how about when he calls his buddy a homo? Is that his own insecurity about his sexuality? In either case, I fully doubt it.

In all seriousness, I’m not trying to start some sort of feminist debate here. I’m just trying to look at illogical behavior with some logical lenses. In fact, I tend to believe that men and women are so inherently different that it’s often nonsensical to compare the two.

Though, I just did, didn’t I? God, this is exhausting.

Here’s the bottom line, I guess: why do women feel threatened by other chicks? I think it’s biology. Why do men brawl? Same reason. Of course, there’s always going to be other variables, but sometimes it just makes sense to pick the simplest solution. We’re all animals, and despite our efforts to disguise this, we’re never going to escape those roots.

So maybe I am an alpha female. That’s kind of got a nice ring to it, doesn’t it? Plus, it totally makes me want to do the She-Ra shout on top of a jagged mountain. But, I mean, I’d only do it if you ladies thought it was funny. Oh, and if I could change out of these super-fucking killer heels. Aren’t they hot?

Judging by your lack of commentary on, like, ANY of my posts, I know you hate me. I can take a hint. But the thing is that you’re stuck with me this week, ok? So fuck off. But wait. Not really. I just want you to love me.

Naturally, I wanted to make a list of ways to make you all love me again. Here’s what I’ve come up with thus far:

1. Nude photos Photoshopped nude photos.
2. Foot massages. Goddamn, I could use one right now. But shit, this is about you. Sigh.
3. Kittens & puppies. You can have my two cats. They’re cute. But I want you to be happy. And you deserve them.
4. Money. I’ll count up my change in the bottom of my purse and fully mail it to you. (Minus S&H, of course.)
5. Music. Carnivals. Deep-fried twinkies. I’ve never had the latter, but they make toothless people happy. And inside, we’re all the same, right?
6. Shutting up. (You realize this won’t happen, right?)
7. Laughter. You know, I really try with this last one here. But I’ll combine 6 & 7 and give you this:

Oh, oh, oh! And this!

If you don’t laugh, you’re stupid. (Just kidding!)

I was at a formal social function this weekend, and while I wanted to go off on a tirade about couples that argue in public, I realized that we’re all guilty of that at some point or another. Plus, I haven’t been adhering to my duties as the official Girlspoke astrologer. So I compromised. Thusly, I give you this month’s Horospokeâ„¢ in dresses. Find the dress you’d choose to wear to an upcoming get-together and read what the fates have in store for you.

Well, your heart is in the right place, I suppose. But that dress is still made of plastic derivitives and you’ve paid $300 for it, dumbass. Caring about your image is smart, but caring about your credit score is smarter. You’re still investing too much into a flash-in-the-pan kind of gig. Your limits need to be reeled in a bit if you’re not to be disappointed. Lowering your expectations is always a sure bet. Just look at Tara Reid, Britney Spears, and Hillary Clinton.

You’re either knocked up or need to hit the gym. If you’re knocked up, kudos to you for wearing those goddamn heels and itchy pantyhose all night. If you could drink, I’d buy you one. If you’re not preggos, remember that the empire waist may hide your muffin tops, but not your flabby arms. Or those calves that could use some sculpting. Don’t be a lazy ass. Lay off the chips and dip (and beer) for a few weeks and buy a dress that will make you look less like a sack with arms and legs.

Well you’re either going to get some props here or be repremanded. And even if I give you props, they’ll be short-lived. The frustrating thing is that you know it’s coming and you’ve heard it before…why don’t you listen, goddamnit?! Even if you have the figure to wear little-children clothing, you shouldn’t. You may look slightly hot, but the more prominent reactions you’re getting are desperate and insecure. You’d look just as hot in an outfit that’s more age appropriate. Seriously, those juniors dresses are actually not even appropriate for the little shits that fall into the “junior” category. Stop being something you’re not. Or, if you are really a whorish, insecure bitch, then stop being that, too.

The old school versions are a rareity, but these are their reincarnation, people: the 80s party dress. The new-age arm-flab obsession has put an end to the puffiness up top, but now it’s just creeping downward. The theory, I think, is that it makes your waist look smaller, or maybe your flatt ass bigger. Honestly, it just makes your entire face look retarded. This is only acceptable on little girls ages 8 and under, or Paris Hilton’s dog. So stop being so misguided and just take a look around you. Poofy is not good. Poofy hair, poofy sleeves, poofy face from overindulgence in alcohol…they’re all the same. If you need a youthful fix, go suck on a damn lollipop. It works, I swear.

This genre includes the backless dress, the hiked-up-to-her-waist-on-one-side dress, and the all-out I’m a Whore! versions. Typically, though not always, red dresses with any kind of rhinestone also fall into this category. The question we all post to you is “Why?” Sexy is not in how lacy or holey your attire is…unless you’re in the bedroom. And even then, it’s always in your sultry looks and dripping attitude. Wearing this type of clothing says a variety of things about your sexual behavior, but it also screams some obscenities about you and your date that you may not have heard. Actually, I’ll just keep those to myself…maybe not knowing will lure you back to the winning team.

Similar to an A.B.S. girl, your intentions were good. You thought you’d look classy, right? Sparkle is eye-catching but not in a did-I-just-see-asscrack kind of way. The only thing is that your dress, if glitter-ized, will lose about half its weight by the end of the evening, and some other chick is going to be fighting with her boyfriend when he sees all the sparkly shit that she tracked into his car with her fat ass. You know, from having crossed paths with your damn dress. You see, as sophisticated as you may seem, you’re like a grand storm quietly infiltrating the room, calmly swirling around the edges, and then leaving a mess of destruction in your wake. So, unless you’re the evil, comic-book nemesis kind of person, stay away from the bright and shiny things.

Do we really need to talk about this? You’re not a moron. This is not your wedding. Don’t wear white dresses unless you’re at a summer barbeque (and it’s made of cotton) or at your own wedding ceremony. Don’t get it? Clearly you need a serious ass beating in a very non-sexual way. Go home. No one likes you. (But if this were your wedding, I LOVE the dress!)

Yellow? Lime green? Abstract cuts and patterns? Perhaps a rose or 20? Maybe some fuschia with frilly things? Don’t let the dress wear you, woman. The idea is to use the dress to make you stand out, not the other way around. You may think you’re making a bold move here, but it’s really only drawing attention to your insecurities and cluelessness. Save these attempts at boldness for your next trip to the dance club or for next year’s Halloween party. Instead of impressing your friends or co-workers, they’ll actually just pity you. Or maybe you’ll aggrivate Mr. Clark’s aneurysm or epilepsy. Either way, this is not the effect you were going for.

We don’t have much of a blogroll here at Girlspoke, so it’s fun to give some respect to fellow bloggers that walk the line around here. Plus, it’s another reason for me to cop-out of doing a legitimate post. I got a message from a reader the other day that directed me to a site that would certainly tickle my fancy. The website is called 5ives, which is all lists, all the time. Could you ask for anything better? No. The answer is, no. No you cannot.

Let me share my favorites so far…but I’ve yet to delve deep into the archives:

Five Groups, apart from “women and children”, who should get to leave a sinking ship first:

1. people who always use turn signals
2. persons who have never purchased a greeting card
3. Broken Social Scene
4. everyone who can and does continue to publicly breakdance
5. un-ironic wearers of suspenders

Clever, no? I’m partial to the turn-signal users. Though, I’d probably have some subtle differences if I’d made this list myself:

Jenna’s Five Groups, Apart from “women and children”, Who Should Get to Leave a Sinking Ship:

Note: “Myself” is not listed because I’d fall into the default category. Otherwise, I’d be number one.

1. Those who have accidentally flatulated–loudly–in public, at any point in their lifetime.
2. Victims of mailbox vandalism.
3. Anyone who has never, intentionally, eaten flax or any of its derivatives.
4. People that get slightly annoyed when they see emoticons, public display of poor spelling, or improper use of end-sentence punctuation.
5. Marines. Who else would give me mouth-to-mouth if I fell victim to…you know…the humid oceanic air?

And the next best?

Five kitchen tools that sound kind of dirty:

1. chocolate fountain
2. melon baller
3. meat baster
4. boning knife
5. corn holders

This is obviously right up my alley, so to speak. Not only is it a list, but it’s also sexual and immature–two adjectives that I always use when filling out one of those email forwards from a friend that ask me to describe myself! Again, this had me thinking of a Jenna translation…

Jenna’s Five Surgical Tools That Sound Kind of Kinky:

1. Glass Bead Mirror Warmer
2. Aspirating Suction Tubes
3. Bulldog Clamps
4. Bone Elevators
5. TIE: Headlights or Sphygmomanometers and B-P Cuffs

I bet you never knew surgery could be so much fun!

Now, go over and check out 5ives.com and tell me what your favorite list is. Or do you have another favorite site that you think we should all know about? Share it in the comments section! It’s Show and Tell time, kiddies!

I did have one once. I remember that much. In fact, I remember every damn detail of it. And I also recall sharing each of those details with as many people as possible, including those that became clearly uncomfortable at the start of my sharing.

But for all intents and purposes, no matter how much I’d like to or even how often I may have tried, I simply cannot have a sex dream. It just never happens. Well, ok, not never never. But I do have myself a bit of a situation. Aside from The One, (which shall be permanently rooted into my memory banks, even when I’m old and senile, I’m sure. Grammy, PLEASE stop telling us that story!) I have never had a sex dream that involves another human being.

So, are you with me now? Can we explore this for a bit please? Because it’s not like my dreams are completely devoid of sexuality. In fact, I’ll often have a dream where I’m fully aroused. But here’s where the problem begins. Oye. How do I even say this…

How about a scenario? That’s least humiliating, I suppose. Here’s the never-wavering sequence of events:

1. I am typically in a public place and become aroused–savagely aroused–for no evident reason whatsoever. Normally, when we’re explaining a dream, there’s that moment when you invariably tell your listener that “well, it made total sense in the dream.” Well, not so much here. I’m often wondering–mid-snore–why I’m suddenly horny. You know, while riding the escalator of all things.

2. I become overwhelmed with my need to orgasm. There is no visible solution to my, eh, problem.

3. Without undressing or offering explanation to friends, family, or strangers, I begin grinding my crotch against the nearest possible surface. This has included a metal pole and an escalator railing in the past. Only rarely will I actually use my own hands.

And you know the worst part? As I’m lying in bed, writhing around, I’ve got to be aroused in real-life too, you know? But I can never wake myself up enough to get some real-life action from the sexy stud next to me!

Sigh.

I don’t know. Maybe if this were all less cyclical and seemingly telling of some deep-seeded, unexplored issues, I’d have less of a problem…Well, actually, no. Patterns or not, I’d still be grinding my clit upon the nearest possible firm surface and not against my boyfriend’s bulging cock. And that is still quite the problem now, isn’t it?

There’s something soothing about list-making. Being the astrologer that I am, I should be able to make some kind of connection to my sign, but I’m sure it has more to do with my own neurosis than my astrology. Regardless, my nerves are in need of some soothing. I just got done moving from an apartment to a house and am now finding myself fighting off a bout of the flu. And, swear to fucking God, I’m pretty sure I’ve never had the flu before.

1. Because when you know you’re going to move, you’re more likely to come home and puke on your upstairs neighbor’s car rather than in the bushes. And then you’re probably going to wake up at 5AM and scurry out in your PJs, head pounding, hair matted, because you’re just realizing that having your insane neighbor (with whom you’ve been openly feuding) see a pleasantly round pile of vomit on his Volkswagen Rabbit is probably going to incite his furies upon your already damaged body.

2. Becuase the weather is always against you, people. It WILL rain. Even if you checked the damn Internet like 20 times to make sure that it would be OK to leave that dresser on the front porch because apparently you’ve downgraded to a smaller place and motherfucker just won’t fit.

3. Because when the landlord told you that he would have the carpets professionally cleaned, he meant that the previous tenants would just throw some water on the carpet to give the semblance of such cleaning. This, in turn would leave your house with a pleasant aroma that exists somewhere between the world of cat piss and sour milk.

4. Because you remembered to pack all 20 of your electrical cords, but left your supply of beer at the old place.

5. Because moving puts everyone in a spectacular mood and you and your loved ones will likely find yourselves fighting over who the asshole was that decided to pack the goddamn toothbrushes with the goddamned soap only to get a not-so-fresh feeling in your mouths.

6. Because the old tenants were filthy slobs (did the carpet incident not give it away?) and left their fleas behind them to infest themselves on your two nocturnal cats.

7. Becuase evidently drowning your cats to kill the fleas is not a widely accepted method of pest control.

8. Because “it’s so much quieter here!” but your new neighbors have chickens. And a rooster. And they like to sleep under your bedroom window.

9. Because when you’re without Internet for a few days you have to shuffle around to post on your blog, giving you more time to come up with even weaker material.

10. Because the hidden perk of moving in is the hidden germs that have infested your bowels giving you uncontrollable, explosive diarrhea.

You’re working. (Or you’re home but have nothing better to do, so same difference.) You probably don’t want to be working. Guess what? I don’t want to be writing this post either. And I’ve complained of this before. My apathy. Writer’s Block. Whatever you want to call it, I’m trying to bail out on you here. But the thing is that you’re trying to bail out to right now. Like, from work, right? So let’s bail out together-ish! I’ll list all the things I’d rather be doing right now. In return, I ask you to do the same. It’ll be like a mass orgy of daydreaming. Think about it. You’ll get to daydream for a few moments about your sexy weekend (or lack thereof) and then be promptly whisked away to my dreamland, or maybe Meme’s or Lo’s or Heather’s! It’ll be fucking fun, goddamn it.

What Jenna is daydreaming about this Columbus Day:

Woodchucks. Or I guess you could call them groundhogs. But I like to reserve that term for the ones that are being fondled by men in top hats and tuxedos with jacket tails. But back to the woodchucks. There’s a lot of them around here and sometimes, when I see them waddle across a patch of grass, I think to myself, Oh, to waddle and be a care-free, retarded, hairy mammal. This daydream ends quickly when I remember the five or so squashed woodchucks I saw on my way to work.

Head-butting. Aside from it’s fantasticly inapropriate name, I just feel that this is such a fantastic combat method and I wish I were skilled in its manuevers. I mean, I couldn’t even tolerate a head from a 3 year old. So naturally I try to imagine how I could strengthen myself in this area. But people, it’s just skull. Is it possible to thicken one’s own skull? And isn’t this the type of sceario we’ve been categorically told to avoid…you know, having a thick skull? But I’m thinking now, that maybe if my head were’nt so fucking thin, that I’d have a way-cool life as a damn cage fighter or something. Those chicks wear some hot outfits.

Inventions. Just this weekend I was at a party and a friend of mine, Lana, was updating me on her brother. This guy had been serving in Iraq when he luckily broke his ankle. This earned him an early ride home and an honorable discharge. Now, according to Lana, he’s moved on to inventions. He’s got himself a contact with a CEO at some major car corporation as well as a patent lawyer. As we daydream, he’s in talks to get his new idea on the market. That idea just happens to be an external automobile indicator that alerts the police when the driver is not wearing his or her seatbelt. Maybe this is just me, but this idea is a obviously similar to treason and even more inane than strapping a roll of toilet paper to your head when you’ve got a cold as some sort of Sinusitis head gear.

Odd surgical procedures. Penile Implants. Bulging eyeballs. Elephant humps. Anal bleaching. You get the picture. And this is such an excellent worktime daydream because you inevitably start googling images. Who could resist the urge to see such fantastic things displayed in color and on screen? Not to mention the naughty, dangerous awareness that your boss could walk in at any moment and find an anus filling the space on your monitor.

So those are my dreams. My big, beautiful dreams. But now I’m kind of stumped again, so let’s hear yours. We could waste HOURS of time instead of mere minutes!

I stumbled upon this post the other day and couldn’t help but giggle. Well, I actually laughed quite loud, showed the post to my boyfriend (who rolled his eyes) and then started to ponder this situation more seriously.

I mean, seriously? PIZZLE? As in, fo’ shizzle?

Not one to rely on someone else’s definitions, I resorted to trusty Ms. Merriam Webster. Even she was only bold enough to use the acutal word–PENIS–once. The second time, they fell prey to the classic fault of using the word to define itself. Fucking pansies.

I mean, us women have reached a point where we can finally act out our every last sexual desire without feeling slutty (well, I suppose there is a limit of sorts…). And, of course the men in the world have been man-whoring for centuries without batting an eyelash. So what’s the deal here? Is this like the cause-and-effect logic that I hardly, but vaguely, remember from my college days? My professor was about 9 feet tall with a banana-shaped spinal column, but I’m pretty sure he was still living and teaching that semester. But I digress…

I just think we’ve reached a point of no return when we start referring to steer’s dicks as pizzles. Think about it. That steer is trotting his way around the pasture with his monstrous ballsack swinging like a pendulum all the way. If there is an animal more proud of his balls, I don’t know what it is. Look, even this squirrel is happy. He sure as fuck is not going to lose his confidence when it comes time to referring to his member. And, even if there were a baby squirrel in the vacinity or his mom was in the next room, do you honestly think he’d get all Snoop Dogg on us and refer to his dick as a pizzle? Or how about the men folk that attach those metal balls to the back of their pickup trucks? Can you imagine Earl from Tennessee referring to his manhood as anything other than “My Manhood”, you know, with capital letters and everything?

Maybe I’m missing the fact that this particular penis–the steer penis in the form of a dog chew toy–has changed form so dramatically. Maybe this was the steer’s last wish before they lopped it off. Some people deal with loss by making things humorous, more bearable. I remember my dad refused to take our family dog to the vet for his routine castration. Though, Bailey still gets the red rocket and we certainly do not refer to this phenomenon as anything other than, “Get off my fucking pillow, asshole!”

I was talking with my trusty co-worker, Lisa, the other day. The topic? Another woman we work with (of course) and her marital situation. This lady was an exceptional conversation piece for about a million reasons, but today we focused on her ability to find a man. Now, you see this woman is morbidly obsese and has an attitude to match. She’s too good for everything, including performing the expected duties of a teacher or performing much of anything back at home. Call me judgemental if you must. It’s just part of the package.

For the sake of timing, we’ll skirt over her inability to teach and how she’s likely perpetuating all that is so very wrong with this country today. Let’s just stick with her and her husband. This alone lead to an epiphany of sorts for my friend and I. Need more background? Her husband is a state trooper (read: authority, rough, tough, healthy), yet she clearly holds all of the authority in the household. The husband and children (also men) do all the cleaning, and she spends her days at work spending all her (and his) money on online QVC. Further, she appears to have no nurturing ablitities, tendencies to be outgoing or kind, or otherwise redeeming qualities about her. Yet she’s constantly reminding her husband that she can pull the “divorce” card to further enforce her demands at any moment. Not surprisingly, her children seem to have no social lives and much of what the public knows about them is how their schedules revolve around the toilet and fast-food dinners.

So Lisa and I can’t help but wonder: how did a woman like this manage to score a man like that? In other words, we’d all love a man that could occasionally refrain from being an asshole and just respect us a bit. You know, even if we are being slightly irrational at the time. We’d also love it for a man to share in some household chores, right? Maybe let us do a little shopping? Eat Taco Bell without a disapproving frown?

Well, maybe. Our focus of study, remember, revealed to us that she, in fact, does not do the dishes, never cleans the bathroom and certainly never ever helps take in the groceries after they’ve gone food shopping. So where does this leave the man? According to our calculations, he’s probably somewhere in the house painting her toenails, dusting her piles of costume jewelry, or possibly disinfecting the toilet. Yuck. Is it just us, or did dreamboy just take a nose dive into the very toilet he was cleaning?

Our bottom line, our final question for query was this: Is it true that the only way to get a man with a higher frequency of kindness and compassion is to become an unruly bitch, break his spine, and sit back and start getting fat? Is it true that the only way to get the studly dreamboat that will always make you feel safe and protected, is to deal with his tendency to be a complete asshole? In the end, Lisa and I definitively stated that we’d much prefer the occassional ass to the occassional man.

But come the fuck on. Are we back in 1935? With, like, a twist of dominatrix?

Editor’s Note: YES, 1935 is a very specific, scientific year for all this nonsense. Don’t question my sociology. And, baby, if you’re reading this, NO, I do NOT think you’re an ass! (Please don’t lock me in the closet again, ok? xoxo)