Category Archives: Gratuitous swearing

Help me make up my mind – is John Mayer as much of a d-bag as I think he is?

I don’t like grey areas.  I’m a person who is only comfortable if I hold a strong opinion on something that goes one way or the other. So I think in binary – 0 or 1 (shit, its painfully obvious now that I once was a programmer), off or on, for or against, night or day, black or white (except in Obama’s case, in which a mix between black and white is incredibly delicious).  This isn’t really a trait I’m all that proud of, but hey, it is what it is. Obama rocks my world. McCain? I used to love him when I had to pick between him and any other Republican. But when juxtaposed with Obama? Oh sweet Jesus, are you kidding? (I must take a moment to compose myself – the lust overwhelmed me for a minute there).

So I have some really nagging issues that will not resolve themselves. I just don’t know where I stand and its making me crazy. I know where I stand on everything. Except these incredibly critical, highly thoughtful and earth-shatteringly bold questions. So what better way to formulate a “for sure” opinion by asking The Internet?  Okay, so here are the most pressing questions I have for you, wise Internet friends*.

  1. John Mayer writes great fucking songs. “Comfortable”, “Daughters”, “Say”? Awesome. The work of a truly sensitive, sexy, intelligent genius. Okay, but I read Us Weekly like the bible and that guy appears to be a total douche, unable to even fathom the emotional intelligence to write these songs.  So my question is: Is John Mayer a douche bag or what?

  2. UPDATED: Polldaddy doesn’t show you guys the “other” answers people put in. So I will. Other answers Love loves: “yes, but he’s so damn hot” and “yes in public; no in private. The guy is a media hound”.

  3. Michael Jackson. MJ. The King of Pop. I didn’t realize until he died and they did those video retrospectives on VH1 how fucking cool he was. I mean, I own almost all his shit, but not until he died did I just freak out about how cool he was. I made my 5 year old and 2 year old sons sit down and watch all his videos with me. I think that accounts for most of their nightmares these days, but I felt it was imperative that they knew who MJ was.  I mean, how else will they ever grow to understand their mother?  On the other hand, some say this guy a child molester. In my humble opinion, child molesters should be killed upon a guilty verdict being rendered. I’m sorry, but I have compassion for anybody else in this world, but not pedophiles. Ever. Never. Now, MJ was acquitted of that stuff, but so was OJ but everybody knows he did it. Yet, every famous person that ever met the guy swears he was the coolest dude on the entire planet and I kind of hope he was.  Now, I’m taking a big risk since Oprah’s episode on MJ airs tomorrow and Oprah may reveal her true thoughts on this subject, which will count for a lot.  But I’m going to trump Oprah and ask the Interent. My question is: Was Michael Jackson a pedophile or what?

  4. You may have read my last post about men being sex addicts. All of them. So my question is this: if you marry a professional athlete or rock star, who many women want to fuck on contact and who you are away from very often, do you seriously, honestly believe and expect that your husband will remain faithful after you marry the dude? Is that even realistic?

UPDATED: Other answers Love loves: “Depends on the dude. I doubt Herschel Walker would” and “Don’t give a shit as long as I’m married to a rock star”

I would provide a fourth question, but I have a very strong opinion on whatever other question you may throw my way. Try me – and I’ll give it to you just the way I think it is.  It’s just these three that have me totally baffled.

Oh wise Internet, what do you say?

* Nel and Belle’s answers count x5 since they have read all of my posts and know the very essence of my soul.


I totally need more homo friends

I had a totally bitchin’ weekend. It was the 11th annual Women Introxicated from Now On, Sucka (a.k.a. WINOS) weekend.  This year’s conference was in Denver. The WINOS consist of five women who met our junior year of college and permanently damaged our livers studied together in Fremantle, Western Australia. Every year we ditch the husbands and kids and try to relive our past Australian glory.  And we usually have a great time even if the hangovers get worse every year.  But in all of WINO history, we’ve  A) never been mistaken for undercover cops or B) had the pleasure of having a homo (I think I’m allowed to say that since he refers lovingly to himself this way) join us or C) had to blow up a queen size air mattress manually. MANUALLY. It was so delightful.

Lets discuss point A first. We booked a last minute mid-size rental car from Priceline for $81. When we went to pick up the car we passed several respectable, newer looking rental cars and SUVs.  When we got to our assigned stall number we were a little shocked, to say the least, to see a very large, blue Grand fucking Marquis, straight out of Magnum PI.  I have included a picture here, since if you are reading my blog you probably have no idea what that is because you likely weren’t a cop in the 80’s.  Apparently FBI agents and Budget Rental still buys these bad ass mother fuckers and gladly assigns them to women on the one damn weekend all year long we find a way to escape from our “real” lives and live like we’re still childless and single and don’t require Spanx to hold in our muffin tops.  I was really hoping for a Prius or at least a fucking sweet minivan, but no. We got the Grand fucking Marquis – a car longer than two football fields and uglier than Courtney Love after a binge.  We named her Lucille.

The bitchin wheels you imagine for your girls weekend

The bitchin wheels you imagine for your girls weekend

On the bright side, what better way to start off a girls weekend with the most fucking ridiculous car in the world, perhaps the universe?  I laughed so hard at this injustice I peed a little bit in my pants. But it was easy to clean off the Grand Marquis’ pimpin’ leather seats with some of the Kleenex that came complementary in a matching blue box in the backseat window.  To all the ladies planning your own bling girls getaway I highly, highly recommend you roll in this kind of awesomeness.

But now I’ll get to the really good part — lets talk about our new Gay.  Tori Spelling has her gays and Kathy Griffin has hers and now the WINOS have ours. Well, not gays plural. Gay singular for now, but I’m sure that one gay will eventually beget many gays.  The WINOS rented out a corporate apartment for the weekend that came with a concierge. And that concierge was named Thomas. And Thomas is gay. And he is. a. RIOT.

So we all fly into Denver from our respective cities and we pick up Lucille and we get to our place around 1:30 and thats when we meet Thomas.  He introduces himself and its very, very clear by his dress, his mannerisms, his hair, the way he talks, and the fact that tells us he is a homo, that he is gay.  So we ask him where we should go for lunch. He tells us that he was just going down the street to get a sandwich and tells us we should come with him. So we do.  And it isn’t really clear whether he is going to get a sandwich and go back to work or what, but we get there its a sit down type of place, so not to be awkward, we ask him to join us.  And we thought he probably wouldn’t because why would a young gay dude want to sit down and have lunch with some thirty something suburban moms he has met 2 minutes before that haven’t seen each other for a year? But Thomas was all about it.  And it was the best lunch ever.

The WINOS and our Gay covered a variety of topics over sandwiches and $2 mimosas & bloody Marys, including midget porn, southern baptists, Oprah, our kids, my career, Thomas’ ex-boyfriend that cheated on him with two guys and a girl and revealed this to him via Facebook IM and then claimed he was just kidding, Thomas’ twin sister who is a lesbian and likes to tell him the details of her sex life (here is why I believe in the Law of Attraction. Ask and you shall receive), Thomas’ issues regarding the fact he had to ride out 11 more months of his lease with the aforementioned ex-boyfriend who also lost his keys and now they are sharing a single set of keys for their apartment they can’t get out of, democrats, stalkers, college majors, local beers, Texas, and Colorado politics.  Ah, Thomas. Glorious Thomas.  We paid for Thomas’ lunch.  It was the best $12 we split 5 ways ever. Ever.

So then we all go back to our place and Thomas hooks us up with spas and restaurants and fun gay bars we should go to. We did all of those things except for the latter.  I’ve never been to a gay bar, but I didn’t want my first foray to one to occur while I was in mom jeans. Truth be told, I don’t think I want a foray of any kind to occur while in mom jeans, but I packed the wrong ones. What can I say? The next day after we returned from the spa, he told us all about the show down he and his ex had the night before and all the juicy details as if we’re all total BFFs.  I wanted to gather him up and take him home so he could amuse me with tales of his 22 year old gay sex life.  But alas, we had to leave him in Denver.  I miss you already, my dear Thomas, and my first Gay I can call my own.

I would be remiss if I didn’t tell the story of the air mattress. Or two. But its kind of long and I’m getting bored, but lets just say that the ass clown who managed the apartments was supposed to furnish an extra bed. He isn’t much of a planner, so at about 11pm he brings over a queen size air mattress and doesn’t spring for the pump. How long do you think it took 5 women to blow up an entire fucking queen air mattress? I don’t know either – we told him to get off his ass and buy us a pump. We’ll see you on Trip Advisor, fuck face.

Anyway, to Denver, Lucille and Thomas, and the queen air mattress that we were supposed to blow up with our own drunk lungs, thanks for the laughs. We shall never forget you.