Category Archives: Random Musings

Please Don’t Be Mad at Me, Blog.

Dear (Love) Notes to Self Blog,

I apologize for being away so long. I have promised you many of my life stories and I will absolutely deliver, but you see, I have finally admitted a long standing addiction to the internet and I’ve been trying to quit.  (No. Not cold turkey. That’s all kinds of crazy…) But writing you, dear Blog, requires time on the Internet, which I now realize has stolen so much time out of my life.

When I’m not on the Internet, I’m free to spend quality time with my children, cook healthy, delicious meals for them, clean my house, and massage my husband’s feet.  It also gives me the opportunity to focus on my career and exercise and volunteer —

What’s that, you say?

Well, no, not exactly. I haven’t actually done any of these things yet. But I totally plan —

Well, no. Most of these things I have no interest in.  Except the kids part and the volunteering, but I am entitled to dreams of being a better person,  right? Anyway, as I was saying —

Gah! Stop interrupting me! If you must know, YES. I have been on the Internet. But only to catch up on Grey’s Anatomy because it’s on during the Office and 30 Rock. I am not responsible for network TV shenanigans. I am a victim. We all are. Network TV is wrong in a million different ways – TV execs just want to torture us the rest of the week by putting all the good shows on Thursday. But I’m trying to cope as best I can and watching them later on abc.com.

And watching You Tube clips with spoofs of “All The Single Ladies” with my kids is completely justified. Yes, even the fat guy. They need to be exposed to freak shows early so I can tell them its okay to laugh at a fat man dancing  in a leotard on the internet, but in real life they need to run away. Really fast. It’s called QT.

And Facebook!? I haven’t updated my status in TWO whole days! TWO! So I’m making progress.  That I posted my face morphing into Katherine Heigl’s last night doesn’t even count because it isn’t a status. It’s an update or something. It doesn’t even count. And plus, if MyHeritage.com says I’m an 87% match to Izzy, I’m not just going to let that go.  I mean, compliments like that don’t come along everyday. What? No. Okay. No human has ever said I look like her, but computers are smarter than humans and the computer says so so leave me the fuck alone on that one, kay?

Sure, I read other blogs. They’re good! Some make me laugh so hard I cry. Especially this one, which I guess isn’t a traditional blog, but is a site I never tire of.  AHHAHAHAHA. Oh, oh, oh, let me catch my breath…the tears are still rolling down my — God, you are such a jealous little blog.  Get over yourself. I could probably name a lot of other blogs that are awesome – you will find many of them on your right side bar.  No, no. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel bad. I’m just saying, you’re in really good company. And it isn’t my fault you don’t win awards because even if you got nominated – no offense – you wouldn’t win, because I don’t spend enough time making blogger friends and plus I wouldn’t even vote for us because — No! Don’t cry! What I meant was, I would vote for us, but then I’d probably vote for some other ones like 5 times, and – I’m not helping myself here.  The thing is, I’m not even supposed to read other blogs anymore because I have an addiction and I do not have a Dr. Drew and blogging celebrities to sober up with. So I have to do this on my own, and I’m going for low internet dosages. And I swear I’ll ignore my Google Reader at least 1 out of 8 times today. Can we be friends again? Please?!

Wow! You’re pulling out all the stops now, aren’t you?! I tell you something honestly and then you throw it in my face?  I mean, well, so yes. A little.  I do have another blog, but you know she is just a friend. I had her before I even conceived you!! I write about my kids there. It’s totally innocent! And they’ve done a lot of stuff lately that I had to write down, because that blog is my little family’s history and I’m the historian. And if they have a huge gaping hole in October 2009, they’re going to think I was living a double life and had a family somewhere else or something, so yeah, I guess I spent some time there too, but you know how much I love you! That blog is like a sister to me.  You’re the love of my life. Really. Don’t be mad. Seriously. I love you! C’mon, don’t be like this.

I’m in recovery! Don’t I deserve just a little compassion, considering the hours I’ve blown writing entries on you? Not to mention the emotional exhaustion and the atrophying of all muscles not directly involved in thinking or typing? I used to be buff as hell and strong enough to lift two gallons of milk at the same time.  Now I’ve gotten all crookedy and bendy and hunched over writing on my small, unergonomic MacBook.  I’ve sacrificed for you!! When is it time for ME?

OH NO YOU DID ENT! Of course I made time for Oprah. I mean, for fuck’s sake, she had Mike Tyson on crying the whole hour and then there was the whole incest update that I didn’t really want to watch, but I mean, how can you not look? Oh, and that Oprah’s favorite families episode? So good. Except for the Osmond’s part, but I fast forwarded through all that.  Oprah is therapy. Not entertainment. Why am I even justifying this to you? We’ve been over this before. Oprah is off limits.

Oh, so now you’re ignoring me? Fine. Fine. Well, it might interest you to know that I’m going out to lunch with Kirsten tomorrow.  Our first date in two years. And I got off the Yaz. My doctor put me on another one and it’s too soon to tell if my husband and I will be having sex this week, but I’m not as hungry all the time so I may not be nicknamed “Porky” by December.  And my Big Boobed Sister just had a birthday. So she is getting older and boob saggage has to be just around the corner, right? (Happy birthday, sis!) Oh, and today I’m going to a “bead party” today to save Ugandan women at the house of my ex-best friend that kicked me out of her wedding. Well, yes. I said yes because it’s for Ugandan women and everybody knows I’m a bleeding heart liberal and you know I can never say no to any charity that benefits women or children. Even if it means I have to buy beaded jewelry and that I have gone to her house twice in the last six months, breaking my once-every-year rule.

Okay, okay? So are you going to be here when I get back? I promise I’ll be back soon. Its just…when my kids pretend to be the mom and they make me be the kid, they want to play on the computer and say “in five minutes I’ll come play with you. Mommy has work to do!” and it makes me feel guilty. So then I try to to get them back and make them feel guilty and just start chanting “MOMMY! MOMMY! MOMMY! MOMMY!” until their ears bleed and then we stop playing because it isn’t that fun and we don’t like each other. So I have some work to do.

So when they go to bed, I’ll come back and snuggle with you. If I’m not having sex with their dad.

Love you always,

Love


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All in favor of five year marriage contracts, say aye.

You may not have heard of this movement before because I have only recently made it up, so before you vote, I’ll explain it.

First, what I mean by marriage: two adults (I honestly don’t care about the gender) consenting to be legally, emotionally, physically, sexually and financially bound together until one of them dies.  If you get married in your twenties and you both live to be 90 — that means you’re looking at 60 – 70 years with the same person.  All of their good qualities, annoying habits, sicknesses, health, meltdowns, crisis, bad days, good days…for 65 fucking years.  I mean, even if someone is THE BOMB, 65 years is a long fucking time.

And then there are the millions of people who get married and decide that it sucks and then they get divorced – but not before they endure complete financial and emotional devastation in the process.  And if they have kids? Yeah. It’s messy. There is just so much pressure and its such a hassle to disentangle yourself from a marriage.

So I have an idea that could solve lots of problems.  Lets make it so that marriage isn’t necessarily forever.  I propose to make marriage a finite period of time.  So when you get engaged, you negotiate for how long you want to be married ahead of time.  Lets say its five years — I recommend this for the first contract.  It’s kind of like being in the army, where you sign up for an amount of time and during that time, the other person has your ass – exclusively and all the stuff that normal marriage is about. Then at the end of the time, you have the option to sign on for some more time, or split up the assets according to the original contract and amicably and legally go your separate ways. This way, if you marry somebody you wind up hating, you know you only have to deal with them for another couple of years and nobody is surprised or angered or shocked or all judgey that you aren’t renewing the contract.  If you made a good decision and your spouse is a keeper then you’re going to do everything in your power to ensure they want to renew the contract, so you’ll be a nicer person.  You won’t have the leeway to think, “So what if I haven’t taken out the garbage in 16 years? This person is stuck with me, so I can be an asshole whenever I feel like it.” You’ll try harder.

Say you’re in a five year contract and you’re coming up for renewal in a year.  Things are pretty good and you like your spouse. Are you going release some huge, putrid fart in the bed when you wake up right next to the other person? No. You’re going to save it because you want your contract renewed.  Are you going spend all the money on bobble-heads or porcelain figurines of turtles or Taco Bell Chalupas (yes, please) or are you going to tone it down? Are you going to make sure your partner is satis.FIED in bed, or be a three minute man? Are you going to think twice before you say something you don’t really mean, and say more of what you do really want, dream, hope, care about? Yeah. Yeah.  People in happy marriage contracts will constantly be working on the relationship and focused on it, knowing it can all be over soon if they don’t and it can keep getting better if they do.  And people who are miserable can see the light at the end of the tunnel, get their stuff together in an organized and professional manner, renew their Match.com subscription and start looking for the next contract. They’re going to be a free agent!! Bring. it. on.

I’m just thinking the finite contract lengths would inspire people to be more civil, more kind, more respectful to one another in marriage.  Sick of your partner or fallen out of love or out of lust? That’s okay. The contract will end. You can bear it until then.  Then you have the option to do what you want to do without being a total asshole within a marriage you aren’t happy with.  And how about when you get old? People change. Maybe the person that rocks your world at 30 makes you want to kill yourself at 60.  Or you have insane sexual chemistry with a person that you’d never want to raise kids with.  No worries!! You can find the right mate for you at every stage of your life, and have the commitment and consistency of a monogamous relationship.  And once people got used to this thing culturally, there wouldn’t be all these bitter divorces. People would understand that relationships between two committed adults are really important for human welfare, but that they don’t have to last forever.  They can end. And amicably. Or they can keep going, but on terms can be forever renegotiated, so everybody is getting what they need.

And for those few people who wind up renewing over and over for years and years, til death do they part, awesome! Romantic! You made it! And it makes it even cooler that all along the way you had the freedom to go and you didn’t. It probably means more than a traditional marriage that stays in tact for 50 years but the people don’t even talk to each other any more.  They were just too lazy or too religious to do anything else.

So now that you understand my idea, it’s genius, right?   The only thing I haven’t really figured out yet is the kids part.  That gets a little tricky.  What to do with kids that get made within the contractual period? Because I think kids are best off with two parents that love them, and each other, to death and that stay together happily until forever.  But as we’ve discussed already – that isn’t easy.  So maybe there is a special class of marriage contracts that specify the couple will want to parent children together and even if the “marriage” ends when the contract is up, there is still the understanding that both will be totally committed (and contractually obligated) to co-parent until the kids reach adulthood.  Kind of like what happens when people get divorced now, except without the expectations that parents stay together forever.

I guess my plan will not win fans with genealogists – it would make family trees a fucking nightmare.  People would end up with 10 or 12 step parents and a million half siblings, but that could be really good times.  It might also make Christmas card lists dicey, and people would have maybe 10 or 12 weddings in their lives, so you’d probably be at somebody’s wedding every Saturday.  On the other hand, maybe there wouldn’t be so much damn pressure on Your Big Day to make it perfect. And you wouldn’t burn bridges and sever ties because someone didn’t want to sit next to the cat at the reception or wear a feathered hat as a bridesmaid. Or if your best friend got preggers while you were planning the wedding, you wouldn’t care because you might have another one in a few years. The world would be full of parties and weddings that weren’t so damn complicated and were just fun! And finite!  Maybe even Stedman and Oprah would have done a 5 year “official” stint together, if they didn’t have to commit to forever. No. Probably her lawyers would spend 5 years just to negotiate the thing.

You may think this isn’t romantic, but methinks it’s actually the most romantic idea of all.  I hope that if I lived in this world of finite marriage contracts, BD and I would be one of the couples to keep signing up for more until we were 70, when we contracted to drive off a cliff together, happily, on a mutually convenient date.  I don’t know about you, but I like it.

Okay, so NOW all in favor, say aye….

Pour Some Sugar on Me – Love’s Mom Crush Revival

She wrote back.

I have very weird feelings about this because I truly do feel like I’m way too psycho for my own good, (because I’m NOT psycho, normally. Really!) but I did email her and she did respond and she does want to get lunch again. Holy shit. Now I’m all sweaty-palmed again and tongue-tied. I suggested we revisit the site of our first “real” date again.  But this is crazy. I mean, this pursuit will now have been happening since 2005 and for all I know, one of us isn’t cool anymore (and it’s probably me).  I have to drink about this. I mean think. No. I definitely mean drink.

So I asked her to be my friend on Facebook too.  Good Lord, I’m screwed up. But we met each other pre-FB, so I have to see what her statuses are like and see pictures of her kids and husband so that my fantasies can become all that more intricate.  I keep checking to see if she has accepted. She hasn’t. Maybe she is one of those nice people that can’t say no even though they know they should….OR…maybe her facebook status reads: Kirsten hearts Love and she doesn’t want me to be her friend because she is embarrassed that I could see it.  That makes a lot of sense. That is probably it. For sure.

But I’m going to move my posts on to another subject until Kirsten and I go on our first unicorn ride together  in Pleasure Town ad she learns our secret handshake and she comes to the next party I am already planning in my head in her honor. Then I’ll tell you all about it. Promise.  Unless you have better ideas??

If you were to tell me that I’m a mother of two, I wouldn’t believe you

I wouldn’t. And yet, the facts show that I am indeed a mother of two. I even have a muffin top that I swear at every day to remind me of this fact, and yet…

Moms are supposed to be responsible, mature and organized.  I am none of these.

Moms are supposed to know how to cook, make scrapbook thingies and keep their kids’ faces clean. Umm…no on all three counts at my house.

Moms don’t let their kids watch too much TV, listen to inappropriate music or play outside by themselves. My kids have seen every episode of Scooby-Doo ever created, can sing every word to both Kanye’s and The Killers latest albums and I’ve had my 2 year old returned to me no less than three times by a mother who does supervise her children.  (I should note that I wouldn’t have let the two year old out by himself on purpose, but he escapes a lot while I’m checking Facebook or watching Oprah. It’s a conundrum.)

Moms with careers are always talking about feeling guilty that their kids are at daycare. I rejoice because I know I am doing them a favor by working. Their daycare is 100% more safe, fun and educational than their time at home with me.

Moms aren’t supposed to bring their kids to McDonalds more than 4 times a year. They are supposed to feed them homemade, organic foods and shop for earth conscious toys.  The bulk of my children’s toys came out of Happy Meals, which I purchase an average of twice a week for them. I am madly in love with the McDonalds #2 meal and whatever addictive drug they put in the Diet Coke, so I feel a compulsion to go there whenever I’m feeling elated or anxious or happy or sad or lazy. Which covers most days. So the fact we only go twice a week kind of makes me a martyr for my children’s health.

Moms know which way they are supposed to go in the school parking lot and whether their kids are legally required to get vision tests before kindergarten and they dress their kids cutely and/or appropriately for school.  Can I just tell you – my five year old picks out his own clothes, which I buy in bulk from eBay because stores confuse me, so nothing generally matches and there are always a few things in there that I wouldn’t have paid for any day of the week, like the oversized dork dark purple T-shirt with this sci-fi D&D dragon on it in neon colors. Its something Napoleon Dynamite would have salivated over, and would get my son justifiably jacked by a posse of 8 year olds for wearing if he were eight, but at five he adores it and insists on wearing it with red and black wind pants. Which don’t match. At all.

I try not to photograph my children when they look like this to save them a little money in future therapy sessions and so I can look back when I’m old and make up stories about what a good mother I was, but I’m sure the other mothers at school are thinking “WTH is the matter with that kid’s mother?” (not WTF, because I’m convinced I’m the only mother whose thought bubbles must always include an F-bomb).  I know I would be thinking that about me if I were them.  But as you know, I’m a lover, not a fighter.  So as long as he has clothes on of any kind and we’re out the door on time to give me the extra 20 minutes I require to navigate the school’s fucking traffic pattern and catch my train, I’m not going to complain.

Moms are also supposed to edit their thoughts around their children. If a four year old asks, “Mom, what is a terrorist?” because he is listening a little too closely to NPR, a good mom says “Oh, honey. Don’t worry about that. Lets go to the farmers market and get some delicious organic beets!”  I go into a 20 minute lecture about who terrorists are, which depending on your religion and politics, could be just about anybody and cite examples from September 11, which of course, he wasn’t even alive for.  I’m sure my 5 year old knows more about war, prisons, and the criminal justice system than any kid his age. If he asks an intelligent question, I give him a totally age inappropriate, (hopefully) intelligent answer, like we’re in a masters political science program together. The other day while he and the neighbor kids were playing cops and robbers, I hear my son protest as he’s being brought to the jail in the backyard:  “COPS don’t decide if robbers go to jail! The JUDGE decides that! And probably the robber’s lawyer will say hes not guilty so it could take forever to figure out if he is going to jail!  I can get out on bail you know!” That almost got him beaten up, but it made my day. Someone in my house listens to me.

I’m just nothing like a person who fits my description of an appropriate mom.  I’m not like my mom and I get the feeling I’m very little like the other moms I regularly crash into every morning in the school parking lot.  Even blogging moms – they have mouths as dirty as mine – but I get lost in all the talk over prescription drug abuse. I have no idea what Xanax or Vicodin or Percocet are — but I hear about them all the time.  From what I gather, they must be sweet. But I’m a weird mom, so I don’t even have an prescription drug addiction worth noting.

So I come up short a lot. And I find myself gasping sometimes when I tell myself, “Love, these kids have only one mother. And that is you. That’s pretty wack.” To which I answer, “I know, RIGHT?” to which I then reply, “Poor kids”.  And then I say a prayer for them and start writing a new blog to try and forget the sorrow I feel for them that they didn’t get one of the totally normal moms.

On the other hand, the kids do have a few things going for them because of the mom they have:

1) If there is ever a b-boy competition in kindergarten, all of the hours my son spends watching ABDC on TiVo and having me rate his performance (pa-fo-mince) with spot-on impressions of Mario Lopez, Lil’ Mama, Shane Sparks and J.C. Chasez, will pay off and he will totally win. (“YO! That was so DOPE! Can I get a slow mo on dat?!”)

2) When the plague comes around again, my kids will survive — and thrive– because there isn’t a germ they haven’t picked up in daycare, or school,  or from a 4 day old discarded half-eaten cheeseburger that they finished off after finding it on the ground in the park.  Seriously, bubonic plague — bring it on.

3) I posted an excruciatingly long video on YouTube for my family blog of my toddler son “playing” the guitar and singing his own made up songs which inexplicably has been viewed hundreds of thousands of times, and which advertisers now want to pay us for.  So I know how to pimp out my kids so that they can go to college.

4) Each of my sons will be happily married. I find it hard to believe that they could marry anybody who, when compared to their mom,  will not blow them away with her mad skills in any culinary, cleaning, or child care domain. I think I’ve set the bar low enough that if she knows how to make any meal from ingredients that do not come directly from a box, they’ll commit the rest of their lives to worship her.  And the best marriages are those wherein the men are easily satisfied and worship their wives.

5) They’ll never doubt how much they are loved.  One thing I do excel at is telling them how much I adore them, how incredibly special they are and showering them with hugs and kisses.  I do that well. Because I can’t help it. And because they’re awesome  — even if they are single-handedly responsible for this goddamn muffin top.

Testosterone will transform any good person into a mindless sex machine. Which explains a lot.

Women need a reason to have sex. Men just need a place.

— Billy Crystal

I know exactly what it’s like to be a man.  Well, mostly. I guess I’ve never felt like publicly scratching my crotch, jumping up and bumping chests with another man or fantasizing about giving myself head.  But I know what its like to be a man in the sense that I have had thoughts about fucking anything or anyone that came into my line of view, including garbage collectors, geriatric patients, homeless men and even Trekkies.  Elevated levels of testosterone will do that to you. For real. And yes, you read that right. I said I even considered doing a Trekkie.  And Love doesn’t do Trekkies. EVER. Not for any reason.

But before I can explain how on earth I got to such a ridiculous point, you need some background.  Beginning when I was about 5 months pregnant with my first son, I began waking up in the middle of the night, in mid-orgasm.  Yeah. I would wake up orgasming.  So that’s fucking great, right? Kind of.  Except I would have insane dreams about doing sex acts that should be illegal, if they aren’t already. I dreamt of things that I can’t even imagine crossing my mind ever, EVER, consciously and if they did, I would arrest myself right after I puked everywhere.  If I relayed them here,  it would create a complete and total barf-o-rama for my readers, except those of you with mustaches. You guys would probably love for me to expound.  Go find some porn, dudes. Suffice to say these dreams were explicit and filthy. But waking up most nights in the middle of an orgasm created only by her filthy subconscious thoughts?  A girl could get used to that.

I know. I know! You’re all, “Bitch, please!”  But I am a victim. Of hormones.  I mean, if I sat all day and consciously tried to orgasm with no physical contact, I’d have a better chance of figuring out the cure for cancer.  But when I was asleep? Good Lord. I came more than Jenna Jameson and Briana Banks together in Briana loves Jenna.  So that was kind of a bizarre, fun and often disturbing side effect of pregnancy (homeless dudes? Trekkies? REALLY?!).  When the pregnancy ended, so did the nightly dreams and their accompanying orgasms. And I went back to normal.

I’m not sure what caused this phenomenon, but I’m sure it had something to do with pregnancy hormones.  I would have asked my OB-GYN about it, but every time I imagined the conversation, it wasn’t working for me.

“So, everything looks good.  Do you have any questions for me?”

“Um… yeah. I was just wondering – is it normal for me to be having fantastic spontaneous orgasms every night which stem from all the extensive whoring around I do in my dreams, several times a week?”

No.  There are only two people on this earth that I could really share my secret question with, so naturally I wrote to Dr. Oz.  Via Oprah’s handy site.  Here is a man who regularly puts his hands in people’s intestines and can talk about poop for a whole show.  He’ll even humor Oprah and go through Past Life Regression exercises.  But will he delve into my pregnancy induced sexual perversion? Nooooo.  I mean, they feature ladies who have gas or smell bad or are fat. But they’ve no love for the orgasming pregnant lady.  Obviously, one more thing Oprah doesn’t care about.  Sometimes I like to think my issue was so fascinating that Dr. Oz just saved that question for his upcoming series, but then I think maybe Oprah didn’t want him to take such important intellectual property from the Oprah Winfrey show.  Or maybe Oprah was scared of the powerful emotions I might stir in her heart, were she to invite me to appear on her show.  We all know Oprah doesn’t like surprises.  That, or once again, I reach out to Oprah for help and I am summarily dismissed.  But I will not be deterred. We were meant to be together. Not as lovers, but surely as BFFs (cue Keri Hilson and Kanye).  Ah fuck – I’m off on another Oprah tangent again. Am I the only person this happens to?

Okay, so fast forward 3  years. Five months pregnant again. The nightly sleeping orgasms return. Sweet, right?! I swear some of my son’s testosterone is seeping out of the uterus and into my brain. But then I give birth, sad to bid adieu to my effortless, spontaneous nightly orgasms and all that extra testosterone.  But something else altogether happens –  I’m exhausted, sore and drugged up from the c-section and all I can think about is sex. Sex anywhere, at anytime, with anyone.  With everyone.  All the time.  Day and night.

Picture this, if you will: I’m up feeding my newborn son at 3am and trying desperately to find porn to watch on TV. I become extremely hostile and resentful toward my husband for not having porn in our house. “Where is the porn?! There must be porn!? Where can I get it?” I feel like a crackhead who needs a fix. But I have to settle for the poor man’s porn — Cathouse episodes on HBO – because there is no porn in our house.  This causes me to think unkind things.

“What the hell is wrong with you? Shouldn’t you have an entire library hidden somewhere in the floorboards or by your tools or something? WHERE IS THE PORN?” I screech, desperately clawing at BD’s face and chest, like a daytime soap star that finds out after a bout of amnesia that her husband was abducted by aliens, but not before sleeping with her twin sister, who she thought was dead all these years.  Yeah. But so, where was I? Oh yeah, so I politely suggest that he go out and buy us some hard core porn before I take off to the Bunny Ranch with our family savings. He tries to talk some sense into me. I threaten to go myself with the newborn strapped to me in the Baby Bjorn and tell him if our son and I catch some sort of STD while we’re in there, it will be all on him.  He stood firm. He was not going to be an enabler.  Or a co-dependent. No porn for me.

One would think that this turn of events would be a boon to BD.  A horny wife demanding porn? Yes, please! But there is that pesky little problem of no sex for 8 weeks after the baby, but we’re Irish so we probably could have chucked that one out the window pretty quickly. But then there was the other pesky problem that I was practically hemorrhaging for a full four months after giving birth.  That was my penance for all of those orgasms. The universe always has a way of evening things out, doesn’t it?   Was that TMI? Sorry. That was probably TMI. But relevant right? At least I get points for relevance? Anyway, my testosterone surge, along with my burning desire for porn, was finally extinguished after three or four excruciating weeks.

But I swear I’m getting to the point of all of this over-sharing. Here I am, supposed to be nurturing two young children and baking apple pies and doing other stuff that I’m pretty sure all the good moms are doing, and all I can think of and pout about is sex. Sex that I can’t have.  And suddenly it dawned on me. “OMG – I am a man! This is what it’s like to be in the head of a married man or an ugly one every.damn.day.” It was one of my only most important Aha! moments, which is why I’m sharing it with the Internet. If this is what its like to be a man, then how on earth does any man stay faithful? If all they do is think about getting laid and every household object can somehow elicit some type of sexual reference, how do they keep their dicks in their pants for most of the day? How do they get any work done? How do they have room to think about Fantasy football or remember what the square root of 125 is? How do high school boys even make it through the day with all the slutty girls that attend high school these days?

So here it is, the finale: To men around the world, Love salutes you. Especially those who have made the choice to be married and stay faithful, even though all you do all day, every day, is think about getting laid by every woman who walks by.  Holy shit. Now it’s so apparent and understandable why many of you can’t do even the simplest things.  You only have about 10% of your cognitive capacity available for anything unrelated to sex.  Love (channeling Bob Dole) has walked a mile in your shoes. I know your pain. How do you stand it?!

Note to BD: Stay strong, brutha.

Don’t worry – if you have a big ass, or I think you’re gay, I’ll be the first to let you know

Sometimes I have trouble filtering.  If I consume even a drop of alcohol (Fine. No. I’ve never stopped at a single drop, but shut up, I’m trying to tell a story here), I lose the ability to not to tell you exactly what I think on any subject, including unpleasant things I think about you. I just…tell it like it is. Well, I tell it like it is for me.  And I tend to think that my perception is universal reality, so I can get quite passionate about your flaws as I list them out for you after my second martini. But only because I’m doing you a favor. I honestly believe that I’m just trying to help.  Honestly. There is absolutely no malice involved. I just get alcohol in my system and it occurs to my brain that what you really want — no, what you really need — is for me to tell you about what your problems are. My brain assures me that surely if I see your problem, then several other people are thinking it and you might not know it, and don’t you want to know? And so even though its uncomfortable for most parties involved (and I often make these revelations loudly, which tends to get several people involved), I’m convinced I’m doing you a favor.

Some people are mean or angry or happy drunks.  I’m a truthful drunk.  And this is a very dangerous variety of drunk to be, especially since I’m also a drunk that does not remember the next morning any of the shit I tell people or even who I may have talked to.  But if I try hard enough, sometimes I can conjure up a memory of the look on someone’s face when I tell them exactly what I’m sure that they need to hear.  Coming from a friend. Who loves them. And then I try to piece together what I must have said in the morning hangover fog, but I know what I must have said because I just think to myself about what I really believe about that person and with 100% accuracy, that is what I told them.

Needless to say, I avoid alcohol around those I do not care for, but I’ve never gotten a beat down, because like I said, I don’t say these things with any sort of malice. I say this with grave concern and love, like when I tried all throughout college to get one of my guy friends to just admit for once that he was gay.  I pleaded with him for three years to just come out, but he swore he wasn’t gay. He wanted to know why I thought such a thing. I told him the tight turtlenecks he wore, coupled with the track lighting and the crystal wine glasses he had in his dorm room, along with the key lime pie he was so fond of baking kind of gave it away. No, perhaps it was his slight gay lisp that probably was even more telling. But I suggested this out of genuine love and affection, which makes people less likely to punch me in the face, I think.  And it turns out he was gay. And he actually thanked me for my incessant drunken pleading in college. It helped him come out faster, he said. But then he disappeared from my life quickly after that. (But I don’t care because now I have Thomas.  Ah, Thomas. My fabulous queen.)

I don’t have a problem approaching complete strangers. Because I spontaneously fall in love with some of them and convince myself they need my advice.  Like the time I was at my company Christmas party and I told my boss’s boss’s girlfriend that he was a total prick at work, but I could see that she was a really nice person and maybe that means he really isn’t as terrible as I think he is and maybe she could work on him a little more and tell him to chill out. Or dump his ass, because he is kind of a fuck face (I never tire of this expression) and I would if I were her — all this while he was standing right next to her. But she was so NICE. I just thought I needed to tell her.  Maybe she didn’t know.  It got a little awkward after that.

But maybe God sent me to this earth to give people a clue. To help them out of their misery. Or just embarrass myself.  Oddly enough though, I think my friends would tell you that this is my best trait.  They want me to meet their new significant others immediately because they know that I won’t lie if I think the new guy is a total douche. Even my boss gets me drunk on purpose and then grills me with questions so she can figure out who is sleeping with who and who is talking shit about her and whether I’m going to quit or what.  And then there are the times I’m with my friends who are drinking and getting all pissy because they haven’t found someone to marry yet and I just very kindly tell them that maybe nobody wants to marry them because they’re fucking crazy. Or maybe too passive-aggressive? Oh, and that I wouldn’t date them either. And yes, earlier when you asked about whether your ass looked big in those jeans, you were spot on. It does. You are embarrassing yourself. But I’m only telling you because I’m the only one kind enough to do it.

But my revelations aren’t always bad. Noooooo. Because I think positively. And if I think good things about someone, I’m not afraid to show my love for them. Like when I spotted BD across a crowded bar in 1999, several months after we had a few dates that went nowhere, and I graciously told him in front of several of his friends that I felt bad that he had absolutely no game because if he did then we might be together because when I met him an angel told me that he was The One, but he ruined it because he doesn’t know his head from his ass when it comes to dating and now I might be lost forever to him, and now he’ll never get laid by me. Ever. Ever! (I forgot to mention that I was kind of in a serious relationship with someone else when I told him this. That dude should never have let me go out drunk by myself). But that guy wasn’t The One. And BD was and I felt strongly that The One should be made aware of how much he was fucking with destiny. But I don’t know how much game I had if I told a guy I went on three dates with that an angel told me he was The One. In front of his friends. That is creepy. But I don’t have a good friend like me who is willing to tell me about all the mistakes I make. Luckily, when BD is drunk, he is quite tolerant of women talking about having sex with him, so he listened. And we got married.  So its not like its all bad, right?

So I will make an offer to the internet populace – if you want my opinion on something, I will promise to drink my requisite two glasses of wine and ponder your question. And I will tell you what I think. Exactly. Send me pictures or inquiries to lovenotestomyego@yahoo.com and I will let you know. For real. Because I love you.

Oh, and Oprah – because I love you the most of all, I will continue to supply you with all of my thoughts about you via this blog. You needn’t email because I already know all of your problems and awesomeness that Gayle will not, cannot, reveal to you for fear you will kick her ass to the curb. I’m just keepin’ it real. Because I love you too.

Dear lesbians, I might turn gay soon – in desperate need of assistance.

I’m almost 100% positive that I’m straight except for whenever I see Angelina Jolie, but I have an unhealthy fascination with lesbians.  I mean, gay guys are really easy to figure out. Guys are either gay or they aren’t.  Margaret Cho told a joke once something along the lines of  “Ladies, if your man wants to have a three-some and he wants the third to be another guy, there is no bi-curious going on there. He’s gay and you’re just a front for his life on the down low.” I’m sure it was funnier, but you get the point.

Anyway, so if you’re a guy you know whether you’re gay or straight and if you’re gay you’re either a top or bottom and that’s all there is to it. I’m actually proud that I know the last fact because most of my world knowledge is acquired directly via the Oprah Winfrey Show, and in my encyclopedic knowledge of her show, she’s never discussed bottoms or toppers. I learned that from a friend of a friend and it has been corroborated through several jokes I’ve heard on TV, which have probably been around a long time but went over my head for many, many years.

Anyway, so then there are lesbians. My hairdresser claims to be bi, and I kind of believe her, since she has had several girlfriends and I think she dated her transgendered “male” roommate for some time.  She didn’t really tell me whether he still has a vagina but its really all I wanted to know the whole time she was talking about it, because if you are dating a “he” who was a “she” and “he” still has “she” parts, are you a lesbian or are you straight?  Same with all the couples that Oprah parades on her shows who were a straight couple and then inevitably the man decides he is really a woman inside and gets a sex change and then his wife is all, “well, she is my best friend and we have kids together, so I couldn’t leave her, could I?” If I ever have to start calling my husband “her” and “she”, I’d leave “her” in a heartbeat.  But whatever.  Why doesn’t Oprah ask the obvious questions? Like  A) Do you still have sex?  B) If you do, does that make the husband-turned-wife/man-turned-woman gay as well? C) Is the original wife a lesbian now?  Inquiring minds want to know.  Oprah, this is not me being mean to you, this is just my way of constructively criticizing you.  Gayle doesn’t give it to you straight.

But as I’m wont to do, I digress.

This post is about LESBIANS. Not transgendered (understanding that might require an entire blog) people. Okay, so back to the topic at hand.  Lesbians.  Is there a lesbian equivalent of bottoms and toppers?  I mean, is one person a giver and one person a taker? Because that seems pretty fucked up, unless you’re the taker. I could be lesbian if I didn’t have to do anything except receive pleasure.  If I’m just sitting there while somebody’s making me some kind of hot mess all the time, sign me up.  Its the giving that makes me queasy. I don’t like playing with my own girl parts, let alone someone else’s.  I’m convinced the only reason men like to play with vaginas is because they have no fucking concept of all the shit that happens down there when they aren’t looking.  If they did, no woman would ever get head. See, that’s actually the best defense of Intelligent Design I can think of. God made men completely clueless so once in awhile women could orgasm.  But surely lesbains are well aware of how vaginas work. And they’re still into it?

The other thing I stay up nights fretting about is whether one day I’ll meet some chick and be like, “I’m totally gay for her” and then I leave BD and my kids and I’m suddenly wearing Crocs and loving Cher, signing up for Showtime and driving a Subaru.  Oh shit. I already drive a Subaru. See, this is why this is a very serious concern.  I wouldn’t think this happens, except that Oprah totally had a whole show about it last season. And I learned that women are much more likely to be all over the Kinsey scale, which essentially measures how gay you are, so you can be mostly straight and then turn gay on a dime.  That means I may wake up next week and be totally gay.  But I think BD would probably be okay with that, so long as he gets to watch. The issue is that I’m not sure I would be okay with it, because if I did turn gay all of a sudden, I feel like the chick I left my old life for would have to be someone pretty smoking hot. And I mean, I’d want a really feminine lesbian lover, so does that make me have to be the butch lesbian?

I got a rat tail in third grade (I know – where were my parents?) and they gave me this bowl cut and the whole situation scarred me for life. I’m not ready to get my hair spiked and gain 35 pounds and buy a motorcycle.  I mean, I’m not a super feminine straight woman, but I’d like to think I’m at least three pairs of Crocs away from being butch.  So you’re probably thinking, “Some lesbian couples have two femmes”, but like I said, I’m not very girly, so even if I didn’t change anything, chances are that next to Angelina my partner, I’ll be the butch.  And that’s just not okay.  I don’t even know how to fix anything.  No feminine lesbian would ever want me because I’m just not butch enough. I might live my life completely alone if I turn gay and that would be so sad. I’ve discussed some of these fears with my hairdresser. She isn’t that hopeful. She recommended some books that they sure as hell don’t sell on Amazon, and that’s where I draw the line.

I’ve gone through other avenues to get piece of mind about if I turn gay what I have to do.  I’m pretty good friends with two lesbian couples but I know them because they’re my neighbors and our kids play together and it just hasn’t come up at the potluck dinners.  “So do you guys have mostly oral sex, or…what?  God, this potato salad is delicious! ” Because they don’t really ask me about my sex life, so I feel like I would be breaking a million social norms to bring it up, but I’m curious as all hell and secretly I try to get them really drunk so they tell me.  I envision getting them so liquored up on Mike’s Hard Lemonade and then I could casually just bring it up as if I hadn’t been obsessing over it for the last 5 years and then they would answer all my questions in vivid detail and then the next day I’d be like, “God, I totally don’t remember anything we talked about last night, especially the part about lesbian sex.”

It feels good to get this off my (very small) chest. I hope some knowledgeable lesbians will pick up this blog post somehow and school me on all the mechanics of being a lesbian in case I turn into one next week.  I need some advice on how not to be butch, and whether or not it is likely that I can find a partner that loves to giveth but not taketh.