Tag Archives: sex

Shit my psychic says

First of all, I would just like to say that psychics???   Are the shiznit.

I’m not that concerned with whether they actually have a sixth sense and can talk to dead people or tell my future, as long as they put on a good show.  For $100 I want to walk out of the psychic’s den convinced that she knows more about my life than I do. It saves me A TON of time from having to figure out my own shit and it is even more entertaining than a Kardashian wedding.

When I was a freshman in college they used have this ‘psychic fair’ once a month at the run down Holiday Inn in my hometown, which is likely ground zero for the modern-day bed bug infestations. I can’t tell you how many times I drove by the little yellow plastic sign that read simply “PSYCHIC FAIR” that they would plant in the front of the hotel and wonder how insane it was that I had never gone in, given my inexplicable, irrational and as yet untested love for psychics,  but one spring break when I was home instead of in Cancun with all the normal college sluts kids whose parents didn’t mind bankrolling the drunken unprotected 3-ways their daughters were initiating (but I’m SO not bitter), I went for it.  Armed with the $20 I earned for the day at my minimum wage job channeling Al Bundy and selling $250 pairs of hiking boots, I was determined to see what my future had in store since obviously it wasn’t Mexican tequila shots and drunken unprotected 3-way sex.  Maybe a psychic could confirm the spiritual connection  that my soul shares with Oprah’s.

So I go for it. I follow what seemed to be 600 little signs with arrows throughout the whole fucking building and wind up in a small, dingy room where there were like six self proclaimed psychics just sitting at these conference room tables just waiting for bitter coeds whose parents weren’t paying for them to be in Mexico for spring break like everybody else’s parents were.   I’m not going to lie – I was pretty disappointed that none of them had big swami hats, playing flutes to snakes coming out of baskets, but it was a fucking Holiday Inn in suburban Chicago – not 7-11. These psychics actually looked more like the people my parents played bridge with than the freaks I was expecting. A little anti-climactic to say the least.

So I sit down with this lady who reads tarot cards. And she had me shuffle the deck and blow on it and probably she took some blood or something, but it was a long time ago, so I’m a little foggy on that. Anyway, she puts all the cards out and tells me that I’m going to marry a man from Boston who is very tall, has black wire rim glasses and eyes bluer than mine.  In other words, not Brad Pitt.  And not my boyfriend that I was madly in love with who was not tall, not from Boston, wore contacts and had brown eyes.  I felt bad for him. Apparently neither he nor Brad was going to get to marry me.  It had never occurred to me that this may not have been all he ever dreamed of.

She said some other shit too and I’m sure I took notes afterward, but I somehow cannot find this info in my journal.  But I remember the part about my future husband, because it was very jarring for my 19-year-old self to fathom that I wasn’t going to marry my 19-year-old boyfriend.  It would be safe to say I was more naive than Dakota Fanning at that time, who was about 10 months old.  Yeah. I know. I’m not sure I’ve ever dated anybody for longer than 4 hours before I began to think about our future marriage. I had no concept of what ‘casual dating’ was and still can’t wrap my head around one night stands. This might have been avoided had I gone to Mexico that Spring Break and had a 3-way. But I didn’t, as we’ve gone over in agonizing detail.

But the point is that 7 years later I married BD, who is from Boston, is tall, wears black glasses and has blue eyes (but not bluer than mine, for the psychic record). Yep. She pretty much nailed it. And it was written in the stars because my angel knew him right when she saw him, so she was totally for realz.  Who knew there was a real gem at the Holiday Inn’s psychic fair every month?  It’s just a fucking shame it took 7 years for her prophecy to play out.  Oh, and by the way, in case you are still feeling bad for the guy that didn’t get to marry me, he was a full-on douche bag that cheated on me, but the psychic neglected to let me in on these pearls of wisdom, which would have saved me an awkward trip or two to my OB-GYN, so the lesson here is that psychics are good for some shit, but really fucking bad at other important shit, like helping you avoid AIDS.

Okay, so fast forward to a month ago.  I’m talking to a friend who casually mentions that she once went to a ‘medium-clairvoyant’ lady  years ago who can talk to dead people and apparently relayed some messages to her from her deceased grandma and she was completely creeped out, but convinced this woman was the real deal.  Suffice to say, I almost had to break up with my friend for not having shared this a million years before she did, because obviously I needed to meet this psychic as bad as Charlie Sheen needs to beat his wives.

So it took a fucking month to get on this lady’s schedule and you can only go if another client refers you and you have to do an orientation beforehand via phone because she wants to explain how she does what she does and the nuance of how dead people prefer to communicate.  If you don’t do orientation, you’re not allowed to have your reading. You’re fired. I know, right? I’m convinced it’s easier to steal plutonium from Russia than it is to get a half hour session with this baller.  And BTW,  the fee is no longer the $20 of yesteryear.  It’s $120.  But the good news is that I’m a lot richer now than I was then, and plus, it’s not about the. bla bling bla bling, it’s not about the. cha ching cha ching, What it’s really about is making the world dance and forgetting about the price tag.  I think Oprah said that? Or was it Ghandi?  I don’t know, whoever it was, it is really fucking genius.

So anyway, I started this story with the intention of revealing to the 12 of you who read this blog what the future holds for Love and what the dead people wanted me to know, but as you all know I have the unfortunate affliction of being unable to self edit, so my deep tangential thoughts have once again taken up an entire entry.

Do not fret. I shall return with the details of my psychic reading and together we can find out if they come true.

God, it feels good to write my stories again.


The time in Australia when I almost got murdered by drunk wild boar hunters, Part I


I studied abroad in Western Australia my junior year of college, mainly because I couldn’t speak any language fluently except English, and for dumb ass American kids who took Spanish in school for 8 years and still don’t speak it fluently, there aren’t a ton of alternatives. My choices were limited to London or Oz, and as I was making my decision, I imagined Australia as this really warm, tropical place with friendly kangaroos jumping around and that sounded more fun than London, which I imagined as a rainy place with an uptight Queen Mother.  Looking back, I scratch my head at my complete ignorance about both places, but you might as well know my train of thought so you can get an idea of where my head was at. (hint: up my ass)

So my program was on the Western side of Australia, which is the un-Sydney, un-Melbourne, un-Great Barrier Reef side. I didn’t realize that when I picked it, but you can see a theme forming which will be present throughout this post.  I didn’t realize a lot of things at 19.  However, I must say that I loved Western Australia, especially the wine country.  I studied near Perth. For a city of its size, there are a lot of nice, fun, law-abiding citizens in Perth.  In fact, there were only two major crimes that took place in Perth while I was there:  the first was committed by an American sailor (go figure) who was in port at Perth and the second occurred was when I, and all of my girlfriends, were sexually assaulted by the dancers at the Gobbles male strip club.

I thought going to a male strip club would be like going to a normal nudie bar, except that I could expect a lot more fat, horny middle-aged women instead of men there. I thought the dancers would just do their little dances on stage and act dirty and take some clothes off slowly and we’d all giggle and laugh until we paid one of them extra to pretend to do stuff to our friend, just to torture her, but no actual touching would be allowed or encouraged. Like most things in the southern hemisphere, it was actually totally the opposite.  At Australian male strip clubs*, or at least this one, the men don’t dance.  They just get you wasted on free cheap champagne and then they force you to do things in, around and directly to their junk that you really have no interest in doing.  And they bring you on stage to do it, just in case someone in the back row can’t see you being molested in your chair or they need a better angle for their camera. There is a lot of body grease involved, and to this day the smell of it makes me wretch. I wasn’t prepared for so much oil and I still think they could have at least handed us ponchos on our way in so our clothes didn’t get ruined, but alas, they gave us free glasses of pink champagne, and let the sexual assault begin. That’s all the time I will dedicate to one of the most traumatizing events in my life, since this story is about almost murder, not pretty much rape.

*(I thought that it was just an Australia thing, but then I read about Aunt Becky’s American experience recently and apparently the vileness of male strip clubs is universal.  You learn something new everyday).

So I find myself on the wrong side of Australia if I want to see anything that people usually go to Australia to see.  So my friends and I plan a two-week excursion to the other side of Oz for our break. First stop is Cairns and the Great Barrier Reef.  The travel agents we recruited to help us gave us this little brochure with all of these vacation packages you could sign up for.  Knowing if we didn’t sign up for a package we might just drink the whole time and never leave the hostel, we set out to find an excursion that would appeal to a group of four women and three punks men who wanted an “adventure”.  Somehow it was determined, by one of the males no doubt, that the excursion named “Rainforest Outback Adventure” was a good fit because we could see a large variety of Australian flora and fauna that way.  I wish I had not already finished two Strongbow Whites when the plans were made, because I can guarantee that there wasn’t a single thing that was described in those 3 days that was even remotely something I would sign up for sober.  You see, I like “adventures” that entail being clean and having clean bedding and bathing in clean water with soap and taking long naps and reading several books whilst sipping red wine and eating a nice steak while a chiseled, shirtless man with an Italian and/or South American accent massages me.  THAT, my friends, is an adventure.

Adventures I generally shy away from include dust, large and/or flying insects, poisonous snakes, sweltering heat, body sweat, any sort of hiking/mildly strenuous exercise, drizzly rain, red mud, eating or touching rainforest vegetation, camp food, and large wild animals, unless they are in a secure zoo enclosure or on TV. Apparently, the “Rainforest Outback Adventure” turned out to be the latter kind of adventure, with an added surprise bonus of drunk wild boar hunters. Now when I judge a new “adventure” opportunity, I check for drunk wild boar hunters, and I avoid those. So, I learned something. Indeed, Oprah. It was a “teaching moment”.

Okay, so we go to the place we are to start our adventure and a guy about 30 years old who looks, acts and talks exactly like the caricature of a mix between Crocodile Dundee and the Crocodile Hunter welcomes us. We call him Dundee for the remainder of the trip.  There are about 9 of us in our group – us and a nice old British couple. Dundee is a man of few words, and he is hard core.  He straps on his machete and hops into the front seat of this Hummer-like/bus thing that we will use to travel the rainforest and outback the next few days.  As we drove away from the busy tourist town of Cairns, a single, slow tear ran down my face in anticipation of what was sure the be the worst three days ever, and they didn’t disappoint.  Little did I know they were almost my last three.

To be continued….** Click here for Part II

**I’m sorry I can’t tell any story without going off on several tangents. Brevity isn’t my strong suit.  I feel the need to tell the WHOLE story, because if I left out the parts about theft, Speedos, very large ants, Aboriginals, rifles, machetes, and of course, your friends and mine, the drunk wild boar hunters, then it just wouldn’t be a Love story. Please be patient with me.

Thanks for the offer, but I guess I just don’t feel like a three-way today

You already know a lot about my friends:  the one who kicked me out of her wedding, the pathological liar, and the one who I’m currently teeing up to be my new best friend.

And then there is Oprah. Which just goes without saying.

Now, if  I may tell you about Stella…she was my best friend my freshman year of college. Our friendship started the first day of school when we realized we both had a jones for pot and gummy bears and lived across the hall from one another, which I suppose is how most freshman friendships commence.

Stella was a red head from Connecticut and really granola and she could quote Nietzsche which I thought was really meaningful at the time, even though I didn’t know shit about Nietzsche.  I can honestly say I still don’t know shit about the guy, but if someone quoted him, I’d probably still be impressed.  Anyway, at the time, she seemed like a pretty solid choice for someone to hang out with – and lets face it – I didn’t know anybody so it wasn’t like I was going to be super choosy.  My roommate was alright but she was a classic Jersey girl in that she went through a bottle of Great Lash mascara every 3 days and had long nails and I’m pretty much the antithesis of a classic Jersey girl, so I had to look beyond my own room to find my college BFF.

I’m not sure what Stella saw in me, but my money is on how many Abercrombie & Fitch flannels, and pairs of Doc Marten’s and Birkenstocks that I brought to the relationship. Oh, and that I was someone she could count on to go out to the forest and smoke a bowl with her whenever she felt the urge.

Her friends back home would mail her pot and she would share it with me and I didn’t have to pay for it.  I think that is a pretty solid foundation for any budding friendship.  Plus, if she weren’t supplying, I wouldn’t be getting high because I have nothing against smoking marijuana but I do have something against purchasing it.  Because that seems kind of criminal and kind of expensive and kind of pot head-ish.  In my own mind, I couldn’t really be a drug user unless I spent my money on it.   But I was ALL FOR getting high most days, so I liked to think of myself as just being sociable.

So Stella and I became best buddies and we have a great time together and our friendship appears to be progressing normally until my hometown honey comes to visit.  This is the kid I failed to break up with in high school because I thought we would be together forever. I’m a serial monogamist. Anyway, he comes to visit and Stella seems to think he is the best thing since sliced bread.  She is hard core flirting with him, which I wasn’t sure what to make of. But he was a good boyfriend and didn’t really flirt back.  So we decide to go get high together and we’re talking and then completely out of the blue, Stella is like, “You know what? We should totally have a three-way”. Somewhere in the background, a record scratches. Whaaaaaaaat?

I went to a Catholic university. One where you have to sign a contract that says you won’t have sex outside of marriage. If they catch you, you’re out. It’s pretty much disregarded by most students, but I bring it up because it wasn’t like we were at some liberal school where people have gay flings and participate in orgies on a regular basis. And I can also attest that doing drugs on a regular basis was also a bit out of the norm, so we’re talking about a very conservative place.

“Whaaaaaaat?” I said.

“We should totally have a three-way, dude. It would be so cooooooooo-ul.” she replied. She was very fond of making the word “cool” last for 4 to 5 seconds.

My boyfriend doesn’t know whether this is the best thing that ever happened in his life, or if one wrong move would mean a kick in the balls via my steel toed Doc Martens. Eventually, he wanted to have children, so he said nothing.

“Um…what I think would be cool is if we ordered breadsticks from Papa Johns”  I said awkwardly. “Thanks for the pot, though.”  I got the distinct impression that neither Stella nor my boyfriend liked this answer, but they went with it because a three-way requires three people and it was clear there were only two seriously pondering it.  So three of us didn’t have our own little orgy in the forest and I just wanted to forget that the conversation ever happened. She was just high, so I was sure it meant nothing.

Inevitably, me and hometown honey break up and I start kind of liking this other guy at school. So one day the three of us are at a party and we’re getting pretty loaded and Stella says, “Wouldn’t it be coooooooooo-uhl to have three-way?”  WTF? Um. No. This guy was probably a virgin and just kind of giggles like he won the lottery and he’s like, “Seriously?” And they both look at me and I’m like “Oh, hell no! If you two want to fuck, go for it, but count me out.” And the guy looks at Stella like “what are we waiting for?” and I thought she’d probably go for it but then she’s all, “I was totally kidding, dude. I’m so high right now….”

So over time, it becomes normal for Stella to suggest having three ways with me and any and all guys I’m interested in at very awkward moments. When I asked her why she often asks about having three ways in regular conversations, she says she is just kidding, but it is clear to me that she is not. It didn’t occur to me at the time to ask her if she was gay or bi, because she seemed to have fun having sex with many of the male stoners we got high with all the time, so I didn’t question it.

Anyway, the year drags on and Stella eventually drops asking if I want to have a three-way with her, which was a great relief. I wanted my first three-way to be special, which is why I was saving myself for Angelina and whoever else she wanted to invite. But Stella gets more and more heavily into drugs and I kind of go the other direction.  I was pretty sure I was getting dumber and I couldn’t really afford any more brain cells, so by spring I just stopped getting high.  And I started hanging out more with her roommate, whose Costco gummy bear jar Stella and I would raid whenever we were high.  She went on to become my best friend, who would eventually kick me out of her wedding. I know, right? I am awesome at choosing friends.

Turns out that Stella was bipolar and she got all weird and had to be admitted to a psychiatric ward at some point and she wound up leaving the University to pursue going to Grateful Dead concerts, collecting crystals and having three-ways.  We kind of lost touch for a while after that.

Until I got a call out of the blue a few years after I had graduated from college and settled in Chicago.  Stella was doing a “road trip” with a couple of her friends who were in a relationship together and she wanted to know if she and they could crash at my place.  Sure. I guess.  I was dating BD at the time, so I was like, “You have to meet my friend Stella. She is a total trip. But if she asks if we want to have a three-way, the answer is no.” I think he had the sense then that he had totally missed an opportunity that could have been awesome.

When she got to Chicago we had a nice time together and she didn’t actually ask us to have a three-way, so I considered the visit was a success.  However, she did send me a postcard a few weeks later from Colorado that she did in fact have a three-way with her traveling mates, and they broke up over it, so the trip kind of turned into a big bummer. She was baffled by the bad luck of it all.  I guess some things never change.

Somewhere in this world, Stella is probably either having a three-way or suggesting one as we speak.  I still await a call from Angelina.  God speed, Stella. God speed.

But seriously, are three-ways pretty common everywhere, or just in Connecticut?

Hellz Yaz!

I’m pretty much done having my own kids.  Physically, I just don’t think I can do it again.  Although the thought of having more kids delights me. If I could snap my fingers and have a potty trained 3 year old delivered, I’d do it.  I’ve also tried to talk BD into us getting an Indian surrogate mother, or better yet adopting a few Liberian choir boys (all Oprah’s ideas) but he is not for it.  At all. Sure, these ideas do seem a little far-fetched, even for me, but I’d be lying if I haven’t fantasized about each for days on end. I’m not sure if it is because I might be able to get on Oprah if I did it or because they’re the best fucking ideas I’ve ever heard.  Probably the latter.

My deliveries were traumatic, and I’m not that psyched to get strapped down again while they cut me open while I’m still fucking conscious.  I honestly believe history will look back on this time and shake its head in disgust with the c-section rate at 46%.  I hate to admit it, but I have to side with Ricki Lake for once (please don’t tell Oprah I said that, or she will never leave Gayle) – but all of these medical interventions during the process of childbirth is going way overboard. Routinely cutting women open to deliver children is not okay. It really isn’t. It’s fucked up. But this post isn’t about that. Not really.

It’s about Oprah , I mean birth control.  Right now the point is to avoid giving birth again and I would be kind of surprised if I changed my mind about that.  But here is the rub – I’m stuck in a terrible Catch-22 of Epic Proportions. I’ve spent the last 15 years on birth control pills except for when I’ve been trying to have babies.  Until I was off the Pill, I had no idea I actually wanted to have sex. Really wanted it. I suppose this is because in nature, people are supposed to have the urge to procreate. But, at least for me, the Pill is like the ultimate sex kitten killer. And nobody likes killing kittens.  Especially the sex ones. And I had no idea that a side effect of the Pill is asexuality non-existent libido. I just thought I was tired or my vagina was extremely anti-social or something. But I didn’t realize that was just the Pill talking.  I think my vagina is an extrovert.

But here is where the Catch-22 happens: off the Pill I look like an oily teenager riddled with zits all over my chin.  I went out to lunch with my old PhD advisor the other day and — I swear this is true — when she saw me she screached, aghast, “What happened to your face!?” Uh, thanks. Good to see you again too. Yeah, so she lacks a certain tact, but I appreciate honesty. She told me I should go to the doctor immediately because something must be very wrong for me to have my chin boiling in huge puss-filled cysts. Sorry I have to use that verbiage, but I have to make it clear how disgusting my complexion gets.  Apparently that is me being off the Pill.  That is the trade-off. Libido or zits. Nobody wants to have sex with me when I remind them of Anthony Michael Hall in Sixteen Candles, but when I get that all cleared up on the Pill, I don’t want to have sex with anybody. Since I’m only allowed to have sex with one man, the world isn’t suffering, but we sure as hell are.  A conundrum, see?

So I relayed this information to my doctor recently. Her answer was Yaz. I was like, “Isn’t that the one for crazy people?” and she said, “Yeah, but it will clear up your skin. For God’s sake, you need it!” So I’ve been on it two weeks. Hmm.

Here are the pros:

  • relatively certain I won’t get knocked up because I don’t foresee sex happening ever again.
  • no new exploding painful zits on my chin.

Here are the cons:

  • relatively certain I am now completely asexual. ” This is bad, real bad. Michael Jackson.” – Kanye
  • relatively certain I have eaten several times today, but my body thinks I’m a lying SOB.
  • relatively certain I will gain 25 pounds by next week if I stay on this drug.
  • relatively certain I lost my mind at each of the 1745 slightest infractions by one of my dear, sweet, young insane children this last week. “Now I’m mad, real mad. Joe Jackson.” – Kanye

(Ooh. I’m excited!! Did you catch that? I just crossed the threshold of blogging where I describe all of my medical issues with prescription drugs in detail. YES!.  Now I just have to wait to be nominated for some type of blog award. I’m pretty sure I also have to be hella funnier and have more than 6 people read my blog too, but those are just technicalities. I have a prescription drug problem everybody – Put your hands up, ya’ll. Woot. Woot. Holla. Holla.)

So I will have to say “Hellz No!” instead of Hellz Yaz. But that puts me back at square one again. I have a bad feeling that zits and sex drive are linked to the surge in the same hormone.

Okay, dear Internet. It’s time to pull your weight and tell me which way to go on this – is it better to be un-pregnant, asexual and beautiful, or an un-pregnant whore with grotesque chin zits? And just to sweeten the pot, if you find a solution that allows me to be an un-pregnant beautiful sex kitten, I will send you the Oprah quote magnet featured here:

I have one of these on every magnetic surface in my home.  You can start your collection today, if you can solve my Conundrum of Epic Proportions.  I will also nominate you for a Genius Award, and who doesn’t want one of those?

Ah, crap. I have to go eat again.

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….

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.

When you’re too drunk to have sex, that may be a sign of a problem

I have no idea why, but I’ve been hung over for the majority of days this week.  The only thing I can think of to explain this is because I’ve been drunk the majority of nights.  I’m pretty sure by most standards I’m not an alcoholic, but I’m not really going to check the standards because if I am an alcoholic it would be best for me to be in denial about it. Because I don’t have time to go to AA meetings and even if I did I would have to get a sponsor and then chances are we would get all close and touchy feely and then I’d feel sicker than I do now, in my hungover state. I hate touchy feely people and topics and things. Public crying puts me on edge and I feel like in the movies all the AA people cry a lot.

In my defense, I’ve not been drunk for many moons – this was just a particularly alcoholic week.  I had my WINOS weekend and then yesterday my manager suggested a “meeting” that took place at a bar.  And I am a good employee, so of course I obliged, even though secretly I really wanted to update my sales forecast. Right. Anyway, we got to the bar and three (or four?) martinis later, I had the spins. And I have no fucking clue what I said, as usual.  But I do recall tears being shed — by her or me, I’m not sure.  It must have been bad though, because neither of us has a history of public crying in martini bars. I hope she didn’t fire me and I just don’t even remember. I have a bad feeling like maybe she told me something that was probably not good.  Or maybe she got fired? Or maybe I told her something that was not good, because I love her and would want her to know everything I was thinking. And I’m looking for another job and such. Shit. I probably told her that. But maybe she was happy because I just got fired. I have to figure this whole thing out, but I’m feeling awkward about calling her this morning.  I’m going to have to start recording my business meetings that take place at bars. That is why I never drink with clients. I might tell some of those guys what douches I think they are.

Anyway, the point is that I’m not off drinking alone somewhere and being the only person trashed. So that is my defense against any charges that might be levied against me for alcoholism.  This was a meeting with my boss and it started at three, so I thought I’d be home in time for dinner.  But instead I made the 9:30 train home.  Six hours worth of conversation is too much for someone to remember, even if sober.  Now that I really think about it, I think we have some drunken texts we sent on our respective trains, so I should go back and check if they give away what happened. (UPDATE: just checked. She said on her train the whole car was singing “I wanna touch you all over —til the night closes in…” except her. Does that mean we ended on a bad note? I would’ve totally chimed if such a fantastic thing had happened in my train car.)

Anyway, so I got home and BD was still up and I think I must be really super sexy when I’m trashed in my business casual kitten heels because I think I remember he wanted to get it on and I had the spins. And I’m sorry, but sex with the spins is the worst. So I had to tell him “Not now, honey. I’m too drunk to have sex. Will you make me a pizza?” I think he said no, so I went about making my own. We’re never without a frozen pizza. Sweet, sweet frozen pizza. Maybe if he would have thought ahead to have a pizza waiting for me when I got home, he would have had more luck getting me in bed.  I guess being home with the kids and giving them dinner and putting them to bed and stuff and waiting for his trashed wife to return home made him really tired and not thinking about what he could be doing to make my day better.  Maybe he’ll take this as a “teaching moment” (thanks, Oprah) and do better next time.

But I laugh I told him I’m too drunk to have sex. Not sure I’ve ever used that excuse. What is better my blog readers?  To say you don’t want to have sex because you have a headache, or because you’re too drunk? I thought the whole point of getting drunk in my 20s was in anticipation of having sex later. Now I must be old because drunk pizza eating seemed like such a better alternative than drunk sex last night. I figure it would be more awkward if I passed out or threw up during sex than if I did those things while making and eating a pizza. Right?!

I only have to wait one more hour before McDonalds starts serving lunch. I hope I can make it – its the only antidote for my hangovers.  For real – I’m not going to get drunk again for at least three days. Really.