Weekend Update

You know it was a good party if you have paddle-shaped bruises on your ass from, well, a paddle.

Unfortunately, the (admittedly minimal) pain from the bruise is completely offset from the pain in my right boob from coughing so much for the last two weeks. I had no idea there were muscles in there, but there clearly are and I clearly pulled one.

Live to Love and Give Good Tongue

If you have Netflix, you know that it's set up to recommend more movies based on your previous choices. And if you're like me, you take those recommendations. And if you're also like me and forget to go in and mix up your queue, you end up with a long run of accidentally "themed" discs at your house.

All that is lead-up to explain why it makes sense that for the last several months, I've watched "The Birdcage," "To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything, Julie Newmar," the first season of "Queer as Folk" and most of the first season of "The L Word."

Last night, I watched an episode of "The L Word" in which Jenny's old college roommate visited and found out that Jenny had fallen in love with (and gotten her heart broken by) Marina. She (the roommate) said something to the effect of "Yeah, I'm not so much about the puss. I like dick."

And I have to say that watching all this does make you - okay, me - think. On the sexuality spectrum, I'm mostly on the "likes dick" end with a few forays into the other end of the swimming pool upon occasion. I mean, I think some women are hot. I'm turned on by some women. I've kissed several ladies in a more-than-just-friendly way. I can't seem to convince any guys to go for the guy-guy-girl scenario, but really, that's another blog post altogether. But I'm sort of ambivalent about the puss. I like myownpussy, of course. But, not having had extensive interaction with anyone else's, I'm not sure how I'd react when faced with the incredible responsibility to be "about the puss." Who knows? Maybe I'd be great at it and I have no idea! (This thought just dawned on me as I typed and made me feel a lot better about my chances for winning that "Sexual Dynamo of the Year" pageant I should really enter myself in).

And in case I get the opportunity to test my lesbian skillz, I thought I'd better know which character from "The L Word" I was. You know, so I'd know how to proceed...

Which Character from The L Word are You???

you are JENNY! you are sweet, shy, and innocent, but you've got a darker, sexier side...and you cant hold it in forever! you're the closet freak of the group!
Take this quiz!








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I don't know about that "shy" business, but still...

Good Morning Starshine, The Earth Says Hello

This morning, I woke up ("woke up" might be overstating things just a bit. It was more of a zombie-like motion of me falling out of bed and directly into my clothes) at 6 am and went to the gym before work. Having sustained only minor injuries last night at rollerderby practice, the workout went surprisingly well.

I don't like to work out in the mornings for a variety of reasons. One is that I can't push myself as hard. For someone who is as sunshiney as I am in the mornings, I seem unable to go faster than a quick trot on the treadmill if it's earlier than 11 in the morning, no matter how loud I play Peaches "Hot Rod" in my eardrums.

But the bigger reason is that I then have to get ready for work at the gym. This necessitates me bringing my entire apartment with me, apparently. I'm a relatively low-maintenance kind of a girl, beauty-wise, so it always shocks me when I'm fighting to shove a pair of 5-inch heels into a cubic centimeter of free space in my gym bag.

After I shower, I confess that I generally roam around the locker room largely naked as I get ready. It's just too hot after working out and with the steam from the showers for me to either leave a towel on or get dressed more than panties and bra. And to be quite honest, I'm not really modest. If you want to look, look. I always look. I know that this is a huge breach of unspoken gym etiquette, but I'm curious. I want to know how I stack up in the "Naked Lady" area of my life. And besides, if I didn't look, I wouldn't see things like the gi-normous pair of bright yellow granny panties I saw on a middle-aged businesswoman this morning. Really, I don't know how she crammed those things into her power suit slacks.

I'm still not sure if the benefits of going to the gym are worth all the efforts of doing so, but I really think that the entertainment factor of seeing size 24 canary-yellow undies and thinking, "I have something to blog about!" shouldn't be undervalued...

Shake That Ass, Girl, And Let Me See What You've Got

I'm not a fan of thongs. As Minnie Driver once said in her darling British accent on a late-night talk show, they "make me feel like me bum has gotten hungry and eaten me pants."

This personal choice usually has no effect on my day-to-day life, as most of my clothes work just fine with bikini panties or those adorable Victoria's Secret Sexy Little Things booty panties. It's not like my clothes are generally so skintight as to reveal panty lines anyway.

Or so I thought.

Today, I'm rocking some cute gray slacks, a girly black t-shirt, mary janes, and a hairdo that remarkably looks like something special. All morning, I've been silently congratulating myself on looking good. "Dang good" is how I put it to myself in myownhead an hour ago, I believe.

But I just happened to go to the bathroom (all right, so "happened to" makes it sound like a happy accident - it was a deliberate choice) and was checking myself out in the mirror when I noticed that, for all my cuteness, when I did I three-quarter turn in front of the mirror, something was off.

I have bifurcated buns.

My panty lines are such that they are cutting exactly halfway across each ass cheek, making it look like I have a cute heiner on top and then big blobs of butt below. Like, two butts. It's not attractive, people. I'm not even sure how this is possible considering that I have the smallest arse in the universe (despite the fact that I have been reassured that the mythical "derby butt" does exist and will be mine after several months of rollerderby).

In any case, I plan to spend a lot of time sitting on aforementioned asses today to keep it out of view of the general public. It may be time to invest in some panties that just go ahead and let it all hang out.

Who Knew I Would Come Clean So Quickly?

A comment on yesterday’s post suggested I bring a “friend” into the shower with me to while away the long minutes as I wait for my purple shampoo to not do its job.

If I put the issue of my general clumsiness aside for just a moment (my lack of coordination is spectacular and honestly, I really should have both an ambulance on speed dial on my phone and the phone itself in the shower with me if I’m going to do a little self-entertaining) (come to think of it, there might be big money to be made with a combination waterproof-cell-phone-or-walkie-talkie-vibrator)(even bigger money to be made if it can be a cute hot pink color), she has a point.

However, my current equipment isn’t suitable to get wet. Not wet from water, anyway. Hey, I had to clarify! And it’s not. I don’t want to die from vaginal electrocution. What a way to go.

Apparently, though, there’s a wide variety of waterproof stuff that’s more than workable.

But then I got caught up on this same site in a whole section full of anthropomorphic yet cartoon-y bath toys. If your standard penis-shaped vibrator isn’t good enough for you, you can get your groove thang on, March of the Penguins style.

I don’t know about you, but if I was turned on by a rubber ducky going to town on me, I might not be the kind of person who has boredom issues in the shower in the first place.

Old Yeller

I have always been a very fast showerer. Even when I think I'm lingering, I'm not - I'm in and out in ten minutes.

Or I should change all the verb tenses in that previous sentence to indicate that I used to be such a showerer.

I blame my yellow hair. In an attempt to go to blonde from a light ash brown, I've been dousing my head monthly in Feria's platinumest blonde hair dye. Honestly, I'm surprised I'm not bald considering what I put my hair through on a daily basis, what with the dying and the ironing and blow-drying and voodoo witch doctor-y-like prayers beseeching the gods of hair to please let me wake up one morning with waist-length, perfectly highlighted and artistically tousled tresses.

But the fact is I have yellow hair. Bright yellow. Not orange, not strawberry blonde, but yellow. School-bus yellow. Carnation yellow. Peeps yellow.

I was lamenting the state of my hair to a fellow rollergirl (whose blonde and pink hair I lust after) and she recommended I go to the local beauty supply store and buy a shampoo that is made to draw the brassiness and yellow tones out of blonde hair.

The next day I found myself in line behind a woman with limp mousy hair who was buying not one, not two, but seven home permanent kits ready to shell out $8 for purple shampoo that would make my hair look as blonde as Gwen Stefani's.

Now my daily shower routine takes forever because, apparently, the purpleness of the shampoo isn't powerful enough in and of itsownself. I have to shampoo twice, letting the second shampoo sit on my head for 3-5 minutes. This, combined with my conditioner that requires me to leave it on for 3 minutes as well means I'm already approaching my standard total shower time. To kill the time, I shave my pits and my legs. And since my legs are about 10 miles long, you'd think this would more than take up my wait time. Rather, I've become used to zipping along with the shaving, so I usually find myself standing there for a good five minutes, just hanging out.

Occasionally, I do lifts to strengthen my calves for skating. Sometimes I sing. But mostly I stand there and think about how bored I am.

And the payoff? I get out of the shower what seems like weeks later and blow-dry my hair, only to discover it looks exactly the same as when I got in. And yet, somehow, this doesn't deter me from doing the same thing all over again the next day. I might agree with that whole beauty is pain thing (eyebrow plucking, waxing your naughty bits, etc.), but I have a harder time accepting that beauty is boredom...

And So It Begins

I have come to this blog after leaving one behind that was enormous, highly visible, and quite personal. I have returned to a blogging life with the hope of managing to be real, to be funny, and to be entertaining without it being necessary in the slightest to reveal my actual name. No doubt some of you know who I am (and, I'm afraid, if you leave a comment for me with my real name included, I will promptly delete it, no offense to you, of course). For the rest of you, the important things to know:

I am:

• a single woman.
• a mother of a two-year-old daughter, BabyGirl.
• employed in a good job that frequently annoys me.
• a rollergirl with my local rollerderby league.
• constantly laughing at myself.
• excited by just about everything in life, including the big guns: love, fucking, humor, beauty, intelligence, and honesty.

I am not:

• sorry for anything I will write here.

Let the fun begin.