Does Not Taste Like Chicken

Twice yesterday I had intimate contact with flavored latex.

Reclined in the dentist's chair, my mouth agape, I asked the hygienist, "Arg youth warrrrng fwaverd gwobes?"

"Yeah, my gloves are grape flavored."

"No thit," came my reply. They've thought of everything.

My second latex connection came because I am expecting company this weekend from my lovely Connect-I-Cut-ians Adelka Ann and Justin P. (check the sidebar "Who in the Hell is She Talking About?" for details, my pretties.)

Anyhoo, I was trying to ready my room for them and remove any questionable items. As it was, I only had limited time so I settled on removing only the overtly questionable items like the collection of vibrators and flavored lubes I am reviewing. (I know, I know. A sex toy reviewer who isn't getting any. The irony is NOT lost on me, kids.)

In the mix of this stuff were some French vanilla flavored condoms. For the first time, I noticed the "Calorie Free!" stamp. Later that evening, grumbling about the stupid diet, I had another rare sweet tooth attack.

Imagine JennyJenny8675309's surprise when she caught me making out with the empty condom.

Ever the generous soul I said, "Want some?"

She did not.

In the Comments section, tell me the weirdest thing you've ever eaten. The winner will get a batch of blue raspberry flavored condoms that do not sound AT ALL appealing to me.

Aw, Hell No. I Ain't Going Down Like That.

Who was the crazy person who overtook my blog and posted about feeling overwhelmed, all woeful and generally desperate-like?

It certainly wasn't me.

That's a lie. Yes it was, but it's amazing what a little perspective and some meatloaf can do for a gal's sanity (actually turkey, lentil and rice loaf, but get off my back).

I had a bit of a break down for a minute, kids, and I'm actually going to cop to The Excuse That Strong, Independent Women Don't Like to Admit To: I am PMSing. There, I said it. I have hormones, and I am at the prime child-bearing age. Get off my back.

It can make some of us crazy. Not all of us, though, and, for the record, I don't get bitchy. I get dramatically depressed and anxious and do things like eat cookies for breakfast, call up old boyfriends and eat more cookies. Then poof, I am fine. You boys don't know how good you have it. Where my girls at?

Thankfully, I had a host of nice moments today that turned this ship around.

Beware: Links A-Go-Go Ahead

Also, when I was at the gym tonight a very handsome man, who introduced himself as Rico, asked for my number. Now, Rico was smoking hot, but also 5'1". At 5'6" and three-quarters, I have to admit I was uncomfortable with his proximity to my nipples. That's my issue to work through and I commend his boldness, but I pulled a fake boyfriend out of my hat and just enjoyed the sentiment.

I stopped at the grocery store after my workout and saw a sign for crackers that gave me pause. Stoned Wheat Thins. It conjured up all sorts of images of crackers sitting in the basement, firing up and saying, "Dude, I'm starving. Do you any of, well, us to eat?"

I am easily amused.

The point is--and I'm sure you've been waiting on the edge of your seat with your knickers in a twist--I am feeling better, my pretties. I just had to step in a big pile of crazy before I reached the path of tranquility.

That's what that smell is, in case you were wondering.


In the Comments section, tell me if you've ever dated someone 1) slightly famous 2) who suffered from severe PMS 3) and/or had a considerable height difference. The winner of the best story gets a box of Stoned Wheat Thins. Dude.

Aaaiieeeehhh

Oh, my pretties, I am feeling overwhelmed. Personally. Professionally. Pathetically. I have no idea why I have this daunting feeling that I'm forgetting something.

I have on one blue sock and one black one. #1Laura can confirm. On a positive note, #1Laura has officially moved from amazing friend to my boss, which is awesome. Awesome, I say.

I ate cookies for breakfast. I don't even like cookies. What the hell?

Last night, I told an ex-boyfriend, Kevin, that I would fly down to Dallas to see him within the next month. Huh? What? Why did I do that? He wanted to get married, and I freaked out, and then the whole "my Mom died" thing happened. I moved to D.C. and he moved to Dallas.

Kids, I don't even have time to get a haircut. Why did I commit to that?

There have been no photos on this blog in some time, for which I am truly sorry. I am. I'll work on that.

Eeeeeeeeh. I'm sorry for venting. I'd like to give you raucous tales of sex and lust and debauchery. Instead, I'm giving you a panic attack. No fun.

In the Comments section, you provide the sex, lust and debauchery. Also, I'm wicked behind on, well, just about everything. But I have some new Interweb playthings for you to check out--they'll be up on the blogroll shortly. A cool cat over at Animal Mind; my pal and yours, The CEO, otherwise known as Jefe; Emmie, who is fighting the nail biting bug, so send her some love ya'll; and the gregarious Steven Novak, who is also from Ohio, or at least lived there at some point.

*****
UPDATE

I also want ya'll to know that I'm wearing the world's longest turtle next sweater. It is a gray, horizontal stripey angora, so not only does it make me look a tad chubby, it's also itchy and the actual "turtle neck" is about 4 feet long.

Even my clothing is overwhelming me today.

You are Getting Very Sleepy. But Also Want to Study Efficiently. Bonus.

I have long used a series of self-hypnosis tapes. Seriously. A long time. Since I was 17 years old. My Mom bought The ICS, Inc. Self Improvement Series—eight tapes designed to rework your subconscious to achieve goals such as "Efficient Study and Exam Habits," "Forever a Non-Smoker," "Reduce Stress," and, well, "Achieving Your Goals."

Right now, the "Weight Control" tape is on heavy rotation at my place.

The hypnotherapist's name is Dr. David M. Friedman. His voice is not ideal for lulling listeners and some of his wording is a little off, but it does seem to work. I listen to the "soothing" sound of his voice every night as I drift to sleep.




Listen to Dr. Friedman's genius



This is totally my kind of therapy because I don't have to do anything. Just lie there. This, actually, is kind of why I need to listen to the weight control tape in the first place. But, whatever.

Dr. Freidman's suggestions don't have to be used before bed—when I was in high school I worked a very high-stress job at Subway. I was a certified Sandwich Artist, my pretties. Do you have any idea the pressure I was under? This was in the days when Subway still cut the "V" in the bread, rather than straight across. People were bitches about that.

"Well, it's Subway's patented cut, so your toppings don't fall out when you eat your sandwich." I would reason.

"I don't fucking care. Cut it straight across," replied Youngstown, Ohio's, finest consumers.

So, before work, I would lie down and pop in the Reduce Stress tape. And do you know what? It worked. I'd punch in at Subway, plop on my purple visor, bake some bread, make some tuna salad (one huge ass can of tuna and mayo. That's it, kids) eat some broken cookies and before I knew it, it was time to go home.

Now, I'm willing to concede that Delilah, whose heavenly voice wafted through the airwaves as I worked (I could just feel the love pouring out of that woman), also deserves some credit, but Dr. Friedman's suggestions have kept me on the up and up for years now.

Well, if you'll pardon me, I have to listen to my Make a Hearty Breakfast and Devote an Entire Day to Arts and Crafts tape now.

In the Comments section, tell me about your high school job or the alternative therapies and treatments you use. Double bonus points for anyone who's had a colonic.

A Bit of A Cop Out

I'm a little bit country and a little bit rock 'n roll. But mostly, kind of lame and sort of tired.

One Flu Over the Cuckoo's Nest

My pretties, I am sick. I am a sicky sick sickity sick sick sicky sack.

"Oh, no. I'm not going to get the free flu shot my very nice company provides for its employees. I never get the flu. Tra la la la la," said 123Valerie just last week.

"That, idiot grandiose, is what you think," said a punk-ass deviant little microbe who crawled into my intestines and has been trying to claw its way out ever since.

So, the diet continues to go well, but for wholly unhealthy reasons. As much as I hating working out, I hate hunching over a Comet-scented toilet bowl even more. Burf.

Just in time for Turkey and Stuffing and Mashed Potatoes for the U.S. Thanksgiving (see, I am mindful that my friend Attention Whore already celebrated her Turkey Day up in Canadialand. I am thinking globally and acting lunaticly. AW just wrote a post about Judy Blume. Go read it.)

Actually, because I am under the pink today, this pink blog is going to let other people do the work. Scotty got a Chuck Carlson award today. Go read that, too.

My boss just sent me an article that Google's stock passed the $500 mark. I guess you could read that, too, if you're really, really lame like I am. Or, you know, if you happen to own Google stock.

In the Comments section, congratulate Scotty for ... being in the right place at the right time, I guess. And for being in the Peace Corps. "It wasn't in Cuba, was it?" Scotty?

Wow, 123Valerie, Your Ass Looks Great

So, my diet is working, apparently. Three kind, lovely, intuitive poeple I work with have already said, "You look great. Have you lost weight?"

Yes. Yes I have. 7 pounds. Thank you for noticing.

I was never fat, kids. I'm aware of that, but I have gone from trim to voluptuous to curvacious to Jesus Christ why don't any of my pants fit. I'm just trying to get back to trim.

I have given up sugar, for the most part, and am trying not to eat after 8:00. I had a bit of a setback at Sean P.K.'s with a little Coca-Cola and some midnight pretzels, but thanks to my new gym membership, I can jazzercise that away.

In the Comments section, tell me how great my ass looks, and for God's sake, keep those french fries away from me.

Metro Adventure #3276: Lulla Kai and Goodnight

On the Metro ride home, it became very apparent I might have had too much to drink at Sean P.K.'s party on Saturday night. A few items that raised my suspicions:

1. I couldn't understand why my Safeway savings card wouldn't let me pass through the Metro turnstile. A Metro attendant pointed out that, while it would garner me a buy-one-get-one-free deal on Hamburger Helper, the D.C. Metro Transit system did not offer similar discounts from Capitol Hill South to Shady Grove.

2. My fellow Metro riders took my stumbling and whiskey perfume as a hint that I might throw up during some point of our trip, and thus gave me my own bench, despite a full crowd. No puking, I'm glad to say.

3. I gave my phone number to a German guy named Kai, who called me at 5 a.m. and left a gibberishy message. Something like: "Val, eees Kai. I met you on tha Metro. You vere so cuuuute. Like a leetle bunny. I hope you have sveet dreams."

4. I did have sweet dreams. On the Metro. Specifically from Dupont Circle all the way home. Classy.

We had a good time at Sean P.K.'s, we did. The signs of my inebriation were quite clear way before I stepped on the Metro, though. I was too drunk to play guitar, Scotty's rants started to sound reasonable, and Sean P.K. walked in on me whilst I was going to bathroom, and I didn't even flinch. Just said, "Hey, S.P.K. What's up?" as my pants lay around my ankles.

"Are you pooping?"

Ever the demure one, I said, "Maybe. Megan Jane and I did have Mexican for dinner."

There's something about being with friends. Especially friends like Kimberlicious, who likes whiskey as much as I do and encourages me to hit on unsuspecting girls named Amelia. All that, and she's Jewish, too. Busta is one lucky guy.

I spent the better part of the day drying out. Cohen and I went to see For Your Consideration. It was quite good. Cohen liked it so much that he got a stiffy during the movie. "Feel that," he said.

With butter-soaked popcorn hands, I did. And hope was renewed. He declined my offer to move to the floor and make him a man, though.

"No. It's sticky."

I'm not so sure a 26-year-old virgin should be so picky, but whatever. He's a good kid. We'll see what happens. And, if it doesn't work out, there's always Kai, whose assessment of me as a "bunny" was spot on when it comes to sex, too.

In the Comments section, tell me the furthest you've ever gone in a movie theater. The winner gets a box of Hamburger Helper. Actually, two, thanks to the sweet buy-one-get-one-free deal at Safeway.

Speak For Yourself

Boo ya, my pretties. Lend me your ear, and you just might get some phone sex.

Good, Bad, but Not Different

For many years, I lived under the impression that people with disabilities, or differently-abled people, or people with challenges, or the good, old fashioned people who use enabling devices, were meek, mild and generally perfect angels.

I was wrong.

People with disabilities can be mean sons of bitches. They can also be slutty, drink to belligerence or generally wreak havoc on the universe with their devious ways. I know this to be fact because, during my freshman year at college while attending Wright State University in Dayton, Ohio, one of my many jobs was working as a personal assistant to people with disabilities.

Wright State is one of the nation's most "accessible" campuses, and thus requires a lot of student employees to do things such as take notes for other students, bathe, toilet and dress them, and generally act as human punching bags.

I worked with several students, in addition to my full schedule of working at the student center box office, working with the office of outdoor recreation, working with the foreign exchange student acclimation department, honors club and getting blind drunk on Popov vodka with Hi-C.

A lot of them, I don't remember. It's amazing how wiping one person's ass is very similar to another's. After a short time, you simply get used to the idea that it's necessary for their existence, and there's nothing to be embarrassed or grossed out by. Okay, there's plenty to be grossed out by, but still. Where my nurses at? Holla if ya hear me!

Still, the physical aspects of the job were cake—we got to wear gloves, my pretties.

The part that stuck with me was that these were people, too. Some of the students I worked with were asshats. Some were douche bags. Some were dickwads. Their abilities had nothing to do with it, and several come to mind.

Kira, was a freshman with cerebral palsy. She was whip smart and mean as a snake. She used to run me over with her wheel chair. I swear to Pete—I can't make this up. I did everything, from get her up in the morning to wipe her bottom before bed. In between, she found time to terrorize me by chasing me down in hallways and showing up at parties and ramming the backs of my knees with her chair at full speed.

As I did her hair in the mornings with a curling iron, she'd suddenly hit the control stick for her chair so she would jerk forward, and the curling iron would inevitably burn me. I've still got scars. Mental and physical.

There was also Jaime, who had spina bifida. She gave more blowjobs than any porn star I've ever seen. The weird part is that someone who was "trained" to care for her had to be close by in case she choked on the semen, and we had to aspirate her.

Let's not forget Ricky, the first and only male I worked with. It's a given that most of the guys will get erections at some point while you're caring for them. No big deal. It's strictly—or largely—physiological. But Ricky liked to play a fun game where he'd unhook his colostomy bag and fling it on you. Ha ha, Ricky! Good one!

After two quarters, I had enough. Indirectly, I blame these handicapped hooligans for pushing me to drop out of college (the first go round). My friends were working at cafeterias bitching about leftover Salisbury steak, meanwhile I was wiping remnants of that leftover Salisbury steak off of someone's bum. Someone who would proceed to blow snot on me with a "My bad. I can't control my bodily functions" addendum.

It sucked, but it also enlightened me in the purest sense of the word. People with disabilities really aren't any different than you or I—at least, not because of their mobility or mental state.

I'm not saying this can apply to your life or that you should assume every person who uses a wheel chair or crutches is out to get you (though you should be careful)—it's just that, as I get older and try to learn more about myself and others, I'm struck with the notion that we're all the same.

Only some of us like to fling poop at other people. Here's to you, Ricky.

In the Comments section, tell me something surprising you learned in college. I would greatly appreciate if the story involved lesbian sex.

Get on Board

So, no resolution to the whole virgin thing. Ya'll seem evenly split on how I should proceed. Thanks for nothing, Interweb. I thought you were supposed to solve all of my problems. Fat lot of good you do me.

Can you tell I'm a little testy today? It's largely because I need to get laid. My body got all excited about the possibility and--boom--it was taken away. I'm going to capitalize on my grumpiness and rant a little bit. Fasten your seatbelt. Literally.

For the record, I think it's great to alert people to the fact that you have a baby on board. I really do. While I'm not sure that people with kids should automatically get special work schedules or parking spaces, I do think it's good to be more mindful of the little buggers when driving.

Think of how helpful it would be if everyone had those day glow diamonds.

Inconsiderate Lover on Board

Habitual Nose Picker on Board

Bad Tipper on Board

Person with A Tendency to Get Really Jealous and Possessive and Yell at You in Front of Your Friends on Board

Farts That Smell Like Cabbage on Board

(Aside tangent: Why do smokers get a smoke break? I don't get to take a bourbon break. Sexaholics don't get a masturbation break. Gambling addicts don't get to duck out four times a day to play the slot machines. I know you're gonna tell me it's really for everyone's good: nick fits, short tempers, relaxation. You don't think a tumbler full of Jim Beam would offer me the same? Bring it on, debaters. I can handle it. Cigarettes killed my Mom, so you're not going to win me over on this one. But, I'd like to hear you try.)

In any case, as a courteous driver anyway, I appreciate that parents with kids might be a little unfocused, tired, trepidatious, what have you. However, that little yellow placard does not give you open license to drive like a butt brain.

I had a lady cut me off this morning then switch back over to the other lane for no reason, without one single flick of a turn signal. I honked to convey my serious disappointment at her inconsideration regarding my road space. At the stop light (ooh! Stop Light Spotlight!), she turned to me and gave me a scowl then pointed to a screaming baby in the backseat.

My guess is the baby was rudely awakened by his mama driving like Bo Duke, not my gentle horn meeping.

The good news, my pretties, is that I met another online friend. Anthony. Also a Sagittarius. Also a writer. Probably not a virgin, though I've been wrong about that before. I'll keep you posted. Cohen is still in the running--no worries--but I feel it's in my best interest to keep my options and my legs open.

In the Comments section, feel free to rant about anything you want. I'm in a bitchy mood, so I'd like to expand the circle of nastiness.

Extra Virgin

It's amazing how a little red wine can really ruin a par-tay.

So, long story short—Cohen was a big hit with the friends at Busta Keeton's and Kimberlicious' par-tay. Everyone seemed impressed by his outgoing demeanor, good sense of humor and 6'4"ishness. There was drinking and laughing and animated conversation and . . . Cohen's unfortunate upsetting of several wine glasses full of sangria, thanks to a gregarious arm-wave. Whoosh.

Red wine on the carpet. Red wine on the iMac. Red wine on the sofa. Red-faced embarrassment on Cohen, who, up until that point, was solidly winning the folks over.

Someone jumped in with the brilliant solution of salt to soak up the wine. Guess what, my pretties? It works! Thank you recent episode of Desperate Housewives!

We used all of Busta's salt, so Cohen and I dashed out for more. Unfortunately, we gave the incorrect impression that we weren't coming back. Many worried phone calls (okay, two worried calls from Megan Jane and Scotty), and we returned with enough salt for an army. Cohen felt awful, so he proceeded to drink more. A lot more.

I, of course, missed the last Metro, as is my style, so Cohen graciously offered to let me stay with him.

I know I alluded to a blow job occurring, and that's kind of true. I did try, but, how shall I say, no rockets went off for him. He didn't even get to the launch pad, know what I'm saying? He blamed alcohol, and I readily accepted. Then we both passed out. How romantic.

Tonight, we spent the evening watching a movie (Broken Flowers. I think they forgot to include the ending in our version. I'm just saying). We cuddled and smooched, and things were happenin': I know the equipment works.

But, when I led him back up to my room, it was all, "Houston, we have a problem," again. Finally, he confessed that he is as pure as the driven snow, and his nerves were getting the best of him. Ain't that some fucked-up shit? The universe's horniest *red-head* gets paired with a virgin.

He said he had hoped to just "slip it pass me." Huh? Is that even possible? Think back to your first time, my pretties—there is nothing suave or couth about losing your virginity.

Despite what you may think, I was quite understanding and supportive. I let him know that if I wasn't the one that was okay. He said, "Oh, no. I want to. I just can't. How does this happen? I spend all of my life waiting for a beautiful woman who likes me and wants to have sex with me, and I can't. Why am I having stage fright?"

"Well," I said, "It's to be expected. You're in the presence of greatness."

The good news is that he couldn't have ended up in better hands. The bad news is that I know what it's like to have to teach a virgin the ropes. It ain't pretty. Cohen said he was rather unattractive during the usual "losing it" times of high school and college, and that he didn't mean for this happen—or NOT happen—it's just kind of the way things worked out. He's in a much better spot now, I promise. He even wears European shoes.

Megan Jane thinks he might be gay. I'm not entirely convinced otherwise. Of course, Megan Jane and I think EVERYONE is gay. We think you might be gay. Just throwing it out there.

In any case, past experience has made me hesitant.

A few years back, a boy by the name of Steve, whose family owned a produce and flower company, started bringing me bouquets and baskets of slightly overripe fruit. Of course, I fell for him, only to find out HE TOO had never done the deed. I took him under my wing and into my bed, and kids, let me tell you—it was the sorriest two minutes of my life.

Now, don't get me wrong—it's a given that the first time will be over in three seconds. Probably even the second and third time will be underwhelming performances. No big deal.

But, I kept track. Of the 21 times we had sex together, it only added up to two minutes total! That's sad. Just plain sad.

I can say, though, that I didn't see this coming because Cohen had a pretty solid repertoire of other skillz, so even though he didn't have liftoff, 123V made it to the moon. Several times, so maybe there's hope.

In the Comments section, tell me what it was like to lose your virginity or what it was like to deflower someone else. Any input you have regarding how I should proceed is welcomed.

FYI: It probably goes without saying, but NO, Cohen does not know about this blog or that I'm telling his bidness to God and everybody, so shut your traps, my pretties.

Goal!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The date . . . was wonderful, my pretties.

Cohen and I arrived at Tryst at the same time, and by way of greeting, there was a sigh of relief and big hugs all around.

He is indeed 6' 4". And handsome, with his sad Jewish eyes, sweet smile, closely cropped hair and his 6' 4"ishness. A stylish dresser, to boot.

We talked and talked and played some Scrabble and talked and talked and ate falafal and talked and talked and made out a little bit. Enough that I know I want more, but not too much that I feel skeevy. A good balance.

So, he's coming to a par-tay tomorrow (at Busta Keeton's and Kimberlicious') and will meet the posse. That will be the real test, but for now, lovelies, revel in the delicious possibility that 123Valerie might be getting laid very soon.

In the Comments section, give me a High 5!

******
UPDATE:

Thanks, Attention Whore, for the suggestion to post a photo. I stole it from his online profile. Is that legal? No matter. It's all I've got . . . for now. Here he is, with his cat, Olympia. Ha!:

Office Space

Something in my office smells like feta cheese.

I have no idea what it is, and because I have an office, and not a cubicle, I can't blame it on some weird guy named Randy who calls his mother 15 times a day. Nope, the fault it definitely mine.

I've searched high and low for the mystery smell, and I can't find it, but I did uncover a few other things:

1. The pocket reflexology guide I need to send to one of the guys I work with who is worth $4 billion. My Mom was a massotherapist and had a reflexology chart in her office for nearly 24 years. I always liked it, so now it's in my office, though I write financially sorts of things, not rub people down.

In any case, the $4 billion man stopped by for a visit the other day. He's a cool cat—likes beer and chicken tenders and, apparently, the idea of someone rubbing his feet, so I found him a wallet-sized reflexology chart to carry around. Now he can command people to rub his feet any time if he has, say, a pain in his pancreas. In which case, he'll want them to concentrate on his foot's arch.

2. EveryDay Detox Tea for healthy liver function. I think we all know that's definitely a must for a gal who likes bourbon.

3. Several healing stones from Megan Jane including Apache Tears, Rose Quartz, Amazonite and Blue Lace Agate. My friend Allison makes beautiful jewelry from healing stones and crystals. Al, you have the Web site up yet?

4. A bag of Herr's Salt and Pepper potato chips. Delicious, though I haven't had any since Monday.

5. About 47 various notes I hang on my door explaining why I'm not in my office including "I'm letting the dog out," "I'm out to lunch," "I'm in the shitter," and "I'm at a 'doctor's' appointment."

6. An Elvis statue. Thank you, thank you very much, Elvi, for your professional guidance.

7. A packet of honey from #1 Laura. I don't know why.

8. An exorbitant amount of naked baby pictures of my nephews and niece. And one naked photo of my friend, high-flying Double A. No, that's not true. But, Double A once showed me a porn video featuring Simon Rex, most noted for his stint as an MTV VJ, in which Simon was humping a rug. That's something you don't forget.



9. Papers. Lots and lots of papers.

10. A Yoda Pez dispenser the nice people at work handed out on Halloween. Powerful you have become, the dark side I sense in you, feta cheese aroma.

11. Business cards. With my name on them. That's silly. Business cards are for grownups.

12. Several Moby Dick's takeout menus. Just in case I have a kubidah emergency.

13. Half-eaten box of Girl Scout cookies (Samoas), which I have not touched since Monday, thank you goddamn diet.

Alright, 13 seems a good round number on which to stop. I've gotta get back to work, which means I'll close my door now so I look very important and busy.

In the Comments section, tell me what's in your work space. The winner of the coolest item gets my remaining Girl Scout cookies, including a box of Tag-Alongs and another full box of Samoas at home.

Cohen Head

(The Lovin' Spoonful's Do You Believe in Magic? playing softly in the background.)

Yahoo, kids! I have a date tomorrow with a very nice Jewish boy by the name of Cohen. For those of you who don't know, Jewish boys are kryptonite to me. He's a witty Sagittarius that makes as many plays on words as I do. And that's a lot. He's also 6' 4" and plays the cello! The cello! Let me say it again: the cello!

We're meeting for coffee. How grownup! How mature! How not involving alcohol! This will be the first date in at least five years that did not begin with, "I'll have a double Beam and Coke, please." Good for me!

I love blind dates. I really do. I know a lot of people dread them, but it's like unwrapping a Christmas (or Hanukkah) gift. Sometimes, you get a pack of underpants and sometimes you get a Tiffany bracelet. I could use either right now.

Emmie's got it right, tho: it's best to be happy single before you can expect happiness in a relationship. Rest assured, I've spent months being happy single--just not any of the recent months like October, September, August or July. I'll keep you posted.

In the Comments section, tell me if you have a "type" or a characteristic a crush must have. Not that boys or gals must be Jewish for me--it just helps. I think it's the fobidden element. I'm a Catholic shiksa. And also frequently a meshugena.

********
Update:

My friend and office neighbor Terri Z is also Jewish. I told her about the date and she asked, "Have you heard the joke about the jogging Jewish guy?"

Me: "No."

TZ: "Can I sexually harass you?"

Well, that's a no-brainer, TZ. Go right ahead.

A Jewish guy is running with a hard on and he runs into a wall. Which part of his body does he hit first?

His nose.

Ba dum chi.

Can I say again--I love Jewish boys.

There May Be Plenty of Fish in the Sea, but They Still Smell Like Fish

I finally got some replies to my online dating profile. I think I'm quite a catch, but apparently these pirates are only into easy to plunder booty and not the buried treasure within 123Valerie.

So, while I'm ecstatic I haven't been totally passed over, I'm a little less than thrilled with what's washed up on the shore. I'm also less than thrilled with this whole nautical/pirate thing I'm trying to do here. Let me just share some highlights with you:

From Statix, Male aged 22:

If you wanted to pull my body closer to yours, which part of my shirt would you grab?

I can't make this up, kids. Probably by the collar, Statix. Very tightly.

From Lucretius 5, Male aged 35:
I am a Scientist (PhD in Microbiology). Being a Scientist is more than just a job, it is a commitment to Derivable-Truth. Even if Science didn't provide us with a basis for superior technology, this would still make it a worthy human endeavor.

Beyond Science, I am writing a Sci-Fi story, and occasionally participate in D&D games with my friends.

Okay, to be fair, I was with him on the science thing. It's not my bag, but you've got to admire his commitment. But, D&D after the age of 16? No, I don't think so.

From MaddieT, Female aged 34:
Hey sexy. I'm shy. Want to come over and fuck me?

Somehow, I just don't buy that she's an introvert. The interesting thing here, my pretties, is that I only set my preferences for dudes to cut down on some of the "come join our threesome" messages. Still, Maddie sought me out.

I'm less than thrilled so far, but tonight I'm meeting up with my friend Miss Jones, with whom I used to work at Max & Erma's, slinging chocolate chip cookies and beer behind the bar.

It was very hard working at a dorky place like Max & Erma's when my friend Kristina Hot Pants got to work at a cool bar, called Champ's, that actually encouraged people to get drunk instead of eat baked goods.

In any case, Miss Jones and I are having Mongolian barbecue, which I love. There's something very sexy about those adolescent boys with the sticks caressing my food as it sizzles.

Okay, I need to get laid. I wonder if Maddie is online.

In the Comments section, tell me how you feel about Mongolian barbecue and/or adolescent boys with sticks. The winner gets my online dating throwbacks. And some fish sticks that I can't eat on my new diet. Ugh.

Someone Has Set Veruca Salt Free in My Brain

I am having a hard time focusing today.

I am worried that the cilantro I bought at the grocery store yesterday will be all wilty and gross by the time I get home to make enchiladas verdes tonight. (It probably won't be, and even if it is, it gets pureed, so it's not a big deal.)

I am worried about telling my parents I'd rather spend Christmas with Adelka and Justin than them. (Alice says this is perfectly normal, and given the dismal fuck-upedness of Yule Times Past, she says it's good to create new, positive associations or something like that.)

I am worried I will never find love. (That's just plain silly. I should clarify that I'm worried I will never find the calming, comfortable silences, cookies in bed, bubble baths together kind of love that makes you feel full. I'm sure I could easily get the wacked out, jealous phone calls at 3 a.m., passed out on my door step, false stories of terminal illness kind of love. I don't want that kind. By the way—still no messages in the dating inbox. Gah.)

I am worried that the personal trainer gym guy I'm supposed to consult with tomorrow will be abnormally short and will fall madly in love with me, and thus I'll be stuck with a petite, beefy stalker. (This one is kind of founded because his name is Andy, and every Andy I've ever known has been about 5' 2". He's called me three times since Thursday to confirm our appointment and sent me two e-mails to make sure I have the directions. Maybe he just intuitively knows I need to lose 10 pounds.)

I am worried that I will always feel this way: stressed out, tired and willing to settle.

To be fair, my pretties, and to quiet your mind that I'm not curled up in a urine-soaked corner somewhere clutching an empty bottle of Wild Irish Rose, this is what happens when I don't take enough time out of my life to relax—I get anxious and immobile and kind of dark. This is not the real me: this is the 123Valerie who does what she is supposed to, rather than what she knows is best for her.

Does that ever happen to you? You get so busy living your life for other people that you forget to take a minute for yourself? That stinks, no?

I will be fine, as soon as I start listening to that little voice in my head that says, "Stop. Just stop. You can't do everything, and you shouldn't try."

Right now, I've got a motherfucker screaming at me, "Now. Now! NOW!" about every gosh durn thing in my life: work, housework, bills, relationships, exercise, family, friends and finishing at least one of the 17 stories I have going right now.

Yeah, I'm freaking out a little bit. Just a tiny emotional crisis. So, what's new with you?

In the Comments section, tell me what's new with you and/or what's worrying you right now. The winner gets, well, the opportunity to vent.

Get Off the Fence, Post

Well, my pretties, thank you so much to all of you who lent me your ears for yesterday's debacle, on and off the blogline. I did write her back with a message that said, "I wish you well, but I don't want you back in my life." She simply wrote back "No worries," so I'm not. I feel good about it, and Mist 1, I did tell her to eat more broccoli to prevent the cancer from coming back.

Alright. No I didn't, but Mist 1, my newest Interweb friend, brings me to an important point—the ever growing blogroll to the right of the screen.

There's an important lesson to be learned here, kids. If you stop by to visit, please leave a comment. First, I will get excited, jump up and down a little bit, and then I will zip over to your blog to find out how singularly talented you are. Chances are good that if you tickle me in any way—especially my tummy—you will end up on my Blogroll of Fame, where You're Gonna Live Forever. It's a beautiful thing. I think you're all hot stuff, and I want the world to give me credit for having amazing taste. We both win.

Alright. Housekeeping aside, I signed up for an online dating match thingy last night. Eek. Oh my Lord. Megan Jane made me do it. She told me my heart chakra is blocked, and it's next to impossible to unblock it myself—believe me, I've tried with some of the stuff Will sent me.

I generally have an "eh. no thanks" attitude toward these things, but I got to thinking. If I'm a quality, sweet piece of ass who's simply having a hard time meeting non-douche bags in this city, there are probably other quality sweet pieces who are having a hard time, as well. And it's very likely they've turned to the same online outlet for help.

I spent the better part of last night constructing my profile. How do I convince complete strangers in a couple of paragraphs that I'm as awesome as it gets? And also modest.

It's hard, especially because I don't like any of the digital photos I have of myself. I just wanted to slap a picture of my cleavage up there, but that's against the site's rules. Whatevs. They don't know what they're missing.

I got a couple of messages, but they were from people 70 miles away, and while I haven't been laid in some time, I'm not about to journey to the center of the earth for a roll in the hay. Yet.

I'll keep you posted. In the meantime, you keep posting. Deal?

In the Comments section, leave me a comment. It's novel. It's innovative. It just might work. Any delurkers get to see the picture of my cleavage OR the actual thing—your choice.

X Wants to be your friend!

So, kids, just when you thought this blog was turning into the ramblings of bumbling drunkenness and the rants of an (unfairly) single gal, I've got something serious for you. Your advice is appreciated--I do best with objective counsel.

Here goes:

Last eve, I got a new MySpace friend request. Unusual because I only have an account to visit other peoples' pages--I don't maintain mine AT ALL.

It was from a girl I knew a long time ago. But, probably not long enough, though. Anyway, ya'll should know, that I have an open heart when it comes to love, meaning I don't care a whit what's in your pants, as long as you're hot and buy me things.

Alright. As long as you're hot and a good person. Geez. So, this fucking "friend request" was from the first girl I ever you know with. I was 17, and she was crazy. And also 17. I'll call her X. I thought I loved her, then realized I didn't and X went crazier.

Then she told me she was dying of cancer. Now, in hindsight, of course, that was preposterous--she looked healthy, was still in school, etc. etc. etc. But, to a naive adolescent, it was completely plausible. So, I fell back in love with her, or probably fell into a big pile of fear about losing her. When you're 17, it's the same thing.

I told my parents. Not that X and I were making out, but that she was sick and dying. My parents were concerned because they are Good People who already had to pick X up in the middle of the night because her step dad beat her up. She did not have a stable home life, to say the least. (Sidenote: my parents were actually considering adopting X after that incident. Of course, they urged her to file police reports, but she didn't want to. End sidenote.)

My parents believed the story, too, I'm afraid. They were most concerned that her medical needs weren't being met in her crazy house and wanted to do anything they could to help.

Before they could offer their help, I talked to another friend of mine who had also fallen prey to X, who seemed to be running all over town awakening young girls to the pleasures of female flesh. This is another weird part of the story, kind of incestuous and gross, but, what's to be done now?

Anyway, I said to this girl, "I don't know what to do about X. I just can't believe she's going to die, etc. etc. etc."

Other Girl: "No she's not. She's lying. She tried that on me when I broke up with her, too."

123Valerie: Speechless

(I can hear a lot of you who know me smacking your foreheads right now. "That's why 123V is not so good at relationships." Exactly, kids. Makes it a little hard to trust folks after that.)

So, I am not proud to admit that I didn't immediately confront her. She spent the night at my house, with my parents doting on her, and we you know. The next morning was horrific for so many reasons.

As I was driving X back home, I finally mustered up the courage? strength? cajones? and told her that it was over. Then I sped away from her. Very brave, 123V. Smooth.

When I returned home, my Dad was in the kitchen and simply said, "I heard you last night."

Ugh. Oh. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. Nononononononononononononononononononononono.

There was much drama. Especially when I told them that I just ended it because I found out that X lied about having cancer. Oh, my parents were livid. You can imagine. On the upside, they ultimately said they supported whomever I brought home, as long as they were not crazy or diabolical.

Still, shortly thereafter, I packed up and moved to Ohio with my Mom to finish out my high school career, away from X. She followed me, I'm afraid, but to Pennsylvania with her grandma. We still wrote and called, which signals just how royally fucked up I am.

When I left for college, we met up a couple of times, but I finally ended all contact for good when I was 19. I don't even remember why. It was anti-climactic.

Anyway, the point is X sent me a fucking MySpace friend request. There is so much wrong with this, that I don't even know where to start. A little therapy, some life experience and examples of non-fucked up relationships have taught me a lot along the way, but I can see she didn't get the lessons.

But, my dilemma, kids, is do I ignore it? Or do I send a "wish you well, but please don't contact me again" response. Of course, I am insanely curious, but letting her back in my life is not an option. She's already taken up too much of my day with this nonsense.


Also, her MySpace page? Ridiculous. The "About Me" section: "Trouble. I'm a mess ;)"

You can say that again.

In the Comments section, give me your two cents.