Online and Off My Rocker

Me: Hi. I appreciate that you write so openly about your sexual nature in your profile. I agree with you that all sex is natural ... provided there are no animals or children.

Travis313: Yeah, I mean as long as there are no real children. Role play can be cool, though.

Me: [complete pause in the typing while I make that "eww" face at my computer screen.] No. Not like that, it can't. You are the weakest link. Goodbye.

So, the online dating continues. I had a lovely date tonight--Doug_From_Pittsburgh. Not a love connection as of yet, but most certainly a "like" connection.

Odd, though, I have another meet 'n greet tomorrow at the same restaurant where Doug_From_Pittsburgh and I went--I wonder if the wait staff will think I'm a hussy? Before tonight's date, the last time I went to said restaurant, #1Laura and I left our numbers for two of the dudes who worked there. Because we are classy like that.

My note read something like, "U R hot. Call me!" I can't imagine why I never heard from the curly-haired waiter in section 3. It could have been so beautiful ...

I'll keep yins posted on this weekend's remaining dates if you promise to keep Travis313 far, far, far away from me. For the record, role playing in any scenario is never cool, (it might be sexy, but not cool) but especially when it involves pretending fornication with a child. 123V has spoken, and it is so.

In the Comments section, tell me if you've ever found love or like or lust from a Web site. I need a pep talk, my pretties.

Real Friends Make You Cry

So, I know it's bad when I get a "Hey, Lady, where are you?" query from the great James Burnett.

Contrary to popular belief, I was not suffering a drunken stupor in a puddle of my own (or someone else's) urine or in a Turkish prison or kidnapped by a cult.

I have been online dating.

Yep. You read right: dating. Online. I have been wooing and winking and IMing my cute little ass off, and because none of you people ever tell me that you want to "suck those big titties" of mine (thank you, SexyandSingle616), I felt my time was better served at the hookup sites.

Alright. That's kind of true. And a lot more fun than saying I was suffering from general malaise, but that's actually more true. However, I have promising plans with a one Mr. SpaceMonkey76 and Doug_From_Pittsburgh.

As exciting as those prospects are, they weren't quite enough to get me over the funk hump. That bad spell was broken last night when Megan Jane gathered some of my favoritist people to celebrate me, for tomorrow is my birthday. I will be 27 on the 27th. I was told there was a word for that. Anyone know what it is?

In any case, there was a word for last night: awesome. My darling Megan Jane got all of our peeps to meet at a lovely Asian place. #1Laura, 567Devin, Camerooooooon, Dane, Jason, JennyJenny8675309, John, Kate, Kristin, Matty, Megan Jane, Scotty and Shea all ventured out. (No idea who these people are? Check it out.)

In true Megan Jane style, she aimed for big, floppy birthday tears, and, boys oh boys, she got 'em. She made everyone write down nice things about me. Because I am a vain Aries, here are a few of the highlights about how wonderful I am:

From Jason:

Even though I am skeptical about your unwavering conviction in astrology, your music has made me cry, your blog is hilarious, and your article about how to give a blowjob is God's gift to mankind.

If you think the article is good, J ...

From Kristin:

She gathers others. Together. To her. She makes them feel loved. She loves too much, too deeply for her own good and it is beautiful.

Yeah, I just lost it over this one.

From Kate:

I am too hungover to write a poem. Therefore: I O U 1 poem.

Beers before tears, Home Girl.

From Matty:

Everyone loves you. You smell nice and you have a happy smile.

Thank you, Mattress. Rose water is why I smell so good, and the blowjobs are why everyone loves me.

From Megan Jane:

You came to my rescue at just the right time and taught me a lot about leaving the mold. Shortly thereafter, my V-neck Gap sweater and penny loafers evolved into nudity.

Out of context, this sounds mighty odd. Actually, in context this sounds mighty odd. That's why I lurve me some Megan Jane.

From Scotty:

Once the menace of the BattleBots has been completely understood and evaluated, the plan quickly sprang forth to develop and design a Star Eater-based Automaton. The Valtron Project quickly evolved into the solar system's sole outer planetary defense policy.

I'm a robot who saved the universe. All in a day's work.

Oh, I cried after hearing all of these, my pretties. I snotted, yes I did. Man, I am seriously the luckiest girl on the planet. So, all it took was the tremendous love of good friends to snap me out of the funk.

Consider me unfunky henceforth. Most people already do.

Tomorrow is the actual big day, and it is also Sean P.K.'s birthday. We are telling people that we were Siamese twins. Because we can. There's a hockey game followed by some light-hearted debauchery on the books. Many of the same friends who lifted me up with their beautiful words will be along to see me fall down (and pull my pants up) tomorrow.

Nothing says "adulthood" like binge drinking and making out with strangers.

In the Comments section, tell me how you celebrated your last birthday. By the way, Megan Jane made the best "fun drinks" ever: blueberry/pomegranate juice with champagne and fresh berries.

Shear Horror

"I'd like a Bloody Mary with a dill pickle please," I said to our waiter.

"A what?"

"A Bloody Mary please," I reiterated.

"I'm sorry. I still didn't catch that. Can you say again?"

"Um, no I can't. I'm sorry. I'll have a glass of Riesling."

I can't EVER say the phrase "Bloody Mary" three times in a row because, once when I was seven, my friend Lura said that if I did, I would die instantly.

Other irrational beliefs I hold on to: don't look into mirrors in dark rooms because ghosts will pop out and eat your face, my insistence that if I drive barefoot I will be arrested and never, ever speak up even if a hair stylist is butchering your hair.

I become paralyzed by hair stylists. I have no idea why.

A little background, my pretties: I am a real-live, honest to goodness beauty school dropout. I have nearly 1,000 hours of cosmetology education and practical training in the great state of North Carolina. I am an alumna of the distinguished Hair Stylist Academy in Statesville.

I had kind of a mini-breakdown the first time I left college. 19 years old, aimless and addicted to Manic Panic, it seemed like a brilliant plan. Too bad I wasn't very good at it. It's almost sitcom cliché, kids, but I gave my Dad green hair. And not in a good way.

Anyhoo, point is, I can speak the lingo—I know how to ask for what I need.

Somehow, though, Shirin, a licensed professional since January 2007, took "I'd like you to use a razor for a one-inch trim all the way around with about a 45-degree angle. Keep the shortest layer below the base of my occipital, and the back could use some texturizing, as it's been laying a little heavy" to mean "chop off nine inches."

Yep. Ya heard me: I went in with loverly hair cascading down my back, and now I've got a "cute" mop of curls that falls barely to my shoulders. And I sat there mute the whole time just praying, "Please stop, Shirin. Please, just stop. Think of the children, Shirin. Stop this madness. It doesn't have to be this way."

All drama aside, it's actually very kicky. I feel like Mary Tyler Moore. Actually, I feel like a Bloody Mary. Bloody Mary. Bloody Mmm …

Ack. Gasp. Eek. I think I'm dying.

Well, at least I have cute hair.

In the Comments section, tell me your hair horror stories.

Writing a Post with a Point Is for Nerds

I am boycotting Daylight Savings Time and this country's incessant need to get me to "spring forward": I'm rewinding all the way back to the weekend. It's 2007. Get over it, my pretties.

Cleaning my bathroom for the second time in one week was the first tip off that a big weekend was ahead.

The fact that I had stocked the house with beers and wines and more beers and had resolved NOT to drink them until the company arrived was the other sign. Alcohol doesn't live very long in our house.

JennyJenny8675309 will attest to that--the basement "beer fridge" is chiefly my domain, just as it's understood that the ice cream freezer is hers. It usally takes nothing short of a royal visit or paralysis to keep me from dipping into a stash.

So, why all the fuss, you might ask? Or you might not. You'll get the answer either way: My lovely Adelka Ann and Justin P. were in town for a visit from Connect-i-cut.

Justin P. is a wicked talented sculptor and is having a show at one of our friends' houses, which just happens to be a castle. There's been some debate over at a blog that a friend of mine keeps, but it is, in fact, a castle as determined by the architecture and defensive strategy that went into building it.

Whatever. That's boring.

Suffice to say we had an vunderful time. Adelka Ann's mojitos made me believe that unicorns were real.



So, hey, all of this good news and you may be asking, "Why the slightly manic 'Behind' post the other day, 123Valerie?" Again, even if you're not asking, here it comes: dunno.

Hormones. El Nino. Too much dairy. I'm feeling a schwee bit anxious these days. I've got a birthday coming up (Aries in the da house, biznatches!) which is always good for some serious over analyzing. In true 123Valerie fashion, there are a lot of things I want to do, but I'm not doing any of them. (Some say a fear of success holds me back. Others say I'm lazy. I'm just to0 scared and too comfortable on the couch to look into it.)

I did, however, get off the couch this weekend for a game of Corn Hole with Megan Jane, Har Har Harwell and another friend of ours. If you're not familiar, Corn Hole is essentially a backyard bean bag toss mixed with beer and unhealthy doses of competitiveness.

Megan Jane introduced us to the game, which hails from Cincinnati, Ohio, a town also known for its chili. As per usual, we managed to mangle this innocent backyard sport into something so far outside of its usual scope that our war cry became, "Throw some beans on that bitch," in honor of our new favorite rap game, Rich Boy. Did I mention that we are so, so white?

So, where does all of this leave us? Well, I don't know about you, but I've got to put away some laundry. And write You'd Never Guess a thank you note for sending me an early birthday gift in the form of photos of her body art, which may or may not be slightly naked. Or they may be. Life is good.

I've been so busy yapping about myself, I forgot to ask how you were. In the Comments section, tell me how you're doing.

The Sun Don't Shine on the Same Dog's Behind Every Day

Behind.

That is the word of the day. As in: I am so behind. I need a kick in the behind. I need something to get behind. Left behind. I would like someone to mount me from behind.

Behind.


I'm making a concerted effort to switch that to "Be Kind," but that doesn't really make any sense grammatically. Well, fuck it, it's just a nicer sentiment.

I'll be back in full force soon.

In the Comments section, tell me something good.

Stuffed Up

Once a month, the school nurse would come in the classroom, smelling like band aids, and make us fork over a pencil to trace our soft, little craniums in search of head lice.

One day, in the first grade, she found them. A sad waif of a girl, whose last name was fittingly Ratcliff, had infested the whole class. I sat behind her and could actually see the little buggers crawling around, but before the school nurse gasped, that fact didn't strike me as odd.

"Ho hum, she's got bugs crawling around in her hair. Doo doo doo doo ..." Besides, watching them was far more entertaining than practicing my cursive Q.

School let out early that day and a panicked mimeograph informing our parents of the "situation" was tucked in our back packs, along with orders not to return to school until we were all nit free.

Most of us just had them in the egg stage, so with a little Nix, we were fine. But our parents were instructed to launder everything in our houses and toss ALL STUFFED ANIMALS.

Bye bye Tom. Bye bye Jelly. Bye bye Weep. I fought with my Dad about Purple so vehemently that he finally relented and sprayed the poor thing with industrial strength pesticide. My Dad promptly gave Purple back to me, and I buried my face in the stitching on his furry, little tummy that proclaimed, "Happiness is You!" This may or may not account for the growth of my third arm bud.

In any case, there was one stuffed object that I confiscated and hid away until it was safe, for I would not part with it for all of the Fun Dip Lik-M-Aids in the world. A neighborhood boy by the name of Rudy Comer had given me a stuffed heart the week before.

After we finished watching The Goonies at his house, he walked me home, carrying a brown paper bag. He led me behind a dumpster, pulled the stuffed red heart out of the bag and kissed me. Just an innocent, little first grade kiss, but the stuffed heart remained long after Rudy ran off and yelled, "If you tell anyone, I'll kick you."

Needless to say, I didn't want to jeopardize our relationship, so I didn't tell anyone, and lice be damned, I was NOT going to give that red heart up. Shortly there after, my Dad met my first Step Mom, so we moved to the town where I would eventually meet Megan Jane and Scotty. Rudy Comer was gone, but not forgotten.

I came across that red heart the other day, and it struck me just how much it resembles my own heart: a little scruffy and beat up, hidden away for a long, long time. Just waiting to be found and appreciated.

Bwah. While I'm waxing poetic about my sad heart, in the Comments section, tell me if ya'll happen to know Rudy Comer. His last name alone is enough to make the thought of finding him fill me with delicious hope and delirium.

Be Healed

"That guy is here because one of the dogs at PetSmart bit his face," I proudly announced to Matty, somewhere around Hour 2 in the Hagerstown community hospital waiting room.

At that point, we were convinced that Matty would see a doctor any minute for his dislocated shoulder, an unfortunate skiing accident. My eavesdropping skills served as a "fun" diversion, while Matty sat there shirtless and shivering, adorned with a suspect gauze sling fashioned by the snow patrol.

"Does it feel weird to sit around without your shirt on?" I wondered.

"No," he said, "because I'm not fat," which unfortunately hurt us in the end. Hordes of fat people with labored breathing and tummies pouring over their elastic waist bands cut to the front of the emergency line.

We had plenty of time to recap the day's events. I remember asking the paramedics at the ski lodge's first aid center, "Is there room for me to ride in the back of the ambulance with him?"

One of Podunk's finest scratched his beer belly through a t-shirt, sucked his tooth to remove what I imagine was a piece of gristle leftover from his scrapple sandwich from lunch and said, "Welp, they'd probly let you ride up front if ya wanted ta."

"AWESOME!!!," I thought to myself, "Maybe they will let me flash the sirens."

I looked at Matty, laid out on a stretcher in his blue socky feet, wearing a look that said, "Just get me drugs as soon as possible."

The paramedic made our decision for us. "Of course, yins could always drive him to the hospital your own selves. It'd be quicker, and it might be a more comfortable ride for him. With a dislocated shoulder like that, he ain't gonna want ta be bouncin' around in the back."

"Alright. Geez, I guess I'll sacrifice a ride in an ambulance for Matty's comfort and safety. Gah."

We needn't have hurried.

Near Hour 5 of the emergency room wait, the conversation dried up to point that I asked Matty, "If you had to eliminate one food group, which one would it be?" (Dairy or grains, he decided, by the way. I went for meat. This question may have actually been a step up from, "If you had to live without nipples or a belly button, which would it be?" We were divided on that one.)

We left the hospital with Matty not so much "healed" as placated with a prescription for pain pills.

While we waited for our skiing compatriots who would safely get us back home, we trudged through the streets of Hagerstown in search of our version of utopia: a Mexican restaurant called El Paso that offered drinks and food, in that order.

My margaritas were lethal, and coupled with the alcohol still left in my body from the night before, a 7 a.m. wake up call and the exhaustion that comes from worrying about someone you care for, I was drunk in a matter of nano seconds.

I am officially blaming this detail on the first fight in my and Matty's friendship. I awoke to confront him with an accusation: "You yelled at me last night, Matty, and told me to shut up."

"I didn't yell at you. I just asked you to stop whining," he countered.

"I wasn't whining," I whined. "I was expressing myself."

"You were expressing yourself in a whiny manner," he said. I couldn't argue with that. See, over the course of the evening, the head cold I fought off all last week won out, and I found myself drunk, tired and sick, which has only one conclusion: whining.

Thankfully, my friend, Theresa (who had a birthday yesterday! Wheeeeeee!), sent me an amazing selenite crystal used for healing purposes AND connecting with the dead. I tried to use it for Matty's shoulder, but he refused on the grounds that it was "flaky."


My Mom came through loud and clear, though, and told me that, if she were forced to, she'd rather have lived without a belly button. Also that it's not classy to steal surgical gloves.

How true. Had Matty been thinking, he could have been the proud owner of a crash cart, too. I'm not sharing.

In the Comments section, give Matty a get well wish and Theresa a birthday greeting. And/Or tell me if you've ever taken anything from a doctor's office. The winner gets Matty's hospital bracelet.