Monday, December 27, 2004

I am not dead

I will be on blog hiatus this week. As I will not have regular access to a computer.

But I am not dead.

Unless I don't post on Monday. Then, the possibilities are infinite.

Sunday, December 26, 2004

What's in a name?

I've been musing over how to boost traffic to my blog. Not sure why, cause it really doesn't matter, I guess.

But I have no way of knowing how many people actually visit me. I've tried some of those counters, BraveNet and the like, but I'm not tech savvy enough to figure them out. Even cooler are those of you who will say "Who's been reading all my archives from San Jose???" How I WISH I would know. But my only count is comments.

Don't get me wrong, as a relatively new blogger, I'm quite pleased with the amount (and quality) of semi-regular LCN readers. I've been trying to grow readership by seeking out other people's blogs and leaving comments for them, hoping they'll leave comments for me, or better yet, give me a link! w00t!

But I think that a blog name change might be in order. So many blogs have so many links that only names that are sassy, saucy and sexy ... or at least interesting, will jump out.

Byte Vibes sounds like an invitation to all the computer geeks that spend all their live long day blogging .... oh, wait ...

Some of the names I have considered: Jailbait; Cotton Candy Boobies; I Touch Myself; Pissy Kitty (I think there's already a Pissed Kitty); Girl on Girl Video; Super Hot Sex Kitten; I've Got All the Meth, Porn and White Snake that Any Sailor Could Want ...

None of them seem to fit. I wouldn't want a potential reader to think that my blog was Oh So Sexy (like dee's) only to find out that it was only sexy in a "2am-last-call-sort-of-way," according to ACW. What DOES that mean?

So for now, I will change the blog title to La Chat Noir.

At least I'll have a chance of popping up next time someone googles Super Hot Jailbait Sex Porn Video.

Saturday, December 25, 2004

Count down to Christmas presents

My mother is obsessed with being ferociously fair. She always has been.

Each year at Christmas, she is careful that each child has the same number of gifts to unwrap. The total sum of each child's gifts is relatively equal. If one child has a large box, then the others need a large box to open, too.

When we were younger, our presents were not addressed to us by name, they were addressed to us by number. So we never knew whose presents were whose.

A card in our stocking would list our numbers. 3, 5, 8, 14, 17 ... something like that.

Christmas gift distribution operated much like a bingo parlor. We'd all man our stations, my sister always sits closest to the tree. Somehow she became the designated present handler. She'd call a number, we'd all consult our cards, the gift recipient would shout, "Oh, that's me!"

Mom no longer does the Christmas present lottery. But my sister couldn't let it die.

So this morning, we all consulted our cards, as she rattled off numbers attached to gifts she'd bought ...

Seven-hundred-ninety-four-thousand-six-hundred-and-forty ...


Damn ... off by a number.

Has anyone seen Balthasar?

We hide the wise men.

The very three wise men who are part of the Ugly Baby Jesus nativity set. We hide them.

When we were young, our mother set that particular nativity set up in our dry sink, with the shepherds, cow, sheep, Mary et al. in the sink. There are three shelves above the sink, and the wise men began their journey on the top shelf, stage right.

As the days counted down to Christmas, they moved closer and closer to the manger scene. Until Christmas day, when they arrived at the creche. I know, not exactly in keeping with the story, but they go back in a box by New Year's. What do you expect?

Now, that nativity is set up on the bar (sacrilege!) in the family room and the wise men make their trek across the kitchen floor.

One Christmas, several years ago, I woke up one morning and went to move the wise men, only to find that they had gone MIA.

They turned up the following afternoon in the freezer. And then they were found in a snow boot... a bathroom cabinet... a cereal box.

The finder becomes the hider. The wise men are always placed in a locale where someone will undoubtedly come across them.

And they always manage to make their appearance at the side of our Ugly Baby Jesus come Christmas morning.

Where they spend the meantime is nobody's business.

Unless they've taken cover in a panty drawer.

Friday, December 24, 2004

It's tradition

Christmas at the Noir house brings with it a collection of odd traditions. Every family has its traditions, but when I tell friends back home of some of ours, the customary response is... What?

We put out a nativity with an Ugly Baby Jesus. It's actually my favorite of all my mother's nativity sets. (She has several). It's a collection of unpainted wooden pieces that are independent of each other. Not hot glued down in a cheap pine stable with bows of holly and what not.

Each piece is intricately carved, the shepherds' staffs can all slide out of their arms, and have long been lost. And the baby Jesus can be removed from his manger, where, if memory serves me, there is an imprint of his body carved into the hay. You see, I haven't seen that baby Jesus in quite some time.

One year, when my sister was about 6 years-old, she brought home a baby Jesus that she had made in elementary school (we went to Catholic school, all you separation of church and state people!).

It's made out of dough, as far as we can tell. Basically a log that is his body, a ball that is his head. A yellow pipe cleaner serves as a halo. My sister scratched a sad pair of eyes and crooked mouth into his ball head that somewhat reminds me of Jack Skellington. He rests in an oblong aluminum baking tray and he's about the size of Mary, Joseph, the lamb and the cow all put together.

She offered him to my mother, asking "Mom, can we use my baby Jesus this year?"

His arms have since disintegrated into several tiny pieces. His halo has lost much of its yellow fuzz and is now a crude, bare wire. His head is decapitated from his body.

Yet, here we are, nearly 20 years later. Along with our toilet paper roll angels, shredded wheat wreaths, and construction paper santas ... we're still putting out our Ugly Baby Jesus.

Thursday, December 23, 2004

Follow the foreigner to the nearest exit

A long day of flying today! Whew!

Normally, I am not squeamish about flying at all. Airplane crashes and reddish-orangy-burnt-umber homeland security alerts do not phase me.

So today, like any other flight day, I filed onto my 737, shoved my bag into an overhead bin, took my seat and started reading my current book, David Sedaris' Me Talk Pretty One Day.

I am a fairly frequent flier, so I had the good sense to ask for seat reassignment at the gate, since I noted how full the flight was when I checked in from the comfort of my office chair nearly 18 hours before take-off.

I was sitting in one of the exit rows, in an aisle seat. Among the largest group of non-English speaking Italians that I have ever encountered. Which is to say, there were four of them.

Three sat in the row in front of me. The fourth sat across the aisle from me, in the window seat.

The flight steward (is that the masculine of stewardess? Or should I just say attendant???) came by to ask for verbal confirmation that each of us seated in the exit row is willing and capable to assist the crew in the unlikely event of an emergency landing. That we agreed to follow crew instructions and assist other passengers in leading them to the exit.

He received verbal confirmation from the five of us, but the Italian lady just kept digging through her bag. "Ma'am? Ma'am? Are you willing and capable-"

A helpful gentleman seated next to her told Mr. Flight Attendant, "She doesn't speak any English ... so unless you speak Italian..."

Mr. Flight Attendant chuckled with amusement and bragged "I know some Greek, but not Italian." And then he walked away. Leaving my life in the hands of a 65 year-old Italian woman who could only speak one word to me that I might understand.

And in the unlikely event of an emergency, I couldn't imagine her shouting "cannoli!"

Friday, December 17, 2004

Secret Santa Insanity

Everyone in the office is going crazy trying to figure out who their Secret Santa is. I think I've figured mine out.

I received a scratch off lottery ticket and $5 cash this week. Both tacky gifts that might implicate a few possibilities ...

But the thing that gave it away ... this one guy has stopped by my office to talk with me more this week than he has the entire two years I've worked for this company.


And along the Secret Santa thought ...

-----Original Message-----
From: Ribbon hogging sales director
Sent: Friday, December 17, 2004 2:26 PM
To: Entire Office
Subject: To my Secret Santa

I am officially mad at you. I have my limits and they begin with [Nice, if a little dumb, HR guy]'s Pants. The toilet paper prank was officially mean, and I find your sense of humor, frankly, to be "third grade." Whoever you are, this is my official resignation in the Secret Santa game.

P.S. Unless you bring a cool gift tonight and TOTALLY REDEEM YOURSELF!


At least MY Secret Santa didn't send me on a scavenger hunt through the building that lead to someone's pants!

The great gift exchange

SO, I took Anonymous Coworker's suggestion of getting my boss a copy of Where's Waldo? with Waldo circled in permanent marker on every page. I also gave him a bottle that I made in pott'ry class, even though a-b-c-dee advised against giving handmade pots for Christmas.

Anyway, I sneakily deposited my gifts on his desk before he came in the office this morning. Then, around 9am, he came by my office and said, "I wanted to be first, but this way I could reuse your gift bag."

And inside the gift bag I had just given him were printouts for a big city show. With an e-mail printout that said the tickets were being sent to him. The printouts were dated Dec. 17, 8:57 am.

It really was a sweet idea, if an afterthought. And it's a show I've wanted to see. But I thought it was a bit odd that he didn't run the dates by me first. The printout says that the tickets are nontransferable, nonexchangeable, nonrefundable... so, um, hope living-in-sin boyfriend and I are not doing anything that night ...

Thursday, December 16, 2004

From La Chat Noir's InBox


Adulthood: Next Exit

Everyone keeps asking me if I'm going home for Christmas.

I guess the answer is yes, although I no longer think of my parents' house as home.

It happened unexpectedly.

In hindsight, I suppose there had been signs. After graduating from college, I was able to land a new job. I moved into my first apartment without any roommates. I traded in my 15-year-old car for a newer one. I began to make decisions about health insurance.

All of these happenings seemed to go along with the normal ebb and flow of life. I didn't realize how much my life had changed until I went home for my first post-college Christmas.

It's an odd experience, going back "home." It's as if the town I grew up in no longer exists. I don't remember the names of streets. I get lost on the way to the grocery store. In fact, the grocery store from my childhood has closed, due to competition from a behemoth chain store built down the street.

There are changes to the house I grew up in, too. I was surprised to find a larger television, a new couch, walls painted another color, and an extra car in the garage when I returned. It felt like a strangely familiar place. Not quite like home.

I'd forgotten exactly what fixture each light switch controlled. I didn't remember which kitchen cupboard my mother kept the sugar in. It bothered me that I did not know these things.

One of the most significant changes was the family Christmas card. "Merry Christmas from the [Noir] home," it read, listing the names of my parents and my siblings. My name was absent.

I'd been dropped from the family Christmas card.

"People will think that I've died!" I told my mother. She wrote it off matter-of-factly. Something about how I've grown up. They were no longer supporting me. I had to care of my own responsibilities. Apparently this included sending out my own holiday card.

We all laughed it off as a big joke. I insisted that my family send a Christmas card to my home address, arguing that I should at least have a spot on the mailing list. They all wrote funny messages like "Gee, sis, it's too bad you're no longer part of the [Noir] home."

For the first time I understood how my parents felt when they shipped me off to college, 1,250 miles away. I was nonchalant about breaking free, knowing I would never live with them again. But they must have been terribly sad. I was the first to go. My sister would soon follow. My brother would leave not long after that.

Now it is my parents who take life's changes in stride. And I am the one who will be stumbling down the stairs in the dark because my feet don't remember how many steps there are.

Wednesday, December 15, 2004

Giving the gift of The Clap

-per. That's what I gave my boss for Christmas last year.

That's right. Clap on. Clap off. The Clapper.

He loved it.

How can I top that? Our company Christmas holiday party is FRIDAY ... so I need to come up with something quick! Any ideas???

Tuesday, December 14, 2004

I wish I had a penis

It's days like this that I wish I had a penis.

I'm suffering debilitating cramps at the moment. The curl up into a ball and whimper until they pass kind of cramps. Plus backache, headache, nausea, overall soreness and regularly feeling nasty.

I've always had really bad PMS. When I was younger, on days when I could barely get out of bed, I would beg my mom to take me to the doctor so that I could get put on some medication. But she would just feed me some line about the pioneer women and how they endured menstrual cramps and childbirth without the use of modern medicine. I was too dumb to point out back then that the pioneer women probably had whiskey and opium.

But even now that I am on BC, I still can get pretty ill. I don't puke as often as I used to, but I'm generally uncomfortable for at least one day, if not two. If I remember to start taking drugs proactively, I can stave off the worst of it. But if the pain hits, and I try to medicate after ... I'm hosed. And last month, I forgot my pills at home while I traveled for a week ... and that screwed my body up royal.

So, I'm considering taking the rest of the day off sick. I brag about how I never take sick time. And I pretty much don't. I already feel guilty just thinking about it. But as M1 tells me, they give you sick time for reason. So you don't have to work when you're not feeling well. And if you're not rewarded for not using it (we're not), what's the point of not taking it?

All right. You've convinced me.

Monday, December 13, 2004

Thanks for you patients

Every once in a while, I am struck by the fact that many of the people I work with are dolts. I submit this actual e-mail as proof to you ...

-----Original Message-----
From: Nice, if a little dumb, HR guy
Sent: Monday, November 22, 2004 8:54 AM
To: Work
Subject: Payroll

Everyone will get paid either Wednesday or Friday of this week depending on your bank. ADP (payroll company) said Credit Unions will definitely be Friday. Last payroll nobody had 401K deposited and this was due to an error by ADP. They aren't sure what happened and are trying to fix it before I submit payroll today but I can't say w/ 100% confidence it will be fixed. I am working on it and trying to get to the bottom of all the problems we have been experiencing w/ ADP and will do everything in my power to get is straighten out ASAP. Thanks for you patients and let me know if you have any questions.

Nice, if a little dumb, HR guy

Friday, December 10, 2004

Today is Craft Day

La Chat Noir's wreath from Craft Day 2004. Isn't it luverly!

What is that you say? Your company does not have a Craft Day???

Do I work at a pre-school? I do not.

Every year around this time, the company CEO leads us in building some sort of craft. EVERYONE has to have a stocking, so if you've been hired since the last Craft Day, you've got two projects to work on.

It might be a paper Santa to hang on the wall. A three-foot tall lighted snowman made out of wood. Or a simple tree ornament. This year's craft project has not yet been revealed. We have only been told that it's a doozy, so we're starting at 9am. And we need to bring our scissors.

It's really quite sad to see a bunch of 20- and 30- somethings fighting over bottles of glitter. Last year, I got into it with the Sales Director over the roll of green and gold ribbon. Bastard.

This year, we've been informed that there WILL BE a cuss jar.

Perhaps I should just hand over a $20 bill and get it over with.

Thursday, December 09, 2004

Le Chat Noir, Info Database

This post is actually a response to Texas Biscuit's question about volunteering. I started writing it as a comment, but it got entirely too long ... so les autres ... please bear with me.

I highly recommend volunteering. I was looking for a way to "help" people and was unprepared for the way in which it would influence my life. Especially my advocacy work, I regard it as the most important thing I have ever done.

Big Sisters is a great program. It's one I've never gotten involved with because we actually have a greater need kids than volunteers in our community! If you've thought about it, I would encourage you to check it out. I have done some preliminary stuff with CASAs for Kids (Court Appointed Special Advocates). Essentially, you serve as a child's advocate in court proceedings, particularly in custody or child placement hearings. You visit the home, talk with the child, try to figure out what they want, etc. You are usually matched with no more than two kids at a time. Whereas lawyers and social workers have TONS of cases, a single CASA in a child's life can really make a difference. I plan to go through the next training in my area.

Most of the volunteering I do is through my local crisis center. It is a member of the Alliance of Information and Referral Systems (211), American Association of Suicidology, Rape Abuse and Incest National Network and Suicide HOPELINE. I work the phone lines as well as meet with other rape survivors at the hospitals, police stations or courts as a Rape Survivor Advocate. You can search for your local rape crisis center on the RAINN site,

I also volunteer with the Compeer Program. It's a national program run through local mental health agencies that pairs socially isolated adults with volunteers. I've had two matches through this program, and they are V. diligent about matching you up with someone with similar interests. And with someone you can handle. For instance, if you didn't want to be matched up with someone who is bipolar or schizophrenic, you could request that you not be. My current match and I are great friends, and we get together once a week to hang out. Much like Big Sisters, just with an adult.

The other organization I have volunteered with in the past, but have become less active as of late, is called Ambassadors. It's a social volunteer organization that has similar incarnations all over the country. Basically, it's like a temp agency for non-profits. So that makes it very convenient. Cause you're only committing to things on an event-by-event basis. Rather than X number of hours a week. Plus, the hold social events, too. So it's a great way to meet other like-minded people in the community.


Bad Week for Lunches

Want to annoy me?

Ask me what I'd like on my submarine sandwich. Then finish what you were doing and say "What was that again?"

Then, put yellow mustard on my sandwich. After I've already asked for honey mustard. Twice.

Or better yet, when I order "popcorn, no butter" at the movies ... ring me up. Fill my tub, and ask "You want butter on that."

I want a screwdriver. So that I may lodge it in your skull.

Thank you.

And have a nice day.

Da Ho-Ho-Ho Ho'

This is my second year at this job, and like last year, I was appointed (read: told) to organize some different holiday volunteer opportunities for our company. It's extremely frustrating because the overall feel is that my co-workers are interested in glamorous volunteering, but only if it's not drudgery. And it must happen between 8-5.

We're fortunate that the company president is so generous with our work time (he volunteers for several agencies and programs himself) but most people scoff at the idea of giving up any of their personal time for volunteer work.

I admit I'm jaded on the whole issue. I am extremely involved volunteering in my community. And I think it's a travesty that more young people do not feel a similar sense of civic duty. I'm what you'd call a volunteer snob.

Since the interest in serving lunch at a soup kitchen, or assisting elderly Veterans with their Christmas shopping was relatively low. I thought that perhaps people in the office would be more willing to contribute monetarily.

I've been pleasantly surprised. We put up a Salvation Army Angel tree in November. And employees are encouraged to take an Angel off the tree and buy gifts for that child. My office has become a depository for stuffed animals, Barbie dolls, soccer balls, art supplies and even a fishing pole.


Wednesday, December 08, 2004

Le List

  • I like to have my butt rubbed. If it's really good, I'll purr.

  • My favorite color is yellow.

  • I lie. A lot. But I'm doing my best to be truthful in this blog.

  • I own 15+ pairs of pajama pants. Seriously.

  • I take pretty damn good photos with my point and shoot Samsung.

  • I have four tattoos. I got them all between the ages of 18-20.

  • I was one of 1,150,000 people in Washington D.C. for the March for Women's Lives.

  • I volunteer as a Rape Survivor Advocate.

  • I have been subpoenaed for trial and have testified in court.

  • My three favorite flavors are lemon, mint and dill ... though not necessarily in that order.

  • My mother thinks I might be suicidal. (As M1 noted, "Um, If y'are, maybe you shouldn't be working at a crisis line helping other suicidal people!")

  • My mother has also thought I might be a lesbian.

  • Sometimes I think she might be right.

  • I've been to all but three of the 50 states.

  • When I was younger, I wanted to be a stripper. Or a truck driver.

  • Teeth and feet are the first things I notice in a person.

  • My sense of smell is V. poor.

  • I LOVE cake. More than cookies. More than pie. More than brownies. More than ice cream. I LOVE cake.

  • I'm a closet Francophile. I often daydream about packing up and moving to France.

  • I've had more one-night stands than committed sexual relationships.

  • I have a bag of things in my closet that friends are instructed to remove from my home, should I die. It's to protect my parents in their grief.

  • My two closest friends are men. One Baptist (M2). One homosexual (M1). Both hotties.

  • I cry easily.

  • I own a C+C Music Factory CD.

  • I've never seen Star Wars.

  • My teeth are my favorite feature.

  • Friends tell me that I am thoughtful.

  • I watch entirely too much TV.

  • I remember most of my dreams. They are usually crazy things that could never actually happen.

  • I dislike the word "pocket."

  • I have an irritation reaction to cinnamon.

  • It's extrememly difficult for me to be around Styra-foam.

  • I am afraid of the dark, to the point of near paralysis.

  • I am also afraid of open closet doors.

Hands Off My Fries!

Today, M2 and I were at lunch. And when the waitress tries to clear my plate, I have a minor spastic freak out moment.

I started whining and grunting incoherently as I reached up to snatch the two remaining fries from my plate.

"Sorry, hon, thought you were done."


Tuesday, December 07, 2004

Here piggy, piggy

Today I had lunch with my skinny friend.

Not that I have just one skinny friend, mind you. I am burdened by loads of ’em. This particular friend is of note because she has always been skinny, but in the last year she’s gotten even skinnier.

We’re talking crazy skinny here, people.

She and her husband want to have kids. So they’re “trying.” Ugh. Part of the reason I hit her up for lunch today. It won’t be too long before her life becomes baby-centric, and our friendship dwindles to nothing. Or worse, she brings the baby wherever she goes.

Anyway, ever since she discovered she was pre-diabetic (I’m not really sure what that means) she’s been watching her sugars and exercising like crazy. She’s so damn rail thin now that I sometimes wonder if her neck is strong enough to support hear head, which suddenly seems too big for her body.

While we’re looking over the menu, she’s pointing at different items and uttering “Can’t eat that ... can’t eat that ... nope ... OH! That sounds SO good, but I just can’t ... my sugars have been CRAZY lately!”

Now, I’ve tried to be the supportive fat friend. But, damn.

So she orders a salad. I order a pecan chicken salad sandwich with a cup of soup.

“Would you like to do the half sandwich then?” Asks the waitress.

Hmmmmm... Will a half sandwich be enough for lunch? What if it’s served on a dinky little croissant or something...

“Um, how big is the bread?” I stammer. Ugh. Now I look like a TOTAL piglet. I decide to go with a half sandwich.

Skinny and I are pleasantly engaged in conversation when the food arrives. And there’s a pile of fries on my plate. I didn’t know it came with fries ... score!

“I went ahead and threw some fries on your plate. Just in case the sandwich wasn’t enough.”

What a little piglet she must think I am!

Skinny and I continued with our pleasant lunch.

I ate every one of those damn fries.

Oink … oink.

The Jig is Up

M2 found my blog yesterday. I wondered how long it would take him.

Why did I want to keep my blog secret from one of my closest friends? A few things:

THING ONE: I have mocked him relentlessly for his blogging, foruming and general having internet-only friends thing. Of course, he already knows I am a hypocrite in the largest sense of the word.

THING TWO: I knew I would be talking smack about his ass. His own blog is mundane and impersonal and there are reasons why he doesn't reveal much about himself there. Of course, my blog hasn't been much of a revelation thus far, but I'm still figuring out what it's going to be. And I'd like to keep my options open.

THING THREE: I feared it would be problematic. I feel like I am not allowed to make comments on his blog. He told me yesterday that he would not be able to link to mine. It's something about not letting the cult figure out where he is, how he's doing, and that he's hanging out with all us heathens ... or something. Because even though they'll have nothing to do with him, MANY of his fellow cult members follow his blog. Thus he will not link to mine. Surely, having an entire post about fellatio probably didn't help my case any.

THING FOUR: I thought it could affect our friendship. He knows that I don't understand his devotion to organized religion. I've told him that I think the way his culty church shunned him is a crock of shit. That I think he's wasting his life by torturing himself with guilt. That M1 and I both think he is a hottie, and in fact when we first met him, we nicknamed him HotM_____. But there's something about putting those thoughts down in bytes. For all the world to read.

Of course, I must have wanted him to find me. Otherwise I wouldn't have added a link to his blog. And I would have chosen a different title for my blog. I often make references (usually during moments of mockery) about how lame a communication medium e-mail is, and how you can't really have close, intimate relationships with people online because byte vibes are so difficult to read.

Undercurrents are nearly impossible to detect. How can you know what anyone is feeling if you don't even know what they look like? How can you show them you care if you cannot touch them? How can you be sure they exist if you cannot hear them breathing?

So, now that you know. Understand that anything I post will be in truth. Well, within reason ...

NB: I have since removed a link to a lame-ass movie posing as an interesting exploration of the universe because it's really a recruitment tool for a new age cult. You can read about it at

As a side note, I do agree with one site that compared the liberties taken by the What the Bleep? filmmakers to those taken by Mel Gibson in Passion. It's true that all movies are one interpretation of events or stories. The thing that burns me about Bleep is that it presents itself as a scientific documentary. Bitches.

Monday, December 06, 2004

Tortured by Fellatio*

As M2 (the Baptist) and I were heading out to dinner Saturday evening, it occurred to him that he neglected to brush his teeth. I suggested we stop by my place and he could brush them there.

"But I don't have a toothbrush at your house." Right. You can just use mine, it's no big deal.

In addition to being a Baptist, M2 is also a TOTAL germaphobe. Apparently, the rest of the world agrees with him on this particular issue: the sharing of toothbrushes is foul and dirty. And he would rather his teeth rot out and fall from his jaw before he put my toothbrush in his mouth.

But would you use ANYBODY's toothbrush? I mean, what if you were canoodling? Cause this is my theory: If I can put his dick in my mouth, what's the big deal about a toothbrush?

So that got us onto the topic of dick sucking. Where I did all the talking, and M2 did all the cringing. Till finally he could take no more! But it wasn't necessarily the topic that he found so offensive (as I constantly remind him, he may be a Baptist, but he is still a boy, and what boy doesn't like dick sucking?) it was the language.

"I would prefer that you use the proper terms." Would you prefer I said fellatio**?

So then, the rest of the night, I tried my best to slip fellatio into the conversation. I used the word as a substitute for all sorts of other meanings...

I'd like a nice, tall glass of fellatio with dinner.

Ooh! I'll have the pasta and cream sauce, it sounds fellatious.

I think I slept funny last night ... My fellatio is KILLING me!

Your sparkling fellationality is one of the things I like most about you ...

I kept doing it until I was pretty sure that M2 would dump me as a friend. Or at least not talk to me for a long time. Then I let it drop.

A couple of hours later, back at M2's place, it occurred to me.

"Hey M2, know what's even BETTER than fellatio?"

M2: "It's hard to imagine..."



*M1 made a very good point: You must not be very good if it's torture.

**Since fellatio so rarely makes it into my written correspondence, I had trouble looking it up in the dictionary! It's an 'e' and not an 'a', who knew?

***Cunnilingus is from the Latin cunnus (vulva) and lingere (to lick). Translated, it roughly means: he who licks the vulva.

Friday, December 03, 2004

Mapplethorpes ARE Dirty

So, last night I was hanging out with my two best manfriends, M1 (homo) and M2 (hetero). The three of us spend a lot of time together, much to the dismay of the living-in-sin BF. Of course, he has more of a problem with M2 than M1.

Anyway, I was in the mood for a drink. Not a particularly bad day or anything, I could just use a drink. And I REALLY wanted a Mapplethorpe. Never heard of a Mapplethorpe? Well that's because Anonymous Coworker made them up. I only just learned of them myself.

M1 and M2 had never heard of Mapplethorpes either. M2 doesn't drink, he's a recovering Baptist, but that's a whole post in itself. So, I was explaining to them about the Mapplethorpe – tequila and Sprite with a twist of lime. We were unable to have any Mapplethorpes, because M1 and I don't stock tequila. Because we think it's dirty.

And so do ACW and Kmart! So I tell the Ms, tequila IS dirty. Dirty like Kmart, so that is what ACW and Kmart were going to name the drink, but then they decided to call it the Mapplethorpe instead. And that is where my story ended.

Until later we were talking about Tom Cruise, not sure why, and I brought up that his actual last name is Mapplethorpe (except that it's not, it's Mapother. But last night I was too tipsy to keep it all straight).

"Really? Any relation?" asked M1. Is Tom Cruise related to Anonymous Coworker? I don't think so ...

Not what he meant. He was wondering if Tom Cruise was related to Robert Mapplethorpe, as in the photographer who takes all the dirty pictures ... as in dirty ... as in Mapplethorpe the dirty drink.

Then, I attempted to explain that the dirty pictures of Robert Mapplethorpe were not at all what the dirty Mapplethorpe drink was named after. It's about colonists, on a boat and the new world ... or something.

I was rebuffed. Tequila = dirty; Kmart = dirty; Mapplethorpe = dirty pictures. It all makes perfect sense. I argued that Colonial trollops are dirty ....

"Hey," said M1, "Why don't we call it the hard-boiled egg instead?"


"Um, because hard-boiled eggs are dirty."

Wednesday, December 01, 2004

'Tis the Season

I bought my first home in July. A 1930s bungalow in a historic district in town. I know what you're thinking, a 25 year-old with a house ...

I did have a lot of help from my parents, but the way I figure it – if my living-in-sin BF and I were living in sin at the same residence, we would have been able to afford it together. So a single gal getting down payment help from her folks ... nothing to be ashamed about.

But I digress...

Last weekend, after Thanksgiving, I went out and bought myself a Christmas tree ... and skirt, and topper, and ornaments, and lights. And it was a lot of money.

Growing up, we always had a real tree. In fact, we would chop it down ourselves. I grew up in the foothills of the mountains, and there was all kinds of tree killing to be had by the locals around Christmas time.

I went with an artificial tree rather than a real one. I've always wanted an artificial tree. I think they look nicer, you don't have to water them and they don't give off that nasty evergreen smell (nature, EEEEEEWWWWW!).

Also, I thought an artificial tree would deter the kittens from treating it as a chew toy. I was wrong.

The kittens have been gnawing on it nonstop. And I have been picking up puked-up piles of plastic needles all over the house.

Stupid symbol of holiday cheer.