November 22, 2010 § 2 Comments
Introducing…. Betty in the Lime Light
Call me Betty. Whether it be Crocker or Draper, I am the “future-wife, mother of his children” type. I cook, clean, wash and iron, all while wearing heels and a string of pearls, my hair in the perfect French twist. And if I am feeling a little naughty, I’ll ditch the dress and serve my Sicilian silver fox his home cooked meal in just the heels and pearls.
Three weeks out of every month I have rational interactions with my boyfriend, The Sicilian. I’m patient when he is on the phone, I don’t interrupt him when he is watching football and I calmly pick up the trail of towels and dirty socks and underwear he leaves behind. You’d think as a former athlete he could toss his dirty clothes with accuracy into the hamper. The fourth week of the month I become Cruella deVille. I am of prime baby making age, and my body has begun tricking my mind with a maternal thirst, I pine for babies like Cruella did for those dog-skin coats. Not only this, but the aggression is worse then when I was a spring chicken. I attack my would-be future husband over the dirty socks and incessant phone calls, hissing that he doesn’t even look at me anymore. “I’ve become a glorified maid!” I’ll shriek. And out of the clear blue sky I’ll claim he has no consideration for the fact that he is putting my life on hold until he mans up and makes an honest woman out of me by putting a bun in my the oven.
Although last Sunday was a football day, The Sicilian was up to being social and I invited my oldest and dearest friend, The Internet Bachelorette, over for dinner with big plans to make my own pasta sauce. I’ll admit I was battling with my crazy Cruella deVille PMS, which seems to have gotten more intense since my 26th birthday, partly because I am in a happy, healthy relationship and my body is telling me that The Sicilian has the most desirable gene pool for major league ball playing sons.
I literally had a knife poised to dice tomatoes when he received a phone call inviting us to dinner with the other producer from his last film. As business comes first more often then not in my house, plans were radically changed and I had to cancel dinner with The Internet Bachelorette. Cruella issued a melt down over the change of plans, and The Sicilian was sufficiently confused by my irrational reaction over the forced abandonment of my pasta sauce. This in turn escalated to me sobbing about the anger in my body and how emotional I am because he won’t let me have his babies yet. After leaving him stunned, pondering tomato sauce and unborn children, I took a long nap before getting in the shower and pulling myself together for our dinner engagement. Somehow a nap and hot shower can wash away Cruella and restore my sanity.
Amazingly enough The Sicilian is willing to put up with Cruella for the three weeks a month that I am patient and supportive. Maybe he feels it’s a fair trade given that thirty-six weeks out of the year he has a sexy girlfriend/maid service and twelve weeks he has an excuse to go to Vegas.
November 10, 2010 § 1 Comment
I am proud to introduce a story defining the modern girl’s struggle in the bedroom with a new man. This comes to us courtesy of my dear friend, The Backwoods Wench. Enjoy.
Dale came over last night, we snuggled and watched a movie. We started kissing and he climbed on top of me. While executing this maneuver, his foot got stuck in the crease of the sofa. It was lodged in the bars of the pullout mattress. Not the smoothest move I’ve ever seen. Needless to say, the struggle to get his foot out kinda ruined the moment. Plan B.
He suggested going to bed, so we gathered up our things and hit the sack. The make-out session resumed and we started messing around. My kind of fun. The minute I put my mouth on his penis he came! Fun over. Of course he felt stupid and immediately things got awkward. I was bummed because I thought for sure we were going to get down to business, it had been a few weeks of dry humping and I was going out of my mind. Then he said, “I’ll go down on you and then I’ll be ready to go.” Yay for me! But once he got down there, he had no clue what he was doing.
Seriously, guys, I know it’s a bit of a challenge, but a va jay jay isn’t an optical illusion. I waited a bit thinking maybe it would get better, but after some time I had to give him “the tap.” You know the tap on the shoulder that basically says, “hey, this isn’t going to happen so you might as well come back up.” Not so sensual. So he comes up and apologizes, poor guy. Plan C, I go to work at it. So now he’s hard again and goes to put it in. I had to stop him to put a condom on. He wasn’t very happy about the condom thing what-so-ever. He puts it on and of coarse goes completely limp. Well… that idea kinda went out the window. And okay, yes, we all agree a bag is a drag, but if a man is worth his performance he will be able to take care of business even with a shield on. I have been on both sides of this argument only to conclude that there should be no excuse.
Try again. This time when he stuck it in, maybe two pumps into the act he stops, pulls out, pulls the condom off and… well… all over my sheets! Totally misses my stomach! What a mess. Of course I do what every good girl does when she likes a guy but the gig isn’t up to her standards. I stroke his hair and sweetly tell him it’s okay, I was tired and not really in the mood anyway. This is the only time it’s okay to lie. Just like he tells me how skinny I look when I’m PMSing. After I make sure his ego is still somewhat stable after that embarrassing episode, I make him sleep on the side of the bed that’s all wet. And I get crap about this! Come on, dude! Wet spot etiquette: you make it, you sleep in it.
Then I had to deal with him apologizing all night for his premature ejaculation, and by this time I really was tired and not in the mood. Ugh. Not to mention the 50 texts I got the next day saying he was sorry and he will make it up to me. Damn right, he’ll make it up to me, although I did feel bad for him. I can’t imagine having a dick. Those things are unpredictable.
To make matters worse my recent ex decides to tell me he’s hanging out with a girl we to high school with, but he won’t tell me her name. I don’t know why it bothers me so much, but I basically threw a fit. What a slap in the face! He knows I’ve started seeing someone else. He’s throwing this new chick in my face because he can’t stand the fact that I’m seeing someone he doesn’t even know. His imagination is making Dale the two-pump wonder into a porn star. I certainly hope my imagination can make him into a porn star too. I don’t want to have to use “the tap” again. Now I anxiously await for him to make it up to me.
November 7, 2010 § 2 Comments
I was in San Francisco last weekend to visit my old roommate, Lily. Upon arrival at 7pm PST she asked me what I wanted to do that evening. I threw out the first thing that came to mind, “Dunno, kinda want to go dancing.” One phone call and ten minutes later we were headed downtown to dance on a rooftop. No arguments here.
It turned out to be an AIDS benefit and they were pouring the drinks STRONG for a good cause at the cash only bar. Santa Claus was there as well as several other drag queens in addition to the regular ravers, all rocking out to house beats. Lily had just wrapped up a film festival so we sifted through the crowd for her coworker and a director from Brazil who tipped us off for the skyline party. The 38 year-old Brazilian missed his flight earlier that day and decided to make the most of the failure by dancing on rooftops. This particular Brazilian was a little on the short side, but very handsome (I usually have a 6ft minimum for potential suitors) and didn’t really come on too strong… at first.
After several tequila sunrises mostly without any sun, we ran out of cash. The four of us decided to hit up an ATM and then to a reggae club called The Make-out Room for more dancing. This was about the time the Brazilian started hitting on me and exclusively calling me Blue-Eyes. Now earlier in the night it had been mentioned that this man had a wife and kids back in South America. And like I said, he was short, so I was trying to keep my distance.
When we walked in to The Make-out Room, I promptly ordered two double shots of Patron for Lily and myself. Why ruin a good thing, right? Then we head to the dance floor, sultry reggae, just my kind of tequila induced dancing. Next thing I know I am dancing with the Brazilian. Then I am making-out with the Brazilian on the dance floor, and Lily is nowhere to be found. I had to bite my tongue (pun intended) to keep from asking him about his wife and kids. Eh, why not? Even though his five o’clock shadow was probably going to chafe my face, I hadn’t made-out with anyone in a while and where better to lock lips then on the dance floor at the Make-out Room?
Anyway, we left and I gave him my number because I felt kinda bad. I really need a go-to fake number ‘cause I get into this mess on occasion (see September 21st post). The next day we met Lily’s coworker for drinks and she told us that the Brazilian claimed I was the love of his life. The rest of the weekend I received voicemails addressed to “Blue-Eyes.” I guess I made his trip? Hey, I do what I can. And we are still skeptical of his marital status. Kids, yes, but possibly divorced.
So yes, I did make-out at The Make-out Room. Also I highly recommend top shelf tequila for binge drinking. Silver or Blanco tequila is the only alcohol that is not a depressant, so you can dance on rooftops for hours and not feel hung over in the morning. I’d like to thank the cute bartender down the street for that piece of advice. I’d say it was a good investment.