Girl Interrupted Part 2

Please bear with my while I continue my Girl Interrupted rant from Monday. Unfortunately, I am sure many of you women out there can relate to these kinds of situations. I don’t know if it’s the onset of Spring or what, but lately THAT GUY seems to find me everywhere. After comparing notes with my Lady Friend, my friends, and my cousins, it appears as though THAT GUY is finding them everywhere too. But don’t get me wrong…we all really do love The Mens. The guys I’m ranting about here are certainly the exception and not the rule.
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The Gym
I am there to work out. That’s it. Nothing more. Me being there does not automatically mean “Please hit on me.” If I happen to make accidental eye contact with you, this is not an invitation to stalk me for the rest of my workout. It does not mean “Come work out right next to me, even though there are a zillion other available machines.” I intentionally dress way down for working out. I call it Adult Daycare Chic, which also doubles as gym camouflage. Nothing about my pit-stained accoutrement is sexy. Nothing. Do I look like I am there to impress you or anyone? No. In fact, people give me spare change when I walk out because they think I’m homeless. Please, give a girl some room. If I’ve got headphones on and am sweating like a beast, this does not mean “Please strike up a conversation with me.” Even if I don’t have headphones on, it’s still not an invitation. And if I am on a weight machine, don’t ask if you can “help me” or “work in” with me. I know I am dressed in adult daycare wear, but I’m not wearing a helmet, so give me some credit, okay Corky? Thanks.

The Bar
I am there to drink. Period. Me being there does not mean I am available. I may be dressed down, but it doesn’t mean I’m a Washington Blvd prostitute. The full set of teeth should have given that away. If you see me talking to another woman, it does not mean we are sitting there waiting for you to make our day or night. We actually didn’t even notice when you walked in to the bar. Sorry, but it’s true. You’d never walk up to me if I was with a man. If you ask us if you can “buy you ladies some shots,” I will ask you if that means we have to talk to you for the rest of the night. I will then offer to buy you and your friends a round just to go away. What about my Guinness and sidecar of Jameson’s says “I’d love a sugary, fruity shot or blender drink?” We’re in a corner bar in Baltimore, not TGI Friday’s. You’re not Tom Cruise and this is not Cocktail. And no, we aren’t slumming in this bar because we think it’s quaint or because we want to be urban hipsters. We actually live in this neighborhood and we really did walk here. So why don’t you get in the poor man’s BMW 325i Passat and go back to your condo and Jager Bombs in Canton. We will place bets on whether or not your Thule rack has been stolen and pawned in the time you’ve been irritating us. And please, do not tell a woman, “You’re really beautiful, but you really should smile more.” That’s just about the lamest thing you can say. Perhaps she is not smiling because you interrupted her conversation and are acting like a complete dick. Did you ever stop and consider that, All Star?

Heere Endeth the Rant. For now.

Girl Interrupted

Can’t a girl just be left alone? Why? Why can’t I be a Girl Un-Interrupted?

Today I went to my favorite Subway to get the usual uninteresting sub. The people who work there are so nasty and so white-trashy that you’d think you just stepped into an episode of COPS. But they never ever mess up my order and I think that’s why I continue to go back day after day. Anyway. I’ll save that for another entry.

I took a later lunch today, so there was no one in the store except one guy. I immediately noted he was trying too hard. He was middle-aged and dressed head to toe in macked out crotch rocket type motorcycle gear. Then I wondered if Crotch Rockets are the new Corvette for middle-aged guys. Whatever.

I’m all about personal space. It’s a thing with me. Boundaries are my friend. I’d love to introduce you.

I’m standing there in line behind the guy, just minding my own business and reading the colorful nutrition information chart. I hear him being completely condescending to the teenager making his sub. Oh yes. You’re quite virile. We all understand that now, tough guy. Yep. Anyway…I feel him turn completely around and look at me and step closer into my space. I refused to look up. What about me reading about the turkey sub versus the veggie sub says, “Turn around, stare at me, and step to my grill?”

In his best “I am covering up for my male impotence” voice by loud-talking, he asks:

“HOW ARE YOU DOING TODAY?”

I take my sweet time looking up and reply flatly, “Just fine.” And I went back to reading the fascinating nutrition information chart. I intentionally did not ask him how he was doing because I knew that, in doing so, he would perceive it as an invitation to chat me up. Several very long seconds of silence and zero eye contact go by and he says:

“I’M DOING FINE TODAY. THANKS FOR ASKING.”

Even flatter than before, I reply, “That’s really great.”

He snorted and shook his head as if I had wronged him. I know in his little mind, which (no doubt) is even smaller than his penis, he fell back on the lazy, default response and said: “Bitch.”

Generally speaking, guys with crotch rockets rarely ever get the girl. Why not? Two reasons: 1) Because there’s no room on the back and 2) Because they don’t vibrate between your legs like a Harley does.

What I learned today is that old dogs really don’t learn new tricks.

Some Dry-Heaving, But No Buyer’s Remorse

I think the Higher Powers like to test me at times. As you know, I blew my wad on a top-of-the-line vacuum cleaner yesterday. I was so excited to get home and put the smack-down on all the pet hair. But oh…wouldn’t you know it. Of all days, yesterday I came home to a carpet nightmare.

When I got home from work last night, I discovered that my dog declared jihad on the carpeting in my office/guest bedroom with his Weapons of Ass Destruction. Honestly, I’ve never seen such a bad mess before and in the four years I’ve had my dog, this is only like the second or third time this has happened. As an added bonus, on top of my gagging and dry-heaving while cleaning it up, the piles of Hershey’s Squirts were still warm.

I blame the shit tsunami on the chicken box bones that people drop in the alley or toss over the fence. I understand the wing bone scraps are thrown into the yard with the best of intentions, but as any of you dog owners out there know - chicken bones are very bad for doggie guts. I try to find the bones before he gets to them, but he always manages to choke something down that I didn’t see. Gross.

Anyway, I had a little bit of a meltdown over the mess. It was quite overwhelming. I called my Lady Friend and told her what had happened. She told me not to worry and that we’d steam clean my guest bedroom this weekend. I told her it couldn’t wait and she then sensed the severity of the shit situation. She just happened to be in Safeway when I called and she rented a steam cleaner on the spot and was at the Pigtown Palace in under 20 minutes.

I’m half a gimp due to a back injury, so I can’t really can’t lift, push, or pull heavy things, including women. Lady Friend is on the smaller side but she is of a very hearty stock. She channeled her freakish hillbilly strength and steam cleaned the shit (literally) out of my guest bedroom. If it weren’t for her, I’d still gagging and curled up in the fetal position in my bathtub.

To comfort myself during this shitty (literally) evening, I assembled my Dyson vacuum cleaner and got to work on the area rugs and my bedroom. All I can say is 1) WOW!! and 2) I did not know I was living in semi-squalor in until I saw what filled up the canister. How do I not have ringworm and asthma?

Anyway, the hype about Dyson vacuum cleaners is true! My buyer’s remorse is all gone. I am fucking falling in love with this machine. I think we’re gonna make it. I think we’re gonna last.

For the record:
My Sleep Number = 40
Dyson’s Sleep Number = 75

Potential Buyer’s Remorse

The last year has been a very big one for me. I finished graduate school, bought my first house, bought a new (used) car, got satellite tv, upgraded my Mac OS, and now this.

For some reason the vacuum cleaner purchase today has got me in knots. It’s probably because I’m thinking about how much booze and porn I could buy with $525.00. And since I essentially have no standards in these areas, $525.00 would go a long way.

My Lady Friend tries to comfort me by saying, “You’ve bought stuff you need. You’re not blowing your wad on dope or Prada.” Lady Friend is very funny. And she’s also right.

I love my pet critters to death, but they are very hairy little beasts. My current vacuum cleaner has lost suction over the years, not unlike some people I know. The Dyson 07 Animal promises to be the best thing ever. It promises to never lose suction. I wish I could promise the same, but hey.

Bag Brides* and Such

*Term refers to the bags in which drugs are sold and drug-addicted prostitutes.
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I followed up with the BCPD anonymous tip line regarding the never-ending parade of the undead junkies wandering up and down the alley all hours of the day and night. Both detectives that I’ve spoken with on this tip line have been very cool. Unfortunately, they have not even looked into the tip yet because they are “really getting it handed to ‘em down there in the Southern District.” I was not surprised by the news because the traffic has not stopped, although it does seem to have slowed a little bit.

Still, the open air drug dealing at my back gate is unbelievable. I sit in my office/guest bedroom and look down at the alley and watch cash getting handed over and counted, then bags getting passed. I see people, mostly women, come back several times a day. I see these same women selling themselves on the corner throughout the day and night. It’s still very cold at night and they are out there on the corner, always. I try to make myself feel better by telling myself, “They’re high. They don’t feel a thing.” I walk up to my front door and look back at them, hoping I will feel something, but I don’t because it’s too much. I’m numb. I’m no better and no worse than these women.

I wonder where things went wrong in their lives. Then I wonder if things were ever right in their lives. These girls were little girls at some point too and I wonder if they ever dreamed about anything or played those made-up games like the children on my street. I see what a curse it can be, being a beautiful little girl and growing up poor. It’s almost as if these girls have no chance in this neighborhood. If they make it through junior high without being preyed upon, knocked up, and addicted, it’s truly amazing. You can almost see the outline of what was when you look at them, but it’s hard to tell their ages now. A girl could be 14 or 40. Who knows? They all share that same vacant look and that’s what makes it hard to tell their age. The looks isn’t old or young. It’s just empty.

Last Friday morning I woke up to the inner city roosters again. This time it was one of the undead prostitutes screaming at her pimp. She was standing on the sidewalk and he was sitting in his shiny black Lexus something or other.

“I’m sick of this, Frankie. I’m tired of this fuckin’ shit. I’m done. I’m out of this, Frankie. When you want to get high, I go out on a date. When you want cash, I go out on a date. Where’s my fuckin’ cut, Frankie? You’re not the one out here going on dates, mother fucker. You don’t give me no cash. You don’t come pick me up when you say you will. You take all my money and I can’t even get a fuckin’ cab and you leave me out here, Frankie? You always leave me here, Frankie, and what I’m I supposed to do?”

Frankie hands her a wad of cash and I watch her count it, shaking her head. She counts the cash a second time.

“This is it? This is all I get after being out here all night? Fuck you, Frankie. I’m fuckin’ done. I’m fuckin’ done. No more dates, mother fucker. You wanna get high? Then you fuckin’ stand out here and suck dick all night, mother fucker.”

And with that, she throws the entire wad of cash at Frankie and walks away crying. It’s 6:30 in the morning and 35 degrees outside. She’s in a baggy white t-shirt, black lycra stretch pants, and Keds with no socks. I try to make myself feel better by telling myself, “She’s high. She doesn’t feel a thing.” I watch her walk over to Washington Blvd, hoping I will feel something, but I don’t because it’s too much. I’m numb. I’m no better and no worse than her.

Weekend Blah Blah

The weekend was relatively quiet. I stayed in on St. Patrick’s Day, deciding it was best to let the amateurs have at it Friday night. My cousin decided to stay in, too, and said she kinda felt sorry for all the people wearing green and pretending to be what we really are, which is Irish. So my cousin, my Lady Friend, and Mizz K came over to the Pigtown Palace for some drinks. I made dinner (I know, it’s shocking) and we got on the Waaaaay Back Machine and watched Purple Rain. We even pegged our jeans to maximize our viewing pleasure. Lady Friend had the best comment of the evening when she said, “Prince looks like he’s been dipped in a vat of pubic hair.” It was the 80’s, after all.

We ventured to the pub on Saturday and we were the only people at the bar for a while, which is how I like it. Our regular bartender said we were wise for staying in on St. Patrick’s Day and that made me feel 100% better about avoiding my favorite place in B’more on Friday. So Lady Friend and I were able to enjoy several perfect and uninterrupted pints Saturday night, while watching the set dancers. Always a good time.

I watched Walk the Line Sunday, which I really wanted to see. I thought it was okay, I guess. I think if I hadn’t been a Johnny Cash fan, I would have enjoyed the movie more. I didn’t see “Oscar” anywhere in Reese Witherspoon’s performance and I thought she was horribly miscast. I decided she comes from the School of Forehead Acting. I couldn’t stop staring at her forehead. Actually, it’s more a fivehead because it’s so big. Yeah, I know…I’m horrible for saying that. But if you’re laughing, that makes you worse.

Humbled and Awed

Today truly is a day filled with blessings and luck. My friend’s husband got the phone call early this morning from Johns Hopkins: They found a matching donor and he will be getting a new kidney and pancreas from a 49 year old woman who died of a stroke last night. Her body is being kept alive on life support and he is on his way to Hopkins as I type this. Tonight, he will be receiving these new organs and will no longer be diabetic.

This has been such a hard time for my friend and her husband. He’s been an insulin dependent diabetic since he was 2 years old. He’s 38 years old now and has been very, very sick the last two years, especially. He’s been sliding into kidney failure and rotating his life around daily dialysis. They have not been able to take a vacation for three years because they’ve needed to be able to get to Johns Hopkins immediately in case they ever got “the call.” Well, today the call came!

This news is just too good to keep all to myself. I am hoping for all the best for my friends and praying that God works His wonders through the gifted minds and hands of these people.

***Update***
The surgery went really well!! They finished up at 3:30 Saturday morning, after about eight hours, and no complications were identified. He’s still in the ICU and will remain at Hopkins for another week or so to make sure the organs aren’t rejected.

Beannachtam na Feile Padraig!!

To all my friends and to family near and far, especially all of you Súilleabháins, Mac Giolla Phádraigs, O’Murghailes out there. And an extra special shout out to the O’Fionnaghains of Ballyhaunis, there in the heart of the Mayo Gaeltacht.

Caith siar é agus ná lig aniar é.
Go dtuga Dia slán abhaile thú.
Sláinte!
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Toss it back and don’t let it back up.
May God bring you safely home.
To your health!

Happy St. Patrick’s Day!!

Did You Know I Take Requests?

After reading my last entry, one of my dedicated readers out there asked me to come up with more categories of women that I’ve ummm dated over the years. I should put the disclaimer out there that these categories are based on my own experiences only. My observations are based on many years of repeat performances with the types of women in each category. That being said, it’s important to note that I know lots of women who fall into each of these categories. I’m somewhere in there too, but I’m not sayin’ which one. Most of the women I know in these groupings are totally, completely rock star cool. Take this all with a grain of salt, people. It’s okay to lighten up and laugh a bit. Especially if it’s at your own expense.

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The Artist
This is the girl who calls herself an “artist”, but really she just has an aversion to employment. She will judge you and all your friends for having 9-5 jobs and call you corporate slaves and sell outs. She sits around watching cable all day because she’s “suffering.” She latches on to the the blue-collar chic thing, but what she doesn’t tell you is that she has a trust fund and does not know what a W2 is. She is a lazy and uninspiring lay, who’s prone to personal hygiene issues. The hygiene issues are the result of laziness and not some form of protest, as she would like you and others to believe. This girl is dull in thought and action. She will assume you’ll “get the check” because, after all, she’s a broke artist.
—Her secret shame? That she grew up in a nice house and has supportive parents.

The Activist
The Activist is the girl who uses words like “patriarchy,” “theocracy,” and “regime.” If your views are not in line with hers, you are summed up as close-minded. This girl is actually a classist, racist snob who won’t come into your neighborhood at night because of the “bad element.” She’s attracted to you because you say the things out loud that she wishes she could. This girl is so against the patriarchy that she only wants to cuddle until she comes. You will then spend hours (over herbal tea) processing what her orgasm means. Do not let yourself achieve orgasm with this girl because she will think you love her and then you’ll have to talk about what that means. Avoid the Activist. She insists on separate checks in restaurants, is condescending to bartenders and waitstaff, and is a bad tipper. She is a hypocrite and secret meat-eater who will leave you for a man.
—Her secret shame? That she’s Caucasian.

The Jock
This girl is a lot of fun. Period. She has boundless energy and stamina and she thrives on coaching. Show this girl your favorite thing in the sack, give her a little guidance and encouragement, and she will do it for hours on end. The Jock is lacking in the passion department, but she really is like the Labrador retriever of girls. She’s good-natured and doesn’t struggle much with deep thought. She doesn’t really get your jokes and she prefers big budget action movies over anything with dialog. She’s not one for intense conversation about anything, but that’s not a bad thing at all. She’s consistent and steady in her mood and likes to follow your lead. Just like a Labrador retriever, she will come back for more and more and never get bored. She will even drink beer with you afterward.
—Her secret shame? (cricket cricket cricket) None.

The Punk Rocker
The number of piercings and tattoos are in direct relation to how nelly someone will be in bed. This girl’s ostentatious display of body art and body modification screams submissive/bottom. The Punk Rocker cries when she comes and then gets angry afterward. Do not try to flip the Punk Rocker over in bed or you will be deemed “too kinky” for her taste. Sex toys actually make her squeamish and once she comes, after hours and hours of trying, sex is over. Get yourself off first before you get going with this girl. She is always hung up on someone else and, if you make her come, be prepared to hear all about the girl she dated before you. She’s a sometime bike messenger because that’s what tattooed and pierced girls are supposed to do. She hates the Bush administration because she’s supposed to. She believes in anarchy because she’s supposed to. She drinks microbrews because she’s supposed to. She smokes organic cigarettes because she’s supposed to. This girl morphs into everyone around her and has serious stalker potential. Avoid her like your life depends on it.
—Her secret shame? That she likes Faith Hill songs and wants be a 9-5er.

The Shy Girl
The Shy Girl is my personal favorite. She is very quiet and often understated in her looks and dress. She’s educated, got a great job, and even better manners. Do not misinterpret her shy and quiet nature as a lack of confidence. This girl is a master of tact and discretion. Make no mistake about it - this girl is a complete freak in the sheets. She will have you tied up, ball gagged, and be flogging your tits before you can tell her your safeword. There’s no need for safewords with this girl because you can’t really say much when gagged. This girl will mind fuck you into complete submission and introduce you to things you never even considered. She rocks a Brazilian wax job for her own pleasure, not yours. Your parents will really like The Shy Girl and your grandmother will love her. This girl will play Mah Jong with your grandmother for days because she really wants to, not because she’s trying to win you over. Do not fuck it up with this girl. She is the best thing going. This girl will make you bloom and see just how beautiful you are. As an added bonus, she speaks that dead language where people used phrases like, “May I” “Please” “Thank You” and “You’re Welcome”. She will pick up the check often, leave a fat tip, and leave you well-fucked.
—Her secret shame? That she ever doubted her own beauty and sex appeal.

I Knew A Girl Named Nikki

I guess you could say she was a sex fiend.

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Remember Wendy and Lisa of Prince and The Revolution fame?

When 1999 and Purple Rain came out, I had just started middle school. It was the age of full-on slumber parties and the Purple Rain soundtrack and the accompanying videos seemed to play in a continuous loop. Now, as any girl knows, slumber parties are important. For me, slumber parties provided the most stress in my little gay life. I always knew there was an “otherness” about me, but it was not confirmed until the Age of Slumber Parties.

Being 12 years old is awkward under the best of circumstances. I was often invited to slumber parties, mostly by girls on my soccer or lacrosse team. I always had knots in my stomach the entire time because girls would eventually get into a tickle fight and hold each other down. I never wanted to take part in the tickle fights for fear I’d be found out. And girls would want to play with each others hair and tell secrets. I remember one party where there was even “practice kissing” and, again, I could not take part. Very confusing. Needless to say, I was always the last girl asleep and the first girl awake at these slumber parties.

Through all of this confusion, the Purple Rain soundtrack was the only constant. I remember being drawn to Wendy and Lisa because they, too, seemed to have an otherness about them. I wondered if they were girlfriends. I mean, could they be? Were they? They were so pretty and they looked like girls. They always seemed to be close to each other in the videos and they usually had their arms around each other in the glossy Tiger Beat and Bop magazine pictures. Plus, so many of Prince’s songs were overtly sexual and Wendy and Lisa were singing along! It thrilled me and had my mind considering the possibilities (and positions).

It would be a while yet until I had my own Darling Nikki. I think of how much time spent wondering about every girl after every encounter: ‘Is she? Isn’t she? Is this a summer thing? A freshman year thing? A drunk thing? A lonely thing? A mad at your boyfriend thing? An only until graduation thing?’ And once I found my Nikki, it seemed like I met the same Nikki over and over and over and over again. She was usually some kind of intoxicated Phi Delta Sigma Gamma something something or some tortured trust fund Goth girl. Looking back, I realize I could have saved so much time if I could have asked all of these girls a secret code question like, “Are you a friend of Wendy and Lisa?” I could have avoided all the awkward fumbling, endless hours of painful dry-humping, and the entire Indigo Girls collection if I could have looked each girl in the eyes and asked that question. Here’s how I imagine it could have gone:

Scenario 1: The Bi-Curious Girl.
Not girlfriend potential at all because she is not even a little bit gay, but she has a tight body, hot friends, and likes to party. She won’t feel a bit guilty while she’s getting her ticket punched, because she likes it so very much. But she’ll pretend she doesn’t know you the next day and make you promise not to tell anyone about what happened. She’ll keep coming back for more though and she will even bring a friend, from time to time. These girls all play field hockey and lacrosse and are Early Childhood Education majors.
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Me: Are you a friend of Wendy and Lisa?
Her: Are they Sigma Alphas?
Me: Uhhm, yeah. Sigma Alphas.
Her: You know them?
Me: Uhhm yeah. Sure.
(insert porno music)

Scenario 2: The Sweet, But Not Certain Girl.
Definitely serious girlfriend potential, but you are an emotional cripple and afraid of steamrolling her genuine kindness with your surliness and inability to trust anyone nice, which is kind of sad. Sad because this is the girl who will remember your birthday and put out willingly because she simply adores you. Her feelings are easily hurt though, so you must avoid this at all costs. Even if it means breaking her heart. Don’t let this girl get a chance to hate you, for she truly loves you and will prove to be a fierce ally down the road. These girls are typically English majors.
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Me: Are you a friend of Wendy and Lisa?
Her: Yes. I am. And I totally want to be
friends with you like they are with each other.
(insert Purple Rain soundtrack)

Scenario 3: The Uninhibited Girl.
This girl is not girlfriend material, but she will never ask you if you love her as you are coming. And she will never tell you she loves you when she’s coming, but she may slap you really hard across the mouth to keep you focused and on task right before she comes. You’ll be surprised how much this angers and excites you. This girl is the most fun in the sack. She’s got no hang-ups or issues she’s trying to work out. In fact, it’s not clear whether or not she even has any feelings and that’s okay because it’s a little scary. These girls are typically Psychology or Secondary Education majors.
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Me: Are you a friend of Wendy and Lisa?
Her: Yes! Ever since Purple Rain.
Me: Really? How good of a friend are you?
Her: How about you be Wendy and I’ll be Lisa
and then you tell me when we’re done.
(insert gay marriage proposal by me)

The lessons I’ve learned? Find an unapologetic girl with a tight body, who’s genuinely kind, fiercely loyal, kinky, and uninhibited.