Two lesbians walk into a frozen yogurt shop…

PizzaFastPhotoSo I was sitting at Topper’s Pizza today, minding my own business and trying to ignore my father’s incessant complaining and the Pookies whining about this being the last time we eat pizza before we go on vacation (have to clear our pizza palettes of the crap we have here in California before heading home to Chicago…); when I noticed out of the corner of my eye a couple of computer geek-World of Warcraft nerds sitting at the table next to us.

Now I know, I know: I’m such a bitch to be stereotyping these guys like this, but I swear to God they looked like something you see out of a LARPing how-to video. Slegowartz t-shirt and all.

They were rambling about online gaming tournaments or some bullshit. Then they got into a heated discussion about some drama that went down at the gaming shop down the street over a Magic the Gathering event where a girl showed up or something, thus proving my stereotype absolutely true. How dare a woman show up to a Magic the Gathering gaming day? What a bitch!

The Slegowartz nerds moved on to agree that they only had about ten more minutes before they had to get going, back to the ol’ slave driver day job. It was then that they started discussing things relevant to adult life, like their jobs. And their sexuality. It’s all sort of a blur to me now, but somehow they were talking about how stressful their jobs are and the guy that looked exactly like this pimply dude in this often-used meme just blurted it out:


Fair enough.

It’s funny that I encountered this today, because just yesterday I was sitting at the frozen yogurt shop when two lesbians walked in. I know, I know again: sounds like I’m about to make some horrible and borderline-homophobic joke here. “Two lesbians walk into a frozen yogurt shop…” right? Wrong.

First off, I’m not homophobic. I have a lot of friends that are gay. Some of them are married, and are more committed of couples than any of the straight ones I know.

Now I may have been stereotyping when it came to the whole Slegowartz thing above, but I definitely didn’t call that those guys were gay. I am pretty bad with gaydar – when it comes to homosexual men or women. I just don’t know. I’m pretty aloof. Well, I was sure that these two chicks were lesbians because one kept grabbing the others ass, and then while they were eating their fro yo, the one whose ass had been grabbed started sticking out her tongue for the other to lick it off.

Pretty sure they are carpet munchers. And before you start getting all offended that I called them that, some of my greatest lesbian friends are totally cool with the use of that term. Quite frankly I’m jealous – it’s a concept my husband has never heard of.

So back to the story. The lesbian whose ass was grabbed, who then stuck out her tongue with fro yo on it, looked really familiar. I couldn’t place it for the life of me. And it bothered me, you know? Really bothered me, because I felt like she may have recognized me but because I didn’t say anything like ‘hey how are you?’ or anything, I then offended her. Or something.

I figured out on the ride home who she was. A former pharmacy customer. From her days before becoming a lesbian.

How do I know that? So this girl used to have a boyfriend. Yes, many homosexual people have been in heterosexual relationships before coming to terms with their sexuality. She may also just be experimenting now, which I suspect because people that are in long-term relationships are miserable, not licking frozen yogurt off each other’s tongues.

Anyway, so she used to have a boyfriend and they were customers at the pharmacy. Maybe once or twice a month they would bounce down the aisle towards me at the prescription drop off window. I mean literally bounce. It never failed that every time they would be freshly showered – hair wet. Smelling of soap. He would be giggling and she would loudly announce: “we just had amazing sex and it was unprotected, … ohhh was it unprotected …. I need to get some Plan B because he for sure just put a baby in my stomach.” Every time. Just like that.

Now she’s a lesbian. She was probably a lesbian all along, which brings us back to Slegowartz and the question all of this raised for me: why does it seem like gay people are so much more comfortable talking about their sexuality? Is it because they’ve had to overcome the stigma associated with it? Is it because they just don’t care?

Or is it something else?

I don’t really have a problem with it, anymore than I do when heterosexual people I know talk about sex way louder than they should around children. That’s the extent of the ickiness to it for me, though. But I still remain curious. And perplexed. I just can’t imagine myself ever saying that I know my husband just put a baby in my stomach to a complete stranger at the pharmacy. And I can’t imagine licking the frozen yogurt off anyone’s tongue. I especially can’t fathom myself ever saying to someone that sometimes I have to just take a step back and enjoy the love of a man’s penis.

Can you?

My Threesome With Pancho and Jesus; or, the Most Humiliating Day of My Life

I couldn’t decide what to title this blog post. I already wrote one early this morning, but then I experienced perhaps the most humiliating and simultaneously hilarious day of my entire life. Mostly humiliating.

Think about the most humiliating thing that has ever happened to you. Maybe on your wedding day a bird flew over and laid waste to the back of your dress. Or you were gossiping about a family member, only for your preschooler to repeat every word of it at the Christmas dinnertable. Think hard. We’re talking most humiliating here.

Now read on and you will no longer feel shame. For this morning, I had something of a threesome with my hotel’s maintenance men: Pancho and Jesus.

5:00 am I post a blog about how I can’t sleep and am ready to head back home from my mental health retreat to Solvang, CA – the faux Danish town nestled in the middle of California’s wine country. I’m awake because around 3 o’clock I woke up from a party going on in the room above mine, only to look outside and see a sea of Modello and Bud Light beer cans in the parking lot, with someone looking for his keys in the midst of them. While I had a great time the last few days eating, drinking, shopping, and relaxing, this marked the point when I was ready to leave.

5:30 am I debate for a few minutes with myself: get up and just get ready to go? Or go back to sleep? My eyes get droopy and I go back to sleep.

9:30 am I wake up. I stumble around to get all of my things together. My shopping bags, backpack, purse, and suitcase are by the door. All that’s left out are my makeup bag and clothes, sitting on the bed.

9:40 am I disrobe and throw my dirty pajamas into the suitcase too. I’m so groggy and ready to go home at this point I just want to leave so think about skipping a shower until I get back. I have a few hours of driving, though, so decide to shower to help wake me up. And, as I mentioned a few days ago, Aunt Flo’s in town (this will be important in a minute). I realize while heading to the bathroom that all I ever do is debate with myself about what to do.

9:42 am I set my clothes on the counter in the bathroom and pee. Very little pee, very little paper (this will also be important in a moment, only if you wish to assess blame).

9:42 and 30 seconds am I flush the toilet and hop in the shower. I start to wash my hair.

9:43 am I’m washing my hair. Washing, washing. Thinking about the things I want to add to my list of things to do before I am no longer kidless and fancy free on Monday. Washing a little more.

9:45 am I start to rinse my hair and think I hear a door slam open. ‘Must be someone upstairs’ I think to myself and then a guy in a maintenance uniform comes running into the bathroom. I scream.

9:46 am I’m still in the shower and the maintenance man takes the top off the toilet and shoves his hand in. He apologizes and explains that my toilet is flooding the hotel room, which was noticed by the maid outside the hotel room door. I peek out the curtain of the shower and see there is water now rising on the bathroom floor too.

9:47 am Pancho officially introduces himself and says to stay put while he gets the valve closed. The shower is still going. There is nothing but a thin, vinyl shower curtain between Pancho and me. I quickly debate with myself over what I should do and decide Pancho knows best. So I stay and decide while there I may as well finish my shower.

9:48 am I shave my arm pits. Pancho is calling for back up: the other maintenance guy, Jesus.

9:50 am I grab my loofa and body wash, and wash. Pancho is still on the other side of the vinyl shower curtain. Jesus is now standing just outside the bathroom door and I can hear him shouting as water continues to pour out of the walls, the toilet, and in from the hotel room.

9:52 am “Pancho? I’d really like to turn off the water and cover myself with a towel now.” Here’s where shit gets real. Pancho says “OK” and I turn off the water. He still has one hand in the toilet tank. His other hand grabs a towel and hands it through the open space between the vinyl shower curtain and the shower wall.

9:53 am Jesus yells to Pancho that he got the water shut off. Pancho stands up and says I should get out of the shower. I open the shower curtain. Pancho and Jesus look down and help me step out of the tub and into about four inches of water.

9:55 am Pancho and Jesus have taken all of my things out of the room, except for my clothes and my makeup bag. They say they will leave so I can get dressed in the only dry corner of the room. Jesus notices my things on the counter in bathroom, so slushes through the water to get them for me. Remember how I said Aunt Flo was in town? I hear Jesus in the bathroom say “oh boy” and then he shouts to me “Ma’am are you OK with me carrying your garments and lady products to you?”


9:55 and 30 seconds am “Sure, why not … there doesn’t seem to be anything between the three of us at this point” I say and we all laugh.

9:56 am Pancho and Jesus leave the room and I get dressed. Fortunately, in the dry area of the room there is a mirror, so after they come back in to begin cleaning up the mess and repairing the toilet, I use the mirror to put on my makeup and brush my hair.

10:05 am I ask Pancho and Jesus if they’d mind if I took a few photographs so people would believe me when I tell them the story. They nod, laugh some more, and keep working. I snap photos.

10:10 am Pancho and Jesus have left the room to get their remaining equipment, or leave the mess for someone else, or something. I load my car and drive to the front of the hotel to check out, half expecting a bouquet of flowers, a box of chocolates, and a note that reads “had an early meeting, but thanks for the good times.” There are no flowers or chocolates, and I wonder if I am the one who should leave behind the “thank you.”

10:30 am I get some breakfast at the restaurant next to the hotel to try and recover my dignity before embarking on my drive. There is a maintenance man in the restaurant eating too and I wonder if Pablo and Jesus know him and have told him about our threesome. When I finish eating I pay the bill and hit the road.

Now I am home and have taken another shower. No maintenance men burst in this time.

So did that make you faithful blog followers feel a little better about your own humiliating experiences? Like one of my friends said this morning when I (of course) immediately posted it on my Facebook page, this could only happen to me.

And I bet right now you are all thinking one of two things: either you want to know more details about where I was staying so that you too can have such an experience. Or you want to share this, but are hemming and hawing about it in an effort to spare the last remaining shred of dignity I may or may not have. Well don’t you worry, there is no dignity left (that was left behind in Solvang). And quite frankly the more I tell people this story to, the less weird I feel about Pancho and Jesus. Should I call? Will they call? What will my husband think?

So share away. And tell me your most humiliating experience too in the comments. I may have come home still feeling in a funk and pretty depressed. But at least I can laugh again.

Am I A Ticking, Biological Time-Bomb? Short answer? Yes. Long answer…

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Today one of my very dear friends (and an instrumental participant in nicknaming me ‘B(itch)’) texted me. He told me to watch a video he had just posted on his Facebook page after we got home from swimming lessons and all the other random stuff that keeps me so busy all the time. With most friends I would probably sluff it off; maybe watch it in a few days if I remembered and got a chance. But with this friend, I usually follow suit. Okay, I always follow suit – I think he has me whipped.

So I got home and watched this video immediately. It’s called 29/31 and he saw it at the Attack of the Show panel at Comic-con last weekend. The video, itself, is hilarious – it is the perspective of the same woman at ages 29 and 31. Being smack-dab in the center of this at 30 years old, I can empathize completely, moreso with 31. While I was never as sweet and optimistic as that 29 year old is, I definitely can feel the transition to ticking, biological time-bomb coming on.

Even for a married mother such as myself, the truth to this video is a little disturbing. In fact, I think that single or married doesn’t matter – a woman still feels many of these very things at this point in her life.

Or maybe it’s just me.

The B(itch)’s Transition to Ticking, Biological Time-bomb: Exhibit A

31 is right: there is no one left and we are all alone. At this point in time, most of my friends have gotten married or are well on their way. I’m married too so this should be no big deal, right? Except for the fact that now everyone is in a varied phase of these relationships, so have all pretty much disappeared from the universe outside.

Some friends are in new relationships that are getting serious on hyper-drive, and have absolutely no time for anything other than their significant other.

Other friends just got married, and everything has become a “we” this and a “we” that. Translation = fucking annoying to have any kind of conversation with them.

Then there are friends that have been married or in serious relationships for a while and have become these mommy-types that have absolutely no lives outside of said relationships and children.

I sometimes feel as though I am the only person that wants regular “me” time; and that can be away from my husband without having to check in regularly, without texting excessively, and talking about nothing but … well, my husband. The last Girl’s Night Out I went on was just like that – a bunch of girls sitting around, texting and talking about their men. Lame if you ask me.

The B(itch)’s Transition to Ticking, Biological Time-bomb: Exhibit B

29 is a fucking bitch that deserves a nagging case of jungle rot. Won’t settle for anything less than perfect, you say? I’ll give you perfect: perfect is a day that you don’t actually have to clean up toast crumbs off the counter, piss off the side of the toilet, or spread your legs for the 30 most awkward seconds of your day.

Surrounded by love and peace? The only place that love and peace exists in this world is in the naive and vaguely narcissistic dreamworlds that immature 20 year olds create for themselves. Negative you say? How about realistic.

Every year that goes by, I become evermore aware of how ugly this world can be. There are definitely good things about it – moments that make it all worth it, innocence undisturbed in a child and all that. But man is there a lot of crap too.

The B(itch)’s Transition to Ticking, Biological Time-bomb: Exhibit C

31 may be off base a little bit about the whole “ovaries shrinking”-thing. I mean, didn’t Madonna have a baby close to 50? But just because people do it doesn’t mean they should. Where she does hit the mark is in the biological reality of it all.

My husband and I were just talking about this the other night. When we met – years ago – I made it explicitly clear that were I to have any babies with him they would all be before 32; 33 max. I want to enjoy my retirement. I also don’t want to deal with the health complications that come with pregnancy later in your 30s, 40s, etc.

So it’s do-or-die time for us and to stand firm to my belief, I’m planning on looking into getting my tubes tied and his nuts clipped if 31 comes and goes. So in a way, I guess my ovaries are shrinking; or at least the “window of opportunity” is, in fact, about to shut forever.

Can you hear that clock ticking? Tick tock. Tick tock.

Ultimately, 29 is exactly what 31 calls her: an arrogant c-u-next-time. I sometimes wonder if I was that arrogant at 29. Who am I kidding? I’ve never been that arrogantly optimistic. It’s funny how time and change and your 30s make you so much more aware of the realities of age, though. Today I realized that my new vacuum cleaner is being delivered tomorrow – something that excited me to no end before I went completely bipolar and grew depressed over the fact that my excitement over a cleaning product is a sign of my age. My biological reality. Clearly I have already become a ticking, biological time-bomb. Next stop is screaming with 31.

Dodger Fan Douchecan

I am from Chicago. I am not from Los Angeles. There is no way in hell I am going to be a Los Angeles fan.

That means I do not like the Dodgers. I do not like the Angels either. Further, I cannot stand the Lakers (especially Kobe). The Kings are somewhat innocuous to me, but that’s because I just don’t care much about hockey. Lastly, I think it is absolutely pitiful that a major metropolitan does not have a football team. I also hate the Raiders and the Saints, though – which are apparently the default teams for citizens of southern California.

All that being said, I do not begrudge others for being fans of whatever team they hold allegiance to. When in Chicago, I do not begrudge people that are fans of the opposing teams, or rather that happen to live there but be fans of other areas for whatever the reason may be. My husband grew up in the suburbs of LA, so he is obviously an avid Lakers and Dodgers fan – we even have what he coins a “Dodger wall.” I could care less about the wall or the fanship, but I will not change my team allegiance just because I got married. And I wouldn’t expect him to either.

I know that fans can be ugly in other areas of the country, but I have never seen fans act so nasty and vicious as they do here in Los Angeles. At the first Dodger game I went to, a young woman walked across to her seat in a Giants t-shirt and there was so much food thrown at her that she couldn’t get in her seat without swiping it all on the ground. Another time we went to a game, the Cubs fans sitting in front of us had beer poured on them by Dodger fans in the deck above. Some of the most violent things have happened outside of Dodgers stadium after games as well: people have been stabbed, beat up, shot, and one person has even been killed. Lakers fans are just as bad – who riot if the Lakers lose or win.

So I was running errands today and standing in line at Target when this total douchecan wearing a Dodger hat cut in line in front of me to ask for a price check on a Brita water filter. The price on the screen came up differently than the price he had seen online, though, so we all had to stand there for about fifteen minutes while they argued over this price check. I was pretty annoyed. It wasn’t until about five minutes into the waiting that I realized I knew the guy – he is the husband of an ex-boyfriend’s friend. It’s been years since I was dating the guy (about a decade) so I was surprised I recognized him, but then again how could I forget him? We went on a “double date” one time to a baseball game at one of the local colleges.

I remember it well. He wore a Dodger hat then as well, I a White Sox hat. While it may or may not have been the same hat he was wearing today, he acted like just as much of a self-important dick then as today at Target. We were at a community college game and the guy kept screaming as if he owned the team and had a vested interest in them winning. At one point I remember someone behind us telling him to quiet down; to be honest I was surprised his screaming didn’t get us kicked out. At the end of the game, he capped off his little tirade with “the Dodgers never would play like this – what a sorry bunch of losers these guys are. They’re playing like the White Sox.” We all laughed, awkwardly and he looked at my hat and said “I’m fucking serious.” I remember thinking to myself just who in the fuck goes to a community college baseball game, on a double date no less, and acts like this? A Dodger Fan Douchecan, that’s who.

Ironically, I am going to a game tomorrow at Angel’s Stadium. The White Sox are coming to town and so (of course) we pulled out all of our team gear and are heading down for some beers and baseballs. We needed to find another White Sox shirt to take with, though, since most of what we have is cold-weather clothing and it’s going to be pretty warm tomorrow. So after my encounter with the Dodger Fan Douchecan, I went out searching for a team shirt … only to be confronted with even more Dodger Fan Douchecans in my community.

I went to every sporting goods store in the county: Sports Chalet, Sports Authority, Team Gear in the mall. Team Gear had the closest thing I could find to a non-California team shirt, but they were jerseys for the Heat and the Yankees. They had one Derrick Rose shirt marked down also, but someone was buying it while I was there. At Sports Chalet, I walked in and asked where the team shirts were. I was clearly speaking to another Dodger Fan Douchecan, though.


Hi! Where’abouts in the store do you keep the team shirts?

Dodger Fan Douchecan

The wha?


The team shirts … you know, like the sports teams.

Dodger Fan Douchecan

Oh … what team ‘choo lookin’ for? The Dodgers?


No. I was looking for the White Sox.

Dodger Fan Douchecan

The who?


The Chicago White Sox

Dodger Fan Douchecan

Aw, no man. Only Doyers an’ Angels represented up in here.


Hmm. Okay, well thanks.

Dodger Fan Douchecan to his coworker as I walked out

Man, the nerve. E’rbody know only Angels and Dodger fans allowed up in here. Pssh.


After hitting up the remainder of the stores in the area and getting the same, exact response from all of them, I see now that he’s right. Only Dodgers and Angels fans are allowed up in here.

I suppose in some sense I get it: if the population is primarily made up of a particular fan base, they’d only be losing money to carry merchandise that no one would buy. That really isn’t the point, though. The point is that my experience with Dodger Fan Douchecans is such that I get the impression these people think the Dodgers are where its at in all walks of life. I’m not saying that the Dodgers make people douchecans like this – assholes that will dump beer on someone sitting in front of them, stab a non-fan in the parking lot, and act like a totally self-centered prick in general life. Those people are just assholes, irrespective of the team. But this happens a lot with Lakers fans too, and I presume Angels fans. So is it that these teams attract douchecans?

I’ve only been to Angels stadium once, actually, so it will be interesting to see if they are just as arrogant and pompous as the rest of these people. Given their record this year, I’d hope they know better.