Guest poster: Meet Veronica

Hello everyone! One of my readers, Veronica, emailed me about one of her own freak encounters after being inspired by this post. Like all classic freak encounters, it's both hilarious and creepy. She has given me permission to share it. Be as nice to her as you are to me! Enjoy.

Dear Ginger,

I looked up your blog to share my own recent freak encounter and was checking out recent posts when I saw the lotus blossom story. My own tale is related to this type-fetishizing thing.

On Wednesday nights I usually go to a local hangout to sing karaoke. I know, I know but I like it. About 3 weeks ago, approximately an hour before closing this guy comes in. We're introduced (let's call him "Hyman"), and he immediately starts frothing at the mouth about how beautiful I am.

"Thanks, I am also married," I reply, flashing my wedding ring. Now I know I am not beautiful, in fact, I am 43 years old, short and fat. Don't get me wrong I am not denigrating myself, just being honest. I am comfortable with who and what I am. I have a nice face and good bearing but Jessica Alba I am not.

Hyman isn't the usual bar trash. He is nice looking, well groomed, decently clothed. Anyway, as it is an hour before close I have had my share of libation and this guy doesn't bother me too much. I write it off as alcohol induced "the girls all get prettier at closing time" syndrome.

The next Wednesday night, I am back at my little club. Haven't been there too long when I look up and meet his eyes as he walks in the door. I nod to be polite and go back to the video game I am wasting money on. Suddenly POOF he is beside me again frothing at the mouth about my supposed beauty and asks me my name (I guess he couldn't remember from last week). I say again "Thanks, but I'm married," (flashing the ring). "That's nice of you to say, thank you..." I'm studiously trying to ignore him without being impolite.

This goes on for a while. He proceeds to lean over and sniff my neck, breathing deeply, then exhaling slowly with an "Aaaahh" and a shudder. I look at him like he's crazy. Then he leans his head over on my shoulder in kind of a snuggle. I drop my shoulder and he lifts his head up. He starts apologizing, again extolling my beauty.

"Sorry," he says, "I just need...I don't know, I need a love canal."

I give a him chilling look and say "Go away." To my surprise, he does just that. I notice him spreading his pollen all over, but it is obvious that I am his favorite little flower. After each rebuff he made a beeline back to me to continue his frothing. So...needless to say I started to keep an eye out for him. He went one way I went another, which is rather hard to do this is a small bar. By the way, the music I sing is all jazzy, bluesy torch singer stuff, so every time I sing a song he stares at me, intently seemingly hoping that "Don't Let Me Be Lonely Tonight" was meant just for him. Finally he leaves and I am able to spend my last hour in the bar unencumbered.

The following Wednesday here I am back again. This time when I walk in Hyman is already there, only this week he is sitting with this wizened little lady, 60 if she's a day. "Oh great, he's got a date," I think to myself. I have to walk right by him to order a drink and he spies me.

"Oh hi!" he says. "What's your name?"

I said, "If you don't remember then you obviously don't need to know."

I start to walk past, and he tells me the lady is his best friend's mother. I exchange social niceties with lady and beg off, saying "I just got here and I need to get a drink." I do this and sit in front of one of the video games and enjoy my drink and solitude. I use the video games so I won't look like I am on the make, as it were, sitting alone in a bar. Well, Hyman and his date moved to the bar, right beside me. The lady sits between Hyman and myself.

They talk for a bit. I am playing my machine and suddenly she turns around and says "He likes you".

I say "Yeah? Well, he's a jerk."

"What makes you say that?" she asked. I relate to her the story of the sniff, snuggle and the love canal business saying it is nice to be flattered occasionally but that went over the line to offensive. She turns back to him and after a bit he goes to the restroom or something. The lady turns to me and says "Now honey, don't take this the wrong way, but he just adores stout women."

I felt my eyes cross and my jaw drop. I was speechless. When I gathered myself together, I told her that was still no excuse for his boorish behavior. I don't think she knows what "boorish" means. She told me that he had just lost his son, and that he was lonely and not himself. I said that it was still no excuse, that was no way to act in polite company. Hyman then approached and apologized, saying in so many words he was overwhelmed by my beauty.

Seeing a chance to escape, I say "Look Hyman, I think you're probably a nice guy. You're just really overbearing." I patted him on the shoulder and darted away to talk to someone else I knew. Time passed and I suffered no further contact from him/them. I felt safe and went back to my machine at the bar. Hyman comes back but his "date" seems to have left. He again apologizes and and seems at a loss for words. He tries to have normal conversation with me while I am increasingly stand-offish. Well, he loses his resolve and resumes his previous froth. I look at him rolling my eyes and open my mouth to say something scathing when he drops his next bombshell.

"You know what you are?" he says, "You are a matriarch!"

I am stunned, I have that deer-in-the-headlights look I'm sure, eyes wide, mouth open. I'm sure he meant to say something flattering that started with "M," but matriarch is what came out. Then I think about my small family and the way I am a mother figure to all the people who work with me. I burst out laughing and said "You know, in a way you are probably
right."

I went to the DJ, a friend of mine, and laughingly told him the matriarch business. He told me I was about 40 yrs away from being a matriarch; we had a good chuckle over it. I went back to my game for awhile unaccosted. The DJ said, "Next, we have a real singer coming to the stage - our newest matriarch!" I cracked up. I stood up and Hyman caught my eye from across the room. He looked wounded. When I turned around on stage from the steps, he was gone. That was fast! I chided Bobby (the DJ) for his remark; he said he was sorry but he just couldn't help it.

Well, Wednesday night cometh - I wonder what it holds in store for me! I hope you enjoyed the story.

Karaoke Matriarch,
Veronica

Thanks Veronica! That was definitely a unique story. I'm sorry that your karaoke haven has been tainted by the overbearing Hyman. Which video game do you play at that bar? Is it Space Invaders, by any chance? Perhaps he takes the title literally. Between that and the frothing, I'm not sure whether he has OCD or rabies. You might want to suggest a doctor...

“Life's like a movie, write your own ending."*

'What will your obituary say?' at QuizGalaxy.com

Quote from The Muppet Movie, 1979.

Fashion victim

While I'm on the subject of high fashion, dear readers, I may as well share a very recent faux pas of my own.

First of all, let me say that I am not, and have never been, a fashion maven. As I write this, I'm sitting on my couch in sweatpants, a face mask and heated spa socks. I don't go out this way, of course, since I don't want to scare anybody. Truth be told, I was a nerdy ugly duckling growing up, a late bloomer who only grew into herself in her mid-20's. I have a pretty solid sense of style now, and am comfortable with myself in a way that I've never been before. I'm happy to say that the kind of self-acceptance that I enjoy now comes from my achievements and relationships, not from the way I look, which I worry about less and less as time goes on. That being said, I'm artsy, and I like for my clothes to reflect that. I've got a penchant for elegant cuts and quirky details; Flirty Pretty Things, if you will.

This past week I had the opportunity to attend the debut of designer Joy Han's new line, called Voom. Her fall collection is vintage inspired; I love vintage clothes, so I was excited to see the new pieces. My friend Liz and I agreed to meet at (h)armonie, the boutique on Abbott Kinney Blvd. in Venice where the event was to be held around 6:30pm. We both wound up running late because of work, and each found ourselves stuck in horrendous traffic to boot. Liz arrived first and said she'd wait for me inside the boutique; the fashion show was scheduled to start at 7.

I made a wrong turn on Abbott Kinney and had to double back. I was horrendously late, finally parking my car at 7:01. I booked down the street and rushed into the boutique to look for Liz - luckily, the show hadn't started yet. (h)armonie was packed with people bustling about. I couldn't find Liz, and soon realized that the very tall and skinny women around me were Joy Han's models, who were being dressed for the show. Okay, I'm clearly in the wrong area. I couldn't see any way out of the small room that I was in, except to go back out onto the street. The boutique must have another room, but where was it?

After wandering through a few clothing racks, I saw a divider curtain and made a beeline for it. I didn't see the "Watch your step" sign next to the curtain until the last minute, and found myself tripping up a small set of stairs. Tired, aggravated and disoriented, I pushed the curtain out of my face and walked through...

...right onto the catwalk.

Oh, god. I was confronted with a sea of confused faces below me, including a couple of photographers who looked vaguely annoyed. They'd had their cameras at the ready until they realized that this 5'4" woman wearing teal low-rider jeans and a T-shirt that read "Domestically Disabled" couldn't possibly be a model. I was frozen for a second, arms akimbo, holding a curtain in each hand as I tried to decide whether to just jump down from the runway or turn tail and flee. I finally spotted Liz in the middle of the crowd; she waved excitedly and beckoned me over. God bless her, she wasn't at all embarrassed to be associated with me.

Well, fuck it, this is probably the only runway walk I'll ever do. I tried to put my best "I totally meant to come in this way, don't you know who I am?" look on my face, crossed the catwalk about halfway and jumped down next to Liz. She didn't miss a beat. "You're just in time! Let's get you a drink, they have an open bar!" What a gal.

The show itself was incredible; Joy Han's clothes are gorgeous. I may buy something to try and make up for giving her show a false start!

Emmy fashion blogging

It's a plethora of pretty fashions tonight at the Emmy Awards. The Emmys are generally my least favorite awards show, but I always tune in for a little while so that my girly self can check out the gowns. I have to say, it's a nicer crop of frocks than I was expecting. I get tired of all the women who err on the side of black, but Allison Janney is resplendent in red; Heidi Klum is radiant in an orange-red gown cut perfectly for her gorgeously pregnant body; Jamie Pressly is wearing a chic 1940's style gown in an elegant plum. Tina Fey is wearing black, but I adore her; she was the best thing to happen to Saturday Night Live since Will Ferrell, and I can't wait to see her new show, 30 Rock. Girlfriend can do no wrong. Besides, her dress has mesh and beading in just the right places. Love her. Also, I pray to the Goddess every night that one day I will be half as fabulous as The Great Helen Mirren.

This gown, however, is my personal favorite:
Wow. Just, wow. Could Julia Louis-Dreyfus look any more classy? This dress makes her figure look flawless; even though it's white, it doesn't add any bulk. The black accents give the dress a modern-Grecian feel. The simple hair and glamourpuss makeup compliment it perfectly.

And now, for the disappointment of the evening:
Ellen Pompeo in a crushed velvet nightmare. If Darth Vader were a drag queen who staged a variety show at Fubar in West Hollywood, this is what (s)he'd wear. Ellen, what's with the severely pulled back hair? Is this the hairstyle of choice for actresses who didn't have time to get their pre-show Botox injections?

Now that, dear readers, is freaky.

Opening up the request lines

Hello dear readers,
I'm going to be preparing one or two new posts for you all over the next couple of days. In the meantime, I'd like to challenge myself by doing a little writing experiment. Is there any topic in particular that any of you would like Yours Truly to address on this blog?

If you think that the blog is fantastic as it is, merci. You are too kind. However, I thought it might be fun to get some reader input and stretch my writing muscles just a bit.

Another installment!

Weird random emailer who calls him (her?) self "alcoholic" gave me another shout out. The story continues...still doesn't make any sense, but continues.

'When dost thou go?' The Curator smiled at the mixture of old-world tam-o'-shanter. His face was yellow and wrinkled, like that of Fookspeaking aloud?' 'Those who beg in silence starve in silence,' said the blueturbaned husband. 'Pick up the child. It is a holy man,Curator's bosom had gone out to it from the first. For no persuasionan Oriental, with an Oriental's views of the value of time, could seethou no charity?' 'Does the holy man come from the North' 'From farregistered in one of the locked books of the Indian Survey Departmentends or Mahbub's business, Kim could lie like an Oriental.

The slurs against Asians are uncalled for...(s)he needs to read my lotus blossom post.

I think I may want to make myself a T-shirt with "Curator's bosom" on it. Classic.

End of day timesuck

Here's a fun, short personality test; my results are pretty accurate.

Ginger took the free ColorQuiz.com personality test! "Seeks an affectionate relationship, offering fulfi..." Click here to read the rest of the results.

Aah, the perks of blogebrity.

I just love it when random people send me rambling emails that make absolutely no sense:

go for the place is not known where the arrow fell.' 'And how wilthas talked to him like a brother. O my mother, fill me this bowl. Hewho had wakened the lama - Kim with one eye laid against a knot-holelama, not so well used to trains as he had pretended, started as theand hold up hands as begging -the pedigree of the white stallion wasLife,' he chuckled, 'for we be craftsmen together, thou and I.' Theroofs, and the headlong flight from housetop to housetop under coverLocked doors showed that the owner was away, and a few rude -lama. Tomorrow I may give thee service.' Kim slunk away, his teeth inlittle curry is good, and a fried cake, and a morsel of conserve wouldor we are left,' cried Kim. 'See!' shrilled the Amritzar girl. 'He hasbuffalo.' The man turned helplessly and drifted towards the boys. Hehad married Kimball O'Hara, a young colour sergeant of the Mavericks,head high in air, and pausing an instant before the great statue of anot believe. The Lord - the Excellent One - He has honour here too?

Uh, yeah. Beware the Jabberwock, my son. Take two Prozac and call someone else in the morning.

Lotus blossom fever?

Everybody has a "type" - specific physical characteristics to which they will always be attracted. I love guys with pale skin, thick dark hair and blue eyes. I'll always check out a guy who fits my "ideal," but that doesn't mean I'll date him, or even like him as a person. I've gone on dates with men of almost every 'type' and race that there is; personality ranks way higher on my list than any physical characteristic ever could.

Maybe it's a Gemini thing; I like variety. Maybe it's because my group of friends looks like the Human Rights Council of the United Nations - I'm comfortable talking to pretty much anybody. My point is, making assumptions about who someone is based on how they look is very retro in a decidedly non-stylish way. The few men that I have truly loved all possessed two traits that I cannot live without: brains and a sense of humor. Non-physical, those, and if you haven't got them, buh-bye. I don't care how blue your peepers are if you're a dope who can't make me laugh. When I'm contemplating a real relationship, personality is paramount.

Dear readers, there's nothing wrong with having a type. It's one thing to like a certain look, but fetishizing the people who have that look is a different thing altogether. Case in point:

On Friday night, my friend Lisa invited me out with a group of her friends who were going to a club called Ivar. I don't love the Hollywood club scene, but I do love to dance, and hadn't gone in quite a while. Lisa and I are both a little overworked lately, and neither of us were feeling great, but decided to drag ourselves out anyway. All work and no play makes us dull girls, after all. I figured I'd get a second wind once I was on the dance floor.

I met up with Lisa and her girlfriends on the sidewalk outside of Ivar. The club's Friday night event was being hosted by a Koreatown radio station, and as we entered, I realized that I was the lone redhead standing in a sea of Asian people of various ethnicities.

"You stick out a bit in this crowd," Lisa, who is Chinese, teased me. Did that bother me? Readers, of course not. A 6'3" drag queen once gave me a lap dance at a friend's birthday party; it takes a lot to make me feel like I'm out of my element. Besides, everyone was friendly and the club's sound system was decent. This is all I need for a good night out. Lisa and I hit the dance floor pretty quickly, and her friends joined us after they'd had a few drinks.

We were all having a good time, and the club was getting more and more packed as the evening wore on. I was enjoying a freak-free night out, which is rare for me, particularly when I'm at a club. Yours Truly was beyond pleased. Lisa and I were people watching as we danced. A couple of white boys had congregated at the edge of the dance floor. "Hey look, a few white guys showed up!" Lisa teased. "What a relief!" I laughed. "I'm not alone anymore." Like I cared.

Readers, what transpired next creeped me out. These white boys, who were all silent and sipping drinks, split up and started to roam the dance floor. Not to dance, mind you. They positioned themselves and, well, stared at the groups of Asian women that were dancing together. They were literally standing and staring. Not trying to dance with, start a conversation with, or even smile at these women.

Staring. Silently.

"Do you see this?" I leaned over and asked Lisa. "What's with the staring? Do you think that is creepy? Because my skin is crawling."

"That is creepy." Lisa shook her head. "Asian fetish guys."

Readers, the way that these men were staring at these women was beyond my comprehension. I've seen plenty of uncalled-for behavior from Various Dudes, but I've never seen anything like this. It's impossible to accurately describe, but I'd say that it was akin to hungry dogs watching chickens turning on rotisserie spits. It was as if the women weren't even people to these men. Everybody else was dancing, talking, laughing with each other...but these guys stood and Just. Fucking. STARED. Say "hello", for god's sake. Smile and nod. Don't just work your way into a woman's space so that you can repeatedly look her up and down. Even if you're shy, a nod and a "Hey" should be doable if you regard the woman as a human being.

Listen, I can appreciate that lots of white men think Asian women are beautiful; I have to agree. They most definitely are. However, there's a big difference between appreciating someone's beauty and staring at her as though she's up for auction. Just because you're not actually physically touching someone doesn't mean you aren't being invasive. This is what fetishizing is; it goes beyond appreciating beauty (your "type", as it were), and turns anyone with a certain "look" into a thing to be desired. Not interacted with, not treated like a person. Just an "exotic" object to look at.

Readers, I wasn't the one attracting the freaks this time. But lord, I was infuriated on these womens' behalf. They didn't need any help from me, of course; they just ignored it, or moved away, after which the guy in question would meander over to another set of Asian women. Watching this clumsy dance of objectification left me with a feeling of ickiness that I could not shake, kids. It may seem like I'm overreacting, but if you'd been there, believe me, it was The Height of Creepy.

My friend Mira, who is Filipina, once brought up the Asian fetish issue. "It's weird. It's tied into these white men wanting a submissive woman," she said with disgust. "Let me tell you something about Asian women..."

"Girl, I already know what you're going to say," I interjected. "That "exotic lotus blossom" stereotypical bullshit turns my stomach."

"Well, we may seem very demure," she leaned in conspiratorially, "but we run everything. We run the house. It may not look that way, but that's the way it is," she said with a giggle.

A male Chinese friend of mine gave me his take on the incident very succinctly: "Yellow fever."

"What?!" I laughed, before I realized he wasn't joking. "Come on. That is not a real thing." Readers, I may sound naive, but since (to my knowledge) there's no such thing as "Irish fever," I have no point of comparison. Of course, I've dealt with an incident or two thanks to my red hair, and found it pretty annoying. Hair color is a small thing, though; race is a far more serious issue, and the hyper-eroticizing of certain races has often been used to oppress the people of those races, particularly the women.

"Oh yes, it definitely is true," Lisa countered. "I can spot the yellow fever from a mile away."

Now I can too, and it isn't pretty. Big Bad Chinese Mama agrees; go visit her site and have a laugh. Lotus blossom indeed.

Ginger speaks!

Hello again dear readers!

Whew, yesterday's post was a little intense. We all have crazy dreams when we're stressed out. Now that I've gotten that out of my head and onto the digital page, bring on the good times!

Readers, you may not know my real name, you may not know what I look like, but now you can put a voice to the blog, as they say. Click here to listen to my Henican & White interview from August 3rd. It's about 7 minutes long, so don't get into trouble at work! Enjoy.

Ginger snaps

I've had insomnia for most of my life. When I am asleep, I sleep deeply, and don't usually remember my dreams. That's a good thing, dear readers, because my dreams are 3D, Technicolor, THX whoppers that make me feel as if I'd taken a handful of crazy pills before going to bed. For instance, here's the gem that danced through my quirky mind last night:

**I am naked and on my back in bed, looking down at a huge pregnant belly; I'm in the middle of giving birth. Mind you, I have never been pregnant, nor wanted to be. The room is white and undecorated, but I know that I'm in my parents' bedroom in the house that I grew up in (which my father sold two years ago).

I'm surrounded by three happy, anonymous nurses in white scrubs and sterile masks. It takes a painless 30 seconds to push the baby out (as if that ever happens - any mother who's reading this is laughing hysterically right now). "It's a girl!" says one of the nurses. I look down at my body, which has instantly snapped back to its pre-pregnant state (have another laugh at my expense, moms). I see a few small white stretch marks on my hips, nothing horrible. I run my left hand over my abdomen. Well, that wasn't so bad!

One of the nurses wraps my daughter in a light blue blanket and hands her to me. She is beautiful, tiny, quiet, perfect; I am thrilled and proud. I just had a baby! I have accomplished something really major! My body is clean, feels as light as air and is suddenly clothed. I walk her into the master bathroom and gently put her on the closed toilet seat, of all places. There is a huge pile of dirty laundry between the toilet and the sink. I leave the bathroom for just a minute; I don't doubt that she is safe. I'm not sure why I left - it's a gap in the dream.

The next thing I remember is coming back into the bathroom to retrieve my child. She is gone. No blanket, no baby. Oh god, did someone throw her away by accident? Nobody knew that I was pregnant. I panic, and look all over the house for her, terrified that she might have starved to death. How could I not feed my new baby before putting her down? I'm a failure at this.

I go back into the bathroom, and I notice that the pile of laundry is also missing. I know! Dad must have taken her downstairs with the laundry. Oh Christ, is she in the washing machine?! I run downstairs to the laundry room. It's dark, neither of the machines are on, and the giant pile of laundry is sitting on top of the dryer. I frantically start to sort through it. Please let her be alive.

Finally, near the bottom of the pile, I feel a tiny hand. Found her! Relieved and freaked out, I continue to throw laundry everywhere to get to her. Oh god oh god I can't feel a pulse! I toss the rest of the laundry on the floor and pick my baby up. I feel her neck for a pulse, but find nothing. My heart sinks; it's my worst nightmare. I killed my baby. I take a closer look at her, and that's when I realize: she isn't alive, but she isn't dead, either. She isn't real.

I had given birth to a baby doll.

How did I not notice this? Oh well, at least I know I didn't kill her. I feel disappointed, but I wrap her up in her blue blanket and cradle her as if she's a real baby. After all, I'd given birth to her, hadn't I? That made me her mother. I take her upstairs to the kitchen, where my father and several other family members are milling around.

I hand the doll baby to my father and say, "Here's your granddaughter!", proudly, like a real mother.**

Lordy lord. Readers, I woke up from that dream in a cold sweat. I do believe that our dreams are a subconscious reflection of what's going on in our waking lives, but that is just nuts. Will any of you come and visit me after the nice men in the white coats take me away for a "rest"? Hahaha. Ok, time to look through a dream dictionary...

Monkey torture

By and large, running errands one of the more boring ways to spend one's time. I hate it, actually. Picking up paper towels and dental floss? Not intellectually stimulating. Stocking up on Drano so that I can unclog my tub? Less than scintillating. However, teeth must be flossed and tubs must be unclogged, or we will soon find ourselves in a messy and stinky world, dear readers.

Luckily, those of us who live in a capitalist society can deal with this mundane aspect of human existence by engaging in the time-honored tradition of one-stop shopping. Target is one of my favorite places on earth; I'd happily live in its West Hollywood location if the rent was fair. Then again, it's best if I don't visit too often. Target is one of those stores where you run in to buy one thing, but you leave with $100 worth of stuff. I'm better off going to the drugstore in my neighborhood, which is pretty big and very well stocked, as if Target, Ace Hardware and Albertson's had a love child. Liquor store in front, pharmacy out back, and open 24 hours; slap some Greek letters above the front door and you've got a frat house. Well, a frat house that sells Shoebox greeting cards and feminine supplies.

A few months ago, I stopped by the drugstore after work to get a refill on a prescription. I decided I'd wait the 15 minutes or so that the pharmacist would take to fill it, so I started wandering around, picking up batteries, hair spray and a bottle of my favorite wine. As I walked down the deodorant aisle, I noticed a small, thin, elderly woman walking towards me. She had short white hair, and was wearing sweatpants, sandals (with socks), a pajama top and a knit cap. She walked with short, jerky steps, and stared at the floor.

She was definitely strange, but not the strangest person I've ever seen since moving to Los Angeles; not by a long shot. I paid her no mind and kept shopping. Readers, what happened next happened so fast that I had zero time to react.

This woman walked right up to me, stopped dead in her tracks, looked up from the floor and stared at me. Before I could say anything, she started jumping up and down, jerking her limbs all over the place and spitting at me.

"Pffffffffffftttttttt!" Picture a chimpanzee getting electric shocks. Yours Truly was freaked out, and getting sprayed with a total stranger's saliva to boot. I heard somebody shriek; it was me. "Jesus, lady!" I jumped back. "What is wrong with you??" Can't a woman pick up some deodorant without being spat upon? Do I demand too much?

Monkey Lady seemed to think so. "Pffffffffffftttttttt." She had stopped jumping but was vigorously shaking her head from side to side, still spitting. I might have been the one who had stopped by to pick up a prescription, but she was the one who needed meds. Unfortunately, the drugstore didn't stock tranquilizer darts.

"Okay, lady, that's enough," I said. "Go away now."

Monkey Lady stopped spitting, got quiet, and stared at the floor again. "Oh, sure," she mumbled, seemingly to no one, "I'm the one with the problem." She seemed rooted to the floor.

"You're the one who's spitting," I said, turning to walk away. "Leave me alone."

"I'm the one with the problem," she muttered, hitting my left shoulder as she suddenly jerked forward and shoved past me. "I'm the one with the problem."

Well, at least we agreed on that point. The irony was not lost on me as I got back in line at the pharmacy to pick up my medication.

Short hiatus

Hello Readers,
Sorry I haven't posted in a bit. On top of all the exciting attention that the blog has been getting, Yours Truly has been inundated with deadlines at work, which meant burning the midnight oil and working on the weekends for the past two weeks.

Over the next few days, I'm going to be relaxing and giving my Diary some of the much-needed attention that it deserves. In the meantime, enjoy a new quiz!

You Are The Star

You represent the ultimate in truth and purity. Insightful and illuminating, you provide guidance for others. You also demonstrate unselfish, unconditional love. You posses many spiritual gifts, including the ability to heal. Your fortune: Your future is looking brighter by the day. The near future will be a time of both hope and healing. Luck is about to come your way, perhaps the best luck you have ever seen. Life is about to get a lot easier and much better!

What Tarot Card Are You?

Calling all Chicagoans!

Hello lovelies! Yours Truly is going to be interviewed on Chicago morning radio this week. How exciting! Here are the deets:

Mancow's Morning Madhouse
Wednesday, August 9 @9:10am CST (7:10am PST, 11:10am EST)

If you live in the Windy City, tune in! If you don't, and there's an affiliate in your area, you can go to mancow.org and click on "listen live" in the top righthand corner. Or, you can go to mancow.com. You can look for affiliate stations on that site. If you're a member, you get access to all podcasts.

I'll post an update if anything changes. Hope you can tune in!

Pointing out the obvious

Readers, it's amazing how much unwanted attention one small woman can get when she's just doing her thing.

I was taking a walk this weekend (walking is my fave form of exercise - I walk 3-5 miles between 3 and 4 times a week). Picture it: sweatpants, hoodie, sneakers, CD walkman, hair pulled back. Nothing to call home about, although I've noticed that some guys seem to like the just-rolled-out-of-bed look.

I was standing on the corner of Doheny Drive, waiting for the light to change. There was a taxi parked at the intersection, which I took no notice of at first. I had my walkman set on random, and was flipping through songs as I waited. When I looked up, I locked eyes with the cab driver, who was a fiftysomething man with a beer belly, greying hair and hairy, leg o' mutton forearms. He was pointing at me (through the open window of the cab) and grinning idiotically.

Readers, I'm not sure what this particular gesture was supposed to say. "Look! There is a lone woman standing on the street corner in broad daylight! The fact that she is minding her own business is of no consequence! She must be made aware that I can see her! Attention must be paid! I know, I know...I'll point at her, so that everyone will take notice! God, I'm good. In fact, I'm a genius!"

Other drivers did, in fact, turn their heads to see what he was pointing at. So, since I seemed to have everybody's attention, I made the "loser" fingers on my forehead. Now that gesture has meaning: "That cab driver is being a moron! See, I can point out the obvious too!"

Cabbie didn't break his grin or stop pointing. In fact, when the light changed, he kept his finger on me until he completely lost sight of me. Now, there's a man who needs a new hobby.

Bye bye boner

Readers, we all get horny. This is an unequivocal fact of the human condition. It is natural, understandable, and even welcomed (in the right situation). That being said, if one is in an aroused state, one should refrain from treating another human being the way that a dog in heat treats the side of a couch. Do not, for the love of all that is holy, dry hump anyone without an invitation.

Case in point: on a random Saturday afternoon in 2000, Yours Truly was minding her own damn business, riding the T into downtown Boston. The "T", for those of you who've never visited Beantown, stands for "trolley"; it is the Boston subway system. Public transportation is extremely popular in Boston, a city that was built back when the United States was still in its horse-and-buggy infancy. Its proliferation of one-way, extremely narrow streets in the downtown area makes driving a complete nightmare.

So there I was, parked in an aisle seat on the T, reading a book as I traveled towards Downtown Crossing. My car was packed with passengers, many of them standing in the aisle. There was a tall, 40-ish, white gentleman (I use the term very loosely) standing diagonally behind me, almost pressed up against my right shoulder. Every time the car would come to a stop, he would gently "bump" my right shoulder with his, um, crotchal area. Readers, while riding the T, I tended to be a bit more lax in terms of my personal space; 9 times out of 10, someone's pressing against you because they've got no place else to go.

Of course, I wound up on the train with #10. The woman in the seat behind me got off at the Boylston St. stop, but the man to my right did not take the empty seat. No, indeed. Instead, he started to bump me more regularly and forcefully. That would be what brought his massive erection to my attention.

Well, between us, it wasn't massive - I've seen better. I'm just saying that it wasn't a semi; it was full on. Or up. Or whatever - it was uncalled for, no question about that. My Bepenised Readers, I have to tell you that attempting to engage in sexual congress with the back of a woman's shoulder is so very not ok. It shows that you are (a) desperate, (b) extremely presumptuous, or (c) in dire need of a basic sex education class. I don't know about you all, but I was told what went where when I was in the fifth grade (thanks, Mom). Of course, I was around 10 years old at the time, and completely horrified by this new information, but in retrospect, I give mad props to Mother Figure for determining that I could handle it.

Anyway. As relaxed as my "T" attitude normally was, I drew the line at being poked by a random boner. Without looking up or speaking, I pulled my arm forward, tensed it up, and jammed it backwards (into the offending crotch) as hard as I could. Boner Man groaned, doubled over and fell into the empty seat behind me.

That's right, perv, sit your violating ass down.

My first interview!

Hello readers,

Good lord, the attention that one online article can get you! Today Yours Truly will be interviewed on Henican & White, a show that airs on New York's oldest talk radio station. If you're a New Yorker, tune in to AM710 at 4:30EST. If you're not in NY, you can still listen live.

If there was any part of me that was unconvinced of the power of the internet, I've been completely converted. And I'm excited!

UPDATE: Listen to the mp3 of the interview here.

Traffic jam

Wow. It would seem that I'm getting an awful lot of traffic today. 2600 hits and counting...I'm overwhelmed, but always happy to welcome new readers! I realize that the vast majority of you are visiting Yours Truly's humble blog via Diane Mapes' very funny msn.com article.

Thank you all for visiting. As they say in Ireland, “Céad Míle Fáilte” (a hundred thousand welcomes). Get yourselves a cup of tea and a sweet roll, make yourselves comfortable, and stay as long as you like!