SCTV Moment of Zen

Eugene Levy's hilarious Perry Como impersonation. Happy Friday!

Will that be one lump or two, sir?

Hello readers,
It's been quite a while since I've done an Ask Ginger column; I've received a handful of questions from readers, but haven't had the time to put my armchair psychiatrist cap on.

Well, today I got a letter that I just couldn't put on the backburner. A reader needs advice, and I am answering the call! Read it and weep. Or laugh. Or both...

Dear Ginger,
For some reason, a few months ago I thought I'd "put myself out there" and try to "get back in the game". So to help me with my new objectives, I created a profile on Match.com. My profile is not the flashiest or funniest one out there; however, within a few weeks I discovered my profile had over 600 hits. I'm sure that in some baseball analogy this would be great but as a woman it is a little creepy. Creepy? Well what if it was 600 times by the same guy??? If so that would instantly scream stalker or indecisive man!

Luckily, Match allows you to see who's viewed you as part of their "it's okay to look" campaign. One person who viewed me and sent a wink caught my eye. His picture was interesting and his profile seemed "fun". I winked back because I quickly discovered that people send winks carelessly as part of their contract if they subscribed to the 6-month guarantee program. to my delight he replied back. His email consisted of merely a yahoo id so we could IM each other. Normally, I prefer a little more substance than just a here's my yahoo id let's IM. However, I added him as a friend and a month later we finally were on at the same time to chat.

Ginger, our chat was fun! It was quick and witty! It was sarcastic and charming! I loved our chat - it was the most fun I had IM'ing in a long time AND it made me feel that there are still individuals to connect with!

A few weeks later we caught each other online. I initiated the chat with a friendly funny "smiley". The first few exhanges promised to live up to the expectations established at the last chat UNTIL...

...he found the need to inform me that he could make a woman cum by playing with her boobs! Was I supposed to reply back with a one or two boobs question? Was I supposed to be in awe and ask him when he could make me cum? First of all, I hate the word "boobs". The word is juvenile and clumsy. According to me boobs are for children, tits are for men and women, breasts are for doctors and bra fittings. Secondly, that is some lame foreplay.

What could I have possibly written to make him respond so, you may be wondering. I had asked him if he had any hidden talents! This "hidden talent" question is a common question posed as an ice-breaker on many popular sites. I saw no harm in it and surely meant nothing dirty by it. I didn't put the words in quotes, or otherwise suggest in writing that I meant something other than what the question asked. I was truly shocked by his response. I like to date the person a few times before our sexual skills are put on the table. After a brief silence I communicated I was shocked by his response, was no longer having fun chatting with him and said goodbye.

Ginger - am I a prude?
Signed,
B-cup

Dear B,
I feel your pain regarding the pitfalls of online dating. To answer your question, 'are you a prude?' I've never liked that word; everyone's sexuality is different, and nobody should feel inferior because of their preferences. One woman's prude is another woman's whore, I guess. You don't like the word "boobs," because you think it's juvenile; I use the terms "boobage" and "chesticles" all the time. I'm personally turned off by the word "cum;" I think it's a bit porno trashy. I prefer to say "orgasm," "climax," or just "wheeeeee!" Does that make me a prude? It's totally subjective. You've got to know what you're comfortable with.

Now, as for your online paramour - let's call him Tit Job. You asked a question, and he answered it. You didn't like the answer, but that's beside the point. Apparently TJ's "hidden talents" do not include juggling, poetry or ventriloquism. He's advertising his alleged sexual prowess, and making it clear that he is a breast man. Many many men are TJs at heart; they just don't say so at such an early point in the game. There's an old joke that if men sprouted breasts, they'd never leave their homes; I suspect there's some truth to that. I'll tell you something else - if you shower with a man, your lovely lady lumps are going to get really, really clean. I mean, those tits are going to sparkle and shine. The same man who's chronically unable to load the dishwasher will astound you with the time and effort that he's willing to put into detailing your mounds of Venus.

We've got them; men don't. They love them, and we can't see what the big deal is. 'Twas always thus. Some women love a good breast massage, and it is indeed possible to get off that way. I certainly don't mind it, as long as my partner doesn't forget that I have other body parts. It can feel pretty amazing, as long as he's not trying to knead bread or tune a radio.

That being said, would I get squicked out at a complete stranger telling me what he'd like to do to me before he even met me face to face? Well, yeah, but that's because I, like you (I assume) am more the relationship type. Men who talk about their bedside manner very early on are just looking to get laid. This approach may have worked for TJ in the past; there are plenty of women who are just looking to get laid. What is a dating site for, if not to match people to like minded partners?

Look at it this way, B. You only met this dude online, so if his approach doesn't work for you, you're done. He can't grab your delicate B's through your computer screen. On the other hand, if you do one day decide that you'd like a nice titty rub, you know where to go!

Got a question? Hit me up!

Nice.

Click for larger image.

I'm a proud owner of Bitches, Bimbos and Ballbreakers: The Guerrilla Girls' Illustrated Guide to Female Stereotypes. It's an awesome (and very funny) book.

Hat tip: Feministing.

Adventures in babysitting

A couple of weeks ago, I went to a friend's birthday party at Dominick's, a New York-inspired restaurant and bar in West Hollywood. About thirty people showed up for dinner, only two of whom I had met previously. It was a very friendly group, and I was down to socialize, so it was all good.

A few hours later, we were all stuffed. The party was set to continue at a club called Guy's, which was having jazz night. I'm not really big on jazz, and was pooped anyway, so I was planning to be a lameass and head home. I had just grabbed my jacket and was saying goodnight to a few new friends when a guy who'd been sitting at my table came up to me.

"Hey! You and I have to dance!" he almost shouted. He was an amiable teddy bear of a guy that I had chatted with earlier in the evening. He'd shown up with a model, so what was he doing squeezing my arm? I suspect he'd been drinking a bit too much of the house red.

"Oh, sorry, I'm headed home. Good night," I said, and started to walk away.

"Oh no! You can't leave! You have to dance with me," he protested. "I said to myself, 'I'm going to dance with that redhead.' Seriously, come to Guy's."

"No, I can't." The crowd was slowly filing through a long hallway towards the front door. Teddy Bear and I kept having this "no I can't/oh, sure you can" exchange as we followed the herd.

"Hey, listen, is it because you don't know me? My name is Todd," he said.

"Don't take it personally, Todd. I'm exhausted, and I've got to be at work early tomorrow," I said. "I'm Ginger, by the way." Frankly, Dear Readers, I'm open to dancing with a friendly stranger if I've got the energy. I really wasn't up for it, and I can't blame a guy for trying. I didn't think anything was weird about the situation until...

His eyes lit up. "Ginger? Really?! I had a babysitter named Ginger! Oh, I loved her. C'mon, now you have to stay."

Um....

"I have to stay because I have the same name as your babysitter?"

Now he was excited. "No, really! You even kind of look like her!"

"O...kay." I know that I was was not imagining Teddy Todd's crazy eye look, and I was definitely not digging it. I bowed out of going to the club a final time, and caught a ride home.

He definitely had too much of the house red.

SCTV Moment of Zen

I always loved Dave Thomas's impersonation of Walter Cronkite. Here's a classic skit - can you guess which cast member is playing the psycho?

Leprechauns

A belated Happy St. Patty's Day to you all! Saturday night I went out to a pub and had a few drinks with friends, like a good Irish lass. St. Patrick's Day is a lot like New Year's Eve (amaetur night), but I was persuaded to go out by my friend Liz, who admonished me to "Get out here! We are celebrating your people!" So, I put on the requisite green shirt and dragged my Irish butt to Molly Malone's Pub for some revelry.

I was walking alone down Fairfax Avenue around 7:45pm. Liz and her friends were already in the pub. I was about a block away from the door when three guys in their early 20's came stumbling around the corner. All young, all cute, and all stinking drunk.

The shortest one, a baby faced blonde, came rushing at me. "Yo! OH MY GOD! My friend has a crush on you! He has such a crush on you! You need to talk to him!"

The middle kid, a nondescript brunet, chuckled and kept walking as the third guy, a tall drink of water with dark curly hair under a wool knit cap, threw his arms open and said, "Look at you!"

"Uh, yeah. Look at you," I replied.

"LOOK AT YOU!" He yelled again. "Look how cute you are! Look how green you are!"

"Yeah, you're cute too, and you're not color blind. Congratulations," I said. "How much have you guys had to drink?"

"ZERO!" yelled a very wobbly Shorty.

"Oh yeah, I believe that," I laughed, starting to walk away.

"Hey, wait!" Tall Guy started to follow me. "Hold up a second. Come here. Let me look at you."

I could tell he meant no harm, but I had somewhere to go. "You've looked. I've got friends to meet."

"No, hang on. C'mon." Shorty and the other kid had stumbled down the block and were standing on the street corner, watching.

"Who are you?" I asked. "I don't know you."

"I'm Laaaaaaaance," he slurred. He grabbed and kissed my hands. "Okay, now let's make out."

What? "I don't think so, Lance. I don't know you. Go kiss someone else."

Some guys are blessed with a certain level of cuteness - a level at which they can take it for granted that random women will want to make out with him. Laaaaance was that kind of cute; I'm sure he usually has no trouble acquiring access to willing women's lips on a regular basis. My rejection was utterly confusing to him; he probably didn't realize how old I was, or that I'd seen other Lances in action many times.

"But, it's a holiday! Like, a holiday! You've got to give me a holiday kiss!" He pointed to his sweatshirt, which said "KISS ME, I'M IRISH."

Like I said, Amateur Night.

Readers, a person worth kissing does not take romantic advice from seasonal apparel. I told Lance that I'd have to pass. Cute or not, I don't liplock with complete strangers. I'm silly like that.

"Lance, I'm sure you've tried this routine with about 50 girls already. You'll find someone to kiss soon enough. You guys have a good night," I said, and walked the rest of the way to Molly's.

By the time I found Liz, I was ready for that drink! No beer for me, though. I'm a whiskey girl (Jameson's, of course!).

Predictably, I saw Lance inside the pub about two hours later, working his magic on a very drunk female patron.

I'll bet he wasn't even Irish.

Rent boy

Remember me, dear readers? I haven't forgotten you either. Yes, this blog has gotten lame in recent weeks. Life's obligations sometimes get in the way of my little hobbies, but I'm trying to get back on track. I've missed my writing!

I've got a new story - tell me what y'all make of this.

At the end of last month, my roommate Sherri moved out. She and I had only lived together for 7 months; my previous roommate and I had shared my apartment for 2 1/2 years before she relocated to New York. I found Sherri through Craigslist, and we hit it off immediately. She told me that she was going through a divorce, which made me a bit wary; I wanted a roommate who was financially stable, and able to stay a while. Fast forward to February - Sherri's divorce is wiping her out financially, and she can no longer afford her attorney and her rent. I feel horrible for her, but she was lucky enough to find a coworker who's also going through a divorce, and offered her a nice place to crash rent-free while she gets back on her feet. All's well that ends well, although it's disheartening to see yet another marriage implode (and the havoc it wreaks on the divorcée).

I got stuck paying all the rent on my place this month, because I was traveling in February and wouldn't have time to meet potential roommates. I'm now on a tight budget, but you have to suck it up sometimes. I've been living here for 3 years, and I want to find a roommate who's sane, which is a bit tricky in LA.

I put the word out to friends and coworkers; I also put up another post on Craigslist. I've gotten a few bites, mostly from guys, which is a surprise. I've never had a male roommate. I know a few women who have, and it was fine; as long as somebody's clean and respectful of shared space, who cares what gender they are?

Today I got an email from a young man - very young, maybe 20 years old. He's a student and an actor (of course), who says he can only pay a few hundred dollars a month, but is willing to cook, clean, and do "other domestic duties" to make up for it.

Umm...

"Other domestic duties?"

***BLINK***

Whaaaa?

I thought I might be reading too much into it, but then I noticed an attachment on the email.

He'd sent his headshot, in which he looked about 12, and seemed to be wearing copious amounts of eye makeup and bronzer. Mind you, my Craigslist post featured pics of my place, but not me.

He also sent a link to his MySpace page, in which he describes himself as a simple Southern boy with a dream, and insists that he'll try anything once. Ahem.

Rent boy, meet Sugar Mama. I do so hate doing dishes.

Just kidding; my apartment has a dishwasher. I'll have to pass, RB. I don't think I'd make a very good john (or is it jane?). God bless and good luck in the vicious industry you've entered. You'll most likely end up prostituting yourself eventually, one way or the other.