Haven't forgotten you, let me make up for it!

Hello all. Hope you've been well, and busy and happy as I am.

Freak magnetism continues apace, with this latest, um, entry in my box:

A older women offered me money to see what the different between boys and girls were.....She was bigger than I and I was intimidated buy her insistance.. so I laid naked on the ground for all of glory and her to see! Then without warning, she straddle my torso and pinned my arms with her knees.......then she took out a roll of nickels, held my nose until my mouth opened , and then one by one she made me swallow as many coins as possible by forcing them down my throat. Don't remember how many coins I swallowed just, recall being taken to emergency. The coins were given back to me by the doctors as a token of the experience.

No idea whether he made that up, whether it's a fantasy, or it really happened. Not sure I want to know. Not at all surprised, however, that he wanted me to know.

Proof that my parents were pretty cool

I can't believe this lady. Has she never heard of the term "self-fulfilling prophecy"? There's nothing more for me to add, really. Enjoy the smackdown.

Well, I guess that's one way to score some extra cash in this troubled economy.

There's a man named George in Louisville who wants to eat my pussy. He'll eat yours too, if you're willing to pay, and are cute.

I kid you not, he's for real. Instead of doing my own post on this, I'll direct you to this amazing takedown, courtesy of my guest poster of the week, The Morrigan. Bon Apétit!

Guest post: The Morrigan's nightmare date, Part II

Part I is here.

His face goes beet red and he turns to one side to respond. 'Uh, I'm at the restaurant now' which elicits an almost instantaneous response of 'We'll be right over.'

'WE'LL BE RIGHT OVER'???

Has this become a party? I'm just here for a platonic lunch and ONLY out of politeness because really, all I want to do is just go home, Avoid the Drama and sleep. I feel so dreadful by now that instead of selecting something from the menu, I'm considering asking for a priest. We order our food and talk.

He's still not at all inappropriate, at least not to my face. But I'm not liking that 'We'll be right over' thing and I'm having dark suspicions about the fact that (a) it's less than 12 hours since I've seen this man and a number of his friends already know about me (b) they think he picked me up (c) they know that we were meeting at this place for lunch (d) they will apparently be arriving to join us. I notice with alarm that although the sun is barely over the yardarm, this guy's already drinking.

Strike one.

Not ten minutes later, his best friend shows up and inspects me as if I were about to go up for auction. He likes what he sees to such an extent that he attempts (take a deep breath now girl) to give Adam a high five at the table with me sitting right there.

And although I'm giving him the benefit of the doubt and he's not directly responsible for his friend's appalling conduct, I'm not inclined to be all that generous, so this definitely counts as strike two.

WTF did this man say happened between us? He walked beside me for 4 blocks. That was IT. I have yet to shake his hand. Lunch was agreed to on the basis of the 'Friends only' caveat and I was EXCEPTIONALLY explicit about that.

His friend retreats, but not far. He sits at the bar some 10 feet from our table to watch us have lunch. This swiftly becomes not only irritating but unnerving as his friend (Brad) is constantly (a) drinking (b) on the cellphone juggling women and giving us 'progress reports' on how well he's doing with each of them.

By this time, I cannot imagine what the look on my face is like but I don't think I'm smiling. Adam leaves the table, walks over to Brad and says something. Brad goes outside for a while. Adam returns to the table and orders more alcohol.

I'm losing track of how many strikes we're at by now, but at the very least we're coming up to the seventh inning stretch and it's not going well for him at all.

Lunch (which was very good) is over and he asks if I would like to see the patio for a minute. I would rather just kill myself and be done with it, but polite to the core, I agree. I bring my diet coke to the patio and he orders *another* beer. With a shot to go along with it.

Then the rest of his friends start arriving, all saying some variation of 'Wow – is this the one? Score, dude!' right out loud in front of me. They attempt to impress me with tales of their recent trips to Hooters. Adam is not saying much and I'm saying NOTHING. He's shrinking visibly into his seat as his buddies continue to arrive and congregate at the table. Soon, there are 8 of us there: me and Adam, Brad, Brad's DAD and 4 of Adam's other friends.

They are saying things to me like 'Yeah, he said you were smoking hot, but man, you're so hot he must be paying you.' Clearly, this guy (a) is convinced that I'm out of his league (an opinion his friends share) and (b) has spent the night working the phones.

This leads me to believe that he has described me as so scorchingly hot that not only his friends BUT ALSO THEIR FATHERS have called bullshit on him to such a degree that honour requires that he produce me so they can see for themselves.

What follows is 20 minutes of relentless sexual harassment at the hands of his friends, which Adam does not even attempt to intervene in or stop. Uh, buddy, one of your friends just suggested that I was a prostitute and you don't have an opinion on that? He sits there mute and keeps trying to make himself smaller and smaller but doesn't ask anyone to shut up or leave and continues to drink. In fact, the drinking accelerates.

While it was an interesting anthropological exercise, I've been completely silent throughout it and after the said 20 minutes, I cannot take anymore for fear that this is the thing that will finally trigger the start of my killing spree, so I get up. 'Well, sounds like you guys have your afternoon planned. Have fun.' – a booze filled day of boating to take in the delights of a strip club there and a return trip with a hold full of smuggled alcohol – and I take my leave. There is a chorus of 'give her a kiss Adam' as I stand and prepare to depart, but by this time, Adam seems to understand that he will never lay eyes on me again if I have any say in the matter and has values his life sufficiently not to make the attempt. He knows he's blown it big time but I'm not sure he's clued into the fact that it's because he's invited the entire town out to gawk at me, insult me and stare at my breasts. I leave. He does not even try to make eye contact, but stares sheepishly into his beer as I depart and does not follow me (and I was half afraid he would).

This man does not have my number (thank God) and only the sketchiest idea of where I live. Given this horrific turn of events, I can no longer write at the same restaurant I did. That's no great loss but now I'm on the fence about going to the pyromaniac festival on Saturday night because I told him I would be there and I GUARANTEE he - and all of his friends - will be there looking for me.

Clearly, he could not believe his luck and although he did seem nice one-on-one, I'm going to give this guy a wide berth. The nonstop drinking, the incredibly boorish friends and the big mouth in this very small town add up to strikes one to three inclusive and I don't need to go there. Lunch was enough to persuade me that I've seen all I want to of Adam.

Unbelievable. I have *got* to get out of this town.

Shrinkage

Poor bastard.

Guest post: The Morrigan's nightmare date, Part I

Hello all,

Over the past couple of weeks, I've been corresponding regularly with The Morrigan, the columnist of "I'm Not Bitter..." over at Heartless Bitches International. The Morrigan and I have been admiring each other's work from a distance for a while now, but I was prompted to email her directly when I found out that she was very ill and had been hospitalized. She emailed me to let me know that my blog had been keeping her company during her convalescence, and I was happy to hear that I'd made her laugh a little during a difficult time.

Writing has been keeping her sane while she's cooped up and healing, so I invited her to be a guest poster on my blog. She's got a couple of unpublished stories in her archives, and this one was too good to pass up. See, The Morrigan and I have similar difficulties with men, in that something about us inspires seriously bizarre male behavior. She thinks it must be our fate as redheads. You be the judge. Here's the first installment of her nightmare date.

I met up with HRH last evening ~ 5:30 and we chatted until about 7 or so. We met at the same place where I first encountered Dr. Love, who in fact wandered in and eyed us curiously from the bar. I pointed him out to HRH and told him the tale, which he found vastly amusing.

In any case, it was a lovely chat between two friends. It was nice to see him again.

After he left the premises, I stuck around to write and somehow wound up at the bar, being hit on by Dr. Love's protege, a rather belligerent fellow of about 30 whose romantic style reminded me very much of those old Wild Kingdom reruns where the elks are running around showing off their antlers and headbutting each other pointlessly in an attempt to catch the attention of some cow who was either in the vicinity because the grass looked tasty or she because was a spy and would lampoon them all later in a column.

With Dr. Love Jr. ('DLJ') was an acquaintance who was not much older (about 35) but MUCH older if you get my drift. He was covered in tattoos (including one on his neck, which made me wince: it must've hurt getting it done) but this one didn't say much. This second fellow (whose name was Adam) and I rolled our eyes at DLJ's views on women, which are somewhere between neolithic and single cell organism. Hard to imagine why Dr. Love Jr is single. Ay carumba.

In any event, after regaling me for about an hour with his plans to purchase a wife, some vestigial synaptic connection was finally made – i.e. DLJ realized that there was no way I was going to do him even for practice, no matter how many bags of Doritos he dangled in front of me – and he left.

This left me with Adam, who began talking. And turned out to be rather interesting. He looks exactly like a big scary biker – OMG, that's another thing! On no less than 4 separate occasions, I was offered a variety of illicit substances – weed, mushrooms, hash. This MUST just be Lasalle. Surely to God I don't have the furtive look of a dope fiend to the extent that complete strangers are approaching me of their own accord to freely suggest that I partake of controlled drugs/substances. I'm telling you, if this place were within the WPS purview, one undercover guy on one night could net at least a handful of arrests. It was unreal. And all very friendly too. This appears to be Lasalle's version of the Welcome Wagon. 'Hi! New in town? Have a blunt.' And this wasn't just being proffered as a romantic gesture either, like a civilized man might bring me flowers. This was being suggested by old timers, knitting grannies, the waitress. Maybe living with my mother has taken more of an obvious toll on me than I'd realized.

But back to my evening.

At some point around 9, a woman named Bern came in with her friend Jeanne. Bern was not quite 50 and Jeanne was well into her late 60s.

*BTW: Adam is surreptitiously buying me beer all night long and I'm drinking it.*

There are three things with Bern: One – she just lost one of her three children at the age of 21 and is obviously quite deeply mired in the grieving process; two – her husband is a cheating shitbag and three – she hasn't figured out she's a lesbian yet.

She and Jeanne and I talked for about 90 minutes and by this time, it must be said, I'm accumulating quite a snootful. I'm not drunk by any means, but I don't do this often and one is generally my limit. I'd say by this time, I'd had about 3.

Bern and I discussed the nature of loss and grieving for a while and once that got too obviously upsetting for her, we moved on to women's golf. (And I rest my case.) She kept insisting, puzzlingly and right out of the blue, that she was straight though you could see from space that this woman was as gay as they come. Which is fine. But admit it to yourself at the very least, woman, for the love and honour of God. It cannot be fun living a lie like that.

I heard all about her cheating husband, who was a shop steward in one of the car factories and how he was carrying on and what THAT whole experience was like. Specifically, she expounded at great length about her suspicions and how he was 'pulling away from her' physically and emotionally for the year and a half before they split, which I found absolutely fascinating.

Don't ask me why people tell me these things: they just do.

By this time, it was getting on to midnight and I knew I was in Big Trouble with my mother. All of a sudden, I'm 17 again, but really: what am I doing wrong? I'm sitting in a bar, talking to a closeted lesbian, a pot smoking grandmother and a lavishly tattooed guy who keeps buying me drinks. Apparently this is how people pass the time in Lasalle when Dancing with the Stars isn't on.

Bern and Jeanne leave and it's me and Adam again.

Even though this guy looks as scary as hell, he strikes me as a gentle giant. A mechanic by trade, he is newly divorced with 3 small children. I get him to stop buying me drinks. We talk about Bern's son, whom he knew. Some old timer staggers by and offers us a joint, which we decline. (I'm telling you: I don't want to harsh anyone's buzz but I don't think Times Square sees this much action.)

OK, so it's past 1 now and the thought of facing my mother has instantly sobered me up. Adam asks me out to lunch (today at noon) and after warning him that I stay single deliberately as a public service to men everywhere and extracting from him an undertaking that he is to have no romantic illusions about the nature of 'lunch', I accept. He offers to walk me home. I accept. I'm pretty tuned in to danger when it comes to the male of the species and this guy is not ringing any of my bells. Besides, it's a few blocks along a well-lit route.

You can tell he doesn't quite know what to make of me. He laughs a lot over the course of the entire evening, but says nothing either stupid or inappropriate. This makes him nearly unique in the world of men. Apart from asking me out to lunch, he does not hit on me. Eye contact is maintained at all times. He never tries to lay a finger on me. He speaks well of his ex wife, which is heroic considering that they've been broken up for less than a year and his youngest isn't quite 2 yet.

So he walks me home, but he questions me at least twice about whether or not I'm actually going to show up at lunch. I remind him of the friends only terms, he agrees to them again and I assure him I'll be there. I leave him at the corner a block from the house in case my mother is peering out the curtains (a distinct possibility, even though it's now at least half past one in the morning and she usually goes to bed at 10).

I am not intoxicated.

I've had 5 beers over the course of as many hours but the fragrance of the tavern is thick upon me. I slip the key into the lock and BANG! my mother's on me like a tigress, flicking the light on and standing there in her outrage and loud cotton nightgown asking me the following questions: Do I know what time it is? Have I been drinking? How did I get home?

I breeze past her, somewhat surprised that she doesn't have a breath tech cooling his heels in the kitchen, but she follows me. She scrutinizes me with the intensity of a commandant at a POW camp, so of course I blame the whole thing on HRH and blithely claim we've been out this whole time having deep discussions about Reasonable and Probable Grounds and s.8 of the Charter. I go to the bathroom just to check the status of things and discover that my eyes have turned Eraserhead red, which no doubt has piqued her suspicions.

Again: I've done nothing wrong. But she's making me feel like I've spent the evening trolling for customers along Wyandotte. She's not sure she's buying the whole chatting with a judge angle, but by this time it's the middle of the night and she's tired. She makes a strategic retreat and I go to bed.

It's nearly 7 now and I haven't slept yet. As mentioned, I don't do this often.

A word about hangovers.

Normally, one sleeps first and wakes up to the awful pounding head and the parched mouth. I've stayed awake and felt mine grow, kind of like being cast in one of those horrible fast motion Chia pet commercials.

I knew I was going to be subjected to the third degree the next day if I didn't beat her out of the house. I already knew that if I tried to sleep this off, she would only barge into the room with the vacuum and busily begin 'cleaning'. The woman's a fiend who knows no pity.

But because she's so suspicious and is an expert interrogator and has devoted her life to torturing me, I've developed a few tricks of my own. For instance: I didn't allow her to get much information out of me last night. While I maintain that I wasn't intoxicated, I wanted to make sure to Keep It Simple so as not to contradict myself when she put me to the rack today.

Soon I will flee. This is not by choice.

What I really want to do is take a flamethrower to my head and make a vow before some congregation or other that I Will Never Drink Again then sleep for a day, but I appear to have a lunch date.

My lunch date...OMG.

I got to the restaurant early because I wanted to read the Globe coverage on the rough ride that Congress is giving Bush over the proposed buyout. Although it's ridiculously crowded, I find a table. I sit down and start reading though I'm so hideously hung over that focusing is difficult.

Adam shows up and joins me. We begin to talk.

Almost immedately, the walkie talkie he's carrying crackles to life with 'Hey Dude, did that hot chick you picked up last night show up?' This inquiry is broadcast at concert volume throughout the entire restaurant.

Tune in for Part II, this week!

How was your Saturday?

Mine was productive:

Yes readers, I was in that crowd of 12,000 on a very hot (95 degrees!) California day, marching to protest the passing of Prop 8. It was amazing, actually. The crowd was very diverse, people brought their children, the speeches were moving and the whole mood of the day was just...really good. I was proud to have been there, heatstroke and all.

Sadly, the march was slightly overshadowed by our yearly natural disaster, otherwise known as fire season:

Can you believe it? I could smell the fires in my home with the windows and doors shut. A friend of mine, who lives in Culver City, had ash raining down on him as he ran errands Sunday morning. Los Angeles has been a wild place to live lately.

I know I owe you all some freak stories; I've been very political (and lazy) lately. They're coming; sadly, I've still got plenty left. Till then, enjoy Wanda Sykes pontificating on gay marriage:

March image courtesy of Gay Socialites.
Fire image by Getty Images.

UPDATE: Hey, Catholics? Coming from someone who was raised Catholic, feel free to join the 21st century. You will not burst into flames, I swear to god!

I fully support the Bill of Rights, which allows douchebags like this to say whatever stupid thing comes to mind.

Apparently, equality is a European value, and Americans who believe our country should have equality too have been misled.


How could people cheer after hearing that? My favorite comment in the thread that followed the video came from ralph the wonder llama, who asked, "I’d like to know what made right-wingers think that all they have to do is say something to make it true?"

So would I, ralph. I'm sure Prager puts the word "equality" in quotes, like McCain does with "women's health."

Speaking of which:

I am so using the term "dick fingers" from now on!

Hat tip: Shakesville.

I weep for womanity

JESUS CHRIST ON A CRACKER.

Watch CBS Videos Online
Hat tip: Shakesville.

If we don't laugh, we'll cry, right?

The state of our union

I'm just feeling cynical and fatigued today.

Suicide Attempts for Vets Jump 500% in Five Years, and Government Ignores It.

U.S. Military Is Keeping Secrets About Female Soldiers' 'Suicides'

"They keep telling the lies so that eventually people will forget the truth, forget that we're still fighting two wars. We haven't won anything, not peace, not resolution, not honor."

"It's like a bad Disney movie...I really need to know if she thinks dinosaurs were here 4000 years ago." Matt Damon on Sarah Palin:


I'm with you, Matt. I'm sick of the spin, spin, spin. At least Chris Matthews finally took the Refugs to task for their bullshit:


I want America back.

Go away, part whatever

Hey, dude (I'm quite sure you are a dude) who inexplicably wound up at my blog by Googling "raped redhead woman":

Back away from the porn, wash the jizz from your hands and go to this blog instead. Followed by this blog. Finish up by reading this no doubt dead-on description of yourself.

W stands for wanker!

Bush threatens to veto equal pay for women.

If you don't know what the Paycheck Fairness Act is, check it out here. This is what Bush wants to do away with.

Well, at least I never voted for that asshole.

Hat tip: Shakespeare's Sister.

For the millionth time

Can't we do better than this?

For the last time, I haven't got much back there!

Regular readers already know that I have a magic ass. I'm sure you'll all be happy to read that its powers are as strong as ever!

Saturday night, I went to GLOW '08 with my friends Liz and Melissa. After wandering the beach and pier of Santa Monica, pushing our way through the million people who had shown up to this dusk-till-dawn festival, we made our way down Ocean Avenue to my car.

We stopped at the corner of Ocean and Wilshire to wait for the light to change. I was immediately approached by a tall, skinny, greasy, completely high homeless dude who stopped about two paces in front of me, blocking my way. He stared, smirking.

All three of us ladies took a step back in unison.

"Why?!" I exclaimed out loud, throwing up my hands as I turned away. I truly have no explanation for these incidents, unless I have a Loser Homing Beaon implanted in one of my butt cheeks. There I was, surrounded by younger, more toned, more exposed females, but I'm the one this guy comes after. I was not in the mood. It was one in the morning; I was tired and uninterested in being polite. I retreated behind my friends. CHANGE, light!! Goddam, this is the longest traffic light in history.

Unwashed Weirdo took another step forward. Melissa backed up so fast that she bumped into me.

The light finally changed, and we quickly skirted around UW into the intersection.

"Good evening, Bootylicious," he said as I passed him.

You see, good people, I'm not single because I can't attract men. My onion is a homing beacon for some choice specimens. It's just that those specimens aren't clean. Or sober. Or sane.

The story that won't end

Another female soldier murdered, probably by her husband. He's charged with arson, her body was found in the remains of a brush fire nearby. Evidence shows that her body was burned before the brush fire was set.

This is how I'm starting my week? I wish I'd stayed in bed.

UPDATE: The husband has officially been charged with murder.

The wonders of Craig and his list

Speechless.

Female soldiers are worth more than this, part eleventy million

The LaVena Johnson case.

"Oh, billions of dollars! Is there no dispute you can't settle?"

Jon Stewart says it all:

Hat tip: PunkAss Blog.

If you saw me in the morning, I'm sure you'd change your mind.

Once again, I must bemoan the large numbers of men who send out pitiful/begging/"neg" emails to women in order to get any kind of response. I received this today:

You seem too flawless for me, but I thought I'd say 'hi' anyway.

Seriously, this is one of the stupidest emails I've ever gotten, and I got an email not long ago from a complete stranger asking whether I take it up the ass. What is this guy getting at? Whether he really thinks I'm out of his league, or is just being sarcastic, this email is a bonehead move. The only response this guy gets is deletion.

As per my usual, there's a different suitor who can top him:

You are like a goddess out of Norse Mythology, but I am the feckless sort inveighed against your message.

OH FOR GOD'S SAKE. Is that supposed to sound smart and cultured? It sounds like it was written by a mouthbreather with no social skills. There's nothing more appealing to a woman than a feckless man who's mistaken her for a Valkyrie! Awesome.

Sigh.

All right, men out there in dating cyberspace - you asked for it. You've reduced me to writing a form letter!

Dear Bepenised Online Daters:
If you dig a chick, email her and tell her so. Better yet, tell her why, and make sure that your explanation does NOT include "U R HOT" or "You're too good for me" or "You remind me of a mythical creature from World of Warcraft." Refer to specific hobbies/quirks/favorite movies in her profile to show that you might have something in common, then ask her if she'd like to correspond. Okay?! It really is that simple. If you sound like a wet dishrag in your email, you're probably even worse in person. Women know this, and you will not get a response. No 500 word novels about your philosophy on life, either - just invite the woman you're interested in to browse your profile. Another thing - it sounds obvious, but fill out your profile. If every section in your profile is blank, or says "ask me," there's nothing for a woman to react to. She will not "ask you," because a dude who leaves his profile blank except for the bare basics is (a) lazy, (b) shady, or (c) very hesitant about online dating. None of those options are appealing. We all hate filling out online profiles, but it's part of the gig. Get a good girlfriend to help you, if you have trouble verbalizing what you're looking for. If you can't make the effort, or are weirded out by these sites, there is nothing wrong with you. Just get off the dating sites and try Meetup.com.

Which brings me to my last beef - if you just want to hit it, you should be on Craigslist's casual encounters.

Understand that even if you act right, you may not get a response quickly, or at all. Do not take it to heart. Online dating is a feeding frenzy - a total numbers game. A woman who is basically pretty and in decent shape (I do put myself in that category), nothing spectacular, not a "10", will still receive hundreds of emails after putting up a profile.

MAN UP. In other words, be direct and friendly. Act like a tool before you've even been face to face with a woman, and chances are you'll wind up sitting at home every night, moaning about how "bitches never go for the nice guys."

Do you think it's easier for women? It isn't. We get propositioned, sent naked pictures (not anywhere near as thrilling as it sounds - trust), spoken to with disrespect (like the time a friend of mine was informed as to which end her breasts fell on the 1-10 scale), upbraided for not responding promptly enough (as if we are children without lives of our own to manage). This all happens before we even meet a guy face to face, and those of us who are smart learn to use such instances to weed out the losers and avoid bad dates. If you are not one of those guys, make an effort not to sound like one.

Keep it real, and you might find something real.

Cheers,
Ginger