Friday, November 30, 2012

November 30: Park it, sister

Conversation with my daughter Elvira:

Elvira: I walked for over an hour today. We were out so long I had to stop at Dollar General and get Coraline a snack.

Me:  I hate Dollar General. They build all those stores in the poorer areas of the city and then they charge $6 for a gallon of orange juice. Fucking pirates.

Elvira: Yeah, and I almost got kicked out too. For having my stroller in there.

Me: What? Why do they care about your stroller?

Elvira: Because I might steal something.

Me: Because you have a stroller? Are mothers of infants and toddlers more likely to steal?

Elvira: I dunno. Some employee told me I'd have to leave it up at the front. So I grabbed something for Coraline and left.

Me: That's bullshit. I took my bike in the Dollar General near me one day and an employee told me I couldn't have it in the store and I'd have to park it just inside the front door. I told her I wasn't going to leave my bike by the front door where somebody could steal it. She said the cashier would watch it. I said unless the cashier could afford to replace it, I was keeping it with me. And I did.

Elvira: Ummm, Mommers, I'm pretty sure most stores don't want you to take your bike in.

Me: Why? It's not bigger than a cart.

Elvira: Good point.

Me: I told the employee there was no rule about walking a bicycle in a store, I wasn't bothering anybody, and I'd take my bike out when I was finished shopping. She didn't know what to say so she walked away. I hope you didn't put your stroller at the front.

Elvira:   No, I argued with her.

Me: That's my girl.

Elvira: I asked her why the stroller was a problem. She said she didn't know what I might do with it.

Me: Like you might race it up and down the aisles? Or you might be carrying a bomb strapped to a baby?
Elvira: No, she said it had too many hiding places.

Me: So do your clothes. Did she ask you to strip down and leave your pockets at the door?

Elvira: Yeah, right? And my bra? I can stick a lot of stuff in my bra. I should have asked her if she wanted me to take off my bra too.

Me: There are other places you could hide stuff too.

Elvira: Yeah, like my asshole. Maybe I should have asked her if she wanted my asshole too.

Me: Or your vagina. I've known some women whose vaginas were like clown cars. They could fit all kinds of stuff up inside.

Elvira: And she was worried about my fucking stroller.

Me:Next time you go in just say in a loud voice, "I'm leaving my stroller right here by the front door, along with my clothes and my asshole. And you'd better watch my vagina too, bitches, or there won't be anything left in this store when I walk out."


Thursday, November 29, 2012

November 29: Some Books

I have about 600 books on my to-read list. Usually I'm reading at least two at a time, sometimes three or four. Lately several people have asked me what I like to read, so I'm going to list a few of my recent favorites, plus my least favorite book -- the one I wish I'd never read.

1. The Help by Kathryn Stockett: What an amazing first novel. Stockett is a masterful storyteller, and a courageous one. She found a way to tell the stories of a group of black maids in such a way that she could do it in her own white woman voice and still lay down an authentic, heart-ripping tale of racism in the South just as the Civil Rights movement was bursting into flames.

The movie is riveting too, and worth watching more than once. But this book is a story about the writing of these stories -- how convfuckingvoluted is that? -- and it deserves to be read. This one's a classic.

2. Hunger Games Trilogy by Suzanne Collins: I'm halfway through the third book in this trilogy, and I've found all three hard to put down. If you like post-apocalyptic, dystopian fiction, you'll probably like these.  I believe they were written for the young adult crowd, so they're short because we all know teenagers can't read adult-length novels. Like Harry Potter, for example. They could have been one book, but it's a win/win for both the publisher and the movie-makers.

Some critics say both the books and the movie that's based on the first book in the series are a knockoff of Battle Royale. Possibly, but so what? The books are a good read, and I look forward to watching the movie after I'm finished reading. I just don't give a shit if the idea is similar to Japanese movie. 

Some people find the violence against teenagers difficult to read, but it's typical of this genre. If you think that might bother you, don't read them. This story is supposed to be disturbing though. Every story needs tension.

3. Afterwards: A Novel and Sister  both by Rosamund Lupton. I read Sister first and liked it so much I read the only other novel of Lupton's my local library has for Kindle. I almost wish I'd checked out the hard copies though, because I even love the covers of these books.

Both of these books are written as first person narratives, with the narrator talking directly to another character in the book. The only other writer who did it as well is Lionel Shriver in We Need to Talk about Kevin. (If you haven't read that one, I highly recommend it. I guarantee it will stick with you for a while. The book is much better than the movie.)

But back to Lupton's books. Both are mysteries told to another character in the book by the narrator. In Sister, a woman is trying to solve her sister's murder, and she tells the story by telling it to her dead sister. In Afterwards, a woman who is in a coma leaves her corporeal body and tells the story of the arson that put her there to her husband as the mystery is being solved.

As usual, describing the devices has not one fuck to do with the stories. Lupton is another competent, engaging storyteller. Her pacing is perfect. I cared and worried about the characters as the narrator struggled to make sense of each mystery. These books probably won't be made into movies, but they could be.

4. The Post Birthday World. Speaking of Lionel Shriver, I also read her latest because I'm in love with her and I want to have her baby.

Shriver always takes risks, and this one is her riskiest. She tells the story of a married woman who goes out with a friend's husband for his birthday and kisses him. Or she doesn't. At the point of the kiss, Shriver alternates chapters so the story unfolds from the kiss and alternately it unfolds as if she didn't kiss the man.

Sounds crazy, right? It took me a couple of chapters to understand what she was doing. Believe it or not, in Shriver's hands this shit works. The ending is brilliant. And I learned a lot about snooker.

If you want to know what great writing looks like, read anything Shriver has written. Anything. Her grocery lists are probably fascinating.

5. 50 Shades of Grey by E L James. Oh dear god do not read this trilogy. Don't  even read the first one. This is the worst writing that's ever gone viral in the literary publishing world. Where the fuck was the editor on this one? I know this is Twilight fan fiction, but that's no excuse. I don't even see the link to Twilight here, so who gives a fuck what it was originally supposed to be.

The writing is so immature .... my god. It looks like a young woman with no sexual experience wrote down her crazy fantasies for a group of other young woman who also had no sexual experience, but they encouraged her to keep goin. I give her credit for having written three whole novels, but the three of them combined are the novel she should have put in her bottom drawer.

I have nothing against the content .... OK, that's not true. No 21-year-old woman has her first orgasm from some guy just playing with her nipples. I'm pretty sure I remember that happening. But then again, just reading this book made me feel stupid, so I'm not sure. But that's not all. James shows no understanding of human behavior and motivation. And she really pissed off the BDSM crowd with her portrayal of Christian Grey, dom to the masses.

There is good erotic fiction out there. I've read it, and I've even published some. I'm not sure why so many women were turned on by this, but here's my advice to them: Use your vibrating toothbrush to clean your teeth and buy yourself a fucking hitachi. Grow up. This shit isn't erotic and you don't know what erotic is. (If you're one of those people, no offense. Let's talk.)

I could tell you so many things I don't like about this book. The labored literary devices. The soap opera pacing. The trite descriptions. If you've already read it, I'm sorry. Your brain shrank. If you haven't read it, be glad you didn't get sucked into the craze.

I read it because so many younger women were asking me what I thought of it. I even got into conversations in the bathroom at karaoke about it. So I was going to put together a discussion group to talk about why the writing was horrible or why Christian Grey was horrible or why everything about this book is horrible. It never happened. And now I'm stuck with the entire fucking trilogy in my bookcase.

The one bright spot that came from Fifty Shades is this video of Ellen Degeneres reading selections from the book. Love you, Ellen. Sorry you read even that much of this book.

OK, those are a few of my recent reads. Not all of them. What have you been reading? Anything we might be interested in? Want to buy a boxed set of 50 Shades of Shit for cheap?

Tuesday, November 27, 2012

November 27: Channeling Dorothy Parker

First let me say it's such a relief to be writing about vaginas again instead of poop. You have no idea how refreshing vaginas can be when you've been swimming in the cesspool.

Second, if you haven't liked Reticulated Writer on Facebook, you've been missing some funny stuff that happens in response to, or maybe in spite of, what I write here. And I only need 9 more likes to hit 100, which frankly, is pathetic, but I tend to get excited about the little things. So click the button over there to the right and make both of us happy.

Third, I spent the night talking with my friend Hockey Puck about dating, and it's scary as fuck to admit but it's no easier at my age than it is at hers and she's younger than my son. Shit.

This is why I don't date.  (Source:

A couple of people have noticed I've been hinting about something, and they've have called me out on it. It's true. I have been, and it has to do with dating -- which I don't do. I really don't. Yet. But something is brewing, and I'll post about it soon. Within the next week.

Until then, I offer this poem by Dorothy Parker -- she of the acerbic, witty tongue and pen. Oh, how I love her. She's who I would have been if I hadn't had the utter and total bitch beaten socialized out of me by all the residents of a small town in Iowa.

Nevertheless I offer this poem with a shudder.

Symptom Recital

I do not like my state of mind;
I'm bitter, querulous, unkind.
I hate my legs, I hate my hands,
I do not yearn for lovelier lands.
I dread the dawn's recurrent light;
I hate to go to bed at night.
I snoot at simple, earnest folk.
Dorothy Parker
I cannot take the gentlest joke.
I find no peace in paint or type.
My world is but a lot of tripe.
I'm disillusioned, empty-breasted.
For what I think, I'd be arrested.
I am not sick, I am not well.
My quondam dreams are shot to hell.
My soul is crushed, my spirit sore;
I do not like me any more.
I cavil, quarrel, grumble, grouse.
I ponder on the narrow house.
I shudder at the thought of men....
I'm due to fall in love again. 

If I were to write a poem in the style of Dorothy Parker, this is what I would write.
Fuck me.
I'm going back for more.

Monday, November 26, 2012

November 26: Is that your vulva on a chain?

Do you know what time it is, boys and girls?

That's right! It's vagina time!

From time to time a reader will post a lovely vulvular offering on my personal Facebook wall, and I simply have to share it. Vulvas should not be hidden, but should be let to flap in the breeze .... or at least worn as pendants. No secrets here, boys and girls. No secrets!

Well, then. That leaves nothing to the imagination. The backstory is there in the article. This artist suffered a late-term abortion at age 14. Later when she saw a performance of The Vagina Monologues, she had an angry epiphany and eventually started making customized vulva sculpture pendants.

That's right, ladies. You send in photos of your lady parts and you get back a polymer clay pendant that looks just like your pleasure flower.

Let me state for the record that I'm not mocking this woman's story or her product. I'm the biggest fan in the world of the vagina (except maybe for my friend Karen), but I really don't get this one.

My first acting gig was in a production of The Vagina Monologues. I was kind of the MC of our production; I performed a monologue about shaving the vagina area; and ..... no surprise here ..... I had a rousing orgasm on stage. (Just practice for winning the best O title at our local Rocky Horror Picture Show performance.)

Trumpet lily
Vagina pin
We also made vaginas from polymer clay. Ours were pins, but the intention was the same. It took a lot of experimenting and laughter before we came up with a design that both represented the holy vag and was wearable in public. We made them in a bunch of colors, all unique. But the design was similar to a trumpet lily.

Not to brag or anything, but I think our design is one a woman could actually wear in public. Maybe I've just got a big, old stick up my ass, but an actual replica of my vagina is not something I'm going to wear around my neck. As I told my friend who shared this with me, the last time I wore a vagina around my neck was the day I was born. And from then on, the only place I've worn a vagina is between my legs.

And as I always do, I have to consider how I would view the same idea if a man did it. Would I date a man who wore a custom sculpture of his dick on a chain around his neck? The answer is no. No, no, no.

I mean can you imagine that conversation? You meet at a nice wine bar. You sink into a soft couch with a 5-ounce pour of buttery Chardonnay, glance over at your date and see what looks strangely like a little woody hanging from a chain around his neck.

You surrepticiously look closer. OMG, you think. Because we all think in internet shorthand these days, right? OMG, is that a tiny penis hanging around his neck? WTF? Is it his penis or a replica of his favorite porn star? Is it big or is it small? I've got no context here. Dear god, please tell me it's not life-size. Should I ask about it? Is it OK to talk about a man's penis pendant on the first date? Argh! Dan Savage, where are you when I need you?

Yeah, and I can only imagine what would go through a man's head if a woman showed up wearing a vulva pendant.

Is that her pussy on a chain? I wonder if she'll let me touch it. Eh, who cares? I wonder how I can get her to touch my dick.

I suppose it could be a useful teaching prop -- for the man who's heard the word clitoris, but thought it wasn't a real thing -- but that's not the purpose of these pendants.

Seriously, the designer makes them because she believes and her customers believe they provide healing from sexual trauma. I'm not mocking that. Maybe they do for some women, and whatever it takes, sister, go for it. Only women bleed. It wouldn't work for me, but maybe there's some kind of power there for other women.

Hey, I've got sexual wounds too. I wouldn't write about them here, but I've got them. I just don't think sending photos of my lady parts to a stranger and paying her to make me a clone of them would do a damn thing to touch that pain. I don't find it offensive. I just don't get it.

And I am a big fan of the vagina. If you've read anything else on this here blog you know I am a fan of the vagina.

Pure Romance: Life Saver vibe
Maybe I'm just not ballsy enough to wear my vagina on my sweater. I went to a sex toy party once and I bought a little bullet vibe on a chain. It was cheap and I felt like I should buy something.

I told Trick Shot I was going to wear it to karaoke, and she'd be the only one who knew I was wearing a vibrator. And then we'd go to the bathroom together and laugh.

I didn't end up wearing it. I dressed in a sexy, low-cut sweater and put on my buzzy (and waterproof!) little piece of jewelry, and guess what! It looked like I had a vibrating dildo around my neck.

Much as I like attention, that was just a little too obvious.

I'm pretty sure if I can't wear a bullet around my neck, I'm not going to be wearing my vagina any time soon.

Not that there's anything wrong with that! If you want to wear your vagina around your neck, by all means, wear it. I just prefer to keep mine private.

Seriously, I can imagine doing a workshop where women made sculptures of their own lady parts as part of a guided healing ritual. It makes sense to me that women could reclaim those parts of their bodies as the beautiful, juicy pleasure centers they are. Hellz yeah! But I don't need somebody else to get her fingers in there and make it for me.

Maybe I'm being too judgmental though. Tell me. What do you think? Would you find one of these empowering? Talk to me!

Sunday, November 25, 2012

November 25: Voyeur (NSFW)

There's an office building I drive by often. It sits off to my left as I cross the bridge over the river to go downtown. I might pass it 9 or 10 times a week. The colored lights around the top change colors: green, orange, hot pink, purple. From the bike path below the lights reflect on the river. It's one of those cool downtown effects.

During the day, I don't even notice it. It's just another building.

But at night, I slow down and search every window. In fact, I slow down and try to catch the red light so I can be sure I don't miss anything.

Anybody who knows how I drive would not expect me to hit a red light on purpose. Run one, maybe. Deliberately stop at one .... no. I don't like to stop.

(Sorry for the quality. I had to take this photo with my phone while I waited at a stoplight. On purpose.)

Except when I'm searching the 8 or 9 stories of a tall bank of windows looking for people fucking in front of those same windows. I am convinced that some day I will see two people fucking up against those windows.

Every time I drive up over the bridge at night I have the same conversation with myself: Please let there be somebody fucking in the XXX building. Please let it be tonight. I know it's going to happen some night. Please let it be tonight. 

And every night I am disappointed. Crushed.

Am I the only one who looks for things like that? Do you ever see a tall glass building and look for somebody doing something highly inappropriate and yet entertaining in one of the offices? Kind of like this from the movie Shame?

How cool would it be -- just once .... or maybe twice -- to see that happening in one of the windows of that building?

I promise you this: If I ever see somebody fucking in front of one of those windows, I will leap out of my van and take the most amazing photo you've ever seen. In 3-D. I might even figure out how to take a video on my phone. And I will post it here.

Wish me luck. You know you want to see it too. You know you do.

Or maybe you already have! Anybody?

Saturday, November 24, 2012

November 24: Thank you!

Tonight I went out, played and lost a quick game of pool, and then went to listen to a bunch of friends play some punk music. The show was a tribute to a local punk band, so not one I listened to back in their day, but one I can appreciate now. It was so much fun, and the music was fabulous.

Of course, part of the fun was being there with so many people I love and respect and share history with. I am so fucking fortunate, in so many ways.

I'm always surprised and flattered when people bring up that they've read something here, or simply tell me they enjoy reading this blog. I have to be honest, most nights I sit here typing away all by myself, I hit publish, and I stumble off to bed. It's a little like sending my words into a black hole.

Every photo I found of a black hole looked kind of like a vagina. Hmmmm.

Who knows what the fuck happens in a black hole?

It can be lonely work.

So tonight I want to say thank you. Whomever you are, I'm saying thank you. Thank you for clicking on the link that brings you here. Thank you for telling me what happens in the black hole.  And thank you for giving me a reason to sit here and put my fingers on the keyboard in the middle of the night one more time.

It matters. 

Thank you for reading.


Friday, November 23, 2012

November 23: You will want this tie for Christmas

Ladies, we all know how hard it is to shop for men, right? What a pain in the ass. Well, worry no more because I have found the perfect gift. I'm going to buy one for every man I know and like* for Christmas. Even the Jewish ones. From December 25 on you will immediately be able to spot any of my male friends because they will all wear this tie every day with a sexy white dress shirt. They will love it that much.**

Who has two thumbs and an awesome tie? ***

* Must fit both criteria to receive a gift. If you don't fit both criteria -- both the knowing and the liking -- ask yourself why and step it up. I'm buying in bulk so it might not be too late.
** My son will get one too, so keep this on the hush hush if you know him.
*** If you are a man and you are my friend, do not go to that website. It's extremely rude to ask what a gift cost. Even if the giver bought in bulk.

Thursday, November 22, 2012

November 22: My troublesome spelling

It's 2:00 am, I just finished cleaning up what I couldn't stand to leave until tomorrow, and I'm dead on my feet on my ass. Thanksgiving dinner was pretty good, I think. Between what I cooked and what my guests brought, we had way more delicious, fattening food than we could eat. And isn't that what Thanksgiving is all about? A day to stop and celebrate the abundance in our lives, be that food or loved ones or both? It was certainly a day of that. And after some of the shit that happened the rest of this week, I needed to be reminded what really matters.

And also today I learned my lesson about grabbing the handle of a pan that's been in a 450-degree oven for half an hour. That hurt -- duh -- and the blisters are going to curtail my giving hand jobs guitar playing for a few days. On the flip side, one of my guests washed a shit ton of dishes between dinner and dessert, and I'm even more grateful than I normally would be (if that's possible), because I wasn't looking forward to soaking those blisters in hot dishwater. Stupid.

The rest of the day was pretty perfect though, so I'm not complaining about a minor accident. All these hours later, my biggest discomforts are my distended stomach and my aching feet. But I'm also sated with the love that filled this house today.

Enough mushiness though! The blog spam bots were busy little fuckers today. My phone dinged over and over with notices about comments on old Thanksgiving posts, especially the one I linked to yesterday about killing turkeys last year.

Blogger catches most of them so nobody sees them except me. Hard as they try to sound like real commenters, the bots are busted by their poor English and the links to websites nobody wants to go to. Seriously, does anybody still wear Uggs? That's the most common blog spam I get. I wonder why somebody thinks you all want to know about Uggs.....

I'm drifting....

Anyway, I go through and delete them once or twice a day, but this one made me smile.

"of course like your website but you have to take a look at the spelling on quite a few of your posts. Several of them are rife with spelling problems and I find it very troublesome to tell the truth however I'll certainly come again again. my webpage: ...."

I dunno. Would you call this irony? Sometimes I wonder if the internet is a plot to suck my IQ out of my head through my eyeballs.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Wednesday, November 21, 2012

November 21: Pre-holiday prep

The day before Thanksgiving is one of my favorite days of the year because I can just cook and cook all day long. I did a bunch of cleaning too, but that's always there.

Today I baked 3 pies: traditional pecan, dark chocolate bourbon pecan, and a backup pumpkin in case Trick Shot's pumpkin pie gets all eaten. I also made vegetarian wild rice stuffing. I ran out of brown rice so I had to substitute some quinoa; we'll see how that works out. More rosemary bread because it's been pretty popular this month. Raisin sauce for the ham. Wine.

No wait. I drank the wine. Nevermind.

Cranberry sauce I made a couple of weeks ago because it's better after it ages. And I did lots more chopping and prepping for the big push tomorrow. You know, the mashed potatoes and gravy, sweet potato casserole, balsamic glazed carrots and parsnips, fluffy white rolls, bread and sage stuffing .....

And then at the last minute I whipped up a dark chocolate flourless cake just in case we needed more dessert. I do that every year and I always make too much .... which is what Thanksgiving is all about.

I've got a 5- pound spiral-cut ham and a 23-pound turkey that was running around the farm as of last Saturday. Farmer Mak took them to a processor this year instead of doing the butchering at the farm like we did last year. I checked to see if the bird fits in the roaster. It's several inches too tall. Looks like I'll have to McGyver something with foil, duct tape, and spit. I'll be up early stuffing and roasting, peeling and baking.

My guests had better wear their muumuus because a feast will be laid up in this house tomorrow and everybody better go home full.

Elvira stopped over with homemade mac and cheese and a couple dozen pumpkin cupcakes. Drake's dog Duke ate all but 9 of the cupcakes in under 5 minutes. As Drake said, she loves animals too much to be mad at Duke. Drake's going to have to answer for the missing cupcakes.

Drake got home this evening and helped me with the heavy lifting: carrying all of my music gear that was set up in the dining room upstairs to one of the spare bedrooms. Setting up tables. Watching a movie. We thought he was going to have to work at the nursing home, so it's good to have him here.

Now I'm going to catch a few hours of sleep before I have to wrestle that bird into the roaster. Tomorrow night I'll be back here, uncomfortably full and stewing in turkey farts, stretching out my yoga pants as far as lycra will stretch, writing something about the events of the day.

You have yourself a great Thanksgiving. And find something to be grateful for. It's there if you want to see it.

Tuesday, November 20, 2012

November 20: Call 1-900-Ret-icula

You are reading published post #300, and wouldn't you know it? It's about phone sex.

My granddaughter Coraline spends Tuesday evenings with me most weeks. We hang out, read books, go for walks, and eat dinner together; sometimes she takes a bath. She's 16 months old.

Tonight we'd been upstairs folding some laundry, and we were playing on my bed. It's about 4 feet off the ground, king-sized -- a pretty nice playground. I was playing 1...2....3... toss the baby on the bed when the phone rang.

It was Elvira, letting me know she'd be over sooner than expected. I put her on speaker phone so she could talk to Coraline too -- as if they don't spend every other hour of the day together. When my cell phone rang, I answered it and left Coraline talking to Elvira on the land phone.

Eventually I realized she was punching more buttons than she was talking, and all she was saying was "mmmmmaaaa ma" anyway, so I hung up her phone but let her play with it. When I got off my cell, I took the land phone and put it back on the charger.

We were still playing on the bed -- this time taking off the lid of a Cookie Monster tin and putting it back on -- when we both heard a long, low tone coming from somewhere. We looked around for the sound.

"Ga gah," Coraline said. She says that every time I get a text. But it wasn't a text.

I noticed the land phone was flashing, so I picked up the handset. Somehow Coraline had pushed a button that put the person on the other end on hold.

Hmmmm. I wasn't even sure where that button was .... I hit the off button, but nothing happened. So I pushed the speaker phone button and suddenly we were listening to the following conversation:

Anonymous woman: you think you'd like that? Because that's what I'm going to do to you. I'm going to clean your whistle.

Anonymous man: Oh, yes, I'd like that. Is that what that's called?

Anonymous woman: That's what the older girls call it. That's what they tell me it's called. (This woman didn't sound like a girl.) Cleeaaannnn your whistle. Oh, you're going to love that.

Anonymous man:  I will. I will love that. You're going to clean my whistle.

I could not figure out what was going on. The voices were coming from the phone, but they were having a conversation independent of me. Coraline yelled, "Mmmmmaaaaa ma!" but they didn't seem to hear her.

"What did you do?" I whispered to her. "And what does clean your whistle mean?" She just banged the Cookie Monster tin and the lid together and didn't answer.

Anonymous woman: So you say you've got big balls, huh?

Anonymous man:  That's right, baby. Great big balls. Do you like big balls?

Anonymous woman: Oh, I like big balls. I love big balls. Do you want me to play with your big balls?

Anonymous man:   Yes, please. Please play with my big balls. Touch my big balls.

Anonymous woman: I'm going to touch your big balls.

"Coraline!" I hissed. "Cover your ears. You don't need to hear about this man's big balls. Who are these people? How did I get into their conversation?"

She wasn't listening to me or to the phone call because I had taken the phone off speaker mode and was listening all by myself.

Anonymous man:  Will you suck on them? Will you suck on my big balls?

Anonymous woman: I will suck on them and I will ......

Fade to .....

2nd Anonymous woman: You too can have a conversation just like this one. All you have to do is .....

"Oh my god, Coraline. You called a phone sex hotline!"

"Ma ma?"

"No, that's definitely not Mommy. And if it is, I don't want to know about it. Please tell me you didn't give them my credit card number."

I have no idea how that happened. My best guess is that she pushed random numbers, got the phone sex hotline, and then put the recording on hold when she realized they were talking about big balls. It must have been playing on a loop over there on my bed table for at least 5 minutes, waiting for somebody to decide to enter a credit card number.

What are the odds?

And what the hell does "clean your whistle" mean? Is this something a single woman should know? Or is it a code used only by phone sex operators? Is that what they're even called, or is that term no longer PC?

Anybody? Hello? Hello? Are you there?

Monday, November 19, 2012

November 19: Creepers

I'm still sick. If I could have a little tea and sympathy, please, I'd feel so much better. Thank you.

A reader complained that I wrote some teasers in last night's post. True that. She wanted to know in particular about the creeper and the blue-eyed man. Teasers being what they are, I'm not giving it all up tonight. No news about the blue-eyed man yet -- whose name from here on out will be One-of-Ten. But I will say something about creepers.

Creepers come in a lot of different packages, and their creepiness might take different forms. I suppose one woman's creeper might be another woman's stalker possible new friend. Like for me, any guy who wanted me to pretend like I was a little girl would go into the creeper column. Other women wouldn't have any problem at all playing that kind of game. Consenting adults and all that. I don't judge.

The creepers I dislike the most though aren't the ones who want to negotiate their creepiness; it's the ones who get their jollies from unwilling victims. Those can be found anywhere, but they often lurk around dance floors where they can watch women dance and maybe even get in there and cop a feel if they're having a particularly brave night. I'm not saying every man who watches the dance floor is a creeper. Hell no. Some men just like to watch people dance.

But some seem to think any woman dancing is his private dancer, putting on a show just for him, giving him coins to put in his piggy wank bank.

For example, I was at a dance club one night with my son Drake and his girlfriend Montana and some of their friends. About the only time I go there is with them. I was dancing with Montana and some of her girlfriends when I felt eyes. You know that feeling? Like a psychic brush on the back of your neck?

So I danced in a circle and found the eyes. Although there were lots of people standing along the rail that runs above the dance floor, one tall, bald man was obviously watching in my direction. I didn't care. He wasn't even necessarily watching me. Why would he? I was dancing with beautiful young women. But I had felt his eyes.

Later when I was standing at the bar with Drake, the bald man stepped up beside me to order a drink. He said hi and started some small talk, which was fine. He was attractive and of an appropriate age (as opposed to the 26-year-old who tried to pick me up there once). Nothing wrong with small talk.

And then he asked if my date minded that he was talking to me. ??????  He gestured with his head toward Drake.

My son? He thought I was on a date with my son? Lordamercy. To be fair, that's the second time that happened in there, and both times I was ..... let's just say I was not flattered. Just like I'm not flattered when men my age hit on my daughter, and then try to tell us we look like sisters. Put them in the creeper column.

I told him my son wasn't my date, and then I imagine my demeanor chilled down a few degrees. I turned to talk to Drake and his friend.

Bald guy got his drink and walked past me to go outside on the patio. As he did, his hand brushed against my ass. I turned and frowned at him but he just kept walking. OK, that could have been an accident.

Then he came back and as he walked by his hand brushed against my ass, harder this time. There was plenty of room behind me. I shuddered, and again he just kept walking like he didn't notice he'd done it.

When it happened a third time just a couple of minutes later, I said to Drake, "Mommy needs to find another place to stand or big bald guy there is going to get a drink in his face. You know how I hate to waste a weak $5.00 drink in a plastic cup."

Bald creeper also could have gotten a fist in his face, because while dance club patrons can be unpredictable, Drake and his friends are not. They would be glad to deal in their own way with any creeper problem I encountered there. Does any young man really want to know some stranger is playing secret grab-ass with his mom? And the tall, bald man was definitely a creeper  of the surreptitious ass-brushing variety.

We moved to another room in the club, and he didn't follow. Maybe Drake and his friends should have taught him some manners, but if they started in that place, they'd be cracking heads all night.

Saturday night's creeper was a dance-floor watcher too. I was out with my friend Trick Shot and her boyfriend Lights listening to a classic rock band. When the band played an irresistable song, Trick Shot and I would go out on the floor and get the dancing started. We did that probably 4 or 5 times. Each time this short, pudgy guy with thick glasses -- who was watching the band play all night, not just when we were dancing -- would clap his hands, smile really big at us and say, "Yay for the dancers. Yay for the dancers." And we would clap with him and laugh.

Lights asked if he was bothering us, and we said no. We even said he was just being happy, not creepy. Toward the end of the night I said to the guy, "Why don't you get out there and dance? You know you want to."

He said, "Oh, I will before the night's over."

And so he did. Trick Shot, Lights and I were dancing to the last song of the night, when the watcher came into the dance area and started dancing too. I gave him a little clap, clap and kept dancing. The clap, clap wasn't an invitation.

Nevertheless he came up to me and held out his hands like he wanted to dance with me. One little hair went up on the back of my neck, but I took his hands. He held on and kind of danced rocked back and forth in a circle. As he did, he sang along with the band, although he didn't really sing words. It sounded like, "Hunne nnunn djnew when hunnnd dunnn dewww ..." I was trying not to laugh. Awkward.

And then he pulled me closer and put his right arm around me as if he was really going to dance. Ten hairs went up. I can dance. He obviously couldn't. He said into my ear as his right hand inched down my back, "I can't really dance. Hiunnnd loon vorn sandow .... " I backed away and he grabbed my hands again and kept dancing -- smiling his "Yay dancers" smile the entire time.

I wasn't having fun any more. And when he grabbed me and pulled me closer again and put his hand on my ass, I moved back again and shook my head at him. He grabbed my hands again, and as he did, I looked over at Trick Shot and Lights and mouthed, "Help me."

Could I have dumped his chubby ass on the ground? Probably. But I prefer to get out of a situation gracefully if I can -- even with a creeper. Lights cut in and poor Trick Shot took one for the team and danced with the creeper. It was toward the end of the song, but he tried to put his hand on her ass too.

Yep, he goes in the creeper column. And I owe one to Trick Shot.

I'm lucky that most of my creeper stories happen in places where I'm with friends, and I know the staff and/or the band. Saturday night, I'm sure a couple of members of the band were watching every single move chubby creeper was making. You see everything from the stage. Besides I've known their lead singer for many years, and the guitar player always hits on me himself. I wasn't in danger of anything except needing a shower.

But it's creepy. It's skin-crawly. It's somebody trying to get his jollies from an unwilling victim. That's not OK.

There's a difference between appreciation and loading up the wank bank. I can't always describe it, but I know it when I see it.

So that's a couple of creeper stories. Blue-eyed One-of-Ten will get his turn in a future post, because he definitely did not go into the creeper column. At least not yet.

Update: Here's the video Drake posted in the comments below.