The highlight of my week

The highlight of my week happened last night when my roommate decided to demonstrate how Lindsay Lohan and her gf express their love for one another. It was totally unsolicited, yet he took his hands, parted his fingers on both as if he were making the sign of the Vulcan, then connected them at their bases and squished them together. Presumably, this is how Lindsay and her gf mash pussies.

Ugh.

And that, my friends, is just the tip of the crude, crude heap that I've had to deal with in the past two years of living with this guy. He's self-edited himself a lot more since the beginning (I told him to), but there's still a lot of inappropriate things that come out of his mouth. My femaleness has little to do with it - the stuff he says would be weird in any company, be it a gaggle of choir girls or cell block D at Pelican Bay.

But news break! The bf and I have found a new apartment. The bf is so eager to get out of his current living situation (he hates his roommate) that he's prepared to move in October 1st and shoulder the $1500 monthly rent on his own, or at least until January (I promised the roomie I'd stay through December). So it looks like I'm about to enter a new chapter of my life. The chapter of my life where I get to walk around the apartment naked all the time. What a great new thing to blog about!

So have a fun weekend folks - I'll be in Pittsburgh until Monday, rehashing college memories with some long-lost pals. If you are good maybe I'll post some pictures of the shitshow that is sure to ensue.

Who do you want to punch in the face?

I've been having trouble drumming up a topic to blog about, and I blame Will Smith for it. It's not the meltdown of Wall Street that has me troubled, it's not the specter of a McCain/Palin presidency that preoccupies my thoughts, it's that bothersome character who was plucked off the streets of Philadelphia and unleashed upon his rich aunt and uncle only to annoy the hell out of them - and me.

All I can think about (seriously, this has been on my mind for the past 4 days) is how much I fucking hate Will Smith's character on The Fresh Prince of Bel Air. I was watching it late the other night just before I drifted off into sleepy goodness, and it was unbelievable what a punk he was in that show. All I could do was lay there, my lip curled in disgust, and fantasize about punching him in the face.

Don't get me wrong - I like Will Smith just fine, and generally like him in other roles. Though The Pursuit of Happyness made me want to slit my wrists, Will Smith was well-deserving of his Oscar nod for that performance, and Men in Black will always hold a place in my heart on those Saturday afternoons when it's playing on cable and I'm hungover. But hay-zeus, what a mouthy, inappropriate little prick he is on Fresh Prince. If that were my household, his ass would have been in the juvenile delinquency center after the first week.

All this vitriol toward Fresh Prince era Will Smith got me to thinking about other television characters I'd like to punch in the face. Readers of this blog are familiar with my previous lists involving television - I detailed the Television "Friends" You Would Never be Friends with in Real Life, and The Top Six Kids Shows I Had No Right to Be Watching, so I thought maybe I'd do a post listing the Top TV Characters I Want to Punch in the Face. Fresh Prince Will Smith would be number one, with Carrie Bradshaw coming in at a close second...but that's all I got. This shouldn't be hard, television is practically my second mother, I've grown up with all kinds of horrible protagonists who the audience is supposed to relate to, but really all you want to do is shoot a harpoon gun through their eyeball.

Well you know what to do folks - what tv characters do you despise? Try not to make them "bad guy" characters either - you're supposed to hate those characters, they're written explicitly so you have a reason to root for the good guy. It's the loathed "good guys" that I'm looking for.

A tale of an annoying one-night stand

During the summer between my sophomore and junior years of college, I was working two jobs - one as a waitress, and the other as a cashier at a franchise hardware store. I won't name what particular franchise it was, but I will say it is the worst job I have ever had. It was boring and demeaning and chock-full of anal rules that could cost you your job if broken. Not to mention that the people with the authority to boss me around were all pervy drug addicts only a few years older than me. Anytime you shop at a large retailer, take a look at the workers and be assured they are not happy - their workdays are made up of mundane tasks that serve not the customer, but the bureacratic overlords that crack the whip. The overlords want to break the employees' spirits, and that's not just hyperbole - they will do anything to brainwash workers into servile robots.

But I digress from my Marxist rant. At the beginning of this summer, I had no friends. Being a bitch in high school who hated the people I was forced to hang out with, I'd done little to retain the strained connections with my school chums. The only option was to go out with my mom, but there is only so much a 20 y/o and a 45 y/o can do together; partaking in ribald activities - my highest desire - was not on the calendar.

I continued my work at the hardware franchise with the desperation for a pal scrawled across my face - thus, horny-boy buzzards started to circle. They could smell how lonely and bored I was. A guy who acted like a 20 y/o but turned out to be 32 introduced himself to me my 4th week in. A few days later, he invited me out with himself and a bunch of other guys from the hardware store family - "Meet us at Q's, it's right near the store" - and with that it seemed my isolated days were over.

My demeanor can be deceiving. Though I don't think so, it seems I have the face of a cherub - people see me, not a trace of evil or hate in the way I carry myself, my chipmunk cheeks aglow - and assume I am a straight-edge innocent. Nothing could be further from the truth. Ever since high school I've been drinking, smoking, and doing drugs (all in moderation, of course). Even today, if I light up a cigarette in front of a person I just met, they will reel from the fact that I partake in such a nasty habit. "I didn't know you smoked!" they exclaim.

"Well why should you?" I retort. "You just met me."

"I know, but...it just surprises me."

When I was 20, this perceived innocence was like a bad reputation I had to shed - I wanted the franchise boys to think I was tough, someone who could party it up like a rock star. No, not a "Girl Gone Wild" - a Keith Richards-esque hedonist who could drink beer like I invented the stuff, puke all over the bar, then rally up and repeat the process. So I joined them at Q's prepared to pound shots of Jager and chug pitchers of Budweiser.

The night was tamer than I expected, but when the bar closed at 2 am, I wasn't prepared to end the party - remember, I wanted to be a rock star. This is how I have gotten into every weird, shake-my-head-in-disbelief situation I've ever been in - when I'm not ready to call it a night, when there's something left to prove. So I accepted the invitation from one of the boys, Brian, to join him for a nightcap at his house.

I'm sure we shared some light getting-to-know-you banter and remarks about his Bob Marley posters (the ultimate in guy decor), but since I don't remember, I'll skip to the sexcapade. We were both wasted, losing balance as we twisted ourselves into an array of positions, not having sex to have fun, but having sex to be fun - this was my thinking, anyways. I'm sure he was having sex to bust a nut. The television blared in the background as we climbed all over each other like orangutans.

In the morning I woke up with a pounding headache and cotton-mouth. I stumbled into his bathroom and drank from the faucet, careful to avoid my reflection in the mirror - to see my face smeared with eyeliner and the bad skin exposed would only exacerbate the stress felt from awaking in a stranger's bed.

As I searched for my clothes - had I worn a bra? - he woke up and pulled me back into the bed and got on top of me. "C'mon, morning sex," he said.

"No fucking way," I laughed. "I gotta go."

"Aww, you got time," he replied.

He tried to yank my limbs into a coital position, and I yanked back. "No, I'm done, I have to go home."

I giggled uncomfortably as he persisted, but when things started to get too rapey, the giggling stopped. "Get the fuck off of me," I told him; my legs were crossed, and my feet had found their way to his crotch.

He didn't realize the precarious predicament his ballsack was in - maybe his boner was the only thing he could feel - and as he attempted to access my breasts I gave a hard shove with my legs and hit pay dirt.

"OOF!" He careened back, arms akimbo, and sailed off the bed. I think his head cracked the tv stand as he thudded to the floor, and I got off the mattress, surprisingly calm. Nowadays I wouldn't give a shit about assaulting a guy in his family jewels, particularly after trying to force himself on me, but at this moment I felt a twinge of guilt. Just a twinge.

He was too humiliated to be mad. "Fine," he aquieced, and he crawled back into his bed to sulk. As I picked my way through his piles of dirty laundry, he tried to smack my ass - I don't know if this was an attempt to be cute, but the fact that he missed and ended up slapping the bed was embarrassing to see.

One of the most annoying situations in the world is when you are a girl, trying to find the pieces of your wardrobe that were launched across the room the night before, and the entire time your hook-up is watching you. It's just plain rude on the guy's part. As I scanned the floor, I noticed I was wearing an old Beatles t-shirt; he noticed too.

"Hey, get out of my Beatles t-shirt before you jinx the band and they break up," he said, just before snickering stupidly to himself.

I rolled my eyes but didn't respond to his lame joke that he ripped off from The Wedding Singer. I guess he assumed that I hadn't heard him, so he repeated it: "Get out of my Beatles t-shirt before you jinx the band and they break up." He let out more retarded, satisfied giggles.

I should have explained to him why he was an idiot. In fact, my failure to do so is almost inhumane, a crime against the women who would endure his attempts at humor in the future. His stolen joke was inaccurate and borderline disrespectful, seeing as the Beatles broke up in the late 60's and two of the members WERE DEAD, yet he thought himself so clever (and conversely, he thought me so dumb) that he needed to say it again.

Without an ounce of help from Brian, I procured my clothes, pulled them on, and considered what directions to take home. Then I realized that I had no clue what town I was in. "Where the fuck am I?" I asked.

Maybe he could sense how aggravated I was by his predatory antics, because he stopped being a pouty brat and attempted to tell me how to get home. I ignored him; my brain was too muddled to remember what he said anyways.

Before he could consider a hug or kiss good-bye, I gave a flippant wave and dashed out the door. I climbed into the cab of the beat Ford I was driving, and on the way home I realized the tale of our debaucherous night would be heard by all the franchise boys. But in my youth, this notion was something I celebrated - I would just have to make sure it got back to the franchise boys that I had kicked their friend in the nutsack when he got too sure of himself.

These incidentals keep me from blogging! Waaaaaaa!

Is anyone still reading this blog? Well to the 2.5 of you that still are, let it be known that I have not been slacking all this time - in the past week, I have started three blog posts, and I can't find the heart to finish any of them. The first two were about the Palin fracas, which had all my obsession and interest for about 3 minutes last week. The third was about the Wall Street meltdown, but as I was writing it I realized that I have no fucking clue what I'm talking about, and I got all disgusted and flagellated myself with the bath mat.

Oh yeah, and I've also been laying around watching Mad Men. Tres cool show!

Though I'd like to write about a topic that is greatly affecting our nation, I've decided to wait for the next inane piece of "earth-shattering" news to come along - I will mercilessly analyze and dissect that with the rest of the internet. Until then, let us contemplate the fact that I am moving in roughly three months, and I need to decide what of my meager belongings I will either take with me or give to my roommate.

I don't have much, but some of what I have is worth keeping...or is it? An inventory and pointless assessment follows:

My computer: My mom bought this computer for me for $100 at a garage sale, and it is one of the best investments she has ever made. Though I had to replace the monitor a year ago, it is still speedy and serves my needs well. I'm kind of afraid of what my boyfriend's lack of computer skills will do to it after we move in together. I guess I should sit and have a talk with him about the memory-soaking dangers of downloading too much porn.

My Bed: Oh, if you only knew the pain and aggravation I had to go through because of this bed. Gldngirl knows all the petty details - in short, my college boyfriend gave it to me when he graduated because he didn't feel like hauling it back to his hometown (I still had a year of college left). We broke up about two months later. I said he could have the bed; he told me to keep it. A few months later he was calling my cell and stalking me on AIM demanding his bed. I said fine, come and get it; he told me to keep it. Fast-forward a few months, maybe a month before my own college graduation - and the douchebag started leaving me messages again about getting his bed back. At first I protested - who did he think he was? But after several people told me to just give it back, I told my ex, "fine, it's yours. I will haul it out to the stairwell for you to pick up. You won't see me, because I won't be around to see you." With the knowledge that I wouldn't be there for him to harrass and annoy in person, he said,"Naw, consider it a graduation present." And that was the end of that (well, the end of the harrassment over the bed anyways).

My boyfriend hates my bed. Though I have a Queen and his is just a Full, he'll refuse to give his up. I will inevitably toss mine. But this loss is actually a gain - now I'll feel entitled when I hang my Riot Grrls posters on the ceiling above our bed.

The Living Room Rug: This rug is kind of cool in an ugly kind of way. But my roomie's cat has used it as her own personal scratching post/litter box/kitten playground...meh, I'll just spray some Febreeze on it and it'll be good as new!

The Microwave: My bf has a microwave, but you know what? One of the things that my roommate does that INFINITELY pisses me off is the fact that he uses the microwave without a plate. He just tosses his food on the microwave's glass shield as if that was meant for hot dog roasting. Even worse, he doesn't clean the glass plate after using it! Ugh, and then I'll use a plate to warm up some Chinese, and I'll take the steaming noodles back to my bed, set the bowl on my comforter, then realize there is a big greasy stain soaking into my duvet because the grease from whatever my roomie cooked is on the bowl. MAJORLY ANNOYING.

So I'm going to take the microwave and throw it through the windshield of my roomie's car. THAT'LL TEACH HIM. Though this vindication might not feel so great from a jail cell...

Flatware and Silverware: I'll see what my boyfriend has, but if he has enough, the roommate can keep mine. So not worth the time to pack.

The Entertainment Center: I got the entertainment center from my mom, and my mom got it from a lady 8 years ago who was dragging it out to her lawn for the trashman. Verdict: The roommate can keep. Though I might be able to sell it to him by acting like I paid a lot of money for it.

My Air Conditioner: I did not bring my AC with me from Ohio, nor did I buy it while living in New York. It was a housewarming gift from my roommate's father - he bought one for each of us. Am I entitled to keep this? I feel kind of weird taking it, but since my bf only has one, it would be nice to keep...what do the readers think?

You know you've reached a new low when you're seeking advice from the internet.

Join me in my time machine: The first day of school!

This post probably should have gone up last week, that being the first week of school and all...oh well, I'm a lazy bum, what can I say?












Does anyone remember the ledger on the inside of their school books? If you were lucky enough to get a brand-spanking-new text that first day of school, complete with crisp, fragrant pages and a shiny cover, you would sign your name to it and declare its condition as "Brand New". You would cherish it with one final caress of your hand across its veneer, and then you'd toss it in your desk or locker for it to get buried by dirty gym clothes, melted chocolate bars, and your handgun.

But let's say that, due to "lack of funding" (i.e. the vice principal used the school's bank account to pay for his hooker and gambling addiction), the school wouldn't be getting new textbooks that year. Or for the next five years. And when you would be issued yours, a third of the pages were ripped or torn out, the people on the front cover had their teeth blacked out by pen and badly drawn penises aimed at their mouths, and the ledger was filled up, so you had to sign your name and the book's condition two or three lines below it. Bitter about the fact that you were receiving a severely out-dated and battered text, you'd label the book's condition as "Fucking Old."

The above scenario didn't happen to me exactly, but I do remember in 7th grade being given a school book that was published in 1979. I entered the seventh grade in 1996. Though most of the stories were still relevant ("The Tell-Tale Heart" was one we read that year), it was demoralizing to be given something meant to help you learn that was so broke down, so trashed, so disgusting, and nearly 20 YEARS OLD. Who was looking out for the children? Didn't anyone care to give us the best supplies to help us learn? On the upside, our teacher didn't really care if we treated our texts like coloring books. She would actually kind of encourage us to vandalize them - "Sure, go ahead, they're horrible anyways."

I hope you all enjoyed this little foray into the past - quite nostalgic, no? Though maybe no one reading this had to suffer through misappropraited tax dollars that directly affected your education. Does that make me more real, more hardcore? No I don't think so, but it probably left me better prepared for a career in triple-X hardcore.

Sidenote: I originally ended this post with a joke (albeit poorly written) about having a kidnapped junior high student locked in my spare room, the explanation as to why I have a middle school textbook in my possession. I deleted it because I thought it might be crass and ill-received. What do the readers think? Is kidnapping a 12 y/o appropriate joke fodder? That comment section ain't there for nothin, folks.

The horror, the pain...the facial

I write today of a story containing much woe and debilitating pain, a tale that will make you cringe as you read - it is also probably the most bourgeois complaint you will ever see on this blog.

It is the tale of the facial I received last Friday.

And perverts, let's get it straight from the get-go - it was a facial you get at a spa, not something that happens when 8 men profess their love to a woman in one of your XXX films.

But to be honest, after I stumbled home from the spa on Friday evening, I think I would have rather been on the receiving end of a bukkake than endured the assault on my face the facialist inflicted.

Early last week, I was looking at my face and running my fingertips along the t-zone - it was like a braille board, with dozens of tiny bumps festering under the skin. A summer of sweaty beach-going, camping, and blase skin care had left me with a face akin to the Yellowstone Caldera - about to blow at any minute with very, very bad results. Since I can't afford a dermatologist, a facial was in order.

I had never had a professional facial before, so I didn't know what was in store for me. I assumed that it would be a relaxing experience; the facialist would cleanse my face, rub some St. Ides scrub into my skin, and soothingly work out any clogs she came across (which would be many). My expectations were purported by clips I see on reality tv, like when the girls of The Hills, or Kate from John & Kate Plus 8, retreat to the spa for the ultimate in calm and rejuvention. I fully expected to come out of my facial with a new-found outlook on life.

It all started out fine enough. My facialist was eastern-European, which seemed totally appropriate, and after I told her it was my first time, she reassured me at every step. I undressed my torso and took off my shoes, laid on the spa bed, and allowed my body to de-tense as the facialist kneaded my shoulders and neck, and rubbed various ointments into my face. A sitar played from the speakers; the room was ensconced in low but warm lantern-light. This is nice, I thought, practically asleep. Why didn't I do this sooner? So what if it's an indulgence, I deserve an indulgence every now and then, don't feel guilty, just enjoy it, even if you COULD have given the money you're spending on this to charity, sshhh, sshhh, goddamnit would you just kick-back for once? Yes, this is how my mind works when I'm relaxed.

Just as I was about to drift-off into some warm, fuzzy nap state, my facialist said, "Ok, now ve vill begin vee ex-track-shun."

I didn't really respond, so she added, "Vis not so much fun."

"O-ohhh?" I was up, no longer lulled by the calming sensations of the room. Not fun? Like, when you're trapped in a boring college course not fun?

She placed a blindfold over my eyes. "How do you like ven you ex-track your blemishes at home?"

"Um, it's ok, I mean, I don't like it." I thought she was asking if I got my jollies by squeezing pus-filled whiteheads in front of my bathroom mirror. Indeed I do, but I didn't want her to think I was a freak.

"Vell, imagine vaht it feel like ven someone else do ex-track-shun."

Wait, what was going on? Why did she put a blindfold on me? The movie Hostel popped into my head.

"But don't vorry," she continued, as if there was an overhead projector connected to my brain that was displaying my fearful thoughts. "I use a needle to get out all vee hard stuff, and your face vill be smooth and beautiful."

A NEEDLE? But it was too late - the ex-track-shun had commenced.

She began with the nose, an uber-difficult place to push out blackheads if there ever was one. I tried not to squirm as she plied the cartilage, working the skin over the ridge of my nose, nearly breaking the fragile bone. At least she is starting with the nose, I thought. The nose is the most painful and frustrating area to pop zits - it should all be easy-peasy from here.

But I was wrong...I was so wrong. Imagine me saying that is a desperate, cracked whisper. I was so wrong. She moved to my problem area, my chin, and that bitch took the soft skin between her fingertips, gripped it like a vice, and squeezed that shit with all the mercy of Mussolini. Every muscle in my body tightened; the veins in my neck must have protruded two inches from the skin. Bullets of sweat sprang from my pits, and I'm not just saying this - I could literally feel pools of sweat cascade from my underarms. This was some serious pain.

And it only continued. With each new extraction, I prayed she would stop. My hands balled into fists and my toes curled like cheetos; my back had become a veritable swamp, since all the pain being inflicted on me had put my sweat glands into overdrive. Sure I was used to the brief sting of popping a zit, but the thing here was that she was extracting from bumps deep under the skin; many layers of epidermis had to be ripped open in order to deplete these potential blemishes. At one point she even said, "Your skin is so tight! Make for very difficult ex-track-shun."

Of course - only I would be someone with tight - yet clogged - pores.

Every millimeter of my face was pinched, and some areas had the pleasure of getting poked by her tiny needle. I think I now know what it feels like to receive Botox. It was so relentless, no time to breathe or recoup, just pain, grit grit git, GAH PAIN, grit grit grit, PAIIIIIIIN. People, I am not one easily provoked by the ache of the physical. I have always handled it well, and though I didn't scream out or tell her to stop at any time during our session, I have to say this was one of the most painful physical experiences of my life. Not the worst, but probably in my top five.

Throughout the facial, she kept talking to me. No, not idly chatting, but trying to engage me in conversation. She wanted to know about chemical peels I had had in the past and if they helped me or not because, wouldn't you know it? SHE had just taken a class on chemical peels and she wanted the perspective from someone who had actually had one... all this while she was facilitating fiery explosions from my face. I tried to be cordial, but all I could think was, bitch, shut-up! I really need to go to my happy place right now, and you are preventing that from happening.

And you know what made the whole thing even worse? I was having some stomach problems during the facial (translation: I had gas), and it was near impossible to not let one fly while I was writhing and gritting my teeth. The sheer fact that I did not A) cry like a baby or B) fart through it all puts me on the level of Superman.

Though it felt like a century, it was probably all done in 15 minutes. She applied a salve to my face then left the room as I reeled from the annihilation I'd just endured. Was it really over? Or was she about to return with a two-foot syringe in her hand and announce, "Oh you thought it vas OVER? You silly, silly American!"

But she didn't return for another 10 minutes or so, and when she finally did, she instructed me to get dressed. Ugh, gladly! I launched myself off the spa bed, got dressed, then spotted the wall mirror. I looked, but due to the low-lighting, I couldn't see the damage. Since my head felt like a hot, throbbing goiter, I knew it couldn't look good.

The walk home was hazy and a bit fevered; every inch of my face was prickly. I was happy for the darkness, since I didn't want passer-bys to be frightened by my boiling-red mug.

It is now a couple days later, and my face looks WORSE THAN EVER. It is dry and scabby. But the facialist did tell me it would look bad for a few days...le sigh.

So people, I tell you this story today so that the truth is known about facials - they are not enjoyable. They are not relaxing. They are, in fact, meant for masochists who enjoy the company of Easter-European broads. But as the old adage goes, no pain, no gain. It has yet to be shown if I gained the desired result, though - if my face turns out like the bottom of a newborn babe, then maybe I will visit my dominatrix-like facialist again in a few months. But I will do so after smoking two joints and imbibing a Volume.

David Duchovny, I wish you would fuck me (even now)

I don't know what to make of this whole Sarah Palin fiasco, particularly the baby conspiracy that is straight out of a VC Andrews novel. I don't just mean the fact that her 17 y/o daughter is pregnant - I'm talking about the theory that Palin's newborn, Trig, may in fact be the progeny of her eldest daughter, Bristol, and the pregnancy debacle occurring now is all meant to cover-up the REAL pregnancy that happened a few months ago. Yes, click the link, Cajun Boy explains it so much better and in-depth than I.

I'm done thinking about all this Palin baby-drama (though this has really upped the ante as far as politico-family scandals go, no?). Now we will move onto to an even more DEEELISH scandal that has me all aflutter.

_______________________________________________________________

Oh what sexual sparks this pic alone awakens...

The first time I can remember laying eyes on David Duchovny - I was 11-years-old and spending a Friday evening at my grandmother's house. The television flickered pale blue against the walls, a background accompaniment to the board game my sister and I were playing. A commercial came on; I looked up from the game, maybe because of the eerie music playing from the set. There, on the television screen, were a woman and man looking earnest, running to something, or away from it. They were cloaked in trench coats; they were searching. The commercial bade me to stay tuned for the premiere of a new FOX series, The X-Files.

The man in particular captivated me. I was only 11, but something was stirring - my imagination? My loins? Probably both. I tuned into the premiere and learned that this man played the male lead in The X-Files, Fox Mulder. The actor playing Mulder was David Duchovny, and I was in love.

From that day out, I was an avid X-File fan, and a precocious Duchovny lover. While most of the girls my age were googly-eyed for boys like JTT and Andrew Keegan, I was tuning in every Friday night (then later, Sundays), and watching as Fox Mulder (a man) cavorted with Jersey Devils, clandestine informants, Satan-worshipers, and of course, little gray men. Mulder was in search of the truth, a truth that was constantly being hidden by the government. And goddamn did he look for it in the sexiest way possible!

During my time as an X-Phile, I procured a rather large and diverse collection of memorabilia. Shirts, books, magazines, buttons, pogs - if it had something to do with The X-Files and David Duchovny, I owned it. I would have been a nerd* if The X-Files wasn't beloved by everyone else in my class, too - but no one loved it and Duchovny as much as me.

At night as I drifted off to sleep, Mulder and I would search for the truth together. We would meet by surprise - we had known each other during our FBI training and had shared a brief, passionate tryst. Since Scully was sick from the flu, Mulder would need a savvy professional to assist him on his next investigation, and I would grudgingly pinch hit (grudgingly because that's what makes for the best sexual tension. Did I mention I was also a 5'10" redhead? My fantasies were vivid AND drunk). Though we would be on assignment, our lust would overcome us, and inevitably...well, inevitably I'd start making out with my pillow. But anyways, this foray into my childhood fantasies is to say ZOMG I fucking loved David Duchovny and he is the only celebrity I ever truly pined for.

But here we are in 2008. These days, I pine for my bf (really!) And though Duchovny has been married for the past decade, turns out he's pining for lots of internet pornography. Turns out he's a sex addict!

I'm kind of turned on by him again after this revelation. Yeah, I know that's kind of skanky to say, but compound this real-life sex addiction with the charisma of his Californication character, Hank Moody - it's making me nostalgic for the days when I was a horny adolescent.

I leave you with a video that I saw only a few days ago - it sums up how I (and I guess everyone else) felt about David Duchovny in the 90's.

* Ok, I was probably a raging nerd.

In the company of old, misogynist men

I like to consider myself a guy's girl. When in the company of men, I can hold my own; discussions about sports, boating, or tawdry sex do not bother me - in fact, I revel in the latter. When I'm talking about the lewd and crude, I've found my niche and am completely comfortable.

The bf and I went camping this weekend, and whadya know - I was the only chick there! Save for the female doggy that was limping around on a bum leg, I was the only creature with ovaries in the vicinity of our campground.

At first, this situation was fine. We're all human before we're our gender, am I right? So I smoked, drank, and in general caroused with the guys. While we imbibed Yeungling from a keg and toked our Parliaments, the conversation revolved around general "man" things (nary a discussion about lipsticks and nail polish was to be found. Not that they would have been had the group been comprised of mostly women, but you get my point). As dusk turned into night, the lot of us got drunker, and I took a small stroll around the lake with my dog. Upon my return, I was told by an older fellow that I needed to turn right back around - the conversation being had was not intended for a lady's ears. My boyfriend merely shrugged when I looked to him for instruction, and that was all he had to do - apparently he agreed that I should not be in the midst of whatever chauvinist, sexually-charged dialog they were having.

Being too drunk to produce a witty retort opposing my dismissal, I wandered away from the crowd, my dog in tow. My alcohol-addled mind began to debate what had just happened - I had just let a man talk down to me? I, Ms. Fuck-You-and-the-Misogynist-Horse-You-Rode-in-On, had allowed a dude to treat me like anything less than the autonomous, knowledgeable adult female that I am? Worse than that, my boyfriend didn't defend me, and I should have promptly commenced to making his life miserable for that infraction, yet I didn't! Well, these wrongs certainly had to be righted. I stumbled back over to the group.

"So what, are you guys talking about dirty sexual exploits over here?" My query was dead-on - yep, they were exchanging their most salacious bedroom stories. I knew immediately they were all just bullshitting each other. "Tell me some," I demanded.

"Oh we couldn't," one of the dudes said.

"Why not? I bet I've done filthier, more dastardedly things."

They all guffawed and exchanged curious looks. "Really?"

"Yeah, but I can't share my stories with him around." I jutted a thumb at my bf. "He couldn't handle hearing them." My bf's eyebrows lifted, then furrowed.

"Well he should leave, then!" All the guys were eager for my bf to take a hike. The bf gave me a look that said are you serious? "You should probably go somewhere else for a while," I told him. Taken aback, he did as I and the other dudes told him. That'll teach him not to have my back.

Well now I had to live up to my promise of delivering a sex story so demented it would make Caligula blush. I regaled them with a tale that involved multiple sex partners, but overall the story was a massive fail. They were all so disappointed in my tale and accused me of building up their hopes, but their attitude toward me had shifted - no longer was I a lady in their eyes; I had devolved to their gross male standards, and in this devolution, I found acceptance. Dare I say I had found a home?

Uh, no I do not dare. Because even though my refusal to be silenced (gosh I make telling sex stories sound so righteous!) had allowed me a spot in their male-centric circle, the lewd but fun conversation eventually spiraled into an out-and-out misogynist rant on one guy's part. Not only was it misogynist, but it was downright weird. The booze has fuzzed my memory, but somehow I found myself having a discussion with a man in his 60's, and this man could not keep his mouth shut about how much both of his sisters weighed. He was practically frothing at the mouth because his sisters, according to him, were "fat pigs." When and where is it ever normal to talk to total strangers about your sibling's weight?

At the beginning of the conversation, I thought maybe I could sympathize - maybe his sisters were dangerously obese and he was scared for their health. I asked him how tall they were, and how much they weighed.

"Oh, they're both about 5'11" and weigh like 180." I almost fell over upon hearing this revelation, because if what he said was true (and who knows? He might have been exagerrating their weight so I'd agree with him), this would give his sisters a BMI of 25.1, which is not problematic when you consider that a healthy BMI is between 18.5 and 24.9. Not to mention, his sisters have given birth to two children each!

Why was this douche's hate toward his sisters misogynist, and not just anti-fat? Because his younger brother was at the campground with him, and he was a chunky lard-ass if I ever saw one!

I started to lecture the guy about his ridiculous critique of his sisters, and it quickly escalated into a full-fledged "Gah you old men are so retarded!" tirade, so my boyfriend came over to calm me down. I was kind of wasted at that point, but I don't know if my reaction would have been any different had I been sober.

As I continued to drink, I also continued to talk - not a good combination. As punishment for banishing me in the first place, I made them all listen to my theories on the lives of heterosexual men when their significant others aren't around. I won't detail my theory here - but in a world of Larry Craig's and Mark Foley's, you can guess what it is I think heterosexual men do when the women are shopping or visiting their mothers.

In all, I was able to handle being a lone girl thrown in the mix of 10 straight, old-school, kind of uneducated, perverted guys. But I don't think I'd voluntarily choose such a situation, because seriously old men? You make me weep for the women of your generation who had to put up with your stupid asses.