I'm thinking about where I was last New Year's Eve, mentally and physically, and... son of a bitch, that IS real, tangible progress. I suddenly have a li'l extra swagger this evening -- 2016 is gonna be the year of Dat Ass.
Happy almost new year, my lovelies. My bourbon cider and I salute you. Have fun, be safe, and thank you for reading my silliness this year.
Cheers and hugs,
Smug
This is probably a story that would've been more useful before Christmas, but maybe we can all carry the concept into the new year...
One of the best things my ex ever did for me was help me realize I shouldn't let it bother me when assholes behave like assholes.
Years ago, my aunt said something REALLY hurtful to me on Facebook. I was at work, and had to leave my office and call my ex to cry about it in the parking lot. (I rarely cry. It's one of many unhealthy points of pride. But she'd hit a nerve.)
And my ex said, "I don't understand why you're upset."
"Because she's horrible. Who would say that?"
"Well...an asshole would say that. You think she's a dick, right?"
"Yeah..."
"Do you value her opinion? Do you want your life to be like hers?"
"No. She's awful."
"So why are you upset about what an awful person thinks? She's an asshole. Why are you letting an asshole make you cry?"
"...Well, shit...You are absolutely...goddamn right..."
I was fine for years after that, but recently had a wonky emotional time in which I was letting her get to me again. It helps so much to keep that conversation in mind -- how obvious it seemed, what a glorious turning point it was for me to finally see it, and also to know other people see it, too. It helped a LOT this past Christmas.
You go ahead and make your snide little comments, dearie. I don't know what made you such a miserable jag, what made you so unhappy with your life, but you're damn sure in no position to judge mine.
Namaste. Bitch.
I know it's Wednesday, but I'll have more pressing things to think about tomorrow. So here's a little pseudo-#TBT to celebrate me accomplishing a goal I set LAST New Year's. It's one I never thought I'd be strong enough to accomplish: taking the space I needed, identifying unhealthy (read: masochistic) behavior, and realizing that even in a friendship, I'm worthy of effort, especially in a friendship that would've required effort to survive.
Since I've been forced to think about my "accomplishments" over this past year, let's hear it for progress. And in the new year, let it continue, along with my other accomplishments/goals.
Let's do this, Year.
This happened the last time I tried online dating, too: After the initial ego boost, once I actually read what people are saying and how stupid most of it is, my brain has this tiny seizure, like, "What the fuck am I even doing? I belong with my Ex. This is absurd, he is my Person, and I'm never finding anyone better. I am going to die alone, or worse, under some 24-year-old townie-fuck douchebag with a naked-except-a-hand-over-his-junk mirror selfie** as his profile pic.
So. There you go, Therapist. Take my money, let's work this one out.
Kidding. I don't really need her for this one. I just have to keep reminding myself I don't have to answer anyone I don't want to, or do anything I don't want to. They can't come GET me, they live in the computer.
Onward. (Or if you prefer, "Excelsior.")
** Yep, that's a thing. I'd been on the site for 24 hours and saw three of these tykes, along with several merely-shirtless mirror selfies. Don't get it twisted, I'm not mad at it -- those guys SHOULD be shirtless at all times. But they're looking for "DTF" girl. (I mean, I AM, but...not like that. I'm a lady, motherfucker. I'll see you naked when I am jolly good and ready...which, in the grand scheme, really doesn't take that long. If you can't wait 'til the second or third date, you're more than welcome to go fuck yourself. But although I'm not always the most confident in my sexual prowess, I can pretty much guarantee I'm more fun than fucking yourself.)
Email to Friend: "The therapist asked me to write about my accomplishments this year, and goals for the upcoming year and beyond. I've been struggling with it because I genuinely can't think of much. (I assume 'Keep breathing' and 'Stay employed' are implied. Maybe 'Don't sleep with anyone dumber than me?')
"But I'm finishing Judy Greer's book, and coincidentally she's talking about how she has an always-evolving list of goals, what's important to her, etc., that she reads and revises as needed.
"And then Kelly Sue DeConnick sent this text yesterday to the Bitches Get Shit Done list, so it's pretty much law now, right? List ahoy, Little Shark!" 
Friend: "I can think of at least three things you should be proud of yourself for, but I'm not telling you because you have to look back and be proud of yourself. You have to look in the mirror and see the good."
Me: "THREE?! Shit. I'm pretty rad. (I think I had two. Will continue considering.)"
I filled out the wordy bits of the OkCupid profile first, no photos.
When I added pics, in the 10 minutes it took to arrange them, I got something like 18 "likes."
Pfft. I'm adorable.
P.S. A half hour later, four intro messages, one from a faceless stranger who called me "beautiful" and added "take it anyway you want."
#BasicallyGisele
Is there another way I could take "beautiful?" Do I have less of a command on English than I give myself credit for? I guess it could mean, "I want to put my parts in your parts, and I assume calling you 'beautiful' will help. I smell the needy." Oh, wait! Did you mean I should take your dick "anyway" I want? Yeah, that's how I'm gonna interpret that.
P.P.S. The end of my self-summary: "I don't take this site seriously enough to pay for it, so if you 'liked' my profile, I can't see it, sorry! (But at least I'll be able to tell who actually reads the profile and who's just hot for impish eyes on a bottle-blonde.)"
I think I did a thing.
I think it was a healthy thing.
I think I may vomit.
Results pending...
I'm infinitely amused that OkCupid won't let me re-open my account, at least not right now. There's some kind of error, so they told me to check back later.
It should be a more detailed error, like, "Are you sure? Remember all those unsolicited offers of butt stuff?"
Yes, OkC, I do, but I need to at least make out with someone soon before I die from lack of kissing, which is a thing that can totally happen, shut up.
You could probably tell I didn't have the best emotional time over the weekend (fuck the entire Venn diagram of the holidays and PMS, seriously). Male BFF was concerned and invited me over for alcohol and merriment with him and his lady, one of my Female BFFs.
I declined but texted my thanks, and man, I tell ya, the My Little Ponies are right -- friendship IS magic:
I have things to post, but nothing as important as this: 13 Reasons Masturbation Is a Feminist Act.
As you were.
Between hormones and holiday stress, I just ended up Ugly Crying over something incredibly stupid, and now my brain is convinced I am unlovable and will die alone. So that's always fun. I think these particular feelings will need to be handled via pizza.
I almost never cry, so storing it all up for the twice-yearly Ugly Cry is sort of like when I finally get laid -- I never realize how long it's been since I've done it, so I just explode from the catharsis of it all. It generally works out much better during sex, but the result is the same: I end up collapsed in an exhausted, lifeless heap. And I feel a lot better. And I demand snacks.
Family Time, Day 2.
Wine rations are low. I am texting friends:
Me: "I'm in a car listening my mom and grandfather talk, and 'Disco Duck' is on the radio for some reason. So... I'm just gonna jump out of the car and hope for the best."
Friend 1: "BWHAHAHA."
Friend 2: "Holy shit, that is amazing. Godspeed."
Me: "The conversation literally just went from houses in the city Grandpa worked on back in the day, to this area being 'right near where Butch's* friend was murdered,' to 'I have to go to that Indian doctor later this week.'"
Friend 2: "I look forward to your alone time. That is a lot to process."
*When you're white trash (as I am), there's always a Butch. Fact. I know two. If you're really lucky, you'll get a "Butchy." But you have to BELIEVE.
It's probably a good, healthy step this long after a breakup to not wish each other Merry Christmas, not out of anger or spite, but because you're busy living your lives.
I mean, unless you're me, and will sit here stewing about it at the end of the day but not saying it first because you sent the last text yesterday, and you have too much pride to say it first because remember you said "Happy Thanksgiving" first?
Ahem. Not that that's happening... Because that would be lunacy.
My wine and I are going to bed.
I think I'm packed for Christmas, yeah? 
No, wait... You're right. I need beer.
Also, I totally hear you -- Xanax would've been great, but alas, there's some shit about ethics where they won't give it to me because I don't actually have anxiety? I KNOW, right, what the shit? This IS America, right? Family gatherings + Jesus' birthday = special dispensation. That's in the Bible: "And lo, distributed among them, there were delicious medications, and yea, they were happy. OK, well...not really HAPPY, but they didn't hit anyone, and so there was peace on earth, and sedated goodwill toward men."
P.S. I will spend today baking MANY cookies; those are almost Xanax if you eat enough of them.
P.P.S. That whiskey is not for me. That shit is like having one of those hippie honey cough drops in your drink. Ugh.
Um, no, YOU'RE getting your period for Christmas.
(See also: Fuck you, body.)
I know you guys aren't on my side with the country music, but I think we can all agree Pistol Annies have been reading my journal as we approach my family's Christmas dinner. This is my new favorite song to sing in the car. (Shut up, I am SUPER hot when I have twang.)
"Well, Daddy's reading propaganda
And he's talkin' 'bout the end of days
Well, cheers to the vodka Mama's been sneakin',
Let's all gather 'round and pray.
"So I snuck out behind the red barn
And I took myself a toke
Since everybody here hates everybody here
Hell, I might as well be their joke.
"I'm gonna dance up on the table
Singing 'This Little Light of Mine'
God gave it to me, what good's it gonna do me
If I don't, by God, let it shine?
"Hide your tattoo,
Put on your Sunday best,
Pretend you're not a mess,
Be the happy family in the front pew..."
"Hush hush, don't you dare say a word
Hush hush, don't you know the truth hurts
Hush hush, when push comes to shove,
It's best to keep it hush hush."
Today I saw my psychiatrist (ie, my Drug Czar, not Talky Therapist -- it takes a village, y'all). And she thinks I should start dating again, before I "get used to being alone."
Um... How 'bout "Shut up and give me my drugs?" You're not the boss of me. Talky Therapist is. (Though, um, Talky Therapist also thinks I should.)
You're shrinks. Shouldn't I be OK being alone? Shouldn't I be happy with myself before I bring in a Crazy copilot? Did you HEAR me tell you about the last times I tried dating?
"Well, you can just date casually. You don't have to sleep with them."
Well, no, I don't HAVE to. But if history is any indication, I WILL. If I kiss (and I really NEED to kiss), I will tease, and then the man will end up touching the "on" switch on my neck, then I will lose my tenuous-at-best "lady" decorum, and then suddenly we're post-coital, and he wants me to spend Christmas with him or leave a toothbrush at his place, and then I'm hyperventilating and doing The Fadeaway because I am a big fat coward.
I don't feel like dating right now. I'm not cute in the winter, all shrouded in big bulky sweaters and corduroy pants. (Though, it's supposed to be fucking 74 degrees in Philadelphia on Thursday, so I guess that's not a valid defense right now.) But generally, sundresses are more my wheelhouse.
And by the way? I LIKE being alone. I'm pretty rad. That's how I'll know when I'm ready to deal with a relationship -- if I wouldn't rather be alone than with the guy. This almost never happens. Normally it's "UGH, I have to...TALK to someone? And...shave things? This will not stand!"
*sigh*
On one hand, I don't think it's fair to potential dates that I would be comparing them at least a little to these previous relationships. But Talky Therapist tells me that's actually a good thing, because I know what I want and what I don't. Also, I do understand it's not doing me any good to sit and wallow about any man who, perhaps over-simplistically, doesn't want to be with me. So maybe it wouldn't hurt to go check out OkCupid again. (I'm not going to meet anyone in a bar, that's not my scene. I wanna get with a dude who steps to me in a Barnes & Noble -- instead of sending me a drink from across a bar, he can send his favorite book and preferably a scone.)
If nothing else, attempting to date will give me good stories here. So here's to 2016 being the year I finally get some. (And blah blah blah, true love, soulmates, rainbows -- FINE. If I happen to find that while rubbing up against people, then yay for me.)
I was looking for a different Garfunkel & Oates video for a later post, but I saw this in the YouTube sidebar so I'm sharing it first.
I've posted this before, but it's been a while, and it's always worth hearing again. But also, I HAVE in fact gotten that drunk text at 3 in the morning, and it was indeed "SO close, but not quite there."
This was in the most recent list of search terms people have used to get to my WordPress page:
Holy shit, you guys -- WHAT am I writing? I know it's my id and all, and I certainly have my moments, but it's USUALLY not "devastating Christmas depression fuck you."
Seriously: Therapy. It's great. Mood drugs, too. Maybe also have some cake? Cake fixes a lot of things. Search for cake.
OMG, SHAMY!
I haven't seen this show in years because it stopped being funny, but this was so sweet. They're adorable, I want to hug them.
Also, asking verbal consent AND a contractual backup? Well played, Dr. Cooper. (We'll let that comment about "litigious society" go. OK, fine, he's an awkward virgin -- whatever. They still make it sound like he could get fake-rape-sued. As if that is a thing that happens all the time.)
Wait. What was my point? Oh, right. Sweet. It was sweet.
At work, texting with friends about the best body parts and most flattering angles for naked selfies to send to your significant other. As you do.
I usually just send a photo of tapioca pudding. It gets the point across and requires far less effort.
KIDDING.
My personal favorite is my naked back with a peek of panty lace on my hips, and my hair running down my back. I give good back.
Alternately, the curve of my waist, and my thighs, again with lovely draw's. (That's what you call them when you're as sexy as I am.)
Aaand now I'm thinking about doing it.
Aaand now I'm turned on.
This should be an interesting rest of the day at work.
I asked my mother what I could bring to Christmas dinner, maybe a dessert or wine, and she said, "No worries, we're all set for food, and we have enough to drink -- there's water and soda and juice."
Oh. Oh, honey. Is it GIN and juice? Is there grape drank? (That's what those Sunny D commercials meant by "purple stuff," let's be honest.)
See, I can't get through Christmas with that big fake smile on my face without mixing pills and alcohol, Karen Walker style. Besides, if you read The Bible, you'll learn Jesus turned water into wine because He WANTED us to be half in the bag on His birthday.
Jesus was a partier. Fact. He didn't go all in with hats and streamers and all that, because that's just excess, but He could knock back goblets of His own blood like nobody's business.
Immediate reaction: "The body acceptance activist has smaller thighs than I do."
Follow-up thought: "WOW. Is there an award for missing the point?"
Also, though, the award for best shirt? Definitely all her. *slow clap* 
I think I've met my soulmate at work.
I mean, he's gay, and married, but I'm clearly unfuckable, anyway, so I think we could make this work.
(Kidding. I know I could catch a dick if I tried.)
Pre-holiday haircut and color: "What doesn't kill you only makes you blonder..." 
That free wine they provide is half the reason I keep coming back to this salon. (Post-apartment move, it's annoyingly far.)
The other half, as I texted a friend:
Me: "My hair salon is next door to that bar with the cheesy pretzels, so I think a to-go order after my appointment is a must, no?"
Friend: "Otherwise you're just wasting your life, honestly."
I can't waste my life, you guys.
#DrunkyCheesyDestiny
(Upon reflection, I wish I'd asked Friend to join me at the bar. We could've taken my faboo hair for a test run, and she'd be a great wingman. Plus, I reiterate, cheesy pretzels.)
Via 6ABC.com: Charges Filed After Man Shuts Down Highway For Marriage Proposal.
I can only dare to dream of the day a man proposes to me in the middle of a busy highway, douching it up and stopping traffic because he and his lady fair are just such special snowflakes.
Sometimes I'm recapping therapy in my private journal and I find myself amusing, so I'm posting this excerpt:
"The therapist asked what I'd want from my next relationship, and I told her, 'I don't think I'm ready to be a Girlfriend. That would have to be an incredibly slow progression, like I almost feel bad for the guy and the baby steps he'd have to take to get me there. I should have a sign that says, 'Commitment issues may be closer than they appear. (You'll get laid, though, don't worry.)'
"I mentioned the guy I'd been 'dating' who brought pancakes to my door uninvited and unannounced the morning after we'd, um...'dated.' He texted me from outside my door to announce his presence. So I took the pancakes -- I'm crazy, not stupid -- but didn't let him in because I was SO caught off-guard by him being there. It got a little Sheldon, like: "You're in my house. People can't be in my house," even though he'd just been there IN MY BED the night before.
"So I guess I'll let you fuck me but pancakes are too intimate?
"So I told the therapist I want, 'Someone who'll have sex with me, but only with me (because diseases, and what if the other women are better in bed than I am?). And they snuggle me for 5-10 minutes after sex and then get the hell out. And they're not my boyfriend, but we go on dates, and also, they should be at least smart enough to know, like, how Velcro works.'"
"I do not find this at ALL unfair or unreasonable. (Except the Velcro. Come the hell on.)"
In the past week I've been told I have a "nice writing style" and also a "good voice," the former for professional writing and the latter for this blog.
Pfft. Even the Stray Cats don't strut like me today.
The peacocks at the zoo WISH they could step to my preening.
#FilthyComplimentWhore
Wordpress is kind enough to track the search terms that lead people to my page.
Here are a few:
I love you all, you depraved bastards.
I'll admit, most days I half-ass my appearance for work. I'm generally OK looking, so I let my hair air dry and don't give a lot of thought to my clothes or makeup. I'm going to work -- they don't pay me to be pretty, and there's no one here I want to get naked with.
But today I'm going out after work, and my God I'm cute when I give a damn. (And when my more fashionable friends hand-picked my entire outfit when we went shopping that time.)
I almost forgot to wish y'all a happy Hanukkah.
Hanukkah isn't my religion, but a) I don't HAVE much of a religion -- we celebrate Christmas, but I suspect that's mostly for the ham. And b) the first guy I had sex with was Jewish (so, he was extra Chosen), so I'll always have a soft spot (ie, my vagina) for the faith.
L'chaim!
Just in case it seems like I let one measly "relationshit" with some boy land me in a therapist's office, that was only my "just the tip"ping point.
It was like a Jay-Z situation -- I already had 99 problems, and then added a bitch.
Therapist assures me she can change my thinking of myself as "Slutty von Slutwhore."
[challengey face] You go ahead, dearie. It's so much a part of my lexicon that my phone knows the word "Slutwhore," so let me know how that works out for you.
Unless you're gonna, like, "Eternal Sunshine" me? Yes. I would like my mind to be spotless, please.
"Well, it sounds like you didn't feel slutty until [Thing] happened."
Um, yeah, in which "Thing" = "I started being slutty." Christ, I pay you for this?
Seriously, though, I'm glad she's planning to help me get past this, because I could REALLY stand to get laid without torturing myself after. It's quite a lot of tension at this point -- I almost feel bad for the unfortunate soul who has to be under me when I get unleashed. I might need backup dick.
N.B. Some of this has dissipated just with the passage of time. I know I wasn't "slutty" -- I made a few bad choices and fell for one wrong person who, intentionally or not, made me feel that way. But I learned from all of it, including the very valuable lesson that sometimes I NEED to get laid.
Besides, "slutty" is in the eye of the beholder, and everyone who beholds me doesn't see it. (And if you do, fuck you, go away.)
During holiday seasons I love to torture myself by looking at those bullshit "for her" and "for him" gift recommendation lists.
For instance, BN.com recommends "for him" all this sweet Star Wars and Doctor Who stuff, Rodin "Thinker" bookends, and cool beer/gin kits. And "for her," a bunch of fucking candles and tote bags and tea sets, and what looks like every pink gift item they sell.
Kiss my dick, Barnes & Noble.
I will admit, I love candles and pink stuff. But I also like beer and gin, dammit, and I do, um, THINK, at least often enough to enjoy "Thinker" bookends. Plus I know tons of ladies who'd enjoy Star Wars/Doctor Who swag. Hmph.
Mad props to LivingSocial, though. Their "for her" gift guide has bourbon tastings, distillery tours, photography lessons, and race car experience packages. (And Brazilian waxes, but eh, it's still a good list of options. And, um... I'll just go ahead and add that wax to my cart along with the bourbon tasting. That's gonna be a weird day.)
The doctor put me on a new drug*, and told me repeatedly that if I notice a rash to contact her immediately.
Seriously, you guys, am so goddamn sexy I don't even know how y'all deal with me.
This is especially fun because there's always SOME reaction somewhere on my skin. I already had eczema (or SEXzema -- amirite, fellas?), and my skin reacts to perfumes, soaps, scented feminine products (THAT? Was a great day.), dryer sheets, certain fabrics, shaving, and men's facial hair when they kiss the BEST places**, so... really, what's one more?
*Some days I miss being on Abilify -- it was SUPER fun feeling like I was ALWAYS over-caffeinated, getting shit done LIKE A BOSS, and not giving a baker's fuck about anything, including if I slept ever again. Alas, not a sustainable lifestyle. Or so they told me.
**I almost always find this reaction worth it. Fine, whatever, I'll get psoriasis -- just keep your mouth on my neck. It will end well for us all.
Also, I am terrible at handjobs, because they put the "dick" in "ridiculous." You HAVE hands. I have a mouth. It's WAY better. My hands are like my mouth's slacker interns -- they help my mouth along and fetch it coffee and stuff, but we don't trust them with the really important projects.
"Sometimes feeling full of something is exactly what you need: be it wisdom, shit, dicks, or egg rolls."
OK, yeah, I'm in love with Brittany Gibbons.
One more on this, and then, sweet baby Jesus willing, I think I'm done.
Possibly (erm, make that probably) inebriated conversation with a male friend...
Friend: "Does That Guy know you're the one writing these posts when he likes them on Tumblr?"
Me: "Yep. I told him about it before I fucked everything up."
Friend: "Before HE fucked everything up. Don't get it twisted."
Me: "Mutual destruction."
Friend: "That's weird, though."
Me: "What, that he knows? Or that he'll like posts about my body but turned down my many offers to do any naughty little thing he wanted to it?"
Friend: "Both. I mean, he made his choice, right?"
Me: "Eh. It's fine. He doesn't read often. If I don't want him to like the posts, I'll just keep writing about feelings. He never did like my feelings."
I feel like I probably had a better Thursday night than a lot of people.
Many thanks to Yvette St. James for talking our group through what goes where when couples play with toys. I'm hoping it comes (heh) in handy in the very near future.
(The ice cream is just ice cream, because there is an ice cream shop a few doors down from the sex shop. Because Jesus loves me. And ice cream. And vibrators... I haven't read The Bible but that's all in there, no?)
Oh, like you DON'T get your hair done so you look nice at your friend's sex toy workshop later.
Oh.
You don't?
Well, shit.
Look, I have to get washed and blown SOMEHOW, people.
After I saw this, I tried watching Jeselnik's whole special on Netflix. I made it through 5 minutes and turned it off because I just didn't find it funny.
But I did enjoy this particular bit. From the fetal position under my desk. Weeping for humanity. Again.
There's a freckle at the top of my right breast. For a long time I referred to it as The Freckle of Good Taste -- my shirts would never be low-cut enough to show it.
Yeahhh... Fuck that. Look at my freckle and fear me.
My friends are a good influence, plus I'm old and tired of giving a fuck. My breasts won't be this lovely forever, I might as well revel.
(I'm all bluster until the creepy dude at work checks out my rack. But even then -- he'd be leering at me if I wore a turtleneck. And I can't with turtlenecks, man. So sayeth the Hedberg: "Wearing a turtleneck is like being strangled by a really weak guy, all day.")
I'll still consult The Freckle for family gatherings, and any time I'm forced to be in a place of worship. God is aware of what my breasts look like, He doesn't need to see them. (By the way, God is totally proud of my chest, even though pride is a sin. They're THAT good. Some of His best work.)
</ego trip>
DAMN, girl!
Three things:
1. Looks like I'll have to go buy Cosmo for the first time in 100 years.
2. I love how the cover encourages women to "UP YOUR CASH FLOW"...right next to her boobs.
3. I can't WAIT to get my new 2016 ass. I really hope it arrives in time for New Year's.
Via E! Online: Miranda Lambert Still Figuring Out "What Happened" During Her Marriage to Blake Shelton That Led to Divorce
A few things I'm thankful for this year, in no particular order:
1. All y'alls. (Or, in the words of my native people, "all-uh-yas.")
2. Kids who aren't mine.
3. Shonda Rhimes and Jenny Lawson.
4. Miranda Lambert and Anna Nalick.
5. "Silver Linings Playbook."
6. Therapy and progress therein.
7. Prescription drugs.
8. My friends -- "Boyz II Men, ABC, BBD, the East Coast fam-i-ly." (Yep. Said it. Deal with it.)
9. Four straight days with no alarm clock.
10. Gravy.
There are more, but those are my favorites. Enjoy your day, guys. Gravy be with you. (And also alcohol, because let's be honest...)
As if we needed more proof of what a classy lady I am, I pulled my bra strap away from my back because it was itching, and ended up putting my finger through the fabric.
I mean, it's like you can't rely on a 5-year-old bra anymore. What CAN I believe in, Universe?
Right, then. Shopping.
Also, this is totally how I roll when I wear flannel pajamas. Victoria's Secret gets me.
"Suggested Post" is apparently code for "Making sure you stay single."
I never get tired of this song.
"I'm not gonna tell you what it's about. You have to listen to the lyrics. And don't judge me." 💕
