A male coworker and I got to the coffee pot at the same time, and he did the gentlemanly hand gesture and said, "After you."
I enjoy being a woman.
Yes, I'm terrible feminist, but really, if getting to the legal, addictive stimulants first is the only way I know how to use my feminine wiles, that seems relatively harmless.
Holy shit. As if I didn't love Emily McDowell enough before.
When she and I get the "BFF" necklace, she can pick her half first. This newfound ladycrush is THAT big a deal.
Clicking the photo, or right here, will link to an amazing blog post by an amazing lady.
Insomnia has informed me that today is officially the 29th, so let's get this going and support the fine folks who keep my ladybits in good working order. #PinkOut #StandWithPP
I hear a lot of jokes about "girl code," usually in regard to dating a friend's ex or something.
Let me give you an example of the REAL girl code:
My doctor, a woman about my age, prescribed an antibiotic for the sinus infection that's been beating my ass (seriously, please come tear my face off, and also bring pie). Without me asking, she said, "I'm also calling in a script for Diflucan. If you don't need it, don't fill it, but I don't want you to have to bother calling us back and asking for it."
I go pick up the antibiotic, along with a bottle of acidophilus. I tell the female pharmacist I'm not filling the Diflucan right now, that I'll just leave that on standby for a rainy day in my vagina. She nods, notices the acidophilus, and tells me unprompted that cranberry extract supplements also help her prevent The Evil that Shall Not Be Named.
That's your girl code. Good work, Girl Nation. My pH balanced lady garden thanks you.
The oddest things make me feel sexy.
I'm wearing a shirt with llamas on it, but the back of it is scoop-cut lower than shirts I'm used to, and my hair is clipped up, so I have my neck and, like, five inches of back/shoulder exposed, with an occasional peek of bra strap, but I totally feel like I could make men do my bidding.
My llama bidding.
Shut up, don't judge.
With a forthcoming show about women working at Newsweek in the '70s, I'm even MORE excited to be getting Amazon Prime today for a mere $67.
Quotable friend, re: all the bullshit thinking therapists make you do: "Therapy thoughts seem like they're probably pretty rough. But you're having them for a good reason. They're like the kale of thoughts."
Get this: I have to make a list of positive things about myself. Attributes, accomplishments, etc. I probably can't list my breasts, and here's the kicker -- I can't ask other people. What the shit? How am I supposed to get self-esteem from myself? That seems counterintuitive.
(Video contains language not at all safe for work.)
In today's news: Top 5 places I never thought to put the body of Christ. 
Wait, though...If the guy goes down on me after, is that, like, communion?
Happy Sunday, all. Go shop at Kink after church -- they'll fill you with the Spirit. (Spirit fingers? No, wait...)
P.S. Tee hee -- "inbox."
I'm doing this "creative lady mixer" thing tonight, kind of a summit of artists, writers, designers, etc.I mentioned before that I'd been debating whether to introduce myself as the writer of this blog because...I don't want to say I'm "ashamed" of it, but maybe a little embarrassed? Even more so now that my most recent post compared my vagina to a log flume.
But I don't know, getting ready this morning, I think there's something kind of hilarious about "vagina as log flume" coming from a nondescript Feyschanel blonde wearing a demure Michelle-Obama-lookin' Lands' End sundress, with a camisole under it to corral errant cleavage. I'd like to think you wouldn't look at me and immediately assume I'm the creator of "my vagina is a log flume." (Worst John Mayer B-side ever.)
"I write a blog about women's issues." That includes sex. (And log flumes, apparently.) If the real writers don't like it, it's not the right group. I have enough friends, fuck it. Let's do this.
A friend of mine works at a sex shop, which sometimes leads to entertaining email conversations:
Friend #1: "I am so sick of people coming in looking for a lube that 'turns her on right away' or a lube for oral sex. It's your job to turn her on. She's not a car, it's going to take time and effort. Do it right and stop being a schmuck and I bet she'll be ready and willing. As for oral sex, dick is an acquired taste -- acquire the taste. Same goes for pussy. Flavored lube is gross. Grow up and deal with it. I don't know what you're asking me for when you talk about a 'cream for oral sex.' Do you mean whipped cream? That's in your local grocery store. Otherwise...I'm clueless."
Friend #2: "Maybe they mean an edible, relatively pleasant tasting lube? That kind of makes sense, for finishing a handjob or switching from a toy to some oral. But to mask the taste of dick? I don't know...Include some ice cream or fro-yo -- a treat for both of you. But it's still going to taste like dick. And lube that 'turns women on?' That's called not being a jackass."
Me: "I read this and genuinely didn't know what to say, because I was so confused as to how people can be that dumb but still free to procreate. I just...I got nothin'. I won't even eat flavored Cheerios, so making a guy's dick taste like pie is really not going to improve the experience, which, by the way, is ALREADY MAGNIFICENT."
The last person I was super into just had to LOOK at me right and I was wetter than a log flume at Six Flags -- I would've let that man do anything to me, and he would've been damn happy with the mutual result. Other people, maybe not so much the immediate log flume, but I'd tell them, or they'd learn, the spots they could hit that turned me from lovely, gracious lady into a willing and extremely able penile vestibule, and we'd use the lube when needed. With the exception of medical problems, this doesn't need to be THAT big an issue between healthy adults who are able to discuss what works, and who also have Internet access. Figure shit out. Prep your person. Get some lube -- not the kind that tastes like Bubble Yum.
Ask not what lube can do for YOU, my friends. Ask what you can do for lube.
My office needs a “dance it out” room.
Via The Mary Sue: Trevor Noah Lauds Women in Comedy, Acknowledges Vanity Fair Photo Spread
Honest question -- how are you gonna shit on him for "man-splaining" when he's...a man....you've asked...to explain something? I don't think there was anything wrong with his answer. P.S. He's an up-and-coming comedian about to take over a massive empire of a TV show. Exactly what 18- to 34-year-old male boat do you think he wants to rock right this minute?
That cover represents the CURRENT late-night hosts. Samantha Bee's show won't be on for months yet; Chelsea Handler's show isn't on anymore. If anything, I'm happy the cover is making so many people go, "Oh, hey, yeah, this IS a large group of white fucks. Let's talk about that."
I'm sure when Samantha Bee's show gets closer, she'll have a ton of covers (she BETTER), and I'm super excited to have a lady in late-night, but for right this second, yeah, it's kind of a sausage-fest.
Get Shonda Rhimes on this, man. "Night Times with Shonda Rhimes?" I'd watch the HELL out of that.
I think I hurt myself masturbating the other day. Either that, or it had been so long since anyone had accessed the region that maybe one's virginity really CAN come back.
Anyway. I'm sharing this disgusting information only because, if this somehow kills me, as causes of death go, "complications resulting from copious and long-overdue masturbation (CALM)" is a pretty great one. Please make sure they put that on the death certificate.
-- Mindy Kaling, Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me? (And Other Concerns)
I've been debating joining a local blogging group, but I'm hesitant, mostly because I really do want this page to stay... I guess SEMI-private? I don't mind if close friends see it, because they know I'm a sailor-mouth nutcase, and strangers who happen upon it can follow it if they enjoy that, but I'd prefer that, like, my dad not read it, because...ew. And the same thing goes for professional-ish contacts.
I alternate between a blustery, "Pfft, whatEVER, I give ZERO fucks what these people think. I am awesome and hilarious and my tribe gets me" and "I am a Carrie-Bradshaw-wannabe hack who's not funny OR sexy, and they're going to think I'm trashy and find my grandpa and tell him I say 'fuck' on the Internet.'"
Much like the rest of my life, I guess it's time to give some thought to what I want this blog to be -- if I want to continue the id of it all, or maybe write something else under my real name. Or both. Or neither.
UGH. THOUGHTS. We'll add this to career and personal goal development, because you know what I found out, you guys? There are some people who don't just obtain a job and then pray they don't lose it. They, like, DO shit to advance their careers and their lives, and they have these, um... "aspirations," I think was the word? Freaky, right? Next you're gonna tell me people really floss.
I'd steeled myself to feel all the feels and FINALLY go see Inside Out.
But what I did NOT prepare for was the bullshit short cartoon they showed before the movie. It was about a lonely boy volcano, with a face, looking for volcano love, singing an insufferable song about being a lonely volcano and not being able to find a lady volcano.*
Now I have a goddamn VOLCANO reminding me that I'm dying alone?! A VOLCANO needs a soulmate?
Thanks for reminding me I'm at the movies alone, Bitch Volcano. Maybe you need to look inside yourself for validation -- did you ever think of that?
Pixar can go fuck itself. In 3D.
* "Lady volcano" is my new favorite euphemism for my vagina.
I think I hurt myself masturbating the other day. Either that, or it had been so long since anyone had accessed the region that maybe one's virginity really CAN come back.
Anyway. I'm sharing this disgusting information only because, if this somehow kills me, as causes of death go, "complications resulting from copious and long-overdue masturbation (CALM)" is a pretty great one. Please make sure they put that on the death certificate.
I'm not a "never forget" person, mostly because I think it generally sounds like sanctimonious finger-wagging.
But I do remember, in the days and weeks following 9/11, thinking we were finally going to come together and stop being so shitty to one another, and... well, we see how that worked out. It tends to make me a bit weepy and introspective.
So. Life is short. Please don't be shitty. Tell someone you love them. I love you guys. Thanks for hanging out with me.
I like to think I'd get laid much more often if it were always an option for a man to see me dance to Rihanna songs with a couple gin & tonics in me.
#MyJam #PerfectlyGoodAtIt
Note to self: Work on bedroom eyes, ability to say, "Get in there and get naked" and have it WORK.
Can't WAIT to #TGIT!
It's... it's beautiful...
BTW, I checked my quiver of fucks and couldn't find a single one to give about the presidential race right now, so for ME, this has nothing to do with Ted Cruz personally, so get off my ass -- that's where I have my Jesus sex. This is about comedy, like "in honor of that time Ted Cruz made his family leave Build a Bear because it wasn't Christian enough." I have no idea why, but I laughed so hard my puddified ab muscles hurt, so maybe you will, too.
Plus, I obviously support Planned Parenthood. I donated and they're sending me a sticker. I like stickers.
Email to friends:
"I'm Googling therapists near my office, mapping their locations, and there's one near work that's also near an ice cream shop, a cupcake place, a liquor store, a Starbucks, and a great Chinese restaurant.
"I feel...somehow drawn...to their, um...clinical philosophy... I feel as though they can really help me face my issues. And by 'face,' I mean 'fried rice IN my,' but I'm sure therapy will be good, too.
"(I know, I know -- #ThisIsWhyYoureFat)"
Not that I had much faith to begin with, but it's ruined now.
Though, does that mean the Hamm-shank (Jon Hamm's majestic penis) is available to fuck random chubby chicks with issues? 
Wow. Finally a feminine hygiene product ad that really just...GETS how I roll during my period. 
Just laying on my white sheets in lacy panties and an ugly sweater contest runner-up, keeping my nose warm but throwing my legs, super-prominent hip bones, and concave lady-belly to the wind, staring pensively at the ceiling.
Totes the dream, right, ladies?
I read Self magazine because I applaud the bold, innovative way they've cleverly shortened the title from Self-Loathing.
But also, the latest cover model is Kerry Washington, who is my personal Jesus. And in the interview, she says she begins her day by drinking a liter of water with lemon and doing pilates. (Or, after a liter of water, pee-lates, I can only assume.)
Today I was thinking about how I started my morning:
"Well, Self, I swore out loud at the alarm clock and hit 'snooze' 86 times. I hoisted myself out of bed angrily and fumbled around naked looking for an outfit, anything that fits because I'm never sure anymore. And then I shoved Lexapro and two types of OTC drugs into my sinus-infection-addled face with a Dixie cup of tap water from the bathroom sink, followed by an enormous vat of coffee, and now I am finally, but still barely, able to face humanity."
This is why they don't let me talk to the media. And why Kerry Washington never returns my calls.
Just in time for #TBT, a friend just posted a list of Kelly Clarkson covers, and it is amazing, but this was obviously the first one I watched. I like the original better, but there’s something to be said for watching it come from a white-girl-angst-ridden blonde with some hips. (Ahem.)
“Hell on Heels” is also delightful. I always think of that song when I’m Olivia-Pope-strutting in heels.
So, we all know I'm going to hell, but I read today that the Pope says it's OK for priests to absolve women of the sin of abortion, but only during Jubilee.
I don't know what Jubilee is, and I kind of don't even want to learn, because...Abortion Jubilee? Are you serious? That's amazing. That could be my band.
I looked up Jubilee and it actually sounds quite lovely. So go forth and abort, ladies. Don't forget to get your cards punched -- remember, pay for 5, get the 6th free, AND you get the t-shirt.*
* I was gonna say "you get the fetus phone, but a) That's pretty fucked up, and b) The "Sports Illustrated" football phone analogy is a tad dated. (Ahem. Get off my lawn!)
I didn't realize until I got to work that the lacy trim on the butt edge of my panties is visible under these pants, so it looks like I have one particularly prominent strip of cellulite on each ass cheek.
Outstanding.
