This is a shitty quality video, but Aisha Tyler dressed up as Beyoncé and lip synched "Single Ladies" and it's the only video I could find of the whole thing and I HATE that song, but regardless, I am slightly more in love with her now.
There are women who WANT a ring on it who don't love this as much as I do.
Carry on.
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=c1J2uwvk6ZA
You say "day drinking my feelings" like it's a BAD thing.
#FamilyTime
#TherapyIsDandyButLiquorIsQuicker
#CheeseIsAlsoHelping
Speaking of working past perfectly good elements of pop culture weighed down by the emotion I associate with them...
Last night I found myself caught off-guard when I saw this new Apple ad during Scandal, featuring an older song I'd been avoiding pretty successfully.
A million years ago, I teased a man in the most delicious way for the duration of this song after he told me it made him think of me.
"You gonna go your whole life scared of that song? It's just a song. Don't make it a monster."*
I'm playing it in full now, because suck it, fuckface -- it was my song first.
*Quote from Silver Linings Playbook
Via BPhope: Opening the door on hypersexuality:
I don't have bipolar. Or, if I do, it's a really shitty bipolar -- they're still working out my special-snowflake nomenclature. (I tried making "White Trash Bipolar" happen, but oddly, they don't want that in the DSM.) But it hadn't occurred to me until I read this that a) none of the doctors I've been to have asked about any sexual behaviors at all, or that b) it might even be related.
And I can't say I talk about my vagina online and regret the entirety of 2013 and slut-shame myself because it's NOT a factor. (JUST a factor, like I'm not trying to say I have this, either.)
I have friends tell me they could GET me "just sex," but that they won't, because it's not really what I want and I'll make it a Thing and feel bad about myself and they don't want to hear it. But I still do consider bringing in a stunt dick to scratch that particular itch. My friends are right, though -- I'd need some kind of daily therapy lightning round if I did, and I can't afford that, so... tense and pent-up it is!
*twitch* No, really. It's fine...
*slow clap*
I am done giving even one underage fuck about this asshole.
#TeamQuiznos
#NoWaitQuiznosIsAlsoGross
#ButAtLeastItsNotMolesty
#StatutorySandwiches
#SorryImDoneNow
Two friends took me shopping the other day because I am SHIT at dressing myself, and they advised me to (ie, made me) try on this dress.
"I look like I'm wearing an Amish person's pillowcase!"
"You look amazing, shut up. You're buying this dress, deal with it."
I wore it to work today and have been complimented multiple times -- all by women. Even if logic says it's POSSIBLE every straight dude in this building wants to bend me over their desk and plant their dicks under the dress like you'd plant a flag on a newly discovered planet, but can't say so because it's a workplace, I maintain that it's because I look square and sexless.
But it's basically a giant t-shirt, so whatever. It's better than wearing pants. And I definitely have...let's say "a lot more invested in the dress" than the model.
This is the greatest fucking thing I've ever seen. This woman is my new spirit animal.
But I need to go to Canada and show her what real pizza -- and thus true love -- is. That pizza doesn't love you, Nicole. That pizza will betray you.
P.S. I didn't even notice it said "shero," because it was just too gloriously much at first, but really, that shit needs to stop. She's a hero. That's the word. Knock it off.
Via Huffington Post: Obama: 'Playing Like A Girl Means You're A Badass'
I LOVE "give no fucks" Obama.
Related: I also loved it when my city's mayor literally dropped the mic on July 4 after singing "Rapper's Delight" with The Roots. Outgoing politicians are THE BEST.
(Please don't argue with me about politics. Or, rather, please don't argue with yourself, because I'm not going to argue.)
Pfft. I'm not crying at work. YOU'RE crying at work... Shut up.
(Fucking hormones.)
Melissa Benoist on Why Supergirl is a Feminist.
Me: "I'm almost 40, I think I have a handle on that."
Younger Friend: "I always forget you're almost 40. You're, like, forever 32 in my brain."
Me: "And this is why we'll always be friends."
(This is probably a sign of my immaturity, but shhh!)
A lady-friend who's my opposite in all the best ways told me she chose "Yvette" as part of her burlesque stage name because it was her name in high-school French class.
MY French class name was Claire, which I didn't even consider at the time was the name of the uptight virgin in "The Breakfast Club."
This seems fitting.
Continuing a theme...
While a friend was visiting today, she showed me how the new vibrator works -- turns out I was using the wrong power button, so the moral of the story is that I can't even turn on a battery-operated dick.
(I'm done with the theme now, I think. I'm cute as hell, I just thought all this was funny.)
My running game is totally sexy until you learn my headphones are blaring Mandy Moore's "Candy."
Ssshhh...
Continuing a theme...
While a friend was visiting today, she showed me how the new vibrator works -- turns out I was using the wrong power button, so the moral of the story is that I can't even turn on a battery-operated dick.
(I'm done with the theme now, I think. I'm cute as hell, I just thought all this was funny.)
My doctor recommended hippie sleeping pills made with, like, valerian root and unicorn meat, and I should write more often while they're taking over my body, because Christballs, I'm BRILLIANT.
I mean, we'll see how it looks in the morning, but at the moment I'm basically a slutty Chaucer.
And last, from last night's Scandal, Kerry Washington is my hero. I'm in the process of creating a "vision board" as one of the hippie-dippy elements of therapy (*eye roll*), and goddammit, I'm getting rid of everything I have and just building an altar to Kerry Washington, and obviously also to Shonda Rhimes. There will obviously be Scandles. (See what I did there?)
I had my own stuff to post tonight, but then I saw this and...welp, fuck it, we'll deal with me tomorrow.
Watch These Men Finger Various Fruits In An Attempt To Understand The Vagina
P.S. Just for me personally...dude's not wrong.
So, funny story: Last night I go to turn on the vibratey bit of the sex toy, and... it doesn't work. It's charged, it just doesn't work.
I'm trying not to take it personally that even a vibrator can't get it up for me.
#MockCockBlocked
Lying in bed this morning, my brain wandered to that handjob song I posted yesterday, and then to my own sexual abilities, and now it doesn't want to get out of bed in part because it's telling me I'm terrible at sex and now I'm sad.
Um, brain? You do know we're not a prostitute, right? Even if we ARE bad in bed, that's not really gonna come (heh) into play during our workday. We probably will not be evaluated on sexual prowess today. And staying IN bed alone really isn't going to help us improve.
Please get up. We can lament being crap at sex once we've had coffee.
(What? This doesn't happen to everyone?)
Texting the friend who sold me the new sex toy: "Just did a test run, and you were right. It's bigger than the one I had. A LOT bigger. I only need men for their tongues and hanging curtains now."
(Kidding, men. I can hang curtains. But I also really like your hands. And your voices. And your weight... Ahem. Sorry, what was my point...?)
Via Distractify: 35 Spot-On Tweets About Being A Woman Guaranteed To Make You Laugh.
Some of these are funnier than anything I've said ever or WILL say ever in life.
Also, I can't wear rompers -- mostly because I don't romp, but also because my (FINE-ASS) body is just not intended to go into a grownup onesie. 
I just learned it's National Day on Writing, so writers are writing about #WhyIWrite.
So.
1. It keeps me from masturbating constantly in an asylum somewhere. (Also, I've never looked into it, but the really good asylums are probably expensive.)
2. I am a filthy attention whore and every "like" is like being tenderly and lovingly fingered by Jesus.
3. I have almost no other skills.
4. You weirdos seem to enjoy it.
5. I don't know how NOT to write.
I just registered for an Intro to Burlesque dance class, because clearly I don't feel awkward ENOUGH on the daily, I have to pay to be reminded I lack sex appeal.
Selecting the proper workout ensemble has never quite felt this important. I wonder what the odds are I could configure a bra under here. (Yeah, I know -- slim to none.)
#JustSayYes 
Taken from the A Mighty Girl Facebook page: 
I always thought "boys will be boys" referred to more innocuous stuff like, I don't know, leaving socks on the floor or citing sports stats.
When used to laugh off harassment, it shifts to the "don't be a dick" philosophy. I'm not trying to take away your manhood, I swear. I WANT you to be all grunty and take me. Just...you know, try to be cool about it. You're not getting to "grunty" without basic decency (my entire 2013 notwithstanding).
Animal urges aside, we're humans, not apes. We deserve and should expect better. Not just women, but HUMANS -- don't be an asshole.
Well, the BAD news is, there seems to have been some misunderstanding between the hair color I saw on the box I bought last night and the color that has resulted on my head.
The GOOD news is, Wednesday Addams is still a valid pop culture touchstone for an easy Halloween costume.
*snap snap*
I just registered for an Intro to Burlesque dance class, because clearly I don't feel awkward ENOUGH on the daily, I have to pay to be reminded I lack sex appeal.
Selecting the proper workout ensemble has never quite felt this important. I wonder what the odds are I could configure a bra under here. (Yeah, I know -- slim to none.)
#JustSayYes
Text from a friend: "Just saw a guy in a truck with the window decal that said '4 doors for more whores.' I'm sure a classy guy like that couldn't possibly be single."
Me: "I will add that to the list of vehicular decor that disqualifies a man from getting his dick anywhere near me. See also: truck nuts; Confederate flags; bumper sticker reading 'louder than your girl' next to a giant, clearly compensatory tailpipe. (All things I've seen this year.)"
A friend got a late-night drunk text from a guy last night (not even a booty call, 'twas about the feels), and I got one recently as well, leading us to a conversation about what people are thinking when they do this.
For me, the late-night drunk text will get you absolutely nowhere. In fact, it will set you back, because in addition to whatever the text says (which I automatically think is drunken horseshit because of the time, OR that you meant to text someone else), you're also saying you don't think enough of me to come correct soberly and say it by the light of day. It's insulting, and pretty much makes you look like an asshole.
I can't even imagine how much shit I'd get if I pulled that on a guy. I wouldn't even get to defend myself -- he'd probably just block my number, because it's a dick move. If a chick did it, we'd get written off as your crazy psycho stalker. (Unless it's a booty call, in which case I think we'd be cleared. Maybe... I personally have such a hard time sleeping that if anyone woke me up planning to penetrate me, I'd probably be pretty pissed. Don't know how dudes would react.)
P.S. I AM, however, allllll about the late-night drunk email. It doesn't wake anyone up, and I like waking up to long-form sexiness in my inbox...tee hee...
I asked, and Jenny Lawson runs her own Twitter, which means SHE followed me. On PURPOSE.
When I thanked her for following me, she thanked ME for writing something that made her want to follow me.
And then I died.
NBD, just meeting one of my heroes today. (I've met her once before, but hopefully this time I'll be able to use my words.)
I just found out my sister's friend is coming along on our "family" vacation, and the way she told me was, "Steve is coming with us if you want anyone to share a room/split costs with. Ahem... :)"
Did my sister just suggest AGAIN that I bang her friend?
I didn't tell this story because it wasn't worth reporting, but I've met the guy -- she tried to set us up a few months ago when he visited from CA. So we had a few drinks and he took me back to his hotel room at 2 a.m. and....talked my fucking ear off about the nature of the universe and my biggest fears until I was half-unconscious. Dude, we JUST met!
I chose to drive home in a pseudo-coma rather than sleep in his extra bed when he offered, just so I wouldn't have to listen to him anymore. (I was still in the Bad Place then, so it was all I could do not to say, "Do you know that if you shut the hell up, you can fuck me senseless and you won't have to call me tomorrow or pretty much ever again?")*
Do you know how much you have to talk for ME to say you talk too much? It's like me fucking telling you fucking swear too fucking much. And also? Fuck.
So no, I will not be sharing a room with Steve. I will require a minimum of 6 hours of alone time each day so as not to murder my family, and now I'd also have to kill Steve, who probably wouldn't stop talking even in death.
*To his credit, even if he HAD known that, he probably wouldn't have, because he's, like, an actual gentleman, even if he does talk too much.
Text from a friend: "Just saw a guy in a truck with the window decal that said '4 doors for more whores.' I'm sure a classy guy like that couldn't possibly be single."
Me: "I will add that to the list of vehicular decor that disqualifies a man from getting his dick anywhere near me. See also: truck nuts; Confederate flags; bumper sticker reading 'louder than your girl' next to a giant, clearly compensatory tailpipe. (All things I've seen this year.)"
I didn't buy it, but last night at the adult boutique, I tried the Hitachi Magic Wand -- on my achy shoulders, not on my lady bits. I've had someone else use it during sex and loved it, but I can't be trusted to operate that thing. I'm clumsy, I'd end up in the hospital. But it's delightful in both places.
Also, last night I learned that orgasm denial is a thing, and I wish I weren't into it, but I totally am. I wish the guy who introduced me to it in 2013 had warned me, because I almost kicked him in the face, but it was lovely at the end, and was achieved via the Magic Wand. All the stars for that thing.
Male Coworker: "I could live on pizza and tacos."
Me: "OMG, me too."
Coworker: "See, that's why you should have kids, because they'll eat that stuff every day."
Me: "Uh, that's why I DON'T have kids, because I'd have giant-mutant-obese kids who only ate pizza and tacos."
Also, that doesn't even make sense -- I don't need to have children to eat tacos and pizza. I just...CAN. I am a grown-ass woman and I can eat tacos whenever the hell I want. AND, with the money I save not having to buy food for Smug Junior, I can also get nachos or extra guac. My barren womb for liquid cheese? This seems like a fair trade.
Joking aside, I must reiterate that this is not a thing you should be saying, especially at work, especially if you don't know the person well. What if a medical condition has made it such that giving birth could actually kill her? What if she's been trying to conceive and not able to? What if she HAS conceived and the pregnancy didn't take? What if her husband has some sort of issue and it's causing them marital problems?
Honestly, shut your fucking mouth. This is a gross and invasive thing to say.
Besides, I don't even have room to birth a kid to share tacos with when I have YOU all up in my vagina. You're really hurting your cause.
I MAY have just called the yoga DVD lady a bitch out loud, and told her that if I'm spreading my legs that wide, I better have at least one orgasm as a result.
So I'm glad to see I'm responding to the spiritual nature of regular practice.
In my defense, I'm in my living room and menstruating, and she's doing yoga on a beach in a white bodysuit, so fuck her right in her third eye.
Ahem. Namaste.
So, the therapy posts aren't going over well, which is fine, it's a little bit weird. But I wanted to share this, which was kind of an "up day" breakthrough. Plus, it's Mental Health Awareness Week, and I think it's important obviously to #endthestigma, but also...It's not CRAZY. I joke that it is, and I shouldn't, because it's not. Some of us just need a minder. And this particular thing is something I think a lot of women struggle with.
This is from my actual, personal journal, where I write about each therapy session right after, so I remember what we talked about and what I'm supposed to be doing, and sometimes it spurs thoughts about certain things, and sometimes it's just nice to get it all out of my skull. So I wrote this the other day, which was a down day, after she and I had talked about my romantic history (Ex-Box, That Guy, Idiot Boys I Dated):
"When I met That Guy, I FELT stuff: good, bad, but never dispassionate. Never like I was just...THERE. I felt strong, smart, sexy, like I was a good writer, funny, pretty, good at the limited intimate things we did, etc. And when that went sour, it went REALLY sour -- I don't know if I've ever been angry like that. I know that's because I was hurt. But I think that's why it's been really hard for me to let him go is that I didn't know I could be like that -- confident, sexy, bold, horny, angry... He woke things up in me I didn't know I had. And yes, theoretically now I know I HAVE them, so it's on me to go GET them, but CHRIST, it was so easy and just thrilling having him do it. But his rejection in not wanting to be with me, or even friends in the way I'd like ...what if I was wrong about all that stuff? What if I'm not those things?"
But then I started thinking about it more logically, and...fuck THAT. That is a version of myself I had, and I will find it again FOR myself. It's part of why I started this blog in the first place, so my id had an outlet.
A lot of this had to do with the recent serendipitous arrival of Jenny Lawson's book, Furiously Happy, in my mailbox, and the subsequent reading of the original "Furiously Happy" blog post, which said in part:
"I’m fucking done with sadness, and I don’t know what’s up the ass of the universe lately but I’ve HAD IT. I AM GOING TO BE FURIOUSLY HAPPY, OUT OF SHEER SPITE. Can you hear that? That’s me smiling, y’all. I’m smiling so loud you can fucking hear it. I’m going to destroy the goddamn universe with my irrational joy and I will spew forth pictures of clumsy kittens and baby puppies adopted by raccoons and MOTHERFUCKING NEWBORN LLAMAS DIPPED IN GLITTER AND THE BLOOD OF SEXY VAMPIRES AND IT’S GOING TO BE AWESOME."
Also the Caitlin Moran talk I attended a few months ago, where she basically said, "Decide what you want to be, and BE it, even if that means faking it until you make it." This is a mood I get in a lot, but I'm really trying to harness it so it's my default.
So this morning I put on a dress and heels and some red lipstick and whipped my bitch-ass brain into compliance. I don't have time for this shit. I have Awesome to be.
I bought this dress to wear to a concert, and I only just noticed the look on the model's face: "Ohhhh, I'm a model, my life is so hard. I am thin and pretty and fabulous so I have bitchface all the time..." 
Dude. I'm not telling you to smile or anything, but... goddamn, maybe look LESS over your life in this garment? Who let this photo be THE one?
(I will look happier wearing it, because Anna Nalick shall be before me, gracing me with all her splendor.)
Also, it's Vera Wang (for Kohl's), so... Wang. Tee hee. (Not gonna lie, that influenced my purchase a teeeeeny bit.)
Whenever I make an effort and put on eye makeup, I find myself getting distracted when I look in mirrors throughout the day, because, "Whoa, whose eyes are THEY? I look amazing."
Yet I don't wear it every day. Not at ALL because I'm lazy, merely because I fear the world just can't handle it.
YOU'RE WELCOME.
Every time I hold a baby around my relatives, someone invariably says something to the effect of, "You're a natural." So I can only assume a woman's default demeanor when holding an infant is, "Scared shitless she'll drop it, or that its head will fall off."
It's a baby, not a fucking shark. I'm cuddling a tiny, wriggly human who smells like toast and isn't an asshole yet. Her default state is "snuggle." It's not difficult.
Besides, she has you people for family, so what sounds like me whispering soothing nothings into her ear is actually me singing her my therapist's phone number like it's a Sesame Street song, hoping that, similar to the alphabet, it'll be on her mental auto-dial as she gets older.
New Jersey's gettin' a li'l hurricaney this weekend, so yesterday I got an email from the Inflatable 5K I'm supposed to run tomorrow and they're like, "Fuck you, we're still doing it, unless there's lightning."
And I thought, "Eat a dick, you blowup doll of races."
But then they emailed today and said, "OK, FINE, you little bitch-baby, you can transfer races and do another one. Coward."
Procrastination for the win!
#MoreBounceToTheOunce #RockMeLikeAHurricane
New Jersey's gettin' a li'l hurricaney this weekend, so yesterday I got an email from the Inflatable 5K I'm supposed to run tomorrow and they're like, "Fuck you, we're still doing it, unless there's lightning."
And I thought, "Eat a dick, you blowup doll of races."
But then they emailed today and said, "OK, FINE, you little bitch-baby, you can transfer races and do another one. Coward."
Procrastination for the win!
#MoreBounceToTheOunce #RockMeLikeAHurricane
How to Care for Your Smug, page 17, section 6:
"In the event of a bad workday, allow your Smug to Ugly Cry alone, because she is emotionally stunted and can't cry in front of people.
"When she calms down, apply one steak burrito with extra dairy products, and an order of Wendy's fries with barbecue sauce. Repeat as needed.
"If possible, sit your Smug down in front of any Shonda Rhimes show (new or old) with any vodka-based beverage(s). This is her cognitive behavioral therapy. (See also: "Dance it out.")
"Put Tipsy Smug to bed immediately with a George Carlin audiobook playing."
Bam. Look out, y'all. #HellOnHeels
(And, by "Look out," obviously I mean, "Look out for me when I inevitably trip and fall.") 
