I don't know what you talk to YOUR friends about...

Discussing life with a very pregnant ladyfriend:

Her: "We still have 10 days to go. The baby seems content to stay there forever, so who knows. Someday, I won't be pregnant. So they tell me. It's weird. Everywhere I go I'm like, 'I could go into labor RIGHT NOW and that would be acceptable. Like, the baby would be fine.' Pregnancy is a total mindfuck (brought about by an actual fuck, I suppose, haha)."

Me: "That really IS a mindfuck, now that I think about it. 'Cause eventually the kid just decides,, 'Aaand my work in this womb is done. Comin' at ya, Ma! Wheeeeee!' And then she swims down like Nemo, and that 'Y'all Ready for This?' song plays like it's a sports game."

Her: "OMG, I wish 'Y'all Ready for This' would play whenever anyone went into labor. Vaginas should come equipped with that pre-recorded. Also could be useful during sex?"

Me: "I'm not sure how it would work, science-ly, but I would Kickstart the shit out of technology that would enable my vagina to welcome its visiting team with a jaunty tune. Vaginal Jock Jams. Yes. Shut up and take my money."

Buffy the Dry Skin Slayer

Elbows Guy emailed me back yesterday about the Elbows thing, and when I didn't answer, he emailed again this morning to ask if I was "still alive?"

No, I am not alive, sir. My elbow skin overtook the rest of my body and I collapsed in a pile of ash like one of the slain vampires on Buffy.

(It's Monday. I'm irritable. His initial response will be reported in detail later today, because it borders on brilliance.)

New Year, resolution

I guess once you've told someone, "You're a coward, a liar, and an asshole, and I'm sorry I ever met you"...That's probably closure, right? 

I couldn't even cry, I was just so tired. I sent the email and then sat there like, "Huh. OK, so that's that, then." (I mean, I'm not thrilled, but...)

He responded implying I'm being petty, like, "I'll refrain from name calling, but that's wonderful, thanks" was part of it.

Umm...you're welcome. And I dare you to call me any name I haven't already called myself. 

Crazy slut? Pfft. I have that shit engraved in one of those nameplate necklaces. It's on my resumé.

Clingy, desperate? I'll own that. It wasn't my finest behavior, but I learned from it.

Resentful? Bitter? Probably. But part of re-gutting myself was to get past this permanently. Plus it's been so long that it's hard to really resent some...ghost of a person you never really knew, who exists only in some hazy online ether now. It'd be like hating that money-grubbing Nigerian prince.

During our...whatever, I asked numerous times if he had the same feelings for me. I probably would've been able to infer he didn't if he and I had a standard romantic relationship. But we'd started as friends and always agreed we wanted to stay friends. So my brain went blurry, because a friend would never knowingly let things happen the way they did -- they would've leveled with me. (I've done it before. It sucked, but the friendship survived.) 

But I had to give up knowing; it was hurting me too much. So I went about assuming it was over, accepting that, and letting him be.

But then his blog likes, Facebook friend request, and LinkedIn profile checkup started grating on me, like, "OK, what are you doing?" Then came his invitation to discuss things he'd seen me writing about him here. So we discussed -- argued, really, via email. But I got my answer: He never felt the same way, and finally told me directly.

SO. Not the answer I wanted, but an answer, one I knew was possible. It's what I'd guessed, but was never 100% sure. I always told him I'd feel better if he just said it (he never would, either out of kindness or desire to keep me hooked), and I do feel better. Part of my mental reaction was, "THANK YOU. Christ, was that so hard?!" But it would've been easier, and we'd still be friends, if he'd said it sooner. 

I can't know how the discussion affected him (I'd guess just relief I finally stopped talking). I'm...partly bummed I was so spectacularly wrong about truly knowing him, and honestly, that I'll never get to have sex with him. (Don't judge me -- I REALLY wanted to. It would've been great, to the point that I probably still would if he tried, which is pretty fucked up so I'm happy it's not an option.) But I'm also relieved I have my answer, and that I got to say what I needed to. (Sad truth? I still don't entirely believe him. But I'll get there.)

It sucks we imploded a friendship, because I really valued him that way more than romantically, but he acknowledged the friendship wasn't much reciprocated, either. And the longer I was left wondering, realizing I'd started being hurt by our conversations more than I was enjoying them, that I'd ended up feeling dirty and used, and that he didn't miss me even as a friend, the easier it was to let go of that as well. 

Baby Got (Naked) Back

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.

Vodka made me do it.

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."

Don't make me hate you.

Over the weekend I finally settled an issue with a family member who "didn't want to talk about this."

I get that, I really do. I don't want to talk about it, either. But if you keep refusing to talk when I need to, I will hate you. I won't mean to hate you. I won't want to hate you. But you're telling me I'm not worth the time, or enduring the minor discomfort you'd feel during a conversation? No. I'm not gonna smile and play Cool Girl while I silently stew in your bullshit.

We're adults. We talk about it, or we don't talk. Your call. Reasonable? Of course not. But I've learned that NOT communicating solves nothing. It just creates larger problems because now everyone is operating on presumption and hurt feelings.

I forced a 10-minute, in-person conversation because I thought it was worth forcing (because I don't want to spend my life butthurt), and now we're good.

I fucking hate when hippies (ie, my therapist) are right and I can't just be Irish and swallow my rage. Swallowing is my favorite. Oh. Wait, no...

Lights, camera, nonsense.

Talking to a friend: "Do you have time to pick up a GoPro before Thanksgiving? Because you could just show your therapist the footage of your family dinner and say, 'This. This is what I'm dealing with. Fix it.'

"The therapist might even give you a discount once she sees it, in which case the camera would basically pay for itself."

Forever 32

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!)

Feminist as fuck.

Last night I went to Margaret Atwood's booksigning at the Philly Free Library. Look at me, all feminist and intellectual and shit. Classy as fuck, right?

Um, yeah, leading up to the event, I was having this hilar-balls group text with friends...

Friend 1: "What kind of classes should I teach at the sex boutique besides oral sex?"
Friend 2: "Something about body confidence in the bedroom? Toys, why to use them, different ways to incorporate them."

Me: "Confidence for sure. Maybe consent? Intro BDSM? Handjob Blandjob?"
Friend 1: "I'm the WORST at handjobs!"
Me: "That's because they're not a real thing."
Friend 1: "That's shit you do on your own. I'll never be as good."
Me: "Right? I hired you to use your mouth. I HAVE hands."
Friend 1: "I could probably teach a class about how to incorporate toys into coupled sex."
Me: "Yes. Because I have no idea. Well, wait... There was that one time. But nothing I did with that asshole counts. (To be clear, I did nothing to his asshole. He was just a shithead who brought a toy.)"
Friend 2: "I like giving handjobs...but only if they don't take forever."
Friend 1: "I'm terrible at them, hate doing them, always have, always will."
Me: "I like a happy man who's not looking to put things in my butt. If he needs a handjob, I'll DO it, but I just feel like I could be more useful."
Friend 2: "Agreed, but sometimes my knees are sore and I need to change it up. (Sorry, is this too much?)"
Me: "Yes, we clearly have a "too much" threshold. :) Also, my hands and wrists are FUCKED from phone/computer use, so handjobs hurt, AND I'm bad at them."
Friend 1: "Handjobs take forever. At least with a blowjob I can incorporate my hands to give my mouth a rest. I'm hardly ever on my knees. I just move around if I'm uncomfortable."
Friend 2: "Eh, sometimes they take forever, sometimes not. And I prefer BJs, and prefer my knees (good angle for all involved)."
Me: "Anyone else really want dick now? (Now, see, THAT's too much.)"
Friend 2: "I do. Husband should thank you both. (I see your 'too much' and raise you.)"
Me: "Ha! You're welcome, Husband."
Friend 1: "Boyfriend will also be benefiting from this conversation."
Me: "Meanwhile, I'm at a feminist booksigning. No dick in sight."
Friend 2: "Maybe there will be literary dick?"
Me: "Heh. Maybe. Or bar dick afterward."

"It's 'uter-US,' not 'uter-YOU.'"

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 be dumb, but I'm not a dweeb..."

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.)

Dispatches from Pope-pocalypse

Email from Male BFF:

"I work in the Pope Zone and the office will be closed Friday. But they're sealing the mailbox in the building TODAY. If something happens to me, make sure the world knows I loved my family, the Eagles, and ass play."