Monday, July 30, 2007

Come back to the sexy side...

Listening To: This Photograph Is Proof (I Know You Know) by Taking Back Sunday

So most of you know that I love The Onion. I especially love the Opinion section, most specifically the Columns. So you can imagine my ecstatic delight by this little pairing:

Read this one first.

Then read this one.

So can I just mention that I have this weird little crush on Jim Anchower? I know he's fictional, but if he were real...and not fictional...and lived in the Minneapolis/St. Paul metro area...

I also love the part from Smoove B. about the pair of black panthers that would lay at their feet and wouldn't attack anyone unless they commanded them too...that totally sounds like something I would have made sure to have included in my fantasies of future life...back when I was six...

Sunday, July 29, 2007

"Yeah. I'm a cage fighter. Bruises like this just come with the job, y'know?"

As you may have surmised from the lack of blogging, it's been a busy week. I also really enjoy those "Um, don't really have much planned" weekends that somehow always turn into "I haven't slept in my own bed since Thursday night" weekends.

Friday night Heidi, Katy, and I went out with a group of ladies/cougars to celebrate the birthday of one of Katy's coworkers. The evening started at Renegades: I knew it was going to be a great night when I walked in and noticed that the majority of the dudes were bikers (who happened to be fond of "I Support Single Moms" strip club t-shirts), and a special few were sporting permed ponytails flowing out of baseball caps, t-shirts with the sleeves ripped off, and jean shorts (complete with a hammer loop or two).Also, notice how deftly I'm hiding the bruise on my arm that I got from "The Bachelorette Party of DEATH". It's still looking pretty awesome. In fact, I think I'm going to start telling people that I'm a cage fighter, just to give it a little bit more sparkle.

Katy and the ladies had been there a time or two, and had previously run into Crazy Renegades Lady.As a special treat, she was there again Friday night. It was pretty fun to watch the 40+ Dish grind on her bar stool to the music, fully aware that her cut-off Daisy Dukes were about to put a particular kind of daisy on public display. But this lady doesn't care - she's going out tonight, and she doesn't care what the fuck you think.

This was our cute bartender who, just after this picture was taken, tried to check out Katy's boobs for the 50th time that night -Soon it was time to move on, so we caravanned to a bar somewhere in Savage. Not, however, before Heidi made a pit stop at a gas station and bought me Snickers bar. This is important for me to mention, because I love Snickers.Okay, here's the question of the evening: guys in cowboy regalia, hanging out in the suburbs. We got some of this in high school when we used to hang out with Goodhue boys. Cowboy hats, Wrangler jeans, and cowboy boots...they were fond of them, which I didn't quite get. My great uncle used to have a ranch. My cousin used to compete in rodeos out west. So when they would wear cowboy stuff, I got it. And even though the Goodhue boys didn't exactly ranch it up, at least they lived on farms and did stuff that would maybe necessitate cowboy boots or hats. But livin' in Savage? Really? Are there horse ranches in Savage that I'm not aware of? How 'bout Burnsville? Any big rodeos going on out there that no one has told me about?NE-way, there a cover band playing at the bar, and get this - first song of their first set? FINAL COUNTDOWN BY EUROPE. This can be a dangerous endeavor. Most cover bands won't even touch the song, and if they do, they leave it until the end because no one wants to blow their load the first song out. But this band...oh no. They knew they were just giving us a taste of what was to come the rest of the night.
They even played "Eye of the Tiger", forcing me to break out into the old cheerleader dance. Our cheerleading squad had about ten main dances that we did pre-game and during half-times when the pep band play. We always saved our best dance (complete with lots of high kicks, hip shakes, and shoulder rolls) for "Eye of the Tiger". I still know every move by heart. However, it's only a more socially-acceptable substitute for the other activities I've paired "Eyes of the Tiger" with, which is running and figure skating (backward cross-overs and double axles kick ass during that song...you don't even know).So we were shaking it. It's kind of hard not to, when the band is rockin' "Seventeen" by Winger", or "Runaway" by Bon Jovi". You don't bring me to a bar with an 80's cover band and think that I'm not going to be shakin' it, because I'm going to be shakin' it. Also, Katy agreed to never let me be the lady who shakes it in her wind pants and XL t-shirt, which I appreciate, because even though I'm not a total girly-girl there's gotta be a line somewhere.

At one point in the night, this guy came up to our table.
He asked if we would mind if he talked to us for a quick minute, and right away everyone just jumped all over him. "What are you selling? I already have a vacuum cleaner! Mnah!" etc. Then, out of nowhere, the quietest girl of the group pipes up with, "But if you're selling sex, then we're buying!"So the night ended with some Totino's Pizza (seriously, Snickers and Totinos all in one day? This girl lives a charmed life) and little lay-out on Katy's couch. The next morning I got my ass up bright and early in order to help my mom shop for a dress (for Kris' wedding) at the Mall of America. I know that might sound painful, but it was hella to the fun. My mom is a pretty kickin' lady. She's always been a cool mom, but even in her 50's she's still rocking a great figure and knee high boots. It took some time to find a dress that wasn't an absolute disgusting mess (have you seen some of the "mother of the bride/groom" dresses they've got going on lately?!), but I think we did pretty well. My mom will look ten times hotter than me at Kris' wedding, and I'm okay with that.

I met up with my friend Dave after I bid my mom farewell - but not before she took me out to dinna at Red Lobsta 'cause she looves me - and we headed downtown for Too Much Love at First Ave (so much shakin' happened this weekend that I'm surprised my hips aren't completely annihilated..tho' I did damage my little toe, so feel bad for me). It was a scene. The beginning of the night was awesome: We had a great time dancing, met this great couple, took in some radical break dancing - but by the end of the night I was starting to sour on it. I just get to a point where I can't handle dumb trendbots. Like, don't they ever get to a point in their life where being a scenester just gets exhausting and lame? Because it gets to that point for me, just by watching them push people out of the way so they can be photographed or dance by the rail.

OH, and who else has noticed that one of the DJ's at Too Much Love is a COMPLETE DICK?! Seriously, if I see him on the street anytime soon, I'm totally going to whip my handbag around in the air five times and then smack him in the head with it. This guy was just a complete ass...blatantly rude to people who went up to his booth to ask him a question (and I know that you don't have a lot of time to talk when you're spinning, but you just talked to your dumb friend for fifteen minutes so you can make time to acknowledge the poor dude who walked up to your table to tell you that he loved your mix), and just a total douchebag to tons of people when he was outside after his set. Give it up dude...no one's gonna give you an award for spinning in some Christina Aguilera with Technotronic.

At one point we headed to Bootleggers and had a great time dancing to the two-man band. I will say though...it's an eerie feeling when you yell "Free Bird!" and then suddenly realize that everyone surrounding you has no idea what "Free Bird" is. And that is my essay on why I don't venture downtown very often.

We then went back to Too Much Love, closed it down, went back to Dave's place, I fell asleep in his bed (he slept on the couch because he's a gentleman and also not physically attracted to me in any way) and then got up at 9 to meet my mom, grandmother, aunt, and cousins for brunch.

And now I'm finally home, where I will end the weekend with some much-needed veg (not vag) time lying on my couch and watching "The Rock of Love". Then I will retire to my own bed and curse myself tomorrow morning when I get up at 5 to workout and then remember that I didn't get to sleep in all weekend.

But such is life. Y'know?!

Wednesday, July 25, 2007

Work your stuff.


One of my all-time favorite songs by Aimee Mann is "Deathly". Some of you will ascertain the fairly-obvious-to-you reasons why I dig this song, but the main reason is because the guitar solos just slay me every time I listen to it. They sound like what a kiss would sound like if it had a guitar riff. Not just any kiss...the kind of kiss you've been wanting and waiting a long time for: That stomach flipping, knees melting moment when your faces glide slowly towards each other, the pitch rising as your lips and tongues meld into one another. Kind of like pumping a fist into the air, but a little bit more romantic, a little more soaring. I haven't had a kiss like that in a while, but listening to the guitar solos - there's two of them, one in the middle of the song and one at the end - are almost just as good.

Almost.

Tuesday, July 24, 2007

I'm "Flipping Out" over this. Oh my god, that even sounded lame to me...


Are you guys watching this SHIT?!

Oh my god. OH MY GOD. And this is only the Preview Special. How did they find this guy?! He's so bitchy, anal, obsessive compulsive, and selfish that he's hilarious.

It also brings back memories of when I was working with Mauricio. I don't know if I mentioned this, but Mauricio campaigned pretty hard to get me to move to Miami and work as his full-time personal assistant. "Can you imagiine, Miss Amb'r? You knooow, livin' in Mi'ami, it a glamorous life! The weather, the parties, you would meet so many of my friends...ohhh, I have so many wealthy and sophisticated gentleman I could introduce you to..."(which, by the way, would all be closeted gays looking for a younger, naive beard). I knew that it would have definitely taken me to a place in life different than my expectations. It could have been glamorous. I wouldn't have accepted less than bloodshed in terms of payment. Mauricio could be tons of fun to be around. However, I also knew that I would be dangerously close to accomplishing a felony charge in manslaughter after the simple task of choosing new CD's for the store stereo turned into a blowout, resulting in him calling me a "supa beetch!" for the five hundreth time and stomping/sashaying out of the store. Don't ask me to help you pick out the "hot new hits" for the store if you're going to ask me a million times if the CD I just recommended is "Hot? Ees it hot? Will people like it? Okaaaay...I hope it will be hot, honey, because eeef it's not, you knoooow....?" every. single. fucking. time.

But this is fun, because I can just watch this and laugh and not have to deal with it on a regular basis. I also really like that personal assistant chick, Jenni...the fact that she purposefully answered the phone wrong while staring straight at him reminds me of someone...someone great...

Interviews make me feel strange. But only on the inside.

Listening To: Look After You by The Fray

You can check this one out here. That is, if you care. Which I don't. Care if you care. Because if you care, then that means I'm going to have to care, and I don't. Care.

So there.

Wednesday, July 18, 2007

As real as it can seem, it was only in my dreams.


So last night I totally had a dream about Bret Michaels and Ritchie Sambora. We were all at Grand Casino Mille Lacs, hanging out after their show (apparently Bon Jovi and Poison tour together in my dreams). I remember a lot of cowboy hats, a lot of flashing lights, and a lot of fake, tanned boobs. Ritchie was all over me, and kept trying to get me to come outside with him so we could make out, right? So after a while, I was like, alright. He escorts me through the casino, and we stop to chat with some of his acquaintances. Right as I'm about to be all in for making out, he's like, "Alright, see ya later" and walks outside, by himself, and then disappears. Later, Bret comes up to me and asks if I can tell him my views on the Industrial Revolution and how it indirectly affected the social and political mores of the late 1960's.

Aside from the previously-talked-about night terrors, this is usually how most of my dreams go...but at least this one was better than the one I had a few weeks ago, where I was paralyzed from the waist down and then started crying when I realized I would never be able to slow dance again...

Tuesday, July 17, 2007

Making all of my wishes come true.


So since we are nothing but the utmost professionals, my work buddy N and I like to play music trivia throughout our work day. It's not really a game as much as it is a lifestyle. I tend to sing a lot while at work, making up lyrics to songs by Billy Ocean ("And suddenly/we're playing Marblewoooorks...") and Lionel Richie ("Get off the trampoline/and back into your shoes/beep beep oooh yeah!) for my clients, both for their amusement and my own. N tends to do this as well. We also do the thing where someone says something and all of sudden both of us break out into the same song, making it really fun for everyone else to attempt to have a serious conversation with us.

The music trivia things comes in when we find ourselves ending each others' songs and then trying to figure out who sings it or where it's from. Today it was "Believe It or Not". Before the internet, I used to harass people over whether or not they remembered the show that song came from. I knew it came from some show in the early '80's about some ordinary curly blond-haired guy turned superhero, and the beginning montage showed him diving into a dumpster or something. Then Google was invented, and my lifelong search was over: The Greatest American Hero.

So N was singing this today, and drawing on my vast knowledge, I was able to name it for him. Then, through the course of discussion, a dare was posed concerning my voicemail. I tend to detest any and all phone interaction except with a select group of people. That group of people almost never includes any professional contacts. Henceforth, I can pretty much do whatever the fuck I want with said voicemail. So I took his dare. I'm not going to win any Grammys with it, but the street cred earned will be enough to keep me warm and comforted for weeks to come.

The constant calls for sex that are sure to start pouring in after people listen to it will probably help out with that, too...

Monday, July 16, 2007

Chris Farley: Reincarnated, and it feels so good!

I wanna be the guy in the back.

Maybe not wear that blue jersey dress anymore, Meredith Viera. If someone steals and burns it, consider it done for your own good.


I am staying home today. I don't know what the hell I did on Saturday night, but yesterday afternoon my hips started to kill me. You know the kind of pain that makes you wimper and maybe cry a little bit, because you can't seem to get relief no matter what you do? Yeah. It felt like that.

So whatever, right? I figured I would take some Ibuprofen and feel better in the morning, right? Uh, no. I woke up, and not only did my hips still hurt, but I fainted. I fainted. Like how people faint after they break a bone.

So yeah...decided that instead of doing stuff like drive when I'm light-headed or run around with kids when a hip or two are out of whack, I would actually be smart this time and spare myself and others potential future damage. Not really happy about it, though. Not super keen on missing work. Not pumped that I'm using a sick day to sit around instead of using it to go to Valley Fair or the Harry Potter movie at the Imax, which is what sick days are supposed to be used for. I'll try to salvage what I can out of it, though.

Mnspeak and Myspace better be action-packed today. I deserve it.

Sunday, July 15, 2007

It's blogging, bitches X 2




What's up with the instant connection thing? Does everyone else do this in real life? You have a five minute convo with someone, and they happen to know someone who happens to have the same birthday as you, and it must mean that you are destined to make babies togetha? And who else kind of cringes whenever they see Rodeo and that other old stripper around Bret, because you just know that it's not going to work out for them in the end, and then they're going to cry and talk about how they really thought there was a connection there, blah blah blah.


I really like Jes . Jes and Brandi M are now officially my favs.




Tiffany = Trainwreck. A really funny, entertaining, enjoyable-to-watch trainwreck, but a trainwreck nonetheless. She's gonna rape Bret, I bet. And then cry afterwards about how she did it all for her daughter.


Okay, did anyone else totally love that Magdalena was ripping on Rodeo for looking like a man, when all the while all I can think anytime Magdalena speaks is, "Is she a transexual? Why is her voice so deep? Is that an Adam's Apple? Maybe she's from one of those countries where you have to take steroids all the time." You know what they say...we most hate the things we see in others that we also see in ourselves.

I am DELIGHTED by this one. Her name is Dallas. She makes me happy with the way she tells someone to fuck off, but does it with this huge, Miss Congeniality smile. Dig it.


Who was this girl?!?!




It was reported that Raven has never had a boyfriend. I find that hard to believe.



I don't know how I'm going to make it through a whole week until the next show!

It's blogging, bitches.


I'm going to blog through the first episode of "Rock of Love". And you're gonna love it.

First of all, I am surprised at how succinct and likable Bret sounds. He did not sound this way during our interview, I'll tell you that much - rambling and dickish would be the words I would have used - but maybe he's grown up in the past four or five years. Or maybe VH1 just has a knack for turning somewhat burnt-out and skanky celebrities into lovable men of charm. NE-way, I kind of dig him now. I also dig that he's not breaking out the womens' jeans...perhaps my life and advice had some purpose, after all.

I already know who I want to win. Brandi M. - the chick with bangs and a tattoo on her arm (but she has her bangs pulled back during the interview thingy, which I like better on her). She seems like cool shit; smart, tough, hot, fun. Some of these ladies definitely look like they've been rode hard and put away wet (but they're up for another ride, anytime, anywhere). The five ladies who got cut right away - that was a good decision, Big John. I would say that you should've stuck to your gut, Big John, about Tiffany, but then I would not have all these entertaining memories to keep me safe and warm throughout the rest of my life.

Is it really surprising that a lot of these girls are strippers? Poison is like the best stripping music evar.

Oooh...bitches are gonna fight. Be back after next commercial.

Cavernous Vag


Listening To: U+Ur Hand by Pink

Last night I went to a bachelorette party. Friend of Katy's, went mostly because Katy asked me to. I am not the girl who loves bachelorette parties. I see them downtown and I roll my eyes - they're just so obnoxious and annoying, esp. the ones who wear penis necklaces and do the whole "Suck For A Buck" thing. So chances are, if I'm aggravated by just being in the same room with them, you can imagine how thrilled I was at the thought of being one of them. Also, I'm becoming increasingly frustrated with how much money it's costing me for other people to get married (again, Becky, that's not about you)...paying money to go to this thing, plus the money it was going to cost for cover and over-priced drinks at downtown bars...yeah. If you had any face-to-face interaction with me this week, chances are you heard about how not psyched I was to go to this thing.

I was, however, excited for the whole "getting ready" part of it. During the summer I mainly just rock it out in tank tops, jeans, and flip flops, but there is something I really love about getting all decked out for an occasional night on the scene. I think almost every girl out there knows what I'm talking about - you have a specific outfit arsenal (mine is usually jeans, a slinky top, and strappy heels), a certain way you make yourself up, and maybe even going so far as to don jewelry (I'm not a jewelry chick. At all). I also like to work a few new dance moves while I'm standing in front of the mirror, doing my hair and makeup. Paula could make millions off of some of the choreography I come up with in those moments.

We hit the pre-party at the Maid of Honor's place in Uptown. Immediately it was demanded that we decorate our lovely selves with beads, a "Hottie Whistle" (the bride was really excited about the Hottie Whistle..."look, it's a HOTTIE - WWWWEEEEEEEEE!"), lipstick-kiss tattoos, and then down a couple of Apple Martinis. The pre-party was pretty laid-back and casual, tho' there was a moment of fear when the brides' future mother-in-law showed up and it was not clear whether or not she would be coming downtown with us. What is it with this?! The last bachelorette party I attended, the FMIL came with us, as well. It makes for an awkward night. The bride won't get wild and crazy because the FMIL is there, everyone else feels like they kind of have to behave and make small talk with the FMIL to take the heat off the bride, and all the while the FMIL is trying to pretend that she's all crazy and wild and fun and shit. No more doing this. FMIL's are not invited. That should just be a rule that everyone understands and doesn't try to break. I have spoken.

Luckily, the FMIL left before we headed out. Our sober-cabs - three young men whom are now scarred for life due to our probing of their personal life ("What? You don't have a condom in your car? Don't you care about sexual safety?!") - ferried us downtown, where we proceeded to hit up almost every bar there that I hate.

Even though the bride was kind enough not to torture us with dildo-type games, we still had a scavenger hunt. Twelve items were on the list, ranging from "#3 - Get a guy to buy you a drink" to "#12 - Get a guy's cell number and call him right away with deep breathing". I promised Katy I would be a good sport about it, so every so often I would pick out a group of guys, approach them with an apology, and ask them if they could maybe help me with an item on my list. By the way, not enough of you male persons are carrying condoms in your wallet (#2). Isn't that kind of the calling card of a single male? For most of you, it's wishful thinking, but still...preparation is key, y'alls. I carry a condom in my purse, and I've never even gone home with some random from the bar. I do it because I'm a safety girl, though. You should want to be a safety guy. And also someone who can help a girl out when she has to fill out #2 from her scavenger hunt list.

At one point, this couple asked me a question about my "Hottie Whistle", so we started talking. The guy agreed to speak to me in a foreign language (#5), due to persuasion by his girlfriend. I don't get all "aw" about couples very often. There's a few select pairings that I adore, but I'm more the type to roll my eyes and become offended by others' cuteness than gush and sigh. However, this couple was so cute together - you could see in the first twenty seconds of talking to them that they were a great match. At one point, the girl, Keri, was a few feet away talking to another girl in my group, and the guy looked at me and goes, "Didn't you used to have a profile on Onion Personals?".

We totally used to flirt on the personals. He even listed off a bunch of stuff from my old profile - stories about my little brother, a picture I had posted on it, what I did for a living - it was hilarious. We never actually went on a date, but I do remember his screenname, profile and the flirting. Weird, huh? Now he's with this great girl (I came back later and she was like, "Oh, he told me about the personals thing. That's so cute!"), and they're just this great pair of people. We even exchanged numbers, because it's not often I run into such fun and cool people like that.

We hit up the Annex, and ran into a group of guys who were there for a bachelor party. I swear to god, the only guys we met all night were all part of bachelor parties. At first I got really weirded out because guys kept coming up to me and saying "Hey, Amber", and I was like, "Did we go out and I just don't remember? Have I become 'that girl'?" Then I realized that I had a name tag stuck right above my cleavage (another demand of the bachelorette party mafia). The bouncers at the Annex were very friendly and accommodating (I have to mention that because one of them recognized me from the blog and I told him I would sing his praises on the internet... thanks again for the plastic cup!). NE-way, we started talking to this group of guys, and they were all really friendly and fun. The one who was getting married had to wear a t-shirt that said "I have an incredibly small penis", and he even asked Katy to give him a clothed medical exam to see if that assertion could be confirmed. It was.

This is one of the million things I love about Katy - if you get her in the right mood and get a few drinks in her, that girl is the life of the party. At one point in the evening I was busy talking to a super cute and awesome guy from the group, Ben, when one of his buddies comes up and tells me, "Hey, your friend says her vag is cavernous". I was like, "Yeah, that's my girl...a couple of drinks can't damper that girls' phenomenal vocabulary!" I look over and see Katy talking to Small Fry, this tiny guy who was a part of their group and whom Katy and I had previously pegged as being just a little bit too eager for some dance-floor grindin'. All the rest of the guys were also gathered around, being entertained by Katy's witty remarks and comebacks. She's awesome.

So yeah, it ended up being a really fun night. We crashed at a hotel downtown, got up this morning and caught some breakfast at Uptown Bar, and now I'm home, with my Starbucks and welling anticipation about "Scott Baio Is 45 & Single" and "Rock of Love", which are premiering TONIGHT on Vh1. Psyched is the word.

Holla!

Saturday, July 14, 2007

Do me.

The title of this blog has become my favorite comeback as of late. I also really like using "Make me" at work. I work with kids. Sometimes you gotta pull out the old school...you know, revert back to what you understood the most at their age. "Do me" can be dangerous, though: You gotta use it on the right person. Someone who does not, in fact, want to do you at all. You might think that would make it an insult on you, but it really doesn't if you're a genius.

Weekends are notoriously dead for blogging. Which sucks, because there's nothing I love to do more on a Saturday or Sunday morning than some lazy internet trolling. I don't understand why there aren't more people laying around, willing to stay home and entertain me with posts while I snatch a few minutes here and there from my busy weekend.

So I guess sista's gotta do for herself what she can't get from anyone else (I learned that from Mo'Nique on Charm School). We're going to make it an all-archive weekend - I'll post the rest of the requests posts I mentioned earlier this week, plus throw in a couple more for good measure. (scroll down to see them...I did the opposite posting thing and posted this last so it's actually an intro instead of the last thing you read if you read from top to bottom like a normal person). A slew of reading for you to read at your leisure, because I care about you and your needs, but not enough to stay home and actually entertain you with original creative thoughts.

And can we just talk for a minute about how much I love "Elusive" by Scott Matthews? This was one of my favorite songs last summer - stellar to listen to on summer nights, right before you go to sleep - and it just keeps hitting me every time I listen to it. Also, since we're on the subject, "Almost Lover" by A Fine Frenzy is starting to fit into this category, as well. You don't have to love them because I love them, but everything I love automatically makes it great, so you might want to take that into consideration...

Bohemian like you.

Posted July 25, 2006

What exactly does it take to be a hipster? Is it cool clothes and kicks? Is it an apartment in Uptown (let us not talk of lofts...it makes thee upset)? Is it shopping at The Wedge? Is it always knowing which dive bar to hit up at the right time?

I've been thinking about this for while now. I can point one out when I see one, yet I'm not quite sure what it takes to be one. Isn't it kind of exhausting to be always on the lookout for the next hot thing? To see a pair of retro sneaks and break out into a sweat at the thought of having to get them tomorrow or else you lose all and any cool cred? And what about chicks? You pretty much have to date a rock boy to be a hipster chick, right? Or someone who works for a non-profit, at least.

I've got a couple of ironic t-shirts (shit, I make my own ironic t-shirts). I've got my black and white checkered Vans. I own a messenger bag. I even wear my black-framed emo glasses from time to time. And the heavy black smoky eyeliner? Love it. Wear it. Rock it on occasion.

Yet a hipster is not whom Amber desires to be. Sometimes it seems like an alluring lifestyle...being all cynical and yet strangely attracted to the same things that were all the rage when I was in kindergarten and all. Yet when it comes right down to it, I'm kind of a nerd in the reverse coolie way. I find myself rebelling. I don't like having the latest technology. I think it's stupid. I have a ghetto phone, a ghetto TV, and a '94 Piece of Crap car (but don't you dare call them ghetto or Piece of Crap, or else shit be on. Only I get to call them that). I like to mix up my Interpol with a little Air Supply, sometimes letting the poignant slow song masters dominate when the mood is right. And I do actually like the Olive Garden, Starbucks, and Red Lobsta, and no...I'm NOT going to apologize for it. Bitches.

So I'm never going to be one of you. Never ever. Sometimes I'll watch you glide down the sidewalk on your skateboard and wistfully sigh, wondering what your life is like...is it really full of dime-store paintings and organic produce? And does that make you happy? Don't you just wanna go the mall every once in a while? It's air-conditioned. They've got slurpies. I think you might like the stuff at Hot Topic, too.

Amber's Codes of Dating Conduct.

Posted June 1st, 2006

Dates dates dates dates. I've been going on dates. Lots and lots of dates. But you don't get to hear about them, because they're super-secret dates.

So let’s just say that the dating life has been on the upswing since moving to the cities. So much so that I've decided not to talk about it in terms of personal stories, as I have surmised that the fall-out from Googling habits could be astronomical. However, as I am an ever-evolving person, there are a few things that I have learned, and a few things that I had learned previously but need to keep remembering to do. Also, according to some stories I have heard as of late, it looks like some people could do with a dispensing of my brilliant advice.

Hence, I have decided to condense some of my previously posted wisdom from The Online Dating Diaries along with some new lessons, and to this effect I give you -

Amber's Codes Of Dating Conduct
Disclaimer: If you are a person who is currently dating me or has plans to do so anytime in the near or far future and you do not want to be made privy to all my juicy dating secrets, do not read this. If you do decide to proceed further into this document, you have been duly warned and are henceforth banned from ever holding or using this information against me in an argument, guilt-trip, extreme prejudice, or break-up spiel. This disclaimer is binding forever and forever, until the day you die. The End.
Disclaimer Part Deux:
This document is not to be taken as a list of demands, nor is it a "Do or Die" type of declaration. This is merely a compiling of all the dating nuggets I have found to hold true and self-evident since I started dating at the ripe old age of 3. However, I am nothing if not a lover of imperfection. Therefore, nothing in this document is without exception. Except, of course, the previously stated disclaimer...ain’t no loop-holes in that motha.

Just Ask, Dumbass.
I hate it when guys do the whole "So, you got any plans for the weekend?" schtick. When you ask me that, I’m always going to say "Yeah. I’m busy. Like, all the time." Wanna know why? Because I like it when guys have the balls to just put it out there and ask if I want to go out sometime. It doesn’t even have to be a definite date...just merely saying something like "Would you like to have a drink sometime" is worthy enough. However, when you ask me if I have plans, there’s a double-edged sword about to hit - either I say yes and risk missing out on a date with you, or I say no and end up looking like a no-social-life loser.

PS - And DON’T do that thing where you end a phone call or convo with "Give me a call if you want to get together sometime." Yeah...I’m not calling you. This might be the 21st century, but I still don’t call around looking for dates, especially from guys who don’t even have the balls to ask me out in the first place. You know the term "Put out or get out?" That applies here.

Put Out Or Get Out X 2
I don't wanna be your pen pal. Or your phone buddy. I'm sorry if that hurts your feelings, but I'm being honest here. First of all, the main reason for this is because I'm like this with everyone - I don't talk to my friends on the phone unless I can't just drive over to their house and see them. I don't really e-mail my friends a whole lot because I don't really have the attention span or follow-through to be a good e-mail correspondent. I'm not the kind of girl who lays in bed at night, wishing to have the kind of boyfriend who calls her five times a day on her celly just to see how she's doing. If you did that to me, I would possibly file a restraining order against you. I don't like talking on the phone...at least not as a rule. I can have fun talking to some people on the phone, but I would much rather talk to you face-to-face, where at least there's the chance that the unbelievably witty and stunningly insightful thing I just said is going to score me some make-out points. I much prefer e-mailing to the phone, but even that's something I'm really, really bad at (as the recent comments on my MySpace so eloquently explain). So if you want to talk, let's schedule a date. My time is important. I work for a living. I don't have time to be hanging on the phone wit' you, talkin' bout yo' mamas' friends.

Let’s Not Hang Out Sometime
Hanging out is not dating. It’s hanging out. I have plenty of other people that I could hang out with if I wanted to. While I love getting to the "just hanging together" part of a relationship - you know, that part of the relationship where you do stuff together and it’s not a big production, but you know you’re still going to make out at the end of it - I kinda hate it when guys try to skip the part where we try to win each other over. The whole point of the first few "dates" is the bliss factor...the excitement, the nervousness, the effort to impress...you know, actual plans for what we’re going to do on our dates, that kind of thing. It’s also the foundation of the relationship that you get to complain about not having anymore when you’re sick of them and looking to break up.

Plus, the whole "let's hang out" thing is totally transparent, and kind of an insult. It's the midway point that every girl instinctivly feels but tries hard to deny; the point where you know a guy likes you, but he just doesn't like you enough. He kinda wants to get to know you, but he's not amped enough on you to make a big deal out of it (i.e., actually do the whole date thing). I speak for myself and for millions of girls worldwide when I say this...don't do me any favors. I'll say it again: My time is important. I work for a living.

Don’t Call Me Baby.
So those of you who know me well know that I’m not a big one for cheesiness. I’m kind of allergic to it. I don’t like being called most pet names. Calling me things like "babe", "princess", "cutie" or anything to that effect is mostly likely going to make me puke rather than make me bat my eyelashes at you while I giggle. If you must, please wait until we actually are in a real relationship that merits nicknames so that it’s at least sincere. Or ask if it’s okay to call me whatever it is that you want to call me. And I’ll tell you right now that I will not give authorization to "Amber Pamber" or "Carter Farter".

All right, hombres...part two (oh yes, there's more. More...so much more) coming later this week. Hold your breath.

Amber's Codes of Dating Conduct, The Second Coming

Posted June 5th, 2006

Let's continue, shall we?

"Oh what? You already paid? Oh, wow, you so didn't have to!"
This is where emotions always run high - the "who pays" dilemma of the date. And you know what? I'm a-gonna keep it real -in my many years of dating, one lesson has always rung true...if he really likes you, he will pay. If she really does not like you (or is getting ready to dump you) she will insist on paying. If he's a gentleman, he will never ever mention paying...he will just quietly reach for the check, whip out the card, and make it go away. If she's a down girl, she's going to make either an effort to reach for her wallet, or she'll ask to leave the tip.

I’m not saying a guy should always pay. That would be like me saying that I’m always going to wear my date underwear every time we go out - it’s unrealistic. I always think the perfect scenario to illustrate what I mean is this; he pays in order to show her that he likes her enough to want to impress her, and that he’s considerate, generous, and has all the good qualities of an old-fashioned gentleman. She suggests fun, cheap (or preferably free) places to show that she’s not a money-grubbing whore. She says thank you whenever he pays, and reciprocates by surprising him with seats to the game (not the ballet) and rad gifts on occasion. They have sex, say I love you and stuff, get married, and live happily ever after in the Himalayas so as not to offend me with their sappy love crap behaviors.

This situation is always so sticky, and there's so many ways to look at it, and to perform it. Go with your gut. I’ll sum it up with this; the girls I know and hang around never expect a guy to pay on a date, but are always appreciative and impressed when he does.

No thanks on the hugs and handshakes.
Hugging someone I don't know well kinda grosses me out. Shaking the hand of a date kinda does, too. I wouldn't be adverse to a high five, though, I don't think...

I posted about this not too long ago, so I'm not going to go back into it with too much depth. Lemme just say this - if we're not ready to kiss, then please do something other than the hug or handshake. Saying "Yeah...we can just skip the whole awkward moment thing" isn't really the alternative I'm talking about (the last time a guy said that to me, it kind of hurt my feelings...then he called to invite me out to breakfast the next day...yeah...couldn't get a read on him at all), but it's all up to you. Okay, so it's really not, but surprise me or something.

Watching Movies At His House = It's Time To Git It On
Honestly, I think the moment a guy calls me up and says "Hey...you wanna come over so we can finally make out tonight?" instead of the "So...how about tonight we watch movies at my place?" will be the moment I find my One. A few coworkers and I were discussing this the other night...I was telling them about how a dating-partner had asked if I wanted to get together to watch movies at his place. My coworker just stares at me, nodding, a smile on his face. I then responded to his facial expression with "Yes, I know that it just basically means he wants to make out." How do I know this? Because I'm a "let's rent a movie" pro. I love movies. I watch them all the time. However, I am also the girl who is famous for renting "Swan Lake" on a date because I was fully aware we were not going to be watching the movie, and therefore, the choice of movie did not matter...only the facade mattered. It's amazing how all the amenities to movie-watching - privacy, a couch - are also the same amenities necessary for a rad make out session. So let’s not fool ourselves...until we’ve been going out for about a year and have gotten bored with each other, we’re not actually going to be watching any movies in their entirety unless it’s possibly in a public theater, and even that’s questionable.

Always prep before a date. Always.
Every once in a while I find myself falling into that trap of "Oh, no, I don't need to prep...we're not going to go that far tonight." Nuh-uh; I think 75% of the times I've thought that and haven't, ahem, planned ahead...we've always gone that far on the date. Even if we haven't done anything but kiss for a few moments at the end of the previous dates, for some reason that night we suddenly decide it's Game On. Then I find myself simultanously cursing the moment I decided not to groom for the night and hoping that he's into that whole au natural thing.

No Sperm Showers Without Explicit Permission First.
Some of you are going to think that I'm gross or uncouth for talking about this on here, but if you think that then you obviously haven't read my blog for very long (is this your first time? Awww.). And let me say this...I have waited close to seven months to talk about this issue. I have waited for an appropriate time, an appropriate topic, and an appropriate way to voice my views on this situation. And that never came, so I'm just gonna talk about it now.

As we all know, there are various methods to end the action with a grand finale. I gotta say, I'm pretty open to a lot of things...and I'm not completely against the whole money shot deal. I'm not necessarily a huge fan of it, but I am suprisingly giving when it comes to shaggin'. However, the one thing that I cannot handle is when a guy decides to - without warning - basically baptize my whole body with the nectar of life. The very first time this happened to me, I was literally speechless with shock because it was honestly the most horrifying, disgusting, and demeaning thing that has ever happened to me in bed. I didn't know whether to scream "DON'T EVER DO THAT AGAIN!", or grab my shit and get the hell out there, or just pretend like everything was fine so I didn't have to explain why I was so freaked out and therefore would not have to relive the experience, not even in my memory. One thing I did know, though...we were done.

My thing with this is that you gotta make sure she's cool with it before you decide to slather her body in your love juice. Not all girls are hungry for your seed. If it's done in a loving "Hey, baby, this is just a token of my love that I'm going to squirt all over your boobs" manner, then it's cool. Otherwise it's just a little bit demeaning. And sticky. So remember, kids, communication is the key...if you can't talk about sex to each other, then you probably shouldn't be having sex with each other, either (so sayeth my 10th grade health teacher).

Leave After The Lovin'
I'm a leave girl. I'm not the one who wants to stick around for muffins and coffee the next morning. The only thing I want to stick around for is more sex. I don't like making my bed buddies feel like cheap whores when I hightail it out the door afterwards (tho' I'm fairly certain they've probably made a girl feel that way at some point, so I could look at it as Karma), but at the same time, sleeping over and dealing with the whole awkward morning thing (and it's always awkward) is something I would rather not do. Maybe if you insist...maybe. Maybe if we've been dating for five months or something...maybe. Maybe if I'm a little bit too tipsy to drive myself home...then definitely, because I'm a safe driver and take the responsibility of operating a motor vehicle seriously. However, unless those are the scenarios, every time I fail to leave fairly soon afterwards I always end up regretting it.

No Asking The Infamous "So...what are we?" Question
I don’t ask this question. Never have, probably never will. Even if it’s absolutely killing me...even if I spend hours on the phone with Katy analyzing the issue with her...even if I try to look for meaning in your every word and action...I. still. won’t. ask.

The reasons are varied. Sometimes I don’t care. Sometimes I’m hoping that you don’t want to be exclusive (or at least don’t want me to be exclusive with you). Sometimes I just decide to not see other people, but don’t tell you because I don’t want to inflate your ego or make you think that you've "got" me. And sometimes, it just all boils down to not wanting to be the whiny "What are we? What are you thinking? Why don’t you ever talk to me about your feelings?" chick. My philosophy is that if you want to be with me and only me, you’ll just make sure to let me know. However, I also take the philosophy that unless you ask me to be exclusive with you, it should be assumed that I’m not, and vice versa.

I will never get serious with a guy who references "Brokeback Mountain" while making fun of gay men.
Never. Never ever. There is nothing more attractive than a man so comfortable with not only his sexuality but also the sexuality of others that he has actually sat down and watched this film. There is also no bigger turn-off to me than a guy who would - first - make homophobic jokes, and - second - use this movie as a punchline...not only because it’s ignorant, but also because it’s just so lame, uncreative, and old by now. It’s like telling a joke about going to prison, and ending it with "don’t drop the soap". That’s a hella to the lame.

Now, saying "I wish I could quit you ___" is funny. The SNL skit spoofing "Brokeback" was funny (only because it was so incredibly cheesy and it could have been about any other dramatized love story). But saying something like "What, are you trying to hit on me or something? This isn’t "'Brokeback Mountain'! Har har har har!" is just so. damn. stupid.


All right. That’s all I could come with at this present point. I’m sure I’ll think of more things to bitch about later, so look forward to that.

"I'm not doing this for you...I'm doin' this for ME."

Posted June 6th, 2006

That, by the way, was my favorite quote from the television mini-series "North & South", when northern abolitionist Kirstie Ally was gettin’ freaky with a damn fine southern slave who stopped in the middle of their lustful embrace to basically let her know that even though he knew she wanted his hot chocolate, he was also in the mood for vanilla, so the whole "I wanna have sex with you because you’re a slave and I want to express my displeasure with the current social establishment through hot sweaty love-making in a barn" was cool with him, but he was more interested in getting his groove on than being a symbol.

Or something like that.

This evening I read two opinion pieces in Sunday’s edition of the Star Tribune, both expounding on the delicate relationship between the "Up North people and the Minnesota migrants". I have been thinking about this topic for a while now, due to both a discussion of small-town festivals on Mnspeak.com and a lovely Memorial weekend spent up north with Katykins.

As someone who lived "up north" for the past six years until moving to Minneapolis in March, I always read articles or discussions concerning this topic with a bit of suspicion and foreboding. I really shouldn’t, having been on both sides of the tracks...therefore, you would think I could be objective and neutral. I’m not. Even though, as you might have surmised from the "Losing You" posts, I was more than a little unhappy living up north at first and a tad snotty about it, that all changed after I started to experience some of the tourist inflow.

Living in one of the larger tourist-attracting towns in northern Wisconsin can definitely have its’ perks. While being a swinging single stuck in the woods can suck the Big One the other nine months of the year, during the summer it’s hella awesome. However, there are a few reasons why I used to have the bumper sticker "If it’s called Tourist Season, why can’t we shoot ‘em?" plastered proudly on the back of Blondie.

One of the reasons why I’m writing this is to make sure that both you - the tourist - and the locals have a great time while you are visiting their hometown. Okay, well, I’m not doing this so much to make sure that you have a great time...I’m doing it mostly so that you don’t piss a whole bunch of people off and make an ass of yourself. Because I care about you, being that I’m a caring person.

Drawn from my well of infinite wisdom are the following tips...

Don’t Ever Talk About Moving There When You’re In Public.
Just. Don’t. Do. This. Seriously, please don’t, because you people always end up fucking it up. Either you talk about moving there because you think it will be a compliment, or you talk about moving there and end up insulting us by going on and on about how cheap it would be and the joys of simple living, blah blah blah. What you don’t realize is that we don’t want you to move there. Deep inside the heart of every local is the fear that their hometown will become the next Aspen. Towns like Hayward already struggle because assholes keep moving up there to buy up all the land and build summer mansions on the lake, subsequently raising property taxes and destroying the shore line. It’s gotten so bad that the people who do actually live there year-round can’t afford to buy or build their own houses on less-than-prime real estate because they can’t afford the sky-rocketing property taxes. Please try to understand how angry that makes some people. If you plan on moving up to the area, just shut your mouth about it. The only person who wants to hear about it is the real estate agent who’s going to actually profit from your exodus.

Drop The Attitude.
Some people have the impression that they’re going to breeze into town and all the locals will fall to their knees at the sight of them, in awe of their cultured sophistication. People from the Twin Cities are especially guilty of this, which is funny, because let’s face it...you’re from flippin’ Minneapolis/St. Paul, not Rome or Paris. That’s kind of like bragging that you’re from Dubuque, Iowa...no one cares, or worse, they think you’re a chump.

Don’t walk into a local coffee shop and exclaim loudly about how surprised you are to find a "place like this in a town like this". One of Haywards’ glittering citizens is Molly, former front woman of "Molly & The Makers" (formerly "Molly & The Haymakers"). Molly is an entrepreneur - she owns one of the best shops I’ve ever been in (The Pavillion) and she used to be the owner of one of the most rad coffee shops in the country (Madelines). However, Molly isn’t doing this for you. She doesn’t own and run these places so that you can be impressed. She does it so that the residents of Hayward can have a higher quality of life and because she’s the bomb. So stop the critiquing, if only to stop me from wanting to stab you with a pool cue in order save myself from having to suffer any more of your pretentiousness.

Another tip that goes in this category is this - do as the locals do. Chances are, the locals don’t go camping with their Louis Vuitton bags (and yes, they know who Louis Vuitton is). The locals probably don’t park their Hummer sideways in the parking lot, taking up three or four spots. They also probably don’t throw their empty beer bottles into the lake, or go jet skiing on a small private lake the size of a pond, or just whiz around and around the lake with no goal other than to hear the sound of their own motor going at top speed. Remember - this is their home. Therefore, conduct yourself accordingly. And no, nobody really cares what you’re wearing or driving...the surefire way to look like a jerk is to act like they should.

"Do we look like the kind of place that has imported beer?"
This was my dry response - accompanied with a dead stare - one summer day when a group of snobby and obnoxious bicyclists burst into my bar and demanded imported and micro-brew beers. I found this demand particularly ridiculous, because some of the brews they were requesting aren’t even carried in most bars down in the Twin Cities, much less a small local bar in a little town in northwestern Wisconsin. They finally left when they decided that our selection wasn’t to their tastes, much to my great relief (imported and micro-brew beer drinkers are notoriously bad tippers, mind...they’re almost as bad as wine drinkers). Again, when in Spooner, do as the Spoonerites do. Spoonerites can surmise by walking into a bar whether or not that particular bar would happen to have Heinekin, Miller Lite, or PBR as their number one seller...I don't see why you guys can't.

"Do we look like the kind of place that has imported beer?" + Don’t make me spit in your (not imported) beer.
The whole point of "getting away from it all" is to have a good time. Sometimes that includes going to a bar to whoop it up amongst the hoi poli. Know who is going to be your greatest ally concerning having a great time at a local place? Your server. Two things to remember - you don’t want to seem like an obnoxious tourist (even if you really are one) and two, you want her on your side.

I am about to give you incredibly valuable information as to how to go about doing this. While some of this information might make you uncomfortable when you put it into action, suck it up cupcake, because it will pay off in the end.

The first thing that is going to make you stand out as El Jerko Tourist is ordering an obscure beer right away. You don’t want to do this. If you do not immediately see the beer of your choice displayed either on a sign or tap, as soon as the bartender comes up to you order either a Leinenkugel or a Miller Lite (even if you can’t stand either type of beer, just do it. Trust.). Just pick one and go with it...do not ask the bartender to run through all the kinds of beer they have, and or harass her with a litany of requests. The reason why I want you to order a Leinie’s or Miller Lite is because they’re safe "local" beers and ordering one right away will ensure the bartender will not become annoyed with you for taking up too much of her time (and yes, it is valuable, in case you were wondering...unlike you, she’s not on vaca).

After you get your beer, tip right away. Right away. Right away...don’t argue. Just slap a dollar or two down on the bar, and go cry in the bathroom later if you must. This tip will make the bartender more amenable to your requests...such as "Damn...this beer just isn’t hitting me right...you wouldn’t happen to carry ___, would you?" BAM - you’ve got your favorite beer (if they carry it) and the bartender is happy to serve you. This also goes for hard liquor. Also - and this is uber important - don’t order a mixed drink or complicated shot if you yourself don’t know how to make it. As unbelievable as it sounds, I really didn’t get much call for drinks like Cosmopolitans up in the north country. Therefore, I would have to look up the recipe in my bartending book, thus wasting ten minutes of my money-making time and causing me to hate you.

Now comes time for making friends; your bartender is your in. She can introduce you to all the fun people there, and steer the scary ones away. Even though most people feel it’s her job to entertain you, it’s not. You can make her want to entertain you by throwing out a few lines...notice I said a few. Do not monopolize her time. A couple choice openers are enough to make her want to talk to you. Once she talks to you, other locals are going to talk to you. Then the party begins, and you have an inside view to the real fun of going to a small town. And if you really want to make friends, buy the house a round...you’ll be the most popular person in the bar, and you’ll only be out probably 15 bucks, tops.

Stop calling the local residents "hicks".
They’re not hicks. Even if they are, you calling them that term just makes you sound like a condescending asshole. The size of the town does not always equal the size of the minds of the people who inhabit it. I’ve run into a lot more narrow-minded and ignorant people who live in the city than I ever have when I lived in small towns...specifically, people who talk about visiting small towns to be entertained by all the "hick-watching". The fact that you live in a city does not make you better...and if you think it does, stop by the Valley Bar in Eagan on a Friday night and take a gander around the place...those people live in the city, too.

And that, my friends, is your guide to a touristy summa.

God, I’m amazing.

And their midget little bodies kinda gross me out, too.

Posted Dec. 1, 2005

So the Olsen twins kinda scare me.

No. For reals.

I looked at a picture of them today from here (scroll down), and I was kind of creeped out. I think that when they're way older or after they die and some granddaughter gets hold of their diaries, we're going to find out that they had their own creepy secret language, and that they had some kind of incestuous relationship that drove both of them slightly insane, and that they were capable of killing people, which they did, often and stealthily so. And I think Ashley is the more scary one...I actually think that she has some kind of psychotic hold on Mary-Kate, who's psychologically weaker (thus the eating disorder, etc.) and more amenable to Ashley's sick mind-controlling objectives. After all, isn't Ashley the older one? I think she totally presents this picture of being the "normal" and "more sophisticated" and "better adjusted" sister, but I think that's just because she doesn't have a soul.

Yeah. I might be reading a little bit more into that photograph than is necessary.

But I still think I'm right.

Jason DeRusha, how does it feel to be a poster boy for the Minneapolis Nerd Herd?

July 18th, 2006


And of course, calling a group of people "Nerd Herd" is one of the best compliments I can give myself and other people like me.

Seriously, Jason.

You're everywhere. Everywhere cool, that is.

I still remember the first time I met you online. I don't watch the news much, so therefore, I had no clue who you were. But the moment was magic...I said something, you said something, and then I asked you to be my Flava-Flav. Not in a creepy "I don't care if you have a wife and a kid" way but in an "Aww. You're neat." way. And you're still my favorite commentor on there.

Now, posting and commenting on MNspeak.com...that's one thing. And you have your own blog, which is cool and fun. But seriously...have you realized how you've become a sort of icon for the late twentysomething/early-thirtysomething "thinker" crowd of Minneapolis? People love you. They post banners of you on their blogs and websites. They talk about you when you're not around.

Now, me...like I said, I don't really watch the news all that much. Not because I don't want to be informed, but because I'm usually busy working or studying or hanging out or drinking when the news is on. I do admit, though...I have tuned into the news a little bit more now that I know about a certain journalist; a certain journalist who covers stories that are important to me, like how much time at work I can waste on the internet without getting fired, or why coffee breaks make me more productive and smart, and who's funny, witty, smart, and interesting, unlike those douchebags at Fox News.

So here's to you, Jason. You're super ultra-cool. I'm not the only one who realizes it. I hope that all of us don't get all possessive "He was MY favorite reporter before he was YOURS!" on you when you blow up big-time on the national news circuit (only a matter of time, esp. now since I'm talking about you on here).

I'm sick. Take care of me.

Posted Oct. 2, 2005

I'm sick.

My sore throat has turned into this awful sore throat/cold/painful cough ordeal. I'm feeling all the signs - my whole body hurts, one minute I'm sweaty and the other minute I'm cold, I don't want to cough because it's going to hurt but at the same time not coughing hurts, too...

You know it's pretty bad when a friend suggests watching a movie with Matthew McConaughey in it and masturbating to it as a way to make yourself feel better...and you're like "Eh."

And you know what I've decided? The next guy I go out with better take of me when I get sick or else he's getting kicked to the curb.

For reals (has anyone else caught onto the fact that I started saying "for reals" as a way to be funny and mock people who really said it in seriousness, and now I've started using it on a regular basis?)...I was thinking about this today, and I decided that I'm a great fucking girlfriend. Whenever I had a boyfriend who got sick, I'd do things like stop over with movies, magazines, food, medicine, etc. And I'd always try to find a way to make him feel better...even if it only lasted for five minutes because he didn't exactly have a whole lot of energy, if you know what I'm sayin'.

And what would he do when I got sick? Say something like "Oh, that's too bad. I'd really like to take care of you tonight, but I have to go bowling instead."

Yeah. Fuck you.

And I don't even want a boyfriend to come over, make me soup, feed me ice cream, watch movies with me, rub my back, play with my hair, and then put me to bed, because when I'm sick I don't exactly look my foxiest and I'm a big whiney little baby. But he at least better offer and try to fight me when I say no. And then come over anyway.

So that's the decision that I've made. It's going to go on the same list as "Better Love The Song "Nikki FM" by Hawthorne Heights" and "Must Not Wear Eternity Cologne by Calvin Klein Because It Makes Me Puke." There's other stuff on that list, too...crap like "should be honest", "can't be racist" and "should have a fairly clean criminal record" ...but that stuff is kind of superficial compared to stuff like what kinds of songs he likes and whether or not he wears the right cologne. I mean, you can't have a meaningful relationship with someone if they wear gross cologne. You can't even stand in the same room with someone if they wear gross cologne.

Do you think hippies have a lot of sex?

Posted June 15th, 2006

They have to, though, don't they? Cause they're all happy and all-loving and shit. And a lot of them like to get nekkid on a regular basis, which admittedly is fun to watch. But do you think that because they're dirty, that sometimes that gets in the way? I know why hippies wear patchouli. It's not because they think it smells rad...it's because they're too busy going to three-day concerts to take showers. This is also why they don't shave...don't let them tell you that it's a feminist consciousness, a rebellion against our patriarchal society. No, no, no - it's because it takes time to shave, and it takes a razor and water and sometimes soap, and they just don't wanna take the time to do it. And you know what's really gross about that? When you're dirty, and when you have a lot of, um, hair...oral is not that fun. Not a'tall. Getting rid of the guard against it - aka knickers - isn't all that fun, even. That smell carries.

Like maybe when you catch each others' eyes over a game of Hackeysack, maybe that doesn't matter. Maybe you're just so caught up with swinging your hips and head and waving your arms around in a circle per The International Hippie Dance that you don't get a chance to get a whiff of the stench. It could also be that whole "you eat onions, and I'll eat onions too" chemistry thing, where you can't smell the funk because you both are just as stanky. And let's face it - some hippies are super hot. Even though I dug Pink and Wooderson in "Dazed & Confused", Slater was also a personal lust character (don't question it, just accept it). I think John Butler of John Butler Trio is damn sexy. And hippie chicks...man, do some guys just dig on the hippie chicks - they tell you it's because they're so natural and open-minded and socially conscious, but really they're just hoping that the chicks buy into the whole free-love stuff.

Sometimes I wanna be a hippie. Sometimes I think it would be cool...be all chill and laid-back and mellow and know where all the good pot is (oh wait, what am I saying...all I gotta do is ask my little brother...snaps!). But then I just think of how much work it would be. I'd always have to go to the Co-op to buy groceries, and I'd have to get really passionate about recycling, and I'd probably have to learn how to play Hackeysack, and start wearing a lot of hemp, and possibly make sure that everything I ever bought or digested was vegetarian, non-animal-tested, organic or Fair Trade. And I honestly do care about a lot of that stuff - with the exception of Hackeysack - but it seems that hippies get really, really worked up about it. And they lecture other people about it. And then throw animal blood on them.

But I bet they get laid a lot.

A lot.

...And another thing.

Posted Oct. 10, 2005

What is it with guys and their asses?

Tonight I was reading the post "Facility Access" on Dan's blog, and was reminded of something that I don't quite understand.

First threesomes, now asses. It's been quite a day, but just bear with me, all right?

See, in this post, Dan was taking us through a scenario of this "handsome guy with a bubble butt" and mentioned something like "Hey, this is your fantasy, not mine"...and I was like "Here we are again with the bubble butts."

I've never really seen the thing that many women have for guys' asses. I've never walked by a guy and was like "nice buns!" ( tho' I love saying that, because it reminds me of chicks with mall hair who wear cotton bike shorts and L.A. Gear high tops. And neon-colored fanny-packs). I don't lust after the ass. I don't even really check it out. I've seen some nice ones, but I could really care less...they're not going to do anything for me. They're not going to keep me warm on a cold night, they're not going to bring me to higher points of ecstasy, they're not going to dance in my head when I need a comforting vision.

But a few guys I've dated seem to think that I'm doing everything I can to check out their ass. Um, no. And to be honest, it wasn't that they thought I was trying to check it out...it was because they thought they had such an amazing ass that they couldn't imagine why I wouldn't want to check it out.

Which brings me to my story.

There is a certain ex-flame that, to this day, memories of cause me aggravation. Let's just say that he had a very high opinion of himself, and wasn't afraid to share that information with people.

So we're hanging out, and he walked over to my TV to check something out. He had his back to me, and when I looked over to him, he was lifting up the back of his shirt, bending over, and sticking his butt out. I started laughing and was like "What are you doing?" He was like "I just want to make sure that you get a good look at it." And he was completely serious.

So then he tells me some crap story about how when he was in college, girls would tell him all the time about what an amazing ass he had. Wow. Great story. Tell it again. "I have a bubble butt, and girls really like that, because they say it gives them something to hold onto."

See, like I said before today, there isn't much that shocks me. However, there are some things that I don't really feel I need to hear about. Basically, if it has to do with your ass, I don't really want to hear about it. I don't mind girls talking about their asses...that doesn't seem to gross me out. But I think I just have this vision of this huge, hairy, gross man's ass that seems to pop into my head every time some guy starts talking about his.

So the first experience with that guy and his "amazing ass" was enough, right? But THEN, I recently went on a date with another guy who DID THE SAME THING! He was looking through his bookcase, trying to find a book for me, right? And he lifted up his shirt, too, and stuck out his butt in my general direction! I was like, "Will all of you please just put that shit away?!" I don't stick my boobs all up in a guys' face and say stuff like "Wanna touch 'em? Huh? They're big, aren't they? They're soft, too. Other guys have loved them. I bet you wanna touch 'em, don't you?"...so I don't see why guys think that's okay.

And the whole thing with bubble butts is that they're weird-lookin'. And they make guys walk funny, too...like there's not enough give and so they're constantly in this posture where their butt sticks out and they have to keep their legs stiff so they won't fall backwards.

So yeah. I know that, for some women, a shot of a guy's ass makes them swoon, but I'm just not that chick. I'm not adverse to them...like I said, there have been some that I have been fond of, so I hope I'm not hurting anybody's feelings here...but just don't stick it in my face all the time. It's like that scene from "Sex & The City" where the guy keeps sticking his butt up in Miranda's face, wanting her to lick it. That's my worst nightmare. Don't do that.

But I don't wanna go bike riding.

Posted July 9th, 2006

Why are people always asking me to go on bike rides with them? Do I look like the kind of girl who would be really fun to ride bikes with?

I'm not. I'm the type of girl who falls while doing stuff like riding bikes, and then I get really mad at you for convincing me to do whatever it was that caused me to fall. I see a cute guy and then find out that he likes to ride a bike, and I think "Huh. Probably not going to work..." because I know he's always going to try to get me to ride a bike with him everywhere, and I'm not going to want to, and then it's going to become this big resentful battle where he gets mad at me for something totally unrelated and then makes a snide remark like, "You won't even ride a bike with me even though you know I would love it."

So I'm not going to do it. I'm not going to ride any bikes, ever. That way no one can say "C'mon...you rode a bike that one time, and you kinda liked it, remember? Why not go again?!" In fact, I've decided that I don't even like bikes, on principle. They're too quiet. And you can't smoke while riding one.

So there.

Fast Times At The Gynecology Office.

Posted Feb. 20th, 2005

Today we are going to be talking about gyno visits.

I had few seconds of doubt as to whether or not I wanted to post about this or not, but damn it, it's my blog and I can write what I want on it, so I'm gonna. I was also going to post a disclaimer on here for guys to turn away and go back their ESPN watching, but much like the infamous boobs post, you might actually learn something about the mysterious and wonderous creatures called females, so the choice is up to you. This post is primarily for the females to commiserate about our womanly woes, but I know guys are going to read it anyway, so whatev. Since I stated at the very beginning what we were going to be talking about today, everyone has been warned and thus complaining rights are taken away if you choose to read this and don't like it.

Since I had been celibate for a little longer than a year, I had decided to go off the good 'ol birth control pills a while ago. Much like buying Cosmo magazine, I couldn't rationalize shelling out cash for something that would just be a constant reminder of all the sex I wasn't having. However, since I am actually back in the dating game now and there's a good chance of me getting laid in the next six months (oh, whatever - like 99.9% of the people on match.com aren't hoping for the same exact thing), I decided it might be a good idea to get back onto the reproductive health bandwagon.

So a few days ago I tried to sucker my way out of an annual exam and get my gynocologist to write me a renewal of my prescription. It worked - the clinic told me that my RX would be ready the next day and all I had to do was pick it up.

However, that is not the way that things transpired Thursday when I went to the clinic. My gyno had written me a note telling me that I hadn't had an annual exam in the last two years (I've been busy, okay? Busy not having sex.) and so she couldn't write me a refill without an exam. Even worse, she was booked up until June, so I had to set up an appointment with someone else. I stood there, praying to God and everything holy that the only available MD wasn't a man, and I think God likes me, because I got an appointment with a female doctor later on in the afternoon.

I don't think men fully realize what a traumatic and humilating experience gyno exams can be. The only thing they have to suffer through that is somewhat close to this is a prostrate exam, and let's face it - two seconds of that compared to the half hour we have to endure is nothing. Add in periods, tampon buying and all that other good stuff and we are fully deserving of pity, chocolates, flowers, and dinners at Red Lobster on a regular basis.

Every girl I know hates going to the gyno. I'm a safety girl, so I know it's important, but it's on the same line as a root canal - you know you have to get it done but that doesn't mean you like the fact that you have to get it done.

Another problem was that I wasn't going to be able to see my regular gyno. I have a close, personal, intimate relationship with my gyno. She knows things about me that no one else does. Granted, we haven't seen each other for two years, but getting reaquainted in a short span of time usually isn't a problem. I didn't like the thought that one more person in this world was going to know all those details about me...I like to keep it as small of a number as possible. There was no getting around it, however, so I was hoping that she wasn't going to be one of those mean gynos that make you feel even more awkward and uncomfortable than you already do just being there.

So I sat in the waiting room, reading the new issue of Cosmo and trying to talk myself up by reading the sex articles and telling myself "You just have to get this over with, and then you can put these articles to good use." The nurse called me in, and she was very nice, which is always comforting. I also learned something new. For some reason, since the 10th grade I had been under the impression that I was 5"7 or 5"8 tall. I'm not. I'm 5"6. And I would still be under this false impression if I hadn't asked the nurse out of curiousity what my height was after she measured me (I had to stand with my back against the measuring stick, so I couldn't see for myself. Funny that they don't do that for you when they weigh you.)

Then she took me into a room and did the routine blood pressure stuff (you will all be happy to know that I have excellent blood pressure) and questions about family health history (and you will also be happy to know that I am a prime candidate for cancer and diabetes according to this documentation) and the like. Then she told me to take my clothes off, get into the lovely backless gown, and wait for the merriment to begin (she didn't actually say "merriment"...I added that for embellishment).

So I sat on the table with my backless gown wrapped around me in order to save myself a small bit of respect and privacy, read some more of "Cosmo", and then my new gyno-best-friend walked into the room.

She was like the perfect gyno evar; soft-spoken, gentle, and friendly. She did admonish me for not having an exam for so long, but after I made up some story about being out of the country for the last two years, she let up.

It always makes me laugh in a "ha-ha that's weird" way (vs. "ha-ha that's funny" way) when gyno's ask you questions about work and stuff when they're doing your breast exam. You kind of just want to imagine that she's some hot guy and that you're anywhere but in a medical office, but instead it's a "So let tell you how long I've worked at my job while you cup and fondle my breast." I know it's a distraction technique and I appreciate that much in the same way that I appreciate my dentist asking me to close my eyes and imagine I'm on a tropical island with his brother (his brother is a reality TV celebrity and I have talked at length with my dentist about how haut he is) when he gives me a novocaine shot, but it still doesn't help much. Your boobs are being fondled by an older woman in a medical office...it's not exactly a moment to savor. It kind makes me wish that breast exams could be take-home exams to be done by the boy of your choice, and that you could just turn in your results to your doctor and let that be that.

And honestly, the whole breast exam was kind of similar to those awkward makeout scenes in teen movies. I had wrapped my gown around my body when I was waiting for her and had forgotten to unwrap it before she asked me to lay down on the table. So it was basically this clumsy process of trying to get my gown unwrapped so she could do the breast exam but not too unwrapped so she wouldn't get a view of the goods before it was absolutely necessary. Plus, when I'm nervous and uncomfortable, I'm not a graceful person...thus, I almost fell off the table. You know, sometimes I have to just sit back and wonder why all this embarassing crap happens to me...I can't even get through a freaking gyno exam without the gyno laughing at my lack of grace.

And then there's that clamp thingy. For anyone who hasn't seen one, it truly resembles a torture instrument, and I do believe that some guy a hundred years ago designed it for his S&M activities and some doctor just came along and stole it for his medical studies. It even has a screw that helps open and close the clamps...hello. If I were a gyno, I would use the clamps and then say something like "You hiding any treasure in there?", just because the whole process feels like you're being searched for something mysterious and valuable, like the doctor is on an archeology dig or something.

I would love to be one of those women who are cool and calm about gyno exams, who act like they're old hat and no big deal. Seriously, though, I don't think I'm ever going to feel that way, not even when I'm 50 and being tested for menopause. It's always going to be a slightly humilating and embarassing procedure for me just because I'm a pretty private person when it comes to my body. It helps to have a woman gyno (I could never go to a male one) and to know that she's seen it all before, but still...it's your body, and it's parts of your body that even you don't see on a regular basis. Yet, when you get all done with the exam, there's kind of this part of you that feels like this responsible, mature, in-control woman...like "Yes, I'm a woman who cares about and takes responsibilty for my reproductive health!"

Now let's get into my rant about birth control -

That shit is expensive. I think our government needs to take a look into this, much like they need to take a look into the skewed earning range between men and women in the workplace. If you're paying out of pocket, birth control is usually in the $50 dollar range (depending on what and how much you get). Then add the cost of your exam onto that, and you usually have to cough up somewhere between $100 to $200 dollars for the whole shebang. Granted, babies are much more costly and so I will gladly plunk down a hundred dollars to avoid having little Ambers running around at this point in time, but that's not my issue here. My issue is how much damn money it costs to be a woman vs. a man. How much is a box of condoms? Let's see...oh, about ten bucks. Do they need to go to a doctor to get permission to use them? No.

So men, the next time you ask your ladyfriend to go on birth control because you don't like using condoms (and I'm only talking to the guys who actually have the nerve to ask or expect their girlfriends to go on birth control for them...I'm not talking to the guys whose flames made the decision for themselves), expect to cough up something in return because that's just not fair and you know it - and if you didn't know it, now you do. I won't give you my whole sermon on how I feel about couples taking joint responsibility for birth control, but I will sum it up and say that I feel couples should take joint responsibility for birth control. For instance, if I am the one primarily responsible for the birth control, the other person in the relationship should be responsible for making sure that that birth control is being put to good use.

Thus ends the adventure in gynecology for this year. Every time I think of gynecology, I am reminded of Matt, this really super geeky guy whom Katy and I knew back in the day...one time he told us that he wanted to be a gynecologist when he grew up because he wanted to "study vaginas". I can't help but think that Matt lost out on that one...not only did he not get the go-ahead to study panty paradises as a profession, but he was rarely allowed to practice this field of study non-professionally as well. But really...wouldn't being a male gynecologist be somewhat like a massage therapist? You're looking at it all day for your job, and what massage therapist races home to give his wife a backrub?

I leave you with that thought to ponder for the rest of the day.

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