Bump that, BEOTCH!

Courtesy of my favorite Polack. It couldnt have been said a better way.
Jus FIST-BUMPski!

Look Ma! I'm famous!

This evening, after not checking my blog for quite some time (sorry!), I noticed I had, literally, thousands of hits the last couple of days. Wondering why the hell so many people recently took an interest in the Curious Girl's blog, I checked my IP tracker, which I also hadn't done for QUITE some time... Anyway, long story short, I thought it was the the coolest thing that I managed to be voted one of the top 10 in the bloggers choice awards. Last time I checked, I wasn't even on the map anymore, so I want to thank any and everyone that voted for me, even though I've been an AB-SO-FUCKING-LUTELY terrible blogger lately, and for this I apologize. Since so many people showed their appreciation for my annoying, rants, raves, pathetic attempts at humor, and silly sex starved notions, I promise, I will try to be a better blogger. Between work and school, I just haven't found the time to keep up like I used to. But again, thanks everyone for making me feel special, and I shall return with the quickness!


Part two, which will be semi-quick; I had a fairly icky day today. I'm managing a bakery in Brooklyn. That's my new, crazy job now. Today, I managed to trip, fall, dropping a bottle of Snapple, and slamming down on my hands and knees cutting them both (hands and knees), up a fair amount. So, I plead the ouchies and ask for at least one more week's stay... I'm posting proof of my ouchie for anyone that thinks I'm full of shit. :( Be back soon!!!

A new Adventure in Curious Land....

"I can't believe it!" my mom was screaming. SCREAMING, I tell you. "That's so awesome! First you move away on your own, get into school, and now this! My God, S, who would've thought a year ago, I'd be hearing news like this?!?"
"I know, right?" I was BEAMING. "Ma, I'll get to buy new cute clothes and everything!"
"You know... this is huge, S...," my mother added. "It's gonna change your whole life..."
"I know!" I spouted out happily. "But you know, Ma, I think it's time. That clock was just ticking away and it felt like the time to do something about it."
"Well, you're entirely sure this is what you want, right?" she asked. "Ha ha... it's a little late to turn back now, no?" I laughed. "I took the test, even got a little pee on my hand, and, well, everything says I'm good to go."
"I can't wait to tell all of my friends, and just, oh... oh my God!" she was absolutely gushing.
"I dunno if that's such a great idea, Ma... At least not yet," I suggested. "I think we should make sure it, um, you know. Let's make sure it sticks before we tell anyone not immediate. But I guess you can tell Gab, and gramma.
"God.. They're gonna be so, so happy... To find out that you, my special little girl are gonna have,----" she paused, probably to wipe a tear of elation from her cheek---"a job!!!"

I mean hell, I couldn't believe it either. I even successfully passed the drug screening test, after spilling half of it and clumsily sopping it up off the bathroom floor. Yes, I washed my hands. It was a hell of a relief really. Because the last time I held a steady job was like, ages ago, and I had this stupid fucking boss, who would utter things like, "Make that more better," "irregardless" and my favorite, "for all intensive purposes" which for an average boss would've been fine, but this guy was an attorney, and it was a bit unsettling.

So, I'm going to try to take a little bit of time this evening to write a little bit about this new experience I'm embarking on, but for now, as usual, I'm fucking late. Great way to start the day.

-SCG

Ready or not, here I cum.

Good morning. Salutations, and all that good shit. I have to get this off of my chest while it's still somewhat fresh on my mind, because I think of blog ideas all the fucking time and I manage to either forget about them or lose the 'umph' to write about them once I get home or finally get time to sit at my computer.

Last night, I went on this bizarre cleaning kick at about 1:00am (which is WAY past my bedtime since I get up at 5:30-6:00 every morning to make sure I get to class on time). I must've been delirious or something, because I cleaned my apartment, top to bottom, inside out. I ended up collapsing about about 2:00 (which goes to show you how big my apartment is, as well as how well I clean) and I was seriously, out. I don't think I've ever melted into bed the way I did last night. This isn't what I wanted to write about. See what happens when you try to blog at 6:00am? SO, after my cleaning kick and passing out into a heavenly slumber, I had some of the most a-fucking-mazing sex dreams Ive has since I was 14. Remember pre-teen and early teen year sex dreams? The ones where you actually woke up with your hand between your legs and that nervous feeling that you were going to sit up and your mother would be walking through the door? "Maaaaaaaaaaaa!" Yeah... So I had those last night. Lots of them. Over and over and over again... I was wrenching and twisting and turning and fighting with my sheets all night long. I sleep with about 5 stuffed animals, and by the end of the evening, I only had 2 left on the bed. Even Eyyore jumped ship and I've been molesting Eeyore in my sleep since I was just a wee one. Hot, dirty, unadulterated, (and monogomous believe it or not) fun. (You would think that I'd actually cheat in a dream, but nope.)

Anyway, when I woke up this morning... no... wait... I'm getting ahead of myself here. The final dream I had was extremely vivid. Im sure if I see my neighbors or the woman upstairs, this morning, I'm gonna get some pretty strange looks... It was hot. I was tossed and slammed and flipped and poked and prodded... and, oh my... Where was I? Ah yes... In the dream, I was in a hotel with my "long distance boyfriend". (I'll be amazed if I don't get slammed by the blog of unnecesary quotation marks after this post) And you know how it is. You don't see each other for months, so when you finally do, before you can even have a decent conversation, you have to rip each other's clothes off and at least manage a quickie, or you can't even concentrate on what you're going to do during your visit. So, in the dream, we managed a quickie, that didn't end up being quite so quick, and afterwards, (still dreaming) I got up, walked to the kitchen, (in the dream it was actually my kitchen), drank down a glass of water, walked past the bed, leaned over, clad in nothing but a tee shirt, and kissed him on his sleeping forehead, and walked to the bathroom. I know that some of you're wondering what the hell I'm going on about, but be patient, I'm getting there! I pulled up my tee shirt, sat on the toilet to pee, closed my eyes, and started to fall asleep in my dream. Is that even possible? I have a feeling some of you know where this is going... I'm falling asleep and in the dream, I begin to pee. A warm, relaxing pee, that was both calming and, wait... Huh? Waiiit! Fuck!! Im awake!!! AHHH! I'm peeing!!!! I'm peeing!!! No, no, no, no, no!! I jump up, still peeing, dripping and slipping across the bedroom floor and stumbling to the bathroom, pulling off my little red boyshorts and still half alseep, manage to get them off, (almost... they were dangling from my left foot) trailing pee all over my freshly cleaned apartment floor. I sat on the toilet, dropped my now soaked panties to the floor and peeled my sock off. One wet, sloppy heap on the bathroom floor. Lovely. I shook my head and got up. Washed my hands and arms up to my elbows, walked back to my bed, and felt the sheets, and they were dry. I guess I'd managed to jump up and pee across the bedroom floor insead of on my new matress. I pulled the sheets off anway, dropped them on the floor, and hopped in the shower. I have to say... After such a long crazy night of sex, I am so, so, so tired today. I wonder how I'm going to manage to stay awake in class. I've nodded off twice during this last paragraph, and I know I'm gonna be just a little late for Physics. No more late night snacks before bed.

The City So nice, They Named it Twice!

It's been so long since I've posted... What's happening to me?

I've finally settled after my crazy move to New York, and I should be up and running (not with those tits) soon. I miss you guys!

~~Simply Curious Girl~~

Not a Fucking Chance in Hell

Ever watch late night tv? I end up watching the shit, all the time. Well, not all the time, but often enough. I'm one of those people fortunate enough to be plagued with insomnia if I don't get sex before bed. Since I haven't had sex before bed in AGES, and I probably won't have sex before bed for quite awhile, I have this strange feeling I'm going to remain an insomniac. This isn't going to some whiny post about how tired I am, getting u at 5:30 every morning when I don't get to sleep until close to 3:00. Shutup. It's also not going to be a post about not taking Ambien anymore, because it's been proven to cause memory loss and I'm too young to start looking for my long lost dead dog from childhood. In the woods. In the middle of the night. In my underwear... Uch. Shake it off.... This post is going to be about the shit, yes, shit, that they put on late night tv, last night. Last night, I was watching tv, at about 2:00 am when I was almost asleep. Almost... And then I saw it. This invention... This stupid. *blink* Silent invention.

So, don't ask me why I was watching it to begin with... But... Uh... I was. I don't particularly remember what the show I was watching initially was about, but there came a point in the show where they began to discuss the advances of bathroom commodities. I swear I wanted to switch this shit of immediately, just being tortured by the idea! Not only that, I also had to take a few deep breaths and vowed, “I will never let this happen to my bathroom!” What was it you wonder? It was the advent of a silent bathroom ventilation fan. I mean, what the flying fuck? Why would anyone in their right state of mind want to do that? OK, I understand some fans are way too loud, but for the most part they aren’t. However, the pivotal question is why do I like them?

Though there are many reasons, but the first and foremost of them all is that the vent fan gives you that aural veil of privacy. It may not be required as much at your own place, but when you are visiting someone else’s house it's surely a weapon of choice. Before you go “Ewwwww! Why is fuck is this crazy bitch mentioning all this?” Let me clarify that I am not really concerned with what you have to do once you close the door, rather what someone on the other side of the door might try to do. I am not just talking about those shit head little kids, but adults too!
Some... Hmph... more like A LOT! - people love to find out what you were doing in the privacy of that little 4-by-6 room. You know, when you come out they invariably ask:

“Oh, you had to go pee, eh?”
“That milk not settling well with you...?”
“Took you a long enough time to brush. Sure that's all you were doing?”
"Use enough water?”
"I hope you used the air freshener, girl... ”

Assuming that you went (ahem), even though the real reason may be that you just wanted to find some reprieve from this demonic idiot that you're regretting spending your time with to begin with!

I mean, don’t these people have ‘better’ things to do than to find out what a person went to the fucking bathroom for? On top of that, some of these furtado people will go as far as ‘casually’ eavesdropping on you while you go about doing your business in there. OK. So that hasn't happened more than once, but still, people can be fucking weird!

Well, while you can’t really stop these dingos from asking all those questions (albeit there are a bajillion comebacks that one can practice on them - Heee yaa!), their eavesdropping portion can surely be neutralized by turning on none other than TA-DA! ‘The (not fucking silent) Ventilation Fan!’ Ah Ha! I bet it’s annoying as hell to these intrusive druids when they sneak up next to the door only to hear –

A Burrrrrrrrrrr here
And a Burrrrrrrrrrr Burrrrrrrrrrr there
Here a Burrrrrrrrrrr
There a Burrrrrrrrrrr
Everywhere a Burrrrrrrrrrr Burrrrrrrrrrr

With the friendly neighborhood ventilation fan, you can rest assured that you have freedom of expression. Not only that, you can hone your all important singing capabilities in the hot hot shower for your all important soon-to-be-unleashed Best-Rock-Star-of-All-Time career, American Idol tryouts, singing to Paula, Randy and Simon, without any dumb nut singing along on the other side of the fucking partition. After all, who needs a back up singer when you ‘magically’ acquire the capability to sing for both in the shower?


And of course, how in the WORLD can I forget the synchronized dance number you have been practicing for the video of your number 1 single? Yep, the one that’ll remain on top of the VH1, MTV AND 'Top of the Pops' charts for 20 consecutive weeks? I mean, you don’t want the audial-tom to giggle his/her butt off when you accidentally slip in the bathtub while pulling those unbelievable moves, do you? Ummmm... No!

So faithful readers and others that I don't know but still should benefit from this important piece of information, I suggest that we boycott this new totally worthless invention known to every day dreamers as the ‘noiseless ventilation fan’ and continue to ignore it (it’s expensive as shit anyway) to keep the boat of the loud-ass, audible ventilation fan afloat!

Miss Independent

OK. Let me start this post off by saying over the past few months (the ones that I actually posted), my blog went from fun/funny, posts, to a little bit more personal and sappy. Sometimes I need the outlet to vent and get some feedback on my complicated and sometimes extremely overwhelming life. This is the last 'personal' post I think I'm going to write for some time. Not at all because it's not what does or does not sell, but because I actually have my drive to write back, and while I was on my Saturday morning jog this morning, my mind was racing with things to write about. I really missed the flowing words that used to come so naturally to me.

I've always considered myself a "Miss Independent". If you don't understand what I mean, exactly by that, I'll explain. In my humble opinion, Miss Independent is the type of woman that feels like she can get by just fine on her own. I've never really needed a best friend or a man to complete me, or make me feel like my opinions meant something. I don't need backup when I believe in something and I don't need reassurance that I'm making the right decision. I do often struggle with being a more independent-type-woman, because it means staying pretty busy. Very busy, actually.

Human nature is wanting some kind of companionship. Human nature is calling someone when you're excited about something or proud of an achievement or accomplishment. This is no way saying that I have no friends, at all. I do have plenty of friends, but the amount of close, personal friends are extremely few and far between. I have a feeling that this stems from my childhood. This is a subject I've touched on before, so it doesn't need much explaining. If you haven't been reading this blog for a long time, or you have, but you overlooked this post, you should read it to get an idea. It explains a hell of a lot about the person that is, Simply Curious Girl.

It's obvious that I don't often open my heart and let someone in. When I do though, I do it wholeheartedly. Its not easy to do, and it leaves me vulnerable to all kinds of pain and heartache. The last three, (and only three) times that I've done it, I've made it very clear before I did, that I'm a very sensitive person. I'm the type of person that needs defending because I can't fight. I'm the type of person that would rather cower and cry than get in someone's face or scream and fight. So this time has been no different. The day I realized I was open and my heart was exposed, I made it advertently clear what kind of woman I am because I didn't want to get hurt. I don't want to hurt... Who wants to hurt?!?!

I'm not quite sure where I'm going with this post, because I can't really explain to myself, let alone anyone else, what's going on in my situation, right now. But I do want to say that my heart has taken a bit of a strike and I just need a little bit of comfort. Last night, I curled up in the fetal position, in bed and cried like I haven't cried in quite some time. My stuffed Eeyore comforted me like he used to when I was a little girl, and I just sobbed until I could sob no more. This morning my eyes are nice and puffy and I'm still dragging a little. OK. A lot... Why do I feel like my world is crashing down around me, and will it go away?

Before I end this post on a sad, shitty note, I really wanted to thank the people that have stood by this blog and stood by me, even through all that time that I was gone. The emails and IMs that I've gotten mean a lot more to me than I let on. So, thank you, everyone. I do accept checks and money orders if you're feeling generous. Oh, and of course PayPal.

Weary, so underrate my jury
fear me, I push pencil fury
standing over you like a mirage
hazard warning
safe sabotage

I underrated my rating
left the court debating
oh sorry baby, were you waiting?
in the clear but still fading

love is real man
so what if the ocean's rocks miss you
and in the beginning, it was actually pretty easy to resist you
but I had to eat the bug that bit you

I'm sitting under you
like a fascade
safe sabotage

tired of not running
ice cream sundaes
with you I actually love Mondays
and face a lot of mundane days
like a crossroad thats only one-way

Safe sabotage...


I generally post once or twice a week when I'm regularly posting, so next week back my regularly scheduled programing. I didn't realize how much I missed my blog until I started typing. I'm most definitely back!!

Come out, come out, wherever you are...

Hey, guess what?

I'm back.

I'm going out of town for a couple of days, in which time I PROMISE I'll work on a post and get my blog up and running again.

I'm pretty sure you've all gone away, but just in case anyone is still checking this page, I'm not dead, and the big bad California fires didn't get me, although they were pretty fucking close. Another story for another time. Yeah, so, um, I have to do a short little recap post to let people know where I've been hiding... or not. In any case, I am actually, truly, promise, that I'm back!

Infinite X's and O's,

SCG

I'm going Insane...

So, I have a twitchy eye.. Ever had one of those? It's like, you feel it. You know the thing is fucking twitching, but no one else notices it? Fuck.

So anyway, it went away, but now it's back. It's back and it's mad. It wants to be heard. It wants to be seen. It used to be that other people wouldn't be able to see it if I forced them to stare at my head, but now you can see it. At least, I can see it. I can really notice it. It looks like my eye wants to leave my face, or something! Needless to say, a few cups of coffee in me and my twitch, I've turned into South Park's Tweek.

It's my right eye. The twitch is in the upper eyelid, and it appears the twitch will go away only when I'm talking about, worrying about, addressing or thinking about the twitch. I searched the Internet and found a range of solutions. Ones that started with "It's perfectly normal," to "...Unless it's a brain tumor." Blink. Blink. A brain tumor.
The Web doctors seem to all agree that it's caused by caffeine, lack of sleep or stress. God, you've just gotta love the internet.

Well, I guess I'm just living with a twitchy right eye for the rest of my life, as I don't see how I'm going to get rid of one of those three things. I mean, come on people, I gave up smoking. I'm sure as hell not giving up my couple cups of coffee a day. I don't even drink soda that often. I drink like, a liter and a half of water a day. I exercise. I try to sleep six to seven hours a night. I try. In high school and my first year of college, I only slept four hours a night (if that). Hell, a few months ago, I was only sleeping about five a night (if that). I'm sleeping more than I've ever slept before.

Check it: I nap. Nap like I'm fifty. Nap like, "Shit, grocery shopping was so exhausting. Where's my pillow?"

I keep rubbing my eye, hoping that a little pressure or a tiny massage will help. I tried not drinking coffee, drinking more coffee, sleeping until eleven in the morning, and a mask. I'm still twitchy.

Then I worried that I was really sick, and that the headaches I get on my left side aren't from stress or some shit, but from the tumor I have in my head. I worry that I caused this by letting that stylist pluck my eyebrows for the past 3 years. I worry that it's because I'm worried about money, about traveling, about moving, about paying all of my bills. I worry that it's because I'm behind in my work, wishing I could just sit still and read a good novel.

(Sidenote: all I want to do is sit and read this novel I have, by the way. It's by one of my favorite authors and I think it's terrible I haven't been able to read it yet. But, to be honest, I bought it over three weeks ago. Then I read what it was about, and I'm so scared by the concept of the book, combined with my lingering feelings and shivers I got from the last one, that I talked myself out of reading it for the time being. I got too scared to read the book. How sad is that? I had to read a breezy book, to work up my nerve.)

Then I worry that I'm worrying too much and then my eye starts to twitch. Again. Actually, it was only twitching when I left the house. When I met with someone. Now it's just twitching all the time. Today I think it twitched more than it didn't twitch. I hate this. I hate having to feel it twitch all day. Nobody sees it, at all. Nobody notices it, at all. But the fact of the matter is, that I know that it's there. I know I'm twitching. It makes me feel all full of anxiety, the soles of my feet twitch, I can see dark circles under my eyes (and I've never, ever had those before), and I start to worry that every single thing that happens to me is another sign that I'm sick and dying. OK. That's exaggerating just a tad...but STILL!

Trying to avoid anxiety gives me more anxiety than anything else. Now the twitch is winning, you see? It's taking control, I tell you! It's telling me to think about it all the time. It's making me think that something's wrong with me, which only makes me feel worse, which only encourages the twitch to keep on dancing. ....breathe....

'Kay. I guess that's all I have to say, tonight. I'll pop back in, soon with a more, um, conventional, Simply Curious, post.

I'm considering the big move to Word Press. I bought myself the domain name, sometime ago, and I'm slowly trying to figure it out. What do people think? Blogger is starting to really piss me off, and it's sure as hell not helping my fucking twitchy eye!

Another year older, another year wider? Or wait. Wiser, I think...

Once upon a time, long, long ago, in the far away land of California, this woman met this man and got married. So then they decided (hopefully after getting married) to have a few kids! Hey, guess what! I happened to be one of them! Not the first one though... The first kid is sorta like the first pancake, anyway. It never quite comes out right...

Yeah, yeah. Sure enough, a birthday doth approach. On the wonderful day.. of the first of May.. I was born.. on a pile of hay. OK. That's bullshit. I was born in Kaiser hospital sometime in the middle of the night, I think. I asked my Mom and she doesn't remember. Must've been one special night, huh? Or day? Guess I'll never know. I'd like to think it was in the middle of the night and the hospital drugged her up so much that she couldn't possibly remember the time. It would also explain a hell of a lot of my problems (if you know what I mean...).

Alright. Thanks Mom for birthing me. Thanks world, for putting up with me. I'm shamelessly asking for people to wish me lots and lots of happy birthdays and to please just make my fucking day, because I absolutely LOVE birthdays. I'm not one of the people that hates them because I'm a year older. I really just love my birthday.

So, I would rather not mention how old I'm gonna be, but I'm old enough to drink, so that's all that matters. Oh, and if you paid attention to the little bogus hay poem, you'd know that it's not tonight, but by the time some of you read this, it'll probably be Thursday the 1st, or even later, so I figured posting it tonight was a good plan.

P.S. For anyone that would like to send gifts, feel free to email me and I'll give you an address where you can send expensive gifts, cards with cash, balloons, flowers, etc. I absolutely love getting presents. Doesn't everyone?

P.P.S. Admit it. I was one CUTE little girl. And I don't care if you think I'm a bitch for cutting one of my sisters out of the picture. It's my damn birthday.

Girls just wanna be Mean

Women are weird.

There. I said it. Men are weird, too, but women are really fucking weird. That's been my big revelation over the past couple of months. First off, last month I went to a babyshower. So, the shower is over and as usual, I was the "odd girl out," what with being the only person there not married, getting married, or pregnant...I kept running into the other room, slamming the door and chanting:

I don't want babies yet. I don't want to get pregnant yet.

I don't want babies yet. I don't want to get pregnant yet.

Those women were trying to trick my fucking ovaries. I could feel them tugging with every baby picture or flash of diamond. There's something about showers that makes a single girl look like Pippi Longstocking. "Oh, she just doesn't understand, that poor, poor girl."

The conversation was about people I didn't know, things I hadn't experienced, and babies that weren't mine. Not that I wasn't interested, but I just didn't know how to react. Everyone would laugh at the secret girl joke. Damn, I never paid my dues to that club.

Then I'm in a restaurant the other night, and I walk into the bathroom to see one girl on her hands and knees talking to the other girl in the stall. They are talking to each other about how long it's taking the one girl to pee, while the other is screeching, "You saw my panties! You saw my panties!" Then the rest of their friends come into the bathroom and start talking about whether or not one should wear her shirt tucked in (prude) or out (slutty). They decide that the point is moot anyway, because she's spilled ketchup on herself and she's just gonna look like a fat slob no matter how she does it.

Then my new issue of a magazine that shall remain unnamed came in the mail. The "Girlfriends Issue." In it, they discuss the many reasons that no guy could ever take the place of a good woman in your life. I was groaning before I opened the page.

I've never kept a real girlfriend. Ever. They always leave. They stop calling, they accuse me of things I didn't do. They all break my heart.

I've moved around a lot growing up and I never had a solid group of friends. I never had "girlfriends" growing up for very long because I'd leave eventually, and we always lost touch. But the friends I've stayed in contact with over the years? All boys. The boys always seem to call me or write me or ask how my family is doing. The girls? Well, many of them went on to date whoever it was I was dating before I moved, or they thought that I was really trying to date their boyfriend, or they listened to some gossip that told them I was lying about something.

I've never had that kind of treatment from a boy. I've never had to say, "And you believed her?" after a three month cold shoulder. Because they ask me right away instead of it festering.

I've always marveled at how men relate to each other. A bunch of men who have never met before will get together on a basketball court and play full contact ball. They have no idea what the other person's history is or if they are fair or a good player, but they all play together, patting each other on the ass after a good play, arguing over fouls, but generally getting along pretty well.

Try putting a bunch of strange women together someplace. Take the doctor's office, the bus, a store. Do we instantly bond? No! We stay to ourselves! We don't want to bother anyone, and if someone starts talking to us, we wonder what this "crazy woman" wants or why the hell she's talking to us since we don't know her. We aren't open from the beginning. We let people in gradually, because we're concerned about getting hurt. I really do wish that women had that openness that men have, because then maybe I'd understand them more. I'd understand that need to share each other's thoughts in a bathroom stall. I'd know why women whisper at each other and stare at me if I'm talking to a "male" friend.

When I was a kid, my best friends were always boys and it was never a problem until I was eight, and my best friends D and R, used to come over after school to play with me or go swimming. I remember my neighbor freaking out that we were home alone in our swim suits. I never thought of D or R in any other way than just friends, (hell, I was invited to their weddings) and it had never occurred to me that he could be a boyfriend, because I wasn't thinking about boys in that way. But then we started getting teased by students and teachers and parents that we were boyfriends and girlfriends, and we got so mad at the label that we drifted apart when we were children. (confession: I drifted away. I was embarrassed. I just wanted my friends back and now I had all these rules and we weren't supposed to hang out together if no one was home and it was only because they were boys. Anyway, I'm sorry, D and R, wherever you are right now.

I've never considered myself a threat to other women, but I've often been treated as such. Being "one of the guys" my whole life has made things very interesting. I am always included in "guy talk," but for a while that made me "like a girl," but not quite. I could never get the object of my crush to stop looking at the cheerleader and see that the girl giving him so much advice was totally in love with him for who he was and was female to boot. I'm also a dork and a nerd, and extremely weird, but that's another post for another time...

As I got older, being "one of the guys" meant that women didn't trust me. Would I tell the guys what they talked about? Was I a spy? Or the very worst-- was I actually just trying to steal their men? All three, completely ridiculous notions, but things I have been told as I ask another woman who used to be my friend why she doesn't call anymore.

I've also noticed that being a "cool chick" to guys makes you a weak link in girl cliques. They have tighter bonds because they are united in trying to understand men, and since I hang out with men regularly, I was usually the last asked to tag along to shop or see a movie. I missed out on pining for men with women and consoling over Chocolate Chocolate Chip Cookie ice cream. Don't think I don't miss the friendship of a woman, but I resent the fact that women seem to think that a man could never be the best friend in your life. My closest, closest friends my entire life have been men.

I once had a man tell me that every man that I think is my friend is just telling me what I want to hear to get me into bed. The whole "When Harry Met Sally" thing. I rolled my eyes to that (but inside become terribly paranoid that I'm fooling myself about everything, everything, everything) and told the guy that at the time no one had broken my hymen yet, and I wasn't doing anything to make them think that by watching MTV on the phone with me late at night was the best way to between my legs. It's been told to me numerous times since then, by numerous other men that were interested in me...

But I guess that's it, isn't it? Trust. Who do we trust to be our "Best Friend." The title passed around so often when we were younger, with some girls wearing three necklaces that said "Be Fri" or "Est Ends" and nineteen beaded safety pins on her shoelace. But as we get older, the name becomes more sacred, and we start looking at the Best Friend in a very Survival of the Fittest sort of way. We start testing each other. We start trying to figure out what she really meant when she said that thing about our hair. We get paranoid.

Because we are afraid of getting hurt. And with a male best friend, who may even be your boyfriend, those stakes are incredibly high. It's safer to have a girl as your best friend. But it sure is a blast to have a guy.

Sure, it's been harder having boys for best friends because inevitably they have guy friends who don't want a girl hanging around on some nights, and you get shuffled to the guys' girlfriends, who you don't know very well and have nothing in common with and you look like Wednesday Addams to them, but it's always been worth it. I don't have to wait six days to call a boy, and if he calls me on Thursday to see if I want to do something on Saturday, you bet your ass I'm going. Fuck the rules. I am my own girl...

But seriously, if someone could explain women to me, I'd really appreciate it. I'd just like to feel good about myself after a conversation with a bunch of women. Why do they like "America's Next Top Model?" What's the big deal about Matt Damon? Why do they want to know about my yeast infections? Why do they talk to me when I'm peeing? Why do they stare? Why do they stare? Why do they stare?

I know.

ok. On top of this very long, probably extremely boring post. I'm sad. I'm really, very sad. If anyone can say something to me to brighten my night, day, week, month....I'd really appreciate it. I'm having a very hard time today, that's seeping into tonight, and I'll probably wake up even more upset tomorrow because I'm about to go crawl into bed, mad, sad, angry, hurt, scared, and probably all kinds of other emotions; even though they say you should never go to bed like this...I am. I'd just rather be sleeping right now.

Fuck it

A few months ago, I was sitting at my computer, browsing the internet, when I came across this thing called a blog. I can't quite remember what I was searching, although I'm absolutely positive it wasn't Kathy lee Gifford's nipples. What I was looking for at the time, is completely beside the point.

There are very, very few of you reading this page right now, that have followed my blog from the beginning. I know this for a fact, because I honestly have no idea how the hell most of you even found me, or what intrigued you enough to keep on coming back. Other than the fact that I do have a fantabulous tushie, I think in retrospect, I'm a pretty average twenty-something female.

Now as to where this post is going, I'm having a little trouble spitting it out, because nothing annoys me more than people that feel the need to bitch and moan about absolutely nothing. It takes a lot to get under my skin. For the most part, I try to be friendly to everyone. I have never intentionally been a spiteful or vengeful person. I've never intentionally bickered or sat and gossiped about people I dislike. Actually, when I dislike a person, they never even know it. Call me stupid, naive, or whatever you like, but I don't even dislike many people at all. I give most people the benefit of the doubt, that they're good people and have no reason to hurt me since I've never hurt them. I guess that some people get their thrills and chills out of it though...Yeah, shit, OK! I'm rambling again. Let me try one more time.

I've emailed with a few of the people that read this blog. You all know who you are. I'm not talking about the one liners that people sent me when I was sick, or the cute little balloons people sent when I decided I was collecting them, but I mean genuine conversations, where I opened up and formed friendships. I've been told by a lot of people that I know in real life, not to get too attached to these online friendships, because they come and go, and I have the tendency to trust far too quickly and get emotionally attached to people. When it came to blogging, I found it fun and didn't let myself get attached to anyone. I kept everything pretty public. By everything I mean, my conversations, my friendships, and didn't take anything more serious than it needed to be. It seems to me that there are a lot of people out there that just love to dig deeper. They love to try to crossover and make blogging a little more serious than need be. Personally, I don't need the fucking drama. If I needed internet drama, I'd go in search of it, like so many people tend to do.

Honestly, I don't want any part of it. If people are so miserable that they need to pry into my personal life and make up bullshit stories about who I am and things that I've done, more fucking power to you. You win.

I've been sitting and letting this sort of simmer down in my brain, because I still don't understand the logic, or even the point, but I think I'm just going to go away for a little bit. I've never pretended to be the strongest person around... I've never pretended that I had the perfect life nor have I ever pretended to be anything that I'm not. I was always just myself. Anyway, I hope that the people that do read this blog regularly, and email me from time to time, don't go away. I'll be back. I just need a little break. Normally I wouldn't even tell people I'm taking one, but since I'm probably going to stay away for a little longer than a couple of weeks, I figured it deserved mention. I'll still be around and commenting. C'est la vie...

Get on your knees baby and....pray?

I have a cousin that's going into her eighth month of pregnancy. Before you start bitching and moaning, no. This is not another anti-pregnancy post...I saw her the other night and made a comment on how absolutely beautiful her hair had become. She then informed me that when you get pregnant, the hormone that makes your hair fall out (we all lose 100 strands a day, or so) stops being produced, so you simply stop losing your hair. Seriously, she has, in turn, this crazy-thick, gorgeous, stunning, awesome and shiny hair! The catch? Of course there's a catch... After the baby is born, a woman loses her hair FOUR TIMES FASTER than she used to. FOUR TIMES! Babies steal your hair. That's fucked up.

**********

When I was in New York, I stopped with a friend of mine to see the inside of the old St. Patrick's Cathedral. While we were there, I decided that I wanted to light a candle.. After we left, I told my friend about my bright idea, and we ended up going to another, rather large church with stunning architecture. Nothing like St. Patrick's but that's beside the point.

When we first entered, I thought we were the only ones inside until I saw a nun praying close to the front of the church. I saw the prayer candles that I was there looking for, but I had to take a different entrance to get to them. I went back out and back in the other door. It was extremely dark and kind of eerie in the corner by the candles... I hadn't done this since I was a little kid, so I was a little bit nervous. I dropped my backpack and read the sign on the wall. "PRAYERS 25¢." There was something else that cost a dollar, but the fact that I had to pay a toll at first had really thrown me off. I dug inside my pockets, found no change, and ended up going into my backpack. Still no quarter, so I ended up pulling out a dollar, and figured I'd light 4. I mean, hey, I guess candles are pretty cool and they're sure fun to light. (No. I'm not a pyromaniac or anything... I just like lighting fires... which is technically the definition of a pyromaniac, but I don't enjoy it enough to burn houses down...whatever...shut up.) I folded up my dollar and put it into the little slot opening at the top of the box, and began looking around. I looked around for matches, a lighter, torches? Anything? Nothing. Then I spotted the other sign which in much smaller print, read "PUSH BUTTON ON TOP."

Blink. I rubbed my eyes. Double blink.

The Candles were light bulbs.

I ran back out as quickly as my short little legs would carry me and I found my friend. "You're not going to believe this," I said to her. I then proceeded to point to the candle display. "Nah, come on. There must be matches and real candles around here, somewhere," she said, squatting and then standing on her very tippy toes and peering around like it was going to change her view or the fact that there were no candles anywhere in the whole fucking place... "I mean, how else are you supposed to light the candle?"

I held out one finger, placed it above the candle and pushed the little red button.

"POP!" The little light came on.

"It's like a game of Trouble," I said.

"Weird!" (she giggled.)

"I know..." (I wasn't giggling.)

"I've never seen anything like that. It's seriously not normally like that." (she giggled again, almost uncontrollably.)

"I don't believe you." (me. still not giggling.)

Out in the foyer, which I'm pretty sure has an entirely different name when it's a church foyer, we read the information painted on the walls. According to the history of the church, it has already burned down. Twice. I guess they just weren't taking any more chances.

"Well, damn, S. Why didn't you light a candle while we were at the huge St. Patrick's Cathedral?" my friend asked, while still smirking and giggling, unable to control it anymore, so it had actually, by this point progressed to full-on laughing by this point...

"I didn't know I could." (at this point my lip is out about as far as a pouty lip can go.)

Who's in charge here, anyway?" (I swear I wasn't drunk.) I saw the nun standing up from her prayers and I slowly walked over to her waiting for her to pull a yardstick out from under that gown and smack my knuckles with it, "Sister? Um..ehhm...uhh..."

"Yes? Do you need help with something?" the nun asked.

"Well, uhmm.. yes. I do."

"How can I be of assistance?"

"Who's in charge here?" (I should note my friend in now sitting in a pew, with her face so buried in her hands becase she just can't hold it in anymore, at all.)

The nun raises her hands, smiles and before I say it, I can bet, you guy know what's coming. "HE" is in charge. This is "HIS" house."

(fuck. see? I knew I needed an invitation..)

I'm looking around for this "HE" and I said, "well...where is he?" I swear at the time I thought that she meant a Monsignor or something.

"HE" is everywhere.

"Kay, time to go..."

Sometimes, my lack of religious knowledge is kind of embarrassing. I did go to catholic school growing up, and my grandmother is absolutely devout. I, on the other hand, am not. I almost figured I was going to have a problem going into that church without someone that was actually from it or some kind of a formal invitation. I didn't want to get thrown out or unintentionally disrupt anything. My aunt tells a story about getting in trouble for taking communion before she was old enough. I know there are tons of rules. I just didn't want to be disrespectful.

But come on...dropping a quarter into a box and then pushing a fucking button? For some reason, that just doesn't quite seem like the right way to pay respects or send off some kind of "prayer." So Dad, I know there's no one relaying messages to you or anything but you should know that you were thought of and to prove it, there's a church somewhere with little light bulbs lit, just for you.

Ahh how I love the sweet bliss of ignorance...

SiMpLy CuRiOuS gIrL

Fatal Attraction

Before you decide if you're in love with someone, it's extremely important to know if you're pursuing said person, or merely stalking them. One of these options is all charming, and makes your tummy flutter, while the other is pretty scary, and makes your tummy drop to that lower part of your spine reserved solely for your kidneys.

Now there is definitely a fine line... Some might consider Romeo a stalker, and he sure has hell had some stalkeresque qualities, but there was a mutual attraction there, and sometimes, that's the bottom line. If the love/lust, goes both ways, dive right in and go for it. If it doesn't, it might be time to reevaluate the way you approach your love, and decide if you've passed the dreamy boundary right into the creepy zone.

A checklist, If you will:

THE PHONE

The lover calls you to find out how your day went. He called to make sure your dentist appointment went OK. To see if you got the little note he slipped you. He calls to tell you that he misses you and thought about you during the day, and uh, by-the-way-have-you-lost-weight?

The stalker calls to find out if you saw him watching you today. He calls to find out why you didn't TELL him you had a dentist appointment and why you didn't ask for his opinion on a good dentist because he knows an excellent one and that's why you should marry him and have his babies...he calls to ask if you got the 5 letters that he left for you and the four he gave to your sister to give to you and the other three that he put on your windshield and the one that he left in your coat pocket...(how the hell did he get a note in your coat pocket?), he calls to tell you that he misses you and thought about you during the day, and uh, by-the-way-are-we-losing-each-other?

YOUR EMAIL

A lover sends you an email to say hi, honey. Miss you. On my way to the store? Need anything? love ya. xoxo

The stalker sends you an email to say, HI HONEY, MISS YOU!!! :( On my way to the bridge...will you stop me? I LOVE YOU!! XOXOXOXOXO!!!!!

THE MUSIC

The lover sends you music and will occasionally write you a song or two that's pretty awful, but you love it regardless...because you can hear his voice wobble just a little when he gets to the part about sleeping warm and nestled in your arms.

The stalker will compose hand-written lyrics and tape them to your front door...some that he made up and others he scraped together from somewhere else. He'll write you songs, too, and you hear his voice wobble a little bit too, when he gets to the part about breathing in your last breath...

The lover's music selections for you are probably going to be "Everlong" by Foo Fighters, "So Happy Together by The Turtles and Crazy for You by Madonna.

The stalker's selection will be: No one Else by Weezer, Walking after you, by Foo Fighters, and Right here Waiting by Richard Marx.


YOUR FAMILY

The Lover is genuinely interested in your family and is nice and respectful when he meets them. They ask about him when he's not around and ask how he's doing.

The stalker is interested in an invitation to the next family picnic or reunion. They ask about when said person is talking them to Six Flags again.

THE DOORBELL

The lover: One ring

The stalker: Thirteen. Just to make sure you hear him.


YOUR EXES

The lover puffs up just a bit around exes, and makes sure that it's known that he's the head man in town. He threatens (but only in private) that he should kick their asses for what they did to you in the past.

The stalker kills ex and leaves his rotten carcass lying on your front porch like a cat leaves its kill. He's sitting next to him, all puffed up, looks up with bulging (but loving) eyes, and says,"Who wants a picnic?"


THE NICKNAMES

The lover calls you "Honey," "Sweetie," "Baby." or "Cutie."

The stalker calls you "Eternal Love," "Princess of my Underworld," "Master of my Dementia," or my personal favorite "Miss-Never-Call-Me-Back."


THEIR EXES

The lover refers to his ex-girlfriends as "Her," "The last one," or most of the time sometimes even "bitch."

The stalker refers to his ex-girlfriend(s) as "The one that got away," "The girl from Canada," or "Little Miss Runs Real Fast."



Please people. Don't be stalkers. Please. Don't encourage stalkers. If you stand outside the door and go,"I fucking mean it! Stop it! I'm gonna tell my new boyfriend and he'll be really, really mad....did I mention I'm gay?"(that's encouragement) Just tell him to scram then ignore him...trust me. They'll keep coming back just at the slightest touch of weakness. If you even look like you could be softening up because you feel bad for him and/or, you secretly kind of like the attention, you're only getting what you deserve.

Love is a very beautiful thing, and if done properly, the wooing process is the stuff that the best stories are made of. Stalker stories are only fun to tell during late night sleep overs, cookie dough sessions, campfires, or to get some guy to get the stalker off of your back.

Now, Simply Curious Girl, you ask, what on earth prompted this story? I'll tell you. Not that I haven't had my fair share of stalkers, because believe me...I have, but I watched the stupid, silly-ass movie, Play Misty for Me, last night, and I swear Clint Eastwood should've seen that bitch's stalkin' ass coming a mile away, and I don't want to perpetuate that kind of behavior.

On the day that Everyone's Irish!

So this is just a quick post to wish everyone a great big happy St. Patrick's day!

I can't say that I'm a heavy drinker, like most in my family. My sisters can raise a glass with the best of 'em and drink all night without passing out falling asleep. Even my Mom can guzzle handle her booze, when she chooses to drink. I, on the other hand, am a total sissy lightweight. If my father wasn't already dead, those few words would've probably dropped him dead on the very spot where he stood.


Whatever the case may be, I'm still Irish and proud, and this is the one night of the year, other than of course, my birthday, where I'll have a few with family; drink and be merry.

Everyone is Irish on St. Patty's Day! So raise a glass and Sláinte!

Dare I say It?

I suppose I should start this post off with a little bit of explanation. I haven't been posting very often for the past month and yes, there's a reason. Not to worry, I haven't run away and joined the circus (yet) or dyed my hair purple and electric green, shaved half of it off and tattooed the anarchy symbol on my forehead to join some crazy cult in the depths of the tunnels of Paris.

Everyone has their own lame special reason for blogging. Some people are extremely funny (or think they are) and choose to share that with the world. Some people are constantly whining (those have to be the worst types of blogs and I avoid them at all cost). Some people are emotional and needy. Some write blogs so that they can keep their friends and or family posted on the happenings going on in their lives, while others start one just to be able to write about things that are meant to be kept secret from them. My blog varies.

When I first started writing, it was a place for me. A place to sort of rant and write. A place to hide from the world and be able to speak completely freely. My little diary. I had no idea I would accumulate readers, or that people would actually give a shit about what I had to say. I honestly didn't care if people noticed it or didn't, because I meant it when I said this was meant to just be a place for me to write whatever I felt like. I've been keeping journals since I was a preteen, so when I wandered into blog world, I was fascinated by how many other people opened up their lives for the world to take a peek in, and I thought "Eh, what the hell. Why not?" I like the idea of people peeking into my diary and giving me their opinions and feedback.

Not too many of you have been reading my blog since the beginning, but most of you have been reading it long enough to know a lot about me. I'm not a girl that's easily summed up in 100 words or less. I guess if I had to give a quick summary of myself, I wouldn't be able to, so I'm not even going to pretend to try. I do know that it's hard to reach my heart. Well, not extremely hard to reach it, but extremely hard to penetrate the wall that I've built so strongly around it. Many have tried and many have failed. I'm starting to sort of ramble and I'm sure you're wondering what any of this has to do with why the hell I've been missing. Maybe you've already put it together... But let me quickly run back to what I mentioned before. This blog is pretty much a place where I write about what's on my mind. Obviously something has been on my mind so much that I haven't been able to write about anything else at all... So let me take a deep breath a kind of just let it out so I can get on with my normal writing and stop feeling like I'm holding back on a huge chunk of my life. The only reason I haven't written about it is because I was afraid of judgment and what people would think. But you know what? Fuck it. I've never intentionally hurt or been mean to anyone in my entire life. Hopefully my karma is good enough at this point in my life that I won't have to regret speaking freely in a forum that's supposed to be friendly. Anyway, this is my diary. Right?

Simply Curious Girl has been bitten by a bug. Bitten. Smitten. And so it is written... I am completely and utterly in, dare I say it? No...can't... I have indeed become interested someone that has captured my heart. It's become difficult to concentrate on work, writing, and even sleeping. I spend countless hours sending instant messages, emails and talking on the phone. It's almost like being a middle school girl, all over again. I get the butterflies in my stomach that make me have to catch my breath, and an electric surge that rushes through my veins when we speak. When I wake up in the morning, I rush to my phone and send a text message saying "good morning" and I talk on the phone every night until my eyes sag and grow so heavy that I can't keep them open anymore. My family watches me giggle on the phone and twirl my hair while I bite my lower lip and grin, talking for hours on end. "You hang up first." "No, you." "I'm not hanging up until you do..." "Well, I'm not hanging up..." "Come on I have to get up early tomorrow!" "So hang up!" "You first..." Ah. I do believe I'm hopelessly in... Dare I say it?

Too Cute to be Straight?

First off, I would like to say that I have a really hard time spelling the word "February." I constantly want to spell it "Februrary." And every once in a while my brain does so much of that "You know there's that 'r' in there you always fuck up," that I actually spell it "Februruary." I also have problems with the words, colonel (big thanks to colonel colonel for teaching me to spell it correctly), restaurant, exercise, conscientious, and vacuum. Needless to say, I'm very excited (another word I tend to spell wrong) that this month is about to end. I'm tired of writing the word and misspelling it.



Does anyone remember when Jerry Falwell proclaimed that Tinky Winky, one of the Teletubbies, was gay? Now, there are many things that could be discussed here, such as the fact that Tinky Winky is fictional, and that Tinky Winky doesn't have any genitals and that Tinky Winky appears to have the same kind of affection for both the male and female Teletubbies, who appear to be rather androgynous anyway-- but instead I want to talk about all of this "exposing children to evil."

Falwell said that because Tinky Winky carries a purse (or "magic bag" or whatever you want to call it), is purple, and has his antenna shaped like a triangle, that these "subtle depictions" are "no doubt intentional." He went on to say in statements, that, "As a Christian, I feel that role modeling the gay lifestyle is damaging to the moral lives of children."



If anyone understands being gay in the most purest terms, it's probably children!

When I was younger I lived in San Francisco, California. I had two friends who were a year or two older than me, who lived together. They were best friends who got to live together. I thought that was the coolest damn thing in the world. When I asked how they got to do that, they explained that their dads were best friends, and when their moms divorced their dads, their dads moved in together. It made sense to me, just fine. Rent is cheaper that way, after all, right? Plus their house smelled amazing and their dads looked like Darryl Hall and John Oates, and there was nothing cooler than that, to me.

One night I spent the night at their house. They sat me down and told me that they had something very important to tell me. The looks on their faces were pretty serious and so I nodded and my eyes bulged. They said, "Our dads are gay." I really had no idea what that meant, but it sounded really important, so I tried to play it off cool.

"Oh, yeah, really?" (see how cool I was?)

"You don't know what that means, do you?" One of them asked me.

"Uh huhhh... I do." (I didn't, and they could tell, so they proceeded to explain.)

"They live together because they want to live together. They love each other," the other explained.

And here I thought that was the coolest thing in the world. Because their moms didn't love their dads anymore, they loved each other. Now that I'm older, I'm pretty sure that the moms left once they found out the dads loved each other, but at the time it seemed so simple. So logical.

"Everyone needs a best friend," I said to them.

"They have sex," one of them spat out. I could tell that they had lost plenty of friendships over this, and they were ready for me to leave, too.

"Well, duh. That's what grown-ups do when they love each other," I said. "I do have cable, you know."

And that was all I thought about it. I don't think that their dads "damaged" my "moral life" in any way.

Children don't assume people are "evil." It's when they see their parents suck their teeth and shake their heads that they wonder what's different about those people. People just love to snicker and giggle about making puppets and children's icons have these "secret sexual lives." They turn Mr. Roger's Neighborhood into the Jerry Springer Show. Every time someone sees my Sesame Street books or my Grover cup some asshole has to start in with the, "You know Bert and Ernie are gaaaaaay, right?" You know what? Bert and Ernie live together because they are best friends. They're fucking puppets! They were seven years old! Maybe Bert was ten. Tops. Don't even give me the argument that they had adult voices, because when you were little, you didn't even give that a second thought.

Pooh is a bear and Piglet is a pig. They are also about six years old. Christopher Robin, who was the one making up the stories, was ten. They aren't giving each other blow jobs on the Hundred Acre Wood. They're fucking toys!

Why are all these freaks trying to ruin my childhood memories with sexual images?

Just let the children's shows do their jobs. Let them educate the youth. That's what they have degrees for.

Children start by looking at people just like they see themselves. Then they start to compare. It's when their parents tell them something is wrong that they question whether or not they should like someone.

I have a feeling I'm preaching to the choir, here, but for fuck's sake, is anyone else tired of this? Just people stretching for any kind of conspiracy theory that leads to the boycott of yet another thing that could possibly bring joy into a child's life! They have to make their own decisions, sometime. They have to learn about the world and people in it. Wouldn't it be simpler to have your child see a man in a gay pride parade and say, "Is that man carrying a purse like you do, Mommy?" And when you say yes he says, "Oh, just like Tinky Winky!" And that's it. There's no need to explain fetishes or gender issues until the child is older and can understand such a complex discussion. Everyone. Is. Different.

I started reading Stephen King books when I was eight. I read Lord of the Flies at ten. If you had kept me sheltered, I would never have been as intelligent and literate as I am. Because when does the sheltering stop?

Kids just want someone there to answer their questions. They are able to rationalize all sorts of things. But who knows? Maybe if Prince had seen Tinky Winky sooner he wouldn't wear so much purple. Getting my Prince cassette taken from me as a child for asking why Nikki* was masturbating with a magazine, and "wouldn't that hurt?" is a different story for a different time.


*couldn't find the song, so I could only link to lyrics, but I'm sure most of you know it)

Whisper it in my Ear

I'm not quite sure how to word this post, which is very rarely a problem for me. Usually my problem is having so many different ways to say something, that I struggle with which way sounds the best, or which way people will be able to relate to. So I'm going to keep this post fairly short and sweet. I only want to ask a simple question, that might not be all that simple to answer.

If you had to choose a song. One song. A song to sum up you. A song to sum up your life. Your theme song per-say. What would that song be? I'd love to hear what song and why.

Freebird, by Lynyrd Skynyrd is mine.



Wow...I think this is the shortest post I've ever written...



P.S. I know nothing about Final Fantasy, but this was one of the few decent, clear videos with a high quality version of the song.

I didn't Escape. I Have a Day pass!

I used to have this really cool boyfriend. When I say cool, I mean, willing to experiment. Not only willing to experiment, but willing to do pretty much what I asked for or needed.

I'm not quite sure what made my our hearts desire this special book I'm about to tell you about, but we ended up with it, anyway. The first page of the book warns that if you're absolutely satisfied in your love life, than then this book wasn't for you. I wish I had known that a little earlier, but since the book was sealed when I bought it, there was no going back.



The book came with a series of sealed envelopes. Half of the envelopes "For Her Eyes Only" and the other half "For His Eyes Only." You're supposed to sit together and pick an envelope every week to later be opened in private. This was you knew at some point during the week, you'd be surprised with some random, romantic, sex act.

My first envelope was called "Fantasies of the Orient" and involved honey and tea. Strictly following the instructions, I made a pot of green tea with a hint of ginseng (supposed to be an aphrodisiac?), draped a black blanket over our futon, and made my boyfriend take off all of his clothes. Acting like I wasn't allowed to utter a word, I pushed him back on to the blanket, poured honey on the inside of his leg, and the proceeded to lick it off. Then I was supposed to put the tea into my mouth and let it hit his skin through my lips as I kissed him. Yes, it's as hard and complicated as it sounds. First I scalded his neck and then I burned the inside of his elbow. Soon my tongue was aching terribly from the near boiling liquid, but since I wasn't allowed to speak, I just quietly sobbed on his stomach as I got sick from too much honey, and I couldn't eat anything for the next two days or so.

We decided it was just a bunk envelope and admittedly, as well as embarrassingly, tried again. The next envelope was called "Treasure Trail" (shut up) and it instructed me to cut out paper outlines of my feet to make a trail from the door to my chosen "hiding place," where I was supposed to "pounce" on my "mate."

Just a quick note: the only time you ever hear hear a boyfriend, girlfriend, husband or wife, described as a "mate" is when you're reading some kind of sex-help book, or listening to Doctor Ruth on the radio. Mate has to be one of the most un-fucking-sexy words. Besides tuna. Well, tuna, and uvula. Those are the three unsexiest words. But the last two are hardly found tucked away neatly in the pages of Cosmo or Playboy, now are they?

While making the little cutouts, the little voice inside of me muttered, What the hell are you doing here? How old are you? I used my special glitter crayons to make the feet sparkle and say funny things. It really does take a long time to trace, cut, and color little cutesy feet to tape all the way from your front door to your hiding spot. Plus the card said I should make them go in and out of several rooms in the house...We had a two bedroom apartment, so I had the feet go into the bathroom, out of the bathroom, into one of the bedrooms (a storage room/office), out of that room, up the wall and around the corner on the ceiling, down into the closet. Just a little Lionel Ritchie in there to get him motivated.


So I'm sitting in the closet, waiting for my dumb, damn darling, boyfriend to get home from work, and I'm thinking, Fuck, I hope he doesn't go out for a drink after work or something. He better just come home on time. I wonder what kind of idiot I look like in here. Ow. Shit. I'm sitting on a high heel. (Maybe I should be wearing these.) I'm thirsty. Maybe I'll just run and grab something to drink. No, no. I can't go out there, because what if he comes home and sees that I'm standing in a trail of my own damn glittery toes? This just isn't sexy. This. Isn't. Even. Cute. This, my friends, was solitary confinement.


He did come home. Late. Of course. And apparently he didn't even notice the new sparkly trail of feet installed on our almost white carpeting. I heard him call out,"Hello? Baby? Where are you?" I didn't know if I was supposed to answer or not. The book didn't leave me instructions for when if he missed the giant clues that were as bright as those flashing arrows that led to strip joints. Shouldn't these special circumstances for stupid special couples such as us, be covered? I heard the refrigerator door open and close. The TV snapped on and the sounds of a basketball game filled the apartment. Unbelievable. He wasn't even going to notice. What if in three or four hours he finally decided to do something about it? What would I do if he called the police to file a missing person report or something, and they came in, followed the purple paper trail, and found me asleep in the closet cradling a tin of Altoids, and an empty bottle of water, wearing nothing but my panties?

I panicked a little, making noises that were a combination of whimpers and shrieks until I heard him get off of the couch. When he finally found me, seven minutes and 37 seconds later, he looked at me with a face that read,"Hello. Did you get lost or something? Do I need to call a psychiatric ward ambulance? Do you still understand English?" Then he smirked and laughed through his nose, before bursting into full-on laughter, and then it hit me that this book was making a complete and utter moron out of me.

His assignment that week focused on kissing. That was fun.

I pulled out my third assignment. I was supposed to make a sex game creating two sets of cards. One with body parts listed on them and the other with verbs. I tried all week, but I just kept wondering what would happen if he pulled the two cards that said "Thrust!" and "Ear!"

I absolutely refused to do my next assignment as well, where I had to "innocently" take him to a miniature golf course (because we put-put all the time?). I was supposed to go to the bathroom, take off my panties, wrap them around the golf ball, and hand them to him. Can you imagine that?!? I'm sure he'd say,"Uh...S, what the hell...?"(in a nice loud tone) And everyone would look up to see my panties on hole nine. Besides, there are fucking kids on these mini golf courses, mostly due to the fact that miniature golf is supposed to be for eight and nine year olds.

The only thing I liked about this book was while planning the fucking ridiculous things, I thought about my boyfriend. I liked thinking that week that there was going to be some kind of special surprise for me. But in general, the two of us could be a hell of a lot more creative than that book, which still sits in my bedroom by the way. Mocking me. Feeling like a dork is a really, really bad way to spice up your sex life. And come on, do you really want me showing my naked ass to innocent children, golfing? Put, put, put.

Happy Valentines Day, kiddies!

Infinite X's and O's,

Simply Curious Girl