About a year before I had my son, I met a girl. So many adjectives could be found to talk about her, but the first that come to mind are smart, voluptuous, sexy…and she had the softest, prettiest voice I’ve ever heard from a grown woman.

Although we were older, we met in college and we worked as college student leaders in the political arena, but really it felt more like sorority life and slumber parties sometimes.

For about a year, we came as a pair most of the time. Boys followed us around hoping to get in on the action and other girls were drawn to us because we had such sparkling chemistry, both as individual women and especially when we were in the same room. We weren’t elitist, so as long as people weren’t bitches, we let them be a part of our party.

We shared one boy, and he didn’t seem to mind if he ended up with her or me or both of us on our monthly conferences. He totally understood that it was our decision, not his. Although he couldn’t mask his disappointment on the occasions that we decided that he got neither of us because we wanted to be alone.

We used to steal away from the group any way that we could, whether it involved pretending to go talk business or conning some boy out of his hotel room key (we had one boy that thought we went to his room so that we could rifle through his belongings, hahaha…not even close).

She had the steadiest hands. Surgeon hands, and for many other reasons she would have made an excellent doctor.

She liked to pour wine on me and lick it off. I swear, she never got a drop of wine on any bed, and it was a great feeling. Her concentration and enjoyment drove me crazy (yes, in the really, really good way). We would drink wine out of each other’s mouths while our hands roamed free all over each other. Once, in a D.C nightclub, she made about 20 people kiss me on the mouth because she just loved it so much and wanted to advertise it. She’s probably the closest I’ve ever felt to being addicted to another human being, we couldn’t get enough of each other.

She wasn’t my first, or last, experience with girl sex, but she was by far the one that lasted the longest and gave me the best memories. After about 6 months, she went back to the boyfriend she moved to Minnesota for and he decided that she wasn’t going to see any of us.

I often wonder where and how she is today…

It’s like a badly made mixed drink, something a teenager would make, throw in some of this bitter, some of that frustration, a dash of I wish I could punch you, a finger’s length of what the fuck ever…and a few ice cubes made from tears.

Have you ever sat there and watched someone’s story play out and you want to say, “stop, that’s not how it really was”? Yet, it just keeps playing. Like The English Patient. The critics thought is was grand, but it was bland and torturous for anyone with half a mind to stay awake.

I’ve been so annoyed lately. It’s made me cranky and on edge and snappy. I know exactly what my problem is, but I don’t really feel like talking about it. Yet.

I need a new bath partner.

And more coffee.

That’s all.

See you next Tuesday!

Missi

I’ve started the same post like 14 times…it’s just bugging, bugging, bugging me. I don’t know if I’m relieved or pissed off or annoyed or pouting or snarling or escaping or coming or going.

I’m all pent up and it’s not working to write it out.

Craptastic, gawd dang it, frick and frack and fuck and grrr and argh and eeeeek…upside down, backwards, screwed up, inside out, bent out of shape, messy, ugly, wanna smack someone, exorcist head spinning.

Stomp, stomp, stomp.

That’s how I feel right this minute.

See you next Tuesday!

Missi

It’s the one day a year where I don’t have to choose between orgasms and cake.

I have a stageplay porch, little girl dreams and big girl real life problems.

I still believe in my ability to kiss frogs and the fact that one of these times, one of them will turn into Prince Charming. Of course, the ones that don’t make the grade get fried up into a breaded delicacy.

While my hair gets longer and longer, I won’t be throwing it down the side of the castle any time soon. Instead, I’d rather the Prince grab a handful in a fit of passion for her loveliness, yours truly.

Long since demolished is the idea of the glass slipper. They’re simply not practical and contrary to any belief, they really do not go with everything.

Once in awhile, I may morph into a wicked queen, devastating and cunning, but really I’m more like the girl on Shrek, you just have to get past the outside.

If I cut myself sewing, I’ll simply use a tissue to wipe it off. You won’t kill me with an apple because I don’t like them anyways. My Taurus won’t turn into a pumpkin at midnight (although most days I wish that it would).

So yeah, reality says that I’m not a princess. Well, I never really looked that good in pastels anyways, right?

I have to go slay dragons now and smoke a cigarette on my stageplay porch.

Maybe, just maybe…

I’ll catch a frog.

And eat it.

For my birthday this year, I would like the following things:

1. If someone could just kill Melissa Gilbert… This would accomplish two things, first being me getting a leg up in the celebrity death pool, and, second, it would get rid of the image of my mom saying, “oh but it’s such a pretty name, like those girls on Little House on the Prairie…” Yeah, whatever. And for the record, I actually like Stevie Nicks, but dead musicians seem to be so much more interesting on E-television news and other such bullshit.

2. A 4 hour bath…just sounds lovely.

3. To be with my friends. They might be a bunch of whack jobs, but they’re MY whack jobs.

4. I would like to know if you can make jello shots with wine, and actually, I would like a whole jello mold of this, not just a million little stupid cups. I don’t need to look sexy while doing it, I just want the damn jello.

5. A day off from work that has nothing to do with god-forsaken snow.

6. Coffee, because I want this everyday but I want a lot more on my birthday.

7. To be a size 8. Sigh…ok, maybe on my 37th birthday…

8. Sex and a standing ovation. Wait, I give this to myself every weekend. Nevermind.

9. Lottery tickets. At least I’ll be in a better mood BEFORE I scratch them off.

10. Carrot cake. Beats chocolate any day of the year.

11. Something wrapped in a pretty box. No, this is NOT the same as number 8.

12. (insert something later) And that doesn’t have anything to do with number 8 EITHER, you perverts.

See you next Tuesday!

Missi

I missed my leaving work and going to the store mark by maybe a half hour. Because of this, it took me over an hour to drive about 9 miles, I almost threw up on myself, cried a little, put the ass end of my car into the snowbank on more than one occassion, made up some new swear words and I’m still shaking.I’m not kidding when I say I honestly thought that I might die tonight.

I can drive in snow, for crap’s sakes, I grew up in MINNESOTA and I’ve also lived in ALASKA.

But little, redneck, population 492, Seven Valleys, Pennsylvania has officially kicked my ass.

It wins.

We’re in between Baltimore, MD and Harrisburg, PA and just slightly to the left. This past weekend we got about 2 feet of snow and now were set to get another one. I live in a valley (hey, you’d be surprised, given the town name, how many people have actually said “is it really in a valley?” What?!?), so I’m pretty much in the bottom throes of Hell when it comes to bad weather. It’s like a laundry shoot, but with homes.

This is 3 days ago:

Seriously, where the hell is another foot of snow going to go?!?!

I haven’t seen snow like this since I was a little kid and lived in Duluth, Minnesota. Lake effect snow, it came up to our shoulders sometimes.

Since Pennsylvania has about 3 lakes in the whole damn place, we’ll just call this the You’re Absolutely Screwed Effect Snow, or YASES. That even sounds like a made up redneck word.

Ok, so when I’m done shaking, perhaps I’ll enjoy my own company, start dating myself, blog about it and, who knows, I could even start drinking. But right now, don’t touch me or I’ll cry.

See you next Tuesday!

Missi

Before the birth of SWG, 4 years ago, I briefly had another blog that I had to get rid of because some shit hacker decided to, well I don’t even really remember what he did, just that it was stupid and unfriendly and involved passwords and a whole lot of naive on my part.

Half of what I was crabbing about at the time were these stupid work guys, so, when it came time to murder and rebirth myself, I decided that I might as well make fun of my own self as much as I did them, because, hey, it wasn’t entirely their fault that I liked/dated/lusted after/made out with/whatever them, right?

Of course, now I know so much better. It was ENTIRELY their fault. Because I say so.

You know that they were numbered and to this day, in my head, their faces go along with #1, #2, etc.

It was this notion that the stupid work girl was born from. Eventually she stopped pissing and moaning about those particular guys and she just became, well, me.

All the ridiculousness is now just me, save room for my multiple personalities; the mom, the poet, the sex goddess, the bitch, the borderline genius, the runaway girlfriend, the witch, the wicked, the liberal, dragon slaying, heart on my sleeve, to hell with you, and your little dog too, cunt I am today.

But what about the stupid work girl? Does she still exist?

Well, she made her way back to you and fuck if she isn’t the most boring girl I’ve ever met…

She meets these boys, at work, and because nicknames are so much more fun than numbers, we’ll call them Hasselbeck and Eye Candy. They actually have nothing to do with each other except that they work in the same department. Thank Gawd I don’t work in that department, I wouldn’t get anything done sitting in a meeting with these two.

Anyways, Hasselbeck is a decent intellectual match for SWG, and she has been known to completely melt over smart boys. He’s also quite funny, so she overlooks that he’s a bit defensive and snotty in the ways of girls. Gossip has it that he’s eternally single and that he whines. SWG has never heard him whine like this, but it was a trusted source and it explains the single thing. Of course, she does what she does and says whatever she wants so she let him know that she was a bit interested. Of course, guess what? She does this and he’s not single (ok, guess whatever you want, but this is one of those times that I think to myself, “ok, so I might be an idiot, but I’m not an idiot…whatever, stupid”)

And what does she do about this?

NOTHING. She says, “oh, ok, whatever…” Ok, so that is not exactly what she said because she’s a lot more creative than that, but still…nada.

Then she meets Eye Candy. This guy’s pictures don’t do him justice, well, probably because in most of them he looks like that frat boy that we tried to avoid in college. But in person, he’s the guy that looks at you with a strange suspicious look and it’s this precise look that makes you snap out of it and wonder just how long you’ve been staring at him. Add to this that he’s outspoken, likes cuss words, is learning how to drink wine and is a very nice conversationalist.

And do you know what she does?! She drinks wine with him, chats and laughs and then she massages his pretty back (actually a favorite of mine and quite nice to do to the guy that doesn’t automatically think that it’s the first game on the “I’m going to fuck you later” carnival strip). And then after he expresses NUMEROUS times that she is in the wrong profession, and judging by his sleepy look and langid sighs he meant it, he goes home.

End of story.

No pining, no unsent love letters, saving all her self high fives just for herself, no artistry, no OCD, no girl paranoia (ok, well maybe just a teaspoon of that), no crushing, NO NOTHING.

Who the hell is this girl, anyways?!?!

Oh wait…

See you next Tuesday!

Filed under the category of: What the fuck was I thinking?! Ok, so a lot of my stories (probably most) are in that category…but whatever.

Some time ago (not anytime recent) I met a man online who was from Tennessee. The debate on online dating isn’t the point of this story, and there’s certainly no arguing that the guy was a total loser, so why not just let yourself be entertained by my stupidity?

So, Tennessee. Nashville, to be precise.

He was a charmer, this one, and he charmed me right into being an idiot. Every single day for about two months I listened to him, and his pretty southern drawl calling me things like “darling” and (I am not kidding) “pudding cup”, talk to me about, well, me. I’m a self-proclaimed narcissist, so of course me is my most favorite subject, and I love to think that I’m all complex and complicated so there are many varieties of the me conversation that I can have. Really, it’s endless…

He wasn’t incredibly bright, as a smart girl it didn’t take me long to learn that. But I didn’t care because, see above, almost all of our conversations were about yours truly. How he figured out that that was the way in, that’s a mystery, but my only guess is that he had a lot of practice preying on girls to amuse himself. Being a highly intelligent girl that doesn’t much care what she looks like, I don’t normally require that whole full of shit compliment route that boys can usually get away with to get other girls to the point of wanting to sleep with them. No, that can come later, as far as I’m concerned.

If he’s going to see me naked (see: if I have actually made the decision that he’s going to see me naked) then he better well lay it on me like peanut butter, nice and thick and creamy. At that clothes-shedding point if I’m not the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, I’ll point him to the hand lotion in the bathroom, his new date.

But the build up for me is really about intellectual and mental stimulation. If you’re reading this and you’re stupid and I still slept with you, it was because I was bored and/or drunk, I promise. Of course, nothing mentally stimulates me more than talking openly about myself, as ridiculous and crazy that I am, and being responded to with some understanding and patience.

I found out later that he did this build up thing with several girls but that he actually chickened out and never met them in person.

Too bad he didn’t stick to that game with me.

No, he laid it on so thick that, I swear, I had visions of taking my clothes off at the airport the second I saw him. Of course, while these visions brought me to a happy place many a time, this is not something that I’ve ever actually accomplished in my life. Nope, no airport sex for this girl.

Honestly, the worst thing about writing about sex is that it is almost never as good in real life as I can write it. I’ve learned this so many times. But there’s still a big difference between the man that at least attempts the things he says he’s going to do, and the man that shouldn’t even be talking about anything related to a vagina because he has no clue what to do with one anyways.

I’ve met too drunk, too slow, too fast, way too fast, way, way too fast, too nervous, too full of himself, too touchy feeling, not touchy feely enough, not enough chemistry, yeah, I’ve pretty much met them all.

But too stupid? Okay, so I may, on occasion, not THAT often, fuck on the first date. It’s rare, and of course in this case, bear in mind that I’d been talking to this guy every single day for two months about girl/guy stuff.

Seriously though, I absolutely refuse to TEACH a guy how to fuck on the first date. It’s just not gonna happen. First time sex is supposed to be awkward, it’s messy, it’s SUPPOSED to be. You basically have two people naked in front of someone who they’ve never been naked with and then they’re going to try and forget about that to exchange bodily fluids? Yeah, messy, and rightfully so. But you do it, it’s done, and you can really get into it the second time. It’s the second time (third, if you feel like being patient) that’s going to determine if there are going to be more times.

When I picked him up at the airport, I hardly recognized him. With internet dating, you actually have to allow for a little bit of this type of thing. As a rule, he’s going to be about 75% of what he tells and shows her. This is normal.

Being completely different is not normal and actually very sleazy. I should have left him there, at the airport, but should have, could have, would have…did I? No. I let him take me out to dinner instead. He wasn’t talking about me anymore, and add this to the fact that it was hard for me to concentrate because every time I looked at him I couldn’t believe that he was the same guy that I had just spoken to that morning on the phone, I didn’t actually care too much what he was talking about.

While decently stupid, he knew enough to let me order enough wine over dinner to make him even remotely plausible as my lover. I’m no beauty queen, not much to look at at all, really, but I still have standards and in the case of a stupid lover, I’d better at least have wine.

It didn’t help.

After the 2^nd hit and miss later that night in the hotel, I was back to being sober and actually quite bored. It was like I had calculus between my legs and the guy didn’t make it past 8^th grade geometry.

Over the next couple days, I pushed him towards concentrating on tourism and trying to find subjects that we could actually speak about (out, away from the hotel). Mostly we settled on football. He didn’t appreciate my contempt for Kerry Collins (who is a racist butthole), but he still wanted to sleep with me so he laughed about it.

By the end of the weekend, I’d actually found a couple of endearing qualities about him. He liked that I could talk football with him and I liked that he could at least soap me up in the shower decently, mostly because it didn’t involve his fumbling efforts at actual sex.

I saw him once more after that weekend. About three months later, he invited me down to his house, and truthfully, this is a total girl problem, like the miracle of childbirth, we tend to forget over time that some man has been a total moron with our body, and we let him have another go at it. Don’t ask me why, I’m the idiot that did it, remember? So, I went to Nashville and it was just as bad and he was just as stupid.

Nashville itself was mildly interesting though.

Maybe some really patient Tennessee girl will explain to him exactly what to do with the vagina, maybe not. I’m just glad it’s not my problem.