After I got home from work last night and got all my comments on yesterday's blog, I went on a hunt for my high school diary. Ali Blah Blah suggested that I had actually written about the first time I rutted with my first love boyfriend of The Volvo Wagon fame as I suggested in yesterday's post. She imagined that my diary entry went something like this:
'dear diary, today we rutted for the first time, I was so excited, he wore blue.....'.
I must tell y'all, I found it and this is what it said:
Dear Diary,
I had so wanted to wait until the time was right and it would be special to pop Boyfriend's cherry. As that sort of thing goes, I really wish that it was more special and memorable when I had my first day in the saddle, but it wasn't special, more a task to get out of the way. Anyway, he had band practice tonight and his buddy, you know, 'Stoner Trust Fund Stinking Rich Kid - Part III' (ok, there were several of this animal in my youth) was having a party at his dad's place in Montecito. I wish it was at his beach house, because that would have made it more special, but it was just the house in the Village. Damn. So we were playing quarters with really bad beer. Milwaukee's Best. Again. And boyfriend asked me to go downstairs with him to use the bathroom. Honestly, I thought, he is so not a girl like that. What the hell has gotten into him. So I go downstairs, and we start fooling around in a dark room with laundry strewn across the bed. What does Boyfriend do, I ask you? What does he do? He starts taking off all our clothes. I resist at first because I could see where this was going and I have to tell you, the laundry strewn basement bedroom of Stoner Trust Fund Stinking Rich Kid - Part III is so not "special". But we were already past the point of no return so I went with it. I was so excited. I thought I was done with "inexperienced" boys, but that's what I get for falling for a younger . . . ahem . . . man. Thank God he was fully grown in the important parts. Yeah, it matters when you are young and don't have any compensatory moves. Amazing that boys don't always come out of their first sexual experiences totally damaged! So off he went pumping like a bunny until he started panting out "Here I go, here I go, here I go." I took that as a sign that he was about to fill me with sweet adolescent man boy juice. It was. And he did. And I had all I could do to keep from laughing out loud. I said to him, 'Here I go? Here I go? Here I go? Seriously.' He was sheepish and said that he didn't know what he was supposed to say or do but wanted to give me fair warning. Aww. Sweet. Being the kind nurturing type, I went upstairs and told everyone what had just happened and what he said. We laughed and laughed and laughed. Because I'm cruel, I think I'll be the girlfriend to him that gives a lot of blow jobs to make up for it. I wonder if he will appreciate that . . . So, Dear Diary, that is how I spent my St. Patrick's Day of 1988.
That was my first love, and the last time I kept track of my boyfriends. The sex got better and he started calling me Bunny. It's pretty funny to think about if you ever met me, because I am sooooo not a Bunny type of girl.
Thanks for the sweet blog anniversary wishes, y'all!
December 11, 2007
December 10, 2007
Let Her Eat Cake
Anniversaries do not matter that much to me. As I grow older, their value diminishes and consistently becomes more and more insignificant. Across the history of my life, I haven't kept track of the dates of significant events and life milestones.
I have celebrated one anniversary with a boyfriend, and that was because I was 19 years old and it was just a 'thing that you do' when you have a boyfriend. Once was enough. Since then I could not tell you exactly how long I've dated any of my ex boyfriends. I certainly couldn't tell you when we met or had our first date, kiss, or rut.
I've not bred. That is probably why I don't look at children as 7 month old, 23 month old or any month old. To me, they are pretty much, newborn until they are a year old. Then they turn two after another year has screamed by. I think that is about as much tracking as is necessary. Anything beyond that is tedious and obsessive, but appears to be the standard in parenting.
So last year, during NaBloPoMo I was inspired to start a blog. I was totally unprepared for anyone to ever look at it much less come back and leave comments. Imagine my surprise when a few of you good people added a link to my blog on your blogs. High compliment, yet I always figured that it was just a matter of time before you realized that I was a fraud and you deleted my link. Any time now, I'm sure I'll lose you all.
The point is, as I was burning through writing a post every day during the month of November, I thought, NaBloPoMo is almost over, pretty soon I will have been writing this blog for a year. So I carried on writing away and finally November came to an end and this lady had a moment to step back and breathe a little. I also took the time to look through my archives and see exactly when I began writing this here blog. Guess what: Consistent with the value I put on anniversaries, my one year mark came and went. I had cake in celebration last night.
Actually I was hung over from my company Christmas party, so I dove into comfort food to try and regain balance and clarity in my system. Sugar is good for that, right? It didn't fix anything really, but having cake for no good reason seemed appropriate.
I have celebrated one anniversary with a boyfriend, and that was because I was 19 years old and it was just a 'thing that you do' when you have a boyfriend. Once was enough. Since then I could not tell you exactly how long I've dated any of my ex boyfriends. I certainly couldn't tell you when we met or had our first date, kiss, or rut.
I've not bred. That is probably why I don't look at children as 7 month old, 23 month old or any month old. To me, they are pretty much, newborn until they are a year old. Then they turn two after another year has screamed by. I think that is about as much tracking as is necessary. Anything beyond that is tedious and obsessive, but appears to be the standard in parenting.
So last year, during NaBloPoMo I was inspired to start a blog. I was totally unprepared for anyone to ever look at it much less come back and leave comments. Imagine my surprise when a few of you good people added a link to my blog on your blogs. High compliment, yet I always figured that it was just a matter of time before you realized that I was a fraud and you deleted my link. Any time now, I'm sure I'll lose you all.
The point is, as I was burning through writing a post every day during the month of November, I thought, NaBloPoMo is almost over, pretty soon I will have been writing this blog for a year. So I carried on writing away and finally November came to an end and this lady had a moment to step back and breathe a little. I also took the time to look through my archives and see exactly when I began writing this here blog. Guess what: Consistent with the value I put on anniversaries, my one year mark came and went. I had cake in celebration last night.
Actually I was hung over from my company Christmas party, so I dove into comfort food to try and regain balance and clarity in my system. Sugar is good for that, right? It didn't fix anything really, but having cake for no good reason seemed appropriate.
December 5, 2007
Social Hell
I am not good at the professional mixers/networking cocktail parties. At all. My profession and station in life, however, requires that I attend these types of events regardless of the social anxiety they inflict upon me.
So.
Tonight I had to attend one of these events put on by the Environmental Business Council in downtown Boston. I was excited about going to a party in Town, but I also knew that it would involve a lot of smiling and nodding, talking to strangers as though I was actually interested in what they were blathering on about and swapping business cards. Gah!
When I arrived, my social anxiety kicked into full swing. I immediately sought out the bathroom so that I could escape the din of eager networkers rambling on about the services their companies provide and what new and exciting technologies they are applying in innovative ways too do fuck all to environmental problems. The secondary din was provided compliments of the lawyers. Theirs was a buzz of their own special jargon, discussing rifts and acquisitions and who is litigating who. Blek! By the way, several people at different times through the course of the evening encouraged me to go to law school because I was such a natural.
Oh please!
After escaping the throng of people that could not be traversed without touching someone (that is, shoving them to get past), I found a quiet balcony where I sent the following text message to some of my best mental health anchors. You know in case I went around the bend was hauled away by the white coat army, they can say the warning signs were there.
Social anxiety GAH!
I'm at a business holiday mixer with all the Bostonian environmental movers and shakers and I just want to puke and leave.
Here are the responses I received:
From my favorite hot shot Los Angeles publicist - Down a martini and show off some cleavage
Sound advice for many an uncomfortable situation.
From Sassy Sundry - I think I'm going to need to read about that!
Darlin', your wish is my command.
From Miss M of the 2007 Great Texas Adventure fame - Look for single dudes, or some other gal with a drink who is also bored. God, I hope there are drinks!
There were, but I held out and went for some straight scotch toward the end of the party. I didn't want to get myself juiced enough to get into trouble with the boss man.
I weathered it. It was ok. I sucked up to a client that I'd done a project for when I first moved to the east coast. I met a boy with a very firm grip and has hands that are comparable in size and girth to Andre the Giant's. I have a bonifide crush on him and think that I shall engage in filthy fantasies about him shortly.
G'night, y'all.
So.
Tonight I had to attend one of these events put on by the Environmental Business Council in downtown Boston. I was excited about going to a party in Town, but I also knew that it would involve a lot of smiling and nodding, talking to strangers as though I was actually interested in what they were blathering on about and swapping business cards. Gah!
When I arrived, my social anxiety kicked into full swing. I immediately sought out the bathroom so that I could escape the din of eager networkers rambling on about the services their companies provide and what new and exciting technologies they are applying in innovative ways too do fuck all to environmental problems. The secondary din was provided compliments of the lawyers. Theirs was a buzz of their own special jargon, discussing rifts and acquisitions and who is litigating who. Blek! By the way, several people at different times through the course of the evening encouraged me to go to law school because I was such a natural.
Oh please!
After escaping the throng of people that could not be traversed without touching someone (that is, shoving them to get past), I found a quiet balcony where I sent the following text message to some of my best mental health anchors. You know in case I went around the bend was hauled away by the white coat army, they can say the warning signs were there.
Social anxiety GAH!
I'm at a business holiday mixer with all the Bostonian environmental movers and shakers and I just want to puke and leave.
Here are the responses I received:
From my favorite hot shot Los Angeles publicist - Down a martini and show off some cleavage
Sound advice for many an uncomfortable situation.
From Sassy Sundry - I think I'm going to need to read about that!
Darlin', your wish is my command.
From Miss M of the 2007 Great Texas Adventure fame - Look for single dudes, or some other gal with a drink who is also bored. God, I hope there are drinks!
There were, but I held out and went for some straight scotch toward the end of the party. I didn't want to get myself juiced enough to get into trouble with the boss man.
I weathered it. It was ok. I sucked up to a client that I'd done a project for when I first moved to the east coast. I met a boy with a very firm grip and has hands that are comparable in size and girth to Andre the Giant's. I have a bonifide crush on him and think that I shall engage in filthy fantasies about him shortly.
G'night, y'all.
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