Talk dirty to me

For the record, yes, I realize I'm a one-trick pony with all the sex talk as of late. I can't help it -- I have sex on the brain. Anyway, someone got here by searching for talking dirty in bed and it got me thinking.

I've never been good at the dirty talk, and I've tried. I have made no less than three phone sex attempts in my lifetime, and all have ended in my hysterical laughter and humble apologies. You'd think I could pull off the dirty sex talk, what with the truck driver mouth I have, but no.

I briefly dated a guy who was all about the dirty talk. When we would talk about sex, he'd ask if maybe I could say something naughty next time around. I'd nervously agree, and then completely forget about it once we got naked. He'd offer up a gentle reminder in the moment, and I'd panic -- wracking my brain, trying to think of something dirty, trying to remember what all the hookers on that HBO documentary about Hunt's Point said to the guys in the cars -- then suddenly he'd be looking at me like why did you stop and I'd have to apologize for getting distracted, and I still wouldn't have any good material.

Maybe the problem is that the guys I usually date get horrified when I say words like cock and pussy in every day conversation -- I certainly don't want to freak them out in bed.

On British boys

Me: Did I tell you the hot British boy likes strap-on sex and also has a Mini Cooper? I think he's my soul mate.

The Roommate: Wow! You didn't know him when you were in London?

Me: Nope

The Roommate: He needs to introduce me to his friends. I'm sure ONE of them has to be hot and want a slutty American burlesque dancer.

Me: He says his friends are all hot. Do we need to take a trip?

The Roommate: Um, yes. But I need proof of hotness. I ain't trekking to England for Spotty McHarelip.

Me: And people wonder why foreign guys think American girls are hos.

The Roommate: Dude, I'm not a ho, I'm just selectively slutty about certain genres of men.

An email from my company's office manager

To all,

We have finally figured out why the office smells like low tide at Jones Beach and the situation has been resolved. It should smell better shortly.

Thanks and sorry for the inconvenience,
Allan

Much ado about MSG

I love my neighborhood to bits, but there's one thing that has caused me an incredible amount of anguish for the past five years -- the lack of good Chinese food. I live far enough away from Chinatown that I'm out of the delivery range, yet close enough that Chinese food establishments don't even bother to try.

So imagine my excitement when I learned that Frank, of Frank, Li'l Frankies and Supper was opening up a Chinese restuarant on Avenue B -- No. 1 Chinese. I've been dying to go. So Azee and I went, and it wasn't everything I thought it would be and more.

The waitress started by asking us if we had ever been there before, and when we said we hadn't, told us the specials and explained that they don't use any MSG. Sounded promising. We decided to order two appetizers and two entrees and share everything.

The appetizers were divine -- the best potstickers I ever had and eggplant stuffed with shrimp. Then the entrees came -- sesame beef and broccoli with ginger. All in all, kind of bland. Azee said at one point, I think I kinda miss the MSG. I agreed. Maybe my expectations were just too high. Oh well, it's still the best Chinese food in the East Village/Lower East Side.

After dinner, we decided to go to a place that has been the Biggest Mystery Ever to me -- Apocalypse Cafe on 3rd St. between A and B. I always pass it on the way to and from the gym, or to and from the grocery store, or to and from the liquor store -- whatever, I pass it a lot. And it's never open. So we ventured in. It's some kind of close-knit heavy metal bar, or at east it was tonight. $2 beers, AC/DC playing, people at the bar talking about Guns n' Roses figurines featuring Axl in his kilt -- it was a weird vibe. If it's ever open again, I'll check it out since we never made it to the lounge downstairs. Oh, and they have Creepy Clown Art, too.

Azee is one of the few people I can hang out with twice a week or more and never run out of things to talk about. Probably because once we get caught up with each other's everything, then we have to spend hours analyzing and obsessing over all of the stories we just got finished telling. Never underestimate the comfort of having friends that are as crazy as you are in the same exact ways.

My present is all mucked up in the past

I was positively delighted yesterday, when I realized that it had been nearly two weeks since I sent The Ex an email of the Dear-God-you-are-making-me-crazy-please-stop-sending-me-text-messages variety -- and no response had been received. It worked!

Then, last night I had a dream. In the dream I was engaged in various activities with various boys I know. Well, during the course of each separate activity, each boy would turn into The Ex. As you can imagine, this was all quite disturbing.

When I woke from the dream, I was tempted to send a text message that said I hate you, but then remembered that two weeks had gone by and the dreams would stop eventually. Just for the record, I'm scaring the shit out of myself with all this healthy decision making lately. I'll have to go have a sex marathon with Favorite Ex now to make up for it.

Cars from my past

Holly: Remember Mrs. F backing into that huge rock at camp? With Merv? [Merv was my first car. A grey 1986 Pontiac 6000 LE.]
Me: I miss Merv.
Holly: I do too.
Me: I miss Sylvia more, though.
Holly: Who was that?
Me: The Golf [White. 1989.]
Holly: Gulf you mean?
Me: No, it's VW Golf.
Me: Isn't it?
Me: Am I retarded?
Holly: I think you might be.
Holly: But I still love you.
Me: [One Google search and one IM later] It is Golf, you dork.
Holly: Well, what the hell do I know about cars? I don't even drive.

Maybe it's just my seating arrangement

I think I'd enjoy the daily grind a little more if I sat on Sheila's side of the office. I mean, evil IM-ing with my copyeditor is fun and all, but it ain't desk sports.

I'm beyond your peripheral vision, so you might wanna turn your head

I made an executive decision, Cindy says. We're going to see Ani Difranco at Carnegie Hall. I bought tickets.

Not many people can get away with executive decisions about my social activities, but aside from her horrible song selections when we Co-DJ'd at our college radio station, she makes pretty good choices. If Ani plays all of her new crap, though, Cindy's going down.

I saw Ani at the Palace Theater in Albany, when she was on tour for Little Plastic Castle. I was more excited about that show then I had ever been about a show, because I was actually going to hang out with Ani afterward. I was working for a Giant Evil Media Distribution Conglomerate at the time, and was friendly with the Righteous Babe Records guys. They scored us 5th row seats and invited us out to LuLu's, Ani's favorite wine bar in Albany, after the show. Since I basically worshipped her at the time, I was pretty psyched.

Are you going to hook up with Ani DiFranco? my boyfriend at the time nervously asked as I headed out the door. I assured him that no, I would not be spending the night with Ani (while secretly hoping I would be) and left.

The show rocked, and we found the Righteous Babe dudes after. They regretted to inform us that some crazy stalker fan had made death threats against Ani following her engagement announcement, and that her road manager wouldn't let her go out on the town, nor would they let strangers come back to the hotel. I was horribly disappointed. My boyfriend was ecstatic.

An obvious lack of creativity

My copyeditor at work decribed the crap I'm churning out here today at "utterly verveless," so I'm not even going to try. Here's one of those email surveys I decided to take and share the results with you, however dull they may be.

1. First Name: Jessica

2. Were you named after anyone? No, but my hippie mom wanted to spell my name Gessyka. Grams put the kibosh on that plan.

3. Which finger is your favorite? None, but I have a toe I'm partial to.

4. When did you last cry? Last night I got misty at the end of Mona Lisa Smile. Because I'm a sap and a half.

5. Do you like your handwriting? Yes. It's freakishly neat.

6. What is your favorite lunchmeat? Prosciutto

7. Any bad habits? Any I don't have? Smoking, drinking, pill-popping, junk food, boys that are bad for me…

8. What is your most embarrassing CD on the shelf? The Hanson Christmas album

9. If you were another person, would YOU be friends with you? Sure. If I paid me.

10. Are you a daredevil? I have my moments.

11. Have you ever told a secret you swore not to tell? Yes. I'm terrible with secrets.

12. Do looks matter? Not as much as brains and a sense of humor.

13. How do you release anger? I rant and rave here.

14. Where is your second home? Schenectady, NY

15. Do you trust others easily? Too easily, I'm afraid.

16. What was your favorite childhood toy? My Weebles circus

17. What class in school do you think is totally useless? I can't think of any class that's totally useless.

18. Do you have a journal? I have about 8.

19. Do you use sarcasm a lot? Nope. Never. Not even once.

20. Have you ever been in a mosh pit? Yes

21. What do you look for in a guy/girl? Smart, funny, geeky, cute, adventurous

22. Who is your favorite singer? Liz Phair

23. What are your nicknames? Jess, Red, Gramps used to call me "Princess Runningmouth" when I was little. Cindy liked to call me Firecrotch in college after I dyed my hair a particularly obnoxious shade of red.

24. Would you bungee jump? Yes

25. Do you untie your shoes when you take them off? Rarely

26. Do you think that you are strong? For the most part

27. What's your favorite ice cream flavor? Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough

28. Shoe size? 7.5

29. What are your favorite colors? Pink, red

30. What is your least favorite thing? Umbrellas in the snow

31. How many wisdom teeth do you have? None

32. How many people have a crush on you right now? I'd say anyone who comes here more than three times a day must have a raging crush on me. According to my calculations, there are least 15 of you.

33. Who do you miss most right now? I'm going to keep that one to myself, for once.

34. What color pants are you wearing? No pants. Dress. Red and Blue.

35. What are you listening to right now? Whining

36. Last thing you ate? Taco salad

37. If you were a crayon, what color would you be? Yellow

38. What is the weather like right now? Gorgeous

39. Last person you talked to on the phone? The bitchy receptionist at my doctor's office, who told me I'm not allowed to come in anymore because I rescheduled too many appointments.

40. The first thing you notice about the opposite sex? Eyes

41. Do you like the person who sent this to you? I adore both of them

42. How are you today? Tired and cranky

43. Favorite drink? Diet Lime Green Tea Snapple

44. Favorite alcoholic drink? Red wine.

45. Favorite sport? Baseball. Let's go Yankees!

46. Hair color? Red

47. Eye color? Hazel/Green

48. Do you wear contacts? No

49. Siblings? 1 younger sister, two younger brothers

50. Favorite month? September

51. Favorite food? Two cheeseburger value meal from McDonald's

52. Last movie you watched? Mona Lisa Smile

53. Favorite day of the year? The day after New Year's Day

54. Are you too shy to ask someone out? Never

55. Scary movies or happy endings? Scary movies

56. Summer or winter? Ugh, neither

57. Hugs or kisses? Kisses

58. Relationships or one-night stands? Relationships

59. Living arrangements? Awesome roommate and two bad kitties

60. What book(s) are you reading? Time Traveler's Wife

61. What's on your mouse pad? I don't have a mouse pad. Why the hell don't I have a mouse pad? I need a trip to the supply closet.

62. Favorite board game? Scrabble

63. What did you watch on TV last night? Mona Lisa Smile. Fuck, this is getting embarrassing.

64. Favorite smell? It's a toss-up between fresh laundry and bacon.

65. What is the first thing you think of when you wake up? How many times I can hit snooze before I really have to get up.

76. Most embarrassing moment? Walking through Times Square -- first day as a VH1 intern. A bunch of guys were yelling things at me and I caught sight of myself in a store window. My skirt was tucked up into the back of my jacket.

77. Favorite dessert? Not big on desserts.

78. Favorite animal? Cats.

79. Where do you see yourself 50 years from now? Dead, probably.

80. Money or love? Love.

81. If you could be someone famous who would it be? Maggie Estep

82. Being romantic: a walk on the beach or gifts? Buy me shit. Lots of it.

83. Swimming in the ocean or pool? Ocean.

84. Favorite swear word? Fuckwit

85. Giving or receiving? I'm going through a selfish phase. So receiving.

86. Do you learn from your mistakes? After the 5th or 6th time I make them. If I'm lucky.

No really, it's not my life. It's just another trashy romance novel.

You look so fucking adorable in that hat, he said.

He cocked his head to one side and examined her, trying to memorize her face in that moment -- a moment for another season, another subway station. Another couple.

One last kiss, she said.

Their lips brushed gently, sadly.

Good night, he said. She knew it was goodbye, and she knew he meant it.

She felt like a weight had been lifted off of her shoulders, and she knew, in that moment, she'd always miss it.

Phases of attraction

These days, I'm currently attracting nothing but Asian men. If you look at the messages in my inbox on Nerve, it's

Asian
Asian
Asian
Frat boy
Asian
Asian
Freak
Asian
Asian
Asian.

I know what you're thinking -- maybe the Nerve community is of a large Asian majority? Nope, I've checked. Also, the percentage of Asian men who check me out in real life is significantly higher than that of non-Asian men. By a lot. I'm not quite sure what it is about me that's making me such a hot piece of ass in the Asian community.

I tend to go through phases of attraction. For nearly two years, I was a chick magnet. I don't think I got hit on by a guy once during that period. I've never been sexually harassed to the degree that I was when I went to a Tori Amos concert somewhere during those years. Those ladies put construction workers to shame. If I actually liked girls, and I am frequently disappointed that I do not, I would have been getting laid like you wouldn't believe back then.

Then there were the astrological phases. Six months of Leos, Nine months of Aquarians and a few Aries in a row. It was weird. Not to mention the year of Mikes. And my guys-with-accents run.

I am waiting patiently for my tall, skinny rocker boys phase. Except, you know, not that patiently.

Edited to add: Should any of my upcoming rocker boys be Asian, I'm all for it.

She looks sweet and innocent, but...

Julia, on Hallmark gifts and Mother's day...

If my kids ever dream of getting me "the gift of motherhood" keepsake heart as a gift, they are out on the street.

A fruitful search

I went on a massive underwear expedition yesterday.

Ever since Canal Jeans went out of business because Soho, for whatever reason, needed a Bloomingdale's, I have had a devil of a time finding cheap (both inexpensive and slutty, just for the record), cute undergarments. Because of this, I have been sporting the most appaling array of cotton Christmas-themed and once-sexy-but-now-held-together-with-chicken-wire drawers. It was time to stock up in a big way.

I started at Conway, because it's right by the office and I figured I'd find something. Well, the bottoms were okay, the tops looked like something my Grandma would sport. Grams has good taste, but I need something with a little more oomph to drop the girls in.

Then I wandered in to Vicky's, and it was the usual Vicky's dilemma. First, not cheap (as in expensive and not slutty enough) and secondly, nothing in there fits me correctly. Every bra is either too big or too small, and there always seems to be air pockets or something in the undies. I've been known to buy garments to wear to a Cake party at Vicky's on occasion, but it's hardly every day stuff. I gave up there rather quickly.

Then I tried H&M. Score! Within 15 minutes, I had a mound of underwear to purchase. A mound, I tell you. I spent $100 on underwear there, and if you know how inexpensive H&M is, then you know how much underwear that is. And so cute!

My favorite moment was checkout. I put my mound down in front of the teenage boy working the register and he immediately put his head down and blushed. He stayed that way the whole time and mumbled, never maintaining eye contact. It was adorable.

After years of anguish, I now have a Canal Jeans replacement. I hope I've made someone else's underwear buying a little easier.

Memory lane

It's astonishingly easy to sleep with ex-boyfriends. It's comfortable. You can communicate things with one look that would send a stranger into days of analysis. They know where to touch you, where to kiss you. And, barring any other love interests in the picture, there's really never a good enough reason not to do it. Especially with the ones you genuinely like, and sometimes, even with the toxic bastards who made your heart bleed. Mine was with the former, and this morning I was reminded exactly why I've adored him all these years.

It's not going to happen, I said. Then he stops. I ask what he's doing and he says, Stopping. It's no fun without you.

Isn't that like the sweetest thing ever? Boys, I hope you're taking notes.

Unless you start making Rio Red Ginger again or make something new that resembles my head on fire, Clairol, you can't help me

Thank you for your inquiry regarding Natural Instincts Exotic®.

We have stopped manufacturing these products. Sometimes, when a product does not sell as well as we expect it to and the consumer interest in it declines, it is discontinued. Unfortunately, there weren't enough other consumers who shared your enthusiasm for it.

We are more than happy to assist you in the selection of a comparable product however, we need to gather more information concerning the hair.

We would like to encourage you to talk with one of our personal beauty consultants. They are thoroughly trained in all areas of hair care and hair coloring and can help you decide which products are suited for your hair type, explain step-by-step coloring procedures and answer your specific questions.

Please call our toll-free number to speak with a Consultant at 1-800-CLAIROL. Monday through Friday from 8:30 AM to 8:30 PM Saturday 9:00 AM to 6:00 PM, Eastern Time.

The Consumer Affairs Team

The roommate's famous

The roommate's featured in an article about the burlesque scene. She's even got a pic! I feel like the proud Mom of a nearly-naked girl.

In the gutter it shall stay

My copyeditor at work and I have a new pastime -- finding unintentional, subtly dirty content on the website we work for. Eventually, we may just start adding filthy things to already existing wholesome content, just for fun. Here are the first two we found...

Want to get more bang for your online dating buck?

From an article on sex during pregnancy: Think outside the box.

Don't call her Nelda

One of the Heathers, who I have been friends with ever since Miss Johnson's 6th grade Social Studies class, has a mother named Alice. Alice's middle name is Nelda, which is what I've called her for nearly 20 years. It is also what Heather called her. This morning, I received this email from Heather...

It is with great sadness that I bring you the following news:

My mother Alice, also known by many as NELDA, told me that her middle name was never NELDA. Turns out her mother told her that for some crazy reason when she was little and she believed her. Never seeing her birth certificate, she believed for many years that her middle name was NELDA.

Now, why did her mother tell her this? We have no idea. But, turns out her first name isn't even Alice either. Her real name is Marie Alice. Can you believe this news? She sent away for some kind of family tree thing and located her birth certificate somehow and the name on it reads....Marie Alice. She found out that every girl born in her family back then was named Marie after her grandmother. Well, needless to say, it became rather confusing when everyone's name was Marie so they started to call them by their middle names instead, which is where Alice came from.

So, yes her middle name is no longer NELDA. But, she will always be NELDA to me.

She'll always be Nelda to me, too.

Barbie AND Britney?!?!?! OMG!!!

* Catch their eyes while cruising around in Britney Spears' signature roller skate, exclusively by Skechers!

* Cool glimmer-trimmed mid-high upper featuring lace and velcro strap closure.

* Britney Spears' signature skates have been featured in American Cheerleader Jr., Teen en Espanol, J-14, Entertainment Weekly, Us Weekly and YM

* Like Britney, these Skechers' skates are hot, stylish, and fun!

Despite Shoebuy's laxer than lax shipping policy, which basically states "We might ship this sometime next week, but don't count on it," my Britney skates are rolling through the USPS as we speak. So when you see a little redheaded girl flying along the East River in her red Britney skates, and most likely falling and saying "ouch," it will be me.

Also on Britney, I watched E!'s 101 Starlicious Makeovers, and whilst watching a 16-year-old Britney in the Baby One More Time video could only think God, she's so hot. Does that make me a creepy pedophile?

The best birthday gift ever

My Barbie sewing machine arrived today. Azee is my hero. Coming soon -- blind cavefish bags!

A visit to The Bot

I recently received a little postcard in the mail from my gynecologist, informing me that it's time to come in and get a pap smear.

Now, I'm scattered and therefore thankful for the reminders, but does my Evil Mailman need to know that I must make an appointment to have my vagina checked out? I think my Doctor's name without mentioning that she is a gynecologist, and a note to call for a checkup, would suffice.

Anyway, my gynecologist is a brusque female German who speaks in a monotone. Hence, Susanna and I have taken to calling her The Bot.

I went in for my checkup today, and as always, was amused by the decorum. She talks to me for a minute, and then goes into her office and shuts the door while I step behind the curtain to disrobe and put on my blue hospital gown. I then knock on the door to let her know I'm ready, and she comes back in. Now really -- this woman has been staring into my vagina for about four years -- I would be perfectly comfortable simply dropping my pants and hopping up into the stirrups.

Anyway, she took a long look and told me something that no one's ever told me before, in her just-a-hint-of-a-German-accented monotone…

Your cervix looks very nice.

Crazy parents and famous kids

I have a new favorite show.

The roommate and I watched Showbiz Moms and Dads last night while we ate our weight in pasta. It's fascinating and enthralling. Sick and diabolical yes, but still.

The thing that's so amazing is how blasé the kids are about their respective child-star careers. And how those careers are spoken in "we" terms by the parents.

Some fucked up things the parents said...

[on her 8-year old child playing a victim of molestation] She's going to have to take on grittier roles if she wants to get anywhere.

[on her 4-year old beauty pageant contestant not being a morning person] Some parents give their kids those energy drinks, but I wouldn't do that to a four-year old. I mean, if she needs a couple of Pixie Sticks to get motivated, that's fine.

Pageant Mom was clearly the worst. She yelled at her daughter for crying because she didn't want to get her hair done, telling her her eyes would get puffy. She also called the judges assholes in front of her daughter several times.

The one image that really showed the whole theme of the show is Pageant Mom (who one cannot believe had any part in producing such a beautiful child) wearing her daughter's tiara and sash and pretending she just won a pageant herself.

I'm feeling a little guilty now about plotting to make my son, John Brown, the next Fancy Feast cat. I'll be sure to find out how he feels about it before I call an agent.

On activism

Me: I just emailed Clairol, because I can't find my hair color and it's killing me.

The Roommate: What do you think they might tell you?

Me: Probably that it's been discontinued

The Roommate: I mean, are you hoping to get them to restart production?

The Roommate: Maybe you could start a grassroots campaign to bring back Red #204.

The Roommate: Fuck this voter registration and anti-war stuff.

The Roommate: It's HAIRCOLOR that is the critical issue.

Me: I'll march at Clairol headquarters.

Me: You know, a lot of people are talking about my particular color in blogs, maybe we can start a petition.

The Roommate: They are?

Me: Yeah, a bunch.

Me: An excerpt: "My hair, as I believe I forgot to mention, is now Rio Red Ginger, courtesy of Clairol, and I love it."

The Roommate: And you're WORTH it.

Me: I just don't understand why Clairol would release a beautiful hair color like that, only to take it away. It's cruel and inhuman.

The Roommate: It's like clubbing a baby seal, really.

In the uterus of love, I'm envious of blind cavefish

The Pie sent me a NY Times article about the mating habits of blind cavefish. Since the female blind cavefish are, well, blind, they choose suitable mates based on size -- the bigger the better -- much like human mating (whoever she was, she was lying).

The article also says this...

"If you don't separate males and females, the females just die," [Martin]... Plath said. "Males constantly harass them. It's copulating, copulating, nothing but copulating and the females can't feed."

If I were a real blind cavefish, instead of a theoretical one, I'd be getting laid all the time and I could successfully avoid Doritos. I need to get on that.

On cosmetic surgery

Out of morbid curiosity, I tried to watch The Swan last night. After about 45 seconds, I had to turn it off. I think the saddest thing about that show is the beauty pageant. It's like saying to the losers, See? You got all this plastic surgery and you're still not pretty enough! Awful, awful show.

The girls and I were recently having a talk about plastic surgery. I was shocked to find out that no one's really opposed to it. I mean, we all think Botox is horrifying, but other things seem okay. I have two friends that want boob jobs, and one that's actually saving up for the procedure. There was a lot of, Oh, I'd do that but not that and whatnot.

At one point, I actually heard myself saying, I wouldn't get anything changed per se, but once things start to fall down and sag, I would maybe get them lifted. It's not really changing anything, more like restoring it. Yeah, who am I kidding?

Hangovers and young republicans

The roommate said to me this morning...

You know what's really awesome? Being hungover on a Monday morning!

I am not hungover on this particular Monday morning, but I was for the entire weekend. Except, you know, when I was drunk. I am so not a rock star anymore, apparently, because it hurt. A lot.

Cindy and Zee came down Saturday night, and the first thing Cindy says is, "We're raging." I haven't seen that girl rage like that since freshman year of college. After a lovely dinner at Cafe Orlin, we went up to Chris Noth-owned The Cutting Room, where we learned that if you are famous and you own a bar, it is perfectly acceptable to put a 20'x20' picture of yourself up on the wall. And that it's not at all obnoxious. Anyway, we saw Le Scandal, their Saturday night burlesque show. It was a great show, except for one act where a woman sang while assaulting herself, you know, down there with a knife. I know it was supposed to be Important and Meaningful and Powerful and Feminist, but really it was just kind of horrifying.

After burlesque, we walked a couple blocks over to Dusk where two 22 year old staunch republicans from Jersey immediately pounced on us. One was dressed like he was a member of the Squirrel Nut Zippers, one like he was from Menudo. They were amusing for a bit, and then Squirrel Nut Zipper guy got all creepy and date rapist-like, so Zee and I gave him a tongue-lashing and sent him on his way.

Because I have a bad habit of always ending the night at JP Wardes, we stopped in around 3:30 and the bartender said, Closing the bar two nights in a row? That's hardcore. Too hardcore for me, incidentally. And also for Cindy, who ended her night in true college freshman style, praying to the porcelain God.

Turning 29

I can still get away with pigtails, and for this I am very happy.

Had the 29th annual birthday bash last night at JP Warde's on Avenue A. I forgot how exhausting it is to have a birthday party. I wanted to be everywhere at once, talking to everyone at once. In the end, I felt like I didn't spend enough time with anyone. I did, however, have a smashing time. I have the best friends ever.

When my bedroom stopped spinning long enough for me to get up this morning, I noticed a bowl with a spoon in it on the table. Apparently, I ate something when I got home at...okay, I have no idea what time I got home, or how I got home. Damn that tequila. Anyway, I ate something, and I haven't the faintest idea what it was, but I bet it was gross. It's haunting me.

On Angsty, Inappropriate Crushes

The thing about Angsty, Inappropriate Crushes is that they are both Angsty and Inappropriate. If you let yourself fall for someone who is married or related to you, then it gets pretty Angsty and Inappropriate. And there isn't much of an outlet for Angsty, Inappropriate Crushes. Sometimes you tell the person who you have an Angsty, Inappropriate Crush on. Sometimes they tell you that, they too, have an Angsty, Inappropriate Crush on you. And really, that just makes it worse, because it's one thing to have an Angsty, Inappropriate Crush and it's another thing entirely to share an Angsty, Inappropriate Crush. Then it just sucks, or maybe I'm just bad at sharing.

I really can do it!

Turns out, sometimes I do think before I speak, but only at work.

Copyeditor (over IM): Trying to conceive? Find out the best time to try.

Copyeditor: Can you think of a way to avoid repeating "try" here?

Now, I typed "Find out the best time to fuck" and right before I hit send thought, Well, we're friends, but that might be going too far. I just sent him a link to an article with a "box" reference in it. Yeah, I'll refrain.

Me: Take the guesswork out of getting pregnant.

I hope the mean dog on 4 takes a bite out of your ass, Mr. Mailman

I hate my mailman.

I have never met him face-to-face, or even seen him in person. I could not pick him out of a line-up. But I assure you, WE ARE AT WAR.

My mailman knows that John Wysnewski hasn't lived in 5K for 5 years. He knows this because, for 5 years now, he continues to leave me his mail. I take it out of the mailbox and place it on top of the row of mailboxes, where it may join the other misplaced letters. One would think that would be the end of it, no?

No, because what the mailman does the next day is put it back in my mailbox! We do this for three consecutive days, after which I grab a black sharpie and write in the largest possible letters "DOESN'T LIVE HERE ANYMORE." We do this at least once a week. For five years.

We also do this with Maria Lopez' mail and mail addressed to the Mom of roommate #2 who moved out almost three years ago.

Sometimes I get a catalog addressed to roommate #2's mom, and it ends up back in my mailbox with "or current resident" circled in pen. For the variety of offenses he has committed against me over the years, that's a hair that, in my opinion, should not be split.

In an unprecedented, passive-aggressive move, my mailman has now started putting mail with no apartment number in my mailbox. This time, he's gone too far. He will not win.

Forget Boy Toy, I have a new position that needs to be filled

WANTED: Finger Breaker $$$

Frustrated ex-girlfriend seeks thug to break 10 fingers. These fingers belong to the ex-boyfriend. It is important that all 10 fingers be broken, as the purpose of said injury is to disable text-messaging abilities. Mercenaries welcome, but please note -- this job will only entail the breaking of fingers. Fee negotiable -- will pay more if you can guarantee long-term breakage.

The best Google search that has brought someone to my site in a long time

insane hookers with shaved eyebrows

On this day in history

Sometimes good things happen on April 15th, i.e. the birth of me. (How obnoxious am I today, by the way? If I were you, I'd smack me) Sometimes bad things happen, like the IRS bends you over and fucks you up the ass, sans lube. Here are some other things that have happened on this day in history:

The sinking of the Titanic (very bad)

Abe Lincoln died (very bad)

The first McDonald's opened up (very, very good - I celebrated with a #2 with a Diet Coke an hour ago)

Jackie Robinson played his first game (very good)

Joey Ramone died (very bad)

Leonardo da Vinci, Elizabeth Montgomery, Emma Thompson and Samantha Fox were born (naughty girls need love too)

Happy Birthday to me

Every day, I come here and try to make your lives a little better. To give you a smile, a pause. To let you know that whatever nutjob fantasies you may have, I share them. I don't do this for me, you know. I do it for you. I do it out of love.

So imagine my shock and displeasure when I woke this morning to find no presents from you. Does my contribution to your life mean so little? No daisies, even? No Buffy the Vampire Slayer season 4 on DVD? Or season 5? Or both, seeing as how if you purchase them together, today, at Amazon, you get 30% off? Didn't you know I only had up to season 3?

And you must know that Crisis is my new favorite band, and that they're re-releasing 8 Convulsions, their debut, and that you can preorder it now. And that I don't yet have Road Trip or Old School on DVD. And that there must be something out there that Chuck Palaniuk has written that I have yet to read. And where's my Hitachi Magic Fucking Wand???

I have to say, I'm a little disappointed. But I'll carry on, because that's what a little Cavefish does when she's crying inside. She carries on.

On celebrity zombies

Other people are much funnier than I am this week, so I'll share. By the way, I'm drafting up a privacy policy for the blog which states that, basically, you have none. Should you choose to interact with me in any way, any information you share then becomes my property to display to the public at large. Now that we've gotten that out of the way, a series of IMs from my roommate...

So I was just having a big argument with my friend Richard about if he were dating a zombie Dana Plato, whether or not she would keep decomposing.

My brother says no. I called him to check.

But he did say that zombies have no regenerative powers, so like, if he broke Zombie Dana Plato's arm it would stay broken.

See, not only do you get entertainment here, you also get to learn things. Important Zombie Things.

Holly asks more probing questions than my goddamn therapist

Her: Have you been thinking about him all the time?

Me: Not all the time. Often.

Her: Have you talked to him at all? Thought about him while masturbating?

Me: Oh. My. God. The questions you ask! No, I haven't talked to him.

Her: And the other?

Me: Shut up.

Zach is gullible

Sometimes my friend Zach takes a break from asking me what kind of underwear I'm wearing to discuss issues that are important to him. Like today.

Zach: Are you insane? James Van DerBeek for James Bond?

Me: Sarcasm just called and we totally made fun of you.

Zach: 8th grade called and they want their dis back.

No dessert for me, thanks -- I'm morbidly obese

They finally got accurate scales at my ghetto gym. Turns out I've been living under the delusion that I'm 10 pounds lighter than my actual weight. It also turns out I'm horribly overweight.

I spent the morning checking out those insidious height-weight calculators, which are mostly sponsored by diet companies, just so you know. Turns out I'm nearly 5 pounds heavier than the MAXIMUM weight someone with my height should be. When you factor in my small frame, I'm apparently a big fatty.

Now, this is not a "my butt is huge" rant. I'm not fat. I'm a size 8, for God's sake. In what universe is that fat?

Hey diet industry! Stop making us feel horrible about our bodies!

Bastards.

His name is so not Bond

Rumor has it, Pierce Brosnan is passing the Bond torch, and the following lads are being considered to fill his shoes:

Hugh Jackman

Colin Farrell

Orlando Bloom

Jude Law

Ewan McGregor

I don't know about you, but I think all of these choices are very, very bad. I'm not sure why I don't like Hugh Jackman for this, but I don't. Colin Farrell is a midget -- Bond can't be a midget. Orlando Bloom is like 12, and he's making a career out of The Importance of Being Earnest. Jude Law's receding hairline is putting a damper on the sexy. And Ewan McGregor, who I love to bits, just isn't conventionally good-looking enough.

My pick? James Van DerBeek.

Pretty face vs. Dutch Oven

I don't date hot guys.

I just don't. Several of my friends have remarked on this lately. I date cute guys, but never hot ones. I may sleep with a hot guy from time to time, but that's about it. I either don't take them seriously, or I know that the "real him" is going to be a disappointment.

Case in point - a conversation with my roommate.

Me: Did you know *Johnny Knoxville's real name is PJ Clapp? Ew.

The roommate: No way!

Me: OMG, and he has a daughter! Named Madison of all things.

The roommate: Well, there goes that - I can't date a single father.

Me: Yeah, never mind the fact that he lights his farts on fire.

The roommate: But he's soooooo hot.

Me: How hot will he be when you get a Dutch Oven every morning while he laughs like a 5 year old?

The roommate: Okay, good point.

Johnny, Bam -- you're very pretty. Very pretty indeed. Sometimes, you're even funny. But how someone could date you, ever, is beyond me.

*All Johnny Knoxville information was obtained at Fametracker.

Straight guys in the midst

When you work in an office comprised almost entirely of women and gay men, there is no bigger event than the appearance of a Cute Straight Guy. I've seen one around the office for weeks now -- he looks like he just rolled out of bed, in Seattle, sometime around 1993. I've made some attempts to figure out who he is, but to no avail. Sometimes, we run into one another at the coffee machine. I smile and hurriedly manage a weak "hi" before I have to flee for fear I will start blushing. Oh, and he doesn't look a day over 16.

I had the opportunity to discuss Cute Straight Guy with some of the other gals in the office. There was much excited chatter and speculation as to whether he's a full-timer, a consultant, a stray skateboarder from the street…suddenly, we all realized there are two Cute Straight Guys. Not nearly enough to bring happiness to the throng of single women in the office, but certainly better than just one. Who knows? More may be lurking elsewhere.

The best news? I'm the only one who thinks my Cute Straight Guy is cute -- the other ladies thinks he's a tad "rumpled." This improves my odds considerably.

Anyone who worked with me at my last job knows I'm not above dating a (several) coworker(s). Looks like I have some investigative work to do.

Bill O'Reilly, why won't you love me (sung to the tune of David Ducovny by Bree Sharp)

I recently got a fancy new cell phone, a teeny-tiny silver Motorola. Most exciting about this phone is the Get it Now! feature, which allows me to browse through hundreds of ringtones and download them to my phone. Yes, I'm a geek.

So far, I've downloaded the Buffy the Vampire Slayer theme song (which The Pie also has on her téléphone français) and Cannonball by the Breeders.

I got bored on my long, long bus ride up to Saratoga Springs and decided to look for something new. After getting incredibly excited about the Law & Order ringtone, I noticed a new category: Fox News. Fox News ringtones? I had to investigate.

It was just as I'd feared. The Fox News Channel theme, Fox Report theme, Hannity and Colmes theme, On the Record theme and last but not least, The O'Reilly Factor theme. Just for the record, there is no CNN category, no MSNBC category and no CSPAN category. Not even an ESPN. There are some shady dealings (and possibly devil pacts) going on over at Verizon Wireless, apparently.

On my mother

My mother has the most extraordinary ability to make me feel guilt with very little effort. An example:

I called her to make arrangements for my trip home this weekend. Friday night will be spent with my father, stepmother, sister and brothers in Saratoga. I have a hair appointment at noon on Saturday in Schenectady (I'm very particular about my hair and have only let Dana at The Corner Attraction touch it for the past 6 years), where my mother will be meeting me. I will spend the remainder of the day with Mom, including dinner, and then will go to Albany with my girlfriends, to celebrate the birthdays of myself, Kim, Marina and one of the Heathers. I'll sleep at Mom's Saturday, go to my Grandparents with her to celebrate Easter and will leave from there Sunday evening to take the train home.

Mom just called to let me know that Easter dinner will be at 2:00, because...

That way your Grandparents will at least get to spend some time with you before you have to head back. And now, suddenly, I'm quite certain I am the Worst Grandchild Ever.

Have you eaten already?

I may have a piercing or five, and I may get unnecessarily squeamish in response to anything eye-related, but this is the most vile thing I've ever seen. And furthermore, ew.

Read the article, if you think you can handle it.

Happy blogiversary to me

Since I'll be on a bus to Saratoga for, like, ever tomorrow, I'll post my anniversary post today. It's been exactly one year that I've been entertaining the likes of y'all, and it's been all sorts of good times. In fact, having this blog has:

1) Made me new friends

2) Driven the ex insane

3) Gotten me laid

4) Given me an outlet to work out my feelings over the breakup, and gotten me support from my loyal readers

5) Prompted a reporter to interview me about Lloyd Dobbler

6) Sold me some bracelets

7) Expanded my musical horizons

8) Kept me from blowing up my office with everyone in it

9) Forced me to become a more disciplined writer

10) Convinced a bunch of writer pals to start their own blogs

Another life saved, or at the very least, made much less dull, by blogging.

Today is a birthday...they're smoking cigars

Happy Birthday Jake!

For his gift, I have admitted once and for all that I am a hopeless romantic. He got all swoony, in that sappy way he does.

All good things must come to an end

Today is Brenda's last day. So continues the mass exodus of people from my department -- 8 in the 7 long, long months that I've been here.

Brenda started two weeks after I did and almost immediately asked me to lunch, which went a little like this.

So how are you liking it so far?

It's good. How about you?

Good. Kind of a weird vibe, though.

Yeah.

Everyone seems nice, though.

Yeah, although not that friendly, really.

I know what you mean. Actually, some people aren't nice at all.

I don't love it.

I know. I kind of hate it so far, actually.

Spring is officially here

It never really feels like spring until the street harrassers really get going. I'd like to extend an extra-special thank you to the young man who was kind enough to let me know he'd like to get his "hands all up in" my "pretty red hair" as I walked back to the office with my $7.00 sandwich. Ahh, spring in midtown.

Not so unknown anymore

Last night, as I walked home from Duane Reade on Avenue B, the little dude with the tall wife from my building came up to say hello. We walked home together, and as we passed Havana, the bodega on East Houston, I pointed and said, "I saw Dawn of the Dead (two happy claps and a butt wiggle, by the way) on Saturday, and CJ, one of the main characters, lives in that building right there." He asked how I knew and I explained that I see him all the time, saw him on Law & Order: SVU and looked him up on IMDB just to make sure. Yep, the jerky head of security is my neighbor.

Little dude countered with the most exciting news ever. He said, "Did you know The Unknown Comic lives in our building?" Paper bag on his head unknown comic? Affirmative.

There's a link on TUC's official site to have him perform at your next event. You know, a certain little Cavefish has a birthday on tax day and is celebrating the following night (like I'm going to go out on Thursday and miss The Apprentice) at The Worst Bar in Manhattan. Maybe my friends would stop complaining about the venue if I booked some live entertainment. Plus, we could even walk over together.

Mystery Lifetime Theater 2004

The roommate and I have a shared fantasy that we revisit every Sunday while we chain smoke and watch made-for-TV movies.

We want someone to pay us lots of money to be the peanut gallery for Mystery Science Theater, but for Lifetime movies. We're not entirely sure who would watch it, but there has to be a market somewhere. When a grieving family is holding a press conference for their missing daughter and they say, "Our daughter..." and one of us chimes in, "is a dirty, dirty whore" then we think we might be on to something. The only problem is the attention we pay to commercials -- sponsors would not like us.

We saw a Vagisil commercial on Sunday, where they talked about how this cream would cure your "burning itch" and "odor." We were baffled by this, and much hilarity ensued, because if either of us were burning and itching and stanking, we agree we'd haul our cooches to the gyno pronto, rather than just saying, "Oh, I'm sure it's nothing a little Vagisil won't take care of." One sponsor lost, right there. Right after our friends at Valtrex (herpes rules!) pull their Lifetime contract.

Enter the contest, dammit

Whilst whining to Jake about my failure to figure out which Brooklyn IP address on my Stat Counter belongs to the Object of My Obsession, we asked ourselves a question.

What do you call someone who spends embarrassing amounts of time stalking their stalkers?

We're a pretty clever little duo, but we got nothing. Hence, a contest. Details and prize information at stifflittlefinger.com.

My first time

Before I found Big Blue, I fumbled around with The Rabbit until I finally broke it. Before The Rabbit, there was Pearl. This is her story, written in the fall of 2000.

I'm in a dysfunctional relationship. With my vibrator. The sex is terrible, and it's not getting any better. I know I deserve more from my self-love life, but what can I say? I fear change.

It all started last fall. My friend Julie and I were making our way to Toys in Babeland on the Lower East Side. Julie and I are both porn stars in our minds, but PG-13 in real life. Thus, we've spent many hours browsing and giggling at Babeland, but never buying. Feeling particularly bold on this brisk autumn day, I made a suggestion.

Me: Let's buy vibrators.
Julie: Okay!

That's all it took to begin our foray into the world of people who purchase sex toys. But which to buy? We immediately gravitated to what looked like the mother of all vibrators, which we affectionately called "the creepy rabbit one." It's quite large, with a rotating head. By "head," I mean "head" -- complete with two eyes, a nose, a mouth, and Ken-doll hair. At the base of the head are small beads that move around inside while the head rotates. Towards the base is a soft little clitoris stimulator nub -- in the shape of a bunny rabbit.

Still beginners at the vibrating arts, we gravitated to smaller and less, shall we say, "involved" implements. Being the girly-girl that I am, I found myself attracted to the fuchsia Mini Pearl in the display case, a little vibrating egg-shaped disk on a string. I wasn't exactly sure what to do with it, but I was fairly certain I'd figure it out once I got home. Much to my chagrin, there were no fuchsia Mini Pearls in stock, so I had to go with a lighter shade.

Julie and I parted ways, she with a pink little vibrating sports car (true) and me with my light-pink Mini Pearl, and I set out on my mission. I got my little orgasm-in-a-box home, inserted Energizer batteries (the girl at the counter said Duracells would burn out the motor -- which, who knew, ya know?) and got to work. I started at the lowest speed, which was approximately 100 miles per hour. In a mere 20 seconds I had an orgasm, completely missed it, and felt distinctly unsatisfied.

I went over the event in my mind. Was it me? Was I doing it wrong? Determined to get it right, I practiced. And practiced…and practiced…and practiced some more. Then, on a rainy midwinter night, my little Pearl and I finally got it right. Right before the batteries died.

Over the next few weeks, I tried everything to get that moment back. Buying new batteries put us back at square one -- warp speed and sighs (mine) of dissatisfaction. I began hoarding all the AA batteries in the house, seeking those elusive batteries on their very last little battery legs. In desperation, I stole the batteries from three remotes, two cameras and the lady bug back massager my great aunt had given me. I even tried turning my little Pearl on and leaving it running on the bed for a few hours to tire it out. I always seemed to miss my window of opportunity, though. My little Pearl and I could never seem to equal that blissful winter night.

Lately, sex with Pearl is just a chore. I'll be lying awake staring at the ceiling and think "Hmm. Maybe an orgasm will put me to sleep." (It always does when I'm with company that doesn't run on batteries.) There, in the small red box next to my computer, is my little Pearl. I glance ruefully at the box, knowing what I'm (not) in for. Sometimes, while Pearl and I are together, I'll fantasize about "the creepy rabbit one." It feels like cheating, but it gets me through the ordeal.

I know that someday I'll have to let my Pearl go. My friends are sick of listening to me complain. Maybe someday soon I'll ditch Pearl altogether and start ripping my pillows apart with the Creepy Rabbit One.

Still, my little Pearl will always hold a place in my heart. Cute little thing. After all, you never forget your first, right?

I hate the TV

How is one expected to get anything done on a Saturday afternoon when Cruel Intentions is on? Bastards.

A Passover story

Are you sure I shouldn't take my nose ring out?

No, it's fine, leave it.

How do I look?

Beautiful.

Your mother is going to hate me.

My mother hates everyone.

Not a comfort.

It was three years ago, and there I was -- not Jewish, 5 years older than Favorite Ex, a vegetarian, and going to DC for Passover to meet his entire family for the first time. I was terrified. Hard to believe it, but I'm a little shy. A lot shy, actually. I'm fine on a one-on-one basis, but put me in a group, without tequila, and I get a little wallflowery.

The Dad liked me, but Dads always like me. Did okay with grams and the brothers and the cousins. And, on top of all of that, had a blast. It was a lot more fun than dying Easter eggs and eating a hollow chocolate bunny that died for our sins. Take out all the commercial holiday stuff, and Catholicism is pretty dull.

You know, your Mom never opened my wine.

That's because it wasn't kosher.

Bullshit! I spent like an hour tormenting one of the dudes at Astor Wines to make sure it was kosher for Passover.

Guess my Mom just hated you, then.

I knew it.

My latte is better than yours

1 caramel swirl latte, large, skim milk, no sugar
1 bacon, egg and cheese croissant sandwich

Yes, I've read Fast Food Nation. Yes, I like to support my local independent coffee shops.

But I don't care. Dunkin' Donuts rocks my world, and I'm not ashamed to admit it.

I can't even remember...if we were lovers...

Yesterday, I started thinking about Held her in my Arms by the Violent Femmes, a song that I am eternally in love with. After ripping my bedroom -- which currently looks like someone broke in and ransacked it, digging for gold -- apart, I found the CD this morning. I'm certain that, after the concert I put on in the shower this morning, my upstairs neighbors now want very bad things to happen to me. I have listened to it at least 20 times today at work, and I bounce around in my chair each and every time.

I could be drowning in a deep pit of depression, and that song would still make me smile.

Julie never learned to share in kindergarten

Julie: I haven't hated all of your boyfriends.

Me: Name one you've liked.

[Silence]

Julie: Oh! I liked A.

Me: Doesn't count. He wasn't a boyfriend.

Julie: Well, you know I hated B.

Me: I know.

Julie: He was totally cheating on you.

Me: Julie, of all the shitty things he did, cheating on me was not one of them.

Julie: Oh my God. It's so obvious.

Me: What about C?

Julie: Oh, I liked C just fine.

Julie: Although, he was way too young for you. I didn't like that.

Me: And D?

Julie: He was such a jerk.

Me: He was not a jerk -- he was a college freshman. He's a priest now, for God's sake.

Julie: Well, I liked E just fine.

Me: Oh my God you did not! You complained to Mrs. F about him all the time. She told me.

Julie: Oh, well that was because he didn't help you move.

Me: You hated him before that.

Julie: Oh right, because he had all of those stupid rules.

Julie: Oh, and the cop. Hated the cop.

Me: Not a boyfriend. What about G?

Julie: No, I didn't like him. He was really weird.

Me: So you can't name one boyfriend you've liked then?

Julie: No, you must have really bad taste in guys.

Me: Yeah, Julie, that must be it.

Upward trends in imaginary violence

In addition to having imaginary arguments with people in my head, I make grand declarations about the ways in which I would like to inflict injury on them.

First it was shin-kicking, as in I'm going to kick that bitch in the shins. This imaginary shin-kicking went on for a very long time. Moms says it too, and I'm not sure if one of us got it from the other or if we separately decided kicking shins was a pleasurable vocation.

Then I got bored of kicking people in the shins and decided I'd punch them in the nose instead. You would not believe the noses I've broken. There's a lot. Sometimes, in extreme situations where someone with children is the source of my rage, I will kidnap their children. But I only drag that one out for special occasions.

Now? I set people on fire. It's not humane, but it gets the job done.

All Jake, all the time

Jake's been getting a lot of blog time lately, but he's been hard at work preserving my sanity, so he deserves it.

Jake's funny little way of telling me goodbye...

I'm outie. Don't do anything ridiculous between now and 9 a.m. tomorrow.

That fucker.

Introducing...

Kinja! Check it out -- the brilliant Gina helped build it.

A story

Boy finds Girl's blog. Boy emails girl. Girl emails back. They meet. They drink. They have coffee. Good times.

Boy flakes out. Girl gets angry. Boy hangs head. They have dinner. They email. Boy disappears.

Girl reads Boy's blog and sees that Boy now has a special lady friend. Girl is perplexed as to why Boy, having a perfectly legitimate excuse for the disappearance, did not see fit to share it. Girl is on to a new drama at this point, but still thinks a notification would have been nice. It certainly would have made things less awkward at the gym.

Lazy bastard.

Edited to add: Boy's girlfriend was an April Fool's Day joke, and Girl is gullible. That doesn't make Boy any less of a lazy bastard, though.

Needles and such

What's funnier than a crazy old cat lady?

A crazy old cat lady with a diabetic cat and a severe needle aversion.

Turns out Mulder's recent slim down has been due to illness and not a strong commitment to weight loss. The vet just told me that, not only is Mulder's blood sugar level upwards of 500, I now have to give him shots twice a day.

There is nothing on Earth that freaks me out more than needles. Every time I've gotten something pierced, Julie's hand has been almost broken in two. She has suffered a great deal for my body art. I have yet to get a tattoo because I'm afraid I'll kill someone. I spent most of Thirteen cringing and peeking through my fingers as they covered my eyes.

So there's the needle aversion, and the fear that I will hurt the little guy. After explaining my fears, the vet had us come in for practice. He started with the two of us holding the needle together. Right before he stuck it in, I let go and started crying. Then he handed me the needle and told me to make with the poking. This was very upsetting, as we had already given him the insulin (I use the term "we" loosely). He assured me it did not hurt Mulder, and to prove his point, stuck him a couple times while I cried. Somehow, I managed to escape the senseless violence.

I woke up this morning, so hung over I could die, and got out the insulin and needle. Mulder ran by at lightning speed and hid. I was already late for work at this point. After searching my teeny tiny apartment for an eternity, I found him under the table, dragged him out, put him on the sink and gave him the shot. I've never been so proud of myself.

And I only cried a little that time.