Ladies. All the Ladies. Louder Now. Help Me Out. Come On. All The Ladies.

I have been avoiding this motherfucker like the plague, these days! Every time I try to sit down and blogeroo, I think of four thousand other things to be doing. Usually I don't do those things, either, but that's none of y'alls damn business.

Sunday was a great day of hockey. We played a really wonderful team, and though we won (1-0), it was a scoreless game until four minutes left. It was a matchup of two of the best goalies in our league (and before someone I know has a hissy fit, I said two of the best, not the two best...), which always brings the level of play up.

But Saturday. Saturday I play in a morning pickup game with some people, and I have a bittersweet relationship with the whole deal. For instance, this week: a decent amount of people showed up, mainly men, as always. There were five girls there in total, and four of us were on the same team. Now, usually, certain dudes that we play with would have a freaking canary at the thought of splitting up the girls unevenly. They act like having someone who posesses a vagina on their team is a giant liability, and they like to split up the hazards. These people, obviously, are douchebags. Not just because they think this (there are SO many people that think this, I'm not stupid), but because they say this out loud in mixed company. But this time, the girls happened to be on the team with the nicer dudes, so no one really complained.

This shouldn't matter, but I would like to point out that though I am sadly not one of them, many of these girls run circles around the guys who complain the most. Stellar hockey players, some of my ladies.

What was interesting about this week, however, is that it was the first time I heard someone complain about having to play against the girls. Saying they didn't get a good enough game, simply because the women were all on one side, girls suck, penises rule, blahblahblahblahblah.

Yeah, I know, ladies. All in a day, right?

Pretty much.

Back to Sunday. After the game, most of my team went out to celebrate a bit. This is because my team is made up of spectacular people that I love so much. Gush, gush, gush. Anyway, after we'd been there for about an hour or so, we noticed a group of people come in and sit at a nearby booth. The group consisted of one very extremely loud, large, fratty wanna-be-guido type. Fat dude. Then there was his so-drunk-he-can-barely-standup friend, seemingly normal dude, and three girls. Two girls looked whorish but ok, and one looked like she was going to keel over at any point. She could barely keep her eyes open. I'm saying she was scarily drunk.

So my friends and I glance over. The first thing we notice is that the three dudes are having what seems to be a group hug, though we soon realize that the drunk girl is in the center of this "hug," which now looks like much more of a gangbang than a hug. We look at it askance, but we don't do anything about it. Possibly a mistake.

Drunk girl is wearing a cotton strapless tube dress. This becomes relevent later.

Boys keep dancing with drunk girl (it's not a dancey kind of place), and spinning her around. Boys dip her. It becomes apparant that the girl is not wearing underwear. My friends and I tell girl to watch her dress because it's riding up.

Girl goes to sit in an opposite booth from her "friends," by herself. My people tell girl it is possibly time to go home. My people tell girl's female "friends" it is possibly time to take girl home. Female friends do not listen, girl attempts to leave by herself.

I go outside to watch girl, and to possibly put her in a cab if need be. Girl can not find her wallet.

One of her "friends" comes running out, saying she found Girl's wallet in the pocket of large fat fratboy. He had taken it in an attempt to stop her from leaving. Girl and Girl's friend begin hugging and crying, and I go back inside, disgusted.

Girl comes back inside a few minutes later. Sits at the booth alone again. One of the boys unsnapps her strapless bra from the back, removes it. Another unzipps his shorts, pulls out his penis, pushes it in girl's face.

This all goes down quietly, but Filthy Gorgeous (my team) sees the whole thing. We spring into action. First, girls. My tiny friend DK runs up to giant fat fratboy. He mentions the word "rape." She pushes him. He pushes her back.

It's immediately on. My team defends each other's honor, and that of drunk girl. They finally leave. Or get kicked out. The bartender intervenes, is disgusted by events and the fact that she hasn't seen any of this go down (like I said, it all happened quietly).

Afterwards, DK asks me if I think girl wound up ok. I answer her honestly.
"No."

A Big Week For Me; Puppy Porn

Despite the fact that, like Ron Burgundy, I've been living in a glass cage of emotion this week, there's several things going on that I'm excited about. First and foremost being that I'm getting my pupster in a few weeks. I can't WAIT to have a dog. As I've been told before, my biological clock is certainly barking. In consideration now:

• A rescue mutt of any kind, medium size (Boy's favorite idea right now. Bu this "of any kind" business freaks me out a bit...you don't ever know what you're getting. But I love mutts. And I love the idea of a rescue).
• A boxer (so lovey! They are prone to fatal health problems, though, and I want my pupster to be around for a long while).
• A French Bulldog (ahhh, oui. I am somewhat against trendy dogs, but that's just Martha Stewart's fault, no one else's. And I admit, I've never thought about the Frenchie thing before. But I am head over heels in love with one right now, and he's really just the best pooch ever).
• A mastiff (my favorite forever, and yes, I know, not practical).
• A pittbull terrier (ditto).

Help, Naked Readers. Not that I'm not doing my own reasearch. Every day I look at what my friend calls "puppy porn."

And yes, there are other things happening right now, good, bad, and confusing, but this is all I choose to get into right now.

Later.

Kid Me, Not x365, Temporary Giddiness

I've got that feeling I get sometimes. The one where it's possible that I'm feeling really good and motivated and ready to write, but it's also possible that I just had too much coffee.

Have you ever had that feeling that you miss....something? But you're not sure what it is? Yeah. I miss that.

Usually, "that" = NOLA, or a former fuck (I've learned my family reads this. Heh. That'll teach ya), or getting high, or...something I can put my finger on that used to make me happy.

(heehee..."put my finger on.")

But this time, it's not that. I feel kind of like something's missing (surprise), but I also feel a little spring-timey hopeful. As if something good's about to happen. Which will ROCK, 'cause I need that.

Here's a Not x365:

#15 I drive you batty, but you do the same to me. You have the ability to produce both rage and affection in me, which, you know, is a good thing, 'cause it means you're important. Which you are, so don't forget that. I wish I had been a better friend to you when you needed me, but I'm trying my best to do that now. Just don't push it. KIDDING (had to say that I was kidding). You can push it a little bit. Next time I see your dog, we will look at each other awkwardly, mumble hello, and turn away from each other. Happy Tuesday. I love you.

Here's a kid-me thing:


Click on it and tilt your head. It's worth it.

LDTB!

Boo Effing Hoo

So because today is rainy and disgusting and kind of cold, and because I have a slight hangover, and because why the fuck not, I'm feeling a little sorry for myself today.

Good lord, there's little I hate more than self-pity. But there you have it, anyway. I guess my current prevailing emotion (like you care...oooh, look! There it is...nice fresh self-pity...) is "put-upon-ness."

So I don't suppose there's any specific cause for this feeling, more like a lot of things, but the one thing I keep coming back to is this: the world would be a much better place (well, scratch that. I'm talking about MY world and I know it. So I'll rephrase. My world would be a much better place) if people thought about the things they say and do, and whether or not those things they say and do will hurt anyone else (namely, me).

I once had an ex who told me that his friend was the hottest girl he knew in person (the friend was not me). Now, granted, we weren't dating at the time, but we were certainly fooling around. And while I do strive to be the funniest person in the lives of everyone I know, I know way better than to presume I'd be the best looking person in anyone's life. I'm realistic about this. But it smarts a little harder when it comes from the mouth of someone you're currently doing it with. This dude wasn't a bad guy, so I assume he didn't think this would wound as badly as it did when he said it. If he had just thought, "hmmm, I wonder how M would receive this piece of information," I doubt I would have had to hear it.

Just think, people.

Because I don't often feel it, I forget that pain of the non-physical variety blows.

It Broke

I think that I would have totally been hot for the Roman god Bacchus (or the Greek god Dionysus, whichever you prefer). He's the god of wine, was all sorts of crazily sexually adventurous, and was certifiably insane. Oh, and he was a cross-dresser. Loved a party, that guy. I'm sure I would have been all about it. I'm also sure he lived in his own head most of the time, as I have a tendency to do.

One of my favorite things in my mom's house (my house, growing up) was a ceramic mask of Bacchus (I wanted to attach a photo but I don't have one of her actual mask, and the ones online don't do it justice) that she bought in Venice when we were really little. For most of my life, it has hung on her dining room wall. My sister recently told me that she was scared of it. She told me this when she called me to tell me how my mom's (recent) move (from the house we grew up in, to an apartment) went.

Her: You remember that mask?
Me: What?
Her: You know. I was sceer [read: "scared." Long story] of it?
Me: Oh, yeah. Bacchus. I loved that thing.
Her: You did? 'Memba when [name deleted] cut himself on one of it's vines and had to get stitches?
Me: Yes.
Her: It broke.

I may be overreacting (it happens), but I could not believe the nonchalance with which she was telling me this information.

When I called my mom later, I said, kind of in a weird frenzy "Bacchus head broke!???!"

She laughed and said "yeah, he was the only casualty of the move. It's just as well, you guys [read: my sister and I] would have fought over it when I died, anyway" (This is not a weird thing to say, in my family. We're used to such comments).

"No, we wouldn't have. She wouldn't have wanted it. She didn't even like it. She was scared of it."

My mom paid this very little attention, as she probably should have. Oddly, I'm not entirely over it. I loved that fucking thing.

I'm sad I can't find a photo. You know who I mean...the dude with the grapes at the side of his head.

Anyway...I've recently been thinking that I wouldn't have been good with Bacchus anyway. He and I would have been cool to run around and get crazy and get into intense arguments and have lots of fun, but eventually, I bet I would have just wanted to sit on a bench and quietly hold Apollo's hand, or something.

UPDATE: I just found out that Bacchus was to have risen from the dead on March 25th, which is my bday. I would have taken that as a big sign.

What's "Not x365?"

I've had a few people recently ask me what Not x365 is. I'm not sure why people have been asking as of late...I've been doing it for months. Maybe more people read the blog, now?

Word.

Anyway, Not x365 is my version of The x365 project. It was started in 2006 by a dude named Dan Waber, the basic premise being that he would write about one person a day for 365 days in 40 words (because he was 40 years old at the time of the project). My friend Uncouth Heathen is the first person I saw do it, and I keep trolling her list to see if she's got me in there yet (she doesn't).

I, like many, was attracted to this idea, but I didn't like that I had to use a certain amount of words or that I had to do it every day. I also didn't like to use people's names. So I do the NOT x365 project, writing about whomever I want, whenever I want, in however many words I want. I never use people's names , but sometimes it's obvious.

I'll do one now...I haven't done one in a while. Heregoes:

#14: You're a hilarious friend of my sister's; you've become one of my friends as well. For some reason, I know the most embarrassing childhood story about you (it involves potato chips and underwear), but my favorite story is when I caught you wearing my skirt (that clearly my sister had lent you) walking down the main street of the town we grew up in, and when you saw me, you tried to hide. As if. Your wedding rocked! One of the best in recent memory, hands down.

Short, Senseless Vignettes and One-Liners

People in NY think they're not starfuckers. Maybe they're not. Except for when they are, and pretend they're not, which is it's very own brand of sickening.I was on line for an event the other day (a few months ago, I suppose), and Meryl Streep walked by. The guy on line behind me was practically breaking his neck not to look, and when I realized who it was, I said "wow, was that Meryl Streep?" he said "oh, I never notice that sort of thing."

The other day I was sitting on a two-sided bench at my subway stop, writing blognotes, actually. I was kind of wrapped up in it, until someone gagged into the hood of my jacket. It brought me right back down to earth, folks.

My friend told me today I could be the mother of a 20 year old girl (I love misquoting you, baby!).

I've recently heard more than once from #9. He's called twice, I've been unable to pick up, he's left messages. Once was to see if I wanted to collaborate on a project, and once, I suspect, so I had his new phone number. Though he's not answered either time I've called back (or he'd call back, and I couldn't pick up). Each time, I've loved getting his message.

My birthday was last week. More on that later.

I've been playing a lot of hockey lately, and I'm feeling mixed. But more happy than not.

No good things have ever come after the words "we're supposed to be friends, right?" Today, I learned this, and even though the person was joking, I felt bad. But because I often obsess about other people's lives to avoid worrying about parts of my own, and because I know this, I'm going to try not to get all wrapped up in his problem.