Friday, June 30, 2006

just askin'

How does a blind person know when they've finished wiping?

Thursday, June 29, 2006

word origin: laissez-faire

Laissez-faire is literally French for, "to let do."
Someone with a laissez-faire attitude doesn't interfere with the goings-on around him or her.

It has neither negative nor positive connotations; whether it's a good or bad attitude depends on the situation.

inner dork: The Black Hole of Calcutta

Did you know the Black Hole of Calcutta is one of the most brutal sites of inhumanity in history?

The hole was actually a cell that was 14 feet by 10 inches wide and 18 feet long in an English fort in Calcutta, India.
In 1756 the British and the French were vying for control of India. They each were trying to woo the various princes with money, troops, and promises of power. Finally with tensions mounting an Indian prince attacked the British fort, captured its men, and forced 146 of the men into the tiny cell.
The night's heat was very intense and there was only two small windows for air.
By the next morning all but 23 of the men were dead.
The British swore to avenge the deaths and war broke out.
France was ousted, and the British Empire expanded to include India.

Wednesday, June 28, 2006

big pimpin' spending my g's...

South Sider and Newly Divorced Guy have commented several times, since last Friday, on the size of my balls.

Huh? What?

When it comes to approaching and meeting men, I really have no fear factor. I'll go up and talk to anyone. And have.
This is on my own, without prodding. If you triple dog dare me, stand back, balls are showing themselves. (I adjust and strut with pride.)

Personally, I don't see what the big deal is when it comes to approaching people. What's the worst that can happen? What, you might ignore me? Turn me down? Not be interested? Make fun of me to my face or behind my back? Never call me or return my phone call?

Who cares.

What's the best that can happen? We strike up a conversation and who knows where that may lead.

Last Friday I met five men. Now, 'met' meaning; we talked for at least thirty minutes and phone numbers were exchanged.
Now, I also met several other men where the conversation lasted mere minutes and they clearly weren't interested. Several others where we chatted for several minutes, but nothing more came from it. One who didn't even say a word back to me, at which point I made a joke about it. No, biggie. See, ya.
Who cares.
Moving on.
Now, when I told this attitude to the five men and also to SS and NDG, they all said the same thing, "Yeah, maybe meeting and approaching people is easy for you, your a chick. It's harder for guys. For us." But, even SS and NDG were amazed by my pimpin' skills.

So, I'll buy into the statement of, it's easier for women to approach men. But, I wanna know why.

So, why?

Mack Daddy, out.

please, do not put your seat in the upright position

I'm not a control freak. There's only a few areas in my life where I like to be in control, work ain't one of them.
Territorial on the other hand? Um, yeah. I have territory issues. (*raises right hand while standing. * "Hi, my name is PG and I am a territorialist.") ("Hi, PG.")
All last week and then today I have been filling in for someone. Therefore, since I am sitting in for another person, someone has been sitting in for me. Or, as I like to call it, I have been running to and fro for the last week between offices, computers, and phones.
After wrestling with my office chair all day yesterday along with the computer monitor, as I was back in my office, trying to get both back to where I want them so as not to have the hot shooting pains run through my neck, arms, and back, I was silently cussing the filler-ins.
Then today, as I am back filling in for the MIA person I sat and wrestled with the (not mine) chair all morning. As the, not mine, chair is completely different than my chair, for the life of my blood pressure and the pain that was starting in my left butt cheek, I could not get it to where I wanted it.
Finally, after 2.5 lie..I finally figured out how to adjust the back so I wasn't completely horizontal to the point of resembling a stick figure demonstrating the proper way to sit to be ergonomical. (I like to recline. I like to pretend it's a La-Z-Boy. Where's my remote?)
Then in my moment of glee and happiness it occurred to me, since I have a filler person in my position today, and I know they have messed with my chair and monitor because I saw them and at one point helped them with it, I will spend all day tomorrow wrestling with my chair and my computer monitor, again.
See, just because I feel I can mess with other people's chairs man, don't mess with mine.
(*Raises right hand while standing* "Hi, my name is PG and I have territory issues.)

Tuesday, June 27, 2006

I'll give you five bucks if you jump in

"Okay!" I say, giggling as I take off my shoes.
"You have to go all the way in. Completely submerged." He's totally kidding, but I think about it. Really think about it.
He walks away and I look at the fountain.
I look at the cool water as it beckons me. I imagine myself completely submerged under the water.
I walk over to the fountain.
The sun glistens off the pool of water.
I look up at the blue sky, not a cloud in sight.
I feel the coolness hit me as I dip my foot in. I watch the ripples move away from my toes.
The water goes up to my calves.
The shock of the cold water on my warm flesh makes my body tingle. The tingle races through my body as I slide down to my knees and lay back in the water.
I float there in the summer sun.
I plug my nose and dip my head back.
My hair floats around my head making it look as if an ink-well has been spilled.
After several seconds, I come up for air; slicking my hair back with my hands as I take in a deep breath as a look of complete childlike satisfaction crosses my face.
My skirt floats like a lilly pad out around me.
My shirt clings to my chest like a wet suit.
Goose bumps rise on my skin from the cool water as the sun isn't warm enough to make this a refreshing jump. It's been more liberating than it has been refreshing. Completely liberating.

I feel my arms and shoulders relax.

My heart slows down.

My mind stops racing this way and that.

I sit in the cool water with my skirt out around me. I sit there with a completely satisfied look on my face.

Completely at peace.

The fountain turns on and the sound of the water shooting up into the air snaps me from my daydream.
I smile at how relaxed I am.
The thought of, "Why not?" exits my brain as I start to slip off my shoes.

Monday, June 26, 2006

random act of kindness to myself

Personally, I'm a daisy and sunflower kinda gal.
However, I spoiled myself and went with the roses.

Most days, go with daisies and sunflowers.
Valentine's Day? If you're gonna go with flowers, don't do red roses. No, forethought. None. No, originality either. Just sayin'.

my life is a reality TV show

However, it's one of those really good reality TV shows. You know, like that one on that one night. You know, that one on that one night about that one thing on that one channel. You know which one I mean? Yeah, my life would be exactly like that one if they made it into a TV show.

Friday night I went out with South Sider and his New Divorced Friend who I had never met. SS and I haven't seen each other in several months.
We met at the after work hot spot to do thing.
I'm drinking my beer and this girl approaches me.
"Hey, is your name, Party Girl?"
I hesitate. This could be good or bad. I don't recognize her at all. At all. Now, my name isn't one you can just pull out of your butt. It's not one of those names. I mean, c'mon. How many people do you know with the name, Party Girl?
"Hmmm, yyeeess." I say with complete and total hesitation.
Did you use to work at a local greasy pizza joint?
Again, total hesitation as she is still not ringing a bell. "Yyyeesss."
"Oh my gawd! We use to work together!!!"
"OOokkkkayyy." There isn't a ding or a dong of a bell going off for me. Nothing. This girl is totally in my face and I've got nothing.
I start diggin up questions. Maybe she has the wrong person. Sure, she knew my name, but hey, name out of butt can happen.
"When did you work there?"
She spouts off a time when I was there.
"What's your name?" (Blah.)
Still, I've got nothin'.
"Take off your sunglasses, maybe that will help me."
I am feeling very awkward. Need more beer. Want girl out of my face.
With a sip of my cool refreshment on my tongue, 'ding' "Wait, who were you dating at the time?"
She names the cool hunky boy who was a total boy-next-door-All-American-dreamboat.
"OH! now, I know who you are!"
She then proceeds to go on and on..." Yeah, we totally use to party in your apartment. Jello shots, you made the best jello shots. I even asked you for the recipe. You were so fucking cool."
Me, "yeah, that was like 10 years ago." I mean seriously, the amount of brain cells between then and now. See, the above reference of jello shots for any clarification. It goes on like this for way too long. "Jello shots, vodka, parties, so fucking cool, party, you were so mello......"

She leaves and we go to a bar. Outside with a ton of people. I met several strangers and tried to get Newly Divorced Guy back into the game. I tried to introduce him to many people. I tried to be a stranger approaching him to try and get him to start a conversation. His flesh was willing, but his spirit was weak.

Anyway, This is how my night goes: Person appears seemingly out of nowhere and is in my face, "Hey! Is your name, Party Girl."
Me: (Fucking 'A.) "Yeeaaahhh."
"Did you use to work at: (insert: bartending, waitressing, telemarketing part-time job?")
"Oh my gawd! I'm ....(insert: random common name of male or female that I use to work with.")
"We use to party at your...(insert: attic apartment, house, duplex, cute little two bedroom.")
"I haven't seen you in...(insert: five, eight, ten years.")
"Do you remember me?" (insert: look of, 'crap.')
"You made the best...(insert: any alcoholic beverage.")
"You were so fucking...(insert: any cool personality trait.")
Register me; still trying to figure out who the hell they are. Hoping the sip of cool refreshing beverage will make it all clear.
Finally the, 'ding' of, "Oh, hey, yeah. You're...(insert: random common name here.")

Repeat this entire scenario, let's see; five, six, seven times.

Apparently I throw the best house parties. I make the best jello shots (cherry jello with cherry vodka. Alcohol? What alcohol?) I am completely memorable and my name just rolls off people's tongues and I've killed more brain cells than I thought. Long-term memory? What long-term memory?

The night was very interesting. It ended with a, "Miami Vice" drug buy that I was unwittingly apart of. (As in, I was in the room, not that I bought the drugs.) The, "Miami Vice" circa 1986, not the hot new blockbuster movie, circa 2006. But that's all for another post.....


I'm sure it's because mine was called into question last week.
I sat down on Saturday night to watch a brainless flick. However, instead of popping in, "Better Off Dead" I watched, "12 Angry Men," and "To Kill a Mockingbird."
Both were exactly what I needed. One person standing up for the greater good.

If you've never seen either I highly recommend both.

Friday, June 23, 2006

sticks and stones

Hatred, closed minded individuals, bigotry, belittling through words, name calling, intimidation through belittling, trying to control my space, absolutely postively without hesitation will not be tolerated in my life and that includes this blog.

It has no place in my life.
It has no place in my personal space.
It will not be tolerated.
It will not be left up for others to read.
It will be deleted.

You do not have power over me.

This is MY space.
This is just as personal a space for me as my home is.
This is a safe place for me to post my thoughts, feelings, rants, a place for me express myself through words.

DO NOT come into MY space and think you can get away with belittling me. With calling me names. With using intimidation. It WILL NOT be tolerated. It will not be left up for others to see.

If you go on an rant that I feel is inappropriate in any way shape or form and that has absolutely nothing to do with what I posted and has only to do with defaming me, my name, and my character, it will be swiftly deleted.

For me to post what I did this week and to open myself up, only to then have people come in and try and belittle me, to try and hurt me with words and names, to judge me, to accuse me of things that they know nothing about because they do not know me; WILL NOT BE TOLERATED.

This is MY place and MY space. It is a safe place for me. I realize it is a public forum, no shit, it is a public forum that I feel safe in.
DO NOT attempt to take that away from me.
YOU will be the loser, not me.

YOU do not have power here.

YOU are not welcome here.

YOU will not violate my space.

YOU will not take away my power.

YOU will not control me.

YOU will not be tolerated.

YOU do not have a voice here.

just askin'

Hey, can you tell me how to get to Funky Town?

(To be sung to the tune of, "Electric Ave." .....)

"I'm going to walk down to K-Mart and buy some shoes. They only cost a dollar."

Awesome! That means I can wear them when I get to Funky Town

Thursday, June 22, 2006

1/2 a gallon of beer on the wall

Me yesterday morning....

PG: Good lord, I'm tired. I went out drinking last night.

Co-worker: Oh, that's what I hear in your voice.

PG: Midnight to five, sexiness going on?

CW: No, just not awake yet.

A few minutes later...

CW: I'm going to grab breakfast.

PG: Grab me a bagel will ya?

A few minutes later devouring the bagel.

PG: I can feel my blood sugar coming back.

CW: Good.

PG: Blah, blah... I had four pints of beer last night...blah..blah..


CW: You had four pints of beer last night?

PG: Yeah. That first one went down really quickly. Three gulps and it was gone.

Third party: Well, that's not very impressive.

PG: Four pints in less than two hours?


PG: I also didn't eat dinner. I had class and I have a rule about not eating past 7:30. I was going to get a hamburger, but it was about 10 minutes before the kitchen closed and I wasn't going to order a spit burger. So, I passed on the food.
No food past 7:30, but apparently I can have all the alcohol I want.

CW: Four pints= two quarts= half a gallon. You had half a gallon of beer last night.

PG: Pause

I don't like the way that sounds.
I like how four pints sounds.

CW: You haven't had anything to eat since that Moo-Latte yesterday around 2:00?

PG: Hmmm, no, I guess not.

CW: You haven't eaten anything at all and had half a gallon of beer last night?

PG: I guess not. Half a gallon. I don't like the way that sounds. I don't like the visual either.
Hmmm, all those times I've had one gallon and sometimes two gallons of beer, no wonder I left the bar feeling bloaty.

word origin: Semper Fi

The motto of the United States Marine Corps.
Semper Fi is short for semper fidelis, Latin for "always faithful."
The Marines are always faithful to; country, honor and one another.

My theory: Once a Marine, always a Marine. There is no such thing as an ex-Marine.

inner dork: What's an ox?

Quick, what's an ox?

Bet you're wrong.

Did you know.....

An ox is a steer.

However, a steer is a castrated bull.
A steer is typically slaughtered by the time he is sixteen months old.

An ox started out as a steer which started out as a bull.

An ox is then trained to work. After four years of work he is officially considered an ox. After four years he is usually put out to pastural labor for about fifteen or sixteen years.

....So, did you know?

Wednesday, June 21, 2006


First, thank you for all the comments. Each and every one of them touched me in some way and made an impact on me.

For the comments of bravery, wow, never even occured to me that I was being brave.

For the comments about having a new found respect for me. Again, totally unexpected. I was really afraid the comments would be of sadness and sorrow and a, "poor is her," attitude. That I would be seen as a victim and that was absolutely what I did not, nor do I want/need. So, thank you. Thank you so very, very much for those words.

For the comments that my post could help someone else. Again, it honestly never even occured to me. However, if my story helped or does help someone else, then that made it all worth it.

For the comments about the rapes defining me. Of course the events have made me who I am and shaped me. The events effect me in some way everyday. Where I live: always on the top floor and only in small apartment complexes. I want to know my neighbors and I want to see who is coming and going. (As much as a person can.)
Where I walk: only in well-lit areas that I am familiar with and I walk directly in the middle of the parking lot or street.
When I am in my car: how I get in and out of my car; in one swift motion and I lock my doors as soon as I am inside.
When I pass a stranger: I always make eye contact and smile at them and/or say, 'hello.'
Who I let into my space (apartment, car): no one. Very, rarely, do I let anyone into my personal space. I am not going to allow a stranger, or for that matter someone I know fairly well, into my apartment. Actually, more specifically, my bedroom or my bed. If I have ended a relationship I want to have a safe place to go back to.
Dance clubs: I only go to gay dance clubs. I don't want to be harrassed and I don't want your groove thing grooveing against mine. I just want to be able to dance and enjoy myself without a hassel.

I absolutely feel calm today. If you would have asked me before the post if I was a calm person I would have answered, yes. However, I am so alright with the world right now. Calm. Inner calm. Inner peace. I know that sounds hokey, but that's the only way I know how to describe how I feel right now. Calm. I am exhaling. Deeply and truly exhaling. Cleansed. I don't feel like I have a secret or like I'm hiding something. Free. I feel free.

I am have also never seen myself so clearly. Me, myself, I, the person looking back at me in the mirror. Self-esteem is not something I am lacking in. Self-image is pretty damn clear to me. However, I see me. I see myself clearly.

As I mentioned in the post, that is the most I have ever written or talked about what happened at one time. Mostly because I was always interrupted when trying to tell someone. Or someone would immediatly tell me their story and so mine lost relevance to me. If someone can't take the time to listen to me when I am trying to open up, then I am not going to bother continuing. If you interrupt me, I shut down. I close myself off and I shut down. Simple as that. That, obviously, was the first time I wasn't interrupted and I could say everything I wanted and needed to say. I hope, if you take nothing else from my post, that you remember to simply listen to someone when they try to tell you their story.

As soon as I wrote it all out and posted it I felt really, really good. Then after I shut my computer down and went back out into my living room, fear set in. What would you think? What would you say? How would you react? I wanted to get up and delete the post, but I made a rule for myself when I started this blog; complete and total honesty (not that I know how to be any other way) and whatever I write stays. No matter what. No matter how much I want to change something or take it down, it stays. It was honest and true of how I was feeling at that moment, so it stays.

One of the biggest things that came out of sharing, and maybe (probably) it's too early for this, but I compulsively read my story. After I posted it I read it over several time and several more times yesterday. Over and over and over again, I read what I had written. Sure with each new read I found new typos, but I've never owned my story. I've never owned my past. I've never owned what happened. It happened, but I couldn't and didn't want to deal with it immediately afterward. Every time I tried to talk about it I was interrupted. And it's not like I sit around my place and try to think about it on any kind of regular basis. Tuesday night I finally owned it. I wrote it. I read it over and over again, I owned it. It's not everyone's story, it is my life.

I was also asked, or it was said that I should, talk about the rape exam. I'm still not comfortable with that. However, part of what I find wrong with the exam is, I was violated by a man and a man was now going to examine me.
I was told to pull out my pubic hair. I had to pull out, comb, and cut my pubic hair (to collect for processing and to show the difference between being pulled out and falling out naturaly. For lack of a better word, to show how violent the rape was and to see if it was rape vs consentual sex) with a male doctor watching me. He (the doctor) was between my legs watching me pull out my pubic hair. That is the most painful memory I have about the exam. When I started to cry this caused the doctor to become aggitated and leave the room. It seems to me, only common sense really, that a female doctor, or two nurses (female) should conduct the exam.

Also, a week or so later I went to my family doctor for a follow-up exam. I had told the nurse why I was there. However, she felt the need to lecture me on STD's and the importance of practicing safe sex. I cut her off and explained, once again, that I had been raped. Did she really think this was the time to lecture me? She did not apologize for her mistake.
Then the doctor came in. He hadn't taken the time to look at my chart either, he also gave me a lecture about safe sex. Once again, I cut him off and told him to look at my chart. It's crap like that that makes me mad. It wasn't necessary, it could have been avoided.

Again, I know all of this is only a little over 24 hours later, but this is honestly how I am feeling 24 hours later. Last night I was utterly exhausted. Emotionally exhausted. I just wanted to go home and reflect. Unfortunately that wasn't possible. Instead I got home around midnight and collapsed into bed. I wish I could have taken today off to sit at home and reflect. But alas, I can't do that either.

For those of you who have your own stories to tell, please, always feel free to contact me and I will always be a willing, and quiet, ear. For those of you who have already contacted me, thank you for your words and for sharing your story with me. I assure you your story will be safe.

Monday, June 19, 2006

The hardest thing I've ever had to be honest about

So, I hadn’t really planned for this to be today’s post. I wasn’t sure if it was anything I would ever write about here on my blog. I thought maybe it might be pertinent, but I wasn’t sure if it was anything I really wanted to dive into. Actually, dive isn’t the right word. Well, maybe it is. I have to dive into my past and I’m not one who likes to look back. I like to reflect and analyze the past, see why I did what I’ve done. See why something happened, but to live in the past? Ick, no, thanks.
However, after the bravery of ePixie’s comment I decided there was no way I couldn’t share my story.

If one in six women have been raped, think of any random women you encounter on a daily basis and chances are one, if not all, have been raped, or have had a boundary crossed or been violated in some way shape or form. A boundary they had been set up for themselves that has been crossed.
Think of six random blogs by women that you read on a daily basis. Think of six women relatives. Six women co-workers. Six women you see on the TV everyday. Your nieces, sisters, aunts, mom, friends. One in six, if not all, have had a boundary crossed and been violated in some way.

I will step up and say, I am one of those six. I have been raped twice. Wow. I’ve never seen it in print before. Raped, twice. (Breathe)

The first time I was 17. It was August, 1991 and right before my senior year in high school. I was out with my girlfriend and two other girls I didn’t know. We went out to a festival, and the night started out with a lot of alcohol.
I was separated from my friend. When I ran into one of the other girls, she said she couldn’t find the other girls (my friend included.) She offered to drive me back to my girlfriend’s apartment (she was older than I was and lived with her boyfriend.) She was supposed to wait for me while I ran inside to see if my friend was home and then I was going to come back out and tell her to either stay and wait with me or that she could go home.
She didn’t wait.
When I came back outside to tell her my friend wasn’t home, she was long gone.
I sat on the front step of the building waiting for my friend to come home and to give her a piece of my mind.
Before she showed, a carload of men showed up telling me they were looking for my friend to invite back to their apartment for a party. When I angrily told them she wasn’t there, they invited me into their car and invited me back to their place.
In my frustrated and angry state I got into their car. I believe there were five men and me in the car.
When I arrived back at their apartment I discovered no party, just me.
I tried to call my friend to come and get me, but alas, there was no answer.
Eventually two other girls showed up. They were the girlfriends of one of the men and one other was looking for a hook-up. Eventually more men showed up.
I hovered in a corner and tried to reason and think, but I had no idea where I was and I couldn’t reach my friend.
Leave and risk the elements of a neighborhood that I had no idea where I was and walk to my friend’s apartment when I didn’t even have any idea in which direction to head out? Stay and hold out the night?
I chose to stay.
I was raped when everyone went to sleep and I was lying on the living room floor. There were men “asleep,” at my feet, yet they all chose to ignore my screams, cries and reasoning. I believe one was very much awake and even laughed.
The next morning when I got up (I didn’t fall asleep. I waited for the sun to come up and called my friend once everyone passed out.) I called my friend and she came to get me. She knew on the phone that something happened. She tried to talk me into going to the police, but I realized the facts were stacked against me and choose not to.
I went about my life as if everything was normal.
I didn’t tell anyone for a week. I told my best friend, but I didn’t tell my boyfriend for another month or so and we broke-up very shortly there after.
I was to blame. I got into the car. I went back to the party. It was my fault. I knew, I knew this wasn't true, but I couldn't help but think it.

I contracted an STD which led into PID which lead into pre-cancerous tissue on my cervix, which lead to several years of tests, exams, and painful, painful lasting results.
I was raped when I was 17, yet the exams and tests lasted until I was 21. How could I ‘get over and move on’ when I was dealing with a constant reminder due to continuing doctor appointments and exams.
My best friend turned against me, and so did my boyfriend.
It ate at me. It changed me. I was extremely depressed and I was sleeping around in a very reckless manner because I simply didn’t care enough to care. I didn’t care about myself. I didn’t respect myself. I simply did-not-care.

I told my mom about what happened a little over a year after the fact. She tried to help me, but ultimately and it’s stupid to say it this way, but it was bad timing on my part when I told her. She was dealing with her own stuff and I was trying to deal with my stuff. Support, in the way I needed it, wasn’t there.

By the time I was 21 I had, ‘moved on.’ As much as someone can, I had. Self-esteem was back; attitude of conquering the world was back. The little party girl (healthy, smart, always aware of her surroundings, only has positive people around me, no glove no love, party girl) was back.
I was out living my life to the fullest and having a great, wonderful, and amazing time.

Then, when I was 23 I was raped in my apartment, in my bed.
I had met someone that night. We had chatted for several hours. He came up to my apartment. I made it perfectly clear, several times, that we would not be having sex. Under no circumstance would we be sleeping together.
He said he understood.
After several hours of talking in my living room, on my couch, he then pinned me on my bed and raped me. I don’t recall how this happened exactly. I know the bathroom was through the bedroom so I don’t know if I got up and he followed me, or if when I left the bathroom he was in my bedroom. I don’t remember. I don’t want to.
I do know I kicked, I hit, I screamed, I cried.
(…and breathe….)
I was on my period and was using a tampon when he raped me. Needless to say this lead to a lot of pain for several days afterward.

I knew I needed to go to the hospital.
I knew I shouldn’t be in the shower.
I knew I had to get out of the curled up ball I was in my tub and stop the water washing everything way.
I knew I shouldn’t go swimming at the lake the next day with my girlfriend and act like nothing was wrong.
I knew I shouldn’t clean my fingernails endlessly and unconsciously.
I knew I needed to tell someone.

I was raped on a Saturday night/Sunday morning. I went to the hospital late Monday night.

I went to work Monday morning. It was when I was on my way to my part-time job later that night that I could feel it eating at my brain and I knew I had to tell. I couldn’t go though this again. I wasn't going to let it run me or my life again. Not again.
My mom and older brother drove me to the hospital that night.

I sat and I sat and I sat and I sat in the ER exam room. Hour upon hour upon hour. Along with a doctor and nurse, a rape counselor also needs to be present.
There was a backlog in the ER that night.
Even though I called before hand and told them I wasn’t going to wait; I waited and I waited and I waited.

I’ve debated about this next part. How honest to be? I don’t want to discourage others, but I want to be honest. I need to tell the whole story. But, I don’t want to discourage others.


The rape exam is one of the most intrusive, invasive, heart wrenching, horrible, cruelest, victimizing things I have ever been through. That's all I can say. I really can't go into it. It's something I have spoken very little about and it's not that I am retreating here, I honestly don't see the point in telling it. I don't think it would serve a point and I believe it would only be pornographic and voyeristic.
I am sure there is a point behind everything they had me do, but I am at a loss as to the reason for it.
At one point, with the doctor, nurse, rape counselor in the room with me, I started to cry. The doctor, clearly aggravated, asked if I wanted him to leave the room. When I told him yes, he didn’t seem happy about this. The nurse and rape counselor concurred this my feeling about his reaction and apologized for him.

After that ordeal was over, the police came, two men. I had to explain everything. I use humor to diffuse situations and to keep my sanity. I told them this, but I was still afraid they would read it wrong.

I had all the info about the rapist, he was easy to find.
He was taken into the police and questioned. He told them he wasn’t surprised he was there. He confessed to being an asshole, but not to raping me.
When I went in to tell them my story, the police told me his. The above sentence is a direct quote.
I contracted an STD from him as well. This lead to more problems and I don’t believe I will be able to have children due to the damage from both.
I told my family. I told my friends. I told my boyfriend. I told my employer and took a leave from work. My parent’s took my bed away and I bought a new one. I was going to move, but I refused to let one person control my life that way. I wasn’t going to move. I wasn’t going to let him win. I told the police, I was ready to be torn apart by whoever chose to tear me apart for standing up.

There wasn’t enough evidence. It never went to court. I was devastated. I shouldn’t have taken a shower. I should have gone to the hospital right away. I shouldn’t have waited. Again, somehow it came back to me and my fault. Even though I knew better. It somehow became my fault.

I don’t normally talk about being raped.
This is the most I’ve ever written or talked about it at one time.
Not because I am ashamed.
Not because I want to hide.
Not because I believe I am victim.

But because I don’t want to be looked at any differently.
I don’t want to be over-analyzed.
I don’t want people to go, ‘ah-ha! Now all the pieces make sense. That is why she does what she does.’
I am not a mystery unto myself. I know why I am the way I am and why I do what I do. It really doesn’t have a lot to do with being raped. I was a little party girl before I was 17 and 23 and I have been since.
I have issues about a few things and boundaries when it comes to others. I draw lines and I don’t recommend that a person cross it without permission. If it is crossed, I don’t suggest crossing it again.
However, unless you are a very close person in my life, you wouldn’t have any idea about these lines or boundaries. There isn't a reason to know unless I feel there is.

I am perpetually perky always optimistic and slightly cynical (unless you ask Nick. Then he’ll tell you I am more than slightly cynical.) Happy, healthy, incredibly out-going 32-year-old woman who has been raped, twice. It does not rule my world. It does not define me, nor will I let it. I don’t think about it every second of everyday. It does still enter my mind. I am always aware of my surroundings. I am careful about those who I let into my life and who I choose to be close in my life and who I let in. However, don’t a lot of people do that?

Even now as I write this, I’m wondering if you all will look and think of me differently. Don’t. Please, don’t.

People say they don’t know what to say when someone tells them something like I just shared. Don’t say anything. Listen. Be quiet and listen. Don’t start to tell me your story before I am finished with mine. Maybe don’t even share yours. It’s not that I don’t want to hear it, but let me tell mine. Let me say what I need to say.
But, please, please, don’t look at me differently. Don’t analyze why I am the way I am. I am the person I am supposed to be and I am so awesome with that person. She and I kick-ass and I love her. I wouldn’t change a thing. Not a heart-wrenching, depressing, introspective, why did that happen, when will I be able to ‘move on,’ thing. It has all made me the person I am today, and I kick ass. She and I totally kick ass.
I am so happy with who I am.
Don't look at me or treat me differently than you did before you heard my story.
I am not a victim. Don’t you dare call me a victim.
I am not a survivor. What have I survived? Two nights. Sadly, nothing more than almost every woman I encounter has gone through. We all have a story. Take the time to listen to it.
It was two nights. Two nights have not defined my whole life.
I love sex. It took a long time for me to get there, but I do. I love sex.
I own my sexuality.
I own my body.
I own my mind.
I own myself.
I respect myself.
I am awesome.
I kick ass.

soapbox rant:rape cases in the media and how the women and men are torn apart

I need to get on a soapbox for a second.

So, the Duke rape case. I'm not going to go into whether or not I think the men are guilty. That's not the point of this post. I honestly don't think that is the point of the media-brew-haha around this story either. What I do think and what is getting my panties chaffin' my ass is the fact that, once again, the women in the case are made out to be liars and are being accused of making false statements and once again their background, morals, values and what they have chosen to do for a living have been called into question. (Just to name a few other cases: Preppy Murder Case, Mike Tyson, Kobe Bryant, pick any Kennedy, and on and on and on...)

Once again the woman involved in the case is made to be the victim. Not the victim of rape, but a victim of the media. She is being torn apart. Her statements, her comments, her background, her person is being torn apart. I might add that is seems to be lovingly and joyfully torn apart by the media by all of those involved and not involved in the case.
Again, I don't know who is guilty of what. I wasn't there I'm not going to comment. The only people who really know what happened are the women and the men and I'm sure, as all people do and as all people are individulas; they all have a different take and a different spin on what actually happened and what took place.
However, every 2.5 seconds a women in America is a victim of sexual assult and one in every six women will be a victim of rape in her lifetime. Since the 1970's rape cases have (allegedly) gone down 85%.

I would like to take this time to say, I think these figures are crap. I don't believe rape cases have gone down and I don't believe it is only 1 in 6 women that are raped in their lifetime.
I do believe that rapes are, for the most part, unreported. I do believe the reason rapes have, allegedly, decreased is because women are not reporting them. I would like to say the reason cases are not reported is because women don't think they will be believed. I do think women feel they will be victimized even more by the police, the media, family and friends. I mean, aren't strippers simply asking to be raped? How much did she have to drink and well, she was showing a lot of cleavage, not to mention the short skirt she was wearing, so surely she was simply asking for it. She wanted it, forget about the brusies, black-eyes and screams of, 'no.' She wanted it. She enjoyed it. She asked for it.

So, why aren't women reporting? Why don't women come forth? Why don't women talk about what happened that night? Why don't they go to the hospital to have the exams, the photo shoot, the incredibly intrusive police report filled out?
Because she will be torn apart, she will be made to feel victimized again, she will not be believed, her character will be called into question, she will once again have to defend herself against the media, the men, the aligations, her family, and friends.

Oh, and if she should be willing to do all the above. You know, stand up for what's right, chances are the bag of rape evidence will simply sit on a shelf somewhere and nothing will be done with it. Yes, that's right. Sit on a shelf. Why you ask? Because there isn't enough staff time or money to investigate all of the rape cases that come into an average police station/hospital on an hourly basis. Most rape victims are not aware of this. They are told there wasn't enough evidence to go forward with the investigation. They are not told that the bag of evidence was never even opened.

So, the next time the media wants to jump on a bandwagon when it comes to a juicy news story that has all the jazz and pazzazz to catch headlines, think about it. Take 2.5 seconds to think about and remember that there is a person behind the story. The person has been through enough. That person has already been victimized enough. Stop and fucking think about it for 2.5 seconds before you jump to conclusions about what kind fo headline it will make.

...and off my soapbox.

Sunday, June 18, 2006

I wasn't naked, I didn't have sex, I drank only a little yet, it was nearly a perfect weekend

...I know! I'm just as shocked as you all are!

Friday, I forgot to go to the store and didn't manage to remember until my stomach was a rumbling and a grumbling. I had one lone can of tuna and a carton of milk that expired sometime in April and not a lot more going on in my cupboards. (Sadly, that's not an exaggeration.) I was trying to decide which greasy pizza joint I should order from when the thought of calling up the parents entered my mind. Maybe they would take me out to eat. Mmm, maybe I should call them. Just as that thought had exited my brain, my phone rang. It was my mom and they were going out to dinner. Really? Wanna take me? Sure, hurry up. We're leaving now. Score!
Free meal and a margarita later.
Some chat time at their house while being attacked by the five-pound holy terror known as, Sadie, the new family dog, I called it a night and came home.

Saturday: Shopping with Mom, down in the new trendy downtown district. A free lunch and some purchases later I came home in the late afternoon. It was hotter than Satan's cock here this weekend and many of my friends had weddings to attend, (poor things.) I watched the William Powell and Myrna Loy movie marathon on TCM and called it a night.
Oh, funny moment of Saturday night. My neck, back, and right arm were hurting due to last week at work. I put on a lot (a lot) of Icy-Hot on my neck, back and right arm. Wow. When they say, 'apply only a thin layer.' They mean it. They aren't a joking. My nipples were rock hard. Rock hard. Now, why and how can Icy-Hot make my nipples hard? I have no idea other than the combination of the hot and cold absolutely surging through my body at a high and intense rate of speed might have had something to do with it. Wow.

Sunday: I did some gardening at my place. I went over to my parents for a BBQ. I made several blenders of margaritas and wondered how my Mom's blender has managed to still blend, chop, and liquefy since she received it for a wedding gift in 1969 in a lovely shade of avocado, yet I've had at least nine in thirteen years. (One of which caught on fire.) Anyway, BBQ, margaritas, and a water balloon fight with the niece and nephew. I've decided C-man looks like a 7-year-old
and when I called my 13-year-old niece Miss K, Hot Donna, my brother said that was disturbing. I realized he had a point and I went back to calling her, Miss K.
After several hours of sitting in the hot sun and drinking several margaritas, I came home. I exercised to try and burn off some of the BBQ. I called my dad and we actually had a decent conversation.

See, I wasn't naked, I didn't have sex, there wasn't any dancing, I didn't see any of my gays, I didn't spend money I didn't have. If I had done all of those things it would have been a perfect weekend. However, it was a near perfect weekend and I'll settle for that. Near perfect is pretty damn good on a random hot and sweltering summer weekend.

Thursday, June 15, 2006

when you comin home son.....

I spoke to my dad today for the first time in a couple months.

I wrote about his and my relationship a month ago telling how I had put our past behind us, which I have.

I am no longer angry.
I am no longer bitter.
I am no longer trying to find his love.
I am no longer yearning for him to be part of my life.
He and I are okay.

He almost died.
A year ago.
I tried to be in his life, but he was dealing with his, shouldn't still be alive and lost several days of his life and trying to get past it, so he didn't have time for me.

I'm an adult.
I am busy.
I have dealt with it.
It seems par for the course.

He has called me several times and I didn't have the time to call him back.
I couldn't find the time.
I didn't want to have the time.
I didn't call him back.

He did a google search and found my work email and sent me a note.
I responded.
That was well over a month ago.
He sent me another email over the weekend.
I called him from work today.

He asked about me right away and this gave me a false glimmer of hope.
Then I asked about him.
Things are good.
Things are great.
He misses me.
He misses my brothers.
He wishes he heard from us more.

...and the cats in the cradle and the silver spoon little boy blue and the man on the moon...

He is working a new job this weekend.
He has gotten involved with community issues.
He misses me and wished I called more.

....when you comin' home son, I don't know when, we'll get together then, you know we'll have a good time then....

He is thinking about running for city council.
He stands up for the little guy.
He is thinking about getting involved in politics.
He understands that I am busy and I have a lot going on, how is school?
He sure does miss hearing from me.

...Well, he came from college just the other day, so much like a man I just had to say, I'm proud of you, could you sit for a while, he shook his head and he said with a smile....

He said with a laugh, that he is spending my inheritance on his new house.
He is doing landscaping and gardening.
He and his wife have never been happier.
He sure loves their new place, but he sure does miss seeing me.

...I've long since retired, my son's moved away, I called him up just the other day, I'd like to see you if you don't mind...

When I felt I had talked enough and had gotten caught up on his life.
I said, "It sounds like everything is going great for you."
He said, "It is, but I sure do miss hearing from you.
I sure do miss your voice.
I sure miss seeing you.
But, it has sure been nice talking to you."

but it's sure nice talking to you, Dad, it's been sure nice talking to you

The whole time I am talking to him, "Cats in the Cradle," is going through my head.
I couldn't help it.
As I hung-up the phone I started singing the song to myself.
Quietly to myself.
All the lyrics.

...and as I hung up the phone it occured to me, he'd grown up just like me, my boy was just like me... I logged onto my computer tonight, I saw I had an email from my, Dad. He thanked me for calling and told me he misses me. But, it was sure nice hearing from me today. It was sure nice talking to me.
Love, Dad

With tears streaming down my face I realized I don't want to be like him.
I realized I don't won't to be like him....

inner dork and word origin, in one: no man's-land

Did you know....

The phrase, 'no man's-land' comes from the Middle Ages. There was an actual no-man's-land, located outside the north wall of the city of London. This is the area where the bodies of criminals were displayed and since relatively minor crimes were then punishable by death, there were lots of bodies displayed which had been hung, beheaded, impaled of which served as a warning for other would-be lawbreakers.
Eventually the land around London was settled. Game preserves were established and the fields were cultivated, the only land that no man wanted were the former execution lands. Literally, no man wanted this land and that became the phrase to discribe this area.

Around 1900 the phrase was picked up by the military.

Now, if only we knew where the phrase, BFE came from. (Bum-fuck-Egypt)

Wednesday, June 14, 2006

factoid of the day: Nasamones bridal parties

The Nasamones of Libya during the fifth century B.C. required the bride to sleep with all the male guests at the wedding party.

I can't help but wonder how many men crashed the wedding.

Also, if the woman was a virgin, good lord. Talk about a crash course.

Tuesday, June 13, 2006

the bad boy

GirlGoyle had posted a comment about me going after the bad boy.

This was the second time in three days that someone had said this to me. This lead to a, smack me on the ass and call me Shirley, moment.

Sure, the two people who made this comment couldn't be more different. One is an older gay male who I've known for several years. He and I are basically a fag and a hag stand-up improve routine when we're together. GG is a mostly anonymous female of about my same age who lives in an undisclosed location. Sure, I don't know her and she doesn't know me, but hey, the similarities in their statement was uncanny as far as I was concerned and perhaps this needed to be explored further.
While the handprint was still fresh on my ass, I decided to take a moment, while the sting set in, to dive into this.
Into the depths and reaches of my inner most thoughts I delved. What oh, what should I find?
That they're both kinda sorta, but not really right.

Do I find the 'bad boy' to be appealing in some ways? Sure.

Why? Well, because I guess it could be successfully argued while slamming down a few Jager shots and hollering at the bartender to skip the cranberry in my vodka cranberry, that I, as a self-proclaimed party girl who can tell a story with the best of 'em, laughter is my crack cocaine, who is a member of Adam and Eve's super quadruple platinum titanium club, who writes about having sex in an alley, and I can drink most alcoholics who are currently repeating steps 1-12 for the fourth time only to fail yet again, that I could and would be seen as a, 'bad girl,' in most people's eyes.
Bad girl just doesn't have the same ring to it as bad boy, now does it? Sort of a double standard there that I don't really like or care for.
Eh, I'll deal with double standards another day.

So, the bad boy. What I see, call, and consider the bad boy is someone who has a steady job and paycheck, is happy in and with his life, is close to his family, laughter is his crack cocaine, can toss back a few and stay with me when he does, returns all my phone calls and emails in a prompt and timely manner, and is kind and considerate. Likes my family and gets along (for the most part with his.) Doesn't discuss any or all of his ex's every time we get together. He is open, honest, and willing to discuss sex and all of it's possibilities and won't hold me or others in judgment for things past, present, future, or as yet, undisclosed.

What he is not and does not do: He doesn't have a wondering eye, won't cheat on me, doesn't lie to me, doesn't have some secret agenda, won't be a complete and total dumb-ass. However, most importantly, he won't lie to me, he won't lie to me, he won't lie to me and he doesn't have some secret hidden agenda. Or hold one-sided conversations. Cause, that's not really a conversation, now is it? No.

So, basically he is completely unattainable.
He's unattainable because he doesn't exist.
Therefore, because he is unattainable, and most importantly, doesn't exist, he is safe. It won't ever go anywhere.
Not in a drama or trauma sort of way not go anywhere, but in a, it didn't stand a chance from the words, 'let's get naked,' and I am completely aware of this fact even before those words were uttered.

So, really, because I get all pheromone-y around the bad boy it's not going to go anywhere and he is safe that way.

Make sense?

Yeah, I didn't think so.

...Why does my ass have a handprint on it?

factoid of the day: Catharism

A religious movement during the Middle Ages known as Catharism forbade marital sex. The reason? The belief was, abstinence was the only road to spiritual enlightenment.

So, I'm guessing the movement only lasted for one generation seeing as how they couldn't repopulate to spread their beliefs. (So to speak.)

One more reason I am glad I live in this day and age.

last weekend: pictures

I'll be keeping them close.
Close to me, that is.
A lot became clear.
More was remembered.
The only one I would be willing to share is a face shot.
Not as in a, money face shot, as in my face in a picture.
I don't know if I want to share.

So, yeah.....


I was thinking about my dating life the other day. I was thinking about all of the dates I’ve been on in the last few months. I could remember most of the men, but then because I am apparently into humiliating myself I decided to write it all down. Then, because that wasn’t enough, I decided to share it with you.
Some of you know I went into a self-imposed dating exile after, The Dick. a.k.a. My Accidental Adultery. I took myself out of that self-imposed exile sometime in March. Here is a list of the carnage since then.

Basketball guy, 30-something. He was actually incredibly nice. I know that’s the kiss of death, but he was nice in the best way. He, however, became very sick. I would like to point out that he didn’t get sick because of me. I think he was diagnosed with Lyme’s disease. The reason this whole dating romance was halted is because he was, sick and going to a fro from doctors, tests, exams, ect. Didn’t have time to romance, chase or to be caught. No, problem. You know, I should email him to see how he is doing.
Email has been sent.
I will consider that my random act of kindness for the day.
Okay, he has updated me on his current sick situation. He isn’t going to be well anytime soon. Of course, this may be his way of backing out, but he did contact me out of the blue a few weeks ago. So…

Mini-Lloyd Dobbler, 28-years-old: The guy who would have been perfect 10 or so years ago. He doesn’t have a strong enough personality for me. He is kind of a push-over. Also, I am not attracted to him physically in any way. He and I have remained friends contrary to popular belief that we couldn’t or wouldn’t. We go to baseball games and meet for coffee and such. Nothing earth shaking or exciting, but he was a good guy and I want to keep him in my life.

Air Force guy, 33-years-old: He is actually pretty cool. However, he is currently on some top-secret mission down in MS. At least that’s what he claims. I don’t know if I want to deal with someone who is in the military and is more than likely going to be deployed overseas, (again) within the year. I salute him, I applaud him, and all those in the military, but let’s be honest, long distance ‘dating’ for a year or so? Yeah.

Bike guy, 31-years-old: Bike guy and I got along amazingly well. We could hang-out and I could just be. Show up in cargo pants, flip-flops and just be. Drink all the beer I wanted, impress him with my beer drinking and knowledge, laugh, joke, smile, make fun, and be. There was nothing about him physically that should have made me want to rip his clothes off. (Let’s just say he has had several, several, face to car, concrete, tree, road accidents) There was nothing about his communication skills that should have made me want to rip his clothes off. However, oh-my-god, did I want to rip his clothes off. The pheromones were everywhere! Everywhere! Ev-er-y-where. (Just want to make that point clear.) (Everywhere) Then, then when the pheromones cooled off several red flags popped into my head while I was lying in bed. One of which was when he asked me if I was a pothead.
“Um, you mean now, or formally?”
“No. I use to be quite the pot smoker, but not now.”
“So, you use to be. That means you still are.”
“No. Use to be, past tense. So, are you telling me that you’re a pothead?”
“Oh, yeah. I smoke everyday.”
“Were you high when you met me?”
“Lit bit, yeah.”
That’s when I realized I was 32 not 22 and had to go.

Nerd boy number one, 25-years-old: Perfect, perfect, perfect. However, our schedules could not have been more incompatible. We barely had time to call each other let alone try and see each other.

Nerd boy number two, 27-years-old: This is the guy who should have worked out. He was a great conversationalist. We had several things in common. He was well-mannered. Very honest and open. Took me to some very nice and rather expensive places for some very nice nights out. Yet, I was absolutely not attracted to him in any way. No attraction towards him. None. Zilch. Nil. Nada. I even had to debate as to whether or not I wanted to kiss him good-night, never mind ripping his clothes off or having sex in a dark alley. Couldn’t see any of that happening. Chemistry, It’s a tricky thing.

Angst-y-guy, 40-years-old: Oh, dear Lord! This guy was a mess. He and I could not have been more incompatible. He had no drive, no ambition. He wouldn’t tell me where he worked because it was, what did he call it?…Menial.
After getting to know him for a week I can see why that’s all he could handle. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, just sayin’. My glass is overflowing most of the time. Even at my worst, my glass is ¾ full. His glass? His glass hadn’t seen a drop of water. His glass didn’t have a sweat ring underneath it because it never, ever had anything in it, nor would it ever.
We had one really long phone conversation that went from Sunday afternoon into early Monday morning. It took several days for me to call him back because of my schedule. I usually don’t get home until after 10 and by the time I sit down to do what ever, it’s after 10:30. I didn’t want to call at a time that might have been too late. So, we had a few days of phone tag. When I finally did call him back it was on a Thursday. Ohgoodlord! It was one of the most painful experiences of my dating life. He was nervous about the phone call. There was so much pressure from the first phone call and he wanted this one to go just as well….and on and on. Just think angst. And whiney. Whiney angst. Hot. After about 10-15 minutes of this and he and I not agreeing on the perception of life, i.e. overflowing and empty. I told him there was no way this would work out between us.

Cute tutor, 23-years-old: Smart, witty, funny, sexy, handsome, nice, friendly, gets along with his family and would help the little old lady across the street while walking her dog. He and I are making a website together as a side money-making project. He is moving to New York to pursue his modeling/acting career. While he is waiting tables he is also going to graduate school to pursue a course of study which he designed, proposed to the college, and is now going to pursue. (Smokin’ hot.) What is the graduate school that he asked me to write a letter of recommendation? Yale.
Yes, of course he is going to be moving. Of course. I should call him.
Okay, just called him. He has had quite the eventful summer. Or late spring. I think a lot of what he says is bullshit. However, it’s the fun, harmless bullshit that makes for entertaining stories and antidotes. Bullshit that entertains me and I can tell it’s the fun harmless kind, is acceptable to me. Plus, I think this will help hone his acting skills.

Out-Of-Towner, 34-years-old: Is there really anything to say about this one? He keeps popping up. (Sure, take the pun.) We play, we flirt, we tease, and it’s never, ever going to lead to anything more. This is the guy who I was willing to share myself, settle down (not as in marriage, but as in willing to be exclusive with.) open up to. But, he didn’t get it. Me. He just doesn’t get me.

Last, but not least:

Taye Diggs-look alike, age, no idea. Hooooot. He has a midnight to five nothing but love songs, radio voice. (I shiver and shudder just from the thought of him talking into my ear.) He and I played a really great game of phone tag. It was awesome. However, again, it came down to schedules.

Let’s see. I am sure there is more carnage, but really, I think this is more than enough.

I think I will be going into another self-imposed exile.

Or, maybe I will just be switching teams for awhile. Again.

hottie of the week: Mathew Broderick

Because he is the boy next door who looks good in a tuxedo.
Because he is married to Sarah Jessica.
Because he would make me laugh, everyday.
Because he will always be, Ferris Bueller.

Monday, June 12, 2006

showing my love and representin'

This past weekend was our gay pride celebration.

I showed my love to all my gays.

I came, I saw, I switched teams, I represented.

I don't remember much.

However, if my brain beating against my skull like the latest techno track along with my stomach doing some serious flippin' and floppin' in addition to my hands shakin' like my booty is still on the dance floor is any indication, then I had one hell of a good time.

I do remember some key phrases that were said to me.

Said to me sarcastically, with a laugh, dry, humorously, dead-pan, with a head tilt, and in all seriousness: "You are such a fag hag."

PG: "Look at me. I'm not even a gay American and I'm out here showing my love."
Billy: "You are too a, gay American."
PG: "No, I'm not. I just dabble."
Billy: "Dabbling counts."

We had a big name queen doing a show at one of the bars and I was afraid we missed her. There was a mass exodus of men and women leaving the area and I was in a panic.
PG: "Ohmygod! If we missed her, I am so not going to be happy."
Billy: "Simmer down, simmer down."
We then asked a couple lesbians if we missed the show. They were about eight rainbows to the wind.
The really, really drunk butch: "Well, bitches, take out your tits and get in there!!"
I'm pretty sure she thought Billy was a girl.

During the show my ass was seriously being molested by several different hands.
I had on a cotton dress.
I wasn't wearing any underwear.
Wearing underwear simply wasn't a good fashion idea with the dress.
Being in a very, very packed crowd while not wearing underwear while being in a cotton dress = serious ass grabbin'.
No, it was more like some serious unwelcomed anonymous foreplay ass-grabbin'.
I left feeling very, very dirty.
Not in a good way, dirty. It was in a, I really want a shower, kind of dirty.

That's about all I remember from the weekend. I know I took pictures of various events and such. Perhaps when I get home and look at the pictures all will become clear.

....Perhaps I don't want to see what's on the camera. Sometimes not knowing is better.

Friday, June 09, 2006

first albums

Huey Lewis and the News, "Sports," that was the first album I ever bought with my own money.

It was the summer of 1984 when MTV was actually about music. When they were revolutionizing the music industry and music videos. When Madonna was a dirty virgin, Michael Jackson was thrilling, I had sweet dreams about the Eurythmics, I wanted to be Tina Turner's private dancer, Billy Idol and I would have a white wedding, and I wanted to have the smuggler's blues with Glenn Fry.

I was shopping with my mother, I had saved up my allowance and I was going to buy my first album. It was going to be Huey Lewis and the News, without question, no hesitation. I loved them. I wanted a new drug while I rocked out to the heart of rock and roll because this was it.

I wore that thing out. Wore it out. Album cover destroyed. Songs skipped beats, words, and rhythm- worn out. I knew every lyric. I knew everything there was to know about the members of the band. I waited patiently in front of the TV eagerly awaiting their new video.
Go outside and play? Sit in my room and read a book? No way! I spent the summer of 1984 in front of my parent's bedroom TV, sitting on the butt-breaking hardwood floor, my back resting against the end of the bed, my only source of comfort coming from the new video Nina Blackwood, Martha Quinn, JJ Jackson, Alan Hunter, and Mark Goodman teased and taunted me with.

The interviews with the latest new artist, the clothes, the accessories, the hairstyles; all of this ruled my world during the summer of 1984. Madonna, Billy Idol, Bryan Adams, The Police, Michael Jackson, Huey Lewis, Frankie Goes to Hollywood, The Pet Shops Boys, Eurythmics, Tina Turner, and Culture Club; they were my 1984.

Then the hair bands took over.
Huey Lewis lost their relevance and it was now all about Stephen Percy from Ratt.

My first album was thrown out. It was all used up anyway, right?

Then I found my way into a local record shop. What should I happen across? Yes, "Sports."
I burned it onto a CD placed it in my stereo, turned up the volume and I went back to 1984. I was suddenly back in my bedroom as a 10-year-old little girl who knew everything about the band. I knew every lyric, beat, and pause. Only now the 10-year-old girl was 30 and dancing in her living room. The song was still perfectly choreographed and I was still a rock star.

...and you?

Thursday, June 08, 2006

the cool smooth metallic smell of candy apple red freedom

In my car I am a: super star, a rock star, a hot tamale and sometimes, maybe once or twice, even a porn star.

I can’t be in a bad mood in my car. I’ve tried. It doesn’t work. I could have had the most awful-horrible-worst-cryfest-depressing-bummer-hate the world-and everyone I encounter is stupid, kind of day; it doesn’t matter, none of it matters when I am in my car.
I crank up the stereo, I roll down the windows and none of it matters. None of it. I love the way I look and feel in my car. How other people look at me. How the men I date react when I tell them I drive a Mustang. I love the comments and questions my car brings:
“It is a V8?”
What color is it?”
“The color a Mustang should be. Candy apple red.”
I love when the grocery boy walks with me out to my car and I click the remote to unlatch the trunk. I know they think they are going to be led out to yet another minivan, I love fooling them. The reaction that can happen just from an innocent push of a button. Or the memories that occur when the grocery clerk happens to be an older gentleman and they reminisce about the Mustang they had when they were younger. The sentiments of coolness, youth, and nostalgia ring on every word. The sound of longing and regret show in their silver hair as they place the groceries in my car, taking a beat or two longer than is required to place the few sacks worth of food in my trunk. They hang by my bumper a few seconds too long, catching a glimpse of their younger self behind the wheel. The youthful kid who had no cares in front of him, their younger self before suburbia took over and all the worries that come from having the 2.5.

I tend to drive rather fast. I’m not a weaver or a bobber out of traffic; I just drive in the left lane and floor it. The road is my destination and it is straight ahead.

I’m a leaner. Not the big-pimpin’ kind of leaner. But, I lean. Elbow on the console, left hand curled around the top of the wheel, my jewelry flickers in the summer sun and my nails are perfectly buffed. I feel the tan leather around my fingers and palm, right foot angled exactly where I want it on the gas, stereo cranked, windows rolled down, as I lean.

Driving to and fro with the windows rolled down on the most wonderfully delicious summer night, life cannot be more perfect. It’s warm, but not hot. It’s summer, but it’s not swampy humid. It’s night, but there are no stars in the sky. The only light is from the moon that is not yet high enough to see. The speed limit is 70, but I’m going 78. The music of my choosing is in the CD player and I am a rock star. There is no better singer. There is no better performer. I am awesome.

My hair is pulled back in a ponytail where a few stray hairs have escaped the rubber bands grasp and are whipping across my face and dancing all around my head. The warm summer air is filling the car and kissing my skin. The only sound is from my speakers, and I know all the words to every song ever written. Every inflection, beat, rhythm and rhyme. I am dancing to the notes floating from the left and from the right from behind me and in front of me. The notes all combine together to hit me as I clutch the wheel and drive through the night air. The road is my audience and the headlights behind me are my spotlights. My shoulders are bopping, my hips are swaying, my arms are telling the audience what to do, my head and neck are going this way and that. I have every beat down. My right foot does not move. My left leg is bent at the knee and holds my stance but every other inch of me is dancing for the open road. The loose hairs that cuts across my face wants in on the action, I try to tame it by tucking them behind my ear. They refuse to stay; they want in on the fame.

I am a super star on side roads, back roads, interstates and freeways, stoplights and stop signs, parking lots and b-bops. People either turn to me and give me a smile of, “Hey, good for you.” Or they turn away in a blink of a snap because; God forbid anyone should have that much fun in their car. Cars either pass me by or hang back behind me, because no one should have that much fun in their car.

Last summer my car sat. It sat in my parent’s driveway. All summer. All summer long. I broke my right leg therefore I couldn’t drive. All summer. My mom was my mommie-cab, she took me to and fro, everyday and everywhere I needed to go. I sat in the passenger seat of my mom’s car and I would look longingly as my car passed me by in the reflection of the passenger side window. My car sitting in the hot summer sun, collecting dust, dirt, and whatever the birds had digested that day. I couldn’t get in my car, I couldn’t touch my car, I couldn’t dance in my car, sit in or drive my car. I would look longingly at my Mustang from the passenger side window. I missed it. I missed the feeling. I missed the keys in my hand. I use to hate the smell and feeling that my keys would leave in my palm, the smell of metal and dirt. I would have given anything for the cool smooth metallic smell of freedom left to linger and dangle from my palm and fingertips. Anything. After awhile I stopped looking at the reflection my Mustang made in the passenger side window, I simply couldn’t bear the sight of it being laid out to pasture.

Thirteen weeks later, with a much whiter and skinnier right leg, I had my freedom back. I had forgotten how to walk, but I didn’t forget how to drive. It took me almost six months to walk normally again, but all it took was a turning of the key in the ignition and a sliding of my favorite CD into the stereo to get me back in the groove of my car.

I can’t be in a bad mood in my car. I love the way I look, the way I feel, the way other people look at me. I know it’s just a car, but I love it. My car has been keyed, scratched and door-dinged. Attempts have been made to break into it. I think the other cars are jealous. When I tell my friends about the other cars inflicted jealousy, they wait for me to yell, scream, kick and cuss, but I tell them, “I know what you’re thinking, but it is just a car. I love it, but come on, it’s just a car.” They stare back at me in disbelief at the words I have just said. I mean listen to me go on and on. However, the truth of the matter is, it is just a car. However, I do love it.

I don’t know much about what my future holds, however, I know that every car I own from now on will be a candy apple red Mustang. Because in my car I am a: super star, a rock star, a hot tamale and sometimes, maybe once or twice, even a porn star.

inner dork: History of the Ford Mustang

Mustang is celebrating its 40th universary !

For a long time, there have been a competition between the Ford Motor Company and the Chevrolet division from General Motors. Both companies operated on the same market. Chevrolet launched the Corvair because people wanted a compact and cheap car. Ford responded with the Falcon and this car was sold much better than the Corvair did. Just like the Thunderbird did to the Corvette in the fifties.

Then Chevrolet took the Corvair Monza into production, a sporty, compact car and people wanted it. Ford tried to defeat this car with the Falcon Futura, but the Corvair Monza sold considerably better, because the Falcon didn't have the rival's image and caracter. To defeat Chevrolet, Ford needed a brandnew car, a car with a sporty image and sporty actions, a car to be wanted by the young people. And on 13 april 1964 the Mustang was coming up.

It was really something special. Therefore this Ford was called "Pony Car". Not bound to rank or class, nearly everyone felt attracted to it. Simply ... for the normal people. The Mustang was advertised as "the car to be designed by you".

This payable sports-car was an idea from the young vice-president at Ford, Lee Iacocca. He was asked to bring back the two-seater Thunderbird. In 1962 he build the Mustang I-prototype, a V4 two-seater. However it had to be a four-seater and in 1963 the Mustang II showcar was riding at the American Grand Prix. The car was received passionately and became so popular, the Mustang was taken into production.

In order to keep production costs down, many of the Mustang's components were "borrowed" from the Falcon, including most of the drivetrain. In spring 1964 the Mustang was launched at the World Exhibition of New York and ... the Americans bought it ... !!

The Mustang was heavily advertised during it's development. In 1964, Ford ran simultaneous commercials on all three major television networks. Immediately, people "attacked" the Ford showrooms. Everyone was in a frenzy to be one of the first to own the Mustang.

The 1964½, as it was later called, was available in only two models: the coupe and convertible. Both models featured a lengthened hood and shortened rear deck, chrome wrap-around bumpers, chrome grille with a running horse, and full wheel covers.
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The interior was sporty too, with two seats in the front and a little back-seat. It had a deep shaped steering-wheel and a dashboard with a horizontal speed-meter. which looked like the Falcon sedan speed-meter.
At night, the buyer slept in his car until his cheque was approved, so the car wouldn’t be sold to anyone else.

The three tail-lights on both sides would be characteristic for the Mustang for years.
The standard car would cost about $ 2.400,--, but with multitude of different interior, exterior and drivetrain options, you could turn it into your own hot rod and double its value. Ford sold over 22.000 Mustangs the first day!! After the first four months, 100.000 Mustangs were sold, the first year 418.000 and the 1.000.000-th in 1966. The Mustang had made a name for itself and it was here to stay !!!

1965 brought a view changes for the Mustang. The biggest was a new Fastback model. Another was the in april 1965 introduced GT. Over 500.000 Mustangs were build for the year 1965.
Most of the changes for 1966 were in the form of cosmetic refinements. The choices of available interior colors and styles increased to thirty four varieties, giving the buyer even more ways to personalize "their" Mustang.

On the racing track the Mustang succeeded too and its sporty image was increasing on the road due to the Shelby GT-350 Mustang from 1965 and to the Mach 1.

An interesting detail of the 1967 Mustang was the "Exterior Decor". The simulated air-scoops, a larger grill. This version was longer and looked more agressive, more accurate to the engines available.
In 1968 the GT/CS California Special was build and got a new dashboard with two big meters and tree little ones.

The Mustang was starting to grow up. At 1969 the Mustang became bigger and heavier. The new Mustangs were almost 4 inches longer. The grill, with no corral (a running horse similar to the one on the front fenders of the first generation took its place) and inner headlights.
Other new models were the Grande, the Mach 1, the Boss 302 and the Boss 429.
The Grande was based on the hardtop Coupé. The accent of this car was luxury, both the interior and the exterior. On the contrary, the actions were accentuated with the Mach 1, with details based on the racing tracks. The Mach 1 also had a luxe interior and air-scoops, a matblack hood, an agressive looking Windsor engine and heavy striping.

The very exclusive Boss 302 was brought onto the market to give Ford the chance to use the car on the Trans-Am races. According to the Trans-Am regulations, Ford had to sell thousand cars to the public before the car was allowed to participate the race.

Just like the Boss 429, which was riding on the NASCAR (National Association for Stock Car Automobile Racing). Maybe this was the beginning of the end. The Pony was restained by the governments law and it drowned, just like the T-Bird did ... !!!

Special Mustangs were build for certain area's in the VS, like the Twister Special. This Mustang was sold in the area of Kansas Sity only. The Twister Special, based on the Mach 1, was recognizable to his color Grabber Orange and its special logo.


The V8 Mustangs were showing off their power (they had a acceleration-time of 0-96 km/hr in 8 seconds) while the less powerful 6-cylinders didn’t talk about the lack of it.


On the racing-tracks all over the world the Mustang was a success.
A big motor in a small car was the reason the car felt better than all the earlier American cars on the racing track.

courtesy of:

word of the day: Hello


This greeting is much newer than most people think. The use of hello as a greeting is only as old as the telephone. The first recorded use is from 1883.

It does, however, have earlier origins in other senses. It is a variant of hallo, which dates to 1840 and is a cry of surprise. That in turn is related to halloo, a cry to urge on hunting dogs. Halloo dates to about 1700, but a variant, aloo, appears in Shakeepeare's King Lear a century earlier than that.

And there is an even earlier variant, hollo, which dates to at least 1588 when Shakespeare used it in Titus Andronicus. There are also cognates in other Germanic languages.

Hello was not a shoo-in for the telephone greeting either. It competed with several other options, including Alexander Graham Bell's suggestion of Ahoy, but pulled into an early lead and by the end of the 1880s was firmly ensconced.

Wednesday, June 07, 2006


There was some question as to time management about my request for sex three times on Sunday.
I say it comes down to priorities.
Do laundry or have sex.
Clean my apartment or have sex.
Do dishes or have sex.
I pick everything that doesn't involve cleaning and involves me being hot, sweaty, grunting, groaning, getting a little Trojan involved, and talking dirty.
I mean, c'mon:

Tuesday, June 06, 2006

why he's my best friend

Billy and I have been friends since I was 19. He was one of those people who I had to have in my life. I gravitated towards him. He and I worked at the same place; he worked on the floor with the handicapped children and I worked in the kitchen. I won him over with food and the ability to feed him for free. We've been friends ever since.
A few years ago he and I had a falling-out. We didn't talk for almost four years.
Last year, a few days after my dad almost died, I realized the fighting was stupid, senseless and I needed him back in my life. I called him up, explained what had just happened with my dad and asked to be his friend again. We talked for almost two hours that day.
Sure he and I are older, wiser, and slightly more mature, but we're still the same. No one makes me laugh the way he does. He and I laugh so hard when we are together that we are probably only audible to dogs. Maybe hyenas. Our conversations go from A to G to K to Z to F and somehow it all makes sense. We drink, we dance, we disco, we go out for dinner. We're a big fan of the D's. But more than that, no one, no one, get's me the way he does.

So, here is a slice of our friendship.
Phone conversations with my best friend, Billy.

Over the weekend:

(He has a wild rabbit that keeps eating his potted plants.)

B: You know that bunny I told you about?
PG: Yeah, did you kick its ass?
B: Mmm, no. I just spent $20 on it.
PG: (Laughing, but with a dry tone.) You just spent $20 on a wild bunny?
B: (Smoking a cigarette) Yes. Let me tell you why. Okay, so it was eating my plants right? Mmm, so I went to buy some pepper plants.
PG: Pepper plants to keep the bunny away?
B: Yeah. So, I go to plant the pepper plants and the dirt moves.
PG: The dirt moved?
B: uh-huh, the dirt moved. The dirt moved. Do you understand what I'm saying?
PG: Yeah, the dirt moved. Did you scream like a little girl?
B: No. So, the dirt moved and I wanted to see what was under there.
PG: You stood there and watched it move? In front of the pot? Or did you run inside? What was it? A snake?
B: NO. It was bunnies.
PG: You had a pot of bunnies?
B: Yes. Five little bunnies.
PG: You had five little baby bunnies in a pot that you tried to plant pepper plants over?
B: Yes!
PG: And you didn't scream?
B: No. But do you know how many times I watered those bunnies??

Last night:

B: I watched all of last seasons, "Queer as Folk," over the weekend.
PG: Jesus, did you just want to go out and drink, dance, drug and have anonymous sex afterwards?
B: No. (Beat) I was just really tired afterwards.
PG: You're getting old.
B: I know. Five years ago, hell, even 2 years ago I would have been out the door and down at the bar.
PG: You're not old. You're 38.
B: I'm going to be fabulous at 40.
PG: (Ladden with sarcasm) So, how's that diet and workout plan going?
B: Mmm, perfect. Couldn't be better.
PG: Not working-out at all are you?
B: Nope, not a bit. I do a lot of snapping.
PG: Are we talking the one snap or the three snap?
B: Three.
PG: Excellent. Workout plan is in full-effect. You're going to be fabulous at 40.


(He has very high blood pressure. He was telling me what his was for the day.)

PG: Good lord. Mine is always so low they usually have to take it two, sometimes three times, and I've been asked before if I'm breathing. I think the last time I went to the doctor it was 80/59. The nurse asked me if I was alive.
B: (Under his breath, but clearly audible) You're such a fucking bitch.
PG: Even when I'm stressed I think the highest its ever been is 100/80.
B: Fucking whore.
PG: I know. But that's why my blood pressure is so low. I'm working all of my frustrations out.

hottie of the week: Gina Gershon

Because I've claimed for the past 10 years that, Bound was the hottest movie I've ever seen. I realized it had been that long since I'd seen the movie. It needed a revisit. I watched it again over the weekend. I wanted to see if it would still hold-up for me. Was it the hot girl-on-girl action between Jennifer Tilly and Gina Gershon? Was it the hot lipstick in the slinky dresses, heels and stockings against the hot butch? Was it the film noir quality? Was it the overt sexual overtones mingled with the innuendos throughout the film? Was it the campiness? Was it the ever-so-slight BDSM qualities of the film? Was it that at, 22, I was still trying to figure out and discover my sexuality therefore, the lesbian qualities of the film made it hotter for me than it actually is? Would Gina and Jennifer still do it for me?

What I discovered was; the film is very campy. Very 1950's film noir-ish. There are not nearly as many girl-on-girl sex scenes as I remember. The slinky dresses, heels, and stockings are much more overt than I remember. And that is why Gina and Jennifer still do it for me.

Monday, June 05, 2006

just sayin'

You know, if I was getting laid on a regular basis my life would be nearly perfect. Nearly. I would just like more money and for my bills to be paid on time. However, TrappedinCO has promised to take care of this for me. The bills that is. However, all things are negotiable.
Oh, and when I say, "regular basis," I mean once a day. Minimum. Preferably twice a day. Preferably. Three times on Sunday.
If I could get that right now my life would be nearly perfect. Nearly. Just sayin'.

Sunday, June 04, 2006

...and I was cool

After the hubbub over the Kiss song quote, I realized, or remembered however you want to look at it, that Kiss was my first concert.
I think it was one of their many reunion or farewell tours. I was 14 and I went with my older brother and his best friend, who I had a crush on, they would have been either 17 or 18.
My brother and I have always gotten along well, and I remember him being really cool to me while we were there, but in looking back I wonder how much he wanted to ditch me. I mean, here he was, a 17-year-old with his 14-year-old sister tagging along, how uncool for him.
Anyway, we drove to the concert in the best friend's 1980-something blue Camero. I sat in the back, of course, but I didn't care. I felt so cool there in the backseat looking out the side window. I knew I couldn't be a pest. I had to be cool. I knew I shouldn't talk a lot I couldn't be a pain to my brother and his friend. Translation: stay with them, but don't be a pain. Don't lose them, but don't be a tag along. In otherwords: Don't blow this opportunity!

The headline was, Kiss, Slaughter, and Faster Pussycat. I truly don't recall what Kiss songs were popular at the time. Let's see, if I was 14 that would have been around 1987-88, so I'm guessing "Let's put the X in Sex." Slaughter had their hit of, "Up All Night, Sleep All Day." Faster Pussycat, absolutely no idea. I know they had one hit that was really popular at the time, but I don't remember what it was. I think that speaks volumes about all of these bands. Two one-hit wonders, and...Kiss.

The tickets were general admission and we were pretty close to the stage. However, I really haven't grown much since I was 14, I pretty much hit my height requirement by then, so my view wasn't great. But I-did-not-care. I was at a concert. My mom let me go to a concert. I was with my cooler older brother and my crush and I was having the time of my life.
I was banging my head in all of its big hair glory.
I was singing along with the band.
My arm was in the air with devil horns bouncing along with the beat of the band.
I caught a guitar pic from each headliner.
I bought an over-priced, Slaughter t-shirt that I wore for many days, weeks, months and maybe years after they were relevant.
I got into the backseat of the Camero for the ride home and watched the other concertgoers disperse into their cars, and I had a smile on my face.
I was deaf for days.
But, for a couple hours on a random Saturday night in the middle of a hot summer, I got to hang with my cool older brother, my crush, I got to ride in the backseat of a blue Camero and I was cool.

....and you?

Thursday, June 01, 2006

just sayin'

I, just want to rock and roll all night and party everyday.

Really, is that so terribly much to ask?

word of the day: drink the Kool-Aid

Drink The Kool-Aid is a rather common American slang phrase.
Those who drink the Kool-Aid exhibit unswerving loyalty to and belief in their leaders.
This figurative use has been around since at least 1987.

Kool-Aid is a brand name for a soft drink mix that is popular among American children,
but the allusion is actually a much darker one. In 1978, Jim Jones, the leader of the People's
Temple, a San Francisco cult that had recently moved to the jungles of Guyana, ordered his
people to commit suicide. 914 cult members died, including 276 children and Jones himself.
Most killed themselves by drinking a grape drink laced with cyanide and sedatives. (It may
not have actually been Kool-Aid brand, but as the most popular brand it was the name that
stuck in the public consciousness.)
Most of those who refused to commit suicide were executed, either shot or killed with lethal
injection. Hence, to drink the Kool-Aid is to show cult-like devotion to one's leaders.

Now, all bow down to PG.

inner dork: The difference between lager and pilsner beer

One of my favorite subjects.

Did you know...

Lager is produced by slow bottom fermentation and aged under refigeration for several months. In German, 'lagern,' means "to store" or "storehouse."

Pilsner beer is a light lager beer with a strong flavor of hops. It originated in Pilsen, a city in the Czech Republic, in 1877.
The flavor comes from pale malts, soft water, German or Czech hops, and lager yeast. These pale malts are dried for shorter periods of time and at lower temperatures than darker malt. The result is a beer with a golden color. Pilsner is the most widely copied beer and is the world's most popular beer.

All beers can be defined as either lager or ale. The difference is in the brewing. Whether a beer is a lager or an ale depends on the yeast used and the temperature of the fermentation process.
Lager ferments more slowly and at cooler temperatures than ale. Because the yeast settles to the bottom of the tank, it is called "bottom-fermented" beer.
Ale tends to ferment rapidly and is referred to as "top-fermented." Ale tends to have a higher alcohol content and to be heartier and darker than lager.

Malt liquor is a beer that has too high an alcohol content by law to be labeled lager or ale. Malt liquor is 5 to 6 percent alcohol, ale is 4 to 5 percent and lager is 3.5 percent alcohol.

In America, 90 percent of all malt beverages produced are lager beers.


An ancient Babylon clay document indicates that beer making dates back to around 6000 B.C. Hops were first used around 3000 B.C.

Ancient Greeks believed that drinking beer would cause leprosy.

While visiting Dortmund, Germany's King William IV of Prussia drank a 10-year-old, very strong ale and was unconscious for over 24 hours. (OY! The hang-over he must have had!)

Beer cans were not produced until 1935.

American pale lager beer has fewer calories than an equivalent amount of 2% milk or apple juice. (All the more reason to drink it, I say.)