An Open Letter to the Las Vegas Shoe Thief

Dear Las Vegas Shoe Thief,

I shouldn't address you as 'dear' because you are a dusty wench with an evil heart. WHO STEALS SHOES FROM THE CLUB? Someone's sweaty, funky, danced all night and now the balls of my feet are throbbing, must. . .make. ..it . ..to. . .the. . .car. . .shoes?! My friends are very confused because when I say, "Someone stole my shoes!?" they think I mean:

a) the housekeeping staff at Mandalay Bay
or
b) a crafty pickpocket with a penchant for shoes that are currently being worn by the original owner.

I am not referring to them. Fortunately I found the housekeeping staff at the Mandalay Bay hotel in Las Vegas to be very polite and trustworthy. I even left a $500 chip on my bed table next to an empty bottle of Jack and they left the chip in tact. Anyone could steal from a wasteful and careless drunk, as I pretended to be for research purposes, but they didn't. Most importantly they did not steal my shoes and changed the sheets on a regular basis.

Crafty pickpockets remain blameless mainly because I don't really have pockets on my ass. I tend to wear skirts and kitchsy pants that have no pockets but still make my butt look good. Sometimes there are pockets in the front but those are tougher to pick. Also, I don't carry a wallet so there's actually nothing they'd be interested in. To them I am another wallet-less and pocket-free chick walking around Vegas with a nice ass. Of no consequence whatsoever, but nice to look at just the same. You already know, LVST, that the pickpockets did not steal my shoes.

You did.

This infuriates me.

I loved those shoes.

I JUST BOUGHT those shoes.

I hope you feel stupid because one was a size 9 and one was a size 10. I have irregular feet. I often switch shoe sizes when sales people are not looking. I have become very good at this and, obviously, it works for me as I achieve optimal comfort in great looking shoes. That being said, I hope your left foot is significantly smaller than your right.

So, LVST, I'm sure you opened the bag you pilfered from MIX Lounge hostess stand, delighted at your evil deed. Only to find a mismatched pair of beautiful snakeskin wedges in different sizes AND sticky adhesive because I ripped the heel grips out after I wore them the first time because they made the shoe too, too tight.

Trying wear them, loser. Try selling one size 9 and one size 10 on Ebay. Try explaining the stickiness in the heels. Try explaining the baby powdery odor mixed with foot sweat that I'm sure I made traipsing around the club that night fending off wannabe suitors with judo-chops to the groin area, trying to track down Prince, and feeling a little incestuous because Common looks like my brother and yet I still think he's cute.

You can't.

So basically I hope you either trip and fall or your wack Ebay auction starts and stalls at 99 cents even AFTER you post it for 10 days.

Who steals shoes?! You dusty wench.

Sincerely,
Pilaar A. Terry

Ridiculously Glorious Part Deux

For those of you that actually read these with some regularity, please lean back in your chair and chuckle in remembrance of 'Ridiculously Glorious.' This was a blog written in incredulous astonishment at the work colleague who took it upon herself to stretch the boundaries of decency and wear booty-cutters to the workplace. Complete with ass-cheek leakage and uterus viewing.
In you haven't - go read it now. Funny stuff.*

Well, since I'm always on the lookout for silly conversational fodder, and to my advantage it sometimes falls into my lap, consider my experience during a trip to my local grocer. Albertson's on Lincoln in Santa Monica, yes, I'm talking about you . . .

I was shopping for the necessary ingredients to make ice cream sundaes - nothing says 'Get Well Soon' better than ice cream, whipped cream, flavored syrupy sauce in fudge or caramel (I mean, really. Who eats the pineapple sauce? I'll never understand.), topped with nuts, cherries, and sprinkles.

Since I was buying with someone else in mind and have yet to have cracked the code as to his favorite flavor of dairy delight

I browsed.

I searched.

I read flavors carefully with the scrutiny of a fatty satisfying the jones of her next sugar fix.
Vanilla? Chocolate? Strawberry? Too pedestrian.

Dulce de Leche? Rocky Road? Too complicated.

Cookies and cream? Mint chocolate chip? Sooooo junior high.*

As I peered through the frosted glass of flavor upon flavor upon deliciousness . . . My breath caught in my throat. The air rushed out of my lungs. My mouth hung open in suprise:
There is an ice cream flavor called Fudge Tracks.*

People, I'm not kidding. It's made by a perfectly reputable ice cream company called Dreyers.
But seriously, when I was growing up 'fudge tracks' were something to be avoided at all costs. Because if you didn't your mom would find the pair of offensive drawers and bring it immediately to your 5 year old attention by yelling at you while waving said drawers in front of your face. While your friends are over. Playing Chutes and Ladders or maybe a rousing game of CandyLand.

"But I wiped!" is simply not a good enough excuse.

A girl in junior high PE unknowingly displayed her 'fudge tracks' during the mandatory shower after class. We pointed. We made fun. She didn't have many friends.

THOSE are fudge tracks. NOT an overpriced dairy dessert.

What ice cream exec ever thought that this flavor would be okay and gave final approval? Thought it might be tasty? Tantalizing? Mouth-watering? Dreyer's fucking Fudge Tracks.
Ridiculous. Glorious.

Footnotes:
- Seriously go read it. I'm a big fan of utterly shameless self-promotion. It'll be worth your while. If not, I'll give you a dollar. I'm good for it.

- Also, I'd like to mention that I couldn't pick the chocolate flavors anyway because I'm deathly allergic. And please save the 'you can't eat chocolate? but YOU'RE chocolate?!' bullshit. It's unoriginal. I call myself Hershey for obvious reasons, not because I love the cocoa bean but because I have ample amounts of melanin and I wear it well.

- I would've have liked to take a picture of the half gallon of dairy dessert with the camera phone for verification purposes, but I left it in the car. I was expecting a call but not trying to wait by the phone for it so I could "accidentally" miss it and be mysteriously unavailable. You KNOW you do that shit too. So, sorry. But I'm not making this up; Fudge Tracks are real.

Please don't eat them. Please.

On Second Thought . . .

You know how your whole life people have told you what the next step should be?
Elementary school. Junior high. High school. College. Good job. Marriage. Kids. White picket fence perfection?

I'm being held hostage in my friend's apartment listening to her argue with her boyfriend. I know she screamed

i hate you.

you don't understand me, either.

fuck you.

how does it come to that? i don't understand.

i've never been good at relationships - getting one, keeping one, ending one in a mature and noble and mature fashion my mom would be proud of. i simply lack the knack. i lack the knack.
i'm just being honest.

and yet - the next step on my life's roadmap dictates that i enter into a verbal agreement with someone. promise to bend over backwards. hold my ankles while he fucks me when i'd rather be enjoying vh1's celebreality.

and now, when i think i might want to stop accepting applications. because maybe i can handle one now. maybe i'm a big girl. maybe he's just around the corner or right in front of me. pick a well-qualified candidate and take the next step

i'm being held hostage in my friend's apartment and she's still screaming.

i don't want that.

i want sex everyday. i want suprises. i want kisses in the middle of the night. i want our major compromises to be mexican or chinese. is that wrong?

i'm throwing my roadmap away. someone's given me the wrong directions.

The Search Continues

Noah and I are looking for a roommate. We took an ad out on Craigslist. And it went a little something like this right here:

See, it's like this. We have a cool house and we're cool people. There's two of us, a guy and a girl. One is black so if you're a racist or believe that Black people steal then this place is obviously not for you. Brentwood may be available. Oh yeah, the other is white. So, if you subscribe to reverse racism and think "The Man" is the root of all evil and wrong in this world, then this place isn't for you either. I don't know where those people go to breed and/or create a livelihood. Try Brentwood? Mar Vista? Actually you're on your own, you bigoted bastard.

I will be completely matter of fact and list the pros and cons of the place:

Pros - Santa Monica address - people will think you're cool and hip. Plus we're close to SMC to you can feel smart simply by geographical osmosis.

Washer/dryer - You won't need quarters anymore! You'll no longer really have an excuse to keep a sock full of quarters by your bed as a makeshift weapon or coin purse, but think of all the telescopes you can gaze into at the pier! (We're close that too.)

Street parking - There's tons. Sometimes a guy with a Vespa who lives across the street hogs curb space, but we simply laugh at him behind his back. Sometimes we kick it when he's not looking. Stupid Vespa.

Hardwood floors - Great for sock hops and makeshift slip-n-slides. Newly remodeled kitchen - So you can cook stuff and impress your friends. Or defrost like I do. Either way, your kitchen is definitely better than everyone else's you know. Unless they are millionaires and live in the hills and in that case, why don't you go live with them instead?

Utilities included - Go ahead. Leave that light on. Energy crisis, shmenergy crisis. Facilities - You live in a house instead of an apartment. How cool and grown up are you now? Very. And when delivery people ask you what the apt. number or floor is you can smugly reply, "It's a house." Be the asshole you've always wanted to be.

Full creative control of the decorating scheme - Right now our look is "new college graduate chic." We are ready for a new look. But no crazy girly candles and shit. Fuck that.

Cons - Extreme varying climate - My grandpa built the house and there is no central heat or air. It gets hot. It gets cold. We adapt. And by adapt we mean sweaters in the winter and fans in the summer. Pretend it's New York . . .by the beach!

The Door - For some reason there is a door through the master bedroom to the room in the back. Ah, grandpa was such a kidder. Since the master bedroom would be yours, you must be okay with this. The person in the back room (moi) usually uses her private entrance. Sometimes she will go through your room when you are not home to get to her own. As addressed in the intro paragraph, she does not steal.

Walls - The walls are kinda thin. Sometimes you hear things. Just pretend you didn't the next morning. Or cheer your housemate on silently and then laugh at them in the morning. Once again, we adapt. Right.

So now that you've read about the house you kinda know what you're getting into. We watch reality tv, we share food, no one steals, sometimes people have sex loud, we drink together, smoke weed often (more not than often, but worth mentioning), welcome porn and various vices, but no pets.
Room available for move in between Aug. 15 & September 1. Who's got dibs?

F.ornicating U.nder C.onsent of the K.ing

Everyone who knows me is astutely aware of the hard and fast fact (you'll see the pun in a minute) that I LOVE SEX.

I dream about it. Write about it. Get distracted by the mere thought of it during my busy, busy workday as a high powered entertainment publicist. It keeps me from plowing through stoplights as soon as the light turns green. I'm distracted from staring at the gear shift. Certain foods I can't eat because they remind me and entice me into thoughts of copulation, penetration, etc. I feel dirty even looking at dessert because, well, there's just so many opportunities right there. On my plate. In front of me. In public. Bananas and cucumbers in the produce aisle? No comment.

Oh Lord, I am such the consummate sinner. Consumate, there's another word about glorious, glorious f.u.c.k. See? I can't even concentrate to finish this here bloggity blog. Cause I want to . ..well, you know. I've already spelled it out for you. Literally. Two lines up. Yup, right there.

Given my lustful mindstate and my self-titled moniker as the world's truest Scorpio, you'd think I was a jack rabbit. Prone to random acts of phucklust, wandering around in glazed eye post-coital bliss any and all of the time. Skin constantly glistening and sparkly with the earthy scent of baduss* on my person. A knowing twinkle in my eye and muted aftershocks* as I continue about my day. For Pete's sake I wear my sexuality like a second skin. Mmmm . . .skin.

But I'm not.

For some reason I can't seem to seal the deal. Ever since Voldemort (Chrystina are you reading this? Laugh now.) my lovebox has been locked. And I can't find the key to open it. I want to want it again.

I am insatiable, sex-crazed, tingly, sirenous*, and suffering from nymphomaniac tendencies. Where did I go?

I miss me.*

Footnotes:
Baduss - short for badussy. If I need to tell you what this is you are probably too young to know. Or a virgin.

Aftershocks - Tiny little wonderfully suprising orgasms that occur after sex or a particularly satisfying session of "me time." Like a delightful little sneeze in your happy places. Or lemon drop shots in a crowded bar.

Sirenous - Siren-like, you know those women that lure men in with their good looks, honey phone voices, and witty blogs and then crush them? That's me, only I won't crush you. Just make you really, really sore and short of breath. In a good way.

I miss me. - Okay, really. Somebody just PII. Not UPS though. Plenty of PII, ahhhh PII!!
(These anacronyms I refuse to explain. You'll have to message me to find out.)

Ridiculously Glorious

I'll make this quick.

Most of you know I work in a PR firm. It's entertainment so the atmosphere is relaxed, no suits or ties or anything. My boss is wearing Diesel jeans and a vintage t-shirt and phat kicks* for Pete's sake.

We've all crossed the line of appropriate work attire at some point or another. I myself have donned the occasion wife beater sans cover-up, track pants, or sombrero. It's cool like that, I'm pretty lucky.

BUT TELL ME HOW A GIRL IS WEARING STRAIGHT UP BOOTY SHORTS IN THIS PIECE TODAY.

I mean her ass is hanging out. I can see her uterus. It's so OOC* I can't even think straight to type. Ass cheeks at work. Now I've seen it all. Well almost, I need to get to a lesbian wedding and a pig intenstine eating contest and then I'll have truly seen it all.
Audi 500.*

Glossary -

phat kicks - dope shoes. limited edition nike dunks, retro air jordans, bathing apes, etc. see "sneakerheads" or "sneakergeeks"

OOC - out. of. control. may also be referred to as OOFC, out of fucking control. only to be used in extreme cases of out of controlness.

Audi 5000 - Bye.

Sleep. Sex. Spa. Repeat.

It's the Tuesday after a looooooong weekend. Everyone is fumbling, stumbling around the office and half-heartedly inquiring about how your weekend was. Keep in mind that they don't really care. Keep in mind they're really wondering if that'll leave a mark, or if one can get deported for doing that thing with that one prostitute, keep in mind that they're secretly wishing it was Friday again. Well . . .

It will.

You can.

It's not . . .yet. (T-minus 4 days, kids.)

So I'm going to share my vonderful weekend with you, MySpace, because I can and obviously blogs are, like, my thing. Here goes, hold your breath and dive in:

Those of you that are close to me know that I've been hemming and hawing (do people still do that? hem and haw?) over a certain someone. You've all been very patient with me. You all are wonderful. You all have let me know that

a) he's not good enough for me anyway. . .
Marina says it best "He has no car and lives with his parents" and then there's my godmother who unflinchingly proclaims, "He must be gay. And his name, _______, is certainly not as cool as yours. He's gay, princess."
b) if he treats me like this NOW imagine how it'd be if we were (gasp) together? Not good. . .
c) he's taught me a lesson. You can't meet someone off of the internet because they (we as a collective) are passive-aggressive by nature. As a Scorpio female I need someone who'll grab my by the hair and tell me what to do.
d) he's not good enough for me and he's gay. Did I say that already?*

In the words of the great Dalai Lama, you can't get over a man until you get under another one. Or is that Dolly Parton from 'The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas?' Ah fuck it, who can tell? So I go to Barney's on 3rd St. Friday night. I see a familiar face - an oh-so-good looking blast from my sexual past who's celebrating receiving his brokering license that very day. Yes! Bottled ambition! Yes! Upwardly mobile! Yes! I'm remembering that his equipment is HUGE!

Well, long story short (that's a lie it was long story, longer . . .and thicker . . .and painful. The good hurt.) I'm feeling a hole lot better about the aforementioned situation. Coupled with a slightly out of character Irish Goodbye**, I'm feeling a little more at peace. Nothing like a brain shattering orgasm from a newly minted broker to put things in perspective for you. Ladies, I recommend you find a (insert white collar profession who's only true release is banging the creative type here) and do the same. Obviously my weekend is off to a fantastic start.

Saturday morning I have an appointment at the Burke Williams Spa. I'm scheduled for a full body massage and a mud bath. I'm padding around the lavender-scented space in a bulky white bathrobe, sipping lime flavored ice water, reading Vanity Fair and feeling very worldly and accomplished. On my massage . . .I have NEVER known a stranger's hands to be so on point. The massage felt so good, in fact, that I found myself holding back purrs and moans from the very depths of my soul. I found myself wishing, praying, for him to suggest a happy ending so I could thank him properly. I was near tears, I was near orgasm, I was near Nirvana. I thought I was in love. Naturally, I tipped him $20 and put my clothes back on. . . just like the nuns at Moreau Catholic taught me.

Of course, I slept for the rest of the day a mischievous smile playing on my lips.

Sunday I missed church, but I did make it to Baja Cantina in time to thwart a fight between a friend of mine and Arissa from the Real World Las Vegas. I wasn't able to stop her (said friend) sister from puking on the sidewalk but, I did get tons of compliments on my t-shirt and hair so it all works out.

On Monday I found out, through trial and error, that small dogs are just like children. You have to feed them and make sure they don't run in the street. Also, it's generally frowned upon if you kick them. I did go to a great BBQ though. Then I promptly returned home at 8pm and fell asleep.

Sex. Spa. Sleep. Repeat.

p.s. I REALLY want Dave Chappelle to be okay.
* I've learned that when getting kicked in the ass by actual emotion, it's those you don't see coming that hit you the worst. While I've yet to reach the "fuck you, nigga" mentality about _________ - I working to comprehend that, while his words and actions were wonderful at the time he's "just not that into me." This is difficult because, well, it just is. No amount of brokers, real estate agents, accountants, or lawyers in training can change this. But they DO help. =)

**The Irish Goodbye - Stealthily removing oneself from an intimate situation without the proper goodbye, or any goodbye at all really. Also known as the 'Pump and Dump' or the 'Hump and Dump.' Morally reprehensible and karmically damaging, but sometimes required.

Mexican Diet Pills

The first step to fighting one's addiction is admitting that you have a problem.

This is certainly not what I'm doing here. Here (right here) is where I describe my first week's experience with Mexican Diet Pills, aka Asenlix, aka 'oh my God I'm so fucked up right now and I'm at WORK and why am I still hungry? These pills suck.'

So I had to travel to Vegas last week for the Academy of Country Music Awards, glamourous I know. It was Vegas. I was tired. I had been wearing a walkie talkie with a very attractive headset 1-800-Dentist style. I had seen WAY to many bolo ties and ten gallon hats.

Day 1 Me: "Man, I'm tired. I could sure use some Red Bull or something. Hey is that Chipotle? There's Chipotle backstage!"
Drug pushing coworker/friend: "Forget Red Bull, try these. Totally keep you awake."
Me: (insert afterschool special "Just Say No" moment) "Awesome! What is it?" I grab hungrily at the green on green pilly.
Drug pushing coworker/friend: "Mexican diet pills. Asenlix. Here's the box."I try to read the box, I am not bilingual. I tell people I am but I'm really not. I also tell people that I skipped sixth and seventh grade because it's fun to lie. Anyway, I can't read the box. I understand it says 'Hecho in Mexico'. Hmm, made in Mexico. This is the same place that churros come from so they can't be all that bad.

Red flag #1:The pills are called Asenlix. There is ASS and LICKS in the title. Hmm . . .
Red flag #2: I cannot read the box.
Red flag #3: I'm stuttering . . .I can't focus on one object or person or thought . . . look at the pretty colors! Is it weird that I can feel myself blink and my eyelids are twitching?Day 2Of course I take more. But I may have already built up a tolerance. I should probably take two this time. With a glass of wine.
Red flag #4: I can't. Feel. My. Tongue. Oh my god, I love Asenlix! I lost a pound! Overnight! The possibilities are endless!

Day 3 I don't remember day three.
Day 4 I don't remember day four. But I think I've gone down a pants size. That's . . .bad?
Day 5 I have to drive home (again) for another soul-sucking wedding. Naturally I need a pick-me-up. I buy a pack of Red Bulls and my good friends Asenlix and Pop Rocks. This is going to be the best four hour drive EVER. And it is!The feeling has returned to my tongue, I know the words to everything on the radio, I'm flying up the 5, I can DRIVE WITH MY EYES CLOSED! I arrive at the wedding. I can't stop sweating.My fingernails seem really bendy. I pop another Asenlix to calm me. Ah, Asenlix.

Red flag #5: Hey, I just realized that I don't remember Day 3 or Day 4. Nothing important probably happened anyway . . .
Day 6 I should really stop taking Asenlix. I should really stop taking Asenlix. Stop beckoning to me from the annals of my fake Prada purse. Die Asenlix! I'm sorry, I love you Asenlix. . .
Day 7 Today I'm writing this blog as a cry for help. Now I'm jittery, thin and beautiful, incredibly self aware (paranoid), I can't remember large portions of last week, and I'll have to cross the border to sustain my habit. What am I going to do?

Where's my damn Asenlix?

Ay Dios Mio, Dios Mio

It's simultaneously way too late or too early for me to be awake right now. I'm mentally, physically, and emotionally exhausted. I'm running on empty and coasting to my destination downhill, barely pumpimg the brakes and subtely slicing my hands through the air as my eyelids get heavy. But too wired and tired to sleep. Sleep is for cowards. Those who makes their best decisions unconcious. I want to be awake while my life happens.

How come the night always seems to bring more clarity than the glaring and blaring sun star during the day?

I attended another wedding today and will be hitting the road for Los Angeles tomorrow morning, well actually in a few hours. But I'm thinking - here at "home" I find myself comfortable but anxious - I'm fully aware of the big, bright world outside of my satin-lined padded box and want to get out again. Familiar destinations and faces that used to comfort me now remind me of how far I've come, how far I've yet to journey. It's like my most comfortable pairs of jeans don't fit anymore. It makes me sad, but then I realize I've got a new pair to put on that make my ass look great. I can't wait to strut.

And while home and work and friendships are neatly and brightly packaged, perfect to look at and improve upon, I can't seem to figure out relationships. Damn it, it's always something isn't it? I can't even figure out if I really want one or not. If I'm trying to hard. If anyone is REALLY worth the effort. If I'm pushing away those who I should be with and blindly embracing those that could give a shit. If only I knew how this was supposed to turn out later. If only it was as easy as consulting a Magic 8-Ball.

At the wedding I let the bridal bouquet fall at my stilletos while little girls and women scrambled to retrieve it. I got booed for my non-chalance. I drank too much and danced until sweating. Men and boys flirted shamelessly with the "beautiful black girl" (it's amazing what you can eavesdrop while smoking behind bushes in a wine vineyard) and nothing and no one held my attention long enough for me to care. How am I supposed to figure out someone else for the rest of my life if I haven't figured out me yet? Suck on that, matrimony. Suck on that, 'til death do we part.' You bore me because you're coventional.

Carnally I'm in need, in frustrating and anxious heat, and tonight even masturbation has lost its usual . . . usualness. This is certainly not okay. I'm barefoot and eating a frozen popsicle wondering what he's doing right now and if he even thinks of me anymore. I wonder if he'd come inside me, if that's even a place he wants to be. Can he feel me thinking about him? Does he even care?

In regards to all things Pilaar Aikelah Terry I need to simply keep coasting like this early morning thesis. But I can't seem to stop my hands from gripping the wheel and consulting MapQuest every minute to make sure I'm on the right track. I know I just need to get lost, but I just don't know how.

On Weddings . . .

I had the opportnity to attend the first wedding of someone who actually mattered to me this weekend. The first wedding ofa girl from my tight knit group of high school friends - signifying the fact that we're definitely growing up - although I couldn't find my panties the morning of and went sans undergarments. I'm not sure if this means I'm really on my way to adulthood now, but it made the reception a LOT more fun. Try salsa dancing when you KNOW your ass needs to be sitting the fuck down. . .

Some things that made me say 'hmmmmm . . .'

1) The wedding was Catholic so the priest, of course, delivered a homily. How he worked in preparing soup, car washes, the staggering divorce rate, the evil of the cell phone, and how flash photography in church would send you STRAIGHT TO HELL in there I'll never know. And, he peppered his speech with a fake accent like Madonna every once in a while, you know, to keep it interesting.

B) Is it wrong to think about sex in church? I kept wondering how awesome my friend's sex was going to be that night now that she was officially married. Plus the priest kept saying quickie ( in reference to the soup and car wash) so I was thinking about quickies. Is that bad? I mean, coupled with the flash photography do I have a one-way ticket to Hades? Can I get a quickie first?

14) The wedding started ON TIME. The invitiation (which I lost months ago) stated 2pm and it started at 2:03. I was counting on the delay in which the congregation would think that someone was about to be jilted or someone couldn't find the rings or the ring bearer was suffering from a mean hangover or some other madcap wedding adventure. But no, the ceremony began and the bride walked down the aisle to the Bette Midler classic . . .

D) 'The Rose.' Vanessa, I love you but damn. I looked around to see if anyone else was holding back ferocious giggles. 'The Rose'? That just shows that anything goes. I'm walkin down the aisle to "You Remind Me of My Jeep."

e) Wedding DJS. Must. Die.

F) Knowing that you're about to get tanked on free booze is perfectly acceptable. Going to Chevy's beforehand and slamming back two HUGE margaritas beforhand is not. You don't pre-party before a wedding reception.

g) I brought a date. We're just friends, although he is very good looking and we'd probably make a nice couple. But, once again, we are just friends. Ladies if you do this be prepared - once your single lady friends find out he's fair game all bets are off. Weddings = high levels of estrogen = everyone wanting to score with your hot ass date.Makes for good blog fodder, but keeping the girls straight at the wedding proves difficult for him. Help him out.

h) NEVER serve barbeque sauce at a wedding unless it's outside. And don't place it next to the lemon-baked chicken. It confuses people.

23) 50 Cent is from da' streets. 50 Cent has been shot almost ten times. I have proof that grandma loves 50 Cent. She was shakin her ass to him on the dance floor while I was trying to get barbecue sauce off of my outfit.(see H)

45) Suppress the urge to scream "whoooooo!" MTV TRL style when the bride walks down the aisle. I almost made this grave mistake . . .of course, it would've been better than "The Rose" but still this is frowned upon.

K) DO NOT freak your dance partner at weddings. DO return to the open bar as much as possible. But, if the bartender points at you and recites your drink of choice you probably have had too many. In this case, send your friend the next time you want to imbibe.

2) I haven't bought a present yet, but I have a year. Suggestions? Maybe I'll get them soup or a car wash coupon - as a souvenir of the ceremony.

z) I think I may have threatened the groom in a alcohol induced haze. Actually, I KNOW I did. Something of the "if you hurt my friend or divorce her I'll kick your ass" variety. Classy, classy, classy.So this wedding was mainly fun-loving Colombians. I have another wedding on Friday that's WHITE people. I'ma have a good time at that one.

Until then, campers . . .

The Cure for At Work Boredom

Just some things I've been thinking about today . . .

a) I was told recently that I don't act like a real Black woman. Now let's think about this . . . because I date, and sometimes prefer to date out of my race, sprinkle in Nine Inch Nails and Damien Rice with my Dwele and Jill Scott, and don't speak with ghetto flava I'm less of a Black woman? a lower class member of the Black race because I went to private school and don't have a baby daddy?Interesting. Sure.

b) Sallie Mae, please stop calling me. We are not friends anymore. Thanks for the $120,000 you helped me with so I could get my degree. Now supposedly I'm smarter than most. Not really. I'm smart enough to know that street smarts can definitely outweigh book smarts (I know, I ended up testifying in court against a "friend" who liked to commit armed robbery because I lacked skills from the hood. Funny story, I'll tell you later.) and that I certainly don't have an "extra" $1000 every 30 days to send you. Please be patient because when I have it you'll know and then, Sallie Mae, we can hang out again.

c)I hate waiting, for me patience is not a virtue. So how am I supposed to talk to the guy I like without seeming desperate because I don't want to wait because I like him so much and just want to talk to him real bad? See? I couldn't even wait to insert punctuation. Impatient son of a bitch, I am. Hello, asshole! Call me. I'm too cute not to call. Plus I have a huge rack and know how to use really big words in context, what's not to like?

d) I fell in love all over again this weekend with my dope-ass friends. I wish I could see them more than I do. Gas, cash, and time dictate otherwise. But, they're on my mind.

e) I have TWO weddings to attend this month and the younger cats in my family either a) live with their significant others or b) are preparing to propose. Now let's see - I went three months with no sex. I haven't had a boyfriend since an ill-fated LDR almost a year ago. At a crazy bachelorette this weekend the man who was infatuated with me (nay, mesmerized is more like it) was promptly arrested by San Francisco's finest. Face down. In the street. Problem here?

f) Sometimes I think I may like girls. But then again, I really just like boobs. A lot. It's weird though because I can only handle one set at a time. Mine or someone's else's. I lived in Australia for awhile and had a drunken girl-on-girl experience (I swear that little Aussie bitch seduced me and I didn't even see it coming. Why? Because I am lacking in street smarts. See section b) and her boobs were out and my boobs were out. I was confused, I didn't know what to do with them. I just stared. Then she wanted to cuddle. Ugh. Never again.

g) Remember how in high school getting out at 2:35pm seemed sooooooooo long? So far away from the first bell? Try working until 6pm when the sun is still out, you've got food coma, and it's between the 3 - 4pm. Now that is hell on earth. Luckily I've got a sexy ass boss, myspace, CDs, and the enough mischievous spontaneity to take my panties off at my desk. Once I had an orgasm too - fantasizing about my hot boss.

h) I recently had phone sex that had to be cut short by circumstances beyond our control. I used to think that if he couldn't get it up (thanks alcohol!) that that was the worst. But now I've found cellularus coitus interruptus that's "dammit I can't believe I'm getting cut the fuck off in the middle of phone sex" in Greek. Swear.

i) I'm an account executive and I still sit at a CUBE. This sucks. This sucks. This sucks. Not to be nit-picky but I want to be able to close my door when I take off my panties or have an orgasm - simply pretending to be invisible just won't cut it anymore. Plus, people can see that I am obviously not doing any work whatsoever right now. Obviously.

j) Because I work in entertainment people think my job is glamorous and I have tons of movie star friends and make oodles of cash. It's not. And stop asking me who I've met - it bugs me and they're not even as cool as you think they are. The best part of my job is wearing whatever I want to work, however inappropriate. Oh yeah - and watching movies and tv and reading gossip mags as "research."

k) I think I'm actually really clever.Oh my gosh, I'm all the way to K. I better stop. Only one more hour until the bell rings and I can go make out under the bleachers with my PE teacher. Just kidding, I didn't make out with anyone in high school. I was heinous.

I Let My Dentist Feel Me Up

So my friends know me for having intense attractions to, um, interesting gentlemen. I don't know what it is, it just happens. . .

I'm in a quaint little dentist office in Brentwood and in walks Dr. Ramourian. A tiny Persian man with red hair (I found out later he walks with a limp) he proceeds to tell me how fucked up my mouth this. Believe me, this is shocking news as I'm more prone to hear "Oh my God, your teeth are so white!" rather than "You have deep pockets of bacteria that we'll have to numb your entire mouth to clean, you infectious beast. You aren't even worth the strength it takes to floss baby teeth. Peon."

But I do take the news alarmingly well . . .all because of the gentle touch of Dr. Ramourian. I mean, ladies, this is better than the massage they give you during a mani- pedi-. Dr. Ramourian really knows how to touch a lady. Anyway, the good doctor begins caressing my arm, light cheek grazes, the meaningful glances. I mean seriously, this doctor is into me for real.

Finally he takes it to the next level and actually kisses me on the forehead. This is for real, right? Let's not forget all of the velvety compliments about how beautiful I am and he's so happy to be able to treat me. Flavored with his Farsi accent, I'm completely his. Oh man, I've fallen for a Persian little man with a limp and I couldn't be happier! So as he's cleaning the spit from my face while gazing into my numbed up face, I allow him to grab my ass.

I can't wait to go back to the dentist. There's nothing like staying on top of good oral hygiene. Has anyone else been intensely attracted to one of their medical practitioners? Maybe we should start a support group.

Please, please. Put in away.

I REALLY don't know what it is - maybe it's just me or maybe it's something about guys in general. I'm almost afraid to bring it up because if I find out that it really is just me I'll be utterly mortified. I'm sure I'll laugh about it later, but I think mortification is certainly in the cards.

Why is it, and help me out here, that if you kiss someone he thinks it's automatically time to get naked? Literally - get naked. Or at least take out the penis. Now I do appreciate kissing as much as the next girl, but this do NOT mean I want to go down on you and/or let you stick it in. Kissing me for 30 seconds does not make it go time and damnit, how do you guys get undressed THAT fast without breaking away from a woman's lips? How DO you do it? I am perplexed.

Years of being myself, along with a very helpful research study on what is found attractive (thanks University of India), I've learned that I unknowingly exude copious amounts of intense sexual energy. (You may beg to differ after reading what I'm looking for - a HOT person - but I don't walk around thinking this all the time. And hey, this isn't the invitation for you to tell me that you're what I'm looking for. Let's focus on the blog here. This isn't about you and me.) Anywho, I don't know how to turn it off, it's not in the way I dress (believe me sweats and oversized t-shirts can't hide this invisible aura that seems to be seeping from my very pores and wafting into the air), and I don't ask for it on a daily basis. But it's there, hanging over my head like a rain cloud in a cartoon. Only, I don't get rained on, I get lots and lots of guys wanting to show me what Mr. Happy looks like.

Please, put it away. I just don't want to see that right now.

Or ever.Is it just me? Ladies, do you too fall victim to Automatically Naked Guy? Doesn't it totally turn you off? How do they respect themselves knowing they've been naked in front of numerous girls and probably only been intimate with less than half? Is it a numbers game - get naked enough and you'll just HAVE to score one time? Is it the law of averages? Somebody help me out.

I have seen way to much penis. Penis, I think we need to take a break. It's not you it's . . . well, yeah, it's definitely you.