I'm sexual and It's awesome.

I was reading this article* at jezebel.com about this girl who is 'asexual' and about how awesome it is and how she has all these great intimate relationships and how they're so awesome and then I saw a link on the side-bar about a dubstep cat and I immediately lost all interest I had in hearing said girl's tale of woe about not being respected as an 'asexual.' For serious, dubstep cat is the greatest thing ever btw. Check him out: DUB-STEP! Cat yo!.

For some reason this seems to be a hot topic lately, it even made it to an episode of House which I consider to be the epitome of the medical frontier. Asexuality, not dubstep. Although dubstep does seem to be quite popular these days...

Look, I don't care if you're asexual. Exactly like I don't care if you're heterosexual or homosexual or trisexual or whatever-sexual you want to be just as long as you shut the hell up and quit bitching about it. You, as an asexual, cannot even bitch about not being able to get married because you're aromantic and don't want to be married so exactly what are you complaining about?

Oh, you're complaining because people ask you if you have 'someone special' in your life? You're whining because people actually care enough about you to inquire as to your happiness? Aaaaand they're nice enough to not assign a gender to it. Should we just look at you from now and say: 'Gee Connie are you non-suidicidal today?' Count your lucky stars that you're mother doesn't take you down the kitchen accessories aisle in every store and gesture no-so-surreptitiously to the turkey basters and wink at you because even she now assumes you've got no chance in hell of scoring a significant other. According to you, you have a significant other. According to you, it's awesome being asexual. Why do you feel the need to write about it and prove it to people?

(I'm going to leave out my theories on your gender identity issues since you abbreviate your name to initials only. Not there is an issue with that. Own it, I say. Say it loud: I'm confused and I may be proud?!)

You've got a vagina, might as well use it right? Never mind that whole biological imperative business where we as human being, nay animals, have a biological imperative to procreate. Hell, even the plants have sex. It's the burden of being a higher order organism. Let us all shake our fists angrily at evolution and its need to introduce genetic diversity through this clever mechanism!

I think your general displeasure with the societal acceptance of being 'Ace', which is about the lamest pseudonym I've ever heard in my life by the way, is your general displeasure with life. Okay, you're best friends forever with a couple of people and you don't bone. You know what? The next time I get the urge to have sex, I'll think about you and feel sorry for you that you can't appreciate the richness that sexual activity lends to a relationship.

Congratulations on being asexual and owning it and willing to advocate for it.

I'm sexual and it's way awesomer than you remember. 

*Here is the article if you want to read it for yourself. If you can get through this entire article without being distracted by dubstep cat you're clearly a psychopath.

The Best Advice I Ever Got, I Got From a Stripper

When I was 16 years old my dad starting dating this 20 year old stripper from Tampa.

(I know, you're wondering how I'm so, so well-adjusted.)

Apparently, he was at the bar (Surprise, surprise.) and she walked over to him and mussed his hair. Read what you will from that. And voila a truly great 6 week romance began.
 
We went to dinner this one time, the three of us, and she was complaining about having to drive all the way to Orlando to go to work. She didn't know that I knew she was a stripper and she had this whole elaborate ruse going on trying to talk about her 'Office' and her 'Co-workers' and about 9 million mixed metaphors for the VIP room, any of which I cannot remember. I'm truly kicking myself about it too because some of them were pretty good. I then asked if she lived in Orlando and she said no, she lived in Tampa.

Well, I didn't ask anything then mostly because I was having a hard time trying to keep my dinner down from watching the two of them act like they were my age. Seriously, they played footsies. I know because I got caught up in the fray once or twice. (Again, you wonder why I'm not shell-shocked.) On top of this Stripper-Girl is carrying on this inane charade of trying to be mature and sickeningly maternal. Nevermind that she was a whole 4 years and some change older than me; she seriously wore a pant-suit and sweater. But she was a stripper so she just looked a whorey office stripper instead of a mature, matronly figure. Now before you assume that I hated her because she was a stripper I'll say this: I didn't hate her because she was a stripper, I hated her because she was stupid enough to date my father. And assume it wasn't going to end disastrously. I have no patience for idiocy for the sake of idiocy. And blatant denial.

After dinner and a refusal of ice-cream on my part -- Whaaaat? I know I refused ice cream and only loony tunes do that but there was no way in hell I was going to continue participating in this pathetic attempt at family normalcy or whatever it was they were trying to accomplish with this whole hanging out together business -- I finally inquired as to why she just didn't move to Orlando.

And she replied with the only honest thing I believe she said to me all evening: 'I work in one town and live in another so I can party and not run into my co-workers. I can keep my professional and personal lives separate.'

I imagine what she was really going for is that she didn't want to run into any of her 'co-workers' -- read clients here -- when she was dropping her kid off at kindergarten. I get it, it makes sense.

And That ladies and gents is why I work in one town and live in another. So that my co-workers are never privy to my drunken ramblings and stumblings and general debauchery.

But they've met me so I'm sure they're aware.

Candy Babies! Is this okay?

Today I was surfing around on the facebook and I saw the following image on my ad-bar:

This is a giant hand holding little babies like they're peanuts.

Am I truly a psychopath or does this disturb anyone else?

My immediate thought was: 'Why are they making baby shaped candy now?'

My second thought was: 'Wait? Are those actual babies?'

This was quickly followed by: 'That is a very large hand.
. . .
I wonder what the rest of him looks like.
. . .
I guess that's kind of dirty.'

Also, what does this exactly have to do with ultrasound technology? Yes I understand that's how they come up with those creepy 3-D profile pictures of everyone who is and ever will be preggers from this point forward on the Facebook* but there are other things you can view with an ultrasound. Why not have a stock image of an actual ultrasound machine. Or better yet, a semi-pro medical professional in loud scrubs holding an imaging wand and looking pleased about gainful employment. That seems as if it would attract more traffic than a giant hand holding babies like one would hold M&M's? It's as if the giant has a bag of babies and he's just shaken a couple out into in his hand to devour for a snack.

This is truly disturbing! As I've mentioned. Who would decide to make baby shaped candies? Disturbed people, that's who! But way to go Facebook for adding a little creep to my mid-afternoon. I'll promise to stop deleting my browser cookies, if you'll promise to invade my privacy by monitoring my web shopping habits and go back to popping up customized shoe ads.


*On a side note I think I've figured out how to get gall stones so I can actually can post those ultrasound pictures of my gallbladder like when I first told you of my qualms about ultrasound images for profile pictures, here: It's your insides. Keep it to yourself. Yes, I'm considering giving myself gall stones to get an ultrasound and put the images on the interwebs for all of creation to see. Because that is acceptable now. I keep an open mind and I find it's discriminatory to other organs to exclude them from their own notoriety.

Find my iDignity

Tonight the couch up and swallowed my cellular telephone not once, but twice.

I know. Believe me I do. I figured that I wasn't stupid enough to lose it in the couch twice but alas.

While I was trying to find my phone and panicking about where my watch was (I totally lost my watch last Thursday and spent ALL DAY LONG sobbing about it; I cried harder about losing that watch than I did 'The Boy.' Yes, I am THAT shallow.) I figured that I would take full advantage of technology and use the 'Find my iPhone' application.

First I'd like to say that I spent a good 10 minutes trying to figure out how in the blue hell you actually use the app. Google it and see if I'm not right. The interwebs tells you all about how to set it up and what it can do but never does it actually say 'Go to website, log-in and follow the directions. Finally I manage to log into my iCloud account. I'm not really 100% on what an iCloud exactly is but I logged into it and apparently have some space there. Maybe they'll let me put down laminate flooring sometime in the future. From this point it was fairly easy to find my iPhone and I could even send myself a friendly message that says 'Gee Anna, you really are a dumbass. Again?'

This technology is creepy. You can log onto a remote server from the interwebs and not only find, but text, wipe and lock your iPhone and/or iPad. I see the novelty in this, especially as I lose things by the time I've turned around but if I can figure this out, you iPhone owner are officially in a shit-storm. Don't leave anything you don't want seen by the world on your portable device. Secondly,  I would like to know why in the hell we cannot do this with keys.

And maybe other less-tangible things? Can Apple create an app that prevents me from doing 87 of 100 things I do daily that make people cringe. Can I buy back my shame from Apple? Is it gone forever? Can I purchase discrete units of it and save it for future use? Or can it pinpoint my dignity on a map?

I figure that is the true connotation of the word. This is truly what they're trying to do to our society.

iCloud -- 'Everything you've ever been ashamed of; recorded digitally and saved for the rest of creation.'

There is no sexy way to remove your Spanx.

Men, I blame you.

I have to blame someone and I certainly am not going to take the blame myself so I'm blaming you. You are the reason why I feel the need to wear the spanx.

'Hello God, it's me Anna.
. . .
When will I ever learn to love my body?'


If you aren't aware of what a spanx is I will explain. It's the wearable version of a battleship hull. It holds all the important parts in while letting the guns swing freely and giving the enemy a decent idea of what is in store for the remainder of the evening if they so choose to engage said ship. The makers of spanx call it 'shapewear.'  I'll leave it at that.

(Although I will say it does do wonders for a girls shape.)

Anyways I bought these Spanx to wear under my little black dress because I'm fat and blah blah blah and haven't been to gym lately because I'm busy blah blah blah and I'm a stress eater blah blah blah and they make mayonnaise in gallon jars blah blah blah. Let's just say that I have a demonstrated need for said spanx.

There is just one problem. They are not easy to get on or off but it's not so much the getting them on part that I'm particularly worried about. There's always mayonnaise in my house (see above), so in the worst case scenario we can slather me in mayo. My friends will hold the spanx open at the end of our bar and I'll just take a running slide down the bar into them. Wam. I'm in my spanx and ready for my dress all without messing up my hair. Booyah in YOUR dooyah.

But what if someone sees me in my little black dress, which is PHENOMENAL by the way, and decides they would like to take me home and see what's under my little black dress. Here is where I'm going to need to be creative. They don't just come off. You can't just pull them off. There is wiggling, and jostling, and some praying, followed by some hopping and hoping along with groaning, moaning, wailing, the gnashing of teeth and pushing. Yes you actually have to push them down off of your body, there is no pulling. And guess what? You've still got to get them over your ass!

Nevermind that that whole charade is less than attractive, much less sexy, but it takes a solid 10 minutes and 3-man crew to get the damn things off. And I'm not really sure why they're pluralized when there is only one garment. Praise the Lord Baby Jesus for that. If there were two of them I might just die. But seriously? Who wants to watch that? Who wants to watch a warthog try to escape from a sinkhole?  Maybe the warthog should have the good sense to stay the fuck out of the mudhole and just wear a fracking reasonable PANTSUIT. Who would want to see someone struggle out of their underwear?

'Why yes, I'd love to come home with you but first I need you to take these percocets, drink this whiskey and let me know when you're good and fucked up. Then I'll come in the room without my spanx on.' It is lying, plain and simple. Imagine if you took some broad home to have relations with her and when she went in the bathroom she was Scar Jo and when she came out she was Christina Aguilera at the latest music awards. And ladies imagine you're going home with Top Gun Val Kilmer and you end up with present day Val Kilmer*.  It's just not right; you can't do that to a person. People want to take you home and rip off your clothes and see that you've miraculously maintained your svelte shape. They don't want to watch you explode like the Stay-Puft marshmallow man.

Whatever am I to do?

I suppose I could always just cut a hole in the crotch.

That could turn out fun. Right? Less sexy but a smidge more disturbing.

Maybe I'll just wear pants.


*I still probably would. I'm not proud of it but I'm being honest.

Things White People should stop doing.

Here is a list of things that White People should stop doing:

1. Hip hop line dances. For serious ya'll, lets give the black people back the electric slide. Every time they come up with a new line dance we take it away. I'm going on record right now that never, have I ever, done or will ever do the cupid shuffle. Ever.

2. Any other dance-like movement besides the waving of one's hand back and forth in concert with other white people. White people. have. no. rhythm. I watched the announcement of the Grammy nominees the other night and watched white people try to dance to Grandmaster Flash and it just wasn't working. Not even a little bit. But they did finally manage to get the hand thing down.

3. Stop standing like this: Who honestly stands like this at a party? or anywhere really?

4. Coming to a complete stop to turn right. And braking on the highway. You bought that expensive ass Lexus SUV. DRIVE THE FUCKING THING.

5. Naming your children after inanimate objects. Quart is a measurement not a name.  Name your baby Adam and move on. Also names that repeat the same name: William Williams or Neil McNeil. Razor Death-Metal Jones is also not acceptable. Giving your kid a 'hard' name only cements their future in the illicit drug industry.

6. Theme Parties. Yes, they're still as asinine as they were in college. It's just that now we can't drink the shame away as easily.

7. Skiing. Think about it. Who honestly came up with this idea? 'You know what Muffy, I've just had the most splendid idea. We should strap sticks to our feet and slid down that mountain, in the cold mind you, in the snow at a rapid velocity!' I'll tell you who: White People. Black people have enough sense to know that if God wanted us to play in the snow he'd have given us fur.

8. Buying useless expensive appliances. I saw an advertisement on tv for a blender that can cook your soup after it has pureed your vegetable. If you are honestly too lazy or don't have time enough to pour your puree out of blender and into a fucking pot you need to just bite the bullet and hire some help. The same goes for that robot that moves around your room and vacuums your floors for you. If you're going to buy it, buy it to entertain your dog. The fat-ass probably needs some exercise. (Have you noticed that the obesity epidemic is moving to our pets now too? Geez oh pete.)

9. Camping. Yes, please let us venture into the wilderness so we can be eaten by bears and sleep on the lumpy ground. Only white people. Every other ethnicity in the world is trying to get out of the wilderness and we're trying to get back in it. All you can do is shake your head.

10. Watching reality television marathons. If I see one more episode of Storage Wars my head is going to snap off of my body. I went to the beach with my mom last weekend after Thanksgiving, because we're white and go to the beach in the winter -- obviously, and she made me watch no less than 10 hours of Storage Wars. I put my foot down before the marathon of Gold Rush and watched a Will Ferrell movie on TBS. I forget which one. They're all pretty much the same; that's a different list.

Just to continue the Snatch-tastic trend - A story.

So apparently my hormones have gone into full tilt boogie because out of the last five posts, 2 have included snatch, 1 was about food, and the other 2 were about illegal substances. I'm not sure what this says about me except that I'm very obviously extremely mentally disturbed and choose to deal with it in the only the healthiest ways possible.

But the guys over at A Beer for the Shower mentioned that I use the word 'snatch' quite efficiently. Which is true.

I thought I'd share a funny story about the how and when I started to use the word in regular conversation.

And no this isn't like that time when I was eight and referred to a man's testicles as balls in front of my entire family while watching America's Funniest Video's and my mother passed out from shame. This actually was probably worse. It involves someone who is mentally handicapped. (And while I do sometimes wonder if my mother is mentally handicapped I know that she is not. She merely has the capacity for evil.)

I used to work in a local florist here in town my senior year of college because I was poor and needed money for booze. Duh. There was this guy that used to come in to the florist to buy flowers for his respective girlfriends and while he was completely nice, he was just a smidge awkward. Something was off about him and I expected that he probably had a mild learning disability. But he was totally nice! I stress to you that he was totally nice so that you don't judge me for being creeped out by the functional retard. But he leered at me. Often. And for a repeated length of time. Then it came to pass that he was starting to show up at the florist pretty much everytime I worked and then lo-and-behold he was showing up everyday asking for me, even when I wasn't there.

Then one day, he bought flowers when I was working and gave them to me on the spot. I was extremely nice in refusing to accept them but I explained that it wasn't something I would be comfortable doing because I wasn't interested in him romantically. It worked because he didn't show back up. So kudos to me.

Wait, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking 'How could you give yourself kudos? How did you know that he wasn't at home sobbing his eyes out?' I know this because after he stopped coming to the florist I started seeing him at the bar.  Obviously, he wasn't that hurt. With his mother. Whom I may or may not have had a drunken conversation with about how I really didn't want to hurt his feelings but I didn't want to lead him on either. I was drunk; I can't remember.

Needless to say we (Yes, my entire posse of friends.) switched bars and started to frequent the one across the street and once he and his mom figured that out we switched back. Musical bars as it were.

I tell you all of this to prove to you how creepy this guy was and how much it skeezed me out to be around him. Ya'll know I'm a busty girl but I honestly feel bad for being nice to people whom I know don't have a snowball's chance in hell with me, but simply cannot help themselves from being drawn into the gravitational pull of the awesomeness that is my chesticular region. (Modest, I am not.) And it embarrasses the shit out of me to know that I'm being stared at.

You're waiting for the snatch; Here it comes.

I'm at Border's one day many years later with roomie and we're perusing the DVD's and guess who I see, making a beeline for me while dragging his mom who is currently waving at me? Our friend from the florist.

I'm visibly starting to panic and I look at roomie and he just shrugs and I am stuck.

So they approach together and we begin our nicities to make polite conversation. Polite conversation which involves 'Oh are you going to buy some DVD's?' while I pick up the closest DVD and say 'Yes, I LOOOVE this movie.' I then actually look at the movie title and without even thinking say "I LOVE SNATCH!' Because actually I do really love that movie. But because I'm nervous and uncomfortable as hell I keep saying 'OH SNATCH IS SOOO GREAT' and 'I THINK YOU'D LIKE SNATCH TOO! You should totally get into it.' On and on ad naseum while his mother's mouth drops open even further everytime I say snatch and his eyes get bigger every time I say snatch and I'm already too far gone now to begin apologizing so I just keep saying snatch and does anyone stop me?

Why No. They don't. Our friend's mother just drags him away by the shirtsleeve, literally. All the while, I'm still yammering on about snatch. Actually by this point I may have been yelling 'SNATCH! SNATCH! SNATCH!' Similar to the chorus of that 'Shots' song by Lil' Jon. What? I was thankful that I actually found something that worked so I was running with it.

And That, my friends, is how the word snatch entered my vernacular. And also how I managed to scare away the creepy guy that followed me around.