Amurikan Food

I've been wanting to compile these since I got back, but I've been otherwise indisposed -- all will be made clear soon enough, I promise. Aside from the outrageous pro-gun, anti-abortion, anti-Obama billboards that accosted my eyes for the majority of the trip, there were some strange food-related things that I witnessed that I wanted to share . . . especially if you happened to miss them on The Twitter.

Dear Dirty Ernie's Rib Pit, You might just have the best ribs in the state, but personally, I'm not willing to take that chance.
— Lady Eströgen (@ladyestrogen) March 11, 2013

Seriously, Ernie. You might very well be dirty, but don't mention that in the title of your restaurant; just a thought, purely from a marketing perspective.

Also passed a store that was both a Greek takeaway *AND* an adult video store. Their slogan should've been "Satisfies Both Your Appetites".
— Lady Eströgen (@ladyestrogen) March 11, 2013

I would have LOVED to be a fly on the wall for that family discussion: "Greek food!" "Porn!" "No, Greek food!" "How about both?" "Humm, okay."

America, need your help with this: Quaker STEAK & LUBE?! I thought it was a typo & hubs thought I was on crack until we saw it 3 more times.
— Lady Eströgen (@ladyestrogen) March 11, 2013

This still confuses me, but apparently it's a Pennsylvania thing?

Passed a sign that said, "WARM BOILED PEANUTS." . . . like, for eating? Sounds repulsive, unless they're drowned in chocolate.
— Lady Eströgen (@ladyestrogen) March 10, 2013

Ew. They should call them Squirrel Testicles, because if they were warm and mushy, it's kind of what I would think I'm eating. Peanuts are meant to be either crunchy or smooth as hell in a PP&J sandwich; there is no in between.

Ordered a baked sweet potato & it came covered in marshmallows . . . America, please explain!
— Lady Eströgen (@ladyestrogen) March 9, 2013

I would have thought when I said, "Hold the chives" that it was a hint to my waiter that I was NOT expecting marshmallows on my potato, but no. I still dry wretch when I think about it.

On a positive note, I did eat at an iHop for the first time during this trip. I had pancakes that were drizzled with the cinnamon filling AND the cream cheese icing from a Cinnabon roll. Are you freaking kidding me? It was goddamn divine. Myself and my newly formed triple chin thank you.

What foods in other countries (or your own) do you find awesome, bizarre, hilarious or just plain disgusting?

Does this look like a "Bring Your Own Porn" establishment?

If you've been around my blog for a while — or at all, really — you'll know that I like'a the sex. Sex is good. But in saying that, I'm also not a skanked out slag that has no morals or tact; there is a time and place for everything, including porn . . .

When you are dining out in a restaurant is not one of those times!

Ooh, yes. While my good friend was waiting on a table of two moms with their children in tow, she overheard some strange moans coming from the next table, and more specifically from a 50-something man's smart phone. No headphones. Volume turned way up.

They were the sounds of a woman getting filled out like an application, if ya know what I mean - and I think you do. Are you fucking kidding me?

In a public place! Where people are trying to have a nice dinner! My friend, being both appalled and non-confrontational, asked one of the guys from the kitchen to have a word with the man. And here's where it gets even better, because when it was time for my friend to take their order, he had the nerve to complain to her about having been asked to turn off his device! She defended the request, mentioning that it wasn't exactly "appropriate content" for either the staff or other patrons to be overhearing.

And apparently, this guy was either the world's most pathetic liar, or was born yesterday . . . in a bubble, because his defense was, "I didn't know this type of material was on the internet!"

Yeah, right. Just like I had no idea how that bottle of Calvin Klein perfume appeared down my pants when I was fourteen.

Uuuuuuh huh.

So, really. If you know someone that cannot even go out to dinner without pondering ways to thicken their Alfredo sauce, then it might just be time for an intervention . . . or at the very least, please order take away from now on, for fuck's sake!

Ew.


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Completely unrelated!
I had the awesome pleasure in meeting 
Jenn from Fox in the City this weekend. 
Here's her take on how those shenanigans all went down.

(PS. That's totally my West Side gang sign.)



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Bay-bay. May-bay?

I have a confession. When I shop alone, I often go to the "family planning" section to parooze all the flavored lubes and massage oils that I can't afford. It's just something I like to do – maybe to keep myself in the loop, I don't know. Anyway, the other day I was in the shop doing what I do when I came across a product that I hadn't seen before. It's called Zestica and it's meant to help with fertility. The product itself wasn't what caught my eye (because seriously, I don't need fertility help) but it was the main product benefit that raised my eyebrow. See exhibit A that I found on their website:

Umm, yeah. So, sperm collection, eh? I thought that was done into a sterile plastic cup, or, hummm, I don't know... A VAGINA? Could you imagine walking into a fertility clinic with a knotted up used condom and saying, "Here ya go, Doc. I'd like to make a baby with what's in here." Eww.

The other issue I have is . . . why are they talking about condoms at all?

Using condoms while trying to conceive is as dumb as, ohh, I dunno... USING CONDOMS WHILE TRYING TO CONCEIVE? Snort.
— Lady Estrogen (@ladyestrogen) September 28, 2012

As far as I'm concerned (or maybe it's because I watch too much television), but there's only one other "logical" reason why this product would ever be used in conjunction with condoms, and it looks a little something like this... 

Yeah, that's what I thought.

First World Problems & Some Crack

Holy hell! The last seven days have been a flurry of craziness. First, there was my sexting drama, experiencing racism in my town, and getting my boobs squished. Then we lost cable, including 2 whole hours of television watching that I'll never get back; and finally, tipping the balance was when I found out that these pants are being sold to the general public - and NOT in a Halloween'ish, ironic sort of way . . .

If I had to choose, I would actually prefer if every woman on earth wore tights as pants than to see one woman wearing these (and that's saying a lot), especially with those hooker heels. I think my exact words were:

And now I'm seeing leopard print Peggy Bundy pants in the new arrivals. What the fuck ass year is this?
— Lady Estrogen (@ladyestrogen) October 2, 2012

So while I'm busy recuperating from these horrendous crimes against my senses, please check out my guest posts this week. I'm in TWO places, so pick your poison or if you really love me, choose both!

1. I'm In The Powder Room today, talking about my post "multiples pregnancy" body and all the glorious ways it's fucked up . . . in the most humorous way possible.

2. My good friend Q over at ThankQ is basking in the sun right now and asked me to hold down his virtual fort. I am ranting about teen pregnancy, but more specifically when they are barely teens themselves. My boxing gloves are thrown down and it's bare knuckle time. Gah!

And to all of my Canadian homies reading this, I hope everyone has a fabulous Thanksgiving weekend, full of gluttony and complete invasions of personal space by drunk relatives. I shall leave you with a special Thanksgiving message that can only be expressed properly by Adam Heath Avitable. (Warning: You might never be the same after clicking this link.)

Enjoy!

Let's get political, shall we?

It's very rare that I get political on my blog, mainly because Canadian politics is about exciting as watching two snails fuck. But hey there, I just spent 5 days in the great land to the south, which was more than long enough to be exposed and affected by the looming presidential campaign.

While we were driving down the I-whatevernumber highway, there were actually a few moments when I wasn't asleep in the passenger seat. Call it a messed up case of serendipity, because during one of those times, we passed a billboard that looked like this...

The. Fuck.

I winced and let out a moan so horrific that my husband jumped a little in his seat thinking that I was about to shit out a demon.

(Just a short while ago, I remember that Lost in Idaho spotted this billboard WHICH WAS EVEN WORSE, but I didn't have the displeasure of witnessing that one first hand, thank gawd.)

I've pretty much exhausted my mind being angry/upset/heartbroken over this so I'm going to try to keep this fairly brief.

*clears throat*

THESE TWO ISSUES SHOULD NEVER BE ELECTION PLATFORMS. PERIOD.

Why do I even have to say this? The very fact that they are still "issues" are extremely upsetting to me to begin with. Unless you are actually gay or Pro-Choice (which obviously these billboards are NOT aimed towards), these issues do not affect the day-to-day well being of your family as American citizens whatsoever!

A president "SHOULD" be elected because they can improve and/or maintain your family's security, whether it be economically, socially, or otherwise.

Healthcare.
Employment.
National debt.
Foreign Policy (to an extent).
Education.
Social Security.
Gun control.

These are all valid electoral platforms.

Whether David and Mike (who have lived together across the street for over a decade) can legally get married, or whether 14 year old knocked up Nancy from next door is allowed to safely choose to stay pregnant or not... is... guess what? NONE OF YOUR DAMN BUSINESS. If Dave & Mike get hitched, or Nancy gets an abortion, be not afraid — the price of gas won't go up as a result of either events. Humm...

Source {ology.com}

I know I've said this on The Twitter a long time ago, and today I will say it again: I don't care if the leader of my country is a Pagan worshiping cross-dresser who likes to be choked a little bit whilst taking it up the ass, but if he/she can ensure my children have safe streets to play on, an affordable education and a roof over our heads, I don't given a flying fuck. Why? Because their personal opinions, tastes, preferences and desires are none of my business. And equally mine shouldn't be any of their concern either. It seems obvious enough to me, doesn't it?

I guess not.

I'm not even saying that you cannot have these opinions. You are entitled to your opinion, even if you're wrong. Ahem. You don't agree with gay marriage or abortion? Fine. But you cannot and must not dictate how someone else lives their life by forcing your opinion upon them. When this happens, basic human rights are forfeited and it ceases to be a free country.*

This is the year 20-motherfucking-12 and there's a chance the world could smash into a comet tomorrow anyway, so can everyone keep out of each other's personal business and elect a president for reasons that are actually relevant to successfully governing an entire country?

Thanks in advance,

Lady E


PS. Love your outlet malls.

PPS. I'd also like to note the sponsorship of that particular billboard, which I think The Bearded Iris might agree that it just twists the knife of this ridiculous message that much further, don't you think? Ugh.

*Please do not misconstrue this statement as an argument that can be used for gun control. No one has ever died because they accidentally jumped in front of a gay marriage.


//end rant.

Birds are Assholes

Whomever said that getting crapped on by a bird is lucky can lick it up!
I've been the landing target for those feral creatures.
Not once.
Not twice.
But on THREE separate occasions.
All three were shocking and disgusting in their own right, but the final time was at high school, during lunch break. The timing was less than convenient, to put it lightly.

I was walking along the sidewalk when something came at me, not from above, but horizontally. It hit the side of my face and brushed against my hair. I thought it was a rock.

Some dick smack just threw a rock at me! What the fuck?

It startled the living hell out of me. It probably didn't help that I was stoned as well. I looked around, ready to tear a strip off the guy (most likely a guy, I assumed) that almost took my eye out. Both my paranoia and adrenaline were spiking hard.

Then, my friend's facial expression recoiled in horror as she backed away from me, "Umm.. it wasn't a rock. You have shit all over your head!"

ACK!

How the fuck did a bird shit on me sideways? It was like a motherfucking dive bomb stealth attack. This bird dropped a curve ball -- of poop! How could they possibly have that much control over their bodily functions... and gravity, no less? It's just not natural. In fact, I'll take that sentiment one step further and say that Mother Nature can suck my tit! I say that pretty much every 28 days, but this time I am expressing it for an entirely different reason.

It was mortifying having to walk in to school with my hair and neck covered in shit splatter.

And I didn't receive any extraordinary luck.
Or get lucky.
It's just bullshit.

And birds are assholes.

The end.

It's the thought that counts, not the nuts.

This is a semi-Wordless Wednesday. I say 'semi' because it's almost impossible for me to NOT crap on about something, even just a lil'bit. I have mentioned my 90 year old grandmother before when she gave me a sewing machine, but since Christmas is all about family and crap, I thought I would share with you the gifts that I have received from her this year... because they are pretty darn fantastic.

My first installment landed me this.

That is actually my Sharon, Lois & Bram cassette. I have no fucking idea where she found it. 

Then, I got another bag of goodies on Sunday that topped it off, and now my cup runneth over.

I like to think there's an ink bomb inside that will go off if I open these bags.

I don't believe this photo does the shape and size of these slippers justice.

I'm pretty sure my pug can fit into the top one like a sleeping bag.

They. Are. Rockin.

Thanks, Grandma. If nothing else, you're keeping it interesting!

Subway Lovin'

My old stomping ground not only made headlines yesterday, it went viral, yo!
Should I be proud? Probably not, since it was caused by two feral scrags deciding to do some skin slappin' on the subway... at 2.30 on a Sunday afternoon, no less. At first, I was thinking that it was 2.30 in the morning, not that it would excuse their obviously high class behavior, but it's slightly more logical if it was late at night and they thought no one was watching.

NOPE. 
Two fucking thirty post meridiem.
Drunk as skunks.
And humping like rabbits.
Animals.

And by gawd, I was laughing so hard. What a fucking tragic spectacle.Yes, that was my subway stop for many years.
Good ol' Spadina Station. That's my girl!

{source: Toronto Sun}

According to the report, they started on the subway and then after initial complaints from passengers, they got off (pardon the pun) at Spadina and finished on the platform. 

Here's the link to the "uncut" video. 

It's not porn, but surely NSFW. The best part is the transit worker just standing right beside them, and they are almost completely oblivious to their surroundings. They were arrested and have undergone a psychiatric evaluation. YA THINK?

I'm all for some fun and sexy times, but really... 

REALLY?

Posttraumatic Shit Disorder

Some people shrug at the concept of PTSD, thinking it’s all in your head – well, YES, as a matter of fact, it IS all in your head – just like all the other types of psychological disorders and suppressed issues that many people have. We carry that shit around like baggage, but not physically – in our heads. I had a minor case of PTSD, and although I didn’t fight in Iraq or anything major like that, it was still a pretty intense feeling that I didn’t expect, nor could I control it when it happened.

Woodstock '99: A Shit Pond

OK, so it was because of my experience at Woodstock ’99 that I had developed Posttraumatic Stress Disorder – go ahead and laugh. I know it sounds ridiculous – it does to me as well. I had written about my experience in this story, but I might have treaded lightly over the sanitation issue – or rather lack there of.

It was beyond disgusting.

Thanks to the intense heat and over-priced water, I managed to become dehydrated enough that I didn’t seem to have to pee the entire weekend – and as for the deuce? I simply told my body that I would NOT be doing that – and so I didn’t...

Fraser Island, Australia

About a year went by and I had moved back to Australia for University. My friend and I took a tour up the Gold Coast which included a trip to Fraser Island. It was beautiful – with the sand dunes and wild, yet tame dingoes roaming around. There was one thing missing – modern plumbing. At first, I didn’t think anything of it – I wasn’t overly a fan of port-o-loos to begin with, but I hadn’t been confronted with having to use one since Woodstock.

There was also an added complication – I was on my period. Fantastic! So, there was no way I would be able to convince THAT bodily function to go on strike as I was able to do before. We had set up camp and it was time to take the trek to the cluster of blue shit boxes. We joked about our Woodstock experience while approaching them and although I laughed, I could feel my heart rate and anxiety level rising.

When I opened the door to the port-o-loo and that pungent scent of chemical toilet mingled with feces that mounded high enough that I could see it, I slammed the door, backed away far enough and collapsed onto the ground. I broke out into a cold sweat and began to hyper ventilate, however I managed to calm myself down enough so at least I didn’t pass out. After a few minutes, I was able to ask my friend to see if she could find one that was less full – as I knew, however unbearable it would be, I still had to go through with it.

It was still quite a few minutes before I was composed enough to get up off the ground and face that fucking disgusting port-o-loo. I tried not to touch the seat, although I wasn’t quite tall enough to avoid contact entirely. I also tried not to breathe in and I concentrated on getting my task over with as quickly as possible. I was still sweating and I could feel my heart pounding in my burning ears. It was one of the worst moments in my life – and it was all because of a damn toilet.

So, no – I don’t drop to the ground when I hear a car back-fire or have blackouts, but even public toilets have the ability to make me uncomfortable now; as long as they can flush, I try to deal with it.

Like John Cage from Ally McBeal –
“I like a fresh bowl and remnants upset me.”

Dumb White Girl? Here!

Shhh... we’re not supposed to talk about it.

During University, I had a good friend, Deron. We lived together for a semester – and I never even had sex with him (I know… shocker!). Deron and I got on really well and we had some good times together; we shared the hobby of making fun of other people's work in our program behind their backs. I guess we both had minor “artistic god complexes”, so our friendship was a good fit... for the most part.

He was from the Bahamas and had been coming to Toronto for school since he was 13. He went to a swanky private boarding school during high school and then attended U of T for four years. His parents bought him a car in both countries so he would always be able to “get around”. In addition to his vastly expensive wardrobe directly from Ralph Lauren's catalogue and various techo-toys, he let it slip once that he had 5 servants on his family estate in the Bahamas.

Now, would you say that he was born with a silver spoon in his mouth? I would say a big fat “YES!” and that’s fine… good for him and his family… my issue arose with his artwork.

Every. Single. Piece. that he created had to do with being an oppressed black man in a white society.
Are you fucking kidding me? 
In reality, he was an over-privileged, sheltered private school boy, and on canvas, he was an angry black man.

I would like to think that I’m not completely naive, but I just didn't get it. I confronted him about it once in a very joking, nonchalant way and he jumped down my throat spewing out remarks like,
“You have no idea what it’s like to be me!” 
“You have no fucking clue what it’s like to be black!” 
Hummm… please enlighten me, because from where I stood, his life looked pretty damn good!

I am aware that harsh racism does still exist in many parts of the world, 
and that is truly a tragedy. 

But Deron? He totally road the double standard highway. If I played Pearl Jam too loudly, he would complain that my “white music” was annoying him – music that is emotional and poetic – and he would try to drown me out with harsh gangster rap songs about drugs, violence and that's demeaning towards women. Could you just imagine if I called it “black music”? He would have signed me up as a card-carrying member of the white hoods if I said that. Good lord! I would NEVER have even considered spitting gas on THAT fire.

So, my point and question is simply that I get so frustrated by people that constantly dwell on the past… not even THEIR past… we’re talking two hundred years ago. People came (and still come) to Canada to escape racism. So, after years of over-coming oppression and being awarded the same rights and opportunities (if not more) than other races, why do some choose to dwell on the past? Or obsess over the colour of their skin?

{Credit: Viewaskew Photos}

I’m not saying forget it, but learn from it and be stronger for it.

Am I just been naive?

I’ll finish with the wise words of Hooper X from Chasing Amy, to whom I often thought Deron was similar to; although he wasn’t gay like HooperX, he was definitely a well-groomed, advantaged metro-sexual leading a stage personality in the name of A.R.T.

Hooper X:  I need to sell the image to sell the book. I mean, would the audience still buy the whole black rage angle if they found out the book was written by a... you know...

Banky Edwards:  Faggot?

Hooper X:  When you say it, it sounds so sexy.

Unfastened Friday 4.0

College is supposed to be a time to experiment right? Well, I certainly experimented. I was 22 and I put myself out on every dating website I could find. There were no real men at my mostly female university – a private Catholic one at that. So, instead of trolling the local bars bringing home a hillbilly boy, I ventured into online dating.

God, lucky to come out alive? Probably.

Any close calls with dangerous situations? No.

Still, I could have easily met some freak and wound up dead in a field somewhere. I was desperate, fearless, and so lonely… I’ve met many men online. My first and only “offline” boyfriend last 3 weeks, a record compared to many of the others.

I’ll tell you about one of my encounters now. Mark. I met him online – we got together twice. The first time was in the middle of the night, at your average hotel off the interstate. The man didn’t even come down from the room to meet me. Classy. I pretended to be his fiancé when I asked for his room number at the counter.

An average looking late 20s or early 30-something guy answered the door. He was clean-cut and dressed in Abercrombie clothes. Looking back now, I can’t even remember if I saw his picture before we met up. I’m glad he wasn’t ugly.

We had that uncomfortable silence before awkward conversation. I was sitting on the bed. He was sitting on the chair next to the bed. He was shy!! Unbelievable! I was surprisingly not. Although, since then I have hear Catholic girls are pent up sex kittens. I believe it now.

I don’t remember what happened between sitting there in silence, to me being fingered and fucked on the bed, but I can remember he felt so good in that 60 seconds. Straddling his hips I barely got started when he shoved me off and bolted to the bathroom!

I think a) he came too early and was embarrassed or b) he was just plain regretful.

I tend to think he shot off too fast and was embarrassed. Five minutes later, I’m still waiting, dumbfounded. I wonder if we’re going to finish what we started. He comes out of the bathroom and sits on the bed. More uncomfortable silence.

He asks, “Do you want the room for the night?” I decline. I need to get home. I live with my parents, after all, and they’d freak if I wasn’t there in the morning.

I dress and leave. I can’t even remember if he kisses me goodnight. I felt like a hooker without getting paid.

On top of the disappointment, I manage to come away with a chuckle. I finally understood the jokes of women when they laugh about their “minute man.” So disappointing. I drive home in the dark, in silence, wondering if he’ll call again.

Three weeks later my phone rings.

Jill



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This one is usually longer, but if you have a story or a 'quickie', then please send it to me here! It can be 100% anonymous if you like - just don't fill out the name or email field - it will STILL send if those aren't filled, yo!

My Peacock-cock-cock

If you follow me on The Twitter, you'll likely know that I was at the Katy Perry concert in Indianapolis last night. It was part of the conference I was attending, so I wasn't exactly a paying customer, but I went anyway -- if for curiosity than anything else. I'll admit that I've tapped to the beat of her catchy tunes in my car, but I wouldn't consider myself a Katy Perry fan by any stretch.

Was it entertaining? 
Of course. There were colors and lights and glowing cotton candy -- all the bells and whistles of a pop concert.

Was I uncomfortable?
Fuck yes, I was! And I will tell you why because I'm sure you're all dying to know.
Katy Perry (or rather her marketing team, but whatever) has based her entire brand around the juxtapositioning of cutesy, childish imagery with shameless over-tones of sex. Of course, this is not a news breaking analogy, nor am I the first or will I be the last to say it, but it is what it is.

Since I do not have her albums, I really only know about 6 of her songs - even that number surprised me, actually. Some lyrics of the lesser known songs really shocked me, but not from a personal perspective.I was shocked because I quickly became painfully aware of how many young girls were there, listening and absorbing it all.

When the Peacock song came on, one of which I had never heard before, I actually dropped my jaw. And it stayed open long after it finished. Again, it wasn't the song I took offense to - I'm a pervert - I thought it was fucking hysterical, but the children - oh, the children in the audience. Why were they there?! Why were parents taking their 7-8-9-10 year old girls to a concert where a woman sings about cocks and performs suggested fellatio on the microphone. (Oh, yes she did) They don't need to see that! NO. No, they really don't.

It bothered me. A lot.

I was still bothered by it when I stumbled back to my hotel room. I went online to further research that particular song. Yeah, I downloaded it because, again, it's priceless, but I was still annoyed, nevertheless. I was checking out videos and I came across a parody version that I found seriously fucking entertaining. I think it trumped the concert, for real. It lifted my mood from annoyed to elated.

Here are some of my favorite parts: 

And this one:

And finally?

SQUAWK! You're welcome.

So, I might have digressed quite a bit from my original point, but oh my gawd, it's hysterical - and it has close to 7 million hits, so I'm not alone in that sentiment. And why can I enjoy this? Because I'm a fucking adult! It's not for kids, yo! Just like the Katy Perry concert. See how I've come full circle there? Yeah, that.

At the end of the day, am I criticizing Katy Perry? No. 

She's an adult (that apparently thinks she's 15) but regardless... an adult. She can do and sing and dance perform whatever the hell she wants to. I'm criticizing the parents that thought it was acceptable to expose their extremely young girls to this spectacle. I don't want to hear the argument "Oh, she's too young to get that!" because I call that bullshit.

Let children be children. 

They have the rest of their lives to become screwed-up sexual deviants, just take me for example. I was only listening to Tiffany and Jem and The Holograms and my 'deviance' started when I was 12. Think about it.

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If you want to see the full video, check it out on YouTube.

Cock-A-Doodle...Purple

I recently made a 'special' purchase at the sex store.

When I walked in, I wasn't quite sure where do go. It's not like I'd never been before, but this was for something new.
Something different.

I walked around for a little while. Browsing.

Finally, I found what I was looking for... in the "Fetish" section. Whoa! Never thought I'd consider myself one of those people, but okay. My visual senses were on over-drive. I was surrounded by colourful packaging (although primarily pink and black) all with naked women staring at me with their 'come fuck me' eyes. I could almost feel them breathing on my neck, but not in a sexy way. They were more like wild predators and I was the newbie prey that would soon be devoured.

There they were... all different materials, shapes, number of 'access portals', sizes and of course, price ranges. Holy crap! I might be curious for a little kinky fun but I have my financial limitations, that's for damn sure. I took photos with my phone and texted them to my "expert" friend.

(Click) This one?
No.
(Click) This one?
Probably not.
Ooooh... (Click) How about this one?
Yes. Excellent.
Awesome. Sold.

Fuck, I love technology.

I made my purchase while partaking in some small talk with the sales woman, making sure I had indeed found the right fit for my needs. I really don't think they do returns.

Time went slowly that evening.
The little black bag was calling my name, but it would be hours before I could have a little test fitting.
10pm finally rolled around. Sweet. Time to try on my fancy purchase. Yes, I said "try on". I had purchased my very first strap-on.

Giddy'up mutha fuckers! And it fit like a glove... or rather, like a cock.

Surprisingly, I didn't feel as "masculine" as I was afraid I would feel. It's always been a sensation that I have never been entirely comfortable with; about my own feminine identity and sexuality... ya know... the fact that under my stunningly giant knockers is, in fact, Guillermo Díaz. Yeah, that.

Regardless of how I did or did not feel about the addition of a giant purple cock that now hung between my legs, one thing was certain... it was bloody hysterical.

I'm in the bathroom laughing my fucking ass off, naked, jumping around and watching the silicone cock flail up and down and side to side. Strap-on gymnastics, I tell ya! I needed to share my amusement with my husband, but he was fast asleep.

FUCK IT. 
How often does this shit happen, seriously!?

I walked over to his side of the bed. He was facing inward and his back was exposed. I was trying incredibly hard not to wake him with my snorting laughter. I would have much rathered that I woke him up with what I was about to do. I crept over...

Then, I began poking him in the back with the dildo, repeatedly. 

I got a few grunts and annoyed shrugs. Of course, he had no idea what object I was actually using to poke him with. 

I start laughing louder; I'm practically in tears by this point.

He rolled over to discover what it was that I was doing, and what I was wearing.

If you can imagine the sound a human can make that is annoyed, pissed off, furious, shocked, confused, repulsed and drowsy all at the same time, it kinda sounded like this:

And for the record, Jill's interpretation of my face is practically uncanny, since I had taken off my make-up by this point. 

Aren't I fucking beautiful when I'm laughing THAT hard? I think the ribbed purple strap-on is nothing but icing, really.

So, needless to say, he wasn't amused. At. Fucking. All.

But it sure as hell made my whole damn week.

Besides, I didn't buy it for him anyway... 

SO THERE!

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A HUGE thank you to Jill from Yeah.Good Times. for graciously offering up her fine artistic skills
to help me illustrate this story. It just wouldn't have been the same without them. Love ya :)
I'm sure everyone knows her by now, but if not, WHY? Go... right now!

A Finger Cuff and Other Stuff

Although I attempt to convince people on a regular basis that I am, in fact, not an idiot, I have recently done two things that have pretty much put me back at the starting line, so to speak.

Last week, there was my stellar health scare, brought on solely by my absent mindedness. Then, yesterday, a friend posted a photo on their Facebook page of two people wearing "I Love DP" t-shirts. They were apparently marketing for Dr. Pepper.

OK. So, the stream of comments continued to go to a dirty, dirty place but just hinting at the under-lying innuendos and not actually spelling it out. Luckily, I was smart enough NOT to post my question on Facebook, but I inquired privately. What the hell is so funny? What is the OTHER meaning for DP? Am I missing something here?

Response: Are you fucking serious?

No, I'm joking. (eye roll) OF COURSE I'm serious.

Ummm, Double Penetration? Duh!

Awe, shit. Nope. I never would have guessed that. And to make things even more embarrassing, I asked my husband if he knew what it was and he said it straight away - and also laughed at me - and he doesn't know sweet fuck all about anything dirty! It was a sad and disappointing day for Lady Estrogen.

------------------------------
On a side note, my husband has begun referring to Lady Estrogen as if
she's another person apart from myself. It's fucking hysterical.
------------------------------

Regardless of what some people might have come to think of me as being one way, whether it be on this blog, Twitter or in 'real life', I am not, in fact, a walking, talking encyclopedia of dirty phrases. Do I wish I was? Well, that's besides the point! After all, Sue Johanson is my hero. The reality is, however, that I am not. In order to redeem myself, here's a list of twenty phrases that I actually do know:

Corkscrew
Gobstopper
Daisy Chain

Brown Necktie

Jersey Turnpike

Punching Possums
Ham & Cheese Sandwich

Three-eyed Turtle
Dirty Sanchez

Angry Dragon

Pulling a Moses

Donkey Punch

Spider-webbing
Cold Lunch

Finger Cuffs

Snowballing
Airplane Blonde
Cleveland Steamer
Flooding the Cave
Guppy Mouth

(And, yes, I did attempt to list these phases to vaguely resemble a phallus.)

So, if you don't know any of these, just let me know. I'll be more than happy to enlighten you - and I will not make fun of you or accuse you of living in a sheltered bubble like SOME people. Promise.

What can I say? I must've been having a blonde moment... for a very, very long time, or so it seems. At least I made him laugh. Even if it was at my expense, I'll still take it.

I take it which ever way I can get it.

Laughs, that is!

Ahem.

You people and your dirty minds.

Oh. And to Ida_homie - If this post doesn't set my Clean Meter to god damn explode, I'll be seriously fucking disappointed.

Blue M&Ms are Simply Superior

It is mostly likely an isolated occurrence that I will post anything like this, but I was laughing so hard when it took place, tears were streaming down my face. Thank you, Gmail, for recording every word of all my gChats. I never thought it had a purpose until this very moment. Since it was essentially instigated by the Studio30Plus writing prompt, I am taking the liberty in saying that this still totally counts. Fuck yeah, it does!

2:17 PM me: I'm trying to do a funny poem about my weird habits... I needed a rhyme idea for the word "few".. of course, Stu came up. hahaha

2:18 PM Stu: ha ha

 me: don't think I'll use that one though

2:22 PM Stu: you can use me how you like

 me: you say that, but then every time I try, you scold me ;)

2:24 PM Stu: well there is a time and place darling

2:25 PM me: humfh

2:27 PM Fine, then. I WILL put you as a weird habit of mine. lol

 Stu: that is probably true

 me: what? that you're a habit?

2:29 PM Stu: a weird habit

2:30 PM me: best one I've ever had then... apart from counting and sorting M&Ms

2:32 PM and twirling my hair

  or biting the sides of my fingers

2:33 PM OK, but you'd definitely be in the Top 5.

 Stu: mmm I want m&m's

 me: Me too

2:34 PM but I would need to sort them by color and quantity

  like an M&M bar graph

2:35 PM It is truly a beautiful thing when it's all laid out.

2:36 PM If math was that yummy, I probably would have been much better at it

2:37 PM you've gone to get M&Ms, haven't you?

2:38 PM Stu: no, was working.

  They taste all the same you know

2:39 PM me: that's not the point

2:40 PM The blue ones are simply superior!

2:41 PM Stu: this is probably one of the dumbest conversations we have ever had

2:42 PM me: this makes me happy

  Fuck the poem, I'm just going to use this conversation

2:43 PM because, really, I can't make this shit up

  GOLDEN SHIT

2:44 PM if it came in silver, bronze and platinum, I'd sort all that shit too

2:46 PM platinum would be on top

  I like being on top

 Stu: so you are now sorting your shit?

2:47 PM me: only if it was made of precious metals

  otherwise? no.

2:48 PM I love how you ignored my sexual innuendo just then

2:51 PM Stu: well you went from sorting feces to riding me. Not exactly the image I want

2:53 PM me: HA! "Golden" feces, babe

2:54 PM Stu: don't care

  shit is still shit

2:55 PM me: Fine. Back to M&Ms then?

 Stu: sure ya weirdo

2:56 PM me: you do realize that you've just helped me with my post for tonight, right?

2:59 PM I just used you

  Do you feel dirty?

 Stu: more like bored and sad that I won't ever get that time back

3:00 PM me: Wait until you read it back, you'll want to kill yourself...

My Rock with a Cock

I am taking this opportunity to discuss my latest health crisis as well as pay homage to one of my oldest friends.
It was his birthday a few days ago, so the timing is almost perfect.

This guy is special because, surprisingly, we've never had sex. I think the main reasons for this was because:
A) I could snap him like a twig; it would not be pleasant, and
B) I kind of helped raise him, even though he's actually a year older than me.

I think I may have had a shortly lived case of misplaced affections towards him when I was 12, but then he went and got a perm and that pretty much helped me move on from there.

Yes. A perm.
(Sorry, but he's never going to fucking live that one down. Not ever. If he dies before me, I'll make a point of mentioning it at his funeral, because that's what true friendship really means. If I die before him, I'll still figure something out.)

And no, he's not gay.

And yes, he's a boy... or since he has a hot wife and two cool kids, rather, a man. Kinda. 

He's like my son, or perhaps my man-sister from another mister...

Or my bestie with a flat chestie...

My rock with a cock.

See where I'm going with this? OK. Hold that thought.

In other news, I recently almost died from Toxic Shock. It wasn't pretty. In fact, it was slightly terrifying with a dash of mortification. The doctor laughed at my horror, telling me it happens all the time. Not to fucking me, it doesn't! I've watched all the doctor shows, thank you. I do not shove strange foreign objects up my cootch such as light bulbs, hot dogs, carrots or baseball bats.

Wait. What?

OK. I'll re-phrase. In the last two decades, anyway, it's just been the usual boxed set: Dildos, fingers, penises and tampons... ugh... tampons. Umm, yeah.

Why are these two trains of thought related, you ask?

Well, I was speaking to him on the phone the other day, revealing these latest embarrassing details.

His immediate response: "How does that happen to you? Shouldn't it have just fallen out? I thought you had a giant vagina!"

Awesome.

Apparently, it's giant enough that I had no idea it was up there, but not giant enough that it could fall out on its own. All I knew was that I was dying from the inside. Actually, not dying. Dead. And rotting.

So, thank you, my darling, for the vote of confidence for my huge vagina. Unfortunately, she, too, has now proven to be fallible.
It was truly a sad day, indeed.

Also? Happy fucking birthday to one of only two men* that openly converse on the size and state of my vagina.

A drawing by him. Not sure what's going on there.
His creative mind is disturbing, even at the best of times.
I love him.

(*PS. For the record, the other man is not my husband. He does not discuss such things. :-)

Confessions of a Dumbaholic

I know at one point or another, we've all done things and afterwards (perhaps years later) we have thought to ourselves,
"Wow. That was really fucking stupid!"

And it's true; it was stupid. Really, really rieeeee-diculously idiotic.

And I cannot even blame adolescence on all the dumb things that I've done because age doesn't seem to be a consistent variable in these misdeeds. What the hell was wrong with me? The scariest part is that I got good grades in school, have a relatively high IQ, but that doesn't seem to matter in the slightest.

I present to you the Top 5 reasons why I am amazed I'm still alive and well - likely because if you reached high enough, you'd probably find a horseshoe up my ass. (Although, please use gloves! I have issues with that whole area. Yuck.)

1. Riding in the trunk/boot of a car with a friend because there wasn't enough room for everyone in the car. I know someone who did that and then the car was in an accident and made her a paraplegic. And yet, I still did it.

2. Buying street drugs off a pimp and his strung-out hoe in downtown Manhattan, outside of a nightclub. I know someone who got bad drugs from a stranger and it totally fried his brain, permanently. And yet, I still did it.

3. I wanted to have sex with a guy so badly that we did it without any protection. I know someone who contracted herpes the same night that she lost her virginity... with no protection. And yet, I still did it.

4. I get really drowsy behind the wheel; I am seemingly powerless against the urge to sleep. I have fallen asleep behind the wheel at least 3 times (that I can recall). I know of many people that have been in car accidents, some fatal. And yet, I still do it.

5. Smuggling illegal narcotics across the Canada/USA border. Do I really need an example for this one? Oh, and I should probably mention that both my father and grandfather were Customs Officers! And yet, I still did it.

What are some of the dumbest things YOU have ever done?

Unfastened Friday 1.0

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Owe, My Blasphemer

I am a Catholic; I inherited it and sometimes like race or culture, it's not always what you may have chosen for yourself, but you embrace it with a certain amount of pride, often in spite of yourself. That's me and my religion, in a nutshell - we're very love/hate. There are a lot of things I think are VERY hypocritical about the Christian faith - but then again, I find equal amounts of hypocrisy in other religions as well. It's all ridiculous at times.

If I were to proclaim my true beliefs, it would be pretty much word-for-word based on the movie Dogma. "Do you believe?" "No. But I have a pretty good idea." Exactly, Kevin Smith, exactly indeed.

So, grade 8 was the last year that I attended Catholic school. During the final preparation Confessional for our Confirmation (which is kind of like a Bat Mitzvah, but way less celebrated and hardly any, if not no money or presents are received, dammit). I was sitting beside my best friend and due to extreme boredom, her mind started wandering.

My friend leaned over to whisper to me, "Jesus is kinda sexy."

I smiled. "Stop it."

"No. Seriously. Imagine if he actually looked like that? I'd do him."

I'm trying so fucking hard to contain myself. "Shhhhh. STOP."

"He's kinda got the tortured rock star thing happening - but with real torture. That's hot." And then she purred.

I was physically biting my tongue at this point. "Oh my God, please shut up. I'm going to piss myself, seriously!" I could tell she was in it for gold; she wanted me to lose it.

We get an evil glare from one of the teachers and a loudly whispered, "LADIES, SHHHHHH!"

She rolled her eyes back at the teacher and when the coast was clear, she continued, "I wonder how big his dick was. Do you think he ever masturbated?"

Now, I'm getting a headache from trying so hard to hold in my laughter. "I hate you."

"Deep Thoughts by Jack Handey: If you were having sex with Jesus and you yelled out, 'Oh, God' would that be like calling out his father's name during sex, or because of the whole Holy Trinity thing, would it just be like calling out his own name?"

The pressure was too much, but before I laughed, a fart escaped.
One single loud fart.

Then I laughed even louder, mostly to cover up the fart. My voice echoed through the whole church and everyone stopped to look at us. My friend was watching with euphoric delight at the spectacle I made of myself; I completely lost control. My head ached and my stomach hurt from tensing up my muscles for so long.

Of course, it was just me that got punished, as that same teacher pointed to only me with her long, bony finger and said one word: "OUT!"

I managed to make it through my actual Confirmation both laugh and fart free, but since that day, I could never look Jesus in the eyes - even if they were rolled back in his head.

On another note: I haven't been to Confession since that day - when I was still a virgin. Holy mutha fucking shit, I've got a lot of 'splainin' to do! Maybe I'll just give my priest a copy of my book and say, "Here - read this. I'll be back in 2 weeks to discuss. Thanks."

The "OTHER" Brother

I know it might sound slightly self-deprecating but I really didn't understand how I had so many guys paying attention to me while I was on my exchange. Was it my foreign alluuuure? Perhaps. Even then, Canada is far from exotic!

No matter. I had recently said good bye to Jim - 3 hours of my life I don't think I will ever truly get over; I was pretty messed up. I was meant to have moved to my last host family weeks before, but they had pulled out because they had heard I was some kind of social deviant, as told by my second host family from hell, the McFucks. A new family agreed to take me for the final 8 weeks of my year - a damn pain in the ass to move again with only 8 weeks left, but I didn't have any say in the matter.

The new family was wonderful, not to mention the dad was a professional photographer with a giant studio in the house. MOIST! He even took some fantastic photos of me - like glamor shots; I looked fucking HOT. (And before you read into anything: No, he wasn't a dirty old man; they were strickly on the up-and-up.) Maybe I'll post a couple some day... not any time soon though.

This lovely family had something else... a 15 year old son. Sure, he was very adorable but he was only fifteen! (I was edging closer to 18 at this point) I had absolutely zero attraction to him beyond the annoying little brother relationship that I "thought" we were forming... until the first night that he insisted on coming out with me for my nightly smoke before bed.

He stood outside with me in his jersey pajamas... pitching a tent the entire time! AAACK! Point that thing somewhere else, puu-leeze! It was difficult to avert my eyes, truly. I thought that involuntary reaction embarrassed guys but he was either oblivious or proud of his protruding package. After a couple days, I tried to convince him that it wasn't good for him to breathe in my smoke; it never worked and he wasn't taking any of my other oh-so-subtle hints.

In hindsight, I'm sure he was giving himself a pep-talk before every outing, "Tonight. I'll tell her tonight!" Ugh. I wince at the awkwardness of it all. He never did 'tell' me anything... until the last night before I moved back to Canada. I guess he figured he had nothing else to lose. Well, that is something I actually know how it feels - I can't penalize him too harshly. Ah-hem.

I got home at some ridiculous hour - probably 3am, I'm guessing. I had been partying with my friends all night and I was still pretty drunk when I stumbled down the hallway, passing his door. I tried to be quiet so to enjoy one last smoke by myself; one last night in Australia. He came out almost instantly; he must have been waiting.

SHIT.

After I was done, he followed me back inside and just as I was attempting a slurred, "G'nnnight" he pinned me up against the wall and stuck his tongue down my throat. I should also mention that he was tall, really tall. So while he was face raping me, his giant pocket sword was practically drilling a hole through his jersey pants and into my bellybutton! Wrong hole, honey, for real!

Was it his first 'real' kiss? I could only hazard a guess and say 'Yes'. He was gnawing my face as if he was trying to eat me as well as make out. It was bordering on painful; both physically and otherwise. In my intoxicated state, I surely let it go on longer than it should have, but even so, I think it was some of the longest and weirdest 10 seconds of my life.

Oddly enough, the family that pulled out from hosting me had two sons - 19 and 18. Maybe it was a good thing I didn't live there because apparently this Siren's song was hypnotizing as hell. Who knew?

If someone had told me all this was going to happen before I left, I would have called them a liar.