Monthly Archives: February 2012

We Rhyme and We’re Straight

As the “bitches” (named by my friend, not me) rolled in and introductions were made, the douche-hats by the juke grew quieter and quieter. The tide was turning in the basement. Turning gay, that is. Eventually, there were too many women in our group to continue sitting at the bar, so we ever-so-industriously moved some tables together and proceeded to take over the joint, both in our minds and via the jukebox. As I took in all of these new people, I mentally assessed their appearances, making judgments at will. Everyone looked normal enough, but of course that’s not what we’re interested in. I made assumptions about their sexualities, based on their outward appearances and they did the same to me. (Upon hearing that I was hetero, one of the Legioners exclaimed, “Really?!” with a look of pure disbelief.) There was only one woman I was sure fished from the dude pool (wrong on that one), and the rest were, in my humble opinion, queer as left-handed scissors (true). The legitimacy of my mental claims were unimportant, since their sexualities had nothing to do with their personalities and we all got on famously.

Can't imagine why ANYONE would assume I was gay. ;)

Throughout the evening I learned many new things. I tested the waters and found that I am allowed to make stereotype-based jokes even though I’m not of the “U-Hauling” persuasion. I learned that people sometimes drink vodka-&-water on purpose and that women are trouble. I had suspicions of that last one, but it was confirmed after listening to a rant about random ex-girlfriends and their complete lack of aptitude for life. For once, being the token straight girl didn’t seem so bad. After another round of drinks was ordered, a straggler joined the group. She was a conundrum in flannel, with makeup and gorgeous long hair. I glanced at her shoes and decided inwardly that she was, indeed, a member of the prestigious group for which I was so quickly becoming a mascot, of sorts. As my friend introduced us, I realized I was wrong. It went like this, “Bettie, this is *Lettie. She’s straight too.” Lettie looked at me, asked me to repeat my name and extended her metallic-polished hand. I said, “Hi, we rhyme and we’re both straight” and was met with an enthusiastic high-five of solidarity.

It was only after several Legioners turned toward Lettie in surprise that I learned her hetero-nouncement was recent news. As it seems, Lettie had just gotten out of a six-year relationship and had been openly gay since high school. (That explains the shoes.) What followed was an interesting look into what it feels like to jump back in the closet. Including surprising parent reactions and a complete lack of information about the opposite sex. She was all a titter about a guy she was crushing on and concerned about his lack of textual response. When she mentioned that he hadn’t contacted her for three days after their initial meet-cute, I had to smile. She didn’t know about the rules. The arbitrary rules men concoct and force upon one another when they meet women they actually might want to see more than once. I assured her that the mere face that he did get a hold of her after three days means that he wants to see her again. And again. I instilled the most important piece of wisdom gained throughout my years as a single gal: men are simple creatures. Women are complicated, emotional and sometimes needy. Men just want to be fed, talked to nicely and banged. Not necessarily in that order. Easy!

She was beyond grateful for this piece of information and expressed an interest in learning more, and perhaps even being best friends. I quickly agreed to both. One can never have too many bffs. Especially one who is literally BRAND new to dating men. Prepare to take note after cynical note, my dear! This new friend is entering an exciting (sometimes) new world of push-up bras, stacked heels and stubble-burn (although, without making too many crass assumptions, would be possible on the other side of the closet) and I can’t wait to see how it pans out.

The rest of the night was a blur of Christina Aguilera singalongs, musical chairs and a quick bout of business card trading punctuated by a round of, what else, but “One Legged Lesbian Kickboxer” shots. The bravest of the group moved on to end the night at the bar in my own basement and had to fend off a strange old man who wanted to debate me and marry one of my more attractive companions. Upon learning that he was barking up the wrong tree, he grew more interested and more gross. The hottie-McHot-Hot friend was regal in her apparent discomfort and luckily barricaded in by our table. I wasn’t so fortunate. We eventually had to enlist the door-man’s help and were able to enjoy the rest of our stay in peace and PBR.

*Name changed to rhyme with my fake name.

You Look Like a Nickelback Fan

Skipping  out on my Tuesday night shenanigans and the nagging reality of my grocery-less apartment led me down the path to my go-to bar after work yesterday evening. I figured I’d get a bite to eat, have a beer and chat with my friend behind the bar. Unfortunately for me, there was a sporting event (no idea which flavor) at the nearby arena and the place was packed. Not an open seat anywhere on the main floor. I did what I hadn’t done in years and descended to the basement bar to wait out the crowds. Luckily, I ran into a couple of friends already sitting at the sparsely populated bar so I could avoid staring at my phone for an hour, attempting to look like I was alone on purpose. Leaving my “main floor” friend text-instructions to let me know when a seat opens up at her bar, I settled in with a small portion of the Lesbian Legion.

The only other patrons in the basement were a table of quintessential douchebag guys who had strategically placed themselves within arm’s reach of the jukebox. When one of my companions got up to go feed the juke, they offered many unsolicited comments and advice on what she was or was not being a “poser” about. I didn’t realize people outside of high school could still be “posers”, but I guess if you’re a douchebag, you don’t need to bother yourself with silly details like what’s passe and what’s not. After yelling rude things in our direction and inquiring as to whether I offered a burger with my shake, they were reprimanded by the bartender and behaved (outwardly) for the rest of their stay. I’m not positive it was the semi-effeminate bartender’s words that caused them to quiet their ass-faces, but rather the fact that our little trio of intimidating women turned into a gaggle of lesbians about 20 minutes later. Even a douchebag knows when he’s been beat. Though the comments stopped, their music choices continued to haunt us, bringing up the subject of Nickelback and their impending concert in our city. My friend was only half listening to our conversation and caught only the part where I pumped my fist and exclaimed, “Yes!” What she didn’t know, was that I was “yessing” about the potential for d-bag hunting before and after the show. She accused me of being a Nickelback fan (the ultimate insult) and threatened to end our friendship on the spot. I threatened right back, saying that anyone who believes I could be a fan of Nickelback is no friend of mine anyway. She responded with, “well, you look like a Nickelback fan”. After begging her to elaborate on that observation, she answered simply with, “you’re straight”. Fair enough.

Before I get ahead of myself and use up material from part two of my mid-week adventure with the Lesbian Legion, I’d like to back up and mention that between the three of us, some terrible, terrible things came out of our mouths. We talked freely about things like asparagus-pee, pores that seeped with onion fumes, fat-girl shopping experiences and accusations of certain vacuum-related pasttimes. As I struggled through my vodka-soda (soda water is gross) and tried to avoid spitting it out in a fit of laughter, I forgot all about re-joining the surface dwellers on the main floor and settled into what would turn out to be a very entertaining evening.



Oh…That’s Why

I’ve survived my monthly “happening” for somewhere around 15 years now and however punctual she may be, Mother Nature has a way of sneaking up on me time and time again. No matter how carefully I note the previous visit on my calendar, I always find myself struggling through a week, wondering why the universe would choose to destroy me so slowly until I realize. It’s time.

 The better part of last weekend was spent in bed, wallowing in the third book of “The Hunger Games” and crying along with Katniss as her ever-fickle feelings flitted from Gale to Peeta and back again. When I needed a break from post-apocalyptic drama I chose to watch hours of “Hoarders” or “Strange Sex” on Netflix, punctuating the marathons with random shows about food. I had cravings for things I don’t normally eat, but chalked it up to the fact that I hadn’t been feeling well and my appetite wanted to make up for lost time. I couldn’t, of course, eat anything I craved because my digestive system had run amok, so I settled for countdown shows about diners or food trucks to wile away the hours.

Several things alerted me to the fact that I might be overlooking nature’s disgusting gift. A commercial on the radio makes me want to rip it out of the dashboard of my car and strangle whoever thought it was a good idea. It’s the one with the creepy pseudo-child’s voice singing about contracting cancer from a parent’s secondhand smoke. Infuriating. I hope that mutant child does get throat cancer so his/her vocal chords cease to function. (I say that without remorse since I’m pretty sure it’s an auto-tuned adult behind the voice.) I yearned for a frozen coke, and normally don’t even drink regular coke.

 My sister and I headed into the theater, settled in and reveled in the solitude of our chosen seats, only to have the pleasantness shattered by four teenagers who lumbered in, laughing and talking in what would be considered “outside voices” by any teacher I know. I stared at them in fear, willing them to go anywhere but near me. My resolve disintegrated when they set their sights on the row behind me. I crumbled. They banged into the row, shoving forward every seat their sagging skinny jeans came in contact with. Including mine. Many times. I did the requisite “glare-while-slowly-turning-to-look-at-them” only to be greeted with a very snotty, “Hi?” I said, “the correct response would be, ‘excuse me, I’m sorry'”, but it was ignored. They continued their kicking, laughing and inappropriate volume for longer than my blood pressure should have tolerated. I hadn’t even seen these kids’ faces, but I burned with a hatred for them that surprised me. I mean, I hate most teens…but not so much as to wish them physical harm. In the case of this loathsome foursome, I did. In fact, when one of them had the misfortune to stumble on the stairs on one of his many trips in and out of the theater, I laughed louder than I should have. And may have pointed a little. I hope he was mortified as teens tend to be at the smallest of provocations.

Amidst the sudden jolts to my seat and outbursts of “OMG” from behind me were the sporadic whispers from my sister. They were completely harmless comments about the movie I would have found humorous under normal circumstances, but I wasn’t normal. I was a pre-menstrual monster. Once I realized that with every breathy comment I wanted to strangle the next right out of her, I knew the fate that awaited me. Everything was getting under my skin and I had much worse on the crimson road ahead.

 Today I have been treated to lower, mid and upper back pain as well as extreme emotional sensitivity (realized when a co-worker asked if my goal weight loss was around 30 pounds, without me having mentioned anything) and continued ridiculous cravings. I want Bang Bang Shrimp and I want it now! I am falling apart as I type this and the main event is still days away. Ladies, I know you can relate. Boys, now you know.

Lifestyle Changes and Projected Mood Swings

As per usual when the snow starts melting (or when it seasonally should), I begin considering the fact that I’ll eventually have to start wearing less clothing or die of heat stroke. While these eventualities may be a few months in the future, I’m not in the financial position to do anything immediate and effective about my body, so I better start now.

Generally when I want to drop poundage, I drastically cut my calories and struggle on celery sticks and cottage cheese for a few weeks until I inevitably crash, burn and gorge on french fries until my shame seeps through my pores and I spiral into a pit of “eating my feelings” endlessness. I cut calories so harshly because I have consistently refused to do any sort of physical activity and that slows down the weight loss process. Or so I’ve heard.

I have ignored my increasing pudge and decreasing margin for using euphemisms like “curvy”, “voluptuous” or “thick” for so long that I fear I will no longer be able to continue my sedentary state. I need to get moving. In response to my woes and due to her upcoming nuptials, a friend has suggested we start doing P90X2 together. I said, “sure!” and quickly panicked, considered reneging and emailed her my concerns. She assured me that she will not be paying attention to my failed attempts at circuit training, nor will she judge me if I cry. Actually, she didn’t say that last part, but I’m using this as an opportunity to gently suggest that she not.

I realize this is an extreme change and will undoubtedly be a shock to my entire system. But I need it. If I survive the workouts, I hope to herd all the fat on my body from the inappropriate places like my chin, elbows, ribs, back and armpits to the more desirable locations. Hips, butts and boobs is what I’m looking for. I’ll even accept thighs. Above all, though, is my unhappy belly button. That little bugger needs to lose the frown and revert back to that expression of surprise I know it had once upon a time.

So, there you have it. My public expression of intent. I will not be limiting my caloric intake as drastically as I have in the past in the hopes that I can maintain this lifestyle change for longer and still keep up some sort of normal social life. I will, however, be angry and sore for much of the near future. Be warned, but also be prepared to shower me with compliments to ward off any danger.

Gettin’ Lazy Up In This Mug

I couldn’t think of a decent blog topic to save my life so I decided to reach out to my readers on Facebook for some topic ideas. They’ve given me either a topic or a sentence and in return, I promised a paragraph. So, in order of the request, here it goes:

People who claim to have always been a huge fan of someone, only after they die: To this, I can only plead guilty. I generally don’t claim to have loved someone I actually hated, but I have definitely exaggerated my fandom in the event of someone’s death. Case in point: Amy Winehouse. I could be seen attempting to make the throaty sounds in “Rehab” when it first came out, but it wasn’t until her untimely entrance into the “27 Club” that I delved into her complete works and realized that I did, indeed, love her. I just didn’t know until she was gone. Of course, when caught listening to her discography I would absolutely get defensive and claim to have loved her all along. In reality, these people fall off our radars if they’re not getting air play. It’s just the way it is. When they die and the DJs of our lives remind us of their excellence, it’s only natural that we’d start to listen to the otherwise unknown tracks. And then lie about it and pretend we’ve loved them all along so that others feel inferior.

Adam Levine is also a drummer, and I had previously stated that drummers are notoriously ugly: Obviously, he is the exception and not the rule. Obviously I don’t know every drummer in the world, and I’m sure there are attractive ones out there (Zac Hanson). However, I can only go by what I see on various rock Biopics (because TV never lies) and they tell me that you shove the ugly ones behind a drum set. There must be a reason Adam traded in the bulky set to shove those sexy hip bones in front of our faces and behind only a microphone stand. I’m choosing to believe that reason is to follow my “drummers are ugly” rule and not his beautiful and sexy voice.

And now, to finish a paragraph where the topic sentence has been provided for me:

It has been seven years since that foul stench had crossed my nose. I mean, I had smelled skunk since but never with that intensity and longevity. Here I was, trapped in my car at the end of the driveway in front of my house and only an invisible skunk to blame. My nephew was terrified in the backseat, not quite understanding what a skunk was but definitely understanding that Auntie was NOT going to get out and encounter it. We cut our losses and made a run for it, screaming and hoping to stay out of the way of that foul stream. That skunk lived under my porch for months, surrounding my house with a constant sheen of stench and never actually revealing itself. To this day, my nephew has a sore spot for “kunks”. Don’t we all?

I apologize for the lack of imagination in this post, but I wanted to get something up here to fill the gaps between when I do interesting things with my life. That being said, readers, you may want to prepare yourselves for more filler. 😐

Boyfriend in a Band: A Casting Call

I was recently recruited to do some light promo for Capitol Records at a Jane’s Addiction show next month. While enlisting my beautiful partner-in-crime for that day I started thinking about Dave Navarro and how gorgeous he is. There is something about a man in a band. Something that makes me innately want to be close to them. So it’s decided: I need to legitimize my inner groupie by dating a man in a band. Preferably a bass player. I find them more mysterious yet personable and less likely to be a whore.

Please use this photo for reference

Please submit your applications if you feel you qualify. There are perks to this proposed relationship, and not just for me. I’m excellent at promoting material I like. Even material I don’t like will get shoved at people if I am being compensated for my time. So if your band sucks, I can lie! It’s a two-way street, potential band-boyfriend. I get to feel cooler by association and you get a smart, non-slutty girlfriend who will leave you alone and promises not to text you smiley faces.

I do have some stipulations, however, so please read through before submitting an application and head shot. You must not call me every day. That is annoying. You must recognize that free time and alone time are essential and that cuddling is not. You must kill spiders and hate stupid people, and you must sneeze out loud. I cannot stress this last part enough. I feel there is a telling connection between the way one sneezes and his or her bedroom persona. If you repress your sneeze and risk aneurism, I doubt you’ll be a tiger in the sack. Just saying.

Eli Manning: A Shameless Bid for Google Searches

I watched the Super Bowl. You would see the ridiculousness in that first sentence if you knew that I’d spent my entire Saturday watching season two of Gossip Girls, and crying all seven times Dan and Serena broke up. (Not joking.) I decided last month that I would make an effort to join the throngs of Americans in insisting that the last football game of the season is a thing. In order to make the situation more enticing, I agreed to participate in some friendly wagers in the form of “football squares”. Since I had a reason to watch the game (or be near others who were watching it), I had to figure out where I’d end up. My plan for finding a suitable location had two objectives: I had to be able to wear sweatpants and eat unabashedly. I turned down more than one party invitation to join my parents at their house for “comfy clothes” and judgment free snacking.

My parents’ house consisted of exactly one person who was interested in watching the game: my mom. She’s a die-hard Packers fan and only slightly angry that they were nowhere to be seen in this game. My mom didn’t have a favorite to win, but she does hate the Patriots with a nonsensical passion. Every time Tom Brady’s face was shown, she would make noises like a baby crying, insisting that he was the biggest whiner in the league. I don’t know if that’s true. I do know that he’s the most attractive white guy I’ve ever seen playing the game. Most of the white football players look like one of the Mannings, and that’s just silly. If I’ve learned anything in life thus far, it’s that you fare better with a model’s face than a farmer’s.

Hot and douchey vs. Sweet and gumpy

My usual Super Bowl tradition is to do anything but pay attention to the game and then shush everyone so that I can watch the commercials. Commercials I understand. Random flags and seemingly lip-dubbed referees, I do not. In between commercials, as I was doing my best to stare intently at the screen and at least appear to be following the game, the subject of protective cups came up. I can’t remember how, but I do know that the conversation that followed was the highlight of my night. My mom chimed in, saying that nobody in the NFL wore cups anymore and “you could tell“. She then went on to explain that when the camera moves in tight on someone, and another player happens to wander into the frame, you can see “it“, in all its spandexed glory. According to my mom, they want you to see their junk and have cultivated an unspoken brotherhood of the penis, as it were. Nobody hits anyone else there. Those are the rules of showing the world the outline of your penis. When she explained that some are more “out there” than others, I asked her if she was referring to the black players. She was not and was in fact a bit flustered by that suggestion. Oops. 🙂 The remainder of the game somehow held my attention as I scanned football pants for the best outline. The jury is still out.

Halftime is generally something I look forward to during the Super Bowl telecast. It is a shining beacon of celebrity in the vast, boring desert of sweaty dudes. When I learned that Madonna would be providing the halftime entertainment I had mixed feelings. I am and always will be a fan of 80s/90s Madonna, but “old lady” current Madonna freaks me out. I was perplexed by the amount of flair coming from the background of her performance, and the complete lack of effort on her part. It seemed to be an endless stream of awkward prancing/jiggling punctuated with several hard-to-watch yoga poses. Remember when Madonna used to dance? She did writhe uncomfortably on the platform near Cee Lo while singing “Like a Prayer” (a song I was grateful for, as it attempted to save my opinion of her and remind me of the good times), but other than many, many misguided cheerleading moves I found the whole thing devoid of actual dance and full of strange juxtapositions. I get that the powers that be want to appeal to a broad demographic, so they get someone who has been around for a while and who retains some relevance (if only in the tabloids) and sprinkle in a few young chart toppers for good measure. That results in a combination of confusing cameos and an aging “yoga-nista”. What about us “in-betweeners” who just don’t get Nicki Minaj and are, frankly, a little afraid of MIA? Those two, the terrible vision of Madonna’s vagina on the back of LMFAO guy’s neck and her overall ickyness really turned me off. Cee Lo, my snugglebum, saved the night by wearing that adorable sparkly robe and standing near Madonna. Thank god for little nuggets.

I just...I just don't get it.





I couldn't find a picture that illustrated my fear of her...








Overall, the night was a success. I learned something valuable about the crotches of professional football players, I learned that I still can’t tell the difference between Eli and Peyton Manning and I won some money on that final score. In closing, I’d like to leave you with a few bold statements that were uttered last night, and I feel ought to be shared. While watching the halftime show, my mom blurted out that she would much rather watch Nickelback perform than Madonna now. I nearly smacked her. And, upon the onset of “The Voice” after the game, I decided and declared that Adam Levine is hotter than Justin Timberlake (in response to Christina Aguilera’s pseudo-snide remark). It was a risky statement but my sister agreed, after a moment, and I’d like you all to agree as well.

Harder to Breathe, indeed.

Bar Stories and My Alter Ego


This week has been thrown out of whack. I stumbled into Monday, not really believing that it could be Monday and sleeping through 2 out of 3 of my alarms. That resulted in a seriously scrubby Bettie rolling into the hair salon after nine hours of disgruntled work. When the first words out of your mouth at a hair appointment are, “you might have to wash it twice”, you know you’re not having a good day. Tuesday was a scary, lonely day due to my failing memory and my phone’s place on my bed rather than in my purse at work. I skipped out on my usual Tuesday martini-fueled socializing night in favor of watching Glee and New Girl, only to have my shoddy TV antennae setup fail on me. By Wednesday morning, I had worn slippers to work. Twice.

Feeling entitled to an after-work martini halfway through my strange adventure of a week, I decided to stop into the bar I had neglected the night before. My lovely lady-friend bartender was at her usual post and so were a few others I was delighted to see. Rather than one extra-dirty martini and some dinner as I had originally planned, I ended up making a marathon night out of it. 90s music was pumping from the juke (courtesy of some leftover credits and a great partner in crime) and I was at rapt attention to a stirring, albeit slightly TMI conversation I was having with a friend about his boyfriend, and well…what he loves about him… As you all well know, the combination of 90s music and vodka makes me a very happy girl and more apt to say yes to more vodka. This happened. I was feeling great, chatting with everyone and making new friends. One of these new friends gestured to a dude standing near us at the bar, and I responded by giving him a knowing look about the guy’s apparel. I made no outward indication of these thoughts. At least not purposely.

Mr. Tap Out was wearing a white Ed Hardy (or similar) zip-up hoodie with NO SHIRT on underneath. It was unzipped halfway revealing a disturbingly tan and hairless chest. His hair was doing something Elvis would have been ashamed of and he had large aviator sunglasses on. Indoors. At night. His powers of perception weren’t harmed by his cloud of douche and he noticed my raised eyebrow of amusement at his outfit. He didn’t like it. He took that as a cue to start screaming at me from three feet away. He yelled things about how I was poor, fat, ugly and hopeless. He also felt the need to tell me that his outfit was $300 and I was mad at him because I was wearing an old T-Shirt. In his defense, I was wearing an old T-Shirt. It had Eric Clapton’s face on it and I had cut it up so that my cleavage would hopefully distract from the fact that I had cut it up. I was also wearing a delicious scarf and some fierce 5-inch stilettos. So…I think you can imagine my shock at his mockery.

Picture this guy, but douchier.

In all honesty, I don’t remember much of what I yelled back at him. I do know that I was trying to make the situation less embarrassing for myself and everyone around me, and that it was no doubt much wittier and more hilarious than anything he was saying. I may have suggested we take a bar-wide poll to address this “who wore it better” situation. He didn’t go for it. He did attempt to hit on my friend almost immediately after his murderous tirade on my self-esteem. She replied by suggesting he be nicer to people. He said, “tell someone who cares” in a random Boston accent that only existed for that statement. I’m still running that one through my mind. My friend did indeed tell someone who cares, and got the lovely bartender to come and address the overload of doucheness in the area. She asked him if there was a problem and he responded by hurling his full glass of beer at her feet. It shattered everywhere and he was being escorted out of the bar by two giant security guys, yelling about how we’ll be sorry because his family is famous around town…or something equally “do you even know who my father is?”  As he was turning away, and after I threatened him with physical violence more times than I’m proud of, I noticed he had the logo for “Tap Out” tattooed on the back of his neck. That was THE single douchiest tattoo I’ve ever seen, and that includes the guy who proudly showed me his Monster energy drink ink.

Mr. Tap Out wasn’t going down so easily, and waited in all his Jager-bomb rage outside the bar. I was chomping at the bit to let out my inner J-Woww (in a repeat of the incident in Eastown last fall when I punched someone while wearing my bridesmaid’s dress) and desperate to get outside to continue our confrontation and let this guy know he can’t go around calling girls fat and ugly. Even if it’s most likely as a result of his jealousy over my conversation with a new friend. He had a confusing outburst of, “he’ll never sleep with you, he looks like an Abercrombie model!” The guy I was talking to was attractive, but I was definitely not trying to sleep with him. If at some point during your conversation you stand back-to-back to prove you’re taller than a man without your shoes on, you are not trying to see him naked. At least I’m not. At any rate, I deduced that he was probably angry at the world because his homo-erotic feelings didn’t mesh with his MMA persona, and had perhaps gotten him punched in the face once or twice (hence his picking on a girl). I wanted to remind him what getting punched feels like. Keep in mind that I don’t fight. I don’t know how and I’ve never been in a real fight to find out. For some reason, when I’m drinking I think I’m the toughest bitch in town and I don’t let my lack of skills stop me from mean-mugging the best of them.

It’s a good thing I have friends around me who force me out the back door and remind me that I most likely could not, in fact, kick the ass of a big douche-face guy. Thanks pals! My alter ego goes un-proven wrong yet again!