Shoulda been a spy

Thank god it's over.

As I told you before, I was planning a surprise party for the cute neighbor for Saturday. The process was very stressful, mostly because people are extremely rude and refuse to RSVP, but also because the cute neighbor was being a bit difficult when it came to getting him to the party.

At first, I thought it would be simple: I would simply tell him I was making him dinner and let him know what time to show up. But then he decided he might like to go out. Nothing fancy, just invite a few friends to our corner tavern for a beer. When I pointed out I wanted to cook for him, he told me I could just do it Sunday. Hmmm... ok, time to move on to a different plan. I figured I could create an emergency to get him to my house, but had to make sure he didn't schedule an outing too early in the evening. I told him I had to work on Saturday, so there wasn't a way for me to be able to go out until 8:30ish (when I had told people the party was going to start). He said he could start without me. Not helping.

Then on Thursday, while I was still stressed as to how to get him to his own party, he says to me, "By the way, my parents told me today that they're coming down this weekend."

Fuck, fuck, fuck! How am I supposed to get him and his parents to my house? I panicked. I thought about calling the whole thing off. Why, oh why, did I plan this whole mess in the first place? But then I calmed down. I took a deep breath. And I realized one thing: if the cute neighbor's parents know what's going on, he will definitely get to his own party! Perfect! One problem: how do I tell them? I don't have an email address or phone number for them. So, later that evening, while the cute neighbor was in the bathroom, I grabbed his cell phone, located a number for his parents, and scribbled it down quickly before he had any idea. I should totally be a spy.

On Friday, I gave them a call and explained the situation. They told me to tell them when and where, and they would make sure he got there. They even called back on Saturday to make sure they had all the details straight. Hurrah! I relaxed. (A little bit.)

With the cute neighbor thinking I was baby-sitting all day, I baked and cleaned and cooked several skillets of bacon all day long. By 8pm, most of the guests had arrived- except D.B., who was bringing the keg. I stalled the cute neighbor by telling him I was stuck in traffic. (Lying via text message is remarkably easy.) Eventually we had to get started without D.B. or the keg.

I called the cute neighbor and told him I had just gotten home. I needed a few minutes to get ready. He should come over and I would give him and his parents a snack.

He agreed.

We assembled in my living room, killed the lights, and waited.

He opened the door...

SURPRISE!

And he was. I had pulled it off. Whew!

About 15 minutes later, D.B. showed up, wearing a Peter Pan costume meant for children ages 4-6. His belly was hanging out, his bulge was showing, and his pants were splitting in the back. It was definitely worth the wait.

Promises of pedicures

I had a traumatic night last night.  It all started fun enough, when I realized the particular socks I was wearing were particularly slippy on my hardwood floors.  Once one realizes they are wearing slippy socks, one physically cannot get to the kitchen without running and sliding.  It's a proven fact.  So I slipped and I slided.  I was Tom Cruise from that one movie I've never seen (but with pants on), until  I was on the floor swearing after a giant splinter assaulted me.  Are you thinking what everyone else I told this story to was thinking?  "Wow, you must have been going pretty fast."(after first thinking, "wow, those floors are real wood?") Yes, yes I was going fast.   That bitch was deep.  So deep that I hopped away from my roommate, Bernard, as he came after me with pinching fingers.  So deep that I sat whimpering on my bed with unsuccessful tweezer attempts.  So deep that I called my mother for motherly-splinter-removal-secrets.  Unfortunately, she did not have any motherly-splinter-removal-secrets.  She offered moral support, infection fighting advice, and a reminder that I need to send her a check for my cell phone bill.  "I. am. in. a. crisis. Mother."

I was about to turn to my good friend Google, for endless advice in 0.423 seconds, when Bernard barged back into my room wanting a shot.  For the next 5 minutes I lay on the floor with my foot in the air, groaning and yelling "Get it ouuuuuut!" while Bernard leaned over me with tweezers in hand saying things like "I'm in deep, can you feel it?"  Our other roommate probably didn't know if I was in labor, or just getting laid.

I may have entered into a state of Splinter Induced Delirium.  The life of my foot flashed before my eyes.     I apologized to it for still having a little chip of November's nail polish on my big toe.  I regretted not making better use of my pumice stone.  My right foot deserved better.  If it made it through this, I promised it a pedicure so nice, the left foot would be jealous.  I imagined the rotten plank of wood festering in my sole.  I imagined infection.  I imagined having to go to the ER, feeling stupid for going to the ER for a splinter, yet needing the ER because I had a fucking piece of wood in my foot.  It was festering.  What if I lost it to to necrotizing fasciitis?!  What if Bernard's refusal to mop the floor has made it a hotbed of flesh eating bacteria that is now festering in my foot?! Damnit Bernard!  What if I lose my foot?  What if I lose my whole leg?!  What if while I slept, a man throws my prosthetic leg into the fire, thinking it was a log?!

After much digging on his part, and delirium on my part, Bernard finally pulls it out looking intact.  That bitch was huge.  We stared at it, in awe. It was nearly an inch in length. "That was in your foot."  I had an incredible urge to take a picture, but I was sidetracked by blood and my immediate need to disinfect/treat the hole in my foot.  I wasn't out of the necrotizing fasciitis woods yet.

24 hours later  it doesn't appear to be infected but it does hurt.   It hurt so much that I considered not going to work today.   I imagined emailing my boss to tell him why I couldn't make it in.  "Sorry, I can't make it in today, my foot hurts. Splinter wound." Followed by "Sir, I don't think you understand the magnitude of this splinter.  It was a B.I.T.C.H.  I'm dealing with a freaking puncture wound here.  If I were in the big leagues (baseball), I would be on the 15 day DL (disabled list)." He would have to believe me: A) Because he knows how I am (i.e. wouldn't be surprised that I was sliding around on hardwood for the fun of it) and B) No one's stupid enough to make up a story so...stupid.   However, I gritted my teeth, I laced up my sneaker, I proudly walked to the T station with one foot dragging slightly behind the rest of me.  I may never slide on hardwood again.

You're doing it wrong

I went on a date last night. With a boy that gives out his number on slapon bracelets.  Who I drunkenly texted.  Who soberly texted me back.  Who gets major style points for bracelets and roses. Who kills it on the follow through.

• I met him last Saturday.  Last Tuesday he texts me to ask if I'd like to get drinks during the week.  I said yes.  He said he'd get in touch with me later on in the week.  
• On Wednesday he asked me if I wanted to join him and his friends at for Brazilian BBQ that night.  I claimed a long day at work.  A first meeting with him and a group of friends?  A sober me and a group of people I don't know, doesn't really mix well.  I clam up.  
• On Friday he texts me at 10:15 pm asking if I wanted to meet up with him and his friends half way across town. Dude.  You're doing it wrong.  Doesn't he know that I was on my way home from a dinner party and all I wanted to do was crochet while catching up on Hulu?!  No, he doesn't know that because we still hadn't gone on a date (which means he shouldn't be last minute texting me to hang with his friends). 
• On Monday he texts to ask if I wanted to get drinks that night.  I had plans.  Why is this guy incapable of planning ahead?  I say I'm busy tonight, how about tomorrow?  Holy crap, we actually made plans to meet up.

At this point I'm kind of wondering if I'm desperate for a date.   I haven't been on a date in a while, and going into it, I knew I wasn't that into him.  But I hadn't been on a date in a while, so it's not like I had anything else going on.  So what the hell?

What the hell?!  I remembered him being adorable. And funny.  Yeah, not so much.  His glasses, his combed hair, his knee-length pea coat.  It sort of screamed douche. There was just something about him that really....annoyed me.   I can't quite pinpoint why.  Perhaps it was his slow uninteresting stories.  Perhaps it was him mocking my sarcasm and not getting my jokes.  Perhaps it was him insisting that I watch a YouTube video that he had made.  Maybe it was when he asked me if I wanted to be his teammate for an eating challenge: 5 pound burger and 5 pounds of fries (Oh, my heart).  He lost me when he told me he really wanted to move back to Alabama and start a family.  He really lost me when he got out his iPhone to show me pictures of his parents.  Duuuuude.  You're doing it wrong.  Something tells me I won't be seeing him again.

Hen Weekends....Beware.

One of my closest friends in the whole wide world is getting married. I am excited about this. I get to be a bridesmaid and wear a pretty dress. I am excited by this also. I've never been to a wedding before, this will be my first. I am mega-excited about this. So, just to be clear, I am honestly excited that my friend is getting married. This post is not about smug-married hating, wedding hating or wedding planning hating. Honest.

This post is about hen weekends. And the over blown affairs they have become.

***Note: According to Vi, hen weekends are known as bachelorette parties in the US, I will be referring to them as hen parties. It takes less time to type.***

As mentioned, I have never been to a wedding. Along with this, I have never been to a hen party or a hen weekend. That is about to change.

I understand the concept of hen and stag parties. Say goodbye to your single life with your friends, have some fun, have some drinks and take some crazy pictures. My issue is, when did this simple concept, this simple idea turn into a money-sucking activity. When did the parties become weekends?

I don't know if this is just a UK thing. But hen and stag weekends over here are HUGE. They have become a new form of tourism almost. There are cities known for their hen and stag weekends. You see the groups of people at the airport, raring to go. Most of them have already started drinking. They're wearing specially designed t-shirts and the hen groups will probably be wearing pink cowboy hats or pink feather boas. Or both.

Perhaps the weekends over here are so popular because, being a tiny island, it's easier (and cheaper) to get away for the weekend. For example, Ibiza, Prague and Marbella are very popular. The White Horse recently went on a stage weekend to Cardiff - and that was only for one night. They went to Wales. For one night. That cost the White Horse about £250.

£250. I've just been looking for a holiday, 3 nights in Prague and that's cheaper than a one night stag weekend in Cardiff. Therein lies my issue...the money. Why do you need to spend a fortune to get drunk, in a strange city, when you most probably won't remember much of the night before all because a friend is getting married? It's ridiculous. And unnecessary. It's just an extension of how weddings are becoming bigger than they need to be. It's about the marriage people, not the party.

Plus, it's an added expense to the wedding that you then have to attend. (I don't have this issue with my friend's wedding because as bridesmaid she is very kindly paying for my dress, shoes, travel to the venue and accommodation. We're also planning a fun hen weekend which doesn't involve travelling abroad, I seriously love my friend - and honestly and truly cannot wait for her wedding). If you are invited to both the hen / stag weekend this, coupled with the wedding means you will have to pay for:

Hen / Stag Weekend
* Travel
* Accommodation
* Food
* Drink (lots of drink)
Wedding
* Travel (if out of town)
* Accommodation (if out of town)
* A new outfit (if you're a girl, guys can possibly get away with not purchasing anything new)
* Wedding present

That's an expensive list.

I would like it to be known here, in writing, that should I ever get married I will not have a hen weekend. I will have a night with my friends - some pizza (or similar type of food), some cocktails (I don't drink beer) and some dancing. And maybe a pink feather boa. Just because.

surPRISE!

Last month, I came up with the perfect way to celebrate the cute neighbor's upcoming birthday: throw him a surprise party. As soon as I got the idea, I went full-steam ahead with the plans. I think I might live to regret this.

First, I picked the theme: Neverland. Absolutely perfect. The cute neighbor just won't grow up (seriously, he looks like he's about 22. He's in his mid-30s. And he thinks farting is hilarious, and does it with alarming frequency.) There is also no shortage of costume ideas with Neverland.

I enlisted the help of two good friends of mine who have known the cute neighbor longer than I have and could give me guest list suggestions and could also help out with food (and thus expense). Last week, I sent out the invitations. I've been in a slight state of panic ever since. Here's why:

1. People don't fucking RSVP. Seriously, people, when you get an invitation, and an RSVP is required, please RSVP. Don't wait to see if something "better" shows up (and seriously, what is "better" than a surprise dress-up party featuring Things Wrapped in Bacon and a keg? Nothing, that's what!), if you can make it, say you're going to be there. If you can't, just say no. That's all. Even worse than not responding, is responding "maybe" and saying "I'll try to make it." That really doesn't help at all. I really can't throw a surprise party with a handful of people. Thus the panic.

2. Last night, the cute neighbor suddenly decided he should plan his own birthday outing for Saturday night (the night of the party). I reminded him I was making him dinner (the ruse to get him to my house for the party). He told me I could just do it on Sunday or Monday, closer to his actual birthday. OooooK. This could get tricky. Luckily, I've invited everyone he knows in this city, so everyone he would invite would have already gotten my invitation. I'm just going to tell everyone to play along, then create an emergency to get him to my house at the last minute. Namely, the cat got out, and I need his help to corrale him so my roommate doesn't kill me. It better work.

Between now and Saturday, I have a to-do list a mile long, on top of two jobs and trying to keep everything a secret. I think I might have a mild panic attack before Saturday.

A Single's Awareness Day treat

Happy SAD!  I have some things to share with you, see you don't need dinner/chocolates/teddy bear hearts, you have a Valentine's Day Pub Crawl to hear about.  I went.  I saw.  I crawled.  I got drunk boys to tell me things.  It was a lively day starting at 2 in the afternoon that ended with my friends and I crashing a Hahvarhd party at a museum full of breakables.  Yep, you're totally invested in hearing this story now, aren't ya?

Violet gave me a few tasks accomplish. I'm not one to step down from a challenge.  I didn't accomplish them all, I easily lose focus you see, but damnit I tried.

• Complete a mad libs with random strangers (then share it with us).  *Coming soon, I've lost it in my mess of a room.
• Acquire a condom from a stranger (not the machine in the bathroom).  When you ask strangers if they have condoms, they kind of get the wrong idea.  FAIL.
• Find a mullet (we'll be needing photographic evidence).  Send me to a hipster club I'll take my picture with at least 15 of them, send me on an organized pub crawl, a very non hipster scene and not one can be found.  FAIL.
• Have a bartender create a shot/drink just for you.  Yeah so bartenders dealing with hundreds of people aren't really into the whole shootin' the shit thing that normally leads to specially made drinks.  However, at around 3 in the afternoon I did convince the bartender to use the Whipped cream flavored vodka (their special and yes it did taste like whip cream) with orange juice.  Can you say creamsicle mixed drink? SCORE. 
• Find a person wearing pink panties.  I was wearing pink unmentionables which I normally wouldn't count but I was also wearing pink-heart-argyle socks (because me mother likes to send socks with Vday cards) to complete the ensemble.  Got to give me a point for style.  SCORE. 
• ...and a man with cartoons on his boxer shorts.  In a classic "I'll show you mine if you show me yours" move, I got a flash of Tazmanian Devil boxers.  But wait, it gets better.  Taz was wearing boxers too.  This blew my drunken mind.  SCORE.
• Acquire the autographs of the following:

1. A firefighter.  Apparently firefighters are to good for pubcrawls.  FAIL.
2. Celebrity.  Benjamin Franklin. Huzzah!  Ok so it wasn't really him, but it was a guy dressed like him (it's Boston, this is what people do) who apparently is always dressed like him all over town, so he in himself is kind of a celebrity.  Double SCORE. 
3. A non-U.S. citizen.  My pool partner.  I don't know his name, nor where he was from but he was definitely not from here.  He was majoring in something ridiculous like nuclear particle physics and that's about the only thing I could understand him saying.  SCORE.
4. A Boston native.  Wicked pissah! SCORE.

• Acquire 5 phone numbers from attractive young men.  I got two.  With style.  The first one was written in sharpie on a slap-on bracelet.  It was snapped on my wrist as I walked by.  This is how I want to give out my number from now on.  The second was written on a Valentine, which had hearts and puppies on it.  I lost it but I remember it saying something about being a great teacher? 
• Give out your phone number at least once.  Totally wrote my number on a bar napkin.  Totally nonchalantly slid it over to him.  Totally haven't heard from him.  SCORE.  I also drunk text the SlapOn guy, he figured out I was Gretchen the nurse without me telling him.  I was impressed (FYI, I was Gretchen the nurse). 
• Get the sob story of someone who has just been dumped.  Nope.  But can I just say, there were a lot of unfriendly dudes out.  If you're unfriendly to cute girls at a pubcrawl, then what the hell are you doing at a pubcrawl??
• Sing a duet (there must be an audience) Didn't even try.  FAIL.
• Convince someone you are British (obviously don't show them this list).  Didn't convince anyone of this (lost focus) but did loudly speak in a, for lack of better terms, "British" accent while walking to the subway.  FAIL (because I don't think anyone knew it was supposed to be British). 
• Convince someone you are building a DNA machine.  The one thing I do not talk about when I am drunk (or hardly ever) is science.  Even greatly exaggerated science to sound cool.  FAIL.

Other fun things that happened:  SlapOn guy gave me a fake pearl necklace with a real rose on it.  I wore it (until I lost it, I think when Bernard was putting me in headlocks, trying to stop my "British" banter) but I also proved to everyone that it was in fact, a real rose, by rubbing it on their face.  That rose saw a lot of face.  Another guy asked me if I had plans for Valentine's Day and if I wanted to go to the Olive Garden with him tonight.  No, I said, I have yoga class. Sorry but when you live in a city with an entire neighborhood of good ass Italian restaurants, you say no to Olive Garden.   After a solid 7 hours of pubcrawling we decided we were too cool for such shenanigans and decided to hit a real party.  A real private party that is.  We were with a coworker who had been invited to a grad student reception at a Hahvahd museum (yeah I have cool friends).  We walked in like we owned the place, skipped the name tag table and went straight for the free wine and beer.  I was really into their appetizers, almost as much as I was into touching things I wasn't supposed to be touching.  It's amazing we didn't get kicked out.  

S.A.D. Mission: Impossible

Grayer is going out on a Valentine's Day (S.A.D.) pub crawl on Saturday, and in honor of the occasion, she asked me to make her a goal for the evening. With that, I had a pure stroke of genius, and offered to make her a SCAVENGER HUNT; a list of things to see and do for the evening. I think this is sure to become a tradition for future commercial holidays and vacations.

Grayer, here is your mission, if you choose to accept it...

• Complete a mad libs with random strangers (then share it with us)
• Acquire a condom from a stranger (not the machine in the bathroom)
• Find a mullet (we'll be needing photographic evidence)
• Have a bartender create a shot/drink just for you
• Find a person wearing pink panties
• ...and a man with cartoons on his boxer shorts
• Acquire the autographs of the following:

1. A firefighter
2. Celebrity (You won't be able to find Ben Affleck or Jennifer Garner. They're both here in Atlanta.)
3. A non-U.S. citizen
4. A Boston native

• Acquire 5 phone numbers from attractive young men
• Give out your phone number at least once
• Get the sob story of someone who has just been dumped
• Sing a duet (there must be an audience)
• Convince someone you are British (obviously don't show them this list)
• Convince someone you are building a DNA machine

And that should a good evening make.

And that my friend, is what they call...closure

There's no judging on this blog, so hear me out.

Recently I've been having the strange urge to get back in touch with Fergus. I know this makes me sounds crazy but again, hear me out.

For those of you who don't know, Fergus is my ex-boyfriend. We met when Vi and I were living in Peru. Fergus and I had a very intense relationship. 2 months after we met I went travelling around South America for 6 weeks. I then went back to Peru, moved in with Fergus and stayed there for 5 more months. On our return to the UK he lived with his parents in Scotland and I was home in England. During this time I began to feel very differently about him and then we had a very awkward 6 weeks in India and Nepal. We broke up as soon as we got back.

After the break-up I began to feel the RAGE. I haven't seen him since. Through Facebook I found out that he is also now living in London. I had to delete him off Facebook. The rage has now dissipated, which is good. I'm now with the White Horse, which is really good so I shouldn't be giving Fergus a second thought right?

Here's the thing. I've been thinking that I should see him again. Obviously not see him in that was, but meet up to chat about things. It's not like I want to dissect our relationship or what went wrong but I feel like I'm missing a little closure. (Friends reference!)

What I find difficult to come to terms with is the fact that I went from being really in love with this guy, honestly thinking I would spend the rest of my life, to not wanting to be with him, to not want him to touch me, in a remarkably short period of time. And I still don't get this. Which irritates me. We shared a lot together and he was the first guy that I lived with and now we don't talk. The problem is that I'm one of these people that finds it difficult to let the past go, and I don't think I've completely let this go. Please understand, I have zero feelings for this guy. Zero.

Never mind. Judge away. I'm crazy.

All up in my bizness

"I have a disease. For which there is no known cure, that has been sexually transmitted to me. I cant even say it. H...I...R..P-E-E-S"   -Michael Scott


I have something to get off my chest.  No, it's not herpes, but it is HPV.  That's right, I have a... a....a STD.  Now before you get all Judge Judy on me, let me tell you a few things about human papillomavirus.  It's the most common STD, yet no one, not even my microbiologist friends, seems to know much about it at all.  Which is why I'm telling you all about it, partly because you need to know, but also because I don't want you to judge me.  See, this blog is fun and informative (and a judgement-free zone).   Check the facts:

•  There's around 200 types of HPV.  Some of them cause common warts.  Some cause genital warts.  I have one of the dozen "high risk" HPVs, that cause genital cancers, most commonly cervical.  Cancer causing types do not cause warts (Important factoid: I don't have warts!)
• It is believed that up to 80% of sexually active people will have sexually transmitted HPV at some point in their lives.  The majority of those people will fight off the infection without ever knowing they were infected. (Important factoid: Statistically speaking, 18 of our 23 followers, have had, do have or will have HPV).  
• A persistent infection of high-risk HPV can cause changes in cells that without treatment, can turn into invasive cancer.  A yearly Pap smear will find any abnormal cells well before that happens.  (Important factoid: Ladies, get your smears!)
• There is no "HPV test".   A Pap smear will find evidence of an infection months to years later. The time from active infection to clinically detectable disease make it difficult to determine which partner was the source of infection.
• Men have no symptoms (Important factoid: men are bastards) and the use of condoms does not fully protect against it.  The virus is transmitted via skin/mucous membrane, meaning it can be transmitting by the junk that isn't covered/protected with a condom.  (Important factoid: The only prevention is abstinence...)
• HPV vaccines only protect against two of the high-risk types, although they are the most common high-risk types.  

Now that you know some things, don't you judge me less?  I judge me less.  Now let me tell you my personal progression (because I apparently want to tell everyone about my vajayjay).

• Over the summer I had an abnormal Pap smear on my yearly visit.  Apparently protocol is to come back in a year.
• A couple months later, however, I had some major bleeding during sex.  I'm not just talking residue, I'm talking blood spattered sheets (yeah, that wasn't embarassing or anything).  I immediately called the doctor and then freaked the fuck out (this may have had something to do with the book I was reading, about aggressive cervical cancer).  There was crying involved.
• A month later I have a colposcopy.  As my gyno kept saying "I'm going to stain your cervix, then peer into you vagina to scrape the cells."  She seriously kept saying "peer into your vagina." Emphasis on the "peer".  
• She said the cells didn't look bad at all, whilst "peering".  Have you ever laughed with a speculum in your vag?  It's a weird feeling.  I like my gyno, she makes me laugh while all up in my business.  
• A couple weeks later she calls to schedule a biopsy.  Son of a bitch.  Turns out to be a superficial precancerous lesion.  What scary words those are. I may have cried.  
• I learn that the more they have to deteriorate the cervix, the harder it can be to have a full term pregnancy.  I may have cried some more, while wallowing to Brandi Carlile.  
• Violet convinces me to finally tell our mother.  (I had been avoiding due to the whole bleeding during sex/STD thing).  I call her and immediately start crying.  What is it about mothers, they make you cry without saying a word.
• My type of aggressive biopsy required sedation (thank the good Lord!), an outpatient surgery.  Such things require a person to take you home from the hospital.  I cried again.  I don't have a person here, why couldn't I just get in a cab?  
• I made a wallowing playlist.  I played it.  I wallowed.  
• I found a person, my friend Mary, who of course would take me but I was afraid to ask because she'd have to leave work to come get me.  She's so great she insisted on going with me and sat with me pre-op. 
• I had the option of being alert, but I said no, no, knock me the fuck out.  As a posse followed my bed into the operating room I was kind of concerned that the number of people who have ever seen my whoha was about to jump up exponentially.  The Valium helped that.  
• I woke up wearing disposable underwear, a giant pad and killer cramps.  I was offered Percocet.  I took it, there was no need to be brave.  
• After the cramps subsided, I honestly felt fine, just wicked tired.  The worst part of it all wasn't the "no sex for 3 weeks" (hello, I'm single, I can do that in my sleep!), it was the "no tampons (or diva cup)" rule.  Want to feel like a sixth grader? Wear pads.  What an awful period that was.  
• I'm still waiting for the pathologist reports, if all is well I'll just have to get Pap smears a couple times a year (my gyno has the most intimate relationship with my lady parts right now).  

I told this all to my friend 8-year-Lisa and she just keeps dwelling on the HPV part.  "It's not about the HPV, the problem now are the cells, not the HPV.  I have an STD, get over it."  But really she is the 20% of the population that will never get HPV.  She's been with one guy that has only ever been with her.  She's safe.  She may also be confused because she's under the impression that I'm waaaaay more innocent then I am.  No, I don't know who gave me HPV, nor do I know who I've given it to since.  I'm not going to make phone calls to  every guy I've slept with to tell them I have it.  Besides that being the single most uncomfortable experience ever, what's the point? They can't do anything about it.  If condoms don't help, what the hell am I supposed to do, just not have sex?  This is what I get for being the slut of the blog, but if I'm going to be punished for sluttiness, I wish I was a hella more slutty.  

Playlist: Let's Get It On

There is a Glee marathon on tv today, which means I could spend the entire day never leaving the house, but I have a Superbowl party to bake/clean for, so that won't be happening. It did give me the opportunity though to see The Power of Madonna episode, and I was so inspired by the Like a Virgin number that I suggested to the cute neighbor that we incorporate musical numbers into foreplay more often. Not sure why I use the phrase "more often" there, as we have never incorporated a choreographed musical number into foreplay. But we should. The response he gave me was that of utter bafflement, since he was unaware that I was watching a glee marathon. Plus, he is tone deaf and dances like Finn on a really good day.

Anyway, this got me thinking of the need for a "Let's Get it On" playlist. A little mood music to get the libido flowing. And possibly add a little choreography to spice it up.

Let's Get it On- Marvin Gaye
Naughty Girl- Beyonce
Wicked Game- Chris Isaak
Bad Things- Jace Everett
Leisure Suite- Feist
Fuck Me Pumps- Amy Winehouse
Again & Again- The Bird and the Bee
The Mating Game- Bitter:Sweet
Touch a Touch a Touch a Touch Me- Glee/Rocky Horror Picture Show

What have I forgotten?

The one with Lisa's thunder

I just visited my good friend and former roommate/colleague, 8-year-Lisa, this past weekend.  Like we do every time we see each other anymore, we A) get drunk and bake irrationally and 2) discuss her Loser of a boyfriend and their seemingly dead-end relationship. I've written about them a couple times over the past couple of years.  They've now been together for 9 years, living together for 6 months and my opinion of them hasn't changed.  They love each other, they don't like each other.

I finally voiced some concerns about them this weekend. (For example, when I ask what the two of them like to do for fun together, she literally had no answer.  That's what I call a concern).   While she considered each one of them, she did not falter in her "In it to win it" mentality.  That girl wants a ring.  For as long as I've known her she's wanted a ring.  However, in the past 3 years she's gone from making up excuses for him not proposing, to trying to be a strong feminist who doesn't need a wedding to prove her self worth.   When she said this I reminded her of a certain Valentine's Day when she pretended she did not care about Valentine's Day and I ended up having to cheer her up after she did not get anything for Valentine's day.  Pretending to not need a marriage would have the same crushing disappointment.  Yes, she wants to get married.  Yes, she wants him to stand up and say "I want to be with you for the rest of my life."   When she finally admitted that, we came to the conclusion that it was time to have yet another talk about their future.  So when I left on Sunday morning, she planned to bring it up soon.

I got a call from her last night.  Here's basically how the first 5 minutes of the conversation went:
8yL: Grayer!  This is the call!  I'm engaged!!! (In a very shrill voice).
G:  No you're not.
This goes back and forth several times.
G: So what are you actually calling me for anyways? (Not to be a bitch, but it was my bedtime).
8yL: I'm En-Gaaaaaged!
And then I believe her (In my defense, her family didn't believe her either).  Here's how shit went down.  Lisa brought up their future and the prospect of marriage.  The Loser said he had been thinking about it.  Discussion continued and climaxed when he said something to the degree of, "So, ya wanna?"  She told him he wasn't doing it right, but by the end of it they were agreed upon one thing, they were engaged.  No ring.  No romance.  No proposal, just a rational discussion.  It's like a fairy tale, isn't it?

I don't mean to be a bad friend.  I'm happy for her, in a if you're happy, I'm happy, sort of way.  When he does get around to getting her a ring, I highly suggested they go pick it out together.  It will be something fun they can do together, and more importantly, he's notorious for buying her hideous jewelry. 

But enough about her, let's focus on what this means for me.  Aside from speculating if I'll be part of the wedding party, or if I will get to help plan a possible fall New England wedding (I have great non-career related aspirations to be a wedding planner), I'm having some weird thoughts.  This is my first close friend to get engaged, and although I'm happy for her and truly do not envy her for it (who would really?) I'm being weird about it.  It's as if Monica and Chandler just got engaged and my first thought is to sleep with Ross.  Seriously.  I had a dream about my ex-boyfriend last night (I haven't talked to him in over a year but today I realized is his birthday, weird!).  I kept thinking about Jonny Fucking Damon all day.  I've been really tempted to text Conrad all night (luckily I forgot my phone at work) and I was just Facebook stalking my ex-Imaginary Boyfriend and his seemingly perfect/skinny/pretty girlfriend.  Ugh.  What is wrong with me?!