Wine is awesomeeee!!!! ^max X10

So, you know how most guys have penises in the same basic range?

Like, most of the time, you're getting to know him, and you're like, "OK. Yeah, all right. I can work with this ..."

"So it's a little crooked? S'allright ..."

"I wouldn't say the girth WOWs me ... but it's doing it's job. Cool ..."

(Oh, God. I'm going to regret this post when I'm sober.)

"Sure. OK. This is going relatively well. No surprises, but nothing really wrong, either. Cool."

But then ...

You meet a guy, and you get friendly. If you know what I mean. *leering at you to indicate double-meaning*

I mean *elbow, elbow, wink, wink, wink ... wink ... really big wink*

How do I put this?

A time comes when ... well, you know ... um ... you, like ... OK, deep breath ... sometimes, when mommies and daddies love each other very much - and they're married - they touch their ... you know what? Let's move on.

When it's time to play I'll-scratch-your-back-if-you-scratchmine, *WINK WINK* you have one of those confused moments when you flinch a little bit and then have to keep going like everything is cool.

It's like this:

Ohhh, ba*tiny tiny pause*byyyy ...


It's small ...


ish.


Smallish. Yeah. OK ...


It's not OK. There's something wrong here.


But it's also ...


No, it's just small. Really small.


OMG, I feel like I'm touching a child, and everything about it is just wrong.


*Outside, a blizzard rages, and you have no way of getting home for two days*


Shit.


"Getting snowed in. It will be so romantic. You, me, wine. *eyebrow waggles*"

That dick! He planned this!

He knew I'd want nothing to do with his baby penis, but that I'd never be able to say that. And now I'm going to have to seem like I want to do it with him for two days unless I want to freeze to death.

Time to start up the fantasies ...

OK, I'm an astronaut on a strange planet, and he's an alien and that's why his penis is small ... but ... eager?

Now I'm just thinking about puppies.

Crap. I'm really hot. Why isn't he done? Maybe he thinks my boobs are too small.

He'll probably tell all my friends and then snap my bra strap at lunch before going home to play Yu Gi Oh with  his clubhouse friends.

Stop it.

I'm the Jolly Green Giant and he's Sprout.

NO! EW!

Ummm, he is ... a normal size, human man, and I am a giantess, and he's conducting experiments on me!

With his tiny penis.

OH, NO! Do not start giggling. Tell him he's tickling you.

With his tiny penis.

Now I can't stop laughing! OH! OH! He's getting excited.

He thinks I'm quivering!

Why is this getting funnier? Oh my God, Oh my God! Please, dear Lord. Make him stop yelling, "Take it all."

He heard you snort! STOP laughing. Stop it stop it stop it. It's not funny.

His tiny, childlike penis is not funny at all. Nor is his grunting.

Or the fact that he's always going to think of you as the girl who snorts during orgasm.

I'm back attack. Zach attack.

I'm so fucking educated, I can use the word "fuck" and it's charming.

Well, I mean, I can't, but I do have friends who have Pulitzers. OK, not friends exactly, but, like, people I officially know now. And, like, multiple people-with-Pulitzers-who-I-officially-know. They might not remember me, but I know them!

So, you see how I'm better than pretty much anyone with a lesser degree now, right? I mean, really? You went to a state school and finished with a Bachelor's Degree? That's very nice, sweetheart. Your mom and dad must be super proud of you. Do you like your Friendly's uniform? You are the best, most handsome mopper I've ever seen.

Here's a quarter, kid. Our little secret, eh?

*pinchy cheekies*

The only thing better than being a grad school douche like I is being rude to a cashier.

I was in Target, like, a couple months ago, because I've been way too busy to blog about it since then, but I've been itching to tell the story, so here you go; I think I may have built it up too much, but fuggit. Dig the scene.

In Target, I was on the celly with a friend (because I'm a dick who talks on the phone in the store, but I do it quietly, and there are few places in this world a mother of multiple 3-year-olds and a wife of an ADD egghead can go to have a quiet talk with a friend, so kick you in the balls for judging), and the woman in line in front of me started getting angry.

I narrated the uncomfortable play-by-play to my friend on the phone.

The woman with the Caribbean accent wanted a roll of quarters. The cashier would not give it to her. An outrage!

All the customer wanted in this world, other than the small child by her side, was a roll of goddamn quarters, and is that so much to ask for in this life? I ask of you.

I whispered something like, "And I don't blame her," to my friend.

But, soon after the manager came over, I realized the cashier wasn't refusing the customer a roll of quarters out of racism or nationalism or boyfriendjism. She was refusing the customer a roll of quarters because she didn't have any rolls of quarters.

And the customer service desk didn't have any. Because it's Target policy not to make change, so they don't keep rolls around.

So, actually the woman I initially sided with was being a lunatic about the idea that Target had no rolls of quarters, and the situation became a lot more intense.

"What kind of a store is this?" said the customer.

Ma'am. This is the kind of store where you can purchase a garden hose, Goldfish crackers, a sweet cardigan, a frozen pizza, antifungal cream, toilet paper, birthday cards and a pregnancy test in one location. I see by your bag that you understand the premise of the discount department store.

By nature of being a discount department store, Target also is the type of store that is not a bank. Stop yelling at the cashier, and if you choose not to purchase the items she rang up and bagged for you - politely, I might add - then put the fucking items back where you found them.

Don't just walk out, muttering about taking your business to Wal-Mart and jestering **EDIT: BetaDad pointed out that I wrote "jestering" instead of "gesturing," but I'm keeping it because it's both appropriate for what she was doing and points out how educated and awesome I am** about the cashier to your tiny child, and leave your bags at the counter without paying for them, leaving the frozen pizza for the store manager to return to the shelf.

Next time, accept the idea that Target doesn't make change, and make an extra stop at the bank on the other end of the fucking parking lot.

(OK, the next part of my notes on the saved draft of this was "Also, melon baller." How I wish I knew what the hell I meant by that a couple months ago. Conversely, I wish I could go back in time and tell my historical self that those three words were not enough to jog the memory of present-day me, so could she please be a little more specific, kthxbai.)

I had more I wanted to say, but I'll save that for tomorrow's blog entry.

I've got some step-by-step cleaning instructions simmering. It's brewing nicely. (OK, so I've basically been drawing doodles of myself with a broom, again, but I'm telling PHubby I'm spending a lot of time on the computer right now for "research" and "serious writer writing" for my grad school program. He's starting to get suspicious about the amount of mousing I do (quite a bit), versus the amount of typing I do (none), so I'll have to actually take a break from doodling to write a blog post.)

Um, piano man, play me off?

Maybe why no one takes me seriously

Passing a stone gatehouse at the main entrance of the college where I am beginning grad school, sweat gathers under my arms and at the base of my neck.

Panic.

I look at the clock and again at the schedule. 6:40/6 o'clock. 40 minutes late.

The car glides up the smooth main drive on campus. I don't know where the welcome dinner is being held.

I will never be a writer.

I dial PHubby. Quickly. Please, look up the campus map online.

Wait while I turn on the computer, he tells me.

PHubby and Dell are making me late. They are working against me.

Just tell me where the fucking building is.

He tells me where to walk. He is still talking when I see the room.

I'm here, I tell him. I have to go. Thanks.

I don't sound gracious.

Fuck. I'm so sweaty.

Five hours for a two-hour drive. Preschool children. Too much coffee. Humidity.

I didn't even check to see if I smell.

Oh God. What if I smell like a giant crotch?

I do. I do smell like a giant crotch.

Check bag for baby wipes. Emergency douche kit? NO. Think. Binaca?

Damn it, Sarah.

Calm down. There is a solution. Keep legs crossed. Napkin in lap. Sip drink.

Act like you're being really polite about dining neighbor's personal smell. Like blaming it on the dog. Or the baby. Only a classmate instead.

Easy.

Don't say "scrotum."

Other topics of conversation to avoid: vaginoplasty, politics, religion, bongs, David Bowie's package, making cakes for white supremacists, and, as always, cute stuff the kids do (yes, SarahP, this does include the play-by-play H-dog gives you during his poops).

Shit. I should have written this down on my hand. I'll never remember all this.

Check face in window. Act cool. Act serious. Intelligent. Thinky, even. You can do this.

Brush hair back from face. Open door.

This is the rest of your professional life.

The rest of my professional life?

Consider walking backward.

Someone saw you.

Lots of someones saw you. Walk in.

Big room. Lots of people. Lots of --

What in the name of fuck? Who put together this dinner party?

Get confused.

Get bewildered.

Get lost.

Find program director.

Find table.

Meet mentor.

Get dinner.

Meet classmates.

Laugh.

Napkin in lap.

Sip.

Laugh.

Chitchat. Family, writing, writing, writing, someone else's funny story.

Laugh.

Tell funny story about bongs.

*crickets*

Fuck.

Welp, there's always the blog.

Just so you know, y'all are my fallback plan.

If this grad school thing doesn't work out, I'll go to Blogher next year.

In any case, I'll be back to blogging regularly very soon. Thanks for being awesome, even though I haven't been responding to comments. I read them all. (Do you even read my responses when I do post them?)

Trying hard to make the rounds to all the blogs I love. It's taking sometime.

Love to all, especially your mom.

This is my 100th post.

Peace.