Is anyone else tired of the election, and my smutty shopping

I’m so sick of the mudslinging and issues that really have nothing to do with THE issues. And to think . . . we have several more months of this until the REAL election.

Funny . . . I was in a sex shop the other night and the guy who was working the counter was a young, clean-cut guy — looked like he could have come from Iowa, or some such midwestern state. So, I couldn’t resist talking to him, and asking him how one comes to work in a sex shop. He said that he was recently released from the armed forces (can’t remember which one), and that working in a sex shop was the first job that he landed post release. Apparently he’s card-carrying Barack supporter, and he said that if McCain wins, he plans to move to Paris, but if Hillary wins, he’ll only move to Canada. I don’t know why I found that to be so funny, but I did.

As for the sex shop — because I’m sure you’re wondering — it was a newer one on Milwaukee in Wicker Park. I was walking by with a friend and couldn’t resist. Besides . . . I like to look at the products. Whoever comes up with the names of porn movies and dildoes are geniuses. My favorite porn title to date has been “E3 - The Extra Testicle,” although I’ve always thought that “Shaving Ryan’s Privates” would be a great title. As for sex toys, I’ve always been pretty grossed out by something called The Anal Intruder, apparently quite the enhancer for gay men — although it appears to be nothing short of a torture device (I’m sure there’s a pun in there somewhere).

They do have cute little novelty and bachelorette party gifts, in case you’re in the market. My friend bought a lollipop for his girlfriend, and it was rather innocent. It was heart-shaped, as opposed to the predictable suckers, shaped like male sex organs, and it had a very subtle sexual message (”Let’s fuck”). Love it.

I’ll take “people who don’t get it” for $1,000, Alex

So, I get a lot of mail, and sometimes I get a message from someone who has clearly failed to understand the point.

I got one such letter today from Glen, who felt that my online dating column was an attack against racism in dating. So, dear Glen wrote the following note:

“Ms. Gina B. Let me enighten you about something. There is no such thing
as racism in dating. If people prefer one race (and/or gender) over
another, it is perfectlly fine. Have you heard of the word freedom or
“personal choice?” Some races and genders create a reputation that makes
them less desirable. They need to live with the consequences of their
actions.”

“Let me enlighten you about something?” Is he serious? He must be on that new crack.

I was SO ready to aim both smoking barrels and fire away. I thought of something like “Glen, I seriously don’t give a fuck about who you date, or what might be your perception of mine or any other nationality. All I really care about, Glen, is that you read my article thoroughly before sending a stupid letter. I ask that you put your reading comprehension skills to good use. Clearly I believe in personal choice. Our lives are nothing, if not a series of our personal choices. In fact, I’m sure that many women have exercised their personal choices by declining to date you.”

I was good. I was, in fact, rather sweet. I wrote, instead:

Dear Glen:

Thanks for you message, but I don’t think you understood the point of my column. My turn to enlighten you.

I will point you to the following paragraph:
“To set the record straight, I have absolutely no problem with anyone’s preference. If you don’t want to date someone who looks like me, no worries. I’m happy to find a person who does.”

To further clarify, my point is that I applaud freedom, and have my own, very specific personal choices about who I will or will not date.

My issue is with dating sites who don’t match people up BASED on their personal choices. To depersonalize this, if you don’t like dating purple women, wouldn’t it piss you off if you got a steady stream of purple women in your selection of choices? Particularly if you’ve paid good money to find blue women?

Understand?

Have a wonderful weekend.

Gina

Should I have been harsher? Thoughts?

Bus doors and Gator

So, the other day, at 7:35 am, I was getting off the bus to go to work. It was Monday morning, and if I measured my interest level in going to work on a scale of 1 to 10, it would land somewhere at 1.2.

I got off the bus at the back door, and felt the door slip behind me as I made an attempt to hold it. In case you’re not aware of the back doors of CTA buses, they have hyperactive hinges that snap shut, and will catch and decapitate you. If anyone has trouble applying strength to push a heavy door, they should make their way to the front of the bus, where the often surly bus driver will fling it open for you without any expenditure of energy.

I was making my brisk walk down the street toward my office building, when a man walking on my right began to mutter something in my direction. He was an older guy – I’d give him about 55 – a non-descript black man with teeth that have earned him the nickname of Gator.

I’m not really social in the morning (or with strangers on the street), and try to avoid any pre-8:00 am chatter (or any chatter at all that involves a stranger on the street).

I wrinkled my face in clear annoyance and said “What?”

Gator repeated himself, “You should hold the door open for a guy the way he would hold it for you?”

More annoyed, I said, “I’m sorry? What are you talking about?”

I quickly determined that he must have been behind me on the bus, and was upset because he felt that I had dropped the door on him. But instead of explaining that like a normal, communicative human being, Gator decided, instead, to repeat his ridiculous assertion: “A guy would hold the door for you.”

At this point, I rolled my eyes and kept walking, face forward.

I didn’t know what else there was to discuss. He took it personally that I let the door slam behind me. I can recall SEVERAL times where I thought that the person in front of me could have taken more time to hold the door for me. But you know what? Shit happens. Especially in morning when people have a lot on their minds. Those door-droppers weren’t trying to be malicious to me – they were just in their own worlds. And, given the amount of time I’m in my own head, I certainly can’t fault anyone for being in their own world – that’s for sure. The fact that he was making this a male-female issue was uber-annoying.

But did it stop there? Did he just let me continue to work and drop the conversation? Oh no. Gator had to repeat himself — AGAIN. I don’t know what he expected. At that point, he wasn’t getting an apology. Speaking to me in an accusatory manner never gets a good result.

So, I turned to him and said: “You know what? I don’t think I’ve ever even SEEN you, much less deliberately slammed a door on you. I suggest you get over it and move on to another problem in your day. And if this is your biggest problem, congratulations!”

I didn’t add what I wanted to say: “Yeah, I’m sure you’ve been the perfect gentleman your entire life, and have never wronged a woman. Maybe some woman did you wrong and left your splayed-tooth-having ass. I’m certain that’s where this hostility about an irrelevant bus door comes from. Well, leave me out of it. In fact, now that you’ve pissed me off, the next time I will deliberately slam the door on you, at which time you should just open it for yourself and shut the fuck up. Punk.”

Impressed at myself for avoiding an irrational rant (although it would have felt SO gratifying), I glanced over at him while he attempted a rebuttal that began with “I was just saying that . . . “, and gave him a cursory, dismissive “Whatever” and crossed the street.

Don’t give me any credit. I’m really not that mature. Of course I’ve looked for him the last few days on the bus, hoping that I would get the opportunity to exit in front of him and actively push the doors closed behind me.

Yes, I know. This is how people get shot in the street.

What a shock!!

What a shock!

BREAKING NEWS: Star Jones Files for Divorce
Originally posted Wednesday April 23, 2008 10:50 AM EDT

Star Jones has filed for divorce from husband Al Reynolds. In a statement to Entertainment Tonight, Jones says: “Several years ago I made an error in judgment by inviting the media into the most intimate area of my life. A month ago I filed for divorce. The dissolution of a marriage is a difficult time in anyone’s life that requires privacy with one’s thoughts. I have committed myself to handling this situation with dignity and grace and look forward to emerging from this period as a stronger and wiser woman.”

Read: Never again will I marry a gay man.

FedEx

I’ve come to the conclusions that all package delivery carriers suck.

I returned home the other day, and parked in front of my house, which I don’t normally do. I happened to look at the side gate, which I also don’t normally do, and realized that something was behind the gate.

I opened the gate, and there were two Fedex packages.

The backstory is that my mother passed away exactly two months ago (to the day), and people were sending me a lot of things – flowers, gift baskets, etc. The trouble was that I wasn’t home to collect a lot of these packages, so I had to pick a few up, or synch my schedule so that I was home during delivery hours.

I guess my FedEx delivery man (whom I’ve nicknamed Fred X.) got sick of ringing my unanswered doorbell, because Fred decided to just lob the packages over the side of the gate without bothering to leave a little note that says: “We were so freakin’ lazy and didn’t want to keep returning to your house, so we lobbed packages randomly over your fence, with no regard for weather conditions or potentially fragile items.”

I didn’t notice them – because why would I? – so I suppose they’ve been sitting over there, undetected, for TWO MONTHS! Two whole months in rain, snow, withstanding animal sniffings and probably cat pee.

I opened them, and inside of the large box was a perfectly preserved gift basket. One of my girlfriends mentioned that she’d sent a gift basket, but during the haze of my craziness, it didn’t fully register that I never received it.

The other was a DVD, which appears to be okay.

I used to boycott UPS, but now I’ve added FedEx to the list. I might just use the USPS next time I mail a package, because at least I expect the level of poor customer service that I receive. And sometimes I’m surprised by efficiency.

iPod resolution, Styx, etc.

So, my iPod FINALLY did the equivalent of giving me the finger the other day. I tried to access my playlist and it displayed a file folder with a URL that directed me to Apple support. Translation: “I’m done dealing with you, and your erratic musical selections.”

I had been toying with the idea of an iTouch, which is a very cool gadget with touch screen and the ability to access the internet through a WiFi connection. I wasn’t thrilled with the price tag for the amount of memory. For a mere $400, I could buy a device that had several gigabytes LESS memory than the previous. I think not.

I could make this a long story, but why bother? At the end of the day, I ended up with a black 80G video iPod classic.

I was so used to the old version that I’m completely in love with the color screen and new features! Yay! I love technology!

So . . . Styx . . .

I went to a benefit with my father the other night, which he billed as a charity event at the Vic. Turns out it was actually a Styx concert.

The VIP reception was nice. Styx was comingling with the group, which included a bunch of media people, Rev. Jesse Jackson and wife (whom I love dearly), and pizza. (I was probably happiest to see my old friend pizza).

There was a group of students that opened for Styx, which include an energetic 19-y-o Prince-inspired singer, complete with the long, flowing relaxed hair, and the stage splits. They were pretty good.

When Styx finally hit the stage, I had ingested a slice of pizza, a few glasses of (bad) wine, and I was sleepy and ready to go home to catch The Bachelor.

We stayed for about 4-5 songs (none of which were Domo Arigato Mr. Roboto, mind you), and I realized that it had been a while (at least a few decades) since I had seen so much stringy hair and so many skinny ties on a stage. I think there are only two original members left, which makes them dangerously close to becoming a tribute band.

We left because my father felt that the speakers where we were sitting up in the balcony weren’t equalized correctly and that the music was too loud.

The irony of this is that my father, who’s been a professional musician for his entire adult life, can’t hear shit. If you see someone driving for miles and miles with a signal light on, that would be my father. His favorite word is “hunh?” I could be sitting right next to him, talking about anything from hot sex to a drug deal and he wouldn’t hear a thing.

Good thing we left, because I was able to catch the last 10 minutes of The Bachelor. TiVo, which I love dearly, malfunctioned for some reason and didn’t capture it. This makes me crazy because I love to watch all of the house dynamics, and I loved seeing the black chick get into random screaming arguments. (Every reality show should have a crazy black woman, dontcha think?)

I was disappointed to see her get kicked off. Not because I liked her so much, but because both of the troublemakers — she and Robin — got booted in one fell swoop. I was wondering why our hunky bachelor boy was drinking Robin’s Kool-Aid. She is not a cute girl. But then, I guess it’s not always about cute (unless you’re of the ilk that would plaster your love life across millions of households).

I can’t wait until next week when he goes home to meet the families and gets to meet the moronic Shayne’s dad — Lorenzo Lamas. I’m keeping my fingers crossed that he’ll get to meet her grandfather, Mr. Fernando ‘You Look Mahvelous’ Lamas. Wait a minute . . . is he still alive?

I think I’m going to go check that out.

Hell’s Kitchen, the weekend, new column and my iPod

First of all, the new column dropped on Friday. It’s about my bad experience with online dating. Read it, and tell me if you can relate.

As an aside, why is everyone so afraid to comment on this site? Is it that you have nothing to say? Is my blog so boring that it inspires no rebuttal - or at least a high-five, Amen, or “I heard that?’ I know you’re reading, so WTF, people. Get to writing! (BTW, thanks to Sarah and Damon for chiming in regularly)

Back to the point . . . my reality TV fascination. Hell’s Kitchen is one of my favorites, largely because Gordon Ramsay is absolutely hilarious. Every year, it seems that the contestants are more and more out of control.

In the first episode, he always has the contestants create their signature dishes — one that best exemplifies their cooking style. He tests each dish, and gives his opinions. These dishes run the gamut from plain grilled chicken sandwiches to filet mignon. This year, contestants were insane.

One guy did a tartare selection that included venison. WhoTF eats RAW venison. It was SO bad that Gordon Ramsay literally threw up in the bin. Another guy actually crammed a cornish hen into a pumpkin. The chef said that it was plated tableside, so Ramsay allowed him to serve. He carved into the pumpkin, and poured out a nasty-ass stew-like mess. It was the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. What was it called, you ask? That’s right . . . he titled his fabulous dish “Hen in a Pumpkin.” Such originality!

My fave was the guy who called himself “The Black Gordon Ramsay.” He should have titled himself “The Fool,” because he screwed up royally. He was a bad leader, and didn’t jump in and take control of the chaotic kitchen because he didn’t want to “contribute to the chaos.” Whatta tool.

Love the show. Can’t wait until next week.

I’m heading off to the Apple Store with my father this morning. He’s taking a class on Mac for beginners because he’s finally going to use the computer that he bought before the end of the year. This is one of the ways that he’s keeping himself busy and I’m all for it. In fact, I enrolled him in the workshop. In the ’special notes’ section of the online registration form, I mentioned that he’s barely computer literate, and thanked, in advance, the teacher of this class for his/her patience. May the Universe give them strength. They’re going to need it.

In the meantime, my iPod is misbehaving. I’m on borrowed time. It’s about 5 years old, and it’s one of the originals that was pre-video screen. I might have to reinvest, which would suck. Although I AM thinking of making the move toward an iPhone. Not that I care to invest $400 right now, given that I’m still in countertop/backsplash hell. But it’s really a cool gadget. And I’m a total gadget girl. Thinking about it.

So today, while my father’s in his workshop, I toyed with the idea of going to the Genius Bar to get the iPod checked out, but I screwed up and didn’t make an appointment in time. The next one wouldn’t be for hours after he’s done. So, I’m SOL for today.

Random stuff

First of all, what the hell is wrong with Naomi Campbell? (http://omg.yahoo.com/uk-police-escort-naomi-campbell-off-plane/news/7932?nc) This article fails to mention that she was accused of spitting on an arresting officer. Spitting? Wow. Her mother must be proud.

For the record, I think spitting is the nastiest, most disrespectful thing you can do to a person. I would have received the spanking of my life if my mother ever heard that I had spit on anyone.

How many years have we been talking about weapons of mass destruction? Why has nobody thought of sending Naomi over to thwart the terrorists? Al-Qaeda doesn’t stand a chance against Naomi and her Tasmanian Devil temper. Even people who live in caves are too civilized to spit on each other.

I can’t wait to see what she does next.

I watched another train wreck show last night. That’s right – I tuned into “Rock the Cradle” on MTV, which features the children of former stars and their vocal stylings. Here’s the lineup:
- Jessie Money (daughter of Eddie Money)
- Landon Brown (neglected son of Bobby Brown)
- L’il Al B. Sure (son of the illustrious Al B. Sure)
- MC Hammer’s daughter (who’s first name escapes me)
- Chloe Lattanzi (daughter of Olivia Newton John)
- Dee Snider’s son
- Daughter of one of the lesser known Doobie Brothers

Either that’s all there is, or that’s all that I remember. Regardless . . . it’s like American Idol for dysfunctional talentless children of stars. In the beginning they talked about their famous parents, and the majority of them talk about how they didn’t have much interaction with their parents.

Bobby Brown’s son said that he only saw his father 4 times a year, and even said “my Dad was in jail a lot, and it was hard seeing people dress for Halloween in orange jumpsuits saying ‘I’m Bobby Brown.’” Tragic!

Al B. Sure’s son has just as much talent as he does.

If you get the chance to catch it, please do.

Bar reviews and pushy men

Just returned from reviewing People, a fantastic place in Wicker Park on Milwaukee. The staff is great, the owner is very personable, and the chef is talented — and very much fun. I had a great time.

I get really chatty with the staff while doing reviews. I’m not there to give a bad review — I’m only trying to educate people on how to have a good date in a fun place. Once I tell the owners/managers and staff that whatever I write will be positive, they pull out all the stops — not necessarily giving me free food/drinks — which is against Tribune policy — but in a personal way. The guards come down and I get to know them as people. It’s the best part of writing this column — getting to know more people.

The irony of this is that I was totally annoyed by another person that I met at the bar, and I don’t really know why. During my conversation with Matt, the chef, a couple sat down at the bar on the other side of me. They overheard me talking about RedEye, and asked me if I write for the paper.

The guy immediately started in on me — telling me that he needs relationship advice. I asked if he was “with” the woman that he was sitting next to. She shook her head violently, insisting that they had been friends for about three years. He went on to say that he’s in media and that we should connect. It was almost pushy in a way. And funny at the same time. I accused him of having bad pickup lines — because, essentially, that was a pickup attempt.

His friend and I had a conversation about how we feel about guys who have cheesy lines. She confessed that she liked cheesy. I asserted that I don’t. He chimed in to say that he was just being honest. I told him that the problem was more his tone than his message. What I didn’t share was that his message didn’t come across slimy — on the bad-pickup-continuum, I would consider him more on the goofy side than the slimy side.

So, apparently he does a radio show and is legitimately in media. I’ve never heard his show because I rarely listen to radio, but he suggested that I come on his show and asked if I do any community work. It doesn’t sound like our content aligns — his is more about social awareness, and mine is more about . . . well . . . frivolity, really. It’s serious, but it’s not that serious.

Then he asked me why I didn’t immediately want to network with him. Then he asked for my phone number, which I refused to provide, however I did provide the e-mail address that comes straight to the Blackberry, which is more than I give most people that I don’t know.

I was really put off by this guy, and I couldn’t figure it out at first. I can be a bitch from time to time, but I had to give myself a break on this one. Was I really being bitchy? I decided that, no, I wasn’t being bitchy. But he was being pushy!!

The bottom line here is that I don’t like pushy men — or pushy people in general. The best way to unleash my inner bitch is to become pushy.

I was trying to work and he came in, inserted himself into my conversation and then started making suggestions (demands) about who I should network with and what I should do with my time. And then I got caught up in it and began explaining myself — to a person that I don’t know. So, I instantly stopped — because if I don’t feel the need to explain myself to my parents who are responsible for giving me life, a stranger gets bupkiss — which of course made him think that I was standoffish.

I actually had a better conversation with his friend, whose profession is more in line with something that I would actually write about.

Pushy man KEPT talking, chastising me for preferring his friend to him. I wanted, SO badly, to say “You want relationship advice, buddy? I have four words of wisdom for you — shut the fuck up!”

But of course, if I do that, I’m the bitch. In fact, it’s a story-worthy account for him to pass along to his equally pushy friends. And it will sound something like this: “I met the girl who writes that G-Spot column in RedEye. Man, she’s a bitch!”

People like him take no responsibility for what they might have done to elicit the bitchiness. They don’t understand that their personalities might be pungent, and that others might be so desperate to get rid of them that they have to resort to drastic, unnaturally rude measures.

Oh well . . . I guess I’m going to have to get used to having the bitch reputation.