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.

Potholes et al

The thing to love about this time of year is the formation of craters in the ground, otherwise known as potholes. Seriously, I hit one today that was SO big that I was convinced that another car was already down in there. I looked in my rear view mirror, expecting to see a hand emerging from the ground, hoping for assistance.

What scares me is that I recently invested nearly $2,000 in my car — specifically the brakes, tie rods, and other things that are effected when one hits a pothole at 80 mph. (Granted, 80 mph is a wee bit fast to be travelling down a residential street. That’s hardly the point.)

The city will fix these hazardous caverns, and then it seems like they will come back with a major vengeance and have to be fixed not 6 months later. WTF?

On another note, there’s a question that I’ve been meaning to ask . . . why is that it took about a year to determine that Anna Nicole Smith’s son died of some crazy drug overdose, yet it took exactly 5 minutes to determine that Ike Turner OD’d??

Just a point of curiosity.

A Catty Bitch Moment

Okay, I’ve written a column about this in the past, but I had forgotten about how gratifying this can be. You might think that I’m being a catty bitch, but I don’t care. Just read, enjoy, and take it for what it is.

So . . . the back-story is that many years ago, I dated a guy who only gets referred to as “Satan,” because he is truly from hell. He is literally the most self-centered, mean bastard that I’ve ever met. I was sucked in at a very young age because a) he knew how to have a good time and b) I was a young, dumb idiot.

Long story short, it took WAY too long to get him out of my life, but now that he is, he REALLY is. Truthfully, I’m pissed off at myself for having dealt with him at all. The writing was on the wall, and I chose not to see it.

Because I’m one who tries to learn lessons from past mistakes, I’ve taken steps to make sure that Satan and his like-minded minions never have a shot again. First, I refuse to date a man specifically because he’s a lot of fun (see this column), and second, if ever I run into Satan, I pretend as though he no longer exists.

Sure, it might be a bit immature to know that someone’s in my presence — someone that I know really well and shared a piece of personal history with, but seriously? I don’t give a shit. I only run into him semi-annually, and having a conversation with him would only piss me off further. I’d rather make a mental note that he’s in my atmosphere, and refrain from speaking to him, or looking in his direction. I’m a much happier girl that way.

It’s actually a bit deeper than how I’m making it sound. I don’t speak to him because I don’t feel that he’s been a decent person throughout the time that I’ve known him, and has actually stolen from me. He is equally upset with me because he left something in my trunk that I refuse to return (cough-homepornvideowithtwosluts-cough).

Anyhoo . . . last night I was at a birthday party at Tini Martini, and lo and behold, the satanic bastard arrived.

For a while, I was standing at the bar signifcantly behind him and got a chance to check out the visual.

And . . . can I tell you something?

He looked like SHIT! Shiz-nit! Ass! On a stick! Seriously . . . I’ve scraped things from the bottom of my shoe that look better than him.

His hairline is receding, and what hair he has left is rapidly graying. Not only that, but it appears that Satan has been eating his way through every barbecue joint on the north, south and west sides. He’s proably also drinking his way through every keg. Egregiously.

To mask this girth, he was wearing what I refer to as “the big boy shirt,” a button-down that’s about a size 52 and designed to mask the specifics of whatever lurks beneath it. It’s extra roomy to accommodate that extra pizza or impromptu chug fest. Fetching!

The shirt was hanging loosely over a non-descript baggy pair of jeans.

I didn’t check out the shoes for a few reasons. 1) I was afraid. VERY afraid. 2) I really didn’t want to want to look so hard. I know that it seems as though I spent a great deal of time studying him, but the reality is that I’m very observant — especially when it comes to fashion, and I was far more concerned about the next choice of libation, and less dedicated to nauseating myself further by looking at him.

Now, let me be clear . . . Satan was never what we would classify as a “fine” man. He’s an odd-looking man who had his moments. He definitely had genetic tendencies to be a bit rotund, but he certainly had moments of being more fitness conscious. He was also vain enough to get his hair regularly colored in the past. These days, I’m guessing that salad is no longer his friend, or that his colorist met an untimely death?

And, let me say without one shred of overblown confidence or narcissism that I looked pretty good last night. It was understated, and the outfit took 5 minutes to assemble.

(Trust me — I was not entirely committed to go out, and was therefore half-dressed when my ride arrived. I still managed to make it outside within 2 minutes of his call. )

Let’s be clear that I’m not in the best shape of my life. BUT, I know how to dress to camouflage my problem areas. So, I was wearing a regular pair of Levi’s — low-waisted, slim cut. I wore a ribbed tank top made of a stretchy lycra blend that was slightly low-cut and long enough to tuck into the jeans. To top it off, I wore a black belt and matching boots. My hair was pulled into a high ponytail to hide the fact that I need to wash it.

Nothing fancy, but at least I didn’t look like a wildebeest. And if somone believes that I did, at least I can say with surety that I didn’t look as bad as Satan.

Regardless, I was having a great time with my friends, dancing, drinking, celebrating with the birthday girl. And everytime I see Satan, it’s a reminder of how far I’ve come.

Those Spears girls . . .

They sure are classy gals, aren’t they? It’s no secret to the world that Britney is nothing short of a train wreck and her life is one big ruination. And now her little sister is following in her white-trash footprints. Little Jamielynn Spears says that she wants to raise her baby in Louisiana, in a “normal family” environment. Seriously? Is she insane? Well, now that she’s knocked up, maybe she can get that double-wide that she’s been eyeing.

Tonight

If anyone’s interested in a charity event, I’m MC’ing a bachelor auction tonight (Thursday) at the Debonair Social Club in Wicker Park on Milwaukee for the Chi Omega’s Chicago Alumni Association. It’s for the Make a Wish Foundation, and should be a lot of fun. Not to mention a good laugh at my expense. Click here for details.

OJ has inspired me to poetry

Only VERY occasionally am I moved to write a poem, so I have to admit to having been inspired by the incredibly stupid OJ Simpson who, after getting an extremely lucky break over 10 years ago, has had the unmitigated gall to commit not one, not two, but TEN felonies, and now might get life in prison for allegedly stealing his own football memorabilia. He’s bringing stupid back. Not that it had ever gone anywhere.

The rhyme scheme is a bit juvenile, but here goes:

Ode to OJ Simpson

by Gina B.

Orenthal James, you dumb-assed man,

I hope they lock you up,

As fast as they can,

You got away with killing your wife,

So you should have laid low,

For the rest of your life,

Any sane person would hide from society,

Devoid of attention,

And press notoriety,

No writing of books and flaunting your crime,

No “here’s how it happened,”

Without doing time,

But no, not you, you can’t remain civil,

You enlisted your thugs,

You showed off your pistol,

And even if someone was selling your stuff,

You should call 911,

Not yell and get rough,

The public is angry and wants you in jail,

They’re pissed at the judge,

For setting your bail,

This time they’ll get you, there won’t be a glitch,

You’ll live out your days,

As Cell Block D’s bitch,

Don’t look for “your people” to show you our love,

We’re sick of you too,

Hey . . . could this be your glove?

Stuff

It’s been another long time, and I guess I’m going to have to face it . . . I’m an erratic blogger. I can’t be counted on for a regular blog schedule, and sometimes I blog daily and then there are times like these past few weeks, when I can’t seem to log in and write a few lucid words of interest.

SO much has been going on. I feel like I’m sitting in a chair with a box of popcorn, watching my life happen. First, I’m convinced that work is like an abusive relationship. It beats me; it breaks me down — but I return for more each day, optimistic that it will be better than the last day. The column is okay, but I’ve been on an annoying alternating every-other-Friday schedule with another columnist, and I really wish they could find a better slot for her. My love life . . . let’s not discuss that. No earthly good will come of that discussion.

I can’t help wondering how life became so complicated, and how I can extricate myself from the intricacies of it all.

I’ve reached the point where perky people annoy the living shit out of me. For example, there’s a man who works in Starbucks in the Sears Tower. He’s perky to the point where he crosses a line. He catches you the minute you walk in the door, and has to preface the order with a few sentences of small talk. His act concludes with a few oddly placed jokes while giving change. I cannot express how much I DON’T want to have small talk with a stranger at 7:30 am. In fact, I can safely conclude that anyone who is motivated enough to arrive at work before 8:00 am doesn’t want their precious morning minutes spending extra time in line to entertain the corny banter of a barista.

I’ve reached the point where I try to avoid him, and I go to great lengths. I never go to his register. This Starbuck’s has two entrances, and I find myself checking to see which side he’s on before entering. However, he seems to be drawn to me like a fly to shit. I thought I had made a clean getaway, and was absconding with my LF Blueberry Muffin. As I reached the door, I heard a deep resonant voice saying “Excuse me. Excuse me?” I finally turned, and there was perky boy, out from behind his coffee-lined cage, wanting my attention to inform me that he liked my arms. I smiled and said thank you — I wouldn’t want to be rude just because I find him irritating — before using my keycard to access the elevator banks.

I’m thinking of going to a new Starbuck’s. I don’t need the morning stress.

Diapers

So . . . I was doing my typical sweep of the CNN website, and saw where the attorney of Lisa Nowak – the astronaut who went cuckoo-for-cocoa-puffs and took a 900-mile joy ride [or hate ride] to bust her lover – is denying that she was wearing diapers on her drive. Apparently those diapers were toddler-size and had been there for years, according to the attorney. He thinks the Pamper allegation is a preposterous tale cooked up by the media to denigrate his client.

Excuse me, but WTF???

First, clean your car, lady! Next, let’s not comment on the things we know – like the fact that she was having an affair, OR the fact that she was charged with kidnapping, battery, and burglary with assault, or EVEN the fact that she was so far into her crazy chasm that she actually believed that it was a good idea to drive across the country to bust her boy toy. Let’s just address either the absence or presence of diapers.

If I were her attorney, I would try to prove that she had a reason to be in Orlando other than to kill the bitch who was messing around with her man. Maybe take the angle she had a planned trip to Disneyworld, and thought that a staged kidnapping would be a great end to a visit with Mickey and Minnie?

Because, let’s face it. The diapers make the story more comical, but there are deeper problems with this scenario. A stable woman might possibly be mad enough to SAY that she will jump in her car and drive to Orlando. A less-stable woman will actually get IN the car and begin the journey. She might stop and come to her senses before reaching the interstate and reroute her trip to a bar or to a mall for retail therapy. But a woman who gets in the car, actually drives 900 MILES, reaches her destination and is STILL mad enough to kill? That is one crazy bitch. She is evil, and she must be destroyed.