tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-91380868615161405632024-02-20T23:25:19.246+08:00selectively bitchy...hormonally-controlled and ranting about it...Selectively Bitchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17004635865606153360noreply@blogger.comBlogger55125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9138086861516140563.post-10135469937455142702009-12-01T06:17:00.003+08:002009-12-01T06:42:40.801+08:00Sex with castsI have a problem. I'm no longer raging with hormones. Or is that a problem at all?<br />I mean, that's why I started this blog in the first place...when Daddy doesn't want to play, I get my release here!<br /><br />But ever since he broke and dislocated his ankle in a game of flag football, yes, <span style="font-style:italic;">flag </span>football (read: no contact), the sex has been, well...<span style="font-style:italic;">non-existent</span>.<br /><br />"So, um...how are we going to do it? Will I have to be on top <span style="font-style:italic;">every time</span>?" I asked Daddy, as the ER doctor walked out of the room. <br /><br />"Frick, I don't knowwwww...just...can you get me the nurse pleeeasse?" Daddy winced and cried out. It was 11PM on a Tuesday night and we'd been waiting in the ER for four hours, since the ambulance came to pick him up from the mucky muddy field. Daddy was laid out in a stretcher, his left ankle bulging and twisted ninety degrees to the left...I kid you not, ninety degrees. I'd post a pic, but I don't want you to barf.<br /><br />"Um, ok, you need more morphine?" I asked, a <span style="font-style:italic;">little </span>annoyed that he hadn't answered my sexytime question. O<br /><br />Daddy nodded, looking like a very hurt puppy. I ran out into the main room where all the doctors were in search of a nurse. I ended up bumping into the hot doctor that was tending to Daddy earlier.<br /><br />"So um hey, how long dya think he'll be out for? Like, immobile, not being able to walk, move around, crawl, kneel.. you know.."<br /><br />Hot doc gave me a weird look and was all, "we're not sure yet. I'm just going over his X-rays and it looks really bad. There's a big chance he's going to need surgery ASAP."<br /><br />"Ugh, that sucks! But thanks!" I hurriedly found the nurse and told her to bring more drugs to Room 11.<br /><br />Sometimes I wonder where I went wrong. Like, I majored in communications and all but had I put more effort into learning sig figs, memorzing trigonometry rules and actually passed Biology 10, maybe, just maybe I could've been a doctor of some sorts, cavorting with other doctors and doing doctory things and being considered part of the elite crowd because I spent all my youth behind books and doing residencies. I mean, frick, these doctors were only a few years older than me!<br /><br />Then again, doctors work so much and lead such stressful lives, I'll bet they don't have as much sex as a normal person would. <br /><br />"Did you ask me about having sex just now?" Daddy demanded, eyes all teary after enduring a <span style="font-weight:bold;">reduction</span>. For those of you unfamiliar with that term, let me explain what happens during a <span style="font-weight:bold;">reduction</span>. A team of doctors and nurses kicky everyone out of the room and strap on a bunch of tubes and attach a bunch of device to the patient, slowly give him a steady stream of drugs (on the street, it's called Special K) and then, attempt to pull, twist and put back in place the body part that is out of place.<br /><br />"Um...why do you ask?" I treaded cautiously, feeling guilty about my selfish inquisition earlier. I just remembered what the nurse had told me about people on Special K. They don't remember <span style="font-style:italic;">anything</span>. <br /><br />"I dunno. I just thought you did. Then again, I thought I saw a rainbow and an elevator full of purple orks who were trying to come get me..."<br /><br />"Nope, not at all!" I happily replied. "But now that you've brought it up..."<br /><br />"Don't start." Daddy stopped me. I suppose I'll give him a week to think about it.Selectively Bitchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17004635865606153360noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9138086861516140563.post-30269431998141943202009-11-25T07:46:00.006+08:002009-11-25T08:17:36.129+08:00Boys will be boysI don't know what it is with boys...no matter what age they are, they still manage to regress back into that three-year-old sitting in the sandbox beside you, trying to snatch your pail away from you and hitting you on the head with your own shovel...because he <span style="font-style:italic;">likes </span>you and that's the only way he knows how to express it.<br /><br />Fast forward 20-something years and throw in a Blackberry and email account and pheromones. Displays of affection have now been upgraded from snatching and beating you with your own belongings to misleading and crude text messages and random hand-drawn pictures in your email. And name calling.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Scenario 1</span><br />From my "cousin", the guy I grew up with and have known since we were four-months-old and sat in the same playpen. No, we aren't blood related, but with a history of getting our diapers changed side-by-side and calling each others' parents 'auntie and uncle', I think that qualifies for a family relation.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">"Cousin"</span>: Congrats on your engagement. Damn, I can't believe I never got a chance!<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Me</span>: Thanks..um, what!?<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">"Cousin"</span>: Well you know, before you got engaged, we could've totally hooked up and made my kindergarten dreams come true<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Me</span>: Dude, you're my cousin. That's disgusting. I've told you several times, get over it, it's not gonna happen!<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Scenario 2</span><br />From a friend, a guy I've known for a few years and have worked out the whole "it's better that we're close friends" issue.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Friend</span>: Hey stupiduglyfartface, hows it going?<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Me</span>: Good! Whatsup dickwad<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Friend</span>: not much, you smell and i can smell it from all the way across the country<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Me</span>: Well your ugliness has thrown off my entire day, so go eat moss<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Friend</span>: ok well i gotta go. try not to fall in love with an extinct species of moss, fartbrain.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Scenario 3</span><br />From another male friend, purely platonic.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Friend</span>: Go check your email account. This is what will happen if you delete your blog<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Me</span>: You can't stop me from deleting my blog. I want it to be totally anonymous and now you and eight other people know its me.<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Friend</span>: Go check your email account, it'll explain everything. <br /><br />And this is what I get in my email:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim2XARJfAk12zQRNX1y3we7cltJ5u2rcdXsOvYHU_OPKOGC2iUxHuPVtZIrEj27Kt4tRkQu0F3SZ4-b-v73kamDxv7PELJK-OpK6zmVpoAht5dfidxJUMc_9uf4m47cFL6AXJYoP4pqIkq/s1600/PastedGraphic-1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 82px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim2XARJfAk12zQRNX1y3we7cltJ5u2rcdXsOvYHU_OPKOGC2iUxHuPVtZIrEj27Kt4tRkQu0F3SZ4-b-v73kamDxv7PELJK-OpK6zmVpoAht5dfidxJUMc_9uf4m47cFL6AXJYoP4pqIkq/s200/PastedGraphic-1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5407827092471978098" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Me</span>: Omg did you just draw this, scan it and email it to me all within a span of three minutes?<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Friend</span>: What, you don't like my artwork?<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Me</span>: No, i like it, i'm just suprised you did all that just to prove a point.<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Friend</span>: I did that last time too, no biggie<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Me</span>: Yes, I recall. I thought it was just some random pic you had laying around and sent it on a whim just to prove another meaningless point of yours!<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Pic in question:</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqK_53Qlk41RPDsC-y8jNPsEyylKi672HeoChYy0uZToAkqpHf0aVbP6Nvs2SmvodtqQAm5BqHkla1V0h7GaN-Amo51W7CLc8hWVwoe3s4be_70uC7aMA0S60IdGeLWn_WFgq5d2n1P8_-/s1600/asdfasdf.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 161px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqK_53Qlk41RPDsC-y8jNPsEyylKi672HeoChYy0uZToAkqpHf0aVbP6Nvs2SmvodtqQAm5BqHkla1V0h7GaN-Amo51W7CLc8hWVwoe3s4be_70uC7aMA0S60IdGeLWn_WFgq5d2n1P8_-/s200/asdfasdf.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5407828033388290930" /></a><br /><br />Tsk, tsk. Boys will be boys.Selectively Bitchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17004635865606153360noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9138086861516140563.post-82826668924932263942009-11-08T16:07:00.014+08:002009-11-08T17:01:48.738+08:00Everyone is just soooooo nice. Now go take a shower.It was an incredibly rainy Friday morning and I had settled on a thin and tight,long Ed Hardy-style long sleeved shirt with a pair of red boots for my audition. No, it wasn't lingerie in the slightest bit, but I figured it looked skanky enough but not too skanky that I'd feel like taking a scalding hot shower right after I walked out of that room.<br /><br />I arrived early enough, like I always do, to size up the competition and eavesdrop on the others' auditions. I always find it interesting how other people interpret a script, or in some cases, a few words. In this instance, it was a few lines and of course the daunting task of showing the casting director that I could pole dance.<br /><br />"...and all I've got is Pass That Dutch...on my phone...10 seconds or so...", I overheard as I walked into the waiting room. The casting director had just peeked out of a small office for a few minutes to explain the audition to four other girls in the room. Girl number one walked into the office and closed the door behind her. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNNq801bTI6-iKiCM8ZlQjgqC-0T7EgOfMMbbq1rED5axC-wUfuYTJ-Dd-OJzi-uzqfIrDbNKP7dSJswvRzbkG7g_VQe_eQykbM4pVqVCztm5-i5tNib01eLCCha0fJVsvcSyULKqYU8rL/s1600-h/narcisi.png"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 185px; height: 173px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNNq801bTI6-iKiCM8ZlQjgqC-0T7EgOfMMbbq1rED5axC-wUfuYTJ-Dd-OJzi-uzqfIrDbNKP7dSJswvRzbkG7g_VQe_eQykbM4pVqVCztm5-i5tNib01eLCCha0fJVsvcSyULKqYU8rL/s200/narcisi.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401654068934578994" /></a><br /><br />"Hey, I actually didn't catch most of that...what'd she say?" I casually asked the others as I turned off my iPod and put it away. I recently resorted to bringing my iPod to auditions so I could get psyched up about going to them in the first place and avoid being bombarded by AEVD (Actors' Egotistical Verbal Diarrhea) while waiting my turn. <br /><br />"Oh she said she has no music but wants us to dance for 10 seconds to the music on her phone. Miss Elliot's Pass That Dutch," a cute and chirpy girl with straight-cut bangs replied. She looked like she was there for a Mad Men audition. Very 50s chic, hiding under a black trench coat and pulling it even more close together while she spoke.<br /><br />"That'll be a hoot," another girl responded, while ripping of <span style="font-style:italic;">her </span>black trench coat and pulling on a pair of knee-high black leather boots. She had long brown hair and compulsively kept tossing it from side to side, revealing a half buzz cut on the right side of her head. <br /><br />What a strange mix of Asian girls, I thought to myself. No one here actually looked Asian. They must be halfers! <br /><br />"Hey, how's it going? It's been awhile," a familiar voice called out from behind me. <br /><br />I turned around and saw Kelly, the lead Asian nurse that I worked with on my first flick as Sexy Asian Nurse #2. We caught up for a bit, the kind of chit chat that one could do without; five minutes of my life I'll never get back with a convo that went like this:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Me</span>: I've been doing well. How've you been? <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Kelly</span>: Oh WOW, I've been doing reaaally well. Like craaaazy busy.<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Me</span>: Oh really? Lucky. I found it's been kinda slow. What have you been working on?<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Kelly</span>: Well I just finished another movie and the director was just soooo nice. Like, he was the most nicest and supportive guy and really wanted to see me do well...just so nice.<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Me</span>: Oh cool. Yeah, this is my first audition in a few weeks. I think there's been a slow demand for Chinese people or something ha ha ha.<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Kelly</span>: Noway, really? I just had an audition for this movie and OMG, I had to show my BOOBS.. and it was all men. Like the producer and director were there too, but OMG the producer was soooo nice. I mean like, sooooo nice to work with and even if I don't get the part at least I got to meet him and he was just sooo nice to talk to and such...<br /><br />Ok, so I just wasted about one minute of YOUR life. My apologies. But surely you now understand the need for the iPod at these things. I call this "actor speak". Have you ever noticed in any media interview with any actor? Someone they've worked with is always just "soooo nice". Mind you, everyone (well, men anyway) is just so much nicer when you show them your boobs. <br /><br />Buzz-cut girl was up next and the three of us remained waiting, silently, all trying to listen in on her audition. 50s chic girl kept going on about how she felt too under dressed, in her white lacy bra top and yoga pants. I never got to see of course, as she kept her trench coat on as she walked into the audition room. Kelly, of course, stripped down to her panties in the waiting room and put on what resembled a thick, oversized plaid belt and a tank top.<br /><br />"Nice, skirt?" I said. <br /><br />"Aw thanks hun! Thank goodness it's a female casting director, hey?"<br /><br />Amen to that, I thought. It was awkward as hell already, I concluded as I walked into the room, which was basically a small office in the movie studio, with a small home video camera set up in the corner and the casting director sitting behind a desk. <br /><br />I hit my lines perfectly and even got a good laugh from the casting director. Everything was going well until I had to dance. Which is supposed to be the easiest part for me considering I cheered professionally for a pro-football team last year and took two years of pole dancing lessons, but what you don't know about me is that I actually have a HUGE fear of dancing. <br /><br />Further to that fact, there was NO POLE in the room.<br /><br />"Um, there's no pole...so...you just want dance moves?"<br /><br />"Sure yeah! I'll just play the music and just go with it for a couple of seconds.." The music started, mid-song, and I just went with it. I won't lie. It was awkward as hell. I could barely hear the music and I made the mistake of looking at the camera which made me feel like I was part of some really bad amateur porn flick where the girl doesn't know what to do next and is waiting for something to happen so she can react to it. Ten seconds felt like forever. And with no pole, there was nothing I could actually do. I only had about 2.5 feet of space to move around in between the wall and the desk.<br /><br />Alas the music stopped, I thanked her for seeing me and bolted out the room. And instantly felt the need to take a scalding hot shower.Selectively Bitchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17004635865606153360noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9138086861516140563.post-60618036796504235762009-11-05T14:33:00.008+08:002009-11-08T17:17:15.006+08:00Asian Porn Round 2?Just as I thinking, "is it me or is the industry just super duper slow", The Stranger that is my agent came a ringing. LOUD. Like, obnoxiously loud because I forgot I had set my general ringer to Flo Rida's "<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e20pMPPopBU">Don't Know How to Act</a>" and my boss, coworker and I were conversing about something seemingly important when I ran out mid-convo to <S>find any excuse to ditch out of the convo </S> silence my phone.<br /><br />And for some reason, she always calls from a blocked number and before I signed up with her I hated picking up blocked numbers but now I almost bask in the delight of getting an unknown number.<br /><br />"Hey Kiddo, got an audition for ya..." came the sooth voice. Part of me is addicted to hearing her say that, only because I rarely ever get auditions, being part of such an <span style="font-style:italic;">ethnic minority</span>. Mark my words, Asian people will rule the world one day -- we already dominate most of the import industry and most halfers out there are always caucasian mixed with <span style="font-style:italic;">some </span>kind of Asian.<br /><br />"Awesome, gimme the deets," I urged, eyes squinted shut, fingers crossed, hoping that it wasn't going to be another <a href="http://selectivelybitchy.blogspot.com/2009/07/auditions-asian-porn-and-seducing-old.html">Asian porn</a> fiasco I'd have to explain to Daddy.<br /><br />"It's for the role of TV GIRL in a big FOX feature film!" The Stranger then listed off a bunch of big actor names (sadly, I can't name names just yet but maybe in my next post I will...but a big give away...an actor from a very big hit TV show in the early 90s is the lead dude...and he gets mocked quite often in the media nowadays) and gave me the time and date to show up.<br /><br />"So um...what am I supposed to bring or wear? Like what will I be doing, exactly?"<br /><br />She always manages to skip over the important details for some reason.<br /><br />"Oh yes, they've asked for an Asian girl in their mid-20s...hmm let me see here...oh yes, pole dancing and dressed in lingerie -- you have that stuff right?"<br /><br />Uh, pole dancing or lingerie, I politely inquired. This was turning out to be fickle to explain to Daddy later on. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCXxXq0NsDnDnjPvU-2MqBblFtWW7KkF6rcaWnsyLh7IUF5RpDJzqO6I9VG4OJPEATKzvLWGNcviO0obm9_OgbdRJ5X90LGLQrEpp6snbig7mTlVp5YdqQ3azVZsSr8Wt6QaS_ikwtuiwp/s1600-h/asianporn.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 191px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCXxXq0NsDnDnjPvU-2MqBblFtWW7KkF6rcaWnsyLh7IUF5RpDJzqO6I9VG4OJPEATKzvLWGNcviO0obm9_OgbdRJ5X90LGLQrEpp6snbig7mTlVp5YdqQ3azVZsSr8Wt6QaS_ikwtuiwp/s200/asianporn.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401659255135047234" /></a><br /><br />"Well both. I figured you have a dance background and all and who doesn't have lingerie, right?" The Stranger chortled. <br /><br />"It's your lucky day...I have both," I responded dryly. I had my last pole dancing class a few days ago. Level 2 done, boo yeah. But still....<br /><br />"Don't worry there's no nudity," She said, sensing my lack of enthusiasm. Three weeks with no calls or anything and dressing up in lingerie is the best she can do. Or I can do. Then again, there's nobody to blame -- that's the nature of the industry. You are judged based on your 8x10 glossy and a few words on the resume. <span style="font-style:italic;">Sigh</span>.<br /><br />So I'm booked for an audition on Friday. And that gives me less than two days to prep. And I'm PMSsing which means I've got the same capacity for water retention as a really dry <span style="font-style:italic;">sponge</span>. And I had five slices of pizza and some Halloween candy. <br /><br />And I will go all out on Friday for this! HAHA.<br /><br />Stay tuned.Selectively Bitchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17004635865606153360noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9138086861516140563.post-1844908737565795112009-11-03T15:38:00.004+08:002009-11-03T15:57:12.845+08:00PMS - putting up with men's shit? how about my own?PMS sucks. <br /><br />Duh, you're probably thinking. Even guys (well, most anyway) know this to be true. <br /><br />Reasons Why PMS Sucks<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Water retention hurts.</span> This fabulous size 4, tube-style zip-up, tailored dress (read: very fitted) I bought from <a href="http://www.hm.com/ca/fashion__fashion.nhtml#/fashion/">H&M</a> (which, by the way, has the dumbest website ever -- you can't find anything on there!) that fit me amazingly two weeks ago was a self-esteem blundering nightmare to zip up today. Day 2. And alright, I admit I probably consumed about 2500mg of sodium from my <a href="http://www.thedailyplate.com/nutrition-calories/food/quiznos/large-oven-roasted-turkey-26-cheddar-with-mayo-dressing">Quizno's lunch</a> and had way too much sugar and refined carbs from discounted Halloween candy, so I doubt that helped. Speaking of not helping, after struggling to zip me up with all his manpower, Daddy squinted at my armpits and pointed out that I "should probably do something about that 'bit of flesh' that's spilling out over top of that dress". <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">I want to eat everything</span>. Well, <span style="font-style:italic;">almost </span>everything - I still hate steak. That being said, we spent $10 today on 50% off Halloween candy and I didn't feel bad. <a href="http://www.nestle.ca/en/products/brands/coffee_crisp/index">Coffee crisp</a> is the sugary carbohydrate-y equivalent of heaven. But after an awesome dinner of mashed yams, stuffing and chicken and more stuffing, the insanely naggy craving of a chocolate cake with vanilla ice cream hit me and wouldn't leave. Like right now, even though I'm full of green tea, my stomach still tells me there's room for a five-tiered chocolate cake with a side of vanilla bean ice cream. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">The roller coaster that is my libido</span>. Sometimes, I swear I could rape my fiance, roll over and go to bed like a happy puppy. Other times (like this time), I couldn't care less for sex and would rather lay in bed checking my Twitter Feed or play a riveting game of <a href="http://crackberry.com/first-look-word-mole-blackberry-bold">Word Mole </a>on my Blackberry. <br /><br />Swingers. No, not <span style="font-style:italic;">that</span>. I mean my moods. I swear, women are naturally bi-polar because of PMS. One minute I can feel elated over the silliest thing and then the next minute my mood swings to the other end of the wide spectrum and I'm either feeling bummed out and hugging B-Dawg or really melancholy like I've stacked a whole pile of narcotics and just don't feel comfortable in my own skin. And then I'll throw in my own narcotic cocktail of Midol or Pamprin with a side of Diurex.<br /><br />Anyone else? Feel free to add in the comments...Selectively Bitchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17004635865606153360noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9138086861516140563.post-36088735812818287222009-10-31T14:35:00.007+08:002009-10-31T15:34:03.213+08:00The Men Who Knew Too Much (Part I)Men with too much knowledge of your life -- no, I don't mean the ex-boyfriends or the male best friends you've had in your lifetime. I'm not even talking about male gynos -- but close (and maybe even on par with). <div><br /></div><div>I'm referring to pharmacists.<div><br /></div><div>Apparently, you're only supposed to have one - one regular place you go to all the time to get your prescriptions filled, chat about the upcoming potluck dinner you'll be attending and whether you should make that bacon and organic chives potato salad or should you just bring a fruit platter since everyone's all health conscious these days and so forth. I, on the other hand, have about five different pharmacies that I frequent because I'm impulsive and don't have the patience to wait till I get home to go to my neighbourhood pharmacy. Or so I tell myself.</div><div><br /></div><div>This one time, after an evil stressful three months working for an evil stress-inducing troll-like witch of a boss, I woke up to find a small, itchy burning patch of skin on my thumb knuckle.</div><div><br /></div><div>"It's no big deal, you're just making a mountain out of a mole hill," Daddy reassured me, and kissed the itchy burning patch. He's always anti-going-to-the-doctor's and thinks everything will "go away on its own in due time". </div><div><br /></div><div>"No, really maybe I should go check it out. I'm getting worried, it should've been gone by now if it was a minor thing," I responded. It had been three days since the discovery of the red patch and it wasn't getting any better.</div><div><br /></div><div>A quick clinic visit later, the doctor sent me off with a prescription for some pills I had to take for two weeks straight. And it was <i>expensive</i>. Like, I-had-no-health-insurance-and-could-barely-afford-birth-control-pills <i>expensive</i>.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Do you have extended coverage?" The doctor asked, after diagnosing me with shingles. Yes, <i><a href="http://www.ninds.nih.gov/disorders/shingles/shingles.htm">shingles</a></i>. Apparently it was from all the stress at work that was causing it. He even provided me with a doctor's note to stay away from work for a few days to recuperate from my boss's bitch wrath.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Hold on...who gets shingles anyway?," I exclaimed. "Isn't it some kinda ancient disease like chicken pox!?" I cried. "And no. No I do not have health coverage," I added bitterly. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Uh, well it's not uncommon and my guess is you never had chicken pox so you don't have a natural immunity to it. It's okay though - I'll prescribe these meds to you, take them for two weeks and...oh wait, you said you have no coverage? Well, there are some other options..."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Like what?" I asked, hoping I could score some free samples from the locked cupboard in the room. Maybe the cure is behind those doors and I won't have to pay for a single thing, I secretly hoped.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Well, there's the cheaper, I mean, less expensive medication but it won't make it go away faster. You'd have to take them for a whole month,"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Ok forget it. Just give me the best stuff, I need these gone ASAP. I'm starting to feel like someone with <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leprosy">leprosy</a>," I whined. </div><div><br /></div><div>So off to the neighbourhood pharmacy I went, dropped off my Rx to the head pharmacist -- Denny, a middle-aged Asian guy whose picture was plastered all over the pharmacy's direct mailing pieces that ends up in my building's junk mail box every week -- and was told to return in 10 minutes for pickup.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Thanks!" I chirped. I was back in a good mood, knowing that I'd soon be ridding myself of this ickyness.</div><div><br /></div><div>I returned ten minutes later, a mini tub of ice cream and a tabloid magazine to check out along with my Rx. </div><div><br /></div><div>Denny whipped out the box of pills, the three full pages of what seemed like disclaimers and instructions on how to take them, peered out forward from behind the counter, eyes darting back and forth looking around to see if other people were around, and once the coast was clear, in hushed tone of voice asked, "is this for...down there?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Uh, what? Down where?" I asked, horribly confused. I looked down at my feet -- am I supposed to get the next patch of shingles on my foot? Perhaps he'd gotten my Rx mixed up? It happens a lot and so many people just naturally trust their health professional and don't ask questions and then they take the wrong stuff and end up dying or developing some weird growth. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Well, it's the most expensive medication pharmacies have on hand. It's for <i><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Herpes_zoster">herpes zoster</a></i>."</div><div><br /></div><div>"HERPES!?!" I cried. Realizing I had just shouted something inappropriate and caught the attention of a young couple passing by, I peered forward on the counter and whispered the H-word once again.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Yes, well, herpes zoster is -"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Can we not use the H-word out loud please," I cut in.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Sorry. I was about to say, it isn't what you think it is, <i>per se</i>. What this medication is for treats the aforementioned virus <i>above </i>[and he pointed to his mouth]<i> </i>and 'down there'. I was just asking which one it was so that I could give you the appropriate directions for this," Denny finished.</div><div><br /></div><div>Breathing a huge sigh of relief, but still confused I kindly informed him that he must be mistaken because all I had were <i>shingles</i>, not the disease of <a href="http://www.hotchickswithdouchebags.com/">douches and hoes</a>. Then he told me that herpes zoster was also responsible for shingles. Then it all made sense.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then he showed me the bill. And then I immediately understood the importance of having a job with extended health coverage. And I tossed aside the tabloid magazine.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Oh and, you probably shouldn't have any dairy while you're on this stuff. It might aggravate your condition."</div><div><br /></div><div>I reluctantly gave up my small tub of cookie dough ice cream. </div><div><br /></div><div>And I don't think I've ever been back to see Denny ever since that pleasant little experience.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div><br /></div></div></div>Selectively Bitchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17004635865606153360noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9138086861516140563.post-31084665934094695662009-10-28T13:20:00.006+08:002009-10-28T14:05:17.224+08:00Too early wakeup callsA miracle happened last night -- I actually went to bed at 10:00PM and despite waking up at 7:45AM, I woke up feeling like I had only slept for four hours and/or was hungover. And this happens at least once a month --the whole trying-to-get-eight-hours-of-sleep thing and waking up severely sleep depleted. <div><br /></div><div>And I attribute this to two words: Sleep sex.<div><br /></div><div>Yes, Daddy and I have it at least once a month. It usually involves me making some sort of sexual advance while he rejects the advance and then we both go to bed (me, in the usual sexually frustrated state and he, in his loud snoring state), only to wake up three hours later to find myself being spooned and fondled in my sleep. Which, in my case, as much as I hate being interrupted when I'm sleeping, I take what I can get!</div><div><br /></div><div>"Did we have sex this morning?" Daddy asked, a tone of astonishment in his voice. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Uh yeah! Why dya think I look like ass this morning!", I replied, dabbing concealer around my eyes, desperate to hide the bags.</div><div><br /></div><div>"That's amazing! I seriously cannot remember anything...did I initiate again?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Yes. Yes you did. You reached over, grabbed my boob and started kissing the other one. I totally wasn't into it and wanted to go back to bed actually. I was half asleep and thought you looked like someone else so I let you continue," I teased. Well, sorta. He really <i>did </i>look like a certain someone I'd fantasized about...</div><div><br /></div><div>"Uh, who?!"</div><div><br /></div><div>I smiled. There are some things one should never reveal, just like how Daddy always makes a point of telling me <i>when </i>he masturbates but never tells me <i>where </i>he does it or answers me when I ask him <i>why </i>he didn't wait for me. I LOVE that visual of a hot, muscular guy jacking off. Then again, I'm a bit strange when it comes to that stuff, so I could be alone in this boat.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Tell me where you jacked off, and maybe I'll let you know who," I taunted. Surely, he won't call my bluff.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Kitchen table. Right on it, right where you sit. Happy?"</div><div><br /></div><div>The sight of my hot, muscular man jerking off at my kitchen table in my very own spot kinda turned me on. Yes, if I had a tail, it'd be wagging ferociously. </div><div><br /></div><div>"No, I don't believe you -- the blinds are all open here and you would never do that on the table. And B-dawg can see you and you never want to have sex in front of him," I pointed out. It's true, he always kicks the poor little guy out of the room when we do it, though sometimes (the rare occasion, really) I find myself feeling a bit creeped when we have sex in the bedroom when B-dawg rests his chin on the mattress and just...well...<i>watches </i>the whole time. Like a child who watches her mother get dolled up for a night on the town. And he's got these really human-like eyes and his expressions are so <i>human, </i>like he's really interested and amazed at what he sees and wants to learn the ropes. Canine sex ed 101 -- lead by example.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Ok, well since we're not going to tell each other, just know this: I totally didn't mean to initiate any kind of sex in my sleep. I literally just woke up and found myself, well, having sex with you," Daddy continued, half amused, half apologetic.</div><div><br /></div><div>Fine by me, I reassured him. Like I said, I'll take what I can get.</div></div>Selectively Bitchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17004635865606153360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9138086861516140563.post-21294511212777414722009-10-27T09:49:00.007+08:002009-10-28T13:20:07.916+08:00Gonads and strifeMy boss cheerfully popped into my office this morning and asked how my weekend was. <div><br /></div><div>"It was good. Boring. Same old, same old," I responded back nonchalantly, hoping my answer would drive her away from my office doorway and into her own office. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Ahhhh," She stood there, raising her chin with a smirk on her face. Clearly, she wanted something. </div><div><br /></div><div>"And, how was <i>your </i>weekend?" I cheerfully asked, like I knew she was up to something bad and expected her to divulge that she had just had the most amazing 48 hour orgasm with a guy 30 years her junior and did funky things with Twizzlers in between takes.</div><div><br /></div><div>"I went to see <a href="http://www.puppetryofthepenis.com/">Puppetry of the Penis</a>!"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Oh my," I exclaimed, partially relieved to hear there wasn't a 48 hour orgasm involved, but also disappointed at that fact. </div><div><br /></div><div>She went on about how it was just two guys on stage for a full 45 minutes, playing with their penises in different ways and how the crowd was hooting and hollering the whole time. Old people, I thought to myself. How unwholesome it must've been and how sinfully bad they must've felt sitting in a theatre watching grown men toil and tug their balls sacks and flacid dicks around on stage. </div><div><br /></div><div>"That's actually pretty disgusting if you think about it...it's gotta be really bad for your ball sack," I told Daddy on the drive home from work.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Why do you say that?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Well, it's gotta be. I mean, firstly, most guys can't actually do that they do because most guys have pretty tight ball sacks, I mean, with the exception of a <i>rare few</i> who are hung like horses and have really pliable ball sacks," I casually replied. </div><div><br /></div><div>Daddy raised an eyebrow while I continued. </div><div><br /></div><div>"And secondly, can you imagine doing a show like that? Like, five days a week, for a whole month...how much tugging and stretching of the skin is that!? They'll be like saggy old men before they know it and they're probably not even 30!"</div><div><br /></div><div>"And how do you know most guys have pretty tight ball sacks?" Daddy politely inquired.</div><div><br /></div><div>"I'm just assuming?" I quietly replied. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Good, that's what I thought," </div><div><br /></div><div>And it was a quietly awkward ride home and for some reason, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BorQ_ULcvss">Gonads and Strife </a>popped into my head during this silent but deadly time.</div>Selectively Bitchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17004635865606153360noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9138086861516140563.post-39147705141869322332009-10-26T03:27:00.007+08:002009-10-26T04:41:06.046+08:00Verbal diarrhea and fat people sexAfter three days of begging and promising not to harass him for sex in exchange for his company at any movie of my choice, Daddy finally agreed to go watch the highly anticipated scary flick, Paranormal Activity.<div><br /></div><div>I absolutely love going to the movies - there's something very 1930s-wholesome-first-date about going to the movies. Only back then, I doubt there were any Chinese girls walking around with White guys. Twentieth century interracial dating? Say it with me -- <i>yikes</i>.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Ugh, I'm so thirsty my tongue feels like sandpaper, can we get water or something?" We were seated and watching the pre-previews scroll through when the side-effects of too many slices of deluxe and hawaiian thin crust pizza from Dominos started to take hold. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Meh," Daddy responded, flipping through a magazine with one hand while the other was fully submerged in a bag of Goodies. I still, to this day cannot fathom the notion of licorice consumption being an enjoyable experience. It reminds me of puke and day-old ass with a sprinkle of rotten fruit. </div><div><br /></div><div>The movie finally started and although I wasn't as freaked out right away as I expected to be, the ending made up for it. That's all I will say for those of you who haven't seen it. I even screamed, twice! </div><div><br /></div><div>"That's what makes it work," Daddy observed, as we made our way out of the theatre towards the car. At this point, I was completely parched and half-way through the movie, had resorted to swallowing my own spit. Of course, the additional fruit gummies I consumed didn't help the thirst situation much either.</div><div><br /></div><div>"What does?" </div><div><br /></div><div>"The fact that they have such real, normal people. The guy was a typical guy, stubborn and trying to be the man in the situation and the girl was just below average, had 20 lbs to lose, that kinda thing," </div><div><br /></div><div>"Normal girls are below average and...<i>fat</i>?!" I exclaimed, almost whispering 'fat' and quickly looking around to see if anyone had heard me say the f-word like I just said "I love buying Nazi coins off Ebay". </div><div><br /></div><div>Daddy gave me a no-brainer look and we got into the car. Noticing that I had an issue with his statement he was quick to point out that he never said the f-word and that I take offense to weight comments only because I too, was once a fatty and automatically assume everything is a fat assault.</div><div><br /></div><div>Which is, in his offense (or my defense? I don't think I'm defending here though), is true. I take to weight comments rather personally, even though they really don't have anything to do with me. Like last week when my gfs and I got into a taxi cab in the blistering cold and we saw three girls crossing the street in what appeared to be a tight, long sweater for a dress with their butt cheeks clearly hanging out and the taxi driver was all "wow dats reeeeaaal short" and I blurted out, "yeah you'd like that wouldn't you" and he shut me down with "no, too fat for me" and I took offense to that and had to make a point of informing him that beauty is in the eye of the beholder, her mother obviously loves her and so does her boyfriend and in the end as long as she loves herself that's all that matters.</div><div><br /></div><div>"You're drunk, I'm cutting you off", My gf DD said as we got out of the cab. Agreed, I said. I spout offensive verbal diarrhea when I'm tipsy. Like the time when I discovered SoHo and fell in love with it at my friend Aaron's house party and during a really intimate moment when he showed us pictures of his ex-gf and his mother together I hysterically blurted out "holyf*&^k, who's that ugly witch!?" and despite having a very quick moment to cover up my blunder when Aaron asked "Who? my ex-girlfriend?" I responded back with "No, THAT ugly witch" and pointed at (which I now know to be) his <i>mother </i>in the picture<i>.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Needless to say, I've had my share of awkward moments. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Can we have sex?" I asked Daddy as we got home. </div><div><br /></div><div>"No. I'm still digesting from dinner and so are you. Why do you always insist on having fat people sex right after we eat?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Correction, I always insist on having sex and that's it, " I clarified.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then again, perhaps sex wasn't such a good idea as I woke up with the biggest salt and fat hangover from last night's pizza. And I don't know why I just wrote this but I couldn't think of a better ending.</div>Selectively Bitchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17004635865606153360noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9138086861516140563.post-70116794620366866352009-10-24T09:43:00.012+08:002009-10-24T10:47:12.747+08:00Where did the we-just-made-wild-passionate-love-and-i-want-more-but-i-need-a-quick-breather-because-it-was-so-amazing-you-wore-me-out look go?Today, due to a highly frustrated libido and to kill time till end of day, I made a mental inventory of things that turn me on.<br /><p><strong>Men in uniforms</strong>. Police officers, fire fighters (I watched <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1082868/">Quarantine </a>last night and fell in love with the tight, gorgeous <a href="http://www.clickthecity.com/img2/articles/CTC-3997-image3.jpg">Spanish lead guy </a>whose death in the movie actually made me scream and cover my face...moving, I know), marines, <a href="http://www.thefunnyfarm.com/outlaw_01.jpg">cowboys</a>, fighter pilots, army fatigue, construction workers. Or um...just <a href="http://www.heatworld.com/img/upload/500x400/1000019994.jpg">eating a popsicle</a>.</p><p><strong>Men with pets</strong>. Dogs <em>and</em> <a href="http://ca.askmen.com/daily/blogs/relationships/do-real-men-own-cats.html">cats</a>, believe it or not. Especially when they cuddle their pets. In bed. I recently met a guy who sleeps with his pussy. I was a smitten kitten, to say the least. </p><p><strong>Men who can cook</strong>. Culinary skills can make up for lack of looks, as in the case of Gordon Ramsay and Bobby Flay (sorry, <a href="http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=firecrotch">redheads </a>will never do it for me). Bonus points if he can make a mean puttanesca, candied bacon and mashed potatoes with two different types of potatoes to balance the starch content. <em>Naked</em>. </p><p><strong>Men with sexy voices</strong>. I don't care what you look like, if you can get my engine revving with the sound of your voice, you can talk about whatever you want, wherever you want all day long and I'll be your sex slave. If you're ugly, I'll provide the paper bag and <em>you</em> can be my slave.</p><p>I recently met up with an old coworker who was, up until last week, merely a voice on the phone. But I don't mean just any voice, but a REALLY orgasmic, sensual $50 an hour plus $9.95 service charge, voice on the phone. The kind of voice that makes you lay in bed and wonder what type of face could go with it (among all the other things you <em>could</em> be doing in bed, of course).</p><p>A year later, I settled on the loin-quiver inducing <a href="http://www.gossipbeast.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/06/jonathan.jpg">Jonathan Rhys Meyers</a>. Everytime I had to talk to this coworker, I pictured Mr. Meyers on the other end, dressed in his <a href="http://seat42f.com/images/stories/tvshows/TheTudors/jonathan-rhys-meyers-the-tudors.jpg">King Henry VIII</a> costume or as <a href="http://www.lovefilm.com/lovefilm/images/products/6/55936-large.jpg">Elvis Presley</a>, with his full lips, short brown hair and his sexually taunting eyes.</p><p>And then, three years later, slated to meet my Jonathan Rhys Meyers at a local bar while I waited for him in anticipation, I felt like I was about to claim my Lotto 649 ticket, the one in which I had five out of six numbers matched, and when he finally showed up, I realized that I had actually matched my Lotto 649 ticket numbers to the BC49 numbers. </p><p>"Hello there", came the expensive phone sex voice. Inebriated for an Asian but still concious, I decided at the point that I still would've paid the fifty plus service charge, though maybe I should've asked for a paper bag, just in case the four shots of Jager and yam fries wouldn't stay down.</p><p>Speechless with shock but needing to utter something in response so as not to look like an idiot, I think I managed a "Hi how's it going" and we took to a booth with more booze to converse. Which turned out to be more of his doing than mine (the conversing bit anyway). </p><p>The whole time, I felt like my 15-year-old self sitting there watching Sunset Boulevard live and wondering why I chose the one and only night to show up when <a href="http://www.rexsmith.com/media.php">Rex Smith's </a>understudy was working (I ended up going to this musical five times in total just to get my fix of Rex Smith...strange crush to have for a teenager I've been told).</p><p>In any case, the <em>we-just-made-wild-passionate-love-and-i-want-more-but-i-need-a-quick-breather-because-it-was-so-amazing-you-wore-me-out</em> look that I was so looking forward to never manifested and I went home gravely disappointed. I even asked for a wholesome rendition of Goldilocks and the Three Bears or Little Red Riding Hood, and I got nothing. </p><p>At least Jonathan Rhys Meyers would've told me a bedtime story...</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p>Selectively Bitchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17004635865606153360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9138086861516140563.post-54595352058923479452009-10-22T07:04:00.003+08:002009-10-22T07:24:34.202+08:00Digital-aged pickup lines, living with single ladies and Cleveland SteamersBeyonce's "all the single ladies" song is dancing around in my head right now....I recently spent a full week living at my gf's place with her roomie, both of whom are single ladies in Toronto.<br /><br />And let me tell you, the dating game is all about hustling. Drinks after work on Friday, dinner on Saturday, coffee on Monday....it just goes on and on and on. I don't understand it and nor will I ever and I'm glad. And on top of that, you have to keep up with your texting/Blackberry Messengering and play mind games while you're at it.<br /><br />It's insane, non? And expensive.<br /><br />The other night we were out at some posh place, trying to wine and dine just the three of us and a pile of older looking men (nearing middle-age older) ended up sitting beside us. And trying to run their game on us. And me being the non-singleton, I quickly found UberTwitter a whole lot more interesting than any of those guys at the table, but of course, they ended up buying us a round of shots, tried to be funny and talk about stupid crap that no one really gives a shit about and tried to get at least one number from the three of us. $150, two hours for a 1 outta 3 chance wouldn't be so bad, right?<br /><br />Of course, they proved unsuccessful because they were clearly too old for us and/or just not rich enough for some of us (LOL, I jest, but in many cases, yes it's the truth!).<br /><br />But some key takeaways, nonetheless:<br /><ul><li>"Hey, can I have your email address? What's your email address, give it to me and I'll email you" is NOT a good pick-up line. No, you will most likely end up not getting the email address you are requesting and ultimately will not get laid from uttering verbal garbage.<br /></li></ul><ul><li>"Hey, I own an automobile dealership...BMW, Porsche, Audi, Lexus...you want a car? I can get you a car, what's your number, I drive a 911 Carerra" is also NOT a good pick-up line. You're a car salesman, just tell it like it is, I'd have more respect for you that way rather than dance around the subject of your occupation. And no, informing me of what type of car you drive will not win you a bang in the backseat of said vehicle.<br /></li></ul><ul><li>Talking about the various nicknames of various ways to ejaculate on women is also NOT a good way to win her over. Ladies, run the other way if you hear phrases such as "The Cleveland Steamer", "Abraham Lincoln", "The Spitroast and "The Spider"....</li></ul>Selectively Bitchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17004635865606153360noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9138086861516140563.post-9783916759300549122009-10-04T02:52:00.006+08:002009-10-04T03:22:05.346+08:00Timelines Deadlines and Speeding TrainsRecently, one of my gfs broke up with her bf of 1.5 years because he "wasn't on the same page". <div><br /></div><div>"How so?" I asked her, the other day whilst we were whacking some balls at the driving range. It was a chilly fall evening and a cheerful Rebecca was telling me about her sudden break-up.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Well, before the summer I said that we should have The Talk...and then he kinda looked at me all deer-in-headlights...and then when we finally had The Talk in the summer he said he wasn't ready to think about IT..."</div><div><br /></div><div>IT being the thing that every girl in a new-ish long-term relationship, who is ready to take the next steps wonders about at the start of a longer-term relationship (or the beginning of the end, in this case).</div><div><br /></div><div>"Can he see himself with you in the long run..." I continued dryly. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Yes!" Rebecca pointed at me with her golf club, "...and that's all I want him to say...that he can see himself with me in the long run... at least if he said that, it would give me a reason to wait around for him...but I got nothing...."</div><div><br /></div><div>Poor girl, I sympathized. It sucks to not hear what you want to hear from the person you want to hear it from the most. </div><div><br /></div><div>"You really don't sound that sad about it though...are you okay with this?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Yeah I'm fine. Maybe because I've been so busy lately I just haven't had time to mentally deal with it all...but yeah...he said 'yes, I'm happy with the way things are right now..but I think I still might want to date a bit more later on down the road'".</div><div><br /></div><div>And what the hell would you say to that? I mean, other "Yes, but" answers could warrant some understanding like "I have to finish school first" or "I need to save up enough for a down payment" or "I need to convince my mom that you're likeable", but this one looked like a brick wall.</div><div><br /></div><div>"I could wait around for him if he said he wanted to wait until he got his MBA or even if he said he wanted to wait till he got promoted to a more senior position at work.....but...I can't wait around for him to be ready...and the fact that he's worried he hasn't dated enough yet..." Rebecca sighed.</div><div><br /></div><div>And I sigh every time I hear something like that from a girl. Waiting around for a guy. WTF!?!? Sad truth, but a lot of girls I know end up being the ones who wait around. </div><div><br /></div><div>Why wait, you ask? </div><div><br /></div><div>It all boils down to The Timeline. Yes, that one...the one where, when you were 19 you said you'd be happily married by 25, have your first kid at 27 and finish off with your second one at 29 whilst your career has already been established, your money made and you are living the perfect life. </div><div><br /></div><div>As I get older (and by older I don't mean age, but 'grow up') I realize that there is too much to do...too much life to live to let The Timeline grab a hold of you by my neck and drag you along its own agenda. </div><div><br /></div><div>"I want to have my first kid in four years...that's not much time you know?" Rebecca finally said, after a long and thoughtful silence.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Dude, you're 26....you want a kid in four years?" I asked, astonished. It's not impossible though, I mean on one hand 26 is around the time you're "supposed" to be making babies. On the other hand, Halle Berry had her first kid at 41 and medical technology will only get better and better with time.</div><div><br /></div><div>The Timeline is an evil and wicked thing. If the guy situation falls through when you're 26 and you have a timeline to stick to, then that only gives you FOUR years or less to find THE ONE to procreate with and pop your first one after that. </div><div><br /></div><div>My biggest fear for girls like that is the fact that they marry and make babies with the wrong guy because they had a timeline to stick to. Sad truth, time is seemingly limited for us ladies...the deafening tick-tock of our biological clocks will always be there and when you pile on The Timeline, it just makes life look like a speeding train heading towards you. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Selectively Bitchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17004635865606153360noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9138086861516140563.post-57124369010112850912009-09-14T13:55:00.003+08:002009-09-14T14:09:32.111+08:00Thoughts on the marketBeing off the market is weird... it's a new train of thought... like, everyone can be someone's girlfriend, but a fiance? Not everyone can be a fiance.<div><br /></div><div>And that's the great part of being off the market, having that ring on your finger...being someone's, ahem, property, if you will. Maybe not so great a thing?</div><div><br /></div><div>During a quick, impulsive window-shopping stroll home, I went into a tattoo and piercing parlour to inquire about the cost of getting my navel pierced. Actually, I had my belly button pierced about seven years ago and took it out after one year... now all that remains is an ugly hole that never actually grew over to look like its virgin-self.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Well, maybe you don't even need to get it repierced...have a seat in the chair and I'll check for you," said the kind gentleman at the piercing station, with about a zillion rings and studs all over his lips, right cheek and stretched out earlobes that you could see through and poke your middle finger through.</div><div><br /></div><div>I obeyed, stunned and shocked that all this was happening so fast...the guy took a sterile needle out of a package with his gloved hands, dipped it in some lube and entered a tapered needle (tapered, thank goodness!) into my old navel piercing...and to my surprise, it went all the way through!</div><div><br /></div><div>I was so happy, I plunked down my credit card, bought a cute jeweled barbell and got the guy to pull it through - which hurt much more than the needle since the barbell was much thicker. </div><div><br /></div><div>"All done! Wow, I'm so excited to go and see how pissed off my boyfriend, er, fiance will be when he sees this!" I exclaimed.</div><div><br /></div><div>And off I trotted back home, while texting Daddy about the surprise I had for him.</div><div><br /></div><div>Which brings me to my point. Being someone's property SUCKS. Kinda. In this situation, yeah. Daddy was not impressed to see a barbell in my navel. Of course, that's because he thought I had gotten it piereced. And then his line of a mouth turned into a scrunchie of a mouth when he realized I had fooled him.</div><div><br /></div><div>"I own you...every part of you now...you're not allowed to get any piercings without my permission," Daddy informed me in his joking, growly voice after I told him I wanted to get my ear pierced like Scarlett Johansson. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Baby, that'd be a real deal breaker. I'd have to take the ring back and refund it"</div><div><br /></div><div>"But I'll just wait till it's past its 30 day refund policy and then you can't take it back," I taunted.</div><div><br /></div><div>"No, I'll just re-sell it".</div><div><br /></div><div>And that, my friends is why being on the market is less of a headache. At least you can get as many holes put in your body as you please without someone threatening to refund your bling.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Selectively Bitchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17004635865606153360noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9138086861516140563.post-8208556580669166312009-09-03T14:09:00.005+08:002009-09-03T14:48:59.259+08:00I'm OFF THE MARKET!Guess what?<div><br /></div><div>I'm engaged! Yes, it finally happened and although this news is one and a half weeks old, it's been an amazing week and a half!</div><div><br /></div><div>Daddy proposed to me at the place where he first asked for my number and the ring is, to say the least, incredible. Like seriously - I never accessorize and now I have this huge rock on my finger and it costs three times the value of our car (that being said, we drive a Mazda van, late '90s) and I'm feeling extremely overwhelmed with all these questions of "when's the big day?".</div><div><br /></div><div>"It's still so new," I told Kat over the phone, who had coincidentally received a post-game play by play the night Daddy proposed, "so many things to get used to...the lingo...<b>engaged</b>...<i><b>fiancee</b></i>...kinda makes me gag a bit".</div><div><br /></div><div>"It's always what you've wanted, isn't it?!"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Yes. I think. Of course!" I'm <i>off the market</i>, I thought to myself. Sold. To the highest bidder. With a 1.2 karat brilliant round diamond ring, nestled in a platinum ring setting. </div><div><br /></div><div>"HA...well we don't get to trade you for any camels now, do we.." I imagined my dad saying to me, after all these years of dating Persian guys. Yes, camel jokes run in the family as we are also part middle eastern.</div><div><br /></div><div>Speaking of family, it took my family a couple of days to settle into the idea of their Chinese daughter marrying a White guy. Well, more my dad than anyone else. No really, my quest for the ultimate rebellion began in grade six when I loudly proclaimed in front of my parents that I would never ever <i>ever </i>date a Chinese guy, let alone marry one no matter how successful, rich and yadayada he was. </div><div><br /></div><div>I met up with my grandma and aunt the day after and flashed her The Bling. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Waaahhhhhhhhhh," they both exclaimed. That's one of the biggest compliments you can get as a Chinese person. The extended version of "wah". </div><div><br /></div><div>After enduring a blissful week of dinners and ooh and ahhs, I can't help but wonder why women don't enjoy this seemingly short, transitional phase more often. I still can <i>barely </i>wrap my head around the new title of <i>fiance</i>, let alone pick a wedding date. Or a <i>type </i>of wedding. Or a wedding dress. And location. And guest list. And wedding favours and centerpieces and my head's about to explode just typing all this out!</div><div><br /></div><div>"Take all the time you need...take your time...just don't take too long," warned my friend Dani, whose own wedding was an amazing gong show in Mexico, among church ruins and a big reception and the solid backing of her daddy's wallet, of course.</div><div><br /></div><div>Uh yeah, getting Chinese parents to pay for anything means giving them unconditional rights to nag/criticize/nagnagnagnag you about whatever it is they've paid for. In this case, it'd be the wedding and anything to do with it, including my relationship. </div><div><br /></div><div>"But I wanted to be engaged for like, five years!" I proclaimed to Daddy on the way home from another amazing dinner at a new italian restaurant, where I ordered grilled trout and <i>vegetables </i>out of all the things that you should order at a place that serves amazingly fresh carb-lover's pasta.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Aw, don't worry love...no pressure, take your time..we have lots of time... but I did hear this somewhere that the longer you wait the more likely it isn't going to happen," Daddy responded nonchalantly.</div><div><br /></div><div>Ok, that really helped, I thought to myself. </div><div><br /></div><div>So I sat around and really didn't do much thinking. I just sat around and looked at that expensive rock on my hand, touching my hand every 10 minutes. Diamonds are good to have around though. As a feng shui fanatic, crystals and diamonds bring you luck - and I had an <i>awesome </i>week of luck.</div><div><br /></div><div>Firstly, I landed a commercial. My first commercial, like one in which it's actually all about me and I can actually label myself a 'principal' rather than some fly-on-the-wall background actor or lame-o promotional model. </div><div><br /></div><div>Secondly, I landed one of my authors (I'm a book publicist, btw) in a really big business magazine. I also landed another author on a prime TV news spot and another author on a prime radio show spot. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Wow, if being engaged brings you luck like this, imagine what you could do if you were pregnant!" my lady boss joked. Har har, funny. Not.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Well, let's not get too far ahead there, " I joked back. My lady boss is awesome. Thrice divorced or married, I can't remember, she once offered her staff a $5000 reward to find her a husband. </div><div><br /></div><div>This week I have been settling into the idea of being engaged. By settling I mean, I'm still struggling to use the lingo and saying the word fiance still makes the back of my throat want to jump out of my mouth, but the thought of hunting for a cool wedding dress sounds good to me. I literally spent two full hours on <a href="http://www.theknot.com/">The Knot</a>. They have everything there. If you need to be swayed to have a traditional wedding with all the bells and whistles, that's the place to be. Two hours before surfing onto that site, my idea of a wedding was very simple: Fly to Italy, find a cute flowy white short tube dress, stick some flowers in my hair, elope, take lots of professional pics, have lots of newlywed sex (take some candid pics maybe?teehee), travel for a couple of weeks, fly home and treat the family and friends to dinner at some restaurant.</div><div><br /></div><div>Two full hours on The Knot later, I've got six folders labelled 'Dress', 'Cake', 'Invites', 'Centerpieces', 'Location' and 'Other' with loads of pics in each one. </div><div><br /></div><div>Help me. I need help.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Selectively Bitchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17004635865606153360noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9138086861516140563.post-47721654179486848302009-08-20T03:21:00.005+08:002009-08-20T03:58:44.863+08:00Gold diggers suck and I still got it, so thereDon't you hate it when someone's in hot pursuit of your fine self and then suddenly you realize, okay wait a sec....this can't actually be happening 'cuz I'm in a committed relationship which means I have a boyfriend that I've been with for X number of years and the idea of reciprocating the pursuit in question is, or rather should be, entirely out of the question?!<br /><br />*sigh* Yeah, at least you know you've still got it, right? And that's ultimately what really matters, right?<br /><br />Fellow blogger, LiLu got it right when she <a href="http://www.livitluvit.com/2009/05/retired-but-not-forgotten.html">posted about it</a>. Definitely worth a read or bookmark.<br /><br />So you're all probably wondering, WHO, praytell, is this person..this, wild coyote to your Roadrunner, the<a href="http://www.alexross.com/forscent.jpg"> Pepe Le Pew </a>of your Penelope Pussy (cat, of course!), you ask?<br /><br />Several, according to Daddy (who is, by the way, probably reading this). I suppose this could be a series type of post...we'll call this one...<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Pursuer Numero Uno:</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>Mister Big Rich Billionaire (Mr. BRB) from the Praries<br /><br />I met this guy on the basis of a 'working lunch'type of thing. I'm into learning about business and I figured meeting with successful types is the best way to learn. Of course, I cannot reveal names but let's just say he's on a very popular TV show and is considered to be quite a prominent figure in the category of 'rich people who use their pocket change to buy sports teams, donate loads of cash to those in need and drive really expensive cars and live in big mansions'.<br /><br />And of course, all this must be taken with a grain of salt because one person perceives things much differently from another person but when 30 minutes into your lunch meeting, a guy throws out phrases like "you are alarmingly stunning" and "you're beautiful, don't down play that", you can't help but feel a bit like <a href="http://s3.amazonaws.com/vodpod.com.videos.thumbnail/1818606.large.jpg">Penelope Pussy Cat</a>...awkward, trying to find a way out of the awkwardness amidst your wide-eyed disbelief.<br /><br />Then I told a few of my friends (of the lunch date, no real emphasis on his catch phrases during the lunch). Their reactions below:<br /><br />"OMG, are you serious? THE Mr.BRB from <span style="font-style: italic;">that </span>show!? Ok, you can't burn this bridge, it's a good connection. A realllllly good connection," LT exclaimed. She's a good girl, but when it comes to money let's just say....she'd <span style="font-style: italic;">consider the possibilities</span>.<br /><br />"Cool, so did you get anything out of it or did he try to sleep with you from the get go?" DD asked dryly. Another good girl, career-driven, business minded and has had her fair share of douchebags.<br /><br />"Wow, okay so you absoutely have to f&$% him now. It's clear he totally wants you. In fact, he'll probably fly you to wherever, buy you whatever and f*&^ you whenever!" KK reassured me. She's an interesting girl, to say the least and I don't exactly take any of her advice, let alone with a grain of salt. But entertaining, nonetheless.<br /><br />"It's funny timing isn'it," Kat mentioned the other day, while we chatted about the big box of sex toys that arrived for me in the office, anonymously.<br /><br />"What is? The big purple torpedo I paid $30 for but am still too freaked out to shove inside me?"<br /><br />"No, the whole Mr.BRB thing and the fact that you're constantly horny but don't have enough sex. It's the perfect situation for someone to stray, wouldn't you say?"<br /><br />Kat has seen her share of affairs after working in nightclubs and dating an absolute moron for a few years. If anything, she'd be the expert on all this.<br /><br />"Yeah, I guess it is." I admitted. I've seen it happen too many times to my friends as well. And KK has told me loads of stories about herself sleeping with married men while being with her boyfriend for seven years. The world is a scary place, non?<br /><br />That being said, I'm a different breed. I'm not a golddigger or have any need to leave Daddy for riches. I merely enjoy the entertianment value out of all of this. Besides, if this stuff never happend, what the hell would I blog about?<br /><br />Stay tuned for part 2 in the series!<br /><h1 id="firstHeading" class="firstHeading"><br /></h1>Selectively Bitchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17004635865606153360noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9138086861516140563.post-48869715033623700002009-08-15T02:43:00.005+08:002009-08-15T03:19:16.711+08:00So many updates, so little time...and damn you TwitterberryK, it's been eight days since my last post...absolutely unacceptable! I feel like one of those douchebag guys who says they'll call and leave you hanging until you're just about to write them off and then, suddenly you get a phone call out of nowhere with a bazillion sugar-coated apologies.<br /><br />Pfff. So sorry! But do forgive me.. it's been a hectic week. Have been up early every day since I got the call, popping energy pills and doing early morning cardio on an empty stomach. I don't think I've lost any poundage, but maybe it's psychological. I <span style="font-style: italic;">feel </span>different. That and I've been downing schwackloads of blueberries and fibrous things you people call, <span style="font-style: italic;">vegetables</span>.<br /><br />Anyhoo...in case y'all are wondering, I did accept the role. AND the fabulous news is, the script was rewritten twice and now there are no unwholesome scenes, just sexy Asian nurses being suggestively sexual and my lines are clean!<br /><br />I went in for my costume fitting and was pleasantly surprised to see that my nurse's costume is a tight white polo-style dress in a kids size large. And it's being pinned to my form. And my ass is nowhere near what an Asian booty is supposed to be (flat)...it's actually more of a ghetto booty, so they decided not to shorten the back. Amen to donkey kick-backs.<br /><br />To celebrate, this whole week I've been indulging in retail therapy. Actually, its not a celebratory act, it's just something that I've been compulsively doing since I won an authentic vintage LV bag on Ebay. It's the snowball effect. And it doesn't help when your bestie is in town and wants to hit the malls.<br /><br />"Here, I printed extra coupons," Kat handed me two coupons, both entitled the user to 15% off the entire purchase...better than any stupid store discount card they make you buy for 20$. Kat recently flew in from Florida where she's been living and working for the past year for a very big exclusive sports entertainment company. She works six days a week doing a ton of live sports enertainment stuff on TV and to this day, I still have no idea how she does it - its one of the most physically demanding jobs I know of.<br /><br />But the beautiful thing about Kat is that 1) she's Asian 2) she loves a good deal 3) I just realized 1 and 2 go hand in hand 4) she likes to use coupons just as much as I do.<br /><br />So we shopped, chatted, shopped some more and used our coupons. And tweeted. Well, actually she tweeted while I pouted since my Twitterberry has somehow gone MIA.<br /><br />"I feel bad tweeting about going shopping right now while there's a show going on live tonight at home,"<br /><br />"Why? You're actually on a bit of a work vacation...why would you feel guilty!?"<br /><br />"I dunno...my fans keep tweeting me, asking me why I'm not there!"<br /><br />Yes, Kat now has over 2500 followers and I must admit, I'm quite proud considering I was the one who insisted she get her tweet on and set up her account and everything for her. If I had 2500 followers, I could be famous!<br /><br />"Actually, it's kind of weird to have so many followers....people recognize you...and it gets...weird," Kat reassured me.<br /><br />"Weird why? What could be more weird than someone stealing all your photos from your Mother's Day card?", I asked. In May, Kat had sent her mom a nice card with photos of herself from work and life in FL. Five days later, the envelope arrived inside a plastic bag, <span style="font-style: italic;">sans card or photos</span>. Now <span style="font-style: italic;">that's</span> creepy.<br /><br />"Oh well the security agents at the airport...they know who I am and they're really big fans of my work....I just feel reaaaaally weird around them..they always always get me to take my shoes off...I absoutely hate it 'cuz they stare and make me feel gross afterwards."<br /><br />Agreed. Foot fetishes scare me. Feet are the ugliest things on the human body. The worst thing is, IMO, there is no universal shape or 'look' to feet. I think that's what really makes them so ugly. That and they're associated with stink. And the ground. And I remember this one time Daddy made me cut his toenails...two months into our relationship.<br /><br />Anyhoo, today is Friday and yesterday I got a brazillian wax. Which means today is rightfully Fuck Me Friday. At long last. Daddy saw my pooty last night and promised we'd celebrate her nakedness tonight. At least twice. <span style="font-style: italic;">Before </span>he conked out on his pillow whilst I straddled him, trying to be all cute.<br /><br />Knowing my luck, it probably won't happen considering I need to be up early for my calltime tomorrow! LOL.<br /><br />Wish me luck!Selectively Bitchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17004635865606153360noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9138086861516140563.post-28764905545215250602009-08-06T02:31:00.005+08:002009-08-06T02:58:36.619+08:00Got the part! and now hell starts....So my agent called the other day...<br /><br />"Congrats kiddo, you got the part...."<br /><br />"Really?" I asked, shocked and feeling a little deflated at the same time.<br /><br />"Yup...I'll send you more info later, but the director will be giving you a shout sometime this week with more details."<br /><br />I hung up the phone, a feeling of excitement and sketchiness washing over me all at once.<br /><br />Why sketchy? Well, mainly because my agent sends me out for stuff and never really knows all the details or maybe just keeps all the details from me. You know, details like, "partial nudity" or "implied sexual acts"... those little things.<br /><br />After my auditions last week, I managed to get a hold of the entire script. I read through it. It's a comedy piece. Then I got to the part where the nurse moans and climaxes with the doctor behind closed doors, off camera. Whathef&%$ is this? Porn?, I thought to myself. Then I get to the end of the script where the camera fades out on an implied sex scene with the doctor and the nurse.<br /><br />Then I blabbed to Daddy about it. Bad move. It was an eerily silent car ride home from the grocery store, one in which the windows were rolled up and Daddy had his Ray Bans on, lips tightly sealed in a horizontal line, nostrils flared.<br /><br />I felt like B-dawg, ears back, eyes wide open in fear like I had done something reaaaaallly bad like eaten my own poop and enjoyed it just a tad too much.<br /><br />"You're not doing this. I hope you don't get it."<br /><br />"But, I haven't even gotten a call back or anything, silly! It's no biggie."<br /><br />And then my agent called. And an hour later I get a call from the director.<br /><br />"Could you please clarify exactly which part this is? My agent tells me its the lead role but I got an email from the casting director saying its a smaller, supporting role, like a few lines and nothing sexual kinda thing," I told Mr. Director.<br /><br />"Oh really!? Wow, yeah no, don't worry about that," he replied, sensing the discomfort in my voice, "you got casted in a smaller role, a couple of lines but a ton of face time, liek 90% of the time you'll be on camera."<br /><br />I breathed in a sigh of relief and we chitchatted film schedules and wardrobe before hanging up.<br /><br />So while I didn't get <span style="font-style: italic;">the </span>part, I did get <span style="font-style: italic;">a</span> part...at least it'll help with the demo reel. And no, to answer Daddy's persistent question of "Do you actually want to be an actor?! Why are you even doing this stuff?!"... NO I do not want to be an actor!<br /><br />I have a list of "Things to Do"...like one of those life lists and one of the items included is "snag a role in a feature film"... nothing too specific, lead, supporting, etc.<br /><br />That being said, in November I fluked out and got a <span style="font-style: italic;">really </span>tiny supoorting role alongside a legendary actress in a big feature film coming out this Thanksgiving but that was before I made my list, so that doesn't quite count.<br /><br />Anyhoo...as my title implies...hell starts. Hell technically started two days ago when I realized that I need to embark on an early morning cardio+low carb adventure until filming begins...in exactly 10 days. And it just so happens my stupid alarm has failed me each and every morning so my internal alarm clock (which is also faulty, and by that I mean it's 42 minutes behind the actual alarm) does a half decent job and forcing me to roll out of bed, pop an energy pill, roll into the gym and onto an eliptical where I slave away for 30-40 minutes blasting my ears with Marilyn Manson and Metallica and of course, the morning news.<br /><br />And this morning was bad. Bad because Daddy denied my cries for sexytime so I fell asleep all angryhorny. And I had a sexydream. About my cute nerdy-looking co-worker. And that's all I'll say as MissRosa is probably getting the creepers right now reading this! AHAHAH.<br /><br />That being said, it wasn't half as bad as one would imagine....sex with a nerdy type can actually turn out to be pretty fun, non? You can be the domineering type, the teacher, if you will, and if all goes well, you'll have a pretty well-trained sex minion by the end of it.<br /><br />Or maybe that's just me.Selectively Bitchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17004635865606153360noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9138086861516140563.post-67284772326415284112009-07-28T04:55:00.002+08:002009-07-28T05:12:21.204+08:00Callbacks and dirtier old menSo, the stranger (that is my agent) just called.<br /><br />"You got shortlisted kiddo! Good job with the nurse part!"<br /><br />"Really? Wow, that's good to hear, thanks!" I replied, surprised and happy at the same time. I was already happy because today is the second day after my audition that I celebrated being carb-free for two days by stuffing my face with carbs.<br /><br />It began with a celebratory Frosty from Wendys, complete with a mix of vanilla and chocolate malt with Oreos thrown in. It was then followed by Kettles chips, in both flavours of yogurt & onion and Backyard Barbeque. And now, I am happily chomping on a toasted cinnamon raisin bagel with margerine.<br /><br />"The casting director also wants to know if you'd be interested in a silent on camera part.."<br /><br />"Sure, I'll take whatever I can get," I told my agent.<br /><br />Yesterday's audition went well. Not as well as I hoped it would be. I flubbed a line. Of course, I'll blame that on the blistering stinky, humid weather and the fact that no one should ever be forced to wear anything skintight and short, made of knit fabric or latex. Yes, I said latex.<br /><br />I walked into that room, and there were several Asian girls dressed in latex nurse costumes. One girl even had a cute little nurse hat (?) on her head. Oh and everyone had expensive prostitute platform boots. I, on the other hand being the outcast that I always am in a sea of I-am-better-than-thou actors, was the only one in a 'normal' going out red mini dress with nude heels and big hair. Oh yes, and chicken cutlets. Those were a must since I've been so active this summer that I've lost weight -- all from my boobs!<br /><br />Anyhoo. I did the scene with an old man. Like, old. Like, stinky old. No, make that stinky, cranky, perverted rapist with stockpiles of child porn in his humid little basement old. Or at least that's what I had in my mind. Either way, it threw me off a little. Prior to, I had pictured a good-looking older man in his mid-50s, tanned, full head of greying hair and a yacht.<br /><br />"Ok, so basically, play with him a little..with your words, with your eyes... then walk over across the room and bendover and pretend you're sorting files or something...." said the casting director.<br /><br />I was in a box of a room with four other people, humid, smelly like a mix of day-old KFC and spilled orange soda, with three massive lights, two cameras and a dirty looking old man.<br /><br />I did the scene twice and ran out as fast as I could to the car, where Daddy was waiting for me.<br /><br />"Good job baby! Or should I say, my hot nurse!" Daddy teased as I plopped my sticky ass onto the passenger seat.<br /><br />"Thanks!", I said as I reached into my bra, tugging at the chicken cutlets, "dammit! These things are so suctioned against my sweaty boobs, they won't budge!"<br /><br />Daddy gave me a weird look, started the car and began to pull out of the parking spot as I tugged on my artificial boob inserts and... PLOP! My left artificial boob had flown out the window and landed on a patch of grassy dirt.<br /><br />"Shit!" I opened the car door and ran out to grab my breast, just as a man and his dog were walking by.<br /><br />"Percy, NO!" The man commanded. The dog had beat me to my breast and had begun sniffing and licking the sweaty little chicken cutlet.<br /><br />I quickly pushed the dog away, gathered my breast without making eye contact with the man and got back into the car.<br /><br />"I need a Frosty. Now..." I told Daddy. And off we went.Selectively Bitchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17004635865606153360noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9138086861516140563.post-39102485374576948832009-07-23T06:37:00.006+08:002009-11-08T17:02:30.959+08:00Auditions, Asian porn and seducing old menYesterday, the stranger that is my agent called to say that she had submitted me for a commercial.<br /><br />"You're not allergic to chocolate are you?" She asked.<br /><br />Nope but I sure wish I was, I told her. I'd probably have less cellulite on my my lower half if that were the case.<br /><br />"Ok, that's grand! It's called Project K, be at the studio at noon".<br /><br />Everything's grand and 'thanks a million' when you're an agent. The film industry breeds fakeness like no other silicone implant factory can.<br /><br />I arrived at the studio late and parked my car at what I thought was a temporary stopping zone, so I made sure to keep my emergency blinkers on. I was so sure of myself, that I left my purse in my car and dashed in at 10 minutes past.<br /><br />After my sign-in I took a seat and gave everyone the waiting-room-once-over -- a quick survey of the room and a full up and down of a few characters that stood out. Of course, just like every audition I attend, I end up clenching my jaw to prevent an obvious case of wincing at the sight of wannabe-struggling actors. If you can call them that. Everyone there's got this 'better-than-thou' attitude, surgically shaved nose pointed up in the air, strategically placed strands of hair dangling above the eyes or twirled just enough above the front right shoulder. Just writing this out makes me shudder all over again. F&&%ing actors.<br /><br />Anyway. Ten minutes later they call a group of us into the room and an outspoken douche was all "Wow dude, I'm with all the chicks! Nice!".<br /><br />Someone giggled, another pff'd the air. I gave the evil eye.<br /><br />All six of us slated (by that, I mean we stated our names, the agency we're with), showed the fronts and backs of our hands (I was relieved, no self tanner stains this time around!) and were asked to unwrap a chocolate bar, eat it and react.<br /><br />As I expected, every girl unwrapped their chocolate bar and gave some kind of sultry, orgasmic "Mmmm....mmm..mm!" response.<br /><br />I, on the other hand, being the breakfast-deprived, time-starved non-actor in the group, struggled to unwrap my chocolate bar and ended up picking little pieces of wrapper apart...breaking a piece of chocolate bar off, and devoured it like nobody was watching. And in the process, let out a surprised kind of "MM! Oh wow!"...<br /><br />I left the room hoping that I had diversified myself from the group of superficial half-breeds. Sadly though, it's been a few hours since the audition and my agent hasn't called.<br /><br />Anyway, I head back to my car and realized that it's no longer there. I then walked over to the sign I thought indicated "temporary stopping zone" and realized that it was a 'NO Stopping zone', let out a big F%$K! and somehow, in under 30 minutes, managed to call a cab, joke about eating McDick's for the next week, pay the driver and the towing company and made my way back into work.<br /><br />How's that for efficiency?<br /><br />An hour later my agent calls. Did I land the part, I ask.<br /><br />"No, haven't heard yet dahling, but do you like older men?"<br /><br />What kind of question is that, I thought to myself. Then I remembered how much Daddy likes to listen to Phill Collins and pretend he's in his early 40s.<br /><br />"Love them." I replied.<br /><br />"Fab! I've got an audition for you this weekend. They need a second generation Chinese Canadian woman in her mid-20s, seductive, has great bedside manners and loves to seduce older men. And likes Asian porn...do you.." my agent trailed off, distractedly.<br /><br />Please don't ask me if I like Asian porn, I begged silently. I can only lie so much.<br /><br />"...have any tight short mini dresses? Surely you do?" she finished off.<br /><br />Tons, I replied. Nothing skanky of course, but I do stock up when I can. Usually around Halloween.<br /><br />"Fab! I've confirmed your audition. Check out the script, it's pretty funny. You get to seduce an old guy at a hospital. And something about Asian porn. Good luck hunny, and call me when you're done!"<br /><br />So now I'm off to practice and research for my seductive asian porn and old man fanatic role.<br /><br />Should be fun. I'll let you all know how it goes. Wish me luck!Selectively Bitchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17004635865606153360noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9138086861516140563.post-40451263531891871022009-07-08T09:47:00.014+08:002009-07-09T06:58:36.667+08:00Horny, Ovulating and Loving My FriendsJust when I thought the evening couldn't be crappier (and I mean this literally because it's sh*tting outside) while I was grooving along to Akon's "Dangerous" (I am gearing up for my first pole dancing class this evening!), I found out that this blog/I was just awarded my first online award...the Love My Friends Award!<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238);"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitxmIyEoTpQESiQeR1eFoHsUul1jJ65PKHVRFEv-nYyoYxba1sr29CFSl4cNcyxcNMm28292vdbt8OB87bAWEYP_pOUHR5eaUviVwVy_110yLpnoVPcZZfDvESmYRksUE_qSOeDfortgA4/s200/friends+award.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355900690518073106" style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 125px; height: 125px;" border="0" /></span>The 'Love My Friends' Award is given to those bloggers who aspire, inspire and share the most beautiful human attributes; art, wisdom and friendship. </div><div><br /></div><div>Thanks a bunch to <a href="http://lynnat40.blogspot.com/">Funny Girl Goes Blog</a>....now y'all be good and check out her blog, it's fab!!!</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Speaking of fab, something incredibly unfab that I just realized about myself.</div><div><br /></div><div>While being all happy, glowly and dancing in my chair at the dining table to Akon's "Dangerous", my hormonally-ravaged mind drifted off to daydreaming land and I found myself making sexytime with <a href="http://iheartattacks.com/heart/images/stories/christian_bale_in_american_psycho.jpg">people I normally would make sexytime with in my dreams</a> when I'm fully engaged in REM sleep and cannot take full responsibility of my thoughts.</div><div><br /></div><div>Of course, I cannot reveal my source as Daddy frequents this blog, but let's just say they're old enough to be my real daddy. LOL.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Unfab realization #1</b> | When you daydream, you are partially, if not fully accountable for said daydream...who you daydream about and what you daydream about doing with said person(s). Why? Well...</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Unfab realization #2</b> | When you're in REM sleep, you can get away with murder! Ok,<a href="http://www.lakesidepress.com/pulmonary/Sleep/sleep-murder.htm"> maybe for some</a>. But what I mean is that, when you're zonked out, you have no control over your dreams, so if you're having a sleepover with <a href="http://selectivelybitchy.blogspot.com/2009/05/christian-bale-and-our-abusive.html">Christian Bale</a> and <a href="http://selectivelybitchy.blogspot.com/2009/05/manwich-with-side-of-colin-farrell.html">Colin Farell</a> or if you're sandwiched between the <a href="http://selectivelybitchy.blogspot.com/2009/07/perfect-threesome.html">Bluth brothers</a>, then hey, it's all good 'cuz it ain't your fault.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>So, anyway...excuse me while I try to get back to a more wholesome daydream....<br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Selectively Bitchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17004635865606153360noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9138086861516140563.post-75801953370154764062009-07-01T15:22:00.004+08:002009-07-01T15:40:19.640+08:00The Perfect ThreesomeI feel bad, I've been neglecting this blog for what seems like ages. It's officially 12:22AM on Wednesday. And yes, July 1st is Canada Day. I am celebrating Canada Day by sitting here at the dinner table, giving my blog some love while Daddy and his brother hash out their differences in a few rounds of Fight Night 4 (brought to you by EA Sports!).<br /><br />What is it with older guys and video games? <br /><br />I used to subscribe to the belief that males and their video game addictions stopped after high school, or <span style="font-style:italic;">maybe </span>after First year at university.<br /><br />Sadly, this is not the case. I know men in their mid-30s who own an Xbox, Play Station <span style="font-style:italic;">and </span>Wii. True die hards will own all three and play games on their <span style="font-style:italic;">gamer </span>notebooks (who the heck actually chooses to lug around a 17", seven pound laptop these days anyway!?). <br /><br />"Can we have sex yet?" I asked Daddy in my bestest little girl voice. It's been at least three days now...or more...but I have really bad memory when I exercise too much, eat too little and work too hard so I could be off. But not <span style="font-style:italic;">that </span>far off.<br /><br />"Baby, we just watched that movie... you know how those types of movies make me feel." Daddy explained. And he was right. We had just finished watching <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0936501/">Taken </a>with Liam Neeson. Basically, any movie that includes the whorish exploitation of women turns Daddy off. It's weird, quirky things like these that tell me he's a good guy.<br /><br />Speaking of movies and being sex deprived, have you watched Arrested Development? Love, love, love that TV series. Have watched all three seasons over the course of three weeks and the other night I dreamed that I was giving <a href="http://www.bluthfamily.com/characters/george-oscar-bluth-gob/">Gob Bluth</a> a bj while <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_Arrested_Development_characters">Michael Bluth</a> did me from behind! Yes, under normal circumstances (read: not being the horny <span style="font-style:italic;">bastardette </span>that I am)this would've fallen into the "you're weirdly disgusting" category in my books, but honestly, it wasn't so bad. In fact, it was the perfect threesome....Gob is the quirky, fun and slutty man who really doesn't give two sh&ts about the girl he's with, so as long as he gets his fun in (so to speak) and Michael is the caring, "good guy", who'd probably only screw a girl if he "truly cared for her". <br /><br />It's like sweet and sour sauce. Too much of one kind and it's gets a little mundane, for the every day. But put them together and you get a party in your mouth.<br /><br />Coincidentally, I like Chinese food.Selectively Bitchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17004635865606153360noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9138086861516140563.post-7325468646271047752009-06-20T03:32:00.006+08:002009-06-20T07:04:14.155+08:00Futile Friday - LV dog collars while children starveIn an effort to come up with some sort of catchy phrase for Friday posts, I took B-dawg out for a contemplative pee (he peed, I contemplated). <br /><br />While in the elevator, I met my neighbour on the 27th floor - in she trotted, blonde haired, black suited and all with a nine-year-old-mutt named Bordeaux, "...like the wine..." she informed me, in a <span style="font-style:italic;">I buy only the 60 dollars and up bottles of wine from the Bordeaux region and I have no idea why I'm even talking to you because you live below the 27th floor</span> kind of way.<br /><br />I couldn't help but feel a little insecure, me in my 30$ tight jeans, $2.75 clearance sale fitted t-shirt, knock-off Gucci sandals and B-dawg clamoring about Bordeaux's ass, trying hard to shove his nose up her arse for a sniff.<br /><br />TrottingBlonde made a face and pulled Bordeaux towards her.<br /><br />"Hey, is that a real LV dog collar?," I asked, half amazed, "and a matching LV leash?"<br /><br />"Yup, I called everywhere and they only had it at the store in the Fairmont", TrottingBlonde replied proudly, sticking her surgeon-tailored chin up in the air. <br /><br />"Nice," I responded, shifting my feet under B-dawg's sitting loins to hide my fake Gucci sandals away from her view.<br /><br />Ah yes, welcome to the little superficial, stuck up, douchebag, douche<span style="font-style:italic;">hag </span>and chlamydia-infested corner of Vancouver, Canada, that is Yaletown.<br /><br />Got money? Nope. Just hit up your Sugar Daddy for cash and head out to the nearest LV store and pick up an overpriced collar and matching leash for your mutt while the rest of the world starves and people continue to lose their jobs.<br /><br />People in my hood never fail to amaze me with their foolishness.<br /><br />Tisk. Then again, I've heard New Jersey's worse... is it!?Selectively Bitchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17004635865606153360noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9138086861516140563.post-66520348792702826482009-06-16T12:31:00.011+08:002009-06-16T13:07:38.847+08:00An awkward coincidence...in 9 minutes or lessSo this article was published today about stay-at-home dads who blog, and I must say, men who can write, totally turn me on.<br /><br />In fact, the idea of Daddy being a stay-at-home dad turns me on even more, which in fact, is totally happening right now since he's got almost the entire week off and stays at home with B-dawg.<br /><br />But the topic of this post has nothing to do with the above. It is indeed, about something that happened in reality (yes, because there is blog life and then there is real life) like, oh lets say, 10 minutes ago.<br /><br />9 minutes ago, I went onto <a href="http://www.twitter.com/selectivebitch">my Twitter account</a> to tweet and check out my followers.<br /><br />8 minutes ago, I discovered a follower (and I won't name names, but it's all there on my account!) who falls into the category of "live-cam-girl-action", to be totally PC and all. <br /><br />7 minutes ago, I said to myself "darn this girl looks really familiar....I'll click on her Twitter profile"<br /><br />6 minutes ago, I landed on her Twitter profile, read her updates and still remained utterly curious as to who she was...now she started to look even more familiar...I clicked on the link to her own website.<br /><br />5 minutes ago, I landed on her actual website...nicely done, splattered with pictures of herself, suggestive pictures, suggestive poses, one pic of her actual vajayjay and a ton of boobie shots. And yes, if you're wondering...she is, imo, <a href="http://selectivelybitchy.blogspot.com/2009/06/big-nose-good-big-nostrils-bad.html">chinless</a>. And has a complete disregard for the use of proper grammar.<br /><br />4 minutes ago, I let out a "holyf&^% I DO know this chic! I worked with her!" and squinted at the photos, just to make sure.<br /><br />3 minutes ago, Daddy joined me at the computer, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qGt3T8PLv0M">breathing like a 200-pound overweight man </a>with a <a href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/101/298046539_f545c296ce.jpg?v=0">totally perverted smile</a> on his face, taking over the mouse and clicking all over the website, while I looked at him all grossed out, but <span style="font-style:italic;">still </span>curious...<br /><br />2 minutes ago, I went onto Facebook to cross-reference and verify that this was indeed one of my 'friends' on Facebook...in fact, a coworker from a previous job I held.<br /><br />1 minute ago, I thought about how small this world is and how one should never post boobie and pooty pictures on your wannabe-amateur-attempt-at-an-amateur-porn site because they'll probably end up being cross-referenced with all the other pics on your actual Facebook. <br /><br />Oh and, someone's bound to discover your corresponding Facebook page for your wannabe-amateur-attempt-at-an-amateur-porn site, so you may want to get rid of that...unless you're content with having everyone know that all those old-perverted-guest-star-on-ABC's-To-Catch-a-Predator-Dateline-Special are actually your online buddies.Selectively Bitchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17004635865606153360noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9138086861516140563.post-1236057487586210822009-06-16T04:14:00.009+08:002009-06-16T04:35:47.368+08:00Karl Lagerfeld and his nuclear orange face should be boycottedAhhh, Monday's and the news...Iran is up in rioting flames, Obama's proposing medical tax cuts and this - Karl Lagerfeld is a douche.<br /><br />I find it amazing how someone as successful and talented as Karl Lagerfeld actually lacks a brain. How does it do it?! <br /><br />Apparently this isn't the first time he's bashed Heidi Klum, but in recent news, Lagerfeld actually said Klum (who, as you may or may not be aware of, has given birth to not one but <span style="font-style:italic;">three </span>children and took to the <span style="font-style:italic;">catwalk </span>in <span style="font-style:italic;">lingerie </span>a few months after giving birth)was 'too fat' to be a catwalk model and that 'nobody knows who she is'. <br /><br />And to further his burn-in-douchebag-hell status, he bashed Seal as well, adding: "I am no dermatologist but I wouldn't want his skin.<br /><br />"Mine looks better than his. He is covered in craters." <br /><br />Um, yeah maybe that's because as a child, Seal suffered from 'discoid lupus erythamotus' a condition which causes immune cells to attack body tissues, resulting in scarring.<br /><br />WHATHEF&^%???<br /><br />Does Lagerfeld not realize how incredibly Alien he looks with his nuclear-explosion-survivor orange skin and gravity-dragged marionette folds? I won't even go into how bad his horse-hair weave of a head of hair looks or the fact that his lips would give Joan Rivers' lips a run for their money (and lots of it too). No. A douche like that just isn't worth the time. <br /><br />Note: this guy LIVES in sunglasses. Outdoors <span style="font-style:italic;">and </span>in - a classic sign of a douche.<br /><br />I say Boycott!Selectively Bitchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17004635865606153360noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9138086861516140563.post-91855013462887047052009-06-13T04:49:00.008+08:002009-06-13T05:27:25.691+08:00Big nose good, big nostrils badGrowing up as a Chinese person, I was inundated with ridiculous superstitious beliefs and sayings. <br /><br />"Eat more fish, you'll swim faster, eat more watermelon, it's good for your skin" my Grandma would tell me. I was already a pretty tubby kid growing up and the last thing a tubby kid needs is to have everyone tell her to eat more.<br /><br />"Rub the watermelon leftovers all over your face, it'll do your skin some good too!" My poser-superstitious mother would always add. I say 'poser' because she used to suck up every superstitious belief anyone told her till the last drop.<br /><br />And before bed time, my mom would always make me massage the bridge of my nose about 10 times so as not to develop the "flat Asian nose" that I was born with, that my Asian genetics had already predetermined whilst in the womb. <br /><br />"But isn't my nose supposed to be flat?" I remember my five-year-old self asking my white-person worshipping, bottle-brown hair colored Asian mom.<br /><br />"No, it still has a chance to be perky and not flat like your dad's...keep massaging!" <br /><br />Say it with me: De-nial!<br /><br />Anyway, thinking about noses made me think about nostrils, which in turn made me think about Daddy's nostrils, my ex-bf's nostrils and my personal trainer's nostrils. And nostrils, in general. <br /><br />I used to have a friend whose Asian mom, Mrs. Cheng, was gung-ho about facial reading. When I was in high school, I brought over my (now ex) bf for her to meet and of course, sneak in a quick facial read. <br /><br />"Tall guy...manly," She would tell me in her Chinese accent. Duh, can that be anymore obvious? I thought. And I wasn't too sure about the manliness, now that I recall the entire six months of <span style="font-style:italic;">his </span>blatant girly whining I endured after he got his fingernail ripped out at football practice in University.<br /><br />"Big nose...means he rich or will be," Mrs. Cheng finished off with the kicker, "...big nostrils...velly good".<br /><br />I went home that night making a list of all the cool things I'd end up with if I ended up with him. Big waterfront house, expensive sports car, vacations to exotic places....if only I could somehow get rid of his girlfriend-hating parents...oops, I digress, story for another day. Anyhoo, the ex was loaded up the arse. Well, his family was anyway, which means everything was handed over on a silver platter. Hence, the big nose and nostrils. Then again, he's Persian so either way it's a given, non?<br /><br />Anyway. I started thinking about big nostrils today and decided to Google it up, and found some interesting stuff about the nose.<br /><br />According to Chinese literature, the nose is the "moneybox". Every heard of "paying through the nose"? Kinda makes sense. I once knew a big-nosed Italian whore who dated guys for their money. Destined to be a gold-digger? I think so. But conflicting enough, she was from a rich family and gold-digging, whorish genes run in her family.<br /><br />Upon further reading, I found some interesting stuff on the chin. Every heard of "chinless wonder"? Well, apparently this originated from the <a href="http://www.phrases.org.uk/meanings/92000.html">genetic abnormality</a>, of inbreeding in royal families - it's a diss. According to Chinese facial reading rules, the chin signifies determination, ambition and practicality. The bigger the chin the more of the good stuff. Which explains why my girlfriend's douchebag of an ex-boyfriend tends towards the chinless troll types, one of which is his current squeeze who sports a majorly receding chin and has no aspirations but to just 'work as a waitress' while taking it up the arse (literally) from a guy who has no respect for her whatsoever. Clearly she has no determination (to be with a better guy, have a better job), no ambition (if she did, she wouldn't be with a douche) but she does have a little practicality, which complements the little bit of chin she has.Selectively Bitchyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17004635865606153360noreply@blogger.com3