selectively bitchy

Sex with casts

2009-12-01T06:17:00.003+08:00

I have a problem. I'm no longer raging with hormones. Or is that a problem at all?
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!

But ever since he broke and dislocated his ankle in a game of flag football, yes, flag football (read: no contact), the sex has been, well...non-existent.

"So, um...how are we going to do it? Will I have to be on top every time?" I asked Daddy, as the ER doctor walked out of the room.

"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.

"Um, ok, you need more morphine?" I asked, a little annoyed that he hadn't answered my sexytime question. O

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.

"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.."

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."

"Ugh, that sucks! But thanks!" I hurriedly found the nurse and told her to bring more drugs to Room 11.

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!

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.

"Did you ask me about having sex just now?" Daddy demanded, eyes all teary after enduring a reduction. For those of you unfamiliar with that term, let me explain what happens during a reduction. 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.

"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 anything.

"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..."

"Nope, not at all!" I happily replied. "But now that you've brought it up..."

"Don't start." Daddy stopped me. I suppose I'll give him a week to think about it.

Boys will be boys

2009-11-25T07:46:00.006+08:00

I 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 likes you and that's the only way he knows how to express it.

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.

Scenario 1
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.

"Cousin": Congrats on your engagement. Damn, I can't believe I never got a chance!
Me: Thanks..um, what!?
"Cousin": Well you know, before you got engaged, we could've totally hooked up and made my kindergarten dreams come true
Me: Dude, you're my cousin. That's disgusting. I've told you several times, get over it, it's not gonna happen!

Scenario 2
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.

Friend: Hey stupiduglyfartface, hows it going?
Me: Good! Whatsup dickwad
Friend: not much, you smell and i can smell it from all the way across the country
Me: Well your ugliness has thrown off my entire day, so go eat moss
Friend: ok well i gotta go. try not to fall in love with an extinct species of moss, fartbrain.

Scenario 3
From another male friend, purely platonic.

Friend: Go check your email account. This is what will happen if you delete your blog
Me: 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.
Friend: Go check your email account, it'll explain everything.

And this is what I get in my email:

Me: Omg did you just draw this, scan it and email it to me all within a span of three minutes?
Friend: What, you don't like my artwork?
Me: No, i like it, i'm just suprised you did all that just to prove a point.
Friend: I did that last time too, no biggie
Me: 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!

Pic in question:

Tsk, tsk. Boys will be boys.

Everyone is just soooooo nice. Now go take a shower.

2009-11-08T16:07:00.014+08:00

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.

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.

"...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.

"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.

"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.

"That'll be a hoot," another girl responded, while ripping of her 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.

What a strange mix of Asian girls, I thought to myself. No one here actually looked Asian. They must be halfers!

"Hey, how's it going? It's been awhile," a familiar voice called out from behind me.

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:

Me: I've been doing well. How've you been?
Kelly: Oh WOW, I've been doing reaaally well. Like craaaazy busy.
Me: Oh really? Lucky. I found it's been kinda slow. What have you been working on?
Kelly: 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.
Me: 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.
Kelly: 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...

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.

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.

"Nice, skirt?" I said.

"Aw thanks hun! Thank goodness it's a female casting director, hey?"

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.

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.

Further to that fact, there was NO POLE in the room.

"Um, there's no pole...so...you just want dance moves?"

"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.

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.

Asian Porn Round 2?

2009-11-05T14:33:00.008+08:00

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 "Don't Know How to Act" and my boss, coworker and I were conversing about something seemingly important when I ran out mid-convo to ~~find any excuse to ditch out of the convo~~ silence my phone.

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.

"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 ethnic minority. 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 some kind of Asian.

"Awesome, gimme the deets," I urged, eyes squinted shut, fingers crossed, hoping that it wasn't going to be another Asian porn fiasco I'd have to explain to Daddy.

"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.

"So um...what am I supposed to bring or wear? Like what will I be doing, exactly?"

She always manages to skip over the important details for some reason.

"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?"

Uh, pole dancing or lingerie, I politely inquired. This was turning out to be fickle to explain to Daddy later on.

"Well both. I figured you have a dance background and all and who doesn't have lingerie, right?" The Stranger chortled.

"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....

"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. Sigh.

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 sponge. And I had five slices of pizza and some Halloween candy.

And I will go all out on Friday for this! HAHA.

Stay tuned.

PMS - putting up with men's shit? how about my own?

2009-11-03T15:38:00.004+08:00

PMS sucks.

Duh, you're probably thinking. Even guys (well, most anyway) know this to be true.

Reasons Why PMS Sucks

Water retention hurts. This fabulous size 4, tube-style zip-up, tailored dress (read: very fitted) I bought from H&M (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 Quizno's lunch 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".

I want to eat everything. Well, almost everything - I still hate steak. That being said, we spent $10 today on 50% off Halloween candy and I didn't feel bad. Coffee crisp 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.

The roller coaster that is my libido. 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 Word Mole on my Blackberry.

Swingers. No, not that. 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.

Anyone else? Feel free to add in the comments...

The Men Who Knew Too Much (Part I)

2009-10-31T14:35:00.007+08:00

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).

I'm referring to pharmacists.

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.

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.

"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".

"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.

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 expensive. Like, I-had-no-health-insurance-and-could-barely-afford-birth-control-pills expensive.

"Do you have extended coverage?" The doctor asked, after diagnosing me with shingles. Yes, shingles. 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.

"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.

"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..."

"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.

"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,"

"Ok forget it. Just give me the best stuff, I need these gone ASAP. I'm starting to feel like someone with leprosy," I whined.

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.

"Thanks!" I chirped. I was back in a good mood, knowing that I'd soon be ridding myself of this ickyness.

I returned ten minutes later, a mini tub of ice cream and a tabloid magazine to check out along with my Rx.

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?"

"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.

"Well, it's the most expensive medication pharmacies have on hand. It's for herpes zoster."

"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.

"Yes, well, herpes zoster is -"

"Can we not use the H-word out loud please," I cut in.

"Sorry. I was about to say, it isn't what you think it is, per se. What this medication is for treats the aforementioned virus above [and he pointed to his mouth] and 'down there'. I was just asking which one it was so that I could give you the appropriate directions for this," Denny finished.

Breathing a huge sigh of relief, but still confused I kindly informed him that he must be mistaken because all I had were shingles, not the disease of douches and hoes. Then he told me that herpes zoster was also responsible for shingles. Then it all made sense.

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.

"Oh and, you probably shouldn't have any dairy while you're on this stuff. It might aggravate your condition."

I reluctantly gave up my small tub of cookie dough ice cream.

And I don't think I've ever been back to see Denny ever since that pleasant little experience.

Too early wakeup calls

2009-10-28T13:20:00.006+08:00

A 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.

And I attribute this to two words: Sleep sex.

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!

"Did we have sex this morning?" Daddy asked, a tone of astonishment in his voice.

"Uh yeah! Why dya think I look like ass this morning!", I replied, dabbing concealer around my eyes, desperate to hide the bags.

"That's amazing! I seriously cannot remember anything...did I initiate again?"

"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 did look like a certain someone I'd fantasized about...

"Uh, who?!"

I smiled. There are some things one should never reveal, just like how Daddy always makes a point of telling me when he masturbates but never tells me where he does it or answers me when I ask him why 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.

"Tell me where you jacked off, and maybe I'll let you know who," I taunted. Surely, he won't call my bluff.

"Kitchen table. Right on it, right where you sit. Happy?"

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.

"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...watches 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 human, like he's really interested and amazed at what he sees and wants to learn the ropes. Canine sex ed 101 -- lead by example.

"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.

Fine by me, I reassured him. Like I said, I'll take what I can get.

Gonads and strife

2009-10-27T09:49:00.007+08:00

My boss cheerfully popped into my office this morning and asked how my weekend was.

"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.

"Ahhhh," She stood there, raising her chin with a smirk on her face. Clearly, she wanted something.

"And, how was your 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.

"I went to see Puppetry of the Penis!"

"Oh my," I exclaimed, partially relieved to hear there wasn't a 48 hour orgasm involved, but also disappointed at that fact.

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.

"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.

"Why do you say that?"

"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 rare few who are hung like horses and have really pliable ball sacks," I casually replied.

Daddy raised an eyebrow while I continued.

"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!"

"And how do you know most guys have pretty tight ball sacks?" Daddy politely inquired.

"I'm just assuming?" I quietly replied.

"Good, that's what I thought,"

And it was a quietly awkward ride home and for some reason, Gonads and Strife popped into my head during this silent but deadly time.

Verbal diarrhea and fat people sex

2009-10-26T03:27:00.007+08:00

After 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.

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 -- yikes.

"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.

"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.

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!

"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.

"What does?"

"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,"

"Normal girls are below average and...fat?!" 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".

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.

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.

"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 mother in the picture.

Needless to say, I've had my share of awkward moments.

"Can we have sex?" I asked Daddy as we got home.

"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?"

"Correction, I always insist on having sex and that's it, " I clarified.

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.

Where 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?

2009-10-24T09:43:00.012+08:00

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.

Men in uniforms. Police officers, fire fighters (I watched Quarantine last night and fell in love with the tight, gorgeous Spanish lead guy whose death in the movie actually made me scream and cover my face...moving, I know), marines, cowboys, fighter pilots, army fatigue, construction workers. Or um...just eating a popsicle.

Men with pets. Dogs and cats, 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.

Men who can cook. Culinary skills can make up for lack of looks, as in the case of Gordon Ramsay and Bobby Flay (sorry, redheads 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. Naked.

Men with sexy voices. 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 you can be my slave.

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 could be doing in bed, of course).

A year later, I settled on the loin-quiver inducing Jonathan Rhys Meyers. Everytime I had to talk to this coworker, I pictured Mr. Meyers on the other end, dressed in his King Henry VIII costume or as Elvis Presley, with his full lips, short brown hair and his sexually taunting eyes.

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.

"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.

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).

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 Rex Smith's 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).

In any case, 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 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.

At least Jonathan Rhys Meyers would've told me a bedtime story...

Digital-aged pickup lines, living with single ladies and Cleveland Steamers

2009-10-22T07:04:00.003+08:00

Beyonce'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.

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.

It's insane, non? And expensive.

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?

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!).

But some key takeaways, nonetheless:

"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.

"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.

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"....

Timelines Deadlines and Speeding Trains

2009-10-04T02:52:00.006+08:00

Recently, one of my gfs broke up with her bf of 1.5 years because he "wasn't on the same page".

"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.

"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..."

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).

"Can he see himself with you in the long run..." I continued dryly.

"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...."

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.

"You really don't sound that sad about it though...are you okay with this?"

"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'".

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.

"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.

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.

Why wait, you ask?

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.

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.

"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.

"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.

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.

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.

Thoughts on the market

2009-09-14T13:55:00.003+08:00

Being 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.

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?

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.

"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.

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!

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.

"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.

And off I trotted back home, while texting Daddy about the surprise I had for him.

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.

"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.

"Baby, that'd be a real deal breaker. I'd have to take the ring back and refund it"

"But I'll just wait till it's past its 30 day refund policy and then you can't take it back," I taunted.

"No, I'll just re-sell it".

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.

I'm OFF THE MARKET!

2009-09-03T14:09:00.005+08:00

Guess what?

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!

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?".

"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...engaged...fiancee...kinda makes me gag a bit".

"It's always what you've wanted, isn't it?!"

"Yes. I think. Of course!" I'm off the market, I thought to myself. Sold. To the highest bidder. With a 1.2 karat brilliant round diamond ring, nestled in a platinum ring setting.

"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.

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 ever date a Chinese guy, let alone marry one no matter how successful, rich and yadayada he was.

I met up with my grandma and aunt the day after and flashed her The Bling.

"Waaahhhhhhhhhh," they both exclaimed. That's one of the biggest compliments you can get as a Chinese person. The extended version of "wah".

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 barely wrap my head around the new title of fiance, let alone pick a wedding date. Or a type 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!

"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.

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.

"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 vegetables out of all the things that you should order at a place that serves amazingly fresh carb-lover's pasta.

"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.

Ok, that really helped, I thought to myself.

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 awesome week of luck.

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.

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.

"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.

"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.

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 The Knot. 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.

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.

Help me. I need help.

Gold diggers suck and I still got it, so there

2009-08-20T03:21:00.005+08:00

Don'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?!

*sigh* Yeah, at least you know you've still got it, right? And that's ultimately what really matters, right?

Fellow blogger, LiLu got it right when she posted about it. Definitely worth a read or bookmark.

So you're all probably wondering, WHO, praytell, is this person..this, wild coyote to your Roadrunner, the Pepe Le Pew of your Penelope Pussy (cat, of course!), you ask?

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...

Pursuer Numero Uno: Mister Big Rich Billionaire (Mr. BRB) from the Praries

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'.

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 Penelope Pussy Cat...awkward, trying to find a way out of the awkwardness amidst your wide-eyed disbelief.

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:

"OMG, are you serious? THE Mr.BRB from that 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 consider the possibilities.

"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.

"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.

"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.

"What is? The big purple torpedo I paid $30 for but am still too freaked out to shove inside me?"

"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?"

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.

"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?

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?

Stay tuned for part 2 in the series!

So many updates, so little time...and damn you Twitterberry

2009-08-15T02:43:00.005+08:00

K, 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.

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 feel different. That and I've been downing schwackloads of blueberries and fibrous things you people call, vegetables.

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!

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.

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.

"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.

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.

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.

"I feel bad tweeting about going shopping right now while there's a show going on live tonight at home,"

"Why? You're actually on a bit of a work vacation...why would you feel guilty!?"

"I dunno...my fans keep tweeting me, asking me why I'm not there!"

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!

"Actually, it's kind of weird to have so many followers....people recognize you...and it gets...weird," Kat reassured me.

"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, sans card or photos. Now that's creepy.

"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."

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.

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. Before he conked out on his pillow whilst I straddled him, trying to be all cute.

Knowing my luck, it probably won't happen considering I need to be up early for my calltime tomorrow! LOL.

Wish me luck!

Got the part! and now hell starts....

2009-08-06T02:31:00.005+08:00

So my agent called the other day...

"Congrats kiddo, you got the part...."

"Really?" I asked, shocked and feeling a little deflated at the same time.

"Yup...I'll send you more info later, but the director will be giving you a shout sometime this week with more details."

I hung up the phone, a feeling of excitement and sketchiness washing over me all at once.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"You're not doing this. I hope you don't get it."

"But, I haven't even gotten a call back or anything, silly! It's no biggie."

And then my agent called. And an hour later I get a call from the director.

"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.

"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."

I breathed in a sigh of relief and we chitchatted film schedules and wardrobe before hanging up.

So while I didn't get the part, I did get a 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!

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.

That being said, in November I fluked out and got a really 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.

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.

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.

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.

Or maybe that's just me.

Callbacks and dirtier old men

2009-07-28T04:55:00.002+08:00

So, the stranger (that is my agent) just called.

"You got shortlisted kiddo! Good job with the nurse part!"

"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.

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.

"The casting director also wants to know if you'd be interested in a silent on camera part.."

"Sure, I'll take whatever I can get," I told my agent.

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.

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!

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.

"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.

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.

I did the scene twice and ran out as fast as I could to the car, where Daddy was waiting for me.

"Good job baby! Or should I say, my hot nurse!" Daddy teased as I plopped my sticky ass onto the passenger seat.

"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!"

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.

"Shit!" I opened the car door and ran out to grab my breast, just as a man and his dog were walking by.

"Percy, NO!" The man commanded. The dog had beat me to my breast and had begun sniffing and licking the sweaty little chicken cutlet.

I quickly pushed the dog away, gathered my breast without making eye contact with the man and got back into the car.

"I need a Frosty. Now..." I told Daddy. And off we went.

Auditions, Asian porn and seducing old men

2009-07-23T06:37:00.006+08:00

Yesterday, the stranger that is my agent called to say that she had submitted me for a commercial.

"You're not allergic to chocolate are you?" She asked.

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.

"Ok, that's grand! It's called Project K, be at the studio at noon".

Everything's grand and 'thanks a million' when you're an agent. The film industry breeds fakeness like no other silicone implant factory can.

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.

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.

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!".

Someone giggled, another pff'd the air. I gave the evil eye.

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.

As I expected, every girl unwrapped their chocolate bar and gave some kind of sultry, orgasmic "Mmmm....mmm..mm!" response.

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!"...

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.

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.

How's that for efficiency?

An hour later my agent calls. Did I land the part, I ask.

"No, haven't heard yet dahling, but do you like older men?"

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.

"Love them." I replied.

"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.

Please don't ask me if I like Asian porn, I begged silently. I can only lie so much.

"...have any tight short mini dresses? Surely you do?" she finished off.

Tons, I replied. Nothing skanky of course, but I do stock up when I can. Usually around Halloween.

"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!"

So now I'm off to practice and research for my seductive asian porn and old man fanatic role.

Should be fun. I'll let you all know how it goes. Wish me luck!

Horny, Ovulating and Loving My Friends

2009-07-08T09:47:00.014+08:00

Just 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!

The 'Love My Friends' Award is given to those bloggers who aspire, inspire and share the most beautiful human attributes; art, wisdom and friendship.

Thanks a bunch to Funny Girl Goes Blog....now y'all be good and check out her blog, it's fab!!!

Speaking of fab, something incredibly unfab that I just realized about myself.

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 people I normally would make sexytime with in my dreams when I'm fully engaged in REM sleep and cannot take full responsibility of my thoughts.

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.

Unfab realization #1 | 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...

Unfab realization #2 | When you're in REM sleep, you can get away with murder! Ok, maybe for some. 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 Christian Bale and Colin Farell or if you're sandwiched between the Bluth brothers, then hey, it's all good 'cuz it ain't your fault.

So, anyway...excuse me while I try to get back to a more wholesome daydream....

The Perfect Threesome

2009-07-01T15:22:00.004+08:00

I 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!).

What is it with older guys and video games?

I used to subscribe to the belief that males and their video game addictions stopped after high school, or maybe after First year at university.

Sadly, this is not the case. I know men in their mid-30s who own an Xbox, Play Station and Wii. True die hards will own all three and play games on their gamer notebooks (who the heck actually chooses to lug around a 17", seven pound laptop these days anyway!?).

"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 that far off.

"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 Taken 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.

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 Gob Bluth a bj while Michael Bluth did me from behind! Yes, under normal circumstances (read: not being the horny bastardette 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".

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.

Coincidentally, I like Chinese food.

Futile Friday - LV dog collars while children starve

2009-06-20T03:32:00.006+08:00

In 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).

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 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 kind of way.

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.

TrottingBlonde made a face and pulled Bordeaux towards her.

"Hey, is that a real LV dog collar?," I asked, half amazed, "and a matching LV leash?"

"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.

"Nice," I responded, shifting my feet under B-dawg's sitting loins to hide my fake Gucci sandals away from her view.

Ah yes, welcome to the little superficial, stuck up, douchebag, douchehag and chlamydia-infested corner of Vancouver, Canada, that is Yaletown.

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.

People in my hood never fail to amaze me with their foolishness.

Tisk. Then again, I've heard New Jersey's worse... is it!?

An awkward coincidence...in 9 minutes or less

2009-06-16T12:31:00.011+08:00

So this article was published today about stay-at-home dads who blog, and I must say, men who can write, totally turn me on.

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.

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.

9 minutes ago, I went onto my Twitter account to tweet and check out my followers.

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.

7 minutes ago, I said to myself "darn this girl looks really familiar....I'll click on her Twitter profile"

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.

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, chinless. And has a complete disregard for the use of proper grammar.

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.

3 minutes ago, Daddy joined me at the computer, breathing like a 200-pound overweight man with a totally perverted smile on his face, taking over the mouse and clicking all over the website, while I looked at him all grossed out, but still curious...

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.

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.

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.

Karl Lagerfeld and his nuclear orange face should be boycotted

2009-06-16T04:14:00.009+08:00

Ahhh, Monday's and the news...Iran is up in rioting flames, Obama's proposing medical tax cuts and this - Karl Lagerfeld is a douche.

I find it amazing how someone as successful and talented as Karl Lagerfeld actually lacks a brain. How does it do it?!

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 three children and took to the catwalk in lingerie a few months after giving birth)was 'too fat' to be a catwalk model and that 'nobody knows who she is'.

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.

"Mine looks better than his. He is covered in craters."

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.

WHATHEF&^%???

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.

Note: this guy LIVES in sunglasses. Outdoors and in - a classic sign of a douche.

I say Boycott!

Big nose good, big nostrils bad

2009-06-13T04:49:00.008+08:00

Growing up as a Chinese person, I was inundated with ridiculous superstitious beliefs and sayings.

"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.

"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.

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.

"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.

"No, it still has a chance to be perky and not flat like your dad's...keep massaging!"

Say it with me: De-nial!

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.

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.

"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 his blatant girly whining I endured after he got his fingernail ripped out at football practice in University.

"Big nose...means he rich or will be," Mrs. Cheng finished off with the kicker, "...big nostrils...velly good".

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?

Anyway. I started thinking about big nostrils today and decided to Google it up, and found some interesting stuff about the nose.

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.

Upon further reading, I found some interesting stuff on the chin. Every heard of "chinless wonder"? Well, apparently this originated from the genetic abnormality, 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.

Another reason to look forward to Christmas

2009-06-12T06:32:00.006+08:00

Lately, I've been having as much sex as the next below-average-sexytime-having person.

Sure, I can legitimately blame it on being too tired (I recently adopted an intense month-long exercise regime that has me waking up at the crack of dawn) or being too busy (I also play my fair share of team sports during the week and eat my fair share of dinners at restaurants that include much wine, which also makes this fall into the category of 'being too tired') but I hate using any kind of crutch I can get.

"Baby, it's normal don't worry, I'm very much into you and we have a very healthy sex life," Daddy reassured me (oh yeah, anyone else sick of hearing this? I'm sure you are. And I'm sure by now you're also like, "get over it and don't make the poor guy reassure you every single minute of the day" or "get a vibrator and shut it - your mouth, that is") as we went to bed, sans sex.

I managed to fall asleep despite my mind-says-yes-but-body-says-no mood and dreamed about frolicking with two extremely buff Ginch Gonch models while a fluffy long-haired Chihuahua hungout on the floor.

WTF, I know - I don't even like Chihuahuas!

This is what happens when my body is devoid of synthetic hormones (read: birth control pills), my boyfriend's big pen 15 and a decent seven hours of sleep each night.

To make matters worse, Daddy's planning a camping trip with just him and B-dawg, thus leaving me all to my lonesome self at home, sans any pen 15. Real or manufactured.

"No way, I don't want you to get a vibrator! What if it replaces me one day!?" Daddy exclaimed (half joking...or not, I dunno - still can't figure that one out), after we had that eventful day in Gay District after which, I asked him if I could get a little (ok, big...at least seven inches) present for myself.

That's totally not fair that I can't get one, I pointed out.

"Nope, sorry, no can do. I can't approve that one."

That night, my girlfriend and I had a rapid texting session that went something like this:

Me: I'm not allowed to get a dildo! wtf.
Her: What!? Rick&I jst used one now - so intense had to stop! teehee
Me: Dude ur nt helpn the situation
Her: srry. k so ur nt allowed to buy1 4urself or jst nt allowd to hav1?

I replayed the convo in my head.

Me: he sed i cnt buy1 4myself
Her: woo! i know wt im gettin u for xmas!

Suppose we found a loophole to Daddy's rule that night. Then again, that means I have to wait half a year!

Every girl should have a poor man's boyfriend

2009-06-09T04:50:00.006+08:00

This past weekend was pretty exciting. I was looking forward to golfing with Daddy all week long and finally when he did, we had a tiff over his lack of score keeping and him blabbing on about how we shouldn't be tiffing.

"You're the only person I can golf with! And you're not even taking it seriously!" I shouted. Or so he said. He thinks I shout about everything when I'm not speaking positively, but its only because he has this weird preconception that whenever a girl doesn't behave she turns into a screaming+shouting, foul-mouthed wretched crazy woman.

Anyways - enough with the venting. My point is, I have no friends to golf with (wow that was a loaded phrase...I have no friends therefore I have no one to golf with)and the only person I can actually go golfing with is Daddy. I left the golf course all pissy and wondering, is there anyone else who can go with me?! Anyone at all?!

That same evening, we met up with Daddy's two friends, Cody and Dan. I like them both - Dan is tall, blonde-haired, blue-eyed, single and looking (for a girlfriend and a new puppy since his bitch-of-an-ex took the dog with her) and Cody is the perfect housewife version of Daddy. By that I mean, he can make a mean blueberry cheesecake, loves desserts, uses two types of potatoes when he makes mashed potatoes (something about achieving the optimal starch content) and measures his glucose in take (or some kinda white powdered stuff anyway that looks like crack but isn't) and he's single.

Which begs the question, why are so many good guys single? Which also begs the question, why do girls complain about not being able to find a good guy? Hello! There were two sitting right beside me at dinner this weekend! Which begs another question - why did I just conflict myself? Girls complain about not being able to find good guys because they're all DOUCHES! DUH.

"Hey have you seen that coffee table book called 'Hot Chicks with Douchebags'?" Dan asked me, blue eyes sparkling in the setting sun. WOW, someone actually beat me to it, I thought.

Hell no, I replied, but whoever did that is a genius and I grovel at her (surely, she must be a she?) feet. Apparently this book is chock-full of douches who post pictures of themselves on the Internet (most likely Facebook, as it becomes public property once you do post). Must. Locate.

Cody then launched into his "I need to buy a couch cuz I just moved into my apartment and have no couch" schpiel. And I got excited! Why? Because I LOVE shopping at Ikea. I love shopping for couches and housewares (am I weird?!). And Daddy hates doing that stuff.

"Cody! I'LL go couch shopping with you!" I shouted, like some desperate stock trader on the floor of the NYSE. Maybe we could even go golfing? Shopping for shoes? Bake banana bread? Make macaroni angel ornaments?

"Cody! We'll go couch shopping tomorrow! And Dan! We can go puppy shopping this weekend!" I exclaimed, like some desperate friend-less loser making every last attempt to win some companionship after my big bout of rejection at the golf course today as Daddy snickered beside me.

"What?! Forget it, I'm not your Poor Man's Boyfriend," Cody shot back. Poor man's whaaa? I'd heard of that term in reference to steak but never a boyfriend.

"Sure, I'd be up for puppy shopping. You just have to make sure your boyfriend's there," Dan smiled and look at Daddy, "'cuz ya know, I only hangout with girls I'm sexually interested in."

"Hey, that's fine by me, you don't need me there, just as long as you get her outta my hair," Daddy replied back, all casual and cool about it.

Wow, am I dreaming? I asked myself.

But really, how cool would that be if your boyfriend was all like, hey go call up my friends and ask them to go do boyfriend-girlfriend stuff with you cuz I don't feel like it today...buy couches, puppies, bake cupcakes, just don't get me involved.

Or maybe even one boyfriend for every purpose. I'll keep Daddy around as my SexyTime Boyfriend.

Have water bottles, will trade for sex....fair deal, non?

2009-06-04T10:35:00.004+08:00

Losing your libido has its perks. You get to waste a ton of time on Craigslist looking for the most random stuff to entertain yourself with (as opposed to entertaining yourself with horny thoughts of pouncing on your boyfriend, for example) -- case in point:

I found an ad entitled A Simple Trade:

Date: 2009-06-03, 7:24PM PDT

So I was cleaning out my closet last night and it came to my attention that I own a disturbingly high number of metal water bottles. No doubt this is due to my work going on an fat employee purge and pushing their intense fitness regime (and swag) onto my co-workers and I at every opportunity - but I digress. I probably don't need more then 2 water bottles at most, so I'd like to trade the rest for something I'm lacking in currently: sex.

If you're up for a night of random, NSA sex and would like to take a water bottle on your way out - I'd be happy to give you both. I'm 5'9", athletic (I do yoga and work out), have tested negative for STI's recently, and can host or travel. The water bottles come in two types: cobalt blue with a black rubber grip, and grey stainless steel with a carabiner at the top for easy attachment.

Your pic for mine.
Let me know if you're interested.

I'm almost tempted to reply back and see what a dumbass like this looks like. Perhaps a douche? My guess is yes.

Lost and hopefully found soon!?

2009-06-04T01:50:00.007+08:00

Alright, I've been a delinquent blogger, I know. It feels like ages since I last posted, but bear in mind, the purpose of this blog is for cathartic sexual frustration release....so a lack of posts can only mean one of two things:

1) I have been having a ton of sex and have no sexual frustration to release on this blog

OR

2) I haven't been feeling like my usual horny self

In my case, it's #2. For whatever reason, I'm just not craving any penile penetration--which begs the question...should I be worried?

"No, it's totally normal. Actually, it was totally not normal that you were really really horny 24/7/365," Daddy reassured me one night, when I, in a panic about my lost libido jumped on top of him to try and make myself all rowdy, squashing his manhood with my high and dry receiver "hopefully now, I can get some decent shut eye!"

Fantasies of having my very own Rabbit or, gasp, Condor began to evade my once perverted mind, only to be replaced by fears and anxiety over the return (if at all?!) of my beloved libido.

Will it ever come back!?

What to do!? Help!

Does every guy have a little douche inside him?

2009-05-29T02:44:00.018+08:00

This has got to be the longest break I've taken from blogging. Ever.

Why? No clue. I guess I've been too busy, but the days go by so quickly that I can't even recall what I was up to two days ago. Does that ever happen to you?

Someone: "Hey! What'd you get up to yesterday"
Me: "...um..."
Someone: waiting
Me: "....yah I have no idea. I really can't remember."

And that's how it usually goes.

Speaking of not remembering things, at my girlfriend's going away party I presented her with a Douchebag Recovery Kit. Was meaning to share with y'all....it contained a little notebook titled "Unleash Your Inner Sex Kitten" in which a lengthy definition of Douchebag was included (and adapted from Urban Dictionary), a sexy dress and earrings from BeBe, dark chocolate and lip gloss, a book entitled "Incredible Orgasms" and another book called "1001 Vodka Recipes".

"So babe, whadya think of the definition?," I asked Daddy, after I had read aloud the entire two pages of the definition of douchebag. There was only an hour left before the party and I was excitedly putting the last pieces together.

"Um, love, you can't read that aloud. You'll offend EVERY GUY in that room."

"No, really. Whatdya think?"

"That's what I think. I think you should just not read that out loud in front of any guys because every guy will somehow find a way to relate to what you wrote." He responded firmly, perhaps taking slight offense to my writing.

Wow, I thought, could Daddy be a closet douche afterall?

"Daddy, were you a....a douche before you met me?." I asked in my littlest girl voice ever, a slight pang of sadness in my high-pitched voice. The thought of Daddy being a sleazy doucheass suddenly put a damper on my exciting day.

Daddy looked at me in all my ickypoutyness and sighed. "Sure yeah, I guess I was. Does that make you happier now? "

No, I thought. Does the thought of your boyfriend with other girls EVER make anyone feel happy? C'mon dude.

"I feel a bit better. I don't like thinking my boo was a sleaze."

"Well, I'm not. I love you. But I love B-dawg more."

Good enough for me, I replied. When we got home, I decided to print out the douchebag definition and stick it into the notebook. Besides, I thought, she'll be too damn drunk to use her brain anyway.

In case you're wondering though, here's the definition....and below that was the script that I prepared for the presenting of her presents.

---

Dear Chantelle,

As you may already know, medical professionals in the field of gynecology state that “douching is bad for you” and do not recommend it.

While we all know what the traditional definition of “douche” is…

A product used to sanitize an unpleasant and sordid vagina

…another definition of douche pertains to a commonly known variant of the word douche, that which is Douche bag.

Speaking of medical terms, did you know that every 19 minutes a douchebag is born? Further to that, every 12 minutes, a successful, intelligent and beautiful young woman like yourself will make the unfortunate mistake of falling for the idiotic and moronic ways of a douchebag, which ultimately results in the inevitable – a broken heart, detailed analyses of every text message that you’ve sent to and received from the douche, sleepless nights of “What did I do wrong?”, countless hours of low productivity at work and in life because you’re too busy over analyzing the situation, and so the list goes.

But fret not, my successful, intelligent and beautiful friend…

For your going away gift, we have provided you with the ultimate in stupidguy aftermath remedials—The Douchebag Recovery Kit.

As your close friend, other ear and shoulder, need I remind you of what a douchebag is? You have had way too many encounters of a douchey kind and as such, I will now read you a detailed definition of the term douchebag so that you will be able to identify and ultimately, stay away from them forever!

Douchebag

The term "douchebag" generally refers to a male with any number of characteristics not associated with one particular region or age demographic. Douchebag is a combination of attitude qualities, social ability, and attire.

In terms of geography, douchebags can be found nearly anywhere. For instance, douchebags can be seen in Yaletown, where blazers worn with t-shirts over pricey denim bottoms, spiked-up hair in the front, Blackberry cell phones permanently attached to the side of their head, half a can of Axe body spray, unbuttoned collared shirts, and leased sports cars are considered "tight" and complimented by other douches with a remark such as “yo, snap”.

These pathetic individuals are also plentiful in the downtown core of Vancouver, where on any given Wednesday through Saturday night on Granville Street you can find males who find it "pimp shit" to wear un-tucked, popped collared shirts or a variation of sparkly Ed Hardy t-shirts and over-priced denim jeans which may or may not be complemented by an equally sparkly, Ed Hardy cap. Such douchebags are typically followed around by a mini entourage of equally douchey males, more commonly originating from Burnaby and the rest of the Lower Mainland, who throw various fake gang signs or simply point at the camera with a false sense of entitlement during pictures and find it “dope” to sport tight Lycra and cotton blend t-shirts, branded with A/X or some other pretentious brand name that reveals cheese nips and an overly worked out upper body a la Mario Lopez or that guy who loiters outside a bar or any given Earls or Cactus Club with his like-minded douchebuddies.

As mentioned, douchebags transcend not only various geographical locations, but age demographics as well.

For instance, douchebags are quite often seen, once again, in Vancouver, as evidenced by men (if you can even call them that) aged 34 to 45 years-old who still go clubbing like they did over a decade and a half ago, passing it off as “it’s just networking” as they try to re-live the “glory days” while they hang out in clubs and bars most commonly frequented by fake-ID sporting high school girls and females with only half a brain remaining as the other half has long been inundated with too much blow, ecstasy and date rape drug. These douchebags are most likely married or in long term relationships, gallivanting with girls half their age while their poor and unsuspecting wives sit at home with the kids, who are coincidentally daughters only a few years younger than the girls that daddy hits on at the clubs. Additionally, these males are usually on a first name basis with the girls at Earls, Cactus Club, Joeys and occasionally, Hooters, and what they really don’t understand is that these girls are actually called waitresses and have no interest in anything else but their wallets.

At the same time, we can see young 20 year old douchebags who still think that wearing an Ed Hardy hat that sits cockeyed on their head, sporting some variation of an Asian symbol tattoo on their shoulder or back and driving their dad’s old white 1998 convertible M3 BMW with their faux-hawks blowing in the wind is ultimately, “pimp shit”. They also generally find the length of time one drinks while doing a "keg-stand" directly correlates with the amount of pussy one can get.

In terms of behavior, douchebags have an over-inflated sense of self-worth, a high level of arrogance complemented by a low level of intelligence, lack the social ability to interact with non-douchebags and have tricked their minds into thinking that they "get mad pussy", while in reality the only pussy they can actually get is the kind that A) requires actual douching because it truly is sordid and bacteria-ridden from years of bring “whored out” by its owner and B) falls into one or more of the following four categories: “Barely Legal or First Year of Junior College”, “Gold Digging Hoe or Valtrex Vixen”, “WhoreBag or Chin-less Troll” and “Any Female With a Low Level of Self-Esteem and Self-Respect”. The irony is that they very rarely get pussy, but amazingly have the astounding propensity to talk quite often about allegedly getting it.

Now that you’ve been acquainted with a definition of Douchebag (and I’m sure by now, everyone’s really sick of hearing that term), I will now outline the items in your Douchebag Recovery Kit.

The purpose of this kit is to help you Unleash Your Inner Sex Kitten by showing you how to bounce-back to your awesome self and ultimately, make a full recovery from a run-in with a douchebag.

The first step, is to indulge.

Dark chocolate, glossy lips and a cathartic release of the written kind may help in releasing any of your initial shitty feelings or anger and “I wish this guy would just burn in hell or get ghonnorhea and have his dick fall off”.

If this step does not suffice, grab a bottle of Vodka and your girlfriends and drink your sorrows away by indulging in over 750 drink recipes with this book. Bonus points for drinking and cooking with it.

If your chocolatey, sexy glossy-lipped and drunken escapade fails to drown out your sorrows of a douchey kind, put on your best g-string and while you’re feeling sexy, get comfy with a good book of orgasms and revisit the ins and outs of fabulous self-pleasure (‘cause God knows, that douche couldn’t get you off if his life depended on it. Then again, what do you expect from a guy with a five inch dick and a 50-inch inflated head?).

After wards, reach for your sexy slinky dress and a matching earrings and head out with your girlfriends for a night on the town! Who gives a fuck about anything else? You look fabulous and that’s all that matters!

If all else fails, you always have your trusty dildo. He can do no wrong. Ever.

Dirty Dildo Wars....

2009-05-26T04:58:00.019+08:00

My girlfriend had her going-away-to-another-city party this past weekend and I must say, hunting for that perfect belated birthday/going away present was quite the adventure.

Daddy and I sauntered off to the gay district in our town, where a plethora of sex shops beckoned for us with their come-hither window displays of black latex strappy wear (see? I'm actually innocent. So innocent that I have no idea what they're called), school girl uniforms and tacky florescent lighting.

We hit the first store and never made it to the other 10.

I can't even remember the name anymore, but I marched right on inside, covering my hand with my sleeve as I opened the door and made a beeline for wherever the Rabbit was. And came across two shelves of assorted of Rabbits, Beavers, Alligators, Woodpeckers, Ducks, Bears and Condors. Yes, condors. It was a zoo in there.

"Wow baby, this place is ... I'm so...ahh...overwhelmed," came the hushed voice of Daddy. I turned around and saw a lost little boy gazing up at a wall of real-life cocks. Veined. Thick. And black!

"Woohoo, now I can fulfill my fantasy of f*&%ing a black guy!" I squealed, as I ran over to the biggest, veined, life-like blackest cock (or rather, dildo, I should say) I could find.

Daddy shot me a whathef&^$ look and walked over to the shelf of porno mags and cock pumps, taking subconcious revenge upon my blackman outburst.

I gazed upon box after box of pornstar dildos, modeled after the real pornstars themselves. So many no-name-random dudes. How creepy would that be, knowing that every other woman in the city has your manhood tucked way in her nightstand, I wondered.

"Hey bay, check this out!" Daddy chirped from behind me, shoving something gummy and gluey in my face as I turned around.

It was a life-sized vagina, modeled after a fairly cute Asian girl. And it was kinda sticky.
And as I uttered an "ewwww whathef&^$ ugghhh!" sound and wiped my face with my sleeve (still being careful not touch too many things with my hands), Daddy came at me, holding a big sparkly purply vibrator, complete with twirling head, swatting at me like it was some kind of fencing sword and poking me in the sides with it!

"NOOOO!!!" I yelled, and reached for the nearest weapon I could find -- an orange silicone 7" schlong. I did a football player spin, knocking over a small rack of anal beads and came back at Daddy from behind, repeatedly smacking the back of his head with the wiggly apparatus until...

"Can I help you guys find something today?" The sex shop sales lady asked, catching us in the act of fencing.

Daddy and I froze, with big guilty deer-in-headlights looks on our faces, kinda what B-dawg looks like when he gets into the garbadge, strews it all across the dining room floor and looks at us with fear and wonder with his big oogly puppy dog eyes as we yell "bad dog!".

"Um yes, uh actually, I'm looking for a decently priced vibrator for my girlfriend." I responded as-a-matter-of-factly whiel picking up the packs of anal beads. The Rabbit was waaaay beyond my budget of $25, though I must say, when I'm ready to spring for one, I'd much rather pay for something that's Made in Japan. "She's had really bad run-ins with a douchebags and I think it's time for her to smarten up."

Fourty-five minutes and a glow-in-the-dark 6 3/4 inch dildo later, Daddy and I left the store with silly smirks on our faces. And made sure to use a ton of hand sanitizer.

Of Loving and Loathing

2009-05-23T03:30:00.017+08:00

A strange thing happened yesterday...I did not blog! And rightfully so, I was totally slammed with too many meetings and too much fretting on my mind. A blog is a great way to release...I'm no good at talking, but with my fingers, I can work mental, cathartic wonders. That's what he said. Actually, no wait, he didn't say that. That would be kinda icky if he did. What he did say is "that sexinfo101.com site is awesome!".

Things That I'm Loving

--- #1

Http://www.sexinfo101.com .... more specifically, the Fellatio section. Thank YOU, Seb!

--- #2

The fact that I have to film an audition tape and send it in. My agent called yesterday.

"I've got a feature film for you. They want you to send in an audition tape. Sounds pretty good, you get to travel the world, literally. And sky dive," came the sex phone operator voice. My agent (like the bazillion of them out there) used to be an actress and always uses her sex phone op voice when she comes a-calling. I think that's why I really like hearing from her. That and the fact that she brings news that's equivalent of a purchasing a lottery ticket.

Auditioning for a movie or commercial is one of the big roller coaster life experiences one can experience, all in a matter of 24 hours. First, you get the call. Your agent sells you the dream like a sales girl sells an assortment of ribbed and flavoured condoms at the Rainbow Condom store ("It'll be sooo amazing, you're gonna rock it like a rockstar, baby"). Then you get your sides (film lingo for script) and spend the next couple of hours (or if you're an h-core-actor-douche-going-nowhere-fast, you call in sick at your evening restaurant shift job, park your ass at a coffee shop and meditate for the next 24 hours over your sides) trying to memorize someone else's words but trying to make them your own. Then you drive to your audition, clammy hands, tight throat and think about the stakes. If it goes well and you land the role, you could be a movie star! If you f&$# up, it's back to your mundane, regular-person life. But for the next 24 hours, you get to day dream about what life would be like if you were one of them.

There's this saying..."Buying a lottery ticket is like buying a dream for a a week". Same thing with auditions, only much shorter and much more depressing. Especially when you walk into the waiting room and instantly realize you are one of 200 other girls who fit the character breakdown of "20-something, gorgeous and flirty, with a daring side" or "25 year-old girl-next-door type".

And then you take a seat amongst the herd and wonder, where the f#%@ did all these f#%@ing hoes come from? And worse, you come to the realization that you actually fall into the category of "these f#&@ing hoes".

"What's the pay?", I ask.

"$25,000 including agents fees. It's only 10 days of filming. You'd be traveling to Scotland, Dubai and a ton of other places. They cast in LA, so I'll need to submit your audition tape" she purred.

Amidst my rapid drooling, I managed to tell her to sign me up and that I'd have the audition tape for her stat. I'm highly motivated by money and 25g's for 10 days of work sounds just fine by me. And in a few hours, I am off to film my audition. Fingers crossed!

--- #3

The fact that Ardell makes the best false eyelashes ever. I'm currently sporting their demi-lashes, 120. They're actualy pretty expensive over in Canada so next time I head over to the US I'll be sure to stock up!

--- #4

Brainstorming a going away+birthday present for my girlfriend who's moving to a different city in less than a week! My guy friend, AA and I are going shopping after work for her, with a planned pitstop at BeBe where "this hot Asian chic works", which is typically code-speak (really blatant code speak) for "you're my Wing Woman so get your game face on and help a brutha out!".

The last time I played wing woman, the girl actually ended up expressing more interest in me than in AA and spend the entire evening trying to get to know me better. I felt bad about that and vowed to be a better Wing Woman from that point on.

---#5

I'm losing weight! .... from my boobs = (

Happy weekend everyone!

W.O.W (you're a dirty double duty douchebag) Wednesday

2009-05-21T04:16:00.027+08:00

While I was having a Titillating Tuesday, getting ready for my weekly game of flag football, engaging in the long-awaited consumption of my toasted-on-the-outside-chewey-on-the-inside cinnamon raisin bagel with margerine and trying on a new pair of false lashes I'd be dying to wear, somewhere in the world, another woman was regretting all the titillation she'd had with a douchebag (her words, not mine. Actually, her words were a tad more crass than douchebag but you get the idea), last year.

I HAD A PAP AND THE DR WNTS 2 C ME, came the heart-dropping-into-your-stomach text. The thing that no woman ever wants to hear after a pap test. Of course, typically followed by something like I'M KINDA FREAKN, which she aptly followed up with.

We then engaged in a half-hour of who-dunnit crime solving series of questions, all via text messaging, including the routine, who'd you sleep you before, during (this particular criteria, of which, would only apply to a TrashyDumbSkank) and after. A pair of sore thumbs and dry eyes later, we convened at a hair salon where she was getting her roots touched-up and I sat across from her, engaging in code-word speak so as not to alert the lispy, gay hair stylist buzzing around her head, interjecting every now and then with his own completely unrelated nobody-gives-a-shit snippets of his life as he tried to pick up on keywords from our conversation. Gays love gossip. Flaming Gays devour it like a sex-starved pervert devours uglyunshavendirtysweatyfatfoldsamateurs.com and throw in their two cents no matter how much you make it clear to them that you don't need it.

"So how'd you know it was that? Like, did you have any idea going into it?", I whispered, looking around like ebola was growing on the walls of the salon and the only refuge I had was keeping my arms as close to my body as I possible could, gripping my elbows with my cold hands.

"I knew something was wrong when they put that thing in me...." she responded back, nonchalantly sitting in her chair, bobbing her foot up and down like a valley girl. She handles stress very well. "...it hurt like a bitch...and it never did before...ugh".

"Ohmigod, like thith onnnnne time, actually like yeth-terday? I was like bartending n sthuff and like thith guy wath totally hitting awn me an like, i totally stubbed my finger with a beeer bawttle an' it hurt like a bitch too! But like he wuz sooo hawt an' i totally wanted to pummel him so it wuz like toootally worth it!", Flaming Gay buzzed. I really wished I had a fly swatter at that point, but we shot the shit until he was done and buzzed off.

"Okay, so ...what'd the doctor say it was?"

"Chlamydia. " Came the answer. I drew a blank. I was too busy feeling my heart drop into my gut to see or think about anything else. And all of a sudden, that safe sex presentation I giddily sat through in my Grade 10 year while checking out Mr. Heaps' ass (no really, that was his last name) while thinking, who the hell actually gets stuff like this?, came aflashing back.

"It's curable, thank God," she cut in, probably noticing how large my Asian eyes had gotten, "I'm on antibiotics now, so it's all good."

After an awkward Seinfeld moment or two, I breathed a sigh of relief. Amazed at how calm, cool and collected she was, we then caught up on life and work and the usual bashing of douchebags.

"Can you believe it?! I, of all people, have this!Whathef&^$%" She exclaimed, still calm cool and collected but a with a bit of a firey glow this time around.

"How'd it actually happen? And are you going to tell him!? I mean, you have to! Don't you?!" Perplexed and suddenly feeling like ebola was growing from the walls again, I gripped my elbows once again, further perplexed that my 'safe place' has something to do with my elbows.

And as she launched into her story about how she slept with douchebag, broke up with him twice because of his douchebagness, then slept with him, then found out he lied about sleeping with someone else while they were broken up, and the fact that he didn't use any protection when he ventured into TrashyDumbSkank territory and then slept with her knowing full well he was infected, my mind wandered off into douchebag hell wondering if this douchebag qualified for a throne, right up on stage with Mario Lopez, Joseph Fritzl, John Mayer and this douche.

Which leads me to something I found today, inSPOT.org. A place where you can send your infectee an e-card, telling them that they probably have what you gave them and to get tested, stat.

If you're mature enough to have sex, you should be mature enough to talk about your sexual health records openly and most importantly, honestly.

According to their statistics

An average of 26.8% of recipients in 2006 and 28.5% in 2007 "clicked-through" to get STD testing information...Of the 23,594 cards sent in 2006 and 2007, 15.4% were for gonorrhea exposure, 14.9% for syphilis, and 9.3% for HIV. A lot -- 48.8% -- were for "other" diseases, such as crabs, scabies and hepatitis.

This service in itself is completely ridiculous, if you ask me. I think a more effective e-card service would be something along the lines of "I'm a douchebag, stay away from me". Or better yet, girls and can send other girls e-cards that anonymously warn them about a potential douche/ex-boyfriend, like "Dear Jane, Been there, done that, I suffered so that you don't have to, From The Saviour".

Surely, you'd rather a card like that than what inSPOT.org has to offer?

Oh the things we do and put ourselves through...

2009-05-20T07:20:00.006+08:00

For sex.

Have you ever thought about that? The lengths we will go to, the Rabbits and Fleshlights we'll gladly add to our toy boxes, the surgical methods we'll undertake and all those things in between we'll do for s-e-x.

Let me tell you (as Daddy would happily go into his human evolution speech), sex in the 21st century is the farthest thing from the word natural. After all, before there were cock rings and birth control pills, the main purpose of sex was to procreate. Whenever anyone had sex, procreation took place.

Then hedonists, like myself, were spawned and all we wanted was sex minus the procreation.

Enter the condom. Before the use of animal tissue sheaths (yes, women like ourselves liked sex so much we were willing to shove dead animal membrane up there), images from around 1000 BC show the ancient Egyptians wearing linen sheathes. Can you imagine what linen rubbing against your pooty must've felt like?! Holy hell, we might as well wipe our asses with the world's roughest paper towel ( you know the cheapo-public-washroom-with-0.0.1-ply-toilet-paper kind of brown paper towel), or better yet, sand paper. Also, the word "condom" most likely had a Latin origin, which means "receptacle". Yeah baby, I love it when you f&^%# me with a receptacle, it's hot.

Then there's the birth control pill. Synthetic hormones that make you fat, bloated and turn you into a variation of the lochness monster crossed with Medusa and a boar in heat. Not to mention, it tricks your body into thinking you're pregnant and gives you a fake period every month. Fake. So all the shit you go through and the miserable shit you put everyone else around you through isn't even worth it in the end 'cuz it was all a sham anyway. Not to mention the pints of Ben & Jerry's and cinnamon buns your thighs and ass endured.

And while there are way too may inventions/contraptions to go through, I'd like to touch on the IUD. Yes, the contraption that originated from Arabs sticking pebbles into the uteruses of their camels to avoid pregnancy on long trips. In fact, in 1920 the first IUD was born out of silk worm gut and silver wire. And now, it's been upgraded to plastic and a copper wire. And fishing wire that pokes out of your uterus and can be felt by your partner's penis! (Click here to make your own!). Its fabulous for spontaneity but shoving something as foreign as that into the womb is a tad too barbaric for my ears, let alone my uterus.

There's definitely more to birth control methods than I've listed (and if this is news to you, you should probably never be allowed to procreate), so next time you do the deed it's definitely something to think about.

Well, maybe after you do the deed.

My boyfriend reminds me of Tony Romo and makes a mean-ass corned beef hash

2009-05-18T03:00:00.017+08:00

Daddy and I used to have this weekend morning ritual that involved canned meat, frozen hashbrown, coffee and naked bodies seated at the dining table while watching NFL recaps. That was until we entered a time warp and every weekend went by in the blink of an eye.

This Sunday morning, we relived the glory days. I took B-dawg out for a contemplative pee (I contemplated, he peed) while Daddy manned the kitchen and made hashbrowns from scratch. Then he realized there were no vegtables in the bin (heck, there hasn't been a phenom like that since last month as far as I can recall) and that all the oil we have left is of the olive variety, and whined for five minutes trying to get me to go down to the grocery store to pick up the goods.

"Bayyy beee... I can't cook without it! I want a perfect corned beef haaaasssh," he said in his cute little boy voice, encapsulating me with his naked upper body and muscular arms. This attempt, of course, fails horribly as the little boy act rarely ever turns me on but the arms kept my ears a-perk.

"You can cook with olive oil. What they say about heating it is a fallacy," I responded.

"No way, it's bad for you," Daddy's death grip tightens around me, his arm muscles bulging out even more. This attempt is working.

"We'll google it," I decide, resisting the urge to give in I typed in a few keywords, opened a few tabs and voila -- it's totally okay to cook with olive oil. You can even deep fry with it, but restaurants don't do that because, duh, it's expensive!

Deafted, Daddy headed back into the kitchen as I watched a commentary piece on Tomy Romo (who, by the way, is still with Jessica Simpson despite all the controvesy about her weight, which I tooootally love both of them for sticking it out and ignoring the institution of highschool that is the tabloids).

"Wow bay, you totally remind me of Tony Romo! Especially when you wear your cap backwards...cute..." I shouted from the couch. I always thought he kinda looked like an asshole, ala Ben Affleck, but I guess that's what happens when your mind tries as hard as it can to justify things.

"But I thought you said he looked like an asshole!" Daddy shouted back, over the sizzling sounds of canned, generic meat, starch and olive oil.

"No, not anymore. He kinda looks like you." Anyone and anything with Daddy's similarities automatically gets a ''Get Out of Jail Free' card. Except for Mario Lopez. And his cheese nips. Any guy who cheats on Ali Landry can go to douchebag hell.

"Well that's reassuring for Romo, " Daddy said, as he brought out two plates of delicious corned-beef hash, complete with shredded marbled cheese and a big splat of Ketchup (which, by the way I just found out this weekend, apparently originated from China!), "but I gotta say, Jessica Simpson was the worst thing that happend to him. She basically ruined is career!"

"What?! No way, it's not her fault...what are you talking about?" I asked, coming to Miss Simpson's defense. A woman with her own line of hair extensions, bags and shoes surely could do no wrong. And I think that's the only reason why I support her. That and the whole weight thing 'cuz Lord knows, I've been through that hell at least three times in my life.

"Women are a bad distraction for men. Successful relationships are great, but if they get in the way of your work, forget it. Your work is not your life but your work does allow you to afford your life." Daddy explained. Deep. Kinda. I was actually expecting some kinda mimbo joke.

"Do I distract you?" A little girl voice from within asked. I suddenly felt really small and unbelonging. It was only a few hours ago that I had jumped on him in bed, pretending his pelvic region was a mini trampoline for my pooty while he furrowed his brow and begged for me to let him sleep.

Daddy looked at me and smiled, "you already have an unconditional 'Get Out of Jail Free' card. Now shut up and eat your breakfast."

Marley & Me & My Boyfriend

2009-05-17T03:51:00.013+08:00

Last night was the long-awaited night in which we finally watched Marley & Me.

I'd seen it twice before, the first time on my flight to LA -- solo, hormonal and bloated. I couldn't even finish watching it as I cried so hard I started doing that hiccuppy thing in between sobs, waking up the old man sitting in the aisle across from me who shot me an annoyed look. The second time was on my flight back home from LA, and once again, the hiccuppy-bawling came back but this time, I had my sunglasses on. Then I realized I resumbled the douchebags I saw at a dimsum restaurant I went to, where some Russian girl and her boyfriend had sunglasses on and a bottle of white wine at their table at 10:00AM. I promptly removed them to reveal my blodshot eyes and puffy face, praying no one would notice.

"Are you alright?!," the guy sitting next to me asked, a look of shock on his face. Good guy, coincidentally Canadian.

"Yes. Fine, thank you. Sad movie, hah hah." I mustered embarassingly, searching my purse for my Blackberry. I spent the next hour looking at 10 pictures of my dog on my phone, figuring out the best one to set as my background image.

If you're a dog owner, you understand that your dog is your kid--minus the incommunicable taunts of screaming and crying, sporadic opportunities for two hours of sleep for months and piles of toxic diapers.

And so we popped in the DVD, chilled on the couch with B-dawg (our doggy) and for an hour and a half (minus the first 30 minutes of happy lovey doveyness, you know, the stuff that makes your boyfriend gaze over at you with the look of love while he lovingly squeezes your hand), I watched my bf drench his face in his own tears while he hugged B-dawg as close as he could, progressively tighter as each scene became more and more sad, to the point where B-dawg was kicking and wiggling so hard to get out of Daddy's death grip that he let out a faint yelp.

"Babe, you're weirding him out," I pointed out softly. B-dawg and Daddy turned to look at me, both with big wet puppy dog eyes.

"It's so sad," Daddy pouted (ooh, I think I just came up with a fitting reference for the bf!), lowering his head to plant a kiss on B-dawg's big head.

B-dawg took this opportunity to jump off the couch and make a beeline for anywhere that wasn't anywhere near Daddy, shooting us a "dude you guys are toootally freakin' me out" look.

"Maybe he needs to go sulk. I think it's probably quite sad for him too," I suggested, stalling for B-dawg. Perhaps now, he'd found a nice pile of dirty laundry in our bedroom to hide in, away from the death grip.

Daddy pulled me in closer to him, and I became his B-dawg replacement for the remainder of the movie, his wet tears atop my hair as I dabbed away at my own face with his t-shirt. And all at once, I finally understood why my mom said she never wanted to get me a dog.

"It's too sad when they die, it's the saddest thing ever, " Mom said.

I refused to believe her. At the time, that phrase had no meaning to me whatsoever asI was bitter, bitchy and resentful after 16 years of begging for a four-legged friend with no dice.

In the end, as you may presume, Marley dies from old age and a slew of moral lessons and symbolic meanings are understood. And Daddy continued to weep, heading straight to the bathroom after the movie ended to clean his face of wet tears and unclog his snotty nose from the cryfest marathon he had just endured.

And all at once, I finally understood why I love him so much.

Fear and loathing - The Quarter-Life Crisis

2009-05-16T03:55:00.010+08:00

It's Fuck Me Friday and I'm already 24 hours ahead of the game! I got laid last night, right after I posted about how I was all tired and grossed out from nuclear bombs.

Today, I'm in a contemplative mood after innocently clicking on a discussion group on 20somethings entitled "Quarter-Life Crisis" (QLC). While derisively reading up other peoples' takes on "how do you know you're experiencing a quarter-life crisis" and "where did you think you'd be now?", I slowly realized that many of these people are MY AGE!

And now this whole QLC thing is really stuck in my head. Am I supposed to be experiencing one right now? I mean, a couple of weeks ago I told my bf I wanted to start saving up for a used BMW Z3 (afterall, we're young and we have no big obligations like a kid or anything!) but surely that isn't a sympton of the QLC, or is it?

I also came across a lot of bitching about shitty jobs and I really don't have that kind of problem. Or is it because I've acheived everything that I set out to acheive in my five-year plan?

Well, let's see here...

5 years ago I legally went Vegas with my boyfriend of five years, whom I totally thought i was going to marry in 2008, have babies with by 26 and live in a fabulous mansion by the water and drive an expensive car, courtesy of his fully-loaded-wipe-your-ass-with-a-$100-dollar-bill parents. I entered two beauty pageants (winning third place because i was "too caucasian for an Asian beauty contest", and winning Miss Talented at another...my talent? Cheerleading!), became a promo girl and really had no set goal in life (I wanted "to be on TV").

10 years ago I wanted to become a broadway star. I was obsessed with starring in a musical after Rex Smith in all his old-man gloriousness graced the stage as Joe Gillis in Sunset Boulevard. I saw it five times, bought the soundtrack and sung all of Betty Schaefer's duets. I even named my cockatiel after her. The an ex-boyfriend told me I reminded him of Kobe Tai and deep down inside, sprung a secret desire to become the next Asian Barbie Bombshell.

15 years ago I was in Grade 4, wearing baggy jeans sporting a collection of Club Monaco sweatshirts and flannel shirts in every color imaginable. Fifteen years ago, I was 'cool'. And really ugly, I suppose, as I told my friends I wanted to "be a model" and they all laughed. One girl even made a crack about "hahaha your legs are too short, you could never be a model". I also had really ugly bangs and was oblivious to the wonderful world of hair removal.

20 years ago I found myself sitting in detention after strangling Travis, the douche who stole a gluestick from the supply cabinet and refused to give it back, despite my threats of tattling on him. I also realized that I couldn't keep my hands off this cutie named Dean, and spent the majority of my Grade 1 year chasing him around trying to kiss him whenever I could. He despised me, but it didn't stop me. This was also around the time I told my parents that "when I grow up, I want to be a cashier at London Drugs". Then I went to school and told my girlfriends that I wanted to marry my doctor because he had a moustache and "he reminds me of daddy".

Fast forward to the present.

I work at management level in PR, swore off razors and best-friended hot wax and tweezers and still have this compulsive attack-that-guy-you-have-a-crush-on way of getting my fix. Oh yes, and I've caught myself on numerous occasions referring to the bf as "daddy". I did it twice when i was at Disneyland last month, once when I wanted a churro and the lineup was too long and I wanted to browse the stuffed toys in the gift shop and wanted him to stand in line for me and the other time was when i wanted to get a Mickey Mouse balloon. Ok, maybe I have little girl syndome too.

In any case, I don't really see the need for a QLC at this time. And heck, I hate to admit it but I'm only four more years away from the Dirty 30s. And science and technology will help us live till we're 160! So yeah, I think I'll revisit the whole QLC thing in about 20 years.

Flatulence is a fabulous deterrent

2009-05-15T14:39:00.006+08:00

It's almost midnight, I'm sitting at the computer in a long pink see-through tank top with no underwear on and blogging about it while I wait for the bf to complete level 6.1 of Resident Evil 5. I'm on my 61st minute waiting. Planning. Salivating. Scheming....to go in for the kill.

Yes, I'm sorry I let everyone down. I can't take another day without sexytime. He even tantalized me with the prospect of penile penetration when we were building shelves in the storage unit of in our building (which, by the way, is one of the coolest places to do it 'cuz it's all dungeony and scary and someone could be watching but it'd probably be some pyscho killer or crazed pervert, which, come to think of it, isn't so sexy afterall but I dig the dungeon-scary bit).

"Yah, I'm actually really turned on right now, I'll f*& you when we get back into the apartment, pass me the drill, thanks," he said as he patted my butt, which I had once again sidled up against his nether region.

I really can't behave myself for one minute when I'm around him. It's kinda sad but kinda cool, I suppose. It's been like, almost three years now and doesn't the flame stop a'flickering around now? To say that we have a great relationship and awesome sex life is an understatement. I mean, honestly, we probably have sexytime like three to four times a week. He says that's way more than the average couple.

"But we're not average," I exclaimed, remembering all those times he engaged me in Anthony Robbins-speak, "and why do we even have to compare ourselves to anyone else?", as I slowly put my arms around his waist and pulled him closer into me, "it's just us in here..."

PFFFFFFFTTTTTTGHHHHHRHRHHH. Shit, I can't even type out what that sounded like but it was the wettest most peach-fuzz-on-your-face raising display of flatulence I'd experienced all month, and worse, I was backed into a corner of the storage unit and the only way out was to walk through the nuclear cloud.

And I did. And it was disgusting. And he thought it was uber funny. And now that I've replayed this entire scenario in my head, I think I'm good for the night and will be heading to bed right now. Sexless for a second time.

And glad.

I love my tits too! / Sexlessly satisfied

2009-05-15T05:22:00.008+08:00

I survived day one of the no-sex contract. I actually went to sleep (not until after I bugged the bf for a solid 10 minutes, hoping he'd give in) while wondering whythef*& does he keep his briefs on in bed?!

"Becuz ima never-nude," he mumbled, his head sandwiched between two pillows to tune out my whining. Ok, so maybe I was thinking outloud. And of course, he was just joshing. I enjoy myself waaay too much when he walks around naked all day at home. It's like, if I were a guy, I'd have a perma-hardon 24/7 around him. That's how unfair it is. He's a perma-tease on my hypothetically perma-hardon.

"It's not fair...I should get to have sex with you whenever I want! That's the whole point of being in an exclusive, committed relationship! You're my sexbot!" I whined, sidling up my butt closer to his nether region. Then, I did what I always do before I give up for the night. I grabbed his hand and made him cup my boob. Just one. That's usually all it takes.

"Wow, they've gotten smaller..." a suprised and muffled voice exclaimed. I pouted...maybe I shouldn'tve blasted those bikini contest winners afterall, I thought to myself. Then again, I'd rather have a hot face and a gross body than have a gross face and a hot body.

Why? Simple logic: I can workoff that gross body and turn it into a hot body to match my equally hot face. If you're a butterface, there's really no hope in hell unless you're willing to fork over six figures for a series of nips, tucks and plows.

"Really? Do you notice a big difference?", I asked. Last time I checked, I was a decent 36C. Lately it's just been this one ghetto bra I got from Wal-Mart that I'm too lazy to put away and leave hanging out on the night table.

"No, not a big one. You have great tits, baby. I really love your tits, " came the voice from under the pillows.

And just like that, I went to sleep sexless but satisfied.

Dear Bikini Contest Winners...

2009-05-14T07:14:00.007+08:00

The only reason why 99.5% you win/won a bikini contest is because you paid your way there (and or included a combination of f*&^ing your way into getting crowned Miss dingy-hole-in-the-wall-dirty-shack-of-a-local-bar 2009).

Yes, I'm talking about the fact that silicone cannot in any way be genetically hereditary, and the fact that 9 out of 10 going-nowhere-in-life-anytime-soon guys at said bar want to get into your barely-covering-your-cottage-cheese-in-a-garbage-bag-of-an-ass bikini bottoms.

Sure, you have nice tits, but I'll bet your boob job you'd be concave without them, which goes nicely with the rest of your morals, values and neural cavity. In fact, 95% of you are just a pretty pair of fake boobs as your attempts at vanity tend to result in a used, well-preserved-40-year-old-soccer-mom type of try-hard appearance. Wait, it's called butterface.

But you know, it's a really big accomplishment being able to come up with $7000 for a purchase. You're way ahead of me.

Taking a sex break

2009-05-14T04:29:00.007+08:00

Am not feeling too opinionated today, nothing bugs me and more importantly, I'm not that horny! Very strange, I know especially since there was no sexytime last night.

"Baby please, let Daddy sleep tonight, he's super tired," the bf begged, eyes closed, brows furrowed in anticipation and dear hope of my compliance.

Uh yeah, sure. Daddy-speak totally turns me on (I know, I know...another story for another day, perhaps with a shrink), whathef*&^ was he thinking!? OF COURSE I jumped on him! And after several minutes of wrestling (him wrestling me away from his body and I, wrestling his manly part into whichever receiving part of mine), I tired out. Lack of penile penetration for me is what kryptonite is to Superman. He and I can only fight it for so long before we become weak and pass out and let Lex Luther dominate us. Actually, come to think of it, I totally wouldn't mind spending a night with Kevin Spacey...he's like the sexiest old, balding guy I know. Or maybe it's because I have daddy issues.

Anyway, since i really need to get better and back to my normal self, we struck up a deal this afternoon, a verbal agreement if you will, to abstain from any sexytime for at least three days. Just so both of us can get at least eight hours of sleep to build-up and maintain an unstressed immune system for at least 72 hours. I can't believe I did this, but I actually agreed to it.

"Wow, I can't wait...what will I do to fill up three full days of no sex?", my bf taunted. He then proceeded to list off a slew of movies we have on our Zip list and a handful of video games he's looking forward to renting. I hung-up the phone, feeling a tad frustrated and going over the details of our verbal contract....did I miss something? Are there any loopholes?

And suddenly it hit me. I had to text him my addendum.

Our no sex deal includes masturbating. And if you breach the contract by doing so, then you must only do so in my presence.

I totally thought this was going to work, tricking him into being the first to breach contract, then i could just jump right in. He texted back.

No deal, that's my private one-on-one time. Sorry, but you'll just have to use your imagination.

Ahhrgh.. I can't win with this man! Something about rejection just keeps us girls coming back for more, right? We love the abuse.

Christian Bale and our abusive relationship

2009-05-13T06:52:00.002+08:00

Its not yet a known fact, but I love Christian Bale. Ok, now its known. I’ve enjoyed him ever since I laid eyes on his gorgeousness in American Psycho, though I did take a brief break from him and enamored myself with Eric Bana in Munich. Then he started looking a little too mouse-like for me and I went back to Bale.

Until that recording of him going on his PMS ranting streak got leaked.

I listened. I was a bit suprised (and I also enjoyed it–his Welsh accent is sooo sexy when he’s angry). But my love for him continued (hey, we all have our bad days and I, of all people, totally get the whole being-a-bitch-while-you’re-PMSsing-is-okay-because-it’s-PMS thing), just like the wife who makes excuses for her wifebeater husband. The first blow always has some justifiable reason. Afterall, it wasn’t Christian, it was John. John Connor. Heck, it may as well be my fault.

Then today, I read that Bale had forced a rewrite of Terminator, and the director McG, has gone on record before to talk about the process of re-writing the script with Bale. At a Toronto press conference in January, he said, “I went to see him… He reads the script and goes, ‘I hate this, it’s sh*t.’” Even after hearing that McG’s visuals would be informed by everything from Cormac McCarthy’s The Road, the works of Philip K. Dick and video footage of the Chernobyl nuclear disaster, Bale still told the filmmaker: “That sounds great but until it’s on the page: f**k off. Get it so we can read it in a room, without special effects and explosions and still have it be engaging, then I’ll do your film.”

And while I do feel strongly about douchebags and how to identify, label, hunt and kill them, I just can’t quite do the same with Christian Bale ( Colin Farrell, yes, any time and I don’t care how good he was from behind the other day). Surely he was ovulating, feeling bloated and moody or craving chocolate and couldn’t find quite the right type of chocolate bar to satisfy his menses-induced hormonally-controlled musings.

Any other man and I would’ve turned and ran the other way, but not Bale. No. He could do no wrong (with the exception of his role in The Machinst where I almost did run as far away as I could from his 90lb withering frame). Speaking of which, i just realized another man on par with Bale is my boyfriend.

After spending some time digging around for pics of Bale and his awesomeness, I started to notice how similar my bf and Bale look. Interesting. Maybe that’s why after almost three years of dutch ovens, burbs, slurps and other sweaty gross things (sweaty dutch ovens included), I’m still around.

Manwich with a side of Colin Farrell

2009-05-13T06:51:00.002+08:00

I’ve always thought of Colin Farrell as one of the biggest douches of my generation but for whatever reason (and a big lack of touching and all-things-sexy this past weekend), I found myself in a staff kitchen break-room leaning over the sink while dirty bastard Colin had his way with me from behind.

And it was quick and I didn’t really remember too much of it (probably better that way, or else I’d have to take a scalding hot shower and shave off a layer of epidermis just to feel somewhat clean again).

And it was after I woke up from sleeping with Justin Timberlake in a white sleeping bag on the scratchy carpet of an office.

And that was after I had wonderful romp with Hugh Jackman in another sleeping bag, which was conveniently placed beside Justin’s sleeping bag.

And I still woke up this morning, feeling completely unsatisfied.

Drama-loving guys and the girls who loathe them

2009-05-13T06:50:00.002+08:00

A really close gf of mine who’s on her way to sports entertainment superstardom in the US (literally) is unfortunately, currently bogged down by a case doucheitis.

Why is it that some guys just love to create drama? It’s rare, non? I thought it was more of a girl thing to do than for a guy to make up rumours about how a girl got him drunk and forced him to do this and that, and drink some more (a GIRL got him drunk) and lalalala. Douchebag has gotsome serious issues, especially when he can’t even take responsibility for his own actions and has to blame a GIRL for his teetotalling behaviour.

How does that, at all, make any sense!? It’s like a guy telling his buddies he didn’t actually want to have sex with that hot chic, she forced him to.

But I guess it’s just proof of the gospel of Anthony Robbins…”unsuccessful people major in minor things”…. this douche is actually one of the bottom feeders of this superstardom company my gf works for and is clearly trying to bring her down because he knows she’s going to succeed.

*Sigh*…it’s lonely at the top, but I hear the view is amazing.

Unstoppable RAMming

2009-05-13T06:50:00.001+08:00

It’s Wednesday, I feel like crap and its raining outside. I know I got what was coming to me — my boyfriend’s cold/flu thingy (which he was sooo paranoid about it being the Swine flu).

It’s like this icky, muggy blanket of fatigue that’s washed over me, my throat hurts and all i want to do is close my puffy eyes, hide my equally puffy face and wake up next week. And NOT listen to my boyfriend’s “ha ha I told you to stay away from me” taunts.Yes, I did bug him for sex the entire week he was (and still is) sick, and I managed to coerce him into it a second time, only for about 10 seconds (no, it wasn’t a done deal, I just felt really bad as he pretended to cry and kept telling me to stop), and yes I know I was asking for it (no really, I was!) so yes, I do deserve my sicko status.

“I can’t believe you…what’s WRONG with you! When you’re sick you…” my boyfriend suddenly stopped…looking utterly conflustered.

That’s right buddy. Even the biggest baddest sickness, flu, tsunami or earthquake wouldn’t stop me from having sex. Actually, it might be kinda fun to have sex during an earthquake. It’d be like, double the headboard banging (and consequently, double the first-pounding-on-the-wall from our neighbours…or not, it’s an earthquake afterall).

Speaking of which, ugh. The neighbours. We live on the 24th floor in our apartment and our bedroom is head-to-head with the neighbour’s bedroom. I like our neighbours, all 200+ of them but these guys, eh not so much. It’s a husband and wife and sausage dog team from South Africa. Sausage dog annoys the hell out of me and my very cool Staffy bull terrier. Everytime they meet, Sausage dog yaps his balls off and whoever’s walking him gets all sheepish looking but still doesn’t reprimand it. But that’s okay, because I also get equally sheepish-looking everytime i bump into either of them, but more so the wife because i KNOW for a fact she’s not getting any from her husband and he probably envies our sex life because those damn walls are paper thin. And I’m loud. And I never hear anything on their side.

This one time, I couldn’t fall asleep and I totally thought I heard moaning and was actually super happy for them until I realized it was my Staffy snoring outside our bedroom door. Had me fooled for a good 20 minutes. I also know for a fact that either occupants of the two bedrooms in question can hear the other occupants because a couple of months ago my bf were getting really naughtily loud (well, actually just me) and SOMEONE actually started banging on the wall!

So yeah, back to the sheepish look. Now that I think about it, the wife is more sheepish looking towards me than i am to her. It’s like she KNOWS that i know that she’s a sex prude. I get that vibe. And she’s probably jealous that her husband loves to hear us have sex.

Meh..whatevs. I’m no sheep, I’m a RAM! No really, I was born an Aries.

Have cock, will f*&%

2009-05-13T06:49:00.002+08:00

Wouldn’t that be a great advertisement…succint, to the point.

Then again, that’s also a death-by-STD wish. But what’s a single, horny girl to do? My girlfriend’s been without for a decent handful of weeks now and I feel her pain. In fact, last week, my quest for sex and condoms left me high and dry despite my supersize pack of Trojan ultra-thins (0.05mm!) as my boyfriend came down with a cold.

“You’re crazy, whudz wrong wid you?!” he asked in shock + disbelief and super nasal congestion, as I insisted that we could still do it only I’d pretend he has a paper bag over his head and he wouldn’t have to do any work. I’ll stop at nothing for ‘penile penetration’.

Alas, after trying to keep me away with several gas bombs (literally), he gave in and I felt like a winner. Well, at one point during our romp, I kinda felt like a rapist, but was comforted by a flashback of my Crim 300 prof on the Criminal Code of Canada — if it’s consensual it’s not rape.

Back to my girlfriend and our deliberations on her ‘next steps’ towards penile penetration.

Solution #1: Dial-up an existing dude you’ve done

This is a good last minute fix…for a last minute fix. It’s stable because you already know what to expect. If it’s sex you want, that’s what you’ll get. And if it was amazing/mind-blowing last time, this is probably your best bet

Solution #2: Phone a friend

Not the best solution, but if you can keep it platonic after, why not? Though I doubt many girls (and some guys) can do that…hello, Zack and Miri Make a Porno?

Solution #3: The lurking cat

You know who he is…hits on you at the club, tries to pick you up again a couple weeks later at a function. Any opportunity he can get to get you, he’s there. All you need to do is wiggle your nose.

Solution #4: Hand-held heaven

It’s a lucrative industry for a reason — grab your favourite toy and get to it! No jerks, no herpes and no lameass bullshit drama to deal with after.

…he can keep the dog. Dildos are a woman’s best friend.

Hormonally horny, hornily hormonal and he’s just not that sexual

2009-05-13T06:49:00.001+08:00

Does that term even make sense? No? Yes? Maybe? Yeah, welcome to the confuddled-mess-of-rational- blockage that is my brain.

Let me tell you something you already know — being a femme fetale sucks, at times. One such time being now…hormones a-ragin’, highs and lows, cries and laughs. For me this week though, it’s more like none of those things except for the fact that I’ve turned into a horny toad/sex-addict (take your pick, either way I feel sorry for my boyfriend).

Did you just say that you feel sorry for your boyfriend, you ask?

Yup. Believe it or not, there are actually some men out there who really aren’t that into sex. Yes, I know…my man and I have gone over allllll the other possibilities but trust me, he’s just not that sexual. It’s like, maybe 0.05% of the male breed that falls under this category. Coincidentally, I believe it’s like maybe 0.06% of the female breed that falls under the sexaholic-maniac-but-not-a-raging-sex-addict category. Women like myself love love love sex. We’ll have it anytime, anywhere and eh…well, I can speak for myself…I’d rape my bf if I had to. For you other women out there with no committed dude…well, we won’t tell.

So yeah anyways. It’s been a decent week with nothing in the pooty. I couldn’t survive. I broke the whole one week rule. I did it twice. Take that, doc. And this week, specifically today, in all my raging horniness, we are out of condoms. Yes, after eons of being on the pill and now nothing….well, yeah condoms don’t really exist in a household like that.

I was lucky enough to stumble upon a random one in the bathroom. This evening, I got down on my hands and knees and searched the apartment, high and low to no avail…no dice.

F*&^ ME! No, literally! Is it a social faux pas to pull an ‘ask your neighbour for some sugar’ ? I really need to be baking cookies right now…

Sleeping with the frenemy

2009-05-13T06:48:00.000+08:00

Do you ever wonder about who you can really trust? I mean, can you truly ever trust the person you’ve confided in with all your deepest, darkest, death-sentence-if-anyone-ever-found-out?

My mind drifts off to that place sometimes, being one of those people from my pre-bornagaingoodgirl days. Looking back, one of the biggest mistakes I’ve ever made was being too trusting with certain people. Especially this one girl — she knows all my take-it-to-the-grave secrets. The ones that could destroy me both inside and out if anyone ever knew. A huge part of me wonders…will she actually take it to the grave?

A little bird recently stopped by my window sill and alerted me otherwise. I love birds. Especially this one…no matter what, I know that this little bird, even if it becomes a frenemy (though I doubt this will ever happen, unless pigs fly) will take everything to the grave.

But is there really a way to insure that frenemy will take it to the grave? Are there tests? Must we just kill her and her confidants off? In the real world, I suppose the best way is to keep your friends close and your frenemies closer. Especially if you’re aware that frenemy has been talking about you to other people. The damage is done and there’s no turning back. The only thing you can really do at this point is instill some serious guilt tripping … and what better way to get super close than to f&^ them?

Coming soon to a store near you...

2009-05-13T06:47:00.000+08:00

My recent post, douching is bad for you has received quite a bit of attention since last week. Methinks, douching is a common problem amongst the beautiful, talented, intelligent, successful, ambitious and driven women population (note: TrashyDumbSkanks don”t consider douching to be a problem because they’re just too plain trashy dumb and skanky to recognize they’re with a douche).

If only my girlfriend was armed with a douchedar, she probably wouldn’t have found out the hard way. After all, it’s not her fault she dated a guy for almost 10 months, was in the midst of planning a romatic vacation away with him, was pretty much moved in with him, came uber close to buying a place with him while in the interim, stumbled upon a slew of Facebook messages between him and a TrashyDumbSkank at work (who, by the way, was clearly in-the-know about his un-single status and had met my gf at a work function a few months back). Whathedisgustingf*&^?

Douches like those deserved to be tossed in nitrous oxide and burned to a cold, silver crisp. And pounded up into several million little pieces. Like in the Terminator. Vinegar isn’t enough. No I take that back. If you pound him into several million little pieces, he won’t live to experience the HPV and chlamydia and gonorrhea that TrashyDumbSkank has to offer. Or did he get a visit from Valtrex Vixen already? Tisk, beats me.

*Sigh* … So many f*&^ing dirtyass whorebags, so little penis.

Pretty, Intelligent Girl: 1 Douche: -1

For baby Jesus’ sake, if my 19-year-old sister had a douchedar, she’d know to steer way clear of the balding (no offense to bald guys, they’re usually quite sexy but in this case, his balding adds to his douchiness) 35-year-old duno-what-the-f&^%-he-does-all-day dickwad who clearly knows she’s in a committed relationship but still pursues her (the CHILD, in my opinion) relentlessly and writes her emails saying how happy he was to know that she lied to her boyfriend and her family about where she was when she was actually over at his house FOR DINNER. Whathepedof*&^?

Douches like those need at least a week-long dose of go-make-some-friends-who-are-remotely-close-to-your-f*&^ing-age with a side of get-a-f&^%king-life. No death by nitrous oxide required, just a dose of reality should do.

I think I’ll become a bazillionaire once I get this douchedar up and running.

The Un-curious Case of Mr. Pringles

2009-05-13T06:46:00.000+08:00

It’s almost the end of a work day and I’m completely dehydrated from finding comfort in way too many carbs and all stuffed up from allergies. I feel gross. Like the tap water I’m drinking from a disgusting, scratched up plastic tumbler. Used. Tacky. Dirty.

Speaking of which, I cannot for the life of me understand why some guys, inspite of all those commercials and government-sponsored ads, think they’re Mr. Invincible when it comes to unprotected sex. Now, my issue isn’t the whole unprotected sex bit (’cuz if they don’t already get that, then yes, they totally deserve a visit from a Valtrex Vixen), but the fact that there’s specifically this one guy I know of who, like Mr. Pringles all horny-pervert-moustache and all, once he pops, “just can’t stop”.

And the unfortunate part is for all the sucker TrashyDumbSkanks out there who actually fall for this pathetic loser, perceived charms and all. There should be a place for all those bird-brained gold-diggers to congregate and get the stupid shit slapped out of them.

Newsflash: YES, he will f*&^ you. YES, he will f*&^ you again. And maybe a few more times, and after that, I promise you, YES he will forget you. AND if you’re one of the luckier TrashyDumbSkanks out there, he WILL make you look bad.

Not that you don’t already… afterall, it costs alot to look that cheap, hunny.

Good girls don't have sex

2009-05-13T06:45:00.000+08:00

Or at least, thats what they like to have you think.

I must admit — i. love. sex. Yes it’s true, and i’m not embarassed to admit it, and i’ll even go further and proclaim that i love sex more than the horniest sex-on-the-mind-24/7-Coors-light-kokanee-commercial-target-audience male you’ll ever meet.

Did i scare you? If not, read on. Those magazines NEVER write about stuff like that. Ok, maybe once in a blue moon, but all those bitch mags are all about “it’s ok that you don’t want to have sex with your bf” “it’s totally normal to be too tired or just totally not in the mood when he wants it”, etcetcetc. Very rarely will you come across a piece about the exact opposite unless it’s some investigative, journalistic expose on female sex addicts or something to that effect.

*sigh* I guess I should’ve seen this coming. When I was in Kindergarten, I was hell bent on getting with this cute boy named, Dean. So cute. Big puppy dog eyes, smooth tanned skin, brunette. By “getting with” I suppose in Kindergarten, that just mean holding hands or something (or maybe that’s a little too much for a five year-old to fantasize about, if at all?), but all I ever did for a a full year of Kindergarten was chase him around the classroom, trying to kiss him. And I succeeded. In kissing him. In everything else, I just plain scared the s*&^ out of him. He didn’t even want to be my partner for craft time, even though we were the only two remaining un-partnered people left in the class.

My bf wouldn’t stop laughing when I confessed this to him, during one of our meaningful, how-my-f*&^%ed-up-childhood-probably-affected-my-adult-life conversations. He laughed so hard he started crying.

“How will you ever survive this week?” My bf teasingly asked me (is that even a word? teasingly? if not, I coined it!), all hot, wet and naked in the shower this morning. I’d recently had a procedure done which doesn’t permit anything in the pooty for at least one week. ONE. WEEK. Seven days. 168 hours. 10,080 minutes. 604,800 seconds.

“I don’t knoooowwww,” I whined, as I tried to slide the shower door open, like a sleazy black cat, eyeing its prey, as he struggled with me to keep it shut (FYI, i’m quite strong for a little lady…just goes to show, lack of sex to me is what kryptonite is to Superman.. a shower door! puh-lease).

143 hours, 52 minutes and 12 seconds remaining.

Wish me luck.

Douching is bad for you

2009-05-13T06:43:00.000+08:00

According to my research..

Regular vaginal douching changes the delicate chemical balance of the vagina and can make a woman more susceptible to infections. Douching can introduce new bacteria into the vagina which can spread up through the cervix, uterus, and fallopian tubes. Researchers have found that women who douche regularly experience more vaginal irritations and infections such as bacterial vaginosis, and an increased number of sexually transmitted diseases.

For these reasons, douching is no longer recommended as a safe or healthy way to routinely clean the vagina.

I have this gorgeous, talented, intelligent, ambitious, driven and gorgeous girlfriend who just can’t shake off the douchebags she encounters.

I don’t blame her. Douchebag encounters (DE) are very misleading.

They start out nice and harmless, like any normal date, I suppose. Fun and flirty text messages, box seats to hockey games and concerts, expensive dinners complemented by even more expensive wine, lather rinse and repeat. For a few weeks. Enough time to decide whether he’s longer-term material or not. These dates result in nothing more than a few days of analyzing the previous dates, strategic analysis conference calls or meetings with your girlfriends over a cockatail or five, and maybe even introducing him to your friends.

But a douchebag date ends slightly differently. After the expensive date, loads of wine, you’ll probably end up going back to his downtown penthouse suite where both of you will proceed to drink more expensive wine. Then douche gets trashed, words start coming out of his mouth with the sole purpose of trying to get into your pants. You’re trashed too, but you’re smart, intelligent, classy and have integrity. You don’t f*&^ on the first date. Or the second date. And hey, if you don’t feel like it, on the third date too. You’re not TrashyDumbSkank number 50034.

So the night ends, you go home, wake up with an expensive hangover, think about how well you handled the situation and get a round of applause from your girlfriends for not giving into a guy who thinks he can get whatever he wants, whenever he wants, just because he has money and is perceived to be good-looking by other TrashyDumbSkanks.

Then shit hits the fan a couple weeks later. Yes, it’s been weeks. You’ve now been going back and forth on text messages with Mr. Douche. You analyze every text, you have a strategic communications plan laid out for your reply text messages and you’ve spent countless waking (and sleepless) hours wondering, replaying every DE you’ve had with Mr. Douche, over analyzing the evening (with or without your friends, it doesn’t matter, your brain had an overdose of douche, there’s no turning back) and taking apart his text messages, trying to read between the lines.

Whatdya mean, shit hits the fan?

Well, you later find out through an associate of his that he’s spread this wonderful rumour about you. About why “it didn’t really work out” between the two of you. Apparently, YOU wanted a relationship and he just wasn’t looking for that, and that’s why YOU aren’t with him.

You wake up in bed. No it wasn’t a dream. You were just so mentally exhausted from all this drama that you fell asleep with your head buried under your pillow, in shame. Sure, you thought you did everything right. You kept it classy, clean and f*&^% free but you still got screwed over.

Pretty, Intelligent Girl 0 : Douche 1

Listen to your doctor, douching is bad for you

Welcome to Selectively Bitchy

2009-05-13T06:11:00.001+08:00

Am in the process of trying to figure out the whole getting new followers and not having to switch over to Blogger.com... In the meantime, I 've cut and pastedevery single damn posting from my Wordpress blog into this one... so if you see the same date for all 14 posts, you'll know why... and I also lost all my comments in the transition so feel free to comment away on the posts...hormonally-controlled musings are much appreciated.

Here's the original one...

Visit and bookmark http://bornagaingoodgirl.wordpress.com

What the duck?

2009-04-18T06:29:00.003+08:00

I vacay'd to LA for a week and I must say, before I left for LA I was HELL BENT on getting lip injections.

My friend is a pharmasales rep in lalaland and has all the medical hookups imaginable (which, by the way, I will enlist several of these services after I have kids...it's always good to know a doctor or five, but even better to know their sales reps). Naturally, if I can get a $300 job done for $0, I'm in (I'm also Chinese, so my deal-dar is always on).

Tired from the long commute, I arrived at his place and made a bee-line for the fridge, my thirst set on a glass of orange juice or something liquid to quench it. I definitely found liquid alright. A fridge full of Restylane, some other lip filers and HGH. I think there was more of that stuff in there than actual food. I curiuosly peered at my potentially new best friend, the syringe of Restylane sitting the butter compartment, in its cute little pink, white and pastel green packaging. And I contemplated.

And then I went to my first lounge in LA.

I love people watching, and if you like it as much as I do, LA nightlife is the place to do it. Up until my first night out in LA, I'd never seen so much pretentiousness and douche-iness at the same place and time as I did that night. And when you walk into a room, EVERYONE gives you what I call the "la-la-onceover".

Like an assorted pack of designer dogs at the local dog park, only these ones are just so much better than thou that they won't ever come up to you for a quick sniff and playful nudge. Instead, the "la-la-onceover" leaves you feeling high and dry, completely exploited and feeling like you really need to take a scalding hot bath, no matter how badly your skin burns off.

My friend and I sit down at a table, right smack in the middle of the restaurant. The place looks so cool, I immediate make a move for my camera and Blackberry, hoping to snap a few shots of our appies, drinks and maybe a quick Tweet about the place. And that's when my friend reached over and gave me a light smack on the hand! I looked at him like a puppy who had no idea what she'd done wrong.

"Look around! Nobody does that!", he hissed, looking around to double check that no one was looking.

"Does what?" I whispered back, eyes darting around the room, like I was expecting jumping spiders to dismount from the ceiling onto my head if I spoke too loudly.

Turns out, nobody in LA does the camera and Blackberry thing during a restaurant outing. It's like, sooo not cool. Which is apparently, sooo LA. Which is quite sad, because over here in Vancouver we blog, write, type and tweet the hell outta what we eat and snap as many pics as we can and plaster them everywhere. A shame too, since our bill came to about $250 USD and my jumbo sea scallops were to die for.

Anyway. During my stay, I visited many more lounges and restaurants in Orange County, Manhattan and Redondo Beach and Beverly Hills. And of course, I people watched. But more specifically, lip-watched. And I really didn't enjoy what I saw. Way too many women have their lips done and it just doesn't look so hot and maybe beacuse it's LA, but it looks really obvious. I can spot fakes (boobs and bags) from a mile away, and during my visit, I developed this talent for spotting Trout Pout.

I think it was on Day 5 when I finally let go of the idea of getting my lips done. Why? I'll let you see for yourself...

De-lin-quen-cy or something like that...

2009-04-18T05:52:00.000+08:00

Yeah, I've been tardy with the blog again. But I have a legitimate excuse -- I'm still incredibly self-concious about blogging. All of three people will probably read this post, and that kinda freaky!

Anyway. I've been feeling like total crap this past week and I know why -- a really bad influx of hormones has taken my body, mind and uterus hostage and have refused to leave until they get what they want....my sanity.

Yesterday, BF was playing his usual 20 minute video game of NHL 2009 for the millionth + 1 time and let out a loud "FUCK YEAH!" while my startled self -- all huddled in the corner of my couch, three pillows tucked into my stomach curled in fetal position, quivering angrily to myself like a cracked out addict on East Hastings -- let out a "SHUT THE FUCK UP!" in his direction and quickly turned back into my hole in the corner of the couch.

And that is what set off our hour-long tiff. Which ended up with him apologizing for not cutting me any slack during my time of cavewoman status (did you know way back when, women were sent to caves to have their periods!?). Which was preceded with me giving an apology for "shut the fuck up" being my initial reaction to being horribly startled. Which also reduced me to tears of anger, rage and cuddliness all within a span of two minutes.

Screw you, Grade 10 drama teacher. I do have range.