eCuriosity

Matchmaker, Matchmaker Make Me A Match

(I'm eCurious)

            With modern technology these days, it seems finding a partner for all you lost souls out there would be relatively easy.  There are websites like eHarmony, Plenty of Fish, and Date Hook Up.  I hear some people even use Craig's List for their single white female ads, although I've read that's a good way to go and get yourself murdered.

            I used a dating site about nine years ago.  Pretty sure I was a drunk college student and thought it would be a good idea. I never had a problem finding people to date at bars, on campus, or in class.  Curiosity just got the better of me.  I didn't want to find my soul mate; I simply wanted to see what kinds of weirdos I could attract and laugh about it with my friends.

            Ironically, I used Yahoo personals, created a profile, and within days I attracted a guy named Mike who described himself as being like Mark from the movie Empire Records.  That was a false representation of what he was actually like.  Still, we dated for about four years on and off and I almost married the poor sap.  Calling off your wedding four days before the big day is not a good way to bow out.  But hey, at least I wasn't the Runaway Bride, right? 

            But that's not how all personal dating website stories end, according to the eHarmony ads.  Lately, there has been a large amount of eHarmony commercials on TV.  Every ad shows "happy" couples ice skating, sharing spaghetti, or cuddling together.  eHarmony portrays itself as a website that is capable of making magical marriages, akin to love found only in Disney movies, just by taking a compatibility quiz and uploading a picture.

            What the commercials portray is how grounded they are in core values, like religion, heterosexuality, and family.  And when I say family, I mean a man, a woman, marriage, and children.  What other kind of family is there anyway? Duh.

            There's a problem with their commercials though.  Every couple is a man and a woman.  They do not show two men, or two women together.  Then I got to thinking.  They only show straight couples, but are there gay couples that find love on eHarmony?  I'm eCurious.

            So, as an experiment, I decided to become a member just to see if I would be accepted or rejected.  Yes, it is possible to be rejected by a website. Not just the porno and alcohol websites that require a valid birth date.  Even eHarmony can reject you, so your chances at finding true love at the local watering hole might just be better than sitting on your fat ass behind a computer creating an online dating profile.

            Which is exactly what I did.

            Before I go any further, please note that I have already met my match.  Her name is Emily and she is the woman I will marry someday.  Not sure what day that will be, as gay marriage is not allowed in all the 50 states or Puerto Rico, which apparently the United States owns or dictates or some shit like that.  But we are engaged and have been together for over four years.  My creating an eHarmony website is not because I'm looking for a spouse, a spiritual partner, or a mediocre lay; I'm simply trying an experiment.  An experiment to see if the most popular dating website caters to everyone.

            eHarmony brags about how people can find a match on their website, so I wondered...would they accept someone like me?  A sarcastic, foul-mouthed lesbian who drinks like Keith Richards and always has to have the last word? Well, we shall see.

            The questionnaire starts off with your basic info.  Name, location, race, religion, height, etc.  Then they ask you how important it is for your mate to be a certain race or religion.  Well, I didn't want to discriminate (equal rights people!) so I said I didn't care if my match was white, Hispanic, Japanese, or Arab.  Is it wrong that I assumed "mutt" would be an option?

            Although I'm not religious and don't associate myself with any church or faith, I didn't want to leave anyone out.  Christian, Jewish, Hindu, or Sikh.  I would have preferred a Wiccan or someone who practices Voodoo New Orleans style, but again, that was not an option. 

            So far, it seems eHarmony is not quite for everyone.  But let's keep going.  Just because Wicca and Mutt are not options for religion and race doesn't mean the website is completely prejudiced.  Not yet anyway.

            When I get to the part where I have to describe myself, I think it will be easy.  Wrong.  I have to go through at least 200 varying adjectives to describe myself. Here are a few of the best options.

            Witty? Yes.

            Humorous? Yes.

            Moral? Definitely not.

            Charming? Somewhat.

            Open? Yes, sometimes too open.

            Aggressive? Yes.

            Getting bored yet? I am. But let's keep going.

            Persistent? Yes.

            Stubborn? Fo sho!

            Outspoken? Abso-fucking-lutely.

            Calm? Not always.

            Opinionated? Ask everyone I know.

            Judgmental? Ask my sister Kate.

            After I have gone through the list of adjectives to describe me and pick, yes, no, or somewhat, I get to the section where I have to guess four adjectives that my friends would describe me.  These adjectives are outgoing, creative, funny, and perceptive.  No doubt in my mind. 

            The other options to pick from were been respectful (as if), physically fit (so what I have a beer belly?), rational (I'm Irish, let's be real), and quiet (double AS IF).  So, I'm confident that I picked the right adjectives my lovely friends would pick for me.

            I then come to a section that has upgraded from one-word adjectives to complete sentences.  These are sentences that I completely agreed with.

            I enjoy a good joke. (Especially the dirty ones).

            I have a high desire for sexual activity.  (Damn straight!)

            I like to play pranks on others.  (One of my hobbies actually).

            I often see humor in every day life.  (How can you not when there are so many idiots out there?)

            I have an ability to make others laugh. (Which, I hope you have done at some point while reading my stories).

            My friends come to me when they are in difficult times because they know I can handle emotional crises.  (According to my peeps, I am their therapist.  Free therapist, mind you).

            I find that going to church is a good way to meet people who benefit my social and/or professional life.  (I said strongly disagree on this one; but see how they manage to slide religion in there ever so sneakily?)

            Now comes the fun part. I get to decide what I would important qualities I want in a match.  Here's where eHarmony would decide who I should be matched with, depending on my answer.  From what I gather, they wouldn't want a gay, sex-obsessed atheist.  So I made it my goal to appear as one.

            I marked that my match's sex appeal, physical appearance, romantic attraction I feel, and our sexual compatibility were most important.  I marked that I didn't care about their religion, family values, beliefs, or love of children. 

            At this point, I was expecting my computer to be attacked with an anti-gay virus, reject me from the website immediately, and email me a link for the local Sexaholics Anonymous or Gays 'R Us group meeting. 

            I was actually disappointed when that didn't happen.

            They have now decided that they have scratched the surface of who I am, so they are now going to ask me trick questions.  Like if you are applying for a job and your interviewer asks you "Have you ever lied?" and you start sweating because you know it's a trick question.  You can't answer "no" because that's a lie, but you can't answer "yes", because then they won't hire you because they know you just lied.  There's no right answer.

            I always read ALL of the warning literature on side effects before taking any medication.  False. (Isn't that what pharmacists are for?)

            I sometimes drive faster than the posted speed limit.  False.  (I ALWAYS drive faster than the posted speed limit).

            I don't care what other people think of me.  True. (I am who I am).

            I dislike some people.  True and False.  (I dislike most people).

            I would never lie, even if it wouldn't hurt anyone.  False.  (Everyone lies).

            I sometimes wish that certain other people would fail.  No answer.

            Phew. This questionnaire is exhausting and I'm not even 2/3 the way through it yet.  Good thing I'm stubborn and aggressive or I would have given up already.

            Moving onto the next section, I get to list my favorite activities.  Unfortunately, swearing, drinking, and fornicating are NOT options.  So I'm forced to pick activities like board games, camping, cooking, family, parties, wine, traveling, and video games.  Thankfully during all these activities, I swear and drink, so I guess it counts.

            Oh goody! I get to evaluate my living skills now! I'm still alive, so what else does this damn website need to know?

            Apparently, they need to know if I maintain a close network of friends.  If I use humor to make friends laugh.  If I entertain in my home.  Yes, of course I'm funny and entertaining.  They also want to know if I create romance in my relationship (for all you perverted eVoyeurs out there, the answer is yes!). 

            I guess it's also imperative for them to know if I share my beliefs through teaching, participation, and example and if I understand local, national, and world events. 

            Not gonna lie; I only understood three words in that whole sentence. So I skipped it.

            Next I get to evaluate my communication style.  What, using my outdoor voice and curse words isn't enough for you eHarmony?  You haven't figured me out yet?

            I try to make sure that my position prevails, that I win.  (Damn straight).
            I try to make sure I'm understood.  (How can I win if people don't understand me?)

            I try to understand the other person.  (How can you win an argument unless the other person feels the opposite?)

            I am passionate/intense about my position.  (Some would say I'm obsessed when I know I'm right).

            I try to drop an issue once it is resolved.  (Nope. I've been told I am notorious for rehashing old arguments.  Again, just ask my sister Kate).

            Have I proven my point yet?  If you disagree with me, I would love to argue with you about it.  No takers?  Okay.  Moving on.

            Relationship style is next.  Do they mean style as in doggie style?  Surely not.  What they mean is when I think about what I want in a relationship, how important are the following items:

            Knowing as much as possible about my partner's past? (Yes. I would like to know how many people have been in or around their naughty parts).

            Being able to tell my partner everything about myself. (Duh. I'm more open and unabashed than Courtney Love).

            Enjoying physical closeness with my partner.  (Sex? Yup!)

            Feeling that my spouse can do little wrong.  (Um...no.  I'm not the only one to take blame here).

            Then they ask me for three things for which I'm most thankful.  Hmmm...I always have a difficult time coming up with one thing on Thanksgiving, let alone three on this website.  I immediately type in the first three things that come to mind: alcohol, sex, and life. 

            Man, I am not portraying myself in a very positive light, am I? Well, like I said. It's an experiment.  And most of what I've answered is true.  Except for the whole sex obsession.  That's almost false.

            It then asks me who the most influential person has been in my life.  I write "Oprah...'nuff said". 

            What is the most important quality that I am looking for in another person?  "For my partner to be as sexually expressive as I am".

            Other than your appearance, what is the first thing people notice about you? "My gapped front teeth.  Rumor has it, they give my face character".

            The questionnaire ends with me marking if I need my match to smoke/drink.  Well, I don't care either way.  I don't want to be matched with a drunk, but my match certainly cannot be Mormon (no drinking, swearing, or pre-marital fornicating? What kind of life is that?)

            Wait, that wasn't an option in the religion section.  I guess Mormons aren't welcome on this site either.  I kept waiting for it but it never happened.  Not only are Mormons not considered as prime eHarmony matches, neither are homosexuals.  There was not a section where I could mark if I wanted to meet a man or a woman.  If I was gay or straight. 

            Regardless, I clicked "continue" and impatiently waited to see whom I'd be matched with.  After waiting 30 seconds, I had seven matches.

            Dean.

            Matt.

            Mark.

            Luke.

            John.

            Adam.

            Robert.

            Changpu.

            I was matched with eight men all in their thirties.  Seven white males and one Chinese man.  FML. I never said I liked Asian inspired food, so what's with Changpu? Are they trying to prove they're not racist?

            Is it coincidental that I was matched with four men whose names also appear in the bible as gospels?  Most likely not. 

            Good news: I wasn't rejected.

            Bad news: I wasn't quite accepted either.

            If eHarmony would have asked a few more questions (ugh, was that even possible), they would have matched me with women and men, not just men.  I can't say I was surprised; it's not as if I didn't know this simply based on their commercials.

            I guess I just would have liked to see the most popular and "successful" dating website cater to everyone, not just a man and a woman who go to church, want marriage, kids, two cars, and a nice house and would never cheat, lie, or steal. Ever.  That's the only life eHarmony portrays (in my opinion).

            Well, we are two women who want the same things. Emily goes to church (I'm not certain I could cross the threshold without receiving third degree burns).  We want to get married.  We want to have kids.  We want to own a house.  We don't lie, cheat or steal. 

            So, what's the dealio eHomies?  Why was I only matched up with men? Why are you judging me based on a couple questions?  All you have to do is make a box that says "interested in men or women" and this website would be damn near perfect.

            Thankfully, Emily and I didn't have to rely on eHarmony to find each other.  If we had, there's no chance in hell (my future home, by the way) we would have been matched with one another.

            My favorite question from this whole survey was: "Is there any additional information you would like your matches to know about you?"

            My answer: "I am the most sarcastic person you will ever meet.  You might not like me right away, but slowly over time, I will grow on you like mold on a strawberry."

            "Oh, and I'm a lesbian".

           

           

           

Love is Like...

So, yesterday I came up with a new game. It's a game of similes called "I Love You Like"...I came up with the game because one of my best friends in the entire world is going through a rough time right now, so how better to ease her stress than letting her know I love her AND making her laugh, right?

The game goes a little something like this: "I love you like (insert) loves (insert). For example, you could say "I love you like a fat kid loves cake". But who says that anymore? Be creative people.

I laughed so hard yesterday as we came up with these, I just had to share a conversation via text messages that I had with my above mentioned best friend.

Please keep in mind most, if not all of these, may be offensive to the general public. I don't care though; I think they're hilarious. Also, there are times when we refer to certain people in our lives, and in order to protect their identities and to protect us from being disowned/murdered, I have used XX to conceal their real names. Please don't assume the XX is you; you never know if it refers to you or multiple people in both our lives. Just sayin...

Me: "I love you like Eazy E loved rapping, before he died from the HIV".
Rae: "LMFAO" (not knowing I was playing a game yet).
Me: "I love you like Steven Tyler loves girl jeans".
Me: "I love you like the Real Housewives love drama and plastic surgery".
Me: "I love you like Bobby Brown loves hitting Whitney".
Me: "I love you like my panties love my farts".
Me: "I love you like Anna Nicole loved Trim Spa".
Me: "I love you like a barnacle loves the bottom of a boat".
Me: "I love you like a bunion loves a toe".
Rae: "I love you like a sausage loves its casing". (Ah...she's caught on now and is playing!)
Me: "I love you like a hamster loves its wheel".
Rae: "I love you like a tampon loves its string".
Me: "I love you like a maxipad loves its sticky side".
Me: "I love you like a pube loves its follicle".
Rae: "I love you like a sperm loves an egg".
Me: "I love you like the Jonas Brothers love giving blowjobs".
Rae: "I love you like Martha Stewart loves lace".
Me: "I love you like Martha Stewart loves women's correctional facility".
Rae: "LMAO" (need a break to laugh)
Me: "I love you like the makers of W.O.W. (World of Warcraft) loves losers
Me: "I love you like XX loves XBox
Me: "Emily loves you like cat poo loves cat litter".
Rae: "LMFAO God I'm dying!"
Me: "I love you like Ben Franklin loved electricity".
Me: "I love you like I love my new 'I love you like' game".
Me: "I love you like the Japanese loved Pearl Harbor...NOT!"
Me: "I love you like a pedophile loves playgrounds".
Rae: "I love you like the Japanese love big waves...too soon? My bad" (no disrespect intended; we are human after all)
Me: "I love you like Oklahoma loves tornadoes".
Me: "I love you like hippies love grass".
Rae: "I love you like XX loves denial".
Me: "Oh, this game just took an interesting turn..."
Me: "I love you like XX loves XXself".
Rae: "LMFAO! I can't breathe!!!"
Rae: "I love you like XX likes to complain".
Me: "I love you like XX loves to cry".
Rae: "I love you like XX loves fantasies".
Me: "I love you like XX loves having bipolar disorder".
Me: "I love you like Billy Ray loves his mullet".
Me: "I love you like XX loves the Army".
Me: "I love you like Kirstie Alley loves being fat".
Me: "I love you like emos love cutting their wrists and wearing their sister's jeans".
Me: "I love you like the gays love aromatherapy".
Rae: "I love you like Emily loves losing hubcaps".
Me: "I love you like Helen Keller loves Braille".
Me: "I love you like Mr. Holland loves his opus".
Me: "I love you like Willy loves being free".
Me: "I love you like Will.I.AM. loves black-eyed peas".
Rae: "I love you like 50 cent loves being shot".
Me: "I love you like Tupac loves Thug Life".
Me: "OMG I LOVE my new simile game!"
Me: "I love you like Celine Dion loves having twins while in her 40's".
Rae: "LMFAO I AM DYYYIIIINNNNNGGG"

If you don't have a decent sense of humor and aren't witty, you may not enjoy this game...just sayin. We enjoyed it cause we're amazing, funny, and clever.

To be continued...

Bowling For Asians

           

         I am not a sports person.  My idea of sports is sitting at a bar, drinking high caloric beers and watching the game on a TV larger than the state of Rhode Island.  I do not enjoy kicking, throwing, or hitting balls.  I do, however, enjoy kicking, throwing, and hitting things.  Just not balls for sport.  I guess you could say I'm just not that into balls.

            This includes balls of any kind—man balls or sport balls.  There's nothing about them that I enjoy.  Lately, my partner Emily has been trying to convince me to start playing tennis with her.  At our apartment complex, we have four tennis courts, two pools, hot tubs, and a basketball court.  The only thing that sounds remotely appealing to me is the pool on a hot summer day or the hot tub when I'm trashed late at night and have friends over.  Tennis? No thanks.

            Tennis is probably one of the most boring sports ever, besides golf.  I mean, who goes golfing? Seriously?  The only appealing thing about golf is cruising around the links on a golf cart and getting smashed while doing it.  Mini golfing is barely fun so I can't imagine real golfing.

            Steffi Graf, I am not.  My sister and I used to pretend we knew how to play tennis as kids, but most of the time we would just hit the balls as hard as we could instead of volleying the ball back and forth to each other.

            I give Emily props for wanting to pick up a new sport.  It's not even that I don't want to play sports.  Well, okay. Maybe it is. But it's more that I'm so uncoordinated, I know I wouldn't be able to play the game the right way!  And I'm not trainable either.  You could give me lessons, stand behind me and teach me how to swing/kick/throw, give me treats, and even show me a million videos and I still would NOT catch on. 

            I don't like to pretend I can do something I know I can't.  Like all the asshats who try out for American Idol even though they know they cannot sing.  You may say practice makes perfect, which I agree with to some extent.  But I know what I'm capable of, and sports are not one of them.

            Besides that, there are only a few months out of the year you can do outside activities in South Florida before you sweat so much and collapse on the ground in a puddle of clothes, sweat, and tears.  And running around on a hot tennis court under the Florida sun is not my idea of fun.

            I have many reasons for not being a balls person.  Or a sports person.  First of all, I am more uncoordinated than a legless gymnast who suffers from vertigo.  In high school, I took a Tae-Bo class and I could never get the rhythm of moving my arms and legs the right way.  To an onlooker, I'm sure I looked like a midget having a grand mal seizure standing up. 

            Secondly, I no longer have the athletic build I once had in high school and college.  My body can barely comprehend putting one foot in front of the other to walk, let alone run, jump, and skip, all skills needed to play most sports.  I've never had a Jilien Michael's physique, but I was relatively physically fit in my younger years.  Now, I'm just thankful that I'm not a contestant on the Biggest Loser.  I'll be the first to admit I've packed on a few pounds, and the first to admit I need to shed a few as well.  But even if I were to get back to the weight I was in college, I would still be as ungraceful as a ribbon dancer in a straight jacket.

            I love to bike and I love to walk.  Thankfully, I have mastered these two activities so at least I have these to fall back on for exercise.  Elliptical machines are my worst enemy and I'm deathly afraid of treadmills.  Knowing my luck (or lack there of) I would definitely fly off the treadmill and break my neck, or at the very least, my arm. 

            The only "sport" Emily and I seem to agree on is bowling.  And this is even a stretch.  Again, I know I'm terrible at bowling, but once in a while I will suck it up and just go because I know Emily enjoys it.  That and the thought of sticking two of my fingers and a thumb into a ball and throwing it down an oil-slicked lane is kind of intriguing.

            But bowling is like every other sport—I'm terrible at it!  People have tried to teach me the proper way to bowl, but like I mentioned before, I just don't get it.  I don't stand on the arrows, hold my ball up to my chest, then run to the lane and toss it just as my right foot simultaneously kicks up behind me.  I just don't get it.  Sure, I grab my ball, and run up to the lane, but I honestly look like a hunchback carrying a ball that's far too heavy for me so I throw it as fast as I can to get rid of the weight.  And I even bowl with an 8-lb ball, a ball children and tweeners use with grace and ease. 

            I can't even master Wii bowling to this day.  And that's a couch sport!

            A few years back, we had an apartment in Neenah, WI and there was a bowling alley nearby.  Friday and Saturday nights they had Rock 'N Bowl where they would turn on strobe lights, play shitty music like The Black Eyed Peas and Metallica, and charge a leg and a nut for three games of bowling. 

            One Friday night, after begging, pleading, and straight up blackmail, Emily convinced me to go bowling with her.  I'm not one to turn down any activity that involves alcohol, so I agreed.  In hindsight, drinking and doing any sort of physical activity for me is a recipe for disaster.  Or a concussion.

            After we got to the bowling alley, I picked up my size 6 shoes and Emily got her size 11 shoes and we were directed to a lane right in the middle of everyone else.  Personally, I like to have the end lanes because I feel like I can hide better on the ends.  Not many people pay attention to the bowlers in the corner.  Anybody can put me in a corner and I'll be happy with it.  Alas, this was not the case.  Smack dab right in the middle of the action.

            The bowling alley was dark, music was blaring, and there was a plethora of Ed Hardy shirts glowing under the strobe lights.  Apparently, Rock 'N Bowl was code for "Bowling For Asians".

            At first, I was excited that I was no longer the shortest person there.  Or the person with the smallest feet.  None of these Asians were over five feet tall and I'm pretty sure their bowling shoes came from Baby Gap.  What I was not excited about was being smack dab in the middle of the Asian invasion.  I felt like a minority, and let me tell you African-Americans and Hispanics, that is NOT fun.  I totally get it now.

            Turns out, Asians are not only good at manufacturing small cars and cooking up a tasty batch of spicy noodles, they are also fantastic bowlers.  They play like professionals you can only see late on Sunday nights on ESPN 14.  So imagine my enthusiasm that I was about to show off my mad throwing the bowling ball in the gutter skills against these Kings of Pins.

            Two games and three pitchers of beer later, I was giving these Asians some competition.  Or so I thought.  I had gotten a few strikes, spares, and I had managed to keep my gutter ball skills under control.  I felt exhilarated and was beginning to believe that maybe I wasn't so bad at bowling after all.  I mean, I was practically like the Karate Kid with a bowling ball.

            Emily wasted no time informing me otherwise.  She reminded me that I have no bowling etiquette whatsoever.  I throw my ball when the people in the adjacent lanes are throwing their balls.  I laugh at people who get gutter balls, and people whose toes go over the line and they slip and slide as if they're on ice.  She also didn't hesitate to tell me I still sucked and the point of bowling was to hit the pins, not send the ball down the gutter as fast as I could.

            Buzzkill.  Here I was thinking I was amazing and getting ready to join a bowling league and Emily informs me that I still suck.  Thanks hon.  That didn't stop me from having fun though.  The drunker I got, the better I seemed to do. 

            That all came to a screeching halt on the 7th frame of our third game.  Alcohol had been poured into my bloodstream for two hours and was now affecting my dexterity and vision.  Ten pins turned into twenty and I could no longer see the toe line on the lane.

            I grabbed my ball, sauntered up to the lane like Snoop Dogg would, just three feet shorter, and as I threw my ball, I suddenly felt weightless.  My legs were now up in the air and I was parallel with the floor.  Folks, I had gone horizontal! A feat only accomplished by Pelé in the 1970 World Cup.

            Smack! I hit the hard wood floor, ass and head first.  What you see on cartoons is true.  When you hit your head hard, you do see stars and word clouds with cuss words in them directly above you. 

            After a bout of uncontrollable giggling as she assessed my condition, Emily determined I was fine and told me to stand up.  What she meant to say was "It's absolutely hilarious that you just fell flat on your ass, but seriously. Get the fuck up. You're embarrassing me!"  But she's too sweet to actually say what she means.  Bless her heart.

            I stood up, my vision still shaky from both the hit and the alcohol, and I turned around to see a cluster of Asians pointing and laughing.  Remember, our lane was directly in the middle, so I had it coming from the right and the left.  I'm not one to really care if people laugh at me; hell, I laugh enough at myself.  But c'mon.  Give a girl a break! I was fairly certain I had a concussion and I was well on my way to alcohol poisoning.  They could have shown a bit more compassion. Seriously, not everyone can be as graceful as Kristi Yamaguchi on slippery surfaces.

            When I stumbled back to our scoring station, I sat down and poured myself another beer.  I needed to take a breather and console myself with more alcohol.  Many minutes had gone by since my bowling faux pas, but I still felt like I was being watched.  Sure as shit, when I looked around, a million almond shaped eyes were all on me.  All games had stopped.  I'm pretty sure the DJ even stopped playing music and the only sounds you could hear were the fans from the ball return.  Still? I was their source of entertainment for the moment? Not cool kids, not cool.

            While Emily was taking her next turn, I stood back up, threw my arms up in the air like Muhammad Ali after winning a fight and yelled "Yep! I just fell! Get over it! Fuck you General Tso!"  To this day, I'm shocked these Asians didn't pull out their Hattori Hanzo swords and go Kill Bill on my ass. 

            Emily shook her head, absolutely mortified that she chose to go bowling with "that girl".  Well sweetheart, you wanted to go bowling.  When you take me out in public, this is what you get, girl.  You get stuck with "that girl".

            "That girl" is everywhere.  She's at the bar where she takes too many shots, drunk dials/texts ex-boyfriends, and ends up crying in the bathroom all night.  She's at the movies where she gives her boyfriend a hand job and giggles at all the inappropriate parts. 

            She's at the bowling alley where she drinks too much, cheers too loud when she gets a spare, and when she gets a gutter ball, she uses cuss words even seasoned pirates don't dare use.  That girl also acts as if she's the best bowler on the planet, tends to fall down, and sings along to the songs as if it were Karaoke night.

            We finished up the third and last game in a matter of minutes.  Actually, Emily may have played for both of us for fear that I would either fall again or get shot.  Somehow, I managed to score over 100 points per game, which I thought was amazing but soon learned scoring 108 points in a bowling game is by no means good.  It's not even noteworthy.  Not unless you're one of Jerry's kids or you are quadruple amputee and push the ball down the lane using only that special ramp and your teeth; then yes, it is miraculous.

            That night, I walked out of the bowling alley with my pounding head held high. Well, about five feet, three inches high.  I learned many things that night.  Emily must really love me if she put up with my behavior that night.  Turning lights off in a bowling alley is a really bad idea for someone like me who can barely play with the lights on.  And even though I couldn't compete against those Asians in bowling, they sure as shit couldn't compete against me for height. 

            For those of you wondering, four inches do matter!  It's the small victories in life that are worth celebrating.

           

           

           

           

           

           

Facebook Faux Pas Part Deux

About a year ago, I posted Facebook Faux Pas regarding the types of people who use Facebook. This time around, I want to investigate the recent trend of TMGDI, also known as Too Much God Damn Information.

It seems as though 90% of the Facebook population is currently afflicted with this condition and someone needs to come up with a cure!  Now, I am a very open, outspoken person, but even I have limits as to what I want my Facebook "friends" to know about me. I will admit that sometimes I complain about things and vent frustrations but I also know how to deal with these things in real life and know that nothing will ever change if I just dump it on Facebook, like most people who suffer from TMGDI.

If you are one of those afflicted by "TMGDI", here are some topics you should probably avoid...yes, you all know who you are.

1. PERIODS: Women, this is for you. As a woman, I can understand and relate to your monthly mayhem, but not everyone needs to hear about it. Next time you want to complain about your rusty beaver, call your mother or your sister. Do NOT broadcast it on Facebook. Please refrain from writing things like "Cramps and Netflix"; "In dire need of a Super Plus Tampon"; or "I am so cranky because I am bleeding heavily from my period". Please use discretion. If you know you will be tempted to discuss your period on FB, just don't log in for the day. If you're that cranky from your period or laid up in bed with cramps, the last thing on your mind should be Facebook.

2. IBS:  Oh yes, irritable bowel syndrome. Who doesn't want to hear about that? Yes, I recently put up a post about Pee & Poo; however, it was a joke and it was really about a company in Sweden who manufactures Pee & Poo educational toys. There is quite a difference. I do not need to know how badly your bowels are cramping or that you're constipated or anything of the sort.  If you need to complain about your IBS, I suggest you see your doctor immediately.  Again, if you're suffering from IBS, you probably shouldn't even log into FB. You should probably be sitting on the toilet or in a doctor's office. If you simply cannot refrain yourself, at least avoid status updates such as "My asshole is bleeding"; "I haven't shit for days!"; or "My IBS is flaring up again". Seriously, no one cares but you and your doctor, and your MD might not even care that much.

3. RELATIONSHIP/FAMILY/LIFE PROBLEMS: Facebook is not intended to be a reliable substitute for a therapist or even a close friend.  It's one thing to complain about your partner jokingly or allude to a frustration, but it's another to be a constant complainer and post something multiple times a day about how shitty your life is, what an asshole your baby daddy/spouse/wife is, and to actually expect and look forward to your Facebook "friends" to show sympathy and conduct a therapy session online.  If you don't like the weather, move. If you don't like your partner, dump him/her and move on. If you don't like your job, quit. The time you spend on Facebook complaining about this shit, the problem could have been solved if you would try and solve it in real life and not on Facebook.  But, if you are one of those people who really needs to complain about everything on FB, at least try to avoid the following status updates: "Why can't you be loving and caring instead of acting like you hate me?"; "Why am I never good enough?"; "My job/life/wife/husband/baby daddy/house/car sucks". Instead of taking time to write these asinine status updates, maybe you should Google "Marriage Counselor", "Life Coach" or "Match.com" instead of dumping all your drama on the Facebook population.

4. GAMES THAT END IN "VILLE": I have to admit this one doesn't really "fit" with the rest of the topics, but I feel it is necessary to throw it in here anyway.  PLEASE stop sending me shit for games that end in "VILLE". I do NOT play these games, nor will I start. Every time someone comes up with a new 'Ville game, I end up blocking it. I understand the games require you to post stuff so people can help you out with your farm animals, cities, and Oregon Trail frontier shit, but c'mon! Facebook is about connecting with people and staying in touch with people, not about sending me cows, buildings, and horses. I'm not judging those of you who play these games; I'm just asking you to refrain from sending me stuff for these games on a daily basis! If I wanted to milk cows, I'd move back to WI. If I wanted to go to a trading post, I'd hit up the Seminole Indian Reservation.  If I wanted to build a city, I'd go screw Donald Trump and convince him to marry me so we could build a city on Rock 'N Roll. But none of that is going to happen because I simply don't care about any of it!

5. SPORTS UPDATES: It's totally acceptable to be a sports fan; hell, I even enjoy a football game or two.  But, if we wanted to watch the game, we would. Since we are on Facebook, that probably means we could care less about the game. STOP with the constant sports updates. I'm glad you're a fan, but that doesn't mean we need to know who scored what touchdown, goal, or run! If we wanted to know, I guess we'd tune into the same game, wouldn't we? If you're not an ESPN sportscaster, refrain from typing things like "That was a bullshit call!"; "It's your only job to catch the damn ball!"; or "If my team doesn't win, I'm going to kill myself or somebody else". If you're so into the game, why are you on FB in the first place? You should either be at the game, or watching the game in some shit hole bar or on your couch!

For those of you afflicted with TMGDI, I really hope you take my advice to heart. If not, TMGDI might ruin your life.

Pee & Poo

Pee and Poo...two of my favorite topics EVER. It's no secret that I never pass up a chance to talk about pee and poo. Yes, I am rapidly approaching 30, but you'd never know it once I open my mouth.  I can be mature, but most times I constantly say dumb shit and am always trying to be funny (which I'm pretty good at).  I'm never afraid to announce when I have to pee or poop and on some occasions, I also talk about my bodily functions. Not everyone likes it, but hey, I can't please everyone. And I know deep down, they wish they could be as open as I am.

I find it interesting when my pee is blaze orange when I haven't had enough water and am always surprised when my poo is black after drinking Pepto, even though I know it all makes sense. I always wonder why I shiver when I have to pee (although I recently learned the reason for it from a dear friend) and wonder why I always pee when I poop? What's the correlation here?

You might be grimacing right now, but what's the big deal? It's natural! I'm a human; therefore, I have bodily functions. It's nothing to be ashamed of and it is something to discuss!

So, imagine my excitement when I came across the company Pee & Poo.  According to the website, the Pee&Poo brand was established in Stockholm, Sweden, in 2004. Yep. Same country that came up with IKEA, which is also pure genius.

A woman named Emma Megitt founded the company, and the products are used for educational purposes for parents and children.  Besides education, Pee & Poo also serve as cuddly companions for the little ones. These are also great alternatives to children playing with their real pee and poo, which is quite messy and stinky (although this might give kids a mixed message and might confuse parents when their kids say "Mommy! I want to play with my Pee & Poo!" We can only hope the kids are talking about the furry stuffed kind, not the messy stinky kind).

I personally couldn't be happier about this! The website has stuffed pee and poo animals, onesies, undies, keychains, socks, and my personal favorite--temporary tattoos! Imagine the possibilities!

I also discovered a cute little video of Pee & Poo. Watch at your own risk. You might fall in love with these little chunks like I did.

I'm just glad I'm not the only person who is entertained by Pee & Poo. To think how many children and parents around the world are also amused by these little guys. I can't wait to have children so I can have the excuse to order EVERY item in the shop! Wait, F that! I don't need kids to order Pee & Poo! I'm not ashamed that I would spend $32 on these cuddly toilet buddies!

I have made it my personal mission to find and purchase at least something with Pee & Poo on it (I know; I could make something for free at home, but as I stated above, that is messy and stinky and I'm not a toddler...or am I?)

If you're as excited about this as I am (and are damn near peeing and pooing your britches like I am), click here for the link to the Pee & Poo shop and get out your wallets! I know I am!

In the meantime, I'm just going to play a little Pee & Poo memory game!

The Ring

Tuesday night was a night that changed our lives forever!  Most of you all know that I recently gave Emily an engagement ring, but most of you don't know the story. So here it is.

For several months now, I've been planning on giving Emily a ring.  After much research and consulting with close friends and family, I found the ring I wanted to give her.  Words cannot express my gratitude to my father for giving me his mother's engagement ring to give to Emily.  I never met my grandmother (she died before I was born), but I was lucky to enjoy 17 years with my Grandpa.  And just knowing he gave his wife that ring makes it that much more special.  I will be forever grateful to Dad for giving us this ring.  It has changed everything. So thank you Dad Kelly. I love you so much!

After my parents planned to give me the ring, I decided it would be respectful to contact Emily's parents and tell them my plans.  I spoke with her mom and told her I was giving Emily a ring, told her what it was for, and where it was coming from. After that conversation, I felt confident in my decision to give Emily this ring.   We had the love and support from our friends and family and it was time for me to show her my commitment. 

We recently went home to WI and while we were in Rhinelander, Dad had taken the ring to get appraised at a jeweler. We picked it up and I've had it with me ever since.  Once we got back to FL, I really couldn't wait much longer to give the ring to Emily.  It was burning a hole in my pocket and I had to give it to her.

I decided Tuesday 6 July was the day.  It was a random, spontaneous day and she wouldn't have suspected anything.  I had been thinking for months about what I wanted to do, how I wanted to do it, and what I wanted to say.  So I chose something that wasn't too out of character for me.  Something simple and sweet.

I had written Emily a letter a while ago with what I wanted to say, so I took Tuesday afternoon to perfect it.  I then sent Emily a text message saying: "Your mission if you choose to accept it: Dinner with me tonight on Hollywood Beach".  Immediately she responds: "Are you paying?" I had to laugh. She would ask that! She assumed we'd be going out to eat when all along I was planning a beach picnic.

Then I called the flower shop down the road and asked if they had sunflowers in stock (in Southern FL, they sell out immediately) and as luck would have it, they had some left! They are Em's favorite flower so I got a small bouquet and brought it home.  I whipped up some raw veggie and cheese kabobs along with some sliced strawberries, wine, and beer and packed a cooler and waited impatiently for her to get home!  When I saw her getting out of her car, my heart was pounding in my chest and I was extremely nervous (which if any of you really know me, I don't get nervous about much).

When Emily got home, I told her I had a surprise for her.  She was surprised with the flowers (which she loved) and I told her we'd be going to the beach for a picnic.  When she asked why (which I knew she would), I told her we were having a picnic since we didn't get to celebrate the 4th of July since we were in airports and on planes all day.  And of course she believed it.

The weather at the beach could not have been more perfect.  It was a beautiful evening despite being hazy and overcast, but at least the hot sun wasn't beating down on us.  The water was calm, the breeze was cool and there weren't many people at the beach.  So we ate the kabobs and strawberries and drank our alcohol, just relaxing at the beach.  We were talking about what we did at work that day and then I said "You know what else I did at work today? I wrote you a letter." She proceeded to call me a dork but read it anyway.

The letter basically said how I believe every decision I've ever made has led me to her.  That I love her and will always support and encourage her.  How she has made me be a better person and how grateful I am that she's in my life.  How she is the best part of me.  And to top it off, I wrote "In the words of Kelly Clarkson: My Life Would Suck Without You".  Emily loved the letter and appreciated it but at the same time, she still had no idea what this hooplah was all about.

I then told her I had something else for her.  She grinned and was in disbelief that I had one more thing to give her.  I pulled the ring box out of my pocket and gave it to her.  She said "What is it?" I told her to open it (which she had a hard time figuring out the antique ring box) but when she got it open, she took out the ring and asked again "what is it?"

I then explained to her that it was my grandmother's engagement ring and I was giving it to her as a sign of my commitment.  She stared in awe at it and partial disbelief so I said "before you say anything, I just want you to know I have spoken with both our parents and I would not have given you this ring if I didn't feel confident that we had their support".  I told her about the conversations I had with my family, her family, and our friends and she burst into tears.

My heart sank.  She was crying and I thought I had ruined everything! I knelt on the sand by her and hugged her, asking her if the tears were good or bad tears.  Turns out, they were happy tears.  She looked at the ring again and I told her I loved her and asked her if she'd marry me someday, somewhere, somehow.  She laughed through her tears and said yes! 

It was a long few months planning and researching, but it paid off in the end.  The evening was awesome and she said she couldn't have asked for anything more.  Emily thought it was perfect and she is absolutely in love with the ring (except it doesn't fit! Kelly women have small hands!)


So that's the story! We sincerely apologize that we didn't/couldn't call everyone to tell them the same exact story. We basically only had time to talk to immediate family and after we put it on FB, the phone calls started pouring in!  It has been overwhelming and we've been busy the past few days! Using the Internet is truly the best way to spread news fast!

For those of you who have asked or are wondering, no, we do not have any current "wedding" plans for numerous reasons.
1. We cannot legally get married in our state, or approximately 44 other states for that matter.
2. We do not have the savings/money for any ceremony just yet.
3. We are fine with having a long "engagement" and whenever we do decide to start making plans, we will let everyone know.  It would be more of a commitment ceremony than anything.

Thank you for all your kind words and congrats for us! Your unconditional love and support means the world to us and we definitely could not have made it through the past 4 years without certain amazing people (you know who you are) pushing us and encouraging us to stay strong and never give up.  We have faced adversity and negativity but we refuse to stop trying! Our relationship has been the easy part; the outside factors have been the difficult part to face and deal with, but it is all worth it. Being with Emily is fun, exciting, and it just comes naturally.  We have a great, strong, and loving relationship and the love and support we've gotten and the things we've faced and accomplished over the past years have only made us better people. I can't imagine my life without Emily and I am forever thankful she has changed my life for the better in so many ways. We honestly couldn't be happier and couldn't ask for more!

Emily, your "yes" has made me the happiest woman in the world. I will love you forever.

Dick-For-A-Day

Here is another SAMPLE chapter from my collection of humor essays.
**This is a rough draft and subject to change**


Dick-For-A-Day

There have been many times in my life I was convinced I was a boy trapped in a girl’s body. I’m physically female but my personality and behavior resembles that of a teenage boy. 

Growing up, I preferred sports over dolls, t-shirts over dresses, and sitting spread eagle in a chair instead of crossing my legs like a woman with any dignity would.  Beer will always be better than wine; chicken wings will always taste better than a chicken Caesar salad.  Truth is, being ladylike is not one of my strong suits.

I would never go as far as Chastity Bono who got a sex change and legally changed her name because she felt so trapped in her own body. I think I can speak for everyone when I say I honestly thought she was a man before she announced to the world that she is now, physically and legally a man.  Clearly, her sex change didn't change that much.

I would also never go to an insane extreme like that woman who became a man, a “pregnant man” no less, and was featured on TLC, having babies because his wife couldn’t.  Listen pal, you’re not fooling anyone.  You may look and sound like a man, but you still have a baby maker behind that vagina of yours.  You’re not a medical miracle; you’re a mangina.

In fact, I love being a woman.  I love everything about it. But I also take pride in my frat boy-like attitude hidden underneath my female exterior.  Women are beautiful creatures (I am obviously exempt from this) and I would never trade my body for a man’s body.

The only exception to this is if a magic genie appeared and offered to exchange my vagina and give me a dick-for-a-day and granted me three wishes to accompany the exchange.  That I would certainly accept. 

If I had a penis for a whole day, there is so much I would do with it!  It would be hard parting with my muffin, but some things need to be sacrificed when a magic genie appears outside of the movie Aladdin.

My first request—no balls.  Balls are gross.  Just the twig; not the berries. If I can still come without testicles, why would I need them?  Having balls is like hanging things from my rearview mirror; it doesn't serve a purpose and are just decorative.

The first thing on my agenda would be naming my penis.  Every dick needs a name, and no I would not name it Dick.  How cliché.  I would name it Fitzgerald (Fitz for short; he would be a cool, yet classy penis), introduce myself with a firm, yet welcoming handshake and let him hang loose, commando style in my pants.  There’s no way I would constrict Fitzgerald with underwear.  He deserves wide-open spaces where he could stretch out without being constricted.

Next I would measure Fitz.  With a yard stick; not a ruler.  My second request—I would have to be hung, similar to a Johnsonville summer sausage log. No cocktail wiener for me.  Both Fitz and I deserve better than that.

After I am satisfied with the length and girth, I would masturbate for hours on end.  My third and final request—unlimited orgasms.  If Fitz and I were going to be pals for the same length of time it takes the Earth to make a full rotation, (or approximately the same time amount of time Britney Spears was married to that Jason guy), we were going to party like it was Y2K all over again.  Except without the panic of people waiting for the world to end.

The point of masturbating for hours on end is to get accustomed to Fitz and figure out what we both enjoy.  I know how it feels to rub my bean and pleasure myself as a woman, but I would have to teach Fitz tricks, shortcuts, and critical technique before I could take him out and introduce him to people.

After Fitz and I participate in a penile crash course, we would be ready to tackle the world and finally introduce him to a woman besides myself.  Since I already sleep with a woman, I would have no problem sleeping with as many women as I possibly could.

Sleeping with a woman is something everyone should experience, male or female.  With Fitz attached to my body, I would have to disguise myself as a man so straight girls would take me seriously (I would consider sleeping with a lesbian, but being one myself, I have discovered most gay women prefer the papaya over the banana at this particular time in their lives.  I once enjoyed a bunch of bananas but now, I’m strictly a papaya gal).

In order to share Fitz with as many women as possible, I would have to find a place where a gaggle of women would be centrally located.  Where would I look first?

The obvious option would be a bar. It might be a good place to start lady hunting, although I would only have a one in five chance that a woman would actually sleep with me within minutes of meeting me.  Even at a college bar.  I only had twenty-four hours; I couldn’t take the chance of being rejected.  Fitz was eager for a beaver.

What about a sorority house?  From my experience with sorority girls, they liked to play fast and loose and weren't afraid to spread their school spirit (legs).  But they were also unpredictable and cesspools for STD’s.  I wasn’t ready for Fitz to be afflicted with a disease besides sex addiction.

A Curves gym? It was possible, although I wouldn’t enjoy fucking a post-aerobic sweaty mess, and I’m pretty sure Fitz would not appreciate being forced down that slippery slope. 

A Bed, Bath, & Beyond store? It seemed like a logical place.  The store offers several different beds, college aged clerks and candles for mood lighting, but it was still a bad idea.  A soaps, suds, & sheets store is not the place to experiment different body contortions and sexual positions with the customers and employees.

Where could I find women who would sleep with me willingly, as many times as I wanted? 

The answer was in front of me this whole time—literally because as I write this, I’m watching the E! True Hollywood Story about Heidi Fleiss.  I would have to visit a brothel.  It seems like a perfect plan.  I would have to find a moderately priced whorehouse, where the girls were easy, the prices were reasonable, and I wouldn’t get arrested.  If I only had Fitz for one day, I wasn’t willing to get arrested and spend time in jail, although I’m sure I could find someone who would love to meet Fitz in jail.

Since I don’t live in Nevada, I would just have to risk being caught with Fitz in a prostitute’s mouth.  If politicians could get away with it, surely I could as well.  It was a small price to pay to share my dick-for-a-day with as many women as I could. 

I would then drive to an ATM and empty my savings account, which wouldn’t amount to much (I’m a writer for Fitz’s sake).  It wouldn’t matter; I was willing to spend the new bed or the down payment on a house to share my penis with hookers. 

Fitz wouldn’t need the women to be beautiful either.  Sure it’d be like finding money in a pair of jeans you haven’t worn in months, or scoring an extra soda from the vending machine when you only paid for one, but it wasn’t a necessity.  Just an added bonus.  A papaya was a papaya no matter how you cut it.  The only thing he required was an audience with willing (and legal) participants.

After surrendering my life’s savings, I would then pick the woman with whom I would share Fitz with for the first time.  She would have to be compliant with the missionary position.  If I’m test driving Fitz for the first time, I want to make sure he performs correctly in the parking lot before I take him to the race track.

Of course Fitz would pass the test; he was attached to my body and as an amazing lover myself, Fitz wouldn’t let us down.

After I had my first woman, I would be ready for anything.  Threesomes. Blow jobs. Anal (with women and/or men. Don’t judge me). Hand jobs (although I would prefer to skip that since I could do it myself).  Sex toys.  Role playing.  S&M bondage. Foursomes.  Group orgy. I would even consider shooting a porno flick with Fitz as the star.  I would do it all.

Of course I wouldn’t sleep.  I couldn’t take a break from sex; I only had one day.  My goal was to drop the big “O” at least 100 times in the span of a day (and yes, that includes self-love).  I wouldn’t give up until I met my goal.  If Lance Armstrong can win the Tour de France 400 times with only one testicle while wearing a LiveStrong bracelet, surely I could come at least 100 times with just a penis and perhaps a cock ring.

When my twenty-four hours were up, I would be a changed woman.  No longer would I wonder what it would be like to have a penis.  I would know what it was like to pee while standing up (and not have it running down my leg).  It would give new meaning to the phrase “blowing my load”.  I would finally know how a hot dog felt in a bun; how a pig felt in a blanket.  How a chocolate covered banana felt in a banana split.  I would understand why a nut-cup was important to male athletes and fully grasp the concept of pitching a tent (something I struggle with when I go camping).

After returning my dick-for-a-day to the genie, he would return my papaya and I would greet her with two fingers, or even give her a vibrating toy as a welcome home present.  I would appreciate the beauty of having a vagina and treasure her for the rest of my life.

Friends would ask “how does it feel hanging from your body?” And I would reply “similar to the set of twins hanging from your chest”.

“What does it feel like to get a blow job?”  To that I would reply “Licking  is always better than sucking”.  Women have more erectile tissue than men; therefore, blow jobs don’t even compare to what women experience during oral sex.

“What does it feel like to be inside a woman?”  That one was easy.  “Ever been on a water slide?” I would respond.

“Don’t you want to have a penis for more than a day?”  No brainer.  I would say, “How much time can you realistically spend with your boyfriend/husband before you reach your boiling point?”  They would look at me as if they had just had an epiphany.  Yea, that’s what I thought.

Having a penis for a day would be phenomenal and it would answer many questions.  The only reason I would ever want a penis for a day is strictly for sex, nothing else.  But once it was gone, I would remember how proud I was of my muffin.  I would realize the lawn isn’t always mowed on the other side, so why leave the yard at all?

Of course men and women experience different things with the gear they’re equipped with, but the feeling is basically the same.  An orgasm is an orgasm.  Sure, some are better than others (some are out of this world), but it doesn’t matter if you have a banana or a papaya.  It doesn’t matter if you’re the branch or the stump; we’re all connected to the same tree.

I cherish the woman’s body I was born with.  I’m glad I’m a woman.  I am comfortable being a tomboy—drinking beer, wearing t-shirts, and playing video games—and anyone who doesn’t like it can meet Greta, my angry beaver, and take it up with her.  I’ll even let you take her home for the day.

Sex MISeducation

            Bearded clam. Papaya. Muffin. Cooter. Beaver. Punani. Pork sword. Schlong. Weiner. One-eyed Monster. Bologna Pony.

            Don't deny it; you just laughed. Out loud. Don't worry--these slang terms make me giggle too.  You may have even blushed a little bit. I know I did.

            But I can almost guarantee with as much accuracy as a pregnancy test that you did not bust out into a fit of uncontrollable laughter like I did in sex education in grade school. Or like I just did while writing these slang terms.

            When I first found out we would be having sex education in fifth grade, my first thought was, aren't we too young? And then I looked around the classroom and I saw a couple boys grabbing themselves and a few female classmates of mine had already sprouted decent sized tits.

            Then I looked down at my own chest and realized it was still as flat as my back and to make matters worse, I had no hair "down there". Everyone else was starting to go through puberty and I was in last place. Apparently I was too young for sex ed, but several of my classmates were not. I'm twenty-nine years old now and I don't even think I've made it all the way through puberty yet. I'm about 75% of the way there...still waiting on the tatas to stop training already and grow!

            After the afternoon recess one day, we were herded like baby calves downstairs to the gym where we sat cross-legged on the gym floor, waiting for our teacher to teach us about puberty and intercourse, two of my all-time favorite topics.

            The girls were put on one side of the gym while the boys were put on the other. Apparently they did this so the boys and girls could learn about themselves separately and then they would join the two sexes to incorporate what we've all learned.

            Before the class even started, I was stifling my laughter. I couldn't help it! There were visual aids—posters of male and female anatomy, plus for us young lasses, boxes of pads and tampons on a table.  There was even a bowl of water on the table, most likely to be used to demonstrate how pads and tampons absorb just like the commercials, except this water wasn't blue.

            I was clearly not mature enough to handle sex ed at the age of nine, but I was going to give it a whirl anyway. If I was going to sprout pubes and grow tits overnight, I at least wanted to be prepared.

            "This might make some of you uncomfortable at first, but I would appreciate it if you would all listen and wait until after I'm done to ask questions or make comments," the teacher instructed us. As if I could adhere to these rules! I was already armed at least thirty jokes that involved penises and vaginas that I was ready to fire away to my friends sitting nearby.

            "I will tolerate no jokes or laughing. I expect all of you to take this seriously. No teasing your classmates either," the teacher added. Man, I thought to myself, this bitch was really ruining my fun for the day.  The teacher discussed how our bodies would change in the next coming years—but all I heard was "menstruation, boobs, tampons". It was difficult for me to listen because it was like learning a foreign language. I hadn't experienced any of these things like some of the other girls did.

            When it was finally time to merge the boys and girls together after our segregation in the gym, I was already starting to sweat and I'm pretty sure the dorkiest kid in class had a huge boner as the teacher started using the visual aids of a woman's anatomy.  Somehow I managed to keep my cool as she continuously used the words "penis" and "vagina". Even as an adult, these words still make me laugh so looking back, I was impressed I had made it more than five minutes into the lecture.

            That all changed when the topic shifted from puberty to intercourse and she was explaining sex—or for a child like me, I interpreted intercourse as "boy meets girl. Boy gets boner. Girl laughs at boy for getting boner"—at least that's what I would do. But really all I heard the teacher say was the word "erection", and as part of my selective listening disorder (that I still have by the way) I chose to hear the word "boner" instead. I swear Helen Keller was better at listening than I have ever been.

            Boner, I whispered quietly. Once the word was past my lips, I lost it. I completely missed the teacher's explanation about erections because my childlike cackling cut through the air like a knife. My face turned bright red and try as I might, I couldn't hold it in. I knew I looked like a complete idiot, but I couldn’t stop laughing.

            My shoulders were bouncing up and down and my abs were starting to ache. I was laughing so hard I was starting to grow a 6-pack.  The teacher warned me that if I couldn't stop laughing, I would have to wait out in the hall until I could stop laughing.

            Since I didn't want to be the idiot who got kicked out of sex ed, I thought of things that were not funny. Poor kids in Africa with flies on their faces. Soap operas. Homelessness. My brother.

            It worked. I managed to calm down and my face was restored from a deep crimson to its original color. I looked around the room and saw a couple boys snickering every time the teacher said the word "erection" or "intercourse", so I knew I wasn't alone.

            Then came question and answer time. The teacher asked all of us if we had any questions. At first, everyone was as silent and still as if we were in a Catholic church, but one boy finally raised his hand.

            "What is an erec...um, an erection?" the boy asked, obviously confused. He must have been listening as much as I was. Oddly enough, he was the same kid who I suspected had a boner when the teacher was showing us the parts of a vagina. So here he is with an erection without knowing he had one? What...a loser.

            Turns out he wasn't the loser; I was, and I made sure everyone knew how much of an ass I really was. As soon as he asked the question, I could feel the slow and steady rise of hysterics boiling inside me, ready to explode and I held my mouth as closed as I could before I lost it. This time, my laughter was really uncontrollable. I put both my hands across my mouth, hoping I could push it back in but the laughter escaped out the sides.  I even laughed so hard I heard a fart squeak out, which only made me guffaw louder.

            To an onlooker, it looked as if I was choking while having a grand mal seizure on the floor of the gymnasium. My body was writhing across the floor like a boa constrictor and my laughter wasn't even audible anymore. My mouth was just wide open and my entire body was gyrating from guffawing.  The only sound that could be heard coming from my throat was a series of clicking noises that sounded eerily similar to the mating calls of dolphins.

            I was immediately kicked out. I had been warned once, but I wouldn't be warned twice. I was finally sent out to the hallway where I had to sit for the remainder of the class.

            I was the only person who got kicked out of sex education in the fifth grade in my school. After school, some of my friends were envious of me not having to sit through an uncomfortable lecture about puberty and sex in front of their peers.

            But I was pissed. Not at myself for not being able to control my laughter, but at my teacher for not letting me have another chance. And the fact that I would now be misinformed if I suddenly sprouted boobs and pubes and got a visit from the rusty beaver overnight! I wanted to learn what everyone else was in case I became a woman the very next day! I would be so unprepared.

            The only thing I could do was to go home and ask my mother for the information, but then that meant I would have to tell her I got kicked out of sex ed, and I wasn't ready for that.

            I had no choice but to rely on my friends for information. As it turns out, my friends were complete morons, but I didn't know it at the time. I believed everything they told me; why wouldn't I? I couldn't disprove them since I wasn't in the class, so I took them seriously.

            According to my friends, this is what I missed:

            1. The wiener goes in a girl's pee hole (she didn't know the difference             between the urethra and the vaginal opening)

            2. When a boy gets a boner, he puts it in the vagina (pee hole according to             her) and pees inside her and then she gets pregnant

            3. Pads are diapers (I have to admit; this one is basically true)

            4. Tampons will make you lose your virginity

            5. Every 28 days, women PMS (when I asked them to elaborate on what             the acronym meant, they stared blankly at me)

            6. The bumps on my nipples are Braille for "Lick Me"

            7. Every woman has an Aunt Flo (how could I not know her?)

            Imagine my surprise the first time I got my period. Or the first time I had sex.

            Joking. I'm not that retarded. Luckily for me, I learned everything I needed to know in junior high...both inside and outside of the health education classroom. I just hope my idiotic friends eventually caught on and realized how wrong they actually were, otherwise they were all wearing diapers, getting peed on, and having blind people molest their nipples.

            Needless to say, I never got kicked out of another class in my entire educational history. I, in fact, found out I do not have an Aunt Flo, after hours of yelling at my parents for keeping a family member from me.  My nipples are not like elevator button pads; they do not have Braille written on them.  This girl never wears diapers, only 'pons and oddly enough, I never get PMS.  To this day, I find the word "wiener" to be one of the top 5 funniest words...EVER.  The other words are queef, toot, butthole, and poop.