How Could This Happen?

The first time I ever saw one of those refrigerators (and may I make an early and unnecessary digression to say that I hate it when people spell 'refrigerator' with a 'd'--it's only appropriate in 'fridge') with the freezer on the bottom, I thought quietly to myself, What the fuck? I was probably around three or four years old, and it was at my younger brother's godparents' house. I guess, in theory, it makes some kind of sense because I assmue most people use the refrigerated section more often, but still, in my twenty-four and a half years of living, I have not been able to come to view it as anything less than unorthodox. Side by side is even ok by me, and maybe even preferred in some instances, but upside-down makes me think that were the refrigerator an animate object it would be frustrated, much like a couple standing back to back and trying to have sex.

Like I said: Unorthodox.

The first time I ever had Dippin' Dots. I was probably seven or eight years old and was at the Cincinnati Zoo. I opted to have the Dots over something called a 'Frozana' which, as the name would imply, is a frozen banana. The exact specifications include a banana on a wooden stick, dipped in chocolate, again in nuts, and then, well, frozen. But bananas, being phallic in nature and flavored like bananas (which are a fruit I consume only if I'm running a marathon--an activity I don't participate in), I decided that Dippin' Dots were obviously the best choice. But again, I found myself trying to form the words 'What the fuck' with my second grade mouth, but being hindered by the sub-zero spheres of "ice cream" stuck to any and all wet and exposed tissue in my mouth. Some things you just shouldn't fuck with, was what I was thinking as I slid an entire Styrofoam cup of pastel pellets into the nearest waste receptacle.

And again, at the tender age of ten, I found myself, mouth agape, in front of the brown Citek (a model by Teknika, a brand so obsolete I can't even find it on Wikipedia) television that my parents would not get rid of, watching as a man prepared to give some unsuspecting blond a 'double barrel shotgun'. I figured out immediately what this meant, and while I was thoroughly repulsed, I could not bring myself to hit fast-forward, stop, or something that would alter the course of events that would eventually lead to me viewing anal sex. I thought for sure the girl would scream, protest, or at least say no, but instead, she continued to 'talk Bohemian' as the man preparing to enter her directed.

There I sat, as close to the screen as I could possibly be without the image blurring, my thumb sweaty against the STOP button, lest my parents, or, god forbid, my older brother from whom I'd ganked the porn in the first place, walked in just in time to witness me witnessing this. I don't feel need to be graphic about what happened next because my assumption is that anyone who can operate the Internet has at one point (but more than likely several) used it to view what I did 14 years ago in my parents' add-on. I could feel the carpet beginning to leave imprints on my knees as the What the fuck came over me again.

This time, however, it was different. Much different. It was like in a cartoon where one of the characters gets progressively angrier, or progressively more 'filled with spice' and you see the color starting up from their ankles, then their waist, through their neck, and into their head until steam shoots out their ears. My experience was similar in that I felt my change of heart coming on gradually and moving me from my initial What the fuck on to Well I guess that doesn't seem so bad to No I'm pretty sure I'm going to have to do that one day.

And one day, back in 2005, at the start of one of the best relationships I've been in, I did try it. Not only did I try it, I tried it and made it commonplace in my love life. It was one of my favorite things to do. I don't care how taboo or nasty it sounds because odds are, unless you're a Reverend, and even probably then, you either wish you had a girlfriend like me, or wish you could be a girlfriend like me. My sex life was continuum of orgasmic success, but it was brought to a screeching halt by two things.

The first is that I broke up with my boyfriend.

The second is that I got hemorrhoids.

The latter really wouldn't be so much of a big deal were it not for the fact that said boyfriend has recently re-entered (no pun intended) my life on what I like to call a 'Fuckonly Basis'. This means that we only fuck, but sometimes we get drunk, and sometimes there's cuddling because everyone likes that every now and again, but it really is mostly just fucking. Which is fine with me. The only problem we've run in to so far are the 'rrhoids. While it's entirely possible to have anal sex with hemorrhoids, it's far less possible to do it again immediately following (or even within a few days of) the initial contact.

I feel so betrayed by my body.

The Filipino Woman Who Ruins My Showers

In the locker room at my gym, there are four showers lined up right over by the hot tub in the women's locker room. This is not bothersome to me. What is, however, is a woman who somehow always ends up being in the hot tub right around the time that I have to shower. Again. That fact in and of itself causes me little feeze.

So this woman. She looks Fillipino (and I say 'Filipino' because this is the Requisite Commentary blog--not the Politically Correct Liberal Dickhead blog--and if you must know, I do not think that 'black' is an offensive term). She's a little top heavy, lots of cellulite in her butt cheeks, and usually has a floppy rendition of something akin to a bun on her head. I've also noticed that she likes to wear turquoise high-heeled jelly shoes when she showers. (Not the point.)

The point is that during my shower, she likes to sit in the hot tub and belch. The first time it happened, I thought I was hearing things. The second, I believed it an accident. But the seven dozen or so times since then have led me to leave that in the Philippines (or in Indonesia or Sri Lanka or wherever she is actually from), this is an acceptable practice. To just sit in a shallow pool of hot water, letting noxious gas bubble up from the depths of one's abdomen, is quite a fine thing to do. And if it is? That's fine. I'm not going to make a massive fuss about it--in fact, I'm not going to make a fuss about it in any capacity. However, I'd be much more willing to overlook it if the woman in question resembled the Japanese woman with the really nice tits.

Or maybe I'd be less willing. I'll have to give that some thought.

Was that before or after the British man felt me up?

There comes a time in everyone's life when it is required that someone close to them runs interference. This time, for me, should have occurred last night, but, sadly, did not. Right after I ordered my third double Remy, my friend should have said, "Enough is enough! You're like an old man the way you drink cognac!" But instead, she let me order a fourth, and then she let me order a beer.

The Remy Martin was one thing, but then having a beer on top of that was just too much. Normally, I'm a 'good' drinker. I rarely have hangovers, and even when I drink excessively, I typically have a pretty clear image of what went on the night before. Not last night. And certainly not this morning. Although I did get a brief glimpse of it as I lay shivering on my bathroom floor, pleading with my body to please, please just let me vomit.

Eventually, I did, which leads me to believe that eventually I will get rid of this hangover, and eventually I will drink again.

But not cognac.

Dogs

I have developed a somewhat deep appreciaton for the dogs in Nicaragua. They are very different from the dogs in the United States because they are all engendered to the point of regular procreation. I still feel like a peeping Tom every time I see a dog's testicles bopping around as they trot down the street.

They trot, though, as if htey have somehwere they very desperately need to be. It's not as if they wander around, just aimlessly sniffing things, no, they get to the corner and you can see it as it dawns on them that this is where they are supposed to turn left, These dogs here have self-imposed purpose and if you try to steer them off course, they like to look at you as if to say 'Naw dude, I gotta go fuck some bitches'.

What else is there to say?

I´m in Nicaragua.

Holy fuck.

More Terrible Ideas That Men Have

Today I had lunch with my ex boyfriend. He is my ex as of nearly 15 months ago. This is maybe the fifth or sixth time since we broke up that I've seen him. Other times that I saw him included: shopping for a leather armchair together, getting drunk and fucking each other senseless (twice), and a chance encounter at Chipotle that ended with me squirming my way back to the office and crying on very important paper work, among other things.

My favorite part of today was when he mentioned an anonymous e-mail he'd gotten a month or two ago explaining that he may have contracted syphilis, and, in a panic, ran out and got himself tested. He then inquired as to whether I'd sent it (of course I did), and naturally, I denied it. Then, I suggested it was probably his sister, and he found this explanation acceptable. He then went on to tell me that during the test, the nurse more or less stabbed, and, consequently, ruptured one of his veins which caused a large purple bruise to appear, along with pain severe enough that it ruined his workout for ten days. I've never known someone who works out more religiously than my ex, so in the back of my head, I kept thinking 'That was perhaps the most excellent idea I've ever had'.

My less favorite part came after we'd had a few rounds (because people who don't have jobs are perfectly content to go to lunch on a weekday and get drunk), and he leaned across the table and held my hand. It would have been far less appalling to me if, you know, he didn't have a girlfriend, but he's divulged to me that he hates her and pretty much keeps her around to fuck her. (I'm not surprised in the least by this statement.) He told me that he thinks about me daily, that he misses me. (Mind you, he's the one who ended it. Well, actually, I'm the one who ended it because he didn't have the balls to do so, but it was more or less on him.)

So then I was thinking 'I probably wouldn't like it if I found out my boyfriend was out staring longingly into the eyes of his ex while holding her hand in both of his, telling her that he still thinks about her when he's fucking me, but then, I don't know if hand holding is considered cheating and I'm kind of drunk so I'm more busy analyzing this while maybe I should be more busy jerking my hand away'.

I settled on the notion that hand holding was not the end of the world, and I was right. Because the end of the world very nearly came later when we were saying goodbye and he decided OH WHAT THE FUCK and then leaned over and kissed me. Like. On my lips.

Way to go and complicate things, buddy. Way to fucking go.

Some Things Just Shouldn't be Assumed

Every now and then, I get a little bored and play this 'game'. I put up an ad on the Women Seeking Men section of Craigslist, say that I'm looking for short term dating, nothing serious, throw in some qualifiers, and post a picture.

Note: Posting a picture is the key to a successful Craigslist ad. People, especially men, will usually narrow their search to find only ads with pictures. This is smart, but only works half the time as people like to head with 'Let's Meet 4 Cocktails' and then their picture is actually of a mojito and not of them. I think that this is slimy and underhanded, but I don't know that I care to any significant degree.

I typically get lots of responses to these ads because I'm specific, I'm relatively attractive, and I don't list 'Having fun and going out with my friends' as an interest. Really. Is there anyone who hates having fun? "This is terrible! I'm having so much fun right now!" Is there anyone who can't stand their friends? I think not. I also get sick of reading about people who are 'easy-going'. Only a select few individuals consider themselves uptight, and even fewer think that it's in their favor to point that out. To people stating the inane and obvious: Go punch yourself in the dick.

Most of the responses I get are typically ignored for several reasons. I hate to be that person, but one of the first things I skim for is grammar. Even if you have good grammar but prefer internet talk (Hi, saw ur ad, thought i would say somethin 2 u)--I just--I can't. I also typically ignore men in their forties. I've got nothing against men in their forties. My dad was a man in his forties once. I have lots of friends who are men in their forties. But I don't particularly want to correspond with them, much less date them.

So on the off chance that I do respond to someone (which usually happens to be about two out of 50), it's usually because these people appear to have something going for them. Sometimes it doesn't go beyond e-mail, but sometimes I get a fun dinner date out of the deal.

The keyword above: Appear.

I recently corresponded with a young man who could type a sentence, complete a thought, and didn't look like he'd been hit in the face with a hot waffle iron. We shared a few e-mails, talked about our interests, and I mentioned my upcoming trip to Central America. He countered and mentioned that he's been to Costa Rica. "The cocaine out there is phenominal(sic)!"

CUE: RECORD SCRATCH.

Cocaine?

The vast majority of my good friends, at one time or another, have tried coke. That's fine. I'm not your mom. I'm not going to try to tell you what to do, nor do I necessarily care. But me, personally, not really crazy about putting things up my nose. As a matter of fact, in regards to cocaine specifically, I would perhaps consider myself moderately terrified by it. I'd honestly rather find an alligator in my bathtub than find some blow on my coffee table.

Also, from what I hear, cocaine seems to be a rather 'selfish' drug. One of my roommates described it like this: "It's just a bunch of people sitting around, talking about themselves, waiting for a break in the conversation to turn the topic to them, not really paying attention to or caring what anyone else says."

That said, throwing in that little part about cocaine was a little be off-putting. It's one thing if someone says 'Oh I tried it back when but I'd never want to do it again'--see, the distinction between experimentation, recreation, and addiction.

And honestly, I probably wouldn't have cared that much if he hadn't thrown in the part about soliciting a prostitute of his own gender.

At leat I responded to the guy though, unlike the dude who didn't put anything in the body of his e-mail, to which he then attached two pictures of his erect penis. Good work exhibitionist guy cruising Craigslist at 4 am, good work.

Gym Time Pickup Lines

Today, at the gym, I saw THE HOTTEST MAN EVAR. I see him quite frequently down where the Lakeshore Triad usually convenes. What is the Lakeshore Triad? It's a group comprised of three types of men:

Group One: The Hottest Yuppies You've Ever Seen
Group Two: The Middle Aged Guys Who Wish They Were in Group One But Never Will Be
Group Three: The Disconcertingly Intense Asians Who Have Seemingly Nobody to Impress but Themselves

Anyhow, THE HOTTEST MAN EVAR fell distinctly into Group One. Many times, I've wanted to lean casually against the towel rack, one foot cleverly leaned against a Swiss ball so he can get a gander at my junk fupa and say to him, "So...do you come here often?" but my guess is that his reply would be something like, "Yeah. You should know, since you do, too. Oh and nice fupa."

So today I was working my obliques and it was very clear that THE HOTTEST MAN EVAR wanted me to use the equipment I was on. When I finished, he said, "You all done here?" and I said, "It's all yours," but what I really meant to say was, "Fuck me."

Restaurant Review: Blackbird

Blackbird
619 West Randolph St.
Chicago, IL 60661

I've never written a food review so I don't know if there's a format. I'm thinking I should be throrough and descriptive and use words you'd find in Bon Apetit. Then again, I've never been one for convention, so I'll just launch right in like I know what the fuck I'm talking about.

Cocktails Blackbird Orange
It's certainly not helpful that I don't remember what was in it, but it was served as a martini. I have mixed feelings about martinis, namely martinis that are not actually martinis, but rather mixed drinks that are passed off as martinis so people who can't really handle alcohol can feel like they are classy. I'm a fan of a dirty martini with Beefeater and olives. My personal preferences aside, the drink was acceptable. It happened to be much sweeter than I'd anticipated, and I prefer things to be tart or tangy or both. Also, the glass came rimmed with chopped ice. I'm all for creative presentation so long as it works, but unless I was going to chug that drink, the garnish added little to the practicality of the drink.
Grade: B

That Thing That You Don't Order But The Chef Sends Anyway Oyster on the half shell with pureed spinach and pecans
Given that I'm not crazy about oysters to begin with, all I can say is that I was content with the amount that I got. I'm happy that it was not more or less
Pass or Fail: Pass

Appetizer Smoked finglerling potato soup with fried Ipswich clams, black radish and preserved watermelon
A true delight. I was presented with a shallow bowl with the clams and garnish arrange, the soup was brought separately and poured in. The soup was a great consistency, something that's rather tricky to achieve with such a starchy base. The clams weren't particularly flavorful, but by no means 'bad'. My favorite part was the black radish and preserved watermelon. Had I not been so eager to find out what, exactly, preseved watermelon is, I'd have opted for the Scotch egg, but my curiosity got the better of me. Luckily, the delicious bitter of the black radish paired well with the tangy melon.
Grade: A

Main Course Grilled California sturgeon with sauerkraut gnocchi, anjou pear and celery root puree
I recently stopped eating red meat (though I'll likely start again), which made this choice a little trickier. There was a hen option and the option of a pork belly, along with a few other fish selections. I'd originally opted for the pork belly but switched to the sturgeon, a white fish, but 'meatier' as tuna tends to be. The fish was perfectly done, presented atop the celery root puree and next to the gnocchi. I had no idea what to expect from sauerkraut gnocchi, but it was nothing to get my hopes up about. Again, not bad, just not as flavorful as I'd hoped, though it went well with the fish.
Grade: A-

Dessert Mission fig beignet with cara cara oranges, butterscotch and bacon ice cream
There were two other desserts on the menu that had cheese in them, and cheese being my first love, I was equally tempted by both of them. What sealed the deal for me and the beignets was the mention of bacon ice cream. In true form, the dessert was my favorite dish. The beignet was an excellent consistency, perfectly coated in sugar and just the right amount of gooey. The oranges were tart and complemented the butterscotch and bacon ice cream just as I thought they would.
Grade: A+

Pros
The waitstaff is friendly and professional, but not stuffy. The kitchen is the right amount of display kitchen and ambiguity. Location is great, design is impeccable. Our waiter, David, had the best tie ever.

Cons
The restaurant is extremely small, which in itself isn't a problem. The problem is that they don't turn tables quickly, and thus, make less money. It's made up for by charging more for the food. The pricing wasn't exorbitant, but I've gotten the same quality food for less at larger restaurants. Then again, I didn't pay, so I don't know if I really care at all.

Overall Grade: A-

A Cleverly Landed Arrow

Do we have to talk about Valentine's Day?

Yes. I suppose we do.

I have an odd sort of history with Valentine's Day. When I was young, I was perpetually sick on Valentine's Days and recall having only made it to two class celebrations ever. One particularly bad year, 1991, I stayed home with double pneumonia. This was the same year our house burned down.

OK that's a lie. It didn't actually burn down, but there was a nasty fire in the kitchen that left the house without power for a day or two. We spent that night in a HoJo, and the next day I stayed with my mom at our obese neighbor's house. I sat in the plaid-looking recliner in their den, drinking raspberry Diet Rite, watching Encyclopedia Brown videos, and burrowing under a brown and orange afghan that smelled like the year 1967 must have smelled.

I remember several early teenage holidays that involved "boyfriends" and a specifically calibrated stupidity that comes with being an adolescent.

The one categorically 'good' Valentine's Day I had included at day at the MCA, a fresh piece of marlin, and the purshase of a USB drive.

This year though, I was forgotten completely, though I remain undecided about my feelings regarding this. Had I been forgotten by a boyfriend, or even someone I just fuck on a semi-regular basis, I might be a little pinched. However, the person who forgot me is a woman I've me but twice in my life. She's a woman of Cuban descent who has a son whom I might consider (and as of four seconds ago, actually did consider) paying to sleep with me. Anyhow, this woman, whose son is, for all intents and purposes, irrelevant, is my doctor. More specifically, my General Practitioner.

Today she was supposed to give me a rectal exam and forgot completely. In any other context, if someone said to me, "Oh dammit. I meant to bring some latex gloves so I could wiggle my finger up your butt for a while," I would consider it no one's loss but theirs. In this context, however, we're talking about my health. We're talking about the very narrow possibility that I might be dying, or (more likely, but still not that likely), may never be able to have anal sex [again].

So when she asked if I needed anything else, I told her what was going on and decided my decision to wear Banana Republic underwear might pay off (see, beacuse she could tell her son, right). It was very quick and to the polnt, though my guess is that anyone on either end of a rectal exam would agree that quick and to the point is precisely how one should be. Really though, I'm fairly neutral toward the entire experience. It was neither the highlight nor the downfall of my day.

In fact, I would say the worst part of my day, which still wasn't that bad, involved a bag of Skittles spilling in my expensive leather handbag.

Not a bad day really, and not a bad Valentine's Day either.