Under The Wagon

...And a Happy Thanksgiving to all.

I'm working all day, which sucks. Thanksgiving is always my favorite holiday...Eating yourself sick, watching a little football, hanging out with the family...And you don't have to buy anyone presents or decorate. At most, you throw a cornucopia on the table and call it a day.

Unfortunately, thanks to my position on the office totem pole - that would be at the very bottom - I haven't spent T-day with my family since I moved to Chicago two years ago. And the shift I pulled this year is noon-6pm, happily excluding me from any dinners that I could have attended (provided any well-meaning friends took pity on me and invited me home with them).

However, after several of the regulars at Elbo begged, and I did my suprisingly effective "Puppy Dog Eyes" trick, the bar management agreed to stay open tonight. So I get to have Thanksgiving with the other barflies. I'm bringing turkey sandwiches.

I still haven't decided if this is a soul-lifting affirmation of how a group of individuals can reach out to each other and form a community of fellowship on a day where everyone can find something to be thankful for...Or if it's the saddest fucking thing ever. I mean, my mom almost cried when I told her I'd be spending Thanksgiving at a bar with a bunch of other lonely and desperate people.

But still, turkey sandwiches, dude! And half-priced drinks.

Guess which one I'm thankful for.
 

Tuesday night I worked until 11pm and then hit Elbo for a couple of drinks, a bit of pizza, and some excellent company. Had a very nice time, and caught a ride home after last call. Then I realized that my home is boring.

Actually, I think my home is fine. My vagina decided that my home is boring.

Vagina: "Hey, there's nobody in that bed, I don't want to sleep there."
Me: "Yeah, I know, but there isn't anybody we can really call right now."
Vagina: "C'mon...please?"
Me: "Aren't you still, you know...um, 'under the weather'?"
Vagina: "Oh, you mean the period? Nope, perfectly fine. Call someone. Now."
Me: "Are you sure? And besides, we got into trouble last week when you made me drunk call all those poor people."
Vagina: "It's fine. C'mon. Call Jim!"
Me: "Jim ("November Sweeps" Nov. 15th post). Well, he's kind of a flake...But I guess since he's drunk called me a bunch..."

So, I called Jim. Jim was happy to hear from me. I went and met a very drunk Jim at his house.

It's a long story, but the gist is this:

New Age vocal music all fucking night.
Jim yells at me when I called a mutual friend on his phone (after he suggested it), because I apparently "Just take whatever I want without asking, or thinking of other people's feelings."
Jim is hurt when I don't remember some really deep, New Agey conversation we had the last time we hooked up (I was pretty fucking drunk, for chrissakes).
I decide to go to bed, fully dressed, ignoring all attempts on Jim's part to get me undressed.
I decide to ignore Jim entirely.
Did I mention New Age vocal music ALL FUCKING NIGHT?

I fully planned on sneaking out of the place as soon as Jim passed out, but eventually fell asleep. In the morning, I had another conversation with my vagina.

Vagina: "Psst, hey, wake up. Let's have sex with Jim."
Me: "Jim's an ass."
Vagina: "Aww, just nail him and we can get out of here."
Me: "Fine. Just shut up, okay."

And the gist is this:

Foreplay lasts exactly 2 minutes.
Jim watches himself in the mirror over his bed the whole time we do it.
I don't come.
Jim congratulates me on what a great time that was.
And the Vagina was lying about the period being over.

However, at this point I don't even care. In fact, I'm secretly glad that I bled on him.

So I pat Jim on the head and run like hell, vowing never to call that fucker again.

And hopefully I won't.
 

Have you heard about those dealies that they put on the cars of major, court-determined alcoholics? It's a breathalyzer set-up that you have to blow into before you can start the car. The ignition won't start unless you're sober enough to drive.

I want one of those things on my phone.

The other day I woke up with only fuzzy memories of how I got home. Apparently some cabbie had mercy and got my inebriated ass home from Elbo, even though I don't quite think I had enough fare. This is bad.

I blearily leaned over the bed for my patented "Next-day-phone-check" (this always follows the patented "Am-I-alone-in-bed-check"...I was). And yep, the outgoing call registry was filled. Filled with calls I made at 2:40am. And 2:41. And 2:42.

This is very bad.

I did talk to one of the lucky recipients of my drunken communiques...

Me: "Um, Roger, did I leave you a message last night?"
Rog: "hahahahahahhahaha."

I take this as a yes.

Me: "What did I..."
Rog: "hiiiiiiii, itz Karla....I'mmmmm drunk. I love you. Loooooove you."
Me: "Oh god...Well, I guess I called Larry, too."
Rog: "Oh shit. That's not good."

Yeah, I know.

I haven't heard back from anyone else I called, so, being far too embarrassed to actually talk to them, I sent off a few patented "Next-day-apology-emails." Those are always popular. I have a standard form letter for it, even.

"Dear ____, Hey, I was really trashed last night and I guess I was really (circle applicable) out of control/surly/sad/horny. Please select appropriate apology.
Sorry that I:
Threw up on you-your couch-your dog
Attempted to destroy ______ (insert appropriate possession, person, or relationship)
Called you to say I love you/hate you/want to sleep with you
Slept with you

Once again, really sorry 'bout that. I don't remember anything. Cheers, Karla"

So, does anybody know where I can pick up one of those breathalyzer things for my phone? Preferably with an automatic ex-boyfriend outgoing-call blocking function?

'Cause I really need one.
 

A former employer once described me to a new employee. "Nikki (her name was Nikki), you know how you're kind of a 'guy's gal?' How you get along really well with all the boys, watch sports, drink beer, etc?" "Yes," said Nikki, wondering where this was going, I'm sure.

"Well Karla IS a guy."

This was apparently a reference to my affinity for porn, booze and casual sex (and bragging about same), and my pathological avoidance of such womanly pursuits as commitment, healthy relationships and, oh I don't know, knitting or some shit.

That being said, last week I totally acted like a girl. Twice.

The first incident, I'm not too ashamed of. I got a pedicure. And while quite a few of my more "metrosexual" guy friends are getting them nowadays, it's still a pretty girly endeavor...But few things beat sitting in a massaging chair while a tiny Korean woman rubs your feet for an hour. It's incredible. And your feet look nice.

But the pedicure apparently opened the floodgates on some estrogen pathway that overrode any logical or self-respecting decisions on my part.

I wrote an email. To a guy. Explaining how I felt.

A long email. Describing not only my own feelings, but my interpretation of possible feelings he might be experiencing.

The exact situation and history between myself and the unfortunate recipient of this emotional outpouring is unimportant. The important thing is:

Jesus-H.-Christ-on-a-three-legged-donkey, why the fuck did I write about my feelings?

My friends are all guys. I've sympathized with them repeatedly about the foolishness of the female gender and their damned emotions. Many a time I've sat at the bar beside some morose brother in arms, nodding my head knowingly over a cold can of Schlitz, pondering the inscrutable female mind. "Yeah dude, I don't know why she keeps asking you 'what are you thinking?' Want a shot?"

So why the fuck would I write a full page dissertation on my feelings? Why would I hit "send?" Why am I not surprised that I haven't heard from the poor sap since?

I'm blaming it on my vagina. Which is responsible for most of the trouble I get into, but this wasn't even the good kind of trouble.

Stupid pedicure. I just had to access the uterine universe, didn't I?

Still, at least my feet look nice.

The November booty-roll-call is as follows:

Dave
Larry
Dave again
Jim
Larry again

No names have been changed to protect the innocent. They all have boring names anyway.

The break down comes in numerical order (numerals indicating how many times I've boofed each fella, respectively.)

1 (once) Jim: Massage Therapist. Built like a linebacker, New Agey like a mothafucker. Had one of those white noise things going in his bedroom, so it sounded like crickets swimming in a mountain stream all night. Informed me that as soon as he laid his hands on my shoulders he could "feel" that I was very confused. No shit, Sherlock. Which Chakra told you that? The one in the "I'm with Stupid" t-shirt? Furthermore, he called me twice this week (good), one day at 4am, the next day at 5am (bad,bad,bad).

However, the massage was good.

2(twice) Dave. Friend of a co-worker, met him on Halloween. Actually a very nice guy, we have a ton of things in common. Which of course means that I don't want to see him again. I really did try to give him a second chance. You know how sometimes you don't care if someone sees you without makeup, or unshowered, or smelling bad, because you just feel so comfortable with them? And with other people you're lax about appearance and hygiene because you just don't fucking care?

The latter applies to Dave. Poor guy. He's got a really comfortable bed, though. Feather bed, down comforter, expensive sheets. I could totally date Dave's bed.

Just not Dave.

3(thrice) Larry. Oh, Larry. Yes, I first banged--let's call it "nailing love to"--Larry when he was seeing someone else. And in my defense, I didn't know about the someone at the time, nor was I the only indiscretion on Larry's part. But recently the someone found out. And went completely, horribly, ape-shit. We're talking boil-your-bunny insane. So there's been a whole maelstrom of rumors and accusations, which Lar and I found fairly insulting. Not because she got the basics wrong (that we fucked), but because the details were all wrong (date, time, location). But the sense of indignation has actually worked out fairly well for me, since a)Larry's no longer seeing someone, and b) 'cause we were both so pissed at Slashy McPsycho that we've been humping like (boiled) bunnies. Good times.

And yes, I'm very aware that I've been riding the O-train quite a bit, and that it's only the middle of the month.

When it rains, it whores.
 

As I get home the other day, a thought crosses my mind...Is it:

a)Wow, I had a great time with that guy last night
b)Wow, that was some sweet, sweet lovin'
c)Wow, I need to fart

If you picked "c", give yourself a cookie. I've come to the conclusion that there really needs to be a "Designated Farting Time" for those of us in the post-coital condition. I don't know what happens to the body during a night of boofing, but let's face it...Them air bubbles surely do build up!

Now I excel at kicking guys out of my place so adroitly (and quickly) that they're still asking "Was it good for you?" before they even realize they're standing cold and naked on my front porch. But sometimes, just sometimes, I let the fellow stay the night. And that can lead to an awkward situation.

Is there anything better then spooning tenderly after some nookie, laying sweetly in your lover's arms before drifting off to sleep? Not when you're desperately clenching your buttocks for all they're worth, trying to keep a potentially noxious gas bubble in it's place. Praying for your partner to finally pass out and leave you free to attempt the ever-so-slow release of what will hopefully be a silent emission.

And while there's generally a little tooting space following a fuck, while one of you hits the can for condom disposal or a "my-doctor-said-I-wouldn't-get-urinary-tract-infection-if-I" pee, it's not a sure thing. That moment can backfire on you, especially in a very small studio apartment (such as my own), or in a place with rather open/faulty acoustics (such as my own). You think you have time to just let one rip, and next thing you know...brrrrrrrrrrpppppp. Or frrrrrrrrooooot. Either way, it sounds like a machine gun just went off in the apartment.

So I say we abandon the embarrassment! We live in modern times, we're supposed to be all educated and open. We ask about sexual history in a mature and adult fashion, we insist upon condoms and birth control. We are intelligent and sensitive lovers, we give great blow jobs and find clitorises (clitori? What the hell is the plural for the happy spot?).

So why can't we admit that after a round of championship sport-fucking, we really have to fart?

And thus, my call for The Designated Farting Time.

It's an agreed upon time for both parties to turn away from each other, pretend that "Nope, there's nobody naked in my bed, just me here, getting ready to fart like a big dog." A really big dog.

No comments about the other's volume, intensity or aroma of bodily effusions will be allowed. You're gonna fart, I'm gonna fart, and then we'll go back to schtupping, or spooning, or (if you're me), pretending we're asleep until the other person finally gets the hell out. Instead of feeling embarrassed, we'll take it as a compliment. "Wow, I guess I must have really banged the bejeezus out of her/him...Listen to those puppies fly. I totally re-arranged that plumbing! Hell, yeah."

If you're in an established relationship you might be scoffing at these concerns. "Ho, Ho," you say "My beloved and I have a completely open relationship, and even the most foul expulsions from my schmoopie pie's bottom are as the sweetest incense, an offering worthy of the gods themselves."

Yeah, well fuck you. Some of us are sad and lonely people, who don't need to feel any more shame after our sad and lonely one-night stands. So this is a call to arms. Write your congressman, lobbying for whoopee cushions in sex education classes. Start a "Million Fart March." Be slutty, be gassy, be proud.

It's time to take back the right! The right to fuck someone senseless, and then fart. Really loudly.
 

Wednesday night I was taken to an event at a recording studio that had an open bar. Really, people who know me should know better than to park my ass in front of an open bar.

The party was mind-numbingly, soul suckingly, fingernails-pulled-out-with-pliers-y boring. The bartender ran out of wine glasses and served my cabernet in a 16oz plastic beer cup. He FILLED the 16oz. plastic beer cup. Repeatedly.

Suddenly this was the best party ever.

The short version...

*Didn't go home with anyone, though I probably tried.
*I don't remember getting into the cab, but do remember getting into a screaming match with the cab driver (I've been doing that lately when I'm drunk)
*Was informed the next day that I sat on the host's dog.

I'm still unsure about that last one. I think I need clarification on what I was doing. Did I accidentally sit on the dog and then jump right up? Or was I deliberately hunting this dog down, pouncing on her with every intention of making myself right at home on these poor people's dog.

I do know two things though. One, I can never go back to that recording studio. And two, my friends really shouldn't be taking me to open bars.

Have to admit though, it was a pretty cushy looking dog.