Mojo Upgrade
What. The hell. Is this.
The thrust of the matter is this: (Their words, not mine.)
Mojo Upgrade is an interactive sex questionnaire for couples. We present a list of sexual fantasies to both partners separately and have them indicate their level of interest. After the couple has finished the survey, we compare the answers. If you both gave a positive response to an activity, then we'll share it; if not, we don’t. That way if your partner is not game to watch midget porn with you, they won't know.
Do I hear "recipe for disaster"?
Jeeze Louise, people, if you can't have an open, honest discussion with your partner about what you would or would not like and or be willing to do in bed (or wherever) with them - - then maybe you shouldn't be sleeping with them just yet.
Use your damn words.
Sunday, June 22, 2014
The Twaddle on Twitter
That could so easily have been an obscene title.
But I'm not a one dimensional sort of Ginger - indeed, if you find one who is, I'm betting their so called 'ginger' came out of a bottle.
Anyway - Twitter.
Trying to sort it out; who to follow and such like -- so far I've succeeded in following two of me favourite Irishmen, Mundy, whose stunning rendition of Galway Girl furnished me with the only time in life I ever contemplated dying my hair black so I could better display my Galwegian heritage and imagine they were singing about me, with my hair of black and me eyes of blue. (Well. The bulk of my tribe appears to have hailed from Roscommon, but it's bloody close enough for me.) And actually, every rendition of that track I've ever heard him do has set my soul on fire, really hit me where I live. Particularly this one, which has inspired me to try and learn Gaelic. Because I don't have enough challenges in life. And this one, because LOOK AT HIM.
Would.
Anyway.
I also got myself following Chris O'Dowd because, well, why wouldn't you? I wanted to include for you the scene from Bridesmaids where he, as Officer Rhodes, tells Annie he's been thinking about her and that there's something about her that 'sticks' - - but is that clip available on YouTube? No. No it is not. So there's this, instead.
Would.
Also Jimmy Fallon, because a) he is hilarious and b) because I think he's a really good person with a good heart. And there's a real dearth of that in the world.
So who else should I follow? I'm open to suggestions. Not those kinds, you freaks.
But I'm not a one dimensional sort of Ginger - indeed, if you find one who is, I'm betting their so called 'ginger' came out of a bottle.
Anyway - Twitter.
Trying to sort it out; who to follow and such like -- so far I've succeeded in following two of me favourite Irishmen, Mundy, whose stunning rendition of Galway Girl furnished me with the only time in life I ever contemplated dying my hair black so I could better display my Galwegian heritage and imagine they were singing about me, with my hair of black and me eyes of blue. (Well. The bulk of my tribe appears to have hailed from Roscommon, but it's bloody close enough for me.) And actually, every rendition of that track I've ever heard him do has set my soul on fire, really hit me where I live. Particularly this one, which has inspired me to try and learn Gaelic. Because I don't have enough challenges in life. And this one, because LOOK AT HIM.
Would.
Anyway.
I also got myself following Chris O'Dowd because, well, why wouldn't you? I wanted to include for you the scene from Bridesmaids where he, as Officer Rhodes, tells Annie he's been thinking about her and that there's something about her that 'sticks' - - but is that clip available on YouTube? No. No it is not. So there's this, instead.
Would.
Also Jimmy Fallon, because a) he is hilarious and b) because I think he's a really good person with a good heart. And there's a real dearth of that in the world.
So who else should I follow? I'm open to suggestions. Not those kinds, you freaks.
Sunday, June 15, 2014
The Birds & The Bees
Well.
It's official.
I am the only person left on the planet who isn't getting any. Except The Man, who better not be getting any either. (Kidding; I know he isn't. There's not aman person I know who is more trustworthy than he is.)
Not only are friends and relatives knocking boots and finding themselves all blissed out in connubial wonderment (and occasionally finding themselves joyfully up the duff whilst my ridiculous uterus malfunctions six ways from sunday, none of which yields a new baby, I hasten to add), my bloody rabbit has a suitor. She's a cute little thing. Big ears. She's a tart for bits of apple and will let me get pretty close before taking off, but the point is - - everyone, from friends and relatives to the G-ddamn rabbit has someone flirting with him, turning up outside his little condo, making her presence known.
Sonofa!
My relationship / sexual ethic is pretty old fashioned insofar as it applies to me. One person for the duration. Marriage was one thing <cue disaster sounds - cities collapsing, bombs falling, metal walls being breached, and the like > but after that, just The Man, please. So no, I can't find a summer fling, or 'take a break' or any of that. Well. I suppose I could, since he's not here, but I don't want to. I don't want it for myself and I certainly don't want to do that to him. I may not know algebra or long division, I may have the memory retention of a sieve, but I know about commitment and loyalty.
This does not assuage my frustration. A woman of a certain age past the nightmarish twenties, out of her Dirty Thirties and into her Freaky Forties has needs. I have heard about this and wondered how much more noticeable it could be and yanno? It turns out it can be fairly pronounced.
Which brings me to nature.
Stupid birds and bees. (Yes I know we need the bees. Never mind. This isn't about them.) Did you know - even bears are getting head these days? (Not the gay-man bears either, though I think they do all right for themselves.) No, I mean hairy bears, out in the wild. No showers, no shaving, no grooming or dressing up or role playing or mind games or courtship or rules or commitment issues - just wild bears. Getting and giving head.
Look, just look. I couldn't make this up:
I can't believe this.
And that's not all! Look at these nine species getting freaky:
Seriously, everyone but me.
What the hell, nature? You're either trying to knock me down and split my head open with ice and hail, or drown me (floods), or cook me (hello summer sun), or blow me away (hurricanes) or attack me on the ground (poison ivy, snakes, spiders, other bitey things) and now, adding insult to injury, big, hairy, ungroomed animals (some of whom are in possession of some frightening teeth for such shenanigans) are getting it on with, er, wild abandon.
But you can't work on some sort of transatlantic bridge or teleportation capability?
Seriously!
It's official.
I am the only person left on the planet who isn't getting any. Except The Man, who better not be getting any either. (Kidding; I know he isn't. There's not a
Not only are friends and relatives knocking boots and finding themselves all blissed out in connubial wonderment (and occasionally finding themselves joyfully up the duff whilst my ridiculous uterus malfunctions six ways from sunday, none of which yields a new baby, I hasten to add), my bloody rabbit has a suitor. She's a cute little thing. Big ears. She's a tart for bits of apple and will let me get pretty close before taking off, but the point is - - everyone, from friends and relatives to the G-ddamn rabbit has someone flirting with him, turning up outside his little condo, making her presence known.
Sonofa!
My relationship / sexual ethic is pretty old fashioned insofar as it applies to me. One person for the duration. Marriage was one thing <cue disaster sounds - cities collapsing, bombs falling, metal walls being breached, and the like > but after that, just The Man, please. So no, I can't find a summer fling, or 'take a break' or any of that. Well. I suppose I could, since he's not here, but I don't want to. I don't want it for myself and I certainly don't want to do that to him. I may not know algebra or long division, I may have the memory retention of a sieve, but I know about commitment and loyalty.
This does not assuage my frustration. A woman of a certain age past the nightmarish twenties, out of her Dirty Thirties and into her Freaky Forties has needs. I have heard about this and wondered how much more noticeable it could be and yanno? It turns out it can be fairly pronounced.
Which brings me to nature.
Stupid birds and bees. (Yes I know we need the bees. Never mind. This isn't about them.) Did you know - even bears are getting head these days? (Not the gay-man bears either, though I think they do all right for themselves.) No, I mean hairy bears, out in the wild. No showers, no shaving, no grooming or dressing up or role playing or mind games or courtship or rules or commitment issues - just wild bears. Getting and giving head.
Look, just look. I couldn't make this up:
I can't believe this.
And that's not all! Look at these nine species getting freaky:
Seriously, everyone but me.
What the hell, nature? You're either trying to knock me down and split my head open with ice and hail, or drown me (floods), or cook me (hello summer sun), or blow me away (hurricanes) or attack me on the ground (poison ivy, snakes, spiders, other bitey things) and now, adding insult to injury, big, hairy, ungroomed animals (some of whom are in possession of some frightening teeth for such shenanigans) are getting it on with, er, wild abandon.
But you can't work on some sort of transatlantic bridge or teleportation capability?
Seriously!
Friday, June 13, 2014
Twelve Pains of Blogging
With all due respect to that beloved Christmas classic, The Twelve Pains of Christmas.
The twelfth thing on blogging that's such a pain to me...
Random error messages
Arrogant a-holes
Insufficient hits
Nobody's Reading
OCD Level checking
Syntactical errors
Where do I put the picture
FIVE FONTS ON ONE PAAAAGE
The Link isn't working
Using HTML
Alignment's out of wack
And zero comments pending
The twelfth thing on blogging that's such a pain to me...
Random error messages
Arrogant a-holes
Insufficient hits
Nobody's Reading
OCD Level checking
Syntactical errors
Where do I put the picture
FIVE FONTS ON ONE PAAAAGE
The Link isn't working
Using HTML
Alignment's out of wack
And zero comments pending
Buzz Buzz Buzz
So it's late. Or early, depending how you want to look at it.
I can't sleep. My thoughts won't stop. Candy Crush is irritating me. The book I'm trying to finish reading has not gone the way I hoped it would, but instead has gone the way I dreaded and feared it might. I haven't eaten since lunch. The rain outside was soft and lulling me to sleep but then it stopped raining and I snapped back to wakefulness. Now it's at it again but screw it, because I'm here and I'm typing.
And surfing.
And that brings me to the ubiquitous Buzzfeed. Not what you thought, was it?
Okay, so sue me. I like taking those goofy quizzes. I don't need them to define myself but I do like seeing how accurate their algorithms are, because I'm a nerd like that. (Nerds are so in right now.)
So I'm awake and all crankypants and on a second dose of steroids for my stupid plantar fasciitis, and I come across (so to speak) a segment on Buzzfeed with different titles than I'm used to seeing; these were: Sex News! What Outrageous Sex Position Should You Try Next? Which Male Celeb Should You Have Sex With? What's Your Sex Number? And How Good Are You At Sex?
You just know I'm going to take these -- if for no other reason than to try to keep abreast (as it were) of things. You know - - just in case it develops that I am able to have nookie with The Man again before I grow old and DIE. It's been a while. Don't judge me.
So I started with How Good Are You At Sex.
I figured, better to just find out before we move on, because maybe there's some remedial sex test that will help bring me up to speed.
I was a little worried, because what if the whole Redhead thing wasn't true?
Yowza.
And so forth.
But I needn't have worried, and I hope The Man will be very happy to learn that the clinical results are in and they say that:
I can't sleep. My thoughts won't stop. Candy Crush is irritating me. The book I'm trying to finish reading has not gone the way I hoped it would, but instead has gone the way I dreaded and feared it might. I haven't eaten since lunch. The rain outside was soft and lulling me to sleep but then it stopped raining and I snapped back to wakefulness. Now it's at it again but screw it, because I'm here and I'm typing.
And surfing.
And that brings me to the ubiquitous Buzzfeed. Not what you thought, was it?
Okay, so sue me. I like taking those goofy quizzes. I don't need them to define myself but I do like seeing how accurate their algorithms are, because I'm a nerd like that. (Nerds are so in right now.)
So I'm awake and all crankypants and on a second dose of steroids for my stupid plantar fasciitis, and I come across (so to speak) a segment on Buzzfeed with different titles than I'm used to seeing; these were: Sex News! What Outrageous Sex Position Should You Try Next? Which Male Celeb Should You Have Sex With? What's Your Sex Number? And How Good Are You At Sex?
You just know I'm going to take these -- if for no other reason than to try to keep abreast (as it were) of things. You know - - just in case it develops that I am able to have nookie with The Man again before I grow old and DIE. It's been a while. Don't judge me.
So I started with How Good Are You At Sex.
I figured, better to just find out before we move on, because maybe there's some remedial sex test that will help bring me up to speed.
I was a little worried, because what if the whole Redhead thing wasn't true?
Yowza.
And so forth.
But I needn't have worried, and I hope The Man will be very happy to learn that the clinical results are in and they say that:
How Good Are You At Sex?
Sunday, June 8, 2014
Where's The Party At?
Never mind how much that cost me, emotionally, to end a blog title with a preposition - in fact, I'm not even sure if the rules are the same when we're not talking about bonafide "a sentence". Maybe I can claim creative license? It's going to rankle me, I can tell.
Well, anyway.
When, I ask - just when - did it become acceptable to refer to ones sexual urges and desire to satisfy them as a party in ones trousers? I'm blaming this guy.
How did we get to That Guy up there from these cinematic examples?
Good grief. I don't even think Clark Gable was attractive and that makes me weak in the knees.
Ditto Bogie:
Cary Grant, however. Yikes.
And Matthew. Er. I mean, Darcy.
Or any of these from the Mac Daddy of all the love and romance films:
Even this.
Or this.
There's loads of cinematic material out there!
GingerRegretfully Declines
Well, anyway.
When, I ask - just when - did it become acceptable to refer to ones sexual urges and desire to satisfy them as a party in ones trousers? I'm blaming this guy.
First of all...when the hell did that become a line that anyone, anywhere, at any time, would take seriously? I mean, okay, in this film ^^^ it works because the guy is obviously a tool. But it leapt off the screen and became a thing people actually say in the hopes of getting some. And for the life of me - I cannot imagine why they think that would work. If it IS working, then we have a bigger problem to worry about, ie: society globally operating (and in some tragic cases, reproducing) on a grievously sub-par set of standards.
How did we get to That Guy up there from these cinematic examples?
Good grief. I don't even think Clark Gable was attractive and that makes me weak in the knees.
Ditto Bogie:
Cary Grant, however. Yikes.
And Matthew. Er. I mean, Darcy.
Or any of these from the Mac Daddy of all the love and romance films:
Even this.
There's loads of cinematic material out there!
I could literally do this all day, find cinematic examples of more romantic or seductive things to say apart from anything referencing a Goddamn party in ones pants.
And honestly, a pants party is not much of a visual. What are those invitations like? Is there confetti? What the hell kind of music could there be? I don't particularly want to know about the goody bags, or what's on the menu. And for me, personally, a party implies a social gathering of several people out for a good time. Where I'm from, we call that an 'orgy'. And I am not that kind of girl, I don't care what you've heard.
It just seems a very odd thing to say. I've never been issued an invitation to a party in anyone's pants, at least not using that manner of language - possibly because I'm just not a pants-party-kind-of-girl. Or, more optimistically, maybe people just know how I'd RSVP to that kind of invitation:
And honestly, a pants party is not much of a visual. What are those invitations like? Is there confetti? What the hell kind of music could there be? I don't particularly want to know about the goody bags, or what's on the menu. And for me, personally, a party implies a social gathering of several people out for a good time. Where I'm from, we call that an 'orgy'. And I am not that kind of girl, I don't care what you've heard.
It just seems a very odd thing to say. I've never been issued an invitation to a party in anyone's pants, at least not using that manner of language - possibly because I'm just not a pants-party-kind-of-girl. Or, more optimistically, maybe people just know how I'd RSVP to that kind of invitation:
Ginger
Fifty Shades of Ginger
No, this is not that kind of post. Not really.
A couple summers ago, when the whole Fifty Shades of Grey thing was going bat crap crazy and consuming the public sphere, even I indulged and read the books.
The writing was astonishingly sub par, the character development was lame, and some of the naughty bits were so over the top as to be laughable. It kind of sets up the young generation who are just starting out for some seriously disappointing encounters. This series implied that if Christian Grey so much as accidentally grazed his girlfriend's elbow while running past her on the way to loo with rampant dysentery, she would climax at heights previously untold on the human scale of woo-hoo-ness.
It ain't necessarily so.
Still - after reading the series, I think I get it. I think I've sorted out why it was so terribly popular with adult women.
And by my reckoning, the reason is not something a lot of women are going to be comfortable admitting.
I think... in the last hundred years, women have filled new roles, walked many miles in shoes historically foreign to their gender, and endured a myriad of changes at neck-snapping speed. I don't want to get all political about gender roles and all this, but the fact of the matter is that for a long time, men and only men wore the pants in the family. Drak hunt for food. Mrs Drak make babies, tend cave. Lather, rinse, repeat.
And now - Mrs Drak is very often in the position of making babies, tending cave, hunting for food, balancing the ledger, acting as I.T. admin, coordinating carpool and after care, policing the homework assignments and mowing the lawn, whether or not there is a Mr Drak in the picture. If she is very lucky, Mr Drak and she split the duties more or less evenly and to their mutual satisfaction.
But it's not a given.
And it's exhausting.
I'm no man-hater, and I'm not assigning blame to any person, political party, religion or gender. It is what it is; society has shifted dramatically away from its original hierarchy and we're still, as a people, adjusting to that.
And I think? Personally? Women like reading about a guy who has a job, a housekeeper, knows what he wants, is direct, doesn't play those kinds of head games and is comfortable taking charge of things.
(Disclaimer: Not all women like the idea of this. And there are degrees. A man who goes after what he wants and takes the liberty of ordering a drink for you is different from a guy who has a red room, or, most of all, delights in having their woman's gratification withheld. I will not be held responsible for what happens to any fool who tries bringing his or her woman to the brink of satisfaction and then withdraws it indefinitely. It's not a good idea. And none of it is a good idea if your woman isn't on board, so you might want to check that out before you try any of it and wind up needing an orthopedic surgeon to extract a shoe from your ass.)
To find a man who respects your views and opinions and will honor your wants and needs, while also being comfortable taking charge across all modalities, is a treasure. It is so nice - SO NICE! - to not have to take the lead or make the decision all the time.
And I think these books tap into that dynamic. Ms Steele never has to worry about what to wear or whether she should go lighter or darker or what she wants to make for dinner or what he will think of her if she does/says/wears this, that, the other. She knows exactly what he wants because he's completely direct about it. She is receptive and he is direct and it works.
Mind you, it's fiction.
And as I said, not all women are the same. I personally much prefer it when a man is take-charge - but open to the veto.
Drak: "I'm ordering Ethiopian takeaway for dinner."
Mrs Drak: "But darling, Ethiopian food makes me want to vomit."
Drak: "....RIGHT. I'm ordering Indian takeaway for dinner."
See? No apology. No softening. No question. No lobbing the ball into her court. Just a respect for where she's at and what works for her and taking the situation in hand and getting shit done.
Drak:
Mrs Drak:
Drak: (Thinking) I want to kiss her earlobe...but she really hates that. I will kiss her behind the knee instead.
No apology. No softening. No question. No lobbing the ball into her court. Just a respect for where she's at and what works for her and taking the situation i hand and getting shit done.
I don't think I'm alone in this, either. A lot of women are sick. To. Death. Of that Goddamn ball being in their court all the time. The pendulum has swung too hard the other way, and instead of keeping them from ever having the ball, the ball seems to be magnetically charged to them and keeps rolling back to their feet. Many of us are sick. Of. That. Ball.
No pun intended.
But now we're trapped; society guilts women for making choices at all. Having children? How very dare you! Not having children? What is wrong with you? Working mom? Oh, those poor children. Stay at home mom? SLACKER. Single mom? Slut! Married mom? Bo-ring! It's got to the point where there are just so many choices to be made every day about every blessed thing at every single turn, that eventually you find yourself at a Can't Win Crossroads.
And how lovely - how much of a relief - it is when your Drak comes in with all his caveman tendencies raring to go and takes charge of the situation. (Assuming he's competent. A lot of people are not too far evolved from actual cavemen, which is another problem and indeed, another blog post, entirely.)
When it works though - when a competent Drak who is in touch with what his Mrs Drak needs and wants and respects where she's at and is comfortable taking the lead - oh my.
Fifty shades of Ginger indeed.
A couple summers ago, when the whole Fifty Shades of Grey thing was going bat crap crazy and consuming the public sphere, even I indulged and read the books.
The writing was astonishingly sub par, the character development was lame, and some of the naughty bits were so over the top as to be laughable. It kind of sets up the young generation who are just starting out for some seriously disappointing encounters. This series implied that if Christian Grey so much as accidentally grazed his girlfriend's elbow while running past her on the way to loo with rampant dysentery, she would climax at heights previously untold on the human scale of woo-hoo-ness.
It ain't necessarily so.
Still - after reading the series, I think I get it. I think I've sorted out why it was so terribly popular with adult women.
And by my reckoning, the reason is not something a lot of women are going to be comfortable admitting.
I think... in the last hundred years, women have filled new roles, walked many miles in shoes historically foreign to their gender, and endured a myriad of changes at neck-snapping speed. I don't want to get all political about gender roles and all this, but the fact of the matter is that for a long time, men and only men wore the pants in the family. Drak hunt for food. Mrs Drak make babies, tend cave. Lather, rinse, repeat.
And now - Mrs Drak is very often in the position of making babies, tending cave, hunting for food, balancing the ledger, acting as I.T. admin, coordinating carpool and after care, policing the homework assignments and mowing the lawn, whether or not there is a Mr Drak in the picture. If she is very lucky, Mr Drak and she split the duties more or less evenly and to their mutual satisfaction.
But it's not a given.
And it's exhausting.
I'm no man-hater, and I'm not assigning blame to any person, political party, religion or gender. It is what it is; society has shifted dramatically away from its original hierarchy and we're still, as a people, adjusting to that.
And I think? Personally? Women like reading about a guy who has a job, a housekeeper, knows what he wants, is direct, doesn't play those kinds of head games and is comfortable taking charge of things.
(Disclaimer: Not all women like the idea of this. And there are degrees. A man who goes after what he wants and takes the liberty of ordering a drink for you is different from a guy who has a red room, or, most of all, delights in having their woman's gratification withheld. I will not be held responsible for what happens to any fool who tries bringing his or her woman to the brink of satisfaction and then withdraws it indefinitely. It's not a good idea. And none of it is a good idea if your woman isn't on board, so you might want to check that out before you try any of it and wind up needing an orthopedic surgeon to extract a shoe from your ass.)
To find a man who respects your views and opinions and will honor your wants and needs, while also being comfortable taking charge across all modalities, is a treasure. It is so nice - SO NICE! - to not have to take the lead or make the decision all the time.
And I think these books tap into that dynamic. Ms Steele never has to worry about what to wear or whether she should go lighter or darker or what she wants to make for dinner or what he will think of her if she does/says/wears this, that, the other. She knows exactly what he wants because he's completely direct about it. She is receptive and he is direct and it works.
Mind you, it's fiction.
And as I said, not all women are the same. I personally much prefer it when a man is take-charge - but open to the veto.
Drak: "I'm ordering Ethiopian takeaway for dinner."
Mrs Drak: "But darling, Ethiopian food makes me want to vomit."
Drak: "....RIGHT. I'm ordering Indian takeaway for dinner."
See? No apology. No softening. No question. No lobbing the ball into her court. Just a respect for where she's at and what works for her and taking the situation in hand and getting shit done.
Drak:
Mrs Drak:
Drak: (Thinking) I want to kiss her earlobe...but she really hates that. I will kiss her behind the knee instead.
No apology. No softening. No question. No lobbing the ball into her court. Just a respect for where she's at and what works for her and taking the situation i hand and getting shit done.
I don't think I'm alone in this, either. A lot of women are sick. To. Death. Of that Goddamn ball being in their court all the time. The pendulum has swung too hard the other way, and instead of keeping them from ever having the ball, the ball seems to be magnetically charged to them and keeps rolling back to their feet. Many of us are sick. Of. That. Ball.
No pun intended.
But now we're trapped; society guilts women for making choices at all. Having children? How very dare you! Not having children? What is wrong with you? Working mom? Oh, those poor children. Stay at home mom? SLACKER. Single mom? Slut! Married mom? Bo-ring! It's got to the point where there are just so many choices to be made every day about every blessed thing at every single turn, that eventually you find yourself at a Can't Win Crossroads.
And how lovely - how much of a relief - it is when your Drak comes in with all his caveman tendencies raring to go and takes charge of the situation. (Assuming he's competent. A lot of people are not too far evolved from actual cavemen, which is another problem and indeed, another blog post, entirely.)
When it works though - when a competent Drak who is in touch with what his Mrs Drak needs and wants and respects where she's at and is comfortable taking the lead - oh my.
Fifty shades of Ginger indeed.
Thursday, June 5, 2014
Let's Make Sweet, Sweet Learning
Fetishes You Didn't Know Existed
I'm not sure how to approach this. If it's all legal, clean fun between consenting adults (who are not me) then who am I to have an opinion on it?
This video is super short but it's certainly an eyelicker opener.
A little deviant fun is all good and well - but this is all just a bit weird. Apart from the learning, which if not erotic in itself, leads to a well developed mind - the sexiest bit of all.
I'm not sure how to approach this. If it's all legal, clean fun between consenting adults (who are not me) then who am I to have an opinion on it?
This video is super short but it's certainly an eye
A little deviant fun is all good and well - but this is all just a bit weird. Apart from the learning, which if not erotic in itself, leads to a well developed mind - the sexiest bit of all.
F*ck, Chuck or Marry
I don't know where to start.
Apparently, this is a thing. You're issued a list of three celebs and asked among the three, whom you would f*ck, chuck or marry.
Now, I'm kind of down with these interweb games, mostly because you can't gain weight while you're typing and if you're trying to decide who to f*ck, chuck or marry, you aren't spending money, and it passes the time. However.
There appears to be something the matter with me, because I'm not feeling any of the people on these lists.
To wit:
Channing Tatum, Ryan Gosling, Zac Efron: Who do you f*ck, chuck, marry?
Ditto Katy Perry, Rhianna, Beyonce.
And One Direction's Zayn, Niall, Harry.
Also, Emma Watson, Jennifer Lawrence and Emma Stone.
Then there's Idris Elba, Benedict Cumberbatch and Daniel Craig
...and the ubiquitous Khloe, Kim, and Kourtney.
They've included Anderson Cooper, George Clooney and Jon Stewart
And Kerry Washington, Penelope Cruz and Jennifer Lopez
And Justin Timberlake, Pharrell Williams, and Usher.
Plus Ellen, Tina Fey and Mindy Kaling.
So basically you have to make a choice with each set of three. Every name on that list gets f*cked, chucked or married. In theory. Or in Paris. For the third time. Whatever.
Now. Let me say this about that: Ew.
First, I just don't bat for the ladies team. Not that there's anything wrong with that. It's just not me. I'm a shameless hetero. Loud & proud, openly straight, out of the closet. Unless I'm digging for the right shoes or something. So that's all the ladies excluded. Sorry.
Second: Who the hell is named Usher? It's ridiculous. That's him chucked. Pharrell doesn't do it for me either, nor does Justin, but I do like one or two of his songs and he is admittedly hilarious on SNL sometimes, so if there was an option to have lunch with one of them, I'd lunch with Justin. And no, that is not a creative euphemism for something else.
Third: Ryan Gosling, Zac Efron, Channing Tatum. Who?
Fourth: One Direction? Aren't they children? They look like children. No.
Fifth: Anderson Cooper (gay), Jon Stewart (obnoxious) and George Clooney (perfect). George is the Heidi Klum of the men's team. He's...perfect. He's got that smile, those soulful eyes with depths you could get lost in and hello, that voice. But ... yanno... it's really Danny Ocean who I love. Not the guy from Monuments Men or the fool from O Brother Where Art Thou. Also, he's slightly too pretty. I suspect he has some high maintenance tendencies and he keeps ditching these supermodel types, so really, what am I, a curvy Ginger, going to get out of this relationship? BUPKES, that's what. Also, I have The Man, and he's practically perfect in every way and I don't really want to f*ck, chuck, or marry anyone besides him in the first place. But I'm a good sport and I'm going to finish this damn game , sort of.
Sixth: Idris Elba, Benedict Cumberbatch, Daniel Craig.
Who in THE HELL is Idris Elba? And who the f*ck names their kid Benedict Cumberbatch? I swear, I thought that was a joke name. Because nobody, NOBODY, would do that to an actual person. And I don't think he's very nice to look at. Daniel Craig on the other hand is gorgeous, with the added benefit of having that delicious accent, but I have to limit my thoughts on that matter because after a few seconds he starts to resemble my stepson, and while that boy is gorgeous too, and I love him dearly, we are not that kind of family. So Daniel Craig is out as well.
Erego, I must chuck the lot. They're all yours, kids, yours for the taking. I think I'm getting too old for this kind of thing. I can't decide if I'm relieved or horrified.
I'll think about it while I nestle into the crook of The Man's arm and sleep the sleep of the truly blissed out and contented and let you know.
Apparently, this is a thing. You're issued a list of three celebs and asked among the three, whom you would f*ck, chuck or marry.
Now, I'm kind of down with these interweb games, mostly because you can't gain weight while you're typing and if you're trying to decide who to f*ck, chuck or marry, you aren't spending money, and it passes the time. However.
There appears to be something the matter with me, because I'm not feeling any of the people on these lists.
To wit:
Channing Tatum, Ryan Gosling, Zac Efron: Who do you f*ck, chuck, marry?
Ditto Katy Perry, Rhianna, Beyonce.
And One Direction's Zayn, Niall, Harry.
Also, Emma Watson, Jennifer Lawrence and Emma Stone.
Then there's Idris Elba, Benedict Cumberbatch and Daniel Craig
...and the ubiquitous Khloe, Kim, and Kourtney.
They've included Anderson Cooper, George Clooney and Jon Stewart
And Kerry Washington, Penelope Cruz and Jennifer Lopez
And Justin Timberlake, Pharrell Williams, and Usher.
Plus Ellen, Tina Fey and Mindy Kaling.
So basically you have to make a choice with each set of three. Every name on that list gets f*cked, chucked or married. In theory. Or in Paris. For the third time. Whatever.
Now. Let me say this about that: Ew.
First, I just don't bat for the ladies team. Not that there's anything wrong with that. It's just not me. I'm a shameless hetero. Loud & proud, openly straight, out of the closet. Unless I'm digging for the right shoes or something. So that's all the ladies excluded. Sorry.
Second: Who the hell is named Usher? It's ridiculous. That's him chucked. Pharrell doesn't do it for me either, nor does Justin, but I do like one or two of his songs and he is admittedly hilarious on SNL sometimes, so if there was an option to have lunch with one of them, I'd lunch with Justin. And no, that is not a creative euphemism for something else.
Third: Ryan Gosling, Zac Efron, Channing Tatum. Who?
Fourth: One Direction? Aren't they children? They look like children. No.
Fifth: Anderson Cooper (gay), Jon Stewart (obnoxious) and George Clooney (perfect). George is the Heidi Klum of the men's team. He's...perfect. He's got that smile, those soulful eyes with depths you could get lost in and hello, that voice. But ... yanno... it's really Danny Ocean who I love. Not the guy from Monuments Men or the fool from O Brother Where Art Thou. Also, he's slightly too pretty. I suspect he has some high maintenance tendencies and he keeps ditching these supermodel types, so really, what am I, a curvy Ginger, going to get out of this relationship? BUPKES, that's what. Also, I have The Man, and he's practically perfect in every way and I don't really want to f*ck, chuck, or marry anyone besides him in the first place. But I'm a good sport and I'm going to finish this damn game , sort of.
Sixth: Idris Elba, Benedict Cumberbatch, Daniel Craig.
Who in THE HELL is Idris Elba? And who the f*ck names their kid Benedict Cumberbatch? I swear, I thought that was a joke name. Because nobody, NOBODY, would do that to an actual person. And I don't think he's very nice to look at. Daniel Craig on the other hand is gorgeous, with the added benefit of having that delicious accent, but I have to limit my thoughts on that matter because after a few seconds he starts to resemble my stepson, and while that boy is gorgeous too, and I love him dearly, we are not that kind of family. So Daniel Craig is out as well.
Erego, I must chuck the lot. They're all yours, kids, yours for the taking. I think I'm getting too old for this kind of thing. I can't decide if I'm relieved or horrified.
I'll think about it while I nestle into the crook of The Man's arm and sleep the sleep of the truly blissed out and contented and let you know.
Wednesday, June 4, 2014
The One With The List
I've got a few more years on me than I like to admit, but I can remember being in my mid twenties and watching Friends and thinking it was the funniest, cleverest thing on television. And at the time, it certainly made the top five; even now, I like to watch it in re-runs. Late at night. On Nickelodeon. Never mind.
One of the episodes which stands out is The One With Frank Jr., which, in my humble opinion, should have been called The One With The List & Isabella Rossellini.
If you're old enough to remember when it aired, or even if you're not, because hello, re-runs on Nickelodeon, I hope you saw this because it brings me to my next topic:
The List.
You know perfectly well what list, too, don't play coy with me.
~ The list of Celebrities You Would Do It With ~
A startling number of people I know have such a list. Now, clearly, very few of us, statistically, are going to ever have the chance to indulge in The List, as for one thing, celebrities are generally a little thin on the ground, in the global sweep of things. For another thing, most of us (I hope) are not so shallow that we *would* just for the novelty of saying we *did*. Most of us, being affiliative creatures, are in a relationship. Or, if not most of us, many of us. And lastly, let us not forget... they're celebrities.
More worrying, is the list that people have - - of NON celebrities. Of friends. And friends of friends. Of neighbors, casual acquaintances, workmates, classmates, and in a few terribly disturbing situations, distant relatives. Oh dear.
I can't decide how I feel about this.
A rich, inner fantasy life - - nothing wrong with that. Probably.
But what about when an inner fantasy life starts impinging on an outer reality?
The Man thinks Heidi Klum is hot. I know this because I have seen Heidi Klum. That said, he also thinks she's a little nuts for wearing false eyelashes made of mink, doesn't eat potatoes and married Seal. That's a bit of balance.
I think George Clooney is gorrrrrgeous but apart from sitting next to him at the Academy Awards and having him help steady me when I stand up on wobbly pegs to accept the Oscar, the fantasy ends there. ...well, apart from when he asks me to costar in the next Ocean's sequel. That's the thing; it's the character, not the face. Also, he's just too pretty and you know someone as pretty as that would be high maintenance. Though I bet he doesn't have mink eyelashes.
But I don't have a list per se.
Okay. I kind of do.
But not in a laminated, in-order-of-would-a-bility kind of way.
Don't we all? You see him on the screen (or her) and imagine what they smell like or what their voice is like whispered up against your ear. But mostly - we imagine ourselves in that outfit, against that backdrop, in that setting, having that conversation, with that FICTIONAL CHARACTER saying these things to us. (I'm not even going to go there in terms of what else we imagine.)
And that's where it comes back to reality. The character. It's all well and good - the schmoozy talk, the fancy dinner, the sunset, the suit, the scent, but slap all that on, say, Charles Manson, Ted Bundy, - also charismatic, famous (and evil as all freaking get-out) and it doesn't look so good anymore.
I'm almost positive there are female equivalents but I can't think of any famous ones, partly because you pretty much have to be gorgeous (or well heeled enough to afford accoutrements sufficient to camoflauge your ordinary looks) to be a female celebrity - unless you are easy on the eyes. Also, because I have heartburn at the moment and I'm typing over here and simultaneously trying to put out some metaphorical fires over there .
I know I'm kind of a throwback with an old fashioned dating / relationship ethic, but so does The Man , so that works out pretty great for us.
And the thing is, I don't need a list. He is my list. He's fantastically funny, smart, well mannered, well traveled, kind, strong, balanced, smells good and has a great smile. We will not even discuss his speaking voice, which is so unnnhhhhhh (Universal for 'his-voice-makes-me-weak-in-the-knees'). Who needs a fictional character when his actual character is so deeply fulfilling and wonderful?
That said, of course we both know when someone is essentially attractive, and we know what's generally appealing. Of course you notice when someone's attractive, on the inside or the outside. The trick is finding someone whose insides and outsides are equally attractive who also finds your insides and outsides equally attractive slash irresistible.
Anyway. I'm pretty sure he doesn't have a list.
Neither do I.
Maybe I should do but I'm afraid it would be disrespectful.
Do you have a list?
Let's have it.
One of the episodes which stands out is The One With Frank Jr., which, in my humble opinion, should have been called The One With The List & Isabella Rossellini.
If you're old enough to remember when it aired, or even if you're not, because hello, re-runs on Nickelodeon, I hope you saw this because it brings me to my next topic:
The List.
You know perfectly well what list, too, don't play coy with me.
~ The list of Celebrities You Would Do It With ~
A startling number of people I know have such a list. Now, clearly, very few of us, statistically, are going to ever have the chance to indulge in The List, as for one thing, celebrities are generally a little thin on the ground, in the global sweep of things. For another thing, most of us (I hope) are not so shallow that we *would* just for the novelty of saying we *did*. Most of us, being affiliative creatures, are in a relationship. Or, if not most of us, many of us. And lastly, let us not forget... they're celebrities.
More worrying, is the list that people have - - of NON celebrities. Of friends. And friends of friends. Of neighbors, casual acquaintances, workmates, classmates, and in a few terribly disturbing situations, distant relatives. Oh dear.
I can't decide how I feel about this.
A rich, inner fantasy life - - nothing wrong with that. Probably.
But what about when an inner fantasy life starts impinging on an outer reality?
The Man thinks Heidi Klum is hot. I know this because I have seen Heidi Klum. That said, he also thinks she's a little nuts for wearing false eyelashes made of mink, doesn't eat potatoes and married Seal. That's a bit of balance.
I think George Clooney is gorrrrrgeous but apart from sitting next to him at the Academy Awards and having him help steady me when I stand up on wobbly pegs to accept the Oscar, the fantasy ends there. ...well, apart from when he asks me to costar in the next Ocean's sequel. That's the thing; it's the character, not the face. Also, he's just too pretty and you know someone as pretty as that would be high maintenance. Though I bet he doesn't have mink eyelashes.
But I don't have a list per se.
Okay. I kind of do.
But not in a laminated, in-order-of-would-a-bility kind of way.
Don't we all? You see him on the screen (or her) and imagine what they smell like or what their voice is like whispered up against your ear. But mostly - we imagine ourselves in that outfit, against that backdrop, in that setting, having that conversation, with that FICTIONAL CHARACTER saying these things to us. (I'm not even going to go there in terms of what else we imagine.)
And that's where it comes back to reality. The character. It's all well and good - the schmoozy talk, the fancy dinner, the sunset, the suit, the scent, but slap all that on, say, Charles Manson, Ted Bundy, - also charismatic, famous (and evil as all freaking get-out) and it doesn't look so good anymore.
I'm almost positive there are female equivalents but I can't think of any famous ones, partly because you pretty much have to be gorgeous (or well heeled enough to afford accoutrements sufficient to camoflauge your ordinary looks) to be a female celebrity - unless you are easy on the eyes. Also, because I have heartburn at the moment and I'm typing over here and simultaneously trying to put out some metaphorical fires over there .
I know I'm kind of a throwback with an old fashioned dating / relationship ethic, but so does The Man , so that works out pretty great for us.
And the thing is, I don't need a list. He is my list. He's fantastically funny, smart, well mannered, well traveled, kind, strong, balanced, smells good and has a great smile. We will not even discuss his speaking voice, which is so unnnhhhhhh (Universal for 'his-voice-makes-me-weak-in-the-knees'). Who needs a fictional character when his actual character is so deeply fulfilling and wonderful?
That said, of course we both know when someone is essentially attractive, and we know what's generally appealing. Of course you notice when someone's attractive, on the inside or the outside. The trick is finding someone whose insides and outsides are equally attractive who also finds your insides and outsides equally attractive slash irresistible.
Anyway. I'm pretty sure he doesn't have a list.
Neither do I.
Maybe I should do but I'm afraid it would be disrespectful.
Do you have a list?
Let's have it.
What Happens On A Hall Pass Stays In Vegas
...or something.
You know what a hall pass is, right? You remember from school - the old school, literal hall pass - the laminated oaktag rectangle or the taped up hockey stick or the purple stapler with your teacher's name on it - giving you express and explicit permission to be where you are anywhere in the building, presumably doing whatever it is you're doing. Fast forward an alarming number of years - - the literal hall pass is long gone, and as functional adults (as far as you know), it is incumbent on us to be where we should be and doing what we ought to be. Permission doesn't enter into it.
Unless it does.
The New Hall Pass is a metaphorical thing, wherein your husband, wife, s.o., or what-have-you, gives you permission to have at it with someone else, no harm, no foul. It's a dalliance, an indiscretion, an encounter, an affair, free from spousal / partner consequence.
For the record, I have not been issued a Hall Pass. If I had, I'd be out of my relationship in a shot. Further, I have not issued, nor do I intend to issue, a Hall Pass. If anyone tells you differently, it's a lie. A LIE, I TELL YOU!
So when did this become the new Vegas? I was talking to my good friend over at nefariousvixens about this, and we find it very baffling that anyone would offer their beloved a freebie with somebody else as a little present.
That might be the weirdest bit. Bachelor party? Here, honey, have a hall pass. Business trip? Hall pass. Class Reunion weekend? Hall pass!
I can't fathom how or why this is a good thing. Because while it's just good clean fun to be dirty, and it's nice to be naughty, it's not ok if it's not with your person. If the argument is that by giving them permission to mess around with someone else, you furnish them with a little variety now and again in an attempt to reduce the odds of them cheating with someone else without your permission...well...I don't get that either.
Because at some level, I can't help thinking that issuing the hall pass is the first step to issuing their walking papers. It devalues the bond you're supposed to have and diminishes the importance of the intimacy between a husband and wife, or any two people in what is supposed to be a loving, committed relationship.
At first glance, I can understand the appeal; I'm not that naive. But in the end, I think one needs to weigh the desire of the moment with the desire for a future.
And in my view, the hall pass belittles the issuer and the one who receives it.
You know what a hall pass is, right? You remember from school - the old school, literal hall pass - the laminated oaktag rectangle or the taped up hockey stick or the purple stapler with your teacher's name on it - giving you express and explicit permission to be where you are anywhere in the building, presumably doing whatever it is you're doing. Fast forward an alarming number of years - - the literal hall pass is long gone, and as functional adults (as far as you know), it is incumbent on us to be where we should be and doing what we ought to be. Permission doesn't enter into it.
Unless it does.
The New Hall Pass is a metaphorical thing, wherein your husband, wife, s.o., or what-have-you, gives you permission to have at it with someone else, no harm, no foul. It's a dalliance, an indiscretion, an encounter, an affair, free from spousal / partner consequence.
For the record, I have not been issued a Hall Pass. If I had, I'd be out of my relationship in a shot. Further, I have not issued, nor do I intend to issue, a Hall Pass. If anyone tells you differently, it's a lie. A LIE, I TELL YOU!
So when did this become the new Vegas? I was talking to my good friend over at nefariousvixens about this, and we find it very baffling that anyone would offer their beloved a freebie with somebody else as a little present.
That might be the weirdest bit. Bachelor party? Here, honey, have a hall pass. Business trip? Hall pass. Class Reunion weekend? Hall pass!
I can't fathom how or why this is a good thing. Because while it's just good clean fun to be dirty, and it's nice to be naughty, it's not ok if it's not with your person. If the argument is that by giving them permission to mess around with someone else, you furnish them with a little variety now and again in an attempt to reduce the odds of them cheating with someone else without your permission...well...I don't get that either.
Because at some level, I can't help thinking that issuing the hall pass is the first step to issuing their walking papers. It devalues the bond you're supposed to have and diminishes the importance of the intimacy between a husband and wife, or any two people in what is supposed to be a loving, committed relationship.
At first glance, I can understand the appeal; I'm not that naive. But in the end, I think one needs to weigh the desire of the moment with the desire for a future.
And in my view, the hall pass belittles the issuer and the one who receives it.
Ginger Vitas
So, I'm Ginger.
This is a test post, to see what happens and how the layout looks, how the font and colors are together and all that happy nonsense.
I'll be back.
Later that same day....
Here I am.
Thank you for bearing with me - I had things to do. And more things. And other stuff. And a few more things beyond that.
Anyway, onward. This hardly counts as a first post, but you've already learned that I'm tech savvy enough to blur up my face and build a blog, not tech savvy enough that I don't have to go back and tweak it, and that my To Do List is a teeny bit daunting.
That'll do for today.
This is a test post, to see what happens and how the layout looks, how the font and colors are together and all that happy nonsense.
I'll be back.
Later that same day....
Here I am.
Thank you for bearing with me - I had things to do. And more things. And other stuff. And a few more things beyond that.
Anyway, onward. This hardly counts as a first post, but you've already learned that I'm tech savvy enough to blur up my face and build a blog, not tech savvy enough that I don't have to go back and tweak it, and that my To Do List is a teeny bit daunting.
That'll do for today.
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