18 posts tagged “vodka”
So, apparenty when you're jacking internet from your mobile phone, it doesn't want to let you compose a post on Vox, but will let you edit...Who knew...
I'm sorry I've been such an atrocious Vox neighbor lately. I really do apologize. I've JUST NOW gotten that fancy internet thing on my phone, complete with picture messaging and Web 'N Walk (hi Tmobile!) and so now I really don't have an excuse for being a bad neighbor, and online buddy.
The problem lately, aside from being bat-shit busy, is that I have, like, a real job now. Like A REAL one. And I really do sit at a desk, and have my own fancy PC with a flat screen monitor and VIIIIIIIISTA, and a PHONE, and a BUSINESS CARDS...
It's cool, but it means I'm really busy.
And it also means that Transport For London pulls £165 out of my white, shrivelled little hands every month just so I can get to work....
My feministy rants have been living at Dollymix, the shiny new blog I edit, and then I feel all feministed out by the end of the day, and tired, and just want to snuggle the husband and the cats and eat a lot of pizza...
However. That's changing. I promise, PROMISE I am going to write more. Even if it's crap. I'm too perfectionisty about this blog and it needs to change a bit. I can't go months and weeks without writing just because I'm afraid I don't have anything quality to say that you guys won't like.
I love this blog so much, and it's brought me such cool things, and I need to nurture it more.
I'm having a pretty weird night, guys.
I'm all the fucking way up in Newcastle because my job was awesome enough (hi guys!) to send me to the Feminism and Pop Culture conference at Newcastle University, which is hosted by the FWSA, and I'm all by myself.
All by myself, in a weird place I've never been before (so weird, I had to look at a map when I got here, because I had no fucking clue where I was - I heard seagulls when I ventured out to a Starbucks and was like, "Am I by the sea??") and ate dinner by myself, and had drinks alone, and was on the train alone....and it's sort of exciting.
But, I have to admit that I'm a big baby and miss Iain like hell...We haven't spent a night apart in England since the first night I came here in Jan '06, and I just miiiiisss hiiiimmm!!!
But I feel really proud of myself that I didn't pussy out of doing this, just because it meant I'd have to be alone. Or would have to miss Iain. (And how anti-feminist would that have been??)
I'm really psyched about tomorrow. Scared shitless as I won't know anyone, and am curious if there will be any "younger feminists" there, but I'm so stoked to go.
I'll go into this more later, but I've always been very intimidated by the "real feminists" out there. Because they're either older, or angrier, or have masters degrees, or can rattle off statistics and feminist facts as quickly as I drink...and it's scary. Feminism is a huge thing...and I'm still sort of new to it...
But editing Dollymix is really helping to get me more comfortable. I've met some kick ass women, and, so far, feel very accepted by the Feminist blogging world.
I'm currently reading the FAAABBBUUULLLOOOUUSSSS Jessica Valenti's Full Frontal Feminism to review on DM, and I'm loving it.
I finished it today, sitting alone in my hotel's bar, and I have to say...
I was damn fucking impressed, and feel like it was the perfect thing to read before my first feminism conference.
I'll post my review here, but in the meantime....
I just feel very, very inspired.
That's all for now, y'all. Will write more tomorrow and this weekend about the conference.
Love you all!
...And now I'm off to order up some room service....
Hi everyone!!!
Really, I'm not dead.
However I have been suffering from a really fantastic toothache that started last Sunday, but I kept thinking, "It will go away. It'll fade. It'll go away. It'll go away. IT WILL GO AWAY."
But, here we are, Thursday night Friday night, and I'm still alternatively popping Co-Codoamol and Ibuprofen and swabbing my mouth with Listerine and then Ambesol and then toothpaste and then more Ambesol. And then whiskey.
Yes, I hear you, GO TO THE FUCKING DENTIST.
Which would be a lot fucking easier if I didn't have an overwhelming fear of the dentist. Why am I afraid of the dentist?
Age 5: Cate has bad reaction to laughing gas, makes her freak out and feel like she's dying...rips off "dental bib", and starts screaming bloody murder. Claws through the air, which she believes to be a glass wall, to get to her mom.
Age 19: Cate needs root canal because she's scared of the dentist and doesn't like to go. Dentist doesn't use enough Novocaine before he starts drilling, LOTS OF PAIN, she see stars and almost pass out.
So, there you go.
But, aside from ringing up lots and lots of cranky, British dental secretaries and asking them if they have a contract to give out Valium ("Or any other sedatives. Anything? No?") I've been a bit busy....
As you might have seen around the hood, or on Miss.Scotch's magnificent tits, it was my birthday on the 2nd.
I got drunk on cheap cider and took a lot of photos of myself - as one naturally does on their berfday.
It was good times...
Oh, and then we moved flats three days later. For the past month we had been living with Iain's brothers, and while I love them dearly, I never want to live with two bachelors again. Ever. (BUT I LOVE YOU BOTH VERY MUCH!!) But seriously. Never ever.
Packing was tricky, but at least I had my priorities in order...
Step one:
Step two:
And there you have it, Vodka Bunk Beds!
...Also known as "How People With Drinking Problems Move!"
Thank you all so much for your birthday wishes, and for all of your constant support and interest in my cupcaked, immigrant, bloggiful life. I love you all. I do! I do!
More pictures of our new place to come soon....
(I have a pink kitchen, y'all. Complete with cupcake candles. You can only begin to imagine my excitement!!!!)
Thankfully, earlier this weekend I was smart enough to add:
But, this little hour or so of sweet, sweet intoxication has left me with time to think, and worry....
Can cats get STDs?
Our whore male cat Orion escaped the other night to go on a Sex Tour of the neighborhood. Now, I've only ever had dogs, and it's been a bit of an adjustment, but the fact that our cat left the confines of our home and his safety and a fresh bowl of BRAND! NEW! CAT FOOD! to jump through my brother-in-law's window just to go screw and hump a bunch of nasty stray cats for 9 hours, pissed me off.
He finally showed up at about 5am, and was quite pleased with himself.
I imagine if he were able to talk and smoke he'd be puffing a cigar while giving us a run down of how he be "hitting the walls" and "working the middle" of every single freaking cat on the block.
I'm just grossed out. He's even neutered! He has no balls! How did that even work?
I've been calling him "Herpe" and "The Whore" ever since
...I guess I just never though one of my pets would turn into a GV.
Aaaaaaand we're back!
I really don't even know where to start...
We just got back yesterday, we're super jet lagged, but it's all good...because instead of relaxing and sleeping in, we're back at work and trying to find a place to live as we're basically getting kicked out of our flat on April 30th.
Woooo!
The BayVox meet-up was probably one of the coolest nights of my life...
Honestly.
I got to meet a ton of my Vox Homies, drank Cosmos, sang Karaoke, and even received THREE glorious bottles of Vox Vodka.
Best. Night. Ever.
Instead of me trying to chronologically explain to you how busy, fun, drunk, and memorable our wedding reception and trip back to the 916 was...
I'll just show you...
Out of the 706 photographs we combined from most of our family members, these are our favorites....
Vox! There you are!
This is me, posting for the sake of letting everyone know that I haven't committed homicide, genocide, or any of the other scarier 'cide's ...
I've been playing grown-up and going into a real live office every morning, and sitting at a real live desk, and printing documents and highlighting things on Post-Its and sticking them on my monitor so I seem like I'm important and have things I need to remember.
I also do this thing where I'll let out an exaggerated sigh, pound down on the ENTER key multiple times, and mumble a few, "Oh for fuck sake"s under my breath so I sound like I have real adult office-y type problems that I need to be frustrated about.
....And then I take a 2 hour lunch break and come back stinking of Pub.
In all seriousness, I actually have been quite busy drinking
lately. So busy, in fact, that I feel guilty and lay awake at night
thinking of all incredibly small number of times I've clicked the "View
Entire Neighborhood" link or responded to emails, and start to panic
when I think of the fact that I haven't written anything on here in a
couple of weeks. I do! I really do! And then I have horrific nightmares
where Vox runs off with some other chick with a clever little
pastry-esque inspired name, like Little Debbie or PanCate and they make
hot, sweaty, wireless, blog-writing love to each other.
Then, to make matters worse, Vox then marks PanCate as [This is good], and then totally removes me from their neighborhood...which then forces me to sign up with Xanga or Blogger and well...I wake up screaming and Iain has to go find me my Vox Tshirt to hold for the rest of the night, just so I can sleep...
Really, I'm not deserting you, my love. You are my little slice of online heaven! My pink, swirly cupcake of Internet fun! Heck, I would even go as far as to say that you, Vox, are my Absolut Raspberry Dream of the Blogging Kingdom.
Yes. It is true!
We have so much to discuss! We do!
We'll talk! We'll do lunch! I'll pencil you in!
...And if I had a Blackberry I would do some fancy manoeuvre to program our rendezvous in, so that it would remind me that we need to have a chat, and alert me to stop dramatically pressing ENTER, and plastering my desk with Post-Its that say things like "Call Rowlings back about Potter book" and come meet you straight away!
Until then, I'll leave you with a fine piece of pastry plush.
My Drug Cute Dealer, the fabulous Maz, was kind enough to send me a few of the cutest plush goodies I've ever seen in my entire life.
Maz! I heart you, and if I could make an entire room made of Maz goodies (including plush sheets and wallpaper) I totally would.
And so, Vox. I booked us an appointment in my imaginary Blackberry, for one of our regular, long-winded chats.
....Oh and if you suddenly see that PanCate girl blogging around, she'll never be as good to you as I am.
(I hear she only drinks Zima, religiously posts bulletins on Myspace, and doesn't even vote. Is she really the kind of psedo-pastry-drunk-chick you want to have as a 'neighbour, additionally listed as a friend'?...I think not, Vox. I think not!)
I've decided I'm going to go live in a bubble.
Or rather, a big Martini glass, with a bubble over it.
I'll have wireless internet, and a door to receive food.
The food consisting strictly of...
-Ranch Dressing
-Stuffed Crust, Extra Cheese, Extra Pineapple, Zucchini, with Ranch instead of Tomoato Sauce pizza from Roundtable
(And for me, they WILL DELIVER INTERNATIONALLY)
I'd like an email filter to not only block junk mail, but to prevent "Asshole Mail", and "Nit Picky, Bullshitting, Naggy Ass" emails, as well.
-Chicken Korma and pashwari naan-Grilled Cheese Sandwiches from Mel's Diner
-Heinz Baked Beans
-The Red Baron cheesy garlic bread they used to sell in my high school's cafeteria (Word to LCHS)
-Heinz Ketchup and Best Foods Mayo
-Mexican Food cooked personally by Bonita.
-Miracle Dietary Supplement to prevent arteries from clogging
I'm thinking this Martini Glass encased in a Bubble will also include a queen size, canopy bed, and a secret code that only very few, like 3 people, know so they can come hang out...and a heated toilet that magically cleans itself.
I want a plasma screen TV that doesn't allow any shows with Paris Hilton or Rosie O'Donnell to be played, and willl filter out the Girls Gone Wild commercials. Did I mention Tivo? Did I mention I'd like Grey's Anatomy and Bridezillas to be playing all day, everyday?
But most importantly, I'd like my new home to have a sniper rifle with a super, international, intergalactic scope so I can shoot "STOP BEING SUCH A TWAT" bullets (okay, maybe not bullets, but paint balls) at every single person who has been pissing me off lately.
I've got the fucking rage, lately. RAGE.
I've got sickness, a raw nose, and a heavy-flow menstrual cycle...I'm ANNOYED.
Look, I generally try to channel my rage and pissed off-ness into a more intellectual, and intelligent way of expression...But today...Not going to happen.
I really don't want to rant and bitch...but...
Fucking hell!
I was thinking about THIS post, and just things and conversations and moments in my own personal life as of late..and I just don't understand why people get so fucking crazy when good things happen to other people?
Why do I know and have an uncountable number of women in my life that are so ridiculously insecure, unstable, paranoid, easily threatened, easily put on the defensive, envious, jealous, and so maliciously conniving?
I wonder why people let each other go so easily. Why is it so hard to admit fault? Why is it so hard for some to put up a fight, and admit that they're vulnerable, and have made a mistake?
Why do people need to lie and make excuses for themselves before apologizing and admitting even a granule of fault?
Why is there this overwhelming need for attention and dramatics that some people are so demented and self obsessed that they really do believe that the world revolves around them? Like the world is one big, fat conspiracy to maliciously bring down their life?
YOUR life that just seems to be this perpetual orgy of deprivation**?
Why do people just walk away? Give up?.
Why don't people don't fight more? And I'm not talking domestic squabbly bullshitty fights...
I mean, those "take a deep hard look at yourself during an emotional battle" kind of fight.
Those awkward, uncomfortable, heated fights between yourself and your friends.
That "make it or break it" conversation with a family member.
Your children.
My dad.
Your mother.
Why don't people care enough to fight?
Why don't you have enough passion in you to fight for me?
Am I really that disposable?
Are people really that blind to their own actions? Why is it when a mirror is thrown up in their view, a mirror to question and present their faults....
People run. Deny. Lie. Dismiss. Avoid...Anything but look. Anything by think.
They can't believe you would say or would think such things about them. It's not just MY fault.You did, this. You did, that.
Make a big show, a distraction, throw insults.
You? No. Never.
That's all I ever get from people, if that.
Sometimes people just disappear. Not wanting to fight. Not wanting to discuss.
I will not accept blame that manifests itself purely to lighten the burden of your guilt.
I will not apologize so you can feel better, knowing that I've apologized and therefore must have done something wrong, making the problem not JUST you.
Where's the passion?
Why didn't you have enough passion to fight for me?
And don't just fight for me as a possession, or as a cure for your solitude...
I have lost and given up on so many people lately. Cut you out. Cut you off. Peace.
That is what far too many of my supposed friendships and relationships have dwindled down to lately...
That doesn't mean that I give up easy. I fight. I will fight all fucking night if I need to.
One of these days you'll get to hear the story of how on our "last night" in London together Iain and I fought with two of our - now former - friends from 1am to 10:00am the next morning. Non-stop.
If you shut down, throw up your hands, and throw down the cop-out of "Well then I guess you're right! You're right about everything!" and walk away...
It takes every bone in my body not to run up, jump on your back, and scream in your ear "FUCKING TALK TO ME" until I get you to talk.
I'm not always a fighter. I know when to shut-up. I know when there's no battle to be fought, or won, and when to just do my own thing while an army battles an invisible foe.
I know when I've lost. I know when I can't win.
But it seems that people always just let me go.
Really, I do know it's me letting them go. Letting go of the relationship or friendship we had that existed purely on my own efforts. When I stop putting forth the effort, there is no effort to be seen, therefore it's easy to say that because I am the only factor in this relationship that has shifted their behavior, that I am to blame for the ultimate change.
Never mind that you never tried, anyway. I stopped, therefore, it's my fault.
If you really loved me like your daughter. Like your best friend. Like your "sister"...
And I came to you, laid out my honest emotions, and vulnerable opinions as to WHY there is a rift in our relationship...
Wouldn't you STOP? Wouldn't you THINK? Wouldn't you want to rebuild? Fix, clear out the wound, and THEN bandage it up?
I will not smooth something over for the sake of keeping the peace.
I am never neutral. If I am, it's because I don't know enough about something to have an opinion either way...
Politics? Fuck if I know.
Real friendship, real love, real family? That I know.
Maybe it's a curse that I know these things too well. Maybe I understand TOO much about myself. Maybe I have been hurt too deeply in the past, and know all too well what a red flag looks like.
Maybe I know too well what a toxic friend, lover, or parent looks like.
Maybe other people don't lose their "childhood best friend" and their father in the same month.
Maybe other people don't have family members they once looked up to, not acknowledge their wedding.
Maybe I'm jaded. Maybe I'm bitter...Or maybe my eyes are just too open.
I don't understand how a friend that I had for such a long time...A girl that watched me grow up. A girl who I held after her break ups, stood up for when she was judged, and put nothing before...
The girl that was there for my first Frappuccino, my short red hair, my high school musicals and the hours and hours of Christina Aguilera karaoke...
How could you just cower and run when I called you on your bullshit?
Would it have been so difficult to just LISTEN to what I had to say? Is it really that UNIMAGINABLE that you could be possibly be... WRONG? (*gasp*cough*panic attack*)
Let's see...
I go back home for the first time in 6 months for 3 weeks, didn't have a car, and live 20 miles away from you...
And you're too busy doing school projects, going to sorority meetings and working at your part time job to somehow find time over 21 days to DRIVE to come see me? Even ONCE?
I ask when you're free to go to lunch, and I get a god damn SCHEDULE of your life in return. Good to see there's a small window between 4 and 5:30 for me to hitch-hike it up the Freeway just in time to catch you before your yoga class...Fuck, I'm sorry that you'll have to give up your nail appointment in order to meet up...The SACRIFICES you make!
Amazing that after THREE MONTHS of silence, the first form of contact comes in an email from you asking, "We're no longer friends on Myspace?!"
Seriously?
And you still don't understand why I didn't exactly accept your "sincere congratulations on your marriage" that was embedded in between your cold, Psychology 101 mid-term essay style response to my "Are you KIDDING ME?" email?
How do you then, justify cutting someone out of your life and ending a 7 year friendship with a curt, 4 line email that ends with a simple "Good bye".
Perhaps I should have known this would happen. Maybe I'm at fault for thinking that she had grown up enough to finally be able to handle my "grown-up" issues and adult life.
When I told her about my fiance visa, and she asked me if I could CHARGE THINGS ON MY FIANCEE VISA I should have known to run away. (GV Alert! GV Alert!)
How could I really expect a self-obsessed 21 year old to really be able to grasp hold and appreciate and understand my battle with depression and therapy? (Yes, I see the irony here...)
I should have known that her ego's capabilities don't include owning up to fault and making mistakes. Maybe I should have realized years ago that she had already let me go...
Maybe I should have realized my time to let go was long over due...
I would not trade a single failed relationship for the precious, few, genuine ones I have now. There's the old saying of, "If you love someone, set them free" and hopefully, if it's true love, they'll come back.
I've loved friends, family, and boys.
They have wronged me, or I've been blind to the true conditions of our relationship...
So I have stopped trying. Stopped calling. Stopped kissing.
I've been met with silence.
I've been met with hate.
I've been abandoned, and left alone.
All the better. All the wiser. But all the more bruised.
My high expectations of others is my fault, and my burden that fuels my depression and worst moments.
It can be found in every relationship, friendship, and downfall of my life.
I have extremely high expectations of myself. My imperfections are not handled perfectly enough.
...And that is why I want to live in my own little bubble today.
I think that there is always some sort of bubble around me. A defence mechanism I choose not to put up. This bubble, this armour, that I keep hidden until I've been so beaten down that I have no choice but to lash out and put it up.
I can be a push-over sometimes. As cynical as I can be, I still like to believe in the best in people. Not that they're perfect, but that they'll rise to the occasion when there's a conflict.
Rifts and conflicts will naturally arise in relationships and friendships as they progress.
It happens.
Some people are toxic lost causes that we don't need in our life. Some are just leeches that like to suck the joy out of our successes and latch on for the ride, seeing how far they can get themselves while "drafting" behind our lead..
Recognize those moments where you need to fight, instead of flee.
But never underestimate how euphoric and empowering having a small circle of true, genuine supporters can feel.
To my own, humble circle...Thank you.
Y'all can totally have the secret code to my bubble.
* * I totally jacked this line from "On Beauty" by Zora Smith
Where do I even begin...
I don't feel like I usually write about what's actually going on in my
life. Besides my wedding, and my dad...I don't ever really, just...talk.
Today, I just want to talk with y'all...ya know?
I love Vox like a mother fucker.
It's not about the website.
Sure I love uploading videos, and being able to make my own banner (okay, get my husband to design one for me), it's all of the super neat stuff like that that makes it so easy to use, and love.
However, none of that would matter if the people that power this website were not who they were.
The people who write on this website MAKE IT what it is.
The fact that the kick ass people who make this all possible ACTUALLY CARE and write and share about their own lives is amazing, and even surprising sometimes.
I hate to get mushy, and I think PantsParty said it best: "you tell anyone I wrote such sappy shit and I will cut you."
This place is REAL.
And it's because of that, I have been able to whip out my blogging balls and BE MYSELF.
WRITE like MYSELF....
I was invited here by my friend Liz, that I worked with many moons ago at the Starbucks at the Arden Fair Mall, in Sacramento, California.
Way back then invited my lovely friend Kristen to Vox, who I worked with, not so many moons ago, at a Starbucks in Carmichal, California.
This trip is so positive. It's encouraging, and uplifting, and means more to the two of us than I think anyone could ever comprehend.
It's hard for me to accept successes. To feel good about winning things, or accept the fact that I'm loved or liked, even by friends.
But, Vox...
You are giving me Paris.
PARIS.
A trip around the world...A honeymoon with my husband that we would have never dreamed possible.
Travel has been such a precious topic between Iain and I. From the very
begining the thought of seeing the world together was so important to
both of us....
"You take the pictures and I'll write the stories!" I'd say.
And we'd laugh and imagine all the places we would go. The adventures we'd have.
All of this before we had even met.
You are giving us this amazing trip, and it will keep us positive, and be a constant reminder about what life is truly about.
Thinkin' outside the bun, ya know?
Not worrying about vacation hours, and needing time off in order to live.
When I think of us seeing places we've never seen before, together.
The Eiffel Tower...Tokyo...
Struggling with languages together and fumbling with our "Conversational French for Annoying American Tourists" and our "Japanese for Europeans Without A Clue" books....
I still can't believe that this has happened to us.
To Kristen...
Iain....
Myself....
Vox. Thank you. Thank you for this.
The power of words is highly underestimated, is it not?
I was in shock for the past 48 hours. I didn't feel like I deserved this. Not just so I could fish for compliments and hear why I really did deserve this...But just, it's so hard for me to wrap my mind around the way my life has changed just in the past year....
And now this?
This amazing community of people, from all over the world, who have so kindly embraced my writing, myself, my husband, and my life.
My thoughts, and my pain, and my life, and opinions...They are all met with such discussion, and with the sharing of stories, or appreciation. Celebration...
And you all have no idea how much you have helped me just WRITE, and be myself...
My wonderful neighbors and friends who take time out of their lives and days to write me emails, and read my posts, and comment...I am OVER WHELMED by your support and love.
For a person who has spent years and years emotionally and mentally beating herself up over and over again...
For someone who is still just grasping the idea that not everything has to be a struggle. That not everything needs to be a negative, uphill climb...
But that sometimes, there are things that are just lovely, and simple, and deserved....
The fact that I can just let go,bask, and experience this opportunity to it's fullest...And allow myself to be lucky, and not feel guilty for my successes and good fortune.
It's indescribable.
And everyone else at Six Apart that has helped plan this....
My gratitude cannot not be measured, or described in words. There are not enough [this is good]s in all of Vox land to describe how honored I am to be given this opportunity...
I think video blogging me chugging a Vox Vodka straight out of the bottle, whilst eating pink cupcakes as I dance around in my Vox T-shirt and screaming "THIS IS GOOOOOODDD!!" may help you grasp how gosh darn excited I am..
But even I have boundaries..
(Which reminds me...My apologies to Mena and Gladys for screaming "HOLY SHIT!!!!" at you, on tape, after I was told the good news! My boundaries apparently don't include swearing during taped phone conversations...)
You are ALL such lovely people.
Anil Dash who wrote such a lovely post on Six Apart's website...Thank you!!!!
After reading that I burst into tears of joy for about 20 minutes. I think reading that really made it sink in for me.
This is amazing.
This ISN'T about Web 2.0 crap or traffic or about popularity.
This is about people. Our lives. Our sorrows. Our joy.
Comfort. Friendship.
And above all else it shows us that we are not alone, really. (Cue Michael Jackson....)
We are all a bunch of nerdy people, sitting in our offices, on our couches, or standing up half naked in our kitchens every morning, just checking in on different people all over the world...
Simply because we care. They make us laugh. They give us support. They make us think.
They INSPIRE.
I seriously hate to be so freakin' cheesy, but Vox has changed my life.
Blogging IS fun again.
And to think it's only been few months...
Here's to you, Voxers, and Voxees.
I love this place.
I believe the universe has a fabulous way of working, and I'm so thankful that I have finally opened up my eyes, and am just enjoying the ride.
Vox...Thank you.
Gaping Vaginas of the world, greetings.
We haven't really talked in a while.
I've documented you here in "The Vagina Blogs".
And also here, here, and MY GOD! Take a real hard look at the first part of this little ditty.
I even wrote about you HERE, GV.
It's like we have our own little blog affair going on!
So, don't go gettin' all butt hurt when you read this.
I've got a big ass tag with your name on it, STUPID GIRL...
We've had a long, troubled road, GV. You've had it comin'.
So wipe that innocent, shocked look off of your lycra, thong laden face and listen up.
Girls, get your shit together.
I'm not saying this to hurt your sensitive little heart, stomp on your soul, or tamper with your fragile ego...But really?
COME ON.
Now, look, "Gaping Vagina" isn't the greatest name for you, I know. It's not PC. And it automatically gives a negative connotation to the word "Vagina". However, I feel that you, in turn, are giving all the real women out there a bad name with your pathetic antics, so let's just revel in the irony, okay?
So, for those of who are not a GV, or are just to blind to see that you are, let me explain.
Gaping Vagina: (gae-PING vah-JI-nah) noun / plural - ji-NAZ / abbr: GV
1. a person, usually a woman, who behaves in a manner comparable to that of a twat, and of an idiotic, bitchy nature. The term, in this definition, is reference to a "vagina of large size" implying that the GV behaves, also, in the way a "slut" or "Hooker" would. The Gaping Vagina will stop at nothing to receive the pathetic amount of gratification it needs for it to feel satisfied. It will cheat, imitate, lie, and steal to reach a false sense of satisfaction and their overwhelming need to be adored. The GV pays not attention to those who do not present a direct benefit to their selfish wants and desires.
2.a person, okay a woman, who has no real thoughts, ideas or opinions of her own. In this definition, the term Gaping Vagina implies that the woman is acting like "a pussy", slang for "cowardly" and "without courage". The GV enjoys what everyone else likes, and is so scared of not being liked, that it cannot reveal its true self. The GV will follow, and mimic. Whatever works for everyone else, works for them, too. They are a blind follower, and GV1's biggest fan.
Synonyms: twat, cunt, Paris Hilton
Now, GV1, what the hell happened to a self respect?
You hide behind your "I'm just one of the boys" act.
Why can't you be more proud of the fact that not only are you a woman but you're a smart woman.
I'm not just talking about the fucking morons on TV and in your US Weekly or HELLO!
I've been disgusted with this for a long time. I don't think it's just up to celebrities, and authors, and actresses to portray what a real woman should be.
WE, you and I, make up the REAL world. The world that we all have to play nice with each other in.
I'm talking about the adult women in my life, in your life, and all across the fucking world who apparently that can't get their shit together.
They can't get their shit together to respect themselves, get their life in order, and be a good wife, sister, daughter, mother, or friend
Not even a friend to them self.
I'm talking about GVs in the workplace, online, in your personal life, in your face, in your ears, and fucking with your head.
What the is wrong with you, GV?
Why are you so obsessed with competition, and acceptance, and attention? Why are you willing to do whatever it takes to get that sad gratification from someone giving you a pat on the back or inviting you out for drinks next Thursday.
You are exclusive, not inclusive. You have half hearted friendships that are only based on your pathetic need to keep your friends close, but your enemies closer.
You smile at everyone, but don't have the balls enough to snarl.
You must be liked. You must get invited everywhere. You can't miss anything, you need to know everything, and you need to know more, and be better, hotter, funnier, thinner, bustier, and smarter than EVERYONE.
Your friends. Your "best friend" (all 34 of them). Your family. Your coworkers. Your acquaintances.
If there is someone out there in your radar that is "competition" in your eyes the Green Lights go flashing and you zone in:
There's a fresh one. A live one
She must know that you are higher than her.
Or that you think she's so awesome.
You pose as a follower, or a leader, whichever works best with her. You smile. You giggle.
You have SO MUCH in common.
Best friends!
But the guys like her better. She's smarter than you are.
And why is she so funny? Gawd. Why aren't YOU that funny? Why doesn't everyone laugh at YOU like THAT?
That bitch.
So you become more like her.
Not just friends with similarities. You take whatever she does, sex it up and dye it "envy emerald green", and pass it off as your own.
My god you try hard. And you're sneaky, not everyone sees.
You're like the female Gollum. Except you drink Gin and Tonic instead of live, raw fish...
You've got a split personality so deranged you don't even know what your real name is anymore.
(It's Sméagol! SHMEEGLE! SHHHMMEEEGGGLLLEEE!!!!!)
Your laugh becomes louder. Your shirt gets tighter and lower. Your skirts rise up while your dignity plunges.
Why are you suddenly sipping pink cosmos instead of your usual one olive martini?
But you're just one of the guys, right? So we can't get mad at you if you hug our boyfriends just a little too close and a little too long because,
A) Oh my god, we're like brother and sister! Do you really think I LIKE your BOYFRIEND? EW!
B) That's just the way I am. I'm naturally flirty.
C) I'm so innocent and lovable. Everyone just loves me, so you better not say anything bad about me.
It's near fucking impossible to call a GV on their bullshit, and if you do she'll claim you're just "threatened" by her or she'll pull the "I'm Sensitive" card and make it seem like your the jealous bitch.
You're a smart one, GV. You're crafty.
But you could be so much smarter if you would just would put all of the energy you're spending manipulating and coning others, into yourself.
From the bible one of my absolute favorite books, Female Chauvinist Pigs by Ariel Levy, comes the quote,
"Why is it still the case that if we have a series about women on television, it has to be about their bodies and sexuality?"
Yes, sexuality and our bodies are a big part of who we are, but that is not all we are.
We all know this, right? Or were you sick the day they went over that in school?
Why is it that if women want to be popular or stand out, there are so many of us that will still mock society's rules and put breasts before brain?
And why is it when so many women are losing, and their success and popularity is on the line, they panic and, ,
"Um, ah, Um...God..Wow, I'm uh. So, erm...Geez. TITS! Me so horny! Look at me guys! I'm liberated and sexual! You like me! You liiiiiiike meeee!"
Don't have the wits or the energy to 'win' any other way?
Hey! Be slutty! It seems to work for everyone else!
But you're not being a stereotype or anything, oh no, because you're what Ariel Levy would call, "A 'loophole woman', an exception in a male-dominated field [or group] whose presence supposedly proves its penetrable."
You're sexy! You're putting you and your sexuality out there because "that's just how you are". You have guts! You're so crazy! Right?
In Susan Brownmiller's words,
"You think you're being brave, you think you're being sexy, you think you're transcending feminism. But that's bullshit."
And it is bullshit. And the women around you that you try so hard in every which way imaginable to "beat" and "use" and "be like" will look at you like how I LOOK AT YOU.
And that is with a disapproving, raised eye brow, as I take a sip of my double, Absolut Better-Than-You cocktail and think to myself, "What a god damn Gaping Vagina."
As will every single other woman, and hopefully, man in your life because it is too difficult to keep up all those lies and shows at once. You will burn your own bridges. They will from both ends and turn to ash.
I just hope by the time you are stranded on your own lonely island with nothing but a bunch of fishnets and "Lip Venom" left will you have finally figured out what your problem is?
Or will we have a new TV program called "GV and the Island" where you sit on your laptop and video blog about the trials and tribulations of masturbation and how horny you are all by yourself on that god damn island.
And as for the Gaping Vaginas in Definition #2 (GV2) ....
Stop being so fucking scared of everything! Stop being afraid people won't like you, or you'll make people mad.
GV, why must you just jump on the bandwagon and throw caution to the wind?
Don't you realize we can see how awkward and out of place you are, standing there in someone else's skin?
Why are you sweet as Splenda to all of these people, just for the sake of being liked?
You know who you are deep down, so why have you become such a fucking sell out?
These are the girls in your life that live to be exactly like their heroes, and exactly the same as their friends,
"Oh my god, I love Victoria Beckham because she's so beautiful. Oh wait....you don't like her? OH, yeah she's such a slut. So anorexic. Wait, you like her book? OH! Me, too! It's so awesome. I love her clothes."
It is because of the 2nd type of GV that the 1st kind is so prevalent.
GV2 worships GV1.
GV1 feeds off of her because OH MY GOD SHE ADORES ME. She gives me all the attention I need!
The GV1 doesn't mind being copied because it is OH so flattering! She has a precious follower who buys into her bullshit.
GV2 thinks GV1 is wonderful not because of HOW she gains attention and adoration, but simply because she HAS attention and adoration.
They mimic and copy anyone and everyone that the masses appear to like, without using judgment. People like them, therefore they must be good, right?
For example...
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Paris Hilton.
She cannot sing. She is not intelligent. She is NOT sexy. She is famous for her sex tape, being stupid, and for being rich.(Did I mention her wonky eye?)
Why do girls try to be like her, dress like her, and fuck like her?
Aren't we over this? Over her? Why do so many girls still like her?
-
"How To Make Love Like A Porn Star: A Cautionary Tale" by Jenna Jameson
I find it hilarious that highly intelligent women out there, are reading and buying this book.
Do you realize you're reading an author who was simultaneously selling a best selling memoir, and a real life model of her "ass and vagina" with complimentary bottle of lube at the same time?
Inspiring? Impressive? Worthy of imitation and praise? Hardly.
-
The "Girl With A One Track Mind" phenomenon.
This was actually the sex blog/book behind the "Vagina Blogs" post I linked to.
Blunt sex talk.
Where do you draw the line behind pornography and 'blunt sex talk'. You can be sexual. I'm sexual. I just don't really talk about my sex life. My choice. It's also your choice to talk about it. But I don't think you're talking about it because you want to. Or that's just "how you are".
You're talking about it because you enjoy the hard-ons and wide-ons from your fellow GV friends and stupid followers get because of it.
I believe being sexy is the same as being funny.
It has to be subtle. It's an acquired taste. Not every technique or approach works for everyone all the time...but everyone is funny to somebody else out there.
When a joke is forced, obvious, and has to be explained, it's not funny.
When you have to constantly say, "See? Did you see what I did there? I'm mad I am!" that's not funny.
The same goes for sexiness.
And sexy isn't "So I was fucking this guy yesterday, god it was so fucking good. Oh my tits. Did I tell you about my tits?"
That's just stupid. That's the same kinda 'sexy; as porn: Hard. Cold. Emotionless.
Real 'sexy' is intimate. Passionate. Heat.
When a GV2 uses sex for attention, or tries to pass themselves off as being just "naturally sexual", it sounds and looks like a person with no rhythm attempting to do the tango. It doesn't fit. It's not natural, therefore, not sexy.
Look, ladies.
Just because you are not willing to hop on the pathetic bandwagon that is the GV's way of life does not make you 'out of touch', or prudish.
Just like me calling out the GVs on their behavior doesn't make me jealous.
I LOL @ U!
I don't have a problem with anyone who flexes their freedom to CHOOSE and makes a CHOICE that I disagree with as long that it is based on honesty, truth, intelligence, and for them self!.
Be ORIGINAL.
Be HONEST.
You would not talk about your sex life, have your tits on display, or use overly sexual language if it didn't get you attention.
You would not befriend certain people if you didn't think their friendship, or associating yourself with their name, would get you somewhere higher than where you are.
Your vocabulary, choice of drink, choice of music, and persona alter, change and distort change simply depending on who is praising you with attention at the moment.
STOP IT.
Not everything is a competition.
Not everyone is out to get you.
Not every woman is jealous of you.
Just because not every woman likes you, isn't because they are jealous of the attention you are getting. It is not even because "girls just don't like other girls".
There are just some of us who work hard to be ourselves. We work and keep our eyes and tits focused and pointed on our own passions, goals, and our own lives.
You just have yours focused and pointed on everyone else, seeing if they're staring at yours.
So, Miss.Gaping Vagina.
Stop faking it.
It's like, so much fuckin' hotter when it's, like, real and shit.
Friday morning, right in the middle of my "Tom Cruise drunkenly groping 2 girls on a couch while I quickly search for my cell phone to call Katie Holmes" dream, I was woken up by my fiance.
Why?
Because it was V-day.
Visa day.
The big day.
The special day where I get to sit in front of a British government official and beg for sweet mercy that he (or she) will for the love of jesus let me in the fucking country, please, I beg thee, pleaaaase.
I have been sweating, and fretting, and shitting myself since February over this visa business.
So you can imagine what I was like Friday morning. Especially after having Tom Cruise haunt my subconscious...
I was bitchy. I was at a level 24.56 when I should have been at a level 6. I was raging. So what does that add up to?
OH. Early AM diarrhea, that's what.
That and a horrible, bile churning, hive inducing panic that had taken my coping abilities hostage.
I just kept thinking, "The rest of your life depends on this day" and, "Oh my god oh my god oh my fucking god oh my god I think I'm going to kill myself or someone -no!- everyone if I don't get that fucking visa."
I tend to get a tad bit irrational when I'm stressed.
For example, the entire week before hand I slept in my Union Jack camisole, and decided on wearing my Union Jack socks to my appointment.
Ya know, because the government is so easily influenced by cheesy souvenir attire.
I even considered serenading the consulate official with the National Anthem. Ya know. For brownie points.
I also thought that perhaps if I just dropped in conversation that I, "just freakin' adore Tony Blair" or wrote "God save our gracious Queen" on the "Other Comments" section of my visa application that that would perhaps help.
Maybe. Just maybe, baby.
So. I managed to dress myself, get packed up, check out of the hotel, and get in the car.
I had been OH SO SMART and Google Mapped -cuz that's a verb- where the consulate was. Yeah.
I was so prepared, it fucking hurt.
I took the address I put through Google and plugged it in to our Tom Tom satellite navigation doodad. We had 45 minutes to drive the 13 miles. Piece of cake.
(As all of the LA natives laugh so hard they cry all over their keyboards and electrocute themselves.)
And here's a sample of my internal and actual dialog during our drive:
Oh look! We're on the freeway! No traffic. God, I can't believe this. It's a sign. Every thing's going to be fine, we'll be early, everything is calm.
Oh my god. Oh my god. Traffic. Traffic everywhere. I'm going to pass out from the panic.
It's fine! It's fine. According to the satellite navigation, we'll arrive there in plenty of time.
HOLY FUCK. We only have 15 minutes to get there.
WHY ARE WE GOING DOWNTOWN? I didn't know this fucking thing was fucking down town. WE ARE NEVER GOING TO GET THERE!
Iain: "OH look baby! The Hollywood sign!!!!!!!"
Me: "BITE ME!! We're late! It's over! I'm going to have to kill myself."
Okay. Okay. We're downtown. We're almost there...
Satellite Navigation: "You have reached your destination."
Iain: "Where is it?"
Me: "I don't see it. OH my god. Where is it? Why are we at Good Samaritan Hospital? Where are all the Union Jacks and government officials???"
Satellite Navigation: "You have reached your destination."
Me: "Fuck!!! It's 9:22. We need to get there NOW. Baby!??! Where IS IT???"
Iain: "Hold on, just double check the address........"
Me: "Okay. It says we're at 1176 Wilshire Boule-"
Iain: "1176? We're supposed to be at 11766!!! You missed a 6!! Oh my god.We're at the wrong fucking place!!!"
Me: "OH MY GOD. That's 15 miles away from here!?!?!!?!!??! OH MY GAAAAWWWWDDDD!!!!"
We were going to miss out appointment. We had 8 minutes to go 15 miles, on a crowded, traffic ridden Los Angeles freeway at 9:24 in the morning.
Yeah. Fucking. Right.
Nothing would get us there on time.
Not driving at 86 miles per hour.
Not weaving in and out of traffic.
Not even flipping off and cursing the Japanese tourist in front of me that's driving 46mph in the fast lane so her passenger can take pictures of the LA freeway. (Although it felt so good.)
"We're fucked."
And considering there's a note at the bottom of our appointment confirmation warning that if you're late, you will NOT be seen...We were fucked. Royally, Englishlly, officially F-U-C-K-E-D.
It took 35 minutes before we even got near the consulate.
We had missed our appointment. MISSED OUR APPOINTMENT.
HOW COULD THAT HAPPEN???!?!?
Out of all of my psychotically pessimistic scenarios of why I would not get my visa, this certainly was not one of them.
Iain tried calling the consulate, but just got recordings, and got transferred to automated voices that couldn't exactly understand our distress.
I was a hot mess.
Would we have to go to Vegas? ? Spend thousands of pounds travelling back and forward because without this visa I won't be allowed entry? Will I have to go back to making cappuccinos? Would we have to get married this week?? Was Iain going to have to smuggle me back in the country in a dog carrier??
I was trying to process the nasty cocktail of hysteria, panic, and fury that my mind had conjured up.
I couldn't cry or scream or pass out. I just had to drive. I just had to get there.
10:05 we arrive at the consulate.
We run to the front door. Security checks us in and escorts us to the elevator.
Just to add to the fun we thought it would be good to get off at the 11th floor instead of the 12th.
Then the little elevator got all sassy and decided to take us up to the 14th floor, and then all the way back down to the 1st floor before taking us to the 12th.
By the time the elevator doors open, I was pretty sure I had had an accident in my pants.
We were prepared to beg. Steal. Lie. Camp out in front of the consulate until Monday morning where we would then offer sexual favors or "much American dollars" in exchange for that little, embossed sticker for my passport. ...
We followed the hallway around to this little room with a massive Union Jack mural painted on the wall.
They check our bags, coats, and pockets for weapons of mass destruction, and we were told to sit down and they'd call us.
No begging. No explanations or apologies for being late needed. There were only 3 other people waiting to be seen.
I couldn't believe that we would still get interviewed.
Apparently the 10:30 and 10:45 appointments didn't show up...
We were seen at 11, by a bald little British man with a lazy eye.
Every question he asked, we had an answer for. Every piece of paper work he needed, we provided.
Add in our endearing charm and extremely good looks and, my god, how could he possibly refuse us?
He kept my passport and told me us to come back at 2.
Come back we did, prepared to do some more begging and charming...
However, all I had to do is stand in line, and they handed me my passport,
"Okay, just check and see if the information on your visa is correct, and then you're free to go."
Check to see if the information on MY VISA is correct???
I got my visa.
I didn't have to kill anyone, give sexual favors to government officials, or beg.
I can legally go back to the UK and legally stay.
I can come and go as I please.
But most importantly, Iain and I can legally get married.
I can be a BRITISH WIFEY.
All of the ups and downs and hives and constipation and diarrhea and tears and unemployment that the waiting period for this visa has induced were finally validated.
I have more faith than ever. I have even more faith in us, and that everything WILL BE OK, and will work out.
But most importantly, I have faith in the Epsom Thai restaurant that gave me the psychic fortune cookie:
"Your patience will soon be rewarded"
Who knew that eating duck could lead to such comfort and reassurance?
I should have known to just listen to the cookie.
If I were Queen, I think the world could be a better place.
I'm not just talking the Queen who gets paid to sit around and wave.
I'm talking head chopping, ballroom dancing, law enforcing, crown jewels sporting- motha fucking Queen! Would this mainly be for my own personal adjenda and beliefs?
Fuck Yes.
But those of you who don't agree with me, well, I'll just behead you anyway. Muahahhhaahhahhh.
I would be a beheading machine.
Fear me. I would make Bloody Mary look like Strawberry Shortcake. (Minus the whole Catholic thing...)
I'd be more intimidating than Judi Dench as Elizabeth I (Minus that whole ugly thing...)
My first plan of action as Queen of Fucking Everything would be a little something like a "Stupid People Genocide".
Politics, wars, and terrorism?
Don't worry your pretty little head about 'em, because once all of the said Stupid People have been wiped out...well, I don't think these things will be a problem.
To divert away from a political debate, I'm just going to leave you to decide what activists like Cindy Sheehan, and world leaders like Kim Jong II that I would behead.
We'll just stick with the Stupid civilians for now.
So, to begin with, I'd start with 2 different kinds of Stupid. Currently, the two strains of Stupidity that I would currently have executed are firstly, the:
College Educated, Statistic Spewing, 'Holier Than Thou', Asshole.
This type of Stupid likes to use 'big words' in every day conversation, not because it's a natural part of their vocabulary, but because they heard it on The West Wing the night before, and thought it would impress the masses. By the way, you don't sound smart, you sound like a self-righteous twat. Everyone can tell you're faking it! It'd be easier for you to to fake an orgasm than to try using the word 'Brobdingnagian' in sentence...Jackass.
This person also likes to ramble off statistics in arguments, instead of articulating an actual rebuttal. Nothing pisses me off more than when people try to sound soooo fucking smart because they memorized The World Almanac.. If I ask you a math problem, or how many people were killed in a war, fine. But why don't you just fucking use your own words and sentences to talk to me, instead of trying to cloud the actual argument with bits of possibly made up information.
This type of Stupid Person's general attitude that their high form of intelligence therefore makes them superior to all other beings, makes me want to puke. Having a high IQ, knowing statistics, graduating from college, or memorizing your SAT vocabulary words does not necessarily make you intelligent, or more likely to succeed in life.
Take this little diddy from the chapter entitled "When Smart is Dumb" from Daniel Goleman's book "Emotional Intelligence: Why it can matter more than IQ"
"Academic intelligence has little to do with emotional life...People with high IQ's can be stunningly poor pilots of their private lives...One of psychology's open secrets is the relative inability of grades, IQ, or SAT scores, despite their popular mystique, to predict uneeringly who will succeed in life...The link between test scores...is dwarfed by the totality of other characteristics that [one] brings to [their] life." (33-34).
I absolutely have nothing against people who want to want a higher education, go to medical or law school, have high IQs, or are earning their PhDs or a Master's Degree.
My problem lies with those who think that they are more intelligent, more successful, and are on the only possible correct life path. People can be correct, happy, intelligent, and successful without having a huge vocabulary, college degree, or high IQ.
OFF WITH THEIR HEADS!
Next up:
The Ass Kissing Twat.
This is a personal favorite. You more than likely know someone like this. That bitch in your office that back-stabs, and talks shit, but the boss loves her because she has her lips firmly planted on his dick ass at all times.
She's sugary sweet, and tries to be your best friend, but secretly wants you dead. She wants your boyfriend, your job title, your lunch, or even your soul. She seemingly has everyone fooled. (It is even worse if she has nice hair.)
When her bitchy intentions become accidentally revealed, she just smiles and says, "Oh, sorry babe, it wasn't intentional!" pats your head, and skips off into the sunset.
She gets away with murder by tricking everyone around her into think she's their new best friend, or friendly, reliable coworker, or a potential fuck buddy! She's a vile little thing. She's just a willowy, delightful, young girl...Why, she wouldn't hurt a fly!
But guess what sweetheart? I SEE YOU! I see your manipulation, your insecurities, and your faults. Why?
Because you're stupid -thats why!
You become whatever anybody wants you to be, so that everyone will like you. You have no passions, so you like what every one else does. You lose your self-respect by flirting and shagging everyone male in sight so you can climb up the social, and corporate ladder. And, sorry, that's not 'using what you got'. That's being a slag.
That's not having a mind of your own. That's being a STUPID GIRL.
And yes, everyone around you is equally stupid for buying into your bullshit...So guess what?
OFF WITH EVERYBODY'S HEAD!
Next up: Pigeon feeders, girls who wear multi-colored ankle boots, and the group of women in the pub I went to last night that were knitting and drinking orange juice, with no vodka. If you're knitting in a pub, please, please be drinking vodka.
They frightened me to my very core. Did they not read my last post?
Do they not understand how fragile I am right now????!
