Pretty girls don't get speeding tickets

Life isn't fair.
The nice guy finishes last. 
Women often earn less than men for doing the same jobs.
People who don't speak educatedly (see what I did there?) have a tougher time in life.
Politicians, movie stars, professional sports players and other people with gobs and gobs of money often live above the law.
Good looking, strong men get all the hot chicks. 
And, pretty girls don't get speeding tickets.

Or so, I thought. 



I'm not saying I'm all that or anything, but I have to admit that I've enjoyed some special treatment based on my good looks and big tits charm.

The regular conductor on my train brings me my favorite candy at least once a week. The men who work at Home Depot practically clamor to help me find "the-stuff-you-use-on-PVC-pipes-you-know what I mean?" Men in bars offer to buy me drinks. And, most importantly men in law enforcement always cut me some slack.

Thanks (I think) to Facebook, I've reunited with various girls I went to middle and high school with, and more than one of them has informed me that they "hated me in school because I always had the biggest boobs and the cutest boyfriend." Weird thing to say to someone you haven't seen in almost a decade, but anyway...The point is, there are women like them all throughout the world who hate women like me. And some of those women become traffic court judges. See where I'm going with this?

That's right, I was found guilty of a traffic violation today. Moi?!? After eleven years as a licensed driver, three tickets thrown out in court and about one million verbal and written warnings from cops more interested in gawking at me through my driver's side window with a big goofy smiles and "bedroom" in their eyes. Once I made a left turn on red in South Philly, and the cop that pulled me over simply lectured me a little and asked me to "please not to make him look bad." Another time I was pulled over on I95 just north of Baltimore and the officer told me I should slow down and gave me a tire safety brochure. Anyway, back to today in court....

I entered the courtroom confidently in my oh-so-innocent-looking, chocolate-colored suit, but as soon as I saw the hard-ass woman judge with wrinkly cheeks and narrow eye sitting behind the desk, I began to worry. And, I knew I was doomed when she confiscated someone's cell phone because they had forgotten to turn it off when they entered the court room.

A glimmer of hope washed over me when the officer who had pulled me over sat down next to me on the bench and smiled. He asked, "I pulled you over, right? What for?" I told him and he smiled broadly and asked how I was doing.

Once we were called to the stand, he smiled at me again and proceeded to tell the judge how cooperative and pleasant I was when he pulled me over. I asked for probation before judgment based on my clean driving record and respectful tone, and all I got was a measly 45$ reduction in the fine, points stand. Hater.

Day 2

This is my second day as a non-smoker.

I won't lie--It sucks.

I like smoking. I enjoy pulling the hot smoke into my lungs, gently taping the cigarette to keep the ashes from falling...ahhh, memories. My brain is split in two. There's a big part of me that says, "yeah, I know smoking is bad for me, but who cares? I will die eventually one way or another. Is lung cancer really that bad."

Yes, lung cancer is that bad. I watched my grandmother wither away to nothing in a hospital bed while cancerous cells devoured her lung tissue and eventually took her life.

I have been lying about my new-found smoking habit to my family and co-workers. I had to either come clean about smoking or give it up. I chose to give it up. I'm angry and annoyed. I just want a cookie, no, make that lots of cookies. I'm irritated. I can't keep my thoughts straight, much less write a coherent blog post.

New Look

Priorities. Traveling and entertainment are the top two on my list. I spend a good portion of my disposable income on boozing, eating out and trips abroad. It's great. Except, when all your money is tied up in fun, there's none left over for new clothes. Besides, who wants to spend money on something boring like clothes? Even if I do "shop," I'd rather buy art. Or shoes. I do love shoes.

Why am I telling you this? Well, this weekend I went clothes shopping for the first time since February. This was no ordinary shopping, but EXTREME shopping. I was at the mall (actually two malls) for a total of eight hours this weekend. The first day, it took me two-and-a-half hours to make my first puirchase--a pair of black suede, slouchy boots for $35. Two hours later, I had bought a dress and a skinny belt. Four-and-a-half hours, three purchases and $75 spent. I seriously suck at shopping.

Does anyone else see some major similarities between malls and casinos? No natural light, over-stimulation, people mulling about with glazed looks, people spending money they don't have....

So back to my new boots. If you know me in "real" life, you know that I spend most of my time in sneakers. Super-cute, bold, colorful sneakers, but sneakers nonetheless. This whole boots, dresses and tights thing is new for me. It's kind of like playing dress up. Today, as I walked with my new boots through the three metro stations that I traverse on my daily commute, I felt like strutting. New shoes seem to have a direct impact on a girl's self-esteem--someone should do a study. My feminist side just died a little with that last statement.

My cat Papi seemed less thrilled with my new look. When I put my boots on this morning and stood up from the chair, he hopped back, his tail puffed and his eyes widened. He kept wanting to come closer to scope out my new attire, but when he got too close for comfort he would leap away dramatically with the hair on his tail standing on edge, like he had stuck his little paw in a light socket.

Why did I tell you this pointless story? I don't know, these boots are making me fiesty. I completely understand if you never read my blog again.

I do. Don't I?

If you've followed my blog for a while, you probably know how I feel about marriage. I wrote about it here. And here.

For me, accepting that Jack and I will get married one day has been a lot like the grieving process.

Stage 1, denial. "I'll never get married," I told him when we were first dating.

Stage 2, anger. A couple years in to our relationship, Jack told me that he wanted to marry me someday. Threats were made.

Stage 3, bargaining. "I can't marry you until you finish your degree." "I can't marry you until you start your career," "...until your credit card debt is paid off." "...until...until," until I ran out of excuses.

Stage 4, depression. I would say I was more doubtful than depressed. "Will things change when we're married?" "What happens if we grow apart?" "What if he changes his mind and decides he wants kids? What if I do?" "What if, what if, what if?!?"

Stage 5, acceptance. Last month, Jack told me that he intends to propose by the end of the year. I didn't freak out. I didn't make any threats or excuses. I didn't ask any questions. I just smiled and thought about what my answer will be. Yes. I will say "yes." I just hope I can say it with enthusiasm. I am terrified of my reaction when Jack finally does pop the question. What if I am not happy and excited when he asks? What if I still have lingering fears and doubts that he can read on my face when I respond? It would break his heart.

Dirty little secrets

I own a pair of gold, bamboo earrings that are at least 4-inches in diameter.

My car hasn't been cleaned out in over a year.

I proudly display a "Pimp of the Year" trophy on the TV stand in my bedroom.

I am smoking again.

My greatest fear is that I'm exactly like my father.

My errand-running outfit is a teal, velor track suit.

I constantly doubt myself.

I talk to my cats, usually in English, sometimes in Spanish and occassionally in "meows."

I have seen the movie Clueless at least 20 times.

My new nickname "MJ" makes me smile--I never had a nickname before.

I am the worst at cliches--I say things like "Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free."

I am terrified of marriage.

I wish I were the "hugging type."

I often go to bed with dirty dishes in the sink.

The Big VD

On Valentine's Day people everywhere celebrate with dinner, drinks, cards, gifts and, most importantly, SEX. Despite the romanticized images of sex that we are bombarded with daily, sex is not pretty. Between the leg cramps, dripping sweat, tangled legs and and accidental head banging, it can be messy and just plain awkward. And this is just human sex, in the animal kingdom "sex" takes many forms, from mystifying to downright freaky.

Take praying mantis for example. During sex the female bites the male's head off, causing a pulsation to course through his body, which apparently leads to a wild, thrashing good time for the lady mantis. To bad for him.

Leopard slugs have the most slimy, disgusting sex I've ever seen--it's beautiful really. They slither onto a branch and entwine together for an hour in a gooey mess, then dive off and hang on a thread of their own slime. In mid-air, both release their male organs from their heads and wrap them around each other and inject each other with sperm. When they're finished, they fall to the ground and go their separate ways.

The barnacle has the largest penis-to-body-size ratio in the animal kingdom. Apparently, sessile creatures, such as barnacles, must have long, "wandering" organs to reach their shelled-lady friends' private goods.

Green spoon worms have sexual dimorphism, meaning the female is larger than the male. In fact in this species, the female is large enough in comparison to the male that she actually inhales him to reproduce. Once inhaled, the male goes to her special chamber called the androecium, or "small man room," where he spends the rest of his life fertilizing passing eggs.

Male flatworms engage in a dual, penis-fighting until one is stabbed and becomes the "bitch." Like prison.

If I had more time, I would totally draw inappropriate diagrams to illustrate this post. But I don't, so I'll end my biological sex lesson here.

Happy VD!

Happy Fucking Hanukkah

I've always considered myself a "bad Jew," but after this Hanukkah, I am definitely going to hell.

It was the second night of Hanukkah, and my parents and I were standing in the kitchen of a beach house in Alligator Point, Fla., sipping Patron Reposado from white wine glasses and listening to Jimmy Buffet on "Oyster Radio." My mom held up her glass and yelled "L'chaim!" Our glasses clinked together, and she continued the cheers with a "Happy FUCKING Hanukkah!"

In place of a menorah, we attempted lighting two lighter fluid soaked pieces of charcoal over the hibachi. My mom and I began: "Ba-ruch ata, A-do-nai E-lo-hei-nu, me-lech ha-o-lam, a-sher ki-de-sha-nu be-mits-vo tov."

Thanks to howling wind, our "candles" wouldn't light. At this point it was declared that "Jesus was too strong down here in the south." We gave up and went inside.