Gimme?

Me and my pretty hair received a text message from Ex-Boyfriend. It read “I know this ruins it but when is your birthday?” My first thought was “Present!” My second thought was “I want it.” I briefly considered the fact that I was not speaking to him, but my little mercenary soul would have none of it. I texted back with the date of my birthday. (Which is not really speaking anyway. And it is minimal anyway. Shutup.)

When you take the likelihood that he misses me, add the cheating factor, multiply by a birthday and factor in the conversation he had with S. two weeks ago about diamond necklaces, you get a girl that is very, very excited for next week. Too excited. I have to keep reminding myself of past experiences with Ex-Boyfriend's well-intentioned but badly-executed present-giving. (See Example) I must remember that the probability of receiving a giant painting of my boobs is just as high, if not higher, than the probability of getting anything remotely appropriate.

Somewhat more disturbingly, I've been having the recurring fear that I may not be able to accept anything from Ex-Boyfriend, no matter how fabulous. Apparently my morals have surfaced out of nowhere at the most inconvenient time.

It does not help that S. keeps calling me at work and singing "Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend".

Something Beautiful

When I told my mother I broke up with Ex-Boyfriend she told me to "do something beautiful" for myself everyday. Warping this concept to suit my own superficial, Manhattanite soul, I have gone shopping, bought new make-up, got a hair cut and groomed every inch of my body. While this is not quite in line with my mother’s vision of her daughter gazing at sunsets and feeling the joy of life, I do feel I have made the right decision. When, in a week or two, I dissolve into a puddle of mushiness and obsessively analyze every moment Ex-Boyfriend said anything sweet, somewhere in the back of my head I will think Though I am Ex-Boyfriendless *sob* I am also totally hot.

If there is anything worse than missing a boy and hating your job, it is missing a boy, hating your job, and feeling as though everyone has prettier hair than you.

My Obsession With Jessica Cutler

In the The Vagina Dialogues in New York Magazine's sex issue, Jessica Cutler scares and disgusts all the other so-called "sex bloggers".

Cutler Gems:

Cutler: Some guy came to my reading and I went with him. I still see him. He’s a great guy . . .
Sohn: Did you sleep with him?
Cutler: Oh, yeah, of course. I’ve dated a couple of fans. Why not?
Sohn: Aren’t you afraid that someone is going to be totally psycho?
Cutler: I love the psycho ones! What’s he going to do, kill me?
Nersesian: Yeah.
Cutler: What a relief that would be.

Then there is:

Sohn: Do you have a boyfriend?
Cutler: I have, like, seven.
Sohn: Do they all know about each other?
Cutler: They will now.

For the entire article go to http://newyorkmetro.com/lifestyle/sex/annual/2005/15060/index.html. Be forewarned, it's only interesting when Jessica opens her mouth. Who would have thought a group of sex columnists would be so tame and pc?

Edited 11.27.05

Previously, there was a post here about how much I would miss Ex-Boyfriend. It has been removed by the blog's administrator (me) due to it's maudlin tone and ridiculously over the top whining. I cannot tolerate such shit, even in myself, even on a pseudo-anonymous blog.

Future whining will be kept at a reasonable level.

My Future

When dealing with a sticky break-up from a lying, cheating asshole that insists he loves, needs and wants to marry you, there are few things more annoying than listening to your 35 year-old co-worker shamelessly throw herself at the 25 year-old man who sits nearby.

"You didn't wear a coat today?" Mrs. Robinson flings back her hair and blinks intently.
"No."
"It's cold out there you know. What will I do if you catch a cold?" She giggles while (illegally?) stroking the man's shoulder.
"What?"
"I think I might need a signed note from your mother."


Her one-sided dance of lust makes me entertain harrowing visions of my own future:

Being so stupidly idealistic in my youth as to expect that my boyfriend would not fuck his neighbor on the sofa, I am left alone, with no man, and no recreational sports but to harass the young, attractive males in my office. Men who may, in fact, be gay and would have no interest in me if they weren't. And I am wearing skirt suits with strange, thick-rimmed glasses. And I own a cat.

It's So Dramatic. (Or Is It Boring?)

Perky showed three major executives a semi-creative piece. She had not created this piece, but had offered to shuttle it around for approval. My sinister mind leads me to believe that Perky was hoping someone would mistake it for her work. Or perhaps she was just being nice, and I am a young, cynical, little bitch.

Boss of All took one look at the piece, frowned and said "I think it looks too simple. It's boring."

Perky nodded her head vigorously as she stood in the doorway and said thoughtfully "It is boring."

"Well, I don't know," said Second-in-Command. "I think it's powerful. It's dramatic."

Perky nodded her head vigorously and said thoughtfully "It is dramatic."

So now I have evidence. Perky is a shameless echoer. Soon I will crack open the conundrum of way noone else seems to notice this.

No Cuddling Means No Cuddling

There is a fierce anti-cuddle war being waged in Ex-Boyfriend’s bed semi-nightly. Among my tactics are

1. Honesty: "I can’t sleep when you’re touching me."
2. Excuses: "It's too hot to cuddle."
3. Misdirection: "Roll over so I can spoon you," followed by two minutes of spooning and then a sly little roll to the other side of the bed.

When all goes well, these tactics win me about an hour of uninterrupted sleep. When more ambitious I attempt the following current favorite of my far too elaborate ploys to get some rest: I forcibly remove his body from mine, scoot to the edge of the bed and, if further touching is attempted, (which it always is), make strange little disgruntled noises and wriggle uncomfortably until he leaves the immediate vicinity.

This tactic, though it involves more effort that a sleepy Company Bitch would consider ideal, works tolerably well except for those times when Ex-Boyfriend is drunk. In those cases, the first step, forcibly removing his body from mine, becomes nearly impossible and, if accomplished, he simply springs back and holds on like a barnacle.

Knowing all this, Saturday night I prepared for battle after a long drunken evening. Ex-Boyfriend was already half-asleep, drunk and mumbling. He had been like this for much of the night. I put on Ex-Boyfriend's boxers, climbed into bed and tensed up, ready to fight. Seconds later he rolled over in an attempt to sling an arm around me and I was ready for it. I countered with everything I had, which turned out to be more than I thought. He rolled off the bed in the opposite direction and hit the floor, knocking things off the nightstand in the process.

I peered over the bed. His naked body was splayed out at terrifying angles and didn't seem to be moving at all. There was a brief horrifying instant in which I thought I had killed him but soon enough he mumbled and wriggled about for a second or two. Though it did occur to me to stay in bed and revel in my victory, I am not a total bitch (despite a moniker to the contrary). I got up and tried to physically move Ex-Boyfriend back into bed. "Leave me alone" he kept muttering. "I’m fine."

Allrighty then. I slept for a blissful four hours straight. My peaceful Sunday morning was interrupted when Ex-Boyfriend came to and demanded to know why he had been asleep, naked, with his head under the dresser.

When faced with the majority of your office running about, preparing for a huge event of some sort or another, while you are still surfing the web, looking for something besides Gawker that will keep you entertained, it seems to me you have two choices.

1. You can be honest, admit you have nothing much to do, ask if you can help anyone and otherwise go bout your day in a normal fashion.

2. You can stay just as late as everyone else working on an imaginary project of your own. When people pop by your desk to complain about the long hours, look sympathetic, then try not to be spotted when you check your personal e-mail ten times in 25 minutes.

I have been opting for choice number 2 with a small pinch of “Can I help?”s thrown in. Really, I am not fooling anyone.

To clarify

I am well aware that Ex-Boyfriend is no longer really an ex-boyfriend. I considered calling him Re-Boyfriend, or making up some simple pseudonym like "Tim." However, Ex-Boyfriend is his name now, rather than a descriptive phrase, and I won't change it.

There's Just Nothing Like A Threesome

So Ex-Boyfriend recently came back from a business trip. He called from said business trip to let me know that he had picked up a surprise for me. The only hint I got? "It's made from an extinct species." After several days of going through every extinct species I could think of (dinosaur? dodobird?) and neglecting to come up with anything that seemed gift-like, Ex-Boyfriend finally returned.

He presented a small item wrapped in tissue paper with much fanfare ("You’re going to love it! It’s just so fucking cool.") I unwrapped it to discover...He had bought me a small statue, about the size of the palm of my hand, depicting a very graphic threesome. He then handed me another package, which contained a tiny pedestal, useful for positioning and displaying the three naked people on.

I was about to laugh at/with him when he began telling me, regretfully, how there was another piece he had really wanted to get me but it was $700.00 and he thought that was a bit too much. I began to understand that this was not a joke gift. This was a real, honest-to-god present that he had given with the best intentions in the world. And it was of three naked people fucking.

Wait, you say. When does the extinct species come in? When Ex-Boyfriend handed me what he termed a "Certificate of authenticity" but was actually a color copied photograph of a woolly mammoth stapled to a page explaining that my sexers were, in fact, carved out of the tusks of a woolly mammoth. Uh-huh.

Ex-Boyfriend then asked me where I was going to keep it. He thought it was a perfect candidate for shelf-space in my living room. "Um," I hedged "My roommate might not like that." Ex-Boyfriend looked very indignant and said "I don’t see why not." I looked at him waiting for the smile, but there was none. He looked genuinely offended. "Oh" I said dismissively "You know her, she sucks. It's so cool but she wouldn't get it." He smiled then and said "It is cool, isn't it?"

It is sweet in a way. It is also disturbing.

I cried the other night because Ex-Boyfriend wanted to cuddle. I was miserably tired and just reaching the point of an amazing sleep when I felt an arm snake around my stomach and pull me in for the spoon. I suddenly started bawling. "What is it?" he asked, understandably alarmed.

"I’m just so tired" I said, hiccuping with sobs. "And you keep touching me." He stayed on his side of the bed after that. I felt slightly guilty in the morning, but also refreshed due to my cuddle-free night.