The Broad's Side

I’m sure that you will be shocked to learn that fine dining establishments make me uncomfortable. It’s not like I’m a cavewoman, but I don’t really understand the allure. I recently received a gift card in the amount of $100 for Morton’s Steak House, which evidently is enough to cover two non-alcoholic beverages and a side of asparagus. From the beginning, I felt really out of my element. The maitre d reminded me of one of the Super Mario Brothers if you sucked all the fun out of him and dressed him up in a white tux. He spoke very eloquently and I could tell that he’s probably never been laid in his life. His painful lack of personality left me struggling for conversation as we were led to our table. He paused briefly to pull out the entire table. I thought he dropped his pen or the condom that had been in his wallet for a dozen years, so I stooped down to retrieve it. I felt like a jackass on a huge level when I realized he was actually assisting me with my seating. I’ve heard of pulling out your chair…but the whole table! I did NOT see that coming.

We settled in and had some whispers of conversation, because it didn’t appear to me that you were allowed to speak in this particular establishment. I mulled over my drink selection and found myself in a quandary. Do I order wine in a pathetic attempt to class myself up? Do I really want this tuxedo wearing douche swirling the wine around in a glass and forcing me to sniff the cork? I am no connoisseur, my friends. Do I order a beer and remove all doubt that I fit in? Jesus, don’t judge me. I’d ask for a glass. It’s not as if I’d request a can of Stroh’s and shot-gun it with my car key. I settled on a $20 Screwdriver. Safe, with no sniffing of any kind required. If you’ve never been to Morton’s, when you order steak, that’s all you get. Yes sir, just a chunk of meat on a plate. If you would actually like to enjoy an entire dinner, you must order each piece separately for an astronomical fee. A basic salad is $12, and the cheapest side dish is $10. They actually have macaroni and cheese as a side dish, but they charge you $14! There must be some sort of penalty fee assessed. Who eats Mac n cheese at a premium steakhouse? Not gonna lie… I wanted to. The waiter asked me if I wanted some fresh ground pepper, and I practically screamed at him. I’m sure there’s some sort of per kernel cost for the good pepper. The entire time we were there, I was doing accounting problems in my head. I was attempting to calculate the cost of the dinner as well as the approximate number of times I could go to Taco Night at Merry Arts in Lakewood for the same tab. The answer is somewhere in the neighborhood of 72 times.

I would prefer Taco Night without question. First and foremost, the tacos are amazing. I’m not sure what kind of secret recipe is involved, but they are without question the best tacos I’ve ever had. If you have never been there and live in the Cleveland area, it’s really a must. I love the fact that I can sit in a dimly lit bar drinking my big ass draft beer and watching football. Nobody gives a shit if I’m loud or ‘accidentally’ say the word douchebag. I can wear my baseball cap and jeans without feeling like a homeless person. Shit, there’s even a fireplace. Don’t try to tell me that’s not classy. There is an intricate taco ordering system involved. It’s cash only and you’re required to go up to the kitchen doorway to procure said tacos. It’s kind of exciting… like a drug deal, I would imagine. “psst… I need some tacos, stat!” The taco lady doesn’t have a strong customer service background as far as I can tell, but she can be as ornery as she wants as far as I’m concerned. She can punch me in the face as she delivers my paper plate of delicious tacos… they’re that good. She’s always out back chain smoking, wearing a tie dyed tee shirt between taco constructions. I’m always super nice, although in hindsight that probably makes her want to murder me. I’m actually considering getting her a Christmas present just so that she never cuts off my taco supply. What does one get the taco lady? A sassy apron with jalapenos on it perhaps? My head in a box?

I took a friend to Taco Night a while back and he ordered a plate of hot tacos. For a minute I thought I was watching a scene from Law and Order. At one point he was hunched over in the booth in a fetal position, clutching his stomach and sweating. It was like one of those segments where the drug dealer gets shot, but can’t seek medical attention because he’ll end up in the pokey. He inevitably ends up in septic shock. The tacos are hot, but c’mon! This was a little bit dramatic. You can’t pull off that routine at Morton’s. I don’t think I’ll be headed back to Morton’s any time in the near future. I’d rather have tacos, a burger or a pizza. Besides, I don’t need the added stress of a salad fork while dining.

People tend to get really uncomfortable and embarrassed when it comes to the whole sex toy topic of conversation. I can see why…It’s not like this is subject matter for the checkout lane at the local Target. With that being said, I don’t feel that it’s THAT big of a deal. I saw my first vibrator when I was five or six years old rummaging through my mom’s nightstand. My parents had momentarily forgotten that I was alive because the new baby was soaking up all of their attention. They’d soon be sorry that they lost track of me. I found it and decided that it was the perfect rocket ship for Malibu Barbie. As I made my grand entrance at the ‘Welcome Baby’ dinner party with my new astronaut Barbie, I was perplexed by my mother’s reaction. She was crying and carrying on like nothing I’d ever seen before. Jesus, I had Barbie working for NASA… not swinging on some pole at the ‘Crazy Horse’. How was she not beaming about her amazingly imaginative child? Shit, I had even painted USA on the side in red nail polish. How was I anything less than a genius? All I know is that my grandparents seemed horrified, but some of the friends and neighbors were laughing their asses off. Thirty years later, I stand by the fact that I saved that dreary party. My mom never spoke of it again, but ten years later I stumbled upon another one. This time, I was a smart-assed teenager and I called her out on it. Her classic response was that it was a muscle massager, and she actually turned it on and put it on the back of her neck to demonstrate. I was so satisfied by her obvious discomfort, that I let her slide. Every time she had a complaint about her neck, back or anything else you can imagine for the next ten years, I’d tell her to go ‘vibrate it away’.

After I got divorced, there was an incident where my brand new piece of shit bed frame from Value City had broken. There was a rotted piece of wood in the frame that caused it to essentially fall apart. I was really busy at work and couldn’t commit to the four hour window for repairs. My friend was a school teacher and was off for the summer, so she graciously offered to sit at my house and wait for the repair man. When he arrived, she exchanged pleasantries and led him back to my bedroom to check out the frame. I had inadvertently left my ‘silver bullet’ vibrator on top of my dresser next to the bed, and she noticed as soon as she walked in the door. She made several pathetic attempts to divert the repairman’s attention and conceal the shiny sex toy. As she found herself standing there next to the broken bed with a vibrator in plain sight, she just blurted out ‘I don’t live here!”

After this incident, my friend couldn’t help but think about the fact that I might be on to something with the whole sex toy thing. At 37, she had never owned one and was ready to take the leap. Unfortunately, she didn’t ask for a professional consultation before she did her online shopping at www.shoperotic.com. It took her about a dozen Miller Lights to muster up the courage to place the internet order. Several days later the package arrived in nondescript paper bag porno wrap. I convinced her to show me her selections. She had opted for something called the ‘clit flicker’, a plastic 12 inch penis- shaped vibrator with a suction cup on the bottom and one other random item. There was also a package of anal beads that didn’t appear anywhere on the receipt. I immediately deemed it all crap and demanded to know what the return policy was. It turns out, that all that was required was a letter of explanation e-mailed to their customer service department. I offered to draft the letter myself and assist her in the re-ordering process. My letter went a little something like this…

Dear Erotic Peeps,
“Thank you so much for the speedy processing of my erotic sex toy order. In my state of inebriation, I inadvertently ordered something called the ‘clit flicker.’ After thoughtful consideration and some time to sober up, it turns out that I’m fully capable of flicking my own clit, so I won’t be needing it. As far as the suction cup vibrator, it seems as though that would only work on surfaces such as windows, and I’m not sure the neighbors or people in passing cars on the morning commute would appreciate that. If I ever invest in a glass top coffee table, I might reconsider, but for now it just isn’t practical. It was very thoughtful of you to include the complimentary anal beads, but I just wouldn’t feel right keeping those. Thanks again for providing the superior level of customer service one would only expect from the pornography industry.”

Men should definitely embrace the sex toy movement as well. It can only benefit them. I’m not talking about blow up dolls with the surprised look on their faces or those ‘pocket pussy’ things you plug into the wall. There’s a fine line between healthy sexuality and David Carradine. Nobody’s asking you to learn how to tie a slip knot. Just relax, and don’t assume that this is a measure of your inadequacy. You’re not competing with the vibrator. There will be no duel at sunset. As for me, I’ve had too many embarrassing experiences to count, but at least a few have come courtesy of a sex toy… and it’s NEVER in sexual situations. Let’s see, how do you think airport security responds to having one in your purse? I forgot it was there. It didn’t help matters that it happened a few short months after 9/11. I’m probably still on the dildo terror ‘watch list.’ In my defense, I was only trying to spare myself the embarrassment of the movers finding it AGAIN! No matter where I stash it, it inevitably surfaces during a move. I’ve also brought it to work. Thank god I got the security guard that really sucks at bag checks. That makes me feel really secure at the office. I think it was actually vibrating at the time. I was debating trying to pass it off as my cell phone…pull it out and say hello into it. I probably could have made it past this guy with the foot long, suction cup variety.

DIRECTV is one of the best things that have ever happened to me, outside of my daughter’s birth and that time I won 50 bucks on a scratch-off ticket. For some reason, it’s very empowering to pause live TV. Sometimes, I find myself doing it for no valid reason… just because I can. I’m kind of a TV whore, so the fact that I can watch a CSI episode in 42 minutes is really beneficial to my lifestyle. It’s not because I am ultra busy and have so much crap to cram into my schedule. To the contrary, now I’m able to watch MORE CSI! Sometimes I’m able to watch all three cities in one night! How freakin amazing is that? I’m practically a forensic scientist at this point. I can give you the rundown on blunt force trauma and the resulting blood spatter patterns.

I used to keep some strange hours when I worked for Target. There were times when I’d be there until 2am and other times where I’d get up at 4am on Sundays to set up the weekly ad. Lord knows, everyone needs to know which Colgate is on sale for 50 cents off. I hated my job and the only thing that eased my pain after a 15 hour shift dealing with assholes returning blenders was my DIRECTV. I came home one Sunday after signing the Wheat Thins and Beggin Strips at their discounted prices, and all I wanted was a good dose of ‘America’s Next Top Model’. I got comfortable in bed with my remote in hand. I attempted to turn it on and nothing was happening. I tried that trick where you smack the remote against the palm of your hand repeatedly in an effort to revitalize the remaining alkaline in the batteries. No dice. I went downstairs and found some fresh AA’s in the kitchen drawer and trekked back upstairs. Once I realized that the batteries weren’t the issue, I began to investigate further. I started by pressing a bunch of random buttons on the TV, hoping to get lucky. Nothing happened, so I moved on to the DIRECTV receiver box. I was on my knees checking all of the cable connections when the box made a sizzling sound. It smelled terrible as well. I picked it up and turned it upside down. As I did this, about a gallon of urine poured out. There’s nothing quite like the aroma of baking piss. The guy I married was downstairs watching TV using the DIRECTV unit that wasn’t shorted out by pee. I started screaming his name and dropping obscenities until he came upstairs. It turns out that he has a bit of a sleep walking problem. There had been many occasions where I’d awaken in the middle of the night to find him preparing to relieve himself in the closet or his sock drawer. I was always able to divert him towards the bathroom. Of course he had no recollection of the sleep peeing incidents, including this particular one.

He suggested that the dog might be responsible. She’s a 13 inch beagle, and last I checked she’s never peed standing up. I used my strong forensic background to line up the shooting angle and relevant spatter patterns. I demonstrated that the location of the box was curiously Pollack penis height. The crime scene interrogation was not going to fix the problem, so I knew that I had to call DIRECTV for help. They have a menu of problems to choose from, but I wasn’t quite sure which umbrella my particular problem fell under. Troubleshooting? Here’s an idea… don’t pee on the receiver, genius. In all fairness, that tip does not appear anywhere in the manual. How was he to know? I decided to go with ‘other’ as my problem selection and the call rang through to my help desk operator. I started off by advising him that this call was sure to be recording worthy. You might as well gather your buddies around now because this is sure to be a good one. I’ll hold. I told him there was ‘liquid’ inadvertently spilled into the unit through a penis. He said, “Someone urinated on it?” I had to explain that it appeared to be accidental urination. It’s not like he was sick and tired of CSI and decided to piss it out. We came to a mutual decision that a new receiver was definitely in order, although they did make me send the peed on one back. Who knows where that one ended up? Possibly your house!

I had a recent affair with Cox Cable because my landlord wouldn’t allow me to have a satellite dish on the house. I feel guilty about my indiscretion and want DIRECTV to know that I’m back and I truly love them. I will never stray again, and I promise to position all future receivers at a height that makes pissing on them virtually impossible.

It’s really no secret that I’m a complete jackass on occasion. I find that it’s much easier to embrace it than to wage an un-winnable war against it. If something humiliating happens to me, I’m usually telling someone about it in a matter of minutes. I had one of these moments last week at the office that deserves to be re-lived. I’ll have to admit that I was feeling pretty good about myself that day, which is usually my first indication that something horrible is about to happen. I had just prepared myself a delightful cup of Mocha Nut Fudge coffee, which tastes like cake in a cup. I was en-route back to my office on the event level of Quicken Loans Arena with my liquid treat in hand. I was feeling ultra confident in my black skirt and high heeled boots as I strutted down the hallway towards my destination. As I began to take the corner, I slipped on a wet patch of flooring and found myself falling in what felt like slow motion. My left arm instinctively performed a windmill-like motion as my coffee clutching right hand jerked upward towards my head. More than half the contents of the cup went directly into my face and hair… not a god-damned drop in my mouth, I might add! I managed to avoid actually hitting the ground because the arm motion was evidently very effective. I never let go of that cup either. Of course, there were two co-workers that I hadn’t been formally introduced to standing a few feet from the crime scene. OH… and the visiting hockey team was practicing on the ice with a clear view of the entire show. My hair was drenched and my make-up was streaking down my face. I fled into the bathroom wanting to flush myself down the toilet in an effort to escape. I gazed into the mirror wondering how the hell I was going to piece myself back together. I decided to try to paper towel my hair dry, just as one of my employees walked into the restroom. Samantha looked at me and it was evident that she wasn’t quite sure if she was allowed to laugh or not. I had the whole front of my hair sandwiched between two paper towels… kind of like when you de-grease bacon. I had to explain to her how I had just thrown coffee at my own face as I was blotting the mascara off it. The tiny granules of sweet-n-low embedded in my right eyeball were irritating me, so she probably thought I kept winking at her. I eventually found my way back down to my office, where fortunately I have a flat-iron on stand-by at all times. I plugged it in and used it to re-shape my now crunchy hair. As the steam rose off the hot iron, it smelled like someone was baking brownies in my office. I then headed off to fetch a new cup of java…with a tad less face in this one.

One of the more memorable moments in my repertoire happened at a dance club in Syracuse, NY. Yes…I know! What the hell is a dance club? Do they even exist anymore? I was out with a few of my ‘friends’ or so I thought. I’m a Gemini, and we love our attention. On this particular evening, I must have been the hottest girl alive because every guy in the place was sizing me up. I felt like I was in a movie the way people kept sending drinks my way. Damn, I must look GOOOOOD! I was really playing it up with the flirtatious looks and maybe even a wink or two. This went on for hours, and I felt sorry for my non-attention worthy friends. They must have been so jealous of my obvious popularity. I tore myself away from Jenapalooza long enough to hit the ladies room. There were full length mirrors lining the walls in the facilities as you entered. Just then, out of the corner of my eye… I saw it. My dress was tucked into the back of my lady bug thong underwear, revealing my entire ass to the world. Oh my God! I did the ‘Electric Slide’ like that?! Unfortunately, there wasn’t an escape hatch, so I had to eventually leave the way I came in. I regained my composure and exited with what little pride I had left. I was on the second step of the carpeted stairs when my foot slipped out from under me, and I rode down the remaining stairs on my back with my legs up in the air. As I laid flat on my back at the bottom of the steps, once again revealing my drawers to the entire bar, a really hot guy stood over me to offer my shoe back. Turns out, it had hit him full force in the back of the head as it flew off my foot. In hindsight, I should have been more embarrassed by my feathered helmet hairstyle. What was I thinking?

We all do dumb shit. I can’t even tell you how many times I’ve rummaged around in my purse searching desperately for something, only to pull out a tampon. It’s usually in front of the hottest guy on the planet or your male boss. When I was first thrust back on to the single scene, I hit the tri-fecta. A very attractive guy asked me for my phone number and I thought it would be super impressive to pull out my business card from my mom purse. Step one was the tampon, which I believe I actually asked him to hold for a minute while I dug further. I then produced a diaper and a bootleg copy of the Lion King on DVD. I was so horrified that I purposely gave him the wrong number just in case he was crazy enough to call. Have you ever let one rip while alone in the car only to discover that the establishment you’re pulling up to has valet parking? Now you’re compelled to drive around the block a few times with the windows down, trying frantically to fan the evidence out the window. Don’t kid yourself; the valet guy has caught this act before. He knows exactly what’s up.

Embarrassing things happen to me every day. I’m actually kind of concerned that at some point I won’t even realize that they’re embarrassing anymore. It’s very likely that’s what happened to my grandmother. My siblings and I used to pretend she had Alzheimer’s as an excuse for the retarded stuff she did on a daily basis. God love her, she was a Gemini too.

Rest in Pieces

Our dresses were candy apple red satin with an empire waist, which evidently is code for fat girl dress. I knew I looked like a complete jackass and I didn’t even care. We arrived at the church approximately 45 minutes late because the bride couldn’t get her act together. She promptly handed me a brush and made me rake her kid’s hair which hadn’t seen a comb in weeks. My next maid of honor responsibility was to make all of the bouquets in the back room of the church an hour after the ceremony was supposed to have begun. My tool kit included a pair of scissors, a roll of ribbon and a garbage can serving as a makeshift 30 gallon vase. As I pulled the calla lilies out of the trash receptacle, the ice cold water dripped down the front of my 1980’s prom style dress. Good thing I wasn’t wearing a bra, because who doesn’t love a spontaneous wet tee shirt imitation at a church? The church was under construction, so there were construction workers in hard hats carrying giant beams and using a jackhammer right outside the stained glass Christ windows. I’m pretty sure one of them winked at me because of my damp, erect nipples. I’m not even sure we had the right to be there. It didn’t appear to me that this particular church should be open at all. The guests were all ripe by this point because they had been sweating it up in this heat box.

Once the ceremony finally started, things went from bad to fucking catastrophic in about two minutes time. That’s the moment when one of the groomsmen took a header down the three little stairs and began rolling around and moaning in front of the altar. Half a dozen people dialed 911 to get the paramedics on the scene. Lucky bastard got to leave in the ambulance while we were all stuck in the stink tank. The dude’s wife was a bridesmaid, so she left as well. Ten minutes in…and we’re down two. The ceremony continued… blah blah blah, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You know the drill. The bride had arranged for a very dramatic and symbolic dove release as we exited the church. The newlyweds launched the doves skyward, and let’s just say the resulting symbolism was not what they were going for. Both doves had been in pet shop boxes with tiny air holes for the duration of the three hour fiasco of a wedding. The bride’s dove didn’t even attempt to fly. It landed lazily on its feet and stumbled away looking like it was participating in a very poor showing of a roadside sobriety test. The groom had some firepower behind his launch. He must have played quarterback for his high school football team. The dove hit the ground with a resounding thud as people shrieked and covered their children’s eyes. The paramedic had already departed, so there was no hope for the dove. One of the groomsmen had to scrape the dove off the pavement and bury it out back. I believe there was actually a crater created by the impact. If a newly married couple sees a pair of cooing doves, it symbolizes a long and happy marriage. So what does it mean if the couple sees a dead dove and a retarded dove on their big day? Doves are a symbol of peace, but I’m pretty sure if one of them is IN PIECES…all bets are off. I wanted to call PETA so they could picket the cocktail hour at the reception.

The untimely passing of the dove ended up bailing me out of a pretty serious jam. When we arrived at the reception hall, the first thing we saw was a decorative birdcage designed to hold wedding cards. I immediately knew that it served a much greater purpose. After some cajoling, we managed to convince a few of the groomsmen to make an emergency run to Target to pick up a CD for me. When the grand entrance occurred, the best man and I walked in carrying the empty birdcage and I gave a very stirring eulogy to the dove. Clearly it was best that we all moved on and tried to enjoy the day regardless of the senseless tragedy. At that point, I introduced the new Mr. and Mrs. Who Cares as they walked in to Prince’s ‘When Doves Cry’. I’m not sure what the original musical selection was, but if their first dance song was any indication, I did everyone a huge favor. Their first dance as a married couple was that awful Starship song ‘Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now’, which much to my pleasure happened to be the theme song to ‘Mannequin’. How could I possibly resist performing a series of mannequin poses with my two ugly dress wearing friends? I’m not even sure whether these two idiots are still married, but if I had to take an educated guess I would say Hell No. The message of this story is really geared for all of you assholes who skip the church and head right for the open bar. There were people that missed this! This should be reason enough for you to never again miss the I-Dos.