Caity's Time of the Month

By Slutty Caity -

Let us start with a fact: older black men love me.

I could walk around a bar with a sign reading "Will Bang for Tacos" and wouldn't get half the response from my demographic as I do on any given day from older black gentlemen in the Whole Foods line. "Why are you eating that salad, darlin'? Come on over here to the hot bar and eat some real food. A fine lookin' woman needs to eat fine food to stay lookin' fine." I swear to God, this was said to me verbatim yesterday at lunch, and it wasn't the first time some version of this exchange has occurred. I'm not sure what it is.

Post-college I was slightly (ok, fuck off, Allie, more than slightly) larger than I am now, and attributed it to varying ideals of beauty within different cultures. However, now the weight is gone and the attention remains, along with what can only be described as wet dreams involving massive quantities of Burger King french fries.

My two best (straight) male friends are convinced my astounding lack of game with anyone my own age is due to the fact that it is nearly impossible for me to look like a cheap trick. Personally, I think it probably has more to do with the fact that when I'm not pounding shots, playing Rock Band and letting them convince me to be thrown over a cement wall in order to break into the community pool at odd hours with their stupid asses, I like to spend my time knitting or reading Victorian novels; and if I really get a wild hair, knitting while listening to audiobooks of Victorian novels. They do, however, have a point: it is very difficult for me to look slutty, which hasn't stopped me from trying.

Last Halloween I went as "The Walk of Shame," and even with my left breast hanging out, strategically placed lotion around my eye, and a condom pinned in my hair, I just ended up looking like a sweet, cherubic version of Amy Winehouse. The Amy Winehouse you might, after a visit to the free clinic and a DIY car wash for an industrial strength hose down, take home to your mother. Or Joey Potter on a serious bender. Really, I'm fine with this, except for the fact that this seems to be the look old-ass men are after, which brings me to my current predicament.

The first time my boss offered to take me to Vegas as his arm candy, I thought he was trying to be funny. Funny the way successful, portly gentlemen who have received the senior discount at Denny's for some time think mildly inappropriate sexual remarks to female subordinates are funny. When, one warm summer day, I wore open toe shoes and he remarked that I had better watch out wearing sandals around him "'cause you get old and you start gettin' freaky," I chalked it up to my new pedicure and the reality that I do, in fact, have oddly attractive feet. I even laughed and played along when he suggested we change our trip from Vegas to a cruise, "because you look like the type of girl who likes to sunbathe, and I like to sit out and watch the ladies sunbathe."

It's not the overtly creepy and perverse nature of his remarks that bothers me--the summer before my senior year of college I worked as a production assistant on a reality television show, and was told by the executive producer that I couldn't log tapes "any better than a stoned retard" but that I had "great tits"--it's that I'm starting to think he's serious. This puts me in an exceedingly awkward position.

On the one hand, I think he's a nice, if sexually misguided, guy, and I don't want to hurt his feelings. On the other hand, there is absolutely no fucking way. Thus far, I've dealt with it the way I deal with most things: I'm ignoring the issue and hoping it will go away. This is made easier by the fact that I just got hired full time at the job I actually like (and is run by gays and ladies), and put in my two weeks at this one. However, when I told him I was leaving he said he was devastated, but that "this will be good, because now I'll get a chance to miss you and pursue you."

What the fuck am I supposed to do with that? Seriously, I'm asking.



*

Giants Baseball.

Five thoughts on Giants Baseball:


One –
Tim Lincecum is a gift from God and I am thankful daily that he is a part of our team. And I'm thankful I have the opportunity to watch him play every 5 days. If you missed his last start, the complete game with 15 strikeouts, then I’m sorry. Life is passing you by. Figure it out for once in your life.


Two –
The trade today, Tim Alderson for Freddy Sanchez, ruffled a lot of feathers in these parts. Nobody likes to part with a 22-year old prospect with more hype than a Krispy Kreme donut. But that’s all he is at this point…hype. I think common sense tells you that any time you can get an everyday all-star for a prospect who is still a few years away, then you pull the trigger. I’m on board. All this talk about Brian Sabean making a move to save his job is half true. If he didn’t make a move the lunatic fringe woulda lynched his ass. But this move wasn’t desperate. This was calculated. Now sit back and let the Freddy Sanchez era begin.


Three –
We also traded for first baseman Ryan Garko. One of the weirder names in all of baseball. The new joke in my circle (yes, I have a circle) is responding to "Garko" with "Polo." Get it? It’s my new obsession. I want to figure a way to get the entire stadium to chant "Garko...Polo" whenever he’s at bat.


Four –
The Giants are 2-3 years from winning the whole fucking thing. Quote me on that. Print this out, gild it, frame it, fuck it, whatever you want. But mark my words. In 2-3 years, come October, I’m dancing in the streets pouring champagne on myself like I just won Rock of Love.


Five –
Happy Birthday to my little brother Scrotum, Scrotizmo, Scrontanamero, or Scrot...if you're into the whole brevity thing. Not only are you the coolest mother fucker on the planet but you're also the BIGGEST Giants fan I’ve ever met. I love ya kid. And I miss you. Go Giants!




III

Aint that the truth

Oh yeah, Timmy's pitching.



III

Happy Birthday Buddy!

Today is Jericho’s birthday. I did what any good friend would do. First, I called his office and told the receptionist I was the CEO of his biggest client. (I didn’t say those words exactly, I actually know the name of the CEO of his biggest client.) You shoulda heard his gay little voice trembling when he picked up the phone. I broke into my slowest, sweetest and most genuine Happy Birthday serenade. The sound of relief in the laugh he let out was priceless. He later told me that his whole office was on the edge of their seats when the receptionist announced who was on the phone.

What I wouldn’t have paid to hear his explanation to his co-workers. “No, that was just my totally awesome friend making me look like a complete jack hole.” I imagine it went something like that.

A few minutes later a bouquet of 30 balloons and one oversized balloon which read ‘Happy Birthday Girl’ showed up at his office. Perfect. I tried to make the card say ‘Happy Birthday Fag’ but the owner of the balloon place wouldn’t go for it so I settled on ‘Happy Birthday Buddy.’

It’s kinda like when I gave the best man speech at Jericho’s wedding. I knew I couldn’t call him a fag 50 times so right before I walked up to deliver the speech I leaned over and told him, “every time I say the word ‘buddy’ I actually mean ‘fag.’

Well, Happy Birthday Buddy. You’re growing up right in front of our very eyes. Kinda makes me nostalgic for the days we’d ride around in Big Wheels and I’d push you over whenever you took looked at me funny. Those were the days huh?




III

He Doesn’t Fuck Muppets

If a guy gives another guy a tug job, couldn’t you say that he’s cheating on himself?


Why did Big Ben’s attorney say “Ben has never sexually assaulted anyone, especially Andrea McNulty” when he could’ve more accurately said, “my client has very high standards, if he was ever going to sexually assault someone she would be ball-achingly hot, like Minka Kelly hot. This bitch looks like a Muppet. My client has two rings, he doesn’t fuck Muppets.”


I can’t stand when people suggest plurality by putting the “s” in parentheses. Anyone who does this can suck my ball(s).


I’ll concede the fact that Steve McNair’s wife didn’t completely understand the extent of his extracurricular activities, but what exactly did she think he was doing at that condo? And wasn’t she the least bit suspicious when he came home and announced, “good news, honey, I finally closed escrow on my humping shack. This will be a great investment for our portfolio and for my humping pole.”


I hate Twitter so fucking much I could fucking smack a bitch. PR people have to monitor Twitter now so we can suggest people/Tweets for our clients to respond to. The other day I had to recommend that my client respond to some 17yd old fucktard who used “LOL” 3 separate fucking times in the same sentence. This is standard practice now. My question, why the fuck would you want your brand to be associated with someone who uses LOL once in a sentence let alone 3 fucking goddamn times? Fuck LOL. In fact, let’s dig an enormous hole, put all the zebra-fucking LOLers in it and light it on fire. Other than that though, my job is super duper fucking sweet.


If I were a rapper my debut line would absolutely be “this isn’t pussy hospitality, it’s a pussy fatality. Test a bitch for syphilis, pee in a cup. They call me the terrorist, ‘cause I tear pussy up.”


One of my goals in life is to look someone dead in the eye and say, “you will rue this day.” There’s nothing casual about ruing, it’s the samurai sword or Prince William’s dick of threats; you only bring the rue out of its sheath when you plan to really fuck someone.



JR

You don't say...

Having a blog is a very narcissistic thing to do. I am assuming that you, the reader, care about what silly thoughts are in my head. Not just care, but are interested enough to keep coming back day after day. Jericho and I started this blog with the goal to make each other laugh. That’s it, plain and simple. And while we’re at it if we can make you laugh inappropriately loud at your desk, or show you some good cleavage shots or get TahoeSanta laid in the process – then we’ve accomplished something together. Haven’t we?


Here are ten things you never knew about me:


1. In one of my college writing classes I couldn’t figure out how to finish a story I was writing. So, instead of coming up with something interesting I finished it by saying “he sat in his car and took 3-foot bong rips until he couldn’t feel his face any more.” When I got my paper back my teacher had circled the final sentence and wrote in the margin: “We’ve all been there.” True story.


2. I am deathly afraid of birds. Pigeons mainly. My fear is that they’re going to touch me. I know they won’t hurt me; I just have this crippling fear that they’re going to touch me. And that would just about be my biggest fear in the whole world.


3. If I ever decide to take mushrooms again I’ll do it at the California Academy of Science here in the city. That place is fucking rad. I’d sit in the aquarium section all day. I don’t think I could handle the planetarium. That shit tripped me out after having only a few cups of coffee.


4. I know every single word to O.P.P. Seriously. When I was like 10 years old I dedicated a solid 3 month period of my life to memorizing the song. No pen and paper or anything cheesy like that. Nope. I just listened to O.P.P. about 13,000 times. That does the trick.


5. I’ll only fight Jericho if he’s had more to drink than I have. He’s stronger than I am. I’ll admit that. But I’m scrappier and I don’t fight fair. So if we’re hanging out its my goal to get him as wasted as possible just in case it comes to fisticuffs. By the way, he instigates 99% of all fights between us.


6. The other day when I left for work I kissed my wife and told her to “have a safe day.” She gave me a weird look. That’s easily both the dorkiest and most ‘old Jewish woman’ thing I’ve ever done. Ever.


7. About 7 years ago I promised Jericho we would have a Whisky and Coke with Jack White someday. Needless to say it hasn’t happened yet, but I wouldn’t bet against us.


8. I love to mop. I don’t like filling the bucket, or sweeping the floor, or figuring out the proportion of soap. But the actual act of mopping brings me so much pleasure it’s hard to explain let alone understand.


9. A few years back, at a photoshoot in NYC, the head stylist offered to waive his $500 haircut fee if I referred to him as a “her” and let “her” sit on my lap while doing the cut. Best looking haircut I ever got.


10. Every night I take my shirt off in front of the bathroom mirror and have a flex-off with myself. After I’m satisfied, I make my wife come in and comment.



III

As long as we've got each other...

Nine things on my mind after a truly jam packed week:

1) If you’ve been a longtime reader then you know 2 things about my sports gambling habits. First, I’m terrible at sports betting. And second, all of my funds have been cut off until football season starts again in order to try and save any sort of dignity I have left. So needless to say I am fucking chomping at the bit for football season to get here. I’ve been passing the time by checking out the over/under lines for total regular season wins. Here’s what I like so far: Patriots under 11.5 wins, Raiders under 5.5 wins and Denver under 7 wins.


2) My obsession with Michael Pollan has reached new all-time highs. This guy is a genius or a prophet at the very least. Pollan is a journalist from Berkeley who investigates food production in our country…and it’s eye opening to say the least. This is my new obsession. I have a feeling it will last a bit longer than the time I decided to become an Asian. But don’t worry, I’ll spare you all from my thoughts, findings and observations on foods. Nobody likes a whiny bitch.


3) I was in Atlanta for work earlier this week. Caity, I’m sorry I didn’t call. I didn’t have time to see you so I didn’t even want to lead you on. Next time we’ll get together, I promise. By the way how the fuck do you deal with that humidity? It’s like walking around in a sweaty ball sack. Not walking with a sweaty ball sack but walking in a sweaty ball sack. Now it makes more sense why Ted Turner hates the Jews.


4) I thought the Home Run Derby was one of the most boring events I’ve ever seen on TV. And that’s coming from someone who also watched the nominations for the daytime Emmy’s earlier this week. It’s just not that cool to watch these big fat fuckers take a hundred swings over and over. Inevitably this event will have to change in order to stay interesting. MLB got lucky with Josh Hamilton’s incredible string of homers during last year’s event, but that was an anomaly. More likely it’s like this year where a guy watches 6 perfect pitches in a row then swings as hard as he can at the 7th. Who cares if he hits it over the wall? Let’s focus on the fans in the bleacher seats. Reduce it to 15 people total and give each of them a police batton and a glove and whoever gets the most balls at the end gets to kick Mike Golic in the face as many times as they want. Thoughts?


5) Wanna know what? Tim Lincecum is pitching tonight. That’s right. He’s 10-2 and is well paced to pick up his 2nd Cy Young award in a row. If you haven’t seen Timmy pitch then buy MLB.tv, go to your local sportsbar, or give the cable guy a hand job/blow job combo with a slow shifty in the middle…because you’re missing out. Timmy is the most exciting player in all of baseball right now.


6) The response for our upcoming Fantasy Football drafting rules post has been good so far. (Thanks Cody D!) But we need more. Send your thoughts, hopes, dreams and perversions to applesandmoustaches@gmail.com



7) The ESPYs are this Sunday. Or put another way, feel free to grocery shop, wash your hair, let your dog eat your homework, pour hot sauce down your pee hole or do ANYTHING besides watch the ESPYs on Sunday. Unless you enjoy 2 and a half hours of watching a TV network try to blow itself. Hey ESPN, I’ll save you the trouble. It’s not possible and actually it’s kinda embarrassing when you let others watch.



8) I have the most massive zit on my nose right now. It’s the kind where I can actually see it when I just look forward. It’s awful. And I’m not the kinda person who gets these things often. But I’ll say one thing. Thank God for women. I immediately asked my wife what to do. Without hesitation she directed me to one of the hundreds of secret magic potions in our bathroom to help with the problem. But it’s never as simple as “in the 2nd shelf there’s a white bottle’…oh no, it’s always way more complicated than that. This morning, and I’m paraphrasing here, these were the directions for what to apply to my nose. “Go to the 2nd drawer and open up the large black box. In the 3rd compartment you’ll find a small troll named Gustav. Compliment him on his shoes. In return he will hand you a strip of lamb’s skin which you should immediately start dabbing on your nose while whistling the theme song to Growing Pains.’ Fingers crossed this works.



9) The new Dead Weather is out, and I need to get it worse than Neil Young needs a good dick slap to the forehead. By the way, they’re on Jimmy Fallon tonight.


III