50 Shades Enraged

I read and review Fifty Shades Freed so you don't have to.

It's gotten to the point where I am now doing actual work in order to avoid reading, writing, or thinking about this book. I am also concerned about not being funny any more because I am so weary and sad from reading this that I'm struggling to even find the rage. At least I was until I read Chapter 11.

The chapter opens with Ana returning home from her day at work to a confrontation with Christian over why he flew home early from New York. It was, he says, because she went back on her word about staying in that night. "Is that how you see it?" she asks him with genuine fucking surprise, before explaining she didn't break her promise, she merely CHANGED HER MIND, because she's a woman and therefore has to behave like an ignorant, inconsiderate douchebucket by simple biological imperative. Holy fuck, NO, Ana, if you PROMISE to do something and then turn around and immediately do the EXACT OPPOSITE of that, THEN YOU HAVE GONE BACK ON YOUR FUCKING WORD. That is how that works, and while we're at it, how about not throwing your entire gender under the bus to justify the fact that you are a MASSIVE UNWIPED ASSHOLE.

The conversation goes on, I can't be bothered to get into the stupid details, and continues over food in the kitchen which involves a great deal of Christian spitting wine into her mouth (backwashing - the sexiest way to serve beverages!) and afterward he takes her into the playroom for the sex scene I had been warned previously would enrage me. It didn't disappoint on that front. Christian attaches her to some restraints on the wall and then starts systematically winding her up and then stopping right before she comes. Orgasm denial, in my opinion anyway, is SUPER FUCKING AWESOME. It is something that is next to impossible to do to yourself, especially to the degree it reaches in this scene, and it builds you to a point of intensity you would be hard pressed to get to on your own. It is sort of a gift in that way. It doesn't necessarily have to be about D/s either - plenty of people incorporate this to some degree into their play whether they otherwise have an interest in kink or not. Ana doesn't see it that way, however, and she safewords to get him to stop. My reaction to that was specific to my own experience and basically amounted to ARE YOU CRAZY? YOU'RE GOING TO MISS THE BEST PART YOU TWATSICLE. But that's my own preference and therefore not something to get enraged about. Everyone doesn't like the same things and if orgasm denial isn't Ana's cup of tea that's fine for her. What I got enraged about was her (and by extension E.L. James') reasoning. She didn't safeword because she wasn't enjoying herself, she did it because she saw it as some kind of sinister plot. "This is not love. This is revenge." she thinks to herself. She follows this up with statements about how callous a thing that is to do to someone, and reminding Christian that she is not his submissive (she's his WIFE! They are mutually exclusive!) and to stop treating her like one. As for Christian, well, Ana is right, he WAS deliberately being awful to her to punish her for worrying him the day before. Of course he was, that is the only reason why someone would want to do this. Orgasm denial is a tool of vengeance and is only ever used by VICIOUS HATEFUL MONSTER PEOPLE WHO ARE EMOTIONALLY DAMAGED. Not only that, but Christian's aftercare is absolutely fucking atrocious. He spends just about all of it trying to justify his going too far - she is just so frustrating that he couldn't help himself. The fact that she's been hurt is ALL HER FAULT. SEE WHAT YOU MADE ME DO? Every single word in this entire scene is wrong, wrong, wrong in the greatest way it could possibly have been wrong, and I am sick and tired of reading scenes like this that vilify and fundamentally misunderstand BDSM and its practitioners in a book that is allegedly about exploring one's kinks. FUCK YOU, JAMES. I WANT TO USE THIS BOOK TO GIVE YOU A THOUSAND PAPER CUTS AND THEN DROWN YOU IN A BATHTUB FULL OF LEMON JUICE (note to Mrs. Sizemore: We should totally make this a level in Shiv and Lemon) YOU DISGUSTING, MISINFORMED CUNT YODELER.

GOD.

Anytwat, in Chapter 12, we learn a little bit more about Christian, in that he wasn't born in Seattle, he was born and subsequently adopted in Detroit, which coincidentally is where Jack Hyde is also from, except since this author is fucking insane and also foreshadows everything, it's going to turn out not to be a coincidence at all. In fact, at first I thought Jack Hyde might turn out to be Christian's birth father, but he's not old enough. Still in bed in the playroom, Ana and Christian have the same tiresome conversation they've had a thousand times about how he needs to be less controlling and she needs to be less defiant, and they both continue to lie to themselves and each other about how they are going to change their ways. Afterwards they fall asleep for a while until Ana awakes to the sound of Christian having a nightmare. She wakes him up and they fuck immediately in order to solve the problem, as you do. Then they go back to bed in their own bedroom, only for Ana to wake up again at 3 in the morning because Christian is not in the bed. The ability of both of these people to be hyper aware of their surrounding environment while asleep is astounding. She finds him at the piano again, playing a sad song and wonders whether she's done something to upset him (while she was sleeping?!?) like a good little abuse victim. She hasn't; he's upset because he dreamed that Ana was dead and now that he's awake his whole world is crumbling around him because WHAT IF SHE DIES? When I was in Florida a couple weeks ago, I dreamed that one of my best friends and the kindest human I know shot me in the head in cold blood. I was a little disturbed when I woke up, but I didn't run to the police and get a restraining order because IT WAS JUST A FUCKING DREAM, NOT A PREDICTION OF THE FUTURE. When they wake up the next day, all is well between them again and Christian decides they should go to Aspen for the weekend. And since Ana had recently complained that she never gets to see her friends, he has invited Kate and Elliot, and also Ethan and Mia to accompany them. I notice that these are the two friends she has who happen to be dating his siblings and are therefore on some sort of "approved" friend list - Jose, of course, is not among the group. They are taking Christian's private plane, natch, and Ana bristles when she sees Natalia, the flight attendant. "Why does she make me uncomfortable?" Ana wonders. "Maybe it's that she's a brunette. By his own admission, Christian doesn't usually employ brunettes because he finds them attractive." No, Ana, she makes you uncomfortable because every single person who has a vagina makes you uncomfortable since you are a lunatic who sees sex crazed vagina monsters trying to fuck your husband around every corner. And really, Christian? You have to employ only blondes to avoid seducing and/or raping your entire staff? I find it weird that you have so little self control that you simply can't hire brunettes, especially since you maintain such stringent control over every single other facet of your life. Also, I suspect the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission might like a word with you about the basis of your hiring decisions.

During the flight, Kate has the nerve to ask Christian questions about the whole Jack Hyde business, which he answers while getting steadily more angry with her, and while Ana sits next to him in terror because oh no, what if Kate's questions upset him? I think to myself that he could always just, you know, decline to talk about it, but this is now how life works in E.L. James' magical fairyland of crazypants nonsense - he has to keep answering questions he doesn't want to answer because he has to be angry constantly, and Ana has to ask a completely irrelevant question about Hyde's age (32) because Christian has to have a jealous freak out that his wife had even a single thought that wasn't about him. Is this woman really an actual functioning member of society? Because she writes like she's never interacted with another human being in her entire life. Nell would do a better job at writing interpersonal communications than E. L. James for crying out loud.

The group lands in Aspen and heads for Christian's (and also Ana's as he points out CONSTANTLY) house, a scene which is mindbogglingly over-described, and contains a conversation about how Christian is never going to teach Ana to ski lest she Sonny Bono herself, and Ana's fucking insane musings on the fact that Gia Matteo remodeled the house, and ohmigod what does it mean? This entire chapter is pointless and only exists in order to foreshadow the STUNNING (No. Not even. Shut up, James) event on its final page, which I can't imagine has anything to do with the overall "plot" of the "story". By the time James is done bludgeoning her readers over the head with gigantic hints about what is about to happen, the final scene reads like a punchline to a very dull joke. So, LET THE FORESHADOWING BEGIN! Hey, did you guys notice that something weird seems to be going on between Kate and Elliot? Ana did! She has no idea what it is. Are they fighting? Should she meddle in shit that's not her fucking business ask? Let's keep reading and see! Christian takes Ana on a tour of the (their!) house, during which she mentions how uncomfortable it makes her that Gia did work on the house and that Elliot used to fuck her, as if any of those things are some kind of predictor of how nice their weekend will be. Christian, for reasons unknown (oh who am I kidding, the reason is that James is barely literate and lacks any ability to tell a compelling story), tells her that in actually, Elliot has fucked not just Gia but half of Seattle. She's shocked because Elliot is so innocent looking! How can a man that looks like a choirboy have ever had sex with (gasp!) multiple people? Ana, if a person's looks were any sort of indication of how much sex they were having, then Ron Jeremy wouldn't have a career. Jesus you're annoying. Anyway, now Ana is concerned because ohmigod does Kate even know? And ohmigod what does it mean? Let's keep reading and see!

At lunch, the group makes some decisions about how to spend the day. The girls are going shopping even though two thirds of them aren't big on shopping but no one can ever resist Mia! The boys are going fishing because THAT IS SOMETHING MEN DO. But wait! Elliot needs to go buy a watch battery first. Which is a weird thing to be sorting out during a weekend in Aspen, but whatever. I ASSURE YOU THIS IS NOT A CLUE. Also Elliot seems sort of distracted. I wonder why? Let's keep reading and see! The girls go shopping and Mia has Ana buy a cocktail dress the size of a napkin for clubbing later. Then, while Mia and Kate try on their own selections, Ana has a little peer out the window. AND GUESS WHAT SHE SEES? She sees Elliot going into the jewelry store that is conveniently for this asinine story located directly across the street from where they are shopping! I wonder if maybe he went to the jewelry store looking for that watch battery? Or maybe for some other reason? Let's keep reading and see! OH NO! You guys! When he comes out of the jewelry store, who does he happen to be with but GIA MATTEO! They exchange a completely chaste and unsuspicious goodbye, which makes Ana extremely suspicious. What is he doing with THAT BITCH? What is she doing in Aspen? Is he having an affair? Is this a pathetic red herring thrown in by James to throw us off the trail? Should she tell Kate? Just what in the actual fuck is going on here? LET'S KEEP READING AND SEE!

After shopping, Ana finally asks Kate what the shit is going on. Kate doesn't know. Elliot seems really distracted lately. By the way, she is in love with him. Like "let's get married and make tons of babies" in love (which Ana describes as her "happily ever after" because it is completely impossible to live a complete and fulfilled life without a husband and a litter of spawn. Duh). His preoccupation is a mystery. NO REALLY, I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT'S ABOUT TO HAPPEN. They manage to run out of wood for the fire, and Ana goes to the garage to get more where she runs into none other than...Elliot Grey! Oh no! What should she do? Should she confront him about what she saw? Demand that he explain what's happening with Kate? Mind her own goddamn business and shut the fuck up? Say nothing, but think judgmental thoughts about how anyone who has had sex with more than one person is obviously a terrible human being who can never, ever be trusted? She goes for the last one while having a conversation about whether or not she should ride a  trail bike.

When the other boys get home from fishing (Elliot never made it; he had "things to take care of" in town, WHAT DOES IT MEAN?), Ana and Christian go upstairs to take a bath, where Ana confronts him about having seen Gia in town...with Elliot. Christian informs her Gia also has a place in Aspen and reiterates that she and Elliot are just friends now. For realsies. He knows there's nothing going on - Elliot is way into Kate. "In fact, I know he's pretty stuck on her," Christian says with real conviction, almost like he knows something we don't know. Does he? Let's keep reading and see!

Ana gets dressed in her napkin and the stripper heels she also bought at Mia's insistence and then asks Christian for his approval. I had written in my notes when she bought the dress that he would never let her wear that out of the house, based on his freaking out in the past that she wore a sundress out of the house on a sunny day, completely forgetting for a moment that the characters James writes can never be expected to behave in the way she has previously established. He's not exactly happy that his wife's back and legs are exposed in a way that ANYONE could look at, but she looks beautiful, so it's cool.

The story cuts to a scene in the restaurant they've chosen for dinner that evening. As they wait for dessert, Ana notices that Elliot seems sort of nervous, laughing too loud and saying things that are slightly weird. Oh no! Have they had a fight? Was it over that red herring woman? LET'S KEEP FUCKING READING SO WE CAN SEE AND END THIS TEDIOUS ABORTION OF A CHAPTER FOR THE LOVE OF GOD.

Suddenly, in a COMPLETELY UNEXPECTED MOVE THAT EVEN SYLVIA BROWNE DIDN'T SEE COMING, Elliot gets out of his chair, drops to one knee, and GUESS WHAT YOU GUYS? NO I MEAN IT GUESS. YOU ARE GOING TO BE SO FUCKING SURPRISED I SWEAR TO FUCK. IT IS, LIKE, THE CRAZIEST PLOT TWIST EVER WRITTEN. He gets down on one knee and proposes to Kate! I KNOW RIGHT? And on that bombshell, the chapter ends.

I wish there was a safeword I could use to make this book stop torturing me.

Better Shit To Read Than That Twilight Fanfic Fucking Nonsense

Many people have been asking me, "Amber, if we shouldn't be reading Fifty Shades of Grey to make our naughty parts tingle, what should we be reading instead?" The thing is, I can't actually answer that for you because you know a lot better than I do what you like in your word porn. I can tell you what I like, and you can go check that out, or not, as the mood strikes you but if, say, you are really digging tentacle porn this afternoon, my suggestions aren't going to be a whole lot of help to you. You might want to just google that.

Having said that, I've given a lot of thought to what sorts of things I've read that might appeal to people for reasons similar to why this book piece of shit apparently appeals to people, and I've made you guys a list. Keep in mind that most of my suggestions aren't going to be for novel length erotica. For the most part, I tend to read collections of short stories instead. This is just a personal preference. I find that on the whole, for writing of that length, either the plot suffers or the sex does. Or I just have a really short masturbatory attention span (ok, fine, it's probably this). The longest suggestion I have is the erotica classic Story Of O. It is the quintessential BDSM novel, but as such, might be a bit much for people who aren't looking for something as hard core as that, such as Christian Grey, who listed "permanent marking of the body" as a hard limit in his (never signed) contract, so probably won't be terribly down with the scene where O gets branded. An easier read for him might be He's On Top: Erotic Stories of Male Dominance and Female Submission, a collection of short D/s stories edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel. There is a companion book to that one featuring the opposite situation: She's on Top: Erotic Stories of Female Dominance and Male Submission, which I haven't read, but I suspect is just as good (or maybe better if you love reading about pegging).

If it's not BDSM you're after, and you're just looking for erotica aimed at and/or written by women, you could do worse than the Best Women's Erotica series, an annual collection of short stories edited by Violet Blue (I couldn't find the 2012 version on Amazon for some reason, but here's 2011, and here's where you can preorder 2013). And as long as we're on the subject of Violet Blue, she has also edited a series of books featuring fantasies for couples, including Taboo, which I ran to my living room to read after the first sex scene in Fifty Shades just to make sure that I still enjoy sex. I was genuinely concerned E. L. James had permanently destroyed my sex drive.

Of course there are also tons of sex blogs out there in internetland, including my own. But since I can't really link to that here as it would defeat the entire purpose of my having separated it from Bizzybiz in the first place (you are welcome to try to find it, but good luck with that - my friend Fish has been trying to find it off and on for years without much luck, and he knows me better than most people), I can instead recommend Pussy Talk, Easily Aroused, Remittance Girl, The Erotic Writer, and the incomparable Monmouth who I know in real life and who is also very good at finding delicious beer and/or snacks. I also follow mega porn star James Deen on Twitter, but his tweets aren't really that sexy and seem to be mostly related to him dressing up as a baby panda, though he does post links to his blog and photos of who he banged on camera that day.

Hopefully you'll find something on this list to interest you (or you were sucessful at your tentacle porn googling) and that it will keep you occupied until the reviews for the next book start, which I'm hoping will be next week, since my roommate, my lover AND my partner in fun Mrs. Sizemore will all be out of town and I am otherwise going to be BORED AS FUCK. And boring as fuck, unless you want to spend the week reading stories about my cat vs. the vacuum and how I can have ice cream and cookie dough for dinner since the bartender won't be here to stop me. Right, I didn't think so.

iNo.

I finally broke down and got an iPhone yesterday. This is the part where you all gasp incredulously and then yell "YOU ARE ONLY JUST NOW GETTING A SMART PHONE? THE HELL?" I know. I know.

The truth is I didn't really want a smart phone for a number of reasons. For one thing, I am already addicted to my iPad. ADDICTED YOU GUYS. And I have tremendous fear of becoming that person who never ever socializes at all even when out in public because OHMYGODTHEINTERNETSAREEVERYWHERE. Or the person that ruins every fucking bar room debate by immediately looking up the answer and ending the entire conversation. Those guys are assholes and I don't want to be one of those assholes. An even bigger reason is that iPhones tend to get stolen right out of people's hands. It happened to Mrs. Sizemore. A woman here in Chicago was even killed when an iPhone thief pushed her down the stairs at the Belmont Brown line station whilst escaping with someone else's iProperty. I didn't worry about using my phone on the train until today. No one was going to try to steal my flip phone. Now? Now I worry. There is also the much more stupid but nonetheless real reason where I am my father's daughter and oddly resistant to change at times. A phone doesn't need to be filled with apps and do 900 magical things, it needs to make and receive phone calls. That is what "phone" means. I may even have told a number of different people that I would get a smart phone when they pried the perfectly fine regular ass phone out my cold dead hand.

Still, the smart phone thing is long past reaching critical mass and when the bartender got one a couple of months ago I figured it was probably time for me to join the ranks of the Eternally Connected (for reference, two nights ago I patiently explained to him how to attach a photo in an email. For him to have a new thing before I have it is downright ludicrous). I was still reluctant. For help in overcoming this, I turned of course to the great and wise Fish, an early adopter of every technology ever and pretty much the only person whose advice I actually heed (sometimes), and asked him to convince me. "Do you like your iPad? Wish it were more portable? You have the ability to upgrade and you aren't? Why are you fucking this up?" was his typically withering response, so here I am one week later with an iPhone 4s.

I turned it on for the first time and was immediately not a fan. My mild OCD tendencies went into overdrive because the entire first screen was filled with icons. Like 20 icons, which is way too much for me to look at and I was overwhelmed and turned it right back off to catch my breath and regroup. And yes I know I can move and/or group them and have started doing so, but it requires a lot of work to figure out which applications I'm going to use in descending order of frequency and then group them accordingly and when I had a regular phone that only did phone things I didn't have to deal with this. But fine, that problem will be resolved eventually. Then last night while I was laying in bed awake at 3:30 am because my cat is an asshole, it dawned on me that I hadn't checked out Siri yet. (Oh by the way, that commercial with the idiot kid in the shitty band that wants Siri to call him rock god is fucking awful and makes me feel all damn-kids-get-off-my-lawn. Please, please let them stop airing that soon.) I decided to see what she was up to so I asked her "Siri, are you there?" and she replied with, "Wherever you go, that is where I will be." Which is a seriously creepy thing to say and now I am afraid of my iPhone because Siri is FUCKING STALKING ME, YO. I hope this gets better soon before it tarnishes Fish's thus far sterling record of advice giving.

England Trip Do Over: Preview

There will shortly be a series of blog posts up about my trip to England last week, but until I get them up, here's a conversation I had with Fish on the subject of my more untoward activities during my trip to tide you over til I have a real post written:

Fish: so will you be keeping in contact with this person?

Me: i imagine, from time to time
oh and i got to keep all the rope

Fish: I saw the Facebook post. The Man didn't give you no trouble with that at the airport?

Me: Well it was in my checked bags and also, they are not insane over there. I didn't even have to take off my shoes

Fish: No full body scans? That's too bad

Me: I know right? HOW WILL THEY KNOW IF I HAVE A BOMB IN MY VAG?

Fish: recon team

Me: oh well, ok then. that's way better anyway

I Do, However, Love The Game "Arguments With Friends"

Just an FYI: Blogger spell check corrected four words I had misspelled in this conversation alone

Fish: you should get words with friends
its basically scrabble
but you can lose to me

me: you're the hundredth person to say that and i will tell you what i told everyone else - i can't play any scrabble based games because i can't fucking spell

Fish: see
but this one
tells you when it's not a word
and it uses the scrabble dictionary
but if you try and make up a word
it is like "go fuck yourself"

me: but if i type a word that i know is a word and i just have it spelled wrong will it suggest "did you mean..."? like a normal online dictionary does?

Fish: no mam

me: yeah, not playing that

Fish: pussy

me: you are also forgetting that i am entirely antisocial and don't want to play much of anything with my friends
you'd be like "let's play a game!" and i'd be like "yes, let us both play a game...separately"

Fish: right
and you can
it's not real time
its almost like you are playing over email
you play a word
and then the other person plays a word when they have their ipad and 10 minutes to burn
i am playing one person right now who hasn't played a word in 10 days

me: oh good, because that's how long it would take me to figure out how to spell a word

Fish: Drama queen is actually 2 words

me: so is suck it

Chain Restaurants Simplified

After seeing a commercial for the Tilted Kilt that used the Dropkick Murphy's "Shipping Up To Boston" yesterday

The bartender (walking past me and grumbling): More stupid suburban bullshit.

Me: I went to the Tilted Kilt with Fish once. It's just a plaid Hooters.

Fish: Adept at Innuendo

Fish: Excited about Bermuda? Will you be visiting the triangle?

Me: Someone will be visiting a triangle.

Fish: Oh I see what you did there.

In Which We All Live Inside A Kaleidoscope

me: motherboard=broken
insert frownyface here

fish: How much to fix?

me: $250ish

fish: Are you gonna do it?

me: what are my alternatives?

fish: Find $750 more and buy a mac

me: someday...someday in the distant future i will be able to afford you making me a mac convert

fish: I can't wait for the future. The problem is, when we reach the future and have nothing to look forward to, what will we call it? Can we still just call it the future? Like, "Gosh, I'm so glad we live in The Future"

me: i think that is the best solution. either that or we can look forward to an apocalyptic war and a return to an agrarian society

fish: I just want life to be like it was in those fruitopia commercials
Seemed colorful and tasty

I'm Going Off The Rails On A Crazy Train

Once upon a time, when I was the frightened victim of a home invasion, I had this conversation with Fish:

Me: There's no spiders in the Loop.

Fish: I'm pretty sure that's not true.

For those keeping score at home, that makes it Fish and things that are trying to kill me 1, amberance nil.

I noticed the first one coming down the stairs at Quincy last Friday morning hanging from the overhead light. Not your standard yellowish brown house spider of run of the mill terrifyingness, but one of those big black ones with the huge fat asses that are clearly capable of devouring an infant in under two minutes or, more importantly, a grown woman in ten. Hanging from the light just waiting with patient malice for me to walk underneath it so it can jump on my head. Being that it is officially autumn now, I have prepared myself for spiders seeking a warmer environment, i.e. indoors or hanging off of a light, so the heart attack I had was relatively minor and I made a mental note to use the other stairs when I went home.

One of the things with me and the spiders is that these incidents do not leave me right away. When I encounter one I tend to relive it for hours and I am on heightened spider awareness for several days. I don't seem to be able to just shrug it off and forget about it. Because of this, when I went home that afternoon, my eyes were scanning every overhead light I would have to pass . I found another one on the other set of stairs. And another one on the walkway. And then, when I got on the platform, HOLY FUCKING SHIT THERE WERE DOZENS OF THEM. Every single light. I mean it, every one. And they were moving. Oh they were very busy spinning their evil death traps and plotting my demise. It was the longest wait for a train I have ever experienced.

Even when the train showed up the terror didn't stop. I was looking in the corners of the train, at the seat backs, the hand rails. I checked my jacket hood and my backpack. There was no way, I thought, no WAY with that many spiders and that many people for them to jump on, that they hadn't orchestrated a mass invasion of the transit system. I didn't see any more that day, but I didn't manage to stop thinking about it either. The situation was clear: I can't use the Quincy train station any longer. At least until mid winter.

"What are you going to do, walk to work?" asked the comic (who has thus far failed to grasp the depth of my fear) later that night when I told him.

"No, I'm going to start getting off at Washington/Wells."

"What if there are spiders there?" There are spiders there, I've checked. But there are far fewer of them, they are more spread out and the station is designed in such a way that I'm not forced to walk under the lights (a.k.a. gauntlet of terror). It is by no means a perfect solution. I still spend the ride home checking and rechecking all surface areas on myself and the train, and my nerves are still at Defcon 3 the entire time I'm standing on the platform, but I can handle it. So far. The comic has decided that he prefers sexy blonde ponytail Amber to the pile of crazy you all have just experienced. "I'll leave bananas Amber for someone else," he said. That, good people, would be you.

I Can FEEL When Retail is Near. That's Why I Have to Go.

Fish: Where are we thinking for mattress shopping?

me: hell if i know, someplace known for their sale of mattresses i assume

Fish: Look, you have a vagina. Shopping is your expertise. I just bring my pocketbook

me: when, in the entire history of knowing each other, with the exception of going to ikea, have you ever known me to be all "omigod, let's go SHOPPING!"?

Fish: Never. I'm not arguing that YOU don't like shopping but your genes KNOW shopping. It's your bloodrite.
Imagine you are anakin
When you are born you don't know you have control over the force
But you do, because you have no father and George Lucas is terrible at drawing Jesus allegories
Hope this helps

Snow Blows

Me: i hate this time of year, i really really do. why isn't it christmas?

Fish: Because it's august, duh. Why would they do christmas in august?

Me: because why not? i bet JoE would go to a christmas party in august

Fish: Nope. No snow. Snow is the holiday lubricant

Me: I thought booze was the holiday lubricant

Fish. No, snow is the lubricant that helps us slide into the moist crevasse of Christmas

Me: you're writing christmas porn

Fish: Or I'm just making holiday innuendos

Me: either way i disagree. snow is the lone drawback to the holiday season. it is cold and wet and makes me fall down

(it is in cahoots with alcohol)

Fish: I have no idea how you love Xmas and hate snow

Maybe you should move to the southern hemisphere

Me: oh, it's ok as long as i never have to go outside. but short of having groceries delivered and door to door laundry service, snow is just in my way and ruining my pants

Picking on Sick People Makes You An Oily Cat Wank

Friday night, pre-hospital. I am running an approximately 100.1 degree fever.

Fish: Who is winning game 7? I could change over but I never change away from baseball to hockey. Personal rule.

Me: Pittsburgh, 1-nil.

Fish: Just because you went to England doesn't mean you say nil now. Welcome to America....it's called zero.

Me: I also say mental. And knackered. And what's all this then?

Fish: The last is Eddie Izzard. The other two aren't words. It's ok...you're feverish.

Amberance: Fledgling Conspiracy Theorist

Fish: did you see that ken lay bought the farm yesterday?
PGS DenMILF: yeah. what does it say about me that my first thought was that he staged it and secretly left the country to live a life of luxury in a non-extradition tropical country?
Fish: well, it was my first thought too
Fish: so I guess it says that we watch too much x-files
PGS DenMILF: i take comfort knowing i was not the only one

Things Are Looking Up

Tomorrow morning between the ungodly Saturday hours of 8 and 10 a.m. I will be the proud recipient of cable television and internet access at home. The awesome Fishy bought me a wireless router and everything.

He also bought me an iTrip for my Nano, which is awesome and I am obsessed with. I drive around in circles sometimes just for the novelty of hearing Fred on the radio in my car.

I am also anxiously awaiting the arrival of my first issue and DVD gift from my new Playboy subscription. Dude, whatever, I like the articles.

And now I have another girl to hang out with (in case you haven't noticed, I don't know very many who live here). You've already heard of her, she's Melle of hey-let's-carve-lines-in-your-hair-and-dye-it-blue fame. We're buds now, so much so that I showed up at the salon yesterday just to say hi to her and ended up answering the phone and folding towels. It's actually a whole new group of friends, as the two of us went out on Tuesday night with a boy of hers and another boy she wants to set me up with. They are all funny and they all drink hard cider, so clearly we should all become BFFs and hang out daily.

The bartender and I are on a "diet", and by that I mean we switched from fried crab rangoon to steamed pot stickers. I'll be skinny any minute now.

This is the Chicago life I dreamed of that whole time I was broke. I like it here.

Enough About Cats, Let's Talk About Me

I have a small reputation for not always behaving according to traditional gender stereotypes. I am as likely to say "Check out the tits on her!" or "Nice shoes. Wanna fuck?" as any guy I know. My fall activity schedule revolves entirely around being home for Monday Night Football. I would rather drink beer than any pansy-ass fruit flavored girl cocktail you could mix me. I like to paint walls and hang shelves and wield power tools. I read Playboy like I'm being tested on it. Blow jobs are neat. Et cetera.

Having established said reputation, I need to point out that there are certain gender roles I consider sacred. I have no idea where I got these outmoded and quite possibly sexist views from, but there you go. Among them are the following:

• Women should not call games. Sitting at the anchor desk and giving me highlights after the fact is fine, eye candy on the sidelines asking questions with painfully obvious answers has its place, but play by play and color will never sound right spoken by a woman.
• Men cut the grass. This is not to say that women shouldn't learn to cut the grass as well, but before men can use their penis for anything other than taking a leak, they should have to pass lawn mowing first.
• Likewise women should cook. Men are allowed to cook too - my father is probably the most excellent cook I know. But damn it, ladies, you need to know the difference between a saute pan and a skillet, and you need to know how to make at least one dinner that includes meat and vegetables that doesn't come in a box labeled "Lean Cuisine" and that doesn't taste like burnt gym socks.
• Also ladies, at the very least, learn how to sew a button onto a shirt. Ok, you know what? Guys too, actually. There's no excuse for not being able to figure this out. I take this one back, it's unisex.

I take great pride in the fact that I can do my womanly duty and create meals that people actually want to eat. And I just don't understand it when other girls can't figure this out.
Such as today when Fish gave me a review of the meal created by a girl we know for the Liz residents. It was not good. Apparently she prepared fried chicken with cereal on it, and some broccoli with a cheese sauce that didn't appear to contain any cheese. There were other atrocities committed, but those were the two that stood out in my mind. The hell? Look, I don't even eat broccoli but I can cook it for you and remember to include cheese in the cheese sauce. And if you wouldn't put a drumstick in your morning bowl of Lucky Charms, what would possess you to sprinkle cereal on your dinner?
Both Fish and JoE messaged me today to thank me for knowing how to cook an edible meal:
Fish: I have yet to find someone (outside my parents) who can touch your cooking dear
PGS DenMILF: aw
***
JoE: you cook well
PGS DenMILF: why thank you
JoE: just wanted to let you know, that I appreciate you
Aren't they great? I think maybe I'll go make them a ham or some other meat with no Fruit Loops.

Ill-annoying

Honestly people, all I wanted to do was officially become an Illlinoisian. Illinoiser? Illinoisan? Whatever. I wanted to officially be from Illinois. That is, get Illinois plates for Alistair and an Illinois driver’s license for me. Well, let me tell you something kids: you better fucking be from here in the first place because they don't take kindly to foreigners in these parts.

Since I have a social phobia regarding any situation I haven't previously encountered involving other people, I checked first with my good friends out at the Liz to get the low down on what to expect. Their utter amusement did nothing to allay my fears.

"Do you have your old registration and proof of insurance? Your old driver's license and some proof of residency, like a utility bill? You should have everything you need then. And don't worry, if you don't, they're very kind and understanding," said Klug.

"Oh, and by the way, don't tell them you've lived here an entire year," JoE advised. "You're supposed to get an Illinois license within 10 days of moving here. Although, you can tell them how long you've really been here if you want. I’m sure they'll be very kind and understanding."

"Don't worry about where you need to go or anything," Fish assured me. "There's a guard at the door now. You tell him what you need to do, and he'll tell you what line to get in. He's very kind and understanding."

I suspected they were mocking me.

The guy at the door was a little Mexican guy in a very official looking outfit that implied if I said anything stupid, he had the authority to shoot me. He looked neither kind nor understanding, and I would come to find out that my first impression was correct. But he did know where to send me. Driver's license first. Line 2.

Line 2 was very short, although the area just beyond Line 2 looked like Ellis Island circa 1907. To get an Illinois license you need the following items: your old out of state license, proof of birth, proof of Social Security number, and proof of residency. I had on me the following items: my Ohio driver's license (with my Social Security number included), my birth certificate, and a bill from People's Energy.

"Where's your Social Security card?" asked the Line 2 attendant.

"I don't have it."

"Well, you need proof of your Social Security number to get an Illinois license, so you won't be able to get that today."

"Um, but it's printed right there on my Ohio license," I said. Because it seemed to me that if my Social Security number was ON MY OLD LICENSE that it should qualify as "proof" that this was MY Social Security number. Putting your SS# on your license is optional in Ohio, but as far as I know, you don't have the option of putting just anyone's number on there. It has to actually be yours.

"That's not on the document list," he said, handing me a sheet of paper and circling Section C, "Proof of Social Security". Sure enough the items on the list included a U.S. Military ID, a State of Illinois ID card, a letter from the Social Security people officially stating your SS#, or your Social Security card. Out of state driver's license, whether you number was printed right on it or not, was not included. "Come back with your Social Security card. Also you'll have to take a written exam and a vision test." He shoved all the paperwork back at me, indicating that I was dismissed.

"Can I still get plates though?" I asked him. This was the more pressing issue, as my driver's license won't expire until next year, but my Ohio tags expired last week. He said I could, and also permitted me to just unhook the rope and get in Line 1.

Now I was in line 1, and for this exercise I had ready: my Ohio registration, my loan agreement, and my insurance card. I would not need any of these immediately. The woman behind the counter began rapid firing her automated list of questions at me and pulling out forms as I answered them. Because I bought the car outside of Illinois, new, from a dealer, still owed money on it, and used it outside of Illinois for a specified period of time, I was handed a stack of approximately 87 forms to fill out before I could receive my two metal rectangles indicating that my car lives here. I headed off to the long table in order to accomplish this.

As I was working, a surly employee made his way down the table peering over everyone's shoulder, deeming each of us stupid in turn, and sending us off to the auditors for "help" filling out our small forest's worth of forms. I was doing pretty well, I thought, but not well enough for the Form Enforcer. "Ma'am," he said in an exasperated tone as if I was just too dumb to understand (though I hadn't said anything to him at this point), "you need to go over to the Auditors and have them help you fill this out right now. We'd like to get out of here some time today." I'd been standing there for maybe three minutes when he said this and was already halfway done, due to my diligence with Having Things Ready. But this wasn't good enough, so I headed over to the Dummy line.

Turns out I belonged in the Dummy line. I handed all my documents and papers to the older gentleman assisting me, and of course the first thing he asks me for is the exact mileage on my car. That particular nugget being the one piece of information I did not have. I told him this and he looked around tiredly. "Doesn't look like the doors are locked yet," he said. "Better go out and get the mileage off your car." So chastened, I ran out to my car and diligently wrote down "14,242" on my forms before heading back inside.

I walked in and immediately headed back to the Auditor lime. But before I could take three steps the little Mexican man (hereafter, "the Mexi-nazi") stopped me with an authoritative bark. "Ma'am," he said sharply, "what's your business here?"

"Um, I was just here, remember? I need to get plates? I just had to get something out of my car."

"Line 1," said the Mexi-nazi coldly.

I thanked him stupidly, then ignored him and went straight back to the Auditors. At least he didn't shoot me.

I got a different auditor this time. She took my registration and loan agreement away and made copies of them (no one ever asked me for proof of insurance. WTF?), stapled them to my paperwork, signed and stamped a dozen things, and sent me off to stand in another line so I could give them my money. I stood in the line and glanced around, as you do. And in so glancing, I noticed a sign on the wall. "We accept, cash, personal check, money order, and Discover Card."

So rarely have I been in a place that accepts Discover but not Mastercard or Visa that I had to read it twice. And instantly I wished I had read it before going to take down my mileage, because in my purse I had no cash, no money order, and no Discover card (since I carry Mastercard like a normal person). I did have a checkbook....in my car. The Form Enforcer was nearby, so I went to him and timidly said, "Um, can I please run out to my car? I left my checkbook there by accident." He approved my trip and I went out to the car a second time.

I was gone, oh, 45 seconds, tops. When I got back, I discovered the front door was locked. So I did what any other rational adult who had been granted permission to get her checkbook from her car would do: I went in through the exit door.

A small but strong hand gripped my shoulder as I stepped inside, and I turned around and came face to face with the Mexi-nazi. "You can't come in Ma'am," he announced.

I heard a whiney little kid speaking and realized it was me. "But I was just here. The man told me I could go out and get my checkbook." I looked around for the Form Enforcer only to discover that he'd vanished into the ether. Instead I sheepishly held out my finished paperwork.

Mexi-nazi tightened his grip on my arm and shook his head at me. "You can't come in. We're closed." He steered me back toward the doors. It was clear that I would not be granted the privilege of giving the state of Illinois $143 that day.

Defeated, I let myself be escorted off the premises without obtaining an Illinois driver’s license or Illinois plates. When I got to my car, I immediately called Fish to complain. When he answered I announced I was moving back to Ohio because everyone here was mean and then promptly burst into tears.

Fish was very kind and understanding.

The Naked Standard

Here's an argument I'm having with Fish. Actually it's two related arguments. I thought I'd poll the experts (this means you, lovely readers). Here's the set up:

Fish: so joe and I are arguing whether you get to see Beckinsalebreasts in Underworld 2
Fish: I told him no because I would have heard about it
Fish: but he is adamant
PGS DenMILF: WHAT?
PGS DenMILF: are you talking about
PGS DenMILF: oh wait
PGS DenMILF: Kate Beckinsale’s tits?
Fish: yeah
Fish: Joe says yes, I say no, only you have seen it so we need to know
Fish: titties or no titties
PGS DenMILF: you're both right
PGS DenMILF: you see them, but you don't see any nip
Fish: oh
Fish: so thats a no
Fish: I win
PGS DenMILF: no it isn't
Fish: yeah it is... nipple = nudity... breast = provocative
PGS DenMILF: there's a part where michael is unzipping her catsuit
PGS DenMILF: you see the outline of her breast. it is HOT
PGS DenMILF: you see a full body shot of two naked people, head to toe
PGS DenMILF: but somehow all their naughty parts are covered
PGS DenMILF: they kept zooming in on her stomach
PGS DenMILF: it was hot
Fish: I don't jerk off to outlines
Fish: so it isn't nudity
Fish: sorry
Fish: in the end, its a tease
PGS DenMILF: ok, so you've never jerked off to a girl that was dressed
Fish: not that I recall
PGS DenMILF: that's effed up
PGS DenMILF: Kate Beckinsale wearing the cat suit is not masturbatory material
PGS DenMILF: that's what you're saying
Fish: for me?
Fish: no
Fish: society has taught me that nipples are the difference between a PG-13 and R rating (except for a few instances) so they must be special... not as special as a crotch shot which guarantees an R
Fish: its the difference between maxim and playboy
Fish: between USA up all Night and Skinimax
Fish: as you can see... these aren't my rules
PGS DenMILF: But my argument is that both Maxim and Playboy are provacative
Fish: the original question is does K.B. get naked (aka nude) and, the answer, is no
PGS DenMILF: The rule is, if you have NO CLOTHES ON you are naked
PGS DenMILF: The answer is YES because she's not wearing any clothes!
Fish: No
PGS DenMILF: some dude on top of you humping you does not qualify as clothes!
Fish: no nipple, no jerkoff, no deal
Fish: that's how we roll
PGS DenMILF: i think that's just how YOU roll
PGS DenMILF: if you're at a strip club, and the stripper is topless, but she has pasties on, you're saying you haven’t seen her breasts
Fish: yes

It went on like that, but you get the point. The two arguments are:

1. Do you have to see nipple (pubes, dick, etc.) to qualify as naked?
2. Do men only masturbate to images of naked women, or do women dressed provacatively work as well?

And since it's my blog and I don't have to play fair: Fish is saying that none of my readers are going to masturbate to this image of Hot Heather licking my boobs just because I am wearing a corset:



Say it ain't so. ;-)

Amberance in 2016!

PGS DenMILF: heather and i have decided to run for president
PGS DenMILF: on the "everquest is stupid" platform
PGS DenMILF: we figure it will be a landslide victory
PGS DenMILF: because everyone who opposes us will be too busy playing everquest to vote
Fish: seems sound enough
PGS DenMILF: now all i have to do is turn 35

Harry Potter and the Theater of Annoying Gits

Apologies for the post title; every time I see a Harry Potter movie, I find myself saying things like "git" and "bloody" and "What's all this, then?" for a couple of days.

Fish and I went to Harry Potter last night at this dinner and a movie theater somewhere around or near Downer's Grove (I'm sure Fish can fill in the details). It was really cool, you sit down and there's a menu there, you order whatever you want, and they bring it to you right before the movie starts. You can even get fancy frozen drinks and everything! I was amazed by this concept because Cleveland is lame and has no such theater that I'm aware of. I am told that this is fairly normal here.

The movie was good. Very good. The mistake I made was not re-reading the book just before we went. I did this before I saw the Lord of the Rings movies and it helped tremendously in my not being annoying to sit and watch a movie with. But I didn't think to do it this time, and so the ever patient Fish was bombarded with whispered "I don't remember that part" and "What house is Cedric in?" type comments throughout. My bad, Fish, sorry. Hermione, by the way, is growing up to be smoking hot. ("She's 14!" Fish pointed out. It's ok, I can wait.) Also Voldemort as played by Ralph Fiennes is terrifying. I didn't know who Ralph Fiennes was, of course, because that's the kind of thing I don't know. I don't bother to learn names of the actors I like; I just refer to them as characters from other films they've done. "So, you know Cy Tolliver [from Deadwood]?" I said to Fish recently. "He's the one bad guy from Tombstone!" Fish was kind enough not to roll his eyes at me.

"Voldemort was great," said Fish in the car on the way home. "You couldn't even tell it was Ralph Fiennes."

"Um, ok, I don't know who that is."

"Yeah you do; he was in the English Patient."

"Oh," I said. Then, "OH! Yeah, I know who he is. Dude, he TOTALLY looked just like the English Patient!" Because he did, he was all pale and hairless and missing parts of his face that seemed important, such as most of his nose, and it looked very similar to a burn patient. So I was happy about that.

I was also happy about the people watching, which was very funny. "Mullet, 9 o'clock," said Fish, and I turned to look. Lo and behold there it was in all it's mullet glory. Oh and perfectly white by the way. So as not to appear to be staring at the mullet guy, I kept turning my head and found something even better.

"White corn rows, 8 o'clock," I told Fish. And they were good too, not just braids going straight back on his scalp; these were some complicated abstract designs zig zagging around this dude's head. I thought it very K-Fed of him.

What I was not happy about was the other movie patrons. I mean, I know I have a reputation for not liking people, but I try to give them the benefit of the doubt even though I usually fail miserably. Such as the parents of all these school age and not yet school age children who have brought them to a 7:00 p.m. showing of a two and a half hour movie on a school night. Some of these kids were no older than three, and falling asleep in their parents’ arms before the theater even opened for seating. And I wanted to think that it was a once in a while, very rare treat for these kids to be out on a school night and not get to bed until after 10:00 because Harry Potter is special. But in my heart I know that's just not true.

That wasn't even a big problem though, because I recall no crying or talking children (small children anyway) during the movie. What I do recall is some girl who sounded like she was at least high school age and possibly older, SHRIEKING at the top of her lungs at a point of the movie which was not scary, but which was very quiet. Haha, hilarious, you little douche. I clenched my jaw, as I do, and tried to concentrate. The best was yet to come.

What's more annoying than some assjanitor who forgets to turn off their cell phone in the theater and lets it ring three friggin times before they silence it? How about actually answering the phone and then having a FULL VOLUME conversation in the middle of the movie! I was almost too amazed to even be angry; it takes some serious self-centeredness or a complete lack of social awareness to pull that one off.

Overall, though, I'd rate the experience as a success and recommend that everyone go see Harry Potter right away.

Burger Time

My friend Heather and I appear to be connected by some kind of cosmic thread, in that we tend to be doing to same kinds of things at the same time, unbeknownst to each other and also 700 miles apart. Like today, when I made my daily check of her blog, only to discover that last night she was playing the classic game Oregon Trail (which for the record I have never played) at the same time that I was being schooled in the intricacies of another classic 80’s video game, Burger Time.

I have a confession to make: I’ve never played Burger Time either. In fact, outside of Tetris, PacMan, and Super Mario 1, I haven’t played many video games at all. This is due both to an almost total lack of interest and the fact that I flat out fucking suck at it. But last night at the Liz the conversation somehow wound from Doom 3 back to Burger Time, and Chester and I goaded Fish into retrieving his Playstation 2 (is this right, Fish? Cuz you got kind of uppity when I referred to your Powerbook as an iBook, and I don’t know much about gaming systems, so I don’t want to get in trouble for referring to something the caliber of an Xbox by the name of something of the quality of ColecoVision by mistake) from his bedroom so we could play Burger Time on the big screen downstairs.

Did I say I’ve never played it? What I meant was I’ve never actually seen it before. And as I watched Chester run up and down ladders, building Whoppers, drinking coffee, and running from deranged hot dogs, I felt young again. And also extremely guilty. Because 1153 once tried to explain Burger Time to me and I called him a liar.

You have to understand, 1153 has four young children, so lying is part of his job as a parent. He’s a good story teller, mostly, but sometimes his tales get a little farfetched. Like the time Bigfoot was walking through his backyard and asked him for directions, or the time he saw the Loch Ness Monster swimming in Lake Erie. So when he told the kids and me about Burger Time, we were understandably skeptical.

“Burger Time! You never played it? It’s the best game ever! You’re a chef, and your job is you have to build these hamburgers. You have a bun, and then a burger, and a piece of lettuce, and them the top bun. On some levels there’s a slice of cheese. And you have to knock them down.”

“That sounds stupid.”

“No, it’s awesome! And while you’re doing that, eggs and hotdogs chase you around and try to kill you.”

“You lie. You’re making that up.”

“I’m totally serious! They chase you, but if you sprinkle pepper on them you can get away.”

“OK, now I KNOW you’re making it up.”

“No I mean it, I’m really serious this time I swear! On the higher levels you get chased by pickles instead of hotdogs.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

This is the conversation that was running through my head last night as I sat on the edge of the couch shouting “Go, Chester, go! Oh my God, look out for that hotdog! He’s COMING RIGHT FOR YOU, Chester, RUN! AAAAGGHH!” 1153, I’m sorry I called you a liar. I just didn’t know.