Some Nerd Girl

So my friend has started a nerdy blog. And I am clearly a guest contributor to that blog. If any of you have ever wondered with what I do with all the time I don’t spend sleeping feel free to head over there and check out some of my content. I will be linking my guest posts there.

https://somenerdgirl.wordpress.com/2015/08/18/7-webcomics-that-you-need-in-your-life-some-adult-content/

 

Also, I noticed that the moderator asterisked out my swearing. I get why she did it, but it felt really weird to read something I wrote with no clearly spelled out swear words. So let me just say here, very quickly; motherfucker.

 

 

 

My Crafting Adventures: Basket Weaving

In my old position at my job, I used to go into people’s homes. Alone. The guys at work like to tell stories to each other about what kind of bizarre situations they get into. I rarely join in because my stories are generally even more out there than theirs and at some point it just seems like bragging.

 

For example: They tell about the time a woman answered the door in lingerie. Yeah, that’s happened to me too. But also I’ve had dozens of men answer completely naked. Or, even worse, I’ve had men “forget” I’m there and come back into the room naked when they didn’t start out that way.

 

Or maybe this one time a gay guy hit on one of my male co-workers. But I was hit on literally almost every day for the 5 years I was in that position. By both men and women. I was also groped by a gay man at that job. Being alone with people in their own home gives them a level of comfort that tends to not exist at say a bar or the grocery store. They are comfortable being gross or rude or creepy.

 

That’s not to say I don’t love my job. I do. But it has it’s own inherent dangers and weirdness. And someday, those stories are all going to get told. Unfortunately, I still work there and can’t tell them all now.

 

But I can tell this one.

 

Once, I was at this person’s home very early in my career. They lived in a trailer set deep in the woods that was acres away from any neighbors.

 

The woman was home while her husband was at work. She and I got to talking and I mentioned the decor in her house. There was a lot of Native American decorations. Flutes, paintings, jewelry, etc.

 

I also happened to notice these lovely woven baskets. They were everywhere.

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My first pine needle basket

During the course of our conversation I mentioned how cool I thought they were. The lady, suddenly excited, told me that her husband made them. He apparently was Native American and had learned the craft from his grandmother.

 

I started telling her about all the crafts I do and how interested I was in learning to make these baskets. I wound up staying for a long time talking to this lady. She was much older and very nice.

 

Finally, at some point her husband came home. We had a repeat of the basket weaving conversation all over again and he invited me to come back any time and learn.

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It came out so nice I kept it

I asked to come back that same night after work. Which they both were fine with.

 

So, after work I drove, alone, and in the dark out to this lonely trailer in the woods. I am shaking my head right now at the naivety of younger me. I cannot believe I was ever so trusting to do something like that.

 

At any rate, the man was there, his wife had gone out. That did give me pause, but he was very kind. And he did indeed show me how to weave a pine needle basket. He wasn’t creepy, he didn’t try to hit on me or touch me in any way.

 

I stayed for long enough to get the basket started and to learn how to finish it off. He even gave me the supplies to make more of them.

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And apparently risked my life to learn to make it

It was only in leaving this man’s house that I realized he could have murdered me.

 

I mean, I hadn’t told anyone where I was going. I did not have a cell phone at the time. I did not know these people at all. I had had one conversation with them ever. And I was alone in his house in the woods at night.
Thankfully it all, turned out fine. But I have never tried or made friends with someone I met on the job since then. Also, I will hopefully not put myself in such a dangerous position to learn how to craft something in the future either.

Blood and Urine

Whew! I am back and ready to talk more about bodily fluids!

 

You guys may be asking yourself what I have been doing for the past month and a half. Well… I finished my novel. Like, finished finished. I turned 31. I got a new job. I made some jewelry. I found some new blogs to creep on that fill me with feminist rage. In short, I’ve been busy.

 

Incidentally, if anyone wants to read my novel and give me feedback please email me. I would appreciate it.

 

And now, to the story!

 

When I was a kid, I shared a room with my sister J. But when I was even younger, like 7ish, I shared a room with J and my brother T. Actually, J and I shared a bed. And a pillow. That’s right, I did not even have my own pillow.

 

One night while we were sleeping (I always made her sleep on the inside because I am a bit claustrophobic) I had a lovely dream. I dreamt I was on the toilet, urinating.

 

Unfortunately, when I woke up, I found that I had peed the bed. The downside of sharing a bed with someone is that if they pee the bed then you get peed on. And J got peed on. A lot. She still reminds me of it sometimes. I imagine it wasn’t as funny to her as it was to me.

 

We had to change the sheets. And mattress pad. And take a bath. All in the middle of the night.

 

I have not peed the bed, or myself ever since.

 

Until recently. Because I had the Essure procedure last year I have noticed a weakening of my pelvic floor. It is actually very common as women age and especially after giving birth. But mine started a few months after my procedure.

 

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The springs all up in my tubes

Basically what happens is that when I have to urinate, it is an emergency. I don’t notice needing to go more frequently, just more urgently.

 

I have had a few close calls where I barely made it to the bathroom on time. And maybe a few times where a few drops came out on the bathroom floor instead of into the toilet bowl. (I know I am coming back strong and with my typical class).

 

Today I was on my period. And for some reason, using my Diva Cup tends to put pressure on my bladder, which does make me have to go more frequently. These two things were the perfect combination for disaster.

 

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The cup all up in my vaginal canal

I was sitting on the couch, rewatching Supernatural and minding my own business. I suddenly felt a warm wetness in my underwear. I actually thought my Diva Cup had overflowed and was leaking out into my underwear. It happens sometimes during heavy flow days.

 

I pulled my underwear down to check and saw that I was peeing. I didn’t even feel like I had to go. But there I was, actually peeing myself.

 

I ran to the bathroom. I left a trail of urine like Hansel and Gretel through the forest. Only that wasn’t a trail any woodland creatures would want to follow.

Image result for hansel and gretel breadcrumb trail

Only with urine.

I took a shower and wiped the urine up off my floors. Thankfully they are fake wood and not carpet. I fucking hate carpet, but that is a rant for another time.
Unfortunately,  I had also peed all over my couch. So I cleaned it as best as I could and am now sitting on a towel. Like a sick cat. (Thanks to Debbie for that hilarious phrase.)

The Science of (Bad) Sex

 

Just got back from a nice vacation with my sister and her boyfriend. (who I do like, C!) And she reminded me of a story that deserves to be told to all of you lovely and  patient people.

 

Also inspired by the date I had this weekend with a man who was gorgeous but the worst kisser I have ever experienced in my entire life including both elementary school and the time G burped in my mouth while we were frenching.

 

In high school, I was dating G. The boy I lost my virginity to. Sex with him was consistently bad. He was unimaginative, unadventurous, squeamish, and very shy about his body.

 

We never had oral sex because he didn’t want to. We never even had digital sex (handjobs or fingering) again because he didn’t want to. In fact, there was little to no foreplay. I didn’t even really know what all that was about until the third guy I slept with almost 3 years later.

 

I remember the first time we had sex I was lying there thinking “I don’t get what all this hype is about sex. People risk STDs and pregnancy for THIS?!” It definitely did not seem worth it. And it continued to not seem worth it for the duration of our sexual relationship.

 

We kept doing it, though. I was determined to figure out what the appeal was. My sex drive had stemmed from scientific interest in the process and the desire to understand human emotions/sensations. Plus, I just KNEW there had to be something magical about it.

 

I hate to say it, but at this point, my experience and desire has not changed. I have had mostly bad sex in my life. I feel that most straight men are just not very good in bed. No offense guys, but I have a lot of experience in this area.

 

But once, while I was still in high school and having sex with G, we were hanging out at my house with my little sister, J. She and I shared a room right up until I moved out.

 

I pulled G aside and asked him if he wanted to have sex in my childhood bed. Of course he did, who wouldn’t?

 

So we told my sister we would be upstairs for a while and commenced to getting it on. Now, you would think J would know better than to come upstairs and enter our shared room without knocking.

 

But you would be wrong.

 

She shoved the door open and was privy to a no doubt shocking eyeful of G’s hairy ginger-blonde ass. G and I were doing missionary (what else?) so she was thankfully spared the image of my naked body.

 

She screamed, slammed the door, and ran down stairs to sit on the couch, traumatized. And hopefully having learned an important lesson in knocking when the door is closed.

 

G pulled out immediately as the mood was most definitely unceremoniously halted. But I looked him right in the eye and demanded he get it up again and finish fucking me. And god bless that teenage boy, because he did as he was told.

 

I am a little ashamed that I had just wanted to finish. But in the name of science, research, and discovery; I really wanted to get off.

 

The Men in Black

 

Once, a long time ago, before I was even born, my mother was a Jehovah’s witness. My family is full of secrets and I know virtually nothing about her life at that time. She probably had some awesome double life we’ll never know. But my mother eventually left the church. She moved many times and met my father and then, for some reason, had more children with him.

 

Growing up, my mother HATED Jehovah’s witnesses. I never knew why. I never even understood who they were. Every few months I would see them. Always two men (different men each time). Always in white short sleeved button downs with dark ties and trousers. Always riding bicycles.

 

From a young age I was fascinated by them. Who were they? What did they want with us?

 

When we moved, they seemed to follow us. I thought this explained my mother’s hatred. No matter what she did, these people would not leave us alone.

 

As I got older I started to believe they were part of some government conspiracy. Like poorly dressed Men in Black. Which I knew were real from all the books I’d read of eyewitness accounts after reported UFO sightings.

 

I was pretty obsessed with UFOs as a kid. And I didn’t have many friends. It probably had something to do with all the UFO books I read.

 

When I became an adult I discovered they were a religion. And not even a good cult-y one like Heaven’s Gate. Fun fact: I learned about meteors AND cults for the first time with that one. But a part of me has always preferred my conspiracy theories to the truth.

 

A few years ago, I moved in with my brother. The apartment complex we lived in was a common target for Jehovah’s witnesses. They came frequently. Almost on a monthly basis.

 

It was annoying. I rarely answer my door, even now. I am paranoid about unexpected company. It’s rarely good. It’s rarely something I am interested in. So we generally ignored them when they knocked. But still, it was irritating.

 

One day I was home with my then boyfriend, A. I am not sure why I was taking a shower in the middle of the day. Probably A and I had just finished having some messy sex. You know how it is.

 

I got out of the shower and was getting dressed when the doorbell rang. I could see through the partially opened blinds that it was the Jehovah’s witnesses. I decided to go ahead and answer the door this one time.

 

I pulled open the door with a wide grin on my face. “Hi!” I called out, cheerily. “How are you?”

 

The two men immediately backed away from the door. They did not seem to know where to look. They were holding their hands up as if to ward me off from advancing and possibly attacking them.

 

I was wearing a pair of pink mesh underwear and nothing else. The underwear were mostly translucent. And I was completely topless. I may as well have been naked.

 

One of the men stuttered that I appeared to be busy and that they would come back another time. But I insisted that I was not busy and invited them to come inside and have a talk about god and religion and whatever else they wanted.

 

They, not surprisingly, declined my invitation and practically ran from our front porch. They never came back for the entire time I lived at that address. I probably scarred them for life.


I still have a pretty bad habit of answering the door in various states of undress when I have unexpected company. But that’s why you should always warn me before coming over. Or you may not like what you see.

Feet

Do you guys remember before Facebook there was this thing called MySpace? I heard tell MySpace is still around, but since I am not in a failing garage rock band, I can’t confirm that.

 

Back in the day I had a MySpace account. My friends insisted I join. They told me MySpace was forever. It was the last social media site I would ever need to join. I didn’t really believe them, but I figured, what the hell? So I joined.

By the way, these friends tried to say the same thing about Facebook but I didn’t fall for it. I later joined Facebook to obsessively stalk this guy I knew in high school so I could apologize for something I did 10 years ago. But that is another story and I am not on there anymore.

 

Back to MySpace! I did the whole thing. I “met” new people on there. I had music and pictures and who the hell even remembers what weirdo information they were trying to gather on us. I remember it having a very dating site feel to it.

 

Now, my sister, J, is a fantastic photographer. She’s so good that I actually look really hot in most of the pictures she takes of me. Needless to say, I try to convince her to take pictures of me as much as possible. You know, to trick people that haven’t met me into thinking I am not a total mess.

This is one of my favorite pictures she has ever taken of me.

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One day we went to this park near where we used to live and she took a bunch of pictures of me. I immediately went home and posted them on my MySpace.

 

This was during a phase in my life where I made my own nail polish colors and painted my toenails. I liked to pick weird colors that actually are still really hard to find. Like Tardis Blue or Moss Green. It kind of looked like my toes had a fungal infection, which I liked. So I posted a picture on MySpace that had my feet in them too.

 

I did not think much of it at the time. I mean, it was just an innocent picture.

 

Until a few days later when I got an email from a man I had never met. He told me that he had been looking at my profile and couldn’t help but notice my feet. And how attractive they were.

 

I should just tell you guys now, my feet are easily one of my best features. I really like them. Unlike my hands which are giant and mannish. So I wasn’t too surprised when a stranger was complimenting him. And I messaged him back for some reason  and thanked him.

 

I kind of thought that would be the end of it. But then he responded back asking how I would feel about letting him photograph them. For money.

 

I figured he was some sort of foot model photographer. I knew that foot models existed and had been told that I should be one more than once. So I asked him if he was a professional photographer.

 

It turns out he wasn’t. He just had a serious foot fetish. And he was always looking for new ladies’ feet to take pictures of. Plus, he was willing to pay me to take pictures of my feet.

 

We messaged back and forth for a week or two. I don’t know why but I figured that would help give me a sense of whether or not he was a total creep. And honestly, sometimes it is.

 

I really needed the money at the time so I agreed to meet up with him. In retrospect I still cannot believe I did that. He was a complete stranger from the internet. And I agreed to meet him at a baseball field. Alone!

 

At least it was during the day and was on a pretty busy road near a fire station and a police station.

 

So we met at the field. He was nice. He asked to examine my feet first. So I took off my shoes and socks. I apologized for the marks the socks had left on my feet but he told me he actually preferred that look. He complimented my feet so profusely that I still think my feet are really cute no matter how down on myself I am about anything else.

Warning: If you think feet are gross I am about to post a pic of mine.

 

 

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He did not try to touch me or do anything overtly creepy. He took a bunch of photos of my feet in various ‘positions’. It took less than an hour and I made $50. It was the easiest money I have ever made.

 

It’s the D word

So, I know I have been away for a bit. I am actually shocked by how long ago my last post was. I really wish I could say I was doing something fun. But in reality I have been trapped in the hellscape of my own mind known as depression.

 

It’s actually super weird to even say that word in this blog because I rarely talk about it. Even in my real life with my actual friends that I love and trust. But here goes; I have been depressed for the past two weeks. And the thing about depression for me is: I don’t even realize it at first. I just feel tired and sad and I lose all my normal excitement over the things I love.

 

And that is a total fucking dick move. Because the things I love, like writing, reading, crafting, and cooking are things that might actually have the power to help me feel at least a little better. But I can’t do them. So I do nothing.

 

And then I feel bad for doing nothing. And that turns into some other whole huge guilt thing like I owe the world my productivity.

 

Usually when I am sad I can still muster up some humor for this blog. Or I have a backlog of stories and can post one and pretend I am fine. I am good at pretending I am fine. But that didn’t happen this time either.

 

This time I did nothing. When I realized what was happening, I actually told someone about it. Like, while it was happening…for the first time in my entire life. That first person I told was super cool and supportive (as always, D). And then I told someone else, my sister J, who was also super cool and supportive.

 

And everybody just let me be sad so it was this whole weird snowball thing where I suddenly now feel like I can talk about it on this blog which is really where I have always wanted to wind up. It’s kind of like having a superpower. But instead of telekinesis I can actually talk about my feelings like a human being.

 

It isn’t a big deal, but at the same time it kind of feels like the hugest deal ever. I know most of you will know exactly what I mean. Which is good because I am not being very articulate right now.

 

Just when I was feeling better emotionally I caught a cold. I have spent the last two days sleeping or watching romantic comedies which are really one of the worst things on Earth. I am not sure why I watch them when I am sick.

 

When I am not sick romantic comedies usually make me feel repulsed and bored and uncomfortable. It is nothing but sexism and the same boring plot in every single fucking one. Throw in some creepy stalking and offensive stereotypes and there you have the romantic comedy. So who knows why I watch them when I don’t feel well, but I do. I am ashamed of my Netflix recently watched queue at the moment.

 

I promise I am not done telling stories and being ‘funny.’ I have so much more to talk about on here. But for now, I am going to end with one quick story:

 

I am a “what if” person. One of my ex’s used to say I would hypothetical him to death. I was even like that growing up.

 

My father used to interrupt my barrage of ‘what ifs’ with the same response every time. He’d say “What if the moon was made of green cheese and mice could fly?”

 

This was his nicest possible way of getting me to shut the hell up. But it really invited more questions for me.

 

I mean, the moon isn’t even green. And cheese isn’t green. And how could the moon be made out of dairy products if there were no cows in space?

 

Also, what kind of flying were the mice doing? If they could fly like a bird then the moon was probably safe because they wouldn’t be able to survive in space. I mean, it’s not like you ever hear of birds in space.

 

If mice had personal spacecraft that they could use to breach our atmosphere then I think we would have bigger problems than them eating the moon. What the hell does the moon do for us anyway? Something to do with the ocean tides?

 

Do mice even like cheese?

 

And that was usually when my father would tell me to shut the hell up. And I would. But seriously, what kind of crazy ass thing is that to say to someone? Did anyone else’s parents say that to them?