Dear Brutally Honest Babes:
I just went on a date with a cute guy and basically had a good time, except he drives like a maniac. I was freakin' scared on the way to the restaurant. When I finally plucked up enough courage to ask him to please slow down, he just said, "I always drive like this." Then I found out he didn't even have his license on him because he'd left it at home. Other than the bad driving, I had fun. I'm on the fence about him. What should I do?
Peed in Pants on First Date
Dear Peed in Pants on First Date (We usually like to make up a new moniker in our response but yours is too good):
Sounds like Mr. Cute is so into being his manly self that he doesn't give a darn about your safety or even the fact that you asked him to slow down. Seems like that might be indicative of what your future relationship might be like in every aspect. He's basically saying, "Take me as I am and I don't give a darn about how you are." Pretty crappy. Pretty selfish. Driving speaks volumes of one's character. However; this cute guy sounds a bit like the famous Prince Harry. If in fact you find yourself in the car with Prince Harry, you'd better milk that cow!
Friday, May 30, 2008
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
P.S. Whore Moan
P. S. This be a bit of a post script to the Cramps blog. The birth control Pill is both a blessing and a curse. Just like ye olde "." Female hormones are a thing to be reckoned with. Stirring them up and swishing them around and adding and subtracting and "regulating" them via the Pill is scary business. Did y'all know that the Pill often has a drastically adverse affect on one's libido? OK, let's do away with that jackass Freudian stuff, he didn't know shit about the female orgasm. Take two: Did y'all know that the Pill often has a drastically adverse affect on one's sex drive?
Lucy and Ethel found that out first hand, but when Lucy mentioned it to Doc, Doc was stunned and amazed and had not heard of such a thing! Ladies, be warned. Do your own research, and be aware that going on or off the pill, or changing brands or dosages can make you CRAY-CRAY. For example, Ethel is about two weeks into a new type of Pill. It seems to encourage her either to be constipated for days on end or else trotting to the loo too often. "Trots," you know. She also is bloated (of course) and has an uncomfortable tingly/warmish sensation in her feet. Those are her outward physical side effects. Mentally, she's mental--i.e. alternately crying or screaming with little or no provocation. She also is not sleeping particularly well.
Here's a jolly Ethel tale: Ethel awakens one night/morning at four a.m. She is overly warm. Her heart is racing. In the darkness it comes to her. The reason for her constipation/trots/bloating/foot-problem/sleeplessness/etc. FRED. Fred must be slowly poisoning her. (Ethel watches a lot of crime scene drama TV). Of course he must have taken out a billion dollar life insurance policy on her without her knowledge--as he is even now snoring beside her, smug in his knowledge of her suffering and his eventual windfall! Yeah. After about an hour or so of tossing and turning and letting the poison have its way with her, she falls back to sleep.
When Ethel awakens, Fred has already jaunted off for the day. After her habitual cup of coffee (which she was careful to have thoroughly examined before consuming), Ethel comes to the conclusion that her four a.m. revelation might just be from her own Pill, rather than Fred's secret stash of Cyanide/Arsenic/Rat Poison. Since she's already seen the ghost of a departed loved-one, already had an "out of body" experience, and also been anally probed by any number of aliens (usually around four in the morning), she decides to give Fred the benefit of the doubt. For now. But she is looking to hire an Official Taster.
Lucy and Ethel found that out first hand, but when Lucy mentioned it to Doc, Doc was stunned and amazed and had not heard of such a thing! Ladies, be warned. Do your own research, and be aware that going on or off the pill, or changing brands or dosages can make you CRAY-CRAY. For example, Ethel is about two weeks into a new type of Pill. It seems to encourage her either to be constipated for days on end or else trotting to the loo too often. "Trots," you know. She also is bloated (of course) and has an uncomfortable tingly/warmish sensation in her feet. Those are her outward physical side effects. Mentally, she's mental--i.e. alternately crying or screaming with little or no provocation. She also is not sleeping particularly well.
Here's a jolly Ethel tale: Ethel awakens one night/morning at four a.m. She is overly warm. Her heart is racing. In the darkness it comes to her. The reason for her constipation/trots/bloating/foot-problem/sleeplessness/etc. FRED. Fred must be slowly poisoning her. (Ethel watches a lot of crime scene drama TV). Of course he must have taken out a billion dollar life insurance policy on her without her knowledge--as he is even now snoring beside her, smug in his knowledge of her suffering and his eventual windfall! Yeah. After about an hour or so of tossing and turning and letting the poison have its way with her, she falls back to sleep.
When Ethel awakens, Fred has already jaunted off for the day. After her habitual cup of coffee (which she was careful to have thoroughly examined before consuming), Ethel comes to the conclusion that her four a.m. revelation might just be from her own Pill, rather than Fred's secret stash of Cyanide/Arsenic/Rat Poison. Since she's already seen the ghost of a departed loved-one, already had an "out of body" experience, and also been anally probed by any number of aliens (usually around four in the morning), she decides to give Fred the benefit of the doubt. For now. But she is looking to hire an Official Taster.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
A Quiz: Whither Cramps? Or, How to Get Laid
You:
A: Grimace at the word “cramps”
B: Say in reply, “Ugh – you’re not getting your period again, are you? Guess I’ll beat off to porn.”
C: Both A and B
D: Grab your woman a vicodin, a glass of wine, a hot water bottle and put “Atonement” on the DVD, remarking how Keira Knightley is too skinny, but how dreamy James McAvoy is and how he is a lesson in sensitive yet strong manliness.
If you answered A or B, I’m sure you enjoyed your evening on the couch.
If you answered C, stick a fork in you, you’re done.
If you answered D, you may not get sexing when your lady is all sore boobs and cramps, but as soon as she’s out of that, raise the mast, you’re off to plunder the depths! (And by “plunder the depths” we mean “get laid”. It’s just a nicer way of saying same. And more piratey.)
Think of cramps as an opportunity to build good will! And goodwill leads to sexing.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
The Mystery of the Smelly Smell
One fine day, a woman worked and slaved and washed, dried, folded and hung up all the laundry that was to be done in her household, because her man needed clean clothes for his upcoming journey! The woman loved her man very much. While the man went off gallivanting, the woman dutifully stayed at home. She worked and slaved even more so that her home would look just as lovely and perfect as those in the Better Homes and Gardens magazine. OK, no, really, while her man was gone she actually just sat around the house eating frozen dinners and watching TV and letting the dishes pile up in the sink. Lord knows she needed a frickin' break from her daily grind of chores. She especially didn't do any laundry, because after all, she had just recently worked and slaved and washed, dried, folded and hung up all the laundry that was to be done in her household, of course!
One day after the man went away, the woman noticed a strange smell permeating the air inside her lovely home. "If I ignore it, it will go away," thought she. Another day passed. The smell worsened. "Oh dear, perhaps I should take out the garbage, even though that is the man's job and he is away." And so she did, even carefully spraying the trash can with Lysol for good measure. "Now my lovely home will smell fresh and delightful again!" the woman believed. Alas, it was not to be. The smelly smell persisted. Next, the woman cleansed and ran the garbage disposal in the sink, but to no avail. The sink was not the source of the smell at all. "A puzzlement!" exclaimed the woman.
Days and days passed. The woman grew despondent. She wandered the house searching, searching for the source of the disagreeable aroma. When, at last, she was ready to burn down the house and flee to a tropical island and take up with a good-looking native man and live in a hut that would surely house no mysterious smelly smells, fate intervened. She stepped barefoot into a fairly fresh pile of doggie poo on the throw rug in the entrance hall. One of her dogs had had an accident.
Now, gentle reader, think not that the poo was the original smelly smell. The poo was only a red herring. "Shit," exclaimed the poo-footed woman, "now I must do even more laundry!" She shook the large chunks of poo into the yard and prepared to wash the offending rug. Upon opening the lid to the washing machine, she gagged and nearly threw up. Then she smiled and laughed and rejoiced, as she had finally unraveled the mystery of the smelly smell! A strange blackish retention pond is what her washing machine had become. The smelly smell was amazingly icky. Within the icky water that filled it to the brim, there resided one pair of jeans, one shirt, two socks, and a towel. It seems that the man, regardless of the fact that all of his wardrobe was clean, had placed the one outfit he had been wearing the day before his departure and the one towel he had just used for his shower, into the washing machine, turned it off, and then left it all to ferment. Even though the man believed he was being helpful, the woman then had even more work to do to get the smelly smell out of the clothes and the washer and the house. The end.
One day after the man went away, the woman noticed a strange smell permeating the air inside her lovely home. "If I ignore it, it will go away," thought she. Another day passed. The smell worsened. "Oh dear, perhaps I should take out the garbage, even though that is the man's job and he is away." And so she did, even carefully spraying the trash can with Lysol for good measure. "Now my lovely home will smell fresh and delightful again!" the woman believed. Alas, it was not to be. The smelly smell persisted. Next, the woman cleansed and ran the garbage disposal in the sink, but to no avail. The sink was not the source of the smell at all. "A puzzlement!" exclaimed the woman.
Days and days passed. The woman grew despondent. She wandered the house searching, searching for the source of the disagreeable aroma. When, at last, she was ready to burn down the house and flee to a tropical island and take up with a good-looking native man and live in a hut that would surely house no mysterious smelly smells, fate intervened. She stepped barefoot into a fairly fresh pile of doggie poo on the throw rug in the entrance hall. One of her dogs had had an accident.
Now, gentle reader, think not that the poo was the original smelly smell. The poo was only a red herring. "Shit," exclaimed the poo-footed woman, "now I must do even more laundry!" She shook the large chunks of poo into the yard and prepared to wash the offending rug. Upon opening the lid to the washing machine, she gagged and nearly threw up. Then she smiled and laughed and rejoiced, as she had finally unraveled the mystery of the smelly smell! A strange blackish retention pond is what her washing machine had become. The smelly smell was amazingly icky. Within the icky water that filled it to the brim, there resided one pair of jeans, one shirt, two socks, and a towel. It seems that the man, regardless of the fact that all of his wardrobe was clean, had placed the one outfit he had been wearing the day before his departure and the one towel he had just used for his shower, into the washing machine, turned it off, and then left it all to ferment. Even though the man believed he was being helpful, the woman then had even more work to do to get the smelly smell out of the clothes and the washer and the house. The end.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
The Amazing Disappearing Douchebag!
Dear "BHBs":
My ex-boyfriend also happens to be my manager at work. Though I endeavor to maintain a courteous work relationship with him, he is a total douchebag. If I casually say, "Hi" to him, he remarks, "I don't want your 'pity hi.'" He demands that I not speak of our break-up at work or to anyone we both know which is fine by me since I dumped him. However, he has blabbed of our personal relations to anyone and everyone who will listen. He also tells other people how "used" he feels because he claims to have pulled strings to get me my position in the first place. He already once asked me to quit, because seeing me is too "painful" for him. Thank God he does not have the authority to fire me. Oh yeah, and he is already carrying on publicly with two other women I work with. As uncomfortable as he now makes my work existence, I refuse to quit. I intend to stick it out, but how can I get him to leave me alone in the meantime?
Yours Truly,
Hostile Work Environment Ex
Dear At Least You're Not Still Dating the Douchebag:
Kill him. Quietly. Leave no evidence. Ha ha, just kidding! No, but seriously, we do recommend the following: Get yourself a new boyfriend, pronto. Preferably one with mob connections. Explain your dilemma to new boyfriend. Tell him you would like your "past mistakes" to disappear. When your past mistake conveniently does disappear, without a trace,
take over his position as manager and do your best to create a pleasant, productive work environment for your new employees. Oh, and you may want to institute a N0-Dating policy at work.
My ex-boyfriend also happens to be my manager at work. Though I endeavor to maintain a courteous work relationship with him, he is a total douchebag. If I casually say, "Hi" to him, he remarks, "I don't want your 'pity hi.'" He demands that I not speak of our break-up at work or to anyone we both know which is fine by me since I dumped him. However, he has blabbed of our personal relations to anyone and everyone who will listen. He also tells other people how "used" he feels because he claims to have pulled strings to get me my position in the first place. He already once asked me to quit, because seeing me is too "painful" for him. Thank God he does not have the authority to fire me. Oh yeah, and he is already carrying on publicly with two other women I work with. As uncomfortable as he now makes my work existence, I refuse to quit. I intend to stick it out, but how can I get him to leave me alone in the meantime?
Yours Truly,
Hostile Work Environment Ex
Dear At Least You're Not Still Dating the Douchebag:
Kill him. Quietly. Leave no evidence. Ha ha, just kidding! No, but seriously, we do recommend the following: Get yourself a new boyfriend, pronto. Preferably one with mob connections. Explain your dilemma to new boyfriend. Tell him you would like your "past mistakes" to disappear. When your past mistake conveniently does disappear, without a trace,
take over his position as manager and do your best to create a pleasant, productive work environment for your new employees. Oh, and you may want to institute a N0-Dating policy at work.
Monday, May 19, 2008
The Goodly Wife and the Goodly Anvil~A Morality Tale
Dear Brutally Honest Babes:
I think I read in some of your blogs that you Babes are also Wives. Being a married woman myself, I sometimes want to whack my husband upside the head with a 2 by 4 because of the dumb things he does. Is this normal?
Brutally Honest Wife
Dear-Sister-Mother-Sister-Woman-Sister:
Yes, we Babes, as Wives, often experience 2 by 4 husband syndrome ourselves (although we do recommend acting on that impulse only within one's private fantasy life!) For example, Lucy's husband, Ricky, will allow her to create a spiffy timetable and an order in which errands and appointments could feasibly be accomplished, only to (at the last minute) rearrange said order into something haphazard and inconvenient that often results in lateness and/or missed appointments as well as an eco-unfriendly expenditure of valuable petrol. Finally, once he has made his manly changes and realized that he has basically fucked up, he gets grumpy and grouses at Lucy for the rest of the day.
Ethel's husband (you know, Fred), takes great pleasure in using his new-fangled GPS device for the car. Even if Fred and Ethel already know directions to whatever their destination--even if they have been to that destination many, many times before--Fred still insists on listening to the directions offered up by the GPS with the disembodied sexy British female voice. Often the GPS will get confused and send them tooling about in interesting circles and loop-de-loops, and all the while Ethel knows exactly where they should be headed but musn't speak up or else then Fred will grouse for the rest of the day.
We know not what your husband's particular dumbness may encompass, but we feel for you. Our best take on the whole situation is merely to allow Husband his manly foibles so that you experience as few grumpy repercussions as possible. And have fun imagining the 2 by 4 scenario, the frying pan scenario, the anvil accidentally falling out of the window scenario . . .
I think I read in some of your blogs that you Babes are also Wives. Being a married woman myself, I sometimes want to whack my husband upside the head with a 2 by 4 because of the dumb things he does. Is this normal?
Brutally Honest Wife
Dear-Sister-Mother-Sister-Woman-Sister:
Yes, we Babes, as Wives, often experience 2 by 4 husband syndrome ourselves (although we do recommend acting on that impulse only within one's private fantasy life!) For example, Lucy's husband, Ricky, will allow her to create a spiffy timetable and an order in which errands and appointments could feasibly be accomplished, only to (at the last minute) rearrange said order into something haphazard and inconvenient that often results in lateness and/or missed appointments as well as an eco-unfriendly expenditure of valuable petrol. Finally, once he has made his manly changes and realized that he has basically fucked up, he gets grumpy and grouses at Lucy for the rest of the day.
Ethel's husband (you know, Fred), takes great pleasure in using his new-fangled GPS device for the car. Even if Fred and Ethel already know directions to whatever their destination--even if they have been to that destination many, many times before--Fred still insists on listening to the directions offered up by the GPS with the disembodied sexy British female voice. Often the GPS will get confused and send them tooling about in interesting circles and loop-de-loops, and all the while Ethel knows exactly where they should be headed but musn't speak up or else then Fred will grouse for the rest of the day.
We know not what your husband's particular dumbness may encompass, but we feel for you. Our best take on the whole situation is merely to allow Husband his manly foibles so that you experience as few grumpy repercussions as possible. And have fun imagining the 2 by 4 scenario, the frying pan scenario, the anvil accidentally falling out of the window scenario . . .
Friday, May 16, 2008
Could You be a Victim of Date Poop?
Dear BHBs:
I have agreed to a date that I'm not sure I want to go on. You see, it happened like this, I was outside my apartment complex taking my dog for a walk when one of my neighbors approached me to chat. He seems like an OK guy, 20 years old (a bit younger than me, let me tell you!), Ukranian, and speaks little English. He said to me, "So, do you want to go to the restaurant?" I had on no make-up and my dog was pooping and I said, "Yes." Now I'm stuck. Did I do a bad thing? Should I try to get out of it?
Poopingly Yours
Dear Some People are into That Kind of Thing:
Well, we shall revert to our patent answer in this case. Go with your gut. Your female intuition should have told you by now whether this guy might be unhealthy for you. If you have any warning bells at all sounding in your head, then please please find a way to politely but firmly cancel the date. From your description of this Poop Date fellow, however; it seems like you think he's kosher, but maybe just not your type. If that is the case, why not let him buy you dinner at "the restaurant" and get to know him a little.
Maybe he is just looking for good, strong American female to make for wife for bringing of all relatives of Ukraine to U.S.A. Or, maybe he just likes you. Of course, if you opt to give him a chance, you may want to consider driving separately and meeting at the restaurant as well as leaving separately (although he obviously already knows where you live). Carry pepper spray.
Consider this, maybe you'll click with said foreigner somehow. Maybe you can live out Ethel's fantasy of hot sex with a good-looking non-English speaking stranger! Oh, just so you know, in Ethel's fantasy, there is no poop.
I have agreed to a date that I'm not sure I want to go on. You see, it happened like this, I was outside my apartment complex taking my dog for a walk when one of my neighbors approached me to chat. He seems like an OK guy, 20 years old (a bit younger than me, let me tell you!), Ukranian, and speaks little English. He said to me, "So, do you want to go to the restaurant?" I had on no make-up and my dog was pooping and I said, "Yes." Now I'm stuck. Did I do a bad thing? Should I try to get out of it?
Poopingly Yours
Dear Some People are into That Kind of Thing:
Well, we shall revert to our patent answer in this case. Go with your gut. Your female intuition should have told you by now whether this guy might be unhealthy for you. If you have any warning bells at all sounding in your head, then please please find a way to politely but firmly cancel the date. From your description of this Poop Date fellow, however; it seems like you think he's kosher, but maybe just not your type. If that is the case, why not let him buy you dinner at "the restaurant" and get to know him a little.
Maybe he is just looking for good, strong American female to make for wife for bringing of all relatives of Ukraine to U.S.A. Or, maybe he just likes you. Of course, if you opt to give him a chance, you may want to consider driving separately and meeting at the restaurant as well as leaving separately (although he obviously already knows where you live). Carry pepper spray.
Consider this, maybe you'll click with said foreigner somehow. Maybe you can live out Ethel's fantasy of hot sex with a good-looking non-English speaking stranger! Oh, just so you know, in Ethel's fantasy, there is no poop.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Coming Soon!
A Merit/Demerit Chart for Husbands is in the works and will soon be coming to a blog near you!
Unsolicited Advice: The Cure
God bless America. We have so much. We are spoiled rotten. Don't get us wrong, we Babes are grateful for the free country in which we live. Americans are so privileged--it seems that since we no longer have to grub and struggle for food or shelter on a day-to-day basis (come on, even minimum wage workers here eat and have an apartment)--anyway, it seems that since we generally don't have those sorts of problems, we have to create problems for ourselves. Many of our current problems really aren't issues in some other parts of the world.
Consider:
*Anorexia and Bulimia are not major problems in Ethiopia.
*Obesity is not an issue in Ethiopia (no crash-celebrity diets or stomach-stapling necessary there).
*Alcoholism is not really a big deal in Ethiopia (you pretty much need grapes or grains or some other sort of excess food-stuffs to make booze).
*Mid-Life Crises are practically non-existent in Ethiopia (how many people there even make it to middle-age?)
*High gas prices have little impact on a large portion of the Ethiopian populous who must rely on animal-power or their own feet for transportation.
In other words, Ethiopia is the cure for so many of our nation's ailments! If you happen to be a big fat middle-aged drunk with body dismorphia who is paying too much for gas for your brand new sports car, consider moving. To Ethiopia. Ethiopians know a few things we don't. They know the cure.
Consider:
*Anorexia and Bulimia are not major problems in Ethiopia.
*Obesity is not an issue in Ethiopia (no crash-celebrity diets or stomach-stapling necessary there).
*Alcoholism is not really a big deal in Ethiopia (you pretty much need grapes or grains or some other sort of excess food-stuffs to make booze).
*Mid-Life Crises are practically non-existent in Ethiopia (how many people there even make it to middle-age?)
*High gas prices have little impact on a large portion of the Ethiopian populous who must rely on animal-power or their own feet for transportation.
In other words, Ethiopia is the cure for so many of our nation's ailments! If you happen to be a big fat middle-aged drunk with body dismorphia who is paying too much for gas for your brand new sports car, consider moving. To Ethiopia. Ethiopians know a few things we don't. They know the cure.
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