I like this image because I believe all women ought to be masturbating. I’m sort of a masturbadvocate. Also, Fancyhats’s mom is now reading my blog regularly and you can imagine that my reviewing a sex toy gave me a bit of pause. But as a masturbadvocate, I must not let any potential uncomfortable Thanksgiving conversations deter me from reviewing a sex toy. Plus, all moms have sexual needs that ought to be filled. No matter whose mom it is.

Back to Drew. After the mommyblog-vibrator extravaganza, we went to the Queerosphere party and there was Drew. Drew and I hung around swapping stories, and generally shooting the breeze. Drew’s one of those dudes who defines the word chill.

After Blogher, he emailed me and told me to choose a toy. So I did. I wanted to try an egg. I don’t like vibrators that are shaped like animals. I just don’t get dolphins and rabbits and whatever else. It’s just not sexy. So the egg seemed like a good alternative.

I chose the Remote Egg Vibe. I liked the remote because the other eggs seemed to have a short cord. Not because I want to go out with a piece of vibrating plastic in my lady parts and have to interact with people while my insides were buzzing.

It shipped within a day of my choosing and I got it so much sooner than I expect. Yay. And also, it arrived on a day that I needed it. It also had the batteries included. I was happy.

I tore off the packaging and began critically assessing the egg. First off, it’s made of hard plastic eliminating any clitoral stimulation for me. I’m sensitive and need softness. Inside it would go.

Now here’s the thing with the egg, it leaves you totally hands free. This is useful because the egg’s not going to do the job alone. You’ve got to get some manual action going. That combined with the vibrating egg was wonderful. Really lovely. I enjoyed myself. A lot. A lot a lot.

A lot.

The egg itself is a little bit cheaply made. The plastic is thin and hard and the buttons are not intuitive, but it’s a great addition to the arsenal.  I give it 4 O’s (out of a scale of 5).

Everyone here gardens and normally I’m a total follower with this shit, but now that summer’s here again, I realize that gardening makes me feel a little bit stabby. I’m not good with the learning new stuff especially when like everyone around me is way better at it than I am.

I need to be the best at it. THE BEST. And I am not that at gardening. Because I’m not much of a nurturer. The new guy (we’re still in need of a name, people. Kiala’s suggestion was rejected and Parademaster was too in-joke) is like a real garderner person who knows when to plant stuff and says things to me like, “well, you have to water your tomato plants.” Uh. Hello. I’m from Southern California where water is scarce and so people and plants must suck the moisture from our Starbucks iced drinks.

He’s also from the East Coast and this provides no end of fascinating stuff for me to learn. Like about American history and stuff. Because it turns out that Old Town in San Diego may not be the American historical mecca we were promised in elementary school. He also grew up in a house with a yard and gardens where they grew stuff to eat. I’d like to travel to this “East Coast” and see this “yard” and “garden.” And “house.”

I also had to tell him a few days ago that it’s tract homes, not track homes.

It’s a little like he’s from Mars and I’m from Venus. Someone should write a book!

Anyway, he knows about the gardening and, so far, has not said to me, “You know what? You’re so pretty and sweet and maybe not too bright with the gardening stuff and so why don’t I just do it for you.” Instead he tells me how to do stuff. In a direct manner with little emotion. It’s like he’s trying to teach me something about gardening. TEACH ME SOMETHING.

I don’t know. I just sort of want the weeds to go away and to wake up one morning with lavendar plants everywhere and climbing things and the feeling that if I step inside my magick English garden, I’ll be turned into Lizzie Bennett complete with empire waisted dress. How hard can that be?

How are you today? I am well.

*Stalling for time*

Have you seen Lady Clover’s blog? Basically, I wish Gina and I were closer in age and that I lived in LA before I decided to do that whole have a kid thing because seriously. We could have gotten into some serious alcohol poisoning fun.

And for you self-help junkies out there, I like this article.

Here’s a picture of me writing last night.

I wasn’t wearing an underwire. I am a firm believer in underwires and I’m a bit distressed that I look a little saggy, but I don’t know what to say about that. I’m working with some new looks. But it’s true that proper lift makes you look ten pounds thinner.

Also, we will announce the Back Fence lineup in a few days. It’s off the hook.

And did you RSVP for my birthday party? That’s something important.

Finally, it’s been hot here in Portland. In the 80’s. And so I’ve been out and enjoying that.

Okay, good.

Any links or anything I should know about? Leave ‘em in the comments.

Also, my birthday is in less than a month. And I don’t really enjoy people wishing me a happy birthday and FOR FUCK’S SAKE, no one sing to me because that makes me crawl under a table, but I do like a chance to get together with my friends and party like it’s 1995 (and I am 20).

But, I’m a little bit concerned about this year, because nothing sounds better to me than heading out to a bar and drinking for a goodly portion of the night, then going dancing, then (and here’s where I’m worried) going to a strip club. Because apparently (and this is just my reading on the situation) there are strip club people and karaoke people in Portland. Both diversions are very popular here (it is paradise, in case you’re wondering) but it seems that nary the two shall meet.

And so. What to do?

I am not particularly good at the karaoke. Ask Will Radik. He saw me in true karaoke form, which is where I stand there absolutely still, clutching the mic for dear life, blushing to the tips of my hair, singing poorly and berating myself internally for believing this would be a good idea.

I am, however, excellent at sitting at the rack and watching girls get nekkid.

So, friends. Anyone have any suggestions?

Or better, if there’s a party planner in the Fan Club, would you mind just planning the whole damn thing? It must involve drinking and music and my friends*.

*Bonus points if someone wrangles Kiala up here.

An article ran in the Oregonian that described my hair as distinctive.

When I was out with my friend Tyler, this woman stopped us on the street to talk about my hair.

You all know that I’ve found dead bugs in my hair. I blame bike rides(?).

And, by far, my most favoritest remark about my hair is here. That’s ekki on Twitter. She was biking along and recognized me  from the back of my head.

So I thought I’d go over the recipe to have hair like mine. Because we can all have it!

Step 1 — dye your hair with the cheapest black dye possible. I use Nice n’ Easy. The dye damages the hair to the point that it can be brought under submission and can withstand steps 2 and 3.

Step 2 — do not wash your hair.

Step 3– Add Aveda’s anti-humectant pomade to your hair every single day. Yes, you haven’t washed it, yes you’re adding more oil.

Step 4 — Have sex on your back for at least a short time. This ensures the proper height.

Finally, if you do wash your hair (and sometimes it’s important to start the process fresh) use a very mild shampoo. The goal is not to strip out all of that oil, just rinse some of it off. After washing, I add Aveda’s confixor and a lot of pomade. Also, I wash my hair at night. Sleeping on it (and, ideally, having sex) is a great way to make it look like you haven’t actually washed it.

And, finally, this is for ekki:

*Please click here for, perhaps, the finest essay on MILFs ever written. Also hot pictures of Crissy, Kiala and me ALL IN ONE SPOT.

Well, my Cougarness was totally ignited at the Fred Meyer the other day. In the cookie aisle. Where I was reacquainted with one of my most favorite cookies:

The Little Schoolboy.

A butter biscuit with a hard, dark chocolate rectangle on top.

Oh god. It does not get better.

And they were on sale. I know!

I dip them in tea and then let the buttery biscuity cookie and deep dark chocolate melt in my mouth and then I rest my head on the table because those little school boys are just that good. Better than those undergrad school boys in my grad school days who ran track in tiny shorts in the hot California sun. God bless cross country. Someone should write about book about cross country runners. Oh wait.

In any case, I know no one is reading this post anymore because you’re all over at Ken’s place doing god knows what so I could just say whatever I like here.

Poo.

Here were the cookies underneath the little schoolboys

The moral: Cougars rule.

Ken, any thoughts?

I have an important interview I’m *doing* on Saturday afternoon. It’s the media opportunity of the weekend, and I get the interview. Because I’m friends with Julian Chadwick and I’ve interviewed Belladonna I’m a well-respected Portland journalist.

And because it’s at a porn store. And I’m the go-to Important Journalist for porn interviews. I do muck-racking. And rack-munching. And whatever.

Anyway, a few months ago Portland had this naughty thing happen where our fine mayor, Sam Adams, admitted to having an affair with a SEVENTEEN year-old boy. My non-Portland readers may be thinking Oh! I get it! He’s a regular Larry Craig! But, you’re wrong. Mayor Adams is gay so the scandal was not that he was playing tonsil hockey with a dude, but more that the guy was 17. Except Adams wasn’t in office when this whole shebangy (hebangy) happened. So, and because I have no television, or interest in politicians’ sex lives (except you, Gavin Newsom– I’m still not over you hunny. Let’s prove to the world that you’re not gay… together, baby. *Call me!*) I’m gathering that the scandal, which happened years after the affair was to do with Adams saying he did not have sex with that woman. Or that guy. Or that seventeen year-old. I think. I’m still not certain.

And everyone knows 17 year-olds know nothing about sex and shall be smited (smoted?) if they so much as think of another human being. AT. ALL.

So the former 17 year-old is named, honestly, Beau Breedlove. Yes, it was like he was destined to be a political temptress born for nothing more than to lure powerful political men into bed OR to be a porn star. And because he’s already been there done that with the powerful political men, it’s time for his porn career.

And this is where I come in.

I AM INTERVIEWING BEAU BREEDLOVE FOR PDXPIPELINE!

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Now I just need to find a sitter.

So, anyone wanting to babysit on Saturday afternoon, and/or anyone with questions they’d like me to ask, please leave a comment. Thank you.

Here’s a picture of Beau. It’s enough to turn me gay. Or straight. Or 17. I’m so confused.

I had another post all planned and it was going to be so funny, but (and here’s the thing with living in a tiny city like Portland) I realized I knew some people loosely connected to the thing I was going to crack on. So I pulled up. PULL UP! PULL UP! But it was funny, Fan Club, very funny. And now it is not funny because everyone I know does Important Things. That are not at all really silly and would provide excellent blog fodder. Also, if I did write about it on my blog, please know that in my heart I always believe 100% of the white liberal 50 year-old women in flowing skirts edificating me on how to be a powerful woman in this male-oppressive corporate-dominated HELLHOLE called America and there is no CLASSISM except for those same 50 year old women treating service people like the help and me like I don’t know shit despite my being 100 times more successful at 33 than they are at 53.

Ahem.

So I took a photograph of my new shirt.

With my fancy camera and no bra. And when I looked at the pictures, I realized Stever would have an anuerysm because they were not safe for work. And, more importantly, my boobs looked lopsided.

See?

Lopsided as are the text and photos because for fuck’s sake, it is just a black blog day.

This does not make me happy, Internet.

Here’s another one.

So I put a bra on.

See, isn’t that better? I’m sure I’m totally NOT subverting the dominant paradigm by being upset that my boobs are lopsided. Because that structure and form and symmetry is a TOTAL PENIS THING.

The moral of today’s blog post: burning bras and being condescending douchebags is something that we can look forward to doing when we’re old. Unfortunately, that’s when a good fitting bra is most important.

Fight the power.

Or whatever

Then, there’s Crissy’s interview (where she calls me a blog crush) at a blog called Cleveland’s a Plum. I didn’t know what Cleveland was either, internet, but it’s a piece of fruit, turns out.

And speaking of fruit, Wordpress is all different now and I thought the themes would be different, they are not, but I’m sorely tempted to change my theme to Banana Smoothie, the description for which reads “A smooth two-column theme adorned with a banana. Very personal.”

I want nothing more than to be “very personal.” And so I will adorn myself with a banana.

Except I dislike bananas intensely and just taking that picture was an exercise in gag-resistance. (Guys, my gag reflex is almost nil — but bananas seem to trigger it.)

It’s odd about bananas because I love the banana bread I make and I like bananas cut up and bananas with peanut butter, no prob. But just a banana with the peel and the stringy bits = gag.

And this makes me dance.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2AU-kAnB24I]

When I was 19, we’d go see No Doubt at Slim’s in San Francisco and, I swear, for a solid semester I wore pin striped pants with suspenders and a white wife beater with a black bra because I needed to BE Gwen Stefani. Also, when I make a music video, I’m going to have cheerleaders too. And party people.

And I hate melon.

See, internet? My blog is personal. THANK YOU BANANAS!

And now for some words from our sponsor (me) –

You want this, right?

Steal both of those and put them on your own blogs, if you please.

So I canceled my account with a cell phone company that rhymes with Squint. I was their customer for four long years. FOUR LONG YEARS. And two weeks after I canceled, I received a letter from a collection agency saying my last bill was now in their charge and I was to pay it through them. This was a bill that I had not even received but there I was in collection. According to the letter it was because I had canceled my account with Squint.

I paid my bill as I always did and I thought that because my number had been ported to a different carrier and Steve’s number, when you called it said, “This number has been disconnected” and because I had spoken to the cancellation department to cancel my account and had the letter from the nice collection agency that my account had been, in fact, canceled.

Not so!

I got a bill in the mail for $150 from Squint. I called them and asked what was going on. Well, no, in fact my account was not canceled and all of that other stuff was just my imagination and the billing department couldn’t help me at all because it was a legit bill.

I might have lost it.

I might have told the gentleman on the other end of the line “to look up active in the dictionary and tell me if that seemed to match my experience.” I also told him to repeat after me: “THE. NUMBER. HAS. BEEN. DISCONNECTED.” He was from the south and about an hour into the call I said, “do you not understand what I’m saying because I’m from the west coast and perhaps I’m not down home enough. MAYBE IF I DROPPED MY G’S AND ADDED A FEW DOGGONE-ITS YOU’D UNDERSTAND.” He was the manager and he told me he couldn’t do anything for me. And I said, “They made you a manager. Does it feel bad to you that you can’t do anything? That must feel bad.”

I told him to put me through to someone who can do something. And finally, after an hour and a half, someone agreed that charging me for something that doesn’t work might be amoral and perhaps that bill should go away.

Contrast this with my experience yesterday with Zappos.com. My mommy bought me two pairs of Frye boots through Zappos and it was a complicated order for a few reasons, some on my end, some on theirs. It was just a mess, but we were all being patient but I wanted my boots for Strange Love Live tonight and Zappos dropped the ball a tiny bit. I wouldn’t have minded, but I WANTED MY BOOTS!

Well, the CEO of Customer Loyalty for Zappos follows me on Twitter, so I decided to DM him and see what was happening. I don’t know what I expected. I sent him my email address and thought he might email me or whatever. I had no expectations and frankly the order was a mess on everyone’s end and all I could do was just wait it out and trust that it would unravel itself.

Ten minutes later I got a call from George, the CEO. His first words were, “your order has shipped.” Cool! And he was going to try to get them to me before my Strange Love Live broadcast. Yes, because I plan to show them off if I get them in time. I’m going to wear the banana Frye Campus boots, just so you know. George said he’d checked out my blog and it was “cool.” He didn’t say brilliant or genius, but I can forgive that, I suppose. (I thought the milfy email thing was funny, but whatever.)

So now it’s just up to the shipping gods to get me my boots before tonight at 10 when I go live on Strange Love Live.

Fingers crossed and nice work on Zappos.com’s part. Cool beans.

And Squint — go suck it, assmunches.

[Private message to Robert in Austin: The ladies is bizarre because the mens make us so.]