How I Slept With Three Gorgeous Women But Got No Sex

So Friday night I went to Tampa for a “girls’ night out.” I’ve been an honorary girl for a while now, between my three visits to BlogHer and my dressing up as a woman on several occasions, this is a privilege I’ve earned. I missed last month’s girls’ night due to the dentist shanghaiing all my money, but this time I was prepared.

I plugged the hotel coordinates into my trusty GPS and set off on a 2-hour drive to the land of Ybor. Ybor City is a small section of Tampa, kind of like a strip of bars, clubs, and restaurants. Hadn’t been there before, but I knew with friends like Izzy, Shash, and Anissa I couldn’t go wrong.

Look at those lovely ladies.

First I met up with Anissa and Shash at a local bar and grille. Enjoyed some onion rings and a beer, then went to Urban Outfitters, where I bought myself a cool chapeau.

Then the three of us went back to the hotel to meet up with the gorgeousness known as Izzy. We hung in the room for a little while, oohing and ahhing over Izzy’s camera (which she could intermittently figure out how to work).

Then we had an impromptu fashion show. Actually, what I said was, “OK, let’s get those three gorgeous asses together.” And whaddya know? They took me literally. I really meant I just wanted to take a picture of the three of them, but hey, I don’t turn down prime ass photos.

So the four of us went to dinner and had a lovely meal at some bar and grille. Then we went to go see “Twilight.”

I was pretty excited to see the movie, since I’m currently in the middle of the fourth book and have enjoyed the series. Anissa did a great job reviewing the movie on her blog, but let me just say this.

Twilight sucks rocks. I’ve heard all of these good reviews and all those people are full of shit. It’s not a good movie. At all. Seriously, if I’d seen the movie first and hadn’t yet read the books, I wouldn’t even bother reading the series. It’s that bad.

The acting is laughable. The makeup is pitiful. And – SPOILER ALERT -

One part I was really waiting for was to see Edward in the sunshine because, in the books, vampires sparkle like diamonds in the sunlight. That’s where the myth came from that vampires can only exist in the darkness.

Well, let me tell you…the special effects they used for the “sparkling” – if you can call them special effects – look like nothing more than Edward sweating his ass off. The glistening looked like little more than sparkle makeup that a 13-year-old girl might wear. Again, laughable.

And the chemistry between Bella and Edward? Non-existent. You expect them to speed things along in a movie, as opposed to a 500-page book, but it’s like they were in love 10 minutes after meeting. You sensed none of the confusion or angst, there’s absolutely no character development, and even when they ARE in love, you don’t feel it.

Edward isn’t the slightest bit cool or charismatic like you’d expect him to be. He’s not even all that good-looking…I mean, when you go by the book, he’s supposed to be the most gorgeous man on the planet. This guy just looks like some enormous Emo asshole. He’s always sulking. He has none of the humor Edward is supposed to have.

Blecch. The movie just rots. Nobody, save Bella, looks like how I imagined them to be in the book. The hair dye in some of the Cullen family is a joke. Bella’s dad was pretty good, and there are some cool scenes, such as the baseball scene. But overall? A pitifully bad film. And all four of us agree on that.

I have no idea how Anissa worked herself up to see this piece of shit a second time. Even with the full bar in the theater, it blew chunks. I wouldn’t have chosen to suffer with anyone else, though, so making fun of the movie together (during and afterwards) was enjoyable. Maybe if I’d been stoned it would have been an amazing flick.

If you haven’t yet seen Twilight – whether or not you’ve read the books – do NOT bother. Honestly. It’s not even good enough to be labeled melodrama.

After the movie, we all walked and bitched our way back to the hotel room to change for our drunken night of fun. The ladies all looked smokin’ and I – who can no longer fit in any of my jeans – wore a pair of Dockers and a long-sleeved shirt. It’s been chilly in Florida lately.

Then we meandered down 7th Street, hitting a few bars, including Coyote Ugly, where the girls dance on the bar. A couple of them were pretty hot, but most of the patrons who got up there weren’t really dancing very much. They were kind of just standing there, twisting their hips.

We hit a few bars, one of which had karaoke. I amazed the girls with my mad singing skillz – *cough* – and sang a few songs, one of them with Anissa…”Paradise By the Dashboard Lights.”

The girls got a few pictures of me singing. Hopefully, no video. We did lots of shots and drinking, then went out for a slice of pizza. Izzy was pouty because she wanted so badly to dance her booty. So after the pizza, where she visually accosted our waiter and asked him to take his shirt off, we went outside. Shari was getting run-down with her sinus troubles, so she and Anissa went back to the room.

I hung around, walking the street with Izzy, looking for a place for her to get her groove on. In the end, it got too chilly and we didn’t feel like paying $10 to go somewhere for barely 30 minutes before it shut down. Went back to the room and goofed around a while.

I decided to take a photo of Anissa. Well, that’s what she thought I was doing. Instead, I was really shooting video.

Yeah, I can be very easily amused.

Believe it or not, Twilight is worse than this. Much.

Had a great time with the girls. We went to bed, got up way too early, three of us went down for coffee and continental breakfast, then it was back upstairs to pack and part ways.

So that’s how I slept with three hot women and got no sex. And I’d do it again in a heartbeat. You can see all the photos on my Flickr.

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I Probably Have Ebola

So I’m out the door in about 30 minutes to go to my sister’s for Thanksgiving. Since she’s working tomorrow, we’re celebrating today. Tons of people, tons of food, possible miracles such as my Dad and Mom in the same room at the same time (that’s never awkward). You know there are going to be way too many people when my sister asks if we can bring folding chairs. Ugh.

But, you know, holidays are supposed to be about the people and all that jazz. </eyeroll>

I went to the dentist yesterday for the first of my gum scraping routines. It’s so fun they have to split the mouth up into quadrants and do one quadrant each treatment. $250 later + another $80 for antibiotics and that’s another bunch of money spent really damn fast. Looking forward to the sequels. The many, many sequels.

And then I got this phone call the other day from the doctor, saying she wants to talk to me about my recent MRI. Not that I had an MRI, mind you, but this was just the receptionist calling so it’s not like she needs to know that I had a cardiac stress test and a chest x-ray recently.

“Is there a problem?” I asked, because when your doctor’s office says that they want to talk about your test results without telling you WHY, it’s a little disturbing.

“The doctor just wants to discuss the results,” she said. In other words, “I’m not telling you because you’ve probably contracted some horrible disease we haven’t even classified yet and it’ll be a miracle if you make it in next week for your appointment.”

Which, by the way, is Monday. So I get to stress about that shit for 5 more days. I mentioned this to my mom, a nurse, and said, “If it was horrible news, they’d want to see me ASAP, wouldn’t they?”

Saying the comforting thing that only a mom can, she said, “Not necessarily.”

Thanks, Mom. Way to harsh my holiday buzz. Oh, right. I don’t have a buzz.

I’ll be back tomorrow.

If I don’t see you before then, have a happy Thanksgiving, those of you that celebrate it. Everyone outside the States, have a happy Thursday. No SecondHand Radio tomorrow because of the holiday.

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All I Want For Christmas is the Mojo Back

I have an admission to make. I’m not a holiday person. Any more.

I loved holidays growing up. Would salivate as Christmas approached, and not because it was Jesus’ birthday. I couldn’t have cared less about Him back then. It was all about the pressies. I could barely contain my excitement when Christmas Eve rolled around.

It’s miraculous I was able to sleep at all. But no matter how late I stayed up, no matter how long I giggled and whispered with my brother and sister, I woke up magically at 3am. Every single year without fail, and without the aid of alarms.

There was a rule in my house, though. Parents were not allowed to be jarred to consciousness until 6am. I had no idea why this ridiculous law existed. After all, it wasn’t like they were doing the work. Santa was the one kicking ass and taking names…hopefully mine was on the Nice List. But no waking up the folks until 6.

So we kids were forced to struggle with nothing more than our gigantosaurus Christmas stockings for three fucking hours while Dad and Mom lazed away in bed. First I’d wake up my brother and sister, then we’d squee with delight as we tiptoed gingerly – and by gingerly I mean with the grace of a herd of buffalo – down the stairs to a glorious lighted tree with presents spread out underneath and throughout half the living room.

We grabbed our stockings and lugged them back upstairs to our rooms. Well, Karin came into Chris’ and my room. And we poured our goodies out on the beds. Candy, small books, Matchbox cars, dolls, comics, Silly Putty, multicolored pencils…all stuff that kept us occupied for a good 20 minutes or so until we were so hopped up on sugar we were pinging off the walls. With another 2 hours and 40 minutes left to wait.

I’m sure Mom and Dad heard us downstairs. Chris’ and my room was right above theirs. But apparently, parents can sleep through graceful buffalo like you wouldn’t believe. Probably because they got drunk the night before, anticipating Santa’s touchdown. They got to hang out with Santa when he got there, told him that I was probably not nearly as bad as what he’d heard through the nefarious North Pole grapevine, convinced him to leave the coal in the sleigh, and all that.

But we waited, and waited, and waited. DAYS. Until the clock showed it was 5:59am. And you can bet your sweet ass that we were knocking on our parents’ door at the very STROKE of 6.

“It’s 6 o’clock!” we’d squeal to very little reaction from the bed. “Dad! Mom! It’s 6 o’clock!”

*groan*

“It’s Christmas! Merry Christmas!” we’d all shout repeatedly and tirelessly for the few minutes it took to pry open their eyes and hear them say, “OK, OK! Go out to the living room and we’ll be right there.”

But they wouldn’t be right there. Instead they tortured us by getting dressed first, and then having to go to the kitchen to make the vile substance known as coffee, and we couldn’t open presents until the coffee was ready and those were the days before automatic programmable coffeemakers, which would have had the shit ready before they stepped their slippered feet into the living room.

Five fucking minutes we’d have to wait. Sometimes we didn’t even hear the first shred of wrapping paper before 6:08! Can you believe that shit?

And what a whirling dervish of paper it was after that! We ripped into each package swiftly and with great precision, tossing anything clothes-shaped to the back of the tree and saving those things for last. The Disney Haunted Mansion Game, a Talking G.I. Joe with Kung Fu Grip, coloring books, model cars, another few books in the Bobbsey Twins series, Lite Brite (making things with Lite!), a Captain Kirk doll with Mr. Spock and the Enterprise Bridge with Built-in Transporter, a mechanical tank that ran ruggedly over anything as steeply inclined as a comic book, Operation, the Welcome Back Kotter Game…the list went on and on. And I’m leaving out the girly shit because who really cared about that stuff, except for my sister?

Then, hours and hours later, we’d be forced to get dressed so we could leave our fantastic new toys behind and travel to all our relatives’ houses for more presents. And food. Torture.

Years later, as a teenager, I was much less enthusiastic about Christmas. We were in New Mexico at that point, and I was a disc jockey at a local radio station. And we were poor. Food stamps poor. Christmas became smaller and less exciting. Keep in mind that I wasn’t the slightest bit religious, so I didn’t care about those parts of the holidays. I got more and more clothes as gifts and, yes, they were needed but since when was Christmas about getting what you need?

By then, I was struggling to get out of bed early myself. The 3am wakenings were long gone and I could see what Mom and Dad had been saying all along. Sleep. Goooooood.

It wasn’t until I had my own children…a scant four years later…that Christmas resumed being fun. It was then that I realized Christmas is really about the children. It’s fun to watch everything through their bright and amazed eyes. It was also then that I realized precisely why my parents wanted to sleep until at least 6 in the morning.

Flash forward another five years or so. Divorce. Depression. Yes, I still had my daughters for Christmas (or the week after Christmas, alternating years), and yes, it was still fun to have them. But I missed family. I missed MY family. Not my parents and siblings, I mean the family I’d had for six years, the one that got torn out from under me. Things just weren’t the same.

And let’s face it, they haven’t been the same since. Sure, I discovered spirituality, even religion, and Christmas took on a whole new meaning. But the family part? I miss it. Sometimes dearly. To this day, whenever I dream of my now-adult twin daughters, they’re 5 or 6. I’ve had some serious relationships since my divorce…a few. But never came close to marriage.

The holidays now just kind of…are. I realized years ago that, while my depression is chronic, it’s definitely affected by this time of year. I’ll be going to my sister’s in a few days for Thanksgiving and I love being around my nieces, but it’s kind of bittersweet because, well, it’s a reminder of precisely what I don’t have.

Now I view the holidays as a chore, to be quite frank. More than anything else, it’s work. It means putting on a happy little face and driving around to this house and that house and making lots of cheerful phone calls and wrapping presents. Granted, a lot of the shopping torture is minimized thanks to the Internets, but still…I suck at wrapping and there seems to be so MUCH of it.

I feel like I’m just going through the motions most of the time. Happy Thanksgiving. Merry Christmas. Happy Hannukah and all that shit. I admit that sometimes I feel that wistful little boy inside when I drive by an elaborately decorated house at night, all the lights twinkling and the inflatable snowmen smiling. But for the most part I’m just phoning it in.

If I had the power, I’d probably fast forward 6 weeks once we hit mid-November. Just past the new year.

But then, aren’t the days already fast forwarding enough? One birthday blurring into the next, one Dick Clark’s Rockin’ New Years Eve smudging the next. It seems that just yesterday I was freshly divorced in my mid-20s. I blinked and now I have these lines on my face, a basketball in my belly, and I’m suddenly 42? How the fuck did that happen?

I  keep praying for the new year to get here quickly, but truthfully? What I really, really want? Is for Christmas to be magic again. For me to have something to look forward to. A significant other.

How about that shit, Santa?

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