Take a Memo

Ride the White Horse....

2011-10-13T22:17:00.000-07:00

I want to be the cool one, but I just can't be...

I work with these girls every day and all they do is get drunk and high in their off time...

Listen, I can't blame them for having fun, but I do know that when I did it, I didn't miss work or act like reality was some remote part of my profession....

I can only imagine how the young girls under me at my firm hate me. Not only can I always smell booze, but I can see the exhaustion of a coked-up night out more than anyone. Not sure my Associate is reading, but if she is, I can see the coke bloat on her face almost every day. I don't care, nor judge, that she does it...I have no problem with cocaine, but you have to buckle up and man up and be responsive at work. Then, I won't care...

Elaine

Short Circuit

2011-10-06T23:24:00.000-07:00

Cable went out again earlier this week. Picture was on but no sound.
I called Time Warner and the tech adviser (a nice woman in Costa Rica) said, "why don't you try a DVD to make sure it's not your TV."
So I put on the DVD player, thinking I had a movie in only to hear - LOUDLY - "uhhhhh....oooohhh yeah. Fuck me!"
There was porn in the player. The tech advisor coughed and said, "um, sounds like it's working."
" yeah, sounds like it....my husband has been away, normally he could fix this."
So yeah, Mr. Ella better come home, and soon....

Fashion Weak

2011-09-07T23:44:00.000-07:00

The title is all I have to say about that. Don't think I should go much further. Know too much....

Be back after sept 14th.

Crazy Little Thing Called Ugh

2011-08-26T00:26:00.000-07:00

I know I don't have it as bad as other women. My husband is not in the armed forces; he's not off fighting some bullshit war. He's not in prison, nor is he in government. But he is away, for six months, working on a Tom Cruise movie. Scientology jokes aside, my husband is gone...living in Pittsburgh until February 2012. We've been married for 9 months and the challenges posed to wedded bliss have come fast and furious.

It all started one February weekend. At 6 pm on a Thursday, I got the call. My mother had a heart attack. Two days later, I thought my husband was calling just to check in but instead he told me his equally devastating news: that his father had a stroke. The honeymoon was definitively over.

As my mother (thankfully) recovered, his father faltered. I flew to Ohio with a funeral dress and went to pick out my father-in-law's cemetery plot. Miraculously (an astounding story for another time), he pulled - no fought - through and is very much alive today.

My husband came home several weeks later and just last month was deployed to his Pittsburgh home.

I know I am lucky. I have a husband who loves me and who is busting his ass to save for our home and our upcoming family. But I can't help thinking like a brat...I can't help wanting him home, wanting him here with me and our doggie so we can live our life together, present everyday.

I worry. I worry the temptations of life away from home will cause a temporary lapse in his judgment. I worry about being one half of a couple living very separate lives, day in and day out. I worry our vices will eventually lead to consequences much like our parents just suffered. We're both not exactly young and indulge a bit too much in food and drink. (I also still struggle with smoking - a true death sentence for many in my, now deceased, genetic pool.)

The bottom line is this: I need strength. I need the power to thrive independently and simultaneously be my husband's best (and sexiest) cheerleader. I need to relish this time alone and do something with it. I need to write...

If You Die and Go To Hell...

2010-06-20T21:00:00.000-07:00

you will most likely be forced to do cardio. seriously. where have i been, some of you ask? on a road or stairwell to FUCKING nowhere.

each week, i am told i need to do 30 minutes of cardio - in addition to the 60 minute workouts from hell that i pay for - four times a week to help me lose weight.

so far, yes, it seems to be working. i've lost 5 lbs and 4 inches from my bust in about 7 weeks. (i don't give a shit about my waist....when you are ALL TIT...all you care about is TIT.)

they say that working out gives you this "high", this "euphoria" that lasts for hours. BULLSHIT. it exhausts you and makes you hungry for carbs, but you can't eat carbs, so you have grilled chicken or tofu instead.

anyway, i really don't hate the intense workouts that i do with my adorable little puerto rican trainer. but i fucking hate the cardio.

today, i did 21 minutes on the stairmaster and thought i was going to die. 21 MINUTES?! i was supposed to do 30.

but i got dizzy and had an ice cream headache and got off and went on the treadmill for 14 minutes. read vogue. think i made up for the time off the stairmaster of evil.

anyway, this post is/was lame. the truth is, i don't know what to write about. if you are out there - which i know one or three of you are - can you tell me what to say?

ella

I AM FUCKING STARVING

2010-06-05T23:58:00.000-07:00

hey
yeah, i know it's been awhile, but guess what? i want BREAD. i want PASTA. i want anything that - apparently - you are supposed to enjoy in moderation. FUCK moderation. FUCK restraint. FUCK ME. because i have to accept these things and i am FRIGGIN STARVING.

it's a trip and a half to be the "chubby bride". why? because i always grew up the "skinny one" - in grammar and high school and then in college...i was "skinny" - yet i never really thought so then.

the truth is, even with my workouts and diet plan, i am fat. for whatever reason (hell, i know why) i got just about obese between the years of 2003-2006 and have never fully recovered.

it started because of panic disorder. i wanted to be "calm" and "normal" but the necessary pill made me bloated and yet strangly in control.

more to come...
e

I FUCKED UP

2009-09-09T20:35:00.001-07:00

I have known for quite some time that I am a bit overweight. I say "a bit" because I don't quite appear FAT or OBESE in anyway. However, I know that my lifestyle over the last several years has left me heavier than I have ever known.

I knew something was wrong about a month ago. I started feeling tired for no reason, started feeling "large" if there is such a thing.

So I scheduled a physical exam. I knew my fears were correct when even the under-educated (albeit sweet) nurse expressed concern.
"Are you here for your blood pressure?" she asked.
"Yes, why?" I replied, alarmed.
"The doctor will talk to you."

Well FUCK, I thought. I knew that technically the nurse wasn't supposed to give me that reaction no matter if it said I was about to die a horrible death. But I knew she did because she was so concerned...I'm sure most 29 year old patients don't have the blood pressure reading I had just given her.

I spoke to my Doctor about the pressure. About the stress at work and about my terrible diet - full of carbs, salt, and cholesterol. He told me to watch my salt.

Then came Sunday.

On Sunday, while visiting my 93 year old grandmother and almost-96 year old grandfather, my doctor called me. My triglycerides were off the charts. As high a range as they can be. For someone my age, they were in the stratosphere. I freaked the fuck out. But I had to calm down for the sake of my grandparents. My Grandmother especially, cannot take news like this. So I sucked it up and pretended as though nothing was wrong. But something was/IS.

I admit that I have known my diet and alcohol (and, yes, for awhile, drug) intake was bad. But I never thought it would mean this. I thought I was being reckless; thought I was having "fun." But in reality, I was slowly killing myself. I was always afraid of ODing, but what I should have feared was having a stroke or a heart attack.

I am 29. Repeat I am 29. From here on out, I have to follow a strict low sodium, low fat, and low carb diet. While that sounds like everyday behavior to some girls, it's not for me. For me it is a complete turnaround in lifestyle, a complete surrender of everything I have lived for years.

The funny thing is, I am perfectly willing to turn my health around. In fact, I have already lost about 4 lbs. since going to the Doctor on Friday. Tomorrow, I plan on wearing a dress to Fashion Week that I didn't think I could wear anytime soon. The plus side to all of this is that I will probably fit into that Size 6 wedding dress next Spring.

But the hard/scary part is that I couldn't just do this my fucking self. I couldn't just work to lose the weight a year or so ago. I had to wait until my Doctor was telling me that I could stroke out soon or have cancer 10 years from now to do something.

So, here's the thing. If you are overweight (and I am by only about 30 lbs overweight - I am not morbidly obese), go see your Doctor. Get a blood test and test your blood pressure and make sure you are healthy. One can be overweight and healthy, but one can be overweight and very unhealthy. You don't have to be OBESE to be unhealthy.

I am working to change my lifestyle and feel good about it. In fact, I already don't crave pizza and chinese the way I once did. I now see those types of foods as dangerous and deadly. Never thought I would.

Anyway, it took a while to get there. It took many years of thinking I was "young" and not giving a shit to come to this point. But here's the truth:
What you eat at 22 does effect the person you will become at 28. What you drink at 23 does effect the person you will become at 29.
What you do at 29 does effect the person you will become at 30. I'll be 30 next June. And I'll be a hell of a lot thinner and healthier.

Only In New York

2009-05-14T16:56:00.000-07:00

I get in the cab this morning and the driver hands me a green bracelet.
“What’s this?”
“It’s for you. Wear it and get good health, stay beautiful. I will explain it to you…”
He puts on a song sung in Hindu and starts translating for me:
“Our eyes met from across the room –
She was beautiful, an angel.
I’ll never forget the night I met the girl in green.
My heart is on fire,
Like a fish without water.
I’ll never forget the night I met the girl in green.”
Then he pulls out a packet of bindis and says, “pick out your favorite color.”I pick orange and he pulls the cab over and puts it on my forehead.
“Now we are married! You will remember me forever. You are going to work today and will tell your friends
And you will all laugh about this. You came into my cab looking sad and now you are smiling.”
I tipped him $3.

Here Comes the Bride

2009-04-04T17:10:00.000-07:00

Yup, I got the ring. Well, first I found the right man and then he was smart enough to pop the question. I was smart enough to say “yes.” It’s been about four months since we became betrothed and now we are faced with the dreaded and inevitable task of – gulp – planning a wedding. And while I have long been known to be an attention whore, the thought of professing my love and devotion to someone in front of a live, familial audience fills me with absolute panic and terror. To top it off, I just cannot justify spending thousands of dollars on a wedding, on a party that will last a few hours, on a soiree in which I will spend the majority of the time worrying if my guests are having a good time. (Full disclosure: As a publicist, all you do is throw events and parties and work your ass off to make sure everyone is happy and having fun and it is just dreadful; it’s my least favorite part of the gig.)

Don’t get me wrong – I am not dreading getting married. In fact, I can’t wait to be Mrs. Wahoo and, yes, start having a family. But the wedding thing? I dunno, I was just never the little girl who fantasized about her wedding day. Yes, Freud, it probably does stem from my parents’ divorce and how I grew up with very realistic expectations of love and am always very cautious about matters of the heart. But now I am very much in love, very much ready to commit my life to one person, one man who I feel betters and enhances my life. A man who I want to be the father of my children and who I want to grow old with. But $5,000+ on flowers? No fucking way.

So why not just elope you say? Well, two reasons.

1. My family. I always scoffed when my friends would bend to their parents’ wishes when it came to planning their weddings. But after hearing how happy my mother and grandmother are about this engagement/wedding, I just feel like I owe it to them to give them one. I often think about how I would feel if I was a mother and my daughter was engaged – I would probably want to see her get married too. So that’s the heart of the dilemma – I think they deserve a wedding – my wedding. I am my mother’s only daughter and my grandmother is 90 and may not live to see the weddings of her other granddaughters, who are 18 and 12.

2. A groom who wants a wedding. Ella’s fella would really like a wedding – a church wedding with a reception. And why should I deny him this? Hell, he asked my parents’ for my hand in marriage. It’s important for him to get married in a church (he’s religious, a trait of his that made me fall in love with him). It’s his wedding too, not MINE. If I can’t compromise now, I probably shouldn’t get married at all.

So the real problem now lies in having a NYC wedding. It’s so unbelievably expensive. An editor I know – who got engaged at roughly the same time I did – is getting married this August for about $11,000. But where is she getting married? DELAWARE. What can we get for $11,000 in NYC? Um, vows in a church and, if we are lucky, a reception at Ellen’s Stardust Diner. No, seriously. That’s how expensive it is to get married in this town.

So, we’re working on figuring it out. Trying to find a place that won’t bankrupt us before we even tie the knot. If anyone has any suggestions, I’d love to hear them.

THANK YOU

2008-11-06T21:26:00.000-08:00

to this country...

for renewing my faith in democracy.
for renewing my faith in equality.
for renewing my faith in hope.
for renewing my faith in america.

for denouncing my fear of bias.
for denouncing my fear of racism.
for denouncing my fear of hipocracy.
for denouncing my fear of regression.

god bless you.
god bless me.
god bless us.
god bless america.

obama january 2009...

Palin-digestion

2008-09-19T18:58:00.000-07:00

I am a registered Independent because I really will vote for whoever the best candidate is.

But McCain has lost my vote by nominating a woman in such a cheap manner. He did so to show that the Republican party can be "liberal" by finally embracing someone with ovaries. However, what is masked behind this facade of equality is the fact that Palin is a radical conservative who believes in denying a woman's right to choose, who has no respect for the planet or its threatened species, and who governs in a fashion akin to being student council president in junior high.

As a feminist, I long for the day when a woman will sit in the White House in a strong capacity....but i won't cast a ballot for a woman just because she's a woman. and that's just what the mccain campaign is trying to make happen - all while trying to hide the fact that she is nothing more than a conservative sheep in lipstick.

Rock My Vote

2008-08-25T20:50:00.000-07:00

When I was growing up, there was no greater political hero than JFK. For one, he was Catholic. And for all those nuns and dedicated secular teachers in my grammar and high schools, he represented the greatest achievement of all - that a serious follower of Jesus Christ could become President. Plus, for my younger generation of teachers not of the cloth, he represented their generation, finally taking reigns of this impossibly powerful country of ours.

I am 14 years younger than Barack Obama. However, I have never felt more akin to a political candidate. He’s young, still rather handsome. He has young children and a very attractive wife. He’s not as experienced as perhaps he should be. But you know what? Neither are most great leaders. Neither are most of those who actually end up making a difference.

I'm a registered Independent. While I have always voted for a Democrat in each of the Presidential campaigns I was legally allowed to vote for (shit, is this really my third??? I am fucking old.), I have tended to vote Republican in my city and state elections. (Go Bloomberg!!! Who should, seriously, be Mayor of NYC for his entire fucking life.) And so, I am not voting Barack because I am a Presidential Democrat.
So why am I?

1. He’s young and idealistic. He’s the next Kennedy and Clinton all rolled into one. Kennedy was a Christian and Clinton was black (oh, come on, he really almost was). I want someone who is still hopeful, still patriotic enough to aspire to be President – not do so because it was the next best job his Daddy could get him. (Come on now Republicans, even if you support G.W., he never showed even the slightest spark in wanting to be President.)

2. He’s black. Yes, I said it. I am voting for Barack Obama BECAUSE he is black. No, I probably wouldn’t vote for him if he weren’t the best candidate, but the color of his skin is a strong selling point for me. I think it is damn well time that this country start to expand its presidential pool and look towards blacks, minorities, and women as viable candidates. Most of the rest of the free world has already elected women and minorities to the highest cabinet positions. Why should we be confined to a white elite?

3. He will not deny my right to choose. I never intend to get an abortion. At this stage (and this romantic interlude) of my life, it wouldn’t be fair and/or justified. However, 4 and plus years ago, I don’t think I would have chosen to have a child. And I think that is my right. Many women in my life – both elder role models and peers – have had to choose an abortion for whatever reason they had at the time. And, no, I have never met a woman who was happy about the decision. Who wasn’t more torn apart than any fucking supreme court judge who had to cast a vote either for or against the right. John McCain went on live television and said that he would appoint judges to overrule Roe vs. Wade. I cannot, simply cannot, allow someone to enter the White House who will do such a thing.

4. He represents the next generation. No, George Bush is not very old. However, as most people will concede, he is very much his father and Dick Cheney’s President. Barack is extremely young by most political standards. He has admitted to using both pot and cocaine. Why? Because he refuses to be a pawn for the older generation. Yes, I am sure he regrets this, but most of us who will vote for him don’t care. We all used pot and cocaine – if not more. While Clinton was always cool with his deep-South roots and sax playing, he couldn’t even admit to inhaling pot. And that was a disconnect. Barack is who my generation is. A generation who very much valued our ultra-expensive and ultra-valued education but who still ventured and had a bit of illicit fun every once in awhile. He represents every kid who finally left his small town for a big city college (only to find himself overwhelmed and a bit out of his league); every kid who finally left a big town for a small college (only to find herself aching for something more); and every kid who couldn’t ever find the money of strength to leave for college (only to find that what was at home meant so much more).

5. He just seems to be like you and me. Yes, Obama is following his party’s politics. Yes, Obama is going to fall victim to what his delegates say. However, I really do think that the man is exactly who you and I would be if we suddenly felt ourselves thrust in the political spotlight. Yes, he is a Democrat pawn, you can argue. Yes, he isn’t really ready to be President. But who the hell is? Was Washington? Was Lincoln? Was the beloved JFK? No. No one ever is. It’s the hardest, most self-destructive job in the world. It’s a no-win situation no matter what political side you are on.

However in this election year, I am in favor of the idealist. Of the candidate who has dreamt more than he has made deals. Of the candidate who is championing rather than challenging. Of the candidate who will lead us into the future rather than parade us into the past. I am for Barack Obama. Not for his party ties but for what he will bring our nation – hope, faith, intelligence, and humanity.

Apology Accepted

2008-03-06T23:51:00.000-08:00

“I’m sorry.”
It’s all I ever wanted him to say.
A few months ago I finally got the apology that I always thought I deserved, later struggled to justify, and finally declared I was entitled to.
I know that I am not easy to love. No woman (or man) really is. I know that I pushed men away both conscious and unconsciously. But I’ve also always known that it was – 95% of the time – the other party that caused me to behave so badly and irrationally.
The apology up for discussion came from The Musician. One of the more important men in my life, he is the one ex who has had the greatest impact on me. He came from money, yet never admitted it. He wanted to save the world, yet was always uncomfortable actually living in it. He wanted to be a struggling artist, yet refused to admit that art can thrive (honestly) without poverty.
Rather than embrace his upper-upper middle class upbringing, he wholeheartedly rejected it by joining the Peacecorp and moving to a ghetto town in northern New Jersey. He could never understand how much I wanted to work for a living and establish a more solid financial foundation than my parents ever could. I didn’t dream of money but rather upward mobility; a goal he could and never would quite grasp. He wanted to live a life of servitude and struggle in the hopes of both apologizing for his family’s good fortune and justifying his own artistic expressions. He hated me for working my ass off at a (semi-) corporate establishment. He hated how his father praised my successes as he struggled to cope with his son’s lack of. He hated how much I had to work for what he already had.
It tore me apart when we finally broke up. Yet throughout the entire relationship I always felt the same way: I was wrong for wanting to be successful while also believing that I could still be creative.
When he wrote me this past Fall and apologized I nearly fell off my chair in shock. I never thought he would come to admit that he had been selfish and ignorant. And, perhaps most importantly, I never thought I would finally be given the acknowledgment of not necessarily being right, but at least not being wrong. He told me he was sorry for the way he treated me and for the way he made me feel for trying to succeed. I forgave him. And it felt good. However, what has felt better is that I cannot remember a single thing about myself when we were together.
This is a breakthrough because – for years – I punished myself for not being what he wanted. I would stay up and scowl at my own personality for not seeing what he needed and providing it. Rather than just settling for the realization that we weren’t good together, I tormented myself for not trying hard enough to satisfy him. I thought that because he was so unsatisfied with who I was that I had made a mistake somewhere along the line and become someone that could easily be tossed aside.
I did what too many women do: I began to believe the excuse that he used to get out of the bad relationship.
It’s sad to admit, but there’s a line from “Pretty Woman” that really does hold true. And that is, “The bad stuff is easier to believe.” This is why it was easier for me to accept the breakup, because I just swallowed and digested that what I did was wrong. But recently, when he apologized, I was finally granted permission to believe that who and what I did was fine and ok. I was finally able to embrace the me that he never allowed me to be.

Work It

2008-01-08T22:34:00.000-08:00

I worked at XX from September 17, 2001 until November 16, 2007. 6+ years of my life. A longer tenure than high school or college, a longer span than any intimate relationship or serious commitment held prior.
If there’s one piece of advice every young professional should receive, is that he/she shouldn’t spend more than two years at a first job. When you do you never understand your full potential, never truly know if you are doing a good job at your profession or if you are simply doing a good job where you work. And there is a BIG difference.
I recently left the only grownup job I have ever known with mixed results. On the one hand, I was miserable at my previous company – aching for more responsibility, yet not seeking such an important role there. Quitting was one of the most rewarding days of my life – the day I finally let go of the hold of an ultra-controlling boss and the day I finally decided I was in charge of my own professional fate. It was freeing, satisfying, and undeniably ego-boosting.
It has now been two months since I left said job and I am now settled into the new one – the one my current bosses OFFERED me (this was a first for me, as I previously only interviewed as an entry-level candidate). Much of me loves it – loves the newfound responsibilities and excitement that accompanies this role. Yet the other half of me is worried that I have still not found – or accepted – my real calling. After all, I am a publicist once more, working in a profession I said I would never do again.
Most – if not all – days, I enjoy it. But every so often, like today, I am filled with this overwhelming feeling that something is amiss. That my creative side is being quelled in favor of a career that I may or may not even want. It’s a tricky predicament, a confusing and anxious sentiment that I can’t quite come to terms with yet.
And that’s why I urge young people never to stay at a company for more than 700 or so days, as you will ultimately find yourself confused, exhausted, and unsatisfied. Miles away from the dreams you had when you first finished college.
In other words: I get a paycheck; I like my job; but I have not yet discovered what it is I am supposed to work as/for during my life.

Was Lost...Now FOUND

2008-01-03T23:48:00.000-08:00

No, I'm not dead, but I have been incredibly awful about posting.

Not entirely sure why…but here’s my attempt at an explanation.

Ever since I got my new job, I have not only been caught up in actual work (during my tenure at my last gig I was so fucking bored that I would spend most of my time bullshitting online and/or commenting on gawker) but have found myself less inclined to write. That saddens me a bit. I'm happy that I have found something to keep me properly entertained - and PAID - all day, but am disheartened at the fact that I have no overwhelming compulsion to air my dirty laundry and say my peace via this blog.

Some of me sees nothing wrong with this - chalks it up to finally being satisfied on a daily basis and free of the desire to seek something more.

And yet, that's exacly what the other part of me is sickened by - the thought that a demanding job is leaving me free of seeking something more.

It's true that I come home much happier than I did before, end my days without feeling that I may have wasted my day. Yet much of my recent time as a copywriter left me hungry to write the prose dictated by ME - not that which was demanded by a client. And now that no one is insisting I write, I feel less inclined to search for what it is I am really yearning to say.

Practically speaking, I haven't been able to blog. Ever since I moved into Mr. Ella's apartment I haven't had an internet connection. But now I do. He bought me a laptop this Christmas and now I have no technical excuses. If I want to blog, I can. So you can’t blame me too much for being absent – it’s been a full 4 months since I’ve had a computer at home (and no, I never blog at work).

But I cannot stop there. After all, there are two other excuses for me not writing.

Number One: My future father-in-law is likely reading this.

So here’s the deal. When I was published in Time Out New York, my proud (and somewhat overzealous) boyfriend told his parents about my column. His father ended up reading my article which, in and of itself, isn’t all that bad. However, whether you read a hard copy or an online version of my article, you are left with an address that sends you to this blog. Because it’s always been an anonymous blog, I had no problem listing it in the byline. But I never thought it would be read by anyone as important as my (hopefully) future father-in-law. Now while most of my recent posts have been tame, many of my earlier ones are extremely explicit – written when I was writing for a completely faceless and nameless audience. Knowing that people know who I am has rendered me
near-silent, unsure of whether I can truly post the intimate thoughts I really want to.

Number Two: My private life is much more precious to me.
For the first time in - ok maybe - ever, I am absolutely, 100% in love. This blog was created – in a large part – to write about experiences that (while I am not ashamed of) were never important enough NOT to write about. But now I find myself in a relationship, a real grownup relationship that is becoming so sacred, I don’t really want to discuss the intimate details. However I worry that such prose is precisely what my (albeit few) readers expect, and that without hot and heavy stories about sex, they will find themselves bored and with little reason to come back. After all, my voice thus far has largely been appreciated for the candor in which I have approached my sexuality, the frankness in which I have shared stories that most of us keep private.
Now that I don’t have such tales, what should I write about? Politics? Celebrities? Religion? I’d like to, but I’m not sold on the fact that anyone will be reading.

Just Calm Down

2007-11-04T21:02:00.000-08:00

Change has never been easy for me.

When I was 7, my parents engaged in a messy divorce, one which often pitted me in the center of their battles, one in which they all-too-often forgot I was just a child. It was then that my panic attacks began. The first one that I can recall was during the spring of 1988, when my father took my brother and I to Disney World for a "family" vacation. I say "family" because it was his way of re-defining our family, of showing us how we had to accept that it was he, me, and my brother that were now a family (one that was separate from the family we had with our mother). And so there I was, in the Happiest Place on Earth - in Epcot Center to be exact - having the first panic attack of my life. I remember it coming on suddenly when this jazz band started to play in some restaurant. I got up, ran into the ladies' room and felt like I couldn't breathe. Finally, after nothing I can recall, I left the restroom and rejoined my father with sweat and barely-dried tears dripping down my cheek. We didn't speak a word.

My next panic attack came about 2-3 years later while spending the night at my friend Pauline's. Pauline (who I have written about before here, as I lost her in a car accident when she was just 16 and I was 15)lived across the street from me. After my parents' divorce, my father retained a friendship with her parents (partly because he wanted to keep an eye on my mother...or so I think). Regardless, Pauline and I had just spent the whole day having fun in her basement...watching Dance USA (or whatever the fuck it was called), eating pizza, and then braiding each others hair. Around 11 that night, we awoke to the sound of my father in her parents' kitchen, laughing loudly. Hearing my father's voice while falling asleep - in the first place other than my childhood home I had ever heard it since my parents got divorced - suddenly made my heart palpitate. I instantly jumped out of bed, clutching my chest and crying hard, contracting every muscle in my body. I can still see Pauline holding and comforting me in her post bed, telling me that it would be ok...that her parents had gotten divorced too and that everything was going to be alright. And I believed her.

I can go on and on about the panic attacks I have had since that night with Pauline. They manifested again when I began high school, when I entered college and then again a few years after college when I received a promotion that catapulted me into full adulthood. They were horrific, crippling dark times in my life, times marked with an early adolescent addiction to xanax, multiple suicide attempts, and, not surprisingly, substance abuse.

Now, however, for the first time in my life, my anxiety-filled tendencies are affecting someone else more than they ever have before. Throughout the course of the last month, I moved out of my studio apartment and into the apartment of the man I love. And then, just this past Tuesday, I quit my job of six years and am about to embark on a new and uncertain journey, one that both terrifies and entices me. As a result of all this change, I am, displicably, a shell of the woman he fell in love with. I am constantly on edge, too tense to be touched, yet too afraid not to be. I am on an emotional rollercoaster, yet never fully aware of my ups and downs.

As a result of all this emotional bullshit (and trust me, I know and believe it's bullshit), he's frustrated and (almost) constantly angry with me. And I can't blame him. I'm frustrated with me. I'm sick and fucking tired of this irrational anxiety, of this unjustified angst.

In the past, men have tried to comfort me when my anxiety came to a head. But he doesn't. He tells me (but not quite in these words) it will be ok if i just shut the fuck up and deal, grow up and move on and become an adult. He tells me to suck it up and live and stop worrying so goddamn much. And - just as I did years ago with the best friend I miss so much sometimes it makes me puke - I believe him.

Time Out, New York

2007-10-20T22:55:00.000-07:00

I’ve gotten quite a lot of emails as to why I haven’t made one mention of my recent column in Time Out New York. Honestly, I didn’t know what to say. “Vote for me!” seemed a bit tacky. “Read my column!” sounded a bit desperate. So I said nothing.

Yes, I am proud of it. After all, I’ve never been published in anything with that high a circulation before. But to be frank, I didn’t think it was my best work. It wasn’t full of sarcasm; it wasn’t dirty; it wasn’t as comprised of my personal experiences as I would have wanted it to be. Julia Allison picked the topic – which was totally fine by me as it is, after all, HER column – but it was a topic I didn’t really know how to explore. It’s not as though I have never waited to have sex with someone, but I have never really actively engaged in a serious level of restraint with someone I really, really cared about.

(Note: My column actually ended with the sentence “Good things don’t necessarily come to those who wait to, um, well, you know what I mean.” In print it read, “Good things don’t necessarily come to those who wait.” But it was edited for space, and I understand that [hell, I am a former publicist].)

But I want to go on record to say that I do not hate Julia Allison. My comments on Gawker have definitely been sarcastic, bitchy and non-complimentary, but it’s not because I personally hate the woman (I have always assumed that Gawker comments were something of a roast, not something said to personally attack someone…I have since come to see that I am wrong). In fact, I don’t even know her. I guess those comments stem from the fact that I see someone getting a ton of publicity for just being rather than for writing. And, as someone who wants nothing more than to be a published author (especially one with a weekly forum read by thousands of New Yorkers), I guess I am just jealous. There, I said it.

Many of the people who have emailed me have inquired about the poll that pitted myself against Julia. (I won 800+ votes to 300+ votes.) They have asked why I have not replaced her as the TONY columnist since I won. I have no answer for this. I didn’t even know there was going to be a poll. While I am flattered that so many people have emailed me to say they would rather read my work each week over Julia’s, I do recognize why she has – and deserves – her position. In addition to being a writer, Julia is a “personality,” a media star who commands the spotlight and rightfully gets it. I admire her for that.

I do not aspire to be such a public person; I just want to write. But I do not condemn someone who puts herself out there in order to receive attention and a following. However, if that is what it takes to be a columnist in New York, then I probably will never be one. I want people to connect with me through my words, through the thoughts that stream out of my head late at night after a shitty day of work or early in the morning when I am hungover and regretful or in the afternoon when I simply need to express my angst. (I’m not implying that such things don’t drive Julia to write. I’m just speaking for myself.)

Yes, I am happy that I won. Happy that people like my writing (especially a piece that I think didn't reflect the best of me) and want more of it. But I don’t want this experience tainted with the misunderstanding that I hate another writer or that I set out to rid someone of her gig. That is NOT the case.

If anything, this experience has taught me that people do want to hear what I have to say. And that is invaluable to me. Now I just have to find the right forum in which to say it.

Happy Hoe-lloween

2007-10-10T08:36:00.000-07:00

It’s that time of year again. Time for women to choose what kind of “slut” they want to be for Halloween. There’s no such thing as a scary witch; you’re a “sexy witch.” You can’t be a zombie nurse; you have to be a “naughty nurse.”

I guess as a result of one too many skanky schoolgirls and i-put-out police officers (my costume of choice two years ago), costume manufacturers (or “dress up pimps” as I prefer to call them) have really begun to outdo themselves. If you’re in the market to look like a trick rather than a treat, here’s some suggestions for Halloween 08:

The Dirty Martini
If you want a costume that makes your tits look like they have gangrene and your nipples look inflamed and chapped, this is the number for you.

A Gangbang Ghostbuster
Was your boyfriend a total nerd who lived in his parent’s basement in 1986? Well, fulfill his fantasies 21 years later with this ridiculous outfit.

Christy Creams
Lovely. At least morbidly obese teens have a new jerkoff queen.

Money Honey
What man really wants an honest woman on Halloween?

Foreign Exchange Student
This one actually reads “she loves the USA so much that she’ll do anything for a green card!” I know this was a plot for something I watched on Spice once.

The Judge Judy
There’s also a “Sexy Prosecutor” and “Sexy Defense Attorney” for a trio of skanks.

Stud Finder
With cones for your cones…

Ok, I could do this all day. I have to stop. I'll leave you with my personal favorite, what the classiest girl at the party will be wearing:

The Happy Endings Health Spa Costume
$30.00 for a cheap piece of silk. Lotion (and elbow grease) not included.

Was It Good For You?

2007-10-03T12:02:00.000-07:00

When you slut around, hopping on and off man after man (and the occasional woman), it’s easy to think you are great in bed. After all, most of the sex us promiscuous girls have is made possible via heavy alcohol and/or drug use which clouds your memories (and makes you feel like a porn star during the act).

For the past several years, I’ve been eager-beaverin’ it all over town (and other towns), with lots of wham, bam, thanks, dude/ma'am/dude and dude/dude and ma'am sex. Orgasms were had by all parties – or at least things felt good until we both passed out – and all was joy in slutville.

Here's my problem.

Now that I’m in a long term, committed relationship, and having regular sex with someone for the first time IN SEVEN YEARS, I’m beginning to think I’m not such an amazing lay after all.

Don’t get me wrong, our sex life is very, very good. Orgasms are frequent and often multiple. The fact is for the first time in my life, I actually have a sexual RELATIONSHIP that requires as much tending to as an emotional one. And it's draining my available bedroom resources. Fast.

Now I want to be acrobatic. Tantric. A mind-blower. I want to turn him on as much as I did the first night we were together, every night.

So I bought a book. Toys. Videos. Manuals. I might even hire a whore. I’m studying up. I’ll let you know how it goes. And comes…

Sex While In My City

2007-10-02T22:14:00.000-07:00

When I was in college, I thought Sex and The City was such a brilliant concept. While I didn't necessarily love the columns or the book they inspired, I did fall madly in love with the television show. It was new. It was fresh. It was boldly going where no clinically depressed, sex-obsessed woman had gone before. But, as is often the case, the liberation of womens' inner secrets gave way to more confusion and more angst.

I'm all for being frank and honest. But now there is a whole generation of women - largely in New York City - who find no topic or moment of self-doubt off the conversation table. As a result, I think we are back to square one - a sex more confused than ever before, struggling to find the balance between our inner Carries/Samanthas/Mirandas/Charlottes.

Today, men know too much. Now they know how filthy we talk about sex when we are together. They can sense our batshit-crazy behavior before we even pull it. But what's worse is that they judge us before we even meet. They assume:

- we all spend thousands of dollars on ridiculously over-priced shoes
- we all aspire to have our weddings announced in the New York Times
- we all over think every little fucking thing with our girlfriends
- we all talk about our lovers' penis sizes
- we all categorize men by their job/age/socio-economic class/religion

But the truth is:
- most of us buy shoes at Nine West and Filene's
- most of us are nervous about getting married and certainly don't want to see our faces splashed across some newspaper when we do it
- most of us don't piss and moan about every little thing men do…in fact, it's only when men majorly fuck up (cheat, lie) that we turn to our girlfriends
- most of us don't even know how big our lovers' penises are and we certainly don't share that info, just like we don't want men describing the hue and circumference of our nipples to their friends
- most of us look past status, age and creed in the hopes of finding someone who just makes us happy

The SATC phenomenon has also resulted in a proliferation of opinion, public opinion, about the battle of sex and love wills between men and women. I admit that most of the time these “columns” make me ill. I think they are inspired by watching TBS reruns of the show in question and re-hashing uninteresting dilemmas just to prove a point in the face of the exes that read them. And yet I still want my shot at airing my relationship laundry. As much as I mock and taunt those who write this type of shit while in my safe cavern of anonymity, I still think I have something to say. All I need to know is that some people want to listen.

Piss Off

2007-09-28T17:15:00.000-07:00

Every once in awhile, I feel the need to bore other people with a litany of items/people/places that I can’t stand. Why? Because I no longer pay for therapy.

So here, in no particular order, are a bunch of things/people that bug the shit out of me. I hope they inspire hate in your hearts too.

1. This Shoe Style

I would rather fuck Harvey Keitel than look like Holly Hunter in The Piano. Can somebody seriously tell me why designers are recreating the shoe wardrobe of Jane Eyre? I get the suppressed male fantasy of wanting to screw a Salem witch, but this is just ridiculous. They aren’t sexy and they sure as hell don’t look comfortable. Yes, yes, I’m sure my ass will cave and buy a pair because I work at a sorority house, but I will hate myself with each step I take.

2. The Never-Ending Summer

It’s almost October and it was close to 90 degrees in NYC this week. This needs to stop. First of all, I am sick of wearing the same clothes I have been sporting for 5 months. Secondly, I don’t like to sweat unless I am in bed. Summer is cool for about 2 months and then, by July, I am sick of it. Autumn is so beautiful in New York. The leaves, the roasted nuts (seriously, if you live outside NY and have never had NUTS4NUTS, you should cry yourself to sleep tonight), and the sweaters that hide my fat stomach. I want all of these things…now.

3. Melted Butter

Ok, I’m not sure if anyone will relate to me here, but there is something happening to me each morning that blackens my heart before 9:30 AM. Each morning, I order a toasted sesame bagel with butter on the side. The FUCKING ASSHOLES put the butter in with the steaming hot bagel (not with the coffee or peaches ‘n cream shake) so by the time it gets to me, there is butter DRIPPING everywhere. I know this is a very Seinfeld/Curb Your Enthusiasm thing, but it drives me insane.

4. The Sex and The City Movie

Seriously, someone tell me why? Well, I know why…it’s because the women can’t find any steady work now and need to make money somehow. (Yes, I know SJP is the spokeswomen for, like, everything…HEY, my computer just changed “spokes whore” to “spokeswomen” - WTF - but still, she needs to prove she can still act in something.) Anyway, mark my words that this film is going to be panned and will soil whatever is left of the series’ honor. I literally grew into adulthood watching this show and it was painful to watch even back then as I kept thinking that “Wow, this is going to be my miserable life in my 30s. It will be filled with nothing but heartache, desparation and terrible clothes.” Now, I am finally hopefully (after meeting Mr. Right and getting over my Mr. Big) that my life won’t be awful during the next decade, and this movie is going to come along and shit all over how fabulous I think my 40s will be. NO THANK YOU. (And note to Jennifer Hudson: not a smart followup to an Oscar, my friend.)

5. Celebrity DUIs

Keifer Sutherland is just the latest douche driving his drunk ass around. Listen, I know that DUIs will always happen. But they are supposed to be limited to moron guidos in NJ and LI who need to learn their lessons before they even turn 21. (That’s not a good thing, but those are the only types of dickheads that have an excuse.) If you are a millionaire, you have absolutely NO EXCUSE for getting behind the wheel while intoxicated. Call a cab. No, better yet, CALL A FUCKING HUMMER. You have the money. Someone is going to die because of this carelessness and it really pisses me off.

6. The View

Why is this show still on the air? Watching The View is like being forced to sit with all the old, bitter divorcees at a wedding. All they do is piss and moan and argue about BULLSHIT. At least when Rosie was on, they debated things with substance from time to time. Now it just gives men justification for trading in their old crusty wives for something younger and quieter.

7. Celebrity Scents

Usher. Diddy. Mariah. Why do I want to smell like these people (or smell like something that attracts them)? This trend has got to stop. Your fragrance is the most personal part of your beauty/grooming routine and to stoop to this level of tackiness is just plain sad. If you like these people, invest in their music. See their movies. Don’t fall victim to marketing hype. After all, do you think that Britney has even smelled her latest fragrance? CAN she even smell anymore?

I have a ton more, but I have aggravated myself with just these seven. But, just so you don’t think I don’t hate EVERYTHING, here is a quick list of things/people I LURVE:

1. The Girls Next Door - This show does not get old to me. I love these hoes and want more! Especially Holly.
2. Puppies - Any puppy, all puppies. I love puppies! Come on, admit it, you do too.
3. QVC - Yup, I said it. AND I just bought diamond earrings from them last week. They are beautiful. And, yes, REAL. Screw you if you want to laugh. There is nothing more fabulous than being drunk on Merlot and ordering diamonds with your cellphone.
4. Pickles - Pickles just rock.
5. Blueprint Magazine - Yes, I am getting old and domestic. I like reading about home furnishings and studying recipes that I will never make.
6. Jenna Fisher - She’s Pam on The Office and she is just plain awesome. Adorable, self-deprecating and hysterical.
7. Dlisted.com - Funnier celeb gossip than Perez Hilton. HANDS DOWN.
8. Jeopardy! - Still awesome after all these years. Even if Mr. Ella is always better than me.
9. My Old College Roommate - She wrote me a very sweet email today telling me how much she enjoys my blog. Plus, she would leave the room and sleep elsewhere when I had to get my sex on during the late 90s.
10. The Color Purple - No, not the book, movie or musical. Just the color.

The Big Move

2007-09-23T15:18:00.000-07:00

In three weeks, I will be moving in with my fella. Anyone who knows me knows this is a big fucking deal. Ella has never lived with a fella and really loves her time alone. But, the stars seem to be aligned (plus, paying two rents is pretty stupid at this point) so I am taking the co-habitation plunge. I’ve been spending a lot of time cleaning up my place and packing my things, which is filling me with tons of emotion. After all, this is MY place, MY first place, the place where I set up shop as a full-fledged adult 5 years ago. And now, this particular chapter is coming to a close.

I decided to move out of my parents’ house in 2002 after my ex from college and I decided to end our relationship. He had done a pretty good job of stomping on my ambitions (he’s from an affluent family and found my desire to make money disgusting…I found his lack of ambition to be a complete turn-off) and within a month of our breakup I decided it was time to start MY LIFE. And so, I marched into Citi Habitats and took the first place they showed me - a fully refurnished apartment in Alphabet City. For a girl who suffered panic disorder from the age of 11 this was a huge turning point. Not only was I going to leave the comfort of my parents’ home, but I was going to live ALONE in the East Village. HOLY SHIT…

As I’ve been packing, many memories have been flooding my head. Here’s just some:

1. My First Night - Sometime in September 2002, I spent my first night here. I remember walking home from work and stopping at 7A to have dinner - ALONE. I ate, read the Village Voice and went back to my apartment for the first time. I took a shower, laid down on my futon (minus frame…I never did get the frame) and read a book (I think it was More…Now…Again by Elizabeth Wurtzel). I had no TV, no stereo (this was before iPods…holy fuck) and just stared out the window at the Empire State Building. I was here. In New York City. Living the dream. On my own. It was overwhelming.

2. Fourth of July 2005 - July Fourth has always been my second favorite holiday. I always spent it in the Bronx, with friends and family, and - for the first time (with the exception of my year in Disney) I was alone. I got a 6-pack and some Camel Lights and sat on my fire escape, watching the fireworks from afar. Tears started streaming down my cheeks as I saw them light up the sky. Once again, I thought, here I am in New York City…on my own…needing no one….wanting no one…enjoying life, my life.

3. Sex, Drugs and Rock ’n Roll - I never partied or slept around in college. In fact, I was pretty prudish (if you can believe that). All that changed when I moved into this apartment. I felt liberated, in control, and free of all the trepidation that had held me back before. After all, if I brought a man or an eight ball here I was bringing it to MY APARTMENT…so I set the rules. And so, this apartment is where I re-discovered my sexuality (with men, with women, with multiple partners) and re-claimed the youth I didn’t get to experience in college. Living alone set me free and helped me define MY LIFE, MY LIMITS, MY NEEDS. There is no price you can put on that.

4. Writing - Whether it was 9 am or 9 pm, this apartment has always served as the ultimate place for prose, the place where I have always retreated to in order to collect my thoughts. It’s where I’ve written all of this blog, where I’ve written all the chapters of my (hopefully published one day) book. It’s the place where my thoughts are free to roam uncensored and uninterrupted. And this is the only thing I will miss.

Sometimes I wonder if I should really be leaving all these fond memories behind. Am I ready to give up my personal space and share it with another? I think the answer is yes. After all, I can still dine alone; don’t want to spend another 4th of July by myself; and love partying with my beau. Plus, we met as a result of this blog. I finally met a man who loves to read what I write more than I do, a man who encourages me to write more than any other man I’ve ever known. And so, while he may be in the other room as I write these thoughts in the near future, he’ll leave me alone as I do it. That’s the reason I know it will work - because he understands that the time we spend apart is just as important as the time we spend together.

Emmy Schmemmy

2007-09-16T21:39:00.000-07:00

For once, I actually WISH I had gone to my fella’s place to WATCH FOOTBALL. What was this abortion of a show I just spent hours watching? I know I usually write about sex, so I think I can get away with blogging about this because I feel like FOX just fucked me and everyone else who tuned in…

First, the LOWLIGHTS:

1. The censorship. In the past, every awards show has suffered the wrath of being live and with brass balls has aired the verbal faux pas and/or simply bleeped out just one word. But not FOX. The channel that made its mark with the sexist (albeit hysterial) Married…With Children and other wholesome family values programming like Temptation Island and Who Wants to Marry a Millionaire decided instead to fade to black and deprive the public from words and sentiments that don’t fit the conservative viewpoint of its stockholders. The cut Ray Romano, Sally Field and - I believe - David Chase off in such an insulting manner that I’m surprised they didn’t have Joely Fisher wear a burka instead of her very revealing gown. But wait…Joely stars on a FOX sitcom…so jokes about nipples and breast milk were more suitable than statements about war. I’m surprised they didn’t edit Al Gore’s entire acceptance speech. Between this and their blatant dismissal of the democratic party’s response to the President’s speech the other night has me questioning whether I will ever tune in to FOX again.

2. James SPAYDER and not James GANDOLFINI? Are you fucking kidding me? I like James Spayder. Actually, NO, I love James Spayder (Secretary is one of the best movies of all time) and I think he’s an amazing actor. But his campy performance does not even remotely measure up to the god-like work of Gandolfini's. He was robbed of this award and I can only hope that the Golden Globes redeem this fuck-up come January. What Gandolfini has done over the past whatever many years has been thought-provoking, disturbing, and, above all, moving. Not honoring him is a disservice to the medium of television.

3. America Ferrera. I’m rather biased here because I am not a fan. I’ve seen Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants and suffered through 5 minutes of the horrific Ugly Betty and do not understand why she is continually honored. My only thought - and I know this sounds terrible - is that she is being honored so that the entertainment industry can say they salute latinas and minorities in general. She does not possess the comedic gifts of those she consistently defeats for the awards. And that is not a white/non-white issue, but simply the truth.

4. The Brits. I LOVE Helen Mirren. I aspire to be as sexy as she is when I am over 50 (or is it 60). I also love Ricky Gervais. His appearance on The Tonight Show several months ago was more brilliant than most of what is on broadcast television. But, dammit, I want Americans to win during American award shows. Ok, ok, Ricky won for an HBO show, but Helen won for a show that is a true import, and not something produced in America. I’m not sure who should have won in Helen’s category because I have not seen any of those performances, but if you ask me, both Charlie Sheen (yes, I admit, I LOVE Two and a Half Men) and Steve Carrel were robbed.

5. The Westerns. I love Thomas Hayden Church and Robert Duvall. They both excel in their craft. However, honoring the western genre has to come to an end. I don’t know anyone who has seen Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee or Broken Trail. Yes, the western is a true slice of Americana, but it is a recycled genre that is in no way paving new ground on television. The stories are pretty much the same, movie after movie, and I think it’s time for a boycott. I mean, seriously, does Aiden fucking Quinn do anything but period pieces anymore?

6. The Jersey Boys Tribute to The Sopranos. To put it simply, that was the gayest tribute I could imagine. I’m sure The Jersey Boys on its own is entertaining theater, but if you really wanted to honor the greatest television show of all time, all you had to do was show highlights. Watching Carmela and Tony fight over “You’re Just Too Good To Be True” was both creepy and awkward. Thank God the entire cast came out at the end for the tribute they so deserve. (I have to ask though, was Drea DeMatteo there? I didn’t see her.)

7. Ray Romano. I admit, and I don’t care how cheesy I am, but I do enjoy watching Everybody Loves Raymond. In fact, I also like Ray Romano’s standup. However, having him come out to do a set was weird and uncomfortable. They announced he was coming out to give an award and then he kept going and going. You couldn’t help but think he was fucking up and not supposed to be continuing. But the saddest part of the whole thing was realizing he was just there to promote Patricia Heaton’s new FOX show. So FUCKING LAME.

8. Kanye West. “KANYE WEST DOESN’T CARE ABOUT SELLING OUT.” Here’s the thing - white boys, black boys, white girls, black girls, and every other shade/sex LOVES you. We are going to buy your albums because you create some of the best music around. So why, why, do you have to act like such a douche? Sure, the little “Do You Know the Lyrics?” skit was kinda cute, but only because Rainn Wilson is so fucking brilliant. Please, Kanye, just stop with the promotional bullshit. We all know you and Fitty are fucking around with this whole “selling albums war” and that you are trying to garner press by pretending to really care about an MTV award. But you don’t need to do this. Just perform. You can rest your laurels on your talents alone. And not many people can do that nowadays.

9. Mary Louise Parker. I LOVE her and I LOVE Weeds. But why was she acting like such a BITCH all night? From the red carpet to presenting an award, she looked not just stoned (which, ok, cute, is maybe in character) but annoyed to be there. Pop some Wellbutrin or something next time sweetie, because your attitude was disgusting.

10. Tony Bennett and Christina Aguliera. ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ. That was so friggin’ boring. Nothing really more to say. However, I do commend you, Christina, for NOT announcing your pregnancy and keeping it quiet. It’s classy to keep your private life private in this day and age.

11. Not announcing John Goodman’s win. YES, JOHN GOODMAN won for his guest appearance on Studio 700 (or whatever) on the Sunset Strip. However, they FORGOT to announce it during the telecast. If you know ella personally, you know that her favorite show of all time is Roseanne. So I absolutely ADORE John Goodman and am so happy that he finally won an Emmy. (Honestly, he never won for all his years playing Dan Connor [although he did win a Golden Globe].) It’s a shame they didn’t announce his win just because he wasn’t there.

12. The Amazing Race. Come the fuck on. 4 years in a row this bullshit show has won. Please raise your hand if you watch it. I know NO ONE (except my douchebag ex-boyfriend) who watches this. Why do they keep awarding it??? WHY????

The HIGHS
1. Tina Fey. Tina Fey. Tina Fey. First of all, her AMEX commercials are hysterical. Her acceptance speech - pure brilliance. Only recently (thanks to mr. Ella) have I been tuning into the comical work of art that is 30 Rock. It is genius and it is all thanks to this WOMAN. As a person with a vagina that has always dreamt of being a comic, she inspires me.

2. The Macy*s Commercials. I have to say, I usually change the channel when commercials come on, but the Macy*s commerial (the full-length one) after the first break held my attention. Kimora. Martha. Donald. Jessica. Emeril. Etc. It was funny, entertaining, and pretty fucking brilliant. I still won’t be shopping at Macy*s (I’m too pretentious) but that spot is what commercial advertising is supposed to be.

3. Ryan Seacrest. I’ll be the first to admit that I can’t really stand this little ‘mo. I think it’s just because I wish he would come out already (although his little Tudors sketch seemed like a bit of a homo confession to me), but I have to say, I think he did an amazing job as host. He was pretty fucking funny and by being a bit self-effacing, I thought he shut up all the critics (including myself) who shook their heads when he was given the job. I actually think that by NOT trying to be the star of the show he was one of the best hosts they have had in a long time. He pretty much cemented himself as a cultural icon tonight by being a cultural observer. Kudos.

4. The Opening Number. Just hysterical. Anything Seth MacFarlane does is genius and this was no exception. It was entertaining, it was funny and it set the tone for the night. While I don’t agree that the tone should have been as trashy and FOX-like as was, it was very, very funny and I think it was one of the better parts of the evening.

5. Jeremy Piven. Ok, I think Rainn Wilson shoulda won because he is truly the most brilliant comedic actor on television since Jason Alexander. However, I love me some Jeremy Piven…in all his trashy glory. And, if Rainn had to lose to anyone, it should be to Jeremy.

6. Elaine Stritch and Stanley Tucci. Two of my favorite comedic performers of all time on one stage. Just fucking fabulous. I absolutely ADORE Elaine Stritch and think everyone should take as much advantage of her as they can as she enters old age. She is irreverent, inappropriate, and just plain god-like. As for Stanley, he was not only the best part of The Devil Wears Prada, but is a friend of mr. Ella’s. So he deserves all the accolades he gets…even if they are on Monk.

7. Katherine Hiegl’s correction of her name. I’m not a huge fan of Katherine’s but that’s just because I can’t watch the shitfest that is Grey’s Anatomy. I’m sure I will love her more as soon as I see Knocked Up. However, I noticed that they mispronounced her name and then saw that she mouthed (to whoever she presented with) “they said my name wrong.” I didn’t think she would do anything about it, but when she got up there and brazenly said, “it’s ‘HI-GUL”,” I thought it was fabulous. Ella has a last name that is near-impossible as well (in fact, mr. Ella struggles to say it right…haha), so I really appreciated her move.

8. The Sopranos win. THANK GOD. James Gandolfini, Edie Falco, Lorraine Bracco, and Michael Imperioli were fucking ROBBED of their respective awards. But thank god the academy awarded this show with exactly what it deserved. It still makes me sad to think I will never see another new episode of The Sopranos again. Every moment of every episode of that show was like good sex/good blow/good food. It was like a weekly extension of Goodfellas - the BEST MOVIE EVER MADE - and I hate that it is now off the air. However, I have recently found that going back and watching any old episode is like a gift being re-given all over again. When you know what is going to happen to so many of the characters, you care even more. That’s what makes the show so relevant, so important and so everlasting. Each time you watch an episode, you learn something new, feel something new, and gain something new. It’s not TV, it’s not HBO, it’s as close to live back-in-the-day Shakespeare as we will ever get.

9. Heidi Klum and Seal. Rather than closing on The Sopranos, I thought I would end on the most beautiful couple in all of Hollywood. I swear that whenever I see these two, my belief in true and everlasting love is reaffirmed. No matter where they are or what they are doing, they always look like honeymooners. They cannot keep their hands or gazes off one another and you cannot help but feel the love between them. It’s so raw, real, and moving that it overshadows most anything else broadcast. I absolutely live for seeing these two together and, at the end of a night with many a disappointment, they shine and blind you with what’s really important…not an Emmy, not an acceptance speech but LOVE.

Self-Medicating

2007-09-14T19:38:00.000-07:00

Today started like any other morning. I kept re-setting my alarm until I finally couldn’t avoid getting out of bed one minute longer (seriously…I have to be at work at 9 and I get out of bed at 8:32 or so). Managed to find something cute to wear, brushed my teeth, combed my hair and started to head out the door. I usually grab the doorknob without looking and slam it shut behind me. And that I did. But this morning, fate decided that my left middle finger should stay in between the door and the door frame. I looked back to free it and saw blood everywhere…all over my hand and covering the doorknob.

Sadly, I wasn’t even hungover so I had absolutely no excuse for this fuck up. I raced back into my apartment and ran my finger under water in my bathroom sink…all the while watching a good chunk of the tip of my finger blowin’ in the (wet) breeze. I managed to curb the bleeding, wrap it in three band-aids and hop into a cab to go to work. Got there and the throbbing pain was just too unbearable for words. Finally some co-workers with sanity convinced me to go to the ER.

Walked over to Beth Israel (where I really should have my own wing as I have had wrist and double hip surgery there over the last several years) to the ER. They gave me an x-ray (normal) and then (fortunately) just cleaned it up (no stitches). But then, just when I thought the coast was clear, this cute little blonde nurse came in with a needle to give me a TETANUS SHOT. Ok, ok…I know it’s a good thing to get one of these bad boys (I can now walk in fields barefoot and not worry about rusty nails…‘cuz, you know, that’s what New Yorkers do) but, um, is it necessary for these shots to leave such a painful impression? I am sitting home on a Friday night with an arm that is THROBBING in pain (after 5 drinks, mind you) and can barely move. What the fuck?

So, yeah, I was gonna give you all a good story but I’m in way too much pain to muster up something sexy and interesting. This sucks. Plain and simple. I think I’m gonna go shoot myself with a nail gun. At least I won’t get tetanus…

I Know...I Know

2007-09-12T19:00:00.000-07:00

ella misses you.
ella misses writing on her blog.

so, she is making a new year's resolution very early and is vowing to write at least three times a week now.

i've been insanely busy with work and freelancing stuff.

then mr. ella and i went to new orleans for a week. just got back sunday.

so much has been happening and i have a lot to say.

so i promise you, you will see updates this week and we will be back to our regularly scheduled blogging beginning over these next few days.

i had been feeling a bit uninspired as of late, but going to new orleans has reignited my flame.

i vow to you all that i will be posting every few days.

today does not count.

come back tomorrow. i'll have a good story for you.

love,
ella

Ain't That a Kick in The...Ass

2007-08-11T15:58:00.000-07:00

Today I watched the film American Psycho for the first time. Yes, I know, everyone in my generation has either seen the movie or read the book or both. As a strange rule, I tend to stay away from watching movies starring Chloe Sevigny (long story) and usually skip reading fiction that is critically acclaimed. Reading a brilliant work of art - which I imagine this book is as the movie was full of spectacular dialogue and an ingenious plot - used to fill me with awe, but now that I am a lazy, generally unmotivated writer (with dreams of success), it fills me with jealousy towards the author.

I always tell people that I have two goals in life: to be a mother and to be a published author. I have yet to achieve either of these, but the potential to be a mother seems to be on the still-slightly-distant-yet-visible horizon. However, the ability (or perhaps just…I hope…the drive) to write a book continues to seem beyond my reach. In other words, I think I may have found my babies’ daddy, but I haven’t yet found the way to impregnate my will to write.

Fortunately, I seem to be having quite a few kicks in the ass lately. For one, the satisfaction I get from writing this blog is more of a rush than I ever thought it would be. (I know, you’re thinking, then why the fuck do you hardly write on it much anymore. The answer is really two-fold: one, I am finally in love and that has been a bit of a distraction. Two, I write all day at work and am getting to a point where I hate my job so much that the thought of spending my spare time writing seems overwhelmingly exhausting.) Secondly, a former classmate of mine recently published a shitteous “chick lit” book that is really (truly) not very good and is, of course, being optioned right now. When I saw said classmate at my 10 year high school reunion, she made it a point to rub her success in my ego in a way so devilishly blatant, my mouth (and the mouth of my good friend, J) fell open during the conversation.

HER: “Oh, so I hear you’re a writer too.”
ME: “Yes, well, I am a copywriter now.”
HER: “Is that what you want to do forever? Write copy?”
ME: “No, b-…”
HER [cutting me off]: “Oh, so you want to write a book TOO?”
ME: “Yes, I am working on one.”
HER: “Oh, really? Ok, so you have an agent?”
ME: “No, not yet.”
HER: “Well, you need one, you know.”
ME: “Yes, I’m aware. My friend has written 6 books so he’ll help me when the time is right.”
HER: “Uh-huh. Well, good luck with whatever it is you’re doing.”

Now, I’m not sure if this exchange sounds as condescending as it actually was, but believe you me, my friend saw me fighting back the desire to slap this bitch right across her smug face. However, I left the reunion with a renewed sense of ambition, an I’ll-fucking-show-you-how-to-write attitude. I was determined to use her belittlement of me as my creative catalyst. That was April. I haven’t written a single page.

The last - and hopefully final - kick in the ass came just about 20 minutes ago after I went to Wikipedia to learn more about American Psycho and it's author, Bret Easton Ellis. It was there that I learned that the book ends with a description of a sign that reads: “This is Not an Exit.” Upon reading these words, my heart sank to the floor. My pulse started racing. I also discovered that these infamous last words have lingered in the minds of nearly everyone who has read the book. It has inspired songs and even a documentary about the author called, you guessed it, “This is Not an Exit.” I’m still reeling from the blow.

Here’s why. In 2005, I was at the Mercury Lounge watching my then-drummer-boyfriend play a gig with his band. I was incredibly high on cocaine and vicodin (the combo was the result of the two broken hips I had…breaks that had yet to be discovered by my doctors and were thus causing me to take large doses of prescription pain killers to get through the day/night while I still simultaneously indulged my love of coke and booze) and feeling insanely depressed and trapped in a life I no longer related to, a life I wanted out of - NOW. I wanted to walk away from everything - my job, my going-nowhere relationship, my addictions, my injury - but I could barely take a step forward, literally.

It was during the last song that my blurred vision managed to focus on something next to the stage: a bright, glowing red sign that read “This is Not An Exit.” I read the words over and over again and started to cry. The closest thing I’ve ever had to an epiphany showered down upon me as I had been wanting to do something with all the things I had been writing about my self-destruction and downward spiral. I vowed right then and there that I would get it all down in one book, one memoir that I would christen “This is Not An Exit.”

Obviously, I never did what I was so determined to do that night. I have about 75 pages of it written, but they are stuck on a laptop that has been broken for over a year. One that I probably could have fixed by now but haven’t. And while it’s true that I haven’t been working towards my literary goal for well over two years, I always had that title seducing me, calling out to me in the middle of the night to write about my pain, my pleasure, my life. It was the one thing that still gave me (albeit little) hope. But today, that title has been taken away from me. Claimed by another author in a way more significant than a title ever can be, as the finality of another author's masterpiece. It’s no longer mine.

I think this is the swift kick that I’ve always needed. It's not merely a drive to prove I can out-write someone or make it to this invisible finish line I’ve set up for myself. It's because it may be the first time I recognize that I might just have the potential to write something powerful, moving and lingering. For the first time in my life, I have something in common with a literary genius - a moment, at least I suppose, in which we both looked at the same inanimate object and saw something deeper, something much more significant than a sign on a wall. We saw inspiration. And I think, as a result, I just re-discovered mine.

Spank You, Cum Again

2007-08-04T17:03:00.000-07:00

I blame my parents for one of my more violent fetishes. As a child, whenever I was bad, which, to be honest, wasn’t very often, I would get a really hard smack on the behind. I remember cringing at what was about to happen, feeling the sting and lingering burn and then, after it was over, unclenching every tense muscle in my body. I wasn’t sexually stimulated by this, but the release afterward was refreshing, slightly invigorating even. I would feel very ALIVE and very conscious of my body before, during and after the pain, and that has definitely stayed with me in adulthood.

Now, I understand that most women enjoy of a bit of slap and tickle during foreplay and/or sex. A random spank on the ass here and there is very common between partners these days. However, that is not enough for me. I like full-on, high momentum spanks, administered over and over again at an extremely rapid pace. This is not a Cinemax-ouch; this is a triple-X caliber beat down.

The first time I got spanked, really spanked, by a man I was a bit put-off by it. Quite frankly, it fucking hurt. Because I was so taken aback by the intensity of the pain, I couldn’t focus on anything but just that even after it was over. So I didn’t try it again for some time. Fortunately, the next time I engaged in a serious spanking (complete with paddle and tied wrists), I was suitably drunk enough to enjoy the complete experience. As I freed my mind more and more, I began focusing on the relief my body felt when it was over, allowing the juxtaposition between pain and pleasure to truly take over. It was then that it occurred to me that anything that feels good actually feels even better when it is served with a heavy dose of hurt as an appetizer.

Indulging my desire for a good spanking has been very easy for some men and extremely difficult for others. Some men can’t handle inflicting genuine pain on their partner, listening to her (literally) cry as her skin grows dark shades of red. I always try to explain to these men that I’m not trying to be abused, not trying to punish myself. While I’m sure there is a little bit of that below the surface, the truth is I really just like to make the good things that follow even better. After all, if you don’t experience pain, how do you know when you are feeling pleasure?

Under Ella, Ella, Ella (hey, hey, hey)

2007-07-25T20:51:00.000-07:00

Yes, little ella has had (and continues to have) her share of the freaky shit. But when it comes right down to it, she has to admit: she likes it missionary-style.

Yup, straight up, man-on-top, chick-on-back sex. Now, I know this sounds vanilla, but really, it’s not. In fact, I’ve never had any complaints when I’ve asked a man to get on top…

This is not to say that I don’t enjoy other positions. No, no, no! Not true. However if I want to really enjoy it, this is usually the shape sex takes form. Let me break it down for you, position by position:

1. Me on Top - Ok, I admit, I am finally, finally starting to enjoy this. But here’s the problem that I have encountered (and that other women have discovered too). In porn films (and face it, that’s where most of us get our sex ed), the woman is bouncing up and down like a jackhammer. Now, while this may look sexy on screen, it’s not really what one should be doing the entire time. No man ever really told me this. Fortunately, I recently discovered on my own that lots of strong back and forth motions interspersed with bouncing is far better. However, because this revelation is still new - this is not my favorite way to play.

2. He Holds You, You Wrap Around Him, As He Stands - Once again, this is hotter on film between professional orgasm fakers. In reality, it's fun for about, oh, I’d say 45 seconds and then you want to puke and he is winded.

3. From Behind - Ah, the ideal way to fuck (at least according to most men I know). Now, I know that this can be a pleasurable configuration - very much so - but I swear that most men have no idea how to do it properly. To me, it’s a close second to grasping the intricacies of anal. Most men just get behind and mount like dogs. While I’m sure many women can handle this just fine, I think men should realize that their partner needs to be sized up and treated fairly gently before they start thrusting like a Doberman. The fact is, there are many women out there who, while we can totally get down and freaky, require a bit more coddling and preparation before the big charge. In closing, this is why this position is also not my favorite.

4. On Your Sides - Awwww, here we are, making love. We can look in one another’s eyes and feel like one being. EH. WRONG. 9 times out of 10 this position results in serious slippage and a constant readjusting of legs until, yeah, those parts are perfect but the rest of you (particularly your calves) start falling asleep.

I have more examples, but I’m tired…

This brings me to my original point. I enjoy missionary-style, straight up WASP sex. But it’s never boring and never white bread. Legs can still be wrapped around shoulders and backs. Nails can leave marks. Throats can be clutched (yeah, I said it).

Most men think it sounds dull on paper, but if you find a girl that moves along with you or - better yet - in REACTION to you - the mission(ary) is accomplished.

Kisses,
~ella

Push, Push In My Bush

2007-07-17T20:17:00.000-07:00

One of the biggest insecurities I have about my body concerns my Netherlands, my little landscaped princess down below. Yes, I am talking about my pubic hair, my bush, my trimmings, my enchanted forest, whatever you want to call it.

For the past several years, my girl has been as naked as the day I was born, completely shaven and bare. Now while this may sound intriguing and heavenly to my male readers, my female readers might agree that it is stressful and somewhat hellish to keep your girl stripped of any strands. Well, at least I have always found it to be.

When I was younger, I would sneak peeks at the unscrambled Playboy channel or flip through my stepfather’s Hustlers to admire the forms of the females I so longed to be. In addition to having the breasts I coveted (which, thankfully, I received), they also had glorious triangular wefts of pubic hair signifying that they were, in fact, full grown women. I remember rejoicing the day I noticed that I was starting to sprout such decoration, excited that I was finally about to grow up as I had always hated, truly hated, being a child. (In fact, my high school yearbook quote read, “My mother always loved children. She would have given anything if I had been one." - Groucho Marx…and yes, that pretty much sums up my childhood.)

I was always wise enough in my early years to keep it to a close and controllable length. Never letting it get out of control and wild. I would shave my inner thighs and any other area that would reveal itself in a bathing suit. I thought that was enough. Apparently, it wasn’t.

Years ago, when I was with the second man I have ever slept with, he told me that he was surprised I had “so much hair.” I was mortified. I didn’t know I was doing anything wrong. Apparently, I was.

So I shaved more. Shaped it into a strip that he found sexier and that made me more comfortable. Although it was a bitch to keep up with.

Two years later (while a junior in college) I was in bed with another lover when he said to me, “You know, it would be so much hotter if you had less hair there.” I thought what I was doing was enough. Apparently, it wasn’t.

So I shaved more. Started to shave all the hair off the lower lips while keeping a small strip along my pelvic bone. He found it sexier and that made me more comfortable. Although it was even more of a bitch to keep up with. (And, as any woman will tell you, once you start shaving something…you can’t stop.)

Several years later (finally out of college), I had a lover tell me how he really loved it when a woman had no hair at all. Again, I thought what I was doing was enough. Apparently, it wasn’t.

So I went for a wax. A complete, no-strand-left-unpulled-from-the root wax. And it was the single most painful experience of my life. I bled. I cried. I screamed like I was being tortured. Because, frankly, I was. But he found it sexier and it made me more comfortable. Fortunately, he lived across the country, so I didn’t have to wax it off often.

Whenever said man would come to town, I would head to the spa and put myself through a dreaded, rigorous session in which they would TEAR MY PUBIC HAIR OUT AT THE FUCKING ROOTS. Finally, after a year or so of putting myself through this, I refused. And no, he didn’t force me, per se, but when you hear a man tell you how much he longs to see you “bald” you want to do what you can to please him.

And so I adopted the habit of shaving all my hair off. A habit that I have been keeping for well over a year. Now, I admit that I do like the way it feels when I am clean shaven. It’s sexier during oral and does feel “cleaner” during certain times of the month. However, it’s a bitch to keep up with.

I refuse to go get waxed. It hurts so fucking much. I decided awhile ago that if a man wants me to do it, he will have to endure the same. I’ve also tried permanent hair removal. But imagine, if you will, a rubber band heated to the boiling point snapping at your cooch. That’s the perfect fucking analogy.

I’ve been keeping up the shaving but you can’t shave more than once - maybe twice - a week unless you want to run the risk of painful and unsightly ingrown hairs.

My current boyfriend said something to me the other night that no man has ever said before. “Why don’t you grow some of it in?” I was perplexed. He can’t really mean that, I thought to myself. I recounted all the other things men had said to me - about how any hair at all isn’t “clean” or “sexy.” I was speechless.

But I don’t think he asked me to because it’s something he necessarily wants. But it’s not necessarily something that bothers him either (yet another perk of dating a man who came of age - literally - in the late 70s and early 80s before the brazilian and brazilian+ looks were born). It’s because I think he realizes that the reason I have no hair there wasn’t a choice I made for myself, but rather something I kept doing to satisfy someone else. A ritual I agreed to in order to please others and put them more at ease, all the while sacrificing my own comfort.

So I’m going to try it. I’m not talking about going full-on amazon (that’s actually not the look I want for myself anyway). I’m just talking about finally looking a bit more like those mature, insanely desirable women I admired so long ago. The pinups and the porn stars who didn’t look 14 years old. The women who looked like women. With big breasts and a post-pubescent body in every sense of the word.

And, if it turns out he doesn’t like it, well, we’ll both be dripping in hot wax very soon.

Back from the Dead

2007-07-15T18:17:00.000-07:00

Half of you hate me. Half of you will never read this because you thought I had given up on this thing. The truth is, tonight is the FIRST night in WELL over a month that I have had a laptop at home. While I do have an office at work, there is still a lack of privacy that makes it non-conducive to blogging. And the same goes for when I’m over the boyfriend’s place.
But I promise - PROMISE - that I am back now.

So what is it that I’m going to write about? I have not a fucking clue.

Much more to come.
~ella

The Real Revenge of the NERDS

2007-06-25T16:18:00.000-07:00

Fine. I have forced myself to stay at work late – which I HATE doing – to update this with something. My internet is down at home and I really, really can’t blog here. It’s not very private and I don’t want the 20 or so gawker readers who work here to catch on to me. Here’s the shit I’ve been going through…

My laptop broke almost a month ago. I brought it to Circuit City in Union Square and – although I was promised it would be repaired in 2-3 days – it has been ALMOST TWO WEEKS.

Now, I know what’s happening over there. They are looking at dirty pictures of me. Me alone. Me with women. Me with men. I know that’s what taking them the fuck too long. Trust me, if you saw these Firedog dudes (they are even more pathetic than Geek Squad guys) you would agree that they cannot possibly fix a thing when encountered with the site of a nipple.

So now I have to come to a decision. There are a few options here:

I can call the Manager and rip them yet ANOTHER new asshole.
I can sleep with one of you for a new computer.
I can go back to the horny Firedoggers and actually SHOW them my tits, up close and personal.

Your votes please.

Thank you,

ella

Get Thy Panties Out Of a Bunch

2007-06-12T12:33:00.000-07:00

take a deep breath. ella has not abandoned you. in fact, she misses you a great deal.

she has not been hogtied and chained to a radiator by her boyfriend (YET...trying to convince him to do that soon; i'm thinking for my birthday - this SUNDAY, i expect presents, people).

she hasn't been spending every waking second with the boyfriend (in fact, she hastn't seen him since for almost a week albeit for a brief brunch on sunday). he's very busy with work.

no, the reason is my internets. they - every last one of them - is dead right now. ella has no modem at home and can't really blog at work. she's impotent and that sucks when you are so important.

on the plus side, life without the internets means:
- ella has a fucking SPOTLESS apartment; redecorated too
- ella has been masturbating a ton more (well, the man has been MIA for a few days, so...)
- ella has returned PHONE CALLS and placed them too!
- ella is sleeping more and drinking/smoking/snorting less
- ella has read a book

on the negative side, ella misses you.

she'll be back soon.
promise.

kisses,
~e

Ella's Fella

2007-06-01T23:07:00.000-07:00

Ok, ok, fine. I’m sorry. I’ve been sorely neglecting my blogging duties. It’s mostly because of work-related bullshit (may/june are notoriously busy months in the beauty biz), but there’s another reason too. Yes, the rumors you’ve heard are true – little ella is in love.

Love? ella? Really? Yes, really. As much as I hate to admit it, there’s actually a heart under all the flesh that takes centerstage in many of these posts. So I am finally coming clean (and coming regularly, thank you very much!) and letting all 15 of you in on my secret.

At first I didn’t want to say anything as I realize that the skankier and crazier my stories are, the better received they are by you, my readers. So I figured I should just continue writing as normal. A “taken” ella is not as interesting as a single one, right?

Secondly, I admit that as of late I have been kinda “eh” when it comes to writing about past sexual encounters. It’s simply because I am in awe of another person right now and certainly not spending my time daydreaming about the past (both the people in it and the sex of it). However, ella’s fella understands how much she need to get things off her chest and onto her blog. Most importantly he recognizes – as I hope all of you do – that ella’s dirty rehashings of fucks past have little, if anything, to do with actual sex. I’m glad he gets it; after all, we actually MET through my blog. Yup, it’s true. He read my posts, emailed me and BANG. See what self-centered writing can get you???

People who know me blame him for my lack of postings. However he’s the one who actually pushed me to write the rum rim story last week.

The pleasure I got from continually telling those sex-fueled stories was rooted in the excitement of sharing intimate details of my life with other people (even those I don’t know). But now that I actually have someone to be intimate with, it’s not as important to me. (Don’t get me wrong, it still is, but just less so.) I’m just trying to figure out the balance right now, and the fact that I get significantly less comments when I write about, say, celebrities, is something I wish I could change.

I guess, most importantly, I didn’t want to mention anything because I’m completely insecure when it comes to men and relationships. Ladies, you know what I mean – I didn’t want to “jinx” it. However after meeting his PARENTS this weekend, I’m kinda getting over that “does he really like me?!” bullshit. Um, yeah, I think he does.

I must say that he personifies many of the things I’ve always wanted (humor, passion, drive, sense of adventure, deep respect), but – and what I think is most interesting – is that he’s also a lot of things I never thought I would want (a regular churchgoer, a republican). Yet, these opposite attributes actually make us work.

ella admits that she forgot what it was like to actually BE in love. The last time she had a boyfriend was – I believe – 2004. and that relationship (as those who read this blog already know) was terribly hurtful and destructive.

Before ella met her fella, she had forgotten how it feels to be so open and close with someone, to be naked even with your clothes on. She had forgotten how it feels to have someone want you to be there, to look at you and wonder where you’ve been for so long.

Even though ella has been hurt many times over the last few years, she’s also rejected quite a good number of bachelors too. And while she often seemed impatient to find “the one”, she really wasn’t ready to meet him until now. (I’ll save the “whys” for another post.)

So what’s so special about ella’s fella? Here’s a short list:

- He likes my writing.
- He thinks I’m funny.
- He’s funny.
- He knows how to pick a fucking incredible bottle of wine.
- He loves his work.
- He’s good at his work.
- He makes me feel safe.
- He TOTALLY gets my Gawker dependency.
- He calls me on my bullshit.
- He never lets me pick silly fights.
- He calls when he says he’s going to.
- He’s always on time.
- He has an amazing vocabulary.
- He’s an amazing lover (this goes without saying, I mean this is ella writing.)
- He’s a grownup.
- He makes me feel beautiful.
- He takes me to Yankee games even though he’s an Indians fan.
- He loves me.
- He tells me so.

My Captain, Oh My Captain!

2007-05-23T20:09:00.000-07:00

Fine. I’ve been promising this. I believe I first hinted at this story on cajunboy’s blog some time ago. It is pretty embarrassing and definitely something that will come back to haunt me, but I’ve been lax in posting lately (hey, ELLA IS IN LOVE - FUCK OFF!) that I owe it to all 10 of you to do so.

In college, I briefly dated a man named R*. R was the sweetest, kindest soul I ever met during my time at BU. Unfortunately, he met me while I was on the rebound and completely hateful towards men. He was my first true “play thing,” the first man I ever dominated in the bedroom and treated like a total piece of meat.

Valentine’s Day happened to fall during our brief courtship. He took me to an amazing Italian restaurant on Newbury Street for the occasion and, seeing as ella rarely drank back then (yes, believe it or not), she got sloshed on three glasses of wine. We got back to his apartment and - for whatever reason (depression/boredom probably) - we dropped some herbal ecstasy. Before I knew it, I was on all fours telling him to lick my ass.

Now, at this time, ella had this done to her ONCE before, by her ex-boyfriend from high school. She didn’t enjoy it (how times change), but her man-hating ways that evening caused her to scream out the one degrading command she could think of. He obliged - as he always did, to any request - and suddenly I started to feel guilty. I was very much clean - of course - but still tried to think of how I could make this task more enjoyable to him. And so I said, stupidly:

“Pour a shot down my ass.” And so, he filled a shot glass with Captain Morgan’s and let it slide down my crack.

@!#*!@!) FUCKING MOTHER FUCKING FUCKING SHIT *@(#)!@##

Yes, this was the actual thought that hit my mind as soon as the nerve endings of my lady-flower processed the effects of the rum.

My poor girl was being drowned by the Captain much like the way I imagine it would feel if a real pirate set fire to a ship. It literally felt like a blowtorch was between my thighs. And I started to scream. I mean REALLY scream.

“Oh my god! Ow! Ow! Ow! It burns! Holy shit!”

His roommates, who were playing X-Box in the living room, started laughing and screaming, “Give it to her, R! Make her scream!”

So naturally he thought I was enjoying it. But then he saw my face. And he started to flip out.

“Get some ice! Get some fucking ice!” I wailed at the top of my lungs.

But he was drunk and high and couldn’t comprehend putting on his shorts and running out to the kitchen.

And so, I did what any girl would do in such a situation. I grabbed his head and made his tongue put out the flames.

Let me stress that this was not cunnilingus in the pleasurable sense. It was literally a firehose-like necessity. There was no orgasm being sought. It was a lap-this-the-fuck-up exercise. It was pleasure offsetting pain, not pain contributing to pleasure. In other words, it was not the usual turn of events.

In conclusion, ella recommends that NO ONE - male or female - ever buy their bits a drink. It doesn’t add fuel to the fire; it adds a backdraft to the bedroom. If you want to spice up a blow job or any form of lingus (cunni- or anal-) try an Altoid or a cough drop. Do NOT, under any circumstance, bring alcohol into the mix. "Rum Rim" has spoken.

(Note: Thank you to the fine girls of my college sorority for actually coining the nickname “Rum Rim” at a chapter sleepover. And yes, there were topless pillow fights that night. And bottomless ones, too. But just between three of us.)

Ask Ella...And Ella Shall Answer, Volume One

2007-05-17T19:16:00.000-07:00

"dear ella,
i should just let you know how i came across your blog. i was reading all the comments for the maggie gyllenhaal-breastfeeding-in-public-oh-my-god-what-has-the-world-come-to debacle on gawker, and was impressed by your ability to type an entire message, free of typos and bad punctuation, simply with the use of your angry nipples. thus far, my angry nipples only serve to tug at my clothing and cause discomfort. but to TYPE? needless to say, you serve as somewhat of an inspiration.
i am a 22 year old girl, living in sydney, studying law. and i would love to take this opportunity to ask a smart, funny, nice, objective stranger about a problem in my life, regarding my sister.
my sister is one year younger then me. she is gorgeous. by gorgeous, i mean beautiful...strangers feel the need to comment on her beauty, to treat her extra nice everywhere, give her free stuff, give her free entry, let her jump the line, interrupt her at dinner with her boyfriend to tell her that she has made their week because she is so beautiful. indeed she is. 5'7, a natural d cup, leggy and gorgeous, a face with big hazel eyes and naturally pouty naturally red lips, gorgeous skin and cheekbones. when i am with her, i feel disgusting. now, in order to be fair, i should add: that alot of people have told me i am gorgeous, that my face is equally/more gorgeous than my sisters, but that she attracts attention because she has The Look- tanned, tall, big boobs, dressed to kill, wears those big sunglasses etc. whereas I, at 5'3, with smaller boobs and a pear shape, attract less of that attention, turn less heads, and am more 'subtle' in my looks etc....in fact, i've had people rant about my gorgeousness. i am coming off sounding vain in the extreme. but i feel like absolute shit... what makes it all worse is that my sister has NO IDEA she is gorgeous. she thinks it's all her boobs. she gets treated like a freaking celebrity and doesn't even notice…
i have low self esteem, basically. i feel okay until i see a hot girl. then i'm like: i can never be her. how easy life must be for her. and please dont give me the schtick about it's what's inside that counts. i wish it were the case but sadly, it aint. my problems have nearly torn me and my boyfriend apart. he thinks im absolutely gorgeous, and i say thats because he is my boyfriend and in love with me. he says he has the ability to be completely objective as ive trained him to be. he says he can no longer compliment me without thinking "am i saying this as her bf or as an objective bystander". it is true that i dont care much for his subjective opinion. every guy thinks his girl is gorgeous. doesnt mean she is. he is sick of me dismissing him as though he is a retard. he always says he as high standards, has eyes in his head, and knows how i look. when i have bad days, i ask him how i look (btw i ask him this daily. "so how did i look today?") he will say "very pretty, not gorgeous". but i find that hard to believe. on bad days i think i look plain and unattractive, not 'very pretty'…i would just like to know exactly what you think. anyway, sorry for taking up 10 minutes of your time you will never get back. feel free to reply with angry nipples"

Ella is too busy to reply to this post but she sends her deepest regards “down under.” Hell, she always does. She has the dislocated jaw to prove it. So instead, she has sent us - her angry nipples - to answer you query.

First of all, we understand your situation completely. See, one night, all three of us (ella included, obviously) went out for her birthday with her friend K. and K.’s boyfriend, S. After bottles upon bottles of liquor and quite a few grams of talcum powder, we all ended up at S.’s apartment. Before we knew it, we were out in all our glory for what was turning out to be quite the fun threesome. Now, you should know that we’ve received countless, countless compliments - on both our perkiness and our hue - and have never felt inadequate to say the least. However, when we sat, side by side next to K., we suddenly felt less than beautiful because K.’s counterparts sat upon bigger pillows and were a prettier shade of pink.

S.’s reaction to us (much like your boyfriend’s reaction to your physical appearance) should have made us feel better about ourselves, but it didn’t matter. Our confidence was deflated and we retreated (literally). Fortunately, K. freaked out at the sight of her boyfriend anywhere near us and called the whole thing off.

Now, more fortunately for us is that K. is not in the room when we come out to play (although I’m sure men would enjoy that). So we don’t have to deal with such feelings of inadequacy as much as you. In fact, we tend to only feel a few things - pleasure and the cold. It’s a pretty good deal - well, until we have to keep a human being alive someday.

I guess our advice to you is this: what’s done is done. The DNA chips have fallen where they may and the fact is you’re a bit shorter, a bit more curvy (perhaps in places you wish you weren’t) and maybe less symmetrical than your sister (whatever the fuck that is supposed to mean). But you hardly sound hideous. You’re not Gisele’s unattractive twin (yes, it’s true, she has one) or Wynonna Judd (shit, imagine having Ashley as a sister when you look like a walking mountain?) You sound beautiful and intelligent (hell, you turned to us for advice so we know this is true). Plus, it seems as though you have a boyfriend who really loves you and is very much attracted to you. So stop making it hard for him to compliment you. Imagine if every time you told him how hot he is, he just shrugged his shoulders and looked away. You’d start to think - wow, what does he see that I don’t?

So stop caring and start focusing on the features that you know are beautiful and that you love. If that doesn't work, you can always make the wisest choice of all - move to New York City. A smart Aussie is a dozen a dime here - and you would turn heads with your accent alone. Everything else beautiful about you would just be icing on the cake.

G’day,
ella’s nipples

+1 For Sodomy

2007-05-15T16:45:00.000-07:00

Men who preach hate will find their largest audience in Hell.
~The Gospel According to ellagood

Sometimes eulogies write themselves. All of these are documented quotes from the “Reverend” Jerry Falwell:

If you're not a born-again Christian, you're a failure as a human being.

God continues to lift the curtain and allow the enemies of America to give us probably what we deserve. (after September 11)

I really believe that the pagans, and the abortionists, and the feminists, and the gays and the lesbians who are actively trying to make that an alternative lifestyle, the ACLU, People for the American Way -- all of them who have tried to secularize America -- I point the finger in their face and say, "You helped this happen." (again, after September 11)

The Jews are returning to their land of unbelief. They are spiritually blind and desperately in need of their Messiah and Savior.

I do not believe the homosexual community deserves minority status. One's misbehavior does not qualify him or her for minority status. Blacks, Hispanics, women, etc., are God-ordained minorities who do indeed deserve minority status.

AIDS is the wrath of a just God against homosexuals.

When lawlessness is abroad in the land, the same thing will happen here that happened in Nazi Germany. Many of those people involved in Adolph Hitler were Satanists. Many of them were homosexuals. The two things seem to go together.

With all due respect to those dear people, my friend, God Almighty does not hear the prayer of a Jew.

I know this is painful for the ladies to hear, but if you get married, you have accepted the headship of a man, your husband. Christ is the head of the household and the husband is the head of the wife, and that's the way it is, period.

Ask Ella

2007-05-10T21:54:00.000-07:00

While I love all the comments that people post on my blog (keep ‘em comin’!), most of my favorite responses are private emails that people send me.

Sometimes it’s just a nice word of praise that includes more private details of a person’s life that they don’t want to share with the 10 or so people that read this thing.

Sometimes it’s dudes (and chicks) asking for naked pictures of me. (Always sent, of course…haha. I kid.)

Sometimes it’s Gawker folks commenting offline about the little nuances of this underground commenting society we are all oddly addicted to.

Sometimes it’s men asking me out on dates. (Um, actually that worked for two men. One that didn’t pan out and, well, one man who you will all likely be hearing about soon.)

But quite often, people actually ask for my ADVICE, which is just hysterically stupid to me. After all, most of my posts are written with a great deal of HINDSIGHT and the decisions I actually made in the past are pretty fucking dumb.

At first I thought - I can’t actually answer these people - I’m pretty wrong about things most of the time. But then it occurred to me that I’ve always been able to tell OTHERS what to do - I just rarely take any of my own advice. Plus, I’ve been to therapy. I know a lot of really fucked up people. I took Psych 101, at Boston U! And, well, I just think I know everything.

And so, I am posting an open invitation for anyone to email me with a problem or question. It can be on just about anything - beauty (I do write about almost every beauty product known to man at my job), sex toys (I’ve sampled a ton), contemporary american history (it was my second major in college), relationships (as I think I may have finally cracked the code after years of horror shows), the New York Yankees (seriously, seriously) or sex in general (come on, I mean you have read this blog, right?)

My only request is that you don’t ask me anything about money (I’m not Suze Orman - although I have loved the p*ssy in my day), religion (unless you buy me weed and can handle a 12-page response), politics (because we should all just agree to disagree) or medical issues (because, honestly, most are just plain mother fuckin’ nasty).

I will answer every email I receive and select a few (from time to time) to post on here. All email addresses/names/etc. will remain anonymous.

So come on bitches…ask Ella. She’s trying to become the real “white Oprah.”

Email: ellagood@gmail.com

Go Gay, If Just For A Day

2007-05-03T22:44:00.000-07:00

If you want to be a good significant other, date someone of your same sex. I know, I know, this is impossible for most of the men out there but, honestly, I’m not saying to go get a hook hand and a parrot and go play pirate - just go to dinner with another man and then watch how he reacts. Let’s rewind…

I had always been curious about other women. In fact, I remember fantasizing about a girl named Elizabeth (I think I mentioned this before) way back in the 5th grade. But, I was knee-deep in Catholic school at the time and found myself praying to God I wasn’t gay.

In college my good friend R. and I used to give one another massages every night and this eventually led to us gently stroking one another’s breasts. It really wasn’t a sexual thing (I know it wasn‘t for her), but it turned me on immensely.

I finally got the balls (not literally, but rather figuratively) to meet a woman about three years ago. Her name was Jenny. We met online and agreed to go out for some drinks and dancing. She was stunning. Gorgeous. Just beautiful. Jenny was bi-sexual but had decided to swear off men for awhile after a hetero relationship had turned very sour. I swore to her that I was just interested in hanging out and hooking up - nothing else.

The first night we spent together was incredible. I don’t know if I’ve ever been turned on in quite the same way before or since. It was a combination of deep-seeded desire, taboo, alcohol and a ton of cocaine. We did everything - I mean everything - two girls can do. And then I woke up the next day to find her spooning me and running her fingers through my hair. My hangover was a bitch, but so was this. I wanted her to go - I didn’t want to face the reality of actually having another woman in bed with me, naked. But she insisted we go to brunch, and so we did.

It was awkward. I felt myself playing the role of every man I had ever dragged out to brunch the morning after drunk/high/random sex and instantly understood why they never called me again. Once we finished eating (breakfast!) and she was getting into a cab, she grabbed me and kissed me right on the street. I felt like everyone I had ever known was probably watching and judging. But I didn’t want to be rude and so I kissed back.

A few days later she called and asked me if I wanted to get together and go to a museum. In other words, go ON A DATE. I flipped my shit. I had been so honest with her from the beginning - just fun and just sex, nothing else. And then it dawned on me - women don’t listen. We hear what we want to hear and believe we can change the world and everyone in it. It’s thinking that way that gets us hurt.

So I said no. Fumbled to come up with an excuse, but she saw right through it. She got pissed. Eventually, I convinced her (via that familiar way I had, myself, fallen for many times over) to get together again for an evening of drinking, drugs and sex. The next morning she asked me again if I would go out with her (this time to a movie I believe). Again I said no. And again she got pissed. She looked at me as I had looked at so many men before - with that same look of disbelief, anger and confusion. But most importantly she looked at me with a bit of disgust - as though I had used her for sex and couldn’t understand why she wanted more. It was like holding up a mirror. She never took my calls again.

I thought perhaps this was a fluke and that I had just met a pseudo-lesbian who really thought I was lying when I said I wasn’t gay. But then I tested this same situation twice more. And both times, after being completely upfront and honest about what I wanted and what I was capable of (just sex, nothing more), the women acted and re-acted just the same.

The moral of this story is that people - men especially - really are honest in the beginning. If he says he doesn’t want a relationship, you'll never be his girlfriend. If he tells you he never wants to get married, then don’t chase the ring. If he swears he never wants children, then you better keep taking your pill.

Being with these women prevented me from attempting to get into many a relationship over the last several years. Sure, I’ve still been hurt and rejected in many ways, but never can I say that I didn’t see it coming. Denial is the greatest enemy when it comes to dating. But it's when you are ready to listen, really ready to accept what someone else has to say, that you just might finally find what you’ve been waiting to hear. After all, I just did.

Inconvenient Truths

2007-05-02T23:19:00.000-07:00

- You will inevitably become like one of your parents.

- Something will always elude you.

- You’ll never know how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop because you always bite into it.

- Your children will think you’re a douche bag at some point.

- High school math was bullshit.

- Just about every college course was bullshit.

- You’ll always regret who you voted for at least once.

- That cup you just drank from wasn’t yours.

- The amazing night of sex? It meant nothing to him/her.

- You shouldn’t have left it in the oven that long.

- Someone wants to see you fail.

- You should have said “yes.”

- You should have said “no.”

- The first Darren was better.

- Seconds are ok; thirds too much.

- You shouldn’t have recorded it.

- You won’t fit into that dress again.

- It was him/her, not you.

- You never have a second chance to make a lasting impression.

- The joke was on you.

- You paid too much.

- That stain won’t come out.

- You can’t have it all.

The Reunion

2007-04-29T23:11:00.000-07:00

It’s always so ironic. You dread something so much (a first date, an interview) and then it turns out to be one of the best times of your life. My ten-year high school reunion was just that.

When I got out of my friend’s minivan (being driven by her husband who was, crazily enough, her PROM DATE), I immediately tensed up and worried about walking into the building chewing gum. See, I went to an all-girls Catholic high school (something that sounds atrocious on paper, but really was fantastic) and they had pretty strict rules - including the outlawing of gum. I spit it out instinctively as I entered the building, literally looking down to make sure I wasn’t actually wearing a green plaid skirt.

The first thing that struck me was that it smelled the same - a blend of chalk, industrial strength floor cleaner and perfume. The old janitor was there. I remembered him; he remembered me and gave me a kiss hello on the cheek. I instantly felt older, as there was no way he would have ever kissed me hello years ago, but now I was an adult, a grownup, and taboos were done and buried.

Next we made our way into the auditorium. It looked smaller than it did ten years ago. And, yes, true I was 30 pounds skinnier back then, but I’m not a big girl. Yet it looked tiny, teeny tiny. I instantly ran to the bar.

Not many girls from my class came - maybe about 20 total. However it was trippy as hell to see many of them as we haven’t changed much physically and most of our personalities are still the same. Especially mine, apparently. Within less than 15 minutes someone was yelling at me, “You’re still loud and crazy, Ella!” What was so odd was that it wasn’t a person I was close friends with, but rather someone I barely knew…but she had remembered me and my personality so clearly. I guess I was the loud and crazy one, the one who always pushed the envelope a bit too much, the one who was never taken very seriously.

The true highlight of the day was seeing three people in particular - Michele, Tara and Kate. They were three of my closest friends in high school and I hadn’t seen them (well, Michele once or twice) in a decade. But within just minutes of seeing one another, it all came back. All the jokes - the really off-color, I-can’t-believe-you-just-said-that - jokes were back and it was as though no time had passed at all. For the first time in years, I acted like me. Loud. Funny. Perverse. However, for the first time in my LIFE, I censored myself a bit too. I guess I am growing up.

A few hours later a handful of us went to a bar in Riverdale to get drunk and reminisce. I asked my friends to tell me their engagement stories. And they were beautiful and hysterical - all at once. I rather hated the fact that I was hearing them so many years later, but still so grateful to finally hear them. Losing touch really is bullshit.

I’ve spent the last month dreading this particular day. I was worried about not being married, not having a baby and not having some career milestone to brag about. But after just a few minutes in that school, with just a small handful of people I hadn’t seen in a decade, I realized all I had to do was show up and be me. After all, while I was happy for my friends’ marriages, babies and accomplishments, the thing that mattered most was how much we still made each other laugh. The way we all understood, complemented and overjoyed each other. And, most especially, the way it seemed as though the last ten years had never passed.

To Have But Not to Hold

2007-04-25T23:05:00.000-07:00

I swore off being the other woman several years ago. And I am glad I did.

I admit, I did it to be a taboo. I did it for the illicitness. But it is never, ever fulfilling.

C. and I had reconnected after many years. He was the first man to ever finger/go down on me and then he had gone away to college. We met up again at a friend’s barbecue; I was single and he was dating the only nemesis I have ever had, Vicki. I hated this girl. She had stolen my first love from me years back and now had somehow found her way into the pants of a second man I had dated. It made me green with envy and red with rage, and I guess those two colors combine to form brown - and so I acted like a total piece of shit.

He was an easy target. Hell, he’s a drunk, a raging alcoholic. We flirted the entire night and finally I made my move by cornering him against my friend’s mother’s china cabinet. I hinted at the blow job I had never gotten a chance to give him and knew I would soon get the opportunity.
A week later he was at my house (my parent’s house) with a case of beer and a raging hard-on. We drank. We smoked. We made up for lost times on my step-father’s pooltable. And then we started to actually have a conversation. The topic? Miss Vicki, of course.

We talked about how they met, how she continually pressured him to get married and how he just wanted to “have fun.” And then I realized I was that fun. I never saw him again.

It was then that it hit me: when you are the other woman you have sex first and then talk; when you are the only woman you talk first and then have sex. And then you pray you really are the only one.

The Cause of the Effect

2007-04-22T01:49:00.000-07:00

He looked damn good that night. He had just come from some award ceremony in which he had received some School of Management prize. (Looking back, I guess it was pretty strange that he didn’t invite me.) We had been dating for five months or so - five amazing fucking months - during which he had inspired me to pursue my artistic side in ways no one else had ever before. I felt alive - really alive - for the first time in my life. I loved listening to him play his guitar - in fact, most of our nights together consisted solely of just that. Me, lying on his bed, naked or in his green high school running pants and a tank top, listening to him experiment with new chords and off-the-cuff lyrics as I smoked a cigarette.

I had been waiting for him on this particular night, just relaxing in my apartment and playing silly videogames on an old school Nintendo when the buzzer rang. He came up and into the apartment and I felt so happy, so content and full of joy that I was the one - me - who got to kiss him hello. He grabbed a beer and watched my roommates play as I packed my overnight bag.

On the way to his apartment we stopped so I could get dinner - an eggplant parm hero, as I can still recall. I remember us sitting there, waiting for my order and telling him about my upcoming sorority formal. Now rather than just take a mental note of the date as one would expect a college boyfriend to do, he pulled out a small calendar to check the date. He wrote it down in pencil as though he would have to ponder this invitation at a later time. It struck me as odd but I just paid, took my hero and we went on our way.

As we walked to his apartment, we saw a group of his friends standing outside another building, smoking. Todd, Craig and Topher. I hadn’t seen Topher in awhile - he was a sweet kid - very young - only a freshman, I believe (I was a senior). I noticed Topher had grown some sideburns and so I reached out and touched them, saying something like “Ooooh, Mr. Sideburns, sexy!” - in the same, mind you, completely non-sexual way I would probably use while complimenting my own brother. I didn’t realize that I had done anything wrong. But I had.

When the boyfriend (we’ll call him D) and I got back to his apartment, he turned on the stereo, immediately lit a cigarette and picked up his guitar. I sat in the hallway/dining room eating my eggplant parm, feeling more in love than I ever had before. So content at going through these familiar motions. Once I finished, I brushed my teeth, took off my clothes and got into bed - noticing D was quiet. So I inched over to the corner of the bed with my naked ass arched in the air and asked, “What’s wrong, baby?”

He took a huge drag on his cigarette and put it out in his barely-drunk beer. He walked over to the bed and held my face in his hands and said, “Nothing. Absolutely nothing at all.”

And then he kissed me. He kissed me slowly and tenderly and as though he had never kissed me before. His fingertips explored the back of my neck. His tongue caressed mine over and over. And I felt a wave of electricity surge through my spine. I was literally dizzy with attraction and love and had never, ever felt so wanted or needed or connected to someone in my entire life.
We made love - really made love - for over two hours. It wasn’t fucking or sex - it was intimate and quiet and punctuated with long, tear-filled stares from both of our eyes. It was almost indescribable. And like nothing I have experienced before or since.

And then we slept.

I woke up the next morning, smiling, and turned to grab his chest and kiss his cheek as I always did. Much to my surprise, he was already awake, staring at the ceiling. I kissed him and he turned his face away. “What’s wrong?,” I asked, thinking nothing much of the question.

“I can’t do this,” he said, coldly, without pause.

“Do what?”

“This. Us. You and me. I can’t be with you.”

I shot up, the comforter falling down. I suddenly felt very naked.

“What? What?,” I screamed.

“You heard me,” he said. “I can’t be with you. I can’t do this anymore.”

I burst into tears. Was this a joke? We had fallen asleep with our lips pressed together, our last words, uttered almost simultaneously were “I love you” and he was doing this?

“No, please no. Don’t do this. You don’t mean it. D, please no, no.” I was hysterical. But he barely blinked. He just laid there, his arms folded behind his head.

“You should go,” he said.

I didn’t really know what to do but I got up and started to get dressed anyway. I ran back over to the bed screaming, “Why? Why are you doing this? What did I do? I love you. You love me. Why? Why? No, please.”

He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. And so I left. Weeping the whole walk home. Walking past kids going to class. Past moms pushing strollers. With tears streaming down my face. How could something this good be over?

I got back to my apartment. One of my roommates was up having coffee. I just looked at her and managed to say, through tears and drool and snot, “He broke up with me.” She put her mug down and just hugged me. Tightly, as I was shaking violently.

I cried every day for three weeks. That is until he came back, begging for forgiveness. Of course, stupidly, naively, I took him back.

The three weeks in between are a book onto their own, filled with comforting oral sex with one of my closest male friends and the near rekindling of a romance with another man who had previously broken my heart almost as terribly. But I won’t go into that here. The bottom line is that D did come back - but I was never the same. And never have been since. He had broken me. Fulfilled my ultimate fear - of being abandoned without warning and without reason. He pulled the same trick twice more over the course of our relationship until we finally broke up for good. The worst part of it all is that he always knew it was my biggest worry. And yet he did it over and over again.

Today, D is married. I am single. In fact, I haven’t had a really solid relationship since we broke up years ago. But I’ve been writing about him a lot lately - getting it all out on paper because I’m finally ready to move on. I’m ready to let someone back in. Ready to forgive myself for allowing someone to put me through such hell. Ready to roll over and kiss someone good morning. Ready to make love again.

Oh Nikki, You're So Fine

2007-04-18T17:20:00.000-07:00

Perhaps one of the good things that will come of this shitty mess in Virginia is a wider appreciation for poet Nikki Giovanni. I instantly recognized her name when they announced the lineup of speakers at the convocation held yesterday.

I took a lot of Feminist Studies courses at BU - interesting fodder for my future bisexual experiences and overall hyper-sexed personality. It’s always funny to me when people (especially men) talk about how such classes are for “dykes.” While there definitely were quite a few butchy chicks not of heterosexual persuasion in all of these classes, there were also a ton of us straight closeted freaks who were enrolled almost solely to hear voices from sexually liberated women. Their writings were/are empowering and inspiring and very rarely (if ever) mean-spirited towards men.

Nikki Giovanni is definitely one of the coolest of these ladies. She’s a lung cancer survivor (in fact, she only has one lung now). She has a tattoo on her arm that says “THUG LIFE” in honor of Tupac. She’s also a Gemini, as is Ella. And I remember adoring her poetry in college.

So I took out a few old books of mine and found this one, which, even if you aren’t a fan of poetry (or, perhaps more importantly, aren’t a woman), you should read. Back to our regularly scheduled programming tomorrow, I promise.

Life Cycles

she realized
she wasn't one
of life's winners
when she wasn't sure
life to her was some dark
dirty secret that
like some unwanted child
too late for an abortion
was to be borne
alone

she had so many private habits
she would masturbate sometimes
she always picked her nose when upset
she liked to sit with silence
in the dark
sadness is not an unusual state
for the black woman
or writers

she took to sneaking drinks
a habit which displeased her
both for its effects
and taste
yet eventually sleep
would wrestle her in triumph
onto the bed

At The End of Every Tunnel

2007-04-17T17:40:00.000-07:00

It’s a shame that it usually takes tragedy to remind us of joy; death to remind us of life; and loss to remind us of fortune.

It’s just like how it was when I was 16 and lost one of my best friends from childhood to a head-on collision. I keep her mass card close to my bed and look at it on a regular basis, reminding myself of all the days I have had that she did not. Reading it always makes me realize that there is a bright side, which, ironically, was the biggest lesson she taught me while she was here.

My eyes fixated on her mass card when I got home today and was about to put on CNN to watch more coverage of the shooting. But some little voice - be it mine or hers - told me to take some time to reflect instead.

So, while the world is still at war, while society is still divided on ignorant matters of race, and while we are trying to comprehend why someone could commit mass murder, there’s a part of me forcing good things to the surface. It’s not an exercise in selfishness; it is a reminder of hope.

And so I hope you’ll add your own things to this list, no matter how big or small.
Love,
Ella

50 Things That Make Me Happy (in no particular order)

1. Finding old photographs
2. A game at Yankee stadium on a hot summer night (even better if it’s vs. the Red Sox)
3. Knowing I believed in Santa
4. Butterscotch pudding
5. Fraggle Rock
6. When a kiss is so good that every thought leaves your mind
7. My brother’s talent
8. Picasso
9. My grandmother’s perfume (Chanel No. 5)
10. Knowing the answer to Final Jeopardy!
11. Ray Charles
12. My friend’s new son, David - born April 11
13. Reading something so good that it makes me want to quit writing
14. Reading something so good that it makes me want to keep writing
15. Street musicians
16. Being in bed with someone who wants to give me an orgasm
17. My favorite number (and birth date), 17
18. The fact that I was in love when I lost my virginity
19. The Museum of Natural History
20. Conversations with my father (now that he sees me as an adult)
21. Hearing a song I haven’t heard for 15 years and still knowing every word
22. The recognition and subsequent smile on my friend’s daughter’s face when I walk into a room (it’s as close to heaven as I get)
23. Live music
24. When you go to a restaurant starving and they have bread on the table
25. Being in love
26. Being loved back
27. Knowing my mother will be my children’s grandmother
28. Clean, cool sheets
29. McDonald’s
30. Getting a laugh, a really deep laugh, out of anyone (it’s close to an orgasm for me)
31. Walking home from work across St. Mark’s place
32. When doing something I’ve dreaded turns out to be one of the best experiences of my life
33. Bowling
34. Friendly New Yorkers (and there are thousands of them)
35. The thought of being a mommy
36. Puppies
37. Chilly fall nights in New England
38. Knowing I was smart enough to end that relationship
39. The fact that my mother sends a card for EVERY holiday
40. Oversized, white Hanes wife beaters
41. When I am flying into Vegas and see the strip below
42. My view of the Empire State Building
43. Every moment with my Number One Gay
44. When my relatives tell stories about the “Old Neighborhood” on Christmas
45. Sweet Gherkin Pickles
46. The fact that they fixed my hips
47. Unpacking old Christmas ornaments
48. Believing “he” is out there, somewhere
49. The moment I realize that a weekend morning is NOT a weekday and I can go back to sleep
50. You

The O-Chasm

2007-04-11T18:47:00.000-07:00

So I’ve been rather uninspired as of late. Perhaps you can tell due to my lack of posts. At first I was thinking it had something to do with that fucking baby shower or my piece of shit job, but the other night it finally hit me. I NO LONGER HAVE A VIBRATOR.

Ok, I will rephrase that. I technically have one vibrator…but it’s a “gag” vibrator at that. No, not the good type of gag, but rather a rubber-ducky-shaped piece of shit that my friend bought me as a joke. Now, of course I have used it…I mean, it moves at, like, 300 pulses per second, but there is just something oh, I dunno, PATHETIC about getting fucked by a duck. The other night I was watching porn and decided to bring lil’ Scrooge McDuck out. A few minutes into it I just had to stop. (I mean, honestly, when you are trying to figure out if a beak or tail is better at getting you off you must pause and rethink your masturbatory practices.)

And so, I began thinking that it’s time to head to Toys in Babeland for a new toy for this babe. But MOTHER FUCK do they have a lot of options. As a Gemini, I can never make up my mind about jack shit, and so, because I have YOU, I will leave this decision in your hands. Literally, from your hands to mine, I want you to tell me which of the following four vibrators I should buy this week. Please tell me (via email or via comment) which of these orgasmic offerings should start getting me off. (I will post a detailed account of the “christening” as a thank you.)

Number One: The Passion Flower
What It Is: a pretty-in-pink vaginal and clitoral stimulator

Pros: packs the perfect punch; i can use it as a centerpiece; waterproof
Cons: it uses fucking watch batteries

Number Two: OhMiBod
What It Is: a slim white vibrator that works WITH your iPod for stimulation

Pros: music gets me off; men from far away (hello LA!) can program my orgasms
Cons: too technorati; will make me think of men from far away (hello LA!)Number Three: Hummingbird
What It Is: a sleek, waterproof vibrator with a scoped-out side for the clitoris
Pros: it’s has a SCOPED-OUT SIDE FOR THE CLITORIS; waterproof; low-pitched (my neighbor is a bitch)
Cons: looks scary; doesn’t do much for the oft-alluded (but beloved) vaginal O

Number Four: Rabbit Habit
What It Is: the twirling, clitoral and vaginal stimulating “rabbit” made famous on Sex and the City
Pros: it does it ALL and then hops away; it’s my favorite color - purple
Cons: will make men unnecessary; it was made famous on Sex and the CityVOTE NOW. PLEASE. No, really, PLEASE. ella is becoming quite the bitch.

TGIGF

2007-04-06T17:55:00.000-07:00

(Disclaimer: This is long. It’s not about sex. I hope you’ll read it anyway, but I just thought I’d warn you.)

Ah, Good Friday. Good because the three shiksas in my office (including yours truly) get off for the day. Bad because, well, this is, like, the day the music died. For my ignorant, non-Catholic friends (hello LA GUY!), this is the day that commemorates the death of Jesus. Now, don’t worry, I’m not going to get all mega-Catholic on you, as many other semi-non-practicing Christians do on days like Ash Wednesday when we pretend to go to Mass during work hours, only to come back with cigarette ashes on our foreheads (yes, I have done this) and then say shit like, “I’m sorry I missed the budget meeting, but this is a very IMPORTANT day in my church!” After all, I am certainly not enamored with my technical religion (Roman Catholicism).

Now I know I usually write stories of blasphemy - tales of sex and masturbation; eulogies to deceased vibrators; etc. - but I do actually have opinions and stories about things even my grandmother can read. And religion is one of them. It’s because I have spent my life confused, and did not grow up, as most people did, with a true foundation of belief. Let me explain.
My parents (who were both raised Roman Catholic) were hippies. They wanted their children to find their own religion and, as a result, my brother and I were never baptized. However, I did attend a Jewish nursery school, not because of the Judaic curriculum, but because it was “the best.” Here’s how those years went:
I dressed up for Purim - and Halloween.
I was the dreidel in the Hanukkah play - yet helped my mother set up the manger on Christmas morning (after Santa had come - and I was certain there was a Santa).
I ate matzo during Passover - yet believed in the Easter bunny.

You see, my parents didn’t want to practice any religion or force anything upon us kids, yet they kept these secular Christian traditions because (even though they won’t admit it) they brought some strange comfort to them. So I practiced everything, yet nothing at all. In other words, I was completely fucking confused.

In the third grade I was once again sent to “the best” school they could find - a Catholic school in the Country Club section of the Bronx. I remember my classmates reciting the Our Father on my first day of school and having no idea what they were saying. When we had school Mass, I couldn’t get up to receive Communion and was, as a result, called “the devil” by my classmates. This, coupled with the taunts of being a “nerd” made every school day a living hell. And so, in some way, I began to believe that maybe I was the devil.

When I reached the age of 12, I couldn’t take it anymore. While other children were succumbing to the normal peer pressures of smoking, drinking and sex, I felt pressured to become Catholic. I wanted to be Baptized. And so I was. I received Holy Communion on the same day and was Confirmed a month later. I had employed an EZ-Pass way into the Church and then, once I was truly in it, had no idea why.

I went to Catholic high school. In fact, I won the “Religion Award” on graduation day for having the highest GPA in the subject over the course of all 4 years. However it wasn’t because I believed - it was because I truly studied, read every passage assigned to us and questioned everything it said. I wasn’t the dedicated scholar they wanted; I was the Doubting Ella, calling bullshit on everything. I once wrote a paper in favor of euthanasia. My teacher wrote, “This is a dangerous position to take and I believe you should reflect and pray to dissuade yourself of this belief. However, it is well-articulated and well-argued, so you receive an ‘A’.”

In high school, I went on two trips to Europe with my school. The first was to Italy, where we spent Easter Sunday in St. Peter’s Square, listening to Pope John Paul II perform Easter Mass. My classmates wept. I wanted a cigarette. The next year we went to France, where we attended Midnight Mass on Good Friday in Notre Dame. For those of you with no point of reference, Good Friday Mass is always depressing. It is, for all intents and purposes, a funeral mass for Jesus, filled with somber prayer and somber song. At Notre Dame, however, they go all out - performing the service completely in the dark and in Latin (the most terrifying of all languages, in my opinion). I admit, I cried. But not because of the occasion we were commemorating, but because there is something about suffering and loss (and you can think I’m crazy) that is inherently beautiful. I had a similar reaction while watching The Passion of the Christ many years later - I wept for most of the movie (while on a date with an Israeli Jew, mind you) not because it was about “my Lord and Savior” but because I was so distraught at the hate men had/have for other men. Even if Christ never existed, torture and crucifixion did , and the images of that emptied my heart for days.

However, there is one moment in my life where my skepticism felt defeated, where my disbelief was suspended in mid-air. It was during my senior year of college, when my friends and I went on a trip to Spain during winter break. We took a day trip to Montserrat, a place well-known for its statue of Mary - its BLACK statue of Mary. Now, as most of you know, most Christians cannot handle the fact that Christ - if He existed - was not a blue-eyed Anglo-Saxon, but was, in fact, of a darker complexion. And this would mean that His mother probably had a darker complexion too. Was She black though? I don’t know. But regardless, this statue causes a lot of Christians to feel disgusted (a rather un-Christian behavior, in my opinion). Anyway, to get to this church one has to ride a cable car about 4,000 feet up into the mountains. Now, it is important to note that at this time Ella was suffering from severe panic disorder (complete with therapy and medication), which made things like this about as appealing as a bullet wound to the chest. Yet I trekked onward, going up in this rickety car, shaking the whole time, listening to Fleetwood Mac in hopes of distracting myself from the plummeting death that I was certain would come. Yet we lived.

After spending the morning on a typical sightseeing tour, my friends decided to take yet ANOTHER cable car up even higher. I declined and told them I would wait for them. But instead of waiting, I set out on a hike, following a trail through the woods - all alone. Along the path I jutted in and out of the woods, taking photos of statues, beautiful statues - of whom, I don’t know - along the way. I kept going, higher and higher, in a circular pattern that was somewhat dizzying. I didn’t see a single soul for at least 30 minutes and - although I knew I could find my way back - I felt like I had gone too far. I sat down on a rock in a state of absolute panic. Pulse racing, dizzy, terrified I wouldn’t be able to stand up and walk back. It was then that I started to hear a tap, a rhythmic noise along the ground. I couldn’t quite pinpoint where it was coming from. And then I saw him. An old man, probably close to 85 or 90, walking down the mountain I felt like I couldn‘t climb, cane in hand. He walked slowly, very slowly, with a cat behind him, and smirked at me as he moved past. “You’re pathetic,” I thought to myself, about myself. It was then that I stood up and started climbing back up that mountain.

Finally, I got there, to a cliff lord knows how many feet up in the air. A cliff jutting out over a huge chasm of land, that suspended me in mid-air at a level that could make a seasoned rock climber squirm. Upon this cliff sat a giant cast-iron cross and a circular guard rail, a flimsy piece of metal that basically says, “You’re supposed to come all the way over here. So come on.” I felt my palms get sweaty. I’m going to die here, I thought.

I inched my way towards the cross very slowly, trying to dismiss thoughts of toppling over, down to a horrific death. A death full of way too many moments of fuck-I-am-going-to-die clarity before one hits literal rock bottom. All the while I kept staring at the ground, at the dusty dirt and patchy grass and smooth stones beneath me. And then I saw it - a single rock, sitting among at least 3 dozen others, with a black cross drawn on top of it. I remember thinking how beautiful the rock was, and I vowed to take it back with me as soon as I got back from the edge of the cliff.

I kept walking slowly until, before I knew it, I was standing under the cross. On a tiny cliff. In mid-air. Thousands of feet above where a sane person wants to stand. And for the first time in years, seriously YEARS, I felt calm. I wasn’t scared at all. I walked right out to the guard rail and looked over, hung my head down, in fact, and felt every ounce of fear, terror, panic just fly away from my body. It felt as though I had taken a handful of Xanax or the way I had typically felt only in my dreams during those years I was a panicky, fucking mess. I sat. Took pictures. Wrote. Listened to Stevie Nicks. Cried. Laughed. Smiled. Felt nothing. And nothing - at that time - was everything.

I stood up. Brushed off my pants and got ready to head back. Took one final picture and walked back towards that pile of rocks to find the stone. The stone with the ashy black cross, a cross which I imagined some other tourist had drawn with a cigarette. But it was gone. GONE.
I wasn’t drunk. I wasn’t high (didn’t touch drugs back then). But that rock I had seen, had bent over to admire, was gone. Not one rock lying there had a mark on it. I started picking them all up - maniacally - in search of that rock. But it simply wasn’t there. But it had been there. I know, with absolute certainty - to this day - that it was there. I saw I, I studied it, and I wanted to take it home. It was supposed to be there when I got back from that terrifying journey onto the cliff. Yet it was gone.

I often think about this experience in Spain - especially around Easter and Christmas. It didn’t quell my disbeliefs. I didn’t even make me certain that there is a God, a Christ, a Holy Spirit. But it did make me more certain that there is something out there - something bigger than me, to keep looking for, to bring me to my knees and make me question. Something to humble me.
Whatever you celebrate at this time, or any time of year, have a happy one.

With love,
Ella

The Baby Shower

2007-04-03T18:53:00.000-07:00

There’s a famous episode of Sex and The City in which Carrie, Charlotte, Samantha and Miranda venture to (gasp!) Connecticut for a baby shower. It’s your typical fish-out-of-NYC-water story complete with inappropriate baby shower attire, uncomfortable chit-chat and let’s-get-the-fuck-outta-here attitude. I remember watching this particular episode and thinking, “Oh come on. It’s a baby shower. You can’t be that disenchanted with and disconnected from female rituals just because you live in New York City.” And then came this past Saturday…

I went home to the Bronx for the baby shower of my best girlfriend from grammar school who is pregnant with her first child. She and I used to be like sisters - closer than close - and I was the Maid of Honor at her wedding. We were very tight when she had her bridal shower many years ago, while I was still living at home in the Bronx with my parents. Since then, we have drifted. We still love each other and talk from time to time (in fact, I dreamt she was pregnant to the exact week - before she told anyone - so I know we will always have a special “connection”), but the truth is, we’ve grown apart. We have strikingly different lives. For example:

She is a 3rd grade teacher who lives in suburbia. I am a writer who lives in the East Village.
She married the only man she has ever slept with. I have slept with [redacted] men and [redacted] women, which is way too many for her to comprehend.
She is a conservative Catholic. I am a liberal slut who wants to marry a Jew.

But she will always be a part of my life. I just don’t think we will be able to relate to one another until I lactate someday.

From the moment I entered the “party room” of the Italian restaurant, I knew that I was way out of my element. I was in the inappropriate baby shower attire (see below) I had scoffed at years earlier. Head-to-toe black, way too much cleavage, leggings that showed off my tattoo and stiletto heels that buckle (twice) around the ankles. I looked like the entertainment for a bachelor party, not the girl who had bought the high-chair and planned the games (yes, us women play “games” at these fucking things) for a baby shower.

I walked in, insanely hung over, and was told I had to sit at the table with all of the mother-to-be’s friends. I wanted to sit with my mother (the coolest bitch EVER in a room at any given time), but instead I retreated to the big table up front. Before I could sit down, I was getting the once over (and let me tell you, you have not wanted to RUN like the fucking wind until you have been given the evil eye by not one, but 6 Italian girls at once).

Included in this gaggle of guidette geese was one girl I hadn’t even thought would be there - we’ll call her Jennifer - a girl who really has zero love lost for me. You see, I dated her ex-boyfriend (aww, he was the first guy to ever go down on me - such sweet memories…it was while watching a Tyson fight of all things) before her. She was dating him when I was said Maid of Honor. He was, ironically, the Best Man. So she was at the wedding and insanely insecure that he and I had to walk down the aisle and dance the “first dance.” But she had no reason to worry that night. Four months later, however, when he cheated on her with me, I guess she had cause to worry. So basically, she hates me. And with good reason.

The entire afternoon was spent sitting at this table with my friend and her new friends - who ALL, by the way, are grade school teachers (which I have nothing against but also nothing in common with). 95% of them are married…with children. So I really had nothing to say. I interjected a couple of times - with crass comments that made them crack up, sorta my trademark - and even name-dropped a few celebrities that I have worked with in the past (dinner with Jessica Simpson, being on the phone with Gwen Stefani, etc.) But normally I do this while in the company of those with equally perverse senses of humor and tales of celebrity pseudo-encounters. Here, I was just doing it to try to make them as uncomfortable as me, to make them feel as though the grass really is fucking greener on my side of the bridge. And this made me rather disgusted with myself.

Now, here’s the thing about me. I grew up in the Bronx, wanting to be a schoolteacher. I thought I would at least be married by 27 (the age I turn in June) and with child by 30. I love kids. LOVE. I can’t wait to be a mommy. Being at this shower, listening to these teachers/wives/mothers, offered me a glimpse of what my life COULD be. I sat and thought, “What if I had that classroom of children to teach, that husband to come home to, that baby to nurse. Would it be better than this? More fulfilling?” I don’t know.

Before I left, one of these teachers (an extremely, extremely hot redhead who I would not hesitate to sleep with), pregnant with her second child at 28, cornered me - at a very uncomfortable close distance. “So you live in Manhattan? You’re a writer. You know Gwen Stefani? Tell me more,” she said, wide-eyed and smiling. “I wish I had your life. It really sounds so exciting. Oh, and I LOVE your shoes.”

I Pity the April Fool

2007-04-01T18:55:00.000-07:00

I'm stealing this from my friend Julie who stole this from her cousin Patrick.

Which of the below is NOT true about moi?

1. I was born prematurely.
2. I used to have red hair.
3. I was once on TV in my bra.
4. I once "modeled" for a math textbook.
5. I have been awarded bowling trophies.

Sex and the Sniglets

2007-03-29T18:19:00.000-07:00

Although I was too young to understand most of the Reagan/Gorbachev jokes, I still loved watching Not Necessarily the News as a child. For those of you who have never seen it, it was one part Daily Show, one part cracka-ass-cracka Dave Chapelle. One of the most famous bits on the show was a series of segments called Sniglets, in which Rich Hall would describe “any word that doesn’t appear in the dictionary, but should.” Here are some of my favorite examples (um, yes, I have two Sniglets books - it’s anyone’s guess how I get laid):

Napjerk - the sudden convulsion of the body just as one is about to doze off
Aeroma - the odor emanating from an exercise room after an aerobics workout
Spood - the flat wooden “spoon” that accompanies ice cream cups

After smoking a bowl not too long ago, I picked up these books and entertained myself for about 12 hours. And that got me thinking. Here now are some Sniglets of the adult variety. Please feel free to contribute your own suggestions.

Condamn - the small piece of the condom wrapper that your significant other notices on your bedroom floor (ps - you guys don’t use condoms)
The Morning After Pill - the girl who is a slut in bed at night but who refuses to be touched in the morning
Simax - the silent moment right before one has an orgasm
Awkwalk - the act of leaving a couple’s apartment after a threesome
Gayzation - the moment you realize someone you want to fuck is gay
Titslits - the annoying marks you find on your breasts after you take your bra off
Sexcuse - the last shot of the night that justifies the sex you really don’t really want to have
Forgottmen - the men women don’t factor in when their significant other asks them how many men they have slept with

Swallow for the Camera

2007-03-26T19:41:00.000-07:00

This week’s issue of New York is dedicated to the young and uninsured. Now, ella knows a thing or two about insurance. After all, bitch broke her wrist (in three places) and both hips in the same year. So she has some advice for how to get around lack of medical coverage. And trust me (yeah, sorry I jump in and out of third person, it’s very Seinfeld-ian, I know), it works every time.

Click here for the NSFW secrets for avoiding (or, hell, ever even RECEIVING) a bill...

SECRET ONE

SECRET TWO

thanks to PD for, um, "capturing" these images.

An Excuse Ten Years in the Making

2007-03-24T21:11:00.000-07:00

It came in the mail today. April 28, 2007 will be my ten year high school reunion.

FUCK.

This means I have just over one month to:

1. Lose 15 pounds.
2. Publish my first novel.
3. Stop biting my nails so I can have actual fingernails again (hey, I went to high school in the Bronx, where fabulous nails are a necessity).
4. Meet and marry my future husband.
5. Buy and furnish a home in Westchester County, New York.
6. Have 1.5 children.
7. Find the perfect outfit in which to show off my now-D cup breasts (they were Bs in high school, and, ok, sure, it’s an all girls school but that just makes everything all the more competitive).
8. Win an impressive award of some kind.
9. Sleep with a celebrity (because you always want to be able to tell THAT kind of story).
10. Re-remember everyone’s names in my graduating class.

Ok, in all seriousness I really just have one thing to do:
Come up with the perfect explanation for why I have accomplished none of the above.

The Happiest Place on Earth (to Have an Orgasm)

2007-03-23T08:17:00.000-07:00

Several years ago, the fine men and women of the Walt Disney World corporation deemed ella worthy enough to intern at their Orlando resort. (Ok, they call it an “internship” but it’s really just a way for them to get wholesome - well, wholesome "looking" - kids to work their parks all summer. I fucking flipped burgers in an AC-free kitchen. At LottaWatta Lodge in Blizzard Beach to be exact.)

They put you up in a compound called Vista Way (nicknamed "Vista Lay" and named the second easiest place for a college kid to get laid next to Cancun by Playboy). And, as you may have inferred, ella moves fast. So she met a boy within her first week - a cute young Mark Harmon look-alike (oh, come on, he was HOT in the 80s - ever see Summer School?) named, ironically enough, Mark. He was a southern boy from Missouri - the complete opposite of any guido or jersey jew I knew from college. For some reason, he took a shinin’ to lil’ ol’ me and before you know it, we were like mountain goats in heat.

(Sidenote: Mark was only the second man I ever slept with. My first boyfriend, we'll call him IROC, was hung like a mule and sex was never very enjoyable for me. Mark, however, was hung like - oh, I dunno what's a fairly non-disparaging yet non-overly complementary animal to compare a cock too - a goat? Whatever, you get the picture. So for the first time in my life, I was LOVING sex. And doing it any time, anywhere I could.)

Anywhere was usually a bedroom, the living room, a shower, occasionally outside late at night on the side of our building. However one evening, we hit one out of the park by, literally, hittin’ it in the park…

One of the perks of this summer program is that you get to go to any Disney park for free on your days off. So one day, Mark and I ventured to Animal Kingdom (Disney’s “Africa in Orlando”) and spent the day going on rides, taking pictures, all that touristy bullshit. That night, we had dinner at the Rainforest Café, located inside the park.

Now, in order to get back to Vista Lay, one has to go "backstage" (as Disney calls it) to hitch a ride upon a private van. This means that for approximately an hour or so after the park has officially closed, the "interns" still have access to the grounds. How convenient…

We were on our way to the van when we noticed a huge boulder next to the "Circle of Life" attraction and without so much as a word exchanged between us, we knew what we had to do. Within less than 60 seconds, we were behind the rock, with my body pressed against it and him right behind me - going wilder than Mr. Toad could ever imagine. The rush was amazing especially because we knew that Disney has cameras everywhere - no inch is off sight limits.

It wasn't long before he finished (hey, I can't lie, I wasn't exactly in prime O position, but I sure was turned on enough for it to be satisfying) and we made our way back to the van.

So thank you, Walt. Thank you. For making this little girl’s dreams come true. Oh, and sorry about the "secret Mickey"* we left on the rock. We didn't have a condom.

*Disney World has HUNDREDS, if not thousands, of "secret Mickeys" for guests to find throughout the parks. They are Mickey Mouse-shaped designs placed on cement walkways, on rides, etc.

Black Snake Moan

2007-03-20T18:31:00.000-07:00

I’ve always had a bit of a fetish for black men. It started with a major crush on Theo Huxtable (admittedly, one of the “whitest” black characters ever on TV), progressed into a weird thing with Arsenio Hall (I think it was the fingers) and eventually to classmates and dudes from my neighboring high school.

But let me backtrack a bit. I was an outcast for much of early grammar school - tossed aside because I was the “nerd” with glasses, stringy hair with bangs that would never tease high enough to be cool (this was the early 90s after all) and, of course, NO TITS (my how things change). As a result, most of my friends were the other kids rejected by the rich white assholes who populated my school - the nerds and the black and Puerto Rican kids (many of whom were nerds too - double torture whammy).

The first boy who ever tried to kiss me was black. (It was during this aforementioned time of teasing and torture.) I wanted to kiss him back but I was too petrified of kissing anyone in the entrance leading to a bowling alley with my mother about to pull up in the family heap-of-shit. However, this first form of sexual interest stuck with me and many of my early sexual fantasies were about him. But nothing ever happened between us in large part, I suspect, because it was a taboo at this particular school and I was too afraid to ever do anything to further distance myself from the cool pack.

Later I went to an all-girls catholic high school in the South Bronx - one of only 11 white girls in my graduating class - and remember going to dances at our “brother school” where I would literally try to get the attention of the black dudes dancing. I recall being one of the few white girls “freakin” on the dance floor - sometimes sandwiched between two guys at once - feeling hard-ons pressed against me for the first time (all while being watched by Priests, mind you). But the thing is, once the songs ended - I was left standing alone.

I remember asking one of my Puerto Rican friends in gym class one day why it was that the guys really had no interest in talking to me once the dances were over and she said, without hesitation: “Because you have no ass.” Now, what’s funny to me is that America only seemed to realize that women have asses about 5 years ago when J-Lo got popular. However, I grew up with the understanding that a big ass was a prize - something that was valued in the way that most other pubescent kids seem to admire breasts. It was a HUGE insult to tell a girl she had no ass (in fact it was the main “dis” thrown back and forth between the Puerto Rican and Dominican girls in my high school). So since that day I’ve always had issues about my (lack of) back.

(Side note: I am not stereotyping ass as something only minority men covet. NO WAY. Again, ever since J-Lo and, now, Jessica Biel, white dudes are even more ass-obsessed than black and Hispanic men, at least in my opinion.)

We can pretty much fast forward all my college years for this entry as I went to one of the whitest, jewiest (yum) universities in the country - Boston U. Of course there were black kids that went there - in fact, my college roommate for the first two years was black - but I swear there were hardly any black MEN. It was remarkably noticeable to me.

Post-college I finally got to live out my fantasy - now thrice over. The first was with a guy I met at a friend’s birthday who - and I swear to you - looked like Gary Coleman. He was also rather short and wore a very large hat that made him seem even tinier. It was weird because the next morning I was REALLY not attracted to him and, on top of it, he just wouldn’t leave. I think he finally did, but I guess he could very well be hiding out in my medicine cabinet for all I know.

The next black man I slept with was a bouncer at some bar in the LES. We flirted all night by calling each other “cracka” and “fitty” (you can guess who called whom what). We had sex in the DJ booth after the bar closed (a stupid risk that ella took and would never, ever do again with ANY bouncer) and then again at my apartment. He had a body from HELL - with a 6-pack that literally rippled across the tip of my tongue. However the most memorable part of the evening/early morning was when I tripped over his bulletproof vest on my way to the bathroom. I made the most of the situation by putting it on and getting back into bed.

The third brotha in my trifecta of lust is an accomplished writer who - in many respects (primarily education) is whiter than me. It was the first time I ever felt like I was “dating” a black man but, as most things do, it ended up going nowhere.

What’s ironic about this musing is that black men have never given me much grief over my small(ish) ass. It’s white men - mostly italian and jewish men - who seem to have opinions about it.

In fact, black men tend to notice my face, compliment me on my eyes and smile. In many ways, I think they see me more. And that’s exactly why I keep looking for them.

Miami By The Numbers

2007-03-19T18:10:00.000-07:00

I just flew in from Miami and boy are my arms (and tits) tired and sunburned. And, shit, does it suck to be home. After spending three days in absolute luxury (seriously, a Ritz-Carlton Club Level Suite with an ocean view makes me want to stop being a bad girl so I can go to heaven, a place which I’m pretty sure is just a step below a Ritz-Carlton ), I am back to the cold weather and yellow snow-lined streets of New York City. I’m too depressed to write anything of much substance, so here is a quick look at my weekend, USA Today “Snapshot” style:

Glasses of Champagne Consumed by my “Number One Gay” and I: 33

Number of Naked Titties I saw on the Beach: 8 (including mine)

Cost per Night for our Deluxe Slice of Heaven in the Sky: $1500

Cigarettes I Had: just 1! (given to me by nasty rich Italian business man by the pool last night - but I admit it, I would have fucked him)

Level of SPF I Applied: 29

Level of SPF I Should Have Applied: 40 or Higher (my breasts are on FIRE)

Number of Times I was Called “Mami”: 3

People we Swore were Celebrities at First Glance: 4

People who Probably Thought I was Kelly Clarkson: 9

Number of Men I Caught Looking at my Boobs: 12

Number of Women I Caught Glaring at my Boobs with Disdain: 6

Number of Men I Wanted to Have Sex With: 4

Number of Women I Wanted to Have Sex With: 3 (the girls were pretty nasty down there surprisingly)

Ratio of Adults to Spring Breakers: 2:78

Number of Orgasms I Had: (almost) 1 (the showers at the Ritz-Carlton Spa had jets at every conceivable level - including clit - but knowing there were Midwestern housewives mere feet away killed my mood)

Times I Ordered Rack of Lamb: Twice (little known fact about ella - she LOVES rack of lamb but only orders it when she knows it’s going to be good…and it was)

Minutes in my Aromatherapy Massage: 50

Glasses of SoCo on the Rocks Consumed: 6 (little known fact about ella - she LOVES her Southern Comfort)

Number of Times I Offered my “Number One Gay” Head as a Thank You for This Trip: 7

Number of Times He Took Me Up on It: 7 (just kidding….his loss)

Number of Times I Puked: 0 (ella can hold her booze, people)

Number of Times I Made “Number One Gay” Check my Blog for Comments: Twice

Number of Times I Asked “Number One Gay” to Check Gawker to See if I Won a Gold Star: 5 (and won one I did, bitches!)

Number of Times I Said “There are too many fucking kids in the pool”: 22

Minutes I Spent Thinking About Getting Laid: 2,978

Number of Orgasms I Had on Wednesday Night (Thank You, Steve) so I Wouldn’t Think About Trying to Find Ass in Miami: 4

How Much I Love My “Number One Gay” for This Trip and Every Minute I Have Known/Know Him: Infinity

Bienvenido a Miami

2007-03-15T22:42:00.000-07:00

Miss me...

xoxox,
ella

You've Stolen a Piece of My Heart (seriously, i'm pressing charges)

2007-03-15T07:49:00.000-07:00

After much debate, I think I have FINALLY found the dating website that I’ve been searching for.

Seeing as I tend to be somewhat of a jealous, possessive type, I’ve always wanted to meet a man who I can keep my eye on. Someone I can keep track of at all times; someone who I know isn’t going to bail on me (or, in this case, make bail).

That is why I have chosen to log onto ThePamperedPrisoner.com. Unfortunately, they don’t allow you to copy and paste photos but I invite you to visit their catalog of eligible bachelors (and bachelorettes!) to check out the fresh meat I’m talking about. (ps - when you get there, scroll all the way down, that's where the personals are)

Here are two of the suitors I’m considering:

Bachelor #1
Tim
He’s currently serving a life sentence in Ontario. He has a ton of interests – from needlepoint (he says it’s great during lockdowns) to riding motorcycles (not sure he has time to do that anymore ;-( He recently filed an appeal though, so my fingers are crossed.

Bachelor #2
“Wu”
He’s looking for a plump girl (yippee! Order me some fries with that shake). He’s also due out in 2023 (ella will still be fertile!) Oh, and he may or may not be a member of the Wu Tang Clan – this is still to be determined.

Still skeptical?? Well, just like Match.com and eHarmony.com, ThePamperedPrisoner has pages of success stories including prison-wedding photos (never underestimate the sex appeal of a groom in orange; seriously, it’s the new black).

Wish me luck!

I'm Sorry...So Sorry

2007-03-13T17:57:00.000-07:00

To My Baker’s Dozen of Readers -

When it rains, it pours. And when it pours, ella is too wet to blog.

It’s been quite an eventful few days.

I am proud to announce that I will NOT be hitting the three-month mark as I finally, FINALLY got laid last week.

Perhaps even better than that, however, I am happy to report that I had one of the best spankings of my life this past weekend too (a fond fetish of mine, albeit one I only indulge in when the proper suitor presents himself. And present himself, he has. Look for my upcoming “Spank You Very Much” posting.)

I also found a bikini to properly cage “the girls” for my upcoming trip to Miami this Friday. They do hang out of their cells quite a bit, but unplanned indecent exposure will be avoided. (But never fear, planned indecent exposure is certain to occur.)

Please know though that I’ve been thinking of each and every one of you - with every thrust, spank and nip tuck.

love,
Ella

Modern Times

2007-03-08T21:39:00.000-08:00

It’s strange how we communicate in this day and age. Unapologetically impersonal, hastily expressive, hurtfully informative. Here’s what I mean:

1. I found out my ex (who swore he would NEVER get married) was, indeed, getting married via a Friendster email from his old high school friend.

2. I have been “dumped” twice via email and once via text message.

3. I learned that another ex - who told me he was going to move out here to marry me sometime in the next few years - has a girlfriend through the “In a Relationship” checkmark on Myspace.

4. I’ve read rants about my personality on blogs.

5. I caught a recent romantic interest cruising for sex on Craigslist. Yes, girls, I set up a fake post and he replied. I felt ingenious at the time and then just sick and hurt.

6. I’ve been “blocked” on Instant Messenger with little to no explanation.

7. I’ve been strung along via three-word emails.

8. I’ve been asked to dinner via posts on my blog (while this doesn’t bother me, the fact that he won’t just email me directly via the address listed in my profile does…hahah).

9. I’ve been stalked and threatened on the Nerve.com personals.

10. I was subjected to a “love email” an ex wrote to his then-girlfriend when he indirectly forwarded it to me.

Now, I know I am not the only one to suffer through shit like this. I remember reading something when I was younger about how Sly Stallone dumped his ex via fax. I guess it’s all part of the culture and I am certainly guilty of indulging/abusing its privileges. But just once, I wish a man would be a man and - at the very least - pick up the fucking phone.

Baby, It's F*cking Cold Outside

2007-03-06T06:44:00.000-08:00

It was 15 degrees when I left my warm bed this morning. 15 degrees.

A girl in my office came in with frozen eyelashes.

And although this hot chocolate is hitting some spots, there really aren't many things that can warm up every inch of you. Except one: a photo of Magnum P.I.

So soak it up. It's like the sun.

R.I.P.

2007-03-02T07:43:00.000-08:00

PURPLE, Little (2006-2007) - Beloved plaything, confidant and giver of pleasure on February 17, 2007 in the East Village, New York City, of causes unknown. Born in 2006 in Toys in Babeland, New York City. Lover of adventure, cave exploration and AA batteries. Leaves behind ellagood, his faithful (er, steady) companion. In lieu of flowers, the grieving ask that you make a monetary donation to the Tired Fingers Fund. Private services were held last weekend where the following eulogy was delivered:

Dear L.P. ('lil purple),

I didn't think you would be taken from me so soon. You first entered my life from behind, but quickly (and after extensive boiling) became so much more. Sure, we had our ups and downs, our ins and outs, but you were always at home waiting for me, ready to give me your all. Occasionally I (and others) tossed you aside but you always forgave me, as if nothing had ever happened. You never let me down - even when others did - and always let me have control.

I will never forget the night you left me. Tried as I did to revive you - with emergency flashlight, remote control and even fire detector batteries - it was all in vain. You were gone. I won't lie and say that there will never be others like you, but I know you would want me to go on. However I will never forget you. Never forget your happy hum and cheery red light - the one that never signaled no, but rather always said yes. Thank you old friend. Thank you.

Love,
ella

Fake It Like You Mean It

2007-02-28T12:36:00.000-08:00

It’s getting pretty scary that I prefer having phone sex with Mr. LA rather than calling up any of the same ‘ol NY booty and actually getting it on. But it’s just always SO good and, because I’m using my own devices (well, not really devices as I broke my second vibrator in 7 months about two weeks ago), the O is unconditionally guaranteed.

In the case of Monday night, the O made three appearances in the matter of about 10 minutes. This is because Mr. LA has quite the descriptive tongue (it’s also quite descriptive when he uses his tongue in person, but that’s for another time). The first O came on suddenly (pun intended, I guess) about two minutes into the call (ok, while he truly is verbally inclined, I had begun the festivities a few minutes prior to the phone ringing). A few minutes later, after a somewhat lengthy soliloquy involving my hands tied behind my back while having my face f*cked – BAM: O number two. This time, he came along for the ride. (The great thing about phone sex is that you can time orgasms pretty well – unlike during real sex when the girl fakes it 9 times out of 10 when he’s finishing up. We watch porn, we know how men think it’s supposed to happen at the exact same time. Wake up, guys. Puh-leaze.)

Anyway, usually that would be all but I asked him to keep going. O number three was right at the gates (oh, it’s so great to be a girl). And go he did. In a flurry of description – none of which I can remember but I’m sure it included “fingers” “lick” “inside you” (the usual send-me-over-the-edge suspects) – I was coming again. But strangely, so was he.

“Twice in two minutes? Wow,” I said, impressed that thoughts of me could turn him on so much.

“No, just once.”

“But it really sounded like you did. Like, exactly.” (He has a very interesting, multi-tonal and varied O that’s quite distinct.)

“No, just one time.”

“So you faked it?”

“Yup. For you, to turn you on.”

So there. It happened to me. Now it might be harder for that to happen in person but it’s made me feel kinda bad for all the times I’ve faked it. But, unfortunately, I really don’t have the time to call 38 people and apologize.

Lezze-Faire

2007-02-27T06:22:00.000-08:00

Here’s some irony. When I was in 5th grade, I had an INSANE crush on a little blonde girl named Elizabeth. I know I was young, but there was definitely a sexual attraction there (I found the joy button around age 8 or 9, so I was well versed in the power of persuasive though + self-love). Anyway, because I went to Catholic school, I knew that these thoughts were the work of the Devil himself (or perhaps herself in this case). So I would literally pray, PRAY that I was not gay.

Fast-forward about 17 years (holy shit – husband #1 where are you??? Oh right, LA and you don’t want to get married. To. Me.) and 4 bedded-women later, I am praying for just the opposite. I WANT TO BE GAY! But, sadly, after being with women, I know I’m not. Why?
1. We’re annoying. Needy. Whiny. Now, I’m the queen, the Helen Mirren of these grievances but when they are bounced back upon you – WOW, fucking exhausting.
2. We women apparently like to cuddle for HOURS, including all the hours we are sleeping. No, no, no! Right before sleep, yes, sure. In the morning, yes, sure. As I snore and drool and dream about people more attractive and wealthy than you – NO.
3. We want to go to “brunch” after staying up all night having sex. Um, no. Yes, I want to eat – but I don’t want to go sit amongst people and be guilted into drinking a free mimosa.
4. I like men. Naked men. On top of me, to the side of me, behind me – way too much.

However, heterosexuality has really not been too kind to me lately. And, everywhere I look, there are HAPPY LESBIANS! I want to be a happy lesbian – it looks so fun, like a big sleepover party with lots of puppies and shopping trips and babies without the pain of childbirth! (Babies from legendary rock sperm, even.)

I mean did you see the Oscars? Did you see the insane amount of happy lesbians there? There were, like, two happy hetero couples (and, no, I don’t mean the faux happiness of Will and Jada, Tom and Katie, John and Kelly).

Just look at them! Glowing! Radiant! Perhaps hormonal, post-menopausal – sure – but nonetheless it sure is chic to be a gay lady. Ok, so they’re not all PRETTY, but they have better hair (ok, not Ellen) and better clothes (ok, not Ellen) than lesbians past. Oh how gay it would be to be gay….

T-Time!

2007-02-23T10:23:00.000-08:00

I have too much shit to do today to fill you in on my quest for ass. I will tell you that I ended up having some hot phone sex last night...so that is making today all the more bearable.

To keep you entertained, here is a titty pop quiz! Click below to see if you can tell the difference between REAL or FAKE boobies. I got 15/20.

Thank you to PD for filling the mammary void.

http://www.mazafaka.ru/lol/btest/index.php

Back in the Virtual Saddle Again?

2007-02-22T07:11:00.000-08:00

After meeting a school teacher with a coke problem and a REFUSAL to answer the phone anytime before, during or immediately after Smallville, The Daily Show, The Sarah Silverman Show, Heroes, Rome (and about 20 other shows) on craigslist (not the smartest move, I know), I am thinking about rejoining the world of less seedier online personals.

Option A: Nerve
I was on Nerve for about 3 years and ended up sleeping with about 10 men who all live within 4 or 5 blocks from me. It’s seriously like a landmine of penis past out on my streets now. I signed off Nerve because: A. I pretty much went through all the men I found interesting and B. When I actually took stock of the men I found “interesting” it scared me. “Really, ANOTHER freelance writer/aspiring musician/unemployed graphic artist? Wake up bitch! No one has bought you dinner in 2 years!"
PROS: The dudes are cute.
CONS: It’s haunted by now.

Option B: Match
I tried this for a month or two. Now, it’s not that I have anything AGAINST Staten Island garbagemen or 52 year old “ice sculptors” from the Bronx, but that takes “dating against my type” to new lows. Have you ever waded through Match.com? Seriously, it’s not that pretty.
PROS: NEW dudes.
CONS: I don’t want to see last night’s lay on the back of a garbage truck.

Option C: eHarmony
Sigh. I tried this too. That fucking Dr. Neil Clark Warren won me over, one depressing Sunday afternoon when I was drowning my hangover in greasy Chinese and watching Iron Chef America. Maybe it’s the hopeful music (“This will be! An everlasting love!”) or maybe it’s just how sickeningly cute the couples are (you can tell they all used to be desperate too). However according to eHarmony, my soulmate (or soulmateS as it were) all live in the bowels of New Jersey, teach high school biology or chemistry and LOVE football. WHA? No fucking way. Plus, they are all Italian and fat. Where are the JEWS that I lust after?? The Yankee fans in yarmulkes?
PROS: The slight chance that these men actually want a relationship.
CONS: NO Jews, apparently.

So, I leave it to you – my 8 or so faithful readers. A? B? or C?
(write-ins are acceptable too, but you must give REASONS!)

men i want to sleep with

2007-02-17T23:43:00.000-08:00

well, i have officially hit the two month mark. i have not had sex with anyone - male or female - since december. and i am strangely ok with this.

however that does not mean that i don't think about sex ALL the time.

and so, in honor of my regenerating hymen, here is a list of men i want to sleep with...

1. brian williams - sure, he looks like guy smiley (the game show host muppet from sesame street) but he is so funny and down to earth. at least that is the impression his publicist keeps putting forth. anyway, i want him to tell me about the day's events in iraq while carassing the slope of my back. (foreplay + foreign news = illicit behavior)

2. joaquin phoenix - ok, for those of you who actually know me, you know how much i am obsessed with this man. i sincerely believe that he and i belong together, and whenever i lay back and daydream about him i can TOTALLY relate to all those crazy fuckers who stalk celebrities.

3. forrest whitaker - i want to fix his wonky eye. ok, i really just want to go to the oscars(R).

4. my drug dealer - because i am so sick of paying for this shit.

5. jack nicholson - i know, i know, he's like 92. he probably has a saggy ass and balls down to his knees, but it's jack-mother-fucking-nicholson. come on, even you dudes out there would bend over backwards for him.

6. hugh laurie - i typically hate foreign men. but this man is so fucking hot and funny. anyone who doesn't need writers needs a blow job in my book.

7. ray liotta - ok, in all honesty, only if it were 1991. because, come on, fucking henry hill is pretty close to nirvana.

8. your dad - that's right. i want to hit it. again.

9. my dad - kidding. i just want to see if you are paying attention.

10. anyone willing - yup, you heard me. just have a pulse and a penis. didn't i mention it's been TWO MONTHS?

eat me

2007-02-14T22:51:00.000-08:00

this is fucking awesome....

where is the love?

2007-02-14T21:50:00.000-08:00

Dear future love of my life -

Ok. You will one day discover how annoying and critical I can be but, I'm sorry, I just have to start now.

WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU? Listen, I know that you are crazy busy/stressed at work/married/struggling with your sexuality but it's about time you get your shit together and find me.

I don't want to get married tomorrow. In fact, I don't even want to live together until at least late 2008, but don't you think we should at least be DATING now?

K, whatever...you're stalling. Just don't blame me when you finally come around and I have already slept with 70+ people and done a bit too much homemade porn. I was ready for you but you left my horny ass no choice.

xoxoxo

Born Again?

2007-02-11T23:34:00.000-08:00

Its been almost two months since I've had sex.

Now, for some people, that may not seem very long but, for me, it is. I don't think I have gone 60 days without penetration since I lost my virginity in 1996, but, any day now, I am about to reach that mark.

While part of me does wish for such contact, I must admit that the choice has really been mine. And it's actually been quite freeing.

I felt a connection with the last man I slept with but it turned out to be one of the more hurtful experiences of my dating life. Not "hurtful" in the "you've broken my heart" sense, but more in the "ouch, are you fucking serious?" sense.

I could have gotten laid in early January (and late January; and this Friday) but I chose not to. That's because I refuse to indulge bootycalls and deny those I barely know/knew any physical contact...

I'm not saying that I will need to be in love to make love (or have sex) again, but it's just never going to be as easy. I think I can say - with a lot of conviction - that I am finally entering the stage of my life where restraining from sex actually makes sense. While I have definitely taken advantage of/used men for my own physical pleasure, I'm no longer craving the orgasm as much as I am the love and respect.

UPDATE: fuck this. i need an orgasm.

have you felt neglected?

2007-02-09T21:05:00.000-08:00

hello my three loyal readers (mom, prisoner #647289-1827 and pat),

i know, it's been cold. and i am not just talking about the weather. you've had to live life without me for a month now and i can only imagine how empty things have felt for you.

the truth is, my computer broke (probably the result of one too many downloaded movies on adultvideoplanet.com - seriously a fabulous subscription porn service; only $29 or so a month and the videos are updated constantly) - and i have yet to muster up my best Erin Brokovitch cleavage and head to Best Buy to try to get it fixed for free.

but i am here now - and have quite a few things to say.

whether or not they are interesting...well, that is up to you.

~ella

There He Is...Mr. America

2007-01-03T12:39:00.000-08:00

Breaking: AC Slater will be hosting the Miss America pageant.

The question now stands: Which one will he bang? Pick a state...any state.*
The winner** wins this:

(*note: There are 51, not 50 potential lays here. Don't forget Miss Virgin Islands, people. She's a cute little piece of ass:

(**Grand Prize: Seasons one AND two of Saved by the Bell on DVD.)

The (slightly) Unbearable Heaviness of Being

2006-12-27T21:43:00.000-08:00

I recently had someone of the male species reject me for having some extra pounds*. Now, hey, I’ll admit, it’s been a super-size-me kinda year…Perhaps I should have added a bit less dressing to my salad, gone for single rather than double burgers, ordered Bud Light rather than a Guinness. But when you’ve broken the lower half of your body and it gets fixed, eh, you kinda spend a lot of time celebrating rather than hitting the gym.

But the brutal honesty kinda got me thinking. How many times have I really wanted to reject a man with the TRUTH and used a lame excuse instead? MANY. So I’ve decided to take this opportunity to say what I wish I would have said when breaking up with some of my exes. Because, quite frankly, it was never really me – it was them…

Dear PM,
Your inability to ever get off without me sucking on your thumb was disturbing. Especially because it didn’t involve anything else BUT sucking your thumb.

Dear SW,
You “finish” way too fast. Under 1 minute = a serious psychological problem.

Dear WB,
You have bigger breasts than me (and I’m a D cup).

Dear MK,
You are unbelievably stupid. I think you might actually be borderline retarded.

Dear DC,
Your mother is a fucking psycho.

Dear MJ,
You’re just too old. Your ass is starting to sag.

Dear IH,
You’re short. Like, dwarf short. Sorry - but if you are shorter than me (and I am 5'2", it just can't be).

Dear SM,
Please, get some BOTOX for your eye twitch. PLEASE.

Dear RS,
You wear cropped jackets and tight pants from Diesel. Your repressed homosexuality is troublesome. Listen, I am a HUGE fag hag - so just come out so we can go shopping. Please.

Dear CP,
I slept with your best friend. And I still am.

*For those of you who don’t know me, I am not morbidly obese. I’ve just softened a bit around some curves…

More Things That Look Like Penises

2006-12-20T07:48:00.000-08:00

No wonder Ice-T hasn't done shit since he met this woman.

Sex-ascopes: Volume One

2006-12-14T18:33:00.000-08:00

They say you can judge a book by its cover. To me, this loosely translates into: “you can judge how a man will be in bed based on his profession.” And so, I present to you the first edition of “Sex-ascopes” – a compilation of theories based on personal experiences and the experiences of others. Enjoy and don’t say (in many cases) that I didn’t warn you.

The Lawyer

Esquires are usually pretty good in bed – that is if you like being dominated and cross-examined about what you were REALLY thinking while giving head. They ask a lot of post-coital questions, but no matter what you say they won’t believe the verdict. There’s a joke here about a “hung jury,” but I leave that one up to you.

The Musician

Once a performer, always a performer – meaning, he is NEVER there to play for you. He is thinking of lyrics, rhythms and chords with every single movement – as if your body is some fleshy orchestra. Do NOT be fooled into thinking he is sensitive – he is just clinically depressed. Oh, and he’ll never call. Unless he’s hungry.

The Florist

What? How did he get in here? Honey, he’s gay. And if it really went that far, he’s trying to secure some inheritance. He could be fun to shop with though.

The Chef

Oh, shit. You are really in for it now, bitch, as you will completely fall in love with him by sunrise. Why? Because he will savor you – it will be FANTASTIC sex and, yes, he will stay and make you breakfast – but it’s all to draw you further into his treacherous lair. A word to the wise: chefs will never be faithful – there are too many mouths to feed. Plus, they CANNOT take any form of criticism.

The Fireman

Hot sex. Hot bodies. But do NOT expect conversation. While they will engage in them, you won’t have a fucking clue as to what they are saying. But that’s TOTALLY fine because, like, seriously, just look at him.

The Unemployed

They are the ideal sex buddies. Why? Because they have nothing else to do but you. However, expect them to never leave your apartment – for days at a time – especially if you have any sort of gaming system hooked up to your TV. Oh, and be prepared to proof their resumes, because their “good friend from college” always has something lined up for them. RIIIGHT.

My Random Shit: Ducky Vibrator Edition

2006-12-07T18:17:00.000-08:00

I love a good sex toy. Come on, who doesn't. They give you what you want. They never talk back and they are always there when you need them (with the exception of the "purple turtle" that I left at my ex's apartment - the one he REFUSED to give back to me when we broke up - ladies, if you are dating a LARGE white man whose name is the same as the dumb bartender {no, not Coach} from Cheers and he pulls out a purple turtle vibrator, ask him if he has cleaned it lately).

Anyway, I received this little guy for Christmas two years ago:

I affectionately refer to him as "Lucky Ducky." Now while he is pretty damn cute, I was never really turned on by LD.

I guess there are two reasons.

1. Well, this one is simple - he's a duck. Ducks are actually vicious, vicious creatures, known to attack humans with their death-grip-like beaks (actual reenactment of angry duck, below). The thought of a duck near my clitoris just sounds, oh, i dunno, cruel and unusual. I often like cruel, but not unusual.

2. I could never quite figure out how to use him. Much like I do when I am sizing up a real man in bed, I tried to determine which part of him really knew how to get me off: his beak or his tail? Both worked - I mean anything that gyrates at that speed continuously can pretty much do the trick - but I would always wonder if how I liked it was a reflection of his own best potential.

This took me on a quest. A quest to find a new vibrator, one that wouldn't turn me off upon glancing down. And some of the options I found were a bit, how should I put it, odd:

1. The Retractable Heart:

Aww, how sweet. A heart. It reminds me of being in love. But guess what, when I find myself frequenting my toybox I am usually quite alone, quite NOT in love. Major turnoff. Plus, the name "retractable heart" - yeah that just about sums up most men I know. They can pull back the love in seconds.

2. The She-Shell:

Ouch, sand...Ouch SAND! Why, why do you want a shell-like object near your little lady?

3. X-Calibur Vibe:

Hmmm....A sword. Near my twat. Well, not exactly how I imagined this night would end....

4. Mini-Mouse Vibrator:

Whoever invented this clearly does not live in lower Manhattan. Here we have mice who operate at a much faster speed and the thought of my old furry friends can't come anywhere near my own personal "old furry friend." Ever.

5. Venus Bumblebee:

Ok, seriously. Now you've gone way too fucking far. I'm allergic to bees and if one were to pollinate my delicate lady flower, well, let's just say I wouldn't be able to button my jeans tomorrow. Or sit. Please, please get it away.

So I think I am going to stick (it) to something like this:

After all, if it looks like a man and feels like a man - it must be BETTER than a man.

For People. People Who DON'T Need People.

2006-12-03T15:43:00.000-08:00

if you know me, you know that i hate people. not ALL people, just those in the service industry - namely douchebags who hate their lives and work behind fast food counters.

now, i don't know about you, but i never encounter people like this serving me food:

usually i meet people who look and talk to me as though they are thinking this:

that is why i am so obsessed with a new dive that has just opened in my 'hood. it's called BAMN! and it looks like something straight out of a Japanimation fantasy:

here's what you do. simply go in. decide what you want to eat (it's much easier to make a choice if you are high on weed), talk to NO ONE and then insert 8 quarters into any machine. pull open the tray and BAMN! you get a delicious tasty snack (it's so filling, it's almost a meal).

again, you talk to NO ONE. you place said order with NO ONE. you argue with NO ONE because they fucked up your order. in fact, you CAN'T get a fucked up order at BAMN! because what you see is what you get.

so go ahead, have a "lost in translation"-esque experience. get your food without stopping your important cellphone call, without making any sort of eye contact, without HUMAN INTERACTION. it's actually quite fulfilling. and the food is delicious.

there went the bride...

2006-11-26T01:40:00.000-08:00

a lot of people have been asking me if i am "ok" lately.

i think it has something to do with my ex getting married a few weekends ago. i think this is pretty odd considering i haven't really mentioned him in several years but, for some reason, everyone feels the need to remind me that someone i dated (who said he would never GET married, and they all know this because i TOLD them) got married.

and so, to clear the air, i am going to answer this little misquito bite of a question, once and for all:
when mr. don juan got married i was having a massage in pennsylvania. i was stressing about my job and my freelancing and my book. all of the selfish things that i tend to focus on and which make so many of my friends worry about me "being alone."

after my massage (presumably during the reception), i was getting drunk with my best friend while watching really bad home shopping bullshit and dvds of his very entertaining new cable show (maybe the drinking was an unconscious ode/toast to the groom - considering the way i once knew him to be).
so, to sum up: i was having fun, unwinding from a stressful week of work/play and laughing my fucking ass off.

i did not envy the events transpiring many states away.

i did/do not miss the person going through those motions.

i never wanted to share a life with someone seeking meaning in things not within himself; i never wanted to find myself "in" a family that communicates in such a cold and cryptic and underlyingly contemptous way.

but thank you for your concern. it is sweet. and just so you understand how much i appreciate it - i am registered for "i didn't just get married" gifts at williams-sonoma. and you better get me that friggin gravy bowl.
xoxoxo - me

Child's Play??

2006-11-19T21:18:00.000-08:00

Hmmmm. Now what do we have here? Is this something for a child to play with or something designed to give mommy some play?

I mean, come on...the little guy in there even looks like a certain member of the female anatomy. And yes, I mean the one the rhymes with Dolores.

Is there no hope?

2006-11-07T21:38:00.000-08:00

I know...this story is everywhere - like the plague. But after professing my adoration for K-Fed just a few short weeks ago, I feel as though I must comment on the terribly-fucked-up Tuesday he just had.

As you are well aware, Britney filed for divorce today. It was only after the bitch dropped about 40 lbs., stopped smoking weed and finally realized that she was married to KEVIN FUCKING FEDERLINE that she found the sense to change her life.

I believe she finally started taking meds again - Paxil or Lexipro, I suspect - and finally looked in the mirror (and her wedding album).

Now, yes, it's true - I do/did adore Kevin. But only because he was such a freeloading douchebag. Now, he is just a broke douchebag - the type of asshole I encounter at bars each week, a dude that is desperately longing for talent (of any sort).

I wonder what Kevin is doing tonight. My guess is that he is at a club in Vegas trying desperately to get a handjob from a waitress. It's going to be sad to watch this pitiful fuck try to make a life for himself. It's a good thing he is not into heavier drugs, because then I think he might OD. But I believe the next plan of action for Kevin is to find a nice Vegas stripper (someone who works off the strip - way, way off the strip) and settle down to a life of relative obscurity.

As for Britney? She will be fucking Ryan Phillipe, Justin Timberlake or Colin Farrel in about 75 minutes.

And that is just fucking fabulous.

Personal Obsession: The Quacker Factory

2006-11-03T23:45:00.000-08:00

This is what America is wearing:

The great American designer of our times is not Michael Kors or Donna Karan or even Ralph Lauren. It is this woman:

If you don’t know what the quack I am talking about, I suggest you begin watching qvc (the exclusive seller of The Quacker Factory) immediately. There is a movement of women – primarily in the Midwest and south – who are walking around in shit like this:

And, I kid you not, when they see one another (because, I mean, come the fuck on, there is no mistaking these types of patterns) they, literally, “QUACK.”

These women love HOLIDAYS:

They love really weird combos like PICNICS AND FROGS:

They love GOD:

It should come as NO surprise that Quacker Factory pieces come in ridiculously large sizes. 2X, 3X, 4X…You can bet that women who get forklifted out of their homes are wearing vests like this:

My questions to Quackers are pretty basic:
Why?
Why are you a walking Hallmark card?
Is this a conscious decision to be celibate? (because no man can be turned on by this:

I hope you agree with me, America, I think it’s time we go duck huntin’. Cause “styles” like this just can’t live on:

things that bother me

2006-10-25T21:06:00.000-07:00

i often worry that my lack of patience is going to give me a very early stroke or heart attack. things genuinely bother me on a daily basis - things that i don't think other people ever even think about.

1. whistling - this should be outlawed. it's annoying and it's not a talent of any sort. people who whistle need to be rounded up and brought to a small town, far, far away from civilization so they can blow away their days. if you whistle in front of me - and take this as my warning - i will strike you.

2. girls who pee on the seat - ladies, come on, i know we all hover and straddle but there is no fucking excuse for not wiping up your own piss drip. none. none whatsoever. why? because YOU are the only one who is not disgusted by it. so be a woman - grab some paper and just wipe it away. please. we teach little children about this. (and i am not just talking only about bars here, i mean people in professional settings and 5-star restaurants.)

3. when people ask you "can i ask you a question?" - guess what einstein, you just fucking did. so yes, you can ask me a question - and that was it.

4. new york city men in striped, button-down shirts - everytime i go out to some club or lounge, i always say to my friends "there must have been a sale on button-down stripes this week." why? because it is the ONLY piece of clothing that men in new york seem to wear when they go out on the town. now, do i hate this particular style? NO. but do i hate it when i see 200 of them in a row? YES. try a t-shirt (not with something douche-y like "irish guys do it better") but something with a bit more flair and style. or try a button-down shirt that is NOT striped - maybe one that is a solid color or one that just has a simple design. ANYTHING, ANYTHING but a stripe. Oh, and hetero ny men - stop buying pink shirts - we know you are just wearing them to show your sensitive side and that will NOT work in getting you pussy. Only 5 or so rounds of drinks will.

5. people who cop an attitude when you call and place an order for food - this may just be a new york city thing, i recognize that. but in new york, when you call to order in food, you get this annoyed bitch or cocksucker on the other line. guess what asshole, it is YOUR JOB. you aren't even working the back kitchen or waiting tables. you were delegated to THIS post in life. so, take my order, like you give a shit - and do not, do NOT make the absence of my barbecue sauce your silent fucking protest. (see THIS bitch? this is who i want on the other end.)

Let's Go METS!

2006-10-19T23:38:00.000-07:00

That's right you snarky fuckers - you're done too.

hahah

While it took ravenous tigers to defeat us, all you needed to fade was a pack of red birds...

There they are, chirping around your corpses...whistling around the head of your silly little mascot, pooping upon your palette of orange and blue.

Yes, that's right Mets fans, you mocked us Yankees - belittled us just a few weeks ago and now you have fallen victims too - suffered the same demise.

I scoff. I smirk. I smile.

Sit back down on those cold benches just like we had to two weeks ago. We've been warming them up just for you.

You There - Yes, You - On the Edge of Your Seat

2006-10-19T23:28:00.000-07:00

Oh, sweethearts, I'm sorry.

How I've neglected you over the past few weeks and have made you long for more of my musings...yet I have left you high and dry.

To my three loyal readers (myself included), I have not forgotten about you.

But you know how it is, babies...a girl just gets busy, forgets who loves her, forgets who her daddies are.

I'm still here. Still thinking of snarky, sarcastic bullshit to entertain/bore you with. And trust me, I have come up with many a topic that will soon delight you.

I've just been:
a. drunk
b. tired
c. working
d. baking
e. meditating
f. distracted

But, no, I swear, I'm not blogging to other people, sweeties. I love you. What we have is a good thing, right?

Yes, that's right...come back to me. I'm here. I know it's been cold but I'm back...here to please you, tease you, wrap my arms around you...

Come back. Read me.

REST IN PEACE, LOUIE

2006-09-28T17:46:00.000-07:00

HBO has cancelled my favorite tv show (well, cable tv show - the office is still my favorite).

Yes, Lucky Louie is gone.

What I (and many) of us believed was one of the best shows EVER on tv is done. Dead. Over. Finito.

If you never saw the show, I beg of you to please visit You Tube (http://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=lucky+louie) and see what I am talking about.

Basically it was a typical "family" sitcom but completely made for CABLE TV.

Here are my reasons why it fucking ROCKED:

1. Sure, they could say "cock" "fuck "cunt" "shit" etc - but it wasn't that they COULD curse it's that they spoke just like REAL people do.

2. The fat dude from Overboard was in it.

3. The kid - known on the show as Lucy - was absolutely adorable and a complete fucking "asshole" - as her parents called her on the show. And she really acted like one and they called her on it (albeit privately). I mean, come on, kids really CAN be assholes. About time someone said so.

4. Jim FUCKING Norton. If you don't know who he is - Google. Now. And prepare to listen to one of the funniest comedians working today.

5. Laura Kightlinger - the funniest bitch, ever.

Please, do humanity a favor - visit this site and save the show. Your life depends on it.
http://boards.hbo.com/thread.jspa?threadID=800003569

Happy Birthday, Jimmy

2006-09-24T00:15:00.000-07:00

This week was James Lipton's birthday. Yes THE James Lipton - the Inside the Actors' Studio dude who makes ass kissing a true art form.

Now, I have no real level of fame/talent that would warrant sitting on the stage of that fine show, but, then again I'm not sure the following guests do either (and yes, they have all appeared on the show):

Tim Allen
Teri Hatcher
Queen Latifah
Martin Lawrence
Jay Leno
Jennifer Lopez (they fucking talked about ANACONDA, people)
Will Smith (i mean, i love him, but COME ON)
The Cast of "The Simpsons"
Mark Wahlberg
Barbara Walters
The Cast of "Will and Grace"

While I do recognize that each of these people have provided moments of entertainment, I do not think they are worthy of being on this show. You know that every single time the students showed up for one of these tapings, they were sorely disappointed that it was not Pacino, DeNiro, Streep, etc. (you know, kinda like the time I went to Conan and Gregory Hines was the first guest - I mean, yeah, he was talented (rest in peace) but come on...when he is your lead guest, it doesn't really get much better).

That is why I am taking the vain opportunity to answer the show's closing questionnaire for your enjoyment. I also welcome your responses to the same questions.

What is your favorite word? - Hope
What is your least favorite word? - (it's more of a phrase) Calm down
What turns you on? Kindness
What turns you off? Yelling
What is your favorite curse word? Fuck
What sound or noise do you love? making people laugh
What sound or noise do you hate? Yelling - and those silent seconds after a driver hits on the breaks and you don't know if there will be a crash or not
What profession other than your own would you like to attempt? Teaching
What profession would you not like to do? anything involving numbers
If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates? (two things really) "You never have to worry again" and "The bar is to the left and it's always happy hour"

obscure 80s reference of the day

2006-09-21T21:51:00.000-07:00

my random shit

2006-09-21T20:39:00.000-07:00

"Their stuff is shit and your shit is stuff."
-George Carlin

We all have lots of stuff, shit, crap, etc.

To kick off my new virtual diary, I am introducing what I hope to be a regular series in my blogging life - "My Random Shit"

In this inaugural edition, I give you this:

Yes, this is a Winlite lighter with a picture of Abraham-mother-fucking-Lincoln.
Let me begin by stating that I did not BUY this particular piece of my shit but rather I FOUND it in a cab. And let me say that it was a truly proud moment in my life. Here is why:

1. Abe Lincoln is a hot piece of ass. Come on, you know it. You know he boned, like, mad slaves back in his day and those newly-freed women flocked to it and loved it. "I'll emancipate yours if you emancipate mine"

2. I love random shit. When I first picked it up, I thought that someone had affixed the Lincoln sticker to it. I mean, who the FUCK would buy this. Wait, wait - what company would MAKE it? What was that meeting like?

"Johnson, if you don't come up with a new lighter image. You are fired. It's been three years and all you've given us are some tie-dye designs and that stupid fucking kitten-of-the-month series."

"Um, ok, sir. Um" (johnson clearly has NOTHING. in fact, he spent all night playing Playstation with his college roommate who works in finance and bought every single piece of furniture in the apartment. Johnson has contributed NOTHING - except many, many kitten-of-the-month lighters for the bong.)

(enter Nancy, the sweet receptionist.)

"Um, Jim, here is your change from your lunch." (nancy hands him a crisp 5-spot)

LIGHTBULB.

3. Because finding a Taft lighter would have just fucking sucked.

I want my MTV

2006-09-21T20:11:00.000-07:00

i want my MTV (originally posted in august)

watching the MTV Awards just makes me feel...old.

Here are a few of my beefs:
1. These non "boy band" boy bands - i can't tell the fucking difference between AFI, Fall Out Boy, All American Rejects,that Panic! band, the list goes on and on. Don't get me wrong - i have heard their SONGS - but all of their lead singers look exactly the same and, i swear, the all have the same house band. Don't tell me that's a different drummer each time. NO FUCKING WAY. And the haircuts - well, don't even get me started. (oh and note to Jordan Catalano - you look like a fucking asshole. Please go make a movie.)

2. The non-stage, stage -- Why do they insist on having such a weird format? Why can't there be a real stage and shit? It looked like a WWF Sunday morning show the way they all came out and stood in the crowd. They all looked confused, lost and - especially the women - looked distracted because they knew fans of Acuvue and Diet Coke sweepstakes were behind them, staring at their asses and looking for any pockets of cellulite. They whole point of being a celebrity is to be inaccessible and admired from a far, no?
3. Lou Reed -- Let me first say that I love Lou Reed. But he was so horribly out of place tonight. However, he was the only person in the room that looked like a fucking rock star, so I guess it's ok.

4. John Norris's hair -- WHAT THE FUCK, dude? You are John Norris. You are the shit and you don't need to try to look youthful and cool. You are a fucking MTV institution but that doesn't mean you need to try and bronze your hair like a fucking moon man. When you die they will do that and put you on Madonna's mantel. Come off the ledge and AGE. Just look at Lou Reed. Ok, wait, bad example. Look at Axl Rose. Shit, ok again, bad example.

5. Rap Intros -- I am all down for hip hop. All day, any day. But can someone please explain to me why there is always a big fucking puerto rican guy acting like a DJ and yelling complete nonsense into a microphone before the act takes the stage? We don't know your "crew" so don't shout it out - we DO know it's 2006 (dude, it's, like september, that memo is way old now) so you don't have to remind us...

6. Paris Hilton is not a musician. She is a homemade porn star. End of discussion. Please stop humoring her. Please.

7. Axl Rose -- What does MTV pay him each year to come out like some old fucking relic? It must be one hell of a sum because it is ALL he does - that's it. One appearance a year. Well, at least they don't let him sing, so thank you MTV.

8. God -- My beef here may surprise you. It doesn't bother me that black performers thank God first in their speeches. I think it's humbling. My beef is that WHITE people never do. Do none of us believe in God, let alone give him a shout out? Notice that white people thank their parents first most of the time. Why? Because Mom and Dad let them practice in their big suburban garage and gave them money for drugs. Crackers, at least PRETEND you struggled to make it this far. You know, the way Vanilla Ice did.

9. Jennifer Lopez -- You are NOT Ali McGraw. Take off the fucking turbans and show the world your weave, ur, hair....

10. Pink - I love you. So why do you insist on acting like the bitch who is too cool to be in the room? Like the spoiled rich kid (see number 8) who is dragged somewhere against her will? Grow up.

11. Non-Boy Band Boy Band Lead Singers' Girlfriends -- (read that slowly, you'll know who I mean) - If not, just go back and look at the tape and watch out for the girls in Bebe dresses who are hysterical crying because the first guy they blew just won a moon man. You're smart ladies - you are getting a head start (haha, no pun intended) on those tears. Why? Because he is about to dump your ass for a porn star or a Pussycat Doll. You WERE the hot piece of ass back in the burbs of Detroit or Central Jersey, but now the song and dance is about to come to an end. UNLESS, you become bi and denounce monogomy - then, and only then, he might just stay.

12. The Ringtone Award - I have nothing to say here. MTV is ashamed enough already and they know it. Although this didn't have a corporate sponsor, so I am a bit perplexed it happened at all.

13. Britney and K-Fed -- hahaha, let's joke about how we're bad, selfish and irresponsible parents....hahahha - Dumbasses, we are laughing AT you, not with you. And we are on the phone with child services.

14. The Show as a Whole - Can someone tell me WHEN videos actually air on MTV? No, seriously. Do they play them? OHHH - from 5-7 am, you say? Well, considering I am neither a crystal meth addict nor the mother of a newborn baby, that would explain why I haven't seen a video on MTV since about 1994. And I think it was a Hole video which is even more fucked up. Why don't you just stop dicking around MTV and give us an award show we can truly have an opinion on. Categories could include things like Super-est Sweet 16, Pimpest Ride, Most Excessive Crib, Biggest Douchebag on Laguna Beach, Biggest Cliche on the Real World, Punk'iest Punk, Hottest MILF on Date My Mom....you get the picture.

I want my MTV, really I do. I just want it to rock again