oopsie daisy

Is that a request or a statement?

I'd like to take a moment to thank this fellow for the endless hours of laughter he brought into my life this past weekend.

Love is Blind. And by love, I mean meaningless sex.

In a meeting yesterday with the Sales Team, we were killing time while everyone gathered in the conference room, and the conversation turned to how blind we all are.

Co-worker: My contact lens prescription is -4.0.

Me: Oh, I've got you beat. I'm -8.5.

Co-worker: NEGATIVE EIGHT POINT FIVE? You're blind!

Me: Totally. I'm so blind that if I didn't have my contacts in during sex, I'd have no idea who I was fucking.

A few minutes later, a guy walked past the conference room.

Co-worker: Who was that guy?

Me: I didn't see him. Was he cute?

Co-worker: Not really.

Me: So... what you're saying is, I'd have to take my contacts out?

Which, considering some of the dudes I've dated, isn't the worst idea I've ever had.

A post in which daisy tries to avoid a fatal concussion

I'm having dinner with my mother a few days ago, and, as usual, she can't resist taking one of her usual jabs at how much I suck as a daughter...

"I haven't even SEEN your apartment since you got the new furniture," she chastises. (See, the furniture came from her old house in Palm Springs and if I were a good daughter, you know one who didn't cause her to shake her head and say things like, "I must be a total failure as a mother," then I would have immediately invited her over to see my coffee table and headboard in their new habitat. Because apparently when you become a mother, things like that are interesting. Which I don't get as I'd rather pluck my arm hairs out one by one than go to someone's house to see her new couch. Which is yet another reason I'd make a horrible mother, or, you know, friend. But I digress...)

"That reminds me," I say. "Um, so, with a headboard. Are you just supposed to, you know, push the bed frame against it to keep it up?"

"Yes," she answers.

"So there's nothing else I'm supposed to do? I'm not supposed to, you know, attach it to anything or something like that?"

"No," she says like it's so sad she gave birth to a complete moron, "Just push the frame against it."

And I reply, "okay," because going into further detail and explaining to my mother than while the new wicker headboard is quite pleasing in terms of aesthetics, it's also quite heavy, especially when it falls on top of your head during sex.

So while I usually trust my mom on everything apartment-related (really, the woman is a genius; I had a question about where to find an old-fashioned doorknob, and she knew the exact place to go - ooooh, look! I just said something nice about the woman who pushed me out of her vagina. See? I'm not the worst daughter in the world after all!), it's quite clear that this time, I am going to have to branch out and solve the problem on my own.

Fast forward to daisy at Cole Hardware, probably the only shop in the whole world that is of absolute zero interest to me. But a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do so....

After explaining my problem to two people, I am finally directed to a man in the screw aisle. I wish there were another name for it, believe me, but that's what it is. The aisle with all the screws and nuts and... yeah. Anyway.

"How can I help you?" the employee asks.

"I need a way to connect my headboard and my bed frame," I say, ensuring that I've now explained m obvious problem to every single employee in the store. "Can you help me with that?"

So he starts going on about all the things I'm going to need and oddly, the fact that I don't own a drill doesn't help change his mind about whether or not I'm going to actually need one, so I ask what any girl in my position (yup, that was another bad sex joke), would ask:

"What if I just took some rope and tied it all together?"

"No, no, no," he shakes his head. "Because you see, when you start going like this--" at which point he moves his hands violently back and forth-- "and like THIS--" starts moving them enthusiastically up and down and up down-- "the bed will move across the floor like this--" moves one hand away-- "and the headboard will go like this--" collapses other hand on what I can only imagine at this point in the demonstration is my head.

So, um, at least he gets it.

We talk for a few more minutes and decide that I need to go home and measure the width of my headboard and the diameter of the holes in my bed frame. Only he actually draws a picture of a circle with a line through the center to show me what to measure because apparently I don't look like the kind of girl who knows what the word "diameter" means. Which, based on the situation, is fair, I think.

I take the piece of paper with the drawings on it and thank him for his help. I then proceed to walk around the store for a few minutes, pretending to look at at extension cords, light bulbs, and hammers until he finally goes over to help a man who is making a huge decision about hinges, at which point, I duck into aisle three, grab a length of nylon rope, and book it to the cash register.

And, as far as I can tell, using 25 feet of rope to tie your bed frame to your headboard is a perfectly acceptable solution.

Now all that's left to find out is just how well I was paying attention at camp on the day we learned to tie sailing knots... And no, that is not a challenge.

It was labeled "Fun 3" which really makes me wonder about "Fun 1, 2 and 6." Except, well, not really.

It should come as no surprise that I've dated some weirdos. There was the guy who wrote me obsessive amounts of poetry, the guy who gave me his 2-foot long ponytail after he cut it off (and then demanded it back when I broke up with him), the gay guy, the gayer guy, the gayest guy, and the guy with the teenie-tiny, itsy-bitsy little penis who couldn't for the life of him figure out why I wasn't interested.

That being said, I've also dated some normal people. You know, guys who tuck in their button-down shirts or whatever, and yes, that is my definition of normal because when you've dated all the freaks in the world, your barometer for what's "acceptable behavior" tends to be lowered. At this point, pretty much any dude who has at least three shirts from Banana Republic falls into my "normal" category. 

Anyway, a few months ago, when one of my "normal" exes responded to a text message I sent about his football team with a mention of a "naughty dream" he'd had about me a few nights before, I just laughed it off. After all, he was one of the few normal ones. He had at least 15 shirts from Banana Republic and a dozen or more from Brooks Brothers. He must be joking, I thought. Testing the waters to see what happens if he starts flirting... Gauging interest in whether or not I'm at all still interested... Nothing that he'd keep doing.

But then... This:

"You were pretty amazing and loving it! Very graphic. You were strapped down on my bed..." (um, I cannot continue writing what he put in his text because I am actually BLUSHING as I type this. Me. Blushing. I know. This is what happens when 50% of your office reads your blog. You start censoring.)

I didn't respond to this one as I didn't want to encourage him, after all, we stopped dating over FIVE years ago and though I love him to death, I didn't think that starting some bizarre series of dirty text messages was in the best interest of our friendship.

But then... This:

"Let's just say that I was so turned on that I took some pics and video. Maybe I'll share later."

At this point, I was pretty confused. Pics and video? I honestly wasn't sure what he was talking about, assumed that in the dream he was filming, but decided I did not need the details. So I said nothing.

Nine hours later: "No response?"

Me: "Not quite sure what to say. :)"

That text was supposed to translate into, "You're kind of freaking me out" with the smiley face showcasing a tight-lipped, questioning smile, but instead it must have translated into, "Oh baby, give me more. You're so hot. Just like that," with the smiley face showcasing some grossly-exaggerated Penthouse orgasm because he followed up with:

"Yeah. You would have loved it. You want pics?"

To which I just didn't respond because honestly, what on earth was he talking about and what had happened to my nice NORMAL ex-boyfriend who wears khakis and blue button-downs and owns several suits?

A few days later, I got a text notifying me that he'd sent me a "multimedia message" that I could view in the next 5 days. Anyone has an iPhone knows that when someone sends you picture mail, you have to go to a stupid website that never actually works and type in a message ID and password in order to see what the person sent you.

This ex-boyfriend tends to be very sweet and sends me things like pictures of lambs frolicking on farms (lambies are my favorite!), so I didn't think twice about it, and a few days later at work, was like, "Oh, I should look at the picture that my super normal ex-boyfriend texted me!"

So I went to the website, typed in the ID and password, and suddenly on my huge over-sized monitor on my work computer:

A hand slowly stroking an erect penis.

His hand. And his erect penis. And yes, I only determined that after I went home, poured myself a glass of wine and made myself watch the video in its entirety.

You'll be disappointed to hear: No Money Shot.

He'll be disappointed to hear: he has no career as a cinematographer, though in this economic times, I would encourage him to consider an acting gig in the adult film industry. After all, people cut back on lunches and they may stop getting manicures, but no one stops buying porn.