Oh, the places we went. . .

Definitely not a portfolio of our 24 years together…just what I happened to have in iPhoto. . .the last photo, our first. and I think only, selfie captures both of us best. We have fun together.20130121-122160_7-DSC_6158IMG_1413 IMG_0132 P1090524 IMG_0066 IMG_1977 20090516-2617_0-DSC00159 DSC_0789 IMG_0128

Pathetic Pick-up Lines

You know those situations where, when they happen you’re too discombobulated to say anything coherent. . .then, a few minutes or maybe an hour later, you slap your own forehead and say, “Damn, why didn’t I say that?”

In the last two months or so, I’ve been in situations where I probably should have first slapped the forehead of the person involved. Looking back, though, that probably wouldn’t have been a wise course of action. But both instances did make me wonder what the hell some men are thinking. . .

The first incident happened when I was on a mission in Walmart. “Mission” defined as a trip not involving aimlessly wandering around the store, lollygagging in the pen and notebook aisle (I know…such a nerd), or allowing people with fewer items to step in front of me in line. Mission means I’m in, I grab what I need, I’m out.

I was on my way to work at the clinic, so I was wearing leggings, a scrub top and my rather beat-up Asics. Generally, what I wear to Walmart is not mention-worthy; however, it does factor into the story. I finally reach my car, which is in an area of the parking lot so far away from the store entrance it probably has a different zip code. Just as I’m placing the last bag in the truck, I spot a car behind mine, seeming as if the driver intends to turn to go down the next lane.

But, no.

I hear, “Excuse me, miss. Can I ask you a question?”

Being ever-polite and hyper-helpful, I answer, “Sure.”

That’s when I note the man driving the car, which itself was likely in great condition about ten years ago, is about five times my size, wearing his hat backwards, and sporting an abundance of gold on his person…including his teeth.

He says, “If I give you my phone number, would you call me? I was following you around the store, but I didn’t want to bother you cuz you looked like you was in a hurry. So, when you left, I just followed you to your car…”

I’m stunned. Like whacked with a baseball bat kind of stunned.

What I said then, “Um…absolutely not.” (and dashed into my car)

What I wish I would have said: “Oh, but yes, I’ll not only call you, I’ll carve your phone number into my hand. Because I’ve been dreaming of the day when a man would be made so breathless seeing me wearing doggie-decorated scrubs and leggings with pulls from cat claws and scruffy shoes that he would stalk me in, not only the store I’m shopping in, but the parking lot. A man sporting ten pounds of gold, who’s not working in the middle of the day and is driving a vehicle in need of first aid is surely a catch. Wait right there while I call my husband, five children and grandkids to tell them not to expect me at Thanksgiving.”

Then, yesterday, I’m schlepping three twelve-packs of Coke Zero into my trunk, when I hear someone talking behind me. I turn around to find two men in a truck have stopped behind my car, and the one in the passenger seat–wearing a goofy grin–says, “You can put Cokes in my trunk anytime.”

What I said then: “Sure, that’s going to happen.”

What I wish I would have said: “You’re an idiot. Is that the best pick-up line you can manage? Of course, it’s the end of the work day, and we’re in a Walgreens parking lot, so it’s probably not the prime time and place for you to be seductive. But the only way I’d ever be putting Cokes in your trunk is if you were an elephant.”

 

Parking lots. Putting bags in my trunk. Dressing frumpy. These three things together seem to be problematic for me.

 

 

 

Keeping up with the Jonesing…a wearable sex tracker for a penis

A Fitbit for a penis.

I’m not joking.

It’s called Lovely (aka the wearable sex tracker), and it’s a project on Indigogo, a crowdfunding site. The goal of the campaign is to reach $95,000 by early July, and then it will be released for  $169. As of Monday night when I wrote this post, 174 people have funded $19, 710 in the past week.

According to the information on the Indigogo page:

Lovely monitors your body movements during sex and sends this data to the Lovely App. The App will suggest you new positions to try next time, show how many calories you burned during sex, what was your top speed and more. 

And no worries…the App will be available for Android and iOS, and will include a “beautiful docking station for your nightstand…” Because, of course, where else would you want to put your Lovely if not into something beautiful?
The page also features picture of the early prototypes, but thankfully it doesn’t detail who determined and how, what the size of the opening for the penis should be…it’s a one size fits all.
A few of my musings and features I find amusing:
1. It’s available in four colors…why? I’m disappointed it doesn’t glow in the dark. One would imagine that would add to the fun of using this little bit of happiness.
2. It will indicate the number of calories burned and provide the context. So, as the site shows, if your fun burned 131 calories, that’s equivalent to fourteen minutes of jogging.  Seriously? That’s not the context I or, dare I say, most women want to know. Tell us if we’ve just burned off the after-dinner tiramisu cake or gelato. Or we could have just had a glass of wine instead, which clearly would not require twenty-six minutes (fun time for 131 calories) to consume.
3. The Lovely also tells the man’s top speed. Duh. Did these people miss the men are microwaves women are crock pot analogy? Hell, if I want speed, I’ll drive on the Autobahn.
4. 832 moves recorded. Dear God. If they’re basing this on the twenty-six minutes, that’s thirty-two moves a minute. What is this, a boot camp workout?
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5. This little gadget not only vibrates, it provides personalized tips, ” with more detailed suggestions based on your unique style of lovemaking.” The example shown on their page suggests longer foreplay next time and a position between 68 and 70. Pictures are provided for visual learners, and there’s a database of 120 positions. So, those tips could be deflating if you open the screen and read, “Okay, Sam, you’re pathetic. Look up the definition of the word ‘foreplay.’ It is not a golf term.” Maybe newer models will talk to you during sex with commands like, “slower, faster, no–not there, are you awake?”
6. What I think could be one of the most dangerous aspects of this toy for some men is that it provides a history of previous encounters. Try explaining going sixteen miles per hour on your Lovely when you were supposed to be in your office.
There seems to be a built-in assumption that all of this data reflects a pleasurable sex life. But it’s only measuring the penis activity. Hmmm….
I’m thinking if some people need a sexual activity tracker with eight different features and an app to “enhance” their sex lives, they might want to first take a closer look at who’s wearing the Lovely. Because I don’t think just wearing a Lovely makes you lovely.

Hush

I love Pablo Neruda’s poetry; it is exquisite. If you go to this link on brain pickings where I found this poem, you can hear it read by Sylvia Boorstein.

“KEEPING QUIET”

by Pablo Neruda
Now we will count to twelve

and we will all keep still.
For once on the face of the earth,

let’s not speak in any language;

let’s stop for one second,

and not move our arms so much.
It would be an exotic moment

without rush, without engines;

we would all be together

in a sudden strangeness.
Fisherman in the cold sea

would not harm whales

and the man gathering salt

would look at his hurt hands.
Those who prepare green wars,

wars with gas, wars with fire,

victories with no survivors,

would put on clean clothes

and walk about with their brothers

in the shade, doing nothing.

 

What I want should not be confused

with total inactivity.

Life is what it is about;

I want no truck with death.
If we were not so single-minded

about keeping our lives moving,

and for once could do nothing,

perhaps a huge silence

might interrupt this sadness

of never understanding ourselves

and of threatening ourselves with death.

Perhaps the earth can teach us

as when everything seems dead

and later proves to be alive.
Now I’ll count up to twelve

and you keep quiet and I will go.