"Yeah, this is Ariel. I met you in the ball pit at Chuck E. Cheese?"

I consider myself a fairly good example of the post(?) modern American woman. I buy my own stuff. I pay my own rent. I own a power drill. And I've been known to take out the trash. However, I still get hung up on that most archaic aspect of dating, "calling the guy." We meet, we're talking, my body language is screaming "ME LIKEY!" And then they hand me a business card. Or a cocktail napkin. Or a matchbook. "You should give me a call," they purr. Eaaagh. Whhhhhyyyyyyy? Why do I have to call? Why can't you just call me, so I feel special, and innocent, like a baby deer innocently nibbling on the dew grass as your big gorilla ass is behind a tree, waiting to pounce? Why do I, Ms. Ariel, Queen of Independent Thought and Action, have to get sweaty palms and sticky fingers that slide all over my cell phone keypad as I take a deep breath and start to dial?

The Mating Game, Chapter MCXXXXXVIII

I meet Bob. Bob is really cute and funny. He buys me dinner and calls me "sugar" on our first date. We go out again. And again. He introduces me to all his friends. We screw like frenzied chimps under extreme diress. We talk about the future, leaning dangerously close towards "we" and "us". He's dreamy. I'm goofily optimistic, blabbing to everyone from my friends to the cleaning lady. Then, suddenly, it happens. The phone no longer rings. Bob is nowhere to be found. Once the calls have been made to the local hospitals, police stations, and morgue, "Sugar" is disappointed, betrayed, furious. "Why the hell can't he just tell me what's going on?" I rage at my friends, who nod sympathetically and gently push the bottle of Cuervo in my direction. "I don't understand. If he's not into it, then just call me and say that!!!" I snuffle loudly, lick salt off my hand and deep throat the Cuervo.

Fast forward three months. I meet Bill. Bill is kinda cute and funny. He takes me to a super fancy place for dinner and calls me "Petal" on our first date. We go out again. And again. He introduces me to all his friends. We're about to screw like frenzi--hmmm, I don't know about Bill. He's just not doing it for me. He ALWAYS wants to hang out, he's always touching me, he keeps looking at me with these big puppy dog eyes. Jesus. Waaay too intense. Then suddenly, it happens. Bill's calls go directly to voice mail, and are not returned. I am nowhere to be found.

Because They Can.

So the other day I got a call from my friend -- the guy who can fellate himself. Who, by the way, will always be known as they guy who can fellate himself, because it is equally fascinating and repulsive to me all at the same time. I mean, we've all watched the family dog lick its balls and comment, "Man, if I could do that, I'd never leave the house." But... seriously. I mean, man or woman, just because you can do it, does that really mean you should?

An Orange and A Grapefruit walk into a bar...

OK, I'm not quite sure how to ask this, but...here goes...

*deep breath*

Does...everyone have one spherical-shaped appendage just slightly larger than the other?

If You Look Beyond That "Weird Ass Thing," He's a Pretty Cool Guy

As anyone who's ever read this blog can tell ya, I'm a bit of an ass man. So, for my money, the single greatest thing in the world is being on the business end of a 69. Equally spectacular is seeing a fair lass assume the "ready for action" stance on all fours, waiting eagerly for me to stop reading from my dogeared copy of The Great Gatsby and go to work.

Problem is, I'm something of a watcher. That is to say, as I move in for the kill, I often find myself mesmerized -- almost hypnotized -- by the round ass before me. Suddenly, I'm the 6 year old kid finding a shiny new bike under the Christmas tree -- Holy Jesus! A girl's ass! -- and I just have to stop and admire it for a while. Literally. As in just sorta staring at it, gently rubbing my hands over it, for a long stretch o' time. Thing is, I've found through the years, it doesn't do much for the Kenette in question.

"What are you doing back there?" they'll typically ask. Others kinda casually glance back, making sure I'm still actually in the room. One former Kenette, increasingly frustrated with my modus operandi, asked for a pillow and a magazine to keep her busy while I went through the motions.

Why bring all this up? Because the other day, against my better judgment, I slipped out to Panera Bread for lunch ["Have you tried the roast beef? It's only $9.65 today!"], and ran into an old friend of said former Kenette. It was one of those awkward, incredibly uncomfortable neither-of-us-has-anything-to-say-to-each-other-so-we-babble-incessantly-for-twenty-minutes things, and at one point, she inevitably offered an update on the Kenette.

"She's doing great," she said. "Actually, your name came up the other day. We were talking about old boyfriends, and she said, 'if you look beyond that weird ass thing, Ken was a pretty cool guy.'"

It's official. Time to move to the west coast.

Suit Up and Show Up, Yo.

Hey, what I love about the good 'ol USA is that we can wear what we want, where we want, when we want. Flip flops at Christmas dinner? Pass the peas, please. A baby doll t-shirt at the company retreat? Love the Hooters knock off, Trisha, and what do you think about starting an office recycling program? A midrif-baring haltertop at Aunt Bernice's funeral? Well...maybe just stick to the back pews at the Church, Ariel.
Now that's progressive. But I will admit, under extreme duress, (like, now) that I set the women's movement back about 50 years when I put on a certain tiiiiyyyght shirt that shows every curve. Or a certain pair of jeans that causes traffic jams and a possible yeast infection. Because these clothes make up the uniform that says, I want to get laid. Dammit. Now, that doesn't mean that my wearing the outfit means you automatically got the fast lane pass to Arieldise. Think of it more like you're at the grocery store and a new checkout lane just opened up. You may not be first in line, but you'll move a lot quicker!

My Weekend List

1. Replace bandages every hour.

2. Stock up on Motrin.

3. Ice as necessary.

4. Have that talk with the Kenette about using her teeth.

The O Face

This is it, folks. The only face that's worth a damn in this crazy, mixed-up world. And what's so brilliant is that the uglier the O-Face is, the more superfantasticglorious it is. When you've truly lost all control, when your motor skills drop dead and your facial muscles go out for cigarettes, and your synapses are engaged in mortal combat, then you have uncovered the secrets of the universe. And Lord, it aint pretty. See, the O-Face should look like you're taking the biggest shit of your life, you're passing kidney stones, you're trying to solve quantum physics whilst each of your toes is being slowly sawn off. Also this is the easiest way to spot a faker. If your partner's O-face is remotely attractive, i.e. they look like they're auditioning for "American Idol" or air-kissing imaginary puppies, then you need to either kick 'em to the curb or brush up on your lovemaking skills.

Monday Ultimate Grudge Match

Okay, so some of the comments and e-mails regarding the "BJ face" post indicated that the "vag face" is so much hotter. Well, says I, let's put it to a vote. Is it the "BJ face" or the "vag face"?





Also, can I go on record as stating that nothing looks so hot but sounds so ugly as the "vag face."

Almost as Good as the Real Thing

Last night, over a couple dozen beers, my buddy Jenga and I decided that the only thing cooler than seeing a chick give an actual blow job, is seeing a chick give the "bj face."

So to all you women out there who routinely give the bj face -- whether it's to crack up your friends, poke fun at a homeless dude, or subconsciously seduce the entire male population of the Beacon Hill Pub -- I proudly say: Excellent work! Please... do not stop.

I'm Obsessed With A Stripper

Dating strippers may be the stuff of legends, or at least a decent letter to Hustler Magazine. And yet, I seem to find their leftovers. As in, "yeah, my ex was a stripper."
Oh Jesus. Now most women would get up, thank Joe or Bob for the free drink or steak dinner and rush home to catch the last 10 minutes of The Daily Show. But not me. I sit there, rooted to the spot. Then questions start falling out of my mouth,uncontrollably, like farts in church: Was she totally hot? Was she tall? Did she have fake boobs or real ones? Was she an amazing dancer? Did she have any tan lines? Brazilian wax?
And of course, the piece de resistance: was she fucking unbelieveable in bed?
I can't help it. It just intimidates the hell out of me. It's like going to the gym to meet my new personal trainer and saying, well, my last trainer was The Rock, so what's your story?
I know I know, it's totally overrated, strippers are usually fucked up in the head, it's difficult to date when you know you have to "share", blah blah blah. But when I stand there in my new Vickie's Secret number, while you may find me cute I don't believe that you will suddenly have the urge to throw dollar bills at me, order a lap dance, or write a hit song.

Never as Bad As The First Time

Before I lost my virginity, I did a lot of research. As in, I read every trashy, bodice-ripping, dog-eared Harlequin novel I could get my hands on. I fully expected it to be exactly as it played out on the page: breathlessly my heaving (not quite fully developed) breasts would quiver as his tongue flicked my...well, you get the idea. And then, as he gently, so gently pressed his burning member inside of me, we would both explode in waves of pleasure, rocking back and forth in a perfectly harmonious, perfectly-timed orgasm. Fuck, yeah.

When my friends would share their first time experiences, it sounded less than stellar. Uncomfortable. Painful. Way too quick to even cull some decent corset-popping lines of description. Huh, I sniffed. They must not have done it right. Amateurs.

Then, finally, it was my turn. And it was awkward. Uncomfortable. REALLY REALLY painful. And I was furious. What the fuck? Where's my orgasmic waves of pleasure? We must not have done it right! So I made him do it again. And again. And again.

Nope, nothing. I think it took a couple of years before I actually had the whole breathless, heaving, exploding waves of nirvana experience. And it really wasn't the poor dudes' fault. I had a head full of terrifically bad fantasy prose and absolutely no clue about my own body. Until I put the books aside and focused on working with what was handed to me, then it got much better.

P.S.--Perhaps that's why we chicks hit our prime as we get older. It's God's way of making up for all those shitty practice runs. Future MLFs of the world, unite!

At Last, a Business Concept I Can Get Behind

So I'm in another of those infamous company meetings yesterday; this one a "brain storming" session to conjure some new marketing gimmicks out of dead air. The meeting took an interesting turn, for me at least, when a manager from our "supplier relations" group -- a gorgeous Spanish girl with a small waist, a big round ass and thick lips -- explained her strategy for getting more leads from our vendors.

"I'm just gonna keep stroking them for leads."

So she says this. And I blink. And I say no way did I just hear that.

But she goes on to say that she "isn't stroking them enough and has to start stroking them a bit more."

And I'm looking around for Ashton Kutcher to come bounding out of the closet. But it never happens. And I look around at the mostly female crowd in the room and they all just sort of keep scribbling in their notebooks, as if they never heard it.

So my question is: When did the concept of "stroking" hit the business vernacular? Also, why the fuck am I working for this company when it's clearly our vendors who are having all the fun?

Reality is an illusion that occurs due to the lack of alcohol. -- Anonymous

adamGirlBeer2small 2, originally uploaded by arielbaby.

Meredith Baxter Birney on Family Ti--wait, let me start over. Dr. Meredith Grey on Grey's Anatomy was saying last night she was on a celibacy diet, which meant she couldn't drink, because when she drank she would have sex--with all the wrong guys. Which got me to wondering, as I consulted with Drs. Ben & Jerry--would I too be celibate if I didn't drink? Would my numbers be so high if I had refused, rather than gladly accepted, that proffered Seagram's Fruit Berry Punch cooler at Melissa's 13th birthday party, the illustrious commencement of my drinking career? If it weren't for the seductive, inhibition-crushing, beer-goggling elixir, would I be *gasp* a virgin today?!?!?