“In a sense, that story kind of makes me feel good about myself, because no way would it take people 35 years to notice I was gone. No way. Maybe a year, max.”

“A year, Jenny? Right. If I didn’t hear from you in a week, I’d definitely notice.”

“A lot can happen in a week, Nat.”

“Like what?”

“Like my cats could eat my face by then. You know they’d do it, too.”

“Well, I won’t argue with that.”

“That would be just like them, too. I can’t get them to eat this expensive all-meat cat food, but they’d totally eat my face, given the chance.”

“Why your face?”

“Spite.”

Then I drew them a diagram over dessert:

“Wow. Why do you look like Riff Raff from Rocky Horror when you’re dead?”

“BECAUSE MY CATS ATE MY FACE! Way to make fun of my misery.”

Nat tried to smooth things over and show her concern by asking how I had died. It wasn’t entirely clear to investigators, but it was most likely because I tripped on a cat toy, or a summer sausage.

The how doesn’t really matter, it’s all about the when. I just really don’t want to end up like that Croatian lady. I mean, seriously, how embarrassing. A couple years, maybe, but 35? Not me. I’m going to make it my business to ensure that a) people expect to hear from me at least every week and b) my cats become vegetarians.

I want to own a platypus so badly that it hurts.

Part bird, part reptile, part mammal? With venomous spurs on its back legs? If anyone is looking for ideas on what to buy me for Christmas, look no further. That's all I have to say. I hope to have other more important thoughts next week.

The Morning Of…
… was when I tried to fit in at least a few essential sightseeing activities since it’s been over a decade since I’ve been to Philadelphia. My friends Natasha, Farnsworth and Dee-Dee decided join me in Philly, so we all started off the day with a trip to the Reading Market.

I was so sad that I jumped at the first food opportunity and filled my belly with a stupid (albeit tasty) almond polenta cake because I would find out minutes later that mere steps away stood the Amish lunch counter where they served HOMEMADE CHICKEN POT PIES and APPLE DUMPLINGS. I didn’t even know apple dumplings were real - I thought it was just the name of the gang. Once again, the Amish get everything right.

Next we got our history on by checking out the Liberty Bell. A Japanese tourist in front of me was confused and disappointed to learn that he couldn’t bring a knife with a 5” blade into the building, nor could he throw it outside for the kids to play with. “Whatever happened to the right to bear arms?” is what I almost said, but I was being strip searched at the time.

After I took Dee-Dee’s picture in back of the bell, because no one could get past the droves of tourists in front of the bell (apparently, if you can’t see the crack, it’s just like any other bell), we headed over to Philosopher’s Hall, which is what I like to call the Poor Man’s Independence Hall, mostly because it’s the only option for those of us who didn’t plan ahead and get tickets for Independence Hall.

The Evening Of…
… actually began in the late afternoon. Vahid, Dustin, Dave and I all arrived at the Northbowl Lounge and Lanes around 3:30pm to stake our claim on some seats to prepare for the actual event. If you could have videotaped me walking up the steps to the upstairs lounge, you would have seen a 10-year old child who just got a Wii for Christmas.

I flipped my wig, seriously. I think this is a direct quote, “Ohmigod you guys! Ohmigod! I’m freaking out! This is so perfect! There’s no one here! Ohmigod! Look – they have Family Guy! Ohmigod it’s Ms. Pacman! You guys this is so awesome! I am so happy! I can’t even tell you how happy I am! Ohmigod it’s a Spiderman pinball! Oh wait I don’t think I’ve ever played Spiderman pinball so I don’t know if I should be excited about that one but anyway! Ohmigod you guys! Everyone is going to love this! Ohmigod! I’m so happy!”

The guys kindly humored me as I bounced around like a total freak for another 15 minutes or so, and then they ordered some food. When the menu came, it was Dustin’s turn: “Ohmigod you guys ohmigod! You didn’t tell me they had seven kinds of tater tots here! Ohmigod I’m so happy! Seven kinds – are you kidding me? I’m so happy right now!”

But really, the space was just perfect. Huge, open seating areas with comfy leather couches, three pool tables, video games, pinball machines, a separate bar, and not a soul up there. Oh, except for a bunch of 13-year old girls having a birthday party. We kept giving them the stink eye every time they even thought about sitting down on one of “our” couches.

The only thing that could have made it better for me is if my TequilaCon co-founder and personal life coach – Brandon – could have been there. I did the next best thing, though, and ensured that he would appear in more photos and in more compromising positions than he ever would have accomplished in real life. He was everywhere… watching over us all, popping up in the unlikeliest of places.

Dave set up the awesome swag table with his lanyards and buttons, and I set out the official TequilaProm mix CD’s. I was in charge of dance hits, while Brandon sent us his love from afar by compiling the greatest assortment of 80’s love ballads ever known to man.

Lisa and her husband, Dude, were the first to arrive and I was so excited not only to meet them, but to have some more bodies to keep the teenyboppers away from our couches. Shortly thereafter, more and more bloggers started to wander in, including my friends Seamus and Dr. Greene who had just arrived from DC.

I can’t even begin to sum up all that occurred that night, but it involved a ton of:

o Laughing
o Pinballing
o Tater totting
o Brandoning
o Mustaching
o Foosballing
o Dancing
o Tattooing
o Singing
o Voicemailing
o And a little bit of drinking

It was absolutely everything I had hoped for and more – but why did they have to close at 2am? There were so many people I didn't get to spend enough time with!

The Day After…
… was my last chance to spend a little more time with everyone before they headed off to their respective homes, as well as my final opportunity to see more of Philadelphia. Everyone had raved to me about the Frida Kahlo exhibit at the Philadelphia Art Museum, so Dee-Dee, Dustin, Vahid, Dave and I went there after breakfast.

My planning skills were clearly burnt out, because it never even occurred to me that we might have trouble getting tickets to THE MOST POPULAR ART EXHIBIT IN THE CITY at noon on a Sunday during its final two weeks. The earliest they could fit us in was four hours later, so we had to take a pass on Frida because she hates bloggers. She always has.

Instead, we just wandered around the art museum and looked at paintings of baby Jesuses and dead pheasants and transgendered Little Lord Fauntleroys. At one point, as we made our way through the contemporary art section, I transformed into a pre-pubescent boy and made myself cry laughing by pointing at abstract portraits and telling Vahid and Dustin, “That’s your girlfriend!”

I probably will not be asked back to the Philadelphia Art Museum.

No trip to Philadelphia would be complete, of course, without the obligatory photo in front of the statue of the founder of Pennsylvania, Rocky Balboa.

Some other stuff happened, like when Dee-Dee met some women in a public restroom who confessed that Steak Escape is way better than Geno’s cheese steaks, but I think we’re all pretty tired by now.

So in conclusion:

1. Bloggers = awesome
2. Philadelphia = awesome
3. Tequilacon = awesome
4. Rocky = awesome
5. That painting = Dustin and Vahid’s girlfriend

A million thanks to everyone who attended and made this such a fun-filled event, and a Brazilian thanks to Dave, Dustin, Vahid, Brandon and the extended Pacific Northwest planning committee who helped make this a total success! Until next year…

That's who.

I need to go get some lunch before I can write my real TequilaCon post. Now where can I get a good cheese steak in this two-bit town?

Oh.

My.

Head.

Except this time, I earned every bit of my headache. It was so worth it! Details when I get home...

As I was choosing between chocolate and tapioca pudding Snak-paks (I ultimately got both), I looked over and saw a man standing by the milk. At first, he looked like any other man – a regular Joe – but then I noticed something on his head. He was mostly bald, and had his head shaven like all the hip guys do, but along the top of his head he had grown the tiniest of blonde faux-hawks. It was no more than three hairs wide.

I initially thought, “Who in their right mind would try to grow a faux-hawk with only three hairs?” but then I realized what a triumphant tale this really was. Here was this man who had barely any hair on his head, but he said to himself, “I want a faux-hawk, and dammit, I’ll have a faux-hawk.”

And so he did.

I guess what it made me realize is that it doesn’t matter if you only have three hairs on your head or one-half of one functioning nostril, life is what you make of it. So I’m just going to pull myself up by the boot straps, keep sucking on these ginger-ale flavored Vitamin C drops, and start packing my bags, because tomorrow I’m going to TequilaCon. I’m not going to be at my best and brightest, but fortunately, there will be another 50 people there to keep the party going.

I’ll try to post some highlights along the way… but will save all the juicy details for when I return. Be good while I’m gone, and keep rockin’ it 3-hairs wide!

I feel a little better now that I got that out. Feel free to add any annoyances of your own.

His phone rang. It was the theme song from Caddyshack.

I'm alright
Nobody worry 'bout me
Why you got to gimme a fight?
Can't you just let it be?

I liked him even less.

I’m alright
Nobody worry ‘bout…

“Hello?”

“No, this is his brother.”

“No, he’s not here.”

“No, he doesn’t have any other phones.”

“No, you can’t reach him anywhere. He’s really difficult to get a hold of because he’s in the witness protection program.”

“The witness protection program. With the FBI.”

“Yeah. Bye.”

So I began to wonder if a) this man had just revealed to a stranger that his brother was in the witness protection program, or b) this man had just discovered the best way to end telemarketing calls ever.

But then he proceeded to belch after each sip of his coffee for the remaining five minutes of my ride, and the witness protection program started to sound like paradise.

My next class is this Thursday, and so far, I have about 100 pictures of bricks, bricks, alley, bulldozer in alley, bricks, door, cocktails, train tracks, bricks, another door, some more bricks, rusty fence, pine cone, pine tree, stick, grass, broken pine cone, clump of sap, bricks and bricks. When I whittle that down to just 50, it’s going to be the most interesting collection of brick photos this instructor has ever seen.

In my tireless pursuit of becoming drunk, my friend Natasha and I decided to begin taking wine tasting classes last week as well. I found that even in wine tasting, I still want to be the best student. After our first sip, the instructor asked us what we tasted.

I swished and swirled and smacked my tongue and said, “I get a definite pear taste, followed by a citrus finish.”

She kind of nodded patronizingly and said, “Okay, so what else?”

Then Nat chimes in with, “I don’t know… it tastes kind of herby to me.”

The teacher flashed her a huge smile and said, “Excellent! There is a delicate basil undertone in this one! Very good!”

I was like, Herby? That’s not even a word.

Then we moved on to reds and I tried to redeem myself by calling out the strong blackberry in the Sangiovese we were drinking, but before I could swallow, Natasha yelled, “It tastes like dinner!”

The teacher just about jumped over the table to congratulate Nat on her sophisticated palate, because apparently there was something meaty and spicy in this wine that few people can pick up on.

Clearly, I was not meant to be the Wine Tasting 101 teacher’s pet. My only saving grace was that the teacher had to keep yelling at Nat for holding the glass by the bowl. If you could meld Natasha’s keen sense of taste with my unparalleled ability to hold a glass by the stem, you would have the most unstoppable oenophile this country has ever seen.

Nat says we should take master sommelier classes. I’m not so sure she’s wrong. Think of all the amazing photos I could take – wine bottle, cork, cork, corkscrew, wine glass, bigger wine glass, cork, table, white wine glass, cork and cork.

Your Slogan Should Be

Jenny. First Man, then Machine

So what's your slogan?

(Stolen from Michelle.)

[via Neatorama]

Let me repeat my earlier warning one last time:

If you are:
a) uncomfortable with the topic of sex toys and self-love, or
b) in any way related to me.
… please know that you are reading at your own risk. PG-13 entries will resume later this week.

Read Part One here

Read Part Two Here

“Oh! I know what I want to show you!”

I turned around and she had one more vibrator in her hand. She adjusted this one some more, searching for something. As she walked toward me, I felt a unique sense of pride in my accomplishments. I had held almost every vibrator in the store, learned the proper techniques for the care and maintenance of glass dildos, and discovered that vaginal barbells exist. I was confident that my level of discomfort had finally reached its plateau.

Looking back on that moment, I now realize just how naïve I was.

“This one has some amazing settings, but let me show you the best way to really tell the difference…”

She walked toward me holding the buzzing device. My false veneer of bravado began to splinter as she got closer and closer. Everything started to move in slow motion at that point – I reached out my hand, saw her slowly shake her head from side to side, then watched in a state of paralysis as she lifted the machine up toward my face, adjusted the settings, and then pressed the vibrator against the tip of my nose.

This bears repeating: a complete stranger held a display model vibrator against my face.

The second I felt the vibrations, the adult toy store became a scene from The Matrix, where everyone was frozen in mid-air and the camera spun around us 360º, except instead of watching a bullet whiz by my chest, I was able to see the sound vibrations from the OrgMaster 3000 as it reached the tip of my nose.

Once time unfroze again – which seemed like hours later – all I could say was “Wow,” and inch back ever so slightly from the vibrator pressed against my face. Without taking my eyes off the sales woman, in the event that she had any other ideas about live demos, I felt around on the table blindly for one of the models she had demonstrated earlier.

I drew back a fistful of silicone and said, “Want. Buy. I go now.”

At that moment, a man walked into the store, looked at me and said, “Oh! My wife just got that model. She loves it! The best part is…”

“Sold!”

I had to get the hell out of there, and the only thing I had left, the only shred of modesty I could retain, was that I would refuse to listen to what this man’s wife did with the vibrator I was about to buy.

“Excellent choice! Pink or fuschia?”

“Fuschia?”

“Good call.”

I grabbed my discrete brown paper bag and sprinted out the door.

They say that when you share a traumatic experience with someone, it bonds you to them forever. While we may have been perfect strangers when she held that vibrator to my nose, today, I’d take a bullet for that adult toy store sales woman. I can never look her in the eyes again, but I’d totally take a bullet for her.

My first foray into the world of adult toys was an eye-opening one for me. If you can learn anything from Old John Henry and me, it’s this: you can’t fight progress, unless you want to die trying. You may as well just submit to the machines, because as history has proven, they’ll beat you time and again. And again. And again. Oh, god. And again.

If you decide to donate to RAINN as part of this awareness campaign, be sure to write “GBBMC2008” in the “More Information” box and note that you came from Run Jen Run. And if you’re interested in joining all the other bloggers promoting this cause, you can sign up at Kevin’s site through April 15th. Thanks!

Click here to donate!

Let me repeat my earlier warning:

If you are:
a) uncomfortable with the topic of sex toys and self-love, or
b) in any way related to me. You know who you are.
… please know that you are reading at your own risk. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Read Part One here

Part Two

“What can I help you find?”

I stood there silently for a moment, without turning around, then carefully slid the Tantric Sex DVD back onto the shelf, took a deep breath and exhaled, “I think I’m in the market for a vibrator.”

The sales clerk was blonde and heavily tattooed. She flashed me a smile and said, “Great, do you have anything specific in mind, or just want me to show you around?”

This was the moment I had been expecting, which was why I had spent countless hours on the Internet preparing myself to be able to talk the talk. I had done my research and was going to convince her that I was no newbie.

“I’ve heard good things about the Pearl Whisper. Do you carry it?”

She seemed a bit surprised, but said, “Oh, definitely – it’s over here.”

It became immediately clear to me that Toys in Babeland needed to add some sort of gauge – like maybe a dollar bill – next to all the photos on their site for scale purposes, because what the saleswoman lugged over to me was the size and shape of a fire hydrant. An opalescent blue fire hydrant with 12 different speeds.

My cover was blown.

“Oh my god! That’s enormous – are you kidding me?!”

She laughed out loud, “Yeah, it gets that reaction sometimes. Let me show you something else.”

She took a very serious, almost clinical approach to showing me around. It was kind of like shopping for a car, as she walked through all the features and functionality, and had me hold each model to test drive it, so to speak, as she cycled through the various settings.

The entire store was humming like a power plant. Suddenly, I felt like Goldilocks in a forest of sex toys. This one was too small, that one too big. This one had no battery life, that one was too loud.

She had no idea how completely uncomfortable I was. I was masterful in my deception. It was just like when I went to Munich in college, not knowing a word of German. I found that if you shouted and pointed with enough authority, people assumed that they were the dumb ones for not being able to understand you.

“Hey!” I yelled. “What’s that one all about? Ohmigod, is that supposed to be a rat?”

“It’s actually a dog.”

“Why does it have claws?”

There were dogs and rabbits and mice and dolphins, and it became very clear to me that I didn’t want anything with a face, let alone claws.

We rolled our eyes and laughed and bonded.

For all the fake confidence I mustered, I could still feel that my cheeks were giving me away. At one point, she picked up one of the models and fiddled with the settings a bit until she found the one she was looking for. She grabbed my hand and placed the vibrator in it.

“There. Feel that? Yeah, that’s the one. Feel the thump, thump, thump?”

I did, but I had assumed it was the vein in my temple about to burst due to the unprecedented levels of blood rushing to my face.

“What’s that?” I pointed, desperate to change the subject.

It looked like one of those clackety-clacker toys you had as a kid – two balls on the end of a string that smacked together, inevitably smashing your fingers.

“Oh – those are for your kegel exercises. You just insert that like a tampon and wear it around all day. Helps build up your muscles, and feels really nice, like a clit piercing.”

“Ah. Mmm hmm. I see.”

I was feeling light-headed, but soldiered on.

“Oh! I know what I want to show you!”

I turned around and she had one more vibrator in her hand. She adjusted this one some more, searching for something. As she walked toward me, I felt a unique sense of pride in my accomplishments. I had held almost every vibrator in the store, learned the proper techniques for the care and maintenance of glass dildos, and discovered the existence of vaginal barbells. I was confident that my level of discomfort had finally reached its plateau.

Looking back on that moment, I now realize just how naïve I was.

[To Be Continued]

If you decide to donate to RAINN as part of this awareness campaign, be sure to write “GBBMC2008” in the “More Information” box and note that you came from Run Jen Run. And if you’re interested in joining all the other bloggers promoting this cause, you can sign up at Kevin’s site through April 15th. Thanks!

Click here to donate!

Here’s the scoop from Kevin’s site:

“April is National Sexual Assault Awareness and Prevention Month, and it’s a big month for the Rape and Incest National Network (RAINN). The organization’s goal is to raise enough money to be able to offer victims of sexual abuse, sexual assault and rape an online hotline offering counseling and assistance 24 hours a day, seven days a week. RAINN’s Chelsea Bowers, Kevin Apgar and Sexography author Carly Milne have banded together to launch a one-of-a-kind online fundraising event to help RAINN reach that goal… but they need your help! All you have to do is do what you already do – blog, but with a twist.

Carly’s book, Sexography, is both a tragic and comedic memoirs about her journey of sexual self-discovery. And now, it’s your turn to blog your own version of Sexography. Even if you’re not a “sex writer” per se, we want to encourage you to explore the comedy, fear, silliness, scariness, million-and-one emotions and million-and-one experiences that are mental, physical, emotional and spiritual, all of which make up the rich tapestry of sexuality.”

So since sex is a topic I rarely cover, I figured now was as good a time as any to break that barrier. A few quick notes, though:

If you are:
a) uncomfortable with the topic of sex toys and self-love, or
b) in any way related to me…
… please know that you are reading at your own risk. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Steel Drivin’ Man – Part One

I had walked past the store dozens of times, always glancing in without being too conspicuous.

Tulip, an Intimate Toy Gallery, the sign said. The delicate lace curtains spoke of a Martha Stewartly quiet elegance, but the leather whip and harness in the window told me otherwise. As I would peek in the welcoming yet daunting doorway, I would catch a glimpse of row upon row of cheerful, brightly colored silicone apparatuses.

For all my perceived open-mindedness, I had to admit that I was a bit of a sexual luddite when it came to self-love. Some habits die hard. As with any form of technology, there are the “early adopters,” the “me-too’s,” and the “Ohmigod, how is it possible you don’t already own one of those’s?”

I just recently figured out how to text message, so it should be clear into which category I fell.

But much like John Henry, that steel drivin’ man, I was a believer in the human spirit. As the tale goes, that salesman came to town with promises of a machine that could do the work of ten railmen, better and faster. Old John knew that no steam engine could out-pace the brute force of his pounding flesh, and I felt exactly the same way.

“T’ain’t no machine can beat me,” I thought.

Over time, though, curiosity started to itch at me like a fresh mosquito bite on my ankle. What if it’s true, what they say? What if this technology is the wave of the future? What if it really is faster, better, more efficient than me? Do I want to end up like poor John Henry, a dead winner?

So I decided that I would go into that store, but not right away. First I needed to educate myself so as not to seem the rube. I hit the Internet hard, spending time on all the key sites: Good Vibrations, Come as You Are, Toys in Babeland, all of them. I studied the makes and models, read customer reviews, learning everything about battery life, charging time, noise level and portability.

I was ready.

It was a Wednesday evening when I finally walked into my local adult toy store. I remember this because it was a calculated decision. I didn’t want to go there too close to the weekend, lest I seem like I had nothing better to do, and too early in the week just seemed wrong, like going to a bar at 10:00am.

It was a small store – intimate, just like the tagline said – and made me feel like I was walking into one of those exclusive clothing boutiques in the hipster neighborhoods. You know the ones – where each table has only one sweater lying perfectly in the center so you don’t dare touch it. Except here, the center table was stacked high with every possible type of vibrator known to woman.

Like a ninja, I slithered along the walls, past the nipple clamps and ball gags, toward the bookshelves. I’m just here to read, because I’m a reader, I said to myself. There was one other customer in the store, and she was at the checkout counter, so I quickly occupied myself by perusing the lesbian erotica section, admiring the collection of hand-blown glass dildos, and flipping through the position-a-day calendar to see what was on my birthday… until finally I heard the words I was dreading:

“What can I help you find?”

[To Be Continued]

If you decide to donate to RAINN as part of this awareness campaign, be sure to write “GBBMC2008” in the “More Information” box and note that you came from Run Jen Run. And if you’re interested in joining all the other bloggers promoting this cause, you can sign up at Kevin’s site through April 15th. Thanks!

Click here to donate!

Tonight, as I was sitting on my couch eating dried apricots, I had somewhat of an epiphany. This will be the year of Ja’net. Yes, I’ve selected Ja’net Dubois, or more specifically, her character Willona from Good Times, to guide me through 2008.

I seriously want her exact outfit here, including the hat:

Top 5 Reasons You Should Love Willona:
a. She’s funny *and* foxy.
b. She’s sassy. She doesn’t take lip from anybody, especially not Bookman, the superintendent.
c. She’s got a big heart, like when she takes in Penny (Hey! Isn’t that Janet Jackson?) from her abusive home.
d. No one looks finer in a jumpsuit.
e. She co-wrote and sang the theme song to The Jeffersons. Well, Ja’net did, not Willona.

And that is why Willona Woods is my 2008 sponsor. I see good times in my future. Good times, indeed.