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It’s common knowledge that when girls get together, all we talk about is lip gloss, guys, and fashion. Right?

Heh.

Not my girlfriends. When we get together, we talk about the finer points of life: blow jobs, farts, and personal grooming habits of our lady bits.

We’re a classy bunch.

I was lucky enough to meet these ladies about a year and a half ago when I caught an ad on Craigslist for a book club. Really, though, the group was made up of a hodgepodge collection of girls who had recently transplanted to California for a variety of reasons, all of whom were really only looking to make some friends.

It seems I was the only nerd actually looking for a book club.

Anyway, fate threw us together, and a shared love for all things taboo took care of the rest. The “book club,” while still technically operational, quickly dropped in importance and gave way to weekly girls’ nights and the occasional drunken fiasco.

It was truly the best of times.

Alas, for everything there is a season. One of those skeezes up and moved back to Boston six months ago to be with her family. Another followed suit a few months later, trading California for Oregon. Still another is scheduled to flee the country to Greece this coming June.

Whores.

Needless to say, when we do manage to get everybody back together in the same place, magic happens. Which is exactly what went down last weekend. We had a full four days of everybody back within the same general geographic location. So we made the most of it.

We ate our weight in deliciously crappy food. We had a slumber party. I busted out my lip-syncing skills. We held an impromptu dance-off. We did things in front of each other that no girl should *ever* witness her girlfriends do.

Frankly, I am uncomfortable with the level of comfort we have reached with each other.

But I’m grateful for it. My socially awkward self has found a niche in which my inappropriate and lewd comments are not only accepted but encouraged.

Exhibit A:
(sitting around smoking hookah in a hookah bar – because, yes, we are rebellious 18 year-olds – and discussing the relative merits of anal sex)

Me: Boston loves anal sex.

Boston: Totally, I do.*

Me: I think it’s overrated.

Boston: You finally tried it?

Me: Yeah. Not so into it.

Hookah Guy comes over to refill our hookah, a fact to which I, clearly excited over all this talk about anal, am completely oblivious.

Greece: Maybe that’s because you did it while you were camping.

Me: (offended, and therefore even louder and more boisterous than usual) Dude, we didn’t do anal in a tent in the woods. (pause) We were at a resort!

Awkward silence ensues when I realize to my horror that Hookah Guy is standing in front of us. My friends erupt into hysterical laughter as Hookah Guy gives an amused half-smile and lingers for much longer than necessary, clearly hoping for more dirty details.

I know you’re wondering how these girls could possibly want to move away from all this goodness. Also, Hookah Guy wandered by every 5 minutes for the rest of the night. I am pretty sure I have my picture on their wall now.

* I may be taking creative liberties here. That’s maybe not exactly how her portion of the dialogue played out. But it’s my blog and I do what I want.

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I’ve been doing some self-discovery lately.

Not that kind of self-discovery, you dirty birds. Today’s post has nothing to do with manual exploration, empowering speeches, and a handheld mirror.*

I will, however, take advantage of the fact that I’ve already delved into awkward territory to tell you about the most notable event of my day. This morning, whilst I stumbled bleary-eyed into the bathroom, I looked down and saw – what’s this? –

A feather.

In my skivvies.

It was a mildly disturbing discovery which, seeing as I didn’t hit any strip clubs last night, led me to the only logical conclusion – that Big Bird snuck in my window and accosted me in my sleep. And given the lack of discomfort that you would typically associate with being overpowered by a big ass bird, I couldn’t have been protesting too much. Apparently a sleepy me is a willing participant in just about anything.

But that’s not the only thing I’ve learned about myself lately. Oh no – I’ve been on a fact-finding mission these last couple of days. A few of the other tidbits of wisdom I’ve acquired:

~ I can make an alarmingly large dent in a 3-lb. tub of chocolate cookie dough. By myself. Within a 24-hour period. This after I spent all of last week eating leftover cupcakes from my sister’s baby shower. I’m sure to be bikini ready by Monday.

~ I apparently exude saint-like vibes. Or really devilish ones. I can’t be certain. But for whatever reason, I received a follow request from “Disciples Like Jesus” on Twitter. So I looked them up, and they’re a group that shares tips about how to raise your child biblically or to be Jesus-like or something along those lines. So naturally they would want to follow me. Because clearly I am ultra religious with my slovenly ways and propensity for swearing.

~ I need to stop drinking. OK, this isn’t truly something that’s just come to my attention, but after last Thursday’s two bottles of wine and awakening from a semi-comatose state to discover I’ve been having a very one-sided conversation about “mushroom kitchens”** for twenty minutes while my boyfriend once again questioned why he is still with me, I think it’s time to tone it down. After vacation, of course. Because you haven’t really seen a foreign country until you’ve stumbled drunkenly down its streets.

And that’s all for today’s lesson, kids. Tune in next time for “More Things You Didn’t Really Care to Know About Me and Now Hope Desperately to Forget.”

* Please don’t tell me you’ve never seen Fried Green Tomatoes.

** I’m still fairly certain I was trying to say “mushroom chicken” because obviously I spend a little too much time thinking about food. My boyfriend swears it was “mushroom kitchen,” though, and apparently I then began talking about Mario Brothers, so maybe he’s onto something. All I know is that I regained consciousness to him staring at me and the distinct feeling I had just been talking. Heh. Fail.

I don’t want it to sound like I’m complaining because I know most people would kill to do it, but working from home can have its drawbacks.  At least people who work outside of the home don’t have to be forced to engage in basic hygiene. But since I spend most of the day in my house not seeing anyone, the bar keeps creeping lower and lower.

I brushed my teeth today at 11 am. I finally put a bra on at 2:00. The only reason I’m not still in my pajamas right now is because I realized in a panic at 2:40 that I offered to pick my little brother up from school today which prompted a mad dash for jeans and a quick comb through the hair before I ran out the door. And when I got back? Straight back to my slippers.

At least I didn’t put my pajamas back on.