Jane Blog

August 17, 2004

So all day I’ve been dying to blog about my Sat night in New York. I was all dressed up in a black sundress and knockoff knockoff manolo blahniks waiting in the uber ultra Gansevoort lobby when Richard picked me up and told me to go back upstairs and change into pajamas.
Me: “Why?”
Richard: “Because I’m taking you to a cuddle party.”
Me: “A sex party?”
(At this point I was thinking the rich boy had some kinks, not that anything really scares me off except bad breath)
Richard: “Not a sex party. A cuddle party.”

Since I have no pajamas and he said a teddy was out (which made me wonder if he was gay even though he went down on me like a champ Friday night), I confusedly (yes, it’s a word, judgey people, although judgey is not) put on my sweats and a jogbra and we left.

Ten minutes later, we arrived at the upper east side apartment of a 30ish woman who’s name is either Orite or Allright. She had a beautifully decorated one bedroom penthouse that she pays $6000 a month for. No wonder she needs a hug! She introduced herself as the “cuddle lifeguard” and then told us some of the rules: no alcohol, no risqué outfits (wow, my computer did that accent all by itself!), no dry humping, arrive on time, be hygienically savvy… as she rambled on, I looked at Richard and started hating him. Why would he take me to this thing on my one big night out?! Later he explained that everyone in Manhattan is talking about it and he thought it might be fun. Fun to me = having a drink and making out. I’m not twelve! And even when I was twelve I was having a drink and making out!

But the truth is, the night ended up being okay. As Richard cuddled me, he discreetly gave me a big O during which I remained silent. I’m normally pretty vocal, but I was so fearful that the cuddlemonsters would kick us out that I changed my style. And then I passed out – and not on alcohol, just on good ol’ hand sex & huggin'. At the end of the night, Orite or Norite called for everybody to make a puppy pile in the middle of the floor, so we did. And I stuck my foot in a bearded guy’s mouth by accident. Richard and I then went back to the hotel for some sex (the real kind, not this cuddle bullshit) and Olympics.

I was glad we went to the cuddle party, but never again. Call me crazy, but there’s something uncomfortable about being in some lady’s apartment touching strangers… unless the stranger is someone you met the weekend before.

August 16, 2004

Just got back from NY and am exhausted and sexed out. Yes, sexed out. Here’s what happened: When I got there Friday night Richard picked me up in a town car and we went straight to the Plaza for champagne and oysters. I felt like Eloise, but drunk and ovulating. It’s the first time since sophomore year of college that a guy has asked me tons of ?s about myself and actually seemed to care. (Back then I had gazillion nice boys after me which sent me straight into a bad boy phase that’s lasted ten years to date.)

Meanwhile, I ended up taking the advice I gave to Frog Prince when Richard kissed me next to the fountain in front of the Plaza where Carrie and Big broke up when he went off and married the tall brunette… although in my case the fountain wasn’t even running because of a broken fuse to a sprinkler, at least I think that’s what the maintenance guy said in lispy Spanglish. Anyway, Richard kissed me and it was very wet, very slimy, very 'Captain Shitty Kisser'. So I said that I needed to walk… and as we walked along Fifth Avenue, I told Richard about my boy Frog Prince who needed kissing advice, and mid-way through my explanation of the “tasting frozen yogurt” technique, Richard grabbed me and gave me a not-so-shitty kiss! Which led to not-shitty-at-all Gansevoort hotel room sex! But the best part was the post-sex watching of the tivo’d Olympic opening ceremony with room service BLT’s and beers. Life was good on Friday night.

What was interesting to me (that I couldn’t discuss w/Richard) was that I used to be really into Irish guys, but not so much in this parade of athletes. Truth is, the hottest Olympians of all? The guys from Iraq. I’m serious, they all had gorgeous olive complexions and bright white teeth and absolutely perfect facial bone structure; if you looked up "sexy men" in the dictionary (if that was actually a word or a phrase), those darn Iraqis would be all over the page. The guys from Spain were cute, too, but definitely not as cute as those Baghdad boys. And if you’re into blonds, the Netherlands have that down pat – tons of Leonardo Dicaprio looking types back when he looked Titanic-y and before he started dating Giselle Ostrich.

But back to Richard. He had to work most of the weekend and was very apologetic, but I understood, cause making money is time consuming, I guess. But I managed on my own – went to Soho, the Statue of Liberty, Empire State Building, Ellis Island, Central Park. I’m lying, I lounged by the pool at the Gansevoort and drank white wine. But I did go to Soho for garlic fries. Must sleep now so I don’t shear someone’s head off tomorrow. xo

August 13, 2004

Yay, it’s Answer Friday and I’m getting on a plane in five hours! Must try to nag/flirt my way into first class. But for now, onto some pressing issues:

Dear Jane,
Can guys fake orgasms?
June
Anchorage, Alaska

June,
In Alaska, I’m not so sure, but I live in LA where most guys are actors, so they can fake ANYTHING. Here’s what would happen: they’d make groany moany sounds and then a big “aaaaaugh!” and then they’d run off to the bathroom and flush the empty condom. So if you’re really wondering whether your guy is a fakey fake, get your paws on that rubber before he runs to flush! Or slip a tiny video camera into the reservoir tip before sex.
xo,
j

Dear Jane,
This question was ironically inspired by one of your recent blog entries. I've heard a lot of girls complain about bad kissers before but they never say what MAKES it bad. What do girls look for in kissing (besides a clean mouth cuz I can take care of that part)? I just don't wanna end up being someone else's "Captain Shitty Kisser." If it's not too much trouble please answer. Thanks.
Frog Prince
Kansas City

Dear Frog Prince,
Don’t let your tongue sit there like a limp noodle, but don’t let it be a roto rooter either. It should be somewhere in between, kind of a swirly thing, like you’re tasting frozen yogurt in slow motion. And if the other action (humping, touching, etc ) gets heated, then the tongue movement should accelerate – in blender speak from a swirl to a whip, but definitely not a puree. Hey, I just realized that you've inspired me to come up with the perfect advice to give MY Captain when I see him! Thanks, Frog Prince! Good luck to us both!
xo,
j

Dear Jane,
I’ve been with the same guy for 8 years and I don’t think he’s going to marry me. I’m 36 and feel my biological clock ticking. What should I do?
Sally
Atlanta

Dear Sally,
Here’s what you should do: Get a clue and break up with him! Eggs, unlike delicious sperm, don’t last forever.
xo,
j

Thassit! Have a great weekend. Will report back on my adventures with Captain SK on Monday! Meanwhile, if you want to see more “Good Girls Don’t”, send a quick email to [email protected]

August 12, 2004

So yesterday Mary Kay LeTourneau was released from prison and she’s not supposed to contact former pupil and lovah Vili Fualaau (just the name alone sounds like he’s good in bed). And supposedly he really wants to see her now! I realize that she was 34 and he was 12 when they boinked and that’s not right at all (although I did read that he reached puberty at 10, but still it’s not right, don’t attack me everyone.)

The point is NOW Mary Kay is 43 and he’s 21 so why keep them apart? They’re both consenting adults, they should be allowed to live their sad, white trash, dysfunctional lives like the rest of America! Plus, she has 2 kids with him and 4 of her own so it’s not like her life is gonna be a big party (unless she starts having sex with ‘em! Kidding, that would be wrong.) Mary Kay’ll be stuck in peanut butter & jelly sandwiches and dirty laundry and sippy cups for the next twenty years! So let the poor chick have a little fun. She just spent almost a decade in jail where the only sex she probably got was with the toilet plunger (Did anyone else see that old Linda Blair prison movie? It kinda traumatized/turned me on.) Bottom line, you don’t see Tony Randall getting yelled at because he dated a woman half his age. Okay, he’s dead, but still. Some live examples: Catherine Zeta Jones and Michael Douglas, Nick Cage and that teenaged sushi waitress (bet she gave him the large sake when he ordered the small; good thinkin’ lincoln!) Demi and Ashton (yay face lifts), and let’s not forget Cameron and Justin who I believe are back together much to my chagrin because he was supposed to be MY boyfriend. I have to repeat, I’m not advocating having sex with minors at all and I’m certainly not into it myself. Although the WB network does have some young hotties on that don’t look half bad. But actors on TV who play 16 are usually 30 in real life, so I wouldn't be robbing the cradle, I'd actually be in it.

Just googled the Linda Blair movie: It’s called “Chained Heat” and is about a girl stuck in prison with sadistic crack-selling lesbian rapist inmates. That, to me, is a great date movie. Speaking of dates, gotta start packing now for date weekend in NY with Captain Shitty Kisser!

August 11, 2004

So this lady with long brown stringy hair came into the salon and asked if she could get her hair cut and I replied: “Sure, but I need ten minutes to finish up with a client. Have a seat and help yourself to some herbal tea.” And then she FREAKED out and started screaming at me that I’m lazy. Now granted, I AM lazy, but at this particular moment I was blow-drying a shag, fucker! Anyway, the impatient bitch then ran out of the salon but forgot her purse. I kinda wanted to steal everything in it, but my client was watching so I took the high road and followed stringhead out the door to give her back her stringy yellow macramé purse (big ew). And here’s the clincheroo: her car was a Toyota Tercel that had the passenger seat removed so her three huge dogs could fit inside -- two giant great danes (what’s so “great” about cleaning up shit the size of your own head?) and a massive greyhound. I asked her why she removed the passenger seat, I mean, wouldn’t it be easier to get a bigger car since you own three of the largest pets known to mankind? And she snapped back: “Because people suck!” Well, right this second, I’m agreeing with you lady. If I knew you were gonna be such an asshole, I would've gotten peroxide in your eyes and then pretended to sneeze so I wouldn’t get in trouble/sued. (I didn’t say all that, but I should’ve. Instead I think I said “oh.”)

So if any of you ever see a Toyota Tercel with the passenger seat missing and 3 very sad giant dogs in it, feel free to give the driver the finger… or slap an annoying decal onto her rear windshield like the Calvin and Hobbes kid pissing.

Okay, I gotta admit, after having a glass of wine mid-blog (trader joe’s charles shaw merlot $1.99 a bottle), I now have an eentsy bit of compassion for stupid dog lady. She probably prefers animals to people cause she grew up getting felt up and f#@ked by her immediate and extended family at the Thanksgiving table. Or she just hates people.

August 10, 2004

Does the fact that the Olsen twins bought a 7.5 million dollar house make anyone else want to kill themselves? Just askin’.

So Captain Shitty Kisser already called from New York and said he wants to send me a plane ticket to come visit AND he’ll get me a room at the Hotel Gansevoort in the meat packing district. Well, I just googled the hotel and it’s the one from sex and the city with the heated rooftop pool w/underwater music. And the cheapest room is $435 a night. But should I go knowing that he can’t kiss worth shit? (hence the nickname) Knowing that the touch of his tongue made me barf a little of my Nobu halibut up in my mouth? Does it make me a prostitute to take the ticket and hotel room and enjoy myself anyway? And is being a prostitute that bad? I mean, I’ve always kinda wanted to give it a whirl – but in a ‘Pretty Woman’ type way, not in an HIV positive way. Come to think of it, in Pretty Woman, Julia Roberts did everything BUT kiss, so maybe that’s my answer. I’ll do everything but kiss him! (maybe not anal, though, I save that for special times… although, we will be in the meat packing district…)

Okay, I just called him and told him I’ll definitely come, so he’s having his assistant fedex the ticket and I’ll get there Friday night. We had a very nice, fun conversation and I was really happy that I’d made the decision to go until the end when he said goodbye and made a smacking kissy noise, that grossed me out big time. God, he can’t even phone-kiss well!! But I’m bound for Manhattan anyway. Must steal stuff from hotel including huge fluffy robe if possible. And remote control, but only if it’s bolted down. You don’t trust me? I don’t like you.

August 9, 2004

So get this: A millionaire banker wants to marry me! Well, I’m not sure he wants to marry me but he’s definitely after my ass (and that thing on the other side of my ass). I was finishing up a 310 woman’s bob when her 212 banker son stopped by and immediately asked me if I was free that night. And I had to think about it for a dot. I mean, does going to Bella’s with my pals = being busy? Cause if so, then I’m never free. But I told him I was and he said to be ready at 8.

So at 7:57 he picked me up in his Porsche and drove me to Nobu’s in Malibu where we had sushi that melts in your mouth and spotted Garry Shandling eating alone. It turns out that Richard is a hedge fund banker who’s the only person on Wall Street turning a profit -- besides guys with carts who buy pretzels for a quarter and resell ‘em for a dollar. Anyway, Richard is 30, filthy rich, single and looking for a commitment. I told him I’m not so sure I’m ready for that, which, of course, made him want me more. It's weird hearing the M word on the first date. It made me wonder if he has a fatal disease or body herpes. Meanwhile, Marjorie’s so jealous she’s going to church again.

All in all, the night was lovely – dinner, then a drink at a bar on the beach where Richard taught me how to taste cognac. I didn’t really need a lesson on how to taste stuff; I did not just emerge from a coma, but I acted all intrigued about how you have to let it swirl in your mouth and such. And after swirling for about 45 minutes, he drove me home w/the top down (the car’s, not mine). And then came the big fat downer of the eve: THE KISS. Richard kisses like a fish or a limp noodle or something else really bad that you don’t want near your teeth. It was SO disappointing, because the entire night I was picturing myself married in Prada and living in Manhattan. But NOW I’m picturing myself married in Prada and living in Manhattan and cheating on my husband. Can you teach a person to kiss better? The Learning Annex fall catalogue says no, but Marjorie says yes. Stay tuned for the further adventures of me and Captain Shitty Kisser. Tomorrow must get tongue scraper and apologize to mouth.

August 6, 2004

Yay, it’s Answer Friday! And in honor of it, I called in sick. Two nights of staying out till 4AM = not great for cutting hair and tweezing ladies’ chins. But what I CAN do in this tired, hungover state is lie in bed, eat microwaved mini white castle burgers (poke TWO holes in cellophane or you're askin for trouble) and answer my beloved readers’ emails:

Dear Jane,
I'm a black guy but I’m attracted to white girls. In your opinion, does this make me a traitor to my race or an oddball?
Miles
DC

Miles,
Last week someone wrote in about a guy who’s attracted to a horse. Does that mean he’s hurting cows’ feelings? Don’t worry, go out with who YOU want to go out with! Just don’t go to church on Sunday bragging to the sistahs about all the white meat you’ve been eatin. And if you’re ever in the LA area, don’t forget sistah Jane. I’m incredibly pale.
xo,
j

Dear Jane,
My boyfriend’s really skinny and I’m not all that thin. In fact, I’m fat. He doesn’t mind the difference, but I do. Should I break up with him?
Linda
Los Angeles, Ca

Linda,
You’re fat and you live in LA?! Is that a typo?!! Don’t break up with him, just stay on the bottom during sex. UNLESS he pisses you off, in which case you should sit on him hard. That’s what I did with skinny Bill and I found it extremely rewarding.
xo,
j

Dear Jane,
I had a great date with a guy last weekend. I think we really clicked, but he hasn’t called me yet. When can I call him?
Suzanne
Little Rock, Arkansas

Suzanne,
You can call him right now, but just by shouting his name out your window. Do NOT pick up the phone. Unfortunately, we girlies still have to wait for guys to call us – at least at the beginning. And this is EXACTLY why I date many men; there’s safety in numbers and the more guys, the more likely you'll be on someone's speed dial. But if you get so frustrated that you can’t stand it, I’d just start stalking him. It’s safer than calling because you can always make up a quick excuse as to why you’re crouching in his rose bushes – you “left your hair thingie there” or you “like roses” are two prime examples. Truth be told, I miss the old days when you could call and hang up and not get caught. Damn you caller ID and star 69, you big fat tattle tales!!
xo,
J

Dear Jane,
I’m really pissed off at my ex. Last week I think she came into my apartment and stole my tivo. How do I get it back?
Justin
Dallas, Texas

Justin,
You don’t. Ya shouldn’t have given her the key, bitch!
Xo,
j

Thassit, have a great weekend! Say hi to an old person, hi-five a baby and have sex with someone in between! (Oh, you can have sex with an old person if you really want to, I won’t judge. But if you have sex with a baby, I will.)

August 5, 2004

Last night we went to this karaoke bar downtown and I did so well it was insane. I sang “Shoop” (playing the parts of salt AND pepa), and then I went into Janis Joplin’s “Me and Bobby McGee” (playing the parts of me AND Bobby McGee) and got a standing ovation. Okay, three of the seven people at the place were on their way to the bathroom, but still, it counts.

So when I woke up I got to thinking that I might want to pursue music a little. (styling is SO competitive). Maybe I could be sort of a Sheryl Crow type… I could start out at a coffee house near here and then graduate to bigger coffee houses a little further away from here.

Since I'm a can-do person, I got in my jetta and drove right to the Guitar Center on Sunset and asked them if they knew of any good guitar teachers. (Davis said he’d lend me a guitar someone gave him in exchange for pot.) Well, lucky for me, the alleged best teacher in the entire city was in aisle 3 buying new strings! So I went over and introduced myself to him (he’s Randy) and then he picked up a guitar and taught me five chords. And suddenly, I was like a chord machine! I can play so many parts of so many songs it’s insane! Okay, I can only play one chord because I’d just gotten a manicure and didn’t want to mess up my nails. (e minor was safe bec it only takes one finger; I think it’s e minor, don’t quote me) The important thing is that I have the know-how to play five chords –- well, as long as my hands stay attached to my wrists. Although I did see a documentary at camp about a woman who plays guitar with her feet… which is kinda show off-y if ya ask me.

Then I drove to the Valley to meet a guitar teacher that the gym teacher at Marjorie’s school recommended. And as soon as I got to his place, he ordered me to sit on the couch while he spent the next forty-five minutes on the phone arguing with Visa over a bill… which was fine with me, because he’s GORGEOUS. Tim (his name) has the most beautiful hazel eyes in the history of eyes that changed color whenever Visa put him on hold. And once he hung up, he taught me about frets and stuff with BOTH ARMS AROUND ME! I could tell that he’s not a very good teacher, but he’s so much cuter than Randy and his ugly non-hazel eyes. I think I’ll go with Tim because it’s important for my ego that I hang out with cute men if I’m gonna be the next Eddie van Halen or Courtney Love, or Courtney Van Halen if they got married. Have a good day and rock on! (do people still say that?)

August 4, 2004

So last night we went out to a new club on Sunset –- poser city (not the name of the club, but it should be). Lots of starlets, agents, managers, producers, musicians, comedy writers (why are they always so ON?), drama writers (why are they always so BORING?) and best friends of all of the above. Anyway, it was tons of fun. An older married reality show producer friend of Lizzie’s bought us drinks the entire time and Marjorie and I didn’t leave the dance floor once –- until I got PUNCHED. By a girl! Apparently, she didn’t like the way I was dancing… and the fact that I was shaking it with her tall, lanky hot-as-hell boyfriend. I couldn’t help it, it’s not like he said “my girlfriend’s here so I can’t dance.” That knucklehead was rubbing up next to me like INSERT CLEVER METAPHOR HERE. So we were jamming, dancing, rockin, hangin, and a tad o’ making out and then out of nowhere I felt a huge WHACK on the side of my head. I said “OWWW!” (miraculously to the beat of the music) and turned around and saw an angry redheaded girl with a pierced eyelid glaring at me with her little skinny little fists clenched and ready to rumble. I said: “WHAT THE FUCK?!” and then SHE said “The fuck is that he’s my guy!” I wanted to hit back, but I lack the upper arm muscle needed to hurt someone, so instead I reached out and pulled her hair -- which made her drop to the floor (and worked out my triceps for a dot). Then I leaned down and ripped open her blouse and the buttons went flying -- one even into my eye, but I was so proud I didn’t make a big deal out of it. Then redheaded girl grabbed lanky guy by the arm and they ran out and everybody gathered around me. I thought they were all gonna yell at me, but they congratulated me and bought me drinks for the rest of the night. I was the local hero of the hip new club! Or maybe they were worried that I’d pull their hair and pop open their blouses.