Blissed Connections March 9, 2008
Posted by BittenChick in Dating n' Mating.add a comment
In a brief moment of revelation this morning, I discovered that one of my boobs is slightly bigger than the other. Now I’m not talking about a freakish distinction that might earn me a permanent exhibit at the Ripley’s Believe It Or Not museum, but given the number of times lately that my goodies have been out on display, you’d think I might have noticed something. Whoops, did I just say that? *Evil Grin* Now this bit of mammary awareness really has nothing to do with anything, except that it got me into a “things that make you go ‘hmmm'” kind of mood — one of those situations where you closely observe something and notice things that you’ve never seen before. This sometimes leads to confusion, often times to delight, and more often than not, a fair mixture of the two. Ahhh, but I’m getting ahead of myself! So allow me to back that train up a stop or two, for speaking of revelatory experiences, these last few weeks have been chock full of them!
My first slice of wild happenstance occurred when I felt a curious desire to visit the “Missed Connections” section of Craig’s List. Now, back in my less “elitist” online dating days (hehe), I used CL a time or two for meeting potential dates and actually managed to wrangle my first post-4YG relationship. But it had been a good year and a half since I ventured into the murky depths of CL ads, and upon spying the link in my “Monkeys!!!” bookmark folder, I decided to give it a look. By the way, that folder actually does exist (exclamation points all intact) and I typically use it to store websites that I only visit under the most dire, boredom-induced circumstances. Why I attribute boredom to monkeys is just one of life’s mysteries …
So there I was, clicking through ridiculously vague postings (sample: “I saw u at circle K. U r hot. Hit me up sumtime baby!”) Once my voyeuristic curiosities were fulfilled, I began wondering if there was anyone locally who I might like to find, and right away I thought of him — the charming guy who threw me a flower at my favorite grocery last summer, whom I spent several minutes flirting with and never saw again. I knew his name and what he looked like, but little else. Was there any possibility?
I wrote a little ad with distinct information (where/when we’d met, what he looked like, his name) and some more subtle clues, and posted it. And to be honest, I forgot all about it until midway through the following day, when I received an email saying “I know who you’re looking for! Here’s his MySpace!” Surprised, but expecting a scam of some kind, I followed the breadcrumb … And there he was. After 8 months and only one meeting. It was Gino.
He was a little bit older than I’d expected, but his photographs showed that same warm smile and flirty eyes that charmed me the first time. A friend (presumably the one who wrote to me) had left him a comment pointing out my CL post, so I knew it was too late to be shy or change my mind. So I wrote him a note: “Hey stranger, I’m the mystery girl who wrote about you on Craig’s List. Do you remember me?” He responded within hours, and said how touched he was that someone whom he’d spoken to only briefly had remembered him after all this time. He confessed that he wasn’t sure initially who I was, but he wanted to know more about me. Our brief succession of emails led to a four hour phone conversation, an indecently long first date, and and intense flux of emotions between us that began suggesting that this was all “meant to be” …
And then we came to our senses. Halle-freakin’-llujah!
Because you know me, dear readers. Ever since busting up my pseudo-engagement with Broody last summer (whom I also have news about — stay tuned!), I have been happily, if curiously, anti-relationship in the traditional sense of the world. I call it “free spirited”, although Bean recently pointed out that he’s always equated that phrase with one who sleeps around, which was somewhat troubling, though humorous! In my eyes, “free spirited” is a more hippie-esque way of describing the desire to not be tied down, to play the field, to have fun, to live in the moment. Apparently this is a condition more readily observed in women of the college-aged variety, whereas my stoic sisters in their late-20’s and beyond are meant to be settling into their childbearing years with an urgency and desperation that intensifies with each passing birthday. Charming, right? I apologize deeply to all and sundry for not finding that scenario to be tremendously appealing. ;-)
So whether I’m worldly and wise, or my old fashioned settlin’ down tendencies just haven’t kicked in, who knows. What I do know is that my mischievous Gemini tendencies love to get all passionate and intense about something (or someone) very quickly … But if the temperature under that pot isn’t carefully watched to prevent an over-boil, I burn out far too quickly and move on to the next challenge. Thankfully Gino has some of the same qualities, and following our multi-day lusting spree, we realized that we needed to really dial down the intensity and kind of start over from scratch if we had any hope of transitioning into a “normal” courtship. So we began anew, one of our first distinctions being that we weren’t exclusively dating, and that hanging out maybe once a week was good to start. Which suited my free-spirit just fine when the next unexpected wave of “connections” began unfurling … But that’s a new story for another post. *Grin* It’s good to be back!
♥ BittenChick
BittenChickpeas (A Lust Story) February 11, 2008
Posted by BittenChick in Domestic Goddess.3 comments
Yesterday eve, upon saucily sucking a certain creamy substance from my fingertips, I made what I found to be a most noteworthy discovery:
Hummus may just be the sexiest food ever. (What, you were expecting a different revelation? *Grin*)
In my humble abode, Food Network often provides the pleasant soundtrack to my days. It fills the silence with promises of easily prepared and deliciously crafted meals, and although I greatly prefer healthfully convenient (read: Lean Cuisine & Healthy Choice) to cooking just for myself, the transfer of culinary prowess via televised osmosis is an alluring thought. At the very least, I’ve been introduced to the exotic world of dried spices which I happily dash onto nearly every one of my frozen entrées with skillful aplomb. I’m particularly obsessed with cumin of late — cumin being the deliciously smoky, subtly spicy crushed seed that gives chili its distinct flair. It also happens to be a key ingredient in that most sexy of culinary spreadables, hummus.
Ahhh, hummus. Ground up chickpeas, sesame paste with a bitter/bland bite, and ungodly amounts of roasted garlic. What’s not to love? Actually, I had a particular distaste for it after my first hummus experience, which was an unfortunately concocted blend that a friend’s mother presented at dinner, lacking all manner of spice but managing to be heavy on the lemon juice and olive oil. Since then I’d had a taste here and there, but I was never really impressed. Too bland, too oily, too spicy, it was always too much of something. Until one day in December when Dutch and I had dinner at a dim little cafe where he coaxed me into trying it again.
And praise Dionysus, this nondescript Greek establishment had finally gotten it right!
Like a madwoman on a mission, I began stalking the dips n’ spreads aisles at my local grocers for the Best Hummus Ever. I finally settled on Tribe’s All-Natural Roasted Garlic Hummus, which as the name suggests, contains only the bare necessity of ingredients to make one kick-ass tub of deliciousness. With its perfect consistency (firm enough to scoop onto a bit of pita, but not “chunky”) and fabulous garlic infusion — which, as a confirmed garlicaholic, is key in hummus supremacy — I was most pleased with my discovery.
But then a thought — couldn’t I just as easily make this myself? I consulted the experts at AllRecipes.com and found that yes, I could indeed do. But so many variations on a theme! Where would I begin?
My first foray was actually with a recipe that my mom had found in one of her own cookbooks that simply called for garbanzo beans (chickpeas), lemon juice, olive oil, and some spices. It seemed far too simplistic from the get-go, and as suspected, it was hardly the deliciously homemade hummus that I’d been hoping for. So back I went to my research, and after an ass-numbing few hours poring through reviews and suggestions, I decided to try on AllRecipe’s “Real Hummus” for size. But first I had to procure the ingredients, which were all easy enough to find, save for the mysterious and exotic-sounding tahini. A few reviewers tried to be helpful by suggesting that tahini (sesame seed paste) could be swapped for peanut butter, but I wasn’t skimping on the essentials the second time around, hell no!
As a rule, I’m not much of an organic produce kind of girl, so I can get away with shopping the perimeter at a local grocery chain (with a jaunt down the frozen foods aisle) and not find anything particularly lacking. But tahini required a special trip, so off to a nearby organic grocer I went. Organic and gourmet stores seem to be popping up everywhere lately, and it’s easy to see why when you take in the levels of food pornography that tempt your every sense upon entry. Now I’m no stranger to fresh veggies; nearly every lunch and dinner in my home is accompanied by what I consider to be a pretty kick-ass homemade salad (butter lettuce, raw broccoli, and grape tomatoes sprinkled with julienned sun-dried tomatoes, pepperoncini rings, and shaved Parmesan) … But my thoughts swirled with possibilities after seeing the heaps of fresh produce looking all coy and “come hither” in their colorful skins. Stick to your mission! my brain commanded. So with a last, longing glance, I buried myself within the packaged food aisles and emerged victorious with my first jar of tahini.
Now I’m not much of a drinker (these days), but I love a good bottle of sweet champagne, and I’ll never forget purchasing my very first bottle of bubbly. Thanks to liberal parents, I’d tasted champagne on several occasions so I knew just what to look for, and it was with immense satisfaction that my post-21st birthday self could walk into a fine liquor establishment and procure any alcoholic beverage of her choosing. (The fact that I went for the first under-$10 bottle I could find is neither here nor there!) In like fashion, I felt inexplicably proud carrying around that jar of tahini, as if completing a rite of passage from underaged booze-sneaking delinquent to worldly wine connoisseur. I held it aloft with label turned outward so that all and sundry could partake in its allure. I smiled as I imagined my fellow shoppers gazing curiously upon the jar, wondering what I might be whipping up (in my non-existent custom built gourmet kitchen) that night. I paused for dramatic effect when the cashier asked if I wanted a bag and offered a throaty chuckle. “I’ll take it just like it is,” I replied, with what I imagined to be the amused smile of a culinary genius. Mmm, wouldn’t you like a taste of my hummus, I thought with a saucy wink as the pimply, bespectacled young man began ringing up the next lady in line. But this was no time for imaginary flirting with high-school grocery checkers. It was time to make some hummus, baby!
… And then, much to my chagrin, I remembered that I didn’t own a blender. Well, fuck.
Thankully I happen to live in the Land of the Plazas, so there’s always a Target standing by at attention. Good old Target — the bane and bliss of my existence. But tonight I would not be seduced by their low priced household gadgets, save one shiny new blender whose box promised in bold lettering to mix a mean margarita and crush ice into oblivion for frozen coffee delights. Good enough for me! My new counter top appliance in hand and my exotic tahini chilling on the passenger seat, I was ready for my second go round of Grecian dip goodness.
And so I measured, I poured, I sprinkled, I squeezed, and I offered a fervent prayer as the blades of the blender sprang to life. At this point, the hummus was much more than a snack — it was a religious experience. To know me is to understand my inexplicable love for nonsensical “projects”, but with my Gemini tendencies it’s often rare that I see one through to fruition. So as I watched the golden-hued garbanzos become one with the chopped bits of garlic, the speckles of cumin, and the velvety ribbons of tahini, I felt accomplished. And a few moments later when I descended a brave spoon into the melee and stuck out a cautious tongue to taste, I felt like belting out a “Praise Jesus!” Because ladies and gentlemen, the hummus had entered the building.
Since that night, my kitchen has churned out several delicious batches of hummus that are certainly worthy of some manner of cult-like worship. And although my oven remains cold, save for the express purpose of baking my own pita chips, I like to entertain the thought that this infectious garbanzo dip has brought a sense of “domestic goddess”-ness back into my life. And seriously, hummus is just hella sexy. I’m almost tempted to nominate it for aphrodisiac status, right up there with oysters and chocolate. But then I might be required to offer a sample to whichever government (or sex toy) agency goes about determining such things — and I’m not sacrificing a drop without the promise of some sweet, sweet lovin’ (real or imagined) after the fact.
Because this is my whipped, creamy, smooth slip-slide into foodie fantasy; my sexy snack to accompany those lusty late-night longings. Go get lost in the bosom-esque melon mountains or the phallic cucumber slopes of your local grocery and find your own. ;-)
Penal Code February 10, 2008
Posted by BittenChick in Randomocity.6 comments
This afternoon I was poking around in my Gmail looking for a drawing that Pirate had sent me when I noticed some old emails from Mac and Spinner that also had attachments. My curiosity piqued (as always), I clicked with reckless abandon and was immediately swept up in laughter and remembrance. Ahhhh yes, that fateful day in the Autumn of 2007 came rushing back at me, a day that is destined to go down in risqué email infamy. For that day I received naked, penis-glorying pictures from not one, but two different gentlemen.
I officially have the cockiest friends ever … Pun intended. ;-)
Mac’s first offering was a marvel of modern technology and ingenuity, as well as just plain fucked-up and hilarious! It consisted of four pictures taken with his ubiquitous iPhone in the following order:
– Naked with his lower half fully draped in a towel
– Towel slightly undone
– Towel just barely hanging on by a thread …
And then a close up of an enormous black man’s penis. Burn! But what really made this an awesome prank was the fact that he’d merged these photos into an animated gif. Haha! Cheeky, sneaky, and freaky — no wonder Dr. Warren’s matching scheme put Mac and I together so quickly upon my sign-up! Of course, being the ever so magnanimous guy that Mac is, he made sure to send me a real penis shot just in case I felt cheated — bless his deviant heart. But the universe wasn’t done with its cock-overdose just yet …
A few hours later found two emails from Spinner in my inbox with the subject lines “As Promised”. I clicked with caution:
Remember those pictures I said I’d send you someday? [No …] I hope they lead to some interesting fantasies, hehe. [Oh dear god!]
I scrolled down and there they were — two more penis pictures in all their full-frontal glory. These definitely fell into the “artistic” category (if such a thing exists for amateur porn photos!) with their black and white patina and clever poses. Spinner, as it happens, is a photographer — and he definitely used his “skills” to full effect! And speaking of full … Let’s just say that I’m glad that Google has yet to introduce 3-D emails, as I’d have been concerned about poking my eye out. Hot. Damn.
What’s funny is that I’ve seen Spinner’s piece before, albeit years ago during a brief three month courtship. Sex wasn’t part of the equation, but he wasn’t shy about being naked and if we slept in the same bed he was always in the nude. But there may be something to be said about frequent masturbation, because all I can say is “Holy Trouser-Snake, Batman!” I felt like writing back and responding as one would to a little tyke they haven’t seen infancy. My, how you’ve grown!
Alas, my inbox has been free from copulatory organ invasions since then — must have used up my phallic photo allowance for the year. Maybe I can remedy that situation with my second round of eHarmony action? I should slip that into my profile:
Additional information that BittenChick would like to share:
Penis pictures are desired and required! Get ready to drop your pants, fellas — I need me some virile man meat!
Actually, baby-makin’ wanks are what the majority of eH’s female members are looking for, if my former matches’ stories are to be believed. Oh well, I don’t want to risk blending in!
Ahhhh, it’s amazing the amount of mirth that unexpected photos of a familiar man’s genitals can bring to a girl’s day. (Okay, to this girl’s day!) And dear readers, if you weren’t convinced of my unique craziness before, I’m glad to have erased all doubt! ;-)
♥ BittenChick, Appreciator of Fine Phallic Photographs
The Tao Of Hasselhoff February 7, 2008
Posted by BittenChick in Randomocity.2 comments
There are some slices of life that bring a grin to your face every time you remember them. A conversation I had with Ozzy a while back is definitely one of those. This was probably late November, in one of our several “just friends” phases, and he was trying to figure out what it was that often led to troubles in his relationships.
“Man, I have these cycles where I’m cool and everything is smooth sailing for a while, and then I get worried and start trying too hard and it blows up in my face. I’m like those former kid actors who finally land a movie and everything starts looking good and then it gets bad ratings.” Ozzy shook his head in frustration.
I laughed. “Come on, you’re way cooler than Gary Coleman and that Webber kid!”
Ozzy smiled. “Nah, they never really made comebacks. Maybe not kid actors, who can I compare it to … Hmmm … Oh! Dude! I am Hasselhoff!”
A few stunned moments of silence followed, as the swell of the Baywatch theme song numbed my ears and visions of a tanned David Hasselhoff running in slow motion began invading my brain.
“Nooooooo!” I nearly shouted. “Anyone but Hasselhoff!” Although I could see where he was going with this …
David Hasselhoff is all about periods of (relative) coolness and severe falls from grace. Exhibit A: Knight Rider. Now while this was originally airing I was more interested in those iconic 80’s fixtures like Cabbage Patch dolls and the Garbage Pail Kids, but I remember this being a staple of my parents’ television viewing, and even at my tender age I thought Mr. Hasselhoff was kinda “sexay”. After Knight Rider ended it seemed the Hoff would be silent for a while, until he was ill-advised that a musical career would be an excellent idea. This led to a few top-10 hits in Germany that the folks on this side of the pond wisely found were unfit for American ears. It seemed that David Hasselhoff was bound for little more than getting some European lederhosen in a twist …
But no! The Hoff stunned us all when he rocked the teeny red bikini shorts and became the resident stud of TV’s Baywatch. Mmmm. Just thinking about it makes me want to sing …
you’ve got to reach out, take hold of my hand
you’ve got to reach out, till you’re safe on good land
you’ve got to hold on, baby never give up
you’ve got to reach out, when you’re caught in the current of looooooove …
Oh man. If I ever quote Hasselhoff lyrics again, please boil me in bleach.
But alas, the post-Baywatch years were unkind to the Hoff, and his next downward spiral was aided and abetted by a little sumthin-sumthin called we like to call alcoholism. Not so hot. He had some brief, shining moments — a few roles on Broadway, a stint judging a reality TV talent show (which is par for the course when you’ve made that transition to D-list star status, it seems!) But then came last year’s infamous internet video shot by the Hoff’s daughter in which he has drunken oral sex with a Wendy’s hamburger …
*Sigh* Will it ever be the same again?
Thankfully, Ozzy interrupted my thoughts on the low and high (?) points of the Hoff’s life story. “Wait,” he mused. “If I am Hasselhoff, where is my Pamela Anderson?”
I threw a pillow at his head. “Knock it Hoff!”
We both collapsed in laughter. “Oh dude,” Ozzy exclaimed, “we should start sneaking his name into conversation and see if people notice!”
I gave it another try: “Do you come here Hoff-ten?”
Ozzy gave me a lascivious wink. “During sex, do you prefer the lights on or Hoff?”
I snickered. “You have blue balls? That’s so Hoff-ul for you!”
I could see the wheels turning in Ozzy’s head. “But to get the full effect, we really need to incorporate this entire name. The question is, would it be a noun, verb, or adjective?”
“All three,” I exclaimed! “That would be so Hasselhoff!”
Ozzy beaned me in the head this time. “You are such a Hasselhoff.”
Which, as every good spitfire redhead would do, caused me to launch over and fake-punch him in the stomach, followed by a mimed right hook to the jaw. I watched Ozzy keel over in mock pain with a grin of satisfaction.
“Dude, you just got Hasselhoffed!”
2008 BC February 5, 2008
Posted by BittenChick in Dating n' Mating.8 comments
“Back once again for the renegade master!”
Riiiiight. ;-)
Before we begin this edition of “where in bloody hell has BC been?”, I’d like to wish everyone a happy new year, a month overdue! Things have been cray-zay up in here, but I’ll try to get to all of the highlights. When last I wrote, I had just gone out on a date with Dutch, things were entering Sketchville with Dwandy, and Ozzy was … Ozzy. The events that unfolded after my last entry went a little something like this:
Got into a relationship with Dutch, which meant going back to friends-only status with Dwandy and Ozzy. The eH and Match profiles were canceled and everything was on the up and up … Until about two weeks shy of Christmas when things were decidedly beginning to cool off with Dutch. I proposed taking a “break” over the holidays.
A series of lackluster texts in early January confirmed that Dutch and I were over. Ozzy proposed going on a date, thus tentatively beginning a relationship that lasted about three weeks … During which my feelings towards Ozzy weren’t advancing past the “affectionate friends” stage, at which point I told him we had to abandon all attempts at dating and really go back to being friends. At this point, he tells me that he’s fallen in love with me. Code Red!
After about a week of not being in touch, I called Ozzy and he says he’s “facing reality” and moving on. I commence crossing my fingers … And then last night Dwandy takes me out for Thai food, talks about “Thai-ing” me up (and other groan-worthy puns!), and decides that he might just be ready for us to “date” after all, which I don’t recall suggesting or agreeing to.
Have I mentioned that it’s been a crazy year thus far? ;-)
Now let me backtrack a little. I’ve barely mentioned Dutch on this blog, and perhaps that should have been my first indicator that something was amiss. By all accounts he’s a cool guy — good looking, good interests, good sense of humor, good chemistry, good sex (ahem) … But “good” is only good — a lackluster version of great, wonderful, fantastic, amazing, etc. There was no reason not to like Dutch, but not much of an impulse to fall in love either. And this was pretty much mutual when I brought it up — a phone call that was initiated by what I’ll call the “turning point” in our relationship. File this under “Guys, Don’t Do This”:
Dutch and I had plans to meet up after his company’s Christmas dinner (yes, it was a “significant others are welcome” affair that I was not invited to, and I was actually relieved by this fact). The party was supposed to end by 8pm and was being held at a restaurant less than five miles from my place, so Dutch was going to come by right afterward. But by the time that 9:30pm rolled around and I hadn’t heard from him, I decided to take a page straight from Sherry Argov’s book and make other plans. What’s that, you say? I should have been patiently and placidly sitting idle by the phone all night? Oh helllllll no. Things run late sometimes, I completely understand. But there’s no excuse for not sneaking away for a minute and sending me a “really sorry, running late, try tomorrow?” text. So I made other plans, and not 15 minutes later … Well, it went a little something like this:
Dutch (text): Sorry for the delay, should be done in about 10 minutes or so.
BittenChick (text): Waited till 9:30 but ended up making other plans. Hope the party was good times.
Dutch (voicemail, 10 minutes later): Hey, I’m leaving now but I got your text so I guess you’re busy. I’ll call you tomorrow. Good night.
Tomorrow ended up being three days from his message, so that should tell you something. When we finally did chat he apologized repeatedly for not getting in touch sooner, but we ended up not seeing each-other again before the “let’s take a break” chat that happened a few days later. Relationships, especially in their infancy stages, can be tricky when it comes to obligations you have towards each-other. But I firmly believe that there has to be a mutual respect there, and it’s always obvious when it’s missing. And to be honest, it was nice not having to deal with the awkwardness that usually accompanies “Our First Holiday!” — an occasion that I always seem to overcompensate for (with good intentions, but I never know how much to spend, how many gifts are appropriate, etc). So out went Dutch and in swooped Ozzy, and against my better judgment I gave our relationship a second (third? fourth?) go-round.
But dear, sweet, innocent Ozzy unequivocally refuses to “play the game” — the game being the psychological dance that keeps things intriguing. Whereas I was looking for a spicy tango, he was two-stepping all up in my business, even dropping the “marriage” and “love” bombs as casually as one would order from a menu. I know, I know … There’s not enough thread in the free world to weave a red flag big enough! In the meantime, Dwandy had been on the fringes in the flag-free Friends Zone, but he’s very wise to “the game” and we didn’t have much contact following our bowling-night shenanigans until January rolled around. He had also eschewed eHarmony but not for a relationship — turns out he’d become a fan of freebie site OKCupid and had landed himself a college-aged honey who lives an hour away and likes to talk about what her future babies will look like. Why he tells me these things, I have no idea — he knows it will all be used as fodder for my immense amusement! He’d been giving Miss BabyMomma the slip and was looking for a night of, ah, mental stimulation — so we decided to meet up. And while I appreciated how appealing I must have looked in light of the alternative, I’m pretty well convinced that Dwandy and I are meant to be flirty friends at best.
And that brings me to now — the Great Dateless Wonder, and damn happy about it! I might give eHarmony another go in the next month or two, but I’m no hurry. In the meantime, Scott of the excellent eHarmony Cracked blog has asked me if I’d like to provide some female commentary for his upcoming posts, so look for my “pearls of wisdom” (ha!) sometime soon!
Cheers,
BittenChick ♥
Once Bitten 