Road Biking Barbie: Cuts, Bruises, Twigs & Pride Sold Separately

I thought I would tell you a personal story so we could get to know each other a little better.  Actually, I thought I would go ahead and tell you all, my dearest readers, because everyone I’ve told so far seems to think it’s hilarious.  I would totally find it hilarious if it happened to someone else.  It all started some months ago…

Ken was starting to get into all of these activities.  My activities consisted of watching trashy television and day-drinking outdoors with friends on the weekends.  When Ken asked if I wanted to try doing some activities I thought, “You mean you don’t consider watching trashy TV and day-drinking valid activities?”  But I take my relationship seriously and I thought, you know, it’s reasonable of him to want me to participate in at least some of these active things, as I have heard you are supposed to take interest in things you’re partner is interested in, and Ken always lets me watch whatever I want on TV (Keeper!) and he is always a willing day-drinking participant.  Also, I had sort of by accident tried scuba diving last summer and I ended up loving it so much we got certified in Belize in three days and conquered a 60 foot dive which was totally epic.  If I hadn’t gotten talked into trying, I would have missed out on one of the best experiences of my life!  So I put my irrational fear of trying new things aside, and I declared my resolution to get active.

First I started running.  That (shockingly) worked out rather well.  Next I tried skiing, which has its own story we’ll save for another time, but that actually worked out in the end too!  So a few weeks ago, after much talk on the subject, when Ken asked me if I would try road biking with him I said, “Sure!”

We went to our local bike shop that weekend.  If Ken knows one thing for sure, he knows his Barbie is way more happy and inclined to not throw fits if she looks pretty.  As long as I look like a pro, I don’t mind messing up every once in a while.  Because then when people see you fall about thirty-seven times all the way down a snow-covered mountain, at least they think to themselves, “Oh man, that poor girl is TERRIBLE at skiing, but damn she looks good.”  Ken’s mantra:  Happy wife, happy life.  So first things first, he had to get me geared up.

We walked in and ordered The Works.  We had no idea what that meant, but we wanted it.  Biking is EXPENSIVE you guys!  We had to get the special shoes, special pedals (“What on Earth are those for????” I wondered), helmets, socks, and of course Ken bought me a gorgeous fancy white jersey with turquoise trim (pretty athletes who want to pretend they’re being taken seriously don’t wear pink, they wear turquoise), and of course those weird diaper-like padded bike shorts.  All we needed were the bikes.

Because we’re both freakishly tall, they had to special order our demo bikes.  We had to wait two weeks to actually ride.  Ok, no biggie, we invited our close friends who are regular bike people for a get together on the planned demo day, which was last Saturday.  We were to meet at the bike shop, and ride from Sausalito, CA to Tiburon.  There and back it’s about twenty miles.  No big deal, right?

Saturday came, and Ken was excited.  I was, well, nervous.  But also excited.  But mostly about my cute outfit.  And we were planning on stopping at a Mexican food restaurant in Tiburon, and I love margaritas, so that was exciting. 

We started at the shop to get fitted on our demos.  I walked in with a certain swagger one has when they look like a pro.

“Oh, this way to my bike?  Ok, no problem.”  Swagger, swagger.

*Names have been changed to protect the totally guilty assholes of this story*

Bike guy, we’ll call him Toby, wanted me to get on my bike for my fitting.  I’m looking at the bike as he’s holding it up and I’m thinking, “You moron, just use the kick stand.”  FYI, real road bikes don’t have kick stands.  I should have run.  I should have run like the wind to my comfy spot on my couch and turned on the Oxygen network and never looked back.

Another thing you may not know about road bikes is that the seat are positioned so high you can’t touch the ground with your feet.  This is new to me.  In the last twenty years, the only bike riding I’ve done is when I lived in San Diego, and that was from one bar to the next on Ocean Walk in Pacific Beach.  The only challenge there is navigating around idiot tourists (mostly from Arizona, sorry Arizona), which I’d actually gotten pretty good at.  So I’m looking at this real bike and I’m looking at this dude and then I’m looking at my adoring husband’s face lighting up like a Christmas Tree at this whole biking nonsense.  I climb onto the bike.  All the way up on there, and I sit, wobbling and nervous.

Toby says, “How does that feel?”  I say, “Scary.”  He laughs.  Toby, I’m not joking. 

Toby then proceeds to tell me how those weird little nubbins on the bottom of my shoes will be clipping into the tiny uterus-shaped pedals, attaching me to my bike.  Now, let me just say, I sort of knew this was going to happen, but I didn’t really get it until this point.  Toby goes on to explain that all I need to do to un-clip out of the pedals is to very deliberately turn my heel out in an awkward fashion to the right.  He has me do it while he holds me there.  I mean, sure I can do it while he’s holding me, but what am I going to do when he lets go and I tip over like a freaking cow???

Toby senses my fear and asks how I’m doing.  I’m about to pee in my diaper pad shorts Toby, you? 

“Ummm, I’m nervous and scared and uncomfortable.”

Toby, the misogynistic asshole that he is, says, “Oh yeah, everyone’s nervous at first, you just gotta get out there and try it a couple times, then it will be second nature.”

Well, I mean, if Toby is that confident, then why aren’t I?  I sold myself short too many times.  I was ready to go out there and learn this!

Our friends congregated in the parking lot.  There were six of us altogether.  Three girls, three boys.  Please note the othes besides Ken and I are practically pros at this.  I walk my bike out and express my reservations to the crew.  Our friend Matt holds the bike so I can get on and tells me to ride around the parking lot a bit, and try to stop and start with the clip-in pedals.  These are the most alien things you guys.  Can you imagine?  You know the dreams where you’re running and running as hard as you can but you’re not going anywhere?  It’s kind of like that because, as much as you want to take your foot off the pedal and throw it to the ground to save your dear life, you can’t.  You can’t!  So I get going and, what do you know, beginner’s luck.  I successfully start and stop twice without falling.  Later we found out this was completely by accident, but at the time, it seemed like enough practice.  Of course Ken got it right away, he’s good at everything.  I both love and hate that about him. 

We begin our Tour de Marin County and the beautiful day is swishing by with every pedal pump.  The weather is gorgeous; we’re on a path along the Marina, the wind in our helmet hair, and the smell of activeness in the air.  Suddenly I feel something touching my leg.  I look down, and it’s my water bottle which had come loose and was hanging on just barely to my bike.  If it were to take a dive it would interrupt my perfect pedal flow and I would fall.  I had to stop.  I yelled for Ken who was a ways in front of me.  He stopped to wait so I could fix it.  Knowing I had to stop and under little pressure from outside elements (we were on a bike path and few people were on it at this point) I was able to stop successfully.  Woohoo!  I am sooooo good at this.  I fix my water bottle, in the middle of the path obviously because what’s my worry, this will only take a second.

I yell to Ken I’m ready to go, and place my left foot on my left pedal.  I clip in.  I push off and lift my right foot up, searching with it for the pedal.  Suddenly, I realize I did not get enough speed initially and I’m slowing to a stop.  I struggle to figure out what to do next as my balance shifts to the left, where my foot is attached to my bike.  My right foot is flailing around, seemingly shouting, “Pick me!  Pick me!”  It was too late.  My weight began to teeter, and the next thing I know I am falling straight over, on the left side where my foot is hooked in and helpless.  I tip right over you guys, in the middle of the path, like a cow.  Like a fucking cow you guys.  Just, boom.  Nothing I could do about it.

(Right leg)



Ken’s shouting, “Are you ok???” as I take inventory of each limb.  Ah, thank god they’re all still there.  Now how the hell do I get up?  Three bicyclists came at me and had to go around me as they chattered about my fall amongst one another.  I should have tripped them, but I couldn’t, as my feet were either attached to my bike or searching for solid ground.  When I finally finagled my way off the asphalt, I realized I was not that hurt.  I had a scraped elbow and a sore left butt cheek, but other than that I came out fairly unscathed.  With a new sense of invincibility, I threw my leg over the bike, told Ken I was fine, and set off on another attempt to start.  This time I got a good enough get-go and I was off.

After the easy path, we ended up on a street.  A real street with cars.  Folks, I was nervous up until this point but throw in the car element and suddenly I felt like I was in the Miami Vice video game, dodging AK-47s and dead hookers.  At this point, I am beyond over-stimulated.  There is no “Think before you _______.”  There is only, “SHITFUCKBITCHSHITIHAVETO______!!!!!”  Generally the blank was filled in by the action of stopping.  When not in a protected parking lot surrounded by my friends cheering me on, it turns out I was not so good at the stopping.  The group had congregated to the side of a tiny path to re-hydrate.  I could have killed them all.  Is your water drinking more important than me making it to my margaritas in one piece you selfish show-off bastards???  That was the nerves talking.  I try to pull myself together. 

“Ok breathe,” I repeat the mantra in my head, “Simply jerk your right ankle to the right side while simultaneously pedaling with the other foot while you pump the brakes to slow yourself but while still peddling so you can eventually stand up on the pedals and lean over to the correct side as you…”  CRASH.



Everyone gathered around to help me up.  Embarrassed, I do the natural embarrassed human thing and pop up as swiftly as I can, bike still attached to my left foot, and flippantly insist, “I’m fine!  No problem!” and then go on talking nonsense hoping my nonsense will make them forget I just ate shit, “Guess I didn’t quite make that, huh?  No biggie!  How ‘bout that water, eh?  Wet, isn’t it.  Well should we just go from here then??”  They saved me by wanting to take a moment to shoot some pictures with the nice scenery behind us.  The water in the bay gleamed in the sun, the mountains appeared majestic in their stability, and my body ached like a bitch.

(A shot of our group minus Keely who's taking the picture.  Is my smile convincing?)



I was able to successfully start going again, praise the lord, and we were on our way.  I hugged the curb as tightly as I could as I listened to drivers creep up behind me, take note of my complete lack of knowledge in bike riding, and follow me until they saw a chance to pass safely in the opposite lane.  I knew these drivers, they were me.  I’m the driver, not the bike rider!  I’m the one behind the wheel of a powerful automobile, safely tucked into my comfortable seat, surrounded by airbags, enclosed by glass.  I’m the one that takes note of the knowledgeable and non-knowledgeable bicyclists, the one that curses them as I pass, “Goddamn bicyclists take up half the goddamn road, think they own the goddamn world,” and now it’s me.  Karma’s a bitch.

We rode through a park filled with other people on bikes, runners (whose feet got to be on the ground, how I envied them so), dog walkers, women with strollers.  Each of my friends took turns hanging back with me, riding along side me, conversing with me to gage my level of tolerance, my level of sanity.  Bless all of their hearts.  I felt good when I was just riding.  Riding I can do!  The cars were nerve-wracking of course, but when I was riding, I knew they would go around me.  As I rode through the park, I took in my surroundings.  I was happy when I was moving.

We decided to ride a little past the restaurant where we were to stop for lunch.  There was a road that wound up along the water which nestled beautiful homes along its cliff, and we were to ride up that.  I was just happy we weren’t stopping.  Every one of my riding mates asked me if I was alright with going further.  I didn’t tell them, but I would have ridden Forrest Gump’s running trail straight through across the country if it meant I didn’t have to stop.  I said yes.  Yes please, let’s ride further.  Wait, are there any stops?  No?  Good.

This was the best part of the ride.  The two lane road was wide, and I never saw one car.  With the water on our right, and beautiful homes on our left, the canopy of trees overhead provided an oasis, perfect for flying through.  That’s what road biking really is you know.  It’s like flying when you do it correctly.

Up the hills I rode, pumping and breathing hard at certain points, but enjoying that I was good at this part.  Then I saw it.  My group had taken the opportunity to stop at the top of the winding road in a small area off the path.  I was going to have to stop going uphill?!?!?!?! 

I’m gonna die.  I’m gonna die.  I’m dead.  I’m gonna die.

But no!  Our friend Matt was off his bike and was calling out to me.  He was shouting, “Just ride to me!” and holding his arms out.  I got it!  He wanted me to ride to him and he would catch me and I wouldn’t die!!!  And that is what he did.  He caught me and held the bike steady and I was able to climb off of it with ease and without pain.  It was glorious.  I announced he was my hero.  He said, “Yeah we formed that plan on the way up.  I think we’ll do that at all of our planned stops from now on.”  Did my ego kick in you wonder?  They were planning how to help me not fall as surely I was going to fall??  The answer is no.  I lost my ego about three miles back. 

I actually rejoiced in this plan.  I was so happy, and I’ll tell you why.  I can tip over in front of other bicyclists on a bike path that are going to pass me in three seconds anyway, but I did NOT want to fall in front of the outdoor deck of the Mexican food restaurant and be known throughout lunch among the deck diners as “The Girl Who Fell.” 

Lunch was my happy place.  Finally I could give my nerves a rest.  I could sit down and take inventory of my internal and external injuries.  I could drink!  Drinking makes you better at everything, right?

(Jess, Myself and Keely before lunch)



After a pitcher of Skinny Girl Margaritas and an hour of what can only be described as ass resting, I felt ready to embark on the journey home.  With my new found liquid courage, I had hope that I could tackle this monster. 

For several miles I pedaled like I was Lance Armstrong on a joy ride.  I did a little zig-zagging, I tried to point out a nice home to Ken and nearly killed myself (but recovered), I waved at a police officer (so embarrassing looking back), I even came up to a stop light and pulled off a successful halt!  Could it be?  Could it be that I am owning this bike right now??  Have I made this bike ride my bitch???

Our group got separated at my successful stop light.  Three made the light, three did not.  Ken was in the group that made it, I was behind with our friends Keely and Jerry.  My group of three were headed for a left hand turn lane to turn onto a fairly busy road.  Just as I thought we were going to make it, the light turned yellow (SHIT) then red (DOUBLESHIT).  With all the love in my heart, I began the process.  I un-clipped, then placed my foot back on the pedal in order to get to my standing position.  I slowed.  I did everything right.  Except when I put my right foot back on the pedal, unbeknownst to me, I had accidentally clipped back in without knowing.  So when I gallantly threw my foot down to the ground to draw to a close my perfect stop, I threw my entire body weight and my bike straight onto the asphalt, clearing a cool two lanes as I skidded to what I thought was to be my death.  Jerry sprung into action, helping me to the sidewalk and out of the way of the danger of possible oncoming traffic.  My right hip felt like it had been hit square-on by a school bus.  My elbow was raw and bloody, and throbbed in the sunlight as we stared at the injury.  Jerry found the water bottle that was in my bike holder, which I had at some point thrown in a fit of frustrated rage (not sure when that happened, I think I blacked out momentarily) and squirted my gaping elbow wound with cold water.  I did not cry you guys.  I wept a little maybe, but I held off on crying.  I didn’t want Jerry and Keely to freak out, and I didn’t want to let go of the pride I had been trying to clutch onto so tightly all day.  I took a moment, got back on the bike, and we started off again. 

(Elbow and Hip)

We passed the other three who had stopped to wait for us.  I knew Ken would know it was me that something had happened to, that I was the cause of our tardiness.  He watched as I passed him.  I think he asked me if I was ok, and I just hissed at him.  I literally hissed at him, mouth open, like an angry Avatar.  We only had about two miles to go at this point.  With every movement all I could think was, “Just get there.  Almost there.  I just have to get there.”  That last fall had really done it for me.  It wasn’t fun anymore, there was no more bright side, I just wanted to get off this fucking piece of shit machinery and stay off.  I was so close I could practically touch the bike shop.  My hips throbbed, my elbow was pounding and burning, but I was almost there.

As we approach the bike shop, I realize there is a sharp left turn you have to take to get into the parking lot area.  I watch as my group, one by one, takes the left turn effortlessly.

Swish, there went Jess.  Swish, there went Jerry.  Swish.  Swish.  Swish.

And then it was my turn.  I knew I couldn’t do it.  I knew if I tried I would run straight into the pole located directly in the middle of the tiny entrance.  I knew I was either going to run into this pole, or I was going to have to try this stop thing one more time.  Having to make my decision in a split second, I went for the stopping. 

Again, taking my foot off the pedal, I concentrated on getting to a position where I could introduce my foot to the ground.  My feet so wanted to make sweet, sweet love to the ground. 

Once again folks, I accidentally clipped back in.  Once again folks, I threw my longing right foot to the ground to stop myself and, once again, I threw my entire body with my bike.  This time, I landed square into a tree-bush.  A bush-tree, if you’d rather.  This time, there was a fair amount of spectators, and bike people at that.  So the best part of this one was that I got that collective, “DOOOOOOOOHHHHHHH are you ok Lady???” 

As I lay in a dirt patch wearing my beautiful biking outfit now covered in blood and dirt and twigs and leaves, I thought, “Just leave me here.  Just let me die.”  I was officially defeated. 

One (ONE!) of those spectators came over and offered to help me up.  I was fighting back tears like they were tiny communists (“Get back, you beasts!”) and squeaked out an, “It’s my first time,” as I extended a shaky hand.  The kind citizen said to me as he tried to pull me out of what could have easily been my final resting place, “If it’s your first time, they should have loosened your clip-ins so it’s easier for you to clip in and out.”

[Where is that chauvinistic bastard Toby, I’m going to fucking kill this guy]

My savior witness then lifted my bike off of me as I twisted my ankles in that horrid move I had come to loathe in order to free myself from the brute that one last time.  As I clambered up onto my unsteady legs, I saw Ken run back as he had noticed I never made it to the final destination.  He asked me if I was ok (this is an awful question when you already know the answer) and I was able to squeeze out a, “Give me a minute,” as I hurled my bike at him.  Because Ken knows me well, he knew to give me the goddamn minute.  He told me he’d take my bike in for me.

I stood there, behind the bike shop.  I wiped the tears that had escaped.  I struggled to steady my bottom lip.  I tried to do a “do I have all my limbs” check, but saw my elbow and gagged a little so decided against that.  I collected myself to the best of my ability so I was at least somewhat presentable and could keep just an ounce of that pride I had tried so very hard to keep.

In my mind, I was semi-presentable.  In reality, it was Quasimoto after being thrown off a cliff limping into that bike shop.  I was hovered over- bleeding, covered in dirt and dried tears, with branches and burrs sticking out of my helmet and a bum right hip I was dragging behind me as I scanned the restaurant looking for weapons with which I could kill Toby.

Ken spotted me and quickly trotted my direction.  He came up waving his hands in a “don’t worry” fashion and as he approached he whispered quickly, “Oh you don’t have to be in here, I’ll take care of all of this…why don’t you go wait by the car…with the others….I’ve got this handled.”

He knew.  He knew I was looking for Toby.

I turned and gimped my way out.  By the looks on the faces of the other people in the bike shop, I knew I had no pride left.  I made it to the others who were by the car de-gearing.  They all looked so normal, so untouched.  Knowing I was with those who cared about me now, and knowing what little was left of my treasured pride was left in the tree-bush/bush-tree along with some hair and skin, when Keely asked me if I was ok this time I burst into an uncontrollable sob. 

I was gently tucked into the front seat.  The girls helped take my helmet off, and turned on the air conditioner and shut the door.  They let me cry and cry and heave and blubber and curse and wail.  Later, they brought me ointments and creams and bandages and booze. 

It should be noted that after my cry-session in the car, I did not cry again.  There was of course more cursing, and definitely wincing, and obvi a ton of bitching, but I didn’t cry again.  We all went back to our Ken and Barbie Dream House and ordered a Chinese feast and drank stiff cocktails and watched the Olympics.

Everyone has asked me if I will get back on a bike again.  When surfers get bitten by sharks, do they go back to their precious sport?  Don’t answer that.  Yes, I will get back on a bike again.  I will not be using the expert pedals, and I will not be speaking to Toby again, ever.  But the bike part was good.  The bike part I loved.  Plus if I take that same route without falling, I may just be able to pick up all of those pieces of my athletic pride, which I will undoubtedly need for scattering for the next sport I try.

XO,

Barbs

Women, Sex, & 50 Shades of Male Stripper Madness: A Look at the Phenomenon

I’ve been staring at my computer screen all day reading about the horrendous details of the Colorado shooting that occurred this morning.  I can’t take it anymore, so I’ve decided to write a blog entry about something I have been wanting to vent about for a while.  It has nothing to do with the housewives, but everything to do with housewives. 

Two months ago, my Book Club (Barbie’s Dream Book Club, Book Club BarbieTM) chose 50 Shades of Grey as our book of the month.  Before that, we read thought-provoking books about women’s strength in adversity such as She’s Come Undone by Wally Lamb, and The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver.  I was surprised when we chose 50 Shades, as I had heard some tidbits about it and wondered what sort of a discussion it would render.  Don’t get me wrong, those of you who know me personally know I have NO problem discussing sex in blushing detail (sorry Mom), but I also don’t like to waste my reading on crap books, so I wondered how good this one was given all the hype.

When I began reading, as I writer, I was completely turned off.  For starters, I did not relate to the main character at all, or any characters for that matter.  Anastasia is a hum drum, wah wahhhh college senior who happens to meet this mysterious guy when her roommate who was supposed to interview him comes down with a cold and sends her in her place.  None of these characters have much depth at all, and for a journalist wannabe, a twenty-something millionaire, and someone who is supposed to be at least smart enough to get through college, they have painfully limited vocabularies.   

Let me touch on that really quick because I’m not going to give you a full plot run-through, especially since I only got about 1/3 into the book before cursing it and throwing it out the damn window of my Dreamhouse.  I’m about to give you a rundown on the vocabulary that nearly drove me insane.  You are not ready for this, but read on anyway.  Actually make yourself a cocktail, I’ll wait.

Ready?

1.       The word “muttered.”  Someone might mutter once in a book.  Someone does not mutter thirty-nine times in the first 127 pages of a book.  It’s called a thesaurus Ms. James, and if you can’t think of a different way to say the same thing, it can really come in handy.  I had to read about “She muttered this,” and “He muttered that,” and then they muttered to each other, and then he muttered to her “sex” (we’ll get to that in a moment) and then the sheep muttered to the other sheep, “I don’t want to be mutton,” and then I muttered to my razor blade, “Kill me if I have to hear the word ‘muttered’ again.”  The word muttered is NOT sexy.  It’s not tingle-provoking, it doesn’t make me wonder or lust.  It makes me want to say, “What?!?!  What the fuck did you say???  SPEAK UP.”  You would have thought this guy was Rain Man with all the gawddamn muttering he did.

2.       The word “sex” used in place of any other synonym for vagina.  What.The.Fuck. you guys.  One of my main issues with this Anastasia chick is that she’s not only a virgin at the age of 24 (let’s face it, that’s weird) but she also talks like she’s five years old until she starts doing the nasty after which she says things that would make even the most seasoned porn star gasp in horror (apparently, I didn’t actually make it that far).  So when she first starts having this Christian dude put his P in her V, she calls her V her sex as in:

“And then he moved his mouth down my stomach and began to blow softly up my sex.” (Not an actual quote, but it’s something pretty close to that)

Your what??  He blew into your who??  I mean, last time you were in that -ahem- position, were you like, “Yeah, yeah, give it to me right in my sex!”  NO ONE SAYS THAT.  How am I supposed to be turned on by this when I’m trying to figure out why in the holiest of all hells she’s calling her vagina her sex?!?  That’s not all you guys, which brings me to number three.

3.       Anastasia’s “inner- goddess.”  This is also her vagina folks.  You heard me.

I admit I didn’t even get to the sadomasochistic sex because I couldn’t read this woman’s HORRIBLE writing, not one more word of it.  I did get through some of the “vanilla” sex which was unpleasant (see #1, 2, & 3) and I did get to “The Contract.”  If you read this atrocity, you know what I’m referring to. 

The mysterious 28 year old (was he 29? 27? Who gives a shit) uber wealthy businessman Anastasia decides to give up her virginity to after waiting her whole life, digs the whole S&M thing almost as much if not more than Rhianna.  He only has unattached sex with women who will sign a contract giving him three months of their lives to act as the “Submissive” to his “Dominant.”  This contract is 50 Shades of WHACK.  She has to eat a ton of healthy food, not drink any booze (the audacity of him to ask her to let him beat her senseless with a belt without any booze in her system!), get eight hours of sleep every night, do ANYTHING he says when he says to do it, and not talk to other men at all ever.  It’s pretty much like being in prison, minus the health food part.  And she signs it.  See why I can’t relate to this woman?  She holds out on sex until her knight in shining armor rides in on his white horse, and gives her a contract saying he can put it anywhere he wants and shove a hedgehog up her butt if it so strikes his fancy.   How utterly romantic. 

But I digress.  My point is, why is this so hot again?  Is it the nipple clamps?  Is it the butt plugs??  Ladies, can we at least set higher standards on the writing in our chosen smut novels???  Can we demand the term “muttered” just never be used?  I’m perplexed as to why, in this day and age, this book is making the author (who by the way said on national television that her readers were basically horny idiots) something like 25 million dollars a week.  Should I write a smut book about S&M?  Is it the S&M that is getting these housewives so hot and bothered?  Should I just write:

“And then he muttered into her sex, ‘I’m going to put the nipple clamps on now,” and then she muttered, ‘Yes, nipple clamps.”   * standing ovation*

I would just luuuurve to make 25 million dollars a week and move Ken and I to some private island in the Caribbean where we can nipple clamp each other until they fall off and we use them as big game fishing bait.  Barbie’s Dream Island- nipple clamps sold separately.

And this brings me to my actual point.  I’m concerned that between this gawd-awful book and the movie “Magic Mike,” my fellow womenfolk are not having enough real life sex, or at least not enjoying it enough.  You should have seen the outpouring of luuuurve on my Facebook page from all the ladies for the male-stripper movie starring Dumb and Dumber.  Ladies, men out there, real ones with real-life penises, would LOVE to be having sex with you.  You can do the same thing Anastasia did with Captain Disturbia.  You can!  There are all kinds of dudes out there willing to get weird.  And we have the internet now so you don’t even have to put any effort into finding them!  The odd thing for me are the women who have men at home, who would rather read about sex than have it.  Really ladies?  Do women not like actual sex as much as they like the idea of sex?  Is it that the fantasy is all too often much better than the reality?  Is that it??  Are you not getting what you want?  Take a page out of Christian Grey’s book and write out a contract, draw the lines clearly.  Men don’t understand subtle hints.



I see nothing attractive about men dancing around naked.  I can’t remember if Ken’s ever danced around naked for me, but if he has, I guarantee we were laughing hysterically.  Has feminism swung too far to the other side of the pendulum to where we want to objectify men as they have objectified us for centuries?  Does that give us a feeling of power?  I saw a picture of Channing Tatum when he was actually a stripper (yep, he used to be an actual male stripper) and he looked about 50 Shades of meth-ed out.  Not hawt.



Please note these are only my opinions and that I’m not judging any of you.  I know it sounds like I’m judging, but I’m made of plastic so try not to worry too much about it.  Some of my dearest friends ranted and raved about these sources of entertainment.  Even Skipper (who is a brilliant and completely rational person who I luuuuuuuuuurve) begged me, pleaded with me to go to the midnight showing of “Magic Mike” (Sidenote: I’m never going to a movie theater again).  A MIDNIGHT SHOWING.  Do you know what Ken would have done had I told him I wanted to go see a midnight showing of “Magic Mike”? 

He probably would have done a naked silly dance as he nipple-clamped me to the bed and issued me a good flogging because THAT my friends is what you need when you think you need to see sweaty guys flinging around their junk in the middle of the night. 

To the middle aged housewives out there spending quality time in the bath tub reading about Christian Grey’s rules while sipping on a glass of wine that your husband brought you: Have filthy, raunchy sex with your husband.  He’d love that, and I guarantee afterwards you won’t give two shits about any muttering or anyone else’s inner goddess but yours.

I realize that I did not see “Magic Mike” and I did not read all of 50 Shades of Grey, nor did I read the other two books in the series which my lady friends swear are better than the first.  Since I am not going to see “Magic Mike” in this lifetime, and I’m never picking up 50 Shades of anything ever again, it was kind of now or never on this.  Also, it did take my mind off of the fact that sometimes this world is so ugly and tragic that you just want to read a lousy smut book, or watch some unintelligible naked guys dance.  Ahhhhhhhhhhh, now I get it.

XO,

Barbs

Stolen Jobs, Stolen Hearts, & Stolen Secrets: A True Tale from the OC

Welcome back Friends.  At the request of my former Canadian roommate, I am blogging the reunion; mostly the second part because it was thrilling.  For the record, Canadians make the BEST roommates ever.  You cannot anger them, no matter how cray you are, not that I am of course.  I am an angel.  Angel Barbie.  Anyway, shall we begin?...



Heather vs. Bubbies

You all know I am a Heather fan, and not so much a Bubbies fan, though she makes for pretty excellent TV.  On this whole “phony” argument, bringing up the crew was an interesting tidbit we didn’t know before.  This is what I love about the reunions.  OK, so the people at Nordstroms, Neiman’s, and Saks all say Bubbies treats them like her minions, according the Heather and some of the other ladies.  As I type this I realize how much I don’t care *sigh*.  But just in case you do:  I can see how hearing that, paired with seeing the poor treatment of the crew would bring about a talk from the other ladies.  But honestly, if she doesn’t get it, throw in the towel.  Bubbies, Jim-God love her, is just not that bright.  I don’t think she’s being malicious, she’s just kind of, well, dumb.  Which is fine!  Bubbies grew up in Missouri with dreams of being a California buxom blonde with a rich husband.  Two outta three ain’t bad as they say.  So maybe she does stick up her nose to the people who help her try on shoes.  Maybe she used to be the shoe salesperson in ol’ BoeDunk, MO and people treated her like crap and now she wants to get back at the shoe world.  I don’t think she’s smart enough to harbor ill feelings though quite honestly. 

Bubbies lives in Bubbiesland where nose jobs run free and Princess/Puppy Parties are the appropriate place to tell your gruesome birth story.  Heather, you are not playing on even ground my dear, let’s just leave poor Bubbies alone.  And that’s what Heather finally did.  Tamra on the other hand, screamed at her and called her “Jesus Jugs.”  Always with the tag lines, that one.  I bet that pissed more than one or two Christians off something fierce.



Gretchen vs. Bubbies

Again, Bubbies never stood a chance.  Let’s start with the Fox Five Scandal.  I had to stand up and cheer when Gretchen busted out the telling emails BECAUSE in all the reunions in all the cities, of all the times one of these harpies has exclaimed, “And I have the emails to prove it!” Gretchen is the first to actually pull the emails out of a magical couch pillow with her perfect manicure and bitch-slap Bubbies with them.  The emails were fairly vague.  They basically hinted that Fox Five had asked Gretchen to do basically the same thing as Bubbies, but before Bubbies was offered the position, so pretty much exactly what Gretchen had said.  Bubbies then presented emails from months later asking if they had offered any other OC housewife the position.  This is where my “Bubbies ain’t that bright” argument comes into play.  The email (from someone who was not the same person who emailed Gretchen) said that they would not offer the position to anyone else.  Ok…that doesn’t really address the issue, but in Bubbies tiny mind that put it to rest.  When the knocking on Bubbies brain got so loud she had to answer the damn door, she finally relented that, regardless of whether or not Gretchen was offered the position, there was a better way to go about telling her than the way Gretchen did.  This I agree with.  Gretchen could have done this off camera, or broken it to her more easily then a stoic, “I’m glad you got to do this since they were trying to get me to do it instead.”  It came across to me that Gretchen was already annoyed by Bubbies’ behavior at that point.  The major reason that I think Gretchen is telling the truth of Bubbies’ change in behavior once she became friends with Tamra: Peggy Tanous.  AND Gretchen got along with Heather!  It was too much for Bubbies to handle, and Bubbies can handle a lot.  I mean look at those boom booms.

The best part of this battle was when Gretchen said something that I can’t even remember, and then Bubbies was like, “Well you have fake hair and fake lips and you lie about that!”  Gretchen had to admit that she had her lips plumped by more than her make-up line’s lip plumper.  Gretch, honey, that’s like being at alcoholics’ anonymous and having to admit you’re an alcoholic.  Shake it off. 

Tamra vs. Bubbies

Tamra’s Hair:  “You are PSYCHOTIC Jesus Jugs!!!”



Bubbies’ Jugs:  “Hey, what did we do??”

Ok this is where it starts getting good.



Brooks vs. Tamra

Why does Vicki look like she’s about to walk into a Venus Fly Trap wearing nothing but a thong?  Because Brooks is coming out to face the ladies and she knows this ain’t gonna be fun.  How many of us wish this reunion aired after the 20/20 special on Brooks (everyone raises their hand).  OK, so Brooks came out to battle Tamra’s hair.  He was as goofy as ever.  He said his “southern charm” is what causes him to come across as less than genuine, and is the reason he constantly affirms Vicki with his daily affirmations.  It’s because he’s southern ya’ll!  Now, as far as his affections for Vicki: Who couldn’t love a controlling, cray-ass lady who works all the time and tells everyone what to do and how to do it and tells you what to pack, how to dress, to get your teeth done cause you look like a hick meth addict, provides you with a car and spending money and humps your brains out because it’s been twenty years since she’s gotten any?  WOOHOO!  Love ya Vick.

In all fairness, when any of the rest of us hate our best friend’s boyfriends we do the normal thing and talk shit about them to our other best friends and wait it out until our best friend comes to her senses and dumps his ass, and THEN talk shit about him to her.  Vicki has a few things going against her:

1.        She chose Tamra as a best friend.  This broad isn’t exactly known for keeping her opinions to herself.

2.       Vicki gave everyone else SO much shit about their men (Slade, Jim-God, Simon, Matt Keough) that it literally PAINS them to not give her shit back.

3.       Briana doesn’t like Brooks which makes it legit in my mind because, as Dame Andy Cohen said, Briana hasn’t not made sense since the moment we met her.

Tamra confronts Brooks about the Evil Eye fiasco.  She points out that he said “Evil Eye” instead of rolling her eyes, which is DIFFERENT.  And any of us loyal viewers know “Evil Eye” is a sore spot for Ms. Barney.  Tams tells Brooks he’s not a woman and should act like a man.  Brooks tells Tamra taking love advice from her is like taking financial advice from someone who is bankrupt.  Taking love or financial advice from either of these two is like asking your gold fish if he thinks you should take the job and move to Atlanta or stay because your boyfriend wants to be closer to his family. 

The best part of this battle was when Brooks said he was “protecting his lady.”  And Tamra asked, “From an eye roll?!?!”  And you could see his little hamster wheel spinning thinking, “That does sound so stupid but I’m in it up to my ears now…” and then he forced out a meek, “Yes.”



Briana vs. Vicki

Brooks won’t sit out there with Briana because he knows she’s going to ask him the tough questions like, “What do you ACTUALLY do for a living?” and “How many kids do you ACTUALLY have?” so he exits and she comes out.  Briana’s pregnant if you didn’t know.  Vicki threw her a wedding sans Housewives, + one crook.  Briana answers all of Andy’s blah blah boring questions and then it starts getting good.  She says her and the Mister are living in Coto with Vicki, as is Donn because Vicki needs help with the mortgage.  This wasn’t ok for Jeana Kough, but it is for Vicki, see how that works?  Anywhoo, Brooks isn’t allowed to live there while Briana does because he gives her a case of the uber creeps.  She basically says he can’t answer direct questions and avoids her as much as possible.  That’s what con men do Briana, it’s not personal.  Then Vicki says some defensive bullshit and Briana outs that she was basically having some sort of affair with Brooks before it was officially over with Donn.  She tells how Vicki would leave the room and get a text from Brooks, “I love you, Happy Thanksgiving.”  That DOES sound like Brooks.  His Card of the Day read:

“Vicki, as I stare at this beheaded turkey before me, I am overcome with love for you.  For as this turkey has squawked his last gobble, my love for you is neverending.  Like the gravy on my mashed potatoes, lust for you flows freely through my veins.  It will never dry out like this stuffing.  You are the green beans to my casserole.  Also, I need to borrow your car next Tuesday.     Shouting my Love from  Rooftops, Brooks”

Next came a revelation that shocked me to my plastic core.  In retaliation for Briana spilling the beans on Vicki’s pre-break-up hook-up, Vicki word-vomited, “Well my husband’s been having an affair for twenty years!”  OH NO SHE DI’N’T.  Not our Donn!!  Not our pug-loving, khaki-shorts wearing, river-going Donn!!  The only affair Donn’s been having for twenty years is with Corona Light!  I refuse to see Donn as an adulterer.  The man cries when he’s happy for Jim-God’s sake!!  But alas, Tamra and Briana confirm it is so.  They nod their heads solemnly, Tamra’s weave considering jumping ship when her head is in the down position and the leap off the couch doesn’t seem so daunting.  Gretchen is fuming because she was the Scarlet Letter-wearing of the gang just moments ago, but now no more.  Vicki, always one to deflect blame, then accused Tamra of dating Eddie before she moved out on Simon.  Vicki honey, the blonde with the crazy eyes and the Loni Anderson hair sitting across from you is named Tamra.  She is from the side of the tracks you do not mess with.  She will f**k you up, Coto.  And that is exactly what she did with this verbal grenade:

“YOU CALLED ME FROM CABO AND TOLD ME YOU WOKE UP NAKED NEXT TO SOME DUDE!”

BOOM.  Did you guys feel that?  That was the demise of a friendship right there.  The ladies have officially entered verbal warfare.  That made Bubbies’ tattle on Gretchen’s lips look like a whole-lotta-nothin’.  Vicki freaked out of course, told Tamra she was disgusting, and then Tamra pointed to Briana’s tummy and shouted, “SWEAR ON THAT BABY’S LIFE!”  Jesus Jugs Tamra, you had to bring an unborn baby into it?  Speaking of Jesus Jugs, Bubbies got her two cents in when she said to Tamra, “Well you were in a bath tub on TV with your boyfriend before you were legally divorced!”  Oh heyyyyy Bubbies’ brain!  Every once in a while…there you are. 

The Point According to Barbie

The point is:  None of these ladies have room to talk about any of this shit.  But since they’re on a TV show and their contract requires it, here we all are.  Talk about schadenfreude you guys, this one was a whopper.  It was like Tyson vs. Holyfield, but with fillers.  I can’t wait to see what’s in store for us next season.  I, for one, will miss you cray OC betches.  I’ll drink blue cheese dirty martini’s (which Briana outed as Vicki’s only on-camera signature drink- I knew it!) and count the days until your return.

Until I post RHNY my friends…

XO,

Barbs

Yummy Tummy vs. Pinot Grigio: Londongate Strikes Again

Oh heyyyyyy friends.  Happy Tuesday!  Nope, you’re not dreaming.  I am blogging New York, and I must say I’m rather excited about it.  Now that Orange County is coming to a close, I have more plastic brain capacity for our East Coast ladies antics.  So let us begin…



First of all, Princess Carole Radziwill (pictured above) is my favorite housewife of all time.  That is all for my first of all.



We open with Aviva, our new member of the group who has a prosthetic leg, a mountain of anxieties, and one of the best wardrobes I have ever seen.  She is meeting with Heather, our other newbie, whose smile genuinely frightens me and I have to look away sometimes.  Below you will find Skipper’s contribution to this blog entry- she worked a long time on this side by side:

You’re welcome, says Skipper.

The ladies meet in a park, which it seems that they luuuurrve to do.  There is already big drama because Heather invited all the ladies from the cast to London to join her on an extended work trip EXCEPT Ramona who she doesn’t like because Ramona told her she talks too much (she does) and she makes Heather uncomfortable.  Now, we all know Ramona is looney tunes, bat shit cray cray, BUT come on Heather.  Really?  That’s a pretty major move pretty early in the game.  Either this chick is not that bright, luuuurves to stir shit up, or has a set of balls on her that could choke a donkey.  I think it’s all of the above.

Aviva tries to explain to Heather that the whole “exclude only Ramona” thing was a bitch move, given as she invited the whole rest of the cast.  Heather’s argument is that she doesn’t want to be uncomfortable or embarrassed on this trip, and she thinks Ramona will make her feel both.  She will!  But you signed up to be on this show, so you better get used to being uncomfortable and embarrassed betch! HOLLA



If you remember anything about my NY blog last season, you know I find it difficult to stomach the Countess DeLesseps.  Well this feeling was multiplied times ten and sprinkled with bath salts last night when we were forced to watch her go through acupuncture to make her Mertle more fertile, and listen to her talk about her and Juju Magoo’s baby-making habits.  I mean honestly LuAnn.  At 47 years old, by all means do what you gotta do but do we have to talk about it???  Also, I feel the strong need to point out that she told the doc that she and Pepe le Pew have been trying to make babies for two years, but she JUST asked her daughter if that was cool last week for the cameras.  So without much detail since I did fast forward through this scene of awkward tingles, you should know that LuAnn and Zou Bisous are trying to have a baby without IVF, and are having a great time doing it. (Le barf)



I luuuuuuuuuurve me some Sonja Morgan, my GAWD that woman is zany.  She’s the best kind too because she knows she is!  Sonja Morgan needs minions, and a tiny army of them at that.  Sonja Morgan scurries about in her pjs, spouting out half-instructions to each minion intern who doesn’t know why they are working for someone who doesn’t seem to ever be working, but who do not care because damn, she is entertaining.  Sonja Morgan gets checks for a dollar from American Express, takes poop pills on national TV and doesn’t give a fuuuuuuck, and drinks tap water everywhere she goes because she used to own five houses, a yacht, and 75 staff members yet is too cheap for Pellegrino now that she’s bankrupt.

Sonja Morgan meets Aviva for drinks to discuss their mutual affinity for blouses with bows on them which my Ken fondly refers to as “pirate shirts” when I wear them (anything with a large sleeve gets, “I see you’re wearing a flying squirrel shirt today”) and whether or not Ramona and Sonja had a real fight at Sonja’s soiree.  This is the reason we adore our dearest Sonja Morgan, because Sonja Morgan simply states, “Ramona was just being Ramona.  She lets me be me and I let her be her.”  Ahhhh that was a nice breath of fresh air.  Aviva shared her affection for Ramona and her desire to not make her feel excluded, and Sonja Morgan was like, “Umm, is this tap water?  Do you know?  Because I only drink tap water.”

Onto my favoritest favorite, and not only because she’s a princess.  Carole goes on a date with a dude who takes an awkward amount of time to process everything she says.  It’s probably due to the language barrier, but also may be due to the fact that we find out he is around fifteen years than our witty princess.  She sips her drink and asks the edgy questions like the seasoned journalist that she is:



Princess:  What do you do?

Date:  (15 second pause)  I design men’s fashion.

Princess:  And you’ve never been married?  Are you gay??

Date: (15 second pause) No.  I’ve been asked to design clothes for Rick Perry.

Princess:  Oh my god, you’re not a Republican are you?

Date:  (15 second pause) No, I’m a pussy.

Princess to camera:  Did he just say pussy?

Date:  (15 second pause) I’m spussy.  No that’s not the word. (Is he saying specific?  Picky? Democrat?  WTF)

At the end of the date she found out he was 31 and then it all made sense.  The date was mostly research for her newest book anyway so no sweat off Carole’s back: she’s as cool as a cat, as she puts it.  Ahhhh I’m thrilled to welcome to the pack: A cool, laid back, incredibly smart, hippie-minded, democratic, chic, stylish, beautiful, potty-mouthed, downtown, tells-it-like-it-is, no drama Princess.

Speaking of which, Carole meets Ramona downtown for a drink before they meet up with Heather and Aviva for a shopping date Heather scheduled as a peace-offering for not inviting Ramona to London (that will go over well, I’m sure).  Ramona asks Carole how she should handle Heather, but of course we know all of Ramona’s questions are rhetorical.  She knows all the answers already, obvi.  Carole says she would not worry about it, and to not approach Heather to discuss on the shopping trip.  She suggests Ramona just try to be nice and show her what she’ll be missing not having her in London.  Of course this went through one end of Ramona’s pinot glass and out the other.  Ramona knows she’s going to do something on this ominous shopping trip, but what yet, we cannot be sure…



Aviva and Heather are first to arrive to Curve, or whatever the store is called.  The owner is a friend of Heather’s because with a smile like this….

When the store owner tries to get Aviva to try on shoes, Aviva is stand-offish and tells her she doesn’t want to attract attention to her feet.  It’s a reasonable stance on its own.  Heather, however, feels the need to share with the store owner (and everyone in the store) that Aviva has a prosthetic leg due to an accident in her childhood and you couldn’t ever tell just by looking at her unless you just told everyone.  Talk much Heather??  HOLLA

Ramona and Carole soon join and the shopping fun commences.  Except it doesn’t because Carole has to take an important phone call outside and Ramona is left in the store with Heather and Aviva.  The store owner and a couple of associates hand piece after piece to Ramona to try on and Ramona sends piece after piece away with a wave of her hand and a look of disgust.  Is it a mini-skirt?  No?  Is it a long chain necklace?  No?  Is it a pair of black tights and knee high boots?  No??  THEN WHY THE HELL ARE YOU GIVING IT TO RAMONA???



Of course Heather is embarrassed by this because she’s basically embarrassed by everything Ramona Singer which, how could you blame her really.  So instead of just ignoring her and then explaining to her friend later that she’s crazy, Heather takes Ramona aside to talk to her about London.  Heather basically says, “Yeah, I didn’t invite you to London because I didn’t think you liked me and I don’t like you, but I’m not mad that you said I talk too much, which Aviva told me you said by the way.”

As Heather finished putting her books into her locker before heading off to gym class, Ramona responded with, “Well Aviva told me you were mad at me about that and I couldn’t understand because you said I talk too much too but I’m not offended and besides you DO talk too much but you should totally bring me to London.  Let’s get Aviva over here.”

Fearing she might be late to Algebra, Aviva hurries over and is met with, “You told her that I was mad at her but I wasn’t mad at her so why’d you tell her that?”  And Aviva was like, “You told me that.” And then one of the other two was like, “No I didn’t,” and then Aviva was like, “I’m going to be late to Algebra you guys.”  And then Heather basically was like, “Well, I’m not inviting you to London but I don’t have a problem with you,” and then Ramona was like, “My nail polish lasts for three weeks and I can balance a glass of Pinot Grigio on my head!  Let’s take a break!”   Ahhhh, good ol’ Ramonacoaster.



Carole comes in with exciting news- her second book has been made into a TV pilot and the network luuuurved it (duh)!  She tells the girls, and there is jumping and squealing and happy bombs going off all around and then Ramona says, “Well since we’re sharing good news, I found out yesterday they’re going to sell Ramona Pinot at Target!”  *Crickets* 

Seriously, is it any wonder they keep this woman on the show?  That’s TV gold people.



I will leave you with that for now friends.  Tune in next week to see if the girls in London or the girls in New York have a better time.  Until next time my luuurves…

XO,

Barbs