Friday, January 29, 2010

Abstinence Makes For A Cranky Bitch

When a door closes, someone opens a window. When one of your senses weakens, another is suppose to buck up and take it's place. If you can't get one thing, you can hopefully find another to replace it. Just take Renee Zellwegers character in the movie "Down With Love". She claimed to use chocolate as a substitute for sex. While watching the movie, I often wondered how she kept her size zero waist if she was scarfing Hersey Bars.

Like every red blooded American woman and a few Down Unda (Hi MadWoman!), I'm trying to stay on a health kick. Now that Big K has been told he needs to eliminate carbs so he can eliminate some poundage (more on that later), I'm doing my wifely duty and going as carb free as I can. It's not fair to inhale a bowl of spaghetti if he's picking at a salad. I'm not sure how long this do-gooder attitude will last, but I'm trying.

My health kick started last week. After tabulating my expenses from 2009, I was shocked to discover I'd spent over $500.00 on take lunch. Quickly transferring the figure to "how many shoes would I have been able to purchase", I vowed to brown bag it and save my precious pennies.

No longer allowed to "get lunch out", I began to miss my every-other-day rendez vous with the fabulous tomato bisque from Lamberts Farm Stand. Really just tomato flavored cream, this luscious, velvety soup was my get-outta-stress free card. Nicknamed "Orgasm Soup" (apparently, I make "Mmm Mmmm" noises when I eat it), it was something I looked forward to. I also miss my gigantic turkey, bacon, avocado, sprouts, and swiss sandwich on warm homemade 7 grain from Le Petit France Cafe. Nummy Nummy!!! Who cares if I went into a 3 hour food coma after consumption and the bacon made a home on my hips. It was food paradise.

Like any true junkie, my withdrawals came fast and furious. At first, I thought my crankiness stemmed from being tired and annoyed with everyone I work with. Then I realized, I'm always tired and always annoyed with everyone I work with. Nothing new there. Then I blamed it on PMS. Well, that argument wouldn't hold water. PMS was over a week ago and DMC (also known as During Menstrual Cycle), wasn't the reason for my nasty behavior. Sure, I was fat, bloated and bleeding. But, this carried over to F&CT (also known as Free And Clear Time). No hormones to blame.

Then, I was begrudgingly eating my daily nonfat yogurt (Blegh!) and perusing Facebook, it hit me like a Big Mac to the face.(Oh, I would kill for a Big Mac right now) I needed a substitute for my substitute. You see, I'm gonna be 33 years old soon. As you may or may not know, women hit their sexual peak in their 30's while men peak out in their late teens - early 20's. I'm finding the further I go into my 30's, the crazier and more ravenous I become for sex, sex, and more sex. I obtain a unique pleasure from tasting food and it has become apparent I've used my love of delicious nibbles to quell my other healthy appetite.

I tried to do some research on pleasure centers of the brain to see if I've got some sort of disorder. Hmm. I shall call it "NeedsSexOrACheeseBurgerosis". But, without a medical degree or a crash course in Latin, it is impossible to figure out. Some say the pleasure center is in the septum pellucidum, some say it's in the nucleus accumbens. And even a few more say it's in the hypothalamus. Unless I stick myself in a Skinner Box, I'm on my own.

Now, it's Friday. Two weeks complete. I've got my homemade turkey sandwich on a wheat wrap with swiss cheese, low fat mayo, avocado and lettuce. Also packed is my nonfat yogurt (Blegh!) and an apple. Not exactly ambrosia, but good for my penny-pinching-waistline-watching self. For those of you working with me today, I apologize for my bitchy attitude. If you wish for me to whistle while I work or even crack a smile, please bring me a Big Mac, large fry and a large Diet Coke or a willing to have crazy monkey sex on the spot, naked VinDiesel. Either poison will do. I'm dying in here.

Tuesday, January 26, 2010

Random Tuesday Thoughts -

I have become obsessed with the show "Ruby" on the Style Network. I spent Saturday night catching up on all the back episodes. If you don't know about Ruby, she's a adorable woman from Savannah, Georgia who used to weigh over 600 lbs. She's on a weight lose mission and has cut herself down to just under 350 lbs with diet and exercise. Will someone please get me a life so I stop watching these stupid shows.

I had an unbelievable orgasm on Friday night. Really. It was at least one of the all time top ten.

On Saturday night, I had dinner with Dollface and my fabulous artist friend Sarah Holl. We ate yummy shrimp, salad and I told them all about my orgasm the night before. What? Isn't that what you talk to your friends about at dinner? If you can't discuss your sex life, what else are you going to talk about. A few weeks ago, we all admitted to each other that we fart. I suggest you have this conversation with your friends as well. You'll be amazed how much closer you'll become.

Oh, I forgot to tell you the orgasm was with my husband! Sorry about that, hun. I wanted to give you credit.

I've recently discovered I love roasted garlic hummus. Unfortunately those around me are suffering the consequences.

Alright, I could have had that orgasm by myself. I'm pretty sure I could.

My boss has joined my gym. This must be step number 8 in his mission to destroy my soul. I realize my gym is utterly fabulous and everyone wants to work out there. But why must he insert himself into the place I go to release all the negative energy. Stay tune for next week. He'll probably buy the house across the street from me and move it. That way he can abuse me on the weekends in person.

Nope, I most definitely need husband for that orgasm. Thank you, babe. You're the best.

I've noticed the word "diddle" is back in style. Ew.

I have spring fever. The temperature is up to 45 degrees and I am inching to go crazy in my yard. Then, I remember I live in Massachusetts. It's probably going to snow a foot tomorrow with a -5 windchill.

That's a wrap lovers.

Thursday, January 21, 2010

Holey Thong!

You know how the saying goes "Make sure you when you leave the house, you're wearing clean underwear. You never know if you'll get in an accident and have to be taken to the hospital". My mother never uttered this phrase, but I'm sure it was in the back of her mind. She was more concerned with my skirt length than the panties beneath. Short skirts, in her mind, would lead me down the path to harlotism. (Harlotism is the first stop on the way to Slutville)Unbeknownst to her, I had already taken the path and was in the process of constructing a seven lane highway over it by the time I was 17. Now I'm all grown up and panty free. Well, not always. Panties, as a rule, must be worn with jeans or any form fitting pants. It's my thing. Don't judge me. There is creeping up and tweaking with jeans. A wrong move by an inch and your lady bits might get pinched. Then there is the dreaded camel toe. Panties are a protective barrier for all I hold dear.

My panty drawer is small; probably holding 25 or so pairs. Have you ever wondered why it's called a "pair of panties"? Pair means "two". Like a "pair of socks" or a "pair of mittens". How can panties be "a pair". I'm not wearing two, just one. Is it because there are two leg holes? What a brain teaser! Anywhoo....back to the protectors of my crotch.

I'm a firm believer in the thong. After introducing myself to it 17 years ago and slowly acclimating to the feeling of a string in my asscrack, I will never go back. I do have a few pairs of bikini briefs worn only to bed with cute little babydoll tee's. I admit I've worn a briefs in the rare emergency situation when all the thongs are awaiting their dip in the tub. I can truly say I know what it feels like to wear a diaper. Just throw on a pair (there's that confusing word again) of briefs after 17 years of dental floss in your bum. You'll swear it's a diaper and you have a load in your pants.

Ladies, I know you'll hate me for this next part, but it needs to be said. Period Panties. That's right. The few pairs you keep in the back of the drawer for the very special time of the month. The undies you would swear on a stack of bibles aren't yours. You know what I'm talking about. I'll wait while you go look.


See. I told you. They are there, aren't they. Stains and all. Now, let's just up the grossness factor, shall we. Do yours have holes in them? Do yours have holes in the crotch area? Don't look at me like that. You know they do. We're all the same. We wear them down to rags. The elastic broke 6 months ago, the leg seams are fraying and the once vibrant hot pink color has dulled to a orangish red. Yet we keep these embarrassing bits of silk, cotton or satin until they are so disgusting a two dollar hooker wouldn't use it to wipe her ass.

My favorites are the pairs my dogs have mined from the dirty laundry pile. They root around for the nastiest, skankiest pair, skulk off to a corner and have a chew. Hours later, I'll come across the soaking wet bit of lace, gag violently and throw it back in the wash - unable to part with them. Throwing them away only causes the problem of which semi-nice pair do I have to choose and banish to the "period pile" to replace the pair I just threw out.

Ladies, I'm afraid our secret is out. While we harp on our husbands for their collection of skid mark briefs, (Seriously guys. I mean, how hard is it to wipe properly) we have our own tiny pile of shame. People ask me why I don't allow my husband to do the laundry. I always respond with a half truth - that I'm afraid he might wash everything together and ruin my clothes. But the whole truth is, I'm afraid he might find out how truly disgusting I really am.

Tuesday, January 19, 2010

Random Tuesday Thoughts - Facebook, Dirty Sexy Men and Two Hams.

The other day, I walk into the office kitchen while an associate was preparing his lunch. I watched in horror as he dumped two big spoonfuls of mayonnaise on his garden salad and sprinkled it with oregano. Then, I threw up in my mouth and left the room.

I'm on Facebook now and you need to be my #1 Fan! Just search "Utterly Fabulous" and you'll find my page. Just do it and I'll stop whining about it. I would like to get at least 100 fans by the end of the week. Please don't make me sign up to be my own fan. Then I'll cry, I'll feel pathetic and it will just make me whine more. Do you want that?? Do you want to hurt my feelings? Do ya??

Did you know the word "crotch" also means " a fork in a tree, road or river"? The next time I give directions I plan to say "Go down Main Street and take a right at the crotch in the road".

I know Johnny Depp has been voted sexiest man and he most certainly has my vote. But, I wonder....does anyone else think he looks like he hasn't showered in weeks? I'm not saying I'd throw the guy outta bed. I just think he looks like he might be a bit malodorous. Possibly a cross between toe jam and unwashed hair.

I saw this outfit on my latest trip to the supermarket.

If you know this woman and you really care about her, please tell her not everyone should wear leggings in public. Just because anorexic Lindsay Lohan trounces around in leggings doesn't give license to the general public. I don't even wear leggings unless I have a VERY baggy shirt that covers my entire ass. If dress appropriately, this woman probably has a very nice figure. In this outfit, it looks like she's trying to smuggle two hams out of the store in her pants.

That's a wrap, lovers. Stay warm, stay lubed up and love someone tonight.

Monday, January 18, 2010

The Curse of Eve

When it comes to religion, I got the shit end of the stick. The product of the 70's flower child era, I was never baptized or christened. I think my parents may have dunked me in a basin of bong water and thought it was good enough to save my poor soul from eternal damnation. My experiences with church have been positive, although every time I walk through the front door I fear I might burst into flames. I've even taken Communion. At the time, I didn't know it was wrong. I just followed the crowd. Everyone else was going up to the front for a snack. Why shouldn't I? I didn't know it symbolized flesh. If I known, I would have stayed in my seat sickened by the thought of cannibalism. If you really think about it, it's really kinda icky. I don't know how you Catholic people do it every week.

When The Husband (TH) and I decided to get married, I knew it would take place in the Catholic church. Even though he is a lapsed Catholic, he wanted to get married in a church (READ: he's a Mommas boy and she made him). I was afraid I'd have to become Catholic before they would let me through the doors. I dreaded the three months of schooling, prepping and forced attendance every Sunday at Mass. What if I had to go to confession? I'd need at least 2-3 hours per week just to confess everything I'd done the week before. Were these guys prepared for me? Thankfully, this all took place in the height of the Catholic church scandal and they were psyched for anyone who wanted to be married in the church. We just took a 2 day "Marriage Preparation Course" and it was all good. We didn't even have a Mass. Just a quickie service with a very gay priest from Poland. I wore the white dress, I walked down the aisle and there was nary a flame in sight. Not even a puff of smoke.

I feel the true criminal in religion is Eve. That bitch didn't listen. She ate the apple, tempted Adam and ruined everything. If a snake started talking to you, would you listen? Because of her, women feel pain in childbirth (I don't have any kids, but those of you who are mothers are having second thoughts about Eve, aren't ya?) and we have to bloat, bleed and be emotional unstable once a month for the rest of our lives until we hit menopause and it becomes hot flashes, insanity and all the rest. A friend once told me you shouldn't trust something that can bleed for 4 days and not die. Of course, this friend is a man and couldn't possibly understand the trauma of trying to squeeze into a pair of pants that fit like a glove 12 hours ago and now, they won't even button.

Because of Eve, I can't have sex for four days at month. 4 days!! I know there are those of you who have sex during this time and all I can say is Eww!!! Ickiness Personified! It's not the whole blood thing or the smell thing or the fact I have to say "Hang on a minute, honey, while I remove this tampon". It's that I feel my most disgusting during those 4 days. Add on the 3 days prior where my mood mirrors that of a charging cranky rhino and you've got one week of pure awfulness. I don't call it "Going Medusa" for nuthin'

Because of Eve, I have to keep my man happy for 4 days without the use of my amazing Wooha. This means loads of blowjobs. Something I love to do, but not without gettin' a little sumthin' sumthin' for myself. I know I can whip out my buzz toys. But when you're feeling like a ball of hair caught in a drain, do you really want to try for an orgasm? It's just too much effort. It's easier to just eat a cream cheese brownie. After the second night of the time I like to call "He Gets Everything and I Feel Like a Bloated Heifer", I need to call in reinforcements. Porn. Wonderful, beautiful, sweet helpful porn. Big K, if you're reading this, I have a confession to make: I pull out the porn to make it go faster. I know you think I do it for you - to make it hotter and more naughty. Ummmmm....that's sorta true. But, if I can cut the job time down 15 minutes or so because you're gotten so hot from watching Jenna do her thing you can't hold it any longer, that's good for me. They don't call it a "job" for nuthin'. 3 days = lockjaw, baby! I love ya, but a girls gotta do what a girls gotta do.

Eve, you whore, you're not my favorite person this week. Maybe if we'd gone the Darwinian route you would have been eaten by dinosaurs and I wouldn't be picking up a new Jenna movie on my way home tonight.

Hey lovers! Don't forget to find me on Facebook. Just search for "Utterly Sinful" Be a fan. Make me feel loved!

Friday, January 15, 2010

Atypical + Outspoken = Help For Men

I'm on Facebook now!! Come and find me. Just search for "Utterly Sinful" in the page section!

As you know, I am the atypical woman. I love sports, hate shopping (unless its for shoes), own porn and admit to having gross bodily functions. (Get over it, ladies. Everyone farts) Most of my friends are guys and I only hang with the really cool girls. (The ones who also admit to having gross bodily functions). You might say I've got balls. Well, not real ones. That would be gross. Let me rephrase that. I have hypothetical balls.

I love my celebrity gossip rags and sometimes I'll pick up a Cosmo, Lucky, Glamour or Vogue. They're repetitive crap, but offer some form of amusement when I'm stuck in the pedicure chair for an hour. The other day, I thumbed thru one of those silly men's magazines full of gadgets, bad workouts and products that promise to make you the manliest of men. After I oogled the shirtless hunks, determined which ones I thought were gay but still yummy, I started reading the articles. I chortled in amusement at an authors attempt to give advice on women. He or she - I forgot to check, but it wouldn't have made a difference - was listing "What you should never say to a woman". I applied my atypical status to these questions and here are my thoughts:

Anything bad about her guy friends If I'm hanging out with an asshole but I'm too ignorant to notice, please tell me. If you're just being a dick because you're jealous, then we'll have problems. Either way, it's important to get it all out in the open.

I'll call you Friday. I'll know you're full of shit. So when you do call on Friday, it's a pleasant surprise.

Anything that hints at a "future" Again, full of shit. Again, pleasant surprise.

How many guys have you slept with? This is only because they might be embarrassed if my number is larger than theirs. Go ahead. Ask me. I'll give you a number, but it's more of a guesstimate. Even I'm not quite sure.

I left you a message the other day, but didn’t hear back. What happened? The thought behind this one is it make the guy sound like a whiny pussbag or....dare I say it....a woman? I don't think it sounds like either. If I left someone a message and I didn't hear back, I'd want to know why. It doesn't make me whiny. It makes me annoyed at an unreturned phone call.

Do you like me? I think this is the pussification fear again. I think this is a valid question. It does not make a man sound like a big girl.

Can I take you out on a date sometime? I find this question sweet and endearing. It's also appeals to my desire for people to be forthcoming and stop pussyfooting around things.

Can I kiss you? Cute and endearing. Right out of a Tom Hanks/Meg Ryan movie. I'm kvelling!

How much do you weigh? I weigh 167lb. What's it to ya? I enjoy telling people how much I weigh. Nobody believes I weigh that much.

During a fight, blaming her emotional instability on her period. You can say it, but you'd better be sure it's right. Either way you're fucked. I have no issue telling people I'm in the throes of a full on Medusa rage. It's only fair when your emasculating someone for reasons unknown to you. Gentlemen, we have no control over ourselves during this time of month. Be kind and hide. That's my only advice.

Why are you mad at me? Go ahead. Ask me. But, before you do, make sure you've eaten, gone the bathroom and found a comfy stop to sit. We're gonna be talking for awhile. But, after it's over, the wounds have healed and I've allowed you to come out of the cellar, I'll be touched you noticed I was mad in the first place.

No wonder men are always in trouble. The advice given in those stupid magazines has shaped them into the duds they are. I should start my own rag - Everything You Want to Know About Women. It's time someone was honest with these guys, steered them in the right direction and showed them where a clitoris is. (Hint: It's 2 inches from where you think it is.)

Thursday, January 14, 2010

Who The Hell Is Dorothy?

Email is a modern marvel. It's also a damn nuscience. It allows you to communicate with someone three feet away without uttering a word. It also allows the same someone to bother you when you refuse to pick up the phone when they call. It makes it possible to deliver files, photos and documents without getting up off your ass. It also makes it possible for people to demand items instantaneously. I love to hate email.

Not only do I have 4 personal email addresses, I also have my own business email address and monitor 5 other associate addresses, not including the firms business email address. In short, I get alot of fucking email. Even with spam blockers, junk email folders and unsubscribing from every God forsaken list I never signed up to be on, somehow I still manage to average 500 + emails a day. I finally turned off the alert sound as it was averaging a "Ping" every 10 - 15 seconds and slowly persuading me to hurl my computer out my office window.

Efficiency experts tell you to check your email every 15 minutes - not every time you receive a message. Well, I love to get mail. Snail mail, UPS, FedEx and email. Give it all to me, baby. It kills me to wait the 15 minutes. Good or bad, I want to see what the message says. 10% of the time its from someone I don't want anything to do with, 10% of the time its someone I'll deal with and 80% of the time it's spam. - ads for penile enlargements, dating websites, pharmaceuticals, business card promos and coupons. I don't know where they get my email address, but every morning my in-box is flooded. I confess, I do like the penis ads. (Don't judge me). Some of those guys are cute. Just because they have a limp doodle, doesn't mean they don't need some love.

Lately I've noticed some emails directed to a woman named Dorothy. To my knowledge, we've never had a woman named Dorothy working for the company. But, someone out there in cyberspace seems to know her and really wants to contact her. She's a popular girl. It's too bad she's given everyone my email address instead of her own.

It's strange what you can learn about a person from the emails they receive. Here's what I've learned about Dorothy:

She's unemployed - All the "work at home" company want to hire her. She gets at least 15 emails a day begging her to come "make $500 per day".

She's broke - Debt consolidation firms are chomping to help her. If she wants, she could consolidate her debt down to one low monthly payment. Maybe if she took one of those "work at home" jobs she might be able to pay her bills.

She's knows someone with "equipment issues" - I guess this poor girl isn't getting any rock hard lovin'. Viagra and Cialis are hot to help her with this issue. Only $49.95 for a one month supply. I hope she remembers to have him seek immediate assistance for an erection lasting longer than 3 hours. In my opinion, that's not a problem, it's a gift. Let me see, how many orgasms could I have in 3 hours.....1, 2, 14, 30, 47.....

She's thinking about switching to DirectTV - good for her.

She's single - or married...or maybe just looking for a part-time lover. I'm having a tough time gauging her interest. She receives invites from, Naughty Housewives Looking For Fun, and a plethora of others. I'm intrigued by her willingness to experiment.

She keeps winning the UK lotto - I wish she would just send the guy in Nigeria her bank account number. Then she wouldn't be so broke.

She's thinking about moving - She seems open to moving anywhere - condo in Washington DC or a beach house in Miami. Price doesn't seem to be a issue. All the Realtors are sending her properties.

Dorothy, if you're out there, I hope you find what your looking for. When you finally collect your Lotto winnings and buy that condo in Long Beach, send me a postcard. I hope your friend gets a woody and you find that special someone on I'd stay away from Naughty Housewives. Those girls look like trouble. Good luck to you.


Tuesday, January 12, 2010

RTT - Bedroom Karma, Weird Xmas Presents & A Cold

This ad actually ran on CBS during NCIS one night. Now, I love a practical Christmas present as much as the next person, but this is ridiculous.

My new year is all about trying different things. On Sunday, I decided to move our bedroom furniture around. I figured a little feng shui would be good for us. Make our bedroom karma even better. This lasted for one night. The move forced TH and I to sleep on different sides of the bed. I don't know about you, but after sleeping on the left side of the bed for 11 years, changing to to the right side totally freaked me out. TH wasn't to pleased either.

I always get confused with the saying "feed a cold, starve a fever" or is it "starve a cold, feed a fever". I have a cold for the first time in 1 1/2 years. I don't know whether to withhold food or feed it some McDonalds. Taking conventional cold medicine is not an option for me. Injestion will end one of two ways - I act like the Energizer Bunny on speed or I become a stoned, drooling mess. I choose to tough it out.

Speaking of McDonalds, is anyone else excited by the Big Mac Snack Wrap? Mcdonalds = heartburn, but I'm not afraid to suffer for a new Big Mac type goodie. For reals!

I should clarify "toughing it out", when it comes my cold fighting technique. What I really mean is I'm drinking gallons of tea and whining to anyone who will listen about how nasty and gross I feel. So far, its working. The snot dip factor has gone down a cup or two. Gallons of tea are great, but I'm making 4-5 trips to the bathroom per hour. Maybe that's where the snot is going....

That's a wrap, lovers. I'm gonna crawl back under the covers now.

Tuesday, January 5, 2010

Random Tuesday - It's Like The Beginning Of A Good Orgasm

I had 5 days off (in a row) around New Years. I don't know how people can have that much time off and not go insane. I was one Lifetime movie away from a mental breakdown. I need stress, chaos, phones ringing and schedules for my life to function properly. I nearly wept with joy when I pulled into my parking spot at the office today. I don't care if I have a newly minted three weeks paid vacation time on my 2010 calendar. I'm not taking it!

I saw my beloved cousin Leslie over the holidays. Leslie has dreadlocks. Long dreadlocks. They remind me of big, hairy turds.It was creeping me out because I kept expecting something to jump out and eat me. I swear, things are living in there. So icky.

For Xmas, I got one of those puzzles that looks really cool, but if you pull out a wooden pin and take it apart, you will never put it back together before your family has you committed. I told myself I wouldn't touch it. After all, it was really pretty looking. All different kinds of wood that fits together to form a cube. It could be a paperweight. Well, that lasted a little over a week. I lost control on Friday and it's taken me three days and lots of swearing to put it back together. I just finished 15 minutes ago. Of course, there was no one awake to witness my triumphant accomplishment. I did a quick happy dance and told myself I would never take it apart again. Ya that will stick.

The guys at the office told me they were buying me new boobs for Xmas. I knew it was a joke, but I was still disappointed when Xmas passed and I didn't get boobs. Oh well. My birthday is in March. Maybe it will happen then.

For the record, the Associates decided to get me the boobs, not the Partners. I don't want to get that statement on the record incorrectly.

I have decided this is going to be an amazing year. I don't know why. I just feel it. It's like the beginning of a good orgasm. You just know it's gonna be fantastic.

One of the Associates told me that I'm in his "Spank Bank". I don't know whether to be flattered or grossed out.

For those of you who don't know about the "Spank Bank": It's a place in your mind where you keep your fantasy people. Then, you make a "withdrawal" when you're having your "alone time" (READ: wacking it) My bank is chock full of yummy men; VinDiesel, Jake Gyllenhall, a cute guy I saw the other day in the grocery store. The inventory changes from week to week. I like to keep my vault fresh.

I want a cat. TH doesn't want a cat. I'm just thinking I should get a cat and just bring it home. What's he gonna do? Divorce me? That would make him an asshole.

I've decided I'm kinda grossed out about the Spank Bank comment. Too much info, dude!

That's a wrap lovers. Take those panties off. Mine are!

Monday, January 4, 2010

Honesty Is My New Policy, Says The Queen of The White Lie.

I consider myself to be an expert when it comes to the truth. I can smell a lie like a fart in a car. I've been bullshitted up and down the block for years and can usually bag a real stinker. Of course, my considerable talent of lie catching comes from years of practice, for I am Queen of the White Lie. I can pull a doozy out of my pocket if the need should arise, but the white lie is my lie of choice. If an Academy Award was given for the best lie, I would be nominated. This year I may have some competition (ahem, Tiger), but my white lie skills should pull me through.

White lies are a necessary evil in life. Even if you want to scream "YES, you are hugely fat and look like Jabba the Hut! Put down the french fries and take care of your body before you have a heart attack" to a good friend who complains night and day she is super fat but refuses to take responsibility for her weight problems and eats terribly, you must restrain yourself out of kindness and spin a little lie. "Well, I'm sure you would love to be healthier. Do you want to go to the gym with me?"

It's tough to keep track of a lie. If you tell too many, they build up on each other. You must remember where you are in this maze and which lie you told last. Who was the last person you told? Was the lie the same lie you told others? Do those people know each other? Could they figure out you lied if they all got together and compared notes. And so on and so forth. It's exhausting. How do politicians keep from cracking under the pressure?

I always feel bad after I lie. Although, I have an innate talent which allows them to spew forth from my lips unchecked, I feel the truth would serve someone better. This could be my New Years resolution, but I'm still working on that. My resolutions come in spurts. After last years list remained unchecked, I've decided my resolutions will be uttered spontaneously through-out the year. But, I digress. Back to the untelling of lies.

I decided to test my theory on Partner #3. After all, he has no feelings and everything bounces off his blackened heart of ice. For the most part, I'm honest with him. I tell him when his clothing looks ridiculous, I tell him when he's being mean and I'm always forthcoming when we're talking about a business matter. I NEVER tell him when he hurts my feelings. I'm pretty sure it would give him too much pleasure.

Anywhoo...on to the experiment.

He's made some comments about he and I being "friends". I don't know what his definition of friend is, but mine does not contain the words "abuse, torment or gain satisfaction from anothers mental anguish". Just because I spend more time with these guys than I do my husband, family and friends combined does not make us buddies. I always tell him that "no way in hell" are we friends and he just laughs it off. So, the other day he made the friend comment, I volleyed back with the "No way" and then....out of the blue...he said the strangest thing: "Why?"

Well, this was different. Why aren't we friend? Hmmm.....Gee....Lemme think.....'CAUSE YOU'RE EVIL!

Remembering my promise to be honest, I did my best. Instead of laughing off his question or leaving the room, I simply said: "Because I don't like you."

Well, you could have knocked me over with a feather when I saw his reaction. His face went from stunned, to worried, to....dare I say....hurt.

"You don't like me? Really? Why?" he said in a small voice.

Oh, the comments were swirling around in my little head. I could feel venom pooling up on my lips and hot blood coursed through my veins as I prepared to blast him for all the times he's sent me home in tears. But, I could not do it. You see, I am a decent person (Dammit!) So, I grabbed the kindest, most gentle and straight forward of the them all.

"I don't like you because you are mean, selfish and self-centered person. I'm not friends with people like that." I said in a tone I hoped wasn't too harsh sounding. I was starting to feel terrible even though I was talking to a man I considered to be Satan himself. A man who, at times, was intentionally cruel so he could get a thrill out of my reaction. A man who rarely acknowledged my efforts. A man who toys with my emotions. I felt bad because I might have hurt his feelings. How fucked up is that?

Fortunately, someone interrupted our conversation before he could utter a response. He only offered me a bewildered look before business became a priority and my comment was left in the dust. But, like dust, it seeped in to a crack and has been holding fast in his mind. He has been respectful and almost kind since our conversation. Of course, this journey to Nevernever Land could end at any moment and the vicious comments could start again. But, I've seem to make a tiny chip in his soul of blackness. Maybe it just took the truth to set things straight. I have to say it's made me feel pretty damn good. Don't go getting all excited and start thinking we're friends. This process could take years. Much like aging a fine wine or cognac, it must be done carefully and at the right temperature. Fuck it up and all you're left with is some nasty tasting shit in a bottle.

This truth thing isn't so bad. I don't think I'll use it all the time. Much like a new pair of stilettos, it may take me a few wearings to break it in. Although this is my first experiment, I can honestly say, I'm pretty happy with the results. And that's no lie.