Character Sheets are the new Rorschatt test.

I'm a big fan of being able to convey a complex concept in a tiny little package.  It's tough, but when done right, boy will it knock your socks off.  I'm always trying to find a way to communicate with people in a way they'll understand. Working at an IT help desk, I get that what I think of as being very simple is exceedingly complex to someone else.  That someone else could be a highly educated lawyer who's had years more schooling than I have.  It's all about what makes sense to a person.

That said, the toughest part of dating/making a new addition to your pool of nearest and dearest is the "getting to know you" stage.  This is where my inner rational and geek pick up their boffer weapons and prepare to let loose the pencils of war.  To set the stage, a dear friend of mine and I have had some long, detailed discussions through email.  Some of which include our favorite tabletop RPGs.  We're both drawn to the World of Darkness series; him to the Tolkienesque world-building mechanics, and me to the character interaction and development.  Being two sides to the same *NTJ coin (He the I and myself the E), it gets a little spooky at times.  But, it's the "being able to quote Silence of the Lambs in any situation" good kind of creepy.

We've both kvetched about how certain aspects of our personalities appear to others and how, in truth, perception isn't the reality.  For example, I bemoaned the fact that I've been called intimidating, aggressive, and scary.  I know I have some personality flaws that lend to that, but in fact, they're in place for just the opposite reason; it's how I disguise weakness.  Thing is, I've spent so long perfecting that facade, I have no idea how to tear it down now that I want to.  Case in point, I don't just gush.  Female ejaculation jokes aside, I don't know how to just give shameless adulation to a person.  My adaptation is to point out silver linings and truths that perhaps a person has lost sight of with sincerity and force.    Have you seen the Blind Side?  It's very much a Leaigh Anne Tuohy "Don't you lie to me now." sort of thing.  It isn't quite the same as genuine praise, but it's the reality of things in the here and now.

Ok, now that the stage has been set dressed, let's continue.  Sometime about two months ago, I ran across a card game called Cards Against Humanity.  After I had nearly peed myself laughing at this game, I had to share.  So, I sent the link to Greyson.  Seeing that it was licensed under creative commons and that we could modify it, we got to thinking about making our own decks.  Card ideas suddenly became all we could talk about.  I have never laughed so hard or spent so much time peeking into the more absurd aspects of life. 

Sometime during this creative outpouring, we'd started taking about gaming again.  I think it was after I'd mentioned that I wanted to change my real name from one of the most common ones given to girls in 1977 to Jezebel.  That got us onto the topic of how the WoD treats those biblical myths, and how maybe Lilith would be a better pick.  So, amid this orgy of D10 and #2 pencil goodness, I get this email with two PDFs attached.  They were vampire, the Masquerade character sheets, drawn up to reflect our real-world personalities.  Brilliant! 

Freud’s version of my ego threw a ticker tape parade down Cerebellum Avenue.  The NT aspects of my personality danced the lambada with my gamer geek.  How better to give someone a simple, one page synopsis of either what you believe yourself to be, or how you perceive someone else.  As any self-aware person knows, how you believe yourself to be, and how you're seen by others can sometimes be VASTLY different.  If I didn't think the reaction to that would be to say "That's nice." and back away slowly, I'd suggest something like that as a fantastic tool to cut through all the BS and really tell a person who you are.  As is, I'm pretty sure you'd be asked if you still lived in your mom's basement.

Ephemily, as identified by Greyson.

Alright, I know you’re curious.  So, without further ado, here’s the sheet created for Ephemily by my nearest and dearest Greyson, in all its shame and glory.

Who Is This Ephemily Character Anyway?

Ephemily is a construct, a release valve, an alter ego.  She lives in her pants, doesn't know the meaning of restraint (unless they're leather), and has let her id completely off its leash.  She exists in that moment before common sense grabs your tongue out of your head and says, "You might want to think about the consequences of saying that Hoss".  Ephemily is a curvaceous woman in body and a player in mind.  She wears her reality distortion field like a superhero cape.  Her superpower is that she feels no pain, and gave shame up for Lent in 1963, despite not having been born till 1977. 

Infidelity Blues or, What I Learned From Cheating On My Car.

Donovan and I have been together for about 2 years now.  He’s young, spry, responds well to my touch, and even likes it rough.  His cheery exterior belies the heart of a lion.  His diminutive size is perhaps his greatest asset.   He is, by almost every measure, the perfect car. However, ours is not a perfect relationship.  And we recently parted company for a few days.  This is a summary of the events that followed.

Let apologies collect interest, they're worth more

Gentlemen, let me first state that I love you.  I do.  Now, before any suggestions for group hugs (or worse) get thrown around, let me clarify.  I love men, the smell of their cologne, the timbre of their voices, and those little noises of contentment they make as they're on the horizon of sleep.  I want to aggressively tango with the strong ones and dress the psychic wounds of the weak ones.  Men just DO it for me.

And because I care, I wanted to tell you about a disturbing trend I've been noticing.  You all apologize far too much.  I know!  That goes against the grain of every comedian to grasp a mic in their sweaty hands on amateur night.  But, I've never been one to shy away from the truth, and am not afraid to talk about the 800 lb gorilla in the room.  (By the way, I hope you weren't too attached to the bananas in the bowl of wax fruit.  They got partially eaten and thrown through the front window.  Oops?)  So, I'm going to give it to you straight.  Stop that.  Right now.

Now, before every girlfriend, wife, or hairy-pitted feminist jumps on me and rides me like a $2 whore, let me define what I mean here.  I'm not saying to never apologize.  I'm saying that you should scale it back to only include things that are A) in your control, and B) you truly feel apologetic about.  Words have power.  The more they're bandied about, the less they mean.

Let me give you two examples:

Scenario A: A man and a woman are having a disagreement about what movie to see.  She wants ChickFlickA, he wanted TestosteroneFestB.  He says some things about how he doesn't care for her choice in movies in the heat of the moment and she takes offense to it.  Leaving out how they handle that part of the argument, let's assume later he goes to her and tell her that he's sorry that his remarks hurt her and that he will work to try and better consider the words that leave his mouth in the future.

Scenario B: A man and a woman who met online just recently are chatting.  The hour is getting late and he has to be away from the computer in the immediate future, whether it's to go to work, go to sleep, or fulfill some other social obligation.  In his goodbye, he tells her he's sorry that he has to go.

Scenario A is a sincere apology. It's meaningful, respectful, and powerful.  Scenario B is not.  It is no more effective than saying you're sorry for being blond.  There is nothing that can be changed in Scenario B.  Those are the facts of the situation, it's time to go, regardless of what you'd like to have happen.  Yes, it's polite to let the person know that you don't want to wrap things up, but there are other ways to do this.  "I hate to cut this short because I've enjoyed this, but I really need to go." for example.  If it's a truthful departure (it is, isn't it?  *eyebrow raise*) even throw in something like "will you be around later, say after XX:XX?"  See?  Same result, more empowerment.

Words are finite.  Well, I should say it's more the trust in them.  I'm all about admitting your mistakes, coming clean about your feelings, and striving to grow as a person.  What I'm not all about is seeing other people knuckled under by convention. This is most certainly one I'd like to shine a very bright light on and shoo back under the rug from whence it was summoned.

TLDR, tell a girl you're sorry when your heart hurts a little, not because your mouth formed the words.  It will mean more.

"Say Something Nice" She Said...

First in a series of stories that sound like lies...

I got married to a mechanic at the tender age of 26.  Not that I have anything against the institution, but in hind sight, for me, it was a bad move.  I had come from a pretty rough place emotionally in my early 20s.  I probably should have seen a therapist to untangle myself from the aftermath of what felt like emotional abuse, but I didn't.  I soldiered on.  I met my now-ex husband in 2002, and we were married two years later in 2004.  On Memorial day, of all days.

At the wedding reception, a long time family friend corners me and says "You should stand up and say something nice to your parents.  They really love you, and want to see you happy."

Say something nice.  Ok, I can do this.  I work off the cuff all the time anyway. 

The Virtues of Being Fan Dance

Skank is the new black, apparently. Don't tell me I'm the only one that's noticed it seems like the idea of sexy went from tease to tah-dow!

Knowing that Fan Dance and Burlesque are a lost art, let's start with some show and tell.



This is Sexy.



This is just about a tour of this woman's internal organs, and is not all that sexy.



In the interest of full disclosure, No. I can't move like the pole dancer. You can't see my ribs, and my tits are both real, smaller than your average plus sized woman, and shaped like you'd expect a 30-something's to look. However, I don't say these things out of jealousy. I say them because I appreciate and require a little bit of mystery with my sex.

I'm a bigger fan of peekaboo panties than "Did that cervix just wink at me?".

Fan dance is about duality. You see everything, and you see nothing at the same time. It's lighting, it's timing, and it's quick peeks of "the goods" instead of getting to know them so well you feel obligated to send them a Christmas card next year. You can look, but you can't possibly think you can touch is so much sexier than "please exit through the gift shop"

Burlesque allows woman to stay soft, feminine, and powerful at the same time. Take, for example, Roxy Rouge. She's no stick. She's voluptuous, curvaceous, classy, and very pin-up. She wouldn't fit in on a pole dancing stage, and that's a damn shame. I'd rather watch her take off her clothes and shake around some ostrich feathers than see the woman with thighs strong enough to open a pickle jar any day.

Pole Dance is specific. It requires this kind of waistline, these kinds of breasts, this brand of shoe. Fan Dance is more suggestion, wiggle, and eyelashes. It's more attitude than goods. Anybody can be Fan Dance because it's more confidence than measurements.

I call being Fan Dance a virtue because, as I've said many times before, there's a difference between being easy and enthusiastic. Fan Dance is about being both Predator and Prey. It allows a woman to be feminine, accepting of her body, and to encourage a man to come get her.

The flirt allows a woman to be alluring, and to tease a man without giving away all her secrets. It brings out the love of the chase in both sexes. It's more about foreplay, thinking, and the idea of nudity than "Boom! I'm naked! Stick it in me already!" That doesn't work for me.

So, pass me the ostrich feathers, dim the lights, and cue the saxophone. I'm gettin' in your head one wiggle at a time.

Charm School Reject

Being a debutante or going to cotillion conjure up dated mental images,  For most people, they include blonds with southern drawls decked out in white tulle after spending hours in the stylist chair. Think Gone with the Wind and that's usually pretty close to your average notion of that social caste. However, not everyone who's been through the indoctrination into society goes on to be gentile or even docile. Case in point, me.

Growing up, I was the definition of Tomboy. I had skinned up elbows, the knees of my jeans were almost always torn, and I was in more trees than Tarzan. My mother ran the gamut of curse words and the shampoo isle trying to get the tree sap out of my pigtails. Eventually, after trying to corral me into the tub after a night out riding horses, she proclaimed an exasperated "Enough!"  I thought that meant no bath for me.  Oh, it meant much more than that.

Wardrobe Malfunction

In the last year, I've dropped some weight, picked some back up, and dropped it again.  Somewhere in the mix, I've learned to love me for who I am. I've found that I am in that blurry place of being able to shop in both the mainstream girl and the curvy girl stores. I've taken full advantage of that and made some lacy purchases at both Lane Bryant AND Victoria's Secret. One of the Vicky's purchases was some sleek, seamless black panties. They made me feel sleek and sexy.  I loved how they felt when the cloth of my clothes slid over them, and they fact that they were black showed off my alabaster skin.

I tell you that to tell you this: