July 28, 2011

And, time is up!

Posted in Dating at 2:49 am by biancas & bourbon

When Barney Stinson announced that he would make Lemon Law a thing, I’m sure it sent bloggers into a frenzy. Some probably expressed outrage while others agreed it would save everyone a lot of time and heartache.

For those of you who don’t watch How I Met Your Mother, the Lemon Law is as follows: When you buy a car, you have the opportunity to return it in the event that it is a lemon. One of the show’s characters Barney hoped to apply this to dating. You usually know within the first five minutes whether you’ll sleep with your date. So why prolong the inevitable further?

I am a huge supporter of the Lemon Law, especially in the world of online dating. Sure, the downside is that your feelings may get hurt. But it’s a tough world out there cookie, and best you know now. Plus, time is a precious thing. Think about what you could have been doing instead of pinching yourself to stay awake during the last half hour of that date with dull guy number 200.

Let’s just take the documented tidbits of my dating history and see if the lemon law would have helped:

  • My work husband–definitely yep
  • The brain injury–obviously (and I wouldn’t have cried that evening)
  • Stank–probably not, but I blame that on my lack of logic during those three months; let’s just blame it on alcohol
  • And I’m sure it would of have helped everyone in my eavesdropping series
Let’s take a real date and hypothetically put it to the Lemon Law. Per recent memory, this is how the failure went:
Dude: Nice to meet you (with an obvious look of disappointment).
Me: Nice to meet you too (with the realization he lied about his height because yet again, my 5’4” frame is taller than his NOT-5’9” frame).
Dude: Um, I’m really tired.
Me: That sucks. Well, thank you for coming.
Dude: Let’s get a bottle of wine.
Me: Um, okay. (I’m puzzled. Does fake 5’9” dude really want to stay for an entire bottle of wine? Wouldn’t he prefer to make a quick exit after just one?) Well, if we’re going to get wine, I gotta eat. Seafood couscous platter please.
Dude: Um, I’ll get the side salad.
Me: Sigh…
This date was awful. He was fine, but we just clearly were not into each other. I asked him five separate times what he did for a living, and the second through fifth time, I realized the faux pas I was making but didn’t care because I had nothing else to say and couldn’t stand the pauses.
If the Lemon Law was a thing, here’s how the date would have gone:
Dude: Nice to meet you (with an obvious look of disappointment).
Me: Nice to meet you too (with the realization he lied)
Dude: Let’s Lemon Law this.
Me: Agreed.
My goodness, I would have saved cab fare, I wouldn’t have eaten that entire baby octopus and I wouldn’t have woken up with a hangover.
So let’s make the Lemon Law a thing!!!! Please?
What dating rule would you like to see be made a thing?

July 22, 2011

You’ve been here before…

Posted in Awkward moments, Uncategorized at 12:02 am by biancas & bourbon

Everyone has a local, whether it’s the Italian place that puts crab on their pizza or the dive bar known for cake batter shots. Having a local bakery, coffee shop or dry cleaner may not seem like a big deal to many, but in New York where one can find two Starbucks across the street from each other and three delis on the same block, it’s a big deal.

I don’t have many locals, but I was reminded of one of the very few I’m currently committed to when someone sent me the following picture.

For three years now, I have been a loyal customer of the Brazilian waxer around the corner from my apartment. Prior to discovering this spa, my waxing regimen was dictated by what Spa Week deal was in my inbox.  I’m still poor, so I don’t go bare down there every month like them 20 year old Park Avenue gold diggers. I only wax the vaj around beach time and go about three times a year.

My most recent visit was definitely the most awkward waxing experience I’ve ever had. This is quite the feat given what a Brazilian already entails—being naked waist down in front of a relative stranger, having hot wax poured over your delicate private parts and then ripping out hair and sometimes skin. (I loathe being a woman at times.)

I walked in and the spa was dark. The receptionist said they had lost power and air conditioning (this was during one of those unpleasantly hot days), but she reassured me that the wax heaters were still functioning. While we were chatting, this woman walked in and asked if there were any available walk-ins. The receptionist politely said, “No, I’m sorry. It’s peak season and we are already behind with this client right here (she points to me). Usually at this time of year, you have to book two weeks in advance.”


Um, really? Were you really that upset about not getting waxed? Although, I fully appreciate the exceptional job these waxers do, I can only imagine not getting waxed at the time you planned is similar to your dentist postponing your cleaning. Sure you’re annoyed, but aren’t you relieved you don’t have to go to the dentist? And lady, this was your goddamn fault. If you are a jungle down there, just march your ass to the nearest Korean nail salon or take a razor to that shit. My god, it’s just hair.

But the most awkward moment happened later into the appointment. My waxer came out to greet me and asked if I had been to this establishment before. I said yes, and she didn’t believe me. I was adamant about me being a regular for the following reasons:

  1. When you’re a new patron anywhere, they make you sign up for stupid newsletters. I hate that shit so I always say that I’ve been before even when I haven’t.
  2. I really wasn’t new.

I entered the private room, de-panted and laid down on the table of pain. As soon as the waxer got a good look at my vaj, she exclaimed, “Oh you have been here before!”

If that doesn’t prove that I’m local, I’m not sure what does.

Maybe she recognized the fade she gave you last time.

July 13, 2011

If you weren’t royal, it would definitely be awkward

Posted in History, Sex at 9:09 pm by biancas & bourbon

Tomorrow is Bastille Day and because I love French history, I thought I’d change things up a bit. Instead of telling you about a personal awkward moment, I thought I’d help alleviate the horrible effects of the American public schooling system and give a history lesson.

To me, France’s history is just like its smelly cheese–swarthy, rich, wretched and deliciously satisfying. And this is particularly true of the kings and queens of France.  Although the French Revolution paved the road for some entertaining rulers such as Napoleon, DeGaulle and even Sarkozy, these post-revolutionary paper pushers were nothing compared to their royal predecessors. Sure these monarchs may not have been suited to rule, but they were inbred, rich and insane. And the best part? They had a lot of illicit sex. That’s right, centuries of nymphomaniacs.

King Louis XIV–political genius and great in the sack

So in mourning of Bastille Day and remeberance of France’s deposed monarchy, I am going through the top three reasons why I love history’s  French royals: 

1. French kings loved having mistresses and they even granted them titles. Being the maitresse-en-titre, or the official court mistress, meant social and political privileges for not just the skank herself, but her bastard children as well (sometimes even the husband benefitted). One of the most famous maitresses-en-titres was Diane de Poitiers, mistress to the early 16th century King Henry II. During their very public affair, Diane had great influence over the country’s politics and also got a few chateaus out of the deal. And just in case people didn’t get the drift, Henry had one of his royal cannons adorned with Diane’s crescent emblem. Gross. Get a room.

 My cannon, your crescent. Can we sex?

But this wasn’t weird; all kings had mistresses. King Louis VX who ruled from 1715 till his death in 1774 may have been an exceptional example due to his vast number of mistresses. He maintained brothels full of young girls and even slept with four of the five Mailly-Nesle sisters. According to the rumor mill, the king bathed in the blood of virgins and had ninety illegitimate children. Louis liked doing it officially too. Madame de Pompadour, for whom the hairstyle is named, was so lovely that she maintained her maitresse-en-titre status until her death, even after the physical relationship ended. Later, Madame du Berry became Louis’s numero uno naughty lady. This was the achievement of a lifetime for a courtesan who married her pimp’s brother to gain entry into the royal court.

Having a hairstyle named after you means status.

2. The Valois-Angouleme family loved to eff with style. Francois I, Henry II’s father, was the first of the horny Valois-Angouleme dynasty which ruled France from 1515 to 1589. Being a super classy dude, Francois liked to eff girls everywhere, and once did a girl doggy style at a castle window for his subjects to behold. He slept with many women and even gave his wife syphilis; she died at the age of 24.

Francois I–yum, don’t you just want some?

Although Francois was quite the animal, it was his exceptionally strange grandkids, children of Henry II, who would really go over the top with the sexual escapades. Henry III kept an entourage of boys he called les mignons just in case he wanted something else in addition to his many female mistresses. His sister Margot slept with a lot of people, only one of them being her husband Henry Navarre. She was also rumored to have lost her virginity to one of her brothers. In addition to all this deviant copulating, the Valois children quarreled with each other, putting the country through war and ruin. Because they refused to play nice in the sandbox and died out without male issue, their cousin Henry Navarre and Margot’s husband succeeded them all as King of France and thus ended the perverted reign of the Valois-Angouleme family. 

Princess Margot–minus the incest, she’s sort of my hero

3. Sometimes even in French royal families, love does conquer all. And this was certainly the case for Prince Philip and his wife Joan who were caught up in the Tour de Nesle Affair of 1314.

Prince Philip had two brothers Louis and Charles. It was suspected that their wives Margaret and Blanche were being less than faithful with two Norman knights. After the princes’ sister Isabella raised the issue with their father King Philip IV, the knights were put under surveillance. It was soon discovered that the two princesses regularly ate, drank and sexed with the two knights in the Tour de Nesle, a Parisian guard tower. And rumor had it that these raucous orgies involved the servants. Ugh, sleeping with the help. 

Did they have nighties back then too?

Everyone was arrested and the knights confessed to effing the princesses. The two were castrated, drawn and quartered, broken on a wheel and hanged. The princesses were tried and found guilty of adultery. Their hair was cut off and the shorn sluts were forced to watch the knights’ executions. They also served the rest of their lives in prison.

 Through all of this, Philip and Joan stayed strong, even as accusations of adultery and conspiracy were hurled at the uninvolved princess. She was found innocent of any wrongdoing and this verdict was the product of her husband’s influence. When Joan was put under house arrest, Philip campaigned for her release and she was back at court a year later. 

So there you have it. French naughtiness. It sort of puts the Weiner scandal to shame. Why would you depose these people? But then again, I didn’t have to pay them any taxes. The shenanigans just described barely scratch the surface of a country’s past so full of debauchery that their history books make queefing sounds when you crack them open.

Aren’t you now sad that you always fell asleep in history class?

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