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Magic lesbian blender

OK, new post-category announcement . . .

Friction: a story that starts from truth but is not itself truth.  Fiction with an inserted r for real.  I don’t care which parts you think are true and which are false, and I do not care if not knowing annoys you.  See?  Friction.  Also?  Yes, I am posting for the 4th day in a row.  It’s been that sort of week.

Also also?

This is the second piece of Friction.  Read the first piece first.

Alright, then . . .

_______

She dumps in some ice, some strawberries, “Listen, I bought this expensive blender, and I want to make margaritas. So stop whining and start making appreciative noises about the awesomeness of this blender.”

“But I want a beer. Can your blender make a beer?”

“No beer. Shut up and watch. This is cool.”

“Fine. Impress me with your magic lesbian blender.”

“What?”

“Come on, now. You invite me over in the middle of the day, offer me tequila, and then insist I appreciate your blender? It’s on, baby. Let me just get a little drunk, and it is so on.”

She looks at me, “Why are you holding up air-quotes around the word blender?

I walk to stand behind her, close enough to whisper in her ear, “Don’t play games with me. Blender means you want to mix it up. It’s lesbian code.” I stand on tiptoe and rest my chin on her shoulder, “Hey, does this blender have a spigot? That is so cool!”

She puts a glass beneath the spigot and releases a perfectly blended margarita into the glass. She does not scoot from beneath my chin as she hands the drink back to me, “We’re talking about the actual blender now, right? Because I try to keep talk of spigots away from my sex.”

I reach around her body to play with the spigot’s toggled handle, “So you just turn on the blender and then the drink comes out down here? No pouring? No spilling? That’s awesome!”

She extricates herself from between me and the blender, “I know, right?” She grabs another glass and serves herself as well, “I love this blender! I’ve been a blending fool this whole week.”

I take a sip of my drink, “Speaking of foolish blending, I’m going to need a few more of these before the sex. I need to get drunk enough that the vision of Mark’s disapproving face makes me giggle. I’m thinking four . . . four drinks stand between me and infidelity.” I take another sip and consider for a moment, “Maybe three . . . tequila makes all of my promises seem less substantial.”

“OK, seriously . . . blender is a euphemism for sex?”

“If I say yes, can we have sex? Because you totally started it.”

“So it isn’t a euphemism for sex?”

“Probably not.”

“So you just made it up to fuck with me?”

“OK, do you even hear the words you are saying?”

She giggles, “I mean . . . you just made it up?”

“To fuck with you . . . yes.”

She sighs and walks to the living room, sinks into a chair, “OK, good. Because I like this blender, and I do not want to be all paranoid every time I offer to blend something. I’ve had enough awkwardness for the week, and I do not need any more.”

I sit across from her, “What awkwardness?”

“What?”

“No you don’t. Don’t pretend there’s no story. Cough up the awkwardness.”

“Nope. It’s too embarrassing.”

“Oh, you are so telling me this story.”

“Promise you won’t tell anyone?”

“Nope.”

“Seriously?”

“Yup.”

“So if I tell you an embarrassing story, you won’t keep it a secret?”

“I might, but I make no promises.”

“You are so annoying.”

I lean forward, “Yeah, yeah, yeah. But guess what?”

“What?”

“You are so going to tell me this story.”

She laughs and takes a drink, “I know, right? I so am.”

“Spill it.”

“Alright, you know that woman who showed up at the PTA meeting last week? She’s new. She has a son about our kids’ age. I think his name is Joseph.”

I search my memory, “About 40, short dark hair, sharp little nose-job nose, nice clothes, too much jewelry, impossibly high heels, talking shit about our fundraising efforts? That woman? Janice, wasn’t it?”

“Yes! You do remember her.”

“Her son’s name is Jenson. According to my children, Jenson is an asshole.”

“I think his name is Joseph.”

“It’s Jenson.”

“You sure?”

“Yup.”

She’s doubtful, but she waves her hands in frustration, “OK, that’s not the point. The point is that I have run into this woman at school a few times, during pick-up and drop-off. She keeps telling me she’s in Mensa.”

“Yeah, because that’s not an annoying conversational ice-breaker.”

“OK, but here’s the thing. I didn’t know what Mensa was at first. Well, I thought I did, but I was wrong.”

“What did you think it was?”

“Alright, stop giggling. So this woman Janice mentioned her involvement with Mensa several times, and I have to say, I was strangely impressed with her openness about it.”

“Because . . .”

“Ummm, because I thought she was talking about a support-group for women with menstruation issues.”

I shriek with laughter, “NO . . . YOU . . . DID . . . NOT!”

She takes a big drink of her margarita, “Shut up. How am I supposed to know what Mensa is? Who goes around bragging about their IQ score? What sort of lame-ass group is that?”

“I . . . am . . . dying. Please tell me you asked to join. Please?”

She averts her eyes, “I get cramps.”

“Bwahahahaha!”

“It was mortifying.”

“Oh my god . . . what did she say?”

“Well, she let me explain all about my cramps and occasional heavy bleeding and migraines, and then she said . . . I don’t think you are Mensa material.

“That’s all she said?”

“Yes, just like that.”

“Oh my god, I think I love Janice.”

“So then I got my feelings all hurt, because I had confided personal stuff in hopes of finding a support group, you know?”

“I . . . cannot . . . even . . . breathe.”

“So I went home and Googled the group . . . Mensa.

“DY-ING.”

“And now I hate Janice.”

I manage to set my drink on the coffee table as I fall sideways into the couch, laughing hysterically, “I don’t think you are Mensa material? She said that? That is so fucking awesome.”

She frowns, “Does everyone know about Mensa? How did I not know about Mensa?”

“Oh, I am so glad I didn’t promise to keep this story a secret.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

She considers me for a moment, “OK, if you tell this story, say my name is Caroline.”

“OK, but your name is Caroline.”

“I know, right? No one will suspect it’s me.”

“That’s genius, babe.”

“Shut up.”

    48 comments to Magic lesbian blender

    • If I am not going to be rich and famous, it is enough that I giggle.

      Win!

    • Amy

      LMAO.

      I love you. this has cemented it. Totally.

      • Amy

        or is it .. totes?

        do people still say totes?

        • Around here, we totes say totes.

          But I am possibly not the best arbiter of cool.

          Also? I have spent the last few months tippy-toeing around what I can and cannot share. Thinking about whether I even want to do this blog thing anymore.

          Having freed myself of the requirement of truth?

          I am giddy.

          I don’t care who reads or who does not . . . I am having so much fun.

          Shhhh.

          I am supposed to care.

          I so don’t care.

          Yay!

    • This friction stuff is fun! But sometimes? I get the feeling the two people conversing are Kris.

      But that’s not possible. Cause only we crazy people talk to ourselves. Or is that myselves?

      • The woman in charge of all of the words is Kris.

        But not all of the words are Kris’, not by a long shot.

        Wheeeee!

        Crazy is fun.

        • Another piece of crazy?

          Posts in which my daughters speak to one another?

          Those posts also sound like me talking to myself.

          Because Maj and Kallan are halves of me.

          Or maybe it’s been me all along, and I have no children at all.

          Hmmmm.

          Let me ask Mark.

    • I love your friction.
      I mean . . .
      Fuck it, you know what I mean.

    • I guess I will share my ignorance in the fact that I had no clue what Mensa was either. . .

      And probably would have made a fool of myself as well.

      Maybe.

      I am pretty shy.

      But after tequila? Who knows what would come out of my mouth?

      Hee hee!

      • Hee hee.

        I am not a member of Mensa (obviously), but I have long been tempted to start a menstrual club and call it Mensa.

        Because . . . awesomeness.

        Obviously.

        Also, cramps are annoying and who doesn’t like a bit of support?

        Related? I just ate two Reese’s Peanut Butter cups.

        Maybe.

    • Cathy

      OMG! I so totes love this new friction between us…keep it coming please! Sigh.

      Also…this could totally be a conversation between me and my bestie after a few margaritas.

      Oh! And if his name really was Jenson he would so be a total asshole.

      Snort.

      • Cathy?

        Yes! More friction, with all of the TWSS and TWHS jokes that entails.

        As for Jenson?

        As he was an imaginary child, I tried to come up with an asshole name.

        Jenson suits him to a T.

    • "OG" Axel

      Is it not enough that you have a lesbian blender and you can have a “blender” (air quotes) anytime you want? Awesome in itself. For some reason everytime I think of lesbians, I imagine two pairs of scissors getting it on.

      Thank god for parties in college. Knocked enough points off that I didn’t qualify for the royal asshat society of pompous asshats and general asshattery. In the words of Maxwell Smart… missed it by THAT much. I loved the TV show. I actually didn’t want to test, but I was “encouraged” by my parents in hopes of “bettering” myself. Yeah, bunch of supreme extra crispy asshats with a side of pompous. I guess I had a caucasian tiger mom.

      Back to important things. Margaritas (FYI I prefer daiquiri) anytime you want! Heck, it’s fuckin noon somewhere on this fuckin planet. Serve me up!

      Right now I’m looking down at some scissors in my desk. LOL

      • OK, Axel?

        I am pretty sure the whole scissoring thing is an urban myth, perpetuated by highly visual men who have been told not to run with their sharp objects in hand. Because I just do not see how scissoring is going to be a highly effectual method of cutting . . . to the chase. At all.

        I have no idea what my IQ is.

        I only know I am smart enough most days.

        Not as smart as you are, perhaps, but smart enough.

        That works for me.

        Also? I tasted whiskey the other day. Whiskey tastes like fingernail polish remover.

        Were you aware?

        Ack.

        • "OG" Axel

          If you like it sweeter- Honey Jack or try Buffalo Trace, Makers Mark or Bulliet Rye. All good in their own worlds. I just tried the Kirkland bourbon which was a bit harsh at 105 proof.

          I’m also drifting away from ales (bye-bye IPA) and joining the ranks of lighter pilsners and wheats. You and Mark still favor Lagunitas IPA or have you since moved to a new label?

          • I tried Maker’s Mark . . . bleagh.

            I’m still a fan of IPAs, although I don’t have a recent new favorite. There are many many brewpubs up here, you know. Total Domination is still a good bet.

            As it always is.

            Hee hee.

        • Scissoring is not an urban myth. It happens. But with way less frequency than it is spoken about. It’s way too complicated and effort inducing than the pay off. We do way more fun things than scissoring for much bigger reward.

          But seriously. The whole lesbian start of this story…um, I got divorced this summer. I have a blender. Just sayin Ms. Kris…

          • Lindsay?

            Awww . . . I am sorry to hear that you went through sadness this past summer.

            But also?

            A tiny bit delighted that you are now back on the dating scene.

            Details! I will need details!

            Hold on, let me get a drink and get comfy.

            Details!

    • Jessica

      I too was impressed that a high heeled lady was being so open about her menses, I so would have done the same thing. I’m so good at random awkwardness.

      BTW- Although I am sad to see Maj and Kallan go, I do have to say that some of my very favorite posts are the ones involving you and Mark. Most “Married Peoples Interactions” are so boring, and lame, but yours are pure hilariousness.

      Yea you!

      • Yes, Mark has expressed some concern that he is about to be offered up for repeated mocking sacrifice now that the girls are out of the picture.

        Bwahahahaha.

        Ahem.

    • Debbie

      Three margaritas separate you from infidelity?? I have a blender… but sadly it doesn’t have a spigot. The whispering from behind and all – I have another idea for you and writing…

      • Yes, well . . . Mark tends to stick close by when I drink margaritas.

        He likes to catch me as I fall.

        As for the other?

        I have written some of that around here somewhere. I so have.

        Ahem.

    • Megs

      Now I want a blender, and a margarita, and I am pregnant! Damn you. And who talks about MENSA with people they just met? Talk about your kids, your at the school… gah!

      • Megs?

        I know! I want a margarita as well, and I am not even pregnant. Hmmm.

        As for the introductory small-talk of self-congratulation?

        I know.

        Who DOES that?

        Shhh.

        Hee hee.

    • Tom

      “I don’t think you are Mensa material.” Snort! I should hope not. Cramps would have a hard go of it to be as unpleasant as that woman.

      I hope “Caroline” knows that she is by far the more sympathetic character in that exchange. Isn’t it nice when things are self-parodying? (He says, wondering who is reading this and thinking that exact thought about him.)

    • Haven

      I am a huge fan of lesbian friction. *ahem*

    • If I were Mark, and I was aware of this blog’s new content policy, I would move. Right now. Grow a beard. Wear a big hat. Possibly get a face transplant. Because I would know that the world was about to find out about all kinds of secret stuff that was supposed to stay on tour. Including the real story about I am allergic to wool. Mark, you are so doomed.

    • Love your friend.

      Love her.

    • Phil

      Kris: You forgot to tell her you passed Mensa in the 2nd grade