George Glass

"When are we going to meet this boy?"

"Soon, soon."

Two months later.

"I think it's time we met this boy."

"Okay, oKAY...I'll bring him by."

Two months later.

"Natasha, if you've made this boy up, you can tell us."

"He's REAL! I'll prove it. You'll meet him this week."

"We know a lot of your friends have boyfriends, but that doesn't mean you have to have one. If this boy isn't real, we won't be mad..."

"He's REAL. He's a real, live, HUMAN BEING. Ugh."

"Then bring him by, please."

"I WILL."

Two months later.

"That's it, Natasha! You canNOT hang out with this boy any longer until we meet him. This is getting ridiculous."

"It's awkward."

"It's ridiculous."

"Ridiculously awkward."

"Natasha---"

"FINE. You'll meet him then."

Two months later.

"So...Natasha...when do you think we'll meet this boy?"

"Oh, you wanna meet him?"

"NATASHA---"

"TONIGHT! Geez louise. All you had to do was SAY so. I'll bring him by tonight."

"Tonight?"

"Yes. Tonight."

Okay, I admit it. I made him up. NO I DIDN'T MAKE HIM UP, good god! Who am I, Jan Brady? Please. I like my guys real, thank you, with real, live flesh. Yes, flesh. It's a crucial aspect, you know. Skin. Blood. Flesh. The three-in-one is what I look for in a man. Bringing a boy home to the rents is not something I have done before. So YEAH, okay, it took me eight months to bring him by. So? I suffered, too. I went through eight whole months of pensive thought as to exactly WHAT could go wrong.

"It's nice to meet you, Boy. You know, Natasha talks about you ALL THE TIME. We can't shut her up! She's just OBSESSED with you! You know, we read her diary, and I couldn't even COUNT the number of times she wrote, "Mrs. Boy, Mrs. Boy, Mrs. Boy. Man oh man, there were a lot! She likes to draw you a lot, too! NAKED, nonetheless!"

"Boy! Hello! Glad to see Natasha didn't turn out to be the old widow we all thought she'd turn out as! It's been YEARS since a boy has liked HER! The last one dumped her ass and we thought for sure she'd never snag another! And that was in first grade! But here you are! Hope she didn't get as clingy and possessive as she did with the last one!"

"Hello Boy, glad to see you've finally come by. Here's where I keep my gun."

So YEAH, I was a little nervous. How would this go? Would they ask him question after question after question? Would they pull out the lie detector? Would they ask what it is about me he likes? Would they bring up the whole incident where I was skipping 6th period and I was in the car with him at Walgreens 30 minutes from my house and my dad pulls up out of nowhere and starts incessantly honking at me then pulls up and screams and tells me to drop that 'clown' off and go home? (Boy being the clown; there wasn't a clown sitting in the back seat of my car squirting water out of a carnation.) (That was the other time.)

After 20 minutes sitting in the car, a handful of hair gel, and a couple of nervous laughs (normal laughs start out small, grow larger and larger, then disintegrate back down to the small laugh, then disappear entirely; nervous laughs start out really loud and big right from the get-go, stay loud and big for an abnormal amount of time, where you know something has to be wrong, because you know laughs grow, they don't just burst; you don't hear a joke and BAHAHAHAHAHA!!! because that would be weird and creepy, so after you know it's a nervous laugh, it abruptly stops after being loud and big for a good 3 minutes. then the person usually looks away or holds their own hand or says, "WHAT." because they're embarrassed and some people tend to be assholes when they're embarrassed), we were ready to face them.

They introduced themselves and brought us into the den, where they sat on the couch. There was a little awkward silence, one which induced me to start laughing, making it more awkward, then they began the questions. After they had asked all that they could muster up, while also managing to say, "WELL NATASHA REALLY LIKES YOU A WHOLE LOT," these wise words were uttered:

"Be safe."

I tried not to be immature and directly think, 'condoms!' but then my father continues with:

"Be gentle."

GENTLE! What does that even mean? I mean, obviously us teenagers have our OWN interpretation of safeness and gentleness...ahem SEX, but I'm pretty sure my father was not telling Boy to use a condom and to take it slow and easy with his 18-year-old daughter if the uh-uh ever comes into play. That, my friends, would be incredibly inappropriate.

After THAT uncomfortable 2 minutes, we decided it was time to leave. Boy walked face-first into the door on the way out, nervously laughed (HAHAHAHA! stop.), and we bid our farewells with The Rents waving at us from behind (making joke after joke, such as, "Yeah, that door can creep up on ya!" and "Well we got ya with the ol' door trick we play on all the guys!" and "Hey kid, the doors at this house stay solid!" etc.), as we descended into the night. Overall, I would say it was a successful first encounter.

The Hug

His name is Stan. I do not know Stan. However, after weeks and weeks of entertaining observation, I have come to know quite a lot of things about Stan.

Stan prefers mumbling softly rather than speaking clearly.

Stan wears Grand Theft Auto shirts that boys in my 4th grade class used to wear, except Stan has purchased his quite recently.

Stan practices serving the volleyball for a good 10 minutes before he decides to come play.

Stan also practices the balance of grunting softly while remaining intimidating for a good 10 minutes before serving that volleyball.

When Stan grunts, he curls his upper lip towards his teeth so it is not visible to the human eye.

After Stan grunts, he holds his right fist in mid-air and then looks at me.

If Samara were to crawl out of Stan's television set, Stan would kick her ass.

Stan would kick Samara's ass and "not be scared one bit."

I do not know Stan. However, I do have Stan's number. I knew Stan wanted to give me his number the moment he grabbed my phone as I was texting someone and started typing his number into it.

"Mmmmph number jrhgj call me."

"Thanks, Stan."

"Mmmmphh if you wanna talk ghfkdkhf."

"Yes, Stan. Thanks again."

I'm not making fun of Stan. Stan just sometimes scares me when he does certain things.

When he follows me to the door of the girls' locker room.

When he follows me to 6th period.

When he follows me to the bleachers, over to talk to Lily, over to say hello to Tony, back to the bleachers, to the bathroom, then over to the volleyball net.

When he grunts and then looks at me.

When he looks at me while grunting.

Stan was more of a creepy amusement rather than A Big Creepy, until he started asking me for hugs.

"Can I have a hug?"

He had followed me to my car. I ignored him as I put my tennis shoes into my trunk.

"Can I have a hug?"

He had followed me to my trunk. I ignored him as I put my English book in the passenger seat.

"Can I have a hug?"

He had followed me to the passenger seat. I didn't ignore him.

"Not today!"

I speed-walked away. I could have ran, but Stan has trouble speed-walking. Stan has the body of Chris Farley. And one of those 90's "butt-cuts." With gel. Why you would have to gel a butt-cut, I do not know.

Stan knows why you have to gel a butt-cut.

It really is my fault that it happened. I trace it all back to the day he followed me to various parts of my car. It's just that I couldn't flat-out say NO. And I really did think he would take the hint.

Stan prefers to let people keep the hints they give out for themselves.

So I'm walking out of 6th period. The day is over. I'm ready to go home. I'm mid-stride, when all of sudden,

Stan had approached me from the side.

Stan had both of his arms around me.

Stan's face was one inch from being nuzzled into my neck.

Stan has surprising arm strength.

Stan gives long hugs.

Stan says 'goodbye' mid-hug, then stays there hugging some more.

Stan likes Hot Cheetos.

And that was it. Maybe I make big deals out of little things, like a hug. It's not like he poked me in the navel. Or gave me a wet willy. Or spanked me. But still. It's Stan. And beacuse I let that happen, Stan now does lots of things.

Stan follows me to my seat.

Stan sits next to me.

Stan intentionally presses his knee against mine.

Stan tells me exactly how he would kick Samara's ass.

Stan is perfectly content with speaking to the side of my face.

Stan is perfectly content with speaking to the side of my face and getting no response.

Stan's grunts have grown louder, more confident.

If Stan tries to hug me again,

I'm gonna have to run from him.

I'm gonna have to grunt at him.

I'm gonna have to kick his ass.

She's Got It

"GOD I wish I had Beyonce's curves."

"Why don't I have J.Lo's ass? That's all I'm asking for. Just ONE ass like J.Lo's. Just one. Please. ONE J.LO'S ASS. ONE."

"Angelina's boobs have GOT to be fake. As if ANYONE would naturally have the body of Lara Croft. There's no way those knockers are real. Who even would want chesticles like that, anyway? Well, okay, I would want chesticles like that, but that doesn't mean SHE gets to have them. Geez..."

These are samples of the daily rantings of a female woman. "If I only I had this, if only I had that, if only my chest was bigger, if only my butt was firmer, if only my nipples were as pronounced as Tila Tequila's..." IT JUST GOES ON AND ON. It's not that I have a problem with envying another woman. You can't help that. Just not these women. You could have come to me when I was 5 years old and asked me who to envy, and I would have known exactly who to say. The following women have, as Bananarama would say, GOT IT.

Jessica Rabbit. All she has to do is push her hair over one of her eyes and she's got it. It's the one-eye look. It's mysterious. It has men wondering, "What does that other eye look like...", "Why does she hide that other eye...", "I would give anything to be THAT man who reveals THAT eye." It leaves them wanting more. But she doesn't let them have it. She never lets them have it. The one mistake she could make is flashing them that other eye. She keeps it hidden. It sees nothing and nothing sees it. Not only does she have only one eye visible, she has a giant slit in her dress. It's the giant slit look. It's slutty. It has men wondering, "Was that slit an accident, or on purpose?", "Why did she choose that specific side for the slit?", "I would give anything to be the man who rips that slit all the way up." Since it's a slit, it's only slut-TY. Now if there was a giant hole front and center NEXT to that slit, then we'd have sl-UT. And yes, there is a difference. On top of these two shoe-ins for dude-wins, you've got the long purple gloves. These babies have men wondering, "What do those gloves feel like?", "Could you use those gloves as a blindfold?", "Does she leave those gloves on when she takes a piss?" Gloves are secretive; you don't know where they've been and what they've touched. You can wash your hands, but you cannot wash gloves. Well, you can wash gloves, but who washes gloves? Sexy people don't wash gloves. Known fact.

Miss Piggy. She annoys the hell out of Kermit, and yet he keeps coming back to her. "Why is this?" you ask. The answer is obvious. SHE'S GOT IT. Check the 'do. What middle-aged woman can pull off the Shirley Temple look and get away with it? Miss Piggy. What incredibly chunky woman can pull off running in heels? Miss Piggy. What woman with constant droopy lids can never get accused of smokin' the piece pipe? Miss Piggy. What woman with the deep, scratchy voice of that of a man's pull off wearing pearls? Dr. Frank-N-Furter. AND Miss Piggy. And who can forget the fact that she, too, wears long purple gloves? Is that not a sign? Are purple gloves the secret to swooning a fella and we're too hung up on Salma Hayek's buns to even realize it? It's not the junk in the trunk; it's the arms in the gloves. Miss Piggy knows this. Kermit is turned on by it. And who can't trust Kermit the Frog? If anyone has an ounce of taste, it's Kermit the Frog. And who did he choose? Did he choose Scarlett Johanseen? NO. Did he choose Penelope Cruz? NO. He chose Miss Piggy. I'm telling you, the pig's a babe.

Ariel. I don't really know WHY they call her the "little" mermaid considering the fact that she's 16 years old and has the body of a porn star. I mean, have you ever noticed how disproportionate her body is? Her waist is the size of my pinky, and she's got the chest of a mother who's breastfeeding. She's swimming around in two seashells covering these breasts, as if seashells suffice for what looks to be a C-cup. Not only does she have the former homes of SNAILS as boob-covers, she's swimming around IN FRONT OF HER FATHER revealing these assetts. And does her father tell her to put some clothes on, like normal fathers would say? NO. He seems to be completely fine with his daughter flashing the entire ocean. Date a human? NO! Show that human her cleavage? SURE! Have a crush on a human? NO! Walk around naked on the shore? WHY NOT! But you've got to give it to her, if she looks like THAT at a mere sixteen, imagine what she'll look like in a couple years, when she's outgrown those seashells. They'll be more of arieola-covers then. And yes, I realize she does not have purple gloves. But you know what color those seashells are?

There you have it. People Magazine? Please. You wanna know the hottest of the hotties? Well you just got 'em. And for all you women out there, I'd invest in some purple gloves.

There's Something About Marriage

Marriage. "Maywidge" if you're wedding Buttercup and Prince Humperdink. Same thing. And it confuses me. Is this just me? Am I the only one perplexed by this common practice shared around the world celebrating love and happiness? Well maybe. But just hear me out.

What is this phrase, "popping the question?" Could you pop any question, or does it only apply to marriage? And why is the question of being someone's spouse the question that is "popped" as if it was some kind of surprise? Of all the words, of all the onomatopoeia, why pop? The term "pop" suggests a jolt, a jump, like when you open a jar. POP! Goes the jar. POP! Goes your single status. Don't people discuss the thought of marriage before it is proposed? It's not like you're dating some guy for a month, then POP!

"Will you marry me?"

"What? This is a joke, right?"

"No, I'm "popping" the question."

"The question shouldn't be popped yet!"

"But if I waited any longer, if wouldn't be a pop. It'd be more of a slur..."

"A slur?"

"Slurs are slow, you know, predictable. I'd be slurring the question."

"Well that doesn't sound very romantic."

"Exactly. That's why I've decided to pop it!"

"You're so sweet! Of course I'll marry you, you hot piece of hunky!"

See now, THAT'S "popping" the question. Even though the word "popping" isn't very romantic. In fact, it's not romantic at all. Let's look at a small, concise list of other things that are popped.

1. zits
2. buttons on a shirt after you've gained 20 or 30 pounds (depending on how big the shirt was before you went on a Big Mac spree)
3. boils
4. blisters
5. popcorn (which may be delicious, but if you examine popcorn, it pops and pops and pops, and yet there are still kernels left in the bottom of the bag, unpopped. It doesn't matter how long you pop it, there will always be those kernels. Do you really want your marriage to be related to those unloved, outcasted kernels? Just think about that one.)

So there is your list of other popped things. But never mind that, let's look at the aftermath of popping the question: "tying the knot." Okay, so you tie the knot. Don't think about this figuratively, think about this literally. What are some common thoughts among knot-tiers? I'm talking not about married couples, but people who literally tie knots. Let's think of some, shall we? Now, as I name these, apply them to the concept of marriage.

1. not everyone can tie a good, solid knot
2. once it's tied, it's STUCK like that
3. it's stuck like that until someone with really sharp nails can come along, usually a woman, and UNDO the knot using her skilled hands
4. people who can tie really good knots are considered to be nerdy, such as Boy Scouts

That's all. Just something to think about. No big deal. Don't fret yourself over it. Case closed. But still. Now you know. And after you've tied the knot? Relatives start sending ONE present to "the both of you with love" as if stating "with love" hides the fact that the cheapos bought you some knives. They couldn't even get the Mrs. spoons and the Hubby knives; it's just knives. For both of you. It's lame. (Sincere apology to those of you who have given people knives, I'm sure they loved them.) (An even MORE sincere apology to those couples who have received knives "for the both of you with love." You have cheap, worthless relatives and you should seriously consider using those knives against them in the future.) (At night. When they're asleep.)

Then again, I'm young. What do I know? I'm not ready for marriage and I won't be for a very. very long time. I could bring up the divorce rates nowadays, but I won't. I could bring up the number of women who have been cheated on by their husbands, but I won't. I could bring up the percentage of couples who have divorced soon after having kids, but I won't. Because marriage IS a common practice shared around the world celebrating love and happiness. So go pop it.

Go Ask Your Son

You wanna know what teenagers talk about? I'm not even going to choose the craziest, most obscene conversation I've heard amongst us adolescents. I'm going to choose a normal, everyday conversation, one that took place in a normal, everyday Mexican restaurant. 

"You guys wanna know what the most popular brand of dildo is?"

"The Rabbit."

"The Rabbit."

"The Rabbit."

"Yep. The Rabbit."

"What? How does everyone know this but me?!"

That's me, clueless. 

"The question is, how do you NOT know?"

"SORRY I don't know what company makes the best penis knock-off."

That's me, pissed.

"EVERYONE knows the most popular brand of dildo. It's The---"

"The Rabbit. Yeah, yeah, I got it."

That's me, now wiser in the foreplay department than I was 15 seconds ago.

"Why is is named after an animal?"

"Apparently the handle is a rabbit."

"Dildos have handles?"

"How else are you supposed to get it all---"

"OH! Rightrightrightright."

That's me, saying a synonym for 'correct' 4 times so as to shut him up and save myself maraschino cheeks. 

"How did you not know?"

"About the handle?"

"About the dildo."

"How am I supposed to know?"

That's me, realizing the outcome of having all guy friends. I learn things like sex toy preferences. Advice to sexually frustrated mothers looking for spice added to your sex life, or looking for a sex life in general: go ask your son. They'll have some pointers. Awkward? Didn't HE once ask you how sex was even DONE? It's not like he doesn't KNOW you still have a sex drive. If he knows dildo brands, he knows you still have your mojo. (Still awkward? Go ask your son's friends. They'll find a kick out of it and I'm sure would be more than eager to help their friend's MOM find her inner cougar.)

"You just KNOW these things. It's just something you should know. Like algebra."

Comparing fake penises to algebra. I can't believe I'm even listening to these people.

"Well now I know."

"Thanks to us."

"NOT that I need to know."

"Not that you need to know, Natasha."

"Cause I like 'em...you know, real."

Cause I like 'em real? Why would I even say that? What kind of idiot says things like that? This is what's awkward about having your friends be male-dominated. They always somehow manage to bring up sex, and then someone makes a sex joke, and then they laugh, then they start punching each other, then they continue to punch each other until someone gets kicked in the balls, then he falls down and everyone tries really hard to not laugh, but then one person does so they all do, then someone apologizes, and someone suggests we go get food, and someone asks the wounded-sack guy if he is ready to come, and then someone says, "That's what she said!"

"It's good to hear you like them real, Natasha."

How about we ALL repeat the retarded thing I just said a couple times with my name in the same sentence so everyone can hear and label me The Slut-quita At The Mexican Restaurant?!

"Some people might not, you know."

"I know. Like those chicks who use the---"

"Hot dogs!"

"Hot dogs!"

"Hot dogs!"

"The hot dogs."

"Wait, how does everybody know this but me?"

"How do you---"

"NOT KNOW. Yeah yeah yeah, skip all that and just tell me."

"You know, Natasha, for a female, you don't know much about being a female."

"Yeah, since hot dogs are a BIG part of being a female."

"Maybe not hot dogs..."

"Yeah, since dildos are a BIG part of being a female."

"Literally!"

"Yeah yeah yeah, that's hilarious. Now tell me the hot dog thing; I'm combobulated."

"Girls use them to get off, and then they wind up going to the hospital because the hot dogs get stuck up there."

"That is SUCH A MYTH!"

That's me, saying that that is such a myth.

"No it's not!"

"Yes it IS!"

That's me, saying that yes, it is.

"It's true, dude!"

"Oh yeah? Name ONE girl you know who got a hot dog stuck in her...her...her..."

That's me, incredibly uncomfortable with the word 'vagina' but somehow comfortable wiggling my fingers around in front of my own in order to convey the word.

"Well, I don't know anyone specifically..."

"Okay then."

"But it happens."

"And why are we talking about this?"

"You got something more interesting?"

"No."

"Well okay then."

I had assumed that the reason we talked about these things was because we were immature, horny, and shameless. In other words, because we were teenagers. But, as I was waiting for the check, 4 adults walked in and sat at the table next to our own. 

"Have you guys heard of The Rabbit?"

"The most popular brand of dildo?"

"Yes!"

"Yeah I have it."

"What makes it so special?"

"WELL..."

I'm serious. No joke. This is me, Natasha, NOT joking. Just goes to show we're not the only ones. The idea that teenagers are the only ones curious about sex is an urban myth. And it just keeps getting bigger and bigger. That's what she said!