Tuesday, June 21, 2011

The Nose Knows

My freshman year of college there was this senior who lurked around my dorm room a lot.  He was cute, all five feet of him.  His sandy blond hair fell across his eyes like a curtain tucked halfway up a window.  For some unknown reason, he liked me.  OK, maybe it was known.  Might have had something to do with my cute smile.  Or my charming naivete.  Or the kiss we shared over by the bathrooms during that frat party... one for the record books.  The party was being held at a beach and the sounds and smells of that night are etched in my memory... the water lapping onto the shore... the aroma of dried seaweed... the crunch of the sand and broken shells under our feet... and his smell, a combination of sweat and Drakkar Noir.  I remember him pressing his face into my neck while my eyes practically rolled back in my head from the intoxicating scent.  At that moment I would have done anything he wanted, I was so completely aroused.  Foot traffic to the loo, however, kept our embrace short and sweet.

In the years since, there has occasionally been another melange of scents equally as seductive.  I'm a fool for a man who smells great.  Little Known Way Into January's Pants # 14: Smell Good.  Hell, we are animals, after all.  Isn't that the whole evolutionary idea behind pheromones?  Man smells good.  Woman opens legs.  Human race continues.

But sometimes I've caught wind of a guy's fragrance and been immediately turned off.  What is this smell that has such a potent anti-aphrodisiacal affect?  I call it Eau de Frère, or My Brother's Scent.  It's something like a combination of dirty socks, methane and sweat.  Nothing will bring me out of a blush-inducing haze faster than smelling my brother or any man resembling his odor.  I could be as horny as a hooker at a Chippendales show yet I'd turn down Nathan Fillion if he smelled like my brother.

I might offer to shower with Nathan first.  You know, just to see if I could wash off the scent.  If he asked nicely.

I believe the point in all this evolutionary hoo-ha is to diversify my gene pool.  I really don't care, so long as I get a great-smelling man.  Great smelling and intelligent.  Great smelling, intelligent, and witty.  Plus kind of outgoing but not more than me.  Also preferably taller than that senior at the frat party.  Not too much to ask, right?

But seriously on the olfactory arousal.

Friday, June 17, 2011

Update From Inside the Hole

I've been avoiding this post for a week.  Not to insult my blog.  But opening up to anyone much less everyone has been the last thing I've wanted to do.  A week ago I joined the ranks of the unemployed (optimistically referred to as the future employed but I don't have my usual abundance of optimism in stock this week so you'll understand if I'm nothing but direct as I report from the bottom of this hole).  I'm at a loss.  What's happening with my life?  How will I pay my bills?  Am I doing the right thing, pursuing a full-time job?  Am I dishonoring the gifts God has given me, abandoning them (even temporarily) for security?  Am I messing up?

I feel like staying in my pj's until 4:15 pm is messing up.  Not showering for two days, this might be messing up.  And seeking full-time employment at a financial firm, something I'm attempting to do (among other high-paying industries) when I am at heart a creative soul, well... that is probably really, really messing up.  It's not like I'm doing it for fun.  I got bills to pay!  I'm telling myself if I get a really high-paying job I can kick out this debt in a year.  But I'm wondering how much of my soul will whither during that time.  I'm concurrently job hunting in the more creative fields, knowing that they don't pay as much but also that I'd enjoy those jobs more.  Of course - I'd simply like to perform, to be a performer and nothing more.  How I wish I had a benefactor who'd like to pay me to pursue my performance career.  Someone to wipe out my debt and offer me a stipend that would cover my basic bills... Ah, yes.  A sugar daddy.  If only I was as comfortable sleeping with men for money as I am for thrills.  Damn you, selective morals.

I've got a trip coming up next week back east to see some family.  All the usual suspects will be there, God help me.  I'm sort of looking forward to the change of scenery for the snark factor though.  It's tough being snarky, cheeky or generally sassy-minded when you're feeling blue.  And without my sass, where am I?

I already covered that.  I believe the (silent) answer was I don't know.

Editor's Note:  January will return with her usual chipper 'tude some time this week.  For those of you wishing for a jolt of it before then, check out her posts under 'January s'Amuse', or 'Full Contact Sport (Men)'.  For those of you who find this post entertaining... Get help you, you sick puppy.

Wednesday, June 8, 2011

Keep on Movin'

Oh God, it's true you should be careful what you wish for.  My mind is far more powerful than I admit.  The way things are looking, I ought right now to wish a tall, dark and handsome man appear at my door and take me to Cheesecake Factory for dinner.  Why?  Well, I've always had a think for brunets.  And I love Cheesecake's Bang Bang Chicken and Shrimp.  Woof!  Everyone should try it at least once in his life.

I've been living alone for about ten years (save for the year my ex-fiance lived with me.  I'm not counting that though.  He was short).  The other day I just said to a friend that I'd been really thinking about what's the most important priority in my vast collection of current priorities and the answer was: debt reduction.  So not sexy, I know.  But there it is.  I figure I can win the lottery (I don't usually play though, so my odds aren't very good), find a sugar daddy (any takers?  Anyone?), reduce my spending (sigh...) or get a better paying job.  I'm seeking a better job.  And lo and behold, a way to reduce spending has fallen in my lap.  A friend is buying a house and she invited me to come be a roommate.  The house is great, the company's lovely and the rent is cheaper.  Looks like I got what I asked for, right?

But, ah... there's the whole packing thing.  I detest packing.  And by detest I mean, I would rather have my eyelashes plucked out with a scalding hot Tweezerman than pack up my home.  Usually when I move into a place I stay a while.  In Brooklyn it was over four years... my last home was three and a half... and this place I've only been for a bit over a year.  Surely this is too soon to be pulling up my roots and heading five miles north (further into the valley for God's sake).  I've only begun to nestle in here.  I haven't even slept with a neighbor yet!  Though in all truth I could have.  And may still.  But only if he gets his kissing game up to par.

In my new home I'd have a pool and a backyard... I can see myself eating breakfast on the back patio, pink laptop at hand, tweeting of the warm hues of the day's rising sun, or of how men should never wear too much cologne... you know, whatever important notes fill my mind at the top of the day.  It could be monumental.  Maybe the extra 15 minutes I'd need to drive to LA proper would be worth lounging at the pool and then washing my bathing suit for free instead of hoarding quarters and driving to the laundromat.  I could finally start parking at meters again.  I've had to hike blocks from a free parking spot to a restaurant since I couldn't spare a quarter for the meter.  Do you understand what kind of freedom that would mean??

I think at this time my mind is made up: I'll hire professional packers to box up my current place and then outsource someone to unpack my things in the new place... I'll probably leave town for a few days while it goes down, maybe get my groove on down in Puerto Vallerta.  Or wait, where did Stella go to get hers back?  Maybe I'll go there.  Actually, maybe I should go get my groove ahead of the move, and bring back my new friend to do the packing and unpacking!  The possibilities are endless.  I just need to start.

But first maybe I'll have a piece of chocolate.  My life's about to be turned upside down.  I may as well enjoy this moment while it lasts.

Sunday, June 5, 2011

Weekends are Made for This

I had to get out of my house and have a change of scenery. I woke up with The Funk (and not the George Clinton kind; that would have been awesome). I say that I live in Los Angeles, and I do, but admittedly no longer in LA proper. I'm now in the valley - make that The Valley, as in, gag me. The closest thing I've ever been to a true valley girl though is wearing neon scrunchy socks over my leggings. Please don't tell anyone about that. Got to maintain my street cred. It's a good place to relax, The Valley. But apparently for a girl with champagne tastes and Hollywood dreams it can be uninspiring.

Excluding the adventure that was last weekend (see my two previous posts, The Life of the Party and Naughty or Nice) my weekends usually consist of one of two patterns. One, I'm triple booked on Saturday, double booked on Sunday, and I usually make time to unload the dishwasher at some point. Two, I may or may not have specific plans with friends and instead I'm left with lots of... time. Of late I've filled my time with Twitter, that devil of online seduction. (Have you seen my feed? @JanuaryOlio? I'm fun! Quick! Entertaining!) I'm also having a problem with moderation of the online usage. It has become like crack to me and I can't put it down. Oy. Like I need another addiction, as if porn and chocolate aren't enough?

So I'm sitting in a coffee shop, an actual café-type location, not one of those mega chains that draw you in with their promises of tasty joe and wireless internet. This place has the type of patron who believes said mega chains are the work of communist satanists, not necessarily in that order. I won't lie: it's my first time here and I'm a little frightened. Is it actually possible to pierce that part of your body? Didn't it hurt? I'm fairly certain those dreads violate at least four sections of the health code. 'Scuse me, sir? I mean, uh, ma'am?

Right about now is when I take a big slug of this fairly delightful fair-trade and avert my eyes lest the women who just walked in catches them and burns me to a crisp with her glare.

Situation averted.

I can't, however, fend off certain glaring forever, and I'm beginning to think there might be something to the mega chain. Comfort. Wifi. Hair that remains unsinged for another day. Ah, I'm finished with my coffee now anyway. There's a park across the street; I think I'll go walk around. I see someone has set up a bouncy house for their party today. Maybe if I kick off my shoes they'll let me jump a while.

- January posted this using BlogPress from her mobile phone. Smartypants.

Thursday, June 2, 2011

Naughty or Nice

I survived the weekend.  I laughed, I cried, it was better than an enema (but not by much).  Last night I was recounting stories from the front line and my friend said to me suspiciously "You had no idea it was going to be like that?"  *Sigh.*  No.  Ignorance ain't just a river in Egypt, or whatever that saying is.

So in final recap, I saw three penises (or is it penii?  I prefer the latter.  Keeps it anatomical in nature and not as sensational as penises, which sounds like a stutterer tripped while telling you about his extensive pen collection) this weekend.  Not one of the penii was in a private viewing, mind you.  And all three were attached to very drunk men.  I watched girls grope and kiss each other in front of guys 3 or 4 times (not counting the blond-on-blond make-out session on the boat Sunday, from which there was no escaping).  I was molested by one very drunk shotgirl hussy on the boat ("Oh, you get it EVERY time!" she said, in reply to my "Umm, I didn't know you were going to do this... I only wanted a shot..." as she straddled my lap and put her nearly naked bits in my face).  I'd like to mention she was not an attractive hussy, either, so there go any college fantasies about buxom lipstick lesbians.  Not that I had any.  I'm just hypothesizing.

Said shotgirl hussy later fingered herself in front of everyone on the boat (for quite a long time, really.  Quite a champion, that one) when the drunker guy she was trying to hook up with was too incapacitated to do the work himself.  This coming (no pun intended) after his third near death experience of the weekend, when he fell in between the boats and smacked his head.  The first two were the night before when he stumbled into the pool, narrowly missing hitting his head on the side... and then when he passed out in the hot tub and started sinking under, too unaware to wake himself up... His friends pulled him out each time.  But you get the picture: the weekend was a mess!  Where did I fit in?

I didn't.  I no longer have any illusions about being part of the crowd.  The peeps I'm most comfortable with are sensitive and caring (and also snarky bitches, of course)... I thought to myself what these friends and I would have done had they been my companions all weekend.  We'd probably have shared some Malbec, cooked fantastic meals and told embarrassing and funny stories to each other, saving the masturbation for the privacy of our bedrooms.  Hey, if you can't love yourself, who's going to?  The silent sound of one-handed applause playing across the warm night air would have been enough to make any person happy for their contented friend.

One girlfriend hooked up with a fella the first evening and was at his side for the rest of the trip.  I clung to my other girlfriend, turning to her strong, sober presence to get me through the chaos.  This lasted until about midway through Sunday night's pajama party, when bachelor number three finally piqued her interest.  At that time, I and my heavy flannel pj's took myself into my bedroom, got under the covers and prayed that no drunk man would mistake my door for the loo, lest I find it necessary to karate-chop his chestnuts.  I'd have done it, too.  Tired, cranky January doesn't pull any punches but she just might nail you in the nuts if you piss her off.  Lucky for me, and them, I drifted to sleep, earplugs blocking out all but the dull thud-thud-thud of the house music.  We were leaving in the morning: it felt like Christmas Eve.  I know several people from this weekend were getting big, black lumps of coal.