Crazy Ex-Girlfriend (Thoughts on the TV show)

I started watching it for the humor and the silly musical numbers. No, wait…I started watching it because of her. Rachel Bloom. I’d become aware of her last summer watching an episode of Lip Sync Battles, and felt drawn to her persona.

It’s not often I look at someone and think I see a physical resemblance, so when I do, I start to wonder if I’m imagining it, and then I maybe start semi-obsessively trying to find out more about them.

Which, if you’ve watched the TV show “Crazy Ex-Girlfriend” you’ll recognize as a patently “Rebecca Bunch” move.

So I started watching it for her, but then I realized it was a silly comedy/musical romance story and I started watching it for that. Because I love silly comedy/musical romances.

I mean, I was absolutely hooked the moment I heard the “Sexy Getting Ready Song.”

But something else was going on, and I didn’t realize it at first. I don’t think I realized it until I was well into season 1, and I didn’t REALLY REALLY get it until I started following the lead/writer/producer Rachel Bloom on twitter.

I think her brain works like mine, but she does with music and comedy what I try to do with essays.

Because, yeah, it was some time during season 1 that I kinda realized the series actually featured a fairly diverse cast of characters in terms of race, sexuality, and size.

And I also realized that none of those characteristics actually defined the characters.

Then the crazy stuff she says – the tangents she goes off on with regards to feminism and the patriarchy and consent and slut shaming and …

…she’s my HERO.

Except she’s also a deeply troubled person with severe, untreated mental disorders. Only, she’s likable and kind of the heroine in her own story. Which makes her a bit of a narcissist. But a cute one, who sings and dances. And c’mon, I mean, it’s just a comedy…

…only it’s covering very serious topics more deeply, thoroughly, and honestly than most depictions I’ve seen in storytelling of any kind.

I knew I wanted to put into words how I felt about this show all day (I started binge watching season 2 on Netflix last night when my plans were rained out by the storm).

But there was so much. I wanted to use words like “rogue” and “subversive” to describe how this sneaky little comedy grabs hold of the heart of some very uncomfortable topics and sort of forces you to sit with them a while. The comedy and musical interludes serve to disarm you, but then..there those feelings are.

I keep confronting my own predispositions and preconceptions about people through these very silly, almost superficial characters that obfuscate the depth of their interactions with one another, as well as the show’s interaction with the viewer.

I swear I’m not high as I type this. I almost wish I were. I bet I’d get even more out of it.

Anyway, as I was saying – I wanted to write about how this show was making me feel because I thought that most people who watch it would stay on the surface and not get that deeper meaning, but then I read a few other blogs out there about the show and realized I am definitely not alone.

Also, the other bloggers were way more clear about the point I wanted to make.

When I was in elementary school I used to walk around the baseball diamond by myself singing songs I’d make up on the fly about things going on in my life. I wish I could tell you that habit ended as I got older, but I still do it. I’m often led by my emotions and my idealistic outlook on life in general. I don’t want to say I’m a big “schemer” but I definitely see and pursue opportunities that benefit my wants, just not to the point of sabotaging others around me. Oh, and a season 2 episode where Rebecca goes to visit her family at a bar-mitzvah? Yeah, that WHOLE episode hit really close to home.

Over these past few years, I’ve learned to confront my privilege and recognize some deep-seated tendencies toward codependent relationship and external validation. I’ve done a lot of introspection and I’ve learned to harness my empathy as a tool to help me help others, and not manipulate them. And, with the family thing, I learned how to cope with my semi-narcissistic family who value appearances over character.

The difference between myself and Rebecca Bunch is that I did the work to confront those issues and overcome them. That’s it.

That’s all that separates me from that crazy character.

Well, also she dresses better than I do…

…but I may start Single White Femaling the shit out of her outfits.


Weekly Enemas: A Cautionary Tale (with humor)

Heads up – I’mma talk about pooping, not in a sexy way. I’ll try to make it funny, though.

Hello, my name is phi, and I like butt sex.

I have liked butt sex pretty much always. The way it worked with the partners I’d had in the past, including one guy who ONLY was into butt sex (as in, we only had vaginal sex once) and my husband who was a big fan of butt sex, was to let them know on days that I felt pretty good about it and what days I was less likely to be receptive.

‘Cause, also, Hello. My name is phi and I am frequently constipated.

The results of butt sex on the days that I was good to go was that it’d compact whatever was hanging out in the background and I’d have a few days of extreme constipation. Then the shit would eventually pass and we’re all good.

Now, a few years ago, I attended my very first GRUE and I sat in on a discussion about preparing for anal. In it, the lovely woman hosting talked about how she’d use an enema to prepare for a date during which she knew butt sex would or might be happening.

Up to this point, I’d only ever done an enema on two occasions: once when I was instructed to by my doctor prior to a colonoscopy and the second time when I mistook my gall bladder exploding for severe constipation and thought it would help.

I’d never really done this sort of thing as “prep” work.

So, after several years of unfortunate abstinence, the first time my current partner came over and I thought…”hmm, maybe tonight’s the night!” I went to the local drugstore, bought a couple of disposable fleet enemas and prepped.

He didn’t fuck me that night.

A week later, he was coming over again and I got super excited. For sure this time, right? So I used the second one.

He didn’t fuck me that night either.

After this, I decided to have a chat with him. We discussed if and when we would maybe/hopefully be having sex. I was pretty darned sure that the next time he came over, it would definitely happen.

And so it did. And butt sex was involved. Hooray! Bonus – I was able to poop the very next day! This was a revelation!

Anyway, at that point, I started ordering 6-packs then 12-packs of the fleet enemas via Amazon. Seeing as how he came over once a week, I joked that he could tell how invested I was in our relationship via my enema order.

And that was that. It worked pretty well. Every week before he’d come over, I’d clean out and then we’d do the sex and the whole two-days-constipation-post-anal thing stopped happening. It was a win-win!

Until a few weeks ago.

A few weeks ago, I was standing in the kitchen washing dishes (thankfully) alone. He’d just left, actually. And I felt the pressure of what I thought was a little gas.

It wasn’t gas.

Not at all.

I’ll spare you the details. Suffice to say I had to get undressed in the shower and those panties are in a landfill by now.

After I told him about what had transpired, he mentioned having read or heard about something specific with fleet enemas having such effects.

My google search history is now quite interesting. I will save you the trouble.

One can become dependent on enemas. The fleet ones in particular do have some sort of ingredient that, over time, can cause the projectile response I experienced. Eventually, my research led me to some alternative options – namely, using a warm water “anal” douche, which the internet said one could find easily at any drugstore.

Well, it wasn’t that easy – but I did find it eventually, in the feminine products aisle – not in the butt-stuff aisle where I’d been looking. So, I bought it, threw it in my suitcase and went off to start my weekend.

Well, by the time we got to the hotel Friday night, I was…well, let’s say I was a bit anxious. I’d not had sex ALL YEAR (the year was a week old at this point). So I dispensed with the prep-work and we just….y’know, did our thing.

It was delightful.

But yeah, the whole next day I could sense that my butt would be off limits the following evening, which was kind of sad, ’cause the only thing better than butt stuff is public butt stuff.

So in between the end of the daytime event and the start of the play party, we went back to the hotel where I grabbed the still plastic-wrapped box and went to look at the instructions. In them, it describes this “smart and compact case!” that it comes with. I thought, oh, how delightful!

It’s a white plastic zippered bag.

Anyway, so I open the box and pull out this contraption and….

…it looks familiar.

I’ve seen one of these before.

As a child.

In my parent’s bathroom.

I used to think it was a balloon and that it was fun to blow air in and out of it.

I now understand my mother’s horror.

But, on the bright side, I also now understand the benefit of the smart and compact case!

In the end, (pun intended), it didn’t really work out that well that night; but I think that has more to do with the environment I was in. I was in a hotel with a small bathroom, not my own home, and there wasn’t really a comfortable place to really figure out the best position for this thing to work.

I’ll give it another shot this weekend, but if you have any further ideas….PLEASE feel free to comment below. I want to keep enjoying constipation-free anal sex without the…uh…explosive consequences.

tl;dr: weekly fleet enemas after a about a year can lead to projectile diarrhea and/or dependence. If you need to google this for yourself, the keywords that finally got me where I needed to go were “anal hygiene.”

What smut looks like when I’m feeling grumpy

I knew what she wanted. I could tell, from the way she looked at me that she wanted me to take her and make her mine. She was dressed to impress, I’ll give her that. That pencil skirt showed off her curves. And when she leaned over to pick up her purse from the floor, I saw the holy grail of cleavage.

She wanted me to notice, and I did. I sure did.

I licked my lips and gathered the courage to go talk to her. Chicks like that dig confidence. I had to show her the kind of man I was. I had to show her that I’m the kind of man that can take control the way she craves it.

I took the stool right beside her and waved the bartender over.

“Scotch. Neat.” I ordered. Bartender rattled off some labels. I didn’t know the difference. I picked one that sounded familiar and pulled it off like I knew exactly what I was getting.

“Come here often?” I asked her. It was cheesy, but I could sell it. I’m charming as fuck.

She took one look at me…just one look…I swear….

And walked to the other side of the bar.

Fucking bitch.


My house has an odd medicinal smell to it. I don’t know if it’s caused by whatever mysterious process is going on in the downstairs guest room that has been quarantined while they have these enormous drying machines running 24/7 since Saturday.

But I do know that I didn’t start smelling the new not-entirely-pleasant smell until I finally cleaned the cat box last night when I got home.

There’s something really icky about uncovering a new uncomfortable aroma after removing another competing odor that had been so pervasive and overpowering, you didn’t even realize there was still another nose-crinkling scent festering beneath it.

Somehow this situation reminds me of last night’s VP debates.

That is all.

My Vagina Has a Theme Song

And now, for a little levity.

Over on FetLife, I posted a “challenge” of sorts.  Here’s what happened.  I was chatting away when all of a sudden, the words “my vagina has a theme song” popped into my head. I thought it would make for a GREAT title for a blog post, but didn’t really have any message in mind for it.

So I asked people to …y’know, submit their vagina’s theme songs.

Eventually, I wrote one of my own and recorded it:

But so many of the other ones were so great, that I created a youtube playlist for your listening pleasure.  Just think, as you’re going through each of these tunes, that you’re listening to to the sounds of some stranger’s vaginal heartbeat.

Oh.  And one more thing.  My chicken pot pie was like, literal food porn today:



Of Sharts and Friends

I’ve had a delightfully polyfocused weekend. Thursday, my friend and metamour Elre came over. We cooked dinner together (or, rather, I cored, peeled, and sliced the apple and ey did everything else, including searing the pork chop and prepping and roasting the butternut squash). Then we watched the premiere of Dancing With the Stars (and subsequently fanned ourselves after watching the steamiest Viennese waltz of all time). Had a really awesome time, as we always do when we hang out.

The following night, Snugglemuffinpookieface(1) came over and we cooked dinner (this time it was chili-lime rubbed steelhead trout with roasted chayote and red onion and a mojo de ajo sauce). I did most of the work, though he did supervise the cooking of the actual fish, and we went out to the dungeon for the evening. We had cherry pomegranate smoothies with whole-grain toast and cherry preserves for breakfast while the solar company inspector stomped around in my attic and on my roof.

I was really excited for Saturday night, though, cause I had plans for a slumber party with Snugglemuffinpookieface’s other partner, Hellcicle, who I’ve not spent as much bonding/alone time with as I have with Elre over the past year.

She arrived just as I’d started prepping the vegetables for the fig-glazed pork tenderloin with roasted carrots and brussel sprouts. We worked together, with Hellcicle taking over any chopping after I took three times as long to slice carrots and brussel sprouts as she would have, considering that she and our partner are professionals in the kitchen. She plated the dishes like a pro and we headed upstairs to sit casually on the sofa and eat our fine food.

My cat, Mulholland, was being extra needy of attention. He kept trying to get between us to get pets and rubs, but it was putting us at risk of getting his fur in our food. In an attempt to get him out of the way, I scooted forward on the sofa to let him pass behind me, and tried to give him a gentle nudge from behind to push him past me.

Right. So, he basically let off a spray of shit juice that splattered all over my poor metamour’s arms, shirt and lap. She sat there in shock for a moment, unsure of what had just occurred.

I sprang up to get a towel but …i mean, we’re talking cat shit here.

She set her plate down and went to shower. I picked up my phone, and texted bentSapien(2): “Mulholland sharted on Hellcicle. Other than that, we’re having a blast!”

That’s when it hit me. i picked my phone up again and sent the text:

“Dear Lover, I’m sorry my cat pooped on your girlfriend and other stories by phi-is-me.” The title of my autobiography.

He thinks it’ll go straight to the bestseller list. Hellcicle is begging me to really write it.

I guess I’ve just completed chapter one. 😉

I guess I lost my sense of humor

I started paying attention to the news again.

About a year ago, I saw a friend of mine post a joke about Donald Trump running for president. Turns out, that wasn’t a joke.

And I thought, “Well, fuck…I sure have been out of touch.”

I had. On purpose. After my husband passed away, I really couldn’t deal with the world’s problems, so I shut them out. Stopped watching/listening/reading about what was happening in the world.

Managed to miss out on a lot of big stories – terrorist acts, big fires, crazy people running for president….

I went back in slowly. An article here or there; nothing crazy.

And now I’m full time listening to public radio in the car. I have Alexa read me the headlines every morning. I’m clicking on articles in my facebook feed that I would have scrolled right past before. It’s not just politics, either. All SORTS of things interest me. There was a story on NPR on the way home about gender testing in the Olympics. There was one earlier this week about athletes’ pay being comparable to actors, as they provide entertainment in a multi-billion dollar industry. And the one about rampant wage theft in the restaurant industry. And the story about the man sentenced for traveling to a Cambodian brothel dozens of times to sexually abuse children.

The result? I’m starting to identify in ways that I was brought up to disregard. The biggest one was feminist. Feminist was a pejorative term growing up. They were uptight women without a sense of humor. I’d forgotten that this was a thing I was raised to never become. To be a feminist was to be a punchline, a trope for unlikable….


I’d not realized this until a few weeks ago when my mom used the word as an insult. Women’s rights are okay, she said, but feminists take it too far.

Look, I don’t know where this arbitrary line of “too far” is, but I’m pretty sure there are a lot of feminists (of all genders) that advocate on behalf of women’s rights on the relatively benign side of that line.

I mean, (arbitrarily speaking), there will be activists in any endeavor that take things “too far” – whether it’s animal rights, human rights, reproductive rights, or environmental causes.

I’m not the type that’s gonna chain myself to a tree, throw paint at a coat, or commit a felony on behalf of a cause I’m passionate about. That doesn’t mean I’m not part of that cause. But, to define any cause by the actions of the people who take it to an extreme (again…arbitrarily, because my extreme may not be your extreme, etc. etc.) has the effect of turning a word like “Feminist” into an insult passed from one generation to the next.

The first time I saw the abbreviation SJW (Social Justice Warrior) I didn’t know what it meant. For a long time, I thought it was the abbreviation of someone’s online handle. I didn’t know who this SJW person was, but I knew a lot of the popular folks on the internet REALLY hated them.

Took a while before I discovered it was just a label. Even then, the tone with which it was used was one of disdain and ridicule. Oh, those pesky, humorless, drama-mongering SJWs!

The people we label as “Feminist” or “Social Justice Warrior” are frequently speaking on behalf of those who are too afraid to speak for themselves. Those who feel that they must follow that one simple commandment: TO BE LIKED.

Which, of course, for women means to be docile, compliant, and agreeable.

Today I saw someone made a joke about SJWs. They were the punchline. The joke made a mockery of a type of person I care deeply about – a type of person whose voice is frequently erased in the din of activists clamoring for attention to their causes. A person in my life who has a name.

And it struck me…..

It’s cruel. It stings to be on the receiving end of a joke aimed at belittling or mocking something that is part of your identity. It’s not that I don’t see why the joke is funny, it’s that I see all the reasons why that joke is NOT funny in the tears of my friends who are good, kind, honorable people who have done nothing to hurt anybody else.

So there it is. I guess I’ve lost my sense of humor, because I’m drawing my arbitrary line at jokes that hurt people for the sake of belittling, undermining, or erasing their humanity, identity, intelligence, or to further the notion that to be a “Feminist” or a “Social Justice Warrior” is an insult.

Any “Status Quo Warriors” who step over that line have, in my eyes, gone “too far.”