Archive for the ‘things I’m too old to be doing’ Category

Things I’m likely to buy whilst drunk

May 3, 2010

Today I got an e-mail from my friends over at  Well, “friends” is a liberal term; I bought some crap from them at some point (possibly while drunk, or at least buzzed) and apparently gave them permission to beg me to buy more crap from them in the future.  I doubt they’re concerned about how my divorce is turning out (fine, thanks) or are planning to invite me to their son’s wedding (I wouldn’t go anyway, so there).  I wouldn’t add them on Facebook since I’ve never met them in real life or on a Twilight blog.  They aren’t my friends, is what I’m saying.

I feel like this has gotten off to a defensive and weird start.  The marketing department at has me on a list to which they sent a mass e-mail about their new product, THE WORLD’S LARGEST GUMMY BEAR.  I’m not yelling, they just caps-locked it right through their product description.  I understand why, though.  Check this bastard out:

Five pounds. Bigger than a football. I've given birth to smaller things than this.

I read the e-mail three times.  Who would buy this thing?  I’m going to go ahead and make the assumption that anyone with thirty spare bucks laying around has no need for a giant, sticky, 12,000 calorie anything. Thirty bucks is a night out at Applebee’s.  Thirty bucks is a big bottle of Patrón for you plus a tiny bottle of Patrón that you can photograph your baby holding and hope child services never finds the picture.  Thirty bucks is a pair of last season’s Anne Klein pumps.  Why would someone drop thirty bucks on a single piece of candy?

If that someone was, say, me, and that someone was, say, drunk, this question would be moot.  I have no ability to turn down something I want while intoxicated.  Irish men, deep fried snack cakes, free puppies, I will invite them all into my life without question after three Stellas.  With the advent of internet shopping, iPhones, and single-click purchase features on shopping apps, I find that on Mondays more often than not the UPS man introduces me to some item I found irresistible while straddling a barstool at Buffalo Wild Wings on Friday night.

I’ve found that these purchases occur in two major ways, the DARE and the WANT.   The DARE is how I ended up with my most recent purchase, the GeMagic Deluxe Kit.  How else was I going to make my What What Pants?

The DARE conversation goes something like this:
ME:  Yes they do make those.  I totally saw it in an infomercial.
THEM: No way do they make a dog bark translator.
ME, pulling out iPhone: Wanna bet?
THEM:  Holy shit.
ME:  Told you.
THEM:  I dare you to buy it.
ME:  I totally bought it.

I love a good dare.  When I play Truth or Dare–which doesn’t happen as often in the life of a thirty-something divorcee as you’d hope it would–I always pick dare.  I’ll do just about anything.  It’s ridiculous, and the more drunk I am, the more ridiculous stuff I’ll do.  It’s honestly a miracle I’ve never been arrested for public nudity or trespassing yet.

The WANT is usually a visceral, infantile drive to purchase something because I have to have it. The WANT purchases are usually made when I’m alone, and my inner monologue goes something like this:
ME:  I want that.
ME:  You don’t need it.
ME:  But I want it.
ME:  You can’t afford it.
ME:  But I want it.
ME:  You can’t fill your life with material things.
ME:  Watch me.  Or you.  Whatever.  I’m fucking buying it.

Actual things I’ve bought while drunk:

Not one, but TWO sets of Twilight trading cards. In my defense, the second set was signed by Peter Facinelli, so it’s NORMAL.
NKOTB’s “The Block”. There are no explanations for this one. I didn’t just download it either, I bought the actual damn CD.
I watched this on television in 1985. Twenty five years later and four beers in, I decided I needed perpetual access to it. Ringo Starr is in it. Yeah.
Twilight vehicle window decal. If I’d been drunk when I’d received it, it would probably be on my car right now.
2003 Volvo XC90 on eBay. Fortunately I didn’t meet the Reserve Price, or I’d be wheeling around in this bitch right now.

Things I found in my history that I must have passed out or gotten distracted before I managed to buy them:

Autographed photo of Don Knotts shaking hands with Andy Griffith on the set of “Matlock”. Obviously, I probably should actually own this.
Dog socks with little suspenders to help them stay put. I can’t decide if this is adorable or sad.

Wow. They weren't cheap, either. I think that my low Visa limit gets the credit for me not buying these shoes.


Eclipse trailer: Thoughts. Not all of them nice.

April 23, 2010

Twenty-three seconds of Oprah is too much Oprah.

Either Dakota Fanning needs to lay off the Pall Malls or Skype audio sucks rancid goat balls.

Who the fuck is Joe?  I feel like there is a tech named Mark ready to hit the “go” button on the footage and Dakota just made up a name and now Mark is all pissed because it was supposed to be his turn to shine.

President Obama needs to issue a decree or executive order or whatever to force Taylor Lautner to wear snug black tee shirts all the time.  No exceptions.

I'm joining the Black T-Shirt PAC

I see why the human boys were betting on Jacob in a fight.  Edward looks like he could be taken down by a sick four-year-old girl.

Three thoughts:
2. Carlisle looks like Francis the bully from Pee Wee’s Big Adventure.

"I know you are but what am I?"



Riley.  Fuck yeah.  He looks like he’d be down for more than just a stupid leg hitch.


Those aren’t bears!  Or maybe they are.  They sure don’t look like wolves.

I can see why Angela would get confused.

Angry Edward.  I want this to be the tent scene so BAD.  I want that to be the look on Edward’s face when he sees Jacob’s fantasies about Bella.  But it doesn’t make sense that he’s wearing a tie in a tent, so it’s probably the post-graduation scene when Edward finds out that the newborns belong to Victoria and they’re coming after Bella.  I’m so worried that the tent scene is going to lack passion.  People, I’ve been reading a ton of angsty, filthy fan fiction in the past 18 months–a ton–and I need there to be sexual frustration that I can feel in my front pocket when Jacob, Edward and Bella are in the cold tent.

Edward Cullen, now with more angst.

Wet Riley.  Fuck yeah X 2.

Who knew Inferi could be so hot? Shit, wrong franchise.

Charlie Bewley . . . let me pause here to say that I want to have 17,853 of Charlie Bewley’s babies.

Really?  This is a vampire battle?  I expected something more nuanced than “head on collision”, probably because I, you know, read the books.

Is it in Jackson Rathbone’s contract that he must look like a deranged labradoodle in every trailer?  He does not pull off the crazyface.

It's easy, Jackson. Just pretend you're attacking a member of the Summit wig department.

Okay, that diving/spinning thing is pretty cool.  That’s what I was picturing for a vampire fight.  Is that Alice?

FUGLY RING.  Are those pavé diamonds?  I talked about this months ago on LTT, Slade.  I hope that the “re-shoots” going on in Vancouver right now are these scenes with a better ring.  You went full Stephenie Meyer on us here.  My disappointment–it is palpable.

No, it's not my mother's ring. I picked it up at the Gold & Silver kiosk at the mall.

I hate you as Victoria, Bryce Dallas Howard.  You are not Victoria.  It’s like watching a soap opera where they have a substitute actress while the actual actress is recovering from a herpes outbreak or something: “Today the role of Victoria will be played by Bryce Dallas Howard, who had to get a tan to play a vampire.”

Still hoping this is a practical joke on the fandom.

A lot of this trailer looks like New Moon.  I think we’ve got some recycled footage here with our shirtless Jacob.

The watermark in the lower left makes it look like Taycob has an Oprah tattoo.

Charlie Bewley, looking fuckhot again.  Also, some other people.

I still hate you, BDH.

I always crack up when Robward knocks down a tree or something.  It’s not supposed to be funny, but it totally is.

I stopped watching here.  It was going back to the Oprahfest.

Wait, I lied.  May 13?  Rob is spending his birthday with Oprah?  That makes me feel all sickly wrong inside.

The Party with the Penis

January 27, 2010

So it’s Wednesday night and I find myself slippery and in a bathtub full of muddy water reading books on dating.  I hate this with an intense passion.  How the hell did I get here?

The slippery part makes enough sense.  I hit the tanning bed on the way home.  I don’t do this often, just enough to keep my skin from becoming transparent.  The cute, young, orangish girl behind the counter asked if I would like to try this new double bronzing product called Mad Monkey or Funky Banana or something of the sort.  I do not know what a ‘double bronzer’ is.  I know that once I had the stinky stuff smeared all over my expanse of lillywhite flesh I realized that I was supposed to wash my hands immediately afterwards, no small feat when you are oiled up and naked in a stall in a public venue.  I rubbed my hands on the towel and hoped for the best.  When my eight minutes were up, I came out and asked the girl what I could expect from my unwashed hands, and she giggled and said, “Oh, your palms are gonna turn orange.”  Nice.  So I have this to look forward to, anyway.  As soon as I came home I hit the bath, whereupon I realized that this slimy shit does not wash off easily, that my skin has taken on a decidedly chemical odor, and that my bathwater turned brown when I got in.  There is no way this product is not going to make me more attractive, right?

Actually, I should say my bathwater turned brown-er.  It started out pretty brown.  It is amazing to me that I live in a neighborhood, pay a mortgage, drive a decent vehicle, have electricity, but no clean water.  I’m living the American dream until I turn the tap, then it’s the fucking third world with it’s shitty water quality.  My house is like Mexico–don’t drink the water, they say.  Usually I have bubbles to mask the color of the water, but apparently bath foam does not play well with weird stinky slippery bronzing shit that I think the girl gave me as a joke because seriously, I smell terrible and I might turn orange over here.

So now I’m reading dating books.  I got a divorce because I wanted to be on my own, but then two years later, I find myself dating.   I hate dating.  I feel like a moron when I’m on a date.  I don’t feel strange in the slightest hanging out with female friends, so why do I become a flaming idiot when a man is involved?  Why can’t I just be myself?  Enter the dating books.

The first book is about flirting.  I’m a pretty good flirt.  I mean, I doubt anyone I’ve been attracted to has wondered if I was attracted to them.  I’m a natural.  Book One confirms it.  Onto Book Two.

Book Two tells me that I’m dating the wrong guys.  They are all wrong for me, and I need to set higher standards.  Except that my standards are already too high, and I’ve probably already discarded a guy who would have been the Right One but I was too much of a snob to notice it.  Book Two has multiple personality disorder.  Onto Book Three.

Book Three I will tell you the title of.  Book Three is called How to Date in a Post-Dating World.  Post dating world?  What the hell?  People don’t date anymore?  How do you explain all the leg shaving and dinner check wrangling I’ve been doing for the past four months?  This book tells me that I should be planning to hang out or hook up, both of which run the gamut from casual sex to marriage.  The best parts of this book are the horror stories about bad dates.  I could add a couple to the mix, like the guy who kept sniffing me and insisted that a stranger across the room didn’t like him.  This book ends with the ominous advice to “be the bean” which I’m guessing refers back to something I missed when I skipped the entire middle section of the book.

The last book is about single dating as a parent and seems to mostly give you tips on how not to get caught having sex by your kids, what to do if your kids catch you having sex, and how much the therapy is going to cost you when your kids catch you having sex.  I avoid these issues by not having sex at my house when my kids are here.  Geography is key.  I myself prefer to have sex out of state to remove all possibility of being caught by my kids.

I didn’t find what I was looking for in these books, which is an answer to the intense insecurities I have about myself.  After all, I once chose a relationship path that failed.  It didn’t fail all the time, but where it did fail, it has left me shaken.  I left that relationship feeling unloveable. What if I do this again?  What if that guy I like, who seems to like me, who treats me well, who makes my toes curl in bed, what if I choose to make him my only guy, and it fails fifteen years from now?  My soul can’t take it.

I’m going to need some sort of extended warranty, with small-print stipulations like “the Party with the Penis promises to (a) ignore all sagging and stretching of the parts of the Party with the Vagina or (b) finance the repair and/or replacement of said sagging and stretching parts” and “the Party with the Penis agrees to maintain a separate residence to which he can retreat when the Party with the Vagina decides to lay about the house and sigh dramatically while eating chocolate for days on end”.  In return, I, the Party with the Vagina, promise to bake the Party with the Penis cakes on his birthday, and love the way he smells after he’s been working on his car, and let him snorgle my cleavage while we watch bad kung fu movies.  No games.  No one with the upper hand.  No one feeling ignored, or lonely, or ugly, or crazy.  After 33 years I’m beginning to think this is an impossibility, that I’m going to have to fashion together a reasonable facsimile of a relationship by buying a Rabbit, stocking up on loyal dogs, and watching a lot of romantic comedies.

I have to go now, having just remembered that:
1. I have to bake a pie tonight, a payment from a sign stolen off of the PATH train in New Jersey and
2. I left groceries in the car, including all the pie parts, when I rushed in to wash off the Monkey Lotion.


Man Nips, or I can’t tolerate a man who is stingy with his nipples

December 4, 2009

I am as lazy as I can possibly be to still function in regular society.  I cannot be bothered with seeking out blogworthy topics, especially since approximately seven people read each post.  Actually, about fifty of you read each post without commenting, which leads me to believe you are as lazy as I am.  I can’t fault you for this.  I take your silence as evidence that I have so thoroughly covered each issue that you are saturated with information and have nothing to add to the mix.  You are welcome. 

Even considering the stellar archive of posts I have amassed, you will not see any laurel resting going on around here.  I still have to think up shit to write about.  For inspiration, I looked to see what searches brought people over to the tiffanized side on WordPress.  A lot of the usual:  slutty clowns, ginny weasley giving harry potter a blow job, delorians.  I think I’ve covered those topics well, and don’t need to address them again.

But then I ran across “man nipples”.  If someone came to my blog looking for “man nipples”, they were certainly disappointed.  I have one, maybe three, man nipples in evidence over here. 

Until today.

It had been my every intent to title this post, “Nipples I Have Loved” and populate it with images of the useless mammaries of men I’ve slept with.  Oddly, none of my past lovers wanted to share their nipples with the world.  This may explain why I’m no longer sharing my nipples with them anymore.  I can’t tolerate a man who is stingy with his nipples.

If you came here today looking for man nipples, I am your servant.  I will cover the nipples of men–or uncover them, as the case may be–until I’m convinced that your curiosity has been sated.  On the surface, it hardly seems necessary; men have no shame about their chests.   They have stray hairs, wobbly bits, and bellybutton fuzzballs the size of a quarter, but they’ll whip off their shirts anywhere:  beaches, parks, hotel lobbies, wedding receptions.  This is probably why I was baffled when my exes refused to offer up their nip photos for my blog, a.k.a. “the greater good”.  C’mon, dude, you lifted your shirt at Sunday dinner to show my grandma how you can lick your own nipple, but you won’t snap a pic with your Blackberry and shoot it over to me?  You’re an enigma.

So first, a general overview.  We’ll start with a man nipple smörgåsbord (you’re welcome, Swedes), then break it down to the nipples of specific men. Brace yourself.

The Norm
No, not George Wendt’s nipples, though I have to say I wish I’d thought to Google image search that one, morbid curiosity and all that.  I’m calling these manipples ‘normal’, totally aware that there is no such thing as a normal nipple, my own personal nipples being proof of that.  I’ve branded these as ‘normal’ nipples based on the fact that, if during a romantic encounter of some sort I were to run across these nipples, I would not stop to think about them.  They are there, they are round and unremarkably pigmented, and I would move on to uncovering other hidden parts.

The Purposely Altered

I’ve run into a couple of these in my travels, and I think they are just grand.  One request:  if you are going to pierce one nipple, please pierce the other.  I’m a fiend for symmetry.

Also to be found in the “Purposely Altered” category is the tattooed male nipple.  I will get into these when I discuss my Favorite Man Nipples Ever, but let me pause to show you what may be the greatest use I’ve come across for the male nipple:

This fellow, while lacking some basic facial hygiene, heroically saved his man nip from going to waste.  Also, I think he is in a bar in the daytime, which is to be praised, or that is his personal liquor collection, which is to be worshipped.

Alternately, I have found what may be the worst use of male nipplage in public:

I will be the first person in line to see man-on-man action, but this does not flip my switch.

The Hairy Potter

Believe me when I say you are a lucky person not to have seen the entire picture.  There was a ripped muscle shirt and more hair.  So much hair.

The Pec

This is nice in a “traditionally and impossibly perfect” sort of way.  The tiny nipple, elongated and stretched by the underlying muscle, sits atop the pec like a brownish cherry atop a tan sundae.  Wow, that was more disgusting an image than it sounded in my head.  You get the picture (and I’ve got the HQ original, lucky me).

Test your Knipple Knowledge!
Match the male celebrity with their nipple:

A. 1. Barack Obama
B. 2. Jake Gyllenhaal
C. 3. David Beckham
D. 4. Johnny Depp
E. 5. Leonardo DiCaprio
F. 6. Ryan Reynolds
G. 7. Alex Skarsgard
H. 8. Peter Griffin
I. 9. Zac Efron
J. 10. Ryan Gosling
Answers: A-6; B-5; C-10; D-2; E-8; F-4; G-3; H-7; I-1; J-9

Vintage Mipples

Rebel Nipple

Streetcar Nipple (Marlon Brando)

They don't make mipples like this anymore (Paul Newman)

That last picture of Paul Newman is a nice segue into a little piece of self-indulgence I like to call Tiffanized’s Favorite Man Nipples Ever:

Frank Iero. My Chemical Nipples. Gah.

M Shadows from Avenged Sevenfold. I would've posted Zacky Vengeance and Synyster Gates too, but I thought that might make me explode.

Holy European Androgyny, Batman. (Louis Garrel)

Nick Hoult.

Technically, there are no mipples showing in that last picture, but WHO THE FUCK CARES?  Nicholas Hoult is stunning. 

No list of My Favorite Man Nipples Ever would be complete without Twinipples.

Taylor Lautner's mipples are still illegal until February 2010.

Kellan Lutz, arguably the nicest of the Twinipple pack. He rocked the Perfect Pec look while Taylor Lautner was still Sharkboy.

Robward. I know his left mipple was wonky in New Moon, but it's non-wonky and totally flickable in this picture.

There you go.  Those of you in apparent desperate search for male nipples need look no farther.  I’ve covered it all.  I’m all nippled out.

The letter that will keep me from becoming President of the USA

December 3, 2009

In the ongoing and not very interesting but for some reason all consuming story of my pee money–which, by the way, is still wrapped tight in paper towels and a Ziploc baggie–I’ve written a letter to the U.S. Treasury to ask what to do with it. Of course, my actual plan is to toss the cash into my next load of laundry, but I want to see what response if any I get from our fine government. I was bewildered to see that there is no e-mail address to send inquiries for damaged money; I didn’t realize that anyone still functioned without electronic communications. Determined as I am, I dusted off Microsoft Word and tapped out this highly professional missive:

November 25, 2009

Chief, Office of Compliance
Bureau of Engraving and Printing
Currency Residue Request
14th & C Streets, S.W.
Room – 321A
Washington, D.C. 20228

RE: Damaged Currency

Dear Sirs and/or Madams:

This is a little embarrassing. Yesterday, I had an accident that resulted in me urinating on a five (5) dollar bill. The accident was of the “money fell in the toilet” variety rather than the “I wet my pants” variety.

My question is, does urinating on paper currency render it “damaged”? Without going into the gory details of its retrieval from the toilet, I did rinse the bill thoroughly and it shows no signs (staining, water damage) of its ordeal. But considering the ick factor here, I would feel better knowing your opinion of how I should proceed with the cash. Money laundering jokes aside, can I throw it in the washing machine? Should I send it to you for replacement?

Until I hear back, I will keep the money quarantined in a zipper sealed sandwich bag.

Thank you for your time,

Tiffany ******

P.S. I tried to find the answer to my question on your website, but could only find this address and a telephone number. If you have time, could you explain why there is no e-mail address for your department? I am admittedly biased toward “modern” technology, but even my grandmother has an e-mail address, though she doesn’t know how to check her inbox, bless her heart.

Now I wait.  I anticipate at least six to eleven weeks, being that this is the United States government I’m waiting on.  I tried to walk the line between “boring letter that gets ignored” and “letter that gets my name put on a government watch list”.  I’m guessing I might even see this again should I try to run for public office in the future, but I’m sure it will pale in comparison to all my naked photos and drunken Tweets floating around out there.

I saw this video about Howie Mandel washing all of his money.  Smart dude.

A reminder why you always wash your hands after cash transactions

November 24, 2009

A couple of hours ago, I had to pee.  I could buffer this confession with a euphemism, like, “I had to use the bathroom,” or “I had to do one of my little jobs,” but the “pee” is the crux of the story.  So I went to pee.  We have a lovely bathroom at work; matte pewter fixtures, purple walls, a large basin sink.  It’s very clean.  You see, “clean” is also important to the story, which is why it is being emphasized.  I went to “pee” in the “clean” bathroom.  We are all on the same page.

I settled in, content with my lot in life that I get to pee daily in such a clean, purple bathroom.  Mid-pee, I heard something rustle behind me, sort of like a leaf gently shaken loose from a branch in fall, and wondered what that could be.  I turned to look, and to my horror, that the neatly folded five dollar bill I’d had in my back pocket was now floating in the same toilet bowl into which I was relieving myself.  There was nothing I could do.  The pee had hit the bowl, as the saying doesn’t go.  I briefly said a prayer of thanks that this was not a “big job” I was turning out and finished my business.

Dramatic Recreation of events

Dramatic Re-Creation of Events

I wiped, stood, then considered my options with my pants pooled around my favorite black high heeled boots.  Flush the bill?  Throw out the money with the peewater as the saying doesn’t go?  Maybe if it were one dollar, but this was a five, and I’m a cheap bitch.  I was afraid to leave the room, lest someone come in and pee on my money*.  Like MacGyver, I searched the bathroom for something with which I could extract the money from the potty.  Unlike MacGyver, I came up blank and made a decision I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy:  I went in with my bare hands.  Actually, first I did a dance I like to call “I have to stick my hand in peewater”, which looks a lot like the “I just found a spider in my comforter” dance, only with the “I just did a shot of cheap tequila” face.  Then I went in with my bare hands.

I think at that point I blacked out, because the next thing I remember was washing the money in the sink.  My pants were up, the toilet was flushed, and the only indicator of my crisis situation was the cash being rinsed.    I grabbed a stack of paper towels, laid the bill on them, then covered it with another stack of paper towels while I washed my hands for twenty minutes, then soaped up and washed the sink, then washed my hands again before putting on half a bottle of hand sanitizer.

So the question is this:  what do I do with the bill?  Clearly I can’t touch it again without gloves; it’s currently still wadded up in the paper towels inside of a plastic bag.  I would also not feel comfy pawning it off on the kindly Indian woman at the Subway, half because I like her and half because I don’t want her to make anyone’s sandwich after she’s touched that five.  I’ve agonized over my options, and I’m polling on what it’s come down to:

*If I had a nickel for every time I’ve had to say this–well, I probably wouldn’t have to fish pee-covered bills from the toilet.