Can you believe I’ve gone almost 27 years without reading erotica? Oh well, don’t worry, that shit has been more than remedied because I just took down all 1500+ pages of the Fifty Shades of Grey trilogy in, like, A WEEK.

And just in time, too, because I feel like everywhere I turn, someone else is talking about these books. From casual mentions on Twitter to serious editorials detailing how contemporary women fantasize about being sexually dominated, people everywhere have been whipped into a frenzy over these deliciously smutty novels. Now, I’m not going to get into the overly analytical side of things, because frankly I don’t give a shit about whether contemporary women want to be sexually dominated or not. All I know is that these books are like addictive sex candy and once you start, you fall into the deep hole of obsession that has you staying up way past your bedtime because you “just have to read one more chapter,” except one more chapter turns into ALL THE CHAPTERS because fuuuuuck, these books.

Initially, I ordered the first one out of curiosity. I was deep in my post-Twilight depression, desperate for something else to read, and I kept hearing whispers about Fifty Shades of Grey and how it was originally written as Twilight fan fiction, with the two main characters based loosely off Edward & Bella. Now, if you’re sitting there thinking that I should have better things to do with my time than chase down a dirty version of Edward & Bella, I honestly don’t know what to say to you other than dude, YOU DON’T KNOW ME AT ALL.

So, I read the first book. And let me tell you, it’s absurdly hot. And I mean, you can see the similarities to Edward & Bella, but they only go so far. This is definitely its own inescapably seductive book, and as soon as I finished it I jumped on Amazon and ordered the other two. I then spent the rest of the day lost in thought about where the first book left off, wondering where it was headed, fantasizing about what I wanted to happen to these two new characters that I was suddenly obsessed with.

At Target later that day, still obsessively thinking about the delicious smut, I suddenly found myself in the book section, staring hungrily at the two books I had just ordered on Amazon, wondering if it was too late to cancel my order and buy them here instead.

“Calm down, Nicole,” I thought. “You can wait a few days to get the books in the mail.”

Oh, inner voice, how little you know me. In fact, why I ever thought I’d be able to wait in the first place is a mystery. Clearly I should have been standing outside Target the second they opened, credit card in hand, demanding that someone fetch me parts 2 & 3 of my smutty addiction.

Which is how I found myself back at home, two books richer, trying unsuccessfully to cancel an Amazon order that had already been processed. When I told James Bond the story later that night, he – unlike my misguided inner voice – wasn’t at all surprised. “That’s standard Nicole procedure,” he said. And, like always, he was right.

So then, seeing as how my impatience meant I had extra copies of Fifty Shades Darker and Fifty Shades Freed, I figured that the only logical next step was to order an extra copy of Fifty Shades of Grey as well, and then give the trilogy to one of you guys. (If you want them, just let me know in the comments and I’ll pick someone to send them off to next week!) Because really, these are the kinds of books you’ll force on your friends just so you have someone to discuss them with. I’ve already done that to 4 people, and my copies of the books are currently making their way through a handful of peer-pressured friends.

I mean, friends don’t let friends miss out on wildly inappropriate and sexually explicit novels, right? Isn’t that how the saying goes?

[Update: the smutty smut book winner is... @norahcarroll!]

The week before Christmas, I did a three-day juice cleanse. At the end of this post, you can enter to win your very own three-day juice cleanse. Happy New Year, digestive systems of the NicoleisBetter world!

Now, I know what you’re thinking. Juice cleanse? JUICE CLEANSE? But don’t worry, I promise it’s not one of those crazy fasting diets where you only drink water and cayenne pepper or whatever that crazy shit is – it’s a real juice cleanse: 6 bottles of specially formulated juice per day, made by the experts over at BluePrintCleanse.

I know, I know. Me? THREE ENTIRE DAYS WITHOUT FOOD? But you guys! YOU GUYS! I did it, and it was effing spectacular.

When I first picked up my big box of juice down in Santa Monica, I was feeling a bit apprehensive. Actually, that’s a lie. I was terrified. What had I gotten myself into? What was this going to feel like? Who knew a box of juice could be so heavy?!

I drove home, lined the 18 bottles of juice up in my fridge, and sat down to my last meal for the next 72 hours, staring lovingly at a tomato and thinking, “Honey, I’m sure gonna miss you.”

Nicole Drinks Obscene Amounts of Juice: Day 1

When I woke up, I consulted my juice schedule. Yes, juice schedule. That’s the thing – you think it’s going to be super easy to drink 6 bottles of juice over the course of a day – but dude, it’s harder than it looks. There are rules to follow: leave 1-2 hours between juices, drink 8+ ounces of water or herbal tea between juices, finish the last juice at least 2 hours before bedtime, etc. etc. And when you think about that, you realize it’s time for a schedule.

After consulting the rules and doing the calculations, I settled on drinking the first juice at 8am, the second juice at 11am, the third at 1pm, the fourth at 3pm, the fifth at 6pm, and the sixth at 8pm – with a plan to drink at least 8oz of water or tea in between each juice.

“Bladder,” I thought, “it’s going to be a looooong three days.”

When I opened the first bottle, a green juice packed with spinach and kale and other leafy things, I thought I knew what to expect. Drea had done this exact same cleanse, and when she described the green juice as a “weird, liquid salad,” I assumed I understood. But guess what? I didn’t. Two sips into that first bottle and I realized that there’s no way to prepare yourself for drinking a liquid salad – especially if, like me, you’ve never had real green juice before and your taste buds aren’t used to DRINKING PARSLEY. Following Drea’s advice, I added some freshly squeezed lemon juice and a straw, and tried to get the juice down as fast as possible by doing repetitions of deep breath, hold nose, big gulp, swallow, chase with lemon water.

Yes, CHASER. I had a chaser. “Damn,” I thought. “How things have come full circle since freshman year of college. From chasing bottom-shelf-homeless-person vodka to chasing mother effing GREEN JUICE. Times, you are a-changin’.”

About halfway through that first bottle of juice, I doubted that I’d make it past the early afternoon, yet alone an entire three days. Sure, only two of the six juices were this green stuff, but still, THAT’S A LOT OF LIQUID SALAD. Then, just when I was sure I wouldn’t be able to finish the bottle, I remembered that I had paid All The Money for this cleanse and that cheating or quitting absolutely wasn’t an option.

Note to self: Spending lots of money on something is a pretty good motivator not to flake out like a baby.

So I drank the green juice, all the while thinking stuff like, “My insides better be cleaner than the day I was born when this is over” and “Yeah, digestive system, you like that?!”

11am: time for the second juice. I opened the bottle and gave the juice a wary smell. Pineapple, Apple & Mint? That didn’t sound bad at all, but the green juice had me on high alert. I tasted it slowly, and oh sweet mother of relief – it was AMAZING. Juice #2 was so much better than juice #1, but I guess that’s basically like saying “great sex is better than getting beaten to death with a hammer,” so really, it’s all about perspective.

By lunch time, though, I was feeling pretty incredible. I already had so much more energy than normal, and I was ready to tackle my next bottle of green juice. It went down much more smoothly the second time – although I kept up the lemon juice/straw/chaser routine – and by the afternoon I was pretty damn proud of myself. Also, most surprisingly of all, I wasn’t hungry. The quantity of juice and the copious amounts of nutrients kept me full and satisfied, and I was starting to feel like maybe I’d be able to complete these three days after all.

Then, at 3pm, my “Juice #4” alarm went off (of course I set an alarm, how else do you keep up with such an insane juicing schedule?!) and I thought, “What?! No! It can’t be time to drink more liquid already. THERE’S NO ROOM IN MY BODY FOR MORE JUICE. NO ROOM. NO MORE JUICE. ABORT. ABORT.”

But I drank it anyway, a Spicy Lemonade that was so easy to drink that I started getting cocky. “Ha,” I thought. “I’ve got this.” By the time I reached Juice #5, I was positive I had this whole juice thing totally under control. I opened the bottle, took a big gulp, and felt my eyes widen in horror at whatever was happening inside my mouth. I swallowed and stared at the bottle in disbelief. “WHAT IS THIS??” I yelled. It tasted like the ground. Not like the green juice, not like weeds or liquid salad, but like the actual actual ground. “Awesome,” I thought. “I’m drinking pureed soil.”

“You have to taste this” I told James Bond. “It tastes like someone grated fresh ginger over a pile of dirt and liquified it in a bottle.” I frantically emailed Drea. “HOW DID YOU DRINK JUICE #5?!” Well, turns out Drea liked Juice #5, because Drea likes beets. Ooo, right. That’s the main ingredient in Juice #5: beets.

Note to self: IN THE FUTURE, REMEMBER THAT YOU DO NOT LIKE BEETS

Note to others: If you do like beets, I’m told that Juice #5 is actually pretty delicious. You know, different strokes and all that.

Anyway, after that first sip, I spent about an hour waging war with my bottle of beet juice, finally finishing it using the now tried-and-true straw/nose holding/chaser method, and I sat back to think about how grateful my digestive system should be to my tastebuds, who were really taking one for the team with this beet juice situation.

By 8pm, when it was time to open Juice #6, my expectations were pretty low. I read the label. Cashew Milk? What the fuck is Cashew Milk? But you guys, YOU GUYS, it was incredible. Filled with vanilla, cinnamon, and agave, it was basically like drinking a cookie. And after an entire day of spicy liquid weed dirt, it felt like the best thing that could possibly happen to a person.

As I sat there and sipped my cookie juice, I realized that I felt better than I’d felt in an exceptionally long time. Even with the unfortunate dirt/beet situation, I had to admit that I was more alert and creative than usual, and best of all, I’d had such a productive day because I didn’t have to think about what to eat, take time to cook the food, eat the food, do the dishes, etc. etc. Honestly, that was the biggest unforeseen benefit of the juice cleanse, not having to deal with food. I love food, obviously, but until the end of day 1 I didn’t realize just how time consuming it is to think about it all the time. “This is why rich people have kitchen staff,” I thought.

Note to self: Get rich. Hire kitchen staff.

After completing that first day, the next two went by pretty quickly. I had established a routine of when to drink the juices, and I knew what to expect with each one. The green juice and beet juice even got easier to drink as the cleanse progressed (maybe my taste buds were changing?) and by day 3 I was able to drink both without having to hold my nose and actually wound up liking the green juice. Whhhaatttt? Hooray for little victories!!

There were some tough moments, of course, and I was definitely a little hungry at certain points on the second and third days. I was also having bizarrely vivid dreams, some serious cotton-ey dry mouth, and, oh yeah, PINK PEE (you’re welcome), but from what I read those are all normal side effects of the chemical changes in your body/detox experience/beets.

Overall, the cleanse was an awesome experience. I didn’t miss food at all, but that’s probably because there isn’t a second of the day where you’re both awake and not drinking something. Although, with that said, I have to assume that it’s a lot easier to do this cleanse if you live alone – or if the person you live with is doing it too. James Bond was incredibly supportive, like always, but when he made garlic bread pizza for dinner on day 3, all I could do was sit in the corner with my bottle of beet juice and glare hatefully at the best smelling food in the history of the world, thinking that next time I do this cleanse I’m either going to have to bribe him to do it with me or run away to a secluded, roasted-garlic-free island where it’s 85 degrees and sunny and beet juice magically tastes like chocolate milk.

Speaking of convincing others to do the cleanse with me, the lovely health ninjas over at BluePrintCleanse have offered to let one of you try your very own three-day cleanse, absolutely free. That’s $195 worth of organic liquid-ey goodness. FOR FREE. Want in? Of course you do!

3-day Juice Cleanse Giveaway Rules – sponsored by BluePrintCleanse

- Commenting on this post gives you one entry
- Tweeting about this giveaway using both my Twitter handle, @nicoleisbetter, and @BPCleanse gets you one entry. (Only one tweet per person will be counted, so make it a kickass one!)
- The offer is valid everywhere in the US, except Alaska (Sorry, Alaskan cleanse fanatics!), and must be used prior to 1/31/13.
- The winner will be randomly selected on Tuesday 1.17 and announced right here at the bottom of this post, so make sure you check back to see if you’re the lucky juice-ee!

PS – While BluePrintCleanse is generously sponsoring this giveaway, they had no idea that I was doing their cleanse in the first place. I paid for the cleanse in full, did it myself, and then reached out to them about hooking one of you lovely dudes or dudettes up with your own cleanse, and they awesomely jumped on board. All of the opinions in this post are true and bullshit-free (like always, duh), and the best indicator of how I really feel about my experience is the fact that I’m signing on to do another cleanse at the end of this month and will become a regular customer after that, all on my own dime. So like, calm down, FTC.

{Update: Our lucky winner is @Catcoaches!}

Sometimes the internet makes me want to crawl into a sad cocoon and wallow in my self-doubt until nature does its thing and turns me into an absurdly creative/successful/wealthy/zen butterfly who also has stupidly sexy hair, the best-ever recipe for caramel apple donuts, and the secret to world peace.

REALISTIC GOALS, I HAZ THEM.

It’s not the internet’s fault, of course, but being two clicks away from All of The People doing All of The (Amazing) Things can go one of two ways. Either it’s a powerful motivator to launch your own amazing ideas, or it’s a war-ravaged dream killer. Nothing in between.

Lately, it’s been a dream killer. I’ve been doubting myself a lot, in pretty much every area of life that someone can doubt themselves (and even those you probably haven’t tried yet, unless you too have experienced the unusual sadness of not having pretty handwriting), and I’m honestly just exhausted from it all.

I’m exhausted from wishing I were better, prettier, faster, happier, more successful, more well-known, more relaxed, more passionate, more artistic, more everything. Because, let me tell you, feeling badly about yourself uses a lot of fucking energy. Living your life while constantly second guessing your life and reevaluating your life and picturing your life as someone else’s life takes so much stamina, I’m surprised I even have time left to bathe. Seriously though, how the eff do insanely successful people have time to eat and shower?!

The most frustrating part about feeling this way is that even as I’m submerged in the deepest of it, I know that it’s just a phase. It’s a phase, and it won’t last, which I know because I’ve been here plenty of times before, and it always passes. So, even though part of me is all, “WAAAHHHHH EVERYTHING IS TERRIBLE HORRIBLE NO GOOD VERY BAD. MUST MOVE TO AUSTRALIA,” another part of me is all, “Dude, you’re FINE. You’re going to feel better in like a fucking day. Chill out, and stop comparing your life to everyone else’s life.” Which, hi, THERAPY.

I have to believe, though, that feeling like this and getting sucked down the occasional dirty rabbit hole of extreme jealousy is just a natural part of being a human who lives in a world with other humans. I also think, annoyingly enough, that we feel this way when we’re tip-toeing around the edges of doing something scary. It’s almost a test of how serious we are about taking the leap from our comfortable, well-worn lives and flinging ourselves toward what’s next.

For me, what’s next is the upcoming food blog and the 100 Lunches Project, both of which I’m belligerently excited about, but with that kind of excitement comes a lot of fear. What if people don’t respond well? What if I’m in over my head? What if there’s always someone out there who’s doing exactly what I want to do – but better? What if, what if, what if.

At the heart of it all, I think these kinds of self doubt-ey feelings come down to one single question: What do you want to be known for? Because once you can answer that, you can bust out of your sad cocoon and charge ahead toward whatever that thing is without looking back.

In the meantime, though, I think the answer is that you have to be nice to yourself. No pressure, no expectations, just stop being such an asshole to yourself and things will instantly improve. It’s easy to do nice things for someone you love when they’re feeling down, but yet it’s so much harder to do the same for yourself. Why is that? Why do we always seem to be standing in our own way when we should really be our biggest personal cheerleaders?

I don’t know the answers, but I do know that you (yes, YOU!) should do something nice for yourself, and soon. Need a little coaxing? Here, why don’t we do this. You tell me what nice thing you’re going to do for yourself, and as part of free-shit-September, I’ll send one of you a $25 Visa giftcard with which to do it.

Side benefit: if everyone shares the nice things they’d like to do for themselves, we can all get some new self-love ideas for the next time we’re stuck in a sad cocoon. Less sad cocoon, more badass butterfly. NEW PLAN.

I think it’s about time for me to unsubscribe from all of the travel-related email newsletters I get each week. You know, the ones from Kayak and Orbitz where they’re all, “You can fly roundtrip to Europe for $268 each way!” but when you click over to the website to see which flights you can take for that price, there isn’t a simple list of flight options. Instead, you’re prompted to enter your chosen travel dates which, no matter how many different combinations of dates and times you try, always result in a flight that’s like twice the cost of whatever it said in the original newsletter.

Seriously, how is this a legitimate advertising model? Has anyone ever been able to book (or even find) a flight for the advertised price? I haven’t, and I don’t understand how this is okay. How can you send an email newsletter where the in-between-the-lines of it is basically all, “We have one remaining seat on one single flight from your city to Europe for $268 each way sometime in the next twelve months, but it’s hidden away in the depths of our website so you’ll probably never find it. Haha! Bye bye.”

Can you imagine if other companies did business like this? What if you went to Gap.com, saw a promotion for 50% off a certain style of sweater, stopped into the store to buy one, and found that they had hidden that entire line of sweaters. They’re not sold out, the girl who works there assures you, but she won’t help you find them. You just have to search and search and search and hope that you find one on your own while the salespeople stand around looking at you like, “Good luck, asshole.”

And yet, this is more or less how airline companies operate.

It’s not just airline companies that seem to operate by their own rules, though. Only with other industries, like graphic design and copywriting and similar creative services, it’s the clients who have raised the bar of what’s acceptable to new and absurd levels.

Have you seen ClientsFromHell.net? It’s a hilarious site where web design and development professionals post their most ridiculous interactions with clients. Shit where clients are all, “I know you created two different websites per my request, but I’ve decided that I only need one website so I’ll just pay for the one I’m actually going to use.”

How is this okay?! And sure, these situations might be few and far between, but they really do happen. Again, let’s look at the Gap. You can’t just walk into the store, pick up two sweaters that are $25 each, leave $25 on the counter, and walk out while explaining that even though you’re taking the second sweater home, you won’t actually be wearing it and therefore you aren’t going to pay for it. THAT’S NOT HOW SHIT WORKS.

Let me tell you how shit works. Person A gives money to Person B in exchange for something they want. THAT’S IT. Person A can easily find what Person B is advertising, the money and goods/services change hands, and that’s that. Person A goes home with their sweater/plane ticket/logo and Person B goes home with their cash. Or they go to the bar with their cash. Or they go to Hawaii with their cash. Or, if they’re smart, they go to Gap with their cash because that’s basically the only place where shit is straight forward enough to actually purchase.

Speaking of, would you like a free pair of Gap jeans? I have a coupon to give away that’s good for one in-store jeans purchase from Gap, GapKids, babyGap, or GapMaternity, and I’ll happily send it to one of you at the end of the week.

Full disclosure part 1: Gap provided the coupon for this giveaway because they’re awesome.

Full disclosure part 2: I don’t operate Kayak.com so the only thing you have to do to be eligible for the free pair of jeans is to comment on this post. I’m not going to make you crawl through a muddy underground tunnel in search of a free pair of jeans that might or might not be hidden on the other side. Although really, this method sounds a lot more hilarious which makes me think I’m finally starting to understand what the higher ups at Kayak do for fun all day.

Full disclosure part 3: A bunch of other fantastic companies have approached me about doing giveaways this month as well, so I’ve decided to officially make this “Free Shit September.” Each post this month will come with a giveaway, which basically means my blog will be acting as a drug mule between the awesome companies and the awesome people reading this.

Full disclosure part 4: I won’t be giving away any actual drugs. Sorry, man.

{Updated: Our winner is @Crystal11 from Straight On Till Morning!}

Over the past two weeks, I read the entire Harry Potter series for the first time. I’m now recovering from the severe eye strain caused by reading so many books so quickly – and in particular, from reading the 759 pages of the final book in just under 10 hours straight.

(Pro tip: 10 hours is too many hours to read without stopping unless your goal is to never be able to open your eyes again ever.)

For those of you who have long since finished the Harry Potter books: I know, I’m extremely late to this party. For those of you who haven’t read them yet: Ha, I win! But also, what are you waiting for?

You’re probably waiting because there are so many books, and some of them are so long, and it’s such a big commitment to read a series that’s guaranteed to be a giant time-suck. But I finger crossie promise you, it’s worth it.

If you’re like me, though, you aren’t so great with the moderation. This means that once you read the first sentence of the first book, you won’t have much of a life outside of Harry Potter until you finish the last sentence of the last book, because you’ll have to know what happens next and next and next. The upside of this is that Harry Potter makes your heart feel good. The downside is that you’ll quickly realize how boring your stupid ordinary life is, and you’ll be very sad when the books are over and no one around you is making cars fly or spontaneously morphing into a dog. See also: cooking dinner by bewitching knives to chop the ingredients, disappearing from one place and immediately appearing in another, regrowing broken bones, and fighting dragons. Nothing gives you street cred like fighting a fucking dragon.

In the hours after finishing the final book, I did a lot of crying – both about the overall emotional impact of the story and about the sadness of not having any more Harry Potter books to read.

(Yes, I’m very, very cool.)

I then proceeded to obsessively watch JK Rowling interviews online and cry even harder at the thought that she spent 17 years writing these books because a) how is it possible for someone to be that committed to anything? and b) how is it possible for someone to be that insanely talented??

Clearly, I have realistic aspirations and goals for my life if I’m overcome with crippling amounts of jealousy toward THE MOST SUCCESSFUL WRITER IN THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD.

I just, I can’t imagine what it would feel like to spend 17 full years working on something incredible enough to touch the lives and hearts of millions and millions of people. Not that my life’s work (or your life’s work) should be judged on a scale from one to JK Rowling, but the reality that there are people like her out there who can create something so astronomically stunning gives me a wicked case of the crazy eye.

And I guess that’s the takeaway for me in all of this; my experience of reading the Harry Potter books isn’t just about the passion and the whimsy and the fun of the story, it’s about being in awe of the person who created it. And really, it’s about being in awe of the creative process itself, and of the fact that we – each and every one of us – has the potential to create something that can change other people’s lives.

(Cue the uplifting and motivational soundtrack!)

Clearly I’m still having a lot of feelings about all of this, and I don’t really know what to do about it. The only thing I do know is that everyone should get the chance to experience the magical Harry Potter-ness for themselves, so I’m doing my part by giving away the complete series of books this week.

If you haven’t read the books and would like to win so you can commiserate with me over fantasy fiction induced eye pain and billionaire writer career envy, let me know in the comments. If you’ve already read the books and would like to win for someone else and do a double pay-it-forward, that’s totally okay too. I’ll pick a winner on Friday, and in the meantime I shall try very hard to resume a normal life in which I don’t randomly chant spells under my breath while feeling around the room for people covered in invisibility cloaks. Ahem.

{And the winner is… @KatharineS84!}

Today is my 26th birthday.

It’s also my dad’s birthday and my grandma’s birthday, because apparently the people in my family like to have a lot of sex in September. They also like to talk to me about how much sex I plan to be having in September of the year I decide to have a baby, and they’re all, “Wouldn’t it be SO GREAT to have four generations born on the same day?!”

My mom thinks we’d be able to get our family picture in the newspaper. My dad thinks I’d get to see what it feels like when your kid steals all of your birthday thunder and you totally get the shaft for like 18 years worth of birthdays. Neither of those sound like something I really want to be a part of, so whenever the time comes I’m proclaiming September the official legs-closed month.

Sorry, Future Husband!

This year though, in honor of all of you incredible people who help fill my life with glitter and magic, I’m giving away five mini gift bags of awesome. These gift bags are brought to you by Bloggers in Sin City, courtesy of some of the uber-generous sponsors (like Babeland, Sprayology, SKYY Vodka, Hair Flairs, and more!) who donated extra swag for bloggers who couldn’t make it to Vegas this year.

I’ll pick five winners from the comments later this week, and in the meantime I’m going to go get incredibly over-dressed and buy a giant cupcake.

Hooray!

{Update: gift bag winners are… Berrak, Kim, Crystal, Aimee, and Kerri!}

My vagina and I are in an enormous fight. The kind where you’re too angry to yell and scream, so you just give each other the silent treatment for three days until one of you breaks down like a little bitch and apologizes.

Yeah, that kind.

It all started last month when my Fairy Vagina Parents over at Babeland sent me the new OhMiBod Better Than Chocolate to experiment with. When it arrived I was all, “Clearly I’ve reached a new level of high-tech-ness now that I own a vibrator that hooks into my iPod and masturbates me to the beat.”

(Spoiler alert: Susan B. Anthony is totally somersaulting across her grave in excitement right now over how much progress our generation has made in empowering women.)

Can you imagine, though? Women weren’t allowed to fucking vote 91 years ago, and now we can freely purchase vibrators that allow us to wirelessly DJ our own orgasms.

I’m pretty sure that’s as good as it gets.

Except for the fact that in addition to making you a high-tech and empowered goddess woman, the OhMiBod also promotes multiculturalism by including translations of its instructions into an absurd amount of languages, meaning that not only will you wind up completely satisfied (you know, satisfied), you’ll also find comfort in knowing that if you’re ever in Germany with a gun to your head being asked to properly translate the phrase “Privacy Pouch,” you’ll be able to get out alive by having learned from the OhMiBod that in German, “Privacy Pouch” is “Aufbewahrungsbeutel.”

I couldn’t make this shit up. Except wait, watch this:

Slkdjdskgjf

That’s basically the same thing, right?

Just kidding German people, come back! I totally respect the fact that your language looks like angry keypunching and I promise that you have the same shot as everyone else at winning one of these orgasm music machines in the comments section of this post.

I should warn you though – not “you” the Germans, but the general “you,” (God this is spiraling out of control pretty quickly) – that there’s something you need to be prepared for in order to use this toy. You need to be prepared for your vagina to DESERT you and your good musical taste by getting more excited when a song by Ke$sha comes on than anything else.

KE$HA.

KE$HA!!

I’m sorry vagina, but no, that’s just unacceptable behavior right there. Are you listening to me?? WE DON’T GET TURNED ON BY KE$HA. We don’t find it arousing that she has chosen to use a fucking dollar sign in the middle of her name. Or at least, I don’t, but apparently my vagina does?

What a traitor.

So yeah, my vagina is on time out until it can learn that John Mayer > Ke$ha. This time out means that I haven’t even used all the features of my new toy, like the the fact that it’s, wait for it, Skype-compatible, letting you get off to the sound and rhythm of someone else’s voice via the computer.

High fives for sexy long distance relationships! With Germans! I seriously don’t think dead women’s rights activists could be more proud.

PS – Is it weird that in the 709 words I’ve used in a sex toy review post, 38 of them have been to make reference to dead feminists?

PPS- Did you know that in spite of what I thought before looking it up online, Gloria Steinem is actually still alive and therefore cannot be counted as one of the dead feminists I was referring to up there, even though she was initially the first person I thought of when getting ready to list dead feminists?

PPPS – Change that dead feminist word count to 94.

PPPPS – I guess that means that Gloria Steinem is technically eligible to comment for a chance to win an OhMiBod

PPPPPS- Babeland is having a sale from now through February 11 in which you can get up to $30 off your order, plus free shipping and delivery in time for Valentine’s Day so you can either a) spice up your sex life or b) masturbate until you forget that you don’t have a sex life. See? Babeland’s got you covered either way.

PPPPPPS- Oh, I’m finished, I just wanted to see what it would like like with just one more P.

{Update: our winner is comment number 63, Formica Dinette!}

If you don’t masturbate and have never seen an episode of The Jetsons, this post probably isn’t for you.

Actually, if you don’t masturbate and have never seen an episode of The Jetsons, I’m not entirely sure what you’re doing with your life. Really. Go rub one out and find that shit on Netflix. But not at the same time. Well, maybe at the same time. Give me a second, you’ll see.

A few weeks ago, my Fairy Vagina Parents (read: Babeland) asked if I’d like to try one of their new Toyfriend vibrators. At first I was all, “Is it possible for one girl to have too many vibrators?” But that thought only lasted a few seconds as I clicked the link, looked at this new collection of toys, and realized that I was being offered the chance to orgasm to something that could totally have been on The Jetsons.

Dude, remember The Jetsons? George and his 9 hour “full time” work week, Jane and her fashion obsession, Judy and her digital diary, Elroy and his expertise in space science. And the dog! And the robot maid! And something about cogs!

Seriously though, look at those vibrators and tell me that Jane wasn’t using them to get herself off while George was repeatedly being fired and unfired from Spacely Space Sprockets. She so was.

When it came time for me to pick which of the four toys I wanted, I couldn’t decide. Black rabbit ears? Pink bubble antenna? Yellow space creature? Blue satellite!? I realized that no matter which one I picked, however, I’d now be thinking about The Jetsons the entire time I used it and would therefore qualify as either extremely fucked up or overwhelmingly awesome on the sexual fetish scale. Or both. Hopefully both. After reading more about the toys, I learned that they’re 100% waterproof, which is when I told myself to just pick one already because there are much worse things in the world than enjoying a futuristic orgasm in the bathtub while wondering if George Jetson’s carpet matches his drapes.

Yes, this is the type of stuff I think about.

I settled on the pink bubble antenna one, hoping it didn’t double as some kind of uber powerful laser because really, that’s just too dangerous of a two-for-one product, even for the future. Luckily, it arrived laser-free and ready to be tested and while the second of the two speeds was too intense for me, the overall feel of the toy and its shape and thickness were fantastic. Also, so colorful! Also, I get to masturbate like Judy Jetson! Except for the fact that she was only 16. Wait, I *totally* masturbated when I was 16. Never mind. Way to go Judy!

(Did I just virtually high five a fictitious teenager from the year 2362 about her sexual behavior? This is so not what Hanna-Barbera originally intended.)

Anyway, to recap: the future of sexy time looks pretty damn good, Judy Jetson was probably a whore, and you now have the chance to win your choice of one of these laser-free but totally satellite-like vibrators, Jetsons theme song not included.

Just kidding, here’s a link to The Jetsons theme song. Extra points to anyone who listens to this during orgasm and then manages to get it out of their head afterward. Double extra points to anyone who can teach my car to turn into a briefcase like George’s so that I never have to learn to parallel park. Triple extra points to anyone who wants to help me Google “Jetsons porn” after this so I can publish the results and ensure that this blog is blocked from all places of employment for the rest of time.

{Update: the random number generator picked comment #43. Happy futuristic orgasms to Jessica!}

I’m not sure what the moral of this story is, but I’m almost positive that it has something to do with the fact that I’m probably as narcissistic as Tommy Hilfiger and therefore I need to get my own headshots taken.

It all started on Facebook. Jamie comes into the kitchen last night and she’s all, “Third Eye Blind is doing a random middle of the day concert in Union Square tomorrow!!” I look at her and I’m like, “I love Third Eye Blind!” and she’s all, “Same!” and I’m like, “Wait, Third Eye Blind is still together?” and she’s all, “Um, YES” and I’m like, “Huh” and she’s all, “And they’re giving away ten pairs of tickets on Facebook!” and I’m like, “Cool?”

And then she actually won.

We took the bus over there this afternoon, no idea what we were getting into, and then all of the sudden we learned that it’s not just a Third Eye Blind concert, it’s a collaborative event with Macy’s that’s being co-hosted by Tommy Hilfiger. Oh, and by the by, we were VIPs and would we like to come over here and wait in this line to meet the band? YES WE’D LIKE TO MEET THE BAND.

God, in another life I would have been a phenomenal groupie slut.

Waiting in line, we kept looking at each other and marveling at the overwhelming randomness of the day. “Remember when you won tickets to a Third Eye Blind concert on Facebook and now we’re waiting in a line on the third floor of Macy’s to meet them? What is our life?”

A little while later, the band came out to meet us and autograph CDs. You know who else came out? Tommy Hilfiger. And do you know what he did? He sat there, next to the band, and signed glossy 8 x 10 headshots. OF HIMSELF. Now listen, I get why certain people have headshots taken. If you’re an actor or a model or anything in this general category, it makes total sense. But Tommy Hilfiger? What the actual fuck is anyone going to do with an autographed headshot of Tommy Hilfiger?

Going through the line, Jamie and I were hysterical. Finally, we got up to the table where the five of them were sitting and we’re getting our CD signed and Jamie’s shaking hands with Stephan Jenkins and I’m telling him that this is the most random day of my life and he looks up at me and goes, “Everyday should be totally random” and I’m all, NEW LIFE MOTTO. Also, did you know that even while awkwardly wearing sunglasses inside, Stephan Jenkins is hot? Like, hot. Do you know who else was hot? The models standing around in Tommy Hilfiger clothes during the entire event that were silently all, “Look how pretty and all-American we are. Oh this football? We’re just going to toss it around in front of the cameras for a bit. Take a look at our blazers, we’re very sophisticated. We could be Yale students. Very rich Yale students named Brandon something something the third with little black books and not-so-quiet coke habits.”

Those kinds of models.

Apparently, the entire concert was to introduce some kind of partnership between Tommy (what’s up first name basis!) and Third Eye Blind. Some poverty initiative. I think? With models? Fuck, I’m a terrible listener when there are hot models and musicians around.

The concert was great though, except now Jamie and I each have an autographed copy of Ursa Major and an autographed photo of Tommy Hilfiger and really, we don’t need these things. Does anyone need these things? I don’t know, but I’m giving them away. Please tell me that someone out there wants to receive these two items in the mail. Or that two someones want to receive these two items in the mail, since Jamie and I are both giving our autographed shit away. I also have a few kaleidoscopes* laying around if you want those too. Well, the kaleidoscopes aren’t technically mine, but they’ve been laying around James Bond’s apartment for long enough that I’ve decided he doesn’t want them. Don’t worry, I checked the fine print of the blogosphere and it states that if you’re dating a blogger and you leave items unattended in your apartment for too long, they’ll be packed up with a Tommy Hilfiger headshot and given away on the internet. True story.

*Holy shit, I spelled kaleidoscopes right on the first try. I win at life.

[Prize winner update: Arielle! And Lynsey!]

As part of my ever-growing collection of sex toys, I’m proud to announce that I now own one that looks like a bunny. Well, not an actual bunny. Not like with a cute little bunny face. I wouldn’t touch myself with a cute little bunny face. Or an ugly little bunny face. Or any little bunny face.

Shit, this is off to a horrible start.

A few months ago, Jamie and I went on a tour of the Babeland warehouse for no other reason than the fact that if someone asks if you’d like to tour their warehouse full of sex toys, you say yes.

(That’s piece of advice number one.)

Our favorite part of the tour was the library, or more accurately “The Room Where Every Sex Toy You’ve Ever Imagined Is Displayed To Look At And Play With But No Not Like That You Weirdo It’s A Warehouse Not A Brothel.”

It was in this library (or “TRWESTYEIIDTLAAPWBNNLTYWIAWNAB”) that I first learned about Jimmyjane, a premium sex toy company that I somehow hadn’t heard about in my years of superior vaginaness. I saw their shelf of gorgeous toys and was all, “Ooo” and the Babeland girl was like, “I know right?!” and I was all, “Wait, what the fuck is that?” and she was like, “That’s the Form 2” and I was all, “It looks like bunny ears” and she’s like “It’s one of my favorite toys, would you like one?”

(Piece of advice number two: when a woman who works at a sex toy warehouse asks if you’d like one of her absolute favorite toys, you nod quickly and do a little vagina dance.)

Back at home, I realized why it’s her favorite. The bunny ears sit on either side of everything you want vibrated and the five different modes actually do all feel completely different. Also, it’s waterproof. Also, the ears are flexible. Also, it runs for 7+ hours on a full charge. Also, the manual offers a variety of helpful tips such as, “Do not use on unexplained calf pain” and “Close supervision is necessary when this product is used by, on, or near children, invalids, or disabled persons.”

Which is to say, please comment for a chance to win one of these orgasm ears for yourself, but maybe don’t enter if you routinely masturbate by, on, or near children. Or if you plan to rub your new toy up against your unexplained calf pain.

Although if you have unexplained calf pain that’s bad enough that your last resort is to try to masturbate it, you should probably see a doctor. And if you do the thing with the children and the invalids, you should probably see someone else entirely. And if you want to double your chances for orgasmic goodness while sitting in open-mouthed disbelief at a product you never ever thought would actually exist, you should probably check out this other giveaway for a $2,750 vibrator. Yes, for real. Yes, it’s 24k gold, has 28 diamonds in it, and costs $2,750.

And like, on one hand there are people in the world with no clean water and I can’t believe I’m fantasizing about using a vibrator that costs more than my monthly rent, car payment, utilities, and student loans put together, but on the other hand CAN YOU IMAGINE GETTING OFF TO AN ALMOST THREE THOUSAND DOLLAR VIBRATOR? I seriously can’t think of anything more expensive that I’d like to put in my vagina so if you win and I don’t I’ll obviously pretend to be happy for you, but my clit is going to be pretty fucking angry.

And now an ending filled with adorable bunnies:

{Update: the random integer generator picked comment #51. Happy bunny orgasms to Sarah!}