The post-holiday, post-vacation vacation bliss is gone, and I'm suffering the withdrawal.

I've been pretty grumpy lately. I have that new-year-haven't-done-anything-new-yet, out-of-the-scene-for-too-long, don't-know-how-to-dress, don't-know-how-to-look-good-anymore, I'm too-old-for-this, i'm-losing-it, what-am-i-doing-with-my-life, time-is-ticking, not-sure-why-I'm-sad feeling.

I think a cool party would do me some good.

Guys and stuffed animals. Do they click?

While I believe stuffed animals like us all equally (before being mistreated, ignored, or maliciously damaged), I've wondered how the male majority feels about stuffed animals... whether it's common or not for men to have the capacity to feel the same way about them as (some) women (such as I) do... you know... see the darned cute thing, feel warm on the inside, want to pick it up and hold it close, squeeze, animate it, say awwwww...

The last couple of boyfriends I've had seemed to have or to gain that capacity during the relationship. But how common is that among secure guys over the age of 4?

So I took a quick, unscientific poll. Out of the 9 guys I polled over IM, only 3 of them seemed able to be moved enough by the cuteness of stuffed animals to want to interact with them. Of the guys that said that stuffed animals do nothing for them, all 6 said they find real live animals cuddly and lovable, and they have the capacity to get attached to them.

And there you have it. A poll that tells you nothing, and nothing you didn't already know.

I think I'd be a little disappointed if my man wasn't able to appreciate and adore stuffed animals along with me. I've always been a bit suspicious of people who aren't able to open up their hearts to soft, adorable, plush creatures of fluff and pellets...

Babe and I tried Pilates at home this week. No DVD or video. Book. Tried to learn the first two exercises of the "introductory program": the Hundred and the Rolldown. After the first exercise, I felt inadequate.

Those exercises are damn hard to do! Probably need to get a DVD to make sure we're doing them right. Have you tried Pilates? Had positive results?

I need and want more female coworkers. Need more female friends too. Need more female presence in my life.

It'd be comforting to be surrounded daily by those who truly understand the oppressions, difficulties, and frustrations of PMS and of living in a man's world where beauty, youth, and sex appeal are necessary for survival. I'm aware that I'm fighting a losing battle... whenever I turn on the TV and watch my favorite shows, whenever a lingerie catalog comes in the mail, whenever I'm in the checkout line at the grocery store and pass by all the magazine covers graced with staved, nearly-naked girls with big boobs, spray-on flawlessness, and lots of money...

I need women to weep with.

I've done, felt, and thought much in the past month.

I started a couple posts about it all... The more time passes, the less I feel like finishing them. Are these things I've done, felt, and thought fated to become lost memories due to my impending failure to document them here?

I feel as if I'm largely responsible for what I will and won't remember in the future... which is largely influenced by what I manage to write about and what I don't. That places too much onus on me to blog and keep on blogging. Too much pressure and I lose desire. Once again, blogging has lost its charm.

I hope to take a lot more pictures this year, and listen to more music... hoping to preserve many more of my memories in those mediums instead of here.

We left for Vegas on Thursday night. I watched some friends play Texas hold 'em at Excalibur. I wanted to play, but felt cold and tired and chickened out. I played for the first time in a casino on Friday night. Kept almost falling asleep 'cuz it was so early in the morning, didn't get any good hands, was down $17 when I left, but liked playing and would do more next time.

On Friday, during the day, we attended CES. In 5 hours, managed to see less than half of what was there. I'm not in the market for a 60" plasma TV or a PDA phone or any other electronicky-gadgety thing right now, so I wasn't that excited by what I saw. I mean, the stuff was interesting, but was like Prada purses and Manolo Blahnik shoes to me. Not enough nice for price.

There were a lot of men at CES. Back at on the strip, there were a lot of men too. Our group itself had a 4:1 ratio of men to women. Too many men. Men, men, men, men. It was a very MEN weekend. They were all over the everything that was going on. Like a swarm of ants. Disturbing. It bothered me a little for the first 2 days, then I accepted it and got on with my life. Life will always be full of many men and men-related things... That's just how it is.

Saturday, we didn't wake up until around 1 or so, so our group decided not to go to the porn convention. I wanted to check it out. I feel like I missed out. We had Babe's birthday dinner at Sir Galahad's at Excalibur. The prime rib there was just ok. It lacked the amount of flavor I was expecting. I've had better at Black Angus. I find it funny how, after the mad cow scare, I've actually been eating a lot more beef.

We went to Risqué at Paris afterwards. There, I had the two worst tasting drinks that I've had since a long time ago. I was burnt, cringing, and gagging on each sip, but wouldn't stop at one drink, and wouldn't put a glass down with drink still in it. Shortly after finishing I got sudden chills and felt like I was about to faint. I was at the bathroom for about 4 or 5 songs and left renewed by way of defecating, not by way of chundering. (I learned the word chundering from my coworker, Doug, last week. He also taught me "technicolor yawn", which I like.)

We headed over to OG around 3am. All weekend, I had inner conflict regarding strip clubs... whether or not I should like them, like going to them with my friends, like going with my boyfriend, like my boyfriend going with or without me. In the past, I'd had positive experiences in strip clubs. I dare say I liked them. I'd found nothing morally or ethically wrong with them. I regarded them as fair businesses employing respectable women, who are likely more empowered by what they do than I am by what I do for my money. And I'd gone with friends and boyfriends, and who I went with was never a problem for me.

But after a year of trying to find some overdue love for my gender, and trying to become a little more typical-woman-ly, I now question my endorsement of strip clubs and other things involving female nakedness as salacious entertainment for men. Other women I know have don't particularly like strip clubs. So I've been thinking, maybe they've got a better perspective, and I should feel offended rather than intrigued. I've started to wonder... how could a self-respecting, gender-respecting, wholesome-relationship-respecting woman justify going to or encouraging guys, including her boyfriend, to go to strip clubs?

On the one hand, I'm drawn to the scene. Lap dances from warm-bodied women with soft skin are great, even just for the close personal attention, without the gyrating and the nakedness. It's the attention that does it for me. In the absence of negative consequences and anything better to do, I suppose I would willingly go to strip clubs. On the other hand, supporting the business is akin to condoning or accepting the attitudes of a lot of the men that patronize such places... which is NOT a woman-respecting attitude. I had an overdose of that attitude this weekend.

I did quite a bit of thinking to figure out exactly how I feel, and to determine what I should do about it. After drilling down to the core, I figured out that it's basically this... In and of itself, I like female nakedness and female attention. It has the potential to turn me on, but does so less frequently than it does any man. I'm bitter that I'm not as easily aroused by hot, naked men as he and other men are by hot, naked women. And I'm jealous that it's so easy for men to access what turns them on. They can just pick up a men's magazine and get their hardons. What would I have to do to get wet? Perhaps make out with other women. Get tactile. But I won't because I know my boyfriend wouldn't like it. He's got good reasons for not liking it. He knows me well, and he's the best there is. But it's not fair that I can't/don't get my little thrills elsewhere, and he can/does.

SO. After much deliberation, the answer I've come up with to "strip clubs: how to deal, how to feel?" is (you're gonna love this one)...

BECOME a stripper.

That's the sweet and simple answer that will let me have my cake and eat it too. You can have my cake and eat it too. Cake all around! Every woman's self-respect to herself! Let the exotic dancing begin! (I'm serious. I'd like to take classes. I need to find time.)

On the side, I discovered how awkward it can be to see certain of my friends get lap dances, especially when they're allowed to touch the strippers. My mind had already imagined it at some point, but seeing it live is a whole 'nother thing. Being so close to the action, seeing how they do their thing, I felt like I was having sex with them! I figure, I'd never see those expressions on their faces, or see those movements they're making, unless I was actually in the act w/ them. Horrors.

Also, I learned, the quality of strippers takes a rapid plunge during the wee hours of the morning... like, between 3 and 5am. I imagine that prime time is between 8pm and 1am. So if a woman you know who is an exotic dancer ever tells you she's got a regular 4am shift at PussysRUs, don't be getting so curious about what she's got under her clothes. You're better off getting your girlfriend to trip down to her panties and sit on you.

On Sunday, we woke up super late again. Tried to eat at ESPN Zone for lunch, but it was closed for a private event. Eating at a cafe in MGM was basically the last thing we did before boarding the plane back here.

Boob-talk-overload and all, it was a good weekend. The last of the long weekends for awhile. I'll try to hold on to the afterglow.

New Year's Eve. Frankie, Johnnie, & Luigi Too. Three friends we don't see that often anymore. Forced conversation. Shaky after-dinner plans with our poker friends, who we ditched at the last minute to go drink it up with our dinner buds. A little bit of guilt. Blue Chalk drinks. No more guilt. Just the right amount of alcohol for a super duper buzz. Indian women for the Indian guy. Laughter and easy conversation. A demontration by the bright red guy of the donkey punch, which turns out not to be a drink they serve at Blue Chalk. A really big dog outside of Nola. Unexpected boobie groping by the drunk guy. Fast-talking and confusion. Benches and bricks. The crazy white guy who called himself a minister of the church of the sub-genius. Drunk guy's vomit.