Introductions & Such
Friday, JULY 17, 2009 - 9:00am
Hi everyone or no one, or whoever is out there. Call me Danna. I live in Schenectady, New York via Greece. That’s where my parents are from. I’m a first generation American, which is weird because aside from the culture immersion of church, food, dancing, travel and dating a Greek guy, I’m perfectly American. I have a New York state accent - nothing strange about that, because I don’t think it’s an accent at all. I sound just like broadcast journalists and movie stars. Some say I write exactly the way I talk, that they can almost hear me when they read my emails and thank you notes, and other correspondence. So this is me.
I barely speak Greek, but I can - only when I have to like when my foreign relatives come to visit or when Zeus and I take vacations to the islands. Zeus Zepkos is my fiancé. We are childhood sweethearts. I love him very much. How could I not? He’s my soul mate, after all. That’s what everybody says.
You’re probably wondering what I’m doing here. I thought this would be easier than writing in a diary that my mom could infiltrate, the way she had with that little cherry leather one I’d kept during eighth grade where I had divulged the spring fling kissing and stuff that happened between Zeus and me. That was when she had given me the stern virgin talk. I vowed never to disclose information like that again in such a careless manner. But I do like to write – and this way, blogging on the internet, is much better. No one important will read it (no offense) and I can do it anywhere, like at work at the travel agency, when there’s no one in the office. Cyberspace is actually the greatest hiding place of them all, isn’t it?
I’m positive that no one will find me here in plain sight, because everyone that matters has sworn an aversion to the computer. To them, it’s like an evil entity, a malevolent mythological titan or something. So what if they find me? That’s an easy fix. I’ll just say that I’d been hacked, my identity stolen. It happens, like that time someone stole my purse out of the grocery cart at Price Chopper. Zeus believes everything I tell him. It won’t jeopardize our relationship.
I’m honest, except for when I try to hide clothing purchases I make on our joint credit cards. Other than that, Zeus and I have the greatest relationship in the world. We share nearly everything. I mean, I don’t ask about his business trips, because I don’t really understand all that bridge design talk anyhow. Boring! Naturally, he only half listens when I spout off travel agency gossip or anything to do with 2012 doomsday travel plans unless the conversation is to do with our honeymoon or something. Then he listens with both ears.
I got the idea for this blog from that one about Julia Child and all that French cooking. Really – I thought at the time - women like to cook? No Greek woman with a father in the restaurant business bothers with that. The kitchen in my apartment has brand new stainless appliances and these warm sandy colored granite countertops. It’s merely decorative - I don’t actually use it. It’s more like set decoration for when Zeus and I play our Spank the French Maid game. I wriggle around on the counter in a crocheted hostess apron while he pretends to punish my naked booty-boot for not passing the white glove test.
I only ever go grocery shopping for microwaveables, like popcorn or blowjob practice foods like bananas and ice cream fudgies. That purse snatch happened when I got a nipsey-russell stuck in the ice cream freezer. I guess my top was a little low cut and my tit-tat’s little salmon pink face peeked out, latching onto the cold wall like an anteater’s nose searching for its next meal. It was so embarrassing that I had to put myself into a self-imposed exile from food shopping altogether for a while. I would still be shuddering at the thought of a shopping cart, if it hadn’t been for that time Zeus brought one home and used it to cage me like a wild animal. Good times.
I don’t really clean either, obviously. I never actually learned how thanks to a mother and live-in grandmother who considered it grown up work. I’d play with my dolls in my room on a Saturday morning while simultaneously watching cartoons and they would sort of clean around me – fix my bed with me on it sort of thing. When I got older, my room was always tidy by the time I got home from cheerleading practice so that I could concentrate on phone sex with Zeus.
Thankfully, my future in-laws own a cleaning business. They send a lady named Petra over every other Saturday to dust and vacuum my apartment. She even does the window blinds and that nebula that is the back of the toilet bowl. Should I even be telling you this? Does it make me sound lazy? I do need to save my energy for sex, mind you, because I have a lot of it, but I know. I’m one lucky girl who will never cook or clean. That or I’m living in Fantasyland, I’m not sure which – Zeus does tend to raise an eyebrow or two on occasion when I don’t lick the big kazoo clean after an exceptionally long round of bobbing for balls and pricker. One of these days, I’ll probably have to learn to be a better cleaner upper, like when we have kids.
I can’t think that far ahead though, because my head is currently consumed by this dream inspired mission. I love the idea of following in my celebrity idol’s footsteps. It just makes perfect sense, it really does. I will channel Madonna, her sex life to be exact, just like I did in the vision. It wasn’t just a dream. I think it was one of those message in an omen thingys that you have to listen to and if you don’t – well I always listen because I don’t like consequences, and consequently, I’ve been very lucky in life because of it.
Zeus is in Japan on business. He works for a big engineering firm – Tungsten & Smith. He left Monday morning and will be away for the next six and a half weeks. No more fucky-wuck until the wedding – for him at least. I’ve decided to use this time to form and execute a plan to replicate sex acts with partners who parallel the significant men in Madonna’s life.
I’ll blog each week to share with you strangers every lurid detail of what I hope will be an educational summer. I need this. I don’t have a choice. I’m only twenty-three and I’m getting married at the end of August. Sunday, August 30th, 2009 at 2:00pm, to be exact.
Mom seems to think that marriage is the beginning of my life, but come on! Everyone knows it spells the end, doesn’t it? The beginning of the end. I’ll get…comfortable - fat just like all of my Greek girlfriends from church. I’ll end up preggy-preggers right away, like my sister-in-law, Penelope, and have an ungrateful baby. And if it’s a boy (and it better be according to my in-laws) he’ll get spoiled and turn into every other misogynist Greek man on the planet Earth. I’ll be too busy raising him to make fucky anymore.
On the other hand, maybe not. I shouldn’t worry, should I? Mom’s not that fat and has kids – me and my two brothers, Demetrios and Dean. And Madonna has a son. A daughter, and a son, and a little Malawiian too, and she still gets it on with all sorts of lovers. She really has it all, doesn’t she?
I want to learn from Madonna, to learn to be a better person, you know, a humanitarian and such. But most of all, I want to learn to be a better fucker. It’s the greatest wedding gift I could give Zeus. I just love him so much. He deserves a woman with experience who will blow his fucking mind every time we do the cuntessa-kazoo.
I love Madonna too – I mean not sexually, not really. More like a mentor, I guess. She’s much more open about stuff than Mom. She puts herself out there, which is a vulnerable thing to do, but she’s such a strong person, and she’s just so talented!
I know all the words to all of her songs. I love to sing, by the way. In elementary school, my music teacher, Miss Lanu, had said I had perfect pitch. In the ninth grade talent show, I sang Music, which I’d memorized after hearing it on Napster. People actually thought I’d made it up because it hadn’t been legitimately released! I choreographed a dance to it too – not so cowgirlish. Madonna would have been proud. I didn’t win the contest, because it had been rigged for the principal’s daughter to win, apparently. That’s what my mother had said at the time, and I believed her.
Madonna and I have loads in common besides music. We could be best friends in real life if we met at, say, the mall or something. Okay, so I’m not Italian, but my old country is only a back-two-three and a toe-ball-change from hers. I have brown hair that I sometimes have highlighted to look a little bit blonde (Madonna is a brunette as you all know), and I can make my brown eyes blue - when I wear my colored contacts (usually only reserved for exotic fun night with Zeus).
We’re the same height, and I would say about the same size, give or take a few pounds. I don’t exercise nearly as much as she does, but I do go jogging on occasion. Because of the upcoming nuptials, I’m on this regimen of climbing the bleachers at the high school track every morning before work, bar bad weather. And I pretend to do yoga during sex (ha, ha). I am a lot younger than she is, after all, so I don’t have to work as hard as she does to maintain my figure. Madonna didn’t get into all that training until she was in her thirties anyhow so I have time to kill before I inflict that discipline on myself.
I love having sex in every hole and crevice, and I’m pretty sure Madonna does too. I don’t really know anyone like her in that respect. Madonna’s whole persona is built around breaking boundaries of what is acceptable behavior for women in society. People actually devote college classes to her historical significance. She’s amazing!
Oh, and the coolest thing that unites us is our names. My full name is Dannika Rose Elinopoulous. They call me Danna. Everyone does. Get it? It’s kind of like Donna, and that’s pretty close to Madonna, isn’t it?
We could practically be twins.