This ain’t my first time at the rodeo.

Mom: “Hey, you want to see something really funny? There’s a show on right now on channel 41, it’s so funny!”
Me: Ok, sure. What show is it?
Mom: Intervention

Thank you to the kind folks at okcupid.com who have provided me with the following glimmer of hope after completing a survey they offer.

So there you have it. If you live in Alaska or Slovakia, please send me an eMail. I’ll be waiting at the airport terminal with the disgusted look on my face, clearly not dressed for cold weather.

I read an article from Mail Online and was quite disturbed by their “findings.” According to them, the desirable amount of time was surveyed to be between seven and thirteen minutes. What? I hope you share my confusion and disbelief.

I’m calling for a complete recount and I want to conduct it. Not really, I’m far too busy but still. Who are these people? My guess is that they’ve been having lousy sexy time for far too long.

Couples who think they’re not measuring up because so many celebrities boast about sex sessions that last all night can take some comfort.

Contrary to popular fantasy about the need for hours of passionate activity, sex therapists say around ten minutes is perfectly satisfactory.

In fact, shows such as Sex And The City and Desperate Housewives have created unrealistic expectations of bedroom performance that can only lead to disappointment.

Now, I’m no way trying to toot my own horn, but toot toot! Ten minutes? I’m sorry, I require much more than that. When I’m having sexy time I have a goal in mind, and that goal is a good time. A really good time. Ten minutes is barely enough to remember a person’s name or wonder if you have enough cash to pay them afterward. Maybe I’m I romanticize it more than most, but I’m more partial to forty-five minutes to an hour, if not more. There are things that need to be done.

I’m going to find comfort in the fact that the article was based on a survey in the UK, and not to perpetuate a stereotype but they aren’t known for being the best lovers, I’m just saying.

I’ll be the first to admit it, I am horrible with names. I’m not opposed to the use of name tags solely for my benefit, but until I can launch that movement, I’ll have to continue my tradition of giving everyone a nickname–something I learned from my family, but more on that later. I do, however, take issue when people don’t remember, or mispronounce, my name. Selfish with a twinge of a double standard? You bet your ass it is.

As long as I can remember I’ve been giving monikers to people based on their choice of outfit, behavior, or characteristic. We all do it, you know who you are. On the playground there was Cool Hand Luke, the best handball player in our Catholic school. Granted, none of my peers knew what the hell I was talking about because they had never seen Cool Hand Luke, and they certainly didn’t know what the hell the “egg scene” was all about. But that’s their loss. We also were in the company of Sister Mary Bitch, which needs no further explanation. The kids thought I was a riot, as I was and still am. Needless to say, I didn’t fare too well in Catholic school, but at least I left an impression.

As I aged, gracefully I might add, I continued to rename people left and right. I finally realized that this was not something everyone does, but my family has always been doing it. “You mean your parents didn’t call people The Slut or Crazy Pussy? You’re missing out then.” To this day my mom and gram have renamed everyone in their apartment complex. Here they are, translated from Spanish where appropriate, in no particular order: Jennifer Lopez, Cow Tits, The Blacks, Sad Ass Cheeks, Erectile Dysfunction, The Bicyclist, The Midgets, The Gardener, and Putita (Little Whore). Mind you, no one is spared, men, women, children, or entire families. It’s become so commonplace that I don’t think anything of it, but I suppose I can see where some people would take offense.

In my own adult life, my friends and I have followed suit. We meet a lot of people all the time. We consider ourselves part-time socialites. Part time because we have real jobs, and real things to talk about. When people actually approach us, which is something of a rarity because we’ve been told we seem intimidating (we’re not intimidating, we’re just right), we are gracious, entertaining, and an all around good time. But this is where the formalities end, because for the life of me, or us, the minute they walk away their real name is gone and the nickname is born. It’s a subtle art, really. We have to analyze them, both on what they say and how they act. Heaven help you if you have a character flaw, visible or not, because that usually rises to the top of the list. If you have a hair lip, you might want to stay away.

In our many adventures over the years we’ve met some lovely people, and in turn they have given us some wonderful names by which to call them. Now, I must offer up that not everyone, few really, know that they have a nickname. And, we really don’t know what their real names are, but that doesn’t really matter.

Again, in no particular order, I’d like to introduce you to our friends:

• Charlotte, who hails from North Carolina, and he’s a dream boat
• The Cuban (I and II), because we’re Cuban already, it’s always easier to go with nationality in this case
• Chauncy, not a stretch from his real name, but it’s more fun, for me, to call him Chauncy–like a driver
• Jonathan Curly, he has curly hair (although I’m pretty sure he flat irons his private areas)
• Flock of Seagulls, this is what you get for trying to pull off that hairdo in today’s day and age
• Greasy and Glassy Eyed, because when you look like you’ve been partying for 72 hours straight, and it’s noon, you deserve it
• Gay-but-not-Gay, sister who are you fooling?
• Seabiscuit, for those that look like they won the Kentucky Derby, sans the fun hats
• Baby-T (male), because we all have our body issues, but you can’t wear shirts that fit when you were 12 at your age, or weight
• Maude, this is no way disrespectful, I just love your long house coats
• Stubble, it belongs on your face, not your shoulders
• Miss Saigon, you sing one fateful showtune at karaoke and you’re branded for life
• The Lesbian (male), you may not be Justin Bieber, but you look like his sister
• Mason Dixon, because you’ve crossed that line
• The Pwoto Wican, we get it, you’re Puerto Rican, your votes also don’t matter
• Fievel (from An American Tale fame), because they’re cute when they’re small!
• Caca Breath, no explanation needed, but have a mint…or five

I could go on, as you can probably tell, but I think you get the picture.

So next time you see me out, or meet me for the first time, know that you’re in my heart but under a different name.