It is still unbelievable to me that there were
410 kids in that one compound in Texas with 12 year old girls married
to 60 year old men, it’s like a Woody Allen convention with out
the Korean girls.
Springtime in the Upper West Side of New York City is a happy and desperate
time of year. All these yuppie women are hoped up on fertility drugs and
it’s like the NFL Draft season in the neighborhood.
They are pushing their TRIPLE seated strollers
down the sidewalk pushing everyone out of the way to get to that fancy
organic store called Whole Paycheck.
Some of those strollers are pimped out and cost over $2,000. That is
more than my last used car I had in San Francisco. All the parents that
failed at their own hopes and dreams are putting all their money into their
babies as their last chance.
When I look at some of these Botox faces of women
pushing their strollers in Central Park, it reminds me of high school
with fancy toys and illegal nannies.
There have some Mommy cliques, Daddy cliques and nannies cheating with
the Daddies cliques. To me this is absurd that you have two parents in
the park and they bring their nanny to watch one kid. Maybe I’m just
jealous of all the attention these kids are getting or realize they are
raising the next needy guy I will be dating.
Seeing all the kids is just a reminder that I have about 10 eggs
left that I had better freeze or have a good time with men in their 20’s.
I just need to consult my Magic 8 ball to determine my destiny.
Recently, I endured what was possibly the most painful, soul-shattering
experience of my entire life: I took a "laughing yoga" class.
I knew this would be the bane of me before I even walked through the
door. From the second I saw the smiley-face graphics on the website, I
knew I was a goner. The overuse of giant fonts and "Tee-Hee!" had Ritalin written
all over it. And I’ve always been this way. I’ve always hated
anything "happy." Not normal happy things, like a tax refund
or Cake Batter ice cream from Cold Stone. I’m talking about annoying happy
things. Hyperactive, immature, in-your-face things. Sappy-sweet and uber "chick" things.
Corporate America, in-denial things. Think "Steve O" meets "Oxygen
network" meets "Team building" exercises in the large conference
room. God- I’m annoyed already.
Even when I was 4 years old, and my parents took me to Disneyland’s "Country
Bear Jamboree," I made it known I wanted nothing to do with it. As
recently retold to me by my mother, the bears apparently encouraged everyone
in the room to "Sing along!" and "Clap your hands!" So,
everyone did. Including my parents. And I was mortified. So mortified,
in fact, that I slapped their hands and shushed them
until they stopped.
See? Even as I child I was an a-hole.
Last week was no exception. To say I was struggling would be putting
it lightly. To say I was IN HELL would be more accurate. It started as
soon as I walked in, and the teacher asked me to introduce myself to the
class. As we gathered in a circle, I awkwardly tried to make "small
talk" with the 15 senior citizens forced to listen:
"Hello! My name is Sandy- I’m on the radio. I’m
a dj for Mix 106.5 in San Jose…."
(crickets)
"I’m also a stand-up comedian and have a late-night show
I’m filming on Comcast…"
(more crickets)
"Uh….And I’m here today to film this class because
I think people watching would really get a kick out of it."
(silence)
"And oh- I’m also a VERY angry person and pretty bitter
in general."
I thought that would "break the room." It didn’t. And
that pissed me off even more. At least when I’m getting heckled,
I’m getting a reaction. How could a class about laughter let me bomb
like that? Hypocritical bastards.
Our teacher, the joyous pro she is, skated right over my humorous attempt
and explained the "rules" of the class.
" Our number one rule is to have fun!" She said, beaming
with pride. "When we’re here, we leave our worries at the
door!"
Uh-Oh. Strike One. I like to talk my shit out.
"But before we start laughing, we need to know where our laughter
comes from. So everyone put your hand over your belly button. Now, after
me, say HA-HA-HA!"
As a group, everyone smiled and said, "Ha Ha Ha!" I was already
looking at my watch.
"Now, put your hands just above your belly button and laugh
again. This should be a higher pitched sound like, this: Hee- Hee- Hee!" she
mimicked.
A high-pitched "Hee Hee Hee!!!" collectively filled the air.
People were really getting into it. I wanted to die.
"Now that you know where your laughter comes from, I want you
practice with someone else. Try pointing your finger at them as if you’re
playfully scolding them. Don’t forget to make eye contact!"
You want us to point and be laughed at? This is worse than
childhood. I felt like I was in a room full of special-ed kids
after too many Mountain Dews.
And then, an ultimate low.
"Now, take one of your arms and scratch the top of your heads.
With your other hand, scratch your under-arms as if you’re a chimpanzee.
Don’t forget to make eye-contact when you laugh!!!"
Are you fucking KIDDING me? You want us to pretend we’re CHIMPS????
This was an absolute nightmare. People were in hysterics, scratching
their underarms with their hands and jumping up and down in the air. I
looked at the camera as if it were the only person in the room who could
understand me.
"PLEASE HELP ME" I said while staring at the lens. I felt like Tom
Hanks in Castaway the moment his manic and hysterical state forced
him to befriend a volleyball. Where was my Wilson?
After we were done pretending we were chimps, and chickens, and mosquitoes,
we got to be SPRINKLERS. Yes, human sprinklers who’s laugher served
as nourishment to the ground below.
"Uh-Oh!" our teacher exclaimed. "Looks like
a bunch of flowers have bloomed!! Go ahead- pick one!"
You want us to pick a fake fucking flower????
I couldn’t believe this. Here I was, an "adult", standing
in a room full of people who were smelling imaginary flowers that their "human
sprinkler" cultivated. All this….and no Pink Floyd.
I would go on…..but I can’t. It’s just too painful
to relive. I will only mention there were fuzzy hats, bubbles, squeaky
toys, and a Laughing Elmo. And tons of shame. On my behalf, mostly.
Towards the end of the class, we all sat in a circle as each one of us
reflected on our experience that night.
"I just feel so good and so energized!" One woman
said.
"I can’t stop laughing!" another woman said.
"I feel like I’m a kid again," the man next
to me said.
Now it was my turn. I paused, and gave the most dignified answer I could.
Haven’t been addicted to a TV show in sometime, since Dick Wolf
started up the Law & Order Sex and Psycho spin-off shows, then it happened,
I turned on TNT one day and it was a marathon day of Cold Case. These marathons
on the cable station, allow those too lazy or not interested in DVR/Tivo
to get an overload of one show. Cold Case has a damaged heroine who is
always in turmoil but solves these cases of dead people that now seems
to have solved and are filed away into the ‘Cold/Dead’ files.
Now the heroine played by Kathryn Morris always seems to have awkward blonde
hair that is pinned up and looks funky but I think that is to keep us on
our toes.
The set-up of every show is set in flashbacks with killer soundtracks.
Whatever respect I lost for Jerry Bruckheimer for making Pearl Harbor,
I have regained watching the Cold Case TV shows. Seeing the stories from
the dead people’s point of views and the Cold Case is solved at the
end of the show.
Of course, they have the single girl heroine living with like three cats
she rescued. One is missing an eye to symbolize how damaged she is and
the men she selects. That was just me projecting myself on to the lead
character.
Love that the show takes place in Philadelphia and the fact that my home
state of Pennsylvania is represented. PA is ‘real’ America
in one state. There are the wealthy area but mostly buckets of dairy/Amish
farmland, raped mining hills near Pittsburgh and some rural parts that
have a little bit of that banjo song going threw your head.
What I really like that show takes place in PA is that I recognize some
of the smaller counties and towns they talk about. When I am on the road
and lucky enough to catch, Cold Case, I do feel a little homesick when
I watch the show. However, mostly I feel calm even though it’s about
dead people.
Entering Supermarket: Mood is positive. I’ve entered the grocery
store and although I don’t have a shopping list per se, I have several
reminders of my goals: food is essential; beer is not food; you will
be hungry every day this week at least once a day. They are offering free
samples of frozen yogurt! The grocery store is like a wonderful restaurant
where there is the potential for everything to be on the menu!
Hour 1: Mood is still positive. There have been several set backs.
After some reconsideration, I realized I would need a basket. Then after
experience arm strain in the baking aisle due to a sudden impulse to make
a cake from scratch, basket was aborted for a cart. I experienced some
confusion perhaps due to low blood sugar, having come into the store hungry,
and could not locate basket of already shopped for items once I secured
a cart. Began again. Discovered my abandoned basket and realized that I
made completely different choices on my second supermarket run (I am such
a Libra!). Went back to original choices. Still excited about that cake.
Decided to eat a bag of cheese doodles to help power through.
Hour 2: Mood is weary. Needed to take a bathroom break due to extended
time spent in supermarket. The bathroom is not easy to find. Make a note
for the future, it is near the meat (good idea or bad idea?). Have made
several treks from one side of the grocery store to the other in search
of items. Made the decision to get a basket and use it as a day pack when
I need to make long journeys away from my cart in search of food items.
Have begun to bring a granola bar or drink to snack on during searches
for particularly difficult to find items. Cocktail onions are not where
you would suspect!
Hour 3: Mood is anticipation! A friend is coming to visit me! My
roommate called me to ask if I needed anything from the store and I told
her I was in the store already but was happy to hear she would be joining
me. She said that we just need toilet paper for the house and I assured
her that I know where it is and will be able to save her a great deal of
time when she gets here.
Hour 4: Mood is confused and delirious. Many things have gone wrong.
Sitting in paper towel aisle. Have discovered that this aisle is the warmest
and demands the least amount of decision making powers. Regrouping. Unsure
where cart is located.
Hour 5: Mood is determined. Went back to basics. Discovered my first
basket of items and decided to just go for it. I think I might use the
self-checkout lane. Electronic voice is soothing.
Supermarket Hour 6: VOICE IS NO LONGER SOOTHING
Home: Mood is dismay. Made it home with only the ingredients for
Mac and Cheese and a home-made cake. Saw note that tomorrow I will probably
be hungry again. Mac and Cheese from a box needs more ingredients than
I anticipated. Going out to get beer.
My dad died over five years ago but he still comes to me in my dreams.
On the last visit, he had an unusual request.
“Susan, can give me some dating advice in heaven.” Dead Dad
said.
“Dad, you’re in heaven. Aren’t you still married to Mom?” I
said.
“It was cheaper for me to die than divorce your mom. Don’t
hate, Susan. Now give your Dead Dad some dating tips.” Dead Dad said.
“Okay. Stay away from the women clapping their hands and singing
in the choir because they’ll bring their stuff and wanna live on
your cloud. Stick with the women hanging at the gates with one foot
in heaven and one in hell. They're the good time girls” I said.
I’m sure he is with me in my waking life but doesn’t wanna
see me overeating, drinking and having sex or ‘dating’ a variety
of men.
Listen, I remember the meal I had five years ago
on May 20th at 8 PM but I don’t remember the guy’s name I
had sex with that night. That’s how much food sometimes is more
significant then the men in my life. Weather it is right or wrong, it
tasted good.
Random Things That Amuse Me Vol. 28
Written by Erikka Innes
1. Scenario -- I would like to publish an article on the topic of
polyamory, then have someone disagree with the article in a rude, confrontational
fashion. Then I could tell them 'Hey, go F--- yourself,' and have it count
as polite advice. Seriously, if they think polyamorous relationships are
not for them, self love is a valid option!
2. My friend is writing a fascinating book about the atheism/Christianity
debate in America. It's a brilliant idea. The last time I congratulated
myself for a brilliant idea, it was because I invented a sci-fi character
with talking boobs. It just shows the difference between other people doing
brilliant things, and me doing brilliant things. I think I set the bar
a bit lower for myself. And rightly so as it seems.
3. I learned that SUV marketing is specifically arranged to target middle-aged
men who are insecure about their marriages or lives. Ok, I see partial
appeal -- they buy a COLOSSAL MASSIVE ... car. Because it makes them feel
like they have this GIGANTIC, ENORMOUS ... er car. But COME ON PEOPLE OF
AMERICA WHAT IS GOING ON?! I remember the old days, where a middle aged
man would have a mid-life crisis by buying a motorcycle and finding a younger
woman. They can skip the find a home wrecker part, but for crying out loud
WHO DECIDED IT WAS OK TO REPLACE THE MOTORCYCLE WITH AN SUV?! Come on,
if you're going to have a midlife crisis, have it in style for chrissake!
Buy a Harley, or I don't know, something fast and shiny and loud. PLEASE.
An SUV. Good lord. If you are going to freak out, go and have a proper
mid-life crisis please. (It's ok if you skip buying/wearing leather motorcycle
pants. If you have not noticed...almost NO ONE looks good in leather pants.)
4. I learned a lot of people in their mid to late twenties have what
is called a quarter-life crisis. I am going to write a book on my personal
experiences with this crisis, it's going to be called 'Whine Whine Whine
Life Sucks (Would You Shut Up Already You Aren't Even Old or Anything).'
5. They always say if you put a bunch of guys together and leave them
unattended they will find something retarded to do with their free time,
like hit each other with baseball bats, or have a contest to see who can
do the best job skateboarding into a brick wall. What they NEGLECT to mention
is if you leave women unattended it's much worse. They will go to the mall
and purchase stupid-ass crap that COSTS FAR TOO MUCH FOR WHAT IT IS, like
skin moisturizer for $250 and a $400 outfit they'd fit into once they drop
those last 20 lbs they've been trying to drop for 2 years now, and the
whole time talk about so-and-so and did you see her hair it is like a train
wreck immortalized in hairspray, seriously, did you know you could build
a hairdo akin to a topiary hedge? And FRANKLY... if I had to pick a retarded
activity to spend my afternoon doing I would MUCH RATHER skateboard into
a brickwall. AT LEAST IT'S FREE. And nobody cares about your hair or your
makeup, because you're only going to muss it up anyway if you plan at having
a shot winning the wall-face-plant-after-drinking-a-beer-and-riding-a-skateboard
competition.
I've noticed, the last few times I've been to the mall, I've been
accosted by a swarm of Euro Fags.
They'll leap out at you while you're trying to get to your favorite
store.
"Escuze eh mee, Mees? Can I eh show you sonnting?"
They'll come at you with a spray bottle, some "miracle" moisturizer
from the Alps, flying indoor planes, or some other un-heard of piece
of crap that's a waste of space and time. You think you can sneak by them...but
before you know it, an olive-skinned Gallagher is dry humping your
leg in hopes of an upsell.
What bothers me isn't them trying to sell me on their temp-job expertise.
It's the grease.
Their greasy, curly, Euro-fag locks that are often pinned up in a
ponytail or scrunchy atop their finely unwashed hair.
Yes- I said scrunchy.
Look- I don't care what part of Croatia you're from. A scrunchy on
a dude is fucking gay. The only person who could kind of get away with
it is David Beckham. And I said kind of. I've seen plenty of pictures of
him with a miniature scrunchy in his frosted locks, and I had two initial
thoughts:
1) " Wow- that's kinda gay."
And
2) " I bet he's got a great dick."
No such luck at the local mall, though. My initial thoughts there were:
1) "GO AWAY."
And
2) "Are you fucking KIDDING me?"
Where do they find them? Are they all related? Did they come through
Ellis Island with hopes of selling cheap perfume and hair extensions?
Now I sound like an asshole. And this certainly isn't about judging a
person based on their race, roots, gender, or any of that stuff.
It's about judging them because they think 'tall, dark, and handsome'
equates to an elf-like unibrow and 6 ounces of Joop. It wouldn't be as
annoying if they weren't breathing down your neck constantly. Even Fabio
wasn't that bad. Then again, Fabio wasn't selling Prada knock-offs next
to Sunglass Hut. (Really, though; how long can faux-butter residuals last?)
What can I say? Hair mayonnaise and an accent just doesn't get me
like it used to.
Now, throw in a free sample.....and we can talk.
Watching movies has always been a great escape for me. I especially
love movies set in the Dirty Manhattan era like Looking for Mr. Goodbar, Midnight
Cowboy and on the lighter side Tootsie. Dirty Manhattan
sounds like a new drink but to me is the 70’s – 80’s
New York City where hookers, drugs, promiscuity and no consequence except
for light STDs and maybe getting killed by your closeted gay one night
stand.
Tootsie is my all time favorite drag-queen comedy and made at
the end of the Dirty Manhattan era (1982). The cast includes Dustin Hoffman
as a struggling actor/waiter/acting coach in his late 30’s trying
to get roles but has built a reputation of being too high maintenance. He
is helping an actress friend prepare for a new role in a popular soap opera
and by a twist of fate he ends up getting the role as a female character
on the soap. Dustin does not make the most attractive woman but his
soft Southern accent and mannerisms make him believable as a woman. Also,
you start judging all the little outfits she/he wears and become engrossed
in the movie.
My favorite scene in Tootsie is when he/she meets up with his/her
agent Sydney Pollack (also the director of movie) at the Russian Tea Room.
The main reason I wanted to go there was for this movie. I finally
went there for my birthday in November. The food I ordered was delicious
but the whole time I just wanted to know where the Tootsie scene
was filmed. As I’m leaving the restaurant, I found out where
the scene was filmed which was my real birthday present.
Leaving the restaurant, I still wanted to get my drink on with my friends
so we went to one other bar on a Wednesday night. For all those single
ladies in the city, note the fact that weeknights are the prowling night
for cheater husbands disguised as available single men. I like to think
of them as cock-blockers of the men I should be talking to at the bar.
“Would you wear a fur coat if I bought you
one?” Older married man testing me said.
“Listen, I only wear animals I eat.” Drunk
single girl that’s me said. The smart single girl would have said, “I
look better in diamonds.”
That is what happens when I talk to men my age or older at bars. I
am staying true to myself and only speaking to younger men who are single.
“Susan, do you know what the call women
who date younger men?” Judging married friend said.
“Yeah, Lucky!” Happy single girl living
in Dirty Manhattan said.
How to be a Good Massage Client Written by Liz Grant
I’m on the verge of becoming a wildly famous comedian/former massage
therapist. And until I’m the former, I still have to massage
people. What follows could also be considered my massage resentment
rant. And I had to edit this down from 27 pages to two.
If you have fur all over your entire body, shaving the night before
does not help me out, Sasquatch. It hurts like hell to massage
stubble on your back and neck, ladies. Seriously, men…please
consider waxing, laser or evolution. I had to massage a client
with Vaseline last month and even with that layer of protection, my fingerprints
are now just starting to return.
Wash your bits. Your front. Your crack. Your pits. Your
feet. Bonus: Scrape your tongue. Before your massage,
don’t eat a cheeseburger made with Limburger and ass.
Don’t do exasperated, deliberate breathing to try to make yourself
relax, it tenses me up and it’s very 1990’s. I
don’t mind if you moan now and then but please don’t start before I
touch you. When I ask you if there are any health conditions I
need to know about, plantar warts and athlete’s foot and that lime
scale stalagmite you call toe nail fungus are all conditions I need to
know about. I also need to know if your toes appear to be individuated
but are actually fused together like a glazed bear claw donut only not
that cute. I also need to know about extra or missing toes. This
saves me a lot of confusion and fumbling and counting in the dark. It
also keeps me from thinking about Aquaman’s feet for the next 45
minutes.
It would also be helpful if you tell me you’ve had a facelift
so I don’t spent a lot of time looking for incision sites by candlelight. Don’t
pretend to relax. I really dislike trying to pick up your neck
only to find you prefer to hold it up yourself. I will walk away
and enjoy watching you trying to lower it slowly as though I might not
notice. I like to put the neck through a little range of motion,
please don’t second guess me and range of motion it yourself. I
will let go and enjoy your impression of Stevie Wonder.
Don’t talk the entire time. I will be quiet and do my impression
of a massage therapist who wants you to focus on relaxing. Don’t
tell me I can’t go too deep on you and then try to pretend I’m
not going too deep on you because I can tell when it’s too much
because I’ve been doing massage for eighteen friggen years and
I can feel when your muscles are protecting themselves and you then remind
me of the jackasses on Fear Factor who used to scream and yell “bring
it on, let’s go, you ain’t seen nothin’ like me” and
they were the first to slide off the wet car suspended above Long Beach
Harbor. That’s when I’d cackle manically.
Don’t tell me that was a life changing, best massage in your
entire life and then leave me a 5% tip because I have a list of those
clients and I regularly send them seriously bad vibes. I will also
use them in my act.
Inside the Head of Mary Van Note Written and Performed by Mary Van Note (hyper link to http://www.maryvannote.com/ )
A bus rider in San Francisco will have some stories to tell you. Many
of horrors difficult to describe in vivid enough detail to make the listener
understand what its really like to sit down and realize that bums who
feast on orange Gatorade and discovered table garnish release vomit that
will camouflage well with the cracked orange plastic seats, but not with
your jeans. My tale is not one of such woe, but of victory snatched
from the jaws of defeat. A tale of tides turning, of struggle giving
way to freedom, a tale of getting to make fun of girls cuter than me.
It was my first day of work running an ice cream shop, and was I riding
in on meticulously plotted bus route. I was to become
a manager that day, to begin my benevolent reign over my ice cream shucking
minions. I felt on top of the world, like nothing could bring me
down. Until... they came. I looked out the window of the
bus as it slowed to a stop, and saw, waiting to board, dozens of ballerinas,
some sort of ballet team. A flock? A school? A pod? A
pride? A business? (That’s what you call a group of ferrets… for
example, “For Christmas, I would like a business of Panda ferrets”) Whatever
a horde of ballerinas would be called when they gather, that’s
what was waiting to shatter my fragile illusion of confidence and worth. They
all stood managing to make confused and out-of-place look glamorous. How
is it that they could look totally adorable in a sweat suit while I look
desperate and pathetic in the same outfit? Is it that frosting
stain? Cause I tried to get it out, but Betty Crocker Chocolate
Cream Cheese Frosting actually leaves a stain on your soul, which becomes
visible to others through any article of clothing with an elastic waistband,
there was nothing I could do.
They bottlenecked at the front of the bus, and as they clumsily stuffed
their dollars down MUNI’s (nick-name for the San Francisco Bus
System) gullet, I saw that they were all adorned with University of San
Francisco keychain lanyards. Great. Ballerinas with
a better degree than mine. (Humboldt State Pride!! Green
and Gold!! GO LUMBERJACKS!!) They filled the bus to
capacity. As they packed in, they stared in innocent wonder at
their transfers, and gazed at the many advertisements and public service
announcements, showing visible concern for the battered old woman in
that ad that tells you who to call if you’re old and being beaten
on. My leathered hide hadn’t shown such compassion in ages. The
rest of the passengers seemed content to let these swans invade our drainage
ditch. I heard coos about how adorable they all were from
all those around me who had long ago succumbed to their own mediocrity,
and no longer felt the pangs of failure around those who accomplish. I
am not one of these people, I’m in my late 20’s and still
cant watch the Olympics without kicking myself for not sticking with
that tumbling class when I was three.
I could feel my loose grasp on self-confidence slipping away as I considered
my lack of graceful skills, my awkwardly stretched 6’1 frame. The
feet it takes to hold all this lank up seemed to be enough to make me
an alien in their world. I don’t think there is a size 13
ballet slipper. I thought being surrounded by perfectly built,
elegant and talented young women would be enough to steal all the glory
of my new career in the world of ice cream sales. I thought that
there would be nothing that could restore my inner strength on this morning. Until
I heard a hasty “Gosh, I’m SO sorry!” I looked over
to see a passenger rubbing his knee where it had been bumped by duffel
stuffed with dance apparel. I heard the same utterance and turned
again to see a woman regain her footing after being knocked into by a
waist high ballerina. I realized that with every jerky motion of
the bus, ballerinas were teetering off balance all around me. Those
who could reach clung to the sissy bars. Others just hung on to
the skeletal frames of their companions and made surprised mouth noises
every time the bus moved. Their fear became more tangible as we
passed through the Western Addition, as these weren’t the same
soft, kindly Richmond passengers they began their ride with. Clouds
started to part in my overcast mind.
I was in my element here, these women I thought would have me sunk
me anywhere could not navigate these waters. I saw weaker member
of their herd who was unable to reach the bars around her. The
weight of her Juicy Couture duffel threatened to take her under. I
offered her my seat, which she accepted with visible relief, but my offer
was not entirely selfless. I thrilled to rise among these otherwise
perfect examples of grace and begin my dance. I swayed in perfect
harmony with my dance partner of steel and rubber. The driver’s
preferred braking strategy seemed to be the “60-0 mph in .04 seconds” method,
and I stood steady and strong around ballerinas being tossed about by
his sudden stops. I moved with a polish earned from years of training
and honing my urban public transportation skills. The walrus had
found her way to water, where her bulk and tusks (I couldn’t afford
braces while I was young) couldn’t hold her back.
I felt myself renew. No one, not even a gaggle of ballerinas,
could make me any less skilled as a MUNI rider. I may not ever
wear a leotard as well, but I knew I had the strength to become a worthy
and fair leader in my new ice cream shop realm. I thought that
this turnaround was more than I could have hoped for, that this reversal
would be the best part of this ride, until I looked down, and noticed
that around a batch of ballerinas, my A-cups looked HUGE. I was
surrounded by humankind’s paragon of womanhood, and I felt both
big titted and graceful. From darkness comes light. My first
day of work went great.
That’s MUNI story for today. I could tell you about some
great games of “Hazardous fluid, or just pee?” or “Find
the oldest dated trash!” or “Is that smell human, animal
or food?” but that will have to wait.
)
Hey There,
Just wanted to say thanks for the invite to your "Girls
Night Out 'Cock'tail Sex Toy Party Pt.3 ". I still LOVE that name!
It's soo clever. I really wish I could make it, last time was
soo good and fun :-)! I have to get some stuff done so I won't be able
to make it, but please don't take me off your list, I'd love to come
one day when I don't have a good reason why I can't go.
OMG, are you
gonna have the same stripper?! He was soo good! It's soo hot when guys
shave off their sideburns so it's smooth right up past their temples!
Grooming is everything! So sexy! Oooo, I LOVED his big, black, banana
hammock, all that bunched up, drapey fabric sure did flatter his man
parts! And if you can just ask him for me where on earth he found scrunchy
socks and soft toe high top Reeboks in 2007, my cousins in Iowa will
be the happiest girls this Christmas :-)!
So say hi to the demonstrator
(or is it demonstratrix? LOL!). How HOT was the statement she made last
time, wearing that fuzzy (pill-y? ball-y? is that a word? ;-)), pea-green
twin set with her smooth-legged brown Lee Cords! That's right, sexy isn't
on the outside, it's on the inside! Bravo! You go girl! Tell the girls
I'll miss 'em and try not buy up all the butt plugs this time, ROTFLMAO!
Oh, and don't worry about sending me the order from home form, I still
have mine from last time, so you can hang onto that for some other poor
sucker like me who has to do stuff and can't make it :-(.
Have fun!
Hope all your batteries are fresh, and the stripper doesn't come straight
from work this time. I LOVE the smell of flame broiled whoppers soo much,
but something about that with his curl booster made me a little NG! Thank
GOD for the reggaeton, it totally kept my mind off of it!
Talk soon!
Kiss!
Not So Perfect 10 Written by Sandy Stec
Last week, I comfortably tried on and purchased a brand new pair of pants. They
were a size 10.
At first, I was excited. It's been a long time since I've seen a "10" anywhere
near my ass. But then I remembered: It was an Old Navy size
10. Which means it was really a size 24. Let me explain.
Old Navy is successful for two reasons: good prices, and denial. Most
women, myself included, feel skinny at Old Navy. Because deep down, we
know what size we really are. We know our range, we know what styles
cater to our body type, and when something is too snug.
Yet, at Old Navy, everything fits. Not only does it
fit- but it's too big. Suddenly, those size 14 pants become
a slimming size 10....that cute blouse fits perfectly in a small....and
you're practically "swimming" in that sized medium hoodie.
As you look at yourself in the fitting room mirror, you realize you're
not the woman you once were.
You're Samantha Jones.
You check out your behind in the mirror's reflection, and laugh. What
can you say? You've got a great ass. You just never noticed
it before.
And you're hair- it looks amazing! Why didn't you ever pay attention
to how it perfectly compliments your skin tone, and frames your beautiful
face?
Man, is there anything in this store that doesn't look great
on you? Trouser pants, sexy striped work blouses, skin-tight turtlenecks,
button-down cardigans, boot-cut jeans, A-line skirts and knee-high boots....girl,
you're gonna have the men lining up! You'd better have some Saturday
nights free, because you're gonna need them. Hell, you'll have to start
booking a year in advance! Not that these guys will mind, though. You're
well worth the wait- and they know it! Finally, you can cross off all
the lame, immature, lack-of -ambition A-holes from your list, and date
REAL MEN instead!
And then it hits you: why does this only happen when I'm at
Old Navy?
I'm not talking about my self-esteem break through either. I'm talking
about the fact that Old Navy makes all their clothes from one football
field-sized piece of fabric. Don't believe me? Where else can get matching
fleece pants, shirts, socks, purses, robes, car-seat covers and pillow-shams?
I still shop there, though. And truthfully, I don't want to pin myself
down to a certain size. One- I refuse to let my self-worth and image
be based on a number. And two- weight fluctuates. Women know
this. There are certain things you can eat that will balloon you out
to a monstrous Old Navy size small the next day, like soy sauce or a
sheet cake.
I wonder what Marilyn Monroe would have thought about this. She
was a size 14 in her day. Nowadays, she'd have been an Old Navy size
-6.
November 2007
Comedy and Dining Tour in San Francisco
Written by Susan Alexander
My heart, friends and taste buds were left in San Francisco when I
moved back out to the East Coast a couple of years ago. The 5 Funny Females
Weekend Comedy Marathon on November 16th and 17th at the Purple Onion SF
is a great excuse to come back to town to see friends, drink and EAT. There
are so many great restaurants in this city by the Bay but below are my favorites
along with a review.
TURTLE TOWER in LIittle Saigon on Larkin Street
Dining among the trannies and crackheads is the highlight of my return
trips back to SF. Turtle Tower is the freshest and best Vietcong food ever!
I am addicted to #7 (Beef Noodle/Vegetable stir fry) along with the imperial
rolls. When I lived in SF my manicurist took me to Turtle Tower and treated
me to my first hit. Now I am an addict and will be there everyday when I
am in SF. I secretly went to the one on Geary so the Turtle Tower staff
wouldn't judge me for going there everyday when I'm in town. But the original
Tower Tower on Larkin is the best and worth the wait for a table. I'm counting
down the days until November 16th to get my fix.
CHA CHA CHA in Haight Asbury
Eat like a king and pay like a pauper, at Cha Cha Cha. The 'tapas'
(little sharing plates) dishes are large enough for a meal by itself. The
must have dish is the Cajun Shrimp with a spicy cream sauce. If you are
out with friends order two of these dishes because everyone is going to
fight over this dish. Surprisingly, you will not be fighting over the shrimp
but rather the tasty sauce for dipping your bread.
My other favorites are the Jamaican Jerk Chicken and the Fried Calamari
which are such big pieces that the calamari has to be on steroids. The
most important part of the meal is the Sangria. Go here with a few friends
and your bill will be like $20 per person and your belly will be full.
Dining at this restaurant was one of the reasons I moved to San Francisco
for a few years. Cha Cha Cha is great night out with friends or a cheap
date night. Try the original one in Haight which seems to have better food
but the Mission one has a larger restaurant.
ARGUELLO SUPER MARKET next to Golden Gate Park
Turkey is king at Arguello. Vegetarians be warned. They have six
Turkeys roasting every morning to produce the most tender and succulent
sandwiches ever on the Dutch Crunch Roll. The white meat is tender and
the dark meat is made to perfection. I spice it up with some jalapenos.
The sandwich price is reasonable and worth the trek to this quaint little
supermarket run by a great guy named Sal. So grab a sandwich and walk one
block to Golden Gate park for your own picnic lunch.
GARY DANKO in Fisherman’s Wharf on North Point
Street
Paradise comes in different forms, for me one of them has been dining
at Gary Danko. I've been to French Laundry which is superb but too much
of a hike out to Yountville. Gary Danko is conveniently located in SF and
relative easy to get a reservation if you plan ahead. Even if you want
to go last minute, go dine at the bar and you can impress your friends
that you have been to Danko.
The strategy I suggest to get the best experience and fun at Gary Danko
is to always go for the tasting menu and wine pairing . This means you
have a variety of little dishes with a complimentary wine that the chef
and sommelier (resident wine expert) has selected. Also, this will control
the price which will be a total of about $200 (includes tip/taxes).
For a foodie like me, it's worth it a couple of times a year. Just do
not go here with your cheap or anorexic friends (bulimics are okay) because
they will ruin the experience. Only go here with true foodies who saved
up their money and calories for the week.
Also, limit the amount of bread and spectacular home-made butter they
serve or you will fill up to fast. Have a piece and hold out for the courses.
Now for red wine lovers, I always request my pairings to be with red
wines. They try to persuade you not to but remember you are the paying
customer. Of course, champagne is the exception. Bon Appetit!
Low-Rise Jeans Are Drafty in Back
Written by Erikka Innes
I have to admit that up until two days ago, I didn't see the appeal
of low-rise jeans. Ninety-nine percent of the time when I see people walking
around in them, they look HORRIBLE.
I see girls with ill-fitted jeans all the time. Muffin-top is NOT
A FASHION STATEMENT. It means you need bigger pants. And if you aren't
going to get bigger pants, it means you need a t-shirt that covers your
muffin edges. I avoided buying any kind of low-rise jean because I was
terrified of joining the ranks of girl-muffins.
Next, I didn't see the appeal because they're too small in front
a lot of the time. I find myself looking at some low-rise jeans and thinking,
does this really COUNT as covering your crotch? Why don't we just do a
reverse of the assless chaps look if that's supposed to count as the material
for covering my front area?! NEWS FLASH: If you have to SHAVE IN FRONT
to wear the pants, they're NOT PANTS! The point of pants is to cover up
your junk, not hang it out in the breeze.
My other problem with super low-rise jeans, has always been the price.
I think super low-rise jeans should be extra cheap... like the IKEA of
clothing right? Except instead of missing the backing like most IKEA furniture
does, you're missing some important stuff around the front.
I also don't like super low-rise jeans because they make my butt
stick out. Actually to be fair here, my friend Big Al pointed out that
my butt makes my but stick out, but BESIDES THAT ISSUE.... what I meant
is if I wear super low-rise jeans, I have butt cleavage. And I do mean
cleavage. The jeans are fitted, sit low, and end up working like a butt
push-up bra. Maybe I should sprinkle some glitter back there and make it
into a look. I call it 'Glam Plumber'. Someone get Vogue on the phone.
At one point, the cool, fashionable thing to do with super low-rise
jeans that offer a gander at the real estate in front and back was to wear
a cute pair of panties and have them show. DUMBEST IDEA EVER. Look, if
I want everyone to see the triangle of fabric in front and back called
underpants, screw the jeans! Designer jeans are expensive. Underpants are
like $5 a pop. If that look gets really big, I'm using it as an excuse
to walk around in my favorite underpants. I can almost hear people thinking
to themselves 'that's obscene' or 'that's inappropriate'. Why? If you put
on a pair of pants that are so poorly fitted that they fail to cover anything,
why waste your time with them in the first place?! Personally, I do hope
the look comes back because I think I'd get a kick out of owning 'business
underpants' for work events. Something in tweed maybe?
Anyway, after saying all of THAT, and doing all that complaining,
I would like you to know that I have succumbed. I now own a pair of low-rise
jeans. But not SUPER low-rise. These ones only create butt cleavage when
I attempt to bend over to get something, or sit and forget to pull my shirt
down in back.
They're a little drafty, but darn it, regular (NOT SUPER), properly
fitted (NO MUFFIN TOP) low-rise jeans make me look like I'm kinda slim.
I'm keeping them. And joining the ranks of low-rise jean wearers everywhere.
The Limits of Stand Up Comedy Liz Grant
A goal of mine as a stand up is to get belly laughs from the audience
and pants peeing would be ideal. However, I’m not sure I can ever
make an audience laugh as hard as the king of all hysterical laughter,
The Inappropriate Laughing Fit. The wave of laughter that occurs at the
wrong time. The overpowering, sweaty palm, physically painful and socially
ostracizing event. Your brain, body and conscience are saying “No.
Stop it. Not now. Not okay. Pull it together”. All it takes is the
wrong thought, glare from someone nearby or worst of all a snort to set
you off again. It is a total betrayal of what we think we should know how
to do by now; stay in control of ourselves. And it is a wonderful, endorphin
releasing high at the same time. I have a portion on my website for people
to tell their stories of Inappropriate Laughter. Since this is my blog,
I’ll share with you a few of mine.
Some of the places I’ve had these fits include: my dear grandmother’s
funeral, a Benedictine Monastery, a marriage counselor’s office (go
ahead, judge me) and with my husband while watching a dramatic film during
The SF Silent Film Festival. Since I have been a massage therapist for
seventeen years, too many of these fits have occurred during appointments.
What’s more horrifying, they have been solo.
I am there all by myself, convulsing and cracking as a party of one.
Imagine a totally silent, sacred space for massage. As peaceful whale mating
noises were coming from the sound system, I placed the palm of my hand
on his low back to do a gentle traction stretch and he broke wind so loudly
and violently that I jumped straight up a good three inches (I just reenacted
it so I feel pretty confident about that height). Next is 45 minutes of
me losing it and him never acknowledging it which would have kept me from
losing it in the first place. If he said sorry or said sorry and laughed
I wouldn’t have had to contort myself to keep the hysteria from being
heard.
When I owned a massage center, I was training an employee on how
to massage this client who had a specific condition. The client had to
be convinced to let the new massage therapist work on him in the first
place. He had been referred to me and insisted I work on him.
Amy was already in the room when I brought in a neck warmer to place
over his neck. As I set it down, we both noticed the same thing at the
same time. What appeared to be an enormous gray dust bunny captured under
the neck warmer. Amy, being very discreet, used her two fingers to gently
pluck the dust bunny off his upper back. Only to realize she was pulling
his random tuft of gray back/neck hair. A noise came out of me that must
have sounded like a compressed air hose. Amy shook her head like a displeased
parent. Of course that made things worse. I left them room. I tried to
pull it together. I came back in. The silence was so painful, I tried to
hurt myself with a punishing pinch. I tried facing the time out corner,
only to feel my shoulders convulse up and down with silent laughter. I
tried to breathe deeply which became a laughter snort and I left the room
again. I did this during the entire appointment. I can’t remember
if I ever offered instruction. Eventually my laughter became contagious…to
Amy. The client never came back.
I got in a laughing fit reading about a laughing fit. Apparently,
in East Africa in 1962 a group of school girls were overcome with laughter
that then struck the village and life shut down for a month as this laughter
took over. It was in a scientific journal which was so serious I laughed
so hard in my empty office tears rolled down my face. The thought of me
laughing by myself was so absurd, I laughed harder.
Please tell me about your Inappropriate Laughter. I’m dying (with
laughter) to know.
Tools to Live By
Written and Performed by Mary
Van Note
Last summer at a bachelorette party for one of my bestfriends, I got
a nose bleed.
These are friends from high school, who I don't seevery often. We're
all doing different things. One is a mom, a few are in grad school, some
save the world. I do comedy. That's what they knew about me; that I did
comedy in Boston.
And that halfway through a party, I get a nose bleed .
I was immediately paranoid that they would think I wasa coke head. So
paranoid, in fact, that I got awkward,which I was overly aware made it
only seem more evident that I was in fact guilty of being a coke head.
All of which made me more jumpy and paranoid, kind of
like a coke head.
I've never done coke. Or crack or cocaine or whatever. I've never even
been to a party where there has been coke. When people talk about it, I
pretty much always assume they are joking. Haven't they seen Chris Rock
in New Jack City? That is some serious shit.
So I laughed very nervously. I tried not to bleed on my old friends.
I asked someone for something to wipe my nose with, since we happened to
be at the beach, with no tissues.
I had to use one of the joke t-shirts custom-made with a bad photo of
the bride-to-be on it. And I had to tip my head back and get some ice from
the sangria bucket and suck on it. And I just bled away while we all talked
about what a lovely wedding it would be.
It's good to spend time on the beach with old friends who think you're
on crack.
Once, Twice, Three Times an A-Hole
Written by Sandy Stec
As I walked into work this morning, I noticed my desk was covered with
fake spiders. And cobwebs. And rubbery worms with fake tentacles. On top
of my computer was a bucket of candy, along with a sign that said, "You've
Been BOOed!"
I stood there silently and thought to myself, "What the f*ck am
I supposed to do with this?"
Don't get me wrong- I appreciated the gesture. Very cute. Hardy-Har.
What I don't appreciate, though, is the fact that this is supposed to
be reciprocated. So now I'm supposed to march down to Longs Drugs, buy
a bunch of Halloween crap, and participate in a game I could give three
shits about?
What's worse is when you hear people cheerfully talking about it in breakroom.
"Did you see who got BOOed yesterday?!?"
"I KNOW!!! Oh, I was thinking about BOO'ing so-and-so tommorow!"
People- please. Get a f*cking life!
Now, before you go calling me the Grinch Who Stold Innocence, I will
explain my ho-hum logic:
1) It's not that I'm annoyed that people get excited about silly office
games.
2) It's not that I don't enjoy holidays.
3) It's not that I'm anti-social.
4) And....it certainly isn't that I don't enjoy free candy at my desk.
EVER.
What it is.....is that people in corporate settings are so depressed,
so hum-drum, and so on autopilot, that the only time I ever see them express
any emotion is when little moments like this happen. Had it not been Halloween
time, had we not incorporated this silly game, I would have never seen
those employees light up the way they did. It would have been another day
in the break-room, with the same mid-morning conversation:
"Hey- how you doing?"
"Fine. How are you?"
"Oh, I'm good."
Completely pointless. Conversation, just for the sake of saying something
when someone's in the room, is lame. I find it interesting that when I
ask people how they're doing, they say, "Good." And then when
I say, "No, really- how are doing?" they give me a completley
different answer. Usually one filled with actual emotion and authenticity.
So...maybe that's why I don't "get into" these little company
events. It's because at the end of the day, I don't really feel like I
know any of these people. And I want to- I really do. But pretending we
have some sort of bond while giggling over a bag of Skittles just seems
ridiculous.
And, really, who am I kidding? Some of these people are plain out DORKS.
Minutes later, Marla, the morning show DJ, walked in.
"Sandy, you've been BOO'D!! Now YOU have to boo someone!!"
I looked at her eyes, filled with genuine excitement and anticipation,
awaitng my response.
" Yeah..... that's not going to happen." I said.
"Sandy! I would have SO never BOO'D you if I knew you wouldn't BOO
back!" She retorded.
And there she was. My "Boo-er." I felt bad, as I wanted to
share in her enthusiam. But I just couldn't fake it.
"I'm sorry- I don't mean to be a jerk. I just can't get into stuff
like this." I said.
"It's okay- you're just a grinch." She said back, smirking.
And you know what? She's probably right- as I learned many years ago
that a "case of the a-holes" isn't seasonal.
