Living Shallow, Living Well

The Girl Scout

2012-01-16T13:08:00.004-07:00

When I was about 8 years old, I joined Girl Scouts. My parents thought it would be a rewarding experience, an opportunity to grow and participate with other girls my age, and a way to get me the fuck out of their house for a couple hours a week. I didn't want to join, mostly because even at eight years old I wasn't a huge people person. I found friendships with other little girls my age both tedious and mundane, and when I say 'tedious and mundane', I mean I had detention during recess almost every single day and thus zero opportunity to socialize.

The Girl Scouts met after school twice a week, and the second I walked through the doors I knew I was in trouble. The girls were the front-of-the-classroom types- the kind that brought the teacher gifts every Friday, had a perfect attendance and great test scores. Today, these women are probably extremely rich CEOs of billion-dollar companies, but in second grade they were just irritating.

"OK girls!" Our troop leader, an over-bright women of about 37 years (when you're 8, 37 is ancient) clapped her hands together gaily. "I'm Debra! Your troop leader!"
"Hiiiiii Debra!" The other girls shouted happily, and I tried not to dry heave.
"Welcome to the Girl Scouts! This is going to be an exciting year for you! Here are your pins!" She handed out these gold pins in the shape of a female head, and to this day that remains my first and only piece of jewelry I didn't have to make out with anybody for.
"Wear them with PRIDE!" Debra shouted, as we affixed them to our sweaters. We all introduced ourselves (this was 1985, and every body's name was either Jennifer, Amy, or Sara) and then sat in a little circle while our troop leader talked about volunteering, selling cookies, and how to get badges on our sashes. Today girls get badges for things like technology, finance, and business strategy, but in the mid-80s you got badges for doing laundry and being pretty. Thank god for progress.

One of our first activities was- surprise, surprise- arts and crafts. It was February, and we were instructed to paint little valentine-themed shoe boxes to hold 'all the cards and goodies' we would get for Valentine's Day. I found a corner by myself and started painting my stupid shoe box.
"What have we here?" Debra asked, stopping by my table. I was painting the shoe box black and gray, with pictures of little knives on it. Even back then, I was pretty dark.
"Um..." I looked at my shoe box. "It's a shoe box," I said.
"Those aren't valentine colors," Debra said, perplexed. "Wouldn't you rather use pink and red?"
"Well..." I scrunched up my face, because I was super annoyed with the whole project in the first place, and was missing my favorite after-school cartoon, Jem and the Holograms, to even be there. "If everybody else is painting their shoe boxes pink and red," I reasoned innocently, "isn't it nice to do something different?" It was a manipulation ploy, because I knew Debra was big on 'being yourself', and by making me paint in pink and red she was basically contradicting herself. The truth is that Debra was probably worried that I was going to shank a fellow Girl Scout.
"Er...carry on," Debra said, awkwardly, and walked away. As I painted a little blood coming off one of the knives I had drawn (see, I used red!) I knew I would never be our troop leader's favorite.

"You lost your pin?" Debra said, horrified, a few weeks later. My sister and I had played 'treasure hunt' in the backyard that weekend, and we had buried it in the dirt somewhere, and then forgot where we buried it.
"I don't know where it went," I said, faking a concerned look. "I think maybe one of the other Girl Scouts stole it," I continued, lies rolling off my tongue like water.
"Who?" Debra said, too naive to know that 8-year-old girls lie.
"I think it was Jennifer #3," I said, gravely. "She's real shady," I continued, "and sometimes she doesn't have the nicest things to say about you, if I'm honest."
Debra blinked back tears. "Why would she say mean things about me?!" She whispered harshly. "Doesn't she know I spent 14 hours this weekend sponge-painting matching canvas bags for you girls?"
"Some people are just evil," I soothed, patting Debra's hand.

About six weeks in, all the other girls had roughly 6-10 badges on their sashes, and I had zero. One of the bright stars of the Girl Scouts, Amy #2, sauntered up to me.
"Where are your badges?" She asked me. She had long shiny hair, about 15 badges, and a lot of attitude. I suspected her parents were afraid of her.
"I don't have any."
"You don't have ANY?" Amy #2 stared in horror.
"Nope."
"Why not?"
"I'm real busy," I said, sighing like an over-worked single mother.
"Doing what?"
I leaned in. "Don't tell anybody, but I actually have a freakishly high IQ, and I'm writing a book about what it's like to be really smart and trapped in a school with mediocre students."
Amy #2 frowned in confusion, and I could tell she was deciding if I insulted her or not.
"Now," I continued, "you must know what it's like, being one of the smarter ones." Amy #2 was quite powerful, and I needed to get her on my good side.
"Oh- right," she said nonchalantly. "Totally." She sniffed and walked away, and I wondered if I could get a badge for manipulation, or being an excellent liar.

I told my parents that Debra our troop leader died in a fire, and Girl Scouts was over. I could no longer pretend to enjoy crafts, making friends, or helping others. I went back to Jem and the Holograms and burying shit in the backyard with my sister. I draped the badgeless sash off a knob on my dresser, and occasionally I'd point it out and say, "I used to be a Girl Scout".

Debra would be so proud.

Dog Sitter

2011-12-15T17:48:00.006-07:00

My parents panned their small white dog, Gracie, off on my husband and I while they vacationed in New York for two weeks. So for two weeks we had to dog sit, and Matthew had two bitches on his hands. Only one of us licked their asshole, however.

"Is she licking her butt again?" My husband whined, and I didn't blame him for complaining. We were not handling living with the dog very well. Matthew was tired of constantly taking her outside to pee, feed her, and take her on walks, and I was exhausted from trying to find compassion and kindness inside me in order to care for the small creature.

I get that a lot of people love dogs. The details are fuzzy, but I think it's something about having a best friend to come home to and a cute addition to the annual Christmas card picture. But there are also people out there who are selfish who would rather booze at happy hour then go home and walk a dog. We fall into that second category.

"What?" I asked Gracie nervously. I was on the couch with a glass of white wine and December's InStyle magazine. The dog was sitting in front of me and staring. It was creepy. "Do you....NEED TO GO TO THE RESTROOM?" I said this slowly, like that would help her understand- surely she knew the word 'restroom', right?
I tried to escape to the bedroom, but the dog followed me in there, where I started to panic. Gracie wanted attention, and she wasn't going to stop staring until I gave her some. I mustered the strength.
"Good....doggy..." I said, awkwardly, and patted her on the head. "Nice-doggy..." I petted her again. She licked my hand, which I thought was sweet. And when I say 'sweet', I actually mean gross, because I had to race to the bathroom to wash off the dog saliva. Moments later she had been licking her asshole, for crying out loud.

While I never quite warmed to Gracie, over time I discovered some great uses for her.

TEN GREAT USES FOR GRACIE

1. Dressing her up in a little top hat is fun, although it's also weird.

2. Shaved dog down, used a hot glue gun to attach fur to collar of wool coat. Looks like rabbit.

3. Pillow.

4. Attached fanny pack around the waist of the dog. Used for storage- spare keys, a tool kit, extra tampons.

5. Neighbors view you as 'adorable' when you walk the dog in the snow with your new Ugg boots.

6. Called in a personal day to work and told the boss Gracie was sick. Company understands because, hey, everybody loves dogs.

7. Watching the dog eat her crappy, dried up dog food makes you feel a little better about your crappy, dried up Lean Cuisine.

8. Door Stop.

9. You finally have something in common with your obnoxious co-worker. ("Oh, YOU have a dog? SO DO I! Aren't they swell?")

10. Can't think of a tenth thing.

So this holiday season, please- play with your dog, walk your dog, feed your dog, but- for the love of god, please don't pan your puppy off on Living Shallow, Living Well. I would just prefer to drink my wine in peace without the eyes of an (admittedly adorable) dog staring up at me.

Also, the fur around my wool coat is starting to yellow.

Infertile

2011-10-25T18:20:00.011-06:00

I've heard that men and women can have sex and get pregnant. That's what my 5th grade science teacher, Mr. Brogan, said anyway. But I don't buy it- why? Because my ass is sitting in a fertility clinic waiting room.
"How is it that two people can fuck for over two years and not get pregnant?" I whined to my husband sitting next to me, who was perusing through Fertility Today magazine. "Nature finds a way, my ASS." The receptionist looked over at me and glared. Probably because I dropped the F-bomb in her sterile, pastel-pink waiting room.
"I don't know, honey," Matthew said, turning the page of the magazine. "Hey, what's 'sperm washing'?"
I ignored him. "You know what's funny? How many times in my twenties I was peeing on the stick of some pregnancy test in a random gas station bathroom praying it was negative because I was dating some douchebag and forgot to take a birth control pill?" I giggled. "And that whole time- I didn't know my womb was a barren wasteland! Jeez, the money I could have saved on all that Zovia- I could have been popping Tic Tacs, for crying out loud."
"I'd rather not think about that, honey," my husband said. "And why would you take a pregnancy test in a gas station bathroom?"
"I've done a lot of things in gas station bathrooms that I'd rather not share," I answered, avoiding his question. "I'm 34 years old, have the body of Macaulay Culkin, and am the color of chalk. Of COURSE I'm not fertile," I complained. "Teenagers, like those kids on MTV's 16 and Pregnant, don't have this problem. If this was like, the 18th century, we'd be fine," I continued. "Back then everybody got married at like, thirteen and started having kids before they got their braces off."
"I don't think they had braces in the 18th century," Matthew mused.
"What, you're an orthodontist now?" I asked. "Either way, teenagers have super plump, juicy eggs. Mine are probably crusted and shriveled, like week-old roadkill."

"Living Shallow, Living Well?" A nurse barked from across the clinic waiting room.

"So..." Dr. Lopez flipped through our charts. We were sitting in her elegant and refined office, purchased with the dreams of childless couples, no doubt. "You're interested in getting pregnant," she said.
"Well, we want to have a baby to save our marriage," I joked, nervously. "And I've heard that children have nibble fingers, which are great for picking weeds out of the yard."
Dr. Lopez gave me a polite smile and ignored my comments. "I'm going to go over the process- we need to start with a lot of testing and figure out what the problem is. Then we'll give you two a variety of options...."
I tuned out then, because she started talking about science stuff, and science is boring. Plus, I had spotted a plate of cheese pastries on her desk.

"...certain number of eggs begin to mature within tiny sacs called follicles- the follicles produce estrogen-"

Would it be OK if I took a cheese pastry? I wondered. Surely they're out for the patients, right? She wouldn't have a dozen cheese pastries out on her desk just for herself- but is it weird reaching over onto her desk and just grabbing one, especially when she's talking about my vagina?

"-blockage in the male or female reproductive tract can prevent fertilization, or sperm may be unable to swim through the cervical mucus-"

Cheese pastries are so good. But so are croissants. And cinnamon rolls. God, I LOVE cinnamon rolls. I wish they weren't so fattening, though. If they had no calories I swear, I'd have like two a day. Maybe three. Maybe, when I'm pregnant, I COULD eat three a day because I'm supposed to put on weight, right?

"-we would see a sudden increase in the hormone LH- we can pinpoint this surge by testing-"

You know who's super thin right now? Leann Rimes. She looks like Skeletor from He-Man. She could use a cinnamon roll, that's for sure. Ugh, I'd be eating a ton of cinnamon rolls if I was married to Eddie Cibrian- just to ease the depression of the fact that I'm married to Eddie Cibrian. I think he was on that show that got canceled, something about Playboy?

"-are carried away from the epididymis by tubes called vas deferns- the sperm mix with fluids produced by the seminal vesicles and prostate-"

Eww, is she holding up a picture of sperm? Is that a two-HEADED sperm?! That is disgusting. Two heads are definitely not better than one. Would I have a two-headed baby if that thing made it through? Because I don't think they make baby clothes with big enough necklines.

"-you should be aware of the possible side effects. Some of these can result in ovarian hyperstimulation syndrome, which will require prompt treatment-"

Necklines this fall are pretty high- everybody seems to be in turtlenecks or those tie neck blouses. I should probably get a tie neck blouse to update my fall wardrobe- maybe after this I could run to the mall and- oh, look...Matthew is taking notes- that's good.....I should probably be taking notes. Meh, but I don't have a pen, or any paper, and also I'm not even listening so how would I even take notes?

"-we can look at that sample in a lab. Adhesions, fibroids, or a uterine septum can be removed with hysteroscopic surgery, with other hormone-"

God, how long is this going to be? I thought this would be less boring. Like maybe they'd have some sample babies out in little top hats to play with? That would be entertaining. Watching Leann Rimes throw herself up would also be entertaining. You know she's doing it- her teeth are looking a little gray. OMG- what if the doctors here miss my uterus and accidentally implant a zygote in my colon? I would have an ass baby. That would-

"Are there any questions?" Dr. Lopez asked, interrupting my thoughts.
"Can I have a cheese pastry?" I asked.

Mrs. Vice President

2011-09-08T22:07:00.006-06:00

My husband and I were at the hardware store last night, looking at floor tile so we could remodel the bathroom. At one point we asked for help from one of the sales associates, and he asked us about what type of construction our building allows, what the building codes would permit, and so on. I interrupted him.

“My husband,” I said, gesturing to Matthew, “is the Vice President of the housing board in our building. So he knows all about that.”
The sales associate nodded. “So do you know if the board would allow you two to turn off the plumbing in your bathroom?”
“I’m sure it wouldn’t be a problem,” I replied, before Matthew could answer. “And if not, well- let’s just say we’re in a position to work around it,” I said, winking conspiratorially. “My husband is VICE PRESIDENT,” I repeated. “We KNOW people.” I winked again.
“Er-“ the sales associate paused. “-you already said that, and- I need to know if you can cut the water-“
“Oh, trust me,” I said, interrupting him. “We can cut any water, in any one of the condos in our building, anytime we want.” I was getting cocky now, and my husband, who’s used to this, stood silently by me in polite restraint.
The sales associate was getting weirded out, I could tell, and started backing away from us. “Okay....well, let me know if you guys need anything else,” he said, and booked it down the aisle.
“You could have handled that a little differently,” Matthew said mildly.
“I guess he’s just uncomfortable being around high-ranking officials,” I mused, shrugging. “Not everybody can handle it like I can,” I continued, brushing a piece of lint off Matthew’s shirt and staring up at him in adoration, the way I imagined Jackie Kennedy probably did to John. “I’ll always stand by your side,” I finished, dramatically.

My husband is VP of our building’s housing board, and this is a detail that gives me more of an ego boost than anything else on earth. I tell everybody, I mean everybody, about this mundane fact. Most people would probably think that being the wife of the Vice President of a housing board in a 31-unit building is insignificant. But those are people that don’t know me, and my ability to take seemingly small things and turn them into power trips.

“You really shouldn’t pack the wash machine so tightly,” I told Carol Peppercorn, the 72-year old woman in unit #201. I was down on the first floor of our building, where the wash machines and dryers were. I was getting a Pepsi out from one of the vending machines (to take back upstairs and spike with rum) and happened to catch Ms. Peppercorn packing in what looked like a thousand bath towels into one of the building’s tiny washers.
Ms. Peppercorn glanced up. “I’m out of quarters,” she complained, and glared at me.
“Well, I don’t see why you need to potentially break down the building’s wash machines just because you ran out of quarters. My husband is Vice President of the board, and he posted a memo in the elevator last week about only filling the washers up to 75% of their holding capacity. Did you not read it?”
“No- I....I didn’t read it.”
I sighed, opened my Pepsi, and took a drink. It did need rum. “I’m going to have to tell Matthew,” I said sadly, but secretly enjoying myself. I lowered my voice to a whisper. “You know how he gets.”
Ms. Peppercorn didn’t actually know how my husband gets, mostly because he’s a really nice guy, but the fear in her eyes showed me that she was worried. “I’ll- I’ll wash the towels next week,” she said, not wanting to get in trouble with the Vice President.
“It’s probably for the best,” I soothed. “I’ll put in a good word for you with him,” I finished, before leaving the room. I really wanted her to know I was on her side.

On Monday, when I got home from work, some jerk parked in my parking space, even though my space is clearly marked with a sign that says 'Reserved For The Wife Of The Vice President of the Condo Housing Board' (I had it specially made). Livid, I found a parking space in the street, stomped upstairs and into our condo, and wrote a nasty letter to put on the driver’s windshield.

Dear Degenerate Fuck,
This is not your parking space. This is MY parking space (can you not read the sign?!), and if I catch you parking here again I’m going to have your car towed (after taking a baseball bat to your headlights).

My husband is VICE PRESIDENT of our condo’s housing board, and just so you know- I’m going to tell him about this, and he is NOT GOING TO BE HAPPY. While I’m sure you probably aren’t used to dealing with someone with that level of power, let me tell you – you do NOT want to mess with a VP. Of anything. So move your car NOW- or there is going to be a Vice President’s foot up your ass.

-The Wife of the Vice President of the Housing Board (Just in case he wasn’t clear on who I was.)

I ran downstairs, put it on his windshield, and felt a lot better.

“Can you believe that couple in #704?” I asked Lisa, the wife of the treasurer of the housing board. “How many dogs do they have? Like eleven? Those things just bark all day long.” Matt and I were hosting the board meeting the following day, and I was thus trying to entertain like a White House staffer. Everybody on the board and their significant others were there, and being tasked with hosting was taking my ego to new levels of delusion.
“I know,” Lisa said, rolling her eyes. “And that guy in #310? What’s his deal?” She sniffed.
“That’s Mark Cannes,” I said in a low voice, and leaned in closer. I was wearing a little cream-colored jacket with a brooch pinned to it, and from my ears dangled pearls. I could really clean up when I was sober. “He and his girlfriend are always fighting over money. Makes you wonder if he’s going to be able to pay his HOA fees next month,” I gossiped, eyebrows raised. I prided myself on knowing all the tenants of our building. “I would tell your husband to keep an eye out on that one, if you know what I mean.”
“Oh, I will,” Lisa said smugly. She gets off on her husband being the treasurer like I get off on mine being VP. We’re pretty tight, her and I.
“By the way, these mini hot dogs are delicious,” Lisa said, plucking one off a tray that our waiter, Bruce, was holding. Bruce was a homeless guy who lived in our alley- earlier I had given him $20 bucks to shower, put on a velvet smoking jacket, and walk around the board meeting with trays of appetizers. Aside from the fact that he was missing a few teeth, he was honestly doing a great job.
“Thanks,” I said to Lisa, because having to purchase a bunch of frozen finger food from our neighborhood 7-Eleven, and then stabbing toothpicks into 200 mini hot dogs had been incredibly hard on me. I picked up a bowl from the coffee table. “Cheetos?”

“We need to talk,” my husband said the following day.
“Hmm?” I looked up from my needlepoint. I was making Matthew a tiny pillow that said IT’S GOOD TO BE KING.
“Did you photoshop a poster-sized picture of me in an army tank with the words ‘obey’ written below it, and hang it in the mail room?”
I scrunched up my face, like I was confused. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said, innocently.
“Honey,” my husband sat next to me and wrapped his arm around me. “Between this poster incident, that guy’s headlights we had to replace, and the fact that Ms. Peppercorn won’t look me in the eye-“ Matt paused. “I think you’ve taken this Vice
President thing a little too far.”
I sighed. “You're right, honey- you are so wise. I guess that’s why they made you VP.” I set down my needlepoint and sighed. “I’ll chill out, I promise,” I told him.

Guess I’ll have to return my pillbox hat.

No Grit

2011-08-22T20:22:00.005-06:00

I have no grit, and thus will never be truly cool.

I attended a service in a Catholic church with my husband's two sisters, both who are grittier and cooler than I. And both of them, BOTH of them, had to wear black tights with their dresses, to hide their leg tattoos. Even though it was about a hundred degrees out and the dead of summer, they wore them because they were totally respectful that we were in a church, yet at the same time were totally bad ass- because they both have leg tattoos, hidden from God, if only for a couple hours. Later that evening we were all at dinner, and when the two of them ducked out of the restaurant for a smoke, I pointed them out to a waiter.
"Those are my sisters-in-law," I said to him proudly, watching them both smoke in their black tights and their dark hair.
While my own dishwater blond hair, tattoo-less skin, and pink lungs are probably considered OK to the average Joe, let's get real- I was missing the bad ass edge my husband's sisters naturally possessed. But how to get it?

"It's your CD collection," my husband informed me days later, when I asked him why I wasn't a bad ass. "I almost dumped you when I went through it." He's referring to our third date, when we were hanging out at my place (read: a hovel with about 11 roommates) talking (read: making out) and decided to put in a CD (I know, SO 2008, right? I didn't own an iPod).
Matt slipped through my collection in confusion. "Oh, um....Britney Spears....Gwen Stefani, Madonna....." His confusion quickly turned to horror. "Oh, my god- Mandy Moore- holy fuck...what- Jessica Simpson? Willa Ford? Who in the hell is Willa Ford?"
"Oh my god, I love her," I said, adjusting my top. "She is so cute!"
"Cute." Matthew tried say that word in conjunction with music, and almost choked. "Cute...." He continued to stare at me in despair. I could see him doing the math in his head.

MY NEW GIRLFRIEND: PROS AND CONS
BY MATTHEW
JUNE 2008

PROS: Funny, ass looks good in jeans.

CONS: Has an odd obsession with Keanu Reeves, can't cook, has more credit cards than Paris Hilton, smells like rotten cotton candy, hates dogs because they 'require compassion', is unemployed, has one protruding snaggle tooth, thinks that Lindsay Lohan is 'misunderstood', sleeps until noon, annoyingly refers to her friends as 'my bitches', is 29 years old but acts 15, lacks health insurance, has a glass unicorn collection, smacks her gum, has eight unpaid parking tickets in her glove box, directs every political conversation back to her hair, calls me her 'future baby daddy' even though we've only been dating for 13 days. She also roots through my wallet when she thinks I'm not paying attention, talked me into sneaking a six-pack of beer into a club and then blamed it on me when we got caught, and keeps locks of my hair in her wallet- that she cuts off of my scalp when I'm sleeping.

"Honey?" I asked, twirling my gum around my finger. "What do you want to listen to?"
"Um..." Matt shook his head. "Er- let's just listen to the radio."

My other issue is that I wear a lot of pink. And pastels. But that's just because I'm real pale, and 'adult' colors make me look like a corpse.
"What is that color?" My sister asked, peering at me through her sunglasses at our favorite happy hour spot. We were outside on the patio drinking margaritas, and while the conversation was flowing smoothly, my wardrobe clearly was not.
"It's sherbert," I said, with a little bit of defiance.
"Jesus, why are always dressed like a baby?" My sister grumbled. "Like what, you're going to show up in a onesie? Where are you getting your clothes? Babies R' Us?"
"It's not my fault I can only wear Easter egg colors," I complained.
"I know you're on this mission to get more grit," my sister soothed, "but that mint green bow in your hair isn't helping. Maybe you need to rethink this, and just stick to what you know- like Hollywood gossip, finding the perfect shade of blond, and giggling."

She had a point. I do love to giggle.

I officially gave up becoming 'grittier' when I re-watched the Breaking Dawn trailer 17 times. Surely no one who was truly edgy would do that. I can listen to some of my husband's 'indie bands', put on dark makeup, read Edgar Allan Poe- but it's just not me. No, I'm destined for other things.

Like cutting locks of hair off my husband when he's asleep.

Optimus Prime

2011-07-28T20:57:00.003-06:00

Well, I just saw the third Transformers movie, and it's official: I have a crush on Optimus Prime.

For those of you who aren't familiar, Transformers are cars that can transform into walking, talking robots. It was both a cartoon and a toy back in the 80s and recently made its way into Hollywood with Transformers, Transformers 2: Revenge of the Fallen, and now Transformers 3, Dark of the Moon. I've seen them all, and let me tell you- Optimus Prime, the leader of the Autobots, gets more and more attractive with every movie. He's like the George Clooney of inanimate objects.

For those of you who might find it odd that I have feelings for a cartoon machine, I urge you to view the movies yourself- maybe it's his chiseled metal cheekbones, or his deep, gravely robot voice, or his abs of steel- literally. Maybe it's because I love vibrating metal objects. Maybe it's his great leadership qualities- when the chips were down in Transformer 2, who was the guy to rally the troops to fight Megatron? Optimus Prime. Who prevented the Decepticons from hacking into the US Military network? Optimus Prime. And who has those gray-blue eyes that pierce into my very soul? Yup. Same guy.

My favorite fantasy involves Optimus Prime and I, driving up into the mountains together. I'm driving, well- him, and we're chatting about life, love, and timing belts. We're really connecting on a machine to human level, and finally- I pull up to a meadow- birds are chirping, flowers are blooming- and he transforms from the car into the robot (gently unbuckling my seat belt and pulling me out of his insides while he's doing it) and we lay in the soft grass and stare into each others' eyes. The smell of metal and rubber tires is radiating off him like a beacon, and even though kissing him is like frenching a bike pump, I can't stop because I'm in love. He embraces me, his arms feeling like two microwaves pressed around my shoulders. I can feel his tailpipe hard against my thigh, and right before we make love I'll think- if loving a man who resembles a toaster is wrong, then I don't want to be right.

I've already thought about our life together, and being Mrs. Prime. On the weekends we would grab lunch, run some errands, and oil down his dashboard. We'd have barbecues, and all the Autobots would come over- can you image Bumblebee, Jazz, and Ironhide all sitting around my kitchen table, passing around the potato salad? Their clumsy robots fingers would probably really struggle with the silverware. If any of the Autobots spilled any food on themselves I would just run them through the dishwasher, of course. And when we have children, who will look like small golf carts- I will probably stay home with them, while my husband continues fighting intergalactic evils. It's going to be a hard life, me at home alone feeding my baby a bottle of (warmed) gasoline while Optimus is off fighting a war against the Decepticons and their leader, Megatron, in a power struggle for world domination. Sigh. The things we do for love.

When Optimus finally retires and our children have all grown up into sedans (we are so proud!) we'll end up in a scrap yard to idle the days away with all the other Autobot couples. They'll be movie nights (drive in, obviously) and bingo. And even when my husband's paint has chipped off, his leather seats have cracked, and rust forms around his joints- well, we would have gotten all that fixed up because of the lifetime warranty on him, of course. The main thing is that we'll be happy because we'll be together.

I mean, who could resist those cheekbones?!

The Interns

2011-06-28T20:38:00.004-06:00

It's Intern Season!

Every year, in mid-June, a dozen interns descend upon our corporate office for three months. They think they are here to expand their horizons, learn about corporate America, and make life-long connections. What they're really here for is to do my bidding for roughly 90 days. To me, interns are like clowns- worthless but slightly entertaining if I've had enough to drink. They're only really good at stapling and wasting my time.

"You get three of them," my boss informed me, tossing their files on my desk on his way to lunch.
I looked up from my computer. "What? Oh, shit," I moaned, looking at the stack of papers. "You're going to dump the fucking interns on me again this year?"
"Somebody needs to babysit," he informed me. "Just try not to screw it up like you did last year."
My boss is referring to July of 2010, when I told our intern at the time, Robert, to charge $400 worth of vodka on the company's credit account. Robert was canned for that a couple days later when I told human resources it was his idea.
"It's not my fault that Robert ended up being both an alcoholic AND a thief," I sniffed.
"I'm pretty sure you had something to do with that, Living Shallow," my boss replied. "But I'm not going to lie- I wasn't sad to see that guy go. Interns are fucking worthless."
"Amen," I agreed.

The next day I had three college students sitting along the wall of my cube, similar to bottles of liquor lined up on a shelf. But unlike a bottle of liquor, these interns I didn't want.
"So," I said to them, lazily, and put my feet up on my desk." I flipped open the folder containing their files. "Let's see....Madison?" A blond with stringy hair nodded eagerly. "Adam...and Tucker?" The beefy one with dark hair, probably a frat boy, nodded his head, and the second guy, who looked young enough to be a fetus, smiled at me.
"That's your name? Tucker?" I asked the fetus.
"Yes." He smiled at me again.
"Well, that's a dumb fucking name. I'm going to call you Larry, cool?" Without waiting for a response I threw their paperwork into the trash and cleared my throat.
"Here's how this is going to work. I'm going to tell you what to do, and you're going to do it. I'm available for mentoring, but only between 3:48pm and 3:55pm. I like my coffee hot, with two sugar packets. And use the real sugar, not that Splenda shit. Don't think I won't notice the difference." The interns furiously wrote all this down.
"Also," I continued. "If I ask you to do things, like, say, give me a back rub or vacuum out my car and you feel like they don't fit your job description- then please, by all means- just let me know, and I'll make sure you get fired." I paused to sip my coffee. "I have an open door policy. And when I say 'open door', I mean it's actually a closed door and I really want you guys to leave me the fuck alone- like all the time. The intern who kisses my ass the most will get the best recommendation from me come September. Oh, and starting now, please refer to me as My Overlord." I stopped. "Any questions?"
Adam raised his hand. "Um...My Overlord? What about lunch breaks?"
"Great question, Adam. And when I say 'great question' I mean that you have so much product in your hair right now you're practically an EPA violation."
Adam looked confused. "Um....lunch...?"
"Your lunch will consist of gumming stale Fritos out of the vending machine around noon each day. Oh, and if you three don't mind- I'd really prefer it if you could use the eighth floor bathrooms. The ones here on the first floor are for staff only. You understand."
The interns nodded, eager to start their day.

Everything started off okay. I gave Larry the task of finding a Hollywood starlet who's hair was an ashy-brown with beachy waves to take into my stylist. He knocked it out of the park by finding me a picture of Elizabeth Olsen, younger sister to Mary-Kate and Ashley, who's hair will look perfect on me. Madison got my car detailed and filled it up with a full tank of gas, and Adam got the annual percentage rate on 11 of my 17 credit cards lowered by hassling their customer service departments all day. The three of them even managed to staple 2,300 pieces of blank paper together. That I just made them do for my own amusement.

"Living Shallow?" My boss said, peering into my cube.
"Hey boss," I said, munching on a Nutter Butter that Madison had fetched for me out of the vending machine. "Hey, have you met Larry?" I asked, gesturing to my feet, which were propped up on Larry's back since he was crouched on all fours in my cube.
"Hey, Larry," my boss said, unconcerned that I was making a company intern my own personal human ottoman.
"It's- really- Tucker..." Larry said, straining his neck up to my boss, my calves digging into his spine.
"Great, great," my boss said, nodding. "Well, looks like you've got everything handled here," he said to me, and then strolled off.

A couple weeks later, things started breaking down. The interns started complaining about the jingle bell dog collars I made them wear during the day, but really, I just liked knowing where they were at all times. Since they're dumb they still mixed up the sugar and the Splenda, and, finally- the final straw was when I caught Madison and Adam making out in the supply closet. I called a meeting.

"Listen up, toddlers," I barked. "You guys haven't been pulling your weight around here- you've been showing up late, complaining non-stop, and now- making out in the supply closet? Dear lord, you KNOW only full time employees are allowed to make out in there! What is wrong with you?"
Madison teared up. "Corporate America sucks," she cried.
Larry nodded in agreement. "It's boring. It's just meetings, and stapling."
Adam shook his head. "I just can't believe how bad it is," he said.
I stared at the three of them, quietly, for about 30 seconds, and then, slowly, started clapping. They stared at me in confusion.

I leaned back in my chair. "So, my young grasshoppers, you have learned the lesson I have been trying to teach you all along. That yes, corporate America DOES suck. And you have to go to your job every day, every week, every year- FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE. And when you're 65, you'll get a shitty retirement plan and a discount on adult diapers- and then you'll watch daytime television until one day they find you, dead of heart disease in your easy chair, clutching a warm beer." I paused, and stared at them with grave eyes. "So my question is, why in the fuck are you wasting your last summer in college in this shit box?" I let that question sink in and then leaned toward the three of them. "Listen, Madison, Adam, Larry- here's what I'm going to do- I'm going to fire all three of you right now. For the next eight weeks you have left of this summer, I want you to get shitty but young, fun jobs- life guarding, bartending, folding sweaters at The Gap- and I want you to party, work on your tans, have sex with the wrong people, drink too much, and basically blow off the entire summer in a haze of immaturity and debauchery. And in 50 years, you're going to look back on this moment, and think, 'That was the summer My Overlord set us free.'" I paused one final time. "Now get the fuck out of here," I said, as they bolted for the door.

I'm the best mentor.

Summertime!

2011-06-13T19:58:00.002-06:00

Summer summer summer!!!!

June first always kicks off summer in my mind. For three months, three delicious months, every last mature cell in my body (and admittedly, there's only about a dozen) turns off and the super hyper, child-me pops out for the next 90 days. It's like that scene in Alien, where Sigourney Weaver's friend is eating dinner, feels a few stomach pains, and then ends up on the kitchen table of the space ship with an alien fetus clawing out of his flesh. It's just like that, but more fucked up.

I don't know what it is, but everybody around me seems to have it. The sun is shining, the grass is green, the whole world seems to be out and about packing the outdoor cafes, chasing their dogs around like children and biking around town in a pair of picnic pants like some kind of fucking JCrew ad. And, the skin- the chests and legs and shoulders of the opposite sex are finally exposed and glistening, sweating in the sun like sausages on a grill. And while I'm happily married, this time of year has me panting out the window of my car like a dog in heat.
Husband (driving): "Honey, you're drooling."
Me (passenger seat): "Our neighbor's son is home from college. And he's mowing their lawn. Without his shirt."
Husband: "That's weird, honey- he's like 19. He's a kid."
Me: "Do you think they need anybody to baby-sit him, then? Because if they do, I'm Kristy Thomas."
Husband: "Not funny."
I sighed. "God, he looks like Taylor Lautner," I moaned, wishing I was Bella.

Summertime is a total excuse to mentally regress without looking like an idiot. Want to stroll downtown in your husband's boxer briefs chewing on a funnel cake? It's ok, it's SUMMERTIME! Want to drink six margaritas on somebody's patio, pass out in their yard, and then get woken up in their grass the next day when the sprinklers go off? It's ok, it's SUMMERTIME! Want to blast Kesha's latest single out the window of your 1992 Subaru station wagon with your greasy hair in a scrunchie? It's ok, it's SUMMERTIME! Want to skip deodorant? Read a trashy romance novel? Make out with a hobo? SUMMERTIME! SUMMERTIME! SUMMERTIME!

"This is fun!" I said to myself gaily, drunk on Ketel One at two o'clock in the afternoon last Saturday and drawing pictures on the sidewalk out of chalk. First, I drew a picture of a bunny. Next, I drew a picture of the bunny holding a flower. Then I drew a picture of Satan eating the bunny. It would probably make the neighborhood kids cry.
"Babe?" I heard my husband call out the window of our 5th floor condo.
"I'm down here!" I yelled from the street where I sat, my eyes squinting up at our building and my legs stained with colored chalk. My husband was hanging out the window in a stained, yellowed t-shirt and holding a beer.
"I can fit eleven of those stale Marshmallow Peeps leftover from Easter in ONE toilet paper tube!" He cried. "Can you fucking believe it?!?"
"Damn!" I shouted, impressed. "Oh, and honey- could you bring me a beer? Let's slam it and then sneak into the rec center pool!"
"Ok!" He shouted back, and then disappeared into the condo. I added a few squirts of blood around the wound of the neck of the bunny where Satan had ripped into it. I wanted it to be realistic.

Work seems to go to hell, too. Around 3:40pm, somebody says something casual, like "Every Tuesday Sullivan's has half price jager bombs."
We all give noises of approval, and then twelve minutes later somebody else says, "Gee, we've worked a TON today. And I don't think we took lunch, right?"(We actually took a two-hour lunch playing Velcro Ball in the parking lot, but hey- who's counting?)
"Maybe we should schedule an out-of-office meeting," I'll suggest, casually. "Y'know, maybe we could brainstorm ideas to reduce overhead and become more cost efficient?" I asked.
"Great idea," somebody else will say, and 45 minutes later we're at Sullivan's slamming jager bombs and gossiping about office hookups, upcoming vacations, and who the hottest Kardashian sister is (my vote is on Kendall Jenner).

My point is, welcome summer into your home- be immature, stupid, and reckless. Your dignity might suffer for it, but in the name of fun, really- who cares? Somewhere out there there's a bucket of sidewalk chalk with your name on it.

I recommend drawing a bunny.

Comfort Shoes

2011-04-25T19:44:00.005-06:00

“Yeessss!” I shouted, excitedly at work last week, when the mail room clerk brought a package over to my desk. I immediately started ripping the box open.

All my coworkers and I like to purchase a bunch of stuff online and through catalogs, and then have it mailed to the office so we can show everybody our loot. And when I say, ‘all my coworkers and I’ I actually mean me, because I’m the only one that does it. The rest of my coworkers have things like kids and big mortgages to pay for, whereas I only have a husband and a tiny 550 sq. ft. condo. So my point is, there’s cash lying around, and I like to buy shit.

“What’d you get this time?” My older and less attractive coworker asked me tiredly, glancing up over her granny glasses. Like, seriously, she’s 40 and looks and acts 80. But I guess that what happens when you choose your three children over things like facials and shopping sprees at Nordstrom. Luckily, I have my priorities in order. And speaking of orders, my new shoes were in!

“Aren’t they sexy?!” I squealed, holding them up above my head like Moses parting the red sea. And these shoes were definitely red- bright red and shiny and vinyl and HOT. “I’m wearing them out to a gay club this weekend for my friend's birthday- we’re going to get wasted and dance all night!”
“Those look really painful,” my coworker said, glaring, probably jealous that she’ll be at home watching Finding Nemo for the one hundredth time while I’ll be staring at gorgeous homosexuals gyrating to techno music in sequined underwear. But hey, who am I to judge?
“Actually…..” I smiled a secret, all-knowing smile. “These are Clarks,” I whispered, referring to the shoe company known for comfort shoes.
My coworker’s jaw dropped. “Those are Clarks?” She said, shocked. “But comfort shoes are…so- so-“
“Ugly?” I asked, helpfully. “Not anymore. They all wised up and now have cute shoes, too- they still have that orthopedic crap, don’t get me wrong- but now they make new stuff too- these pumps-" I held them up again for her benefit. "-were recommended by the American Podiatric Medical Association," I finished, bragging.
“Wow,” my coworker said, impressed.

When I was in my twenties, I got drunk and went to clubs in shoes from Steve Madden, Nine West, Unlisted, Chinese Laundry, etc. Now I’m in my thirties, and I’m still getting drunk and going to the clubs- but now I do it in comfort shoes- Clarks, Naturalizers, Aerosoles, Bass- if it involves cushioned soles, wick-away sweat protection, or gel footbeds- well, I’m sold. My shoes now resemble a mini van after a car accident- more air bags inflated inside than is probably needed, but you don’t mind having them there. I used to think that comfort shoes were only for old ladies with back problems- but then, I also used to think that using tampons meant you were no longer a virgin. Either way, I’ve wised up.

Now that comfort shoes are attractive, why WOULDN’T you wear them? Why even bother with regular shoes?

“Cute shoes!” My friend Tess cooed to my other friend, Molly. Molly was strutting up to our table during happy hour in her new Jimmy Choo shoes- probably purchased for the price of a small car.
“Thanks,” Molly said, fluffing her hair.
“They are cute,” I said, agreeably. “Do they have polyurethane foam cushioning?” I asked, innocently.
“Huh?” Molly said, confused.
“Well, I’m just a huge fan of foam cushioning,” I said, casually. “I also really prefer my feet in a stability cradle- it really disperses the pressure from the ball of your foot.”
“What in the fuck are you talking about?” Molly asked. “These are Jimmy Choo's- Jimmy wouldn’t put foam cushioning in his shoes- that’s fucking lame.”
I snorted. “Oh, so now it’s lame to prevent lower back pain?” I asked, arguing. “Well, excuse me for wanting the ligaments along my spine to line up. Enjoy those bunions that are forming on your feet, bitch.”
“I will enjoy them, Grandma,” Molly spat back. “Where exactly are you shopping for your shoes- some gift shop at a Retirement Community?”
“These pumps are red vinyl,” I said hotly, pointing to my new shoes. “RED VINYL.”
“Like putting lipstick on a pig,” Molly answered back, shortly.
“Stop it you two,” Tess snapped. “And Living Shallow, it’s rude to insult Molly’s new shoes.”
“You mean her new torture chamber? Can’t wait to go shopping with you next week in them, when you black out in Banana Republic from the pain.”
"Well, you'll have your oxygen tank on you, Betty White- so you can just resuscitate me," she answered back.
“That’s enough!” Tess said sternly.

I go everywhere in my comfort shoes- even the gym. I get some weird looks, especially when I’m on the StairMaster in them, but hey- they’re comfort shoes. I can jog in them, do laundry in them- hell, I could kick some major ass in them. I always wondered how Wonder Women and Supergirl chased down and beat up so many bad guys, and it's SO obvious- they're all in those comfort boots. Leather, knee-high, spike heel, and gel insoles- that's their secret, not the fucking super powers!

"Wow, honey- you have a LOT of comfort shoes," my husband said to me one afternoon, gazing into the closet. "You're like a billboard for preventing lower back pain."
"Thank you, honey," I cooed, lounging on the bed with my legs daintily crossed, wearing my new black peep toe pumps that also happened to have phenomenal arch support and a reinforced toe box. I liked to seduce my husband in my comfort shoes- can you imagine? Seducing in comfort? I need to tell all the strippers about these things. Dancing on those poles in those clear plastic ten inch heels are probably giving them all corns on their feet. Poor things.
"Well, I support this new obsession of yours," he said. "I want you to be comfortable."

"Oh, I'm definitely comfortable," I said. Me and Wonder Woman both.

Suicide Watch

2011-02-28T18:06:00.008-07:00

Last Saturday night, I was sitting at home alone in the condo.

My husband was out getting hammered with a bunch of his geologist friends. I didn't go because honestly, they all just end up talking about igneous rocks, landslides, and different types of sandstone- and yes, it's as boring as it sounds. Especially when they tie on one too many and end up arguing about whether geothermal fluids at super-critical pressures and temperatures can be exploited as sources of power. I've seen fights break out over this.

So he's out on the town, and I'm sitting at home drinking Jack Daniels and organizing my make-up drawer (pale pinks on the left, sunrise corals on the right) when I hear a knock at the door. I'm wearing a pair a pajamas with tiny lime green stars all over them, but I grab my glass of Jack and get up to answer it anyway.

I open the door and two people are standing there. One, a girl, probably twenty years old was staring at me through glazed eyes, and with her was a guy with spiked blond hair and a lip ring.
"Um..." I took a sip of my drink. "Can I help you?"
The girl blinked rapidly. "Our friend, like, lives next door, and we're looking for him- he's not answering and we keep knocking."
I frowned. I vaguely remembered a neighbor moving in next door a couple weeks prior, but personally had not met him. "Okay...." I said, confused.
The guy stared at me and started scratching his arms. "We keep calling his cell phone but he won't pick up," he explained.
Again, I was confused. "Well, maybe he's out," I said, wondering why they were telling me all this. "I don't know him," I said, slowly, to the two kids who were clearly not playing with a full deck of cards.
"Well, we think-" the kid paused to scratch himself again. "We think he might of killed himself," he whispered.
"Oh." I paused. "Oh, my- that's- that's terrible," I said, formally, because really how do you respond to that? "Um....you really think he's dead in there?"
"Maybe," said the spiked-hair kid, nonchalantly, as he continued to scratch himself in an obviously opium-induced haze.
"Ok..." I said, and took a really strong swallow of my drink. "So, um- should we call the police?"
"No, no," the girl said quickly. "He's already had a ton of problems with the law- I don't want him to get in trouble."
I stared at her. "Er- if he's dead, I don't think that's really an issue," I couldn't help but point out.
"Do you have a key to his place?" She asked impatiently.
"No- and honestly, if he really did kill himself, I'm pretty sure I would of heard a gunshot," I answered, helpfully. "The walls of this condo are real thin- and I haven't heard a thing."
The boy smirked at me. "Some suicides are silent," he said, all condescending.
"Oh, right- well, I haven't heard like, water running if he tried to drown himself in the bathtub, or anything," I continued, trying to think of other ways people kill themselves. Wasn't there a Saved By The Bell episode about this or something? Maybe Beverly Hills, 90210? Surly Dylan McKay dealt with suicide at one point.
The girl was growing impatient with me. "So do you know where we could get a key or not?" She said, growing more irritated.
"Again, no, I don't have a key or know where to get a key for you to check to see if there's a rotting corpse next door," I snapped, as these kids were starting to annoy me. I was also getting suspicious with the truthfulness of their story. Is this what thieves do? Get the key from the neighbor claiming a dead body is next door, and then rob the house? I'm no Nancy Drew, but this situation was quickly becoming sketchy at best.
"We might have to break the door down," the guy said, lighting up a cigarette. Clearly he was real concerned about his supposedly-dead friend, as he slumped against the railing of the condo building.
I slammed the rest of my drink. Obviously I was going to have to talk these two nut jobs down off their Cops fantasy. "You're not going to break down the door," I said. "Now let's start at the beginning- why do you think your friend killed himself?"
"He's real unstable," the girl said.
"We're all unstable," I answered. "I'm 34 years old and wrote a love letter to Justin Beiber yesterday. If that's not fucked up, than I don't know what it."
"Gross- he's young enough to be your son," the boy said, grimacing through the cigarette smoke.
"Exactly," I agreed. "My point is, my friends don't think I killed myself every time I don't answer a text- they just think I'm passed out drunk somewhere. So you're going to need to either call the police or take your asses home."
"But we need to leave a note on his door, at least" the girl whined.

The three of us ended up writing this on a large post it: JER- ARE YOU ALIVE? CALL US- TISH & RICKY and sticking it to his front door. They finally went home and I ended up falling asleep in front of the television, exhausted from playing high school counselor.

The next morning I woke to the sound of keys rattling in my maybe-dead neighbor's door, and I quickly got up and raced outside. There stood my neighbor, alive and in the flesh.
"You're alive," I said, blinking.
My neighbor stared at me in confusion. "Um...yeah...?"
I crossed my arms. "Tish and Ricky thought you killed yourself," I said, tattling on them. "You might want to give them a call."
He looked really confused. "Why would they think I killed myself?" He asked me.
"Word on the street is that you're unstable," I replied.
"Who isn't?" He mused, turning the key on the lock and walking into his condo.

My thoughts exactly.

Scared Thin

2011-02-15T20:26:00.012-07:00

Has anybody seen that new show on A&E called Beyond Scared Straight?

It's based on the program, Scared Straight, that takes troubled kids who have had problems with the law and are headed to a life of crime through the prison system, where real-life convicts share with them the horrors of jail. The kids, after hearing these stories and witnessing inmates banging on doors and making sexual gestures, realize they don't want to end up in prison and start doing their homework. The program is meant to 'scare' them down the path of righteousness.

When I was watching the show I thought, OMG, I totally know how these kids feel. It was like looking in a mirror.

No, my sister and I weren't bad kids. We just had a mom who considers fat the most evil single substance on earth. My childhood was like an ongoing episode of Beyond Scared Thin.

My mom, about 5'4" and 90-pounds soaking wet, is a health nut. I'm talking wheat germ in your flax cereal, organic beets for dinner, nuts for a snack. Her medicine cabinet is stocked with ginger root, sunflower seeds, fish oils, and ginkgo biloba. Her favorite pastime involves hooking herself up to an IV filled with carrot juice and meditating. I grew up nibbling on beans, wheat grass, and bark (well, we got bark for dessert, but only if we finished all our wheat grass).

My sister and I, in turn, were always fit and healthy. I don't think I had a tablespoon of salt, sugar, or fat really- ever. And my mom was going to make sure we kept it that way.

"Don't you bring that garbage into my house," Mom stated one night, as my sister and I, both in our teens, brought home some leftover cake from a friend's birthday party.
"It's made of sugar-free chocolate, though," I said helpfully, like that would change things. "I think it was made from, um- organic flour," I lied.
"It's Satan," she stated. "Throw it in the trash."

My cousin came over one morning with a box of donuts, a box of donuts- and I am not kidding you- she lost her shit.
"Well, wow- I didn't realize we were all going to ingest complete poison in our bodies this morning," she started, sarcastically. "Well, that's a great way to start off the day- with a triple bypass. GOOD THING I don't give a flying fuck about the health of myself, my husband, or my two beautiful daughters!" Mom clutched us tragically as we stared into the box of donuts in confusion. We had never seen a donut before and were fascinated. It looked like bread with some type of gooey substance on top, and, that smell- was that sugar? I had heard about sugar from some of the kids in my class, but I thought it was something that didn't really exist- like a unicorn, or a smurf.
"Um...." my cousin paused thoughtfully. "You want me to throw them out?"
"Only if you want to live to see another day," my mom said, calmly. The kind of calm that gives you chills up your spine.

The real beat-down came one day when mom caught my sister with a soda one of the neighbors had given her, and decided that my sister and I were 'out of control'.
"You're both about to graduate, and head off to college- and at college there's- buffets." My mom said this last word like some people say 'venereal disease'. "Get in the car," Mom said, gathering up her keys.

She drove us to McDonald's.
"OK." She parked the car, turned around, and glared at my sister and I, both trembling in the backseat. "We are going into a fast food restaurant. I want you to take a GOOD LOOK at the people in there. If you keep putting in your mouth, stuff like SODA-" she stopped and gave a death-stare to my sister. "-then you're going to end up like them. Get out of the car."
We quickly unbuckled our seat belts and raced into McDonald's, a place I had only previously seen on television commercials, and, admittedly- it housed more obese white people than a Republican National Convention.
Mom huddled the two of us to her, up front by the soda machine. "Look at that man over there," she said, pointing across a couple tables. "Is that how you want your future to look like? A double chin and type 2 diabetes? Does that look like fun to you?!? Does it?!?"
We stared at the floor. "Nooo....."
My mom pointed again at a large woman. "Over there! That woman- do you think she WANTS to be in pants with an elastic waist?! Do you want to struggle climbing a few stairs without passing out?!"
We both shook our heads no.
"And do you smell that? The smell of lard frying? And then that lard, sitting in your stomach, creating cellulite on the tops of your thighs? And all of it, eating away at your heart, killing you at young age? IS THAT THE KIND OF LIFE YOU WANT?!"
My sister started to cry and I resisted the urge to purge the carrot sticks I had eaten for lunch.
Like the prison inmates in Scared Straight, mom grabbed one of those large soda cups and started banging and dragging it against the side of the soda machine, and chanting 'Ronald McDonald is goin' get you!' until management kicked the three of us out. It was a day I would never forget.

Was it severe? Yes. And yet, like the 14-year-old gangbanger who finally stops stealing cars and starts doing their homework, my sister and I were traumatized into submission. To this day I faithfully eat my salads and whole grains and avoid the 'garbage'.

I just can't get the image of those elastic pants out of my head.

Blobby

2011-01-31T17:18:00.008-07:00

When I was in my early twenties, I worked for a large department store.

Every year, we celebrated 'Take Your Child To Work Day'. All the employees would bring their kids to the store to greet customers behind the counters, fold shirts in the back rooms, and sweep the floors in the break room. Basically, it was an excuse to abuse child labor laws and get all our cars washed, as we sent them out to the parking lot around noon with buckets of soapy water. (I highly recommend getting a small child to wash both the inside and outside of your car- their small, nimble fingers can really get into any hard-to-reach place.)

In conjunction with Take Your Child To Work Day, my company always brought out Blobby, a large, fuzzy, orange, blob-looking mascot costume- and once a year, they talked one employee into wearing it all day to entertain the children, wave at cars in front of the store, and participate in a humiliating act of self-degradation.

2003 was my year.

"I am NOT wearing that fucking costume," I complained to my manager, arms folded in defiance.
My boss glared at me over her glasses. "You've been late to work four times this week. You're wearing it- or consider yourself fired."
"Define late," I hedged, trying to figure a way out of my impending doom.
"Showing up at noon reeking of vodka when you were due at 9am is late," she barked. "Get into the costume and entertain those goddamn kids- and remember- NO talking when you're Blobby- Blobby does not speak. Blobby only waves at people and gives hugs."
"Blobby sounds like a fucking loser," I pouted.

An hour later I was in the Blobby costume- it was hot and stuffy inside. The costume was over six feet tall, so my view to the outside world was through Blobby's nostrils.
"The children are waiting for you!" The man from human resources announced gaily in his office, after securing Blobby's tail to my ass. "Have fun! And remember- you can't talk. Blobby does NOT speak- okay?" He swung open the door and pushed me into the store, where all the spawn were waiting.

"BLOBBY!" Shouted roughly 8-10 children, all waving their arms wildly and jumping up and down with excitement as I walked through the door.
I waved and waited for them to calm down. "What's up?" I asked.
The children's jaws dropped in shock.
"Blobby- you- you talk?!" Asked one little boy, his eyes wide. They had all hung out with silent Blobby previously.
"Of course I talk," I scoffed. "I just had strep throat before and couldn't speak."
"What's strep throat?" Asked a little blond girl.
"It's what you get when you drink to much and make out with shady-looking guys in bars," I explained.
"Oh," she said, nodding wisely.
"You're a girl, Blobby?!" The first boy asked, still in shock.
"I am- girls can do anything- they can be doctors, lawyers, and even pathetic, costumed, department store mascots. And don't you kids forget it." Bored, I glanced around. "You guys want to ride the escalator up and down for a couple hours?"
"Yeay!" Shouted the children.

Two hours later, I was in the break room with the kids and answering a flurry of questions. They couldn't get over the fact that I could talk, and had a million questions for me.
"Where do you live, Blobby?" Asked the oldest of the group, a six-year-old who seemed suspicious.
"I live in the basement of this building," I answered.
"The basement?!" He asked, stunned. "Isn't it cold down there?!"
"Oh, no- not at all. The basement has large coal ovens in it- the same coal ovens that heat this department store. I shovel large amounts of coal in the hot ovens all day and all night." I looked down sadly and wiped a fake tear off my googly eyes with one of my large orange hands.
The children looked horrified. I could tell they were all picturing their beloved Blobby, bent over a hot coal oven, sweating through her orange fur.
"But Blobby, you don't have to do that!" One of the youngest girls protested.
"But I do," I said, and paused for dramatic effect. "They chain me to the basement floor. I have to shovel the coal, or-" I made my voice quiver. "I don't get fed...and...there's the beatings....."
One child burst into tears as the older boy clutched my furry arm in desperation. "You have to run away, Blobby! You can come live with me!"
I patted his head gently. "I don't think your parents would want to house a six foot tall mascot, but I appreciate the offer. Oh- and tell your dad I said hi."
One girl raised her hand. "Do you know Santa Claus?" She asked, eagerly, because kids think that all mystical creatures know Santa Claus. Kids are dumb.
"Oh yeah," I said, nonchalantly. "We're actually dating."
The children gasped. "You're dating Santa Claus?!" They screeched.
"Yeah, but-" I brought my voice down to a whisper. "Don't tell Mrs. Claus, okay? It's strictly physical- I don't want any drama, you know?"
The kids nodded solemnly.

After lunch I gave them a tour of the store. I dry humped a couple of mannequins, which made them laugh really hard, and pretended to pass out in Active Sportswear, making them all scream in horror. I felt like Maria in the Sound Of Music, gallivanting around Austria with the Von Trapp family. Except this was much more fucked up.
"My hands hurt, Blobby," one of the kids complained, behind me. Toward the end of the day I had made the kids take turns giving me shoulder massages as I flipped through a magazine.
"I'll tell my man Santa Claus to not bring you any gifts this year," I threatened, while perusing an article on open-toed pumps.

At five o'clock I gave all the kids hugs goodbye and sent them on their way. Exhausted, I wadded back to my boss's office and plopped down in a chair, pulling Blobby's head off its body.
"How was your day?" My boss asked, eyebrows raised.
"Fine."
"You never called anybody over to zip you out of the costume for bathroom breaks," she continued.
"Oh, right-" I paused. "I sort of..." I stopped.
"Oh, my god- you pissed yourself in the costume?" She asked, horrified.
"It's super absorbent," I replied, defending myself.

The next day, the store received lots of angry phone calls from parents, mad because their kids had told them that Blobby, the store mascot, was giving blow jobs to mannequins, having an affair with Santa Claus, and being beaten in the basement. During my firing, my boss kept shaking her head and asking me, "How could you?!" I didn't really have an answer, and, honestly- I wasn't that upset. I had absolutely no desire to ever put on the Blobby costume again.

Besides, it's stained with urine.

Can't Turn It Off

2011-01-18T23:08:00.002-07:00

On Saturday, I was in the checkout line at the grocery store and the cashier was TOTALLY hitting on me.

“You saved $4.23 with your shopper card,” he said, gazing into my eyes as he pulled the receipt off the register and handed it to me, his fingers lightly caressing the palm of my hand. “Thank you for shopping with us today.”
“No, thank YOU,” I flirted back, clutching the paper shopping bag to my huge (read: padded bra) chest. “Thanks for checking me out,” I said, because I find puns both amusing and sexy.
“Um…sure,” the cashier, both married and old enough to be my dad, looked momentarily confused. “Have a nice day.”
“I will,” I replied, and gave him a big wink. “I’m sure YOU’RE having a nice day as well.”
Now the cashier looked really confused. “I…..am….” He nodded briefly and turned his attention to the next customer.

I have a confession to make, and please- don’t judge me (that’s reserved for God and Fox News). I ALWAYS think that men are hitting on me. Always. There. I said it.

I have thought about this a lot. I really, really struggle having normal, non-sexual conversations with men I’m not related too. I believe this is for a variety of reasons:

1.) I’m a girl’s girl. I only have female friends. Sure, I have a few acquaintances that are men- but a true friend? Women only. I just don’t really relate to guys- I’m pretty sure they don’t talk about anything I’m interested in, which is fashion, Hollywood, and the comfort levels of thong underwear. I don’t really know what to talk to them about. Beer?
2.) I have an inflated ego based on nothing. I am extremely average. My vanity is not based on facts or data, only my own shallow, irrational thoughts. (Read: Front of fashion magazine says: “Plum eye shadow makes guys want you!” So I purchased plum eye shadow, wear it, and am convinced I am Megan Fox.)
3.) I get bored easily, so I create fantasies in my head to dull the repetitiveness that is life.
4.) I am mentally not well.
5.) I’m pretty sure they’re hitting on me.

“I think we need this major account to leverage our overhead so we can avoid outsourcing,” said one of my coworkers, Ronnie. We were in a status meeting with about fifteen people. Ronnie was sitting next to me, a seat he obviously picked because he’s in love with me. He turned to me. “Could you pull some of that data from last year’s numbers?”
I crossed my legs and smiled suggestively. “You WOULD choose me to help you with that, wouldn’t you?”
Ronnie paused. “Um…yeah, you’re the only one with access to those numbers.”
I snorted. “How convenient for you,” I said.
“I’m sorry…?” Ronnie asked.
“It’s just…” I leaned in a little bit so he could smell my new perfume and get a peek down my shirt. “I know what you’re doing, and it’s not going to work,” I whispered. “I’m married, and I know this is really hard for you to understand, but it’s not going to happen.”
My boss interrupted. “What’s the problem here, Living Shallow? Get Ronnie the numbers.”
I sighed and leaned back into my chair. “I don’t want you two fighting over me- for crying out loud, boss- you’re causing a scene. Jesus.” I rolled my eyes and stared at my cuticles. My boss has been crushing on me since 2007, when he hired me. It’s cute when he has these jealous fits of rage, but in a meeting? He should really try to be more professional.
My boss briefly closed his eyes, either to try to control his temper or picture me in a bikini. I assume the latter. “If there’s problem with you doing your job, we’ll talk about it later in my office,” he barked.
“Big surprise, you want me alone in your office,” I muttered under my breath.
“What?!” My boss roared.
“Nothing.”

A few days later my husband and I went out to dinner. The waiter could not have been more obvious about his feelings for me.
“More wine?” He asked, smiling at me.
“Yes, please,” I watched him pour the bottle into my glass, lust written all over his face. I could tell he wanted to say a thousand things to me- that I am the window to his soul, the mother to his children, the oxygen to his breath. But instead, he just listed off the specials of the evening as I read the pain in his eyes.
“……and that dish has a caramelized topping on it- it’s very good,” he continued. “I’ll let you two have a moment before I come back for your order.”
“I’m sure you will,” I said, woefully.
The waiter’s smiled stayed on. “Anything else you need, miss?”
“Only to ease the ache in your heart,” I whispered, sadly. I reached out and clutched his arm. “I know that unrequited love is like a thousand knives into your soul, and I’m sorry for that,” I said, dramatically.
“I’m sitting right here, honey,” my husband said dryly, interrupting me.
I ignored him and stared deep into the waiter’s eyes. “It will be painful to move on, but move on you must- as I am betrothed to another.” I touched the napkin dramatically to my eyes and gave his arm a final squeeze before letting go.
The waiter blinked a few times in confusion. “Er- I’ll be back with your salads,” he said, before running off.
My husband eyed me. “Is this about that whole you thinking everybody’s in love with you thing again?” He said, complaining. “Because that’s weird, honey.”
“I can’t turn it off,” I sniffed, defensive.
“I’m going to have to leave him a huge tip now,” my husband complained again.

When my friend, Rebecca, wants me to visit, I usually decline because I don’t want to cause tension between her husband and I and make things awkward. He always asked me really personal things, like how my job is. It’s SO obvious he wants me. To make matters worse, her five-year old son hits on me constantly. Please- all those repeated requests about pushing him on the swings? Could he BE more obvious? It’s pathetic, really.
“I’m pretty sure my son doesn’t ‘want’ you, honey,” my friend said, dryly, after I asked her to hose her kid down with cold water before I came over.
“Clearly you’re in denial, and I really don’t want to argue about it,” I snapped. “I just hope our friendship survives this.”
“Oh, for crying out loud,” she moaned.
“He cries over me?” I asked. “Figures. What a fucking baby.”

I guess in the back of my mind there’s a piece of me that thinks maybe there are actually men out that aren’t interested in me. That maybe I’m mistaking basic everyday politeness for lust? That maybe every man I encounter doesn’t want me to give birth to his spawn? Perhaps I am simply stroking my own ego? That maybe they are actually in love with their own wives and not-

Oh wait, there’s a knock at the door.

I open the door and am greeted by a UPS driver.
“Package, miss,” he says, and then holds out a clipboard. “Sign here please.”
I sign and hand him back his pen as he hands me back a box.
“Thank you, have a nice day,” he says, before hurrying off.

He wants me.

Ten Resolutions

2011-01-02T19:55:00.006-07:00

This is going to be MY YEAR.

I say that every year on New Year's Eve, usually around 11:43pm, right before I either blackout or vomit from all the alcohol. The next day, hungover, I write out all my new year's resolutions, swearing to myself that THIS YEAR is going to be the year that I actually follow through with all my goals.

I swear I'm going to keep them.

LIVING SHALLOW LIVING WELL'S 2011 NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTIONS

1.) I WILL FIND A NEW SHADE OF BLOND.
I have been every color of blond- ash blond, honey blond, sunset blond, caramel blond- but, surely- there are more? There's got to be an entire world of blond I have yet to discover- I'm going to become the Christopher Columbus of blond hair. Straw blond? Billy Idol blond? The possibilities are endless.

2.) I WILL STOP CALLING MY BOSS 'DADDY'.
Every time my boss asks me to do something, I sarcastically say "Sure.....Daddy." He gives me a pretty odd look, especially when we're in staff meetings or conference calls and I do it. I should probably stop.

3.) I WILL DEVELOP A HEALTHY DIET AND EXERCISE PLAN.
Read: Abuse laxatives.

4.) I WILL STOP MAKING FUN OF MORMONS.
Eh....actually, this probably won't happen. Mormons are like those crab apples that fall from trees and end up scattered on the sidewalk- I can't help but step on them, because the sound of that crunch is so satisfying. Also, I wouldn't make fun of them if they didn't give me SO MUCH to work with- I mean- multiple wives? Aversion to coffee? Those creepy white smocks they wear under their clothes? I have enough material for years of jokes.

5.) I WILL TAKE MY SHALLOWNESS TO A NEW LEVEL.
Last weekend, I wasted tons of time reading Tolstoy's Anna Karenina, discussing politics, and volunteering. No more. I should have spent that time reading gossip magazines, smacking my gum, trying on eyeshadow colors that make me look more like Kate Bosworth, and staring vapidly into space.

6.) I WILL STOP REFERRING TO MY HUSBAND AS 'MY OVERLORD'.
When we go out to eat, I love giving my order to the waiter and then saying to my husband, "Go ahead, My Overlord." Or when a telemarketer calls I always say, "I'm going to need to check with My Overlord." When I'm filling out forms at the doctor's office, I love writing 'My Overlord' in the emergency contact section. I do it because it's really funny, but my husband's patience is wearing thin. So I'll just start calling him 'Master Of All That Is Holy."

7.) I WILL KEEP WRITING THIS BLOG.
Mostly because one women emailed me and told me that my blog is the only laugh she gets all day at her miserable, dead-end job. So Marnie28....this one's for you. Also, Marnie- try sneaking shots in the restroom around 10am. Your days will get a lot better- trust me on this one.

8.) I WILL TURN MY BATHROOM INTO A HOLLYWOOD REHAB CENTER.
It's going to look just like the one Lindsay Lohan stayed in- you know, rolled towels in baskets, zen music playing in the background, calming pale blue wallpaper, 3 grams of coke hidden in the toilet dispenser, and a therapist on site. It's going to be dreamy.....I should call that magazine, House Beautiful and see if they would want to do a photo shoot.

9.) I WILL STOP DRINKING MY DINNER.
My husband travels a lot for work (he's also the cook in the family), and when he's not home at night I turn into a frat boy. Two glasses of Jack Daniel's over ice with a side of white wine? Welcome to my Tuesday nights. But word on the street is that 'dinner' should include this thing called 'food', and while I'm no Julia Child, would it kill me to throw together a sandwich?

10.) I WILL STOP TELLING MY DOCTOR I HAVE ANXIETY/DEPRESSION/PANIC ATTACKS JUST TO GET A PRESCRIPTION TO XANAX/ADDERALL/PROZAC BECAUSE IT MAKES ME FEEL GOOD/IS FUN TO ROLL WHILE WATCHING REALITY TELEVISION/CAN BE RESOLD TO HIGH SCHOOL KIDS FOR PROFIT.
Seriously, that is so wrong. I'm going to get my highs naturally- through things like working out, prayer, and spending time with friends and family. Plus, one of the high school kids I was dealing to told me he was going to call the cops. Fucker!

Well, there they are. My top ten- they're pretty lofty I know, but I'm going to work real hard and try to achieve them. Wish me luck.

Happy New Year!

JLo I'm Not

2010-12-19T19:55:00.005-07:00

I made the mistake of asking my husband who he thought the hottest ladies in Hollywood were.

"Hmm...." he mused. We were sitting in a coffee shop downtown, he was reading Keith Richards' Life, and I was perusing US Weekly, my favorite gossip magazine. I eagerly leaned forward, excited for his answer.

He sipped his organic coffee delicately, like the effeminate yuppie he was. "I really like Kim Kardashian- she's really stunning- great curves. And Salma Hayek- she is gorgeous, as is Penelope Cruz. And Eva Mendes- I LOVE her. Wow....she is also so hot...." he trailed off and stared out the window, his eyes glazed over with lust.

What?!

"What?!?" I choked, in horror.

On a good day, I look like Macaulay Culkin. On a bad one, I resemble Gollum from Lord Of The Rings. My skin is so pale I could be the daughter of two pieces of chalk. My eyes are a colorless gray, my body, a stick- a curve-less, unisex, stick.

"You like dark-haired, curvy chicks with tans?!" I sputtered. "Latinas....and- and Kim Kardashian is Armenian! Jesus, honey-" my voice lowered to a harsh whisper. "I look like a fucking ten-year-old boy and you want JLO?!?!"
"You're cute, honey," he assured me, patting me on the hand. Then he frowned. "Are you getting sick?"
"I'm not sick," I snapped. "I'm pale. We've been over this before. I can't believe you are attracted to people who look exactly opposite of me."
"Well..." he looked for words. "Don't you think those girls are really hot?"
"Of course I do," I replied exasperated. "I'm jealous of their dark glossy hair, big brown eyes, golden skin, and big tits- you think I LIKE dumping half a bottle of sunscreen on my clear-ass skin everyday?!? Under florescent lights I look blue- I'm Smurfette, for crying out loud."
"Now honey, there's no need to get upset- what did you expect me to say?" my husband asked, gently, like I had a mental disability.
"I don't know, Dakota Fanning?" I asked, hopefully.
My husband cringed. "She's- creepy looking. Like an alien."
"She could be my fucking twin." I stated, pouting.
"Maybe you just need to get a little more sun," my husband suggested helpfully.
"Vampires get more sun than I do," I answered, irritated.

That evening, I decided to become a dark-haired siren. I was going to do a full-blown makeover- genetics be damned!

I started with my hair. I marched into my favorite salon and had them dump inky-black dye into it.
"So a lot of this dye is going to fade over time," my colorist stated, snapping her gum. "'Cause you have really pale, thin hair- and I just don't know if this color is going to hold."
"Gee, thanks," I said, sarcastically.
An hour later I came out of the salon looking like a Russian bride- a dead Russian bride. The dark color magnified my pale skin and, if I'm honest- I looked like I was wearing a wig.
"You look weird," my husband stated, confused. "Are you trying to look like Suri Cruise?"

The next day I decided to tackle my second goal- dark skin. I decided to avoid the tanning bed, as my fear of looking like a leather-skinned Florida retiree won out against my desire to look like a Latina- and went for the fake bronzer instead.
"What in the hell is all over the sheets?" My husband asked, horrified.
"Um...." I was orange and smelled like a chemical factory, but at least I wasn't pale. And while I could have passed for Snookie from MTV's Jersey Shore, I couldn't help but feel a little more like JLo.

My final step involved brown contacts, but then my boss thought I was high because my pupils 'looked dilated', and I had to take them out. My attempt at curves involved two falsies that looked like chicken cutlets- I tucked them into my bra and went out with my friends.
"Have you put on weight?" Bree asked me, confused.
I stuck out my chest, showing off. "I've put on weight here."
"Oh my god, honey- those look SO fake." Bree rolled her eyes. "Like, really? Did you shove rolled socks in your training bra?"
"You're just jealous," I sniffed.
"You're right, I am," she said, sarcastically. "I just had to get it off my chest."
"Very funny."

"We need to talk," my husband said, that evening. I was sitting next to him on the couch, my hair dark, my skin tan, my eyes brown, my breasts large.
"I'm really entertained by your makeover, honey- I really am." He paused. "But honestly?" He held my hands. "Really, honey, it's YOU I love. Not the totally hot Latina women. Just YOU."

As I looked into his eyes, I wasn't buying his bullshit for a second, but I went with it, mostly because keeping my roots dark was both expensive and exhausting, and my bronzer was ruining the sheets. "So you DO think that Macaulay Culkin is attractive?" I asked, sweetly.
"YES," he replied, nodding furiously. He would have agreed to anything to get me out of the Suri Cruise hair. "He is unbelievably hot. And so is Dakota Fanning, and Gollum," he finished.
"Good," I said, satisfied.

Time to stock up on some more sunscreen.

Birthday Girl

2010-12-05T18:36:00.012-07:00

I love my birthday.

A lot of people hate birthdays, but for me, it's the one day out of the year I can lord a small but significance amount of power over my friends and family- and get away with it. I'm sure it's how Paris Hilton feels every day of her life.

I usually start two weeks before my birthday by requesting my girlfriends take me out to an overpriced restaurant. I always tell them we'll 'keep it small this year', and then proceed to invite about twenty extra people (my friend's niece, the guy in the mail room at work, etc.) to the list. After my friends end up scrambling to negotiate with the restaurant to add additional people to the reservation, I usually 'change my mind' and request another venue.

"But we had to move heaven and earth to get twenty-six people on the 8:45pm reservation Saturday night," my friend Bree complained over the phone to me. "I don't know why you don't want to eat there anymore- I even got us seated up front by the window."
"I just think the lighting washes me out at that restaurant," I sighed into the phone, staring at my cuticles. "I mean, it's my birthday. Shouldn't my guests be able to view me in soft candlelight? I don't think that's asking too much."
Bree sighed. "I'll figure out another place."

A few days before my big night out, I like to complain that I have 'nothing to wear' for the birthday dinner, and then my friends all rush to calm me.
"You have that adorable red silk dress," Holly cooed to me over drinks at our favorite happy hour place. "You are SO gorgeous in it."
"So you want me to look like a fat fucking whore on my birthday?" I accused, bitterly, and slammed the rest of my wine. "Because that's what I look like in that dress. A fat fucking whore. It's like you don't care about my birthday at all." I managed to tear up a little bit.
"Um...er- no, no, honey!" Holly quickly tried to back pedal. "Really, you look great in that dress- but- well, did you want to borrow my new BCBG dress? You know, the one with the sequins? I haven't worn it yet, but it's your birthday and all..." I could tell she didn't really want to lend it to me, but I had her painted into a corner.
"Well, if you insist," I sniffed, pouting.

On the night of my birthday, my friends picked me up and drove me to the restaurant, fawning over my cute hair and wardrobe and basically tiptoeing around me like I was a minefield really to blow. I was seated at the head of the table like a Russian Czar and then proceeded to complain about everything, mostly because I was enjoying the negative attention I was receiving from my friends as they breathlessly assured me how great everything was.

"What is this wine?! Grape juice mixed with iodine? It tastes like shit," I complained dramatically, spitting some of it back up in my glass.
"No, it's great wine, the best, the most expensive- we spared no expense." Bree talked quickly. "We spared NO expense," she repeated.
"Well, okay, but the waiter hates me," I whined, sticking my bottom lip out. "I can tell."
"No, the waiter LOVES you," Holly interjected. "When you told him he's moving slower than a resident at an assisted care facility, I think he thought it was cute," she said, lying. "Here, open this gift I got you!" She was trying to distract me with a shiny pink package.
"Thanks," I said, sadly, like an abandoned orphan, and opened it to reveal a spa gift card for a facial at a fancy salon. "Oh...." I frowned.
"What?!"
"Well, a facial- I guess you think I need one with all the wrinkles I'm going to be getting in my old age," I said, a tear sliding down my cheek. "It is hard enough turning 34 without you rubbing it in my face- no pun intended." I dramatically put my head into my hands.
"No no no, you look so young," Bree said, with Holly nodding furiously next to her. "Like a college girl- no, like a HIGH SCHOOL girl, NO- you look like a pre-pubescent 6th grader," she continued, emphatically.
I sniffed through my tears. "Really? A 6th grader?" I felt a little better.
"Yeah, like, I'm surprised they didn't bring crayons and a coloring book over for you when they sat us all down." Bree didn't even flinch as she was feeding me these lines.

When the check finally came and everybody took out 2nd mortgages on their homes to pay for it (probably because I had ordered both the steak AND the lobster), I clinked a fork to my glass, and stood up.
"Speech!" The guy from the mail room at my work shouted from the end of the table.

I cleared my throat.

"First of all, I'd like to thank you all for coming out tonight to celebrate my birthday," I said, as I looked out on a sea a faces staring back at me. My girlfriends, who had organized the event, looked tired but relieved that the night was finally ending.

I continued. "I'm sure there's a lot of people in this restaurant wondering what a beautiful girl like me is doing at a table full of degenerate misfits, and I have to be honest- it's partly because there's nothing good on television on Saturday nights, and partly because some of my other, more attractive friends are busy tonight." I paused and sipped my wine, watching the smiles on my friends faces grow tighter. "But really, I am glad each of you are in my life. I mean, sure- do I know hobos with brighter futures than half the people at this table? Maybe. Do dogs have better tables manners than most of you? Yes." I paused again, and dramatically looked off into the distance. "But that's not what's important. What's important is that we're all together- celebrating my birthday on this cold December night. And while youth fades- friends are forever." I raised my glass as my guests awkwardly did the same, their eyes shooting daggers at me.
"To me!" I shouted, gaily.

Later that evening when my friends dropped me off in front of my place and peeled away, the tires of their car squealing on the asphalt, I sighed as another birthday slipped by.

Can't wait until next year!

Time & Time Again

2010-11-21T18:27:00.012-07:00

"Welcome to Time Management," the instructor said, a large stack of folders clutched to her chest. She beamed at us, proudly standing in front of the conference room in her salmon-colored suit. "I'm Sherry Baker, and this is the day you finally take control of your life!"

Ugh. Kill me now. I sat at a round circular table, surrounded by a few other corporate douche bags and prayed for a quick death. My boss had signed me up for a time management seminar- when I protested, he mentioned something about me missing deadlines, showing up late to work, and constantly reeking of vodka.
"I don't reek of vodka," I said, insulted, unable to defend the missing deadlines and showing up late to work part. "That's probably just my mouthwash you're smelling."
My boss snorted. "There's a handle of cranberry vodka in your desk drawer," he said dryly. "I'm assuming it's not there to clean wounds."

God, he's such an asshole. I stomped back to my desk to pout. I fantasized about quitting and starting my OWN company. A company where I didn't have a boss telling me I was an incompetent drunk. Then I realized that I WAS an incompetent drunk and didn't actually have any real desire, motivation, or capital to start a business. And then I didn't really care about attending a time management seminar, because I had already downed a glass of cranberry vodka over ice at that point and was feeling really good.

My cherry attitude quickly changed the next day when Sherry Baker started droning on and on about staying organized and scheduled, and I knew I was screwed. The class was two days, which meant I was in for 48 hours of incarceration, and Ms. Baker was my warden.

"First we're going to to understand who you are," she chirped, passing out thick packets. "Please fill out the questionnaire."
I'm right-handed, but I wrote my name at the top of the packet with my left hand, making it look like a small child's penmanship. I chuckled to myself, because I'm incredibly immature like that, and then opened it to the first page.

WHEN YOU HAVE A LOT OF WORK TO DO, HOW DO YOU GET IT ALL DONE?
I wrote 'what work?' and then went to the next question.

TELL ME ABOUT YOUR PRODUCTIVITY AND TIME MANAGEMENT SKILLS?
I don't have any. That's why I'm here.

WHAT DO YOU DO WHEN SOMEONE ELSE IS PREVENTING YOU FROM ACCOMPLISHING YOUR TASKS?
Thank them.

HOW DO YOU DETERMINE WHAT AMOUNT OF TIME IS REASONABLE FOR A TASK?
Typically, I tell my boss that every project he gives me will take me a 'lifetime' to complete. This gives me plenty of opportunity to take three hour lunches.

HAVE YOU EVER DONE A COST-BENEFIT ANALYSIS? TELL ME ABOUT IT.
What the fuck?

I didn't know the answer to the last question, so I snuck a peek at my neighbor's packet. She glared at me and covered her answers with her forearm.

"You need to fill out your own questionnaire," Sherry said cheerfully, staring at me. I felt like a 5th grader again, minus the juice boxes and dodge ball.

After lunch, we sat in a circle on the floor and our instructor held up a large red ball.
"We're going to share words that EMPOWER each of us," she said. "When you catch the ball, say a word that gives you POSITIVE ENERGY." She tossed the ball up in the air, and the guy next to me caught it. "Um..." He seemed confused. "My....kids?"
"Great!" Sherry Baker cheered. "Yes, if you have kids, they are a POSITIVE INFLUENCE ON YOUR LIFE ENERGY!"
I had no idea what life energy had to do with time management, but hell, it got me out of work for couple days, so I went with it and clapped with the rest of the group. When the ball flew up again, another women reached out for it. "My dogs give me lots of positive energy," she said, eagerly. "And my scrapbooking. I LOVE to scrapbook."
"YEAH!" Sherry pumped her fist like a Jersey Shore cast member. "Yeah!"
When the ball flew up again, I caught it. My mind blanked for a second, and then I said, "Sherry Baker gives ME life energy!" I was kissing her ass, hoping she'd send word back to my boss that I was a model student.
"YOU KNOW IT!" Sherry shouted, waving her arms. I was surprised her head didn't explode.

On the second day we talked about stress and how it affects our schedules. Sherry had us all share how we deal with stress.
"Well, I...." I glanced around the room. A lot of people had mentioned really lame shit for dealing with stress- things like exercise, spending time with their family, and prayer. I didn't believe their bullshit for a second.
"I really enjoy drinking," I said, truthfully. Sherry nodded encouragingly, so I kept going. "And sometimes I'll take, like, two or three Midol, you know for PMS? But I won't really have PMS- I just like the way Midol makes me feel- like I'm flying across space on a unicorn's back, you know?" Sherry kept nodding. "And then after the Midol, I'll have one glass of wine- okay maybe three- and then I really like to blast Gwen Stefani or Madonna or Lady Gaga-" I couldn't stop, my confession spilling out of my body like diarrhea. Sherry had stopped nodding and my coworkers were staring at me blankly, but I couldn't stop. "And then I'll get in this old terry cloth robe I've had for over a decade-it has bloodstains all over it-and I'll post a couple obscene comments on my ex-boyfriend's Facebook page, and then wax my bikini line. Eventually I'll blackout from either the Midol or the wine or the bikini wax pain- and I'll come to like four hours later and feel much, much better, you know?" Satisfied, I stopped and sipped my water.
"Um- thanks....for sharing," Sherry said, awkwardly, her enthusiasm gone.

"How was it?" My boss asked the next day, peering into my cube.
"Great," I said, cheerfully. "I learned a TON."
"So you'll start turning your work in on time?" He asked, hopefully.
"No," I answered. "Sherry wants me to lower my stress, so I'm going to actually work less." I popped a Midol in my mouth and swallowed it down with some water as I watched him walk away, disappointed.

He should take up scrapbooking.

The Flu

2010-11-07T19:33:00.004-07:00

When I was 28 years old, I was unemployed and lived at my parent's house due to lack of funds and job offers. They were out of town for weeks on end, leaving my cousin and I (who was also staying with us) on our own. I did nothing but sleep in and drink beer for those three months, and in the middle of it all, I got sick.

Really, really sick.

It started with a fever- I remember waking up one morning feeling like an overcooked Hot Pocket. The chills started in next, followed by coughing, a sinus infection, watery eyes, and occasional vomiting. It's probably how Lindsay Lohan feels every morning after a night of partying and substance abuse.

I crawled down the hall and into the kitchen, my pajamas soaked through with sweat, my hair matted, my mouth covered in foam. I struggled to stand, my hands shaking as I held a cup under the faucet for a drink of water.
"You look like shit," my cousin said, walking into the kitchen. He was on his way to his internship and rummaged in the pantry for some cereal before work. "What's your deal?" He asked.
"Flu," I wheezed, my legs buckling underneath me. I clutched the counter for stability.
"Are you sure it's not something else?" My cousin asked, pouring milk into his cereal bowl.
"It's not a STD," I said, quickly.
My cousin paused. "I just meant like food poisoning or something," he said, confused.

When he left, I realized I had no health insurance and would have to treat this with over-the-counter medicine. I opened my parent's medicine cabinet and found ginkgo biloba, a bag of dried seaweed, and a colon cleansing kit. Damn hippies! I was sick, not headed to a meditation retreat. Jesus, who's dick was I going to have to suck for an Advil?

I spent the day taking cold showers to get my temperature down, taking small sips of Drano in lieu of cold medicine, and making erratic phone calls to my sister through my fever-induced hallucinations.
"Hello?" My sister said on the other end of the phone.
"Sissy?" I slurred from the floor of the bathroom. With one hand I was clutching my cell phone and the other was holding the side of the toilet. The porcelain felt cool against my hot skin. "Is that you?"
"Of course it's me, you called me," she barked, impatient. "How's the job search going?"
"Not so good," I whispered meekly from my spot on the bathroom floor. "Listen....if I die, I want you to have all my money. Go buy yourself something nice."
"Wow, thanks, sis, but I'm not sure what I could purchase with $2.38," my sister responded sarcastically.
"So...rude...." I croaked, watching the tiles on the floor spin in unison. And now- were the tiles dancing? In little top hats?
"I've got to go," my sister said, interrupting the dancing floor tiles and hanging up on me.

The low point of that day came when I stumbled to the fridge in my house, desperate to rid myself of the waves of heat my body was sending off. I was in nothing but my underwear and a sports bra, and in a moment of insanity, tore the freezer door open and grabbed all the frozen vegetable bags out of it. Taking a large roll of duct tape, I attached the frozen bags to my arms and legs, permanently taping the frozen food to my body. Once done, I stumbled into the living room and passed out. It was hours later when I awoke, my cousin shaking me awake.
My eyes fluttered. "Jesus? Is that you?" I moaned.
"Um..." my cousin stared at me blankly. Six bags of melted frozen vegetable bags were taped to various parts of my limbs, my sports bra sweated through and my hair tangled with dirt and dust from the floor. "Is that- are those a bag of carrots duct taped to your thighs?" He asked in horror. "What- what HAPPENED?"

"So....sick......" I whispered, the smell of warmed vegetable melody strong against my bare stomach.

Days later I was finally able to get out of bed, my fever down. I was grateful I had finally recovered from the flu, and now, I needed to get back to my life.

And stock the freezer back up with frozen vegetables.

Intoxicated Travel

2010-10-31T13:53:00.011-06:00

My husband and I returned from our vacation in London yesterday. I would love to tell you all about it- the sights, the food, the history- except I don't remember anything.

I was drunk the entire time.

London has pubs. Lots and lots of pubs. See, over here in Denver all we have are bars. Bars containing a few beers, some plastic tables, and a television in the corner blaring some game. But pubs in London? It's a whole different story.

"There are different types of beer in London," my husband informed me, flipping through our London guidebook. "They have lagers, and bitters, and stouts." His eyes gleamed in anticipation.
"What's the difference between them?" I asked. We were sitting on the plane in coach, and I was struggling with opening the plastic bag wrapped around the pillow and blanket provided to us.
"It's based on their-" my husband stopped short, noticing that I had managed to get my head caught inside the plastic bag and was suffocating inside it. "Dear god, honey!" He freed me from the bag frantically as I gasped for air. "What-how...?" He read the warning label on the side of the plastic: TO AVOID DANGER OF SUFFOCATION, KEEP THIS PLASTIC BAG AWAY FROM BABIES AND CHILDREN.
I coughed and sucked down more air. "You just saved my life," I wheezed to him.
"Um...." I could see the confusion on my husband's face, as he silently registered that he needed to keep plastic bags out of my hands. "I guess I should get electric outlet covers for the house as well," he mumbled, dryly.
"Good idea," I said, thinking about the week before, when I tried to shove a metal fork in one of them, just to see what would happen.

We landed in London and checked into our hotel, excited to see the big sights- Buckingham Palace, Westminster Abbey, the Clock Tower, Big Ben! Touring down the streets of London, though, we suddenly stopped.
"Look, a pub," I pointed.
"I guess we could stop in for a quick pint," my husband said eagerly.
Four hours and five pints later, I was telling the bartender my life story and hubby was discussing Deerhunter's latest album with a group of guys from Clerkenwell.
"You mean you almost suffocated inside a plastic bag?" The bartender asked me, amused. "Isn't that how babies die?"
"I know, right?" I rolled my eyes, like it was the bag's fault. Suddenly serious, I reached out and clutched his hand. "Oh, and thank you for letting us borrow David and Victoria," I said, referring to the Beckham's move to Los Angeles. "We are taking VERY good care of them."
"Um- thanks, mate," he said, shaking his head and laughing. I really appreciated his good humor.

This happened again and again. "Look, a pub," was said by either my husband or I at least 8-10 times a day, followed by a pint (or two). Which means London started to get real fuzzy.

"Excuse me....sir- where's the Rosetta Stone?" I slurred to one of the security guards in the British Museum, trying to remember how many drinks I had downed that afternoon.
"It's on the Ground Floor, to the left," he informed me.
"Oh, thanks- so it's just a stone's throw away," I joked, unable to resist the pun.
He raised an eyebrow as my husband dragged me away. "You need to read your information guide,” he said. “That guy probably gets asked that question a thousand times a day.”
“But I’m listening to music right now,” I protested, gesturing to the headphones around my ears.
“That’s your audio guide, sweetie,” he replied. “Not a CD player. You type in the number for each of the displays and it will tell you about the object.”
“Right.” I thought it was weird that Lady Gaga was giving me an informational talk on the Sutton Hoo Treasure, but I just assumed she was just being avant garde or something.

At the Tower of London, famous for imprisoning and executing traitors back in the day, I ended up falling asleep (read: passing out) on the lawn. I came to when I felt my husband shaking me awake.
"Oh god, I know exactly how Anne Boleyn felt," I moaned.
"Honey, she was beheaded. Aren't you being a little dramatic?"
"Please. An axe to the neck about sums up the amount of pain I'm in. At that last pub, the Lamb & Goat? Was I singing, 'Lagers and Bitters and Stouts, oh my' to the tune of that similar song in The Wizard Of Oz?"
My husband squinted in thought. "I think the pub was called Goat & Lamb- and yes, you were singing that. I think at one point you even tapped your shoes together like Dorthy."
"We're not in Kansas anymore," I said, my head pounding.

We went to see the Crown Jewels, but I felt nauseous on the moving walkway staring at them, the gem's colors swirling together behind the bullet proof glass.
"That diamond is 105 carats," my husband informed me, pointing to the Crown of Queen Elizabeth.
"Imagine how many pints that could buy," I mused.

A few hours later, I was vomiting into the Thames River and my husband mentioned that he was concerned with the amount of time we were spending in pubs.
"But I don't wanna stop drinking in pubs," I whined, coughing up the last bit of bile. "I love the pubs here. Every time I walk into one...." I searched for the words. "It feels like Britain is giving me a hug. The pubs are warm, welcoming, sparkly and happy. And we're only here for like a week," I finished.
"I know," he agreed, and handed me one of our travel wet wipes to clean myself off. "We'll just have to keep going, I guess." He opened the guidebook. "Want to figure out what to see next- in a pub?" He looked a little sheepish.
"Hell yes, I do," I replied.

Cheers!

The Oldest Resident

2010-10-11T17:49:00.014-06:00

When I was in my mid-twenties, I moved to my younger sister's college town. I had recently graduated from another school myself, and had talked her into letting me stay at her place while I looked for a job.

My sister lived in the dorms.

She was a RA- a Resident Assistant. You know, the slightly older college student who decides to babysit 28 freshmen girls in exchange for free room, board, and sanity? Well, as part of the contract she also got her own room- and I got a free bed. For the students, it was a campus, for me, it was a homeless shelter. Pass the soup and head full of lice.

Some might think that a 24-year-old living in a college dorm with her younger sister and a herd of freshman girls is pathetic. But those are people who have things like dignity, self-respect, and class. Luckily for me, I posses none of those qualities and was quite comfortable with the arrangement.

I admit it was odd in the beginning. I would wrap myself in my terrycloth robe, gather my toiletries up in my plastic hot pink shower caddy, and shuffle to the bathroom.
"So, your sister is the RA?" One girl asked me, as we were simultaneously brushing our teeth in front of the bathroom mirrors.
"Yeah, my apartment is getting painted," I lied, spitting into the sink. "So I'm crashing at her place for a while."
"You DO realize her 'place' is a dorm room," the 17-year-old questioned me, wise beyond her years.
"I know, right?" I mock rolled my eyes, like I was annoyed, and then changed the subject. "Ugh, did you eat the fried chicken last night in the cafeteria? SOOOO gross."
"Oh my god, SO gross," she agreed, flossing her teeth. "You going to Matt's kegger tonight? 3rd floor."
"I will SO be there," I said, excited to be included.

"I can't believe I slept with him," Madison moaned, sitting on the floor of her dorm room. I was behind her, on the bunk bed, braiding her hair and chewing gum.
"Well, we were totally wasted," I giggled, enjoying her company and the feel of her soft hair between my fingers. "I cannot believe Dakota made us do those shots," I continued, glancing at Madison's roommate, who was on her computer writing a paper.
"Oh my god, YOU are the one that started prank calling Madison's ex-boyfriend," Dakota protested from her desk, still hungover. "And now I can't even think straight, and I have to finish this assignment."
"TELL me about it," I said, twisting a hair tie around Madison's braid. "My boss wants, like, two or three deliverable, integrated solutions for this major account to leverage our overhead so we can avoid outsourcing," I moaned, referring to my corporate job.
"Oh my god, SO annoying," Dakota said, as Madison nodded in agreement.
"Oh my god, I KNOW," I complained, and cracked my gum. "Hey, wanna watch 40 Days and 40 Nights?" I asked. "Josh Hartnett is SUCH a hottie- and I've got some leftover pizza in the fridge."
"Totally in," Dakota said, as Madison nodded once more in agreement.

"You are getting out of control," my sister complained, as we were settling into our twin beds in her dorm room, the mattresses on the beds about as thick as a Kotex Maxipad.
"It's not my fault Taylor got us all drunk and made us streak through the front lobby," I protested. "Plus, I have a HUGE crush on Josh- you know, from room 406? He was there and is SO hot- I wanted to hang out with him."
"I'm going to have to write you up again if you're not careful," my sister warned, referring to the previous weekend, when she caught Brianna and I taking bong hits in the shower stalls. "I mean, what, you're a college kid now? What's next, you're going to get a butterfly tattooed on your lower back?"
"Um.....no," I said quickly, silently reminding myself to cancel my Saturday appointment with Devil's Ink.

My sister kept trying to bait me into tattling on my new friends.

"Does Rachel have a bunch of candles in her room?" My sister asked suspiciously, eyeing me. "You know that's a fire hazard." We were in the university library- she was researching something for a paper she had to write and I was sniffing her highlighters, trying to get high.
"What? No...." I fibbed. Rachel and I had lit enough candles in her room that night to send Smoky the Bear himself over to our room for a well-deserved beating. But Rachel and I were trying to create a sexy atmosphere so we could make out- because word on the street is that you're supposed to 'experiment' in college. And really, when you're that drunk, does it matter what gender is groping you?
"You already went to college," my sister hissed. "Like, two years ago."
"You don't need to be rude," I complained.
"You have fine lines, for fuck sakes," she answered.
"Now I'm hurt," I pouted.

The semester ended, and eventually I had to say goodbye to all my dorm friends and the college lifestyle I had (once again) enjoyed so immensely.
"Now you're going to have to be an adult, find your own place, and pay rent," my sister said, as we packed and loaded up my posters, lava lamp, and twin sheet set into my car.
"I'm actually spending the summer at Dakota's beach house," I replied, slamming trunk of my car shut. "Her parents are letting us crash there- we're going to get lifeguard jobs and work on our tans for the next three months."
"There's no hope for you, is there," my sister said. It wasn't a question, it was a statement.

I almost said something snarky back, but you know what? I didn't want to get written up again.

I'll Never Be CEO

2010-09-29T20:50:00.006-06:00

Once a year, my boss takes our entire company out to a baseball game.

Our main office is in Denver, Colorado, and our second office is in Salt Lake City, Utah. Which means half my coworkers are Mormon.

Baseball + Mormons = Me In A Coma.

You think baseball is boring? Try having a conversation with a Mormon. I know inanimate objects with more personality. Mormons can't talk about anything fun (read: sex, drugs, alcohol). Mormons can only converse about three things: kids, church, and the weather. Which means I have more in common with serial killers than I do with Mormons.

So there I was, trapped watching a baseball game with a pack of Mormons. It was more torturous than waterboarding, and my boss was Dick Cheney.
"Isn't this great?" My boss asked excitedly, like an asshole. I wanted to hit him.

The game started with the national anthem, and the Mormons stood up excitedly, their hands over their hearts. Mormons love America. They also love being white, giving birth, khaki pants, and lemonade. They don't drink alcohol, so at the baseball game they were all drinking tons and tons of lemonade.
"You likey the game?" I slurred to the Mormon sitting next to me. I was on my fifth beer (can you blame me?) and desperately trying to entertain myself. I had a baseball game in front of me (yawn) and a Mormon to my right. I imagined it was how a gay man felt in between two women: not interested in either.

"This is fun," said the Mormon, sipping his lemonade. He looked like Howdy Doodie, the puppet. And I was pretty sure the only one handling his strings was God.
"So, you've only had sex with like, one person, right?" I mumbled, noting the ring on his left hand.
"Um..." Howdy squirmed uncomfortably.
"Isn't that like going to a buffet and only eating the dinner rolls?" I continued. "I mean, there's like, prime rib, and salad, and all those yummy desserts...." I raised my eyebrows suggestively.
I heard my boss bark my name behind me, and as I turned to look at him he glared at me. I raised my beer in greeting.
"So," I said, returning to my conversation with the Mormon. "You don't want a beer? It's REAL good." I knocked back the rest of mine. "Why don't you make yourself useful and get mommy another?" I asked, shaking my empty cup in front of him.
As Howdy raced off, my boss approached me. "You really need to tone it down," he said sternly.
"Is this about me pressing my tits against the glass on the elevator?" I asked. "Because only like half the office saw that."
My boss flinched. "We really need to not completely offend the Salt Lake group," he grumbled.
"You're the one who invited them out here," I snapped. "Me making jokes about being somebody's fifth wife is just my way of coping."
"Oh, God," my boss groaned.
"You invited him too? Fuck, I am screwed," I said.

I tried to be nice to them. Like, I let Howdy hold my hair back when I ended up vomiting into a nacho platter, and I told Lisa, the 23-year-old with four kids that her body seemed to bounce back nicely after delivering her litter. All in all, I thought the evening went well.

"The Salt Lake City group left this morning," my boss told me the next day. I was hungover and his voice hurt my ears.

"Looks like my prayers have been answered," I replied, before running to the bathroom to puke again.

Retail Lies

2010-09-12T13:12:00.008-06:00

I'm one of those people that thinks you can 'buy' yourself into a talent, a hobby, or sport. That if I purchase something, that makes up for things like actual interest in said hobby or any real skill.

When I was 18, I decided I was going to become a rock climber. So I went to some lame-ass sporting goods store where the men inside it all reek of BO and the women don't wear makeup- I guess because they're 'outdoorsy'. (Um, it's called concealer, honey- and you need it.)
"Can I help you?" The sales lady, in some horrid wind pants that made her look like the Goodyear Blimp, approached me.
"I need rock climbing gear. Because...I'm going to be a rock climber."
$350 bucks later I was walking out of the store with shoes tiny enough for an infant, a harness, and rope. I was ready to rock climb or participate in some serious S&M.

The shoes I ended up losing, the rope I used to tie down boxes on the top of my car when I moved, and the harness I ended up giving to a girlfriend who had a hyperactive four year old boy. She'd put the kid in the harness, attach a long rope to the end of it, and watch him chase leaves in the backyard for hours like a dog.
"He's SO much easier to deal with now," she told me, as we stood at the window inside her house and watched her son gnaw on a piece of wood in the backyard.
"Is that a water bowl out there?" I asked.

Once I had a dream that I was Darius Rucker, the lead singer of Hootie and the Blowfish. The next day I told my dad that I thought this was a sign that I should play the guitar.
"That's pretty weird, sweetie," my dad said.
"That I dreamed I was a black man?"
"No..." Dad paused. "That you would want a guitar," he answered. "I wasn't aware that you had any musical interest whatsoever."
I knew he was referring to the year in 5th grade when I talked my parents into buying me a saxophone, played it for 30 seconds, and then ended up getting my forearm stuck inside the bell of the horn.
"Dad- I MUST have a guitar," I pleaded. "Please?"
A month later, after my dad purchased it, I ended up trading the guitar for a bag of weed and a pair of sheepskin seat covers. Naturally, my dad was right.

I was going to be a 'fashion designer' at one point and purchased a sewing machine. I made my sister a dress that looked like I had sewn together two twin sheets and then cut a hole in the top- which I did.
"Oh, wow, this is..." My sister stood in the middle of the living room, her twin sheet dress belted at the waist, confused as all hell. "This is interesting...."
"Isn't it great?!" I asked, lying. In reality she looked like a patient in a mental institution. "You should wear it out tonight!"

My basement is littered with all my fake interests- a punching bag when I was going to be a kick-boxer, skies from when I was a skier, and tons of painting supplies when I decided I was going to paint. I think the only time I used them is when a couple of my friends got drunk at my house, passed out, and I ended up painting pictures of dicks on their faces. Picasso I'm not.

If I truly want to be honest with myself- I really don't have any talent or interest in anything. The only thing I truly know how to do, and do well- is be funny.

And, luckily for me, funny is free.

Be Our Guest

2010-08-31T19:47:00.008-06:00

My husband and I live in a one bedroom condo in downtown Denver with a single parking space. Our second car, a 1992 Subaru, sits in the street.

This car looks like it has been through Armageddon. It's 18 years old, has chipped gold paint, massive dents, ripped upholstery, and rust damage. The car has no hubcaps, locks, or seat belts. My husband walks to work and I drive the first car, so we hardly ever use it- only on the occasional weekend. We named the car 'Piggy' because it's in such bad shape and is trashed. But we keep her because she's been paid off for more then a decade and really, has become a member of the family.

"I think a vagabond is living in Piggy," my husband announced one day after coming home from work and slamming the front door behind him.
"Come again?" I was sitting on the couch, perusing US Weekly (Spencer and Heidi divorced!) and drinking a glass (bottle) of white wine.
"I found some empty bottles of Jack Daniel's in the front seat of the car," he replied.
"Those are mine."
My husband adjusted his glasses and continued. "I also found an old sleeping bag, some men's shirts, and a pair of shoes."
"Oh wow," I said, intrigued. "A homeless person moved into our car?!? We're landlords!"

My mind raced as I thought of all the possibilities. Like, could we charge rent? Is our new tenant going to put a bag of ice in the glove compartment and call it a refrigerator? If we had to use the car, could he sit in the backseat and wrap his arms around the driver, thus saving us the expense of having to replace the seat belts?

"A vagabond is living in my car!" I excitedly announced the next day at work. I loved saying the word 'vagabond'. It was 100 times more sophisticated than 'homeless person', 'hobo', or 'crack head'.
"Oh..." my coworker Stephanie, cooed in awe. "Are you going to call the police?"
Of course I wasn't going to call the police. First of all, Piggy doesn't even have locks on her, so it's not really 'breaking and entering'. And secondly, having a hobo live in my car is.....fucking awesome. I would be the talk of the town for weeks!

I left bottled water and sandwiches in Piggy for my tenant, eager to make his stay more comfortable. We made sure to never drive or move the car, as we would be taking his personal belongings with us. I just kept hoping I would run into him, but never did- we just found traces of his existence. A few paperback novels would show up in the backseat, a pile of peanuts would appear on the dashboard, and at one point our car battery died when he left the lights on in the car.
"I had to jump Piggy because our vagabond left the dome light on," my husband grumbled one day.
"He is so absentminded, our vagabond," I said, fondly. "I hope he enjoys that organic raspberry cheesecake I left in the trunk for him."

Eventually, to my dismay, our vagabond moved out. I was horrified when I stopped by his place, opened the car door, and found his clothes and shoes gone.
"He moved out!" I sobbed to my husband that evening.
"What! Our front seats fully recline!" My husband shouted indignantly. "Did he find a fancier vehicle to squat in?"
"Our neighbors have a 2002 Outback," I pointed out. "Maybe he moved into theirs."
"I really didn't take him for a snob," my husband said, insulated.

I really do miss our tenant, and would love to invite him over to our car for some coffee sometime. I just wish I could find the license plate he lives at. Sigh.

Lawn Care

2010-08-19T17:33:00.006-06:00

When my sister and I were in elementary school, my dad decided that he was done dealing with the lawn.

Now for my parents,'dealing' with the lawn meant mowing it three times a year and praying for rainfall so they didn't have to drag the hose out from the garage. Our yard was dry in some parts, overgrown in others. At one point my little sister fell asleep in a patch of grass about two feet high, and we had to call the police because we thought she was abducted. Four hours later she stumbled sleepy-eyed into the house, and Dad goes, "Damn, I should really cut that grass."

There was also the issue with the animal graveyard. Half the lawn was covered in graves from our long dead friends, like Stephen King's Pet Cemetery. The tombstones were laid out side by side, the names of our former animals listed on them- Goldie, Muffin, Felicia, Pinky- god, did we always name our pets after prostitutes? It was like looking at a porn star lineup.

My parents claimed that they were going to just cover the entire yard in bark and forget about it, and two weeks later the trucks came in and dropped enough bark in our backyard to fill about eighteen dumpsters. It covered everything- the pet cemetery, the grass, the half-dead bushes. Our backyard was basically bark with a fence around it.

We had the red bark, so when it rained, the color would leak into the front of the house, staining the entire sidewalk with what resembled blood. It was like something out of The Shining. The bark was real soft, too- my sister and I could jump in it, play in it, roll around in it- honestly, it was like living in a gerbil cage. My parents would leave bottles of water and pellets of food next to the bark so that we wouldn't come into the house. For anything.
"Just cover your poo up with the bark," my mom said, after explaining to us to just shit in the bark and than cover it up with- more bark. There was so much bark that you could hide anything in it- excrement, toys, dead bodies, whatever.

I don't think the neighbors liked it very much, but really- would you want to look at a pile of pencil shavings everyday on your way to work? I didn't blame them, really. I mean, can you image if somebody had accidentally thrown a cigarette butt on my parent's lawn? The entire neighborhood would have gone up like it had been firebombed. Our house had more kindling than the Boy Scouts.

My parents still live in that house and the bark is still there- a little weathered, yes- but still there. Along with the carcass of my dead cat, Felicia, of course.

Lights Out

2010-08-09T19:46:00.007-06:00

A few days ago we had a power outage in our building, and my husband and I were without electricity for about 24 hours.

It was complete mayhem.

About 20 seconds before we lost our electricity, I had every light in the condo on, was running the blender to make a banana-mango smoothie, heating up my flatiron, listening to the radio, and cruising the Internet for topless pictures of Taylor Lautner.

And, suddenly- there was silence. And dark.

"Honey?" I said into the blackness. "Where are you?! Dear god- I think- I think we lost power! I can't see you!"
"I'm sitting six inches from you at the kitchen table," he said, munching on a bowl of cereal. "We're in a 600 square foot condo and it's like, one o'clock in the afternoon. You're hardly blind, sweetie."
"Oh my god!" I screeched. "We're going to DIE!"
"It'll turn back on in about 30 seconds," my husband said.

But he was wrong. 2 hours later, we were still without electricity, and I was hysterical.
"My hair- it's frizzing out! The flatiron doesn't work! I can't get onto my favorite Hollywood gossip website- and how are we going to eat?!" I had a point there. The food in the non-working fridge was going rotten.
"I guess we'll just have to eat whatever is in the pantry," my husband said.
"God! It's a fucking Apocalypse!!" I screamed, and fell to my knees. "Why, god, why us?! Why now!?"

That night, I had to wash the dishes, by hand.
"What is this, Little House on the fucking Prairie?!" I sobbed, my perfectly-manicured hands immersed in hot suds. "How did people live like this?"
"We'll be fine," my husband assured me, while he scraped down a piece of wood with a pocket knife.
"Are you whittling?"
"Sure am. I'm carving out a little wooden creature. I think it's going to be a mouse- should look nice on the mantle."
"What is happening to us?!" I screeched, the water in the sink scorching my soft hands.

That evening, as I worked on my needlepoint by candlelight and gently swayed back and forth in my rocking chair, I couldn't help but admire the simplicity of the lifestyle they had back in the day. I sighed contently. "Remember, Pa, when we used to be slaves to our cell phones, computers, and the information age?"
"You mean this morning?" Pa asked from his desk, dipping his feather into its inkwell. He was writing poetry now, and I was extremely proud of him. "It is nicer," he mused, leaning back in his chair and running his fingers through his suspenders. "I'm enjoying this power outage." He glanced over at me. "And you made the best darn Cornmeal Mush and Bean Porridge tonight that I ever did have the pleasure of eatin', Ma," he said to me with a wink.
"Oh, Pa." I blushed up to my ears. He just might get a look at my petticoats tonight!

The next morning, as I was frying potato cakes over the fireplace and Pa was oiling up his boots, the lights flickered, and then came on. We looked as each other in astonishment.
"The power...it's back on," Pa said, astonished.

Darn it. Guess I'm going to have to wait to finish that needlepoint pillow until the next Apocalypse.

Time for Dinner

2010-08-01T17:57:00.004-06:00

I was hanging out with my friend, who I'll call Jen, (because that's her name) and she was talking about her days in college. She mentioned a friend in her sorority who used to be bulimic, and then Jen mused, "but hey- what girl hasn't had an eating disorder at one point in her life?"

I thought- so true, Jen- so true.

Eating disorders and women go together like peanut butter and jelly- thrown up, of course. I've seen it all- anorexia, bulimia, laxative abuse, over-exercising, crash diets, pill popping-and even....cotton balls.

"I'm going to leave you here for about 30 minutes while the color sets," my hairdresser said to me at my favorite salon. I was settled under a hair dryer, flipping through a magazine and getting my roots touched up.
"My friend is coming over with lunch," my hairdresser continued, as a girl walked into the salon with a brown paper bag. "Oh, there she is now!"
My confusion turned to horror as my hairdresser and her friend pulled cotton balls and some apple juice out of the lunch sack, dipped the cotton balls into the juice, and then swallowed them whole.
She glanced over at me watching them, my jaw on the floor, and said- "Oh, the cotton balls- they expand in your stomach and you don't get hungry. I've lost like, ten pounds doing this."
A million thoughts raced through my head- if you have cotton balls for lunch, can you shit a quilt? And what's for dinner? Q-tips?
My jaw re-attached itself to my face and, thinking about her ten-pound loss, I asked- "can I have one?"

My one girlfriend in college was a full-blown bulimic, and even though her teeth started turning yellow from the stomach acid exposure- I couldn't help but admire her 115 lb. frame.
"She's reeks like puke," my other friend whispered to me.
"I know- but she looks great," I replied, envious.

A couple of times I've attempted to have an eating disorder and failed- like when I try to go without eating for a day to 'drop a pound or two', and then around 10pm that night I'm face-down in a frozen pizza, too hungry to wait and properly cook it in the oven.
"That's disgusting," my husband said, watching me gum the ice off a piece of pepperoni.
"I'm fucking STARVING!" I scream, my eyes rolled into the back of my head, crouched on the floor of our kitchen, hovered over the frozen pizza like a panther after a fresh kill. "Leave me ALONE!"

I could sit here and blame the media, supermodels, and society for our eating disorders- but really, I think women majorly bond over our fight with food, and maybe, a little bit- secretly enjoy it. We bitch with each other over spinning classes and our cabbage diet- and connect with each other in a way men cannot.

Pass the cotton balls- I've got a pool party to attend this weekend.

Dress Up

2010-07-22T16:59:00.004-06:00

When I was single I dressed for boys. I wore tight jeans that made my ass look like you could bounce a quarter off of it, low-cut (yet classy) tops, and high heels. I had the long blond hair and 'natural looking' makeup- because boys don't like caked-on clown paint, they want you to look pretty and approachable. This was my 'look' for about fifteen years.

At the age of 31, I got married. And then I stopped dressing for men and started dressing for my own personal entertainment.

Vintage house dress from 1952? Love it. Cowboy boots with a tuxedo jacket? Done. Cut a hole in the top of a trash bag and belt it? Why the fuck not?

My husband doesn't care, because the fool is in love with me and really, I could get away with murder around him. I literally asked him once, "Would you hate me if I murdered someone?"
"I'm sure you'd have a good reason for doing it, honey," he said absentmindedly while pursing the newspaper.

That is so sweet.

I met my girlfriend out for drinks in a black leotard, knee-high black boots, and a dog collar. I looked like an extra from Van Helsing.
"WHAT in the hell are you wearing?!" She demanded, glancing around the bar, probably praying no one was staring. "What, you're in a fucking biker gang now? Roll in here on a Harley?"
"You're just jealous," I said, adjusting the rolled whip on my hip.

I went to a party last weekend in a pair of Lycra hot pants, flip-flops with little cherries on them, and bright red lipstick.
"Oh look, Katy Perry is here, everybody," my sister said sarcastically, and handed me a beer. "Seriously, sis- you are 33 goddamn years old. I think you need to chill on the Lycra."
"That's what my mother-in-law said this morning at brunch," I replied, squirming in my pants. It was hot, and I was starting to sweat in my Lycra. "I'm pretty sure she is a little worried about me- being married to her son and all."
"No shit....hey- did you kiss a girl- and like it?"
"Very funny."

I wonder if I just enjoy receiving negative attention, or am I simply bored? My husband and I went to a nice restaurant last night and I was in striped bib overalls.
"I feel like I'm on a date with Thomas the Tank Engine," he mused across the table, sipping his red wine. "Seriously, honey, I love you- but when is this whole costume phase going to end?"

He should just be grateful I haven't murdered anybody.

Get A Clue

2010-07-14T19:39:00.005-06:00

My memory has been really, really, bad lately. I don't know if it's my late-night drinking, or my daily Xanax-popping ritual- but I can't remember a goddamn thing. So my life has become the board game, Clue- I gather all the evidence to figure what happened the day before. I've become the Nancy Drew of my own life.

Question: WHY IS MY KITCHEN FLOOR SO STICKY?

Answer: Professor Plum, in the library, with the candlestick!

Ok, so....last night....I stared at the red gooey sludge on my tile floor. I remember scooping up watermelon....but why is so MUCH of it on the ground?! I frown, and open the fridge- I remember coming home, getting into my lounge wear (read: sweatpants and a dirty sports bra from 2002). I remember- WAIT! There! In the recycling bin! An empty bottle of Everclear! Ha! I have solved the mystery!

Me, in the kitchen, with a bottle of Everclear, making melon balls! And then I ate, like, a dozen of them!

Question: WHY DID HUMAN RESOURCES SCHEDULE AN 'URGENT' 9AM MEETING WITH ME?

Answer: Miss Scarlett, in the conservatory, with the revolver!

Um....I glance around my desk at work....everything seems fine....I turned in my last report on time....yesterday, I came into work, grabbed some coffee, filed some papers....WAIT! I glance up- the screen saver on my computer! It's- it's a picture of two men making love to one women! I had downloaded porn at work- and then- uploaded one of the pictures as my screen saver?! Eureka! Mystery solved!

Me, in my office, with porn! I'm going to get fired!

Question: WHO PURCHASED OVER $400 WORTH OF SHEEPSKIN THROWS ON MY CREDIT CARD?

Answer: Colonel Mustard, in the ballroom, with the lead pipe!

Oh god....$400? Who would do that? I pondered this question, sipping white white in my living room, lounging on the couch. Sheepskins....sheepskins....hmm.....I remember- using my credit card, I remember- shopping online- WAIT A FUCKING MINUTE! I sat up and looked down at the couch. Holy shit, I'm sitting on the sheepskin throws now! They're perfectly draped across the furniture- just like the picture in my interior design magazine!

Me, drunken online shopping, with a Visa!

Phew. Well, looks like I have figured out most of this week's mysteries. And now, about that Colonel Mustard- what a hottie! Me and Colonel Mustard, in the den, with massage oils.....

Me & Cuz

2010-07-05T17:28:00.006-06:00

When I was 28, a series of life events lead me to move back in with my parents for the summer. I had left a boyfriend, quit a job, traveled around Europe for a bit, and, upon returning- found myself with no money to call my own. It was, by coincidence, the same summer my cousin also moved in with my parents- he was 24 at the time and had a summer job in Colorado, miles away from his college in Missouri. My cousin and I waved at my parent's RV pulling out of the driveway as they set off for four months of touring, leaving the two of us alone in the house.

That was the summer I dated my cousin.

Not literally, of course. That's gross. But we were both broke and single, with no real friends- and really, we only had each other to hang out with.

"What should we do for lunch?" My cousin asked this around noon on a Tuesday, the two of us in our swimsuits, relaxed on lounge chairs, downing a six-pack of beer in the backyard. My days were spent looking for work (read: sleeping in, watching TV, drinking) and my cousin was putting in roughly 15-20 hours a week at his job. We had more time on our hands than an inmate convicted to life in prison.

"I dunno," I slurred, adjusting the straps on my bikini. "Sandwich?" I rolled over. "Could you rub sunscreen on my back?"
"Sure Cuz," he said. "I really like your bikini, by the way."

At night, we would order pizza with my parents' credit card and watch movies on cable.
"STOP tickling me!" I giggled hysterically as my cousin dug his thumbs into my armpits while we were in our pajamas on the couch watching Out Cold.
"I'm gonna get you!" He said, wiggling his fingers at me while I threw popcorn at him flirtatiously.
"Oh my god, you are the worst," I laughed, flipping my hair. I couldn't help but wonder if he thought I was cute in my silk boxers.

Our lives became intertwined. I picked up his shirts from dry cleaning, he drove me to pick up my car from the shop, and we argued, like a couple.
"I thought you were going to take out the trash," I complained, sipping on a Diet Coke.
"Baby, you know I would if I could," he said, neither of us noticing that he just called me 'Baby'. "But I've got to run. Look, I'll make it up to you, I promise. Okay?"
"Fine." I pouted, but just a little, because I knew he'd bring me home one of my favorite fruit smoothies after work.

It officially became weird when I took him to a wedding as my date, and on the way home I joked, "Cuz, when we danced together, were you pretending I was your girlfriend?"
"Um...." He adjusted the rear view mirror. "No...." he said, sheepishly.

Eventually, I got a job and moved out, and he went back to Missouri. It was like a breakup. I missed his smile, his laugh, and conversations about our Grandma. I started dating men who weren't related to me, which was probably a healthy thing.

"Thank god you're not living with our cousin anymore," my sister said. "You guys were together ALL THE TIME- it was getting weird."
"I know," I said. "But he always gave me the BEST shoulder massages."

Jury Duty

2010-06-27T20:42:00.004-06:00

I received a Jury Summons in the mail and the first thing I thought was, Me? They want ME to decide the fate of someone on trial? Me, who gets then/than mixed up? Me, who considers Lindsay Lohan 'misunderstood'? Me, who spent over 45 minutes last night rolling the towels in her bathroom and placing them in a wicker basket to create a 'spa-like experience'?

I was honored, and really, Jury Duty has lots of benefits:

Get out of work for a day!
Sit around and flip through fashion magazines!
Pretend I'm Tom Cruise in The Firm!

Reality set in as, bored, I was shuffled from room to room and was asked a ton of questions. Crap like, "Have you ever been sexually assaulted?" (I wish.) Do you know the person on trial today? (Depends- were they at Flow Nightclub last night? Because if they were, they saw me both flash my tits on the dance floor and vomit on a bar stool.) "What do you do for a living?" (Suck corporate dick- why do you ask?)

The kicker was that I kept making it through the next round. I couldn't help but wonder why- I mean, I smelled like a candy factory (read: Sugar-Vanilla Body Spray), was wearing a hot-pink Juicy Couture jumpsuit, and was reading Paris Hilton's Confessions of a Heiress. I couldn't have appeared any dumber if I tried.

On the final round they actually reviewed the trial, and while part of me really tried to pay attention, I ended up day-dreaming about being on trial myself.

Prosecutor: "Living Shallow Living Well, did you spend over 22 hours last weekend downloading clips of The Vampire Diaries from season one on You Tube- in nothing but your underwear and a blue halter top from 1998?"
Me (behind the witness stand, looking quite attractive in a navy pencil skirt and cream-colored blouse): "I actually think that halter top was more of a turquoise."

GUILTY!

Prosecutor: "Living Shallow Living Well, did you drink three glass of pinot noir and then order over $400 worth of sheepskin throws online to give your 600 sq. foot condo a more 'cozy, cabin-like' feel?"
Me: "Those things were $400? Fuck!"

GUILTY!

Prosecutor: "Living Shallow Living Well, did you cry when you found out that Kim Kardashian and Reggie Bush broke up?"
Me: *sob*

GUILTY!

The judge slammed her gravel down and I jumped out of my daydream. Luckily, I was not selected for the final jury, and was excused. I hurried home to a hot bath and glass of wine.

And you know- those rolled towels in the wicker basket? It really DOES look like a spa in here!

The Hooligans

2010-06-21T18:23:00.006-06:00

I live in a 30-unit condo unit in downtown Denver. I like living downtown because it gives me major bragging rights. At work, I say things like, "The suburbs?! Oh, I could NEVER live in the suburbs. There's just no culture. My god, aren't you bored?!"

The co-worker I am speaking to, usually a white middle-aged man (probably works in either Data or Finance)with thinning hair and pleated khaki pants (dear god, does he not know that flat-front khakis are like, 100% more slimming?!?) just stares at me. He doesn't mind the fact that I am blatantly insulting his home, because he's staring at my (relatively younger compared to his wife's) tits.

So I go on. "I just really love the grit of living downtown, you know? The people are so much more interesting. I mean, ugh, the suburbs?" I popped my gum and flipped my hair, enjoying the fact that he probably thinks I'm 27 and not 33-(bitches, I use a ton of sunscreen, okay? Don't hate on me).

Well, I got my comeuppance the following night when three hooligans moved in next door. There's one girl and two guys- kind of weird, because it's a one-bedroom condo. Do they all sleep together? Is it a girl/guy couple and the second guy sleeps on the couch, or are the boys together and the girl is on the couch? And their clothes- the guys are in Ed Hardy knock-offs, looking like a mix between Vanilla Ice and Kevin Federline. The girl has more tattoos than Mike Tyson and looks like J-Woww from MTV's Jersey Shore.

"I'm scared," I whispered to my husband, peering through the curtain, watching J-Woww out on the porch scream at somebody on the phone while her two male roommates smoked and stared off into space. It was like watching a really disturbing episode of My Two Dads.

"They're just kids," my husband said, his legs primly crossed, reading the paper and sipping organic coffee. Seriously, look up "effeminate heterosexual" in the dictionary and you'll find a picture of him. "Plus, I thought you were really into the 'grit' of living downtown."

"Well, right, but..." What was I supposed to say?! That I was actually repulsed by sketchy-looking 19-year-olds in baggy pants? That I associated tattoos with prison inmates? That when I see people smoking, I automatically think 'throat cancer'? That maybe, deep down inside, I am actually a judgmental conservative housewife with no real grit, no real exposure to anybody other then college-educated corporate pricks? Was I a snob?!?

"I'm going to go introduce myself," I said, snapping the curtains open dramatically. "I will NOT judge a book by its cover." I flung open the door and walked out to the porch. I talked with them, and all three of them were, naturally- extremely nice. They offered me both a cigarette and beer, and as I sat there, drinking and (awkwardly) pretending to smoke, I thought- wow- I was wrong. I was really, really, wrong.

Now I need to go fish my jewelry back out of the flour canister.

It

2010-06-14T20:32:00.004-06:00

I just finished reading It by Stephen King, his very popular 1985 horror novel. The book is definitely scary- it's based around Pennywise, an evil, murderous clown that lives in the sewers of a tiny town in Maine. He lures young children into the gutters, where he rips the limbs off their bodies, feeds on their intestines, and then tosses their bones. While the book was horrific, all I could think of when I finished it was- Pennywise reminds me of my ex-boyfriend.

Seriously. The resemblance is uncanny.

1. Pennywise Lures Children To Their Death With Promises of Candy And Balloons.

Totally. My ex would do this all the time. He would tell me things would be different if we got back together, that he loved me, that we'd stop bickering and arguing and end up in a happy place- a place where we lived under a circus tent that smelled like cotton candy. But then- when you took a bright red balloon from Pennywise/My Ex- you realized that your arm was going to get ripped off, or that you still fought over his mom's control issues.

2. Pennywise Lives In The Sewer.

Sewer? I wish my ex lived in a sewer- his place was far, far worse. Dirty twin bed, roommate with questionable hygiene, no toilet paper in the bathroom- god, his apartment made a homeless shelter look like a four-star hotel.

3. Pennywise Gives People Nightmares.

Oh, god- how many times have I lain awake at night going, Why did he tell me he sees a future with me someday? When is 'someday'? Next week? Next year? And what was that about him not wanting kids....? Like, he really doesn't want kids, or he's just trying to confuse me? Would he be cool with getting a dog?

4. Pennywise's Face Is A Rotting Corpse Behind His Clown Mask.

Actually, I think this is just Pennywise- although sometimes my ex did have bad breath.

5. The Only Way To Kill Pennywise Is To Recognize Your Own Internal Fear And Fight Him With It.

While it's always scary dumping someone you know isn't right for you and becoming single again, in the end you know you made the right choice. Also, like Pennywise, my ex had a really bad haircut that the shallow side of me just couldn't deal with.

I think that every woman in America should read Stephen King's It as a reference on what types of guys you should avoid. And let's be honest- each of us have been on a date with somebody who resembles a murderous clown- it's when they invite me back to their sewer for a night cap that I know to politely decline.

Dating Scene Amnesia

2010-06-06T19:12:00.002-06:00

I didn't meet my husband until I was in my thirties, which means my twenties were comprised of dating- lots and lots of dating. I remember the hardest part wasn't meeting men- it was keeping track of them all. When you're single, your life is comprised of two things: getting drunk and hooking up. Which means things get confusing sometimes.

One of my friend's phones rang the other day.
"Oh, god, Mick is calling me," she moaned, staring at the cell phone screen.
"Who's Mick?" I asked.
"Um..." her brow furrows. "I think it's that guy I hooked up with at that bar last night- I don't think I liked him."
"You mean Mike?" I questioned. "And we weren't at a bar last night. We were at a house party."
"His name is Mike? Oh, god- what did I drink last night?!"
I took the cell phone from her and scrolled down her list of guys she meet while drunk and exchanged phone numbers with- Joosn, aadammmm, Rrn, and Mick where all in there. Somebody shouldn't text while drinking.
"I have a date with Max tonight," she said.
"Matt- his name is Matt," I replied.

I have another friend who was making out in her bedroom with a new guy, and he noticed a used condom on her floor. He froze mid-kiss.
"Um....whose is that?"
"Hmm...?" She looked over to where he was pointing at. "Oh- that isn't yours?"
"No." Stony silence.
Apparently, used condoms are like snowflakes- no two are alike. My friend quickly back-pedaled.
"One of my girlfriends- she- spent the night over here- because her place is getting painted- and brought home a guy- I was passed out on the couch- 'cause I was drunk- from- drinking- and-"
"Okay." Apparently he had shrugged and returned to the making out, which means he either didn't care or actually bought it.

I have another girlfriend who is dating three men- all named Brian. So it's Brian Red Shirt (because that's what he was wearing on their first date), Brian With The Weird Friend (because his friend is really, really, odd) and Brian Bad Idea (because he's an asshole).
"Ugh. Brian Red Shirt wants to go out tonight, but I made plans with Brian Bad Idea," my friend complained over the phone to me.
"I thought you were breaking up with Brian Bad Idea," I replied. "Plus, you know my favorite is Brian With The Weird Friend- he's super cute."
"I know, but he has that weird friend," she countered.
"True."

My idea? We need some type of website tracking system- like:

Name:
Greg Greggory
Met At:
Megan's Birthday Party (80s theme)
His Info:
Computer Programmer, kind of looks like Kevin Spacey, tall-ish, did a really funny impersonation of his mom, has a roommate (yuck).
Situation:
You two met for drinks four days after Megan's party and he wasn't quite as funny as you remember but did tell you he liked your shirt and paid for the drinks so maybe he gets one more date before pulling the ripcord?

This would solve a bunch of confusion issues and end awkward used-condom encounters. And I could get that guy, the graphic designer with the blondish hair that my friend is dating- to create the website.....damn, what is his name?

Vending Machine Addict

2010-05-28T00:51:00.011-06:00

My husband and I are vacationing in Tokyo this week, so writing out this blog means I`m spending roughly 100 yen for just 30 minutes on the hostel computer. 100 yen is something like, $100.00 US dollars and is not something we budgeted for, but I thought, the blog- I must write on the blog.

(100 Yen could also amount to more like one dollar, but either way- you`re welcome.)

Tokyo is everything one could hope for- a loud, stunning, awesome city full of culture and excitement. The food is amazing, the people are wonderful, the sights are spectacular. But the one thing that really stands out to me- are the vending machines.

Japan has something like 2 million vending machines, and they sell everything in them-drinks mostly, but also food, toys, underwear- you name it, you can get it in a vending machine- and they are addicting.

`Look, another vending machine!` I shout excitedly, pointing.
`Hmm...?` My husband was ignoring me and staring at a gaggle of extremely hot Japanese women coming up from the subway, their hair glossy, their legs gleaming under short shirts, high heels clicking against the concrete like a beautiful herd of supermodels. I was guzzling down some type of mango juice I had just purchased from a previous vending machine and looked like hell. Jet-lagged and sweating, sunscreen pouring into my eyes, my jeans sticking to the insides of my legs, shirt stained with deodorant marks and mango juice. My running shoes, which I had chosen to wear for comfort and durability, now looked like a bag of dirty marshmallows I had duct-taped to my feet. I will be genuinely shocked if my husband ever has sex with me again.

`VENDING- machine....right there.` I pointed again. We were lost somewhere between Ryogoku Kokugikan and Asakusa, which is as confusing as it sounds, and I was getting both exhausted and irritable- an ideal formula for an international vacation meltdown.

`I`m going to have a boner for the next week straight,` my husband sighs, looking wistfully at the retreating pack of gorgeous women. He finally looks down at me clutching at his shirt, over-heated and foaming at the mouth. `Haven`t you had like, ten vending machine drinks today?`
`One more, and that`s it,` I said, like a true addict. I would probably go through at least six to seven more. He handed me a pile of coins and I ran to the glittering, brightly lit machine for my fix.

The lowest point came yesterday, when I managed to get my forearm caught in a vending machine door.
`Help....` I grunted, my arm caught in between a cold milk chocolate and the Plexiglas. I withered on the concrete in pain.
`Oh god, they`re going to deport us.` My husband managed to wrestle my arm free of the beast, and finally victorious, I clutched the chocolate milk in my sweaty, blood-soaked hand. `You are DONE with the vending machines,` he said, mad now. `DONE.`

I agreed, sucking down the delicious ice-cold drink with a flourish. I was done.

Until our next trip to Tokyo, of course.

Scent of a Woman

2010-05-17T19:02:00.003-06:00

Ugh, I shouldn't write about this, because it really doesn't put me in the best light- but I hate to shower.

I realize that saying you hate to shower is about as repulsive as it gets. And mind you, I didn't say I DON'T shower- I just said I hate it. Like I hate hiking (boring) or working late (yuck) or social conservatives (bigots).

For most people, showering is probably a fun, happy, ordeal full of bubbles and warm water and relaxation. For me, it's a torture chamber of awkward shaving, soap in my eyes, and creepy prune hands. Am I watching Saw II?

Getting me to shower is a three step process.

1. Husband says, "When's the last time you showered?"
2. I say, "Last night." (A lie.)
3. Husband says, "I think you should shower."

Ugh, the PROCESS. Shampoo, conditioner, apply shave gel, shaving, soap, weird loofah brush- jeez, Alcoholics Anonymous has less steps. And unlike AA, I don't always come out clean.

"Did you use soap on your armpits?" My husband asks, accusingly.
"Um...yes?" (Another lie.)
"Get back in there."

A couple weeks ago I was using Febreze Air Freshener on my couch cushions, and for good measure, I sprayed myself down as well. The label on the bottle said "eliminates odors and freshens fabric, carpet, and air", and I figured, well, I'm wearing fabric, breathing air, and the carpet? Well, that's just a really obvious obscene joke I'm not going to even bother with.

"You smell so good!" My friend Kristin greeted me with a big hug and a compliment, and I thought, wow- Febreze does work. Eat my dust, Soap! (No pun intended.)

The downside of replacing showering with Febrezeing is, well- it's really weird, and also- people start to catch on.

"You smell like a wet dog trapped in a Glade factory," my sister said, which was pretty rude. It was also the truth. I broke down and took a shower that night, after 5 days and 4 nights of Febrezeing my rotting, putrid, dirty body down. Finally clean, I wrapped a towel around myself and stepped outside of the bathroom.

"Did you use soap on your armpits?" My husband asks- again.

Fuck!

There's a Pill for That

2010-05-09T19:51:00.002-06:00

I just LOVE abusing prescription drugs.

I realize some people might not find that very cool, but those are the people that aren't rolling Prozac. Because if you're on Prozac, EVERYTHING is cool.

Mind you, nothing is actually wrong with me- nothing obvious, anyway. I abuse prescription drugs because it's the incredibly hip thing to do. Everybody and their mom in Hollywood does it- like when the hot young starlet pulls a bottle Ritalin out of her Gucci clutch and passes it around at da' club- so sexy.

Coke is too 80's, alcohol is too 90's, pot isn't elegant- but prescription drugs? That's what It Girls take- right before they go on stage/act in an indie film/make love to a rock star/shop.

The key to getting your hands on the stuff is to A) Lie, and B) Have Multiple Doctors. The rest is easy.

Me: "I'm depressed."
Doctor #1: "You're depressed?"
(Of course I'm not depressed. I am way, way, too shallow to actually feel any real human emotion- clearly Doctor #1 doesn't know me at all. Depression to me when I find a skirt I like at Nordstrom and they don't have my size.)
Me: "Yes. I am VERY depressed."
(Read- Prozac makes me lose weight, and I really, really, want Kate Bosworth's emaciated body- you know Kate Bosworth, right? She looks like ET, in that scene where the government catches him, and he's all white in that coffin incubator? THAT'S the weight I want to be at.)

Me: "I'm having panic attacks- I think I need Xanax."
Doctor #2: "You're having panic attacks?"
(Yes, I'm having panic attacks. When I don't have Xanax, I panic. Cue laughter.)
Me: "HUGE panic attacks."
(Read- Popping a Xanax is like downing a six-pack of beer- without the calories!)

Me: "I can't concentrate."
Doctor #3: "You can't concentrate?"
(I can concentrate, but only on stuff like gossip magazines, episodes of The Real Housewives of New York, gorgeous jeweled sandals, and devising a plan to make Christian Bale fall in love with me. I can't concentrate on stuff like my job, paying bills, nurturing healthy relationships with my husband/family/friends, or living in reality.)
Me: "Nope. Can't concen- what did you say again?"
(Read- Adderall is a psychostimulant that makes me sharp as a tack- with it, I can shop for 12 hours straight- without stopping. Thanks for calling, Visa, but no, my credit card wasn't stolen.)

I told my coworker how awesome Ambien is as a sleep aid, and she goes, "I would NEVER get on anything like that- I would be afraid I'd get addicted."

Oh, okay, so this evening you enjoy a boring night's sleep, and meanwhile, in MY dreams I'll be flying across space on a unicorn's back. Apparently, some people are too good for prescription drug abuse. What, you want a gold medal? And by the way, getting addicted IS the whole point- duh.

Eventually I'll have to stop, and get my highs naturally- through really lame shit like eating right, exercising, and maintaining healthy relationships.

Until then, I'll just find a pill for that.

RIP Irish/Cop Jokes

2010-05-02T22:36:00.004-06:00

I just love beating a joke to death.

I am the Grim Reaper of jokes, puns, sarcasm, and wit. An idea, a situation arises and my mind just goes and goes and goes and I can't stop. It's totally OCD- I should get some medication for that.

My friend, I'll call her Angus, (because really, Angus is the Jennifer of 1923) told us that her new boyfriend is a police officer...and, he's from Ireland. It was like being handed a Christmas gift.

Let the rain begin!

Me: "I guess if you're being arrested by an Irish Cop....you're not so lucky after all!"

Angus: "HA HA HA!!"

Me: "Is that a gun in your pocket-literally-....or are you just happy as a leprechaun to see me?"

Angus: "HA HA HA!!"

Me: "Be careful where you're shooting that thing (comparing his gun to his cock)- unless it's at me!"

Angus: "HA HA HA!!"

Me: "Four leaf clover? More like four leaf HOLSTER!"

Angus: "HA...?....does that rhyme?"

Me: "What does an Irish Cop find at the end of a rainbow? A pot full of donuts?"

Angus: "Um, that's not really funny."

Me: "So you're saying no to gun control, but yes to PUN control?"

Angus: "Okay, please stop."

I could fill an entire page full of Irish/Cop jokes, but really, I want you all to keep reading my blog, so I'll end the torture.

*Pause*

Okay one more- How do you get out of a speeding ticket with an Irish Cop? By using your lucky charms, of course!

HA HA HA!!!!

Scrabble

2010-04-23T17:26:00.007-06:00

I really do not like playing Scrabble.

It makes me look dumb. And while I'm not saying I'm that smart, I really don't need people to know that:

A.) I can't spell.
B.) Trying to put together words from a random collection of wooden squares is not only impossible, but also really, really boring.
C.) Isn't Housewives of Orange County on? Shouldn't we be watching that instead of playing Scrabble?

Once I made the mistake of playing this nightmare of a game with my husband's parents. His mom put down something like 'BACCALAUREATE' and I responded by putting down 'HEN' on the board. They officially think I'm an idiot.

Me, my mom, and my sister were all playing Scrabble last night, and I found myself with these letters: U, L, A, M, S. So I took the U and placed it sideways on the board, spelling out CLAMS.

"I'm not sure you can do that," my sister said, frowning, and then pulled out the rules on the back of the Scrabble box.

"You are SO creative, honey," my mom said, patting my hand. "That should definitely count."

My sister shrugged, mostly because she really didn't care either way, and marked me down for 28 points (double letter score!). Honestly, my family is probably the least competitive one on earth- 99% of our games end up in a 'tie'.

I followed that by adding a S onto ROBOT, creating ROBOTS and getting like, 50 points for the whole word. Again, I'm not sure if any of this is legal, but we were all drinking wine and past caring. I capped the game off by adding a sideways V, combined with another sideways U with O and D and added it to my earlier word.

CLAMS < COD.

"Clams are less than Cod," I stated.

"That makes absolutely no goddamn sense, and I'm pretty sure you can't use a sideways V to create a greater than/less than math symbol in Scrabble," my sister said.

"Clams are less than what?" Mom asked.

"I think clams cost less money than cod," I replied.

My sister snorted. "Clams cost MORE money, because the shells are heavy."

I shrugged and flipped the wooden V letter.

CLAMS > COD.

"That's better," my sister said, and put me down for 72 points.

"I just love clams," my mom said, taking another sip of her wine. "They are delicious soaked in butter and garlic."

Did I just mention above that I hate Scrabble? Scratch that. I love Scrabble- but only if I'm playing with my mom and my sister.

Above It

2010-04-15T21:24:00.003-06:00

I was at work yesterday, in the break room, chatting about Jennifer Lopez.

"So, her kids, Max and Emme- they look JUST LIKE Marc Anthony. It's like he had sex with himself and gave birth to the kids- like, shot the kids out of his own body, you know?" I sucked down a big swallow of Perrier (because it makes me feel sexy and French) and continued. My audience was four coworkers, all thoughtfully chewing their sandwiches and listening. "You can just tell she is genuinely happy with Marc- I don't know WHAT that thing was with Ben (Affleck), but her and Marc just make sense- I can tell they work- don't ask me how, I just know." I was nodding as I was talking, like J Lo was a personal friend of mine and not some worldwide super star.

One of my coworkers, Samantha, snorted. "Oh, who cares about Jennifer Lopez? I've got other things to worry about."

I smiled thinly.

I think one of my biggest pet peeves is people who think they are 'above' pop culture. I call them the AboveIts- their mantra? Reality television is trash, gossip magazines are garbage, Hollywood blogs for people who have no life. I'll mention how great it is that Angelina and Brad donated something like $10 million dollars to Haiti and they'll roll their eyes and go, "ah, actors." Um, excuse me? Have you donated $10 dollars to Haiti? Probably not.

And Samantha, who has 'other things' to worry about? She's referring to her golden retriever, who keeps puking all over her carpet. I told her not to get a dog, but did she listen to me? No. She's just jealous of J Lo's buttery caramel highlights. I know this because I got her drunk after work on day, and she literally said, "I just love J Lo's buttery caramel highlights."

So I didn't say anything to Samantha, because yeah, she'd probably rather be a gorgeous, rich, and famous superstar as opposed to a computer specialist with a weak-stomached dog. So if taking a knock on J Lo makes her feel better, so be it.

But if she goes after my girl Lady Gaga, we're going to have problems.

Dear Mom.....

2010-04-11T21:46:00.003-06:00

My girlfriends and I spent last weekend in California drinking wine and eating too much food. Friends + wine = much hilarity. I feel bad for guys sometimes, because they don't get drunk on white pinot grigio and then compare bra sizes, like we do. They don't know what they're missing.

The subject of our mothers came up, as it always does when you get six girls together who love to bitch and moan. The relationship between mothers and daughters is part psycho, part love, part hate. That's just how it is- mothers know how to annoy and torture their daughters, and in return those daughters know how to rebel and horrify their mothers. It's really quite poetic.

One of my friends mentioned that she would love to write just a really simple, honest letter to her mom instead of the usual 'I'm fine' phone call. My friend then said, "Dear Mom.....last Tuesday, I ate two Lean Cuisine's, drank four beers, and then masturbated during an entire Law & Order episode."

We laughed for about two minutes and then took turns sharing our own Dear Mom letters.

"Dear Mom.....remember that time I slept over at Kimberly's house in 11Th grade? I was actually losing my virginity in the back of a Ford Taurus."

"Dear Mom.....I have been drunk every Christmas morning since 1994."

"Dear Mom....when I go out to the bars, I typically seek out men that will be a detriment to both my physical and mental health."

"Dear Mom....mock neck turtlenecks will never be 'elegant', as you so fondly describe them."

Now, we wouldn't ever waste our time and actually write these letters to our moms, as they would just roll their eyes and toss the letter in the trash, mumbling about their daughters 'acting out' again.

Plus, I'm busy eating a Lean Cuisine and watching Law & Order.

Branson, Missouri- Your Next Vacation Spot

2010-04-06T19:04:00.004-06:00

Has anybody else seen the commercials for Branson, Missouri?

Known as the "Live Music Show Capital of the World," Branson, Missouri, is truly a one-of-a-kind family vacation destination- AND an incredible value!
Branson has more than 50 live performance theaters, three pristine lakes, 12 championship golf courses, an international award-winning theme park, AND dozens of attractions and museums!
Branson has a Historic Downtown district, great shopping, a full range of dining options, AND a host of hotels, motels, resorts, RV parks, campgrounds, and meeting conference facilities!
Visit Branson- no passport needed!

Oh, GOD.

First of all, I have never heard of Branson. I've heard of Missouri- that's one of the mid-west states, right? But Branson?! They want me to vacation in Branson?!?

First of all, describing your vacation destination as a place that has "an award-winning theme park" and "a host of RV parks" is not appealing. Not. Appealing. Think about it- does Paris ever have to point out that they have plenty of "conference facilities"?! Of course Paris doesn't have to do that. Because Paris is cool.

I really don't want to be rude to Branson. I'm sure the people there are very nice. But fuck, if I have a choice between Branson and oh say, Barcelona- I'm going to Barcelona. Adios, Branson.

Is it the hot new budget-friendly spot? I couldn't help that notice Branson is advertising itself as an 'incredible value'. Funny, because the package on the 3-pack of tampons I just bought at Costco also described themselves as an 'incredible value'. I guess Branson, like my tampons, absorbs unfertilized human waste.

(Did I just write that? God, I'm good.)

Branson mentions that you can visit this amazing place, "no passport required". Right, because god forbid any American actually spends $60 for a passport and expands his/her horizons experiencing another culture. Why discover Tokyo when you could go to a titty show in Branson, followed by an all-you-can-eat buffet? Branson it is!

I was being a little facetious before when I mentioned that I wasn't familiar with Missouri- I was actually born in Hannibal, Missouri- birth place of Mark Twain. I wonder if Mr. Twain ever went to Branson?

I hear they have some great amusement parks there.

The Grocery Store

2010-03-31T22:07:00.003-06:00

I hate cooking. And I'm not trying to be the obvious, 'I can't cook' type, like I'm Jessica Simpson, ha ha ha, what's a can opener?!? No, I mean I fucking HATE cooking. H-A-T-E it. If I am on my own, it's tuna straight out of the can, with Jack Daniels on the rocks. I am not kidding- I had this exact thing for dinner last night.

Which brings us to my husband, who is fucking Jamie Oliver on crack. He just LOVES cooking. Toasted fennel seeds on a salad? Done. Banana bread made from scratch? In the oven. Beef roast marinated in white wine sauce? Child's play.

So we made the agreement that I would grocery shop and he would cook. He gave me this list:

Eggplants (aubergines)- 2 small, 1.5 lbs.
Fresh Basil
Farfalle, or medium-sized pasta
Marjoram (1/2 teaspoon)
Chicken broth (1 can)
Pine Nuts (1 cup)

"You'll do great, honey," he said, clutching me in a tight embrace, like a parent sending his child off to college.
"What are you making?" I asked, the list clutched in my sweaty palm.
"Farfalle with roasted pork and eggplant."
Christ. If he had said, 'I'm solving a differential equation', I would have been just as confused. I struggled into my coat and left for the grocery store.

For the record, I am not a fan of the grocery store, mostly because it is like a mall but instead of cute clothes you get really boring shit like garbage bags and milk. Yawn.

I started in produce, because the first two items on my list were eggplant (aubergines? WTF?) and basil. He had written two eggplants on the list, but I grabbed one big one and called it good. Basil is basically lettuce, so I grabbed a head of the iceberg kind and moved on.

Farfalle, or medium-sized pasta? Um, it's called spaghetti, honey. Apparently I married some type of preppy food snob without realizing it. I grabbed three boxes of spaghetti, because it's always good to have some extra in the cupboards in case you want to make butter noodles (butter + noodles = DELICIOUS).

1/2 teaspoon of Marjoram? What, I speak Greek now or something? What is marjoram? Sounds like something I could just ignore....Kim Kardashian and Reggie Bush broke up?!?! My grocery cart came to a screeching halt in front of the magazine stand. I thought he was going to propose after winning the Super Bowl?! I added the gossip mag to cart, devastated over Kim and Reggie's demise.

Chicken broth and pine nuts? God, I was bored- would this list never end? What, I'm my husband's personal shopper now? I added a six-pack of chocolate pudding to my cart, some Maybelline blush in apricot pink, and an ice scraper. Because if you live in Colorado, every car should have like two of these in the trunk.

At the checkout counter, the cashier asked me if I would like to donate a dollar to some school program. I said yes, because I'm real generous like that. I also threw a pack of gum onto the mix.

My husband was not happy when I got home. He frantically rummaged through the grocery bags. "Where's my pine nuts? Iceberg lettuce is NOTHING like basil." I gave him one of my, 'I did the best I could' looks, and he gave me a hug. He thought it was sweet I tried. Then he grabbed the car keys and went back to the grocery store.

Relieved, I collapsed on the couch with my gossip mag. I bet Kim Kardasian never has to shop for basil.

Homeless = Hot

2010-03-28T21:31:00.004-06:00

I saw an incredibly good-looking homeless man yesterday.

I was at an intersection, stopped at a red light, probably on my way to the mall/an organic bakery/pedicure when I spotted him. My jaw hit the floorboards of my 1995 Subaru.

He was, in a word, stunning. His tattered jeans were slouched around his waist, a tiny bit of hip bone setting off the flat, ripped contours of his stomach. His dirty t-shirt magnified his arms, ripped with muscle. His face was a perfect mix of Johnny Depp and Gerard Butler- weathered yet soulful, deep with a hit of child-like youthfulness. His dark hair was tousled and dirty from lack of washing, but dirty in a good way, you know? He looked like the lead singer of some hipster rock band, or an actor in an indie flick, or some type of heroin-addicted model.

Just fucking gorgeous.

I wanted to take him home, bathe him, feed him, and make him mine, but I'm married, so that was out. I quickly ran down the list of single girlfriends I knew. Jannie was into edgy, dark guys- they would be perfect together. She could easily overlook the homeless thing. His cardboard sign even said, "Will work for beer." Ha Ha Ha! He was even funny! What a catch!

I desperately rooted through my purse for my card to give to this gorgeous man, and then the light turned green. Fuck! I stalled for a moment and panicked, until the car behind me honked and I was forced to drive on, my beautiful man lost to me forever.

Depressed, I drove on, knowing I would never see my true love again. Until I passed through that intersection again, of course.

Me, Nick, & Joe

2010-03-25T18:11:00.004-06:00

If I found a genie lamp and was granted just one wish, anything I wanted in the entire world- I would request a three-way with Nick Jonas and Joe Jonas.

Wouldn't that be awesome?! Me, taking the virginity of two out of the four Jonas brothers?! (Yes, there is a fourth Jonas brother, he's like ten and a bit of a porker.) I could be like, "I fucked half the Jonas brothers." People would want to be my friend just because I would be the Girl Who Had A Three-Way With The Jonas Brothers.
I can imagine me in a job interview: "So, what can you tell us about yourself?"
"Well, I had a three-way with Nick and Joe Jonas."
"Oh my...god....oh wow, you are HIRED!"

Now, I wouldn't include Kevin Jonas in this little gang bang because, if I'm honest, he's the least cute of them. No, I just want Nick and Joe, naked in my bed for about 45 minutes. That's all I would need.

There are a few reasons this would be my genie wish- first of all, they annoy me. They annoy me because they are running around with those purity rings on their left hand, saving themselves for marriage, and their songs are too cutsy. They don't drink, they don't snort coke, they don't DO ANYTHING. You know how when you see a juicy, fresh, wholesome crap apple on the sidewalk, fallen from the tree, you just want to step on it? Because that sound, that CRUNCH, is so satisfying, and so is the feeling of the crab apple buckling under your foot? THAT is why I want to have a three-way with the Jonas brothers.

I know that after the three-way, they would be both hungover (because we would have done rum shots out of each others' belly buttons)and probably feel extremely weird (because I made them kiss each other at one point.) But a couple weeks after this repulsive incident, they would feel raw and honest and REAL. Like they had lived- and that is what I'm after.

Some of you might have asked the genie for oh, say, a million dollars, as opposed to a three-way with the Jonas brothers. But I'll just tape the whole event and then blackmail them with it- so I'll get my three-way AND a ton of cash. As Marie Anntoniette said, I'll have my cake and eat it too.

Assuming your cake is a three-way with the Jonas brothers.

A Lighter Shade of Pale

2010-03-23T17:37:00.003-06:00

"Honey...are you sick?"

This was once asked to me by the mother of one of my boyfriends. We were sitting outside and I was in shorts, my chalky, white legs exposed for all the world to see.
I didn't want to embarrass my boyfriend's mom, but I couldn't lie, either. So I just said what I always say when somebody asks me if I'm sick.

"No, I'm just really pale."

She quickly stuttered an awkward apology, but I didn't mind. I mean, I AM pale.

You know how girls like to have fat friends so when they are compared side by side, they look thinner? Well, my friends like to stand next to me so they look like some kind of goddamn Malibu Barbie. Bitches!

If an albino and a piece of chalk had a daughter, it would be me. Under florescent lighting, I'm so white I'm blue. I have enough bronzer in my bathroom to fill a dumpster.

There are some advantages to being this pale- like, I use it as an excuse to get out of outdoor activities.
"Sorry, I really can't go on a hike/bike/run- you know, my skin." My dermatologist adores me- he calls me an 'alabaster miracle'- not kidding. It's flattering but a little weird. My husband says I remind him of a Nicole Kidman or Kate Blanchett (minus the looks, money or fame)- but I think that's a lie. (He's married to me, so he has to say stuff like that.)

Ideally, I would have been born in England in 1432. That's when being pale was the hip thing to do- it separated you from the super-tan farmers and made you look rich. People would powder their faces to look just like I look naturally. Damn you, 21st century!

There's really nothing I can do about it, except apply sunscreen every day of my waking life and smear on enough bronzer to make me look like I am a living, breathing human being as opposed to a walking corpse. Oh, and if you see me out and about? Please feel free to stand next to me- you'll look like Malibu Barbie.

Mom: Bearer of Gifts

2010-03-21T19:15:00.004-06:00

I really, really, love my mom. She is super loving, supportive, and and wonderful person. I'm really, really, lucky to be her daughter.

Until she gives me a gift.

Now, I really don't want to come off as ungrateful, because she did give me the ultimate gift- life. And for that I am eternally grateful- but c'mon, Mom, a fucking Dream Catcher for my 21st birthday? Christ!

For Christmas, I'll get a variety of stress-reliving CDs, a family-size pack of dried fruit, and a forest-green mock turtleneck. My sister will unwrap some cinnamon-flavored incense, a pair of Isotoners, and a silver bolo tie. My dad will get about eight Cosby sweaters and sunscreen. It's like she went into a Costco or Sam's Club blindfolded.

When my husband joined the family, he got a lot of rocks. Like, literally, rocks. He's a geologist and actually adores.....rocks.
"Thanks, Mom!" He says enthusiastically, opening his third piece of granite while my sister is strangling herself with the bolo tie under the Christmas tree and Dad has disappeared under his mountain of argyle.
"No problem," Mom says, and gives him a big hug. I can see her smirking at me over his shoulder and then she says to me, "If you're lucky, honey, YOU might get rocks next year."
That's another one of her tricks. She loves to pit us against each other for these gifts. And somehow, it occasionally works.
"Why did Dad get a rope light and I didn't?" I whined, drunk on eggnog and Captain Morgan- a lethal combination. And by the way, rope light is just what you think it is- a rope of twinkle lights. It's pretty much the dumbest thing on earth.
"Well," Mom says settling down on the couch. "We don't always get what we want, do we?" My husband was stacking his rocks on top of each other, and my sister was officially passed out, the bolo tie now a noose around her neck.

The kicker out of all this is that Mom always gets great gifts- Coach purses, silk robes, European fragrances. She always thanks us, and then these items disappear into the back of her closet, never to see daylight again. I definitely know how the Indians felt when they got a case of liquor in exchange for the state of Kansas.

Maybe I need to switch it up- get Mom the same random shit she is distributing off on us. A toothpick holder in the shape of a wolf, a scarf the color of vomit, 3-pack of deodorant. You know, the basics.

Looks like me and Captain Morgan are going to need to make a Costco run.

Census 2010

2010-03-18T18:35:00.006-06:00

I got home last night and my husband told me that the 2010 Census arrived. I excitedly ripped open the envelope and settled down at the kitchen table with a glass of wine and a pen. Maybe this is just me, but I think it's pretty exciting telling the government all about you. I mean, they need to know who you are so they know how to spend their money- if the government based their spending in Denver on me alone, you would be able to write blond highlights off on your taxes.

I carefully penned in my name and address, and then the complicated questions began.

1. HOW MANY PEOPLE WERE LIVING OR STAYING IN THIS HOUSE, APARTMENT, OR MOBILE HOME ON APRIL 1, 2010?
Well, technically, my husband and I live in a condo, so this question doesn't really apply to us. So I wrote down 0.

2. WERE THERE ANY ADDITIONAL PEOPLE STAYING HERE APRIL 1, 2010, THAT YOU DID NOT INCLUDE IN QUESTION ONE?
Well, let's see...I hosted Book Club over at my house twice, and had a New Year's Eve party, my sister has been over about what, a dozen times? And then the sink backed up twice and the plumber came over- hm. I wrote down 65, because that seemed about right.

3. IS THIS HOUSE, APARTMENT, OR MOBILE HOME OWNED BY YOU OR SOMEONE ELSE, RENTED, OR OCCUPIED WITHOUT PAYMENT?
My husband owns it, so I put down the third option, because I am certainly not giving him rent. But I didn't want the government to think I was some kind of freeloader, so then I wrote, 'but trust me- I'm earning my keep- if you know what I mean'- and then I added a little winking smiley face.

4. WHAT IS YOUR TELEPHONE NUMBER? WE MAY HAVE TO CALL YOU IF WE DON'T UNDERSTAND AN ANSWER.
Yeah, right. They just want to sell my phone number to some telemarketing firm trying to sell me insurance. Nice try, fuckers! (I left this blank.)

5. PLEASE PROVIDE INFORMATION ON EACH PERSON LIVING HERE, BEGINNING WITH THE PERSON WHO OWNS OR RENTS THIS HOUSE, APARTMENT, OR MOBILE HOME. IF THE OWNER OR RENTER LIVES SOMEWHERE ELSE, START WITH ANY ADULT LIVING HERE. THIS WILL BE PERSON ONE. WHAT IS PERSON ONE'S NAME?
God, this was getting boring. Didn't they already ask me this? I wrote, 'Condo owned by my Overlord'- and left it at that.

6. WHAT IS PERSON ONE'S SEX?
Yes, please.

7. WHAT IS PERSON ONE'S AGE AND PERSON ONE'S DATE OF BIRTH? PLEASE REPORT BABIES AS AGE 0 IF THEY ARE UNDER THE AGE OF 1.
Who is this 'person' they keep talking about? And what, the government is harassing me about having a baby now? What, did my mom write this? I wrote, 'when and if my husband and I decide to have a baby- well, that's none of your goddamn business'.

8. IS PERSON ONE OF HISPANIC, LATINO, OR SPANISH ORIGIN?
Please, my husband and I couldn't BE any whiter. The other night we had a conversation about granite counter tops while eating a spring salad garnished with toasted fennel seeds.

9. WHAT IS PERSON ONE'S RACE?
Please refer to question #8, 'toasted fennel seeds'.

10. DOES PERSON ONE SOMETIMES LIVE OR STAY SOMEWHERE ELSE?
I almost wrote, 'sometimes when we fight my husband crashes at his mom's house', mostly because that's fucking hilarious. But the truth is, my husband is adorable and so I wrote, 'the only place my husband lives is in my warm embrace.' I thought the government would appreciate that, with all the sad stuff going on in the world and everything.

Finally finished, I added a couple of my unicorn stickers to the form and sprayed it with Beyonce's newest fragrance, Heat. It smells so good. Now, about that tax refund on my highlights....

Pop Culture Collision

2010-03-14T09:29:00.007-06:00

Christmas came early this year because yesterday, the latest issue of both US Weekly and InStyle showed up in my mailbox.

Usually I get InStyle on Fridays and US Weekly on Mondays, so this was a serious treat. I thought I was going to have a boring Saturday but, no- fate intervened and injected me with a shot of girly pop culture. Yes! Not only that, but I had stolen an issue of OK! Magazine from the gym on Friday, which I had yet to peruse. Awesome!

I eagerly grabbed the magazines and raced into the house, clutching them to my breast like they were small children.

I was quickly in the middle of US Weekly, (mostly because it only takes me 12 minutes to read the entire thing cover to cover and, damn, Kate Bosworth looks SPECTACULAR in that leather skirt), about to devour OK! when I got a text from one of my coworkers: Eclipse trailer released– have u seen it?

What! How did I miss this? I considered myself a bit of a connoisseur of Twilight gossip, and I missed the trailer release of Twilight’s 3rd installment, Eclipse?! Fuck! Dropping US Weekly, I raced to the computer, got on my favorite gossip site (and when I say ‘favorite’ I mean one of the dozen I stalk) and watched the trailer on EW.com. As always, Robert Pattison looked like a gorgeous powdered donut and Taylor Lautner a well-built stunner that would make me commit statutory rape without a second thought. I would do jail time for just ten minutes with you, Taylor. JAIL TIME.

I had finished watching the trailer and was on to downloading Lady Gaga newest music video ‘Telephone’ (LOVE her!) when my own cell phone rang.

It was my sister- “There’s a Keeping Up with the Kardashians marathon on right now,” she said.

AAHH!! I love the Kardashian family, mostly because I think the mom on the show, Kris, is hilarious. I dropped the phone, leaving both my sister and Lady Gaga hanging, and raced to the television where I slipped on the InStyle that was on the floor and ate shit into the coffee table. As I was falling, I pictured the headline in the paper: DENVER WOMAN KILLED BY POP CULTURE.

NOOO!

Luckily, my super-squishy couch caught my fall. Panting, I up righted myself and reached for the remote, my attention now focused the Kardashian sisters. Phew, I’m glad I wasn’t hurt- I mean, I haven’t read InStyle’s article on spring’s must-have accessories.

Me & Petey

2010-03-10T20:15:00.003-07:00

I think the most challenging part of my job is pretending to care. Every day, I have to go into work and be sociable, enthusiastic, and positive. I simply can’t go up to the president of the company and say, “we’re not preventing genocide in Darfur- chill the fuck out"- even though I think this on a regular basis. Luckily, I'm a phenomenal actress, and my coworkers think that I am a truly appreciative and wonderful employee. I should get an Oscar.

In meetings, I fantasize about living on an island with Orlando Bloom. I drink Pina Coladas all day (yes, this island has a bartender)and have a dolphin for a pet- his name is Petey. Petey lets me ride on his back while he chases waves, and I laugh hysterically when he kisses me on the cheek with his wet dolphin nose. Orlando chases me on the beach as I giggle and the sun beats down on my tan body, and then we fall asleep in the sand, not a care in the world. Then my boss usually asks what my week looks like, and I mumble something about a meeting with finance and a vendor who just "won’t send me the right invoice.” My coworkers all nod in understanding, and I know I’m safe, at least for this week.

I mean, I am a really, really good actress.

The Gift Basket Prodigy

2010-03-03T17:58:00.005-07:00

I have one of those jobs that entails a lot of spreadsheets and data. Yesterday I was complaining to my husband that I have 'a TON of other talents' and that I am 'wasting them' on my current job. I was saying this over my second glass of Chardonnay, and when I'm drinking white wine I get really, really, cocky.
"I just..." I sipped my wine. "I'm just so, so, not appreciated over there, you know?" I waved my hand, wishing I had a cigarette to gesture dramatically with, even though I don't smoke. "I mean, I am talented." I refilled my glass. "I have ideas," I said, forcefully.
"Like what?" My husband was on his 3rd beer and staring off into space.
"Like..." I paused. "Like I make really, really, amazing gift baskets."
"Hmm...." Matt said, and nodded politely.
"It's like, a gift," I said, "no pun intended."

I realize that making incredible gift baskets might not be considered a true 'talent' where most folks come from, but trust me- my gift baskets make people weep. Like, for a baby shower, I'll tuck pink & blue bottles and a trio of hand-knitted booties into a nest of diapers tucked into a cradle-shaped wicker basket. I will tightly wrap the whole thing in cellophane and finish off the top with ribbon embellished with lace- but I won't stop there. The basket will be completed when I spray it with lavender and attach an adorably soft bear to the top of the masterpiece. It's a fucking Picasso. And, like most artists, I knew I would be misunderstood. Which is why my husband seemed confused.

"Aren't there....lots of gift basket companies online....that already do that?"

I snorted. "There aren't gift basket companies with my touch," I complained. "Some people make gift baskets, but I make memories." I didn't think that made much sense, but it sounded good.

Pouting, I went into the kitchen to get my husband another beer- but not before wrapping it in cellophane, of course.

My Former Roommates

2010-02-28T14:50:00.002-07:00

I used to have 3 roommates I lived with, and I hated them all. I have heard that you are supposed to write letters to people that you are angry at in order to vent, but not actually send the letter out. Hopefully posting said letter on a blog doesn't count.

Dear Former Roommates,

Hi, it's me. How are the three of you doing? I am guessing not so good, considering each of you are spawns of Satan. But I thought I'd ask. Oh, and remember when one of you ate half my box of Raisin Bran and thought I wouldn’t notice? Well, perhaps now you have figured out why your Organic Applesauce always disappeared, along with your last copy of ELLE. That was ME.

Becky? What was with you crying all the time over your break-up with Jason, and then trying to comfort yourself with food? Hello, one Jell-O cup is cool, 5 is insane. Apparently you had started dating fat and salt, and while both stayed faithful to you (unlike Jason), I couldn't help but notice the six pounds you put on between April and May.

And Jillian- your constant, never-ending bitching about your job? All of us have jobs, and all of us hate them. Perhaps you would have been happier in the unemployment line, eating stale bread and begging me for money. Of course, I wouldn't have given you any, because I know you were the one who ate the last of my Raisin Bran.

Last but not least, my dear Lindsay. While your part-time job at Blockbuster did seem fulfilling, I couldn't help but wonder what hole in your soul you were trying to fill up with the 7 hours of TV you watched everyday. A Full House marathon? MTV’s Cribs? Another double episode of Law and Order? Why the hell not? God knows you had nothing else to do.

It would have been great if one of you could have just tried to empty the dishwasher once in a while, lock the front door at night, or at least prevented your scuzzy boyfriend from rooting through my purse. Either way, I'm glad I don't have to live with any of you train wrecks anymore.

Oh, and if I've offended you? Please, send me a letter.

Step Up: The Calvin Coolidge Story

2010-02-22T20:50:00.006-07:00

Step Up, is like, 100% better than Step Up Two: The Streets.

So my husband, Matthew, was trying to watch some random documentary on Calvin Coolidge (30th President of the United States, I know, yawn, right?) and during the commercials he let me switch over to TBS, which was playing Step Up, starring Channing Tatum and Jenna Dewan. YES…..Step Up is my favorite movie.

The premise of this movie is so simple and yet so complicated. In Baltimore, Nora Clark (played by the gorgeous Jenna Dewan) is a naturally gifted dancer who wants nothing more than to make it to the big stage. When her partner Andrew can’t compete in the ballet school’s upcoming Senior Showcase (oh, NO), Nora happens to catch super-hot janitor Tyler Gage (played by every women’s wet dream Channing Tatum) dancing by himself in the parking lot. He’s there because, yes, he’s from the wrong side of the tracks and yes, he is performing community service for being a thug. Naturally, Tyler the Thug just happens to be a really, really, amazing dancer. That, and he’s misunderstood- as most gorgeous thugs are.

(In a real twist of irony, while my husband and I were simultaneously watching Step Up and Calvin Coolidge: The President, I realized that Channing Tatum shared a name with Calvin Coolidge’s first Lieutenant Governor, Channing Cox. At one point I mixed the two up and said, “I think there’s a dance off for advancing the progressive labor legislation and adjusting administrative law to Massachusetts' changing economy.”)

Anyway- in an amazingly sexy opposite-attract situation, Nora and Tyler fall for each other (can an upper-crust ballet dancer and rebel loser find true love?); but there are complications. Like, Nora fights with her mom who thinks she should be going to a ‘real’ college (bitch!) and Tyler deals with the death of a good friend he lost to- you guessed it- gang violence (shit!).

Can these two young dreamers work past their hardships in time for the Senior Showcase? Will Nora live her dream as a professional dancer? Is it too late for Tyler to escape the ghetto? Sigh…..SO good.

So imagine my disappointment when Step Two: The Streets came out.

Ugh….premise of the movie? Gutter rat Andie is a part of some underground dance crew; to save her from being sent away to Texas, friend Tyler (Channing Tatum returns in 30-second cameo role) gets her into the Maryland School of Arts where she meets super-popular Chase Collins. There ends up being a throw-down between two crews while Andie and Chase burn for each other. Step Up Two is good, but it’s not as good as Step Up- but then, Calvin Coolidge wasn’t as good as our 29th president, William Harding.

I think Calvin was just misunderstood- and probably from the wrong side of the tracks.

Basketball Hell

2010-02-20T12:13:00.002-07:00

I’m writing this as a warning to all: never, EVER, let your friends talk you into intramural basketball. I made that mistake and paid for it, every Monday at 8pm for 12 weeks.

It started off innocently enough. I had downed 2 glasses of wine and followed it with half a bottle of Midol- you know, my usual Wednesday night. A couple of my girlfriends, who used to play in high school, were hanging out at my place and they started throwing the idea around, like, “let’s join a basketball league”, and “hey, it will be fun". Like a goddamn fool, I agreed to participate.

It wasn’t until 3 weeks later I had realized my mistake. My sister, holding a uniform and a smug smile entered my house, and from then on my life was a living hell. Apparently, in basketball you have to chase balls, bounce balls, throw balls, ALL THE TIME. At that point in my life I was single, and the last balls I’d handled were attached to a Cuban named Diego. What had I done?

Our first game was full of excitement: I got the team pumped about a play I devised…it’s called Roadkill, and when the ball is in play I pass out on the court and pretend I’m unconscious for about 12-18 minutes. My teammates pretend they don’t notice, which results in confusion from the other team. That confusion translates into points- giving us a better chance to win. Not that I cared either way.

I tried to get out of a couple games by telling my teammates that I had AIDS, but they weren’t buying it. And then we didn't make the finals because I called a bomb threat into the recreation center, and my ‘friends’ got really pissed at me. Eventually, the season ended, much to my delight.

I mean, honestly, what was I thinking?

Back From The Dead

2010-02-17T17:38:00.005-07:00

When I was about ten, I had a white stuffed cat that I adored. Her name was Milky Way.

I was in 4th grade at the time, and we were studying Ancient Egypt. One day the teacher was telling us about how the Egyptians worshiped cats, and when these cats would die, they would cover them in jewelry, mummify them, and then bury them. I was fascinated, and raced home to practice this ancient ritual on Milky Way.

I started by rooting through my mom's jewelery box and wrapping Milky Way in all the bracelets and necklaces I could find. I pierced Milky Way's ears with dozens of earrings and stuck rings around her tail. After searching through the medicine cabinet for sports tape, I bounded her arms and legs tightly together and wrapped her entire body in gauze. I performed a short, Egyptian-like prayer, and then buried Milky Way in the backyard, her soul protected for its journey through the underworld. Finally bored, I headed back into the house to watch cartoons.

It was that evening when it occurred to me that I might have done something wrong.

"Where's my good gold bracelet?"

I heard Mom say this to Dad, her voice loud from the back of the house where their room was. Seconds later, I heard her screaming.
"Where are all my earrings!?" And then, more hysterical, "My watch! My watch is gone! GONE!" Frantic, Mom raced into the kitchen, where my sister and I sat pretending to do homework. "WHAT did you two do with my jewelry?!?"

My sister stared at my Mom frothing at the mouth in awe. "Nothing," she said, and then both of them slowly turned their heads to me.

My mouth went dry. "Cat..." I whispered, staring down at my hands. Because I knew I was fucked. "Backyard..."

"What." Mom was using her flat, sharp voice that let you know she was capable of killing children, including her own.

"I mummified Milky Way by wrapping her in jewlery and gauze and burying her in the backyard. Like the Egyptians."

I was lucky Dad stepped in at that point to stop Mom from attacking me. He held her around the waist while my sister and I ducked under her flaying arms and ran into the garage, grabbed a shovel, and raced outside to dig up Milky Way. Like two grave robbers, she holding a flashlight and I frantically ripping up the dirt, we finally found her. Milky Way and my mother's jewels were back from the dead.

Later, after spending hours wiping the mud off of enough gold, silver, and bronze to cover an entire Olympics, I received a two-hour lecture on the importance of respecting other people's property, and was grounded for a month.

I was just glad Mom let me live, knowing there was an empty grave out back.

Ohno? Oh, YES.

2010-02-14T11:50:00.004-07:00

I had an amazingly sexy dream last night- the fact that this was on the eve of Valentine's Day is no coincidence- and no, it wasn't about my husband.

In this dream, it's me and the five hottest men on earth- Apolo Ohno, Chad Hedrick, J.R. Celski (all USA), Sven Kramer (Netherlands), and Ivan Skobrev (Russia).

Am I the only one who thinks that speed skating is like sex on ice?

My obsession with speed skating is getting a little out of control. I know that Ivan Skobrev's birthday is February 9th. I know that Apolo used to date Dancing with the Star's Julianne Hough. I cried when J.R. fell in the Olympic Trails and cut his quadriceps to the femur bone with his own skate.

Anyway.

So back to the dream: I was sitting in a lawn chair, center ice. All five of my speed skating wet dreams were racing around the track in a tight-knit group, the sharp blades of their skates cutting through the ice like a hot knife through butter, their muscles rippling, straining, through their shiny spandex suits like gods wrapped in Saran Wrap. And here's the kicker- they weren't racing in the Olympics, no- they were racing against each other for my heart. I was the gold metal.

Ahem.

Right before the group of them crossed the finish line, all five of them gliding to the end like magnificent birds, my dream world and reality collided when I felt my husband throw his arm over my shoulder and give it a squeeze. "Morning, honey," he said. "Happy Valentine's Day."

I bolted upright in bed. Who won? WHO WON?

My husband stumbled out of bed and headed to the kitchen. I could hear him turning on the lights and running water to start the coffee. "Honey, you want anything to drink?" he shouted from the kitchen.

I sighed and fell back against the pillows in resignation, glancing at the bedside clock. It read 11:23am.

"Vodka," I answered back. "On ice."

Babies Have Rubber Bones

2010-02-10T21:49:00.001-07:00

I think that babies are incredibly cute from a distance. It's when I get up close to them that I get the chills right up my spine- sorry gang, something is just not right about them, and I'll be the first to say it.

First of all, their bones are made of rubber. This makes me squeamish. They drool, constantly, and wave their tiny fist around all bossy-like. I don't like it when people boss me around, and babies do that. It's always, "Feed me, change me, love me, blah blah blah". What, I'm a damn servant now? And don't EVEN get me started on all the shit they need. Why does something so small need a carload of crap? When I have kids, I'm putting them in waterproof gunnysack and calling it a day.

Maybe it's the parents. They always get my expectations up too high. Lies spill from their lips like a waterfall- "he is such a SMART baby", "she just LOVES people", and "he sleeps through the whole night". Really? Your 'smart' baby has been staring at the wall for 2 hours with his toes in his mouth. If that's smart, then I would be afraid to see dumb. And while I admire the fact that your child can sleep through the night, I once passed out in a dirty alley in Mazatlan for 2 days straight during Spring Break 98'- beat that. Or maybe your baby is too busy shitting itself to challenge me, I don't know.

So perhaps there needs to be classes new parents take. Like, "Your Baby Doesn't Have Basic Motor Skills- So It's Probably Not That Smart," or "Stop Talking About Your Baby- We're All Bored to Tears." The final class could be "Just Because You Fucked Each Other and Had a Baby Doesn't Mean I'll Hold The Door Open For Your Mammoth-Sized Stroller as I Walk Into Macy's." Okay, so that's a bit long, but you get my drift. Babies, like zits and flat tires, are an irritating fact of life. Excuse me while I take a birth control pill- maybe I'll take two tonight, just for good measure.

Thank You, Ed Hardy

2010-02-08T18:08:00.006-07:00

I would like to take a moment to personally thank both Ed Hardy and Affliction for creating clothing that helps women across America identify douchebags.

Before, it was a little harder to tell if you were speaking to/flirting with/fucking a douchebag. If he had frosted tips but a great smile, I would be confused. Wearing sunglasses indoors? Maybe he was recovering from Lasik surgery. Just a tad too tan? Douchebag or spent the day outside building homes for Habitat for Humanity? How in the hell was I supposed to know?

But NOW, now we have not one but TWO clothing lines, both of which only douchebags buy and wear. Ed Hardy sweatshirt? Douchebag. Affliction tee? Douchebag. Ed Hardy ball cap? Douchebag. (Extra douchebag points if the hat is sideways on his head).

These articles of clothing are like giant red stop signs posted directly on these men. Seriously, they would have better luck if they tattooed "Do NOT date me- I'm a huge DOUCHEBAG" directly on their forehead. If you are male, and you purchase either Ed Hardy or Affliction apparel, you are saying:

-I believe that my spray tan, frosted tips, silver ring/watch/bracelet, and Ed Hardy/Affliction shirt makes me a magnet for the ladies.
-I work at Blockbuster/am a bouncer/currently unemployed.
-I do not read newspapers/magazines/books/anything.
-I don't vote/have any real money/know the name of the vice president.
-I enjoy working out/going to the clubs/sleeping/borrowing money from my mom.
-I get confused when people use big words/ask me about my future.

So THANK YOU, EH & A!! Thank you for the warning label. You guys are like the Surgeon General of dating.

250 Million

2010-02-06T13:28:00.002-07:00

I read somewhere that the chance of one single person existing from their parents is like, a one in 250 million chance. So if you're walking the earth right now, you are basically a lotto winner. It's enough to blow your mind, or, just feel like you screwed over 249,999 million siblings.

I contemplated this while on the couch, watching a Jersey Shore marathon. It was 2pm in the afternoon, and I was still in my pajamas, eating a chocolate pudding cup and watching the cast of JS make out in a hot tub. I thought, 250 million people and I was chosen? Me, who considers Boone Farm's Strawberry Hill a fine wine? Me, who believes that Heidi Montag is 'misunderstood'? Me, who spent last Saturday night rolling towels and stacking them in a pyramid in my bathroom to create a 'spa-like' experience?

Had my parents decided to make sweet love a minute earlier or a minute later, who else would have been born? Maybe an inspirational teacher, or a super-smart accountant, or like some type of adventurer, like an Indiana Jones? I mean really, I beat them all out. My smart, outgoing, giving, wonderful siblings. I feel bad all 249,999 of them are not here right now.

They are missing a really good episode of Jersey Shore.

High & Low

2010-02-03T19:05:00.006-07:00

I was reading Paris Hilton's book, Confessions of a Heiress, and in it she mentioned that you should only eat either very, very expensive food or garbage. Like, either sushi or Cheetos. I read that and thought, so true, Paris. So true.

I high/low it all the time. Diamonds and a white Hanes t-shirt. Drinking PBR in the lobby of a four star hotel. $30 lipstick and dime store eyeliner. Driving my 92' Subaru through gated communities, radio blasting (mostly just to irritate the people that live there).

My ultimate high/low, though, are the radio stations I listen to- NPR on one side, my favorite hip hop station on the other. Admittedly, the NPR is only on about 20% of the time, but still- my drive home from work sounds something like this:

"An Iraqi appeals court overturned a move to disqualify some 500 candidates in next month's parliamentary elections because of their alleged ties to-"
CLICK
"I see you winding and grinding up on that pole, I know you see me lookin' at you and you already know, I wanna fuck you, you already know, I wanna fuck you, you already know-"
CLICK
"NASA's administrator is defending the president's proposed budget for NASA, which cancels the space agency's planned space shuttle successor and instead relies on private companies to-"
CLICK
"Baby, I be stuck to you like- glue baby, wanna spend it all on- you baby, my room is the g-spot call me Mr. Flintstone I can make your bed rock, hey hey hey, I can make your bed rock hey, hey, hey, I can make your bed rock girl-"

So I get what Paris is talking about- high/low is like being classy about being trashy. You'll have to excuse me- I'm going to get drunk and read Tolstoy's Anna Karenina. In my diamonds, of course.

Last Wishes

2010-01-25T19:25:00.002-07:00

One Sunday morning after breakfast, my husband and I were lounging around the living room and he was telling me that if he should die, he would want to be cremated and have his ashes spread on top of several different mountain tops. He’s a geologist, and started telling me why he loves these mountains, and why he wants his ashes there, and so on and so on.
I stared at him, and then blurted, “who is going to put your ashes on top of all these mountains?”
He stared at me over the top of his coffee cup. “Um…you are.”
I snorted. “Honey, I really don’t want to be climbing all those mountains- how many did you mention, like three? Four? You know I don’t like being outside. The sun is no good for my skin.”
“But…” he frowned and trailed off. “Somebody has to do it,” he whispered, scared that his ashes are going to end up in our trash can, next to a used tissue and an empty jar of almond butter.
“I’ll get a boy scout troop to do it,” I said, eagerly. “Maybe they’ll get some sort of badge for it, even.” I thought that was a great idea.
“Fine,” my loving husband said, and then sighed. “Where do you want your ashes spread?”
“The mall,” I answered, with no hesitation. “Put the majority of them around Forever 21, The Gap, Banana Republic, and the Nordstrom shoe department. And then sprinkle just a tiny bit at Cinnabon. I just love those goddamn cinnamon rolls.”
My husband looked horrified. “The mall?! You want your ashes spread at the mall?!?”

I don’t know why he looked so surprised. I love the mall. That’s where I’m happiest. At the mall, I can sip a latte, people watch, try on designer dresses I can’t afford, and use fake accents on salespeople. Being at the mall is like heaven, except with price tags and the occasional screaming baby.
“YES. The mall,” I said firmly. Jeez. Whatever happened to respect for the dead?

The Biggest Bitch

2010-01-16T20:05:00.001-07:00

My childhood dog, Yogi, sucked major ass.

She was literally the worst dog on earth. Looking back now, she may have been the worst dog in the entire fucking universe.

Before I go into too much detail, I will admit that my sister and I did not even ask for a damn dog to begin with. We were never the kids that begged their parents for the puppy in the store window. I remember when I was very young sitting in class when my teacher, Ms. Snow, brought in her Labrador puppy to show us. A resounding “Ahhh…” echoed through the classroom and the kids rushed to the front of the classroom. I took advantage of the distraction and stole money out of my neighbor’s backpack. I just was not interested.

It was our mom who wanted the dog, and she brought it home. I think it was something about teaching my sister and I how to love and care for another living creature. But we weren’t buying it.
“It stinks,” my sister said, holding her nose.
“SHE stinks,” Mom corrected. “Her name is Yogi- and we’ll give her a bath.”
I thought Yogi was a dumb name for a female dog, but really, I didn’t really care either way. They should have named her Unwanted.
“Yogi has creepy eyes,” I stated, and she did. They were black and vapid. Her hair was matted and dark, her breath reeked. Where did my mom get this dog? Hell, perhaps?
“She’s just hungry,” Mom said, and she was right. That dog ate everything in its path for the next ten years. Missing a shoe? Yogi ate it. Left a bag of Hersey’s chocolate kisses on the coffee table? Gone. We really loved it when she would eat her own shit, too. Real classy, Yogi.

The dog was disgusting.
Our friends all hated her. “Your dog sucks,” my friend told me.
“I know,” I agreed, and shrugged. What was I supposed to say? The dog DID suck. She barked constantly, shit everywhere, and kept staring at us with those creepy eyes. Eventually, we all started to hate her.
“Is Yogi outside?’ I asked Dad one Christmas. It was about 5 degrees and snowing like crazy. I could hear her annoying, piercing bark from the backyard.
“I don’t know,” Dad mumbled, turning up the radio to drown out Yogi’s cries. It occurred to me that Dad was hoping the dog would die out there, that her body would freeze solid. I thought about Yogi dead in a block of ice, and the thought pleased me.
“Okay,” I said casually, and acted like I wasn’t aware the dog was 20 minutes from death in our backyard holocaust. I turned and went back upstairs. Fuck, if Dad wasn’t going to let the bitch in, I certainly wasn’t.

Mom was the only one who carried a torch for the goddamn animal. “She’s family,” Mom protested, all teary-eyed when I asked her if we could get rid of Yogi. “How could you say that to me, really?” Mom sniffed. “Plus, Yogi just loves your Dad,” she continued.
That was always Mom’s argument when we complained about the dog, that Yogi just ‘worshipped’ Dad, loved him with all her heart. I think Mom made this up to get Yogi on our good side. But I knew that Yogi didn’t love anybody except herself- and Satan. She never played with us, never snuggled with us, never did cute dog things like all the other happy puppies running around the neighborhood. No, when she wasn’t eating her own excrement, she just sat there, and stared at us with those satanic eyes.
“I think Yogi is going to kill me,” I whispered to Dad one evening, Yogi’s eyes boring holes into my skull. “I’m scared.”
“Hmm…” was all Dad said. He did not seem concerned. That being said, he was watching Monday Night Football, and had I said “I’m pregnant,” I probably would have gotten the same reaction.

Years later, the day finally came when Yogi got real sick. We were all praying for it.
“She’s not doing well,” Dad told me, over the phone. He tried to sound grave, but I detected glee behind his voice. My sister and I were away at college at that point, and they were stuck at home with the beast.
“Maybe you should put her down,” I suggested helpfully. I was coming home for spring break in a couple of weeks and was hoping she would be buried by then.

The next day, Mom called me to tell me Yogi had passed away. She seemed giddy as she shared this news, and I could hear Dad pop a champagne cork in the background. They were blasting the Rolling Stones.
“Thank god,” I said with relief.
“I know,” Mom agreed, and took a sip of the champagne on the other end of the phone. “That dog,” she said, and paused. “That dog fucking sucked.”

In Yogi’s final years, Mom had ended up hating her too. And in the end, that common hatred of Yogi, the family dog, brought us all closer together.

Hmm.....

2010-01-11T19:00:00.001-07:00

Why don't the owners of 'Babies R' Us' just call their store 'Broken Condoms'? Might as well be honest about it.

Pig in a Blanket

2010-01-10T20:22:00.001-07:00

There is one perfect food out there. It's juicy, it's warm, and it's wrapped in a bed of flaky pastry. This wonder is called Pig in a Blanket, and it's the best thing that has ever happened to me. It is, without a doubt, the most delicious food ever created by God, or at least ever created by the public school system.

Perhaps you are dumb and have no idea what I am talking about, so let me enlighten you. Think elementary school, hot lunch. Think about pushing your tray down the lunch line, and there, behind the steamy glass, lay hot dogs wrapped in dough and then baked into a perfect meal. I remember them stacked, side by side like soldiers, their soft juicy insides hugged in the warm crispy pastry. I would hold my tray out, hands shaking, as the Pig in a Blanket was placed on my tray. I wolfed it down and then begged my friends for theirs. It was always the highlight of my week (next to throwing gravel at Laura, the fat girl, during recess of course).

Now, it is hard to find a Pig in a Blanket. Once I found the mini-version at a cocktail party, on a silver tray. Each of them were stabbed with a glittery toothpick. I ended up eating about 35 of them and then throwing up. Or like yesterday, trying to recreate it, I wrapped a piece of ham in a tortilla and put it in a microwave for 3 minutes. It was gross, but I ate it anyway, because it was either that or stale Fiber Bran.

Tonight, while I sleep, I will dream of them. I will dream of sleeping on them, rolling around, naked, rubbing myself in the grease and the fat and the warmth. I will dream of tossing them up like gold coins in the sheer joy of their existence. Finally, I will I eat them, one after another, until I throw up. And only then will I be truly happy.

A History Lesson

2010-01-09T22:20:00.004-07:00

I can one-up almost anybody by stating a random, unprovable, 'fact' based on incredibly vague historical 'knowledge'.

For example, I was at the mall the other day, and this rude saleswomen at the cosmetic counter was like, "You could really use some liner around your eyes to help them stand out a bit." Now, what was she saying? That I had ugly eyes? That I look like a man? Or was she just mad at me for testing out all her lip glosses with a (glaringly) large cold sore on my face?
So I casually said, "You know, back in Egyptian times, they put coal around their eyes for makeup, and like, they all ended up dying because it sunk into their blood streams and killed them."
She stared at me, dumbfounded. Mostly because what I said made absolutely no sense and was incredibly stupid, and YET- it made just enough sense to be somewhat credible.
I could see her mind working- I think I've heard something like that before....that Cleopatra lady did wear makeup I think....will my eyeliner kill me?!?
"So anyway," I said and shrugged, like, what you gonna do? I smiled kindly and I think, smartly, at her and strolled away toward handbags. I couldn't wait to educate the next salesperson on leather-making processes of the 1800's.

Jr. High

2010-01-09T22:19:00.001-07:00

Jr. High was a total blur- I don’t know about anybody else, but the memories for me are few and far between.

I mean, there was that one time when I had a steamy, 2-month affair with my biology teacher. Short, steamy moments in the girl's bathroom, a secret kiss between classes, our weekend getaway to Vail, the doctor visit for the abortion, the 3-year trial when he was accused of statutory rape, our 6 week trip to Mexico to escape authorities and live the rest of our days on the beach selling thread-woven bracelets, the moment he was gunned down by Mexican police for drugs, and then the 5 year stint I spent in a girl’s home.

Other then that, though, I really don’t remember anything else. Jr. High was just real dull.

I Still Got It

2010-01-07T22:50:00.002-07:00

The other day, I was running through the park, regretting the two donuts I had inhaled but hours before. Not only that, but I had fought with my friend- she told me I was a cold-hearted bitch. Something about laughing hysterically when she accidentally hit a bird with her car on our way to breakfast. But really, I could see the beak sticking out from the radiator when we got out to inspect the damage- what did she want me to do, cry?

Anyway, my point is that I was feeling a bit down. I slowed down to a walk, and as I strolled through the park I ended up passing two homeless men lounging in the grass.

The first one whistled. “Yeah, baby, gimmie some of that!” His toothless mouth grinned disgustingly, his pants were soiled with urine.
“Fuck yeah, baby, you’s a hot piece of pussy!” the other one shouted, the one who had a small animal (dog? rat?) on a leash. He was missing both his right shoe and his right eye.
I stared at them, in shock, ready to shout something rude back- until I realized I was blushing.
“Come over here and give Daddy a kissy!” the urine-soaked one yelled.
I giggled, like a little schoolgirl, and felt flattered. I put my shoulders back and stuck my chest out a little bit, showing off.
The animal on the leash was gnawing at the cardboard box they were lying on, and now they were both making obscene gestures at me. Still giggling, I waved, and started running again, like I was floating on air. I still got it, I kept thinking to myself. I still got it!

Yes, I had been sexually harassed by two incredibly vile men, and yet- they were still men, weren’t they? They were still men!

Still grinning, I continued through the park, both my chest and spirits high.

Power Trip

2010-01-06T19:28:00.002-07:00

My boss went on vacation for a week and left me in charge. She said that I would be covering for her for the next 5 days, and instructed my coworkers to do 'whatever' I said. My eyes quickly glazed over with the thought of all that power. My fellow cube mates, previously my equals, were now the 'small people' I could step on. I was drunk with joy.

It started on a small scale. I asked Rick to get me a cup of coffee, extra hot, no sugar. When he brought it to me, I complained that it was warm, "like fucking bathwater," and threw it in the trash in a fit of rage. He ran back to the kitchen like a little bitch to get me a new one.

Mary kept complaining that she was too tired, and tried to cut corners when she was washing my car. Mary is 58, and I did appreciate the fact that her left hand is crippled with arthritis. She seemed to be in a lot of pain as she clutched the soapy sponge, but that just wasn't going to get her out of her duties. I was really disappointed- I just didn't see the dedication this company needs.

Joe did an okay job picking up my lunch, until I realized he got me Ranch Dressing on my salad instead of the fat-free vinaigrette I had requested. I told him if I wanted an ass as big as his mom's I would probably eat it, but since I didn't, I would have to throw the whole thing in the trash, next to the cold-ass coffee. Joe gave me his lunch and then massaged my shoulders while I ate it. I made sure to eat real slow- like for two hours. Joe kept complaining that his hands were getting tired, and as his thumb rubbed the knot out of my lower back, I wondered if he would get arthritis too, like Mary.

Eventually, my boss came back from vacation, and my power trip was over. I've lost a couple of friendships, but really, I didn't mind. I could never be friends with people who are this incompetent. If I really was the boss, I would fire all three of them- after they picked up my dry cleaning, of course.

Really?

2010-01-06T19:20:00.000-07:00

Um...really? Like, I'm standing in this Target line, my shit laid out on the counter belt, ready to check out- and you, YOU are in front of me?

Seriously, half of your items don't have tickets? Is that even physically possible? And you are talking to the cashier (Shawn, the nameplate reads), the cashier that is trying to find the prices on his computer, and you are distracting him with stories of your kid's swim team tryouts? Really?

Okay, now, he rang everything up and wait- oh- you, you just decided you didn't want that? The anti-bacterial wipes- those, those you don't need anymore? So now he needs to credit those out of your item list- oh, yes, you are leaning over the counter, practically pressing your face into the computer screen, double-checking the prices? And then, oh my god, you pull out a checkbook? Really?

You sure are writing really slowly, aren't you? And still chatting. Cole, your son, placed first in WHAT division? Because, please, Shawn and I are DYING to know. And take your time recording your Target purchase in your checkbook. Take your time.

Yes, you DO need help out, with all the bags of kitty litter, plastic organizers, and enough apple-spice scented candles to fill a dumpster. Surely, they didn't expect you, you, in the 1994 haircut and pleated khaki pants to actually load all this shit in the back of your Ford Explorer, did they? They certainly did not.

And me? Me who just stood in line fifteen minutes waiting to purchase my tampons and mint gum? Me, who is irritated and annoyed beyond belief that you, YOU, would be the one that is in front of me? That there are 35 checkout counters and I picked this line?

Really?

The Thieves

2010-01-02T19:50:00.000-07:00

My sister and I decided to play ‘Robbers’ one afternoon. It was summer, hot, and we were bored. She was a naive six years old; I an evil nine.
“How do we play?” my sister asked me, her blue eyes wide and innocent.
“Well…we’re going to rob a house” I explained, casually, like I just suggested jumping rope or riding our bikes. “You know, like robbers do.”
We ended up in the garage looking for ‘robber’ tools. We found a saw and scurried over to our neighbor’s house. Their window was ground level and had a screen over it. We crouched down, saw in hand, and cut the screen off the window- the glass, in turn, opened easily. We slid down through the window and into the basement.

We were inside the house, and it echoed in silence.

“Let’s head upstairs,” I whispered, saw in hand. Naturally, we had dressed the part. I was in an all-black leotard left over from a tumbling class, and we had wrapped my sister up in a black trash bag and belted it. It crinkled as we crept upstairs into the living room.

We had the whole place to ourselves- it was like a giant playhouse, but REAL. We spent the next two hours goofing off in the house; watching TV, jumping on the beds, eating our neighbor’s food. Eventually, we found a huge coin jar- it was more money then I had ever seen in my entire life-there were five, even TEN dollar bills in there! Finally bored, we climbed back out of the basement window and raced home. Back in our civilian clothes and under the umbrella of innocence, we quietly played with our Barbie dolls until our parents called us to dinner.

(I think at this point some may be wondering where our parents were during this time. Well, that’s easy- mom was chatting with the neighbor on our back porch, and dad was watching sports on the television. They were probably thinking we were hanging out at a friend’s house. I assure you, they were definitely not thinking their two little girls were robbing a house.)

It was later that evening when everything started breaking down. My neighbor came home, realized his house had been ransacked, and called the police- that’s when the knock came at the door. I peeked behind my dad as the police officer spoke to him.
“Sir, looks like we had a break in next door- some items were stolen- did you happen to see anything by chance?”
“No,” my dad replied, baffled. “A robbery? In this neighborhood? Weird.”
The officer shrugged, thanked dad, and left.
“Weird,” my dad repeated, shutting the door.
“Some people are just bad, Daddy,” I said, comforting him. “It’ll be okay.” I was a phenomenal actress, even back then.
My sister sat silently on the couch and said nothing. I was extremely proud of her.

Later that night, though, she turned us both in. We were in the bathtub- I fantasizing about all the toys I would buy with our loot, and my sister pushing a boat around the water.
“Time to get out,” Mom called from the hallway.
“We have lots of money,” my sister answered in return.
I froze, and then desperately tried to shush her.
“What?” Mom, now curious, peeked in the bathroom.
“We have lots and lots of money,” she said, louder now and more forcefully. It was like watching a train wreck and not being able to do anything about it.
“Where did you get money, sweetie?” My mom’s voice now had a dangerous edge to it. I could see my toy fantasies start to crumble.
“We played robbers,” she answered.
By then Dad had joined this little party, and they both looked at me. “Did you two rob a house?”

At that point it was all over. I confessed and we gave them the money hiding under the bed. Dad went next door, gave the money back, and explained that his daughters were the culprits. Dad then made us go next door and apologize ourselves.

That was awkward.

Dad: “Kids, say you’re sorry to your neighbor, Mike.”
Us: “Sorry...”
Dad: “Why are you sorry?” he prompted.
Us: “We are sorry for robbing your house.”

We were grounded for months and had to pay for the ripped screen with our allowance money. Mom bought books like “Children without a Conscience” and “The Criminal Mind of a Child”. My sister was fine; it was me my parents were weary of. I, the oldest, had lead my sister into a life of crime. The knives in the kitchen were put on the top shelf. Thieves.

To this day, I still don’t understand why I robbed a house. Why ‘pretending’ to rob house doesn’t mean you actually ROB A HOUSE. Like, no light switch went on, the one that goes, “You are robbing a fucking house. This is really, really, really bad. You shouldn't rob this house. You should leave.” I mean, I was nine. Nine is not THAT young. What happened there?

All I can say is that it was summer, hot, and we were bored.

My Parent's Basement

2010-01-01T18:06:00.000-07:00

Sometimes times are tough, and sometimes you have to move in with your parents. I was fired from my job when I was 28 for "gross incompetence and offensive behavior", according to my now-former boss, whose condo I ended up setting on fire. I made sure he wasn't in it, of course.

So lack of funds meant my parent's damp basement became my home. Bringing guys home (through the windows) was no small task, and then they always asked the one awkward question- “why is your bed two blankets in a kiddie pool"? What, you expected the Hilton? Like stray dogs, I could always bring a man into my home, but never keep ‘em. I realized that maintaining any kind of relationship would be impossible.

Occasionally, one of my parents would open the basement door, throw a turkey leg down the stairwell, and then slam the door shut. Sometimes I would find notes taped to my cement walls- "Get a fucking job or get out"- and I appreciated how supportive they were. I wondered why they wouldn’t let me stay in any of the 4 empty guest rooms upstairs, and my mom told me, “No use putting quarters in an empty coke machine”. Not sure what that means, but she said it with love.

Eventually, I moved out, but I would be lying if I said I didn't miss my parent's basement just a little. I mean, the food was free, the blankets were warm, and really- who doesn't like hanging out with the two people who gave you life?