Holy Moly, you guys. Are you sitting? You should be sitting. What I am about to tell you is pretty much the biggest thing that has happened anywhere ever. You're going to freak out . I mean, I don't even know how to tell you. Are you dying? You. Have. No. Idea. oh my gosh. OMG. Holy shit. Ready? OK.
I live with my boyfriend.
Let that sink in. Take a deep breath and just process that statement. Just breathe until you feel like you are able to deal with this. Ok? You feeling better? Good. Let's examine the statement I just made, because I, like you, am incredulous. Now, we all know that I've made many a shocking and brash statement in my life, like I'm Going To Be in a Beauty Pageant, or I'm Moving to Tampa. There is a shock value to my existence which is indeniable. But I shocked myself with this one.
Kate. Did you just say... boyfriend?
Yes. Yes, I did. I have a boyfriend. And I live with him.
You live with him. In the same place. Where your stuff is, his stuff is. You live with your boyfriend. Um, Kate... since when do you have a boyfriend?
Well, yesterday was one week since I'd moved in, and today is two weeks after we got together, so about two weeks. Yeah, two weeks exactly.
Kate, honestly, that's the most crack-addled thing you've ever said. You're being really weird right now, like all happy and smiling. It's freaking me out, man- are... are you baking?
What's so hard to believe? I am in a relationship. WIth a man. He wants to spend every second with me. Oh, I see your point. But when it's right, it's right.
That's such a fucking cliche, Kate. I thought you were a better writer than that. You probably just didn't want to move to Tampa and are using this guy for a free place to stay.
And sex. Don't forget using him for sex.
Wait, so who the hell is he? Who is the poor man whom you are subjecting to your madness?
Aaah, yes. The best part. Who is he indeed? He turned out to be the man I've been telling you all does not exist. He is Prince Nonexistent. Apparently, he's real.
Oh, my god, Kate. You've actually cracked, haven't you? I knew it was coming... but so soon? All right, let's take you to go see the nice doctors...
I'm perfectly sane. For now.
Kate, you just said that you moved in with your boyfriend after two weeks and now you're telling us that your boyfriend is a fictional character you created. Is this like the time you told us your boyfriend was Buddha? And by the way, aren't you supposed to be in Tampa?
Guys, listen and listen good. I have just proved the existence of true love. True love exists, and it's magical, absolutely magical. We can literally communicate telepathic ally. The Universe itself has blessed our union.
Doctor, so glad you're here. She's right over there.
No, really guys! It's amazing, I'm so happy, I've never been so happy!
Kate, come over here. I bought you a new jacket. It goes on backwards... Ooooh.
He really is my soul mate.
Bitch you are crazy.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Monday, August 31, 2009
My Apartment, My Self
The big day is almost upon us. September 1st is always a momentous day. It signifies great change- change of address, change of roommates, change of season. That cool September breeze is blowing yet again, and it’s time for me to leave... yet again.
With great change comes great preparation. Those of you who know me well, know that I generally get off on a to-do list, however, being paralyzed by overwhelming anxiety and general lack of excitement and motivation, I’ve come down to the wire this year. I’m taking time out from packing to write an article- I think that pretty much speaks for itself.
It’s usually around this time that I realize several things about my surroundings. First, I don’t finish anything. I get about 97% there, but there is always a floorboard here or a corner there that I never got around to. I’ve painted practically every surface there is to paint in this apartment- 97% of them anyway. But I like things unfinished- I like things coming undone. The new tenant might not appreciate my artistic viewpoint when it comes to half-painted doorframes. To you, it might look messy, but to me, it’s intentionally half-assed. You can’t fully understand the artist if you can’t see his brush-strokes.
Secondly, I throw nails in the wall like it’s my job, and therefore my drywall looks like it has really bad acne. And I love how in the moment I have no concern at all. “Oh,” I think to myself, “I’ll just Spackle it when I leave,” and just leave all the work and the cover-up to some future Kate who will take care of everything. Well Future Kate is here, and she’s pissed. Past Kate is ridiculous- running around making messes and expecting me to clean them up. She’s such a selfish bitch. And why is Spackle reflective?!? It doesn’t help to cover the hole but then draw attention to it with shiny Spackle.
Thirdly, more than once I’ve been taking things down and have had to put a hand to my forehead and say to myself, “Stocks, please tell me you did not put double-sided tape on this wall.” Naturally, I had. The double-sided tape was not as bad as the time I decided my bathroom should be wallpapered in newspaper, and being the impetuous little artist asshole that I am, I had to put it up right that moment and used the tools at hand. Months later while cleaning out that apartment, I realized that I had put them up with a glue stick.
Not to mention that my grand plan of “getting rid of everything” resulted in sending more than 30 boxes to Florida. I keep trying to say to myself, “Stocks, if the cops came for you right now, what would you put in your getaway bag?” (And yes, I do address myself internally as Stocks. I also mentally slap my wrist whenever I see something I want to buy, or a cute boy I want to talk to. For the same reason- it gets things done and keeps me in line.) But there are things that would be stupid and wasteful to throw away. I want to live a simple life, but if that means throwing out the three cloth-bound binders of alphabetized fonts organized by style that I spent two months making, then forget it. A life without organized font books is not a life for me.
Since I am a great believer in reflection (except when it comes to Spackle), let’s reflect on the lessons I’ve learned about apartments:
1. Don’t pay retail. Paying retail for furniture and furnishings is like putting cash into a shredder. Such a waste of money.
2. Use a drop cloth when you paint. Make a plan when you paint. Don’t just grab a paintbrush and go to town (no matter how wonderful it feels).
3. Don’t put glue or any other adhesive on the walls. Ever.
4. Don’t move into a big apartment- you’ll buy more things to fill the space and things will spiral from there.
5. Use those sticky hooks to hang things on the wall. Put the hammer away.
6. Try to save enough money for a mover so you don’t have to schlep boxes to the post office and drive cross-country twice.
7. When in doubt, a Magic Eraser can do anything. They really are magic.
8. It’s always nice to have a big strong handy man to help you out, but if none of them are available (or tolerable) figure out how to repair the floorboards yourself.
9. It takes five coats of white paint to cover a black chalkboard.
10. Whatever you do must eventually be undone.
I also realized that I am just like my apartment. Sure, I need a lot of work. Sure, I’ve got a lot of baggage. Sure, I’m just a big old mess right now. All I need to do is get all the clutter out, Spackle over my mistakes, bleach everything in sight, and work until I collapse to make myself habitable. And although there are certainly doubters, like my landlord, I know I can get it done. I have to.
But I am sad to leave. I have not yet had my breakdown, but it’s a comin’. In honor of my beautiful little nest here, I’ve written a haiku. (I wanted to write a poem, but seriously, I need to get on with my day…)
I will miss you so…
Parquet floors and stunning views
but rent can eat me.
In the spirit of moving on with my life, I’ve made myself a promise. Just as Scarlett O’Hara vowed to herself that she’d never go hungry again, I have made a very important promise to myself: No More Roommates. If I have to lie, cheat, steal, or kill, as God as my witness, I’ll never live with a roommate again. But then that’s another article entirely…
With great change comes great preparation. Those of you who know me well, know that I generally get off on a to-do list, however, being paralyzed by overwhelming anxiety and general lack of excitement and motivation, I’ve come down to the wire this year. I’m taking time out from packing to write an article- I think that pretty much speaks for itself.
It’s usually around this time that I realize several things about my surroundings. First, I don’t finish anything. I get about 97% there, but there is always a floorboard here or a corner there that I never got around to. I’ve painted practically every surface there is to paint in this apartment- 97% of them anyway. But I like things unfinished- I like things coming undone. The new tenant might not appreciate my artistic viewpoint when it comes to half-painted doorframes. To you, it might look messy, but to me, it’s intentionally half-assed. You can’t fully understand the artist if you can’t see his brush-strokes.
Secondly, I throw nails in the wall like it’s my job, and therefore my drywall looks like it has really bad acne. And I love how in the moment I have no concern at all. “Oh,” I think to myself, “I’ll just Spackle it when I leave,” and just leave all the work and the cover-up to some future Kate who will take care of everything. Well Future Kate is here, and she’s pissed. Past Kate is ridiculous- running around making messes and expecting me to clean them up. She’s such a selfish bitch. And why is Spackle reflective?!? It doesn’t help to cover the hole but then draw attention to it with shiny Spackle.
Thirdly, more than once I’ve been taking things down and have had to put a hand to my forehead and say to myself, “Stocks, please tell me you did not put double-sided tape on this wall.” Naturally, I had. The double-sided tape was not as bad as the time I decided my bathroom should be wallpapered in newspaper, and being the impetuous little artist asshole that I am, I had to put it up right that moment and used the tools at hand. Months later while cleaning out that apartment, I realized that I had put them up with a glue stick.
Not to mention that my grand plan of “getting rid of everything” resulted in sending more than 30 boxes to Florida. I keep trying to say to myself, “Stocks, if the cops came for you right now, what would you put in your getaway bag?” (And yes, I do address myself internally as Stocks. I also mentally slap my wrist whenever I see something I want to buy, or a cute boy I want to talk to. For the same reason- it gets things done and keeps me in line.) But there are things that would be stupid and wasteful to throw away. I want to live a simple life, but if that means throwing out the three cloth-bound binders of alphabetized fonts organized by style that I spent two months making, then forget it. A life without organized font books is not a life for me.
Since I am a great believer in reflection (except when it comes to Spackle), let’s reflect on the lessons I’ve learned about apartments:
1. Don’t pay retail. Paying retail for furniture and furnishings is like putting cash into a shredder. Such a waste of money.
2. Use a drop cloth when you paint. Make a plan when you paint. Don’t just grab a paintbrush and go to town (no matter how wonderful it feels).
3. Don’t put glue or any other adhesive on the walls. Ever.
4. Don’t move into a big apartment- you’ll buy more things to fill the space and things will spiral from there.
5. Use those sticky hooks to hang things on the wall. Put the hammer away.
6. Try to save enough money for a mover so you don’t have to schlep boxes to the post office and drive cross-country twice.
7. When in doubt, a Magic Eraser can do anything. They really are magic.
8. It’s always nice to have a big strong handy man to help you out, but if none of them are available (or tolerable) figure out how to repair the floorboards yourself.
9. It takes five coats of white paint to cover a black chalkboard.
10. Whatever you do must eventually be undone.
I also realized that I am just like my apartment. Sure, I need a lot of work. Sure, I’ve got a lot of baggage. Sure, I’m just a big old mess right now. All I need to do is get all the clutter out, Spackle over my mistakes, bleach everything in sight, and work until I collapse to make myself habitable. And although there are certainly doubters, like my landlord, I know I can get it done. I have to.
But I am sad to leave. I have not yet had my breakdown, but it’s a comin’. In honor of my beautiful little nest here, I’ve written a haiku. (I wanted to write a poem, but seriously, I need to get on with my day…)
I will miss you so…
Parquet floors and stunning views
but rent can eat me.
In the spirit of moving on with my life, I’ve made myself a promise. Just as Scarlett O’Hara vowed to herself that she’d never go hungry again, I have made a very important promise to myself: No More Roommates. If I have to lie, cheat, steal, or kill, as God as my witness, I’ll never live with a roommate again. But then that’s another article entirely…
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Gypsys, Tramps, and Me
We are in the middle of Move:2009. Please forgive the rawness of this article. My internet got shut off this morning and am flying without a net on the public computers at the library. Let the fun of moving begin.
I have moved quite a bit. So it isn't that I'm in any way unprepared or unable to deal with this move. I'm just rusty and out of resources. There was Move:2004, when I first came to Boston in an over-stuffed mini-van. Store:2005-2006 when I moved to U-Haul for a while which was a move with all the problems and none of the benefits. Then Move:2006 when I moved to Connecticut (which was the worst decision of my life). On the coat-tails of the Connecticut debacle came the big Move/Store/Break-up:2007 which lasted 5 months. Then Move:2007, Parts 3,4, and 5 where I finally landed in my current aparment, vowing to myself not to move again for two years, because I had been literally living out of a suitcase from September 1, 2005 to September 1, 2007.
So here we are. Move:2009. I decided to move a few months ago, because a gypsy like me has to uproot frequently to avoid insanity. In an ideal world, I would buy a camper van, put all my stuff in it, and rove the country like a free woman. However... I don't have a camper van. I have a twenty year old car that needs a great deal of engine overhaul. But she made the trip down to Tampa and back last week just fine. The old girl loves the highway. So does the car.
That's right. I said Tampa, aka Trampa. When I decided to move, naturally, I had no idea where the hell I would go. The world is my oyster, you know. But this pearl is broke. So my options at the moment are homelessness or moving home. It came down to the flip of a coin.
Since I cannot afford to hire movers and since my trunk only large enough to fit two bags of golf clubs, I have to sell everything I went broke for nesting in my big girl apartment. There are certain things that I refuse to part with and they are already safe and sound in Tampa. Again, the battle of burn the magazines or save the magazines rages on in my head. But I'm sure the magazines will triumph... yet again.
Dorthy clicked her fab red heels and found herself back in Kansas instantly. I have to drive cross-country alone three times over the course of a month, and my fab red heels are being boxed and sent in the mail. I guess Tampa's not as bad as Kansas. I mean, I've never been to Kansas. If I had that camper van, I could go and do a comparitive study. But I must stop thinking about that camper van. It's not like I can afford gas, anyways. But I could always predict people's futures.
Let's start by predicting my future: I will scramble til the last minute to get everything painted, cleaned, shipped, and sold. My car will break down on the way to Tampa- on an off-road, in the middle of the country, at night. I will piss myself when I remember that I forgot to pack my lead pipe. When I finally get to Tampa, I will be forced to resume working at the same jobs I held in high school- teaching swim lessons and filing orders at a carpet installation company. I will immediately regret my decision to move to Tampa and all previous decisions that led to said decision. I will enter a severe depression that leads to either an unwanted pregnancy, or an amazing novel.
Keep your fingers crossed I park my tush in front of the typewriter, and not on a bar stool. Or that I can teach enough swim lessons to buy that camper van.
I have moved quite a bit. So it isn't that I'm in any way unprepared or unable to deal with this move. I'm just rusty and out of resources. There was Move:2004, when I first came to Boston in an over-stuffed mini-van. Store:2005-2006 when I moved to U-Haul for a while which was a move with all the problems and none of the benefits. Then Move:2006 when I moved to Connecticut (which was the worst decision of my life). On the coat-tails of the Connecticut debacle came the big Move/Store/Break-up:2007 which lasted 5 months. Then Move:2007, Parts 3,4, and 5 where I finally landed in my current aparment, vowing to myself not to move again for two years, because I had been literally living out of a suitcase from September 1, 2005 to September 1, 2007.
So here we are. Move:2009. I decided to move a few months ago, because a gypsy like me has to uproot frequently to avoid insanity. In an ideal world, I would buy a camper van, put all my stuff in it, and rove the country like a free woman. However... I don't have a camper van. I have a twenty year old car that needs a great deal of engine overhaul. But she made the trip down to Tampa and back last week just fine. The old girl loves the highway. So does the car.
That's right. I said Tampa, aka Trampa. When I decided to move, naturally, I had no idea where the hell I would go. The world is my oyster, you know. But this pearl is broke. So my options at the moment are homelessness or moving home. It came down to the flip of a coin.
Since I cannot afford to hire movers and since my trunk only large enough to fit two bags of golf clubs, I have to sell everything I went broke for nesting in my big girl apartment. There are certain things that I refuse to part with and they are already safe and sound in Tampa. Again, the battle of burn the magazines or save the magazines rages on in my head. But I'm sure the magazines will triumph... yet again.
Dorthy clicked her fab red heels and found herself back in Kansas instantly. I have to drive cross-country alone three times over the course of a month, and my fab red heels are being boxed and sent in the mail. I guess Tampa's not as bad as Kansas. I mean, I've never been to Kansas. If I had that camper van, I could go and do a comparitive study. But I must stop thinking about that camper van. It's not like I can afford gas, anyways. But I could always predict people's futures.
Let's start by predicting my future: I will scramble til the last minute to get everything painted, cleaned, shipped, and sold. My car will break down on the way to Tampa- on an off-road, in the middle of the country, at night. I will piss myself when I remember that I forgot to pack my lead pipe. When I finally get to Tampa, I will be forced to resume working at the same jobs I held in high school- teaching swim lessons and filing orders at a carpet installation company. I will immediately regret my decision to move to Tampa and all previous decisions that led to said decision. I will enter a severe depression that leads to either an unwanted pregnancy, or an amazing novel.
Keep your fingers crossed I park my tush in front of the typewriter, and not on a bar stool. Or that I can teach enough swim lessons to buy that camper van.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Dear Publisher,
Dear Publisher,
I am tired of being a victim of your incompetence, and the incompetence of your employees. I wish someone had made it clear to me in the beginning that the copies of my "book" you told me were to be produced, would not, in fact, be produced, so as to save me the two months I wasted working on this book for no money.
At this point, can we even call it a book since it does not exist in book form? I had been referring to it as my Downs Syndrome baby. Then I realized that I was only a surrogate for your Downs Syndrome baby, and I am saddened to hear that after cultivating, gestating, and nurturing your mentally handicapped offspring that you put it to sleep on its belly and it suffocated. I am, however, happy for the baby.
When I originally spoke with your editor, he told me the book would be in University bookstores and orientation packets, and the reason I had to produce it in three weeks was because you were going to get the book into students' hands for the fall semester. Apparently I was smoking crack that night, because nothing you've done since then has supported that goal.
I had then counted on receiving income from University sales, especially since my contract says "hard copies." I created a book out of thin air in three weeks, while eating spaghetti and moldy bread because I'm dead broke and was not doing this for love. I was doing this because you promised to put money in my pocket. Money so that I could buy things like fresh bread.
I was told that we had a deadline to meet. A deadline that has now come and gone. Orientations are over. Kids are in school. Way to go. I am astounded by your professionalism. My next book will be entitled, "How to Succeed in Business by Suing Your Publisher for Breech of Contract."
At this point, it's very difficult for me to trust your "tried and true process," since I've been deliberately misled through every step of this process. I took two months off work to dedicate myself to the creation of this book for your company. I'm a little perturbed. It's my fault really. I assumed I'd be working with people who had an IQ higher than 85.
I suppose that deadline is a foreign word to you. It's no big deal, really, you only run a publishing house. The final draft was supposed to have been due July 10, but since no one was there to edit the first draft because "all" your "editors" (i.e. The high school student whom you taught to use Track Changes) were on vacation, that "deadline" got pushed back. I wish I had been informed of that so I didn't forgo sleep for three weeks to finish a book that then sat on your "desks" untouched for two weeks while you were at the beach. The extra month I spent re-editing when I should have been working was exceptionally enjoyable.
In addition, I don't even know where this book is being marketed or distributed. I have been in contact with S (who is lovingly referred to in my circles as "Fucktard") from your marketing department. While I applaud your endeavor to hire the mentally challenged, can someone else please be assigned to my account? It took a week for her to respond to a question I had about the subject and word count of the articles you requested from me and she responded that she had to ask her manager.
I can't imagine why it takes one of your employees a week with help to answer a question about word count. I've asked her about the marketing plan because I planned to supplement your marketing with marketing on my end, but again, she has yet to respond to me. I can't do what you're asking me to do if your employees are unable to communicate with me.
I have found the experience of working with your company to be extraordinarily frustrating. If given the choice again, I would rather have been gang-banged by a group of silver-back gorillas while someone videotaped it. I would have made a lot more money and had a much better time.
Thank you,
Kate Stocks.
p.s. I would tell you where to stick your book, but you can't shove an e-book up your ass.
I am tired of being a victim of your incompetence, and the incompetence of your employees. I wish someone had made it clear to me in the beginning that the copies of my "book" you told me were to be produced, would not, in fact, be produced, so as to save me the two months I wasted working on this book for no money.
At this point, can we even call it a book since it does not exist in book form? I had been referring to it as my Downs Syndrome baby. Then I realized that I was only a surrogate for your Downs Syndrome baby, and I am saddened to hear that after cultivating, gestating, and nurturing your mentally handicapped offspring that you put it to sleep on its belly and it suffocated. I am, however, happy for the baby.
When I originally spoke with your editor, he told me the book would be in University bookstores and orientation packets, and the reason I had to produce it in three weeks was because you were going to get the book into students' hands for the fall semester. Apparently I was smoking crack that night, because nothing you've done since then has supported that goal.
I had then counted on receiving income from University sales, especially since my contract says "hard copies." I created a book out of thin air in three weeks, while eating spaghetti and moldy bread because I'm dead broke and was not doing this for love. I was doing this because you promised to put money in my pocket. Money so that I could buy things like fresh bread.
I was told that we had a deadline to meet. A deadline that has now come and gone. Orientations are over. Kids are in school. Way to go. I am astounded by your professionalism. My next book will be entitled, "How to Succeed in Business by Suing Your Publisher for Breech of Contract."
At this point, it's very difficult for me to trust your "tried and true process," since I've been deliberately misled through every step of this process. I took two months off work to dedicate myself to the creation of this book for your company. I'm a little perturbed. It's my fault really. I assumed I'd be working with people who had an IQ higher than 85.
I suppose that deadline is a foreign word to you. It's no big deal, really, you only run a publishing house. The final draft was supposed to have been due July 10, but since no one was there to edit the first draft because "all" your "editors" (i.e. The high school student whom you taught to use Track Changes) were on vacation, that "deadline" got pushed back. I wish I had been informed of that so I didn't forgo sleep for three weeks to finish a book that then sat on your "desks" untouched for two weeks while you were at the beach. The extra month I spent re-editing when I should have been working was exceptionally enjoyable.
In addition, I don't even know where this book is being marketed or distributed. I have been in contact with S (who is lovingly referred to in my circles as "Fucktard") from your marketing department. While I applaud your endeavor to hire the mentally challenged, can someone else please be assigned to my account? It took a week for her to respond to a question I had about the subject and word count of the articles you requested from me and she responded that she had to ask her manager.
I can't imagine why it takes one of your employees a week with help to answer a question about word count. I've asked her about the marketing plan because I planned to supplement your marketing with marketing on my end, but again, she has yet to respond to me. I can't do what you're asking me to do if your employees are unable to communicate with me.
I have found the experience of working with your company to be extraordinarily frustrating. If given the choice again, I would rather have been gang-banged by a group of silver-back gorillas while someone videotaped it. I would have made a lot more money and had a much better time.
Thank you,
Kate Stocks.
p.s. I would tell you where to stick your book, but you can't shove an e-book up your ass.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Killer Tan
This weather is not doing a lot for my complexion. Usually by this time of year I’m poolside at least two hours a day. Summer is the time of year I get to wear my short shorts, but how am I supposed to do that if my legs are translucent?
I’ll have to look in to other options, since the sun is not cooperating. I could buy self tanner. There are a lot of products on the market that will darken your skin gradually without making you look orange. I could spray tan. Spray tans are instantaneous and pretty natural looking, although a week or two later you look like a leper when you start to peel. Not sexy.
One thing I will not resort to is tanning beds. I have never been in a tanning bed, and I will never go into a tanning bed. As far as I’m concerned tanning beds are little hotbox hell-coffins of death, and I’d rather walk around blinding people before I willingly get into one. Seriously, if medieval torture chambers had electricity, they would have used tanning beds.
And I’m not wrong. Legislation has started to pass outlawing tanning booth use for minors. Unlike lotions or spray tans, tanning booths have those nasty UV rays that give you cancer. So, in reality, they are hotbox hell-coffins of death. Beauty is pain, but beauty should not be fatal.
Most of the damage you can do to your skin that leads to melanoma is inflicted before you’re 18. So these girls that are running off to the tanning booths every other day are giving themselves cancer. Twenty states have legislation pending, and Arkansas and Mississippi of all places have restricted tanning booth use to minors under 14.
Melanoma is no joke. Of course we all want to look bronzed and sun-kissed like we just spent two weeks in Jamaica, but like everything else in life, it can be faked. You’re not going to be looking that cute after chemo when your hair falls out. But you will be tan in your coffin. Which you should be used to… we’ll just wire some sun lamps in there and you’ll feel right at home.
Please visit http://www.dermanetwork.org for more information. And if you haven’t been to the dermatologist by now, you need to go. I went to the dermatologist last week, and I had a great time, except apparently cute dermatologists are not allowed to date their patients. Now that should be outlawed.
I’ll have to look in to other options, since the sun is not cooperating. I could buy self tanner. There are a lot of products on the market that will darken your skin gradually without making you look orange. I could spray tan. Spray tans are instantaneous and pretty natural looking, although a week or two later you look like a leper when you start to peel. Not sexy.
One thing I will not resort to is tanning beds. I have never been in a tanning bed, and I will never go into a tanning bed. As far as I’m concerned tanning beds are little hotbox hell-coffins of death, and I’d rather walk around blinding people before I willingly get into one. Seriously, if medieval torture chambers had electricity, they would have used tanning beds.
And I’m not wrong. Legislation has started to pass outlawing tanning booth use for minors. Unlike lotions or spray tans, tanning booths have those nasty UV rays that give you cancer. So, in reality, they are hotbox hell-coffins of death. Beauty is pain, but beauty should not be fatal.
Most of the damage you can do to your skin that leads to melanoma is inflicted before you’re 18. So these girls that are running off to the tanning booths every other day are giving themselves cancer. Twenty states have legislation pending, and Arkansas and Mississippi of all places have restricted tanning booth use to minors under 14.
Melanoma is no joke. Of course we all want to look bronzed and sun-kissed like we just spent two weeks in Jamaica, but like everything else in life, it can be faked. You’re not going to be looking that cute after chemo when your hair falls out. But you will be tan in your coffin. Which you should be used to… we’ll just wire some sun lamps in there and you’ll feel right at home.
Please visit http://www.dermanetwork.org for more information. And if you haven’t been to the dermatologist by now, you need to go. I went to the dermatologist last week, and I had a great time, except apparently cute dermatologists are not allowed to date their patients. Now that should be outlawed.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Tantrums Are Part of My Process
I love writing. I love the art of sitting down and thinking very deeply and carefully about how best you can express an idea, or a feeling, or an experience. The act of writing is very rational. It turns out after all that I am a rational being. It’s just that my hormones are totally out of control, so most of the time I can’t hear myself think. Fucking hormones. But now that my metabolism has deserted me (I knew there was something bad about turning 25), my hormones have slowed down a bit, and now I can think.
So perhaps you’ve heard that recently I’ve gotten hired to write a book. Seriously, if you haven’t heard, you must live under the rock under which I live. Once hired, I was given a deadline of 3 weeks to put together the first draft, and 2 additional weeks to edit it for print. So, that’s 3 + 2. Which = 5. That’s 5 weeks. 5 whole weeks to write a book. My first book. S’no big deal. It’s not like I’m an incredible perfectionist or anything.
But two of those weeks are for editing. So that’s really 3 weeks to write a book. What topic am I writing my book about? Making Friends. Laugh now. Not really my topic. How to Alienate People? How to Disengage Yourself From Society? The Budding Agoraphobic’s Guide to Working From Home? Much more my speed. So I’m doing the best I can with limited resources and a lot of imagination.
Inevitably, the enormous weight of the task I’d so eagerly and ignorantly taken on began to quickly wear on me which each passing of the second. And of course the stars have aligned to make this as difficult as they possibly can for me. The Universe, basically has sent me to my room to think about what I’ve done. Seriously. My roommate isn’t even here to distract me. This is the karmic punishment I get for being anti-social all my life. I have to write an essay on how to make friends. Did I mention I’m not even smoking right now? Do you have any idea how difficult it is to write without cigarettes?!?!??
But I’ve been making good progress. If I haven’t learned to grit my teeth and get through it by now… (That came out a lot dirtier than I meant it to, but I have a point.) Until last week. Things were good. I had survived PRIDE week, and had gotten the book started. (Mostly by singing “Let’s Start At the Very Beginning” every time I got overwhelmed.) I’d handed in the first three chapters. I had a week to go, but I could do it. Then one of my cats had to be put down. Then, after I’d been babysitting at an amusement park fearing my imminent and violent death all day (and hadn’t eaten anything but raw sugar), I got a letter from my NEW editor telling me I was doing great, but I had to completely re-write my perspective. Oh, did I mention I was on my period?
What followed was a two-day long tantrum. There was crying. There was sobbing, actually. There may have been thrown objects. There was vodka. If you learn nothing else from me, remember: Vodka Helps. Needless to say, it was not cute. And unfortunately for the few friends I do have, Day Two included a party, and these poor bitches had to listen to me whine all day. (I showed a lot of cleavage to make up for it.)
How the hell am I not only supposed to write this damn book, but do it without being able to talk about myself? I don’t know how to not talk about myself. It’s how I communicate. Not only did I stomp my foot and refuse to not acknowledge my presence for one moment, but I literally doubted I would be able to do it. During this time, I couldn’t write, I couldn’t think, I wanted to quit. I wanted to quit real bad. I almost quit. I passed out instead.
Then I woke up, and I was all better. Fuck this noise, is basically what I said to myself that morning. The hormone tidal wave had passed, and I could think clearly again. So I looked at my first three chapters are realized that not only was the editor’s suggestion easy to make, but it made the book a lot better.
I lost a week to my period. So that’s two weeks. Two weeks to pull this bullshit together. Actually, right now I have 3 days. Three days and 6 chapters. 6 chapters / 3 days = 2 chapters a day. Oh. That’s not bad, actually. I can do that. See what happens when I am able to think!
So perhaps you’ve heard that recently I’ve gotten hired to write a book. Seriously, if you haven’t heard, you must live under the rock under which I live. Once hired, I was given a deadline of 3 weeks to put together the first draft, and 2 additional weeks to edit it for print. So, that’s 3 + 2. Which = 5. That’s 5 weeks. 5 whole weeks to write a book. My first book. S’no big deal. It’s not like I’m an incredible perfectionist or anything.
But two of those weeks are for editing. So that’s really 3 weeks to write a book. What topic am I writing my book about? Making Friends. Laugh now. Not really my topic. How to Alienate People? How to Disengage Yourself From Society? The Budding Agoraphobic’s Guide to Working From Home? Much more my speed. So I’m doing the best I can with limited resources and a lot of imagination.
Inevitably, the enormous weight of the task I’d so eagerly and ignorantly taken on began to quickly wear on me which each passing of the second. And of course the stars have aligned to make this as difficult as they possibly can for me. The Universe, basically has sent me to my room to think about what I’ve done. Seriously. My roommate isn’t even here to distract me. This is the karmic punishment I get for being anti-social all my life. I have to write an essay on how to make friends. Did I mention I’m not even smoking right now? Do you have any idea how difficult it is to write without cigarettes?!?!??
But I’ve been making good progress. If I haven’t learned to grit my teeth and get through it by now… (That came out a lot dirtier than I meant it to, but I have a point.) Until last week. Things were good. I had survived PRIDE week, and had gotten the book started. (Mostly by singing “Let’s Start At the Very Beginning” every time I got overwhelmed.) I’d handed in the first three chapters. I had a week to go, but I could do it. Then one of my cats had to be put down. Then, after I’d been babysitting at an amusement park fearing my imminent and violent death all day (and hadn’t eaten anything but raw sugar), I got a letter from my NEW editor telling me I was doing great, but I had to completely re-write my perspective. Oh, did I mention I was on my period?
What followed was a two-day long tantrum. There was crying. There was sobbing, actually. There may have been thrown objects. There was vodka. If you learn nothing else from me, remember: Vodka Helps. Needless to say, it was not cute. And unfortunately for the few friends I do have, Day Two included a party, and these poor bitches had to listen to me whine all day. (I showed a lot of cleavage to make up for it.)
How the hell am I not only supposed to write this damn book, but do it without being able to talk about myself? I don’t know how to not talk about myself. It’s how I communicate. Not only did I stomp my foot and refuse to not acknowledge my presence for one moment, but I literally doubted I would be able to do it. During this time, I couldn’t write, I couldn’t think, I wanted to quit. I wanted to quit real bad. I almost quit. I passed out instead.
Then I woke up, and I was all better. Fuck this noise, is basically what I said to myself that morning. The hormone tidal wave had passed, and I could think clearly again. So I looked at my first three chapters are realized that not only was the editor’s suggestion easy to make, but it made the book a lot better.
I lost a week to my period. So that’s two weeks. Two weeks to pull this bullshit together. Actually, right now I have 3 days. Three days and 6 chapters. 6 chapters / 3 days = 2 chapters a day. Oh. That’s not bad, actually. I can do that. See what happens when I am able to think!
Friday, June 12, 2009
Good Men with Bad Taste in Women
While chatting with my friend Alex, I came up with this week’s article idea. He says not to forget the gays. As if. The reason I love gay men so much (can I write one article without mentioning this? Yeeesh…) is because they have fabulous taste in women. The gays only approve the coolest chicks. That’s because to them, we’re not necessary, so they don’t need to keep us around. They choose to keep company with us. And the best of all the gays, drag queens and trannies, emulate us directly. And by us, I mean fabulous women.
You can tell a lot about a man by three things: Ladies, pay attention.
1. His handshake. If he shakes like a cold fish, he’ll fuck like one too.
2. The way he runs. Also a direct indicator of the way a man fucks. That’s why I spend so much time at the pond scoping out runners.
3. His taste in women.
A person’s choice in a mate is one of the most important and telling choices of their life. Some people say, “You can’t choose who you love.” Those people have clearly never been to therapy. Your choice in a mate reflects your self-esteem, your psychological make-up, and the world you want to create for yourself. Like for instance, I want to be black, so I’m going to make babies with a black man. (Someone get the smelling salts- my mom just fainted.) Then there will be little black Kates in the world.
My personal dating history is comically dismal. The only man I’ve attempted to partner with (sex partners don’t count) was a PhD from MIT. It was like holding a winning lottery ticket and then realizing you misread one of the numbers. I’m holding out for something better. Yes, my standards are high, but shouldn’t they be? To quote Cher in Clueless, “You see how picky I am about my shoes and they only go on my feet.”
Unfortunately, the dating pool is so shallow that I couldn’t drown in it if I was trapped face down under an elephant. Um, hi… aren’t there like 3 billion men in the world? WTF? I’m not the kind of woman who needs a man, but I’m a woman who has needs, and I’d prefer those needs to be met by someone I don’t need to send a doctor’s bill to and can carry on a conversation with that doesn’t include the constant response, “You’re so sexy.”
There is nothing worse than seeing a potentially great guy and finding out he has terrible taste in women. Terrible taste in women includes but is not limited to:
1. Subservient women: Women who will cook, clean, do your laundry, do your errands, wipe your bum and actually enjoy doing it. Also includes younger women and women who appear very young. Men who like this type of women have serious power issues. They also probably have a really small penis.
2. Women with low self-esteem: Chicks who will do just about anything to keep you. Women like this need a man to feel good about themselves, and these men need women to need them to feel good about themselves. Men who like this kind of woman tend to have an inflated ego because they themselves have poor self-esteem and sociopathic tendencies.
3. Women who giggle: Deep breath. Women who giggle make me lose. my. damn. mind. Seriously, I want to punch them. What the hell is so funny? Is that really all you have to offer? Hello, is anyone home? You know how some people say that Joyce’s Ulysses is like literary masturbation? Women who giggle are like relationship masturbation. They are an “empty vessel” if you will- human vaginas. Men who go for these types are so insecure in their own masculinity that they need to be with the emotional equivalent of a four-year old girl to feel like a man. They also tend to be very emotionally distant.
4. Manipulative Women: These are the types of women who are all sweetness at the beginning and then fake a pregnancy to get a ring. These women are craaaaazyyy. Men who stick with manipulative women are either too stupid to realize they’re being manipulated or are so indifferent to life beyond keg-stands that they don’t care.
5. Controlling Women: See also, manipulative women. Women who think they “own” their men and treat them like toddlers. These women castrate their mates, put the balls in their purses, and then force the castrated men to carry the purses. These men clearly enjoy being punished. See also: sadomasochism.
6. Sluts: See also: Women with low self-esteem.
We’ve lost a lot of good men who could have been great men to women like this. Can a man outgrow bad taste in women? Ha. I read somewhere that the problem with men is that they never change and the problem with women is that they constantly change. So it’s the strong women, the smart women, the superstar women who are left without partners. It takes a very extraordinary man to partner an extraordinary woman.
Take for instance, my friend Nicole. Nicole is stunning; she’s in grad school, self-sufficient, built like a brick house, dry as toast and funny as hell. She came to Boston thinking she’d find someone great, someone smart and cultured and mature. What did she get? A homeless man audibly admired her ass on the street last week. So we were talking about it- maybe Boston just doesn’t have any guys… uh yeah right. There are millions of single guys here in Boston. But the ones who aren’t taken or gay are teeming with syphilis. So my little rock star Nicole has nothing better to do on a Thursday night than hear me sing bad karaoke at a piano bar.
Listen up boys: y’all need to get your act together. There are soooo many amazing women in the world, which you know if you interrupted your constant mental stream of “boobies, boobies, boobies...” once in a while and paid attention. I mean, what the hell is wrong with you? Are you seriously happy with these sub-par women you’ve been dating, fucking, and hooking up with? If so, I’m going to need to speak to someone. What, are you intimidated? You don’t think you’re good enough for intelligent, ambitious, gorgeous women? Good! You should be. Because right now you bottom feeders aren’t good enough for great women. But let me tell you something, man up and step up your game. Be good enough.
Cause superstar women are amazing in bed.
You can tell a lot about a man by three things: Ladies, pay attention.
1. His handshake. If he shakes like a cold fish, he’ll fuck like one too.
2. The way he runs. Also a direct indicator of the way a man fucks. That’s why I spend so much time at the pond scoping out runners.
3. His taste in women.
A person’s choice in a mate is one of the most important and telling choices of their life. Some people say, “You can’t choose who you love.” Those people have clearly never been to therapy. Your choice in a mate reflects your self-esteem, your psychological make-up, and the world you want to create for yourself. Like for instance, I want to be black, so I’m going to make babies with a black man. (Someone get the smelling salts- my mom just fainted.) Then there will be little black Kates in the world.
My personal dating history is comically dismal. The only man I’ve attempted to partner with (sex partners don’t count) was a PhD from MIT. It was like holding a winning lottery ticket and then realizing you misread one of the numbers. I’m holding out for something better. Yes, my standards are high, but shouldn’t they be? To quote Cher in Clueless, “You see how picky I am about my shoes and they only go on my feet.”
Unfortunately, the dating pool is so shallow that I couldn’t drown in it if I was trapped face down under an elephant. Um, hi… aren’t there like 3 billion men in the world? WTF? I’m not the kind of woman who needs a man, but I’m a woman who has needs, and I’d prefer those needs to be met by someone I don’t need to send a doctor’s bill to and can carry on a conversation with that doesn’t include the constant response, “You’re so sexy.”
There is nothing worse than seeing a potentially great guy and finding out he has terrible taste in women. Terrible taste in women includes but is not limited to:
1. Subservient women: Women who will cook, clean, do your laundry, do your errands, wipe your bum and actually enjoy doing it. Also includes younger women and women who appear very young. Men who like this type of women have serious power issues. They also probably have a really small penis.
2. Women with low self-esteem: Chicks who will do just about anything to keep you. Women like this need a man to feel good about themselves, and these men need women to need them to feel good about themselves. Men who like this kind of woman tend to have an inflated ego because they themselves have poor self-esteem and sociopathic tendencies.
3. Women who giggle: Deep breath. Women who giggle make me lose. my. damn. mind. Seriously, I want to punch them. What the hell is so funny? Is that really all you have to offer? Hello, is anyone home? You know how some people say that Joyce’s Ulysses is like literary masturbation? Women who giggle are like relationship masturbation. They are an “empty vessel” if you will- human vaginas. Men who go for these types are so insecure in their own masculinity that they need to be with the emotional equivalent of a four-year old girl to feel like a man. They also tend to be very emotionally distant.
4. Manipulative Women: These are the types of women who are all sweetness at the beginning and then fake a pregnancy to get a ring. These women are craaaaazyyy. Men who stick with manipulative women are either too stupid to realize they’re being manipulated or are so indifferent to life beyond keg-stands that they don’t care.
5. Controlling Women: See also, manipulative women. Women who think they “own” their men and treat them like toddlers. These women castrate their mates, put the balls in their purses, and then force the castrated men to carry the purses. These men clearly enjoy being punished. See also: sadomasochism.
6. Sluts: See also: Women with low self-esteem.
We’ve lost a lot of good men who could have been great men to women like this. Can a man outgrow bad taste in women? Ha. I read somewhere that the problem with men is that they never change and the problem with women is that they constantly change. So it’s the strong women, the smart women, the superstar women who are left without partners. It takes a very extraordinary man to partner an extraordinary woman.
Take for instance, my friend Nicole. Nicole is stunning; she’s in grad school, self-sufficient, built like a brick house, dry as toast and funny as hell. She came to Boston thinking she’d find someone great, someone smart and cultured and mature. What did she get? A homeless man audibly admired her ass on the street last week. So we were talking about it- maybe Boston just doesn’t have any guys… uh yeah right. There are millions of single guys here in Boston. But the ones who aren’t taken or gay are teeming with syphilis. So my little rock star Nicole has nothing better to do on a Thursday night than hear me sing bad karaoke at a piano bar.
Listen up boys: y’all need to get your act together. There are soooo many amazing women in the world, which you know if you interrupted your constant mental stream of “boobies, boobies, boobies...” once in a while and paid attention. I mean, what the hell is wrong with you? Are you seriously happy with these sub-par women you’ve been dating, fucking, and hooking up with? If so, I’m going to need to speak to someone. What, are you intimidated? You don’t think you’re good enough for intelligent, ambitious, gorgeous women? Good! You should be. Because right now you bottom feeders aren’t good enough for great women. But let me tell you something, man up and step up your game. Be good enough.
Cause superstar women are amazing in bed.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Sorry, Charlie
As all of you should know by now (I’m sure you saw the sky-writing plane I hired) I have landed my very first book. It’s going to be published. A real book! And of course, since this is my life, it has to be done in about a month… as a final draft. So, I’ve got a lot of work to avoid doing.
The book is called “The College Guide to Making Friends,” and thank you thank you thank you to all of you who are participating in helping me find out exactly how do you make friends? I will be keeping you abreast of the book’s release, which I know for a fact will be in time for the fall semester. Other than that, at this point, everything is pretty much up in the air, including what the hell this book is going to say.
However, since this is kind of important, I have to put the blog on hold for a moment, even though last night’s debut of “Kendra” has given me enough to write about for a year. You all were getting too spoiled with a new article every day anyways. I’ll still do one big Friday article a week because I know you can’t live entirely with me, but for the next little while, at least, you’ll have to try.
I’ll tell you now what I told my ex-boyfriend after I got back from Europe and before I moved to Connecticut: After this, I promise I’ll never leave you again.
The book is called “The College Guide to Making Friends,” and thank you thank you thank you to all of you who are participating in helping me find out exactly how do you make friends? I will be keeping you abreast of the book’s release, which I know for a fact will be in time for the fall semester. Other than that, at this point, everything is pretty much up in the air, including what the hell this book is going to say.
However, since this is kind of important, I have to put the blog on hold for a moment, even though last night’s debut of “Kendra” has given me enough to write about for a year. You all were getting too spoiled with a new article every day anyways. I’ll still do one big Friday article a week because I know you can’t live entirely with me, but for the next little while, at least, you’ll have to try.
I’ll tell you now what I told my ex-boyfriend after I got back from Europe and before I moved to Connecticut: After this, I promise I’ll never leave you again.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Supermom
I had to be at work at 10am the other day. Half of you are saying, oh, that’s nice, you got a little extra time in the morning. The other half of you, who, like me, only work at night (or rarely, if at all), feel my pain. Even with three cups of coffee laced with espresso and speed, my brain does not turn on that early. I don’t know how I ever held down a day job (I’m sure my former bosses will agree). My brain doesn’t fully wake up until about four in the afternoon. And what ends up happening, if I don’t get the five hours I need to wake up slowly and quietly, and if I have to interact with people or do things during that time, I get a little hyper and/or extraordinarily cranky. I apologize to any of you who have ever had to deal with me before noon.
Now, thanks to extended periods of not having anything to do or anywhere to go, I have been able to realize that I need a LOT of peace and quiet. Some may call that selfish. Call it whatever you like (the term selfish when applied to any of my behavior is not a stretch by any means), but I refuse to live without my alone time. Not only do I need audible quiet (silence is heaven) but visual quiet as well. That means everything organized, nothing out of place. If I walk into an extremely disorganized space, my brain explodes and I can’t function. So I help people who somehow don’t understand how to organize- to make the world a better place.
On the day in question when I had to be at work at ten, I was working for a woman I call Supermom. This woman is married to her college sweetheart who comes from money, is super-involved with their kids and works from home doing some genius computer something, she’s traveled all over the world, has a gorgeous sprawling house in the suburbs and a summer house on the Cape, was valedictorian of her class, has a master’s degree from Wharton, worked her way up to being the VP of a MAJOR pharmaceutical company, has three of the sweetest, most intelligent, well-adjusted children you’ll ever meet, and decided to leave her job a year or two ago to spend more time with them. So she immediately started her own consulting company and became the president of the PTA.
I got to work on time that day for perhaps the first time ever, and went upstairs to her office. I haven’t seen her in a while or spent time at the house- I’ve had a project that I “work on” at home (for five hours at a time the night before I told her I’d have it completed). In the span of a few months, not only is she running her own consulting firm, acting as the president of the PTA and fulfilling her various charitable duties, she has joined another consulting firm and is also working freelance.
Supermom wakes up at 5am every morning. She gets on average I would say 4 or 5 hours of sleep a night if she’s lucky. She drinks Diet Coke the way the rest of us breathe air. At any given moment, she’s in the middle of ten things. She is unable to complete thoughts and formulate sentences at times. We can never find a time to meet up, because she has no free time. She’s constantly a half hour late to all appointments and I’m getting anxious just thinking about it. Being in her presence, in this environment, makes me a teensy bit tense. I was at the house for three hours, and I had to take a nap when I got home because I was so exhausted.
On paper, her list of achievements is very impressive- it sounds like she’s got it all. She is the American dream (or is that Paris Hilton…?). She works hard and she achieves. Is this really what everyone is trying to accomplish? Working eighteen hours a day at a job that has no personal significance, having a family that you don’t have any time or energy to spend with, being constantly emotionally and mentally exhausted, and having two homes and a lifestyle you can’t financially keep up with, except to work eighteen hours a day at a job you could have picked out of a hat?
You can keep your dream, America, and if you’d like to know what to do with it, I have a couple of suggestions. I am over $125,000 in debt from trying to play your game. I did the “work 18 hours a day and try to have it all” thing. I had a nervous breakdown. Twice.
If I was to ask Supermom if she's happy, I'm sure she'd tell me that she love her family and the sacrifice is worth it; right before she spontaneously combusts.
Now, thanks to extended periods of not having anything to do or anywhere to go, I have been able to realize that I need a LOT of peace and quiet. Some may call that selfish. Call it whatever you like (the term selfish when applied to any of my behavior is not a stretch by any means), but I refuse to live without my alone time. Not only do I need audible quiet (silence is heaven) but visual quiet as well. That means everything organized, nothing out of place. If I walk into an extremely disorganized space, my brain explodes and I can’t function. So I help people who somehow don’t understand how to organize- to make the world a better place.
On the day in question when I had to be at work at ten, I was working for a woman I call Supermom. This woman is married to her college sweetheart who comes from money, is super-involved with their kids and works from home doing some genius computer something, she’s traveled all over the world, has a gorgeous sprawling house in the suburbs and a summer house on the Cape, was valedictorian of her class, has a master’s degree from Wharton, worked her way up to being the VP of a MAJOR pharmaceutical company, has three of the sweetest, most intelligent, well-adjusted children you’ll ever meet, and decided to leave her job a year or two ago to spend more time with them. So she immediately started her own consulting company and became the president of the PTA.
I got to work on time that day for perhaps the first time ever, and went upstairs to her office. I haven’t seen her in a while or spent time at the house- I’ve had a project that I “work on” at home (for five hours at a time the night before I told her I’d have it completed). In the span of a few months, not only is she running her own consulting firm, acting as the president of the PTA and fulfilling her various charitable duties, she has joined another consulting firm and is also working freelance.
Supermom wakes up at 5am every morning. She gets on average I would say 4 or 5 hours of sleep a night if she’s lucky. She drinks Diet Coke the way the rest of us breathe air. At any given moment, she’s in the middle of ten things. She is unable to complete thoughts and formulate sentences at times. We can never find a time to meet up, because she has no free time. She’s constantly a half hour late to all appointments and I’m getting anxious just thinking about it. Being in her presence, in this environment, makes me a teensy bit tense. I was at the house for three hours, and I had to take a nap when I got home because I was so exhausted.
On paper, her list of achievements is very impressive- it sounds like she’s got it all. She is the American dream (or is that Paris Hilton…?). She works hard and she achieves. Is this really what everyone is trying to accomplish? Working eighteen hours a day at a job that has no personal significance, having a family that you don’t have any time or energy to spend with, being constantly emotionally and mentally exhausted, and having two homes and a lifestyle you can’t financially keep up with, except to work eighteen hours a day at a job you could have picked out of a hat?
You can keep your dream, America, and if you’d like to know what to do with it, I have a couple of suggestions. I am over $125,000 in debt from trying to play your game. I did the “work 18 hours a day and try to have it all” thing. I had a nervous breakdown. Twice.
If I was to ask Supermom if she's happy, I'm sure she'd tell me that she love her family and the sacrifice is worth it; right before she spontaneously combusts.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
The Doctor is In
I was told yesterday that I have no business giving relationship advice. I know; I’m as shocked as you are. This was not, mind you, from a dissatisfied customer, it was said to me by a wanna-be psychiatrist friend of mine (and by wanna-be, I mean diploma-in-hand and getting certified). This is also the same man who applauded me for NOT making a joke when someone made a comment about coming through the “back door.” So, I don’t know how much to trust his judgment.
He happens to be happily married, whatever that means. The idea of being “happily married” for me is like being chained to a radiator in an igloo. People in healthy relationships are like people who are naturally tall and skinny- nobody likes you very much, and nobody wants to hear what you have to say. At least, I don’t.
People want advice from people who have experience, i.e. have made a lot of mistakes. And in this way, I am uniquely qualified to give relationship advice (actually, in this way, I am qualified to give advice on pretty much everything). Besides, people wouldn’t ask for my advice if they didn’t want to hear it. It’s like when my boss asked my opinion on the “Miss California” debacle. You may not know what I’m going to say, but I’m sure you have a pretty good idea before you ask.
Besides, not everyone wants to hear, “you’ll work it out.” It takes a very brave, truth-seeking (or mayhaps the masochistic) person to ask for my advice about relationships. Because I’m not going to tell you to work it out. I’m concerned about your ultimate well-being, not your transient happiness. I’m not sure you can work it out, and I’m not sure you should even try. It depends on the relationship, but I’m probably going to tell you to break up. Chances are, I’ve been in a similar situation, because I’ve been through a lot of shitty relationships. So I know the territory. And I know how to get you out.
I salute you, brave people who ask for my relationship advice. But I recognize my limitations (occasionally). I cannot tell you how to have a healthy relationship, I can only tell you how not to have an unhealthy relationship. So, for your benefit, I’ve decided to team up with my happy and healthy doctor friend to write a book on relationships. Because you need options, and everyone sees things differently. So you’ll have his well-adjusted clinically approved opinion, and the benefit of my fucked up experience.
He suggests we title the book, “Total Opposites.”
He happens to be happily married, whatever that means. The idea of being “happily married” for me is like being chained to a radiator in an igloo. People in healthy relationships are like people who are naturally tall and skinny- nobody likes you very much, and nobody wants to hear what you have to say. At least, I don’t.
People want advice from people who have experience, i.e. have made a lot of mistakes. And in this way, I am uniquely qualified to give relationship advice (actually, in this way, I am qualified to give advice on pretty much everything). Besides, people wouldn’t ask for my advice if they didn’t want to hear it. It’s like when my boss asked my opinion on the “Miss California” debacle. You may not know what I’m going to say, but I’m sure you have a pretty good idea before you ask.
Besides, not everyone wants to hear, “you’ll work it out.” It takes a very brave, truth-seeking (or mayhaps the masochistic) person to ask for my advice about relationships. Because I’m not going to tell you to work it out. I’m concerned about your ultimate well-being, not your transient happiness. I’m not sure you can work it out, and I’m not sure you should even try. It depends on the relationship, but I’m probably going to tell you to break up. Chances are, I’ve been in a similar situation, because I’ve been through a lot of shitty relationships. So I know the territory. And I know how to get you out.
I salute you, brave people who ask for my relationship advice. But I recognize my limitations (occasionally). I cannot tell you how to have a healthy relationship, I can only tell you how not to have an unhealthy relationship. So, for your benefit, I’ve decided to team up with my happy and healthy doctor friend to write a book on relationships. Because you need options, and everyone sees things differently. So you’ll have his well-adjusted clinically approved opinion, and the benefit of my fucked up experience.
He suggests we title the book, “Total Opposites.”
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
The Importance of Straight Male Friends
I talk a lot about my love for the gay male population. Gay men are just about the best thing that ever happened to straight women. They’re intelligent, witty, have great taste in musicals, like to shop, dress well, and the more fabulous you are, the more they adore you. I want to live in a society where fabulosity is rewarded.
However, there is one small problem… The gays won’t sleep with us (well… sometimes some of the gays will sleep with some of us, but that is another article altogether). And since women, unfortunately, are not yet biologically wired to handle merely physical relationships, we must interact with the non-gays; aka the “guys.”
I was always one of the guys; until it became quite physically obvious that I was not. As a kid, all my friends were boys. I was not interested in playing “house” or “dolls” and I’m still not. It’s so difficult to find chicks that are cool, and I honestly prefer running around and getting dirty. But as soon as I got my boobies, I got kicked out of the “guy” club.
A male-female relationship always begs the question, Sex? With the gay males, you know exactly where you stand. Love, yes. Sex, no. Women tend to be generally ok with this kind of relationship (see also: marriage). But if I may paraphrase Carrie’s mother (Carrie the telekinetic, not Carrie the writer), “First the blood, then the boys…” They’re constantly sniffing around us, like dogs. “Sex? Sex? Sniff, sniff. Sex?” They stick their snouts in the most inappropriate places.
But if you’re lucky enough to move past the sniffing, straight guys are great to hang out with. Women seldom discover this because either they’re grossed out by the sniffing, or they’re scouting for potential mates. One of the reasons males and females have such a hard time understanding each other (besides that women don’t like being sniffed and men don’t like being scouted) is because once we all hit puberty we become very guarded in our interactions with one another. There is probably good reason for this because I’ve been told by a number of men that if we ever really knew what they talked about it would blow our minds. I’m pretty filthy and they won’t even tell me, so it can’t be good.
But every great once in a while, its great to set aside the question of Sex?, get a beer (or 8) and just be people. Once Sex? is out of the way, everyone can just relax and have a good time. Ladies, when you’re not measuring their flaws against some imaginary “ideal man” straight guys are pretty cool. And gentlemen, there are people trapped under these boobies. Everyone likes to be liked just for them. So can we all please just forget about sex every once in a while and hang out?
However, there is one small problem… The gays won’t sleep with us (well… sometimes some of the gays will sleep with some of us, but that is another article altogether). And since women, unfortunately, are not yet biologically wired to handle merely physical relationships, we must interact with the non-gays; aka the “guys.”
I was always one of the guys; until it became quite physically obvious that I was not. As a kid, all my friends were boys. I was not interested in playing “house” or “dolls” and I’m still not. It’s so difficult to find chicks that are cool, and I honestly prefer running around and getting dirty. But as soon as I got my boobies, I got kicked out of the “guy” club.
A male-female relationship always begs the question, Sex? With the gay males, you know exactly where you stand. Love, yes. Sex, no. Women tend to be generally ok with this kind of relationship (see also: marriage). But if I may paraphrase Carrie’s mother (Carrie the telekinetic, not Carrie the writer), “First the blood, then the boys…” They’re constantly sniffing around us, like dogs. “Sex? Sex? Sniff, sniff. Sex?” They stick their snouts in the most inappropriate places.
But if you’re lucky enough to move past the sniffing, straight guys are great to hang out with. Women seldom discover this because either they’re grossed out by the sniffing, or they’re scouting for potential mates. One of the reasons males and females have such a hard time understanding each other (besides that women don’t like being sniffed and men don’t like being scouted) is because once we all hit puberty we become very guarded in our interactions with one another. There is probably good reason for this because I’ve been told by a number of men that if we ever really knew what they talked about it would blow our minds. I’m pretty filthy and they won’t even tell me, so it can’t be good.
But every great once in a while, its great to set aside the question of Sex?, get a beer (or 8) and just be people. Once Sex? is out of the way, everyone can just relax and have a good time. Ladies, when you’re not measuring their flaws against some imaginary “ideal man” straight guys are pretty cool. And gentlemen, there are people trapped under these boobies. Everyone likes to be liked just for them. So can we all please just forget about sex every once in a while and hang out?
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Frugality is an Ugly Word
Frugal is pretty much one of my least favorite words. It’s not even pretty. Fruuu-gal. Bleh. It sounds like the name of an ugly Germanic Troll. In action, it’s even less beautiful. There is a lot to be said for simplicity, but frugality is like simplicity’s evil stepsister. Simplicity allows for function and beauty, but frugality is all about denial and subsistence.
I mean, I appreciate being poor, because when one day I actually do have money (and unicorns roam the earth) I won’t waste it. I won’t stuff my home with useless things, like 47 soccer balls or every DVD at Target, although I may occasionally splurge on an antique typewriter. It’s called lifestyle for a reason.
It’s nice to have nice things. Not that I’m living in the lap of luxury here by any means, but sometimes it’s all about the little things. I finally ran out of Clinique astringent. This is, as my friend Eli would say, a Greek tragedy. I think one of the reasons I never really had problems with my skin is because I’ve been using the Clinique skincare line religiously since I was 12. The stuff is magical. But I sooo do not have $25 for astringent right now (although amazingly I did have $25 for a pitcher of beer the other night… it’s about priorities people).
What I do have is a three year old half-empty bottle of witch hazel, left over from when my ex was convinced that we could make Clinique astringent at home for a fraction of the cost by merely reading the ingredients. He was wrong. By the way, frugal was one of his favorite words. Clearly, that match was not meant to last.
I’m all about DIY. I generally don’t buy anything I can make myself. But a superior product is a superior product. Does the witch hazel work better than Clinique? Hell no. Does it cost practically nothing? Sure does. That is Frugality’s ugly little joke on us.
However, desperate times call for desperate measures. So I’ll suck it up for now and make do. I just hope I’m not forced to make my own mouthwash next.
I mean, I appreciate being poor, because when one day I actually do have money (and unicorns roam the earth) I won’t waste it. I won’t stuff my home with useless things, like 47 soccer balls or every DVD at Target, although I may occasionally splurge on an antique typewriter. It’s called lifestyle for a reason.
It’s nice to have nice things. Not that I’m living in the lap of luxury here by any means, but sometimes it’s all about the little things. I finally ran out of Clinique astringent. This is, as my friend Eli would say, a Greek tragedy. I think one of the reasons I never really had problems with my skin is because I’ve been using the Clinique skincare line religiously since I was 12. The stuff is magical. But I sooo do not have $25 for astringent right now (although amazingly I did have $25 for a pitcher of beer the other night… it’s about priorities people).
What I do have is a three year old half-empty bottle of witch hazel, left over from when my ex was convinced that we could make Clinique astringent at home for a fraction of the cost by merely reading the ingredients. He was wrong. By the way, frugal was one of his favorite words. Clearly, that match was not meant to last.
I’m all about DIY. I generally don’t buy anything I can make myself. But a superior product is a superior product. Does the witch hazel work better than Clinique? Hell no. Does it cost practically nothing? Sure does. That is Frugality’s ugly little joke on us.
However, desperate times call for desperate measures. So I’ll suck it up for now and make do. I just hope I’m not forced to make my own mouthwash next.
Monday, June 1, 2009
Delesbianicious
I have created a new word. Delesbianicious. Let’s break it down for you.
De- from the Latin, meaning: yummy.
Lesbian- from the Greek, meaning: girl on girl action.
Icious- from the colloquial Mandarin, meaning: chock full of.
Delesbianicious: adj. Ghetto American English. Desirable hot lesbian action.
I created this new word after singing “Take Me or Leave Me,” with my new friend Ally at the piano bar. Because we were so good, I had to create a word for how good we were. We were delesbianicious.
The beautiful thing about this new word is that you don’t have be a lesbian to use it. You just have to appreciate hot lesbian action for the beautiful thing that it is. Because truly hot lesbian action is a rare thing and it is delesbianicious. Try to use it in a sentence today.
So there you are, Merriam and Webster. I’ve made my contribution. Chelsea Lately’s Lexicon can lick my nine.
De- from the Latin, meaning: yummy.
Lesbian- from the Greek, meaning: girl on girl action.
Icious- from the colloquial Mandarin, meaning: chock full of.
Delesbianicious: adj. Ghetto American English. Desirable hot lesbian action.
I created this new word after singing “Take Me or Leave Me,” with my new friend Ally at the piano bar. Because we were so good, I had to create a word for how good we were. We were delesbianicious.
The beautiful thing about this new word is that you don’t have be a lesbian to use it. You just have to appreciate hot lesbian action for the beautiful thing that it is. Because truly hot lesbian action is a rare thing and it is delesbianicious. Try to use it in a sentence today.
So there you are, Merriam and Webster. I’ve made my contribution. Chelsea Lately’s Lexicon can lick my nine.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Cinderella Must be Stopped
Karl Marx said that religion is the opiate of the masses. I say Fairy Tales are the opiates of women. They’ve been crammed down our throat for centuries to ensure that we wed and procreate. And by we, I mean girls, because if we don’t do it, ain’t nobody gonna do it, and then, bye bye humanity. I mean, it’s not like birthing is a pleasant process (except hopefully the conception, but then there’s no guarantee on that, is there?).
And that’s really the whole point of the fairy tale, isn’t it? Procreation. Oooh, I’m going to gestate a life form for almost a year inside my body, have it suck all the nutrients out of me and then it’s going to emerge out of my WHAT? You must be out your damn mind. That’s why we have to seduce ourselves, so to speak, with this whole “true love” and "marriage” idea. Diamond rings dangle in front of us like shiny carrots in front of a plow horse and if there’s anything a woman will fall for, it’s something shiny.
Fairy Tales began centuries ago as a way to teach little girls lessons about life- Some of them were practical lessons- like Little Red Riding Hood; don’t trust “wolves” because they just want to “eat” you… and your grandmother and anyone else they can get their hands on. True dat. But what are the stories boys grow up on? Peter Pan the perpetual child, which isn’t really a fairy tale at all, is it? Well besides that there’s… uh… I’m sure there’s one… hmmm.
But when we’re talking about Fairy Tales, I think we all know whom the big culprits are- Cinderella, I’m looking at you. Listen girl, I know you had a hard life, and your family treats you poorly (don’t even get me started), and you met this great guy, but can you not flaunt it in front of the rest of us? The other girls are getting ideas. Didn’t anyone ever teach you that you don’t share happiness? You ferret it away so no one can ruin it. Get with the program.
Now, I love a fabulous dress and a big party and lots of presents as much as (or more than) the next girl, but this whole “happily ever after” thing is a sham. I mean, we all saw what happened to Jessica Simpson. It is incredibly dangerous for women to walk around with this “Someday my Prince will come…” mentality. One day, poof! there he’ll be, rescuing you from your wretched life, and then everything will be perfect and birds will sing and unicorns will dance and a beautiful rainbow will appear above you and you’ll be happy and taken care of forever.
I was kind of hoping to, you know, travel the world, achieve nirvana, write the next Great American Novel, but if I can just sit here and wait for one of these boneheads to pull his head out of his dirty ass long enough to put a chip of diamond on my finger and knock me up to get my happy ending, then I’ll cancel my plans! I want off this ride.
I’m not denouncing love. Love is great. I love love. All I am saying is that if we don’t stop romanticizing the whole breeding process, we’re never going to move forward as a society. Why did the price marry Cinderella? I’m sure he liked her and thought she was cute and had killer shoes, but that’s not why he married her. Why do people get married? No, dear, not because they love each other- have you been paying attention? People get married to (let’s all say it together) legitimize heirs. Correct.
If I have a baby, it’s going to be because I want to create an army of little bubble-busters to carry on for me or because the birth control failed, not because I’m in love with the idea of getting married and having babies. If you’re lucky ladies, you may end up legally committed to a man who can string more than two complete sentences together and occasionally cleans up after himself, but I wouldn’t hold your breath. All of those men are gay.
And that’s really the whole point of the fairy tale, isn’t it? Procreation. Oooh, I’m going to gestate a life form for almost a year inside my body, have it suck all the nutrients out of me and then it’s going to emerge out of my WHAT? You must be out your damn mind. That’s why we have to seduce ourselves, so to speak, with this whole “true love” and "marriage” idea. Diamond rings dangle in front of us like shiny carrots in front of a plow horse and if there’s anything a woman will fall for, it’s something shiny.
Fairy Tales began centuries ago as a way to teach little girls lessons about life- Some of them were practical lessons- like Little Red Riding Hood; don’t trust “wolves” because they just want to “eat” you… and your grandmother and anyone else they can get their hands on. True dat. But what are the stories boys grow up on? Peter Pan the perpetual child, which isn’t really a fairy tale at all, is it? Well besides that there’s… uh… I’m sure there’s one… hmmm.
But when we’re talking about Fairy Tales, I think we all know whom the big culprits are- Cinderella, I’m looking at you. Listen girl, I know you had a hard life, and your family treats you poorly (don’t even get me started), and you met this great guy, but can you not flaunt it in front of the rest of us? The other girls are getting ideas. Didn’t anyone ever teach you that you don’t share happiness? You ferret it away so no one can ruin it. Get with the program.
Now, I love a fabulous dress and a big party and lots of presents as much as (or more than) the next girl, but this whole “happily ever after” thing is a sham. I mean, we all saw what happened to Jessica Simpson. It is incredibly dangerous for women to walk around with this “Someday my Prince will come…” mentality. One day, poof! there he’ll be, rescuing you from your wretched life, and then everything will be perfect and birds will sing and unicorns will dance and a beautiful rainbow will appear above you and you’ll be happy and taken care of forever.
I was kind of hoping to, you know, travel the world, achieve nirvana, write the next Great American Novel, but if I can just sit here and wait for one of these boneheads to pull his head out of his dirty ass long enough to put a chip of diamond on my finger and knock me up to get my happy ending, then I’ll cancel my plans! I want off this ride.
I’m not denouncing love. Love is great. I love love. All I am saying is that if we don’t stop romanticizing the whole breeding process, we’re never going to move forward as a society. Why did the price marry Cinderella? I’m sure he liked her and thought she was cute and had killer shoes, but that’s not why he married her. Why do people get married? No, dear, not because they love each other- have you been paying attention? People get married to (let’s all say it together) legitimize heirs. Correct.
If I have a baby, it’s going to be because I want to create an army of little bubble-busters to carry on for me or because the birth control failed, not because I’m in love with the idea of getting married and having babies. If you’re lucky ladies, you may end up legally committed to a man who can string more than two complete sentences together and occasionally cleans up after himself, but I wouldn’t hold your breath. All of those men are gay.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Under Pressure
The CW may not be responsible for the most original programming on TV. Not only did they remake 90210, but last night I saw a commercial for Melrose Place. Didn’t watch it fifteen years ago- not going to watch it now. However, the CW has created one original show that has won my heart.
It’s called Hitched or Ditched, and I’m pretty sure the execs at FOX are kicking themselves for not having thought of it first. This show finds couples that have been in long-term relationships, but for whatever reason have not yet gotten married. The “whatever reason” is usually something along the lines of they have no business being in a relationship together. Then the show forces them to choose whether or not to get married one week later standing at the altar at their dream wedding.
It’s more suspenseful than Hitchcock. To make things more wonderful, the happy couple has to tell their parents. The parents are the cherry on top of this beautiful disaster. This reminds me what I so love about reality TV- because real life is so much more bizarre than fiction. Who on earth could have dreamed these people up? And who on earth let them style themselves? This country is a fascinating place.
The greatest thing about this show is that it is literally engineered for disaster. And last night, at least, the douchebag actually broke up with his girlfriend in her wedding dress, surrounded by friends and family on national TV! I mean, it doesn’t even occur to him to have the decency to call the whole thing off and break up with her privately. Thank god a catch like that is back on the singles market.
Even the happiest, most well adjusted couples would crack under this kind of pressure. As if “’til death do us part” isn’t pressure enough. I think it’s a genius idea. If we forced more people to choose whether or not they wanted to marry each other in a week, we’d have a lot fewer marriages in this country. More parties, fewer marriages; the way life should be. Besides, wouldn’t weddings be more interesting if you didn’t know the outcome beforehand?
I think they should take it a step further. What I propose is that they round up all the Jewish and Indian mothers whose children aren’t married yet, have them invite the kids over for dinner, and force them to get married on the spot to a stranger the mother's have chosen for them. It could even involve kidnapping or gunpoint. I’d call it “Arranged or Your Mother Will Dismember You,” or “Oy Gavultz! Where are my Grand Bubbies already?!”
Pressure is a very powerful instrument. When applied correctly it can turn carbon into diamonds, which then, in turn, when put on someone’s finger, can create even more pressure. I think this is an appropriate time for an evil laugh: Muuuahhhahahahha! So thank you, CW for this fascinating psychological study on the affects of undue pressure on potential marital relationships. Who knew the CW had such quality programming?
It’s called Hitched or Ditched, and I’m pretty sure the execs at FOX are kicking themselves for not having thought of it first. This show finds couples that have been in long-term relationships, but for whatever reason have not yet gotten married. The “whatever reason” is usually something along the lines of they have no business being in a relationship together. Then the show forces them to choose whether or not to get married one week later standing at the altar at their dream wedding.
It’s more suspenseful than Hitchcock. To make things more wonderful, the happy couple has to tell their parents. The parents are the cherry on top of this beautiful disaster. This reminds me what I so love about reality TV- because real life is so much more bizarre than fiction. Who on earth could have dreamed these people up? And who on earth let them style themselves? This country is a fascinating place.
The greatest thing about this show is that it is literally engineered for disaster. And last night, at least, the douchebag actually broke up with his girlfriend in her wedding dress, surrounded by friends and family on national TV! I mean, it doesn’t even occur to him to have the decency to call the whole thing off and break up with her privately. Thank god a catch like that is back on the singles market.
Even the happiest, most well adjusted couples would crack under this kind of pressure. As if “’til death do us part” isn’t pressure enough. I think it’s a genius idea. If we forced more people to choose whether or not they wanted to marry each other in a week, we’d have a lot fewer marriages in this country. More parties, fewer marriages; the way life should be. Besides, wouldn’t weddings be more interesting if you didn’t know the outcome beforehand?
I think they should take it a step further. What I propose is that they round up all the Jewish and Indian mothers whose children aren’t married yet, have them invite the kids over for dinner, and force them to get married on the spot to a stranger the mother's have chosen for them. It could even involve kidnapping or gunpoint. I’d call it “Arranged or Your Mother Will Dismember You,” or “Oy Gavultz! Where are my Grand Bubbies already?!”
Pressure is a very powerful instrument. When applied correctly it can turn carbon into diamonds, which then, in turn, when put on someone’s finger, can create even more pressure. I think this is an appropriate time for an evil laugh: Muuuahhhahahahha! So thank you, CW for this fascinating psychological study on the affects of undue pressure on potential marital relationships. Who knew the CW had such quality programming?
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Frugality can Eat Me
Frugal is pretty much one of my least favorite words. It’s not even pretty. Fruuu-gal. Bleh. It sounds like the name of an ugly Germanic Troll whose job in life is to suck the fun out of everything. In action, it’s even less beautiful. There is a lot to be said for simplicity, but frugality is like simplicity’s evil stepsister. Simplicity allows for function and beauty, but frugality is all about denial and subsistence.
I mean, I appreciate being poor, because when one day I actually do have money (and unicorns roam the earth) I won’t waste it. I won’t stuff my home with useless things, like 47 soccer balls or every DVD at Target, although I may occasionally splurge on an antique typewriter. It’s called a lifestyle for a reason.
It’s nice to have nice things. This is America, after all. Land of the materialistic. Not that I’m living in the lap of luxury here by any means, but sometimes it’s all about the little things. I didn’t mind wearing Kmart shoes, or shopping the $5 rack at Old Navy (when I had money for shopping). I don’t mind buying generic sour cream. I don’t mind getting movies from the library instead of going to the movies. And I certainly don’t mind drinking at home instead of going out. But when it comes to my face, I don’t play.
I finally ran out of Clinique astringent. This is, as my friend Eli would say, a Greek tragedy. I think one of the reasons I never really had problems with my skin is because I’ve been using the Clinique skincare line religiously since I was 12. But I sooo do not have $25 for astringent right now (although amazingly I did have $25 for a pitcher of beer the other night… it’s about priorities people).
What I do have is a three year old half-empty bottle of witch hazel, left over from when my ex was convinced that we could make Clinique astringent at home for a fraction of the cost by merely reading the ingredients. He was wrong. By the way, frugal was one of his favorite words. Clearly, that match was not meant to last.
I’m all about DIY. I generally don’t buy anything I can make myself. But a superior product is a superior product. Does the witch hazel work better than Clinique? Hell no. Does it cost practically nothing? Sure does. That is frugality’s ugly little joke on us, and I for one, do not appreciate it.
However, desperate times call for desperate measures. So I’ll suck it up for now and make do. I just hope I’m not forced to make my own mouthwash next.
I mean, I appreciate being poor, because when one day I actually do have money (and unicorns roam the earth) I won’t waste it. I won’t stuff my home with useless things, like 47 soccer balls or every DVD at Target, although I may occasionally splurge on an antique typewriter. It’s called a lifestyle for a reason.
It’s nice to have nice things. This is America, after all. Land of the materialistic. Not that I’m living in the lap of luxury here by any means, but sometimes it’s all about the little things. I didn’t mind wearing Kmart shoes, or shopping the $5 rack at Old Navy (when I had money for shopping). I don’t mind buying generic sour cream. I don’t mind getting movies from the library instead of going to the movies. And I certainly don’t mind drinking at home instead of going out. But when it comes to my face, I don’t play.
I finally ran out of Clinique astringent. This is, as my friend Eli would say, a Greek tragedy. I think one of the reasons I never really had problems with my skin is because I’ve been using the Clinique skincare line religiously since I was 12. But I sooo do not have $25 for astringent right now (although amazingly I did have $25 for a pitcher of beer the other night… it’s about priorities people).
What I do have is a three year old half-empty bottle of witch hazel, left over from when my ex was convinced that we could make Clinique astringent at home for a fraction of the cost by merely reading the ingredients. He was wrong. By the way, frugal was one of his favorite words. Clearly, that match was not meant to last.
I’m all about DIY. I generally don’t buy anything I can make myself. But a superior product is a superior product. Does the witch hazel work better than Clinique? Hell no. Does it cost practically nothing? Sure does. That is frugality’s ugly little joke on us, and I for one, do not appreciate it.
However, desperate times call for desperate measures. So I’ll suck it up for now and make do. I just hope I’m not forced to make my own mouthwash next.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
My Hairy Baby
I have this cat, Otis, who pretty much the cutest mother loving thing and is like a son to me. I love him more than life itself, but he drives me completely insane. He is the reason I realize I’m so not ready to have children. I threaten to throttle him at least once a day. My roommate said the other day: You’re as anti-social as Otis is. No, actually Otis is as anti-social as I am. As it happens with pets and children, he has taken on my exact personality: loving and cuddly (about 10% of the time), demanding, loud, paranoid, obnoxious, distrusting, needy, easily startled and, of course, anti-social.
He’s always running away from loud noises or new people. The other day I opened a bottle of seltzer water and he ran under the bed. Really, Otis? Water?!?! You’re afraid of water??? And I can’t close any doors in the apartment. Not even the bathroom door, or he sits outside and cries. And as soon as he sees me getting dressed to go out, that’s when he demands the most attention.
He wears my patience down to a fine point, until it becomes sharp, like a weapon. He knows exactly when I begin trying to work, like right now, and that’s when he wants to play. This is his favorite game: First he cries like he’s just been stabbed through the chest, then when I stop what I’m doing to get up and play with him, he runs under the bed. I try to play with him, but he does nothing. Then I return to my desk to continue working, and it starts all over again. The game ends when I lose my temper.
His other favorite time of day is when I go to sleep. Usually, he is a cuddle bunny. He snuggles with me while I sleep, and it’s the sweetest thing, BUT when I get in bed one of two things happen. He wanders around the apartment howling like a tortured banshee, or he jumps on me every time I move, and bites and claws the hell out of any body part above the covers. Then when he eventually settles down to cuddle, I can’t move. Even if I turn sides, he gets up, walks on top of me, and resumes his position on the other side, which of course wakes me up, and makes me toss and turn all night.
But of course, there is no dysfunctional child without a dysfunctional mother. More than anything in the world, he is afraid of being caged, and riding in cars. But I can’t live without him, so he has to travel with me wherever I go. Have you ever had to travel with a cat through security at the airport? You have to take him out of the cage (which he barely fits into to begin with and let’s not talk about how fun it is to get him into said cage in the first place) and hold him as you go through security. Then you have to ask the security guard nicely if he’ll please help you get the claws out of your back so you can put the cat back in the cage. It’s a very trying experience for both of us.
But as mad as he makes me, we hate to be apart. We’ve had separation anxiety ever since he was a baby. If you can’t tell by now, I am a crazy cat lady. We have conversations. Here is a typical conversation:
Otis: Cheese, did I hear cheese?
Me: No, Otis you can’t have any cheese.
Otis: Did you say cheese? I see it. I smell it. Give it to me.
Me: No, Otis no cheese. You’re getting fat.
Otis: Cheeeeeeeesssse!
Me: Fine. Cheese.
Otis: Now come play with me in my room.
Me: No, Otis, Mommy has other things to do.
Otis: Please come play with me in my room?
Me: Otis, I have work to do! Come watch Mommy work.
Otis: Play with meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!!
Me: Dammit Otis! I have work to do so you can have cheese to eat! I have to clean the whole house because you never lift a finger t o help me and you only hide under the bed when you want to play!
Otis: Cheese?
Me: Don’t meow me when I’m holding a knife!
Otis: Meow.
I told you I was crazy. This conversation is pretty much verbatim, except what most people hear when Otis speaks is, “Meow.” But I happen to be a very gifted pet psychic. Or, he has literally driven me to the point of insanity with his incessant meowing. But I won’t kill him yet. Because the people that make you most crazy are the ones you love the most.
He’s always running away from loud noises or new people. The other day I opened a bottle of seltzer water and he ran under the bed. Really, Otis? Water?!?! You’re afraid of water??? And I can’t close any doors in the apartment. Not even the bathroom door, or he sits outside and cries. And as soon as he sees me getting dressed to go out, that’s when he demands the most attention.
He wears my patience down to a fine point, until it becomes sharp, like a weapon. He knows exactly when I begin trying to work, like right now, and that’s when he wants to play. This is his favorite game: First he cries like he’s just been stabbed through the chest, then when I stop what I’m doing to get up and play with him, he runs under the bed. I try to play with him, but he does nothing. Then I return to my desk to continue working, and it starts all over again. The game ends when I lose my temper.
His other favorite time of day is when I go to sleep. Usually, he is a cuddle bunny. He snuggles with me while I sleep, and it’s the sweetest thing, BUT when I get in bed one of two things happen. He wanders around the apartment howling like a tortured banshee, or he jumps on me every time I move, and bites and claws the hell out of any body part above the covers. Then when he eventually settles down to cuddle, I can’t move. Even if I turn sides, he gets up, walks on top of me, and resumes his position on the other side, which of course wakes me up, and makes me toss and turn all night.
But of course, there is no dysfunctional child without a dysfunctional mother. More than anything in the world, he is afraid of being caged, and riding in cars. But I can’t live without him, so he has to travel with me wherever I go. Have you ever had to travel with a cat through security at the airport? You have to take him out of the cage (which he barely fits into to begin with and let’s not talk about how fun it is to get him into said cage in the first place) and hold him as you go through security. Then you have to ask the security guard nicely if he’ll please help you get the claws out of your back so you can put the cat back in the cage. It’s a very trying experience for both of us.
But as mad as he makes me, we hate to be apart. We’ve had separation anxiety ever since he was a baby. If you can’t tell by now, I am a crazy cat lady. We have conversations. Here is a typical conversation:
Otis: Cheese, did I hear cheese?
Me: No, Otis you can’t have any cheese.
Otis: Did you say cheese? I see it. I smell it. Give it to me.
Me: No, Otis no cheese. You’re getting fat.
Otis: Cheeeeeeeesssse!
Me: Fine. Cheese.
Otis: Now come play with me in my room.
Me: No, Otis, Mommy has other things to do.
Otis: Please come play with me in my room?
Me: Otis, I have work to do! Come watch Mommy work.
Otis: Play with meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!!
Me: Dammit Otis! I have work to do so you can have cheese to eat! I have to clean the whole house because you never lift a finger t o help me and you only hide under the bed when you want to play!
Otis: Cheese?
Me: Don’t meow me when I’m holding a knife!
Otis: Meow.
I told you I was crazy. This conversation is pretty much verbatim, except what most people hear when Otis speaks is, “Meow.” But I happen to be a very gifted pet psychic. Or, he has literally driven me to the point of insanity with his incessant meowing. But I won’t kill him yet. Because the people that make you most crazy are the ones you love the most.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Top Ten Reasons I Love Being Single
My roommate and I were having a conversation a few weeks ago. “Where’s your girlfriend?’ I asked, since I was shocked to see him by himself. They literally spend every moment together. Some might find that kind of relationship cloying. They work together. they’re together every night, they even do his laundry together. I wouldn’t be surprised if they wipe each other in the bathroom. “She’s coming over later,” he said. “Don’t you ever get tired of that?” I asked. “No,” he said. “Haven’t you ever met someone you wanted to spend every second with?” My skin is still crawling.
A lot of people have been coming to me for relationship advice recently (or have I just been telling people what to do again?). I have no problem, okay, limited problems with relationships in general, but I definitely have a problem with relationships for the wrong reasons. Question number one for you is “Why am I in this relationship?” I will tell you the correct answers at the end of this article.
Either way, my answer to any and all relationship questions is, “Break up with them.” Not (necessarily) because I’m bitter or because I don’t believe in love. I’m sure that a healthy relationship can be very fulfilling. But many times people will stay in unhealthy relationships and play pretend that everything is going to work out because they’re afraid to be alone. That’s one way to do it. I have another suggestion.
Break up with them. Breaking up with someone is the best thing you can do for yourself. Not only is it a fantastic diet, but it strips away all the layers of supposed external satisfaction and achievement, and breaks you down to the very core of your being. A lot of people like to avoid this because it brings you face to face with yourself, with the reality of who you are, and most of the time, it ain’t pretty. I like to call this “The Cocoon of Pain.”
Then, you rebuild. You fix all those ugly things you saw about yourself. It’s an opportunity to become a better person, a person wholly unfathomable to the person you were. You become strong from the inside out. Because once and only once you’re strong and happy as an individual, can you be happy in a relationship. I mean really peacefully eternally truthfully satisfied, not fantasy/infatuation/endorphin-induced blindly “happy.” (You know who you are. Please stop making out on public transportation. You nauseate the rest of us.)
And being single is a ball, let me tell you. Every time you people call me and complain about your boyfriend, I thank my lucky stars I don’t have to put up with anyone’s bullshit but my own. You come into this world alone, you leave it alone, so get comfortable with it. You’ll find out it’s pretty fantastic. Will I be single forever? Probably, it’s pretty awesome. And maybe one day down the road I’ll meet a boy who has his shit together and isn’t a jerk or a moron and is happy just by himself. When that day comes, I’ll jump out of my wheelchair and do a dance.
Here are some of the more petty things I enjoy about being single:
1. I don’t have to share anything. Ever.
2. I can spend as much time as I like getting ready to go somewhere without anyone getting on my case about it.
3. No one tells me I have too many shoes.
4. Life is a sexual smorgasbord.
5. I don’t have to watch Mythbusters or Cartoon Network.
6. If I snore, no one wakes me up to tell me about it.
7. I don’t have to goad anyone to clean their ears or clip their toenails.
8. No one tries to get me to go camping.
9. I do it right. Every time.
10. I can sing along to Sister Act II without the fear of being mocked by people who clearly don’t understand the genius of Sister Act II.
Many of you will read this and agree with me in principle and then go back to “Why won’t he call me,” or “He said he’ll never cheat again.” That’s your prerogative. Relationships are complicated and I can’t tell you what’s best for you. But I will anyway. Break up with him. Remember when I asked you why are you in this relationship? Do you have your answer ready? Ok, tell me.
That’s bullshit. If your answer begins with “because,” then it’s the wrong answer. Do yourself a favor and listen to your Aunty Foxy. Break up with him. If it's really meant to be, it'll work itself out in the big somewhere out there. But for now, you need to dump his ass.
On a side note, I will be starting a website called “Ask Foxy,” where you can write to me with any and all of your little problems, be they relationship, health, beauty, style, etiquette, or existential, and I will give you my unadulterated answer. Because everyone needs a little of me in their lives.
A lot of people have been coming to me for relationship advice recently (or have I just been telling people what to do again?). I have no problem, okay, limited problems with relationships in general, but I definitely have a problem with relationships for the wrong reasons. Question number one for you is “Why am I in this relationship?” I will tell you the correct answers at the end of this article.
Either way, my answer to any and all relationship questions is, “Break up with them.” Not (necessarily) because I’m bitter or because I don’t believe in love. I’m sure that a healthy relationship can be very fulfilling. But many times people will stay in unhealthy relationships and play pretend that everything is going to work out because they’re afraid to be alone. That’s one way to do it. I have another suggestion.
Break up with them. Breaking up with someone is the best thing you can do for yourself. Not only is it a fantastic diet, but it strips away all the layers of supposed external satisfaction and achievement, and breaks you down to the very core of your being. A lot of people like to avoid this because it brings you face to face with yourself, with the reality of who you are, and most of the time, it ain’t pretty. I like to call this “The Cocoon of Pain.”
Then, you rebuild. You fix all those ugly things you saw about yourself. It’s an opportunity to become a better person, a person wholly unfathomable to the person you were. You become strong from the inside out. Because once and only once you’re strong and happy as an individual, can you be happy in a relationship. I mean really peacefully eternally truthfully satisfied, not fantasy/infatuation/endorphin-induced blindly “happy.” (You know who you are. Please stop making out on public transportation. You nauseate the rest of us.)
And being single is a ball, let me tell you. Every time you people call me and complain about your boyfriend, I thank my lucky stars I don’t have to put up with anyone’s bullshit but my own. You come into this world alone, you leave it alone, so get comfortable with it. You’ll find out it’s pretty fantastic. Will I be single forever? Probably, it’s pretty awesome. And maybe one day down the road I’ll meet a boy who has his shit together and isn’t a jerk or a moron and is happy just by himself. When that day comes, I’ll jump out of my wheelchair and do a dance.
Here are some of the more petty things I enjoy about being single:
1. I don’t have to share anything. Ever.
2. I can spend as much time as I like getting ready to go somewhere without anyone getting on my case about it.
3. No one tells me I have too many shoes.
4. Life is a sexual smorgasbord.
5. I don’t have to watch Mythbusters or Cartoon Network.
6. If I snore, no one wakes me up to tell me about it.
7. I don’t have to goad anyone to clean their ears or clip their toenails.
8. No one tries to get me to go camping.
9. I do it right. Every time.
10. I can sing along to Sister Act II without the fear of being mocked by people who clearly don’t understand the genius of Sister Act II.
Many of you will read this and agree with me in principle and then go back to “Why won’t he call me,” or “He said he’ll never cheat again.” That’s your prerogative. Relationships are complicated and I can’t tell you what’s best for you. But I will anyway. Break up with him. Remember when I asked you why are you in this relationship? Do you have your answer ready? Ok, tell me.
That’s bullshit. If your answer begins with “because,” then it’s the wrong answer. Do yourself a favor and listen to your Aunty Foxy. Break up with him. If it's really meant to be, it'll work itself out in the big somewhere out there. But for now, you need to dump his ass.
On a side note, I will be starting a website called “Ask Foxy,” where you can write to me with any and all of your little problems, be they relationship, health, beauty, style, etiquette, or existential, and I will give you my unadulterated answer. Because everyone needs a little of me in their lives.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Hair Chem 101
A lot of people objected to the use of the term “ghetto” in the title of this blog, but what I have to say to them is, I slept with a plastic bag on my head last night. I’m qualified.
It all started about nine months ago. I had decided, on a lark, to enter a beauty pageant. And, I further decided, if I am going to compete in a beauty pageant, I’m going full-throttle, so I decided it was time to be blond again. And god sent me an angel in the form of my new colorist (who has since deserted me to pursue her own life- the selfish bitch) who got me blonder than I’ve been since I was ten and my hair was whiter than the driven snow (with green chlorine highlights).
Can I just say, I love being blond. I love it, I love it, I love it, I love it, I love it, I love it. When my colorist would rinse me in the sink and the overwhelming stench of ammonia smacked me in the nostrils like a pimp with a pistol, I found heaven. “More blond!” I kept saying. As a result, my hair got a little fried.
So now, with no colorist left to indulge my jones for peroxide, god has sent me another angel; a friend whose father is African and who knows a bit about troubled hair. She is my hair guru. And boy did I need her. So she took me to hair mecca- the beauty supply store. Since I live in the ghetto (or in a luxury high-rise with a swimming pool and tennis courts adjacent to the ghetto, if you want to be precise) there were two such stores not five minutes from my house across the street from each other.
Beauty may be pain, but hair care is a science. Why didn’t they teach this stuff in school? So much more practical than anything I ever leaned in chemistry. Apparently, there’s all this really intense cellular structure, but here is what is boils down to: Protein makes the inside of your hair strong, and keratin makes the outside of your hair strong. Your hair must have both protein and moisture to be healthy. Not too much protein, or too much moisture. Just like Goldilocks, it must be just right. Also, during the course of my investigation, I discovered that sex is good for stimulating healthy hair growth because it increases blood flow in your scalp. You’re welcome.
If you have very little self-control, a beauty supply store is not the place you should be. They have brushes of every shape and size, weave of every color and texture, and make-up and jewelry and nail polish, oh my! It’s a magical place. Everything is so cheap it’s nearly irresistible. I managed to walk out with only a minor amount of damage, and a new hair care regime: a keratin spray for post-shower, a can of oil for when I have to blow dry, a daily protein conditioner, weekly deep conditioner (which I am to wear while I am sleeping with a plastic bag on my head), and a new tube of lipstick.
After all, just because my hair’s a mess, doesn’t mean the rest of me should be.
It all started about nine months ago. I had decided, on a lark, to enter a beauty pageant. And, I further decided, if I am going to compete in a beauty pageant, I’m going full-throttle, so I decided it was time to be blond again. And god sent me an angel in the form of my new colorist (who has since deserted me to pursue her own life- the selfish bitch) who got me blonder than I’ve been since I was ten and my hair was whiter than the driven snow (with green chlorine highlights).
Can I just say, I love being blond. I love it, I love it, I love it, I love it, I love it, I love it. When my colorist would rinse me in the sink and the overwhelming stench of ammonia smacked me in the nostrils like a pimp with a pistol, I found heaven. “More blond!” I kept saying. As a result, my hair got a little fried.
So now, with no colorist left to indulge my jones for peroxide, god has sent me another angel; a friend whose father is African and who knows a bit about troubled hair. She is my hair guru. And boy did I need her. So she took me to hair mecca- the beauty supply store. Since I live in the ghetto (or in a luxury high-rise with a swimming pool and tennis courts adjacent to the ghetto, if you want to be precise) there were two such stores not five minutes from my house across the street from each other.
Beauty may be pain, but hair care is a science. Why didn’t they teach this stuff in school? So much more practical than anything I ever leaned in chemistry. Apparently, there’s all this really intense cellular structure, but here is what is boils down to: Protein makes the inside of your hair strong, and keratin makes the outside of your hair strong. Your hair must have both protein and moisture to be healthy. Not too much protein, or too much moisture. Just like Goldilocks, it must be just right. Also, during the course of my investigation, I discovered that sex is good for stimulating healthy hair growth because it increases blood flow in your scalp. You’re welcome.
If you have very little self-control, a beauty supply store is not the place you should be. They have brushes of every shape and size, weave of every color and texture, and make-up and jewelry and nail polish, oh my! It’s a magical place. Everything is so cheap it’s nearly irresistible. I managed to walk out with only a minor amount of damage, and a new hair care regime: a keratin spray for post-shower, a can of oil for when I have to blow dry, a daily protein conditioner, weekly deep conditioner (which I am to wear while I am sleeping with a plastic bag on my head), and a new tube of lipstick.
After all, just because my hair’s a mess, doesn’t mean the rest of me should be.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Blow (Dry, that is)
While Tabitha’s Salon Takeover is in re-runs, I’ve had to go elsewhere to get my hair salon fix. There are quite a few movies deal with the subject of getting your hair did. It all started, back in 1975, with Warren Beatty in Shampoo. Then you have your trailer/beauty salon in Steel Magnolias. And of course the slew of nearly indistinguishable Beauty Parlor movies starring Queen Latifah, Vivica A. Fox, and my girl Mo’Nique, now showing on BET about women who finally open their own salon only to have circumstance or some trifling ho try to take it away from them, but in the end they prevail. Let’s not forget all those Barbershop movies, either.
But I am happy to announce that I have found, quite possibly, the best hair movie of all. For me to call something the best, you know it has to be seriously ridiculous. It’s called Blow Dry. Apparently it came out in 2001, but that’s news to me. It combines the best of the Salon genre, with the best of the Competition film genre (think Best in Show but with people instead of dogs). It’s a movie about a hair competition (Mo’Nique sit down girl. Yes, I know that’s what your movie was about. This one came out first. Sit your ass down!) from the same director who brought us The Full Monty.
Here’s an overview of the plot: Britain’s (oh, did I mention it’s a British movie?) top hair competition comes to a small town where, former champion and competition drop out Phil (played by Alan Rickman) runs a small barbershop with his son (Josh Hartnett). His ex-wife (Natasha Richardson) and her lesbian lover/ Phil’s former hair model Sandra (Rachel Griffiths) run a salon across town. Natasha Richardson wants the whole family (not currently on speaking terms) to enter the competition like old times, but Phil refuses. Phil has to face his past as Ray Robertson (Bill Nighy- for those of you who don’t know him by name, he’s the rock star from Love Actually), the current champion will win at any cost. Things get complicated when Ray’s daughter Christina (Rachael Leigh Cook) reunites with Josh Hartnett, her childhood crush.
Now, let me just say, that this movie is sublime. Josh Hartnett with his fake British accent and his big puppy dog eyes is so damn cute you want to pinch him, although, what he is doing in this movie is anyone’s guess. Rachael Leigh Cook, is, as usual, so robotic you want to slap her. Bill Nighy is unbelievably charismatic as usual, and wears more glitter in his hair than kindergartners spill on the floor during craft hour. There’s enough drama and star power that the movie could sail by just on that. But, if it did, I wouldn’t be writing about it…
Did I mention that Heidi Klum has a supporting role? Not only does she get some serious screen time, but at one point, and I don’t want to ruin it, but… she wears a merkin. For those of you unacquainted with this term, a merkin is a pubic wig. But wait for it… the merkin is in the shape of a giant red heart. And, the “Total Look” created for the end of the competition is absolutely surreal and involves a skull tattoo, a lot of gold leaf and a hair topiary. Also, Josh Hartnett has a part time job styling the hair of the deceased at the local funeral parlor, which is just about my all time favorite movie job.
Any movie that sets a love scene in a funeral home gets two thumbs up from me.
But I am happy to announce that I have found, quite possibly, the best hair movie of all. For me to call something the best, you know it has to be seriously ridiculous. It’s called Blow Dry. Apparently it came out in 2001, but that’s news to me. It combines the best of the Salon genre, with the best of the Competition film genre (think Best in Show but with people instead of dogs). It’s a movie about a hair competition (Mo’Nique sit down girl. Yes, I know that’s what your movie was about. This one came out first. Sit your ass down!) from the same director who brought us The Full Monty.
Here’s an overview of the plot: Britain’s (oh, did I mention it’s a British movie?) top hair competition comes to a small town where, former champion and competition drop out Phil (played by Alan Rickman) runs a small barbershop with his son (Josh Hartnett). His ex-wife (Natasha Richardson) and her lesbian lover/ Phil’s former hair model Sandra (Rachel Griffiths) run a salon across town. Natasha Richardson wants the whole family (not currently on speaking terms) to enter the competition like old times, but Phil refuses. Phil has to face his past as Ray Robertson (Bill Nighy- for those of you who don’t know him by name, he’s the rock star from Love Actually), the current champion will win at any cost. Things get complicated when Ray’s daughter Christina (Rachael Leigh Cook) reunites with Josh Hartnett, her childhood crush.
Now, let me just say, that this movie is sublime. Josh Hartnett with his fake British accent and his big puppy dog eyes is so damn cute you want to pinch him, although, what he is doing in this movie is anyone’s guess. Rachael Leigh Cook, is, as usual, so robotic you want to slap her. Bill Nighy is unbelievably charismatic as usual, and wears more glitter in his hair than kindergartners spill on the floor during craft hour. There’s enough drama and star power that the movie could sail by just on that. But, if it did, I wouldn’t be writing about it…
Did I mention that Heidi Klum has a supporting role? Not only does she get some serious screen time, but at one point, and I don’t want to ruin it, but… she wears a merkin. For those of you unacquainted with this term, a merkin is a pubic wig. But wait for it… the merkin is in the shape of a giant red heart. And, the “Total Look” created for the end of the competition is absolutely surreal and involves a skull tattoo, a lot of gold leaf and a hair topiary. Also, Josh Hartnett has a part time job styling the hair of the deceased at the local funeral parlor, which is just about my all time favorite movie job.
Any movie that sets a love scene in a funeral home gets two thumbs up from me.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
A Civilized Bush
Today, we will be discussing horticulture. (Dad, this would be a great article for you to skip.) I am not talking about gardening if you get my drift.
I think it is important for all of us to be well maintained. There are several reasons for this. First of all, bathing suit season is upon us, and it’s just rude to walk around with your bush hanging out of your bikini. The same way it’s rude for those of you who don’t shave your armpits. I get it, with the feminism, but nobody wants to see that. Secondly, the more prepared you are for sex, the more likely you are to have it. Thirdly, and perhaps most importantly, it’s in your best interest to make that an inviting area- a place someone would like to spend some quality time. Plus, its helpful for them to be able to see what they’re working with- most of them have plenty of trouble down there as it is.
I’m a big proponent of the “bush is back” movement. No offense to you ladies, because I’m sure a lot of you are bare down there, but it’s just so not my thing. Pre-pubescent is a look that went out with me a long time ago. Not to mention that that hair is there for a reason. I can’t imagine how badly you get chaffed. But while I do endorse a healthy growth, too much bush is just too much. Think more Halle Berry, less Pam Grier.
And gentleman, no one is leaving you out of this conversation. Puh-lease take care of your business. Trim and clean boys, that’s all you need to remember. Keep it trim and for god’s sake, keep it clean.
Not all of the hair gets to stay though. As a guideline, think back to kindergarten coloring: stay inside the lines. There are several methods for hair removal, and all of them suck. Let’s discuss them one by one.
Waxing: I’m a girl who never says never, but when it comes to waxing, never is the first word that comes to mind. Why on earth would I pay $40 every month to have someone rip my pubic hair out with hot wax? I mean, I’m kinky, but that’s just wrong. Just. Plain. Wrong. Moving on.
Shaving: Great for the moment but hell later on. Instant and painless but shaving is problematic for several reasons. Firstly, it’s not an area with high visibility. Secondly, you shave with razors. Razors are sharp. I try to avoid contact between sharp metal objects and my genitals. Thirdly, the itch factor- it’s impossible to get through the day when you’re that itchy in that area (diaper rash ointment helps).
Trimming: Scissors also fall under the “sharp objects don’t belong near my genitals” category. Generally the best way to keep things in line, but still doesn’t take care of the “outside the lines” hair. Which brings me to my next topic…
Tweezing: I like tweezing. I find it therapeutic (because I have OCD). Tweezing is more controlled and less “kill me now” painful than waxing. However, tweezing down there just makes them angry. And when they get angry, they make you miserable. Two words for you: Ingrown Hair.
So really there’s no great way to go around this. Pick your poison, but take care of business. A little discomfort is no reason to let your shit get all out of whack. See you at the beach.
I think it is important for all of us to be well maintained. There are several reasons for this. First of all, bathing suit season is upon us, and it’s just rude to walk around with your bush hanging out of your bikini. The same way it’s rude for those of you who don’t shave your armpits. I get it, with the feminism, but nobody wants to see that. Secondly, the more prepared you are for sex, the more likely you are to have it. Thirdly, and perhaps most importantly, it’s in your best interest to make that an inviting area- a place someone would like to spend some quality time. Plus, its helpful for them to be able to see what they’re working with- most of them have plenty of trouble down there as it is.
I’m a big proponent of the “bush is back” movement. No offense to you ladies, because I’m sure a lot of you are bare down there, but it’s just so not my thing. Pre-pubescent is a look that went out with me a long time ago. Not to mention that that hair is there for a reason. I can’t imagine how badly you get chaffed. But while I do endorse a healthy growth, too much bush is just too much. Think more Halle Berry, less Pam Grier.
And gentleman, no one is leaving you out of this conversation. Puh-lease take care of your business. Trim and clean boys, that’s all you need to remember. Keep it trim and for god’s sake, keep it clean.
Not all of the hair gets to stay though. As a guideline, think back to kindergarten coloring: stay inside the lines. There are several methods for hair removal, and all of them suck. Let’s discuss them one by one.
Waxing: I’m a girl who never says never, but when it comes to waxing, never is the first word that comes to mind. Why on earth would I pay $40 every month to have someone rip my pubic hair out with hot wax? I mean, I’m kinky, but that’s just wrong. Just. Plain. Wrong. Moving on.
Shaving: Great for the moment but hell later on. Instant and painless but shaving is problematic for several reasons. Firstly, it’s not an area with high visibility. Secondly, you shave with razors. Razors are sharp. I try to avoid contact between sharp metal objects and my genitals. Thirdly, the itch factor- it’s impossible to get through the day when you’re that itchy in that area (diaper rash ointment helps).
Trimming: Scissors also fall under the “sharp objects don’t belong near my genitals” category. Generally the best way to keep things in line, but still doesn’t take care of the “outside the lines” hair. Which brings me to my next topic…
Tweezing: I like tweezing. I find it therapeutic (because I have OCD). Tweezing is more controlled and less “kill me now” painful than waxing. However, tweezing down there just makes them angry. And when they get angry, they make you miserable. Two words for you: Ingrown Hair.
So really there’s no great way to go around this. Pick your poison, but take care of business. A little discomfort is no reason to let your shit get all out of whack. See you at the beach.
Monday, May 18, 2009
F-F-F-F-Freezing
There’s nothing I hate more than being cold… except being wet and cold. I’m sure this all stems from the time I was a competitive swimmer. Competitive swimming means swim practice all year long, and at the time I happened to live in Florida. Swimming in Florida means swimming outdoors, because why would you need an indoor pool in Florida? And although you may think, BFD, it doesn’t get that cold in Florida, let me tell you that it does.
In Florida, in December, when the sun has gone down, it can get down to 30 degrees or so. When you’re practically naked and barefoot on cement, you feel it. When you’re practically naked and swimming in a large body of unheated water for two hours at a stretch, and you can’t feel your toes or your fingers, and the only way to warm up momentarily is to pee on yourself, it’s pretty damn cold. The worst thing to do in this situation (besides thinking about how many other people are urinating in the water) is to stand above the heater. Those few seconds of warmth are glorious, but the second you have to move, it’s excruciating.
I think one of the reasons that I left my ex was because I was so damn cold. We were living together during the second winter of my unemployment. Come to think of it, I lived with him during the first winter of my unemployment too. Him, his five roommates, their dog and me all lived together in a 300-year old house. During the day, everyone would go off to work, and to save money on heat, they would shut it off while they weren’t home. Guess who’s unemployed ass was home during the day. I didn’t want to get out of bed in the first place, but when you shut off the heat in a house that only gets to a max of 60 (they literally wouldn’t set the thermostat higher than 68) degrees in the winter, you definitely want to stay in bed all day (in your pajamas, a sweatshirt, two pairs of socks, slippers, a hat, and two quilts).
I used to think those old claw-footed bathtubs were romantic and beautiful, until I had to live with one. Let’s do the math here: Porcelain tub + Drafty Victorian House + Huge Glass Window + Flimsy Curtains + Cheap Ass Roommates who Refuse to Pay for Decent Heat + Tile Floor + Five Minutes of “Hot” Water + Dead of New England Winter = My own personal hell.
Not only was all this loveliness going on, but also the showerhead was European style, which means handheld, AND there was no hook to hang it on, which meant for the five torturous minutes twice a week that I forced myself to peel off all my protective layers and stand in this filthy, freezing “shower,” at no time could both my head and my feet be warm. So if the water was on my head, the rest of my body was freezing, and if I tried to warm the rest of my body, the water on my head started to freeze. There was little time between shivering and cursing for soap or shampoo and there was NO time to shave before the water turned ice cold.
Living conditions, if you could call them that, were, as you can see, miserable. One day, the shower actually made me cry. There I was, stiff, naked, freezing, hugging myself, standing on my tip-toes and holding the trickling lukewarm water above my head and sobbing because I was sooo cold. My body still tenses up at the memory of that shower. So I kicked its ass to the curb. Amazingly enough, that shower isn’t the worst thing that bathroom ever did to me, but that’s a whole other story.
My new shower is amazing. First of all, my rent includes heat and hot water. And the water in my building gets scalding hot- just the way I like it. Don’t even get me started on my showerhead (three speeds). While Scarlett may have vowed to herself that she’d never be hungry again, I promised myself that no shower would ever again make me cry.
In Florida, in December, when the sun has gone down, it can get down to 30 degrees or so. When you’re practically naked and barefoot on cement, you feel it. When you’re practically naked and swimming in a large body of unheated water for two hours at a stretch, and you can’t feel your toes or your fingers, and the only way to warm up momentarily is to pee on yourself, it’s pretty damn cold. The worst thing to do in this situation (besides thinking about how many other people are urinating in the water) is to stand above the heater. Those few seconds of warmth are glorious, but the second you have to move, it’s excruciating.
I think one of the reasons that I left my ex was because I was so damn cold. We were living together during the second winter of my unemployment. Come to think of it, I lived with him during the first winter of my unemployment too. Him, his five roommates, their dog and me all lived together in a 300-year old house. During the day, everyone would go off to work, and to save money on heat, they would shut it off while they weren’t home. Guess who’s unemployed ass was home during the day. I didn’t want to get out of bed in the first place, but when you shut off the heat in a house that only gets to a max of 60 (they literally wouldn’t set the thermostat higher than 68) degrees in the winter, you definitely want to stay in bed all day (in your pajamas, a sweatshirt, two pairs of socks, slippers, a hat, and two quilts).
I used to think those old claw-footed bathtubs were romantic and beautiful, until I had to live with one. Let’s do the math here: Porcelain tub + Drafty Victorian House + Huge Glass Window + Flimsy Curtains + Cheap Ass Roommates who Refuse to Pay for Decent Heat + Tile Floor + Five Minutes of “Hot” Water + Dead of New England Winter = My own personal hell.
Not only was all this loveliness going on, but also the showerhead was European style, which means handheld, AND there was no hook to hang it on, which meant for the five torturous minutes twice a week that I forced myself to peel off all my protective layers and stand in this filthy, freezing “shower,” at no time could both my head and my feet be warm. So if the water was on my head, the rest of my body was freezing, and if I tried to warm the rest of my body, the water on my head started to freeze. There was little time between shivering and cursing for soap or shampoo and there was NO time to shave before the water turned ice cold.
Living conditions, if you could call them that, were, as you can see, miserable. One day, the shower actually made me cry. There I was, stiff, naked, freezing, hugging myself, standing on my tip-toes and holding the trickling lukewarm water above my head and sobbing because I was sooo cold. My body still tenses up at the memory of that shower. So I kicked its ass to the curb. Amazingly enough, that shower isn’t the worst thing that bathroom ever did to me, but that’s a whole other story.
My new shower is amazing. First of all, my rent includes heat and hot water. And the water in my building gets scalding hot- just the way I like it. Don’t even get me started on my showerhead (three speeds). While Scarlett may have vowed to herself that she’d never be hungry again, I promised myself that no shower would ever again make me cry.
Friday, May 15, 2009
Ghetto Princess Points
I’ve been achieving many a life goal recently. No, I still haven’t read Madame Bovary in the original French. And, no, I haven’t had, like, any professional success, but I finally achieved my dream of singing “Total Eclipse of the Heart” at karaoke. (I rocked it, by the way.) And, I am finally on my way to becoming a black girl.
Before everyone's panties get all twisted up, when I say “black” I’m not talking about a race as much as an attitude or state of mind, the “Oh heeeeeeellllll naw” or “Oh no you di’ent” state of mind if you will (with accompanying neck roll and snapping). I know many African-Americans who are not “black,” and I know many Caucasians who are. Hell, I’m from Tampa. Everybody’s black in Tampa. And in Tampa, we will cut a bitch.
During my most recent bout of unemployment (unemployment to me is like allergies to others… it never really goes away, but at certain times of the year it gets real bad), I ended up watching a lot of BET. Between viewings of Blackbusters like Soul Plane (Snoop’s performance is inspired) and Three Can Play That Game (not anywhere near as prolific as the immortal Two Can Play That Game), I started watching a show called Hell Date.
Hell Date, if you haven’t seen it, is BET’s spin on a dating show. Its host is a midget in a devil costume, and the prospective suitors are deliberately outrageous in order to get the girl to react. If the girl says she's looking for someone independent, the man will be on the phone with his mama during dinner. If the girl loves animals, the man will pretend to be a hunter who eats bloody steak. The girl thinks she’s on a date from Hell (hence the title) until some time during dinner, when it couldn't possibly get more awkward, the midget in the devil costume pops out of nowhere and thrusts his pitchfork at her while screaming “You’re on Hell Date!”
What I love about Hell Date is not the show itself, or even the midget host in the devil costume (although I do think he’s pretty wonderful), it’s the way the girls react to these situations. What I love about black girls is they say the most obvious things, but things that would never occur to me to say. For instance, if I was on a date with a man who was eating bloody steak and dipping it in milk, I would excuse myself, vomit quietly into my napkin and continue making small talk. But a black girl in the same situation would say, “You like that blood, huh? Boy you crazy.” Situation handled. That's the beauty of this show. You can't put one over on a black girl. She will call your ass out. My reaction would be something like, "Oh dear me, thank goodness it was all a hoax! I almost believed that man to be truly uncouth."
I’m blown away by how forthright and no-nonsense these girls are. My people like to play a game called “If we don’t talk about it, it doesn’t exist.” But it’s like black girls are constantly playing a game of “Bullshit.” Call it out, gurl. Call it out. Plus, they don’t bullshit with their feelings. Country Club white people believe that you choose your feelings to suit the situation according to what Emily Post recommends. My people are retarded. Where was my strong black mother who was supposed to teach me not stand for injustice or insult? Why instead do I know how to properly use a shrimp fork?
My roommate walked out of his room last weekend wearing what I can only describe as the most hideous pair of shorts I’ve ever seen. They were neon-green nylon/vinyl with some kind of large spray-painted camouflage print. “Do these fit right?” he asks me. “Is that a bathing suit?” I asked, blinking because I was at once awe-struck by the awfulness and blinded by the neon. “No, they’re shorts,” he says. “Are you sure?” I asked. “Yeah,” he says. “Do you like them?” “Where are you going to wear them?” I asked. “Around the house, or maybe to the Mac store. People wear crazy things there.” “You’re going to go, not only out in public, but to work in those?” I said. “What’s wrong with that?” he asked genuinely. The problem was that he was really jazzed about these shorts. He thought these shorts were really cool. “Because those are the fucking ugliest shorts I’ve ever seen,” I said.
He ran to his room and came back with another pair of shorts exactly the same as the first pair, but these were covered in a pattern of boom boxes. “Does that mean you don’t like these either?” he asked me. And then I laughed in his face. I just could not stop laughing. That’s what I thought of them. And I told him to his face just what I thought of them. And then I told him to get them out of my sight, return them to TJ Maxx, and never go shopping without a chaperone again.
Step One to being a black girl: giving someone your honest and unedited opinion when they are acting a fool- whether they ask for it or not. The next step- tackling conflict head on, or “I’ma handle my bid’ness.” Snap.
Before everyone's panties get all twisted up, when I say “black” I’m not talking about a race as much as an attitude or state of mind, the “Oh heeeeeeellllll naw” or “Oh no you di’ent” state of mind if you will (with accompanying neck roll and snapping). I know many African-Americans who are not “black,” and I know many Caucasians who are. Hell, I’m from Tampa. Everybody’s black in Tampa. And in Tampa, we will cut a bitch.
During my most recent bout of unemployment (unemployment to me is like allergies to others… it never really goes away, but at certain times of the year it gets real bad), I ended up watching a lot of BET. Between viewings of Blackbusters like Soul Plane (Snoop’s performance is inspired) and Three Can Play That Game (not anywhere near as prolific as the immortal Two Can Play That Game), I started watching a show called Hell Date.
Hell Date, if you haven’t seen it, is BET’s spin on a dating show. Its host is a midget in a devil costume, and the prospective suitors are deliberately outrageous in order to get the girl to react. If the girl says she's looking for someone independent, the man will be on the phone with his mama during dinner. If the girl loves animals, the man will pretend to be a hunter who eats bloody steak. The girl thinks she’s on a date from Hell (hence the title) until some time during dinner, when it couldn't possibly get more awkward, the midget in the devil costume pops out of nowhere and thrusts his pitchfork at her while screaming “You’re on Hell Date!”
What I love about Hell Date is not the show itself, or even the midget host in the devil costume (although I do think he’s pretty wonderful), it’s the way the girls react to these situations. What I love about black girls is they say the most obvious things, but things that would never occur to me to say. For instance, if I was on a date with a man who was eating bloody steak and dipping it in milk, I would excuse myself, vomit quietly into my napkin and continue making small talk. But a black girl in the same situation would say, “You like that blood, huh? Boy you crazy.” Situation handled. That's the beauty of this show. You can't put one over on a black girl. She will call your ass out. My reaction would be something like, "Oh dear me, thank goodness it was all a hoax! I almost believed that man to be truly uncouth."
I’m blown away by how forthright and no-nonsense these girls are. My people like to play a game called “If we don’t talk about it, it doesn’t exist.” But it’s like black girls are constantly playing a game of “Bullshit.” Call it out, gurl. Call it out. Plus, they don’t bullshit with their feelings. Country Club white people believe that you choose your feelings to suit the situation according to what Emily Post recommends. My people are retarded. Where was my strong black mother who was supposed to teach me not stand for injustice or insult? Why instead do I know how to properly use a shrimp fork?
My roommate walked out of his room last weekend wearing what I can only describe as the most hideous pair of shorts I’ve ever seen. They were neon-green nylon/vinyl with some kind of large spray-painted camouflage print. “Do these fit right?” he asks me. “Is that a bathing suit?” I asked, blinking because I was at once awe-struck by the awfulness and blinded by the neon. “No, they’re shorts,” he says. “Are you sure?” I asked. “Yeah,” he says. “Do you like them?” “Where are you going to wear them?” I asked. “Around the house, or maybe to the Mac store. People wear crazy things there.” “You’re going to go, not only out in public, but to work in those?” I said. “What’s wrong with that?” he asked genuinely. The problem was that he was really jazzed about these shorts. He thought these shorts were really cool. “Because those are the fucking ugliest shorts I’ve ever seen,” I said.
He ran to his room and came back with another pair of shorts exactly the same as the first pair, but these were covered in a pattern of boom boxes. “Does that mean you don’t like these either?” he asked me. And then I laughed in his face. I just could not stop laughing. That’s what I thought of them. And I told him to his face just what I thought of them. And then I told him to get them out of my sight, return them to TJ Maxx, and never go shopping without a chaperone again.
Step One to being a black girl: giving someone your honest and unedited opinion when they are acting a fool- whether they ask for it or not. The next step- tackling conflict head on, or “I’ma handle my bid’ness.” Snap.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
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