Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Ok. Shower. Coffee. Work on it tomorrow.
I might go to a friends party, which I said I would go to... and I'm sure it will be fun, and it would be an excuse to wear my beloved turquoise Jill Stuart dress- but I feel kinda tired. Plus there is usually a Twilight Zone marathon on...
I will take a shower and drink some coffee and see how I feel.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
So I got that, and also The Wordy Shipmates by Sarah Vowell (which I've heard so-so things about, but whatever, I like her), 2666 by Roberto Bolano, Phillip Roth's new book, because I love him, and a biography of sorts about Hepburn and Tracy, and Fantasy Island Season 1, and also The Lady from Shanghai (which, weirdly, I do not own), and the Greta Garbo Signature collection. Because I plan on being Garbo-esque this winter. Not so much in terms of being glamorous and mysterious, because everytime I attempt such things I spill coffee on my blouse or fall off of a curb. It's more that I just really, really hate to be cold.
Monday, December 29, 2008
But, well, with the drummers it goes like this- an overenthusiastic beginning (on their part), quickly followed by a catastrophic end, nearly always brought about by a jaw-dropping lack of basic manners and tact on the part of said drummer. This one was always late, and then, when he was supposed to meet me at a showing of The Purple Rose of Cairo (which was like, my favorite movie ever at the time), called me ten minutes after he was supposed to meet me at the theatre to say he couldn't make it. This, however, is absolutely nothing in comparison to the insanity that followed it from any of the others in his wake. At most, it rates a 1.5 on the scale of douchebaggery I have been exposed to. Trust me, I could tell you some stories (which I totally will. Also, uh, I write them- which you think would cause some sort of self-censorship on their part, but no.).
But this is the thing, the curse on my birthday? It stopped after Reagan died on it. I'm sort of hoping that running into the ur-drummer will put an end to this Groundhog's Day-like pattern of dudes. Which would be pretty rad, because frankly I need something new to write about. It's getting a bit tedious, don't ya think?
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Getting there was bad enough, and quite a bit like the last act of The Graduate. I took a cab thinking it would be faster- it wasn't. Traffic was so bad that I had to have the cabbie drop me off at the train station, and then I had to run all the way to the gate (except for the minute or so I stood behind that stupid family on the moving sidewalk thingy. If any of you are reading this, I think you suck at life) because I was so horribly late, and made it exactly on time and completely out of breath. I should probably quit smoking but I won't.
BUT... let me tell you about the guy I sat next to on the plane. I can tell you a lot, because he didn't shut up for the entire ride. First of all, he smelled like beer and Old Spice, and had his hair in an altogether new version of a combover, in which all the hair was pulled forward into bangs. He made prosthetic legs, and although he was Canadian, he worked in the States because the business for such things is bigger here. I am not sure why, I didn't ask. He told me that people were awfully vain about their prosthetic legs, and especially picky about them being symmetrical with their other leg, should they have one.
He did not think I needed to apply lipgloss to impress him, despite the fact that I was doing it because, ya know, my lips were dry. Because I just ran a marathon to get there and all.
He was on his second marriage to a mail order bride. Mail order brides, he said, were the way to go. Because, you see, an "attractive young girl" like myself would not look twice at a man like him here in this country, but in the third world, he had pick of the litter- and also they were more old fashioned, which he liked (ie: They don't have like, opinions and stuff). And he was right about that, because he was gross and he smelled weird and he was at least 50. Oh, and he was totally wearing a Starter jacket, which I have not seen since I was in middle school.
Oh, and then he ordered a beer. And he asked me if he could borrow a dollar for it. I said I didn't have one, so he paid for part of it in dimes.
Then the plane went into turbulence, really awful, "I think this might be the end- I'd faint except I have to stay conscious in case those oxygen masks pop down from the ceiling and I have to put one on" turbulence. It was a bad time altogether. And while I'm whiteknuckled and gripping the armrests, he's yelling "Wooooweeee! It's like a rollercoaster! Woooo! This is kinda fun! If you think this is bad, you should have been on this plane with me to Reno- now that was turbulence! This is just fun!"
And then the plane landed. And he continued talking. "If I'da known you had a problem with planes I'da tried to keep your mind off of it by talking to you"
Yup. I never really thought I'd top the guy who tried to feel me up on the plane and offered to be my sugar daddy, as his wife was suffering from cancer and was too tired to do him. But I did. And at least I got a limo ride home from that deal. Oy.
And that's my story. I told you I have no luck with planes.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Oh my god- Odetta died on December 2nd. I didn't know. I didn't hear a thing about it... It wasn't on the news or anything. I wouldn't have even found out if I hadn't been looking for videos of her on youtube... I can't believe I didn't know- I can't believe my mother didn't know.
Odetta was one of my mother's all time favorites since she was a kid. I promised her for years that I'd take her to see her live, but it just never happened. Even when I tried to see her here in Chicago the show ended up getting cancelled. We used to listen to her in the car when I was a kid, and my mom would always say that she was one of the few women she could sing along with (we have rather deep voices in our family.). I feel really bad that I never got to take my mom to see her. I remember I was like, so excited one year to give my mom a copy of an album of Bessie Smith covers she did that I found.
So, well, I'm kinda sad to have found that out.
Like Torie Bausch, Christmas has never been a religious holiday for me. Duh- because I'm an athiest. I never felt any guilt, like she did, in "secularizing" it though, as I figure Christians try to ruin enough stuff I like that it's only tit for tat :). Both of my parents were raised Catholic (my father still sort of is and will occasionally try to get us to go to midnight mass, but he usually passes out before then anyway), so it's something they grew up with and just continued doing, I suppose.
But, even as a heathen, there are lots of things I like about Christmas. Perhaps I am just a festive person.
1. The Shop Around the Corner- which is the movie I refer to when I say that my favorite Jimmy Stewart christmas movie isn't "It's a Wonderful Life." It was once remade as a crappy movie in the 90's starring Meg Ryan, Tom Hanks and AOL, but as I've never seen that version, it has remained untainted.
2. Laura Nyro- Christmas and The Beads of Sweat- it's not really a Christmas album per se, but it's what we listened to at my house during the holiday anyway. Laura Nyro is one of those things I have in common with my parents and no one else at all, so it's kind of nice.
3. Lobster- being that my parents were raised Catholic, we still eat seafood on Christmas Eve, and my Dad makes baked stuffed lobster because it's my favorite thing ever.
4. Seeing my parents and sister, because it's one of the few times a year I get to do so.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
So, after checking the United website 85,000 times before I left to check on my flight, I go to the airport only to find that it is in fact cancelled.
Then I wait in a line for two hours. Luckily, I got a flight back to Rochester tomorrow at 6pm... but still. It was an awful experience. I hate airports more than you can possibly imagine. I truly do. I hate the constant loudspeaker reminders that you can't smoke in the airport, which only serve to make me want a cigarette more. If there is any place on earth where someone ought to be able to smoke a cigarette, or anything else for that matter, it is O'Hare International Airport. In fact, I think they should just hand out heroin at the door.
But, well, at least that half bottle of wine won't go to waste :).
Monday, December 22, 2008
Also, last night I had one of those dreams where when you wake up you're not sure if it really happened or not. It was quite odd, because I dreamed that I was reading crap on the internet (how lame am I? Next think you know I'll be dreaming about waiting for the train) and I saw like, a link to something stating that a guy I dated for a minute a while ago died, and in my dream I did not care enough to click through and was surprised at how blase I felt about the whole thing, even when I was half awake and kind of thinking that it actually happened- like, I was lying in bed thinking "I should probably get up and look to see what happened. Also, I should probably feel worse about this." and I didn't- I felt absolutely nothing- which was weird because it was such a long time ago that I don't so much have any animosity left about the situation- I actually don't think I have any feelings at all left about it, either way. Maybe I'm just a horrible person. I like to think if it happened when I was conscious that I would have cared or at least been taken aback, or something. I don't fancy myself a sociopath.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
1. portable vagina
2. hot vag
3. emotional conquistador
4. paul newman
5. "the shirelles"
6. "cum on my sweater"
7. she's just a small time girl
8. the shirelles
9. "dye hair after bleaching"
10. kiss of the spider woman notes
11. habsberg lip
12. underwhelmed myspace
13. towns shes
14. she's just a small town girl
16. vincent d'onofrio
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
It's the same story on both sides- instead of scheming to get into your pants, they're scheming to form some sort of fake emotional bond. Which is way weirder. And sort of a waste of time, if you ask me- there's no forseeable gold at the end of that rainbow. I would never put in that much effort just for the glory of spinning around and yelling "Psych!"- I just don't get that. At least try to get laid. Be respectable.
It seems as though things have been radically switched around. Once upon a time girls were warned about men who would pretend to be in love with them in order to get laid. Back then, maybe it was easier to get someone to believe that than it was to get in their pants. Not so much now, except perhaps among super religious types, maybe. It's probably easier to get a girl to fuck you than it is to convince her that you're not a douchebag.
So they pull all the same lines that they used to, the lines we were warned about and never lived to hear in that context. They overflatter, they do nice things, they talk constantly about doing things in the future... except this time they don't try to sleep with you, at least not figuratively. Except this time it's not clear what they want from you. And when it's over, you're left thinking "Well, what fresh hell was that? That wasn't at all necessary!"
You harken back to a better time, a simpler time- a time when things made sense. When a dude would just buy you a drink, tell you you're pretty and make a pass at you- and you could say yes, or say no, and either way know what you might end up with (Ideally, not Mr. Goodbar). Alas, alack, Alaska.
The things she'd like to see are these rinky dink chakra necklaces. Fine. She picks out the "Third Eye" chakra necklace and tells me that she plans to get it as a christmas present for her acupuncturist. Fine. But then she has to decide which chakra necklace she ought to get for herself. So, for about an hour she debates on whether she needs the "root chakra" necklace or the "throat chakra" necklace- not just which one is prettier, but which one would come more in handy. The throat chakra necklace, she tells me, she needs because she's going to tell her husband she's going to divorce him in a month. And also she's a Taurus, and that's symbolized by the throat, and also she's an actor and "voice over artist." Voice over acting is her passion, she says, other than being a yogi, which she has been for three years. She lets me know that she has lots of crystals at home- because she's a yogi, but the necklace idea is great. Despite the apparent merits of the throat chakra necklace, she decides on the root chakra necklace and a "luck" necklace because she is going gambling on a boat with her mother, and that way she can earn the money back and then come back and purchase the throat chakra necklace when she has to tell her husband about the divorce. Also, she had like, sort of a British accent- but in a Madonna sort of way, like it only popped up every so often.
She was totally, totally serious. And despite the fact that I am a girl who tends to talk far more than is necessary, I had no words. I was silent for most of the hour. I just nodded. And tried not to laugh. Because the whole time I just wanted to say "Um, you know these necklaces don't actually have magical powers, right?"
But I couldn't. I mean, it had nothing to do with making a sale- the necklaces were fairly inexpensive (like $44 and $100)- but I probably would have felt bad, you know, crushing her dreams or whatever (and Robyn's heart grew three sizes that day? Probably not).
Still, I have nothing to say on the subject of crystals.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
"Ugh. That's totally me. I'm sorry, I am so that person. If I could test out of everything I'd be fine- it's the going that kills me." I told him. And then he tried to explain that well, there are things you learn in class that aren't in the book, etc. etc. I told him the story about how I tested out of economics in highschool (not knowing a thing about it beforehand)- with only a day to prepare, by reading my dad's old college textbook in a day- and, uh, I also got the highest score. Not to brag, but I totally did. Then he said "Well, what about the kid who came to my office ten times, tried really hard, came to every class, and maybe still doesn't doesn't score as high on the test, or have as nuanced answers as you do? How do I grade the both of you? It doesn't seem fair to give him a worse grade."
"What am I supposed to do?" I asked. "Pretend like I don't get it when I do? I'm just not a "going through the motions" kind of person."
This, in case you don't know, is why I sucked at elementary school. I remember the first day of third grade, when we once again got our plaid phonics books, the feeling of my face burning up with frustration. I came home, and I said to my mom "Can you believe this? What is this? 'ph' equals 'ffff'! I get it! Let's move on!" Then, the years of nouns and verbs and adverbs and conjunctions and prepositional phrases... it was agony. I pretty much refused to do any of my seatwork or homework, because I didn't really see the point in doing it if I already knew it already.
It's not that I was a child genius, it's just that I had my own way of learning. I like learning. I like knowing things, but I prefer to do it on my own and I don't feel the need to share. They had "Enrichment Class" in school, which I went to for a while- but really, it was pretty much just "Write a paper on Abraham Lincoln!" "Let's do some haikus!" and shit. I didn't find it especially enriching. I just wanted to take the test and have it be over with, so I could go back to learning things that I cared about.
I hid "The Diary of Anne Frank" behind my 'Mr. Fig' reader. "He's magical. He speaks in three word sentences. He talks to animals. Point taken."
I was told for a bunch of years that I had ADD. I knew I didn't. I knew I didn't because when push came to shove, I could read the whole damn book in one night without a break, and get an A on the test without doing any of the homework. I just had no interest in people repeating the same things to me, over and over again, day after day, year after year. I don't have a lot of patience.
The only class I ever really liked in high school was my sophomore global studies class, where the teacher talked a mile a minute, slammed books on the desk if people weren't paying attention, and, to boot, everything he said had a good chance of being on the test, and he never repeated anything the . Your hand would ache by the end of the period. There was no homework, only tests. Perfect.
I hated group projects. Oddly, I hated anything in class where you were supposed to be creative. I didn't want to be creative in class, I had other outlets for that. I just wanted to read the book and get it over with.
So, do I think, in this hypothetical situation that I should be able to just read the book, show up and get an A on the tests, and get a better grade than the kid who comes to every class and tries really hard? Kinda. I don't think it's some giant sin to prefer to learn things on your own. I mean, I could work for 20 years on a painting that would be nowhere near as good as the one someone who happens to be naturally talented in that way did in a couple hours. Should my painting go up in a museum because I tried harder? Probably not. Then again, I'm kind of a pretentious smart ass, so what do I know.
Hey! So we actually watched "Goth Cruise" the other night- and yes, it was just as magical as I thought it would be.
Best quote by far: "I've always been like, on the cutting edge of fashion. In the 90's, I wore parachute pants."
The thing that really struck me was their commitment to "freaking out the norms." At like, 50 years old. I felt kinda bad for them because no one was really freaked out- they were all kinda like "Yeah, we've seen the Jenny Jones show, we've been to a mall food court before, what?" I mean, some of the other people on the cruise were definitely mall walkers. As a former mall employee, I can spot them a mile away. If you really want to freak out the squares, take a tip from my 16 year old self and drive around blasting "Songs of the Blue Whale" from your volvo whilst sporting monkey masks from the dollar store, and then slowly turn and stare at people at red lights. Not that it's any less sad, but at least it's unexpected.
Another interesting fact was that they all seemed to live in the suburbs- which we decided was because if they live in the city, no one would really give a shit. Being that, on my way to work or school everyday, I see a woman in a blanket and duct tape cocoon, who lives at the bus stop... a dude wearing a lacy pirate shirt and a kilt is not exactly going to blow my mind.
I'm obviously not saying it's all of them- just the people in this particular documentary. Amusingly enough, I totally just almost used the "some of my best friends are..." line- but I think that anyone that would agree to be in a documentary (though I love them) about their particular subgenre, or go to a convention, is a little too committed for my taste.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
I have an awesome show that people actually really love- and I can't tell you how happy that makes me. What I like most is that everyone gets to participate and feel a part of things, and promote their own stuff as well- so, it's like, not only am I doing something neat that I like doing, but it's also something different that's very much in line with my own sort of philosophy of life.
I have like, retardedly awesome people in my life. And lots of them. I'm totally giddy about it too- it's kind of funny.
I love my job. Which is awesome because I hated it for so long, and then the change of ownership changed everything.
My skin, after a really awful beard burn incident, has at last returned to it's natural complexion. Thank you, Albolene!
The only thing that is sad about life is that there is no more Fantasy Island on the OnDemand. I must now purchase it on DVD. Sigh.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Robyn: Oh my god! Are you Tim Meadows?
Tim Meadows: Yes I am.
Robyn: Awesome! Congratulations!
Yes. I am in fact retarded. It's true.
Like I've said before, I totally love it when the bad girls win. It gives me a bit of satisfaction after all those years as a kid hoping The Misfits would beat the shit out of Jem and The Holograms in at least one Battle of The Bands episode. But what got me thinking today was the fact that on a Jezebel post about how, well, everyone deserves to be happy, a lot of women not-so-repectfully disagreed. A running line seems to be that a woman who sleeps with a married man is just as guilty as he is, and I've been hearing this a lot lately- but it's his obligation, not hers.
You know, honestly, I think they have a much better chance of being happy than most people out there. I really do. Let me tell you why: I don't think she's someone who would be with someone just to be with someone. And he's obviously someone who doesn't give a damn about what other people think. Which is bad ass. I think it says a lot about both of them.
I think a lot of the bitterness comes from people who are really into rules and shit, and try to follow them, and then hate to see good things happen to people who don't. I mean, seriously- look at this comment on Gawker:
"Ya know the hilarious thing? We tut, we tsk, but in fact the takeaway message is, "Yes, ladies, you really can have sex with famous people for money
and then find that certain special someone to sweep you off your feet."
As in, whatever the fuck we "normal" people have been doing, clearly we've been doing it wrong."
Honestly- what the hell is wrong with that, really? Who says you have to do things the "normal" way in order to be happy? In any case, the thing that really bothers me is that I can in no way fathom the same comments coming into play if she was a he. Can you? No, because women are held to different standards than men are. Granted this is on a somewhat larger scale than the usual oats sowing, but still...
We are a society obsessed with ritual and reward and penance. If you do things in the prescribed way- even if it's not necessarily what you'd really like to do, and it probably isn't- you get rewarded with "happiness." A very specific type of happiness that comes with a house in the 'burbs, 2.5 kids, a minivan, and once a month "lie back and think of England" sex, and a smug feeling of self-righteousness because you did what you were supposed to do the way you were supposed to do it. And if the people who don't do it that way are appropriately punished, then you can feel comfortable, knowing it was all worthwhile, because at least those people are worse off than you are. But if they get to go and be happy- maybe even happier than you, well, that's just going to drive you up the damned wall now isn't it? Well, suck it up. I wish absolutely the best of luck to those people I don't know.
Friday, November 28, 2008
Ok, so last night I wrote a shit ton of embarassing personal demon-y type crap- and no one needs that, so I thought I'd embarass myself in a new and exciting way! By sharing with you what I found amongst the old journals and Warped Tour compilation CD's in my cabinet in my old bedroom at home. An old CD that we made in some voice class I had in highschool!
It was part of the final, and we had to go to some random recording studio and sing whilst accompanied by the voice teacher's husband. I was horribly nervous because she hated me- I suspect because I was not a soprano- they all had it out for the altos. Seriously. I'm telling you it was a total consipiracy. They also always tried to make me sound musical theatre-y. So, anyway, without further ado, this is me, circa age 16, singing "Stormy Weather." Hilarious. It has yet to be heard outside that one class or my house, so, you know, you should feel pretty special. And yes, that is in fact a picture of my one true love, Vincent D'onofrio. Yup.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Hilarity will ensue, I'm sure... and you know I love me a documentary... and I was certainly fond of The Jenny Jones Show at one point in my life. However...
I find people with themes to be especially disconcerting. I mean, it's not like I think Goth "culture" is so especially avant garde or whatever- it's been around for pretty much forever- at least since I've been around. I just feel like, exhausted looking at them.
I've always been told, in highschool yearbook signings and various other mediums, that people "admire" me because I am always myself. Which, if I am going to be honest, is not necessarily true. There were periods, like in highschool, when I tried adopting various themes, tried out other personalities. It never lasted for very long, because, well, I have commitment issues... but it was always at times when I wasn't feeling especially at ease with myself. There are times when I can feel myself, in uncomfortable situations, becoming affected. And it really, really bothers me. So I guess seeing people putting all that effort into, you know, being something all the time- it reminds me of my feeling especially awkward and insecure.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
However, still suffering from a bad case of beard burn. It is not pretty. I am not happy about going back to Rochester looking like I've suddenly developed bad skin, when my skin has always been such a ridiculous point of vanity for me. Alas.
Monday, November 24, 2008
And the worst part, I guess, other than my fear of going up in flames at some point this evening, was that, like, my very first gut instinct was to call the absolute wrong person. And I had just, just had a conversation with Jen about my high-minded, self-preservation based reasoning for not doing such things anymore. Fuck.
And my penance for it is this- I will write, 87,000 times, on a blackboard "I will believe people when they tell me who they are."
Sorry for being so vague about shit. I don't even know why I'm writing this, or anything I've written lately, really. Maybe I'll delete it all later.
I should go downstairs and get my laundry so's I can pack for tomorrow... but I've had too much wine and the stairs might be a bad idea. Do you know how much I hate planes? I'm not looking forward to it. I am, however, looking forward to seeing the fam, especially my mom, who is pretty much the greatest ever.
Maybe because I'm happy, and no longer awkward, about the things I say and write. Maybe because I teach myself the things I want to know about, and learn the things I want to know how to do. I don't feel any deficiency in these things anymore. I used to be so impressed by fellas who could beat me in the verbal sparring, I used to be impressed by men who would make reference to something that I'd be dying to go home and look up and research- but it doesn't happen anymore. I've won, but it's, on some level, a Pyrrhic victory. I don't know what to be impressed by anymore.
I am tall, dark, and handsome. I am culturally literate. I speak three languages. I play several instruments. I'm well read. I'm well informed in terms of current events. I'm excellent with the snappy comebacks. I am a walking reference book. I think about how what I say and do will affect other people. I will throw down if someone hurts anyone I care about. People know when I am insulting them. I am the man of my own fucking dreams, and I am choking to death on a silver tongue.
And it's not that I'm the greatest thing ever. I assure you, I'm not. And I don't think I'm smarter than anyone else- I'm just well versed in the things that are/were important to me. I'm fucked up in a lot of ways as well, and will gleefully recite them to anyone who will listen. Maybe I'll make a list later. But right now, I'm jaded and I'm tired- and it's been awfully hard for me to be funny lately. And I'm tired of thinking- "Well, if you can't be endlessly clever or interesting, can you at least be kind?"- and having that be an impossibility.
Oy. I'm such a kvetch.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Bullshit in the 2000's... (or what I did on Thursday night)
Boy (via text message)- What r u up to?
Robyn- Watching Bringing up Baby.
Robyn- It's a Katherine Hepburn picture
Boy- Come to ___.
Robyn- It's 1am. I can't.
Boy- That's stupid. Come out.
Robyn- Sorry, I'm tired. (and frankly, after watching Cary Grant all night, you're going to look like pretty lame anyway.)
Gah. I don't know which is more terrible- the term "hunk" being at all acceptable, or the fact that this particular text message conversation has taken place more times and with more dudes than I can possibly name. Occasionally more than once a night. Also, have had four or five conversations with the ladies this week in which I have advised, "If he's only calling you at one am, he is not all that interested in your sparkling personality or witty conversational abilities. Promise." Which is always easier to say than it is to remember.
This is the thing- in order for me to put forth the effort tear myself out of my warm bed and away from Cary Grant and then get myself gussied up quickly, the dude has got to be pretty damned awesome. If he is texting me at one am, and cannot get it together to plan a day ahead of time, he is, clearly, not all that awesome. Or at least not all that well mannered. So I stay in bed. Call me lazy or whatever, that's just how I feel.
Song For One of The Girls
Here in my heart I am Helen;
I'm Aspasia and Hero, at least.
I'm Judith, and Jael, and Madame de Stael;
I'm Salome, moon of the East.
Here in my soul I am Sappho;
Lady Hamilton am I, as well.
In me Recamier vies with Kitty O'Shea,
With Dido, and Eve, and poor Nell.
I'm of the glamorous ladies
At whose beckoning history shook.
But you are a man, and see only my pan,
So I stay at home with a book.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
The horrifying FreeCreditReport.com guy is in a new commercial. A new commercial in which he is at the goddamned Renaissance Festival. Do you have any idea how I fear the Renaissance festival? I went once when I was a kid and was practically traumatized by all the delusional Olde English speaking people and the whole thing where everyone was eating giant turkey legs with their hands (it's not festive, it's unsanitary).
So, anyway this commercial is basically like a cornucopia of my absolute worst fears in the world. I seriously dived under the blanket and covered my head until it was over. This is what I imagine it looked like:
(click to enlarge and see all of my worst fears come true!)
Yup. That was pretty much it. The worst thing ever. I will have nightmares for years to come.
Oh- and I will actually be reading as well this month. Either from "I Never Liked You Anyway" -an ongoing piece that I've read from before- which is basically a series of short paragraphs about dudes I've been involved with on some level, that I need to update anyway. Or, I'll write something new, which may be tough considering how much other crap I've got to write at the moment. Blah.
Anyway- we've got most of our readers set for this month's Sunday Night Sex Show, but we still need two more fellas to complete the line-up. This whole gender parity thing is kinda stressful. It's funny, because most readings I go to are so heavily dude-oriented that the main reason we wanted to do it this way in the first place was because we really wanted to encourage as many women to read as possible so we wouldn't have to do a "ladies night" type deal- but we're finding it harder to recruit guys. Isn't it ironic, Alanis?
But yes. If you are a dude (or transman) who would like to read this month, or happen to know one, let me know.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
"Hem Tape"- (available at dollar stores, CVS, Walgreens, where ever)- $1
And they are pretty much the exact same thing. Actually, hem tape works better. Just thought you should know
Thursday, November 13, 2008
You know, if you seriously feel as though you have to dye your pubes pink and have them fashioned into a bow, I feel like you're maybe missing something in life or in your relationship that will probably not be solved by dying your pubes pink and having them fashioned into a bow.
I refuse, refuse to believe that this is something that is happening anywhere. Mostly on the grounds that I can't imagine any woman would prefer sticking a soaking wet tampon up her vag (which I cannot imagine can be done gracefully or without difficulty) to sipping a cocktail. Nothing about that seems like it would be at all pleasant for any reason. Although, a part of me hopes that this will become a national moral panic, and that there will then be a PSA about it and possibly an episode of The Tyra Banks show dedicated to the subject. Just for my personal amusement.
Story #1- When I was in 5th grade I went to Hawaii with my family, and everywhere you went there were signs such as this:
Please Do Not Litter-- Mahalo
Please Do Not Lean on Railing-- Mahalo
And for the first few days I thought that Mahalo was the name of an especially involved, or rather vain, Mayor or Governor. I would feel lamer about this if my mother did not think the exact same thing (and she wasn't 10 at the time)
Story # 2- This one time when I was back home visiting, I introduced myself to this one guy only to have him inform me that we had dated for a month. I still feel horribly embarrassed when I think about it, and yet I still do not remember him. I am haunted by this as I usually have a fantastic memory.
Story #3- I go through a tin of hot chocolate a week, and am suspecting that this cannot possibly be healthy.
Story #4- I accidentally took Sudafed PM today and tried to correct it by drinking a lot of coffee. The Sudafed has worn off (I think!) but now it's 3am and I can't sleep. This has happened before. In high school, my mom accidentally gave me NyQuil or something instead of DayQuil, and I got a little kooky or something in bio, and was sent to the nurse's office. They called my mother and told her I was probably on drugs. She told them about the NyQuil and they thought she was in denial.
Story #5 (A Secret!)- I can be bribed with egg cream sodas. Seriously, if you were like, "Hey Robyn, haul like, 15 tons of bricks across the street and I will take you out for egg cream sodas!" I would be sold on that arrangement, as it will always sound like the best time that can possibly be had. In this regard, I am five.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Things I have discovered about people in personal ads, a not-yet comprehensive list.
-They like fun. As opposed to everyone else in the world.
-They like to laugh. See above.
-They like "enjoying life" "exploring everything that life (*or the city) has to offer."
-They like going out to a foreign movie, an art exhibit, or to dinner- but they also enjoy just cuddling on the couch.
- They like movies and also music.
-They either are, or seek a woman who is just as comfortable in jeans and a t-shirt as she is in an evening gown. This seems to be an especially important and sought after quality.
-Older dudes refer to themselves as gentlemen and are usually looking for a nice or special lady, gal or companion- which I suspect means they are looking for someone their own age because I think most girls I know would balk at being called any of those things. Oh, and they use the term "petite" a lot.
- No one under the age of 40 refers to themselves as being sexy, or as having an "amazing" smile or "amazing" eyes.
-Women who want to be treated as "princesses" and men who are looking to treat a woman as one often express a love for boating.
- Most enjoy camping or hiking. Odd, considering we live in Chicago and I do not imagine there is much of that going on here.
- Younger women toe the Manic Pixie Dream Girl line. We used to call these "Amelie" ads, since most of the women writing them would describe themselves as such.
- Younger dudes go for absurdity. Sort of like Ubu Roi meets Must Love Dogs kind of thing. I guess.
- Forced sounding whimsicality on all ends.
- Dudes are way bigger on cuddling. snuggling etc.
- All very fond of that whole "dance like no one is watching" greeting card poem thing.
- Older people always claim to look younger than they are. No one ever writes "50 and totally looks it"
- Phrase "free spirit" thrown around way too much.
- They often like "this" and also it's total and complete opposite. Which indicates well roundedness I suppose?
- Those who use the terms "good hearted" or "god fearing" can rarely spell.
-Older men in the personals tend towards being musicians, while the older women tend to be, uh, writers. Which is slightly depressing.
PS- I've developed a fondness as of late for the totally resentful and angry ads, which are generally written by men. Features of said ad often include some sort of espousing about how said dude is only nice human being ever and how you probably just want to take his money and fuck with his head anyway. Total laughs.
According to the Daily Mail, Jennifer Aniston said in an as yet unreleased interview with American Vogue "What Angelina did was very uncool." (ooooooh!)
This, of course, passes for news. Even, you know, when actual things are happening in the world.
Let it be said that I have never found Jennifer Aniston to be in the least way even remotely tolerable. I got sick of her in the 90's- primarily, I guess because my sister, in middle school at the time and going through the age of obsession, was overly enamoured with all things Aniston, and even had her hair cut into "The Rachel"- which totally made anyone wearing it look just like a cocker spaniel. Talking about her, writing about her, or acknowledging her existence at all is irritating business for me. But, some things must be addressed.
All the world loves a catfight. So, I don't know- maybe Aniston saying that what Brad Pitt did wasn't "cool" wouldn't sell as many magazines... but still- isn't what he did a lot less cool than what she did? I don't see that Angelina owed her anything- she wasn't the one who married her. To read the tabloids, one would think Angelina had slipped some magic seducing powder into his drink and he couldn't help himself. Which, I'm quite sure, is not the case.
This has happened before (and I've discussed it here before, but I will again). In 1958, Elizabeth Taylor's husband, Mike Todd died in a plane accident- she leaned on his best friend, Eddie Fisher- who was married to Debbie Reynolds at the time- for support. And then in 1959, she married him. This was one hell of a huge ass scandal. People loved Debbie Reynolds- she was a sweet girl, she was an everywoman... She was Tammy. Taylor, on the other hand, was darkly beautiful- considered, in fact, to be the most beautiful woman in the world, a far superior actress, a classic vamp with violet eyes and a bad temper. People hated her after she married Eddie Fisher, and for this reason, was blackballed out of the Academy Awards that year, despite phenomenal performances in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, Suddenly Last Summer and Raintree County.
There are kind of a few similarities here and there, ya think? History repeats itself. But the biggest similarity of all- no one ever thought Eddie Fisher was an asshole. It was all Elizabeth's fault. She seduced him- of course he didn't have a choice! And they felt even worse for him when she left him for the true love of her life- and possibly the sexiest man ever, Richard Burton. Poor Eddie Fisher. Poor Debbie Reynolds.
It disappoints me that we haven't evolved all that much since the late 50's. Why is the woman to blame and not the man- even when it's clear that he's done more wrong than she has? Why are we as a culture so eager to think of men as helpless victims of a woman's sexuality? I think it goes back to the Victorian idea that it's the job of women to keep men moral- because I don't think we fault men who "steal" women to the same degree. Personally, I could do without that responsibility.
At the end of the day, though- I just don't believe people can be stolen. I've never understood that idea. I think that if someone can be "stolen" than they weren't really yours to begin with. I don't ever want anyone to hang around me because they think they have to. I feel as though it would be doing me a great disservice, as I am quite charming enough to find people who would hang around because they want to. If you want to hang out with someone else who is not me, than go and be well, and let's not chat about it any further. I do not compete.
Honestly, I truly think that Aniston ought to be grateful to Angelina Jolie for ridding her of someone who did not want to be with her and probably just didn't have the balls to do it on his own without being "seduced."
Genetic sexual attraction, if you don't know, is this whole phenomenon where people who are related, meeting later in life (as in the cases of children who are adopted) feel an intense sexual attraction towards one another.
I have to tell you- the whole thing kinda triggered my gag reflex, and caused me, several times to cringe into the fetal position. I mean, I get the Westermarck effect when I've known someone only platonically for longer than a month. I don't even date within my own social circle (though this is primarily because I like to keep it drama free, and am also not so into the whole "let's be friends" thing after it's over, which would make social outings rather awkward. Also, I like to be sure my friends side with me in the event of douchebaggery.).
However, I feel as though I am, perhaps, being inappropriately judgey. Let me explain- while it grosses me out and makes me want to die- I also think it's kinda icky to tell consenting adults who they can love and what they can do behind closed doors. It's hard for me to agree completely that anything relating to that sort of thing should be illegal- especially because many of the arguments against it are the same ones they use against gay people.
While it's true that children produced from such a union have a high chance of inheriting recessive genetic defects at birth (such as the infamous Hapsberg lip)- the idea of telling people they can't have children because of this poses a few problems for me. Because I wouldn't think it was right to tell someone with some sort of inheritable disease that they couldn't have children because of it, because the children might get it.
It isn't easy for me to conclude, definitively, how I feel about this- which is kind of unusual for me. Usually I feel passionately one way or the other about things. In spite of my reeling, I did feel a lot of empathy for the people involved in these situtations (though less for the parent/child relationships than for the brother/sister ones- I suppose because even at an adult stage of life it still seemed to me like the children and their need for a parent was being exploited on some level).
I don't know.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
HOWEVER... I was confused then by the logic of the song, and I remain perplexed. Of course, a lot of these old songs are a little odd- The Duke of Earl still makes no freaking sense to me, and it took me years before I understood that Carole King had written the song "He Hit Me, and it Felt Like a Kiss" as an anthem against domestic violence, and Dion is a total hypocrite (What? He gets to be The Wanderer and at the same time condemn Runaround Sue? What the fuck ever). Still, it makes me a bit uncomfortable. But this song, while lovely, is such a glaring example of weirdly flawed logic, that I feel the need to examine it.
Shirley- seriously, just break up with the other dude. It's that simple. Honestly, what good are you doing him anyway when you're all into the other guy. How is that fair? And is he really all that fragile? Maybe he could find someone who actually likes him and isn't staying with him out of pity. And then everyone could be happy. I mean- what are you going to do? Marry the guy? Spend your life in a loveless relationship because you didn't want to hurt his feelings? Eventually the resentment will pile up and you'll both end up hating eachother- this scenario doesn't end well, I would imagine.
Good song. Flawed logic.
Have I ever mentioned the Little Edie Beale look-alike of Old Town? If I haven't, you should know that there is one, and everytime I see her, I cannot look away. Because, seriously, she looks and dresses just like her- complete with the Revolutionary Costume, and I can't figure out if it's by coincidence or if she knows who she is and is totally doing it on purpose (which, for the record, would be amazing and she would totally become my hero). I have only spoken with her once- when she came into my store and talked to me about cheapo rings for an hour. Anyhow, I saw her yesterday at the Treasure Island, whilst I was debating whether I wanted Gruyere or Emmentaler for my petits toasts (should you care, I went with Gruyere.), I totally saw her again. It was an especially thrilling coincidence, as yesterday was actually Little Edie's birthday. If she looked anywhere near 90 years old or had a strong New England accent, I would be totally convinced that she'd faked her death and was in fact living in Chicago under an assumed identity or something.
Oh... but anyway- if you have no idea what I'm talking about, the Grey Gardens documentary is now on You Tube and you should totally watch it. It's so my favorite thing ever.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
I am tired now and must retreat to bed. But, you know, good times.
Saturday, November 1, 2008
I am so in love with Halloween it's insane. I ran into this dude tonight that my Dad totally wants me to marry despite the fact that he looks like Derek Jeter and my Dad loves only the Red Sox and hates the Yankees so so much.
I discovered some important things in the past few nights, some good, some bad.
- I like the fact that I am still comfortable being hideous for Halloween.
- The diner next door to my apartment was obscenely busy, so while I waited for my hot dogs I bussed dishes because the lady who works there is always very nice to me. This is how things should work in life.
- My inability to throw away a crossword puzzle unfinished is affecting my sanity. Sometimes there isn't an answer, sometimes there isn't an explanation, and sometimes people are just douchebags. I am not Nancy Drew. I must become content with not having an answer or explanation to everything. Even though it is obscenely frustrating.
- In a somewhat perfect world, everyone would throw their crazy on the table.
Friday, October 31, 2008
I heart Halloween so much you don't even know. It's a fact. I'm like Roseanne about it, if you recall the glorious Roseanne Halloween Specials. Right now I'm at work dressed as Sarah Palin and let me tell you, it's pretty sweet. And this evening I will be Zombie Delta Burke, as we are going out dressed as the Zombie Designing women. Glorious no?
Can I just tell you how vastly disappointed I am in the fact that at 12.30pm there were trick or treaters at the store? They don't trick or treat after dark anymore, which is fucking lame. We started at sundown and went until 1am, because we were bad ass. This is what happens when children are raised on stupid unfun playgrounds that are made of plastic instead of metal. It's true.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Oh! But check it out- Nicole is going to get one of the girls from her salon to come over Friday night and do our hair for Halloween! Because if I did it, it would just look retarded. We're going as the Designing Women and it's going to be glorious and I'm going to be Delta.
Maybe I'll dye my hair today.
One of those houses at the end of a long driveway in Beverly Hills, a high density of exotics parked outside.
You can hear the festivities from the street.
Inside, white room and white rugs, a jungle of potted plants, Mexican ceramics...isn’t that Harry Connick, Jr. over there, shouting his compliments to the hostess?
Her grandfather had painted scenery for Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes, and in her own way she keeps the flame alive.
Velvet Party Pants (No. 3084). Wide-legged palazzo style introduced on the Riviera in the 1920s, with clean Hollywood waistband and fitting darts, fully lined. The big, bubbly polka-dots are lush silk/rayon fabric, takes color beautifully.
(They remind me of sparkling burgundy; not the pink kind or the New York kind, but the Red Cap Chauvenet kind I remember from the holidays; do they still import that from France anymore?)
Women’s sizes: 4 through 16.
Color: Rich Garnet.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Anyway, finding the nametag was totally the highlight of the evening. The next night I went to The Old Town Ale House for a Jezzie meet-up in honor of the naked painting of Sarah Palin (I totally have the shirt now), and while searching for cigarettes in my bag, found the name tag again. I put it on in hopes of having even more nametag related fun and frivolity. Which I totally did, because the best way to make new awesome friends is to wear the name tag of someone you clearly are not. Especially when your particular measurements cause any and all nametags to look patently hilarious on you.
But this is the best part! This guy comes up to me and says "You're not Andy Wang!" And I say "How do you know, because I totally could be." and he says "No, you're not. I know Andy, he works for me!" Which, I was totally enthralled by, as was the rest of the bar. And so we actually tried to call him from there but he was on his way back to NYC on a plane. So sad. But I think someday I will run into him again, and I will give him back his name tag and we will fall in love. Probably not. But how funny would that be?
See, I believe that during that one extra "fall back" hour, it's sort of like you get to go back in time and correct any shit you may have fucked up since the last fall DST. This belief is somewhat informed by the ridiculously brilliant cable television program of my youth, "The Adventures of Pete and Pete." In case you don't know what I'm talking about, I have decided to post the whole episode here- which by the way features a cameo by broadway actress Ellen Greene (Audrey in Little Shop of Horrors).
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Ok, it's nothing like a monster truck rally. Which, you know, for me is something in the plus column- I have enough trouble driving regular cars which is why I live in a city that doesn't require that I do so.
But you should totally come anyway, because we've got some awesome people reading this month. They'll totally give you something to talk about at the water cooler, should any of you have jobs that involve water coolers that people talk about things around. Its something I hear happens. I don't know, I work retail.
7:30pm this Sunday @ The Burlington. 3425 W. Fullerton
(Oh! And can I just say that they got *so* close to spelling my name right in the Reader listings? So close. It's actually quite impressive given the length of it. Except I think the way they spelled it is a euphimism for dick in Italian meaning "little vine" or something, which is kind of funny and appropriate given the reading. And speaking of which, that sandwich place over by the Pontiac (RIP) has a sandwich with a name that, in Italian, actually means Salami Big Faggot. They were not aware, it seems.)
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
You’re an elitist if you love Brokeback Mountain, but think that John Wayne movies are jingoistic expressions of outdated American machismo.
What if I just think they're boring and have no intention of ever watching one?
You’re an elitist if you believe that anyone who supports the standard of a married man and woman raising a child is a bigot.
Bigot- n. One who is strongly partial to one's own group, religion, race, or politics and is intolerant of those who differ.
When the definition changes, let me know.
You’re an elitist if you love watching soccer and you’re not a recent immigrant.
Well, I guess soccer moms have gone out of style...
You’re an elitist if you hate Whittaker Chambers but love Arthur Miller.
Yeah, because non-elitist people totally know who Whittaker Chambers was. And who would prefer a dude who ratted on all his friends to the guy who wrote Death of a Salesman, and All My Sons? Which, btw, were not exactly plays about the elite of the nation.
You’re an elitist if you believe Jon Stewart is non-partisan, but Fox News is an outlet for the Republican National Committee.
Jon Stewart is a comedian on purpose. Fox News is just a joke
You’re an elitist if you don’t mind Sarah Silverman’s language but can’t stand James Dobson’s.
You're an idiot if you don't get that it's meta. She's not serious. James Dobson is.
You’re an elitist if you worry what the Europeans think of us.
Because making the world hate us works out so well, right?
You’re an elitist if you think public school teachers are qualified to inform your children about sex, but parents aren’t qualified to teach their children basic math.
Well, yes- because they have a curriculum. Also, as I imagine this refers to homeschooling- it's a lot more than basic math that people have to learn. Jen was homeschooled and was one of the few people she knew who went through that and ended up going to college and being able to function in the world.
You’re an elitist if you think the government should manage the health care system even though it can’t manage to keep the tax code within a 10,000 page limit
You're an asshole if you think only those with the financial means deserve health care.
You’re an elitist if you think transgenders ought to have their own bathrooms for privacy reasons, but public distribution of pornography is fine.
No one says that. What we actually say is that bathrooms should be unisex, and who gives a shit anyway? And who knew that only elitists liked porn? Go know, right?
You’re an elitist if you think that pro-life folks are fascists unmotivated by true sympathy for the unborn.
I'd be more likely to believe them if they had the same sympathy for the born.
You’re an elitist if you know what arugula is but don’t know who Jimmie Johnson is.
Arugula is delicious, and I think he's the sandwich guy?
Oh well, so I guess I'm an elitist. Go know. Thank god I have Ben Shapiro (Harvard Graduate) to fill me in.
You know You're an Elitist if... by Ben Shapiro
See, when I was a kid, my mom had a very cool way of dealing with my being a brat. I didn't really get punished, I got "perspective." If I made a big deal about cleaning my room, she'd put pictures on my wall of the bombings in Kosovo or someplace else, or of parapalegics, or an article about a homeless family- people who would like to have a room to clean, or like to be able to clean a room (so maybe I should just shut the hell up). When I didn't want to do homework, or was otherwise acting bratty, out came the Jonathan Kozol books. Amazing Grace, Savage Inequalities, Death at a Young Age, etc. etc. We'd sit at the kitchen table, and she'd read aloud to me about kids my own age who had to do their school work in between taking care of a parent with AIDS. Who didn't have nice school books, and nice quiet, encouraging places to come home to. Who couldn't play in the local parks because they were filled with junkies and littered with needles. And they were so, so fucking sad that, well, sometimes, at that age, I admit it was torture to listen to them.
But I'm glad I did. I am ultimately more grateful for that than any of the things my parents were able to give me. More than any Christmas presents, I remember the fact that my parents spent half the Christmas money on us, and gave the other half to children in need. More than I loved the beautiful house on the lake in Plymouth that I grew up on until I was five and that my parents designed themselves, I love the fact that my parents let struggling families live there for practically nothing so their children could go to a good school in the area, and have a nice place to come home to. In short, my parents are amazingly cool people who practice what they preach.
I grew up being aware of my own privilege, of every privilege I had that other children did not, and understanding that it was wrong and must change. And that has made every difference in my life.
I got to talk to Mr. Kozol after his speech, and I told him about my mother who idolizes him and how she read his books to me when I was young so I'd understand, and I told him about Rochester and the ridiculous inequalities there concerning the suburban public schools vs. the city schools (which, at one point, either did or were going to have to go down to four days a week- this was around the time I was moving so I don't recall), how we campaigned for the county to become one school district to even things out, and blabbered on about other things that I don't even remember because I was so nervous.
But can I just say- I have never, ever, in my life met any sort of well known person who was that genuinely nice? I mean, he took down my phone number, and gave me his, and said that when I'm done with Columbia I should think about going to Cambridge and working for this organization he's getting started there. Which I just may do. I think I need to get back to that. I think retail is eating my soul.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Oh... good times.
So I just ran over to the convenience store across the street from my store to grab a diet coke. Now, right next to the refrigerators in said convenience store is a magazine rack. A magazine rack full of porn. Hilarious porn, mostly from the 80's. Lots of magazines with titles like "Juggs" (wasn't that on Married With Children?) and "Glutes" (is that sexy? I feel as though it is not.), and "Pinball Fuck" (Which I may have to purchase merely to satisfy my personal curiousity about what it could possibly be about.)
I look over, and in their video section is a tape called "She-Male Toga Party"- the cover of which features three she-males, in, of course, togas, with amazing 80's bouffants, which can be mine for the low low price of 9.99... so, of course I'm standing there giggling and trying to figure out who I could possibly give this gem to as a special special present- obvs Nicole or my former Gentleman Caller- mostly because he was quite macho and would react in a manner that I would find especially entertaining. And the guy from the store comes up to me and is like "you are looking at magazines? You get this, it comes with DVD. I watch it. It is good." And I nearly died. And then I purchased my diet coke and the whole time the dude is still trying to sell me on the magazine. I do not know if I can go back.
We nearly died. As many within my aquaintance will testify- a couple years ago, I dated a guy who lived in an ice cream truck. Seriously, ask Jen. He tried to sell her random parts of his drum kit (I know, right?). For quite some time now, this has been my big line about the whole "Robyn dates weird guys for weird reasons" thing. It's become a standard part of my shtick.
This, I imagine, cannot be a common occurance. I am convinced that someone I have told this story to moved to L.A. and is now working on that particular show. Even if that didn't happen, I feel weirdly violated and am now afraid that if I use that line in anything people are going to think I am in fact the life plagiarist, when it's just not true!
Monday, October 13, 2008
1. The blatantly, horrifically, gasp-inducingly hideous. I'm not talking just in a sour grapes, "oh I'm cuter than she is anyway" way, or that the girl was just sort of "eh" looking, or just not traditionally attractive- and not that there's anything wrong with not being aesthetically pleasing... It's just that it happens to be an objective fact that many of the girls that guys have dated after dating me have born a striking physical similarity to Jo-Jo the dogfaced boy. I don't know why this is. I think maybe they want someone who will be more grateful to be with them or something. That's my only guess.
2. Robyn-lite! A chick who kind of looks like me, and has some vaguely similar attribute (ie: being from the same state, liking the same movies or music or whatever), but is usually rather dimunitive in stature and not so much of a smart-ass.
And you know, I really don't feel as though I can really learn anything from these chicks. I'm ok with not belonging in a sideshow, and I doubt that being more demure would add anything positive to my life. I mean, I'm the one who has to hang around me more than anyone. I would say that if someone terrible "steals your man"- he's probably not someone you really want all that much to begin with.
- "Am I Normal Down There?"- When I read this out loud to Jen, she said "In Australia?" That is all.
- The Surprising Touch That Whips a Guy on Date #1- Did you know it involves reading his palm?
- Guy Sexy vs. Girl Sexy!- When you go out with your girlfriends you should wear fake eyelashes so you stand out and look cuter than they do, but you shouldn't wear them with a dude because it will weird him out.
- Best Celebrity Scent ever! Unscripted by Patrick Dempsey! For Avon! Huh? I'm not sure if it's for men, or for women, or what. But, really- what?
- Fashion hints! The look for fall, clearly, is a fedora, with a sweater, and then just underwear. Wear it while casually arching your back on your bed while no one else is in the room. Also- cardigans and underwear. Seriously, just forget pants altogether.
- Lessons learned: If you want to look hot in the morning after you do some guy, keep one plastic bag of cotton balls doused with make-up remover, and another filled with cotton balls doused with witch hazel (to soothe beard burn and degrease your roots!). Oh, and don't forget the liquid brightener! Seriously, what kind of people are this prepared?
Also featured- lots of really boring sex tips along the lines of "dudes like blowjobs! Did you know?" and tying your pantyhose around his dick or something. Ew. Who the fuck wears pantyhose anymore?
I got Nicole the world's most amazing housewarming present yesterday- a lotion pump shaped like a toilet with the words "lotion pump" emblazoned on the tank. Priceless. And the fact that she understood just how glorious it was... well, that's why we're friends. That and the fact that she came up with a plan to take a trip to the "Sweet Love Douche" factory (if we can find it) to film a "re-imagining" of the Laverne and Shirley opening segment. Because we really want to put a glove on a douchebag and wave goodbye to it as it passes.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
One of my all time favorite historical figures is Joshua Norton- self proclaimed Emperor of the United States and Protector of Mexico. And really, it's not just because he was an interesting eccentric, or because I just happen to love the idea of proclaiming oneself to be royalty (which I do)... but I really like the fact that the entire city of San Francisco, where he lived, just went along with him on it. They accepted his money, they printed his decrees in the newspaper, they bought him new fancy uniforms, and when he died, they paid for a royal funeral. I cannot tell you how happy this makes me. Even happier than skee-ball (which Nicole and I are totally going to play tomorrow after work), and bizarre things from the dollar store (like the toilet shaped lotion dispenser I purchased recently!). No other story gives me such hope for humankind, and I mean that in all the seriousness in the whole world.
Friday, October 10, 2008
In other news, I decided to wear heels to work today and thus, by 4:00 was wishing I was dead. I was going to go out, but considering the pain I am in, and the fact that I already went to Rodan earlier, I suspect I shall not. Sigh. I think I ought to stay home and read Dorothy Parker and watch some old movie on TCM or something.
If I were mild, and I were sweet,
And laid my heart before your feet,
And took my dearest thoughts to you,
And hailed your easy lies as true;
Were I to murmur "Yes," and then
"How true, my dear," and "Yes," again,
And wear my eyes discreetly down,
And tremble whitely at your frown,
And keep my words unquestioning
My love, you'd run like anything!
Should I be frail, and I be mad,
And share my heart with every lad,
But beat my head against the floor
What times you wandered past my door;
Were I to doubt, and I to sneer,
And shriek "Farewell!" and still be here,
And break your joy, and quench your trust-
I should not see you for the dust!
Thursday, October 9, 2008
"Across this country, this is the agenda I have set before my fellow prisoners. And the same standards of clarity and candor must now be applied to my opponent."
Either dude is suffering from dementia, or he actually has a really keen idea about what it's been like for the rest of us for the past 8 years or so. But I doubt it.
Dennis Leary, in an extra classy Vanity Fair article (which also refers to trollops slobbering on his knob):
"Most heterosexual men do not find Renée Zellweger attractive -It’s true. Nice girl, and I have met Renée. She is the kind of girl who bakes really good muffins, you go out to dinner with her, but that’s it."
You know, I am quite sure, Mr. Leary, that even if you weren't married or whatever, that Miss Zellwegger would not deign to make you any goddamned cupcakes. Call me crazy. I'm sure she's crying herself to sleep at night because some gross looking, barely relevent comedian doesn't want to do her. I know it would kill me.
You know, I lost all respect for "men in general's" taste in things when I read two other articles, so I am not all that gaggy over this. Article number one was about how women are more likely to find Miss Zellwegger's Chicago co-star Catherine Zeta-Jones to be super hot than men are. That was pretty surprising. Then there are always the articles in fashion magazines about dudes liking women in clothing made out of the following materials: Lace, cashmere and velvet. I'm down with the cashmere, I can do a little lace here and there- but velvet? Ew. Really? Does anyone wear velvet outside of 8 year olds around Christmas time and sad, renaissance fair-esque goths? These are pretty much the only instances where I find being unduly swathed in velvet to be any kind of appropriate fashion choice, and I use the term appropriate lightly, because those evil renaissance fair goth chicks scare the crap out of me. Not because I am especially judgemental of their lifestyle, or that it's just like, so subversive that I can't handle it- I assure you it is not. I'm freaked out by the renaissance fair, period, ok? It's a thing I have. There are mimes there, and clowns, and people who walk up and sing at you, and people eating turkey legs without proper utensils- so, suffice it to say, I find it rather traumatic. So, like, evil renaissance wear is especially disturbing to me. Where was I? Oh, yeah, dudes have bad taste in things.
But not really. It's just that whenever someone like Dennis Leary speaks on behalf of all men, or when some idiot magazine takes a poll, men come out having really bad taste in things. So do women, so do any people, when taken as a whole, or represented by a douchenozzle. I mean, I've never dated a guy who was like "You know, you should really wear more velvet!" I can't imagine I ever will. That would be totally weird. Also, I'm pretty sure that quite a few heterosexual men find Renee Zellwegger attractive. Probably more than anyone finds Dennis Leary attractive. He has awful skin, greasy hair, and weird beady albino eyes. so I'm not sure what makes him think he's any arbiter of taste in anything. So there.
1. Two eggs, over easy, wheat toast, hashbrowns and sausage links. Right now, I can promise you that this is the most importantly good thing ever.
2. Mr. Catface being absolutely delightful.
3. The episode of Fantasy Island I am about to watch.
4. Writing in a bar.
5. Chocolate! I hope to find some in my apartment! I should have gone to Dominicks and purchased tiramisu before they closed. Alas.
7. The awesome list of ways not to get murdered I wrote today, based upon my watching far too many true crime shows. I'm pretty safe, as I do not jog, I didn't marry my highschool sweetheart or anyone with the last name Peterson, no one would describe me as the All American Girl Next Door with a charmed life who smiles all the time and goes about lighting up rooms with her zeal for life, I have no Sears Portrait Studio pictures of myself donning a floral bib dress and an 80's bouffant, and I would not describe any of my neighbors as people who are quiet and keep to themselves mostly.
8. The most amazing episode of Intervention, ever, is now on the OnDemand thing. The huffing episode with the girl who feels like she's "walkin' on sunshine!" It's so, so disturbing, and yet I cannot turn away.
1. Camille Paglia
2. Dudes that I used to date or see or whatever being painfully, gag me with a spoon, jaw droppingly cheeseball-esque human beings. I tell you, it's absolutely painful, and it kinda makes me feel embarassed to be alive.
3. Tucker Max
4. Having to sit still for too long. I'm not so good at it.
5. The fact that no one seemed to want to be out tonight, when I was way too hyper to go home.
6. The guy who said earlier "what's a gal like you doing in a place like this?" I really wanted to punch him. A lot. More than you could possibly know. Like, A) dude, we are not in the country, and I most certainly do not appreciate being referred to as a gal anymore than you would like being referred to as a motherfucking redneck douchenozzle, and b) Really? You actually said that? Out loud? With the intention of my hearing you? What's next? Asking me what my sign is? Or if I come here often? Oy.
7. The fact that I cannot foresee myself remembering to take off my makeup tonight. And the fact that I didn't finish hanging up my laundry today, and thus will have to remove things from my bed in order to sleep. Sigh.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Anyway... Sarah Vowell was on The Daily Show last night talking about the whole weird love/hate thing conservatives have with NYC- you know, they sure love talking about 9/11, but think the people who live there are evil elitist jerks or something. Which, you know, is not in fact true.
But I believe I know why they think this. See, when someone grows up in a small town, 9 times out of 10, they're dying to leave. That's what spurs this country on, the desire to get the fuck out of wherever your parents raised you. The people who don't get out and wish they could, are bitter. The people who don't want to get out, I assume, feel like the people who did thought they were "too good" for that life. Which, I think, is why people in those towns feel that NYC and other cities are elitist. I mean, it's not like people are clamoring to move to Wasilla, ya know? If they were, it would certainly be more populated.
But I don't think it's a matter of insult on so many levels. Some people are better suited to city life, and some are happy in smaller towns. Country Mouse, City Mouse and all that. I mean, it's possible that people grow up in cities and decide that they'd prefer small town life, but you don't hear about that so much. I mean, if someone here did that, I wouldn't take it as a direct insult to my way of life, so much as a personal decision on the part of the other person. Living in cities sort of forces you to deal with multitudes of people not living the same life as you are. Every day, I meet people who believe things that I do not, that do things that I do not- were I to take it as a personal insult to my being, or a rejection on some level, I'd be pretty unhappy with life.
The thing is, I sort of feel like a lot of these people just watched "Mr. Deeds Goes to Town" a few too many times or something. And while the Capra films are lovely and heartwarming (and I do love love love "It Happened One Night"), they're not really, like, fact. Despite the fact that Hollywood is supposed to be another bastien of the elite, there are craploads of movies out there espousing the whole idealized vision of Wholesome Small Town America vs. Corrupt Big Cities. And if that's where you're getting your information from, yeah, it's gonna be a little skewed.
At the end of the day, I think that it has more to do with hierarchy than anything else. Our capitalist culture demands that in order to be worthy, you have to be better than someone else. I mean, that's pretty much the whole reason people are racist or homophobic- fear of not being better than someone else (look at the people who are, and try to tell me I'm not right about this). Small towns have little to offer in the way of "things to do"- so it probably makes them feel better to cling to the idea that they are morally superior to larger cities, despite all the meth use and teenage pregnancies. They have to have something, I guess.