Tuesday, November 3, 2009
If you have been to your local supermarket this week, you were more than likely confronted with the question "WHO'LL DIE FIRST!!" accompanied by a variety of horrid looking pictures of celebrities you weren't giving all that much thought to these days anyway. Still, you were probably curious, but not curious enough to avoid the embarrassment of picking it up and checking. That is what I am here for. I will also tell you about the secret that Soupy Sales took to the grave (except not really), and some other crap.
First, the death pool. Who wins?
Well, according to the very scientific rating system (of 1-5 skull and crossbones symbols denoting said celebrity's likelihood of dying)... Robin Williams. Totally dead soon, as he is mixing "boozing and womanizing" with a "bum ticker." Really? Womanizing? I totally wouldn't do Robin Williams- least of all because it would be awkward, what with us having the same name and all. I can't imagine anyone being able to think of Mrs. Doubtfire as a sex object. If one was going to do a comedian who hit their prime in the 70's and 80's, you'd think they'd go with Bill Murray or Steve Martin over like, Mork. But that could just be my personal taste.
Also, Mischa Barton, and Lindsay Lohan? Totally, 5 skull and crossbones thingy rating, soon to be dead (we know this because of the zoomed in picture of Lilo's nose filled with "mysterious white stuff"). Steven Tyler? Also dead soon. Which I kind of doubt because I feel like he's pretty much on the Keith Richards trajectory. Keith Richards is not on The Globes death list, by the by.
In happier news, Whitney Houston only gets a rating three skull and crossbones thingies, which I think means she's on an upswing. David Hasselhoff, oddly, is rated as more death prone than Whitney. Go know.
Now, as for that secret. When one hears that Soupy Sales took some giant secret to his grave, one has very high hopes that it's something earth shattering- something about the moon landing, or the Kennedy assassination, or like, at least a really good recipe for pie. No. His big secret was that he wished he'd been a bigger star and done more with his career than get pies thrown in his face. That was it. The big secret. That he took to his grave. Except he didn't, because otherwise it wouldn't be in the Globe. Unless someone made it up, which is probably what happened.
OH. Ok, so last time I did not mention my absolute favorite part of The Globe (and all the other quality tabloids, actually). This would be the "Sheela Wood Friendship Club" page. It's like, personals for prison inmates and lonely, marriage minded mountain men, and multi-millionaires who enjoy being up to date on "sexy cougar" Martha Stewart's love "tangles" (she has a "toyboy," you know), and collecting coupons for Jesus related knicknacks and snap-front comfort bras.
Allow me to share the magic with you.
KY- WWCF 72, Northern charm, petite, humorous, spirited home life. Enjoy a variety of interests including gardening and traveling. Classy, not floozy (!!!!!!!), straight, genuine, impetuous, kindness, joy. Please write.
TX- Correctional Institute Inmate. SWF 31 years. Soon to be released. Seeking love and passion. Long to be held captive (!!!!) in strong arms. Take ahold of me.
FL- WWF 69 5'3" pretty blonde/blue, presently full-figured. Don't want to be alone anymore. ISO tall, White Christian, soulmate 65-75. Enjoy traveling USA. I have a two week cruise paid for. BSA, NRA is a plus. Home can be your place or mine or both. Non-smoker only please. Will answer all. Thanks, sweetheart.
MN- Wealthy woman needed by a self-made country boy with big dreams and passion. SWM 40's, 6', honest, sweet, gentle, and looking for love and support.
FL- SWM, 60, fit, good-looking multi-millionaire, still growing, ISO female 20-35 for LTR/marriage. Relocation/expenses paid for life, must relocate. You won't be disappointed because you rule! Photos.
NM- Be my sole heir. DWM 72 5'8. ISO female, any age, size, race. You: broadminded, smoker, light drinker, love dancing. Photo, phone.
VA- Honest man 71, seeking relocatable woman, 40-70 to share my house and timber (???). Drug/alcohol free. LTR. Country boy, serious only.
You know, if the world really loved me, it would will into existence a documentary about the people (the ones who aren't inmates. The inmates I sort of get.) that post ads in the Sheela Wood Friendship Club. Also suspicious is the fact that the Sheela Wood Friendship Club is based in (dun dun dun....) Clearwater, Florida. And we all know what's in Clearwater. Scientologists. Connection? I think so.
Oh, also, if you would like to start a band with me called the Sheela Wood Friendship Club, I will probably be taking applications for this the next time I have had too much to drink.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
1. Despite being an owner of cats, and a by-proxy (via my parents) dog owner, pictures of cute animals do absolutely nothing for me. Really. In fact, I find them noxious. In fact, I don't think there is anything even the slightest bit clever about LOLCats. Also, I feel as though I must go on the record as saying that Mr. Catface has way better grammar than said LOLcats.
2. I am not conflicted about people. I am not conflicted about sex. I am very conflicted about shopping at American Apparel. I do not feel guilty about interacting with people, I do not feel guilty about sex, I feel guilty about accidentally buying Nestle Hot Chocolate via Peapod.
3. I cannot stand children who hide behind their mothers legs, or who respond to the question "How old are you?" by holding up fingers. Particularly if that number is more than three, because by three years old, one ought to be able to say "three years old." I find this behavior affected.
4. I don't particularly care for or trust the shy and introverted- and, in particular, those who seem to talk a lot about being shy and introverted.
5. I think dream journals are stupid. I do not want to hear about your dream unless you can convey it in a manner that I will find especially hilarious, and even then, it should be short and to the point.
6. I believe that if you find yourself compelled to cry in public, or engage in public displays of affection, you really are not spending enough time at home. I suggest that you remain there until you can learn to be appropriate in the public arena.
7. Cuteness implies neoteny, which means retaining the characteristics of a human baby. That being said, adults expecting to engage in conversation with those over the age of five have no business with it. Being cute is the pasttime of those who are otherwise terrible.
8. When a man tells me he taught English in an impoverished country, which happens to be known for having an undue amount of prostitutes and/or women with a reputation of being more culturally submissive than women in the West... I am highly suspicious when he claims he was doing so to expand his cultural horizons.
9. Men who tend to veer on the artsy side of things also tend to believe that by not explicitly being a meathead, banker, Big 10 Graduate etc. they have been rendered completely incapable of sexist or misogynistic tendencies. So, you know, if you're a feminist, you probably want to stick with the latter, as at least they'll accept your authority on the subject.
10. If you must be short, don't act it.
11. I do not believe in ghosts. I really, really don't. So, yes, if you tell me you've seen a ghost, I think you are delusional. The same will apply to that thing some psychic told you that turned out to be true, your personal relationship with Christ, how I am exactly like a Gemini, etc. etc.
12. I suspect people of making up mental disorders in order to appear more interesting and deep.
13. I am irritated by women who play the "I am so deep that I don't even know how to put on eyeliner" game. Seriously? It's that difficult? No, no it's not. Eyeliner- nor having the ability to walk in heels- does not impede one's ability to read a book.
14. The giving up of coffee or soda does not make for interesting conversation, and kind of makes you sound like an asshole when you attempt it. Nor does it even make all that much sense. If drinking coffee is the most unhealthy thing you do to your body, then I think you're ok. Also, the subject of your great dedication to your health and well being does not, in general, make for interesting conversation.
15. It is bad manners, and frankly, rather vicious, to discuss one's weight issues with people of a larger size than you are- to discuss a pimple on one's nose with someone with bad acne, etc. etc. Stop it.
16. I have nothing but apathy towards anything having to do with outerspace. Movies or television shows about people in space, the space program, people going to outerspace... Absolutely no interest. I am not filled with wonder watching Neil Armstrong take those first steps on the moon... I don't know. It just doesn't do anything for me. I'm sorry.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Since 8:30 last night, I have been trying to wrap my head around the logic of an article I found via feministe. Apparently, according to Mr. Stephan Marche of Esquire Magazine, vampire books and movies are so popular right now among the ladies... because vampires represent gay men... and we want to have sex with gay men... because sex with a gay man/vampire is less "threatening" than sex with a straight non-undead dude.
No, really. That was the thesis. You go and read it and tell me I'm wrong. Now, I don't really think it's all that necessary to deconstruct this, but I'm going to do it anyway- since if there are any subjects I feel strongly about, it's most certainly sex and the undead.
Premise 1- "Vampires have overwhelmed pop culture because young straight women want to have sex with gay men. Not all young straight women, of course, but many, if not most, of them."
For one, I don't get how vampires = gay men. Is it because straight dudes don't wear capes and medallions so often? Because one only needs to take a trip out to the food court of any suburban mall, or, if you're in the city, Neo or whatever goth bar you've got in your town to see that this is not in fact true. For another- where is he getting this "most young straight women want to have sex with gay men" thing? Apparently, from a general misconception of how women work and why awkward teenage girls have had gay male best friends since the dawn of whenever. (Answer: Being liked for what makes you different rather than hated for it. It's that simple and it goes both ways.)
One of the best explanations for this I've heard is when we were asked a question at the Sunday Night Sex Show that went something like "Gay guys always have a million hot girl friends! Should I just pretend to be gay to get some action?" My co-host Allen explained that the reason women want to hang out with him is because, unlike some straight dudes... he actually likes women. He actually likes spending time with them and talking to them, etc. etc. I don't want to do him, and I don't want to do any of my gay male friends. But I think that sometimes straight dudes don't especially understand why anyone would bother hanging out with someone of the opposite sex without it being a romantic thing. Like, it took my dad- who is super liberal- a while to be comfortable with my having sleepovers with my gay male friends in middle school and highschool.
Premise 2- "Vampire fiction for young women is the equivalent of lesbian porn for men: Both create an atmosphere of sexual abandon that is nonthreatening. That's what everybody wants, isn't it? Sex that's dangerous and safe at the same time, risky but comfortable, gooey and violent but also traditional and loving. In the bedroom, we want to have one foot in the twenty-first century and another in the nineteenth."
Fact. Vampire sex is obviously way more threatening than sex with someone who is not trying to kill you or turn you into a vampire or whatever. I mean, sure, there are STD's and shit- but it's clearly not the same immediate death situation that vampire sex would probably end in. Also, I haven't read the Twilight series, but apparently the main dude is super freezing cold all the time (right?) and I don't know about you, but I would also feel that having frostbite in my lady parts would be kind of a mood killer.
Conclusion: Stephan Marche is daft.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
When I was younger, I had a deep and heartfelt fondness for the Weekly World News. Every week, my friend and I would pick it up, and then read it aloud in a diner while drinking bottomless cups of coffee and chainsmoking. Here in the future, I don't so much spend 5 hours in a diner, because I'm allowed to drink booze in public venues and you can't smoke indoors anymore; The Weekly World News has gone under, and I've moved on to a more sophisticated brand of bizarro tabloids. The Globe, for one. (One question though! Who is tracking BatBoy now? Is he a Batman yet? I mean, they found him when I was like, in second grade, and he was about my age then...)
I like the Globe because they make no bones about who their demographic is- namely, my Noni and other ladies who've yet to pick up one of them internet machines (they barely have a website. This dirt is a check-out line exclusive.). The front page of this week's issue, like so many before it, declares that Liz Taylor only has three months to live. You see that on People or Star? No. Because the kids of today (who should get off my lawn and into an all night diner) probably don't even know who Elizabeth Taylor is. It also informs me that Dr. Phil is getting a divorce over a sex scandal, that Obama has ordered his "Dirty Tricks Team" to crush Glenn Beck, and that David Letterman has a love child that will shock us.
Oh, and when you turn the page, there's a picture of Sophia Loren picking her nose. There's an advice column penned by Ivana Trump who helps a man through the dillemma of his wife no longer wanting... to watch the same television programs as he does. There's LaToya Jackson, and OJ Simpson, and Anna Nicole Smith and it's like nothing has changed since I was 12 years old. There is an article on why separate beds are better for a marriage. There is a full page advertisement for a $15.99 embroidered sweatshirt! With a cat on it! A half page advertisement for a FREE Elvis Presley 30th Anniversary State Quarter Tribute!
When talking about Nicole Richie, they explain that she is Lionel Richie's daughter. Fact.
Granted, there is some newer news. Like the fact that Clark Gable's grandson got in a knife fight and "cheated death" or whatever, and is totally dating Heather from Rock of Love. I can't decide whether I really hope that's true, or if it would make me cry if it were.
So, you whippersnappers can have your TMZ and your Perez Hilton. I will take my copy of the Globe and a $29.99 All Weather Wonder Coat (with easy button-out lining!) in lustrous polyester taffeta and bid you good day.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Waitress: You, Robyn, are awesome because last Halloween you helped me bus tables and get drinks when you came here after you got out of the bar at 4am, even though you were kind of wasted. Also, I agree that those people over there are pretty tacky.
Monday, September 21, 2009
"Oh, yeah, I would suppose not." I said. He kept making small talk, and I kept grimacing like I normally do when creepy dudes talk to me but I don't feel like it's a good idea to tell them to fuck off. When we got on the bus, he finally left me alone, and continued on to hit on 3 other 20 something year old girls. It was kind of hilarious, and I giggled to myself all day long about how it was funny that someone thought I looked like someone who would do a gross old man with a giant skin colored mole just because he pretended to own a boat company. I assume he was pretending, because if he did own a boat company, he probably wouldn't be riding the bus, and he probably would have gotten that gross dangly skin colored mole removed.
Then... tonight, as I was riding home, I hear a loud, droning voice going on about the weather, and a girl responding by saying "uh-huh" a lot. I turn around, and there he is, in all his mole-y glory hitting on yet another horrified looking younger woman, and talking about his imaginary boat company.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
A fella who goes by the name of Mike Meadows has been hanging around Wicker Park, and outside of various venues like Schubas and The Metro, claiming to be a member of various bands and soliciting "donations" in exchange for CD's that turn out to be blank.
See, now, the way I found out about this is because the other day, my friend Ivan (of Mr. Russia), got an angry email from some dude who said he'd been sold a blank CD from a guy who said he was in Mr. Russia. They did some research (see here and here) and found out that this guy has been pulling this scam for a while now, previously saying he was a member of bands like Camera Obscura, Art Brut, Harvey Danger, The Kills, etc. We're guessing he probably got called out too often by people who knew what the members of those bands looked like, and has now decided to target local bands (you too, could be a victim!). And yeah, while you'd have to question the mental capacities of anyone who thought a dude in Camera Obscura or whatever was in Chicago for spanging purposes... it's not cool to rip people off, and it's certainly not cool to go screwing with anyone's reputation like that.
And the hunt is on! Though I don't personally advocate violence, Mr. Russia is offering a reward for a picture of this dude with a black eye. So, you know, at least be on the lookout, let people know if you see him, and certainly don't give him any money. He's about 5'10" with very short brown hair (also seen bald), with brown bug eyes, and often seen in a grey hoodie with a Touch and Go t-shirt, is possibly strung out, and rides a beach cruiser. He has also been seen with his girlfriend, a short Asian-American girl with a half shaved head.
If you'd like a Mr. Russia CD, however, they will be given out for *free* at the previously mentioned show this Friday, at 7, at Sub-t. Good times will be had by all!
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Why? Because the short film I did a few months ago, "At Last, Okemah!" has been accepted into the Chicago International Reel Shorts Film Festival! How neat is that? In case you are not up to date, in the movie, I played the bitchy girlfriend/ex-girlfriend of a musician, which was, of course, a huge stretch for me.
This will be taking place on Sunday the 13th, at 6:30pm, at the Columbia Film Row Cinema, 1104 S. Wabash. And you should go! To both this and to Mr. Russia at Subterannean on Friday the 11th!* It'll be fun. More fun than camping.
*Unless you are stalking me. Weirdo.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
It's been impossible. The fact is, is that I've been looking for them for so long, that what they're supposed to be has become so specific in my mind, that the shoes just cannot possibly exist. Now I want the sole of the shoe not to show, and I don't want hardware on them. I want them to go with everything they can possibly go with. Because what's the use of looking for red flats for over a year if I can only wear them with certain things.
Well, actually, I do know what I want. I want my black Marc Jacobs flats (that are super cute, and look like tap shoes... and which I currently cannot locate), but in red and with a different strap. This would be ideal. Sadly, Marc hasn't answered any of my cards, letters or phone calls.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Second, go to www.mrrussia.net, and download the new EP, not only because they're awesome and happen to be my dearest friends, but also because you can play a fun game called "Why does that lady's voice in the background sound especially familiar and a lot like someone who is probably way awesome and super hot?" I will give you a clue- it's me. Then, if you are really super cool, come to Subterannean on September 11th for the record release show! For only five dollars, you get a live show, a free hard copy of the CD, and the chance to see me fall off a stage other than the one at the Burlington. I would say that's a pretty good deal, no? So go. You know, unless you plan to kill me, in which case I would prefer it if you did not.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
This evening I was flipping through channels, when what should I see, but a show on the We Channel called "Extreme Wife: Mail Order Brides." The first thing I see is a group of women sitting around a table with bananas, and an older, somewhat crazed looking Ukranian woman announcing that "when we like a man, when we really like a man, we send him a vagina smile."
I was in. Not only was I in, I was plotzing.
The men on the show were exactly what you would expect. They complained about how women in the US "don't know how to take care of a man," and how really attractive women here don't want to date them because they're gross. One especially, um, interesting fella, Kevin, mentioned that women in the states have a thing against creepy guys. Not kidding. He said this. Let's meet Kevin, shall we? (Warning, not entirely safe for work. Also not especially conducive to ever wanting to have sex again)
(Sidenote: The hostess, Dawn Porter, is made of awesome and is totally my new girlcrush. I want her entire wardrobe.)
Kevin is a 43 year old man who lives with his mom in "rural America" and has a license plate on his molester-van which reads "BADBOY3"- he's looking for an 18-25 year old woman who shares his interest in Hannah Montana and the Disney Channel. Huh.
Another one of our bachelors is Frank, a police officer and superchristian. He tries to reel the ladies at the social in by providing them with packages of Jelly Bellys with Jack Chick Tracts attatched to them.
And then there's Marc. Marc has an assault on his record, as he got into a tiff with the father of the underage girl he was dating. He also freaks the fuck out at the girl he was talking to (he carried her picture all the way from the US, he says) after she also talks to Frank.
On the one hand, I find all of this unbelievably hilarious. On the other, the whole idea of creepy, chauvinistic men traveling to other countries to try and buy a perfect looking, submissive wife who will wait on them hand and foot, is just beyond disturbing. On the other, other hand - if there was some magical country filled with dudes who were dishy and entertaining and generally ok with the staggering amount of times a day in which I embarass myself, I might move there.
Sadly, I never did find out what a vagina smile is, nor how to go about sending one. I remain desperately curious.
- I just bought this shirt! Jealous? I thought so. I'm such an easy sell. I was sitting around, watching Judge Judy and getting some writing done, and I thought to myself- do you know what I need? A shirt with her face on it. Lo and behold, the internet obliged.
- I just accidentally slammed a window on Mary Pickford's head. Not the actual Mary Pickford, a bust I have that looks like Mary Pickford. I chipped her a bit. It's quite sad.
- I keep getting winked at by a man in blingy cargo shorts when I'm outside smoking at work. It's disconcerting.
- I also want this!
- And speaking of Grey Gardens (because if you didn't click on the link, it's a Grey Gardens Coloring Book.).... I found another awesome documentary by the Maysles Brothers, called Salesman. Amazingly, I'd never seen it before. This is the first part, and you can watch the rest of it on the YouTube.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
I have never purchased a copy of Marie Claire in my life- until yesterday. I bought it specifically because I had read two articles online about a piece in this month's issue. The article in question is called "Where The Guys Are" and apparently is suggesting that you pack all your shit up and move to a city where you have like, a better chance of finding a boyfriend/husband whathave you. You know, because you have a vagina, and this is what's important to you (not like, your job, your friends or your life or anything). They also tell you how you should adjust yourself accordingly so that men in that area will find you palatable. You know, like if you're in Seattle (number one on the list!), you should wear flannel. Because it's still 1994 there, I suppose.
Chicago is number 15... and they suggest that to find yourself a man here, you don an embellished pencil skirt and a pastel blouse. Gross. I am all for pencil skirts- pencil skirts are hot. But pastel blouses? So wrong. If I wear pastel anything I look like Whatever Happened to Baby Jane. I would rather be single forever, and die alone, not being found until three weeks later, half eaten by my cats than wear a fucking pastel blouse. Unless I am starring in the Broadway production of 9-5. Then, and only then.
Apparently you are supposed to wear this because Midwesterners value the classics and are low key. Whatever. Last night I wore a gold lame skirt and a black wifebeater and everyone thought I looked fabulous. Then again, I was in a gay bar. But the stripper, who was quite the heterosexual, was all about it. Actually, I think I got him in trouble. This is another story. For later.
Oh, also, according to Marie Claire, dudes here are "wholesome-but-urbane Big Ten alums prowling for The One-- a Cubbies cap-wearing, God-fearing good girl with a shoe tree full of strappy heels" Which totally makes you want to kill yourself, right? Don't worry, Marie Claire also assures you that "the Art Institute churns out off-beat alterna-boys for whom a romantic date is dining alfresco at the Kebab Shack and all-you-can-drink Schlitz!"
I don't know anyone who goes to the Kebab Shack. I don't know any of these people, period. I never do. (Although, then you could be the most beautiful girl he has ever seen with a Kebab...)
The weird part are the nods to The Skylark and Rose's as possible husband finding grounds. Huh. The last time I was there it was just me, Rose, a dude I used to date that I was hanging out with again for a minute, and a Mariachi band. Talk about your options!
Oh, also, one of "his" other "haunts" (as they say) is apparently "the cooking demos at Green City Market." Really? I would bet you that's not true.
Your "prep," also, for finding a dude here involves "spending hundreds of dollars at the Lancome counter to acheive the Reese Witherspoon I-woke-up-looking-this-good effect. Rock a dewy face, score a second date."
Huh. I always heard you should wait until the third date to rock a dewy face.
On an upswing, at least we're not Columbus- because as they describe that place, it is in fact the 7th level of hell:
"Where corn-fed frat boys go to spawn. With biceps as firm as their Midwestern values, these gosh-darn-it good guys spend Saturday nights bouncing from bar to bar, plastic cups foaming with Bud, scouting for a low-key beauty with whom to make little Buckeyes fans (The average age for getting hitched in this town: 25). Forget brunch dates: His Sundays are reserved for God and football"
I think my vadge just threw up. You think that's not possible? That paragraph made it possible.
The moral of this story, I think, is that if you are willing to move to a different city and change everything about yourself to please a man, you will probably find one. More than likely, you'll both be terrible people, but you'll be terrible people together. And isn't that what's really important?
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
In Which I Start Off Talking About The Marx Brothers and End Up Going on Some Rant About Feminist Linguistics.
Totally unsurprising fact about me- I own every Marx Brothers movie in existence. I also firmly believe that if one were to combine all of the Marx Brothers into one man, and have him not be dead, that I would totally marry him. At the very least, I would let him hit it.
Surprising fact- I can play "Lydia the Tattooed Lady" and "Everyone Says I Love You" on the ukulele.
This little clip actually brings up something I've been wondering about lately. In all these old movies, people say things like "Are you making love to me?" when CLEARLY no intercourse is taking place- and really, if it was, one would assume that that the lady would be aware of what's going on. Maybe it was one of those Hayes Code things? So now I'm curious as to how the phrase underwent the transition from apparently meaning "flirting", and then to mean "fucking" and then to become an insanely creepy, horrifying and ladybonerkilling way of saying 'fucking'.
I think it's one of those phrases/words that tends to be 87,000 times more shudder inducing to women than it is to men. Like the word "moist." Moist is a terrible word because it is most commonly used to refer to either baked goods or vaginas (or towelettes, but they don't count in this scheme)- baked goods make you think of yeast, and then you bring the ladyparts into it and what do you get? Yeast infection. Bad times for everyone. Mystery solved.
There are a few good reasons for why "making love" is similarly terrible, I think:
1) When you get "the talk" from your parents, this term tends to pop up a lot. At this point in your life, you're probably a little "ew, boy germs" about the whole thing (at least you are if you're 8 and you're me.). Then it's the sort of sex you associate with your parents- which, duh, even if you're the most liberated person ever, you don't so much want to think about it- and thus, also the sort of sex you associate with the baby making process. Which I totally try to avoid, for the sake of all humanity. It's "when a man and a woman love eachother very much and want to have a baby" sex, and that is just too much pressure for any lady to handle.
2) I don't think women are so much comfortable with the idea of two separate kinds of shtupping. Like, it's a good, dirty, fun time if you don't like the person all that much (fucking), and then if you love them it's supposed to be totally boring and involve candles and rosepetals and such (making love). I am so not into rosepetals, and should not be allowed near an open flame for any reason. For me, it evokes that whole scene in The Godfather where Connie's husband is out getting blowjobs from bimbos or something, and then won't let her do it because she's the mother of his children and is thus supposed to be a saint or something.
3) For me, anyway, it's something that elicits a red alert when used by a dude I don't know too well. You know, because either he's trying to pull the old boyfriend fake-out, or he's a genuine creep who thinks he's your soulmate 10 seconds after meeting you.
4) It sounds censored, and one gets the feeling that if you have to use a priggish, Haye's code sounding euphemism like that for sex, you're not all that comfortable with it. Thus, you are probably not all that good of a time. Blah.
Monday, July 20, 2009
How to explain this weekend. Let's go backwards, shall we? I came home about an hour ago, and have eaten cherries, and I've drank water, and juice, and right now I'm sucking on a freaking lifesaver, and still, I have the most horrid dry mouth I've ever had in my whole life. Nothing works. I think maybe I've been smoking too much.
Before I came home, I was at the Bottom Lounge, but I had a ridiculous panic attack and left. See, I didn't have a wristband with which to get in and out of the show- because the owner had walked me in through the back, which was awesome because I didn't have to pay... HOWEVER- crowded room with no windows? Not something I'm so into. I had planned to meet friends there, and I couldn't find them. So I was just standing there, thinking about how I was in a crowded, hot room, with no windows, and how technically I couldn't get out if I wanted to get back in... and I went over to the bouncer and asked if I could in fact get back in, because really, I just needed to prove to myself that the outside still existed, and he yelled at me for no good reason, so I just walked off in a huff. Seriously, a huff. I swear to god, I couldn't even see straight. I just wanted to leave.
Before that, I was at Pitchfork- I volunteered for half the day. My first job was standing in front of the ticket lines and saying "There's a shorter line over there!" 87,000 times over the course of three hours. It was thrilling. My second job was as the guardian of the sacred port-a-potty, which, oddly, was a much better time. For the most part, anyway.
INTERMISSION: A question. Why does Zach Braff have to narrate every commercial on earth? Inquiring minds want to know.
After my volunteer shift, I could not locate my people, but I ran into a friend, and this other dude he was with who just so happened to be the most terrible person ever. He told us that his girlfriend was one of the girls on stage with The Flaming Lips, dressed as a bunny, and that they had totally begged her to do it, because she was so "cute and tiny." He said the phrase cute and tiny like, 40 different times whilst telling this story, with a healthy dose of "well, you know, she's a Suicide Girl" spliced in.
"Neat." I said. I am really grateful that no one can use any of these words to describe me repeatedly to strangers. I don't know how people would describe me to strangers. I can't imagine that they would bother. I like to think I speak for myself.
He told me he was in a band, and that he worked for and was on this record label. I must have heard of this record label that he is on because Captain Fudgesicle Dinasaurpants! or whatever is also on that label, and of course I've heard of them, right?
"Nope," I said, "But thats a spicy meat-a-ball!"
"What?" says the guy with the Suicide Girlfriend.
"I thought we were talking in stereotypes. Sorry."
Fact. In all the time I have been around the hipsters and the especially pretentious such, no one has EVER actually said that to me. This was my first time. I was very excited. I decided later that the dude was so braggy due to the fact that he was rather short and trying to compensate. You know, for something.
ANYWAY.... let me tell you about something that happened last night. So, we were at the Flatiron, and I ran into this dude that I had gone out with a few times when I first moved here. It ended weirdly. Really weirdly. I won't say how weirdly, but trust me- I have a running list of the pricelessly bizarre things dudes have said to me, and the thing that he said ranks higher than both "Don't you want to give me a graduation present? It might be your last chance!" and "I just like, didn't call you, because you are SO AMAZING that if we hung out, I'd have to be in a relationship with you, and I'm just not in a place right now in my life where I can be in a relationship"- all of these things were said with a straight face, and all of them BROKE MY MIND. But this, this thing that this dude said that one time, it totally topped both of them.
So anyway, I'm talking to the dude and he's all "So, do you like, think there's like, a chance you and I could like, be something again?"
Be something? Again? We went on two horrid dates four years ago! That was not something, that was nothing, and that was awkward. He kept saying that I looked AWESOME (I did not, trust me. When I went to the bathroom later I realized that some of my red lipstick had actually smeared around my face causing me to look not entirely unlike Ronald McDonald.) and persisted in touching my face and telling me that my skin was really great or something. I do have good skin, however, these sort of comments freak me out because I have a secret fear that someone will cut my skin off and wear it around the house.
He then points out two rather homely looking girls to me, sitting over at a table and informs me of the fact that these ladies want to go home with him. But, you know, if I am interested, it could be me that goes home with him.
WOW. That happened.
Rewind further back, Thursday night, Roommate told me that she was going to move out on Sept. 1st because she feels like she needs to live on her own again, and now I have to find a roommate. Rewind further to that afternoon, and I got my hair cut and now have bangs again. Strange fact. I have lived with Roommate for three years, which is the same amount of time that I have been generally bang free.
Sigh. I am tired, and feel like death. I am going to sleep now.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
My arm hurts, because it was repeatedly accosted on the bus this morning by the brim of a hat.
Is it so much to ask that people more than a head shorter than I am not wear brimmed hats? On the bus? While standing next to me? Especially if said person is apparently unable to steady themselves whenever the bus pulls to a stop?
OW. OW. OW. OW.
Good luck with your forehead zits, lady. Because that is exactly what brimmed hats give you. Zits on your forehead. Especially in the summer, because you sweat, and your skin can't breathe and it clogs your pores. Also, they totally cut you off and make you look even more height deficient than you are to begin with. SO THERE.
Monday, July 6, 2009
I have a tendency towards sentimentality.
When we first started looking at houses in Rochester, my father and my sister had their hearts set on a new McMansion in Pittsford- and my mom and I wanted to live in one of the old, neat looking houses in Brighton. My mom and I won that battle, after we looked at yet another McMansion and she layed down in the driveway to protest even walking into it. We'd just stopped by the McDonald's there, and there were, as she said "too many women with blonde ponytails." After that, we looked at a variety of houses in Brighton- one of which even had an indoor swimming pool- but when we saw the house that we eventually moved into... it was love at first sight. Especially for me- especially for one reason. It had an amazing treehouse. A glorious treehouse- so big that my father, at 6'2" could stand up in it- with a patio, and buttery yellow shutters that matched the house. It was true love!
The first, and best friends I made in Rochester had referred to my house for some time before I moved there as "The Sacred House" due to the bright security lights that went on each evening at sundown. It was an immediate sort of friendship- the kind you only form when you're 15 or so- where within a week someone can become your best friend for life. We'd hang out in my treehouse and smoke cigarettes and pot after school, talk some shit, make up some schemes to seduce some unsuspecting dreamboat... and when I got the giant trampoline for Christmas that year? Well, my backyard was the fuckin' balls.
I loved that treehouse. I wrote a shit ton of crappy, angst ridden poems in it. I'd go there to be alone after I'd had a stupid fight with my parents, when I wanted to write something super personal in my diary. It was the site of so many first kisses, games of truth or dare, near deaths of boys who thought jumping from it and onto the trampoline was the best idea ever, broken hearts... and of course, one of the main highlights of any party I ever threw. In some ways, it was almost more of a home than my actual house. Because it was mine.
Yesterday, I talked to my Dad on the phone, and he told me that the tree had gotten too big. That the treehouse had become dangerous, and was likely to fall. It was going to be torn down.
I begged like I have never begged for anything in my whole life- and even while I was talking, I realized how ridiculous I probably sounded. "PLEASE get an estimate on fixing it! It has to be fixed! I will raise the money! I will pay for it! We'll hold a benefit concert! I'll collect donations! Do you even know how many people have a sentimental attachment to that treehouse? We will all band together and save it!" I even considered trying to get landmark status for my treehouse.
But when I called this morning to try again to change their minds, they told me it had already been torn down. They were glad to see it go, they said.
I can honestly tell you that I haven't cried like this since- well, since I was 20 and the worst thing ever happened. We don't cry in my family, you know. We're from New England. My mother's rule is that you're only allowed to be upset about something for 10 minutes, and then you must go on about your business. If you'll believe it, I'm actually the most emotional person in my immediate family- and shit, I'm practically made of stone.
I called again to ask them to save the shutters for me- the buttery yellow shutters that matched the shutters on our house. Everything was already gone, they said, but they'd try and find them. If you ask my parents, I am being simply ridiculous. They're cracking up. In fact, until I lost my phone in a cab because I was so frenzied and upset, they thought I was joking. Maybe because last night I said "But where am I going to go now to write crappy poems and smoke pot and seduce teenage boys!"
"We're going to turn it into a Zen garden. You can go there," she said.
Maybe I'm overreacting because I'm far away from home, and you know how things are- when you go home you want things to be the same, even though they never are. I have the worst time letting go of things, and I always have. It's why I'll carry a vendetta with me until the day I die, and why I've never been good at throwing things away. My mother is very good at throwing things away and has no attachment to material objects. I, however, still bitter about the time she threw my awesome lime green plaid bellbottoms out because she hated them- and that was sophomore year of highschool. I am so not Zen, I know.
I came home, and I broke down in tears, because I lost my phone, because my damned yarn kept falling out of my bag, and because I couldn't accept the official end of an era that cognitively I realize ended almost ten years ago. Maybe I'm nuts. I felt better though, afterwards.
I'll never have a treehouse again-I'll never be 15, 16, or 17 again. That's probably a good thing, I realize, judging by the content of my diaries. But I do have a pretty neat balcony, and I'll have a new phone tomorrow or Thursday.
I still hope they find the shutters.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Let me illuminate you:
"Traitor Joe's: Your One Stop Shop for Ocean Destruction"
"Carting Away The Ocean: How Do YOU Rate?"
"Is Amazon Destruction At Your feet?"
"Poison Gas: Can YOU Escape?"
"Are You In Danger?"
"36 Days Left to Save The Polar Bear!"
"URGENT: 1 Week Left To Save The Planet!"
"IL: Run For Your Life!"
"Are Pirates in YOUR Supermarket?"
Is that really necessary, Greenpeace? Honestly, no.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
In case you were wondering what my midyear resolution that I made yesterday was... WELL- It was to move more slowly in order to avoid faceplanting so often, and also to stop dating boys I know full well are terrible just because I think it will make a good story. This may result in my being significantly less interesting, but I feel it is for the best. However, I've already failed. Why? Because last night, after we went to the Burlington, I thought it would be a swell idea to stop by Flatiron. Because going to a four am is always a good idea, right?
Long story short, my friend did not see, but I did in fact have a minor crash. I toppled off my heels and right into some hideous couple that decided that right in front of the ladies room was an ideal spot for the making out. Boy, were they wrong. The funny thing is this: they probably thought I should have been embarassed by the fact that I fell, but shit, I'm so used to it at this point that it just doesn't even phase me anymore; I felt that they should be embarassed for making out in a bar, you know, because it's a rather tacky thing to do, but they probably were not embarassed by this as they were drunk, and probably tacky to begin with. How O. Henry of us all.
I realized this morning that if I had been clever enough to use this tactic on the couple who had confused my locker with a Lover's Lane back in high school, that I might not have been late for class so often. It certainly would have been more effective than muttering snarky things under my breath. By the way, the guy in this pair bore an uncanny resemblence to Beavis. Not that this has anything to do with anything, I just thought you might like to know.
The fireworks are still happening. Oy. Even when I was a kid I was never fond of them. Fireworks belong in the same category as acid trips and laser light shows. They all lack a plot line. I don't have the patience to sit and look at something for an hour if it doesn't have a plotline. Especially if it's making loud, headache inducing noises at me.
It's hot, and I considered getting ice cream, but the last time I went to Dominick's on a Saturday night to get ice cream, the Muzak actually started playing Celine Dion's "All By Myself" and, well, that's just embarassing. We can't have that sort of thing happening again. That's cold, Dominick's. You don't know me. Stop judging. Just because a lady prefers to stay home and have some ice cream on one Saturday night, it does not make her Cathy... Honestly!
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
You know how a dude will text you at 2 in the morning all the time and then get all huffy and freak out if you dare insinuate that he has no interest in you other than getting into your pants. "See where your evil, whorish ladymind goes?" He'll say, "I wanted to play Parcheesi and talk about current events! Shows what you know! I really like you! As a person! I just thought you might be up at this time because you go out a lot!?"
He totally does believe that you will think this- and in turn think he is a "Nice Guy (TM)"- not some sleaze like those "meatheads" he hates who just want to get some pussy. He also believes that you, and all of your girlfriends, have not been through this exact scenario 17 times in the past year. He doesn't know that you already know how it ends- with him accusing you of trying to secretly plot to be his girlfriend- and he's just enjopying being single right now, and you being annoyed because he's really nowhere near awesome enough for that sort of effort, and wondering what you did to make him think you're retarded (Did I drool?).
To the ladies, I say: Seriously, just date the "meatheads", date the "yuppies"- date the guys the idiot artist/musician guys hate. It's less of a headache, and for the most part they're a better time- plus they always think you're the super coolest person ever and take you on actual dates. Also, they're more likely to pay for your drink, rather than ask you to buy them 85 PBR's every time you go out. Also, it's really fun to watch the idiot artist/musician guys flip the fuck out when you walk into the bar with a reg guy ("HOW CAN HE EVER UNDERSTAND YOU?????")- nevermind the fact that the artist/musician guys always end up with mind-numbingly boring chicks anyway. They can't have anyone around that might deflect attention from themselves.
To the fellas- for god's sake- will you PLEASE compare notes? For real. It's getting ridiculous. I go through, and hear the same 5 or so scenarios over and over again and it's just not even interesting anymore. You need a new MO. What if you just like, owned the booty call? Think of how much easier things would be then? You could do it in a way where you're professing to be a libertine or something like that- like Lord Byron. You could say you're an existentialist. You could totally do it in a way where you wouldn't have to lose any of your deepness cred, but at the same time be way less annoying. And a little bit more original.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
I was telling my mom about the leggings I coveted but did not purchase from American Apparel.
"If it was the 70's, those stores would have been burned down! I can't believe you people! I can't believe you'd hand over any money to a creep like that!", she said.
I explained the moral quandary- the workers who make the clothing *are* actually paid a living wage. Also, I am a fan of leggings. She explained that it didn't matter, because Dov Charney is a misogynist.
"Don't make excuses. Boycotts are the only thing that change anything! You think I didn't like grapes? You think I didn't like orange juice?" It went on for a while. I know she's right. I did not buy the leggings.
What I did do yesterday, however, was a bit worse. I got a manicure/pedicure at the cheap nail place across the street. I don't do this often, because it's a whole world of mental anguish for me, for the following reasons:
1) I know that I should really just do it myself.
2) Flesh eating diseases. Do not want.
3) For godsakes, my best friend is a Nail Tech. A licensed one. Unlike the people at these places. She tells me a lot of freaky stories about how dangerous they are.
4) I always fuck it up and feel really guilty when they have to redo it.
But mostly, it's because the whole thing smacks of imperialism in a way that fills me with horror. I mean, I'm sitting there in the massage chair, my feet in the blue water, reading the latest issue of Harper's, looking at the posters on the wall (hands with long fake nails clutching a crystal ball, feeding fish, holding flowers...), and I cannot relax. Not for two seconds.
A little boy, the son of one of the manicurists comes up to me and tells me that he is five and likes humongasaurs, and would like to know if I like humongasaurs as well. "Humongasaurs are awesome. Who doesn't love humongasaurs?" I say. We talk for a few minutes, and I try to pretend like I totally understand what he's talking about (Alas, I am not hip to what's cool with the kiddie set these days), and soon his mother finishes with her previous customer, she comes up and starts removing the poorly applied red nail polish from my toes.
I am not comfortable with people touching my feet. It's a thing I have. I guess that's why I couldn't ever go to Nicole for a pedicure- I see her way too often for that. It's not like I have terrible feet or anything- other than the fact that two of my toes are a little too Siamese-ish for my liking, and the fact that I have weirdly high arches. I probably wouldn't even bother with pedicures if I was any good at doing it myself, or if I didn't work in an environment where I have to be perfectly groomed always. I only get two a year to supplement my own efforts, but even that is a little much for me.
Once she's done buffing and sloughing and doing all that other shit, another girl comes over to do my nails. This is where I really start to freak out. Why? Because of the Imperialist thing. Because I'm sitting there, being a white lady, my Marc Jacobs shoes tossed off to the side, with these two Vietnamese ladies waiting on me, literally, hand and foot. The power dynamics here are just icky. I hate myself. I am the worst person ever. I am Mrs. Pickering. I am having a heart attack. Nice feet and hands are just not worth this agony. I cannot possibly be this person! I used to hate these people! They might be talking about me in Vietnamese- discussing my bizarrely high arches and Siamese toes, the fact that I keep screwing up their paint jobs, smearing pink (toes) and school bus yellow (fingers) nail polish on my scarf or their equipment- maybe they think I'm some smug bourgie twit. This doesn't bother me. They should, by all rights, be talking shit about me, and all the other customers. I used to talk shit about customers in French with my old co-worker. It's how you deal.
I feel sometimes as though I've slacked on some of my convictions as of late. I drink Diet Coke now, something I boycotted for years. I drink Starbucks, because it's close to my work. And every time I do either of those things, I feel sick. I die a little on the inside. I can't use ignorance as an excuse, because I know how insanely evil the Coca-Cola corporation is as far as human rights violations go. I know how evil Nestle is, and yet I buy shit tons of Nestle hot chocolate because I like it better than Swiss Miss. I buy chocolate, often, even though I know that cocoa beans are often harvested by slaves. Actual slaves. I shop at Urban Outfitters, even though I know the owner donated money to Rick Santorum and various other awful conservative candidates. When I'm low on cash, I buy non-fair trade coffee. I've bought clothes and shoes that I know full well were probably produced using child labor.
I used to be on the all boycott diet. I used to only buy my clothes from thrift stores, or make them myself. I used to be an organizer. For godsakes, I was on the cover of the Washington Times, post-getting billy clubbed in the tits during an anti-WTO protest! I was that person, and now I'm this person. I don't think I'm ok with it. I feel like I'm becoming the people my mom hated in the 80's- the former hippies who turned into the me-generation. I feel like I've capitulated too much. I don't have the time to go to every protest these days, but I am able to be an ethical consumer, instead of a lazy consumer. And I can do my own damn nails from now on.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Just this very Monday, I was telling Jill about this weird thing that happens after I break things off with a dude. Not to sound like a crazy egomaniac, but I swear to GOD, half of them end up dating what can only be referred to as Robyn Action Figures. They're like, tiny versions of me that don't talk. I don't get it. It's as though they thought to themselves- "Robyn is really swell, if only she were pocket sized and less fun at parties." I don't take it as a compliment.
Sure, you may be thinking- maybe the dude just has a type, lookswise, and you happened to fall into that category. Maybe he just happens to have a fetish for girls with dark, bobbed hair, pale skin and pointy faces. Stay with me here. One time, the girl was also a classically trained singer. From Rhode Island. How many of those have you run into lately? In Chicago. Oy.
So today, I'm schlepping around Dominick's- as I am wont to do on my day off. And as I am contemplating yogurt, I see this girl wearing the same shirt as I am- but as a dress since she is approximately the size of a smurf. Her hair is about the same, and she's even wearing red lipstick, and patent leather Mary Janes to boot. We would have made an amazingly creepy family portrait. And who should turn the corner to join her, but a former gentleman caller of mine.
Pregnant pause made of awkward.
"Hi!" I say, because, whatever, it's not like there was any bad blood or anything, he just bored me and I was more into someone else at the time. I save my petty for when I need it.
He says hello, we do the introductions dance, yadda yadda yadda. He tells her I'm a friend, which is appropriate. Her handshake is made of spam. It is a spamshake. "It's so nice to meet you! I like your dress!" I tell her- she looks at her feet and says thanks- all the while anchoring herself on the dude's arm. "No, see" I tell her, pointing at my shirt "We're wearing the same thing. We match." She looks at my shirt and fakes a twitter of a laugh. "Oh." she says- "I didn't notice."
I talk a lot when I feel awkward or nervous. Well, actually, I talk a lot anyway, but moreso and more loudly when I'm feeling awkward or nervous. "Have you tried this fancy yogurt yet? It looks neat. Usually I just get the Stoneybrook farms strawberry kind, but Vanilla Chai seems interesting. Do you even know what an acai berry is supposed to taste like? Isn't that an Oprah thing? I haven't tried anything involving them yet because I skeeve bandwagons. I've still never even tried grape kool-aid."
"Huh." She says. Dude interrupts- "Robyn hosts this reading thing, you know, in Logan Square" he says to her, and then turns to me and says "Emily* is a writer too- you should ask her to read something sometime." I explain that we're booked like, months in advance these days, but that I'll remember her the next time I have an opening. I say goodbye, far too warmly for the reception, explaining that I have to go get some different granola now to go with my new fancy yogurt flavor.
I don't know, I could just be being Judge Judy about this. It's totally possible that she has a personality but prefers to keep it hidden or something. It could just be that she was just as weirded out by the bizarre similarity as I was, and handles her nervousness differently. She didn't seem nervous, just less than vivacious. Still, it was totally Twilight Zone-ish.
*Not her real name, duh.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Ladies and Gentlemen... I give you Sam Schulman and his delightful thesis on why gay marriage should not be legal. It is a fact that no one sounds more ridiculous than when trying to explain why they are against gay marriage, but this dude just takes the cake. According to his logic, marriage has very little to do with love, and very much to do with keeping women in line and expanding ones farmland. No, really. Let's take a look at his points here:
The first is the most important: It is that marriage is concerned above all with female sexuality. The very existence of kinship depends on the protection of females from rape, degradation, and concubinage.
Really? Married women don't get raped or degraded, and all single women are hookers? Go know. Apparently, I should be charging.
This most profound aspect of marriage--protecting and controlling the sexuality of the child-bearing sex--is its only true reason for being, and it has no equivalent in same-sex marriage. Virginity until marriage, arranged marriages, the special status of the sexuality of one partner but not the other (and her protection from the other sex)--these motivating forces for marriage do not apply to same-sex lovers.
I don't know what century or country this guy is living in, but we're not so much arranging marriages around here these days. I don't think that "controlling a woman's sexuality" is too much of a motivating factor either, except maybe among some wacky ass Fundamentalists.
Second, kinship modifies marriage by imposing a set of rules that determines not only whom one may marry (someone from the right clan or family, of the right age, with proper abilities, wealth, or an adjoining vineyard), but, more important, whom one may not marry. Incest prohibition and other kinship rules that dictate one's few permissible and many impermissible sweethearts are part of traditional marriage. Gay marriage is blissfully free of these constraints.
There is no particular reason to ban sexual intercourse between brothers, a father and a son of consenting age, or mother and daughter. There are no questions of ritual pollution: Will a hip Rabbi refuse to marry a Jewish man--even a Cohen--to a Gentile man? Do Irish women avoid Italian women? A same-sex marriage fails utterly to create forbidden relationships.
Excuse me? I hate to rock your world, Mr. Schulman, but my dad is Italian and my mom is Irish. They're quite married and have been for some time now. When was the last time that was an issue? Forbidden? I can count at least 50 people I know who are Irish-Italian or whose parents are Jewish and Gentile, but I do not know one single person who has ever married in pursuit of an adjoining vineyard. Do you? Please, I beg you. Find me one.
As far as the incest goes? It's so ridiculous that I shouldn't even bother addressing it- but as far as that point goes, what is preventing a heterosexual from having a relationship with an adopted child/ step-child who happens to be of age. Woody Allen, anyone? I mean, I love him deeply, but there you go. Also, please see that one episode of "Secret Lives of Women" about incestuous couples, all of whom are heterosexual. Also, that Australian guy and his daughter.
Few men would ever bother to enter into a romantic heterosexual marriage--much less three, as I have done--were it not for the iron grip of
necessity that falls upon us when we are unwise enough to fall in love with a woman other than our mom. There would be very few flowerings of domestic ecstasy were it not for the granite underpinnings of marriage. Gay couples who marry are bound to be disappointed in marriage's impotence without these ghosts of past authority. Marriage has a lineage more ancient than any divine revelation, and before any system of law existed, kinship crushed our ancestors with complex and pitiless rules about incest, family, tribe, and totem. Gay marriage, which can
be created by any passel of state supreme court justices with degrees from middling law schools, lacking the authority and majesty of the kinship system, will be a letdown.
Dude has had three marriages? If you ask me, they probably failed, not because of gay people having rights, but because he was clinging on to the idea that he ought to be able to buy himself a woman with a vineyard. Also, if you think it is "unwise" to love any woman but your mother, than I think you're the one who shouldn't be getting married.
He closes with this.
WOW. WOW. WOW. Portnoy's Complaint AHOY. See, this is why I'm forever single. This is the sum and summary of all my worst fears about commitment. I can't handle the idea that a man might think he's doing me some kind of favor by hanging out with me (when it is so clearly the other way around). It actually make me hyperventilate a little. I fear that all men are secretly Sam Schulman.
Can gay men and women be as generous as we straight men are? Will you consider us as men who love, just as you do, and not merely as homophobes or Baptists? Every day thousands of ordinary heterosexual men surrender the dream of gratifying our immediate erotic desires. Instead, heroically, resignedly, we march up the aisle with our new brides, starting out upon what that cad poet Shelley called the longest journey, attired in the chains of the kinship system--a system from which you have been spared. Imitate our self-surrender. If gay men and women could see the price that humanity--particularly the women and
children among us--will pay, simply in order that a gay person can say of someone she already loves with perfect competence, "Hey, meet the missus!"--no doubt they will think again. If not, we're about to see how well humanity will do without something as basic to our existence as gravity.
I die. I cannot believe that this man even exists. Contemplating it is breaking my brain into pieces.
Monday, May 25, 2009
I wouldn't sign up for that, personally. I have zero patience for such things. At the same time, a part of me sometimes goes "Hey, wait a minute- would I do better with the fellas if I had a glaring issue of some kind?" Maybe I could fake it- like the time my mom tried to draw track marks on my arm for that family reunion to freak out the relatives.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Also, it is a fact that the employees of late night dining establishments tend to go all Dr. Huxtable on every gentleman caller of mine they happen to meet, which is kind of hilarious.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
- You know what's weird? When you run into a guy you had a crush on a long time ago, but never dated because like, say he was dating someone else at the time and also his friend thought you were his soulmate, and like, for whatever reason he's no longer dishy, but you're still kind of into it.
- I take issue with people for not liking tomatoes. I take an inordinate personal offense to it for some reason. I have no idea why this is. I get all flabbergasted and shocked and all "HOW CAN YOU NOT LIKE TOMATOES! THEY ARE MORE DELICIOUS THAN ANYTHING!" about it. I should probably relax about it.
- Ok, so we were smoking outside the Double Door tonight, and I see a grown ass (but rather short) woman walk by clutching a stuffed dog into her neck. She wasn't crazy. I know crazy when I'm looking at it. You know she thought she was fucking adorable. I hate adults who think they're adorable. It bothers me more than disliking tomatoes, even. I'm convinced that cutesy people are absolutely psychotic on the inside.
- Why do people think I care about whether or not they made it to the gym that day? Like, I realize I work in retail, and that it's a cross I must bear- but really- what is the damn point? Are they bragging about how hot and disciplined they are? Are they apologizing for not being hot and disciplined enough? What in god's name is my response supposed to be other than "Oh."? It's officially the least interesting conversation ever. Seriously, it's like talking about flossing your teeth, or washing the dishes. Unless you fell off a treadmilll, it can't possibly be all that fascinating.
- Another thing I'm bothered by? Ok, so we have this t-shirt at the store, see? :
Why on God's Green earth would anyone want to be referred to as being "Corn-Fed?" Isn't that an insult? According to the Wikipedia, corn-fed means means: an individual who is strong and healthy, but lacks sophistication, typically an overweight girl or woman from the Midwestern United States. The comparison is to cattle or beasts of burden." WHO WOULD SIGN UP FOR THAT DESCRIPTOR? Also, another thing about this shirt- you know who purchases it? Middle aged women, who are clearly not "girls." I have a zero tolerance policy on neoteny, as previously stated in this post. The whole thing is just bizarre. Some people just have shame in all the wrong places.
Monday, May 18, 2009
So, anyway, as it turns out, my dear friend Jill and I have totally different tastes in the fellas as well. I know this because she totally blogged about it. She has thus inspired me to write my own list of what she has delicately termed "panty blasters"- because I just can't get down with musicians (anymore. I swear to god, I've sworn off.), and while I love puppies and kittens and the like, dudes posing with them doesn't really rock me like it does her. I'm also creeped out by babies. So here we go.
Men in Suits/Sportscoats/Whathaveyou
It is pretty much a fact that any fella is ten times more handsome when properly dressed. I've always had a weakness for men in ties- which, if I am truthful with myself, is the only reason I thought ska was any kind of a good idea in highschool. Oh, also, tweed sportscoats with leather patches? I die.
Ok, this is probably really terrible, but whenever a dude tells me he got into a fight... I kinda swoon a little. Maybe a lot. It's not that I care for violence at all. I don't. I mean, I don't want to see it, per say, but I like knowing they can and will hold their own, and that if push comes to shove, they're not going to go cry in a corner by themselves. I also like to know that if someone bothered me that they could possibly end up with a bloody face, or at least the legitimate threat of one. I kind of have a mouth, so this is a distinct possibility.
Dudes Reading Russian Lit on The Bus/Train
It's just about the dreamiest thing ever. I can't explain it- I mean, I love a lot of different kinds of books- but it's just not the same thing. It's not. I don't have to fan myself when I see a boy reading like, Henry James or whatever, even though I totally love Henry James. I think it's that "Oh, you read a lot and you're probably super smart, but non-demure and will totally argue with me." vibe that it gives off.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
I have been accused, myriad times, of not being able to take a compliment. Although this does usually come from weird dudes that I don't want complimenting me in the first place. In general, they make me feel horribly awkward. Especially if they continue after I force myself to say "thank you." Maybe it's some weird ethnic consciousness thing where I think they are, in fact, giving me the evil eye. Maybe it's because I dole them out all day long ("Oh my god, I so love your bag!") that they just sound insincere to me.
Also, you should know that I have burned the crap out of my neck. Seriously. See, I did some unknowable and mysterious retarded thing to it last Monday, and I've been in serious pain for a week and a half. It's just ridiculous. I look like I have Tourette's, because like, every five seconds I twitch my neck and yell "Ow!" like I'm being stabbed. It's not terribly attractive. I've been trying to make it stop by spending every night with a heating pad wrapped around it like an ascot, and now the skin on my neck is in a world of hurt. Make it stop.
Monday, May 11, 2009
(Someday I will tell you the story of why I think John Cusack is responsible for the downfall of humanity, but not today.)
Excerpt from a recent conversation:
Dude: Are you going to Lollapalooza this year?
Robyn: Probably only if my roommate can get me in for free. I do kind of feel importantly about the Lou Reed, though- just because I've never seen him and what if he dies before that happens? I'd feel pretty guilty.
Dude: Cool, Cool. (He continues talking about music, some show he went to at the Empty Bottle where the band wasn't as good as the last time he saw them, as I nod my head, fog out and try to not let my face look glazed. The only reason people have conversations about music that go on for more than five minutes is so they can tell you how cool they are. Unless they're talking about Schopenhauer. I can get down with that- at least sometimes you can learn things from overly pretentious people. I cannot bring myself to care about how cool anyone is.). So, you should like, come over and see my record collection.
Robyn: Do you think I'm new?
Robyn: That's such a cliche, I can't believe you actually said that- out loud, in a room full of people.
Dude: What did I say?
Robyn: "(in man voice) So, do you like, wanna come over and see my record collection?" Seriously, why didn't you just check my tag to see if I was made in heaven? Or better yet, ask me if I washed my pants with Windex. Gee, I'm tired, I bet it's because I've been running through your mind all day.
Dude: You're crazy, girl.
Robyn: Sure I am. But I'm not retarded enough to think that "record collection" isn't code for "penis."
You know, it occurs to me that people have been told they're special and unique so much that they don't realize that they're being giant walking cliches. I'm probably not an exception. We are all giant walking cliches to someone. I just hope I don't like, say things that are overly cliched. At least when I'm not at work.
I also think I might hate innuendo sometimes. Just come out with it already. Say what you mean. If you want me to come over and see your penis, then by all means, ask. I'll probably turn you down, but ask the question you mean to ask. Don't pretend like you actually want me to come over and spend an hour going "Oh... that's nice.... haven't heard that before..." or whatever actually looking at your record collection would entail. If that is actually what you want me to do, then you're definitely kind of a weirdo. I have way cooler stuff than you do, I'll bet. I don't invite anyone to look at it though. "Hey dude, do you want to see my collection of mannequin heads?" however, might be kind of an awesome pick up line... and definitely not a cliche.
The mating dance, however, is usually a barrage of cliches- dudes who tell you your eyes look like two limpid pools and shit like that. Ok, maybe not limpid pools- but you know what I'm saying here. It bores me. Compliments bore me. Talking about sports, or music, or other non-stimulating subjects bores the living crap out of me. You might as well talk to me about your favorite color, or what scent of Febreeze you most prefer. I end up being a jerk sometimes just so I can try and get them riled up enough to say something interesting or clever to me. It does not always work out the way I plan. Is that a cliche? Probably. To someone.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
And thus, I yell at him "You wouldn't say that to me if you saw my huge dick."
Yeah, sorry. Got a thing about people I don't know telling me to smile. Blah.
And now, SLEEP. I will tell you about the cherry flavored condom I stuck in another dude's hoodie tomorrow. Maybe. If you're good.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Thursday, May 7, 2009
So, Elizabeth Edwards was on Oprah yesterday talking about John Edwards infidelity- I didn't see it, because I don't watch Oprah- but I saw this clip on Jez, wherein she basically puts all the blame on the woman he cheated on her with.
Isn't that always the way? Now, I can understand that she's pissed- but I'm so not down with this whole idea that women are supposed to be the sacred guardians of men's moral compasses or any shit like that. This totally reminds me of how I used to get in trouble in class for things the boys got away with. Double standards= ick. I'm sorry, but it's up to the person who made the commitment to uphold it, not someone who doesn't know your ass. Really, when the situation is turned around, it's not like people get all "Oh my god, how could he do that to another man! He's so evil! Evil evil evil! He's just scum!" about things- no, they're just like "Yeah, he was a dude. He wanted to get some. Big shocker." And even if he is blamed a little, he's hardly going to be villified to the degree a woman is. It's just not the same level of "evil." Evil in men is violence. In woman it's sexuality.
I think there are a couple reasons for this- things that go back to the Bible and Greek myths and all that other shit. I don't especially feel like going into them at this time- but there are a shit ton of stories involving vaginas being the fall of empires and such.
This is all kind of a sore-ish subject for me, to be honest. I'm pretty much on the verge of becoming a political lesbian- mostly because this whole "Oh, you're evil!"/ "Oh, I feel like such a bad person for liking you!" followed by the inevitable "Wow, hanging out with you has totally helped me find myself, and realize that what I really do want in life is the whole Horatio Alger/Norman Rockwell dream" thing is really starting to piss me the fuck off. Like, it's just not cute anymore. It's the same thing, over and over and over again. Blechh. I'm so not evil. I'm probably more fiercely devoted to my own moral code than anyone you could meet, so there.
I've also always attracted quite a bit of attention from men who are not exactly single. I have no interest in this, not because of any moral compunctions so much as they tend to be really annoying as people. Like, seriously, they tend to be looking for free therapy more often than not. Plus, I have no interest in the tales of your very delicate girlfriend whom you aren't exactly in love with but cannot bear to break the heart of by breaking up with her. Because she'd die without you. Ew. They just tend to think they're way more awesome than I think they are, and I find that irritating.
Funny story though, I'm far less suited for that sort of thing than one would think- mostly because I've got a mouth, balls of steel, and have a tendency towards vendettas. This one time, I'd been seeing this dude- did not know he had a girlfriend, but he did. Of two years. I thought I was probably too good for him to begin with, and I pretty much avoided him after that because he just wasn't worth the drama. Besides, I hate dishonesty. Still, dude wouldn't leave me alone- because he thought we were soulmates, and it was driving me up the damned wall.
SO... one day I see him out at this bar with his now fiancee (yeah, because by then they were totally engaged. Ha!), and I acted all super friendly and pretended I didn't know that they were together, and so I whipped out my cell phone and did this whole "Oh my gosh, you would not believe the messages this guy sends me! Hilarious! But seriously, I'm worried for my pet rabbit!" schtick right in front of him. And I promise you, the messages were rather special. I am hilarious. What else would I do? Protect him? Leave the bar? Go into a corner and feel awkward? Please. I have one rule- if someone in a room has to feel like shit, I'm going to make damn sure it isn't me.
Ok, I'm done kvetching. I leave you with my favorite song about affairs and whatnot:
Seriously, favorite thing ever.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
(This is how every library should be. No bacon in the library. Ever.)
Ok, look- it seems as though everyone will not shut the fuck up about bacon these days. I'm starting to feel left out and out of the loop, because bacon is probably my least favorite food product, period. In fact, even thinking of it makes me vaguely nauseous. I absolutely loathe the stuff.
I understand if you don't want to be friends with me anymore. I, for one, find it off-putting when I see an adult avoid the crust on a sandwich. We all have our things.
For many years, bacon was one of those things I just happened not to eat. It was greasy, it had a bitter taste, and I could actually see the fat in it. It tastes like it's not clean. Not my thing, so I just avoided it. I didn't really hate it until I was around 22 or so. See, I was living with this girl who was on the Atkins diet. I was bothered by the Atkins diet to begin with- I couldn't stop asking her if she really thought it was the best diet ever because what sense does it make to be on a diet where you can eat half a cow, but not an apple?
The way everyone feels about bacon these days? Well, that's me and fruit. It's my favorite thing ever. I love all fruit, except for blueberries and bananas. Blueberries because I ate a rotten one once at my Nana's house, and bananas because I od'd on them when I was trying to prove my mother wrong on her theory that eating bananas before bedtime would give you nightmares. I didn't get any nightmares, but I did get kind of sick from it. Otherwise, I am a champion of all fruit. Actually, hold on, I'm going to get some grapes before I finish this.
Ok, I'm back now. I'm pretty sure I took the whole Atkins diet as an affront to everything I considered good and holy in the world. Well, that and I was tired of hearing about it. Everyone was on that fucking diet, I never heard the end of it. Being an oppositional person, I have a tendency, anyway, to develop an aversion to anything that people seem suspiciously enthusiastic about. I never liked the class dreamboat, I was weirded out by Beanie Babies, and I have never seen Dancing with the Stars. Maybe this is an extension of my misanthropy, I don't know. Anyway, I was totally convinced that any diet in which fruit was verboten was downright sacrilegious. It also totally made people smell weird. Swear to god.
So, there I was, living with a girl who was way into this whole Atkins thing. Our refrigerator was filled with my delightful fruits and vegetables from the farmer's market, and our freezer was filled with her various meats. Every morning I would wake up to the oppressive, blanketing smell of bacon coming up from the kitchen. I'd be trying to sleep, but the smell would seep into my throat. I'd cover my head with my blankets, and still, I couldn't escape it. I'd grudgingly get up, and take a shower, and I'd be washing myself with fancy soap that was supposed to smell like chocolate, orange, and almonds (delicious!), but instead now smelled like chocolate, orange, almonds... and bacon (blecch). Everything for the first two hours of my day smelled like bacon. I'd go out into the world worrying that somehow the stench had stuck to me somehow, despite all my scrubbing.
It didn't last that long, only a few months, because I moved to Chicago that August- and otherwise she was a perfectly fine person to live with, but the smell of bacon still makes me want to die. So, no, I cannot share your enthusiasm for this food product. I'm sorry. I am not cool.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
The funny thing is- some people, when debating politics or ethics, will go into ad hominem attacks. And then there's me. When having a personal argument (you know, if I haven't run out of the room), I'll get all "WHELL! According to Kant's categorical imperative...." and basically try and make it all sorts of high school debate team. I pull it away from myself- I don't say things like "you hurt my feelings" because it just doesn't seem like a logical argument to me. I'm in it to win it. I think a lot of this is because if like, I were to engage in a normal sort of argument growing up, my parents probably would have just ignored me.
Monday, May 4, 2009
(not the actual one we saw, just another one on their website)
Super creepy. SUPER creepy- and while I'm standing there, pondering about exactly what sort of nutjobs would drive around in such a thing- I SEE them. A giant, Duggar-like family. It was like a crazypants jesus freak clown car- they just kept pouring out! And all the kids looked just like this:
Except like, way more peaked and inbred looking. Oh, and they were all wearing matching anti-abortion outfits. Now, I don't know about you, but a 9 year old is not going to convince me of anything. Why? Because when I was 9, I thought that the manatee that my class adopted was actually going to show up and I would get to take it home on weekends- and I was supposed to be "gifted," ok? Second of all, a car full of terrifying children looking like some creepy Mengele experiment is not going to do much in the way of convincing anyone to procreate.
But the thing was, I was absolutely aching to find the parents and go pick a fight. Which, you know, you can't really do, because they're clearly bonkers and you can't argue with crazy. I've just been feeling rather contentious lately. However, my friends were hungry, so I had to suck it up and go eat some sushi rather than go ballistic on the "Truth Truck" (that's what it said on the back- truthtruckusa.com).
I need a good argument soon- but not with a crazy. This thought actually occurred to me the other night when this dude was blowing smoke up my ass about how fantastic I am. I was just so bored. I mean, duh, he was just trying to get laid, but frankly, that's so not the way to go with me. Maybe I'm an asshole. I don't know. The fact is, I just prefer to punch my own weight. I would never stand around telling anyone I barely know how wonderful they are. I also get the feeling that not a single dude in this whole damn city could win an argument with me. Seriously, I could be like, 4 drinks in, half asleep and win at the logic game.
Ok, that was going to be like, a totally serious analysis and shit- it was going to be way deep, but then Jill and Melissa suggested we go to Liar's for karaoke, so I scrapped that idea and ended up upside down on a couch singing Peggy Lee. Now I'm eating a bat of pepperoni and watching Daisy of Love. There are two dudes on this show from Chicago. I don't know either of them, as far as I know.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Funny but true story (not the one I'm working on)- When I was in 6th grade, my Uncle asked me what I wanted for my birthday, and I said a Tori Amos CD or something. However, he ended up getting me a Laurie Anderson CD. There is a bit of a difference there. Mostly in terms of the fact that it is the rare 11 year old that has an affinity for Laurie Anderson.
And yet, my sister and I did appreciate it. We thought it was explicitly HILARIOUS. Especially because there was some song with a part that went "Coo Coo, it's cold outside! Don't forget your mittens!" We invented dances. We did our own performance art. We were just that way.