Robyn Pennacchia's "A Series of Unfortunate Hair Styles"

So... I totally need to get my hair cut- I have a bad habit of putting it off until the last minute. But I was thinking today about the various retarded phases my hair has been through.

1. I swear to god, when I was like, 3, my mom brought in a picture of Scout from the movie version of To Kill a Mockingbird, and told the stylist - This! This is what I want! And thus, I looked like this:


Almost exactly, actually.

2. And then I had that hairdo, but with sausage bangs. Sweet!

3. Then, my sister came along. And my sister, unlike me, had pretty pretty princess hair. Long, blondish hair, with perfect little ringlets that formed at the bottom. Totally not fair. I demanded I be allowed to grow my hair long.

4. And it was long. For a ridiculously long time. But I did not have pretty pretty princess hair like my sister. I had hair like this:



5. Around 6th grade I started getting all experimental and shit. The first real damage I ever did, personally, to my own head, involved, of course, Sun-In. And a day spent by my friend and I devoted entirely to dousing our heads with the awful crap, blowdrying it, and doing it again. Over and over again. It didn't work wonders, of course- we both had super dark brown hair- it only got slightly lighter. But then, we figured, in all our genius, that if we each used a whole bottle on just our bangs- we could get them pretty bleached. And it worked! We looked completely retarded, but it worked.

6. But it got better! Oh, it did! It truly did! Because then we discovered food dye! Yup, food dye! We dyed our sun-in bleached bangs blue and red and green with food dye, and my, wasn't that attractive! Then we tried koolaid- which of course only lasted like, 5 days and made my hair smell like raspberries, but not in any kind of good way. Also- kinda sticky.

7. 8th grade was my first foray into the world of permanent (read: not food dye or kool-aid). A bottle of "Purple Haze" Manic Panic purchased from Newbury Comix. Which destroyed my bathroom (to my mother's dismay) and didn't really show up so much in my almost black hair. Still, I thought I was totally bad ass. The use of Manic Panic continued perpetually, and unattractively through my teenage years.

8. When I was about 16, my hair was probably down to my ass- and, really- not so cute looking. However, for whatever imaginable reason, I thought it might be swell to chop it all off. Like, all of it. It looked so terrible that I couldn't bring myself to cut it again for quite some time, and when I let it grow out, I had this hideous Indigo Girls mullet- well before the fashion mullet ever existed.

9. When I was about to turn 22, I came to the realization that this was the last time I could dye my hair bright pink and not look, you know... sad. So I did it. I bleached my hair out, and dyed it pink for the last time. Oh, by the way, you know how you kinda have to wait for a bit before you dye hair after bleaching it? Yeah, well, in case you never guessed it- I look horrifying with blonde hair. Horrifying. I scare children and animals. Oh, and despite my plan to not look sad, I kinda did- because I just wasn't that person anymore. Still, glad I got it out of my system.

Since then, my hair has primarily been either burgundy, or as close to my own shade of almost-black-brown as I can find in bottle (yeah, the red keeps showing up, so I have to dye my hair until it finally all grows back in. I am fine with that. And I keep it at a reasonable length, and really, my only major mistake is going too long without bothering to get it cut. Which I'm totally not going to do this time.

If I were rich, I'd get you this for your birthday

But alas, I don't have 5k. So, um, I could just go to the thrift store and get one for 3 bucks. What the fuck am I talking about?

Bill Cosby is auctioning off his Cosby sweaters on Ebay. For like, five grand a pop. I really, really want to know who would pay that. I also would like to know if they come with a package of Puddin' Pops. Because, man, do I ever wish those still existed. Fuck you, they were delicious. And it doesn't work the same if you just throw some pudding into the fridge. I should know.


http://www.eonline.com/uberblog/b139998_pattern_recognition_cosbys_sweaters_are.html?sid=rss_topstories&utm_source=eonline&utm_medium=rssfeeds&utm_campaign=rss_topstories

Pride and Prejudice

For the past two weeks, I have harbored a strange and bizarre craving. I kept thinking about it, and thinking about it, and finally I gave in.

I bought a copy of Pride and Prejudice. Which I have read before, along with all the other Jane Austen stuff when I was a kid staying at my Nana's house- mostly because, well, it was there. I don't remember anything but thinking that Mr. Darcy was quite dreamy... probably because I was like, 10 at the time- and I'm guessing that most of it didn't sink in. It's entirely possible that it did, though, on some subconscious level. Because- like, I fucking love it when I think someone is, at first, the most awful person ever, and then have them turn out not to be. It makes my life. I like being surprised. In that way, at least. I much prefer it to the opposite situation, which, unfortunately, is a bit more prevalent.

But if there is anything that makes you feel like a lame-o, it's reading Jane Austen on the bus. Especially when you notice that one part of your skirt that you forgot to attack with the lint brush. And you realize that you're like, that chick. The chick who has some cats and is reading Jane Austen.

It's too late baby, now it's too late

So, there's a lot being said about this new Scott McClellan book. First of all, like most people, I feel like it's too little too late. But second...

Duh? I mean, really- I feel like I could have written this book just by like, guessing around at shit and been at least 85% correct. I can't see what would make me purchase it. It's like purchasing the novelization of a movie you've already seen.

A movie? Really?

Ok... so it has come to my attention (maybe I'm slow on the uptake and this was a big deal or something) that the book "He's Just Not That Into You" has been made into a movie. Here, I present to you the trailer, which may make you want to stick things in your eye (Seriously. It involves Ben Affleck, Jennifer Aniston, Drew Barrymore and Scarlett Johannsen.)




Oh my god! Isn't it just hilarious how women are like, just so pathetic, and so desperate to find a man? Any man? And isn't it just so terrible that all these men are horrible douchebags who will step all over their fragile hearts if given the chance? Wow! I've never seen this movie before! I can't imagine how it might end! Ooh! And there's a Cure song in it! Won't someone please mend Scarlett's broken heart? Oh! Thank goodness there's a man around to tell them all the big scary truth!

This shit goes right up my ass. It just does. These women are totally imaginary- they're like, figments of some asshole dude's fantasy about how every chick on earth is secretly scheming to be his lawfully wedded wife. I do not personally know any human being this pathetic.

I don't know, the moral of this story seems to be the old adage... "When a person has the courage to tell you who they are, believe them." Which has never been difficult for me.

Yay! I'm actually working on this shit again!

I am in fact once again working on my illustrated interpretation of a piece I wrote a couple years ago called "I Never Liked You Anyway." Basically, it's like a field guide to Robyn's occasionally horrifying incidents involving the opposite sex. It totally needs to be updated to include flip phone pick-up artist. Here are a few of the ones I did before... (it sucks because I totally cannot locate the one about my gothic cookie guy stalker. Alas...)

You'll have to click on them to actually see them, and then click on the large size. Because they just won't fit on here. Sad, but true.

Cult...




Children of the Corn...



Brits...



Dreams...

When I was a teenage whore...

I can't tell you how much it amuses me when I wake up in the morning looking like Courtney Love. It happens more often than you'd think- mostly because I got home too late to remember to take my make-up off and wear vintage slips to bed as a matter of habit once it gets warm enough. I am also wearing my pink mental patient slippers with the pom-poms on them, which totally makes the whole look even more awesome. Oh, that and I have mystery bruises all over my legs, which is always attractive. I think I just don't even notice when I walk into things anymore.

But today, today, my friends... is the most glorious day of the year. Memorial Day, you ask? But Robyn, it's not like you give a shit about patriotism!

Hah! Today is also the day that we are going to the International Mister Leather Convention! Assless chaps as far as the eye can see! Yeah bitches, we go every year.

This is totally how I dance.

Holy crap. I do not feel like going to work today. I stayed out a bit too late last night and thus feel like death.

Word of advice- vodka cranberries at Subterannean eat your stomach. Seriously, I don't know what kind of juice they use, but it's like drinking a Warhead. Replace at least half of it with water. Oy.

The positive thing about going to work today, is the fact that we found an old copy of "ABBA Gold" and have been having dance parties when no one is in the store. Which is why I woke up this morning singing this!



SO much winking and crimped hair in this video! And the big black boots? WANT.

Rethought post...

I still haven't been able to figure out how to articulate what it is I mean to say. Which is not an issue I generally have.

I do know that I don't like being a novelty. I feel like that happens a lot because, well- shit, I'm a tall, dark-haired, mouthy, overtly opinionated, very frank Italian girl from the east coast in like, a midwest city full of these super sweet, demure, tiny blonde chicks who like, grew up milking cows and shit and then moved to the big city. I am not something you come across every day here- and yeah, in comparison, I probably seem like the freakin' whore of Babylon. But I never thought of myself in that way before I moved here. It's a difficult transition to make, mentally.

It is weird to me that when I date these super super white guys here, that they totally think that they are doing something risque by hanging out with me. I don't see it that way. I'm kind of used to being the funny girl who says snarky thing sometimes rather than like, Sophia Loren or whatever. I don't know what to make of it. Seriously, if anyone back home saw that people acted like that's what I was, they'd probably fall down on the floor in hysterics. Part of me thinks that I don't really want to date them anymore, because I don't want to feel that way, or be forced to think of myself that way. I want to go back to just being a person.

Prior to moving to Chicago, I had to deal with a lot of things, but not like, assumptions about me based on my ethnicity. I didn't even really feel like I had one until I moved here. I also never had to explain what "agita" means- which, let me tell you, is not an easy thing to do.
I don't know if my cultural issues with Chicago have as much to do with my dago-ness as I feel like they do sometimes. I'm really not sure. I do feel like a lot of people here place a high value on like, middle-of-the-roadness. Like, you achieve some level of special sainthood by no one being able to point you out in a crowd. You're not supposed to draw attention to yourself, really. Which, yeah, is something I do, but not really on purpose. It's just me.

The one guy I did date in Chicago for a long time used to get people, mostly girls, coming at him left and right (who didn't know me) telling him that I was "a really bad person and to stay away from me." Then, he dated a much plainer (trust me, I'm totally being nice by saying plainer) looking girl and thus gained public acceptance. I couldn't figure out why that was then- because I think I'm quite pleasant, but I think I sort of have a handle on it now. It would take more balls than most guys here have to hang out with me in public, because I guess I look less wholesome than the nice, short, blonde farmgirls. Like, they might be more attracted to me, or even like me as a person (gasp!)- but to admit that publicly is tantamount to admitting you like to kill kittens and then masturbate with their corpses or something.

This one time, I was at a bar here, and this girl walked in who was just absolutely stunning. I mean, really, she was just so freakin' gorgeous and well put together that even I couldn't stop looking at her. And I heard these guys next to me talking about her, and the thing that struck me was that one of them said "Yeah, she's really hot, but she knows it." And it was said with such bitterness, you know? Like this girl had committed some terrible sin by not having low self esteem, by not looking like every other girl around. I don't quite get that. But that's the way things are here.

But, at the end of the day, I'm truly happy with who I am. I don't want the way people think of me to affect my feelings about myself.

Stuff and things.

1. I have decided that the Red Eye needs to replace their sex columnist with, um, me. Because, I'm sorry, but Dustin J. Seibert (I just looked up his name.) seems to be hell bent on making what should logically be a hilarious and interesting column- as most sex columns are- the most boring and retarded crap I have ever read in my life. Which, you know- isn't that surprising seeing as how it's the Red Eye. However, I think it's the only job of that sort in the city, and I would very much like to have it. I promise I will not begin anything with "I couldn't help but wonder..."

However, I think I'd have to write it under a pen name, as I have a lot of especially Catholic relatives back in New England. Who would probably freak the fuck out if they ever even googled my name now.

2. I like juice. Especially in the morning when I'm hungover. Like today. And not like, juice flavored water. Actual juice. The kind that comes from fruit. Particularly strawberry kiwi juice. It is maybe my favorite thing ever. But, as I realized this morning, juice is now an endangered species and has been replaced in near entirety by juice flavored water. Now, fine- maybe the juice flavored water is better for me... but it is nowhere near as delicious, and is of no help in the morning when I am hungover and would like to actually taste something. I implore you, corner stores of the world and specifically Chicago Ave... do not give up on Strawberry Kiwi Snapple!

3. You may or may not have noticed that I took a post down like, a day after publishing it. Mostly because I decided it needed more serious thought. I plan on working that out today, along with doing laundry!

Happy Birthday Mum!

Today is my mother's birthday, as you may or may not have guessed from the title of this blog entry!

She's quite a bit more awesome than anyone, ever. It's a fact.

Let me tell you a story. In highschool, when I was having some ridiculous 16 year old freak out over something stupid, she refused to let me address her as Mom, and insisted I call her Tupac. Which is brilliant, because it's awfully hard to take yourself so seriously when referring to your 50 year old mother as Tupac.

Thank god for that, really, because, with my disposition, I very well could have been someone who takes themselves waaaay too seriously.

She used to say she'd prefer that I smoked pot rather than drink because drinking was what the "straight people" did, and it was corporate, or something. She discouraged me from harder drugs by pointing out all the people she knew who had become Jesus freaks after getting off of them ("Scratch a Jesus Freak, find a junkie!," she always says)

She didn't raise me with any fucked up notions about what it means to be a woman. Which is the single greatest thing anyone can do for their daughter. I'm damned lucky to have been raised by a feminist. Even if most of the time she's so 2nd wave about it ;). I am so fucking glad that it doesn't even occur to me to sit there and be demure and let the boys talk. Back in my organizing days, even among radicals (fuck, especially among radicals- see, because they usually consider themselves "exempt" from sexism, which makes them 80,000 times worse)- I was usually the only woman talking at meetings. And no matter how hard it was to get a word in edgewise, I did it. And it just has never occurred to me that what I have to say is any less important because I have lady parts. I have my mother to thank for that.

In my life, I have never met anyone as funny or as smart as my mother. And I'm not just saying this because I love her and she's my mom. The woman is freakin' brilliant. She can solve the Sunday crossword in pen in an episode of Law and Order, and thinks nothing of it.

Because of my mother, I don't just throw my opinions out there without being able to back them up. I learned how to know my shit.

People love my mother, because she makes them feel important and interesting. She actually finds everyone interesting- I wish I did, maybe it will come with age, I don't know. Like, this one time when she was at the Barcelona Olympics, I think, she met this Mormon kid (and, by the way, my mother is quite the athiest), who ended up writing to her the whole time while he was on his mission. I'm serious, people just absolutely love her.

I am trying so hard to not let my anger get the best of me. I am trying to not, as she says I have a tendency to do, make sweeping generalizations, and theorize everything.

The best thing about my mother is that she always makes me want to be a better person.

:)

Television will be 80,000 times better!!!!!

Hello All!

My dearest friend, and occasional contributor to this blog (as The New Jan Brady), Miss Pandora Boxx needs your votes to get on RuPaul's Drag Race!

In defense of my bad self

I went out last night with a friend of mine who likes to refer to me as Evil Robyn- to differentiate me from another Robyn he knows (oddly, I think I have the more complimentary name, but that is beside the point). He claims that I have no sense of morality.

Au contraire! See, I admit that I am a bad person- freely- but when I say this, I say it with my toungue firmly in my cheek. It's not that I'm bad, it's just that I am very, very honest. With myself. I don't mean to say that I've never lied, because of course I have, everyone has. But I could never be accused of "being-in-itself" or "being-for-others"- or of having bad faith.

If I am not concerned with convincing others that I am in fact a good person or a nice person, I am more free to be a good person than I would otherwise be. Does that make sense? I like to be on solid ground. I would rather know that someone has a problem with me, and start from there, rather than have them pretend to like me so we all get to be in happy happy land where no one is a jerk. And the thing is- I have the worlds most well-developed bullshit detector. I know when someone is blowing smoke up my ass. And I would rather they did not. For instance- I would vastly prefer it if a guy coming on to me at a bar said "Hey! I have absolutely no interest in your aesthetic opinions! However, you have got a swell rack there and I'd sure like to do ya" rather than feigning interest in anything I have to say (ie: "being-for-others"- acting in the way he thinks I want him to act). Because then we start from solid ground. I am allowed the privilege of making my choices based on facts rather than bullshit.

I don't believe in "niceness"- I believe in "kindness" and I believe that there is a difference.

This, I guess, is where my weird feelings about committed relationships come into play- which, I believe, is the primary reason for my friend thinking I'm evil. Because basically, I've always been irritated by the idea of people being in relationships just to not be alone, rather than because the idea of being with another person makes you nearly physically ill and you do not personally want to do it. Like, I get what people are trying to say when they say that, well, in order to feel that way about someone you have to commit yourself to them first. I don't feel like I do. I am like, awesome at multi-tasking. Like, I've never been able to wrap my head around the concept of cheating, because... well... if I wanted to get with other people, I wouldn't be in a committed relationship in the first place. But then again, I am an especially entertaining person and thus have no issue about being alone. Unfortunately, in order to get anyone to go along with me on this trip, I pretty much have to make them read "Being and Nothingness." Which, you know- is honestly not that great of a time.

I don't feel like I owe people things. I really don't. Maybe I'm deficient in that way. Maybe we just all assume people sort of think like we do- you know- like how if you don't lie, you don't expect other people to? I don't want people to ever feel like they owe me anything. That makes me uncomfortable in the worst way. It's like, I would rather people be decent to me because that's their personal choice, rather than something they feel they have to do.

(Full disclosure- am PMSing and have taken codeine... so this may not make nearly as much sense as I want it to.)

Neither bloody nor bowed

"There is something about that woman -- that woman! -- that refuses to bend, and something about a large portion of this country that despises her for it."

You know, I actually think Clinton might cut your face if you called her "Poor Hillary" to hers.

That's what I would do. And at the end of the day, that's why I'm still gunning for her. I am that woman. At first, my support of HRC was primarily based on the fact that it would annoy the largest numbers of people I can't stand. I'm a big fan of schadenfreude and ball busting. And it's still partly that. I'm not exactly the worlds biggest fan of the Democratic party- I don't think they're all that different from the Republicans. At all.

But this is the thing- the main thing. People feel the same way about Hillary Clinton as they do about me a good deal of the time. There is just something about being that sort of woman that gets under people's skin, and I see it all the time. It drives me crazy, especially because it's usually coming from other women. And I get why she's staying in the race. I totally get it. Because, whenever I'm in a political argument, the more "Oh my god, will you just shut up and go make some cookies!" vibes I get, the more I am determined to continue.

The two criticisms I hear about myself most often are the following:
- I talk too much
- I am too opinionated.

Think back now, and try- just try to think of time when a man has been described in those terms. I can't think of one. Men have opinions, women are opinionated. Men are talkative, women just won't shut up.

And when they say I'm strong, it always has that tinge of resentment to it, a bitter aftertaste I can smell on their breath.

And with Hillary Clinton, this whole "Oh! It's cute that you tried, now go home to your family and let the boys play their game" thing gets right under my skin, and if she did bow out without fighting it to the end, I'd be fucking pissed.

This whole "Poor Hillary" thing is nothing but a perverse desparation to always see women as victims. It's a place where people are comfortable, and that disturbs me on a very deep level. If people can put you in the category of victim, it makes you much easier to deal with. Because the opposite of victim is victor. And no one likes losing to a woman.

I don't know how to act like a victim. It's just not in my bones. My mother is not a victim so I never learned how. We have too much pride, the women in my family. I would fall down dead before I manipulated anyone with tears. Even to get out of a ticket. Which is why I know she wasn't faking that day.

What does it say about our society that we are more at home with women cutting themselves, and starving themselves than fighting? Or being president. Why do we need women to be pathetic? Why do we need to insinuate that need onto a woman that does not need, ask for, or want our sympathy?

...and though to good I never come,
Inseparable my nose and thumb.

In which I take issue with Madame Butterfly.

(I would issue a spoiler alert... but I'm sure you don't really care)

I fucking love Madame Butterfly. I do. Seriously, everytime I listen to Un Bel di Vedremo, I sob. And I am totally not a cryer.

Ok, so let me get this straight-Butterfly is "married" to this douche nozzle Captain Pinkerton who is all "Sweet! I'll have a good time when I'm here with Butterfly, and then I can just dump her ass and not even have to officially divorce her!" And that's what he does. He leaves her ass for 3 years, and doesn't come back until he finds out she's had his kid. He comes back with Wife 2.0, a fellow American, and then they demand that she give them the baby. In fact, at first, he just sends Wife 2.0 over to get it, because he's too much of a pussy to do it himself.

And then instead of cutting their faces, she gives them the baby! She changes the kids name from "Sorrow" to "Joy," and then she kills herself.

Fuck. That. Shit.

Totally don't get it. It makes me sad, yes- but I totally, in no way, understand the logic behind it. I do not know how that thought process works. I am right now making the face that I would make were some asshat actually have the balls to act like that, and then demand I give him my fucking kid. It's not pretty. It's very incredulous looking. I can't fathom the day when anyone would even have the cajones to try and pull that shit with me. Balls on a silver platter, motherfucker.

I have just seen the trifecta of awful

At Dominicks. Guy in his late thirties wearing shants (you know, the big pants cut off into capri-length shorts?), a fucking shiny flame shirt, and a goatee, with soul patch. And it was pointy. And I bet you he was probably planning to grow it out so he could braid it. I'm also sure that somewhere there were tribal tattoos.

Sad. Clearly, 1997 was a momentous year for this man. I've decided to think of him as a modern day male counterpart of Miss Havisham. He was probably stood up by the love of his life at a Limp Bizkit concert or something, and decided to stop time. Like, I bet you he has a ton of kitschy clocks from Spencer gifts around his house all set to the time when she was supposed to be there. And blacklight posters. So many black light posters. And inflatable couches galore. And one of those weird lightning globe thingies! You know what I'm talking about? Like you touch it and all the crackly light goes to where your hand is, and then your hair is supposed to stand on end? He totally has one of those.

I have like, such a giant fear of becoming that, though- I'm pretty vigilant about it. You know, like I still see women with those teased up hairsprayed 80's bangs... and it's so sad, really. It's as though they're still clinging to the time when they were on the cutting edge of life. On the other hand, I don't want to like, be in my 30's or 40's and still trying to be super hip. Because that's pretty sad as well.

When I was 22, I dyed my hair bright pink for the last time, officially. Because I told myself- you know, this is the last time you can do this without looking like some giant weirdo desperately clinging to 17. And I haven't done it since.

Did you know that my boyfriend is married?

I found out recently, that my boyfriend, and love and light of my life, Mr. Vincent D'onofrio (Det. Goren!) is totally married. With children! I'm so disappointed you don't even know.



And I totally don't even know who she is, really. So it's not like with Elvis Costello and Diana Krall, as I know for a fact that I am way more awesome than Diana Krall. I do not know for certain how I compare to Mrs. D'onofrio. Except that clearly, I have better fashion sense.

Also- I hope that he's just really tall- and that she is not in fact a short chick- that would be so disappointing! See, the moment I truly fell in love with Det. Goren, was on this one episode where he told this guy that the reason he was into short blonde chicks was because a) his dick looked bigger in comparison, b) he was secretly a pedophile, and c) he wanted someone he could kick around. And then he added that he liked tall, dark haired, unkickable women. Much like myself. It made my life!

Sigh.

*** UPDATE!- for the many of you out there searching for actual advice of some sort as to what to do if your boyfriend is married, I wrote a special blog post which may or may not be helpful. http://notesfromtheunderwhelmed.blogspot.com/2008/06/robyn-answers-your-burning-questions.html

A very special early 90's moment...

Facts! And things...

1. I will not be shutting up about that whole seal shtupping a penguin thing for at least a month. I am going to write songs about it on my red ukulele, I am going to write a children's book about it, I will make pictures and diagrams, and anyone who is lucky enough to run into me will be sure to hear the glorious tale of the seal who shtupped a penguin. I am going to get this picture blown up



and I am going to hang it over my mantle. Because it is just that hilarious.

2. Another hilarious thing I cannot bring myself to shut up about- Did you know that those FLDS chicks don't cut their hair... because Jesus is going to come back and they have to use it to wash his feet? True story. The whole thing sort of breaks my mind. Especially because like, all I have to relate this to is that one weird dude who tried to convince me to let him give me a pedicure, and what a terribly awkward situation that was. Also, I don't feel like hair would be an effective foot cleaning device, pumice stones exist for a reason. Also, like, are they all going to do it at the same time, or will they take turns? That would take up a lot of time, I would imagine. There are a lot of those chicks, since they're so into having babies and all. I mean, is that all Jesus is going to do when he comes back? Sit around and have his feet washed with Mormon hair? You'd think he'd have like, other things to attend to or something. Then again, what do I know?

3. I totally got hit on by a Rick Astley look alike last night at The Continental. It was especially awkward because at first I thought he was gay... because he walked up to me and said "Hey boobs!" Which, I don't know, is just not something the straight guys tend to say, I guess. But no- he was straight, and he totally thought that he and I were going to make a love connection. Which, of course caused me to run back to my table yelling that I just had been RickRolled. Because I am mature like that. And then I sang this:



Which is, of course, my favorite Rick Astley jam.

4. Robo-squirrel. Teehee!

Oh, text messaging!

Oh my god... this is amazingly hilarious. Or maybe I've had too much wine. I merely thank the gods of Gawker for blessing me with this priceless gem.



Oh, 3:44... it's funny because it's true...

A wine soaked cry for help and snack foods

Dear Wise Crunchy Cheez Doodles:

Why do you not exist in Chicago? WHY? I have searched for you in every damned grocery store in the city, kept a vigilant eye out for your blue, confetti covered bag, and yet you do not appear. I will not deign to consume Cheetos, a clearly inferior product. It's just not right. Where can I find you? Why do you refuse to exist in Chicago? Seriously, I will do anything for just one bag of you! Also, please pass this desperate plea on to Drake's Cakes.

Love and Kisses,

Robyn

PS- If you can tell me where to find a bag of Wise brand Crunchy Cheese Doodles in Chicago, we can totally make out. For realz.

Antidote.

I just wrote a bunch of crap about a bunch of crap. Then I got on the phone with my dear friend Nicole, and I erased it all. Why?

See, Nicole is moving here in a few days. Which means Chicago is going to be like, 80,000 times more awesome. Anyway, she starts telling me how the guys in Rochester suck. I tell her, eh- just to warn you, they're not any better here- let me tell you some stories...

Nicole says: Eh, whatever. We're just going to do it and burn it down!

Which makes complete sense if you know her, and totally made my night. And thank god she's going to be living in the same city as me again, as she's the only known antidote to my complusive jaded-ness. I need someone who calls me at 11pm to say she's picking me up in ten minutes to go play slot machines in Canada. I need someone who shows up at my door in Chicago with her five suitcases, two dogs and a bottle of Raspberry Stoli. Because that's what friends are for.

Best idea for a remake ever...

Ok, so read this thing from the NY Daily News:

At least one fan thinks Clay Aiken is just divine in "Spamalot."

A source tells me that cast members have grown used to one woman who has seen the show more than 40 times. She often waits by the stage door for her former "American Idol" idol.

Finally, one of the other actors asked her why she was so devoted to the carrot-topped crooner.

"She said, 'He is the Savior,'" recounts the snitch.

Yes, as in Jesus Christ.

"She is at the stage door from 9:30 in the morning, waiting all day to talk to people as they come in," laughs the source. "She says talking to the other actors, she feels a step closer to Clay."

"I am not familiar with this devoted fan, but I know there are many of them," said a rep for the show.

Tell me that doesn't sound just a little bit like the beginning of All About Eve? You would not believe the things that are popping off in my head right now. All I can picture is Clay Aiken doing a Bette Davis impression, and it is rocking my world. Seriously.

New discovery!

You know how there are all those movies where John Cusack freaks out in the rain? I get it now. Totally. Getting caught in the rain makes everything appear 80,000 times more terrible than it really actually is. Because in addition to whatever minor thing that went wrong, you are also wet.

Case in point #1

Like, two weeks ago, I was running late for class so I took a cab. I get to the class, only to find that it's been canceled. When I go back outside, only to find that it is now pouring rain outside. So I called Jen to see if she could give me a ride home, because it just seemed like a waste to either spend 10 more dollars, or take an hour on public transportation. Jen suggests we go shopping. "Good idea!" I say... so I get on the red line for Monroe. At this point, I am rather disheveled looking. Some dude starts staring at me, so I give him a dirty look because I'm not in the most pleasant of moods. Then he points to my shirt. Which has somehow been arranged so that my right breast is popping out of it. Yay! So now I'm a subway flasher! Finally I get to the stop and start looking around the various stores. Unfortunately, there is like, truly, nothing I want, or like once I put it on. On the way home, it is still pouring rain, and the heel of my shoe gets caught in a subway grate, and I trip and fall and my shoes are filled with water and I have to stand in my stocking feet while Jen attempts to pry my shoe loose from said grate. Not the best time ever.

And seriously, like, since then, I have been in a constant state of hyper-irritation with life, the universe and everything in it. Which brings us to last night, when I finally had a nervous breakdown in the middle of Dominick's.

Case in point #2:

I had planned to meet some friends at the Darkroom for Panic. It was going to be a swell time. If there is any appropriate cure for being inordinately irritated by life, it is to get inordinately dressed up, go out, and dance and drink way too much. So I put on a cute dress, I do my hair and my make-up, and run downstairs. It's raining. So I go back upstairs to get an umbrella. Then I run across the street to use the ATM. The ATM tells me that my card was lost or stolen. Which was just not true- I had it in my hand! Then I go and try another ATM, and another, and another. No luck. I go back upstairs. I grab a huge ziplock bag o' change, with plans to go to Dominick's to use their Coinstar machine, and also attempt to try my card again in the check out aisle. As I walk over there, it starts pouring. The Coinstar machine, unfortunately, is closed down at 10:00. It is 10:30. I hate life. The manager will not start it back up for me. They will not cash my paycheck, and my card is still not working. Meanwhile, I figure that they probably think I'm a hooker. I am wearing a very short black dress with knee high boots and gold leggings- which is a totally cute outfit for like, going out to a bar, but generally inappropriate for the supermarket. This makes me hate them more, the stupid judgemental bastards. I am wet and I am angry. I say, and I quote:

"Oh my god! I can't have anything!"

I was that girl. I can't fucking believe it. I have never been that girl. My eyes started leaking. Leaking! And I was wearing a shitload of eye makeup, which I discovered later was not in fact waterproof. I walked home, reasonably sure that all passerby were assuming that I was a hooker who had just gotten into a fight with her pimp. So I went home, I cleaned the eye makeup off of my face, and watched Jane Eyre, and fell asleep on the couch with my shoes on.

Now, like, had it not been raining (and also if I'd have had something to eat that day other than a cookie and lots of coffee), I'm quite sure I would not have really given a crap. But rain exacerbates everything.

Today, I find it all unbelievably hilarious, but I literally cannot tell you how stupidly agitated I was last night. I'm thinking I may need some emergency Valium.

Robyn's Rules of Order...

I have a magical secret for good livin'.

I do and say exactly as I please, and as I mean, all the time... and the ceiling never falls down upon me. Other people do this, of course- I just choose to be very frank about it. It's just less complicated that way.

I like people to be well aware that where I am is where I want to be, and otherwise I would not be there (work, of course, excluded). That what I am doing is exactly what I want to be doing, and otherwise I would not be doing it. Do you have any idea how much easier and more clear life would be if everyone operated this way?

I am weirded out by the concept of people who are friendly with people they don't like. It bothers me that they think they are so damned fantastic that they must shelter others from the harsh blow of their disapproval. Or that it's still important that the person they don't like likes them and thinks they are a nice person. I do not care either way.

It just seems like a lot of work. It exhausts me to think about it.

-------------

My mom always said that we do not have a family in which we keep the crazy ones up in the attic and slide their food through the door. We sit them right down at the damn dinner table and introduce them to the neighbors. That is our way. I throw my crazy on the table. I will gladly give you a divers schedule of my personal faults and imperfections. I am of the opinion that saying things out loud takes away their power over you.

----------

On the plus side, my unusual behavior and philosophy basically guarantees that I will never cheat on anyone. Why? Because I wouldn't be in a relationship in the first place if I didn't want to be. I am not such horrible company that I am bothered by being alone, and I don't think that anyone thinks I am so fantastic and so desperate for my personal company that I would feel I had to placate them in that way. Really, like, why bother? Once again, way too much effort. I also expect the same in return. Like, I sincerely couldn't give a shit less if someone wants to date other people. I really couldn't. If you want to go, go and be well. The idea of being coddled or placated makes me feel stabby.

I don't want to leave my apartment right now

Even though I have to.

My skin hurts and I am annoyed at life. I would much prefer wasting time reading a bunch of crap about celebutantes and going through the Craigslist Missed Connections, which are always hilarious. I have not been able to write anything today.

I thought it might be fun to not straighten my hair today, which was not the best idea ever, and now I kind of look like Alla Nazimova:



Except, of course, with more normal eyebrows.

I have not ingested anything today other than coffee and Andes mints. Perhaps this explains my vile mood. But there isn't anything in particular that I feel like eating at the moment. Oh well.

I totally just cried over a Law and Order episode.

Tonight was Jesse L. Martin's last episode! So sad! And now it's going to be just like, Elton from Clueless and that douchebag guy who was Stabler's partner for one episode to teach him a lesson about being a hothead or whatever, and Stabler punched him in the face. Who the hell cares about them? They should have recruited Richard Belzer. He doesn't get nearly enough camera time on SVU.

Also- I still miss Lennie Briscoe. A lot. I loved him, I really did.

Also- Jesse L. Martin is producing and starring in a biopic about Marvin Gaye. Which makes him super awesome, and makes me love him even moreso. I would totally marry Jesse L. Martin in like, two seconds flat.

Now I have only Jack McCoy. Sigh.

I am going to go to bed now. I am going to watch my taped version of Madame Butterfly and it will be a fantastic time.

Dorothy Parker is my homegirl.

Song Of 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 one 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.

I might still be drunk.

1. Star Jones! Getting divorced! Not that I really care, but they mentioned that her real name is "Starlet" and I find that especially hilarious.

2. Dudes in Congo are freaking out because black magicians are stealing their dicks. No, really. Which is probably traumatic for them. But like, if you could have a magical power.... that might be kind of amusing one to have. I'm just saying.

3. Bush quote of the day, via Slate: "Oftentimes people ask me, 'Why is it that you're so focused on helping the hungry and diseased in strange parts of the world?' "—Washington, D.C., April 18, 2008.

4. Wow! Ok, so this is this website... that harasses your exes for you to find out why they dumped you. No, really! I don't see why it's necessary, as I would imagine that it's because, well, you are the sort of person that would enlist the services of a website to help you harass someone to find out why they dumped you. That's your damned answer. You're creepy. Then again, what do I know? That could be a totally attractive quality to some people- I've often noted that my personal insistance on things like having dignity has been troublesome in my personal life. But I'd rather stick things in my eyes. Repeatedly. I can't understand why someone would not find doing such a thing to be abjectly humiliating! Also, honestly can't imagine what I would do were I to someday receive a number of email surveys asking me why I ditched some dude. I would probably file a restraining order.

Oh Cosmo!

Man, I have to tell you- not nearly as much hilarity as expected in the "Sexy" issue! I was a bit disappointed- 'cause mostly it was like, "Hey! I'm a 31 year old chick who has invented this amazing new move which is exactly like a hand job!" and "Surprise! Guys want to do you in the ass! Did you know?" and "Act pleasantly surprised when you see his junk! Say 'Oooh!' and 'Aaaah!'" and also lots of toungue swirling and also the word panties came up like 85 times (I have a thing against that word. It really bothers me. I prefer "knickers."). Not so much fun. Until, of course, I came upon this glorious gem:

"Sprinkle a little pepper under his nose right before he climaxes. Sneezing can feel similar to an orgasm and amplify the feel-good effects."

Yup. Now, first of all- just in case you don't think these things through as deeply as I do...

WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU GETTING THE PEPPER FROM?

I mean, what? Do you keep a pepper grinder handy on the bedside table for just this occasion? Or must you secretly palm the pepper inside your fist the whole time? Because I imagine that would make everything else fairly awkward. I can't figure a smooth transition either way. Like what? "Hold on! Let me lean over and grab this pepper grinder!" And really, what is one to think when confronted with someone wielding a pepper grinder in their face? And what if it got in the dude's eye and then you'd have to go to the hospital and explain that you were grinding pepper on him so he'd sneeze while you were doing it! How embarassing! What if he went blind? Also, who wants to be sneezed on? Not me, not ever. Sneezing is not sexy. Nor is being covered in snot. It is why we have Kleenex.

Oh, also! Cosmo's Man Manual has informed me that all you dudes are totally psyched for the Counting Crows comeback! Who knew?

I feel pretty, oh so pretty!

Just as I was starting to look practically transluscent, just as I was about to set my wardrobe aflame... the universe dropped this in my lap.

www.mugshotdujour.com

I am hot! And so are you! At least comparitively! I didn't even know a face could be arranged in such a manner!


(Arrested for domestic violence... think about that! Someone married this guy! And it's not even as though he has a good personality- you know, wife beatin' and all... hope for everyone?)

And even if you're thinking right now "God, Robyn is a horrible and shallow bitch"- you will have to find some amusement in this:


(arrested for cocaine)

Varied and Sundry.

1. I have eaten too many grapes today.
2. This almost made me choke on one.
3. I am going to bed soon.
4. After reading about the stray cougar in Chicago (And by the way... can I just mention that at first I totally thought they were talking about one of those older women who date 18 year old boys)- which of course reminded me of "Bringing Up Baby"- I spent an inordinate amount of time today comparing and contrasting myself with Katherine Hepburn (we are both feministy ladies from New England with considerable skills in verbal sparring- however, she looks good in wide brim hats, whereas I prefer cloches and berets, and while I find Spencer Tracey quite dreamy, I cannot say that I would have gone for Howard Hughes- I'm big on shoes and I think the Kleenex boxes would have freaked me out). There's more, but I won't bore you with it.
5. You know what's weird? When women on TV say that they've been planning their wedding since they were little girls, and that this is something all women do. In case you were wondering... no. I have thought and planned and schemed many, many things in my time, but I have never, ever once in my life planned a wedding inside my head. I have never fantasized about a wedding gown. Not once. Ever. I do not personally know anyone who has done this. I imagine such people would not have many interesting things to say. Also- can you even begin to picture me screaming "THIS IS MY SPECIAL DAY!!" with a straight face?
6. Am number one hit on Google for Bavarian Sluts! Yeah!
7. Am like number 200 on Google Croatia for Older Vagina! (someone was on a quest! But why? Is that a thing?)
8. Hate all of my clothes. Hate all clothes in all stores visited recently. Look horrifying in everything. Got stuck in a subway grate in the rain the other day and fell- still bruisy. Would like some candy, have only grapes.
9. Recently discovered! While a package of unshelled pistachios may seem like the best thing ever, it is not, as all unshelled pistachios contained within package taste like death and poison! Will go back to breaking nails and possibly teeth on shells presently. To love is to suffer. Sigh.
10. Would it be bad if, for just a moment- just a moment, I thought to myself that I would totally volunteer to be Rob Lowe's new nanny? Because I kinda did. Damn you "The Outsiders!" I watched you too many times as a kid to think of Mr. Lowe as anything other than dreamy!

Here is a very long thingy that I wrote for my experimental theatre class.

It's supposed to be somewhat based on Gertrude Stein's writing techniques (a rose is a rose is a rose!), but as a fan of commas, I don't believe I succeeded completely in that effect. I am, however, quite fond of the result. I've written about this particular incident before, but this is a little bit different.

Airport

I am a failure at planes and also at airports. I am a failure at planes and airports because being at an airport encompasses every thing I am a failure at. I am a failure at punctuality, I am a failure at being calm in enclosed spaces, I am a failure at removing my shoes in a timely manner and without falling down, I am failure at being ok with not being able to smoke.


I get on the plane and a woman complains- she can’t sit up front because she’s sensitive. The woman is sensitive to another woman’s perfume. Because the woman is sensitive, the flight attendant asks if someone in the back will switch seats with her. I do not volunteer to switch seats with the sensitive woman, because I find sensitive people hilarious. I do not volunteer, because I always like to see what happens next. I do not volunteer, because I just finally got settled in my seat and am not eager to repeat the process, nor knock any other unsuspecting passengers in the head with my bags. But someone does volunteer, and that person is probably a better person than I.

The sensitive woman comes back down the aisle. The sensitive woman comes back down the aisle sporting a Christmas sweater and a face that ought not be left around dairy products. The sensitive woman comes down the aisle and sits in front and to the left of me. The sensitive woman tells her seatmate that she requires sole use of the middle armrest.

I laugh, and the sensitive woman does not notice, no, the sensitive woman takes out a book. The sensitive woman takes out a book called “Left Behind.” The book, “Left Behind,” is about people being vacuumed up into heaven, and is read solely by people who believe they are going to be vacuumed up into heaven. I am not surprised that the sensitive woman believes she will be vacuumed into heaven, since she is wearing a Christmas sweater. A Christmas sweater with reindeer and jingle bells and rhinestones and snowmen and everything else that might be on a Christmas sweater because she is just that festive and holy and that’s why she is going to be vacuumed up into heaven.

I have read about this rapture stuff- the being vacuumed up into heaven stuff- I read it in a comic-style pamphlet by a man named Jack T. Chick. Apparently, all the really holy people get vacuumed up into heaven, and then the people who are maybe not so completely holy have to stay down here with us totally non-holy people. And then, all of us non-holy people have to like, opress them, try to make them wear “the mark of the beast” and cut off their heads. Then, after they resist our forces of oppression, and sacrifice themselves, they get to go to heaven with the people who had been vacuumed up earlier. Like I’m ever going to get around to doing that. Like I’m ever going to get around to cutting anyone’s head off when I can hardly get around to picking up my dry cleaning! How can I cut anyone’s head off when I faint at the sight of blood and am no help in emergencies whatsoever? Frankly, I think they ought to have to do it themselves.

The flight attendant comes by and asks if anyone needs a a drink. The flight attendant comes by and the sensitive woman asks for a mineral water. The flight attendant hands the sensitive woman a bottle of water, causing the sensitive woman to snarl through her teeth “I asked for mineral water. This is spring water! I can’t drink this!” She says it through her teeth, in a tone I would probably reserve for someone handing me a glass of bile, and then kicking my grandmother down the stairs and then eating a puppy. But she is sensitive and I am not and neither I nor the flight attendant are completely sure what the huge difference is between mineral water and spring water. The flight attendant tells the sensitive woman that all they have is spring water, and the sensitive woman says she will write a letter to complain about this injustice. She will write a letter and have the flight attendant fired, she says, because there should be mineral water and there is not. I have a ginger ale.

Important!!! I have seen cars with bumperstickers that say “In case of rapture this car will be unmanned.” And this sensitive woman is on a plane, believing that it is indeed possible that at any moment she will be vacuumed up into heaven. If the car were unmanned- couldn’t that cause an accident? And kill people? And if this very sensitive holy woman was suddenly vacuumed up into heaven, wouldn’t that cause the windows to break and wouldn’t that also kill a lot of people? If I were this woman, which I am not, and I am not sensitive and I am not holy- but if I really, truly believed that at any moment I could be vacuumed up into the sky, I would probably avoid doing anything such as driving and flying in planes, because I wouldn’t want to kill anyone. And maybe it’s not murder exactly, but it’s at least manslaughter. I watch a lot of Law and Order. I watch a lot of Law and Order and I’ve seen several episodes of Law and Order in which someone goes to jail for doing something that could forseeably lead to another person’s death or murder. I just saw one the other day where this guy, who was clearly supposed to be the guy from “Girls Gone Wild,” rapes this girl on a bus, and then sends his friend in, saying that the girl wants to do him next, and then the girl bashes the friends head in with a champagne bottle and kills him, and the guy who was supposed to be the guy from Girls Gone Wild went to jail for the other guys murder. And isn’t one of the major commandments “Thou shalt not kill?” So how is it ok if you kill a bunch of people in the process of being vacuumed up into heaven? Do you get sent back down to hell if that happens, or are they ok with that? Are they ok with being rude to a flight attendant over having the wrong sort of bottled water? I am not sensitive, or holy, but I have lovely manners.

One thing I have learned from the very few people who think they are going to be vacuumed up into heaven that are willing to speak to me, is that it is in fact basically fine with Jesus if you are a jerk. All you have to do to be ok with Jesus and be vacuumed up into heaven, is to accept him as your personal savior, and then you can go on about your business and be as unpleasant to as many flight attendants as you like. This, I hear, is the big difference between people who think they are going to be vacuumed up to heaven and Catholics, who do not believe such a thing will occur- which is why I never heard of people thinking such a thing until I was like, 20- because everyone where I grew up was either Catholic, Jewish or not-religious-but-would-be-a-Buddhist-if-they-were, and none of those people believe in the rapture. I have been informed by the few people who believe they are going to be vacuumed up into heaven that will talk to me that the Catholics are bad because they believe that “good works”- things like helping the poor and the diseased- will get them into heaven. The people who believe they will be vacuumed up into heaven say that Jesus would really prefer that you go ahead and be a jerk, but accept him as your personal savior, and be opposed to gay people and also abortions- and if you do that, you will be vacuumed up into heaven. It’s somewhat ironic, since, as a non-sensitive, non-holy person, the thing I actually like about the Catholics is that they do some pretty awesome things for the poor. It seems kind of icky to put someone down for that. I would think that the child molesting cover-ups, or the wars, or the crazy sexism, or the tithing might be more offensive. To me, that’s like saying “You know what the worst thing about Hitler was? The fact that he was a vegetarian! Damn him!”- but then again, I am not sensitive, or holy, and I do not believe I will be vacuumed up to the sky. And if I did, I just don’t think I’d have it in me to fly in a plane or drive a car or do anything really that would surely kill or maim other people. Which is another reason why I am not interested in beheading anyone. I also cannot picture myself going about demanding that people get “666” tattooed on their foreheads. I just don’t think that a tattoo on the forehead is an especially classy look for anyone. If anything, I’d just like to demand, or perhaps just suggest, that people not wear cargo pants, or Uggs, or those shirts with flames on them from Pacific Sunwear circa 1996, or bedazzled Christmas sweaters.

Most amazing holiday ever.

And I missed celebrating it! I'm so sad! Aparently in South Korea, on April 14th, people who are not in love wear black and eat black food! I mean, that's pretty much every day for me- I look ridiculous in colors and I subsist primarily on black coffee- so, maybe I was celebrating and I didn't even realize it! Or something!

Meh. I don't know, I'm not one of those "blah, I'm going to mope around because I'm single!" types- and on the other hand, I'm not all Larry from Three's Company about it either- frankly, that's quite creepy. I seem to attract a lot of fellas like that- I think because I seem like the sort of person one is supposed to see whilst sowing oats and whatnot. I haven't been said person lately as I haven't had much inclination or energy lately to be whimsical- which is one of the required traits of the job. I have yet to be fairly compensated for my enlightenment and un-repression services and have thus grown tired of the arrangement. I have mental fantasies of saying this to most fellas I meet:

"Let's just fast forward through this whole thing, doll, because I don't have all day. What's going to happen here is that you're going to hang out with me for a few weeks, which will be a good time because I am indeed a good time. I will remind you of June Miller, or Marla Singer, or Lauren Bacall or whomever. But, then, you'll have some epiphany in which you realize that what you really want is that Nice Girl over there. She's a little bit homely, and not quite as fun, or as smart or as clever or as interesting- but she's sweet and she's stable, and that's what you really need after all!"

It would be so much easier that way. And I wouldn't have to bother with shaving my legs for the experience.

New obsession!

Ok, so Rock of Love is over (though can I just say that "Ambre" winning is such bullshit?), and Bindi Irwin hasn't done anything exciting/horrifying in a while...

Thank goodness for Khia!

Last night I watched "Miss Rap Supreme" on VH1... and it was all I'd hoped it would be, and more... except that the awesome chick rapping about Challah bread did not make it on the show (I so want to be her BFF). But Khia did! You may recall Khia as the chick who sang that song that made you never ever want to have sex again--- My Neck, My Back!

I'm sorry... nothing anyone can ever do or say will make the term "crack" sound sexy. It is just not. Also, may I just say... my favorite part of this video is the slip n slide?

AAAAAAAANYway. Bitch is hilarious. Just watch the show... but what's even more awesome is that she writes an advice column for Hood Magazine! Check it out, it will rock your face.

I am the number one Google search term for "Ayn Rand sucks ass"

And I'm proud of that. It's something. I'm bored at work. Catherine and I are listening to opera and being cultured! And fancy!

Oh, and I signed up for that Google Ads thing, because basically I like free money. And they have decided that you, the two or three people who occasionally read this- or who are led here by searching for "Ayn Rand sucks ass" (which I hope is meant as a character assessment and not a porn. Because that would give me nightmares), are in need of potty training help. It would not surprise me.

Did you know that the word gullible is not in the dictionary?

It's hard to be surprised these days by what people will believe. Especially teenagers. I mean, in 8th grade I convinced a bunch of dudes that they could get high by smelling opium incense. And they totally did it too, and then subsequently pretended that they were in fact high. It was rather amusing. I also sold them oregano! Ok but this is way more retarded than that.

These kids in Florida think that you can prevent HIV by doing a shot of... bleach. And that Mountain Dew prevents pregnancies! Really? Really? I mean, sure, this makes it pretty obvious that comprehensive sex ed is needed- duh... but also, I wonder: You know that saying "Well! If you believe that, I've got some land in Florida I'd like to sell you!"

Are these the children of the people who bought that land? Really, because how retarded do you have to be to buy that one? I mean- I am not all that swift, and I can't imagine I would have believed that at age 10, nevermind as a teenager. And may I just say... at age 10, when my fifth grade english class "adopted" a manatee... I totally thought it was going to show up and that I'd get to take it home for the weekend. That's how much of a genius I am.

A Personal Dream

My favorite soap opera, "Passions" is officially over. I haven't seen it in a year or so, since it moved to Direct TV- but it still holds a special place in my heart. Especially Timmy.



Anyway, it reminds me of something I've always wanted... a magical booze cart. You see, on soap operas, whenever you are in a room with a magical booze cart, and you want to talk about someone else in the room without them hearing you, you go over to the booze cart, pour yourself a brandy from a tacky piece of crystal. Then, you begin some random soliloquy about how they must never know you are doing their husband/plotting to kill them/secretly your own evil twin and they will not be able to hear you. It's true.

So if you really love me, go here and get me one.

Just get on the floor and do the New Kids dance!

Oh man...



Yes, it's the New Kids. NKOTB, if you will. Except they're not "new" these days so much as they are "old." Especially the one who was always old.

It seems like just yesterday (or not really) that I was sitting in my friend Heather's living room swooning over their cartoon (which totally existed in case you were wondering) and taking turns hugging her New Kids pillow with all their faces emblazoned upon it. Seriously. Guess who was my favorite?




Oh yes. Jordan. Hey, at least it wasn't the monkey faced one, or the old one. I had this doll, which actually came complete with the rattail hanging off the back of his head. I slept with this doll at night. And to this day, I'm not actually sure if I did in fact like the New Kids or if I was just trying to fit in and have something in common with the other kids. Because at that age I mostly listened to the Oldies station. Anyway, regardless of the music, I did think Jordan was kind of a sex machine.

Fun fact: He was totally wearing a Bauhaus shirt in the video for "The Right Stuff." (See?) I actually still own the "Hangin' Tough" video collection. It's comedy gold- mostly due to the Bergman-esque documentary interludes.

I also have The NKOTB coffee table book, which I credit as being the first piece of erotica I ever owned (it totally predates my first reading of Delta of Venus). No, really- it was creepily overtly sexual for something intended to be owned by an 8 year old girl. There was this one picture of Jordan with some presumably naked chick (although you only saw her stomach and I think some sideboob) and there's this quote above it where he talks about how he has dreams where he's soaring through the air, and then he's (and I quote, it's burned into my memory) "having sex with the flyest girl." Yes, the flyest one of all! I think the old one or the monkey face one talked about doing it too, but that was just gross. Anyway, I was not so surprised later when Jordan turned out to be a total perv.



Carnival sex? Kinky! And also... eew.

Oh, and here's something you probably don't remember! The New Kids have actually tried to reinvent themselves before. Yeah, when Gangsta Rap got popular. Check this shit out, dawg. Clearly, they are rebels who will never be any good.



You know they were all like "Whatevs Snoop Dogg. We can dress up like halloween pimps and make weirdly misogynistic allusions to bestiality too, you know." You know, I don't care what kind of SuperChristian Joey is now (he's made Jesus albums, you know). Those New Kids were into some weird ass shit.

Told you I was just friendly.

Apparently (gasp!) men have a tendency to interpret "friendly" body language as "sexual interest" body language.

No, really? You must be kidding!

I have a tendency to do the opposite. I have been on more dates that I didn't know were dates than I could possibly tell you. I am oblivious. It's kind of funny, because sometimes I'll run into these dudes and they'll be all drunk and telling me about how I totally dissed them on that date I wasn't aware that we had. Then I'll feel kind of like a jerk for a minute because I had assumed it was a platonic thing... but not really, because frankly- you should TELL someone if they are on a date, not just figure they caught on somehow. Especially if said person is anything like me. I also tend to get a lot of fella's who think I am trying to seduce them in some saucy film noir type manner, which I'm not. I just kind of sound like Lauren Bacall. Or um, whatsherface... Kathleen Turner. Or Barry White. Fact is, I'm very immature. If I actually like someone, I will usually express this by throwing something at their head or picking fights. I have not progressed much since junior high.

The Pushkin Problem

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/03/30/books/review/Donadio-t.html?em&ex=1207108800&en=3c42341da951f2dd&ei=5087%0A

Personally, I have to say- I dump/date people for really retarded reasons. No way in hell would I date someone who thought Ayn Rand was awesome, and let me tell you- I find this to be a completely rational decision, because anyone who thinks Ayn Rand is awesome would be completely incompatible with me altogether. Ayn Rand sucks ass. And that Judy Heiblum is right- dudes who carry around copies of "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance" are sooooo worth avoiding. Trust me (also, let me tell you- they haven't ever actually read it.).

On the other hand, I think dudes who like Henry Miller and Dostoevsky are ridiculously sexified. But I'll also think they're pretty dreamy if they've heard Mel Brooks and Carl Reiner's "The 2000 Year Old Man" or are way into Marx Brothers or Woody Allen movies. But it's not just about "Oh, you're this way because you like these specific things"- it's also about having a similar frame of reference for conversational purposes. That's really what I think is important.

I'd write more, but my keyboard is being a pain in the ass. Oy.

I'm on Oprah, bitches!

Guess who is totally famous? I'll give you a clue, it's me.



Ok, maybe not. I was on Oprah for all of five seconds, and for some reason they only selected all the really stupid sounding things I said.

In the "interview" I stated that I felt that the smoking ban, with the 15 feet away from the door (and, obviously, the bouncer) rule, was dangerous for women. Personally, I'd like it to be my decision to go into a bar- it's no longer my choice and I don't like that. I live by two bars, and thus must now deal with drunk people against my will. Not fun. And loud. Very loud. The other issue is that now we're going to have women leaving their drinks at bars to go smoke and getting roofied. Which is not fucking cool.

I also said that I believe that smoking bans are primarily a way for a city or state to look like they're doing something good for people, without it actually costing them any money or real effort. And then, you know, you can take people's minds off important things like the war, and the war against reproductive choice, and the homeless, and sweatshops and everything else in the world that sucks ass.

But of course, they did not include that part. Oh well.

Does This Toilet Seat Make My Ass Look Big?

I know people read, talk on the phone and spend quite a lot of time on the toilet (hell my father would spend a good two hours on there every morning and probably still does) but I can't imagine being there so long the actual toilet seat BECOMES a part of your body. Read on:

WICHITA, Kansas (AP) -- A 35-year-old woman who sat on her boyfriend's toilet for so long that her body was stuck to the seat had a phobia about leaving the bathroom, the boyfriend said.

Police say Pam Babcock apparently spent two years living in the bathroom of her boyfriend's mobile home.

"She is an adult; she made her own decision," said her boyfriend, Kory McFarren. "I should have gotten help for her sooner; I admit that. But after a while, you kind of get used to it."

The case drew nationwide attention after Ness County Sheriff Bryan Whipple said it appeared the Ness City woman's skin had grown around the seat in the two years she apparently was in the bathroom.

"We pried the toilet seat off with a pry bar and the seat went with her to the hospital," Whipple said. "The hospital removed it."

McFarren, 36, said he can't be certain how long Pam Babcock stayed in the bathroom because "time just went by so quick I can't pinpoint how long." He said beatings she received in her childhood caused her phobia.

"It just kind of happened one day; she went in and had been in there a little while, the next time it was a little longer. Then she got it in her head she was going to stay -- like it was a safe place for her," McFarren said.

But McFarren said she moved around in the bathroom during that time, bathed and changed into the clothes he brought her. He brought food and water to her. They had conversations and had an otherwise normal relationship -- except it all happened in the bathroom.

McFarren said he finally called police February 27 after he became worried because Babcock was acting groggy -- like she didn't know what was going on, except she was awake.

What emergency responders found when they went into bathroom has left residents of this small western Kansas town buzzing, and law enforcement officials incredulous.

Police found the clothed woman sitting on the toilet, her sweat pants down to mid-thigh. She was "somewhat disoriented," and her legs looked like they had atrophied, Whipple said.

"She was not glued. She was not tied. She was just physically stuck by her body," Whipple said. "It is hard to imagine. ... I still have a hard time imagining it myself."

She initially refused emergency medical services, but was finally convinced by responders and her boyfriend that she needed to be checked out at a hospital.

"She said that she didn't need any help, that she was OK and did not want to leave," he said.

Whipple said the county attorney will determine whether any charges should be filed against McFarren.

McFarren, who works at an antique store, said he has been taking care of Babcock for the 16 years they have lived together. He insisted that he tried to coax her out of the bathroom every day.

"And her reply would be, `Maybe tomorrow,"' Whipple said. "According to him, she did not want to leave the bathroom."

She was reported in fair condition Wednesday at a hospital in Wichita, about 150 miles southeast of Ness City. Whipple said she has refused to cooperate with medical providers or law enforcement investigators.

Babcock has an infection in her legs that has damaged her nerves, and there is a possibility she may wind up in a wheelchair, McFarren said.

James Ellis, a neighbor, said he had known the woman since she was a child, but that he had not seen her for at least six years.

"I don't think anybody can make any sense out of it," Ellis said.

Babcock had a tough childhood after her mother died at a young age and apparently was usually kept inside the house as she grew up, he said.

"It really doesn't surprise me," Ellis said. "What surprises me is somebody wasn't called in a bit earlier."

This is how I brighten my own day, because I'm a terrible person.

At least I'm not this chick: http://hosted.ap.org/dynamic/stories/W/WOMAN_IN_BATHROOM?SITE=FLTAM&SECTION=US

More Debbie Reynolds vs. Elizabeth Taylor

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/main.jhtml?xml=/news/2008/03/11/nperfect111.xml

Oy. I'm at work right now. It's unbelievably dead. I still don't have internet at my place, for the same reason I haven't gotten an eliptical machine yet- lack of time and mechanical ability.

I'm a bit PMSy anyway, so this was just the icing on the cake. Normally I'd just be thinking "This article is completely retarded." Which it is. But because I'm all mentally retarded and feeling icky today, it makes me obscenely frustrated.

I don't know. I am the exact opposite of this article, and through my hormone clouded mind, I am trying to process how I feel about that- despite my feeling that it's complete and utter bullshit. It's just kind of a surreal feeling.

I am quite tall. I have dark brown, almost black hair. I have weird eyes that change color but are usually sort of a greyish green or greyish violet. I am exceedingly cynical. I do not have a car. I smoke. I drink. Often. And I have never eaten Wonderbread nor did I grow up on a farm. That last part I just threw in there, because that's something I've always thought about when irrationally pondering what might be wrong with me.

None of my friends are short, long blonde haired, none-too-intelligent, uncynical types either. Nor are they girl-next-door types. Which is something I like about them. I hate that term, however, as it implies I don't have neighbors, which I do. In fact, I've had many neighbors in the course of my non-girl next door life. One of them was an Elvis impersonator. Which, frankly, I feel should mean that I win. Which I don't, but still.

I am supposed to die of consumption at the end of the film. This much I know. That, and I would look pretty much retarded with long blonde hair. I have a picture somewhere of me in a wig. It's quite disturbing, to say the least. I gotta tell you, this whole thing sort of makes me feel quite sensible about my recent decision to embark on another manfast. It makes more sense than cutting off half of my legs, at least.

But I feel a little bit like a bad feminist today.

Oh Save Us From Daylight "Savings"

I found this on Yahoo Tech!  Love it!  The last line is my favorite :)

It's official: Daylight Saving Time is a bust. Designed (and recently extended) as a measure to save energy in a period of inflated electricity prices, an in-depth University of California study has now shown that DST doesn't save anyone any money at all. In fact, it's costing consumers extra, to the tune of $3.19 in extra utility bills per year.

The study was made possible because of the peculiarities of the state of Indiana, which was only partially on DST until 2006. When the whole state finally went DST (to sync with the national business day), some comparisons vs. the prior method were made apparent. The study calculated that the shift costs Indiana residents an extra $8.6 million in electricity bills in total.

Why? Shouldn't they be, well, saving daylight -- and burning fewer light bulbs?

They are, said the study. But while lighting bills were reduced, air-conditioning units had to run more often, because people were home on hot afternoons when they'd otherwise be still at the office. Heaters had to be run on cool mornings, too, when people got up and it was still dark outside.

Professor Matthew Kotchen, who pioneered the study, noted, "I've never had a paper with such a clear and unambiguous finding as this."

This isn't the first time the energy-saving rationale of Daylight Saving Time has been attacked. The first was in 1976, three years after DST went into effect, when the National Bureau of Standards found that there was no significant energy savings after the switch. The recent expansion of DST to a few extra weeks was also revealed to have saved no energy during its run. And yet here we are...

In related news, it was also revealed that Daylight Saving Time actually creates no additional daylight.

I know it's been a while...

And I guess this has been something of an abandoned project for me. But I'm bringing it back. Why? For a variety of reasons, none of which are all that interesting.

To tide those of you over who still have me on your rolls or subscriptions, until I get some new things to say, here is something I posted on my myspace blog a bit ago, and then updated today. It's a full life.

List of things that Cosmo thinks are sexy but are in fact not (updated!).

1. Wigs. A big Cosmo sex tip has always been "wear a wig in bed so he feels like he's with another woman!" If this works for you, I feel like you have a lot more problems than it can possibly solve. Number one being the fact that a wig stays on your head the whole time. I had enough trouble keeping the wig on my head this Halloween just walking around bars. Obviously, you're doing something wrong. Also, you're dating someone who can keep a straight face while you're wearing one, when any normal person would not be able to. People look stupid in wigs. Frankly, if he wants to do someone else that much, he can go ahead and do so. Really, knock yourself out buddy. I'm not wearing a freakin' wig.

2. Notes. This is another big one. Once upon a time they even had these little cards that you could cut out of the magazine and put into your boyfriends pocket or whatever, that said "I'm not wearing any underwear" or "I'm totally gonna do you later" and various things to that effect. First of all, you put something like that in someones pocket, and things can go terribly wrong. Like when they pay for coffee that morning. I bet there are a lot of very confused baristas waiting on the boyfriends of Cosmo subscribers. Also, I don't see how the thing about not wearing underwear really helps anyone who is not present at the time.

3. Striptease classes. Jen and I were just discussing this yesterday. This is another issue of taking yourself waaay too seriously. I once took a burlesque class at the gym, and totally lost it when they started making us crawl around on the floor. You'd also have to figure that anyone you were doing this for has already seen you naked before (otherwise that might just be the most hilarious one-night stand story ever, next to mine about the guy who tried to slow dance with me to "Lady in Red"), which means it's not like he's going to see anything new, unless you've grown another nipple over night or something. Which would not be that sexy.

4. Edible underwear. The logic of edible underwear has long perplexed me. You can't just happen to have it on beforehand, because it would get all linty and gross, and I imagine it would not be all that comfortable walking around all day with a fruit roll-up in your pants. Either you'd have to be all "oh, let me change into something a little more comfortable" and come out wearing it, or put it on during... I don't get it. It's all too complicated and tedious. I also don't think eating a fruit roll-up is all that awesome of a time.

5. Jen reminded me about this one... This one time, Cosmo suggested you put a donut on his man parts and eat it off. I don't even know where to begin with this one, except to say that a) Donuts. Not hot. and be b) if the donut fits... I wouldn't expect a great time otherwise.

6. Naughty Jenga. Yup. Naughty...Jenga. Roll that one around your head for a moment. I bought the new issue of Cosmo last night, and this was one of the ways to become "closer to your man." By writing "naughty suggestions" on the Jenga blocks, and then playing Jenga... or something, I don't know. It's Naughty Jenga! And you lead an unbelievably sad life!

7. Ok, this is my theory. The editors of Cosmo are just really, really hungry. They are STARVING. Otherwise, there is just no viable explanation for the bad erotica in the back this month. What Cosmo calls its "red hot read." Which is about some dude who totally loves this girl that he just met five minutes for her awesome self and not her 80 bajillion dollars, who chases her out of a party in order to make sure she is ok, and then proceeds to break out.... the ice cream.

"He really is going to make me into his own personal sundae! Dani thought, and then gasped."

NO! No no no no no no no.

8. They give you a schedule of what to talk about with "your man:"

1) On Friday night, ask him how his buddies are doing
2.) Saturday, in bed, ask him to spill his "in the sack" fantasy.
3.) Sunday morning- "Lounge in bed while planning next weekend"

Oy! Ok, here is a tip. If you need a magazine to help you schedule talking to another human being, you need to be in a sheltered workshop. Seriously. In fact, if you read Cosmo for any other reason than the fact that it is totally fucking hilarious, you need to be in a sheltered workshop. It's pretty much a fact.

Gimme, gimme less, gimme less Ms. Shitney Spears.

Ok so everyone has blogged about it and more but I feel I need to at least talk about poor old '(You Drive Me) Crazy' Shitney Spears. Now to say Britney was bad is an understatement. I felt like I was at a nightclub were a Bachelorette Party had decided to come in and they made the bride-to-be strip down to her underwear and get up and "perform" with the strippers. Oh wait, I forgot to say the bride got a terrible weave before she went out AND took some Valium and drank at least three bottles of champagne.

YIKES!

As far as why would Shitney be allowed to perform? Well from a producer stand point it was win-win. If she was terrific everyone would talk about her "comeback" (even though saying "comeback" is ridiculous since she didn't go anywhere. It just seems like if you haven't done anything for the last six months you can get a "comeback") and say she was amazing and blah, blah. blah. If she was terrible, everyone would STILL be talking about her and everyone would be talking about it. Ta-dah! Press for MTV either way.

I've never liked the comparisons of Shitney to my girl Madge. Albeit there are some similarities but for good or worse (more often times worse) Madonna usually sings live and if she doesn't it's hard to tell. Shitney didn't even attempt to open her mouth for most of her performance. Again it was like someone dared her to get on stage and then she did...

Anyways, so yeah to me Shitney is more like Paula Abdul. Both known more for the looks and dancing abilities. Both have limited if no vocal abilities. They are both crazy, though we didn't learn that until later. They both had huge hits, made lots of money, were admired and imitated by little girls and... (drum roll) BOTH had HUGE bombs on the MTV Video Music Awards.

Does anyone remember Paula's Vibeology performance? YIKES! Oh and of course the be and end all to a career: a change in management. Nothing is faster, except Lindsay Lohan to a bag of coke, then changing your management team that helped make you a star. Hello? Tom Cruise jumping up and down on a couch? When they don't have the proper people reining them in, we get to see what they are really like. And no one really wants that. We say we do but we don't. We never needed to realize that Shitney is probably one generation away or maybe just a cousin from poor white trash. She did much better when we never heard her speak.

By the look of that stripper-wanna-be number she doesn't even have a career at that. Well, strike that, some podunk town will hire her to work the 2-4-1 Pabst Blue Ribbon night.