Vajazzling Back Into Your Hearts

AHOY!

So, if we are not friends in real life, or even on the book of faces, and if you are anything like my mother (I doubt it, but who knows), you may have thought I was dead. I'm not. I merely stopped writing in this blog for an especially long amount of time, both because of personal reasons, and because I am lazy in the winter and think nothing interesting anyway during this time. I wish I was Dostoevsky, but I'm not. Sad face.

But not today. Today, my mind has been blown. Blown by the concept of
Vajazzling! I can't even handle it. The possibilities for awkwardness are endless.

First off, one has to wonder about the whole supply and demand aspect of this. Was the inventor of Vajazzling in bed with her lover one day, when said lover said "Gee, your vadge is terrific, really it is. And I totally appreciate the fact that you spend a retarded amount of money on making it more prepubescent looking. Because seriously, if you didn't look just like a porn star, I'd throw up all over my Grizzly Adams beard and my beer gut. But it would be SO much better if it was a little more... I don't know, sparkly?" And then vajazzling was born?

I feel as though this is one of those things that we're all going to laugh at... at first, but may soon become "mandatory." Although, maybe not, because dudes hated glitter. Like, a lot. The glitter fad made it like, almost impossible to cheat on one's significant other (HEY. Your pubes were far less glittery the last time I saw them! WTF??), which was rather inconvenient for a subset of the population. Glitter never fucking goes away. It's totally possible that there are still traces of it in my old room at my parent's house, because, shit, I loved me some sparkles. Anyway, this could totally cause the same problem, in addition to possible chafing. Oh, and choking. Can you just imagine? Having to tell the police that your husband/boyfriend/drunken one night stand just died because he choked on the Swarovski crystals you had glued to your lady business? How awkward would that be?

I really feel like if you get vajazzled, you also have to have a device built into your pants that makes that high pitched, choral "AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH" sound like you hear on tv when an angel appears or someone finds buried treasure or something. I kind of want that anyway, probably more than I want my lady parts to resemble a Bob Mackie gown. But then again, despite everything else, I've always got a bit of New England prude in me, so I'll probably refrain. My dear friend Jill, who was totally on top of the vajazzling trend before it even was one, is apparently way more exciting than I am and considering vajazzlement as a vagina decorating option. I couldn't do it. Besides, whenever I get my nails done, I totally fuck them up not ten minutes later. So I'd have like, a totally broken down and sad looking vajazzle, and that's never good.

Globetrottin'!: The Death Pool

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.

Curmudgeon

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.

Vampire Logic Fail

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.

Globe-trottin'

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.

The Difference Between the Sexes as Illustrated by 30 Minutes at The Diner Next Door

Boy: You, Robyn, are a vicious and terrible person for thinking that people who go on cruises are inherently boring. Maybe they just like different things than you do! Also, you shouldn't mock people for their PDA's in a diner at 2am, maybe they're really in love.

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.

The Chicago Bus Casanova!

One morning, about a month ago, I was standing at the bus stop, innocently trying to get to work, when a creepy old dude with a GIANT mole on his chin (one of the skin colored ones that look like you should just be able to flick it off with your finger. Gross.) starts talking to me about the weather, and how it's not the kind of weather you want to see WHEN YOU OWN A BOAT COMPANY.

"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.

Amazing.

Chicago Gets It's Own Hipster Grifter! (A Warning!)

Following in Williamsburg's footsteps, Chicago now has it's very own hipster grifters!

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!

Here is another thing you should do...

The weekend of the 11th will heretofore be known as Robyn's Overexposure weekend!

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.

The Red Shoes

For over a year now, I have stalked shoe stores across Chicago for a pair of red flats. Easy enough to find, you'd think, but no. I mean, I've seen some, but they just haven't been right. They've been a soft, muted, tomato-ey red, or dark cherry red, when what I really want is fire engine/ Chanel Red No. 5 lipstick red. Or, they've been old-lady looking, or made of pleather, or sandal-y, when what I want is either leather or patent leather Mary Janes or ballet flats.

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.

Here is something you should do.

First, bring me some hot chocolate, because I've run out, and being that it's 8 in the morning and I'm in quite a state after last night's show, I'm so not going to Dominick's right now, and I don't feel like making coffee either.

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.

Smile With Your Vagina?

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.

Stuff and things

• 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.
  

You don't know me, you don't know where I live... Marie Claire...

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?

In Which I Start Off Talking About The Marx Brothers and End Up Going on Some Rant About Feminist Linguistics.

I am feeling much better today, after having spent a week or so feeling especially persnickity. Maybe because it's my day off and I have no plans to do anything whatsoever. Unless I go see Duck Soup in the park tonight. I do love me some Marx Brothers...

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.

Dry mouth

Oh god.

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.

No Reason To Live (Short People, I Mean. Not Me. I Am Awesome.)

I have a very sore upper arm right now, and tomorrow I will surely have a bruise- and not because I did anything fun.

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.

Today, I Am 15 Years Old, and My Heart is Broken

When I was 15 years old, my family moved from Massachusetts to Rochester, NY. Even though I was basically loathed by nearly the entire town from whence we came, moving was still difficult for me- because I did have a few good friends, because I would miss my house, and because it was too strange being so far away from our whole family (even though most of them weren't too fond of us either). On the day we moved, I hid in my beloved closet with the slanted ceiling- the same place I hid my diaries, the same place I'd sit when I'd talk on the phone with my friends when I didn't want my sister spying on me- and I tried to stay. Obviously, it didn't work. As we left, I tried so hard to burn every detail of our house into my memory. The grey stone tile in the foyer, the green carpet, the island table in the kitchen where I talked for an hour with my mom after school every day, the strange random window in between the dining room and the living room- my room, with it's pink carpet and it's slanted ceilings- the reason why I could never have the fancy canopy bed of my dreams- and the giant rock in the backyard where I'd go whenever I pretended to run away.

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.

Thanks, mom.

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.

Really, Greenpeace?

I have pretty much the worst time ever saying no to canvassers- at least as long as I generally agree with them. I did NYPIRG for like a week, so I've got a lot of empathy (worst time ever. I love you Ralph Nader, but my my feet did not)- plus, I like talking to people who are really dedicated to some sort of non-jesus related world saving cause. Too many people talk about nothing. So, anyway, amongst other things, I am a member of Greenpeace. Not a fancy member. They just take 15 dollars out of my account every month, and send me updates. Well, not updates so much as vaguely threatening sounding emails.

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.

Notions Counter

I am staying in this evening, as evidenced by the fact that I am writing this right now instead of going out. I must confess, I am not the biggest fan of fireworks. In fact, the noise from them is driving the cats and I insane at the moment. Anyway, I went out last night, and am still in recovery mode.

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!