A Special Place in Hell

Never trust a girl that wants to get in with the boys. Who tells you when she meets you that she’s never friends with girls. Who tells she likes to hang out with guys because they’re “low drama“. Who says that she thinks women are shallow. Who says she likes drinking and sports and crude jokes and not make-up and dresses and gossip. Says she thinks all feminists are whiny, and that there’s no reason for any of that shit anymore. Look at me, she says, I’m one of the boys and they treat me as such.

Never trust a woman who wants to get in with the men. Because she will happily push you down a flight of stairs to get to any of them. If you tell her that any man she has met in passing has assaulted you or anyone you know, if you say that this or any man has harassed you or anyone you know, has mistreated you or anyone you know, she will quickly inform you that she does not like gossip, does not like it when people talk shit. She will call you a whore/slut/bitch/tease behind your back when you leave, her eyes darting for approval. Should she see something with her own eyes, she will tell herself that woman deserved it, brought it upon herself. That shit doesn’t happen to you when you’re in with the guys.

Never trust a girl who wants to get in with the boys. She never learned to be a friend, never wanted to be anyone’s friend, least of all the men.

OMG Sharktopus!

Can a Roger Corman movie starring a half shark, half octopus (and Eric Roberts!) be anything but awesome? I should say not. I'm way excited to see it- especially because.... hear that freakin' awesome theme song going on in the background there? THAT IS MY FRIEND'S BAND. The Cheetah Whores! YAY!



Therese is way more awesome than most people, she will tell you the future and rock your face (she won't drive though... so you're SOL if you get pulled over and your friend who is driving does not have a valid license and you are way the hell too drunk to drive). She won't judge you too much when you almost cry from excitement over having the same shoes as Jello Biafra, and she will also be the only one who believes you at first when you say your mutual friend is, in fact, a sociopath. She plays lap steel guitar, and her sister Lizz- whom I fondly remember having dressed up as Tom Cruise from Risky Business one year for Halloween- does the vocals. Their Uncle is actually directing the film, which is also a thing that is bad ass. Freak out over this song and movie as much as possible, because I'm hoping they'll come to Chicago on tour!

Go Sharktopus! Go friends!

Letter to a Craigslist Nice Guy (TM)

I have a habit of looking on Craigslist for ads from hilariously terrible people in order to post them on my friends' walls and declare them as their new boyfriend/girlfriend. Because I have a full and meaningful life, of course. Anyway, whilst trolling the "misc romance" section- always the most... special, I found THIS special fella. A real, honest to goodness "Nice Guy (TM)."

I sent him the following letter:

"The World Does Not Owe You Pussy, My Friend"

Dear Nice Guy (TM),

I am sure you think you're really nice, or that you were at some point. Sadly, dear, you are mistaken. There is nothing "nice" about pretending to be someone's platonic friend and then being angry and bitter because they don't fuck you. That's dishonest, and frankly, pretty shitty. If you like someone, you tell them. You don't let them go on thinking you're some great friend when you have ulterior motives.

Sure- I get it. You've seen a thousand movies and television shows featuring gross looking, carfone-ish men with supermodel/rocket scientist girlfriends and wives. That's been going on since The Honeymooners, and maybe, doll, you're not swift enough to get that it's not real life and that no, you are not personally entitled to your very own supermodel/rocket scientist girlfriend. The world doesn't owe you that. The world does not owe you pussy.

My pussy is not something that can be purchased with a dowry of a conversation and a thoughtful Christmas present. I am free- unbelievably- to fuck whomever I choose. I do not have to sleep with someone I am not attracted to or interested in. I do not have to date them, I do not have to marry them. I am not required to "reciprocate emotional intimacy with physical intimacy." I do not have to tear my clothes off and scream "do me!" every time someone who is supposed to be my friend acts like one.

Everyone gets crushes, asshole. And the majority of the time they're not going to work out. So what? The difference is, that as we live in a patriarchical society, when it doesn't work out for you, you have the privilege of blaming the woman for being "shallow."When it doesn't work out for a woman, she's supposed to blame herself. I have never, in my life, heard a woman say "That guy is such a shallow asshole for not dating me. Who does he think he is?" Have you?

You aren't an asshole because you're bitter because the mean women hurt you. You're an asshole because you're a misogynist. Because you hated women to begin with, because you never really were being "nice."

I hope this will prevent you from shooting up an LA Fitness Center.

Sincerely,

Robyn

No Babies!

So.... It seems I'm finally getting to that point in life where some of my friends are actually having babies and getting married and crap. Which is weird, at least to me. Mostly because my average relationship lasts about a month (I'm a quick study, it doesn't take me that long to realize they're terrible), and because, well, taking care of Mr. Catface is responsibility enough for me at this point. Maturity wise, I am still at the point where, if someone tells me they are pregnant, my initial reaction is "Oh my god- what are you going to do about it???" rather than "Congratulations!"

Personally, I don't understand why anyone who wanted a child would have one personally when you can just order out. Lots of kids need to be adopted, and that doesn't require giving up smoking and drinking for a full nine months whilst some alien being feeds off of your predigested food. Call me crazy, but that seems pretty gross. The grossest thing of all, however, is this thing my friend Linday told me about one time- a thing so gross it caused us to shudder on and off for days, months, weeks afterwards:



Do you know what that is? That is a mucous plug. THAT happens in your vag while you are pregnant. How much does the idea of your lady parts having post-nasal drip make you want to die? How much does the fact that someone took a picture of their mucous plug make you want to die? How much does the fact that I actually copied and pasted that into my blog make you want to die? I bet it is a lot.

From wikipedia- "Normally during human pregnancy, the mucus is cloudy, clear, thick, and sticky. Toward the end of the pregnancy, when the cervix thins, some blood is released into the cervix which causes the mucus to become bloody. As the woman gets closer to labor, the mucus plug discharges as the cervix begins to dilate. The plug may come out as a plug, a lump, or simply as increased vaginal discharge over several days. The mucus may be tinged with brown, pink, or red blood, which is why the event is sometimes referred to as 'bloody show'"

No thank you!

If I were in charge of sex education, this would be the first thing I would talk about. There would be no pregnancy pacts in my classroom. Only girls who looked forward to a bright, mucous plug free future of getting to spend days off in their 20's fighting off a hangover, eating cold pizza, and writing about how gross pregnancy is, while wearing a tiara and hanging out with some awesome cats. That is what I am doing anyway, and it's pretty sweet. I would say "Having children only adds to the amount of laundry you have to put off doing!" I would show them pictures of tapeworms, and tell them that that is pretty much what pregnancy is, except that it does not make you thin. I would show them pictures of popped out belly buttons, which is the third grossest thing that can happen to you while pregnant. I would say "Do you know that it is possible that your lady parts will turn a different color afterwards? Because one time I heard that was a thing that could happen!" I would show them the movie Alien.

I know, I know. Talking about how gross having a baby is is a touchy subject. Much like the subject of talking about how hilarious artsy-ish/professionally done hipster couple photos are, as I found out the other day. Sheesh. I won't even touch that one because apparently it's something I am not deep enough to understand. Just like you'll probably tell me that the miracle of birth is some wonderful thing that I will someday want to experience. Neither of these things are true. Nevertheless, if I end up either getting pregnant, or taking a black and white picture with a gentleman caller up against a brick wall, holding cigarettes and looking chock full of ennui, I advise you to feel free to push me down the stairs. I'm just sayin'.

Mother's Day- A Day Late and Many Dollars Short

(One of my mother's favorite songs, decided whilst sitting at the kitchen table and listening to the entire Great Rock and Roll Swindle album with my best friend and I in 6th grade.)

You always hear stories about women freaking out over "becoming their mothers"- or at least, this is an old schtick in the same vein as women eating pints of Ben and Jerry's while crying, buying lots of shoes, and freaking out over never getting married. So, being that I'm not Cathy and this particular schema doesn't apply to me, you shouldn't be too surprised to hear that, hell, if I were to turn into my mother, that would be freaking awesome. My mom is pretty bad ass.

Here's a story: Back in elementary school, they had these "Santa's Workshops" during Christmas time and kids were taken down there one group at a time to go buy some crappy sweatshop made gifts for their parents and siblings. Whatever. Anyway, one year my mother got roped into volunteering. It was not long before I had all these kids coming up to me saying "Your mom is so awesome! She taught me how to shoplift!"

Now, let me explain. See, I went to a *really* classy school. Except not. See, at Santa's Sweatshop, the kids who didn't have any money with which to purchase tacky paperweights and compasses had to stand up against the wall while the other kids shopped. Nice, huh? Because that's not anything that could embarass the crap out of a 10 year old or anything. Anyway, my mother, horrified by the situation, goes up to the kids up against the wall and tells them that they're going to be in her group. She then takes them on a tour of Santa's Sweatshop, flamboyantly showing them how to shove the various knicknacks up their sleeves. After that, even the kids that had money pretended they didn't so they could be in her group and learn how to shoplift.

This has always been one of my favorite examples, among many, of "how my mother is." Because it's not just that she's funny and silly and a bit rebellious- it's that she has this innate sense of justice and a talent for making people feel special.

My friends were always way excited to see my mother when they came over to visit, which is something I was always so proud of. She wasn't the cookie baking mom, and she wasn't the "Cool Mom" who wanted to smoke pot with teenagers or anything (thank god). We all just sat at the kitchen table and talked about school, and friends, and boys and politics and other things with her. And she was hilarious, and she made people feel important, and worthwhile, and smart, and funny. Even now, when people are going through a rough patch, I always wish they could talk to her.

Another thing people are supposed to say a lot is that their parents don't understand them. I think I'm pretty easy to understand in general, but if there is one person that always "gets it," it's my mother.

One of her sayings, of which she has many, is that people love you for the way you make them feel about themselves- and she's living proof of that. In my life I've never known anyone else that people loved as exuberantly and automatically as they love her. People just want to be around her- my friends, people on planes, people at CVS, Mormon missionaries... It's an amazing quality, and one that I've always, admittedly, been a bit jealous of.

So, you know, even if it means developing a habit of walking around TJ Maxx for two hours, filling up a shopping carriage and then not buying anything, I couldn't ask for anything more awesome than to turn into my mother someday.

Seasons of Awkward: How Do You Measure A Year In The Life? In Carats, duh)

Ok, so I was getting my eyebrows done at the cheapo nail salon across the street the other day (they're actually not terrible. Plus it only costs 7 dollars, and it's not like anyone really sees my eyebrows anyway, what with my bangs and all. Just so long as I don't look like Jo-Jo the Dogfaced Girl- which was a thing on the verge of happening.), when all of a sudden I hear "Seasons of Love" from Rent playing on the television behind me. Of course, my ears perk up because I'm thinking "SWEET. Another Rent tour!" I've only seen it like, 525,600 times in my life and I could probably stand to see it again, right? But no. No, it was a commercial for Macy's. For jewelry. Diamond jewelry from Macy's. Ostensibly for your mother for Mother's Day, or for your June bride, or simply because you're feeling way guilty about that "business trip" you took to Bangkok. And sure, the song, out of context, seems like a lovely tribute to life and love and living and such. Good things. Daylight? Sunsets? Cups of coffee? Who doesn't like those things? And diamonds! Diamonds are pretty! I mean, SURE- the whole child slavery aspect of it is a little icky, but diamonds are so shiny and sparkly, and you know, if you're making an omelet...

Ok. But the fact remains that uh, this is pretty much a song about a person, dying of AIDS, with a year to live. Awkward! Right? But the kids at this advertising agency don't know that. They just remember all those happy, multicultural people holding hands and singing it on the Today Show back when they were in 6th grade, sitting at the breakfast table, eating a bowl of Cinnamon Apple porridge. It was a heartwarming moment- almost made you forget about the fact that you still had to build a stupid desert in a stupid shoebox for science class instead of spending the weekend happily bouncing around on your pogo ball.

What will they come up with next? I wonder! I thought of some neat ideas on the bus on the way home from work yesterday, after having had several margaritas in awkward celebration of Cinco de Mayo, a holiday I admittedly know little to nothing about, other than that it has something to do with some battle between Mexico and France, possibly over beaded necklaces with strobelighting Corona bottle pendants.

1.

Sam Cooke's Civil Rights era classic "A Change is Gonna Come" would work wonderfully as an ad for estrogen treatments for menopausal women! Picture it- a white suburban looking lady standing in the bathroom, looking wistfully at the half empty box of Tampax. She doesn't need them anymore, but hasn't had the heart to throw them in the trash. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Maybe she will save them and give them to her daughter, little Emmakenziejadenava when she reaches that cusp of womanhood that she herself is leaving behind forever. Maybe she will have them bronzed. Maybe she will stab the child as she slumbers and harvest her skin and... what? No. Time for a hormone patch!

2.

Hot Child in The City by Nick Gilder. Pretty sure it's about a child prostitute. However, it's association with Sex and The City (True story! Every time this comes on my Ipod in the store, someone squeals "This is the song from that Sex and The City episode! Weee!" And then they buy things! Because that is what you would do if you were a character on that show, which some people still think they are.) and the word "pretty" pops up a lot, so really, it would be ideal for a Garnier Nutrisse commercial. I think that's the one SJP is the spokesperson for. She could spin around and toss her hair alot, because that's pretty much what one does in hair commercials. And this song could play, and people would think "Ooh. I too would like to be runnin' wild and lookin' pretty!" Like SJP! Or a child prostitute.

3.

Lou Reed's Walk on The Wild Side would be AWESOME for "Dave and Busters." Because this is how the suburbanites in my mind, and in the mind of advertisers, get totally wild. In reality they're more into key parties, I think. It's pretty wild in the city too, actually, but mostly because I hear that if you go there you've got a pretty good chance of getting shot. I've considered risking it due to my love of skee-ball.

4.

Picture it! A woman wanders towards the fruit section of the Jewel-Osco. She can only get one kind of fruit because her obsessive compulsive husband cannot live in the same house with two kinds of fruit, because that's like, one of his things or something. Or she's poor and only has money to get one variety of fruit. Does she want apples? Does she want grapes? My god. It's like Sophie's Choice up in here! And then, as we hear the low moan of Billie Holiday's voice singing "Strange Fruit"- her eyes fix on some apples in a weird plastic container. But these are no ordinary apples. These are Grapples. Half apples, half grapes. Or apples that taste like grapes. A fruit chimera, if you will. Problem solved! She proudly brings that crate of strange fruit up to the counter, and she's totally not thinking about lynching or anything like that. She's just thinking about fruit- delicious, genetically modified fruit. How happy her husband will be!

The possibilities are really endless, you know, when you totally ignore silly things like context and such. I mean, "What's Going On?" could totally work for Boost Mobile. Perhaps Sylvan Learning Center might want to use Pearl Jam's "Jeremy!" Advertising agencies, take note.

EXCITING NEWS CHICAGO!!!!!

(A picture from the old days of Pandora/Michael and I with Kate Pierson from the B-52's and our dear friend Louis)

Ok, so, because I haven't written too much in here for a while, I somehow neglected to mention on here that one of my dearest friends from back in Rochester was on RuPaul's Drag Race- the incomparable Miss Pandora Boxx! Which is funny because in real life I never shut up about it throughout the season! If you've been reading this thing for a while, you might know that she co-blogged with me for a bit as The New Jan Brady. Anyway, I am insanely proud of her!!!! She didn't win, but she was definitely the break-out star of the show (as she should be). And I'm not just saying that because we're friends and I love him to death- the blogging universe was in an uproar at her elimination. Fact.

Anyway, what I was going to say, is that everyone should be VERY excited because Pandora is going to be performing at Berlin on Thursday, May 13! If you don't go, you'll regret it now, tomorrow and the rest of your life.

It's so funny. People always say things like "It couldn't have happened to a better person"- but I can't think of a trite saying more appropriate in this instance. If you watched the show, it's obvious that Michael not only has talent coming out the wazoo, but is also one of the nicest people you could ever meet. He's just worked so hard for so long that it's wonderful to see great things happening for him- no one deserves this more. I cannot tell you how proud I am of him, and how excited I am that I get to see him in a couple weeks! SQUEE!!!!!

Let Me Just Tell You About The Day I Had Today.

I am home right now, which is a place, quite honestly, I am surprised that I ever got to.

The day started out a bit like any other- I was a bit more hungover than usual, having spent the previous night drinking too many varieties of booze. White wine at work, PBR at this art show I went to with Miss Melissa featuring various paintings based on the movie The Last Unicorn, a dark and stormy at dinner, and vodka and soda at the Innertown for Miss Mary's birthday. Oy. But, you know, everything was fine at work, except that we were of course, severely understaffed. But we were doing interviews! Interviews!!! Which was awesome, because as much as I love my job, I do not so much like working 10 days in a row. Crazy, I know.

ANYWAY, so, after we interview this one girl, she seems promising so we put her on the floor for a sec to see how she is with customers. Poor thing! It wasn't so much the lady she was helping, but the lady I was helping that was the problem. Now, this lady is a regular, and I love her, but she was definitely going on for an especially long amount of time about her stepdaughter's Dissociative Identity Disorder. Like, in detail. About each of the personalities she'd met, and how they all have different handwriting, and how there's one named Robyn who is five, and how the girl had telekenetic powers, and how she probably originally split at 18 months old. Yup.

THEN, the cash register system breaks- which means we have to do manual receipts- which takes a longer time and pisses people off. THEN, I realize that my Ipod is not in fact on the "Work Appropriate" playlist, and is now, to the dismay of many fancy ladies in the store, definitely playing "Pussy Control." Can you just imagine? I felt terrible for the girl, but she totally held up- which was impressive to say the least.

The day continued in that fashion. One of my best customers came in around 5:45, and despite the fact that we close at six, I stayed there until 7:30 with her. Because, you know, she's pretty awesome and I actually like her. So, afterwards, she wanted to go get a drink. And I was like, oh, well, I can just have one, because the band I sometimes sing with, comprised mostly of my dearest friends, has a show and I want to go and be supportive and such. But then, the dude who was supposed to come with me- in order to create a very much desired buffer zone between me and the creepiest dude in the history of ever- could not come with me due to having to write an article. So I was like "Well, I can in fact have more drinks now, because I am not going to go by myself and feel a lot like I am going to throw up the whole time." Luckily, my friends understood. Yay friends!

So, anyway, we go to a bar in the neighborhood where I work, which is naturally filled with many terrible people. Including a white dude wearing a dashiki and track pants. My client is totally pissed because her bf is being a douche, and thus there's a lot of drinking, and a lot of me saying "Oh my god, you're a bad ass lady! You don't need that shit! Whatever, go find someone more awesome!" Because I totally am awesome at being "that friend," you know. But the bill comes to like, $90, which I was way unprepared for, and sincerely hope that my boss will reimburse me for part of (at least more than the $20 I did a payout for), because otherwise I will seriously cry. SIGH.

SO, light in wallet and dizzy in head, I jump in cab to get back home. Maybe in one of the worst moods ever, because I am a very cheap person, and also unsure of my abilities regarding being comforting. However, as I was walking over to my apartment, I saw more friends! Good friends! Amanda and Rachel and Steph and Sam and others! And I freak out to them about my day of insanity, and now it sounds less insane the more I tell it, which was just what I was hoping for!

STILL. I am tired. And going to bed. And I love you, you're awesome, and you don't need that shit.

Holiday Lives of the Saints

St. Patrick's Day is kind of a funny thing. I know I say this every year, but the whole celebration of old timey racism, coupled with the fact that people go around saying that "everyone is Irish on St. Patrick's Day!" which is not true and it would be weird if it were, tripled by the fact that most people in this country, probably most people celebrating St. Patrick's day are not even Catholic strikes me as odd.

Then again, I'm not Catholic either, but I really like doing Lent because I feel like it's a good idea. I like a challenge.

Back East, where I grew up, Saints Days are a bigger deal, sorta. Or at least there are more of them. I loved going to them when I was a kid, even though we weren't Catholic, because they usually involved a lot of free food. True story, when I was 9 years old, we went to the festival of St. Anthony in Boston's North End, and I lost my wallet. A month or so later, it was mailed back to me (from Florida!), complete with my $40 dollars and my Mighty Mouse Fan Club Membership Card. St. Anthony, if you didn't know, is the patron saint of lost things ("St. Anthony, St. Anthony won't you please look around, something is lost and can't be found" is, I think, his official prayer), and my Noni thought it was a miracle and bragged about it at family gatherings for months, until either another miracle happened or someone died.

Anyway, back to the thing I originally intended to write! I figure, if we're going to celebrate St. Patrick's Day, we might as well celebrate other Saints Days as well. Because celebrating is fun!

August 30th- St. Fiacre's Day- Patron saint of Cab Drivers, Florists, Hosiers, Box Makers, and against Venereal Disease, Piles and Hemorrhoids.

How to Celebrate!: Do a cab driver. A cab driver with hemorrhoids and a pantyhose fetish whom, when getting romantic, will sometimes refer to your lady parts as a "box," perhaps one that he would like to get inside and curl up in like he does for three hours at a time in his taxi over by the park. But make sure to use a condom, and make sure he buys you flowers first (because you're a lady)! Also, for god sakes, pick up the pile of clothes in your room by your closet!

April 16- St. Drogo's Day- Patron Saint of Coffeehouses and Unattractive People, The Mentally Ill, and against Muteness, Hernias, Gallstones, Ruptures and Sickness

How to Celebrate!: Step 1- Go to Filter! Step 2- Ask The Muffin Lady how her day was.

August 24- St. Bartholemew's Day- Patron saint of cobblers, tanners, whiteners, cheese makers, against twitching!

How to Celebrate: OMG Makeovers and shoe shopping!!! At a fancy spa where they have cheese plates!


February 6th- St. Amand's Day- Patron saint of Barkeepers, Bar Staff, Bartenders, Winemakers, Brewers, Wine Merchants, Vintners, Vine growers... and Boy Scouts.

How To Celebrate!: The same way you celebrate St. Patrick's Day! Except that it makes sense, because you're drinking because St. Amand is apparently the patron Saint of all things boozey (and, um, Boy Scouts. Let's not delve into that one.), not because Irish people are drunks! But, you know, if it's not as fun without dressing up like an ethnicity you are not, you can always wear a beret, because dude was French. Also, berets look way cuter than plastic green derbies.

Talk of Bullying Makes Me A Little Janis Ian-y, But Not Too Much

I just read this post on Jezebel about whether or not bullying victims have poor social skills. My question is- does it really matter? Being an asshole to a person with bad social skills doesn't make you any less of an asshole than being a jerk to a person with good social skills. You're still an asshole. What?

I've written before about my time served as a social pariah- not because it's necessarily something I'm still terribly upset by or still coming to terms with- but because it has a way of occasionally being relative to my life now and the perspective I have on things (which, oddly, is mostly positive). It took me a long time to stop just joking about having been "Carrie without the telekenetic powers" and to actually say that yeah, it was a fucking godawful thing that happened to me for ten years. For so long, I had this thing in my head telling me that there was something terribly wrong about me that I didn't and couldn't understand, the thing that had made me a target. For so long, I didn't realize that it wasn't me, it was them, and they were assholes.

I was unlucky enough to have grown up in a time before bullying was something that was taken at all seriously. Every time I ended up in the Principal's office with whomever was torturing me at the time (once a week, at least), the focus was not on what they had done but what I had done to provoke it and "make myself a target". The things I did consisted primarily of dressing strangely, having opinions, and defending other students from bullying. I cannot tell you how many special conferences my parents had with the school staff over this time in which they were told the exact same thing.

I was different, sure, but I don't think I had social issues going into it. Not bad ones anyway. I was always kind to people, but I didn't ever quite pick up on what I was even supposed to do to blend in. I don't think I ever have, and that's not something I regret. I also don't regret the fact that I really did wake up every day and think things were going to be different and maybe even awesome. I don't even regret having been bullied, because I think that for the most part it's made me a better person. If I spy now, on the Facebook pages of those who bullied me, I certainly came out on top. Sadly, because I have to go and be me, I don't even get any of that schadenfreude that I'd so looked forward too whilst planning my appearances on "Geek to Chic" episodes of 90's talk shows.

I didn't get, and still do not get, how certain social things work. When people comment on the fact that I don't so much seem to care what others think of me, I smile and nod, but I truly have no idea what they're even talking about. Like, in the way that I don't know how I would act differently if I did, or how I am supposed to predict what they might think of me. Even thinking about attempting this makes me feel crazy.

I will cop to the fact that I do not pick up on like, nuance. I do not pick up on social manipulation. My mother doesn't either, so basically a lot of our conversations end up sounding like we're some brand of noble savages exploring this new and crazy world. This leads, inevitably, to this ridiculous Abbot and Costello routine that I tend to have, eventually, with every dude I ever date. They say or do something to try to make me jealous, and I feel like crap and don't want to see them anymore. Then they get all "But it was because I really like you and I just wanted to make you jealous" and I get all "Wait, no. If you like me, why would you want me to feel bad? I want people I like to feel good" and then "I wasn't trying to make you feel bad, I was trying to make you jealous" and it makes perfect sense to them, and no sense at all to me because in no way do I like feeling bad OR confused, and so I get the fuck out of there.

My main regrets, if you must know, are the social issues I had coming out of it.

Some of them aren't so bad, and are in fact just kind of funny. I need to make sure everyone feels included in a very, very complusive way. If I am at a party, and someone is sitting/standing by themselves, I will go make friends with them immediately. I so hate that feeling of not knowing where to sit, or stand, or whom to talk to that I cannot bear thinking that anyone else is feeling that way. I also feel weirdly important about other people feeling good about themselves.

The bad part, however, is that for a long time I was *so* thrilled whenever anyone was willing to be my friend that, shit, I bought them lunch, I drove them everywhere, I'd do anything just because I was so grateful that they would even deign to speak to me. I made a lot of bad friends that way. I have since corrected this.

The really bad part is the effect that "Psych!" had on my life. Oh my god, I can't even tell you how freakin' paranoid that can make a person- especially someone like me who tends to take things very seriously. In case you are unfamiliar, the "psych!" game goes like this- someone comes up to you and "pretends" to be nice to you- either a girl as a friend, or a boy pretending to like you, and then the second you believe them, they say "psych!" or, alternatively, just make fun of you for actually believing they would like you for a second. When I first moved to Rochester I thought that the people who were being friendly to me were actually making fun of me. I swear, I constantly think that this is a thing that might still happen, and the thought of it happening makes me want to throw up. It's why I also fear that thing people do in Chicago where they really don't like you but are nice to you because even though they don't like you they need you, and others, to think that they are nice. Quelle horreur! Thinking about it makes me panic and itch all over. I would seriously rather have someone punch me dead in the face than to go on assuming that we are friends and have that not be true.

So, yeah, social issues, I've got them. But so does everyone. It would be weirder if you didn't. At the end of the day, being a jerk is a way worse social issue than any I've ever had. If you ask me, the best way to cure bullying would be to show kids in highschool pictures of adults who were bullied as kids, and, to contrast, adults who were bullies. Let me tell you, we turn out significantly better (and like, WAY better looking). Swear to god- you'd have kids arguing about who got to be the social pariah, were that to be part of the curriculum. It ain't purty.

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.