Amazingly, I didn't bring back a crippling intestinal problem from Mexico. I was prepared to. We set out with all sorts of pharmaceuticals to combat everything that could go wrong with one's colon. Enough, in fact, that I was afraid we might exceed our weight limit on Air Mexicana given the sheer volume of Miralax and Imodium we were toting. Happily, we never had to use any of it and I stopped looking for a Medivac wherever I went. I attribute this gastrointestinal strength to tequila, handiwipes and the fact that I've stopped licking doorknobs.
Near the end of our trip, my mother-in-law, Charlene, had arranged for a spa afternoon for the two of us. The way to my heart is via a thorough rub down of my body, so of course I was delighted at the prospect and on the morning of, did a little dance in front of Marc that concluded with my saying, "I get a massage! SUCK IT!"
And, oh, how the mighty fall.
After check in and changing into fluffy robes, my masseuse led me back into her room. There was an immediate problem with the language barrier. I speak no Spanish but had been able to get by most of the week by saying things like, "Cazadores! Guacamole!" phrases that, sadly, would not apply in this situation. So I gesticulated, pointing at my back and neck and then at my feet yelling "WORK ON THIS!" at top volume. That always helps, you know. I then made a sweeping gesture down my legs and, with a face that was supposed to convey "You can ignore this part" but I fear mistakenly expressed that I was holding back a fart, we concluded the initial meeting and she left so I could disrobe and crawl under the sheets.
I hung my robe and, now completely nude, started to climb onto the table. Most women will attest to the fact that there are moments when naked that your body does not look it's best no matter how much time you spend at the gym. One of those is when climbing into a bed and wrestling with the sheets before you lie down. The stomach somehow looks like a Shar Pei and things wiggle that really ought not to. I was in this position, trying to push my feet down to the bottom of the sheets when I realized that they were stuck. I had a terrible flash back to college, a time when I mastered the art of short sheeting rather than going to my chemistry lab, and wondered if this was some sort of Karmic retribution of my having trapped so many friends in their beds years ago. I wrestled with the sheets, unable to get my legs to move and somehow completely tangling up my left foot in the process. My body, from the knees up, was entirely exposed.
It was at this point that I heard the soft knocking at the door and before I could scream, "MAYDAY! MAYDAY!" the knob turned, and in walked my masseuse who, taking one look at my stricken face and akimbo body flew to my side and began trying to help me. Unfortunately, she could not, and at this point I was in the midst of severe cold sweats at having a complete stranger so close to my privates. And I KNOW that I was about to let her oil me up and rub me down, but at least with a strategically placed SHEET in play.
Not to take you through all of the grisly details, but she finally took a proactive stance and just ripped the sheet off of the table, releasing me from it's hold with one swift tug. I wasn't sure I could go on after this without being simultaneously bathed in gin, but there we were, with no bar in sight, and I was going to ENJOY THIS MASSAGE, dammit.
So she began, and I tried to regain some of my composure...my dignity had clearly left the premises and was probably enjoying happy hour in the hotel lobby. That slag. I was trying to breathe and forget what had happened earlier while my masseuse started in on my neck and shoulders. Tinkly music was playing in the background and I felt myself slowly relaxing. Who cares if my vagina had just been on display? Lalala...
"HHHHHHHHNNNNNNNNAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHPSSSSHHHHH!!!"
This earsplitting noise suddenly ripped through the speakers and filled the room with a sound that I can only describe as Bob Dylan being water-boarded. It lasted for a good 6 seconds, causing me to tense suddenly and my masseuse to put inadvertent pressure on a nerve. I joined Bob Dylan with a startled, "GAH!" and then suddenly the room went quiet and the tinkly music resumed. My masseuse paused for a moment and then, satisfied that this audible Sherman Tank wouldn't return, continued her work.
This went on throughout the hour. The speakers suddenly blasting feedback through the foresty noises every five or so minutes, me tensing in response and the masseuse, similarly startled, responding with intense pressure on various parts of my body and me shouting, "OHOWAHHH!" like a crippled walrus whenever she did. This was not exactly the relationship I had hoped to form with this masseuse. A flagrant and unflattering display of nudity followed by my flailing around on her table like I was being gnawed at by fireants.
Finally, I could feel her wrapping up. After a particularly long solo via the speakers and her muttering what I can only imagine where some Spanish swear words under her breath, she moved behind my head and started clattering around in the cabinet that was back there. She had given up any pretense of trying to keep the room peaceful and banged a few doors open and shut, looking for WHAT, I had no idea. Finally the noise stopped, and through my eye pad, I could feel her leaning over me. After one deep breath, she made this little motion resulting in a tiny gong going binnnnnnnggggggggggggggg somewhere over my left breast. I assume that this gong nonsense was to signal the end of your peaceful hour. Instead, I felt like I needed to find a world wherein nothing moved and everything was silent.
I trudged upstairs to our room and Marc came in shortly after, having apparently joined Dignity down at the bar for drinks. He was luminous, happy, relaxed, shiny. I hated him for just a moment. I relayed the events of the past hour and when he finally stopped laughing, Tecate tinged tears rolling down his cheeks he said, "Well, I suppose that hour of suffering was better than dealing with intestinal warfare," making a sweeping gesture at the piles of pills and medications we had brought with us. A Metamucil tablet rolled onto the floor and settled in between some tiles. Then he said a magical, healing word, "Margarita?" The evening got MUCH better from there.
But I'll never be able to listen to Bob Dylan again without cringing, waiting for sudden pressure on my sciatica from some invisible elbow.
Showing posts with label Funny. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Funny. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Monday, June 15, 2009
My weekend. Or, how when everything is perpendicular and parallel I experience spontaneous orgasm.
You know how sometimes you're really excited for the weekend because of the prospect of sleeping in? and no work? and whatever wild and crazy thing you do on your days off? sex in a tree? I'm just riffing here. But then you're all wheee!, you get home, pour yourself a cold one, relax on the couch for a while and then find that suddenly it's Sunday night and you're watching Friends reruns on TBS and you think, "WAIT A MINUTE! Where did my weekend go?" and then you're all depressed and disgruntled because Monday is staring you in the face like a zombie who is trying to figure out how to best suck out your joy and verve?
Yea. I didn't have one of those weekends.
This weekend, I ORGANIZED. Which is to me what a speedball and a large bottle of vodka is to an addict. Or: HEAVEN. There were clothes to be thrown out, the front closet to be reckoned with and you should see my desk! The pure genius and creativity that shall now FLOW given the sheer beauty of my desk!
I also started to attack the guest bedroom closet, but that is going to take some planning. I'll have to draw up schematics and buy some shit to tackle that area which is also known as the third ring of hell OR The Closet of Which We Do Not Speak. I did step one toe in there to assess how bad the situation had become. We're at least on Orange Alert. I didn't stay in there long enough to really make an exact statement on it's condition as I was afraid of being swallowed whole by some pillows and Marc's down jacket(s). I did make it out with a bag that I hadn't seen in a while and SWEET HOLY MOSES. My knitting supplies!
I'm not bragging when I say that my mother taught me to knit when I was six years old. I'm not bragging because I suck at it righteously. In fact, after she went over the basics and was sure I wasn't going to inadvertently stab an eye out with the needles she left me to my own devices. I came to her some days later with the mangled scarf that I had managed to produce after dropping stitches for roughly a week straight - she patted me on my head and said, "Don't worry Liebchen, you're good at other things." She then turned around an laughed and laughed and laughed in a way that, as a child, I wasn't entirely sure how to take.
I attempted to knit on and off for several years, giving friends things that I'm sure have died dusty deaths in the back of closets. And so when I rescued this bag from the depths of The Place Where Things Go to Die, I was curious as to what I had most recently given up on. I pulled out a wad of dark blue, gorgeous yarn that had been stabbed through with needles, most likely out of frustration on my part. I unrolled the mass and realized it was a scarf I had been knitting for Marc in the early years of our relationship, when things that you made had sentimental value.
I sat on the floor laughing. I had started this project after being laid off during the wreckage of the dot-com years, my hands idle with the yawning gap of time I had between jobs. Mom had suggested that I re-attempt knitting and I had gone down to the store with her to pick out yarn and start a pattern that she deemed me capable of. I labored over it, driving down from San Francisco whenever I had dropped a stitch, which at first was often. About a month later, I had something that a person could feasibly wrap around their neck and, with the pride of someone who has no perspective on their work, I took it down to show my mother.
She took it out of the bag and unrolled it on the counter top, chewing her top lip furiously as she examined my work. A rather pregnant pause ensued with more lip chewing and some hand rubbing across her mouth. Finally, she could hold it in no longer and burst into laughter, the kind where she had to support herself on the counter top. I was flummoxed, surprised. She looked at me with tears in her eyes and said, "Oh darling. You could not possibly be this hard up that you have to give THIS to Marc for his birthday. Aren't you on unemployment? Do you need some money?" and then she went into another gale of laughter which lasted for a very, very long time. I think she actually had to sit down and there was a bottle of wine opened to calm her down.
I called her yesterday to relay this memory after I had given the scarf a proper burial. Her response was, "Ahahahahahahaha! Ahem. I DO recall that thing. You know love, we can't all be good at everything. Ahahaha! Perhaps you should just give knitting a rest."
Indeed. Know thyself - maturity for the win!
Yea. I didn't have one of those weekends.
This weekend, I ORGANIZED. Which is to me what a speedball and a large bottle of vodka is to an addict. Or: HEAVEN. There were clothes to be thrown out, the front closet to be reckoned with and you should see my desk! The pure genius and creativity that shall now FLOW given the sheer beauty of my desk!
I also started to attack the guest bedroom closet, but that is going to take some planning. I'll have to draw up schematics and buy some shit to tackle that area which is also known as the third ring of hell OR The Closet of Which We Do Not Speak. I did step one toe in there to assess how bad the situation had become. We're at least on Orange Alert. I didn't stay in there long enough to really make an exact statement on it's condition as I was afraid of being swallowed whole by some pillows and Marc's down jacket(s). I did make it out with a bag that I hadn't seen in a while and SWEET HOLY MOSES. My knitting supplies!
I'm not bragging when I say that my mother taught me to knit when I was six years old. I'm not bragging because I suck at it righteously. In fact, after she went over the basics and was sure I wasn't going to inadvertently stab an eye out with the needles she left me to my own devices. I came to her some days later with the mangled scarf that I had managed to produce after dropping stitches for roughly a week straight - she patted me on my head and said, "Don't worry Liebchen, you're good at other things." She then turned around an laughed and laughed and laughed in a way that, as a child, I wasn't entirely sure how to take.
I attempted to knit on and off for several years, giving friends things that I'm sure have died dusty deaths in the back of closets. And so when I rescued this bag from the depths of The Place Where Things Go to Die, I was curious as to what I had most recently given up on. I pulled out a wad of dark blue, gorgeous yarn that had been stabbed through with needles, most likely out of frustration on my part. I unrolled the mass and realized it was a scarf I had been knitting for Marc in the early years of our relationship, when things that you made had sentimental value.
I sat on the floor laughing. I had started this project after being laid off during the wreckage of the dot-com years, my hands idle with the yawning gap of time I had between jobs. Mom had suggested that I re-attempt knitting and I had gone down to the store with her to pick out yarn and start a pattern that she deemed me capable of. I labored over it, driving down from San Francisco whenever I had dropped a stitch, which at first was often. About a month later, I had something that a person could feasibly wrap around their neck and, with the pride of someone who has no perspective on their work, I took it down to show my mother.
She took it out of the bag and unrolled it on the counter top, chewing her top lip furiously as she examined my work. A rather pregnant pause ensued with more lip chewing and some hand rubbing across her mouth. Finally, she could hold it in no longer and burst into laughter, the kind where she had to support herself on the counter top. I was flummoxed, surprised. She looked at me with tears in her eyes and said, "Oh darling. You could not possibly be this hard up that you have to give THIS to Marc for his birthday. Aren't you on unemployment? Do you need some money?" and then she went into another gale of laughter which lasted for a very, very long time. I think she actually had to sit down and there was a bottle of wine opened to calm her down.
I called her yesterday to relay this memory after I had given the scarf a proper burial. Her response was, "Ahahahahahahaha! Ahem. I DO recall that thing. You know love, we can't all be good at everything. Ahahaha! Perhaps you should just give knitting a rest."
Indeed. Know thyself - maturity for the win!
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Doesn't that require a prescription?
It goes without mention that Santa Barbara was a lot of fun. The weather tried to stick it to us but we persisted and wandered around dressed in everything we had packed on one day, roasted on another and then had a mild case of windburn thrown into the mix just for kicks. It remains one of my favorite places to visit for a long weekend not only because it's lovely but because some of my favorite people live there. Also, the boys seem to be prettier in that zip code. So, you know, it gives you something to look at besides the blue blue sea.
We happened to eat monstrously well all weekend. It was a bit ridiculous, in fact, how much we ate. I'm used to that kind of gastronomical exercise when I'm vacationing with my family, but I had neglected to pack my Official Eating Pants™ and so I spent many hours trying to hitch my waistband into a comfortable position. Score: Waistband-3, Jen-0.
Sabeen and Steve were celebrating their four year wedding anniversary and decided that a nice dinner was in order. Why they invited us fools along, I'll never understand, but we put on our Fancy Manners which means I promised not to swear during dinner and Marc would do his best to chew with his mouth closed. We nearly succeeded.
We were seated and given our menus without any mishaps. Our waiter, however, took quite a shining to Marc. Marc is, if nothing else, pretty. Men of a certain predisposition tend to be quite fond of him, if you catch my drift. I think it's his curiously round ass. He thinks it's his sparkling personality. Potato, poTAHto. Anyhoo, our waiter certainly found him charming and paid him every attention, fluttering over him and practically rubbing his neck at one point. I don't think Marc really noticed as he was greatly absorbed in the mammoth wine list. Because, you know, ALCOHOL.
But before we imbibed in the grape, Marc and Sabeen decided to have a cocktail. Sabeen ordered a Sidecar and Marc turned to our blushing waiter and said with complete sincerity, "I'll have a Lemon Drop please." Seriously. He was not helping himself AT ALL. I think our waiter had a teeny tiny orgasm. He clapped his hands with glee and said, "OH! That is my FAVORITE drink TOO!" He had found his soul mate, clearly. I think it was then that Marc realized the effect that he was having on the waiter as his eyes sort of bugged out and I thought he was going to yell, "I LIKE VAGINA! NOT PENIS!" but he resisted (Fancy Manners, you know) and instead climbed into my lap and stuck his tongue down my throat. It's cool. We have a license that says we can do that.
The rest of dinner went by without too much drama. Marc would grab at me each time the waiter came near which made eating difficult, but I didn't need the calories at that point. And then came dessert. Why we decided to even look at the menu is quite beyond me. But we did. And there it was, the first thing all of us saw:
DRY SACK
Now, we were all rather nonplussed by why a reference to testicles would be on the dessert menu. It stood to reason that it was some sort of after dinner drink, but really? Dry Sack? Did the sherry maker have his hands down his pants when they were naming the thing and thought, "God...my sack could really use some balm...let's try this liquid and see what happens!" And Voila! Dry sack begone! It just conjures up images of things that you don't want to think about after eating. We begged, BEGGED Marc to ask the waiter what it was knowing it would make his night (and ours). Maturity for the win! Marc refused, which was really too bad. I think it would have made a nice anniversary gift for Sabeen and Steve. Spoilsport.
We happened to eat monstrously well all weekend. It was a bit ridiculous, in fact, how much we ate. I'm used to that kind of gastronomical exercise when I'm vacationing with my family, but I had neglected to pack my Official Eating Pants™ and so I spent many hours trying to hitch my waistband into a comfortable position. Score: Waistband-3, Jen-0.
Sabeen and Steve were celebrating their four year wedding anniversary and decided that a nice dinner was in order. Why they invited us fools along, I'll never understand, but we put on our Fancy Manners which means I promised not to swear during dinner and Marc would do his best to chew with his mouth closed. We nearly succeeded.
We were seated and given our menus without any mishaps. Our waiter, however, took quite a shining to Marc. Marc is, if nothing else, pretty. Men of a certain predisposition tend to be quite fond of him, if you catch my drift. I think it's his curiously round ass. He thinks it's his sparkling personality. Potato, poTAHto. Anyhoo, our waiter certainly found him charming and paid him every attention, fluttering over him and practically rubbing his neck at one point. I don't think Marc really noticed as he was greatly absorbed in the mammoth wine list. Because, you know, ALCOHOL.
But before we imbibed in the grape, Marc and Sabeen decided to have a cocktail. Sabeen ordered a Sidecar and Marc turned to our blushing waiter and said with complete sincerity, "I'll have a Lemon Drop please." Seriously. He was not helping himself AT ALL. I think our waiter had a teeny tiny orgasm. He clapped his hands with glee and said, "OH! That is my FAVORITE drink TOO!" He had found his soul mate, clearly. I think it was then that Marc realized the effect that he was having on the waiter as his eyes sort of bugged out and I thought he was going to yell, "I LIKE VAGINA! NOT PENIS!" but he resisted (Fancy Manners, you know) and instead climbed into my lap and stuck his tongue down my throat. It's cool. We have a license that says we can do that.
The rest of dinner went by without too much drama. Marc would grab at me each time the waiter came near which made eating difficult, but I didn't need the calories at that point. And then came dessert. Why we decided to even look at the menu is quite beyond me. But we did. And there it was, the first thing all of us saw:
DRY SACK
Now, we were all rather nonplussed by why a reference to testicles would be on the dessert menu. It stood to reason that it was some sort of after dinner drink, but really? Dry Sack? Did the sherry maker have his hands down his pants when they were naming the thing and thought, "God...my sack could really use some balm...let's try this liquid and see what happens!" And Voila! Dry sack begone! It just conjures up images of things that you don't want to think about after eating. We begged, BEGGED Marc to ask the waiter what it was knowing it would make his night (and ours). Maturity for the win! Marc refused, which was really too bad. I think it would have made a nice anniversary gift for Sabeen and Steve. Spoilsport.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
The content I get from coffee shops is amazing.
I went into Starbucks the other day because I was feeling cranky and tired and wanted a latte. This is, most definitely, on the list of thing that I'm not allowed to have. But Christ, people, this deprivation is making me into a beastly individual, and so I figure these small rebellions, these tiny fuck you's to my body can't be ALL that bad. I mean, I've made it to 33! So let's live on the edge a wee bit! Besides, it was decaf which is about as exciting as ordering your margarita virgin. I mean, one practically has to ask, what's the point? And why would you insult tequila in such a manner? What has that sweet, sweet liquid ever done to you?
Sorry, tangent.
Anyhoo, in line was a mother with three boys. That were identical triplets. My vagina immediately started to weep. She looked as one would imagine: sleep deprived, disheveled with various stains on her shirt. The boys were probably somewhere around 10 months old, wiggling around in their vehicle, but happy, well behaved. She ordered her drink and then steered her village around to the pick up area. I followed a bit later and started making small talk with her about the kids. She commented that she hadn't really had a night of sleep since they were born and would give her husbands nuts for a nap. I wondered if he was aware that his jewels were up for auction?
Her drink came up and she started to go. I said, "Well, good luck!" and she replied, "You know, I just hope one of them turns out to be gay...otherwise, who am I going to bitch and gossip with while everyone gathers around the TV to watch sports and play video games? Fuck that shit."
Let's just say my day turned around right then. Bless.
Sorry, tangent.
Anyhoo, in line was a mother with three boys. That were identical triplets. My vagina immediately started to weep. She looked as one would imagine: sleep deprived, disheveled with various stains on her shirt. The boys were probably somewhere around 10 months old, wiggling around in their vehicle, but happy, well behaved. She ordered her drink and then steered her village around to the pick up area. I followed a bit later and started making small talk with her about the kids. She commented that she hadn't really had a night of sleep since they were born and would give her husbands nuts for a nap. I wondered if he was aware that his jewels were up for auction?
Her drink came up and she started to go. I said, "Well, good luck!" and she replied, "You know, I just hope one of them turns out to be gay...otherwise, who am I going to bitch and gossip with while everyone gathers around the TV to watch sports and play video games? Fuck that shit."
Let's just say my day turned around right then. Bless.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Caution: By singing along to this album you might make an ass out of yourself
It was a gorgeous day yesterday...it was, in fact, HOT. So hot that I need to reconsider my stance on driving around without air conditioning as my back was starting to stick to my leather seats and I've been told that's not attractive. Whatever. You say tomato, I say you're saying it wrong.
Regardless, I had all of the windows open and was happily blaring Kanye West. I was getting on with my bad self as sometimes a girl needs to. However, you know how you have listened to something for so long that you kind of don't hear the words anymore and then suddenly, you find yourself in a situation where, not only do you HEAR the words, but you are MORTIFIED by them?
Let me explain.
Kanye, as we all know, is African American. It's my understanding that black people are allowed to call OTHER black people by the "N" word. This escapes me entirely considering what negative, historical connotations that word carries. I mean, I suppose I can compare it to sometimes calling up one of my girlfriends and saying, "What's up, bish?" But normally, that's because said friend sometimes IS a bish and would admit that if pressed. But that word doesn't carry with it the weight of slavery and discrimination and marginalization. Anyways, there is a part of this song, Flashing Lights, wherein the lyrics go thusly:
"Damn, these n****** got me, I hate these n****** more than a Nazi."
I applaud his choice of disliking the Nazi's...I mean, really, I'm half German and carry historical guilt over what that group did. My problem is that I've memorized these lyrics over time and sing them while in the car without really realizing what I'm saying.
So yesterday, with windows down and song blaring, I came to a stoplight and this stanza came on. And I found myself singing about n****** and Nazi's and looked over to see two men in the car next to me of African American descent looking at me curiously as I sang about their brethren in such uncouth terms. I was suddenly VERY aware of what had just come out of my mouth. Because while they can say that word to one another, I'm pretty sure a white girl isn't allowed to, even if she is singing along with one of their own.
Praise the good Lord in heaven, the light turned green right then...though I was several shades of red. Stupid Kanye. Lesson learned though - I should definitely get my AC fixed. See? I would totally have had the windows rolled up and been able to holler out racial slurs without fear of offending someone.
Wow! I didn't just get struck down! It's going to be a good week!
Regardless, I had all of the windows open and was happily blaring Kanye West. I was getting on with my bad self as sometimes a girl needs to. However, you know how you have listened to something for so long that you kind of don't hear the words anymore and then suddenly, you find yourself in a situation where, not only do you HEAR the words, but you are MORTIFIED by them?
Let me explain.
Kanye, as we all know, is African American. It's my understanding that black people are allowed to call OTHER black people by the "N" word. This escapes me entirely considering what negative, historical connotations that word carries. I mean, I suppose I can compare it to sometimes calling up one of my girlfriends and saying, "What's up, bish?" But normally, that's because said friend sometimes IS a bish and would admit that if pressed. But that word doesn't carry with it the weight of slavery and discrimination and marginalization. Anyways, there is a part of this song, Flashing Lights, wherein the lyrics go thusly:
"Damn, these n****** got me, I hate these n****** more than a Nazi."
I applaud his choice of disliking the Nazi's...I mean, really, I'm half German and carry historical guilt over what that group did. My problem is that I've memorized these lyrics over time and sing them while in the car without really realizing what I'm saying.
So yesterday, with windows down and song blaring, I came to a stoplight and this stanza came on. And I found myself singing about n****** and Nazi's and looked over to see two men in the car next to me of African American descent looking at me curiously as I sang about their brethren in such uncouth terms. I was suddenly VERY aware of what had just come out of my mouth. Because while they can say that word to one another, I'm pretty sure a white girl isn't allowed to, even if she is singing along with one of their own.
Praise the good Lord in heaven, the light turned green right then...though I was several shades of red. Stupid Kanye. Lesson learned though - I should definitely get my AC fixed. See? I would totally have had the windows rolled up and been able to holler out racial slurs without fear of offending someone.
Wow! I didn't just get struck down! It's going to be a good week!
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
It's a catchy song, though.
So I was at the library the other day and a gentleman came up to me in my particular aisle asking for a bit of help finding the book he was looking for. His authors last name started with an “F” so I directed him ever so slightly down the way since I was planted squarely in the “C” section. As he walked off, he started singing the alphabet to himself, and stopped once he reached “F”, presumably so he would know to slow down once he started seeing “E's” as he’d almost have reached his destination. I felt like I should have sent him off with a flashlight and snacks in case he got lost along the way.
Now, who doesn’t know that "E" precedes "F"? I mean, if you need the song, aren’t you generally in more dire circumstances, you know, in a “P” or “Q” type situation? I occasionally throw down an "LMNOP," since I sometimes forget if "M" comes before "N". But anything before "G", I'm thinking you ought to have down.
I presume he found his book as I saw him downstairs later and he waved happily at me as I exited the library. "Keep the power, baby!" I wanted to yell. But you get shushed at places like that, and I wasn't in the mood.
Now, who doesn’t know that "E" precedes "F"? I mean, if you need the song, aren’t you generally in more dire circumstances, you know, in a “P” or “Q” type situation? I occasionally throw down an "LMNOP," since I sometimes forget if "M" comes before "N". But anything before "G", I'm thinking you ought to have down.
I presume he found his book as I saw him downstairs later and he waved happily at me as I exited the library. "Keep the power, baby!" I wanted to yell. But you get shushed at places like that, and I wasn't in the mood.
Monday, December 1, 2008
This website makes your booty go POW!
I spent the weekend allowing my intestines to recover from the gluttony that was Thanksgiving and losing a Scrabble game to Mike. Online, no less, because I made it my mission not to wear pants this weekend, which would, of course, prevent me from leaving the house. Oh evil waistband! How the turkey I consumed doth protest against your unyielding tightness!
But by Sunday evening, hunger returned and so I went to the fridge, which only offered a yawning abyss of emptiness and a small jar of mustard. Seeking sustenance, I hauled on some pants and left for the market. It was a quick trip – I picked up the necessary items and headed for the register. On my way, I noticed that the new In Style was out with Heidi Klum on the cover. Heidi! With her pretty hair and teeth and German-ness! She says auf widersehen, I say ausgezeichnet!
Anyhoo, I marched on to the check out line only to hear “HEY LADY HEY LADY!” being hollered behind me. I turned to see a small, Chinese man running after me, waving a piece of paper that happened to be a subscription card…you know the kind that fall all over your kitchen floor when you’re opening a new magazine? I hate those things. “YOU DROP THIS!” he said, I think making up for his accent with volume. “Thank you” I said, taking the card and putting it back into the magazine. I smiled and turned to go, but he wasn’t finished.
“YOU HAVE NICE SEAT!” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“NICE SEAT. YOU KNOW, BOTTOM!”
“What?” I was perplexed and also, without thinking, clutched at my ass.
“IT ROUND AND NICE!” at which he turned to the side and made a half circle around his own butt, making the shape of a rear whose largess I hope to never mimic. “IT GO POW!” he continued, pumping his small fist into the air.
I was at a loss. If, in fact, my booty did go pow, I wouldn’t expect an elderly Chinese man to sing its praises in the middle of the dry cereal aisle. But, you know, I’ll take what I can get. “Thanks!” I said. “I guess I’ll keep doing my squats!” He laughed, clearly not understanding what I meant and left.
But now I know what to ask when I’m trying on jeans. It’s not about your butt looking big but if it, indeed, goes POW! How much better will that make pants shopping? Am I right? You’re welcome!
But by Sunday evening, hunger returned and so I went to the fridge, which only offered a yawning abyss of emptiness and a small jar of mustard. Seeking sustenance, I hauled on some pants and left for the market. It was a quick trip – I picked up the necessary items and headed for the register. On my way, I noticed that the new In Style was out with Heidi Klum on the cover. Heidi! With her pretty hair and teeth and German-ness! She says auf widersehen, I say ausgezeichnet!
Anyhoo, I marched on to the check out line only to hear “HEY LADY HEY LADY!” being hollered behind me. I turned to see a small, Chinese man running after me, waving a piece of paper that happened to be a subscription card…you know the kind that fall all over your kitchen floor when you’re opening a new magazine? I hate those things. “YOU DROP THIS!” he said, I think making up for his accent with volume. “Thank you” I said, taking the card and putting it back into the magazine. I smiled and turned to go, but he wasn’t finished.
“YOU HAVE NICE SEAT!” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“NICE SEAT. YOU KNOW, BOTTOM!”
“What?” I was perplexed and also, without thinking, clutched at my ass.
“IT ROUND AND NICE!” at which he turned to the side and made a half circle around his own butt, making the shape of a rear whose largess I hope to never mimic. “IT GO POW!” he continued, pumping his small fist into the air.
I was at a loss. If, in fact, my booty did go pow, I wouldn’t expect an elderly Chinese man to sing its praises in the middle of the dry cereal aisle. But, you know, I’ll take what I can get. “Thanks!” I said. “I guess I’ll keep doing my squats!” He laughed, clearly not understanding what I meant and left.
But now I know what to ask when I’m trying on jeans. It’s not about your butt looking big but if it, indeed, goes POW! How much better will that make pants shopping? Am I right? You’re welcome!
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Would he have approached had I been holding, say, and artichoke?
Guy at grocery, in produce section: “So, what are you planning on doing with that cucumber?” (This was said in a manner that my mother would consider improper. There was a wink and a raised eyebrow and a touch to the arm.)
I mean, how am I supposed to respond to that? I realize that vegetable could be construed as suggestive, but PLEASE. You could go the risqué route, the innocent route, or, as is my style when asked a stupid question, the obvious route.
Me: Chop it within an inch of its life and put it in the salad I’m having for dinner.
Guy: What time should I come over? (Standing a bit too close)
Me: Oh, you really don’t think you’ll score a dinner invitation with that line, do you? (Me, inching away)
Guy: Never hurts to try.
Me: Really? I think your dignity is bleeding.
Guy: Man, you’re tough.
Actually, I was just hungry. But you know, don’t interrupt a woman deep into dinner planning. It never ends well. And sweet, freaking Moses, don’t try to hit on someone over penis shaped veggies. That’s just bad form.
I mean, how am I supposed to respond to that? I realize that vegetable could be construed as suggestive, but PLEASE. You could go the risqué route, the innocent route, or, as is my style when asked a stupid question, the obvious route.
Me: Chop it within an inch of its life and put it in the salad I’m having for dinner.
Guy: What time should I come over? (Standing a bit too close)
Me: Oh, you really don’t think you’ll score a dinner invitation with that line, do you? (Me, inching away)
Guy: Never hurts to try.
Me: Really? I think your dignity is bleeding.
Guy: Man, you’re tough.
Actually, I was just hungry. But you know, don’t interrupt a woman deep into dinner planning. It never ends well. And sweet, freaking Moses, don’t try to hit on someone over penis shaped veggies. That’s just bad form.
Monday, October 13, 2008
At least he knows how long he has to wait
I spent yesterday afternoon up in San Francisco, which is by far one of my favorite cities on earth. Despite the amazing places I have lived, I'm still happiest when wandering its hilly streets. It's my souls home, the place where I feel most myself.
Alas, it was time to head back home to suburbia, and so I boarded the train for the hour long trip south. I hadn't taken into account that there was a football game AND an air show all in the same day, so it was standing room only. I found myself facing a gentleman's armpit, his deodorant having been rendered obsolete by too much sun. I'm fairly certain he had been eating garlic fries as well, what with the unfortunate smell that wafted from his mouth as he yelled to his friend who was wedged between two portly women further down the aisle.
Eventually, the train emptied, and I found a seat next to a very pregnant woman. I was somewhat worried about sitting next to her, fearing that I might be called to assist should she decide to give birth on the train, a possibility given her sheer girth. I figured if nothing else, I could tear my new scarf into strips, since they always seem to boil water and then tear sheets up when women go into labor in inconvenient places.
I settled down and the train got back underway. A few moments later, a blond head popped over the seat in front of us. It was attached to a little boy, probably around 4 or 5 who was traveling with his father. He stared, first at me and then at my seat mate. Finding me uninteresting, he turned his attention to the pregnant woman and said, quite loudly, "IS THERE A BABY IN YOUR TUMMY?"
The woman smiled and said "Yes, there is." He was satisfied with this response, but clearly wanted more information. And so, again, loudly, he said "DID A MAN PUT IT IN THERE?" And she said, graciously, "Yes, my husband did."
I had an inkling of where this was going, having had to explain the basics of sex to the children I once nannied, but I wasn't sure how far he would take it. Pretty far, it turns out.
"DID HE STICK HIS PENIS INTO YOUR VAGINA?" the boy hollered, wanting to be heard over the thundering of the train. At the mention of penis, the entire car went silent, all waiting expectantly for her reply. Normally, this is where the parent might leap in and either distract or strangle/smother their child, but the father had his headphones on and was blissfully unaware of the scene his son was causing.
The woman wasn't quite sure what to say, though I'm sure what was going through her head was laced with expletives. The boy went along, undaunted. "BECAUSE MY DADDY SAID THAT HE HAD TO STICK HIS PENIS INTO MY MOMMY AND THAT THAT'S HOW I WAS MADE. I'M NOT ALLOWED TO STICK MY PENIS INTO ANYONE UNTIL I CAN AT LEAST DRIVE."
I'm so glad his parents are raising him with such clear boundaries. Somewhere along the way, he is going to get a calendar, mark the day of his sixteenth birthday and write "GET LICENSE AND STICK PENIS INTO WILLING VAGINA". And his father will be so proud.
Alas, it was time to head back home to suburbia, and so I boarded the train for the hour long trip south. I hadn't taken into account that there was a football game AND an air show all in the same day, so it was standing room only. I found myself facing a gentleman's armpit, his deodorant having been rendered obsolete by too much sun. I'm fairly certain he had been eating garlic fries as well, what with the unfortunate smell that wafted from his mouth as he yelled to his friend who was wedged between two portly women further down the aisle.
Eventually, the train emptied, and I found a seat next to a very pregnant woman. I was somewhat worried about sitting next to her, fearing that I might be called to assist should she decide to give birth on the train, a possibility given her sheer girth. I figured if nothing else, I could tear my new scarf into strips, since they always seem to boil water and then tear sheets up when women go into labor in inconvenient places.
I settled down and the train got back underway. A few moments later, a blond head popped over the seat in front of us. It was attached to a little boy, probably around 4 or 5 who was traveling with his father. He stared, first at me and then at my seat mate. Finding me uninteresting, he turned his attention to the pregnant woman and said, quite loudly, "IS THERE A BABY IN YOUR TUMMY?"
The woman smiled and said "Yes, there is." He was satisfied with this response, but clearly wanted more information. And so, again, loudly, he said "DID A MAN PUT IT IN THERE?" And she said, graciously, "Yes, my husband did."
I had an inkling of where this was going, having had to explain the basics of sex to the children I once nannied, but I wasn't sure how far he would take it. Pretty far, it turns out.
"DID HE STICK HIS PENIS INTO YOUR VAGINA?" the boy hollered, wanting to be heard over the thundering of the train. At the mention of penis, the entire car went silent, all waiting expectantly for her reply. Normally, this is where the parent might leap in and either distract or strangle/smother their child, but the father had his headphones on and was blissfully unaware of the scene his son was causing.
The woman wasn't quite sure what to say, though I'm sure what was going through her head was laced with expletives. The boy went along, undaunted. "BECAUSE MY DADDY SAID THAT HE HAD TO STICK HIS PENIS INTO MY MOMMY AND THAT THAT'S HOW I WAS MADE. I'M NOT ALLOWED TO STICK MY PENIS INTO ANYONE UNTIL I CAN AT LEAST DRIVE."
I'm so glad his parents are raising him with such clear boundaries. Somewhere along the way, he is going to get a calendar, mark the day of his sixteenth birthday and write "GET LICENSE AND STICK PENIS INTO WILLING VAGINA". And his father will be so proud.
Friday, September 26, 2008
It's a long one, people, but I use 'penis' five times, so hang in there
Someone asked the other day how I came to be a pilates instructor. While the exact path is quite a long and boring story, wandering primarily through the hall of horrors that is high tech, people are often surprised to hear that I started out as an art restorer.
(Which might be the most tedious job of all time, should you get any romantic notions into your head about what it involves. Try working on one square inch of canvas for about three months, getting the chemistry of the paint just right, the original artists brushjkh;hte;hieorasdl....oh whoops! See, I just fell asleep there.)
What it entailed for me was working for a prominent art dealer who also happened to be a paranoid, raging alcoholic. I worked out of a studio in his home, flanked by his accountant (who was a RECOVERING alcoholic) and his personal assistant who came to work, daily, with a massive hang-over and commenced drinking again around lunch. My boss would come into the studio each morning, clothed in only his canary yellow bathrobe, drinking whiskey (with a shot of Sanka), to check in on his workers. By 12noon, he was usually so sauced that we would take bets on whether or not he would fall into the pool as he wandered between the studio and the house (he did, once, on the only sick day I ever took). My job was to repair damaged canvases that he brought back from buying trips throughout Europe.
Nine months into this slow descent towards purgatory, I coped by smoking crack, spent too much time with a cute, tattoo covered Starbucks barista (while still sort of engaged to my college boyfriend who demanded that I talk with NO OTHER MEN since he couldn't supervise me from his perch in Michigan…), and rebuffed advances by the accountant who asked me to attend his AA meetings with him because he thought working with me was compromising his sobriety (what with all of the crack smoking). It was a strange time. My boss had taken to wearing his robe constantly and as he was leaning over me one day, bathing me in his whiskey breath, his robe opened and the sight of his flaccid, 60 year-old penis nearly made my 21 year-old brain ooze out of my ears and my soul dissolve. I promptly went outside, hid behind a shrub and called a friend, wailing "NO ONES WORK DAY SHOULD INVOLVE A GERIATRIC, FLACCID PENIS!" Not unless there is lots and LOTS of money at the end of it. And tequila. And DIAMONDS. And, perhaps, a full lobotomy. (I was kidding about the smoking crack part, by the way, but it might have helped.)
So I went to Banana Republic and bought what was then an outrageously priced suit and began interviewing. One day, I was heading into my final interview for a job I eventually accepted. Before leaving the studio, I sat down to apply some lipstick and heard a sickening, squish as my butt made contact with the chair. I had sat in my paint palette, my black pants now festooned with the bright orange and yellows of my current canvas. The bellows that issued forth brought my co-workers running, fearing either that I was having a bad acid flashback or had endured another penis sighting. The accountant started to wipe at the spot on my ass (giving him much material for his next AA meeting) and the assistant took a nip from something resembling a flask while saying "It looks like you just shit crayons!" The timing was dreadful as I had to leave RIGHT THEN to go meet with a CEO and some VC's and could do nothing about the stain. Did I mention it was ON MY ASS? BRIGHT ORANGE?
Without going into too much detail, I spent the entire interview sitting on my purse in such a way as to hoist up that side of my butt rather than leave permanent stains all over the swanky Menlo Park offices. I got the job and weeks later my new boss said to me "So I have to ask, what was with you and your handbag that day you had your final round of interviews?" Blushing, I told him the story. He laughed and, knowing what kind of work environment I had been subjected to, said "I don't know, I think if you had led into your interview with 'Excuse me, I just saw a 60 year-old penis and the force of that emotional blow knocked me over into my paint palette, so pardon my messy pants' we would have all understood and probably offered you a beer and a heavy narcotic."
God, I miss the days of working at a start-up: readily available alcohol and not a penis in sight. Well, not unless you asked for it, but that’s another post entirely.
(Which might be the most tedious job of all time, should you get any romantic notions into your head about what it involves. Try working on one square inch of canvas for about three months, getting the chemistry of the paint just right, the original artists brushjkh;hte;hieorasdl....oh whoops! See, I just fell asleep there.)
What it entailed for me was working for a prominent art dealer who also happened to be a paranoid, raging alcoholic. I worked out of a studio in his home, flanked by his accountant (who was a RECOVERING alcoholic) and his personal assistant who came to work, daily, with a massive hang-over and commenced drinking again around lunch. My boss would come into the studio each morning, clothed in only his canary yellow bathrobe, drinking whiskey (with a shot of Sanka), to check in on his workers. By 12noon, he was usually so sauced that we would take bets on whether or not he would fall into the pool as he wandered between the studio and the house (he did, once, on the only sick day I ever took). My job was to repair damaged canvases that he brought back from buying trips throughout Europe.
Nine months into this slow descent towards purgatory, I coped by smoking crack, spent too much time with a cute, tattoo covered Starbucks barista (while still sort of engaged to my college boyfriend who demanded that I talk with NO OTHER MEN since he couldn't supervise me from his perch in Michigan…), and rebuffed advances by the accountant who asked me to attend his AA meetings with him because he thought working with me was compromising his sobriety (what with all of the crack smoking). It was a strange time. My boss had taken to wearing his robe constantly and as he was leaning over me one day, bathing me in his whiskey breath, his robe opened and the sight of his flaccid, 60 year-old penis nearly made my 21 year-old brain ooze out of my ears and my soul dissolve. I promptly went outside, hid behind a shrub and called a friend, wailing "NO ONES WORK DAY SHOULD INVOLVE A GERIATRIC, FLACCID PENIS!" Not unless there is lots and LOTS of money at the end of it. And tequila. And DIAMONDS. And, perhaps, a full lobotomy. (I was kidding about the smoking crack part, by the way, but it might have helped.)
So I went to Banana Republic and bought what was then an outrageously priced suit and began interviewing. One day, I was heading into my final interview for a job I eventually accepted. Before leaving the studio, I sat down to apply some lipstick and heard a sickening, squish as my butt made contact with the chair. I had sat in my paint palette, my black pants now festooned with the bright orange and yellows of my current canvas. The bellows that issued forth brought my co-workers running, fearing either that I was having a bad acid flashback or had endured another penis sighting. The accountant started to wipe at the spot on my ass (giving him much material for his next AA meeting) and the assistant took a nip from something resembling a flask while saying "It looks like you just shit crayons!" The timing was dreadful as I had to leave RIGHT THEN to go meet with a CEO and some VC's and could do nothing about the stain. Did I mention it was ON MY ASS? BRIGHT ORANGE?
Without going into too much detail, I spent the entire interview sitting on my purse in such a way as to hoist up that side of my butt rather than leave permanent stains all over the swanky Menlo Park offices. I got the job and weeks later my new boss said to me "So I have to ask, what was with you and your handbag that day you had your final round of interviews?" Blushing, I told him the story. He laughed and, knowing what kind of work environment I had been subjected to, said "I don't know, I think if you had led into your interview with 'Excuse me, I just saw a 60 year-old penis and the force of that emotional blow knocked me over into my paint palette, so pardon my messy pants' we would have all understood and probably offered you a beer and a heavy narcotic."
God, I miss the days of working at a start-up: readily available alcohol and not a penis in sight. Well, not unless you asked for it, but that’s another post entirely.
Monday, September 22, 2008
It's all in the amenities
This weekend, Marc and I trotted off to a wedding of a client of mine. She's become a friend over the years and I was honored to be a part of her day. (Hi Cares! Hope you're having fun in Hawaii! You were so stunning as a bride that you made my mascara run!)
Anyhoo, the wedding was at a private vacation home on a bluff overlooking the ocean. It was one of those ridiculously beautiful properties that made you wonder 1) what these people did for a living, 2) where does one sign up for such a job and 3) sweet god what does their REGULAR home look like? Understandably, the owners did not want some 130-odd people trouncing throughout their home to use the toilets, and so the bride and groom had brought in two porta-potties for the occaision.
I have a long standing relationship with porta-potties, meaning that I use them as much as Sarah Palin has been out of the country - almost NEVER. (ZING!) But I also have a long standing relationship with open bars. I love them deeply and the adult beverages that spring forth from behind their shiny fronts. And so at some point my bladder was going to have to take care of what was sloshing around inside of it. Marc had also been enjoying the open bar and, knowing my position on porta-potties, decided our best bet was a group bathroom expedition.
So off we went. And IN we went. The stalls were side by side, joined by a vent enabling you to know just how your neighbors gastrointestinal situation was coming along. Let's just say that Marc was impressed with the amenities as his soliloquy started as soon as he went in and didn't stop until he had flushed. Behold:
"Wow! This is a REALLY nice shitter! I have perfume and lotion and gum and mouthwash and tampons - I'll take one for you just in case you need a tampax later - and mints and the toilet paper is really nice and soft and did you see how you can actually flush so that it won't smell? And no one has used the mouthwash yet so I'm going to - gurgle gurge gurgle - and now my breath will smell better than yours! This is a GREAT shitter!"
And then he exited, all smiles and with what was, in fact, great breath. Of course, throughout the rest of the evening, he would lean over at regular intervals and go "DO YOU NEED A TAMPAX? Because I have one, just in case! Or GUM?! I have GUM!"
We took another bathroom trip later with our friend Jeff in tow and I turned to him before he went in and said "Marc was very impressed by the toilet situation...I hope yours is just as fulfilling." And I KID YOU NOT as the door started to close on Jeff I heard him say "WOW! This is a REALLY nice shitter!"
Who knew that all you needed to do to get men so excited was to put a basket full of goodies in the bathroom? I totally know what I'm getting Marc for Christmas this year.
Anyhoo, the wedding was at a private vacation home on a bluff overlooking the ocean. It was one of those ridiculously beautiful properties that made you wonder 1) what these people did for a living, 2) where does one sign up for such a job and 3) sweet god what does their REGULAR home look like? Understandably, the owners did not want some 130-odd people trouncing throughout their home to use the toilets, and so the bride and groom had brought in two porta-potties for the occaision.
I have a long standing relationship with porta-potties, meaning that I use them as much as Sarah Palin has been out of the country - almost NEVER. (ZING!) But I also have a long standing relationship with open bars. I love them deeply and the adult beverages that spring forth from behind their shiny fronts. And so at some point my bladder was going to have to take care of what was sloshing around inside of it. Marc had also been enjoying the open bar and, knowing my position on porta-potties, decided our best bet was a group bathroom expedition.
So off we went. And IN we went. The stalls were side by side, joined by a vent enabling you to know just how your neighbors gastrointestinal situation was coming along. Let's just say that Marc was impressed with the amenities as his soliloquy started as soon as he went in and didn't stop until he had flushed. Behold:
"Wow! This is a REALLY nice shitter! I have perfume and lotion and gum and mouthwash and tampons - I'll take one for you just in case you need a tampax later - and mints and the toilet paper is really nice and soft and did you see how you can actually flush so that it won't smell? And no one has used the mouthwash yet so I'm going to - gurgle gurge gurgle - and now my breath will smell better than yours! This is a GREAT shitter!"
And then he exited, all smiles and with what was, in fact, great breath. Of course, throughout the rest of the evening, he would lean over at regular intervals and go "DO YOU NEED A TAMPAX? Because I have one, just in case! Or GUM?! I have GUM!"
We took another bathroom trip later with our friend Jeff in tow and I turned to him before he went in and said "Marc was very impressed by the toilet situation...I hope yours is just as fulfilling." And I KID YOU NOT as the door started to close on Jeff I heard him say "WOW! This is a REALLY nice shitter!"
Who knew that all you needed to do to get men so excited was to put a basket full of goodies in the bathroom? I totally know what I'm getting Marc for Christmas this year.
Friday, September 5, 2008
Brevity is the soul of lingerie
So, it's been SOOOOPER hot here this week. With temperatures rising above 100 degrees, I've been cranky, lethargic and not quite on the ball. I have the looks of someone who should be of Nordic descent (read: PALE); ergo, the heat does not agree with me. Or my hair, but that is another post entirely.
Yesterday afternoon, I came home and hunkered down to check my email and do some paperwork before getting some writing done. The heat came over me, however, and I found myself waking up about an hour later from a spontaneous nap, a drool stain by my mouth and an indent on my forehead from the pressure of my laptops keyboard. Neat! I didn't feel refreshed, but groggy and out of sorts. It was so HOT. Needing to move, I decided to trot down to our mailboxes to stretch my legs and get out of the house for a moment.
Off I went, down our long driveway. It should be noted that we live off of one of the busiest intersections in Mountain View. If I stood on our street corner long enough, I'd see most of this towns residents pass by. I'd probably get propositioned too, come to think of it. Might be a quick way to make a buck.
ANYhoo, I was getting the mail and heard some commotion behind me...I turned to see a full line of cars waiting at the stop light. Out of two of the cars hung some young men who were all looking in my general direction going "OH YEAH! NICE!" with the rest of the drivers giving me quizzical looks from inside their air conditioned cars. Still not really comprehending what was going on and being too cranky to care, I turned to walk back to the house, and in doing so, dropped some of the mail. It was only when I bent over to pick up the stack that I realized what they were focusing their attention on.
I had forgotten to put on my pants.
Yes, people, I was standing there in my driveway in front of an appreciative audience with just a shirt and my boy shorts on. No pants. Covering my behind with a newspaper, I scampered into the house, shutting the door behind me and having one of those moments wherein I wished that I had never been born.
So if ever you have that dream where you've shown up at school in your underwear, you can wake up and know that at least you were not idiotic enough to have done so in REAL LIFE.
I swear, I might need to rethink my no pants rule. It could get me arrested.
Yesterday afternoon, I came home and hunkered down to check my email and do some paperwork before getting some writing done. The heat came over me, however, and I found myself waking up about an hour later from a spontaneous nap, a drool stain by my mouth and an indent on my forehead from the pressure of my laptops keyboard. Neat! I didn't feel refreshed, but groggy and out of sorts. It was so HOT. Needing to move, I decided to trot down to our mailboxes to stretch my legs and get out of the house for a moment.
Off I went, down our long driveway. It should be noted that we live off of one of the busiest intersections in Mountain View. If I stood on our street corner long enough, I'd see most of this towns residents pass by. I'd probably get propositioned too, come to think of it. Might be a quick way to make a buck.
ANYhoo, I was getting the mail and heard some commotion behind me...I turned to see a full line of cars waiting at the stop light. Out of two of the cars hung some young men who were all looking in my general direction going "OH YEAH! NICE!" with the rest of the drivers giving me quizzical looks from inside their air conditioned cars. Still not really comprehending what was going on and being too cranky to care, I turned to walk back to the house, and in doing so, dropped some of the mail. It was only when I bent over to pick up the stack that I realized what they were focusing their attention on.
I had forgotten to put on my pants.
Yes, people, I was standing there in my driveway in front of an appreciative audience with just a shirt and my boy shorts on. No pants. Covering my behind with a newspaper, I scampered into the house, shutting the door behind me and having one of those moments wherein I wished that I had never been born.
So if ever you have that dream where you've shown up at school in your underwear, you can wake up and know that at least you were not idiotic enough to have done so in REAL LIFE.
I swear, I might need to rethink my no pants rule. It could get me arrested.
Friday, August 8, 2008
Survival
Yesterday I found myself behind a rather interesting guy at Longs. Interesting in that he was dressed in full workout regalia and had definitely just been at the gym…between the sweat and the bulging muscles, his testosterone was in full swing. What he held in his arms, however, was in deep contrast to this picture of manhood:
1 box of wine…yes, BOX
1 box of tampons
1 box of chocolate
1 bottle of Motrin, extra strength
Clearly, he was going home to a wife or girlfriend in crisis that needed full sedation. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that most women might squeeze their spouses testicles in a not-so-nice-manner if they dared come home with boxed wine…if the painters are in town, you go for the good stuff, if you catch my drift. Women, during this special time, often suddenly possess skills, or “skillz”, that involve sharp objects or things that will induce blunt force trauma. It’s true. Beware. Spend the money on what will make her happy, because getting jacked up on Motrin and cheap wine isn’t our idea of a good time. It’s called SURVIVAL.
He left, I imagine returning home to a significant other who had recently turned into something of a homicidal maniac, and I turned to the woman who was checking me out and said:
“Well, he’s in for a real treat of an evening.”
“He comes in here like clock work, every month, and buys the same things.”
“Someone should introduce him to wine that comes in a bottle.”
“I told him that once and he said that the wine was for him…his wife drinks scotch.”
Seriously? I think he might have the bigger vagina.
1 box of wine…yes, BOX
1 box of tampons
1 box of chocolate
1 bottle of Motrin, extra strength
Clearly, he was going home to a wife or girlfriend in crisis that needed full sedation. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that most women might squeeze their spouses testicles in a not-so-nice-manner if they dared come home with boxed wine…if the painters are in town, you go for the good stuff, if you catch my drift. Women, during this special time, often suddenly possess skills, or “skillz”, that involve sharp objects or things that will induce blunt force trauma. It’s true. Beware. Spend the money on what will make her happy, because getting jacked up on Motrin and cheap wine isn’t our idea of a good time. It’s called SURVIVAL.
He left, I imagine returning home to a significant other who had recently turned into something of a homicidal maniac, and I turned to the woman who was checking me out and said:
“Well, he’s in for a real treat of an evening.”
“He comes in here like clock work, every month, and buys the same things.”
“Someone should introduce him to wine that comes in a bottle.”
“I told him that once and he said that the wine was for him…his wife drinks scotch.”
Seriously? I think he might have the bigger vagina.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Be prepared
I'm one of those women who normally doesn't leave the house without applying at least a LITTLE bit of makeup. Mostly because I look like this without it. Also, because you never know when you'll be ambushed by the crew of What Not to Wear or run into Christian Bale.
But a few weeks ago, we were in the midst of a heat wave and looking hot was secondary to remaining cool...makeup wasn't a priority. But walking Kylie was. I figured I wouldn't run into anyone I knew in the middle of the day in Mountain View, seeing as most normal folk are at work. So I donned a pair of huge sunglasses, checked myself once in the mirror, noticed that my hair resembled something closer to a straw bale on top of my head but decided to just fuck it and go.
And so we walked. Or rather huffed and panted, as it was REALLY warm out. The amount of sweat I was creating was rather astonishing, so I tried to hurry Kylie along so that we could get back home and I could shower.
She finally, after sniffing what seemed like each and every leaf, found a place to do her business...she finished pooping and I, of course, bent down to pick it up. Which is when I heard a male voice say "Jen? Is that YOU?"
And I turned to see my VERY HOT old high school boyfriend with his VERY HOT current girlfriend standing next to him. Sweet god. The humiliation was something I just don't have the words for. I think a lot of women have this hope that if/when they run into the first boy that broke their heart that they will look beyond wonderful. That the guy will end up thinking "Hot DAMN, I screwed THAT one up for SURE!"
What they don't want is to be hot, sweaty, and carrying a bag of smelly dog crap. And also looking as though some sort of blond bird has come to roost on the top of their heads. Did I mention I had a brand new pimple on the tip of my nose? I did. And it was screaming "LOOK AT ME LOOK AT ME LOOK AT ME!!!"
Needless to say, the conversation was short. I made a hasty escape, wafting dog poop as I walked off towards home. I'm sure his girlfriend was all "Who was THAT?" to which he replied "Oh, just someone I knew in high school" to which she then said "Well, does she ever SHOWER?"
I almost wished I had said something like "Let's get a drink some time!" because then I would have had the opportunity to redeem myself. Instead, he now has ample relief in having broken up with me years ago...which he did because I wouldn't put out. Now he's just happy he didn't end up with someone who bears a passing resemblance to the swamp thing.
I blame my mother who didn't let me join the Brownies/Girl Scouts, thinking any club would turn me into a Socialist. Isn't one of their mandates "be freaking prepared"? The things I would have learned...
But a few weeks ago, we were in the midst of a heat wave and looking hot was secondary to remaining cool...makeup wasn't a priority. But walking Kylie was. I figured I wouldn't run into anyone I knew in the middle of the day in Mountain View, seeing as most normal folk are at work. So I donned a pair of huge sunglasses, checked myself once in the mirror, noticed that my hair resembled something closer to a straw bale on top of my head but decided to just fuck it and go.
And so we walked. Or rather huffed and panted, as it was REALLY warm out. The amount of sweat I was creating was rather astonishing, so I tried to hurry Kylie along so that we could get back home and I could shower.
She finally, after sniffing what seemed like each and every leaf, found a place to do her business...she finished pooping and I, of course, bent down to pick it up. Which is when I heard a male voice say "Jen? Is that YOU?"
And I turned to see my VERY HOT old high school boyfriend with his VERY HOT current girlfriend standing next to him. Sweet god. The humiliation was something I just don't have the words for. I think a lot of women have this hope that if/when they run into the first boy that broke their heart that they will look beyond wonderful. That the guy will end up thinking "Hot DAMN, I screwed THAT one up for SURE!"
What they don't want is to be hot, sweaty, and carrying a bag of smelly dog crap. And also looking as though some sort of blond bird has come to roost on the top of their heads. Did I mention I had a brand new pimple on the tip of my nose? I did. And it was screaming "LOOK AT ME LOOK AT ME LOOK AT ME!!!"
Needless to say, the conversation was short. I made a hasty escape, wafting dog poop as I walked off towards home. I'm sure his girlfriend was all "Who was THAT?" to which he replied "Oh, just someone I knew in high school" to which she then said "Well, does she ever SHOWER?"
I almost wished I had said something like "Let's get a drink some time!" because then I would have had the opportunity to redeem myself. Instead, he now has ample relief in having broken up with me years ago...which he did because I wouldn't put out. Now he's just happy he didn't end up with someone who bears a passing resemblance to the swamp thing.
I blame my mother who didn't let me join the Brownies/Girl Scouts, thinking any club would turn me into a Socialist. Isn't one of their mandates "be freaking prepared"? The things I would have learned...
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Panties? What Panties?
So, I saw something unusual the other day while out, walking Kylie. I don't often see odd things in Mountain View...it's the kind of city that is politically liberal but personally conservative, so while almost all windows hold some sort of Obama paraphernalia, the sidewalks most likely are filled with young mothers toting around children, wearing Crocs and minimal makeup. A boob job is as rare as a Sasquatch sighting in these parts. We're an earthy lot.
It was Sunday afternoon, and I was walking down a long, residential street. Ahead, there was a woman wielding a pickax that she was hammering into the earth with some conviction. I was impressed with her determination, but also somewhat perplexed as she looked to be wearing VERY short shorts...I mean, there was some fanny involved. Now, I don't have the best eyesight and was sure I was mistaken, so clearly, going in for a closer look was going to be the right thing to do. Research!
I was about a block away, when it became clear that they were not shorts, but a SKIRT. It looked like the bottom half of a Catholic girls school uniform, the kind you would buy in an adult shop, if you catch my drift. As she went on with her pickax'ing, each down-stroke would cause her skirt to flip up and reveal what appeared to be her very bare ass.
Surely, not. Because, who, in their right mind, pickaxes in a SKIRT with no UNDERPANTS?
But it's true, people. She chose that moment, as I was almost directly behind her, to bend over and pull at the roots she was trying to dis-lodge. Not only did I get a clear view of her rear, but I was also blessed with a eyeful of her uterus. Because how, tell me, HOW, can you not look?
Kylie picked that moment to pee on a nearby bush (no pun intended) so I was forced to stand within 10 feet of this woman for a bit longer. I looked across the street, trying to divert my gaze from what looked like a bad porn come to life, and saw two young men standing directly across from our dirty gardener, clearly transfixed by the view. It should be noted that she was not, in fact, hot. She was in her mid-40's and had lived what looked to be a rough life. But I understood their fascination, because a woman, wielding a pickax in a short skirt and no underwear is not something you encounter every day.
The best part came later, though...I was telling this story over dinner and Marc's mother, who is in her early 70's, piped in with "DID YOU SEE HER SNATCH?" Awesome.
And yes, MOST UNFORTUNATELY, I did.
It was Sunday afternoon, and I was walking down a long, residential street. Ahead, there was a woman wielding a pickax that she was hammering into the earth with some conviction. I was impressed with her determination, but also somewhat perplexed as she looked to be wearing VERY short shorts...I mean, there was some fanny involved. Now, I don't have the best eyesight and was sure I was mistaken, so clearly, going in for a closer look was going to be the right thing to do. Research!
I was about a block away, when it became clear that they were not shorts, but a SKIRT. It looked like the bottom half of a Catholic girls school uniform, the kind you would buy in an adult shop, if you catch my drift. As she went on with her pickax'ing, each down-stroke would cause her skirt to flip up and reveal what appeared to be her very bare ass.
Surely, not. Because, who, in their right mind, pickaxes in a SKIRT with no UNDERPANTS?
But it's true, people. She chose that moment, as I was almost directly behind her, to bend over and pull at the roots she was trying to dis-lodge. Not only did I get a clear view of her rear, but I was also blessed with a eyeful of her uterus. Because how, tell me, HOW, can you not look?
Kylie picked that moment to pee on a nearby bush (no pun intended) so I was forced to stand within 10 feet of this woman for a bit longer. I looked across the street, trying to divert my gaze from what looked like a bad porn come to life, and saw two young men standing directly across from our dirty gardener, clearly transfixed by the view. It should be noted that she was not, in fact, hot. She was in her mid-40's and had lived what looked to be a rough life. But I understood their fascination, because a woman, wielding a pickax in a short skirt and no underwear is not something you encounter every day.
The best part came later, though...I was telling this story over dinner and Marc's mother, who is in her early 70's, piped in with "DID YOU SEE HER SNATCH?" Awesome.
And yes, MOST UNFORTUNATELY, I did.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Rad
Marc: So is it HELLS-yeah or hells-YEAH?
Holly: It's hell-yeah...no 's'.
Me: I think if you have to ask, you're too old to use it.
Marc: No way...I'm totally bitchin'...I can throw down that shit.
Holly: Bitchin'? Are you SERIOUS? What is this...summer of 1989?
Marc: Were you even alive then?
Holly: Hell-YEAH! See, that's how you use it.
Me: Our parents would be so proud...college degrees all around and this is what we discuss.
Marc: FO'shizzle.
Holly: Please. Stop.
Holly: It's hell-yeah...no 's'.
Me: I think if you have to ask, you're too old to use it.
Marc: No way...I'm totally bitchin'...I can throw down that shit.
Holly: Bitchin'? Are you SERIOUS? What is this...summer of 1989?
Marc: Were you even alive then?
Holly: Hell-YEAH! See, that's how you use it.
Me: Our parents would be so proud...college degrees all around and this is what we discuss.
Marc: FO'shizzle.
Holly: Please. Stop.
Friday, July 25, 2008
To the person who linked to my website via the search "Will Looking at Gavin Newsom Give Me An Orgasm?"
I love you.
And please, let me know if it's that easy. Because if it is, he's totally becoming my screen saver.
And please, let me know if it's that easy. Because if it is, he's totally becoming my screen saver.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Overheard
So today, I was at Peet's getting coffee because I have endured a terrible week of deadlines and insomnia and decided to break my caffeine fast. A young girl and boy, clearly in that awkward stage of liking each other but expressing it via too much arm touching and hair flipping, were sitting at the table next to me, the boy talking in hushed tones...
"You know, there is something about your aura...I don't know, my aura responds to your aura...(long pause)...it's like our auras are FRIENDS, you know?"
Which is when my coffee involuntarily came out through my nose (which isn't comfortable, by the way). I wish I had had the courage to lean over and tell him that his aura was also, in fact, cracking my aura up, but it might have wrecked the mood he was trying to create. Pure awesome. I'll bet he totally got to second base with that shit.
"You know, there is something about your aura...I don't know, my aura responds to your aura...(long pause)...it's like our auras are FRIENDS, you know?"
Which is when my coffee involuntarily came out through my nose (which isn't comfortable, by the way). I wish I had had the courage to lean over and tell him that his aura was also, in fact, cracking my aura up, but it might have wrecked the mood he was trying to create. Pure awesome. I'll bet he totally got to second base with that shit.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Scrabble me up
Things overheard during a rousing game of Scrabble Friday night…yes…Scrabble. It’s how we roll. I won, by the way.
“If I’m not face down in my own vomit in half and hour, it will have been a good night.”
“Saq…you know, like ‘My saq needs washing’…isn’t that the right way to spell it?”
“What’s the plural of yeti?”
“Please, make the bleeding stop.”
“Seriously, I’m sure you travel with a ‘z’ in your pocket just so you can pull out the hard shit when you need points. Before you leave the house you’re all ‘Chapstick, keys, money and my ‘z’ in case a mad game of scrabble breaks out.’”
“’Hoofs’ might be a word for the un-manicured feet of a woman, which is different from the hooves of a horse.”
“What am I? A frickin’ Hawaiian? All I have are vowels.”
“Give her some more tequila…it might slow her down a bit.”
"Do you think aileron has another 'e' at the beginning?"
Long pause.
"What the hell is 'aileron'? I was just happy about spelling 'bee'!"
"Do I get extra points for spelling 'crate' twice in the same game?"
“If I’m not face down in my own vomit in half and hour, it will have been a good night.”
“Saq…you know, like ‘My saq needs washing’…isn’t that the right way to spell it?”
“What’s the plural of yeti?”
“Please, make the bleeding stop.”
“Seriously, I’m sure you travel with a ‘z’ in your pocket just so you can pull out the hard shit when you need points. Before you leave the house you’re all ‘Chapstick, keys, money and my ‘z’ in case a mad game of scrabble breaks out.’”
“’Hoofs’ might be a word for the un-manicured feet of a woman, which is different from the hooves of a horse.”
“What am I? A frickin’ Hawaiian? All I have are vowels.”
“Give her some more tequila…it might slow her down a bit.”
"Do you think aileron has another 'e' at the beginning?"
Long pause.
"What the hell is 'aileron'? I was just happy about spelling 'bee'!"
"Do I get extra points for spelling 'crate' twice in the same game?"
Friday, July 18, 2008
The kissing game
I often try to distract my clients from their tasks at hand…meaning, I spend a lot of each hour telling funny stories, making them tell ME funny stories or just making fun of them. The point is, it helps them push through the torture of their hour with me and keeps me awake.
Today, I decided to play the Kissing Game, which does NOT involve body oil or lingerie, sorry boys. Everyone starts by describing, in detail, their first kiss. Whoever has the best story wins that round, and then we move on to the second kiss…I was teaching two friends simultaneously this morning and their stories were hilarious. One had a story of a misspent summer wherein she followed a certain rock band around and finally made out with the lead singer at a bar, only to have his girlfriend sucker punch her mid kiss. How white trash!
I was in second grade, and the boys name was Matt. We had been going steady for about three weeks, which meant that he chased me around the playground, lent me ten cents when I was short on cash for hot lunch and always picked me first for anything team oriented. He had curly brown hair and blue, blue eyes and constantly wore a pair of navy cords that eventually needed patching by winters end. We were playing tag at recess and I was taking a break underneath the slide in the corner of the playground, thinking that in my concealed position I would have a moment to myself. I felt a tap on my shoulder, and there stood Matt, who, without a word, put his hands on my shoulders and pulled me in for a kiss. You know, one of those elongated, close-mouthed pecks. He then pulled back, smiled and said “YOU’RE IT!” I remember he smelled like bacon.
He kissed that slut Natalie the following week. She then informed me that he was HER boyfriend now at which I kicked her in the shins...and then was promptly sent to the principals office. The principal laughed and sent me back out to the playground, shaking his head.
What’s your story?
Today, I decided to play the Kissing Game, which does NOT involve body oil or lingerie, sorry boys. Everyone starts by describing, in detail, their first kiss. Whoever has the best story wins that round, and then we move on to the second kiss…I was teaching two friends simultaneously this morning and their stories were hilarious. One had a story of a misspent summer wherein she followed a certain rock band around and finally made out with the lead singer at a bar, only to have his girlfriend sucker punch her mid kiss. How white trash!
I was in second grade, and the boys name was Matt. We had been going steady for about three weeks, which meant that he chased me around the playground, lent me ten cents when I was short on cash for hot lunch and always picked me first for anything team oriented. He had curly brown hair and blue, blue eyes and constantly wore a pair of navy cords that eventually needed patching by winters end. We were playing tag at recess and I was taking a break underneath the slide in the corner of the playground, thinking that in my concealed position I would have a moment to myself. I felt a tap on my shoulder, and there stood Matt, who, without a word, put his hands on my shoulders and pulled me in for a kiss. You know, one of those elongated, close-mouthed pecks. He then pulled back, smiled and said “YOU’RE IT!” I remember he smelled like bacon.
He kissed that slut Natalie the following week. She then informed me that he was HER boyfriend now at which I kicked her in the shins...and then was promptly sent to the principals office. The principal laughed and sent me back out to the playground, shaking his head.
What’s your story?
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