I Blog Because I Can...

Innocent

2012-01-10T17:02:00.000-08:00

I have an innocent until proven guilty approach to parenting. I let my daughter play with things until she does something wrong and then I get onto her for it, rather than the other way around, getting on to her before.

Often I'll hear people say things to her like, "Okay, you can play with the pen, but don't poke it in your eye," or "Here's some peas, but don't put them in your nose!" And my daughter is looking at them like, "What the hell are you talking about?" Then she'll examine the situation like "Pea in my nose? I never thought of that!" Ah, the power of suggestion.

It's overwhelming. How can I as one person end the cycle of crazy shit our great-grandparents said to kids that continues to get passed down through the generations?

Then I realized that comments like this are bizarre at any age. Can you imagine borrowing a pen from a coworker and him saying, "Don't poke your eye out!" Or eating at a restaurant and the waitress saying, "Here you go, the plate is hot and don't put any food in your ears. Enjoy!" Or checking out in the grocery line and hearing, "Here's your receipt, don't eat it."

SpongeBob Brain

2011-10-09T17:51:00.000-07:00

Another study shows that prolonged exposure to SpongeBob causes an increase in grammatically incorrect headlines.

- Compliments of the Moultrie News

It Doesn't Take Much to Amuse Me

2011-10-09T17:45:00.000-07:00

One of our neighbors goes all out for Halloween. They have inflatable characters that they put lights in so they show up at night. See if you can find the choice location they found for the light on this one. (This was taken during the day, but I bet it's event funnier after dark.)

Bev's Hurricane Checklist

2011-08-22T13:24:00.000-07:00

Family members have already started e-mailing me about how to prepare for Hurricane Irene that is slated to hit my city this weekend. I decided to post a list of what is needed to prepare for an impending hurricane.

HURRICANE CHECKLIST

1.) Car keys or a flight ticket
2.) The good sense to get the hell out of town

That's what my "Hurricane Kit" includes, common sense and transportation.

Why people choose to ride out a hurricane is way beyond sound logic. I mean if a bus was coming towards me, I'd jump out of it's way. If an angry rottweiler were running towards me, I'd get out of it's way. If a 3 mile wide funnel of pissed off 140 mile an hour winds is coming towards me, I get out of it's way. And for the record, I've never seen a rottweiler or a bus tear the roof off a building... pit bulls, now that's another story.

Things happen all the time that I don't see coming, and that's life. But a hurricane? Hurricanes can be seen from space! Even Aliens are out there thinking, "Man, I'd get out of the way of that thing."

I can't speak for other people, but my life is good. I have no need for a near death experience to spice things up. If I did, I would just eat at Taco Bell again. And if you're one of those people that claim they need to stay in harm's way for work, take a personal day or vacation day, or if you don't have any accumulated take an I-Don't-Want-to-Die-Today day. And the notion of "protecting one's property" is insane. In casinos, the house always wins. In hurricanes, the house always looses.

It's one thing if the bridge is out or your car won't start or if there is an unforeseen circumstance, but otherwise...

Beep, beep! Get out of the way!

Dora, Dora, Dora the Explorer

2011-08-13T16:00:00.001-07:00

So, this Dora the Explorer is the worst explorer ever. She's all "Ayuda me, help me get the book out of my back pack. Help me read my map. Help me open the door." What kind of explorer doesn't even know how to read a map? You'd think an explorer would be more of an independent woman role model. I guess at least she's bilingual... so she can ask for help in 2 languages.

Fun filled weekend

2011-08-13T15:54:00.000-07:00

Friday afternoon, the time when everyone is packing their bags for a beach weekend, or getting ready for their night out, I instead was listening to my pediatrician say, "you'll have to give her a fever reducer every 3 hours, and if she still has a fever Sunday, take her to the hospital."

Great. So I know on the front end that my weekend will involve no sleep and a potential visit to the emergency room. Oh fun. Kind of like a weekend in college, only at least then I had the benefit of surprise.

Pesty Neighbors

2011-08-13T15:48:00.000-07:00

I pulled up to my house and saw the dreaded Terminex van at my neighbor's house. Great, now my house is about to become a roach refugee camp. All her bugs fleeing to the closest shelter.

At least I have some Banana Boat spray sunscreen left. Last time I saw a roach I didn't have any bugspray, but that sunscreen killed the bugger in 2 seconds... then later in the same spot I sprayed it, I found other bugs dead days later.... which makes me question the safety of smearing it all over my body. They should advertise it as a multi-purpose spray.

So Trashy

2011-06-19T19:27:00.000-07:00

Who is in charge of branding for trash bags? I was in Target the other day and realized that all the names either sound like a torture device or an evil villain.

My favorite is The Gripper, which sounds like it could also double as a men's speedo. I think a good name for a trash bag would be The No Ripper. But I guess that would also be a great name for an anti-gas product. Or maybe a trash bag with the tagline "Won't Drip Leftovers on You."

The choices were too overwhelming. I just bought the Target brand, then I felt stupid when I got home and discovered that they weren't scented, flavored, and didn't have any super powers at all!

My Publisher Gift Card Scam

2011-06-01T11:00:00.000-07:00

I'm going off topic for this one. Just throwing this online so anyone needing info on this website won't fall into the same trap that I did.

Someone gave me a gift certificate to the website Mypublisher.com, which I thought would work like any other normal gift card.

Apparently, a mypublisher gift card or gift certificate will not work with any other promotion or discount. Kind of a scam, since the books are never worth the retail value and this site is always running a promotion. The quality of their books is definitely $20 or $30, but not worth $70-$100, which is the rate when you're not using their weekly discount code.

So if you stumbled across this site from googling MyPublisher, I hope this helps.

If you're a regular blog reader, sorry about that, my next blog will return to my usual random and sarcastic topics.

HAIRCAREful

2011-03-18T11:59:00.000-07:00

Today during a haircut, my hairdresser said, "Ouch, I just cut my finger. I'll be right back." She put her brush down and calmly walked off. About 10 minutes later another girl walked up and said, "I'll be finishing your haircut, she had to go get stitches. Where'd she stop?"

I was thinking, "Where'd she stop? I don't know! I didn't know I'd be giving a progress report to someone."

Then the manager came by to check on me and I said that I hoped she was okay. He reassured me by shrugging it off saying, "Oh it happens all the time."

All the time? Really?

Haircutting. It's a dangerous job, but somebody has to do it.

Forfeited 15 minutes of Fame

2011-02-14T13:27:00.000-08:00

Since Angie West is the lead dancer for the Oscars, she asked me to dance in the final number. Everyone else was having to wear dull white dresses (Angie included) but I was given an awesome hot pink dress. I only had a few hip shake steps, but I could nail them.

Backstage, the music was thumping, audience was clapping, excitement was in the air. I was waiting for the show runner to tell me when to go out and realized I had on lip liner, but no lipstick. I ran back to my dressing table and dug around for lipstick, but all I could find was clear lip gloss. Finally I found some lipstick, put it on and turned around and everyone was gone.

I ran out on the empty stage and the audience was leaving the auditorium. A few stray streamers were still falling from the ceiling. The show was over. The worst part is then I woke up. I mean, if I had been able to stay asleep maybe I would've been able to redeem myself by going to an after party with Jake Gyllenhaal or something.

Then I got in the car this morning, still disappointed about my fictitious brush with stardom and heard some 70's song about "you don't have to be a star to dance in my show." Maybe that's what life is about. Creating your own show and dancing in it.

Happy Valentine's Day.

-----

My ID?

2011-01-30T18:12:00.000-08:00

I'm finally at that magical age. That age where I'm too old to be carded for alcohol, but now getting carded for Sudafed and Endust. What?

I stood in the Target line in shock today. "You want to see my ID? ...For Endust? I'm a mother to a one-year-old. Do I look like I have time to run a meth lab?"

Now I'm reading up, and apparently George Bush while creating "freedom" was secretly figuring out a way to track the shopping habits of mom's all over the nation. This bothers me on multiple levels. On one hand, I should be able to freely buy as much Endust, cold medicine or cleaning supplies as I like. On the other hand, if these products are so awful that they can completely destroy your mind and devalue your property... should these products be produced and sold at all?

Season's Greetings

2010-12-10T19:49:00.000-08:00

Peppermint Palms Christmas

Personalize your Christmas cards at Shutterfly.

View the entire collection of cards.

Burley, You Complete Me.

2010-07-28T18:21:00.000-07:00

Today I realized that my life is complete.

I'm not talking about having a daughter or great husband or family. I'm talking about my new bike trailer. Burley, you complete me. You had me at hello.

For my birthday I got a new bike. Which was awesome. I pimped it out with fenders, bag rack in the back, cup holder, front light and squeaking turtle horn I dubbed 'Turts'. It was great until I realized that I rarely had time to ride it. It just sat in the garage because someone was standing in between me and long luxurious bike rides. Well, that someone wasn't as much standing, as she was crawling, babbling and toddling.

I got the bike trailer this past weekend, and she actually loves it. When we try to put her in her carseat, it's like trying to dunk a cat in water. Lots of crying and kicking and squirming. But with the bike trailer, she just looks up at me like, "Oh, so we're going for a bike ride, cool."

The first time I took the trailer out for a spin I stopped to go inside a store. I realized that I only had one lock. It was like Sophie's choice. Do I lock my brand new bike that I love? Or do I lock the new trailer that allows me to ride my bike that I love?

Now that I'm able to bike anywhere, I use it to run errands and mentally justify the SUV that is parked in front of our house. (And yes, that's where my loyalty lies, the car is parked in the street, the bike and trailer in the garage.) I guess I should call my car an SU-Free, because it was given to us. Turns out, although I like fuel efficient cars, but I like free ones even more.

I never thought I'd drive an SUV. I thought I'd be bound for a PRIUS or something after NYC. Before I moved, I never understood why people needed a car that big. Now, I load my SUV down with bikes and strollers and just drive them around town because I can. People see my car filled with beach bags, umbrellas and floats and say, "oh, going to the beach?"

And I say, "Nah, just toting those because I can."

So now my life is complete. I have a bike. And a trailer. A clear conscious. And the open road.

The road ahead...

The road behind

Art Takes Latin Lover

2010-04-08T17:22:00.000-07:00

La Isla is her name. I know her very well. They say to always look out for the ones closest to you.

This morning the weather was nice, so we decided to do family breakfast before Art went to work. On the way there we were discussing eating at Zylo or just picking up Starbucks and eating on the pier. He said he didn’t care for me to decide. And I distinctly remember saying, “No, you decide, I don’t care.” He said, “I don’t care, you decide.” And this is how our vicious circle of indecision almost always begins.

I said that I had previously seen people sitting outside with a baby in a high chair at La Isla, but they stopped serving breakfast at 10, and we wouldn’t make it in time. He didn’t respond, but I assumed he was done with breakfast talk.

But I really wanted La Isla. I hadn’t eaten breakfast there in months. It’s a tiny, micro-restaurant that doesn’t allow strollers inside, so since Reese has been born, we can only eat there when the weather is nice enough to sit outside.

I began thinking about their spinach-queso-plantain omelet, and decided to call, just to double check what time they stopped serving this savory treat. I hung up, excitedly announced that we could eat at La Isla since Reese is now big enough for high chair and we can sit outside! He took a few more steps before confessing, "I've been cheating on you with La Isla.”

I knew it! All the days he left early for work. All the times I offered cereal and he said, "I'm not in the mood." All the times I was left at home dealing with dirty diapers and he was out going Tiger on my ass.

My head was spinning with questions. I asked him how often? How long it had been going on? Did he sit at the counter like a regular? Did he ever order pancakes, huevos rancheros or the plantain omelet? He said he always ordered the breakfast sandwich. Then I had to bring myself to ask the hardest question of all... "On Cuban bread or whole wheat?"

It was whole wheat. Cuban bread would've just been rubbing my nose in it. I'm at home with a crying baby on my hip heating up frozen waffles and he's at La Isla’s.

I delved further, in my heart knowing the answer, "And a Cuban latte?"

Yes, but never mango-coconut batidas. La Isla did have some decency and saved those for me. But a tear came to my eye anyway, as I thought about the thick, warm, creamy, Cuban latte. Oh, what I would give to wake up next to a Cuban latte every morning.

Most men confess at a restaurant so women don't make a scene, he knew to confess before the restaurant so I wouldn't make a scene. And lucky he did.

The waitress walks up, looks at Art then me and said, "I know what he's having, what would you like?"

He explains to me that he just wanted a little time to himself some mornings. Some peace without baby drama or mama drama. That he never meant to hurt me. Then he relayed a few stories. Tells about the funny oatmeal incident, or what I like to call, the time he had a twosome.

Apparently one time he ordered his regular and the kitchen was backed up, it was taking forever. Someone put a bowl of oatmeal in front of him. He thought it was their way of apologizing for the wait, and scarffed it down. When his breakfast sandwich came, he ate that, too. Then the waitress came back and said, “Did you eat some oatmeal?”

Art said he did. Then she said, “Did you... order oatmeal?”

Then he sheepishly said, “….No.”

And they all had a laugh about it. Apparently the guy who ordered it was two seats down and had already given up on the wait and left. He said he could hear all the staff talking about it in Spanish and laughing.

Probably saying things like, “Hey Carlos, know the guy who sits at chair 10? The one sneaks out on his wife and kid for breakfast? That guy just ate two breakfasts! One wasn’t even his! Can you believe that guy?”

Reese interrupts Art's stories and fusses on cue when she hears plates hit the table and the phrase, “Can I get you anything else?" Normally I'd jump up and get her, but I didn't budge, just slowly began to eat. Art had his uninterrupted breakfasts, I could now have mine.

Art says, “Are you going to get her?”

I raised an eyebrow and calmly stated, “No, I’m not.”

Reese whines a little louder.

“Really, you’re not going to get her?”

Reese screams.

“You better eat fast, son.”

So he got to have breakfast the way I do. Eating with one hand while juggling a baby with another. Then drank his coffee standing up while lulling her to sleep. Normally we would trade off, tag-team eating and parenting. The most I did was move his cup of coffee to the other side of the table, so it would be easier for him to reach while he did the baby dance to get her to sleep.

La Isla - I'd always introduce friends and family to her when they were in town. She fed me while I was pregnant. Hell, she even held me while I was in labor! (Seriously, I ate here during early labor.) La Isla's even been to my home! All those happy memories of mornings eating La Isla deliveries on the back patio now tarnished.

After breakfast, we walked Art to the train and he said, "What you don't hear from Tiger Woods or Jesse Jones is that it was worth it. It was worth every breakfast sandwich that I got to eat alone." I ignore the fact that he said Jesse Jones instead of Jesse James, and try to focus on the fact that he even knows this little tid-bit of cultural history.

Art might be at work now, or just out restaurant-hopping across the city. Probably even sneaks down to the west village during lunch to get my favorite, Soy Luck Club.

So now, like Sandra Bullock and Elin Woods, I have to decide how to proceed. Pretend I don't know what he means when he refers to those early morning "meetings" or leaving early for a "client in Connecticut.” I can forgive & forget or even better, get revenge.

Maybe I'll start sneaking into the city for his favorite, a steak at Emporium Brazil, or what I will call "a doctor's appointment." That's right Art, if you're reading this, I might even order it RARE! Doesn’t matter that I hate steak, I can still eat it out of spite. I'd even have the entire basket of complimentary cheese-bread balls to myself, and finish it off with flan and coffee!

And the worst part about all this is that I introduced him to La Isla. We lived at the other end of town and I would always try to talk him into walking to La Isla to eat. I would tell him culinary tales of delicious Cuban food, and he would always moan, “It’s too far.” Then when we moved to this end of town and he ate there five times in the first week because it was delicious and convenient. A little too convenient, I guess.

A side note is that the whole time we were there today, I was distracted by the couple next to us. They spoke in hushed voices. Both had matching aviator sunglasses and matching jet black, thick, gorgeous wavy hair. Suspiciously gorgeous and thick. Like a wig. Most people might have suspected them to be brother and sister, I suspected witness protection program.

Now I know what restaurant reviewer’s mean when they describe a place as “Hoboken’s best kept secret.”

Al Black

2010-01-15T08:05:00.000-08:00

Is it just me or do Lewis Black and Al Franken look alike?
Kinda like Simon Cowell and Susan Boyle.

Panera Beeeb

2010-01-14T19:57:00.000-08:00

Every time I place an order at Panera Bread, they ask for my name, and get it wrong. The first time I was there, my order was ready and they yelled out for "Beeeb!" Then proceeded to get annoyed when I didn't promptly pick it up. "Beeeb! BEEEEEB!!!"

Since then, if they yell out a name that starts wit a B, and it looks like something I want to eat, I take it off the counter. And it's not just me. I stood there one day as orders were picked up for Snodd, Bekorg and Orb. And for the record, they were all plain vanilla, conservative looking people. 'Orb' looked like she was from Greenwich, CT and there's no way it was her given name.

Today the name I was dubbed was Belly. Belly! If that's not enough to make you rethink eating a fattening chain lunch, I don't know what is.

"Belly! BELLL-EEEEEYYYY!!! I no know where is her. Belllyyy! Oh, you Belly?"

Unfortunately yes.

What Happens in Detroit, Stays in Detroit

2010-01-11T14:37:00.000-08:00

An ironic and interesting concept, using full-body medical scanners to screen people at airport security:

http://www.rodale.com/airport-body-scan-radiation?cm_mmc=DailyNewsNL-_-2010_01_08-_-Top5-_-NA

Ironic because although healthcare reform was shot down, money shows up immediately for national 'security'*. It proves that Americans aren't afraid of a slow, painful death, in fact, we expect it. But, a sudden one? Forget it, how soon can these scanners be installed?

If they are going to have TSA employees using equipment designed for medical reasons, they should have a doctor on hand to view it. Not to make sure it is used properly, but to say things like, "Don't forget your pocket change, and you might want to have that left kidney checked. Have a nice flight."

And whether dressed or not, it's human nature to check people out. So now all the terrorists have to do is find a guy with a giant johnson. I mean, really, who's going to notice a guy's jacket woven from explosives and matches in the pocket, when his dingle dangles to is knees?

-------

*I used the sarcasm quotes on security because the Detroit bombing attempt could have been avoided with bomb sniffing dogs or officials reading the terrorist watch list, or noticing cash being paid for a one way ticket. And what do terrorists have against round trip tickets?

E-Tox

2010-01-11T14:32:00.000-08:00

Because of my love of recycling, today I'm dusting off last year's resolution and using it this year. It's brand new, never been used.

I'm e-toxing. I'm going to attempt to go two weeks without checking e-mail. I say, attempt, because I don't know if it's ever been done... at least it hasn't been done by me.

I'm sure a full e-tox would involve going completely offline. No blogging, no facebook, no web. But baby steps. I have resolved to not use the message feature on facebook because it's too close to e-mail.

Hot and Cold

2009-10-16T17:06:00.000-07:00

I know some people are hot-natured and others are cold-natured. Then there are those whose apt is burning up in the summer and freezing in the winter. They aren't hot natured or cold-natured, but cheap-natured. Everyone knows someone who keeps their thermastat set on cheap.

These are the same people who will have a dinner party and only one lamp on in the whole house, and set candles on the table for ambiance. Great, now the mood for the table is frugal.

Why Having a Newborn is like Living with a Drunk...

2009-09-23T18:53:00.000-07:00

After a couple of bottles, she passes out and I have to carry her to bed.

At least once a week she throws up in my hair.

She always instigates an argument with a completely innocent blanket.

There's lots of crying for no apparent reason.

She slurs her words, and has no concept of how loud she's talking.

She's always spilling her drink on her shirt.

She craps her pants in her sleep, and really, who hasn't done that while drunk?

Her hands start to shake when she's gone too long without a bottle.

She always has the hiccups.

And inevitably, around 3 am, she calls and I have to go and pick her up.

Charming Apt

2009-05-07T12:11:00.000-07:00

What I love about NYC living. I'm looking for a furnished rental for the summer. When I look online, I get the following descriptions:

Stunning 2 bedroom, 1 bath garden apartment in quiet charming neighborhood. Sleeps 12...

Twelve! Twelve what? People? Not in a two bedroom!

Then it will show a close up photo of a plant and another photo of the 'master bedroom' which is the left half of an unmade bed covered in dirty clothes.

Only in New York.

Dragging Down Britian's Got Talent...

2009-05-04T17:46:00.000-07:00

I know everyone has been Boyled over by her performance, but is it just me or does Susan Boyle look like Simon Cowell in Drag?

Dinosaur Goes to Brunch

2009-04-20T12:23:00.000-07:00

This past weekend my husband and I were eating brunch and overhead a girl at the table next to us say, "I mean, like, I wonder what it was like for people who were in college without Facebook or cell phones. They must have been so disconnected."

When we heard this, my husband and I had the exact same thought, which was. "We were more connected that you'll ever be."

She spoke about these days gone by as if there isn't anyone alive now that she could possibly ask about pre-Facebook and pre-cell phone days. Like there was an ice age between the 80's/early 90's and today that broke the links to ever know about lives of these low-tech humans.

She and her friends continued to ponder this era gone, "I mean, if you wanted to get in touch with a friend, would you just show up at their apartment?" Yeah, you would. "Or would you call them on a land line?" Yeah, and back in the day, we just called that 'the phone.' "And if you didn't have Facebook, how would you know what all your friends are up to?"

First of all, back in the day, instead of "friends" we had friends. And there was no level of distiniction. Either you were friends with someone or not. Now, there are levels of friendship: people you like enough as a 'friend' to Facebook with, people you might be close enough with to actually e-mail, people a step up that you might consider talking on the phone with, and then the 'friends' that you might like enough to meet up with in person.

Back in the day, friends were people that you actually wanted to be around. Crazy concept, I know!

And you would know what your friends were up to because you would ask them. Not just be a voyer and read up on their Facebook status.

So if you know people curious about their caveman ancestors, feel free to forward this. Errh, I mean, facebook it, myspace it, text it, g-chat it, tweet it to all your 'friends.'

Hooter Hiders?

2009-04-10T12:49:00.000-07:00

Apparently this nursing cover product is for ‘discreet’ breastfeeding. Oddly enough, it looks like a carnival tent attached to the front of this woman’s body. Although I love the clever name ‘Hooter Hiders’, it’s an understatement. These are definitely hiding more than just hooters! A caravan of elephants could hide under these things!

To me, it doesn’t look discreet or stylish, but suspicious. It makes me wonder what type of circus is going on under there. Is there juggling? Cotton candy? How old is the child? Should he or she be in school? Is she really just breastfeeding a child or is she serving a 3-course meal to a pack of bearded women carnies? And most importantly, would a simple, solid colored scarf not do the trick?

But who am I to judge? If you want to have some fun breastfeeding Barnum and Bailey style, step right up and get your very own circus tent online…

http://www.babybella.biz/inc/sdetail/56879

Need More Than 150 G's, Please...

2008-11-05T14:14:00.000-08:00

Okay, so I know that the nightmare is over. The world is safe again, and America won't be turned into Wasilla. I know it's okay. But then Newsweek reports this today and I just can't let it go.

Apparently Palin spent more than the reported $150,000 on clothes for her and her family, and an aid described it as "Wasilla hillbillies looting Neiman Marcus from coast to coast."

Check out the second section:
http://www.newsweek.com/id/167581

President for Sale

2008-10-16T17:00:00.000-07:00

Someone e-mailed this link to calculate what you'd save on Obama's tax plan: http://alchemytoday.com/obamataxcut/

In addition to those cost savings, you get my 2 cents:

Now, I know we Americans like to buy some cheap shit. We're Costco lovin', coupon clippin', CVS discount card havin' patriots of the old red, white and blue... but do we really need to take our discount savings cards into the voting booth?

I'm curious, so I calculated now much I save on the candidates plans, and on Obama's plan I save the most, around $3 a day. $3 a day? Americans are going to vote on a leader than can change history and the price tag is only $3 a day?

Honestly, I'd rather lose $3 a day or $5 a day or $10 a day and know that I live in a country where bozo's aren't running the government, people's retirements aren't getting flushed down the toilets, and billions of dollars aren't being sent abroad to kill people. We shouldn't cheap out when it comes to voting!

We never learn from the consequences of saving a political buck? We exported all of our jobs, so we can have cheap toxic toys and cheap electronics. Now, India and China have a thriving economy and we're borrowing money from communists.

So, at the end of your $3 day, make sure your cheap ass votes on issues that matter.

-------

New York Gnats

2008-10-16T16:43:00.000-07:00

It's October 16th in New York and 75 degrees. A temperature that might fall under the 'unseasonably warm' or 'Indian Summer' category. But I went for a run and realized that it falls under the 'apocalypic hot' category.

I went for a run and not only did I hear cicadas... but I ran through a patch of gnats. GNATS! In New York! If I weren't a born and bread Georgia girl, I probably wouldn't even know what gnats were. Then a guy stopped me and another woman on the street, and I thought he was trying to hand me a flyer, but instead he said, "Excuse me, excuse me, did you just walk through some gnats, too?" He was completely floored.

Gnats and cicadas, don't these insects know that it's Fall? Damn you, Al Gore, why couldn't we have heard you sooner!

Maverick in the Making...

2008-10-16T16:28:00.000-07:00

As unsettling as it is, the above photos are of me. I'm now a faux-maverick.

I signed on with an agency to be a Palin impersonator, which I personally find hysterical.

If Obama loses the election, I can offset the gut-wrenching disappointment and find comfort in the fact that I'll have work next year - I might be the only person with work in the US, but I'll be working.

This creates an emotional dilemma, if McCain wins, good for me... bad for the rest of the world. It's kind of like when I had to choose between a chemical laden, animal tested moisturizing creme that made my face smooth as a baby's butt, and an organic lotion that won't give me cancer.

... But I'm the spittin' image of a woman 10 years older than me, so I guess you know which one I chose.

Joey Biden

2008-10-04T05:58:00.000-07:00

Here's what I love about Joe Biden, he’s not afraid to sport the political mullet.... you know, senator in the front, party in the back. It's subtle, but it's there, the front is letting you know, "I’m authoritative and knowledgeable," the back says "I drive a Trans Am."

You go Joe! Rock the PoliMullet.

Getting Shoushed...

2008-10-03T06:11:00.000-07:00

This morning I woke at 7 am to the sounds of an electric saw. It went on and on and wouldn't stop. So, half-awake, I opened the window, couldn't see where the noise was coming from, but attempted to yell, "Shut up with the sawing." But I forgot that I had my bite guard in, so what I actually yelled out the window at the top of my lungs to the neighborhood was "Shoush up wit da shawing."

And he stopped. I'm sure he just paused to ponder "what the hell did she just say?" Then he went back to sawing.

I closed my window and my husband says, "You just yelled something completely unintelligible to the world."

Then another neighbored authoritatively yelled, "Hey buddy, easy with the noise, it's early..."The sawing stopped and I'm sure the yelling neighbor caught himself before finishing his sentence with "that's so loud that you woke up the neighborhood deaf girl!"

Then about an hour later, my landlord came by to fix my bathroom, and I asked if the new neighbors were building something because there was a lot of noise this morning and he says, "No, that was me."

So, as it turns out, I shoushed my landlord.

Photo from 'Mavericks Gone Wild' video...

2008-09-28T20:31:00.000-07:00

Well, my Republican friends have complained that they've had slim pickens for presidential candidate choices this year...and maybe they're right.

------

Keeping A Breast of the News

2008-09-22T15:58:00.000-07:00

USWeekly is reporting that actor Jon Voight went up to Cindy McCain at an RNC event and told her that she had a "beautiful chest." Finally, someone thought of something nice to say about the woman!

With all the money that she has probably spent on plastic surgery, it's only polite to comment on it. Kind of like when you see someone driving an old Charger that has been repainted and all the parts have been replaced, and clearly it costs a lot to maintain it, it's only fitting and appropriate to acknowledge their work.

Gun in the Oven

2008-06-10T12:29:00.000-07:00

Talking about rage is all the rage. School shootings, kids with guns and drive-bys. Parents are worried about their children. always blaming kids violent actions on music, or video games or music or television.

Here's what's causing it...our statues!

Yup, that's right. Think about it. Kids know TV and video games are just entertainment, but when they go to libraries, field trips or places for learning, there's always that bronzed man with a gun. That's not entertainment. It's setting an example. The statued person could be going into a battle field...or a school cafeteria ... or post office. Who knows? It's confusing.

When you see a statue it's always a man with a weapon. Rarely are there wepon-less statues near government buildings, and rarely women. Men with guns, never women knitting for the homeless. No, in America, if you want a statue for your legacy, you have to kill for it.

The exception to this rule is, of course, this statue of a gun-toting mother on a horse...tenderly breastfeeding her child!

Going Down?

2008-06-10T11:23:00.000-07:00

I retract my previous blog. I thought I was having a bad couple of days. I stand corrected, this is a bad couple of days:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p_bMhNI_TY8

Not Just 'Hot as Hell' but just Hell

2008-06-10T08:48:00.000-07:00

The past week has been one of those weeks where one bad event creates a domino effect, and everything in my life turns to turds. It's 1,000 degrees, so for everyone else in NYC, it's hot as hell, but for me...just hell.

Last week, I had a crazy bad day and wanted to go home and decompress but instead got an argument with my man, which means I did't sleep and am tired the next day, so everyone annoys me, so I'm not paying attention and accidentally catch something on fire. FIRE! This makes for bad day #2, which effected bad day #3...and so on...

I plug along, not because I think there's light at the end of the tunnel, or that things will get better, but because I know that Tragedy + Time = Comedy. I just have to be patient, so that I can laugh about it one day.

And the crazy things that have been happening I could've never predicted. Today I got asked to reliquish my chair.

No, not a chair, as in, an important person on a board, but the actual piece of furniture under my ass. It was like an episode of the office, "yeah...about your chair....we're uh...gonna...uh....gonna need to get that back...."

If only there were some sort of meteorologists that could predict, "There will be a shit storm on Tuesday that will last into next week." or "Scattered shit storms in the afternoon, but expect a sunny disposition tomorrow." or "We're expecting a whopping ten inches of shit tomorrow, be sure to take an umbrella!"

I won't bog the blog down with everything, but here's another little nugget.

I got asked to interview for a postition. I didn't send my resume, I wasn't gunning for it, just out of the blue, hey, wanna interview for this? I say okay. I don't really have time to do it, or want to do it, but I interview. I'm overqualified for the job, but what the hell, I'll go meet the woman. They decide to go with an opportunitstic girl almost 10 years my junior...with no experience. It stung. I didn't want the job, but I wanted to be able to turn it down. Sick, I know.

Then right after this, still reeling from the sting, I go to a class I'm taking and the teacher flirted with me. I'm not sure why because I am much older and much married, and I'm sure he can get tail from single girls his own age. But it was a nice little awning to get out of life's shit storm... because you want to feel like you've still got it, even if you don't. Then I realized that there was a lesson to be learned.

Moral of the story:
It's flattering if someone much younger than you wants to screw you, it's annoying if they want to screw you over.

Other Lesson Learned:
Don't put up with people's shit, or they'll keep crapping on you.

Half-Assed

2008-05-23T11:53:00.000-07:00

Now, that's what I can half-assed!

Tech-NO

2008-05-16T11:20:00.000-07:00

We abuse technology. We do. As I’m typing this at work, two people in side by side offices are having a conference call…with each other! This cracks me up.

Also what amuses me is instant messaging. I personally think it’s pointless. It’s not really any faster than an e-mail or a phone call, but you have the added bonus of a narrarator. You know…

“Parnell is online.”

“Parnell is typing”

“Parnell is offline”

I think if people are really going to use this service it should include helpful information. You know like…

“Parnell had 7 red bulls and vodka tonight.”

“Girl, this is a booty chat.”

“Delayed response. Parnell's puking.”

Sour Protesters

2008-05-05T10:30:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I was walking down 6th ave and stumbled across a protest. Rowdy protesters were ripe with anger and a bit acidic, but I took photos anyway. Apparently today they were hauled off because they had become just rotten...

and this angry little guy...

(It takes so little to amuse me it's shameful...but orange you glad I shared?)

The Curmudgeon Curse

2008-01-24T14:03:00.000-08:00

My full name is Beverly and my husband's full name is Arthur. Arthur and Beverly – we sound like two retirees living in Boca, him in his plaid pants, me in my moo moo. He's complaining about taxes and I'm just complaining.

But names cycle around, so by the time I really am an old retiree living in Florida, Beverly and Arthur will be the hip, cool, young names. So we'll be able to get in all the hot clubs. Bouncers will be expecting young sexy people, and I'll show up with my walker, Art with his cane.

And I know when I do get old, I'm gonna throw a hip out. And I don't want it to happen while I'm getting milk out of the frig, or trying to open a cabinet. I want it to happen when I'm doing something memorable, like cage dancing in South Beach.

Out-souped at The Soup Man

2008-01-22T16:22:00.000-08:00

Tonight I was ordering a soup combo at The Soup Man. And if you're not familiar with the Soup Man, he's the Soup Nazi from Seinfeld, who tried to sue Seinfeld. That didn't pan out, so he took the 'if you can't beat them, join them approach' and has now created a franchise soup empire with the overstated tagline of "The soup that made Seinfeld famous." Same soup from Seinfeld, except now the restaurants try to be overly friendly to get away from the Nazi reputation.

That's the background.

Tonight I ordered Chicken Vegetable soup, and the girl behind the counter told me to pick any salad I wanted. I picked out my salad and she said, "Oh, not that one." While I'm picking out a different salad, and another man came in and ordered the same soup as me.

So I'm waiting for my order and the friendly manager comes up and explains that they're out of the Chicken Vegetable soup. And I was all, "but I just sampled it and it was delicious!" And behind the manager, I see the other guy who ordered the same soup walking out the door as the manager says, "Yeah, we just ran out."

I call it like I see it, "That guy just out-souped me! You let the soup swindler get my soup!"

He laughed and tried to sell me on the, "Chicken Barooh" which he claimed was "very popular."

"What?"

He repeated it again, "Chicken Barooh, very popular." I had never had barooh before, but my options were dwindling as other soup snatchers were starting to trickle in the place. Turns out he was saying Chicken Barley. I decided to settle, "Alright, mix the chicken barooh with the vegetable soup."

That's when I saw the true Soup Nazi colors. Everyone behind the counter got wide-eyed, as he explained, "We're not allowed to mix the soups. You can buy two soups and when you get home mix them together."

I spared no sarcasm as I smiled and said, "because it might taint the special secret recipe?"

Mr. Chicken Barooh grinned and nodded.

It just goes to show, you can take the soup out of the Nazi, but you can't take the Nazi out of the soup.

Begging for Beyonce

2008-01-22T12:04:00.000-08:00

On my way to lunch today, I saw a homeless guy making his cardboard sign. He stood out because he looked new to the homeless community. He was cute and clean-cut, but he also stood out because he was asking passer-byers "Excuse me, how do you spell Beyonce?"

The more people who passed ignoring him, the more annoyed he became. He finally took out his frustration on a man in his late 60's, who I'm quite certain, wasn't familiar with Beyonce, much less how to spell it, but he lost it and yelled at him anyway, "Beyonce? BEYONCE! How do you spell Be-YONCE?"

Out of curiousity on my way back from lunch, I walked past him again to see what he has written. An hour later, he was still writing! He had written paragraphs. A cardboard blog, if you will, most of which was illegible.

Clearly this kid didn't know about street-saavy marketing. He was in mid-town, where there's a lot of people competing for pocket change. He needed to brand himself. You know, like the crazy guy who will give you custom insults for a dollar, or the homeless comedian, or the spitter. You've gotta have a shtick.

I thought about giving him money, then I remembered the old saying, "Give a man some change and you feed him for a day, teach a man how to beg for change, you feed him for a lifetime."

Redefining Define

2008-01-13T15:04:00.001-08:00

So, this weekend I decided to splurge on a pair of jeans at this little boutique in Hoboken.

As I'm paying for them, I ask the sales guy, "If these don't fit, can I return them?" And he's like, "Oh sure, just bring them back in 7 days."

So, I come home, try them on for Art. I'm facing him and he says, "Those look good, turn to the side." So I turn to the side and he says, "Yeah, I like those." I'm feeling good about myself, feeling sassy, and he says, "Let me see the back." And I turn and he says, "Ewwwh...uh...um...they make your ass look...uh... weird." I run to the mirror and sure enough, it looks like I've been rear-ended by an Escalade. My ass is all poofy at the top and flat as a pancake at the bottom.

I won't make any bones about it, I've got a big round booty. When you buy jeans, you want your butt to either maintain status quo, or look better...but never car-wreck ass.

So, the very next day, I take the jeans back. Same guy is there and says that they don't do refunds....

Say what?

I had my receipt and everything. Normally, I would have let it go, but I've got a cold, haven't slept in days, PMS and quite frankly, I'm feeling a little pissy. I ask who the store owner was...he was the store owner.

The no-refund policy would have been good information the previous day when I was paying for them, because I wouldn't have bought the ass-wreck jeans.

He kindly explains that this is the policy, incase they can't sell the items again. Which makes me think that I'm the only sucker in the world willing to buy jeans from this place. And I'm like, "What? But I'm giving you the jeans back and you will be able to resell them." And he smirks and says, "Yeah, I know...but what if they did't resell." So now, I'm roped into some pyramid scheme and am strangely responsible for the retail fate of these jeans.

Then he goes on to say, which is my personal favorite, that this is his policy because denim is very expensive and stores don't make money on jeans. But, but, denim...it's made out of cotton, the same thing is in q-tips, and t-shirts...

So the moral of the story is...beware of the boutique, and when you drop a few hundred on jeans, make sure it looks like you could bounce a quarter off your ass.

*For your viewing pleasure, I added a pic of the guido store owner that I pulled from his myspace page, back at cha, Roberto!

Sleeping with the Devil

2008-01-10T07:21:00.000-08:00

My husband has a cold this week. He's been up coughing all night for the past 3 nights. I'm sympathetic, I'm compassionate, I'm exhausted.

(By the way, if that graphic is driving you nuts, you can click on it and it stops.)

Last night while we 'slept' he alternated between trying to breath through his nose, then his mouth, which sounded like the audio from a martial arts movie. "Heeeii-yahhhh...uuuooohhhhh."

He coughed, he turned, he coughed, he turned. He'd turn and cough at the same time, spraying gusts of hot infectious air all over the room. It was like sleeping with the Tasmanian Devil.

I reinacted my Tasmanian Devil impression of him this morning. He laughed and said, "That's good, that sounds exactly like him, I can't believe you can remember what he sounded like."

Stunned, "Remember what he sounded like? I just listened to him for 8 hours straight!"

On a Roll...

2008-01-09T11:40:00.000-08:00

I took this picture just so I could e-mail friends and say, "Hey, look at this asswipe I met during lunch."

Testing the Waters

2007-12-05T10:37:00.000-08:00

I married a musician. When we were dating, he'd sing and play the guitar and write songs. It was hot. We got married and he began violin lessons...not hot, not hot at all.

A guy can sing or play the guitar, if he missed a note or two, it doesn't matter, ladies still want to tear their clothes off. But when someone misses a note on a violin, you want to tear your ears off...throw them in the air like skeet...and shoot them.

The traumatic words that still haunt me are, "I'm gonna go practice." Which clearly my only response to this is, "Oh, that works out perfect because I was just about to go in the kitchen and bang my head between two pots until the pain stops."

I can joke about this because now he's really good. He went from nails on a chalkboard to 'Devil Went Down to Georgia' in less than a year.

So, if you ever want to test a relationship, take it out for a spin, see how it handles the curves, give it some road miles, then just move in with someone and begin violin lessons. It's a foolproof test. Forget the Comso quizzes, or testing to see if he says bless you when you sneeze or remembers your birthday. If he is still around for your end of the year recital, it was meant to be. He's yours forever...or until someone gives you an oboe for Christmas.

Little Bunny Poo Poo

2007-12-03T13:59:00.001-08:00

I'm in the process of setting up a production company. I showed our animated logo to my mom. The animated logo is of a hand pretending to be a snake, then the company name prints in ninja slashes.

Mom watched it and matter of factly said, "that's just weird." I explained that we were going for funny with edgy. She thinks about this for a second and says, "What if you had a rabbit, hopping through the snow, then stopping to take a crap. That's edgy." This is why I love my mom. Because she inadvertantly created Rabbit Shits Productions.

I guess the theme song could be...little bunny poo poo, I don't want to see you, hoppin' through the forrest and shitting in the snow...

Putting the Me in Meditation

2007-11-29T13:18:00.000-08:00

My hard-drive crashed. No, I'm not speaking metaphysically. I mean that with no warning, my computer stopped working and I lost everything I have done the past 6 months.

In dealing with my extraordinary loss, the past couple of days my emotions have ranged between looking on the bright side, which is the hard-drive is under warranty to mild diva annoyance that I'm having to deal with this problem, to all-out Sally Field in Steele Magnolias, "WHYYYY? I just WANNA KNOW WHYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!"

Today my mind was spinning about all the things I already need to do, in addition to the things I need to RE-do! And I decided to hit the eject button. I went into the Chopra center to meditate.

For those not familiar with meditation, it’s where you go and sit and pretend you're not thinking about yourself. At least that's what a novice like me does. I think of all the things I need to do, while trying not to think of all the things I need to do.

Today while meditating, I mean, sitting Indian style and going over my to-do list, it dawned on me that for me, meditation is just another form of procrastination. It’s like watching TV, or blogging or cleaning my bathroom, it’s what I do when I really have a million other things that I’m supposed to be doing.

I’m such a die-hard dawdler, that even after having this realization, I inquired on my way out about the guided meditation tonight. Which would buy me some more time before starting the writing project that I’ve been putting off since Monday.

And meditation isn’t only a form of procrastination, its top-of-the-line dilly-dallying. It trumps all other forms of time-wasting. In a procrastination contest you might score points for “I put off doing my taxes for 4 years” or “I put off bathing this month.” But you'll always one up someone with, “Oh yeah, well I put off thinking! Yeah, that's right!”

I was going to end this with something witty or funny about procrastination, but I’ll wait and do that in my next blog.

Madam President

2007-11-28T09:51:00.000-08:00

So, it's an election year. It's that time again where I think, "Would I want to be President?"

But I wouldn't want to be President. Not because it's stressful, and people would always be trying to kill me, and every decision could effect millions, but because I can't see myself living in the White House. I think home and office should be separate, like church and state or ice-cream and ketchup. I didn't even like having a Blackberry, so I know that if people from work were knocking on my door in the middle of the night, it would really piss me off.

Another problem is that all my diplomacy skills were learned as a child from my mother. As President, I'm sure I'd say stupid things to bickering world leaders like, "I don't care which one of you started it, I'm gonna finish it!" Then I'd sit with my finger on the button and say, "I'm counting to three and you guys better have this mess cleaned up. One....two...." And of course at some point I'd have to use the threat, "Don't make me pull this motorcade over!"

I'd create some sort of scandal moving in, bringing in all my IKEA furniture. The president of Iran would be over for RedBull and corn chips, and he'd sit down in my ill-crafted chair. It would break, he'd be humiliated, and World War III would start all because I never figured out where to put a couple of extra bolts.

And the first couple of weeks of my presidency would be awkward for everyone until I broke the habit of coming home from work in the summer and removing all my clothes in the living room.

Not to mention, I don't think I could handle the 4 year job commitment. I've never worked anywhere for 4 years!

But all those aside, the absolute main reason I can't be President is because my husband and I are slobs. We don't even invite people we know over, so I can't imagine foreign dignitaries seeing the filth we live in. We'd use the Lincoln bedroom for storage, there would be a mystery box of papers in the corner of the Oval office, and a broken TV next to a working TV in the west wing. Greeting visiting Prime Ministers would include saying things like, "Have a seat...what is that? ..huh, I don't know, just throw it on the floor."

But if, for some reason, I survived the mandatory four years in office without being impeached for inappropriate behavior, I'm confident I'd screw it up in the end when reporters ask what I plan to do now that I'm no longer President and I say, "Pee with the bathroom door open."

The Drool Fool

2007-11-06T09:43:00.000-08:00

This is the beautiful smile I have after a few hundred dollars worth of dental work. You too, can look like a proud recipient of an ass-whoopin’!

I had to have an old 80’s filling replaced in my mouth. My filling was a leg-warmers wearing, parachute pants lovin’, Duran-Duran listening filling. I had to get it updated to a street cred having, Starbuck’s drinking, iPhone carrying filling.

I realized that there’s a reason for medical and dental jargon… because you don’t want to know what’s going on. Really, you don’t. You want to hear things like “hand me the handpiece” instead of “hand me the giant, loud drill.” Trust me, when you're at the dentist, you don't want to hear, "hand me the super-glue, hair-dryer and a quarter inch of duct tape." You want to hear medi-words you don’t know, you want to be ignorant, because ignorance is truly blissful when you have a jackhammer in your mouth.

But here’s the problem, my Dentist’s assistant didn’t know all the lingo. She was “in training.” When my dentist told me this, I thought “Oh, that’s just freakin’ great!” But I couldn’t say that, because at that point, it was halfway through, and I was only able to communicate through grunting and slurping noises.

So I knew what was coming. I knew when they were about to go in with the mini hair-dryer, with the vacuum hose, with the nail glue, and sadly with the giant squeaky drills.

Then the assistant lays equipment they aren’t using on my chest. The dentist asked if that’s okay. I grunted yes because I thought, “Well, they don’t refer to them as a rack for nothin’. Sure, see what the girls can hold!”

After the dental work is done, he tells me that if I can’t close my mouth properly, “just come back and I’ll make a few adjustments.” Yeah. Because that’s really what I want to do – go through all this again!

And I think after you have dental work, they should give you some sort of “Just Left the Dentist” sticker, so people know. Like the “I just VOTED” stickers they used to give out at the voting booths. So when people see you afterwards, they don’t look at you with confused sympathetic eyes, trying to figure out what caused your disfigurement.

If I lived anywhere besides NYC, I’d be able to walk out of the dentist office, get in my car and drive home anonymously with my dignity in tact. But instead, I walk past dozens of people on my way to the train, while drooling and laughing. I looked like the kind of person that if you have small children, you’d cover their eyes and cross to the other side of the street to avoid.

You lose all rights after having dental work done. Like for instance, on the train, I wanted to ask the kid next to me to stop picking his nose, but I knew he’d just snap me back in my place with something like, “Dude, you’re drooling!"

So that’s what I was reduced to yesterday, the cock-eyed lady on the train, drooling, giggling and sitting next to a nose-picker.

Going...green?

2007-11-06T08:10:00.000-08:00

In an effort to be more "greeen" and get people to quit drinking so much bottled water, my company installed water purifying machines, and sent a long e-mail about how they are "working to help the environment" and striving to be "eco friendly."

Impressed, I went to check it out. For added humor, right next to the new water cooler was styrofoam cups to use with it. Yep, that's right, one step forward, two steps back, that's corporate America for ya.

I googled styrofoam because I was writing an e-mail to Kitchen Services. (Yes, that's how I roll.) And I discovered that Styrofoam isn't just a word, it's a patented brand, so you can thank Dow Chemical for all the Styrofoam in the world. Thanks Dow, I needed that laugh today.

THE Article

2007-10-10T12:15:00.000-07:00

A co-worker gave me the self-help article below. By "gave" I don't mean that she forwarded it to me in a mass e-mail, with me as an annoynmous person on her list, I mean that she printed it out, stapled it, brought it by my desk, put it in my hands and with a knowing look in her eye, said I should read it.

Here's the link...the link she could have sent in an e-mail...
http://www.cnn.com/2007/LIVING/personal/10/03/self.consciousness/index.html

It highlights a study about what people notice about other people, which is, quite frankly, not much. I wanted to get defensive about being given the low-self esteem, self-help article and say that I wasn't anything like the vain person who it...uh, then I remembered last week...

I was walking down the street after I had just finished swimming at the gym and I saw comedians that I know. Not one random person that I know, but several. I slowed down and was about to say "Hey! How's it going!" But right when I paused, I flashed back to what I looked like when I left the gym minutes before - wet hair tangled into a pony tail, no make-up, crazy racoon circles around my eyes from swim goggles and the look was topped off with a layer of thick greasy gym lotion on my face. So I kept walking and didn't speak.

Now, after reading the article, I've adopted the attitude of "So!" Next time I'll say hello, then confidently sashay away as they say things like, "Holy racoon, what the hell happened to her?" or "Did she swim across the Hudson to get here?" But I won't care, because I'll proudly hold my wet head high!

I hope you find the article, the article that I'm pasting for the masses, singling out no one in particular, interesting.

From My Moma to Obama

2007-09-27T21:00:00.000-07:00

I was born into a deep-rooted, staunch Republican southern family.

Looking back, there were small signs that I wasn't going to be a good little Republican. Little things like, I became a vegetarian at 15. Growing up I didn't date boys that hunted. I drove fuel friendly cars and am friends with gay people. I'm not a fan of Western medicine and years ago I banned prescription drugs from my body. The signs were there all along the way.

The other tell-tell sign, my grandmother was a Democrat. Yes, if you read my blogs, this is the same woman who had a spare room with enough furniture to furnish another house, but that's beside the point. The point is, sometimes the Democratic gene is recessive, sometimes dominanat.

But what gave my family hope was a single photograph. They say a picture is worth a thousand words, and this one was a thousand words of hope.

Me in college wearing a conservative blue and white polka-dotted dress standing in the glistening sun, grinning from ear to ear...and hugging Dan Quail. And this was Quail, pre-potato blunder. My parents saw my giant smile as "I'm a happy Republican," but really it was, "I just drove a governmental sedan 120 mph in a motorcade."

Out of politeness, I would straddle to political fence. I knew my views would conflict with popular opinion no matter where I was. I guess because of my roots, I'll always be republican sympathetic, no matter how I vote. And maybe, just maybe, deep down in my young southern soul, I knew both parties were flawed.

Tonight I went to a Barack Obama rally tonight in Washington Square park in NYC. Let me put it in perspective, I was in the most liberal city in the nation, in the west village, the most artsy liberal neighborhood, to hear a liberal candidate speak. You couldn't be at a more liberal place if you were weaving hemp bags on an organic farm with your tired henna stained hands.

So I was shocked when biggest cheers of the night came not when he spoke about fuel efficient cars or environmental reform or better schools or the dangers of big pharmaceutical companies, but when he spoke about free health care for all or affordable colleges and no student loans. Those were when the big cheers came.

I thought, "damn, y'all are acting like a bunch of Republicans!" Cheering about saving money... If he had said that voting for him would get everyone 50% off at Urban Outfitters, the crowd would have gone nuts.

At the end of his speech, he was saying something like “Do you wanna change the world?” And the crowd went nuts again like free iPhones were being handed out “Whooo-hooo, we wanna change the world!!!! Whooooo! We wanna change the world, Obama!”

I just shook my head. In order to change the world, you have to be willing to change yourself and it seems like few people on either side of the political fence are willing to do that. So, I left the Republicrats and came home.

Not only did I come to terms with the fact that I'm liberal, but I'm more liberal than liberals. Who knew?

Get a Hottie in the House

2007-09-27T06:56:00.000-07:00

So it's an election season and everyone is talking about candidates, and how you decide who to vote for - do you vote with your head? or your heart? or your gut? But I use my eyes and vote for the best looking candidate. That's how I decide.

You might think this is shallow, but think about it, no matter who you vote for, once they get in office, they start doing stupid stuff, saying stupid stuff on TV, and the way I see it, it might as well be someone who looks good while making an ass of himself.

And the country is LONG overdue for a hottie in the house, we haven't had a good looking man in the White House since Kennedy!

And if you're a guy reading this and thinking that I'm superficial - don't be judging. You can say that I need to compare 'facts' or 'issues' or 'track records' but if Hillary Clinton was running against Nancy Pelosi and Jenna Jamison - we all know who'd win. That's all I'm sayin'.

African for a Day

2007-09-04T07:03:00.000-07:00

A friend told me about a spa that was giving away free spa tans, so I went to check it out. I learned that nothing comes for free, everything comes at a price...

I wore nothing but disposable undergarments while a woman airbrushed every bit of my pasty white body. It was darker than I had expected and judging by the concerned face of the airbrusher, it was much darker than she has ever seen. She attempted to convince me that it would look good by using phrases like "looks natural" and " will blend later."

After this humiliating experience, I looked in the mirror and felt strangely confident. Not because I had new tan, but because I had a completely new ethnicity!

I met friends for lunch, and they immediately dubbed me with a new moniker, Nooki Nooki, to match my newfound African heritage. I proudly walked all around all day, running errands with my new creamy mocha skin. It was going great, until it started to get warm and my new heritage began to bubble up and drip. I started to look spotty. Not like someone with freckles or poor pigmentation, but someone who was filthy.

My husband told me that I looked less African, and more like someone stranded in the Serengeti. In a matter of hours I went from exotic to filthy.

I took the 'if you love something, let it go' approach and finally broke down and showered. It was heart-breaking to watch my as ethnicity was rinsed away. My hopes and dreams of looking legit in a hip-hop video were washed down the drain. I had to remove the newly added "has street cred" from my resume.

After the thrill of being ethnic for a day, it was humbling to go back to being just another white woman, standing in line at Whole Foods.

Cascading Coffee

2007-07-18T12:35:00.000-07:00

This morning, as always, everyone jumped off the ferry and raced to the bus. It was raining so there was even more incentive to beat your fellow passenger to the terminal.

I was rounding the bend and had just passed two men, when the woman in front of me slipped under the turnstile. She slid backwards with one leg in front of her and one behind her and has this look on her face like 'I forget, why am I looking at the ceiling?' I might have laughed if I wasn't convinced that she tore her ACL and threw out a shoulder.

When I asked if she was okay, she did that thing people do, where they jump up real fast like, 'What? Me? No, I wasn't on the floor?' But as she quickly jumped up saying she was fine, she spilled an entire large cup of iced coffee all over herself.

I almost pissed myself. I don't know which was funnier, that she busted her ass, but managed not to spill her coffee, or that she was professing to be fine, while staining her entire outfit.

Brits Defeat America in a Landslide Victory

2007-07-18T12:08:00.000-07:00

Today Britian crushed America in World Championship game of Politeness. When team captians were interviewed afterwards, losing American captain, Rude E said, "Bitches cheated. Stupid game, get outta my way" before pushing the interviewer down.

Not to be outdone, the British captain counter-attacked with, "It was a lovely game against a brilliant opponent and I felt a tingle of pride to win. Cheers!"

How is it that British people are loads nicer that Americans? They have less land-mass, their weather is terrible, food is deplorable, they're constantly terror attacked, and yet, they have a sunny disposition. How does this happen?

I'm trying to coordinate meetings with American executives and their British counterparts and the discrepancy between the two is amazing!

When I call, these are the greatings I get.

UK:
Happy voice, "'Ello. Mr. Important's line. How may I help you?"

US:
Long annoyed sigh... "Yeah?"

And I know the conversation with the American is over when they abruptly hang up mid-sentence, yet with the British, I'm never sure when the farwell will end. "Thank you, bye for now, cheers, bye, see you later, okay, bye-bye, cheers, bye..." I usually just wait until I hear them finally put the phone down, then quietly hang up, just incase they try to squeeze in one more cheers.

I don't have a solution to this or a final punch, because there isn't one. It's one of the many unsolved mysteries that will be explored for all of eternity...which came first the chicken or the egg? Is there an afterlife? And why are British so damn nice?

Give the man a smoke

2007-05-24T12:07:00.000-07:00

Today I sat in Central Park to eat my lunch. It was gorgeous, warm, sunny, green. The birds were chirping, flowers were colorful, the crazy people were in full bloom...

I didn't look, but I could hear to my left an angry man going on a tirade about wanting a cigarette and no one giving it to him. He was screaming at the top of his lungs. Somewhere in the middle of it he yelled out "You f**kers are the shit of the universe." That's right, he said it, shit of the universe. He dropped the U-bomb.

I didn't know how to feel about being called universe shit. There's universal shit, which everyone has, but universe shit, that's a whole 'nuther concept. What would universe shit be? Astroids? Personally, I don't have strong feelings about astroids. I'm not for them, not against them. I'm pretty indifferent. Now, dog shit, I have strong opinions about that.

So I started thinking about the etymology of shit, which I like to call Shitymology. There's being called 'the shit' which is always a compliment. Being 'full of shit' can offend or make you laugh, depending on how full of shit you are. There's 'in deep shit' and 'shit hitting the fan' and 'up shit creek' which are always bad. 'Holy shit' and 'Oh shit' are just simple exclamatory phrases. And then there nouns like the 'Oh Shit Handle' in a car. And of course the unit of measurement, 'A shitload.'

But 'shit of the universe' doesn't fall into a category. It can't be confined by a definition. It's kind of like the universe itself - hard to fit things in categories. Pluto - planet or not? Black holes - real or conceptual?

What I find inspiring is that deep in my heart I know that somewhere in a galaxy far far away, there is shit of the universe, waiting to be discovered.

My funny man

2007-05-24T12:01:00.000-07:00

When I come home at night, I get my ADD on and rattle off all the day's hightlights to my husband.

Last night when I got home, I went on about "Today in Times Square I ran into Ivory, remember that girl from my class I took in December? Anyway, I haven't seen in her in forever...then I stopped in Sephora and this lady gave me great samples. Her name was Ebony and she said to come back and..."

He interrupted with, "So wait a minute, are you telling me that you saw Ebony and Ivory today?"

I don't know if I did that story justice, but it was really funny when he said it.

Ebony. Ivory. Livin' in Times Square harmony.

Times Square Tee Pee

2007-05-23T07:44:00.000-07:00

Walking through Times Square this morning, I saw a homeless guy sitting on the sidewalk. He had a sign that said 'Navajo Indian - need money to get home.'

I wanted to pat him on the head and say, "Oh honey, someone stole your home a long time ago. Home is where the heart is. Come on, let's go get a frappacino."

And I thought about his counter-intuitive marketing. On one hand, I feel bad because his people legitimately lost their homes to be homeless...on the other hand, if he doesn't know yet that his land was stolen, I don't want to be the one to tell him.

It Ain't Easy Being Green

2007-05-18T12:46:00.000-07:00

I work with people who have MBA's, other Masters Degrees and six figure salaries. I work with people who manage other people's money. I work with people who don't know how to recycle.

It's sad to see the deterioration in our Ivy League education system. They just pass kids to get them out and make room for new ones. Now people get out not knowing how to read "Paper Only" and "Bottles and Cans" only on the recycling in the kitchen.

There's a regular trash can in there, yet they opt for throwing trash and food in the recycling because they weren't taught common sense. If they don't want to recycle that's cool, no pressure...but they don't have to ruin it for everyone.

Sigh...it ain't easy being green.

Ralphie

2007-03-18T07:55:00.000-07:00

A racoon started showing up on my fire escape. When I started telling people about the racoon, everyone said the same thing, "Really, what are you doing to get rid of it?" My response was, "Uh...putting out apples and warm towels."

Contrary to popular belief, apples and warm towels do not get rid of racoons.

I named him Ralphie. Apparently I have joint custody with one of our neighbors because he's only here a couple of nights a week. I've wanted a pet for a while. I can't pet him and he's probably rabid, but you take what you can get.

He's got some grey, so he might be a little older. And racoons are nocturnal, so every day about sunset, he gets up, starts grooming, combing his hair, getting ready for his night out on the town. He checks himself out in the window reflection. I probably wouldn't even have known he was out there, if he weren't singing, "Oh yes, it's ladies night and the feelings right, oh yes it's ladies night, oh what a night..."

Naked at the Accountants

2007-03-06T08:23:00.000-08:00

It's tax season. So like many Americans, today I sat across the desk from my accountant. It was the usual scene. After handing over W-2's, I sat with one hand on my husband's leg to reassure him, and the other scratching the accountant's dog's ass to keep him from whimpering, while my accountant and I reminisced about the funny tax-mail snafu of 2005, oh what a funny mix-up.

Art, my husband, has always filed his own taxes, so this was his first time to sit financially naked in front of someone else. Trying to resist the urge to protect his privates, he fidgeted in his seat like a boy in the principal's office, while looking at his virgin W-2’s exposed on the desk.

I don't think twice about having someone else do my taxes. First of all, I know I don't know what the hell I'm doing. Secondly, someone else doing it gets me more money back. And I've been financially naked for years. When my friends would ask me to go do something and I said, "I can't, I'm broke," they knew that I meant it. Broke – that was my financial status.

So after Art answered the questions, he relaxed. The dog even got tired and went and slept in his bed. Things were good, until the accountant made the mistake of candidly saying "So you're a Security Engineer, what do you know about..." then proceeded to ask Art a series of tech security questions, all resorting in the answer that the network is totally unsecured and could be hacked at any moment.

I should mention that Art spends his days hacking into networks and his pet peeve is how insecure business networks are. He's overly cautious when it comes to security. It took a half-day tutorial for me to learn how to get online at home.

So after giving this man all of our personal information, Art is a nervous wreck when he finds out the accountant doesn’t have a firewall. He's looking at me like, "What have you gotten me into?" And I’m calmly looking at him like, “Ah, live on the edge, have a little unprotected accounting every now and then. You only live once.”

Then the clincher is when we're all done and about to leave, the accountant says to Art, "Oh one last thing, just give me your checking account number and the refund will direct deposit." Art quickly looked back and forth between the accountant and his virus laden computer. He was so flustered that he gave the accountant and old phone number and his social security number before giving him the correct checking account number.

Soy Lucky

2007-03-06T07:05:00.000-08:00

I've been at comedy for over a year and I finally got my big break!

Fame, although elusive and persnickety, finally found me. No, not my name in lights at the Beekman Theatre or my name on the board outside of Caroline’s Comedy Club – but my name in chalk at Soy Luck Club! That's right, a drink named after moi...for a limited time only....right under the panini special.

Actually, it should be called Bev's Frog Frost, and not Bev's Tropical Frost, but I won't get bogged down with details – they got my name right! It could have been Beth's Tropical Frost or Becky's Tropical Bird – but no, it's Bev's! So my name is finally on a board somewhere! Whoo-hooo!

I know fame is fleeting and fragile. At any moment, my 15 minutes of food fame could be over with just the swipe of an eraser, so I've got to enjoy it while it lasts. So get on down to Soy Luck Club and say you want a Bev's Frog Frost.

And I don't want to hear any whining that it's snowing out and too cold for an iced drink. My drink is season-less, like a white t-shirt or a Marc Jacobs bag. Bev's Frog Frost is not for the weak, it's not for the faint-hearted... it's for the ballsy, tough, rugged people who can handle the raw power of pure green tea, coconut and honey.

Be all that you can be – with some green tea.

www.soyluckclub.com

* Drink green tea at your own risk.

** The comments above are comedic and do not reflect the views ofthe Soy Luck Club or any of its affiliates.

*** These statements have not be approved by the Food and Frog Administration.

**** If you are allergic to nuts, you should not attend one of Bev's comedy shows, because there are a lot of nuts there.

Not So Fast

2007-02-23T18:07:00.000-08:00

I usually fast twice a year. It involves eating healthy for two weeks, then boiling a bunch of juices like a crazed witch doctor, and drinking them for a day.

A new place called Yapples opened up around the corner and they have a 1 day fast package. I’m lazy and a sucker for an easy fix, so I thought I’d try it. It’s “breakfast”, “lunch”, “dinner” and a wheatgrass shot.

I did the wheatgrass shot and left. Minutes later, I became queasy. I have a theory that if you’re sick, but don’t think about it, it will just get bored and go away. I know it doesn’t make sense, but I decided to out-think the vomit. I turned on the TV and absorbed myself in a saved episode of Ugly Betty.

I don’t know if I got a hold of some bad wheatgrass, or if there were so many bad toxins in my stomach that the healthy wheatgrass didn’t stand a chance, but I ended up yappling all afternoon. Maybe the wheatgrass antioxidants were ready for battle, then they looked around at all the free radicals in my stomach that they were up against and decided to retreat.

So, like Old Faithful, I spend the rest of the afternoon between napping and spewing, until my neighbor, Boom Chica, caught something on fire downstairs. It smelt like an electrical fire. It was awful. Even thought it was 30 degrees outside, I opened up every window. There’s nothing worse than having stomach woes and being trapped in a smelly place.

I couldn't take it, so I went to figure out what was going on. Boom Chica was all “oh, yeah, sorry, I, uh, was, uh, cooking something in the oven and it made that smell. “ I was like, “What were you cooking, a lamp?”

So now, after losing a whole day, I’m almost back to my old self. But please learn from my mistake.

Lesson #1 – If you go to a place named Yapples, there’s a chance you’ll yapple.

Lesson #2 – I don’t care if it’s called a Buttery Nipple, Purple Hooter or Wheatgrass, if it’s served to you over a counter in a shot glass, there’s a good chance it will make you hurl.

Lesson #3 – if your local juice bar has health foods in the front and tanning beds in the back, be weary.

Old Dog. New Tricks?

2007-02-22T16:52:00.000-08:00

Have I blogged about my reality show experience yet? Well now I have. There, I said it. I was part of a reality show. It was a fashion make-over show where they tried to clean up my sorry excuse for a wardrobe. I'd love to say that it had limited humiliation, but it hasn't aired yet, so who knows.

It can't be worse than the time I was at the show, Ayanla. One minute, I was an innocent audience memeber and the next, I'm on stage with some PA's running around with a mic. A voice comes over the intercom and says "Put the mic on the girl in the middle...the girl in the blue..." Then she got frustrated and just said it. "THE WHITE GIRL! Put the mic on the WHITE GIRL!" I turned even whiter, when on national TV, during the ‘What You Can Do To Make Yourself Feel Special’ speech, Ayanla told me that I needed to get laid. I think she said it just like that too, “Girl, you gotta get laid.”

I was offended. She didn’t know me. I could have just had a morning romp with a stranger in the Starbuck’s bathroom for all she knew. Maybe I just had my way with a PA in a broom closet.

Or maybe, just maybe, I was dressing poorly. Maybe I was dressing like someone who doesn't get laid. Or maybe it was the haircut. My husband once found an old photo of me and looked at it and said, "You weren't dating anyone when this photo was taken." And I was all, "I don't know, I can't remember." And he said, "Men don't date that haircut."

Then after the show aired, I got the phone call. The “I’m pretty sure this wasn’t you, but I’ve got to ask” phone call. Apparently, my high school voice teacher saw the show. People that know me well, stop the story right here in disbelief. Not that I was told by a complete stranger on national TV to ho myself around, not that I was whited out in a room full of ethnic people, but that my tone-deaf ass actually took voice lessons.

It’s true. A sweet, albeit sadistic, woman sat through hours of my trying to hit a note in the song, “Some say love…it is a river…that drowns…the tender reed…” But I digress, back to last weeks reality show...

I had to sign a release to do this show. I signed a legal document acknowledging that I might be embarrassed or humiliated. Clearly I've made a fool out of myself plenty of times, but it's never been premeditated or legally binding!

So post reality show, I got all dolled up in my new duds, a new white shirt, cool tight belt, new necklace, some sweet stilettos and I admit, I was feeling pretty sassy.

By 9 am I had spilled lipstick and tea on my new shirt and fallen down in the subway. Not an "Oh MY God!" fall where people rushed to my side, but more of a Gumby fall, where one leg slid one way and one the other way and people just tilted their heads and looked at me like, "Huh. I wonder how that happened."

Then I spent the whole day in my stained but sassy attire, getting certified for CPR, the defibrillator and first Aid. What I learned after a whole day of training is that you do not want me around in the event of an emergency! I was worried when the guy on the video "fell" down a flight of stairs with boxes and clipped an old lady, I got teary-eyed during the stoke symptom re-enactment, light headed when they talked about chest compresses, and I about fell out of my chair when they showed how to wrap a wounded arm without taking the giant shard of bloody glass out first.

After spending a day thinking about all the potential dangers of this world, the new 4 inch black leather stilettos that I had adored, all of a sudden, seemed risky. Like hang gliding home from work, or bungee jumping down from my 16th floor office window.

So I changed into my nappy old black loafers and headed home, stained and safe.

You can dress an old dog up in a new sweater, but she’ll still step in the same puddles.

WARNING: Family and Comedy Don’t Mix

2007-02-09T12:57:00.000-08:00

Last night I did a stand-up show because my mom was in town from Georgia and had never seen my act. It was at a club that I had never performed at before, and will never perform at again because I inadvertently took my sweet, sheltered, albeit completely nuts, mom to see the dark side of comedy.

I know for a fact my mom has had limited exposure to stand-up because she quizzes me about my act and suggests jokes she gets via e-mail to use for my show. I think she thought I would use props and tell knock-knock jokes. Anyway, she's seen one of my shows now and…she’s definitely been exposed to stand-up.

One comedian (a giant man in a track suit) got on stage and pulled out a huge butcher knife and proceeded to act out how he'd kill people if they said this or that. Any laughter he got was distressed, and the entire nervous front row left after he got off the stage.

It was a show with some comedians cussing like sailors and talking about the usual gross beginner-comic stuff. It made me want to yell, "Hey asshole, Watch your f**king mouth, can't you see my f**king mother is here? Jackass!"

Which would have made me fit right in, since the audience was talking the entire time - the WHOLE time, full-on conversations during everyone's act. The host kept asking everyone to keep it down and be respectful of the comedians.

When I got on stage, they began to yell. Not the ‘You Go Girl’ yell, but the ‘We're So Drunk We Don't Know Where We Are’ yell that turned into the ‘Wet T-shirt Contest’ yell. It felt less like a comedy show and more like an indoor Puerto Rican day parade.

The only other girl comedian went up first, long before anyone was drunk enough to fully appreciate a female on stage. So when I got on stage, two tables in the back immediately started chanting, "WOOOOOHHHHH, take it off! Take it off!"

I should point out what I was wearing – brown dress pants, a button down, a wool sweater over it and my hair in a ponytail. It was like Martha Stewart showing up at a boobie bar.

So I looked at them like they were idiots, which they were, and gave a "What? My sweater? You want me to take off my sweater?" To which they went completely nuts. I tried to calm them down with "Come on, guys, show some respect, my mom is here." This mistake produced chanting for mom, my 62 year-old mother, to "take it off."

The night was topped off by getting trapped in traffic in a cab having to answer rapid-fire questions from my mom like, "Do you think that guy really went to the bathroom to do cocaine?" and "Was that supposed to be funny when that guy talked about sticking a cell phone up his butt hole? - That's just gross. Why would anyone talk about that?"

Just hours before this debacle, my mom thought it was unsafe to go to an ATM on the bustling intersection of 46th and 6th Ave at 6:00 pm because it was “after dark.” I could only imagine what safety concerns she had after being trapped in a small dark room with a knife-wielding comedian and drunk thug kids yelling for her daughter to strip.

This is also the same woman who, years ago when I lived in LA, was worried sick about me going to auditions because she had seen an episode on dateline where “young innocent girls went to auditions and were tricked into doing porn.” Of course, if a girl feels comfortable voluntarily having sex in a room full of strangers with cameras, chances are she’s not that innocent.

During this LA era, I got tired of telling her the details of my daily life as it was taxing to answer the same old question, “Did they ask you to take your clothes off?”

So, now my life has come full-circle, and her fears have been confirmed. I never imagined that I’d ever have a conversation trying to convince my mom that comedy is actually safer than it looks.

I know I'll make the prayer list at her church again. If the bouts of constipation in ’99 made the list, this will definitely trump that!

PMS + UCB = 1 Bad Day

2007-01-28T17:50:00.000-08:00

Today I worked a few minutes later than usual. I raced from work to a 6:00 pm UCB make-up class. Keep in mind, every step was still excruciating pain from my gym snafu.

I walked in UCB at 6:12 pm, ran to the bathroom to change, then to the class. The entire class watches me walk in as the teacher scoffs, “Can I help you?” I explain that I’m doing a make-up class and was told to come to his class. His voice dripped with disdain as he informed me, “I’m sorry, uh, but you’re over fifteen minutes late, so I’m not allowed to let you in my class.”

I paused, debating about whether I should point out that technically I’m already ‘in’ the class or just surrender to the UCB warlords. So I sputtered out an “Uh…um…okay,” as I realized that all of the people previously staring at me are now staring at the ground. No one is making eye-contact and you could have heard a mouse fart as the teacher continued, “You’ll have to call Shannon to reschedule…”

I might have squeaked out another “okay” as the cry valve shut my throat off. I made it out without crying. I made it to the train with no tears.

On the train I began to do what every wounded person does – plot my fantasy revenge. In my specific scenario, I’m casting for my movie and the nameless jackass comes in to audition. He opens his mouth to read his first line and I stop him and say, “I’m sorry, that’s not really what we’re looking for." He is stunned. I turn and say, “Right, Tina?” Tina Fey calmly nods for security and two beefy models carry him out as he stutters “But, but…but.” Tina sips her coffee and laughs so hard that latte shoots out her nose. It doesn’t even matter that this ficticious scenario is completely absurd, it’s a powerful coping mechanism.

Right smack dab in the middle of my fantasy revenge plot, the train screeched to a halt and the power went out.

It’s rare in New York City, that twice in less than twenty minutes, you experience breath-holding silence. My first thought was, “Great. I’m about to be gassed by terrorists and my last minutes on this earth were spent with a bad attitude.” Or worse, I’d survive the horrific ordeal and get off the train bawling as reporters ask me what happened. With gurneys carrying people in the background, I’d explain, “It was awful, I walked in and everyone was staring, then the teacher asked me to leave and they stopped staring…”

Then the power came back on and everyone exhaled.

I got home. I was looking forward to changing clothes then going to the gym and boxing my frustrations out. Only after all of the contents of my purse were strewn in front of my front door, after every pocket was empty, after all that is good in the world was gone, did I realize that I was locked out. 19 degrees outside and locked the hell out.

This is not the bottom of my dark abyss. No…

Then I call my husband from my cell. I’m cold and venting. Sometimes no matter how wrong you are, you want to hear a familiar voice say, “Awe, that stinks!” or “I know the feeling,” or “It’s freezing out, I’ll rush home now!” Instead I got, “Well, I kind of understand…if I had a class, I wouldn’t want my students coming in late….”

I don’t know if it was the steam coming out of my ears or the gods of telecommunications that dropped the call. He then proceeded to call back and check on “Captain Happy.” He thought this new moniker was hilarious. I, however, did not.

If the Thai restaurant nearby hadn’t been open, Captain Happy would have kicked in the front door to get out of the cold.

Moral of the Story: Don’t play devil’s advocate unless you want to play with the devil.

Taxidermy to Taxi

2007-01-24T08:12:00.000-08:00

This very well could have been a figment of my imagination, but I’m almost positive the elevator TV at work had a news-bulletin about a new trend of taxidermy decor in urban dwellings.

I read this and I thought, “Everyone in my hometown in Georgia is about to strike it rich on eBay!” My mom is coming up next week and I considered calling to see if she’s ready to part with her armadillo bread basket or the stuffed otter over the mantle.

I envisioned the per capita income going up in my little hometown, and it becoming like Greenwich, CT or Naples, FL. I could see people being impressed saying, "Wow, you're from Thomasville, Georgia! Was your family involved in the taxidermy boom of 2007?"

But then I googled it and can’t find any other articles to support my elevator news. You know what that means...it’s so new and hip and cool that no one even knows about it yet! First the camouflage pants trend, now this!

Proudly Brew?

2007-01-24T08:05:00.000-08:00

I have a problem buying coffee from places that say they "Proudly Brew Starbucks." I think it's like going to Canal St. to buy knock-off desinger coffee. The disgruntled people selling the brew are usually more bitter than the coffee.

If I'm paying $4 for a coffee, I don't care is the brew is Starbucks brand or not. When I buy coffee at Starbucks, I'm not paying for the beans, I'm paying for the experience. I want at least 2 people to be involved in my coffee-making process and I want to hear my order repeated a few times, like it's important. I want to be treated with smiles by people who proudly have health insurance. I want to hear smooth jazz and have the opion of a Damian Rice point-of-purchase CD. And I want additional spice options before I leave. Why? Because that's what I pay for.

So, if you're a store owner, don't advertise that you "proudly brew" it, are indeed proudly brewing it.

Double or Nothing

2007-01-23T12:10:00.000-08:00

I love double-standards. I love that I work for a company that blocks lottery websites because it's considered "gambling" yet me and my boss are in the same SuperBowl pool.

Ouch! Ouch! Ouuwwwwwhhh!

2007-01-22T10:49:00.000-08:00

A new gym opened up near my apt. It was perfect. A new year, a new gym. It's brand new, clean, a few blocks away, so there's no excuses. Things were going great with me and my new gym, until today. I decided to go the a strength training class. There were only 4 people in it, so we got individualized attention.

There is a very real chance that I won't be able to walk tomorrow. My poor muscles are on high alert. They don't trust me any more after what I put them through today. Every time I move, my muscles tense up in terror, shaking, whispering, "Oh no, what's she doing?" I try to reassure my quivering legs by saying things like, "It's okay, we're just going to the kitchen."

My upper thighs hurt so bad that I had to walk all the way home without bending my knees. I considered getting a cab, but I didn't want the driver to have to help me out when I got home. Luckily we focused on leg work, so I still had the arm strenth to pull my body up two flights of stairs when I got home.

I'm still stunned by the fact that as I was leaving the class, two people had the audacity to say to me, "See ya next week!" I was thinking, "Are you out of your damn mind? If I could bend my knees, I'd kick your butt right now!"

Smoky the Bear

2007-01-18T14:27:00.000-08:00

I saw a statistic that a high percentage of pet owners are smokers. So if you own a pet, you’re more likely to smoke. I was wondering why this is so.

Is it the stress of the litter box or early morning pee walks that drives people over the edge? Or is it rebellion that causes the smoker to act out. Or is it the increasingly smoke-free world that makes smokers drawn to animals that won’t judge them.

I envision a bitter woman with an inch long ash hanging off of her Winston as she says, “You don't complain about my smoking, or smoky house, do you, Fluffy?”

And a more curious question is, do the owners stop smoking when the pet dies? And if they do abruptly stop smoking post-loss, do cravings overtake them? Do they spend the next several weeks annoyed, walking around nervously shaking and saying things like, “What I wouldn’t give for another cat.”

Life's a Trip

2007-01-10T09:48:00.000-08:00

My dream was to be a travel writer. I settled on being a travel junkie. I actually leave tomorrow for Mexico with a friend because I was probably the only person she could call and say, “Do you want to go to Mexico this weekend?” knowing that I would be finished packing before the end of the conversation.

Although, truth be told, if I were constantly traveling for work, I'd be bitter. Complaining about the five star hotels and how my massage could have been a little firmer.

But if I were a humor travel writer, that would be write up my alley. (Write..ha, ha, I crack myself up.) So my writing would be chock full of silly puns, but more importantly, useless travel information. My first crack at travel comedy writing is below.

Travel Tips by Bev
Journey Shaman and Travel Planner Extraordinaire
(I forgot to mention that I'd have a bogus title too)

-> Be weary of hotels offering free underwear with a night's stay. Often this is a scam.

-> If you are checking in to a hotel that is currently on fire, know your rights and ask for a refund. If the manager is still alive, have him double-check that you weren't pre-charged on your credit card. If you have already checked into the hotel prior to it catching on fire, you might still be able to receive a partial refund.

-> When going through airport security, be cautious of security officials who need to make copies of your credit cards. This can sometimes lead to fraud.

-> When traveling abroad, know your rights! Ask for airport security to wear latex gloves while doing your cavity search.

-> Before or during a flight, refrain from referring to the airline staff with profanity such as f***heads or ass-munches. Often this may get you arrested. Instead save these comments for when you are exiting the plane at your final destination, then put the bitches in their place.

These simple tips can put more joy in your journey.

Happy Travels!
Bev

FREE-DUMB

2006-12-19T07:03:00.000-08:00

Buckle up and hold on – this one’s a full on rant.

I heard on the news about the Freedom Towers being built at the World Trade Center site. I was shocked because I always thought when I heard ‘Freedom Towers’ it was just a joke that would never actually stick. Like when my mom says the word Horse-pital instead of hospital. Sure, I use the word, but would never use it in a moment of seriousness. “HELP! I’m bleeding! Take me to the horse-pital!”

At home, my husband calls me Hooch Manelli and I’ll answer him. But I can’t imagine being in a doctor’s waiting room and hearing, “Mrs. Manelli…Hooch? The doctor will see you now.”

So why would we impose a made up use of a word on a serious tragedy? Our memorials from World War II are simply called War War II memorials. And our Vietnam Memorials are called the Vietnam Memorials, not the War-We-Shouldn’t-Have-Died-In Memorial. In this day and age the word Freedom is more of a marketing term than anything else, so it would be less offensive to see the site called ‘World Trade Center Memorial – Sponsored by Pepsi.”

Let’s reflect on the word freedom over the past several years.

I’ll start with the most shameful first. When there was an actual effort to start calling French Fries “Freedom Fries” instead. I’m confident that historians will look back and consider this the lowest point in American history. Three House office building cafeterias actually held a press conference to announce the new menu with Freedom Toast and Freedom Fries. How humiliating. I’m still blushing.

It would have been less embarrassing if we had sent a few ships over to France, only for the sailors to moon them. At least then, our government would be acting like mature sixteen year-olds instead of five year-olds.

Then there’s Iraq. Some brilliant marketing person realized that if we fight for freedom, Americans will rally behind the government. Because fighting for freedom sounds much catchier than fighting for oil. And the irony here is of course that the people there still aren’t free.

And then there was the wire-tapping for freedom. I could go on and on. But I won’t.

Even after all of the shameful acts and embarrassing cover-ups, I’m still proud to be an American. America is like family. Sure politicians do stuff to humiliate me and I think, “I can’t believe I’m related twice-vote removed to that person,” but I'm still part of the American family.

So while I enjoy ‘Freedom’, I wish I could have more of the free with less of the dumb.

Labelmaker Beats Bev in a 4-0 Victory

2006-12-08T12:36:00.000-08:00

I'm compelled to address the rampant problem of over-packaging.

A few weeks ago, I ordered a labelmaker at work. It came in a cardboard box the size of a TV. I broke that down and tore apart the bubblewrap to get to the labelmaker’s bulletproof plastic packaging. I fought to get it open and gave up when I broke a nail. Quite frankly, nothing at work is worth losing a nail over.

So I set it on my desk. Over the past couple of weeks, a few people asked to use it. Each time, I eagerly handed it over and each time the disgruntled co-worker returned it unopened.

Today I had enough. I looked at Labelmaker and said, “Alright, it’s you and me. Head to head.” (Ding. Ding.)

I grabbed a pair of scissors and we started to tussle. I don’t know exactly what happened over the next fifteen minutes, but arms flailed, buttons were pushed and plastic was torn. I ended up with a scratched arm, snagged sweater, bent pair of scissors and a bad attitude. Labelmaker ended up with a smug grin.

With my adrenaline amped, I went back in the ring. I finally wrestled Lablemaker to the ground and pulled off the plastic, only to realize that he was powerless. Really powerless, he needed batteries.

I went to the supply drawer to get batteries and they were also packaged in Bevproof plastic. I looked at my mangled scissors and thought, "I'm gonna need a new pair for this fight." So I reached for a new pair of scissors and that's when I stood stumped. Scissors also come in hard packaging that requires scissors to open!

Questions for the Mystery Woman

2006-11-22T10:44:00.000-08:00

Who is this woman and why does she pop up on my computer at least once a week?

Does she get royalties for every time this photo is displayed? Does she still have these glasses and wear them at night while reading in bed? When she posed for this photo was she inspired by Mona Lisa? Does she regret the bowl haircut?

Does she think this photo makes her look young and youthful, like a novice librarian?

Or is she embarrassed about it?

Ashamed?

And most importantly… is she a model now?

7 Minute Insanity

2006-11-22T09:50:00.000-08:00

I take the ferry to work. It’s a 7 minute ride. Everyday. Never 6 minutes, never 10. It’s a seven minute ride.

I emphasize the length because everyday, people get there early and line up. They impatiently charge the boat and frantically scout out a seat. They run to it. Then like a blowfish, they puff out so they look bigger and no one will sit next to them.

The erratic behavior and the length of the trip makes it extra bizarre when about 3 minutes into the 7 minute trip, these same people jump up and charge the front of the boat to ensure their seat on the bus. The irony here is giving up one seat to make sure they have another.

Maybe this isn’t amusing at all. Maybe it’s sad. But how I make it funny is I go and sit next to a puffed out person who has their bag on the seat next to them. I calmly and patiently try to sit down putting one butt cheek on the seat. A few seconds go by and they feel guilty. They move the bag. I scoot over. With both butt cheeks securely on the seat I now have them trapped in.

Three minutes later when everyone gets up and starts walking to the front, I patiently sit. Sometimes I read. Other times I just peacefully lookout at the NYC skyline, like I’m unaware of the shuffling bags and the bottlenecked door.

At first the blowfish begins to fidget. Then they look over at me. Then they look at the sea of butts that will get off the bus first. Then they look back at me. Then they start to whimper like a dog that wants out of a kennel. Then they put their bag on their shoulder and look at me again.

But they never ask to get up. They never say, “Excuse me, can I get by?” They never say a word. Because deep down, far below their pristine winter coats, below their navy suits, below their pasty white skin, in their hearts, they know that it’s completely insane.

And when the boat pulls to the dock and I know they can’t bear to sit a second more, I slowly get up and look out over the water at the rising sun like I’ve just returned from a long peaceful voyage. Then I smile at them and say, “Have a nice day.”

And on days I’m feeling extra warped, I then turn and run like hell for a seat on the bus.

Pilgrims vs. Gladcheers

2006-11-22T07:15:00.000-08:00

In a world of political correctness, where the names of races and types of people change every decade to maintain their dignity, how have we made it all these years continuing to use the word Pilgrim? I’m no longer called a honkey, cracker, or a white-ass whitie, so why should they be relegated to being a Pilgrim for eternity?

It’s derogatory. Pill-Grim. Not only do we describe them as being a pill, but we add further insult with the use of the word grim. We might as well call them Pestbleaks or Boregrumps or the Sourgloomies.

We owe the Pilgrims the respect they deserve. They have done a lot for our country. After all, Pilgrim men are the ones whose tight stockings, funny hats and big collars inspired Peter Pan. Can you imagine America being the country it is today had it not been for Peter Pan?

So that’s why I propose they now be called The Gladcheers. Everyone who agrees can respond with a hip-hip-hooray!

Happy Thanksgiving!

**In researching this crucial topic, I discovered a line of jewelry called Pilgrim. They advertise a men’s collection “for the daring man.” Okay, if wearing man-jewels is your idea of living on the edge, you’re not allowed to classify yourself as daring. I’m sorry, you just can’t.

15

2006-11-09T13:12:00.000-08:00

I've only seen it a couple of times, but the show 24 bothers me. There's something about knowing how much time is left that makes it easier to predict the ending.

I figure before I criticize the show too much, I should try it to see how hard it is to write. So I'm breaking down 15 minutes of fast-action that happened last night.

15
Left the UCB theatre.

12
Had to pee, darted in a NYSC to use the bathroom. Walked in bathroom while naked 'woman' was changing. She had no pubes, no balls, but strangely enough, had a penis.

10
Peed while trying to erase the mental picture of the chick-dick. Went to flush and realized that my pee was pink.

8
Rushed out of NYSC strategizing how to get to the nearest hospital or doctor's office.

6
While frantically walking, remembered that I drank beet juice earlier in the day.

5
Calmed down. Walked slower. Remembered the time I saw a "girl" with no dick but two balls. Wished I had a way to introduce the two "ladies."

4
Heard commotion next to me on the sidewalk. Turned to see homeless guy. He was gesturing and arguing with imaginary opponent with one hand, while peeing with the other.

3
Wondered if imaginary fight broke out when his other half told him not to pee on the sidewalk.

0
Realized I was jealous of a angry homeless man and his golden yellow urine.

The End

I think I would title this episode Chic-Dick Beet-Pee

Simple Steps for Celebrity Publicity

2006-10-24T12:27:00.000-07:00

You too can act like a celebrity by following Bev's simples steps to fame!

1.) Adopt a child from Africa and/or check in rehab
2.) Get pregnant or knock someone up
3.) Bad-mouth another celebrity.
4.) Work with acting coach to practice being surprised by all the publicity.
5.) Repeat steps 1-4 above.

WARNING: In case of an emergency, if press goes bad, schedule an impromptu appearance on Oprah.

I'll be BRIEf

2006-10-20T11:10:00.000-07:00

I ordered a turkey and Gouda sandwich at Au Bon Pain during lunch. For some reason it took two girls to make my sandwich, one of which put brie cheese on it. The other girl looked at her and said, "Girrrrrl, that ain't Gouda! That's Brie! You gotta be careful because there's people who can tell the difference."

Then they both silently eyed me, trying to decipher if I was one of those wacky eccentrics who can tell the difference between Gouda and Brie.

No way was I getting pigeonholed into the crazy cheese connoisseur stereotype. I kept my trap shut when I saw them put Swiss on the sandwich, and called it a day.

Single Serving Discrimination

2006-10-12T11:56:00.000-07:00

Last night I was alone and had an hour to kill and a stomach to fill, so I stopped in Hollywood Diner on 16th and 6th. Although the word “Hollywood” before diner is meant to create the illusion of a place that might have svelte Ford models doubling as servers, it’s really the kind of place where a cook named Sal might smoke Parliaments while burning your tuna melt.

I tell the waiter/host that I want a booth and he takes me to a table instead and says that it’s a busy time. I bent my knees and was about butt contact with the chair when I did some quick math: 4 empty booths, 9 empty tables. He's saving the booths for a party of 2 or more. I realized, “WAIT A MINUTE…I just got snubbed at a DINER!” A diner, for crying out loud! How embarrassing!

This is the equivalent of being in an almost-empty McDonald’s and a really snooty Ronald character comes up to you and says, “Excuse me, this booth is reserved.”

So I dissed back. That’s right! I stood back up and walked out of there. I took a stand against Single Serving Discrimination. There are plenty of places in New York that will let a solo girl get a meal without having to sit in the No Friends Section.

Liberate yourself! Take a stand.

Reason 1,453 NOT to Cook

2006-09-27T15:58:00.000-07:00

Tonight at about 6:45 PM I heard something crash in the kitchen. My first impulse was to lock the door and dial 911. I worked past it and walked in the kitchen. About a 5 foot hole that was once part of the ceiling is now part of the floor.

Luckily I wasn't in the kitchen cooking dinner or it could have killed me, or at a minimum, ruined a perfectly good pair of underpants.

I-Key-UGH

2006-09-08T19:21:00.000-07:00

Don’t ever order anything online from IKEA. I mean it, save yourself the trouble. If you’re feeling masochistic, cut off a toe or something. Don’t sit in your house all day waiting for an order to be delivered, only for two strangers to show up with four tiny boxes that weigh half a pound and they forgot about the two closets.

Those Swedes. I bet they all sit at home right now, enjoying their 24-hour daylight and laughing at the silly Americans. “Ha, ha, I can’t believe they fell for our company – IKEA, ha, ha, ha…” And Sven, the jokester mastermind behind it all would say, “Yeah, my ‘delivery’ scam was brilliant, ha, ha, make them wait a month for furniture they have to assemble THEMSELVES, ha, ha, ha, or better yet, don't deliver it at all, ha, ha, ha..."

Super-Zero

2006-06-06T07:07:00.000-07:00

This morning I was rushing to catch the ferry to work. I had thrown on a black top with a flowy black skirt. Everyone was on except for me and another guy running behind me.

A brisk jolt of wind came along and converted my skirt into a belt. I don't know what the guy behind me did, but he didn't continue to run, or he would have passed me. And, I don't know what all the people on the ferry thought, as I never looked up. I just stood there frozen, battling my skirt down until the wind stopped, all the time while thinking, "OH NO, my underpants!"

Yes, the underpants I had chosen for this glorious, sunny day were unfortunately red and blue superhero underwear...but I wasn't feeling so super.

B-Tox

2006-06-01T08:27:00.000-07:00

I’m detoxing this week. I try to do it twice a year. It’s that weird time of the year when my brain battles my body. My mind thinks things like, “I feel great. These strawberries are so good for me. Hmmmm, more broccoli.”

That’s what my brain thinks. But my belly has other interjections throughout the day. Things like, “Where’d he get that chocolate covered donut?"

But if I had gotten the donut to appease my stomach, my brain would have staged a revolt, “You said you weren’t going to do that. Eleven days. The diet is only 11 days! You know what, I’m too mad to talk, I’m just going to go to sleep!”

And when my brain wants to go to sleep, I’m really in a pickle. When I’m sitting at a desk with my eyes half open trying to write, and look down to realize I can’t read what I’ve written. An arm or leg can go to sleep and you can still get work done, but when you’re brain heads off to sleepyland, you can forget it.

What's the Point?

2006-05-30T13:12:00.000-07:00

I drink decaf coffee. Stop throwing your virtual tomatoes at me, I know I’m in the minority! I know partially because I always get either the dregs or burnt coffee when I order decaf. The other tell-tell sign that people like me are few and far between is that whenever the subject of caf vs. decaf comes up, someone always says, “what’s the point?”

I envision some witty person years ago saying “what’s the point?” in regard to coffee and at the time it was clever and funny. Kind of like the first time someone said “shit happens” or “you want fries with that?” Now, it’s something that people say because they have heard other people say it and it’s an auto-response with no thought behind the words.

“How ya doing?”Auto-response “good.”

“Does this make me look fat?”Auto-response, “No!”

Silently minding my own business making coffee.
Auto-response, “You drink decaf? What’s the point?”

The point is that if I have caf, I get all jacked up and start to have heart palpitations. The point is that if I drink decaf too late in the day I can’t sleep. That’s the point!

I never thought about it before today, but I love the phrase “what’s the point?” It can immediately deflate any situation like a sharp tack to a balloon. I want to start using it in conversations other than beverage discussions. Like for instance, next time a friend calls to say that she’s pregnant I’m going to say, “What’s the point?” or the next niece to graduate, I’ll show up with a “What’s the point? 2009” mug. When my mom calls to ask when I’m coming home again, you’ve got it. I’m going to stick my hand in the hive and stir it up with a “what’s the point?”

So next time you’re cocked and loaded ready to shoot off at the mouth with this explosive phrase, stop and think for a minute, “what IS the point?”

:-)

2006-05-04T08:02:00.000-07:00

Yesterday during lunch a man smiled and did a double-take. Then I walked in a store, the security guy greeted me with an extra happy smile.

Isn’t it amazing when you have the ability to make someone’s day? I may have been dangling world’s largest booger or had a nipple inadvertently exposed, but it doesn’t matter, I made someone smile. Today I look like the butt-end of a hedgehog, but that's okay because yesterday I was interesting.

What if our goals weren’t financially motivated or career motivated, but rather a daily smile from a stranger? Imagine what a rewarding and bizarre life everyone would lead.

Mexico-caine

2006-05-04T07:57:00.000-07:00

President Bush called Mexican president Vicente Fox yesterday to express disapproval of Mexico’s policy to legalize drugs. Apparently there was some confusion when he answered the phone, so Bush said, “Hi, Vicente?”

To which sly Fox replied, “Why yes I am.”

Although, the bill was revoked today, it was one wild night in Mexico.

I live for when Vicente Fox makes the news. Mainly because he reminds me of a Mexican Tom Selleck, but also he’s on my five attractive politicians list. Note, this is not a Top 5 list. No, that would infer that there are lots and I whittled it down. This is list of the only five attractive politicians alive. In addition to the foxy Fox, the list includes British boy-toy Tony Blair, newcomer Barak Obama, cutie George Clooney and another guy that I forgot his name.

Don’t get all up in arms with the whole ‘George Clooney isn’t an elected official’ bit. I’ve heard that before. But how is anyone supposed to know that he’s not a politician, when he keeps popping up in all the political fundraiser photos! Most people don’t know actually read the articles, we look at the pics.

If Clooney does ever did run for office, everyone would see the signs and just assume that he’s up for re-election.

My Bark is Worse Than My Write

2006-05-02T13:44:00.000-07:00

I'm all talk. My bark is worse than my write. I was all about “I’m gonna write a blog every day!” And here it is 4 days later and no blogs.

So the topic for today is the Richards-Locklear cat fight. Can I call it a cat-fight if they aren’t technically speaking? Today I realized why everyone is dazzled by celebrity lives and cling to magazines like People and US. It’s because they have PHOTOS!

Sure, it’s interesting if you heard a story about one of your friend’s mom’s best friend’s husband who left her for a neighbor who is ten years younger and in the middle of a divorce from her verbally abusive, porn-watching, madam paying husband. But imagine how much more engaging the story would be if your friend could provide photos!

What if, instead of reading magazines, everyone carried photos and just exchanged outrageous stories. “This is my neighbor, he’s cheating on his handicapped wife with Michelle," you'd dig through your purse, "wait, hold on, her pic is in here somewhere.”

We’re not interested in the fact that a former Bond girl is hooking up with a rock star drummer. No! We’re interested because US Weekly has photos of the hook up! I’ve never seen one of her movies or been to one of Sambora’s shows. I could care less about their talents, but I care about their juicy pics.

And that’s how shows like Jerry Springer and Montel can stay on the air. It’s because we actually get to see the deranged people. They are live! They aren’t even famous, but people watch because there is a face to go with the story.

Back to Denise Richards. Since I got sucked into this story by flashy headlines and “shocking” photos, I had another thought. She is seeking custody of their children because he looks at online porn, threatened her and might bring naughty girls home. I see her point. His habits aren’t exactly kid friendly. However, before she married him, he was already a known bad boy. He had a nasty drug habit, abused a former girlfriend and kept a Hollywood madam in business. So, the way I see it, Charlie might not be ideal, but Denise is a bad judge of character.

Charlie can clean up his act, but there's no cure for stupid.

Trumpets Sounding

2006-04-28T10:06:00.000-07:00

What have I done? I’ve opened up a can of beans with my methane gas as an alternative fuel suggestion!

Weds I ate lunch in Central Park. It was a breezy, beautiful, sunny, 70 degrees day. A man with a dog came and sat down behind me. He stretched out, got a bit too relaxed and loudly released a gust of his own wind. He looked both surprised and guilty, and then he looked at the dog. I thought, “Don’t even try it. No way a dog that small created a sound that big.”

Then last night I was walking home and got behind a group of college kids that had just walked out of a bar. They were walking slow, so I walked up behind them and at the next street, I was going to squeeze past them. The kid in the very back slowed down even more, so he was about a foot in front of me. Right before I passed him, he passed on me. He even leaned to the right and shook his left leg. I half expected something to fall out of the bottom of his pants leg. He too made the same shocked and surprised look when we made eye contact.

Then it happened again today in the ladies bathroom at work. It's the protocol that when you know you have a stall mate, you release it slowly and silently. There are the standard sighing tinkle toots that you expect to hear in a ladies restroom, but this one was something you’d expect to hear at an elephant camp. It sounded like someone simultaneously opening a can of soda and a music box, “pffttttt-doodle-dooooo-dooodle-doooo-pffffffftttttt.”

Three strangers within three days tooted in front of me. One quite literally in front of me. What is this world coming to? I felt like I was part of the plot of a cult movie. One of those with three different story lines, then at the end you realize the thing they all had in common was they ripped one in front of the same woman by accident.

Convict Him? Suits Me.

2006-04-27T09:41:00.000-07:00

Ohh, looky looky, it’s a two blog Thursday.

I forgot this funny nugget in my last blog. A Southern friend got called to Jury duty in New York. She thinks she didn’t get picked because she’s from the South and everyone just assumes Southerners are racist. Stereotypes are a shame really. A detriment to society. The nerve of those smug attorneys thinking she would pre-judge someone based on demographics!

I asked if she thought the guy was guilty. She sympathetically thought for a minute, “Yeah, he’s gonna be convicted. You should have seen the suit his attorney was wearing! The color! Ugh! He looked like a pimp…”

So, if you ever find yourself on trial, just remember, you might not be judged by the color of your skin, but definately by the color of your suit.

TomTiger and his Reign of Daytime Terror

2006-04-27T09:32:00.000-07:00

I made a new resolution to try and blog every day, no matter how petty the topic.

I was reading up on the TomKat kitten and thinking back on Tom’s year of couch-jumping and word slinging. I don’t know much about Scientology, don’t know much about biology, don't know much about…Anyway, I’m not promoting or knocking it, but Tom Cruise has to be as bad for Scientology as Tammy Faye Baker was for Christianity. He’s not a respected spiritual spokesman but more like a faith pirate. “Errrhhh, shiver me timbers, get the glib anchor out of the way, matey, I’m going to choke Brook’s pill swallowing throat.”

I like that creative thinkers call him “excited” or “passionate”. Those are much better adjectives than just plain old crazy. I think he’s tense. He’s angry. He’s volatile. He’s just on the verge of cracking wide open. You can see his distressed soul on his strained face.

So, rather than the spiritually wounded Cruise, they should pick a better spokesperson for their religion, someone who interviews well, like Queen Latifah. That woman is smooth, like home-made peach ice-cream on a hot summer afternoon and damn funny! I don’t know what her religion is, but she’d make a good poster-child for contentment.

I should make a new resolution to quit hatin’ on people I don’t know. But, they way I see it, if you go into a public profession, you’re opening yourself up to be loved or hated by strangers. And if you've become unhinged, it's likely to be the later.

White Trash Spa Day

2006-04-26T20:04:00.000-07:00

Admit it, you’ve had one.

My first one was at the LAX airport, two, maybe three years ago. I was milling around, killing time to catch a flight, and I walked past a BrookStone or one of those stores that sells massage chairs. I politely milled around for a few minutes before dropping my bag. I looked both ways before kicking off my shoes and putting all the settings on full throttle.

Awe, yeah. I had kinks in my back I didn’t know about. My neck was stiff and apparently my shin muscles were tight. My back was arched and my entire body was shaking when my phone rang. As if I hadn’t already called attention to myself by sitting a wee bit too long for a demo, now bells were ringing.

It was Art, “Hey, what are you doing?”

I had to think about this trick question for a minute, “uh, I’m having a white trash spa day.”

I’ve done this a few times since then. The crazy part is he knew I was a White Trash Spa-er and married me anyway. It makes me think thoughts like, “ain’t that some crazy shit.” These thoughts confirm that I’m white trash, if the spa-ing didn’t.

When you're new at the White Trash Spa, you do the customary look about at the robotic vacuum or the talking remote meat thermometers. But once you've been a few times, you just walk right in and get in a chair. No fluffing about with the contour body pillows or comparing prices on the polycarbonate drinkware. You don't even pretend to shop because you already know which chair you're heading for when you walk in the door. And if it’s a small shop and there’s only one chair, and it’s occupied, you can’t even mask your disappointment.

And the really advanced regulars give advice to timid newbie’s reading the info sheets on the chair, "awe yeah, you gotta check that one out, make sure you click the lumbar section!"

And you'll know the regulars, even before they start talking to you. They are all relaxed. They will either have sunglasses on or their eyes closed. They don't even fake it and pretend to read the info sheet. No walking around when they are done. Nope, they just shoot out the door.

For some reason I still feel compelled to fake shop. I don't know why. One look at me and my $15 purse and you know I'm not the type to buy a $5,000 chair.

Grass-Poots Organization

2006-04-26T18:45:00.000-07:00

Today someone e-mailed me this article about gas-free beans:
http://www.theage.com.au/articles/2006/04/26/1145861419058.html

I mean, come on. Taking the gas out of beans? That's like making unscented perfume.

Ironically, I had just read this article about San Francisco making electric power from methane gas:
http://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2006/03/0321_060321_dog_power.html

It occured to me that, sometimes instead of getting rid of the problem, we fuss over getting rid of the solution. We need some way to pair up the people with problems with the people with the answers. I'm thinking of starting a grass-poots organization. Something like "Ban the New Bean and Keep Our Stinkin' Cities Clean!'

Alright, enough fartin' around for one day. Back to work.

Switch Hitter

2006-04-24T18:35:00.000-07:00

Apparently I'm a switch-hitter. Everyone at the office I'm working at either drinks tea or coffee, but not both. Various times as I have been working here, somone will see me making tea and say something like "Oh, you drink tea instead of coffee? I drink tea, too." And to their horror and shock, I say, "no I drink both." Then once someone else saw me making tea and confused said, "Hey, I thought you coffee!"

Isn't this odd? Not only that the office is divided into the teas vs the coffees, but that anyone might actually notice my drinking preferences, let alone remember them the following day? So to keep everyone on their toes, I keep a cup of coffee and tea on my desk at all times. And, if I'm feeling really wild, some days I let loose and add milk to my tea...others I don't.

Got Poked for Valentine's

2006-02-15T10:12:00.000-08:00

I think Valentine’s is like New Year’s Eve...it never lives up to the hype. Once you shrug your shoulder to the romantic holidays, that’s when it really starts to get interesting.

I’ll take you back to Valentine’s 1999. I decided to move to New York. I’m not sure why, maybe to avoid the holiday all together, but Feb. 14th was the day I chose to book my flight. On the way from JFK airport, my cab got in a fender bender.

The furious driver of the other cab got out and walked to my driver's window. He was yelling and gesturing. He boldly went where no other profanity had gone before. He was cursing so much, the sentences didn’t even make sense.

I had six bags of heavy luggage in the trunk and there wasn’t a chance in hell that I was getting out to get another cab. My driver didn’t get out either. Instead he cracked his window about half an inch to listen to the guy. My driver calmly smiled at the man. During pauses, he alternated between two sentences in broken English. One was “Oh, I so sorry” the other was “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

At the time, I was horrified and amused that they just drove off afterwards. Now, as I look back, I’m shocked that they even stopped at all.

Now we go back merely a year to Valentine’s 2005.

My husband, Art, sweetly researched to find the poshist vegetarian restaurant in NYC. Not because I’m still a vegetarian, but because I'm always begging him to go to one. “Let’s eat Vegan” or “There’s this new macrobiotic place I want to try…”

He did the right thing. He planned ahead. He was thoughtful. Picked out a place he thought I would like. He couldn't get reservations until 9 or 10. So beforehand we went to a fund-raiser for a friend's softball team. I vaguely remember the server saying that he was going to 'hook me up'. I realized later that the only thing I could have potentially been hooked up to was a hospital IV.

By the time we got to the restaurant I was so sauced, I could hardly walk to the table, much less carry on a conversation. While we ate hundreds of dollars worth of lettuce, I stared blankly out the window at the McDonald's across the street and salivated over my secret dream of fries. There's a reason that there are no 24 hour vegan restaurants. No one is going out at 2 am looking for a tofu burger.

Ahhh, romantic Valentine’s of yester-year.

So, this year, I said no swanky dinners. Why don’t we get a massage, then order in? He suggested going to the Turkish bath house in the East Village.

I was elated. “I'm going to get the Platza Oak Leaf special treatment!”

I don’t know how this can be classified as a special treatment when it is actually described on their website as the ‘platza specialist will scrub you (actually beat you) with a broom made of fresh oak leaves.’ No, I did not alter any of the text, 'actually beat you' is part of the description. I guess it’s a special treatment, kind of like the silent treatment or water-torture treatment.

Alas, nothing says Happy Valentine's Day like getting spanked by a professional, and I couldn’t wait.

Although Art had the foresight to call and make sure they were open, he neglected to find out how late they were open. They closed early for a private party. So, instead we roamed around the East Village where he treated me to a piercing and dinner.

It started out as one of those casual comments such as “I need to stop at an ATM before dinner” but it was “Let's stop at this piercing salon before we eat…”

Have you ever done something and not remembered why? Like you'll walk past the kitchen and realize you left milk on top of the microwave instead of in the frig and you think, "huh, why'd I do that?" That's what I think when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

He didn’t think I’d really go through with it, and the strange part is neither did I.

When I walked in, the guy was eating Pad Thai. I asked him a few questions, and admitted to the fact that I would most likely chicken out.

He took me in a back room and jabbed a rod through my snout as a confused tears fell from my right eye. Not the left, no, my left eye is tough! My left eye was looking at my right eye yelling ‘Whimp! Get a hold of yourself!’

I wondered if the guy piercing me might not be much different than me. Did he cry like a school girl when he got the skull tattooed on the back of his hand? Did his right eye betray the No Cry Pact with his left during his nose ring or eyebrow piercings? Was he worried that when his parents saw him, they would joke, “boy, it looks like you fell into a tackle box!”

He was done piercing and went back to eating Pad Thai. Yep, put the fork down, stuck his finger in my nose, punctured it, then went back to dinner. The thought was revolting. But then, am I any less disgusting? Sitting in my living room, eating Bhindi Masala off the coffee table while watching an autopsy on CSI?

Although I’m unfortunately not able to report that I got spanked by a specialist on Valentine’s Day, I can say that I got poked by a professional.

Volcanic Coffee

2006-02-15T07:39:00.000-08:00

Monday night I came home and Art proudly asked, "Did you notice the steps?" He had shoveled all the snow off the steps outside and put salt down. I could tell by his enthusiasm that he was so pleased that his hard work ensured that neither one of us would bust our ass when we left in the morning.

At midnight, I was trying to send him an e-card at my computer and I heard him coming downstairs to the living room. As I typed faster, all of a sudden I heard, "BAM...baddah bam-bam!"

I turned around just in time to see his arms and legs in the air and his coffee shooting out of his cup like a brown volcano. He landed with legs and arms still frozen in the air, sitting in a pool of coffee, and holding his breath with his face all squished up . His body was like the letter V for several seconds. While I quickly debated about calling an ambulance vs. getting a cab to the hospital, he finally exhaled "aaaaahhhhhh, my toe!"

First of all, I can't believe he fell down half a flight of stairs and all he hurt was his toe. I thought for sure we'd be out shopping for a new hip this week. After he spoke, it was a littler harder to imagine the 911 call, "yes, come quickly, send an Ambulance, he fell and hurt his...what honey? ....his toe! His TOE! Oh my God! It might be broken. I'm scared to move him... help, send someone QUICK!"

Once ice and Neosporin had been administered he tooted his own horn. "Hey, did you notice I didn't get mad and cuss like I normally do when I'm hurt?" I hadn't noticed. And that's the shame of human nature. When someone is doing something wrong you notice it like a giant flashing neon sign, whereas doing the right thing gets the attention of a small post-it.

With his foot propped he went to bed without showering. I tried to overlook the fact that he smelled like a giant coffee cup. Do you know how hard it is to fall asleep to the smell of coffee? I felt like I was sleeping in a diner booth.

In the middle of the night, I woke up because he's simultaneously talking in his sleep, rowing and smiling. As I'm watching him I realize there really is a separation of right and left brain because my mind began to wander in two separate directions. I am concurrently thinking things like, "I'm hungry. I want some waffles!" and "Is something burning? The house is on fire!" Then simultaneous panic thoughts, "Oh no, we don't have any maple syrup!" and "Where are our emergency exits if we can't get out the front door?" And I was able to jointly sort logistics "Is the rusty old fire escape structurally safe enough to use?" and "how old are those frozen waffles in the frig?"

Half convinced I'm in some coffee-sniffing dream-induced insanity and the other half convinced that downstairs is now a blazing inferno, I finally pull the plug on his crew dreams.

"Hey, does it smell like something is burning?"

"Huh?" He shoots out of bed and shouts, "Yeah, something's burning! Something's on fire!"

Then, like the emperor, he realizes he has on no clothes, "You go check it out!"

"What?"

"I'm not dressed."

I don't know if I went to check it out so that the arsenic burglar wouldn't see his manhood, or if I was protecting his willy from any unnecessary smoke inhalation, but I open the door and realized there was indeed smoke. Horror filled me as I recognized the familiar smell. Someone had burnt a perfectly good waffle.

I walked all around the house and couldn't find where it came from because the smell was everywhere. I think the neighbors must have gotten the middle of the night munchies, then fallen back asleep before they finished cooking.

One morning a month ago I woke up to the yummy smell of pancakes and Art was already up, so I thought he was going to bring me breakfast in bed, but alas, it was just the neighbors torturing me. It's one thing to hear your neighbors hammering, playing their crummy music and having sex, but it's more of an intrusion to smell them. I think there should be some sort of smell ordenance passed. Although, I envision the cop showing up at the door being more amused than threatening, "excuse me sir, we got a call about a waffle complaint...mind if I come in and take a sniff around?"

Rent-A-Kid

2006-02-15T07:19:00.000-08:00

This past weekend it snowed two feet. Most normal adults dread snow because it means ass-busting potential as you walk to work. It means shovelling and salting. It means taking longer to get anywhere. It means stores are closed. But for me, it meant sledding!

This is where me and my husband differ. He saw the giant flakes falling from the sky as a perfect excuse not to leave the house for two days. I saw it as the perfect excuse TO leave.

He humored me and we walked to the park as I hummed and drug my red plastic sled. There were a lot of people out. I realized that all the people out in the snow with sleds had something I did not...children. Yes, kids everywhere. I felt like the the kid at roll-a-rink with no skates watching everyone else have fun.

Should we get a kid? And how could I find one before the snow melted or got dirty? I decided that there should be some service that matches up parents who need a break with adults who temporarily need a kid. Everyone has those times in their life when they wish they had someone under 6 with them. Like when you go to see a G-rated movie, or wait in line for the new Harry Potter book, or excitedly buy ice-cream.

I looked so silly - childless and sledding. Who was I kidding? It was really pathetic because I also realized that where I live is too flat to actually gain any momentum. And there's nothing more pathetic than a 32 year-old sitting in the snow on a stationary plastic sled.