Thursday, December 13, 2007

Save it for the talk room, son.

Upon completing another slobber-filled day of babysitting, I've come up with a few items I feel are vital to keep in mind when considering creating offspring. I now present...

1. I know how big my vagina is, and it's not big enough.

2. I never WANT my vagina to be big enough.

3. I don't want a boring child. I don't want the child that just stares at you when you ask it a question, or prefers not talking over talking. I would rather the child that is obnoxious and outspoken, though that brings me to fear #4.

4. I don't want one of those asshole kids. The ones that throw shit at people they don't know, and tell strangers they're fat.

5. Parents don't know when they're children are ugly, but I'm pretty sure that I would. Pleeeeease no ugly baby!

6. Lactation. I don't like the idea of someone being able to juice me.

7. As far as I can tell, the first one is so easy and precious, it tricks you into having more. And from then on it's a downward sprial into being broke, yelled at and eventually abandoned, until they move out of the house and finally learn to love and appreciate you. Wait - have I had a kid already? No, just too much experience from being one.

8. Finally, there is a certain amount of fright surrounding the fact that it might actually end up like ME, and that's no good for anyone.

In conclusion, I love children and plan on popping out a few, but for now (and the immediate future) I'm keeping all my eggs in my basket before they're scrambled for good.

Tuesday, November 27, 2007

Am I gay for God? You betcha.

aka, "Why I Love Me Some Aussies, Indians and Gays."

In a blatant oversight on my part, I neglected to mention the benefits that come with having minorities as friends. Not only are a wealth of new quips and material available, there is also the innate protection entailed in joking with and in the presence of the butt of the joke.

Here's why I love me an Aussie. A fella from down under can get pretty much any American lassie he wants, no matter what he looks like or how weak his arms are. He can be smarmy as hell and as intelligent as Paris but as soon as that smooth-talking dingo opens his mouth, he can generally make a few girls swoon. Foreigners are the life-blood of the female American serial-dater, and kudos to them for pulling it off. There are a few Aussies that actually DO possess amazing qualities on top of the accent, and it's a wonder not all of them have been snatched up out of the single girls' lives already. And the taken girls, for that matter.

I love me an Indian for many a different reason. Firstly, Gandhi was Indian, and I've heard he was a pretty nice guy. Indians also, surprisingly enough, enjoy Taco Tuesday even more than an authentic Mexican, and I prefer anyone who can down margaritas to anyone who cannot. Descendants from this heavily populated and beautifully clothed country tend to have a certain good spirit born into them, and even if they weren't birthed in the motherland, an uncanny ability to imitate the classic Indian Quickie Mart accent. But my favorite Indian is the one that is that voice in the back of my mind constantly pushing me to achieve the unachievable, and that's why he's my favorite.

And BOY do I love me a GAY or two. Nothing says Sunday morning like a girly boy downing cocktails, and for this I salute my favorite gay of all. No one beats a homo when it comes to dancing like a whore or being Auntie to your children, at least I hope not, and he can always be counted on to cry at a movie when I'm the only other one that is. The gays in my life also have a special talent of being that effervescent lifeforce that keeps me going in the moments life feels dark and grey,
and for that I'm forever grateful.

So raise your glass of beer wine or liquor to your favorite non-dominant racial and or social group - I know I time too many.


Monday, November 12, 2007

Wanna hear the most annoying sound in the world?

There are pros and cons that come with being the only girl in a group of guy friends. Sure, I am subject to cruel musings about sexually explicit acts I wish never entered my brain, but it can't be all bad, right?

I have my two groups: my west coast boys and my east coast boys.

The New Yorkers feel much more like a fraternity - a vulgar, boisterous and inappropriate group of shenanigans who's vile speech about the opposite sex never ceases to amaze me. They bring out the disgusting competitive side of me that only beer chugging contests can fully unmask, and help me prove to myself that I in fact CAN drink more than my body weight, and swimmingly survive the next day. These "men" taught me that quantity of sexual partners is much more important than quality, and that playing darts and shooting pool are the most vital life lessons one can ever learn. It's okay to party during the day, and it's okay to judge people only on their appearance, especially if it's funny...right?

But as well as I could survive in a frat house after my year in NYC, those boys also taught me that having fun is generally all that matters. Work is important, but it's not everything, and being able to shotgun a beer faster than your quickest chugging buddy is more of an accomplishment to be proud of than anyone might realize at first. And there really is something to be said for a girl who can party with the big boys, and love them for who they are and want to be. Most importantly, I have no doubt in my mind that any one of them would run to my rescue if I ever needed it. And bring an extra beer with them to lessen the pain.
And then there's the California coasters.

A less intimidating but equally vulgar crew of delinquents. Only there's much more comedy in the torment that ensues when I hang out with these folks - probably an equal amount of seriousness in their jabs at my sanity, but nonetheless more laughs. These ones remind me that I'm NOT feminine or anything like it (like I really need to be reminded of that...), and that I've become less intelligent since my return from the Big Apple. Good to know. I also become a different animal in their presence, and lose all regard for political correctness and social filtering to separate the inappropriate from the wildly inappropriate. They also possess a certain bitter disregard for proper behavior in social situations that I've come to cherish more than anything, and a constant reminder that I'm more of a man than I am a woman. I never feel more beautiful than when I'm surrounded by these purveyors of compliments and self-affirming remarks.

But while I'm beseiged by sarcastic commentary the entire time I'm with them, I also know that each of these guys would beat the shit out of someone if they tried to hurt me - even if their muscles are barely large enough to do so. In fact I might have to help. But they'd do it. I also know that they all care about me more than they'd ever admit out loud - and I'd never say it either - and that we have an understanding that good-humored insults are always okay. In fact they're the very things that make us close.

Frankly, I like being the only girl. I like knowing the potential that each of the guys has even if they don't quite know it yet, and knowing that they can do better - better girlfriends, better jobs, just better. I'm okay with it when they think I can do better too, even if it's sometimes hard to swallow. But mostly I love knowing that these guys have great hearts and deserve great things, and I'm anxious for the moments I can watch them grow up, and the moments they can do the same for me.

But for now, no growing up is in order. I'm fine with being the girl who looks up at her boys with hope. And then kicks their asses at a shotgun standoff.

Thursday, November 1, 2007

Tonite we HELL!!

There is something about 300 spartans and a shot of whiskey that inevitably makes for a great evening.

Last nite I experienced my first Halloween in WeHo - which, incidentally, means West Hollywood - first lesson of the evening. Second lesson, West Hollywood means Dragville, and most important lesson, Dragville means best time ever. Frankly, I never knew the Tin Man was such a slut until last nite.

First and foremost, I think it's important to bring up the fact that the West Hollywood Halloween Parade is worth going to if not for one simple reason: the most succulent bacon-wrapped street hot dog I have ever devoured. I don't like bacon. I like hot dogs only at baseball games with a beer in my other hand. But this thing was diVINE. With grilled onion goodness and a yellow mustard topper, I knew immediately the nite would be a huge success.

The second thing to tip me off to this fact was the Jesus Christ I saw walking down the street bearing a life-sized wooden cross. I'm pretty sure the fake blood on his back was real by the end of the nite, and I'm quite positive that's the most pictures Jesus has ever taken with his people. He couldn't get a moment alone all evening. NOTE: I am not in support of the blasphemy that comes with dressing up as the Savior, nor do I condone making light of such a tragic historical event. I only encourage creativity and realism, and this guy had it. Amen.

Rather than freaks amongst the regulars, this nite was overflowing with every psycho, slut, crackpot, nutcase and gluesniffer ever to walk the greater LA area. The best part of it all is how much obscurity, obesity and lack of any class whatsoever is admired and supported this one nite of the year. This is the place you can come and let every bit of "weird" minutia in your body shine through, and in turn be touted and photographed purely for your ability to be strange.

And then there's the trannies.

My personal favorite. I haven't seen so many beautiful women in one place maybe ever, nor have I had such a rough time determining whether or not they had penises under their short skirts. What I DO know is, most had nicer legs than me, and most were probably checked out by straight guys throughout the nite, only to scare them into thinking they might be homosexuals themselves. Classic - I love that people think they can be tricked into homo-ship. It's not a pyramid scheme, people.

To top off the nite, my dream came true - I was photographed with a foursome of Spartans straight out of 300. When I say straight out of, I really mean the following: beer-gutted drunks in full garb, lacking any real muscles whatsoever. In fact, as a means of abating this sad truth, they not only wore fake cushy muscle suits, but the other half painted / shaded abs onto their skin. Frankly - worked for me.

Don the crimson cape and shield and I'll hold your chest and smile for the camera anyway.


Wednesday, October 24, 2007

We all go a little mad sometimes...

Maybe it's because Halloween is right around the corner. Maybe it's the crazy weather going to her head and the extra ash inhalation. But Lord help me, PLEASE tell me my neighbor is not in a cult.

It might be best to begin with the myriad of annoyances that have already befallen me due to the woman next door in my new West LA apartment. For instance, the fact that I swear this woman is purposefully trying to drive me mad. Smokes-a-lot-lady, as I affectionately refer to her, began her slow and grating elimination of my sanity with her constant singing. Not real songs, mind you - mindless humming, with no rhyme or reason, designed to make a person fall slowly and painfully into complete and utter insanity.

If she's not singing she's talking, which is interesting in itself, since I'm nearly positive she lives alone. At 1:30AM on my first sleepless nite living next door to the American Idol, I dragged my haggard ass out of bed and outside, to determine if it was my upstairs or next door neighbor I needed to plot to murder. Lucky me, I hear the culprit's beautiful voice immediately, just on the other side of my bedroom wall. And then - wait for it - I hear THIS: "We need to get you your medicine!"

A: Crazy woman has a cat or bird.
B: Crazy woman has a child that stays up way too late.
C: Crazy woman, most likely, is effing crazy, and reminding HERSELF to take her medicine.

In addition to these adorable traits, Ms. SmokesALot has a beautiful hacking cough that could wake the dead. Which brings me to the moment when I finally realized which person in my neighborhood lived next door - as you might imagine, naturally, she looks a little bit like this:

And yes she has that pipe.
Now imagine this woman in all her glory, and fast forward to tonite. It's 8pm on a Wednesday evening. I step out of the shower, and immediately hear a methodic chanting floating through the wall. "Oh, no big deal, it's just the cult next door. Wait, WHAT?!" I further my investigation and step outside, only to find that it is indeed the good madam to my right. An eery and unnatural light glowed in her apartment, and I hope to Baby Jesus she was participating in a more intense yogo sesh than I've ever myself experienced.
But because it's me, and it's MY's probably more likely that I live next door to a witches' coven. This is in turn what led me to Google "coven," and remind me that I want to purchase HOCUS POCUS stat, because that movie rules all.
For now, I'll just long for Smokey McAshtray to go back to the singing. Compared to the sounds of the occult, sensless humming ain't so bad.

Friday, October 19, 2007

Your pencils are creating a health hazard.

I've somehow crossed that barrier between having a "job" and having a "career" - so why do I want to go back? I think the thrill of the chase goes for boys AND futures, but it's pushing off the starting block that proves to be the most challenging part.

I miss jobs. I miss getting yelled at for not saying "hello" to a customer instead of getting yelled at for saying "hello" too casually to a client. When do I get to go back to the days of teaching swimming lessons and effing around all day? UH, NEVER. There comes that definitive moment that you leave your job and start your future, and it seems you can never go back. It's almost a sort of pergatory, an in-between part of life that leaves you constantly wondering if you've made the right decisions, and waiting to mess up badly enough to ruin the good ones you've managed to sustain.

But while I can long for sunscreen and sneakers there is still something so thrilling about tasting the first bit of career. Even though when I look at myself in the mirror before treading off to work in the morning, I hardly recognize the business-in-the-front, party-in-the-back-me - until now I've always been party all around. I still find it difficult to resist telepone sarcasm and swearing in the workplace, but I'm getting there.

I can "hold please" and "leave word" all day long, manage four script requests while juggling three phone lines and printing labels, type notes on a call with the speed of - something really fast, and make up reasons my boss is not available like it's my job. Oh wait - it is my job....Sad...But now I'm also in a place where I can listen to the magic happen every day, the magic I someday hope to be mine, and envision the moment that I get to call my agent and shoot the shit about effing around in the writers' room all day. Hey - I guess everything can come full circle afterall...Never say never.

As a last antecdote that may very well dictate the way my career will go thus far, someone ACTUALLY said the following on the phone today: "Her dress was so short she had an extra set of cheeks to powder and more hair to comb, if you know what I mean."

I DO know what he means. And when did he see me over the weekend?