Posts filed under 'Time-out. (General insanity)'
“I told you about Google Earth. Like, four months ago,” says David. He sounds mildly miffed but he is trying to channel his miffiness into his miserable graphic design job on his laptop, so he doesn’t actually look at me.
“I thought it sounded familiar. But I wasn’t ready then. My brain couldn’t handle it until just last night,” I say.
Nearly imperceptible sigh from the den of graphic design despair. “It’s fine.”
“We looked at my mom’s childhood home. We could see the back porch. We could even see the garage my grandfather died in! Do you believe that! We put the cursor on the roof and my mom said, ‘Wow, my dad died right there in that corner of the carage! Right below the cursor thingie!’ Isn’t that amazing?”
“Really? Huh.” My husband is less than impressed with our macabre application of Google Earth. Mom is in town to see the play, but last night I was sick, so she stayed home with me and we spent an hour and a half looking for satellite images of Remote Places, Places Where People Have Died, and Places Where People Are Buried. This pasttime brought to you by Contrary, who freaked us out with her Google Earth screenshot captures of the cemetery where her grandfather is buried.
We didn’t see any scary faces, but Googling Earth made us feel all Alias and espionage-y even though we were sitting on the couch on an apple-juice–stained Polarfleece blanket covered in dog fur and I was coughing wheezy viral strands all over the computer and my poor mother. Why had I waited so long to explore this miraculous and addictive pasttime? Why had I never flown to the Great Wall of China or the Isle of Lewis or Montauk ON MY LAPTOP?
I was seized with the urge to make a collage for you of all of the places that mean something to me, but then it occurred to me that that would be about as original or interesting as telling you about my very favorite beauty products. Which inexplicably I still want to do really badly but Jane Iredale Pure Pressed Base in Warm Silk I know that RJ and Spot the Wonder Dog Jane Iredale Absence would never come back here after a tedious bit like that DHC Cleansing Oil and I really do appreciate my male readership Blistex so I must not be frivolous. This is a serious blog and pointless frivolity and product endorsements will not be tolerated.
I know where you live and I can tilt your world.
May 6th, 2006
You asked if you could buy a Like Home poster, but posters are so fleeting. You deserve more! So we have decided
to pass the savings down to you
to beg and grovel for your charity
to auction off the Like Home original painting on eBay! You’ll never get another opportunity like this one!
Continue Reading April 21st, 2006
I am in a LET’S JUST SAY mood this week. Here’s a (sort of) non-ghostly one for you:
LET’S JUST SAY you are on a flight from, say, Pittsburgh to Albany, hurtling along at an altitude of 35,000 feet. Terrible turbulence kicks in. You wonder if you are going to heave your Sbarro pizza lunch all over your knees. Your sense of well-being does not improve when the flight attendant hurries to her jump seat (why must they call it this? why?) and straps herself in.
LET’S JUST SAY you keep glancing over at her to see if you are in really big trouble. She seems relaxed enough, so you relax a little and stop digging your nails into your armrests.
Until the flight attendant peers out the window, looks down down down 35,000 feet, and says conspiratorially, “You know, I think this is where it happened.”
LET’S JUST SAY you and everyone in Rows 1 through 12 immediately lean way way way forward to hear more.
What would you like the chatty flight attendant to say next?
Would you like to hear her say, YES! THIS IS WHERE I SAW THAT CLOUD FORMATION THAT LOOKED JUST LIKE HOWARD STERN! Yes! You would!
Would you like to hear her say, THIS IS EXACTLY WHERE THE MAGIC RAINBOW APPEARED AND GIGGLING LEPRECHAUN ANGELS LEAPT ONTO THE WINGS OF THE PLANE AND DID THAT FUNNY JIG IN THEIR SPARKLY ELF SHOES AND OH DID WE EVER LAUGH! Yes! You would!
Here is what you WOULD NOT LIKE TO HEAR HER SAY at 35,000 feet during Turb-O-Rama:
YEAH, THIS IS IT. SEE THOSE WINDMILL THINGS? THIS IS WHERE FLIGHT 93 WENT DOWN.
LET’S JUST SAY I would like to see the US Airways employee training manual. Let’s just say! Let’s!
April 14th, 2006
This week I feel like a circus act, trying to keep my dozen spinning dinner plates up on their sticks while the Clownmobile circles closer and closer so the leering molester-clowns can honk their big fat bike horns right in my ear and pinch me on me bum. Small children in the crowd are throwing popcorn and crying, She stinks! The dinner-plate lady stinks and her bum-bum is big and stinky!
Oh. I see. Those are my children.
Not long after graduating from Grinnell, I was faced with the daunting task of filling out my first HEY GRINNELLIANS! WHATCHA BEEN UP TO? form for the alumni news section of the college magazine. I remember staring at it for a long time, then hunching over the form and writing
JENNIFER MATTERN (’92) is currently employed as a Kick-Me Clown at Six Flags Great America in Gurnee, Illinois.
I sent it in. It made me feel better. I knew someone out there in the global Grinnell community would enjoy asking coworkers and friends What is a Kick-Me Clown? Did you ever see one at Six Flags? Did you ever kick one? I think I would like to kick one!
I liked college. I loved college. I was feeling pretty melancholy about the whole post-Grinnell Real World (pre-MTV meaning of the term) scenario, and after repeating it a few times out loud, Six Flags Kick-Me Clown started to sound like a not-so-bad gig, better than Administrative Assistant to the Assistant to the Provost at St. Bacitracin’s Pray-4-U-Niversity (the first post-college job offer that came my way).
My boyfriend at the time was exasperated by my Kick-Me Clown routine. Details of our Kick-Me-Clown–related conversations are pretty fuzzy now, but I think for him it was further frustrating evidence of my inability to accept As-Is circumstances without moping about the past, or lunging toward the future like a coked-up stallion.
I am still working on this temperamental trait. Traditionally, As-Is has not been my thing. I like a good hypothetical question. I like the fast-forward and fast-rewind buttons on the remote control that would control the DVD player if the DVD player had not broken last week. I stay out too late with my Past and my Future while my Present waits up at home drinking warm milk and glancing anxiously at my empty side of the bed and wondering when I’ll be back.
I am trying hard to Stay In the Moment. I tried to meditate on my bed the other day while focusing on the lovely blue-green house across the street (Hi Chris! Hedges look great! Good luck with the moss!) but then I started thinking about square footage and hardwood floors and worrying that our neighbor is growing his hedges for the sole purpose of BLOCKING OUR EYESORE OF A HOUSE FROM VIEW, so the meditation thing didn’t really pan out.
I also got invited to go to a yoga class, but then my friend told me that you have to hold your nostrils closed, one at a time, and breathe like that while keeping a straight face and chanting and pretending you don’t have Granny-underpants pantylines like ship rigging that everyone is snorting their one-nostril snorts at. I think it’s important to know your limitations.
I am juggling a lot of work and projects right now, some for money and some for character-building purposes, and that’s forcing me to be In the Moment in some respects. But now I’m having the irritating problem of being so bogged down In My Stupid Moments that I forget there is life beyond my whirling dinner plates and molester-clowns. (Not to be confused with the entirely more approachable Kick-Me Clowns.)
At least a Kick-Me Clown gets to be out in the sunshine all day. That is what I am thinking right now, In This Stupid Moment. And. You. Were. There.
April 4th, 2006
My mom’s birthday is tomorrow (that’s right! go wish The Mater a happy birthday!), and Mother’s Day is coming up, so I’ve been looking for just the right thing for my favorite little lady.
So there I was, about a week ago, perusing the Gaiam (”a lifestyle company”) catalog wondering if my mom would like a Zen fountain or some yoga pants, when I stumbled upon this intriguing item.
At which point I checked the cover of the catalog to make sure it was, in fact, the Gaiam catalog and not another sort of catalog altogether.
Yup.
“Dear Gaiam Customer Service Team,
I’m searching for a special gift for my mom’s birthday, and the Kegelcisor (#43-0043 and #15-0786) really caught my eye. Your organic cotton pajamas (#04-0288) look very nice, but this year I want to get my mother something she’d never get for herself. I figure she’d get a week (tops) out of a vase of roses, but I get the distinct impression that the Kegelcisor is forever.
Before I splurge, I have a few questions:
1) Your catalog description says that the Kegelcisor comes in two sizes (the original Kegelcisor, 7″ long, and the Kegel Enhancer, 3 7/8″ long). I see online that the original Kegelcisor is $80, but the more petite Enhancer costs a full $10 more. This seems counterintuitive, but it’s true that I am not well-versed in Kegelcisors. I assumed the “more bang for your buck” concept would apply to the 7″ model, but now I’m wondering if the mini version (”ideal for beginners and those who want a smaller device”) is the way to go for Mom. Can you explain the price difference?
2) If I go in this direction for my mom’s birthday, I want to be sure I can explain the Kegelcisor’s features to my mother in full, so she doesn’t wind up using it as a rolling pin or as a stake for her tomato plants.
The Gaiam catalog description says “when inserted, the cool (70-degree F) temperature automatically causes your pubococcygeus (PC) muscle to contract correctly, and with regular use, helps reduce incontinence and enhance pleasure.”
Can you be more specific? My mother is the kind of woman who likes to follow a recipe exactly. Does the Kegelcisor need to be kept in the refrigerator between uses, or will it stay at room temperature? Does it require a cool-down period to keep it from overheating?
3) I know my mother will ask me about the three distinct lumps on the Kegelcisor. I was wondering if the manufacturer provided your company with any material on that feature?
4) I was thinking about having my mother’s bowling nickname engraved on the Kegelcisor, but I’m worried that the “lightly textured stainless steel” surface might not take engraving well. Thoughts?
5) I’m assuming this is a all-sales-final no-returns item?
Thanks for any additional information you can provide on the Kegelcisor, the gift that keeps on giving. Apparently!”
_________
Sadly, the Gaiam Customer Service Team has not responded to my product inquiry.
_________
I had better luck at the manufacturer’s site, where the customer reviews were compelling:
“I love my Kegelcisor! Being stainless steel, it shall never wear out! Every woman should own one!! Thank you!!!”
“All I have to say is wow. Sometimes I leave it in and do my daily activities. IT IS SO AMAZING!!!!!!!”
“Unintimidating, sturdy and effective. Easy to use but would prefer to have explicit exercise instructions. Quick note, being stainless steel it conducts heat easily so be prepared to gently warm it up on a cold day and definitely wait for it to cool if you have put in boiling water.”
_________
But I needed more info. I found another place online that offered the Kegelcisor—a friendly company called Babeland—and emailed my questions.
A very nice lady named Kerry responded right away:
“Hello Jenn,
Thanks for writing. The Kegelcisor does have a paper with slight instructions. For a warmer and thorough welcoming, you might want to include Betty Dodson’s book “Sex for One” and a bottle of lubrication with your mother’s gift.
We also carry Betty’s Barbell, but the Kegelcisor is made of solid stainless steel and doesn’t have the possibility of chipping, so it’s safer.
The PC muscles can be exercised with or without a weighty kegelcisor, by squeezing and releasing the kegel muscles in a set of reps; it’s the same motion as stopping a flow of urine midflow. The coolness of the Kegelcisor can definitely contribute to the PC muscles contracting. However, like iron weights at a gym, room temperature will suffice to keep it cool. If she’d like it colder or warmer, she can run it under water or put it in the fridge. The bulbous parts of the Kegelcisor ensures that it bumps against the right places.
I advise against engraving the Kegelcisor unless your mother uses it with a condom. Bacteria can grow in the grooves and lead to yeast infections.
Babeland’s 30-day returns policy allows returns for any reason for this product, even after it has been used, so it’s a no-fear purchase.
Your mom’s a very lucky lady to have a thoughtful daughter as you.
Good luck and tell your mom, Have fun!
Kerry
Babeland Customer Fulfillment”
_________
All of which left me thinking:
Who is Betty?
Why does she do that with her barbells?
I forgot to ask about gift bags.
March 14th, 2006
I go to bed on Wednesday night feeling a little ehhh. Nothing specific, just ehhh. By morning, I am feeling a little more ehhh. I get the girls where they need to go, and the ehhh factor ramps up a notch. On my way to meet a friend at the coffee shop, I have the unpleasant realization that the ehhh is coming from my chest.
My chest is heavy. Not to be confused with my heavy bosoms, which are a very different breed of heavy. This ehhh is a bad, bad heavy. Very uncomfortable heavy. There is a bit of pain and when I try to figure out which way it’s going, I realize it’s going down my left arm.
But I don’t want to be rude, even if I am having a heart attack. My nice friend will be waiting for me at the coffee shop. So I make a pit stop at the pharmacy, where I seize a box of St. Joseph’s chewable 81mg aspirin tablets ($4.99) and an even larger box of E-Mer-Gen-C Heart Health black-cherry–flavored dissolving fizzy powder packets ($17.99) full of lycopene and other things I have never heard of. I am hoping my Fizzy Lifting Drink will end this episode of When Hearts Attack so I can enjoy a nice latte with my friend. I have a lot of work to do this week, and a heart attack would be terribly inconvenient.
I bolt from the pharmacy, sit on some steps, and tear into the aspirin, crunching down four. Then I hurry over to the coffee shop, trying to ignore the worsening ehhh and left arm pain.
“Are you getting something?” my friend wants to know.
I decide that if I am going to die, I should go down looking health-conscious. “I’ll have an herbal tea,” I say.
My friend looks at me strangely. I don’t want to alarm her, so I tell her I am just feeling dehydrated. Maybe I am dehydrated. I have seen dehydrated apple rings, and they are not all that far off from what my eye sockets and surrounding skin look like in the a.m.
I put my herbal tea on our table. Now I am positive I am dying, because I am having palpitations and it feels like an ape is sitting on my chest and my left arm is doing a very bad thing, its own version of the ehhh.
I ask my friend if she thinks I could be having a heart attack. She looks confused. All I have done is order an herbal tea instead of a latte, and it didn’t look all that taxing.
I show her the contents of my pharmacy bag and explain the ehhh to her. I have just spent nearly $25 on heart-attack prevention products. My friend is trying not to laugh. She is a very nice friend. I can tell that she wants to tell me that I am not having a heart attack, to cheer me up, but she is on the fence about the whole thing.
I get some water and dump two packets of Fizzy Heart Health into it and guzzle it down. “But enough about me,” I say.
Now we are both convinced I am having a heart attack, so she sends me to the doctor.
I do not like going to the doctor. But I do not want to be like my father, who really really really doesn’t like the doctor and avoided going to the doctor for twenty years, so I try to be brave even though I feel very stupid.
The receptionist says what receptionists say, which is, “Yes?” I want to say, “No,” and turn around and leave with my bad chest and bad arm and go die in the parking lot where people will not notice me until I have checked out completely and can’t see them pointing and staring at my bosoms, which I always imagine will fall out of my shirt at the exact moment of my death.
But instead I say, “Um, I know this is going to sound really dumb, but I’m having some strange chest discomfort, um, and my left arm hurts—”
She is on it. If you are in a bank, you say, Give me all your money in a bag. If you are in a doctor’s office, you say, Strange chest discomfort, left arm hurts and you will get pretty much the same effect.
She is tapping her keyboard frantically to see who can see me. I am hoping for one of the anonymous urgent-care doctors, who take anxious anonymous walk-ins.
“Your primary-care physician is in, and he can see you right now,” she says.
“Really?” I say. “Because I’m not picky.”
I have already seen my new primary-care physician three times in the past three and a half weeks, and we are not off to great start. This is all my fault, as at our first visit I was stammering and making too many stupid jokes and then forgot to tell him about some medication I was on and then remembered to tell him but by then I was blushing furiously and was sure I was coming across as dodgy and evasive and disturbed and so then tried a whole new round of stupid jokes. Throughout the whole debacle, my doctor leaned against the sink and studied me as if I were a rare and diseased Galapagos seal that someone found on a Berkshire ski slope.
A fourth visit in three and a half weeks with this man will not do wonders for my self-esteem or credibility. I consider slipping out the blood lab emergency exit but that would involve walking past phlebotomists and their evil blue rubber tourniquets, the sight of which brings me to my knees. So I sit still in the waiting room and will my heart to stop ehhhing. No go.
The nurse comes and whisks me to the exam room. She takes my blood pressure. Normal. She takes my pulse. I try not to pass out. I do not like people fondling my pulse. But it is normal. Then she tells me to take my shirt and bra off and put one of those slinky cotton-sheet robes on. She leaves. I put on the robe. Now I know I am going to die, because my bosoms are falling out. I shift gears and will my heart to give out quickly so I can get the hell out of Dodge before I can see the doctor and the nurse staring at my bazoombas.
Again, no go.
The nurse comes back and I have not died, so she is polite and tries not to look at my breasts as she sticks bits of poster-putty all over them and presses EKG wires into the little globs. The whole time she does this, I say things like Isn’t that interesting and I feel really stupid, would you feel stupid? and I can’t be the only person who came in here for something like this. She is kind and nods at whatever I say, a little too emphatically, as if I really am a rare and diseased Galapagos seal, but one who speaks English and is about to die a horrible painful death, and she wants to keep me as calm as possible.
The actual EKG takes all of three seconds, and she tells me I can put my clothes back on. She looks at the EKG printout, frowns, then says, I don’t read these, you know, but the doctor will talk to you about it and pushes the EKG machine from the room as if she is serving dim sum.
I am very very twitchy when my doctor arrives. I try not to make stupid jokes, and he makes this possible by cutting me off at the pass. “So what’s going on?” is what he says sternly as he’s walking in the room. I am grateful that he has left me no time for my special brand of small and insipid talk.
I tell him what is going on, about the ehhh in my chest and in my left arm.
He picks up the EKG readout and studies it. “This all looks fine. Except—” He squints at the printout. “—except the computer is telling me that you had a previous infarction.”
“The computer is telling you I had a heart attack? At one point? A heart attack that I missed?” This is novel, if disturbing, information.
He puts the paper down. “I don’t buy it. I think the computer is wrong on this one.”
“Really? Are we allowed to think that way?” I ask.
He ignores this and checks me out with his doctor kit. He asks some good questions about family members dropping dead at age 40, then tells me that, though he tends to be conservative about these things, he just doesn’t think I’ve got enough risk factors or symptoms to send me to the hospital.
I like this finding, because I like hospitals even less than I like doctors’ offices, but then he says, “Just go home and take a hot bath.”
When your doctor tells you to go home and take a hot bath, you know you are a raging hypochondriac. And the only thing to do as a raging hypochondriac in this situation is to deny being a raging hypochondriac. Which I do. Vehemently. “You know, I swear I’m not a hypochondriac. I’m normally very healthy. I don’t even like doctors. I mean, visiting doctors. I mean, I like you, but I don’t like, you know. What goes on here. I’m not a hypochondriac.”
He smiles cautiously. “Of course you’re not,” he says, then hurries from the room, leaving me with my heaving hypochondriac bosoms.
I slink past the receptionist, who looks a little disappointed that I did not die, and go to my car. I still feel very ehhh, and I am still convinced that death is imminent. In fact, now I want to die, just to prove to my doctor that I am not a hypochondriac. So I go to the food co-op because people there will notice if I drop dead, and I don’t even care about them seeing my bosoms, because they wear Birkenstocks and have magnetic peace signs on their cars, and I feel safe with them.
But I keep on living, so I wind up buying $105 of organic bok choy in case I continue to keep on living when I get home and need to feel like I’ve made a lifestyle change.
I am afraid to die at home, because it will scare the dogs and the children, so I stall by taking my bok choy to the paint store. I peruse yellows and rub my left arm. Periodically, I slap my sternum, sort of a Junior Varsity CPR move to keep things ticking in there.
As I buy some Benjamin Moore paint samples, I wonder if I should position myself to pass out forward, onto the counter, or backwards, more dramatically, into the paint roller display. I aim for the counter, less mess for everyone.
But we seal the deal at the cash register with no death on my part.
When I get home, I am still alive. I am going to have to switch primary-care doctors.
When David gets home later, I am up on the stepladder, swabbing Weston Flax and Windham Cream on the wall above the blue cabinets and holding on to the ladder with my aching left arm. My heart likes the Weston Flax better, but my arm is telling me to go for the Windham Cream.
“What did the doctor say?” David wants to know.
“He told me to take a bath,” I say.
But today I’m pretty sure I have glaucoma.
March 3rd, 2006
I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. I really don’t.
Continue Reading February 27th, 2006
God Bless Ye, Failed Googlers. Your failure is our triumph yet again (witness October’s shrine to the Scary Seekers, weep weep nude girls).
Behold the actual search strings that have led hundreds of very confused souls to breed ‘em and weep. All who wander online are indeed lost until proven otherwise.
I ask that you hold your applause until all the Lost Googlers have been named and properly categorized for all eternity.
IN THE BALLPARK
paint the storm door cranberry
dogs licking floor
middle age boobs
hattie nickname
grandfather was a carpenter
liev schreiber
KIND OF IN THE BALLPARK
challah bread covers
yiddish shizzle
open denim jacket busty
what is valium made of
funny in-laws from Canada
USED TO BE IN THE BALLPARK
aqua net mall hair
girl puking all over herself
HANG OUT IN MY BALLPARK AND FEED ME PRETTY GRAPES
funny witty responses
jennifer mattern magic spell
ONLY MY THERAPIST KNOWS ABOUT THIS BALLPARK AND SHE’S NOT TALKING
disassociative identity disorder
NOT EVEN CLOSE TO THE BALLPARK
antidaycare
weekend cruise
cheerleader panties
empty nest support groups
gender disappointment and coping
KICK HIM IN HIS BALLPARK
post your wife naked
breed a blonde woman
how to breed your wife
GIVE THE NICE SLUT HER ACCESSORIES BACK AND COME OUT OF THE CLOSET ALREADY
slut clothes
slut in sandals
earrings for sluts
THAT’S WHAT YOU GET FOR NOT GIVING HER EARRINGS BACK
she puts me in her panties and girdle then spanks me
DUDE YOU SAID IT NOT ME
dressing room crossdresser
SANDRA AND RUTH DEFEND YOUR FREEDOM OF SPEECH AND THIS IS THE THANKS THEY GET
sluts on the bench
THERE’S A VERY GOOD REASON THE TALIBAN HATE CURLING UNIFORMS
Canadian sluts
A COMMA AND I’M STRANGELY CHARMED, A HYPHEN AND I SUDDENLY LIKE YOU A WHOLE LOT LESS
come happy sluts
AS LONG AS YOU DON’T ROLL OVER
is it okay for dog to sleep with us in bedroom
AS LONG AS IT HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH YOUR FIRST QUESTION
how do you know your dog is giving birth
GETTING REALLY WORRIED ABOUT THAT DOG
sharpie dog ear infection
SERVES YOU RIGHT
smell shoe dog crap
WITH THAT LIFESTYLE, PROBABLY A BETTER CHOICE
play doh dog
GET HER A SUBSCRIPTION TO BLACK INCHES ALREADY
wife wants black penis
wife wants to try a black monster
GET YOURSELF A SUBSCRIPTION TO BLACK INCHES ALREADY
how long does a black man’s penis get
YOU SHOULD HAVE JUST GOTTEN THE SUBSCRIPTION
bred my wife to a black man
MOST PERSONALLY DISTURBING
in laws massage horseshoe
BEST ABSURDIST JOKE SETUP
porn movie walking a dog
BEST ABSURDIST JOKE PUNCHLINE
dennis quaid muu muu
BUT YOU’RE WEARING A MUU MUU DENNIS
doh eat my shorts
LET ME KNOW IF YOU FIGURE OUT ANOTHER WAY
bathtime nude
OH GIVE IT A REST ALREADY
nude ballerina
nude daughter-in-law
my nude cousins
THIS FUNHOUSE IS RATED I FOR INCONSISTENT
funniest masks in the world
funny girl moans
scary boobs
NOTHING SEXIER THAN A MAN WHO KNOWS WHAT HE WANTS
malformed boobs
DYSLEXIC AND HIS BEER TASTES LIKE CRAP
lager penis
SORRY I DIDN’T HEAR YOU I WAS WATCHING SESAME STREEP
meryl street nude
SHE’S ALLERGIC TO MERYL STREET
meryl streep blowing her nose
YES, BECAUSE THAT’S ALL WE TALK ABOUT, YOU MEATY STUDS
blogs women on penis
GIVE THE GUY A CHANCE
husband small penis not erect
GIVE YOURSELF A CHANCE
why will my penis not grow
GIVE YOURSELF A HEMATOMA
penis bind
THREE GREAT THINGS THAT GO GREAT TOGETHER
benadryl and vodka
uncontrolled muscle movements
IF YOU NEED A CHASER
prepaid therapy
ASK YOUR FRIENDS ABOUT THE FLAT SHINY THINGS THEY KEEP ON THEIR WALLS
what i look like naked
I KNOW SOMEBODY WHO COULD REALLY USE THAT MIRROR
large t-shirts make me look even shorter
MUST BE NICE TO HAVE ALL THAT TIME ON YOUR HANDS
borrow sugar from the neighbor
pink cakes
ice cream between waffles
dollhouse popsicles
gravysicles
mary poppins mops
IN BETWEEN CRAFT PROJECTS AND BAKE SALES SHE MAKES FLASHCARDS FOR MORK
picture of a cup of sugar
picture of a waffle cone
ASK MISS GRAVYSICLES WHY DONCHA
do it yourself penis extender
make your own penis extender
PRETTY SURE IT DOESN’T COME WITH A WARRANTY, CHIEF
penis protection extender
PUT DOWN THE EXTENDER BEFORE YOU LOSE YOUR TWIG COMPLETELY
extra inches extender how big
YOU CAN’T TELL ME YOU WERE SURPRISED BY YOUR WIFE’S REACTION
laughing mary mother of god
THIS IS THE LAST THING I’LL SAY ON THE SUBJECT
oh now you weep
THAT’S ONE WAY TO DEAL WITH IT
share husband’s small penis
SETTLE DOWN BEFORE YOU LOSE YOUR SEASON TICKETS
lick ballet
TALK DIRTY TO ME YOU BAD BAD BAD CANADIAN CHAP
lick bum
NO YOU LICK MINE
lick my blog
LOSING STEAM AREN’T YOU
lick
WHO DOESN’T
love it when you call me big pooper scooper in my head
I THINK THIS IS A SCOTTISH PICKUP LINE BUT I CAN’T BE SURE
go on the fucking good thing, ye!!!!!
WHO IS THIS WOMAN AND HAS SHE GOTTEN A RESTRAINING ORDER YET
emily naked
emily nude
IF YOU HAVE TO ASK, ASK EMILY
what is a heavy breather
EITHER PLANNING A CRAFT PROJECT OR A “BUSINESS” TRIP TO THAILAND
rice paddy babies
rice paddy dolls
February 21st, 2006
A dingy pink dump of a bar. SNOW WHITE polishes glassware behind the bar counter. CINDERELLA enters on crutches and sits down at the bar. A WOMAN WITH A CREWCUT, wearing an ugly burlap shirt and pants, sits at the other end of the bar, swigging a beer. SLEEPING BEAUTY is slumped over the bar. Asleep.
Snow White: (to Cinderella) Hey, C.
Cinderella: Hello, Snow!
Snow White: What’s your pleasure?
Cinderella: I’d love a Fairy Godmother? I haven’t had a Fairy Godmother in ages.
Snow White: I’m out of fairy dust. I could use oregano—
Cinderella: No, no, don’t bother. I’ll have a Cosmopolitan.
Snow White: What happened to the foot?
Cinderella: Oh, you know. Clumsy, clumsy. How were your holidays?
Snow White: My better half was out of town again, so it was just me and the little guys.
Cinderella: Must be nice to let your hair down once in a while like that.
WOMAN WITH CREWCUT looks up briefly.
Snow White: Ah, it was the same old interspecies interfaith holiday crap. The forest animals skipped around singing ‘Deck the Halls’ while Doc and I made a menorah out of twigs and orange rinds and old cheese curds. Grumpy’s kugel was out of this world.
Cinderella: (taken aback) You’re Jewish? I thought that was against the by-laws.
Snow White: The little guys. Me, I’m an agnostic. But I like the whole mitzvah concept. I’m down with Jews, definitely. You should drop by next year and spin the dreidel.
Cinderella: Prince Charming never seems to go out of town. Well, he’s got his annual trip to the Slipper This! convention. I have no idea what that’s all about, but he seems to really enjoy it. To each his own.
Snow White hands Cinderella her drink and a cocktail napkin.
Snow White: Where’s Prince Charming tonight?
Cinderella: Superbowl party.
Snow White: You need to get out more, if you ask me.
Cinderella: Oh, but there’s always so much to do! A Disney Princess’s work is never done!
Snow White: Yeah, I know the drill. How was your Christmas?
Cinderella: Let’s just say I’m glad the holidays are over. (pause, in horror) Did I say I’m glad the holidays are over? That’s not what I meant. I love the holidays! It’s such a magical, magical time! A magical time to feel magical things in your heart!
Snow White: Yeah, yeah, it’s bibbitybobbitybootylicious. Got it. (pause) You hear about Belle?
Cinderella: Oh, let me guess. He’s a beast again. My, how surprising.
Snow White: She rode that retarded pony of hers into the Black Forest in a blizzard, looking for a Christmas tree that her idiot husband didn’t even want. You know how he gets around the holidays. So there’s Belle, trying to drag a fir tree across the half-frozen river—
Cinderella: Oh, no.
Snow White: —when the magic fife spooks the horse, on purpose, mind you, and the stupid horse topples the sleigh and takes off into the woods. Belle winds up dropping that damn talking cup through a crack in the ice—
Cinderella: I have told that girl over and over, there is a time and a place for talking cups and saucers, and the Black Forest is not the place for talking cups and saucers!
Snow White: So of course Belle falls through the ice herself, trying to rescue her precious teacup. The Beast comes along, fishes Belle out of the water, hauls her home and get this—get this—dumps her limp, hypothermic body in the dungeon.
Cinderella: She’s hypothermic and he throws her in the dungeon? I can’t believe what I’m hearing.
Sleeping Beauty raises her head.
Sleeping Beauty: (talks in sleep) So pretty! Round and round it goes! Pretty pretty!
She slumps over the bar again. They ignore her.
Snow White: The best part is that hours later he finds some cutesy Christmas book she’s left for him—
Cinderella: Of course she has. That is so Belle—
Snow White: —and he starts feeling all guilty like he always does, so he goes down the dungeon—
Cinderella: No, no, don’t say it, I can’t take it—
Snow White: —and there’s Belle, sitting there blue and shivering and SINGING CHRISTMAS CAROLS with the clock and the teacup’s mother and that perverted French candlestick. Who knows where that thing has been, but that’s another story.
Cinderella: That is so wrong. On so many levels.
Snow White: And of course he’s like, oh, Belle baby, can you ever forgive me for LEAVING YOU FOR DEAD in the dungeon? And she’s like, oh, Beast baby, of course I can. Again. I don’t know what the hell it’s going to take. That girl needs some serious help. You need another beer down there?
Crewcut woman nods. Snow White grabs a Heineken and slides it down the bar to her.
Cinderella: Sometimes—and I know this is going to sound horrible—sometimes I really think she would have been better off with Gaston.
Snow White: Did you know Gaston was in rehab a few months ago? Sex addiction. But apparently he beat it.
Cinderella: What about the steroids?
Snow White: I hear he kicked those too. One of the busty blonde French serving wenches was in here the other day. She said he’s doing great—yoga, macrobiotic diet, a lot of charity work for Disney Characters Without Mothers. He’s a new man.
Cinderella: I admire that. I really do. (pause) Do you think they’re online? That organization you mentioned—
Woman with crewcut: How long did he stay a prince, anyway?
Snow White and Cinderella turn to stare at her.
Snow White: The Beast? The jackass barely made it a month before the same enchantress came around dressed in the SAME OLD HAG OUTFIT she was wearing the first time. I mean, come on! Even dopey-ass Dopey would have figured that one out.
Cinderella: Unbelievable.
Snow White: Dumb as a post, that one. This time around he threw an iron birdcage at her head. The enchantress zapped him right back into a beast faster than you can say BEAST DOOKIE.
Woman with crewcut: I heard she took a testicle.
Cinderella: My goodness. A testicle.
Snow White: (impressed) Damn! That is one twisted bee-yotch! I hope that enchanted bee-yotch gets her enchanted ass in here so I can buy her a drink!
Cinderella: I just worry for Belle. Disney Princess or not, that’s a lot to handle.
Snow White: She eats it up, that’s what I think. Belle trots around acting all sweet, and she’s got that sexy librarian thing going on, but I bet she likes it beasty.
Cinderella: That’s crude, Snow. I wouldn’t talk if I were you.
Snow White: What’s that supposed to mean?
Cinderella: You think people don’t talk about you and your little boy toys? I’m just saying.
Sleeping Beauty: (raises head, talks in sleep) Can’t we keep the spinning wheel in the garage? Does it have to be in my closet? Daddy?
Sleeping Beauty slumps over again. Woman with crewcut motions to Sleeping Beauty.
Woman with crewcut: What’s with her?
Snow White: (still irritated with Cinderella) Her prince keeps her that way. That’s how she was when he met her, that’s how he likes her. Asleep.
Woman with crewcut: Tylenol PM?
Cinderella: Roofies. The Tylenol PM wears off too fast. (pause) I read it in Vanity Fair.
Woman with crewcut: Whoa. I can’t imagine putting up with that kind of crap.
Snow White huffs off to the other end of the bar, wiping furiously.
Enter MULAN (now MU-MAN), wearing natty menswear, and JASMINE, in her usual gauzy getup and exposed midriff.
Cinderella: Mulan! What a surprise!
Mu-Man: (in a deep voice) I am now Mu-Man.
Cinderella: And Jasmine, too! My, my! Salaam, Jasmine!
Jasmine: Don’t give me that crap. You Queens of Caucasia wouldn’t know a salaam if it bit you in the—
Mu-Man: (sneezes) AAACHOOO.
Jasmine: Hey, Snow. Can we get a couple of rum-and-diet-cokes down here?
Mu-Man: No. For me, a scotch on the jagged water rocks.
Jasmine: Before I forget, Ariel said to tell you hi. She said she’s sorry she hasn’t been in lately, but she doesn’t have legs this month. Not to mention Melody came down with fish flu. Scary.
Cinderella: Give her our very best! Fish flu and no legs, what a month she’s had! (to Jasmine) So, Jasmine! I haven’t seen you and Mulan in ages.
Jasmine: Mu-MAN. You don’t hear anybody getting your name wrong, do you?
Cinderella: Mu-Man, you look just, wow. Wow. Are you doing something different with your hair?
Mu-Man: The process is long and arduous. Every morning I look in the mirror and ask myself, Who is this girl I see?
Woman with crewcut: Now, are we talking magic mirror, or regular mirror?
Cinderella: Good question! Apples and oranges.
Snow White glares at Cinderella, then resumes pouring drinks. Mu-Man pulls a hand mirror out of his/her vest pocket and surveys him/herself, murmuring unintelligible things to him/herself.
Jasmine: He’s looking at Mu-Man in the mirror. He’s asking her to change her ways. (makes the universal “yo, that’s crazy” gesture with index finger beside ear)
Mu-Man: I liked being a man. I want to be a man.
Cinderella: Oh. Mu-MAN. Yes, I see. I get it now. Very symbolic, yes. Jasmine, how’s your dear Aladdin?
Jasmine: Do you really want to know? Or are you just being polite? Because I hate polite. I’ve had it up to here with polite.
Cinderella: Of course I want to know. He is your one great love! Your true soulmate! Your provider and master and spanker! Did I say spanker? My goodness! I’m sure I didn’t!
Jasmine: Aladdin won’t give up his monkey. He’s always playing with his monkey. Every time I look, he’s playing with his monkey. I’m sick of it. I thought men were supposed to outgrow that sort of thing.
Snow White: Once a street urchin, always a street urchin. That’s what my fairy godmother always used to say.
Cinderella: You didn’t have a fairy godmother. Only I had a fairy godmother.
Snow White: Shows how much you know.
Woman with crewcut: (to Jasmine) Have you tried to talk to him about it? Told him to lay off the monkey?
Jasmine: Yo, do you think I’m an idiot? Of course I try. I keep saying, hey, Chief, hey, Lampman, let me play with your monkey. I’m great with monkeys.
Cinderella: And?
Jasmine: And the jerk kisses me on the cheek and locks himself in the bedroom with his monkey. So I go off and play with my tiger.
Cinderella: So what do you to keep busy? Besides petting your tiger.
Jasmine: I’ve got a career. Unlike some people around here.
Snow White: (snorts) Career. That’s one way of putting it.
Sleeping Beauty: (shouts in sleep) I REALLY DON’T THINK MY CLOSET IS THE BEST PLACE FOR THAT, MOMMY—
Jasmine: I’m not ashamed of what I do.
Snow White: Of course not. Pole-dancing is nothing to be ashamed of.
Cinderella: You’re a stripper?
Jasmine: I already had the outfits. Don’t look at me like that. It’s good money.
Woman with crewcut: Yeah, but do you…you know? Open sesame? (winks)
Jasmine: A Disney Princess has got to do what a Disney Princess has got to do. I’m not up for rerelease for at least another eight years.
Snow White: Ah, leave her alone. At least she’s not sitting in her penthouse all day like that Rapunzel chick, getting hair extensions.
Woman with crewcut: You Disney Princesses are so slow. I’m Rapunzel.
They are not buying it.
Snow White: Right.
Jasmine: Sure.
Rapunzel shrugs and finishes off her beer.
Snow White: Seriously?
Mu-Man: You are heat. Whoever you are. You are ripe with heat and hotness and woman-musk.
Cinderella: But…your lovely, lovely hair? I’ve heard such lovely things!
Rapunzel: It’s a wig. I hook it over the tower flagpole and rappel down whenever I feel like it.
Cinderella: No one’s ever caught you?
Rapunzel: Without the wig, they think I’m the gardener. It’s like taking candy from a dwarf.
Snow White glares at Rapunzel.
Rapunzel: What? It’s a figure of speech. So sue me.
Jasmine: I never got what the prince was supposed to do for you exactly. So he climbs up your hair. So what? Aside from ripping out your extensions—
Snow White/Cinderella/Mu-Man: Wig.
Jasmine: Whatever. Aside from that, he gets in the tower with you, and then what? Then you’re both stuck in the damn tower. Stupid premise, if you ask me.
Rapunzel: Don’t I know it. I’ve got least forty princes up there in the tower. And a few visiting dignitaries. I call them my Hairem. Get it? Hair-em.
Jasmine: I find that very offensive, culturally speaking.
Snow White: Culturally speaking, where are you culturally speaking from, exactly?
Jasmine: You are so ignorant.
Cinderella: I know that you come from beautiful, magical people who walk upon beautiful, magical carpets and polish beautiful, magical lamps with great diligence. I have the utmost respect for your beautiful, magical, lamp-polishing people.
Jasmine: Talk to the hand, Cindy. Has anyone seen Pocahontas lately?
Mu-Man: No.
Rapunzel: No.
Snow White: I don’t think anyone’s seen Pocahontas. Ever.
REGAL AFRICAN PRINCESS enters, takes a seat beside Rapunzel.
Jasmine: Do I know you? You look really familiar.
African Princess: I don’t think so.
Snow White: What’ll you have?
African Princess: How about a movie deal?
Snow White: Sorry, no can do.
Jasmine: Trust me, sista, the last thing you want is a movie deal.
Rapunzel: (to African Princess) Everybody’s always telling me the same thing. I don’t buy it either. There have to be perks.
Jasmine: Hold out, I’m telling you. There’s a lot more to life than having your face on the front of a Pull-Up. I had to learn it the hard way, sista.
African Princess: Please stop calling me sista.
Mu-Man: Your face? On a Pull-Up? My face appears on no Pull-Up.
Snow White: I wouldn’t mind having my face on a Pull-Up. Is her face on a Pull-Up? (gestures to Sleeping Beauty)
Cinderella: Not that I’m aware of.
Snow White: But you’re on a Pull-Up.
Cinderella: I’m not saying if I am or if I’m not.
Jasmine: She is. With me and Belle. What’s so funny?
Snow White: I guess you’ve got to either kiss ass or shake ass to be on a Pull-Up.
Rapunzel, Snow White and African Princess hoot and give each other high-fives. Mu-Man stares at Cinderella’s foot.
Mu-Man: (to Cinderella) Your foot is bleeding. Your heavenly and pleasingly petite bandaged foot.
Cinderella: Oh. Oh my. Oh dear. What a mess I’m making, how terribly rude—
Snow White: Here, wrap it with the dishrag—
Jasmine: What the hell happened to you, C?
Mu-Man: I weep inside for your heavenly and pleasingly petite foot.
Cinderella: I really must be going.
Rapunzel: Are you okay? Here, have some of my burlap disguise. It’s cleaner than that rag.
Cinderella: No thank you, no, no. What time is it? No, don’t tell me.
Cinderella scurries out the door, leaving behind a crutch.
African Princess: She seems very high-maintenance, but maybe that’s just me.
Snow White: Occupational hazard. She puts on a good front, but she’s a wreck.
Jasmine: Totally. Her prince has a glass shoe fetish. Nasty old Prince Charming.
Mu-Man stands up and takes the crutch.
Mu-Man: I must go to her. I must find her. She is my destiny.
Jasmine: Mu-Shu, I’d rethink that if I were you.
Mu-Man exits with the crutch.
Snow White: Last call.
Jasmine: I’m good.
Rapunzel: I’ve got to get back to the Tower. They get real nervous if I’m gone too long. You got any chips back there I could bring them?
Snow White tosses a few bags of chips at Rapunzel. Rapunzel exits.
Jasmine: Ciao, Snow Diddy. Keep it fair.
Snow White: You know it.
Jasmine: (to African Princess) Remember what I told you, sista. You’ll thank me someday.
Jasmine exits.
African Princess: I should probably get going.
Snow White: I’ve got a pool table in the back. The dwarves like to stand on top and whack the balls with golf clubs, so it’s a little beat.
African Princess: I used to play pool all the time at Harvard. You’re on.
Snow White: Do you know Simba?
Snow White and African Princess exit, turning out the bar lights.
Sleeping Beauty: OUCH! WHAT? NO! STOP LYING TO ME, MERIWETHER! DADDY SAID IT WAS A STATIONARY BIKE! MOMMY? EVERYTHING IS GETTING VERY DARK MOMMY AND I HAVEN’T OPENED THE BOX WITH THE PONY IN IT YET—
Sleeping Beauty slumps over again and begins snoring.
CURTAIN
February 5th, 2006
I am a day late for the Self-Portrait Tuesday Challenge, but I figured the Self-Portrait Tuesday people would forgive me after they saw the coif.
Continue Reading January 25th, 2006
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