The Bee’s Knees

Today is supposed to be ridiculously hot (for Michigan) and in preparation I decided to shave my legs this morning and wear a nice, flowy skirt. Shaving my legs is a huge undertaking since I’m incredibly hairy, as I’ve discussed before. Nevertheless, I managed to scrape away the dense brush and make it to work on time and feeling comfortable.

Upon entering my air-conditioned office, however, things took a turn for the worse. I realized that my (sort of) smooth gams had already given up and bristled to the point of visibility. What a waste of 10 minutes in the shower! It’s mid-afternoon now and I’ve just about completed my transformation back into grisly bear. I am attractive. Always. But especially with glowingly pale, hairy legs sticking out of my too-big purple skirt. Oh yeah. Hot.

I guess it wasn’t the bee’s knees I wanted to write about, but rather the bear’s.

Bettie Reads Mommy Porn (After Everyone Else)

Oh boy. I recently jumped on the latest book bandwagon and read the first installment of the “50 Shades” series, “50 Shades of Grey”. Refreshingly, this series is not intended for young adults and doesn’t involve a love triangle of any sort. Unless you count some of the hardware Mr. Grey stores in his “red room of pain”. Blossoming from what I believe was Twilight fan-fiction, “50 Shades of Grey” follows the story of a recent English-Lit grad who enters into a relationship with Christian Grey, a gorgeous, charismatic and disgustingly rich business tycoon. Grey also happens to be into BDSM, a dominant-submissive sexual relationship involving, but not limited to, bondage and punishment. Intrigued yet? I was too. Anastasia Steele and Christian Grey are such vom-inducing “romance novel” names that it was hard for me to take it seriously at first. However, once my brain started to form a picture of Christian (a combination of Dr. Troy from Nip/Tuck and Zac Efron from…life) I was able to enjoy the story.

Dr. Christian Troy (coincidence?)

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After reading about the book and the sensation it was causing amongst housewives and moms, I knew I had to see what all the fuss was about. I expected page after page of raunchy, gratuitous detail, but what I got were a few unanticipated layers. One of which is the story of how the smoldering Dr. Grey became the insatiable “dom” that he is. Plucky Ana digs at his inner psyche and pushes his buttons throughout the book. She manages to reveal a few key pieces to the puzzle, but fails to get the whole story, which is more frustrating than reading an erotic novel as a single gal. Trust me. The bits that graphically describe their (many) sexual encounters are nice and deliciously descriptive, but the real story is in the “why”. Spoken like a true chick, right? That’s why they call it “mommy porn”. It’s got a story that actually holds up between the sexcapades. If it didn’t, every woman in America would have put the book down after the first chapter.

Several things in the book were scoff-worthy to me, however. I couldn’t help but roll my eyes at the sheer “thesaurusness” of the dialogue. Have you ever heard someone say “envisage” rather than “envision”? No. You haven’t. Because it sounds pretentious and fake. Ana, however, uses the word about 400 times throughout the book. I think I pulled a forehead muscle from all the eye-rolling. I’m not an expert on erotic fiction, but when it comes to the dirty details I’d kind of like to be able to get wrapped up in the scene. When the author refers to the vagina as the woman’s “sex” every time steamy Mr. Grey gets his hands down there, it kind of throws me off. I’m not sure what I’d rather they call it, actually. But something. “He slid his hands down my stomach and rested them on my sex.” You giggled, right? It’s silly. Can we take a vote and decide on a better, more swoon-worthy way to put it? Vagina is too clinical and the slang words are a bit crude for my taste. I’m open to suggestions.

A lot of the internet flack for this book comes from those who say that it sets feminism back a few giant steps. I disagree. BDSM isn’t about gender submission. It’s about the precarious exchange of power. There are PLENTY of women who make a great living as dominatrix(es?) and plenty of men willing to submit and snivel under their leather boots. This book just happens to follow the story of a male dom and a female (would be) submissive.  So…there.

In the end, I was annoyed that I didn’t have the last two books to complete the series and sate my wild imagination. The book was good. I cried, I squirmed, I smirked, I was mildly uncomfortable…it was a whirlwind. If you see me wandering around town with a riding crop, steer clear. Unless you’re into that sort of thing. Sir.

Uh…Do I Have Bell’s Palsy?

I need cosmetic surgery. There. I said it. This is something I had never considered considering before, but after struggling with my eye makeup and squinting into the mirror for several minutes I realized something. My eyes are crooked. This was not a surprise. I had noticed my offset eyes a few years ago but didn’t realize the extent to which my face was melting. The entire right side of my face looks like it gave up and is slowly sliding off into Bell’s Palsy oblivion. I am not exaggerating. If I don’t consciously raise my right eyebrow to be level with the left, I look like someone with developmental difficulties. I don’t know when this happened or why, but I do know that I will most likely continue to raise my eyebrow in hopes of strengthening these melting facial muscles and hiding my deformity forever. If I don’t, I’ll be sure to offend stroke victims everywhere as it looks like I’m continuously making fun of their aftermath.

 

I totally have Bell's Palsy.

Do people “come down with” fetal alcohol syndrome? Is this something with an “adult onset”? I didn’t realize that facial paralysis was a side effect of excessive weight gain. Clearly there is some underlying cause. Do I really need an eye lift at the age of 27? This branch of the “27 Club” is decidedly less cool than the one Amy Winehouse was inducted into, albeit slightly less permanent. If you’ve ever thought to yourself, “hmm, it’s been awhile since I’ve seen my brow-bone”, then you know my pain. My eyelid is literally fat. I didn’t even know that could happen. So, if anyone walks past me and it looks like I’m auditioning for a part in a vintage Looney Toons cartoon, don’t worry. That’s just me exercising my eyebrow muscles. There probably isn’t a seductive rabbit sauntering past and causing my heart to beat out of my chest. Hubba Hubba.

Making the Video: The Williams Sisters Unscripted

My sister and I had a strange reaction to the realization that we couldn’t afford VIP Packages to a summer music festival featuring the New Kids on the Block. We decided to make a Youtube video and try our damndest to make it go “viral”. The goal, you ask? No idea. Of course we assume that all of the members of NKOTB will see the video, fall madly in love with us and leave their families. That’s a given. Beyond that, though, it’s just for fun.

We began shooting in my living room with a very solemn “written word only” introduction. In the video, we are known only as “The Williams Sisters” and made sure to explain that we were not Venus and Serena. I mean, the difference is obvious. We do NOT play tennis. After donning appropriate New Kids attire we headed downtown to our favorite bar to have a courage drink and force some patrons to sing along to “The Right Stuff”. In our heads, we had the bartenders singing behind the bar, the bouncers dancing on the sidewalk and the patrons bobbing their heads in unison. In reality, we played the song on the jukebox and had somebody film us flubbing the lyrics and laughing too hard to get any good footage. We’re really good at movie-making.

After noticing that nobody at the bar cared about our venture we made the wise decision to head to one of the gay bars to do some New Kids Karaoke. Not only do they not mind when we sing NKOTB songs, they encourage it. We set up the camera and did a rousing rendition of “The Right Stuff”, complete with dance moves and my visible windedness. At midnight, we realized we had to book it to Division Ave if we wanted to catch the gay club at its peak. On our walk, we experimented with some 80s dance moves across crosswalks and almost got hit by a few cars. It’s all in the name of art. We also managed to get some passersby to stop and lip sync some lyrics on the sidewalk. When we reached the door to the gay club we knew we had made the right decision. The sidewalk was crawling with flamboyant drunks and eager-to-please hags (of which I am one). Rather than dive right in, we decided to take our chances in the club and see if the DJ would play an NKOTB song.

After checking with the bartender on whether or not filming was allowed inside the building we headed to the DJ booth, got distracted by Montell Jordan on the way and stopped on the dance floor. I was filming my sister in her Joe Mac getup when a giant bouncer stopped me, beckoned for me to follow him and sternly instructed my sister to stay put. She was nervous. I was nervous. He silently urged me to follow him up some dark stairs and I went without question (in retrospect, I should probably ask questions before following a giant man up a dark stairwell in a sketchy club). When we got to the top of the stairs he explained (by pointing) that I could get an interesting angle from up there and I continued filming while my sister danced, scared and alone. I was then led to one of the go-go dancer platforms where I shot from yet another angle (and caught chlamydia) until I decided I had enough interesting angles of my sister dancing awkwardly by herself and thanked the giant.

We abandoned the dance floor and headed out to the street in hopes of exploiting some drunk gays. We got some great footage of a drag queen, a couple we deemed “Jack and Grace” and unsuccessfully tried convincing others to join in. At that, we decided to head back home to Eastown and try our hand with the bikers and punk rockers at their respective hangouts. Followed of course by Yesterdog. What we encountered in Eastown was not what we bargained for. We parked across from a man who was gearing up his motorcycle to leave and I quickly jumped out of the car to stop him. I was seconds away from convincing this middle-aged, bearded man to perch atop his motorcycle and lip sync some “oh oh oh oh oh”s when my sister “saved the day” by asking if she could simply sit behind him on the bike and sing the song. He creepily and enthusiastically obliged. While we were focused on the biker, a crackwhore (not exaggerating) was watching from the shadows.

Like this, but not as scary

She fell into step with us as we headed toward Yesterdog and made conversation. She remembered the New Kids and wanted to be in the video. I happily joined her in a round of the running man and sang another portion of “The Right Stuff”. We thanked her for her time and began walking away only to realize she wasn’t leaving. She asked if we could spare some cash and of course we said we didn’t have any on us. She very helpfully pointed out that there were several ATMs within walking distance and offered to escort us to one, reminding us that she had just allowed us to use her in our video. Entrapment! She went on and on about how her and her daughter were hungry and asked if we were going to Yesterdog. I said we were and asked if she wanted us to get them some hotdogs. Her reply was, “oh no, we don’t eat pork”. Uh. What?

We had already agreed to go to an ATM, get cash and break it at Yesterdog to give her a few dollars. We got the money and headed back in the direction of the food when she insisted we go into the liquor store to get change instead because it was “closer to where she was going”. At that point I started to get irritated. I told her that we weren’t going that way and that if she wanted money she’d have to just suck it up and follow us to Yesterdog. While I was all puffed up and preachy, my sister had already headed into the liquor store. I shook my head and followed her in, noting that the crackwhore opted to wait outside. The guys in the store offered to go outside and tell her to leave, as they had dealt with her before. They said she didn’t have a daughter, she didn’t want food, and she did, in fact, want some scratch-off lottery tickets. A wise investment. My sister and I opted to go tell her that they wouldn’t give us change and tell her to follow us back to a more populated area. She did. We told her we had to pee and ducked into the punk rock bar, promising our quick return. We hid in there until last call.

Miss crackwhore was gone when we came out and we were finally on our way to hotdog heaven. Only a line of about 25 drunk people stood between us and some Ultra Dogs. While waiting in line, we naturally began quizzing the other hungry queuers about NKOTB. Our video-research was mistaken for flirting and we managed to adopt two line-stalkers in a matter of minutes. One was an old man who looked a lot like Sean Penn (now, not then) and the other was a douche I wouldn’t be able to pick out of a lineup today. Generic. They talked our ears off throughout the entire wait until it was our turn to order. Generic Douche insisted on buying our food ($4 total. Big spender) and then we were obligated to sit with them, since the hotdogs all came out on one tray. My sister enlisted the help of a more attractive and less annoying line-waiter and formulated a plan for him to storm up and demand we leave with him. He chickened out and left so we were forced to come up with a last-second plan b. Sean Penn was getting touchy-feely and giving me vibes like he thought he was going to sex me, so I was in panic-mode. My sister looked at me for a split-second and bolted from the table. I took a moment, mumbled something about her being my ride and ran out of there as well. We literally ran down the street to our car, looking behind us to make sure Generic Brand and Wrinkley Rain Man hadn’t followed us and giggled all the way back to my apartment

This would have been ok

This was gag-worthy

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Amazing Little Pack of Weirdos (Buffalo Part 1)

The Williams Sisters arrived in Buffalo shortly after 9pm and found our hosts sprawled out in the living room, no doubt awaiting our arrival with bated breath. They tore their attention away from reality television long enough to give giant hugs and ask the requisite travel questions, but returned shortly after. We dumped the bags in our “quarters” for the weekend and headed downstairs to say hello to another pack of  beloved weirdos, finding two teens and a breast-filled TV screen in the basement. Completely within the realm of what I thought I’d see. On the tame side, in fact. I love it there.

There are never less than 3 twenty-somethings living there at any given time. Add that to us, my friend and her husband and whoever else may be passing through for the weekend and it’s a built-in party. Within half an hour, we were settled around the kitchen table/counter enjoying a bottle of chocolate wine and catching up. I casually mentioned my self-appointed “90s Pop Culture Expert” status and was immediately deflated by the lady of the house. She ever-so-coyly brought out a game of Pop Culture Trivial Pursuit and quizzed me with random cards. I did not do well, my friends. Not at all. The only answer I was able to come up with was the message written on a stage-crasher’s chest during an awards show. “Soy bomb!” I had to slink away in shame and admit that I may have been a bit premature with my title. The business cards are already printed, however, so I shall remain a self-appointed expert and lie to whomever challenges me. Like all successful people before me and all who come after.

Aside from knocking down my bravado, the conversation between us not-so-youngsters and the owners of the house is usually dripping with sarcasm, word play, off-color jokes and whatever else pops into our unfiltered brains. Did I mention that I love it there? The pace of conversation around that table or counter is akin to Gilmore Girls banter. If those women were foul-mouthed and thought of nothing but the worst possible things to say. Having polished off the bottle of wine and realizing that we didn’t have any other social lubricant, we sent some of the menfolk to the beer store to bring back provisions. “Daddy Ford” and Jesus (our name for the lady of the house because well, she is magic) retired for the evening and us gen-nexters headed to the apartment above the garage to continue our reminiscing and drinking. Loudly.

The WS with Angela: The reason for the visit

The night ended with a rousing bout of “Trivial Pursuit Drinking Game”, where I redeemed my status and arbitrarily handed out drinks to my fellow players. We laughed, played pool (badly), darts (even worse) and celebrated with a high kick or two. Then we went to bed where my sister decided it was the best time to practice her fist-pumping skills. I did not agree.

I haven’t shared a bed (platonically. Ok…or otherwise) with someone in a long time, so I wasn’t exactly keen on the idea of sleeping rump to giant rump with my sister. It is especially interesting when she had  just the right amount of beer to make her slap-happy, while I had enjoyed my drinking  to the point of sleep. (Or I was just tired from the drive). Our ideas of what should happen when we retired to bed were vastly different and I just sort of stared at her while she shook the bed with her giggling and ridiculous dancing. I must have tuned it out and gone to sleep because I woke up to her staring at me and the smell of blueberries in the morning. What a weirdo.

We followed our noses downstairs to find Jesus diligently working away at a giant bowl of fresh fruit that she had set near a towered platter of assorted baked goods. (See? Jesus.) She pointed me in the direction of fresh coffee and put me to shame with her bright, fresh-face and chipper demeanor. I squinted a thank you and dove headfirst into my coffee cup until my friend descended the stairs to join us. We stayed in this unkempt state for a couple of hours until it was decided that we should probably go eat some chicken wings. In Buffalo, I only move for food. I’ll begin the next segment at Bar Bill where we ate the best wings in western New York. Get those jealousy glands ready!

Ohio is Not for Lovers, It’s for Dirty Looks and Huge Birds

My sister and I have been slacking on our pimping when it comes to upholding the splendor that comes with “The Williams Sisters” moniker. We used to be a thing, and we vow to be that thing again. Even if we are older and slightly (a lot) less attractive now.

To get the ball rolling on our quest to revitalize the name fame, we decided to take a road trip to visit my dear friend in Buffalo, NY. She lives in California and was in B-Lo for one week only. It was a perfect time to catch her on this side of the country and ignore the fact that her family wanted to spend quality time with her. Because neither of us has a car that would survive a trip outside the state, and because we had to take the long way around the lake (rather than taking the Canadian shortcut and claiming not to understand that 100 km/hr is not the same as mph) due to a lack of passport on my sister’s side we had to rent a car to take the trek. This car had NO frills at $14 per day (plus $300 in fees and mileage that they don’t tell you about outright) so we brought an entertainment package to distract us and other drivers on the 8-hour journey.

Entertainment for The Williams Sisters usually involves making other people uncomfortable, and this was no exception. I furnished the car with a dry-erase board and marker so that we could easily communicate to other drivers when we felt something snarky or creepy was necessary, as it often is. Our first written message came when we noticed that an abundance of drivers were texting while driving. I know, shocking! The drive through Michigan was pretty uneventful, but as soon as we passed into Ohio the mayhem began. There were a ton of (mostly male) drivers with their faces planted in their phones who were completely oblivious to the road and our sign of “Texting & Driving is a NO NO!” We had to move on to plan b. Rather than wait for the right timing and for someone to fortuitously glance our way, we created our own hilarious situation. As I was driving, I pretended to be texting furiously while Arika held up the sign to other, more attentive drivers and looked absolutely terrified. Hilarity ensued. We had to stop after a few cars lest someone call the police on us, however.

The car we rented was a Yaris and didn’t have manual window-height locks like our 90s cars do, so we were unable to execute our favorite driving joke. Our oldest road trip act involves driving near an affluent-seeming person (preferably white and middle-aged) and peering at them sideways while obviously (yet slowly) locking our door. As if driving through a crime-ridden neighborhood while a band of ethnic youths encase the car. These people always look absolutely shocked and confused when we do this. And it’s funny. Alas, we had to settle for the white board and a novelty-sized Tootsie Pop.

We're old school comedians. Novelty-sized = gold

We had almost resigned ourselves to the dullness of the trip and settled into making fun of LFO lyrics (“ruby-red slippers and a bunch of trees”) when we passed into Pennsylvania and drove behind a very affectionate couple for about 20 minutes. The female passenger was lovingly stroking the male driver’s head for the entire time we were behind them which sparked an idea, albeit a crass one. I wrote “Wrong Head!” on the white board and held it up to the driver’s side window enthusiastically. They were a young couple, college-aged or slightly older and I thought at least the man would find it amusing. Not the case. They simultaneously gave me the most horrified/disgusted looks and then refused to glance back. Oops. Sorry Pennsylvania! I still think it was funny…and at least we succeeded in our ultimate goal: Making people uncomfortable. I wish I could have been a witness to the conversation (or awkward silence)  that took place after my lovely display.

The Hunger Games: A Sort-of Review

Originally, I didn’t want to write a review for this movie. I, like every other literate person in this country, read and became intensely involved with the book series. Suzanne Collins’ imaginative and somewhat unsettling way of showcasing the perversion of our society’s obsession with reality television and willingness to cheer the most debase behavior is astounding. I’m not implying that the book series solely comments on modern American society’s general lack of human decency, just that it’s there. There are also other not-so-hidden commentaries on the fear of a totalitarian/dictatorial government and extreme wealth gaps. Pretty heavy stuff for a “Young Adult” category. With my fierce love of the books, I felt that any opining I did on the movie would be biased.

However, I just read a series of reviews (few and far between among the overall praise) that were extremely shallow and completely missed the point of the plot and that makes me angry. I want to cancel out those idiots with another positive review that acknowledges the underlying layers and not just “another teenage love triangle”, however devoid this review may be of actual “film critique”.

For those who have been able to avoid the hype, “The Hunger Games” is the first in a 3-part series written by Suzanne Collins and adapted for the screen by writer/director Gary Ross (in smart collaboration with Collins). The movie is set in a futuristic dystopian North America called Panem which is divided into 12 districts and an ornate, all-powerful “Capitol”. Each district must compete in the annual Hunger Games. Two “tributes” from each district, one boy and one girl between the ages of 12-18 are drawn by lottery and forced to compete in a televised battle royale, of which there is only one survivor. This annual “reaping” serves as a reminder that the Capitol is in control and an uprising of the districts will not be tolerated. It is also the main source of entertainment for the citizens of the “Capitol”, who view the tributes (and more importantly, the victors) as reality television celebrities.

Katniss Everdeen (Jennifer Lawrence) and Peeta Mellark (Josh Hutcherson) are the chosen ones for District 12 after Katniss volunteers in place of her younger sister, Prim. The movie follows their journey through the 74th Annual Hunger Games, from stylists to stabbing and back again. With a cast of supporting characters including Woody Harrelson as the ever-wasted Haymitch, a past victor from 12 who serves as reluctant mentor to the tributes and Elizabeth Banks as the delightfully clueless and aptly named publicist, Effie Trinket, there is no lull in this 2.5 hour movie. Lawrence is utterly believable as the arrow-wielding huntress from the slums but reads a bit more emotionally mature than Katniss’ printed counterpart. With a PG-13 rating, the movie relied on creative camera work to skirt the dirty realism issue of children murdering children that the books so graphically describe. The shock value is there, but the camera never lingers on a death scene, showing just enough to convey the sick reality of 24 children hell-bent on ending each other’s lives.

Elizabeth Banks as Effie Trinket and Jennifer Lawrence as Katniss Everdeen

The often mentioned “love triangle” is barely evident in this movie, keeping romance on the back burner. Which I love. There are enough moments to make you wonder (or smirk knowingly if you’ve read the series) but the exhausting back and forth a la Twilight is absent. In fact, this series gets compared to Twilight often because of its “Young Adult” status, but I find it to be a completely different animal (no pun intended, team Jacob). Katniss Everdeen is a strong survivalist who can’t seem to be bothered with cute boys, unlike Bella Swan and her terrible example of a role model. And the question of “Team Peeta” or “Team Gale” is a non-issue (so far). Aside from the characters, Jennifer Lawrence is just exponentially better than Kristen Stewart. It was refreshing to see raw emotion when the story called for it, rather than scene after scene of stoic awkwardness. (I hate you, Kristen Stewart).

The action in “The Hunger Games” never falls short and is punctuated with moments of snark, delicious eye candy and pretty terrific costumes. My only issue is that the amount of suffering the tributes endure is glossed over in the movie vs. the book. But, as a friend of mine mentioned, watching someone slowly starve and dehydrate isn’t exactly blockbuster material if you’re not “Cast Away”.  My favorite part of the movie was Stanley Tucci as Ceasar Flickerman, the Master of Ceremonies for the Hunger Games. Tanned, capped (his teeth, that is) and topped with stunning blue hair, Tucci’s Ceasar is almost a parody of overly-primped hosts like Ryan Seacrest, preying on the pain and nerves of young people purely for entertainment.

Stanley Tucci as Ceasar Flickerman in an "Ad from the Capitol"

Overall, with laughter, tears, gasps and startles this movie is a winner.I look forward to the next two and will absolutely be at the midnight showing for each. I love a good crowd mentality.

Crack is Whack, But Effective

Since I have ignored my earlier claim to “start working out” up until now, I decided to join the weight-loss website that has helped me in the past: Sparkpeople.com. This site allows you to track your calories consumed and burned, as well as all other nutritional values you’d like to keep your eye on, while shaming you into losing weight by broadcasting your lack of progress via the “weight ticker”. It also provides weekly meal plans for those who are “planning-deficient” like myself. As I took a giant swig of Mountain Dew and clicked through my list of short-term goals (including cutting “soda” from my daily diet) I started to get a calming feeling of, “Hey. At least I have a plan—that I’ll start tomorrow.”

With a goal of hitting up the grocery store on my way home from work, I printed out the suggested “5-day grocery list” and nearly fell out of my chair. There are at least 75 items on my list, most of them fresh fruits and vegetables. I’m not sure who they think their demographic is, but it certainly isn’t fancy ladies with a disposable income and fourteen children to feed. If it was, they’d just cut their losses and hire a personal trainer and nutritionist. Or sell some of their superfluous children for food money. My aversion to piles of rotting food in my refrigerator and the existence of the bottom of my pockets will force me to make up my own healthy meals and hope I’m following the “rules”. Oy. Hello brown rice and steamed vegetables. Cooking meat scares me. I’d be a vegetarian but I’d rather not sound like I belong in my neighborhood. Fight the power!

Part of me thinks it would just be easier (and more cost-effective) to take up a drug habit and let the pounds (and the teeth) melt off. I hear crack works. And according to Whitney Housten, it’s for poor people. That’s all I need to know! I mean, it’s not uber-trendy like prescription drugs, but I’m just a normal gal from the midwest, after all. I’m no Heath Ledger. Too soon? Too soon.

All jokes aside (as if), I’ll do my best to not burn the salmon and to keep my snarky comments to myself whenever someone wafts greasy fumes past me. Unless someone presents me with cheesecake, in which case I’ll cut a bitch.

Yada Yada Yada…Holocaust

Friday night brought my first live comedy show in a couple of years and a renewed case of the “I’m Funnies” for me. There was a brief period in my life when I would set up shop at the local 24-hour diner and jot down observations in newspaper column-style rants. It wasn’t my best writing phase and it surely won’t be my worst. I have a general sense that I amuse others, but occasionally I have a fleeting thought about making people laugh professionally. Those thoughts crash and burn about as quickly as my cravings for writing novels, starting a fashion line and going to law school.

Back to the night at hand. Anthony Jeselnik did four sold-out shows this weekend, the first of which I was able to catch. The venue is no more than a mile or so from my apartment but it is cold outside and I’m lazy. My friend opted to meet me at home so we could pre-game while waiting for a cab. We called a local cab company and were assured someone would be picking us up within the next twenty minutes. One hour and a bottle of champagne later, we were huddled on the street corner like two out of shape prostitutes, muttering about the lack of decent cabs in our city. Thoughts of perhaps staying sober and driving downtown crossed our minds, but of course, we moved through that quickly and called to complain. Eventually a cab did sidle up to bring us downtown and we made it with plenty of time to spare, ending up in the second row of the venue. It was close enough for me to see his adorable face without my glasses and far enough away to stay out of the line of “audience interaction” fire. If you’ve seen Anthony on the Roast of Donald Trump or Charlie Sheen, you know his goal is to offend the audience and then make them feel uncool for being offended. Lucky for me, the more my peers groan, the harder I laugh. I almost peed my pants when he expertly steered a joke about women and shoe collections into a hilariously Holocaust climax. Between those Holocaust jokes and the many about AIDS, suicide, dead babies and rape, I should have seriously considered an adult diaper or at least a panty liner. Smiling Anthony said his goodbyes and moved offstage to set up for his next show of the evening. We walked past him and decided it would be silly to pass up the photo opportunity and give a nice scale by which strangers can gauge his height. My friend left him with a non-sarcastic “you were very funny” (she’s a teacher) and frankly, I’m surprised she didn’t pat him on the head.

I'm crouching, which is why I look awkward and poor Katie looks like an Amazon Woman.

After leaving the site of the comedy show we decided to head down to the go-to bar and visit our friend the bartender. She served us up some drinks and we struck up a conversation with an older lady about how one of the local nightclubs both terrifies and intrigues us. The older lady (who is probably only five years my senior) made a joke about going in with white pants, which I replied to by making an incredibly off-color joke about incorrectly using condoms as a precaution against dance-floor-herpes. This is where the “I’m Funnies” start to take effect. I made a few more crass jokes and then befriended a group of wayward Indiana boys who were in town for a brewery unveiling. That friendship was short-lived as they declined my invitation to join us at the gay bar for karaoke. Like, what?

When we got to the karaoke bar, I was slapped in the face with the realization that not everyone is pumped about mediocre singing on a Friday night. I set out to do some recruiting to fill the 5-person minimum they arbitrarily assign so that they don’t have to listen to me sing. I was successful and sang no less than 4 songs. All of them badly. Some of them straight up incorrectly. Between murdering the likes of “All Saints” and “Salt N Pepa” we made friends with a nice lesbian couple, at least one half of which tried to feel me up under the table. I’m not getting a big head about it, because about ten minutes later I found her vomiting in the bathroom. Following the grope-twins were two guys who insisted they were “just friends” until one of them left to get a drink and the twinkier of the two divulged that he was head over heels in love with the other. I took it upon myself to cupid them and suggested they make out because, “wouldn’t that be hilarious?!” They did, and it was. Shortly after that I ran into a girl whose face looked familiar. She said we went to the same high school and I asked her if she was “legit a lesbian”. My drunk self couldn’t figure out how to ask politely if she was the real deal or just a fan like myself. She gave me a look and returned to her group of friends while I slunk back to the bar.

This drunk bravado would come back as soon as my friend and I grabbed our last cab of the night. He greeted us with a thick Russian accent  and I made a comment (hilarious, I’m sure) about the ol’ Redcoats. Then he insisted that he was Asian, and not Eastern European at all. I asked him to prove it and he told me he was from Siberia. I’m no geography expert, but I was pretty sure we learned that Siberia is a region of Russia. Ignoring that this was the man’s own heritage, I argued his birthplace until he pulled up outside Yesterdog. It was hotdog time but I didn’t let that stop me from being culturally insensitive and borderline racist. He agreed to keep the meter running if we’d hurry. Once we got to the ordering line I realized it may take longer than we led Asian-Russian to believe so I passed the time by letting one of my line-mates know that he looked like Jay-Z. One of his friends told me it was racist of me to say that, so I let him know that if I was racist, I would have just closed my eyes, pointed randomly and yelled out, “Eddie Murphy!” He seemed to like that and decided I was “real”. Hotdogs in hand and street cred intact, we hopped back into the cab and called it a night.

Cue Theme Music

Have you ever had one of those days, or a sequence of days where your life plays out like a sitcom? My sitcom life started last night and carried over to today. It’s strange to stroll through life with inaudible theme music and deliver your lines. Definitely strange.

In real life, people don’t call out to each other on the street or strike up conversations with their delivery boy. They just don’t. In real life, people have iPods and no time for social interaction. Not today, my friends. Not today. Like I said, it started last night when I came home and couldn’t find my new cat. I adopted a two-year-old black cat, named him Cee Lo Green and brought him home on Wednesday night. As soon as the latch on the carrier was lifted, he bolted into hiding and I didn’t see him until late Thursday night. I searched everywhere for him when I got home from work and had myself convinced that he had somehow escaped my locked, second floor apartment. I put out a can of tuna and vowed to deal with the horrid smell until the cat came out to investigate. It worked. He made an appearance somewhere after 9pm last night and had a sudden burst of bravery, exploring every nook of my home.

This is Cee Lo. He's foxy.

I never got a chance to show him his food dish or litter box when I brought him home the previous night, and I assume he couldn’t find them because he hopped up on the couch to sit down, stared at me and peed. A lot. It’s a leather couch so the cleanup wasn’t terrible. Just icky. And I’m sure there are crevices I couldn’t reach, which is actually a recurring theme in my life (uncomfortable fat girl joke). So, my sitcom life started with my very disappointed utterance of “CEE LO GREEN!” with a complimentary “hands-on-hips” pose. And, cut to commercial.

For dinner, I ordered Jimmy Johns and waited happily for the “freaky fast” delivery. After about 20 minutes there was a knock on my door so I shuffled across the apartment in my giant blue sweatpants and giant blue t-shirt (wearing the same color head to toe is never acceptable, not even for pajamas. I must have been overcome with grief about my lost cat) boasting my status as an honorary member of my friend’s family and begging the question, “whereinthehellisroselake?” I pulled open the door to an overly cheerful “Hullo!” and a youngish, attractive delivery boy. I mumbled the requisite pleasantries and was about to close the door when he said, “I am really struggling today. I turned 21 last night and I’m feeling it!” I was taken aback. I honestly don’t know what made him think I cared how he was feeling and/or what the events of his birthday entailed. It was like someone wrote a script for a scene and didn’t give me the rewrite. I panicked and blurted something about “congratulations” (on…surviving?) shoved a tip in his hand and closed the door. Nobody talks to their delivery guys…I mean, short of leading them to believe someone else is in the apartment so they don’t think you ordered all that food for yourself. Which of course you did.

This morning I opted to wear a hat that I picked up in Chicago. I never wear hats so I expected to be made fun of at work. What I did not expect was the barrage of compliments, backhanded or otherwise. The minute I stepped into my office I was greeted by my co-worker with, “Hey Blossom, good morning.” Followed shortly by, “What’s up, Jon Cryer?” I’m assuming the latter was referring to Jon Cryer circa 1985 (Ducky). Our senior chemist asked me why I was decked out for St. Patty’s Day so early and one of the paint-mixers on the factory floor pulled me aside to discuss my apparent hipster-status. Not ok. I also received a few, “Hey! Nice hat!” as I walked through the plant, accompanied by a wave and a smile. These things may seem like mediocre blog-fodder but they all happened within the first hour of being at work. It played out like a bouncy small town dog-walking montage where all the neighbors stop and say hello along the way. At my job, friendliness among the staff is rare and punishable by incessant mocking. It’s like a men’s locker room but with less nudity and more body odor. 

This is the Blossom/Ducky/Hipster/Leprechaun hat

After that start to the day, the rest proves to be slightly less interesting. Until I leave this paint factory and head out into the real world once again. A real world sans cheerful, if not hungover, delivery guys and a cat that hopefully hasn’t peed on anything but the litterbox all day.