Step Away From The Computer
This is bad. It sounded like it was raining outside so how did I find out for sure? I checked the weather online. That’s right- rather than stand up and look out my window, I turned to weather.com to tell me what the conditions were five feet away from me (and of course it said nothing about rain even though it clearly had rained).
It’s only a matter of time before I start viewing pictures of myself online rather than looking in a mirror.
Keeping Abreast Of My Surroundings
Today while waiting for an elevator at a shopping center, I observed quite a spectacle: It was a 40ish woman wearing a black micro-mini dress (at 4:00 in the afternoon). She actually had nice legs I’m sure were fresh from the liposuction office so the tiny dress wasn’t the issue. It was that she probably had the biggest, hardest, fake breasts I’ve ever seen. In LA, fake breasts are everywhere but it looked like she had two big bullhorns in her top so they really caught your attention. I tried to take a picture but I couldn’t get her at the right angle so it wouldn’t be totally obvious and I didn’t think it would fly if I asked, “Mind if I get a shot of your freakish cleavage?”
After exiting the elevator, I walked behind her and her companion for a distance and noticed that EVERY person walking toward us stared at her chest with their eyes bulging. I’m not exaggerating- EVERY person. And there were a lot of people. It was quite amusing.
It occurred to me a few minutes later that despite the roughly 10 minutes I spent in her proximity, I couldn’t pick her companion out of a police lineup. I couldn’t even tell you his hair color. She could have been walking hand in hand with Osama Bin Laden in his usual attire and not a single person in the mall would have even noticed.
Let this be a warning to you all: the next time you witness an unusual sight, whether it’s a goiter the size of Jupiter or a testicle dangling from too-short shorts, take a good look at their companions. If you don’t, then the terrorists win.
Dream Overanalysis
I always begin my sleep with a nice little fantasy. I mention this because I learned a couple years ago that not everybody does so. Some people put their head on the pillow and think about their day or what they have to do the next day. That seems like a lousy way to spend your downtime. I don’t know if there’s a correlation, but from the people I’ve discussed this with, the ones who start with a fantasy seem to be better sleepers. It’s something for you restless worrywarts to consider.
So I have a catalog of fantasies that I rotate. The usual stuff: career goals, wild adventures and of course romance are a few. For a long time my stud of choice was John F. Kennedy Jr. but after he died I tried it a few times and it just seemed creepy. Some might think that dreaming about any celebrity (dead or alive) is creepy but it’s easy since the face and personna have already been established so I don’t have to create a backstory. Why don’t I dream about guys I actually know? Because I don’t know any that are dream-worthy. It should come as no surprise that after John John I moved on to George Clooney. I actually have a fun one with him where we’re the only two survivors of a plane crash and land on a Lost-type island with a fully stocked hatch. And of course he falls madly in love with me. That should tell you the level of my self-esteem when even in my fantasies I know the only way I could nab Clooney is if I’m the only woman available. But other men occasionally make guest appearances in my dreams. For a brief time last fall, I even had a dream-fling with Billie Joe Armstrong (lead singer of Green Day), all 5’8″ of him- tattoos, eyeliner, snaggletooth and all. But I usually stick to the pretty boys like Antonio Sabato Jr. and Ricky Martin, who pop in on occasion (and in my dreams, Ricky’s definitely straight).
Then there’s the financial windfall dream. It used to be a result of hitting the jackpot on Megabucks (which would be hard to do because I never even play that slot) but now it’s a little closer to home through winning the World Series of Poker, which last week made one guy $12 million richer. In that fantasy, the pivotal moment comes when I’m in second chip position to Dan Harrington. He makes a preflop raise and I reraise with my pocket kings. He then goes all in and I’m faced with a dilemma: anybody else, I’d call immediately but the tightest player in poker just went all in against the only person who can really do his stack any damage. But how can I lay down kings??? After a long delay and a promise that he better not think he can bully me again, I fold my kings face up and he shows me pocket aces. The crowd goes wild at my stellar read and tremendous restraint in folding (not realizing it’s just because I’m chickenshit and pocket kings always seem to get me knocked out of tourneys). Somewhere along the way, Harrington is gone and I’m head-to-head with Phil Ivey. I BEG him to split the prize money and even tell him he can have the title and bracelet but he refuses. Then I kick his ass and win the $15 million (it was $12 million this year but I expect it to be $15 million when I win it). I play the good sport but inside I’m thinking, “THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU for not taking my offer, Ivey! Woohoo!” Then the dorky announcer Norm Chad (a guy I’ve actually played with in home games) asks me what I’m going to do with the money and I tell him I’m going to take it all to the craps table and put it on Big 6 or Big 8. My friend Courtney laughs hysterically but nobody else gets it and thinks I’m a moron for placing the worst bet in the house. Then Phil “The Unabomber” Laak is so impressed with me he dumps Jennifer Tilly and he and I ride off into the poker sunset (ok, that’s not in the dream but I do think we’d make a good couple. Maybe I’ll add him to the lineup).
So now I have $15 million dollars. I don’t need that much so I decide to give a lot of it away (because that’s how I roll ;) ). And this is where my dream takes a major downward spiral. I should be thinking about fabulous vacations on enormous yachts or sunning by the pool at my spectacular mansion while Pedro (my cabana boy) brings me pina coladas and sprays me with mist whenever he makes me too hot. I mean, whenever the sun makes me too hot. But instead I’ve got checks for $1 million dollars to give to each of my family members and suddenly I’m trying to figure out taxes and deductions through charitable donations. I actually work all that stuff out in my dream! If there are two things that don’t belong in fantasies, they’re children and math. I guess feces would be another. But I find myself doing this more and more. Even the romance dreams have gone downhill while I work out details like getting the guy out of his marriage and somehow eliminating any pesky offspring from that marriage. Or I’m trying to figure out exactly how Clooney and I managed to be the only survivors of the plane crash (plane goes down remarkably slowly in water. Apparently Clooney’s at the back of first class while I’m at the front of coach and we both lunge for the emergency exit. We grab the rope to an automatically inflating raft that’s on a plane for some unknown reason- sometimes I have to fudge reality a bit- and it yanks us up to the surface while everybody else plummets to their deaths. Bummer for them for not reacting faster).
I still like dream time but boy do I miss the days of my youth when I could go straight to the good stuff.
Signs Signs Everywhere Signs
I saw this road sign in San Diego this weekend and I wondered what its purpose is. Is it to save a text-happy, unattentive youngster from the same fate as Miss Deaf America? Or is to let people know the kid’s not making gang signs with his hands so don’t shoot him? Let’s face it, a kid in the road is a problem whether they can hear or not. All the sign does is let me know that if the first honk doesn’t work, I shouldn’t bother putting any more wear on my horn.
The sign is only slightly less ridiculous than one I saw in Massachusettes a few years ago that said “Beware of Blind Girl.” Yes, that was the exact phrasing. All I could picture was a maniacal knife-wielding little girl screaming, “If I find any of you I’m going to kill you!!!” Then trying to trick some people with “Marco…?” What a waste of taxpayer dollars. I figure anybody who needs advance warning to escape the homicidal blind girl deserves to die.
Then there are some highway signs in Tucson that measure distances in kilometers. Apparently Tucson received the memo 20 years ago that America was switching to the metric system but somehow didn’t receive the memo two days later saying, “Nobody can figure this metric stuff out so we’re switching back.” Or maybe they did and said, “But we already made the signs…”
Finally, a few weeks ago I saw a banner on an Albuquerque freeway that said “Celebrate the Interstate.” I imagine the city council meeting that resulted in that decision went something like this:
Chairman: Ok people. We need to give the people of this town something to take pride in. Any ideas?
Council Member #1: How about a big sports star?
Chairman: We don’t have any.
Council Member #2: Famous actors from Albuquerque?
Chairman: None.
Council Member #3: Great scientific achievements?
Chairman: You do realize this is Albuquerque, right?
Council Member #4: Historic landmarks?
Chairman: Such as?
Council Member #4: Good point.
Chairman: Any other ideas?
Council Member #5: This might just be the weed talking, but how about the interstate?
Everybody: That’s a great idea! Awesome! This will be the best party this town has ever seen!
To the citizens of Albuquerque let me say that if you reach the point that you’re partying in honor of a road, maybe it’s time to hit an AA meeting. Or get a job. Or load up your belongings, fill your gas tank and leave because that is a sad little town indeed.
DSL Hell
My path of electrical destruction widens: A halogen lamp- whose bulb I just replaced last week- burned out. I have to be stopped before people get hurt- but how? I presume I’m suffering from a severe case of Lost withdrawal and my body thinks it’s absorbed the electromagnetic energy of the island, which is causing my bionic circuitry to go haywire.
Or maybe I’m just having a crappy summer. I dunno.
Over the last couple days I’ve spent about an hour and a half navigating the worst phone tree known to man over at AT&T and speaking with incompetent technicians who spend half an hour walking me through various steps that don’t work until I say, “I told you right off the bat that I already tried that.” They can’t seem to figure out my DSL problem so they’ve arranged for somebody to come by on Monday and, if the problem is deemed to be on my end, they’ll charge me $60 for half an hour. Why don’t I just leave this company I hate with a passion, you may ask? I have- TWICE. Every time I do they buy out the company I switch to. Can you get a restraining order against a corporation? (And should I divulge my bionic situation before the technician arrives to possibly save a few bucks)?
Trying to see the situation from a positive side, I was able to use the time spent on the phone to load a few web pages while I’m on dial up. Correction: I was able to load one or two pages while the other attempts returned “page timed out.” How did I ever tolerate the days of AOL?
Actually, on a really positive note, tonight I was able to turn off my fan for the first time in two weeks. Adios heat wave!
I (Haven’t) Got The Power
Recently, the power source on my laptop conked out leaving it inoperable and forcing me to use my desktop computer with a lousy monitor. Then Tuesday night the power went out just on my block. Wednesday morning it was still out so I decided to pay a visit to my parents and score a nice extra monitor Mom happened to have. On the drive over, I tried to charge my cell phone with my car’s cigarette lighter. Suddenly, the lighter no longer works. I charged my phone at my parents’ house and after I did, my phone kept cycling on and off for no apparent reason.
I returned home late afternoon to find the power still off so I took a nap (and lucky me, the only sassy fat black woman in this town who doesn’t have her own sitcom was directing traffic at the intersection 50 feet from my window, “Uh uh, you can’t park there. You can’t park there…You see that? The palm means stop…Come on baby- move it through…Let’s keep it going people, this ain’t no parade” and on and on).
The power finally came back on later that night (and don’t worry about the contents of my fridge- beer and Jack’s Hard Lemonade don’t spoil too easily) but for some reason, my DSL wasn’t working. Thirty six hours later, AT&T’s used up most of my cell minutes and still hasn’t resolved the problem.
I attached the new monitor and was pretty stoked at how much better it is than my old one. A few hours later- and at a crucial point in a poker tournament- the screen went black. This monitor that’s barely been used suddenly no longer works.
Now, I’d chalk all this up to strange coincidence except for the fact this isn’t the first time this has happened. I have had several instances when a bunch of my electrical items all stopped working properly at the same time. Not only that, I usually set off metal detectors even when I’m wearing nothing more than a tank top, sarong and rubber thongs (on my feet- don’t know why I felt the need to clarify that).
I think the answer to all this is pretty obvious: I’m bionic. And I can’t believe I never realized it before. First of all, I run at about the same speed Jamie Sommers did in the tv show. And what I’d always been told was tendonitis in my knees makes the same “er er er er” sound when I jump as it did when the Bionic Woman jumped. I hear everything, or at least I seem to be the only person in my building who ever hears the garage’s emergency exit alarm as it blares for hours into the night until I finally wake up the building manager to have him turn it off. And I recently had a scary encounter with Sasquatch (though, it might have just been an Italian guy).
So now that I’ve realized my tremendous powers, the big question is how can I use them to do good in the world? Ha ha- yeah right. I just want to know how I can use them to make a lot of money. Suggestions are welcome.
Take My Damn Picture
Last night I went to a friend’s birthday party. A few close friends were there but most of the comics were three minute jobs: they ask me how it’s going, I say “all right” and ask them the same, they then spend 2:50 telling me everything going on in their career and personal life and I point to an imaginary friend and say, “Nice talking with you but I have to go talk to that spot on the wall immediately.” Not quite- I give the spot a name so as not to give away my desire to escape.
After about an hour of greeting people I haven’t seen in a long time, I realized I wasn’t being groped in the manner to which I’ve become accustomed. See, when you’re a female comic you quickly get used to male comics fondling various body parts. It reaches the point where having one grab your ass doesn’t seem much different from having him shake your hand. In fact, it’s very much like having a little kid cop a feel here and there in the pool: you don’t see anything sexual about it. While I don’t particularly enjoy the man-handling from comics, the thought of becoming unworthy of it is somewhat depressing.
A couple people pulled out cameras and asked me to take their pictures. When did I become the photographer? These are friends of mine and they didn’t even pull the “Take our picture and then I’ll take one of you two” tactic. It’s a goddamn digital photo. You can delete it later but at least pretend you want to take my picture. It occurred to me that the last time anybody took my picture was at my brother’s wedding last fall. I mean intentionally. There has been the occasional “Hey- that’s me in the corner scratching my head!” But I don’t think there’s been any posing.
Finally, the birthday boy A. asked me to be in a shot with two of my friends who were looking particularly fabulous (I’d already told T. she looked like a trophy wife and S. looked like the mistress- those are big compliments in this town). A. took the picture and said, “Wow- that’s a hot picture with T. and S. in it.” I think I let out a yelp and he added, “Oh, and Jenée.” The little fucker tried to play it off as a joke, but I’m not entirely certain it was one.
I was engaged in a heated debate on the importance of nail polish on a woman when across the room I spotted R., who’s spent the last seven years trying to get me in bed. I said to the guy next to me, “If R. doesn’t make a pass at me, I’m going to cry.” He asked why and I explained I was feeling very unattractive because of the pictures and the lack of groping and then I told him the history with R. He said, “If you’d like, I could anal rape you in my rental car.” I hugged him for the sweet attempt to make me feel desirable.
Five minutes later, R. came over and I was a little worried I might not make the grade. But the first words out of his mouth were, “Oooh, your hair’s down. Too bad your top isn’t.” So I fucked him. Ok, I didn’t. But I’m beginning to think five years from now that just might be enough to make it happen. At least I know I’ve still got it for now. Maybe not much of it, but a little.
In Dependents Hell
This week I got a taste of my personal hell: A Fourth of July pool party with no less than 30 kids, most of them under age six. If ever an occasion required alcohol, this was it but unfortunately I had to drive later and suffered through the party sober. I didn’t even go in the pool, mostly because I have a toilet at home I could splash around in if that’s what I desired. I also came to the realization that the only bikini I had with me shows a bit more boobage than is appropriate for family gatherings. I learned this lesson the day before at another pool party (only six kids) where one kid kept copping feels. The first 8 or 9 times he groped my stomach or chest, I chalked it up to him learning how to swim. Then his mom informed me he’s basically a little perv. I felt so violated.
I knew six adults at the Fourth of July party and didn’t utter one word to any others. It wasn’t because I’m anti-social, it’s because the parents of small children have the attention span of small children. The only thing more annoying than trying to have a conversation with them is trying to have one with an asshole who can never let his cell phone go unanswered.
As I glanced around the pool, I spotted a few kids who were kind of cute but most just looked dorky. I couldn’t help but wonder if their parents actually thought they were cute. Then I wondered if anybody thought the same about my two nephews, even though they’re the two most adorable creatures on the planet. I don’t know what it is about a bloodline that makes a child seem so cute but the cosmetic industry really needs to look into bottling it.
Since the temperature was about the same as the devil’s anus, I soon made my way up to a small loft upstairs where there were only about seven kids to contend with. I’m only slightly ashamed to admit I commandeered the video game and made some kids wait until I completed the entire game, which might have been responsible for at least one kid’s tears. Luckily they all had limited verbal skills for telling on me and even if they did, I knew I could counter with a solid “Nuh uuuuh.” I’m more embarrassed to admit I needed a five-year-old’s pointers on a game designed for pre-schoolers.
But the party wasn’t a total bust. It helped me come up with the perfect marketing campaign to sell to the abstinence groups. At the very least, a party like that is a great reminder to get condoms, the pill, an IUD AND the Depo shot.
