Gingerbread House Foreclosure
My poor nephew Zach. Last year he stumbled upon a video of Santa being shot on Christmas Eve, and here he is discovering that his gingerbread house has gone into foreclosure. I fear if Santa doesn’t get him that Playstation he’s dying for, the only bailout he’ll need is from jail.
Here’s wishing everybody a Mele Kalikimaka!
Ho Ho Horror
I know it’s a little late to be sharing yuletide tales and I usually avoid second-hand stories, but I love these too much not to put them in print.
The first one occurred on Christmas Eve as I was en route to my sister’s house for the holidays. She was busy preparing for Christmas and her two kids were a bit rambunctious so she went to the NORAD website where they track Santa’s travels and set the computer to play videos of the various places he’d already visited that night. A little while later, terrified Zach, 6, ran into the kitchen and cried, “They shot Santa!” My sister asked him to explain and he said that Santa was peeing on a wall and some guy came out and shot Santa. So she returned to the computer to check out what videos had played and realized that the NORAD videos are now hosted on YouTube and that after the regular videos had played, Zach had navigated his way through other videos and sure enough, there was one showing exactly what he had described. I’m pretty sure that on the list of traumatic childhood events, seeing Santa get shot and killed on Christmas Eve is actually above seeing one’s own parents get shot and killed. I know the typical American response in such a situation would be to sue NORAD and YouTube for emotional distress but my sister settled for telling him that it wasn’t real and then putting parental controls on the computers.
The next day I confirmed the story with Zach and he told me it made him cry. I asked why and he said, “Because I was worried about Santa… and if I’d be getting any presents.”
The second story occurred last year and it’s another urination story involving my nephews. Just before Christmas the family had driven from their home near Phoenix up to Flagstaff and along the way Zach really had to pee. With no services around, they had to pull over to the side of the road. The younger one, Jake, was three at the time and insisted he didn’t have to pee. Then he caught sight of the action and decided he needed to participate and squealed, “Pee on the tree!” and ran out to join the fun. On the drive home he recognized the same area and asked, “Pee on the tree?” So they indulged his white trash impulses. Once home, the novelty hadn’t worn off and he continued to ask if he could “pee on the trees” in their backyard and his little tush was just too cute for his parents to say no. Then they purchased their enormous Christmas tree. My sister walked into the living room to find Jake in his firing position as he asked innocently, “Pee on the tree?”
My sister managed to avoid a Golden Christmas and she maintains she’s thankful for it but I still think it would have been worth the clean up if he’d actually gone through with it.
With that, let me wish everybody a Happee New Year!
Holidaze
Back in my prime, I celebrated ALL the drinking holidays such as Fourth of July, St. Patrick’s Day, Cinco de Mayo, Tuesday. As I got older I realized that I rarely have fun on the big nights. The clubs and streets are crowded and the people seem to think it’s a license to be particularly annoying. The worst holiday of all is New Year’s Eve, when establishments prey upon people’s high hopes for starting the new year with a bang in order to charge five times their usual prices. It’s almost always a disappointment. I’ve found that the best times are usually the ones that sort of happen by accident when good friends and too much alcohol happen to converge. The kind that end with a fall from a high speed shopping cart into a ditch (I should probably be embarrassed to admit that was just a few years ago. Road comics + crappy town + Jaeger shots= carting under the influence). So a while back I gave up on celebrating the party holidays- all except Halloween. You practically have to go out of your way to not enjoy Halloween. I mean, how can you be bored when having a conversation with Austin Powers and Sponge Bob No Pants?
For me, the great fun in Halloween is in creating a costume. Sure, they’re not designed as well as the ones I could buy but at least I always know nobody will be wearing the exact same costume. When choosing a character I usually try to work with what I’ve already got, such as my height and a fabulous pair of 4″ stilettos I couldn’t wear any other day of the year to be the Statue of Liberty. That was back when I was 5’10″ but now that I’ve shrunk 3/4″, I’d probably have to be France’s smaller version of it. As hard as it may be to believe, I actually sewed the dress and crown myself. Sewing is the only old-fashioned domestic duty I’m capable of. I can’t do a decent ironing job to save my life but I can sew.
I estimate that 60% of all female costumes include the word “slutty” in them: slutty nurse, slutty maid, slutty Little Red Riding Hood. On the night when we get to live out our fantasies in public we all just want to be big whores. I’ve done it myself with my slutty Mona Lisa working Sunset Boulevard. FYI, a half-smile does not a good hooker make.
Of the 40% of costumes that don’t include the word “slutty,” about half don’t do so because the outfit is inherently slutty looking: cheerleader, belly dancer, Paris Hilton. I’ve gone this route several times. Here’s one in which I dressed as a hula dancer in just a bikini top and grass skirt.
Another time I straightened my hair and used a temporary black dye job to be Elvira. Unfortunately my curly hair fell victim to Hawaii’s humidity and the look didn’t quite work. These are my two scariest Halloween pictures due to the fact that apparently I hadn’t been properly introduced to a pair of tweezers.
The next year I used the dye again to be Wonder Woman only this time, it never washed out. I rather liked myself with black hair, though one time a cab driver picked me up and when I entered he was snickering. I asked why and he said that because I was dressed all in black and I was bent over petting my black cat, I looked like a witch. Since it wasn’t Halloween, I’m pretty sure that cost him part of his tip.
That leaves about 20% of all female costumes that aren’t slutty. Those are the ones women wear to their workplace or they’re the ones designed to win costume contests. I’ve done both. One year I was waitressing at the Cat and Fiddle- a large, popular English restaurant/pub- and we had to dress according to the theme, which was “Goblins, fairies and creatures of the forest.” Pretty lame. I dressed as a fairy- namely our English chef John who was a major flamer. I walked around all night speaking with a British accent, hitting on all the lads, calling the other waitresses “saucy cows” and sipping wine- just like John. I think it was shortly thereafter that I got fired.
The costume I won a contest with was a cavewoman riding a dinosaur. The weirdest thing about this costume is that I happened to have the inflatable dinosaur lying around the house, though I have no idea why. Impulse buy perhaps. It was a fun costume but it was a bitch to move around in and I had to sit sideways.
Unfortunately, this year I didn’t plan ahead and had to recycle my Mona Lisa (a slightly more conservative version of it) but I just decided what I’m going to do next year: I’m going to use my freckles to be Lindsay Lohan’s future “E! True Hollywood Story.” I’ll design a box to look like a tv set that I’ll put around my face. Then I’ll have different sheets of paper over it depicting various events in her life, from her start as a fresh-faced young star through to her later career as a Hooter’s waitress who can’t even get a spot on “The Surreal Life.” That’s what I’ll be if I get my act together early enough to make the costume. Otherwise I’ll probably be a slutty Statue of Liberty.
Hollywood’s Silly Scene
Last night I had a friend come into town and decided to do the Hollywood hotspot scene. The only problem is that despite living two blocks from all the major clubs, I really don’t know the “scene.” And I don’t particularly care to. I see enough of Paris and Lindsey in the rags- I don’t need to pay a $20 cover charge to share their air space. So I figured I’d check out the small joints between my place and my friend’s hotel.
At the first bar I sat between a guy text-messaging and another guy talking on his phone while playing air keyboards to the song on the jukebox. I’m old enough to remember when people actually talked to people in person and played real air instruments like the guitar or drums. Keyboards? Come on. What’s next- air triangle?
Stop number two was a tapas bar I thought was a nice find. I saw a pitcher of sangria and asked the bartender if they sold it by the glass. The bartender said “yes” but the woman next to me whipped around and told me I should pass. She interrupted a conversation with a present being to do that so I figured it must be pretty bad and went with a safe Corona.
A guy walked up and ordered a bottle of water and the bartender said, “Six dollars.” Figuring I must have heard that wrong I asked the guy if his 16 oz bottle of Crystal Geyser really cost six dollars. He confirmed it. My imported beer cost six dollars, how could they possibly charge the same price for crappy domestic water?!! The place wasn’t even particularly fancy. Three dollars for that bottle is ridiculous. Six dollars should require the authorities to order a rape kit.
I quickly realized why the guys at the first bar were fooling with their phones. It turns out people alone at a bar do still want to chat and my water inquiry opened up those floodgates. Frankly, I didn’t feel like talking to the guy. For one thing, he paid six dollars for water. I don’t care how rich you are, anybody who pays six dollars for 16 oz of Crystal Geyser is an idiot. Not only that, he was sporting the porn ‘stache (and anybody who’s read my online dating blog is familiar with my aversion to it). I have a difficult time looking at guys with the porn ‘stache without giggling. Then they ask me why I’m giggling and I never have an excuse ready so I know it’s best for me to just look away. So for the next 20 minutes, I looked straight ahead, talked only about myself and didn’t ask him anything. A rational man would think “Either she’s not interested or she’s a self-centered bitch,” right? Not this guy. I swear to George Clooney he said, “What it going to take to get you to come home with me?”
My response could only be described as, “BWAAAAHAAAAAHAAAAHAAAA!!!!!!”
Yes, I cackled big time. I don’t think it would have sounded any more ridiculous if he’d said, “What’s it going to take to let me perform open-heart surgery on you?”
I thanked him for the laugh then told him I had to get going.
I met my friend and together we went to one of the few bars in the area I’m actually familiar with, which is probably one of the biggest dives you can find anywhere, particularly in Hollywood. Somehow a bunch of pre-halloween revelers must have been seriously misguided as the place was totally packed.
We were trapped behind a guy dressed as a soldier who couldn’t seem to get the bartender’s attention. Knowing that we wouldn’t get served until he did, I said, “Instead of you standing there, why not put your cute blonde girlfriend with the enormous breasts hanging out of her Heidi costume there instead?”
Ok, I think I really said, “You’ll probably get served faster if you switch places with your girlfriend.” Fortunately, he was smart enough to get it without all the extra details and they switched. Naturally, she was served immediately. Why do people have to be told that stuff? When the bartender’s a forty-ish guy covered in tattoos and wearing a trucker cap, who do you think is going to get his attention first?
Of course, I saved the best for last…
Beware of silly string!
While walking down Hollywood Boulevard, I noticed this sign on all the posts and wondered if the local authorities have just given up. I imagine Chief Bratton saying, “We can’t stop the drugs and drunk driving and violence, but mark my words, we WILL put an end to silly string this halloween. Make the signs.”
Come halloween there’s going to be some poor accountant who only gets to let loose once a year, this time deciding to bring along harmless silly string. The next day he has to tell his co-workers he got slapped with a $1000 fine and they’ll tell him, “You should have done hits of X like we did. Only cost $100 a pop. And we all got laid.”
That’s Hollywood for you.
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.
That Damn Family Christmas Card
I have a good relationship with my parents but one area of discord over the years has revolved around Mom’s annual Christmas card. It’s always a time-consuming creative endeavor that’s sent to everybody who has voluntarily (and sometimes not) provided my parents with their home address.
The problem I have is that the little blurb on me never seems to portray me accurately, or at least, not in the best light possible. For example, one year when I’d traveled overseas to entertain military troops and was writing for a national magazine, my portion only mentioned that I’d bartended for Wolfgang Puck. Last year’s card said that I made frequent trips to Arizona to see my nephews (i.e. Jenée has no life of her own).
It’s not that Mom deliberately discounts my activities for the year, she just makes odd choices sometimes. And it’s not always in regards to my recap. A couple years ago, my brother worked on the season’s number one new tv show. Mom’s card that year mentioned how he’d moved into a new apartment with a lovely view of the Mormon church. If I recall correctly, the card included a picture of that view and none of my brother. But I’m the bad sheep because I complain about that stuff and my siblings don’t. I strongly suspect their Christmas envelopes weigh more than mine.
So yesterday I received this year’s card. It’s a small booklet and each page contains a photo in an ornament and around the ornament is a couple lines about some of my parent’s activities through the year. With so little room for text, I figured it was impossible for me to get screwed this time.
I was wrong.
First of all, my name is written as “Jenee.” I’m used to people leaving out my accent mark and, while I always notice, it usually doesn’t bother me. But she’s the one who gave me the name with the accent mark. She’s the one that sentenced me to a life of having to press “Alt 1-3-0″ every time I type my name (and on my laptop, I have to press “fn” and “num lock” as well). All I’m asking is that my own Mama spell it right.
The bit on me contains all of five words and Mom probably thought she was safe from my ire. Unfortunately, those five words happen to be, “Jenee (right) & friend Carrie” on top of a picture of me posed very cozily with an old friend. Now, if I were to receive this card from someone, I’d probably think, “Hmmm… Jenée’s not married… she’s a comic…she’s always been pretty tough… the picture could have easily been cropped to just her face but it wasn’t so there must be a reason why her ‘friend’ was included in the family Christmas card. I guess this is her mom’s way of announcing Jenée’s a big dyke.” Not that there’s anything wrong with being a big dyke, I’ve just found that sort of marketing isn’t particularly effective for meeting men (well, lesbians definitely attract guys’ attention but can only hold it for maybe 5-10 minutes at a time).
On top of it all, it’s not even a good picture of me!
I didn’t say anything to Mom this time, mostly because I don’t think any of her friends have hot single sons who need to know the truth. But it sure would be nice if she’d give me final script approval in the future so the world could finally learn about my torrid affair with George Clooney and this cure for cancer that I found.
No Ho Ho Ho’s
This is the first Christmas I’ve missed with my nephews and I’m pretty bummed. The older one, Zach, and I always track Santa’s travels on the Norad website then leave cookies and carrots for Santa and his reindeer. I’m worried he won’t believe in Santa much longer because he’s closing in on the wise old age of five and has a lot of questions. Last year he wondered how big fat Santa gets down the chimney. This year Zach was anxious to sit on Santa’s lap at school but his dad refused to wait in line so he said they could head over to the mall and meet Santa. Most kids his age would accept that without question, but young Zachary Holmes turned on his light sabre and grilled Dad on how Santa could possibly be in two places at the same time. I’m sure later today Zach will notice the half-eaten cookies and carrots and immediately send them off for DNA testing.
With the stores already closed, I’m second-guessing some of my gift selections. In the past, shopping for my nephews was always a breeze. This year while cruising the kiddie aisles I struggled to find anything they don’t already have. What do you get the pre-schoolers who have everything? I ended up getting them soccer boppers even though the box says they’re for ages seven and up. I figured, how dangerous can they be? Then I told a friend about the gift and he said years ago his drunk dad and uncle brawled with soccer boppers and his uncle broke his dad’s nose. That really doesn’t tell me if soccer boppers are too dangerous for a two and four-year-old just that they probably shouldn’t be used while intoxicated. So instead of returning the gift, I think I’ll just add a breathalyzer to it.
For my parents, I purchased Sirius satellite radio for their car. I don’t think they’re big radio people but I know Dad will love all the sports coverage and Mom will enjoy the Martha Stewart channel. Plus, it sounds like they plan to make frequent trips to Arizona next year and after 40 years together, I’m sure they welcome anything other than conversation to pass the time. But I just saw a commercial for the Playboy channel and discovered it costs exactly the same per month as the satellite radio subscription. And I realized that after 40 years together, THAT’s probably what they’d welcome more than anything. However, my parents are the type who repeatedly comment on the last gift you gave them. I don’t think I could bear to hear them tell me how much they enjoyed Memoirs of a Gay Slut and The Liar, the Bitch and the Whore Probe. Satellite radio it shall be.
Maybe next year, I’ll save myself some trouble and give the present everybody can use: gift cards to the 99 cent store. Then my parents can tell me how much they love using their new shampoo and toothpaste and impress me with all the Spanish they learned in the process.
Thou Shall Not Lie (If You’re Bad At It)
I had lunch with Dad yesterday and he mentioned he had to pick Mom up from the hospital later in the afternoon.
“Mom’s in the hospital?” I asked.
He answered, “Oh, thought I told everybody. She’s been in since we got back from our trip.”
Nice to know how easily I’m forgotten in the information loop. It reminds me of the Curb Your Enthusiasm episode where Larry’s mom died and nobody notified him because they didn’t want to ruin his trip to New York. Then they told him how great the funeral was! Hilarious. Whether Dad not telling me was accidental or intentional, I really can’t blame him. The last time Mom was in the hospital I didn’t know about it for several days because I never checked my phone messages (I hate the phone that much).
Anyway, when the folks left China, Mom was sick but didn’t tell the authorities because she and Dad didn’t want to get stuck over there. As soon as they returned, she went to the doctor, barely said the word “China” then was wrapped in a face mask and sent to another hospital to test for Bird Flu (“They haven’t heard a peep from her,” was Dad’s contribution). Looks like she’s fine.
I was shocked by my parents’ dishonesty. They are the most honest people I’ve ever encountered- honest to a fault. They’re the type who would turn me in if they knew I’d done something wrong. Maybe these weren’t the best circumstances for them to begin a life of deceit, but I was sort of proud of them. Frankly, I think lying has gotten too bad of a rap. Not that I condone lying, but at the same time, I don’t think it’s inherently bad the way religions have made it out to be. There are times when DIShonesty is the best policy. Like when a little child can’t sleep because she’s afraid somebody will break into the house and kill her. Do you tell her, “Well, it’s a possibility and it does seem to happen quite a bit, but it hasn’t happened in this neighborhood yet, so you’re probably safe?” No, you tell her it could never ever happen so that she can have some peace of mind. Let’s face it, if she ever finds out you lied, she probably won’t be able to call you on it.
Right now my sister is utilizing the most effective lie ever created to incite good behavior in other human beings: the ‘ol “Santa doesn’t bring gifts to kids who act up” lie. Pure genius! For a few glorious weeks, kids around the world do their homework and chores, they don’t try to kill their siblings and they don’t backtalk their parents. All out of the fear they won’t get Christmas presents. Life in the month of December is the closest we’ll ever get to Utopia. Don’t tell me that particular fib’s a bad thing.
But I wonder how Christians rationalize the whole Santa lie. I know they do because the lines to sit on Santa’s lap are way too long to all be atheists. As far as I know, there aren’t any clauses in the Ten Commandments to allow for little white lies. Perhaps it’s because there wasn’t enough room on the tablet to explain special circumstances or maybe it’s because its dictates were set in stone (hey, is that where that expression comes from)? I just don’t understand how people can subscribe to a particular religion with its plethora of rules when they can’t even abide by the top ten list. It’s the reason I want to smack people who list “honesty” as one of the most important traits in themselves and in others. They’re so full of shit.
I’ve told my share of lies over the years- mostly to the CHP- sometimes to protect others and sometimes to save my own ass. But I think my track record’s been pretty good as far as dishonesty not adversely affecting anybody else. I don’t need to follow the Ten Commandments when the Golden Rule sums it all up without all those unreasonable specifics.
Turns Out, Today’s Thanksgiving
I’m such a dumbass.
I didn’t realize until last night that today’s Thanksgiving. The thing is, I don’t live by a calendar so I never know what day it is. I can keep track of the holidays that always fall on a specific day but not the ones that fall on some randomly determined day to suit the Holiday Decider’s vacation schedule.
I’m usually clued into the irregular holidays by the fact that the bank’s closed or I didn’t get mail or traffic in Hollywood was particularly busy late the night before. Though sometimes several days have passed before I wonder, “Did I miss President’s Day?”
Thanksgiving’s always been easy to remember because the family gets together and there are various phone calls and emails regarding times and what to bring. But this year, Mom and Dad are in Hong Kong, my brother’s with his new wife’s family in Oregon and my other siblings stayed home in Arizona. That left just my aunt and grandpa in the area. The nice thing would have been for me to take them out to dinner. Well, in theory. I’m really not sure if my company is considered a treat to them. Aunt Sandy’s pretty cool but grandpa doesn’t say much. That might be because he doesn’t like the rest of the family’s topics of conversation or because we’re all so damn loud he can’t get a word in.
Had I realized before last night that today is Thanksgiving, I might have cooked myself a turkey. Although, it’s been a good two or three years since my oven’s been turned on so it may no longer be suitable for cooking. Instead I dined at Jack-in-the-Box. I know I shouldn’t have since I just ate at Burger King a few days ago. But I remembered that the only other time I didn’t have turkey on Thanksgiving was in college and on that occasion, I went to Jack-in-the-Box. Since today’s all about tradition, it just seemed right to create an alternate Thanksgiving tradition. I was tempted to save face by ordering with a French accent, then realized I don’t give a damn what the cashier thinks. I just requested my side of ranch, took the handful of unwanted ketchup and enjoyed my turkey day chicken sandwich alone.
Trippin’
The folks are vacationing in Asia right now and they send email recaps of their days. What a difference those recaps are from the ones I receive from friends on vacation. My parents are up at the crack of dawn while my friends go to bed at the crack of dawn. My parents visit botanical gardens while my friends visit beer gardens. My parents vomit from local viral infections while my friends vomit from local, well, beer gardens. Mom and Dad’s remedy for illness is to skip the day’s tours and rest while my friends’ remedy is to switch to weed for the day.
Very different trips indeed.
Most of the pictures my parents send are scenery shots. I don’t know why they bother. No matter where you are in the world or what you’re looking at, some professional photographer has probably taken a better picture of it. I tend to prefer my friends’ photos, which also show scenery… in the background, but it’s usually easy to miss since the foreground often involves some sort of nudity or potentially illegal activities (I’m a comic- how classy do you expect my friends to be)?
In the latest email, Mom mentioned dining with a couple named Marge and Berwyl. She didn’t say much about them, but I can only guess Marge has a delicious recipe for apple pie while Berwyl can recommend a good tax man. Dinner with Marge and Berwyl surely involves such topics of conversation as home remedies for hemorrhoids and the war in Iraq (Berwyl’s pro, Marge goes along with whatever Berwyl believes). After a pleasant evening, the group probably made plans to visit local shrines together the next day.
My friends also meet new people on vacation, but whatever names they’re given are likely to be either fake or “stage names.” A night out with “Iceman” and “Roxy” probably involves a heated debate on the proper way to roll and some mention of whether any of them have “done something like this before.” After a pleasant evening, “Iceman” and “Roxy” probably slipped out under cover of darkness with half my friends’ belongings in hand, never to be seen again.
I’m not saying that one style of vacationing is better than the other since both my friends and parents thoroughly enjoy their trips. The bonus for me is that I get to hear very different perspectives of the same destinations. But I have to admit, one style’s recap is a tad more fun to live vicariously through.
Old School Halloween Costumes
My four-year-old nephew got a Power Rangers costume for Halloween that he’s been wearing for the last month or so. He has no idea how fortunate he is to have a costume he can enjoy for more than one night. When I was a kid, Dad used to take us to Thrifty’s where we had about 10 minutes to decide which $1.99 piece of splendor it would be that year. I don’t even know if they still make those costumes, the ones with the hard plastic mask and painted apron. Those costumes brought a lot of excitement to Halloween. Would this be the year I suffocate trying to breathe out the pin-sized hole? Would the slightest spark to the apron send me shooting in the air like a firecracker?
Free candy was a good enough reason to risk it.
