CONVERSATION BETWEEN HYPOCHONDRICAL JEW AND CALMING AFRICAN AMERICAN WOMAN:
The following is a direct transcript from a phone conversation which took place recently:
HJ: Hi, this is Nellie Stevens. I’m a patient of Dr. Goldberg’s. Can I please make an appointment?
AAW: Sure, for what, honey?
HJ: A blood test.
CAAW: Oh, no. What’s wrong, girl?
HJ: I don’t know. I’m tired all the time, my energy is super low, and I just don’t feel like myself.
CAAW: Are you---
HJ: Nope, not pregnant. Already took a test.
CAAW: You drinkin’ your pomegranate juice?
HJ: Um, once in a while.
CAAW: Oh, no, baby. You gotta drink that every day. You need your antioxidants.
HJ: I get a lot of those. I’m a huge fan of blueberries.
CAAW: Not the same. Pomegranate juice. I’m telling you, girl. I was feeling like you. Tired day and night. Dragging. No time or energy for my man. Found out I had fibromylagia and arthritis. But the juice had all the answers. And my skin is like butter!
HJ: Oh. I was told juice had a lot of sugar. I try not to drink too much.
CAAW: What? Nah, girl! I’m no doctor, but it sounds to me like you need some time for yourself. A nice hot bath, a glass of pom juice, some jazz, and an early bedtime.
HJ: Well…
CAAW: Soul sistah, if we don’t take care of ourselves we are no good to others, you know?
HJ: Yeah, I guess.
CAAW: But like I said, I’m no doctor.
HJ: Yeah, who are you, by the way?
CAAW: Raeshawn.
HJ: Dr. Goldberg’s assistant?
AAW: Hell, no! I work for the answering service. The doctors are both on vacation until Tuesday.
HJ: What?
AAW: Oh, yeah. You wouldn’t get this kind of advice from those stressed out bitches!
HJ: Hmmm…I guess not.
AAW: Anyway, you want me to leave a message you called and need to come in for a test?
HJ: I’m gonna try the pomegranate juice and jazz.
CAAW: You go ahead, girl! And if you need any more advice or just someone to talk to, just call between the hours of 12 and 2 when they are at lunch and ask for Raeshawn, Operator 12.
J: Will do.
:
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Friday, November 28, 2008
Devil Scent
There is a perfume I hate so much, I would rather have a baby's dirty diaper or a carton of year old milk shoved up my nose than be in the vicinity of a person wearing it. Unfortunately, the name of this scent must remain nameless as a few people I love dearly actually wear it. And while most of the time, I may not be the subtlest person in hiding my thoughts or emotions, somehow I have managed NOT to drop the hint on this subject. In fact, quite the opposite. I am the asshole who upon recognizing the smell, says knowingly "Oh, are you wearing -----?" The offender will inevitably flash a giant smile, tell me what an astute nose I have, and assume I'm commenting because of my love for this devil juice. I want to scream, "NOOOOOOOOOO! I am speaking because it is the only alternative to projectile vomiting! That shit smells like a melted-down candy bar mixed into a bottle of maple syrup and then atomized! Please go wash off your neck/wrists/kneecaps/genitals...wherever you put it and then maybe we can have a civil conversation without me dry-heaving every 5 seconds." But, of course, I choose the more polite route of tolerating time spent with the offender and then snarkily blogging about it now.
But seriously...this scent needs to be stopped. I recently read in a magazine that it's longstanding popularity has made it a "classic". What the hell? How can something that makes people walk around smelling like a case of baked goods be thrown in the same category as Chanel No. 5? And by the way, I have since found out I am not the only one who feels this way. My friend Tom and I recently bonded over this mutual hatred as if we were both abused kids who had finally found our fellow 'Luka'in eachother. Tom, while straight, is as much of a scent snob as I am, demanding I smell his wrist every time I see him. Inevitably, I inhale a delicious, unique potion that he tells me has been concocted by Monks in some remote monastery and only 5 bottles a year are sold or something in that ridiculous vein. Tom is not messing around. So, when I brought up my distaste for this simple syrup which masquerades as a perfume, Tom screamed with delight and recognition. He said he has actually broken up with women who wear it and had meals ruined because of it's simple presence in the air.
So, I have no real way to wrap up this post. Except to say that Tom and I are clearly not the only ones who feel this passionately about anonymous scent. I just found a great post on a site called "Basenotes.net" (I know) and I will leave you with the words of this sublime genius who calls him/herself 'Marmica'... And to protect the unknowing perpetrators, I have continued to blank out the name of the scent:
The bottle, idea, and concept amaze me. I simply had so much hope in this fragrance.
However, once I sampled, at first, I was revolted. I was so shocked, I nearly hurled.
With tears in my eyes and a scrub brush, I tried to get the vile substance off.
But no, it would not budge. And so, I sat indoors, disgusted by the puke cloud of cotton candy and fluffy rainbows.
It enveloped me, tore at how terribly naive I was to fall for another ' classic '.
And then, the storms faded as I experimentally sniffed my wrist a while later.
The vomit sugar bomb had gone, and was replaced with warming comfort.
Honey rang through my senses, and just the right play of a battle between vanilla and chocolate.
I smelt edible, delicious, tolerable, and mysterious yet playful as the caramel then sang.
Once the relief of the mid tones had faded, it settled into a charming musky drift to sleep.
I had never experienced such emotion in the time frame of two hours, hunched over in a daze of wonder.
I love -----. I hate -----. I will, for those reasons, never wear it again.
Instead, I will gift the bottle to a dear friend, whose smile at times will annoy and comfort me to no end.
A match suitable, I find, because -----'s love is far too fickle for my senses.
And if by some fluke I do wear her grace again, I will note not to visit anywhere public for at least an hour.
Like a dancer tumbling through the curtains and making an awkward arrival, the top notes are putrid but the aftershow of base and middle are enchanting and pleasant.
But you'd never do it more than once. Or twice.
So ends my experimentation with sickly sweet and dangerous gourmands such as -----.
How I will miss those days and cherish the never occurring return of them.
As a drug addict looks back on ' those days ', I cannot judge -----.
Only ----- can judge one such as myself.
But seriously...this scent needs to be stopped. I recently read in a magazine that it's longstanding popularity has made it a "classic". What the hell? How can something that makes people walk around smelling like a case of baked goods be thrown in the same category as Chanel No. 5? And by the way, I have since found out I am not the only one who feels this way. My friend Tom and I recently bonded over this mutual hatred as if we were both abused kids who had finally found our fellow 'Luka'in eachother. Tom, while straight, is as much of a scent snob as I am, demanding I smell his wrist every time I see him. Inevitably, I inhale a delicious, unique potion that he tells me has been concocted by Monks in some remote monastery and only 5 bottles a year are sold or something in that ridiculous vein. Tom is not messing around. So, when I brought up my distaste for this simple syrup which masquerades as a perfume, Tom screamed with delight and recognition. He said he has actually broken up with women who wear it and had meals ruined because of it's simple presence in the air.
So, I have no real way to wrap up this post. Except to say that Tom and I are clearly not the only ones who feel this passionately about anonymous scent. I just found a great post on a site called "Basenotes.net" (I know) and I will leave you with the words of this sublime genius who calls him/herself 'Marmica'... And to protect the unknowing perpetrators, I have continued to blank out the name of the scent:
The bottle, idea, and concept amaze me. I simply had so much hope in this fragrance.
However, once I sampled, at first, I was revolted. I was so shocked, I nearly hurled.
With tears in my eyes and a scrub brush, I tried to get the vile substance off.
But no, it would not budge. And so, I sat indoors, disgusted by the puke cloud of cotton candy and fluffy rainbows.
It enveloped me, tore at how terribly naive I was to fall for another ' classic '.
And then, the storms faded as I experimentally sniffed my wrist a while later.
The vomit sugar bomb had gone, and was replaced with warming comfort.
Honey rang through my senses, and just the right play of a battle between vanilla and chocolate.
I smelt edible, delicious, tolerable, and mysterious yet playful as the caramel then sang.
Once the relief of the mid tones had faded, it settled into a charming musky drift to sleep.
I had never experienced such emotion in the time frame of two hours, hunched over in a daze of wonder.
I love -----. I hate -----. I will, for those reasons, never wear it again.
Instead, I will gift the bottle to a dear friend, whose smile at times will annoy and comfort me to no end.
A match suitable, I find, because -----'s love is far too fickle for my senses.
And if by some fluke I do wear her grace again, I will note not to visit anywhere public for at least an hour.
Like a dancer tumbling through the curtains and making an awkward arrival, the top notes are putrid but the aftershow of base and middle are enchanting and pleasant.
But you'd never do it more than once. Or twice.
So ends my experimentation with sickly sweet and dangerous gourmands such as -----.
How I will miss those days and cherish the never occurring return of them.
As a drug addict looks back on ' those days ', I cannot judge -----.
Only ----- can judge one such as myself.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Slipping It Down A Notch
So, I have been attempting to write about my wedding experience. It has been unsuccessful thus far because it ends up sounding either cliche, schmaltzy, or just plain boring. The wedding feelings may be too nuanced for a blog and I think I will just retire them to the shrink's office and/or my plain old diary. With that said, I can sum it up like this--phonomenal, surreal, one large dream sequence. And people say that even if you have been with your mate a long time already (which I have), being married feels different. Closer. More of a team. I have definitely noticed that to be true. And I was thankful to have my teammate at my side last night because... my diaphragm got stuck. Um, yeah.
First of all, I would like to acknowledge how much crap I have taken for having a diaphragm in the first place. A couple of choice lines from my wise-ass girlfriends include "What are you, 50?" and "Jesus, that is so 'Ice Storm' of you'". And by the way, I completely agree with them. Diaphragms have a completely 70's connotation for me. The house in which I learned what a diaphragm was had rust colored CARPETED WALLS and giant brown pillows on the floor instead of a couch. The rug was shag and some sort of off-yellow color. I am really not sure what color motif my parents were going for but I think of it as the "depressing bodily fluid" collection. Anyway...one day, when I was about 5, I was exploring my mom's bathroom. I loved playing with her Merle Norman products. Merle Norman was a makeup line which perfectly encapsulated the late 70's and early 80's--thick consistencies, weird colors, and a sort of oily film over everything. My favorite part about Merle was the packaging--all pink. I loved lining the different sized pots and jars up on the sink counter, pulling up a chair, and pretending I was giving an interview from my makeup chair while getting ready for my next performance. This whole ritual became especially fun after the movie "Mommie Dearest" came out because in the famous "No more wire hangers" scene, Joan Crawford is wearing an insane amount of 'cold cream'. I am sure most of us remember our mothers slathering on a layer of this before bed to take their makeup off. My mom had Merle's version which was of course pink and smelled like castor oil. I loved slapping a layer on and channeling Joan. No wonder I have always had such a kinship with gay men.
So, during one of my bathroom playtimes, I stumbled upon a pink container I had never seen before. There was no Merle Norman lettering on the little square box and it was a flimsier material than most MN vessels--sort of a semi-translucent plastic. But it was pink and therefore symbolized some sort of fun product in my young eyes. I opened it and was puzzled. There sat a flesh colored tiny cap sprinkled with baby powder. What the hell? My first thought was that this was in fact a hat for a baby. If I had known what a yarmulke was at that time, it would have been the next logical guess. Was it some sort of new applicator for Merle's loose powder? I needed to know. I grabbed it and took it to my mom in the kitchen. My mom, being a total bohemian, laughed when she saw me holding her diaphragm with a quizzical and semi-pissed look on my face. I felt betrayed that a new product had been purchased and I had no idea about it. And the baby powder? Confusing. She then told me straight up what it was, how it was used, and what it was for. I think a few concepts obviously went way over my head at that time, mainly a) how the hell could a piece of rubber with the circumference of an orange prevent a baby being born and b) why was powder used to keep it dry? Vaginas weren't even wet, right?
OK, so fast forward to me now. I use a diaphragm because I hated the pill. It made me feel what I imagine morning sickness to feel like. I was constantly nauseaus and if anyone so much as even said the word 'chicken', I would dry-heave. This is a real problem when you are someone who is constantly trying to eat well and lose 10 pounds. Chicken is your old stand by even though it is fairly gross. So, I tried a diaphragm and frankly, it is completely fine. Not too spontaneous but no more of a problem than quickly sticking a condom on. Until last night. We were not doing anything unusual. Straight up missionary style. And then all of a sudden, this intense pain, like someone was clenching my entire reproductive system in a tight fist. I tried to be a trooper, I really did. Being that sex really has never hurt me before, I should have known immediately that something was off but I rationalized, figuring maybe it had just been awhile or all those crunches at the gym had made me smaller. WHAT?! But the pain got worse. I "took care" of my husband another way because I had a feeling this was going to be a long night and he might be more equipped to handle whatever was coming in a post-ejaculated state. I ran to the bathroom and did what I always do if there is some sort of pain I do not recognize--whine and cry. It was very archaeic and earthy. I was squatting on the floor like I imagine a Native American woman would do. I reached up for the diaphragm and realized I was not feeling the little ridge where it normally sits. In fact, I could hardly feel the thing at all. More hysterics. "Where is it?" I screamed to my husband. "It disappeared inside of me! Oh, no!" My sweet husband did everything he could at that moment not to completely crack up. There was his nude wife, crouched on the floor, declaring that a piece of rubber had somehow floated from her vagina into her chest. It was time to call the doctor.
Even though I have what seems to be a photographic memory of every phone number I've ever known, my state of panic made me draw a blank on my gyno's number. I told my husband to call information. Here is where I should mention something crucial. My gynocolegist just happens to have the same name as a comedian who had his career peak proabably around the time that diapragms were huge but has recently made a major comeback as the host of a popular prime time gameshow. I could hear my husband say the city and then the name. I then heard him laugh. "Yeah, I know", he said "It's not the same guy." I dialed the number from my crouched position and got the doctor on the phone...thank god. I could hear his kids in the background. The echoey quality of the background noise made me picture a nice big house with a den. In fact, he was probably watching a movie with the wife and kids when he got the call from his service--"It's that crazy Stevens girl. Her diaphragm is stuck." He was incredibly kind. He told me it happens all the time and I would get it out. If by chance I couldn't, he would "meet me somewhere." Being that I live in the Valley and he on the westside, I imagined us meeting at some halfway point and me jumping in the back seat of my car as my husband played lookout. The doctor told me to put one leg on the bathtub and to bend the other knee as I squatted down. This was the sure position. I tried a few times on the phone with him but no success. I cried harder. He told me to stay in that position for a few more minutes and the diaphragm should "slip down a notch." If not, I could call him back. Before we hung up, I said I needed to ask him one more important thing--what if people only have a stall shower? He cracked up and told me he could tell I was feeling better already. I got the fucking diaphragm out a minute later. Maybe I will try a different pill.
First of all, I would like to acknowledge how much crap I have taken for having a diaphragm in the first place. A couple of choice lines from my wise-ass girlfriends include "What are you, 50?" and "Jesus, that is so 'Ice Storm' of you'". And by the way, I completely agree with them. Diaphragms have a completely 70's connotation for me. The house in which I learned what a diaphragm was had rust colored CARPETED WALLS and giant brown pillows on the floor instead of a couch. The rug was shag and some sort of off-yellow color. I am really not sure what color motif my parents were going for but I think of it as the "depressing bodily fluid" collection. Anyway...one day, when I was about 5, I was exploring my mom's bathroom. I loved playing with her Merle Norman products. Merle Norman was a makeup line which perfectly encapsulated the late 70's and early 80's--thick consistencies, weird colors, and a sort of oily film over everything. My favorite part about Merle was the packaging--all pink. I loved lining the different sized pots and jars up on the sink counter, pulling up a chair, and pretending I was giving an interview from my makeup chair while getting ready for my next performance. This whole ritual became especially fun after the movie "Mommie Dearest" came out because in the famous "No more wire hangers" scene, Joan Crawford is wearing an insane amount of 'cold cream'. I am sure most of us remember our mothers slathering on a layer of this before bed to take their makeup off. My mom had Merle's version which was of course pink and smelled like castor oil. I loved slapping a layer on and channeling Joan. No wonder I have always had such a kinship with gay men.
So, during one of my bathroom playtimes, I stumbled upon a pink container I had never seen before. There was no Merle Norman lettering on the little square box and it was a flimsier material than most MN vessels--sort of a semi-translucent plastic. But it was pink and therefore symbolized some sort of fun product in my young eyes. I opened it and was puzzled. There sat a flesh colored tiny cap sprinkled with baby powder. What the hell? My first thought was that this was in fact a hat for a baby. If I had known what a yarmulke was at that time, it would have been the next logical guess. Was it some sort of new applicator for Merle's loose powder? I needed to know. I grabbed it and took it to my mom in the kitchen. My mom, being a total bohemian, laughed when she saw me holding her diaphragm with a quizzical and semi-pissed look on my face. I felt betrayed that a new product had been purchased and I had no idea about it. And the baby powder? Confusing. She then told me straight up what it was, how it was used, and what it was for. I think a few concepts obviously went way over my head at that time, mainly a) how the hell could a piece of rubber with the circumference of an orange prevent a baby being born and b) why was powder used to keep it dry? Vaginas weren't even wet, right?
OK, so fast forward to me now. I use a diaphragm because I hated the pill. It made me feel what I imagine morning sickness to feel like. I was constantly nauseaus and if anyone so much as even said the word 'chicken', I would dry-heave. This is a real problem when you are someone who is constantly trying to eat well and lose 10 pounds. Chicken is your old stand by even though it is fairly gross. So, I tried a diaphragm and frankly, it is completely fine. Not too spontaneous but no more of a problem than quickly sticking a condom on. Until last night. We were not doing anything unusual. Straight up missionary style. And then all of a sudden, this intense pain, like someone was clenching my entire reproductive system in a tight fist. I tried to be a trooper, I really did. Being that sex really has never hurt me before, I should have known immediately that something was off but I rationalized, figuring maybe it had just been awhile or all those crunches at the gym had made me smaller. WHAT?! But the pain got worse. I "took care" of my husband another way because I had a feeling this was going to be a long night and he might be more equipped to handle whatever was coming in a post-ejaculated state. I ran to the bathroom and did what I always do if there is some sort of pain I do not recognize--whine and cry. It was very archaeic and earthy. I was squatting on the floor like I imagine a Native American woman would do. I reached up for the diaphragm and realized I was not feeling the little ridge where it normally sits. In fact, I could hardly feel the thing at all. More hysterics. "Where is it?" I screamed to my husband. "It disappeared inside of me! Oh, no!" My sweet husband did everything he could at that moment not to completely crack up. There was his nude wife, crouched on the floor, declaring that a piece of rubber had somehow floated from her vagina into her chest. It was time to call the doctor.
Even though I have what seems to be a photographic memory of every phone number I've ever known, my state of panic made me draw a blank on my gyno's number. I told my husband to call information. Here is where I should mention something crucial. My gynocolegist just happens to have the same name as a comedian who had his career peak proabably around the time that diapragms were huge but has recently made a major comeback as the host of a popular prime time gameshow. I could hear my husband say the city and then the name. I then heard him laugh. "Yeah, I know", he said "It's not the same guy." I dialed the number from my crouched position and got the doctor on the phone...thank god. I could hear his kids in the background. The echoey quality of the background noise made me picture a nice big house with a den. In fact, he was probably watching a movie with the wife and kids when he got the call from his service--"It's that crazy Stevens girl. Her diaphragm is stuck." He was incredibly kind. He told me it happens all the time and I would get it out. If by chance I couldn't, he would "meet me somewhere." Being that I live in the Valley and he on the westside, I imagined us meeting at some halfway point and me jumping in the back seat of my car as my husband played lookout. The doctor told me to put one leg on the bathtub and to bend the other knee as I squatted down. This was the sure position. I tried a few times on the phone with him but no success. I cried harder. He told me to stay in that position for a few more minutes and the diaphragm should "slip down a notch." If not, I could call him back. Before we hung up, I said I needed to ask him one more important thing--what if people only have a stall shower? He cracked up and told me he could tell I was feeling better already. I got the fucking diaphragm out a minute later. Maybe I will try a different pill.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
NOOOEEEEEEWWWW
My fiance is at his bachelor party tonight in Las Vegas. So basically, while he is most likely fisting a trannie, I am having quiet, contemplative blog time. I got on Facebook which I am starting to realize may be live purgatory. Never have so many people who have mutually mistreated eachother in the past been able to share a virtual space so easily. It's so weird--we all seem to be gluttons for curiousity...followed by punishment. You wonder where your 9th grade boyfriend is, you find him, become his "friend", and then every time you log in, you have to see some queer play-by-play of his life. Example: "BLANK is hitting himself that he did not bet on that Red Sox/Yankees game!" ...Well, I guess there is a little comfort in knowing once a degenerate, always a degenerate. So this segues nicely into a strange phenomenon that seems to occur as you get close to your wedding. You go on a little mental journey of the relationship experiences that got you to where you are now. Lately, I have been doing the equivalent of an "Inside the Actor's Studio" episode in my head. I sit down with myself and do a retrospective of my earlier work. It's fun and painful at the same time. It's like when famous actors or musicians talk about when they first moved to the big city and were living on a can of tuna fish or a cup of ramen noodles a day. Many of my past relationships were ramen noodles and tuna. Survival food but not delicious or satisfying by any means. And I will not do my fiance the injustice of comparing him to a deeply satisfying food (but if I were, I would say he is fillet Mignon:)
My five years in New York were an especially wacky time, dating wise. I moved there in at age 22 to finish college and lived alone in Brooklyn. Unfortunately, no one had forewarned me of the greatest AND worst thing about New York: 24 hour Greek diners...that deliver. I was packing in the gyros and slices of blueberry pie like nobody's business. I had no idea that I had gained 20 pounds until I saw a picture. I was shocked. But still hungry. So, I went to "CP Shades", asked if they had any pants with elastic, and forged on. I had some very odd experiences in the process. No one ever came to Brooklyn. Just an ex who I occasionally still slept with when I would come back to LA but even he (the most non-judgemental person ever) seemed a bit startled by my new and puffier appearance. Then I moved to the Upper West Side. And finally joined a gym. But my confidence was still all messed up. I began this strange pattern of making very very close guy friends who I would spend all of my time with. Then I would decide that friendship meant love. I would pine over them, eventually admit my feelings, and they would freak out in one way or another. Then I would get offended and sad, say I needed some time apart, and then they would realize they actually did have feelings for me. However, by that time, I had usually moved on...
There were a few blind dates. And by blind, I mean I had to be fucking blind to agree to go out with these guys upon meeting them. One was great on paper. He was a South African Jew who was in a post graduate program at Colombia to become a psycho-pharmacologist. He was polite enough at dinner but in retrospect, did throw a few clues about sexual deviance. It's so sad to look back at a lonelier version of yourself and see the things you chose to ignore for the sake of flattery and company. The night I went out with the South African Jew happened to be the same night that John Kennedy Jr's plane was being looked for off the coast of Martha's Vineyard. It was on everyone's mind. So, he had a great excuse to come up to my apartment. He wanted to see the status of John John. As we watched the news, I sat on the other side of the room to indicate my lack of attraction. But unfortunately, this being a New York studio, the other side of the room was only about 4 1/2 feet away. The next thing I knew, SAJ had made some sort of intricate lunge and was dry humping me. I told him he had skipped about 5 steps. He got embarrassed and pulled himself off of me, apologizing profusely. My mind had now kicked into scared mode and I was trying to figure out an exit strategy. As I was thinking, he began creepily massaging my shoulders, saying we could just "ease into it". Um...Before I knew it, I was being dryhumped again. I reached for my cell phone (which was gargantuan being that it was 1999) and threatened to hit him in the head with it if he did not get off. Thankfully, he did. But he really did save the best for last. As he made motions to leave (the first normal move all night), he asked if he could first "finish up" in my bathroom. I had gotten him way too excited. I think someone should have invented a name for the sound which then came out of my mouth. It was a combination of "NOOOOOOOO" and "EWWWWWWW".
Well, needless to say, he is one character I have not researched on Facebook. But if I ever decide to, at least I'll know what network to look in: FUCKIN' CREEPY.
My five years in New York were an especially wacky time, dating wise. I moved there in at age 22 to finish college and lived alone in Brooklyn. Unfortunately, no one had forewarned me of the greatest AND worst thing about New York: 24 hour Greek diners...that deliver. I was packing in the gyros and slices of blueberry pie like nobody's business. I had no idea that I had gained 20 pounds until I saw a picture. I was shocked. But still hungry. So, I went to "CP Shades", asked if they had any pants with elastic, and forged on. I had some very odd experiences in the process. No one ever came to Brooklyn. Just an ex who I occasionally still slept with when I would come back to LA but even he (the most non-judgemental person ever) seemed a bit startled by my new and puffier appearance. Then I moved to the Upper West Side. And finally joined a gym. But my confidence was still all messed up. I began this strange pattern of making very very close guy friends who I would spend all of my time with. Then I would decide that friendship meant love. I would pine over them, eventually admit my feelings, and they would freak out in one way or another. Then I would get offended and sad, say I needed some time apart, and then they would realize they actually did have feelings for me. However, by that time, I had usually moved on...
There were a few blind dates. And by blind, I mean I had to be fucking blind to agree to go out with these guys upon meeting them. One was great on paper. He was a South African Jew who was in a post graduate program at Colombia to become a psycho-pharmacologist. He was polite enough at dinner but in retrospect, did throw a few clues about sexual deviance. It's so sad to look back at a lonelier version of yourself and see the things you chose to ignore for the sake of flattery and company. The night I went out with the South African Jew happened to be the same night that John Kennedy Jr's plane was being looked for off the coast of Martha's Vineyard. It was on everyone's mind. So, he had a great excuse to come up to my apartment. He wanted to see the status of John John. As we watched the news, I sat on the other side of the room to indicate my lack of attraction. But unfortunately, this being a New York studio, the other side of the room was only about 4 1/2 feet away. The next thing I knew, SAJ had made some sort of intricate lunge and was dry humping me. I told him he had skipped about 5 steps. He got embarrassed and pulled himself off of me, apologizing profusely. My mind had now kicked into scared mode and I was trying to figure out an exit strategy. As I was thinking, he began creepily massaging my shoulders, saying we could just "ease into it". Um...Before I knew it, I was being dryhumped again. I reached for my cell phone (which was gargantuan being that it was 1999) and threatened to hit him in the head with it if he did not get off. Thankfully, he did. But he really did save the best for last. As he made motions to leave (the first normal move all night), he asked if he could first "finish up" in my bathroom. I had gotten him way too excited. I think someone should have invented a name for the sound which then came out of my mouth. It was a combination of "NOOOOOOOO" and "EWWWWWWW".
Well, needless to say, he is one character I have not researched on Facebook. But if I ever decide to, at least I'll know what network to look in: FUCKIN' CREEPY.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Mas Elegante
I'm getting married in May. Weddings seem to have a chemical peel effect. They bring all the deep debris to the surface with family and friends. Qualities and characteristics emerge in you that you never thought possible. I loathe Martha Stewart and all of a sudden I am jonesing for the next issue of her wedding magazine to hit the stands. I am not cheap but have pretty much given myself an acute case of carpal tunnel from hours on the internet, trying to find the least expensive lavender card stock out there. I never liked pastel colors and now I am trying to find lavender card stock. I don't (as an adult) tend to fight that much with my parents but lately, there have been nightly screaming melodramas where I find myself saying things like "The little girl in me just really wants a donut cart!"
Sometimes though I just need to take a minute and appreciate that I got my particular brand of crazy family. Because as annoying, quirky, and mental as they are, at least we all have the same values and taste. I felt especially grateful for this today as my fiance and I sat at the stationery store where we are getting our invitations done. As we peroused some books, looking for proper wording, a girl and her mother walked in, obviously in the very beginning stages of wedding planning. I know this because their dynamic was still pleasant and optimistic. Let me pause right here to say that I have an unfortunate gift. I can size up someone's character and whether or not I will like it within the first 2 minutes of looking at the person, even if they do not say a word. Seldom am I inaccurate. My fiance is the same way. We are awesome party guests. :) Anyway, I can only describe this girl as not someone I would ever hang out with. I would describe her mother however as not someone I would hitch a ride with even if night in Abu Gharib was my alternative. Mom was all about chunky highlights and bling. Daughter was the odd combo of snobby and depressed. She looked like she may have had a chance to escape Cheeseville at one point but that ship had sailed and now she was deep in it. After knocking my purse off a chair without an acknowlegement or apology, Mom and Daughter sat down next to us and started flipping through the invitation books. They were particularly drawn to a binder entitled "Royal Classics". My fiance looked over at me. We both knew the "royal" part was troubling. We could not have imagined the level of goushe ugliness we were about to experience. Huge, gaudy declaration of independence size invitations complete with the "We the people" dramatic writing. (Thanks, Julie.) Pearlized flowers. Rhinestones. Raised emblems. Faux-classy monograms. Mom and daughter were ooh-ing and ahh-ing at every page. They liked each one better than the last. But then they hit the motherload. The "one". It was a metallic cream invitation. Sort of a pearl like texture. It had huge gold lettering and...netting. A full blown mesh cover that had to be lifted in order to see the actual invite. This was the nouveau riche burka of invitations. "Mas elegante!" Mom exclaimed. She leaned over to me.
"I am very into elegance" she said.
"MAS elegance," I reminded her.
She gave me a blank stare as if she had no idea what I was referring to.
Sometimes I just can't help it. I need to make fun of lame people in order to provide a more comfortable space for both of us. In these kind of situations, I kind of live by the "what they don't know won't hurt them" policy. I mean c'mon, do you think Mom will ever grasp the great irony of her praising elegance while wearing a potato sized diamond cross and using bad Spanglish?
Sometimes though I just need to take a minute and appreciate that I got my particular brand of crazy family. Because as annoying, quirky, and mental as they are, at least we all have the same values and taste. I felt especially grateful for this today as my fiance and I sat at the stationery store where we are getting our invitations done. As we peroused some books, looking for proper wording, a girl and her mother walked in, obviously in the very beginning stages of wedding planning. I know this because their dynamic was still pleasant and optimistic. Let me pause right here to say that I have an unfortunate gift. I can size up someone's character and whether or not I will like it within the first 2 minutes of looking at the person, even if they do not say a word. Seldom am I inaccurate. My fiance is the same way. We are awesome party guests. :) Anyway, I can only describe this girl as not someone I would ever hang out with. I would describe her mother however as not someone I would hitch a ride with even if night in Abu Gharib was my alternative. Mom was all about chunky highlights and bling. Daughter was the odd combo of snobby and depressed. She looked like she may have had a chance to escape Cheeseville at one point but that ship had sailed and now she was deep in it. After knocking my purse off a chair without an acknowlegement or apology, Mom and Daughter sat down next to us and started flipping through the invitation books. They were particularly drawn to a binder entitled "Royal Classics". My fiance looked over at me. We both knew the "royal" part was troubling. We could not have imagined the level of goushe ugliness we were about to experience. Huge, gaudy declaration of independence size invitations complete with the "We the people" dramatic writing. (Thanks, Julie.) Pearlized flowers. Rhinestones. Raised emblems. Faux-classy monograms. Mom and daughter were ooh-ing and ahh-ing at every page. They liked each one better than the last. But then they hit the motherload. The "one". It was a metallic cream invitation. Sort of a pearl like texture. It had huge gold lettering and...netting. A full blown mesh cover that had to be lifted in order to see the actual invite. This was the nouveau riche burka of invitations. "Mas elegante!" Mom exclaimed. She leaned over to me.
"I am very into elegance" she said.
"MAS elegance," I reminded her.
She gave me a blank stare as if she had no idea what I was referring to.
Sometimes I just can't help it. I need to make fun of lame people in order to provide a more comfortable space for both of us. In these kind of situations, I kind of live by the "what they don't know won't hurt them" policy. I mean c'mon, do you think Mom will ever grasp the great irony of her praising elegance while wearing a potato sized diamond cross and using bad Spanglish?
Thursday, January 17, 2008
For Franc...
So, this whole blogging thing feels a little awkward. My fiance bought me a domain name as a Christmas/Hannukah gift because he "thinks my point of view is worth hearing". I guess I am trying to figure out if I agree with him. I mean, I love doing stand-up and being a total clown at parties but this feels very different and a much more intense. I am recording my internal (often fucked up) dialogue on public domain. Self conscious does not begin to describe the feeling I'm having. So, with that disclaimer, I will begin by addressing the origin of the name "Merry Jewess"...
About four years ago, I was working in development at a small production company. I had just moved back to L.A. after spending 6 years in New York and I was trying to figure out what was next for me (aka completely procrastinating on getting any serious writing done). An aquaintance offered me a job. The pay was bad but the work environment was pleasant and there were decent benefits. There were a few other cool women who worked there and we all became somewhat close in that "If one of us left this job, we would probably never speak again" way. The company soon hired an intern whose name is now escaping me. But the important detail is that he was German. I guess we'll call him Franc. Franc was incredibly grateful to obtain this internship because he was a theater major at a local college. No one was quite sure what exactly he would learn when his only real duty was occasionally picking up an overpriced chopped salad or Frappucino but he was an eager, upbeat guy nonetheless. We liked him. Done deal. We did notice, however, that he spent a good deal of time typing away on the computer in his cublicle. And it was constant. Not the normal intermittent web-surfing kind of typing but more of the manifesto-writing variety. One day, curiousity got the best of us and one of the other girls asked him what he was writing. He answered simply, "My blog." For some reason, this peaked the interest of my office mate. After Franc left for the day, she googled his name and "blog". She immediately found it although it was written entirely in German. And this is when we all realized that God must have been in a great mood the day he created Google because it has a "translate" option. The words suddenly appeared in English. Well, Franc was nothing if not positive! He began my telling all his friends in Germany how great his internship was. Particularly because of the fact that he had access to certain actors' home addresses and phone numbers. He was even kind enough to share this information with his pals! He then went on to give a very detailed description of our offices as well as the people he worked with. He was flattering and kind in his portrayals of us, I must say. Each one of us got our own little casting breakdown. Liza was a "tall, Sassy Southern girl". Katrina was "bold, intense and all about work". And me? I was a "merry little Jewess". After this last description was read, there was a collective sucking in of breath. Liza and Katrina (both not Jewish) looked at me, deeply concerned. A young German man called me a Jewess? What the fuck?! Well, needless to say, that was Franc's last day. However, the seemingly anti-semitic remark was not the main reason he was let go. In fact, the seriousness of that offense would have been entirely left up to my discression. The reason Franc was given for his firing was publishing a well known starlet's home address and telephone number on a German website. Our doomed intern left quietly during lunch hour therefore I never really got to say goodbye. So, Franc, if you are by chance reading this, I want to say that I really appreciate you using the adjective "merry" to describe me. I always considered myself more of the acerbic, depressed type. Also, thanks for the awesome blog name.
Auf Wiedersehen,
MJ
About four years ago, I was working in development at a small production company. I had just moved back to L.A. after spending 6 years in New York and I was trying to figure out what was next for me (aka completely procrastinating on getting any serious writing done). An aquaintance offered me a job. The pay was bad but the work environment was pleasant and there were decent benefits. There were a few other cool women who worked there and we all became somewhat close in that "If one of us left this job, we would probably never speak again" way. The company soon hired an intern whose name is now escaping me. But the important detail is that he was German. I guess we'll call him Franc. Franc was incredibly grateful to obtain this internship because he was a theater major at a local college. No one was quite sure what exactly he would learn when his only real duty was occasionally picking up an overpriced chopped salad or Frappucino but he was an eager, upbeat guy nonetheless. We liked him. Done deal. We did notice, however, that he spent a good deal of time typing away on the computer in his cublicle. And it was constant. Not the normal intermittent web-surfing kind of typing but more of the manifesto-writing variety. One day, curiousity got the best of us and one of the other girls asked him what he was writing. He answered simply, "My blog." For some reason, this peaked the interest of my office mate. After Franc left for the day, she googled his name and "blog". She immediately found it although it was written entirely in German. And this is when we all realized that God must have been in a great mood the day he created Google because it has a "translate" option. The words suddenly appeared in English. Well, Franc was nothing if not positive! He began my telling all his friends in Germany how great his internship was. Particularly because of the fact that he had access to certain actors' home addresses and phone numbers. He was even kind enough to share this information with his pals! He then went on to give a very detailed description of our offices as well as the people he worked with. He was flattering and kind in his portrayals of us, I must say. Each one of us got our own little casting breakdown. Liza was a "tall, Sassy Southern girl". Katrina was "bold, intense and all about work". And me? I was a "merry little Jewess". After this last description was read, there was a collective sucking in of breath. Liza and Katrina (both not Jewish) looked at me, deeply concerned. A young German man called me a Jewess? What the fuck?! Well, needless to say, that was Franc's last day. However, the seemingly anti-semitic remark was not the main reason he was let go. In fact, the seriousness of that offense would have been entirely left up to my discression. The reason Franc was given for his firing was publishing a well known starlet's home address and telephone number on a German website. Our doomed intern left quietly during lunch hour therefore I never really got to say goodbye. So, Franc, if you are by chance reading this, I want to say that I really appreciate you using the adjective "merry" to describe me. I always considered myself more of the acerbic, depressed type. Also, thanks for the awesome blog name.
Auf Wiedersehen,
MJ
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