This Is No Longer a Vacation

I’ve decided that I need to become a police officer so I can get away with whatever I want. A priest would be an option, too, if I weren’t a woman. I do love me some underage boys. To play with, I mean. And, no, not in that manner. The other manner. Which I will leave to your own interpretation.

I cannot believe that an HIV-positive man in Dallas has been sentenced to 35 years in prison for spitting in the eye of a police officer. Are you even kidding me? This is when I begin to doubt the intelligence of my peers, and whether it is smart to have the general public deciding the fate of people in courtrooms, or choosing our next president. Ehem. Did somebody say George W. Bush?

Have y’all not had to sit through all the PSAs and health filmstrips that I did throughout the ’90s? You know, the ones in which we’re told over and over and over and over that you cannot get AIDS from saliva? The CDC still reports that there has never been a case of HIV transmission through saliva. I am quite sure this officer is not the first person in the world to get an eyeful of spit from someone with AIDS. Not that this kind of behavior should be condoned, but 35 years? Are you for real?

According to the article on Yahoo News, the man “used his saliva as a deadly weapon.” Is this implying that it was the intent to cause harm rather than the actual perilousness of the act? So were I to think my hugs could kill someone and I embraced an officer while yelling, “I”m going to kill you with kindness, motherfucker!” would that be enough to land me in jail? To quote Chevy Chase in National Lampoon’s Vacation, “I think you’re all fucked in the head.”

In other fucked-up news, a nine-year-old girl found her twin living inside her belly. Get out!

Speaking of Women on Toilets

[WARNING: NUDITY TO FOLLOW]

Have I mentioned how open-minded I am about sexuality and women’s bodies? You know, every woman has a right to feel sexy and love her body no matter what she looks like, etc., etc.? If a 450-pound woman wants to frolic naked on the beach and cause a tsunami on the other side of the globe, she should have that right.

That’s how I felt yesterday. (You’ll recall: “Oh, that Jenny McCarthy, isn’t she just so liberated, posing on a toilet and all? You go, girl!”) Then I picked up a copy of this week’s Time Out New York.

First, I read Julia Allison’s column on PDA: “’…only hot people should be allowed to PDA,’ says a friend of mine who shall remain nameless. ‘Honestly, I’ve been with some women who I just didn’t think were that pretty, and that made me subconsciously reluctant to show the world that I was banging them.’”

Now why remain nameless? Is it your modesty that makes you just as subconsciously reluctant to show the world what a benefactor you are to ugly women? Such an act of nobility, letting homely chicks shack up with someone of your genetic makeup. You add a notch to your belt. They scrape together some self-esteem. It’s a win-win situation. Why not fess up to your humanitarian mission? Maybe Bono would take you to Africa. You could sleep with the entire continent, maybe get AIDS in the process. Again, a win-win situation.

Not that your comment makes me angry or anything. Honestly, I’m sure I say worse on a daily basis. Just own it. That’s all I’m saying. Really. Okay, I’m done with my rant.

So here I was, feeling all high and mighty when I came across this reader-submitted image, and realized that I, too, am an asshole. Just because some women look hot sitting on a toilet doesn’t mean we all can. Ladies, please do not try this at home. Yet, I can’t take my eyes off this photo. It gives me a funny feeling inside. Why the toilet paper? Why the glasses? Why not sit up straight? Why, why, why? I can’t figure out if I feel bad for her or for myself, that I can’t get behind whatever statement she’s trying to make about her sexuality. Is she liberated or just fucked up? Dude, so many deep conversations and I’m not even stoned. I guess there’s only one solution to all this: photograph myself naked on the toilet and see how it makes me feel. How very “I’m Okay, You’re Okay” of me, don’t you think?

I Love My Dead Gay Son… and Kelly Ripa

Filed under Things That Should Embarrass Me But Don’t:

I love Kelly Ripa. And Jenny McCarthy. If I could meet one famous person, it wouldn’t be my one and only crush since high school Johnny Depp, and it wouldn’t be the woman I want to be the first female president, Hillary Clinton (I know I just lost volumes of respect here for not being an Obama supporter). It wouldn’t be anyone who has done great things for this world. It would be one of these overly perky blondes, my TV role models.

Go ahead and judge. But I’d just like to remind Jack, a former boss of mine — a fantastically witty and cynical man from Boston — that he once confessed to a crush on a certain Sports Illustrated Swimsuit model — Kathy Ireland. And not just a lust-after-her-hot-body crush, because who can help that? He was also attracted to her bimbo persona and pip-squeaky voice.

So if even a Dartmouth-educated man who works at PBS has a penchant for bubbly, beautiful women, then really I don’t see how there’s any hope for the rest of us.

Of course, I don’t think it’s the dumbing down of America. Neither Kelly nor Jenny are idiots. And Kathy Ireland is, after all, now a successful entrepreneur (a “supermogul,” as Reader’s Digest called her). I find them smart, sassy, tough and way over the top. They put their entire personality out there instead of a more dignified, watered-down version, and say, “Fuck it, this is who I am, maybe it’s annoying, but chances are, you probably are, too. Get over it.” I love spunk, even if it’s low-brow humor. Especially if it’s low-brow humor.

Sweat and Tears, but No Blood Yet

Day three of “being unemployed.” Money I’ve made this week: $304.

Yesterday was the first time I came home from my writing class not crying. We’re writing personal essays, so not only do I have my writing torn up, I also have my life scrutinized.

“Really? I don’t believe you and Ryan are really that close. You’ve been living together for two years and how old are you? 34? Why aren’t you married? Most people your age would be by now. I want you to dig deeper.”

Yeah, sure. Thanks. I’ll go dig myself a ditch to throw myself in to. Is that deep enough? Thanks for the feedback. I have to go die now.

I am definitely working as hard as I did at the office. Minus the dog-walking, the break for Kelly and Regis, the coddling of my hot pepper plants on the roof, and the occasional — yes, occasional — Twittering. Okay, and blogging. But I was blogging at the office, too, so I don’t really count that as a newfound means of procrastinating.

On my plate today: sweating, anal sex, salmonella and relationship ditch-digging. Good times.

Windex: The New Liquid Courage

Last night a group of us went to dinner at a place in Brooklyn called Chez Lola for our friends’ birthdays. Linda and Adam are married and share the same birthday. They kind of look alike, too. Except that he’s Jewish, and she’s not… yet.

While at dinner, my friend Michele raised a glass to toast my last day of work (this past Friday), and congratulated me for “having the courage to do what most of us at this table wouldn’t.”
“You mean because you’d never do something so stupid?” I asked.
“Seriously, how many of us here would love to quit our jobs to write? And you’re doing it!”
I’d been feeling pretty panic-stricken all week as my three-week notice came to an end. So it was nice to hear that my friends don’t all think I knocked my head one too many times into a wall during a blackout. And that, in fact, they have faith in me — something I can have a hard time mustering for myself. Especially now, when I turn on the radio each morning to hear more glum news about the economy, job loss, and the dreaded “R” word.

It may have taken courage to quit my job, but I think the real test of strength will come in these next few weeks, when I’m staring at my computer screen and can’t think of a single thing to say that hasn’t already been said 5,000 times before. I’ve been putting so much pressure on myself before I begin, that I don’t even want to touch my keyboard.

So this morning, Ryan and I got up and cleaned house in a serious way (straight faces, no smiles). I even gutted my overstuffed file cabinet, tossing out years of useless paperwork. Our 1,000-square-foot apartment took seven hours to clean. I am wiped out, but I have to say, it worked. Ten orgasms couldn’t have left me more blissfully exhausted. Twelve, maybe. Who needs special K to fight the blues when you’ve got housework?

Ryan doesn’t really understand this whole cleaning thing, so today I showed him the way. I tricked him by saying we were going to learn karate, which was really dumb on his part since he knows I don’t know karate. I watched him while shouting, “Windex on! Windex off! Windex on!” Then we got into a tussle, and when he tried to defend himself, he figured out that he still doesn’t know shit about karate. But we do have a clean house, and I’m ready to write.

Bad Week for Bloggers

It’s been a really bad week for bloggers, specifically, bloggers who have been featured in Good Housekeeping. Coincidence? You draw your own conclusions. I don’t mean to be flip about it, at all. It really is bad news all around.

First, Alice Bradley of Finslippy suffered a miscarriage 10 and a half weeks into her pregnancy. I wonder if I could write about it so openly and so soon after finding out. I have a long way to go in opening up to my blog like that. “Sorry, blog, I just don’t think we’re there yet. But don’t worry, I am still in to you.” Coworker Laura and I felt pretty bad for hounding Alice with emails, asking for a photo to upload with her featured article. Had we read her blog, we would have known she had a few other more important tasks to deal with. That was on Tuesday.

Yesterday at work as I was clearing off my desk and deleting all personal and incriminating files from my computer, I got Twittered by DadGoneMad blogger Danny Evans. He had just been laid off — by phone, no less. I’ve been broken up with by email — in an adult relationship, by someone I had moved across the country to be with — so I know what it’s like to be cast off without any regard for where we might be or what we’re doing at the time.

“Hey, Danny? How’s it going? Good, good. Look, you driving or anything? Operating any heavy machinery? What are you doing right now, man? Just playing with the kids? Well, I’ve got some news for you, bud. The good news is that you’re going to have a lot more time to spend with your children. The bad news is, uh, you’re fired. Hah, hah, hah, no, sorry, I wish it were a joke, man. Yeah, well, you take care now, okay? Good, talk to you soon. Hang in there.”

Cowards, the lot of ya. Don’t worry, Danny - think of how much fun it will be to turn that bitterness into an angry, scathing blog post. Ah, sweet release.

I’m almost afraid to check in with our next featured blogger, whose name I am just superstitious enough to not utter, lest it rouse the angel of death, come to tap, tap, tap her on her shoulder.

Who Wouldn’t Want a Blue Bush?

I love finding freebies on the giveaway table at work, almost as much as the free champagne and sushi we gorged on today up on the 44th floor of our office building – we’re talking executive suites with ceiling to floor windows that give you a view of the entire Manhattan island. So this is what it’s like to look down on the world.

There were mini burgers and pate and chicken fingers and crab puffs, but I wasn’t going to waste my appetite on mere $2.50 morsels. My palate is much too refined for such culinary baubles. Much in the way Spitzer’s call girl is too classy for Girls Gone Wild now. Yes, I’m comparing myself to a prostitute. Stick a slab of toro (fatty tuna belly) onto your hairy orangutan back and see if I won’t lick it off. I’m not proud. But I am in recovery. My rock bottom? The day I broke out in hives after eating two-day-old sushi. I think I’m lucky to be alive.

But what I got off of the freebie table the other day was something that you will all beg me for, and I won’t give it to you. Don’t even bother asking. Please, no hate mail. It was Malibu Betty Color for the Hair Down There. As it says on the packaging, “Malibu Betty is aqualicious and boogie board ready. Ride the wave downtown.” It even – don’t all freak out now like a gaggle of girls at a Justin Timberlake concert– comes with free stencils. Now what a fun, crafty idea for those do-it-yourselfers. I think our magazine would really get behind it – I mean, so family-friendly, don’t you think? Maybe family-inducing. I hope it’s permanent dye, otherwise guys might be walking around looking like they just ate a blue razz berry Blow Pop. “Arr, just call me Bluebeard, the booty-treasure-hunting pirate.” Maybe it’ll become a trend and status symbol in Hollywood – the new notch on your belt. It would sure help us keep track of who’s sleeping with whom. I mean, if we cared about that kind of stuff. Yes, I sure do love looking down on the world.

Unsexiest Post Ever

Ehem. Can I have your attention, please? It has been brought to my attention that the link preview application on my blog is rendering some people’s Firefox browsers unuseable (otherwise known as useless. I’ve been taking vocabulary lessons from Mr. George). Would love — love, mind you. not like. LOVE — if you could shoot me an email to let me know if this is happening to you. If so, you can roll over any link, and click on the cog-looking icon in the upper right-hand corner, and select the disable button. I keep wanting to say, “That is all,” but that’s John Hodgman’s dish. And I ain’t eating any.

Fat, Thirsty, Bowel-Wrenching Blackouts

I haven’t moved from my desk all day today, in part because of my cute designer heels - they pinch at the toes and flip off my feet when I walk. It’s unfortunate. Now I am thirsty and the water cooler is so very far away. Now that I’m thinking about it, I realize I can’t feel my toes. Good thing everyone can see under my desk to witness just how cute my shoes that are cutting off my circulation are. At least the doctors who amputate will get to admire them briefly. “Tsk, tsk, tsk. What a waste.”

I started a first-person writing class last week and spent all weekend trying to complete the first assignment. I’m getting there. The essay is about, superficially anyway, the beginnings of my current relationship. Recovered alcoholic meets “party girl.” Such a great euphemism for binge drinking and blacking out, isn’t it?

In other news, my quivering lips aren’t the only body parts garnering attention. My bowels are soon to be famous, too. They’ll be featured in an upcoming Health article about alternative health remedies. Like my lips, they enjoy a good spasm from time to time. Think intestinal charley horse. It feels great. You’re missing out, truly.

Kill me now

What the motherfuck? I have a 10am doctor’s appointment, and I’m still sitting in the waiting room an hour and a half later. I will shoot someone, and I’m quite sure my victim will bleed to death before the doctor decides to see him. I’m setting my sights on the bandana-clad burnout sitting behind me who talks like Jeff Conaway on Celebrity Rehab.