Friday, October 24, 2008
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
I'm sort of, maybe a runner now
After a recent trip to Costa Rica, where all the females in the region looked like this:
, I felt like this:
, I decided it was time to incorporate exercise into my daily routine.
For years I've been joining gyms and throwing away my hard-earned money at workout equipment I may use once or twice. I'm a fair weathered athlete with a penchant for over-sized burritos and drawstring pants.
So after Costa Rica I began running around Lake Temescal in Oakland. It's a darling man-made lake (see above) with a sandy beach and questionable odor. I have no idea what the distance around the lake is, but I pretend that it's 1.2 miles, which makes my 2 laps seems pretty impressive, being that the only thing I normally exercise is my mouth.
My running music of choice, depending on my mood is either Kanye West's "Stronger," Timberland's "Why Are I," as well as other outdated hip-hop and rap, or anything upbeat by Madonna and Michael Jackson.
Lately I've been duel panting and singing out loud to Billie Jean. It's fun and people around me really appreciate the entertainment.
I proudly told my friend Susan about my recent feat and she replied "Oh good! It feels so good, doesn't it?"
Um no Susan, it feels like there are lipstick-wearing pigs sitting on my chest. My left hip is also mysteriously in vast amounts of pain and my allergies sometimes make me a momentary asthmatic.
So no, I don't work out because it feels good and my life would be imbalanced without it. I don't believe running makes me feel free.
I run because that bitch Kate Bosworth makes my cellulite seem oh so wrong to the majority of society. I run because apparently that whole giant vein look is sexy. I run because my metabolism is catching up with me and I believe that my 2-year-old nephew would most likely beat me in a 5 k.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Hint to Politicians: Screw Your Wife Instead
I'm sorry, but why is it such a scandal when a politician bangs a woman who's not his wife? I mean when we first find out we're all "SICK! That guy should be hung by his nuts in the public square." But then, years later we always remember him fondly. "Gosh, what a great leader he was. So charismatic and a real asset to the American people."
Note to people who are surprised by New York Governor Eliot Spitzer's recent involvement with a prostitution ring in New York, politicians, all of them, are slimy like toads. They're sociopathic narcissists who feel the need to stroke their ego by letting a tranny with great implants stroke them.
I wonder what the upheaval would be if Hils became president and had her own little sex scandal. She'd probably be sent a to Thai prison where she would be charged for drugs she never possessed.
Our standards for politicians are unrealistic and far fetched. There is no crown of glory perched on their head. Their idea of "Family Values" are giving Jr. a Jag for his 16th birthday and hooking up Missy with a full ride at Yale, even though she couldn't spell her name to save her life.
There are no blinders there. Beneath the Vaseline smiles and facades of promise lie tainted and mentally disturbed people who just want to hear themselves speak. Pay attention and stop asking "why?"
Thursday, January 24, 2008
My Future Husband
If only all men would wear glasses like this!
This kid is like Jermaine from "Flight of the Concords" when he was 17 and made over by a bunch of New York Club Kids.
This kid is like Jermaine from "Flight of the Concords" when he was 17 and made over by a bunch of New York Club Kids.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
An Unfinished Version of "It's Laos Without the S"
A few years back I did what every college graduate does, I bought a plane ticket to the cheapest place I could think of and priced 10 cent waters, lived in bungalows, and limped around with a dirty backpack chewed apart by rats for two months. When I returned home I began writing this little travel story that I never finished and never attempted to publish. It is most likely littered with spelling and grammatical errors, as I wasn't the English grammar freak I am today, so proceed with caution...
It’s Lao, Without the S
Stepping onto the metallic steps I have become so accustom to using, I look down the aisle at tired and dirty faces of my fellow travelers and realize that I am the last person to board. I got the last seat on the bus.
I drop my filthy navy blue backpack in the middle of the aisle, where all the others are resting like babies, before hoisting myself up onto the armrest of the first two aisle seats. I make my way to the one visible empty seat in the back of the disheveled vehicle. I wobble and try to balance my feet on the skinny plastic armrests as I hold firmly onto the overhead compartment with my arms. I finally arrive at my seat next to the only Laotian passenger on the bus. As I lower my feet, rather ungracefully, toward the floor I hear a loud squawk. I realize that I have stepped onto a wicker basket, housing two emaciating chickens. I quickly squeal and retreat to standing on the seat instead. The other passengers around me quietly scoff and laugh. I look at the Laotian man who is comfortably lounging in his window seat and I ask him if he could kindly move the chickens into his foot space. He looks at me like I smell worse than his featherless friends and motions for me to sit with the chickens. A girl in the seat in front of us twists around and asks in a surprised tone
“Is he not going to move them? They’re his chickens.”
“Ya,” I agree as I puff my chest up, turn back to the chicken man and say “they aren’t my chickens, could you please move them?”
He rolls his cocoa brown eyes and hoists himself up onto the seat and motions for me to shimmy past him. I awkwardly step over him and take the window seat so he won’t have to move his precious poultry.
The bus doesn’t have air-conditioning. The windows open in a strange fashion making my arm, which is trying to catch some air, crook uncomfortably as the metal digs into my flesh resting on the sill.
My favorite bus pass-time other than spacing out and counting oxen on the side of the road is picking my split ends, pulling my hair apart so that it frizzes in the heat and static. As I pick and bite, my eyes glazing over in the sweltering heat of the bus I realize that my lovely neighbor is freeing his chickens from their constricting straw prison. He places them in his lap petting them like they are fluffy St. Bernard puppies.
At first I find the chicks amusing. They cluck and gobble and make endearing animal noises. But after about nine hours and three blown tires later, I was ready to make matzo ball soup out of those squawking baldies.
This is a rather typical bus ride in South East Asia. A VIP bus, I might add. In this case VIP could stand for Very Irritated People or Very Impaired Parts.
In Laos, which is pronounced without the “s” that the French tacked on during their ruling days, it is common for tires to blow out repeatedly, for guesthouses mattresses to consist of flat cushions pushed together, for fabulous vegetarian street meals to cost no more than fifty cents.
When I stepped off of a puddle-jumping plane in Vientiane, the capitol of Laos, a weight was lifted from my shoulders. The weight of Vietnam: of history, of fried food, of aggressive women who chase after you soliciting their products, of traffic and motorbikes.
Our beat up cab drives us through streets without the congestion that defines Vietnam and Thailand as overpopulated countries. The roads in Laos are half paved and half dirt, creating bumpy and rigorous travel. With our backpacks strapped on we hop feebly onto a sidewalk like overstuffed turtles searching for a humble, well at least relatively clean, abode. After realizing that the street signs are all in Laotian lettering we are able to find our bearings and precede left or right of the fountain in the middle of the town and our guidebook’s map.
It’s not uncommon for guesthouses to be run by tiny meek women who sometimes double as opium pushers in the local markets. Walking stealthily up to tourists they mumble under their breath, “Madame, you want smoka? Opium? Marijuana?” The ladies rarely smile and sit for hours in their front rooms gossiping and watching soap operas whose main characters wear cotton candy-like wigs, caked-on makeup and oversized kimonos.
On my recent trip to South East Asia I spent ten days in northern Laos, unfortunately not enough time to visit the south because of the lack of pavement and very worn and weathered buses. We flew into Vientiane, which sadly doesn’t have the best reputation resulting from lack of aesthetic appeal. We then bused it to Veng Vieng, which is a town that makes you feel like your stepping into the twilight zone, or maybe South East Asia’s version of Reggae on the River. Veng Vieng consists of two main streets, a river, reclining restaurants and enough pirated DVDs of “Friends” and “Sex and the City” to keep us in Ugly American bliss for three days straight.
The bus dropped us off directly in front of a fabulous guesthouse that cost five dollars a night for a double room. Despite the overpopulation of ants freely roaming in our room, it was probably one of the nicest places we slept.
Walking through the streets of Veng Vieng is like walking down a very dusty and sometimes wet (from the constant irregular rain) version of a college dormitory. Twenty-something travelers are said to stay in this town for up to a whole month just eating “happy” or “funny” food, watching bootlegged DVD’s with ridiculous subtitles and floating down the river. All of the restaurants on the main street are packed with people reclining on the bed-like platforms, equipped with short-legged tables and pillows to lean up against.
In the U.S. the television show “Friends” has proven to be an absolute phenomenon. People have copied the hairstyles of Jennifer Aniston since the early 1990’s for god’s sake. But America has been one-upped by Veng Vieng, whose obsession with friends has infiltrated the open-air restaurants with blaring commentary by the satirical six. Evening movie times are posted on scrap paper outside the restaurants every night. I watched a bootlegged copy of “Fahrenheit 9/11” in the front row of a reclining restaurant. During the movie I became aware that I was one of the only two Americans in the joint. Everywhere around me Europeans, Israelis and every other nationality you can think of where shaking their heads, scoffing and dropping their jaws at the unveiling of more information about our lying and manipulating country lead, by a brainwashing born-again President Bush.
It’s Lao, Without the S
Stepping onto the metallic steps I have become so accustom to using, I look down the aisle at tired and dirty faces of my fellow travelers and realize that I am the last person to board. I got the last seat on the bus.
I drop my filthy navy blue backpack in the middle of the aisle, where all the others are resting like babies, before hoisting myself up onto the armrest of the first two aisle seats. I make my way to the one visible empty seat in the back of the disheveled vehicle. I wobble and try to balance my feet on the skinny plastic armrests as I hold firmly onto the overhead compartment with my arms. I finally arrive at my seat next to the only Laotian passenger on the bus. As I lower my feet, rather ungracefully, toward the floor I hear a loud squawk. I realize that I have stepped onto a wicker basket, housing two emaciating chickens. I quickly squeal and retreat to standing on the seat instead. The other passengers around me quietly scoff and laugh. I look at the Laotian man who is comfortably lounging in his window seat and I ask him if he could kindly move the chickens into his foot space. He looks at me like I smell worse than his featherless friends and motions for me to sit with the chickens. A girl in the seat in front of us twists around and asks in a surprised tone
“Is he not going to move them? They’re his chickens.”
“Ya,” I agree as I puff my chest up, turn back to the chicken man and say “they aren’t my chickens, could you please move them?”
He rolls his cocoa brown eyes and hoists himself up onto the seat and motions for me to shimmy past him. I awkwardly step over him and take the window seat so he won’t have to move his precious poultry.
The bus doesn’t have air-conditioning. The windows open in a strange fashion making my arm, which is trying to catch some air, crook uncomfortably as the metal digs into my flesh resting on the sill.
My favorite bus pass-time other than spacing out and counting oxen on the side of the road is picking my split ends, pulling my hair apart so that it frizzes in the heat and static. As I pick and bite, my eyes glazing over in the sweltering heat of the bus I realize that my lovely neighbor is freeing his chickens from their constricting straw prison. He places them in his lap petting them like they are fluffy St. Bernard puppies.
At first I find the chicks amusing. They cluck and gobble and make endearing animal noises. But after about nine hours and three blown tires later, I was ready to make matzo ball soup out of those squawking baldies.
This is a rather typical bus ride in South East Asia. A VIP bus, I might add. In this case VIP could stand for Very Irritated People or Very Impaired Parts.
In Laos, which is pronounced without the “s” that the French tacked on during their ruling days, it is common for tires to blow out repeatedly, for guesthouses mattresses to consist of flat cushions pushed together, for fabulous vegetarian street meals to cost no more than fifty cents.
When I stepped off of a puddle-jumping plane in Vientiane, the capitol of Laos, a weight was lifted from my shoulders. The weight of Vietnam: of history, of fried food, of aggressive women who chase after you soliciting their products, of traffic and motorbikes.
Our beat up cab drives us through streets without the congestion that defines Vietnam and Thailand as overpopulated countries. The roads in Laos are half paved and half dirt, creating bumpy and rigorous travel. With our backpacks strapped on we hop feebly onto a sidewalk like overstuffed turtles searching for a humble, well at least relatively clean, abode. After realizing that the street signs are all in Laotian lettering we are able to find our bearings and precede left or right of the fountain in the middle of the town and our guidebook’s map.
It’s not uncommon for guesthouses to be run by tiny meek women who sometimes double as opium pushers in the local markets. Walking stealthily up to tourists they mumble under their breath, “Madame, you want smoka? Opium? Marijuana?” The ladies rarely smile and sit for hours in their front rooms gossiping and watching soap operas whose main characters wear cotton candy-like wigs, caked-on makeup and oversized kimonos.
On my recent trip to South East Asia I spent ten days in northern Laos, unfortunately not enough time to visit the south because of the lack of pavement and very worn and weathered buses. We flew into Vientiane, which sadly doesn’t have the best reputation resulting from lack of aesthetic appeal. We then bused it to Veng Vieng, which is a town that makes you feel like your stepping into the twilight zone, or maybe South East Asia’s version of Reggae on the River. Veng Vieng consists of two main streets, a river, reclining restaurants and enough pirated DVDs of “Friends” and “Sex and the City” to keep us in Ugly American bliss for three days straight.
The bus dropped us off directly in front of a fabulous guesthouse that cost five dollars a night for a double room. Despite the overpopulation of ants freely roaming in our room, it was probably one of the nicest places we slept.
Walking through the streets of Veng Vieng is like walking down a very dusty and sometimes wet (from the constant irregular rain) version of a college dormitory. Twenty-something travelers are said to stay in this town for up to a whole month just eating “happy” or “funny” food, watching bootlegged DVD’s with ridiculous subtitles and floating down the river. All of the restaurants on the main street are packed with people reclining on the bed-like platforms, equipped with short-legged tables and pillows to lean up against.
In the U.S. the television show “Friends” has proven to be an absolute phenomenon. People have copied the hairstyles of Jennifer Aniston since the early 1990’s for god’s sake. But America has been one-upped by Veng Vieng, whose obsession with friends has infiltrated the open-air restaurants with blaring commentary by the satirical six. Evening movie times are posted on scrap paper outside the restaurants every night. I watched a bootlegged copy of “Fahrenheit 9/11” in the front row of a reclining restaurant. During the movie I became aware that I was one of the only two Americans in the joint. Everywhere around me Europeans, Israelis and every other nationality you can think of where shaking their heads, scoffing and dropping their jaws at the unveiling of more information about our lying and manipulating country lead, by a brainwashing born-again President Bush.
Friday, September 14, 2007
To Doodle or Not to Doodle
Look at that face and tell me you don't want to smash it against your cheek and tussle about it's fluffy soft hair as you speak to it in icanhascheezburger speak. Just try and tell me. Then, tell me if you still feel the same way after you learn that shelling out $1,000 bucks for this angel-faced pooch to romp about your yard with your 2 1/2 blond children means that a just-as-lovable (maybe even more) dog from your local shelter is bidding his bones, bed, balls and buddies farewell as he prepares to be euthanized. I'm really not trying to shit on your day or depress the smile off your face, but I'm just letting you know that buying a "designer dog," means another day that "Rosco" Or "Ralph" or "Roover" sits in his cement cell-block as an orphan.
I like designer dogs as much as the next girl, but I'm also a realist who's come to terms with the fact that "designer dog" is code for "mutt." I know! Who knew? So weird!
Not really though. Designer dogs are just a combination of two dogs....ahhhhhhem! A mutt! My dog is a mutt, but if I wanted to be all swanky and put a label on him I could tell people he's a Goldese Mountain Dog (Golden Retriever/Burmese Mountain Dog). But I'm not into labels. Probably because I can't afford them. But mostly, because I think they're tacky, and they're pretentious. It's just a name folks. Do you really need to spend that much money for an animal because it has the word "poo" at the beginning or the end of it's name? Cockapoo. Maltipoo, Labradoodle. These names are sickeningly cute, I admit it. These dogs are sweet as can be and don't shed. But is it really worth knowing that a dog who's just as sweet could be killed just because you want to keep your carpet fur-free?
Really, the guilt trip card isn't normally my thing. But I visit the residents of the Marin Humane Society, San Francisco SPCA, and Milo Foundation daily, and actually see the lives that are on the chopping block and it breaks my fragile heart to know people are shelling out ridiculous amounts of moola for an animal they can brag that Jessica Simpson has too. If you're truly an animal lover, do them a good service and adopt. Sure they may come with a sorted past. They my come with some psychological issues. They may be a bit skittish around other animals or humans. They may take a lot of time to train. But they'll love you more then you can ever know for saving them from a life on the streets or no life at all.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
You Know You're PMSing When...
Today I started tearing up when I dropped my homemade lasagna on the disgusting carpeted floor at work and I realized "Wow, I must be PMSing."
So I reached out to my good friends on Yelp to tell me about times when they realized they or their special someone was PMSing. The results are simply fabulous. I love the visuals of all the crying, screaming and angry woman taking their hormones out on the world! Women unit!
Without further ado....You Know You're PMSing When...
1. You drop your lunch on the ground and start to cry
2. (from husband) When I get yelled at for asking where she wants to go to dinner
********************
"OMFG I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU - SEE THAT'S HOW YOU ARE! YOU DON'T LOVE ME YOU DON'T CARE ABOUT ME OMFG A REAL MAN WOULD HAVE MADE RESERVATIONS MY 3 LATEST FAVORITE RESTAURANTS THIS WEEK AND LET ME CHOOSE WHICH ONE!"
3. Your boyfriend's shoe comes untied and you scream "OMFG THIS RELATIONSHIP IS JUST NOT GOING TO WORK!"
4. When you tear up during commercials with dogs in them, or commercials with moms and their daughters, or at endings of movies you've totally seen over and over again.
5. When someone enters your office with a question and you say "What that f**k do you want?"
6. When you wake up in the middle of the night craving Fritos and chocolate.
7. When you fumble with your tooth brush, it lands in the toilet and suddenly you have tourettes!
8. When you envision yourself slapping the hell out of the girl wearing a blue tooth ear-piece that cut you off and yelling "YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO DRIVE BETTER WITH THOSE THINGS!"
9. Yesterday my wife started crying when I told her our son didn't finish his lunch
10. When men keep asking you "what's wrong?"
11. When you're angry, when you're bloated, when you're ultra-sensitive, when you can feel cramps coming on, and everything kinda sucks
12. (from husband)I know my wife is having PMS when she starts carrying her 9mm in her purse. She's got a permit and all, but still, it's unsettling ...
13. When you have to choose between a hot guy or a hot bacon dog--and you choose the dog. Every time.
14. When you eat McGriddles for breakfast(Oy! McTummyache)
15. When you yell at your kids for scraping their spoon too loudly against their bowl. Making them cry, then you cry and apologize and hug them.
16. When you want chocolate, but not a candy bar, and not an Oreo cookie...mmmm, nah, not ice cream...oh oh oh oh oh BROWNIES...warm fudgy chocolate brownies!!! (Hubby gets perturbed, "chocolate is chocolate, isn't it?"
17. When no matter what you wear you still look and feel like you swallowed and retained the iceberg that sunk the Titanic
18. When your husband reaches for a hug and you automatically snap, "NOT TONIGHT, CAN'T YOU LEAVE ME ALONE FOR ONE MINUTE!!!" Then he's hurt and you feel bad for being that way and cry and apologize and he just wonders where the crazy pills went.
19. When the dog chewing his ass makes you mad
20. When you want to chase the person who honked their horn at you all the way to their house
21. When you buy a bag of stale chips at Zeitgeist and eat it. Then buy another one and eat it. Then consider buying another one, and wonder if anyone saw you eat the other two bags ...
22. When your boobs are so sore that just looking at a shirt makes you cry and showers are HELL.
23. When you smoke your entire pot stash trying to make your body feel human again
24. When you absolutely LOVE and completely HATE your family at the same time
25. When people jingling their keys, pisses you off to to no end
26. Breathing too. I know I'm PMSing when I 'm annoyed by folks who are audibly breathing
27. And then there was that "small" incident where I called the cops after my dry cleaners messed up a skirt alteration and wouldn't give me the skirt back, because I refused to pay. The cop just kept shaking his head at me...he probably knew what the real problem was
28. When you ditch the healthy lunch you packed to eat at Taco Bell, and then get all misty eyed because they put nacho sauce between the tortillas on your soft taco
29. When you get to the gym and realize you brought the wrong sweatpants. you forgot the baggy ones
30. When you have to do math to buy your "PMS Cookie" at the bakery and you start sweating
31. Your eyes start stinging and watering while cutting a red onion, so you throw the onion across the room and scream "WHY ME????????"
32. When you have a sudden urge to clean EVERYTHING in your apartment and cry when the gray stuff won't budge from the crevices in your bathtub
33. When you can't stop yourself from telling people they're morons
34. When you think your cats are being assholes
35. When you sob into your dog's coat as he stares at you in utter confusion
36. When you scream at someone for eating the LAST chocolate ice cream sandwich
"You knew I wanted it, you bastard!" *slams freezer door*
37. When you cry for way too long when Carl's Jr forgets to put your Onion Rings in the bag
38. When you cry because all your friends hate you. This usually coincides with you calling a few of them and not getting a call back after a few hours. Then, when they do call...you have great, maniacal laugh about how silly you were!
39. When you eat a whole jar of olives, then drink the juice
40. When the MUNI is late 2 minutes and you have a panic attack, calling everyone you know to check nextbus.com
41. You make snap decisions to do crazy, emotionally unstable things and forget you are PMSing and decide that you are just the type of person that tells it like it is, so you act like a total bitch and get in arguments with everyone, and you think your life is over, and then you realize you were just PMSing
42. You tell the guy that held the elevator for you that you "know how to take care of your fucking self"
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