September 13, 2009

Bulleted Random Thoughts

Bulleted Random Thoughts (I'm Getting Fancy)
  • I'm on a virtual diet. A virtual diet is one where you virtually ignore every piece of sound nutrition advice you're given. I'm doing well.
  • Parenthood is often ridiculous. I don't know even iron my own clothes and yet every day I find myself ironing teeny little clothes. It must be some form of karmic kickback because I'e always despised ironing. I regularly decide against purchasing clothes that look awesome but have to be ironed before use.
  • The other day, I was on the phone with a client and almost said "Okay I love you, bye" before hanging up the phone. For like the 87th time. I'd start to wonder if I was feeling inappropriate attraction at work except that it's a different client every time, both genders, and so really I'm just an idiot.
  • Had a dream a few nights ago that I was playing in some NFL PowderPuff tournament, where women play football and the men cheer. I was the quarterback for the women's NY Giants team, which is ridiculous because I'm a receiver. It's not, you know, ridiculous because it's a dream where hundreds of grown women from 32 markets came to a little New England boarding school for weeks to play in a round robin football tournament. So in my dream, a 16-year-old Eli Manning, who was still somehow the QB for the Giants, was training me. I woke up feeling robbed that it wasn't Peyton giving me instruction. In Eli's defense, I did launch a 50-yard pass for a completion in the end zone in the opening drive. THAT'S the defense. Not that, you know, this was just a dream. Incidentally, I used to be able to throw a pretty tight spiral but that was awhile ago.
  • The Roman Catholic Church is encouraging people to pray before sex. I'm not certain, as usual, that they've considered the repercussions of this edict, in terms of abuse. Somewhere above the international space station, but before the sun, God is being inundated with dirty thoughts. For shame.
  • I've been lecturing my 6-year-olds on the dangers of becoming a stereotype but they don't seem to be processing the gist of my concern. Oh well, they do look cute in their Hello Kitty shirts. When they're older they'll learn how to pretend not to speak English so they can avoid having to speak to annoying people.

May 8, 2009

Naughty Vulva

Naughty Vulva

Nahh I'm not being porny. That's my new band's name. If, by "new band" you mean "group of women who are not musically inclined with the exception of late night karaoke and who have no actual intention of ever producing any music but damn making up fake song titles sure is fun." Which I do.

Incidentally, this is my plan. I am going to start blogging again and pretend I never left. I'm going to be that guy that slinks home from the strip joint, reeking of cigarette smoke, cheap perfume and whiskey, and quietly slides into bed pretending he didn't screw up royally.

Anyway, my point is that I've started a band called Naughty Vulva, and these are the songs in order of non-release:

1. Skank (this is a tribute to my former coworkers, not because they're skanks but because they liked the word)

2. Rice Pudding Vampire Lesbians (I'm sure it's obvious but this is a rap song)

3. Wine From a Box

4. I Have a Hole (This is a rock ballad, much like "High Enough" by The Damn Yankees or "Love Song" by Tesla.)

5. She Made Fun of My Nuts (That's not actually a euphemism for anything. I pulled a bag of mixed nuts out of my purse and everyone at the party made fun of me.)

6. Ode to Tito Manny (I have to be like that guy in the Blackeyed Peas who randomly points to his Filipino heritage,)

Anyway, I figure I'll write some press releases, since that is what I do, and organize some promotional events around Naughty Vuvla. Eventually, we'll offer our songs for pre-release purchase on iTunes and make enough to supersize that Value Meal like it's nobody's business. Word!

August 25, 2008

Sunlight Prevents Hairy Palms

Sunlight Prevents Hairy Palms

So how about... I was walking on 8th Avenue on Saturday morning and it was a beautiful, sunshiney day. There were hundreds of people around; tourists out to fill the day with as many activities as possible, early birds grabbing a bagel or an egg white omelet, bleary-eyed clubgoers doing the walk of shame while cursing that last shot of generic tequila served in a Patron bottle.

I was striding along, complaining to myself about having to be up so early on the one day I get to sleep past 7, when it occurred to me that there was only one other person on the block. And that one person was directly in front of me, standing outside of a closed bikini bar. And his pants and underwear were down around his knees. And his shirt was lifted up. And his hand was... busy.

About a jillion thoughts raced through my head "What the f*ck. Am I seeing this? This isn't real. Are you kidding me? It's 9:45 in the morning on 8th Avenue for God's sake. I'd understand if it were 3 a.m. on Avenue C or something. It's shady in the East Village. The bikini bar is closed, what is he even looking at? Wait no, don't check. Don't take your eye off him. Focus. FOCUS!! Dammit you're still walking and he's like 4 feet away now. Move. Move!!! DANGER WILL ROBINSON!!! DANGER WILL ROBINSON!!!"

I veered to my right into the street, somehow having the presence of mind to avoid oncoming vehicles, just in time to put a car between us as I passed him. The idiot thing was, I wasn't even considering being attacked-- I just didn't want to get hit by any projectiles. Hey, it was a new dress. Who wants to be all Monica Lewinsky with a homeless guy on Saturday morning. A group of people approached the block then and I was still in a bit of a shock, and couldn't wrap my brain around a warning in time. What would I have said anyway, "Hey wuh uhh guy there... sperm."

I called my girl Kelly afterwards and she just laughed hysterically and said "This stuff only happens to you. The only time it would ever happen to me is if I was standing right next to you."


August 19, 2008

Asian Groceries Are Scary

Asian Groceries Are Scary

Ten seconds after entering the frozen food aisle at the Asian grocery last weekend, I was immensely glad that I happened to have my camera with me.

Every fridge needs ketchup, mustard, mayo and congealed pig's
blood. Otherwise what will you put in your sandwiches.

The most popular item at the KFC in Beijing is popcorn chicken hearts.

The second most popular item is Kentucky-fried chicken feet.
Functional and tasty, afterwards you can use them to clean your teeth.

This is just scary on so many levels. The name is hilariously simple
though. When I approached it, carefully, I thought the name would be
something like "Thousand-year dynasty fowl" or something equally exotic.

I prefer my ox feet fresh, so the natural nutrients are retained.
However, frozen ox feet is better than no ox feet.

I guess which pig snout dish to prepare depends wholly on what
type of wine you're serving. A full-bodied red would require
something like "Braised Pig Snout and Figs With Sauteed Broccoli
Florets" whereas something like a German riesling would require a
dish like "Cherry Almond Glazed Pig Snout with Gorgonzola Sauce"

At the risk of sounding repetitive, I really do prefer my pig
tails frozen, which retains both the flavor and natural nutrients
of pig tails. That's real pig tails, versus the hairstyle worn
by the women on those secret video files stashed on your computer.

I laughed out loud at the store. Yeah, I know I'm 12.

There are... no words. Wait, sure there are. "Pig fetuses not included."

August 14, 2008

Shady's Back. Tell a Friend.

Shady's Back. Tell a Friend.

This is getting a bit ridiculous. At one point in time this blog was my safe haven, the place where really I could just say whatever the hell I was thinking, no matter how foul. I almost feel like since then I've lost the edge and as a result have nothing to say. Really, do people come here to read about sunshine and fucking flowers? No.

(And by "fucking flowers" I mean expletive flowers, not flowers that run around all day humping like guinea pigs. Yeah, I just demoted rabbits. My 7th grade biology teacher had one of those kiddie pools in the back of his classroom, and it was filled with guinea pigs that would hump for hours. Actually, and this is said with a healthy deal of respect for his masculinity and endurance, it was like one male guinea pig and seven female guinea pigs. That little guy was like the Peter North of rodents. But I'm digressing).

Some quick thoughts:

1. I know I promised a post once a week in 2008 and I didn't deliver on that. Somehow, the world is still turning.

2. If that entire Chinese Girls Gymnastics team is
over the age of 16, you will service the entire men's gymnastics team. I was going to say that *I* would but then I thought about how tiring that would be, how the flight to Beijing would probably be pretty long and fairly expensive, how someone would probably see me, think "girl child" and throw me off a bridge.

3. I cry at every medal ceremony. I could kill you with THIS *holding up post-it note* but the moment I see those three flags rising and hear the first few notes of whatever random anthem is playing I get choked up. Except when it's one of those Eastern Bloc countries. Then I'm like "Damn you, why did you hijack President Marshall's plane?? You hijacked the President's plane for God's sake, what kind of Olympic spirit is that??!"

4. This is what I'm dealing with at home:

Me: When we get home we're going to be in a rush so no playing in the ducky tub okay? Just a quick shower like Mommy.
5-year-old #1: No!!!!!
Me: You know, your cousin Keiran is a big boy. He doesn't take baths in the duck tub.
5-year-old #2: That's because he doesn't have a duck tub.
Me: Crap. Okay you win.

5-year-old #1: Don't go to work tomorrow Mommy.
Me: I have to, or we're not going to have any money.
5-year-old #1: But I NEED you.
Me: Yes but don't you also need food and a place to live?
5-year-olds: *silence*
Me (trying another tact): If Mommy doesn't work then we won't have any money so we won't have any food. Or a house. Or clothes. Or toys.
5-year-olds: *silence*
Me: Or ice cream.
Two scandalized 5-year-olds: WHAT NO ICE CREAM?? Mommy you have to go to work.