Wednesday, December 30, 2009
jackie said... I'd guess - $1,655.00. I really want that shirt! Well Jackie, you must have been using The Secret because the bill was $1772, including the cat scan, surgery and aggravation.
Your profile isn't public so I'm guessing you're really Paris Hilton and only want the shirt because the word HOT is on it and you're looking to sue my sorry ass. Please take a number and get in line.
Email me at email@example.com with the size you want and your snail mail.
And for the rest of you who are now going to leave a message saying that amount is reasonable, let me be the first to say, "Then you fucking pay it."
Congratulations and I'd like to thank everyone who participated in trying to give me a heart attack with your guesses. The shirt is normally $21.00 but for those of you who entered, I will sell it for $10.00.
End of chat.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Without asking first, I put my packages on top of his packages. Like he was my assistant. He should be so fortunate. "All humor is based on cruelty."
Sunday, December 27, 2009
If only someone would do the dishes. And by someone I mean not me.
So on Christmas Day I was supposed to pick up Izzy's famous homemade Christmas dinner in Santa Monica and then drive it over to my sister's, about 5 minutes away.
I got in my car and realized I needed gas. Fuck.
I said Fuck on Christmas Day. You know, like I do every day. I drove to the gas station 2 blocks from my house and ran into my friend Kenny and his dog Sandy Blue. Kenny's the guy who told me he remembered me when I had a flat stomach.
Boy, you really can't unhear that.
He cleaned my windshield as I propped myself up against the gas pump and prayed for an oxygen IV. Then a drunk approached.
"Been drinking a little, Pat?" I asked.
"How did you know my name?"
"It's written on the cooler holding your beer."
Then a guy with an 110 pound RottyPit came by. His name was Claus. His dog's name was Snoop because Claus used to work for Snoop Dogg. Claus said he was a celebrity broker. I'd never heard of a celebrity broker so I asked him what that meant.
"Just Google 'Claus Britney Spears' and you can read all about it."
I drove 2 blocks before I thought, why go to Santa Monica? The party is RIGHT HERE in the Hollywood Hills with Pat the Drunk, Kenny the Sax Player, Claus the Celebrity Broker and Suzy the Sink Sleeper.
When I got to Lindy's I Googled Claus:
Feb 7 2008 3:14 PM EST
Britney Spears' Friend Denies Requesting Money For Rolling Stone Interview
'They contacted me with the offer,' Danish businessman Claus xxxxxxx insists...
Claus was a friend of Britney's. He allegedly requested 2 million for an interview with her. Rolling Stone denied offering it.
I COULD TOTALLY DO HIS JOB because apparently it does not require leaving the house.
Sidebar: How funny do those dogs look?
After dinner my sister and I watched screeners of It's Complicated and Up in the Air, both very average movies so I'm not sure what the hype is all about. We then watched 10 minutes each of Creation, Star Trek, and Coraline. Boring, Who Cares, and Who Cares, Jr.
By the end of the evening Lindy was explaining to me what a vaginaplasty was. So all in all? A typical Christmas.
End of chat.
Friday, December 25, 2009
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
I took them because my hands were numb and I couldn't write, tie things or do dishes. I cried all the time. After a year my hands are still numb even though I can now write, do dishes and tie things. For the last 2 days I've cried. I haven't cried in a year. Even in my diminished capacity as a zombie I knew that wasn't good.
Looking back, there was always that one woman in every neighborhood who was rumored to have had a nervous breakdown. Other neighbors whispered about the "poor thing" and the husband who drove her to this neural wasteland in his gambling/cheating/drinking car.
Your parents told you to stay away from her. Otherwise what? She'd let you watch TV and eat mashed potatoes all day?
Now everyone can enjoy their nervous breakdown because of medication. It's unlikely anyone else can drive you to this brink of living. You can take a cab there all by yourself. Even Psychiatry no longer calls a nervous breakdown by that name. It's now known as a Major Depressive Episode.
It just sounds like a bad day at a Barney's sale.
We have medicated the shame of the nervous breakdown away into what the Urban Dictionary now refers to as a nervy b.
How are you supposed to enjoy someone's crazy eyes and bad hair days, not to mention the endless parade of mismatched pajamas and yelling at the mailman, if they're only having a nervy b?
They have taken the solemn rituals of falling completely apart and turned it into a rapper's name.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
This card is from Brad Slaight. Of all the comics I've known, Brad has been one of the most supportive. I'm happy to call him a friend.
Check out his creativity in the link below, The 12 Cards of Christmas 2006. He is number 7. The rest of the cards are similarly funny and you'll probably recognize some of the famous people. And if you don't, you're not reading enough National Enquirer and I can't help you.
End of chat.
Friday, December 18, 2009
And I have blogged about some pretty serious stuff, like my Dad's seeming indifference to his children, his alcoholism, my alcoholism, my mother's ability to make me want to jump off a bridge within minutes of picking her up at the airport, the 3 year estrangement of my mother, sister and I and the impotent boyfriend I had for years.
There are also reams of private things I haven't blogged about and probably won't until I have big advertisers and feel guilty about not parceling out my weight in tragedy. Pay me enough and I WILL make you cry.
I know more people who don't blog, twitter etc than people who do. They not so secretly feel sorry for us, like we have no lives and are desperate for attention. They consider all the things I mentioned above very private. Tomato Tomahto.
Of all the blogs I read, I prefer the ones that bleed from the eyeballs right onto the page. I'm a ghoul. I'm not interested in recipes, knitting, playgroups or anything else involving mommy bloggers. What's that noise I hear? Wow, people unfollowing DOES make a sound.
How many people are not interested in my life? Plenty, I can assure you. But I do read many mom's blogs because they're as loony as I am StefanieHeidiAnnConnieKarenJessicaMarinkaEdenKyddrynJennAmy SusanDooceBloggessVODKAMOM.
This recent donnybrook over a woman's tweets regarding the death of her son shook up the online community. Another woman, who was online buying shoes when her 11 month old daughter drowned in a bathtub was charged by the police for felony negligence. She was not a blogger or a tweeter. Is there more support for us online narcissists than there is for EBayers?
"If it were not for you, I could mourn in peace."
This was the recent comment to the press from the mom currently under fire over the death of her 2 year old. But if it weren't for her tweets as a lot of it went down, we wouldn't know anything about it. Had she tweeted about it after the fact, there wouldn't have been so much controversy swirling around her actions in that situation.
What is private to one is just not private to another. We all have to live with ourselves and I know I speak for many when I say that's no fucking picnic.
And speaking of something I should keep private but am not going to: The results of the Guess The Amount of My E.R. Bill Contest:
The medical center sent me 2 letters. Asking for my bank records and tax returns and my mother's recipe for cheese souffle.
There was no bill attached to these requests.
These unethical assholes think they can first look at my financial records and THEN bill me? Shouldn't they bill for services rendered? If they were a post office, they'd be afraid for their lives every day.
So I've got all your guesses and there will be a winner. I can make this medical center public information and have a record of their devious behavior. For now, I will keep that private.
End of chat.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Thank God this picture was from The Sears Portrait Gallery, which I believe is an oxymoron. Anyway, cheap cheap cheap.
I had caps put on my teeth after this photo. Leslie's hair is looking for the corral it came out of.
This is Gary Lazer. We wanted to try out a guy in the Divorced role. Didn't work out although he was very funny.
I was turned down for a Sear's card many, many years ago. How bad is your credit to be rejected by Sears and yet accepted by Neiman Marcus? I was laughing about it until my sister told me the Sear's card was the hardest credit card to get.
So many kinds of wrong.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Sidebar: The baby in that photo was John. Over the years we kept changing the third member of our group so we kept getting new pictures. And as John grew we also needed to keep getting new babies. We were at Sears one day getting the cheaper-than-an-LA-photographer shot and John was too tall to hold comfortably. So we borrowed a baby from a woman standing in line. The baby was Chinese.
Because of John we traveled with a nanny. A nanny who kept yelling from the back row of our van "I think I might be having a heart attack" and "Has anyone seen my nitroglycerin?"
Leslie's husband wouldn't let her put that shot on the Christmas card. That's right, wouldn't LET her.
When you do what we do for a living you're the boss all the time. We call our own shots and pray that if we marry we find someone who is our creative equal. Preferably someone with a sense of humor.
That's a lot harder than you think.
End of chat.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
That year I had visited her while she was making gingerbread houses. They were beautiful and complicated and I admired her craftsmanship and skill. She too was a comic and made these every year, passed them out to producers, agents and bookers. At the time I was handing out - what do you call it - oh yeah, nothing. I don't think those houses ever helped her because she wasn't that funny and didn't work very much. Know your audience, people.
There was one that sat apart from the others. She called it her practice house. It looked good to me but she said it had lots of mistakes on it. Upon closer inspection I saw all the 'mistakes' and it was definitely the slum lord property of her Candyland.
What did she do with the practice house?
I have one of those memories that although not eidetic, is just as useful. I remember others' throwaway lines and have surprised many by remembering them from when I was fifteen. Although at the time I said I was nine because I was already in show business and lying about my age.
She said she saved the practice house for someone she didn't like that much.
I think we all know where this is going.
That's right, she showed up at my house with a big smile on her face.
End of chat.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
I posted this deer picture last Xmas. It's from the front window of the 101 restaurant. This is what these people do instead of PAVING THEIR SIDEWALKS. I'm posting it again because I get very religious around the holidays and need to see as many blue balls as possible.
End of chat.
Friday, December 11, 2009
I never gave any man a reason not to trust me. I never cheated. But it was impossible to find a male comic who didn't. They would bring comedy club waitresses back to the condos, make me run interference between the wife and the girlfriend phone calls. There were a lot of divorces over the years. One impossible cheat stopped working the road and instead opened a strip joint in his home town.
Because that was soooooooooooooooo much better.
And yes, women cheat too so stop typing.
As Tiger's extra curricular activities worsen and last night's revelation about an additional 6 paid escorts via a Madam has surfaced, it doesn't even shock me. This picture did.
Elin was trying to extricate her husband from the right-hand back rear window, on the passenger side?
The back seat?
Please Elin, this story just makes blondes look dumber than the rest of the world already believes. So make us look smart by cleaning out Tiger's bank account. I'm pretty sure that's what we're known for.
End of chat.
Wednesday, December 09, 2009
I GOT THE E.R. BILL.
But I'm afraid to open it. So instead, I thought I'd let you all guess how much it was and then the winner gets one of my Tee Shirts. The closest amount wins.
Also? I'm wearing a padded bra in this photo:
Also? I have a head in real life.The Details:
1. I was in the ER about 2-3 hours
2. This was not a hospital, but a Medical Center
3. I got 6 stitches
4. I had a cat scan
5. I got a tetanus shot
6. I have no health insurance
7. I whined like a baby
8. Because I am a baby
I'll keep the contest open until next Wednesday, a week from today. Guess as many times as you want.
Also? I encourage cheating. So I'm hoping Tiger Woods will enter.
End of chat.
Monday, December 07, 2009
I needed to get my stitches out after 5 days so I went to the clinic behind Kenny's phone number.Hmmmm. Well, it was a woman's clinic and the last time I checked, I was half-woman half- metal parts.
Below is a picture of where I was supposed to go, right across the street. Note the vertical sign on the corner of the building. It says ACNE and CELULITIS. They should've just put up a sign that said SUZY'S PAST and PRESENT.
I had to go back this past Saturday and the doctor, after sticking a fork in me, proclaimed me still not done. THEN I freaked out. And started babbling about not getting the dreaded stitch dots that only a narcissist like me even knows about.
So now I go back tomorrow and will cry like a baby when they pull them out. It will be my 14th scar. It would have been #15 but that one faded and there's no trace of it. The other ones are visible. Numero 15 was behind my ear. And nobody looks behind your ear.
Because life is endlessly annoying.
End of chat.
Friday, December 04, 2009
I've watched a lot of rescues on TV and noticed the person being pulled into the hovering helicopter always has their arms crossed against their chest. So when my ambulance pulled up to the ER last Sunday, a firefighter asked me to cross my arms so he could carry me off the vehicle. So I did. He put his left arm around me, sort of under my butt slash thigh. Then he hoisted me off the truck until I was airborne.
I thought I was going to fall so with my right arm I began clawing at the fireman's shoulder and he started yelling "NO! NO! NO!"
Then I couldn't get my arm off him because I forgot the position I was in and thought, "Were they crossed from left to right or right to left? Is he trying to drop me? Am I dying?"
They save horses, baby elephants and really old people and I'm guessing I'm the only problem rescuee they've ever had. Look at the above photo. This person has no arms. Maybe the firefighters removed them while they were playing a real game of Hangman?
Have you seen the commercial where a man looks into the camera and says, "For Christmas this year, arrange an appointment for the woman in your life to get a pap smear."
And then this one: "For Hanukkah this year, arrange an appointment for the woman in your life to get a pap smear. It's just a schmear!"
WHAT THE FUCK? I want to see a couple of women talking about getting their men a prostate checkup. However, since men don't listen while we talk, I'm guessing this idea was thrown out fairly early on in the campaign.
Please don't compare the pooch to a schmear. My body is not your bagel.
And speaking of bad Christmas gifts, many years ago in NY, my boyfriend du jour got me a subscription to Life Magazine. I'm sure I'm not the only one who got something useless for Chrismakkuh. Start typing.
End of chat.
Wednesday, December 02, 2009
Tuesday, December 01, 2009
After I got so many comments of concern I thought I needed to clarify a few things.
When the bill comes and I post the amount, then you can pity me. Because I'm a comedian first and a human being last, I was worried my post wasn't funny enough.
This all was actually a blessing. Because I didn't break my caps, my nose or any of my bones. PLUS, I've been worrying about my brain for 2 years. And not for the obvious reason, that I over think everything and the falls might have triggered a later episode that made me forget to obsess. THE HORROR!
I had fallen on pavement twice before and then once in my carpeted living room. The first one was when a car hit me while I was walking, the second was 5 months after last year's surgery when I forgot to notice my thigh muscles had ceased to exist because I hadn't walked in 5 months and the third one was when I tripped over a garden hose and AGAIN WASN'T WEARING UNDERWEAR and the building gardeners saw my dress shoot over my face, thus exposing the pooch. I'm just glad they didn't speak English because I'm sure they muttered in Japanese, "THE HORROR!"
So I've been concerned for two years and really need to stop watching so much House.
When I fell on Sunday I thought I was headed for surgery. And not the good kind where they make your boobs so huge you can use them as flotation device.
Since the cat scan showed zero trauma, it was a relief. Now I could save the 417 minutes that I worried about it and get down to the business of worrying about important things, like when I'm going to be able to wear stilettos again.
And why my mother was so nice to me after I got out of the hospital. What does she want?
End of chat.
Monday, November 30, 2009
2. Unshaven legs.
3. No shower since June.
4. Greasy hair.
5. No makeup.
6. No cell phone.
These are clues that, when assembled on a sunny afternoon in Hollywood, will garner you a spot in the Idiot's Hall of Fame.
A half block from my home I noticed a man going through some garbage looking for cans and when I was parallel to him, I looked closely and tripped over the hair on my legs.
I fell face forward. The force of my head hitting the concrete stunned me and I thought I was going to black out.
The Can Man tried to help me up but I just turned over on my back and said, "I'm okay, just let me lie here for a week."
Can Man said, "Should I call 911?" He had his cell phone and was surely wearing underwear because he did not want to go to the hospital that day.
"WHY?" I asked him. I was bleeding but couldn't feel it. I put my hand up to my face and it came away completely covered in blood.
The fire department is 4 blocks from my house and they came roaring down the street and careened around the corner in under 5 minutes, sirens blaring. I kept asking Can Man "Is it the firetruck? Are FIREMEN on their way? How do I look?" Even when I'm bleeding from the head, my vanity knows no bounds.
Four men got off the truck and stared down at me. One started to wipe away the blood and said, "I don't want to get it in your hair."
"I have Tom Petty's haircut. Blood will only improve it."
They patched me up and when they helped me stand one of them said "How do you feel? Are you dizzy? Can you see straight?"
"Well you girls look fabulous." Silence.
"Oh. An attempt at humor, that's a good sign."
An ATTEMPT? Fuckers.
I only went to the hospital because the firemen made me. They said I needed stitches. I was going to go home! The Drs. at the hospital said to always take the advice of firemen. They triage on the spot and have seen lots of injuries. And they're always cute.
At the hospital they ordered an x-ray, which I didn't know was a cat scan. I thought they would just put my head in a mammogram machine and squish my tremendous ego back into place.
I begged the radiology technician to give me the results. She said only a doctor could do that. But I know from past experience that if you scare the hell out of them, they'll tell you. So I wrapped my bloody hands around her neck and shook her violently. Please, I could barely raise my arms.
I got a tetanus shot and then the Dr. said, "These anesthesia shots are going to hurt. The first one will hurt a lot and the second one will hurt MORE and then you won't feel the 3rd or 4th one." God appeared to me during the second shot.
All the shots were around my eye, where there is no fat. If only I had fallen on my ass.
"Is this going to affect the scar from my eye job?"
I shut my mouth at that point because the look on her face said it all. She knew I only cared about what the new scar would look like juxtaposed next to the old one. I'll bet she sewed me a zigzag lightening bolt. Now I'll have to join a gang.
The things I do to entertain you people: "NO Elin, I did NOT sleep with Tiger. Put the golf club down."
And to the commenter who once said I look hot in every picture: I'm sorry I had to shatter your illusions.
Now I'm going to call my Mommy.
End of chat.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
~Jessica Seinfeld, New York Magazine Oct. 2009
I guess Jerry's running out of money.
I hope this doesn't affect my residual checks.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
The postmark on this card is from 1914 and has a One Cent stamp on it. It was addressed to Mrs. W. Goodwin in Columbus, Ohio. It was sent by her husband Walter, who wrote it on November 26:
My Darling Muriel,
Rec'd your card okay. Was more than glad to get it for old times sake.
Truely (sic) your husband Walter Goodwin.
It was postmarked in Columbus and sent to Coumbus. I wonder if this is what they did back then rather than just save the penny and hand the card to the other. Were the Goodwins living apart, on their way to divorce, or did he send it before he left for somewhere else? Did she know he couldn't spell? And if he was her husband, why did he have to add his last name to the card?
The card is so old and from the wear and tear on the right side, the blue border is all but rubbed away, I'm guessing this card was handled a lot by right-handed people. In anger? In joy? With turkey grease?
And one more question for the Goodwins; what's up with the Dutch?
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Well Twitter Is Trying To Kill Me.
There was an expression in newsgroups, Lurk before you leap. You read what everyone is saying until you figure out all the players, inside jokes and sock puppets. THEN YOU POST. Twitter does have the option but only after you've started following people. Or they've started following you. And how will they start following you if you don't post anything? I'll say it for you, "Why does she sit around and think of this shit all day?"
Even though Twitter still has 23 million members, here are a couple of tips I've picked up from the half million people who left Twitter so far this year:
1. Do not follow people who post the same link over and over. UNFOLLOW
2. If someone's profile says they love a certain NFL team, do not assume they will talk about anything else. UNFOLLOW
3. Do not follow people who only post recipe links. UNFOLLOW
4. Do not follow people who post only words like awwwww or geeeeeeze. UNFOLLOW
5. #Hashtaggers. No one cares what you start. UNFOLLOW
6. People who post the same #hashtags over and over and OVER. STOP. UNFOLLOW
7. Do not follow people who post ENJOY. UNFUCKINGFOLLOW QUICKLY.
I haven't had a cold in 20 years and suddenly I'm on Twitter and I've got a cold. Before you think this isn't possible, Dooce also got a cold and she didn't mention where she got it. The defense rests.
It took me 3 years to start bitching about blogging. But it's taken me only a few weeks to start bitching about Twitter. This does not augur well.
And in other unrelated news, the stereo did the same thing again. I got up at 5:30 a.m. to turn off the air conditioning. When I got up 3 hours later, the stereo was on. Does my air conditioner have arms?
End of chat.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Friday, November 20, 2009
I hate the holidays. They're phony and annoying and for God's sakes, hasn't anyone written a new Christmas song in fifty years?
The cheap store gifts get more lame every year.
Yesterday at the drug store I saw a Talking Fly Swatter while waiting in line to buy some heroin. I didn't have time to peruse the box to see exactly WHEN this fly swatter talked. As it approached the fly? "Here I come, fucker."
As it was slamming the fly into a wall? "Gotcha, fucker."
Or maybe after it killed the fly? "Take THAT, fucker."
I once owned a toilet paper dispenser that played Elvis Presley songs when you rolled the paper. Now that was a great idea since that's where Elvis was found, dead on the loo. Of course people who came over thought I was crazy because they didn't know their Elvis history, which I found sacrilegious and unacceptable.
But a Talking Fly Swatter? If the world blows up tomorrow and aliens find a Talking Fly Swatter clutched in my hands I'm going to be so embarrassed. Dead, but embarrassed.
And I'm not going to say Happy Holidays to anyone. I'll be saying Merry Christmas. I've never had a black person say Happy Kwanzaa to me. No Jews have wished me a Happy Hanukkah and WHEN are the Jewish people going to agree on a spelling of that word?
If my Jewish friends wish me a Merry Christmas and I wish them a Happy Chanukah (see what I mean about the spelling?) then everything gets all messed up and I'm probably going to have to be circumcised. That's why I wish everyone a Merry Christmas. I can spell it and keep my penis intact.
For all the talk of living green, Christmas is not 'green.' All that wrapping paper, all those boxes. I don't live entirely green, like hardly at all really, unless you count leaving cans outside the dumpster for the homeless to pick up. But it hurts me that others aren't picking up my slack.
Why do parents keep buying their kids new phones? Where do the old phones go? Why do people keep buying themselves new phones? Where do their old ones go?
Why do you need a cell phone to know what time the movie starts? It's the only cinema in your neighborhood and they haven't changed the times since 1976. Do you really need to find the nearest sushi restaurant even though there is only an Applebees and an IHOP in your neck of the woods?
And what's with the sudden need for a GPS system on your phone? Why do you need directions to go to the Wal Mart in your own town? You've been there a gillion times; it's where you first had sex with the oboe player in the band. And then the rest of the band. You could be buried there and your family would know exactly where to put the headstone.
God I hate the holidays.
I'm buying everyone a Talking Fly Swatter.
End of chat.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
My theory that female comics have more testosterone than normal women makes me act like a man and not want to go to the doctor. I'm sure there are some men who gallop to the internist but in general, they're not the first ones in the waiting room. And if you're one of those men, great. The rest of you? Please don't write me.
Of course I also believe that when it's your time to go, it's your time to go. I'll quote Woody Allen here, "I'm not afraid of dying. I just don't want to be there when it happens."
Monday, November 16, 2009
These strange occurrences happened for many years but I never told anyone. Who would believe me? Even when I ran them privately through my head they sounded insane. I didn't feel crazy but I didn't know what crazy felt like. Maybe I was losing it.
One day at a party I struck up a conversation with a guy and I asked him what was going on in his life and he replied, "The Twos." He hesitantly started to explain it to me and when he was done I said, "You're not the only one; it happens to me too." He looked relieved.
Last week I got the pictures of me and my dog Kiko, sent by Paul, the photographer who had tested with me back in NY. Less than a week later I got the video from Mack that I linked on Friday, and there was my dog again.
After Kiko died and I moved to L.A. a year later, he started walking on my bed. I would feel his little paws stepping over me and pacing back and forth. The first time it happened I was so incredulous I lay in bed and felt the paws go over my body and around the bed. At first I was afraid to acknowledge it but I finally sat up and ran my hands over the bed. No dog. It happened on and off for years. Once I had to go to an emergency room in Santa Monica and they checked me in overnight. As I lay there trying to go to sleep, the little paws started walking all over me again. The paws were always little. I knew it was him. I sat up and felt the covers. Still no dog.
I was in therapy then and shared these stories with my shrink, who didn't seem surprised. I asked her why not and she calmly replied, "Similar things have happened to me." Then Kiko stopped walking on the bed and I've never felt him since. There have been nights when I've missed those paws. Like a lot of things in life, you only miss it when it's gone.
So when Kiko recently appeared twice in one week, once by video and once in a picture, I immediately thought it was a coincidence, although there's no such thing. I didn't realize it was a precursor.
Friday night I had the air-conditioning on because Los Angeles cannot decide what weather to wear to the prom. At 5:30 a.m. I was lying in bed, stuck to the sheets like tongue on metal, and knew I had to turn off the a.c. I got up, walked to the living room and turned it off. I went back to bed.
The next morning I noticed the stereo was on. My stereo has a flap that pops up and then turns a rainbow of colors. If you read this blog, you know this has already happened twice before.
I sat at my desk staring at the stereo opposite me and knew someone had turned it on and it wasn't me. It hadn't been on at 5:30 when I got up to turn the air conditioner off.
I looked for the stereo remote. I kept it in a basket, on a shelf a foot down from the computer. I took the basket out and fished around for it. There was nothing heavy sitting on it. So I pressed power and the stereo didn't turn off. I put it level with the stereo and pushed power again and it didn't turn off. I have a Chinese screen about 8 inches taller than my desk sitting directly in front of me so I had to pick up the remote, lift it over my head, angle it down and then push power.
The stereo went off. And then immediately turned itself back on. I turned it off again and this time it stayed off. There was no way I had done all that without remembering it.
I'm not sure why these things follow me around and have for so many years, going on 20 now. I am open to them but I have no ability to interpret their meanings. So when they happen, and you can click on the label below this post to read about the other experiences, I know I have visitors.
I just don't know what they want.
End of chat.
Friday, November 13, 2009
You know how I make fun of people who post and then write Enjoy! after whatever it is they've posted?
Anyway, I never noticed this before but I made some microwave popcorn the other day and usually I just reach in and grab the bag because I'm too busy doing cranial surgery with my other free hand but this time I glanced at the machine only to discover the HUBRIS of Sharp by exploding my popcorn and then flashing ENJOY! when it was done. SO I PURPOSELY DID NOT ENJOY IT.
Do you know the artist Georgia O'Keeffe?
Yes, THAT Georgia O'Keeffe. She lived until she was 98 and painted until the day she died which I find exhausting even to read. The Whitney in NYC is giving a retrospective of her work and in an article in NY Magazine, they excerpt this from her journal, from a letter she wrote to her husband, photographer Alfred Stieglitz:
"...on my back - wanting to be spread wide apart."
So my deepest fear is realized. I have journals, mostly written when life did not run smoothly. So there are millions of them. There are parts that are very sexual and a few years ago I tried to edit them by tearing out all the sexual parts but eventually gave up because I'm apparently some kind of sex perv when it comes to documenting what various men liked and didn't like. Reading them back, especially the ones from the 90's, gave me a mini heart attack.
I will die and they will be read. Or I will never die and then I'm golden.
Tomorrow my episode of Seinfeld is on (Sat. Nov. 14 5:30 PM TBS) I think it's Pacific Time but I'm not sure.
And how weird is it that I got this video from my friend Mack Dryden of the hilarious Mack and Jamie comedy team? They're probably sick of hearing it but their version of Desperado is better than the original. Them boys is funny and can sing.
It's a funny video. Wait until the end and then watch the credits carefully and tell me THAT is not coincidental with what I posted yesterday. Mack didn't even warn me and I know he doesn't read my blog because THAT'S WHY I'M IN 13TH PLACE.
End of chat.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
So he sent me the photos and contact sheets, and in the interim I thought he was the guy who took pictures of me rollerskating. But no, no roller skating photos.
I bought that hat somewhere at some time and in some city and even though I no longer have it, I have a better one in black and white. I am quite the hat freak. Maybe I don't have to add the word "hat" to that sentence.
I was posing with my Yorkie who was an absolute terror and once went into a neighbor's apartment, grabbed their bird by the wing and was dragging him down the hallway amidst the screams of my friends.
In my dog's defense, who lets a bird walk around the fucking FLOOR and leaves their door open? I screamed at Kiko to drop it but he picked up steam and started trotting, like a horse, until I caught him by the neck. The bird was okay and when I got my dog home I discovered a blueish-green feather on his snout. I framed it with a picture of him. Every time I see it I laugh.
Kiko hated one of my boyfriends so much that we were up late playing LPs yo, and the next morning discovered one little poop on each album we'd left out. Some were in jagged piles and he climbed the piles just to make a higher-up poop.
The point of all this and YES I HAVE ONE is that in some moments of our lives, when we feel we look like shit? Turns out all we need is a good photographer. And a funny dog.
End of chat.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
So the nightclub told me to change it. I had just finished reading a book that said a lot of famous people throughout history had a name that ended in an O sound. Picasso, Groucho, Paltrow, Monroe etc. I was obsessed with Marilyn at the time to I changed my last name to end in an O sound. Whether I'm no longer an asshole is debatable. And you can see for yourself the stellar heights of fame I've reached.
"Yes Mr. Clooney."
"Where's my coffee?"
I bought the Milton Greene lithograph below in Paris. I own 9/300, the 9th printing of a series of 300. Milton Greene is dead now and his son plastered his father's work all over everything, thus diminishing its worth. Nowadays they print lithographs with a 2 or a 3 next to it, like 9/300/2, to inform the buyer that they're not really buying an original, but a second printing of the original 300. I'm an artist too, I get it, we make little money. I have certainly whored myself out for a 2. Once I did a TV show for $50. What's that? A 4?
My favorite picture of Marilyn is the one below mine, which I don't own. You can find other fabulous Marilyn pics as well as unbelievable photos of Liz Taylor over at Blonde Episodes. Her photos make today's skinny girls look embarrassing, ridiculous and definitely not sexy. And her blog is great too. She loves the 1940's and after you see the photos, you will too.
End of chat.
Friday, November 06, 2009
But in case you have forgotten, look at this below. Now you'll never be able to call someone that name again without wondering if the person who heard it isn't thinking:
"She thinks I need to take a shower? Now, in the middle of the day while working on my power point presentation? Okay then, bye everybody! Sorry I was dirty. See you tomorrow."
You want to piss someone off? ADD THE BAG.
Wednesday, November 04, 2009
And when Rosie O's favorite designer of three years, Eileen Fisher, stopped making XLs as well, saying she didn't want to attract that kind of clientele, Rosie spoke out against her.
I asked Martha why she thought Loehmann's stopped selling plus sizes and she gave me an answer that never occurred to me. They did not want to turn into the kind of store that catered to overweight Blacks and Mexicans. This was a guess of course but one third, 100 million, people in our country are obese, including Caucasians. I'm guessing Loehmann's does not want to turn into Ross, where navigating the isles really should be an Olympic sport.
So we started scanning the streets looking for Fat Offenders and of course only found skinny ones. (I got this picture off Google images.)
I know we're not supposed to use the "Fat" word and this may be part of the problem. Rosie won't allow the word to be used in her home. At Costco, once skinny Asians are no longer skinny. I guess Kimchi got old after you've had a Big Mac. If no one tells you you're fat, maybe you just keep eating. I had a producer tell me at an important meeting that one of my teeth was too crooked for TV.
I was completely mortified and ashamed since no one had ever mentioned it before, even my agent, former agents and managers. AND MY FAMILY WHO WANT ME TO FAIL AND SEND ME TO AMISH COUNTRY.
I got the tooth fixed.
End of chat.
Tuesday, November 03, 2009
Anyway, I had put on some poundage due to the fact that I couldn't walk without crying. I was in so much pain that Vicodin laughed in my face.
I couldn't walk properly for almost 2 years before last year's surgery because I was recuperating from another surgery so I was up to 139. Now it's a year and a half after the last surgery and I'm finally back to my original weight, 128.
Sidebar: Just so you know, I didn't understand that explanation either.
I've been staring at my clothes for years, wondering if I could ever fit into them again. After 4 years, I started referring to them as vintage.
Today I had lunch with MJ at iCugini, on the Pacific Ocean, before I took her to LAX for her trip back to Hawaii. The valet was $7.00, which is twice my rent.
While I was getting dressed I put on a pair of jeans I hadn't worn in 4 years. They fit perfectly. They were even slightly too big. Problem?
They're low cut.
I was overweight for so long I went out of style.
End of chat.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
"I can't go to lunch because I had my jaw wired shut. How can I talk on the phone? Well honestly I didn't think of that when I answered it because I'm not a spontaneous liar."
My sister and I are not spontaneous. I once told Maman that and she said, "Oh my Goddddddd, zat's horrrrrrrrrrrrrreebul." I was afraid to ask why.
My sister and I are planners, list makers, people who dust the day before company arrives as opposed to the day of. This is a picture of the 3 spontaneous ones in our family and our mother, who probably threw on that dress while the photographer was setting up.
Notice everyone in the picture is smiling but me. On the positive side, I now have no lines around my eyes. On the negative side, when I was a waitress customers complained that I was always in a bad mood.
We used to go to France every summer, except for my Dad, who stayed behind to work. My mother was a teacher with summers off.
When the ocean liners were making the crossings from New York to Cherbourg, France, we would drive up to NY from D.C. and get on the ship.
My sister and I were packed weeks in advance so as not to miss one precious item which, once we got to Paris, never touched because France had cooler shit.
My mother found it more convenient to pack the day we left and had a 3 hour drive ahead of us. The first and second summers we nearly missed the ship. Every year Dad lost 6 pounds via his sweat glands. He and my mother never fought in 27 years but I'm pretty sure they finally got a divorce based on those trips to New York.
Mom thinks "Everybody ready?" means "Time for a snack." She thinks "IT'S TIME TO GO, HONEY" means to check every spigot in the house to make sure nothing was leaking even though my father was still going to be there while we were gone."
The third time my father made us go the day before and spend the night in a NY hotel so as the three of us would not have a heart attack. We still arrived at the docks late because my mother was doing God knows what. Restocking the maid's cart? Slipping newspapers under doors? Checking in new guests?
The 4th summer he made us take the plane.
End of chat.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Monday, October 26, 2009
Two weeks ago it was a man going "Noooooooooo, no, noooooooooooooooooo." I lay there wondering what was happening. Bondage gone wrong? Didn't remember the safe word? Refusing to talk to his mother on the phone during sex? WHAT WAS HE DOING?
Last week it was a woman yelling Yesssssssssssssssssssssssss. That one was easy. Another faked orgasm.
A few days ago I heard two kittens having kitten sex. Not cat sex, which is loud and embarrassing not to mention a little disturbing, but kitten sex. I sat up. Silence.
I lay back down and heard a repetitive raspy sound that sounded like panting. Someone was panting on my pillow. Which by the way would make a great title for a Country and Western song or the book title for Jenna Jameson's memoirs.
Then I realized it was coming from me. All of it was just me.
I have asthma.
Between the Santa Ana winds blowing and all the fires, it has really made it harder for me to breathe at night.
I have talents I'm not even using properly.
End of chat.
Friday, October 23, 2009
My sister and I exchanged a glance and made the Awwwwwwwwwww face together. We're mental, I know.
Out of this same group of people, two are dead, another couple divorced and another one cheated on his wife, in their NY apartment, in their New York bed with the daughter of a famous clothing designer. That last couple stayed together, moved out of LA and NY and his cheating was never mentioned. We used to sit around and wonder how his wife never blabbed about it. To any of us. We all knew but in deference to her never brought it up. And it never made the press, like Dave Letterman, John Edwards, Rudy Guiliani, Sanford, Spitzer et alia. And it should have, based on his fame.
Like a lot of women, I'm watching The Good Wife with Juliana Marguiles and Chris Noth. He cheated and abused his power in office and went to jail. The wife luckily got a job in a law firm and also weighs about 120 pounds and is easy on the eye. How many women could leave their cheating spouses and ease into her life?
Sidebar: And talk about your photoshopping. New York Magazine took away her upper arms, upper left thigh, her butt and lengthened her neck. Marguiles looks DEMENTED.
My parents were not happily married and they should have divorced. Their decision affected my life. I tend to stay with people who make me unhappy. I don't have the courage to leave. I replay my parents' madness over and over.
Many bloggers confess their cheating to me. I think it's because I remind them of Mother Theresa with my lack of judgments and frequent trips to countries where I bless the poor.
We had family friends a long time ago. The husband was your typical charismatic narcissist, a prime suspect for cheating. And he was a lawyer so you know how tricky they are.
When she discovered he was cheating on her she tried to kill herself and then went to a plastic surgeon and had a full face lift.
The irony was that he came back to her and turned into a raging drunk. He then died while she went on to date another man. His best friend.
If you're unhappy, leave.
End of chat.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
It's so small their ants moved to a larger island.
The man who turned my sister Lindy and I on to Bonaire was Mr. B.B. from our NYC days. She and I lived together but I eventually encouraged her to move to L.A. She always got first dibs on the rich guys in NY. She was also dating Peter K. and Peter S. at the same time and they were all wealthy and would bring me along on dates to entertain them while they drooled over Lindy. It was really annoying to have to work that hard for a lobster dinner. Those bastards used to spike my drinks because they said I got funnier. Thanks for the blackouts, guys.
After one night with Peter S. and his group, a double shot of Green Chartreuse (which I thought was one shot) and a lot of wine, I went home and felt so sick I called my then current boyfriend The Doctor, who told me to get in a cab and come over. That's the last thing I remember.
The next morning I asked him what happened and he replied, "Well, you went on a DATE with another man...."
"MEN." I corrected him.
"Are you telling the story or am I? Then you got sick, called me, came over and threw up." Great.
One night Mr. B.B. asked Lindy if she wanted to go to Bonaire with him. "You can scuba dive, can't you?"
Lindy did many things well. She snow skied, water skied and once tread water in shark-infested waters between Africa and the Seychelle Islands trying to keep her friend alive because the yacht they were swimming off suddenly pulled anchor and left them behind.
Me? I cheat at Scrabble. And you KNOW how hard that is.
My sister has always been in amazing shape. She used to have great boobs. Seriously miraculous boobs. Until she discovered aerobics and then they disappeared. She was once on the cover of Muscle & Fitness magazine BUT SHE COULDN'T SCUBA AND LIED THAT SHE COULD.
The day she returned from Bonaire I was in our living room with my friend Louis. Lindy came in all bouncy and happy. She threw her luggage down and went into the kitchen with a bag of groceries. After a few minutes we heard the blender whirring. She came into the living room holding a Pina Colada and said "Now THIS is the best drink ever."
Every five minutes she went to the kitchen and emerged with a fresh drink.
"He wasn't that good in bed."
"I didn't even want to learn how to scuba."
"That island is SO fucking boring."
"His friends were a snooze fest."
"There's nothing to do but sit at the outdoor bar and drink."
"God that guy is a loser."
"The bartender said I drank all the pineapple juice on the island."
Eventually the blender stopped. After a while Louis and I noticed the silence and found her sprawled out on my bed, dead drunk.
Yeah, that guy was a real loser, Lindy.
End of chat.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
God I need a life.
How old is she? Look below her picture.
48. AND NO THAT ISN'T ME. Haters.
Friday, October 16, 2009
140 characters. No Capcha. The end.
I was not the only one giving a cursory look-see to blog posts that were 25 pages long with no pictures. Get a camera, get a scanner! Download from the Internet, only throw a reader a picture bone.
I was not the only one tired of people with 50 Google followers posting 9 times a week. I know a lot of people pledge to post EVERY DAY. 365 posts. I read 200 blogs a day. WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME? Did I kill your cat or something?
Posting 365 days is not a goal. Hiding your kids' squeaky toys so they'll never find them again is a goal. Eating an entire bag of chips in under 7 minutes is a goal.
You will never read a tweet that says "Sorry I haven't tweeted in a while; I'm a bad twitterer."
No silly, I didn't even know you were missing. Were you in Afghanistan fighting the Taliban? No. You were at your Aunt Mary's baking a thousand cookies made from play dough and twigs. THANK GOD YOU CAME BACK FROM THAT HORROR.
I know what you're thinking, 3 days on Twitter and I'm a bitter hag. You're right; nothing has changed.
And also, no pictures today. That's how I'm punishing you.
End of chat.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
I miss rotary phones. Mainly because I didn't have to push 1 to speak in my own language. Nor did I have to hear the same message over and over while I waited. And I didn't have to push 37 buttons which invariably made me return to the menu before I finally just gave up and pushed 0. And I could cradle the receiver in the crook of my neck and still do dishes. I also didn't get other calls in the middle of a call I was already on. And I could call information for free. AND I REMEMBER TALKING TO A PERSON CALLED THE OPERATOR. See that little phone in the picture? That's a (dusty and dirty) kitchen timer. One day I was shopping and in a fit of nostalgia decided I couldn't live without it.
Even though I'm no luddite, I'm a foot dragger. I was the kid who studied for her exams the night before. And had the grades to prove it.
So I've finally joined Twitter.
There were 3 reasons I never did before:
1. I googled myself about a year ago and found a conversation between two people on Twitter and they were talking about me:
The woman was saying that Suzy Soro was too cool to Twitter and the guy wrote back that he was afraid of me. That's what you want in a man. To inspire fear.
2. My sister is addicted to texting. She walks around with that stupid phone and doesn't even turn it off in the movies. And after it rings 5 times, she turns if off while everyone glares at her. She doesn't even make the universal sign for "sorry" with her face. While my mother was here this summer, Lindy just flat out told us that she loved texting so much because she didn't have to talk to anyone. ANYONE. Mom lives in Paris and I don't text so there you have it. And if I do get her on the phone, she yells at me if I call on the wrong line.
3. I don't want to become my sister.
End of chat.
Click on the label underneath this post to see all 46 pictures of my version of L.A., which is a lot different than the souvenir books.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
This picture is from the new Spanx Catalogue Fall 2009. If you look carefully at the end of her right leg you can see an eraser.
Mz. Vodka is helping to spread the word about Dove's self esteem program for young women so let's all chip in and buy me a cookie, shall we?
While you're at her blog, sign up for her Vampire's Assistant Contest, with tons of cool prizes for the winner.
One more thing:
Shame on you, Spanx.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
I'm making progress and am now on the Summer issue.
In the last two days my house became fly infested. I would usher 7 out the front door only to come back in and find 4 more. This went on for two days. No excess garbage, no dirty dishes in the sink so I'm thinking the cricket isn't dead and is instead giving birth to flies.
Friday, October 09, 2009
You'd think I was trying to cover up my dirty and ugly circa 1986 kitchen floor with these magazines, wouldn't you?
But no, I dropped this stack on a 5 foot by 8 foot cricket on Monday and I'm not too keen on picking it up, even though the Fall Fashion issue is on top. I watched the Paris shows on The Rachel Zoe Project so that will have to do for now.
Do giant crickets disintegrate over time? I didn't think so either. Fuck.
Here's a medical tip: Never come home from the dentist and take a Vicodin and an antibiotic at the same time on an empty stomach. This will kill you and I'm not going to tell you how but suffice it to say that was ten days ago and I still don't feel so hot.
I've also been drinking green tea, which my sister has been telling me for years is healthier and will help you lose weight. I had it in the house for two years before I drank it. TWO YEARS. Imagine how long those magazines are going to stay on top of Mothra?
This morning I was leaving my apartment and instead of reaching for a hat I realized I felt one on my head so I went to the hall mirror to make sure it looked ok and imagine my surprise when I discovered I had pushed it up too far and I was actually wearing my eye mask.
The other day I popped a boob out in front of two tenants, one man, one woman. It was because I was too lazy to put on a bra and was wearing my skirt as a dress. Her dog jumped on me and pulled at the skirt and presto chango, we have boobage. She and I both laughed. The guy was mad he missed it.
She's the same tenant who saw me fall backwards when my skirt went over my head and I was wearing no undies so the pussoire was out for the gardeners to see. She has actually seen more of me naked than some men I've dated.
End of chat.
Wednesday, October 07, 2009
<--Costco price. (Sorry Kath. Love you, mean it)
Kathy doesn't need my help in pushing her New York Times best seller. It's up there because it's funny and does what most celebrity tell-alls don't do, gives you the inside dish. That's why you bought them and you know it. And if you bought Brooke Shield's And Down Came the Rain, boy are you on the wrong blog.
When Kathy was a comic and then transitioned to taking down the hoi polloi of Hollywood, I was scared for her. It's brave to do that in a town full of self-important bitches. But I rooted for her because she proved what a lot of us already knew, Hollywood has no sense of humor.
Steven Spielberg had her fired from the E! channel through his massive connections because she joked that Dakota Fanning was going into rehab. Right before his movie War of the Worlds came out starring...Dakota Fanning. Who in their right mind would think a comedian was telling the truth about a child going into rehab? It's not like Diane Sawyer was announcing it on GMA. Spielberg now has Donald Trump hair so he needs to shut up because we can see the hairspray from Des Moines.
And could we all just GET OVER this P.C. bullshit? This is still America, last time I checked, and we can say anything we want except "Fire!" in a crowded room. You have to yell "Fire" on the streets of NY because if you yell "Help" people will point and laugh as you bleed to death.
If you don't "get her" just remember that comedy is predicated on negative issues. Pretty sure Mother Theresa didn't get up to do a tight 5 on her rounds.
Kathy talks about being banned from TV shows, her loving and supportive parents, her pedophile brother and how her ex-husband ripped off her money.
Did I just hear your front door slam and your car engine turn over?
End of chat.
Tuesday, October 06, 2009
First of all, when did "I'm pregnant" become "We're pregnant." Something that takes a man 3 minutes in the bedroom and a half an hour in the bathroom with a Penthouse Magazine does not qualify him to be pregnant. Maybe if the numbers were reversed.
Then there's that whole baby gender thing.
"Do you know what you're having?"
"Yes, but we're not telling anyone."
Why not? Because it might be a baby elephant and you want to corner that reality show market all to yourselves? There are only 2 choices, people. And thanks for making gift giving impossible for your friends who now are at a Big and Tall store in New Jersey looking for a size 56 onesie on the off chance it is a large mammal.
And the naming secret? YOU'RE NOT ELECTING A POPE. Give us a chance to talk you out of the hideous 1878 name you have chosen to anchor around your little girl's neck. Or save the couple I know whose last name rhymes with Banker. They kept their little boy's name under wraps until he was born and then it was revealed his name was Conrad. So he will go through school as Connie the Wanker. Brilliant.
And women, for the love of God, I do NOT want to see your over-extended stretch-marked stomach in a bikini on any beach in the world. What are you afraid of, that we won't figure out you're pregnant and will instead think you've put on 60 pounds of belly-button fat? If you're not going to cover it all up, then at least have the decency to walk backwards.
And when you're holding your hand underneath your stomach why don't you just use the Semaphore Flag Signalling System? BECAUSE WE CAN'T FIGURE OUT YOU'RE PREGNANT WITHOUT THEM. Again, we know you're not fat. Well, some of you might be but you know me, I hate to judge. Stop with the hand to stomach algorithm because it's not going to fall to your ankles in your 5th month. Unless it's a baby elephant after all and then you'll have bigger problems than finding that size 56 onesie.
And that whole "You're so sexy when you're pregnant?" Are your girlfriends telling you that? Is the butcher giving you bigger cuts of meat for free? Is the mailman making a pass? NO.
The only person who says that is your husband and that's because you cancelled his Penthouse subscription and he's too cheap to pay for a hooker.
End of chat.
Sunday, October 04, 2009
It's easy to see why he shut down production of their skank tv show. POT IS NOT FREE. He needs to be back on the show with his name on it so he can get more sex and less yelling from whomever he's smoking pot with.
Jon is currently unemployed and made a paid appearance at Millions of Milkshakes in West Hollywood on Saturday according to Bitten & Bound.
So the guy has a pot belly, is a pothead, is not attractive and the worst part of it all?
There's a place that only sells milkshakes and I don't know about it?
Friday, October 02, 2009
I love what Letterman did last night. I'd been hearing for years about his philandering and he once tried to pick up a flight attendant friend of mine on his way out to LA. I don't think he was with his girlfriend Merrill, the one who created Stupid Pet Tricks, but he might have already been with his future wife Regina. There is something very attractive about a man who fucks up and then, albeit under the threat of 2 million bucks, comes clean about it.
For one million dollars I'll confess to sleeping with MacKenzie Phillips.
Roman Polanski? I think a rape by any other name is still a crime. Those days were so wild and drug infused. Lindy and I had dinner with him once in Paris, at his house, and he gave me a Quaalude which I might have cheeked. I can't remember. He is one of the brightest men I've ever met, interesting, charming and polite but no I didn't have sex with him. How do I remember he was all those things if I had just taken a lude? Ahhhhh, you've obviously never had a lude. I did try to bring up the rape charge but he changed the subject thinking I worked for a newspaper. Remember them?
The Olympics, in Chicago? Yeah, let's stick the gangs on those poor tourists. And Oprah, take it down a notch will you? You can sell a book but WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?
Michael Jackson is still dead. And with help from Dr. Feel Good, yes, but homicide? No. You've heard of Suicide By Cop? I think this was Suicide By Doctor.
End of chat.
Thursday, October 01, 2009
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
I remembered how this behavior was not allowed from our parents, under any circumstances. Even if we had a gunshot wound, we were told to sit quietly, cross our legs and wait our turn.
"But Dad, I'm bleeding."
"You call that bleeding? I'll give you something to bleed about."
"Yes sir and I hope you die in your sleep."
"What did you just say?"
"I said I wish we had a pet sheep."
After I waited an hour and my Xanax started to wear off or kick in, I can't remember, they sent me to my dentist du jour. The brunette on the left. She kept saying "You won't need pain pills for tomorrow, this shouldn't hurt you at all."
Why do doctors say that? About every surgery I've had. I always want to answer:
"Oh, did you just have a steel rod put in YOUR back too? I hope you die in your sleep."
"What did you just say?"
"I said now I can finally get some sleep with this giant ROD the length of my back."
But I managed to squeeze 12 Vikes out of her and sure enough, my entire left upper jaw is hanging by a thread, throbbing like a sub woofer and I hope I die in my sleep.
I put the Paypal icon on my blog with the tee shirt sizes. I promised 2 of the 3 I sold yesterday I'd send them out today but unless I put my jaw on a leash and drag it behind me in a little red wagon, that ain't going to happen today.
End of chat.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
If I had children, they would be taken away from me after this post. Monday they pull the upper left molar with only Novocaine, which is what we all know is as close to water boarding civilians as it gets. This molar is approximately 10 feet tall by 4 feet wide and sticks out of my jaw begging for a carved pumpkin for its scrapbook. I'm convinced the roots of this rotten tooth have grown past my brain though to my scalp and that's why my hair roots turn dark so quickly. THINK ABOUT IT BEFORE YOU JUDGE.
So I went to Costco on Friday to refill my meds and buy a pumpkin pie. One of their pumpkin pies has 76 servings of vegetables and even though I buy one a year, I eat it in 2 days. In the middle of all this I decide to experiment with how many Xanax I'm going to need to sit in the dental chair and not kill the dentist. Even though that number was quite high, I did have to drive 45 minutes there and 45 minutes back so 165 Xanax was definitely out.
So Friday I ate 3 pieces of pie, took 3 Xanax and had a 4 hour nap. So three was out.
Saturday I ate 2 pieces of pie, took 2 (maybe 3, it's all a bit fuzzy now) and took a three hour nap.
Now out of pie, I realized the pie was definitely holding me back so I only took 1 Xanax and took another 2 hour nap.
Driving to the dentist is hard while you're napping. I guess I'll find out on Monday.
I put the paypal icon on my blog. I'm only charging $20 per shirt and eating the cost of the shipping, handling and tax. So pick your size, send me your address and I'll send it out on a day I don't use Xanax. If you want to send a check instead, that's okay too.
End of chat.