Natural Blonde Killer

Why I’m Not Giving Up Anything for New Years or Lent or Whatever.

2012-01-03T13:33:00.000-08:00

I’m driving uphill this morning when I run out of gas.

It happens quickly. My car rolls back. It doesn’t surprise me at all.

I have no idea how long the light’s been on.

It’s been weeks. I put money in. Sometimes enough to shut it off all day. I’ll be back soon, though. Could save myself a trip tomorrow if I just fill up all the way right now. Just can’t admit that I’m putting that much into the tank. Sometimes I let it get so empty the light stays on even after I’ve fed it. This only makes me think that empty means kind of full. My car is crying wolf. I can make it go for days when it says it can’t.

Usually.

There are days when that light is not fucking around. Today is one. It isn’t my first. It certainly isn’t my best. I’ve run out of gas in a snowstorm, on the 405, and when I first got my license (which is only notable because it led to a chain of events that culminated in me riding a bike to the E.R. to have gasoline pumped out of my stomach, but that’s a horse of a different color.)

The point is, it’s happened enough that when my car starts rolling backwards, down a steep hill, because of my negligence, on this, the second day of the new year, I’m not phased.

I call Triple A.

A guy comes.

I give him my last nine dollars.

It doesn’t make the light turn off.

I would be mad if I knew what to be mad at. The problem is the no gas, which is the problem with no money, which is the problem with being in love with instability, which is the solution to being in love with lots of things, and who can be mad at that?

So I pay the guy, and I’m running on fumes, which makes me anxious in its familiar, constant muted way.

You have to get your shit together.

That’s what people do.

You have to start being able to fill up all the time.

You have friends who fill their gas tanks and raise kids.

You should never have kids.

You should already own a home.

I realize that I need tampons, and I stop at CVS on the way home. They’re only four dollars, and that’s less than the low balance email from BofA said. It should be fine.

It’s not.

Your card’s not working.

The clerk takes my visa. She puts it in a plastic baggy, and runs it through the machine again. And again. Even she doesn’t want to believe that I can’t afford one goddamn box of tampons.

Try running it as debit.

Fuck me.

Let me see it again.

Like the card’s the issue.

I really do need those tampons.

Come on.

I have another check coming soon. Why isn’t it here yet?

Why do I cut everything so close?

I can’t just not have tampons when I need them.

I will though, because I murmur something about calling my bank, and slink out. At least I’m on the kind of empty that will get my car home.

I search old purses. Luggage. The rest of my life, I have tampons stashed everywhere, like eggs on Easter morning. Right now, there are none to be found.

What am I going to do?

How did this happen?

I have a college degree.

Everyone else is hiking and starving their vices.

I’m quitting pot.

This is all happening because pot makes me stay in bed too late.

Made me.

I’m done now. I’m quitting, and everything will be better tomorrow.

I remember a Target giftcard from my Christmas stocking and drive with the gas light on to La Brea.

(I’m inventive. That’s how I can go so long on vapors.)

And now the tampon light is out, and that will be fine for now, and that check is coming, and I’m quitting pot. And drinking. And sex. And T.V. And everything will be better tomorrow.

I go to an open mic with friends because thank god there’s that. I brag about quitting pot and drinking. I brag about a lot of stuff before I deserve to. I’m quitting that too.

I’m glad I came.

Until a ketchup explodes all over me. From behind.

It’s not the guy’s fault. He’s just having a burger, and there’s too much ketchup or air or excitement squeezed into that bottle, and so it explodes all over me and the new jacket I got for Christmas and I know it’s not his fault, but he could at least say he’s sorry. Someone should be.

Why can’t I have one nice thing?!

So my friends drop me back off at home, where the dishes aren’t done, and the laundry isn’t put away.

Alone now, I breathe, and the air works its way through the little knots in my chest. Like a car going the wrong way over tiger teeth.

Then I pack a bowl and pour a whiskey, and yes, I feel bad about it.

I shouldn’t have told people I was quitting, and I bet I’d feel great if I actually stuck to it, so I eat five cookies while I smoke my bowl and I drink my whiskey.

Everyone is quitting things and ‘changing’ their lives, but that’s not really my problem. Everyone is not having a run- out- of- gas- use- Target- giftcard- for -tampons -have -ketchup –explode- on- your- new –jacket- day.

Leave me alone.

My vices are my old friends, my bubble bath, and I’m delighted to have them on nights like this.

I don’t look back on the years of my life in terms of the actual day they started.

I don’t look back on the years of my life at all.

Everything either happened a few months ago, a couple years ago, or when I was eight.

Bad habits and good times drop in and out like fickle lovers.

They don’t follow the calendar year, and they’re too loyal to leave me just when I need them. They know I won’t want to say goodbye, so they slip away quietly, and one day, I’ll turn around and notice one of my old favorite mistakes is missing.

Maybe my strongest weaknesses will eventually fade away. Maybe I’ll naturally outgrow them, and someday I’ll look back on this as a phase I was going through a couple years ago. I’ll never look back on this as 2012, the year I got my life together, though, because my memory is a messy shoebox of pictures, and not a linear day planner, and I highly doubt that anyone in human history has ever truly gotten their life together on January 1^st or any day, for that matter.

So, I’m fine bathing in my indulgences tonight.

I mean, Jesus. There are only so many times you can run out of gas in one day.

Fuck Rape, Dude.

2011-11-17T23:24:00.000-08:00

I’m self- involved.

That is the primary reason for me clicking on or flipping to any article I see that deals with women in comedy. It’s a subject that interests me not only for the obvious reason that I am one. I also feel a certain level of pride and gratitude for that fact that I am doing comedy at this particular moment in history, which has afforded me the luxury of having so many hilarious girls as peers and predecessors.

I was excited when I saw a posting recently of an article in the New York Times entitled, ‘Female Comedians, Breaking the Taste Taboo Ceiling.’

Honestly, I don’t generally view any comic that I respect as being a ‘female comedian.’ If you’re funny, you’re funny. You’re just a comedian. I hoped that the ‘ceiling’ in this article would be in reference to what I see as an increasingly small distinction between male and female comics, and mainstream America’s growing tendency to view funny girls as a norm, and not a mind blowing exception to the rule.

Then, I read the thing.

To synopsize the article, it casually posits that ‘Girls have gotten funnier over the last ten years, because now they can talk about rape.’

(It’s here if you’d like to check it out.)

http://www.nytimes.com/2011/11/16/arts/television/female-comedians-are-confidently-breaking-taste-taboos.html?_r=2&hpw&pagewanted=all

Call me an asshole, but I find this notion offensive, ignorant, and patronizing. This is also how I feel about rape jokes.

With very little exception, the premise of a rape joke is ‘Rape is the same as sex.’ I think it’s possible to write a ‘rape joke’ that is actually a comment on society’s views on rape in general, but I’ve rarely, if ever, heard such a joke. Sarah Silverman’s famous ‘I was raped by a doctor, which is very bittersweet for a Jewish girl,’ joke is a very smart one liner. It’s well constructed, and it made me laugh the first time I heard it. It’s still equating rape with sex. This is problematic to me for a number of reasons.

The first, and most obvious is that rape is only one thing: an act of violence. It is demoralizing and dehumanizing, and leaves victims feeling powerless. It is an assault on one’s sense of self and autonomy over their own being. When anyone, comedian or otherwise, holds the position that a rape victim was having sex, they imply consent, and thusly blame for the fact that they were assaulted. I have a hard time viewing this stance as anything other than cruel.

I am the last person to suggest that anyone censor themselves in their comedy. In order for comedians to write and continue to find themselves, the stage has to be a place where taboos don’t apply, and where the social filters of day to day life do not exist. That said, I think it’s wise, if not morally responsible, to think about what you are actually saying with a joke, and to decide if that is a thought that you want to broadcast in to crowds of strangers. Needless to say, there is no way to determine this without crossing your own line, and I’m sure even the best comics have jokes that may run counter to their actual beliefs.

I am not angry when I hear someone tell a joke about rape, or race, or the holocaust, that is, at it’s core, racist or misogynistic. I just think that it’s a rookie error. When you first start doing comedy, one of the most attractive things about it is the freedom you feel from social morays you’ve felt for most of your life, and those are our most easily accessible, surface level taboos. Perhaps this is why the highest concentration of rape and Hitler jokes is at open mics. I’m not saying I’m better than that. I definitely had a handful of rape jokes my first couple years.

As I continued to do comedy though, I started to feel like those jokes were working for the wrong reasons. Particularly outside of major cities, it is challenging for a girl comic to garner the attention and respect of an audience. There is still a relatively pervasive notion that girls are not funny. On top of that, you are asking a room full of men and women to shut up for a second, and let you be in charge. Not every group of people in this country is quite ready to do that. Sometimes you have to have to pull a trick out of your sleeve to get them to let you hold court. Unfortunately, one of those tricks is a rape joke. It’s saying, “It’s cool guys. I don’t like girls either.”

I do not think it’s brave to tell a rape joke. I do not think it’s edgy or smart or interesting. I think throwing a group of victimized people under the bus so that you don’t eat shit on stage is a sign of cowardice.

What I do think is brave is allowing yourself to be publically vulnerable, to speak frankly about the yourself and your point of view, regardless of whether you offend people and embarrass yourself. I lot of the comics I love take an ‘offensive’ or morally questionable stance on things, because that is actually how they feel. There is a huge difference between doing that, and adopting false mean spirited stance just for shock value.

The people who are, in my mind, masters of the craft, all know themselves and their voices so well, that when they are on stage, they are offering a view of who they really are, beneath the layers of being polite and agreeable, that we all exist under. This honesty can take so many forms: anecdotes, joke- jokes, absurdity. Dirty, clean, somewhere in the middle. Everyone’s instrument is different, but a great comedian tells an audience things they would never tell their spouse.

There are so many women who do this. By lauding the great proliferation of rape jokes over the past ten years, that Times article is relegating women to that very early phase of depending on mean spirited and false jokes. I completely agree that chicks in comedy are kicking ass and taking names. We are well past that rudimentary phase. I wish they had talked about how well Jackie Kashian or Tig Notaro can tell a story, or how fascinating it is to watch Maria Bamford explore her demons via a series of cartoon-esque voices.

Whatever. At least Bridesmaids did well this year.

My Left Ear

2011-06-27T06:18:00.000-07:00

Just because someone wears glasses doesn’t mean they’re smart.

Or sophisticated.

Or the owner of an impressive vinyl collection.

They just have bad vision.

Blah, blah. Glasses add character. They’re a fashion statement. And I think we can all [1] agree that Dr. Drew is sexy as hell.

I get it.

None of this changes the fact that for too long, we’ve placed the half blind in an elite class, obtainable by the lowly full visioned only upon purchase of faux specs from Claire’s Boutique, or some other godforsaken corner of the mall.

It’s not fair. Not to those whose face organs work just fine, and certainly not to the rest of the world’s half-handicaps, those of us who’ve lived in shadow for too long.

Yeah. I’m talking about the half-deafs.

If you don’t know any of us, or haven’t figured out how to get on our ‘good side,’ I suggest you remedy that immediately. We’re also very interesting, and have lots of valuable qualities. (We just don’t wear it all over our faces like some people.)

As children, half-deafs are the perfect people to befriend. Want to talk to us during class? Go ahead! You won’t get in trouble! Just whisper whatever you’d like into our deaf side, watch us turn in our seat, to ask you ‘What?’ and then enjoy recess as we get our name on the board (again) for talking.

Half-deafs are great listeners at any age. Stand on the right[2] side of us, and you have our undivided attention. Think we’re going to abandon you for a more interesting conversation? We can’t. We don’t even know they’re going on!

If you do happen to be on the quiet side of a half deaf, there are benefits for you as well! Have social anxiety or general insecurity? Feel free to feed them both, as you vie futilely for our attention. Convince yourself that you’re being ignored. Ah, delicious self -pity! You’re welcome. Just tip your waitress[3].

Perhaps you haven’t had a nice uncomfortable moment in a while. Find a crowded area, and stand on our quiet side. (Make sure your half-deaf can’t swap sides with you.) Then whisper something into their ornamental ear, forcing them to turn close for clarification. Then, make it abundantly clear that you’ve forgotten you’re talking to a half-deaf, and make them feel awkward, as you clearly wonder why they’re sticking their face in yours.

Snorers, early risers, and other nocturnal pariahs should absolutely seek out half-deafs as bedmates. With our convenient ‘total silence’ feature, (quiet ear up), we can sleep through sirens, sleep talking, and important alarm clocks, and will never make you feel bad about it[4]!

Give us a red eye flight, park bench, or booth at our hostessing job at Chili’s. We will sleep on it! When you’re wearing nature’s Bose headphones, the world is your Tempuredic mattress!

Look, we have a ways to go. No one’s rushing out to buy vintage hearing aid frames for the next Arcade Fire concert. No one assumes that we got this way because we blasted too many books on tape as teenagers. But we’re making strides every day[5]. Go ahead, find yourself a half-deaf. We’re waiting for you.

Smiling.

Laughing.

(We don’t really know what you’re saying.)

[1] Data compiled based on random survey of inhabitants of my apartment. Dog chose not to participate.

[2] In my case, left.

[3] Do that anyway.

[4] Might blame you for the alarm thing. Sorry. I’m a bitch without my coffee.

[5] Attempting to wrap my infantile brain around the asinine and absurd concept of adulthood.

This Is A Real Picture Of Where This Blog Was Written

2011-01-04T16:09:00.000-08:00

In the last week I have watched Friday Night Lights eleven times and swept my kitchen not at all. There are dust bunnies under my couch that I have known about since Halloween. The passenger window of my Volvo is completely fogged over with my dog’s saliva, as permanent a fixture as the busted door handle I never felt like fixing, but you probably won’t notice either of those things because your attention really ought to be on the cookie wrapper, In-N-Out box, and bra at your feet.

I am a slob.

And I am fucking fine with it.

I don’t know what to tell you. I have a high tolerance for dust, dirty laundry, and dishes. I’m not saying I let shit get way out of whack – I’ve seen Hoarders. I can recognize when things are about to reach a breaking point. That’s when I take care of business. Drink a little extra coffee. Throw some stuff away. But until that point, I have to be honest. Cleaning is not a real priority, and I like it that way.

You guys, there is so much stuff to do that is more fun than cleaning. Actually, think of any verb right now. I bet whatever you thought of was more fun than scrubbing mildew with Comet.

As it is, I often wonder where my days go. I start out with a litany of things I’m hoping to get done, much of which is carried over from previous days’ to-do lists. To add an additional challenge to this back log of accomplishments, I am a flighty, nap-prone, tangent-taking piece of shit, which eats away at a more than substantial portion of my time. Exactly where in this hustle and bustle is cleaning supposed to fit in?

I mean, I’m barely one person.

I have found mess complacency to be a huge weight off my shoulders. It’s lovely to let go of an entire category of your responsibilities. It opens up time for irresponsibilities, which are obviously superior in every way.

And all you have to do to enjoy this freedom is be okay with a few old receipts in your make up case, a few empty shampoo bottles in your shower.

Done.

Frankly, I think slobs are fantastic people. I look for the quality in friends and living partners. Have a bowl of milk with Cheerios in your sink? Great. That just tells me: Hey, this is someone whose visits I won’t need to prep for, and they probably will also have an extra jacket in their car if I ever need to borrow one. Slobs are people you can rely on for spontaneous living supplies and a general lack of judgement.

I know, some of you are clean. Some of you fold your clothes when you pack, and sweep in places no one sees. I still love you. I mean, your living habits make me a little uncomfortable, but I try to remember that we just have a different threshold for mess. And a different amount of time free to hike and watch Roseanne.

God, I am such a dick.

Damn. The Man.

2010-11-12T15:57:00.000-08:00

Okay, so it was my fault AT&T shut off my internet. I’m willing to at least accept culpability for not paying the bill. Or, for not having the money to pay it. I guess that is my fault. Mostly. The thing is, I paid the bill eventually. I still didn’t really have the money for the bill plus late fees and ‘you’re-a-piece-of-shit’ surcharges, but it had been a painful two days with my internet held ransom – I mean, no facebook in bed? What the fuck. I’m not a caveman. So I paid the amount, and was eagerly awaiting the return of mornings with Perez and Huff Post as I was on hold with my fifth incompetent operator, two and a half hours deep into the labyrinthine quagmire that is their customer service line. So many things had gone wrong with this call that I was more well -versed in their operating system than the people who worked there.

"AT & T."

“Hi. So, my internet got shut off, and I paid the bill, and I just need –“

“What’s your social security number?”

“I just gave it to the other girl.” Really? Every temp working the call center in Battle Creek needs my social and mother’s maiden name? I’m just supposed to be okay with that? But fine. I give it to her.

“Anyway, I need my internet back on, and apparently you guys switched internet types over the two days that mine was shut off, so your new internet isn’t compatible with my old modem, so I need a new modem, and the only way to do that is to buy it in a bundle with my phone, but my work order has already been submitted with the phone and internet separate, so I just need you to cancel those orders and submit it as a bundle.” See? I knew my shit. I didn’t want to talk about it anymore, though. I just wanted to get on with my day. I had other stuff to put off doing.
“Oh. I see. Yeah. It looks like you need to pay the fee.”
“No. I already paid the fee. I –“
“There’s a new fee. Hold on. Let me transfer you to the fee department.”

And that - was when I lost it. I was the customer. Uh, The Customer of ‘The Customer is always right’ fame? I didn’t have to put up with this! I could easily pack my bags and head over to Time Warner. I’m sure they would treat me…well, probably a little worse. I’d actually had Time Warner before, and they were at least as bad as AT & T. In fact, I recalled one incident wherein I spent five hours explaining to them that I never lived at an address where they accused me of having a past due bill. When I asked for information about what I could only assume was a fraudulent account, they said they couldn’t release anything because I had just told them it wasn’t my account. Why is dealing with these people such a goddamn M.C. Escher painting?!

Ugh. So, no, I couldn’t switch companies. I would just have to hunker down with AT & T, who’s cornered the market by being imperceptibly less horrendous than their competition. Because choosing a company to patronize in this country is like being forced to choose a husband in a White Power bar. Ultimately, you have to chug a stiff drink and just go with the one with the most teeth.

I’m not even sure I get to choose who I give my money to at all. I need AT &T, T-Mobile, and B of A much more than they will ever need me. My life without internet, cell phone, a place to deposit my checks, is an inconvenient uphill shit show. Their lives without me? Exactly the same. They could lose me, or thousands of me’s, tens of thousands of me’s and their bottom line would be effectively unchanged. So what am I supposed to do when I’m thwarted, abused, and extorted by them? Threaten to take my often past due balance elsewhere? Hold up my three figure bank balance like a floozy past her prime, and shake it in B of A’s face as I leave, taunting ‘You could have had aaaaaaall this!’ They would laugh. They would chuckle like the villains they are and remind themselves that they own entire countries.

Even the White Power bar isn’t that cocky. He has to hope there’s another girl with low self esteem waiting to be demeaned by him. I mean, there usually is, but still.

And this is why everywhere sucks. Because they can. Because the fundamental principle behind a free market - that entities who have to compete for consumer dollars will naturally have to keep their prices reasonable and their service decent – is null and void, and bull shit. Because inherent in that principle is the idea that the company relies on the consumer, and I for one am way too addicted to convenience, technology, and coffee on every corner for it to be reasonably construed that I am the one calling the shots. I’m not. I’m at peace with it. I get it. I lose, they win. Again. So if anyone needs me this week, I’ll be spending most of it with AT &T, phone to my ear, hands around my ankles, which, let’s face it, is the best way to welcome home the internet.

Who's The Boss?

2010-09-15T13:46:00.000-07:00

"Never put off until tomorrow what you could do the day after tomorrow just as well." - Mark Twain
"I was supposed to write a blog based on this quote three weeks ago." - Me

I have a hard time getting out of bed sometimes. Every morning. And the problem is not my cavernous studio, nor my deaf ear, nor my love for PBR on a Wednesday. Rather, it is the interloping sea gull of an alarm that comes squawking into my subconscious, a vicious reminder of everything that seems futile about the day that lies ahead of me - an insipid attack on my delicious sleep, one that I feel I must defend myself against with the help of an adorable little button who goes by the name 'Snooze.'
MAH MAH MAH SAME SHIT DIFFERENT DAY.
Snooze!
Five minutes of bliss, then -
MAH MAH MAH MAH AND SAME SHIT MEANS OPEN FINAL DRAFT WRITE A SENTENCE STARE AT THE WALL PICK A SCAB WONDER IF YOU'LL EVER WRITE ANYTHING GOOD AGAIN.
Snooze! Snooze!
Oh. Thank God. Five more delicious min--
MAH MAH MAH MAH AND WONDERING IF YOU'LL EVER WRITE ANYTHING GOOD AGAIN MEANS GETTING DEPRESSED AND MAKING YOURSELF FEEL BETTER BY GOING TO THE STORE WHICH MEANS BUYING PUDDING CHIPS AND SALSA BECAUSE YOU DON'T KNOW HOW TO SHOP LIKE A GODDAMN ADULT.
Snooze! For the love of Pete! Snooze! Damn it! Who's the asshole that set this thing anyway?!
That asshole is, of course, me.
Because I'm self employed (or unemployed, for those of you who live outside of Los Angeles) which means that everyday I work for a boss who is so critical and micromanaging that I constantly feel compelled to defy her by slacking off behind her back.
She's such a stress case. She acts like the work we do is ridiculously important, and is always on my ass about why I haven't finished a project on time. She's borderline abusive - calls me lazy, unproductive, slow, and I just want to tell her "Lady, calm down. This isn't the E.R. We're writing jokes about the Kardashians here."
And nothing I ever do is good enough. Every premise I write is met with an eye roll, every set we listen to with groans of displeasure.
Frankly, I'm sick of her shit, and I've started doing something about it.
This juvenile work we do is comically close to her heart, so I sabotage it every chance I get. Pilot idea she's been dying to outline? Punchline she needs to streamline? I replace these stimulating, gratifying projects with the most mundane activities imaginable. Entire afternoons are spent tweezing toe hairs or looking for Hypercolor shirts on ebay as she stews over why we haven't heard back from that Lit Agent.
Just like most bosses, she's better at giving orders than executing them. Half the time she's barking demands at me, I find her 'brainstorming' on Facebook or 'taking a five' to jerk off. It's laughable that she even considers herself a real writer.
I know it sounds like I'm in a terrible work environment, but she's not awful 100% of the time.
She understands that I am a 'non-traditional worker' and can actually be pretty accommodating. She'll let me get 'a little high' sometimes in the morning, if I promise it will help with my writing, and our office dress code is simply 'pantsless casual.'
We have far fewer of those annoying midday work birthday parties than most folks. You'll only see a sheet cake around these parts a couple times a year: once, when it's her birthday, and her family sends one, and once when we have our annual 'Congratulations, Tess. You've Tricked Yourself Out of Being Successful, So Eat Up!' party -- which is actually pretty fun, because there's always lots of booze at that one.

Notes from a Butthead

2010-07-07T01:43:00.000-07:00

I wish I could quit non-smoking.

I know I have it in me. I’ve done it before. There was a whole two-year spell in college where I was doing really well. I was focused then, committed. I would go days without skipping a cigarette – sometimes even hours. I’m not saying this was easy – far from it, actually. This was college, after all, and I was as broke as I was into Amnesty International. However, I was not going to let my financial status break my will. I took a part time job where I got paid in cash, and every night after work, I would head to 7-11 and spend my earnings on something I could feel good about: a nice fresh box of Camel Lights. Sure, I could have squandered my money on something ridiculous, like food or shampoo, but like I said, I was committed.

And my discipline paid off.

That was the healthiest I have ever been. Socially. I would walk into groups of strangers – a smoldering scum stick my ticket to butting into a conversation on emo music or experimental film. Any time I felt an awkward silence at bars or parties, I would gracefully excuse myself to go outside and join my brethren addicts – sucking down carbon dioxide in sub zero weather to avoid the uncomfortable conversation inside. I forged many a lasting friendship on balconies, in alleys, near stoops, reveling in the delightful crackle of laughter and chronic bronchitis.

Like many people, I started non-smoking socially. More and more of my friends started experimenting with breathing correctly, and I found myself joining them inside while ‘my people’ behaved like responsible smokers and religiously puffed away at their American Spirits (the cigarette of choice for smokers who cannot quit and thus punish themselves with a lifetime of foul tasting smokes.) I avoided the judgmental gaze of my smoking friends when I turned down a post-drink puff, telling everyone that ‘This was just a phase. Just something I do when I want to let loose and not hack up a lung.’

But then I stopped buying my own pack. Soon, I was non-smoking everywhere: the car, my apartment, even at bars, once my carbon monoxide wonderlands. It’s true what they say, too. A non-smoker is tough to be around. You constantly reek of smugness, and you cough up moral superiority everywhere you go. I know it’s a dirty habit and that it’s not good for me - I know it makes me unattractive to rock stars and former drug addicts, and I am constantly aware of the amazing conversations that are being held over ashed cigarettes and flicked Bics all across this great nation. Now, when I’m at a show or a party I have nothing to break the ice but my own awkward giggle and perhaps an anecdote about how my car battery died last week – and let’s face it, that’s just not lady like.

Every once in a while if I’ve had a really bad day or a really stiff drink, I’ll overcome my craving to not fill my mouth with the taste of exhaust and old asphalt, and bum one, but sure enough, I’ll break and put it out before I’ve finished the job. I just don’t think I can quit non-smoking. I don’t have that kind of will power.

A Lady Blog Ga!

2010-03-03T15:19:00.000-08:00

Guys, I don't have bad taste in music...all the time. I listen to college radio, I know what Jack White's latest side project is, I've been to The Echo.

I also play 'Bad Romance' and 'Womanizer' daily. Five times.

Because all the burned CD's, suggestions from friends, and time spent in Los Feliz will not change the fact that I am a gay man trapped in a woman's body, and I panic for a bitch. I friend of mine recently described himself as having a gay boner for Barbara Streisand, and while Babs doesn't quite make me put a metaphorical notebook in front of my pants, I know what he's talking about - when a bitch is so awestrickingly awesome that the very thought of her elicits a reverent rush of enthusiasm so intense that it's almost sexual, but it isn't, but it is, but it isn't.

My inner gay is straight for Lady Gaga.

The facts are these:

1. While most artists spend years rising to stardom, Lady Gaga showed up at our doorsteps pre-packaged as a super star. One minute, the world was existing as we know it, and the next, a platinum blonde piece of performance art was taking the world by storm.

2. Old girl knows how to hide a problem area. Namely, her face. Forget X-Tina reminding us that 'I am beautiful,' Lady Gaga has inspired the millions in this country who have a face for radio by making it socially acceptable to hit the town with all or most of one's face obscured. Ladies, have an Adrian Brody nose? Next time you're going to a party, slap a giant light up sparkly star on your face, and call it a night.

3. Let me begin by saying that I acknowledge how disgusting, obnoxious, and well-trod upon the word is, but bottom line, everything she does is un-be-fucking-lievably fierce. Everything. She bats a hundred. If she's existing, she's unzipping a faceless dress to accept an award by 'thanking God and the Gays,' writhing on stage lamenting that what she 'hates more than money is the truth,' or otherwise making us all glad that we live in a time when such a hot, fierce bitch exists, while simultaneously reminding us that we are not said bitch.

And now onto my other wife, my 'starter wife,' if you will.

I think we can all agree that Britney Spears is the first time that white trash has become famous and stayed exactly as trashy as she always was. Having such a public specimen gave middle America a chance to see what white trash was really about - it's not all sunshine and PBR. True 'country' means bare foot trips to the Chevron, public spats with your significant other, and melodramatic cries for help in the form of pill binges, manic shopping sprees, or head shavings. Also, they really like Doritos and frappucinos.

Because Britney offered such a fascinating glimpse into this other world, we became maniacally obsessed with her, and sicked a running-of- the- bulls style gaggle of paparazzi on the girl, sacrificing a human life so that everyone would have something good to read while we got our nails did.

We all know how that shit show ended - with an all bets off, piece de resistance known as the Circus Tour, wherein the Britney we all love - fake tanned, hair extensions, and sequined bra and panties that are a smidge too small, came flying from the ceiling of convention centers across the country, appointed herself the ringleader of the circus that her life had become, and reminded the world that 'It's Britney, Bitch!'

I was lucky enough to see her at the Staples center, and the second she hit the stage, whip in hand, two thousand girls in the audience lost it, and never got it back... not when she did 'Piece of Me' writhing around in the gilded cage we'd all created for her, not when she hopped around to 'Baby One More Time' and busted out original choreography, not when she lip synched 'Every Time' while suspended from the ceiling on a giant glitter umbrella.

And yes, I knew she was going to lip synch. Anyone who points out that she does not really sing is completely missing the point. You don't see her because of her voice. We all know 'Britney's voice' is a computer somewhere in Sherman Oaks. You see Britney because you want to see the bitch pretend to dance, whip her dancer boys as she makes them do push ups, and maybe, just maybe catch an earful of her complaining off stage that her 'pussy is hanging out.'

The best thing about Britney is that the worse she gets, the better she gets. The more trite, slutty, and ignorant she becomes, the more unique, untouchable, and brilliant she is. She is still legitimately hot in any of her several lingerie ensembles, but we all know what a treat it is to catch a glimpse of overalls, glasses, and no make up Britney.

There's no wrong way to spot a Britney.

And so, next time you get in my car, and Kiis FM is blasting, before you bash my taste in music, remind yourself that I can't help myself. It's who I am. I was born this way. I am biologically predisposed to panic for a bitch.

My Resume 'The Deleted Scenes'

2010-02-11T01:31:00.000-08:00

Hey guys, what do you think of this res/cover letter?

xoT

Dear Sir or Madam:

Thank you for looking at my resume.

Below, please find my other resume. 'My resume, the deleted scenes,’ if you will. I look forward to your thoughts.

TESS BARKER

Shitty Job Resume

WORK EXPERIENCE

Waitress on and off for some time

(Multiple Establishments Existing in Varying Degrees of Squalor)

-learned to discriminate against old people, people with children, and various minorities.

-utilized various tools to steal fries off customer’s plate before delivery to table.

-became acutely aware that tips should be 20% unless something is seriously wrong. Trust me on this.

-developed an excellent tolerance to cockroaches, germs, and sexual harassment

Senior Citizen’s Aerobics Teacher two years. i know.

(An Adult School. The Kind That Have Pamphlets at the Library)

-piloted aerobics program based on absolutely no knowledge of aerobics.

-attended various “class parties” that were thrown by students in the middle of a weekday afternoon in the back yards of Beverly Hills estates, wherein belly dancing and potlucking would ensue.

- attempted to improvise hour long chair aerobics routine, and quit after five minutes.

Retail Associate short periods of insanity

(Multiple Retail Establishments at Outlet and Otherwise Heinous Malls)

-donned a variety of humiliating stickers, basketball jersey’s, and mannish visors, all of which served to increase sense of shame by 52% in one year alone.

-developed intense hatred for weekends, holidays, and any other time intended for fun.

-abused employee discount in the name of ‘pay back,’

Temp (intentionally and unintentionally)

(Buildings That Required Key Cards and had Free Coffee)

-mastered fake ‘professional voice’ for incoming calls

-solidified understanding and appreciation of Mike Judge’s “Office Space”

-used ‘that one responsible looking button up’ and extra perfume to cover up late night antics and give impression of a functioning adult.

-expanded useless knowledge by ten fold, via the internet

-mastered watching of clock count down starting at 4:53 daily

Regular Substitute Teacher too long

(Yep. 90210)

--read all sections of newspaper whilst students texted and talked loudly about blow jobs in the back of the room.

-relearned long division, and remembered how good Dorritos are at ten a.m.

-regularly referred to as ‘the shit,’ ‘my favorite,’ and ‘you blaze it, huh?’ by students

Odd Jobs moments of intense despair

(Locations of Ill Repute)

-exercised wide range of skills including: ‘background work’ on UPN comedy, contributing to focus groups, babysitting, selling books online, fliering door knobs, event planning, P.A.ing, putting up signs for AIDS Walk, legal assisting, reviewing spiritual books, and attempting unsuccessfully to be hired on by the Census (despite receiving perfect score on standardized test), and ghost writing essays

SKILLS

Faking minor surgeries to call out sick, Limited ability to tolerate general population, Limited ability to feign enthusiasm for patronizing corporate mottos, Well thought out stories upon abrupt resignations

*References not available. Thank you for understanding.

Fridays by the Swamp with Deafie

2009-12-06T11:51:00.000-08:00

My plane lands in the Florence, South Carolina airport. Or, rather, my “plane” lands in the Florence, South Carolina “airport.” I had taken one of those puddle hoppers that are, I suppose, the closest thing we’ll ever get to a real live Magic School Bus. You know - the type of deal, where instead of saying, “Flight attendants prepare for take off,” the pilot announces over the intercom, “Brian, have a seat.” These Greyhounds with wings always scare the Bejesus out of me, as their stability depends largely on whether there is a breeze, crosswind, or swarm of gnats.

Just landing feels like a real accomplishment, so my spirits are high when I touch down. Until my writing partner calls. He’s delayed five hours. Now, I am great at killing time in airports. I can spend an hour trying to justify buying the newest US Weekly - ‘It’s a Britney one!’, have a glass of wine and a quesadilla because it’s not nine a.m. where I’m from, and silently judge people based on what they’re reading - Dr. Phil in hardcover? That’s simply unforgivable.

So, there has to be something here to keep me occupied. I scan the room (yes, the room) and find: five rocking chairs, a stack of Clarendon County coupon books, and a snack bar comprised of three bolognae sandwiches circling sadly around in a vending machine. Looks like I have five hours to take in not so sunny Florence. I approach the TSA officer who sits with his feet propped up on a rocking chair. “Hi. My friend’s flight is delayed, and I have a lot of time to kill. Is there somewhere around here I can walk to?”

He looks at me for a few moments. “Walk to?”

“Yeah. I have a while, so...”

“Closest restaurant’s a mile away. So...no.”

“A mile I can do. Which dire--”

He calls over his buddy the luggage searcher, “This girl wants to walk. To the restaurant.” They both have a nice belly laugh at my expense. Baggage Checker shakes his head, “They’ll think she’s one of those girls,” One of what girls? A local cheerleader? Can I still pass for high school? “Those girls?” I inquire playfully. TSA guy nods humorlessly, “A lady of the night.” It’s noon. I’m wearing a flannel.

“Oh. Well, I live in L.A. I think I’ll take my chances.”

I head toward the exit, and they both bid me farewell with a look clearly means “Pity.”

“I hope you have a knife,” says the TSA guy. Who just saw me walk off a plane.

I hit the streets, and right of the bat, I am disappointed to see that I won’t be rubbing elbows with any local harlottes. There is no one on the frontage road. It’s actually quite peaceful. I trudge along, taking in the swamp on my right and the charming hum of puttering Chevy mufflers to my left. Just before I arrive at the restaurant - I do see something that may spell trouble - a giant lighted arrow with the word ‘Klassy’ spelled out in flashing bulbs, resting all lonesome like in the soil. How am I going to walk past this without succumbing to the urge to steal it? I remind myself that I won’t get to eat lunch for a while if I go to jail, and carry on to Nick’s Diner: specializing in down home cooking and Thai food.

I open the door. Every fork in the place stops scraping. Twenty white guys of varying levels of obesity stare at me. “Hi. I..uh..table for one.” A teenaged waitress with a sweet smile and a fierce tramp stamp seats me. The old fat whities gradually resume their conversation, but stop every few seconds to watch me do bizarre things like take out my notebook and look over the menu. I’m tempted to try something off the Thai portion of the menu, but am steered the other way when I notice that one of the options is ‘Pad Thai with Liver and Onions.’ So, grilled cheese it is, and I sit back and let the smell of smoking butter and frying cigarettes whet my appetite.

An old gentleman one table over is the first to break the ice. “Where you from?”

“Who, me? California.”

He nods kindly, “I can’t hear you.”

“California.”

“I’m hard of hearing.”

“I’m from California!” The place goes silent once again. Deafie chuckles, “Sweet girl.”

By the time I’m done with my sandwich, the place is empty, save me, Deafie, and the waitress. It’s by no means my idea of a good time in here, but my only other option is the rocking chairs at the airport room, so I decide to stick it out as long as I can tolerate listening to the waitress express her love for cheese, grits, and sleeping. I tell her I’ve never had grits, and Deafie responds with another chuckle, “Happy Thanksgiving.” All three of us could easily just be supporting characters in one of the others’ dreams.

When old girl starts telling Deafie about how she’s too smart to get pregnant, I know it’s time to head out. I ask for the check, and Deafie becomes very adamant about giving me a ride back to the airport. I almost accept his offer, except that by this point, I’m not sure his ears are the only thing on his head that don’t work correctly. He continues to insist and, I find myself clutching my vital organs protectively and yelling “Really! I’m fine!” I run out the door so fast, all I can hear as it closes is, “Sweet girl.”

On my way back, I find a grocery store, and leap at the opportunity to waste a little more time. I’m in the wine aisle trying to decide if it’s easier to walk a mile with four bottles or two magnums, when a grocer walks up to me smiling. I wave back, timidly. He continues smiling for so long, I’m convinced he thinks I’m someone else. Finally, he announces proudly, “I saw you walking.”

“Thank you?”

On my walk back to the airport, I enjoy a smattering of horn honks and tapped brakes from fellows making their way down the highway. This must be what it feels like to be famous: garnering attention from even the most mundane activities. I may be walking alongside a cricket infested swamp, lugging bags of wine, Cheez-its, and peanut butter, but I can’t help but feel down right ‘Klassy.‘ They love me here, they really love me. Either that, or “Sweet girl,” and “I saw you walking,” are just a Southern gentleman’s way of asking, “Excuse me ma’am, but are you a lady of the night?”

A Little Life Lesson

2009-10-05T14:45:00.000-07:00

It's five-o-five p.m. and I've barely finished work. I have exactly the right amount of time to drop off some Fed Exes, run home, throw on a dress and some make up, sit in traffic, and get to my downtown show on time (ish).

I fling on my lap top, scoop up the envelopes, and haul ass out of my boss's backhouse-turned office. I fly toward the Volvo - and directly into a yellow police line.

Goddamnit.

A grisly crime? On Miracle Mile? Couldn't they wait until after rush hour? I find the police that came with this line and demand answers.

"Hi! My car is on the other side of this line, and I really need to get home. Is there anyway you can just let me slip by? I have a show tonight, and I still have to straighten my hair."

I wink and shift my Fed Exes flirtatiously. He crosses his arms and nods his head 'no' with that shit-out-of- luck smile they must teach you in cop school.

"Sorry. It's a potential bomb,"

For the love of -- a potential bomb?! Potential bomb just means some idiot kid thought it would be funny to prank call the police from a pay phone. I know because I was friends with those idiots growing up.

(*Side note to the friend who shall remain nameless because I don't know if there's a statute of limitations on terrorists threats -- Thanks again for calling in that bomb threat to Camarillo High in Spring of '99. On behalf of all of us, thanks for jeopardizing your right to live as a free man so that none of us would have to, like, go to Chemistry that morning.)

What am I going to do now? I have to get to my Volvo. I turn away from the cop and power walk in the opposite direction.

Two blocks down, three blocks up, and one block over (the LA equivalent of running a marathon), I end up at another intersection with another cop, and another piece of police tape standing between me and my car.

I flag down cop number two. "Hi! Look, I know there's a 'bomb threat,' but -"

"Why are you putting quotes around 'bomb threat', ma'am? Do you hear that beeping?This thing is real."

"But - "

I stop and listen just to humor him. Sure enough, there is a persistent beepbeepbeep in the background.

"Really? That's from a bomb? Like, for real?"

"For real. Now, I don't want to blow up, and I certainly don't want you to blow up, so I'm afraid I can't let you past this line,"

Oh my God. I'm going to have to walk all the way around to the other side of the intersection. It is now five-forty-five. My timeline is officially shot. I hurry up the street. My lap top beats repetitively against the side of my leg. I'm sweating all over the damn Fed Exes. And the beepbeepbeep reminds me that I might die a fiery death this evening.

I finally get to the other side. The sun is setting. It is now six fifteen. There's nothing I can do now but wait and/or explode. I call my cohost and tell her I'm going to be late/and or blown to smithereens, and I resign myself to sitting on the curb and waiting for this catastrophe to finish already.

Suddenly, a giant truck marked BOMB SQUAD pulls up. It is as tall as a house and is made out of the same material as Arnold Schwarzenegger's Terminator costume.

Its back door opens. A ramp unfurls, and out rolls none other than an actual legitimate robot.

A cute one. We're talking like a Wall-E or an R2D2 situation.

The little guy wheels his way down the ramp and up to the front door of the bomb house. His skinny robot arms grow longer, and he picks up the bomb! Just when I think I couldn't be more worried about his little robot safety, a trap door opens on his stomach, and he throws the bomb into it. The door closes. The beepbeepbepping stops. The entire neighborhood rumbles in the sunset as the bomb detonates inside the robot.

And that's that. Seriously. I really saw this.

I tell you all about it because I learned a valuable lesson that day:

Sometimes, you may come across obstacles in life that seem frustrating, but don't allow yourself to freak out. Sit back and relax - maybe, just maybe, you're about to see a bomb exploding inside a robot.

Old School

2009-08-16T16:49:00.000-07:00

Hello lovelies,

I'm in South Carolina this month, writing a musical, which is consuming all of my brain...SO, here's a left over essay from a salon I did last year, cause Mamma's too tired to make dinner. Enjoy. xx.

People wonder why I hate Frank Sinatra. Well, you would, too, if you listened to him while lifting weights in a room full of eighty-year olds, every morning for two years.

Now, I’m a girl who likes to say yes. If you ask me to go hiking, get high, or give blood, I will tell you, yes. But when my phone rang one morning, and the woman on the line said, “This is Beverly Hills Adult School. Would you be interested in teaching our Senior Citizen’s aerobics class?” I was hesitant to answer.

I only worked as a substitute so that I could write while the kids watched a video. And my idea of weight loss was replacing meals with coffee. Or a cocktail. “Ms. Barker? It pays thirty-five an hour,”

“Yes,” I replied. “Yes, that’s a yes.”
Working out with old people. How hard could it be? I told myself that, the first morning as I laced up my ironic Reeboks, told myself that as I trekked up the stairs to the wrestling room. Told myself that until the moment I was standing in front of sixty-three old ladies, wearing dance pants and expectant smiles. Jesus Christ. I had to work out with these old people.

“Okay, hi. I’m Tess. Your teacher,”

“She’s cute,” said one. “So perky,” gushed another. This might actually be fun.

Until class started. “Okay, time for weights,” I guessed.

“You don’t have any weights?” asked Mimi, adjusting her sequined leotard. “I do,” I said, defensively. “I just...No, I don’t, you know, own any weights,” Silence, and then a collective tongue click. “Okay, lift your arm over your head,”

“What muscle is this good for?” hissed a woman in ballet slippers and plastic optician glasses. “The arm muscle. Okay, now curls,”

“That’s not a curl,” chuckled Lois, a bottled red head in a Chanel jumpsuit.

“Maybe we should build up to this,” I said, brimming with unfounded confidence. “Time for dancing,”

Now, dancing I had in the bag. Aerobics is one of those things you can fudge. Just keep your hands pretty, and you’ll look like you know what you’re doing.

Or, you’ll scoot across the mat, slapping your feet and calling out arbitrary numbers. Anyway, that’s what happened to me. The back half of the class stopped, crossed their arms, and stared. The front half kept scooting with me, but it was purely out of courtesy, the way one forces a chuckle for a comedian who’s bombing.

“Come on! This is supposed to be fun!” No one cracked a smile. Even the nice ladies in the front were giving up. Now, any improviser knows, when you’re stuck, just say something and commit. Even if what you say is, “Do the cowboy!”

That’s right. The cowboy. I hitched my knees and cocked pantomime guns. I made shooting sounds. Jaws dropped. People left. I gave up the ghost and ended class. Or tried to. But they mobbed the exit.

“You didn’t do any exercises,”

“Have you ever danced before?”

A Persian woman summed it up nice and succinctly.

“That was terrible,”

It was. But I didn’t care. I nodded calmly, like a worker enduring one final patronizing remark from his boss before heading to Mexico with the night’s deposit. If there’s one thing I’m proficient in, it’s leaving a job, and I’ve never been so ready to step up to the plate.

Then Lilianna, a Swiss woman with a face like warm bread dough, ruined everything. She handed me a cookie. “For a sweet start,” Goddamn it. I couldn’t quit now. Someone had brought me a cookie.

So, I went home, and for the first time in the history of my day jobs, I exerted some effort. I googled the muscular system. I watched a DVD called Cardio Dance Party. I went to Target and bought some weights.

The next morning, to my delight, the students who I had truly appalled had dropped, and only the mildly annoyed remained.

When it was time for dancing, I threw on a down tempo version of “Gloria” and got to doing the grapevine. The song was so slow, that we weren’t so much dancing as taking a stylized stroll. Old people music isn’t exactly conducive to shaking ass. Still, I got through it without a mass exodus, and decided to kill some class time with a nice long break.

I pretended to write lesson plans in my notebook. Dan and Dot, a couple in matching velour, approached. “Hey, Boss. What do you do besides this?”

“I’m a writer and a comedian,” I confessed. Dot’s face lit up.

“Our daughter is a writer,”

Dan chimed in. “Tough life you chose. But you’ll be alright. You got good looks, kid,” Dot smiled apologetically, the way I’m sure she has at many a waitress.

“Let’s get back to work,” I called out. The class, now broken into silver haired school girl cliques, grudgingly made their way back for ab work.

I hovered my legs just above the ground, then checked to see if the class was following. Silence. Confusion. Then, from the back of the room, “We’re not all twenty, sweetie,”

Point taken. I led them through a few stretches, then mercifully released them.

At home, I searched for CDs that would be good for dancing. Unfortunately, my selection of Easy Listening was a little sparse. But then, I stumbled across my show tunes CDs. I made a play list fit for a West Hollywood karaoke bar: All that Jazz, Summer Lovin’. Then I came across my boyfriend’s Best of Frank Sinatra. Maybe for weights. And Moby for sit ups…

The next morning, I played Pennies from Heaven as we lifted dumb bells. Constance, a bird of a woman, lifted soup cans in place of weights, and sang along. “I listened to this when my husband was just my boyfriend,” She dreamily lifted a can of creamed corn over her head.

“Watch your grip, Constance,”

Then, All that Jazz came on. Trumpets sounded. Bebe Newirth’s voice whispered “Ah cha,” and the women in my class lost it. I led them through jazz boxes and Charlestons. At the point in the song where Roxy kills her husband, I urged them to get their guns out. The routine was a success. I applauded them and threatened, “I’m going to take you guys on the road,”

Mimi and her entourage skipped up to me.

“Did you see the movie Chicago?”

“I did. I loved it,”

“You should go see 42^nd Street,”

“At the Ahmanson? I’m dying to,”

Finally, people who I could geek out on musical theater with.

As the weeks wore on, I lived up to what I had said in desperation on the first day: that this was supposed to be fun.

My students and I gossiped about our mutual love for George Clooney and Las Vegas. They would tell me what it was like to be married for fifty years. I would tell them what it was like to do stand up at a dive bar. At Christmas, they put together cash and gave it to me in a card. I planned a yoga sequence to Carol of the Bells. When it was someone’s birthday or anniversary, we had bundt cake and milk in the bleechers.

But all bizarre things must come to an end, and as I got busier, I realized I would have to quit teaching. For the first time in my history of quitting day jobs, I was sad. These people had become my little seventy-year-old babies.

The day I quit, I stood before them, anxious. Would there be tantrums? Charges of betrayal? A mutiny? “Guys, this is going to be my last week,” Their smiles deflated. I took a deep breath and braced for impact. But not one of them complained. Instead, they did what only a room full of grandparents would do. They hugged me, and wished me good luck.

My students are still stitched to my memory, tied to a myriad of songs. When I hear ‘I Will Survive,’ Dan is there, telling me to “Turn it up, Boss!” Lois lives in the Phantom of the Opera soundtrack, singing along through brightly made up lips. But Frank Sinatra, I just turn off. There’s only so much one can tolerate of that.

Prilosec Before Swine

2009-07-13T16:00:00.000-07:00

I was early to my show in Brooklyn, and the bar was cash only, so there was only one thing I could do: sit by myself at a booth and start googling 'Swine Flu Symptoms'.

Yes, I realized it was two months after Swine Flu was really in vogue, but I was fairly certain that my sister had it, and I was sharing a hotel room with her.

A word about my sister: You know that friend who can pound a fifth of whiskey and a twelver of Tecate, and still carry on a conversation with job interview-level lucidity? She can drink him under the table, then wake up at the crack of dawn, drive four hours, and compete in a rollerskating competition.

This week, however, we were in New York City, a Type-A night owl's haven, and the evening before, she'd actually uttered the sentence, "I don't want to stay out very late tonight," - her version of saying "Call a Priest," so I knew it was time to get googling.

Fatigue. Nausea. Headache. Cough. Yes, yes, yes, and yes. Christ, were the WHO people staying next door at the Belleclaire?

When the host of the show approached me, I was still sitting solo, zooming in on the word VOMITTING, which is always a fun way to meet new friends.

"Tess? Show's about to start," I'd been so engrossed in my diagnosis that I'd forgotten to write a set list. I closed my phone and set aside my pandemic pipe dreams, for the time being.

The next morning, she wasn't doing any better. I, having spent the better part of a train ride the night before googling 'Risk Factors' tried to subtly assess the situation.

"You still have headache?"

"Uh huh,"

"This sucks. I wonder how you got this. Maybe at the park, or on the plane, or, have you or anyone you know, been in direct contact with anyone who's visited Mexico City between April and June of 2009?"

"Teresa. There's no such thing as Swine Flu."

I wanted to tell her that it isn't like Terrorism, a fabricated ideal made stronger by people's belief in it. It is a simple, concrete, highly infectious virus, generally transmitted via respiratory secretions. I figured, though, that everyone dealt with their diagnosis in their own way, and who was I to pass judgement?

My judgement day came when I returned to LA. I woke up expecting to make up all the work I'd gotten behind on, and was instead met with fatigue, nausea, headache, and, oh shit, cough. I was so weak, I couldn't even focus on the T.V. I was barely able to walk Gatsby down the street, and it took every last inkling of energy to open my computer and once more google the ol' symptoms, just to be on the safe side. I matched five out of six of them. Well, it wasn't like I didn't see it coming.I collapsed on the couch, and tried to picture the newspaper article, "West Hollywood Woman, 27, confirmed case of Swine Flu," Sure, it would be buried on page 13, but I wondered if I could use it in my press kit.

I was still immobilized when Jack got home from work. "You poor thing!" he brought me water and gave me a hug. "I know, it's awful. I think I have Swine Flu,"

He leaped away from the couch and started spraying the kitchen with bleach. "You don't have Swine Flu" he took out the gloves and sterilized the coffee table. "Five out of six symptoms,"

"Uh huh. Is there anything I can -"

(from outside, at the bottom of the stairs)

"Do for you?"

I mumbled something about calling the Associated Press and fell back to sleep.

The next morning, I woke up, still sick, and not sure how to break the news to my friends and loved ones. I figured I'd get the Tamiflu, and then quarantine myself for the seven day period when it is contagious, because, I would tell them bravely "Swine Flu stops with me,"

That afternoon, Jack took me to the doctor, which, for an uninsured person such as myself, is a bit like saying "Let's have lobster and champagne for breakfast!" One only does it once a year, at most, and only for very special occasions. As I waited in the lobby with all of the regular sick people, I wondered if the doctor even knew what was in store for her. Would I be her first Swine Flu case? Was it like when someone wins the lotto at your liquor store? Would the WHO send her a little certificate to be displayed proudly at the receptionist window?

I passed out in the examining room and woke up to the doctor asking why I was there. I figured this was merely a formality, as I'd already told the nurse what my, ahem, symptoms were. Still, she didn't seem to have a clear cut idea of what was wrong with me, so I thought I'd steer her in the right direction.

"I have fatigue, nausea, headache, cough, and I'm vomitting," I winked, then coughed under my breath, "H1N1,"

She examined me then nodded gravely. "Okay, you have some kind of severe cold, and also upset stomach. I'm going to give you some Prilosec, and Claratin, which you can get over the counter,"

Severe cold? Upset stomach? Over the counter? The one time I was springing for a real doctor and not WebMD, and I was getting the 'Take to Asprin and Call Me in the Morning Treatment?!' I was appalled.

Apparently, I was also Swine Flu free, as I did feel better a day or so later. I still do not, however, share my sister's view that "There is no such thing as Swine Flu," nor do I regret the countless hours that I spent laying on my couch, obsessing over what kind of mask to wear next time I fly. I only hope that before the next time I get sick, the media finds another virus to glom onto and inflate to epic proportions, because it feeds my hypochondriac mind in a way that is so much more engaging than just watching Price is Right.

You, Me and the Bear

2009-06-17T11:49:00.000-07:00

Okay. Let's start with the hair. The summer before 9th grade, I was on the phone with a friend, absent-mindedly giving myself a trim. Unfortunately, I underestimated both the duration of our conversation and the absence of my mind, and when I hung up the phone, I was horrified to discover that I had accidentally 'trimmed' myself a set of short, uneven, horrendous bangs. Think Jim Carrey in Dumb and Dumber meets bad facsimile of the Bettie Page 'do. Oh God. I already had braces and bushy eyebrows my mom wouldn't let me pluck. These babies made it official. I wasn't awkward. I wasn't goofy. I was just unattractive.

I threw on a thick headband and went over to my friend Brooke's house to spend the night. Brooke was a year older than me, so I respected her opinion a lot. "What's with the stupid headband? You have a zit on your forehead or something?" I nodded my head 'No' and shamefully pulled it back, the way a sobering drunk might reveal a fresh tattoo bearing the slogan 'Powered by Deez Nuts'. Her jaw dropped.

"Oh no."

"I know,"

"Oh, God,"

"I know,"

"What are you going to - "

"I don't know,"

Brooke thought for a minute before breaking the news to me gently. "There's really only one option," she apologized, as she led me to her sink. She pulled a can of Gillette from her medicine cabinet and worked it into a lather before spreading it onto my bangs. "I mean, you're just going to have to get rid of them. They're just..." She handed me a fresh razor, "Awful,".

"Are you sure?" I took a deep breath, staring into the mirror.

"Oh, yeah. You can't start high school like this."

One scratching swipe of the Bic, and a chunk of them hit the sink, leaving a gaping hole smack in the center of my hairline. This is when it registered. This was a really shitty idea. Still, there was nothing I could do but man up and finish the job. It was like being an executioner who's only half killed his criminal.

Scrape after difficult scrape, I kept at it, until I'd annihilated every last banglette, and successfully given myself a nice, clean shaven forehead. Brooke laughed. I cried. Neither of us brought up the elephant in the room: that she really should have told me "Just let them grow out. You'll look normal by the middle of July,"

Now I was destined to be a homely social pariah by the middle of July, and that wasn't the worst of my problems.

I was also involved in community musical theater.

At our community theater, Denny's was the place to be apres show. It wasn't just that it was the only place open after 10:00. There were waffles and milkshakes and giant banquet style tables where the whole cast would gather round, laugh about the night's show, and talk shit about anyone who wasn't there. There was also a waiter named Chuck. He's the man in the picture.

Chuck was quiet and slow and could be seen around town bicycling with his huge helmet on, or buying cases of Cadbury Eggs at the local Rite Aid. Where he really shined, though, was on the job at Denny's. He loved to entertain large parties, and did so by approaching our table with a gleam in his eye, presenting, for our amusement, his blood pressure machine.

Yes. Blood pressure machine. The kind with the digital reader and the velcro cuff that you pump with a rubber squeezer. In a way, it was endearing that he wanted to share with us his favorite toy. We'd put the cuff on our friends, read their vital signs, and then continue laughing and daring one another to drink half 'n' half or hot sauce. Still, we couldn't help but be a little weary of Chuck. It could have been the sheepish grin he always had on his face when he asked "Would you like something to drink?" Maybe it was his black nursing shoes, or perhaps it was that uneasiness that one invariably feels when a stranger asks you to play with his medical equipment.

Let's just say he wasn't the type you'd want to single you out one night after a performance of The Wizard of Oz. You wouldn't want him to make a come hither motion at you that was so awkward it brought the whole party of self absorbed show folk to a dead silence as he presented you with a giant stuffed bear, leaving you powerless to do anything but giggle nervously and wonder how long he'd been planning this for, which is too bad; because that is exactly what happened to me.

"Thank you?" I tried to avoid eye contact with him, but that meant looking at my friends, who just made me laugh harder. He stood there nodding proudly.

"It's really nice. Thank you again,"

He stayed right where he was. What did he want? A hug? That wasn't going to happen. A handshake? A high five? How does one properly address a gift giving server with irregular blood pressure without going against everything their parents ever told them about not talking to strangers?

"Can I get a picture of just me, you and the bear?" He mumbled.

He had transported the thing on the back of his ten speed, I guess it was the least I could do.

I'm I did, too, because after this night, Chuck never spoke to me again. It was embarrassing, actually. I'd brag to my friends about Chuck My Stalker, and we'd go into Denny's only to have him ignore me completely as he handed the blood pressure machine to a girl on the opposite end of the table.

Clearly Chuck didn't have a long term obsession with me, so why did he chose me of all girls, to give the bear to? I have a sneaking suspicion it was the bangs. Did he think my mangled hairline put me on his level? Did he assume that anyone who would do that to their own face would be willing to take attention anywhere they could get it? Or did he suppose that having faced the reality that I would go into high school looking like a horsey goon, I had given up on taking life seriously and would take any bizarre or creepy turn of events as a joke? If so, he was right. He got the picture.

If You Could Read My Mind

2009-05-08T20:50:00.000-07:00

So I'm walking Gatsby today, and these two women of Unidentified Eastern European Descent, who I assume are a too-lenient young mom and teenage daughter with a nose ring team, spot him and start cooing like Russian canaries. This happens a lot. I have an adorable dog. Whether I'm sporting a night gown with Universal Studios cap (Shut up. I got it in sixth grade) at the crack of ten, or drunkenly stumbling with the pup for a three a.m. pee, it's a reality I've learned to deal with: I walk the little guy, people are going to stop to pet him.

This is why at first, I'm not phased when the mother-daughter pair drops to their knees on Santa Monica Blvd. and hits him with the usual barrage of questions and back handed compliments, all delivered in dripping, sotto tone, "What are you? You like to eat, don't you? You're like a chubby sheep with horrible breath. Yes, you are." Thirty seconds of this I tolerate. Like I said, I'm used to it. But beyond that, it just gets awkward. How long am I supposed to stand lurking over my dog and his harem, acting like the useless dumb human, the blonde chopped liver? Ninety seconds deep, it's really getting uncomfortable. There's only so long I can pretend to be interested in the pile of barf and cheetos in the gutter. Further, these ladies aren't even talking to the dog any more. They're taking turns sucking on his hairy mouth and squeezing his belly so hard I may soon have a new vomit puddle to focus on. I want to speak up for poor Gatz, tell these women enough is enough and remind them that surely they've crossed mother/daughter tongue swords in the midst of this canine 'seven minutes in heaven,'.

I am, however, far too nonconfrontational for that, so I just pull on his leash and make a mental note to have him tested for doggie oral herpes.

At this point, Young Mom leaps to her feet and gets in my face. "I do spiritual readings. I am getting a very strong read from you." Nose Ring Girl leaps up and nods in agreement. I want to tell them I don't believe in that crap, and they're making me late for my mid afternoon jelly and crackers snack, but again with the no balls thing, so I offer every pussy's favorite form of rejection, "Do you have a card I can take?" Young Mom fishes through her purse. She can sense that she's losing me. Her eyes grow wider. Her accent gets thicker. She's entering act-like-a-real-psychic mode. "Who is this person you've been having trouble with lately? Someone who you're having a disagreement with?" She shoots me a 'gotcha' look so severe I'm forced to rack my brain. Bank of America? But I always disagree with them, and they're not really a person. Dr. Phil? Is it really a disagreement if he doesn't know I exist? Pineda the parking enforcement guy? Finally, I just have to break the news to her gently. "I'm sorry, no. There is no one."

She quickly switches to psychic go-to number two,"You're heartbroken over a man. You don't know if he's thinking about you." Poor old cow. She pulled the love lorn card on me, the serial monogamist, me the who's had a boyfriend longer than Scrubs has been on the air. I don't want to tell her this though. I'm afraid it will break her little gypsy heart, so I smile nervously and respond, "Maybe?"

"Maybe!" she and the kid think they've got me. They move closer in. Mom slaps a pink business card into my hand. "You're smiling on the outside, but inside you're sad." Hmm...kind of like someone who's stuck uncomfortably between the faces of two aggressive Natashas?

"I'll think about it," I smile even bigger.

"You haven't been happy in a long time," she hits back.

I nod, and giggle nervously and again try to defend myself with, "Maybe?"

I scoot away.

"You used to be happy!" is her last and best sales pitch, which she hisses at me as I writhe away with my has-been dog, reading her card as an assurance that I'm giving her psychic wares some serious consideration.

Available for Parties. Fabulous. What social gathering is complete with out an off putting woman bombarding my guests with negative blanket statements. Perhaps she does requests: "Can you just remind everyone that we're all going to die, and sprinkle in a little 'you don't think you're good enough,' and 'you'll never be truly happy'?'"

I don't think I'll hire her, though. If she was truly psychic, she would have read my level of poverty and known that I don't have money for a Pinkberry, much less a psychic. She would have known I felt bored and neglected as she and Nose Ring made me into my dog's wing man, and she would have known that the one pressing question I would like an answer to is: "How old will I be when I get my pet monkey, and will I allow strangers to violate him, too?"

Suck it, Neighbor

2009-04-27T16:47:00.000-07:00

I don't want to be writing this right now. I was trying to take a nap. Don't judge. I've taken mid afternoon naps since I was a teenager, and I'm so addicted to them I'd probably need the sleep equivalent of methadone to kick the habit. Plus, at least twice a year, yahoo news posts an article about how beneficial power naps can be, and if there's one source I trust, it's yahoo news. Sadly, howver, it looks like I'll have to trudge through the remainder of my day sans delicious nap because once again, my neighbor is singing in the shower.

And this isn't your run of the mill shower singing. My neighbor, a wiry legged man with a five o'clock shadow/tan in a can blonde with a D cup is practicing his/her (depending if it's day or night) rendition of 'Cocaine is a Girl's Best Friend'. It's a catchy, fun little number set to Marilyn Monroe's 'Diamonds Are a Girl's Best Friend', and she is pulling out all the stops. Full vibrato, lots of pizzaz. I can hear the jazz hands through the wall. There's even a section where she breaks it down, belting at full throttle: "I ain't talking 'bout no crystal meth. Co-caine..is a...gi-irllls beeest fr-ieeend!" I would be annoyed, but I know she's got a gig tonight hosting Bingo at Hamburger Mary's. Besides, he/she's not my most annoying neighbor.

There's also Gloria, the post-op Puerto Rican who has a fake flower adorned crucifix hanging from her front door. Gloria has calves the size of rump roasts and she spends her days alternating between thumping around her apartment in what must be lead soled high heels, and fucking so loudly and roughly, she must make the patrons across the street at the Tomcat cringe. Gloria isn't my most offensive neighbor, either.

Nor is Desiree, my old next door neighbor from downstairs (nee Dimitre, she became Desiree about 8 months after Jack and I moved in. I got her mail while she went to Mexico City to get the snip). Desiree is actually a fabulous neighbor. She works two jobs - check out clerk at Target, and lady of the night. She brings us cookies at Christmas time, and shooes away the homeless when their drunken heckling becomes a bit too abrasive. She also brings over clothes that are too small for her, or as she puts it "not made for big boned girls,". When she was making the switch from Dimitre to Desiree, she brought Jack all of her old man clothes. I accpeted them because I didn't want to be rude. Jack was less than, tickled pink at coming home to a pile of I'm-not-going-to-be-male-any-more hand me downs, but I know deep down, he saw that her intentions were kind. Desiree is actually my favorite neighbor because, while she often seems put together, I think the pressure of holding down two customer service jobs sometimes gets to her, and she's great fun when she becomes scatter brained. Last week, I was driving a friend to the airport at 5:30 am, and I saw Desiree running full speed toward the back of the building. Without me even asking what was wrong, she clued me in, "I threw my purse away!" Who hasn't been there?

My most annoying neighbor is just a plain old straight man. He's overweight, bald, and has a moustache, and has apparently chosen to focus the frustration brought about by these unfortunate facts on us. When my dog barks at the Fed Ex guy, he screams from behind his door "Quiet! Quiet!" When I pass him in the alley and say hi to him, he just averts his gaze like I've asked him for spare change, and mutters, "Hi." He has told us that Jack and I walk really loudly when we're leaving for work in the morning. That's right. We're all living in the midst of a tranny themed Melrose Place, and the daily ten seconds of our footsteps are what he finds disturbing. Now, I'm an open minded person. Turn your tricks, lose your junk, and blow 'em away with your narcotics themed dittys, but dude, don't be a dick.

Hello My Prettys, and Welcome

2009-04-14T15:01:00.000-07:00

I've decided to start a blog for the same reason most people do: because I'm quasi-unemployed and a touch narcissistic. (Coincidentally, these are traits that may also lead one to pursue a career in stand up comedy.) I say 'a touch' narcissistic, and not 'full blown' because I am not enamored with my own image. In fact, looking at pictures or videos of myself is about as enticing to me as an Easter basket full of chocolate malted mayonnaise balls. This is why I do not envy famous actors.

It's bad enough that I'm forced to face my voice and image every time I check my voicemail or get some godforsaken tagged facebook picture in my inbox. I cannot imagine being stuck in traffic next to my big old mug when it's been plastered on the side of the MTA.

There is also the public harassment to consider. I'm not talking about the mutually beneficial shit show that is LiLo and her Electrical Parade of paparazzi flashbulbs. Even middle aged character actors can have a tough time leading a normal life. I was in Rite Aid yesterday, and Ben from Lost was behind me in line. Just as he placed his Maalox and Windex on the register belt, the woman behind him assaulted him with a barrage of 'You're Ben from Lost! I love you, but I hate you!" Ben from Lost just nodded patiently, "I understand. I understand." Other customers in the store stopped what they were doing and were now staring at the debacle.

"I mean, I really just hate you, but you're so good! Ew! I hate you!" The stock boys emerged from the back to survey the scene.

I high tailed it out of there. I may have been buying a wagon load of cold medicine, tea, and overpriced herbal tablets, but this woman was truly sick. After one's early childhood and/or hallucinogenic drug phase, there is no excuse for a healthy individual to mistake fiction for fact. Ben from Lost is just a guy who gets up in the morning, goes to work, and delivers some lines that have been written for him by a bunch of highly paid writers. There is no reason to love nor hate him, and there is certainly no reason to squawk at him in public like you've just spotted the car that's currently being announced on Amber Alert. He's just a person whose job requires him to use his image to create a series that is mysterious, melodramatic, and gratuitously frustrating. That said, I would happily take a bit part on Lost. Like I said, I'm quasi-unemployed and a touch narcissistic.