Thursday, October 29, 2009

Celebrity Sighting

Did I ever tell you about the time I saw Maggie Gyllenhaal? Oh my god, it was so funny. She was walking down the street in Brooklyn, pushing her baby in the stroller, just like a typical Brooklyn mom. She looked so normal! And I was like, oh my god. I was so excited to see her in real life! And I was like, Maggie! And she kind of looked at me. And then I was like, Ramona! Which is the name of her baby. And she kind of smiled and pushed the stroller a little faster. And I was like, How’s Peter! Which is her husband, Peter Sarsgaard. The actor? And she looked down at the sidewalk and was like, rushing away. And I was like, How’s Jake! Which is her brother, Jake Gyllenhaal, the actor. From Brokeback Mountain? And she kept walking (she was already pretty far away from me at this point). And I was like, How’s Reese! Which is Jake Gyllenhaal’s girlfriend, Reese Witherspoon, the actress. From Legally Blonde? And she was like this little point of blue-colored light disappearing down 5th Avenue (her coat was blue, it was probably Marc Jacobs or something. The designer?) And I was like, How are your parents! Who are like, screenwriters or something. And then I couldn’t see her at all anymore. And I was still standing there, right where I’d sighted her, and I yelled really really really loud, FUCK YOU MAGGIE GYLLENHAAL! FUCK! YOU! EAT A FUCKING DICK! Because I was like, kind of offended?

Office Politics

Cheryl wanted to put a bowl of blue glass pebbles on the desk in the lobby, and I was like, “What’s that all about?” She was like, “I think it adds a sort of breezy tone to the proceedings of this office.” I was like “Breezy? That’s funny because to me it adds a sort of cheap Pier One Imports tone, and what was wrong with the vase with the stalks of hay sticking out of it?” She was like, “Well, that adds more of a prairie vibe. Paging Laura Ingalls Wilder!” She laughed at her own joke, obviously she had been waiting to reference Little House on the Prairie for some time. I was like, “I liked the hay. And I thought it was more of a simple living vibe than a prairie vibe. And also, I happened to bring some dried mandarin oranges and cinnamon sticks to position in a sort of centerpiece on that table. So I’m going to go ahead and do that.” Cheryl was like, “Really? Because I never thought of this place as being a sort of Asian harem where you might get sold into sex slavery.” I was like, “Really?” and was trying to think of a way to make her feel bad for her obviously racist jab my centerpiece when Judy comes in. She’s like, “Hey guys, I went ahead and brought in this rain stick to give this place more of an earthy feel. I’ll just place it next to the photocopier.” Cheryl and I were both like, “Really?” Then Joan came in and was like, “Morning everyone. I brought in this plastic, multicolored scale model of an atom that I got at a children’s museum to put on that table and give this place a sort of elemental, down to basics kind of feel.” Finally, our boss came in and was like, “Listen guys, I just ordered a huge, six foot tall, silver sculpture of a paper clip that we’re going to lean against those doors and that will give this place an early-nineties, raffish, playful, entrepreneurial, safe sex, still care about the Olympics kind of vibe. Got it? And that settled everything.

Thursday, October 22, 2009

Big Jon & I

"But Big Jon," I said, raising my voice so that it might carry up to his ears, which were high above me. "How will we reach the barn in time? It looks so far away!"

"Is it truly far?" asked Big Jon, and in doing so his thunderous baritone vibrated my every body part. "Or does it just appear so, being dwarfed by my Brawny Arms?"

I looked harder, and saw that indeed this was the case! For a Brawnier pair of Arms I had never laid my little eyes upon (nor you, I daresay!)

"You look tired," Big Jon said to me. "Come. Rest awhile in the warm pocket of my dungarees."

And without waiting for a reply, he scooped me up and nestled me in his front pocket, against the warm and authoritative firmament of his Upper Thigh. And I assure you, gentle Reader, I had never felt so snug and secure in all my tiny life.

Rashomon: Text Message

The text message was sent on Monday night, close to midnight. The exact words used in the text message were: “Hey. How’s it going? Want to get a drink sometime soon?” Immediately upon the sending of the text, human minds were sent reeling by the kaleidoscopic multiplicity of possible interpretations, spins, and consequences of this seemingly ordinary string of digital words.

The woodcutter, receiving the text, said to himself, this is definitely sexual. Come on. A drink? Soon? This is a come-on, for sure, said the woodcutter.

But when he showed it to his friend, the traveling priest, suddenly he was not so sure anymore. The priest said, this could totally be just, like, a friend thing. I mean, said the priest, whoever sent this text message knows you are in a relationship. And I don’t think this sounds like a psycho homewrecker’s text. And if it was sent by a homewrecker, well, I don’t think you should go. The woodcutter, who was having serious problems in his current relationship, mulled this over. The priest traveled on.

Next the woodcutter met up with the bandit, in a rainstorm at a ruined gatehouse. He busted out his phone to get the bandit’s take on the text. The bandit said, there is definitely something flirtatious about this, no question. But it feels pretty low-key. I don’t think it’s a big deal either way.

The woodcutter started to feel more relaxed about the whole thing when suddenly he realized that the samurai’s wife had been standing there silently, watching them, the whole time. She looked intently at the cell phone and said, that message, and this whole innocuous indiscretion thing you have going on with this person, is dangerous, and it may spell the downfall of your current, long-term relationship. Then she jumped up into a tree, crouching tiger style.

The woodcutter’s hands started to sweat. He still didn’t know whether, or what, to text back. Finally the samurai himself jumped out of the bushes, screaming. He grabbed the phone out of the woodcutter’s hand and said, this message was sent close to midnight! It was a drunk dial! You don’t even know if the person who sent it, like, totally regrets it right now! And then he threw the phone in a silent, moonless lake. It sunk to the bottom without a ripple. The woodcutter bowed to the samurai, and the samurai struck the woodcutter soundly about the head, which is a traditional way of waking someone up to enlightenment.

Wednesday, October 21, 2009


I am on a padded, absorbweave path. I must pick something to stanch the flow and while I’m at it something to recalibrate my scent. I must smell of a bursting peach-shaped sun in a halo of rosemist. I must smell of Malibu mornings and crisp linen sheets flapping over a field of lavender. I must smell like berry dew, like apple cloud marrow, like a million quiet guestrooms.

Perhaps the pearl ones will suit my purposes. Or the ones with a pearlglide applicator. What product will most accommodate my shiny corridor? This one is shaped to fit my body. This one was blessed by a shaman. This one was made by a little idiot. Ah this is the one I will pick. All natural. Susquehanna Cotton. Not only does it have a flexiglide tip, but it fits the idea I have of myself. Kind of a peaceful, free-spirited woman who walks barefoot in the grass. Kind of a topsy-turvy gal who might fall into a bathtub fully clothed for the fun of it. Kind of a dizzy wench throwing apples at the town shrew.

Ahh yes. This is the one. It comes with its own carrying case. I have always wanted a pastel carrying case with which to conceal my feminine products. I can see myself opening it with perfectly manicured fingernails in a perfectly modern moment, and then closing it with business like efficiency.

How wonderful it is to have all these choices!


Puh-scuze me Rite-Aid personnel. Could you so help me identifuck the locunnilingus of the vag-i-section por favor. I am in the Sunday heat of what you might call a pussy-mergency. I am a damsel in dis-fucking-stress and I ask you, Sir Rite-Aid Business Man, to come (COME) to my aid. No I cannot be any more clarificating with my info-seeking. I need to know what I need to know and I need to know right now WHERE YOU KEEP YA PUSSY PRODUCTS AT!!!!!