Got Breast Milk?
Maybe it was crossing the line but I spent a solid twenty minutes at work today trying to convince a male co worker to go home that night and try his wife’s breast milk – and not from the bottle like a pussy – but straight from the boob. He’s the father of a newborn and we got into a discussion about breast milk and I thought – shit, I wonder if he’s ever tried it. So of course, I had to ask. Then I thought, how come I’ve never asked anyone this before. It’s kind of an important question – do you or don’t you? Have you or haven’t you. This is a new way to separate the men from the boys in my humble opinion. “Ever try boob milk?” “Fuck yeah.” It’s not like drinking your own urine. It’s a food item for fuck sake. I mean, if my wife was producing a perfectly good meal from a body part, I’d totally want to try it. Heck, if by some miracle I ended up pregnant and was nursing my child – I’d find a way to jam my own boob in for a taste test. It seems like something you should do at least once in life as an adult, no? I now want to ask this of everyone who’s ever had a baby but I’m afraid I’m going to let a creepy genie out of a bottle and I won’t be able to shove her and her nursing boobs back in. Something’s you just don’t need to know about your friends. I just hope my co-worker tries it and reports back. I promised him I’d tell no one. It’s really too bad that men can’t make a food come out of their private parts. It would make some things so much more interesting.
If you want to know if you’re the most annoying person on the planet – just answer this simple question. When you walk into a room and people are discussing a particular television episode they’ve just watched do you yell, “Stop, Stop, Stop, I’m not caught up!” If so – congratulations – you win. You’re a douche. I can’t tell you how many times a day someone enters a conversation I’m having about “Homeland” or “Dexter” or “The Real Housewives of Some Fucked up City” and shouts – “stop talking I haven’t seen that episode yet.” Or worse, they cover their ears and start yelling like a two year old throwing a tantrum. Here’s an idea. Start watching more television on time. I know you people have kids and lives and shit but seriously, put it on hold so you can watch things at the same time those of us with no lives are watching. You’re bugging the shit out of me. If you’re on baby sitting duty and you think Homeland is too violent – get a blindfold and some ear plugs for the kid, or better yet, realize they’re gonna see this shit later and just expose it to them already. Have a dinner date you can’t cancel and The Real Housewives are on? Cancel the date. That person clearly doesn’t understand your priorities anyway or they wouldn’t have asked you to go out to dinner when that show is on. This shit needs to be witnessed live – as a collective. What happened to the days of people watching things as they aired? I have things to talk about with you people! This is quickly surpassing my biggest pet peeve for people who are late – though it is quite similar. If you aren’t going to watch things in a timely fashion and be part of the conversation then do me a favor – if you enter a room where people are discussing something you haven’t seen – back your lazy non tv watching ass out of that room and go do something you find more useful like feeding your kid, talking to your husband or wife, or answering emails. By the way – you can do all of those things while watching television. It’s called multi tasking people – get up on in it – because the next time you yell “Ahhhhhh don’t” when I’m about to discuss what NeeNee said to Kim – I’m gonna blow. If you want to watch important television that needs to be discussed immediately – start doing it. If you want to watch shows that have the shelf life of Velveeta Cheese or warrant no discussion whatsoever – that’s what Two Broke Girls is for.
Last night I had a dream that my sisters Wendy, Alison and I found an old trunk in the attic of our old house and discovered that our entire lives have been a sham of a mockery of a fraud. We are not in fact the product of English immigrants – we are in fact Hawaiian. Who knew? Suddenly it all made sense, my lack of English charm school skills, my hatred of clotted cream, and my love of pineapple upside down cake. It does bring in to question my hatred of pineapple with ham pizza because that is just not right at all. I think that’s an atrocity that should never be allowed. I have spent most of my life questioning my parent’s real move from England to Staten Island just after they were married. Who in their right mind would do that? I have always been angry that they didn’t at least have us in London and let us develop terrific and sexy British accents and then move us to the armpit of the earth. But this whole Hawaii dream made it all make sense to me. I don’t even like Hawaii so I was thrilled that they left and raised us in the land of the first shopping mall and home to Jewish and Italian gangsters. Living on a landfill seems more charming to me than living in the land of the fat white American tourist and the frequent location of Law firm retreats. If you don’t want to hear old white men make Lei jokes then stay away from Hawaii. It doesn’t surprise me that this is one of the few close vacation spots for Californians – it looks like a movie set – and is America. We don’t need to experience other lands and languages – we have Disneyland and It’s A Small World.
I have always lied about growing up in Staten Island. I always tell people I was raised in Paris and figured the fact that the Statue of Liberty was delivered from France made it almost a truth. When people ask me where I grew up I tend to say New York. I feel more New Yorky than Staten Islandy. Nothing great happened to me on Staten Island. I was not a popular kid, a cheerleader, a boy magnet, or for that particular matter – very smart. I didn’t fit in to any one particular group and I always knew the second I could I’d flee the area like you read about and I did. But now I see that Staten Island is in dire straights and in the past while I would totally make fun of a hurricane wiping out the 22 miles of hideousness – I am suddenly remembering what was great about Staten Island – the people. I remember the amazing family who owned The Roadhouse that made the best clam pizza in the world. I remember Pal Joeys, and the Chinese food place we went to every Sunday night. I remember my friend Jody and her spectacular parents who cooked me massive meals and welcomed me in to their family. I remember all the cool kids I went to high school with who to this day are still with the boys they met back then. I remember cheerleading at the JCC and smoking pot before high school and getting drunk way too soon with some of the best friends I’ve ever had. I remember riding the ferry in my blue eye shadow to my first job in the big city and all in all – I remember that the people of Staten Island are tough as shit and they aren’t going to take Sandy crap sitting down. So today – I am not from France or Hawaii or New York. I’m from Staten Island bitches and damn proud of it.