Last night while I was washing out a large container of Talenti Tahitian Vanilla ice cream – yes I buy large stop judging – a thought popped into my head that proved I am becoming my mother. Well maybe not MY mother, but someone’s mother. I am becoming a woman who wants to save things to put other things in. Yes, there I was rinsing out this large plastic jar and thought – I should save this. It’ll be good for dog biscuits, or screws, or q-tips, or maybe some jelly beans, or how about some other pile of shit I have in my house that I don’t need. By the way – I’ll never be that woman who has glistening colorful jars filled with candy on my counter for people to just pick a piece or two while they’re in my house because I would eat all of the candy every night and have to replenish it every morning and even I don’t have that kind of fuck you money. But, while washing my Talenti container I realized that there comes a certain time in your life where you actually see everything as something that needs to be kept – which we all know thanks to A&E is one thought shy of becoming a hoarder who gets buried alive by a six foot stack of coupons they’ve secretly been cutting but no one knows about because they haven’t been to visit their mother in like two or three – decades. Nice work guys. “I guess I haven’t been here for awhile because I had no idea my Mom was keeping all of her dead cats.” I didn’t keep the container of ice cream but I really wanted to. I’m starting to fight this urge a lot lately. Every time I have to throw out a Ziploc bag I’ve used once – I think – I should rinse this and use it again – and then I don’t. I’m sure this is why America is dying under a pile of garbage. I’m sure it’s all my fault. I’m killing the country. But who knows – at the rate I’m going I’ll probably start smoothing out pieces of tin foil and storing those somewhere – probably inside some other thing I’ve saved – like an old box I find on the street or pull out of the neighbors garbage can as if they’ve thrown away a perfectly good box and they’re idiots and look how amazing I am to save this from the trash and one persons trash is another persons treasure and by the way that expression is such a pile of shit because trash is trash and you may rescue it from someone else’s pile but about a year after you’ve painstakingly turned it into something else you too will toss it because it’s garbage and you just want something new and shiny and that’s what this is all about at the end of the day anyway isn’t it – wanting something new and shiny? Isn’t that what we all want? Isn’t that why the divorce rate is so high in this country? I do love the fact that all those people who thought I was a loser for not getting married twenty five years ago now think I’m a genius because they’re all divorced and I still have all of my shit. They look at me sheepishly, head hanging, and whisper “you were right.” “I’m sorry what? I can’t hear you.” “YOU WERE RIGHT!” Finally society has backed the fuck off of me on that subject. They still think I’m dead inside because I didn’t have kids but all it’s going to take for them to realize I’m the smarty pants in that situation is one kid to murder one parent in their sleep and I’ll be off the hook on that one too. Until then, I’ll be in my kitchen rinsing out my paper towels to be used again. They’re very durable these days. Unlike most relationships.
I have just discovered the single worst part about getting older. It’s not the fact that everything drops and soon I can tuck my boobs in my ankle socks – though that sucks. It’s not the bizarre hair growing in weird places – though that is unfortunate. It’s not that everything seems too loud to you – though that is annoying. It’s not the complete inability to lose ten pounds no matter how much you starve yourself – though that is super frustrating. It’s not the fact that I can no longer sleep, have to smoke pot to get to sleep, then eat so much in bed that I have to vacuum my sheets everyday – though that struggle is very real. And it’s not even the fact that I’m becoming increasingly irrelevant on a daily basis – though that is – somewhat comforting at times – and I may actually be looking forward to complete invisibility. No, all of these things pale in comparison to the one thing I can no longer handle. Horror Movies. Yes, the greatest joy of my life has quietly been ripped out of my hands – never to return again – the joy of watching a really creepy movie. Somehow overnight I have gone from a person who loves a scary movie more than anything to a person who has to turn the television off when a commercial for a scary movie comes on because it sets off such a chain reaction of paranoia and fear that I can’t go to bed at night. Just the other day the trailer for Poltergeist came on and I mistakenly looked through my fingers at the very end and caught a glimpse of a child being flung backwards up a set of steps. That was it for me. I had to check under every bed, and inside every closet before I went to sleep. And let me tell you – that’s a lot of closets. I don’t know why the fear factor goes up as we get older but there is something in my brain that has stopped computing the concept of “this isn’t real” and the blood curdling images that used to bring me so much joy are now a very real possibility of giving me a heart attack. Yes, the worst realization of me getting older is – I can’t handle a horror flick and it is officially the saddest day of my life. I will never again be able to watch Saw 16 or Insidious 27. I can’t be first in line to freak out over Paranormal Activity 16. No – my finger nails will never again grip the seat or the thigh of the person next to me. Why I ask you oh gods of aging why! What is happening to my older mind and why couldn’t it develop a problem with reality tv? I could say goodbye to the Housewives easier than I can to Freddie Kruger. I told my friend Brian about my dilemma hoping that he would just laugh at me and tell me to get over it and get back on the scary saddle but he just looked at me and said – “I get it and you know what’s next? We’re afraid to drive.” Fuck. My. Life.
“Walk up the stairs and knock on the doors one at a time” said my friend Peter. We had just been let in to a club in Hollywood. It was 10pm. The guy at the door who let us past the velvet rope at the front door was wearing an outfit he clearly cobbled together from his moms closet and the pirate section at the Halloween store. I could tell he thought he looked effortless and cool. He looked like my Mom in a pirate costume. “You’re the first ones here.” Oh great, not that again I thought. Now if you know me you know that I tend to show up at a party when the invite says to – which I have since learned is super uncool. If the invite says – the party starts at ten – that’s the time you’re supposed to get in the shower. Got it. But this was a surprise party and so when the invite said – be there at ten because the guest will arrive SHORTLY thereafter – I suggested we get there at ten. But once again – here we were at the supposed doorway to cool – and we were the first to arrive and we were being quietly shamed for it by some sort of tranny Jack Sparrow. Once inside, my friend directed me and a small group of patrons – they let you in in groups – up the stairs. Knock on the door he said. So I did. Nothing. Next door. Nothing. At the third door we heard something inside. A moan? A yell? A sigh? A cry for help? We opened the door and walked in to a small room where a youngish woman in lingerie sat in a chair reading a book. She looked like the worlds most bored hooker. She said nothing. I was high as fuck so I didn’t know what to say. Peter started poking me in the side. He thought this was the coolest thing ever. I am not one for this kind of theatrics if I’m not at a theater. And I didn’t buy tickets to a show – I was just trying to get a Near Beer. Just open the fucking doors and let me in. After a few minutes of the world’s most inane chit chat – she hit a button and the floor opened up leading to a stairway down into the bar. “I am the mistress of the night. You may go in.” She said in her best non plussed hooker speak. “What am I in the magic fucking castle?” I asked? “Yes!” Peter yelped. Isn’t it the best?” Uhm. No. Thank. You. I didn’t ask for the weird side show. Can’t we just get a fake beer? It’s not enough that they make you wait behind a rope – now they make you be a part of some retarded side show before you go in. Now I love cheese and theatrics but this was the kind of cheese I’m not into. This was like a bad individually wrapped slice of American cheese. This is not my idea of COOL. In fact , this is the opposite of cool. Cool is when you walk into a bar and Mick Jagger’s on the dance floor with a pet monkey playing a tambourine while doing shots of Jagermeister and he asks you to be his back up singer for a rollicking round of Sweet Caroline or American Pie. But in we went, and once inside, the space was really fun, like a big house with lots of places to party. Okay, maybe this won’t be so bad I thought. We went up to the private room where the party was being held and were denied entrance. It was 10:15. We were still the first ones there. The space was not ready. So once again, everyone in Los Angeles was too cool to arrive on time for a surprise party. Then I realized – the guest probably wasn’t going to arrive on time either. At 11 pm we decided to go downstairs to the main room to see “the show.” Suddenly a band kicked in and everyone turned to face the stage. Then a dancer with feather fans and pasties came out and did a burlesque strip tease while everyone watched and cheered. I’m sorry – didn’t this burlesque shit end ten years ago? Is this still a thing? Everyone in the crowd looked like they had been brought in on a bus from central casting and were told to act like – this is cool as shit. It wasn’t. It was cheesy as fuck. At 11:45 when the guest of honor had still not arrived – I convinced Peter we needed to go eat pie. We did. The end. We also ate cheese fries with gravy. So once again I’m here to say – I’m baffled by LA’s nightlife and it’s patrons. Everyone is so busy being late to the party that they are missing the actual party – which is the idea of being out and having fun with friends. Thankfully I was with Peter and another friend Jeffrey because if I had showed up to this shit show alone to sit for two hours while waiting for a party to start – I would have murdered the mistress of the night and taken a dump on the band and the burlesque dancer. I feel badly that I missed my friends birthday party but if you’re that late – shits gonna get real with me. I think I’m done with you LA Club life. If anyone’s looking for me I’ll be in a regular old bar with Mick and his monkey. His name is Horatio. And he likes cheese fries.
Last night while I was eating an old cold stale corn tortilla smeared with brie cheese I realized something and sadly it wasn’t – “I shouldn’t eat this.” It was that I’m not a person who can simply eat a piece of cheese – without anything else. I cannot delicately slice off a little wedge and pop it in my mouth – naked. That cheese needs transportation. A life raft so to speak – to ride its way to its death into my mouth. Yes, I am a person who needs a cheese delivery system. I need a cracker. And when crackers are not available – I will use anything. I probably would have used a coffee filter had I not found the package of old tortillas at the bottom of the crisper which by the way seems to be a total sham because it certainly isn’t keeping anything I own crisp – other than the tortillas. My habit of eating late at night has not slowed down and the concept of filling my bed so I don’t fill my face isn’t working out quickly enough and if I don’t do one before I stop doing the other I’m going to pop the lug nuts on my soul cycle and ride that thing right out of the classroom. I decided a few weeks ago that I want to live this decade as the Fitties not the Fatties and while I’m working out like a banshee and consuming about eight calories during the day – I still haven’t curbed the night eating. I’m still waking up with a plate of something next to my bed and usually something in my bed. Last night the cheese platter came with a side of fruit and I guess I slept on a few blueberries because when I woke up this morning I thought I was bleeding from some orifice and I was slightly concerned at the color – blue. Also Tulip has gum in her hair and I think that’s from me chewing wads of it while trying NOT to raid the fridge and then sticking it on the table next to me rather than swallow it because the amount of gum I swallow is also a cause for concern. In fact – maybe the ten pounds I can’t get rid of is a giant ball of Stride 2000 just sitting in my belly. I have to stop smoking pot so I stop eating but I can’t sleep if I don’t smoke pot so now I need to figure out what to do with those twenty minutes before I fall asleep when I want to eat a stick of butter like a protein bar. I’ve been keeping the fridge stocked with fruit so that I don’t eat anything too bad but I do like to keep some cheese in the house for company but I’m usually eating it before the company ever comes. And by the way – who says “company” anymore? In fact, if I’m having a dinner party I have to shop the day of because I’ll eat everything I have to cook before anyone comes over. I once made a monkey bread to bring to work the night before and ate almost the whole thing so I had to go to the grocery store in the morning and rebuy and recook the whole thing. I act like I’m living in Europe and go to the supermarket every day but it’s not because I’m looking for the freshest ingredients it’s because I’m restocking whatever I demolished the night before. Yesterday a young Scientologist was eyeing my cheese purchases at the checkout line. You can spot the Scientologists because they wear a uniform and look dead inside. It was a lot of judgement from a kid buying “kiss my face” lotion. Who even knew they made that anymore? So I guess what I’m trying to say is – if anyone has a cure for the munchies – and don’t say eat baby carrots because I will baby kill you – please let me know. Until then – I’ll see you in the cracker aisle. I’m out.
I once dated a guy who told me I had a big vagina. Now I know what you’re thinking – “what a horrible lie to tell” – and you’re right – we didn’t date – we had an affair – that lasted about four days – but to me it felt like dating – and his words about my vagina – were crushing.
Boys love to talk about the size of their penis’s – or penises – or peni – or whatever the plural of dick is. They will tell you they have a tiny dick in a hot second. Usually they are doing this so that you are shockingly surprised when you get in bed with them and its normal. You were expecting a toothpick to pierce your little dolphin (Look at the vagina sideways and it looks just like Flipper) so when it turned out to be average – you were thrilled. The truth of the matter is – girls don’t really give a shit. Size doesn’t really matter. Until you tell us we have a flesh cave between our legs that you can hear your dick echo in when it calls your name. Then we care – then we shall prove that you have an unsatisfying one inch killer between your legs and we shall tell the world about it – one day – when we know you aren’t paying attention. But a big vagina is not something women discuss – so as far as I know – I’m the only girl that’s ever been told this. If there are others, please email me privately, but don’t’ send me any Vag pics – I don’t even want to look at mine so looking at yours is at the top of my “no thank you not today” list.
Here’s what I know about my vagina. It’s normal. In fact – it’s probably pretty tiny – because I am pretty tiny – and I haven’t dated any porn stars with fourteen inch meat thermometers– that I know of. But the guy I dated (just let me call it that, it’s my story) the one who said I had a big vagina – definitely had a micro dick. When we had sex it felt like he was hurling a pea down a bowling alley – or throwing a hot dog down a hallway – or one hundred other expressions men have come up with for having a big vagina. He told me in the middle of having sex – while his guppy of a dick was swishing around in my perfectly normal vagina tank looking for a nice rock – or one of those little houses – or a piece of coral to land on. Forgive the fish analogy but I’m not using to discuss the smell – that is one expression that really pisses me off. Women smell great. If they bathe. The end. So, stupid me, I believed him when he said I had a giant vagina. And I became very self conscious of said vagina. Is there something you can do to shrink the vagina? Of course there is. I think the second men figured out how to make boobs bigger they went to work on how to make vagina’s smaller. But guess what – fuck you. My vagina is normal and he was a big fat liar. Well everywhere except the pants. There was nothing big and fat there. It took a while for me to realize that my vagina was normal. Actually it took as long as it took for me to have sex with someone other than this baby carrot carrier. So about a day. I’ve moved on. I’ve healed. And I hope other women out there know – if a guy tells you you have a giant vagina – do the one thing you can – get another guy. I did. The vagina liar happens to be a super famous actor so every time I see him on screen I die a little bit inside but he keeps getting fatter which means his dick keeps looking smaller so I guess there is justice in the world so thank you for that God or Jesus or Mother Nature or Aliens or whomevers in charge of making sure people who have wronged me have terrible things happen to them. PS – there is such a thing as a loose vagina and I’m super sorry if this has happened to you. But if it has – make sure you tell your partner that it’s him and not you. They’ve been doing it to us for years. It’s penis payback time. Me and my dolphin support you.