judisunshine

(I started late, because it’s not really fun without someone to watch it with.)

– Oh — oh…nooooo, Nicole Kidman — WTF??? Someone needs to stage an intervention or something. I know celebrities like to switch up the look, but…she started out as this vibrant woman, so beautiful and different with her red curly hair and freckles. So, she wants to mess around with the dye and that’s cool, but…she’s become like, absent of pigmentation! And also eyebrows! And I didn’t notice any wrinkles before, but I guess she’s absent of those too, because she looks rather *unable* to smile or make any expressions to speak of.

– Ohhhh, okay, no WONDER I was so confused when Keira Knightley was everywhere, and I was like, “she seems different now.” That’s because she was, in fact, Rachel Weisz this whole time! Until she became Keira Knightley apart from Rachel Weisz, and I forgot about Rachel until just this moment when she won an Academy Award.

– Damn, wow. That is some ker-razy cleavage, Rachel Weisz! I feel kind of bad for her. She looks like I felt the year I Ace bandaged my boobs to be (The New) Jan Brady.

– Michelle Williams looks just lovely and flabbergasted to be here. That’s nice. I think I’d like the Oscars more if everyone looked a little more honored to be invited.

– That Best Actress spoof thing was surprisingly good!

– Okay, I don’t mind if actors don’t seem excited to be there if they all act like George Clooney, like they’ve got mad swagger-boy ADD going on . He’s like, jumping around in his seat and looking all around and it’s awesome.

– You know, I sent an email to Charlize Theron right after “Devil’s Advocate” when no one knew who she was, and she didn’t write back.

– Wow, how great would it be if EVERY Oscar winner brought a stuffed animal up on stage like the “March of the Penguins” dudes?

– Wait, what did Bodiless Oscar Voice just call Jennifer Lopez? “Entertaining and versatile”? Just because you showed that clip of her from “Selena” from before she was J. Lo doesn’t mean she gets to be called those things.

– Although I think I found out who’s been stealing all of the orange from Nicole Kidman.

– Well, many have referred to “Crash” as self-consciously artsy and overly self serious. Thank goodness this performance of “In the Deep” was neither.

– Is it wrong that every time there is an absentee speech given, it reminds me of 90210 and all the telegrams?

– Hee! Samuel Jackson knows how to WALK.

– Sid Dennis…huhhhhh…I feel like I’m at a work meeting now. Or, should I say, “holiday party.”

– What? Did he just say “state-of-the-heart movies will always be around?” Shut up, Sid Dennis.

– Hello, Mickey Rooney! I wasn’t sure if you were still alive. Nice to see that you are.

– Salma Hayek looks beauuuuuutiful. That dress is fantastic. It seems like the theme this year is “Act like you’re classy,” but she doesn’t make it look like an act. Nice.

– Okay, there is the real Keira Knightley. I like her ever since I read an interview with her where she just came off as this total neurotic freak. Not that it got me to see any of her movies. Or kept me from thinking she was Rachel Weisz originally.

– So I’ve never heard of this “The Constant Gardener,” but I’m going to venture a guess and say it’s one of those movies where everyone in the movie is a minority, but the whole point of the movie is the one or two white actors who get to be important and save everyone and also get nominated for the awards.

– Which also reminds me of 90210.

– Why does Jessica Alba keep getting to do stuff?

– I think they made this whole dramatic clip montage just so Naomi Watts could feel less bad about being there when her ex and his baby momma are high focal points of the evening.

– Ha ha! Ha ha ha! A montage montage!

– They’re never letting Jon Stewart host the Oscars again, are they.

– Jessica Alba’s dress is like…it should be nice, and it looks like it was on the way to being so, but took a wrong turn somewhere and ended up looking like a bathingsuit with a really fancy sarong.

– Okay, I spent the afternoon watching horrible scripted “banter” in the form of MTV’s “Parental Control.” But like, THAT IS MTV. What is Lily Tomlin’s, Meryl Streep’s, and the freaking Academy’s excuse???

– Oh my God they’re still talking, and HEY! WRITERS! The word “peyote” is not in and of itself funny.

– I am so confused right now. Like seriously, I feel like I’m watching some entirely new show.

– HOLY CRAP! That was all for MORE CLIPS!!!

– I’m starting to remember why I haven’t watched the Oscars in six years.

– It’s weird seeing clips of Tim Robbins from before his eyes began the long day’s journey into the middle of his head.

– Hahaha, “Honorary Oscar.” That’s like the prize in high school for “Best Attitude.” Like, sorry you weren’t smart or talented or athletic enough to actually win anything real, but hey, we feel mad guilty since you keep failing, so here ya go!

– Oh hey, M. Night Shamalayan’s in an American Express commercial as himself! And it’s just like his movies! Only instead of tedium for 2 hours with a “twist” at the end, it’s just tedium for 30 seconds with no twist. Actually, I think I’d rather watch that commercial for two hours than ever sit through “The Village” again.

– “It’s Hard Out Here For A Pimp.” EXCELLENT. I really, really wish they would pan to the audience right now. I think the only two people who you’d see not looking confused right now are Sam Jackson and Kate Hudson. If she were there, I don’t think she is. But she’d have that big, vapid smile on and not look grim in the way that you know Emma Thompson would. If she were here. I really haven’t been paying attention to this crap in awhile.

– OMG! My girlfriend Queen Latifah is here! Yay!

– BTW, I’m not cheating on Lizzy Kaplan. It’s figurative speech, ya know.

– Jon Stewart looks like you do when you have a boyfriend or girlfriend, but you basically know that they suck, and the two of you are hanging out with people who are really funny and cool, and then you have to leave to go be with your SO, and it’s all disappointing. That’s how pissed he seems that the audience isn’t made up of the “Hard Out Here For A Pimp” people.

– You know, I’ve made up with Jennifer Garner since she broke Knoll’s (TM Maggie) heart, but it’s just so wrong that she gets to present at the Oscars while Keri Russell sinks further into obscurity.

– Aw. Pat Morita. Okay, I was going to complain about yet MORE clips, but this is always really sad, the dead people montage. Except for the part that many have pointed out, which is that it’s really really awkward that it’s kind of like a vote-by-applause popularity contest.

– But I’m still crying! I can’t help it! But to be fair, it started with watching “Walk the Line” before.

– Wow, was that intentional, what they just did? Where they held the dim light over the audience for an extended moment after the tribute? Like as if to say “You’re all gonna die, too”?!?! Because, seriously, how AWESOME would that be.

– Ew, I HATE when winners say “Don’t start the music.” Like the Oscars aren’t long enough without your extended Last Will and Testament.

– Hilary Swank forgot to wear a necklace.

– OMG that is Busy Phillips sitting with Michelle Williams! What a turvy-topsy world, with a “Freaks and Geeks” alumnus at the Oscars as a guest of a “Dawson’s Creek” alum. Well, Busy was on “Dawson’s Creek,” too. But you know what I mean.

– I’m honestly starting to believe that Judi Dench keeps taking the most random roles just to see if she keeps getting nominated for Academy Awards.

– I really want Reese to win, if for no other reason than to encourage her to keep making good movies.

– Yayyyyyy!!!!! Oh, and she looks so beautiful. I mean, SLIGHTLY like one of those dolls with the big skirts that disguise perfume bottles, but still.

– Oh no. Reese. REESE! Don’t pull a Hilary Swank! REESE! Thank Ryan!

– Oh, thank goodness.

– Awwwww, I love this speech! You know, I didn’t see “Walk the Line” until today, but I’d read that June Carter’s kids thought that Reese Witherspoon portrayed Carter as shrewish, but I didn’t get that at all. I thought her performance was beautiful and subtle, and full of that inner struggle for truth and self respect, like Reese just said in her speech. So good for her for speaking so articulately about June Carter in what must be an incredibly emotional and nervewracking moment.

– Way to not pan to Felicity Huffman right after she loses Best Actress and Jon Stewart jokes about “Desperate Housewives.”

– Wait, what, Dustin Hoffman?

– The chick who’s accepting the “Brokeback Mountain” screenplay award totally seems like she accidentally wandered in from an Aaron Spelling nighttime drama.

– Okay, WHY is no one wearing a necklace tonight?

– Hee, I think now Laura Linney just makes movies where she gets to dye her hair drab colors and look wan.

– Sandra Bullock appears to be doing her best Paula Abdul impersonation tonight.

– Well, that was creepy. Matt Dillon just stared directly into the camera for like 20 minutes.

ETA that nothing else interesting happened, Ang Lee won, “Crash” won, yada yada, good night!

© March 6, 2006

So I read on Craigslist that someone in Tribeca is looking for a “poet’s assistant.” And basically, I don’t even want to begin to understand what that means.

It’s a tough thing, “poets.” On the one hand, I absolutely, 100 percent, love good poetry. I am friends with many a talented writer. One of my all-time favorite classes in college was on Hopkins, Yeats, and Eliot. I truly and deeply long to collaborate with a musician and record a bunch of Dorothy Parker poems as songs. And song lyrics in general are extremely important to me.

So okay, though, now that we’ve gotten that disclaimer out of the way: people who call themselves “poets?” Well, it’s hard not to hate them.

Besides all the obvious reasons, I think this probably stems from all the memories of angst-filled nights spent in coffeehouses. I went to a lot of Bible studies, and therefore spent an inordinate amount of time in diners and coffeehouses. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, I mean, if I haven’t already made it abundantly clear, coffee is my One Great Love. And I’m totally down with that whole used bookstore/shabby living room feel. Secondhand couches, old paperbacks, the awesome smell of must and caffeine. That’s good stuff.

But that isn’t why I went. No, coffeehouse life was way more socially political than that. I got the initial invitation through insiders, but if you plan to become a fixture at MIBs (RIP), or Witches Brew, or The Cup, or wherever — I’m not counting Classy Coffee though, that place stresses me out — then you better have one or more of the following: a) brown hair down to your ass that has never seen a shampoo bottle, b) five visible piercings or else a septum ring, c) artistic talent of some kind, or d) angst.

Obviously, I lacked a, b, and c, so I needed to really make sure my angst was operating full throttle on a weekly basis as I spent all freaking night long at the coffeehouse every Tuesday for…shudder…open mic night. Open mic night. REGULARLY. No wonder I suffer from anxiety attacks. It’s post-traumatic stress from years of THAT.

So but you know how that all worked. If you’ve never done the coffeehouse thing, maybe you have done the all-ages show thing, and it’s pretty much the same, only with more sitting and fewer studded belts. But there would be that one guy. You knew he was sensitive, because how could you sing/play/paint/whatever like that and not be Someone Who Really Feels? So even though he was cute and popular and everyone was in love with him, obviously he would choose you, because you were concentrating all of your energy into d), ’cause you were soulful. As was he! It was just a matter of him talking to you for longer than five seconds so he could see it!

The problem was, that Soulful Guy? Really didn’t have that much going on upstairs. Therein lay the problem. He wasn’t really deep, just kind of showy and vapid. So what seemed like a dark mystery to which only you held the key was actually a doofus with a guitar. And when he laughed at and listened to the comedic stylings of your Ashleys and Mikaylas as they alternated between witty and deep about how like Alice in Chains was like so meaningful and also their cousin’s friend was named Alice, so they knew it was like, a connection, he wasn’t being nice, he was being…himself.

But in the meantime. In the meantime. There was much in the way of sifting and enduring in the form of tortured dudes in bajas. The ones who actually were sensitive, but just…NOT FUNNY to the nth degree, and it was seriously just like…what do you do? Because he’d come over and sit there and once the topic of where you went to school and oh, did you know so and so had been exhausted, all that was left was for him to say, “Would you like to read my poems?” And then you’d sit there and awkwardly read from his spiral notebook with all pictures of like, eyes and dragons all over it, and his poem would usually involve you know, knives, or his childhood swingset or something. Then you’d be all, “it’s good!” and instead of saying “thank you” or something, he would nod all soulfully, like almost complimenting you for being deep enough to appreciate his genius. And what was UP with that? And these are totally the guys who fast forward to the present are all bitter that no one has sex with them, but like, maybe that’s why, dude, ya know, like if a girl you like is paying attention to you, pull yourself out of your navel long enough to buy her a cup of coffee or something!

So yeah, I know the same thing basically goes on at bars nowadays. But the bar is easier in my opinion because a) Faux Soulful Guy will show his true colors much sooner after he gets drunk off of his Scotch and starts making out with some chick named Heather, thus saving you a lot of time and energy, b) Open mic nights at bars usually have a lot of hot musicians who may not be any better, but will be more funny and at least no one will be ironically snapping their fingers because they learned about that in that upper room of the Hofstra arts building, c) Many bars don’t have open mic nights at all, but rather jukeboxes, where you may have to hear a lot of Dave Matthews, but at least you can play your own stuff and also weed out the douchebags by how self-seriously they “Uh uh uh!” to “Sweet Caroline,” and d) The poets have usually gotten a lot better over the years, and if they haven’t, you can always start singing “Fading Shadows,” a mortifyingly awful song you wrote very sincerely in eighth grade. This will usually scare them away, or at least inspire them enough to buy you a beer.

© March 22, 2006

The Weekend’s Punk Rock Awards Go To…

The man at the Hess station, for refusing to help me on Saturday night, despite the fact that it was freezing, snowing, and blustery, and despite the fact that it was the middle of the night, and despite the fact that the sign on the pump said “PLEASE SEE CASHIER.”

The guy in the car behind me during the snowstorm, for deciding that I wasn’t driving fast enough, tearing around me, spending a good 10 seconds driving on the wrong side of the road, then hitting a patch of ice and spinning around and around.

Plainview, for not at all bothering to plow Old Country Road, possibly the busiest street in the town, after the dreadful weather we had Saturday night/Sunday morning, adding a fun dune-buggy effect to my driving experience the next day.

The man at my register, for smirkily acknowledging that he was disobeying the express lane rules, and then refusing to leave even after I told him he should go on another lane.

Me, for telling the man he should go on another lane.

Chip, for managing to smash to the ground: my wine glasses, wine decanter, and lamp, all in one fell swoop.

Dr. von Rockenstein, for vomiting twice Sunday morning, then immediately trotting to her dish and meowing for breakfast.

Every girl at Field of Dreams, for defying laws of physics with chin-level cleavage.

Babz, for drunkenly throwing her rifle at the hunting videogame, after the bucks evaded her yet again.

And the Ultimate Punk Rock Award goes to…

Megan, for:

– getting drunk at Stingers on Saturday night
– leaving at 4:30am
– heading out to walk home in the brutal snowstorm
– thinking better of it
– walking to a police station
– politely and nonchalantly asking the cops for a ride home
– getting one!

© January 16, 2006

“Sorry, I suffer from rage blackouts.”
~ Summer

My mood was bad as I arrived home yesterday evening, due to a number of factors. One was my recurring wrist pain, which is not only painful and inconvenient, but also makes me sad because it means I’ll totally never be Mary Lou Retton for real. And the fact that I probably need surgery, which I definitely can’t afford…

…which leads me to rage reason number two, which is that I am broke at all times, despite the fact that I closed all freaking weekend long at ShopRite. And the bit of cash that I did have yesterday? I left at home. All I wanted to do with it was buy three things. The first was a garbage pail, so I could be a respectable grownup and stop throwing my garbage bags on the floor of my kitchen. I also needed garbage bags, since I am down to the last one, and garbage pail or not, am not going to start scattering garbage all around my floor; I’ll leave that to my cats.

And speaking of whom, that was the final thing on my shopping list — cat food. I tried so hard to get them to eat the 9 Lives that was on sale six for a dollar, but they simply refused, and as I was running out the door to work, my cats gave me looks that clearly stated, “Where the HELL are you going yet again and are you seriously not giving us new food?” Suddenly, I knew that they saw through me. They weren’t just mad that I was leaving; they understood that I have two jobs to work. What they didn’t appreciate was the lack of imagination that I was exhibiting, like, did I really think they were that dumb? They knew that I knew that they hate 9 Lives, but I kept dropping it with an apology and running away, insulting not only their refined palates, but also their intelligence.

So I didn’t have money to get anything I needed, and let me tell you something, if there’s anything worse than having to work two jobs, it’s working two jobs and barely affording rent and necessities, and if there is anything worse than that, it is not even having the money for necessities, and if there is anything worse than that it is leaving work at 11pm on Sunday night after working eight hours, knowing I was going to have to face my cats emptyhanded, and if there is anything worse than THAT it is not at all even getting to leave at 11pm, because of Sunday Night Jackass.

Sunday Night Jackass is a regular at ShopRite. The first time I ever encountered him, he seemed harmless enough, even pleasant. The first indication that he wasn’t was when he shoved his ShopRite card through my scanner, and people? Don’t do that. It’s really obnoxious. We cashiers are wearing aprons and nametags (in theory) while scanning groceries; let us just have our tiny bit of dignity and personal space.

So anyway, you know how some guys make up for their manly shortcomings by driving their loud cars really fast? Well SNJ does it by sneaking into ShopRite every Sunday just as we’re closing. And I guess he like, hides in the empty salad bar or something, because he was totally not in Brian’s customer count at 10:55, yet there he materializes out of thin air at 11, skulking about, filling me with rage. I WANT TO GO HOME! But he saunters up to my register with some stuff, and as I’m indignantly scanning it, he’s all nonchalantly holding up a heavy case of Snapple, how much is this, and I’m like, well do you have your card, and that is when he shoves his card around the scanner, just narrowly missing my chest, which really grinds my gears (TM Peter Griffin), and then I struggle valiantly with his stupid Snapple, and it’s $6.75. “No,” he says, “I don’t want it,” and I am cursing at him in my mind as he then WALKS AWAY, not to put BACK his effing Snapple, but to GO BUY MORE STUFF!

?!?!??!?!?!

So then an employee comes up to buy some cookies, because that’s the only time he can do it, which is fine, but he of course has to wait while stupid SNJ goes grocery browsing or whatever the hell he is doing, and meanwhile a random fireman is there with his one little pint of ice cream, and normally I worship firemen no questions asked, but I feel like telling him it’s after 11, go buy your pints of ice cream at 7-11 like the rest of us depressed folk, but really my issue is with FREAKING SNJ, who is now not only an asshole who starts shopping when we close, but is holding up a line of men seeking to buy comfort food.

Finally, he strolls back up to the register as I glare at him and he looks all smug, and I finish his order as fast as I can. Just as I am about to ring up Nice Employee Whose Name I Don’t Know’s Entenmanns, the fireman begins to tell me that he doesn’t have his ShopRite card, and I am totally handling the situation, but SNJ is for some reason STILL THERE, and somehow still in my FACE, and pipes in, “It’s okay, he can use mine,” and I very clearly state “No,” because a) we’re not allowed to do that, b) it was not yet the fireman’s turn, and c) SHUT UP AND LEAVE RIGHT THIS SECOND BEFORE I LEAP OVER MY REGISTER AND BEAT YOU SENSELESS WITH THE COLD CUTS YOU CALLED IN AT 10:55, SUNDAY NIGHT JACKASS!

But no, he does not listen, and he swipes his card over my scanner yet again, and at this point I am nearly blind with rage, so much so that I accidentally scan the cookies and ice cream together, and Nice Employee nicely points this out to me, and SNJ is meanwhile for some reason still in front of my face instead of running away like he should be, and now he is backseat cashiering! Telling me that we should all be having energetic spirits, and invoking the name of the supermarket owner whose name I won’t mention, because I could probably get in enough trouble for this entry right now as it is (Go ShopRite it rules woooo!), and I seriously am so angry at SNJ, and thinking how remarkable it is in a town like Plainview, to really stand out in the crowd as the biggest bitch with a sense of entitlement, especially when you include all the Town Bagel customers, but SNJ manages to do it.

So there I am, standing in my kitchen, home from a hellish shift, with no bags to put my garbage in, no pail to put my no bags in, and definitely no Fancy Feast that I promised to my cats the last time I saw them. I could barely look them in the eye, the guilt was so overwhelming. Chip still looked hopeful, but Dr. von Rockenstein knew, and didn’t even seem surprised, just resigned.

I couldn’t do it. This was like the period of time in 1985 where my mother appeared to lose her mind and every single night made a dinner that involved ground beef, pasta, cheese, and marinara sauce. Sometimes it was elbow macaroni, sometimes rotelle. Sometimes the sauce was Prego, sometimes store brand. But it was essentially the same dinner for literally like a month straight that my mother made, and the weirdest thing was that she didn’t seem to find it strange at all. So my brother and I just sort of sat there in the kitchen, much like my cats were doing now, looking at my mother with a combination of bemusement and unease. Much like my cats were doing now.

No! I was not going down that way! I was not going to let my cats think that I was losing my mind, or that all they had to look forward to was a life of humdrum monotony! I might as well become one of those people who buy all the same exact flavor of cat food, like 60 cans, which I never understand.

“I’m sorry!” I cried out yet again as I ran out the door while Doc and Chip stood there, disbelieving, mouths agape. But not for long. I jumped in my car and drove to 7-11, just like the fireman should have done. Two dollars for two tiny cans of food later, I got back in my car. Once home for real this time, I turned on the TV immediately to feel less lonely, then proceeded to feed my cats the good stuff.

It made me a little sad to see how shocked Doc was that she wasn’t grossed out by her food, and a little perplexed to see Chip rejecting his food in favor of spinning around and around, but most of all, I was happy. I felt tired; I felt broke, but I felt like a good provider. All was peaceful. All was well.

But then — THEN, like Amy Irving’s hand bursting from the grave at the end of “Carrie,” a commercial aired in the background and I couldn’t help but notice.

“Lays — Get your smile on!”

“Get your smile on.”

“Get your…”

And that is when everything went dark.

© February 6, 2006

Most Beautiful: The shiny, shiny pennies in Register One. I hate Register One, but these pennies made the time there worth it. Seriously, they were like, glowing. They reminded me of the coins in treasure chests that you see in pirate movies, but for the life of me don’t know what the word for that is.

Most Likely To Succeed: Brian, for suggesting “bullions.” Well, not so much “suggesting” as “insisting,” and while I know he’s not wrong, per se, it is still not the exact word I’m looking for, but I admire his quick thinking.

Most Ugly: The dull, old pennies in Register One later on. I was not PLEASED to be on Register One again, until I remembered The Pennies. Imagine my excitement, then, when the time came to open a new roll of pennies. Alas, what came spilling out of the new roll was not, as I had envisioned, beautiful shiny still-unknown-pirate-word goodness, but rather, ugly, dark, OLD pennies. Bollocks!

Most Pathetic: Me, for letting pennies control my happiness.

Most Impressive Projection During An Argument: Tie: Rich and Mertz

Most Likely To Star As A Dumb Pet On “America’s Funniest Home Videos” Or Whatever The Show Is Called Now To Make It Sound More Edgy: The Rhodes scholars that do not seem to understand the correlation between the moving belt and their moving pocketbooks. Yes, the belt is moving, that’s just how we kick it in supermarkets if you want your groceries scanned, and I get too perverse a thrill watching you pick it up and move it over and pick it up and move it over to stop the belt and either way, if you want the belt stopped, ask me, don’t act all put out and disgruntled.

Most Random Doppelganger: The customer who looked so much like “I Bring You Chips” that I almost said something to him until I realized how psychotic that would look.

Most In Need Of Our Tone Soap Sale: Let me start by saying that I know I smoke sometimes, and that to a non-smoker, have at times been off-putting in that I smelled like smoke to varying degrees. Let me also say that I have always rather enjoyed the smell of smoke, even when I was an avid non-smoker. I even find the smell sexy. HOWEVER. When I think that my current customer reeks of smoke, only to find out that it’s actually the customer two shopping carts behind him, that’s just a bit MUCH.

Most Conspicuously Absent: Greg. What the HELL, Greg?

Most In Need To Shut Up: The guy who disobeyed my cardinal rule, which is “Thou Shalt Not Tell Me To Smile,” and then flirted with me in front of his daughter.

Most Egregious Example Of Why Tanning Salon Visits Should Be Strictly Moderated: Every highschool girl that’s ever come into the store, ever.

Most In Touch With His Inner Child: Bryan, for telling me a story about the “Civilization” videogame, then later buying “Batman” and something else. “Phantasm?”

Most Awkwardedly Sad: The guy who was a blessed reprieve from the rest of the particularly aggressive blockheads, smiling, kind, polite — all was grand. He was buying cat food, and we were discussing cats, and he was saying that dogs were the best though, because when his dog greets him after he comes home, there’s just nothing like it. Sure. I’m a cat person, but I can get down with that, dogs are cool.

But then.

Then.

“Thank God for my dog, because nobody else cares if I’m home or not.”

!

All that was missing was a needle scratch sound effect. The switch from affable gentleman to bitter, lonely, slightly menacing man was so abrupt, yet so complete.

But not as complete as it would seem.

“I also really like llamas.”

“…”

“How about you, are you a llama lover?”

What does one say when asked by a lonely man if one is a llama lover?

“I…never really thought about it,” I stuttered, with a big smile as I sent him on his way, home to his cats and dog. Sorry guy, I feel bad for you, and I relate to the emptiness, what with the penny excitement from before, but that was unnerving. And also depressing.

Most Horrible: The lady who got to my register, and started making a phone call THEN, like she wasn’t even passively obnoxious enough to already be on the phone, she had to be actively obnoxious and then called in a TAKEOUT order to a Chinese restaurant, and I think it’s a pretty safe bet that the Chinese restaurant people despise her even more than me because she greeted them with “This is Phyllis,” and goes on to not so much “order” as “describe” what she wanted, meaning she was actually describing the possible ingredients in her freaking soup while standing there on line and mind you, she is going back and forth and back and forth, complete with “knowing glance” to me all offensively like, “oh you know these foreigners, how they can’t understand” and understand WHAT? YOUR VAGUE DESCRIPTION OF A SOUP YOU HAD ONE TIME, “PHYLLIS???” I was horrified by her, horrified further still by her knowing glance at me, like leave me out of your Ugly American Act please, because I really don’t think it’s so much of a language barrier as it is an entitlement barrier, because I sure as hell don’t know what kind of soup you’re trying to order either, and besides, if you have the unmitigated gall to be calling a restaurant during the busiest time of the week and act like they should drop everything for you, since you ARE Phyllis, then maybe you could get one of those newfangled MENUS?

Meanwhile, her husband comes up, and he was totally the epitome of the Plainview Man, all beleaguered and whipped into shape, and seriously I have never seen worse couples than I have working in this town, all the guys just look so defeated and you know there must be some kind of Tom Cruise creepy brainwashing thing going on, like it might START with the jumping on couches, but in the end, there is just something Stepford-y going on, but in reverse, because you know it’s not the sex, and definitely not the scintillating conversation because how long can you really talk about acrylic tips and how Marilyn’s daughter Jen just had a baby and you went to Nordstrom and got baby Madison the most adorable Guess? jeans with a matching jacket and hat and sneakers and also the cutest pink t-shirt and socks…

But so anyway this guy comes up to the line and is putting more stuff on the belt when this “woman” does this most hideous snap/point thing, and I really can’t do justice to how simultaneously violent and patronizing this gesture was, but the gist of it was, “Bag, bitch!” I was so embarrassed for him, but then you know, his choice, I suppose.

And of course, of course she made him do double paper! And not like she was helping. She was too busy…

…telling the Chinese restaurant employee…

…to PLEASE HURRY, IT’S FOR PHYLLIS.

Most Helpful Gum: The Orbit Citramint in my pocketbook that freshened my breath after I threw up in my mouth.

© February 21, 2006

– There are groceries…and there are liquor bottles…and there is a slushee machine? All in one place? That’s brilliant! Why don’t we have these stores in New York?

– Yay, Greg Grunberg! Hi, Greg Grunberg!

– Hot damn, Sydney! I knew you were in amazing shape, but I didn’t think a real live person could pull off a neon blue rubber minidress! Holy crap!

– See, okay, how can I properly grieve and be all dramatic if I don’t have a bathtub to cry in while listening to chick music in dim lighting?

– J.J. Abrams is great at finding actresses who can have breakdowns like, out of nowhere. So why hasn’t Alyson Hannigan been on any of his shows yet?

– Am I the only one who doesn’t really get the whole Michael Vartan thing? I was all prepared to love him, ’cause he has that cute/smart thing going on, but he’s leaving me cold. He’s kinda smug looking, no?

– People on TV seem to go visit graves a lot more than people in real life. Or do I just know a lot of uncaring people?

– Okay, yes J.J., I know you love “La Cienega Just Smiled,” but could ya find a new song, maybe? You played it on “Felicity” like three times, and now here it is on “Alias.” And it’s not exactly helping that you’re using it to background another “guy friend is in love with girl who doesn’t like him *that way*” plot. I mean, really.

– Okay, yeah, J.J.? Despite my previous complaint, I think you do a truly excellent job of soundtracking your shows. However. Please stop using Sarah Mclachlan. Don’t get me wrong, I love a lot of her music, but for some reason, although you can find really random stuff by other bands no one has every heard of, when it comes to the Mclachlan, you pick the stuff that nobody EVER wants to hear again, least of all in emotional scenes that could be over-the-top fantastic with a different song. Thanks.

– Okay, don’t get me wrong, I think Jennifer Garner is totally hot, but she is a bit mannish in ways, not to mention insanely ripped. So I think it’s going to take me awhile to get used to the fact that her voice really IS that high.

– So, it’s official. “Alias” was the bastion to my becoming J.J. Abrams’s bitch. I don’t see it turning into the utter obsession that “Lost” is for me, and I don’t think it will occupy the special place in my heart that “Felicity” does, but I like it. A lot. Yay!

© January 23, 2006

“Oh, so it’s chips all around, is it? Someone must have bought the party pack.”
~ Spike

Can I just say that I got suspended in 7th grade because I wouldn’t throw away my potato chips? True story.

Let me begin by saying that I went to South Shore Christian, a very strange school. I loved it, and I wouldn’t change anything about having gone there for a second, but every now and then, they went a bit wack-a-doo. And I guess they had just instituted this policy that didn’t allow the students to take food out of the cafeteria after the bell had rung. Why? I don’t know. It probably had something to do with sex.

Anyway, so one autumn afternoon, I had purchased Cottage Fries with my lunch. However, as the lunch hour, or rather, lunch 40 minutes, wore on, I grew full and didn’t desire my snack any longer. I will save it for after school, I told myself. OR SO I THOUGHT. On my way out, I was stopped by the National Guard, or rather, Mrs. Melillo the music teacher, who informed me that I was not going anywhere with those chips! But they weren’t opened, I explained. No matter, I was not to leave with them. I was to throw them out. WHY? That was a waste of money and food, and totally bureaucratic, in my humble, 12-year-old opinion.

I guess I got pissy and smart mouthed, as was/is my wont, for during the very next period (Life Science with Mrs. Murray), I was called out of class by Reverend Cole, the principal. He was all serious, telling me that I had been very rude to Mrs. Melillo, that it wasn’t her fault I couldn’t keep my Cottage Fries, and that I was not to backtalk to teachers, and…

…I was being suspended from school.

?!?!?!

I mean, wait, WHAT? Despite my temper and tendency to mouth off to authority figures when I am threatened, I am usually able to objectively assess situations after the fact, and was even then, and be like, “Okay, that sucks, but it was my bad.” Only I wouldn’t have said “my bad” in ’87, because it had not yet crept into the vernacular, at least not at South Shore, but the point is, to this day, I maintain that suspension was just A BIT MUCH. And it was an AT-HOME suspension, no less! That was like, the serious counterpart to the in-school suspension.

I must give my mother mad props for her handling of the situation. She of all people knew what a smartass I could be, but she also knew that suspending me was beyond ridiculous and crackheaded of the higher ups at good old SSCS. So outside of the suspension itself, I didn’t get in trouble at all.

In fact, the suspension itself ended up being quite lovely. All I did the entire day was stay in my room and read Sweet Valley High. Bed, books, and rain on an October day? Best. Punishment. Ever!

© January 12, 2006

Dear Victoria’s Secret,

It would seem that you still want a relationship with me. Though I have not had anything to do with you since Bikinigate 2000, your catalogs continue to arrive in the mail, and you flood my inbox with pleas for me to visit. It’s rather flattering, and I kind of admire your persistence.

And the visits! Last night during the double header of “Arrested Development,” I had 17 new chances to watch your Very Sexy® bra commercials! Which was great, because the first 5,812 times they aired didn’t really provide me with ample opportunity to catch all the nuances in your delicately crafted campaign, nor did they give me enough time to witness the wide variety of bras I could be purchasing.

Ha ha, I kid! Which leads me to the reason for this letter. I still do kind of like you in theory, but before we can embark on a new journey together, there are a couple of things that I’m going to need from you.

First of all, I know that you pride yourself on having lovely models. You must spend a great deal of time and money getting women who can perfect those catatonic, “I’ve just been slipped a roofie” bedroom eyes, and I respect that. However, did you know that for the past five years, every single one of your bras has looked exactly the same? True story!

You undoubtedly work long, hard hours, and probably just got confused – totally understandable! However, those wings that the models sometimes wear? They’re for effect, not actually part of the product, and therefore don’t count. And the 12-inch stiletto heels certainly give me good ideas for the nights when I really want to look like a Vegas hooker – thanks! – but, you see, the commercials are for the bras.

I think maybe I know what happened. In all the hubbub of marketing your wares, you forgot to actually make the wares! So, much like a 21st century Scarlett O’Hara, you resourceful VS folks looked around and made do with what you had. Plain, cotton underwear, as far as the eye could see, for miles and miles in your warehouses. Some RIT dye, a little dim lighting, and voila! You’ve got yourself a product!

Which is great. I know that what really matters is showcasing airbrushed ribs, scapulas, and hipbones to their fullest advantage. After all, if a supermodel isn’t bent at an unnatural angle while making her most convincing “I like sex! No, really. It…doesn’t take…too much…energy…” face, how in the world am I supposed to know if the underwear is any good?

So you’ve got the sex appeal thing down. Awesome. All I’m suggesting is that, since I can’t actually buy Gisele and the gang, you could maybe put lingerie on them that’s somewhat interesting. Perhaps a decoration on a bra here, some lace on the underpants there? You know, something besides just plain material, because much as I do love spending a quarter of my paycheck on a pair of cotton panties, now and then it might be a kick if my purchase was half as cute as the pink-and-white-striped bag that holds it. Just a thought.

Oh! Oh. All right, my second suggestion is probably going to sound a bit CRAZY, but just go with it for a minute. Now, you are aware that breasts exist. I know this because almost every bra that you make “creates cleavage,” which is Victoria’s Secret code for “Your boobs will look big!” Fine, that’s all well and good. However, what about those of us who don’t need any help from the Breast Fairy, but would still like to wear something that doesn’t resemble a king-size training bra? We are out there, you know!

And don’t try to mollify me by pointing out your “full-figured” page. It was bad enough when you had Tyra Banks and Laetitia Casta, but I don’t know WHO the hell you think you’re kidding nowadays with those toothpick blondes you have up there. “Full figures,” I mean, what kind of eating disorders are you trying to instill in people? But that is another topic for another day. My point now is that if you’re going to ignore my lingerie needs just because I have the breasts you purportedly advocate, I don’t want the same models who fit into the A-C stuff that fills up 99% of your catalog! I want big-breasted women in DD cups! You don’t have to go crazy and get a model with hips or anything, but bring on the boobs!

But that won’t happen, and you know why? Because you lie. Like an insane person, I’ve bought more than one of your bras, and they just sit in my dresser at home because I cannot wear them out of the house if I need to do any sort of strenuous activity such as…walk, or…brush my hair…without popping out of one of your “full-figured” bras, which, by the way, are padded, and why? WHY! Don’t give me pads; and don’t charge me more for a bigger size when not only do you not give me enough material to cover myself, but you don’t even have to spend any extra money for “scientific advancements” to create miracles, or wonders, or whatever you have trademarked, in order to give me a fake chest! I don’t need that crap! All I want is a pretty bra, and possibly even a two-piece bathingsuit which, if I order for 80 dollars because I need to go to a work pool party and hey it comes in my size, I can actually wear and not crumple up and then cry because it makes me look like a floral-patterned prostitute. And don’t EVEN get me started on your “built-in bra” shirts. True, there are elements of “bra” and “shirt” within the garment, but the whole doesn’t quite equal the sum of the parts, at least not in polite society.

See, this is why we broke up. I have needs, but you don’t give a damn. Because you don’t want me. You want women who are white, bored, bony, breastless, and assless. I meet just one of those qualifications, and have absolutely no intention of meeting any more. So go ahead – keep playing with your paper dolls on the black runway set you love so much. I’ll be over at Frederick’s.

Goodbye Forever,
Judi

© November 8, 2005