Month: September 2011

VIHR

Sometimes I get really dedicated to Very Important Hair Removal. Now there’s one thing I’ll never do, unless maybe I start a porn career. (My doctor friend: “It’s mucosa! Would you ever shave your tongue?!” Exactly.) But I do wax my eyebrows, trim the ol’ nostril cilia, and use a

medieval torture device

on my leg and armpit hair.

And then there’s the mustache. The mustache that my friends swear they can’t see, and I usually don’t either, until I’m sitting in my car with the late afternoon sunlight pouring in, and I flip down my visor mirror, and GOOD GOD, I LOOK LIKE GERALDO RIVERA.

And I can’t help myself, I head for the wax. This is a bad move, a stupid move, because it always ends the same way. Whether I wax it myself, or I have it waxed by a professional, no matter what kind of wax I use, or if I pluck it with tweezers, or if I steam my pores open first, or even get it threaded at the mall, I always spend the next five to seven days with tiny whiteheads on my upper lip.

What’s worse? A mustache that can only be viewed on sunny days between 4:00 and 6:00pm in my vehicle or a week’s worth of lip acne?

The mustache, right?

(Everybody pretend you don’t see my lip acne for the next week, K?)

T to the A to the S-T-E-Y*

My friend Bea has been trying to dress more like a girl. I really want to do this too. Before you get all “what is gender anyway?”, I’ll clarify and say that every person has the right to dress however he or she feels most comfortable/beautiful/happy/etc. without regard to social constructs.

…AND I know that I feel best about myself when, on the spectrum, I fall about halfway between gender-neutral and “Toddlers and Tiaras”. I like jeans and flip-flops and hoodies, but I also enjoy pink and sparklies and skirts that twirl up when you turn.

There are challenges to dressing like a girl though:

I rarely wear dresses and skirts for reasons I’ve already discussed. (But I feel pretty in them so I’ll grudgingly frock out for special occasions.)

Also, I’ve never met a pair of heels that I could wear comfortably for more than ten minutes. (That doesn’t stop me from trying every two years or so. I buy a pair, wobble around one event, and then donate them to Goodwill.)

However, I thought I could try injecting more girliness into my daily outfits. You know, put on tinted chapstick. Sometimes wear my fancy silver watch instead of my Timex Expedition. Or find some ballet flats to sub for my Tevas.

I had a $5 off birthday coupon for DSW, so I scooted over there today, thinking, they have a couple thousand pairs of shoes—I’ll have loads of options. Not so. Nothing proves the adage “Different strokes for different folks” like the array in a shoe store. This is me walking through DSW:

  • No.
  • No.
  • Nope.
  • Ew.
  • What even?
  • Those look like shoe-shaped poop.
  • Those shoes are sluts.

And so on.

I tried on a few ballet flats, but as I mentioned in the comments of the post I linked to above, the problem with putting tiny shoes on my already-small feet is that they contrast with my substantial ass, and just in terms of physics, it seems incomprehensible that I could even balance. (Relax: This is one of the times when I’m laughing at myself.)

But eventually, after I’d snaked through ALL the aisles, I tried on a pair that didn’t make me contemplate why I don’t fall over all the time:

And they're Fergalicious.

I mean, that’s the brand.

Thirty bucks, minus the coupon!

Pretty sure I look like a girl!

*I’ll grant that when you’re a hitmaker like Will.i.am, you probably have a lot of Yes Men around you, but seriously? Nobody wanted to tell him he was spelling ‘tasty’ wrong?

Here’s Your Host

So, last night, I emceed The Monti StorySLAM at Motorco. (See my bio here.)

I’ve spoken about the StorySLAM on the blog before because I’ve told stories at these events four or five times. About two months ago, Jeff, the director of The Monti, said he wanted to talk to me about a guest-hosting opportunity. Up to that point, Jeff had hosted all of the events. For three and a half years! Can you imagine? Coming up with material to fill probably sixty shows? (The host tells stories in between the storytellers.) Jesus H.

Anyway, I thought about it for a while—NO I  DIDN’T THINK ABOUT IT—of course I was like, HELL YES.

And then I crapped my pants.

Terrified.

I had never done anything like this before!

That’s a lie. Twelve years ago, I was the Master of Ceremonies for the “musical evening” at my grandparents’ church. With all that experience, why was I so nervous?

Perhaps it was the audience.

And the venue.

And the material.

Cuttyhunk Union Church seated about 75 octogenarian Methodists, who would delight when I said things like, “Up next, playing ‘Begin the Beguine’ on the piano, is Jim Lovell, or as I like to call him, Grandpa!” Motorco holds over 200 people—the vast majority of whom I would not know—and I was planning to mime fellatio during one of my stories.

Anyway, the theme was Good Date/Bad Date, and we all know I have some experience with the latter, so I wrote up a few things and practiced them out loud a couple times to work out the kinks. (Even though I write like I talk for the most part, there are just some turns of phrase that look good on the screen but don’t roll off the tongue.)

Then I put on some eyeshadow, which I am not qualified to do, headed to Motorco, and conjured some enthusiasm to mask my quaking nerves.

My friends showed up. Like a boss. I had probably 20 friends there. Also my sister. And my dad. Who got to watch me mime fellatio so that was fun.

And, you know, I stumbled a time or two, and forgot to get the scores at one point, and had a verbal tic that a loved one, when I prompted her at intermission, pointed out to me so I could attempt to rein it in during the second half.

But overall, it went GREAT. When I left there, I seriously thought, “I don’t know if I will ever fall asleep. Ever again. In my lifetime.” I was so jazzed.

And then I went home and passed the fuck out.

Kicking Cybertires

I hate my car. I really hate it. I mean, the poltergeist was kind of the last straw. But even before that:

  • It gets terrible gas mileage.
  • I bought it because I thought keeping the dogs in the way back would help keep it clean, but it doesn’t.
  • I’ve spent a TON of money on repairs already. Plus, I have to get a new catalytic converter before my next inspection, and when I went to get the oil changed yesterday, “rear brakes blah, CV joint blah, struts blah blah”.

I’m done. I still owe $4,200 on it because I borrowed against it to do repairs and upgrades on my old house, but I don’t care. I want a different car.

I can’t afford a new one, naturally, but I want to get a one- to three-year old, manual transmission, smaller/less heavy, Japanese automobile. I probably can’t afford that either, but let’s say I could. What should or shouldn’t I get?

The 521 Slim Taper

I’m a terrible market-ee. Sometimes people will post about the ads that are popping up on their Facebook page or whatever, and every time, I’m like, “There are ads on Facebook?” Swear to god, I never look at the sidebars. It’s like I have a special talent for blocking out advertising.

And yet. In the last week, I’ve noticed

this photo has popped up for me on a number of sites.

Now, why am I noticing this one?

Could be because they’re dudes’ jeans, and I’m wondering why they’re advertising men’s clothing to me?

Could be. But it’s probably because THEY’RE THE UGLIEST THINGS I’VE EVER SEEN.

I’m no fashion plate, clearly, but does anyone not think these are heinous?

Very Superstitious-UPDATED

A bird shat on my head at lunch today. Twice. One bird, twice, or two birds, once each. Either way, I got shat on two times.

Then, on our walk just now, Redford came this close to getting bitten by a snake.

After that, an owl started out of a tree ten feet from us and flew away.

A little while later, Violet nearly tore my arm off because a cat streaked across our path. It was dark so I couldn’t see it very well, but I’m 1,000% it was a black cat.

If anybody needs me, I’ll be under my bed.

UPDATED: At 11:00pm, my car’s panic alarm started going off intermittently and wouldn’t stop when I pressed the button on the fob. Until it did, and then after a random interval (three seconds to four minutes), it would start again. I finally got in and started the car. That made it stop. Except that it would start again when I turned the engine off. I finally drove down to the pawn shop on the corner—I figured my neighbors might be a little perturbed by it—and called Durham PD. Four officers showed up, witnessed the poltergeist, and removed the horn fuse. If it starts up again, I’m not sure what I’ll do.

(I came home, not having locked the dogs up in the spare bedroom like I usually do because I went running out of here so fast. Violet had clearly collected a bunch of my shoes and cuddled with them at different spots around the house. I think she was nervous. Me too, mama.)

The Formula

Thrice in my life, I have fainted. Long about the third time, the cause/effect relationship was easy to identify. Here it is.

If I am:

  1. standing
  2. on a moving train
  3. in the morning
  4. without having eaten breakfast

I will faint.

Weirdest thing. I get all woozy. My vision narrows to nothing. And then I find myself supine on the train floor with a bunch of startled passengers wondering if I’m preggers or ODing. Or my sister does her best to carry me off the T, but I manage to get my shoe caught between the train and the platform and fall onto the marble floor.

Anyway, point is, it’s a formula; these circumstances lead to my faintage. Now I can avoid the situation by, say, eating breakfast or taking a cab. (Or moving somewhere with a really poor public transportation system therefore having to drive to work. Ah, done.)

I just wish it were easier for me to delineate other cause/effect relationships.

Like, for example, the one that led to my epic fucking temper tantrum at the gym tonight.

Is it that if I:

  1. spend two days untagging myself from Fight Gone Bad photos on Facebook because I am just goddamn enormous,
  2. eat two pieces of sheet cake at my principal’s goodbye luncheon,
  3. take a two-hour nap,
  4. watch all the other females in class do some semblance of handstand push-ups while I still struggle with the hands-on-floor/knees-on-box/ass-in-the-air variety,
  5. and finally, not be able to do any double-unders during the WOD (seriously, after getting 32 in a row last week, tonight I was getting two or one or none),

then I will have a big ol’ crying fit and storm out of the gym without saying goodbye to anyone?

Is that the formula?

Did I figure it out?

‘Cause if that’s it, maybe I can circumvent the Grand Tanty by drinking a cup of coffee or not eating Harris Teeter bakery products.

Or maybe I’ll just send out an invitation next time: Come to Amy’s Low Self-Esteem Day at CrossFit Durham!!

It was probably pretty entertaining to watch.

The Movie Recap You’ve All Been Wayting For

My friend Matt does hilarious recaps and reviews of terrible movies over at head_of_fema. (My favorite: Sharktopus. And yes, it’s exactly what you think it is.) He invited me over to watch a terrible movie and do a little dueling blog action, and I decided to give it a shot.

We debated between Barbarella and Bloodrayne 3: Third Reich, and ended up choosing the latter because I felt like there might be another time in my life that I would have the opportunity to see Barbarella, but I couldn’t imagine any other circumstances under which I would see the third installment in the Bloodrayne series.

I let Matt know that I had not seen the first two movies, but he said that didn’t matter because turns out, the setting, character arc, and rules of vampirism are all completely different in each movie.

[UPDATE: After several reader complaints, I must amend this post to make you aware that it contains spoilers. A lot of ’em. All of ’em.]

We begin. In a gauzy opening sequence, Rayne’s voice-over explains her origin mythology: vampire dad raped mom who then gave birth to half-vampire baby Rayne. Didn’t know that could happen, but it totally can. Meanwhile, another monster—besides herself, I guess—is on the rise: HITLER. Yes.

Lots of scenes of Jews walking into warehouses, working, standing in boxcars when suddenly—

Head Nazi: “Why isn’t this fucking train moving?” You want to know why the train isn’t moving? Because a pair of giant tits with swords is ready to take issue with your treatment of those Jews. Rayne and her breasts pull some whirling, kicking Cuisinart action on those Nazis.

Slice!

Dice!

And machine guns!

Wait, what? Here’s what: Just when Rayne had decided to whoop some ass, a rebel group had the same idea. That’s where the machine guns came from. Serendipitous teamwork high-five!

Rayne impales an officer and bites the shit out of his neck. He will henceforth be referred to as NVC (Nazi Vampire Commandant), which is kind of a misnomer because I guess he doesn’t become a full-on vampire, more sort of a vamp-mestizo. Like, he can go out during the day as long as he’s wearing a leather hoodie.

Cut to a different officer who enters an operating room to find Ron Howard’s brother (Dr. RHB from now on) poking and prodding a tethered vampire and speaking in an accent that can only be described as half-The Brain/half-Cheech.

The officer and Dr. RHB go to see NVC, who beats the crap out of them both. Dr. RHB is spared only when he shouts, “I can help you with your transition!” (“Like a tranny,” Matt says.)

Rayne meanwhile is getting a sexy massage in a whorehouse. She takes a break to give a john who is beating up his lady of the night a taste of his own medicine. Then she goes back to her room and gets Appreciation Cunnilingus from another of the hookers.

An enterprising whore goes to ask NVC for help ousting the madame, whose position she’d like to usurp, in exchange offering information on Rayne’s whereabouts. NVC is looking for Rayne because he wants to inject her blood into Hitler to make him even more powerful. It’s unclear how the whore would know that, but that’s what’s up. NVC snacks on the prostitute’s neck, and Dr. RHB puts her in a cage and tells her, “Times, they are a-changing.” Oh yes he does.

This sentiment is echoed in the next scene when Rayne tells Nathaniel, leader of the insurgent group, “I’ve been hunting down the undead for a long time. It’s about to get seriously fucking complicated.”

Word. I got mad confused after that. I don’t know, a blond codebreaker kills an officer; NVC bites a different one and sends him to track Rayne; the codebreaker gets kidnapped; NVC makes a speech about tricking the gods.

Rayne says, “In war, emotions run high, and it should.” The high emotions must’ve caused the parallel structure problems in that line of dialogue.

Nathaniel and Rayne are captured and put in the back of a truck. So they have sex. Then when the truck crashes, they jump out, ’cause the door wasn’t locked. The rebel group comes down, guns a-blazin’. Rayne gets her swords back(?), and—slash—a Nazi’s guts come out like sausage links. Dr. RHB gets shot. NVC shouts, “I AM THE PRODIGAL SON OF THE THIRD REICH. I HAVE POWER INCARNATE,” so Rayne throws him to the ground and smashes his head with a big rock. I would have too because what did that even mean?

The rebels and Rayne go off in search of more Nazis. And when they find some, Rayne jumps out of the truck with a hearty “Guten tag, motherfuckers!”

The end.

I know I have a lot to learn from the head_of_fema, but for my first try, how’d I do?

Peguses

My Facebook friends will remember that, a month ago, when I was teaching Greek mythology, I asked a student which god or goddess she wanted to do her character poster on and Haley responded, “Hepatitis.”

I said, “Hephaestus?”

She said, “Yeah, OK.”

After the character poster, I required that each student choose a myth and create a comic or graphic novel (minimum eight panels). I told them that I was less concerned with their artistic ability and more interested in whether they could break the story down into its elements, which we had studied earlier in the year: exposition, conflict, rising action, climax, falling action, solution.

Here’s Maryah’s:

How peguses was born, p.1 (Click for bigger.)
How peguses was born, p. 2

There are more where that came from.