Catching Peanuts In Your Mouth

The last couple weeks I've been watching old premieres of Saturday Night Live.  Thankfully they replay such things on various channels which is why I occasionally get moderately caught up with this supposed icon of pop culture.

The host for the evening was Dane Cook.  Yippee.  I’m actually a pretty big fan.  His dry, deadpan humor combined with his masterful grasp of physical comedy is reminiscent of the great John Ritter.   The thing is, for the first five minutes of his super lengthy opening monologue, all I could think was a) he is much funnier than this, he's off his game today, and b) did no one tell him his shirt’s too tight?   Because he wasn’t really that funny and his hips kept moving in strange quasi-flamboyant movements.   Plus, and I know I’ve mentioned this already, his shirt was too tight. As in so tight I could tell he’d laid off the crunches the past few weeks and maybe it was time to go up a waist size in jeans. Which sucks for him because he’s not a chubby man.  He’s not even a super flabby man. But when your shirt is 87% spandex with a little cotton thrown in to dull down the sheen, you have to be very secure in the fact that you’ve spent a lot of time in the gym or you’ve got a personal assistant who doubles as your emergency liposuctionist.

I was getting ready to change the channel because MY GOD this was the longest opening monologue I have ever seen on SNL and I could be doing important things like lint rolling my ironing board. I hadn’t managed to crack a smile through the opening act of politically correct holiday celebrations and my Cook chap was certainly not tickling my fancy or my funny bone. But then he started his next bit and I stopped my finger from pressing the channel change because, well, I wanted to see where he would take this.

He launched into a bit about erections and I mentally rolled my eyes because I totally expected him to go with the beaten-to-death (no pun intended) joke surrounding those pills that help men get their thingee up and the ensuing joke about “if you have an erection lasting four or more hours...” Funny the first time and, if I’m really honest, funny the five-hundreth time, but still not funny for a renowned comedian to add in their act.

But he took it in a totally different direction, not mentioning the thingee-lifting hydraulic pills but instead talking about a really dandy stiffy he’d had one day while making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.  Don’t ask me what I found so funny about a PB&J stiffy but it kind of made me snort a little.  Noticing a can of cashews he pops the top and places a delicately curved and salted nut right on the tip, pulls back his member and flings the unsuspecting cashew towards his head where he catches the nut between his pearly whites. At this point I’m actually laughing out loud because This Man Be Crazy.

Cut to commercial and my laughter dies down. I think this situation through. And then it fully dawns on me that Dane Cook has admitted on national television that he ATE A CASHEW FLUNG FROM THE TIP OF HIS PENIS. I’m still finding the situation amusing but am now very concerned about his personal hygiene.   This also gives the term "salted nuts" a whole new meaning to me.

 

It's difficult to avoid the visual, huh?

Lost Breadcrumbs Along The Path

I’ve had crying kids lost in stores cling to my hand. Children giggle at me over Mommy’s shoulder. And every once in awhile a child in a crowd spontaneously comes up and hugs me.

As a teenager and in my early 20's, I dreamed of being a mother. I think a lot of that was the masked vision of just wanting a family again. Nonetheless I dreamed, and still do, one of those wonderfully domestic scenes of a large dinner table with a lazy susan in the middle with hands of all kinds reaching in – boys and girls, biological and adopted children, foster children, and even foreign exchange students. When I turned 22 and moved to Los Angeles from the East Coast, I was a nanny for a 6 month old little boy, the child of two Hollywood producers, and I quickly fell in love with him. When I held him in my arms, there was some sort of transference between us. I believed with everything in me I would give birth to at least one child, but probably several, in my lifetime.

When it came time to abort the dream of a career in acting & comedy, I knew I wanted to be a teacher—the perfect career for a woman who wanted to have a family. I became a high school teacher for a few years in Santa Monica, CA.

As I sit today to survey the landscape of my life, loves lost and dreams dashed, quite honestly, I thought I would have a family by now. It is a bizarre reality; a destined path that was somehow averted. Have I failed? Succeeded? Am I right where I am supposed to be? If not, then what?

Things do not always work the way you think they will...... and hope they will..... and pray they will. And you must adapt. Somewhere along the line I shed the dream of a family. At times it was a conscious decision; other times not. I think I just gave it up as it became apparent that the dream wasn’t going to happen. Part of me reasoned that it was pointless to dream of kids without a husband in the picture — a kind of putting the cart before the horse.

Almost two decades have sped by since I was a nanny. Hundreds of kids sat in desks in front of me in my classroom, but none sit at my dining room table.

This summer I turned 40. Forty, single and childless.
I miss family life and I do not like living alone. No more transient roommates for me, as they are not at all the same as family who grow together. My next roommate will be my husband. That may mean I am alone forever. Super.

Who knows if I am even able to have children – now or ever. The reality of ever having my "family" dimishes with each day that goes by.
A couple days ago a friend told me she had mentioned me to her male friend, a 42-year old venture capitalist who travels frequently but was based in Denver. His response, "How old is she?" Normal question, I suppose - but upon hearing I was "40" he was turned off. (ummmm, he is 42!??) He still wants children, and I am out of his age range acceptable profile. Right.

Forty, single and childless. Sometimes it feels like I haven’t lived, that I’m still that little girl praying for life to happen, doing things to try to make life happen but coming up with no results. At other times I feel like the excitement of life is in the past, that my opportunities have passed.

Unfortunately this blog post will not have an inspirational message or a redeeming thought to leave us with hope. This is my blog so I get to write whatever I want. It's no secret that this time of the year is very difficult for me. My normal snarky, bitter demeanor (I'm kidding - I usually am quite upbeat) takes on a whole different level of inconsolable malaise more powerful than any drug or therapist or volunteering can help. Trust me, I've tried. I don't want to be an orphan who is invited to sit vigil at someone else's family tradition. I don't want to be an outsider. I want my OWN tradition(s), my own roots. I want to be a part of something meaningful. If I am not there, it would actually be noticable and something would be wrong. It doesn't make me crazy to desire these things, it makes me HUMAN. All I have ever wanted, truly wanted, since I was 15 years old, was to have my family. I don't dream of a BMW. I don't dream of a huge mansion. I dream of belonging somewhere. I look around at other people who have it, many who don't appreciate it, so why can't I have it? Can't someone who has nothing have a tiny bit? Or will those who have a lot just continue to get more? The reality of this is so sharp it stings my eyes.

Life is full of variety. There isn’t a set timeline and way life is supposed to happen. We're all just doing the best we can, and trying to figure it all out as we go...

Cheers to you and your journey. Be good to one another.
Oh, and happy holidays - you bastards. :) (I knew a sarcastic quip would find its way onto the post!)

Embrace The Insolence

Though I am, arguably, among the most immature acting of my friends, it is all an effort to stay youthful.  I'd always heard that I would never feel 40 when I turned 40.  I have to say, that theory is a crock of horse manure.  I most definitely feel older - and not that overnight I all of a sudden felt the 4th decade upon my birthday like a rites of passage.  I just mean that I most definitely do not feel 20.  The hot flashes, waking up each morning having to stretch out the kinks each day that my previous day's benign movements don't seem to warrant, the creaky bones, cravings, tougher getting in and out of a car (I've actually been noticing this), insomnia, hoo-hah dryness (yes!)...... OYE!    The only way I can prevent the physical demise is by pretending it isn't happening, hence my flagrant immaturity. 

But time is ticking forward.  How do I know for sure....really for sure?  Aside from physical changes, I know by the way I react to things.  Specifically, I now roll my eyes at "teenagers". 

This is the beginning of my long, slow death towards the retirement village.   Rolling my eyes at the 'youth'?   When did I get old enough to consider myself separate from this group?   It has happened....

And so, let it be.  As an example to illustrate this fact, I've still not gotten over our recent Halloween.  Allow me to recount.

Few things chap my ass more than these damn modern teenagers who don’t know when to hang up the pillowcase and stop trolling for free candy on Halloween.  

Don’t get me wrong, I have no objection to doling out some boxed raisins or wintergreen lozenges to a 3-year old in a Ronald Reagan costume but I get pretty incensed when some pock-marked 18-year old smelling of bong water and underarm odor shows up at my door with an insolent scowl and a demand for free food.

Back when I was growing up, we teenagers didn’t harass our neighbors for unearned sweets – we were too busy holding down jobs, harvesting crops or serving in the armed forces overseas (hey oh!). But nowadays it seems these teens trick or treat into their mid-twenties. Half the damned “kids” that bang on my door are over six feet tall, have a five o’clock shadow and voices deeper than Rosie O'Donnell.  Really?

And, honestly, if you insist on coming to my door looking to score some candy at least put some effort into it. These damned teens refuse to say “trick or treat,” won’t make eye contact and sure as hell don’t bother with costumes. They just roll their eyes and stick a sack under my nose while text messaging their location to other scurrilous moochers in search of easy prey. If they intend to carry on with this shameless behavior the least they could do is dress like hobos or – perhaps more accurately – petty thieves.

And to add insult to indignity, they’re pounding on my door at 9 o’clock when I’m already in my flannel duck jammies and well past the time that most legitimate trick or treaters have already gone home, gorged themselves senseless and thrown up on the rug.

Be advised that any damned teenager who shows up at my door next Halloween won’t be getting anything but a copy of the want ads, directions to the local military recruitment center and a cane to the side of the head.

Ahhhhhhhhhhh.... aging ....... 

Manipulating Men

If you are a married gal, this information may be of great use to you. If you are a lady who is grappling with a boyfriend, this article can help you to handle your boy toy better. And if you are a guy, be warned…the lady of your life might be reading this too.

On this blog post we will look at how a woman can dominate her man and enslave him. If you are a woman and don`t have the time to read this whole thing, here is the gist:
Give a man enough "love" (yes, the verb) and he will be your slave.

If you are still reading, it means you are a woman and have time on your hands…so let us continue.

Since I have been a woman for the last four decades, I obviously cannot speak firsthand to the experience (and mind) of a man.   My male friends have always assured me that they've never looked at a girl and said: “Wow, just look at her…she is intelligent!”  
To that point, my friend and teammate,  Jamie Bull, furthers, "I am an ass man", he said. "If I am checking her out, it's her lower half first".

Indeed. Most men look at a woman like a sex object. They might not agree (publicly), but most single men will have sex with any woman if only they had a place. Most men have fallen into this descriptor at one point in their life. A place with a good mattress & air conditioning would be even better, because he can go to sleep immediately after.

But if you are a woman…a lot of factors contribute to the trigger. To present a metaphor to my readers, sex for women is like fire. For it to begin… one needs to provide the right amount of oxygen (money), fuel (money) and the spark to ignite (money). If you notice, after the fire is over…nothing remains. Comedienne Alonzo Bodden has said, “They are working on Viagra for women. Are they crazy? It has been around for 100s of years – it is called cash.”

But this blog is intended to be an aid for the women... Once you have given your man all the sex that he needed (clearly he deserves that), you need to tell him what you want. (Okay, okay - yes, you should tell him this BEFORE, but just go with the humor of the blog post, would ya?) A man can`t read a woman`s mind and don`t expect him to try…that`s very difficult. According to my happily married teammate, Ryan Oilar, "Men struggle even after three years of marriage to read her mind!"

Ladies, take heed.  If you don`t ask…you won`t get anything and all your efforts go wasted.
So, when asking for what you want, ensure these simple steps:

Step 1: Check to confirm your man hasn`t fallen asleep after.

Step 2: Time yourself and start speaking. A lecture of anything less than 3 hours will not yield results…men start listening only after the first 150 minutes because then they know if its that long it is a cause for concern.

Step 3: When you ask him to do anything, don`t be polite. Order. Strong, powerful men love to be ordered around.

Step 4: Give him one stress ball in each hand and ask him to relax (this will also keep him from sleeping too).

Step 5: If he still feels sleepy, grab both the balls in your hands and leave him crying. I meant the stress balls.

The Emotion, The Body and The Self

I think I am going to start calling Carmen, my oh-so-zen yoga instructor, "Yoda" instead.  I've mentioned before that she tends to throw rhetorical zingers at us during her class.  I don't think I've ever encountered an environment where so many thought provoking statements were hurled at me, and so frequently.  If you are looking for induced self and life reflection, Carmen's class is for you.

She begins each class with an intention, something to focus or work on during our "practice".  Tonight was a zinger, for sure.  She sets a calm, unthreatening tone right away; it's a space that somehow feels safe.  I don't know how she does this so immediately with a roomful of strangers but I am inspired by that lesson.  We sat indian style awaiting her wisdom as we closed our eyes and took in deep breaths.   She has some sort of intuition with me tonight, that's for sure.  It's almost eerie that she chose these words on this evening to speak to my spirit - or maybe my spirit is just listening.

"What part of your body needs attention?  What needs protection and a little extra care right now?  What needs to be healed?", she inquired.

Normally I would think the obvious stuff like 'my si joint' or 'my shoulder' ...... this time the response was deeper.  This time I answered to myself, "my heart".

As if on cue, Carmen launched into her wisdom.  "Human beings store our emotions in our bodies", she said. "If we feel something that we’re not ready to express – perhaps because of fear or confusion - then usually we repress it. The emotion gets filed away in the “deal with later” pile and we forge on.  But the body doesn’t forget. If these emotions go unaddressed, then they start to manifest in other ways. It’s like they’re saying “Hey! Remember me? I need you to pay attention!” We may feel pain, stiffness, cramping, or other general discomfort. And then we try to figure out what we did to cause it . . . was it my workout yesterday? Or lack thereof? Was it from sitting too long in the car? Perhaps it’s old age setting in? We tend not to consider that it could be something 'inside' causing the discomfort".

Oh man.  This class was going to be a doozy.   I took a deep breath and on her command went into downward dog pose.

As the class went on she encouraged, "Surrender: Just let it be. Let go of trying and breathe into where you are in the moment . . . "

Sartre said that hell is other people, and that when it comes down it, we are all essentially alone. No one else, but ourselves, can live our lives, or fight our battles, or make our decisions, or find our enlightenments. To depend on others to do this for us is beyond foolish.

The Buddhists, on the other hand, posit that hell is not so much other people but the way we react to them. And while I agree with Sartre that it all comes down to what we do for ourselves, I also know that there is a great gift in community, in being with others. The flip side of the suffering that other people – our reactions to other people – elicit in our lives is that we can find some comfort in their very presence.

I have been so fortunate for my chosen community.  My closest friends have proven to be reliable listeners and advisers. I take great solace in knowing that this support is there for me. But I still have to do all the work by myself. My sweet cousin and sister-substitute Michelle does a great job generating questions for me to ponder. But the fact is, I alone have to come up with the answers.  And to consider that, for me, there may not be any.

I am by no means a Buddhist, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't think many of their beliefs were thought provoking. 

Buddhism is based on Four Noble Truths.
1. Life is suffering.
2. There is a cause for this suffering.
3. It’s possible to end this suffering
4. There is an established path out of this suffering.

Or to put it in more modern terms,
1. Life sucks.
2. It’s our own fault that it sucks.
3. It’s possible for it not to suck.
4. Help is on the way!

Hard times are inevitable, but sometimes they take us by surprise. But there’s no escape. As the old adage goes, the only way out is through. The first step is acknowledging the pain itself, as well as the source of the pain. “I am suffering, and it’s my own damn fault.”  Before you argue that plenty of random incidents are NOT the victim’s fault (I agree, I agree) let me restate that it’s how we REACT to what life throws at us that can cause the suffering, not the incident itself.

So what do we do? We embrace the suffering, let ourselves fully experience the (for lack of a better word) suckitude. Acknowledge that there is a cause – that this didn’t happen randomly, but because of an intricate series of events and words and feelings – and that our own choices (or inability to make choices) is at least part of the problem. “Okay, this is hard. There is no getting around that. My life is going to be a firestorm of emotions for a while, most likely through the holidays, and I’m just going to have to ride it out, do the best I can, and see where I come out in the end.”

And the Buddhists assure us that there is a path out of suffering. I hope this applies to all of us. (Especially to a Catholic... :) )

"Cool Chick" = compliment?

Recently, I was chatting with a couple friends (one male and one female), discussing a party the male friend and I had been to a few years ago when I lived in Atlanta. At said party, after male friend encouraged me to stand on top of one of the tables to get a better view of the band playing, I was quickly pegged in the face with a can of cashews.  It sucked.  Anyway, upon recounting this story in front of the female friend, she asked why she hadn't been invited.  My male friend immediately responded, "Oh, I would never bring ladies to this sort of party."  I wasn't sure if I was complimented or insulted.  Then he looked at me and made a lame excuse about me being "cooler" than most girls. Later that night, I was told by a *different* male friend that, despite all of his attempts, I was impossible to gross out, unlike other girls who are squeamish and easily repulsed.

So I started thinking - men like the "cool chicks", right?  Or do they?  They say they do - but do they REALLY? 

I’ve dated lots of “types” of guys (and I don’t mean Asians). After starting out my romantic career wasting time with the same kinds of guys, I made a conscious effort to take myself out of my comfort zone (easy, blonde haired surfer dude type) and try something different (easy, brown haired guy with no high school diploma). This inevitably led to my "Greek Period" in my mid-twenties, which was more cheerful than it sounds, but less productive because I couldn’t get behind most of their regional cuisine after spanakopita.  Lamb?  Can't do it.

Anyway, I took myself back to a pivotal story.   I once knew a girl (she was the girlfriend of my male friend) who was absolutely ungrossoutable. It was at her apartment in college where I learned, during one of their diatribes, that men feel the vagina is the most simultaneously fascinating and terrifying organ, the Christopher Walken of genitalia.  

Their relationship was one of complete openness. Comparing armpit smells, leaving the door open while peeing, and farting indiscriminately.   She retold that once she rushed into his apartment, closed the door behind her, and broke a long, loud wind with an audible sigh of relief, then said, “I held that for two blocks because I thought you’d like it.”

They broke up not long after that incident.  ‘That incident’, in retrospect, may have been their turning point. Because while it’s true that the guy did like it (he laughed for hours, even giggling when he told us about it), it may have subconsciously tipped his Fart/Attractiveness scale, leaving her on the wrong side of the smelly divide.   Maybe if men were still cavemen he could have looked past it, even casting her quirkiness in a positive light (Heat! Fuel!) .... but soon enough he would be graduating college, going off into the real world of polo shirts and clenched butt cheeks. And she had crossed over from fun-loving to troublesome, from viable to stinky.

So how does this relate to me being "the cool chick" ??   I'm glad you asked.  I've been thinking of this.   As much as it may sting my poop loving soul, it probably wouldn’t hurt me to feign disgust the next time my male friends take me to a donkey sex party.   A subtle “I can’t believe that midget didn’t wash his hands before serving the sangria,” should do.   Just enough to say, “I’m girly enough to buy fancy underwear but I can still take a cashew tin to the face.”

In the end, I need to be sure they still know I am a GIRL.