I know you guys haven't heard as much as a peep from my corner of the world for what seems like the same amount of time that it takes for "Game of Thrones" to start season three. For that I am truly not sorry at all - I have a job and a life and you can't make unpaid demands of me because you aren't my parents or a sassy talking cat. Besides, about four people total read this blog and one of those four is me so it's really three but WHO'S COUNTING?
All of the other actors have headshots on the Facebook page for Scissr. I should submit this right?
Anyway, since our last time shooting the shit, I've gotten a new job marketing for a startup wine e-commerce website (lotta words there, I know), became an iPhone user, gained about ten pounds in cookies and Jewish guilt, and signed up to act in a lesbian web-series called Scissr. I know you only really care about the latter, so let me inform you that it will be a homosexual, racially-inclusive version of "Girls" mixed with a financially-obtainable "The L-Word." I will play the co-creator/writer/actor's best friend, Taylor, because that outrageous bitch wrote the part FOR ME. She's one my dearest friends and for some twisted reason thought I was cool enough to disregard the fact that I have absolutely no acting experience or mass-appeal and asked me to play the role of, well, me. I'm excited and terrified and I only hope that I can muster enough confidence to just be myself and not become hyper-aware of the way I act and fuck it up (like how if you pay attention too much to your own breathing you're all "I. CAN'T. BREATHE." See, it's happening now). Who knows, maybe I'll hit it out of the proverbial park and become the next famous non-actress actress like Jemima Kirke.
Sassy twat.
I also purchased a new water bottle (LIVING LARGE) and am semi-successfully trying to toilet train Shadow the cat. I say "semi-successfully" because we're only at step two and so far she hasn't fucked it up with her stupid little cat brain. They say to give them positive reinforcement when they complete the next step without any issues so that they know they're doing something right. This meant that as Shadow came out of the bathroom after the first time that I rigged up her CitiKitty (I had to carry that home without a bag just FYI), I (very gently) applauded her and gave her a thumbs up while saying in my high-voice-reserved-for-animals, "You did it! Yay! So proud!" In retrospect, the thumbs up was probably unnecessary given that Shadow doesn't have thumbs and maybe thought I was flaunting them at her, but she seemed to like my enthusiasm well enough because about two minutes later she was galloping around the apartment as if to say, "I pooped and you loved it!" I wish I received as much praise every time I successfully defecated.
At this point you're probably thinking "This post has absolutely nothing to do with Lunchables! I was seduced with false hopes of round miniature ham slices!" I respond by using the previous sentence as a terrible segue to talk about Lunchables (so there!). This topic stems from an earlier conversation with my co-workers when we all realized that we had two things in common: our strong desire to put any and all Lunchables in our mouths and having parents who refused to let us do so. I don't know about you guys, but my dad preferred to make weird artisanal sandwiches that involved bananas and curried chicken (not at the same time...well...maybe) that I had to simultaneously consume and explain while I watched my (usually rich) classmates spread tomato sauce on their ice-cold, Lunchables pizzas and feel my heart shrivel up and die of envy. I'm sure it wasn't the $7 price tag or suspect ingredients that deterred my dad, but his utter loathing of my happiness. And that's why we still aren't on speaking terms (JK I talked to my dad the other day). Was anyone else deprived of Lunchables and do you want to carthart (this is now the verb form of catharsis so deal with it) about it?
There's no way to really end this post since it's pretty much a clusterfuck of awful, so consider this sentence me slowly bowing out while tipping some sort of hat with Mariachi music playing in the background.
Normally, I'm a big grumpypuss (grumpipuss? grumpy-puss?) and it takes quite a lot to lift my spirits. Despite that, there are a handful of small things that will turn my day completely around or at least force a temporary smile onto my face. These things are as follows:
♥ Walking by an intensely air-conditioned store in the summer and feeling the cold air rush over me for just a second.
♥ Free food at a restaurant or store for absolutely no reason.
♥ When my favorite song EVER randomly comes on Pandora (It's not Colors of the Wind by Pocahontas. I SWEAR).
♥ Eating the tip/first bit of pizza, pie, and cake and the middle/last bite (filled with all the toppings and sauces) of a sandwich or burger.
♥ Finally getting in bed after cleaning all the things and looking around at a spotless room.
♥ Getting a hand-written letter from somebody in the mail! It rarely happens and brings me back to 1865...when I wasn't alive.
Hellooooooo!
♥ Buffy the Vampire Slayer marathons on Logo and the Twilight Zone marathons on Sci-Fi.
♥ Putting on face masks, kicking back, feeling like Mrs. Doubtfire (but hotter, I hope), grabbing a snack, and watching some TV.
♥ When my antisocial cat, Shadow, grooms the back of my hand and therefore proves she actually loves me.
♥ SAM.
♥ Seeing a good Before & After (I'm looking at you, Promise Phan).
♥ Three-way calling two of my best friends like we're 14 again. Except now that we're older, we don't pretend that one of us isn't there while the other asks the unsuspecting friend leading questions about the quiet spy friend.
♥ This is a rare one, but when I take a picture with someone, look at it afterwards, and I actually look nice instead of like this.
♥ My rabbit starting to recognize me as the "treat-bearer" and following me everywhere. This, at a quick glance, looks and feels like love, devotion, and friendship.
♥ Playing a word for a ridiculous, obscene amount of points in Word Feud and practically sealing the game for myself.
That's about it. Other than the things on that list, there's really nothing that can make this Debbie Downer happy (unless calorie-free cheeseburgers are invented). >:(
DISCLAIMER: All of that grumpy business is actually not true at all. I'm generally pleased and easy-to-please unless you change plans last minute on me, break/lose something of mine, are Natalie Portman, are against abortion/women's rights/equality/evolution/gay marriage, kill kittens, etc.
About two years ago, I decided on a whim that I would get a bunny. They're extremely cute and I had whimsical premonitions of walking him in Central Park, on a leash, wearing a floral dress (me, not the bunny). I did a teensy bit of research, at least enough to know how to properly care for one, and then I scoured Craigslist for a couple months looking for an all-white bun with black eyeliner (the breed is called a Hotot). Finally, an extremely enthusiastic bunny lady with at least 20 or so buns in her New York City apartment, posted a picture of a six month old, neutered, white-with-black-eyeliner, blue-eyed boy bunny. He had to be mine.
Don't get me wrong, I would never give House up now that I have him. He's going to be with me until he decides to part this realm for the great beyond. In the beginning, the cold, unfeeling, robotic, unblinking, fish-like eyes and complete lack of a affection were a bit jarring. But now, especially since I've found out which treats he goes apeshit for (any flavor of these Smaks cookies and Lacinato "dinosaur" kale), we've sort of gotten used to being around each other. He never bites me, he's pretty quiet, and he keeps to himself. Also, he's pretty fucking cute. I mean, he is a bunny rabbit afterall. However, when he does finally reach the end of the line, I will never EVER get another rabbit again. Here's why:
Poop...Everywhere
Ok ok, all animals poop a lot (except my man, the sloth!), but rabbits are OUT OF CONTROL. They poop about ten BB gun pellet-esque poops every minute. Most bunnies can be litter-trained (House is), which definitely makes cleaning up these little things a lot easier. It does not, however, change the fact that the sheer volume of pewps is absolutely overwhelming. Within about five minutes of cleaning House's cage, there is already a one-inch layer of doodie in his litter box. As if that wasn't enough, most rabbits like to leave little surprise gift poops wherever they go. I let House out of his cage and around my room to hop about freely and no, he is not an exception to the surprise gift poops rule.
Midnight Flubber
Did you guys see the movie Flubber with Robin Williams when you were a kid? If not, the movie Flubber is about an amorphous, mischievous, transparent, green glob of goo (wassup, alliteration?) that scientist, Robin Williams, creates in order to win back a girl...or something? Anyway, the most important fact to retain is that Flubber is a portmanteau of "flying" and "rubber." If let go in a room, Flubber will bounce from wall to wall, ricocheting off of everything and smashing all of your earthly possessions. Another vocabulary word to remember in this section is "binky." Binkying is what happens to a rabbit when they are ecstatic. Here is what binkying looks like:
It's a pretty spastic phenomenon (om nom nom) and almost looks like their back legs are trying to run away from the rest of their body. Why House would be OVER-THE-MOON happy in the dead of night in his cage sleeping in his own feces is unknown to me, but if your bunny is anything like mine, he will binky at midnight while trapped in his cage. What's wrong with this you ask? When in a confined space and very happy, bunnies ARE Flubber. House ricochets off of the cage bars and floor making loud banging and thumping noises until his unstoppable glee subsides.
Butt Juice
Like most animals, bunnies have anal scent glands that need cleaning. Once a month, I have to go in with a damp Q-Tip, spread what I GUESS are his butt cheeks, and swab some nasty shit out of his anal glands. This graphic cartoon from binkybunny.com describes where I have to perform this graceful routine. The little slits marked "anal scent glands" are my Q-Tips' target. If I didn't grow a set and take care of this, his butt would get all backed up and possibly explode. That, or I'd have to take him into an exotic veterinarian (not exotic as in exotic dancer but exotic as in not cats and dogs) every month and have him or her clean them and pay for it with an internal organ. It definitely makes the process more enjoyable to have your bunny kick you with his back feet as hard as he can while you poke his butt with your fingers. I assure you.
Pica 4Eva
If you don't know what Pica is, you can get yourself educated here. Pica usually refers to people who eat inedible things/inanimate objects, but for the purpose of this post, I'm using it to describe bunnies. The first day I got House, I made the mistake of turning my back for .2 seconds. When i turned back around, he was just finishing eating an ear bud. In those .2 seconds, House had eaten my roommate's pair of headphones WHOLE. Since then, he has managed to eat plants, closet doors, rugs, his own poop, backpack zippers, and probably a nibble or two out of Shadow the cat's feet. When I'm not using my removable window screens, I have to put them up as barriers all over my room just to keep him from eating anything on the floor when he's out of his cage. The days of wires and clothes on the floor are no longer. I once watched him take a quick, test chomp of a wire right in front of my eyes and go flying 14 feet in the air from the electric shock. He almost turned from my pet to my meal that day.
It might be hard to tell from this post, but I really do love House. He's my babby bunny and as far as I'm concerned, he can eat all the headphones he wants. But when he's gone, the only rabbit I'll be having in my house is a chocolate one.
If you're a prissy man who can't handle the thought of what goes on behind the doors of an OB/GYN, then turn around now. You're the same type of guy who goes "ewwww" when a girl even says the word "period," regardless of whether you're in English Grammar And Punctuation 101 with her or not. These are human bodies. Many mammals menstruate (overtly or covertly) but they can't go to the Gyno for obvious reasons (even though I'd love to see a hedgehog get a pap smear). Anyway, to those men, peace out and grow up.
Yesterday, I went to the Gyno (or cervix goblin, as I like to call them) for my annual exam. I had forgotten what a hoot it was (this comment is dripping with sarcasm)! It was my first appointment at this practice (I had recently decided to switch because my old Gyno was disappointingly run like a sweat clinic [hybrid of a
House M.D.
sweat shop and a clinic]). Either way, this was exciting because I got to sit down with Dr. Pilshchik and answer the intake questions (my favorite part). Do I smoke and drink? Sometimes. Do I have a boyfriend? Yes. Do I have AIDS? No. What am I allergic to? Biaxin and Benzoyl Peroxide. What happens when I use them? Gross hive-y things. Finally, she got to the last question: Do I have any pets? I love talking about my bunny and my cat, as you can tell. However, I'm a little fuzzy on what either of them have to do with my vagoo. My manager at work told me it probably is some Toxoplasmosis-related foresight if I were to get pregnant in the future (PLEASE NO, knock on ALL the wood). I honestly still have no clue why she asked me but again, it was a chance to gush about House M.D. and Shadow, so I didn't mind.
Me and my Shadow
At this point she brought me into the exam room where I got a pap smear and had my ovaries tickled and smushed (the scientific way to check for cysts). Let me just say now that pap smears suck every time. I don't even think I'd enjoy them if I was given an avocado and a glow stick to distract me during the procedure. That, and the stirrups are the most awkward things ever; they just make me feel so vaginally equestrian. Overall it was a quick, thorough, and satisfying (not like that) visit. If I were rating my Gyno on Amazon.com, she would get five stars.
On the off chance that there is some sort of virtual suggestion box for all OB/GYNs out there, I'd like to advise possibly finding another way to smear my pap that doesn't involve so much pinching and pulling. Also, why don't you cervix goblins sell sex toys? After all, this is a women's health facility, right? I feel like it would be extremely profitable for both parties if there was a room in the practice that was devoted to explaining and selling sex toys. What do you think? Am I out of line? Sam seems to think so, as he likened it to Proctologists selling butt plugs and Podiatrists selling foot fetish paraphernalia. I think I'm onto something though.
Just to set the scene, on Saturday and Sunday I went to Bombfest in Hartford, Connecticut. On Monday I went to the beach in CT, then go-karting, and then mini-golfing.
Me and Aparna: twins
♥ A single Mentos is a "Mento."
♥ If you're wearing the exact same outfit as someone, you're twins. For example: If I put the AA Skater Dress on myself and my friend Aparna, we are then twins. If I do the same with my cat, we are also twins.
♥ Connecticut is brotastic.
♥ Everything in life is better when there's a body of water nearby.
♥ Everything in life is better when there's pizza in my mouth.
♥ If you can't decide whether you are hungry or have to go to the bathroom, you should really make that decision before you enter the Porta Potty.
♥ Snoop Dogg is adorable.
♥ If you have longish hair with bangs, and you painted your whole face so that it had a mouth on it and then put a nose and a pair of eyes on top of your head, you'd look like a man with a huge, long mustache (e.g. Yosemite Sam).
♥ If someone is jokingly mocking you, and you think they're just being annoying so you start mocking them, you are mocking yourself.
♥ Children/young adults should not be present during most competitive sports or games. I have a foul mouth and cannot contain myself when I'm 18,047 over par in miniature golf.
♥ Sea glass is the shit.
♥ Go-karting is still awesome, but the "no bumping" rule makes me sad because I'm violent.
♥ Sock puppet handjob blowjob: if you give yourself a handjob with a sock puppet on, you are also getting a blowjob from a sock puppet.
♥ If you hold up three fingers on each hand and move slowly, you're a three-toed sloth.
♥ If you hold up two fingers on each hand and move slowly, you're a two-toed sloth.
♥ If you hold up one finger on each hand and move slowly, you're E.T.
♥ Pantomiming rubbing chapstick all over your body can get confusing.
♥ Coheed and Cambria sound like a hive of bees being smashed by a rock that sucks at music (this was Sam's addition, but I wholeheartedly agree).
♥ EDITED TO ADD: Seinfeld sucks and is just about white people in New York complaining about soup.
♥ Kazoos are stupid.
This may be edited later because I am currently so tired that I can't remember half of the things that happened this weekend. I do know for certain that I ate a lot of mini donuts though.
My boyfriend is currently visiting his grandparents in Arizona and for the next couple of days, he'll be tied up playing shuffle board and eating prunes and other things of that nature. He has added me to his blog and asked me to write a guest post for him while he's away so that his blog doesn't remain sad and dormant. I think he wants me to infuse his techy blog with some immature humor. I also think he made the biggest mistake of his life.
I've decided to mix our two greatest passions together in order to come up with a blog post that will appropriately combine our interests. Sam loves machines. I love cats. So, naturally, this post will be a series of scientific findings (Sam also enjoys science!) as to why cats are robots.
Materials:
♥ One aloof, gray cat with a penchant for (purposely) vomiting and diarrhea-ing on people she dislikes (this includes an ex boyfriend, an ex roommate, a current roommate [Aidan, seen below with said cat], and Sam).
♥ http://icanhascheezburger.com/
♥ A phone with camera/video capabilities, a real camera, a camcorder, etc.
♥ Two Yak Bakwards'
♥ Snacks
Methods:
Much like how Jane Goodall lived with chimpanzees for science, this experiment requires you to have spent at least three full years living with a cat (Felis catus). You must go about your normal, daily routine but simply add a cat to the equation and observe it's behavior in your spare time. After the three year period is up, you can eat the cat. You can also keep the cat as a pet (recommended) and eat the snacks you prepared for your materials. Make sure to have your phone (camera, camcorder, picture-taking, video-making device) handy at all times in order to record traces of robotic glitches during these three years.You may use http://icanhascheezburger.com/for scientific research on Felis catus. Finally, meet up with a friend and use the two Yak Bakwards' to record the reverse section in the chorus of "Work It" by Missy Elliot to find out what she's really saying.
Data and Results:
Example of robocat laser eyes: Shadow with my roommate, Aidan.
Also, the following videos which show clear evidence of mechanical malfunctioning:
Discussion:
As you can see from the findings above, nothing about cats is fucking normal or natural. In the first picture, Shadow demonstrates the laser cat eyes that have been documented with photographic evidence many times before. I've heard bullshit about how this has to do with some sort of reflective layer behind their retina called the tapetum cellulosum or tapetum lucidum, but I'm not buying it. I mean, what the fuck is a "tapetum" anyway? It sounds like scientists just added "um" to the end of some fictional words in order to sound legit and therefore, cover the fact that cats are dangerous, genetically-engineered, laser-eyed robots.
The subsequent videos support this theory even more with documented examples of feline self-mutilation, robotic noises, and sudden changes in complete facial structure. The latter is clearly a defense mechanism in order to camouflage the robocat using Mystique-esque, shape-shifting tactics. The other two are obvious examples of glitches in the robocat software; perhaps there is a short circuit or someone spilled a glass of water on the subject. It has now also come to my attention that both cats and machines historically dislike water. Coincidence? I think not.
Conclusion:
Cats are definitely robots (possibly from outer space but that is TBD since I still haven't found Shadow's spaceship BUT I WILL). They will most likely try to overtake mankind one day and we will all be royally fucked. Lastly, the backwards part of the chorus in Missy Elliot's "Work It" is just her saying "I put my thing down, flip it, and reverse it" again. Can you believe it?!
Vomit. Puke. Hurl. Losing your lunch. Tossing your cookies. A mouth volcano. Old unfaithful.
The serial spewer herself sporting her summer 'hawk.
I don't know about you guys, but my tolerance for the above has always been zilch. Just the sound, smell, sight, or mere suggestion of regurgitation sends my own stomach for a threatening loop. Even piles of my cat's barely-digested Purina cat food pebbles make me think twice about having eyes (and a cat). This issue has not only affected me, but can be seen taking its toll on sick, drunk friends without a hair tie, roommates with cat vomit-covered socks, and even helpless six-year-old girls with a bad stomach bug. The latter will be my subject for today.
Babysitting is the easiest thing in the world, which is why I spent most of my adolescent years and even college years sitting on babies as much as I could in my spare time. You get to be very silly for a couple of hours, maybe even sit on your ass and watch a Disney movie like you would be doing on a Saturday night anyway (just me?), and then you put the kid to bed (usually around 9:00pm or some other early-as-fuck bedtime) and watch your stories on the TV or troll the internet until the parents come home.
About two years ago in the West Village at around 9:00pm, I was doing just that. I had sang just about every Disney song in my repertoire (which is just about every Disney song in Disney's repertoire), tucked her into bed like a little Chipotle burrito, and placed her over-sized Dora the Explorer stuffed animal at the food of her bed. Then I sat in her room with her and proceeded to troll the internet from the comfort of a nearby chair.
About an hour later, and with absolutely no warning at all, she bolted up from bed and into a right angle and projectile vomited all over the end of her bed and Dora's face. I immediately picked her up by the armpits and carried her to the bathroom where she continued to toss her cookies into the more-deserving toilet. After managing to be somewhat comforting despite the fact that watching her made my insides want to be on the outside, I got her changed and brought her back into her bedroom. There I was met with the horrible realization that in order to put her back to bed, I would have to clean up all the throw up. There was no one there to save me and shirking responsibility would mean the parents coming home to a child who was sleeping in her own stomach contents. I looked down at my charge, who was holding my hand and looking very sleepy, and I knew that I had to just forget about my sensitivity to this mess and be a motherfucking adult.
A relevant coloring book illustration by Aparna and myself.
I went over to the bed with all of the paper towels I could find west of 6th Avenue and tried to scoop off what I could. The second I got within a foot of the bed, my gag reflex kicked in like I was getting x-rays done at the dentist, only worse, because at the dentist there is no giant, smiling Dora dripping with vomit. I could only conclude that before I came over to babysit, this little girl had entered a hot dog eating contest or consumed, at the very least, an entire pizza. I thought not being able to smell the disaster would help me be more efficient so I grabbed a dish towel from the kitchen and tied it around my face so that only my eyes were visible. I was the Upchuck Bandit.
Despite the fact that I could only smell dingy soap and assorted crumbs, my body would not allow me to clean up the mess. If I continued to force myself, it would only be a matter of time before the only thing adult in the room would be the size of the addition piles of puke on the bed. I took the entire comforter, including Dora (who, at this point, was definitely mocking me) and dumped it into the bathtub. Had this not been an NYC apartment and had there been a washer, I wouldn't have been so cruel about my placement of the bedding but hey, I didn't have much to work with. The bed was finally clean and I was relieved. I closed the bathroom door behind me and let myself forget that throw up ever happened that night. It wasn't until the parents came home that I let myself remember and recount what happened (I had called them earlier during the incident and left a message, but they didn't pick up or return my call). Her mom went straight to the bathroom and immediately started dealing with the barf-encrusted detritus. Not a single gag could be heard as she waded elbow-deep into the filthy remains of one of the worst nights of my life.
This was the moment that I realized that I might not ever be able to have children. If I do, they will either have to throw up alone and then promptly clean it up or watch as their mother retches along with them every step of the way. I guess I can only hope that my baby daddy has absolutely no gag reflex (that's what she said!).
