humans are funny

Author: laurenne

  • This is what I’m thinking when I’m not thinking about really important global issues and solving world poverty

    I have been working towards an intense deadline this week, not leaving my cave of an apartment, not changing from my pajamas, and not cleaning the spilled coffee beans and Indian food delivery boxes scattered about my bed. I’ve pillaged my brain for words this week, and thus have none left to compile on this beautiful Blogger template. So let’s try something new. I’m going to write whatever comes to my mind. I’m just going to write and hit send. No morals or story lines or grammatical checks. Just do it. Written improv. It’s spontaneity firsthand, and I’m trying with all my life force to not be neurotic about it. Oh man, I’m so tired.

    Please, add the very first thing that comes to your mind as well, and we shall sew together a quilt of inappropriate spontaneous stories for today’s society of voracious blog readers.

    One.
    I’ve used bad pickup lines in my life. When I was living in the trashy suburb of Addison (a la Jersey Shore), we’d go out to clubs and ask guys if they were Italian because, like Snooki, we too wanted to meet juiced up Guidos (True story. Sorry).
    “Hey, nice tan and spiked hair. Are you Italian?”

    But nothing beats the one I got recently from a man who could be my father:
    “Oh, I see you rode your bicycle here. Was it a long ride?”
    “About a mile.”
    “Lucky bicycle.”
    Um, I think he’s referring to my vagina, and I don’t want a man my father’s age referring to my vagina. I just don’t. Get my vagina out of your mind, sir. Please give it to an established thirty-year-old with dark hair and a sexy beard. Thanks.

    Two.
    I saw Eat Pray Love last week. I’ve always been jealous of that Gilbert bitch. ONE- Because that’s my story. I’m supposed to write that book. And TWO- Because that’s my story. I’m supposed to WRITE THAT BOOK.
    Julia Roberts was a horrible casting choice. ONE- Because that’s my story and I’m supposed to be in that movie. And TWO– Because nobody believes that her skinny ass can’t fit into a pair of jeans when she ‘overeats’ in Italy. Right.

    The real reason I call bullshit on that movie is the wardrobe. Come on. The chick never once repeated an outfit. You’re a backpacker, lady. You don’t have myriad shoes and tunics in your pack. You just don’t. You wear the same thing every day. I wore my Obama t-shirt so many times in so many countries that I alone am responsible for creating his global popularity.

    Three
    I really miss having an answering machine. Remember when you used to come home and be excited to hear who was thinking about you during that day? And then, if it was a really good message, you’d save the little tape to listen to later. I have a lot of little tapes. Anyone have a little tape player? Also, remember the radio?

    Four
    Why do people say they ‘lost’ someone when a person dies? “I lost my father in July.” Obviously, you weren’t that careful with him, so it’s kind of your fault. Pay attention to where you put your father, people.

    Five
    My friend was recently trying to sell me on the idea of spray tanning because ‘it makes you look skinny.’ So I got to thinking… Black people are lucky. Darker colors are automatically slimming. Think of how much fatter Oprah would look if she were white. Think about it… lucky! Black is the new Spanx.

    Six
    I recently went to a club. A club. I used to go to those back in aught ’98. I think I should probably write about that weird time in my life when I actually took the date rape drug on purpose and dated a drug dealer ten years older than I. Oh, hey mom. Did you know that guy was a drug dealer? Talk to you later. So now, in 2010, I went to a club again. Not to actually go clubbing, but to support a friend. Swear. It was filled with shirtless people and gyrations just like it was back in the day. Two men hit on our group of girls. One tried to get our numbers by bragging about how he makes $15 an hour. And the other tried to woo us with his specialty gloves. He had lights sewn into the tips of each finger so that he could mesmerize us with his jazz hands. He did jazz hands right in front of my face. And the only thing I could think was that I’m so glad I don’t go to clubs anymore. And that somebody out there who knows how to make gloves has a goal in life to make jazz hands cool again. You’re getting there, man. Great progress.

    Seven
    That hair I referenced here. It doesn’t bode well for folks who sit in one chair all week and can’t remember the last time one of their teeth was brushed. I’m gross. And crusty. And all of a sudden, I have an entire generation of geckos living atop my head. Itchy. Itchy. So itchy. Perhaps this is what water boarding feels like. I found three pens in there this week. And a few batteries. Also some Vick’s (i think. it was slimy and not in any kind of container), a glue stick, 43 paperclips, a bottle of absinthe, and one Venice homeless guy. So, fair warning: brush your weave. Most important lesson of the day, everyone. Brush your weave.

    This is what’s in my brain today. I wish it were more than this. I wish that floating inside my head you’d find more facts about cheese and John Adams. Or witchery and secret political codes.

    Alas, I’m shallow and unimportant. Like everyone secretly is.
    What is in your brain?

  • My head is a quilt.

    I saw a woman the other day who was so obviously brimming with positivity that the sun was leaking out of her pores. Beautiful skin, shiny hair, a smile that could make even Mel Gibson love Jews, she was pure radiance. I asked her secret.

    “I am grateful for everything in my life,” she beamed.

    Well, good for her.
    Good for freakin’ her.

    Since seeing the third world and meeting people who’ve never even heard of pizza (probably the biggest tragedy in poor countries), I’ve also been on a quest for gratitude. I wake up in the morning and listen to the birds and smile at all the things I’m lucky to have and know (friends, family, toast, a good brain, tea, pumpkin pie, a hot shower, etc.).

    And then I look in the mirror.

    I see stringy hair and boring. I know I’m not hideous. But it’s just how my brain works. When it comes to myself, I see the negative first. My mission for this year of being thirty is to fully and completely accept myself, mind and body. It’s so hard. Because part of being human is to be hard on ourselves. It’s how we get better.

    We can deliver a heart-wrenching motivational speech that rivals that of MLK Jr. People will cry out from the audience. Old ladies will faint in their wheelchairs. The country will finally feel united. And we’ll get off stage and say, ‘It totally sucked. I messed up two words in the third paragraph.”

    Our immediate focus is always on the negative. I can take anyone else’s situation and see the positive in it: You got pushed off a cliff by your fiance and broke your spine, but at least now you know he’s not right for you. But when it comes to myself, I’m too harsh. I’ll look in the mirror with gratitude, and my ego, Lawrence, will appear and tell me how my hair is too thin and my skin looks like that of a confused teenager. (Lawrence is a dick. You can read about him here). I’ve worked so hard this year to accept these two last parts of me. I’ve used affirmations. I’ve meditated. I’ve accepted my anxiety, my control issues, my man problems. But this whole hair and skin thing is a real pisser.

    The tragedy of how unimportant my skin and hair are in the grand scheme of things is not lost on me. This is why it’s all so frustrating. There are people in the world who have never heard of PIZZA! There are Indians who are sleeping in train stations with flies all over their faces, and all they want is a pair of clean underwear and a sip of clear water. And here I am bitching that none of the expensive cleansers in my medicine cabinet has made me beautiful like promised. Gross. I want to punch myself. But that would just be anger towards myself for not accepting myself, and that would mean even less self-acceptance.

    My friend Katie came over the other day, and we were talking about ourselves, like prima donna narcissists often do.
    “I hate my hair. It’s too thin.” she said.
    “I hate my hair. It’s too short.” I said.
    “Your hair’s great,” I said.
    “You hair’s great,” she said.

    Then it donned on us. We’ve known each other for five years, and each time we see each other, the conversation is the same (after the very important social commentary about globalization and other such paramount themes). We’ve always hated our hair. Even after accepting so many other parts of our selves, we can’t get over our hair.

    “Let’s finally do something about it,” I said.
    “Extensions,” she said.

    I am not one to get fake things. I had fake nails throughout high school. I have banished such fakeries. Yet we did research. We made appointments. We sat through pain. We now have hair.

    We have hair! We have hair that’s long and silky. And we can look in the mirror and love it. But it’s fake! And it’s sewn into our scalps.
    That’s right. We can only look in the mirror and love ourselves now that we have another person’s dead hair painfully sewn onto our heads. How odd is that? Humans are so strange.

    After looking at all the options, we decided that weaves were the way to go. It took us an entire Saturday in a no-frills hair specialty spot with the worst logo ever. Seriously. Why make a ‘before’ picture your logo? That’s like making an empty plate the logo for a restaurant. Or some really sweaty man the logo for an air conditioning company. Not smart. BUT… We don’t judge a hair place by the logo, so we walked in for a day of fun. It was seriously fun.


    You know those stereotypical black barber shops where all the men sit around and talk about life? This was the female version filled with women getting weaves while watching ‘The Best Man’ and commenting about Morris Chestnut’s private life and Hugh Jackman’s abs. I felt very welcomed into the weave community. And what a community it is. Holy mackerel. The women told me how to spot a weave, and man alive, so many women have weaves! I have been comparing my shitty hair to the luscious locks of plenty of women for so long and it was all for naught because so many are fakes.

    What exactly is a weave, you ask? Well, besides a shortcut to self-acceptance, it’s a bunch of human hair that’s been dyed to match yours. D’Lisa, the weave specialist who only books appointments through text messages, finds the perfect spot on your head for the weave. She marks it with a Sharpie and then twists your own real hair into a tiny braid. Once that’s finished, she takes a thick, curved needle and sews the hair onto that braid. Like she’s making a quilt. Like your head is a big fucking Afghan blanket. And then it’s done. Then you have long hair that you can love for at least 6 weeks.


    It sounds great. There’s just one tiny drawback: you have hair sewn into your scalp! It feels like I’m wearing a bathing cap made for a 3-month-old. Sometimes I want to rip it out of my head, but I saw her sew that shit in there and I know I’d be pulling out scalp skin and possibly exposing brain matter. So I suck it up and leave it in. Just so I can have long hair.

    Just so I can have long hair!

    One day I will get to the point where I don’t need this hair, the point where I can look at bare me in the mirror and love everything about what I see, including every single one of my real and short split ends. It will be a glorious day and sunlight will shine from my pores. And then Lawrence will come around and say, “Man, you have a lot of pimples.”

    I’m not only the president, I’m also a client!

  • Thanks, Annie and Danny

    I’ve been crying a lot lately. Not because I’m pathetic (maybe because I’m pathetic). Not because I’m drinking wine alone (maybe because I’m drinking wine alone). But mainly because I’m a cheeseball and I can’t get enough of this video.

    You may have seen it already. Watch it again.

    It’s a real love story, and I love that it exists. This stuff really exists.
    Phew.
    I’ve been holding out for this kind of love, and it looks like it’s not for naught. If Danny and Annie could find it, I can find it.

    People may think it’s weird to be in your thirties and single. Many more traditional types might consider me to be a dragon or an alien or perhaps an old maid because I’m thirty and I don’t yet have three kids and a large ass. But I’d rather wait for this than be mediocre married early. Thanks for reminding me, Annie and Danny.

    Danny & Annie from StoryCorps on Vimeo.

  • Wait. Is today meant for celebrating our jobs or our birth canals?


    I ran along Venice beach this evening, a beautiful sunset in the distance. Unfortunately, this photo doesn’t capture the several transvestite hookers I saw. There were also some vagabonds and rowdy frat guys and shocked tourists, the very reason I love Venice so much. One tranny hooker was messed up. Really messed up. I’m talkin’ ripped-clothes-and-falling-all-over-shimself messed up. I could have stopped to help shim. But, as my mom always said, ‘You can’t go helping every tranny hooker each time you go running.’

    Here’s to Labor Day. I hope your holiday is filled with lots of palm trees and sunsets and plenty of tranny hookers who don’t really need your help because they kinda like being that messed up anyway.

    Love Always,
    Laurenne

  • Santa Crotch, Conception Confusion & My Cousin Deb: Three FUN stories.

    Baby, I swear I’m a virgin. I promise.

    The scene: 4th grade. Miss Andriola’s classroom. Me wanting so badly to be as popular as the kids who didn’t have to buy IOU sweatshirts from the outlet mall.

    After several of my classy fourth-grade peers noted that the hat I got for Christmas looked like one of Debbie Gibson’s {available for viewing here}, I felt it was necessary to tell them that, in fact, it was a Debbie Gibson hat. I casually mentioned that, you know, she was my cousin. I was met with disbelief, of course. Joey Galione shook his head and Katie Botsch rolled her eyes. I couldn’t let their skepticism win. That night, I begged and kissed my mom’s feet until she signed 100 squares of paper with the name ‘Debbie Gibson.’
    She really did it.
    How cool is my mom?
    Didn’t work though. Well, maybe it fooled a few. But, as I proudly passed out my cousin’s autograph the next day, some jerkwad said, ‘I have a signed poster from Bop magazine hanging on my wall, and this signature doesn’t look at all like that one.’

    This one comment set back my popularity a whole year. If only I could remember who said it… I’d take revenge now.
    Not really. But I like to sound threatening sometimes. So watch out.

    *******

    I recently called my mom and told her that I’d found my first grey hair. “Is it down there?” she asked. In fact it was! She’s so wise (I’ll tell you why in a minute). I guess that’s where they start in my family.

    This made me feel very old, as I remember my very first pubic hair. It debuted a long time ago. A pioneer on its own, it poked through my underpants right around the same time people were just forgetting the whole Debbie Gibson debacle. I saw it in the bathroom of Fullerton Elementary and walked back to my classroom with my head held high because I had become a real woman. So what if I was ten? I was a woman. A woman with one pubic hair, but still a woman.

    And now another pioneer hair has appeared on its own in a whole different color. Hello there, silver crotch fox.

    I felt like this should be something I kept to myself, but the topic arose at a girlie brunch the other day, and I realized that there are other women my age with a similar vaginal changing of the seasons. Our solution is to stop waxing and shaving. We hope that more pioneers will come forth and soon change the entire color of our pubis.* At this point, we will grow our hair to be as long as a beard in order to create what we call Santa Crotch. Hopefully then our vaginas will look very wise, and we will be able to make a living by charging people to ask their lifelong questions to a sage in vaginal form. It’s amazing how big dreams can get over a long brunch.

    *How great is the word ‘pubis?’

    *******

    Poor cows. They need not worry about pubic hairs or celebrity cousins. However, they sure have a lot of flies by their eyelids. AND… the milking cows need to constantly give birth in order to lactate. Cow farmers of course don’t let these cows get pregnant on their own. No! They are on a tight schedule and have no time to waste for courting bulls or the typical female analysis required before insertion is allowed. So they inject them with sperm manually (which means hands, and cows don’t even have hands, so you know that I’m talking about a horrifyingly unromantic conception).

    Doesn’t this make for some pretty confused cows? Don’t you think some are sitting around at brunch saying, “No! I swear I didn’t have sex, mom. I’m sorry.” or “I’m totally related to Jesus. All my 13 calves were immaculately conceived.”

    I’d be so angry if I got pregnant and didn’t even have the pleasure of going through the whole act of penetration. I bet if cows knew how to produce TV, they’d have so many shows based on reenactments of the times they didn’t know they were pregnant until they had a baby in the toilet. Sadly, humans are the only ones to have access to both TV production equipment and surprise babies in toilets.

    *******

    After reading these three stories again, I come away with this:
    I hope there is life on other planets and that they are way more sophisticated than we are.