humans are funny

Category: hmmm

  • Who We, Like, Become

    When I went to Papua New Guinea in 2009, I met a villager who asked me the name of my homeland. I told her the USA and she asked, “The United States of Africa?” Then she smiled and tried to sell me the head of a pig. A dead pig. It was on a platter. We were surrounded by shoeless people and fresh-really-fresh vegetables. I think about her all the time. And I think about who I was when I met her: dirty, curious, spontaneous, fearless (Okay, not totally fearless– there were warring tribes and machetes everywhere and maybe I slept with my flashlight). I vowed to always be at least a part of that girl no matter what. I came home convinced I’d never wear makeup again. I wanted to forever be a traveling hippie.

    And then I hired a lady to clean my apartment.
    I was okay with it for a while because, as I learned after I posted about her a few weeks ago, I joined a very large club of dirty Angelenos. I learned the rule that everyone in LA has a house cleaner but nobody in LA admits to having a house cleaner. I got plenty of emails saying, “Thank you for saying something. I’ve been feeling so guilty about it.”

    I felt like a maid pioneer, like I was maid to have a maid (sorry).

    But then she broke my toothbrush holder.

    It was a very special toothbrush holder that sticks to the wall so that it doesn’t take up counter space. I bought it at CB2. I swear this will be important information if I haven’t lost you yet. The house cleaner didn’t say anything about it. She simply moved my toothbrush to my shower and pretended like it didn’t happen. I mean, she broke my toothbrush holder.

    But this really wasn’t something I could tell anyone. I wanted to complain about the injustice! I wanted to tell people how rude it is for a maid to break something and not even apologize. But who goes to work and says, “Oh my god, you guys, my maid like totally broke my toothbrush holder.” I thought about that girl staring into the eyes of that pig head in Papua New Guinea and complaining to that villager that maids really shouldn’t break ceramic toothbrush holders because there are very few convenient CB2 locations, and….

    WHO HAVE I BECOME!?
    HELP!? I am an adult. A member of society. A member with a maid and an iPhone. I don’t wear the same clothes every day anymore (mostly), and I have brushed my hair within the last 72 hours. WHaAAAAaoooaaaaaa?! I am the person I was running away from when I left to travel.

    I need to head out with a backpack. I need to stop painting my nails. I need to dance to some drums and eat something that could possibly give me diarrhea. STAT.

    Once I realized that I’m a maid hirer with a broken toothbrush holder, it opened my eyes to who else I am. Here are some expressions I have uttered just this week, expressions that do not pass the Papua New Guinean test, expressions that would make me hate myself if I weren’t going to psychology school to learn how to not hate myself:

    -I can’t believe Starbucks is out of Spinach/Feta wraps again.
    -I have to call you back. I can’t concentrate at the self check-out while I’m on the phone.
    -I can’t believe my favorite pop-up restaurant is closing.
    -I’ll take the juevos rancheros with tofu instead of eggs. And can you put the sauce on the side?
    -I’m not eating carbs until summer is over.
    -Should I get my teeth whitened?
    -I really think my hair should frame my face a little more
    -Let’s sign up for a 10k
    -I have such a craving for an oaky wine.
    -I just can’t keep up with all my texts and emails.
    -Pardon me, do you have any Grey Poupon?

    I just want to apologize to that New Guinean villager for not keeping the promise I made to her as I stared into her dead pig’s eyes. I mean, I didn’t make a literal promise to her, but if we had been in a class together and she had been able to write English, she would have definitely written in my yearbook, “Don’t Change.” But I did change. I’m on the other side. I will come back, my friend. And I will be wearing my Barack Obama T-shirt for 8 days in a row like I was then. And I will have dreads in my hair after not moving it for nine months. And I will not care about the Starbucks’ menu or a dumb toothbrush holder. But I might bring up teeth whitening just so we can have a funny conversation. And I might also try to describe pizza to you once again, as that one was memorable. And I will eat that magic sauce you offer me, even though I know it’s just soy sauce and not magic at all. Or maybe totally magic.

    It will happen again, as I am still that wandering, wondering girl. I’m just in a phase of the First World for a bit. But not for long. Now that I’ve tasted two personalities, I can walk the scraggly line in between them and one day hone in on a balance. Until then, I will continue to enjoy those spinach/feta wraps from Starbucks. Surprisingly good. Yep, still hate myself for writing that. I should quit that psychology school.

  • Attacked by ivory

    Maybe it’s because my father played the piano while I was living in my mom’s belly. Maybe that’s why. He serenaded her on their first date. Music lived in his fingers, and it lulled me to sleep when I didn’t yet know what sleep was. I have cassettes that start with my giggly toddler voice introducing my dad as a great piano player. And then a full SIDE A of him scooting his digits over the keys. I don’t remember what I did while he played. I imagine myself bored or making my He-Man dolls fondle Barbies, but maybe I loved watching his fingers. Maybe I listened then, and maybe that’s why any bit of piano makes me weak now.


    (Sidenote: Check out this photo. I was a baby pianist. Note the ‘A Chorus Line’ song book. I mean… I definitely acknowledge my mom for not listening to stereotypes, but ‘A Chorus Line?’ That’s a pretty gay bunch of show tunes. I’m surprised I didn’t see that when I was two and tell my mom he was gay [inner side note: My dad was gay. It was a surprise.] [inner side note #2: I look horrible in overalls.].)

    There is a pianist I love now who plays down my street. He makes me think. He rolls his heavy wooden piano onto the Venice Boardwalk every single day . He puts out a tip jar, but I’m not sure he plays as much for money as he does for pleasure. He wears a dirty white ponytail and a collared shirt, and he plays. He plays into the night. I see him when I get a morning coffee, and I see him when I take a stroll at dusk. He plays, hunched, letting notes free into the sky. And I can’t walk past him without bursting into tears. No matter what! I’ll walk with my back to him, but his notes pierce my ears, and out come the tears. Sometimes I sit in the grass next to him because I like crying and I like knowing he’s there. And there I’ll stay while salty drops drip into my coffee.

    I sob and I can’t help it.
    I’ve tried to analyze why these tears jump out of my eyes like Olympic divers. Like lemmings. Like ants. They crawl all over me.
    At first I thought the pianist reminded me of my dad.
    And I felt sorry for myself. I imagined how many songs my father’s fingers would know by now. But that wasn’t it. So, I stopped feeling sorry for myself.

    The more I see this man and the more I cry, the more I realize it has nothing to do with my past or my dad or me at all.

    I can’t stop my tears simply because it is so moving to watch someone do something he truly loves. Not for money (he doesn’t even notice when people give tips!). Not for recognition. But for love. This guy loves playing the piano. I don’t know him, but I know that. I see that. I see it in how he breathes out notes. I see it with my eyes closed. In the air. In his songs. Even the blades of grass know it, as I drown them in my tears.

    Surrounded by men who hold signs asking for weed money or men who walk around in Speedos for picture money, this man has found a venue for an art that he has mastered out of love. And it makes me cry.

  • My favorite virgin

    It was my birthday week! I was over here getting older. What were you doing?
    I didn’t write anything, although I do have some new insights about age (hint: it’s not so bad).

    In the meantime, I will share this Taboo Tale with you from our February show. It’s about a virgin in her thirties. Remember how I got so mad with conservatives last week and wrote that everyone is fucking (I got some complaints about my over-usage of the F word. Sorry. It’s just a word!!!)? Well, I guess I was wrong. This chick is not fucking, at least not in her ‘bathing suit area.’

    http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PHgVQ2R82nI&feature=youtu.be

  • Animal Style

    Regardless of religion or politics, I think we can all agree that humans are animals. I’m not saying we evolved from chimps. I’m simply saying we are alive. We have to eat and shit to stay alive. We have body hair. Sometimes we don’t smell good. When we strip away our brand names, electronic devices, and double ovens… we’re not that different from dogs. Or monkeys. Or llamas. We are animals. We just happened to have been the first ones to grow attached to a telephone or a toilet or living under roofs. Still, we are animals.

    Humans are animals.
    And animals have sex.

    Dogs do it so much in front of humans that we’ve copied them. I’ve seen frogs do it. I’ve seen flies do it mid-air. And it’s often acceptable for humans IN MOVIES to have sex. But when it comes to regular people, it has become part of our culture to deny our sexual endeavors.

    I felt compelled to write about fucking when I opened the news the other day. It was filled with articles whose subtexts were brimming with sex. The pope has told nuns they can’t support women who’ve fucked. Some fella with a microphone called women who want birth control sluts. Catholic organizations are pissed they need to give birth control to their employees, who they assure us are not fucking before marriage. Parents don’t want to give the HPV vaccine to their non-fucking teens. A man who wants to be the president of our country will end aid to Planned Parenthood because only bad people who fuck need help with sexual health. And everyone is up in arms because some secret service agents got fucked in Colombia (I’m only upset about the haggling. Come on, dude. Just pay the lady.).

    If aliens read our news, they’d think we were really repressed and using news outlets as the only way to talk about sex.

    And maybe we are. The majority of people in the news are claiming that nobody is having sex, and if they are, it’s only once in a while to procreate normally with their beloved partners. They’re saying that only bad people really need birth control or HPV vaccines or prostitutes or to help anyone who has ever had an unwed penis near their vaginal cavity (or vice versa, but the news really seems to hate on women).

    I just want to remind everyone here once again: WE ARE ANIMALS.
    Sex is part of our animal instinct. We’ve been able to push down our natural instinct to walk around naked, but we haven’t gotten rid of our urge to fuck. And we won’t. Because it’s part of our animal lives. It is in our DNA. Our basic skills. Our natural body makeup. We are supposed to fuck. That’s just how it is. Of course sex was originally meant for procreation, but extra bedrooms have grown expensive and nobody really wants 18 babies anymore. Still, the animal urge is there and we all want to fuck. And that’s okay.

    I don’t recommend we all just go fuck willy nilly, get pregnant, and have the government pay for our abortions. I’m simply saying that sex is a natural instinct, and we shouldn’t be looked down upon or called sluts just because we’re acting like the animals that we are.

    Sometimes, Mr. Pope, I wish we weren’t so animalistic. I wish we weren’t programmed to pro-create so much. I’d like less traffic on the 405. I’d like to not want to fuck every Starbuck’s employee during my monthly hormonal tidal wave. I wish we were all easily programmed to have really passionate sex just once a year like those turtles that lay eggs on a beach like clockwork. That way we could plan for the special night. We’d only have to remove leg hair once a year, and pregnancy scares would happen all together. But we’re not that kind of animal. WE ARE THE OTHER KIND. We’re like lions and tigers. We roar. We scratch (depending). We even do some other weird shit we pick up from our childhoods that we would never tell anyone about. It’s because we are programmed to do so. We are programmed to get horny, see another person, and want to fuck them. It is a natural part of life. What I’m saying is: IT’S OKAY TO FUCK. And everybody is doing it.

    Yes, Mr. Pope, I’m sorry to break it to you: WE ARE ALL FUCKING.
    Women are fucking. Gay people are fucking. Secret service agents are fucking. People who aren’t married are fucking. Teens are fucking. Our parents are fucking. Teachers are fucking. Even Republicans are fucking. (note: okay, some people aren’t fucking, but that’s because they’re on depression meds, adhere to strict religious code, secretly hate their husbands, have lost their libidos, are old and sick of fucking, or are just waiting for the ‘right guy’ and dying inside [someone I know])

    Don’t be alarmed. It’s okay. We were born to hump. I see what you conservative people are doing. Denying is meant to be coy. But look what happens when you deny: Larry Craig. Priests. Anthony Wiener (and the many other texting wieners). It is not working to pretend we’re not having sex. It doesn’t make us seem cute. It makes us seem like liars. It makes us look naive. And prude. The more we deny, the more people assume we’re hiding something. Most people probably think the Santorums have a sex den full of minors in their basement.

    Let it out. It’s okay. WE ARE SUPPOSED TO FUCK. Because we are animals. It’s okay to have a sexual appetite. It’s okay to want to have sex before marriage. It’s okay to masturbate, fantasize, do it like dogs, and take birth control pills. Get over it. Stop being so prude. Enjoy an orgasm once in a while.

    Be an animal.

  • This might tickle, Toaster.

    (before)

    I haven’t spent more than twenty dollars on an item of clothing since 2008. Or even before that. Or pretty much ever. I think my prom dress was $300, and I still feel guilty about it (Sorry, Mom). I’m not thrifty because I’m writing a clever book on saving money. I don’t have a secret blog about my money diet. I just have problems spending money.

    I wouldn’t say I’m cheap. I’ll donate to your cause if you ask me. I’ll buy you dinner if we go out (if we’re at Sizzler or Portillo’s). I love splurging on Christmas gifts. But when it comes to myself, I do not spend money. I save on underwear by not wearing any. I never get my hair cut. I eat Subway a lot for dinner. I know how to sacrifice. I must have spent a previous life as a Holocaust victim (Surely forgoing brand name denim is just like what the Jews went through).

    One of my courses in psychology school is about self-nurturing. We’re supposed learn how to love ourselves and shit. So, we HAVE to do nice things. Just for ourselves! It’s a requirement. I haven’t yet bought any good clothes (because gross. I hate shopping), but I did splurge on something.

    I hired a maid.

    I felt guilty about it at first. I mean, who can’t take a few minutes every week to wipe up the bathroom? ME! I can’t take a few minutes every week to wipe up the bathroom. Or fold my clothes after I do laundry. It’s ME! I come home late from my freelance job where I do important things like coin soon-to-be famous phrases on infomercials. Then I go to my flamenco class. Then I write jokes for Taboo Tales. Then I bla bla bla. And all of a sudden, my entire apartment looks like it’s my high school room minus the Kirk Cameron poster. In 2012 alone, I’ve uttered the phrases “I can’t live like this.” and “How do they do it?” over two zillion times.

    And so I broke through my guilt and mentioned to a friend that I was shamefully thinking of hiring someone to clean my place, a one-bedroom apartment that can probably fit in your apartment.

    That opened the floodgates. That day, I learned that everyone in LA has a maid. THAT is how they do it. I will probably be shot for this because the rule here is: DO NOT TALK ABOUT YOUR MAID unless you are sure you’re talking to someone else who has a maid.

    Everyone has a maid (except people who don’t yet know that everyone has a maid). Everyone is really good at not talking about their maids. As soon as I expressed interest, I was invited into the secret maid society. I got tips from maid pros:

    “Before you take someone’s maid recommendation,” one friend said, “go to their house and slide your finger along the base of the toilet. Ya know. Just to see.”

    “Your maid will go through a peacock phase and then start to get lazy,” another friend said. “After a year, she won’t clean any better than you do.”

    “Don’t pay more than fifty. You can get a maid for thirty bucks on Craigslist.”

    Thirty bucks! To wipe up the base of my toilet? Isn’t that illegal?
    It turns out, YES, it is illegal. Still, everyone has a maid.

    I never went to my friend’s house to check his toilet, but I used his recommendation. And in a jiffy, Pati was at my house. I thought she’d be impressed because I’d already cleaned. I made my bed to show her who was boss. I shoved a rag around my bathtub to convince her I’d cleaned it more than that one time. I had an inkling she might just show up and tell me not to waste my money on her.

    Nope. She showed up and let out a squeal when she saw the tub. It turns out, the bathtub is not supposed to be lined with black mold. What I thought might be an hour-long session lasted SIX HOURS. She made love to my apartment. She caressed it with foams and bleaches. She vacuumed my toaster. She soaked the shelves of my refrigerator. SHE VACUUMED MY TOASTER.

    She charged me eighty dollars to clean for six hours. I wanted to pay her my soul.

    My apartment is once again reminiscent of my adolescent hovel, but for those few days that followed, I felt wonderful. I felt free to frolic in the germless wonder of my one-bedroom. I spread out on the floor. I rolled around in my sparkly tub. I toasted several clean breads. And I realized that it does feel good to do things for myself. It feels really good. I’m pretty sure it’s all downhill from here. Be warned. I’m going to be a person who has a maid and talks about that maid. Because I fucking deserve it. But, please, if I start bragging about my new Prada bag, do something.