OUCH

The baby on the right is all, "What the fuck?!"

A woman in Siberia gave birth to a 17 POUND BABY.

She had a ceaserean, thank god. I'm sure vaginal delivery would have killed her, even though this is her 12th baby!

Note to self - avoid all starches while pregnant! I am in no rush.

Relationships, now with fewer commercials!

Overheard in my office:
"I wish I could TiVo my significant other. Then, I could skip the crappy parts."

Mommy Dearest

"Don't move. Stay right there."

My first college hookup was an insecure, self-obsessed specimen that my entire floor had nicknamed "Alex P. Keaton." He really did look like Michael J. Fox, and like his namesake, he was cute - and a total ass. Alex was a big talker - the kind of guy who constantly bragged about bedding girls left and right.

"Man, were you at the DKE party on Friday? It was like shooting fish in a barrel!"

"She wasn't that cute, but she said my four favorite words - 'I'm on the pill.'"

Alex was a Poli-Sci major headed for law school, a thought which still makes me shudder; the idea of him as a judge or defense attorney scares the crap out of me to this day. He was no charm school graduate; he cared so much about what everyone thought of him that he was a condescending asshole to everybody, and he probably lied about his conquests half the time. Not that I cared. I was eighteen years old, skinny, inexperienced, and hadn't fooled around with anybody in a while. I knew he'd be up for it, so after I flirted a little at a party one Saturday night, he asked me back to his room "to read some poetry."

Readers, I was a youngun, but I knew what "come back to my room to read some poetry" meant in college boy parlance.

What killed me was, as I made myself comfortable on the edge of his bed, he actually did pull out a journal of his own poems, some of which weren't half bad. I appreciated the gesture, although I really didn't need to be warmed up. I was there to get my kiss-and-grope on, which I'd been upfront about. I had also let him know that we wouldn't be having PIV sex, although a few side dishes were acceptable. I was working my way up the sexual skills ladder, preferring to get a lock on foreplay first, so that my idealistic self could enjoy the main event when I'd found a guy to lurve.

Cut me some slack, I was eighteen!

Alex P. was okay with my terms, so I initiated the making out portion of our evening.

It was like kissing a cocker spaniel on crystal meth. My lips and a good portion of my chin got wet. If I hadn't had my tonsils removed when I was four, he would have dislocated them. I tried to stick with it, holding his head in my hands in a vain attempt to try to get him to slow down as he intently drilled for oil in the back of my throat. Alas, Alex was not going to teach me as much as I had hoped; even though I was still a virgin, I was the better kisser.

After a few minutes, he pulled away. "I have a short story I want you to read."

"Um. Okay," I said, relieved that the tonsil hockey session was over. He'd barely even touched my boobs, my booze buzz was wearing off, and I was kind of over it.

Alex reached over to his desk and grabbed four or five pages of looseleaf paper, neatly stapled together in the top left corner. The story was called "Sailing With the Lord." No, it wasn't a fundamentalist manifesto; it was based on a song by Sting called "Rock Steady." The song is a pre-Evan Almighty-style spoof of the Noah's Ark tale, from the 1987 album Nothing Like the Sun. I am a huge Sting fan, and "Rock Steady," being a jazzy, funny, catchy tune, is one of my favorite songs on Sun. His story was an absolute ripoff of the song, complete with lifted lyrics.

I tried to read it to the end with a straight face, while thinking: I am supposed to be fooling around with a cute guy. All of my friends manage to do this without any problem, but here I am, sitting on this guy's bed, critiquing his Sting ripoff. Where exactly did my night take such a bad turn?

"So?" Alex P. was anxious for my opinion. "What do you think?" Dude, you should be way more concerned about what I think about your lack of kissing skills. I wish Sting would burst through the door, whack you over the head with his bass for being such an idiot, and then make out with me on your bed.

"Uh, you wrote a story about a Sting song?"

"What do you mean?" Alex sounded a little defensive.

"Well, it's structured just like the song. Guy answers newspaper ad, takes his girlfriend along, cleans up after the animals. You even used his lyrics for the title - 'life may be tough but we're sailing with the Lord'."

"It's based on Noah's Ark," said a very huffy Alex. "It's creative writing."

"Well, it's not very creative if you're plagiarizing." That did it; Alex figured he'd shut me up by making out again. He was even fired up enough for some under the sweater action! It was about damn time.

Some slight oil drilling and groping later, he pulled away again. Dear god, not another short story.

"I have to ask you, are you a virgin?"

"Yeah," I said. "So?"

"Well, here's the thing," Alex said, stroking his chin. "There's this girl who wants to have wild sex with me. Tonight."

"Oh. So you're torn." My sarcasm was lost on Alex P. I get it, dude. I bruised your ego, now you want to bruise mine. Okay, that's my cue to leave. By the way, if Horny Girl really exists, don't show her your stupid Sting ripoff story or she might change her mind.

"Well, yeah, I mean, I could stay and just fool around with you, or I could go - "

"Let me help you with your decision." I got up and adjusted my clothes, smoothed my hair. "It's been fun. I'll see you."

I had my hand on the doorknob when Alex said, "Wait." I turned.

"Don't move. Stay right there." I froze.

"Right there. In that light..." He lay back on his bed, propped up on his right elbow, surveying me.

"...you kind of...look like..."

"What?"

"...my mother."

"Your mother." I took a deep breath. Jesus tapdancing Christ, I could not be less aroused right now. "Well, Alex, that is hugely flattering. Thanks for a night I'll never forget. I think I'll go back to my room and put on some Sting."

The next day, a couple of Good Samaritan sophomore girls who'd seen me go into Alex's room the night before pulled me aside to warn me about his reputation. "You don't know the half," was my reply.

By the end of the day, Alex's new nickname was "Oedipus." He didn't know, of course, but us girls got a kick out of it. I still can't listen to "Rock Steady" without thinking of him.

Gender differences

Hat tip: Feministing.

Don't you forget about me

DAMMIT!

Every time I decide I'm going to recommit to this blog, I get something new thrown in my lap...dear readers, it has been a busy and frustrating summer for Yours Truly. I threw my sister's bridal shower, traveled back and forth to New York and Las Vegas several times (Dad moved there in March), and got slammed at work. It got to a point where my suitcases just sat on my bedroom floor; storing them at the top of my closet would have been a waste of time, considering how often I was out of town. Well, here I am back in LA, back to normal until my sister's wedding in October. I got my maid of honor dress this weekend:

Pretty, no? Chocolate brown should look lovely with my red hair. Little Sis's color scheme is brown and amber; an October wedding is a beautiful choice in upstate New York. The leaves will be turning and the pictures will no doubt be gorgeous. My friend Sarah is getting married not far from my sister almost two weeks later. Between the air fares, wardrobe, hotels and wedding gifts, I am going to be one very tired and very broke woman by the end of next month.

I have missed my blog, and I owe you all a story, so here's one.

I have a friend I'll call Elle, who is a very talented actress and sometime film producer. Earlier this summer, I was looking for something to do on a Friday night. Elle invited me out to a party that was being thrown at the home of a producer that she had worked with early on in her career.

"I know you hate this industry schmoozing stuff," she said, "but there'll be a free open bar and I really should go. I could make a few good connections there. It's something to do, anyway."

I was happy to tag along, although I do indeed hate "industry schmoozing stuff." It is next to impossible to have a normal conversation at one of these parties; everyone has a project to hawk, and the first question that anybody asks you is, "Are you an actor/director/writer/producer?" If you are not one of those things, and the person with whom you are speaking figures out that you can do nothing to further his/her career or latest project, they stop pretending to have any interest in the conversation. Readers, I have had people walk away from me in midsentence at some of these shindigs. I mean that literally - they spot somebody that they worked with, or someone they've been waiting to meet, and off they go. Of course, not everybody acts that way, and when they do, it's not personal. They're all vying for their next paychecks, or trying to break into the business; entertainment isn't a 9 to 5 industry. I have the luxury of knowing that I'm getting paid every Friday, so instead of getting angry, I just get another free cocktail and flirt with the bartender, who is always an attractive, in-between-jobs actor.

My friend Elle is a very hardworking woman who dances (hip-hop, not exotic), and tutors kids to pay bills in between acting gigs. She has a new production company, and produced and starred in a film that's winning awards on the festival circuit. We met through a mutual friend, and I adore her. She's a genuinely talented, interesting chick without a narcissistic bone in her body - that's a rare thing in LA. I'd hang out with her in a laundromat, so I put on my happy face and headed to the party.

The house was a duplex in Hollywood; its architecture reminded me of Lynn Bracken's house in LA Confidential. The front lawn was lined with tiki torches. Bar service (and the requisite cute actor/bartenders) had been set up in both the front and back. People milled about near the backyard pool. The front yard was packed with the usual suspects, chatting about their latest screenplay or acting gig. Elle introduced me to a couple of friendly people that she had worked with in the past. Not wanting to be a third wheel in every conversation, I would make intermittent trips to the bar.

I was waiting for a vodka cranberry when a pretty woman, about 30, worked her way to the corner of the bar. "Three beers, please." It was Rosario Dawson, getting drinks for her nonfamous companions. That's a down girl.

Elle had finished her latest conversation, and joined me to get a drink. She spotted Rosario. "You look familiar," she said. "Are you a poet?"

Rosario laughed. "Umm...not professionally. I do sometimes write, though."

"I could swear I've seen you at a poetry reading," said Elle. "You look so familiar to me."

"Nope," Rosario smiled back. "No poetry readings. Not lately." We got our drinks and she took off, beers in hand.

"That was Rosario Dawson," I said. "I didn't want to say anything while she was standing right there."

Elle looked at me blankly.

"Sin City?" I offered. "Rent?"

It sank in. "Oh, god, now I feel like an idiot."

"I don't think she cares. She seems cool," I said, sipping my drink. "Take me through the house; I want to check it out."

We walked through the house, hung out and chatted by the pool a bit, then walked back around to the front. Elle spotted somebody, and the next thing I knew, I was being introduced to a quite famous twentysomething former sitcom actor. I won't give his real name, because this story is about to get a tad embarrassing, and Elle has worked with this guy. I'll call him Ned; he's a fairly successful film actor now, having co-starred in one of last summer's biggest blockbusters. He seemed to have worked up a nice buzz, and had a pretty, petite Eurasian girl as his date.

We shook hands. "What's up."

"Hey. Nice to meet you," I said.

"I worked with Ned back in the day. One of my first gigs," Elle explained.

Ned nodded. "Back in the day." He gave me a closer look. "Have we met?"

"Nope." I had actually seen Ted at a different house party years ago, when I first moved to LA; but we didn't talk at all, or even make eye contact. I basically spotted him walking through the crowded living room. He was one of my first celebrity sightings. No way would he have remembered me from that party.

"I'm sure I know you," he said. "You look so familiar."

"We haven't met," I smiled. Eurasian Chick was starting to stare me down.

A light went on in Ned's eyes. "Did you and I, uh...?"

Blink.

What?!

Oh, my god. Was he asking me whether we'd banged at some point? In front of his date?

He was. Elle laughed uncomfortably.

"Um, no," I said, laughing it off. "I think I'd remember that. I'm sure you would remember it."

If Eurasian Chick could have shot lazer beams from her eyes, I would have been vaporized instantly.

Note to the ladies - if the guy that you're on a date with is asking random partygoers whether or not he's had drunken anonymous sexytime with them, he is probably not serious about you.

"Aw, c'mon," Ned countered. "Did we have a 'thing'?"

I turned to Elle. "I must not be as good in bed as I thought - he's forgotten." She laughed. "No," I said with mock seriousness, "we did not have a 'thing'."

"No?" Ned looked unconvinced. His date looked like she was going to spontaneously combust.

"No." Elle and I laughed it off and worked our way back into the crowd. She was ready to leave, and the local cops had been to the house more than once that night; the party was probably going to have to be shut down anyway.

"Want to say goodbye to Rosario?" I teased. We actually did wind up talking to her for a while, and she is incredibly cool. Ned stopped to say hello to her as we were all chatting.

I wonder if they had a "thing"?