Lady of the dance

The Morrigan has an absolutely hilarious post up about the practical (and very physical) pain of brazilian wax jobs; I highly suggest you read it. A friend of mine had a similar incident a few years back. She attempted to wax herself without first testing the heat of the wax.

Fire down below!

To escape the burning pain, she jumped into her tub to cool off - and wound up stuck to it. I think it took her almost an hour to extract her (now very raw) labia from the porcelain. This is all funny in retrospect, of course, since she wasn't permanently damaged. At the time, though, she had to contemplate whether to extract herself with considerable bloodshed or call 911. When you're a slave to pubic hair fashion, these are the rewards you reap.

Bepenised readers, allow your favorite redhead to pontificate on the royal pain in the ass that is female grooming and maintenance. If the ladybits are right on the outside, they're not right on the inside, or vice versa; sometimes they're just not right altogether. On a good day, having ladyparts is divine, like owning a heated indoor pool that just happened to be installed between your thighs; orgasmically speaking, we're built with an Uzi to a man's shotgun. On a bad day, though, ladybusiness is like a foreign car - finicky and impractical, stalling at intersections, with weird looking parts that are expensive to replace. It's a double-edged sword, boys. The proverbial blessing-and-curse paradox if there ever was one.

Every single one of us women has some humiliating grooming story in her past. The Morrigan has inspired me to share mine, so here goes:

A FEW YEARS BACK

**ring, ring***

Tabitha: Hello?

Ginger: Hey, it's me. I think I did something really stupid...

Tabitha: (worried) Are you ok?

Ginger: ...I kind of shaved off all my pubic hair.

Tabitha: ....

(moment of silence)

Tabitha: HYSTERIAL LAUGHTER

Ginger: I haven't seen it without hair in twenty years! Oh my god, I look twelve! And I'm cold!

Tabitha: (trying to control giggling) And how did this happen?

Ginger: Um. I was cleaning it up and kind of missed...so I shaved some more off. Then it was uneven so I shaved some more...tried to even it out on the sides...and wound up with a patch that kind of looked...like a Hitler moustache.

Tabitha: OH MY GOD HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Ginger: I...contemplated leaving it there but it had to go. I cannot look at that every day. I do not have a fascist punany.

Tabitha: (choking) Oh my god.

Ginger: My punany is a blue state. (whiny) Now it's got a bald senator!

Tabitha: (loses it)

Ginger: God, this is going to itch in a week.

It's not just grooming that gets us women into trouble. Like a heated pool or expensive car, the ladybusiness contains delicate parts that need fine tuning. Their temperature, fluid levels and pH can be thrown off by lifestyle, medication and even laundry detergent.

In the early 00's, I wound up on antibiotics for a sinus infection that had spread to my ears. My fellow females probably already know where I'm going with this; as for my male readers, let it be known that antibiotics can dry up the ladybusiness from the inside out. This is, predictably, uncomfortable and requires one to moisturize the area a few times a day.

Towards the end of my prescription, I stepped out of shower one morning after a not particularly great night of sleep. Those of you who are regular readers of this blog already know that I am (a) and insomniac and (b) really, really not a morning person. Having overslept on this particular morning, I was in a rush. Instead of picking up my 'feminine moisturizer', which came in a long plastic tube, my barely awake self grabbed, and applied, tartar control mint toothpaste to my, um...well.


Have you ever seen Riverdance? Picture one of the performers on crack cocaine. I jumped back in the shower, towels and all, to douse what felt like hydrochloric acid burning its way through my most tender parts.

On the bright side, I was completely awake after that. The downside was that I was even later for work than usual. It was also uncomfortable to sit for two days.

So, boys, when you're trying to get with a woman, whether you've been with her before or are making the first move, bear in mind the amount of maintenance put upon the fairer sex by nature and fashion. Show us that you're appreciative of our efforts by keeping your bits clean. I MEAN EVERYTHING. Use baby wipes. Make sure it shines. Yes, we will notice, and in fact, it's the least you owe us for our troubles.

The day where my favorite color is celebrated...

...the thing is, I wear green a lot, so I didn't do anything special today, clothing-wise. I am wearing a Connemara bracelet and ring from Ireland, though. Then again, I wear those a lot. So...maybe I'll just have a green beer at lunch. I don't really drink beer...I'll have to make it a whiskey, but later on in the day. Sometimes I forget how extremely Irish I am until St. Patrick's Day, when all of my non-Irish friends make a big deal over their green clothes and beer and I realize that my own routine will be the same all day.

As to the above cartoon, I pick Gabriel Byrne. I recently read a comment on a fan site that said, "Met him in a Blockbuster - his eyes actually *twinkled*. You can tell he likes it rough and dirty. A very yummy man."

It's been a while, how are you?

Hello all,

Sorry that I disappeared on you for a while there. Work got nuts (my usual excuse, I know), and to be frank, I needed the break.

Something else has been taking up my time as well; I think I've mentioned that I've been making jewelry for the past few years. I've been doing it for my own enjoyment and giving the results away as presents, mostly. Last month, I gave a necklace to my friend Liz for her birthday; she wore it to a Super Bowl party, where it got noticed by a friend of hers who's a makeup artist. Next thing I knew, I was being invited to participate in a pre-awards show gift suite. I had to take some time off from writing while I made over 100 bracelets for the VIPs who attended. I gave out almost 200 business cards, and my jewelry was a hit! I've sold a handful of pieces since the event, and am just happy to have a reason to go back to one of my favorite hobbies, which I had dropped for no good reason some time last year.

Although I'm not sure how much longer I want go on writing this blog, I certainly haven't run out of stories. Lately I've been back in touch with a man I used to work with; I'll call him Pete. Already married when I met him (to a really lovely woman), he now has a couple of kids and a propensity to turn the conversation sexual whenever we talk. Nothing has ever gone on, mind you. I've mentioned several times that I don't 'do' married. I was never cold towards Pete's constant flirtation, but I never encouraged it, either. He was my supervisor, and we did bond to an extent, since we worked in a pretty crappy environment together.

When I moved to LA, there were a handful of acquaintances from Boston that I lost touch with. It's not unusual for people to eventually stop contacting someone that they know they'll see very rarely in the coming years, but Pete always kept in touch. He left our old business digs as well, and we kept each other up to date on what we'd been doing.

Here's the thing, though - at the end of an otherwise innocent conversation (always over email, never by phone), he would slip in how much he missed me, how sexy I was, how I had been his 'favorite' at work. I would always smack him down by asking how his wife was; he'd make some glib comment and move on. We'd be out of touch for a few months; then one of us would move, change jobs, get a promotion, etc., an email would go out, and we'd say hello again, with the conversation always ending the same way.

This has been going on for almost ten years, a couple of times a year.

It's not a sexual attraction on my part; he's not a bad looking guy, but that's not his appeal. Pete is brilliant. The quickest way to get to me is through my brain, and Pete can talk about pretty much anything. He listens, too; a rare thing among men. Even rarer is his ability to feel exhilaration, not hostility, during a disagreement. I do have a real affection for him that would never move to the next level. Even though I've never personally indulged, I have a lot of respect for marriage, coupled with tremendous disdain for the idea of being a side dish. Not that it matters; we haven't been in the same room since 2003.

When I was younger and less experienced, I figured he flirted with everybody. I liked his wife a great deal and blew off his saucier comments with a laugh. Now that I'm a little older, I realize he was testing the waters, just checking to see how receptive I might be to a genuine come-on. Not my thing, though, and it was never really worth analyzing, since we live on opposite coasts now.

Not really sure why I'm writing about this - I think I've just been analyzing patterns in my relationships with men lately, and Pete popped up again a few weeks ago. He dropped me an email to let me know that he'd been in San Diego on business, wanted to know if I would have come down to visit him. Wanted to know what I would have worn. I've never understood the appeal of those you can't have - not since I was a teenager, anyway. I appreciate those who are around me and make the most of what I've got. I'm not a chaser, so I do not understand the chaser mentality. I don't know; I feel like I've got to figure a few things out before I get back into dating, which I've put on the shelf for a few months now.

I've been a homebody for the past two months, so I don't really have any crazy stories to report. Maybe things really are changing for me. I'll check in a few more times with the most colorful stories from my past, and then I may very well wrap this blog up. I created it for my own mental survival a few years ago. Now I may have to close it down for my own mental survival.

Ok, I'm going to wrap up this slightly serious post with Sarah Haskins' new funny take on Barbie. Enjoy!

Innocent

Last fall, Godson and his mom Suzi were driving around while she was doing errands. As they passed a dairy farm, one of the bulls mounted a cow and started going to town. Suzi kept driving without comment, while thinking maybe he didn't notice. I'm really not ready to explain the birds and bees just yet.

After a minute of quiet, Godson piped up, "Hey, Mom! Did you see those cows?"

Oh, shit. "What about them, buddy?"

"They were playing leapfrog!"

I laughed my ass off when his mom told me that story. You only get to be that innocent once.

The Cutness is coming to get you. Resistance is futile.

Behold, The Godson. How cute is he??

I know, I'm hardly objective. I have to give him big props for choosing the coolest character in the entire Star Wars lexicon for his Halloween costume. He's also very happy that Obama won the election.

Cool, gorgeous, funny and politically savvy! He takes after his godmother.

His mom emailed me to let me know that he has a girlfriend. He might have more than one; apparently he came home with two love notes this week. Naturally, this does not surprise me. I'm mostly just happy that he's friends with, and hangs out with, both girls and boys, still innocent of the deeper intrigues that overshadow and influence modern gender relations. That won't last much longer, of course. I jokingly emailed back that it's almost time for a "birds and bees talk," and inquired as to which parent would be handling that job. Suzi is adamant that it won't be her.

I remember having that talk with my mother when I was nine years old (if it were up to my father, I would probably still be ignorant about the bump and grind). Mom was an early developer who found blood in her panties at age nine, passing out in a Catholic school bathroom stall immediately after. She wanted to spare her own daughters the frightening experience of mysterious panty blood. She gave me one of those illustrated paperback books - you know, the ones with titles like "Your Growing Body," and had me read it. Then she explained the act of sex to me in very simple terms, making it very clear that what she had just described was, in fact, the reason for my existence, and hers, and everybody else's. Then we had a question and answer session, which was both horrifying and fascinating to my nine year old self. Thinking back, she was really very progressive. I have a feeling that it was more difficult for her to tell me that there was no Santa.

I remember my first love note, too; I got it in the first grade, when I was two years younger than my godson is now. It was left on my desk by Chris, a cute blond boy from my neighborhood that I was friendly with. We took the same bus to school. He was more of a jock; I was one of those weird kids who had learned to read by age three and used words like "asphalt," "landscaper" and "realm" in everyday speech. I taught myself to write in script by tracing my mother's handwritten letters, so I was able to read my fellow students' report cards aloud to them. First Grade Teacher was a battle-axe who had started her career in a one-room schoolhouse at the age of nineteen, and she was particularly hard on Chris for some reason. He was not a bad kid, but he was an overactive, fidgety type, which I could sympathize with, being antsy myself. When report cards came around, Chris appreciated knowing what his parents were going to be reading ahead of time.

One day, I got to my desk after lunch to find a sheet of looseleaf folded into a small square. Chris had scrawled "I Love You" inside, in black crayon. I took the note home and kept it in the drawer of my night table. I think I kissed him on the cheek once before the end of the school year. We were nice to each other. It was simple. Of course, second grade rolled around soon enough, and all was forgotten.

Years later, though, we got to talking in high school and he said, "You know, you were my first girlfriend." We laughed about it. Later on, I related the story to my mother, who went through her hope chest and pulled out Chris' love note, which she had saved. Being a teenager, I was embarrassed, of course.

But it really was sweet. And simple.

So much for Joan.

Here's Rita.

Here's a close up of the hair.

Didn't my hairdresser do an amazing job? She used the photo from my previous post. I actually had a few people ask me if my hair was a wig. It was bulletproof, and took me forever to wash out, but lasted all night through humidity and dancing. I was amazed at how much shorter my hair was after all that curling and sculpting. It looked like four inches had been trimmed off.

Joan will have to wait until next year, assuming that Mad Men remains as kick-ass as it is right now. Otherwise, I'll have to find a new redhead for Halloween 2009. A friend joked that I should aim for Red Sonja:

Kick ass woman? Check.

Red hair? Check.

Costume?! Ummmm. I'd have to work out every day until next Halloween. I like bagels too much.

Halloweenies

Halloween is almost upon us, kids. What will you be this year? I'm still planning to be Joan Holloway, continuing my 'famous redheads' costume theme of the last few years. Assuming that I have a party to go to, I've got a 1960s style 'wiggle dress' on call. I'll make any excuse to wear the clothing from back then!

A lot of people refer to All Hallows' Eve as "Slut-O-Ween," but I prefer to call it "Freak-O-Ween." What time of year could be more appropriate to proudly fly your freak flag? When I lived back in Boston, I used to go to Salem to celebrate. Weirdos crawl out of the woodwork; everybody is off their meds and nothing is too bizarre. If you're into the darker parts of New England history, the Witch Museum is open that night, along with the Dungeon Museum, where actors recreate witch trials based on surviving transcripts. Spells, stones and potions can be purchased on famous Essex Street, where you can have your fortune told, or your aura read, by one of the many practicing witches in the area. My favorite shop was Angelica of the Angels; my girl JoAnne and I went there for readings with Rev. Barbara or one of the other mediums a couple of times a year. Silly, I know; but really fun. We'd make a day of it - have our readings, purchase a bauble or two, then have lunch at some cute spot in town.

On our most memorable trip to Angelica's, we made a quick stop at a Mailboxes, etc. so that I could send a birthday package to my sister. There was a man in his forties in line ahead of us, who overheard JoAnne and I chatting about our upcoming readings. He turned around.

"You know," he said, very gravely, "they do the work of the devil."

"Oh, sure," I smiled. "That's why we go." He glared and walked out. JoAnne and I waited for the door to shut, then erupted in laughter.

Wicked activities aside, the one tourist attraction that I would absolutely recommend is the House of Seven Gables, otherwise known as the "Hawthorne house." On Halloween night, the house stays open into the early morning, offering candelit tours. For a sentimental literature buff like myself, touring the house that the author of The Scarlet Letter lived in was heaven, but it's a cool place to check out even if you couldn't care less about Hester Prynne.

I'm sure it goes without saying that the Witches' New Year (that's Samhain for you history nerds) is far more imaginative in Salem than it is in Los Angeles. Out here, the Slut-O-Ween label is very apropos. Go anywhere in Hollywood that night and you'll be surrounded by angels and devils - both in nothing more substantial than underwear, horns and wings. They look very good in their non-costumes, mind you; most of them are actresses and models. My personal objection comes from a lack of originality. Then there's the fact that, when you go shopping for adult costumes, there isn't much choice besides "Slutty Fillintheblank." Slutty firefighter, slutty schoolgirl, slutty French maid...the slutty astronaut costume exists too - Jesus wept! I have seen it with my own eyes. I have to 'fess up that I myself was a slutty cop a few years back. I hadn't planned to go out for Halloween at all, but got a last minute plea from a good friend, who took me to Trashy Lingerie to shop. I know. I was open to something new - a little too open. Officer Naughty was by far the most demure costume I could find - a shirtdress that buttoned up the front, had full sleeves, and came down to mid-thigh. Still, she was less than shy; I'm pretty sure that stilettos and fishnets aren't standard issue for the LAPD. Even so, I felt like a Mormon compared to most of the women I passed on the street. Strangely, I feel safest on Halloween, the one night when even I think anything goes. I can drop my conservative wardrobe with no fear. In a sea of exposed flesh, no way do I stand out the most, no matter what I have or haven't got on. The year that I was a cop, one of my tiny, very fit friends decided to be Pocahontas, who must have been incredibly cold back in the day, wearing not much more than a suede bathing suit with beaded fringe on the Virginia coast in wintertime. No wonder John Smith fell for her so hard! We jokingly called her "Poke-a-hot-ass" all night that year.

I much prefer making use of my own clothes to create my costumes. The year before I was Officer Naughty, I decided to be Jessica Rabbit - she of the icon that I use in my profile.



Yes, dear readers, c'est moi, in character. I took a previously worn Ann Taylor gown and dressed it up with a pair of $15 purple opera gloves from Hollywood Costume. It's easily the cheapest and most elegant costume I've ever worn - I was a poor imitation of the real thing, I know, but it was fun to be Jessica for one night. Unfortunately, I had to explain who I was to some members of the under-25 set. Apparently, I've gotten to the age when recent college graduates haven't seen any of the movies from my childhood! These kids today. I spent a good part of my evening advising my fellow partygoers to add to their Netflix qeue.

Jessica is the least revealing costume I've ever worn, but she backfired on me, big time. Earlier I mentioned the freedom of going unnoticed in a sea of uncovered limbs, but Jessica got a reaction, whether the guys knew who she was or not. Was it because I was covered up? You know, the lure of the unseen? I can never get this right. To wit:

Catwoman (unitard, mask) - no problem
Wonder Woman (sparkly bathing suit, boots) - no problem
Officer Naughty (shirtdress, stilettos) - no problem
Ginger of Gilligan's Island (long gown) - harrassed incessantly
Jessica Rabbit (black tie ready) - randomly groped, booty call

You know what? It's not me at all. It's a tossup whose outcome depends on the quality of men I'm surrounded by.

As Jessica, I had such a lovely conversation with a man dressed as the Phantom of the Opera that I gave him my number. He called. Not a few days later, to ask me on a date, but at 3:30 that morning, to booty call me. Jessica might not have hung up on him, but Ginger did.

He called back at 4am. "You're just scared," he slurred drunkenly.

"No," I countered. "I'm smart."

Even Officer Naughty didn't get that kind of treatment, and she had handcuffs! Wonder Woman didn't have to deal with that, either. Then again, she had the Lasso of Truth. Maybe that's what kept them at bay. Would Joan Holloway carry handcuffs and rope in her purse? Probably not. Hopefully, there's some magic in the special gold pen she wears around her neck. I'll let you know.

A fresh start?

"Your luck is going to change."

So said the petite, curly haired, gypsyesque middle-aged woman who manned one of the booths at the annual Abbott Kinney Street Festival. I had just bought a gorgeous knitted coat from her. It was a sumptuous plummy brown, floor length, with a scalloped collar and a velvet tie at the bust. It was only $60! The festival always hosts dozens of vendors with some amazing bargains; earlier that afternoon, I had purchased a beautiful 1950s style feather barrette for a mere $20.

"Are you single?" she asked with a smile while ringing up my purchase.

"It's that obvious, huh?" I laughed. "Have you got some Love Potion No. 9 for me?"

She pulled a small vial of oil out of her jacket pocket and motioned for me to hold out my hands, palms up.

Amused, I did so. She dabbed a drop of oil on each palm and rubbed them in with her index and middle fingers. "Now, you rub your hands together."

I did. "Now, do like me." She cupped her hands together and smoothed them over her head, starting at her chin and ending at the nape of her neck. I copied the motion with my oily palms.

"Should I feel different now?" I joked. "I need all the help I can get."

"Now," she said, nodding serenely, "your luck will change. You will see." An interesting choice of words. I hadn't mentioned my inexplicable freak pull; I guess it's true that it works its magic through my pores or something. My friend Belinda is convinced that I give off a pheromone. Maybe the gypsy magic oil can do something about that.

I have to say, all's been quiet on the freak front lately, but I've been working a lot. Last Friday night, I was walking home from the drugstore laden with bags when I heard a voice behind me. "Your man should be carrying those."

I stopped and turned around. "I'm sorry?"

Standing there was a smiling, very nice looking guy, maybe 29 years old. "Your man," he repeated, "should be carrying those for you."

"Well, he isn't here," I smiled good naturedly and turned to walk away.

"So, there is one?" he asked. "A man, I mean?" I have to say, it was one of the nicer come-ons I've gotten in the past few years.

I'm not sure why I felt a knot in the pit of my stomach. It wasn't a gut reaction, indicating danger; it was a mental thing. I thought about all the times I'd accepted dates from guys who were practically strangers, guys who weren't vetted by friends or family. All I could think was, What are you hiding, nice seeming boy? Who will you become if I actually go out with you?

I just couldn't go there. "Yes, there is," I lied with a smile.

"That's too bad for me," he answered, pleasantly enough.

"Have a good night," I said as I walked away. Is my guard up so high now that the right guy can't come over it?

Maybe my luck is changing, but I'll need a little time to get used to the idea.

Sorry for my absence!

I traveled back east last week to visit friends and family, and decided to make my trip as technology-free as I could. No checking my email, no blogging. I needed a break. I got to see and stay with various friends and family members, traveling from the Hudson Valley to Long Island. I got to see my 7-year-old godson, and take him to the bus stop on his first day of second grade.

GS (godson) is so tall now that the top of his head reaches my shoulder. He says he loves the second grade so much that he's going to have dreams about it. His mom Suzi and I took him to play miniature golf, took him hiking on the Appalachian trail, and played lots of Wii golf and bowling with him. He read books to me before going to bed and says he likes to sweat 'because then I can spike my hair out.' He has Queen and Madonna on his MP3 player, loves showing me tricks on his Razor scooter and cuddling on the couch. I'm enjoying the attention while it lasts; I figure I've got six or seven more good years, tops, before he's a teenager who wants nothing to do with me. Of course I adore him, but running around after a 7-year-old all week, even one as cute as my adorable golden-haired GS, will make anyone contemplate sterilization a few times. Kids are work, people. Props to all you parents out there, and especially to Suzi, who runs a household that includes her son, her husband, her mother-in-law, her husband's nephew and a 12-year-old Siberian Husky named Aida.

I have to say that kids do provide many of life's more entertaining moments. Suzi, her husband and I took GS to the local Dairy Queen one night after dinner. GS is a big fan of DQ's Cotton Candy ice cream (it's blue!). On our way back, Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody was playing on the radio. I sat in the back seat with GS, who kept his left arm wound through my right and leaned his head against my shoulder as he finished his half-eaten cone. Suzi and I were having a conversation as her husband drove, and she turned the music down so I could hear her better.

GS stopped eating and sat up. "Who turned the music down?"

"I did, bud," Suzi said.

GS was indignant. "You don't turn down the music while I'm rocking out!" he exclaimed.

I just about died.

A few days later, apropos of nothing, he got exasperated and asked, "What kind of a world are we living in? I need to move to another one," followed by a big sigh. I repeat, the kid is 7.

Hurricane Hanna hit the northeast on Saturday, and it was insanely humid for the entire previous week. I suffered some very bad hair days, readers. It was like a cross between one of those little Troll dolls and the Bride of Frankenstein. I had a constant slick of oil on my face. We all felt as if we were melting each afternoon. When you're perpetually soaked through to the skin with your own sweat, a costume change is in order, sometimes twice in one day. If humidity were a threat to national security, we would have been at DEFCON 1. I am completely spoiled by the omnipresent central air that Angelenos cannot live without.

All of my hosts, who know very well that I use my own oven for storage, generously fell over themselves to provide me with home cooking, which I of course appreciated; however, I had forgotten how much New Yorkers love their red meat. As wonderful as it was to be waited on like an empress of Rome, grilling steak every day in that humidity, without air conditioning, made makeup, deodorant and even clothing almost pointless. My very determined uncle, who is not happy unless I am eating, had planned to barbecue filet mignon for me, and Hurricaine Hanna did not deter him. He grilled outside in a downpour with a handheld umbrella. Best mignon I ever had. I needed some Crisco and a shoehorn to get into my skinny jeans on Sunday morning.

I know I sound like I'm complaining, but I'm doing it with a wink. Sometimes, when work is overwhelming and I'm dealing with some unimportant drama, I forget that my life is an embarrassment of riches. I get to go home and spend my time with some truly wonderful people. I get to have New York pizza and cheesecake!

Yesterday I called Suzi to jokingly ask what they'd had for dinner that night. It was pizza. I was jealous.

GS grabbed the phone from his mom when he found out that I was on the line. "I love you," he whispered very softly, a secret just between us. It made me ache to hug him again. He handed the phone back to his mom before I could reply and ran back to his Wii.

I won't miss the pounds I'm going to lose now that I'm home. I will miss the people, though.

“Of all people, you know who I am…who the world needs me to be. I’m Wonder Woman.”

I thought I'd come up as Catwoman, but the quiz don't lie.

The funny thing is, I actually had a boss back in Boston who called me Wonder Woman, because I'd saved his ass so many times. He bought me all kinds of Wonder Woman trinkets when he traveled; I still have the Wonder Woman address book he got me. 

I decided to be Wonder Woman for Halloween that year. That was fun - I rented a costume that looked a lot like this. I even went to Home Depot and bought rope and gold spray paint to make my very own Lasso of Truth.

I went to a party at my friends Robin and Joe's place that night. I was surfing the crimson wave (read: menstruating), which is horrible when you're basically wearing a spangly bathing suit and boots. Even with cramps, I was able to rock my costume until I had, um, un poquito accidente on the couch in their den.

I know you feel me, girls. You do your best to plug it, but sometimes, it escapes anyway. We are animals, after all. The human body ain't always pretty, even when you dress it up.

I couldn't move off the couch while people were still in the den. I didn't want anybody to see. I certainly didn't want anyone to sit on it! After about twenty minutes, people started to move to another room to refresh their drinks; I used the opportunity to clean myself up quickly, then snag Robin and confess my crime. She sympathized and told me not to worry - the couch was a Stainmaster and had special cleaning cloths that would get anything out. I grabbed one and set to work destroying the evidence of my wayward bodily function.

Her husband Joe came downstairs while I was scrubbing. "Did you spill some soda?"

"Yeah, but it's coming out," I lied. He's a very cool guy, but I was too mortified to 'fess up.

Your results:
You are Wonder Woman

You are a beautiful princess with great strength of character.

Click here to take the Superhero Personality Quiz

Liar, liar: The Reveal, Part One

Okay, peeps, let's see how well you all did on my little quiz, starting today!

Statement: Cuba Gooding, Jr. spilled a glass of wine down my dress at a party.

Answer: TRUE.
I arrived in Los Angeles in the fall of 2003 with two suitcases, no job and only a couch to sleep on. That couch belonged to a lovely model/actress who now opens one of the cases on Deal Or No Deal. She and I had been introduced by a mutual friend; I needed a place to flop while I got on my feet, and she needed someone to help with her rent. It was a good arrangement for six months; we were the same age and got along well.

About a month after I moved in with her, M/A invited me to a CAA party that was being thrown at the Pacific Design Center. Being an entertainment newbie, I admit that it was a thrill being up to my neck in famous people that I'd only ever seen on screen. M/A had also brought a guy friend to the party, so while she was off schmoozing, he (a lawyer) and I (still jobless) stood by the bar, discreetly clocking celebrities and joking about how we were going to be thrown out of the soirée for not being fabulous enough. Here are some of the peeps we spotted that night:

Alec Baldwin - Attractive in person, very hairy though

Uma Thurman - Tall and GORGEOUS. Seriously, pictures do not do that woman justice.

Jamie King - Really pretty, with a dragon tattoo that covers almost her entire back

Kate Holmes - Poor girl, she was still 'Katie' then. Pretty, sweet, quite tall. Free Katie!

Greg Kinnear - Looks older in person. He was talking to...

Eva Mendes - ...who is stunning.

Kate Hudson - was hugely pregnant at the time, and very self-conscious about it. She kept a trenchcoat wrapped tightly around her.

Jason Biggs - surprisingly cute!

Ashton Kutcher and Demi Moore - word had just gotten out about this couple, and EVERYTHING STOPPED when they walked in together.

Paris and Nicky Hilton - Pre-sex tape, Paris slouched, picked at her too-tight dress and seemed to have very low self-confidence. Nicky looked pretty together.

Rachel Weisz - Bumped into her in the bathroom. I was surprised at how petite she is. Perfect skin, very polite.

Ms. Weisz wasn't the only person that I had physical contact with that night.  As the party wound down, M/A wanted to do one last lap on the balcony. We walked through the bar area and were about to pass through the balcony door when a man slammed into M/A, dousing my blouse (and her skirt) with wine.

Well, at least it was white wine, and I wasn't wearing white! Wiping off my one-shoulder wrap, I barely looked at the very drunk dude who'd just given my breasts a shower.

"Ohhhhh! I'm ssssssssooo sorry!" He exclaimed, putting down now almost empty glass on a nearby table and wiping his hands on his suit. I looked up to see Cuba Gooding Jr. reaching for napkins to hand to M/A and myself. He did seem very contrite and, happily, did not attempt to "blot" my chest or her crotch. "Arrre you okay?" 

We were okay, of course. Apologies and okays were exchanged all around. "Now I can say that Cuba Gooding Jr. got me wet!" M/A joked. Which...ew. Clever, but ew, and slightly starfucker-y.

"AaaaaaaaahhhhhaaaahhhhAAAAAAAAAA!!!" Cuba thought it was hysterical. The two exchanged hi-fives. 

I hope he took a cab home. 

Stay tuned for Part 2 of The Reveal!

May you live all the days of your life.

Readers, the above quote is by Jonathan Swift. Today, Friday the 13th, is my birthday! I was actually born on a Tuesday, but quite enjoy having Friday the 13th birthdays. I even turned 13 on a Friday the 13th. Personally, I've found 13 to be a very lucky number ; )

I'm taking the day off work and going to the spa for some much needed pampering. I'll resume posting this weekend.

Surprise, surprise...

-18 As a 1930s wife, I am Very Poor (Failure) Take the test!

Poor FunnyBoy. I should have sent him the results of this test! Then he wouldn't have bothered.

Hat tip: Shakespeare's Sister.

Liar, liar

This week, I really enjoyed Sage's game (which she picked up from Halushki), in which she listed five truths and one lie, challenging her readers to find the lie. I'd like to play. So, here goes - which one of these statements is false?

1. Cuba Gooding, Jr. spilled a glass of wine down my dress at a party.
2. I have a paralyzing fear of roller coasters.
3. I've been caught in flagrante delicto in public. Twice.
4. As a child, I was almost trampled by a huge buck on my front lawn.
5. Russell Crowe once bent over and put his ass in my face.
6. I had a past life experience while I was in Ireland.

I think this will be tough - even for some of my friends who know me well. Take a guess, and when I've gotten a decent number of comments, I'll spend a week revealing which statements are true, and which is the lie. Good luck!