Diary of a Brazen Hussy

Yesterday morning, after getting out of the shower at my boyfriend's house, I was using his bedroom bathroom to get ready while he showered in the bathroom that he shares with his roommate.   So there I was, putting my face on, naked, because it is my favorite way to be. The house was empty, so I'd left the bedroom door open.

It is important to note here that I was not wearing my glasses at the time. So when I saw a male form in my peripherals, I assumed it was my boyfriend and continued applying mascara. And when I heard him say "Oh, shit!" I very casually offered this reply: "What's wrong, baby?" It wasn't until a few awkward (for him, not me) moments later, when that same male voice asked, from much farther away this time, "Is [your boyfriend] using the other bathroom?" that I realized my boyfriend's roommate had just seen me completely naked ... and surprisingly unperturbed by his accidental act of voyeurism.

I probably should feel embarrassed, but I'm actually more tickled that someone in this world thinks I'm a brazen hussy. Kinda makes you wonder, does that make me an actual brazen hussy? I sure hope so.

The Poop Post

I am a lady who eats food. Therefore, I regularly have to poop. And it is really frustrating that if ladies want to talk about having to poop, it is only socially acceptable within the context of Activia, Jamie Lee Curtis's poop-promoting yogurt.

And because it's Jamie Lee Curtis's yogurt, it's not even hip for people under 50 to talk about pooping. Where's Megan Fox talking about how healthy digestion is sexy? Why doesn't Beyonce belt about the benefits of fiber? Has blabbermouth Jennifer Lawrence dropped a p-bomb at a press conference yet?

Quilted Northern toilet paper kind of implies that women poop, but it's "something no one wants to talk about."These uncomfortable ladies aren't really even pooping, which may explain their pained expressions and general anxiety. Their families are the poopers, and, as women, they need to be ever vigilant about the dreaded toilet paper "break through." Where does that leave me? I am single. I live alone. When is it my turn to poop? The media tells me either after I've eaten my Activia or NEVER.

What about those non-threatening bears on the Charmin commercials who are forever pooping in the forest and politely wiping their behinds? Papa Bear and Baby Bear discuss their bear bottoms quite frequently. And, after moving from the forest to a house they probably bought with their commercial residuals, they are often shown looking happy and relieved (sometimes even dancing with joy) as they emerge from the bathroom. The lone naysayer is Mama Bear, whose only role in the family seems to be finger wagging at Baby Bear's sub-par booty wiping.  WHEN DOES SHE GET TO USE THE CHARMIN???

I would speak more on this phenomenon, but my Activia has kicked in and I have to take a trip to the ladies' room. That's right - to poop. I will not be carrying a newspaper like my coworker who feels free to announce to the world that he has a standing date with Lady Loo every morning at 10:03 AM. (Personally, I think he likes to rub our noses in his regularity. Don't worry - not literally.)  No, my hands will be free because we ladies are dainty, delicate and subtle creatures who simply enjoy posting poop rants on the internet every once in a while. Pass the Charmin!

I wrote this letter to Domu, because of a travesty.

Dear Domu Advertising Department,

It has come to my attention that you have a newer ad claiming to have a haiku written on it. But it is not a haiku.

I take haikus very seriously as I am building my career around them. http://wearefancypants.blogspot.com/2013/03/typo-haiku.html?m=1

A haiku is a poem that is characterized by having 5 syllables in the first line, 7 in the second line, and 5 again in the third and final line.

Your ad reads
"My apartment rocks,
In-unit washer/dryer,
I found it on domu."

The third line contains six syllables, and therefore it cannot be categorized as a haiku.
This must come as a huge embarrassment to not only your advertising department, but also to your whole company.

I feel the only way you can manage your reputation is to immediately fire all parties involved in the scandal, issue a public apology, and hire me to proof read everything.

Time to wrap this up,
Contact me through my email,
Sincerely Lizzy.

(PS That was a closing haiku, just to show you how they come so easy to me.)

Celebrity Doppelgänger

Carlos is a tall skinny coworker in his mid-40s who layers scarves and wears sunglasses indoors. He name-drops clubs and laments the price of bottle service, and often mentions "hot joints that are droppin' next week." His girlfriends are always 25 years old and skinny with enormous, silicone...

lips. He likes them young because wants to have kids someday so he can dress them in Armani, and ladies past the age of 30 are like day old Easter baskets: full of stale, hard boiled eggs.

His normal routine is to chat exclusively with the glamazon who sits across from me, back turned, and then complain when he sees me elsewhere that "we never rap anymore." But today he stops in front of my cube to deliver a personal public service announcement designed to help my self esteem.

He announces confidently, “You remind me of Superbad.”

“Really?” I ask. “I am pretty super."

“Nah, nah. It’s your sense of humor and how you present yourself. You remind me of that one guy.”

“Michael Cera? Because I’m funny and slightly twitchy?”

“Nah, nah, the other guy.”

“The fat guy?” While I think I am giving him a graceful exit from a potential insult, he interprets it as encouragement to continue. (Note: At this point in the story, I am a triathlete with 16% body fat.)

“Yeah."

“With the crazy hair?” Few people are so oblivious and self-absorbed that they knowingly tell a woman she’s a socially inept, frizzy haired fatty within a 15-second time frame. Right? Right?

“Uh huh.”

“And the period stain on his pants.” This is the final boarding call for shut the hell up. Will all passengers on flight 001 direct to shut the hell up please take a giant step away from my desk before they get punched in the junk?

“Yeah. That guy. You're just like him.” He is positively beaming, proud that he has paid me the highest compliment he can think of, which really isn’t saying much. But his persistence and can-do attitude are to be admired. After all, who doesn’t enjoy being compared to a celebrity?

She's Just Bein' Miley.

The recent political instability in Cyrpus concerns me, mostly because I keep misreading all the headlines with the country's name not as "Cyprus" but as "Cyrus." As in Miley.

My response to misreading a headline as "Cyrus delays vote on bailout plan”:

"I wonder if her fiancé knows she’s bailing yet. And does he get a vote?"

A Dirty Thought for That Stressful Day Preceding a 4-Day Weekend

If 5pm were a man, I'd make him come SO fast!

This Never Would've Happened if Michael Jackson were Alive (RIP).

My friends and I are crowded into the back bar of a soul food restaurant for a female-friendly (though man-welcoming) open mic night. We are waiting for the opening comics to finish their sets so that we can take over. (If you wonder why female comics would need their own open mic, keep reading.)

“What is this over here?” A male comic addresses the audience from the stage, waving his hand over the group of women who occupy most of the room. He smiles and speaks to us like we are someone’s adorable grandmother. “Someone’s birthday? Girls’ night out?”

“No,” answers my friend. “We’re here for the open mic.”

“There’s an open mic tonight?”

“Yeah, you're part of it. We go on after your set.”

“And all of ya’ll – allll of ya’ll – are here for the open mic?” he asks in disbelief. Forty female heads collectively nod. Unnerved, he continues through the rest of his set, awkward and stumbling, karmic justice for those of us in the crowd.

He is perplexed for a number of reasons. The first is that his five-minute set is not the draw for this roomful of women. The second is the realization that women don’t celebrate birthdays by attending open mics at random bars. The third is that women – who are, by evolution and genetics, clearly not funny – are here to perform, not watch, at an open mic.

Compared to what a lot of female comics have experienced, this incident was relatively harmless. Indeed, it was less offensive than the wall of silence female comedians regularly encounter at open mics after an audience of 90 percent male comics, having just guffawed their way through 45 minutes of dick and cum jokes, stand cross-armed and glaring as a woman performs her five-minute set.

The host, who is also the offending comic’s friend, is embarrassed, though she assures us later that he’s a wonderful guy who happened to make a really stupid faux pas. I get that – we all sound like idiots sometimes. It’s just that if even the nice guys still think it’s preposterous for women to be funny, the road to acceptance is that much longer.