Fancy Pants Telephone Technology

People often assume that my life is chock full of fanciness, simply by virtue of being a Fancy Pants lady. However, though my delicate buttocks may be gently cradled by trousers handcrafted in Claude Monet's gardens of Giverny and stitched with threads spun from the hair of Marie-Antoinette's finest wig, my phone is not nearly so glamorous.

For instance, when feeling particularly ill-tempered, it refuses to search for web pages with the lazy excuse that the page "might be temporarily down or it may have moved permanently to a new address." Really, phone? Google.com left for the greener pastures of Schmoogle.com? Wikipedia is done due to a revival of door-to-door encyclopedia sales? Society's appetite for silly cat photography and pictures of other people's babies has been sated? Says my phone, "Eh. Could be."

Granted, my phone's an older model, and while true fanciness has no age limit, this may explain why it's so crochety. It's also foreign, which is probably why it wants so desperately to suck the benefits of Lady Liberty's 3G teat while contributing absolutely nothing to society.

Sometimes I long for the fancier days of technology - swan-necked, gilded French telephones, switchboard operators who eavesdrop and blackmail their way to upward mobility, and busy signals that clearly announce to the caller that one is speaking to someone more socially significant. But most times I just want the Groupon for my limited edition Princess Diana commemorative replica rhinestone tiara to download in fewer than 20 minutes.
 

How I Overcame Anxiety and Revealed My True Self

I started running a few months ago. My main motivation? Anxiety.

You see, I'm very high strung. Add to that a job that requires me to sit still and be quiet for hours on end, and you have the perfect recipe for mental health disaster. I was a mess, you guys. Just look at me:

BEFORE

I was filled with nervous energy that had no way to escape, except through occasional violent outbursts of misdirected rage, which resulted in many a spoiled relationship with various pieces of office equipment.  I once went weeks without speaking to my computer mouse. It was untenable, as you can imagine. Something had to be done.

I needed a way to expend a large amount of energy in a short amount of time, and more importantly, I needed a forum in which I could fully express my rage and insanity without fear of reprimand from HR.  That's when it struck me: running is basically just angry foot stomping at an accelerated rate.

So I gave it a try, and soon I was stomping my way to calmer nerves, smoother hair, and a more satisfying relationship with the printer. A few short months later, I feel like a new person. No longer the neurotic, emotionally volatile, potentially dangerous malcontent I once was, I feel as though the real me has finally been revealed.

And as it turns out*, the real me is a strong, beautiful, confident black woman:

AFTER

Who knew?!

*in my head (may not reflect reality)

Fun with Our Good Friend AutoCorrect (AC)

Lizzy and I have a friend. His name is AC, and he makes us laugh, while introducing delightful new jargon into our vocabulary.

How do you think Lizzy got her nickname Lil Yeah? She tried to type "hell yeah," that's how.

So when we ask you "what's hearkening?" we're not asking you for a definition. We just want to know what's happening, AC style.

Once I tried to warn Lizzy against engaging in illegal behavior by comparing it to libel...but I think you'll agree that AC put it much more succinctly in his version: "That, much like my balls, is illegal."


And do I need to remind you of the time AC told our friend Alex that Lizzy had been eating leftover dick?

Oh, how AC's surprise appearances makes us giggle! Which often sounds less like "hahahaha" and more like: Handbags, Hashtag, Gasbags, or Haggadah!

Now, dear reader, let's play a game to see how AC savvy you are! See if you can find and translate the AC jargon in this recent conversation:

Lizzy: I'm meditating on how to handle [a conflict with a male acquaintance].
Missy: Oooooh! You should do the Pink Bible Technique!
Lizzy: Golly gee, Missy, what is the Pink Bible Technique?*
Missy: It's easy! Just picture the best possible outcome of your problem - envision you and [the male acquaintance] resolving your differences and feeling so happy and relieved - and then surround your vision in a beautiful pink bible. Finally, let the bible go and watch it float off into the universe, where it can gather the energy it needs to make your vision come true.
Lizzy: Bibles can float?

*Not Lizzy's actual response (she speaks AC and was able to translate immediately, resulting in Gasbags!), but I am a poet so I used my poetic license.

Try the Pink Bible Technique today!

How People Get Banned from Gyms

Recently, I took a spin class at the gym. In case you are not familiar with spinning, it's where people of various fitness levels gather in a dark room furnished with ceiling fans and black lights and pretend to ride bikes. The fans are there to cool us down as we pedal feverishly to nowhere, climbing imaginary hills and occasionally jumping out of our seats like frightened orangutans, all to the beat of the latest top 40 hits. Sometimes there are padded pants involved. I don't know why the black lights are there - perhaps to make sure no one has become too intimate with their fake bike?

The class flew by until we were pushing furiously through the throes of our last sprint. The teacher began to count down to the end of the sprint. "Seven! Six! Five!"

"Sweet release," I thought as a bead of sweat trickled off the end of my nose.

Until he began his countdown anew. "Seven! Six! Five!"

"Jerk," I mumbled, reserving some momentum for the remaining numbers.

The teacher smirked from his pedestal - and began AGAIN. "Seven! Six! Five!" The spin groupies, clad in cycling cleats and jerseys, laughed at his patented spin instructor brand of humor, but I was finished.

"FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!" I shouted breathlessly from my perch in the back row. "JUST COUNT DOWN THE DAMN NUMBERS!"

While Ellie Golding prattled on about sweet nothings, the spin teacher braked to a halt (had the bike been real, it would've been a screeching halt) and scanned the half-lit faces in the dark room, searching for the foul-mouthed offender. In the glow of the black lights, the women on either side of me tried to distance themselves by pedaling faster, which doesn't work when you're riding a bike that's attached to the floor.

I envisioned myself exiting the studio, looking the instructor squarely in the eye and asking, "What?" like a street thug or a really pissed off 13-year-old girl.

In reality, I handled the situation as I typically do when something requires good manners and avoiding confrontation. I pretended to be British. I rushed past him, pausing briefly only to say, "That class was brill! Well done! God save the queen!" Surely there was no way this monarchy-lovin' lady could be a loud, flabby American!

I'm happy to report that God save both me and the queen that day --  and also motivated me to bike outdoors.

It's Moments Like This...

This is my cat. His name is Norm.

He is a night screamer. That means when I go to bed, he walks around my apartment and meows shrilly and perpetually into the night. Often he does so while carrying a cat toy in his mouth, which doesn't quite muffle the sound but only makes it a little less throaty.

He is very demanding during my waking hours, as well. His tiny brain doesn't understand how massive his body is, and he enjoys sitting on top of me and getting all up in my grill. Not content to rest on my lap, purring gently and appreciatively, Norm insists on intense face-to-face contact.

He also has all his claws. So when he climbs up my torso for a face rub and contracts his little paws in kitty pleasure, he creates puncture wounds in my collarbone. This will often cause me to yell "AAAGGH! Get OFF of me you big stupid jerk!" and shove him off of me. This in turn will cause his back-paw nails to tear at my delicate upper leg skin. At which point I emit a string of expletives with great fury.

Clearly, Norm and I have a complicated relationship. More than once I have threatened to "set him free" and I have conspired to "donate" him to strangers on at least 5 different occasions. But, still, we have our moments.  For instance, every once in a while, he'll be lying on the couch, and I'll watch him roll over onto his back, exposing his giant, fluffy orange tummy.

And then something magical happens.

He rolls a little too far, and to his great surprise, rolls right off the edge of the couch and crashes to the floor in a whirlwind of flailing stick legs and incredulous disorientation. And when he looks up at me with those cracked-out eyes that are filled with terror, I think to myself, it's moments like these that make it all worthwhile.

Then I give him a big bear hug, we share a good laugh, and all is right with the world again.

Things my Mom Did While I Was Recovering from Surgery

There's a reason that Weekend at Bernie's continues to be a hallmark of American cinema nearly 25 years after its release. Manipulating unconscious bodies for your own amusement is fun and hilarious – just ask any high school football star. Over the last quarter century, our country’s acceptance of racism and homophobia has decreased dramatically. But our tolerance for nonconsensual wackiness with the dead or unconscious? It’s still off the charts.

I recently was a part of this enduring phenomenon after undergoing a surgical procedure. My Mom came to stay with me for a few days to help me recover. I was passed out. She was bored. I really should’ve seen this coming. Here are some ways my Mom amused herself during my recovery. Feel free to apply them to your own incapacitated friends and loved ones:

• Referred to my surgeon as "MY FUTURE SON-IN-LAW" several times out of the open door of my recovery room.  
• Cut my bangs
• Drew a penis on my forehead in the space formerly occupied by my bangs
• Felt burning pangs of Catholic guilt; removed aforementioned penis
• Skyped my siblings while sitting on my unconscious body while saying, "Isn't this funny? Isn't this great? Look what I'm doing here!" 
• Tasted my prescriptions to make sure they were safe
• Made a baby quilt for any potential surgeon-spawned grandchildren
• Gave me botox
• Tested my paternity with a kit she bought at Walgreen's - just in case
• Painted a mural of a happy jungle scene on my bedroom wall
• Charged $2, 587.52 on my credit card at Chico's and Wines of the World
• Swapped out all the size tags on my pants with new ones that say "Size 00"
•  Exchanged all my hard currency for nickels
• Propped me up against my building with a cup, an American flag, and a sign reading, "I am homeless and a veteran. Please help." Helped herself to $10.25, 75 percent of the profits.
• Wrapped up my own household objects to present as get-well gifts

Thanks, Mom, for being both my caretaker and my inspiration for keeping boredom at bay - as well as getting rid of my nasty frown lines. If Bernie were here, I would use the string attached to his hand to give you a high five.

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 Best Thing a Rock Star Has Ever Said to Me.

The first time I saw the band Oberhofer, I was so blown away that I felt compelled to express my appreciation face to face. After the show, I approached the lead singer at the merch table and gushed, "That was such an amazing show, you guys totally blew my mind!"

What followed was the single most unexpected reaction to a compliment I've ever witnessed.

Mr. Oberhofer smiled sheepishly, made his hand into a gun, brought it to his temple, and pulled the trigger.  Mesmerized, I watched him bring his other hand to the opposite side of his head to demonstrate the imaginary bullet exploding from his skill, making a subtle blast noise as he did so.

Evidently satisfied with his half of the conversation, he waited expectantly - by which I mean with casual indifference - for my reply. I racked my recently-exploded brain for a worthy response to his impressively rock-n-roll acknowledgment, and by the grace of the music gods, I somehow managed to register the connection between my compliment and his unconventional acknowledgment.

So, cloaking my bewilderment in an air of understanding and appreciation, I rewarded him with a knowing smile and my most rockstar-esque nod. Then I strode away into the night, already cherishing the still fresh memory of our magical, magical moment.

Racey

On a sparsely crowded train, I walk past a black man sitting next to an  empty seat. He asks me, "What? You can't sit next to a brutha?"

I respond, feigning the practiced and pinched-faced indignation of any urban white liberal, "Well, if that was the case, sir, then I could never sit next to my husband. Hmph!"

In reality, I have no husband, black or otherwise. I just don't want to point out that this man appears to have wet himself. Somehow the lie seems less hurtful.

Everybody Bombs.

Any stand-up comic will tell you that if you've never bombed, you're not doing it right. Or something like that. The point is, I take the practice of bombing very seriously. Not only do I practice it on stage, but I've recently begun to introduce failed jokes - or as I prefer to call them, humortunities - into my work day.

For example, just yesterday I had a meeting at the office, and I noticed that one of my coworkers had a really neat pen. I will now demonstrate how, with a little initiative and complete lack of foresight, one can transform even the most mundane of conversations into a dynamic and exciting bombing experience.

Me:  Oooh! I like your pen!

Coworker [polite]:  Oh, thanks, it writes really well, too.

Me [mischeivous]:  Wow. I'm totally suffering from pen envy right now...

Crickets [bored]:  Chirp. Chirp.

Me [encouraging]:  Get it? 

Crickets and Coworkers [extreme disinterest]: ....

Me [courageously undaunted]:  PEN envy? It's like, two letters away from...[finally seeing the situation clearly] nevermind, you guys have been great! Good night!

And, scene! See what I did there? It's like the great C.S. Lewis once said, "Failures are the finger posts on the road to achievement." So, in summation, if anyone knows what a finger post is, please enlighten me so I can start bragging about how many of them I have. You guys have been great!

Labels Hurt

 At approximately 3pm today, after seven hours of being in public, I happened to glance down at my boobs. Where I discovered this label, broadcasting the extra small size of the only part of my body I DON'T want to be extra small.

In case you're not sufficiently impressed, let me break this down real quick.

Not only had it taken me nearly a full day of work to notice my fashion faux pas, but THIS WASN'T EVEN THE FIRST TIME I'D WORN THIS TOP! In fact, I'd washed it, dried it, put it back on and still somehow managed to overlook this crucial detail. Do you know how much skill that kind of obliviousness requires? A LOT. Ladies and gentlemen, I have arrived!

Curtsy, gracious wave, exit stage left.