Raising Kids Can Be Tough

I think it’s important to teach children about the world.  That’s why when I have kids, I plan to raise them Amish.  I am not Amish, but my children will be.  That way they can’t be exposed to the sex and violence so prominent in today’s TV, movies and music.  If they ask me why I’m allowed to watch TV and they aren’t, I’ll just explain that their religion forbids it and mine doesn’t.  It may be difficult for them, but ultimately it’s for their own good.  They will be required to raise a barn before they turn 16.  But, I will buy them a horse and buggy for their 16^th birthday, because I’m generous like that. 

Because they will belong to such a restrictive religion, in order to make sure that they’re not completely sheltered from the real world, I will also encourage them to form rival gangs within our household.  My husband and I will, of course, be in the same gang.  We will have our own gang signs and initiations.  We’ll divide the household into territories and there will be consequences for trespassing.  Nothing violent…just a grounding or an extra cow to milk or something.  They need to learn the truth.  East LA won’t be as kind, should they decide to move there for their rumspringa, at which point I fully expect them to leave the Amish church.  Whether or not they join a gang on the outside is their decision.  I certainly wouldn’t encourage that behavior, trusting they will have learned that lesson already.  On top of that, should they decide to be baptized into the Amish church, it would forbid them from using automatic weapons, so that pretty much kills their chances of getting into a gang anyway.  It’s so hard to raise kids these days.  You gotta be creative.

Peace out.

Bloody Sunday

Ok, I’m going to make a very long story short because I am tired and I need to put this day behind me.

So…Ethan and I got up around 11am this morning with plans to attend the matinee of The Marriage of Bette and Boo by Christopher Durang (my favorite playwright) at 2pm.  At 12:45, I am showered and getting ready to go while Ethan is planted in front of the TV watching an episode of “Generation Kill” (that he’d recorded on Tivo).  I tell him he’d better get in the shower because we need to leave at 1pm.

We are out the door at 1:15 and at the subway by 1:20.  Ethan’s Metrocard is empty and the machine is giving him problems by not accepting any of the credit/debit cards he tries.  We finally get on the train at 1:30.  I know we are not going to make it to the theatre by 2pm.

We step off the train at 1:53pm.  Maybe if we sprint, we can make it.  The theatre is on 46^th Street between 5^th & 6^th Ave, so we exit at the 43^rd Street entrance and take off toward 6^th Ave.  The area seems to be more crowded than usual, even for Times Square.

We reach 6^th Ave and attempt to make a left to head up to 46^th Street, when a police officer tells us we can’t go that way.  We look up and the whole street is blocked off and there is a large stage set up with some kind of performance going on.  Maybe it’s a concert?  Not a good one…I don’t know.  So we head toward 5^th Ave.

We get to 5^th Ave and hang a left when JESUS CHRIST; WHERE THE FUCK DID ALL THESE PEOPLE COME FROM???  There are people everywhere, we cannot move.  They are all dressed in green and yellow and what the hell?  I try to look at the t-shirts they are wearing as we maneuver through the crowd as quickly as we can.  My shins are killing me.  I finally get a good look…Brazilian Day 2008 New York City…GODDAMMIT!  I hate fucking pride celebrations.  Nothing angers me more living in NYC.  I don’t care if you’re Puerto Rican, Costa Rican, Dominican, Gay, Irish, Brazilian…I don’t give a shit.  Be as proud as you want…just not all at the same time on the same day in the same place, OK?

By now, I am almost having a panic attack.  I don’t do well in large crowds.  They freak me out and it makes me violent.  A woman is trying to hand me a postcard of some kind while she shakes her ass to the horrible music that is everywhere.  I grab it from her hand and throw it onto the ground in front of her with as much force as you can throw a 3 oz. piece of paper.  We keep moving.  Well, we try.

We reach 6^th Ave and I don’t see the theatre.  WTF?  Oh, Ethan just realized that it’s between 6^th & 7^th, not 5^th & 6^th.  I cannot even tell you how angry I am at this point.  I look at my phone and it is 2:05.  I hate being late.  I hate people even more.  I see an opening on the sidewalk and dart to get ahead, but I am thwarted by a tranny who spins in my direction out of nowhere.  We are face to face as she dances.  She is about 6 feet tall, so I am eye level with her very tiny, although very pointy unsupported tits.  I huff, throw my arms up and shove past her.  I can hear her friends laughing.  I don’t care, I really need to be out of the crowd. 

We finally arrive at the theatre at 2:10.  The “festival” is still going on outside and you can hear the drums from inside the theatre.  I am sweaty and angry and trying to calm myself down from the panic attack I just had.  The usher tells us that we will have to sit in the back until intermission.  Our regular seats were in row D, they were free, but still much better seats.  I tell Ethan I don’t want to go inside.  He looks at me with disappointment and says, “But it’s closing this week.”  I acquiesce. 

We get to our seats and I’m sitting there for less than a minute when I feel it coming.  Tears start streaming down my face.  I am trying to stifle my audible crying so as not to disturb the people around me.  I cannot stop.  I don’t want to be here.  This isn’t even my favorite Durang play…it’s actually not that funny at all.  Snot is dripping from my nose.  I have no tissue.  I don’t want to sniffle because I don’t want other people to know I’m crying, even though I’m sure the guy sitting next to me could tell.

Ethan reaches over and attempts to grab my hand.  I struggle because I don’t want to hold hands right now.  He is stronger and manages to pry my bag away from me and places my hand in his.  I am still crying.  My eyes are blurry from the tears and I can’t even see the stage clearly.  When the doctor in the play throws the dead baby on the floor, I can actually hear people in the audience get offended.  This pleases me and I start to calm down a little.

I decide to use the jacket I had brought as a handkerchief (that reminds me, I need to wash that) and I am settled down by intermission.  Thank god, Ethan says he wants to leave because the drums from outside are bothering him and the people behind us kept talking.  I know that’s only half the reason, but I’m still glad.

We make our way outside and as far away from Times Square as we can get.

The End.

Sorry about that, I guess that wasn’t so short…but it’s better with all the little details. 

Later.

High and Lowe

My husband’s dream girl is Kirsten Dunst.  Yeah, I don’t get it either.  I have forbidden him ever to date her because I think she’s stupid and I believe he should be with someone of higher intelligence.  I told him he’s allowed to date Anne Hathaway.  Since I am such an understanding wife, I expect the same courtesy in return.  So, I asked Ethan who he would allow me to date and he replied, “No one.”  I called BULLSHIT and demanded that he choose someone for me.  So he asked me who I want to date besides Jesse Bradford (duh).  I had to ponder this for a moment.  I said, I don’t know…I don’t like pretty boys (i.e. Zac Efron or any of the “dudes” on Gossip Girl).  Men should be men.  None of this metrosexual shit.  I was trying to think of who I thought had the perfect balance of hotness and brains when he interjects, “You can’t date Justin Timberlake.”  Well no crap, he’s just as dumb as Dunst.  Then all of a sudden he calls me out!  He’s all like, “Wait – you like Rob Lowe and he’s totally a pretty boy!”  I had to concede this point.  But, then he admits that even he finds Rob Lowe attractive and that he’d go gay for him.  Aha!  Which got me to thinking…that would be an AWESOME reality show! 

It would be called High and Lowe (with Rob Lowe of course) and it would consist of husbands and wives competing for the affection of Rob Lowe.  It would involve the contestants performing all kinds of ridiculous tasks at Rob’s whim.  Like, seeing who knows the most trivia about Rob’s movies or inseminating a cow or performing a drive by shooting.  And his catch phrase during the elimination at the end of each show would be “Are you high?  I’m sorry, but you can’t hang with Lowe.”  It’s kind of like that Tila Tequila show except that the contestants are all married to each other and they get to date Rob Lowe in the end instead of some retarded internet skank.  VH1, don’t steal my idea!

That is gold.

In the end, it was decided that if I had to choose between Rob Lowe in his prime or Taye Diggs in his prime, I would choose the latter.  Dude’s got a body that Lowe just can’t compete with.  But if I had to choose between Taye Diggs in his prime or Brad Pitt in Fight Club, I go with Pitt.  It doesn’t get any sweatier or manlier than Tyler Durden. 

Word.

Our Love Rides the Short Bus

 

Last night, as I lay in bed, I was overcome with the urge to sing “One” from A Chorus Line, except I substituted as many words as I could with “boob”.  For example:

 

One boobular sensation, every little boob she takes
One thrilling boobination , every boob that she makes
One boob and suddenly nobody else will boob
You know you’ll never be lonely with boob-know-boob

 

It’s completely ridiculous and I don’t know why it popped into my head, but it did and I thought it was funny, so I started to sing.  The remarkable thing about this event is that about halfway through the first verse, my husband started to sing along with me.

 

That’s how I know our relationship is special.

 

Seriously, how many other guys would a) know the lyrics to “One” and b) humor their wives by inserting the word boob and singing along?  Most people probably would have told me to shut up so they could go to sleep. 

 

It got me to wondering if other people do such ridiculous things when they think no one is watching.  The answer is that of course they do!  I have walked in on Ethan practicing karate moves when he thought he was alone (he doesn’t know karate).  I dance around the living room like an idiot when no one is home, all the while imagining that I am the most awesome dancer/singer/actress/writer/comedian/accountant that ever graced our living room stage.  Well, truthfully, I am.

 

We live in a very voyeuristic society.  We have technology that allows us to transmit exactly where we are and what we are doing to anyone every second of the day.  We have blogs and webcams and social networking sites and cell phones with cameras and god knows what I’m forgetting…all to let us share the moments of our lives with the world at the exact moments we live them.  And I suppose there’s nothing wrong with that.  As Ethan pointed out, had this technology existed a hundred years ago, people would have been doing the same thing then.  We are voyeurs because it is in our nature.

 

And that is precisely why I’m always gonna make sure the blinds are shut before I take the stage in my living room.

 

End scene.

 

 

 

 

 

Escalator:Stairs :: Baby:Infant? INCORRECT!

 

I don’t want to get into the habit of ranting and raving on my blog, I do enough of that in real life.  Although, maybe the blog would be a good outlet for that.  Anyway, I have one particular pet peeve that I have to deal with on a daily basis, and I just need to put it out there. 

Escalators and stairs are NOT the same thing.  It drives me bat shit insane when someone walksup or down the escalator and pushes past me because I am standing still because they want to arrive at their destination three seconds faster.  TAKE THE FUCKING STAIRS.  You see, stairs don’t move.  So, unless someone is standing still on the stairs (and why would they), no one will get in your way as you ascend or descend the stairs.  The escalator is for lazy people (myself included) who can’t be bothered to walk up the stairs.  If you are so inclined to walk up the escalator, then you clearly have some ambition to exercise.  Don’t take a shortcut. 

I suspect these people who push past people standing still on the escalator are the same people who hold up the line because they can’t (or refuse to) move out of the way before they put away their money and wallet.

That is all.

The Turks and The Bathhouse

“THE BATHHOUSE”

My husband and I recently moved to Harlem from way the fuck out in Brooklyn.  We love our new apartment and our new neighborhood.  One of the highlights of said neighborhood is that we live right next door to the Hansborough Recreation Center aka “The Bathhouse” at 134th Street.  Our favorite feature is its “mosaic-tiled, sky-lighted “Natatorium”, or indoor swimming pool”.  We both love to swim.

Since we’ve already established that I am a Jesse Bradford fan, I feel there’s no shame in admitting that I love the movie “Swimfan”.  I know it’s not a good movie, but I think it’s an awesome movie.  Hot guys in Speedos, a crazy bitch and Dan Hedaya.  That’s good shit.  Anyway, since Ethan and I love to swim, we decided to check out Hansborough and go for a dip.  The moment we walked in, Ethan turned to me and said “Are you sure they didn’t film ‘Swimfan’ here?”  For some reason, I thought that they’d filmed the pool scenes at the Harlem YMCA, which is a couple of blocks west of us and way more expensive to join.  I can’t deny that I felt the same thing.  It was very familiar.  I never gave it a second thought until this past Saturday, when I felt like popping “Swimfan” into our new XBox HD DVD player to see how it looked on our new HD TV.  I immediately skipped to the first scene at the pool and said “Holy crap, that is totally our pool!”  I checked out the end credits and sure enough, there was a special thanks to the Hansborough Recreation Center.  Dude, we swim in the pool where they shot “Swimfan”!!  This will totally motivate me to swim every day now.  I’ll just have to be careful that I don’t get distracted by some guy’s pubes while I’m swimming and bump into a dead body.

 ”THE TURKS”

Yesterday, Ethan and I decided to take advantage of the fabulous weather we’ve been having and take a trip to Central Park.  We pack my iPod speakers, the essential game pieces needed to play Yahtzee and head out. 

As we are walking through the park, we notice a bunch of large tents set up near 100th St.  We wander in and see a sign that reads “NY Turkish Festival”.  It seems like they are setting up for an event the next day and nothing is going on, so we keep moving.  We find a shady spot on the other side of the tents and set up camp.  Natasha Bedingfield is playing on the iPod and I am kicking Ethan’s ass in our second round of Yahtzee when Ethan notices something going on behind me.

Several yards away, two oiled up men wearing only what looks like the bottom half of a wet suit emerge from one of the tents.  One is carrying a bottle of olive oil and there’s a guy with a camera with them.  We think maybe it’s a photo shoot?  They mill around for a bit and then three more oily guys come out of the tents, followed by three more shortly after that.  So now there are eight oily (we assume Turkish) dudes hanging out on the grass, all dressed in the same wet suit pants.  We start to rethink our initial theory that this is a photo shoot because the last few guys who show up are less hot than the others.  They are now running back and forth, slapping each other as they pass, like they’re warming up.  Maybe they’re acrobats?  And then, magic happened.

They pair off, grab onto each other and start to wrestle.  But not normal wrestling, like you’d see on Spike…no, they’re doing some kind of wrestling that I can only assume is popular among gay dudes in Turkey.  They are climbing on each other and touching up their oil and using techniques that I can’t imagine would even be legal in the wrestling I’m familiar with.  One standard move seems to be sticking your hand down your opponent’s pants as far as you can…front or back, doesn’t matter…and groping?  I’m not sure what they actually do once their hand is down there.  A guy with a dog who’s been observing this whole thing a few feet away from us turns to us and says, “Is this an audition for gay porn?”  We laugh and continue to make fun of the “wrestlers” with the stranger for several more minutes.  By now, they have attracted a small crowd, some of whom appear to be with them (they applaud and take pictures anyway).  I am unsettled that there are children present.  Ethan and I eventually grow bored of the homoerotic theatrics (or outwardly gay show) and leave.  Our new friend says, “I’m going to go over and ask if they need a place to crash tonight.  I guess I’ll be going to the Turkish Festival tomorrow.”  I had the same thought…but decided to stay home and organize my new Nutrisystem food instead.

Later.

Laura’s Message Board Mishap

 

I don’t consider myself a blogger, especially since I’ve never attempted to blog.  Nor do I regularly frequent blogs. If I stumble upon one that catches my fancy, I’ll take a gander, but that’s the extent of my experience with this medium.  Since I continually tell people that I’m a writer (even though I never write), I thought this would be a good place to start.  I’m not certain that I have enough material to blog every day, but I’m taking baby steps.

In addition to the blog, the internet message board is another phenomenon that escapes me.  My husband (Ethan) is a regular poster on several boards, and it pisses me off when he obsessively checks his e-mail to see if anyone has replied to one of his posts.  He swears by them, telling me they are a great way to connect with people who have similar interests to me.  I am doubtful.  People (Ethan being one) criticize sites like Facebook and MySpace because they don’t see the point of using silly applications on a website to “stay in touch” with people you haven’t spoken to in years.  I contend that the truly socially retarded people are lurking on message boards.  What is the point of carrying on an endless “conversation” with people you don’t know and will never meet just because you have something random in common (i.e. the love of a particular video game)?  But I decided to see what the fuss was all about.

I chose a message board that I had an interest in, registered what I thought was a clever alias, uploaded a random but funny avatar (I hear that’s what you’re supposed to do) and went for it.  OK, so here’s the deal.  I’m a big Jesse Bradford fan.  If you don’t know who he is (I won’t be surprised if you don’t), look him up because I’m sure you’ve seen him in something.  He’s currently filming the movie version of a “New York Times Bestselling” book, I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell by Tucker Max.  Again, if you don’t know the book, I’m not surprised, but I will say that I’m reading it now and it is highly entertaining (in a totally drunken frat boy kind of way).  Anyway, he is one of the moderators on the message board for the film.  So, obviously, I saw this as an opportunity to get a glimpse of the “real him” through his posts.  Here is the original post that started it all.  As you can see, the guy that Jesse’s character is based on visited the set and then wrote a very funny post about it, to which Jesse responded with an equally funny post.  Here is SlingBlade’s (the real guy) response to Jesse’s response:

 and Jesse’s response to that response:

Are you still with me?  So, I thought it would be funny if I jumped in and added my two cents:

Keep in mind that I had never posted on a message board and knew nothing about how they worked.  I assumed that if I posted something that anyone took issue with, they would publicly reply and tell me to shut up and call me a newbie or some crap.  I expected that.  What I didn’t expect was this:

This is a “rating system” that they use on this particular message board that allows people either to approve or to disapprove my post and leave a comment that only I can see.  So the comments above were not publicly made, but rather sent to me on the down low just so I would know how lame people think I am.  I know they’re all 19-21 year old guys who don’t even know what “Out of This World” is (or “Clockstoppers” for that matter), but still…it was just a joke, jeez. 

So I think I’m done with message boards.  We’ll see how the blog goes.  Ahhh…remember chat rooms and AOL? Now THAT was my jam.  Those were the good ol’ days.

Later.